Tsorreh started toward the opening. Her foot caught on an unevenness in the floor and she almost fell. Zevaron caught her arm and steadied her.
“You’re unwell—”
“No, no, I’m fine,” she insisted. The vision had faded, leaving a sick, heavy feeling in her stomach, but she knew she must go on. She tried to make her voice firm, stripped of all doubt. “From here, we must follow the air current.”
“Give me the torch,” he said. “Shadow Fox, help my mother.”
“I don’t need—” Tsorreh broke off her protest, as Zevaron had already plunged into the darkness. Saving her breath, she hurried after him. He might be showing off for the girl, but he was right. Within a few paces, the passage narrowed, and her pack brushed the stone sides. In moments, the torchlight revealed a high open space above them, the upper surface so far away she could not make it out.
They went on, the velvety silence of the mountain broken only by their breathing and the scuff of leather over stone. It took all Tsorreh’s concentration to keep her balance. Zevaron rushed surefootedly along the passages, and Shadow Fox stayed close behind him.
Sometimes the tunnel widened or branched. Zevaron would halt, searching for the guiding air current, but never for long. When the torch burned out, he lit another from the bundle strapped to his pack. They rested and drank from their water skins and when appropriate turned politely aside to grant one another privacy.
How long they traveled like this, Tsorreh could not tell. Once she set her foot down on a loose stone and twisted her ankle. It throbbed for a time, as did the scrapes on her bare skin, but she ignored them. As long as she was able to travel, she must go on. She saved her breath for the next step and the next.
After a time, they began to climb. Sometimes Tsorreh had to use both hands and feet. Zevaron, above her, broke loose showers of dust and pebbles, sending Tsorreh and Shadow Fox into spasms of coughing.
Before long, Tsorreh’s muscles burned. Sweat trickled over her abrasions, stinging. Once her foot slipped and she almost lost her hold. The skin on her hands felt raw, broken.
At last they reached the end of the climb and the entrance to a long, low-ceilinged cavern. It was rounded like a tunnel, and spherical depressions pocked the surfaces. Zevaron started across it. Too exhausted to protest, Tsorreh followed.
“We rest,” came Shadow Fox’s voice from behind her. She had hardly said two words together since the beginning of their flight, replying to Zevaron’s solicitude only in monosyllables. “We will find no better place, and here we are hidden. Once free of these mountains, the spies of the Rock People can follow us. We must keep ourselves strong.”
With a nod, Zevaron agreed. Tsorreh lowered herself into a large, rounded depression in the surface, which was so coarse it felt as if a thousand tiny teeth jabbed through the fabric of her trousers.
They ate a little from the stores of dried meat and fruit in their packs. Zevaron set out his flint carefully before extinguishing the torch to conserve it.
The darkness was so complete, Tsorreh could not tell if her eyes were open or closed. Her body craved sleep, and yet a formless dread held her back. She kept thinking of her vision of the hilltop, as real and vivid as if it were a personal memory, of Khored and his brothers preparing for battle with armies of monsters, creatures of the primeval incarnation of chaos, rendered from the ancient tongue as Fire and Ice.
Something whispered through the back of her mind, a sound like a hissing serpent, and then a long exhalation. Not Fire and Ice, the common appellation, but syllables of power, of conjuring.
A name. A secret name that only Khored knew.
She saw a hilltop and heard the glint and clash of swords. A man stood with his back to her. Wind tore at his braids, dark as the cavern. His skin glowed like honey. One bare arm lifted against the gathering storm, hand clenched. Then his fingers opened, cradling something infinitely precious and powerful—clear light, brilliant as the sun. She heard his voice, but whether he shouted or whispered, she could not tell. The syllables in their ancient rhythm called forth, gathered, summoned. Words became light, and light flowed through spirit, and spirit condensed itself back into words: BY GRACE, ALL THINGS ARE MADE.
How did she know this? How could she possibly remember this?
Retching and dizzy, Tsorreh curled herself into a ball. She held on to her knees, digging her fingers into her muscles, hard against her bones. She was here, she told herself, here in her body, here in this lightless cave with Zevaron, her Zevaron, and the girl from the walls of Meklavar, and it was now, at the fall of the city.
Now, and no other time.
Here, and no other place.
Gradually her heart slowed and she felt less sick. She sat up, spat out acid saliva, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
“Mother?” Zevaron sounded very young. He was frightened and doing his best to hide it. Darkness revealed as much as it covered.
“I’m here,” she said softly. “It’s all right.”
Tsorreh heard the tap of flint. Slender tongues of orange caught the spark. Air ruffled the flame of the torch. She lifted her head and felt the breeze on her face, stronger than before. Her pulse quickened and strength rose in her. At the back of her mind, she could almost hear the stirring call of horns, the chomp and neigh of horses pulling at their bits, men’s voices raised in song.
Memory of battles past or hope for the future? She did not care.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ve rested enough. The road awaits us.”
Chapter Seven
THE tunnel descended so sharply that they were forced to creep along, using finger-holds for balance. Tsorreh’s hands and elbows stung. Her twisted ankle and the opposite knee ached with each slow step. Twice more they ate and rested, before a dim light appeared ahead.
At last, they came out to a narrow defile to see the sun a hand’s-width above the western horizon. Mountains rose behind them, sloping down to rolling hills and the barren undulation of the Sand Lands. The colors were strange to Tsorreh, as if the sun had bleached and shriveled the grass. Even the stones beneath her feet looked as if they had been sucked dry. She licked her lips and tasted salt. A wind touched her face, quickly drying the film of sweat.
How could a person hope to cross that vast expanse of rock and dune?
Shadow Fox took the lead without comment, springing nimbly along the pebbled trail. Zevaron tied the extinguished torch to his pack and followed her.
A little way into the hills, they found a grove of wild olive trees around a spring. Tsorreh almost wept as she knelt on the muddy bank and dipped her hands into the water. It flooded her senses, cool and sweet. She drank it in, letting it run over her face, wetting her hair and the front of her vest.
Her belly clenched. She doubled over, gasping, and swallowed back the acid that suddenly filled her mouth. Through the sudden hoarseness of her breathing, she heard the splash of water, the movement in the grasses as Zevaron and Shadow Fox drank. She tried to call out for help, but could not force the words from her swollen throat.
Waves of nausea rose like tidal currents, sweeping through her. A rushing like the wind through the Var, like a mountain stream in flood, filled her skull. The edges of her vision went gray. The day, which had been so hot, turned icy.
The spring…poisoned?
Her breath locked in her lungs. She felt herself falling, first through bitter cold, then fire, then through a sea of whiteness. Voices called to her, now human words, now the moaning of winter wind, now foam-whipped rapids, now the howl of a wolf, now the clash of swords…Swords.
She gazed into a pool of colorless brilliance and in it beheld men’s faces, stern, bearded. Four of them, five, six…and then a great King, his head wreathed in the same light. He spoke words of power, Eriseth, Benerod, and Cassarod—
No, they were names, and as each was said aloud, one of the noble lords turned toward her, holding a gem in front of his heart. Dovereth, Teharod, Shebu’od, and the last, the Kin
g.
Khored.
She reached out to him. Help us. Save your people, as you did once before.
“What is wrong with her?” came a woman’s voice, light and distant.
“…don’t know…” A second voice reverberated, fracturing into echoes. “…ever since…”
“Grief…”
The man’s voice spoke again, rising in urgency. “We can’t leave her…”
“What do you propose? We cannot carry her—”
A sigh, the mountains breathing…
Rock, black and glossy, jutted into the sky, and the sky was torn with ice and fire and brightness beyond naming, beyond thought…The vision fell away now, leaving her cold as death, as stars, as the high clear peaks of the Var before the snow. Cold.
“She’s burning up…”
“…do something…”
Cold, and deep racking shivers shot through her. Sky and mountain broke into frozen splinters.
The world dimmed, shadow layered upon shadow. She made out the outlines of hills against a fading sky. They were strangely rounded, not the sharp mountains she knew. Creatures moved through the gathering darkness, tiny sparks that winked in and out.
Voices curled around her, like currents in a stream. “Keep going.” “Just a little while longer.” “We rest at dawn.”
Motes of light spun into endless color. They wove in and out, making a pattern she knew and could not name. Closer now, they merged around a crystal center, a center that encompassed all color, all light, and a kernel of brilliance.
A man’s voice shouted, “In the name of the One, the Infinite, I banish you!”
Silence.
Numbness.
Peace floated on the fading grayness. And warmth.
“I think she’s a little better now. Te-ravah, can you hear me?”
Brightness fluttered, a dance of yellow streaks. She inhaled smells of wood and smoke, a green moistness. Faces, pallid ovals, bent toward her, and she recognized the touch and smell and voice that spoke to the depths of her heart.
“Zevaron? Zev? Are we still in the cavern?” Her own words came in stutters, like the beating of moth wings.
“Mother.” Fingertips touched her arm. Her gaze met eyes dark with concern. “We’re three days into the Sand Lands. You’ve been ill, don’t you remember?”
Remember? The proud King shouting defiance? The creak and splinter of living stone? The dance of colored suns and the clear piercing light at the heart of things?
“Here.” Gently he held a cup to her lips.
She swallowed, the water warm and slightly metallic on her tongue. Around her, sand exhaled heat into the night sky. Stars spun a milky swath across the heavens. Along the silvered dune, a shadow moved, and then another.
“Three days? I remember the little spring, when we came out from the tunnel.”
“You were delirious for a time.” He looked away, into the night. “You spoke of strange things. Ravings, fever dreams—”
Shapes moved closer, ribbons of light and dark, some able to fit into the palm of her hand. She could not make out their form, serpents or mice or tiny men. One carried a bit of brightness, like an ember, in mouth or claws, she could not tell. She watched as it neared.
“It’s all right,” Shadow Fox said. “They mean us no harm.” She held out her hand, took the bit of brightness. It dimmed to a pale, almost pellucid blue. “It’s a water-stone. With it, we can find the hidden springs between here and Karega Oasis.”
“What—” Tsorreh started to ask, What are they? but she already knew. Part fable, part dream-vision, they lingered just beyond sight, drawn to her and what she carried. They were tiny elemental spirits, scattered during the first days of creation. Harmless, shy, and secretive.
She remembered little more of that night, past the rising of the moon. Walking, sand gave way beneath her feet, and a bitter chill descended from the arc of night.
The cold, the sickening jar along her bones as her sword met the hard, unyielding edge of ice. A creature with skin like mottled frost bore down on her, eyes like the glowing hearts of coals, mouth a jagged gap, breath an acrid gust of smoke: “Begone, foul creature, to the hell that spawned you! I banish you—”
Words poured through her. A man’s deep voice echoed in her mind, speaking the ancient holy tongue that none now used. Before her, the ice-troll hesitated. Although it was twice, thrice her size, the power of the words held it back. She looked down at her hand, holding the sword. Notches marked where the blade had bitten into the ice-troll’s hide.
No, it was not her hand she saw, but another’s, as if she looked through other eyes, spoke through someone else’s mouth. She felt herself draw back and lower the sword, then the sudden lightness as it left her grasp. Swords were of no avail against the spawn of Fire and Ice. Within her, the te-alvar pulsed with clear and piercing brilliance.
Someone held water to her lips. She swallowed. It was warm and brackish.
“Tell me,” she gasped. “What did I say?”
“You spoke of Khored, of the enchanted alvara, of a mighty battle, of the birth of the Var,” Zevaron said. “Then you said a name. I could not make it out.”
Fire and Ice, in the ancient tongue, yet hidden from men’s minds all these long years, until the very memory was lost. No, not lost. Waiting, preserved. Passed on with the te-alvar.
* * *
Tsorreh woke again, lying on her back on a soft surface, her head cushioned and her feet bare. She opened her eyes to a world of color, a sky of striped orange and white. The faint, tangy smell of animals and some kind of incense touched her nose. A tent, she lay in a tent, without any memory of how she’d gotten there.
She sat up. Intricately knotted rugs in dull red and ocher, the designs picked out in black silk, covered the floor of the tent. A waterskin and bowl lay within easy reach beside a plate of dried dates. The water tasted metallic, but she drank it all, pouring out bowl after bowlful. Her stomach shifted uneasily, then settled. Feeling steadier, she crawled to the partly open flap, found her boots, pulled them on, and slipped outside.
She emerged into a walled garden, bounded on one side by an arched walkway and a two-story house of sand-pale stone. Date palms waved gently overhead, creating swirls of dappled shade. She inhaled moist smells, a potpourri of unfamiliar spices. Sounds washed over her, people laughing, the whicker of a horse, the high delighted cries of children, a twitter of birds, others she could not identify. Turning, she saw that her tent was, in fact, a pavilion stretched over a lathe frame. It was one of several, each a different color. Enormous birds, the size of eagles, but with iridescent blue-green plumage and extravagantly long tails, moved among them, pecking at the white gravel.
“Look! She’s awake!”
Shadow Fox and Zevaron emerged from the darkness of the walkway, both wearing knee-length, bell-sleeved tunics over leggings. With them came an older man in the flowing, striped robes and head dress of a Sand Lands chieftain. He carried himself with regal poise, yet with a quietness, an absence of bluster, that intensified the power of his presence. Here was a man, Tsorreh thought, who had no need to boast of his prowess or to compel obedience by force. He inspired respect by his wisdom and experience, seeing deeply and acting with forethought and deliberation. Such a man would make a formidable ally…or an even more formidable foe.
Shadow Fox performed introductions, referring to the chieftain as the Father of Karega. The Father inclined his head with a stylized gesture, delivered with the grace of a master swordsman, to indicate that Tsorreh should accompany him inside.
They passed through a foyer and into an inner chamber, with windows sheltered from the day by screens of intricately carved sandalwood inlaid with gold wire, mother-of-pearl, and ebony. They sat on cushions, and a small boy with the same dark, almond-shaped eyes as the Father, brought a tray of tiny pastries dusted with nuts and date-sugar, and served them cups of steaming tea. As Tsorreh sipped hers, the mint and honey sharpened her senses.
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br /> They ate and drank in silence. Zevaron, she noticed, kept his eyes carefully averted from Shadow Fox. The girl was a hopeless dream glimpsed in passing, but love—or, in this case, adolescent lust—knew no bounds.
When they were done, the boy brought damp cloths to wipe their hands and faces. The Father began to speak, pausing frequently for Shadow Fox to translate. Tsorreh understood him well enough, but to refuse the service would be ungracious.
Tsorreh replied to his inquiries that she was quite recovered from her sand-fever, as he called it, and expressed her gratitude for Shadow Fox’s help and guidance, without which they would surely have perished a thousand times over.
“The Father says that our house is honored to be of service to the Lady of Holy Light, who brings water to the desert,” Shadow Fox said.
“Please tell him, then,” Tsorreh said, “of our gratitude for all he has done for us. If it is not too much to ask, we have a long way yet to reach Isarre.”
“That has already been arranged,” Shadow Fox replied. “Two of his sons will ride with you as far as the Hills of the Burned Trees, and from there, your own people can take you to Gatacinne.”
Tsorreh considered. She had thought to go the longer, southern route through Barad’s Gap, but she knew little of desert ways. She would surely have perished without Shadow Fox’s expert knowledge. Whatever happened, Zevaron must survive.
No, pulsed a thought, like a fading echo in the place between her breasts—she herself must survive.
After the conference, she walked through the town, accompanying the Father as he selected horses and ordered supplies. Later that evening, she rested again in the Pavilion of Healing Smoke. Women in enveloping robes came and fitted her with full-cut trousers and a sort of veil that draped over her face and shoulders, leaving her hands and legs free. It looked uncomfortable, but these people knew the desert as she did not.
Before they set out the next morning, swirling sands descended upon the oasis. Tents were folded up, and animals brought within walls or underground. Heavy shutters kept out the worst of the wind. Tsorreh and Zevaron huddled in a corner of the house, listening to the wild shrieking overhead. After a while, she drifted through strange half-formed dreams, part personal memory, part visions from the past.
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 9
