Forollkin tried vainly to imagine Gwerath at the Galkian court and what his mother would say about her. "You could never be one of them."
"I thought you liked me to try," said Gwerath in a small voice. "I thought you wanted me to put up my hair and wear dresses."
"Not if it doesn't feel right to you." He leaned over and gave an affectionate tug to the nearest silver braid. "Gwerath, give me a little credit for liking you as you are. I don't want to change you, except perhaps to make you smile more often."
"Truly?"
"Truly."
His fingers tightened round her silver hair just as a voice came floating down to them. "Hello, Forollkin, Gwerath. Come and give me a hand!" The sorcerer of Tir-Melidon stood on the brow of a hill, waving and shouting. "Come on, hurry!"
Forollkin shrugged resignedly. "I suppose we had better see what he wants."
Gwerath nodded and kicked up a cloud of mud to dull the clear brook.
On the other side of the hill they found Vethnar bending over one of the goats who lay panting in a hollow, obviously about to give birth.
"She's having a hard time of it," announced the sorcerer, "but whenever I try to help her she butts me away. I need someone to hold her."
Forollkin found that he had stepped back a pace. "Couldn't you ease her with a spell?"
"Well, I could," agreed Vethnar "but that way I wouldn't learn anything."
The goat bleated her distress and her sides heaved as she struggled to get up. Gwerath knelt, pinioning the forefeet with her knees and gripping the horned head. Vethnar rolled up his sleeves.
"I hope you're enjoying your stay . . . there, there, easy now.”
He stroked the heaving flanks and two small feet appeared.
"Wrong way round. I thought so. You know, Forollkin, I really cannot imagine an excuse for being bored. Life is so interesting."
Forollkin closed his eyes as Vethnar took hold of the protruding legs.
A few minutes later, wet and gleaming, the kid slithered onto the grass. Vethnar brushed the birth-sac from its nostrils and it sneezed and began to wriggle.
"Can I borrow your dagger?"
Gingerly, Forollkin handed it over. Vethnar cut and knotted the umbilical cord.
"You can let her go now Gwerath."
She released the horned head and the goat stumbled to her feet, nuzzled her kid and began to lick it vigorously. Vethnar wiped his bloody hands on his sleeves.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed your walk," he said cheerfully. "Now it's time to eat. Shall we go back together?"
*****
At breakfast the next morning Gidjabolgo was absent and Kerish seemed so depressed and ate so little that Forollkin urged him to come exploring with them.
"There's a wood that reminds me of the Grove of Irnaald. Why don't you come with us and tell Gwerath the story of Irnaald and the Lady of the Rainbow?"
Kerish shook his head. "Thank you, but I have some reading to do."
The Prince drifted through the library towards the Galkian Room and the Book of Secrets.
Passing the Loshite Room he saw that the door was ajar and realized that he must have forgotten to lock it behind him. He felt for Vethnar's keys but a faint rustling betrayed that the room was not empty. Inside, Gidjabolgo sat hunched over a pile of gaudily bound books. He looked up warily as the Prince came in.
"Forgive me," said Kerish, unexpectedly, "I'd forgotten your quest. Have you asked Vethnar yet? Of all the sorcerers we've met he seems the most likely to . . . Gidjabolgo!" He stared intently at the Forgite. "You'd forgotten too, hadn't you?"
Gidjabolgo closed the book in his lap. "I merely have less faith in Vethnar's generosity. Where is my other Master?"
"Walking somewhere, with Gwerath."
"My brains must be softening with age, " said Gidjabolgo. "I could almost feel sorry for our Lord Forollkin. There is no sharper weapon than a woman's patience."
"And do I get a share of this new tenderness?"
"Tell me this before I answer," said Gidjabolgo. "Have you ever wanted to snap each bone in her slender body or tear out every silver hair? No? Then don't ask me for pity."
Kerish fumbled to detach a key and then tossed it to the Forgite. "Lock the door behind you when you leave."
The Prince was still trembling when he reached the Galkian Room. He drew out and thumbed through volume after volume as he miserably debated with himself again over The Book of Secrets. Surely he shouldn't refuse any knowledge that might help their quest, but was that a good enough reason to break the Law of the Godborn? Pain stabbed through his crippled hand as if it still clasped the sharp-edged jewel. Had the glory of Zeldin gone from him, or was it closer than ever now? Both thoughts frightened him. Kerish knelt by the window and tried to pray. How could he know what was right? Was it right to break the Law of the Godborn and read The Book of Secrets? Was it right to rob Vethnar of his key, his immortality? Was it right to search for the Promised Saviour at all?
A leaden calm engulfed him and the answers didn't seem to matter. Kerish stood up and looked across the crater. In the hazy distance the glorious creatures of the lake were transfixed by decay; but even that failed to move him. Suddenly he couldn't endure his own company any longer, but the thought of talking to Forollkin, Gwerath or Gidjabolgo was even more intolerable. Kerish-lo-Taan left The Book of Secrets where it lay and began to search for Llartian.
*****
The Ellerinionn's rooms contained very little furniture but they were crowded with blocks of stone and half-finished sculptures. Llartian was working on one of these as he spoke to Rezag-Khal, who stood by a window that overlooked the sea. When Kerish entered, the Ellerinionn put down his chisel and shook the white stone-dust from his hands.
"Welcome Prince."
"Oh, don't stop for me."
Kerish examined the half-carved head. The chin and the mouth were only just taking shape, but the thick brows, flaring nose and sharp cheekbones were already alive with Breldor's nervous intelligence.
"I have carved Vethnar and Dolodd already and as you see, Breldor is nearly finished. So, for purely selfish reasons, I was glad to hear that we had new guests. Would you let me try a likeness of you?"
Kerish didn't answer directly. "Tell me, would you enjoy carving Gidjabolgo's portrait?"
"To be truthful - no. I fear my talents could not do justice to his . . . uniqueness. Will he be offended if I leave him out?"
Kerish's fingers traced the fall of Breldor's hair across the marble brow.
"I doubt it, though he will certainly pretend that he is. What about Rezag-Khal?"
"Ah, a fine strong face," said Llartian plaintively, "but he won't let me. He thinks I would trap his soul in the stone."
"Perhaps he's right."
Kerish crossed to the window. "Rezag-Khal, how did the Khan's son die?"
"The Khan ordered me to teach the boy to ride. I chose the mare myself," answered Rezag-Khal. It was the one subject that he would always talk about. "The mare bolted and threw the Khan's son. He struck his head as he fell."
"I see, and what punishment do you deserve for this?"
"I deserve death."
"But you desire death, so how can it be a punishment? It seems to me that you take your crime too lightly."
In an instant the Chirazian's dagger was at his throat.
"Say so again and I will kill you, Galkian."
"So I am to be punished while you escape . . . Haven't you the courage to live and suffer to appease your Khan?"
"My blood is his appeasement."
Llartian stood poised to intervene, but Kerish said calmly, "Tell me, Rezag-Khal, what does your Khan hope for in death?"
"For the favour of Idaala and that his deeds should be remembered. His children's children will tell of them."
"But no-one beyond Chiraz will hear of these great deeds unless you speak of them," said Kerish. "If you told Vethnar, he would write them down, so that all over Zindar, century after century, men would
read about your Khan. What better blood-gift could you offer your Lord?"
"What do you know of a warrior's deeds, crippled one?" demanded Rezag-Khal. "Have you ever split an enemy's skull with a broken shield or held back nine swordsmen in a narrow pass? Men would not read them." He rammed his dagger back in its sheath and marched out of the room.
Kerish smiled in self-mockery. He had set out from Galkis with such confidence, but in spite of the golden keys at his belt, he could not even help one man to find a reason to live.
"He may think over what you've said," murmured Llartian. "It's always difficult to judge how Rezag-Khal will react. You never answered my question. I hope the answer is `yes' because I don't often get a chance at bones like yours . . ."
"Oh, the portrait. No, I don't mind."
"Then let me sketch you first . . . " Llartian covered the half-finished head and searched for his reed brush and inks. "Sit there by the window, in the north light."
Kerish obeyed but just as Llartian had found a suitable scrap of vellum and had begun sketching the Prince's profile, Vethnar stalked in.
"Elmandis has tracked you down at last and now courteously asks for your return," announced the sorcerer. "So, Llartian, tomorrow you leave for home."
"Tomorrow! But I haven't . . ."
"The cage is open, no more bruising your wings against the bars. After all your complaints you might at least look pleased." He paced rapidly around the room and Llartian clutched at the carved head to protect it from the sorcerer's flying sleeves.
"If there's anything in your rooms that you like, take it away with you, though I'd be grateful if you'd leave that portrait of me behind. Tonight we shall hold a feast in your honour. Kerish, come with me."
Vethnar strode out of the room. Amused at Llartian's stunned expression, Kerish said gently, "Didn't you realize how much you liked him?" Without waiting for an answer, he hurried after the sorcerer. He had to take the stairs two at a time to catch up with Vethnar and arrived beside him gasping for breath.
A dark hand seized his good wrist. Kerish couldn't help flinching as Vethnar thrust him towards a wall of rock. For a few seconds everything went black and he felt as if he were being turned inside out. Then he opened his eyes and said coldly, "I see. The keys you gave me open every door, but not every room has a door to open."
He found himself standing in a small, circular chamber. Its walls and ceiling were covered by a creeping plant whose variegated leaves shone with a dappled light. The plant was laden with flowers, but each one had a different colour, shape and scent, as if a whole garden was growing from one stem. Kerish hardly noticed it. His attention was fixed on a golden casket and the table on which it stood. From the rim of the table six hands seemed to grow. No, not six, five. One was no more than a tangle of charred bones, its ruined fingers still pointing upwards.
Chapter 12
The Book of the Emperors: Sorrows
“And if I do as you have said, is that all that will happen?” asked the young prince. His uncle answered him, “No. If I showed you all that may happen because of your lightest actions, you would not ever dare to speak or act again. Bless therefore your ignorance.”
Kerish stared at the blackened hand, holding back memories of Shubeyash but Vethnar leaned across the table and touched a copper-skinned hand. Its fingers stirred into life and suddenly the copper hand was gripping Vethnar's.
"Touch me!" commanded the sorcerer.
Kerish lightly clasped Vethnar's arm and the dappled light faded into a cool shade. They seemed to be standing between the pillars of a colonnade and somewhere close-by a fountain was playing. Damp with its spray, a man stepped from sunlight into shadow.
For a long moment, Kerish stared into the sea-green eyes of Elmandis. The once flaxen hair was now bone white and the claws of Time had scarred the King of Ellerinonn's face.Then Vethnar tore his hand free and the vision faded.
"Do you understand now what your quest has done?"
"Thank you for showing me," said Kerish numbly, "I knew that he would age once his key was gone, but I never really imagined it happening."
"Elmandis is walking towards death again. What will happen to fair Ellerinonn then?"
Kerish circled the table."By touching these hands, can you see any of the Seven Sorcerers?"
"Yes, and talk with them too. Shubeyash and I devised the spell, many centuries ago. His dead fingers often summoned me, but I would not clasp them. Now it is too late."
Vethnar gently stroked the blackened bones and Kerish looked away.
"Tell me, do you ever talk to Ellandellore?"
"That mischievous brat? Never. I do not care for children," said Vethnar, "and what should I have to say to him?"
"Let me see him now."
"Do you think this spell is a toy for your amusement . . ."
“No. Please raise Ellandellore. I promise that you won't find what you expect."
An appeal to the sorcerer's curiosity could not fail. Vethnar's long fingers closed around the smallest of the six hands. It was slow to respond but finally the copper flesh softened into life. Kerish touched Vethnar's arm and saw a boy seated on the grass beside a fountain. He was looking up at someone, listening intently, his heavy blond hair framing a face too solemn for his years. The man who was speaking laid a loving hand on the boy's shoulder and Ellandellore gazed trustingly at his brother. In the next second both of them became aware of the intrusion on their privacy. Elmandis's lips began to move but Vethnar snatched back his hand.
"The King of Ellerinonn has an heir," said Kerish. "Elmandis will die but Ellandellore will grow into wisdom. Ellerinonn may change but it won't be destroyed and it could be the same for you and for Tir-Melidon. Your pupils love you and I would never belittle the way you have chosen to use your power but why is your citadel so empty? If you let them, scholars would flock to Tir-Melidon from all over Zindar. Then death would not end your vision for they would be your heirs."
Vethnar backed away from him. "Possibly, but is it likely that I will give up life while I enjoy every second of it?"
Kerish was still looking at the circle of hands. "How long is it since you spoke to Saroc?"
"Not since you made him burn Tir-Tonar with all its wonders."
"And Sendaaka?"
"I never speak to her," said Vethnar harshly. "I shouldn't have brought you here, but I thought I could make you see . . ."
"Did you know that they're together now?" persisted Kerish. "He was your friend. Why not take his hand . . . or hers?"
“No.”
"Can't you bear to see their happiness?" asked Kerish cruelly. "Or are you afraid to see what Time has done to her beauty?"
"Why should I care about either?" Vethnar paced towards the wall that had dissolved to let them enter.
"If you don't care," said Kerish, "why do you look at her portrait so often?"
For once the sorcerer stood quite still. "The key was with the others but if you had entered the room I would have felt you lift the curtain."
"I didn't need to. Vethnar, you've seen Gwerath with my brother; you must know that I understand how you feel?"
"I thought that I'd almost forgotten her," said Vethnar slowly, "but when I saw your Gwerath's silver hair . . . Sendaaka's mind was so like mine and we were searching for the same knowledge. One day on the cliffs of Gannoth we wove a spell together to transform ourselves into sea birds. I remember how it felt to swoop down and skim the waves and afterwards . . ."
"Vethnar, in this life she loves only Saroc but in Galkis the priests say that all desires are transmuted by the Gate of Death; that love can exist there without jealousy or . . ."
"And does that give you the slightest comfort now?" demanded Vethnar.
Kerish shook his head. "No, and if I hadn't given my life to the search for the Saviour, I don't know how I could bear it. Vethnar, you must see that my quest is all I have. Please help me!"
The sorcerer sank down into a chair and sat with bowed head. Kerish
knelt at his feet, waiting for an answer.
*****
Gwerath and Forollkin were walking among the sombre trees that had reminded him of the woods above the city of Galkis. Their feet made no sound on the drifts of needles as they followed the course of a shallow stream edged with pale, drooping ferns. Forollkin talked at unusual length about his childhood in the Inner Palace and his training with the Imperial Guard. Finally, Gwerath broke through the barrier of words.
"And when you return to Galkis; when our quest is over; what will you do?"
"I suppose that depends on Kerish, whether he chooses to . . ."
"Kerish, always Kerish! Why think of him?" demanded Gwerath. "You have your own life. What will you do with it."
Forollkin stopped walking. "I don't know. I've never had to think that far ahead."
"Well I do," said Gwerath. "I have lost my father, my tribe, my goddess. I have lost my past so I must cling to the future. If we were still in Erandachu, and I was still Torga of the Goddess, I would be the one to speak. I know that customs are different in Galkis but . . . Forollkin, surely you know why I left the Children of the Wind?"
Forollkin studied the ferns at his feet.
"I know that you wanted to be free of your circle, wanted to see Zindar . . ."
"Oh, sometimes I understand why Kerish stabbed you!" The anger in her voice finally made him look at her. "Go away," she said miserably, but it was she who ran, stumbling over the folds of her green dress.
"Zeldin brand me for a fool," muttered Forollkin.
He strode after her, but not fast enough to catch her quickly.
Without noticing it, they had strayed close to the edge of the crater and suddenly a radiance moved through the woods. With a mighty rush of wings, one of the creatures of the lake ascended, its whole body singing. Golden fire burned in the veins beneath its pellucid skin and the glassy feathers struck against each other in a fierce complexity of sound. For a moment Gwerath stared at it and the harmonies blended into one clear, cold note like the cracking of ice.
The Dead Kingdom (Seven Citadels) Page 18
