No, he must not think of it, lest, according to Denariyan superstition, he give power to that evil thought. Despite his anger, Zevaron did not wish the old man harm. He had known Jaxar only a short time, but enough to recognize his worth, and Jaxar had stood as a father to Tsorreh, protecting her as much as he could.
And Danar—how would he bear his father’s death?
Zevaron hurried to the house. The entrance hall was dark and empty. As he crossed the atrium, he heard voices from the family’s private quarters. The steward hurried along the colonnade with a pile of towels and a pitcher of something pungent and steaming. He glanced at Zevaron and missed a step.
“Thank the gods, you’re back!”
“What’s going on?” Zevaron said. “Is it Lord Jaxar?”
Lycian’s voice sliced through the perfumed twilight. “Danar, stop this unseemly display!”
Something crashed, pottery smashing against stone. Someone sobbed.
“Get inside,” the steward said, but not unkindly. “It can’t get any worse, your being here. And he needs you.”
Zevaron followed the steward to the private chamber adjacent to Jaxar’s bedroom. A row of oil lamps set along the wall ledge filled the space with overlapping spheres of light. Jaxar himself sat in his chair, propped on pillows, his face the same color as the sun-bleached linen.
Alive? Then what had put the household into such an uproar?
Danar slumped on one of the benches along the far wall, his body hunched over, his face buried on his folded arms. His back shuddered, great ripples of soundless weeping. Lycian stood over him. Her face was contorted, and she’d raised her hands in a dramatic gesture. She saw Zevaron and gave a yelp of surprise.
“Now the son has come slinking back to us,” she said, making no effort to conceal her contempt, “doubtless to wring your purse for as much money as he can. Is there no end to these people imposing on your good will, Jaxar?”
“Lycian, you will be still!” Jaxar rumbled.
“Lord Jaxar, what has happened?” Zevaron asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
As Zevaron spoke, Danar looked up. The light of the oil lamps fell full upon his face. Zevaron’s gaze locked on Danar’s tear-bright eyes.
No.
Before he could draw another breath, before his heart had sent another pulsation through his body, he knew.
No.
The room went dim and then crimson-tinged. Lycian’s shrill voice faded. Jaxar shouted something at her, and she swept from the room. The steward set down the pitcher, dipped one of the towels in the infusion, and held it out to Jaxar, but the old man waved it away.
Zevaron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The pain behind his breastbone throbbed, fever-sick and hot and frozen.
He wanted to scream, to lash out, to grab the nearest sword and hack the living world to pieces. He wanted to curl into the smallest ball, so tight there was no room for tears.
It could not be true! He had just seen her, alive. How could Cinath have acted so quickly? What about everything Jaxar had said, all his reassurances, his connections and schemes?
Empty promises, all of them. Froth on the tide.
“Zevaron, I am sorry,” Jaxar said. “I have no words—”
Zevaron found his voice. “There must be a mistake!”
“I wish there were!” Jaxar told him. “When I could not get an answer any other way, I went myself to the palace.”
“He killed her?” Zevaron said.
Jaxar shook his head, sending quivers through drooping folds of flesh. “No, I would know if he had ordered her execution. He did not, although he surely intended to.”
“Then we have only his word on it!” Zevaron said wildly. Surely Jaxar had been deceived. How easy it was to lie about such things!
The room had fallen silent except for Jaxar’s labored breathing and the pounding of Zevaron’s heart.
“My brother cannot lie to my face,” Jaxar wheezed. “He never could. Even when we were children, I always knew whether he was telling the truth.”
“You may believe him. But I do not!” Zevaron’s voice burst from him, harsh as breaking steel, as the call of the great carrion-birds over a battlefield.
“My boy, I know how painful this must be for you, to lose her so soon after finding her again. If there were any way, anything—for her sake, you will henceforth be as a second son to me. I—”
“She is not dead! She cannot be! I will not believe it, not until I have seen her body with my own eyes!”
Before Jaxar could speak again, Zevaron turned and strode out of the room. He could not bear the weight of grief in the eyes of Jaxar and his son, or their pity, and he did not know what to feel for these people.
Chapter Thirty-four
FOR four long years, Zevaron had believed his mother dead, and he had been mistaken. How unquestioningly had he accepted the words of that Gelonian slave-master. Why should this time be different? Why should he trust what a Gelon—any Gelon—said?
Liars, all of them!
Jaxar might have treated Tsorreh kindly when it was convenient, but he was an invalid who could easily be fooled. He would never stand up to his brother. Cinath would ruthlessly exploit the bonds of blood and loyalty for his own purposes, and would not hesitate to kill anyone who stood in his way.
What if Tsorreh’s death were a ruse, a trap? Set for Jaxar, for Danar, for Zevaron himself? Would he be walking into Cinath’s prison, throwing his own life away?
What if Jaxar were wrong? What if she were still alive? How could he abandon her in the stronghold of the enemy? How could he leave her to rot in Cinath’s black pit?
Was there anyone he could believe? He had to find out, he had to know!
He could not think clearly. His senses reeled, and something had gone awry in his vision. One instant, he saw the walled hill compounds of Aidon’s aristocracy, the stones and treetops, the flowered garlands. The next moment, a vast shadowy figure, jointed and many-legged, stretched across the city. Brightness faded as the form grew in solidity.
Zevaron reached the bottom of the hill and came out to a moderate-sized thoroughfare. The crowd swallowed him up, a flock of fantastical, brightly colored creatures. He saw the crimson striped sashes of Denariyans, lumbering Xians with the sun glinting on their hairless, tattooed heads, the moon-pale cloaks of the Sand Lands, Gelonian women in fluttering, jewel-colored draperies, onagers and oxen, and even a brown-and-white striped pony. Spices, cedarwood and clove and elixir of roses, wafted on the breeze. The richness and gaiety repelled him.
While Zevaron watched, a troupe of performers made their way through the throng, tumblers and dancers accompanied by pipes and drum. They wore masks. Like everyone else in this vile land.
A desperate plan took shape in his mind, a way to gain access to Tsorreh without revealing himself. If these performers could present themselves as what they were not, then so could he. Carefully he composed his features, wiped the sweat from his face, arranged his clothing, and straightened his posture.
He was Jaxar’s agent, he repeated silently; he spoke not for himself, but for his master, and as such, he had every right to view the body of the great lord’s assistant.
No, he needed a better reason, something more tangible. When he and Danar had visited Tsorreh, she’d worn the Arandel token in her hair. He did not think he would have difficulty convincing the temple officials that Jaxar wanted it.
By the time Zevaron arrived at the Old Temple, he had rehearsed his role so many times, the words sprang readily to his lips. He made his request when a guard, a different one than before, stopped him at the entrance.
“Entrance is forbidden to the public.”
Zevaron ached to pummel the man’s face into a bloody pulp. Instead, he managed to look vaguely annoyed.
“I am on my master’s business, not my own,” Zevaron said in his most ponderous Denariyan accent. “Admit me instantly or suffer his displeasure.”
Now it was the guard’s t
urn to look impatient. His gaze flickered over Zevaron’s clothing. “I’ve got orders to keep out the rabble, and I intend to follow them.”
Zevaron shifted his expression to one of boredom. He shrugged, as if to say, It’s not my head that will roll. “Your name?”
“My what?”
“Your name.” Zevaron emitted an aggrieved sigh. “So that I can report the man who prevented me from carrying out my master’s wishes.”
“I—er, who did you say your master is?”
“Lord Jaxar.”
“Lord Jaxar, the brother to his Glorious Majesty may-his-might-prevail-everlasting?”
“Yes, and I assure you, he has only a limited patience with uncooperative idiots. He will not take it graciously if I am delayed in my mission.”
“What does Lord Jaxar want?” The guard now looked more curious than belligerent.
“If my master wished to disclose that information to you, he would not need to send me, would he? The time grows short. Are you going to keep me out here all day?”
For a moment, Zevaron thought the guard might step back and let him in, but the man bade him remain outside while he consulted his superior.
What would a real emissary of an aristocrat like Jaxar do? Wait for the proper permission? Or would he barge inside, as if he had the right to go wherever he wanted? It would do no good to sneak into the temple, where his very presence might result in his arrest. He must brazen it out.
The guard returned a few moments later with one of the officials who had greeted Danar on their previous visit.
“Yes, I know this man,” the official said. “On a previous occasion, he accompanied Lord Jaxar’s son. A bodyguard, I thought. You,” to Zevaron, “what are you doing here?”
“It is true that upon occasion I have been charged with the protection of Lord Danar,” Zevaron replied stiffly. “But Lord Jaxar places his trust in me in other ways. I come now on his business.”
“Very well. Follow me.” Gesturing dismissively to the guard, the official led Zevaron inside.
The interior of the temple was much as Zevaron remembered it and dank with shadows. Torchlight glimmered on the barred gate leading to the windowless corridor.
The official halted. “How may this humble one serve the great lord?”
“My task concerns the woman who was kept prisoner here a short time ago, the one from Lord Jaxar’s own household.”
“Yes, the Meklavaran witch. A pity she died before her full confession could be obtained. She might have named other conspirators. Do not fear, the priests of Qr will root them out.”
Zevaron’s heart stuttered. The muscles of his belly clenched. “That is not my concern. My master had given the woman a token, a thing of small value, in the days before her…treachery was discovered. He would not have her—” What did the Gelon do with their dead? Bury them? Burn them? Dump them into the river to be eaten by fishes? “—have her retain the token in death, since in life she forfeited all claim to his favor.”
The official nodded, lips widening in a knowing smile. Why lose the value of even a small trinket? Zevaron wondered if the man had intended to strip the corpse of clothing, anything he could sell.
Although it sickened him, Zevaron forced himself to smile in return. He felt for the coins folded into his belt, selected a large one by feel, and slipped it into the official’s hand. “My master would not wish your cooperation to go uncompensated.”
The coin disappeared into the man’s sleeve. “It is an honor to serve the noble and exalted Lord Jaxar. Please come this way.”
The official led Zevaron not to the stairway leading below, but to the far end of the temple itself. If Tsorreh were still alive, Zevaron thought, it would be far easier to get her out of here without having to fight his way back up from the underground, along the narrow stairs.
Uncertainty niggled at him. Would the official be so ready to give a stranger access to her body if he were not certain she was dead? If Cinath had lied, would he not have moved her to an even more secure place, perhaps in the palace itself? And why would Cinath do that, rather than just kill her? Questions buzzed through his mind like swarming wasps. Like the rattling of a scorpion’s pincers.
Enough! At this rate, he would go mad with doubt.
The official paused outside a closed door, latched but not locked. He opened it and stood back for Zevaron to enter. The room appeared to be used for storage, with a single high window, no more than a slit for air and oblique light. Shelves lined the walls, laden with boxes and canvas-wrapped parcels. Baskets and wooden crates covered most of the narrow floor. Dust hung on the air, mingled with the odors of stale incense and mildew.
A crude pallet had been fashioned from broken crates and on it lay a long, slender form. Stained cloth covered the body except for a single hand, draped with awkward grace along the floor.
The air turned thick and still. Zevaron went down on one knee beside the makeshift bier. He held his breath, searching for any hint of movement through the cloth, the slightest rise of chest or puff of breath. Behind him, the official cleared his throat. Zevaron could think of no reason he might be allowed to remain alone with the body. He must continue to play his role, performing his brief, perfunctory task.
Beneath Zevaron’s fingers, the fabric was stiff with grime. He folded it back. For a moment, he thought he looked upon a carving. This could not be her. Surely, they must have supplied a wax image in her place.
She was smaller than he remembered. Her frailness pierced his heart.
The same gown he had last seen her wear was neatly tucked around her sides. Her body showed no sign of mutilation, no bruises, no cuts or wheals. Her head tilted toward him, cheeks and lips colorless, eyelids delicately shadowed beneath smooth dark brows. She looked unexpectedly peaceful, as if she had been released from all pain, all terror and grief. Whatever light had once shone just below her skin was now extinguished.
No.
He had thought he was prepared. He had not anticipated this clay-pale skin or the utter stillness of her flesh.
Zevaron leaned closer, thinking to make a show of searching for the token. When he brushed her face, the cool flesh yielded slightly. He touched her neck as he moved her hair aside. No pulse flickered beneath his fingers.
He found the Arandel token on a cord woven through one of her braids. He could not untangle it, so he cut the cord. The once-bright silver looked dull, quenched. He held it for a moment before her nostrils, pretending to examine it.
“Is that it, then?” the official asked.
Zevaron’s throat tightened. Fever whispered through his veins. The room wavered and turned chill. When he held it up, the Arandel token caught the light for an instant, without any hint of breath. He forced out the words, although they seemed to be spoken by someone far away. “Yes, this is what I was sent to retrieve.” There is nothing more for me here. “What will…” he stumbled. “How will the body be disposed?”
“In the usual way.” The official narrowed his eyes. “Does the Lord Jaxar now concern himself with such repugnant matters?”
“No, it was an idle question. Nothing more.”
Dead, she is dead.
Dead. The thought pounded through him with each footstep, following the official along the corridor and into the brightness of the day. Outside, the street seemed unreal, a painted mockery. His feet carried him along. He had no idea where he was going.
She is dead.
Their brief time together in Jaxar’s house had been a gift, sudden and unexpected, unhoped-for. And never to come again.
* * *
Zevaron slammed the laboratory door behind him. There, in the far corner, Tsorreh had made a little home for herself. He lowered himself to her sleeping pallet, trying to feel the impression of her body, to remember the scent of her hair. The room was almost dark, except for a wash of fading twilight through the tower observatory. Fumbling, he lit her oil lamp, battered brass in the shape of a fanciful horse’s head, perhaps
of Azkhantian make. He would take it with him, leave nothing of hers behind.
At the head of the pallet, beside her pillow, was a small carved box. Inside he found a few hair ornaments and a leather thong strung through a glazed bead, small treasures he knew nothing about. Exploring further, his fingers came upon a battered book, its cream-colored leather bindings showing unmistakable water damage. He opened it, shifting the lamp so that its light fell on the pages.
Exiled from Thy sight,
My soul is a realm forsaken,
Filled with lamentations,
Strange portents and darkness.
The Shirah Kohav had been Tsorreh’s favorite poetry. Where had she come by this copy?
As he handled the little box and watched the pattern of flame and shadow from the oil lamp, a part of Zevaron’s fury eased. As long as he felt himself surrounded by the people who had shattered his homeland, enslaved his mother, and sent him into exile, then all he could think of was bringing ruin to Gelon. Here in this quiet place, in the company of strange instruments and the books that Tsorreh had loved, was the undeniable evidence that she had found comfort here. Something opened up inside him, like an island in a landscape of sorrow.
“My soul is a realm forsaken…”
He clutched his chest, kneading muscle and skin to ease the aching within. In the back of his mind, he heard Tsorreh’s whisper, speaking of love, trying to tell him something, begging his forgiveness.
“I will come back,” he had sworn. “I will save you.”
And she had answered, “You have already saved what is most dear to me, my Zevaron.”
Her life was worth a thousand Ar-Kings. Ten thousand.
Gone, she is gone.
Gone as Maharrad his father was gone, and Shorrenon his brother, and Meklavar itself.
Cinath had done this thing. She was dead, and Cinath, may-he-rot-forever, had killed her. Even if he had not slit her throat with his own hand, he put her in that hole. He set the city against her and all her people. He gave the orders to march on Meklavar.
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 44
