Prince of the Godborn (Seven Citadels)

by Geraldine Harris

  Jerenac stood up. “When I ride south, Forollkin, ride with me, as my chief Captain. Serve me well and you may take my place as Lord Commander when my stars darken. But mind, you have my support only if you serve me, and me alone, and cease to cling to the Third Prince, or any of our Royal kin. Well, boy?”

  This was what he had always wanted, or at least what he had told himself he wanted. It was true. Nothing bound him to Kerish. He had no obligation. Forollkin touched the scar on his cheek. No obligation at all, and yet... Clearly he heard the High Priest's question, `Have you ever told your brother you love him?' and his own unspoken answer. Kerish's mother had died before her twentieth birthday.

  “Well, boy?'

  “Mmy Lord,” Forollkin stammered, “may I give you my answer tomorrow after the ceremony?”

  Jerenac scowled.

  “You may, but I did not think to hear you hesitate. Pause to think in battle and you'll find a sword in your guts.”

  “I know it,” said Forollkin.

  * * *

  Kerish-lo-Taan ran blindly though the empty and echoing chambers of the Inner Temple. It was absurd to cry, it made him even more angry. Tears scalded his cheeks and he shook with rage against himself. `I am a man', thought Kerish, `I am a man. I won't cry. I won't! I'll go back and apologise to Forollkin. I'll tell him I'm sorry, though I'm not. He treats me like a child. I'm not sorry.`

  Kerish tripped on a step and fell heavily, jarring his wounded shoulder. The pain sobered him and his gasping breath quietened. He sat up slowly and looked around him. Unnoticing, he had entered the central hall of the temple, a vast, coldly beautiful room of palest alabaster, inlaid with marvellous designs in silver and cirge. The room was empty and quiet but Kerish gasped again as he looked up.

  He had fallen at the very feet of the Gentle God. Above him towered an ancient stone statue of Zeldin, his arms spread in blessing, his face serene and smiling. It was a young face and Kerish had always found that strange. His life was ordered by so many old people but the god they worshipped was eternally young. The features of Zeldin might have been modelled on his father but there was no such serenity in the man who hid in the Palace garden's and let the Empire rot. They might have belonged to his brothers, if their faces had not been overlaid by the marks of greed and idleness, or to himself if... Kerish jerked away from that thought.

  His sandalled feet slapping against the marble floor, Lord Izeldon entered the hall. He looked into the face of his master and returned the smile of the Gentle God.

  “My dear child, much as it pleases me to see you at your devotions, your wound should be tended.”

  Kerish jumped up. “My Lord?”

  Izeldon came closer to him. “You are bleeding, child.”

  “Don't call me child,” snapped Kerish.

  “Forgive me,” said the High Priest mildly, `it is a fault of old age. What would you like me to call you? Highness? Nephew?”

  “Just Kerish. It is my name.”

  “I understand,” murmured Izeldon. “I remember how it irked me once to be known only as the Emperor's son, the Emperor's brother, the Emperor's uncle.”

  Kerish looked at the High Priest curiously. They had only met before on very formal occasions and he was not sure if he was being teased.

  “I didn't mean to be insolent.”

  “I know that my dear chi...my dear Kerish, but try to think before you speak or your own words will plague you all your life long.”

  “Yes your Holiness,” agreed Kerish meekly.

  “Now come with me and I will tend your arm. The blood of the Godborn is too precious to waste.”

  Like Forollkin, Kerish had never been in the High Priest's apartments before. He was drawn at once to the bowl of orchids and touched their delicate petals.

  “I see you are your father's son,” said Izeldon, returning with water and herbs.

  “I love all beautiful things,” said Kerish.

  “That is good,” answered the High Priest. “But don't imagine that beauty is always easily recognized. Give me your arm.”

  Kerish winced as Izeldon's gentle fingers probed the slash in his arm.

  “My Lord,” began Kerish hesitantly, “you haven't spoken about what I did.”

  Izeldon started to bathe the Prince's arm.

  “No, that is a matter between you and Forollkin.”

  “And you don't want to punish me?”

  “You are punishing yourself quite adequately.”

  “It's just that he makes me angry, treating me like a child. He never...but I shall apologise, I promise.”

  “Thank you Kerish.”

  Izeldon carefully bandaged his great-nephew's arm.

  “My Lord,” said Kerish suddenly, “would you be angry if I asked you a question?”

  “I think it very unlikely,” murmured the High Priest. “It is one of my tasks to stir people into asking questions.”

  “The Book of the Emperors tells us that we are divine, the descendants of the Gentle God,” Kerish spoke hurriedly, staring straight ahead, “And that Zeldin can accomplish anything; rend the earth, scatter the stars, hold the seas in the palm of his hand...yet it is us that he loves. Holiness, I cannot see why! My father, my brothers, myself; we are not all good or all wise. How can we be the children of a god and why should we rule Galkis?”

  Izeldon sat down on the window-sill beside Kerish, his hands folded in his lap. He did not answer immediately.

  “Are you angry, my Lord?' asked Kerish.

  “No. I am considering your questions and I think them good ones, though I believe there is one you have left out. If we are false, may our god not be a mockery also?” The High Priest saw Kerish flinch but he went on placidly. “I sometimes think that faith is like climbing a stair in total darkness. If you are fortunate you may get just one flash of light to show you where you are going...but to your questions. Remember, Kerish, though our Forefather was Zeldin himself, our Foremother, our Lady Imarko, was human and died a human death. We were, and are, half human. Zeldin did not make us gods. He gave us a choice: to act like beasts, like men, or like gods. Choice is our glory and our curse and for many generations we have chosen basely.

  As for the powers of the Godborn, I am the last to have been fully trained in their use. Your father forbade me to teach any of his children, and I begin to think there was wisdom in that. We have forgotten that the heart of our strength was to see Zeldin in all men. Now we hold ourselves apart and the Empire crumbles with our lost faith and Jerenac howls for swords to meet violence with greater violence.”

  “Someone once told me,” said Kerish, “that you almost became a soldier instead of a priest.”

  “That is true. Once my ambition was to be Lord Commander of Galkis.” Izeldon smiled in self-mockery. “It was not the will of Zeldin but I have fought to keep Galkis to the way of the Godborn. I have fought and I have lost each battle.”

  Kerish shifted uncomfortably as he began to sense the anger hidden behind the High Priest's serenity.

  “Your father will not listen to my counsels and avenges your mother's death on us all. Your brothers tread their own paths to destruction. Jerenac speaks only of blood and Zyrindella weaves her web of treachery. Our prophets knew it long ago. `When there is hate in the eyes of the Godborn, the Empire will drown in its own blood and the glory of Galkis fade and die'. You are wondering why I am telling you all this. If I had only despair to offer, I would remain silent. Kerish, do you remember the one comfort that our prophets give us?”

  Kerish nodded. He had been made to recite the passage many times by his tutors. "Let the Seven Gates be opened and the prison broken. For the one who is imprisoned beyond the Seventh Gate shall be a Saviour to restore the peace of Zeldin to the children of Galkis."

  “I am the carrier of that hope,” said Izeldon softly, “but I have no heir. I must tell you, Kerish, that I invited you and Forollkin and Yxin to the temple itself so that I might observe you and make a choice.”

  Ke
rish looked down at the orchids.

  “And I have already failed you.”

  “I have not made my decision yet,” answered Izeldon.

  “But what...”

  Kerish was silenced by a gesture.

  “No more questions now, Kerish. We must go down to the gate. Three more guests wait at Zeldin's door.'

  * * *

  When Prince Li-Kroch and his wife and son entered the temple, the High Priest and Kerish-lo-Taan stood waiting for them. A fourth standard was planted in the snow and three elaborate litters set down on the marble paving. The scented curtains of the first litter were drawn back and the Princess Zyrindella slithered out. Her slender form was swathed in glossy furs but beneath her shadowy veil black and golden eyes blazed in a cold, white face.

  “In the name of Zeldin the Gentle and of Imarko his queen, you are welcome, Lady,' pronounced the High Priest.

  Zyrindella curtsied deeply to Izeldon and perfunctorily to Kerish-lo-Taan.

  “Your Holiness is most gracious.”

  She smiled, showing her sharp, white teeth.

  The High Priest turned to the small figure behind her.

  “And to you, my son, a special welcome, for this is your festival.”

  The child stared at him open-mouthed. Wrapped in furs, all that could be seen of Lord Kor-li-Zynak was a thin, sallow face, and huge, frightened eyes, black-ringed with tiredness. Zyrindella turned and struck him lightly on the cheek. “Thank his Holiness!”

  Kor-li-Zynak put his face in his hands and began to cry.

  Before Zyrindella could speak again, the High Priest murmured “Poor child, he is tired from his journey and must rest. A room has been prepared where he may remain in seclusion until the ceremony.”

  “And I will stay with him.'” Zyrindella's hands closed on the boy's thin shoulders.

  “Of course.”

  Suddenly from behind the closed curtains of the third litter came a high-pitched laugh. Kerish winced, for he knew the sound. Zyrindella turned round and tugged open the curtains, tearing the thin silk. Among the cushions huddled Prince Li-Kroch. In his hands hung a string of black pearls which he had been counting over and over again. Zyrindella snatched the necklace.

  “I have searched for that these past five days and beaten my handmaiden for losing it.”

  “Black,” muttered Prince Li-Kroch, “black eyes with all the brightness burned away.”

  He laughed again, a high jarring sound.

  Kerish might have been sorry for Zyrindella if he hadn't known that the marriage was of her own choosing. Daughter of the Emperor by the Governor of Tryfania's wife, she had bound herself to the Emperor's only nephew so that no one could dispute her place among the Godborn. If the rumours of the inner Palace were to be believed, she did not lack for saner company.

  Lord Izeldon crossed to the litter and gave his hand to help Li-Kroch out.

  “Welcome, Highness,” he said, “to the House of Peace.”

  Li-Kroch smiled sweetly at him and began solemnly. “I give you thanks, my Lord...”

  His voice trailed away and the mad Prince wandered across the snow to where the royal standards rippled. He was followed by two hard-faced servants, his constant shadows. Among the cushions of the Prince's litter lay the small corpse of a gold collared monkey. Li-Kroch loved animals but his pets seldom survived his caresses for long.

  Zyrindella finished winding the black pearls around her throat and said, “If my husband troubles you, give him this.”

  She handed the High Priest a phial. Kerish guessed from the sickly smell that it was zigul. One sip would send the mad Prince into a dull trance in which he would obey his keepers without thought.

  “I trust in Zeldin that it will not be needed,” murmured the High Priest.

  “Ah, your Holiness is gentle-hearted, but remember my husband is cunning. Last moon he escaped from the Inner Palace and we found him wandering the streets of Galkis with stray dogs at his heels!'

  Zyrindella laughed.

  “I will conduct you to your chamber,” said the High Priest, his face impassive. “Kerish, will you take your cousin to the pavilion that overlooks the bronze courtyard? You know the way?”

  “Yes, your Holiness.”

  To Kerish's surprise, Li-Kroch recognized his voice and came to him smiling.

  “Kerish, sweet Kerish. Purple and gold, silver and black.”

  He embraced his young cousin, kissing him on the forehead. Kerish shuddered but did not move. The mad Prince was like a travesty of himself. They shared the same, coldly beautiful features but Li-Kroch's chalk white face was marred by shadows. His eyes were the same violet and gold, but sometimes glassily vacant, sometimes gleaming and vicious. The Prince's long, black hair hung tangled on his shoulders. His rich robes and furs trailed unnoticed on the ground and his hands were scarred.

  Kerish smiled back nervously.

  “Cousin, will you come with me?”

  “What, to walk in the Emperor's garden?” asked Li-Kroch. “There are flowers in your father's garden, red and gaping like wounds. I saw one eat a bird once.”

  “We'll go there another day,” said Kerish.

  Reluctantly, he took his cousin's arm and guided him along. The two servants followed behind at a discreet distance.

  Prince Li-Kroch chattered incessantly about the flowers and animals of the Emperor's garden as they passed down long alabaster corridors and through snow-drifted courtyards. Kerish hardly listened. His legs were stiffened with bruises and every step hurt.

  “There is a golden flower whose scent is so sweet that anyone who smells it dies of joy. I wish I could pick that flower but the birds cry under my window at night. I set traps but they're too cunning. They laugh and throw my words back at me. Birds with beaks like scimitars and feathers the colour of blood, bright, bright. But you'll see. One night I'll catch them and get my hands around their necks...”

  Li-Kroch laughed and the sound echoed wildly around the courtyard that they were crossing. Then the Prince's laughter turned to a cry of delight and he knelt in the snow. “Look, look, beautiful crimson flowers growing for me.”

  “Come away, cousin,” said Kerish. “They're only bloodstains on the snow.”

  Li-Kroch looked up, his eyes shining. “Blood flowers growing for me.”

  Kerish took his arm. “Come cousin, please.”

  Li-Kroch snarled at him. “No, you shan't take my flowers away.”

  Turning his head he bit into the Prince's hand. Kerish cried out, more in shock than pain. His cousin, one drop of blood quivering on his lips, sprang at him.

  In moments, the two servants had caught up with them. Seizing Li-Kroch they threw him back. One helped Kerish to his feet while the other drew out a thin rope. He held it for the mad Prince to see. The animal fury died and Li-Kroch cowered in the snow.

  “Highness,” said one of the men, “we'd best tie him. He's not to be trusted.”

  Li-Kroch heard and understood. He held out his hands in terror to Kerish.

  “Cousin, sweet cousin, you won't let them tie me? Then the birds can get to me.”

  The man with the rope advanced. Li-Kroch huddled against the wall muttering, “Sharp, sharp, sharp.”

  “No,” ordered Kerish. “Leave him free.”

  “But your Highness...”

  “Let him alone. Come cousin.”

  Kerish held out a hand on which the Prince's teeth marks were still visible. Smiling, Li-Kroch took it and they went on together.

  On one side of a courtyard lined with panels of white bronze, stood a low pavilion. Inside was a dark room, richly furnished and hung with figured silks, musty with age. It was the apartment kept for the Emperor himself when he came to the temple; unused in sixteen years. Li-Kroch at once knelt by the smouldering fire. One of his servants stood close behind him in case he burned his hands trying to pick scarlet flowers.

  “Goodbye cousin,” said Kerish. “I will see you at moonrise.”

  “The bi
rds,” answered Li-Kroch, “the bright birds. They can't get in?”

  Kerish knew better than to argue this time. “Look, the shutters are closed. A speck of dust could not enter, let alone a bird.”

  It was true. Once the door was barred nothing would get in or out. Li-Kroch smiled and his face seemed younger than Kerish's, in spite of the twelve years between them. Kerish turned to the Prince's keepers. “Be gentle with him.”

  He left, nursing his bitten hand.

  Aching all over now he made his way back through a maze of passages to his own quarters and found them empty. Relieved at not having to face Forollkin yet, Kerish tugged off his boots and flung himself down on the bed. He slept almost immediately and was not disturbed by the arrival of two other members of his family.

  * * *

  To the sound of silver trumpets, and followed by a retinue of priests and priestesses, two splendid palanquins were carried into the central court. Already descending from the first was the Emperor's second son; Prince Im-lo-Torim, priestly governor of the sacred city of Hildimarn. The second, tightly curtained, litter contained the Emperor's eldest daughter, the Princess Ka-Metranee, virgin High Priestess of lmarko.

  Wearily, Izeldon welcomed his great-nephew who would one day succeed him as High Priest of Zeldin. Prince Im-lo-Torim prostrated himself in ceremonial humility and carefully shook the snow from his sumptuous furs. Though small boned, like his royal brothers, the Prince's flesh hung loosely and his face was puffed and white.

  “Food,” the High Priest was saying, “has been prepared for you. Though I fear it may be too plain for your taste.”

  Im-lo-Torim smiled. He had taken the precaution of bringing several boxes of sweetmeats and a cask of excellent wine.