Prince of the Godborn (Seven Citadels)

by Geraldine Harris

  But wait we all must, thought Zyrindella bitterly, until the Crown Prince deigns to join us. Still chattering lightly to Kerish, Li-Kroch's wife considered those present and noted those absent. After Zyrindella's mother had lost the Emperor's favour she had born a daughter and two sons to her husband, the Lord Governor of Tryfania, but only one of those children had been sent to represent the province at this ceremony. Still of the three, Yxin was the most likely to be won to her cause with promises of future power. He was sulking now but she could easily bring him round again. It might be important to cultivate the Third Prince. Kerish-lo-Taan could prove dangerous if the rumours of the Emperor's affection for him were true. The first step would be to remove that cloddish Forollkin. Then without his protection and influence...

  Zyrindella's tongue curled round her painted lips. The Governor of Hildimarn and the High Priestess had come of course. Ka-Metranee was harmless enough, and for the moment Prince Im-lo-Torim's interests coincided with her own. Her idiot husband was trying to say something to Prince Kerish, something about birds. Zyrindella fingered her amethyst rings. The Emperor had not stirred from the Inner Palace, but she had expected that. Queen Rimoka had declared she could not leave her husband's presence, as if he did not hate the very sound of her footsteps. Who else was missing? Only the Crown Prince's primary wife, meek Kelinda. No one of importance. There was satisfaction in Zyrindella's dark eyes. Soon all three Princes would be together in the temple. Three lives between the throne of Galkis and her son.

  As even the High Priest began to look impatient, the doors to the great hall swung open. Everyone rose from their chairs. Zyrindella, her scowl hidden by her long jewelled hair, curtsied low and the men of the Godborn knelt as the Crown Prince entered with his escort. Izeldon made no obeisance and said, “Welcome in the name of Zeldin, Master of the Moon, that waits for neither Prince nor beggar.”

  Prince Ka-Rim-Loka ignored this gentle rebuke and smiled lazily in greeting. Then he languidly saluted each of his relations in turn. Small and slight like his half-brother, Kerish, the Crown Prince seemed to find the weight of his golden robes insupportable and his magnificent diadem and long tasselled ear-rings were clearly giving him a headache. No one, however, could be seated again before the Princess Gankali joined them. She was still kneeling before the image of Zeldin. Lord Izeldon helped her to rise for she was six months gone with her second child.

  Gankali of Forgin looked like one of the bejewelled dolls that the merchants of her homeland used to display their gaudiest wares. Around her neck, wrists and ankles hung heavy bands of red gold, set with huge, gems. Coarse hair, the colour of dried blood, was coiled round her head and plaited with emeralds and pearls and her scent was stronger than the temple incense. With little grace, the Crown Prince's second wife and the mother of his young daughter moved towards the crescent of thrones.

  Zyrindella, secure in the cold beauty of the Godborn, laughed silently at the gaudy, swollen figure. The men of the Godborn bowed but Li-Kroch's wife stood proudly beside the Crown Prince and did not curtsy.

  In a high nervous voice, Gankali said, “I thought I was the Crown Prince's wife. The wife of the heir of Galkis, and his second Princess.”

  “No one denies it, my jewel,” sighed Ka-Rim-Loka.

  “One does,” cried Gankali. “This lady makes no obeisance. She means to slight me.”

  Zyrindella smiled. “I think, Highness, that you have not yet been able to learn all our ancient laws. This ceremony honours my son. On such an occasion the mother takes precedence over all royal ladies, so you should curtsy to me.”

  “To the daughter of a concubine,” sneered Gankali.

  “To the daughter of an Emperor, merchant's child,” flashed Zyrindella.

  “My Ladies!” The High Priest approached them. “You forget that you stand in the House of Zeldin. Be seated and perhaps we shall be finished before the moon wanes.”

  But when Gankali was offered the throne next to Li-Kroch she raised her voice again.

  Zyrindella's husband had not noticed the tensions around him. He had been too intent on watching the zeloka in its niche but now he smiled and stretched out his hands to Gankali.

  “Rainbow Lady, purple, crimson, emerald. Bright, bright, bright!”

  The Princess backed away. “I can't sit next to that creature. You know I can't. You promised me he'd be drugged,” whined Gankali, “you promised!”

  Kerish was angry for his cousin's sake.

  “Let Prince Li-Kroch sit between Princess Zyrindella and myself,” he said, “and Your Highness between the Crown Prince and Lord Yxin.”

  Lord Izeldon smiled gratefully at Kerish and the Godborn changed thrones, as though they were playing some crazed game. The High Priest returned to the altar and silver light poured through the watery crystal, turning pale faces whiter and deepening the shadows.

  Kerish felt a strange atmosphere gradually filling the hall that had nothing to do with the light or the incense or the jewelled figures beside him. It was more than an atmosphere, it was a presence, as if something vast and powerful was now contained within the fragile alabaster walls of the temple. The air seemed to thicken and press against Kerish's forehead. For a moment there was complete stillness and that moment might have lasted for eternity, while the glittering figures of the Godborn sat motionless in the pale moonlight.

  Then Lord Izeldon spoke, “Child of the Godborn, the full moon is risen. Come forth and face your destiny!”

  Chapter 4

  The Book of the Emperors: Warnings

  To lie is to insult both God and Zindar. For the world is made from that which is and it is good. From that which is not, is formed deceitful nothingness. Zeldin is truth. Untruth is darkness. To lie is to create darkness.

  Six white-robed priests preceded Kor-li-Zynak and six silver-clad priestesses walked behind, chanting the ancient moon hymn.

  "The moon is a bright berry in the beak of the bird of darkness.

  The moon is a jewel in the black hair of Imarko.

  The moon is a lamp in the dark skies of eternity."

  Zyrindella's son did not dare to look around him. He was nine years old and had travelled for many weeks to reach this high, cold place. All day he had been given nothing to eat and strangers had taken away his clothes and dressed him in a thin, white robe. His mother had told him again and again what he had to do, but it was difficult to remember.

  On either side of the child walked Prince Im-lo-Torim and Princess Ka-Metranee. The Governor of Hildimarn was dressed more extravagantly than befitted a priest. His expression might have been taken for rapt devotion but the High Priest knew it for boredom. The High Priestess of Imarko was taller than her half-brother and very thin. Dull, black hair fell loosely to her ankles but her face was hidden by a purple veil. Few of the Godborn there had ever seen it, for she rarely left her sanctuary.

  With faltering steps, Lord Kor-li-Zynak reached the centre of the silver circles and remembered to stop. The six priestesses formed a wall of silver to his left, the line of priests stood to his right. Im-lo-Torim and his half-sister raised their hands and greeted the moon in the ancient High Galkian tongue. Then they glided towards the thrones where the rest of the Godborn sat.

  Seeing his soft-spoken uncle move away, Kor-li-Zynak ran a few steps after him.

  “Stand still child,” hissed the Governor of Hildimarn.

  Kor-li-Zynak caught sight of his mother's face. He returned to the centre of the circles and turned his small back on the line of thrones. Now he faced the altar, the statue of Zeldin and the High Priest, who was smiling gently.

  Zyrindella's little son stood shivering for nine minutes not daring to move, until Izeldon judged that the moon was exactly right. Then he was told to kneel before the statue of the Gentle God.

  “Father of the House of Galkis,” intoned the High Priest, “most high Zeldin, here before you kneels a nameless child. If the blood of the Godborn runs truly in his veins, we beg you graciously to give us
the ancient signs. If he bears none of the blood of the Godborn, then destroy him, even here in the House of Peace, for he has offered up a lie before your altar!”

  There was deep silence but to Kerish it seemed that the presence had grown stronger. He could hardly bear the weight of it and yet the faces of the Godborn were calm, indifferent. It was not possible that they felt what he did. He longed to cry out a warning but he knew his words would be stifled.

  Lord Izeldon beckoned to a priest and priestess and they came forward each carrying a small golden sandal. Very carefully, the High Priest took them and held them up.

  “Behold, all you who are gathered here, the very sandals of Mikeld-lo-Taan, first Emperor of Galkis, given to him in his ninth year by Zeldin the Bountiful. Come forward, child, put on the sandals and as it was with Mikeld-lo-Taan, so shall it be with you. If the blood runs true.”

  He gave the sandals back to the priest and priestess and they put them on Kor-li-Zynak's feet.

  “Now,”commanded Izeldon, “Walk!”

  From the altar of Zeldin, Zyrindella's son walked unsteadily across what seemed a vast expanse of alabaster to where his uncle stood. When he reached him Im-lo-Torim said, “Let your steps be ever towards Zeldin.”

  When the child hesitated, Im-lo-Torim turned him round and gave him a slight push forward. Kor-li-Zynak stumbled back to stand within the silver circles. The High Priest and Im-lo-Torim walked towards each other along the path the child had taken. The Book of the Emperors related that with every step, Mikeld-lo-Taan left behind him the clear imprint of his sandal, shining on earth or rock.

  Kor-li-Zynak's footsteps glimmered faintly. The High Priest and his great-nephew whispered together for a moment and then Im-lo-Torim said, “The sign is given.”

  After a pause, the High Priest repeated the words. Zyrindella, who had been leaning forward, her own nails digging into her hands, sat back and smiled.

  Lord Izeldon signed once more and two priests came forward, bearing between them something stiff and heavy; so heavy they could hardly lift it into the High Priest's waiting hands. Yet, Lord Izeldon held up the small, glittering robe with no apparent difficulty.

  “Behold, all you who are gathered here, the very robe of Mikeld-lo-Taan, given to him in his ninth year by Zeldin the Bountiful. Come forward child, put on the robe, and as it was with Mikeld-lo-Taan, so shall it be with you. If the blood runs true.”

  To the High Priest the robe felt light as silk, but to those not of the Godborn it was heavy as sin. Izeldon eased the robe over Kor-li-Zynak's head. The child fell to his knees.

  “The blood runs weak indeed,” whispered Yxin to Jerenac, “as if on the mother's side only.”

  “Stand up!” ordered the High Priest.

  Kor-li-Zynak staggered to his feet, his whole body aching with the weight of the robe.

  Lord Izeldon waited until the child had stood for seven long minutes, while Zyrindella coiled length after length of hair around her thin fingers. Then slowly the High Priest said, “The sign is given.”

  Zyrindella's tongue licked around her mouth as if she was tasting something sweet.. Gankali whispered to her husband and Li-Kroch stared at the zeloka.

  The High Priest signed for quiet. Prince Im-lo-Torim, carrying a golden chalice, stepped into the silver circles. From the shadows opposite came Princess Ka-Metranee, a golden flask in her hand. Im-lo-Torim spoke, “Hail, Lady of the Moon. Lost in this desert named the world we seek the waters of heaven. As thy Foremother Imarko was the fountain of all compassion, so in her name do we beg you to quench our thirst.”

  The veiled Princess said nothing but poured from the flagon a rich purple liquid which filled the chalice. Im-lo-Torim walked towards the High Priest, taking care not to spill a drop of the precious liquid, his thoughts flitting among the luscious orchards of Hildimarn.

  “Child,” ordered Izeldon, “Take the offered cup and drink without fear!”

  The purple liquid contained the juice of a thousand star-flowers, the irandaan, forbidden and fatal to any but the Godborn. His small hands shaking, Kor-li-Zynak took the chalice and raised it to his lips. Then he swallowed a mouthful of the irandaan. It was bitter and burned his throat.

  “Again,” ordered the High Priest, since for those with double Godborn blood it was safe to drink twice.

  Kor-li-Zynak paused and then remembered his mother's smiling promise to have him whipped if he made any mistake. Zyrindella's son drank again, his throat scalded by the strength of the irandaan, nausea sweeping through his body.

  Im-lo-Torim took back the chalice and offered it to the High Priest who drank deeply. Then, after drinking himself, he crossed to the crescent of thrones and offered it to each of the Godborn in turn. For form's sake, Gankali touched the rim of the chalice with her lips, but she could not drink. Then it came to Kerish and he sipped the irandaan with a shiver of excitement. To him it tasted unbearably sweet and strong. Lastly, Im-lo-Torim offered the cup to Forollkin. He held the gold chalice to his lips but like Gankali he did not drink. He had tasted irandaan only once, at his own presentation. He had found the effects too frightening to repeat.

  Im-lo-Torim returned to the altar and set down the empty chalice. Then he smiled at the High Priest.

  “The tests are passed, My Lord, and the child is tired. Shall I pronounce the closing prayer?”

  “No, the ceremony is not over.” The High Priest spoke wearily. “It shall be performed according to the ancient law.”

  “But it is not now the custom to ask for any other sign,” protested Im-lo-Torim.

  “The ancient laws shall be obeyed,” said the High Priest.

  Forollkin did not understand the significance of Izeldon's words but he saw Zyrindella stiffen and Kerish turn to look at her.

  “As it was in the time of Mikeld-lo-Taan, so shall it be now. Priest, inform the parents what they must do. Unless you have forgotten the ritual.”

  Im-lo-Torim hastened across to the thrones and bowed to Zyrindella.

  “Princess, the ritual of True Marriage and True Birth must now be performed. We must ask the god to give us a sign that Kor-li-Zynak is truly born of those who claim to be his parents.”

  White as chalk beneath her purple veil Zyrindella said, “But this was not done at Prince Kerish's presentation or...”

  “Princess, it is the High Priest's command. Be calm, you have nothing to fear.”

  Zyrindella leashed her fears and said smoothly, “It will not be easy to teach my husband the ritual.”

  “It is very simple,” soothed Im-lo-Torim. He began to explain.

  Zyrindella seemed calm but Kerish, his perceptions heightened by the irandaan, had sensed her wave of fear. The ominous presence was all around him. The black bird fluttered in his mind but he watched it happen as calmly as if the ceremony were a play performed by temple actors.

  The great hall was flooded with thin, blue smoke as the priests and priestesses lit rods of the iranda incense that was burned on the marriage days of the Godborn. Izeldon gently led Kor-li-Zynak to the altar and left him kneeling there. Then he signed for the ritual to begin.

  First Im-lo-Torim, his tasselled ear-rings swinging, walked into the centre of the circles. Izeldon touched his forehead saying, “By the will of the temple, he that stands here shall represent our Forefather Zeldin as he walked the earth of Galkis in the morning of the world.”

  Princess Ka-Metranee came forward. Izeldon touched her veiled forehead and pronounced, “By the will of the temple she that stands here shall represent our Foremother, Imarko, as she walked the earth of Galkis in the morning of the world.”

  Izeldon stepped back. It seemed to Kerish that behind the small figures of Im-lo-Torim and his half-sister towered two vast dark shadows, beautiful in shape and crowned with light. Izeldon saw them, too, and Ka-Metranee trembled beneath her veil.

  “Behold, in the morning of the world,” recited the High Priest, “the first men sailed across the purple sea and came to the empty lands. Fro
m the first ship stepped Imarko, fairest of maidens and she walked upon the white shore.”

  Ka-Metranee moved across the silver circles.

  “Then Zeldin, glorious in his solitude, came down the bridge of heaven into Zindar and he beheld Imarko.”

  As he spoke the ancient words, Im-lo-Torim and Ka-Metranee mimed them with slow, graceful gestures.

  “The young god took her hand and swore that Imarko should be his only Lady and Queen. Never has that vow been broken and the firmament shall crack and the stars tumble into the seas before it ever shall be.”

  Ka-Metranee and Im-lo-Torim stood facing each other, their hands crossed, their palms touching in ritual embrace.

  “To her and to her children, Zeldin gave his wisdom and for her sake he cared for humankind. He who had been the Lord of Laughter became the Lord of Sorrows. Of this union was born Mikeld-lo-Taan, to whom his father gave the Empire of Galkis, to him and to his heirs forever. Therefore, you of the Godborn, who take the sacred vows in Zeldin's temple, let your love and faith be no less than that between Zeldin and Imarko.”