Let the invaders read how to plant crops and observe the stars. The books that spoke uniquely to the Meklavaran soul, the songs of praise phrased as only a Meklavaran could, the remembrance of saints and heroes, the deeds of Khored of Blessed Memory and his brothers, of the heroes Hosarion, Uzmarion and Faranoth—these must not be lost. The volumes of Gelonian history and language would remain, along with poetry and annals from Denariya and even the collection of Vasparon’s travels to Azkhantia. Medical and astrological treatises, and books on mathematics and botany would remain in their proper places. These things were replaceable; other copies existed, and they did not speak to the soul of Meklavar. She must take only what was essential.
Tsorreh went to the nearest rack. Her fingertips brushed the spines of the volumes. They would have to be protected against the damp and the insidious dust of the mountain caverns. Wrappings of silk and oiled canvas would be best. Given the state of confusion in the meklat, she did not know what help she might find. Otenneh would do whatever was asked of her, but would it not be better to leave her in the relative safety of the temple?
No, she decided, the fewer people who knew about the hiding place of the books, the less chance of inadvertent betrayal.
* * *
Well past twilight, Tsorreh made her way along the tunnels leading into the mountainside. The passage, wide enough for three men to walk abreast, turned and then ramped upward. Vents carried a breeze to freshen the air. Fresh torches had been set in their brackets at regular intervals. She took one from its holder.
The tunnels had a strange way of distorting sound, and from time to time, she halted to listen. Even in times of peace, she had occasionally imagined footsteps behind her along these passages, or the slither of something long and scaly over the bare rock. Did she hear a faint vibration now, or was that only the thrum of breath through her own lungs? Was it the memory of distant horns, of sword against shield? Did the battle waken a resonance within the mountain, perhaps a longing?
If I do not take care, my imagined fears will me turn into a coward! She tightened her grasp on the torch. The enemy lay outside the city gates, she reminded herself, and not ahead.
As she went on, the air smelled less fresh. The darkness took on an almost palpable density. In the light of her torch, the walls glistened as if damp.
Twice a year, people ascended by this route to the temple set high above the city. The priests performed the ancient ceremonies, chanted praises, recited the story of the creation of the world, and sang of the times when the miraculous had been closer.
The temple had been created for many more people than now attended. Once, Tsorreh had been told, there were so many participants that everyone stood and the entire congregation bowed and swayed and sang as one. She wondered if Meklavar had lost faith, and that was why Gelon sat at the gates.
The temple was a marvel, a triumph of its ancient builders. Although most of it consisted of naturally formed caverns, a series of ducts and mirrors brought both light and fresh air. Even the chill of the mountain retreated. Somewhere deep in its heart lay a hot spring, and the builders had harnessed it for heat.
Tsorreh’s sandals made no noise as she crossed the worn mosaic floor with its depiction of an endless circular river, teeming with fish and all manner of creatures: storks, stately egrets, fat ducks, birds with curved beaks and spindly legs, frogs and eels. Deer bent to drink, unafraid of the lions beside them, and snakes lay in graceful coils beside bees, badgers, dragonflies, and even an improbably long-necked camel. Tsorreh had loved playing on this very floor as a child, and now its familiar creatures brought unexpected comfort. One of the temple cats, pure black, glided over and rubbed against her leg.
She found Tenereth, her grandfather, directing activities in the outer sanctuary. He smiled when he saw her, but he looked as if he had not slept in days. The skin beneath his eyes hung in loose folds, and he moved stiffly, as if his bones pained him. As he bent to place a kiss of greeting on her forehead, his hands trembled. He grasped her elbow and leaned upon her as they proceeded to his private meditation chamber.
Two thick candles burned on either side of an opened prayer book, resting on its stand of ivory-inlaid cedar. The mingled scents of beeswax and citrus hung in the air. Tenereth lowered himself to the plain bench, resting one elbow on the reading stand. The carved screen cast patterned shadows across his face. He looked not just tired and old, but ill.
Tsorreh reached out one hand to him. He took it, his bony fingers wrapping around hers. Explaining what she meant to do, she drew out the te-Ketav and laid it in his hands. A shadow and then a radiance passed over his features. For an instant, it seemed as if his body were made of glass, lit from within. The faintest tracery of light passed over his skin. Then the moment shifted, and he was only a tired, elderly man holding a sheaf of pages as if they were the most precious thing in the world.
“This cannot stay here,” he said.
She nodded. “When—if Meklavar should fall, the Gelon will not rest until they occupy the entire city, including the temple.”
Their eyes met, and again she caught that curious, fleeting brilliance, like a living aura surrounding his body.
“Not if,” he said. “Meklavar will fall.”
The quiet certainty in his voice stunned her. “How can you know that? We have already held out far longer than anyone expected. We have even prevented the Gelon from undermining our walls. Any day now, Shorrenon will return. He will—”
“Gelon will take the meklat, the citadel, the fields, the Var Pass itself,” Tenereth interrupted. “There is no time to explain. You must simply accept that I have been granted the power to see such things. When the city falls, do not linger, no matter what the reason. You must come here immediately, you and Zevaron. Do you understand? Promise me this!”
“I—I will come.”
“And Zevaron as well?”
“Yes, of course.”
“No matter what the price, some things must not fall into their hands.”
Tsorreh’s gaze flew to the te-Ketav.
“That and more,” he said. “Come now with me, for your task lies before you and I have preparations of my own to make.” He rose and gestured to her to follow. “I will tell you where what you carry may be safely stored.”
“You aren’t going to tell me any more than that?” Tsorreh’s nerves had been scoured raw by uncertainty and fear—and now these riddles!
Tenereth looked as if he were about to answer, but then a shadow, more felt than seen, came over him. “The time is not yet right. Just remember—do not delay. You and Zevaron must escape.”
Tsorreh bit her lip to keep silent. He was right, the line of Khored must survive, preserving the lineage that ran from Tenereth through her dead father to herself, and now her son. Her grandfather must have a plan in mind for their escape, one he dared not reveal prematurely. He led her to the back of the meditation chamber.
The little alcove was deep but not tall. A rack with pegs, for hanging cloaks, had been set into one side, along with a shelf for a basket of candles and a box with flint and tinder. In the alcove’s center, on a raised slab of stone, was a wicker chest with a fresh supply of torches. At her grandfather’s direction, she lit one of them.
“Reach behind the chest,” he said.
Tsorreh slipped into the narrow space. After several attempts, her fingers found the deep groove in the back of the platform. She grasped the lever where he said it would be. With a creak, the platform slid forward, revealing an opening.
“Now go down.” Tenereth gave her detailed directions to the storage place, urging her to commit them to memory.
The first steps were so steep, she had to turn around and face them as she descended, as if they were rungs of a ladder. She counted ten of them, feeling each one with her feet.
She descended a short distance further before the tunnel leveled out and began to climb again in a series of tortuous switchbacks. It was very narrow here and the walls wer
e rough, yet she felt safe. The air was still, disturbed only by her own passing.
The tunnel branched and branched again. It occurred to her that it would be possible to hide for a long time in these tunnels. Food and water would have to be stored, as well as torches. But sooner or later, supplies would be exhausted and she would emerge to an occupied city. She was no outlaw, to attack and run, and she was of no use to anyone hidden away.
She eventually found herself in a large, dry cavern. In ages past, a hermit priest had lived here, for a sleeping ledge had been chiseled from the coarse dark rock. More recently, the central chamber and two smaller areas had been put to other uses: wooden platforms stood a hand’s length above the floor and the wicker chests upon them looked new. The lids were tightly woven to keep out the dust. She opened one and found it was half-filled with silk-wrapped packets the size and shape of bound books. In addition, there were a number of lengths of the same fabric. Folding the te-Ketav in several thicknesses of silk, she laid it inside and carefully re-fitted the lid.
As Tsorreh turned to leave, a puff of air brushed her face. Her torch revealed an opening at the far end. The breeze gusted again, sending the flame flickering. There must be another opening, a way out of the tunnels, perhaps leading to the hidden mountain trails. If anything happened to her grandfather, she would be able to find her way this far, and the breeze would guide her the rest of the way. She prayed it would never come to that.
* * *
When Tsorreh returned to the royal quarters, the boy Benerod was waiting for her with news that a messenger had slipped through the Gelonian lines. Shorrenon was but a day’s ride from Meklavar and would strike at dawn on the second day.
Amidst the rejoicing and excitement, Tsorreh’s foremost thought was that she had only a little more than a day in which to move the library.
Chapter Four
AFTER a few hours of sleep, Tsorreh awoke, sweating and tangled in the light coverlet. Otenneh was absent, which was unlike her, but she had left a tray of flatbread and thin-shaved cheese, and a pitcher of watered wine.
She threw on her oldest clothes, the same she had worn on the fateful day the Gelon had breached the outer walls, and went to see how Maharrad fared. He was resting comfortably and seemed to be recovering. She told him her plans for the library and consulted him on who she might ask to help take it to the temple. His reaction was not what she’d hoped. He did not approve of her placing herself at risk, he said, although he respected her desire to be of use. Emphasizing that not a single able-bodied man could be spared from the defense of the city, he explicitly forbade her from enlisting others in her scheme. Tsorreh regretted confiding in him, although she understood his concern.
As soon as she could reasonably excuse herself, Tsorreh rushed off to the library. The enormity of her undertaking filled her mind with a feverish urgency, yet if she had not set herself such a task, she would surely have gone mad. What else could she do? Sit idly by while others fought and died for her? She could not, would not give up, even if she had to carry every book and manuscript herself. At least, Maharrad had not given her a direct command.
Even though dawn was still a few hours off, the meklat seethed with activity. Every man able to fight, every woman or child able to work the walls, was feverishly making ready. Arrows, stones for slings, even pots of water to boil, were being prepared. All of this took place in an atmosphere of hushed secrecy, so that the Gelon would have no sign of their defense preparations.
The library was not, as Tsorreh had expected, deserted. When she arrived, she found Eavonen and Otenneh bent over a table. Books and scrolls, a dozen or more of each, had been arrayed in neat piles. Otenneh clucked under her breath as she wrapped a book in a length of silk.
Tsorreh felt a jolt of irrational anger that the old scholar had not gone to the temple as she had bade him.
Eavonen looked up, his eyes bright. “I asked myself,” he commented in the oratorical tone he used when reciting from the te-Ketav, “what purpose our te-ravah might have in examining the contents of the library. What did I know of her nature that might explain it? I know she is reverent, as the granddaughter of the chief priest should be, and that she is courageous, as the wife of the te-ravot should also be.”
“From the state of your slippers last night, you’d been to the temple,” Otenneh added.
“A logical place to safeguard our most precious records,” Eavonen said, “provided they are properly protected against damp and dust. I would expect your grandfather to supply a suitably discreet hiding place. Which puts me in mind of a time when he and I were at school together—”
Otenneh shot Eavonen a sharp look. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps that story is better left to another time.”
Tsorreh lowered herself to the nearest bench. “I don’t know what to say. You know what I plan to do?”
“My dear child,” Eavenon said, “do you think you are the only one who sees this place as the real treasure of Meklavar? For is it not written—”
“In short,” Otenneh said briskly, “we came to help.” She gestured to a large basket of woven leather on the floor beside the table. “I found that in the kitchen. I think it came from the foundry. Will it serve?”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Tsorreh said, acutely aware that amid all her plans, she had not worked out how she was going to carry the books.
“Don’t,” Otenneh said in the same tone she’d used when Tsorreh was a child and in a recalcitrant mood. “Try the basket on for size.”
Tsorreh slipped her arms through the straps and hefted the basket on to her back. Tightly-woven and tough as iron, it was shaped to balance its weight securely against the back. The harness was sized for a broad-shouldered man, not a slender woman, but it fit better than she expected.
In a short time, the three of them had organized and packed the first assortment of records to be taken. Eavonen was too frail to carry even a single load of books to the temple and Tsorreh would not have permitted him to do so against Maharrad’s direct order, but the old scholar’s knowledge of the collection proved invaluable. Tsorreh had been afraid that she would not be able to transport all the books by herself, but between Eavonen’s careful selection and Otenneh’s help in preparation, the end result seemed within her ability, so long as she took her time.
Tsorreh picked up the laden basket. The leather straps creaked under the strain. She drew in a breath, summoning her strength, and hurried on her way. She feared she might encounter someone who would recognize her, even in old clothes and carrying a load like a servant, but everyone was so caught up in the frenzy of the impending battle, no one challenged her. If somebody did ask what she was doing, she was te-ravah and answerable only to her husband and her own conscience.
The trip to the temple was longer and more wearying than she’d expected. Perhaps her fears added to the weight of the basket. She passed the outer areas of the temple, weaving through the people who had already arrived. Tenereth was nowhere to be seen in the crowd.
Tsorreh passed through her grandfather’s chamber and into the caves. She placed the contents of the basket in one of the chests on the wooden shelf, well above the rock floor. If anything happened, if she could not return when the city fell, this much of the library might lie hidden in its protective wrappings for a long time—years, decades, perhaps even centuries—before some hermit discovered it. But someone would come, she felt the certainty in her bones, and the library’s wisdom would be waiting.
Meklavar will endure. We will wait, and we will remember.
* * *
The following morning, Tsorreh returned shortly before dawn from another trip to the caves. At Otenneh’s insistence, she lay down for a short time and tried to sleep. She closed her eyes, caught up in an almost preternatural awareness, as if she had been touched with a prophet’s dreaming vision. All around her, she felt the city, the men with their weapons ready and prayers upon their lips, the few remaining horses mouthing their bits in ant
icipation, the families sitting together, some women weeping, others clutching one another, and the herder children crouched behind the parapet along with those few archers who did not go out with the others. In the market city, she sensed skirls of fear, of festering wounds, of meals eaten quickly, and the thousand small activities of life now held in abeyance.
Benerod, who had become a private messenger between Tsorreh and Maharrad, knocked gently at the door. Tsorreh was instantly alert, her heart pounding. She slipped from the bed, her feet noiseless on the cool rock floor. Otenneh opened the door.
“Te-ravah, the signal has come. The te-ravot is waiting for you. They all are, to take their leave.”
With solemn pace, Tsorreh, and Otenneh followed Benerod to the central hall and through the main doors into the courtyard. Light washed the eastern sky, for sunrise was almost upon them.
Maharrad waited at the head of his men, mounted on his white horse. Most of the other men were on foot, except for the captains and Zevaron on Shorrenon’s rangy gray. Catching the tension of the men, the horses pranced restively.
Tsorreh took her place in front of the other noble women. A few wept, but most looked dry-eyed with exhaustion and shock. Otenneh waited, a silent shadow, behind her.
Maharrad took up his sword and held it aloft. The blade was desert-made, short and curved. Jewels had been set in the hilt and ancient words of protection inlaid in red gold along its length. The tip quivered, and it seemed to Tsorreh to fracture the light.
He called out, summoning his people to battle. She hardly recognized his voice.
“Arise, defenders of Meklavar! The hour of glory is nigh!” His words carried in the stillness, as if every man, woman, and child held his breath, each heart beat more softly, listening. “For ten generations, we have lived in freedom, following the ways of our fathers. We have watched; we have remembered.”
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 5
