The Seven-Petaled Shield (15 page)

“Noble? A princess of the sand rats?”

Tsorreh glared at him for an instant. Then, recovering her wits, she nodded.

“Do you have a tongue? A name?”

She considered refusing to give him even a single syllable, but decided that would only fuel his curiosity. “Shadow Fox.”

She knew at once that she’d hesitated too long. The Gelon’s mouth tightened. He issued more orders, and before she could resist, she found herself half-pulled, half-dragged out into the street, along with the others.

The eastern sky, cloudless, glimmered with pale clear light. The only people Tsorreh could see were Gelonian soldiers and their bound prisoners. Bodies, both Gelon and Isarran, lay in scattered heaps, and stains marked the paving stones where others had been taken away. From several directions, Tsorreh heard shouting. She hoped wildly that it meant fighting, armed resistance.

Somewhere out there, Zevaron was alive and free. He must be.

*   *   *

A squadron of Gelonian soldiers bore down on them, heading in the direction of the harbor. Their officer paused to confer with Tsorreh’s captor. “Fall back! Orders are to consolidate our hold of the port area and palace,” the newcomer said.

“I’ll see this lot taken to the palace. I’ve got one for the priest. Might be nothing, but we were told to report anything strange.”

They exchanged a few further comments, too quietly for Tsorreh to overhear, then parted ways. The other women seemed happy to be returning to the palace. They offered little resistance, even the governor’s wife.

Tsorreh went along, saving her strength and trying to devise a strategy. It sounded as if she were to be interrogated, and she wanted to have a credible story ready. The best she could think of was to maintain her Sand Lands identity, hoping that the authentic name and the little she’d
learned from her time at Karega Oasis would convince the Gelon.

And what then?
With any luck, she’d be kept with the rest of the noble women. Governor Drassos would surely not endanger her, any more than he would his own wife. She tried to imagine how Shadow Fox would behave in such a situation.

When they arrived at the palace a short time later, the Gelonian officer untied the rope linking Tsorreh to the others. As he pulled her across the central hall, she saw none of the palace inhabitants, except for a few terrified servants. Morning light, stronger now, poured in through the open roof of the courtyard. Then they plunged back into shadow, heading this time not for the stairs to the upper stories but along an arched colonnade.

Two Gelonian soldiers, alert and grim, stood at attention to either side of an inner doorway. The officer rapped on the door and waited for a response before entering. He lifted the latch and the door swung open. Even before he tugged on Tsorreh’s bonds, she had the sudden, overwhelming feeling she did not want to go in.

The chamber within was pleasantly proportioned, its white walls trimmed with ceramic tiles glazed with a simple geometric pattern. At a glance, her eyes took in racks of scrolls, a table, chairs, and a man bending over an unrolled parchment. Sun from the window on the far side touched his shaved scalp and pale skin. He wore a white robe and a cloth strip tied around his forehead.

The officer waited for the robed man to look up. When he did, a keen intelligence lit his eyes. Beneath his almost unnatural stillness, Tsorreh sensed an iron strength.

“We found this one among the noble ladies in their hideaway,” the officer said in a deferential voice. “She claims to be a sand rat, and I thought so at first, for she’s clearly not Isarran. I’ve brought her to you, as ordered.”

“We are pleased.” The voice, too, was strong and yet chill.

Tsorreh made out the emblem on his head cloth, some kind of animal, a stylized scorpion, she thought. She could
not understand why it disturbed her. The Gelon worshipped many gods, so why not a scorpion? The Meklavaran varieties were small and gray, dangerous only to cats and other small creatures. She’d read that those of the Sand Lands were far more venomous. Something in that many-legged shape, pincers and stinger-tail upraised, now sent a shiver through her.

“You may leave us,” the scorpion priest said. “Do not be concerned. She cannot harm us.”

The departing officer seemed all too eager to remove himself. Tsorreh trembled as the priest glided toward her.

“Do not be afraid,” he murmured. His voice was steel over snow. “All we wish is a little information, such a small thing to give, at no cost, no pain. So easy. Do you see? That’s right, just open your thoughts to us.”

As he spoke, the priest extended one hand toward Tsorreh’s forehead. She tried to jerk away, but found she could not move, as if the mere proximity had paralyzed her with the scorpion’s venom. She could blink and swallow, and turn her head a little, but her feet had been fastened to the floor, her muscles frozen. What had he done to her?

The voice rolled on, syllables rising and falling in waves.
Truly, there was nothing to fear.

She felt herself softening like ice in an early thaw, melting, giving way. Her eyelids fluttered. Drowsiness lapped at her. She had only to let go a little, to sink into it. The voice kept on, so reasonable, so reassuring. Hands of misty gray reached out for her, fingers long and thin like ribbons or the strands of fisher’s netting. They wrapped around her. Like the slender noses of serpents, the tips prodded, seeking a way through her,
into her.

“Tell us…yes, that’s right. Nothing to fear, just tell us.”

Within Tsorreh, something pulsed gold and white, a second heartbeat. The half-fainting, half-dizzy sensation receded. Through the mist that covered her eyes, she made out the face of the priest, bending toward her. The scorpion emblem on his brow shimmered. Jointed limbs flexed. She sensed what it wanted: her name, her true name, the core
and heart of who she was, everything she had ever wanted, and her darkest fears.

The voice no longer soothed and enticed, it commanded. The ribbon tendrils tightened, and the prodding turned sharp, insistent. “Why do you resist? You know you do not truly wish to. In the end, you will tell us. Yes, you will.”

Pain shot through her. She staggered with it. Her vision turned white. Again came the demanding voice.

“Tell us!”

What was it she feared? No, whispered the voice, what did she
desire
? What did she cherish? Who would she give anything to see again?

Her mother, Maharrad, Shorrenon.
Loss and anguish rose up in her.
Tenereth, grandfather.
She must not even think their names, lest the scorpion hear her thoughts, hear and learn—

Zevaron.
The scorpion wanted
Zevaron
.

O Holy One, help me!

The pressure mounted. Her resistance was failing, brittle as eggshell. She could not breathe. Any moment now, she would give way, collapsing, shattering, and everything she knew—all she had experienced, her hopes and dreams and nightmares—would come spilling out.

The fall of Meklavar, saving the library, holding the
te-Ketav
in her hands, the light streaming through the stained glass Shield of Khored. Zevaron. The
te-alvar
blossoming over her heart.

In that instant, as if summoned by her thought, the gem flared into brilliance, not of sight but of spirit. Its living power surged through her. Recognition stirred, and she saw, with vision far deeper than her own, how the scorpion image wavered and grew thin. Behind it lay shadows of chilling cold, of infernal flame, a dim and distant
awareness
. It had slept long, but now it roused. Carefully it gathered strength, although it still remained hidden. In another instant, it would see her and recognize what she carried.

But she would die before she allowed the
te-alvar
to fall
into the hands of such an enemy. And with her death, the Shield would be broken forever. Meklavar would perish, and Zevaron with it.

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!

P
UZZLED, 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
.