The Seven-Petaled Shield (51 page)

“It’s best not to make jokes about my uncle.”

“That kick to your head must have been pretty nasty.”

“As you wish.
Don’t
believe me if it suits you.”

They went on for a time in silence. Zevaron was mildly impressed when the patrol stepped aside to let them pass without a single question.

They reached the hilly area and began to climb. The compounds here were large and, even in the uncertain light, Zevaron noticed the smoothness and grace of the stone walls, the carvings, and the immaculately kept gardens.

“That one,” the young man said, pointed to a long wall that gleamed as if moonlight had been woven into it. He fumbled with the latch and the gate swung open. An old man, bald and thick-bodied, stood there, lantern in hand.

“Blessings unto the gods! You are safe!”

The servant urged them inside and through a garden where sweet fragrances arose from the beds of night-darkened flowers. Beyond lay the house.

“My lord! He’s home! He’s safe!” the servant called as they made their way through an entrance hall. The interior courtyard was like a garden, lined with planters and open to the sky. Beyond it, they entered the main part of the house. The servant rushed ahead, craning his head toward the top of a flight of stairs.

A woman rushed through the largest of the doors, her peacock-bright gown in disarray, golden hair tumbled about her shoulders. In one arm, she held a mass of white fur, clearly a small shaggy dog.

“Danar?” A second, older man appeared at the top of the stairs, moving slowly with the assistance of a crutch. His form was shadowed, but relief resonated in his voice.

“Father, I’m s-sorry.” The young man pulled himself upright and stepped away from Zevaron’s support. “I behaved rashly, but I’m not hurt.”

“Jaxar, I told you he would be all right.” Behind the man at the top of the stairs, a woman appeared, slender and dark. The little white dog in the arms of the golden-haired woman began barking and struggling, quieting only when its mistress cuffed it about the head.

The second woman stepped forward, and the light from the steward’s lantern burnished her features. Zevaron, glancing up, caught the honey-gold skin, the slightly tilted eyes, the braided midnight hair.

She cried out his name in a voice that shattered the air.

It was Tsorreh.

Z
EVARON bolted up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Heart pounding, he wrapped his mother in his arms. She was smaller than he remembered, slim and wiry, yet her fingers closed around his shoulders with surprising strength. All the fear and grief he had buried inside himself during the last four years came surging up, washing away all other thought. He could not speak. He could barely breathe.

She laughed as they rocked one another. “Zevaron, it’s you! It’s really you!”

He found his voice. “You’re alive!”

Tsorreh drew back, looking directly at him. He was struck at once by how young she was. Only a shadow below her eyes, a tautness in her arched brows and at the corners of her mouth betrayed a deeper feeling. Whether it was anxiety or sorrow, or both, he could not tell. That was only to be expected, here in the stronghold of her enemies. She did not look like a slave, in her well-made gown, clasps of ivory and pearls at her shoulders. He glanced at her wrists and saw no manacle scars.

She was
alive
, that was all that mattered. This Jaxar was clearly a man of consequence. The lady must be his wife, and the young man Zevaron had rescued, his son. Danar
had mentioned a reward. Zevaron had little use for money, but now he fully intended to collect quite a different favor.

Meanwhile, at the bottom of the stairs, Danar was fending off the attentions of a servant, declaring that he was unharmed.

“You ungrateful child!” the richly-dressed lady shrieked, looking as if she would like to strike him. “You have given your father such a fright!”

“I heard you were captured.” Ignoring the commotion below, Zevaron turned back to Tsorreh. “And then, someone—a Gelonian officer—said you were dead. He showed me your braid with the Arandel token.” He pulled it out from where it lay hidden against his chest, slipped the cord over his head, and handed it to her. “They said—” His throat closed up.

“Hush, it’s all right.” Her fingers closed around the token. She touched her hair, as if remembering. It was shorter than when he’d last seen her.

“The Source of Blessings has preserved us through a terrible time and brought us together once again,” she said.

Zevaron pressed his lips together. It was by his own efforts and a good deal of luck, and not supernatural intervention, that he had found her.

“What are you doing here? Are you a—” he stumbled over the word, “a slave in this house?”

“Officially, I am a prisoner, given into Jaxar’s custody. I’ll explain more about it later. Jaxar, this is my Zevaron.”

Jaxar’s puffy face spread into an expression of delight. “My boy, I cannot tell you how welcome you are. To be separated from you was a great sadness for your mother.”

“
You
are Tsorreh’s Zevaron?” Danar said. “Father, this man came to my rescue. Two thugs, down by
The Blind Pilot
—”

“Really, Danar, what do you expect if you go wandering about in such disreputable areas!” the lady broke in. The dog in her arms had stopped barking and subsided into an occasional growl.

“I’ll go where I like!” he shot back at her. “I’m no longer a child!”

“Then stop behaving like one!” she replied, her voice becoming even more shrill.

Zevaron tightened his grip on Tsorreh. The animosity between son and mother scoured his nerves like salt.

“Father, they were lying in wait for me, I swear—” Danar said.

“And where were your bodyguards, to whom we pay a small fortune? You sent them off so you could go off on one of your little adventures, didn’t you?” the lady snarled. “Then you deserve whatever happens to you!”

“Enough!” Jaxar interrupted her, then continued in a calmer tone. “Lycian, my dear, will you be so kind as to arrange a bed for our guest—”

“Father, I must tell you what happened,” Danar persisted. “These were no ordinary thieves—”

“I suppose we can find him a place with the servants.” Lycian glared at Jaxar.

“—and treat him,” Jaxar continued, “with our most gracious hospitality.”

Despite the late hour, Zevaron had no intention of remaining within these walls. But he would not leave without Tsorreh. Never again would he desert her. She had said she was Jaxar’s prisoner. One way or the other, he would get her out of here.

“—a pallet in my chamber,” Danar was saying. “We could—”

“Out of the question!” Lycian interrupted. She gave Zevaron a look that said she thought him little better than the thugs who had attacked her son. “It is—”

“It is too late to stand here arguing.” Jaxar shifted his weight on his crutch. Gray tinged his jowls and the hollows around his eyes. “Just for tonight, put him in the guest quarters. We will make other arrangements, if need be, in the morning.”

“Nothing would please me better,” Lycian sniffed elegantly,
“but the chambers are not adequately aired, and I cannot awaken the servants at this outrageous hour to make them ready.” Setting the little shaggy dog on the floor, she reached out one graceful hand. “Come to bed, my husband, for you are weary and this pointless argument has tired you overmuch. The boy can sleep in the gardener’s shed. It is better than he is accustomed to, I am sure.”

Zevaron set his jaw to keep from shouting them all down. He didn’t care where he slept, as long as it wasn’t
here
. Yet he had learned from Chalil that demands, especially difficult or unpleasant ones, were best presented in a temperate manner. It would be prudent to wait the right opening, to emphasize the debt owed to him.

“Mother!” Danar said, “I will not have you insulting the man who just saved my life! Don’t you understand? This wasn’t just a little roughing-up and the loss of a purse. They didn’t care about my money, they wanted
me
. They were about to drag me off when Zevaron came by.”

“And do what to you?” Lycian asked. “Really, Danar, your imagination—”

Jaxar descended the stairs, a stiff, awkward maneuver. “Even if Zevaron had not done us a great service, he is Tsorreh’s son and we cannot treat him with less courtesy than an honored guest.”

“Please,” Tsorreh said, her voice low and gentle. “Do not trouble yourselves on the account of either myself or my son. A second pallet in the laboratory will not, I hope, inconvenience any member of this household.”

Lycian looked astonished, for the moment without a reply. The white dog whined.

Zevaron began, “That will not be necessary—”

Jaxar glanced up at Tsorreh. “Are you sure it will not discommode you? No?” He chuckled. “I suppose the two of you have much to say to one another. Lycian, will you at least have a meal sent up?”

“If I may be allowed,” Tsorreh said, “I myself will tend to my son.”

Everyone looked pleased with this, and in the momentary
pause that followed, Zevaron saw his opportunity. He delivered a full Denariyan bow to Jaxar, along with his most charming smile.

“My gratitude for your hospitality, Lord Jaxar. However, there is an obligation between us. You say you are indebted to me for preserving your son’s freedom, if not his life. How far does that gratitude extend? Does such a service not merit a reward?”

Jaxar’s expression betrayed no hint of emotion. For a moment, only the sound of his breathing disturbed the silence. Zevaron realized that despite his best intentions, he had insulted the man.

“Men of honor repay debts with open hands,” Jaxar said. “Surely the matter of a reward, whether it is a sum of money or a position in my household here with your mother, can wait until the morning. Then we can give the matter the careful consideration it deserves. You have my assurance that I will deal generously with you.”

“Gratitude is best expressed in action,” Zevaron said.

“What do you want?”

“My mother’s freedom.”

“Zevaron!” Tsorreh gasped at the same time Danar exclaimed, “What!”

Jaxar held up a swollen hand. “That is not possible. I am more sorry than I can say.”

“Are your words of gratitude mere empty sounds then?” Zevaron demanded. “Where is your Gelonian honor now? Would you imprison her here, within reach of the Ar-King—”

“Zevaron, you know nothing about it!” Tsorreh cried.

Lycian recovered her voice. “My husband, this is an ideal solution, do you not see? This boy can take her away, and you can claim she escaped. The Ar-King, may-his-wisdom-never-fail, will be upset, of course, but that will soon pass. No one will blame you.”

“Blame is
exactly
what will happen,” Jaxar said to her, “and this entire family will suffer the full weight of my brother’s anger. I don’t need to tell you what that means, these days.”

Lycian’s already pale skin turned even whiter. She clasped her hands together between her breasts, shaking her head in silent negation. “I see that you will not listen to sense—”

“Go to bed, my wife. This late hour is hardly suitable for serious discussion. I promise you that nothing of any consequence will be decided tonight. In the morning, when we have all rested, I will hear your thoughts.”

“And pay as little attention to them as you ever do! No, I am sorry, I did not mean that. Of course, you are right. I will obey you as a loving wife should. In the meantime, I will seek the eternal wisdom of Qr, may-its-power-guide-us-evermore.” With the little dog scurrying to keep up, Lycian swept from the room.

Zevaron waited until Lycian was out of earshot. He faced Jaxar, curling his fingers around the hilt of his sword and making sure the motion was seen. The old man was a cripple, unarmed, and if Danar had a weapon, he’d lost it in the ambush.

“Now we
will
continue our discussion,” Zevaron said, “and matters of consequence—as you put it—
will
be decided. I ask you again, will you free my mother? Or must I take her from this place by force?”

Danar, his face suddenly hard, stepped between Zevaron and Jaxar. “You are in no position to threaten my father or make any such demand, not even at sword’s point! How would you like a taste of Cinath’s prisons?”

“Danar, watch your words!” Jaxar said.

“I fear nothing from you,” Zevaron said to Danar, “you who did not even have the wit to see the trap you walked into.”

Tsorreh thrust herself between Zevaron and Danar. “Stop it, both of you! Shall we turn on one another and do Cinath’s bloody work for him?”

A shudder passed through Zevaron. He had heard words very like those at the council meeting during the siege of Meklavar. His father had been alive then, and his brother, Shorrenon. The councillors had hurled accusations and almost come to blows.

Remembering, Zevaron removed his hand from his sword.

“Your son deserves an explanation, at least as good a one as I can offer,” Jaxar said. “Lad, I don’t know what you know of Gelonian politics. Affairs in Aidon are in precarious balance. The Ar-King, the military, the great nobles—”

“The temple of Qr,” Tsorreh put in.

“That, too,” Jaxar continued. “I do not know who was behind this attack on Danar or how serious a threat it represents. But to act precipitously is to court disaster. That much I do know.”

“You will sit here while your ship burns around you, and not even allow your crew to save themselves!” Zevaron said. “Not even the meanest raft-rat in Tomarzha Varya would do so. And you still owe a debt to me, Lord Jaxar, worth the life of your son.”

“Zevaron, please,” Tsorreh said. “Do not do this. Do not insist.”

Danar looked stricken. Jaxar, his face flushing with emotion, said, “I care for Tsorreh as if she were my own daughter. If only it were a simple matter of releasing her, I would gladly send her to safety and then deal with the political reprisals. But such a rash deed would have dire consequences for more than myself or even my family. I cannot say how far the repercussions might extend, but I greatly fear it would be wider than this household, even this city. Perhaps even all of Gelon.”