The Seven-Petaled Shield (33 page)

As Tsorreh reached the top of the stairs, Astreya came down the hallway opposite the laboratory. She carried a tray with a pitcher and bowl. Her gaze lit on Tsorreh’s face. “What is the matter, lady?”

“I was just looking for someone who might answer that question!” Tsorreh calmed herself. “I have not seen Lord Jaxar all day. I am concerned about him. Perhaps it is foolish of me and there is nothing unusual in his absence, but I will not be easy until I know.”

“Oh! He has been taken with one of his spells. Issios has been tending him all day.” Astreya lowered her voice. “Lady Lycian wanted to send for a Qr priest to perform sacrifices for Lord Jaxar’s recovery, but he wouldn’t have it. We were all terrified he’d do himself a harm, he was so fierce. She’s been at the temple ever since.”

Tsorreh smothered the revulsion that rose in her at the mention of the Scorpion god. “Spells? He is ill, or more so than usual? May I—I wish to see him.”

“Come on, then.” Astreya turned, gesturing with a tilt of her head for Tsorreh to accompany her.

Jaxar’s suite of rooms had been designed on a grand
scale. An entry hall was furnished with marble benches and niches containing idols of carved wood and ivory. They looked very old.

Tsorreh caught her breath as she stepped into the next room. A pair of torches set in freestanding iron holders, wrought like the intertwined branches of willow trees, cast a warm light. Mosaics of brilliant bits of tile, shards of colored glass, intricate gilt filigree work, and glimmering mother-of-pearl covered the ceiling and walls. In them, she saw surging oceans, mountains belching fire, men on foot and in chariots drawn by fierce-eyed onagers, men and woman—she supposed them to be representations of Gelonian gods by their halos of gold and seed pearls. A number of divans and chairs, carved from glossy dark wood and buried under velvet cushions, had been arranged around the room. To Tsorreh’s mind, however, the room was to be traversed instead of lived in. Perhaps Jaxar used it for formal entertainment when he wanted to impress his guests. She could not imagine him at home with those elaborate murals or sitting comfortably in those ornate chairs.

Astreya passed through the mosaic chamber without a glance. At the far end, she opened one of three small doors and slipped through. Following her, Tsorreh immediately felt the difference in atmosphere. The proportions of this room were perfect, the walls unadorned except for a single faded banner. A door on the far side opened onto a balcony, admitting the night air.

A bed dominated the center of the room. It looked very old and could easily have accommodated three or four people, not just the single occupant who lay with his head propped on a thick bolster. A table bore a tray with bowl and pitcher and several shallow bronze dishes of the sort used to burn incense.

The steward, Issios, slumped beside the door on one of two modest benches, his head to one side and his mouth slightly open. He jerked awake as Astreya and Tsorreh entered. “You have no reason to be here, girl. The master is resting.”

Astreya flinched at the steward’s tone, but she held her ground. “Lady Tsorreh required me to bring her here.”

“Out, both of you! He must not be disturbed.”

“Please, may I not see how he fares?” Tsorreh pleaded. “If he is ill—” No, that would not work. She had no claim on a place here, no right to care for him. But she had noticed the chest standing beside the open balcony door and the pile of books there. “Let me read to him. Perhaps that might comfort him.”

The steward’s scowl deepened. Before he could refuse, Jaxar stirred, lifting one hand. “Is that you, Tsorreh? Issios, let her come near.”

Tsorreh approached the bed. Seen in the faint light, the change in Jaxar’s condition shocked her. His face was no longer puffy but bloated. He inhaled, wheezing as if each breath were a struggle. His skin had taken on an unhealthy flush. Yet the eyes that regarded her from that swollen face were as kind as ever.

She took his hand in hers, feeling the sodden texture of his flesh, and could not speak. Her expression must have revealed her emotions, for Jaxar said, “It is not so bad as all that, my dear. I have lived with this malady for many years now. Sometimes it is better, sometimes worse. It will be the end of me one day—”

“You must not speak so, my lord!” Issios objected. “You will recover! You must! I myself have offered prayers of intercession to The Dispenser of Justice, to my own patron, The One Who Blesses Commerce, and even to The God of Forgotten Hopes and Unspeakable Desires—”

“Enough!” Jaxar broke off in a fit of coughing. Tsorreh detected an alarming wheeze and rattle in his chest. “You may pray any way you wish for yourself, my old friend, but do not inflict your gods on me. I have enough difficulty in my life as it is, without their help.” Gasping, he sagged back on the bolsters.

Tsorreh turned to the steward. “Can nothing be done to ease his breathing and the swelling of his flesh? What has his physician advised?”

Issios glared at her. “We are not superstitious folk, to consult such a person!”

Tsorreh paused on the brink of outrage. Then she realized that in Gelone, the words for
physician
and
soothsayer
were identical. Surely, Gelon must have healing professionals.

“Who do you send for if you have a broken bone or an aching tooth?” she asked.

Issios snorted. “A tonsorial, you mean? They’re all very well for cauterizing a boil or amputating a gangrenous toe. On the battlefield, they have ample chance to practice their arts, so they are very skillful. This malady,” he gestured at Jaxar, “is clearly a spiritual matter.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I will explain the way of such things in Gelon.” Moderating his tone, Issios took Tsorreh aside. “Lay practitioners—tonsorials or country herbalists or even the priestesses of She Who Blesses Childbirth—use ordinary means of observation to determine what injury or ailment has beset their patient. You or I could do the same, yes? We see the same wound, we feel the same tumor.”

“Yes, of course,” Tsorreh agreed.

“Therefore, we will in most cases agree on the appropriate remedy. We can objectively evaluate the course of recovery. But for conditions that are invisible to ordinary senses, that manifest in strange and subtle ways, what can we do? We cannot see or touch or smell out the cause. This is because the disease is not physical, but
supernatural
in nature. Only the god to whom that person has sworn himself can diagnose and cure it.”

Tsorreh was so appalled, she could not think of a reply.

“In most cases, the priests of the patient’s patron god perform auguries to reveal the unique, specific cause of each patient’s malady. Treatment may involve making sacrifices, or ingesting certain foods or herbs. If that does not avail,” Issios hesitated minutely, “then a more powerful god must be invoked.”

Tsorreh suddenly understood Astreya’s comment about Lycian wanting to bring in a priest of Qr.

Issios glanced back at Jaxar. Although his face was impassive enough in frontal view, when he turned, a trick of the light revealed his deep worry. He returned to the bed and began wiping down Jaxar’s face.

Astreya touched Tsorreh’s arm to signal that it was time for them to leave. Jaxar was clearly slipping into restless sleep. Tsorreh hoped that the ministrations of the steward were soothing, that the patient might improve with rest. At least, the water was clean and had been scented with a refreshing herb.

Thoughtful, Tsorreh bade good night to Astreya and made her way back to the laboratory. Jaxar’s illness had been evident from the first time she’d seen him in Cinath’s court. Until now, she had not realized the seriousness of his condition or how quickly it could deteriorate.

Jaxar was not young, and he had been ill for a long time. Eventually, even the strongest constitution must give way under constant assault. The same principle applied to men as well as cities. Without proper care, with only rest and whatever remained of his innate vitality, Jaxar might die. Pausing with her hand on the latch of the laboratory door, Tsorreh bit down on her lower lip.

If Jaxar did not survive, she would lose her protector, her best defense against not only Lycian but against Cinath himself. The acquaintances she had made so far were new and the bonds fragile. She did not want to consider what her fate might be without Jaxar to take her part. But more than that, she realized as she closed the door behind her and stood gazing at the darkened chamber, she did not want to lose her friend.

Surely, something could be done to help him. If they were back in Meklavar, she would send for a physician, one trained not only in the best of her own people’s medical knowledge, but that of Denariya and Isarre as well. Meklavaran physicians often traveled to study and learn.

A Meklavaran physician
…

At least one such man lived here in Aidon, unless his professional robes had been merely a disguise. But how could she find him again?

Perhaps Jaxar would come through this episode. If he had not improved by the following morning, she decided, she would find a way, even if it meant leaving the compound without leave, thereby risking Lycian’s wrath and the city patrols. She would hazard even worse, for she had no doubt that if she were caught by Cinath’s Elite Guards, she would have no possible defense.

T
HE next morning, Tsorreh woke early, rising sluggishly through the borderlands between dream and day. Her limbs felt heavy, as if she had not rested. Astreya had not brought breakfast, which might not be a good sign. Tension twisted her belly, and even after she had scrubbed her teeth with a stick and rinsed her mouth, a cottony tang remained, like the dregs of fear. Although she wanted to rush to Jaxar’s chamber to see how he fared, she forced herself to sit still, to breathe deeply as she had been taught. There were prayers of supplication, prayers of thanks, and simply prayers of listening, of gradually quieting the mind.

“Reach out your hand, lift up my soul,”
went the verse from the
te-Ketav. “Be with me now, be with me now.”

As she repeated the holy words, Tsorreh’s fears gradually lessened, until she felt ready to deal with whatever she might find beyond the laboratory.

When Tsorreh knocked gently at Jaxar’s door and there was no answer, she lifted the latch and went inside. A bitter, chalky smell hung in the air, and an enameled bronze dish held a pile of brown-tinted ashes and lumps of melted resin.

Astreya was asleep on one of the benches beside the door, her mouth open, her cheeks gray with fatigue. Her
legs splayed out in the awkward grace of all young sleeping things. There was no sign of Issios.

Jaxar, too, slept. Not wanting to waken him, Tsorreh tiptoed closer. It was good that he rested, but she saw little improvement in the puffiness of his skin or the sound of his breathing. She had not studied medicine in any formal sense, but she had read enough books on the subject to know that incense and prayers and a pitcher of parsley tea would not cure what ailed Jaxar.

She had made a plan, a bargain with herself, and now she must fulfill it. Clearly, Jaxar fared no better than the day before. For all she knew, he was worse. She touched the back of his hand, felt the too-soft flesh. Eyelids opening, he stirred. She saw in an instant that he still retained his wits, for the eyes that looked out at her glittered with intelligence.

“Jaxar,” she began, “this treatment is not working. You know that my people have knowledge in such matters. Will you allow me to consult a physician?”

“Tsorreh, my child, do not bring trouble upon yourself on my account.” His voice sounded weaker and reedier than ever. “My illness and I are old friends. In the end, it will win. I have known this for a long time.”

“But not yet,” Tsorreh shot back. “Not now. Danar needs you, Gelon—” the name stuck in her throat but she forced it out, “Gelon needs you.” Then, softer. “As do I.”

For a long moment, he made no answer. Perhaps he was struggling to take in what she said. Perhaps he lacked the strength to speak.

“Please.” She fought to keep her voice confident. “Let me go for help. If it is not the will of—of whatever god who watches over you, then at least we will have tried.”

Another pause, then a slow nod. The light in those bright, intelligent eyes shifted.

“I won’t try to escape,” she went on. “I promise.”

“Then go with my leave…and my blessing.”

Tsorreh squeezed his hand and felt the answering grip of his fingers around hers. She turned toward the door. Astreya was awake, watching. Issios stood in the half-opened
door. For a moment, Tsorreh feared that the steward would prevent her from leaving. As she passed him, she saw in his face the love he bore for Jaxar. Issios would not stop her, not if there were the most remote chance that she might be able to help.

As Tsorreh descended the stairs, Astreya pattered after her, flushed and breathless. “I’m to come with you.”

“I don’t know how much risk this involves,” Tsorreh replied, hurrying across the courtyard toward the front doors.

“Less than if you were alone,” Astreya said with dry practicality. “Wherever you’re going, I’ve been there more times than you have.”

Tsorreh paused with her hand on the massive bronze handle of the front door. “True enough. But do you have any idea what I’m looking for?”

“Should I care?” Astreya closed the door soundlessly behind them.

“All right, then. We’ll start at the marketplace.”

*   *   *

The sun was well overhead as Tsorreh and Astreya reached the bottom of Cynar Hill. Every time they passed a pair of city patrolmen, Tsorreh tensed. Lycian had not seen them leave, and according to Astreya, the lady had left before dawn to pray at the Qr temple. She might well return before Tsorreh did and take action, if Jaxar were sleeping, or too ill to make his wishes known, or unable to testify that Tsorreh had gone on her errand with his permission.

The market had been busy before, but now it teemed with buyers and sellers, beggars and sightseers. The number of stalls had doubled. Between the rows of booths, more food-sellers had set up their wares. Fruits and vegetables, some of them looking so fresh they must have been brought into the city that very morning, covered tables and overfilled baskets and crates. Sights and smells filled Tsorreh’s head: a dozen kinds of greenery, turnips and radishes glowing like jewels, vats of olives swimming in their own oil, heaps of dried plums and apricots, fresh grapes like tiny
purple globes, garlands of tarragon and oregano, braided strings of garlic and little red onions, and jars of vinegar.