The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels )

by Geraldine Harris

  “Lord Commander.” Something in the tone of his brother's voice made Forollkin stare at Kerish as intently as Jerenac did. The shadowy figure at the foot of the bed seemed to consist of nothing but dark folds of cloth and two inhuman eyes: purple and golden and black. Forollkin found that he was trembling as Kerish repeated, “Lord Commander, I must leave the city tonight.”

  “Leave . . .” The breath rattled in Jerenac's throat. “Desert the city?”

  Kelinda moved closer to the bed, the lamp igniting the copper of her hair. “Is it your quest?”

  “I must travel to the jungle of Jenze,” said Kerish, “to find the last of the Seven Sorcerers and win their key.”

  “Key?” Jerenac stared wildly. “Men are dying and you play games of Seek. Are all the Godborn mad?”

  “We were charged by the High Priest and by the Emperor,” answered Kerish, “to free the imprisoned Saviour. We must fulfill our quest.”

  “Such a charge is sacred,” said the Chief Priest of Viroc gravely.

  Jerenac groaned. “Why did I allow a priest in the room? Drive him out! The imprisoned Saviour . . . curse all priests and Emperors! Will they never see that there is no salvation, except that which we make with our own hands and swords.”

  “Calm yourself. . .” began the Chief Priest, but Jerenac struck the old man a feeble blow.

  “You haven't the courage to believe that, not one of you. If there is a god, I pray to him that there may be no more Emperors and that the Godborn may vanish from Zindar.”

  Kerish walked away from the bed. “Do you think I don't realize that all I've ever done is probably useless? I want to stay here. I want to wait until everything is over. But I can't. I must keep to my quest until it kills me.”

  “If you hope it can be achieved . . .” began Kelinda.

  “I hope for nothing,” answered Kerish savagely. “But I will go on.”

  Jerenac's head lolled back on the pillow. “And for this nothing you will rob me of my heir. Forollkin . . . you can't desert me, boy. You did once, but not again. Take my command. Fight for my city. The people must have a Godborn leader.” The scarred hands clutched feebly at Forollkin's arm. “I can't see you. I can't see your face. Answer me, boy!”

  “My Lord . . .” Forollkin was as pale as the deathly face on the pillow. “I promised the Emperor I would never leave my brother. I am bound to Kerish.”

  A spasm wracked the Lord Commander and blood frothed from his lips. Forollkin hid his face.

  Kerish said quietly, “You promised the Emperor never to leave me unless I released you from the oath. Forollkin, I do so now. You are free and I shall leave the city tonight with Gidjabolgo.”

  “But you can't!”

  At any other time Kerish would have laughed at the amazement in his brother's face.

  “You can't go without me. Your hand . . .”

  “Gidjabolgo will look after me and there isn't very much further to go. You are needed here.”

  “Boy . . .”

  Forollkin stooped over Jerenac's contorted body. “I will stay. I will take command. I will save the city if I can . . .”

  Jerenac gave a deep sigh and the Chief Priest blew out the lamp so that death might come, as she preferred, in darkness.

  “Come gentle death . . .”

  Kerish heard the priest's murmured words and felt for Kelinda's hand.

  When the prayer was over, the lamp was relit and Forollkin gently stroked the Lord Commander's face to smooth out the fierce smile of death.

  As they left the room, Kelinda was crying. “Poor Jerenac. He gave so much to Galkis and received so little.”

  “Giving without love is always bitter,” said the Chief Priest as he led her down the stairs. The two brothers followed them.

  “Kerish . . .”

  “Forollkin, please don't say anything, not yet.”

  Kerish turned to the Chief Priest and asked when the refugees were to leave Viroc.

  “In two hours' time, your Highness, from the North Gate, but they are bound for Joze . . .”

  “When we get to the Jen Mountains, Gidjabolgo and I...”

  “Kerish, you cannot wander the country by yourself,” protested Kelinda. “Those who are loyal to Rimoka may try to kill you and those who are not will beg you to lead them.”

  Kerish smiled at her. “You are right, of course. I cannot travel as one of the Godborn.”

  “But how can you disguise yourself?” asked the Queen. “Your eyes will always betray you.”

  “So I must cover them.”

  “But only a blind man would do that.”

  “Then I shall be blind,” said Kerish grimly, “and Gidjabolgo shall lead me. A blind singer from Galkis, arrived in your train, Kelinda, and now fleeing to Joze. Will that story do?”

  “Your Highness, the temple actors are leaving Viroc tonight. You and your companion could travel unnoticed with them,” suggested the Chief Priest.

  “They must not know who I am,” said Kerish.

  “They shall not.”

  “But charge them to take special care of my favorite musician,” said the Queen.

  “Kelinda.” Forollkin had been studying the tapestry on the nearest wall as if it fascinated him, but now he turned from the woven image of Imarko's farewell to her sons and said, “Kelinda, you should go with the refugees to Joze.”

  “I will go,” answered Kelinda, “if I would be a trouble to you, but I should prefer to be of service to Viroc and to the men who followed me here. After all, I have no reason to value safety.”

  Kerish understood why Forollkin winced at her words but after a moment the new Lord Commander of Galkis said, “I know better now than to force a brave soul to safety. The whole city will gain by your presence.” He turned to the Chief Priest. “Give out that the Prince is keeping a three-day vigil in the sanctuary of Zeldin. Those who leave the city must believe that he has stayed behind.”

  The old priest hesitated for a moment and then said, “It shall be done. Zeldin will surely forgive a lie in such a cause.”

  Forollkin nodded impatiently. “Kerish . . . get ready. I will meet you at the North Gate, before the ninth bell.”

  *****

  Two hours later Forollkin stood looking down on the North Gate from the tower that he had taken as his headquarters. The square was rapidly filling with the people who were to leave the city, and the soldiers of their escort. All the children had gone long before but there were many women and old men who had only just been persuaded, or ordered, to leave. The sick and the badly wounded were to be carried on litters slung between placid oxen. Healing Priests were bent over their patients, administering sleeping potions. In one corner of the square the temple actors were loading their props and costumes on to a cart.

  Every few minutes a scout sent out by Forollkin to check that the north and east roads were still clear, would thread his way through the crowd. The new Lord Commander acknowledged their reports without moving from the window. The death of Jerenac had caused little stir in the city. Only the officers who had known him well mourned their Commander. The people of Viroc had respected Jerenac but had never loved him.

  Below the window a soldier was saying goodbye to his young wife. They were talking about trivial things, but their hands gripped each other frantically. Gwerath had been given no time to reach out to her love as she died. He hadn't even been looking at her . . .

  “Forollkin,” said Kelinda for the second time and at last the young Lord Commander turned round. “Forollkin, the Healing Priests will need more room so I have told them to bring all wounded to the Governor's Palace from now on. I was trained in healing on Trykis, so I can help in the nursing as well as the organization.”

  “I will gladly place the injured in your charge,” said Forollkin gratefully. “Are there many too badly hurt to leave tonight?”

  “Only four, “ Kelinda's ink-stained hands were clutching the lists of necessary supplies she had spent the last hour drawing up, “but I
presume you are expecting heavy casualties when the attacks begin again.”

  Forollkin nodded grimly. Following her instinct, Kelinda began to talk about firewood and bandages and drugs. Slowly Forollkin absorbed himself in the details of provisioning the hospital and didn't notice that anyone had entered the room until a harsh voice said, “Well, do we make convincing royal musicians?”

  Gidjabolgo was holding the zildar in one hand and guiding the Prince with the other. Kerish was dressed in a simple blue tunic and cloak. His head was thrown back to reveal the silvered hair, but his eyes were covered by a band of dark cloth.

  “Forollkin?” Kerish took a few uncertain steps forward as Gidjabolgo released his arm.

  “No, not blind . . . Kerish, I can't bear it. I can't let you go like this!”

  Forollkin reached out to strip the bandage from his brother's eyes, but Kerish resisted him with his good hand.

  “Forollkin, please! If you take the blindfold off now, I'll never have the courage to put it on again. Don't let me see you . . .”

  Kelinda said quickly, “Master Gidjabolgo, I didn't know that you played the zildar. Is it very different from the stringed instruments of Forgin?”

  She drew him away from the window and they discussed the merits of the instrument and played snatches of tunes while the brothers tried to say goodbye.

  “But we haven't talked about Gwerath,” protested Forollkin, “and I couldn't to anyone else . . .”

  “Talk to Kelinda,” said Kerish, still holding back his brother's hand. “Help each other. Help me now. Chide me, bully me, tell me I'm not fit to go out on my own . . .”

  “I can't.” Forollkin shook his head hopelessly. “It isn't true. I know you can do without me now. We've grown so far apart.”

  “No. We could never. . .”

  “Kerish, I often think that Gidjabolgo understands you better than I do. Sometimes I ache to have my spoilt, quick-tempered, infuriating little brother back again,” Forollkin touched the silvered hair. “Don't say anything, I know he died in Erandachu. You have to keep travelling and I'm needed here. I can't live without being needed. I'm sorry, I'll let you go in a minute.”

  “Forollkin, think about me each night at sunset and I'll think of you. I promise we can still be close to each other.”

  From the square below a horn sounded to warn the travelers that the gate was opening. Forollkin released his brother. “Well, do you have everything you need for the journey? Spare shoes? A thinner tunic?”

  Kerish nodded. “Yes, Forollkin.”

  Gidjabolgo slung the zildar across his shoulders. “It's time for me to take him down.”

  “Goodbye again, Kerish,” Kelinda kissed him on the cheek, “Zeldin go with you.”

  “And remain with you,” responded Kerish blankly. “Forollkin . . .”

  Gidjabolgo tugged at his arm. “Time to go.”

  Kerish allowed himself to be led from the room. Outside the noise seemed overwhelming and he descended the steps into darkness and chaos. As they entered the square, he gripped Gidjabolgo's arm even tighter. “Forollkin?”

  “He's standing at the window looking down at you. The Queen is beside him.”

  Kerish smiled in what he hoped was the right direction and then let Gidjabolgo guide him towards the temple actors.

  Chapter 7

  The Book of the Emperors: Promises

  But the Emperor blessed the players, saying, “Let no man condemn your craft. You have received the noblest of burdens, for you empty yourselves so that you might be filled with a greater presence. Those who watch will find joy and comfort in that presence, but for you there will only be emptiness. For you, Zeldin and Imarko will never walk the earth of Zindar again.”

  As the moon rose the soldiers of the escort put out their torches and rode like shadows beside the convoy, sometimes darting ahead to check that the road east was clear, sometimes lingering to pick up stragglers. They halted once to bury a wounded man who had died in his jolting litter looking up at the stars. The captain would allow no more than a minute for prayers over the grave, and was constantly urging the convoy to move faster.

  Then an enemy horseman was spotted and shot from his saddle. The convoy halted, expecting a whole army to come down from the hills, but nothing stirred. Confident that the horseman could only have been a lone scout, the captain sent a few more soldiers on ahead and then gave the signal for the convoy to move again.

  Just ahead of the litters of the wounded, rumbled the heavily laden cart of the temple actors. Amongst folds of glittering cloth an old man lay dozing and a young girl was perched high on the mound of costumes, staring about her. Two men and a straight-backed woman took it in turns to lead the ox. Behind the cart walked the two strangers, Gidjabolgo the Forgite and the singer known as Master Zelnis.

  In answer to whispered inquiries about his companion, Gidjabolgo had been eloquent. The poor young man was an orphan of good birth. Brought up at court as a royal musician, he had recently been struck with a terrible illness. The Healing Priests had saved his life but Zelnis had been blinded and left with a crippled hand.

  One of the troupe, who seemed to be a musician, muttered about the justice of Zeldin but the other expressed such sympathy that Gidjabolgo had to warn them not to mention his misfortunes to Zelnis himself.

  “No indeed,” the old priest had said. “Pity often breeds bitterness. You can trust us not to offend him.”

  As they walked together, Gidjabolgo hissed questions at his companion. “What are these holy pageants, and what have priests to do with acting?”

  “To take the part of Zeldin or Imarko one must be ordained,” answered Kerish listlessly.

  “Why?” Gidjabolgo's hand hovered close to Kerish's arm, ready to guide him when necessary.

  “Because we believe that actors do not simply play the Gentle God and his Queen: for a short time they become them. It is a holy act. All our plays illustrate the teachings of The Book of the Emperors, so actors belong in temples, except for the troops attached to Imperial Palaces.”

  “Ah I see,” exclaimed Gidjabolgo, “their pious hope is to edify the audiences, not to let them enjoy themselves.”

  “You are unjust.” Kerish forgot for a moment to concentrate on feeling his way and stumbled over a cart-rut.

  Gidjabolgo gripped his arm. “No doubt you will tell me that excitement or amusement are poor things compared with the joys of divine revelation.”

  Kerish recovered himself and pushed away the helping arm. “I wouldn't dare tell you that. I'd get more sneers than I've room to flinch from, but I promise you our plays aren't dull. Some of the poetry is beautiful. I know that you'll appreciate the sound of it, just as you might enjoy looking at a language you couldn't understand, written in a beautiful script. Since many of the plays are in High Galkian, they have to be explained in the common tongue to most of the audience.”

  “Well, you had better explain them to me,” said Gidjabolgo. “After my supposed two years in Galkis, I ought not to be totally ignorant.”

  “No one would expect a foreigner to have played for the Imperial actors, but it would be strange if you had never attended a performance.”

  As the long night wore on, Kerish talked about the five chief players in each troupe and the splendid costumes and masks that they wore. He described the famous speeches and choruses that most Galkians knew from childhood and the ancient music that accompanied the plays.

  The moon faded and the torches were relit. Kerish began to stumble more often, as much from weariness as blindness, but Gidjabolgo continued to buffet him with questions. In the chill grey dawn the Prince outlined the plots of plays which Gidjabolgo could say that he had seen at court.

  “Then Prince Il-Keno enters the Jungle of Jenze to look for the Enchantress . . .”

  Gidjabolgo squeezed his arm in warning, as the ox-cart halted for a brief rest and one of the actors walked towards them.

  “Good morning,” called a cheerful voice. Then came
a loud whisper to Gidjabolgo. “Would your friend like a turn riding in the cart? He looks bone-weary.”

  “Deafness is not one of my afflictions,” snapped Kerish.

  The young man began to apologize but Gidjabolgo interrupted, “Clumsily put, but no bad idea. I'll help you up, Zelnis.”

  “No,” said Kerish stubbornly, “I can walk as well as anyone.”

  “That's no argument,” returned the actor, “we're all footsore. So take your turn in comfort like the rest of us. Desha, come down off there, you lazy chit, and don't pretend to be asleep. I know you're listening.”

  The girl sat up with a mew of protest but Kerish refused again. “I would rather walk. If I let myself rest, I don't think I could start again, but thank you . . . I don't know your name.”

  “It's Viarki. Just remember I'm the one who sounds as if he's got a mouth full of pebbles - that's what keeps me as fifth player.”

  Kerish almost smiled. “Describe yourself and complete the picture for me.”

  “Oh, that's harder. When the masks are on I could tell you whether I look like an old crone or a pompous official, a timid priest or a fierce soldier, but without them . . .”

  “A round face and a nose you have to look at twice to see,” said Gidjabolgo uncharitably. “Short and sturdy, feet too big in boots too small, clothes that wouldn't recognize a tub of water, hair as matted as a thak bush, two eyes, both of them now bulging . . .”

  “Zeldin forbid that you sing the way you speak.” Viarki was still grinning. “Well, I've had my turn. Now try your tongue on the rest of us.”

  “I'll spare the old priest,” said Gidjabolgo, “since you've spoken to him, Zelnis. Besides he looks too fragile to bear a weight of words, let alone play a young god.”