Prince of the Godborn (Seven Citadels)

by Geraldine Harris

  “What satisfies your Holiness, satisfies me.”

  “It is Zeldin you must satisfy, not me,” said the High Priest sharply.

  He walked to the second litter and pronounced a formal welcome. The curtains did not open or even stir but Lord Izeldon heard the faint sound of bells and knew that the High Priestess had lifted her sistrum in greeting. He signed to the bearers to take up the closed litter and carry it into the heart of the temple.

  “What keeps the Crown Prince?” murmured Izeldon.

  Im-lo-Torim shrugged. “The Lady Gankali became faint and needs to rest. They will be here before moonrise.

  “Come then,” said the High Priest, “we have much to prepare.”

  Chapter 3

  The Book of the Emperors: Prophecy

  And the Holy House of Galkis shall be rent by hate and by the jealousy of women. Then the Golden City shall lie beneath the hand of doom and the stones of the temple shall weep blood. Beware, beware, oh you of the Godborn. Let there be peace between you, lest the star of Galkis be dimmed for ever!

  It was early evening when Forollkin at last strode into the Prince's quarters. He was carrying a jar of ointment that the High Priest had given him for Kerish. The table was laid for a simple meal but the Prince was not in the outer chamber. Forollkin flung open the bedroom door. He might as well tell Kerish at once that he was leaving. He marched into the bedchamber.

  Kerish-lo-Taan lay curled on the bed, his face hidden by tangled hair and pale hands. He was deeply asleep and looked, as Forollkin had said, childish. Childish and vulnerable.

  Disconcerted, Forollkin sat down rather suddenly on the end of the bed. The movement disturbed Kerish. He turned in his sleep on to his hurt shoulder and the pain woke him. He opened his eyes to see Forollkin looking down at him, the gash raw and dark on his cheek. Kerish wondered just how angry his brother was as they stared at each other in silence.

  Then the Emperor's third son sat up very straight, looked his half-brother in the eyes and said, “Lord Forollkin, for the injury I have done you I do not ask your forgiveness, for I know I do not deserve it. Therefore, I can only offer up...my humblest apologies,” he finished in a rush.

  “I accept your apologies, Highness,” answered Forollkin stiffly. “The High Priest sends you this ointment to anoint your bruises.”

  `Bruises got because of me', thought Forollkin, but his face did not alter.

  “Thank you,” said Kerish numbly, accepting the jar.

  “When you've used it, supper is waiting.” Forollkin walked to the door. `”You had better hurry. It's only an hour till moonrise.”

  “Forollkin!” Kerish held out his hands. “Truly, I am sorry. Believe me...”

  “Hurry,” said his half-brother, “the priests will be here soon to help you robe.”

  He went out.

  Kerish angrily tugged off his clothes. His right arm was almost too stiff to move and his legs were mottled with bruises. From an alabaster jar, he scooped out the sticky ointment. With his left hand he rubbed it into his skin. It was cool and fresh and took away the ache of his bruises. Kerish put on a night-robe of black fur and walked into the next room.

  Forollkin was staring into a half-drunk goblet of wine. With a great deal more difficulty than was apparent, Kerish sat down at the far end of the table. There was silence.

  At length, Kerish said, “Please pass the wine.”

  Forollkin did, and watched his half-brother pour out a full goblet before he spoke.

  “I have been with Lord Jerenac.”

  “Have you?” said Kerish.

  He picked up a round, green fruit and began to peel it clumsily with his left hand.

  “I shouldn't tell you this,” began Forollkin, “but the Five Kingdoms have signed an alliance.”

  Kerish understood the importance of the news but he showed no reaction.

  “Have they?”

  “I have just told you so,” said Forollkin through gritted teeth.

  There was another silence during which Kerish struggled on with the fruit. When he dropped his knife for the third time, Forollkin could bear it no longer.

  “Zeldin's mercy, let me do it for you, or we'll have you fainting from hunger during the ceremony.”

  “I can manage,”said Kerish, but Forollkin took the plate away and cut up the fruit for him.

  “Thank you,” murmured Kerish. “Does your cheek hurt?”

  “No,” lied Forollkin. “Does your arm?”

  “Only a little.”

  Kerish smiled hesitantly at his half-brother.

  “Kerish,” began Forollkin, “Lord Jerenac asked me to return with him to Jenoza. He wants me for his chief Captain and perhaps his heir.”

  “Then why do you look so sad?” asked Kerish cautiously. “You should be shrieking for joy.”

  “I have not given Jerenac his answer yet,” replied Forollkin.

  “It is what you deserve, of course it is,” said Kerish, “but perhaps...”

  The door to their quarters swung open and a priest entered with two novices carrying a chest.

  “Your Highness, my Lord, we are sent to help you to robe for the ceremony,” announced the priest.

  Kerish, his thoughts far away, thanked them and went into the bedchamber. The chest was opened and the Prince's ceremonial robes laid on the bed. As they were lifted out, leaving the chest dark and empty, Kerish shivered. His head began to ache, his skin was ice-cold to the touch. Everything he looked at seemed blurred and the voice of the priest was faint and remote.

  Kerish knew the sensations and what they meant but they had never been so overpowering before. There was a darkness and a fear he could not name. Kerish remembered the face of Li-Kroch and tried to shut it out.

  “Your Highness,” repeated the priest gently.

  Kerish unfastened the clasp of his night-robe and let it fall. When they had purified his body with scented water, he put on a plain light under-robe. Then the novices lifted the royal robe over his head and eased his bandaged arm gently into the sleeve. The robe fell in heavy folds to Kerish's ankles and the long sleeves swept the floor. The material was rich purple, stiff with embroidery in gold, silver and precious stones. It was too heavy to stand in for long but around the hem were woven the words: "As you bear the weight of this royal robe so bear the weight of your royal office."

  On his feet they put silver sandals, whose soles were inscribed with the words: "Walk in the footsteps of Zeldin." One of the novices combed out the Prince's long, dark hair. The priest lifted up a circlet of cirge engraved: "Let your thoughts be one with Zeldin." In the centre of the circlet was a star-flower, symbol of the Godborn's divinity, carved in purple irivanee from the quarries of distant Proy, and with stamens of gold. The priest of Zeldin set it on the Third Prince's head and stepped back.

  “Your Highness, it is done.”

  Kerish did not answer. He was too intent on trying to control the spreading darkness.

  Forollkin came in. He had dressed hurriedly in a tunic of gleaming mail and a dark red cloak . At his waist hung an ornamental dagger of gold and he carried a plumed helmet. He looked both splendid and uncomfortable. Kerish, white-faced and motionless in his glittering robe, seemed more like a tomb effigy than a living creature.

  “Are you ready, Highness?” asked Forollkin.

  “No.” Kerish slowly shook his head. “No, I can't go.”

  “But you must,” snapped Forollkin.

  “I can't go out into that darkness.”

  “Kerish there is no darkness.”

  “There is darkness everywhere. Can't you see?”

  Forollkin took his brother's wrist. “What is it? Is something going to happen?”

  “I don't know,” moaned Kerish. “There is only darkness.”

  Forollkin shook him gently. “I don't have your eyes. I can't see any darkness, but remember, it is nearly moonrise.”

  “Serene Highness,” murmured the priest, “it is time. We must escort you to the ma
in hall.”

  “Yes,” sighed Kerish. “It is time.”

  * * *

  The great hall of the temple, which that morning had been calm and empty, was now a different place. The room was shrouded with shadows and the air was thick with the scented smoke of incense. Priests carrying tapers passed to and fro in the dimness, their white robes whispering on alabaster. Inlaid in the centre of the floor were circles and arcs of silver, formed of ancient characters. Above them, the roof of the hall swelled into a dome of clear crystal. In a half-moon before the circles and facing the statue of Zeldin, were placed eight thrones for the royal guests.

  By the time Kerish reached the hall he was calmer. A black bird still lodged in his mind but it was quiet enough to be forgotten, until it next dug in its claws. Forollkin kept very close to his half-brother, guiding him when he stumbled, for he still seemed to be walking in the darkness of his imagining. The young Captain wished that he could ask Izeldon's advice but the High Priest, standing erect before the altar, obviously had no attention to spare for Kerish.

  Beside him, a garish splash of colour against the soft darkness and shining whiteness, stood Jerenac. The Lord Commander was clothed in bronze mail with a cloak and over tunic of deep crimson. In his strong hands was a ceremonial sword of solid gold.

  “Lord Jerenac, you cannot, I think, plead ignorance of the holy laws.”

  Jerenac smiled. “I am a plain soldier, Lord Priest, and know nothing of holiness.”

  “Then I will remind you, Lord Commander,” said Izeldon, more gently. “If you bring a sword into the sanctuary of Zeldin, you must dedicate it to the god and never draw blood with it after.”

  “And what shall I do with a bloodless sword when barbarians ravage the temples of Jenoza?”

  “Zeldin will be your aid,” answered the High Priest patiently, “but you know as well as I that you carry a ceremonial sword, that would never taste blood in all its golden life. Its dedication will rob you of nothing but pride.”

  “Well then,” snarled Jerenac. He threw the golden sword at Zeldin's feet. “And what will our Gentle God do with it? Destroy the hordes of the Five Kingdoms at a blow? Or challenge our Lady of Blood for the sovereignty of doomed Galkis?”

  “If you refer to the new alliance...” began Izeldon.

  “Teeth of Kir-Noac! Who told you of that?”

  “The eyes of Zeldin see far. I knew it before you did,” answered the High Priest. “I tell you this; if doom threatens Galkis, it is just. We have spurned our shield, the strength of Zeldin and the grace of Imarko. The chains of slaves darken the free cities. The people cry for justice and find none. The Godborn deny them even their faces, and temples and palaces bloat with treasures meant to be seen and shared. Little wonder we have sunk from our former greatness. Yet now, when our need is most grave, we must not become like the barbarians, we must not turn to the worship of their dark and bloody deities. If we gather our fears and our hopes and offer them up to Zeldin, he will save us yet. He will send us help!”

  “Help?” Jerenac laughed again. “Do you speak of the old prophecy of the promised saviour? Your own scriptures say that he is imprisoned behind seven gates. Do I not tell the truth?”

  “You do,” Izeldon spoke as calmly as ever, but he was very pale.

  “Then if Zeldin's saviour can be imprisoned by some other power,” argued Jerenac, “that power must be greater than Zeldin, so why do we not worship it?”

  “It would be better that the Golden City should fall!” Kerish broke in suddenly. He walked forward until he stood within the silver circles. “It would be better that the restless sea should destroy us all than that the Godborn should betray their trust, that we should reject divinity and live on in darkness.”

  Straight and slender in his royal robes, Kerish faced the Lord Commander and it was Jerenac who first looked away.

  “It is well enough for you, Prince, to choose godly defeat,” muttered Jerenac, “but I am only a man and I would live, in darkness or in light.”

  Kerish's own darkness was lifting, he could almost feel light surging through his mind but it seemed to spill out as words. “I do not speak of defeat. If we trust in Zeldin and Imarko we shall have victory. Surely a soldier knows that death with honour is better than life in slavery?”

  “Don't think I shun the path of honour,” protested Jerenac. “I only strive to save what I can by ways I understand.”

  “We honour you for that,” answered Kerish-lo-Taan. “Nothing forbids us to defend ourselves, but the sword must be our last defence, not our first. If we attack...”

  “What is this?” interrupted a soft voice, “Do my Lords discuss heavy matters on such a joyful occasion as this?”

  Kerish and Izeldon turned and Jerenac bowed to his half-sister. Zyrindella smiled.

  As befitted an ascendant star, she blazed with jewels, yet the impression she created was one of soft darkness. Soft as those sponges of the Dirian sea that drown careless divers. Her robe of violet silk was weighted at hem and sleeve with gems set in ice-fire cirge. The high-collared bodice was stiff as a soldier's breastplate with rich embroidery. Her fine, black hair was divided into a hundred thin coils, each threaded with pearls. From a shining diadem hung a veil of finest purple gauze but it did not hide the glitter of the green-painted eyes. One thin, beringed hand rested on her husband's arm.

  Li-Kroch had been made to drink zigul until he was docile enough to be groomed and dressed by his servants. Except for the eyes, he now seemed a presentable prince and he stood quietly by Zyrindella as she spoke to the High Priest. With his mind clouded by zigul it was difficult to give even those unspoken orders that move an arm or turn a head. It was easier to accept the orders that came constantly from the harsh voices around him.

  Yet no drug could wholly expel the fears which hid in the maze of his mind. Lying concealed, waiting for him to stumble past, were the birds, and their claws, their claws... Li-Kroch's wandering eyes were suddenly fixed on a terrifying object. In a niche in the alabaster wall squatted the figure of a bird, a zeloka, the messenger of Zeldin. No living zeloka now flew in Galkis but there, in gilded wood, glorious in its gold and purple plumage, sat the holy bird, and the claws of truth are very sharp.

  Li-Kroch stared and thought he saw the zeloka turn its razor-beaked head towards him. He tried to say, “Look, the bright bird!” but the words came out as a strangled moan.

  Zyrindella tightened her grip on Li-Kroch's arm till her nails dug into his flesh.

  “My husband is very tired,” she said, “after the long journey.”

  Lord Izeldon turned to Kerish. “Will you take your cousin and his Princess to their places?”

  Kerish nodded and the tense group by the altar broke up.

  He led Zyrindella to the crescent of alabaster thrones, speaking gently to Li-Kroch, who did not seem to hear. Lord Jerenac strode after them and Forollkin paused only to dedicate his own ceremonial dagger to the Gentle God. Through the dim light he saw a flash of blue and silver as Lord Yxin entered.

  “Why, your Highness,” Yxin said loudly to Kerish, “you hold your arm as stiffly as a tree in a gale. Does it pain you?”

  Zyrindella turned quickly in her chair. “Dear Prince, are you hurt?”

  “A small price His Highness paid for a lesson in the art of whip-craft,” murmured Yxin.

  Zyrindella ignored her lower ranking half-brother and slid a hand up Kerish's arm.

  “Then take no more lessons, for a whip is more fitted to a herdsman than to a Prince! If you are in pain “….sit down by me, Kerish,” she lifted her veil, “it is a long while since you visited us. We should be so glad to have you stay with us in Morolk. My husband is very fond of you...”

  She prodded Li-Kroch, who made no response.

  As Zyrindella talked, Yxin strode away and took his place at the far end of the crescent of thrones. Jerenac stood listening until Forollkin joined him.

  “What's this I hear?” barked the Lord Commander. “Yxin g
ave your Prince a thrashing?”

  “The Third Prince fought bravely, Sir, and for my sake.”

  “Well, boy, there's no need to splutter like water thrown on a fire.”

  “The High Priest signs to us,” said Forollkin stiffly. “We had better take our places.”

  Jerenac grunted and sat down beside Yxin. Forollkin stood behind Kerish's chair, his heavy helmet crooked under his arm. Lord Izeldon was stationed by the altar. In an antechamber, Lord Kor-li-Zynak, Prince Im-lo-Torim and the High Priestess of Imarko were waiting to enter.