What if it were Zevaron? Would I find the strength to send him away if it meant saving his life?
“I know the separation will be painful,” she said as gently as she could, “but surely it is better to survive separately than to be discovered?”
Shorrenon’s resistance faded visibly as he considered this. At the same time, Tsorreh saw a hardening of his resolve, as if preserving his family had freed him to risk only his own life. He nodded when Tsorreh named the families she most trusted to keep the identities secret, and bade her leave the matter in his hands. From the tone of his voice, he would speedily overcome his wife’s objections.
After Shorrenon left, Otenneh unbraided Tsorreh’s hair and combed it, stroke after rhythmic stroke until Tsorreh sobbed, “Enough!” Then she saw the old woman’s tear-streaked face and realized that the brushing had been as much for mutual comfort as for adornment.
“I’m sorry,” Tsorreh said. “I had no cause to speak to you in such a manner.”
Wordless, Otenneh held out her arms and the two women rocked each other.
* * *
The next morning, the Gelon approached the ruined gates. Tsorreh watched from her balcony, where she had waited since the first light, as a party of armed men made their way through the lower city. Behind her, Otenneh hummed tunelessly as she tidied the room.
Morning light glinted off Gelonian spears and armor. Tsorreh guessed their strength at fifty, marching in formation with crisp precision. In their midst, onagers pulled a chariot and a wagon. At their head flew the green banner of truce. They halted at the bottom of the King’s Stairs, and the soldier carrying the banner continued upward. From her angle of vision, Tsorreh could not see him pass through the gate, nor his reception when he got there. A short time later, however, she heard noises from the corridor outside, the slap of sandals and clatter of boots, then a knock. Otenneh hurried to the door.
Tsorreh had recognized the pattern of steps as belonging to the household steward, whose family had served the royal line for three generations, and to one of the few soldiers who had remained within, an older man with a severe limp who nonetheless held himself proudly. She went to them, extending both hands.
“My friends, what news?”
The steward’s eyes glinted. He took her hands, shuddering as he gathered himself for speech. There was nothing she could do to make it easier for him. “The Gelon have sent back the body of the te-ravot.”
“Yes, I saw.” How steady her voice sounded, how removed from grief.
“Please, te-ravah. Ravot Shorrenon requests your presence when he receives the Gelon.”
Tsorreh tried to take a deep breath but her lungs closed up. The muscles of her belly turned hard as rock around a core of trembling. Some emotion, hot and still, rose up behind her throat.
There was no time for a proper bath and she felt no need for purification before the Gelon, yet she dressed with care. Instead of a long robe, with skirts to tangle her legs, she chose a traditional vest and trousers of desert-pale cotton. Otenneh brought out a pair of thin brocade slippers, but Tsorreh set them aside, choosing her stoutest boots instead. She did not know what lay ahead, but she did not want to be crippled by elegant, useless shoes. The Gelon knew nothing of what a proper Meklavaran lady wore on her feet, so they would never realize they had been insulted. In recompense, she allowed Otenneh to touch her eyes with kohl and her cheeks with cinna.
When she was done, Otenneh sighed and said, “My lady, you are as radiant as the dawn.”
“Do not say such things. What is the value of beauty on such a day?” Tsorreh shot back before she realized that comeliness could be both shield and sword.
Horns sounded below, the clear brassy call of the Gelon. The courtyard was already half-full, mostly with women, the elderly, and a few of the remaining household staff.
The Gelonian party ascended the stairs and passed the gates. They went armed, except for the drummers pounding out a doleful, insistent rhythm. In the center of the column came a litter, six men on either side supporting the long handles. They moved with solemn deliberation. The crowd drew aside as rank after rank of Gelonian soldiers filled the yard.
“Let’s go,” Tsorreh said beneath her breath. “Otenneh, you must go to the temple—”
“Don’t ask me to leave you! Not now, when who knows what will happen and you may need me.”
After a moment, Tsorreh relented. She could command Otenneh but had not the heart to insist the old woman leave her side.
The steward and the old soldier, who had been waiting patiently outside the door, bowed deeply to Tsorreh. With Otenneh in attendance, they proceeded to the audience chamber.
Shorrenon sat on the throne that had been his father’s, his sword bare across his knees. He greeted Tsorreh with a flicker of his eyes. Tsorreh had never seen him look so stern, the hardness of his jaw and taut brows masking his pain. Zevaron stood to the side, eyes glassy. Rethoren, the priest who was a healer as well as her grandfather’s chosen successor, was also there, looking grim. He was a man of middle years and Tsorreh had always thought of him as a somewhat stern but kindly uncle. He inclined his head as she entered.
Tsorreh took her place on her usual, smaller chair. She’d sat in it so many times that it knew her weight and shape. The chamber before her was familiar, too, though the faces of the courtiers were strained. With an odd, atavistic shiver, she remembered the council of Maharrad, when they had determined the defense of the city. Viridon san-Cassarod and some of the other nobles were here now, but not Eavonen or the representative of the city masons. Only a few Meklavaran soldiers had returned with Shorrenon and Zevaron, and the most senior of these took the place of the slain general, Isarod. Otenneh stood along the wall near the front, beside some of the household staff.
A roll of drums boomed through the room, the doors burst open, and the Gelonian party entered. They filled the chamber, pressing the courtiers back. The litter-bearers set their burden down on the floor. A white cloth covered the body. Several of the courtiers gasped.
They mean to do him honor, Tsorreh thought. They must not be aware that we do not shroud our dead in white.
One of the Gelonian officers stepped forward. He was clearly a person of importance from the brilliance of his armor, his breastplate and shoulder guards inlaid with gold, and the crest of his helmet dyed brilliant purple and blue. Six others, so alike they might have been cut from the same mold save for the plainness of their helmets, marched a pace behind. One carried the truce banner on a pole. They halted before the throne, and the nearest removed his helmet and swept the room with a glare.
At first, Tsorreh was taken aback by the Gelonian leader’s shaven cheeks and close-cropped red hair. As best she could judge, he wasn’t much older than Shorrenon. By his bearing, he was accustomed to command.
“I am Ar-Thessar-Gelon, come here in the name of my father, the most puissant and glorious Ar-Cinath-Gelon, may-his-reign-endure-forever, and charged with the subjugation of rebel lands,” he barked out in his own language.
Every educated Meklavaran spoke at least one other modern language. Tsorreh spoke Isarran fluently, as well as simple Gelone and Sand Lands dialect, but only a little Denariyan. Scholars like Eavonen could read and write all these languages, as well as trade-dialect Azkhantian.
“The city now lies beneath my feet,” Thessar said.
“Te-ravot, shall I translate?” Rethoren said in his mild, soft voice. He, like Tsorreh, knew perfectly well that Shorrenon understood Gelone, but there might be a small advantage if the Gelonian commander did not know that.
Without rising, Shorrenon said, and Rethoren translated, “I am Shorrenon, first son and heir to te-ravot Maharrad, King of Meklavar. I speak for my people.”
“It is my father’s will that Meklavar join the glorious empire of Gelon,” Thessar continued, “and in token of this victory, I now return to you the body of your chief. After we have concluded your surrender, I will allow your people to bury or burn h
im, whatever is your custom. All that remains is for you to deliver your person into our custody.”
Shorrenon tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. The air crackled with tension. Something terrible was coming.
Now Thessar was speaking again, laying out the terms of surrender. He paused every few phrases for Rethoren to translate. Now and then, the priest made a simple mistake, a deliberate mistake, but the Gelon did not correct him.
So, Tsorreh thought, Prince Thessar does not understand Meklavaran.
Thessar’s words rolled on, phrases that told her Shorrenon had not been far wrong in his fears. In Thessar’s voice she heard that there would be no negotiation.
Thessar assured Shorrenon that the city would not be burned or torn down. Ar-Cinath-Gelon had given his personal guarantee of safety and order.
Did that mean no looting, no rampage? Could Thessar promise such a thing? Were the Gelonian soldiers so disciplined?
Thessar mentioned the royal family of Meklavar and heads of the noble clans…
Ah! They knew that much of Meklavaran history, then!
…who were to become hostages against the disobedience of their people, who could be sent to Gelon, either to Aidon, the capital, or to the port city Verenzza, as the Ar-King wished.
Was exile so bad a fate? Tsorreh’s hand started toward her breast, where the te-Ketav had briefly rested. She remembered her grandfather’s words, “some things must not fall into their hands,” and wondered again if he meant more than the ancient holy book. A shiver brushed her spine. No occupation could proceed entirely without brutality, especially when the city’s inhabitants had fought back so hard.
As clearly as if he had spoken the words aloud, she knew Shorrenon’s thought: Resistance would give the Gelonian king the excuse he needs to end any possibility of an uprising or the return of an exiled ravot.
The air took on a strange quality, thick and dangerous. Everything seemed to be moving slowly.
Two Gelonian soldiers drew back the white cloth that covered the litter. They had stripped off Maharrad’s armor but not the undershirt and trousers, stiff and dark with blood. His hair lay wild and loose around his head. And his face—
Viridon cried out, as did the few women of the household. Tsorreh felt sick, yet drawn by an irresistible impulse to look. His body appeared to have been hacked and slashed, but his untouched face was the most terrible sight of all. His eyes, white as marbles, stared blindly from their sockets, his mouth drawn into a grimace so distorted that he looked barely human. With a smothered cry, Tsorreh looked away.
They left him thus—unwashed, unprepared—in order to shock us, to cripple our courage.
Shorrenon rose, his face a mask, and threw his sword down. It skittered across the stone floor, coming to rest halfway between the throne and Prince Thessar’s feet. To reach it, Thessar would have to cross that distance and then bend down. Either that, or he must have it brought to him by one of his own men. He would never receive it from Shorrenon’s own hand.
Thessar glared at Shorrenon. Arrogance burned in that glare like a flame, the tainted flame that had consumed the gates. Here was a man accustomed to power, to obedience, to mastery. He would make Shorrenon pay for even the smallest defiance.
To Tsorreh’s surprise, the Gelonian prince chuckled aloud, as if appreciating a joke. “You there, boy.” He pointed to Zevaron. “Bring me the sword.”
Tsorreh searched for a way to prevent Zevaron from obeying, lest Thessar then turn the blade on Zevaron to demonstrate the consequences of insolence. They were all a breath away from whatever fate the Gelon decided to impose upon them.
Heart pounding, hardly daring to breathe, Tsorreh watched Zevaron leave his position behind the throne and kneel to pick up the sword. He offered it to Thessar without any hint of subservience, holding himself with such poise and pride, he seemed to be saying that doing so was a privilege, a way of offering service not to Thessar but to Shorrenon, his lord and brother, now his te-ravot. Every Meklavaran in the room knew it.
What a leader he would be, with such an instinct.
“Your men as well, order them to lay down their weapons,” Thessar said, through Rethoren’s translation. It was done in an instant, and the Gelonian soldiers began moving about the room, gathering up swords and daggers.
Shorrenon rose, and Tsorreh felt him gather himself, sparing nothing, every bit of will and strength that remained to him.
He’s going to do something.
And then: This is the time Tenereth said would come. I must get Zevaron to come to me, but without arousing suspicions.
Tsorreh shot to her feet, then swayed dramatically, drawing the back of her hand across her forehead as if she were on the verge of fainting. Zevaron moved swiftly to her side, steadying her. She grasped his arm, pulling him close. With the Gelonian prince and his officers watching, she dared not say anything, but she saw their smiles: the weak woman, the boy who rushes to her aid—they will present no problem.
Moving with stiff dignity, Shorrenon stepped down from the dais. Tsorreh could not see his face, but there was no mistaking the expression on Thessar’s. He recognized Shorrenon as a worthy adversary, noble in defeat.
The Gelonian prince made no move as Shorrenon approached. They came near enough to touch. Thessar was slightly taller and more slender. His gray eyes flickered as Shorrenon sank to one knee.
“You have taken my city,” Shorrenon said in a voice that rang through the chamber. “I have surrendered my sword. There remains only one more thing to give you…”
Tsorreh’s mouth went dry. She felt Zevaron flinch under her grip and realized she had dug her fingernails into his arm.
With a bellow, Shorrenon lunged forward. A dagger, long and gleaming, slipped from his sleeve into his hand. He struck upward, aiming for the gap under Thessar’s breastplate.
With a yelp of surprise, the Gelonian prince twisted away. His bodyguards hurled themselves at Shorrenon. The center of the room erupted in a frenzy. A woman wailed, high and shrill above the uproar. Otenneh, Tsorreh thought, forgive me. Still holding on to Zevaron, she sprinted for the door.
“Mother, what—” Zevaron stumbled after her. Desperate, she pulled on his arm. They had only an instant in which to escape.
The door stood open. Rethoren waited just outside, holding it ajar.
“Hurry, te-ravah! This way!”
Tsorreh darted through the opening, Zevaron now running hard at her heels. Rethoren pushed the door closed and slid a bolt across it.
The next moment, the three of them were racing toward the interior of the citadel. Walls sped by, corridors branching. Tsorreh ran faster than she had ever imagined possible. Her feet skimmed the rising stone floor as they started on the long tunnel leading to the temple. She blessed the impulse that had led her to choose clothing she could run in and boots instead of slippers.
The impact of her feet on stone rattled her joints. Her head throbbed with the thumping of her heart. She stumbled on an irregularity in the stone floor, hands outstretched as she fought for balance. Zevaron grabbed a hand and pulled her forward. They ran on, hand in hand. She leaned into his strength even as her muscles burned and she gasped for air.
Ahead lay the steepest part of the climb. She had passed this way many times with a basket of books on her back. Always before, she had been forced to slow her pace. Now she could hardly breathe, and her legs were rapidly turning into clay. A sudden cramp flared in her side. At any moment, she would reach the end of her endurance. Zevaron was pulling her along, almost carrying her, wasting his own strength.
It was no use. She could not force herself into that rising darkness.
Leave me here, she thought. Go on. But she had not the breath even for those few words.
Rethoren lifted one arm, signaling a halt. Without the impetus of flight, Tsorreh almost collapsed. Zevaron released his hold on her and braced himself against the rough-hewn stone wall. She bent over, pressing one hand to her side. Their hoarse
panting filled the corridor.
Although her body shuddered with the force of her heartbeat, Tsorreh summoned the strength to gasp, “Leave me—I cannot run any farther!”
“I swore to Shorrenon I would protect you,” Zevaron protested.
Don’t ask me to break that promise, he seemed to be saying. It’s what my brother gave his life for, so that we would have a chance to escape. It’s all I have left.
“We’ve come far enough for the moment,” Rethoren said between breaths. “Even after the Gelon get past the door,” he paused, took a breath, “it will take them some time,” he paused again, “to realize where—” and again, “where we’ve gone.”
“Where exactly are we headed?” Zevaron asked, breathing more easily. “If we hide in the temple, the Gelon will eventually find us. They will not rest until they do.”
Beads of sweat streamed down Tsorreh’s skin. “Tenereth—my grandfather—he will get you out. Go on—”
Rethoren gave her a sharp look. “There is no need for anyone to be left behind. We can go more slowly now.” He reached for a torch sitting unlit in its wall sconce. “We’ll need some light.”
It took the priest a few moments to get the torch properly lit with the flint from his belt pouch. His hands shook.
Zevaron took the lit torch, holding it steady. “It’s better to keep moving, so your muscles don’t stiffen.”
With an effort, Tsorreh straightened up. The cramp in her side had eased, and although it seemed the drums of Gelon still throbbed in her ears, she found she could take one small step and then another. Her body radiated heat into the chill of the mountain passage.
They climbed, saving their breath and staying within the cone of torchlight.
Shorrenon is dead, and perhaps the Gelonian prince as well. What will happen next? Will their soldiers go mad and slaughter everyone within the citadel? At least Ediva and her children are hidden, as safe as anyone can be in the city. But Otenneh…surely they would not harm an old woman. She could not allow herself to think that. She must concentrate only on the next step, the next breath, the wavering light ahead.
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 7
