The Seven-Petaled Shield (37 page)

For the better part of the morning, Tsorreh and Danar sipped the old man’s tea, fragrant with dried jasmine blossoms, and listened to his rambling story of the sea monsters said to infest waters near the Firelands. Danar and Sadhir entered into a lively discussion about whether the beasts might be a form of long-necked whale or an entirely new species. Once, Tsorreh would have suspected such creatures to be the product of fear and the stress of a perilous journey working on superstitious minds. Now, for all she knew, they might be akin to the fire-spirits she had seen in the Sand Lands. The world was bigger and stranger than she had once imagined.

With reluctance, she and Danar took their leave, the promised book in hand. The street on which Sadhir lived was in one of those formerly fashionable districts that had since slid into graceful decay. The buildings had once been fine, and for the greater part, the carvings around door and roofline were clean, if eroded. Seasons of wind and weather had softened them almost past recognition. Overhead, the row of ancient trees had been pruned back so many times they appeared dead, except for the slender branches springing here and there from the scarred and knobbed trunks. The leaves cast faint dancing shadows against the brightness of the sky.

Tsorreh came away with a sense of the preciousness of this time, how much the old man had to say and how little of it might be preserved after his death. When Danar noticed her pensive mood, she spoke to him of her concerns.

“He doesn’t look like he’s in any imminent risk of dying,” Danar pointed out with the optimism of the young.

Tsorreh shook her head. Danar’s buoyant confidence struck her as naïve. Life was fragile, and words committed to paper or parchment only a little less so. Everything precious could be snatched away in a moment, by sword or fire or disease. She could remember only a fraction of the stories the old Denariyan explorer had told her. What would
become of the rest when he was gone? Who would remember where he had found this artifact or that sculpture?

Some things, she added silently, brushing her fingertips over her breastbone, where the
te-alvar
pulsed gently, must never be forgotten.

*   *   *

On their way back to Cynar Hill, Tsorreh and Danar traversed the broad central boulevard that ran from the harbor to the King’s Palace. Tsorreh had passed this way on her arrival in Aidon. Here she had walked with other slaves and captives, confused and frightened, still reeling from her sea voyage and the awakening of the
te-alvar
. Even then, she had been struck by the brilliance and richness of the city, the variety of costumes, the music, the flowers, the architecture. Now the streets seemed pallid, the more outlandish foreigners fewer and more subdued in their dress and manner. It was as if a veil had been drawn across a once vivid landscape. It seemed, too, that more than the usual number of city patrols moved among the crowd.

A crowd, yes…

As if reading her thought, Danar signaled for Jonath and Haslar to halt. “Something’s going on. There.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the harbor. Now she heard over the chatter of voices the shouted commands of the patrolmen and the muted clamor of an even greater throng. The brassy call of trumpets soared above the street noise.

“Make way!” a male voice thundered. Distance and the surging currents of traffic distorted but could not obliterate his words. “Make way for Ar-Thessar-Gelon, the Victorious, the Savior of Meklavar!”

Thessar?
Tsorreh reeled with shock at hearing the name, at the unexpected nearness of the man who’d conquered her city.

Danar pulled Tsorreh back from the center of the street. They stood close together, flanked by his bodyguards and surrounded on three sides by ordinary folk, some in coarse workers’ garb, others more richly dressed. Haslar and Jonath
moved to protect them as onlookers strained for a better view. Soldiers wearing armor and plumed helmets joined city patrolmen in clearing the street. A few bystanders cheered in anticipation of the spectacle to come.

The trumpets drew nearer. Above the noise, Tsorreh caught the sound of men marching in unison and the clatter of shod hooves and wheels over pavement. She leaned forward to see the vanguard of the procession, more soldiers with their drawn swords gleaming as dusky-skinned boys scattered blue and purple flowers. Then came the trumpeters themselves, and row after row of men sporting plumed, polished steel helmets and breastplates.

Shock gave way to determination. If she had a weapon—a sword, a knife, a dagger—she could wait until the right moment. She could strike just as Thessar passed, this monster who had caused her people so much grief. The prince’s guards would be slow to react to a well-dressed woman. They would pause for just a moment, trying to understand what was happening. In the end, they would capture her, and if there was any blessing in the world, they would kill her. What would her own death matter as long as she seized that single fateful opening? Shorrenon would be avenged, and Maharrad, and all the others, her people, her life.

An image rose up behind her eyes, so vivid it blinded her to the crowd and the approaching parade. When she had seen him at the fall of Meklavar, Thessar’s fair features had been exultant, insolent, bloated with victory. Now her imagination washed those cheeks with blood, filled those pale eyes with horror at the true understanding of what he had done, the last realization he would ever have.

No one would mourn Thessar’s passing. Certainly not the father who, from greed and ambition, had sent him to slaughter so many other father’s sons. Cinath would rage, an insignificant and fleeting spasm of his shriveled heart, but it would be too late. It was already too late.

Her hands curled into fists and her nails dug into flesh. She trembled with the magnitude of her hatred.

Thessar’s chariot came into view, embellished with stanchions
bearing ostrich plumes dyed in royal blue and purple, trailing streamers of gold. The onagers were perfectly matched silver-grays, their haunches painted in spiral designs with Cinath’s colors. They snorted and tossed their heads and rolled their eyes at the surge of noise from the crowd.

Moment by moment, the chariot drew nearer.

A city patrolman stood only a short way from her. He craned his neck to watch Thessar’s approach, shifting his hands away from his sword. Tsorreh judged the distance, one long step or perhaps two, then a quick grab—and the hilt of the sword would slip into her hand. She would pivot, sweeping the sword free as she darted forward. The blade would swing in an arc, downward where it would be less visible, then up as she plunged through the rank of retainers and leapt on to the chariot. Thessar might realize his doom, but the sword would already be in his flesh, piercing his heart—

The patrolman turned his head and held his arms out to both sides, forming a barrier. “Stay back now! No shoving! Let everyone have a chance to see the Glorious Victor!”

Did his gaze linger for just a fraction on her face? Did her expression betray her intentions? Could he see the murderous rage in her eyes?

Gulping, trembling, she looked away. The slightest wrong move would draw his attention to her. She would lose her only chance.

No one would miss Thessar or weep over his corpse…

She wondered if it were possible to kill a man with her bare hands. If she were capable of it.

But someone
would
miss him.
Like a whisper, like a feather’s barely perceptible touch, the thought glided through her mind.
Someone—

A mother, a comrade, perhaps a brother or sister or childhood nurse. Thessar had a younger brother, Chion, and a sister. Tsorreh didn’t know her name, had never met her. Did they love him as Jaxar loved Cinath? As Zevaron had loved Shorrenon? Perhaps Thessar had a pet, one of those
vile little lap-terriers like the one that followed Lycian everywhere, begging for attention.

A mother.
Even Thessar had a mother although according to Jaxar, she was frail and reclusive, never appearing in public. Had she rocked him as a baby, held him in her arms, sung him to sleep? Had her heart filled with hope for him, as Tsorreh’s had for Zevaron?

If by chance, Tsorreh managed to overcome Thessar’s guards, what then? Even if she survived, even if she gained her freedom, Cinath would not let the matter rest. As Marvenion feared, the retribution would be fierce and bloody, directed against her entire people. Not only in Aidon but in Meklavar itself and in all the wide lands between.

He cannot destroy all of us.

Somewhere, here or at home, someone would strike back. Perhaps that someone would be Zevaron or a young man like him—hot-tempered, full of life and fury and bitter vengeance. And then Cinath would have another target for retaliation, another reason for brutal oppression. She had read in the histories by the unknown scholar of Borrenth Springs that the Gelon had burned at least one Isarran city to its foundations and then sown the charred fields with salt.

Through the crimson lens of her fury, she saw the future stretching out, flames and more flames, and fields running with blood. Gelonian blood, Meklavaran blood, Isarran blood, it did not matter. They were all the same color. The lamentations of the women were the same.

The
te-alvar
pulsed in her heart, a nudge only, a hint of gold against the blood-washed vision. Gentler this, not the shrill warning she had known before, but more like a whisper, like the small insight that someone must have loved Thessar once and perhaps still did.

That mote of light, of warmth, was bigger than the vastness of battle, of insurrection and conquest, of retaliation and revenge.

Tsorreh came to herself, jarred awake by the clatter of hooves and wheels, the surging cheers of the people around her. Their bodies jostled her.

“Thessar Victorious!” they cried. “Thessar! Thessar!”

Blinking, she fell back. Danar caught her with an arm around her shoulders. He spoke to her, but she could not distinguish his words above the roaring of the throng and the fading whispers in her mind.

At the edge of her vision, Tsorreh glimpsed a figure, robed and hooded, as it glided from a doorway and turned in her direction. She could not see its face, only the pale suggestion of a headband, but she had not the slightest doubt that the Qr priest had noticed her.
Recognized
her.

Closely fenced by his escort, Danar pulled Tsorreh away. Her legs would not work properly. She leaned gratefully into his strength.

Once they were well away from the procession, past the flow of latecomers who jammed the neighboring streets, Tsorreh breathed more easily. Her vision came back into focus. The streets around her, the buildings with their white stone walls and red tile roofs, were solid and familiar.

Several times, Tsorreh glanced back, half afraid that the hooded minion of the Scorpion god followed them. Although she caught no sight of him, her mind still flinched under their fleeting mental contact.

“I did not think—” Danar said, his mouth tight. “You should never have had to endure that. Forgive me, it’s my fault.”

“Fault?” Tsorreh’s voice sounded hoarse to her own ears, as if she had been screaming. “No, why should you reproach yourself? You have done nothing to offend me. How could you have known Thessar would be here?”

They left the broad, flat avenues of the central city and headed for the base of Cynar Hill. The escort followed at their usual discreet distance, Danar striding ahead, restless and agitated, and Tsorreh moving as quickly as she could, given the lingering weakness in her legs.

“I
knew
he was returning. I
knew
there would be some kind of ‘disgusting spectacle,’ as Father calls it. I just didn’t anticipate our running into it. It was unforgivable—”

“Danar, slow down,” Tsorreh panted. “If you feel guilty
about anything, it should be for making me run to keep up with you!”

With a rueful quirk of his mouth, Danar moderated his pace. As they went on, the streets rose into switchbacks along the steepness of Cynar Hill. Above them, rows of ornamental dwarfed trees and walls topped with planters that overflowed their flowering vines, created the illusion of layer upon layer of terraced gardens.

“I would have found out sooner or later,” she explained, trying to sound more rational than she felt. “There’s no harm done, just a bit of excitement.” She summoned a smile. “I’m sure that in a short time, we will look upon this as no more than a story to tell our—” she hesitated at the next word, which was to be
children
. She could not imagine telling Zevaron about today’s events with pleasure.

Danar had fallen silent, but a tautness around his mouth and eyes betrayed his thoughts. He was still worried. “Tsorreh…” Danar looked away. His voice dropped in pitch, resonant with feeling. It was, she realized, no longer a boy’s voice.

Gently she touched his arm. “Danar, what truly troubles you? Not this business with Thessar? Is it your stepmother again? Or do you fear for your father’s health?”

At her words, he turned to face her. Light filled his sea-green eyes. She could not read the emotion there, only its intensity. The two of them stood very close and the sound of his breathing was quick and hard in her own ears.

“Forgive me—” A catch in his voice ended whatever he was going to say. He broke away, his cheeks flaming.

Understanding rushed through her.
Oh, my dear
…

She had no idea what to say to him. How could she tell him that she loved him as a brother, almost as a son, even as she loved Jaxar as a father? Danar would be humiliated at being regarded as a child when the passions stirring within him were clearly those of a young man.

They walked on in awkward silence. Tsorreh saved her breath for the exertion of the climb. Some people, she thought, were made for loving. Danar certainly was, and
Zevaron, she hoped. Shorrenon and Ediva. Jaxar, for all his ungainly physical appearance, must have loved Danar’s mother, for he was a loving person. But she, herself…would any man ever see her as other than
King’s wife
, exotic captive,
te-ravah?