The Seven-Petaled Shield

by Deborah J. Ross

  They set off two days later, mounted on swift, fine-boned Sand Lands horses. Tsorreh was not a skilled rider; she had only enough training to stay on the horse’s back. The Father had chosen for her a sweet-natured mare with a soft gait. Zevaron could hardly contain his excitement as he swung up on his little gray stallion.

  “What is his name?” Zevaron asked the groom, as he stroked the glossy, arched neck.

  “He is called Rain-in-the-Night.”

  In a land where water was as precious as gold, Tsorreh reflected, only a steed of exceptional quality would bear such a name. In answer to her question, Shadow Fox said that the Sand Lands people did not geld their male animals, as did the Rock People, but as the mare was not in heat and the stallion was well-trained, there should be no cause for concern.

  After the first few hours, Tsorreh was tired and saddle-sore. Her horse followed the others without any effort on her part. She held on to the saddle and tried to keep her focus between the mare’s ears. If she closed her eyes, if she allowed her mind to drift even for a moment, visions would rise up: A plain of silvery grass rippled in the moonlight. Massive tusked beasts lumbered across a landscape of broken rock and sulfur-steaming vents. Lizards the size of horses belched fuming ice. She saw men falling, clutching one another in terror, blood running like dark rivers.

  Walk and trot…walk and trot…rest. Drink. Sleep. Walk and trot…So went the rhythm of the journey.

  She thought of her grandfather, guarding the precious te-alvar, Khored’s own stone, for all those years, waiting for a suitable heir. Not his son, for whatever reason. Perhaps her father had died too soon, before his training was complete. And not a daughter. In Meklavar, women did not ride to war, and the Shield of Khored was the weapon of a king. In the ordinary course of events, Zevaron would have been carefully prepared for the transfer, schooled in history and lore. But he was too young when Gelon struck, too ready to die at his brother’s side. If he perished while he bore Khored’s stone, it would be buried with him and lost forever.

  And so, the old priest had chosen a woman at the last, one learned in tradition, resourceful enough to preserve the holy te-Ketav and determined to save her son, a woman committed to the liberation of Meklavar, who would stay alive and flee beyond the invaders’ reach.

  Instinctively, she knew that with time, she would learn to use the power of the te-alvar. Already, the worst of the disorientation was fading. She could summon the visions of the past at will or dismiss them from her thoughts. The stone had other qualities, too. Sometimes she felt herself at the center of the Shield. If she concentrated, she could sense one or two motes of color and energy, other, lesser alvara, but too distant for any clear contact. The alvara were not ordinary gemstones; they were instruments of power, of magic.

  They are scattered, and the Shield is broken. The thought filled her with dread.

  Yet, why? Why should it matter? The ages when Fire and Ice walked the land and Khored of Blessed Memory created the alvara were long past. There were no more magical battles, no monstrous foes. The Gelon were human.

  The te-alvar is real, so what else might be real?

  It was a relic from the fabled past, an heirloom of her people, a precious part of their heritage, but nothing more.

  The sand turned rocky, and scrub and thornbush gave way to greener growth. Trees, real trees instead of palms, clustered along a stream. Tsorreh’s mare put her head down, snatching mouthfuls of grass. They rode beside pastures of sheep and long-haired goats, and now and again a few cattle. At one or another of the tiny villages, the brothers paid a few coins to refill their water skins and let their horses drink at the communal well.

  “Are we in Isarre yet?” Zevaron asked at one of these pauses.

  Another day would see them beyond the borderland and to a good road. From there, they would travel on their own, hoping for a swift passage to the port city of Gatacinne. If all went well, they could find a ship to take them west along the coast and then to Durinthe, the capital city and jewel of Isarre.

  Chapter Eight

  ON the last day’s journey to Gatacinne, Tsorreh and Zevaron found a ride in the back of a farmer’s cart amid the sacks of millet and lentils. Strings of dried peppers and braids of tiny purple onions swung from the crossbeams. The farmer sang one boisterous, tuneless song after another, happy to have a few extra coins even before he reached market. The gray ass plodded along at its own unhurried pace.

  Tsorreh leaned back, pushed the coarse-woven sack into a more comfortable shape, and closed her eyes. Sleep hovered just beyond reach. Her feet were sore, but she’d found it hard to rest since they passed into Isarre. Perhaps the visions that accompanied the te-alvar had left a lingering sense of apprehension, of something terrible rousing now, waking. It was not yet aware of her, but soon, soon…

  They would reach Gatacinne by day’s end. The Gelon would be searching for her, but they could not yet know where to look. Her mother’s family would give her what sanctuary might be found. She touched the token braided once again in her hair, reassuring herself that it was still safe.

  She must have drowsed, for she startled awake at the sound of unfamiliar voices. When last she noticed, they were passing between low pastured hills. Now they emerged onto the flat land. Sitting up, she saw a scattering of buildings, pocket gardens, and a wide, well-traveled road. By the sea tang in the air, they weren’t far from the port city. Zevaron lay curled against a sack, his head moving gently as the cart rocked.

  “Whoa, easy there!” The farmer slowed his beast to a halt at the side of the road.

  Tsorreh crept to the edge of the cart for a better look. A handful of travelers were trudging by in the opposite direction. A few pulled handcarts, and others led laden asses or carried the packs themselves. She blinked sleepiness from her eyes. Surely, traffic should be moving into the city at this hour?

  The farmer called out to a tall man leading an ass. Tsorreh couldn’t follow the idiomatic dialect, only a phrase here and there. She caught the word Gelon several times.

  “What’s going on?” she asked in Isarran.

  “Gelon, they attack from sea,” the farmer said over his shoulder. He clucked to his beast, and they started off again. “Happens sometimes. They fight, but they also must eat!” He laughed.

  “Mother, what is it?” Zevaron had woken. “Where are we?” he asked in Meklavaran.

  “Not far, I think. The Gelon have attacked Gatacinne. Those people were leaving.”

  Zevaron frowned. “Should we turn back and find another way? What if the Gelon take the city and we’re recognized?”

  “Even if word of our escape has reached the Gelonian fleet, we hardly resemble royalty. We’re just a couple of Sand Lands strays, hardly worth noticing.” She forced a laugh. “These attacks happen from time to time. There have been more in recent years as the rivalry between Isarre and Gelon worsened. The farmer doesn’t seem alarmed, and this is his usual market. In fact, he sounded like the fighting would increase the price he could get for his crop. We’ll be as safe here as anywhere, and it’s still the quickest route to Durinthe.”

  In all likelihood, the fighting was confined to the sea and they would never see any of it. Once they had contacted the governor, he would take them under his protection until the way was clear and passage arranged.

  Tsorreh’s optimistic mood persisted as they wound their way through the outskirts. The farmer guided his cart into one of the market areas. He’d been right about the war not hurting business. Here people were still going about their affairs. Sellers of fruit and vegetables spread their wares on tables under canopies, along with jars of oil, strings of dried peppers and garlic, casks of wine, and tubs of olives.

  An ache rose up in Tsorreh’s heart, a longing for the bustle and richness of her own city. She wondered if the Gelon had permitted the markets to re-open, and how the trade fared. Her nostrils filled with aromas strange and familiar—bread brushed with sesame oil, lamb roasted on skewers with onions
and peppers, Denariyan spices.

  Selecting her words with care, Tsorreh asked the farmer where she might find the Hall of Judges. She tried to sound like the simple nomad she appeared. He pointed her north, where a white tower stood high above the roofline, and urged her to stay away from the wharves. She thanked him, nodded to Zevaron to follow, and headed in that direction, threading their way along the twisting maze of streets.

  With a couple of wrong turns and a little help with directions, they arrived at the Governor’s Palace. It faced the tower, the seat of the city government, across a wide, white-paved square. The open space churned with movement. Squadrons of armed Isarran soldiers marched toward the harbor, as did men in the robes of judges and officials, young boys in pages’ tabards, and a trio of officers on horseback. Four guards with somber expressions and drawn swords bracketed the front door.

  Tsorreh freed the Arandel token from her braid, clutched it in her hand, and placed her foot on the first step. The guards came instantly alert. She approached the one with the most elaborate helmet. Zevaron followed her like a shadow.

  “We have no alms for you, Sand Lady. You’d best return to your own country.” The guard meant no insult. In fact, he spoke like a man with some education. In his own terms, he was undoubtedly being courteous.

  “My business cannot wait,” Tsorreh said in slow, clear Meklavaran. It was a calculated risk, but one aimed at attracting his attention. She saw, by his immediate reaction, that she had succeeded.

  “Please take me to the governor or, if you cannot, to your superior officer.”

  His brows drew together minutely. “What brings a woman of Meklavar to Gatacinne?”

  Tsorreh held up the token so that he could see but not touch it. “That is for the governor alone.”

  She read his thoughts in the tiny movements of his eyes and corners of his mouth. A Meklavaran woman, bearing the royal token of Isarre and dressed in Sand Lands robes! He bowed and escorted her and Zevaron inside.

  After the brightness of the late afternoon, the entrance hall of the palace seemed enveloped in gloom. When her eyes adapted, she recognized the Great Tree depicted in the frescoes that lined the walls.

  They walked into a courtyard open to the sky, where Tsorreh and Zevaron were presented to a white-bearded man in a loose, flowing robe, who reminded her in a subtle way of the Father of Karega Oasis. After some discussion and a second look at the token, they were led deeper into the palace and up a flight of stairs, along an arcade of graceful columns, to a set of doors carved with images of a sea creature. The creature possessed the head and torso of a man, brows drawn in a stern expression, long locks studded with shells and pearls, affixed to the lower body of a fish.

  The old man, a councillor of some sort, swung the door open without preamble and gestured Tsorreh to follow. She grabbed Zevaron’s hand and went in.

  The room was a sweeping arch of white stone. Frescoes inlaid with mother-of-pearl and jade echoed the maritime theme of the doors. Cunningly crafted folding doors had been drawn back along one side of the room, revealing an open balcony. At the room’s center, a man sat at a table of pale, glossy wood. He bent over a pile of papers, much the way Maharrad sat in his war council chamber. His face and arms were tanned, and the hair that flowed from the high forehead to just below his ears was dark red. At their entrance, he looked up, a silhouette of shadow against the brightness of the vista.

  “What is this? How dare you bring sand rats into my presence when I told you I was not to be disturbed!”

  “Despite her unusually effective disguise, the lady is Meklavaran and she carries the royal crest,” the elderly councillor said. “If I have erred in bringing her to your attention, I most humbly beg your indulgence.”

  The governor, frowning, walked around the table toward her. He was older than she’d first thought, a burly man with tiny seashells and golden bells braided into his beard. He took the token over to the balcony to study it more closely. “It’s genuine, all right, and bears the insignia of Arandel.”

  “How did you come by it?” the old councillor asked Tsorreh.

  She lifted her chin. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean. It was my mother’s.”

  “Don’t torment the poor woman, Chylan,” the governor said. “Lady, what is your name, and how did you come here? By the dust on your feet, you have had a long hard journey.”

  “I am Tsorreh san-Khored, wife—widow of Maharrad, who was te-ravot in Meklavar,” she blurted out. “My mother was Xianthe of the House of Arandel, and I have come here with my son and heir, Zevaron, to seek passage to Durinthe. There I can claim sanctuary with my mother’s kin.”

  “Chylan, have wine brought for Lady Tsorreh. And food, too—she and her son must be hungry. Lady Tsorreh, please forgive my brusqueness. We have a military situation here.”

  “Yes, I understand. Thank you for receiving me.”

  Tsorreh sank into a carved, cushioned bench, and in a few minutes, servants arrived with a beaker of chilled wine, its sides dewy with condensation, a plate of flatbread and olives, and a pot of spicy bean paste. As she ate, she told the story of their flight, carefully omitting any reference to the te-alvar, the Shield of Khored, or the memories that had swept through her during the desert passage. The governor, whose name was Drassos, occasionally interposed questions that showed he understood a great deal of the political situation.

  When she had finished, he nodded gravely. “We have never enjoyed an entirely friendly relationship with Gelon, but in the past the Ar-Kings understood the cost of conquest. They restricted their excursions to border skirmishes here and there, just often enough to keep us on guard. Ar-Cinath-Gelon, on the other hand, is power mad, or perhaps just plain mad.” He shook his head, eyes somber. “He will ruin his own country, as well as those of his neighbors, in his quest for domination.”

  “I think he means to hold Meklavar and control the route to Denariya,” Tsorreh said. “My people will resist, and I fear for them.”

  “I fear for us all. But take heart. We have weathered far worse storms than this. Even Cinath will not risk destroying the port. We will send his ships limping back to Verenzza to lick their wounds like the dogs they are. In the meantime, be as one of us. I will have chambers prepared for you, as befits a lady of your rank, and a place for your son with the other bachelors.”

  Tsorreh felt a jolt of apprehension at being separated from Zevaron. No matter how dismissive the governor might be about the seriousness of the Gelonian attack, conditions might change. “I am indebted to you for your hospitality. But I would prefer that my son remain with me.”

  “It is not our practice to house unmarried young men with women, even their mothers.” Drassos scowled. “Perhaps the standards of propriety are different in Meklavar, but here such a thing would be intolerable for one of your standing, Lady Tsorreh.”

  “Pardon my ignorance of your customs. I meant no offense. Yet surely some allowance can be made for the hardships my son and I have endured and the natural desire of families to remain together.”

  “No offense is taken,” Drassos said in a tone that implied the matter was settled.

  Tsorreh realized that to press the matter further would risk offending the man on whose good will they depended. Drassos could easily declare the token a forgery and throw the two of them on the street. They needed his help to reach her mother’s people in Durinthe.

  She glanced at Zevaron, who had clearly been following the conversation. He looked pleased at being treated as an adult man, instead of a child too young to leave his mother. Swallowing her trepidation, she bade him go along, and they were invited to break their fast with the governor the following morning. Drassos inclined his head in dismissal and returned to his documents.

  Chylan, the councillor, conducted Tsorreh to a sumptuous suite of rooms. The central chamber, like the governor’s office, had a wide, open balcony. Mosaic panels studded with mother-of-pearl, lapis, and polished coral decorated the whitewash
ed walls. One entire room was devoted to bathing, with a tiled floor surrounding a deep round tub. Before Tsorreh could puzzle out how the tub was to be filled, flaxen-haired maidservants arrived to turn levers on the pipes, sending a stream of hot water into the tub. One added fragrant oils to the rapidly filling bath, another carried in a pile of thick towels, and two more coaxed Tsorreh to undress.

  Tsorreh allowed herself to be washed with an enormous sponge, rinsed, dried and scented, and dressed in Isarran style. The robe was of pale yellow silk, gathered at the shoulders with golden clasps in the shape of sea stars. The hem was stiff with embroidery in the same pattern as the clasps.

  By the time the maids had finished combing out and oiling her hair, rebraiding it with the Arandel token and smoothing her face and arms with scented ointments, the sky had gone dark. Tsorreh went to the balcony and looked out. Below her, the city stretched north to the harbor. Lights dotted the streets.

  She inhaled, smelling a dozen unfamiliar flowers, a whiff of roasting chicken, the undertone of salty tang. Above her, clouds scudded across a full moon. A woman’s laughter soared over the jingle of a harness, the distant call of gulls, men’s muted voices, and a harp arpeggio alternating with the sweet low tones of a flute. At this moment, it was hard to believe that somewhere on the water, Gelonian ships waited for the morning to renew their attack. But they were, and she dared not forget it.

  An under-steward presented himself while Tsorreh stood on the balcony. He was followed by servants bearing trays of food, and a young and rather nervous-looking guard. The steward explained that the guard would remain outside her door, in case the honored lady should require anything. She asked where the unmarried young men were housed, but since she did not know the landmarks he mentioned, the answer made little sense. The place was not far, however.