The Seven-Petaled Shield (39 page)

Thessar, his cheeks flushed with drink, was surrounded by women in richly colored, bejeweled costumes, some of them so diaphanous and clinging they bared as much as they concealed. He threw his head back and laughed at something one of them said.

Tsorreh glanced back at Cinath just as recognition lit his eyes. She hunched over even further, although it impaired her view. She had not seen Jaxar or Danar, and it would be far too risky to search for them now. Lycian was undoubtedly nearby, eager to witness every unpleasant moment.

She heard the clink of metal ornaments—a chain, perhaps—and the tread of leather on stone. The guard in front of her stiffened and bowed. His attention was momentarily diverted from her. She remembered, with sardonic half-humor, how she had imagined snatching up a weapon
and attacking Thessar during his victory parade. She knew now that she could not have done it. Taken a knife, maybe, but never used it on a living man. Thessar was a braggart and a bully, but Cinath—and here she dared to lift her gaze, in an instant taking in his face and bearing, the hovering priest, Lycian in her finery at the forefront of the audience—Cinath was a man on the brink of something she dared not name.

“Well, Thessar, here she is.” Cinath’s voice fractured her thought. “Your Meklavaran queen.”

“Not mine, Father. Her dusty little city’s mine, certainly. But
her
…who would want such a scrawny, dark little thing? I mean, look at her! I’ve seen ham-handsomer slaves every say. Every day!”

Good
, she thought.
Let him gloat.
But he was intoxicated, and that made men unpredictable.

Danar, hold your peace.

They were talking again, Cinath and his son and someone else she could not see, but not the priest. Someone was mouthing words about
providing amusement
and someone else uttered a petulant complaint, something about the Xian wrestlers and raising a bet.

“By The Guardian of Soldiers!” That was Thessar again, slurring his words. “What can she do against us?”

Footsteps approached, the guards sprang back, and Tsorreh found her jaw in the grip of a man’s large, powerful hand. Thessar wrenched her head back, turning her face from side to side. His fingers dug into her flesh, pressing her cheeks into her teeth. She tasted blood. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she made no effort to hold them back. Let him see how much he was hurting her. Let him think her weak.

“Bah! Look at her. Sc-scared as a rabbit! I told you before, Father, their women don’t fight, don’t rule. They’re good for nothing but popping out sons for us to kill.”

For the first time, real fear sank talons into Tsorreh’s gut.
Don’t think of Zevaron, don’t remember him.

The next moment, with her head still clamped at a punishing angle, Thessar ran his free hand over her body. He
groped her breasts through the coarse fabric of her slave’s dress, then slid down her belly and between her thighs. She shuddered and almost retched. No man had ever touched her in such a callously brutal manner.

Thessar gave a snort of disgust. He pushed her away, hard enough to send her sprawling. The mosaic floor was hard and cold. A burst of laughter, Lycian’s foremost among them, covered his next words. Someone cried, “Thessar Victorious!” to a round of cheers.

“Celebrate!” Thessar shouted, and people began moving away in his wake.

Tsorreh curled into a ball, drawing in her legs and covering her head with her arms in case one of those elegantly garbed courtiers might think it amusing to step on her. A flurry of light blows landed on her shoulders. Just as she dared to hope she’d escaped the worst, a savage kick slammed into her lower spine. White pain seared her. She glimpsed the edge of Lycian’s gown as the woman glided away.

Moments passed, marked by the galloping pace of her heart.

By the sounds, the chamber was roughly half-empty. A booted foot nudged Tsorreh’s hip, but not hard enough to hurt. It was an attempt to attract her attention, not to inflict pain. She uncurled enough to lift her head. One of the guards gestured for her to get up. She did so, moving carefully because of the throbbing in her back. She did not think her kidneys had been damaged, but it was not going to be easy to walk.

The guards made no move to help her, as if a touch might contaminate them. They led her limping from the hall and along another confusing series of corridors and then, surprisingly, to a narrow room lined with cots of the barest, most meager sort. A slave dormitory, she thought.

Slowly she lowered herself to the nearest cot. When the door closed, leaving her in darkness, trembling shook her. She thought her muscles might wrench themselves from her bones. Her teeth clattered against each other. She felt sick and numb, all at once.

It’s over
, she tried to tell herself.
I’m safe.

But it wasn’t over, and she wasn’t safe, insisted another part of her.

She lay there, racked by wave after shuddering wave until the spasm had run its course. At last, lassitude crept over her, a weariness so deep, she could not resist.

She ought not to sleep, here in the stronghold of her enemies. Here where she had no defenses, no protection, where at any moment someone—a guard, a courtier, Lycian, Thessar—
Cinath himself!
—might come through the door. Her body seemed to think otherwise as a soothing, gold-edged warmth pulsed gently between her breasts. Just as she lost consciousness, a thought came to her.

It is not over. It is only beginning.

A
S the mild Gelonian winter faded, a flurry of rainstorms passed over the city. The sky turned to patterns of white and gray, with only fleeting patches of blue. Between squalls, a light, persistent drizzle misted the air. It became impossible to stay really dry, and the older servants complained of pain in their joints.

Tsorreh felt cold all the time. The damp penetrated her bones. She never mentioned it, for she knew she was not ill, merely uncomfortable. Jaxar, for all his reticence on the subject of his physical ailments, was clearly suffering. He left the compound infrequently and then he was forced to use a litter. Even Lycian, who normally preferred to display herself on her elaborately caparisoned onager, called for a curtained sedan chair.

Danar cheerfully summoned his bodyguards to accompany Tsorreh wherever she wished to go, which was usually to fetch more medicines or to consult Marvenion on the adjustment of dosages. Jaxar suffered only one minor attack, which was quickly resolved.

Finally the storms ended and the days lengthened. The air turned sweet and mild. Flowers burst forth in every garden, every planter along the boulevards, and in pots atop every balcony. Bright new streamers replaced old, rainfaded
decorations. The streets filled with people, abroad for no purpose but their own enjoyment.

Jaxar spent more time outside, often taking his midday meal in the garden courtyard. Danar could not stand to be indoors for long, so Tsorreh found ways to incorporate his language lessons as part of forays into the city.

Despite the increasingly fine weather, the washed-clean brightness of the buildings, the heady smell of the flowers, and the air of general jollity, she often felt a shadowy sense of threat. In Jaxar’s compound, particularly in the quiet solitude of the laboratory, her sense of unease lessened, but it never completely vanished.

Although by now Tsorreh was familiar with the city, its districts and avenues, she felt even more anxious than when she had arrived the year before. She could not shake the feeling that somewhere, just beyond the limit of her physical senses, something had changed. Something was gathering. She tried to rationalize her feeling, for it made no sense. Surely, the threat to her, as a royal captive from Meklavar, was no greater. Thessar had returned, triumphant. She had placated him and thought it unlikely the Ar-King would bother himself with her again. Rumors of resistance to Gelonian rule in Meklavar were just that, talk of complaints and festering resentment, not widespread violence.

After the quietness of the winter, the whole city embarked on a round of spring festivities. Since the Gelon worshiped so many gods, a festival to one or another occurred almost every day. Only the Scorpion god received no public adulation, although it seemed to Tsorreh the priests of Qr were more numerous than before. They looked intent, almost grim, as they hurried about their business or stood in twos or threes at intersections and marketplaces, peering at everyone who passed.

Jaxar attended official ceremonies whenever his presence was required at the palace, along with Danar and a clearly delighted Lycian. Jaxar rarely showed any interest in public celebrations, although he had no objection to other members of his household enjoying themselves. Tsorreh
went with Danar, at his urging, to the temple of The One Who Brings Forth Flowers, and again to The Bounteous Giver of Wine, but shrank from the spectacle of public drunkenness. The chants and dances would be interesting, were it not for that faint, pervasive sense of peril.

Jaxar also received guests at home. During the winter, and before that, when he had been so ill, guests were few. With the increasingly clement weather, there were more frequent social and political visits. Tsorreh was rarely invited. Lycian had cornered her in a hallway early in the season and let her know in no uncertain terms that she was not to draw attention to herself.

Lycian clearly wished to be the center of attention, admired by all. Tsorreh had great difficulty imagining how Lycian, with her fine clothing, extravagant jewels, and golden hair, could possibly see a penniless hostage as a rival. Yet on more than one occasion, she had overheard a snatch of servants’ conversation to the effect that Lycian still suspected Tsorreh of being Jaxar’s mistress. Tsorreh was as horrified as if she had been accused of sleeping with her own father, but she saw no way of denying the charge without raising the issue for renewed scrutiny of either herself or her protector. Lycian had no idea what her husband and Tsorreh did in the laboratory or why they would spend days at a time there, and nights, too—not understanding the opportunity offered them when the sky was clear and the far-seeing lenses opened the heavens’ new and glorious vistas.

Jaxar would sometimes shut himself and his guests in the outer room of his chambers. No one except Danar and, on occasion, Issios, would be admitted. These special visitors were often, though not always, men of rank and importance. At first, Tsorreh thought that Jaxar chose the impressive formal chamber to subtly remind them of his status as the Ar-King’s brother. She noticed, however, that he emerged from these meetings somber and weary. Often he would rest afterward, rather than return to the work he loved. The other advantage of this location was that, because the only access to the rest of the house was through the little entry
hall, it could be easily protected from eavesdroppers with a single guard placed outside the door. No one, not even Lycian, dared disturb Jaxar and his guests.

One afternoon, Tsorreh finished the notations from the previous night’s astronomical observations, cleared a portion of one of the work tables for a desk, and took out the book she had been attempting to translate. The ink had faded so badly that, in many places, the writing was impossible to make out. She had tried to decipher its contents on her very first day. Since then, in her spare time, she had begun to transcribe those sections she could understand, a few phrases in Gelone and in archaic Isarran, and figures she thought were numbers, perhaps a form of Denariyan notation. Taking out several volumes written in various Denariyan scripts, she searched for similar symbols, anything that might give her a clue. The scholarly work reminded her of home and brought a small measure of comfort. Her results also diverted Jaxar from whatever was distressing him, probably the Ar-King’s renewed territorial ambitions in Azkhantia.

A tap at the laboratory door interrupted her. She straightened up, feeling the stiffness in her neck and shoulders after having bent over the table for so long. It was one of the boy servants, the same one she had frightened half out of his wits when Jaxar had been so ill. He still looked as if the slightest frown would send him bolting for safety. She gave him an encouraging smile and waited for him to speak.

The boy stammered that she was to come to Lord Jaxar in his own chambers. “At once,” he added. Tsorreh thanked him, carefully closed the books in order to protect the fragile pages from dust, and hurried out of the laboratory.

As she strode down the corridor leading to Jaxar’s suite, she heard the frenzied yapping of the lap-terrier and saw Lycian about to descend the main staircase. Lycian was wearing spring green today, cascades of silk dyed in subtly different shades and sewn with tiny bangles to give the effect of sunlight dancing through lacy branches.

For an instant their eyes met, and then Lycian whirled away, chin lifted, and swept down the stairs, with three or four of her attendants scurrying behind her. The dog gave a last yip and scampered after its mistress. In that moment, Tsorreh caught a flash of triumph in the other woman’s face.

Tsorreh paused in the entry hall and tried to settle her nerves. She thought she had seen the worst of Lycian’s temperament: jealousy, pettiness, and vanity. Never before had she observed this gloating satisfaction and ill will that ran deeper than mere spite. Lycian was more than a pretty figurehead. Driven by such emotions, she could be capable of great malice.

Tsorreh could break her promise to not escape. She could lose herself in the city. By now, she was no longer friendless, although she knew better than to put her faith in Marvenion’s courage. No, for the moment it was better to trust Jaxar’s integrity and his control over his household. He had never given her cause to do otherwise. With a deep breath, she knocked on the far door and stepped inside.

“There you are, child. Come here. We must talk.”

Jaxar rested on one of the divans, his crippled foot elevated on a cushion-laden stool. A folding table of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver wire held the remains of elegant refreshments, bits of delicate honey-pastries and fruits carved like flowers, a decanter half-full of pale golden wine, and three goblets.