Tsorreh could not think of a response. Children did not always judge their parents wisely, thinking too much or too little of them.
“Steel wears thin,” Danar said, sounding so much like Jaxar, Tsorreh suspected he was quoting his father directly. “And gold grows dim, and men discover they have spent their lives in pursuit of shadows instead of stars. How can we fight and die and kill one another, when there is so much wonder in the world?”
The phrases lingered in Tsorreh’s mind. Eavonen would have been delighted beyond words with such a student. She thought of the library she had struggled to save, how much knowledge and how many fine minds had already been lost. Anger, or something very like it, curled through her belly.
After a pause, she said, “My son is your age, you know. And he had no choice. He had to train in fighting. He had to defend his city, his family, his life. You have the luxury of living far away from the battle, while it was carried—by your uncle—to my son’s doorstep.”
The wind had whipped color into Danar’s cheeks, but not enough to disguise the sudden rush of blood. “I am truly sorry. My father says that someday we will no longer strive to conquer each other, but will see the world as filled with friends yet unmet and be eager to learn their wisdom.”
Tsorreh shrugged. Danar’s words were pretty, but she could not imagine such a world. Since the beginning of time, one enemy or another had threatened her people.
Does the struggle ever end? Or is it the same story, over and over again?
The wind shifted suddenly, buffeting her face. A swirl of dust blew into her eyes. Her eyelids burned and watered. The weathered stones of the old watchtower blurred. She blinked, sending tears down her cheeks. The sky turned preternaturally bright. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes.
The next moment, when she lowered her hand, she still stood on a windswept hill. Now, however, she was alone, and no city stretched below her. No river gleamed like a vast, silver-green ribbon, nor could she make out red tile roofs, temples, and marketplaces. Instead, she looked out over an army, a mass of glittering armor and upraised swords. The whiteness of the sky congealed. Snow-crystal clouds glowed between billowing thunderheads. Across the horizon, something moved, pale as ice and black as ashes, something indistinct and terrible, a ripple of light and darkness, of white-hot flame and bitter cold.
The air tasted of unspent lightning.
A man stood beside her, tall and strongly built, regal in bearing. The wind tore at his hair, tossing braids as dark as night. His skin was the color of honey and his eyes gleamed with inner fire. Unaware of her presence, he lifted one bare, muscular arm, holding something just beyond her vision.
Something infinitely precious, infinitely powerful.
Once before, she had stood at Khored’s side, looking out on this same battlefield. She had seen what came next. Like a dreamer, she could not move, could not speak, could only witness the unfolding events.
Her heart leapt as she lifted her eyes to what Khored held. She recognized the distinctive pattern of the Shield, each petal glowing, the clear center as brilliant as the sun.
Words came from the mouth of the great king, words shouted, whispered, prayed. Ancient syllables called forth, gathered, summoned. Words became light, and light flowed through spirit, and spirit shaped itself into words.
BY GRACE, ALL THINGS ARE MADE…
In Tsorreh’s vision, Khored once more held the Shield aloft. Its light streamed out in all directions, the Seven-Petaled Shield that would conquer the forces of Fire and Ice. The Shield that stood between the armies of chaos and the living world.
What does it mean? she wondered. Why does this vision come to me here in Gelon?
As Tsorreh watched, the lowering stormclouds shifted. For a moment, things once hidden came into focus. Shapes moved through the mists, reaching down from the north with tendrils of shimmering gray. She could not tell if the wavering forms were streamers or weirdly articulated legs. Whatever they were, their power increased as they gained in solidity. In another moment, they would become solid forms, potent and malevolent presences in the world.
She knew what would come then, what had come before: monsters of frost and flame, stone-drakes belching ice and molten cinders, ice trolls. Fertile lands would be turned into shattered rock and sulfur-steaming vents, awash in tides of blood.
Tsorreh had no doubt that the tendrils were an incursion by the ancient powers of Fire and Ice, long held at bay by the Seven-Petaled Shield. It was written in the te-Ketav, in the Book of Khored, that as long as the Shield endured, the ancient enemy would remain imprisoned, and righteousness would reign.
Then why did her spirit falter? Why did her heart tremble?
Khored shouted again, words that blew away in the wind. In response, light blazed forth from the Shield. The heavens shimmered in multi-hued glory. The shadowy forms halted, writhing and twisting in on themselves. Slowly, they withdrew.
All is well, Tsorreh tried to reassure herself. The Shield protects us still.
Between her breasts, the te-alvar surged to life, filling her, searing her from within. Her first thought was that it had responded to its counterpart in her vision. Perhaps it remembered the past and was eager to perform its duty again.
Like a sword that thirsts for the blood of its enemies.
Without warning, one of the alvara in Khored’s Shield broke away from the magical device. It hung in the battering storm for a moment, glittering as if with tears.
Tears of fury? Grief? Despair? Tsorreh could not tell. Her breath burned her throat. Her mouth stretched wide, and yet no sound came forth.
The wind fractured the detached gemstone into nothingness. Still the great king held the Shield high, his stance as determined as ever. But the colors in his skin and eyes faded, as if a cloud had passed across the sun.
Another gem tumbled loose, shattering on the hard ground. One of the shards flashed blue, a fragment of reflected sky.
When Tsorreh was a child, Eavonen had drilled her in the names, colors and attributes of each of the crystals. She had memorized them all, Dovereth’s true yellow, the pale rose of Teharod’s wisdom, Shebu’od’s purple strength, and more, all united by a single clear uniting purpose, the te-alvar of Khored.
Blue was for Eriseth, for endurance, for steadfast loyalty.
Eriseth! she realized with a jolt of white fear. The heir to that lineage had been lost a generation ago in Denariya—and the alvar with him! And without Eriseth’s unwavering steadfastness…
Sweat covered Khored’s brow and trickled down his cheeks. He trembled with effort to keep the remainder of the Shield intact. Tsorreh reached out to cover his hands with her own, to bind together what was left of the Shield.
As long as the center holds, there is hope.
The wind increased in force, buffeting her. She held tight to Khored’s hand, to the Shield. The brightness of the day dimmed; the storm was almost upon them. Her muscles stretched and strained. Silently, she prayed for the endurance of Eriseth, the wisdom of Teharod, the courage of Cassarod, the might of Shebu’od. Until that moment, Tsorreh had regarded her noble ancestor as a colorful legend. Now she felt within herself his strength as well as his sense of duty. Khored would never relent in his purpose, and neither would she, his heir. Resolve flowed through her like a river of gold. Whatever was required of her, whatever the cost, she would hold fast.
Moment by moment, the storm gained in power. Dust, fine and white as ice crystals, billowed up to blind her. Through watering eyes, she could see only swirls of gray and darker gray. Her hands turned cold, then numb. She could no longer feel Khored’s fingers beneath her own, only the adamantine facets of the Shield gems.
Thunder boomed, at first distant, then closer. The rumbling shook Tsorreh’s bones. For an instant, she felt as if she would fly apart, along with what remained of the Shield.
Desperate, she clenched the precious central crystal and drew it close. She curled her body protectively around it, pulling her
arms close, hunching her shoulders. In the shelter of her body, the gem flared up again. Light, fierce and golden, filled her, spilling through her flesh.
“Tsorreh.” From afar, a voice spoke her name.
The storm dissipated as quickly as it had sprung up. A breeze, sweet and cool, caressed Tsorreh’s skin. She stood blinking in the brightness of normal day. Looking down at her hands, she was surprised to find them empty. The joints of her fingers throbbed as if they had been dislocated.
“Tsorreh? Are you ill? What is wrong?” Danar was leaning toward her, his young face furrowed in concern.
She forced her lips into a smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” And prayed to be forgiven for that small lie. There was no possible way in which she could explain to this Gelonian youth what she had just seen.
“Can we go down?” she said. “I fear this wind has given me a headache.”
“Yes, you do look weary. For a moment, I thought you might faint. My father would never forgive me if you became ill while in my care.”
“It is of no matter. See, I am quite well again.”
They started down the path, once again trailed by Danar’s escort. Tsorreh wondered if he went anywhere outside the compound without them. She could not imagine Zevaron willingly enduring such constant surveillance. A thought came to her, teasing a smile from the corners of her mouth: Danar, sneaking out after dark for an hour’s freedom, perhaps in one of the less savory districts, intoxicated by the taste of danger. Perhaps Zevaron had, unknown to her, done the same.
“Just as you turned white, you called out a name,” Danar said. “Khored.”
“Khored was my ancestor, the founder of my father’s house,” Tsorreh explained as they walked along. “His deeds form the basis of our most sacred texts.”
“I haven’t read them,” Danar admitted. “Is he one of your gods?”
“No, of course not. He was as mortal as you or I. But he was a great king and war-leader.”
“Here in Gelon, we believe that our kings are descended from gods—god-begotten, we say. Perhaps that’s why we have so many.”
“There is only one god, the Source of All Blessings.”
“In Meklavar, perhaps. It is such a small country, perhaps there isn’t room enough for more than one. Here in Gelon, we have many gods. But not all of them bestow blessings.”
A quick retort rose to Tsorreh’s lips, but she managed to hold her tongue. Danar was trying hard to be her friend, and he was so clearly in need of one, living under the same roof as his stepmother. She wondered if he now spoke of his own troubles.
Once they had left the flat top of the hill, the wind died down. They passed through a wealthy residential area of walled compounds, tree-lined avenues, and public gardens with elaborate fountains.
“Which god do you worship?” Tsorreh asked in a carefully neutral voice.
“My family follows the usual household gods suitable for those of royal descent. The servants have their own. Until I come of age, I belong to The One Who Lends Fame, a very fickle god, I confess, for what is lent can be as easily taken away. My favorite comes to us from Denariya, The Remover of Difficulties.”
At this, Tsorreh laughed, and Danar grinned back, continuing, “I’m told that my mother was a devotee of The Lady of Mercy.”
The Lady of Mercy sounded benign, if heretical. “What about Lord Jaxar?”
“Not the King’s-god, of course, that one’s for Cinath himself. Father was consecrated as a baby to The Giver of Justice, or so they tell me. Privately, I don’t think he bothers with any of the rituals. He believes more in what he finds in his books and laboratory than any idol. Lycian finally gave up trying to convert him to whichever god has her favor at the moment.” The muscles in Danar’s jaw tensed as he said this
The chance to learn more about the household in which she must survive was too tempting to pass up. “What god does Lycian pray to now?”
“Oh, she’s taken up with the Scorpion god. Just trying to impress the other court ladies, I think. She thinks that next season, the Scorpion priests will have the Ar-King’s favor, and she will be their foremost devotee.”
A shivery touch pass over Tsorreh’s skin. She remembered the form on the headband of the priest who had questioned her after the fall of Gatacinne. “Scorpion? Do you mean Qr?”
“You’ve heard of it? Qr? It’s unlucky for a god to have a public name, for how then can it speak to our innermost hearts?” Danar scratched his chin. “The Scorpion never appealed to me, but that’s the good thing about having so many gods.”
“Yes, I see that. If one god displeases you by demanding righteous behavior, you turn fickle and choose another.”
Danar seemed unaware of her sarcasm. “It’s funny, you know, Lycian devoting herself to the Scorpion, because she hates things that crawl. One time, a real scorpion got into her bedroom, one of the big black ones. She screamed so loud, she woke the whole household and raised such a fuss that Father finally agreed to let her move to an entirely new suite of rooms. You should have heard the commotion!” Danar rolled his eyes. “Otherwise, though, Qr suits her.”
“Maybe she doesn’t look too closely at the headbands the priests wear,” Tsorreh suggested.
“Maybe she thinks they can give her a son.”
“I’m sure they can.” The words popped out before Tsorreh thought what she was saying.
Danar flushed and looked away. “They say that when Qr returns to the world, it will repay their loyalty. Its followers will have unimaginable power. They will become gods themselves.”
“And Cinath permits the worship of a god who makes such claims? Wouldn’t these followers overthrow him, if they became so mighty?”
“Oh, the priests are careful in what they say directly to him. Father says they promise whatever that particular person wants to hear. Of course, if those promises don’t come true, they can always claim that the worshiper wasn’t devout enough. Or didn’t give them enough money.”
To Tsorreh’s mind, that proved only the greed of the priests. The Most Holy One bestowed blessings freely, opened the hearts of the people, and filled them with compassion.
“Father won’t have anything to do with Qr,” Danar said. “He says it’s a criminally ambitious cult and not true god-worship. Of course, he’ll let Lycian have her way, as long as she doesn’t ask him for money for her tribute. She’s got her own fortune from her family. But she can’t force anyone else—and that includes you—to go with her.”
He sounded so earnest in his reassurance that Tsorreh laughed. Being compelled to worship the idolatrous gods of Gelon had not been among her worries. Staying alive, however, is, she thought, sobering.
Tsorreh fell silent. When Danar pointed out the various sights, she nodded without comment. After a time, the glitter of marble and limestone, of gold-foil decorations and rainbow garlands began to dull. She found herself longing for the clean, dust-scoured lines of Meklavar instead of this brilliant opulence.
As they passed through the valley between Victory Hill and Cynar Hill, Tsorreh remembered Danar saying that Lycian had been banned from the laboratory. She decided that, for the time being, she would restrict herself to that suite, the better to avoid the schemes of the mistress of the house.
When Tsorreh returned to the laboratory, aching in spirit and body, she found that someone—Astreya, most likely—had left a basin and ewer of lavender-scented water beside her pallet, along with a towel and a lump of soap. Tsorreh almost wept at the sight.
Curled up on the surprisingly soft pallet, Tsorreh felt the day’s tension slowly drain away. Her body felt thick and heavy, like that of an exhausted child. She murmured thanks to the Most Holy One, Source of Blessings, and tumbled into sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
WHEN Tsorreh awoke the next morning, she found a breakfast tray waiting on the floor beside her pallet. The food was much the same as the day before, except that the millet porridge had gone cold. Folded on her blanke
t was a dress of white cotton, as fine and soft as silk. White embroidery ran along arm openings and ankle-length hem, and the fabric had been gathered at each shoulder to drape gracefully. Underneath, she discovered a pair of low boots of supple suede and a belt of braided white silk, fringed with little gold beads. The accompanying shoulder clasps were ivory set with pearls, worn to a softly shimmering luster. Holding them, tracing the craftsmanship of the carving and the smoothness of the pearls, she realized that such a costly treasure could not have come from Breneya. She wondered what woman had first worn them. Surely, such a gift came from the heart, in love and hope, and not out of obligation.
After she dressed, Tsorreh untied her hair and, using her fingers, began to comb and braid it. The patch that had been cut off in Gatacinne, along with the Arandel token, was beginning to grow out and was already long enough to catch the ends in a braid. One plait, two…until seven glossy braids swung freely down her back. She gathered them together with the leather thong.
Jaxar’s smile upon seeing her confirmed that he was the giver. Tsorreh began to thank him, but he changed the subject, clearly uncomfortable with expressions of gratitude. Later, she learned from Danar that the pearl clasps had belonged to his “real mother,” Jaxar’s first wife. Lycian had never worn them and in all likelihood knew nothing of their existence.
Tsorreh could not entirely let down her guard, not here in the capital city of her enemies, but Jaxar appeared to be a rational, civilized man. So far, he had given her no indication that he meant her ill, but she did not yet trust him. At any moment, he might turn her back over to the Ar-King. Moreover, beyond the gates of his estate, armed Gelon patrolled the streets. Soldiers and police and Cinath’s Elite Guard and what more, she did not know. Strange, half-formed shadows lurked just beyond her senses.
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