The Seven-Petaled Shield Read Online Free Page B

meant.
    “They will become a generation of heroes,” she said. “We must all turn ballad makers to sing their praises.”
    He smiled outright now, like sun breaking through clouds. In that moment, she realized why she had sought him out, how much she needed to imprint the sound of his voice and the light in his eyes upon her heart. Zevaron the babe and later the boy were already engraved there, as indelible as her own name. It was Zevaron the young man sheneeded to remember. In the hours and days to come, they might not meet. She might never see him again.
    The moment stretched on, overlong. Zevaron looked away. He was still at an age to shrink from emotional scenes. Tsorreh held out her hands and, with a little movement of resignation, he reached out his own. Instead of taking him into her arms, she clasped his forearms, holding him at a distance.
    Something in the physical contact shredded her detachment. Her eyes stung. There was so much she wanted to say: prayers, blessings, expressions of love and grief and a mother’s worry. With an effort, she held them all back.
    Zevaron nodded, looking even more a grown man than ever. To Tsorreh’s relief, he offered no empty assurances. In this, they understood one another.
    She drew herself up, releasing him. He bowed again to her, and at that moment, shouting came from the direction of the walls. The moment shattered. They were no longer mother and son, but a
te-ravah
with responsibilities of her own, and a
ravot
on the brink of battle.
    *   *   *
    That night and the next, after the Gelon had withdrawn to their earthworks, Maharrad, his general, and his senior captains walked the walls. Ignoring the scandalized whispers of the court ladies, Tsorreh went with them and without her whimpering, fearful attendants. Otenneh was the only one of her retinue with any fortitude, and she was too old to go climbing about the ramparts.
    The Gelonian earthworks crept closer every time Tsorreh looked out at them. It seemed impossible the city could hold out five days, or even three, but she kept her fears to herself. Each morning and evening, she visited the wounded and stood at her husband’s side as he addressed his fighting forces. Yet, as the hours stretched on, Meklavar held fast.
    Another day.
    Nightfall like the tolling of a knell.
    Two.
    Again, the slow creep of dusk.
    Three.
    A week.
    Each day became a dance of advance and retreat. Shortly after dawn, the Gelonian infantry advanced upon the walls, only to be thrown back under the hail of arrows and stones. The Meklavaran cavalry rode out to attack the mining pits. On the second week, they set fire to the supply of timber the Gelon had gathered to brace their underground shafts. There was celebration in the city that night, but the next day, the Gelon brought up more supplies and began again. With each foray, fewer Meklavaran defenders returned.
    Early in the third week, Tsorreh found Zevaron among the wounded. He lay on a pallet in the tented area of the lower city, among those not yet moved up to the
meklat
. In the uncertain torchlight, his face was dusky, streaked with something dark. Blood or smoke or mud, she could not tell. She threw herself to her knees and reached out to take him in her arms. Then she saw the rise of his chest. Her breath caught in her throat.
    “Water!” she called to the nearest aide. “Bring me water!”
    The boy brought a bucket with a little scummy water at the bottom. Tsorreh dipped the hem of her tunic into it and wiped her son’s face. He murmured as she ran the cloth over his lips. The dark smears were not blood, at least not his own. He groaned. His eyelids fluttered open.
    Tsorreh sat back, trailing the wet, filthy edge of her tunic between her hands. Breath swept through her; she had not realized that she was holding it.
    “Of all the stupid—” His eyes widened when he saw her. He sat up.
    “Are you hurt?”
    “No, just stunned.” Wincing, he got to his feet. “They singled me