She descended a short distance further before the tunnel leveled out and began to climb again in a series of tortuous switchbacks. It was very narrow here and the walls were rough, yet she felt safe. The air was still, disturbed only by her own passing.
The tunnel branched and branched again. It occurred to her that it would be possible to hide for a long time in these tunnels. Food and water would have to be stored, as well as
torches. But sooner or later, supplies would be exhausted and she would emerge to an occupied city. She was no outlaw, to attack and run, and she was of no use to anyone hidden away.
She eventually found herself in a large, dry cavern. In ages past, a hermit priest had lived here, for a sleeping ledge had been chiseled from the coarse dark rock. More recently, the central chamber and two smaller areas had been put to other uses: wooden platforms stood a hand’s length above the floor and the wicker chests upon them looked new. The lids were tightly woven to keep out the dust. She opened one and found it was half-filled with silk-wrapped packets the size and shape of bound books. In addition, there were a number of lengths of the same fabric. Folding the
te-Ketav
in several thicknesses of silk, she laid it inside and carefully re-fitted the lid.
As Tsorreh turned to leave, a puff of air brushed her face. Her torch revealed an opening at the far end. The breeze gusted again, sending the flame flickering. There must be another opening, a way out of the tunnels, perhaps leading to the hidden mountain trails. If anything happened to her grandfather, she would be able to find her way this far, and the breeze would guide her the rest of the way. She prayed it would never come to that.
* * *
When Tsorreh returned to the royal quarters, the boy Benerod was waiting for her with news that a messenger had slipped through the Gelonian lines. Shorrenon was but a day’s ride from Meklavar and would strike at dawn on the second day.
Amidst the rejoicing and excitement, Tsorreh’s foremost thought was that she had only a little more than a day in which to move the library.
A
FTER a few hours of sleep, Tsorreh awoke, sweating and tangled in the light coverlet. Otenneh was absent, which was unlike her, but she had left a tray of flatbread and thin-shaved cheese, and a pitcher of watered wine.
She threw on her oldest clothes, the same she had worn on the fateful day the Gelon had breached the outer walls, and went to see how Maharrad fared. He was resting comfortably and seemed to be recovering. She told him her plans for the library and consulted him on who she might ask to help take it to the temple. His reaction was not what she’d hoped. He did not approve of her placing herself at risk, he said, although he respected her desire to be of use. Emphasizing that not a single able-bodied man could be spared from the defense of the city, he explicitly forbade her from enlisting others in her scheme. Tsorreh regretted confiding in him, although she understood his concern.
As soon as she could reasonably excuse herself, Tsorreh rushed off to the library. The enormity of her undertaking filled her mind with a feverish urgency, yet if she had not set herself such a task, she would surely have gone mad. What else could she do? Sit idly by while others fought and died for her? She could not,
would not
give up, even if she had to
carry every book and manuscript herself. At least, Maharrad had not given her a direct command.
Even though dawn was still a few hours off, the
meklat
seethed with activity. Every man able to fight, every woman or child able to work the walls, was feverishly making ready. Arrows, stones for slings, even pots of water to boil, were being prepared. All of this took place in an atmosphere of hushed secrecy, so that the Gelon would have no sign of their defense preparations.
The library was not, as Tsorreh had expected, deserted. When she arrived, she found Eavonen and Otenneh bent over a table. Books and scrolls, a dozen or more of each, had been arrayed in neat piles. Otenneh clucked under her breath as she wrapped a book in a length of silk.
Tsorreh felt a jolt of irrational anger that the old scholar had not gone to the temple as she had bade him.
Eavonen looked up, his eyes bright. “I asked myself,” he commented in the oratorical tone he used when reciting from the
te-Ketav
, “what purpose our
te-ravah
might have in examining the contents of the library. What did I know of her nature that might explain it? I know she is reverent, as the granddaughter of the chief priest should be, and that she is courageous, as the wife of the
te-ravot
should also be.”
“From the state of your slippers last night, you’d been to the temple,” Otenneh added.
“A logical place to safeguard our most precious records,” Eavonen said, “provided they are properly protected against damp and dust. I would expect your grandfather to supply a suitably discreet hiding place. Which puts me in mind of a time when he and I were at school together—”
Otenneh shot Eavonen a sharp look. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps that story is better left to another time.”
Tsorreh lowered herself to the nearest bench. “I don’t know what to say. You know what I plan to do?”
“My dear child,” Eavenon said, “do you think you are the only one who sees this place as the real treasure of Meklavar? For is it not written—”
“In short,” Otenneh said briskly, “we came to help.” She
gestured to a large basket of woven leather on the floor beside the table. “I found that in the kitchen. I think it came from the foundry. Will it serve?”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Tsorreh said, acutely aware that amid all her plans, she had not worked out how she was going to carry the books.
“Don’t,” Otenneh said in the same tone she’d used when Tsorreh was a child and in a recalcitrant mood. “Try the basket on for size.”
Tsorreh slipped her arms through the straps and hefted the basket on to her back. Tightly-woven and tough as iron, it was shaped to balance its weight securely against the back. The harness was sized for a broad-shouldered man, not a slender woman, but it fit better than she expected.
In a short time, the three of them had organized and packed the first assortment of records to be taken. Eavonen was too frail to carry even a single load of books to the temple and Tsorreh would not have permitted him to do so against Maharrad’s direct order, but the old scholar’s knowledge of the collection proved invaluable. Tsorreh had been afraid that she would not be able to transport all the books by herself, but between Eavonen’s careful selection and Otenneh’s help in preparation, the end result seemed within her ability, so long as she took her time.
Tsorreh picked up the laden basket. The leather straps creaked under the strain. She drew in a breath, summoning her strength, and hurried on her way. She feared she might encounter someone who would recognize her, even in old clothes and carrying a load like a servant, but everyone was so caught up in the frenzy of the impending battle, no one challenged her. If somebody did ask what she was doing, she was
te-ravah
and answerable only to her husband and her own conscience.
The trip to the temple was longer and more wearying than she’d expected. Perhaps her fears added to the weight of the basket. She passed the outer areas of the temple, weaving through the people who had already arrived. Tenereth was nowhere to be seen in the crowd.
Tsorreh passed through her grandfather’s chamber and into the caves. She placed the contents of the basket in one of the chests on the wooden shelf, well above the rock floor. If anything happened, if she could not return when the city fell, this much of the library might lie hidden in its protective wrappings for a long time—years, decades, perhaps even centuries—before some hermit discovered it. But someone
would
come, she felt the certainty in her bones, and the library’s wisdom would be waiting.
Meklavar will endure. We will wait, and we will remember.
* * *
The following morning, Tsorreh returned shortly before dawn from another trip to the caves. At Otenneh’s insistence, she lay down for a short time and tried to sleep. She closed her eyes, caught up in an almost preternatural awareness, as if she had been touched with a prophet’s dreaming vision. All around her, she felt the city, the men with their weapons ready and prayers upon their lips, the few remaining horses mouthing their bits in anticipation, the families sitting together, some women weeping, others clutching one another, and the herder children crouched behind the parapet along with those few archers who did not go out with the others. In the market city, she sensed skirls of fear, of festering wounds, of meals eaten quickly, and the thousand small activities of life now held in abeyance.
Benerod, who had become a private messenger between Tsorreh and Maharrad, knocked gently at the door. Tsorreh was instantly alert, her heart pounding. She slipped from the bed, her feet noiseless on the cool rock floor. Otenneh opened the door.
“
Te-ravah
, the signal has come. The
te-ravot
is waiting for you. They all are, to take their leave.”
With solemn pace, Tsorreh, and Otenneh followed Benerod to the central hall and through the main doors into the courtyard. Light washed the eastern sky, for sunrise was almost upon them.
Maharrad waited at the head of his men, mounted on his white horse. Most of the other men were on foot, except for the captains and Zevaron on Shorrenon’s rangy gray. Catching the tension of the men, the horses pranced restively.
Tsorreh took her place in front of the other noble women. A few wept, but most looked dry-eyed with exhaustion and shock. Otenneh waited, a silent shadow, behind her.
Maharrad took up his sword and held it aloft. The blade was desert-made, short and curved. Jewels had been set in the hilt and ancient words of protection inlaid in red gold along its length. The tip quivered, and it seemed to Tsorreh to fracture the light.
He called out, summoning his people to battle. She hardly recognized his voice.
“Arise, defenders of Meklavar! The hour of glory is nigh!” His words carried in the stillness, as if every man, woman, and child held his breath, each heart beat more softly, listening. “For ten generations, we have lived in freedom, following the ways of our fathers. We have watched; we have remembered.”
Tsorreh heard the echo in the minds of the people, the same words in her own thoughts.
We watch. We remember.
The white horse danced beneath Maharrad. Its hooves clattered on the stone paving. “Let our children remember this day, and their children after them! Now we go forth! Now we fight for Meklavar!”
“Meklavar!” they answered. “Meklavar!” Their voices grew from a few isolated cheers to a rushing roar, drowning out Maharrad’s final cry.
Tsorreh caught the sound of horns, some near, some far. The tones reverberated, overlapping. Building.
She waited with the others while Maharrad rode out leading the last of Meklavar’s fighting forces. Every man able to wield a spear or sword or bow, gray-haired or stripling youth, hale or wounded, went with him. Those who were left behind, the women and children too young to
fight, Zevaron’s sling throwers and a sprinkling of lame archers, went to take their places along the
meklat
walls. If the day went badly, here they might make a last defense.
From the height of the
meklat
, Tsorreh noticed movement in the Gelonian encampment beyond the walls. She watched as Maharrad’s mounted forces bore down on the enemy in the marketplaces. The plan was for him to keep them engaged while Shorrenon attacked the flank of the main army.
Tsorreh peered in the direction her stepson would come. Along the foot of the mountain, a swarm of orange lights, torches carried by mounted men, swept toward the city from one of the narrow passes. In the strengthening light, their horses appeared as an undulation of shadows.
As Tsorreh paced the walls, speaking briefly to each defender, she recognized the lanky desert girl who had practiced earlier with Zevaron, taut and silent, dark eyes watchful. She had noticed Zevaron sneaking glances at the girl.
“You are not Meklavaran, I think,” Tsorreh said.
“No, I am desert-bred,” the girl said, in a hesitant, accented voice. “My name is Shadow Fox. My family came here from Kadesh-Birna when I was a babe, and your king granted us pastures for our flocks if we would keep his laws. This we have done and so prospered.”
“How did you come here, to the city?”
“When the men of the Rock Lands”—evidently the name the Sand Lands people used for Gelon—“invaded Meklavar, my family sent three of us here to defend the city.”
“And you came?
You
?” Tsorreh asked, startled that a young woman should be sent to fight.
Shadow Fox smiled, her teeth white against the darkness of her skin. “It is the custom of my people. To the north, the women of Azkhantia ride to battle as well as the men.”
And why not?
Tsorreh thought. Swordcraft required strength and size, but not all combat was fought thus. Surely, this girl could aim a sling or use a bow as skillfully as any
boy her age. She wondered if this was why the steppe riders had resisted Gelon so successfully. What allies those people would make!
Before Tsorreh could say anything more, one of the women stationed near the gates cried out, pointing. The Gelon were falling back from the lower city, keeping in tight formation as they moved toward the outer walls. On the western hillside, mounted men raced toward the city.
“Shorrenon is here—look what an army he brings!”
“He will save us!”
“Look, there they are!”
“He’s come! The
ravot
has come!”
Tsorreh’s breath caught in her throat. Around her, people cried aloud, some weeping, some dancing with joy. Others turned to their neighbors, embracing them.
Try as she might, Tsorreh could not make out anything beyond the mass of shapes and clouds of dust. The sun had not yet risen above the line of mountains, so the city and its surrounds were still bathed in diffuse gray light. It would be a clear, hot day.