Tsorreh took a deep breath and forced herself to think.
The Shield was no longer intact, that much was undeniable. Over the ages, its power had diminished. Knowledge had faded into myth. History had become a luxury, a thing for scholars, not practical men. One by one, the heirs of Khored had drifted away, along with their precious burdens. Two were certainly lost, Eriseth in far Denariya, the other—Benerod—when his descendants disappeared.
On the other hand, the chaotic embodiment of Fire and Ice would never have given up the struggle. It would have persisted against the unwavering might of the Shield, always testing, always probing, searching for a way in, a way
to return. It could not yet take physical form, so it worked through the agency of others, others it could shape and influence.
What if the
alvara
possessed their own foresight, their own wisdom? They had been created to defeat the armies of Fire and Ice, but afterward, Khored and his brothers had hidden them, preserved them against a time when the monstrous evil might rise again. Through the ancient magic, she had glimpsed shadows of chilling cold, of infernal flame, long slumbering but now rising from its prison, gathering strength.
The jointed limbs of Qr, agent of Fire and Ice, stretched across the Golden Land. Something moved in the world, something of frozen fire and shadow. In his greed, Cinath had become its pawn, its unknowing ally.
Could one woman succeed when so many strong men had failed? But she had no choice. She alone bore the heart of the Shield.
Tsorreh opened her eyes and the world leapt into focus. Calm settled over her like a mantle. Something akin to a thrill danced up her spine, and her heart sped up, as if she were preparing to flee. No, not to flee. To stand firm. To witness and remember. To endure until the time came to act.
There was a commotion at the door. The guard opened it a crack and spoke to someone outside.
“Come on, then,” he said, turning back to her.
Tsorreh went with him, trying to prepare herself for the worst. She did not know how she would find the strength to resist the questioning of the Qr priests, having tasted their mental powers at Gatacinne. There was no point in wasting her energy on worry. She would simply find a way. There was no other choice.
To her surprise, the guard proceeded along the spacious corridor leading back to the Justice Hall. He led her back through a series of public chambers. Nobles and courtiers stood talking or moving about on their own business. A few turned to stare as she passed, with an impersonal disapproval directed more at her slave’s dress than herself personally.
Neither Lord Mortan nor the Qr priests were in sight.
At a side entrance, the guard turned her over to another man, obviously of lesser rank, who was positioned by the door. Tsorreh listened in amazement as the senior guard gave orders to take her back to Lord Jaxar’s compound.
F
OR the rest of the day, Tsorreh waited anxiously for Jaxar to return from the Hall of Justice. She wanted to know why she had been released, but more than that, she fretted for the safety of her friend and protector. Had she compromised him? Would Cinath, volatile and headstrong, turn against his own brother? And what was the role of the Qr priests in the investigation? She paced the laboratory, moving restlessly between the work tables and bookshelves, and tried to concentrate.
Hoping to divert herself, she turned to the laboratory equipment. They had lost an entire day on Jaxar’s latest project, compiling measurements of the Dawn Star’s rising and setting. Jaxar had entertained the notion that the bright, constant body was a species of stationary comet. Now Tsorreh spread the charts and notes across one of the tables and stared at them. Even her own script looked alien, as if it had been penned by someone else.
As the hours passed without a sign of Jaxar, she feared the worst. Even if the Ar-King had not detained him, the day might have overtaxed Jaxar and caused a relapse. Hunger stirred, heightening her fatigue. She went down to the kitchen long enough to gulp down a bowl of cold barley
stew and learn that Jaxar had returned to the compound as he had left it, in a litter.
Danar came into the laboratory just past sunset. As he closed the door behind him, she leapt to her feet.
“Your father? How is he?”
“He’s resting. Asleep, I think. Oh, Tsorreh!” Danar looked stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think to send word to you. I’m a graceless lout to have caused you even a moment of worry!”
Tsorreh’s legs threatened to give way under her. She lowered herself to the nearest bench. “Tell me, what happened after I was taken away?”
Danar hung his head, shaking it like a whipped dog. “I know no more than you do. Father said only that you are free. Well, as free as you were before.”
“And he is well? He has not had another episode? A seizure of the heart?”
“No, no, he is only tired. He says that he will speak with you tomorrow morning, if you will have breakfast with him in the garden.”
Tsorreh would much rather have gone to Jaxar immediately, but her own anxiety was hardly reason enough to disturb the rest of a friend, ill and exhausted. At least, he was safe. One night of waiting for further details was a small enough burden.
* * *
She arose the next morning as light spread across the eastern sky. By the time she entered the garden, birds were singing. Dew sat lightly on grass and vine. A sweet cool freshness filled the air. It would not last long, giving way to the heat of the day. Alone in the garden, she stretched her arms out, wishing she could draw the moment inside herself. She saw, as if for the first time, the care with which the garden had been designed, how the benches and tables were placed, how the trees had been pruned to maintain the illusion of naturalness. She wondered at finding such a haven anywhere in Gelon.
Gelon was not the enemy, this land of builders and engineers, of gardens crafted with artistic sensibility, of hodgepodge riches. Was it Cinath’s own ambition that allowed Qr to gain a foothold? Or had these events been set in motion by the gradual dispersal of the
alvara
?
She doubted she would ever know the answer. Did it matter? She was here, in Aidon, in this jewel-perfect garden on a fresh morning, graced by a moment of joy.
With a pleasant chattering, Astreya and one of the kitchen maids bustled into the garden, bowed to Tsorreh, and began to set one of the tables for breakfast. Tsorreh watched, struck by their cheerful energy. Their voices harmonized with the cries of the birds.
Jaxar shuffled into the garden, leaning heavily on his crutch. Tsorreh ran to his side. He smiled and patted her arm as she settled him in his favorite chair, one with arm rests that made it easier for him to get up again.
Tsorreh took her own place beside him. A look passed between them, a shared concern, each for the other. As Danar had said, Jaxar looked weary but not ill. Tsorreh had not thought how she herself appeared, for she had spared little attention for her dress or hair, beyond tying her hair back with a twist of string. Too miserable with worry to consider, she had put on the slave dress again. Jaxar said nothing, but she caught the fleeting moment of sadness in his eyes and resolved to wear the better gown and find a more becoming style for her hair until it grew out fully.
Before they could exchange more than a few courtesies, the girls came back with trays of food and drink. Tsorreh felt uneasy as a plate of bread, hard-cooked eggs, and sliced peaches drizzled with honey was set before her. They had shared many such meals in the laboratory, his private space and her sanctuary, but never here in the family garden. Lycian would not be pleased.
Lycian, she reminded herself, was not here. She raised her goblet of watered apple wine in a silent toast to Lycian’s absence, and drank deeply.
Jaxar sipped his parsley tea, nibbled a little fruit, and
shoved bread crumbs from one side of his plate to the other. Around the periphery of the garden, behind walls of tree and trellised flowering vines, the noises of the morning household work died down.
“Now we will have a modicum of privacy,” Jaxar commented. “It’s taken me years to train them to leave me in peaceful meditation at this hour. Let’s not waste it. I’m sure you want to know about my meeting with Cinath.”
“Yes, I had wondered. It seemed as if he were ready to hand me over to the priests of—” she stumbled over the name, “of Qr.”
“They’re an eerie lot, I agree. Full of superstitious nonsense.”
“Not entirely nonsense, if the Ar-King listens to them,” Tsorreh pointed out.
Jaxar nodded. “Years ago, the Scorpion god had no name. It was one among many nature spirits. I’m glad you don’t shudder and scream at the very mention of scorpions, like Lycian.”
“Even scorpions have their place, even if it is inconvenient for the people who want to live there. I’ve seen them in my own country, and in the Sand Lands as well. Yes, they have venomous stingers, but they use them only to defend themselves and to kill for food. I don’t believe they have any malice in them. But these things depicted on the brow bands of the priests—
these
are not natural creatures.”
“I am not easy at how their power has grown, especially over my brother,” Jaxar said, clearly meaning the priests, not the scorpions. “It’s one thing for silly women to pray to whatever god they think will preserve their figures or give them sons, but quite another when the Ar-King himself, responsible for Gelon and all its increasingly numerous provinces, lends an ear to ambition and superstition. I told him so.”
Tsorreh blinked, for a moment unable to think of what to say. Behind his gentle tones, Jaxar was furious. And frightened.
“You must—” she struggled for words. “You must have been very persuasive.”
“Hmmph. If I don’t speak plainly to him, who will? Cinath boasts that he makes his own decisions. He has always been wary of letting anyone influence him unduly. So he denied their request to turn you over to them. For this time, at least.”
“And next time?”
“What happens next time will depend upon what they offer him and what he believes they can actually deliver.” He paused, running one hand over his face, rubbing the folds of loose skin.
Tsorreh remembered his eyes when he told her of the summons.
I would spare you this. I would protect you if I could.
But flesh and steel and worldly influence could accomplish only so much. Khored had understood this well, which was why he had relied not only on his armies but also on the Shield.
“I am grateful for everything you have done on my behalf,” she said in a voice that quavered a little. “You have been my true friend.”
“And will continue to be so,” Jaxar replied. “Together we will face whatever comes. I have as much at stake here as you do, child. He is my brother, after all, and I love him. I also love my country, and my family and friends, all of whom will suffer grievously if Cinath succumbs to this nonsense.”
He may not have a choice.
The thought flitted through Tsorreh’s mind. For just an instant, she saw Cinath, whom she once hated, as a victim, even as she was.
But he is still responsible for his crimes. He has caused so much pain, so much death and destruction!
she thought.
It goes on, even today, in Meklavar and here in Aidon.
“In the meantime,” Jaxar went on, “we must do nothing to provoke him. I’m sorry I could not protect the other suspects. I have only so much influence over my brother when he has set his mind on a course of action. I must choose wisely what is important and which arguments to make.”
From somewhere in the compound, a lone bird called. Jaxar drew a shallow, wheezing breath. “We must not risk
your leaving the compound, even escorted, not until this furor dies down.”
So she was to be a prisoner after all. Longing pierced her, to hear her own language, to see faces of the same golden color as hers, to catch the familiar smells of cedar and cinnamon and myrrh. How could Jaxar understand? He would have been content to never leave his precious laboratory except to observe the stars from the roof. He meant well and would doubtless do whatever he could to make her confinement pleasant. Besides, a prisoner was what she was. What right had she to expect anything different?
Self-pity rang hollow in her mind. It reminded her of the whining of locusts, petty and paltry, yet corrosive.
“If I cannot leave the compound,” she said, frowning, “then how will I get medicine for you—”
the next time you fall ill?
Would he agree to send Danar? Or Astreya? Would Breneya allow it, when anyone seen entering the residence of a Meklavaran might become a suspect herself?
Jaxar laid one hand on hers and gave her a fatherly smile. “I shall take great care to remain in good health.”
There was a second reason why Tsorreh must seek out Marvenion, one she dared not even consider in Jaxar’s presence, lest he, with his perceptiveness, suspect. She must find a way to warn Marvenion of what had happened at the interrogation, that he and every other Meklavaran in the city were now in even greater danger.
* * *
Tsorreh waited another two days, two days of quiet work in the laboratory, venturing out into the main part of the compound for only the briefest and most necessary reasons. Jaxar made no remark about her subdued disposition, yet she was certain he had noticed it.
A general relaxation of discipline heralded the approach of the Festival of The Bounteous Giver of Wine. As twilight seeped across the sky, Tsorreh persuaded Jaxar to rest, for they had been working since breakfast on an experiment
concerning the refractive qualities of glass. For once, she had no further responsibilities. Danar had finished his reading assignments and gone off to visit friends, who would probably then attempt to elude their bodyguards and go tavern crawling. On this warm evening, many of the servants had been given time off to attend the festivities, according to tradition.
It was not difficult to creep out the gate and make her way down the hill. People thronged the major streets. Many of them were already drunk, and no one took notice of one more celebrant. She wore the fine dress Jaxar had given her, but without the distinctive ivory clasps.