The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels )

by Geraldine Harris

  Kerish successfully dipped the bread into the steaming lentils and carried it to his mouth.

  The baker did his best to entertain his guests with a meagre fund of stories ranging from local legends concerning the naming of rivers and hills to anecdotes about the extraordinary precocity of his daughters. Courtesy forbade weary travelers to be asked for a song or story but after the baker related for the second time how his younger daughter had once deceived him into baking mud-loaves, there was no shortage of volunteers.

  The children were sent to bed, protesting vigorously, and Feg's instrument was brought up with the other luggage. He played several lugubrious airs before Viarki coaxed him into accompanying a comic song about a failed poet and a lady who preferred action to mangled verses. Some of the baker's precious supply of rich sweetmeats was handed round and the singing would have continued late into the night if Marliann had not gently reminded the company that they were due to make an early start.

  The baker withdrew to sleep on top of his clay oven. Desha and Marliann were to share the daughters' small chamber while the men had the upper room. But they were not yet ready to separate.

  “Now we have rested and are out of danger,” said the old priest, “we must not neglect our craft. Viarki, fetch the mask box.”

  Kerish at once asked if he and Gidjabolgo should withdraw but Leth-Kar shook his head.

  “No, you are both musicians and will understand what we do, but we would appreciate your silence, now and after.”

  Viarki hauled the box into the middle of the room and the four players sat down around it. Feg squatted just outside the circle, re-tuned his instrument and began to strum a gentle tune. The music summoned no images to Kerish's mind. Instead, it seemed to cleanse him, leaving a serene emptiness. Beside him, in the shadows, Gidjabolgo watched the circle of the players intently.

  He saw Leth-Kar open the battered chest and draw out a mask that blazed in the lamplight. Raven hair surrounded a peerless golden face with eyes of amethyst and crystal. The old priest put on the mask of Zeldin the Ever-young and his voice resounded inside the gilded wood. “I am Zeldin: when rivers were streams, when mountains were hills, when the Jungle of Jenze was a single tree, when the land was empty, I walked in Galkis. I am older than night and younger with every dawn. I am Zeldin.”

  The other players knelt with bowed heads and crossed hands as if they prayed before an image of the god.

  “I am Zeldin the Gentle. The stars danced at my command and the Desolation of Zarn was fruitful, but the burden of my love was heavy, for there was none to receive it.”

  Leth-Kar stooped and drew a second mask from the box. Midnight tresses framed a milk-white face of lambent beauty. “Come to me, lady of the stars, loveliest of mortals.”

  Marliann knotted back her grey hair and put on the mask. When she spoke Kerish shivered with joy.

  “In the morning of the world, our long journey ended and I walked on the white shore and was glad. Then you came to me. I knelt in worship but you raised me up. I am Imarko, the mother of my people.”

  Marliann and Leth-Kar joined their ageing hands across the circle and their voices were young.

  “A son was born of our love, the Golden City was his cradle, an Empire his heritage, and for his people - comfort in life and joy beyond death. Rejoice, rejoice, O heirs of the Godborn!”

  Out of the chest two more masks were drawn: a valiant Prince and a shining Princess. Leth-Kar placed the Prince's mask on Viarki and Marliann put that of the Princess on Desha.

  “Generation upon generation shall our love enfold.”

  Desha spoke first, every trace of temper and spite gone from her high sweet voice. “I am the Virgin Priestess of Holy Hildimarn who walks the white shore in the footsteps of her Foremother. I am the beloved of the Poet Emperor, for whom all things wept. I am the daughter of Emperors, let all men reverence my beauty and no man fear it.”

  Last of all Viarki joined the chant and in his voice alone Kerish detected a quaver of doubt. “I hunted the Trieldiss high in the mountains and did not loose the arrow. I vanquished the Enchantress. I followed the messenger of Zeldin and dared all perils for my people. I am the son of Emperors and all men prosper from my blessing.”

  “I am Zeldin who summoned men into Zindar that I might love them . . .”

  “I am Imarko who bore pain and age and death, and love sustained me . . .”

  Listening to their interweaving words Kerish thought, `This is the heart of Galkis - the people's faith in Zeldin and Imarko. The Godborn are nothing in themselves. We are no more than patterns to be acted out by every generation of our people.'

  The players' voices rose, each to their own climax, and died away. Kerish slowly realized that Feg was still playing and that the tune had changed. Now the music seemed to catch and bind him to small earthly things, lamplight instead of starlight, nursery songs instead of hymns. The players took off their shining masks. Viarki placed them carefully in the chest and closed the lid.

  “We must go to our night's quarters,” said Marliann briskly, “or our good baker's daughters will think we've fled the prospect of their company.”

  The women left without further words and the men unrolled their blankets and gathered up the cushions. Viarki lay down close to Kerish and Gidjabolgo.

  “I thought it was your fourth player's job to be the hero prince,” murmured the Forgite.

  “It is. I didn't want to do it,” murmured Viarki. “Leth-Kar said strength would come, and I suppose it did, but I am not made to receive heroes. The way I felt tonight . . . Oh, I can't explain, but it was like a fever. To feel like that too often would break me.”

  “It would break even a Prince of the Godborn,” whispered Kerish. “No one can live on the heights too long.”

  “But it's different for them.” Viarki sounded quite shocked. “They are truly children of Zeldin, not adopted like us. I wish I'd seen the Third Prince in Viroc. People who saw him unveiled said he had the face of Zeldin. Did you ever play for him at court, Zelnis?”

  Feg hissed at them to be quiet but Kerish answered briefly, “Yes, before he began his long journey. I'd scarcely recognize him now.”

  Dawn came far too quickly and the temple's single bell rang out for the brief morning service of praise to Zeldin the Giver of Gifts. Viarki snuggled deeper into his pile of cushions and Feg muttered something about there being no more gifts, but Leth-Kar rose at once and Kerish asked to go with him.

  “Of course, Zelnis. I will lead you since, by your friend's scowls, he would rather sleep longer.”

  Kneeling to tie on Kerish's sandals, Gidjabolgo felt the Prince flinch, but only said, with an exaggerated yawn, “You are right. To a barbarous foreigner a warm pillow is more attractive than giving thanks to somebody else's god.”

  “He would be your god too, if you wished it, Master Gidjabolgo.”

  “I do not wish it,” said the Forgite. “Dealing with men is difficult enough without a god to take into account.”

  “I have sometimes felt so too,” said the old priest unexpectedly. “Are you ready, Zelnis?” He gave Kerish's arm a gentle tug and reluctantly the Prince went with him.

  At the foot of the stairs they were joined by Marliann, the embroidered veil of a priestess covering her long grey hair. Kerish heard her kiss her husband and then felt his other arm taken. So he was walked to the little temple like a young child between protective parents.

  Because of the strangers, the sanctuary was full and people were sitting on the steps and squatting down in the square. Since they were priests, room was made close to the simple altar for Leth-Kar and Marliann and their young companion. The old village priest opened a yellowed scroll of The Book of Sorrows at a passage concerning the appearance of Zeldin to the twin princes, Jair-Kil and Mair-Kol, at their coming-of-age. He no longer needed to read the words:

  “And Zeldin said to them, `Name the wish of your hearts and it shall be yours, but you must agree, one with the other, what you s
hall ask.' Jair-Kil said, `Let us ask for the destruction of the enemies of Galkis!' But Mair-Kol answered, `No, let us rather desire wisdom to rule our people.' 'That we will gain with age, but the strength of others we cannot control. Therefore,' declared Jair-Kil, `let us not ask for qualities for ourselves, but for weakness in others.' `And what joy would such a gift bring?' cried Mair-Kol. `What I achieve shall be by my own skill, or all is bitterness. Let us ask for courage that you may feel thus too.' Then Jair-Kil was angry and shouted, `I am the elder. We shall ask as I decree.' And they quarreled, one with the other, and Zeldin departed from them and they heeded not his going.”

  Kerish could not help wincing as the familiar words were distorted almost out of recognition by the old man's thick southern accent and imperfect grasp of High Galkian.

  As a compliment to a visiting priest, Leth-Kar was then asked to retell the story in Low Galkian. He did so in compelling fashion, his voice filled with sweet nobility for Zeldin and with pride and anger for the quarrelling princes. Another priest from Viroc then spoke for a few minutes on what it was proper to ask of Zeldin, and a hymn of praise was sung. Finally, the villagers brought out food to be shared together after the night's fast. Fresh fruit and a cup of warm milk were pressed on Kerish and the actors, and the holy meal soon relapsed into the usual opportunity to gossip and exchange news before the day's work began.

  In the square the refugees were already preparing to leave. There were a few new additions who had heeded the captain's warning of possible future raids. Most of the sick were left in the villagers' care so that the convoy could move more quickly. Two soldiers remained behind to organize resistance in the village and patrol the surrounding hills. At the baker's house, thanks and farewells were already being exchanged as the players' luggage was loaded on to the cart.

  Marliann still held on to Kerish's arm. “Zelnis, before we begin our journey again, let me bathe your eyes. I have found my box of herbs now and I know of an ancient remedy . . .”

  “No,” said Kerish brusquely. “Nothing will help and I can't bear them to be touched.”

  “As you will, but remember, if you need help of any kind, I am close.” She let go of his arm. “Ah, here is Master Gidjabolgo to claim you.”

  The escort finally got the convoy moving and the refugees continued their journey towards Joze, deeper into the one region of the Galkian Empire scarcely affected yet by invasion or civil strife. Joze, the City of Dreamers. Some said it had gained its name through sleepiness and sloth but Kerish knew that it came from the city's many poets and the strange dreams that inspired them. He had always wanted to go there and see the famous covered statues in the temple precincts.

  Long ago the priests of the temple of Zeldin of Joze had commissioned a local sculptor to carve statues of the god and his bride, in honor of a visit by the High Priest himself. The man lived and slept in the temple and would let no one watch him as he worked. The statues were finished on the night of the High Priest's arrival. When the priests saw them their cries of horror and astonishment reached to the city. They would have destroyed the statues at once but the High Priest had already been told of the gift and the next morning he asked to see them. Reluctantly they led him to the sculptor's chamber and they heard him suck in his breath, but his face betrayed nothing. The High Priest sent for the sculptor and spoke with him for a long while. Then he ordered that the man be richly rewarded but, for his own peace, banished from Joze. “There is no fault in him,” he told the priests, “he received the vision that was sent to him, as all artists must.”

  The High Priest ordered that the statues be covered with impenetrable veils and set up in the temple precincts. Since that time every High Priest of Zeldin had travelled once in his reign to Joze to uncover the statues for one brief moment.

  As the ox was finally persuaded to lumber off down the royal road, Kerish remembered how, as an inquisitive child, he had once plucked up the courage to ask Izeldon what he had seen when the veils were lifted. The High Priest had smiled and said,

  “That must remain hidden, my child, but I will tell you this. When I fought the Brigands of Fangmere in my youth I was once very close to being killed. I remember how it felt when the axe swept towards me and it was not so frightening as the moment when I saw those statues.”

  Kerish gripped the cart and walked steadily on, wishing that he was really travelling to Joze.

  “How did you enjoy the service?” asked Gidjabolgo.

  “It was very unlike a palace service, but that's no criticism. I'm beginning to feel as much a stranger here as you.”

  “I trust Leth-Kar looked after you well. He led you out as if he was carrying an ornament too precious to drop. You're as much of a curiosity to them as I am.”

  “He cared for me kindly but I prefer to be led by you.”

  “Still casting me as your servant?”

  “Not so long ago I'd have wasted half a morning trying to refute that.”

  Kerish smiled warmly at the Forgite who said, rather too quickly, “Don't imagine I'm fool enough to think myself indispensable.”

  “You are as important to me as anyone can be,” answered Kerish.

  “What? More than your beloved brother?” said Gidjabolgo cruelly. “You don't seem to have found him so indispensable.”

  Kerish would not be baited. “He is part of everything I do. I couldn't shake him off if I tried.”

  “You'll find that's true of me as well. Careful, the cart's turning. “

  As the road curved round to enter a long lush valley, Viarki came to walk beside them and the difficult conversation ended; yet it lingered in Kerish's thoughts all day as they walked in the oppressive heat.

  They were still on the road at sunset when Kerish began to clear his mind of the noises of the journey: the wheezing of the ox, the monotonous creaking of the cart, birdsong and the confused murmur of a dozen different conversations. To the stillness he created came nothing but the clash of distant battle. He stood white-faced in the dusty road till Gidjabolgo shook him by the shoulders.

  “You're being stared at. What's the matter?”

  “Forollkin. He's in danger, a battle . . .” He stopped at the sound of Desha's voice.

  “Marliann sent me to ask if you were feeling ill.”

  The fragile contact was shattered and Kerish shook his head. “Only for a moment.”

  “She also told me to offer you a place in the cart but I suppose you won't take it. Would it be against court etiquette?” asked Desha eagerly.

  Kerish smiled. “To my knowledge, ox-carts do not feature in court etiquette.”

  “The Godborn are carried in litters hung with purple silk, aren't they?” persisted Desha. “Lord Jerenac wasn't. I suppose that was because he was a soldier, but a lot of people thought he ought to have been anyway, to show the proper reverence. He hardly ever came to the temple to see us. People used to say that he didn't really believe in Zeldin and our Lady so he could never lead us to victory. Did they say the same at court?”

  “Despair makes a good fighter,” began Gidjabolgo. “Perhaps `people' should have held their tongues.”

  Desha ignored him. “I expect you didn't see much of Lord Jerenac at court, but you must have met the Princes and Queen Kelinda of course, and the Empress.”

  Kerish nodded.

  “And the Emperor too?”

  “I scarcely ever saw him,” said Kerish bleakly.

  “You must have heard a lot about him though. Did he really hate his wife and all his children except the Third Prince?”

  “Is that what people say?” asked Kerish, his knuckles whitening as they gripped the cart.

  “Oh yes. I've even heard some whisper that he was mad but I don't believe that,” confided Desha. “He just grieved for his third Queen and everyone loves him for that. We have a new play about her. In the first scene Viarki plays the Governor who brings the Lady Taana as a gift and the Emperor falls in love with her and makes her his Queen. Leth-Kar is the Emperor, of
course, and in the central scene he walks with the Queen in the gardens and they describe their happiness and Feg plays a lovely solo on the zildar.”

  Desha's voice had taken on some of the rich sweetness that had flowed from behind the mask. “In the last scene, she dies in his arms and the Emperor rages against fate and the chorus compare his grief to Zeldin's. Then, in the epilogue, Imarko herself appears to tell of the happy union of the Emperor and his Queen beyond the Gate of Death and of how glorious their only son will be. Of course, when we first performed the play the Empress had given out that the Third Prince was dead, but no one believed her and now he's returned and Leth-Kar's going to add some new lines about it for the next performance.”

  “And who,” asked Kerish shakenly, “plays Taana?”

  “I do, of course, because she was a Queen, never an Empress. It's my favorite role and one day I will play her in the Golden City in front of the whole court. As soon as the war is over . . .”

  “You aim to enter the palace troupe?”

  “I know I shall,” said Desha proudly. “Even Marliann says I'm good enough.”

  “And is there nothing to bind you to the south?”

  “No one,” said Desha harshly. “Tell me about the court and the palace players.”

  “Child, you are tiring Master Zelnis.” It was Marliann's gentle voice. “Leth-Kar wishes you to go over a speech with him. Join him please.”

  “You can tell me later,” said Desha ungraciously, and strode away.

  “Try not to tell her all of the truth,” murmured the priestess. “The Golden City is the corner-stone of her dreams and without them she is beggared.”

  “You don't think she will achieve her dream?” asked Gidjabolgo.

  “Even if the Empire survives these wars,” answered Marliann slowly, “much will be changed. There may be no court and no players. In gentler times I would have tried to wean her from her dreams but now I can offer nothing else. Be kind to her.”

  “You were once at court . . .?”

  “Many years ago, Zelnis,” said Marliann, “and even then the glory of the Golden City was dimmed. It made me feel old before my time and I pitied its children.”