PAUSING for breath, Danar gazed down the sloping, rock-strewn hillside that led to the city of Meklavar. Although the worst of the disorientation seemed to be over, he did not know what he would have done without Tsorreh’s guidance in those first days after receiving Benerod’s gem. Most likely, he would have gone mad. He thought of Zevaron’s mysterious illness as they fled Aidon. That had been no natural malady but the disorientation—the utter collapse of reason—as the crystal roused to life.
They had just emerged from the barren lands north of the city, Danar on foot and Tsorreh on the scrawny donkey that was the best available when they’d reached the far shore of the Dawn Sea. Before them, the ancient citadel of Meklavar shimmered in the light, its walls and towers stark against the volcanic cliffs. From its highest towers, he reckoned, the Dawn Sea might be visible on a clear day. To the west, where the sun was now setting, peaks rose in jagged rows. A garrison dominated the area outside the main gates, a palisade encircling rows of unadorned wooden barracks. Beyond a perimeter of bare earth lay livestock pens and a village.
Shielding his eyes, Danar strained to see the contours of the Var Pass, gateway to the spice lands of Denariya. “Shall we arrive at the city gates before dark?”
“I think we should not try tonight. For all we know, the gates are locked at sunset. We might draw attention to ourselves simply by arriving past curfew.”
Danar stared at the outlines of low buildings, yards for livestock, and a few pitiful garden plots. “We’d best seek lodging in the village.”
“And news as well. Before the fall of Meklavar, Viridon was head of the House of Cassarod. I do not know if he himself possessed the red alvar, the one that embodies courage, although I presume so. I encountered his younger son, Setherod, in Aidon, and I am certain it was not in his keeping. Either Viridon never had it or he passed it on to his older son.”
“Ganneron, yes. You said he might know of the other two—Shebu’od and Dovereth, right? They stand for purple and strength, and yellow and truth.”
“You remember your lessons well.”
“I am my father’s son,” he replied.
“And that must surely give us cause for hope.”
“I grew up with the hundred gods of Gelon. These are simple by comparison, with only seven sets of colors and attributes.”
The smile faded from her face. “I don’t think there’s anything simple about them. But let us not borrow trouble, debating which system is more complicated.”
The village was very much as Danar had expected, ramshackle buildings smelling of the sheep and goats in the pens, of strange spices, smoke and grease, and raucous with a dozen different tongues. At Tsorreh’s insistence, they entered an inn that, while not of the poorest quality, was hardly luxurious. Danar suspected, by the pointed lack of curiosity as they found places in a corner of the common room, that very little of what transpired in this establishment was legal. No one here would willingly attract the attention of the authorities.
As they ate, Danar sifted the mood of the patrons, catching references to a prophet who might be a rallying point for rebellion, accusations and excuses regarding the Meklavaran governor, and the price of Mearan amber. He suspected that Bynthos would have a great deal to say about the latter. There was less grumbling about Gelonian rule than he’d expected, although many of these men were local laborers working on various projects, including improvements to the road over the Var Pass. Once he thought he heard a comment about Qr, but the conversation passed on so quickly, he could easily have misunderstood.
Once in their chamber, for which they had paid double the price of bedding down in the common room, Danar felt it safe to ask Tsorreh what she had observed, but she silenced him with a gesture. The walls were thin, and they could clearly hear footsteps in the corridor outside.
Inspecting the straw pallet that passed for a bed, Tsorreh sniffed in disapproval and picked out a bed-louse. They both made themselves as comfortable as possible on the wood floor. There was very little room, barely enough for Tsorreh to curl up next to Danar. She might have been his little sister. The sounds from the common room died down and the timbers of the inn creaked softly.
“Danar . . .”
“Mmm?” He rolled over, easing the pressure of his hipbone on hard floor.
“I think . . . it’s not as bad as I had feared. I don’t think conditions . . . are as harsh as they once were.” The last time Tsorreh had seen her home, it had been in flames, its defenders dead or dying.
“We should be careful,” Danar said, “until we know who is trustworthy.” There had been strangers aplenty in the common room, men glad to exchange gossip for a drink or two.
“I think it’s safe to enter the city with the morning traders. We must arrive early, as the gates open two hours before dawn, or as they did when I was last here. We’ll make our way to the markets of the lower city. The men I want most to contact live—lived—in great houses up on the meklat, but I cannot tell what might happen if we tried to pass through the King’s Gate. Assuming”—she lowered her voice—“it still exists.”
Sleep came for Danar slowly, but it came deep. He awoke to the sounds of Tsorreh moving about the room. A faint light showed between the shutters. She set something down on the single, rickety chair. Danar discovered it to be a pitcher of water, clean enough and cold. He splashed his face, scrubbed cheeks bristly with several days’ growth, and raked damp fingers through his hair. He had no illusions that these measures improved his appearance, not that anyone in this district would care, but he felt better.
A short time later, they joined a stream of traffic heading through the garrison gate. Men pushing carts rubbed shoulders with women bent under enormous baskets, and trudged beside laden donkeys and camels, or strings of goats. Here and there, Danar heard a voice shouting out in Gelone. Through the rising dust, he glimpsed the glint of armor or spearpoint, or the outline of an onager-pulled chariot.
Gelonian guards watched the people entering the city. Danar dared not let his gaze rest on them for more than an instant or two. These men might appear bored from having been posted to such a distant city, policing a population that was already subdued, but they were trained soldiers. Anyone who voluntarily attracted their attention was either foolhardy or dimwitted.
Inside the gates, a single avenue led to the market squares and mercantile districts in the lower city. Danar stayed close as Tsorreh edged to the outside of the stream of traffic. Once free of the throng, they headed down a side street. From his own youthful misadventures, Danar recognized the signs of decay, the cracked and begrimed paving stones. Two men in dark, shapeless clothing came their way, heading toward the market. Danar tensed. His hand went to the hilt of his knife. The larger of the two glared at him, eyes narrowing. His companion shook his head and muttered in Denariyan. Danar let out his breath when the two men passed.
Tsorreh was trembling, her breathing fast and light. Danar cursed himself for expecting that once they’d made it to Meklavar, everything would be fine. This was her city, but not her world. He had known her as a captive and servant, but in truth she had lived most of her life as an aristocrat. In fact, so had he. What did he truly know of these streets, of desperate poverty? If Zevaron had not stumbled upon him that evening outside a tavern in Aidon’s most crime-ridden district—or rather, come roaring out of the darkness like The Thunderer himself—Danar would surely have been killed or kidnapped and held for ransom. He’d been a fool to venture into such a place in all his finery and then to have gotten stinking drunk. Well, none of those things was going to happen now.
“We’ve got to get out of here.” Gently, he took Tsorreh’s arm. “Let’s check the King’s Gate, shall we?”
As they retraced their steps back through the square, the meklat rose above them like a fortress within a walled city. It looked to Danar as if the enormous terrace had been hewn from the side of the mountain. It would be scalable by Gelonian siege engines, but not easily taken. The wall that bounded its edge was clearly intended for defense, and the stairs narrowed as they ascended. The stone of the walls was cracked and blackened in places.
The King’s Gate had once spanned the top of the stairway, but if any part of it had survived the fall of Meklavar, it was long gone. Instead, a Gelonian soldier guarded each side of the opening, and more stood in a line across the lowest stair. They were checking each person who tried to pass, turning many away. Those they allowed through were either well-dressed in Meklavaran style or else wearing Gelonian armor.
At the sight of the soldiers, Tsorreh’s body went rigid. She halted abruptly, then backed away. Danar hurried after her, certain they would attract attention, but no one called out for them to stop. The people they passed had the air of those who had learned to keep their noses out of what did not directly concern them.
Just as they neared a more heavily traveled intersection, they heard a clamor ahead. Danar’s understanding of Meklavaran wasn’t good enough for him to gather anything more than a riot in the making. He grabbed Tsorreh’s hand.
“No,” she said when he would have pulled her back, “I need to see—to know—”
Through a sudden parting of the crowd, Danar glimpsed a man standing on a platform, exhorting his listeners with lifted arms. In his dust-colored robe, with his unkempt beard and hair, he looked like a madman. Even at a distance, Danar felt the hypnotic pull of the man’s speech. Power resounded through the bronze-toned voice.
Behind Danar’s breastbone, the gem of Benerod came alive.
The next moment, cries of alarm interrupted the speech. Gelonian soldiers poured into the plaza. Their armor glinted in the sun. Danar thought he saw the shaven head of a Qr priest among them, but there was no time for a second look. The audience rapidly disintegrated into a mob. Shouting and shrieking, half the crowd turned to flee. Others pressed toward the speaker, perhaps so entranced they had lost all sense of danger, or else bent on protecting him from the soldiers.
“Iskarnon! Iskarnon!” The cry was taken up throughout the crowd.
A woman rushed past Danar and Tsorreh, yelling, “It’s the Prophet—”
“Aiee! Soldiers!”
“Gelon scum!”
“Run—hide! Run for your lives!”
The next moment, Danar lost sight of the Prophet. He and Tsorreh were surrounded, hemmed in on all sides by struggling bodies. At the same time, the Gelon would not be able to move quickly through the throng, with people pushing and shoving in different directions.
“I’ve heard enough,” Tsorreh said. “Let’s go!”
Danar scrambled to keep up with her as she threaded a path through the milling crowd. Where he saw only an unbroken mass of bodies, she managed to slip through an opening that was not there an instant before. Within moments, she brought them to the edge of the throng. Here luck deserted her, for she bumped into an elderly woman with enough force to send both of them staggering.
“Your pardon—” Tsorreh began, speaking Meklavaran.
“My lady? Can it be?”
The other woman was modestly dressed, her snowy hair covered by a cap of the same black and white printed cotton as her long sleeveless dress. She could easily have been Tsorreh’s great-grandmother, by the wrinkling of her face. In one hand, she clutched a basket covered by a faded blue cloth. The other hand flew to her cheek. Eyes bright as bits of diamond blinked away sudden tears.
“Otenneh?” Tsorreh gasped.
“Come with me!” The old woman rushed off with surprising vigor. Tsorreh followed without a moment’s hesitation. Danar had no choice but to go along.
Shortly, they reached a district of modest shops. In contrast to the market square, the few pedestrians here looked well-dressed and dignified in demeanor. They glanced surreptitiously at Danar with his reddish hair. In this city of gold-hued faces, his fair skin, even though tanned by the better part of a year of travel, clearly marked him as Gelon.
The old woman hurried inside one of the shops and latched the door behind them. Parchment scrolls and bound books lined the shelves to either side, while a central table displayed open volumes and beautifully colored drawings. Danar inhaled the scents of parchment, paper, and ink. His father would have loved this place.
Otenneh bustled them through the shop and beyond a canvas curtain to a room that was barely larger than a closet but furnished with a table and low, cushion-lined benches. An elderly man emerged from one of two doorways. Tsorreh flung her arms around his neck, then embraced the woman as well.
“It is—it cannot be—it is you!” he said.
“We thought—” the woman began.
“We heard you were a hostage in the Gelonian capital,” the old man said, with a glance at Danar that was not entirely friendly.
“So I was, and have since been to Durinthe.” Tsorreh sounded almost too overcome to speak. “I’m home thanks to my friend . . .” Here she hesitated, perhaps wondering if it was safe to let them know who Danar was. Despite their evident devotion to her, these people owed him no loyalty.
“Issios.” Danar gave the name of his father’s steward. He was getting good at thinking up aliases, names so familiar that he would respond naturally to them.
The next moment, all three began speaking again in such rapid and idiomatic Meklavaran that Danar could follow only the most general sense. He gathered that the two were only recently married, and that the old man tutored the children of noble families and his wife managed the bookstore. There was some lively discussion about a library being safe, at which news Tsorreh looked relieved. Danar recognized her own story, her capture and transport to Aidon. She skimmed over her escape from Gelon and said nothing of the alvara or Khored’s Shield. She did, however, mention Sandaron, although the old couple didn’t know who he was.
“And the young ravot?” Otenneh asked with a trace of hesitation, as if she feared that Zevaron had perished in some dreadful way and her question might arouse renewed grief.
“I believe he is well, if far away,” Tsorreh reassured her. “We were separated when the Gelon attacked Gatacinne, but he found me in Aidon quite by chance. It’s scandalous, I know, but he’d spent those four years on a Denariyan pirate ship!”
The old woman looked shocked, but the man chuckled. “That young scamp! He was probably safer among brigands there than here in Meklavar.”
“From Aidon, I went to Isarre,” Tsorreh continued, “while Zevaron and Issios ventured to Azkhantia, hoping to enlist them as allies. When they parted, my son remained with a party of their best warriors.”
“Even better,” Otenneh said crisply, “for not even the Ar-King can reach him there.”
Tsorreh pulled away from another round of embraces and prayers of thanksgiving. She spoke slowly so that Danar could understand. “I forget myself. I have performed only half an introduction. This is my tutor, Eavonen”—to which the old man sketched a bow with an inclination of his head—“and my nurse, Otenneh, who came here with my mother from Isarre.” Her voice caught in her throat, and Danar thought, She thought they were dead. She thought everyone here she loved was dead.
Danar bowed formally. With a nod, Otenneh disappeared into the back of the shop.
“Eavonen, if you are tutoring at the great houses, you must have free access to the meklat,” Tsorreh said.
The old man slipped a cord from around his neck and held out a coin-sized copper token. “These are issued by the governor.”
“My husband’s old councilor, Anthelon!” She peered at the image on the token. “I did not know he was still alive.”
“He took the conquest of the city very hard.” Otenneh came back with a tray bearing a pitcher, cups, and a plate of honey-soaked pastries. She began pouring and handing round the drinks. Danar took a sip and found it to be minted water, and very refreshing.
“Not that he has much power,” Otenneh added. “General Ner-Manir-Thierra is the one who gives the orders.”
Manir! Holy Sower of Mischief! The general’s deceased wife had been a cousin of Danar’s mother. More than that, Danar could not remember a time when Manir had not been his father’s friend, despite Jaxar’s being much older. For a time, before Manir’s military career had strained their relationship, he had spent many evenings playing castles with Jaxar, discussing books and philosophy. Manir would recognize Danar instantly, no matter how well disguised.
Danar wrenched his thoughts from what would happen if Manir should lay eyes on him. He must be careful not to attract attention. But he would accomplish nothing by hiding.
“I don’t think Anthelon would dare to sneeze without the general’s permission,” Eavonen commented dryly.
Cup in hand, Otenneh lowered herself to one of the benches. “Perhaps Anthelon was able to temper Prince Thessar’s moods—well, the less said about that one, the better—how vindictive he was in those first years, the delight he took in exacting his revenge. Ah! ’Twas a blessing ravot Shorrenon did not survive and you, my dove, were safely gone.”
Too ashamed to meet the eyes of these people, Danar bent his head. How could they fail to regard him as an enemy, blood kin to those who had oppressed them and still did so?
My uncle did this, and my cousin. My people waged this war. A pulse of green swept through him, whispering, All shall be set right in the right time.
All would be well, he promised himself, because he would make it so.
“There is no one so lost that he cannot be redeemed,” he heard Tsorreh say. “Is that not what the holy texts teach us?”
At her words, Danar caught a fleeting hint of reverence in the eyes of Eavonen and Otenneh. Did they hope Tsorreh had returned to lead her people to freedom? To get them all killed in a futile gesture of glory? He thought he knew the Meklavaran temperament from all the books he had studied, but now he saw that he had understood nothing.
“. . . and there will be a time for reckoning, for the healing of all harms,” Tsorreh finished. After an awkward pause, she shifted to a new topic. “I have heard very little news of home. What is the standing of the great houses?”
“After the fall of the city, there were pockets of resistance,” Eavonen said, carefully not looking at Danar. “Anyone Thessar suspected was executed. Every noble family lost at least one member.” He went on, mentioning names Danar did not know.
Tsorreh’s face tightened as she listened to tales of men killed and their children sent away, into exile or slavery, this house shut up or that one given over to another family, others cowed into loyalty.
“And what of Cassarod?” Tsorreh ventured to ask when Eavonen’s recitation waned. “Is it true that old Viridon died?”
“Ganneron is now head of that house,” Eavonen replied. “I am not sure of the fate of his younger brother. He had gone abroad, or so it was said.”
“I must speak with Ganneron of Cassarod,” Tsorreh said, “although I do not know how I might enter the meklat in my present state.”
Otenneh slipped one arm around Tsorreh’s shoulders. Tsorreh was a small woman, but Otenneh was even smaller. “My dear lady, that is no problem at all. Eavonen and I may live here behind the bookshop, but as I told you, he tutors for the noble families above. A little soap, some decent clothes, my token of passage in your hand, and you may pass as his assistant without question. That one, on the other hand”—with a flicker of her eyes, she indicated Danar—“may take some explaining.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Tsorreh said. “You”—she turned to Danar—“are staying here.”
“I can’t let you—” Danar began, ignoring Eavonen’s scowl.
“You can. You will!” Tsorreh cut in. “I did not come home to be safe. Besides, I have a task for you here.”
“What shall I do, then?” Danar muttered, taken aback by her peremptory manner. “Sit here and rot?”
“You will make yourself useful.”
“Useful? How?”
“By learning something!” Without waiting for his reply, Tsorreh turned to her old tutor. “Eavonen, you must have histories of the city and genealogies. Also a copy of the Te-Ketav. Those should keep Dan—Issios occupied for at least a few hours.”
Otenneh bustled Tsorreh into the back of the house while Eavonen went about the shop, selecting books. Danar managed to wrestle his temper back under control. He’d just seen a side of Tsorreh’s character he hadn’t known before. Why should he be surprised? These were her people, her city.
When Tsorreh emerged, Danar barely recognized her. She looked poised and aloof in a long sleeveless vest of red-patterned cotton, over full trousers just a shade more intense. Her hair had been plaited and knotted on the back of her head with red ribbons. A copper passage token hung on a chain of the same metal around her neck.
The smile she gave Danar held both warmth and regret. “I am sorry to impose such a demanding task on you and then abandon you to it. Please understand that I would not do so if the need were not great and if I did not have the greatest confidence in you.”
Danar stilled a protest at her praise. She spoke rightly, for his scholarly training had been thorough. His tutors had often expected him to do meticulous research in a foreign language, too.
She came to him and clasped his forearms, almost as a soldier might. “We must be prepared for a long and arduous search, one that lasts years perhaps.” Her gaze softened and he knew she was thinking of Sandaron’s quest, how remote the possibility of success, and yet how much depended on steadfast determination. Could he, who had not even the hardship of long travel to contend with, do less?
He managed a smile. “Can this”—with a glance at the piles of books—“be any less arduous than my father’s lessons in astronomy? Or yours in classical Denariyan literature? At least, my understanding of Meklavaran isn’t as dreadful as it was before you came.”
“No, indeed! Seriously, you will be on your own for much of the time, just as I will be pursuing my own part of the search.” She did not add that she trusted him to keep at his work without supervision. He was, after all, an adult.
Eavonen cleared his throat. “We must be off. I am already late to hear the first recitation of the day.”
It seemed only a blink of the eye later that Danar found himself in the back room, seated in front of a pile of bound volumes with a Gelone-Meklavaran dictionary at his side.