Prince of the Godborn (Seven Citadels)

by Geraldine Harris

  SEVEN CITADELS

  PART ONE

  PRINCE OF THE GODBORN

  Seven Citadels novels by Geraldine Harris

  The Children of the Wind

  The Dead Kingdom

  The Seventh Gate

  SEVEN CITADELS

  PART ONE

  PRINCE OF THE GODBORN

  GERALDINE HARRIS

  SPEAKING VOLUMES LLC

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  2011

  SEVEN CITADELS

  PRINCE OF THE GODBORN

  Copyright © 1982 by GERALDINE HARRIS

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  ISBN 978-1-61232-043-4

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 1

  The Book of the Emperors: Chronicles,

  And in the morning of the world, Zeldin took his son by the hand and led him to the summit of a high mountain. As Mikeld-lo-Taan looked down on the wide lands and bright rivers of Galkis, Zeldin said, “All that you behold, from the mountains of the north to the jungles of the south, from the deserts of the east to the seas of the west, shall be a Kingdom to you and to your heirs for ever.” Then Mikeld-lo-Taan, first Emperor of Galkis, knelt before his father and swore to build him there a temple.

  The escort of Prince Kerish-lo-Taan halted at the end of a narrow valley. In front of them squatted a shadowy complex of buildings. Lord Forollkin spurred his roan mare through the gates of the Royal Lodge and into the main courtyard. Through the centuries the Lodge had been enlarged until it was almost a palace in itself where the Emperors of Galkis and their families stayed when they came to worship Zeldin on the Holy Mountain. Only one royal standard now flew above the Royal Lodge: the silver Starflower of the Emperor's only nephew, Prince Li-Kroch.

  Forollkin drew his sword and struck the bronze gong that hung beside the central doors. Then he waited, shivering under his heavy cloak. After a minute, the Keeper of the Royal Lodge, swathed in furs, came down the steps. He bowed just as much as was necessary to the son of a Royal Concubine. Forollkin saluted and announced formally, “His Serene Highness, Prince Kerish-lo-Taan, Third Son of the Emperor Ka-Litraan, may his reign be eternal, demands admittance to the Royal Lodge.”

  The Keeper bowed again, much lower. “The Lodge would be honoured to receive his Highness, but tomorrow we expect other royal guests for the Presentation ceremony. The High Priest has therefore sent word that the Third Prince is to stay in the temple itself. I believe that his Highness will find Lord Yxin already there.”

  Masking his annoyance, Forollkin saluted again and rode back to where the soldiers of the escort huddled, stamping and blowing to keep warm. The Prince's litter had been set down and the purple curtains were half open. The escort were tired. They had been travelling since dawn and all but Forollkin were on foot. Now they had a steep climb ahead of them. Nor would the Prince's temper be improved by lodging with Lord Yxin. Forollkin dismounted and kneeling by the litter delivered the High Priest's message to his half-brother.

  Kerish-lo-Taan was veiled and hooded for travelling. Only his eyes were visible but they were enough to show his anger.

  “Yet I see they can find room for my cousin, the royal idiot.”

  “Many would think it an honour to be lodged in the Temple itself,” said Forollkin patiently. “If we leave now, we shall barely reach it by sunset. May I give the order?”

  He knew as well as the Prince that they had no choice but he was generous enough not to say so. Kerish sat obstinately silent. Forollkin changed his tactics.

  “Highness, our men are cold and hungry and tired. The sooner we reach shelter, any shelter...”

  “Then don't crouch here chattering like a Jenozan monkey. Give the order!”

  Forollkin remounted, grinning to himself. Four soldiers hoisted the litter on to their shoulders and the rest of the escort fell in behind. Kerish-lo-Taan drew the purple curtains. His request that he might ride to the temple on his fiery black mare had been refused. This was a court ceremony. The less exalted might ride or even walk. A Prince of the Godborn must be slowly and tediously carried. Unobserved, Kerish curled up among the soft cushions and was soon lulled into sleep by the rhythmic swaying of the litter.

  Forollkin rode ahead, spurring his tired horse. Through clefts of night-black rock the temple road spiralled upwards. It was paved with white marble and flanked with pillars carved with the names and achievements of a hundred generations of High Priests. The air was clear and cold. Turning in his saddle, Forollkin looked down over the great plain of central Galkis. The fading sunlight glinted on the placid waters of the river Gal and the walls of the ancient capital: Golden Galkis, the Queen of Cities.

  One of the bearers stumbled, jolting Kerish awake. Forollkin ordered a brief halt and changed the bearers. The escort moved on at a quicker pace. If darkness caught them still on the mountain, they had no torches and the temple road was often dangerously narrow. Within minutes they had crossed the snowline. The cold became more intense and an icy wind billowed the purple curtains. In spite of his furs, Kerish-lo-Taan shivered where he lay.

  It was almost nine years since he had travelled this road to his own ceremony of Presentation. A few days before the ceremony, his stepmother, Rimoka, had smiled at him and said, “Well, slave-girl's son, now we shall see if your mother was as true as she boasted. Woe betide you if you have none of the blood of the Godborn to protect you from the anger of Zeldin.”

  All through the ceremony, Kerish had expected the roof of the temple to split open and Zeldin to strike him down as a nameless imposter. Instead, the Presentation had gone smoothly and he had been accepted as a Prince of the Godborn, a true descendant of Zeldin.

  Forollkin called out as he sighted the temple of Zeldin. The soldiers, who had been thinking of their destination in terms of warmth and food, found instead beauty to gape at. The star-shaped temple was built in translucent alabaster that changed colour with the light. In bright sun it was golden, in moonlight pale glimmering blue and now, in the last moments of sunset, it blazed crimson. Kerish and his escort watched until the sun sank below the edge of the world, leaving the temple stark white against the sudden darkness. Forollkin rode forward and hammered on the silver gates. They were swiftly opened by silent pale-robed priests. Forollkin and his soldiers were relieved of their swords and motioned inside.

  The Prince's litter was carried through a long alabaster tunnel and out into a wide, paved courtyard. Kerish at once noticed a blue standard. It was marked with the silver mountain of Tryfania, the second of the Galkian Empire's four great provinces. Forollkin dismounted and planted Kerish's own purple and golden standard in the snow next to Lord Yxin's. The Prince stepped out of his litter. The soldiers were shown to their quarters and Forollkin's mare and the two pack-horses were led away.

  Kerish was passably polite to the priest who welcomed them and asked to be shown to his rooms at once. The priest spoke sympathetically of a tiring journey and led them to a suite of rooms overlooking an inner courtyard. They were small and austerely furnished, but warmed by sweet-smelling fires.

  “If there is anything your Highness requires, strike the silver gong by the door. Supper will be brought to you presently.” The priest bowed and withdrew.

  Kerish began pacing round the small rooms like an a
nimal exploring its cage. Then he flung open the shutters and stood for several minutes gazing across the courtyard. Forollkin discarded his heavy travelling cloak. Kerish spoke, his breath clouding the frosty air.

  “I wonder where Lord Yxin is lodged? Do you think over the courtyard there?”

  “I think your death will catch you sooner than it should, if you lean out of windows on a night like this. Come to the fire.”

  Kerish slammed the shutters and crossed to the hearth.

  “If I'd known we'd be staying here, instead of the Lodge, I'd have brought servants but...”

  “As it is, I'll wait on you,” finished Forollkin, “unless you'd prefer a deft-handed novice to a rough soldier?”

  “Oh no.”

  He sounded as if he was smiling.

  “Then give me your cloak.”

  Kerish took off the cloak and unwound his veil and hood. Then he perched on a stool while Forollkin tugged off his leather boots.

  There was little in the young men's looks to indicate their close kinship. Forollkin was tall, big-boned. and sturdy. A pleasant rather than handsome face was notable only for its grey, gold-flecked eyes. Forollkin's long brown hair was neatly cut, his uniform immaculate. His sun-darkened skin spoke of the active life of a soldier as surely as his brother's pallor hinted at the closed world of the Inner Palace.

  Kerish-lo-Taan was small, fine-boned and slender. His hair was black, marred by the broad silver streak that was an inheritance from his foreign mother. His face might have been the ivory mask of an idol, perfectly carved, yet inexpressive. Inexpressive until you looked into the eyes. For they were the eyes of the Royal House of Galkis. The eyes of Zeldin. The eyes of the Godborn. The irises were deep violet flecked with gold, the pupils blacker than midnight. Strange, unfathomable eyes. Even Forollkin never looked straight into them if he could avoid it.

  The priest returned with three novices deputed to wait on the Prince. A simple supper was laid on a table near the fire. There was white cheese and bread, fruit from the mountain vineyards and hot spiced wine. When they were alone again, Kerish and Forollkin sat down opposite each other, the length of the table between them. The Prince toyed with some fruit and drank two cups of wine. Forollkin watched his half-brother warily. The Prince was restless, his cheeks flushed, his eyes brighter than ever. Probably signs of the temper he had been nourishing for the past three days.

  “The fruit is sour!” said Kerish and tossed his portion into the fire.

  Forollkin watched as it withered and burned and then answered calmly, “The cheese has a fine strong flavour and the bread is good.”

  “Coarse cheese is hardly fit for princes.”

  “No, but this is a temple not a palace.”

  “At Hildimarn my brother's temple serves finer food than any palace.”

  “True, but then everyone knows where Prince Im-lo-Torim's devotion lies.”

  For a moment Forollkin thought he had provoked his brother into real anger but suddenly Kerish started to laugh.

  “Yes, every time I see him his belt is an inch wider and you'd still think he couldn't have room for half of what he eats, but Forollkin...,” he reached across the table to grip the young soldier's wrist, “you mustn't say things like that to anyone but me. Do you promise?”

  “I promise and I know I can trust you not to betray me.”

  “What and lose my faithful watchdog?”

  There was a rap on the door.

  “Enter,” called the Prince, releasing Forollkin's wrist.

  The priest and his novices came in to clear the table.

  “I trust your Highness ate well. Have you any wish that I may grant?”

  “I thank you, nothing,” answered Kerish.

  “His Holiness will receive you in the morning. May you have quiet sleep,” said the priest. He withdrew with his novices after their offers of service were rejected.

  Forollkin helped his half-brother to undress and saw him huddled beneath a fur coverlet. Then he stoked up the fire and lay down on the couch in the outer room. Forollkin sank into a shallow sleep almost at once but Kerish lay awake far into the watches of the night, listening to the ringing of silver wind chimes and the faint, distant chanting of the priests.

  * * *

  The Prince slept long past the dawn bell. At nine, Forollkin strode into the bedroom and opened the shutters. The pale morning sunlight streaked across the Prince's face. He blinked and opened his eyes. The figure of Forollkin was black against the window.

  “It's past the third bell and you've lost half a fine morning.”

  “Sleep is gain, not loss,” said Kerish, sitting up and stretching. “You have it too easily to prize it.”

  “Did you dream again?”asked Forollkin sharply.

  Kerish nodded as he reluctantly disentangled himself from the fur coverlet.

  “Yes, but it wasn't so bad this time. There was a door I had to open but I had no key. I beat against it till I woke.”

  He looked at his hands as if he expected to see real bruises.

  “Forget it now,” said Forollkin and held out a bowl of scented water.

  “I think I should talk to Lord Izeldon.”

  “Not, I hope, till you've washed, dressed and eaten.”

  Kerish washed while Forollkin fetched him an armful of clothes and then dressed hurriedly in high boots and a long tunic of purple, embroidered in gold. He threaded a comb through his tangled hair and turned to Forollkin. From birth to death the Godborn were forbidden to look at their own reflections. Only in the Book of Secrets was a reason given but there were no mirrors in the palaces or temples of Galkis.

  “Well?” asked Kerish eagerly. “Do you think Lord Yxin will be jealous?”

  “Of your clothes or your face?” answered Forollkin, laughing.

  “Is nothing out of place?” said Kerish coldly.

  Forollkin smoothed a stray lock of hair.

  “Nothing. Now I've left you some breakfast. If you just...”

  “I don't eat leavings,” snapped Kerish.

  Tossing a fleece cloak over his shoulder he strode out of the room. Swearing under his breath, Forollkin followed.

  * * *

  Round a snow-strewn courtyard, overlooked by a hanging gallery, the sound of whipcracks echoed. Impervious to the thin air and icy cold, Lord Yxin and three of his retinue were playing with the long, hide whips they had brought from the north. Their target was a battered goblet placed on a disused altar some twelve feet away. The purpose of the game was to coil the lengths of hide around the goblet and to drag it back to the players' feet. The four young men stood in a line, feet wide apart, their whips coiled in their right hands. Yxin gave a high, clear whistle and four lengths of sharp-edged hide uncoiled with lethal speed. A flick of the wrist and the prize was jerked to Lord Yxin's feet.

  “Well played, my Lord,” cried one of his attendants, smiling nervously.

  Yxin carefully unwound the lengths of hide and kicked the goblet away. “A child could do as much.”

  “In Far Tryfarn perhaps, my Lord,” said another of the attendants, “but here in the south they can no more handle a whip than ride the wind.”

  Lord Yxin glanced up as two cloaked figures entered the gallery.

  “Then let us show them how it is done,” murmured Yxin. “Kanix, have you a coin?”

  He turned to his third attendant, who shivered suddenly.

  “No, my Lord.”

  “But I have.” announced one of the others.

  He handed his master a star-shaped golden coin with the Emperor's name on one side and the symbol of Tryfania on the other.

  “Thank you, Iroc. Now Kanix, go and stand beside the altar and hold up the coin.”

  Kanix walked twelve feet away. Stretching out his arm, he held the coin with the very tips of his fingers. Yxin, keeping his eye on the gleaming coin, slowly raised his right arm above his head, then with great force he brought it down. The whip snaked through the air, missed the coin by a fracti
on and hit the ground with a tremendous crack.

  “Oh, very close my Lord,” mouthed Iroc.

  “Kanix,” snapped his master, “Stop shaking!”

  Frowning, Lord Yxin drew back the lengths of hide. He raised his arm and again the whip uncoiled with the weight of his body behind it. This time it knocked the coin from Kanix' hand and sliced into his fingers.