The Seven-Petaled Shield (47 page)

Omri thrust a cup at him. It was rainwater, somehow gathered in the confusion. The water cooled his burning throat and renewed his strength.

When Zevaron came back on deck, it took all his sea training to keep his feet. He peered through the slashing
rain. Water sheeted from the sky. Waves that were more froth than water shot upward.

In the howling tempest, an immense shape took form. At first, Zevaron thought it a trick of the rain, a sea-mirage. But no, something
was
there, insubstantial and wavering, mist condensing against the maelstrom of white and gray. He felt the thing in the sea, as if an unknown part of him, a sense that had lain sleeping all these years, now stirred.

The water around the shape churned and boiled, adding steam to the tattered, whirling whiteness of the storm. Voices echoed on the wind. The ship’s timbers groaned.

The upper part of the figure rose above the plunging waves, human and dragon and sea-beast all in one. The massive head lifted, a mane like tangled kelp streaming over the shoulders. A crest of knobbed, interlaced coral sprang from the overhanging brow, arching over the domed skull and down the spine. The skin, what Zevaron could see of it through the foam, was green and mottled gray, patterned with pale incrustations and plated scales that shone like mother-of-pearl. Its eyes were huge and lidless, made for peering through lightless depths.

The apparition sank down, as if gathering itself. Arms—two or three or even five, Zevaron couldn’t tell—burst from the water, lashing it to even greater heights.

O Most Holy One, if ever you loved your children, save us now!

The words poured from the innermost core of Zevaron’s heart. From the depths of his soul. An image sprang up behind his eyes, of Chalil, who had been as a father to him, of Tamir and stolid Omri. He saw them sink beneath the water, bodies like sodden petals drifting downward, drawn into the inexorable, swirling currents. In the frozen dark, they settled among the bones of monstrous benthic creatures, where no one knew their names or sang their lineage. Bereft of light, of warmth, of memory, they perished as if they had never existed, never loved, never known a moment’s joy.

The monstrous fist descended, missing the
Wave Dancer
and passing instead through the maelstrom. A wall of water slammed into the ship. It surged over the deck. Timbers shrieked. The prow lifted, shuddering, reaching for the light. Zevaron staggered, thrown to his knees. Then the ship began to slip downward.

Zevaron scrambled to his feet on the tilting deck. He raised his own fist, filled his lungs with fury and hurled it out.

“NO!”
he screamed.
“YOU SHALL NOT HAVE THEM!
”

For an instant, time itself seemed to pause. Although the wind and rain continued, the sea scarcely moved, as if the waves were mere painted images. The ship hung suspended in its descent.

The immense, distorted head swung around. This time, the eyes were not blind, pallid orbs, but lit from within. Zevaron reeled under their weight. The apparition’s watery breath enveloped him. He felt its awareness, the leap of curiosity.

The thing was in his mind now, ringing through the caverns of his skull. Thoughts reverberated, overlapping and rippling, so that he could not tell which were his own and which came from this strange creature. He no longer feared for himself, the watery death it brought. He feared only for the others—his shipmates, his friends.

Once, in Tomarzha Varya, he had heard from afar the pealing of bells for some Denariyan religious celebration or other. He remembered the cacophony of sound and how it fell away at the end, leaving a single melody, so pure and clear it stirred him to tears. Now the jumble of thoughts within his mind also faded. The storm quieted. The winds shifted and the apparition before him dwindled. He no longer looked upon a grotesque colossus, half sea-dragon, half parody of a man, but upon a much smaller figure.

A waterspout of deepest blue bore the sea king up, covering the lower part of the naked form. It lifted him so that his gaze was level with Zevaron’s. The creature seemed to be standing utterly still, yet in constant motion.

He bore the aspect of a bearded man, broad of chest and heavily muscled, yet with a sleekness that reminded Zevaron
of dolphins. Seaweed twisted with strands of pearls fell across his shoulders in a mane. The light around his body shimmered like opals. His eyes reflected the same radiance, but Zevaron sensed a darkness behind them, slow brooding ferocity and intelligence.

As they gazed upon one another, the storm itself fell away. One enormous hand lifted in a salute.

Hail to thee, O Khored’s heir!

Zevaron was too stunned by the thoughts reverberating through his mind to make an immediate answer.

Khored’s heir,
the sea-creature called him. Zevaron could not imagine how he could have known. The
te-Ketav
spoke of ancient magic, of a time before time when the world was formed in Fire and Ice, Stone and Water, when light and shadow, death and life had sprung into being. He had thought the whole business mythical, unreal. Yet now, as he faced this spirit of the sea, a new understanding shivered through his bones and sang along his nerves.

“I greet you, elemental form of the sea!” Zevaron leaned over the railing, calling out in the ancient, formal tongue.

Laughter, dark as the lightless depths, bright as foam, welled up from the massive shape. Zevaron remembered the old stories where the hero gained power over his enemy by learning its true name. That much must be true. He wondered if he had offended the creature, yet what did it matter what he called it? What did it want with him?

As if sensing his thought, the sea king nodded his head. The strands of his mane and beard undulated like sea-grass. The tiny pearls woven into his hair chimed like bells.

The sea king’s prophecy bore down on Zevaron as if he had suddenly slipped beneath the waves and plunged to the uttermost depths. For an eternity between one heartbeat and the next, Zevaron could only stare at the moon-pale eyes.

…
from the sand, from the sea, Heir to the ancient shield
…That must mean him and the Shield of Khored that was the symbol of his race.

The creature began to sink beneath the waves. In an instant, he would be gone.

“No!” Zevaron cried. “Wait! What do you see ahead for me? What must I do?”

Son of a mother twice reborn.
The words echoed in his mind.

“My mother! What do you know of my mother? What does the prophecy mean?”

The prophecy, O Heir of Khored, was written at the beginning of time. Yet some turnings ago of tide and moon did pass a woman of your people, bearing your blood and the sacred treasure of your race. She spoke of kindness and the singing of the stars. I drew nigh, to taste the perfume of her words.

“Where did she go? Where set ashore?”

The waters were already closing over the immense form. Zevaron almost screamed with frustration. Then came a last ghostly whisper.

The Port of Tears.

*   *   *

The wind settled, a constant, easy push from the west. There was no longer need for oar power. Under Chalil’s direction, the crew began repairs. They stopped that night at a cove, a day’s sailing out of Roramenth. Zevaron went ashore and
sat staring into the fire, turning over the words of the sea king.

Too close, the phrase was too agonizingly close to the facts. He was of the lineage of Khored of the Seven-Petaled Shield, and he had come to Gelon across the Sand Lands, and now over the sea.
Twice reborn.
Alive?

Chalil came to sit beside him. “Something troubles you. Your old enemy?”

Zevaron shook his head. He had hardly spared a thought for the brutal slave-master.

“Your mother, then. You think of her?”

“The sea king spoke to me, he made words in my mind. He said she’d passed over these waters and gone to the Port of Tears. Chalil, I can’t think. Was it all lies and fancy words?”

“A man can see and hear many things in such a storm.”

“You saw it, too. You must have!”

“I saw a water spout, and waves as high as our mast, and much rain.” Chalil’s dark eyes reflected the firelight.

“But no monster, half-fish half-man, all bedecked with seaweed and strands of pearl?”

“I saw you were nearly swept away.”

Zevaron bit off an exclamation. Had he imagined the encounter and the mystifying verse or concocted it from his own uneasy dreams, his uncertainty about his mother? Or were there certain truths that could not be seen by everyone? In the unimaginable past, had Khored lifted up the Seven-Petaled Shield, only to have the very people it would save declare they could not see it?

“Zev, you have been brooding about your mother and whether that Gelon lied about her death, on and off these past four years,” Chalil said earnestly. “If you go on in this manner, it will drive you mad. You must put the matter to rest.”

That officer, Haran was his name, could have lied. The creature from the sea—if there even had been one—could also have lied. But something had roused inside Zevaron, a kernel of hope.

“The Port of Tears,” Zevaron repeated. “Do you know of such a place?”

“Why, lad, it was the old name for Verenzza, before the Gelon took it for their own. It was once the home of a fisher folk, but one day, or so the story goes, all the men went to sea in their reed boats, as they always did, and none returned. Some said the leviathan of the deep swallowed them up. The women waded out and watered the sea with their tears, and some say they found their husbands below, in castles of pearl and coral. For myself, it is naught but a pretty story. Most like, they starved or went away to find new husbands elsewhere. Then the Gelon built a city in that place, and through the gates pass many slaves, so once again it is a port of tears.”

*   *   *

They put ashore at Roramenth. Zevaron wandered through the merchant district with Tamir, looking for buyers for their cargo, although Chalil handled the actual bargaining. To Zevaron, the city was very different from Meklavar and yet the same. There were markets and shops, fountains where women dipped their buckets, and corners where old men sat drinking tea and gossiping in the sun.

Shadows lengthened and the heat of the afternoon rose like a sigh from the city. The day had gone well, bringing enthusiastic customers. Tamir suggested a drink at one of the open-air taverns, preferably one that dispensed the favors of ladies as well, and Zevaron readily agreed. He welcomed the opportunity to sit down. His feet had grown accustomed to a wooden deck, not hard stone and dirt.

They took their places around a table under a lattice awning and sipped the local brew, frothy and pleasantly bitter. At this hour, there were still plenty of people to watch. The
street was broad, paved in Gelonian style with flat stones and lined with planters of flowers.

They sat in amicable silence, savoring the mild exhilaration of the brew. Zevaron noticed a number of people, mostly women, entering and leaving a newish building a little ways down the street. Tamir shrugged and said it must be a temple of some sort, although what kind he did not know. Like other Denariyans, he took no interest in any religion besides his own.

Zevaron could not keep from staring. Certainly, the women were pleasant to look at. Yet something about the building drew and repelled him, although he could discern no difference between it and any other. It was newer and larger, with a geometric frieze running just below the roof line. He motioned to the tavern keeper. When the man approached to refill their mugs, Zevaron asked in Gelone, “What temple is that?”

“Qr.”

“It seems to be very popular.”

“When I was young, it was just another minor cult. We kept to the proper gods of our families. Now the influence of the priests of Qr seems to grow with every passing day. Even the Ar-King, may-his-glory-shine-forever, consults them. Some say the high priest warned Cinath not to sent his son off to Azkhantia to fight the bloodthirsty savages. Ah, a bad business, that.”

“What do you mean? Did he not triumph?” Zevaron asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

The man shook his head and made a gesture that Zevaron assumed was a warding against evil. “You have not heard the news, being strangers? Do not speak of it where you may be overheard and questioned.”

“Why, what happened?” Zevaron whispered.

“He was betrayed and killed. A foul affair if ever there was one.”

Zevaron, remembered Omri’s comment that Prince Thessar would be lucky to escape with his life. From all accounts, the Azkhantian nomads were ruthless, indomitable
warriors. Certainly, they had held their borders against Gelonian forces since before Cinath came to the throne.

“They say,” the tavern keeper lowered his voice even further and bent down so that they could not be overheard, “that
Meklavar
had a hand in it. That it was revenge against the Prince for the sack of their city. They say it was sorcery, black and terrible.”

Zevaron’s skin went cold. He took a gulp of his brew.

“It seems to me,” Tamir said in a mild tone, “that the Meklavarans could not be such powerful sorcerers, or they would have defended their own city better.”

The tavern keeper blinked. “That is as it may be. I’m only telling you what any man may hear in the marketplace. Will you be wanting dinner, good sirs? Or another round of brew?”