AS the days swung toward Danar’s third winter in Meklavar, the seasonal rains set in. The first winter had been a sodden misery, and the second one not much better. He had never imagined the place could be so cold. Meklavar lay far to the southeast of Gelon, but it was also high in the mountains. Slush had buried every street, and the damp wind cut through layers of clothing. The only time he’d felt warm was when he practiced sword and unarmed fighting with Irvan’s men. At least the city seemed quieter, or perhaps so mired in mud and slog and misery that no one had the energy to make trouble. The number of beggars seemed to increase every day. The soldiers grumbled as always.
Watching the rain slant down from his vantage under the overhanging eaves of a tavern, Danar thought of Zevaron. If the winters were bad here in Meklavar, how much worse might they be on the steppe? He wondered where Sandaron was, somewhere in Denariya where it was hot all the time, hot and dry, and how could one man or even an entire army find a single person in such a broad, diverse land? Maybe it was all fruitless and he’d be stuck here, waiting uselessly, until his bones turned to mildew.
Danar rubbed his chest and felt the subtle, reassuring pulse of the green gem. His doubts eased. Despite Tsorreh’s warning that the search might take a long time, he had not expected it to be years. Waiting had always been difficult for him, but that was no reason to lose hope. Eriseth’s quality was steadfast endurance. Such magic would not be easily lost, even in a place as wild as Denariya.
At least Danar and Tsorreh had found one critical petal gem, for all the good it did anyone. It had taken them over a year to trace the lineage of Shebu’od, and at this rate, they would all be doddering oldsters by the time they found them all. It had taken Danar’s genealogical research, Ganneron’s trading contacts, and a dose of extraordinary good luck to locate the current guardian, penniless and living in a lower city house that had been badly damaged during the conquest. Forrenad was an elderly man, frail and somewhat wandering in his wits. Shebu’od’s attribute was said to be strength, but Forrenad did not seem to have received any benefit from its influence. Although Ganneron had taken Forrenad into the Cassarod household, the old man’s health had not improved. Forrenad’s only relative was a niece, orphaned in the battle for the city. Tsorreh was already training the girl to receive Shebu’od’s gem, a violation of tradition that clearly shocked Ganneron.
Sighing, Danar handed his beaker of mint tea, now tepid, back to the barkeep. Just beyond the shelter of the eaves, mud slicked the paving stones. His woolen cloak, bought from a used-clothing seller with his own money, had enough natural lanolin to smell like unwashed sheep in weather like this, but it kept out the worst of the wet. The morning had worn thin, and the number of people hurrying about their errands had dwindled. Gelonian patrols, their oiled-leather capes draped like soggy sheets around their shoulders, continued on their rounds. As luck would have it, the rain let up just as he stepped into the street.
Danar had reached the central market square when he heard the rhythmic footsteps of men moving in formation. He scurried out of the path of the soldiers, hunching his shoulders so he looked like any other city dweller. Gelon passed him, row after row, perhaps a hundred in all. Their expressions were grim, their eyes focused. They meant business, not idle display. Something must have happened.
Danar had heard no rumors this morning, nor in the past few days. The city had been relatively quiet. There had been no sightings of Iskarnon the Prophet since the rains of this latest winter began.
The bulk of the soldiers headed for the city garrison. The rest divided into patrols, four in each instead of the usual two. Within a very short time, the soldiers dispersed to their posts.
Bystanders began moving back into the market square. Vendors replaced their wares. Street urchins scampered between carts and barrels, snatching up whatever small items had fallen. As the rain lessened, more customers came, anxious to be about their business before another downpour.
Danar adopted his most nonchalant demeanor as he sauntered over to the nearest stall. It was sturdier than most and therefore more resistant to the rain but also more difficult to move in a hurry. Under the awning, an overturned bench had once held rows of pottery, jars and plates, cups and small trays. The goods now lay in a heap on the pavement. Much of it looked damaged. Danar bent to pick up a cup that was only slightly chipped and handed it to the harried-looking owner. The man paused in his stream of muttered curses to accept the cup.
“What’s the news, friend?” Danar asked, using a lower-class Meklavaran accent.
The pottery man’s face twisted even tighter. “Naught to do with us, though we’ll bear the brunt of it. Look at this! A month’s work gone! And for what? Some courier comes riding into the outer garrison and look what happens. How’s a man to make a living?”
“Aye, it’s a hard life.” Danar shook his head in sympathy. “I wonder what got them so stirred up. Azkhantia’s a long way off and I’ve never heard of the Denariyans taking sword to anyone they could trade with instead.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” With a nod, the man returned to his salvage, a clear signal the conversation was over.
Turning away, Danar lifted his gaze to the sky. Through a gap in the lower clouds, he caught a glimpse of sky. Thunderheads billowed above. A wave of restlessness shivered through him. His mouth went dry, as if the sky had sucked all the moisture out of him. The muscles of his shoulders threatened to cramp, but he could not wrench his gaze away. A pang lanced through his chest.
He remembered standing on Victory Hill in Aidon with Tsorreh not long after her arrival in his father’s house. She had looked up at the sky with an expression of horror and fascination. Now, as then, something moved in those shifting layers of storm and light, something pale as ice and black as ashes. Something was gathering in the north. When Danar squinted up at the sky again, however, the clouds looked normal.
Near the far edge of the square, he glimpsed Irvan at the head of a double pair, moving briskly toward the King’s Gate. Perhaps later in the evening, Danar might find the officer and buy him some rice wine in exchange for gossip.
As had become his custom, Danar paused for a cheap breakfast, Denariyan rice and lentils mixed with onions, steamed in folded leaves. He chewed slowly, letting the spices warm his mouth. He hadn’t eaten meat in a couple of weeks, whereas back in Aidon he had eaten it every day. Idly, he wondered if his father’s health might not have benefited from simpler food.
As he licked the last morsels from the leaves, the back of Danar’s neck prickled. His first thought was that he was being watched. He glanced around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The market was as full of vendors as it was going to get, which wasn’t very, and customers were already haggling over the best of what was offered. Before long, Danar thought, the whole city would be living on rice and lentils.
Yellow, bright and evanescent as a single ray piercing an overcast sky, brushed his mind. He flinched as if someone had struck him from behind. The old woman selling the rice balls regarded him warily. He felt as if the masks of his disguise had been momentarily lifted, leaving him exposed.
Yellow . . . and truth . . .
His pulse leaped in his throat. With an effort, he kept his expression calm and his movements careless as he searched his surroundings. The sense of another alvar, near enough to taste, vanished.
Dovereth! And so close! Danar clamped his teeth together to avoid screaming in exasperation. He knew from his first meeting with Ganneron that he could not detect another Shield gem except at very close range. And now he had let one of them slip through his grasp. Maybe it wasn’t too late . . .
He quartered the market, then traced its perimeter, pausing to concentrate on that inner trace, but found nothing. Dovereth’s guardian had disappeared without leaving a clue to his identity.
Danar muttered a curse he had never dared use in his father’s house. There was nothing more to be done, except to let Tsorreh know that the Dovereth gem was still in the city. Surely, some news was better than none. The best way to send a message was through Eavonen. A visit to the bookshop would be pleasant. He’d been so busy working, so preoccupied, that he hadn’t seen the old couple in months. He found, much to his surprise, that he missed them.
A short time later, he paused on the bookstore threshold. The door was locked, which was unusual. Alarmed, he rapped on it with the back of his knuckles. A moment later, it cracked open. Otenneh stepped back to admit him. When he tried to greet her properly, she made a hushing gesture and pointed to the back room. Curious, Danar followed her.
Tsorreh jumped to her feet, her skin flushed in the light of the oil lamps. She made a movement toward Danar, and he knew she would have embraced him were it not for the presence of Eavonen and a pair of grim-faced Meklavarans. Clearly, Ganneron had sent them as protection. Although Danar could not see any weapons, he had no doubt they were armed. This time, Tsorreh wore the dress of a household servant, a sleeved tunic over narrow trousers. A coif of the same nondescript gray cloth covered her hair. The effect was one of anonymity, turning her into a person of no importance. One of the Meklavarans was dressed as a minor noble, the other as another servant.
To fill the awkward moment, Danar bowed, Meklavaran-style. Tsorreh’s cheeks paled. Her eyes, he now noticed, were too bright.
“Sit down, lad.” Eavonen’s voice was grave.
Danar lowered himself to the nearest bench. “Why, what has happened? Have you heard from Sandaron?”
Tsorreh sat beside Danar and took one of his hands. “No,” she said in a low voice, “this has nothing to do with him. The news is from Aidon.”
Aidon?
“Danar, I’m so sorry.”
The room turned chill. Danar’s heart sounded unnaturally loud in his ears. He remembered the moment of unexpected joy at hearing his father still lived, lived against all reason and expectation. How long ago had that been? Two years? Longer? He’d just met Irvan. That time belonged to another age, to another son. To someone else.
“How?”
“His heart must have given out. At least, there has been no talk of foul means.” Tsorreh’s voice sounded distant, as if it came from the far end of an enormous, echoing chamber. “It happened some months ago. Your uncle is dead as well—”
“Cinath, too?” That could not be by chance.
“Yes, and your cousin Chion has claimed the Lion Throne. Your father’s death cleared the path for him to do so without challenge.”
Chion!
“More likely, he saw his chance,” Eavonen said.
“Or created it,” muttered the Meklavaran in noble dress. “From everything we know of him, he’s twice as bad.”
My father dies and the skies are full of evil omens . . . my cousin has committed the most heinous of murders, patricide . . . Danar could not summon even a morsel of grief for Cinath. The only surprise was that he had lasted this long before someone—the Qr priests, his own ambitious son—gods, even my stepmother, for all I know!—decided he was of no further use to them.
He found himself on his feet. “I must go home.”
“We cannot risk you.” Tsorreh’s fingers closed his.
“There is no one else who can hold my cousin accountable,” Danar protested, “no one else who has the legal right.”
“No, child!” Otenneh sounded genuinely distressed. “Think what you are saying! To return now would surely mean your death. Listen to my lady!”
“You do not understand,” Danar said. “Cinath was feared, even despised in certain quarters, but he was once a strong Ar-King. No one doubted his fitness to rule. Chion is ruthless and clever, but he has never commanded the respect of the noble families. He’s a fool if he thinks they’ll accept him simply because of his blood.”
“He speaks truly, te-ravah.” The second Meklavaran faced Danar. “We have heard reports of riots in the streets of Aidon. The major cities of Gelon on the verge of civil unrest.”
Danar began pacing. One dreadful suspicion after another seized his thoughts. He felt as if he were about to jump out of his skin.
Chion—not a fool—his father’s son—but he killed his own father—must have planned—had Qr played a role in it?
If Chion had a hand in Jaxar’s death—
The green gem ignited within him. Verdant light swept clear the jumble of his thoughts for a moment. With a wrenching effort, he forced himself to stand still. To speak rationally, even if he did not feel that way. Too much was at stake.
“I can unite them,” Danar said. “I can and I must.”
“Then all the more reason for you to remain here,” said the first Meklavaran. “With any luck, Ner-Manir-Thierra will be recalled and we’ll have our first real chance at freedom.”
Danar whirled to face the older man. “You think only of your own petty, provincial concerns! There’s more at stake here than an ill-conceived rebellion!” His words were hateful, but he couldn’t help himself. Rage numbed the pain he could not face. “What does Meklavar matter, compared to an empire spanning a hundred Meklavars? Or are you so narrow in vision, so heedless of anything beyond your own noses, that you think the fate of the entire world depends on Meklavar?”
“I’d expect no less from a pampered Gelonian pup!” The Meklavaran glared at Danar, fists clenched at his sides. In another moment, he’d throw a punch.
Danar wished he would.
“A Gelon,” Tsorreh interposed, “who is under my protection.”
The Meklavaran rocked back on his heels. “My lady, you can’t seriously—”
Danar burst out, “I can fight my own battles!”
“Enough.” Although Tsorreh spoke the word quietly, the entire room fell silent.
Danar couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. He lowered himself back to the bench with what dignity he could muster.
“Enough,” Tsorreh repeated. She shot Danar a look that was at once piercing and compassionate. She saw his anger, his alarm at the suspicions roiling in his mind, the impossibility of his grief. Danar thought of all she had lost—husband and grandfather and stepson, and her own mother long ago. Now Zevaron was somewhere on the steppe, and there was no word from Sandaron. And Jaxar—she had loved Jaxar as a father.
“Danar, you had best come with me back to Lord Ganneron’s house. You should not be alone at a time like this.” Tsorreh’s eyes were filled with an expression so kind, he thought his heart would shatter. “Your father has died. You need to mourn him. Everything else can wait.”
He tried to speak, to declare that he would do so, but in the proper time. Gelon needed him now. He could not allow Chion to claim the throne. Then it came to him that he was no longer just his father’s son or his country’s heir apparent. He was the guardian of Beneroth, and he was not free to follow his own desires.
He started shaking and could not stop. His throat was tight and congested with feeling. No sound emerged.
Tsorreh took his hands, drawing him to his feet. Her fingers were hot, as if with fever, or perhaps he himself had turned to ice.
Shock, he thought distantly, and then: I cannot afford to be weak.
Tsorreh’s touch was so gentle, he could have broken away with a sigh. Together with Otenneh, she pulled the cloak worn by one of her guards over his shoulders and took away his knife in its carrying sheath, saying it would only create an excuse to detain him. He did not understand why that mattered. Otenneh massaged something into his hair. Someone said, “He’ll do,” and then the second Meklavaran slipped a silk cord around his neck.
There was no reason not to go with Tsorreh. She had known Jaxar. She had walked the paths of grief, and at a time when her people needed her—as much as his needed him now. It must have been agony for her to have been a captive of her enemy, with her own loss so raw.
Danar recovered himself a little as they emerged into the brightness of the day. The covering of clouds was already breaking up. He must pretend to be a servant walking respectfully behind his master. His body sagged, as if it had not the strength to endure the weight of his grief. It wasn’t hard to round his shoulders, lower his head, and let the Meklavaran in noble dress take the lead, to ignore what he saw and heard around him, as if his only purpose in the world were to trudge along. No one tried to speak to him.
His pulse sped up as they approached the King’s Gate. He felt half-naked without his knife, but there was no help for it. His disguise was minimal, just a cloak and whatever coloring agent Otenneh had rubbed into his hair. Tsorreh did not seem to be worried. He must trust that as a servant he would be ignored, invisible.
The guard at the entrance to the stairs had been doubled, but they did not check for identity beyond the passage tokens. They were looking for weapons, not specific individuals. Finding nothing beyond the small jeweled dagger that the first Meklavaran handed over, the guards waved them upward. The dagger, Danar noticed, was not returned.
The stairs narrowed as they neared the top, where the wooden gates had been burned and never replaced. Soot still streaked the stone walls. Beyond them rose the towers and spires of the palaces. Many of them looked untouched, but others here and there showed damage. One building dominated the meklat, a palace grand in scope and peerless in execution. Banners bearing the insignia of the Lion Throne hung to each side of the elaborate formal entrance.
They ascended to a city that was far less populated than the markets and tavern districts below. There were no beggars; almost everyone here seemed to be either a noble, a servant, or a Gelon. A pair of Qr priests with cloth bands bearing the scorpion insignia wrapped around their shaved heads came into sight. Tsorreh tensed but then the priests turned aside and headed for one of the palaces, taking no notice of her.
Their destination proved to be an elegant, modest-sized house a short distance from the palace. By the time they had crossed the entrance hall, Tsorreh no longer meekly followed the men. Passing them, she strode through the arch at the far end. Two servants, one a steward by his dress and bearing, stood aside respectfully as she proceeded into a second hall. A third hurried to open a door for her.
Danar followed Tsorreh through a series of corridors to a back part of the house. Unlike Gelonian homes, this one had no central courtyard, nor any outdoor gardens. The winters here were bitterly cold, so that even the meanest hovel wrapped itself around its hearth.
Tsorreh waved Danar through a door and closed it behind her. There was no lock. The room was furnished for sitting, much like the one behind the bookshop but on a more luxurious scale. With a sigh, she dropped to a bench upholstered in garnet velvet. “Come, sit by me. Would you like wine?”
He stayed where he was. The air was too thick. He did not know how to negotiate the magnitude of his feelings. He had never lost anyone this dear to him, for his mother had died when he was still an infant. Zevaron’s grief had been terrifying in comparison to his own.
Somehow, he could not tell by what means, they began to talk, circling their way through ordinary topics. The first time Jaxar’s name was spoken, Tsorreh blinked and looked away, but by the fifth time, she was weeping openly.
He sat beside her on the bench and put his arms around her. Her face, hot and wet, pressed against his shoulder. His body rocked with her sobs. His own eyes were dry, as if his tears could flow only through hers.
At last she straightened herself, wiped her eyes, and poured a cup of wine for each of them. This time, Danar did not refuse. He had not expected his father’s death to come as such a shock. Jaxar had been so very ill when Danar and Zevaron had fled Aidon. A miracle—and Tsorreh’s Meklavaran medicine—had prolonged Jaxar’s life even this long. Now the worst had come, all his unacknowledged fears realized, and he could do nothing. Nothing but let his friend weep for him.
“It will not always be this hard,” she said, setting down her wine cup still half-full. “But for the moment . . .”
For the moment, duty. Only he did not know where his lay.
A gentle knock sounded and, a moment later, the door cracked open. Danar caught a fragment of whispered conversation, concluding with Tsorreh saying, “I’ll be there shortly.”
The door closed with a snick of the latch. Tsorreh stirred on the bench beside Danar. “It seems we have run out of time,” she said. “I had not planned—I would not have chosen this way, but perhaps it is an unexpected blessing.”
“I don’t understand.” How could any of this—his father’s death, his cousin’s murderous schemes, the looming threat of anarchy at home . . . the insistent distraction of Benerod’s gem—be considered a blessing?
“I had not thought the end would be so soon,” she went on with infuriating patience, “or I would have waited to bring you the news. Forrenad cannot last much longer. The physician says an hour, perhaps a little more. I must go—to be there when the—when the—”
She took his hands once more and this time hers felt cool, her touch hesitant. She had never been easy speaking of the alvara, and the intensity of the last hour—or had it been more?—had affected her.
“Danar, I would like you to witness the transfer. We are trying something new, for the heir is a young woman, as well prepared as we can make her, in the presence of those who have taught her. I think it might help you as well. To put things into perspective, I mean. Each of us, in the normal course of life, comes to bear an alvar through the loss of someone we love.”
Except Zevaron, who thought you dead. Except me, who never knew Benerod’s heir.
“So we are a fellowship of mourners. It is not so different to lose a father or grandfather while taking up the burden of a Shield gem, as what has happened to you.”
They did not face assassination and civil war at home, Danar thought, and then: Tsorreh’s city had fallen—Thessar was enraged and vindictive—she’d been unable to speak of Meklavar’s suffering.
He hung his head. “I do not know what good I can do, but I will come.” Tsorreh looked as if she would reply, but said nothing.
The feeling of being utterly adrift subsided. Danar’s body knew what to do; his heart beat and his lungs took in breath. His muscles flexed as he ascended two flights of stairs. Another corridor led to a wide door, polished wood that gleamed softly. The green crystal pulsed like a second heart in his chest. His skin tingled as if a feather had brushed the back of his neck.
The room beyond was amply proportioned and furnished in Meklavaran style. Oil lamps, some of them with mantles of pieced colored glass, cast warm light from their alcoves on the walls. Intricately patterned Denariyan carpets cushioned the floor. Ganneron sat in a chair instead of the usual bench, a chair with carved armrests and a matching footstool on which a gray striped cat slept. To one side, a man sat in a smaller chair. Wrapped in blankets, he looked withered and gravely ill.
Also present was a woman about Danar’s age, dressed like the invalid in an unadorned black robe. She held herself with such poise, she needed no jewels or bright colors to draw the eye. The women of Meklavar tended to be small and light-boned, but this girl was almost as tall as Danar. He wondered if she had been trained in archery and horsemanship as well as dancing.
The servant who had waited just inside the door withdrew. For an instant, no one moved.
The room hummed with power. Danar could almost see the play of energy and color—Cassarod’s ruby light from Ganneron, a tenuous thread of violet from the old man, a radiance of green from himself. From Tsorreh came a listening, a waiting, an aching echo of gold. She might no longer bear the heart-stone of the Shield, but she held its memory.
Tsorreh went to one of the two empty seats, indicating that Danar should take the other. Ganneron turned to Danar and said, “I am sorry to hear of your father’s passing. He was never an enemy to us. May his memory be a blessing in times to come.”
“Thank you,” Danar said, adding on impulse, “sir.”
A smile ghosted the corners of Ganneron’s mouth. “I am not sir to you, except in the sense I am your elder. Here we make no distinction based on rank or race, for the fellowship in which we have been enlisted makes us equal.”
There followed a lapse in the conversation, the silence marked only by the stertorous breathing of the invalid, Forrenad. Danar was surprised the old man was still upright, for the effort of drawing in and then expelling each breath seemed almost beyond his strength.
Danar glanced at the young woman, sitting so tall and still, her hands folded in her lap, her face tilted downward. The nearest lamp was to one side and slightly behind her, so that shadows muted her face.
“It is time,” Tsorreh said.
“I . . .” Forrenad roused himself with a brittle energy, like a candle’s guttering flame. “I am ready.”
The girl knelt before the old man. The affection with which she took his hand moved Danar unexpectedly.
Forrenad coughed, struggling to breathe. Ganneron supported him on one side and Tsorreh on the other. Tsorreh looked hard at the girl, a frown shading the skin between her brows. The girl nodded. With her two hands, she raised Forrenad’s to his chest.
“Let it go,” Tsorreh murmured. “You have carried this burden long enough. Give it over, so that you may rest.”
“Let me bear it for you.” The girl’s voice was light and gentle.
Heat battered Danar’s skin. A distant, thudding rhythm blanketed all other sound. Under the girl’s fingertips, under his own, Danar felt the parchment dryness of Forrenad’s skin, the texture of a few sparse hairs, the arch of ribs. Cartilage softened—
And then he could not see or hear or touch. Water boiled around him, chill and steaming. It blinded him. It flooded him. Once more, fleshless bones shackled his ankle, pulling him down, down, down into the lightless depths. Now, as then, green-tinted brilliance blazed, piercing the surging currents.
He was the source of its emerald effulgence, and he was also the tide on which it lay like a fleck of jeweled foam.
—cartilage softened into mist. A nugget of purple light, like the dimmest, deepest star, emerged.
Aged fingers, a laboring heart, a mind almost at rest, called to it.
Young fingers, a strong heart, a mind keen and eager, called to it.
The alvar of Shebu’od answered.
Danar sensed the moment when the gem broke free, the instant later when it became part of the girl’s body. There was no sense of penetration or of invasion, only relief and violet heat searing the blood.
Danar’s pulse slowed from its hectic pace. Trembling seized his muscles and then subsided. His vision cleared. He no longer felt faint.
The girl wavered where she knelt. Without thinking, Danar caught her in his arms. She was heavier than he expected, a density of muscle and bone and spirit. Her hair smelled of sandalwood. Then she lifted her head and looked directly at him. He was struck by the gold-limned softness of her skin, the mouth now in repose but expressive all the same, the eyes full of fire.
Marisse . . .
A swirl of color-tinged power touched his mind: Danar.
His heart opened as if they had always belonged to one another. The light in the room took on a quality like sun-infused glass. Its sweetness drenched him. Grief diminished like the ebbing of a wave. It would come again, but the memory of this moment would fortify his spirit.
Ganneron lifted Forrenad as if the old man were a child, so light, all fire fled. Tsorreh stood beside him, resting a hand on his bony shoulder. Forrenad breathed with painful hesitation.
“Stay with her,” she said to Danar, and followed Ganneron from the chamber.
In Danar’s arms, Marisse stirred. “I should be . . . with him . . . at the last.”
It would not be long now. Danar could not think how to say that she needed all her strength to adapt to the alvar. He heard his own voice: “He has already said good-bye.”
She shuddered, and for a terrible moment, he wondered if he had offended her. Clearly, Tsorreh had prepared her to receive the petal gem. She must have warned Marisse that the old man would not survive, that in the usual course of events, the alvara were transferred only when the bearer’s death was imminent.
If Marisse raised her eyes to him, he would see the tears he had yet to shed for Jaxar. If she touched her tongue to honey, its sweetness would fill his mouth.
Was he thinking clearly? Was this sense of union an illusion born of sorrow and the strange powers of the alvara? Was this usual when multiple petal gems came into proximity?
Did it matter?
“Hold me,” Marisse said, and the world became right.