The Seven-Petaled Shield (3 page)

“Your place is wherever you are most needed,” Maharrad corrected him. “There is no one else I can send. No one else who can enlist the aid of the Sand Lands tribes or bring reinforcements from the Isarran outposts. This then is my command: You are to leave the city in secret, take the Shadow Road through the mountains, and gather as many fighting men as possible. We will hold the Gelon off as long as we must. Then you will attack them from the flank, and we from the front. Together we will drive the Ar-King’s jackals from this land.”

“
Te-ravot
, this is madness!” The city mason trembled with agitation. “Prince Shorrenon is our greatest warrior! Sending him away will cripple our defenses! It will destroy the people’s hope. They will think he has abandoned us.”

“Father,” Zevaron said, his voice breaking, “can you not send me instead?”

Blood suffused Shorrenon’s features. There was no better choice, and he knew it. Only once had Zevaron traveled the narrow road that led from the lower city, along treacherous mountain passages, and through the desert wastes. Shorrenon knew the trails and had dealt with many of the Sand Lands chiefs. He was known in Isarre, the country that was Gelon’s bitter enemy. No man could do better in finding help for Meklavar.

Tsorreh realized why Maharrad had requested her presence. He might have chosen her as his second wife because she was of Khored’s lineage through her Meklavaran father, but he also recognized the political value of her mother’s royal Isarran connections.

“Isarre will not provoke retaliation from Gelon,” the elder of a wealthy trading house grumbled. “Gelon threatens the port city of Gatacinne and pirates harry their seacoast. With few allies and with their resources stretched thin, Isarre will not divert its army. They will tend to their own and let Meklavar fall.”

Tsorreh had never liked the man, and the courtesies between
them had been of the chilliest and most punctilious politeness. In fact, she suspected him of opposing her marriage on the grounds that, unlike Maharrad’s first wife, she was not of pure Meklavaran descent. Tsorreh herself might be only half-Meklavaran, but she had been born and educated in the city, and it was her only home. Her parents had died here, leaving no other issue. Whatever influence she might have with Isarre, she would freely give.

She drew herself up. “Isarre will answer the obligations of blood and honor.”

“Enough!” Shorrenon said. “You are right, Father. Gelon is our enemy, not one another. I will depart this very night.”

“Spoken like a true prince,” Maharrad said.

Shorrenon went to his father and knelt. Maharrad placed his hands upon his son’s head and blessed him. He used the old phrases, beseeching the Holy One to keep his son in safety, to bring him success in his mission. To Tsorreh’s surprise, her stepson then approached her.

She unwound one of the ornaments from her braids, a coin bearing the image of a little silver horse. It had been her mother’s, one of her few keepsakes from the land of her birth. The Isarran royal crest was stamped on the reverse. She pressed it into his hand.

“May this serve you well,” she said, “and may you bring it back to me on the day Meklavar triumphs over its enemies.”

Shorrenon then took his leave and the meeting dispersed. Tsorreh watched as Zevaron filed from the room in his proper place at Shorrenon’s side. He would remain behind, here in the city, and if the walls fell before help arrived, he would fight and die with the rest.

*   *   *

A short time later, Tsorreh hurried to the royal stables in the lower city. Shorrenon would not linger, not while darkness was his ally, and she wanted to speak with him before he left. The stables were small, now crowded with animals; in normal times, horses were not kept within the city, except
for a few reserved for use of the royal family. Meklavar had never had much cavalry, and most of their horses were crossbred from the hardy beasts of the Azkhantian steppe and the fiery steeds of the Sand Lands. Maharrad’s white stallion had been an exceptionally fine gift from a Sand Lands chieftain. Shorrenon’s rangy gray was big enough to support a grown man in battle, but such mounts were rare.

A single lantern hung outside of the main building, casting a soft yellow light. Just inside the opened doors, Tsorreh glimpsed saddle racks and ricks for hay. Three people and a horse stood in the saddling area. It was not Shorrenon’s gray but a smaller horse such as Zevaron would ride, a brown mare with no white markings. Desert breeding showed in the fine bone of her head and legs, the wide-set eyes, and the strong, short-coupled back. She was already saddled, with breastplate and crupper-strap for mountain riding.

Shorrenon, wearing a dark leather jacket and leggings, rested one hand upon the pommel, ready to mount. His young wife, Ediva, clutched his other hand. Tsorreh could not make out her words, only the harmonics of sorrow in her voice. Zevaron held the reins of the horse, his face a glimmer in the shadows.

“There is no time,” Shorrenon said in a tight voice. “I have already told you this. It is not my choice.”

“The Gelon…” The rest of Ediva’s sentence was muffled by a sob. Tsorreh felt a rush of sympathy for the young woman, newly a mother for the second time.

Shorrenon grasped Ediva’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length as he gazed into her face.

“There is no other way,” he said. “We cannot hold the outer walls if the Gelon are determined to bring them down. Should I risk your falling into their hands—our children taken as slaves—if I can prevent it?”

Tsorreh stepped into the lantern light. Noticing her, Shorrenon pulled away from his wife. The mare turned her head, ears pricked, nostrils flaring. Ediva gulped, her mouth working, and bowed deeply. Her eyes were red and swollen.

“
Te-ravah
.” Shorrenon inclined his head. “Stepmother.”

“I have given you a token of influence with Isarre,” Tsorreh said, “but I would not have you depart without my own blessing. The fate of our city rides with you.” The words flowed through her from a hidden wellspring. “Meklavar is honored by her eldest son.”

Tsorreh lifted her hands and the sky itself, the firmament of stars, bent closer. A hush fell on the yard. She spoke not from the statecraft she had learned as Maharrad’s second wife, daughter of an Isarran princess, but from her own Meklavaran heritage. She felt herself part of a lineage running unbroken through centuries past, to a time of miracles, of inexpressible evil, of enduring hope.

She had never heard those words spoken aloud, could not remember ever having read them, and yet their power rang through her like silvered steel.

The moment passed. Shorrenon kissed his wife and swung up on the dark mare. The horse pranced, pulling at the bit in eagerness.

Shorrenon paused, looking back at the two women. “Take care of them,” he said to Zevaron. “And if–if you ride to battle while I’m gone, take the gray. He knows how to handle himself.”

Tsorreh saw the leap of tension in Zevaron’s muscles, the almost painful earnestness as he vowed to do so. Ediva shivered as Shorrenon clattered away into the night. Tsorreh folded the sobbing girl in her arms.

“Come now, sweetheart, you must not let your children see you like this. You must teach them hope.”

“How can I do that, when there is none?” Ediva moaned. “He is gone,
te-ravah
! Oh, he is gone!”

W
ITH a mixture of weariness and relief, Tsorreh returned to her bedchamber. Never before had she so desperately needed the solace of her own place. Unlike the suite belonging to her predecessor—a warren of interior rooms filled with ornate furnishings, age-darkened draperies, and the thick odors of incense and cosmetics—Tsorreh’s chamber was a single spacious room with a balcony overlooking one of the terraced mountainside gardens. From her first days in the palace, she had loved its light, airy feeling, its walls unadorned except for a small tapestry that her own mother had woven as a bride. The finely-spun wool was patterned in shades of cream, brown, and black. Her cat, a spotted desert-breed, lay curled on the bed.

Otenneh was waiting. In the light cast by the bank of candles, wrinkles pleated the old servant’s cheeks and redness rimmed her eyes. Wordlessly, Tsorreh held out her arms. The top of Otenneh’s head barely reached her shoulders. Against the old woman’s trembling body, the bones frail as eggshells, Tsorreh felt the straightness of her own spine and the strength of her own arms.

She held me in just this way on the night my mother died
, Tsorreh thought.
Now it is I who must hold her.

Otenneh had accompanied Tsorreh’s mother, a princess
of the Isarran royal line, when she came to Meklavar to wed a noble descendent of Khored. Khored’s heirs no longer ruled Meklavar, the throne having since passed to Maharrad’s family, but it had been a politically advantageous match, carrying with it the possibility of an alliance with Isarre. Tsorreh’s parents had been happy at first, but then her mother died in childbirth and her father had fallen fatally ill not long after. Now only Otenneh remained of Tsorreh’s childhood household.

Tsorreh dozed off to Otenneh singing her favorite Isarran lullaby. She woke the next morning after only a few hours of broken sleep. Abruptly, with blood pounding in her ears, she jerked upright. The cat jumped off the bed with an aggrieved meow and stalked off in search of a mouse.

She was alone and it was almost dawn. A milky light swept the eastern sky.

Otenneh brought heated water, soap, and rose-scented oils, but Tsorreh took none of her usual pleasure in bathing. She allowed Otenneh to rebraid her hair in seven plaits tied together in back. From the carved chest, she took out clothing more befitting a
te-ravah
than the worn, blood-streaked tunic and pants of yesterday. She chose soft, warm colors like a harvest sunset; embroidery decorated the center panel of the tunic, worn over trousers of a darker shade.

Tsorreh ate a quick breakfast and, taking two of her maid-attendants, went downstairs. A crowd had gathered in the street outside the palace, nobles and merchants, even craftspeople from the lower city. A deputation of traders from Denariya was already meeting with Maharrad. A pointless exercise, Tsorreh thought, for no one had the power to grant safe passage through the Gelonian lines.

Below, in the lower market city, she found a whirlwind of activity. The area just inside the outer gates had been cleared of the dead and wounded. People rushed up and down the walls, archers and servants with baskets of stones and quivers of arrows. Drovers sorted and secured animals, and the most vulnerable shops and dwellings were already in the process of evacuation. In the marketplaces, women in
cloaks of sand-pale cotton bargained with vendors for lentils and salt. The scene, Tsorreh reflected, resembled a festival in the fervor and pervasiveness of the preparations. Not an aspect of the city’s life was undisturbed.

A man in the striped head garb of a Sand Lands caravaneer was pleading with a guard. He slipped one hand into the folds of his belt and brought out something Tsorreh could not see. “A family treasure,” he said. “I would not part with it to any lesser man. It is one of the fabled
alvara
—the enchanted gems from Khored’s own Shield. Yes, yes, hidden away all these centuries. It holds the key to undreamed power. But what are riches compared to the love of one’s children? Seventeen little ones and their mothers! How will they survive without me? I must get to Gatacinne on the Isarran coast, and quickly!”

One of Tsorreh’s maids exclaimed in dismay, quickly hushed by the other, “Is the situation so desperate? Must we all flee for our lives?”

Tsorreh had not the heart to scold her. Perhaps she ought to release the girl from service, to find whatever fragile comfort might lie with her own family.

As Tsorreh expected, the guard shook his head and gestured the trader back with the others. Every few years, some merchant claimed to have discovered one of the
alvara
, the magical petal-shaped gemstones of the Shield. Tsorreh was of the line of the great king himself, but had never heard of such an heirloom. The centuries had obscured the lineage of Khored’s brothers. The descendants of the original Benerod were long gone, and those of Eriseth had disappeared a generation ago. The fate of the Shield was so shrouded in mystery, some now claimed the
alvara
had never existed except as mystical symbols. If they were real, Tsorreh thought, they would certainly not be bargained away so casually at the hands of a Sand Lands trader. Those offered for sale were usually ordinary gems, topaz or quartz or poor-quality emerald.

Tsorreh found Zevaron in the practice field outside the armory, surrounded by a group of children. Part of the area
had been tented over for an infirmary. The soldiers there looked to be not so badly injured; a few of them were exercising.

She paused a short distance away and noticed that Zevaron’s group included several girls. One was about her son’s age, silent and lanky, with tiny bones tied to her single thick braid. Some of the boys were as young as seven or eight, for the teenagers had already been conscripted for heavier tasks. Most wore the clothing and rough sandals of goat herders, but a few were clearly city children, although barefoot. She supposed that even a beggar child could kill a rat with a sling.

Zevaron had not yet seen her. His expression was intent and animated as he spoke. Instead of armor, he wore a long fitted vest, belted at the waist over loose trousers and suede ankle boots. He raised his arms to gesture, his skin smooth and taut over muscles she had not noticed before. For a terrifying instant, Tsorreh saw that same golden skin slashed by Gelonian swords and washed in blood.

Her heart ached. She pressed one hand over her breast, willing herself to silence. No hint of her own fear must show.

Zevaron’s gaze met hers. An expression she could not read flickered over his features, solemn and distant. As she approached, he bowed formally to her, as an officer to his
te-ravah
. The herder children watched with open mouths.