On the next day's journey, Desha pestered Kerish with questions. To her intense annoyance most of them were taken up by Gidjabolgo, whose answers reeked of malicious invention and kept her continually snorting in disbelief. Viarki intended to come to the rescue but he couldn't resist asking a few questions of his own. When Kerish was persuaded to describe some rich ceremony or a performance by the temple actors, more than just the young players crowded close to listen.
That evening the convoy camped in a sheltered hollow in hills ringed with scented trees and close to a clear spring. When they were fed and rested, Leth-Kar declared that it was time they began to practice songs again and the troupe's instruments were retrieved from the cart. Feg was a musician of the old-fashioned type. He ignored the form of musical notation used in the north and preferred to learn and teach without ever writing a tune down. Indeed, like many southerners, he declared that to write anything down was to kill it. The music for the temple plays had often been handed down through hundreds of years, each generation providing its own additions and embellishments. One song was even said to have been carried to Galkis by the ship that bore Imarko and was older than the Golden City itself.
An innocent question from Kerish launched Feg into a gloomy tirade on the evils of change to which none of the actors made any pretense of listening. In the absence of the second and third musicians, Viarki was to play the flute and Desha was sulkily dangling a pair of cymbals in her lap. With grave courtesy, Leth-Kar asked the Forgite if he would play with them. Gidjabolgo shrugged assent and unslung the zildar from his shoulder. Feg examined it in pretended disapproval, plucking the strings and tapping the delicate fretwork. He played a few chords and muttered, “It will serve.”
“Serve!” cried Viarki. “It's exquisite and you know it. I've never seen such a zildar. Surely, painted with a zeloka it should be a royal instrument. We have a model just like it for scenes with the Poet Emperor.”
“It was a royal gift,” said Gidjabolgo truthfully enough.
“Is it yours, Zelnis, and did you play it for the Queen?” Viarki stroked the gilded wood with great respect.
“I used to play it,” said Kerish somberly. “Now you may as well call it Gidjabolgo's.”
“Zelnis, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind you,” stammered Viarki.
Touched at the distress in Viarki's voice, his own misery melted away. Kerish felt for the young player and squeezed his shoulder. “I know it. Rest assured, Gidjabolgo plays the zildar as well as I ever did.”
They soon heard the proof of that. Feg, with Viarki's wavering support on the flute, played a simple hymn tune used in the interludes of several plays. Gidjabolgo quickly picked up the melody and began weaving harmonies that reduced Feg to mingled dislike and respect. He taught the Forgite several further pieces: the whispering chorus of trees that mourned the Poet Emperor, the Dance of the Banebirds, a hymn extolling the beauties of holy Hildimarn, and a marching song that commemorated the first Battle of Viroc. This last, Kerish had known since childhood and he lifted his voice to join the fierce, bright rhythms. Many of the convoy had gathered to listen and even the captain of the escort briefly left his fireside to speak to them.
“Your singing cheers everyone. When we reach a town with a proper temple it would be a service to the province to perform there. Something hopeful to hearten the people.”
Leth-Kar answered courteously but Kerish bowed his head, remembering the captain from among the soldiers on the wall, the morning the Imperial Guard had reached Viroc. As soon as he had gone, Marliann said softly, “Master Zelnis, may we not entreat you to sing something for us?”
He would have refused any of the others, but not her.
Kerish chose the same song he had given long before to the court of Elmandis. The story of the Poet Emperor and his hunt for the Trieldiss, the creature whose death could give him his heart's desire; the creature that he could not bear to kill. This time, Kerish's blinded eyes saw the Trieldiss as clearly as if it stood before him and its beauty thrilled through his voice and the sorrow of its loss and the wonder of its gift to the Poet Emperor pierced each of the hearers.
When the song was over, they crowded round Kerish, praising his voice. No-one told him that Leth-Kar was weeping as if he, too, had glimpsed something that he was never destined to capture.
Chapter 8
The Book of the Emperors: Chronicles
“You say that the Godborn will endure in power and splendor, but I tell you that we are like a mountain stream. The stream is fair and swift, but when the snows melt, how much greater will the torrent be.” “But then the stream is lost in the torrent,” cried out the Emperor, and Jezreen answered him, “Yes, but the torrent may flood the whole earth.”
It was a week before the convoy reached a town of any size, and by that time everyone had heard of the blind singer who spoke so vividly of the marvels of the north. At each halt, people gathered to listen to him. Kerish no longer hid himself away or refused to speak. He answered all the questions put to him, whether they were eager or shy, sensible or foolish. Slowly, he began to enjoy the small deceptions he had to practice, and Gidjabolgo's acid comments on them.
To a succession of listeners, Kerish described the beauty of the Nine Cities and their tangled histories, just as he had once conjured them for lbrogdiss in the marshes of Lan-Pin-Fria. Then, he had simply articulated memories, now he seemed to create the cities as he spoke.
After a while, Kerish began to ask a fee from his listeners: a description of themselves and their own lives. Some thought that he was mocking them, but the Prince listened patiently to their halting accounts and asked questions that produced unexpected eloquence, even from the most timid. He spoke to old men, carpenters and tanners, shipwrights and dyers who had followed their crafts in the proud Guilds of Viroc, and to women skilled in the arts of calligraphy or weaving, the lore of herbs or the blending of scents. All of them fretted at the disruption of their work, but none were tainted with despair. The blow had fallen hardest on servants lost without a master and the dull, comfortable tasks that had filled their days, and on women who had lived only through their husbands and sons.
These people were sought out by Marliann and sometimes Kerish went with her when she tried to comfort them. The priests of Zeldin were respected, but it was to the priestesses of Imarko that the people of Galkis turned in times of trouble. Marliann wept with them all and then coaxed out smiles. She gave hope to traders who had lost their livelihoods; to young girls who had dreamed of marriage and now saw the young men they had teased and longed for, marked for death; and to old men, too proud to live on charity. The priestess shared in all their feelings, understanding petty worries and deep griefs, and yet Kerish sensed in her an almost daunting serenity. She was beyond the reach of any hurt to herself. Wondering what that could mean to the one who was closest to her, Kerish vowed to seek out Leth-Kar's company.
He was almost too late. One morning the old priest had a seizure and suffered for a time with terrible pains in the chest. They left him very weak. For several days he lay in the cart, swathed in cloaks and blankets to ease the worst of the jolting, with Marliann constantly beside him.
Every evening, Kerish reached out for his brother. Sometimes Forollkin's presence was warm and vivid; twice he could not be reached at all. Once, Kerish guessed that Forollkin must have fallen into a dreamless sleep. Once, another presence seemed to be filling his brother's thoughts.
On the seventh day, the convoy entered the town of Dhil, and for the first time, they glimpsed the Jen Mountains piercing the horizon. The captain of the escort considered his duty over and only two soldiers were detailed to guide the convoy on the remainder of the way to Joze. The rest of his men set about recruiting more soldiers to harry the enemy forces, and persuading the people of Dhil of Viroc's urgent need of supplies and arms. Burdened already by much higher taxes than usual, the townspeople were in a sullen mood, so the captain encouraged the refugees to wander among them, talk
ing about the hardships they had endured in Viroc and the destruction they had seen.
The actors were lodged, like the other priests and priestesses from Viroc, in the temple guesthouse. The temple at Dhil was fine and large, built in the characteristic coral stone of the Jen Mountains, with a portico that served as a stage for festivals and pageants. The actors were asked if they would perform on the following evening.
Leth-Kar was barely recovered, so they chose `The Bracelet of Truth', which only required him to sit on the Emperor's throne in solemn judgment. A chorus of children, few of whom had any aptitude for singing, was hastily assembled and despairingly coached by Feg. Marliann laughed and prophesied that their parents would admire them, however badly they sang. Gidjabolgo was pressed into service as second musician and spent several stormy sessions with Feg learning hymns and songs. Kerish agreed to sing the solos on condition that he could not be seen by the audience.
At dusk on the following evening, the townspeople began to assemble in the temple courtyard and scented torches were lit. Hidden behind a screen, Kerish heard Viarki's opening speech in Low Galkian, relating the story of the play. Those few among the audience who claimed a knowledge of High Galkian made the traditional gesture of covering their ears, but most people listened attentively.
The first scene depicted a quarrel between a Lord of Galkis and his young wife. Putting on his mask and a glittering cloak, Viarki stepped into the husband's role and demanded to know why his wife no longer wore the bracelet of Dirian pearls he had given her on their wedding day. The audience knew that she had left it beneath her lover's pillow, but Desha, as the faithless wife, declared that one of her servants must have stolen it while she was bathing. The old woman who had poured the bath was summoned and accused. Marliann's rich voice came out from behind her wrinkled mask in a frightened whisper. The husband continued to believe his wife's story. In desperation, the old woman appealed to the Emperor's justice. The scene ended with a chorus summoning the troubled and oppressed to bring their grievances to the Emperor, and praising the justice of the Godborn.
The children sang raggedly but with great gusto and Kerish's pure voice soared above theirs in perfect counterpoint. The two musicians played, while a purple and gold backcloth was hung up to represent the Imperial Palace. Kerish heard the audience murmuring and coughing and the cries of the vendors of sweetmeats and cordials touting their wares.
Leth-Kar took his place as the Emperor Var-Sheekin on a makeshift throne at the center of the stage and the Lord and his Lady prostrated themselves before him. Desha spoke first, and with such gracious calm that nothing in her tale rang false. She curtsied demurely and stepped back. Kerish heard Marliann as the old woman stumble forward and whisper that she did not know how to plead. Then Leth-Kar's voice, still firm and resonant, rose in an invocation to Imarko, beseeching his Foremother to speak for the servant. Kerish imagined the old woman straightening and looking her accuser in the face. Her fear was stripped away and when she spoke again, it was with the voice of the Lady of the Stars.
First came a denial of the accusation and then the truth: that the bracelet would be found beneath the pillow of a certain officer of the Imperial Guard. Desha's calm shattered and she shrieked denials. Imarko spoke through the old woman on the nature of Truth and the Sin of Untruth and the chorus sang an eerie chant, describing how men could unmake Zindar with lies. With one last cry, Desha turned to show the audience an empty sleeve, instead of the arm that the bracelet should have encircled. The old woman fell into a swoon, and when she recovered, her voice was her own again. The Emperor decreed that the servant should be rewarded with the value of the bracelet and that the Lord should punish his wife as he chose. The second scene ended with a brief song in praise of Truth. The complex accompaniment tested Gidjabolgo to the limit, but he made no errors.
In the third scene, the Lord and his Lady were once again in their home. Desha confessed her sins and pleaded for forgiveness but Viarki, as her husband, vowed that he would never pardon her until she could embrace him with two arms again. Weeping, the faithless wife begged her servant's forgiveness too. The old woman told her that to feel the presence of Imarko was worth any suffering. Not only did she forgive her mistress, she thanked her with all her heart. The old woman clasped the Lady's vanished hand and it became living flesh again. The husband stood abashed, and when his wife flung her two arms around him, he truly forgave her. The play ended with the chorus still praising Justice but Kerish's lone voice glorifying Mercy.
As usual, there was no applause, but the audience joined happily in the final hymn and a blessing was given by the priests of the temple. The actors remained in seclusion, until each felt that they had fully returned to their own personality. Then, when the masks were carefully put away and the costumes folded, they went out to mingle with the crowd. Kerish and Gidjabolgo stayed behind one of the screens, talking quietly, but Viarki soon returned with a flask of cordial and a handful of sticky sweetmeats.
“It went well; considering the terrible chorus and shifters who couldn't move their own feet. The audience was pleased. They'll go away feeling that they've done something virtuous themselves, and that should make them happy, except for the ones Feg catches and warns to repent. Zelnis, you sang beautifully. Yarlin never really got that more than human quality you need in the Chant of Unmaking. It ought to make you shiver, and it did tonight. I thought I'd dissolve on the spot. You, Gidjabolgo, deserve Feg's praise but you won't get it, that's not his way.” Viarki stuffed a plump sweetmeat into his mouth, but kept on talking. “Marliann is always wonderful in `The Bracelet of Truth', but isn't it odd how the part of the faithless wife suits Desha? The collection should be a good one, and of course you'll get your share.”
Kerish seemed taken aback. “I don't want money.”
“Well, not for food and lodgings,” agreed Viarki, handing round the flask again. “The temples will see to that, but there are other things.”
“Pay no attention,” said Gidjabolgo. “Zelnis has been spoiled by palace life. We'll take what we're offered. Are you sure the temples ahead will look after us? Won't they already have enough actors and musicians in Joze?”
Viarki frowned. “Some may have gone west to fight, but yes I suppose we'll be forced to take second place. They'll probably send us out on the road, to visit the small towns and the villages. I don't mind. I'm used to starting at the bottom, but it's hard on Leth-Kar at his age.”
When they left Dhil, Kerish and Gidjabolgo were each richer by two silver theegs. The Prince turned them over and over in his hand. They were old coins and must bear his father's head. He never remembered having touched one before.
“Don't drop them,” muttered Gidjabolgo. “They'll come in useful to buy food when we leave the convoy. What's the value of a theeg? Would it run to the hire of two horses?”
“I don't know. “ Kerish smiled at his own ignorance. “You had better find a roundabout way of asking Viarki.”
The convoy moved off at noon. As he stood in his usual position, gripping the edge of the cart, Kerish heard the old priest and his wife approaching. Marliann lightly touched the Prince's shoulder.
“Zelnis, there is a young woman in one of the other carts who is close to her time. I have promised to stay with her. Would you ride in the cart, just this once, and keep Leth-Kar company?”
Her husband began to murmur that it wasn't necessary, but after a moment's hesitation, Kerish agreed. Feg helped him on to the cart and then tugged at the ox's halter to lead it forward. Gidjabolgo and Viarki followed, talking vigorously. Desha walked a little way behind, her face lit by a greedy smile as she dreamed of the Golden City.
Kerish settled down amongst a heap of cloaks that glittered with false gold, and asked the old man if he was comfortable. Leth-Kar assured him that he was and there was a long, but not an awkward, silence. The town boundary was passed and the diminished convoy joined the Joze road again. Kerish asked if Leth-Kar had been this far east before. The old
priest nodded and then remembered. “Yes, for I was born in a village not twelve miles from Joze. Since I showed some liking for learning I was sent to the temple school there.”
“So this is a kind of homecoming for you,” said Kerish.
“I have not been back in forty years,” murmured Leth-Kar, “nearly everyone I knew will be dead. I never thought I'd have to return.”
“You were unhappy in Joze?”
“I was not happy,” agreed the old priest, “though I cannot say that I was ever ill-treated. I entered that school when I was nine years old and the following spring I saw my first performance by the temple actors. It was `The Hunting of the Trieldiss'. Your song reminded me . . .”
He did not speak again for some time and Kerish hardly dared to move or breathe, in case he shattered the old man's memories.
“I saw the Trieldiss in my mind's eye that day,” murmured Leth-Kar at last, “and I knew that I wanted to be a temple actor. I wanted to be the Godborn, to be Zeldin himself. When I heard you sing, I saw the Trieldiss again and I recognized that, given the Prince's choice, I would have loosed the arrow. Perhaps I did once have that choice and perhaps I murdered my heart's desire.”
“Surely you became all that you wished, “ Kerish said. “What is it you still lack?”
“I began my training at Joze, but I could not stay there. There were too many people who knew me, my family, my childhood friends . . . how could I play Zeldin in front of them? I feared their mockery,” admitted Leth-Kar, “so I begged to be sent away. I came west to Viroc. There I achieved my ambition, and Marliann too. Perhaps that was one gift too many.”
Kerish wished that he could see Leth-Kar's face. Uncertain whether to touch the old man, he said slowly, “Is it hard to play Zeldin and show him to others, and still be able to find him in your own need?”
The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) Page 17
