Tenereth will get us out through the tunnel passages. Zevaron and I will go with him, and the te-Ketav, the treasure of our people. Zevaron will survive, the heir of Khored and son of Maharrad.
Somehow, no matter what the cost, she must find the strength to keep her son alive, to get him to freedom, to seek out allies—her Isarran kin, the Sand Lands tribes, the lords of Denariya, even the savage Azkhantian riders. She didn’t care, just so he returned one day to free Meklavar.
Chapter Six
ZEVARON had been right about the need to keep moving. At first, Tsorreh’s muscles felt as if they were on fire, step after agonizing step, but the pain eased as she went on. Her pulse no longer rampaged through her ears. Her breathing slowed to a deeper, regular rhythm. She could think and even talk a little.
She decided that her grandfather must have taken Rethoren into his confidence and sent the younger priest to the throne room to make sure she and Zevaron got away safely. They were in good hands and they had made their escape. Rethoren was right, it would be some time before the Gelon came looking for them, and it did not matter that Thessar’s men would eventually search the temple. They had enough of a head start to be well away by then.
Zevaron, who had been in the lead, dropped back to Tsorreh’s side. The orange light of the torch burnished his skin to bronze. His brows drew together, shadowing his eyes.
“Did you—” He stumbled over the words. “Mother, did you know what Shorrenon meant to do?”
“No, I didn’t.” She turned the thought over in her mind. “Even if I had, I would not have been able to stop him.” It had been quite enough to convince him to separate Ediva and the children, but knowing they were hidden must have increased his resolve.
Had Shorrenon in turn known of her own plans? Had he created a diversion in order to allow them to escape, or had his attack on Thessar been the last, desperate act of a doomed man? She was certain he meant to kill the Gelonian prince, not just buy his own speedy death. What did he expect would happen then? By temperament, Shorrenon thought of glory and desperate causes, not of consequences.
She inhaled, shuddering inwardly. Even with Thessar dead, the Gelon still held the city. The Ar-King would send someone else to exact revenge.
Whether Thessar is alive or dead, it will go hard with Meklavar. And you, my Zevaron, will have to deal with the aftermath. She could not bring herself to say it aloud. There would be time enough, once they were safe, once he had grown to his role as the exiled te-ravot. She could not expect him to understand all at once.
Rethoren took the torch and led them single-file. The passageway narrowed and twisted, rising to a stair that Tsorreh had not noticed before. They must have taken a turn away from the usual route to the temple. During their first wild race, she had followed Rethoren blindly, not paying careful attention to their surroundings.
“This is one of the lesser routes,” Rethoren said, as if sensing her thought, “one we priests use when we wish to come and go, unremarked. Many people now take refuge in the temple, and were you to enter through the front gates, you would surely be noticed.”
“By people who do not have the strength to withstand interrogation by the Gelon,” Zevaron added.
“If no one has seen us, there is nothing to tell,” Tsorreh said.
“They will press them all the harder, hoping some elder or child will break.” Emotion shivered through Zevaron’s words.
“Save your anger for those who deserve it,” Rethoren said.
Tsorreh lowered her gaze, holding her peace. There was no way to know what might happen. She felt a rush of understanding for Shorrenon and his choice.
As gently as she could, she said to Zevaron, “Do not take responsibility for whatever the Gelon choose to do. You cannot bargain for mercy from men who have none. Remember this always: As long as you are free, there is hope for Meklavar.”
She felt him shudder under the weight of her words. It was too much to lay on him, too soon. No, she reminded herself, he is a man. I must not—cannot—protect him from who and what he is.
The stairs went sharply upward, spiraling to a hollow chimney. Light sifted from above, directed by mirrors from the temple. They climbed. Tsorreh’s muscles started to burn again. She slowed her pace, taking deep breaths and holding on to the rough stone wall. They stepped onto a little platform, bounded by a heavy wooden railing that faced a door. Tunnels led away in two directions.
Rethoren lifted the latch and gestured for silence. The door led to a short passageway, stone on one side and wood on the other. At the end lay a second door and beyond it, the reverse side of a tapestry, reinforced with canvas. Rethoren pushed the edge of the tapestry aside and slipped past. Following, Tsorreh found herself in her grandfather’s private meditation chamber.
How many secret entrances does he have?
The candles on either side of the prayer stand had burned down to nubs. The air was so still and the silence so thick that for an instant, Tsorreh thought the chamber was empty. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized that her grandfather was sitting on the bench, his hands composed on his lap, his eyes closed, his features reflecting an almost unearthly serenity. He might have been an exquisitely rendered carving. She wondered if her father, his son, would have looked like this one day, if he had lived.
For an instant, the faintest haze, a misty golden aura, glimmered around his body. Tsorreh blinked, and then it disappeared. The candle flames must have flared up with the disturbance of the air at their entrance, nothing more.
The old man moved, a shift of weight, a breath lifting his chest. He opened his eyes and raised his hands in greeting. “Children, you are welcome.”
Rethoren set the torch in a holder just inside the door and left.
Tsorreh went to her grandfather and knelt, taking his hands. “Shorrenon…”
“Has made some grand gesture, rather than give himself into the hands of the Gelon.” Tenereth’s fingers tightened around hers. His skin felt chill. “Do not grieve for him, granddaughter. Think of him instead as fortunate. He has ended his life in the manner of his own choosing. How many of us can hope for as much?”
There would be time enough to honor Shorrenon’s memory. “Are you ready?” she asked.
“As you see.” Rising, Tenereth pointed to the corner alcove where packs and water skins lay beside the wicker basket.
Zevaron went to the packs and knelt to examine their contents. He straightened up, holding three long, hooded robes. Tsorreh recognized them as Sand Lands make, light on one side, dark on the other. By some trick of weaving, they protected the wearer against both heat and cold. The tribes did not readily part with them. How Tenereth was able to come by one, let alone three, she could not imagine.
“We will be off,” Tenereth said, “as soon as Rethoren returns with our guide. It is a long…a long journey…to Isarre.”
The next instant, the old priest’s legs folded beneath him. He staggered, half-falling, and sent the bench crashing on its side. He clutched his shoulder. His breath came in labored rasps.
Tsorreh rushed to him and slipped his arm over her shoulders. “Zevaron, help me! He must lie down—let’s get him to his bedchamber.”
“There is no time!” Tenereth protested weakly. “I have rested too much already.”
“You will be no good to anyone like this!”
With Zevaron’s help, Tsorreh maneuvered her grandfather past the doorway and down a corridor a few steps long. The chamber beyond was sparsely furnished, a place for sleep and little else, simple rather than austere.
She lowered her grandfather to the bed. By the light of Zevaron’s torch, Tenereth’s skin shone like gray marble.
“Are you in pain?” Tsorreh asked, but there was no answer.
A few moments later, Rethoren came back. A young woman followed close behind. Tsorreh had seen her before, although she could not remember where.
Rethoren bent to examine the old priest. He touched the pulses at neck and
wrist, and over the heart. Tsorreh, watching, caught a glimpse of dark brilliance, a scintillation more sensed than seen, passing over Tenereth’s limp form. As quickly, it disappeared. Rethoren seemed not to have noticed anything unusual.
“What is wrong with him?” she asked Rethoren. “Can you tell?”
“He has had a seizure of the heart.”
“What is to be done for it?”
“You can do no more for him,” the physician replied. “I will bring medicines and tend him as best I can.”
“Will he recover?”
“Only the Most Holy can say for certain. Tenereth has enjoyed surprising health for a man of his years.”
Of his years. Tsorreh shivered. Her grandfather had been old when she was born. He had already outlived his children.
“You had best be gone,” Rethoren said. “He will not be able to travel for some time now, if ever.”
Tsorreh nodded, hearing the truth.
Then she was alone with her grandfather. Rethoren had vanished and the girl had taken Zevaron back to the meditation chamber. Tsorreh blinked back tears. They had given her a chance to say a private farewell.
“Come here, my child.” Tenereth’s voice brushed her like a shiver. “My heir.”
He was going to give her some family treasure. She didn’t want it. She only wanted to run away with him, with Zevaron, and for them all to be safe. She thought of staying with him in the temple, of nursing him back to health. Surely, a small delay would not prove fatal. But she knew, in the hard knot of her belly, that she dared not. For Zevaron’s sake, she must leave while she still could.
Tsorreh searched for words of farewell, but none came. She knelt by the side of the bed and took his hand again. His fingers, the skin dry, the knuckles enlarged and bony, grasped hers.
“I wish…there had been time enough,” he said. Then, as if a new strength surged up in him, he continued. “I should have instructed you, prepared you. I had hoped to pass it directly to Zevaron. But he is still too young.”
“Hush,” she said. “Do not trouble yourself. Whatever it is, I will keep it for him.”
The power of his grip silenced her. Tears sprang to her eyes. Seeking to comfort him, she bent closer, her face close to his. She saw, through her own blurring vision, the look of pleading in his eyes. He released her abruptly, his hand falling away. His body tensed, his breathing turned sharp and quick, and he clawed at his chest with both hands.
“Grandfather, save your strength—”
Tenereth muttered under his breath as he pulled loose the neck fastening of his robe. Tsorreh could not make out the words, only the rhythm. It sounded like a chant, a prayer in the most ancient of the holy languages. She caught the name Khored and something about the Oath of Binding and the te-alvar. She dared not leave him in this state. He was raving. Rethoren would return at any moment, and he would know how to calm the old man.
Between Tenereth’s hands, a mote of golden light flared. He cradled a sphere of brilliance. It was too bright to look at directly, like the sun at midday, yet Tsorreh felt no heat. His voice gained strength, and the light seemed to pulse and grow in intensity with each spoken phrase.
Something slammed into her breastbone, smooth and hard, yet small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She struggled against the sudden pain. The cartilage of her ribs flexed under the pressure. Her heart drummed wildly, like a bird flailing its wings against the bars of a cage.
Light exploded behind her eyes. It swept through her body. For a wild moment, she remembered stories of men who had almost drowned or been caught in winter avalanches. They had seen branching tunnels of light—was she dying, too? The words reverberated through her bones.
By grace, all things are made,
By judgment, all things are unmade.
White heat exploded outward from the point of agony in her chest. It shocked through her, blanketing out all other sensation. Then the pain slowly faded, giving way to unearthly stillness. She was a mote of brilliance, floating above a sea of light. Around her, radiant currents unfurled in elegant patterns. She sensed them, merged with them.
Now she was blue, a shimmering sky, an ocean steadfast and enduring.
Now green, eternal renewal, peace and healing, vibrant with compassion.
Now red, ebb and pulse, blood and courage.
She knew these colors and the attributes that went with them. She had walked this interwoven path before, traced the lineage with her fingertips, memorized the pattern.
Now yellow as the sun, as the pure clear light of dawn.
Now palest rose, the scent of blossoms, the faceted reflections of life.
Now purple, rich as the depths of a cavern, the shimmer on an eagle’s feathers, the strength of mountains.
The Shield! She had, in some way far beyond human senses, journeyed through the essence of each of the sacred petal gems, the alvara.
And now, coming to rest at last in the clear center of creation, she felt a calmness, a certainty through every part of her spirit. She stood at the heart of the Shield, in the te-alvar itself.
No, she was the central gem, the te-alvar. She was Khored’s gem, Khored’s heir.
This cannot be happening, she thought. And then thought nothing at all.
* * *
“Mother?”
From afar, she heard a voice as familiar as the beating of her own heart. Male, on the edge between a boy’s treble and a man’s deeper tones. She should know his name—
“Mother, it is time. We must go, and quickly!”
Zevaron!
Tsorreh scrambled to her feet. Her grandfather’s hand, released from her grasp, fell limply to his chest. She folded it over the other.
Grief shivered along her bones. She heard a wailing begin at the back of her throat, but she swallowed it. If she lingered now, she would jeopardize everything he had given her: a head start and a chance for freedom, her life and her son’s, the mystical gem she now guarded within her own body.
“Sorrow and joy, each comes in its season.” The words of the te-Ketav whispered through her mind. She would mourn him later, she swore to his motionless body.
Zevaron stood in the doorway. Tsorreh went to him. She held out her hands, trying to think what she could tell him. She had no words to describe what had just happened.
Rethoren waited beside the alcove, holding a lighted torch. Zevaron strode across the room, hefted one of the packs to his back, and helped the girl into another with a blush that surprised Tsorreh.
“Tenereth, he…” Grief clenched her throat. The priest met her eyes, and she saw the ripple of his sorrow, quickly masked.
Rethoren thrust the torch into her hands. “Hurry,” he said in a voice only slightly roughened.
Tsorreh picked up the third pack. Now she remembered where she’d seen the girl before. It was on the wall of Meklavar with a sling in her hand—the Sand Lands girl. “Shadow Fox, isn’t it?”
The girl lowered her eyes. “I didn’t know if you’d remember me, te-ravah.”
“Tenereth arranged for her to guide you,” Rethoren said. “The trails through the Sand Lands can be treacherous.”
Tsorreh pressed her free hand over her heart, over the sudden pulse of bright and lingering pain. Blindly she turned toward the hidden passage. Rethoren caught her, held her for an instant. His lips brushed her forehead, and he said in a low, urgent voice, “Go now with all the prayers and hopes of Meklavar, that you may speedily return.”
“May it be ever so,” she responded from long habit.
Then, as if her legs had a mission of their own, she hurried through the opening and down the steep steps. She counted, feeling each one with her feet. Zevaron followed, and then the girl, Shadow Fox, silent as her namesake.
They hurried through the tunnel and its labyrinthine twists. The rough walls sped by in the lambent torchlight. At each branching, her grandfather’s directions sprang to mind.
“This way!” Tsorreh called, and they burst into
a large, dry cavern. She paused, raising her torch. Light fell on the ancient chiseled alcoves and platforms, now bearing neat stacks of chests filled with wrapped books, just as she’d left them.
“What is this place?” Zevaron asked. Awe hushed his voice. “Who lived here?”
“I do not know,” she said.
“Somebody’s been here recently,” Zevaron said, pointing to the chests.
“I have,” she said. “That’s the library, or as much of it as I could carry.”
“Mother!”
A laugh surged up behind the knot of pain in her chest. “What did you think I was doing while you were keeping watch on the walls?”
“But—why books—?”
“And what else? Should we leave our heritage, our holy works, for the Gelon to plunder?” Tsorreh’s voice rang through the cave. The Sand Lands girl, who had been looking about with curiosity, recoiled. With an effort, Tsorreh reined in her temper. “Whether by you, yourself, or by your sons, we will be free once more, and these things will be waiting. What greater treasure is there than our heritage?”
“Swords!” he shouted.
Swords shimmering in the dawnlight like blades of silvered grass…horses neighing and men’s voices calling out, “Khored! Khored!”
From a high place, she looked out over the army while the sky condensed into darkness. Snow-crystal clouds flowed across the horizon. Wind whipped her cheeks, tasting of ashes and ice.
Tsorreh blinked. A shiver racked her body. The torch wavered in her hand. Beneath her breastbone, she sensed a flare of light, warm and golden. Above her arched the cavern with its rough stone walls. The Sand Lands girl stood at the far entrance, her face a pale oval. She gestured to hurry.
“Come on!” Zevaron shouted
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 8
