The Seven-Petaled Shield (6 page)

This was not any
te-Ketav
, wrapped in layers of velvet of deepest purple, edged with cords of gold and crimson, and cradled in a holder of intricately carved ebony. It was the King’s
Ketav
, said to be the first written version of the divine words.

The velvet-wrapped bundle was surprisingly heavy. She had never handled it before, had seen it only a few times. This was the
te-Ketav
by which she had been married, by which monarchs were crowned. When her grandfather died, the man who succeeded him as chief priest would pray for him from this volume.

The velvet folds opened beneath her fingers, and she touched the hard surface beneath. The richness of the cover took her breath away. The front and spine looked like silver, only without any hint of tarnish. Moonstones for night and clear yellow amber for day framed a central panel. An inlay of gold wires set with leaf-shaped emeralds, topazes, and jade represented the Great Tree. Set at its roots was a stylized emblem, six oval gems surrounding a single luminous heart. This was no blossom, she knew, but a representation
of the
te-Khored-Magan
, the Shield of Khored.
The Seven-Petaled Shield.

Like all Meklavaran children, Tsorreh had once asked why it was called seven-petaled, when clearly there were but six. Her grandfather had answered that only with the inner eye could one see the seventh petal, the heart of the Shield, so mysterious was its power.

For all its superb artistry and costly materials, the cover was only a shell. Turning it over in her hands, Tsorreh discovered a clasp on one side. When she pressed it, the lid slid open to reveal an inner compartment. Hardly daring to breathe, she lifted out the silk-wrapped contents. The sheaf of age-darkened parchment had originally been bound in leather and silk. Tiny holes along one side marked where it had once been sewn together, although the thread had long since fallen away. The ink had lightened as it aged until, in places, the words resembled shadows. There was no title page, no illumination or decoration, yet she never doubted what she held. In tiny yet flowing calligraphy, she read the opening phrases, the first prayer that every Meklavaran child learned.

Tsorreh re-wrapped the empty cover in its velvet and put it back on its stand exactly as she found it, leaving no trace it had ever been disturbed. The Gelon would discover the jeweled housing, never guessing that the real treasure had been removed. She tucked the packet of silk-wrapped pages into the front of her tunic, its contours hidden behind the embroidery, and locked the treasury door behind her. Not even the warden would suspect she had taken anything. And if Shorrenon arrived in time to save the city, she could return the manuscript as secretly as she had removed it.

She emerged in the open courtyard between the palace and the citadel. Below, she heard a distant, muted clamor. A
few servants ran past, slowing their steps only enough to bow to her.

At first, she had intended to take the
te-Ketav
up through the mountain tunnel to the temple. Now she realized she must first decide what else must be made safe, should the city fall. She might have time to remove only a tiny portion of the archives.

Passing halls where children’s voices once rose and fell in unison, Tsorreh made her way to the library. There was no clerk at his station, and for a moment, the place seemed deserted except for the tortoiseshell cat who kept the mice at bay.

A movement startled her. Eavonen, the old scholar who had quoted from the story of Hosarion, rose stiffly from his desk. With exquisite delicacy, he closed the book he had been reading. As she drew near, Tsorreh saw tears shining on his withered cheeks. His eyes were so bright, so full of inner light, she wondered if he could see what she carried.

“You must go with the others to the temple,” she said.

He bowed his head. A shudder passed through his thin shoulders. She saw how his scholar’s robe hung even more loosely on him.

Tsorreh picked up the book he had been reading:
Shirah Kohav
, Poetry of the Stars. Some of the verses had been sung at her own wedding. She handed back it to him.

“Take this with you. It will be safer in your keeping.”
And may it comfort you.

Bony fingers closed around the slender volume. Even in these disordered times, he would never have taken it for himself.

“May the Shield of Khored ever protect you,
te-ravah
,” he murmured, bowing as deeply as his aged joints would allow.

“May you return the book to its proper place in the fullness of time,” she replied, managing a smile.

After Eavonen departed, a stillness settled in the air. The library lay before her, a realm of years and thought as well as landscape. Sometimes she felt as if each scroll and handsewn
book contained the soul of a person. They were the only way those dead could speak. Each page sang of their wisdom, their pain, their joy.

How could she judge what to save and what to leave behind? However flawed her decisions, she must choose, and quickly.

The most ancient scrolls must go to the temple, the
te-Ketav
she carried next to her heart, as well as other holy texts, painstakingly copied by hand and illuminated with mystical symbols. She must also select from among more ordinary prayer books, genealogies, histories, commentaries on scripture, and the hidden names of things. All these defined her people, who they had been, what they had thought and dreamed.

An idea came to her, as she pictured not only what she would take but also what she would leave behind. Just as she had taken the most precious item of the treasury and left the rest undisturbed, visually intact, so she would disguise the changes in the library. No Meklavaran scholar would be fooled, but a Gelonian general might well be. He would look no further and would take back to Gelon those things that, while costly, had no deeper significance.

Let the invaders read how to plant crops and observe the stars. The books that spoke uniquely to the Meklavaran soul, the songs of praise phrased as only a Meklavaran could, the remembrance of saints and heroes, the deeds of Khored of Blessed Memory and his brothers, of the heroes Hosarion, Uzmarion and Faranoth—these must not be lost. The volumes of Gelonian history and language would remain, along with poetry and annals from Denariya and even the collection of Vasparon’s travels to Azkhantia. Medical and astrological treatises, and books on mathematics and botany would remain in their proper places. These things were replaceable; other copies existed, and they did not speak to the soul of Meklavar. She must take only what was essential.

Tsorreh went to the nearest rack. Her fingertips brushed the spines of the volumes. They would have to be protected
against the damp and the insidious dust of the mountain caverns. Wrappings of silk and oiled canvas would be best. Given the state of confusion in the
meklat
, she did not know what help she might find. Otenneh would do whatever was asked of her, but would it not be better to leave her in the relative safety of the temple?

No, she decided, the fewer people who knew about the hiding place of the books, the less chance of inadvertent betrayal.

*   *   *

Well past twilight, Tsorreh made her way along the tunnels leading into the mountainside. The passage, wide enough for three men to walk abreast, turned and then ramped upward. Vents carried a breeze to freshen the air. Fresh torches had been set in their brackets at regular intervals. She took one from its holder.

The tunnels had a strange way of distorting sound, and from time to time, she halted to listen. Even in times of peace, she had occasionally imagined footsteps behind her along these passages, or the slither of something long and scaly over the bare rock. Did she hear a faint vibration now, or was that only the thrum of breath through her own lungs? Was it the memory of distant horns, of sword against shield? Did the battle waken a resonance within the mountain, perhaps a longing?

If I do not take care, my imagined fears will me turn into a coward!
She tightened her grasp on the torch. The enemy lay outside the city gates, she reminded herself, and not ahead.

As she went on, the air smelled less fresh. The darkness took on an almost palpable density. In the light of her torch, the walls glistened as if damp.

Twice a year, people ascended by this route to the temple set high above the city. The priests performed the ancient ceremonies, chanted praises, recited the story of the creation of the world, and sang of the times when the miraculous had been closer.

The temple had been created for many more people than now attended. Once, Tsorreh had been told, there were so many participants that everyone stood and the entire congregation bowed and swayed and sang as one. She wondered if Meklavar had lost faith, and that was why Gelon sat at the gates.

The temple was a marvel, a triumph of its ancient builders. Although most of it consisted of naturally formed caverns, a series of ducts and mirrors brought both light and fresh air. Even the chill of the mountain retreated. Somewhere deep in its heart lay a hot spring, and the builders had harnessed it for heat.

Tsorreh’s sandals made no noise as she crossed the worn mosaic floor with its depiction of an endless circular river, teeming with fish and all manner of creatures: storks, stately egrets, fat ducks, birds with curved beaks and spindly legs, frogs and eels. Deer bent to drink, unafraid of the lions beside them, and snakes lay in graceful coils beside bees, badgers, dragonflies, and even an improbably long-necked camel. Tsorreh had loved playing on this very floor as a child, and now its familiar creatures brought unexpected comfort. One of the temple cats, pure black, glided over and rubbed against her leg.

She found Tenereth, her grandfather, directing activities in the outer sanctuary. He smiled when he saw her, but he looked as if he had not slept in days. The skin beneath his eyes hung in loose folds, and he moved stiffly, as if his bones pained him. As he bent to place a kiss of greeting on her forehead, his hands trembled. He grasped her elbow and leaned upon her as they proceeded to his private meditation chamber.

Two thick candles burned on either side of an opened prayer book, resting on its stand of ivory-inlaid cedar. The mingled scents of beeswax and citrus hung in the air. Tenereth lowered himself to the plain bench, resting one elbow on the reading stand. The carved screen cast patterned shadows across his face. He looked not just tired and old, but ill.

Tsorreh reached out one hand to him. He took it, his bony fingers wrapping around hers. Explaining what she meant to do, she drew out the
te-Ketav
and laid it in his hands. A shadow and then a radiance passed over his features. For an instant, it seemed as if his body were made of glass, lit from within. The faintest tracery of light passed over his skin. Then the moment shifted, and he was only a tired, elderly man holding a sheaf of pages as if they were the most precious thing in the world.

“This cannot stay here,” he said.

She nodded. “When—
if
Meklavar should fall, the Gelon will not rest until they occupy the entire city, including the temple.”

Their eyes met, and again she caught that curious, fleeting brilliance, like a living aura surrounding his body.

“Not
if
,” he said. “Meklavar will fall.”

The quiet certainty in his voice stunned her. “How can you know that? We have already held out far longer than anyone expected. We have even prevented the Gelon from undermining our walls. Any day now, Shorrenon will return. He will—”

“Gelon will take the
meklat
, the citadel, the fields, the Var Pass itself,” Tenereth interrupted. “There is no time to explain. You must simply accept that I have been granted the power to see such things. When the city falls, do not linger, no matter what the reason. You must come here immediately, you and Zevaron. Do you understand? Promise me this!”

“I—I will come.”

“And Zevaron as well?”

“Yes, of course.”

“No matter what the price, some things
must not
fall into their hands.”

Tsorreh’s gaze flew to the
te-Ketav
.

“That and more,” he said. “Come now with me, for your task lies before you and I have preparations of my own to make.” He rose and gestured to her to follow. “I will tell you where what you carry may be safely stored.”

“You aren’t going to tell me any more than that?” Tsorreh’s nerves had been scoured raw by uncertainty and fear—and now these riddles!

Tenereth looked as if he were about to answer, but then a shadow, more felt than seen, came over him. “The time is not yet right. Just remember—do not delay. You and Zevaron
must
escape
.”

Tsorreh bit her lip to keep silent. He was right, the line of Khored must survive, preserving the lineage that ran from Tenereth through her dead father to herself, and now her son. Her grandfather must have a plan in mind for their escape, one he dared not reveal prematurely. He led her to the back of the meditation chamber.

The little alcove was deep but not tall. A rack with pegs, for hanging cloaks, had been set into one side, along with a shelf for a basket of candles and a box with flint and tinder. In the alcove’s center, on a raised slab of stone, was a wicker chest with a fresh supply of torches. At her grandfather’s direction, she lit one of them.

“Reach behind the chest,” he said.

Tsorreh slipped into the narrow space. After several attempts, her fingers found the deep groove in the back of the platform. She grasped the lever where he said it would be. With a creak, the platform slid forward, revealing an opening.

“Now go down.” Tenereth gave her detailed directions to the storage place, urging her to commit them to memory.

The first steps were so steep, she had to turn around and face them as she descended, as if they were rungs of a ladder. She counted ten of them, feeling each one with her feet.