“But Forollkin,” Follea reached up to smooth her son's brown hair, “how could I bear to live so far apart from my only child? When you are settled in copper-walled Ephaan, you shall send for me.”
Not knowing what to say, Forollkin laughed and kissed her. Follea pushed him away.
“I must attend the Queen and help her robe for the Feast. See you are dressed in time and fittingly. No slouching about in worn tunic and dusty cloak.”
“No, mother,” said Forollkin meekly.
“Remember, half the court will be there and the Ambassador of Oraz.”
“Of Oraz? I hadn't heard.” Forollkin frowned.
“He arrived two days ago. A fierce black-bearded barbarian. Just what you would expect. The Emperor has not given him an audience yet and I don't believe he will. That duty will fall to the Crown Prince.” Follea picked up an ivory-handled fan and smoothed her silken skirts. “You had better send your apologies to Lord Jerenac. Never slam a door you may still need to walk through!”
Forollkin bowed his head and did not look up until she had gone. He tried to imagine Follea's reaction when she heard that her only son had sailed off on some wild quest with Prince Kerish. He knew there would be more anger in it than grief. In the past few years Follea had tried to bind her son to her with chains of duty and affection but she had left him too long in the care of the Palace slaves. Until he was fifteen she had rarely seen or spoken to him. All Forollkin could feel at their parting was a dogged sense of guilt.
Reluctantly, he turned his mind to the coming banquet. Returning to his quarters, Forollkin bathed and changed into his most splendid and uncomfortable clothes. His body servant helped him on with his gilded boots and declared that he would outbrave all the young Lords of Galkis. Forollkin, who was far happier in his shabby riding clothes, snorted contemptuously and strode off across the courtyard.
To the despair of his servants, Prince Kerish-lo-Taan had not started to prepare for the banquet until half an hour before it was due to start. Then he had thrown on a tunic of blue silk, stiff with silver embroidery and let them comb out his hair and crown him with cirge.
Forollkin waited as Kerish hurriedly clasped a bracelet of cabochon rubies about his slim wrist. As usual, Forollkin exclaimed, “Zeldin's Mercy! Aren't you ready yet?”
Kerish smiled at him hopefully. “Truly, I'm ready.”
“You intend to go barefoot then?”
“Oh!” Kerish snatched up his jewelled sandals and put them on.
Torch bearers arrived but Kerish waved away the waiting litter and walked by Forollkin's side through a series of splendid courtyards.
“The Ambassador of Oraz will be at the banquet tonight,” whispered Forollkin. “Can you guess why he's come?”
“To announce the new alliance formally I suppose, and, informally, to threaten us.”
“What will the Emperor do?” asked Forollkin.
“Laugh,” answered Kerish.
* * *
Beneath a roof spanned by carved and gilded zelokas, on a dais draped with purple silk, ten ivory thrones had been set around an ebony table. Below the dais were more tables for those guests privileged to look on the unveiled faces of the Godborn. In the centre of the hall was a space in which the Palace actors would later perform. The lower tables that would once have been filled with men and women ennobled by their craft or learning were now crowded with idle gentry, brilliant in the robes of their hereditary offices, and court ladies laughing behind gauzy veils, their braided hair piled fantastically on their heads.
When the trumpets sounded for the entry of the Godborn, the company rose from their seats, the men bowing and the ladies sweeping low curtsies. In slow and splendid procession, the Royal Kindred entered the Great Hall. It did not go unnoticed by the guests that Zyrindella and her husband were absent and that neither the Emperor nor the High Priest had chosen to honour the Queen's Name Feast.
To Forollkin's surprise, he was seated at the High Table next to Jerenac and Yxin who had returned from the temple together that morning. The Lord Commander gave him a penetrating look but as yet they had had no chance to speak. On either side of the central throne sat the sons of Queen Rimoka, Im-lo-Torim and Ka-Rim-Loka. Beside the Crown Prince were his two wives, Gankali and the Princess Kelinda of Seld. Beyond her sat Kerish. Rather to his alarm, the throne next to him was left vacant for the Ambassador of Oraz.
The trumpets blared again for the entry of Queen Rimoka. The barbarian Princess of Chiraz had outlived the Emperor's other two wives and borne his heir. Now she wore the wealth of Galkis like armour to defend her vanishing beauty. Rimoka was tall and gaunt. In a lean face, close-set, black eyes gleamed on either side of a hooked nose. Her iron-grey hair was woven with gems and her robe was so richly embroidered that it was impossible to guess the colour of the cloth beneath. Follea carried her train and twelve noble ladies followed humbly behind.
As the Queen reached the dais, each of the Godborn knelt to kiss the hem of her robe. Kerish seemed to crouch at her feet for an age, while the company stared and whispered, before Rimoka gave him permission to rise. When he did, no anger showed on his face. Kerish had long ago learned to shield his feelings from his stepmother.
The Queen of Galkis seated herself on the central throne and Follea and the other ladies withdrew to the nearest of the lesser tables.
“Give entrance to the Lord Ambassador of Oraz,” commanded Rimoka.
No trumpets sounded. The courtiers stood at their places and the Ambassador stepped into a gaping silence.
Kerish and Forollkin both studied the Ambassador intently as he walked slowly and majestically through the hall. He was a huge man, taller than any of the Godborn, broad-shouldered and thickly made. A mane of black hair and a flowing beard framed his heavy-jowelled face. He was dressed in bronze mail and a cloak and buskins made from the skin of one of the great green serpents of Oraz. As an ambassador he must carry no weapons, but his massive hands could have squeezed the life out of any Galkian. Kerish guessed his name before the herald announced it; O-grak the Strong, Khan of Orze and uncle to the Prince of Oraz.
He saluted the Queen in the fashion of the Five Kingdoms, his right arm across his breast. Rimoka spoke to him in Zindaric.
“My Lord Ambassador, in the name of Zeldin the Peaceful, you are welcome to Galkis. By the Grace of the Emperor, may his reign be eternal, you shall sit tonight among the Godborn and no one shall offer you injury.”
“Gracious Queen, Princes, Lords and Ladies of the Godborn,” the Ambassador's voice boomed through the hall, “in the name of the Dark Goddess I thank you for your welcome and for your assurance of my safety. Your words still my fears as water douses fire.”
O-grak saluted everyone at the high table in turn and then took his place beside Kerish.
The company at the lower tables could at last sit down but the feast would not begin until the naming of Queen Rimoka had been properly celebrated. The trumpets sounded once for every year of her life and the chief of the Royal poets stepped forward to chant a long poem in her praise. It was dull and spiritless. Rimoka sat through it with a contemptuous smile but the nobles schooled their faces to appear enthralled.
As the poet droned on, Khan O-grak turned to Kerish and whispered loudly, “What does this poet sing about, Prince?”
“It is a chant in our ancient tongue in praise of Queen Rimoka,” Kerish whispered back.
“Hah, in Oraz I would slit the throat of any poet who sang my praises with so little fire in his voice.”
“It is not the custom...”
Kerish broke off as Rimoka turned her steely gaze on them.
When the chant was over, the Queen threw the poet a silver ring. The rest of the Godborn had to outmatch her generosity by tossing down coins or jewels. O-grak fingered a golden table knife.
“For my gift he would have this through his heart but I fancy the Queen would be displeased.”
Kerish tried hard not to smile. “Probably, my Lord, but
then she has no ear for music.”
“No? There is nothing that pleases me more than a stirring song of high deeds and great battles,” declared the Khan.
“I fear you will find our songs pale and dull. They rarely tell of war.”
“I know,” said O-grak in a hoarse whisper. “You Galkians do not love war as we do. Your Emperors take more joy in the zildar than the sword.”
“More joy, yes,” answered Kerish quickly, “but we can wield the sword and we have other powers far more dangerous to those who threaten us.”
“So I have heard, Prince,” murmured O-grak. “Heard, but not seen.”
“Then pray to your Dark Goddess that you never will see it.”
“Oh I do, Prince, I do.”
As they spoke, servants set before each of the Godborn a cup carved from a single precious stone. The Chief Steward of the Palace bore round a flagon and filled the cups with precious golden nectar. Rising to their feet the Godborn drank to long life and joy for Queen Rimoka. The jewel cups flashed in the torchlight, blue and green, yellow and red. The Queen bowed her head in acknowledgement and the banquet began.
Forollkin helped himself to a haunch of meat stuck with cloves but before he could bite into it Lord Jerenac leaned towards him.
“Boy,” he said gruffly, “you are harder to find than a pearl in a snowdrift. Where have you been?”
“The Emperor summoned me,” answered Forollkin.
“Small wonder you've kept silent then but I'll have your answer now,” barked Jerenac, oblivious of the interested glances of Yxin and the Queen.
“My heart follows you to Jenoza,” said Forollkin, “but my body cannot. I am commanded elsewhere by the Emperor.”
“What, has your pretty Prince beguiled the Emperor to rob me of you?”
“I do not know,' said Forollkin quietly. `My Lord, I am truly sorry that my sword cannot be at your service.”
Jerenac nodded. “That I'll believe. Well, the Captaincy must go to another but if you win free of this new destiny, come to me and you'll find a welcome.”
“Thank you.” Forollkin was too moved to say more.
Jerenac turned away to speak to Yxin. With diminished appetite, Forollkin began his meal. Nothing disturbed the appetite of Prince Im-lo-Torim. The Priest Governor of Hildimarn had already collected a large array of dishes and set them out in front of him. He began with slices of iced fruit, cold enough to numb the mouth, and went on to a bowl of scalding pepper soup. Next, the Prince consumed three sweet young birds, roasted and stuffed with nuts, a dish of spiced kardiss and a mound of sickly cakes drowned in a heavy syrup. To take away the sweetness, he ate three sour cereets and then looked about for something new to shock his palate.
While his brother immersed himself in the pleasures of food, the Crown Prince listened contentedly to the chatter of his wife Gankali. Tonight, she was gaudier than ever in a blaze of jewels and red silk. Li-Kroch had compared her to a Jenozan parrot and it was apt. She was as brightly coloured as any jungle bird and her constant chatter almost as witless.
Princess Kelinda also tried to speak to her husband but he did not hear, or if he did, chose to ignore her. By no word or gesture did Kelinda betray her deep unhappiness. Hers was not a beauty that dazzled, but one that would unfold slowly before the eyes of those who loved her. She had been just fifteen years old when she had made the long journey from Seld to Galkis to marry a prince she had never seen. Shy, clever Kelinda had found her husband already obsessed with his concubine, plump, pretty Gankali. When she conceived by him, the Crown Prince had taken Gankali as his second wife. So, for four years, Kelinda had immersed herself in the music and poetry she loved and had borne insult and indifference with courage and humour. Unwilling to compete with Gankali, Kelinda was wearing a simple green gown and a single strand of pearls woven into her pale copper hair.
She turned to Kerish, her favourite among the Godborn.
“Have you finished setting that poem of mine, Kerish?”
The Ambassador was busy tearing at a haunch of meat and washing it down with, the strongest wine, so Kerish felt free to talk.
“Not yet. I haven't been in a sad enough mood.”
“Ah, you must forgive my melancholy but while I was walking in the Emperor's garden, I came across a grove of Crown trees.” Kelinda sighed. “They are like the trees I saw every morning from my window on Trykis. They brought back memories of other springs.”
Kerish sensed something of her loneliness. “If the Crown trees can grow and flourish in Galkis, then so can you.”
“At least I have grown to love your gardens,” admitted Kelinda. “When the sky is clear, I love the sight of the Holy Mountain overawing the city and most of all I love the statue of Imarko in her temple here. She is as beautiful as any goddess and yet so human.”
“Our Lady kept her humanity for our sake,” said Kerish.
Kelinda nodded gravely.
“And she died for you, too. Perhaps we should not speak of these things on such an occasion. Forgive me if I have not learned all of your customs yet.”
“You learn about Galkis far faster than you can teach me about Seld,” said Kerish. “I lag far behind you.”
“I learn from necessity, you for pleasure,” answered Kelinda with a sad smile.
“My curiosity may be of more use that I expected,” said Kerish.
Ignoring Kelinda's questioning look, he went on to ask her if she had any new manuscripts from Seld that he could try to read. The Princess described the scrolls that had recently arrived with a courier from Ephaan. They were soon deep in a discussion of the respective merits of two Seldian poetesses.
Under the cold gaze of Queen Rimoka, the conversation at the lower tables had been subdued but as the wine was passed round bursts of laughter and snatches of song floated up to the dais. The women began to lift their gauzy veils and the men to talk and argue more forcibly. On the high table, Gankali, flushes breaking through her carefully whitened cheeks, leaned closer to her husband, whispering and giggling. Im-lo-Torim continued to gorge himself while his mother expertly questioned the Lord Commander on the defences of Viroc. Suddenly Yxin broke in on them.
“Pardon me, your Majesty, but since you are talking of battles and barbarians, has your Majesty asked our good Lord Forollkin where he got his new scar?”
“What are you prattling about, Yxin?” snapped Rimoka but the flicker of her dark eyes towards Forollkin betrayed her interest.
“Prince Kerish-lo-Taan rashly challenged me to a duel with Tryfanian whips,” said Yxin. “Of course, within minutes I had beaten him and had him at my mercy, though I took care not to hurt him. He is my kinsman.”
“Sit still,” whispered Kelinda urgently, gripping Kerish by the wrist. “Never let them see that you care.”
Rimoka was laughing and telling Yxin to go on.
“So,” he continued, “having failed against me, our Prince vented his spite on poor Forollkin and slashed him across the face with a whip!”
“A vicious trick,” said Rimoka, “but then his mother had a temper as wild as an unbroken Irollga.”
Everyone at the high table was now listening but with Kelinda still clutching his wrist, Kerish spoke calmly, “Lord Yxin does not tell the whole story, Majesty. He does not say how he basely insulted Lord Forollkin and then refused to fight with him because he did not dare.”
“You lie,” shouted Yxin.
Heads turned at the lower tables and conversation faltered.
“Forollkin,” said Rimoka, “you are silent. What do you have to say to this?”
“What the Prince says is true,” replied Forollkin quietly. “Lord Yxin insulted me and then refused to fight me because I am the son of a concubine. Prince Kerish-lo-Taan fought gallantly in my stead. As to my scar... Yxin was half-way out of the courtyard. He could not have seen what happened. It was an accident.”
Kerish stared at his brother. It was the first time he had ever heard him tell a direct lie.
> “Yxin, you had better cease your boasting,” growled Jerenac. “If you and Forollkin were matched with swords I know who would be the winner, even though he is the son of a concubine. Like myself.”
“I meant no offence to you my Lord,” said Yxin hastily. “I honour Forollkin for lying to protect his master. After all, the Prince is too young to be held responsible.”
“But not too young to be appointed Lord Governor of Ephaan,” said Kerish.
Every head at the table turned to look at him.
“You are jesting, Prince,” suggested Rimoka.
“No, your Majesty. I leave for Ephaan in six days time. Lord Forollkin is to accompany me.”
“Kerish!' whispered Kelinda. `You never thought to tell me?”
Prince of the Godborn (Seven Citadels) Page 10