The Seven-Petaled Shield (46 page)

Tsorreh had seen enough of the temper of the city to worry how the people would respond. They would think it an omen and would rush to the priests of whatever gods
they worshipped. She reflected that the priests knew no more of the nature of such phenomena than did anyone else, but that would not stop them from making pronouncements and prophecies, or selling protective amulets for as much as their devotees could afford.

*   *   *

As afternoon drifted into twilight, heat hung in the air like an invisible blanket. The city drowsed, the people moving languidly about their tasks. Only Jaxar, fired by the passions of his scientific curiosity, seemed immune to the pervasive lethargy. When he noticed Tsorreh yawning over her notebook, he sent her off to bed. At first, she resisted sleep, but she had been up late for several nights in a row. Her body craved rest, and her eyelids burned with fatigue.

She awoke with a start hours later. The air was cooler but very still, expectant. A dim light bathed the laboratory. The door leading to the observatory was open. She went to the bottom of the ladder.

“Jaxar? Are you up there?”

A rustle of footsteps answered her. “Tsorreh! You’re awake? Splendid! You must see this. Come up at once.”

Tsorreh had never heard Jaxar so excited. Wonder infused his voice. She scrambled up as quickly as she could. For an instant, she wondered if she had slept through until dawn, the sky was so bright. As she took in the sight, she staggered, for a moment too struck with awe to speak. Jaxar sat on his stool, equally transfixed.

A brilliant sphere blazed in the west, moving slowly toward the east along the northern horizon. It pierced the night, casting off shards of light like trails of falling stars. As if, Tsorreh thought, it had been composed of fire and ice, now shattered into a hundred fragments, plunging toward the arctic dawn.

It was both beautiful and terrifying.

Behind Tsorreh’s breastbone, the
te-alvar
flared. So sudden was its awakening and after so long a slumber that she cried out and pressed both hands over it. Its invisible light
pulsed through her fingers, filled her chest, and streamed through her entire body. Her bones vibrated with its power.

The heart of the Shield had been waiting, watching for this very moment.

“Tsorreh, my dear? Are you ill?”

“I am well,” she managed to gasp. “Only…overcome for a moment.”

“Ah, you might well be,” Jaxar sounded both wistful and awed by what he had seen. “A phenomenon like this comes to us but rarely. Most men live their entire lives without beholding such a sight. We shall not see its like again.”

Tsorreh lifted her face once more to the sky just as the fiery-white comet disappeared behind the northeast ridge of house tops. She felt herself half in the world, half in a dream. The
te-alvar
hummed through her bones and colored her vision. With a breath, she might stand again with Khored under the ice-raptured sky.

Although she could no longer see the comet, she felt it still—racing, falling, hurling itself earthward. Her vision went gray and opaque. She sensed the screaming speed and momentum of the thing and its desperate
need
.

Something pulled it, commanded it, something fed by the very place in which she stood.

Qr? Reaching out to the shadowed evil of ancient days? To Khored’s enemy?

Far, far to the north, beyond the limit of her physical vision, she saw light surge up into the sky, blotting out the stars. Bedrock trembled. Mountains fractured. Echoes slapped back from one cliff face to the next, and blood-colored light limned the jagged line of peaks. And from deep within the earth, deeper and darker than even the tunnels of Meklavar, something stirred. Something reached out with slow and terrible sentience.

Tsorreh wrenched her awareness back to the rooftop in Aidon. She trembled in every muscle. Her heart stuttered, then grew steadier, bathed in the power of the petal gem. Slowly, her breath softened, and her pulse slowed toward normal. She felt herself once more in her body.

They sat for what seemed an eternity, as night wrapped itself around the compound once more. Jaxar gave a deep, satisfied sigh.

“What a sight.” His voice was hushed, almost prayerful. “I never thought to witness such a thing. A comet falling to earth.”

Tsorreh swallowed. Her throat was hard and dry. “Where? Where did it strike?”

“Let us see what we can determine. I will need a map.” Jaxar gathered himself, moving with his usual awkward stiffness. Together they went down into the laboratory. While Tsorreh lit the oil lamps, Jaxar spread out his charts. Consulting the notes he had taken of the comet’s approach and descent, he made calculations, measuring out distances on the maps.

“There, more or less.” He jabbed a stubby finger somewhere in the northeast region of the Azkhantian steppe. “Alas, it’s unlikely that any Gelon will be permitted that far within the nomads’ territory. It would be—” he sighed again, wistful now, “an amazing thing to study whatever is left of the comet.”

Tsorreh shivered inside. The last thing she wanted was to stand before that frozen, fiery brilliance. She bent over the map. “These markings indicate mountains, I believe.”

“Yes, so far as we know. The map is old, pieced together from traders’ reports that go back to times when relations between the Azkhantians and ourselves were less contentious. My old friend Sadhir, may-his-spirit-rest-in-peace—whom you and Danar were so kind to visit—created some of these maps, based on his own travels. The distances may be in error, but I believe we can reliably say that a range of mountains borders the northern steppe in that location.”

Tsorreh went to the bookshelf where she had arranged the small collection of Meklavaran texts. Jaxar did not possess a copy of the
te-Ketav
, but some of the historical works in his collection made reference to it. Gelonian scholars were notorious for quoting the scriptures of other races. She paged through several volumes while Jaxar once more
bent over the map, muttering under his breath about trade routes.

The third book yielded what she sought.

“And it came to pass,” she read, moving her lips with the words, “that Khored and his brothers defeated Fire and Ice and exiled it to the far regions of the world, to the ring of glacier mountains of the north, and then beyond the veil between the worlds.”

To the glacier mountains of the north
…

She felt dizzy, thinking about the comet smashing down into those mountains, freeing what lay there. The
te-alvar
was summoning her, bidding her act after all these years of watchful waiting.

But what was she to do? Given her status as a prisoner and the increasing influence of the priests of Qr and their tenacious watch over her, what
could
she do?

Tsorreh realized, then, that she was trembling as much from fury as from fear. She was tired of secrets, tired of waiting, tired of hiding like a hunted animal, tired of her very existence being dependent on powerful men.

She had been given a burden, a guide, a treasure beyond measure, but for what purpose? To flee and sneak and keep it hidden while the world crumbled around her? Why had she been the one to receive the
te-alvar
if she were not also meant to use it?

T
O the west, beyond the Mearas, a storm was brewing. Zevaron tasted it on the air, though as yet, only a darkening haze marred the perfect sky. Heat drenched the air, a stillness he had learned to never trust. The canvas sails of the
Wave Dancer
hung almost limp, and the ship, usually responsive to his hand on the tiller, moved sluggishly.

Chalil came to stand beside him, wiping sweat from his forehead. The last four years had worn hard on the pirate captain. Gray streaked his night-dark hair, and his skin was as creased and weathered as old leather.

Zevaron turned to glance at his friend and captain, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. In another decade on the
Wave Dancer
, he would look just as sea-worn. With his long hair tied back, his curved mustache, and his skin darkly tanned, he could easily pass for Denariyan. His command of the language would never fool a native but did well enough for outlanders.

“Curse this calm!” Zevaron said, but with good temper. “It will hold us here until the storm catches us.”

“And so?” Chalil’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon, and Zevaron knew what he was thinking.
Better to face a storm than a warship.

Chalil and his crew wanted no part in the ongoing naval
conflict between Gelon and Isarre. War was bad for trade and worse for a pirate who depended on the availability of rich merchant ships. The situation had become even more dangerous when Gelon determined to put an end to piracy. They had paid Lord Haran’s ransom grudgingly, and then had come after Chalil with an astonishing show of force, bent on striking terror into any who dared prey upon one of their own. Two narrow escapes, achieved by luck and seamanship, had convinced Chalil to seek safer waters. So they took what was left of the treasure through the long, difficult passage via the straits of the Firelands and beyond, to the free trader haven of Pirion, and then to Denariya itself.

Chalil had been right, Zevaron thought. The sea was filled with gifts, not the least of which was forgetfulness. Zevaron had never dreamed of such countries, such rich colors, such tastes and sounds and smells. Such voluptuous women.

As part of Chalil’s crew, Zevaron had spent seasons in Denariya, even venturing into the Fever Lands for ivory and gold. The strange constellations became familiar, and he had grown accustomed to eating rice instead of wheat, to fish and fiery peppers.

Now they were embarking upon what Chalil called “a different type of thievery.” The
Wave Dancer’s
hold was filled with fine embroidered silk, sandalwood incense, myrrh and peppercorns, barrels of exotic wines, pots of kohl and cinnabark, rose tincture and dried mango; all goods that brought a hundred times their purchase price or more. The passage had been uneventful thus far, the Firelands Straits no worse than usual.

The wind picked up, filling the sails, and the
Wave Dancer
moved easily under Zevaron’s hands. They meant to travel east, then north to Gelon and the port city of Roramenth. Chalil had chosen Roramenth because it was large enough to trade in luxury goods yet not as well-garrisoned as Verenzza. Chalil might have repainted the
Wave Dancer
and donned the coat of an honest merchant, but there was
still a bounty on his head. Even now, years later, some might recognize him.

They had stopped at the Mearas, the cluster of desolate rocky islands that formed the gateway to the Endless Sea, to trade their spices for fresh water, meat, bread, and more dried fruits. In a smoky tavern, Zevaron had listened while Tamir and Chalil bought an extra round of bitter ale and exchanged news with the crew of a ship bound out of Durinthe in Isarre. Gatacinne remained in Gelonian hands, they said, as did Valoni-Erreth, the city the Gelon built for themselves. But they were quick to add that the Isarran King still ruled in Durinthe. Ar-Cinath-Gelon, perhaps frustrated with the stalemate, had sent his son, Thessar, off to “subdue the savage nomads of Azkhantia.”

So the Gelonian prince survived Shorrenon’s attack
, Zevaron thought, but said nothing.

Chalil commented that Thessar’s current mission sounded more like a punishment than an opportunity for glory.

“Ah, but if he takes any territory at all, he can return home with his honor restored,” the Isarran captain said dryly.

“Territory? From the Azkhantians? He’ll be lucky to escape with his hide,” was Omri’s comment.

There was no talk of Meklavar beyond what Zevaron already knew, that Gelon now ruled there with an iron fist, that many of the old noble families were dead or scattered.

Chalil had taken him to Denariya to prevent him from getting himself killed, that much he now understood. As long as he was half a world away, there was nothing he could do and no revenge he could seek. He had set aside those memories for a time. Now each passing hour brought him closer to Gelon and to uneasy dreams of vengeance.

“He saw that you knew the woman and aimed his words like a spear point at your heart,”
Chalil had said, sure the Gelonian slave-master Haran had lied about Tsorreh’s death out of sheer malice. Could she have been taken on that first ship to Gelon and still be alive?

Now, with the Mearas behind them, Zevaron was no closer to an answer than when he had last sailed these waters. His hands clenched the tiller hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

“You’ve stood here too long,” Chalil said. “That’s what ails you. Go below, check that everything is secure.”

Zevaron did as he was told. He had learned seamanship as well as fighting and trading in the last four years, but he was not eager to be at the tiller in bad weather.

By the time Zevaron returned to deck, the storm was bearing down on them like a sea-hawk plunging to seize a fish. The waters crashed and rose. The deck heaved under his feet. He braced himself, holding fast to the railing.

The winds grew every moment in strength, sending the
Wave Dancer
pitching. Wind-whipped spray blanketed the view. With sail and oars, the crew struggled to keep the ship on a steady course, to turn her so that her bows were to the waves and she might ride the storm at the best angle.

Then the rain came, pelting them from behind. Waves surged higher, fresh water mixing with salt. The sea rose to meet the fury of the heavens. Ridge after ridge of gray-green water raced toward the ship. She lifted to meet them, plunging and bucking like a wild thing. The waves broke over her sides, flooding the deck. Chalil shouted orders, but the gale tore away his words.

Time swallowed them up. The day, which had begun so warm and still, grew colder by the minute. The crew rowed and climbed and spliced and cut. All the while, the sea roared about them.

Zevaron took his turn on the oars. He rowed until his muscles burned and then went numb. Thirst clawed at him. Sometimes he thought his hands shook, or perhaps it was the fury of the storm pounding the ship.