“I wished I could spare you this,” he said, his voice heavy.
Never had Tsorreh heard him so weary, never so discouraged, not even when he had been so ill.
“I had hoped—” he went on, “I had believed—that after the last interview, my brother would forget about you, or think you of such small consequence as to be unworthy of his attention.”
As did I, she thought, her mouth going dry.
“When my nephew returned and the whole city buzzed with speculation about the future of Meklavar, I feared attention might be drawn to a living royal claimant. When there was no investigation and you comported yourself so well, I believed the worst had passed.”
Tsorreh kept her gaze level, hardly daring to breathe. “Please. Please tell me what more has happened. Has—”
Has my son been captured? Has he—O Most Holy!—has he been killed?
“Of late, there have been certain…” Jaxar hesitated over his next words, “certain suspicions of your people. Fears of assassination plots. Accusations of sorcery. The ignorant often fear what they do not understand, and it is too easy to blame the stranger when misfortune strikes. It need not be anything significant, only the small reversals of daily life, the frustrations and bad luck. Now, for some reason, my brother has taken it into his thoughts that there is a conspiracy against him, against the Lion Throne, against Gelon—against the King’s-god, for all I know.”
Jaxar broke off into spasmodic coughing. After a few sips of wine, he was able to continue. “It’s as if—but I cannot believe it of my brother. He has always been so strong of mind, so impervious to persuasion—as if someone were pouring a subtle poison into his ears, making him doubt where he once trusted. And to believe that even the least of his enemies now plots against him—no, he never would have, not for a moment!”
“Does he think I have something to do with this plot?” Tsorreh poured a little wine from the decanter and held it out to Jaxar. She would have preferred to give him water, but there was none.
Jaxar nodded. “There is no kind way to say this or to make it any less horrendous.”
“You have always been honest with me.”
“Well, then, here it is. He has commanded me to deliver you to a court of inquiry, so that you may be questioned about your activities.”
“What are the charges against me? Am I to know what I am accused of, so that I may defend myself?”
Jaxar shook his head. “It is the king’s court, the king’s justice.”
“Am I already condemned?” Tsorreh struggled to control her rising panic. “Is this ‘court of inquiry’ genuine, or an excuse to make sure that in the future, I never become a threat?”
“It may well be that he believes you are yourself innocent of any action and only seeks to learn what you know of the schemes of others. I cannot tell from the summons. I know only that neither of us has any choice in this matter. I will go with you and I will speak to my friends in court. You will not go alone. But go you must.”
I would spare you this, his eyes spoke, sad within the homely contours of his face. I would protect you if I could. But against a direct order from the Ar-King, I have no defense.
My dear friend, she thought, I do not hold you responsible for the actions of your brother. I know you to be a good man, a righteous man. Your kindness must be my shield and armor.
* * *
The hearing took place in the Hall of Judgment, in a different building from before, one that was new to Tsorreh. As before, she wore her slave’s dress, although this time she kept her boots. Let her judges think what they might, it was hardly an act of treason to prefer comfortable feet.
The main doors of the Hall were massive, carved from seamless pieces of deep red wood. Tsorreh could not imagine the trees that had been used, for none of that size had ever grown in Meklavar. The doors bore the likenesses of two immense male figures, facing one another with grim, resolute expressions. One wore the pelt of a lion as his cloak, the mane of the great beast rippling down his back. The other carried a sort of halberd, part axe, part spear. Monstrous sea creatures twined their tentacles around the long staff. From the richness of their apparel and the lavish gilding, she supposed them to be gods or perhaps god-like kings. Had Danar not referred to the rulers of Gelon as god-begotten? Whatever their ancestry, they clearly represented Gelon’s power over both sea and land.
Tsorreh was not allowed to enter the Hall through the main doors. Four Elite Guards took her into custody and escorted her around to the side. They looked like ordinary military, except for their almost preternatural vigilance. Ribbons in the colors of the Ar-King twined around their left shoulder guards. They treated her with an absence of rudeness rather than with any civility, as if she were an inanimate object to be transported from one place to the other. She had not the slightest doubt that if she spoke or behaved out of turn, their response would be swift, decisive, and painful.
The guards took her to a small room, furnished with benches along each wall. A single high window admitted the hint of a breeze. She could not guess the original function of the room, but the temperature, lighting, and air circulation were not uncomfortable. One stationed himself outside the door and another inside, then indicated that she was to sit.
Tsorreh settled herself on the bench opposite him and rested her back against the wall. It felt pleasantly cool, if a little rough. She folded her hands on her lap and composed her thoughts by silently reciting whatever came to mind, passages from the Book of Hosarion, verses from the Shirah Kohav, childhood counting rhymes.
The guard watched her the entire time, unmoving except for a slight, rhythmic flexing of his muscles. She found herself fascinated by the pattern: calves, thighs, a minute swaying that might have been belly or back, a tensing of the shoulders, then upper arms and hands. In between each muscular contraction, his vision seemed to sharpen upon her.
When she entered, the Hall had seemed quiet, but now, sounds filtered through door and window. She heard the pattering of shod or sandaled feet, voices soft and shrill, close and distant. None of this seemed to affect the guard, but it afforded Tsorreh a degree of distraction. Just as she collected herself to return to mental exercise, counting from one to ten in every language she knew, the guard came alert. She had not heard any change in the noise outside, but apparently he had. He opened the door. Two of his fellows entered, with a prisoner between them.
Prisoner was the only word she could think of to describe this man. He was young and slight, undeniably Meklavaran by the color of his skin and the proud arch of his cheekbones. He sagged in the grip of the guards. One eye was blackening and a crusted abrasion marked one swollen cheek. The guards threw him onto the nearest bench.
Tsorreh scrambled to her feet, drawing breath to protest, but the guard at the door intensified his focus on her. She lowered herself back to the bench and sat with her gaze downcast. One of the two escort guards remained, so now there was one for each prisoner, two near-statues bracketing the door. Nothing more happened.
Gathering herself, Tsorreh hazarded a glance at the young Meklavaran. He appeared to be a few years older than Zevaron, with the soft hands and thin shoulders of a scholar. His wounds looked recent, at best a day old. He sat hunched over, head lowered. From time to time, a spasm shook his thin frame. Terror, she thought, rather than physical injury. She wished she could speak to him, at least learn his name and family.
What had he done to become the subject of such rough treatment? Surely, he could not be guilty of anything beyond his birth or a few incautious but true words. He was clearly a student, not a warrior—no threat to anyone!
After a time, the young man was taken away and two more male prisoners brought in, one of middle years, the other young and strongly built, with wind-roughened cheeks and livid scars lacing his exposed skin.
Tsorreh wondered why they had not been kept in different rooms. Perhaps the presence of these others, men who had evidently received harsh treatment, was designed to gene
rate confusion and fear, to impress her with the fate that might be hers. The longer she waited, the more thoughts came to her, of Marvenion’s story, of his fears.
After several hours, she was offered water and privacy to relieve herself and then taken to the inner chamber.
Head held high, flanked by her guards, Tsorreh walked through the door. The moment she entered the Hall, her chest constricted. She tried to sense the te-alvar, expecting it to flare up at any moment. It had gone quiescent, though not inert. Instead, it felt poised, as if waiting.
The Hall itself was long and narrow, with airy vaulted ceilings, lined with columns of green-veined marble. Row upon row of candles filled the chamber with golden brilliance. At the far end, a single enormous chair dominated the raised platform. Fish and seaweed had been carved into the chair. Some of the fish were very strange, with bizarrely distorted heads, parrot beaks, and tentacles for hair. By some artistic conceit, the arms and back of the throne bore the likeness of a stately man—at least, in the torso and head. Seated on the throne, as he was now, Cinath appeared to rest in the sustaining embrace of a sea god. Cinath’s demeanor was gravely dignified and stern, yet his fingers moved restlessly on the carved arm rests.
To either side of the throne, below the dais, ranged a half-dozen lesser chairs. Jaxar occupied one of them, and Thessar as well. Tsorreh did not know the other men, although one or two looked vaguely familiar, perhaps from her arrival in Gelon. The youngest one was probably Chion, Cinath’s second son.
Tsorreh felt the intense scrutiny directed at her, although she tried not to stare in return. From the edge of her vision, she noticed Thessar’s frown. She had not observed him closely at his victory parade or at that ghastly drunken encounter at the palace, and her memory of him after the fall of Meklavar was colored by other events. He had aged greatly since that time. She remembered him as vigorous and confident. Hollows now circled his eyes, giving them a haunted look.
A few benches, occupied by more nobles, formed a gallery to either side of the central aisle. Several men, scribes among them, sat behind a long table to the right. Besides the dignitaries to either side of Cinath on his throne-chair, a variety of courtiers stood about the chamber, singly or in groups, turning to stare at her as she was brought in. Very few of them, she noticed, were women. Danar was there, without his bodyguards, watching her with a face as calm and set as marble.
As she passed him, Tsorreh recognized Lord Mortan, who’d brought her to Gelon on the Silver Gull, as well as a number of men in the garb of priests. The tallest wore a hood covering his face. Her spine stiffened when she saw the scorpion emblem on the headbands of those who stood closest to Cinath.
The guards halted well away from the throne, saluted the Ar-King, and then withdrew slightly from Tsorreh, but she was not beyond the reach of their swords.
Lord Mortan rose from where he had been sitting beside the scribes at the table. He stalked toward Tsorreh, his eyes glittering.
She held herself still, betraying nothing of what she felt. The Qr priests unnerved her, but they did not rule here or sit in judgment, and neither did Mortan. Cinath was the one she must appease.
“The Queen of Meklavar,” Lord Mortan drawled. “She certainly doesn’t look like much. But then, who would have thought such an insignificant city, one hardly worth the bother of conquest, would cause us such so much trouble?”
“Then you had better have stayed at home!” Stung by Mortan’s insolence, she spoke without thinking and instantly regretted it. What had gotten into her, to indulge in such a rash, fruitless gesture? When she’d first come here as a prisoner, she would never have spoken so brazenly. She had made her submission to Thessar without wavering. But the months and seasons had restored her confidence and a measure of her pride, not just in herself but in what she stood for: Meklavar’s heritage.
Several of the nobles gasped aloud at Tsorreh’s challenge. One lord, standing near the dais, scowled at her. He held an ornate staff, and she supposed he had an official rank in the proceedings. “You will address his Glorious Majesty, Protector of the One True Land, may-his-splendor-ever-increase, with proper reverence!”
Tsorreh brought one hand to her chest and pressed it over the aching knot. It was not the te-alvar that she sought, she realized, but her own heart. Her own pride. If she bowed to this tyrant, this conqueror and his sycophants, would all of Meklavar bow as well? She shrugged away the notion. She was no ruler, for all her royal marriage. It would cost her nothing to yield. She might even undo a morsel of the insult she had just offered.
She forced out the words, “Your Majesty, forgive me.”
One leg at a time, she knelt down. The floor, closely fitted slate tiles, felt cool and hard. Her unbound hair, which had grown out since she’d hacked it off, fell forward around her face like a mourner’s veil. She bent over until it brushed the floor. A ripple spread, almost invisibly, through the hall. Tsorreh sensed surprise, anticipation, an almost gloating exultation. She heard whispers from behind her, around the room, Thessar’s satiated chuckle, a deep silence from where Jaxar sat. From the audience behind her, she imagined Danar’s anguish.
Do not grieve for me, she thought, wishing he could hear. It is only my pride at stake, nothing of any importance.
The Elite Guards reacted to her movement, shifting closer to her. She lifted her eyes. From the gleam in the Ar-King’s eyes, he thought little of her concession.
“Enough!” Cinath said. “If I wanted groveling, I would have had her scourged and her legs broken before appearing before me. Mortan, proceed with the questioning.”
Mortan waited until the guards had hauled Tsorreh to her feet and pulled her back to her original place. He approached her. “You are an enemy of Gelon, yet your life was spared by the munificent grace of the Ar-King, the Jewel of the Golden Land.”
He paused, clearly expecting a response. Tsorreh did not know how to answer. She tried to look contrite.
“Tell us how you repay this generosity,” he said.
She blinked, wondering if she were expected to express gratitude. Before she could think of an appropriately submissive response, Mortan smiled, or rather, the corners of his mouth drew apart, revealing even, slightly yellowed teeth. Nothing else in his face changed, not his eyes, not the tension in his jaw.
“For example, how do you occupy your time? What benefits do you bring to those to whom you owe your very existence?”
“I serve Lord Jaxar, as the Ar-King commanded.” Even as the name of her friend passed her lips, she felt a shiver of trepidation. A couple of the lords glanced at Jaxar, who returned their regard with his usual tranquil detachment. Thessar looked bored. Danar’s face turned white.
“Indeed.” Mortan drew closer. “Exactly what do you do for him? How closely do you work with him? Does he confide in you, make you privy to his secrets?”
“I help him in the laboratory,” she said firmly. “If by secrets, you mean his researches into the nature of light and the movement of stars, then yes, I suppose that is true. I take notes as he dictates, I translate texts into Gelone, I fetch supplies—”
“You fetch supplies—from where?”
“From various places. Sometimes a colleague will have a book or a specimen that Lord Jaxar directs me to fetch, or he may ask me—I mean, tell me—to purchase things in the market.”
“What things?” Mortan strolled over to the table and bent over to make notes.
“Herbs,” she answered, searching her memory for the most innocuous-sounding items, “incense, resins, small brass dishes.”
“Ah, I see. And how often do you leave his compound on these errands?”
“I cannot say. It varies.”
“No matter. Where did you say you went?” Mortan did not look up, but continued writing.
“Wherever I am bid.”
“Who goes with you?”
Tsorreh’s gaze flew again to Danar’s bloodless face and then to Jaxar’s. She sensed questions within questions, traps
disguised as inquiries. “I—I am usually escorted by Lord Danar and his bodyguards.”
“That sounds most appropriate. But you said, usually. Not always? Are you then sometimes alone in the city?”
Tsorreh swallowed. “How can one be alone in such a great—”
“Do not dare to insult this court of inquiry!” Mortan covered the distance between them in an instant. She could smell the surge of fierce, hot anger in him. “You have been alone then, by your own admission. Alone and unattended, unobserved, free to make contact with any manner of persons. Who do you meet when no one is watching?”
“I go where I am sent and do what I am told.” Did they know about Marvenion? If they did not, she was not going to tell them.
“Who do you speak to?” Mortan’s breath hissed over her cheeks. “Give me their names!”
“I—I don’t know!” she stammered, trying to think. He would not accept a simple no. She wished she knew what testimony he had already heard. Had Marvenion been brought before them? Czi-sotal? The shoemaker’s apprentice? Astreya’s sweetheart—or had he been one of her accusers?
“You don’t know? In all the time you have been in Aidon, you have spoken to no one outside the household of Lord Jaxar? And you expect us to believe such patent nonsense?”
“Of course, I have spoken to people—shopkeepers, beggars, servants of the houses. I don’t know their names!” Tsorreh made no effort to disguise the note of rising panic in her voice. Let him think her cowed into terror, if it would buy her time to think.
He straightened up, his expression moderating. “Perhaps we can refresh your memory. Have you ever spoken to Werenth?”
Tsorreh had no need to feign a blink of surprise. If she said no to a name she did not know, how would she respond to one she did?
She lifted her chin. “I have said, I do not know their names. The persons I spoke with were of no importance, nor did we discuss anything beyond the price of salt.”
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 31
