The Seven-Petaled Shield

by Deborah J. Ross

  NO!

  Without thinking, Tsorreh reached into the core of pulsating radiance inside her and drew it forth. White-gold power filled her. Willingly she gave herself to it. She lost all awareness of herself, her surroundings, the man before her, and the invisible bands that encircled her.

  She floated in the light. She became the light.

  From afar, she sensed other motes of brilliance—blue and gold and palest rose—some faint and distant, yet resonant. The Shield, the harmonic union, was scattered, yet all its elements remained. As long as she lived to pass what she bore to another guardian, so would the hope of reunion survive.

  Survive. The word echoed through her mind. Now she knew what she had to do. Give them what they want to hear, and they will ask no further.

  Tsorreh came back to herself. The priest still stood before her, peering intently into her face. His voice still spoke in rhythmic phrases. Her body felt stiff, but she could breathe again.

  She pitched her voice to sound as if she were overpowered and helpless. “I am Tsorreh, Queen of Meklavar. I fled here when the city fell to Gelon.”

  “Ah!” the priest exhaled.

  Abruptly the sensation of pressure vanished. Nausea swept through her. She fell, retching, to her knees.

  The priest bent over her, grasping the braid that held the Arandel token. Pain lanced through her scalp. She felt a sudden release as he slashed through the braid. She had not even seen the knife. He walked past her as if she were of no consequence, opened the door, and called in the guards.

  “Put her on the next ship to Gelon,” the priest’s voice sounded as if he were far away. “A gift for the Ar-King from the Servants of Qr.” He pronounced the name with a short, barely sounded uh between the two consonants.

  Sickened and disoriented, Tsorreh struggled to her feet. She tried to walk, but her legs would not hold her. One of the Gelonian soldiers picked her up and slung her over his shoulder.

  Zevaron, my son! O Holy One, keep him safe!

  PART II:

  Zevaron’s Escape

  Chapter Nine

  PUZZLED, Zevaron glanced from the governor of Gatacinne to his mother. The flight across the Sand Lands had scoured his nerves raw, and although he spoke passable Gelone, his knowledge of Isarran was not good enough to completely follow their conversation. Even if he could not understand the words, he sensed the shifting undercurrents of power. Tsorreh wanted them to stay together, the governor had refused, and she’d backed away from an outright confrontation.

  Zevaron sensed her unvoiced thought: We cannot afford to insult his hospitality.

  “You are to have a place with the unmarried men,” Tsorreh told him, “and I am to stay here tonight. Tomorrow morning, we will break our fast with the governor and arrange the next stage of our journey.” She meant, The sooner we are away from this place, the better.

  Although they were not out of danger, Zevaron was secretly pleased to be considered an adult and not a child too young to leave his mother. Maybe he’d have a chance to explore the city.

  The quarters for the unmarried men turned out to be a dormitory situated just north of the governor’s palace, between the city center and the harbor. Upon entering, he saw five or six men at the end of the ground-floor corridor, hunched around in a circle, playing a gambling game with knuckle bones by the light of an oil lamp. The dormitory itself was one of several long rooms divided by wooden frame beds, each with a space for a chest. Only one was occupied, at the far end, where someone lay snoring loudly. Zevaron set his pack down at the foot of the nearest empty bed.

  His new companions, two ruddy-haired boys only a few years his senior, were good-natured and friendly in a boisterous, rough-housing way. If he’d understood them correctly, they were brothers from one of the coastal provinces. Neither knew any Meklavaran, but they were clearly curious about him. Between his simple Isarran, the few phrases of Gelone they understood, and a good deal of gesturing, he was able to sketch out the tale of his own adventures. They took him to an inn a short distance away. Dinner was a thick lentil stew, served with rice and onions, seasoned with unfamiliar spices and accompanied by watered wine, which he took care to drink sparingly. Gatacinne was, after all, a strange city and the Gelon fleet waited just outside the harbor.

  It was late when they returned to the dormitory. The air rapidly surrendered the heat of the day, as if relieved of its burden. Once inside, Zevaron stretched out on the bed and waited for sleep.

  It would not come. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the street outside, armed men, torches licking the shadows, the city like a restless beast. For a time, aided by the demands of thinking in three different languages, he had been able to set aside his fears. Now they returned, and he had no defense against them.

  What exactly was he afraid of? Did he distrust the governor, suspect a plot or betrayal? No, the man was honest, of that he was as certain as he was of anything in this shifting world. What, then? The Gelonian attack?

  Zevaron shifted from one side to the other, trying to find a comfortable position. His muscles were too tense for him to lie still, although there was nothing wrong with the bed. He had slept on harder surfaces during their journey. He tried breathing more deeply, drawing the air into his belly.

  The Gatacinnes seemed to be going about the protection of their city as if such attacks happened regularly—unlike Meklavar, which had no standing army.

  If the fighting were heavier than they expected—if the worst happened, surely there was no place more secure than the governor’s own palace. If anyone was in danger, it was he, himself.

  If the Gelon overran the harbor defenses, they would have to fight through him to reach his mother. He would find her, and the two of them would escape. With that thought, he was able to drift off to sleep.

  Shouting jarred him awake. A man stood in the doorway, his body limned by torchlight. He yelled something in Isarran, too rapidly to understand more than Gelon and fight.

  Zevaron rolled off the bed and scrambled to his feet. Around him, the room churned with movement. Men jumped up, pulled on boots, cursed, and shoved one another.

  The man at the door shouted, “Hurry!”

  “What’s going on?” Zevaron asked one of his companions from the night before.

  One of the other men grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door along with the others. They scrambled up the corridor and down the single broad step, spilling out onto the street. The man who had shouted them awake urged them on.

  Outside, the moon had set, leaving the city in darkness. To the north, orange light painted the horizon. The harbor was burning.

  Stumbling, Zevaron half fell against the nearest man, who shoved him upright. His ears rang with the mingled clash of swords, and the cries of men, many men. Half a block away, he and the others reached a stone building. A single door stood gaping, and two men in battle gear were handing out weapons: swords, spears, long knives, shields. If they were arming the civilians, preparing for fighting in the streets, the situation must be desperate.

  Mother!

  Zevaron turned south, back toward the governor’s palace. In the crowd, he could not go more than a few steps. A burly man in a soldier’s tunic blocked his path, forcing him away.

  “Let me go!” he cried. “I have to—”

  But the soldier ignored him and dragged him along with the crowd.

  The confusion let up at the entrance to the armory, where one of the soldiers shoved a battered, thick-bladed sword into his hands.

  “You don’t understand—” Zevaron broke off, realizing that in his desperation, he had reverted to his own language.

  “Foreigner, fight-you for Isarre,” the officer snarled, or so Zevaron understood his meaning. The second officer pointed him to a knot of similarly armed men. A couple were holding their swords, testing their heft and balance, as if they had training in their use.

  “This way! For Gatacinne and the King!” The officer raised his own sword. The polished
blade caught the light. “Gatacinne! Gatacinne!”

  Zevaron hesitated, but only for a moment. He might be able to escape into the city, disappear in the confusion, and make his way back to the palace. And risk being cut down as a deserter or a traitor. The instant passed. His body moved as if it knew the way, racing up the street with the others, north toward the harbor.

  I’ll come back as soon as I can. As soon as the city is safe.

  The streets were narrower here but less congested, and they were able to cover ground rapidly. Zevaron heard fighting ahead, not as one overwhelming uproar but as scattered islands of sound. They headed for the nearest one.

  They burst out into a little square around a fountain. In the day, it might have been lined with outdoor food stalls, and children might have played in the water. Now fire raged across the south edge, devouring the wooden structures. The square itself churned with smoke and falling cinders. Fighters were silhouetted against the brightness. The Gelon were obvious by their helmets and armor.

  The Isarran officer screamed out an order, and the improvised company surged forward. After a moment’s confusion, the two forces engaged and all semblance of order disappeared.

  Zevaron leaped a fallen body—a woman’s, he thought—and charged the nearest Gelon. The soldier swerved, bringing up his shield. Zevaron’s sword, wielded with both hands, clanged against it. The impact jolted up his arms, for the man was larger, heavier, and much stronger. Then Zevaron veered out of the way of the countering blow. He couldn’t think, not in the saturated chaos of fighting and night and smoke, but his muscles remembered their training. The drillmaster’s orders sent him dancing beyond the reach of his opponent’s weapon, then back in, using his speed and coordination. He struck again. His sword slid around the rim of the shield, piercing thin leather and slicing into flesh. The battered blade caught and dragged, sluggish. For a panic-stricken moment, Zevaron yanked hard, struggling to free the sword.

  “Yahhh!”

  A cry sounded behind him. Instinctively, he twisted away. The blade came free. A second Gelon bore down on him, so close and fast that if Zevaron had not already been moving, he would have been struck. He felt the sudden, whipping air as the tip of the Gelon’s sword caught his tunic. The first soldier had recovered somewhat and lumbered toward him. Zevaron could not tell how badly injured the first Gelon was, only that he now faced two of them. He hurled himself toward the wounded one, bashing at the shield as he darted past. The wounded Gelon turned, a trace too slowly, and from the swirling firelit darkness, an Isarran in blood-streaked armor rammed a spear into his unguarded side.

  The Gelon toppled, taking the spear with him. Before he hit the ground, the Isarran leaped forward and grabbed the invader’s sword from his limp fingers. For a fleeting instant, the Isarran met Zevaron’s gaze, then the soldier nodded and drove on to the second Gelon.

  Zevaron turned back toward the center of the fighting, wondering for an instant how they were going to get beyond the burning buildings. The wooden structures looked like skeletons of flame. Shadowed figures moved through the conflagration, men struggling to contain it. Beyond them, through the smoke and falling ash, Zevaron glimpsed walls of stone and mud-brick.

  One of those who’d come with him, one of the red-haired boys, staggered under a Gelon’s assault, lost his footing, and went down with a shriek. Zevaron lunged toward him. Two Gelon came at him, blocking his path. They pressed him, putting their greater weight behind their shields. Twisting and parrying, he gave way. He could not stand before them.

  Zevaron jumped over a fallen body—Gelon, yes—and for an instant, found a little clear space around him. On every side, however, Isarrans were falling back.

  The next moment, he spied the Isarran officer who had led them. The man’s armor had been hacked half to pieces and his left arm, covered in blood, hung uselessly at his side. He lifted his sword. Zevaron could not hear his words above the din, but his meaning was clear.

  Retreat! Save yourselves to fight another day!

  Zevaron hesitated, gazing once again at the line of burning buildings. The heat rolled over him, stealing his breath. Gaps appeared in the flames and disappeared as quickly. If he could find a way through or around—could he circle back to the palace?

  The next moment, a wall of Gelonian shields bore down on him. With each step, the soldiers shouted in unison, but the words were swallowed in the uproar of the flames. The Gelon had fought like this before the gates of Meklavar, a coordinated attack, each defending his comrade’s weaker side. The ragtag Isarran defenders gave way like paper.

  Zevaron did his best to cover the retreating Isarrans. The unfamiliar sword felt leaden and awkward, his movements slower with each blow. He had been wounded but felt it only distantly. He could not remember how it had happened. There was no pain. Not yet.

  A Gelon surged in from the side, slashing hard. Zevaron jumped back and the tip of the Gelon’s blade missed his belly by a hair’s breadth.

  There was no room to fight and no way to stand fast. More Gelon poured into the marketplace. They pushed through the last shreds of resistance, driving the Isarrans toward the burning buildings. To every side, Zevaron watched the defenders scatter and vanish in the darkened streets. Within moments, only a few remained.

  The Isarran officer paused on the edge of the square, gesturing encouragement to the stragglers. Zevaron raced after them, dodging along the narrow, twisting streets. Once or twice, he came upon a knot of fighting, Isarran soldiers in retreat, or a corner where the Gelon were consolidating their position.

  The fading glow from the fire gave Zevaron a reference point. They were heading toward the harbor. Each step took him further from the governor’s palace and his mother. It was not difficult to slip away in the confusion and head back the way they’d come.

  For a short time, things seemed to be going well. Keeping to the smaller streets, Zevaron managed to stay out of sight as he worked his way south. He tried to skirt the worst of the chaos, for he could not afford to be caught up in armed confrontation or risk being delayed or possibly disabled.

  It was too bad this beautiful city had been invaded by the Gelons, but it was not his battle. He had to find his mother and get her out before things got any worse. The battle adrenaline was fading, so that he was beginning to feel half a dozen wounds. The sword felt heavier with each step, but he could not stop now.

  I swore to my brother that I would look after her. I never should have left her!

  The side street he was following debouched onto a broader avenue, the center blocked by an overturned cart. Wooden crates had crashed onto the paving stones, scattering their contents as well as straw packing. Fist-sized orange fruits rolled in every direction. Two men struggled with the draft animal, some kind of ox with hugely rounded, back-curved horns, while a handful of children snatched up the fallen fruit. Several Gelonian soldiers barked out orders that only seemed to increase the confusion.

  Zevaron merged with the other passers-by, some jeering at the Gelon, others going about their business. Some carried bundles and hurried by as quickly as possible. A woman carrying a basketful of cloth, laundry most likely, was looking the other way when she bumped into Zevaron. The basket tumbled to the ground. As he bent to help her, she glanced at his bloody sword and soot-streaked clothing, smothered a cry, and scurried away, leaving him with a handful of dirty clothing. Quickly, he wrapped the clothes around the sword. It made a long, lumpy bundle, hardly a disguise against a watchful eye but better than nothing.

  If his sense of direction held, the palace was off the plaza just beyond the overturned cart. A barricade might have been set up, but he couldn’t be sure. He must not risk being noticed. With an effort, he slowed his pace, clutching the wrapped sword against his body. He lowered his eyes and slouched as if he were an insignificant nobody.

  “You there!” one of the Gelon called.

  Zevaron kept going. He pretended he had not understood, that he was of such little importance no one
could address such a remark to him. He took another shuffling step and then another.

  Although his heart thudded in his chest so loudly that the soldiers must surely have heard the racket, no hand reached out to restrain him. No cold steel pressed against his flesh.

  He reached the fallen cart. Now he was passing the Gelon themselves.

  “No, not you!” the same voice went on, still in Gelone. “The other one. Get back to your homes, where it’s safe! Go on, all of you! Clear out!”

  Zevaron hazarded a sidelong glance in the direction of the Gelon. One of them had sheathed his sword and was helping to right the cart, while the others stood guard and directed traffic as more onlookers gathered. A man in a ragged cloak drew back one arm and hurled a stone at the nearest Gelon. The stone hit the edge of the soldier’s breastplate with a clang. A rush, a gathering of anger, coalesced in the scattered crowd. Zevaron paused, thinking the stone-thrower had been a fool, and yet he understood what it was like to become caught up in the moment.

  Faster than Zevaron would have believed possible, the Gelon reacted. He sprinted across the street. The people in front of him scrambled out of the way. The next instant, he had wrestled his assailant to the ground. Only then did he draw his sword, resting its tip against the throat of the hapless man.

  Zevaron had seen the Gelon work together with their ruthless coordination, but he had not realized how deadly these men could be, fighting face to face.

  If I am to free Meklavar, I must learn to fight even better.

  Zevaron hurried away, using the cover of the scattering crowd. Trying to keep to the shadows, he reached the next intersection. The tower facing the governor’s palace rose ahead of him. Torches dotted the plaza and the flat, broad steps.

  Zevaron froze, watching in dismay as a line of prisoners, men and women, their hands bound in front of them, was led down those steps. Gelonian soldiers stood guard, and an officer in a plumed helmet shouted out orders.