“No,” began Forollkin, “I can't ride Jerenac's horse. . .”
“You must, “ said Kerish quietly. “Zeldin go with you.”
“And remain with you.”
Forollkin mounted the roan and trotted across the square to take his place in front of the great gates. The captains bowed to Kerish and went to join their men. Forollkin murmured soothingly to his borrowed mount and then stood in his stirrups to speak briefly to his soldiers. They cheered him, but their eyes were on the purple-cloaked figure of the Prince.
Kerish raised his right hand and spoke a blessing in High Galkian. He knew that not one man in twenty would understand the words, but he could sense the soldiers drawing courage from his very presence. `They really think my blessing will protect them', thought Kerish wearily. `Why do they still trust the Godborn?'
Forollkin gave the signal and the North Gate was unbarred. Kerish almost ran back up the narrow stair to the ramparts. Instantly two soldiers were at his side, but he dismissed them with a curt, “Zeldin is my protection” and joined Gidjabolgo. The Forgite was attempting to peer through a slit in the walls. It was too high for him to reach comfortably and he gladly yielded his place to the Prince.
“What's happening?”
“Nothing yet. “
The archers positioned along the north walls stood motionless and there seemed to be no sound in the whole city except the groaning of the gates and muffled hoof-beats.
“The leaders are on the plain,” said Kerish. “I can see Forollkin.”
On the Ephaan road the battle had already begun. The newcomers had regrouped in a square formation to withstand the first attack by the Men of Fangmere. They seemed determined to protect something at the center of the formation and Kerish thought he glimpsed the purple of a royal litter.
Beyond the shadow of Viroc, the horsemen went from trot, to canter, to gallop and thundered across the plain towards the Orazian rearguard. As the gap between them closed, Kerish mouthed a prayer, grateful for the veil that hid his face.
For a few minutes he felt that he was looking down on a vast, geometrical dance as the Men of Fangmere spread out to encircle the newcomers and the Galkian horsemen split neatly into three groups. One group rode to the right and another to the left, trying to outflank the Orazians, but the main body of horsemen made straight towards them.
“They've met!”
“I can hear that,” growled the Forgite.
The impetus of their charge carried the foremost horsemen deep into the Orazian ranks and Kerish lost sight of Forollkin. The dance dissolved into chaos. Distance blended individual screams and shouts into one continuous roar. Flashes of light marked spear-thrusts and the swinging axes of the Men of Fangmere. Kerish was too far away to see the wounds they inflicted but he watched soldiers on both sides fall and be trampled into stillness by the Galkian horses.
Gradually the confused mass of fighting men began to break up as the horsemen isolated groups of Orazian footsoldiers and the newcomers forced their way forwards through the thin line of axemen.
“I can see O-grak,” said Kerish suddenly.
The Khan's huge form and the great two-handed sword he wielded were unmistakable. The warriors of his household had gathered around him on a knoll above the road. A band of Galkian horsemen was riding towards the Orazians and Kerish recognized the roan horse of their leader.
“Three, no four horses are speared and down . . . Now they can't use their spears; the fight's too close. Forollkin's all right, he's just cut down a man who . . . oh!”
Kerish stood so still he might have stopped breathing.
“Has a stray arrow got your tongue?” demanded the Forgite. “What's happening?”
“Forollkin and O-grak are fighting.”
A space had opened up around the two leaders. O-grak had the advantage of the high ground and rained down blows on Forollkin, but each was deftly parried and the Commander's warhorse stood firm. The other soldiers, Galkian and Orazian, paused to watch their leaders fight.
“Ah, he's lost his footing!”
“Who?”
“O-grak. Why don't they move to help him? Idaala take them . . . Oh, Forollkin, no!”
His foot caught in a tree-root, O-grak had fallen heavily. For a moment he lay winded and Forollkin only had to lean down to drive his sword through the Khan's back. It was a long moment. A dozen of O-grak's men saw him fall, but not one of them sprang forward to defend him. Forollkin brought down his sword as the Khan struggled to rise, but it paused in mid-sweep and the Galkian threw up his hand in the signal to retreat.
Three hundred horsemen encircled the newcomers and escorted them towards the city. Forollkin formed the rest of his soldiers into a rearguard to resist the axemen of Fangmere who fought all the more ferociously in defeat. Kerish's eyes were still on O-grak. The Khan had got slowly to his feet and was staring at his men. Then, without wasting words on reproaches, he rallied his remaining troops and marched them southwards towards their main camp. Kerish heard the great gates creak open again and hurried down from the walls.
The courtyard was already crowded with most of the women who had chosen to remain in the city, all of them anxious about husbands or sons involved in the sortie. The Healing Priests were there too, ready with stretchers for the worst of the wounded. It seemed a long time before the first group of horsemen clattered into the cobbled square. Behind them were the newcomers, still marching in formation under the purple and gold standard of the Imperial Guard. Now the immediate danger was over, exhaustion surfaced on every soldier's face. As the order was given to fall out, some of them stood swaying with their eyes closed, others slumped down on to the cobbles. Kerish had recognized their leader. The crowd parted to let the Prince through as he made his way towards the officer who stood by a standard emblazoned with three golden starflowers.
“Captain Yxallin, welcome to Viroc. But why have the Imperial Guard left the Inner Palace?”
Yxallin sank to his knees. The purple-cloaked figure before him might have been any of the Godborn, but he knew the voice of the Third Prince.
“Highness . . . we thought . . . we didn't realize. We are at your command.” Yxallin began a confused explanation but Kerish drew him to his feet and said gently, “I was wrong to ask you yet. When you've rested you shall tell me everything.”
As he spoke, Forollkin rode into the courtyard. The archers on the walls were picking off those Men of Fangmere who were still pursuing the rearguard. The battle was almost over and only a few troops remained outside Viroc to gather up the dead and wounded. Forollkin dismounted and took off his helmet.
Yxallin stumbled towards him. “We were told you had died with the Prince . . .”
Forollkin gripped the captain's hand. “I'm alive as you can see and feel.”
No more than twenty men had died in the sortie and all around him joyful reunions were taking place as women clung to the bridles of their sons and husbands to lead them through the city. Forollkin smiled at his brother.
“I thank Zeldin for your safety,” Yxallin was saying, “but where is Lord Jerenac?”
Forollkin slowly drew off his gauntlets. “He is sick and cannot leave his bed. I'll take you to him when you're rested. Let's get your men billeted and . . .”
“I must see to my Lady's comfort first,” answered Yxallin. “It was by her authority that we came here.”
“Your Lady?”
“The Queen, your Highness.”
Yxallin turned towards the litter that his men had set down in the center of the courtyard. Its purple curtains parted and a woman stepped out.
“Pellameera!” breathed Forollkin, but as a shadow passed over the sun the brilliance of the woman's hair faded to a pale copper. Her eyes were grey, not green, and her face was infused by a gentleness alien to the Queen of Seld.
“Kelinda!” cried Kerish and ran forward to greet her.
She stared, uncertain, until the Prince stripped back his veil. Then a smile lit her face
like a flame glowing through an alabaster lamp.
“Kerish . . . but she told me you were dead!”
“Who? Rimoka? Well, she was wrong.” He hugged his brother's wife.
Then she held him away to look at him. “You're so thin and pale and your hand . . . but what does it matter. You're safe, and Forollkin too. . .”
Forollkin came forward to kiss the Queen's hand as Kerish began to explain the absence of Lord Jerenac.
“We heard rumors in the Inner Palace about his sickness,” said Kelinda. “I begged the Empress to send him help, but she could think of nothing but defeating Zyrindella. Ten weeks ago she left for Tryfania to lead her troops against the rebel north.” There were shadows of strain around Kelinda's eyes and her thin hands plucked nervously at the folds of her cloak. “She sent back orders to the Imperial Guard to kill anyone in the city suspected of disloyalty to her and then to march north to help her fight Zyrindella.”
“The Emperor allowed her to give such orders?” asked Forollkin incredulously.
“We came to the Queen,” said Yxallin, “and begged her to intercede with the Emperor. Zeldin knows, the Imperial Guard was not created to fight Galkians and to be forbidden to help our Lord Commander against the barbarians was more than we could bear.”
“I went to the Emperor,” Kelinda's voice lost all its warmth when she spoke of her husband. “Imarko pity him, he hadn't the courage to countermand his mother's orders. I asked Captain Yxallin if the Imperial Guard would let him lead them to Viroc. He told me that most of his men would hesitate to act without some royal authority. I gathered the Imperial Guard together and informed them that I intended to journey to Viroc and die, if I must, in defense of my husband's people. I asked who would go with me. . .”
“Not a man refused to serve her,” said Yxallin proudly, “and we are here to fight for Viroc.”
“Kelinda,” Kerish took her hands again, “that was bravely done.”
“Oh Kerish,” she whispered, “you cannot imagine what a terrible place the Inner Palace has become. Galkis has lost all its will, all its strength; it just lies there waiting to die. I sent Koligani up into the mountains, to the temple of Zeldin. She'll be as safe there as anywhere. Forollkin, I tried to persuade your mother to go with her, but she wouldn't leave the city.”
It was Kerish who asked the obvious question. “Why didn't Follea go north with Rimoka?”
Kelinda answered, still looking at Forollkin. “She thought you were dead, and that Rimoka was responsible. How could your mother forgive the Empress that? She told me that she wanted to watch the Golden City burn. I set out with the Imperial Guard while the Emperor slept. We have gathered more men on the way south, and ordered others to follow, and brought all the provisions we could carry on a forced march . . .”
The two brothers were staring at her in admiration, but Kelinda still seemed uncertain. “I wish I knew if I have done rightly. Night and day I prayed to Zeldin and Imarko. I believed that this was their answer, but I am a stranger in Galkis, perhaps they did not listen to me . . .”
“They listen only to truth-speakers like you,” said Kerish.
He took her to the Governor's Palace and the rest she needed now that her long journey was over.
Back in their own quarters, Forollkin squinted down at his bloodstained cloak and shrugged it off.
“I should have killed the Khan, for Viroc's sake, but I knew you wouldn't want me to and when his own men stood back to watch him die . . .”
“He has lost his soul,” said Kerish. “To his household, O-grak is already dead.”
“Well, we must take advantage of the Khan's misfortunes. For the moment the road is clear. With Jerenac's permission I'll announce that anyone who wants to leave the city can do so tonight. Those who can't fight or work will have to go anyway.”
“The temple staff . . .” began Kerish.
“Apart from the Healers, they're all leaving except the Chief Priest and Priestess.” Forollkin neatly folded up the discarded cloak. “Jerenac sent for the Chief Priest last night and he agreed to send his people to Joze, though only for the sake of not tiring a sick man with arguments.”
“Is Jerenac worse?”
“The healers say he's dying.”
When his brother had left to visit the wounded soldiers, Kerish went into the inner room where Gidjabolgo was sitting cross-legged on the bed, plucking at the Prince's zildar.
“One thing has survived our travels, even if I've lost the power to use it. Gidjabolgo . . . tonight will probably be the last chance of leaving Viroc before the siege begins in earnest. I don't know if there's any Galkian port where you could still get a safe passage home, but I'll give you a royal signet and as much money as you can carry.”
Gidjabolgo played a chord. “What is a burr without a cloak to cling to? I'll go where you go, unless you forbid it.”
“No,” said Kerish, when he could speak. “I won't forbid it.
When the dusk bell rang they went together to fetch the Queen of Galkis to visit Jerenac. They found her sitting by a window, looking down at the neglected garden of the Governor's Palace.
“Kerish, do you remember how we used to sit together under the crown trees in your father's garden and talk about poetry? Since he died people have become more and more afraid of the Emperor's garden. I lingered there once after dusk and suddenly I was sure that Death was walking in the garden and if I took the wrong turn I would meet her . . .” Kelinda shook her head as if she was trying to dislodge the memory. “Did you know that your father is buried there? He laid a curse on anyone who tried to move his body to the Valley of Silence.”
“He had built a pavilion there for my mother's body.” Kerish's voice was unsteady. “He wanted to lie beside her in death.”
“They could have been buried together in the Valley of Silence. Surely what he wanted was to shut everyone else out forever? I used to think that you were very like him, but there is something new in your face . . . Ah forgive me,” said Kelinda, with an apologetic smile, “I am so tangled up in memories of Galkis, I have given you no chance to present your companion . . .”
Gidjabolgo had been staring curiously at the slender, grey-eyed woman who was the Queen of Galkis. Now Kerish nudged him forward.
“Your Majesty, may I present our fellow traveler, Gidjabolgo of Forgin. He has been with us ever since Ellerinonn and we would never have got this far without him.”
“Very few men can have made such a journey. I hope, Master Gidjabolgo, that you will have time to discuss your travels with me.”
She gave him her hand and the Forgite kissed it with surprising meekness.
“I have been told,” began Kelinda hesitantly, “that you had another companion, a lady whom Forollkin was to marry. Such a terrible thing for her to be killed in the moment of rescue . . . Should I speak about her to Forollkin, or would that only hurt him more?”
It was Gidjabolgo who answered. “Your Majesty, he does not choose to talk about her. As long as he has this city to fight for, it will fill up his emptiness. When the fight is over he will either have joined the lady in death or time will have erased the pain.”
“You speak very wisely,” said Kelinda. “Pain and grief are healed by time, but there may be no strength left for any...new feelings.”
In all the time that he had known her, Kerish had never heard Kelinda express the misery and bitterness her husband's neglect must have caused her. He saw now that she had passed beyond pain into numb resignation, but listening to her talking to Gidjabolgo with her usual sweet courtesy, he refused to believe that she had lost the ability to love.
“We eventually heard at court that you had reached Seld,” Kelinda was saying. “My sister . . . I see that the ring I gave you as a token for her has gone from your finger.”
“I gave her the ring and your message. She entertained us with the greatest kindness,” Kerish found himself studying the marble floor, “and . . . speeded us on our quest.”
K
elinda sighed. “You need not speak so guardedly. I can imagine what you thought of my sister, but try not to judge her too harshly. Pellameera cannot afford gentleness, for her own sake and for Seld's. If fate had changed our places, if she had been brought up in the tranquility of Trykis and I had grown up at court, struggling to defend my throne . . . then it would be me you thought of with horror.”
“I can't believe that, “ answered Kerish, “but I do accept that Pellameera is not entirely to blame for what she has become and I did pity her.”
“I have known my sister kill a man for pitying her, but we can talk about her later.” Kelinda got up from the window seat. “Take me to Jerenac.”
*****
Only one lamp burned in the Lord Commander's chamber, but it was enough to show that the poison in his body had at last sucked away Jerenac's will to live. He lay unnaturally still, while servants hovered about the bed with useless medicines. At Jerenac's head stood the Chief Priest of Viroc, praying for his soul. Beside him, Forollkin knelt to catch the whispered string of commands. “The South Gate . . . if the main assault is there, you must concentrate your archers on the Keeper's Tower and . . .”
“My Lord,” broke in the Chief Priest, “the Queen and the Third Prince are here.”
“What? Well, bring them closer. I can't see them in this murk.” The Lord Commander struggled to rise and Forollkin lifted him up while the Chief Priest slipped a pillow under his shoulders.
“Majesty, I cannot greet you as I should,” began Jerenac, “or thank you as you deserve. I had never thought of you as an ally, never thought of you at all . . . such a pale slight thing, so meek and patient. What man wouldn't abuse that? And no children . . .”
“My Lord!” whispered Forollkin, and Jerenac jerked as if he had been brought up by a leash.
“Forgive me, Majesty. I have spoken to Yxallin - a good soldier. I used to think that the Inner City had softened him, but he will fight well. Perhaps he knows of something to fight for. Forollkin, spread the Imperial Guard amongst the Jenozan troops to hearten them. Prince? Ah, I can see your eyes shining in this dark. I resign the Governorship of Jenoza to you. Since you won't bid for the throne, rally Jenoza. If you survive the siege of Viroc, show yourself to the people of my province and they will fight for you as they never fought for me . . .”
The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) Page 13
