“And Hosarion gathered up seven stones,” Eavenon went on, “and when he had come to the place the stone-drake had laid waste, he took out the first stone and he slung it and the stone-drake crushed the stone—”
“Yes, yes, we know the verse!” interrupted one of the nobles. “We know how the stone-drake turned aside six stones, but the seventh could not be turned aside, and that one slew it. But the old story cannot help us now! We have no Hosarion in our midst.”
Eavonen, looking affronted at the interruption, folded his hands into his sleeves.
“Yet it is a good point,” Maharrad said. “We have stones in abundance and walls from which to throw them. Even a pebble, aimed well and hurled from a height, can fell a grown man.”
“As I was saying earlier,” the general continued after a pause, “they have brought up engineers and miners. If we push them back from the outer walls, they will move the entrance to their tunnels beyond our reach.”
“How long will it take them to dig from their present position?” Maharrad asked.
The chief mason answered him. “Perhaps five or six days, te-ravot. They are clever and skilled at such things. That is,” he added, “if they are left undisturbed.”
“Be assured,” General Isarod said, “they will be well-defended. The Gelonian prince, Thessar, is no fool. He has studied his military strategy well.”
“The more men they commit to the defenses of these tunnels, the fewer they will have to attack our walls.” Shorrenon bent over the map. His voice, normally melodious, sounded as if he had screamed himself hoarse in battle. “We can harry them and whittle away at their numbers. If they breach the walls, we will be waiting for them.”
“We cannot win such a battle,” the general said, “not after today’s losses. If they break through, they will take the lower city.”
“Is there no way to keep them out?” Maharrad asked, his brow furrowed.
Murmurs rippled around the table. They were all reeling with the shock of the day, the flood of wounded men, and the implacable advance of their enemy. The general described their likely fate, once the outer walls were breached. The fighting, house to house, street to street, would be bitter.
So many had died already.
“There is an alternative.” Anthelon, eldest of Maharrad’s councillors, pointed to the scroll on the table. “Let us take what Prince Thessar has offered: an honorable surrender. Let us begin discussions now. The longer we resist, the more lives will be lost and the less favorable the terms we can negotiate.”
“Treason!” Shorrenon leapt to his feet.
Maharrad restrained his son with a gesture. “It is never treason for a man who has served long and honorably to speak his mind. Shall we do the work of the Gelon for them and turn on one another?”
“Forgive me, ravot Shorrenon,” Anthelon said. Tears glinted in his eyes, and grief and shame and things Tsorreh had no words for. She remembered he had served Maharrad’s father as well.
“I sought only to ask,” Anthelon continued, “whether it is not better to save our people, who would surely perish from starvation during a long siege, or to live on as a Gelonian province. Others have done so and prospered.”
“Are you mad?” Shorrenon snatched the scroll from the table and brandished it aloft. “No matter what soft words they offer, the Gelon will exile or slay every man of a noble house—”
The patriarchs reacted with cries of dismay. “May the Shield protect us!”
“They are not such savages.” Anthelon raised his hands in a calming gesture, but Shorrenon would not be dissuaded.
“—and when there are none left to oppose them,” Shorrenon continued relentlessly, “they will enslave the rest and carry away our holy things as booty! When they are done, we will no longer be Meklavar of the ancient heritage of Khored and Hosarion, but merely another vanquished outpost of Ar-Cinath-Gelon’s empire!”
Tsorreh shivered, as if the blood-washed sunset once more cast its shadows across her soul. Was this the fate the heavens forewarned? She would not believe it. She dared not.
“What would you have us do?” Viridon of the ancient house of Cassarod asked in a quavering voice. “Sit here while the Gelon tunnel beneath our walls?”
“Go out to fight them!” Shorrenon cried. “Line the walls with archers, pelt them with rocks! Then create a diversion and attack their mining crews.”
“We lost too many men in today’s battle,” General Isarod said grimly. “We do not have enough strength to defend the walls and create a diversion, and send a party to their diggings.”
“Even if your plan succeeds,” another of the elders began, “and the Gelon do not overrun the outer walls, I fear they can still hold us penned here.”
Shorrenon’s face tightened in the stubborn expression Tsorreh knew well. “The Gelon have no will for a long siege. They are far from their nearest port, alone in enemy territory. I say, let us hold fast. After a season of heat and empty bellies, they will give up and go home.”
“I greatly fear they will not,” Anthelon said, shaking his head. “We may have stores of food and water, but even those will be exhausted in time.”
“We can bring in more, along the Shadow Road through the mountains. I say we sit tight behind our gates and let the Gelon starve outside.”
“The way is narrow and perilous,” the priest spoke up. The temple priests were said to know the hidden paths through the Var Mountains. “Only the most surefooted can travel the steepest parts, and we could not bring in enough supplies for the entire city.”
“Aye, and the more frequently we use the road, the greater the risk of its discovery by the Gelon,” the general pointed out. “Once they find out, they can use it themselves to advance a second attack upon us, one against which we have no fortification.”
“All the more reason to begin negotiations now,” Anthelon persisted, “while we can bargain for the best terms. Let us use their offer as a starting point to gain concessions—”
“Never!” Shorrenon moved as if he would strike the old man.
“Enough!” Maharrad rose to his feet and the entire room fell silent. “The Gelon are our enemy, not one another! I did not summon you here to see who can argue the loudest but to reason together, to find a way to save our city.”
After a long moment, Shorrenon lowered himself back into his chair.
“In times past,” Maharrad went on, “we have retreated behind our walls and let the invaders pass.” He took the scroll from Shorrenon’s clenched fist. “This Ar-King does not want merely more favorable terms, better stables for his caravan animals, or preferred access to the trade routes to the spice lands of Denariya. He means to rule here, to claim the Var Pass for Gelon. We must not permit that to happen. If we cannot defeat them or outlast a siege, then we must send for help. Shorrenon, for this we depend upon you.”
“Father, do not send me away! My place is by your side, at the gates of our city. Let me stay and fight!”
Tsorreh glanced from father to son. Clearly, Maharrad and Shorrenon had discussed a plan earlier. Yet Shorrenon had not the temperament to let others battle in his stead. No wonder he argued for a strenuous defense of the walls.
“Your place is wherever you are most needed,” Maharrad corrected him. “There is no one else I can send. No one else who can enlist the aid of the Sand Lands tribes or bring reinforcements from the Isarran outposts. This then is my command: You are to leave the city in secret, take the Shadow Road through the mountains, and gather as many fighting men as possible. We will hold the Gelon off as long as we must. Then you will attack them from the flank, and we from the front. Together we will drive the Ar-King’s jackals from this land.”
“Te-ravot, this is madness!” The city mason trembled with agitation. “Prince Shorrenon is our greatest warrior! Sending him away will cripple our defenses! It will destroy the people’s hope. They will think he has abandoned us.”
“Father,” Zevaron said, his voice breaking, “can y
ou not send me instead?”
Blood suffused Shorrenon’s features. There was no better choice, and he knew it. Only once had Zevaron traveled the narrow road that led from the lower city, along treacherous mountain passages, and through the desert wastes. Shorrenon knew the trails and had dealt with many of the Sand Lands chiefs. He was known in Isarre, the country that was Gelon’s bitter enemy. No man could do better in finding help for Meklavar.
Tsorreh realized why Maharrad had requested her presence. He might have chosen her as his second wife because she was of Khored’s lineage through her Meklavaran father, but he also recognized the political value of her mother’s royal Isarran connections.
“Isarre will not provoke retaliation from Gelon,” the elder of a wealthy trading house grumbled. “Gelon threatens the port city of Gatacinne and pirates harry their seacoast. With few allies and with their resources stretched thin, Isarre will not divert its army. They will tend to their own and let Meklavar fall.”
Tsorreh had never liked the man, and the courtesies between them had been of the chilliest and most punctilious politeness. In fact, she suspected him of opposing her marriage on the grounds that, unlike Maharrad’s first wife, she was not of pure Meklavaran descent. Tsorreh herself might be only half-Meklavaran, but she had been born and educated in the city, and it was her only home. Her parents had died here, leaving no other issue. Whatever influence she might have with Isarre, she would freely give.
She drew herself up. “Isarre will answer the obligations of blood and honor.”
“Enough!” Shorrenon said. “You are right, Father. Gelon is our enemy, not one another. I will depart this very night.”
“Spoken like a true prince,” Maharrad said.
Shorrenon went to his father and knelt. Maharrad placed his hands upon his son’s head and blessed him. He used the old phrases, beseeching the Holy One to keep his son in safety, to bring him success in his mission. To Tsorreh’s surprise, her stepson then approached her.
She unwound one of the ornaments from her braids, a coin bearing the image of a little silver horse. It had been her mother’s, one of her few keepsakes from the land of her birth. The Isarran royal crest was stamped on the reverse. She pressed it into his hand.
“May this serve you well,” she said, “and may you bring it back to me on the day Meklavar triumphs over its enemies.”
Shorrenon then took his leave and the meeting dispersed. Tsorreh watched as Zevaron filed from the room in his proper place at Shorrenon’s side. He would remain behind, here in the city, and if the walls fell before help arrived, he would fight and die with the rest.
* * *
A short time later, Tsorreh hurried to the royal stables in the lower city. Shorrenon would not linger, not while darkness was his ally, and she wanted to speak with him before he left. The stables were small, now crowded with animals; in normal times, horses were not kept within the city, except for a few reserved for use of the royal family. Meklavar had never had much cavalry, and most of their horses were crossbred from the hardy beasts of the Azkhantian steppe and the fiery steeds of the Sand Lands. Maharrad’s white stallion had been an exceptionally fine gift from a Sand Lands chieftain. Shorrenon’s rangy gray was big enough to support a grown man in battle, but such mounts were rare.
A single lantern hung outside of the main building, casting a soft yellow light. Just inside the opened doors, Tsorreh glimpsed saddle racks and ricks for hay. Three people and a horse stood in the saddling area. It was not Shorrenon’s gray but a smaller horse such as Zevaron would ride, a brown mare with no white markings. Desert breeding showed in the fine bone of her head and legs, the wide-set eyes, and the strong, short-coupled back. She was already saddled, with breastplate and crupper-strap for mountain riding.
Shorrenon, wearing a dark leather jacket and leggings, rested one hand upon the pommel, ready to mount. His young wife, Ediva, clutched his other hand. Tsorreh could not make out her words, only the harmonics of sorrow in her voice. Zevaron held the reins of the horse, his face a glimmer in the shadows.
“There is no time,” Shorrenon said in a tight voice. “I have already told you this. It is not my choice.”
“The Gelon…” The rest of Ediva’s sentence was muffled by a sob. Tsorreh felt a rush of sympathy for the young woman, newly a mother for the second time.
Shorrenon grasped Ediva’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length as he gazed into her face.
“There is no other way,” he said. “We cannot hold the outer walls if the Gelon are determined to bring them down. Should I risk your falling into their hands—our children taken as slaves—if I can prevent it?”
Tsorreh stepped into the lantern light. Noticing her, Shorrenon pulled away from his wife. The mare turned her head, ears pricked, nostrils flaring. Ediva gulped, her mouth working, and bowed deeply. Her eyes were red and swollen.
“Te-ravah.” Shorrenon inclined his head. “Stepmother.”
“I have given you a token of influence with Isarre,” Tsorreh said, “but I would not have you depart without my own blessing. The fate of our city rides with you.” The words flowed through her from a hidden wellspring. “Meklavar is honored by her eldest son.”
Tsorreh lifted her hands and the sky itself, the firmament of stars, bent closer. A hush fell on the yard. She spoke not from the statecraft she had learned as Maharrad’s second wife, daughter of an Isarran princess, but from her own Meklavaran heritage. She felt herself part of a lineage running unbroken through centuries past, to a time of miracles, of inexpressible evil, of enduring hope.
“May the light of Khored shine upon you;
May his wisdom guide you;
May his Shield protect you.”
She had never heard those words spoken aloud, could not remember ever having read them, and yet their power rang through her like silvered steel.
The moment passed. Shorrenon kissed his wife and swung up on the dark mare. The horse pranced, pulling at the bit in eagerness.
Shorrenon paused, looking back at the two women. “Take care of them,” he said to Zevaron. “And if–if you ride to battle while I’m gone, take the gray. He knows how to handle himself.”
Tsorreh saw the leap of tension in Zevaron’s muscles, the almost painful earnestness as he vowed to do so. Ediva shivered as Shorrenon clattered away into the night. Tsorreh folded the sobbing girl in her arms.
“Come now, sweetheart, you must not let your children see you like this. You must teach them hope.”
“How can I do that, when there is none?” Ediva moaned. “He is gone, te-ravah! Oh, he is gone!”
Chapter Two
WITH a mixture of weariness and relief, Tsorreh returned to her bedchamber. Never before had she so desperately needed the solace of her own place. Unlike the suite belonging to her predecessor—a warren of interior rooms filled with ornate furnishings, age-darkened draperies, and the thick odors of incense and cosmetics—Tsorreh’s chamber was a single spacious room with a balcony overlooking one of the terraced mountainside gardens. From her first days in the palace, she had loved its light, airy feeling, its walls unadorned except for a small tapestry that her own mother had woven as a bride. The finely-spun wool was patterned in shades of cream, brown, and black. Her cat, a spotted desert-breed, lay curled on the bed.
Otenneh was waiting. In the light cast by the bank of candles, wrinkles pleated the old servant’s cheeks and redness rimmed her eyes. Wordlessly, Tsorreh held out her arms. The top of Otenneh’s head barely reached her shoulders. Against the old woman’s trembling body, the bones frail as eggshells, Tsorreh felt the straightness of her own spine and the strength of her own arms.
She held me in just this way on the night my mother died, Tsorreh thought. Now it is I who must hold her.
Otenneh had accompanied Tsorreh’s mother, a princess of the Isarran royal line, when she came to Meklavar to wed a noble descendent of Khored. Khored’s heirs no longer ruled Meklavar, the throne having since passed to Maharrad�
�s family, but it had been a politically advantageous match, carrying with it the possibility of an alliance with Isarre. Tsorreh’s parents had been happy at first, but then her mother died in childbirth and her father had fallen fatally ill not long after. Now only Otenneh remained of Tsorreh’s childhood household.
Tsorreh dozed off to Otenneh singing her favorite Isarran lullaby. She woke the next morning after only a few hours of broken sleep. Abruptly, with blood pounding in her ears, she jerked upright. The cat jumped off the bed with an aggrieved meow and stalked off in search of a mouse.
She was alone and it was almost dawn. A milky light swept the eastern sky.
Otenneh brought heated water, soap, and rose-scented oils, but Tsorreh took none of her usual pleasure in bathing. She allowed Otenneh to rebraid her hair in seven plaits tied together in back. From the carved chest, she took out clothing more befitting a te-ravah than the worn, blood-streaked tunic and pants of yesterday. She chose soft, warm colors like a harvest sunset; embroidery decorated the center panel of the tunic, worn over trousers of a darker shade.
Tsorreh ate a quick breakfast and, taking two of her maid-attendants, went downstairs. A crowd had gathered in the street outside the palace, nobles and merchants, even craftspeople from the lower city. A deputation of traders from Denariya was already meeting with Maharrad. A pointless exercise, Tsorreh thought, for no one had the power to grant safe passage through the Gelonian lines.
Below, in the lower market city, she found a whirlwind of activity. The area just inside the outer gates had been cleared of the dead and wounded. People rushed up and down the walls, archers and servants with baskets of stones and quivers of arrows. Drovers sorted and secured animals, and the most vulnerable shops and dwellings were already in the process of evacuation. In the marketplaces, women in cloaks of sand-pale cotton bargained with vendors for lentils and salt. The scene, Tsorreh reflected, resembled a festival in the fervor and pervasiveness of the preparations. Not an aspect of the city’s life was undisturbed.
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 2
