Moving with stiff dignity, Shorrenon stepped down from the dais. Tsorreh could not see his face, but there was no mistaking the expression on Thessar’s. He recognized Shorrenon as a worthy adversary, noble in defeat.
The Gelonian prince made no move as Shorrenon approached. They came near enough to touch. Thessar was slightly taller and more slender. His gray eyes flickered as Shorrenon sank to one knee.
“You have taken my city,” Shorrenon said in a voice that rang through the chamber. “I have surrendered my sword. There remains only one more thing to give you…”
Tsorreh’s mouth went dry. She felt Zevaron flinch under her grip and realized she had dug her fingernails into his arm.
With a bellow, Shorrenon lunged forward. A dagger, long and gleaming, slipped from his sleeve into his hand. He struck upward, aiming for the gap under Thessar’s breastplate.
With a yelp of surprise, the Gelonian prince twisted away. His bodyguards hurled themselves at Shorrenon. The center of the room erupted in a frenzy. A woman wailed,
high and shrill above the uproar.
Otenneh
, Tsorreh thought,
forgive me.
Still holding on to Zevaron, she sprinted for the door.
“Mother, what—” Zevaron stumbled after her. Desperate, she pulled on his arm. They had only an instant in which to escape.
The door stood open. Rethoren waited just outside, holding it ajar.
“Hurry,
te-ravah
! This way!”
Tsorreh darted through the opening, Zevaron now running hard at her heels. Rethoren pushed the door closed and slid a bolt across it.
The next moment, the three of them were racing toward the interior of the citadel. Walls sped by, corridors branching. Tsorreh ran faster than she had ever imagined possible. Her feet skimmed the rising stone floor as they started on the long tunnel leading to the temple. She blessed the impulse that had led her to choose clothing she could run in and boots instead of slippers.
The impact of her feet on stone rattled her joints. Her head throbbed with the thumping of her heart. She stumbled on an irregularity in the stone floor, hands outstretched as she fought for balance. Zevaron grabbed a hand and pulled her forward. They ran on, hand in hand. She leaned into his strength even as her muscles burned and she gasped for air.
Ahead lay the steepest part of the climb. She had passed this way many times with a basket of books on her back. Always before, she had been forced to slow her pace. Now she could hardly breathe, and her legs were rapidly turning into clay. A sudden cramp flared in her side. At any moment, she would reach the end of her endurance. Zevaron was pulling her along, almost carrying her, wasting his own strength.
It was no use. She could not force herself into that rising darkness.
Leave me here
, she thought.
Go on.
But she had not the breath even for those few words.
Rethoren lifted one arm, signaling a halt. Without the impetus of flight, Tsorreh almost collapsed. Zevaron released his hold on her and braced himself against the rough-hewn stone wall. She bent over, pressing one hand to her side. Their hoarse panting filled the corridor.
Although her body shuddered with the force of her heartbeat, Tsorreh summoned the strength to gasp, “Leave me—I cannot run any farther!”
“I swore to Shorrenon I would protect you,” Zevaron protested.
Don’t ask me to break that promise
, he seemed to be saying.
It’s what my brother gave his life for, so that we would have a chance to escape. It’s all I have left.
“We’ve come far enough for the moment,” Rethoren said between breaths. “Even after the Gelon get past the door,” he paused, took a breath, “it will take them some time,” he paused again, “to realize where—” and again, “where we’ve gone.”
“Where exactly are we headed?” Zevaron asked, breathing more easily. “If we hide in the temple, the Gelon will eventually find us. They will not rest until they do.”
Beads of sweat streamed down Tsorreh’s skin. “Tenereth—my grandfather—he will get you out. Go on—”
Rethoren gave her a sharp look. “There is no need for anyone to be left behind. We can go more slowly now.” He reached for a torch sitting unlit in its wall sconce. “We’ll need some light.”
It took the priest a few moments to get the torch properly lit with the flint from his belt pouch. His hands shook.
Zevaron took the lit torch, holding it steady. “It’s better to keep moving, so your muscles don’t stiffen.”
With an effort, Tsorreh straightened up. The cramp in her side had eased, and although it seemed the drums of Gelon still throbbed in her ears, she found she could take one small step and then another. Her body radiated heat into the chill of the mountain passage.
They climbed, saving their breath and staying within the cone of torchlight.
Shorrenon is dead, and perhaps the Gelonian prince as well. What will happen next? Will their soldiers go mad and slaughter everyone within the citadel? At least Ediva and her children are hidden, as safe as anyone can be in the city. But Otenneh
…
surely they would not harm an old woman.
She could not allow herself to think that. She must concentrate only on the next step, the next breath, the wavering light ahead.
Tenereth will get us out through the tunnel passages. Zevaron and I will go with him, and the
te-Ketav,
the treasure of our people. Zevaron will survive, the heir of Khored and son of Maharrad.
Somehow, no matter what the cost, she must find the strength to keep her son alive, to get him to freedom, to seek out allies—her Isarran kin, the Sand Lands tribes, the lords of Denariya, even the savage Azkhantian riders. She didn’t care, just so he returned one day to free Meklavar.
Z
EVARON had been right about the need to keep moving. At first, Tsorreh’s muscles felt as if they were on fire, step after agonizing step, but the pain eased as she went on. Her pulse no longer rampaged through her ears. Her breathing slowed to a deeper, regular rhythm. She could think and even talk a little.
She decided that her grandfather must have taken Rethoren into his confidence and sent the younger priest to the throne room to make sure she and Zevaron got away safely. They were in good hands and they had made their escape. Rethoren was right, it would be some time before the Gelon came looking for them, and it did not matter that Thessar’s men would eventually search the temple. They had enough of a head start to be well away by then.
Zevaron, who had been in the lead, dropped back to Tsorreh’s side. The orange light of the torch burnished his skin to bronze. His brows drew together, shadowing his eyes.
“Did you—” He stumbled over the words. “Mother, did you know what Shorrenon meant to do?”
“No, I didn’t.” She turned the thought over in her mind. “Even if I had, I would not have been able to stop him.” It had been quite enough to convince him to separate Ediva
and the children, but knowing they were hidden must have increased his resolve.
Had Shorrenon in turn known of her own plans? Had he created a diversion in order to allow them to escape, or had his attack on Thessar been the last, desperate act of a doomed man? She was certain he meant to kill the Gelonian prince, not just buy his own speedy death. What did he expect would happen then? By temperament, Shorrenon thought of glory and desperate causes, not of consequences.
She inhaled, shuddering inwardly. Even with Thessar dead, the Gelon still held the city. The Ar-King would send someone else to exact revenge.
Whether Thessar is alive or dead, it will go hard with Meklavar. And you, my Zevaron, will have to deal with the aftermath.
She could not bring herself to say it aloud. There would be time enough, once they were safe, once he had grown to his role as the exiled
te-ravot
. She could not expect him to understand all at once.
Rethoren took the torch and led them single-file. The passageway narrowed and twisted, rising to a stair that Tsorreh had not noticed before. They must have taken a turn away from the usual route to the temple. During their first wild race, she had followed Rethoren blindly, not paying careful attention to their surroundings.
“This is one of the lesser routes,” Rethoren said, as if sensing her thought, “one we priests use when we wish to come and go, unremarked. Many people now take refuge in the temple, and were you to enter through the front gates, you would surely be noticed.”
“By people who do not have the strength to withstand interrogation by the Gelon,” Zevaron added.
“If no one has seen us, there is nothing to tell,” Tsorreh said.
“They will press them all the harder, hoping some elder or child will break.” Emotion shivered through Zevaron’s words.
“Save your anger for those who deserve it,” Rethoren said.
Tsorreh lowered her gaze, holding her peace. There was no way to know what might happen. She felt a rush of understanding for Shorrenon and his choice.
As gently as she could, she said to Zevaron, “Do not take responsibility for whatever the Gelon choose to do. You cannot bargain for mercy from men who have none. Remember this always: As long as you are free, there is hope for Meklavar.”
She felt him shudder under the weight of her words. It was too much to lay on him, too soon.
No
, she reminded herself,
he is a man. I must not
—cannot—
protect him from who and what he is.
The stairs went sharply upward, spiraling to a hollow chimney. Light sifted from above, directed by mirrors from the temple. They climbed. Tsorreh’s muscles started to burn again. She slowed her pace, taking deep breaths and holding on to the rough stone wall. They stepped onto a little platform, bounded by a heavy wooden railing that faced a door. Tunnels led away in two directions.
Rethoren lifted the latch and gestured for silence. The door led to a short passageway, stone on one side and wood on the other. At the end lay a second door and beyond it, the reverse side of a tapestry, reinforced with canvas. Rethoren pushed the edge of the tapestry aside and slipped past. Following, Tsorreh found herself in her grandfather’s private meditation chamber.
How many secret entrances does he have?
The candles on either side of the prayer stand had burned down to nubs. The air was so still and the silence so thick that for an instant, Tsorreh thought the chamber was empty. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized that her grandfather was sitting on the bench, his hands composed on his lap, his eyes closed, his features reflecting an almost unearthly serenity. He might have been an exquisitely rendered carving. She wondered if her father, his son, would have looked like this one day, if he had lived.
For an instant, the faintest haze, a misty golden aura, glimmered around his body. Tsorreh blinked, and then it
disappeared. The candle flames must have flared up with the disturbance of the air at their entrance, nothing more.
The old man moved, a shift of weight, a breath lifting his chest. He opened his eyes and raised his hands in greeting. “Children, you are welcome.”
Rethoren set the torch in a holder just inside the door and left.
Tsorreh went to her grandfather and knelt, taking his hands. “Shorrenon…”
“Has made some grand gesture, rather than give himself into the hands of the Gelon.” Tenereth’s fingers tightened around hers. His skin felt chill. “Do not grieve for him, granddaughter. Think of him instead as fortunate. He has ended his life in the manner of his own choosing. How many of us can hope for as much?”
There would be time enough to honor Shorrenon’s memory. “Are you ready?” she asked.
“As you see.” Rising, Tenereth pointed to the corner alcove where packs and water skins lay beside the wicker basket.
Zevaron went to the packs and knelt to examine their contents. He straightened up, holding three long, hooded robes. Tsorreh recognized them as Sand Lands make, light on one side, dark on the other. By some trick of weaving, they protected the wearer against both heat and cold. The tribes did not readily part with them. How Tenereth was able to come by one, let alone three, she could not imagine.
“We will be off,” Tenereth said, “as soon as Rethoren returns with our guide. It is a long…a long journey…to Isarre.”
The next instant, the old priest’s legs folded beneath him. He staggered, half-falling, and sent the bench crashing on its side. He clutched his shoulder. His breath came in labored rasps.
Tsorreh rushed to him and slipped his arm over her shoulders. “Zevaron, help me! He must lie down—let’s get him to his bedchamber.”
“There is no time!” Tenereth protested weakly. “I have rested too much already.”
“You will be no good to anyone like this!”
With Zevaron’s help, Tsorreh maneuvered her grandfather past the doorway and down a corridor a few steps long. The chamber beyond was sparsely furnished, a place for sleep and little else, simple rather than austere.
She lowered her grandfather to the bed. By the light of Zevaron’s torch, Tenereth’s skin shone like gray marble.
“Are you in pain?” Tsorreh asked, but there was no answer.
A few moments later, Rethoren came back. A young woman followed close behind. Tsorreh had seen her before, although she could not remember where.
Rethoren bent to examine the old priest. He touched the pulses at neck and wrist, and over the heart. Tsorreh, watching, caught a glimpse of dark brilliance, a scintillation more sensed than seen, passing over Tenereth’s limp form. As quickly, it disappeared. Rethoren seemed not to have noticed anything unusual.
“What is wrong with him?” she asked Rethoren. “Can you tell?”
“He has had a seizure of the heart.”
“What is to be done for it?”
“You can do no more for him,” the physician replied. “I will bring medicines and tend him as best I can.”
“Will he recover?”
“Only the Most Holy can say for certain. Tenereth has enjoyed surprising health for a man of his years.”
Of his years.
Tsorreh shivered. Her grandfather had been old when she was born. He had already outlived his children.