Prince of the Godborn (Seven Citadels)

by Geraldine Harris

  “Oh, well hit my Lord!” cried Iroc.

  “Well hit!” echoed the other.

  Kanix stared at the first drops of his blood staining the snow. Lord Yxin smiled and, looking up, seemed to be aware for the first time of the two young men in the gallery.

  “Why, Prince Kerish and Forollkin too. Welcome to the House of Zeldin.”

  Yxin was two years older than Kerish but, as the son of a mere Lord Governor of Tryfania, he was far from his equal in rank. Nevertheless, with only his servants watching, Yxin did not trouble to bow. Kerish and Forollkin came down a flight of steps into the courtyard.

  “Thank you for your greeting, Yxin, but the High Priest has already welcomed us to the House of Zeldin the Gentle.”

  “By message only, I believe. The High Priest has not stirred from the sanctuary for the past two days, though when I arrived he came to the gate to meet me.”

  “No doubt because you have not had the honour to lodge here before,” returned Kerish, icily polite.

  During this exchange, Forollkin, white-faced with controlled anger, had walked over to Kanix. He cleaned the young man's wounded hand with snow and bound it with his own sash.

  Yxin turned towards him. “I've heard that you're a fair hand with the whip yourself, Forollkin. What do you think of our game?”

  Kerish tensed but Forollkin answered calmly, “I think, my Lord, that you should take more care. Broken toys are of no use to anyone.”

  “But what pleasure can there be in a game that has no element of danger?” demanded Yxin.

  Forollkin paced towards him. “Since you have a taste for dangerous games, try playing an equal one for a change. Fight me with your whip.”

  “I might use my whip on the son of a concubine,” said Yxin, “but I'd hardly fight one as an equal.”

  Kerish wrenched Yxin round to face him. “Then fight with me, my Lord of Tryfarn. Or do you object to fighting one higher than yourself too?”

  Yxin smiled. “I would be honoured to fight with your Highness. Pray take my whip since you have none.”

  He bowed and walked off to test the whips of his attendants.

  Kerish was left staring at the whip pressed into his hand. The ebony handle was carved like a snake. From the serpent's jaws trailed twelve feet of weathered hide, capable of slashing through a man's leg, straight to the bone.

  Forollkin took his half-brother by the shoulders. “Kerish, you can't face Yxin with a whip. You hardly know how to use one on a horse, let alone...For Zeldin's sake tell him you've changed your mind.”

  Kerish blazed at him. “Withdraw a challenge and be marked as a coward! You don't know me!”

  `Oh, but I do', thought Forollkin, `and you are going to be hurt'.

  He tried again. “Listen, if you can waste a few minutes arguing the terms of the fight, I'll fetch a priest to stop...”

  Kerish interrupted. “He offered you an insult. Do you think I could let him do that unchallenged?”

  Forollkin had no answer.

  Chapter 2

  The Book of the Emperors: Wisdom

  To be defeated in an equal combat carries no shame. But a victor who scorns his opponent or a loser who speaks maliciously of a victor, these are not worthy to be called children of Zeldin. For a man must face defeat many times in the span of his years and if his defeats are without bitterness, in death he shall have victory.

  Yxin had chosen a whip.

  “Are you ready Highness?”

  Kerish threw off his heavy cloak and nodded. Iroc stepped between the two young men.

  “Royal rules, my Lords. No striking at the face.”

  Forollkin whispered, “Watch his hands and keep moving. Zeldin be with you.” He squeezed his brother's shoulder and stepped back.

  “Are you ready my Lords, both in body and mind?” asked Iroc formally. “Then in the name of the Emperor fight justly and remember the mercy of Zeldin.”

  He signalled for the fight to begin. Yxin was both taller and heavier than Kerish but he moved as swiftly as a hunting cat. Keeping just out of range, they circled each other, making a great show of cracking the long whips. Nervously, Kerish attacked first. Keeping his glance on Yxin's tensed hand, the Prince darted forward and lashed out wildly. Yxin danced away and the lethal coils struck the ground several feet from where he now stood. Kerish flung himself back as Yxin returned the stroke and escaped by inches.

  Again they circled each other, watching for the slightest lapse in concentration. Then Yxin sprang, sweeping his whip sideways, to knock the Prince off his feet. It was a dangerous stroke that meant getting very close to his opponent. Kerish saw the thin line of agony sweeping towards him. He wavered for a second and then stumbled backwards and out of reach. Yxin laughed and darted towards the Prince swinging his black-handled whip from side to side. No one noticed a tall silver-haired man enter the gallery.

  Forollkin winced as Yxin lashed out again, aiming at the Prince's hands. Kerish avoided that blow and the next, but he was slowly forced to retreat till his back was against the courtyard wall. Forollkin knew that Yxin would not dare to kill the Prince but in a formal combat he could wound or even maim, without reproach. Yxin and Kerish attacked at the same moment. Their whips met and tangled in mid air, the force of the impact jarring them both. Yxin pulled his whip free first and sliced a blow at the Prince's right side. Kerish dodged but not quickly enough.

  The toughened hide tore through the Prince's thick sleeve and bit into his skin. As Yxin swiftly drew back the whip along the line of the wound Kerish gasped with pain. Forollkin began to run towards them but found Iroc barring his way. Kerish still held the whip but his right arm hung limp. With a flick of his wrist Yxin sent the thin, cruel lengths coiling around Kerish's legs. Before the Prince could move he was bound from thighs to ankles in loops of hide. With one vicious tug, Yxin pulled the coils tight and dragged Kerish to the ground. The Prince rolled helplessly in the snow. Yxin loosed the handle of the whip and began to laugh.

  “Oh well fought, my Lord, most well fought!” cried Iroc.

  “Your mercy does you credit my Lord,” murmured the second attendant.

  Kanix stood silent, nursing his wounded hand.

  Yxin picked up his own whip from where Kerish had dropped it and coiled it round and round his hand.

  “It would be ignoble,” began Yxin, “to take advantage of the Prince's delicacy...”

  “Delicacy, Yxin,” interrupted a gentle voice, “is not necessarily a fault.”

  Yxin spun round and his attendants knelt as Lord Izeldon came down into the courtyard. Still speaking quietly, the High Priest of Zeldin asked what had taken place.

  “A game, Your Holiness,” said Yxin, suddenly subdued.

  “A game?” queried Izeldon, “There is blood on the snow.”

  “Prince Kerish-lo-Taan challenged his Lordship,” put in Iroc.

  The High Priest still looked only at Yxin. “And your servant. Was he challenged too?”

  “An accident,” muttered Yxin.

  “I see,” murmured the High Priest, “a challenge you could not in honour refuse and an accident you could not avoid. My child, you must thank Zeldin for his mercies to you. A whole day spent on your knees in his sanctuary will scarcely suffice.” He beckoned to one of the priests who attended him. “Escort his Lordship to the Inner Sanctuary and see that his servant is tended.”

  With a sulky bow of obedience, Lord Yxin left the courtyard with his attendants.

  Forollkin had already rushed to where his brother lay. Kerish was struggling to free himself from the coils of the whip. Forollkin slipped an arm under his brother's shoulder and tugged at the coils with his free hand. Through the torn leather of the Prince's sleeve gaped a slash the width of his arm. Kerish pushed his brother away and struggled to his feet. He found the handle of the whip and freed himself from its harsh embrace.

  Forollkin gently took hold of Kerish's arm and examined it. “The cut is deep, but at least it's clean.”

&
nbsp; Sick with unassuaged anger, Kerish covered the wound with his hand and turned away muttering, “Leave it alone.”

  Forollkin, his sympathy rejected, said briskly, “The Healing Priests will soon mend it. I'll take you.”

  Kerish shook his head.

  “Now come on, you can't stand shivering here...” Forollkin stopped himself and put an arm around his half-brother's good shoulder. “Kerish, don't grieve over the foredoomed. You couldn't hope to beat Yxin. He was born with a whip in his hand. Next time, remember to strike more to the right when...”

  Kerish span round shouting, “Why can't you leave me alone?”

  He swung the recovered whip at Forollkin's face. Totally surprised, Forollkin made no attempt to ward off the blow. The hide met the flesh of his right cheek with a dull hiss.

  Kerish lowered the whip and stared. Blood welled from a deep disfiguring cut. For a moment everything was still, then Forollkin slowly raised a hand to his cheek. Kerish made a choking sound in his throat, turned violently away and found himself staring into the eyes of the High Priest of Zeldin.

  Lord Izeldon held out his hand. “Kerish-lo-Taan, give that to me.”

  Kerish handed the whip to him. Then, finding the questioning look in those eyes unbearable, he fled blindly out of the courtyard. Izeldon called gently after him but Kerish did not hear.

  Forollkin fumbled for his sash, forgetting that he had given it to Kanix. The High Priest walked towards him.

  “Forollkin, let me see the hurt.”

  The young soldier tried to wrench himself out of his daze of shock.

  “If your Holiness will allow, I'll go to the healers and have this tended. It's hardly more than a scratch.”

  His cheek burned as he spoke.

  “Then perhaps my meagre talent as a healer will suffice,' said Izeldon, with the faintest glimmer of a smile.

  * * *

  Forollkin had never been to the High Priest's quarters before and he marvelled at their simplicity. Smooth alabaster walls, broken by high shuttered windows, enclosed a small room. No fire warmed the sparsely-furnished chamber, no figured hangings softened its austerity, but on a window-sill stood a bowl of orchids from the Emperor's garden. Forollkin, sitting on a hard bench, trying to forget the pain in his cheek noted all this.

  Then Izeldon was beside him, carrying a silver bowl full of heated water, a soft white cloth and a handful of herbs. One by one, he dropped the herbs into the bowl, speaking their names aloud. Dipping the cloth in the scented water, Izeldon gently bathed Forollkin's cheek. Lastly he pressed his fingertips against the wound and gradually Forollkin felt his cheek grow numb.

  The High Priest took his hand away but he continued to study his great-nephew's face.

  “Will there be a scar, my Lord?'

  Izeldon smiled. “A faint one. Not enough to deter the ladies of Galkis. Has the Prince ever struck you before?”

  “No,” said Forollkin untruthfully.

  Izeldon sat down on the far end of the bench.

  “There is no need to protect your brother from me.”

  Forollkin was forced to look into the High Priest's eyes, purple, golden and black. The eyes of the Godborn.

  “It's jjust that he's childish,” stammered the young soldier, “and quick tempered, but he doesn't mean to hurt.”

  The High Priest nodded. “You are not compelled to stay with him. What stitches you to your brother's side?”

  “My Lord, you heard Yxin call him delicate and you saw he couldn't defend himself. Kerish is clever, of course, but it will take more than that to help him against...'

  “Against what?'

  Forollkin struggled to explain without speaking treason of the Godborn.

  “Because he is the Emperor's best-loved son there are enemies, even in the Royal Household, who might try to hurt him.”

  “Or murder him,” said the High Priest starkly. “Oh, I hear what is whispered behind the veils of the Inner Palace even here, on the Holy Mountain. I also remember how his mother was hated because she was clear-sighted and clear-spoken and the Emperor loved her.”

  Izeldon got up and walked to the window.

  “So, you have protected Kerish, but soon he will be of age. What then? He will be sent to govern some great city and you have your own life. You are born to different worlds, do you wish to stay with him always?”

  `Different worlds, yes,' thought Forollkin, `mine bright sunlight, action and danger. Nothing I can't understand by the touch of my two hands, but his...'

  He said aloud, “I will stay as long as he needs me.”

  “That is generous,” commented Izeldon. “And do you never need your brother's help?”

  “Kerish's?” Forollkin laughed. “I'd as soon ask the wind.”

  “Kerish-lo-Taan has all the gifts of the Godborn,” murmured the High Priest.

  “But I have not,” answered Forollkin, “and I don't understand them.”

  Izeldon smiled tiredly. “Forgive my questions, they are not without purpose, but have you ever told your brother that you love him?”

  Any answer that Forollkin might have made was drowned by the braying of trumpets. The High Priest listened for a moment.

  “Lord Jerenac, I think. Forollkin, go down to the main gate and greet him for me. I must look for Kerish.'

  When the young man had left, Izeldon knelt for a moment in prayer, the mask of serenity stripped from his face.

  * * *

  Lord Jerenac handed his great, silver-hilted sword to the priests, and dismounted. Born of a Royal Concubine he was, at thirty-eight, the oldest of the Emperor's children. A tall man, lean and hard, his black mane of hair was already streaked with iron grey. He was carelessly dressed in shabby leather and a cloak of shaggy fur, but the heavy gold and lapis armlets, which he wore with so little grace, could have bought a town. One of Jerenac's men planted in the snow the lilac and silver banner of the Governor of Jenoza and Lord Commander of the armies of Galkis.

  Jerenac, impatient to have the formal welcome over, was to his pleasure greeted by Forollkin rather than some soft-spoken priest. The Lord Commander approved of his half-brother; a brave, neat, practical young man, skilled in the arts of war. They were the only arts Jerenac chose to pursue. He noticed the clotted scar on Forollkin's cheek and pointed to it. Forollkin abandoned the High Priest's welcome as the Lord Commander clearly was not listening.

  “An accident, Sir,” said Forollkin stiffly, “with a whip.”

  “The Third Prince here?”

  “Yes, Sir, and Lord Yxin. There is food and wine laid out for you, my Lord, if you will come with me.”

  Lord Jerenac dismissed his soldiers and waved away the priests who would have attended him.

  In a triangular room in one of the points of the star, food and wine were spread for the Lord Commander. Tossing his cloak into a corner, Jerenac slumped down and attacked the meal. Forollkin stood as his commander devoured cheese, bread and fruit.

  “No meat,' grunted Jerenac, tearing the skin off a girt.

  “Not in a temple, Sir!' exclaimed Forollkin.

  Jerenac spat out a pip. “Priests of Zeldin, afraid of the taste of blood.'

  “They will not shed blood, my Lord.'

  Taciturn in public, Jerenac could speak well enough when he chose.

  “Soon they must decide to sanction war, or see the Dark Goddess squat in the ruins of their temples.”

  Forollkin handed a cup of wine to his commander. “There is news, Sir?'

  Jerenac looked into the earnest grey eyes of his half-brother and nodded.

  “Speak no word of this, not even to Kerish-lo-Taan. The Five Kingdoms have sworn an alliance in the name of the Dark Goddess.”

  The Lord Commander governed Jenoza, the Empire's southernmost province. Its capital was the great, white-walled city of Viroc on the banks of the river Jenze, but beyond Viroc, beyond the river, lay Oraz, easternmost of the Five Kingdoms. For centuries, the rulers of the Five Kingdoms had savaged each other
in countless petty wars. Though they were of one race and worshipped the same goddess, there had never been peace between the kingdoms. But if a formal alliance had been signed...Forollkin knew that the men of the Five Kingdoms could as soon stop breathing as fighting.

  “You think they will turn on us?'

  “Where else?” demanded Jerenac. “The desert of Kolg and the desolation of Zarn lie to the west and south of them. The sea is to the north and they are not great seafarers, though they have the friendship of the fleet of Fangmere. If they would fight anyone but each other they must come east.”

  “We have defeated them before.”

  “We have defeated the Princes of Oraz, and sometimes of Mintaz, but never a combined army of the Five Kingdoms.'

  “Then we must garrison the border, fortify the river.”

  Jerenac smiled for the first time.

  “I have not ridden hundreds of miles solely to attend a foolish ceremony. I came to ask the Emperor for men and gold. If need be, men from the north.'

  “But the brigands of Fangmere!” protested Forollkin. “If you take men from the north, then Hildimarn...”

  “May be frightened into disgorging some of its temple treasures to pay for my armies.”

  Lord Jerenac swallowed the red wine in one gulp. His half-brother refilled the cup.

  “Well now, Forollkin,” said the Lord Commander, leaning back in his chair. “Night is gathering. Where will you be? North harrying the brigands? South with me? Or here at your pale Prince's side?”

  The wound on Forollkin's cheek was beginning to ache again.

  “The Prince will soon be of age,” he said.

  “And you are not his keeper,” growled Jerenac, “though he may need one. Forollkin, I have always thought well of you. You know one end of a sword from another which is more than can be said for most of our royal kin. You fought boldly against the men of Fangmere, though that was only skirmishing. In the south, in Viroc, in Jenoza, I have need of young warriors like you. Then, you are of royal blood, my blood. It is fitting that you should command and I have no son.”