“It’s good medicine, real medicine,” Breneya murmured, thoughtful. Her gaze met Tsorreh’s, and clearly she had made up her mind to speak.
“My Astreya told me where she’d gone with you, who you saw.” She made the statement into an accusation.
“A physician of my own people, someone I trust,” Tsorreh said.
Breneya went to the open door, glanced around, then closed it and turned back to Tsorreh. “Listen to me, foreign princess! I know nothing of the sorcerous folk! Nor do I care! But if your potions can help him—” Calming herself, shaking her head, Breneya lifted the latch and gestured for Tsorreh to leave. “There, I’ve already said more than I should. I should not have spoken to you. You are my lord’s guest. Just…be careful.”
* * *
When Tsorreh returned, Lycian’s attendants were arranged about the opulent outer chamber of Jaxar’s quarters. Fortunately, the white lap-terrier was nowhere to be seen. The attendants stared as Tsorreh crossed to the inner door. She wondered what they thought of her, what their mistress had said to them. What did it matter? None of them were going to become her friends, not in this house. She wondered what had happened to Menelaia, who was the closest to a woman-friend of her own age that she could remember.
As she neared the inner door, Tsorreh saw that the latch had not caught completely, leaving it slightly ajar. She heard Lycian’s voice, no longer cloying and soothing, but raised, shrill.
“I will not be humiliated in this way! To be forced to shelter a harlot under my own roof! I am your wife! I have my rights!”
A rumbling answer from Jaxar blotted out her next words. Tsorreh hesitated, holding the pitcher close to her body. Heat suffused her cheeks. She was not sure she ought to go in, not sure she could force herself into Lycian’s presence. Surely it would be better to wait out here, with the attendants.
“So you say!” Lycian shrieked. “All the more reason for you to be ashamed to so dishonor me, that you permit even a whisper of scandal to be spoken.”
“The shame exists only in your own baseless fears.” Jaxar’s voice was now loud enough to be overheard. “Suspicion does you no credit. Of course, you have no proof. None exists.”
“I have no proof yet. But I know what I know.” After an instant’s falter, Lycian continued with renewed ardor. “That is not my only objection to the chit. It is bad enough that you disgrace yourself with her, but she has been seen in the city. Seen, I tell you! If she is found at large, then we will be held responsible! The holy servants of Qr the Inexorable warned me of this danger. She will bring Cinath’s wrath down on us with her running about with only a nitwit of a servant girl for her escort. Is that proper custody? Are we not answerable to the Ar-King for her behavior? What is to stop her from escaping? From consorting with criminals and insurrectionists? Even assassins? And who will believe she has not?”
A soft sound from the center of the room made Tsorreh turn. Her cheeks flamed and her hands trembled on the round belly of the pitcher. One of Lycian’s attendants had risen. With a slight inclination of her head, the other woman glided to the inner door. She said nothing as she reached out to tap the door with her knuckles, but in the cant of her head and the expression in her pale eyes, Tsorreh read a wordless sympathy.
The maid rapped three times, a pause, and then three times more. From within the bedchamber, Lycian’s voice halted in mid-sentence.
“What? What is it?” Lycian did not sound at all pleased.
“Gracious lady.” The girl pitched her voice low and smooth, like cool silk. “The parsley tea, would it please you to receive it now?”
“Oh, very well! Bring it in. Jaxar, you must give serious thought to what I have said. For your sake—for all our sakes, promise me this.”
“Set your mind at rest, my wife. I will consider it.”
The door jerked open and Lycian bustled through. Tsorreh jumped out of the way, but Lycian gave her only the most cursory of glances. The attendant had already sunk into a graceful bow. Lycian swept through the outer chamber, trailing fluttering scarves and maids.
Tsorreh slipped through the inner door. Jaxar smiled at her from his bed, where he lay propped on layers of pillows. He looked weary but alert. A mixture of emotions touched her, relief and her own sudden yearning for a refuge. She wanted to go to his side and lay her face against his hand, as if she were a child and he, a kindly father. For his sake as well as her own, she dared not risk even the appearance of inappropriate intimacy. Instead, she poured out a goblet of the tea and brought it to him.
“I suppose I must drink this, if only to keep Issios happy,” Jaxar said, wrinkling his nose at the taste.
“I doubt it will harm you, and it may do some good.”
“Who says this? Where is it written?”
“Written nowhere that I have found. Yet.” Tsorreh grinned. “But it comes from a very reliable source.”
He took several large gulps of the infusion, then shoved the goblet back at her. “Pah! Any more, and I will start lowing like a cow!”
Tsorreh put the goblet on the tray beside the pitcher. “Yes, it would be much preferable for you to bellow like a bull!”
Jaxar laughed aloud, then broke into coughing. When she bent over him, filled with sudden concern, he waved her away. She took her seat once more. The book Danar had been reading was still there. She picked it up and held it in her lap. “Shall I read to you?”
“Tsorreh, we must talk, and seriously. I see from your expression that you heard what Lycian said.”
“A little of it,” she admitted.
“Lycian finds much in life to upset her, but in this, she has reason. I know you went out into the city in search of medicine.”
“I did not go alone. And I in no way dishonored my promise that I would not try to escape.”
“I do not doubt your word, child. Nor should you underestimate the consequences if you behaved in any way that might be interpreted as escape.” Jaxar paused, letting his words sink in. “I do not want to imprison you here, but the truth is that this house could become the only place in Aidon—perhaps in all Gelon—where you will be safe. I know the temper of my brother. In his heart, great courage contends for primacy with even greater fear. Do not inflame that fear.”
“Why should he fear me, one single woman exile in this enormous city?” she burst out. “He has soldiers everywhere—city patrol, military, Elite Guards! How could I possibly pose a threat to him?”
Jaxar shook his head, sending a faint quivering through the loose skin at his neck. “I do not say these things are rational or fair, only that they exist. They were not always so, but ever since the conquest of your city, there has been a shift in power at court. It was subtle at first, and perhaps only someone with as many idle thoughts as fill my own mind would have noticed it.”
Jaxar was no contender for the throne, even if he had wanted it, not with his deformity and ill health, but he was a keen observer of courtly politics, of that she was sure.
“My brother has always been ambitious,” he went on, “but now the Qr priests feed his every suspicion. Already they have far more influence than I would like, and I have yet to discern their motives. Beyond simple power, that is. They wish him to be in their debt, but to what purpose, I cannot say.”
“What would you have me do?” Tsorreh said. “Remain forever within these walls?” Who then will fetch the medicine the next time you are ill?
“I told you that I have no wish to imprison you,” he said, for the first time sounding irritated. “How can a mind be free to inquire, to explore, if the body is chained?” He sighed. “How, indeed?” It seemed to Tsorreh that until that moment, he had adapted so successfully to his limitations, using his books and instruments to expand his world, that he truly had not seen himself as disabled.
“I do wish to extend to you the freedom of the city,” he went on, shaking off the moment of doubt, “but, as my wife informs me, all must be seen to be proper. Astreya is a good girl, if a bit flig
hty, and as good a guide as any, for she has been set loose from an early age to run errands everywhere. But no one, certainly not my brother, would consider her a suitable chaperone, let alone an effective custodian.”
Tsorreh was forced to nod in agreement. Certainly, Danar went about with protection. If he, still at that headstrong, heedless stage of young manhood, could accept the necessity, then so could she. Maybe, she thought, Danar’s escort could serve for both of them. Surely, such custody would satisfy Cinath’s suspicions. She would not have to fear another incident with the city patrol, such as the one on her trip to the washery shortly after her arrival.
Jaxar happily agreed when Tsorreh suggested that Danar and his escort accompany her on any necessary errands. Besides, she added, Danar could show her much of the city and explain its history and customs, thereby contributing to his education as well.
On the other hand, Marvenion would refuse to admit a visitor who clearly belonged to a noble Gelonian household. Perhaps she could contrive to meet him in a public place, where the appearance of the guards would be less remarkable.
She would have to tread very, very carefully.
Chapter Twenty-two
OVER the next days and weeks, Jaxar continued to improve. Issios managed to deflect Lycian’s interference, so that Tsorreh was able to maintain the prescribed medication schedule. When necessary, she consulted Marvenion in the marketplace. Danar would retreat a short distance, occupying his escort in order to give them a few relatively undisturbed minutes. Tsorreh had no idea what the two guards thought about these meetings, for their expressions were as unrevealing and their manner toward her as distantly courteous as ever.
In her fine dress, with the shoulder clasps of a well-to-do free woman, and accompanied by a noble youth and his escort, Tsorreh suffered no more confrontations with the city patrol. Besides obtaining more medicines for Jaxar, she located supplies and specimens for his laboratory, and found new books to occupy his convalescence and to enhance Danar’s education. Occasionally Issios entrusted her with a small errand. Each time, she would ask Danar to take a different route so that gradually she became acquainted with a larger area of the city. As much as she dared, she struck up conversations with foreigners, not only her own people, but Denariyan traders and others. Her fluency in Gelone improved as she learned the rhythms and temper of Aidon.
Danar’s bodyguards followed them everywhere, occasionally clearing the way through a crowd or intimidating pickpockets and beggars into keeping their distance. As the guards became accustomed to Tsorreh, they relaxed enough to respond to her conversational overtures. She learned their names and a little of their stories. Haslar was born to a family that farmed Jaxar’s country estates, and Jonath was a third son of an impoverished noble family. Both were devoted to Jaxar and had no opinion on any political matter. At home, they practiced armed and unarmed sparring with Danar, but on the street, they observed strict formality.
On a cloudless morning, Tsorreh and Danar visited Sadhir, one of Jaxar’s scientific colleagues, an elderly man whose withered, leathery complexion and accent were Denariyan, yet whose manners, dress, and abode all suggested a long and successful assimilation into Gelonian society. He was to lend Jaxar a book on the observation of celestial objects from different locations. Tsorreh looked forward to the visit with pleasure, for she had accompanied Danar here before and knew that a question or two, a slight indication of interest, would encourage the old scholar to hold forth on a variety of fascinating topics. In his long life, he had traveled to places she knew only from maps, from Denariya south to the fabled Firelands. In his youth, he had hunted strange beasts in the Fever Lands and emerged alive, had sailed the Western Sea past the Mearas and east to Occeldirin. He had looked upon the Sea of Desolation and ventured north to the country of the Azkhantian nomads.
Sadhir lived alone, except for a pair of elderly Xian servants. His collections filled room after room. The floor was hidden beneath overlapping carpets of intricately woven Denariyan patterns or Azkhantian camel’s hair, upon which rested tables of carved sandalwood, statues of unknown gods and of women intertwined with two-headed snakes. Butterfly-silk tapestries and the stuffed heads of strange horned beasts hung on the walls. There were chests of carved camphor wood, cabinets with rows of tiny drawers, a massive chair that looked like sea-swirled granite, three-footed brass braziers, and much more.
For the better part of the morning, Tsorreh and Danar sipped the old man’s tea, fragrant with dried jasmine blossoms, and listened to his rambling story of the sea monsters said to infest waters near the Firelands. Danar and Sadhir entered into a lively discussion about whether the beasts might be a form of long-necked whale or an entirely new species. Once, Tsorreh would have suspected such creatures to be the product of fear and the stress of a perilous journey working on superstitious minds. Now, for all she knew, they might be akin to the fire-spirits she had seen in the Sand Lands. The world was bigger and stranger than she had once imagined.
With reluctance, she and Danar took their leave, the promised book in hand. The street on which Sadhir lived was in one of those formerly fashionable districts that had since slid into graceful decay. The buildings had once been fine, and for the greater part, the carvings around door and roofline were clean, if eroded. Seasons of wind and weather had softened them almost past recognition. Overhead, the row of ancient trees had been pruned back so many times they appeared dead, except for the slender branches springing here and there from the scarred and knobbed trunks. The leaves cast faint dancing shadows against the brightness of the sky.
Tsorreh came away with a sense of the preciousness of this time, how much the old man had to say and how little of it might be preserved after his death. When Danar noticed her pensive mood, she spoke to him of her concerns.
“He doesn’t look like he’s in any imminent risk of dying,” Danar pointed out with the optimism of the young.
Tsorreh shook her head. Danar’s buoyant confidence struck her as naïve. Life was fragile, and words committed to paper or parchment only a little less so. Everything precious could be snatched away in a moment, by sword or fire or disease. She could remember only a fraction of the stories the old Denariyan explorer had told her. What would become of the rest when he was gone? Who would remember where he had found this artifact or that sculpture?
Some things, she added silently, brushing her fingertips over her breastbone, where the te-alvar pulsed gently, must never be forgotten.
* * *
On their way back to Cynar Hill, Tsorreh and Danar traversed the broad central boulevard that ran from the harbor to the King’s Palace. Tsorreh had passed this way on her arrival in Aidon. Here she had walked with other slaves and captives, confused and frightened, still reeling from her sea voyage and the awakening of the te-alvar. Even then, she had been struck by the brilliance and richness of the city, the variety of costumes, the music, the flowers, the architecture. Now the streets seemed pallid, the more outlandish foreigners fewer and more subdued in their dress and manner. It was as if a veil had been drawn across a once vivid landscape. It seemed, too, that more than the usual number of city patrols moved among the crowd.
A crowd, yes…
As if reading her thought, Danar signaled for Jonath and Haslar to halt. “Something’s going on. There.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the harbor. Now she heard over the chatter of voices the shouted commands of the patrolmen and the muted clamor of an even greater throng. The brassy call of trumpets soared above the street noise.
“Make way!” a male voice thundered. Distance and the surging currents of traffic distorted but could not obliterate his words. “Make way for Ar-Thessar-Gelon, the Victorious, the Savior of Meklavar!”
Thessar? Tsorreh reeled with shock at hearing the name, at the unexpected nearness of the man who’d conquered her city.
Danar pulled Tsorreh back from the center of the street. They stood close together, flanked by his bodyguards and surrounded on three
sides by ordinary folk, some in coarse workers’ garb, others more richly dressed. Haslar and Jonath moved to protect them as onlookers strained for a better view. Soldiers wearing armor and plumed helmets joined city patrolmen in clearing the street. A few bystanders cheered in anticipation of the spectacle to come.
The trumpets drew nearer. Above the noise, Tsorreh caught the sound of men marching in unison and the clatter of shod hooves and wheels over pavement. She leaned forward to see the vanguard of the procession, more soldiers with their drawn swords gleaming as dusky-skinned boys scattered blue and purple flowers. Then came the trumpeters themselves, and row after row of men sporting plumed, polished steel helmets and breastplates.
Shock gave way to determination. If she had a weapon—a sword, a knife, a dagger—she could wait until the right moment. She could strike just as Thessar passed, this monster who had caused her people so much grief. The prince’s guards would be slow to react to a well-dressed woman. They would pause for just a moment, trying to understand what was happening. In the end, they would capture her, and if there was any blessing in the world, they would kill her. What would her own death matter as long as she seized that single fateful opening? Shorrenon would be avenged, and Maharrad, and all the others, her people, her life.
An image rose up behind her eyes, so vivid it blinded her to the crowd and the approaching parade. When she had seen him at the fall of Meklavar, Thessar’s fair features had been exultant, insolent, bloated with victory. Now her imagination washed those cheeks with blood, filled those pale eyes with horror at the true understanding of what he had done, the last realization he would ever have.
No one would mourn Thessar’s passing. Certainly not the father who, from greed and ambition, had sent him to slaughter so many other father’s sons. Cinath would rage, an insignificant and fleeting spasm of his shriveled heart, but it would be too late. It was already too late.
Her hands curled into fists and her nails dug into flesh. She trembled with the magnitude of her hatred.
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 28