"Palladium has no interest in expanding her borders," the Kierash said, with serene confidence. Thessan rounded on him as if looking for relief in action, and Medair saw the guards surge forward a step. Islantar didn’t move.
Held back, perhaps by the utter calm in the Kierash’s eyes, Thessan did no more than clench his fists. "The White Snakes are the problem," he said, desperately stubborn. "Without the White Snakes, there would be no war. Farakkan would be united once again."
Medair sighed softly. "I doubt it," she said. It was as much an admission to herself as anything. "The Ibisians invaded, true, but the Empire fell because the West took the opportunity it had been given."
Tarsus lifted a hand as if pushing that argument away. "The West was used by the White Snakes," he said, tightly.
"The West broke free of a conqueror. Don’t you see? Clinging to old grievances raises older ghosts. The West longed to go back to its old, fractured, fractious ways, but the Empire was too strong until the invasion. A Corminevar conquered Decia once. Made it a part of the Empire and installed a Duke. If you look back far enough, there was a time when Athere’s hill overlooked the grazing land of some cow-lord who had never heard of Corminevars."
Thessan shook his head, as if he had a bee trying to beat its way out of his skull. "This leads us nowhere. Cow-lords, the old disputes with the West. We are talking about now."
"Yes. We are." It was Tarsus who said it, holding his head very high and still. "Thank you, Lady an Rynstar. I will – I am obliged for your opinion." He took Thessan’s arm in a tight grip and, with obvious effort, turned and walked through the line of guards and into the night.
"He’s thinking about it," Medair said when she and Islantar were alone. Half Kel ar Haedrin’s contingent remained, but had withdrawn so that they were barely visible. "Though perhaps bringing Thessan along was a mistake. He obviously has influence over Tarsus."
"But it is Prince Thessan I must convince," Islantar reminded her. "Tarsus might be used as he has been already, but unless we remove Queen Sendel’s line from Decia’s throne, Prince Thessan is the one who will fund a cause which should be long dead. And he does not have Tarsus' depth of empathy, nor the shock of causing this." Islantar glanced toward the Blight, and his face tightened. It could not be long, now, before Illukar attempted to stop what Tarsus had begun.
"I have asked Queen Sendel to allow me them both, for a year’s visit in Athere," Islantar continued. "And in that time–" He looked into the dark in the direction the Decian pair had gone. "Tarsus is already beginning to see that a ruler is owned by the people, not the other way around. Perhaps his ties to Thessan will be strong enough to bend the more rigid of that pair. And with both of them, and you, I may be able to weaken this eternal clutching of an old grievance to each new generation’s breast. The deaths of the past days will be a vivid wound, of course, but I can hope to ease it once the hurdle of the old is overcome."
"Were you ever given the chance to be a child, Kierash?" Medair asked, feebly. Islantar looked surprised, then smiled.
"For a short while. Even in my family, there is a childhood. But no more escape from the burdens of position than Tarsus." He paused, and then added with stark honesty, "Not killing him is the hardest thing I have ever done."
Medair felt a tremor run through her, and bit down on her lip, nodding, and so glad of him in that moment, sharing her loss.
He was holding himself very straight, eyes wide, and held out his hand. "I give you my name, Keris. I would ask that I might use yours."
"Of course," Medair said, automatically gripping the slim, pale fingers.
"Thank you, Medair." That young-old face briefly relaxed, then firmed, Kierash once more. "I have a more difficult request."
"You want me to help with the hurdle."
"Yes." He nodded, his glance a mix of gratitude and concern. "I know it is not a role you are eager to assume, but you saw the power of your words on Tarsus. It is not merely that you are Medair an Rynstar, long made legend, but that you were there. And that for you, the war is over. I ask that you allow me to use that."
Medair looked away from him. She wanted little more than to find herself another Bariback, run away from all which could remind her of Illukar, and weep. But she wouldn’t. She thought, hoped, that she had reached beyond such cowardice.
"I used the Horn," she pointed out. "All the fury, grief and outrage which is the consequence of that will focus on me. You may find I cause more damage than good."
"Even hating you, they will want to hear. You said it yourself: at least they will know your reasons."
It would be a life of being spat at. Not a weapon to save an Empire, not a path of honour and glory, but a fumbling kind of recompense which would do nothing to dull the loss of Illukar. How could she stand it?
"I will try," she told Islantar, and saw him stand straighter. Relieved. He had not been certain of her.
"I am glad of that," he said, then looked down. The power of the Blight thrummed all around them. "Will you come back to The Avenue now?" he asked, and his voice had lost some of its strength.
"I would rather stay here."
Islantar looked at her intently, then nodded. "I will return for you in the morning."
He started to turn away but she reached out and again caught one of his hands. "I think the Emperor would find you worthy of his throne," she said, thickly. "And I think you will make him proud." It was not Grevain she meant. "Good luck."
"I shall make my own luck," Islantar replied, the light from the glowstone shimmering in his eyes. "It seems the safer course."
He returned the pressure of her hands briefly, and followed Tarsus and Thessan into the night. Medair watched him go, then turned to find Kier Ieskar at her side.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Medair did not flinch or cry out. Too much had happened for her to even be startled. She clenched her jaw and took a deep breath, but was able to stand quietly while Ieskar looked in Islantar’s direction. He was as he had appeared in the garden of The Avenue: transparent and luminescent, clad for death. When the glow of Islantar’s stone had been swallowed by the night, Ieskar turned on Medair the unfeeling gaze she had long thought to hate. He was drawn and wasted, the fine bones of his face standing out clearly beneath his pale skin, but the cold expressionless mask was the same.
"Did I summon you this time," she asked, unsteadily, "or is this excursion on your own account?"
"A little of both, perhaps." His soft, composed voice was exactly as she remembered it. "I wish to mark my brother’s passing. You would like very much for me to find a way for Illukar to live."
"And will you?"
"I cannot." There was a ghost of honest regret in the words, and the knot of hope which had clutched Medair’s chest unravelled. She turned away to look out at the night, wishing for miracles. None came, of course. The Blight still beat invisibly at her across the ever-decreasing Shimmerlan. Ieskar didn’t suddenly produce a solution, or even go away and leave her alone. She felt poorly served.
"He’s not your brother," she said abruptly, unable to stand his silent presence at her back.
"Merely a descendent of his line?" Ieskar was unperturbed by her denial. "You are wrong. Illukar does not remember the past, but that does not make him any less my brother."
She looked over her shoulder at him, but that was pointless. There was never any expression on Ieskar’s face. "He was reborn to face the Blight?" The idea sickened her.