WATER filled Tsorreh’s ears. It rushed through her head like the wind over moon-silvered grasses, like the rustling of a thousand eagles’ wings. Something twisted the back of her robe. The next moment, she found herself half-inside a wooden boat. Her belly lurched sickeningly, her body shuddered, and she spewed forth a stream of acid-laced river water.
A man loomed over her, his skin the color of bronze in the light of a lantern suspended from some unseen support. Gray-streaked hair swept back from a high forehead. Eyes glinted beneath shaggy brows. His skin was weathered and his nose long and straight.
Not a Gelonian face, she thought dazedly. But not Meklavaran, either.
The stranger pulled her the rest of the way into the boat, rolling her on her side. She retched again. Unable to speak, she tried to reach out to her rescuer. Her body shivered so violently that she flailed about ineffectually. The man rummaged around at the other end of the boat and brought out a blanket. He wrapped it around her as tenderly as if she were a baby.
“Thee is safe now, daughter. That’s it, just breathe slowly. The sickness is because thee has swallowed so much water. It will pass.”
She knew this man—she could not place him—she ought to fear him . . . and yet, every syllable of his speech conveyed reassurance.
“I mean thee no harm,” he hastened to say. “Thee is safe now. Safe.” Despite his expression of concern, he kept his gaze averted, avoiding looking directly at her. “Here, let us get thee out of the bilge water. This little boat, steady as she is, is also a bit leaky.”
With gentle, strong hands, the stranger helped her to sit. She was shivering too hard to balance on the bench, so he cradled her against his own body, his arms around her. She sensed no threat from him, only fraternal kindness.
Warmth seeped into her from the man’s body. She was still sick and disoriented, but after a time she felt strong enough to sit on her own. Her rescuer bent to the oars. Night and river-damp air flowed gently past. Her body swayed with the rocking of the boat. She wavered between elements, water and wind and the dying embers of magic within her.
A time later, she could not be sure how long, the motion of the boat changed. They had come alongside a dock. A grassy hillside rose beyond the rough wood planking. Lights bobbed in the distance, growing closer.
Two men, bearing lanterns, emerged from the shadows. They wore belted robes cut at mid-calf length and tied about the waist with lengths of braided rope. The younger, hardly more than a boy, wore sandals, but his elderly companion hurried forward on bare feet. Neither had been shaved bald like the priests of Qr, and this reassured Tsorreh.
“Is it thee, Brother Benthos?” the younger cried. “Thee was gone so long, we feared something had gone amiss.”
Benthos? No, that name was not right.
On seeing Tsorreh, the younger man covered his eyes. The elder looked down at his feet and exclaimed, “What has thee found? A poor soul, rescued from the river! Truly, the Lady gives life to all. We are blessed!”
“Take this woman inside and set her before the hearth,” Brother Benthos said. “I will come as soon as I have secured the boat.”
“I will help thee,” said the younger man.
“Mind thy knots, then.”
“Come, my child.” Still looking away, the old man gestured to Tsorreh. As they went up the path, he handled her as if she were a precious gift.
A short distance beyond the dock, they began to climb. The lantern cast a wavering light over the narrow path. To each side, grasses tangled with vines and an occasional low, shrubby plant. Within a few paces, Tsorreh faltered. It felt as if the river still dragged at her. She concentrated on taking just one more step, but each time, it was more difficult to lift her foot. The dregs of Lycian’s poison whispered through her blood. The darkness shifted, and she felt herself falling.
“Lady’s grace!” Surprisingly agile, the old monk caught her in his arms and lifted her. She wanted to weep in helplessness but no tears came. Her head rested against his shoulder, her cheek against the rough weave of his robe.
Up and up he climbed. She felt the tautness of his stringy muscles, the stiffness of his gait, the heaving of his ribs. He held steadily to his pace until he reached the top of the hill. Tsorreh made out a crude wall surrounding a compound. A gate stood partly open. Through it, she glimpsed a stone building and the edge of a garden.
“Please set me down,” she said. “I can walk now. I would not impose on you any further.”
Without comment, he bent so that she slid to her feet. He slipped one hand beneath her elbow, as much to guide her as to keep her from falling. She tried to think clearly, to assess her situation. These monks had treated her with kindness but they did not know who she was.
Beyond the gate, the smoothed dirt of the path became a paved courtyard bounded by a low hedge and beyond them, a dwarfed tree that gave off the fragrance of lemon laurel. From the shadows, she caught a whiff of lavender.
The fragrances swirled together, filling her head. Her senses reeled with them. A light bobbed sickeningly as it approached. Dimly, as if across a great distance, Tsorreh heard the crackle of flames, smelled burning pitch and wood—Meklavar, afire!
No, that was years and miles away . . . The memory of flames engulfed her. Not real, she struggled to form the thought. Not now. That was long ago.
Her vision cleared enough for her to make out the quiet, darkened compound. The torch glimmered in its bracket on the building. She felt the gentle pressure of the old monk’s hand on her elbow.
“Only a few steps further,” he murmured in the soothing tones she herself might have used to encourage a weary child. He guided her to a low building, little more than a hut, on the far side of the garden.
The monk swung the door open and they passed into a narrow room. One end was clearly used as a kitchen and the other was filled with a battered table, cupboards, barrels, and baskets. Strings of onions and bundles of drying herbs hung from the rafters. A small iron cauldron set upon the embers gave off the aroma of rosemary, garlic, and lentils.
Tsorreh sank down onto a bench drawn up before the hearth. The monk wrapped her in a dry blanket and set about stirring the fire to life and preparing a hot drink. She sipped it slowly, tasting chamomile and mint liberally dosed with honey and a medicinal herb she could not identify. Warmth spread through her belly.
Against all expectations, against all odds, and against the plots and machinations of those who wished her ill, she was still alive. Her thoughts were so sluggish, she could not comprehend why. She had been poisoned, she was sure of that much, and yet some force had resisted the insidious soporific, protecting her life.
Some lingering influence of the te-alvar? A miscalculation on Lycian’s part? If only she could think clearly!
The man who had pulled her from the river entered the kitchen, bringing a cool, damp breeze and an armful of reeds. As he set the reeds down on the stone hearth, the light fell full on his face. Tsorreh drew in her breath. She recognized him now—not Benthos, as the old monk had called him, but Bynthos, the captain of the Silver Gull, who had transported her to Gelon after Gatacinne fell.
Before Tsorreh could speak, the elderly monk stooped over the cookpot, ladled out a bowl, and held it out to her. She stared at it, too dazed to recognize it as food.
“Brother Benthos,” the old monk said in hushed tones, “what are we to do with this woman? She will not be strong enough to leave us for some days, I reckon, and she cannot possibly stay in the dormitory.”
“No,” Bynthos replied, still attending to his work. “For tonight, I will make up a cot for her in my workroom. She will disturb no one there.”
“Yes, yes, that would fulfill both our obligation to charity and our vows of chastity. When she has recovered, Father Master will find a suitable sanctuary for her.”
Sanctuary . . . No, that was not right. She should not be hiding, she should . . . she could not think what.
Without further discussion, Bynthos went out again. By the time Tsorreh finished the savory soup, he had returned. Silently and with averted gaze, he gestured for her to accompany him.
They proceeded along a smooth-raked path, past gardens where rows of trellised vines and vegetables shone golden in the light of the lantern, and then to a snug shed. Inside, there was a small table, with racks holding various woodworking tools in precise rows and a set of half-completed cabinets. She could detect no menace in the place, only the smells of fresh-cut wood, linseed oil, and soap.
Bynthos put the lantern down on the table and indicated a cot against one wall. It was no more than a lattice of leather straps on a hinged wooden frame, but her muscles melted at the sight. A folded blanket and pile of women’s clothing were neatly placed in the middle.
After he withdrew, Tsorreh stripped off her clammy gown and pulled on the ankle-length shift. She examined and then set aside the long-sleeved overdress, hanging loose from pleats gathered into a yoke and ornamented with a few lines of unraveling embroidery. The garments were faded, patched, and too big for her, and there were neither belt nor shoes.
A small set of shelves had been built into the corner and on them lay two books. Tsorreh picked one up in trembling fingers.
“I hear the song of the flute,
The flower blooms, although it is not spring
The sky roars and lightning flashes.
Rain falls.
Waves arise in my heart.”
Across the chasm of a century and more, the dead poet Cilician poured out her longing. Tsorreh had read these very words aloud that first night on the Silver Gull, a captive on her way to slavery or death. Bynthos had stood outside the tiny captain’s cabin, listening.
“I had no idea this book contained such music,” he had said.
She woke, warm as she had not been warm in longer than she could remember. At the limit of her hearing, bees hummed. A bird chirped, to be answered by another. When she shifted, leather straps creaked beneath her weight. The edge of a blanket scratched her chin. Every muscle ached.
Eventually she floated up to full consciousness. A rough towel, a chip of soap, and a basin sat on the table beside a pitcher of water and a plate bearing several slices of bread, freshly baked from the yeasty aroma, and two peaches. She found a privy pot under the cot, washed, pulled on the overdress, and sat on the stool to break her fast. The peaches were delicious. She licked the juice from her fingers.
After a discreet knock, Bynthos entered. As before, he kept his gaze averted, moving with a neat efficiency that reminded her of his shipboard tidiness, as he collected the plate and basin.
“Good morning,” she said. “Or is it still morning?”
“Afternoon, lady. Thee had great need of rest.”
“Lady? Bynthos, my old friend! Do you not know me? Or Brother Benthos—I do not know how to call you now.”
For the first time, he met her gaze and looked, really looked at her. “Lady Tsorreh! Can it truly be?”
Smiling, she held out her hands. His work-roughened fingers closed around hers.
“But how—Lady of Mercy, what has happened? How did thee come into the river, as one dead but still alive?”
“I am not entirely sure,” she said. “The last thing I remember clearly is being in Cinath’s prison—”
“Surely, not for these four years!”
“No!” She laughed, despite herself. “Most of those were pleasant enough. For reasons of his own, Cinath gave me into the care of his brother. I could not have had a more benevolent custodian. He became my teacher as well as my friend.”
“I have heard of this Lord Jaxar. He is reputed to be an invalid, too weak to pose a threat to the Ar-King, may-the-Lady-see-fit-to-bless-him-with-compassion, but none has ever accused him of being evil.”
“He is a good man,” Tsorreh said, “a scholar who wishes only to live in peace. Anyone who says otherwise—even the Ar-King himself—is a fool.”
“Lord Jaxar has gained thy loyalty, so he must have some virtue.” His expression turned somber. “But how came thee into prison, with so powerful a protector?”
“In recent months, even Jaxar himself fell under suspicion of treason,” Tsorreh explained. “I wondered if his association with me was the reason or only an excuse to eliminate him. Even a man without ambition, who wishes only to study the mysteries of the heavens, can have enemies.”
And, she reminded herself, Jaxar’s son Danar is heir to the throne after Cinath’s own son, Chion.
“Why seek to eliminate me after all this time?” she wondered aloud, now thinking as much of Jaxar’s wife as of Cinath. “Why now?”
“Thee is queen of Meklavar,” Benthos reminded her.
He was right. For all her protestations, she was too important to overlook. If the Qr priests had known what she had carried behind her breasts, she would never have left Cinath’s presence chamber alive the first time. At least, she need no longer fear for the te-alvar’s fate.
Zevaron! O Holy One, protect him! She had seen in his face and heard in his voice how it had almost destroyed him when he believed her dead for the first time. What must he be suffering now? She must send word to him—or would that place him in even more danger than he might be now?—he would not rest until he’d found her—the agents of Qr would suspect!—they might both end up in the river this time—and who knew how many others besides?
Tsorreh reined in her frantic thoughts, telling herself she must not act precipitously. Better to have Zevaron grieve a second time than to risk his life and the te-alvar. For the moment, she could not help him. She could not help anyone.
So when Benthos asked, “Would the people of Meklavar rise up and follow their queen?” she answered, “I am no general to lead anyone, especially against such a power as Gelon. What could that accomplish but more death? My people have suffered enough already, without fresh retaliation. When he first had me in his clutches, Cinath did not consider me a threat, or he would never have dismissed me to Jaxar’s household.”
She had seen Cinath as her enemy because his ambition had driven the conquest of her homeland. Only later, when she was his captive, did she witness the rising influence of Qr throughout Gelon and particularly upon its monarch. The te-alvar had shown her visions of an even greater power controlling the cult of the Scorpion god, for Fire and Ice cast its malevolent shadow across many lands. Cinath had once been strong and arrogant, and cruel, but now she pitied him, for he was no longer master of himself or his own destiny.
“Much has changed since I arrived,” she commented.
“Aye, that it has. I fear that even the staunchest friendships fare poorly in these treacherous times,” Benthos said, shaking his head. “Once, Meklavaran traders were welcomed here, valued for their honesty and industry. Physicians, too, and scribes. Artisans of all sorts. Aidon’s gates were open to all. Now Cinath’s men search out anyone suspected of sedition, most particularly those of Meklavaran blood.”
During the four years of her captivity, Tsorreh had heard of the increasingly precarious position of her countrymen and had regretted that there was little she could do to help them. She might justify herself by saying that as guardian of the te-alvar, she dared not risk the loss of the magical gem, and she might argue that she had neither the leadership nor skill at arms to defend her people physically, but in the end, she had failed them.
“Times have indeed changed,” Benthos said. “The priesthood of Qr has grown in influence these last few years.”
Qr! Tsorreh shuddered the memory of her encounters with the Scorpion priests and what they served. Her thoughts felt sluggish, as if still chilled by the river. She felt exhausted. Hopeless. Failed, I’ve failed those I ought to have served.
“They say Qr will tolerate the worship of no other gods,” Benthos went on, seemingly unaware of her reaction. “I think it must be true, for the Ar-King has ordered the closure of many temples. And Cinath, may-mercy-be-admitted-to-the-courts-of-his-heart, has begun a purge of Meklavaran exiles.”
“A purge?” His words were like arrows, piercing her heart. She could have—should have—found a way to help them. “My poor people! Why do this, when we are already broken and defeated? How can we possibly threaten him?”
“Even a conquered people may exact revenge. My brother monks and I have heard news from thy homeland. They say that a prophet now walks the land, working miracles and preaching sedition. Perhaps Cinath fears the defiance may spread here as well. He could not let thee live, a symbol to rally around.”
Yet Cinath did not deliver the poisoned wine. Perhaps Lycian acted upon his command. She would have been eager to be rid of me. Lycian prayed to Qr . . . and Cinath looked to its priests for counsel. Another thought wound through Tsorreh’s mind, one even more disturbing, that the servants of Qr might have arranged the poison . . . the motive for killing her was not her own death, but the loss of the te-alvar.
“I think . . .” Tsorreh said. “It does not matter, for some will seize any opportunity to eliminate those who stand in their way.”
Benthos nodded. “The Ar-King uses the rumors from Meklavar as justification to tighten his control within his own borders. His agents do not care about the guilt or innocence of those they hunt. But enough talk of the schemes of worldly men! Lady, I would hear more of thy story, if thee will tell it.”
Tsorreh glanced longingly at the cot as weariness swept through her, but she owed Benthos this much. “I remember being taken to a cell below the old temple of Ir-Pilant and remaining there for a time. Then I . . . I must have fainted and been taken for dead. The next thing I knew, I was in the river. How did you find me?”
“As I take my boat out on the river, looking for wreckage we might use in our holy work, I sometimes find the bodies of unfortunates. Most have died naturally or as the natural result of poverty and overwork. Perhaps they had no families or families unable to bury them properly, or even buy a shroud. I bring them ashore and see to their dignity. Often, I fear, they have been cruelly treated. I have never heard of any put into the river while still alive. Can the world have come to this, execution by drowning? Ir-Pilant was always an honorable sect.”
“Perhaps my jailors thought me dead already.”
“Perhaps they were all idiots!” Benthos knotted his hands into fists and, with an expression of chagrin, released them.
“Of all things”—she spoke to break the overlong silence that followed—“I never imagined to meet you again, let alone as you are now. Your life must have changed as much as mine since we sailed together on the Silver Gull.”
“Would thee hear of a miracle?” Bynthos turned to Tsorreh with an angelic smile. “Thee was the beginning of it.”
“I was? How?”
“When thee opened to me the wisdom contained in writing, a fire awoke in my belly. A tiger, a hunger. I read the books in my cabin over and over, always searching for more. I do not mean that I found nothing there, only that as much as I consumed led to an even greater desire.”
“A passion,” she said, remembering her old tutor, Eavonen, whose greatest joy had been the royal library. No one could reach the end of that collection, spanning centuries of careful thought, of soaring poetry, of detailed records of the lives and dreams of an entire people. She did not share that dedication, although she recognized it in others.
“A passion, indeed,” he said, “but not a fate, only a step upon the journey. There is nothing that the Lady cannot use to bring us to her.”
“We say the same of the Holy One.”
“As thee can imagine,” Bynthos went on, “there was no man on my ship, or any other, who understood. My crew were good men, with as much honesty as any that ply the waves, but like I once did, they toil for passing pleasures, gold and wine and women. Each day it felt as if they peered at the bright horizon but never truly saw it. The sea, which had once been my freedom, became my prison. Eventually, when fortune turned against me, I sold the Silver Gull and made my way to Borrenth Springs, home to many scholars. I thought to study with them.”
“To join them?”
“No, not one such as I! I am no learned man, only a sea captain with a little knowledge of my letters. I wished only to read, to listen, to understand what little I could. I took my vows at the temple of the Lady in Borrenth Springs to spend the rest of my days there, in study and service. Then a year ago, the priests of Qr came with orders from the Ar-King. Our small temple and a dozen others were to be given over to the Scorpions.”
Bynthos fell silent, leaving Tsorreh to guess about the fate of the books and his brother scholar-monks. Her old friend had good reason for his animosity.
“We do not question the Lady of Mercy,” he said in a low voice. “She has never abandoned us, and if we do not serve her with our minds, then our hands and strong backs must be enough. Yet I would not have even this measure of peace without thy initial gift.”
She did not know how to answer his gratitude. Indeed, at the time she’d had little idea of any such consequence arising from the book she had read to him. She would not deny even an enemy the treasure to be found in parchment and ink.
Bynthos heaved himself to his feet and began pacing. In his agitation, he slipped back into common speech. “We must get you out of Aidon to a place of safety.”
Going anywhere, except back to sleep, seemed impossible. The small measure of energy that she had felt earlier had disappeared. Her body was still weak from the trials of the night before and her heart from hearing of the renewed sufferings of her people. And Zevaron—oh, Zevaron! She was too tired to think what to do for him. She could hardly keep her eyes open. She half-fell, half-lowered herself to the cot.
“Dear lady . . .” She heard Benthos speak, as if across a great distance. “Rest. Thee is safe here.”