Free The Seven-Petaled Shield by Deborah J. Ross

and one of the younger officers.
    Zevaron
.
    Her knees went weak. She stumbled, so overcome withrelief and gratitude that she could barely stand. Ediva pushed past her and threw her arms around her husband. The impact, soft and slight as it must have been, almost knocked him off his feet. He twisted, struggling for balance, and Tsorreh saw the blood dripping from beneath his breastplate. His left arm dangled at an odd angle. Zevaron appeared at his side, calling for aid.
    “Where is my father?” Shorrenon shouted, pulling free with the swift hot energy of battle. “Where is the
te-ravot
?”
    Zevaron looked as if he had been pierced through the belly with a sword. “He—he fell—”
    “I must find him—”
    “You
will not!”
Tsorreh stepped forward. “The moment you step outside these walls, you will be taken or killed. We cannot risk both of you! You—” she pointed to the nearest men, “and you—escort the
ravot
into the citadel. Where are the physicians?”
    For a moment, Shorrenon glared at her as if he would strike her down. Then the madness behind his eyes receded. He sagged against Zevaron. Ediva clung to him, her fine silk gown smeared with his blood.
    A crash and a roar came from the gates. The defenders on the wall let loose a barrage of stones and arrows.
    “Come away, my stepson,” Tsorreh said, more gently. “For the moment, the
meklat
is safe. Let us tend your wounds and determine what is to be done next.” To his rush of wild-eyed denial, she added, dropping her voice so that only he could hear, “If Maharrad still lives, they will bargain for his life. If not,” her breath caught in her throat, “there is nothing we can do for him.”
    Shorrenon allowed himself to be taken within, to the quarters he shared with his wife and children. Zevaron supported him, silent and grim-faced, ashen beneath the dust and sweat. Ediva had lapsed from near hysteria into mute shock.
    The physician arrived with needles and boiled silk thread. As she had done earlier with her husband, Tsorreh washed Shorrenon’s wounds herself. Several were deepenough to require stitching. Ediva, looking pale and tense, excused herself to see to the children.
    During the suturing, Shorrenon sat with a stony face, and only the catch in his breathing marked the passage of the needle through his flesh. When it was done and the physician had departed, Ediva returned. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she held herself calmly. She drew up a stool beside her husband’s chair and took the hand of his injured arm in hers, stroking it gently. Tsorreh found herself unexpectedly moved by the younger woman’s tenderness. Like her own marriage, Ediva’s had been arranged for political purposes, but Tsorreh had no doubt of their mutual devotion.
    Shorrenon gestured for Zevaron to draw near. Zevaron was shaking so badly, Tsorreh feared he could not stand.
    “Now,” Shorrenon said, “tell me of our father.”
    “We left the
meklat
at the appointed time and rode down the King’s Stairs into the lower city,” Zevaron began. “The Gelon had left only a small guard there, easily overcome. They fell away before us. We thought they were cowards at heart, without the will to fight. It seemed that victory would soon be ours. When we reached the outer gates, I was riding just behind Father. The earthworks looked abandoned, and we saw few enemy at their encampment. We expected to join up with your forces, my brother. But instead—what happened? Were you ambushed?”
    Between the two of them, the rest of the story tumbled out, how the Gelon had lain in ambush for Shorrenon and his allies.
    “They must have spotted the messenger and followed him in secret,” Shorrenon said. Only by luck and skill of arms had Shorrenon survived, but with only a handful of supporters.
    Attacked from forefront and flank, the city forces were quickly cut down. Maharrad himself was wounded, despite the desperate defense of his guard. Zevaron had been unhorsed