The Seven-Petaled Shield

by Deborah J. Ross

  Very gradually, Tsorreh’s life assumed a new rhythm. At first, she kept indoors as much as possible, except to visit the bathhouse, and then only when Lycian had gone out. The laboratory became her world. She cleaned the dusty shelves and organized the library. Jaxar was an easy task master. Often, he was so absorbed in his own work, most of which was incomprehensible to her, that he took no notice when she curled up with a book for hours at a time.

  Danar came to Tsorreh for lessons in Meklavaran, trade-dialect Azkhantian, and even a little Denariyan, although Tsorreh insisted her own accent was dreadful. After a time, Tsorreh noticed that Astreya, who still brought her meals, lingered to listen. It was not difficult, after Tsorreh’s experience teaching the captain of the Silver Gull to read Gelone, to arrange circumstances to include the girl.

  Days melted into weeks. Tsorreh became more restless and less fearful of venturing out of the house itself. She began taking her meals in the kitchen with Astreya and her mother. Breneya’s easy warmth was as nourishing as her meals. Tsorreh thought of Otenneh, of the loving care the old woman had lavished on her. What had happened to Otenneh—was she still alive? Did she pray for Tsorreh, as Tsorreh prayed for her?

  Silently, in the still corners of the night when no one else was awake, Tsorreh recited the prayers for the dead for Maharrad and Shorrenon, for her grandfather, who would never know what befell the te-alvar, for the captains and defenders of Meklavar, for all those whose names she did not know.

  From time to time, Tsorreh heard bits of news from Meklavar. Prince Thessar had survived Shorrenon’s suicide assault and remained in the city. Cinath declared Meklavar to be a Gelonian protectorate and appointed old Anthelon as governor under the watchful presence of Thessar’s loyal generals.

  Anthelon, Tsorreh remembered, had been the only councillor to urge acceptance of the initial terms of surrender. He had argued that other lands prospered under Gelonian governance, and it would be better to save the many lives that would be lost in battle, or due to thirst or starvation during a long siege. Anthelon had always struck Tsorreh as a man of compassion, fiercely devoted to his te-ravot and his people. She did not doubt he would do everything in his power to soften the occupation, including suppressing any activity that might lead to official reprisals. Tsorreh did not know how to respond to the news of his appointment. It seemed to be happening far away, involving people she no longer knew. She supposed she should be glad that Thessar had not been killed, so Cinath could not use his son’s death as an excuse for even more brutal reprisals. Or was that only a matter of degrees of evil?

  As for Anthelon, she had nothing against the old man personally. But could he reason or bargain with the conquerors? Did he have any means of persuasion? Could he advance any compelling argument for justice or mercy?

  Could anyone moderate Cinath’s implacable ambition?

  * * *

  As the last light seeped from the western sky, Tsorreh and Jaxar climbed to the top of the ladder. For a crippled man, he moved with great determination, if slowly. They emerged onto the flat roof, with its benches and stands for equipment. The city spread out before them, its hills arching like the backs of grazing camels. Pinpoints of light, yellow and orange, shone from the more densely inhabited areas. Tsorreh exclaimed that they looked like jewel dust scattered on a velvet cloth.

  “Very pretty, I’ll admit,” said Jaxar, “but deep night is better for observing the stars.”

  Mounted on a wooden frame was a telescope larger than the one Tsorreh had examined below. When Jaxar explained its use, Tsorreh drew back. She was not sure it was entirely reverent to peer into the heavens. Then she decided they were part of the natural world, and if the Most Holy One had truly intended to keep them secret, then the far-seeing-tube would not work.

  More stars, not just dozens but what looked like thousands, became visible. These same points of light shone upon Zevaron. She imagined him free and safe. He must be, or surely the heavens would weep, not shine with such glory.

  “Here, my child, look at this,” Jaxar said, interrupting her reverie.

  With her own eyes, Tsorreh saw nothing more than a smudge of gray in the direction Jaxar pointed. When she bent to look through the telescope, however, she made out a ball of shimmering white. Behind it trailed smoke, as if it were a torch in a storm. A torch to set the world ablaze? Or carried by an enemy who cloaked himself in darkness?

  “What is it? A falling star?” She frowned, for the object did not seem to be moving, and yet the luminous streamer suggested great speed. She searched inside for a hint of alarm from the te-alvar, but it had gone quiescent. If the celestial torch posed a threat, it was not imminent.

  “A comet. Of those I have observed over the years, none have plunged to earth, but I suppose it is possible. They appear even as you see, grow brighter for a time during their journey across the sky, and then fade away.”

  “It looks to be on fire, but a frozen sort of fire.” Tsorreh had no idea what prompted her to say such a thing. What did she know of this smear of gray against the black of night?

  Jaxar’s voice drew her back to herself, as he spoke quietly about his system of notation and his thoughts on the aetheric nature of comets and whether they ceased to exist when they disappeared or merely traveled beyond the range of his telescope. Tsorreh fetched paper and charcoal from the laboratory and attempted to sketch the comet according to Jaxar’s direction. She did not think the results were very good, but Jaxar seemed pleased.

  A deep weariness crept along her bones. Jaxar noticed her stifled yawns and, at his urging, both clambered down the ladder.

  Her last conscious thought as she drifted into sleep was that she would not find true rest until the comet was gone, no longer hanging like a miasmatic sword above the living world.

  * * *

  Jaxar did not come into the laboratory all the next day, and Danar rode out to the country estate, leaving Tsorreh alone. She went about her usual work, copying out a badly damaged Gelonian scroll, a history of finance under Ar-Dethen-Gelon. She did not worry about Jaxar’s absence until late in the day, when twilight stained the sky. She climbed the scaffolding up to the roof and waited for him to join her.

  The day had been warm and still, and now heat rose in shimmers, as if the land itself were exhaling in relief. Dusk, which often seemed to go on forever, came to an end. Stars bathed the heavens in milky light. Such a sight never failed to delight Jaxar, to draw him to his precious telescope.

  Jaxar had previously been absent for a single day, sometimes two. Most of the time, he had advised her the day before. He had duties at court and at the Temple of Justice, called Ir-Pilant after the Ar-King who first codified the Gelonian laws. He was often gone on business regarding legal matters or the running of the country estate that furnished his income.

  Surely, she thought, he would have returned to take his dinner, and then to watch the stars. The comet was already fading from the night sky, but there were plenty of other celestial objects to excite Jaxar’s interest. Where was he? Had something happened to him? Clearly, Tsorreh could not find out while hiding in the laboratory.

  I’ve become a prisoner of my own fears.

  Resolved, she got to her feet and descended the ladder. She had forgotten to leave a lamp burning, and shadows shrouded the laboratory. Dim light filtered through the opening in the ceiling.

  In the hallway outside, a torch burned in its wall sconce. Tsorreh made her way through the house, not altogether certain where she was going. Pausing at the second-story balcony overlooking the central courtyard, she heard the ripple of a harp and the trill of a flute, and caught glimpses of servants about their work.

  At the bottom of the main staircase, Tsorreh passed a servant, a boy of eight years or so, with a round-eyed expression and bony knees. He was carrying an armful of folded cloths, blue-and-white striped cotton, bed linens most likely. When she spoke to him, something in his astonishment reminded her of Benerod, the page she had befriended during th
e siege of Meklavar. She wondered how Benerod, with his earnestness and talent for imaginative stories, had managed since the fall of the city.

  When she asked the boy how Lord Jaxar fared, he only stared harder at her. She went on, “Would you show me to the steward’s office?”

  The boy darted away the way he had come, clutching his armful of linens.

  Tsorreh did not know whether to be amused or offended. Was she so terrifying? She had heard that many Gelon regarded her people as sorcerers, powerful and malevolent. No, surely the boy could not think of her as a demon. He must be shy of strangers, nothing more.

  And yet, stories of evil Meklavaran witches would be exactly the sort of thing Lycian would use against an unwanted guest. Tsorreh knew only a few people within the compound walls. Except for Lycian, she believed that none of them intended her harm. On the other hand, if something had happened to Jaxar, she would lose her best protection.

  I am neither slave nor servant, and Jaxar himself has said I am not a prisoner. I will not cripple myself with fear!

  Tsorreh strode back up the main stairs, determined to wrest an answer from the first person she encountered, even if it were Lycian herself.

  The house was a sprawling, open rectangle. The inner rooms looked out over the central courtyard where even now, the lilting strains of music and the perfume of night-blooming flowers filled the open space and wafted upward. Lycian’s suite lay somewhere in the newer annex, situated to overlook the center of the city. Jaxar had maintained his rooms in the older part of the house, close to his laboratory.

  As Tsorreh reached the top of the stairs, Astreya came down the hallway opposite the laboratory. She carried a tray with a pitcher and bowl. Her gaze lit on Tsorreh’s face. “What is the matter, lady?”

  “I was just looking for someone who might answer that question!” Tsorreh calmed herself. “I have not seen Lord Jaxar all day. I am concerned about him. Perhaps it is foolish of me and there is nothing unusual in his absence, but I will not be easy until I know.”

  “Oh! He has been taken with one of his spells. Issios has been tending him all day.” Astreya lowered her voice. “Lady Lycian wanted to send for a Qr priest to perform sacrifices for Lord Jaxar’s recovery, but he wouldn’t have it. We were all terrified he’d do himself a harm, he was so fierce. She’s been at the temple ever since.”

  Tsorreh smothered the revulsion that rose in her at the mention of the Scorpion god. “Spells? He is ill, or more so than usual? May I—I wish to see him.”

  “Come on, then.” Astreya turned, gesturing with a tilt of her head for Tsorreh to accompany her.

  Jaxar’s suite of rooms had been designed on a grand scale. An entry hall was furnished with marble benches and niches containing idols of carved wood and ivory. They looked very old.

  Tsorreh caught her breath as she stepped into the next room. A pair of torches set in freestanding iron holders, wrought like the intertwined branches of willow trees, cast a warm light. Mosaics of brilliant bits of tile, shards of colored glass, intricate gilt filigree work, and glimmering mother-of-pearl covered the ceiling and walls. In them, she saw surging oceans, mountains belching fire, men on foot and in chariots drawn by fierce-eyed onagers, men and woman—she supposed them to be representations of Gelonian gods by their halos of gold and seed pearls. A number of divans and chairs, carved from glossy dark wood and buried under velvet cushions, had been arranged around the room. To Tsorreh’s mind, however, the room was to be traversed instead of lived in. Perhaps Jaxar used it for formal entertainment when he wanted to impress his guests. She could not imagine him at home with those elaborate murals or sitting comfortably in those ornate chairs.

  Astreya passed through the mosaic chamber without a glance. At the far end, she opened one of three small doors and slipped through. Following her, Tsorreh immediately felt the difference in atmosphere. The proportions of this room were perfect, the walls unadorned except for a single faded banner. A door on the far side opened onto a balcony, admitting the night air.

  A bed dominated the center of the room. It looked very old and could easily have accommodated three or four people, not just the single occupant who lay with his head propped on a thick bolster. A table bore a tray with bowl and pitcher and several shallow bronze dishes of the sort used to burn incense.

  The steward, Issios, slumped beside the door on one of two modest benches, his head to one side and his mouth slightly open. He jerked awake as Astreya and Tsorreh entered. “You have no reason to be here, girl. The master is resting.”

  Astreya flinched at the steward’s tone, but she held her ground. “Lady Tsorreh required me to bring her here.”

  “Out, both of you! He must not be disturbed.”

  “Please, may I not see how he fares?” Tsorreh pleaded. “If he is ill—” No, that would not work. She had no claim on a place here, no right to care for him. But she had noticed the chest standing beside the open balcony door and the pile of books there. “Let me read to him. Perhaps that might comfort him.”

  The steward’s scowl deepened. Before he could refuse, Jaxar stirred, lifting one hand. “Is that you, Tsorreh? Issios, let her come near.”

  Tsorreh approached the bed. Seen in the faint light, the change in Jaxar’s condition shocked her. His face was no longer puffy but bloated. He inhaled, wheezing as if each breath were a struggle. His skin had taken on an unhealthy flush. Yet the eyes that regarded her from that swollen face were as kind as ever.

  She took his hand in hers, feeling the sodden texture of his flesh, and could not speak. Her expression must have revealed her emotions, for Jaxar said, “It is not so bad as all that, my dear. I have lived with this malady for many years now. Sometimes it is better, sometimes worse. It will be the end of me one day—”

  “You must not speak so, my lord!” Issios objected. “You will recover! You must! I myself have offered prayers of intercession to The Dispenser of Justice, to my own patron, The One Who Blesses Commerce, and even to The God of Forgotten Hopes and Unspeakable Desires—”

  “Enough!” Jaxar broke off in a fit of coughing. Tsorreh detected an alarming wheeze and rattle in his chest. “You may pray any way you wish for yourself, my old friend, but do not inflict your gods on me. I have enough difficulty in my life as it is, without their help.” Gasping, he sagged back on the bolsters.

  Tsorreh turned to the steward. “Can nothing be done to ease his breathing and the swelling of his flesh? What has his physician advised?”

  Issios glared at her. “We are not superstitious folk, to consult such a person!”

  Tsorreh paused on the brink of outrage. Then she realized that in Gelone, the words for physician and soothsayer were identical. Surely, Gelon must have healing professionals.

  “Who do you send for if you have a broken bone or an aching tooth?” she asked.

  Issios snorted. “A tonsorial, you mean? They’re all very well for cauterizing a boil or amputating a gangrenous toe. On the battlefield, they have ample chance to practice their arts, so they are very skillful. This malady,” he gestured at Jaxar, “is clearly a spiritual matter.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “I will explain the way of such things in Gelon.” Moderating his tone, Issios took Tsorreh aside. “Lay practitioners—tonsorials or country herbalists or even the priestesses of She Who Blesses Childbirth—use ordinary means of observation to determine what injury or ailment has beset their patient. You or I could do the same, yes? We see the same wound, we feel the same tumor.”

  “Yes, of course,” Tsorreh agreed.

  “Therefore, we will in most cases agree on the appropriate remedy. We can objectively evaluate the course of recovery. But for conditions that are invisible to ordinary senses, that manifest in strange and subtle ways, what can we do? We cannot see or touch or smell out the cause. This is because the disease is not physical, but supernatural in nature. Only the god to whom that person has sworn himself can diagnose and cure it.”


  Tsorreh was so appalled, she could not think of a reply.

  “In most cases, the priests of the patient’s patron god perform auguries to reveal the unique, specific cause of each patient’s malady. Treatment may involve making sacrifices, or ingesting certain foods or herbs. If that does not avail,” Issios hesitated minutely, “then a more powerful god must be invoked.”

  Tsorreh suddenly understood Astreya’s comment about Lycian wanting to bring in a priest of Qr.

  Issios glanced back at Jaxar. Although his face was impassive enough in frontal view, when he turned, a trick of the light revealed his deep worry. He returned to the bed and began wiping down Jaxar’s face.

  Astreya touched Tsorreh’s arm to signal that it was time for them to leave. Jaxar was clearly slipping into restless sleep. Tsorreh hoped that the ministrations of the steward were soothing, that the patient might improve with rest. At least, the water was clean and had been scented with a refreshing herb.

  Thoughtful, Tsorreh bade good night to Astreya and made her way back to the laboratory. Jaxar’s illness had been evident from the first time she’d seen him in Cinath’s court. Until now, she had not realized the seriousness of his condition or how quickly it could deteriorate.

  Jaxar was not young, and he had been ill for a long time. Eventually, even the strongest constitution must give way under constant assault. The same principle applied to men as well as cities. Without proper care, with only rest and whatever remained of his innate vitality, Jaxar might die. Pausing with her hand on the latch of the laboratory door, Tsorreh bit down on her lower lip.

  If Jaxar did not survive, she would lose her protector, her best defense against not only Lycian but against Cinath himself. The acquaintances she had made so far were new and the bonds fragile. She did not want to consider what her fate might be without Jaxar to take her part. But more than that, she realized as she closed the door behind her and stood gazing at the darkened chamber, she did not want to lose her friend.

  Surely, something could be done to help him. If they were back in Meklavar, she would send for a physician, one trained not only in the best of her own people’s medical knowledge, but that of Denariya and Isarre as well. Meklavaran physicians often traveled to study and learn.