Thessar’s chariot came into view, embellished with stanchions bearing ostrich plumes dyed in royal blue and purple, trailing streamers of gold. The onagers were perfectly matched silver-grays, their haunches painted in spiral designs with Cinath’s colors. They snorted and tossed their heads and rolled their eyes at the surge of noise from the crowd.
Moment by moment, the chariot drew nearer.
A city patrolman stood only a short way from her. He craned his neck to watch Thessar’s approach, shifting his hands away from his sword. Tsorreh judged the distance, one long step or perhaps two, then a quick grab—and the hilt of the sword would slip into her hand. She would pivot, sweeping the sword free as she darted forward. The blade would swing in an arc, downward where it would be less visible, then up as she plunged through the rank of retainers and leapt on to the chariot. Thessar might realize his doom, but the sword would already be in his flesh, piercing his heart—
The patrolman turned his head and held his arms out to both sides, forming a barrier. “Stay back now! No shoving! Let everyone have a chance to see the Glorious Victor!”
Did his gaze linger for just a fraction on her face? Did her expression betray her intentions? Could he see the murderous rage in her eyes?
Gulping, trembling, she looked away. The slightest wrong move would draw his attention to her. She would lose her only chance.
No one would miss Thessar or weep over his corpse…
She wondered if it were possible to kill a man with her bare hands. If she were capable of it.
But someone would miss him. Like a whisper, like a feather’s barely perceptible touch, the thought glided through her mind. Someone—
A mother, a comrade, perhaps a brother or sister or childhood nurse. Thessar had a younger brother, Chion, and a sister. Tsorreh didn’t know her name, had never met her. Did they love him as Jaxar loved Cinath? As Zevaron had loved Shorrenon? Perhaps Thessar had a pet, one of those vile little lap-terriers like the one that followed Lycian everywhere, begging for attention.
A mother. Even Thessar had a mother although according to Jaxar, she was frail and reclusive, never appearing in public. Had she rocked him as a baby, held him in her arms, sung him to sleep? Had her heart filled with hope for him, as Tsorreh’s had for Zevaron?
If by chance, Tsorreh managed to overcome Thessar’s guards, what then? Even if she survived, even if she gained her freedom, Cinath would not let the matter rest. As Marvenion feared, the retribution would be fierce and bloody, directed against her entire people. Not only in Aidon but in Meklavar itself and in all the wide lands between.
He cannot destroy all of us.
Somewhere, here or at home, someone would strike back. Perhaps that someone would be Zevaron or a young man like him—hot-tempered, full of life and fury and bitter vengeance. And then Cinath would have another target for retaliation, another reason for brutal oppression. She had read in the histories by the unknown scholar of Borrenth Springs that the Gelon had burned at least one Isarran city to its foundations and then sown the charred fields with salt.
Through the crimson lens of her fury, she saw the future stretching out, flames and more flames, and fields running with blood. Gelonian blood, Meklavaran blood, Isarran blood, it did not matter. They were all the same color. The lamentations of the women were the same.
The te-alvar pulsed in her heart, a nudge only, a hint of gold against the blood-washed vision. Gentler this, not the shrill warning she had known before, but more like a whisper, like the small insight that someone must have loved Thessar once and perhaps still did.
That mote of light, of warmth, was bigger than the vastness of battle, of insurrection and conquest, of retaliation and revenge.
Tsorreh came to herself, jarred awake by the clatter of hooves and wheels, the surging cheers of the people around her. Their bodies jostled her.
“Thessar Victorious!” they cried. “Thessar! Thessar!”
Blinking, she fell back. Danar caught her with an arm around her shoulders. He spoke to her, but she could not distinguish his words above the roaring of the throng and the fading whispers in her mind.
At the edge of her vision, Tsorreh glimpsed a figure, robed and hooded, as it glided from a doorway and turned in her direction. She could not see its face, only the pale suggestion of a headband, but she had not the slightest doubt that the Qr priest had noticed her. Recognized her.
Closely fenced by his escort, Danar pulled Tsorreh away. Her legs would not work properly. She leaned gratefully into his strength.
Once they were well away from the procession, past the flow of latecomers who jammed the neighboring streets, Tsorreh breathed more easily. Her vision came back into focus. The streets around her, the buildings with their white stone walls and red tile roofs, were solid and familiar.
Several times, Tsorreh glanced back, half afraid that the hooded minion of the Scorpion god followed them. Although she caught no sight of him, her mind still flinched under their fleeting mental contact.
“I did not think—” Danar said, his mouth tight. “You should never have had to endure that. Forgive me, it’s my fault.”
“Fault?” Tsorreh’s voice sounded hoarse to her own ears, as if she had been screaming. “No, why should you reproach yourself? You have done nothing to offend me. How could you have known Thessar would be here?”
They left the broad, flat avenues of the central city and headed for the base of Cynar Hill. The escort followed at their usual discreet distance, Danar striding ahead, restless and agitated, and Tsorreh moving as quickly as she could, given the lingering weakness in her legs.
“I knew he was returning. I knew there would be some kind of ‘disgusting spectacle,’ as Father calls it. I just didn’t anticipate our running into it. It was unforgivable—”
“Danar, slow down,” Tsorreh panted. “If you feel guilty about anything, it should be for making me run to keep up with you!”
With a rueful quirk of his mouth, Danar moderated his pace. As they went on, the streets rose into switchbacks along the steepness of Cynar Hill. Above them, rows of ornamental dwarfed trees and walls topped with planters that overflowed their flowering vines, created the illusion of layer upon layer of terraced gardens.
“I would have found out sooner or later,” she explained, trying to sound more rational than she felt. “There’s no harm done, just a bit of excitement.” She summoned a smile. “I’m sure that in a short time, we will look upon this as no more than a story to tell our—” she hesitated at the next word, which was to be children. She could not imagine telling Zevaron about today’s events with pleasure.
Danar had fallen silent, but a tautness around his mouth and eyes betrayed his thoughts. He was still worried. “Tsorreh…” Danar looked away. His voice dropped in pitch, resonant with feeling. It was, she realized, no longer a boy’s voice.
Gently she touched his arm. “Danar, what truly troubles you? Not this business with Thessar? Is it your stepmother again? Or do you fear for your father’s health?”
At her words, he turned to face her. Light filled his sea-green eyes. She could not read the emotion there, only its intensity. The two of them stood very close and the sound of his breathing was quick and hard in her own ears.
“Forgive me—” A catch in his voice ended whatever he was going to say. He broke away, his cheeks flaming.
Understanding rushed through her. Oh, my dear…
She had no idea what to say to him. How could she tell him that she loved him as a brother, almost as a son, even as she loved Jaxar as a father? Danar would be humiliated at being regarded as a child when the passions stirring within him were clearly those of a young man.
They walked on in awkward silence. Tsorreh saved her breath for the exertion of the climb. Some people, she thought, were made for loving. Danar certainly was, and Zevaron, she hoped. Shorrenon and Ediva. Jaxar, for all his ungainly physical appearance, must have loved Danar’s mother, for he was a loving person. But she, hersel
f…would any man ever see her as other than King’s wife, exotic captive, te-ravah?
* * *
Tsorreh expected a round of festivities in Thessar’s honor, an extravagance of praise for the near-godlike powers of the Ar-King. She was not disappointed. The entire city went mad with jubilation. The sounds of dancing, singing in the streets, and drunken uproar penetrated even the seclusion of the laboratory. The revelry continued well into the small hours of the morning. What she had not expected was a summons to the royal court.
Jaxar conveyed the command in his usual gentle, understated manner, but it was a command, no doubt of that. Jaxar and Lycian and Danar would attend as celebrants, basking in reflected triumph. All the royal family shared a measure of Cinath’s glory. But Tsorreh’s presence was to be one of subjugation, a public demonstration of the fate of all those who dared oppose the will of the Ar-King.
In Jaxar’s eyes, she saw his dismay at what might transpire. She wanted to reassure him that dignity was too costly a luxury for one in her position. Cinath had slaughtered her husband and stepson, burned her city, turned her into a penniless exile, and then wrenched away the person most dear to her. What more could he do to her?
Strip her bare, spit on her, force her to prostrate herself at his feet? Lycian could devise far more degrading punishments. Beat her senseless, throw her to the barracks as he’d threatened to do to the black-skinned woman?
Kill her?
No, if Cinath meant to take her life, he would have done so already. Such a punitive action, inflicted so long after the actual defeat, would surely be seen as petty and spiteful. Whatever else he might be, Cinath was too canny a politician for that.
Jaxar stood just inside the laboratory door, leaning on his crutch. Tsorreh wished she could spare him this. She bowed her head, searching for any last shred of pride and finding none. “For myself, it is nothing,” she said. Then realized, But not for Danar. He loved her with a boy’s singular adoration. He must do nothing on her account, not even cast an accusing glance at his uncle.
He wants so badly to be a hero, but he has no idea how terrible a fate that is.
There was nothing she or anyone else could do to spare her from the spite of the Ar-King or his heir. She must endure it, but she would not see anyone else suffer on her account.
“Danar—” she wet her lips. “Will you tell him he must not interfere, must not try to protect me?”
A figure moved in the open doorway behind Jaxar’s ungainly bulk. Danar slipped past his father. His face was set, giving him the look of an older, grimmer man. His eyes shone like ice.
“You know what will happen?” Tsorreh asked. “When I come before Cinath?”
Jaxar nodded. His breathing was so loud, it filled the room.
Tsorreh continued, “The last time I saw Thessar—before the parade, that is—my stepson pretended to surrender and then…” She broke off. Although she had never told the story to either Danar or his father, some version must be common knowledge. “I dare not hope—I do not believe that Thessar will have forgotten the attack, or forgiven. He surely sees it as the most vile treachery. Now Shorrenon is beyond his reach.” But I am not.
She paused, watching the dawning comprehension in Danar’s face. He was Jaxar’s son; he had grown up in a world of schemes and alliances, of nuances of power. Anything he said or did on her behalf would only multiply whatever agonies Thessar intended for her. That she had dared to make Danar into an ally, a champion—she could not imagine the retaliation for that offense.
“I will need your strength, Danar. Your silence. Can you do that for me—for your father? Will you?”
Jaxar’s breathing shifted into a moan. Danar lifted his chin. She had his assent, but there must be more. He must say it aloud, like an oath.
He did: “I promise.”
* * *
On the day of the royal audience, Jaxar was limping even more than usual. His health was much improved, but his deformed foot clearly pained him. He was forced to travel by litter, carried by four large men and accompanied by guards and servants. Danar and Lycian would ride as part of the cortège, but Tsorreh was consigned to walk with the servants. This latter, she surmised, was Lycian’s idea.
Given her choice, Tsorreh would have walked. The fresh air and exercise would strengthen her mind. She would draw from the vitality of the streets, the gaudy mixture of color and texture, the reminders of a larger world beyond the compound walls. The city was more than the palace, just as Gelon was greater than Cinath.
While everyone else was attending to Jaxar and finishing preparations for travel, Tsorreh slipped down to the bath house. Lycian had already spent an hour there, most likely soaking in scented water and being massaged with costly fragrant oils.
Tsorreh eased herself into the servants’ pool. The water, from an underground hot spring, was uncomfortably warm and smelled faintly of sulfur. No emollient oils or herbs had been added to sweeten its odor or leave her skin soft and glowing.
She touched her braids, looped together at the back of her neck. She still wore them in traditional Meklavaran style. One braid represented each of the seven brothers, each of the seven alvara, bound together as one, even as the Shield was one. They were a token of who she was, where she had come from, her dreams, her hopes, and, in a small way, her defiance against her captors.
As she unraveled the braids, Tsorreh hesitated. She had intended to comb out her hair and smooth it with oil before rebraiding. Then she would put on her fine dress with the ivory shoulder clasps, even as she had made herself beautiful when she’d overseen the surrender of her city.
She would hold herself royally and look Cinath in the eye. She would think, You may have captured me, but you can never break the spirit of my people.
Now, for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of her plan. She was not Shorrenon, to throw her life away for a gesture. Because of the te-alvar, she could not afford the luxury of martyrdom. If she defied the Ar-King and died as a result, her people might indeed rise up in protest, her murder fueling their rebellion. But at what cost?
Much more was at stake than the freedom of Meklavar, its political independence, and justice for its people. If she died, the te-alvar, the heart of the Shield, would be lost, and without it, there was no hope of regaining Khored’s legacy. The te-alvar had dissuaded her from a suicidal attack on Thessar, but she dared not count on it in the upcoming ordeal.
What was it to be? A doomed, heroic challenge? Or submission—humiliation—in the service of an even greater cause?
Emerging from the bath, she finished combing her hair, stroking each wave as if it were a treasure. Unbound, it reached to her hips. She dressed and headed for the kitchen. Her hair swung gently, caressing her spine.
Breneya was at the back of the kitchen, inspecting and sharpening the knives. She had laid them in a row on the work table. She looked up when Tsorreh entered. Her mouth formed a question, then closed.
“I need a knife,” Tsorreh said.
Breneya looked for an instant as if she would refuse, thinking Tsorreh meant to do herself or someone else harm. She picked up a knife, its short, curved blade and blunted tip meant for chopping nuts, rendering it unlikely as a weapon.
She watched in silence as Tsorreh hacked away at the mass of her hair, one handful after another. This took longer than Tsorreh had anticipated, for her hair was strong and resilient. It resisted her efforts. The edges came out jagged, falling just below her shoulders.
When Tsorreh looked up, she saw tears streaking Breneya’s eyes. Breneya knelt at her feet, gathered up the glossy strands, and took them away.
No one took any notice as Tsorreh slipped through the back way and up to the laboratory. She looked around the familiar room as if seeing it through new eyes. Captive’s eyes, slave’s eyes. The eyes of one whose only aim is survival, in whom every other hope is so deeply buried that no temptation could stir it. Shuddering, she cast the thought aside.
The slave’s dress s
he’d worn on her arrival at Jaxar’s house now felt stiff and coarse against her skin. Emptiness replaced the weight of the clasps on her shoulders. Finally she knelt, removed her soft suede boots, and pulled on the sandals. The heavy ropes had stiffened since she last wore them, and she sighed as they scraped her skin. There was nothing to do but endure or go barefoot. Let them see me as they sent me forth, as they would have me be.
Just as she reached the door, she heard Lycian’s voice from the corridor outside. “Where is she? Hiding as usual? Hiding and shirking! I want to see her before you leave. She shall not shame us with her insolent pride!”
Tsorreh jerked the door open. Lycian’s maid, almost upon the threshold, startled and took a step back. Lycian pushed forward, Danar a step behind.
If Lycian had appeared gorgeous before, she now rivaled the statues of the gods. Pleats of gleaming silk, iridescent in shades of gray-silver, blue-silver, and shimmering rose-silver had been draped and gathered to accent the sensuous curves of her body. The tiny white jewels and silver wires twined through her pale-gold hair created a moony halo, framing her flawless features. Her lips parted as she looked Tsorreh over, a quick glance from hair to feet. Her lips tightened, and she nodded. Tsorreh forced down an ironic laugh that she had at last met with Lycian’s approval.
Danar remained motionless while Lycian swirled away. Once they were alone, he turned to Tsorreh with huge, dismayed eyes.
“Your hair! Oh, Tsorreh, your beautiful hair. You didn’t need to do this.”
Tsorreh permitted herself a faint smile. “Did I not? And what would the Ar-King and his son, the conqueror of Meklavar, think if I appeared proud and unbroken? What would they think of your father, who had permitted such insolence?” When he shook his head, still clearly appalled, she added, “It is of no great matter. Do you think I am Lycian?”
At that, he smiled.
“Go now,” she told him, forcing her voice to sound braver than she felt. “Attend your father. I would not have him fall ill because of this ridiculous spectacle.”
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 29
