The Seven-Petaled Shield (38 page)

*   *   *

Tsorreh expected a round of festivities in Thessar’s honor, an extravagance of praise for the near-godlike powers of the Ar-King. She was not disappointed. The entire city went mad with jubilation. The sounds of dancing, singing in the streets, and drunken uproar penetrated even the seclusion of the laboratory. The revelry continued well into the small hours of the morning. What she had not expected was a summons to the royal court.

Jaxar conveyed the command in his usual gentle, understated manner, but it was a command, no doubt of that. Jaxar and Lycian and Danar would attend as celebrants, basking in reflected triumph. All the royal family shared a measure of Cinath’s glory. But Tsorreh’s presence was to be one of subjugation, a public demonstration of the fate of all those who dared oppose the will of the Ar-King.

In Jaxar’s eyes, she saw his dismay at what might transpire. She wanted to reassure him that dignity was too costly a luxury for one in her position. Cinath had slaughtered her husband and stepson, burned her city, turned her into a penniless exile, and then wrenched away the person most dear to her. What more could he do to her?

Strip her bare, spit on her, force her to prostrate herself at his feet? Lycian could devise far more degrading punishments. Beat her senseless, throw her to the barracks as he’d threatened to do to the black-skinned woman?

Kill her?

No, if Cinath meant to take her life, he would have done so already. Such a punitive action, inflicted so long after the actual defeat, would surely be seen as petty and spiteful. Whatever else he might be, Cinath was too canny a politician for that.

Jaxar stood just inside the laboratory door, leaning on his crutch. Tsorreh wished she could spare him this. She bowed her head, searching for any last shred of pride and finding none. “For myself, it is nothing,” she said. Then realized,
But not for Danar.
He loved her with a boy’s singular adoration. He must do nothing on her account, not even cast an accusing glance at his uncle.

He wants so badly to be a hero, but he has no idea how terrible a fate that is.

There was nothing she or anyone else could do to spare her from the spite of the Ar-King or his heir. She must endure it, but she would not see anyone else suffer on her account.

“Danar—” she wet her lips. “Will you tell him he must not interfere, must not try to protect me?”

A figure moved in the open doorway behind Jaxar’s ungainly bulk. Danar slipped past his father. His face was set, giving him the look of an older, grimmer man. His eyes shone like ice.

“You know what will happen?” Tsorreh asked. “When I come before Cinath?”

Jaxar nodded. His breathing was so loud, it filled the room.

Tsorreh continued, “The last time I saw Thessar—before the parade, that is—my stepson pretended to surrender and then…” She broke off. Although she had never told the story to either Danar or his father, some version must be common knowledge. “I dare not hope—I do not believe that Thessar will have forgotten the attack, or forgiven. He surely sees it as the most vile treachery. Now Shorrenon is beyond his reach.”
But I am not.

She paused, watching the dawning comprehension in Danar’s face. He was Jaxar’s son; he had grown up in a world of schemes and alliances, of nuances of power. Anything he said or did on her behalf would only multiply whatever agonies Thessar intended for her. That she had dared to make Danar into an ally, a champion—she could not imagine the retaliation for that offense.

“I will need your strength, Danar. Your silence. Can you do that for me—for your father? Will you?”

Jaxar’s breathing shifted into a moan. Danar lifted his chin. She had his assent, but there must be more. He must say it aloud, like an oath.

He did: “I promise.”

*   *   *

On the day of the royal audience, Jaxar was limping even more than usual. His health was much improved, but his deformed foot clearly pained him. He was forced to travel by litter, carried by four large men and accompanied by guards and servants. Danar and Lycian would ride as part of the cortège, but Tsorreh was consigned to walk with the servants. This latter, she surmised, was Lycian’s idea.

Given her choice, Tsorreh would have walked. The fresh air and exercise would strengthen her mind. She would draw from the vitality of the streets, the gaudy mixture of color and texture, the reminders of a larger world beyond the compound walls. The city was more than the palace, just as Gelon was greater than Cinath.

While everyone else was attending to Jaxar and finishing preparations for travel, Tsorreh slipped down to the bath house. Lycian had already spent an hour there, most likely soaking in scented water and being massaged with costly fragrant oils.

Tsorreh eased herself into the servants’ pool. The water, from an underground hot spring, was uncomfortably warm and smelled faintly of sulfur. No emollient oils or herbs had been added to sweeten its odor or leave her skin soft and glowing.

She touched her braids, looped together at the back of her neck. She still wore them in traditional Meklavaran style. One braid represented each of the seven brothers, each of the seven
alvara
, bound together as one, even as the Shield was one. They were a token of who she was, where she had come from, her dreams, her hopes, and, in a small way, her defiance against her captors.

As she unraveled the braids, Tsorreh hesitated. She had intended to comb out her hair and smooth it with oil before rebraiding. Then she would put on her fine dress with the ivory shoulder clasps, even as she had made herself beautiful when she’d overseen the surrender of her city.

She would hold herself royally and look Cinath in the eye. She would think,
You may have captured me, but you can never break the spirit of my people.

Now, for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of her plan. She was not Shorrenon, to throw her life away for a gesture. Because of the
te-alvar
, she could not afford the luxury of martyrdom. If she defied the Ar-King and died as a result, her people might indeed rise up in protest, her murder fueling their rebellion. But at what cost?

Much more was at stake than the freedom of Meklavar, its political independence, and justice for its people. If she died, the
te-alvar
, the heart of the Shield, would be lost, and without it, there was no hope of regaining Khored’s legacy. The
te-alvar
had dissuaded her from a suicidal attack on Thessar, but she dared not count on it in the upcoming ordeal.

What was it to be? A doomed, heroic challenge? Or submission—humiliation—in the service of an even greater cause?

Emerging from the bath, she finished combing her hair, stroking each wave as if it were a treasure. Unbound, it reached to her hips. She dressed and headed for the kitchen. Her hair swung gently, caressing her spine.

Breneya was at the back of the kitchen, inspecting and sharpening the knives. She had laid them in a row on the work table. She looked up when Tsorreh entered. Her mouth formed a question, then closed.

“I need a knife,” Tsorreh said.

Breneya looked for an instant as if she would refuse, thinking Tsorreh meant to do herself or someone else harm. She picked up a knife, its short, curved blade and blunted tip meant for chopping nuts, rendering it unlikely as a weapon.

She watched in silence as Tsorreh hacked away at the mass of her hair, one handful after another. This took longer than Tsorreh had anticipated, for her hair was strong and resilient. It resisted her efforts. The edges came out jagged, falling just below her shoulders.

When Tsorreh looked up, she saw tears streaking Breneya’s eyes. Breneya knelt at her feet, gathered up the glossy strands, and took them away.

No one took any notice as Tsorreh slipped through the back way and up to the laboratory. She looked around the familiar room as if seeing it through new eyes.
Captive’s eyes, slave’s eyes.
The eyes of one whose only aim is survival, in whom every other hope is so deeply buried that no temptation could stir it. Shuddering, she cast the thought aside.

The slave’s dress she’d worn on her arrival at Jaxar’s house now felt stiff and coarse against her skin. Emptiness replaced the weight of the clasps on her shoulders. Finally she knelt, removed her soft suede boots, and pulled on the sandals. The heavy ropes had stiffened since she last wore them, and she sighed as they scraped her skin. There was nothing to do but endure or go barefoot.
Let them see me as they sent me forth, as they would have me be.

Just as she reached the door, she heard Lycian’s voice from the corridor outside. “Where is she? Hiding as usual? Hiding and shirking! I want to see her before you leave. She shall not shame us with her insolent pride!”

Tsorreh jerked the door open. Lycian’s maid, almost upon the threshold, startled and took a step back. Lycian pushed forward, Danar a step behind.

If Lycian had appeared gorgeous before, she now rivaled the statues of the gods. Pleats of gleaming silk, iridescent in shades of gray-silver, blue-silver, and shimmering rose-silver had been draped and gathered to accent the sensuous curves of her body. The tiny white jewels and silver wires twined through her pale-gold hair created a moony halo, framing her flawless features. Her lips parted as she looked Tsorreh over, a quick glance from hair to feet. Her lips
tightened, and she nodded. Tsorreh forced down an ironic laugh that she had at last met with Lycian’s approval.

Danar remained motionless while Lycian swirled away. Once they were alone, he turned to Tsorreh with huge, dismayed eyes.

“Your hair! Oh, Tsorreh, your beautiful hair. You didn’t need to do this.”

Tsorreh permitted herself a faint smile. “Did I not? And what would the Ar-King and his son, the conqueror of Meklavar, think if I appeared proud and unbroken? What would they think of your father, who had permitted such insolence?” When he shook his head, still clearly appalled, she added, “It is of no great matter. Do you think I am Lycian?”

At that, he smiled.

“Go now,” she told him, forcing her voice to sound braver than she felt. “Attend your father. I would not have him fall ill because of this ridiculous spectacle.”

*   *   *

When they arrived at the Palace, Jaxar and his family were conducted inside with a good deal of bowing and strewing of flower petals. Lycian was radiant from the adulation. A pair of guards took Tsorreh around to the side and through a maze of narrow corridors, up stairs and then down, until she’d lost all sense of direction. They encountered no servants or courtiers, not even a scullion, only an occasional guard wearing Cinath’s colors. The guards went on in silence, as if Tsorreh were deaf and mute. They were tall and muscular; even without their weapons, either could have broken her like a twig. If they feared her “Meklavaran sorcery,” they gave no sign.

She, on the other hand, felt a growing sense of unease that increased the deeper she went into the Palace. At first, she attributed it to her own very natural anxiety. Despite her brave intentions to endure whatever waited for her, she did not feel in the least stalwart. She might well break down under physical torment, but she had no warrior’s pride to
armor her against weakness. Women were expected to be delicate, were they not? If screams and tears would satisfy Cinath, then screams and tears he would have. If screams would keep her alive—and she
must
stay alive, she who was the guardian of the
te-alvar
.

As she thought this, she stumbled on an irregularity in the stone floor. The guard following her gave a sound like a wolf’s growl as he shoved her forward. She scrambled to regain her balance. The
te-alvar
ignited in her chest, not in reassurance but in warning.

She felt a cold prickling along her spine and the hairs on her arms stood on end.

Qr.

The noxious trace vanished as abruptly and as completely as if someone had dropped a smothering cloak over it. Without thinking, Tsorreh lifted one hand to her breastbone. Warmth flared under her touch, then subsided.

They passed not to the audience chamber where Tsorreh had undergone her first interview, but to a far larger hall. She had not known the palace contained such a vast space. It was bigger and its painted ceiling far higher than anything in Meklavar. She recognized many of the gods portrayed by the statues, art from this conquered province or that. Wine cascaded from multi-tiered fountains. Half the courtiers filling the hall were already drunk, but not the watchful-eyed guards.

Drums and flutes and man-high lyres poured forth music, but she could barely make out the melodies above the cacophony of voices, some raised in song or laughter, many more in excited chatter. Where in all this riot of color and sound was Jaxar? Danar? The guards pressed close around her, preventing any contact with the throng.

At a signal she could not make out, the chatter died, as did the music. The revelers drew back and the foremost guard led the way deeper into the hall. The crowd thinned even further.

Ahead, Tsorreh recognized Cinath, tall and broad-shouldered, attired in elaborate, blindingly white robes and
crowned with a garland of amethysts and blue topazes. He spoke with a man much more simply dressed, bald head bowed, no ornaments. The courtier straightened, and Tsorreh saw the scorpion emblazoned on his headband.

For a terrible moment, the world froze. She went deaf and blind to everything but that black shape against the white cloth.

A muted thud broke the silence and then another, a distant two-part rhythm. Was it her own heart? As if in response, warmth blossomed between her breasts, spreading outward. Movement and color returned. She felt her own limbs and heard the murmurs of the courtiers.

Cinath raised one hand, a careless flicker of a gesture, and the Qr priest took a step back. Now Tsorreh saw the priest’s face, the rounded cheeks that spoke of ease and rich food, the mouth with its hint of a smirk; satisfied, confident, and greedy. The priest’s gaze slipped across her but did not linger. He saw her only as a slave, of no importance to his own designs. Cinath, however, glared at her. She dropped her gaze as a slave would, but in that fractional moment, she got a good look at him. When she had seen him before, his eyes did not have that tautness, as if he had not slept well for fear of his slain enemies returning in his dreams.