She couldn’t quite believe she was doing this. Cataloguing her lover, snatching at minutiae before he went and saved the world and died. Now should be when she produced another Horn of Farak, another artefact of stupendous power, and this time it wouldn’t be too late and she would save what was most important to her and it wouldn’t all end in tears.
But artefacts were nothing to wild magic. The Horn of Farak would be little more than a bright firefly against this arcane sun, and all that ridiculously large collection she had brought from Kersym Bleak’s hoard were useless dross. All Medair could do was watch, with the rest of the muted crowd who had followed to the Shimmerlan’s edge. The sum of her choices now were to make Illukar’s departure as hard or easy as possible. To meet loss bravely or to curse it and wail.
That was no choice, either.
"They’re coming," said Kel ar Haedrin, though how the woman had seen through the post-twilight gloom Medair couldn’t imagine. Still, she was right. A blot of darkness shifted, became distinct figures accompanied by the sound of sloshing boots. And preceded by one of the inhabitants of the Shimmerlan.
Herald N’Taive had called them Alshem. The swimmer-folk. The woman who lifted herself from the water was the size of a ten-year child, though noticeably mature beneath a tightly wrapped leathery sheath. Slender and lithe, with a fine pelt of brown-black covering head, neck, shoulders and arms, she was still far more human than Medair had expected. The eyes were strangest: liquid black, lacking any sign of white, and with a transparent inner lid which slid up instead of down.
The Alshem woman carried herself with an effortless dignity as she approached Illukar, who towered above her looking as distant and remote as only Ibisians can. She made a fluid gesture with her hand and bowed her head to a degree which Medair interpreted as honour without servitude.
"Strange doings, cold one," the Alshem said in precise Ibis-laran. "We have brought the one you required."
"My thanks, sun skimmer," Illukar replied, managing not to sound the least bit uncertain. He’d obviously found a chance to mine Sedesten for information about these neighbours he did not remember. And would only meet once.
Medair looked away, breathing deeply. He was going to die, and she had to sit here and let him. She felt cold and frozen inside, her chest clogged with the effort of not wailing and screaming. So hard not to weep.
"Ibisian."
It was Tarsus' voice, urgent and imperative. He came tramping out of the swamp trailed by the search party. Wet and haggard, the boy looked like the survivor of a shipwreck, his eyes filled with a different kind of agony than that which had consumed him in Falcon Black. There was less anger to it, but a depth Medair recognised.
"He says there’s nothing I can do to stop it," Tarsus said, shortly. "Is it true? "
"There is nothing." Illukar’s expression was not welcoming.
"Are you certain?!" Tarsus mastered desperate anger with evident difficulty. He swallowed a gasping breath, staring at Illukar’s face, then straightened. "What then? You have something planned. I can see it in your eyes. What can I do to help?"
Bald anguish, overmastering guilt and a childish horror warred in his voice, all subdued by stern determination. How do you live with the knowledge that the world is dying by an act of yours? That because you could not trust, because you had been taught to hate, to never forgive, you had caused the worst thing possible?
Illukar responded to the patent sincerity of Tarsus' offer. "It is a matter for adepts," he said, more kindly than Medair could have managed. "There is something which might succeed and we go to try it. Farakkan is not yet lost." But that was all the comfort he could give.
Leaving the boy to Kel ar Haedrin, Illukar turned to one of the mud-spattered escort: an angular Farakkian woman in her fifties, who had been shifting uneasily during Tarsus' interlude. "What can you tell me, Kel?"
"It moves at a slow walking pace, Keridahl. Just water on water, though none could mistake the peril. We outpaced it easily, but it will reach this point by midnight."
There was a pause, as everyone took in the urgency of the situation, then it was back to contingency plans and orders. Medair, looking determinedly at nothing, found Islantar again at her elbow and allowed him to draw her a short distance down the sodden bank, till they could barely make out Illukar’s glow. The Kierash didn’t speak, merely stood beside her, keeping a tight control on his expression as he waited, turning a glowstone over and over in his hands.
When Illukar finally joined them, Islantar stepped forward, lifted a hand, then let it drop. They were both so rarely awkward that the hesitation which followed was painful. Then Islantar collected himself and took another step, so that he was facing Illukar, much as Tarsus had a short while before. The duplication again reminded Medair how very young Islantar was.
"There–" Islantar began, and ground to a halt, staring up at Illukar. Such an Ibisian scene: both their faces were formal masks, their posture correct, pain kept inside where it cut deeper. Yet no-one who looked on them could possibly think Ibisians cold.
"There are so many things I have wished to say to you," Islantar said, his voice just the tiniest fraction higher than normal. "I have looked for an opportunity to tell you that you are – that I have learned so much from you, followed your lead in countless things. You are–"
A father to me. He didn’t say it, just looked down, silenced either by his own emotions or by the rules which governed his rank.
Odd that Illukar, considered so perfectly Ibisian, could simply reach out and embrace his Kierash. Islantar’s eyes went wide, then he wrapped his arms tightly around Illukar’s waist, hiding his face against his chest.
"Make me proud, Islantar," Illukar said into the boy’s hair. His face was a mask, but his voice was full of undercurrents. Islantar whispered something so softly Medair was not certain even Illukar could make it out, then let go and stepped back, resuming at least a semblance of his self-command.
"Goodbye," he said simply, then walked away. His steps were steady and his back straight.
Illukar watched him until he was out of sight, then moved toward Medair.
"My turn now?"
He didn’t quite smile. "I would that this moment had never come, Medair."
She looked away, out into the roiling dark. The evening was cool, a light breeze toying with her hair, but it was impossible to regard the night as pleasant. It was neither heat nor wind nor visible threat, but the Blight’s power was a doom impossible to ignore or mistake. It choked and stifled and crushed, perfectly matching the feelings which welled inside.
Illukar’s long fingers curled over her shoulders. "I have requested of Avahn that he care for you. I would like, very much, for you to consider The Avenue your home."
How can it be, when you aren’t there? Medair didn’t say it, instead turning and clasping his hands. It was hard to look up into his eyes.
"These last few days–" He paused, and she could almost see him think on all that had happened in such a short time. "I know that what we have shared will make my death harder for you, but I cannot regret choosing my moment to speak."
"No." Medair determinedly set aside the selfish, petulant part of herself which regretted ever having met him. And the part which told her that no good could ever have come of lying with a White Snake. "I’m glad you did," she said, meaning it. "I–" How to say everything she had not? "I have been happy with you," she said, finally, and watched his eyes smile. That made it nearly impossible not to cry, so she followed Islantar’s example and hid in Illukar’s embrace. So much easier to simply hold him and try to pretend it wasn’t for the last time.