“It must have been important once,” mused Kerish, “a reminder of something . . . you scowl, Khan. Have you no interest in the history of your people?”
“In Galkis, history is fit to be copied in pretty hands and read aloud to babes. Here, it is nothing but the memory of old sorrows and old hates. Do you know how many times Oraz has gone to war against Mintaz, or Chiraz against Gilaz? Do you know how many men have died in blood feuds among my own kindred? I have watched the Men of the Five Kingdoms drag the weight of history behind them, stumbling at each step. I intend to free my people from that burden.”
At his third attempt, Kerish skewered a gobbet of meat with his pronged spoon.
“Can one man do so much?”
“Do you doubt my strength?” O-grak held off Shageesa one-handed as she reared up in mock attack. “Or my courage?”
“No, only your influence. You are Khan of Orze but your nephew is the Prince of Oraz, and your Overlord.”
O-grak watched Kerish struggle with another lump of meat before replying. “My nephew has a hole in his wits which I fill with my counsel. I am the father of the Living Goddess, the greatest warrior in Oraz and the luckiest leader. Where I go the Men of the Five Kingdoms will follow.”
“And you will lead them into Galkis?”
The Khan didn't answer directly but bent to cuff the tower serpent. “Well, Shageesa, what do you think of our new guest?” The snake glided towards Kerish, her silver tongue flickering.
“Aren't the largest snakes bred in the Mountains of Zarn?”
“In the foothills, yes. Ah, now she's failed to frighten you, she'll cajole.”
Shageesa brushed against the Prince's legs and then laid her jeweled head on his knee. Kerish reached down to touch the glittering scales but the snake darted coyly back.
O-grak laughed. “Shageesa only grants her favors to those who dislike her.”
Kerish answered with a smile, “Cats are the same.”
“Ah. I have heard much about the cats of Galkis. I was sorry not to see one on my visit to the Inner City.”
“True Galkian cats only live in the Temple of . . . my Foremother at Hildimarn. There are none in the Palace now.”
“Hildimarn.” O-grak seemed to savor the word. “I also wanted to see those famous temples, but doubtless they would not open their gates to a barbarian.”
Kerish pushed away the half-finished bowl of meat. “No one is barred from our temples, though I confess I can't imagine you there.”
“Do you think we are only fitted to crawl in darkness?” growled O-grak.
“I meant no disrespect to the temple of Idaala,” said Kerish hastily. “There is great strength in darkness.”
“And an equal strength in light and perhaps the very beauty of your temples . . . don't look so amazed. Barbarians have eyes. We acknowledge beauty too.”
“And yet you lead armies who seek to destroy it.”
O-grak summoned back Shageesa and let her coil around his chair again. “What I seek is unity for my people against a common enemy, and an end to warfare amongst ourselves.”
“If you conquer Galkis, do you really imagine that your alliance will hold once there are spoils to quarrel over?”
“No.” O-grak leaned forward in his chair. “And that is why I do not wish to conquer Galkis.”
“And is the invasion of Galkis merely a delusion on our part?”
“Curb your anger, little Prince,” growled O-grak, “and listen. I mean my people to enjoy the wealth of Galkis, but in tribute, not plunder. If we lay your lands waste, we will have a glut of spoils and then nothing. If we leave your cities intact, we can reap their harvest every year at the price of a few garrisons. The temples of your Foremother will have to be destroyed, but your people could still worship Zeldin and be governed much as before.”
“With the heart torn out of Galkis!” Kerish sprang up from the bench and paced across to the window.
The Khan spoke to his back. “Your Empire is dying, you know that as well as I do. Would you rather it rotted slowly, or suffered one swift stroke and the chance of a new beginning? Think!” O-grak pushed Shageesa away and strode over to the window to stand behind the Prince. “If gentle Galkis was the captive of the Five Kingdoms, couldn't she seduce her conquerors with her beauty? Wouldn't our strength and your ancient wisdom combine to make us the greatest power in Zindar?”
Far below, Kerish could see O-grak's guard hurling javelins at a practice target. “Do slaves combine with their masters?” he asked coldly.
“It is a foolish master who cannot learn from his servants,” answered O-grak, “but think of it rather as the case of a man and his wife. The woman is bound to be submissive to her Lord but we both know that the wife can rule the house with her soft weapons. I don't say that such a union would come about easily, or without much suffering among your people, but think of future generations, not your own.”
Kerish turned to face the Khan. “I admire your far-sightedness but you have forgotten that the Empress of Galkis is a barbarian too and shares your code of honor. Rimoka will never let you strip her son of his throne; she will burn the Golden City first. Then there is my half-sister, Zyrindella. Now that she has seized the north, do you think she will meekly give it up? And Jerenac, will he surrender Jenoza, for the chance of peace with humiliation? More than all of this, the people of Galkis, Zeldin defend them, still love the Godborn and they will die to protect us.”
O-grak smiled. “I am depending on that. If the Godborn order the people to fight they will, but if the Godborn order them to surrender, surely they would lay down their arms?”
“Ka-Rim-Loka may be weak and foolish, but he would never give such an order.”
“No,” said the Khan, “and that is why I intend to make you Emperor in his place.”
For a moment Kerish's anger choked him. “Is that what you think of me? That I am fit to be a traitor?”
O-grak looked calmly into the blazing eyes of the Godborn. “I think that you might have the strength to do what is repugnant to you, for the sake of your people. You could save the Galkians from destruction at the cost of their delusions of freedom and your pride.”
“And the murder of my kin?”
“I would spare whoever I could,” said O-grak, “and imprison them in Orze. I am told that the people of Galkis love the Lost Prince. I believe they would follow you. Lead them to peace, and rule as Emperor, with your dear companions at your side. If you refuse my offer, the Nine Cities will burn and your people will be slaughtered. Surely, your quest was to save Galkis however you could? I will leave you to think about it, Prince. Will you do that much for me?”
“How can I help but think about it?” answered Kerish.
*****
In a small room, lower in the tower, Forollkin and Gwerath were still sitting side by side on a bedroll but Gwerath was idly tracing the outline of a nest of chicks on the painted wall, while Forollkin listened intently to Gidjabolgo.
The Forgite stood in front of one of the unglazed windows, frowning at the yellow smoke drifting across the landscape, and disgorging all the information he had picked up from their guards. “The wind's in the east today, so the smoke and stench are from Gant. The captain of our guard told me a fine tale about the fire mountains. He claims that there were once two giants who loved and quarreled over Idaala until their brawling disturbed the whole of the Five Kingdoms. The Goddess imprisoned them in two mountains, one on either side of Az. Now they spend the centuries hurling rocks and breathing fire, still hoping to win the contest.”
“And do they really believe such a story?” asked Forollkin.
“It has been told in Oraz since before the last King,” answered Gidjabolgo, “and that is supposed to settle the matter.”
“Why are there only Princes now?” began Gwerath. “What happened to the Kings?”
Gidjabolgo started to reply when there was a sudden noise of footsteps and voices. The curtain was thrown back from the doorwa
y and the Prince walked into the room.
Kerish saw Forollkin striding anxiously towards him; Gwerath jumping up in her silver-green dress; and Gidjabolgo's outline dark against the window. Kerish felt as if O-grak's words had built a wall of glass between him and his past. The others didn't realize yet that it was there and they couldn't break it down to help him to a decision. Kerish was almost shocked when Forollkin was able to touch him.
“Are you all right? What's happened to your throat?”
“A few scratches; one of the hazards of darkness.”
“You've been inside the temple all this time? What is it like?” asked Gwerath. “We saw it from the ship and it frightened me. Why should a heap of stones do that?”
“It is a place of great power,” answered Kerish, “but no woman need be afraid. I suppose that's why they are forbidden to enter.”
“So fear is the homage demanded by this goddess,” murmured Gidjabolgo.
“Fear is blind,” said Kerish, “and hides them from the certainty of light.”
“But isn't certainty more frightening than doubt?” asked Forollkin.
There was an uncomfortable pause and then Gwerath repeated her question about the temple. Kerish told them a little of what he had seen and felt there but he could not bring himself to talk about the Living Goddess. His good hand tugged nervously at the bandage round his throat.
“So these creepers in the dark can still see a bribe when it's waved in front of them,” concluded Gidjabolgo. “No doubt O-grak will have to demand a fat ransom to recover what he's spent on us.”
“The Khan does not intend to ransom us,” said Kerish softly.
“You mean he wants a price for our murder?” exclaimed Forollkin. “Does he know . . . ?”
“He knows everything about the Godborn. He was there the night Gankali died. “ Kerish paced across the small room and the soaring birds painted on its walls seemed to jeer at their captivity. “He knows that our brother, the Emperor, is weak, that the north is in revolt and the south desperate for troops. He knows that Rimoka wants me dead and that the people love the Third Prince whom they hardly know. . . “
“Ah, I begin to see . . . a pretty game, and will you play?”
Forollkin ignored Gidjabolgo and persisted with his questions. “Is it information he wants for an attack on Galkis? Thank Zeldin, we know little enough about the defenses of Viroc, and if they reached Galkis itself... well, the city was not built to withstand attack and . . .”
“The Khan wishes to avoid attacking Galkis, “ said Kerish carefully. “He wants the Empire as a peaceful and profitable vassal.”
“That could never happen. I've no reason to love Rimoka, “ declared Forollkin, “but I trust her pride to fight beyond the last hope, and the Emperor will obey her.”
“Yes. That is why O-grak intends to replace him.”
“He would dare to set himself on the throne of the Godborn?”
“No.” It was Gidjabolgo who answered him. “Not with a Prince of the Godborn at his command.”
“Shut up, Gidjabolgo. Kerish, for Imarko's sake, don't stand there looking so blank, tell me what O-grak said to you!”
“Gidjabolgo has it right.” Kerish spoke without expression. “O-grak wants to make me Emperor and I am to call on the people to accept a peace. I would rule Galkis as a vassal of the Princes of Oraz and the armies of the Five Kingdoms would rove westwards, in search of new conquests.”
“Zeldin's grief, he dared to suggest that to you?” Forollkin's face darkened. “Does he really think that a Prince of the Godborn would betray his own people into slavery?”
“I told him,” said Kerish calmly, “that I would consider it.”
“You couldn't have!” declared Forollkin. “However much we quarrel, the Godborn are one kindred. We are bound to each other and to our Emperor and we must strive against the barbarians and their Lady of Blood. What is there to live for if we give up our freedom and everything we believe in? Any death is better than that!”
“And have you asked our people?” demanded Kerish with quiet vehemence. “How do you know that they prefer death to dishonor; despair to hope?”
“I'm not arguing for despair,” said Forollkin unsteadily. “We shall fight and Zeldin will aid us.”
“Perhaps he has, by showing us a path to peace.”
“A path soaked in the blood of our own kin and walked by traitors . . . what?”
Gwerath was tugging frantically at Forollkin's arm. Exasperated he looked down and Gwerath pointed to the thin partition and the leather curtain. In the sudden quiet they all heard the rasp of the guard's boots and the rustle of his cloak.
“Oh.” Forollkin was shaking with anger and it was a moment before he could bring himself to say, “But I suppose you may be right. You must consider the Khan's words.”
Gwerath released his arm and there was a second, longer silence while Kerish and Forollkin stared at each other like strangers.
“Well, you haven't asked me what I've been doing in your absence,” began Gidjabolgo brightly. “I have been listening to our guards. They are bored, cooped up in this tower with nothing to do but polish their swords and relive old battles. They will talk about anything except their goddess. The Men of Oraz may revere the Lady of Blood but they don't seem to like being so close to her.”
Kerish sat down on one of the bedrolls and tried to speak lightly. “And what have you learned to our host's discredit?”
For the next few minutes Gidjabolgo talked about the curious beliefs and customs of the Orazians, maliciously pitching his voice so that the guard outside would hear.
“Oh, and one last snippet,” he concluded, “there are new ships in the harbor and they belong to the Prince of Chiraz's brother. He is to be feasted in the tower tonight. Do you think we'll be invited?”
*****
At dusk lamps were brought and Gwerath was fetched away to the Second Tower to eat with the women. Shortly after, three of the Khan's personal guard entered the prisoners' room, carrying a heavy chest.
“You are to attend the feast,” said the captain of the guard. “So the Khan sends you these clothes. Choose the richest and put them on. No, not you, ugly one, “ he added, as Gidjabolgo eagerly opened the chest. “Only your masters. We will come again soon to fetch you.”
Ignoring the rebuff, Gidjabolgo rummaged through a tangled pile of silks, brocades and furs. “Here are Loshite silks for you to dazzle in, and a genuine merchant's cloak from Forgin.” The gaudy gem-encrusted folds were almost too heavy for him to lift. “Splendor indeed, and the bloodstains are hardly noticeable. Or this now, surely some Galkian once swaggered in it?”
He tossed a tunic of supple green leather to Forollkin who saw the mended tear across the breast and let it drop. “This is nothing but plunder. Do they expect us to wear dead men's clothes?”
“Go ragged then,” said Gidjabolgo, “but pride makes a poor covering; once one man laughs you're naked.”
He continued to sort through the clothing, commenting on each rent and stain, till they heard the guards returning. There were five this time, followed by two slaves carrying heavy collars. The captain gave a signal and Kerish and Forollkin were seized and pinioned while the gilded collars were fitted around their necks. Forollkin kicked out at his captors but they did not retaliate.
“These collars are the mark of a prisoner, not a slave,” explained the captain, with unexpected kindness. “I have worn such a collar myself when I was sent as a hostage once to Gilfalsotaz; there is no dishonor.” He turned to the Prince. “The Khan has ordered that you be royally dressed. Choose!”
He pointed to the scattered clothes but Kerish shook his head. “Finery stolen from the dead is more dishonorable than any slave collar.”
The captain looked puzzled. “They are honest spoils, the Khan's by right of battle.” He picked up the gaudy cloak and the discarded tunic. “If you fear dishonor, save us the trouble of stripping you. Ugly one, help your Master dress. Prince
, you have no choice.”
For a moment Kerish stood obdurate, and two of the guards moved towards him. Then he tugged at the lacing of his tunic and Gidjabolgo darted across the room to help him. The green tunic was too large and the Forgite had to delve in the chest to find a sash to bind it in. Then he hung the heavy cloak from Kerish's shoulders and the captain handed him a golden coronet to set on the Prince's head.
“Are you satisfied now?” asked Kerish quietly. “Is this mockery enough?”
“Our Khan intended no mockery,” said the captain uncomfortably, and without looking into the Prince's eyes, he ordered the Galkians to follow him.
Kerish and Forollkin were taken to the highest chamber in the tower. Its floors and walls were painted with simple patterns of scattered leaves and bright feathers. Its only furnishings were crude benches and trestle-tables scratched and stained with years of use. Half seen in the smoky darkness, O-grak's warriors and the retinue of the Envoy of Chiraz were crammed together along the benches. About a third of the tables were still empty, as if more guests were expected. The blank faces of slaves were lit by glowing coals as they stooped over braziers and cauldrons, and the skins that usually covered a hole in the roof had been stripped back to let the cooking smoke spiral upwards and taint the stars.
An old man relieved the guards of their weapons and added them to the heap at his feet. Then he paused uncertainly in front of the Galkians.
“They have no weapons,” bawled O-grak, “except the Prince's eyes and we'll leave those where they are. Bring our guests here!”
The guards led them through the braziers that encircled the stairwell, to where O-grak sat, at a table no grander than the rest. The Khan had not bothered to change his clothes for the feast but beside him the Envoy of Chiraz glittered in a cloak and tunic that seven serpents had died to make. He was a young man with close-cropped hair and a sparse beard, combed out to make it look thicker. A dozen rings gleamed on the nervous fingers that plucked at a haunch of meat and the Envoy's small eyes flickered towards the strangers.
The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) Page 5
