The Seven-Petaled Shield (53 page)

Wait, wait until he gets closer.
Zevaron forced himself to maintain a state of relaxed readiness.

“Tsorreh?” came Danar’s voice, hushed.

“What is it?” Tsorreh asked, a breath of air, an unseen gesture. “Zevaron’s still asleep.”

“No, we need just you. Don’t worry, Lycian’s already gone to the temple.”

Zevaron lay motionless except for the slow movement of his chest. Cloth rustled as Tsorreh rose, slipped her feet into her boots, and padded softly across the floor. He waited until the footsteps had died away. Then, taking his still-sheathed weapon, he crept from the room and down the stairs.

Muted voices led him to the garden atrium. Morning sun slanted into the open square, but dew still dotted the leaves of the flowering plants. Hidden in the shadows of the arched doorway, he inhaled the spicy perfume of flowers, perhaps those waxy white blossoms, in the freshness of the morning.

Jaxar waited at a little table, which was laid with a basket of breads and a pitcher. A simple white robe, gathered in ample folds at each shoulder, stretched across his rounded shoulders. A little ways off, two burly men in shorter tunics, short swords hanging from their belts, stood watch. Their faces were grim.

Jaxar’s back was to Zevaron, but his words were clear enough.

“…confirms the two men who assaulted my son last night were indeed members of Cinath’s Elite Guards.”

“Alive and captive, he would guarantee your obedience.” Tsorreh did not speak as prisoner to jailor or servant to master, but as one equal to another, and she was clearly worried. “What if Cinath no longer cares about family loyalty? What if he decides to eliminate every rival claimant to his throne?”

“He cannot act openly against me, not yet,” Jaxar said. “He must first discredit me for that to happen. I am still too well-respected and am known to have no political aspirations. No, my dear, I fear we must keep on as we have, working quietly, and give him no cause for retaliation.”

Zevaron thought,
What folly!
They were all mad if they thought that looking innocent and unthreatening would buy them even the smallest measure of safety. It had not protected him on the wharf at Gatacinne, nor had it prevented the Gelonian army from storming the walls of Meklavar. The scattered exiles of his people had done nothing to deserve persecution.

It was only a matter of time before the demands of kinship and custom no longer restrained Cinath. Then it would be too late to take action.

“If my uncle is determined—” Danar began, but broke off as Tsorreh rose.

Her gaze locked upon her son. She must have sensed his presence, for he had made no sound. Jaxar turned, a painfully awkward movement. The two guards started toward Zevaron before Jaxar gestured them back to their posts.

“Have not fear,” Tsorreh said. “My son will not betray us.”

Danar scowled. “I’m not so sure. He did threaten us earlier.”

“Zevaron, you need not hide in the shadows,” Jaxar said. “Come, join us. You have done us all a great service, both in saving my son’s life and in bringing to light this most recent plot. Again, I offer you my deepest gratitude. Now that you know the situation, for by your expression you understood what you overheard, you must surely realize why I cannot give you what you ask. Tsorreh herself is in agreement.”

But I am not.

They were interrupted by shouting and pounding from the direction of the front door, punctuated by cries of alarm from the house steward.

“Open up in the name of the Ar-King! Out of our way!”

Zevaron whipped his sword free, strode into the middle of the atrium, and shoved Tsorreh behind him.

“What are you doing?” Danar cried. “You fool, put that away!”

An instant later, a handful of armed Gelon burst into the garden. They wore sashes of blue and purple across their chest armor and carried drawn swords. Zevaron counted seven, including a tall, lean man in an officer’s helmet. Jaxar’s two bodyguards had started forward, hands on their own weapons, but now they hesitated and bowed to the officer.

“Well, Mortan,” Jaxar said without raising his voice, “you have a rather unorthodox method of inviting yourself to breakfast.”

The officer approached Jaxar. “This is no jest, Lord Jaxar.” He pointed at Zevaron. “Tell your man to put down his sword.”

Zevaron maintained his defensive stance. The Gelon
quickly took up their positions around the atrium, barring escape.

“Under the circumstances,” Jaxar said, “I disagree on the wisdom of compliance. Not without an explanation.”

“Don’t abuse my patience by pretending ignorance. You know full well that I have come to arrest you.” The officer brandished a scroll tied with blue and purple ribbons. “Cinath himself signed the orders. For both you and the Meklavaran witch.”

In a glance, Zevaron assessed the situation in terms of combat. He could take three of them, maybe four, before their numbers overwhelmed him. He could not count on the bodyguards, who clearly deferred to the Gelonian officer. Jaxar would be of no use, but if Danar had the wit and will to fight, it just might be possible—

“Indeed?” The mildness of Jaxar’s voice did not lessen, but now Zevaron heard the steel beneath the honey. Jaxar held out one swollen hand for the scroll.

The officer placed it on the edge of the table, then stepped back. Zevaron wondered what he had to fear from an obviously ill man.

Witch
, Mortan had called Tsorreh. Rumors of Meklavaran sorcery sprang to Zevaron’s mind.

Jaxar picked up the scroll, slipped off the ribbons, and read it. No shift of expression showed on his bland features, only a slight tensing of his brows. “I fear you have been taken for a fool, my friend,” Jaxar said. “A jape has been committed by a rival, designed to embarrass you and set back your career. These charges cannot possibly be serious. They claim I have plotted with ‘the Meklavaran witch’ to murder Prince Thessar, overthrow my brother, and free Meklavar.”

“Everyone knows my father never meddles in politics,” Danar interjected. He peered over his father’s shoulder at the scroll. “Are you sure that’s really the Ar-King’s signature?”

“My son makes a good point.” Jaxar looked more closely. “It could well be a forgery. Leave it here with me. I will take
it to my brother—discreetly, of course—and begin an investigation.”

For an instant, Mortan looked uncertain. Then his features hardened. “Lord Jaxar, there may be some question about your own complicity. I am not in a position to say. But there is no question of
hers
.” He pointed past Zevaron to Tsorreh. “
She
has no loyalty to Gelon, and she has every reason to wish the Ar-King harm. It is said that Prince Thessar met his death by black Meklavaran magic, and who better to wreak such vile treachery than the exiled Queen herself?”

Mortan gestured to his men. “Seize her!”

Zevaron lunged at the nearest soldier, using the distracting, circular sword technique of the Denariyan pirates. The Gelon reacted to the feint. The next moment, he went down, clutching a deep cut across one thigh. Two others took his place.

Zevaron was no longer thinking, planning. The steel became a fluid extension of his own arm. His body moved, perfectly placed to seize each opening. Another Gelon spun away, hand bleeding. His sword clattered across the tiled floor.

“Hold!” someone shouted, a word like dust on the wind.

“Stop! Zevaron, stop this now!”

At the sound of his mother’s frantic voice, Zevaron faltered. The next instant, he felt the tip of a sword in the hollow at the base of his neck. He opened his hand and let his own weapon fall. Rough hands grabbed him and spun him around. At the edge of his vision, he glimpsed Tsorreh in the grip of a Gelon, one arm twisted behind her back and a knife blade at her throat.

“No more!” Jaxar cried, his voice rough with emotion. “I will come with you, but let there be no further shedding of blood on my account!”

“What about this one?” said the soldier who held Zevaron.

“The penalty for interference with the Ar-King’s business—and that includes threatening his agents—is death.” Mortan turned away, as if he did not care what his men did.

I’ll kill you!
pounded through Zevaron’s skull.
I’ll kill you all!

“No!” Danar cried. “He is not to blame! As my bodyguard, he was only doing what I hired him to do. It is the law—the Ar-King’s own law, from the time of Sestos of Undimmed Glory, may-his-name-be-revered-forever—that a servant cannot be held responsible for following the lawful commands of his master.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Jaxar’s wheezing breath sounded worse than ever. One of the wounded soldiers groaned as his fellow helped him to his feet.

Finally Mortan said, “This matter can be taken up later. No one was killed, after all, and a fighting man’s scars carry no shame. Come, we must conduct these two prisoners to the palace. The sooner they are in custody, the sooner they will be tried, and this whole miserable business will be finished.”

Mortan agreed grudgingly to let the two household bodyguards accompany Jaxar, to physically assist him and make sure his needs were seen to, but without their weapons. When they were gone, the atrium fell silent. Zevaron stood as the Gelon had left him, a trickle of blood running down his chest.

Danar lowered himself into one of the chairs. Zevaron met Danar’s gaze and saw in those gray-green eyes an expression of the same anguish that he himself felt. His hands ached for a sword, but the Gelon had taken his.

“Quickly, let us arm ourselves and go after them!” Zevaron said.

“I don’t think—” Danar broke off at the sound of light footsteps and a woman’s voice in the entry hall. “May all the gods of Gelon save us! My stepmother’s home.”

L
YCIAN swept through the front door, demanding to know what all the uproar was about. When Danar told her, she shrieked, fainted, and had to be carried to her bed. Servants wailed, echoing the sentiments of their mistress, and rushed about.

With Zevaron close behind, Danar stormed up to the laboratory. Apparently, this was the only place in the house where privacy was to be found. Danar muttered beneath his breath as he cleared away a space on the central work table, brought out lists of names and rolls of paper, and began writing.

Zevaron could not follow the details of Danar’s plan, not even when Danar explained he was sending letters of appeal to his father’s closest allies.

What was the point of
writing
? Zevaron shot back. Tsorreh and Jaxar were in the hands of the enemy! To have found her after all these years, and then to have her taken away…Anything might happen while they stood idly by. They had to follow—

“And do what?” Danar demanded, scrambling up from the desk to block Zevaron’s path. He grabbed Zevaron by the shoulders. “Get yourself arrested as well? What good can that accomplish? You idiot, the only reason you’re still
at liberty is because I managed to convince them you’re my bodyguard. So act like one! Guard me—right here!”

Zevaron wanted to jump out of his bones, to hit something, to
act
. Grudgingly, he admitted Danar was right. Alone, he had no hope. He could not force his way into Cinath’s stronghold.

“Give me something to do,” Zevaron begged. “Carry messages, carry water, stack stones, mend ropes—I don’t care.”

Danar released him. “I must advise Father’s friends about what’s happened. Our best hope is to make this arrest known among the noble houses. Their outrage will be our strongest weapon and our best chance of making my uncle see reason. You can’t help me write to them, I’m afraid.”

One corner of Danar’s mouth quirked upward. “The most useful thing you can do for the moment is to keep my stepmother away from me. She’ll come out of her faint any moment now and throw the entire household into hysterics. Jonath and Haslar went with Father, so I’ll need the other servants free to deliver the letters.”

Zevaron grimaced. Lycian was the last person he wanted to deal with, even if Danar thought he, Zevaron, could handle her. “You’re sure there isn’t a latrine that needs scrubbing out instead?”

“You wanted something to do, didn’t you?” Danar turned back to the desk, the half-smile fading. “Once these are finished, we can plan our next step. With the most influential men in Aidon watching, Uncle Cinath wouldn’t dare—won’t dare—he—there will be a trial. We must be prepared.”

Zevaron did not know if a trial would be a good thing or not. He certainly didn’t place any hope in Gelonian justice. Captured pirates were executed summarily. In Denariya, the injured party or his kin, if he were slain, brought charges and, more often than not, were granted leave to exact vengeance, according to a complicated traditional code.

“…so we’ll need to know exactly what evidence will be brought,” Danar was saying.

“How can there be evidence of something that never happened?” Zevaron asked. “That doesn’t even exist?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before! Father always—he always…” Danar’s voice faltered. He blinked hard. With visible effort, he calmed himself. “That’s why we need help. Advice on what to do, how to make my uncle see reason. So please, let me get to it. We will take action, I swear to you. We
will
.”

Unexpectedly moved, Zevaron bowed and left the laboratory. What would he do in Danar’s place? He was even less equipped to deal with the tangle of Gelonian jurisprudence than Danar. Nothing Chalil had taught him would be of any use. He could not slash or sail or bargain with this enemy.

I have to do something! I cannot lose her again!

*   *   *

When Zevaron arrived at Lycian’s chamber, she was sitting on a brocaded divan, one maidservant fanning her face with an elaborate concoction of ostrich plumes and silk ribbons, another bathing her feet and hands with lavender-scented water. The white dog lay curled at her feet.

Zevaron explained that Danar had instructed him to protect her. Lycian pursed her lips. Her eyes narrowed as if she were noticing him for the first time and did not like what she saw. Or maybe liked it too well, which thought appalled him.