“Ellandellore,” said Kerish softly, “I will play any game you like if you will give me a small present.”
The sorcerer laughed. “Oh, but I can make you play because if you don't, I'll shut you in my cage of mirrors. What sort of present?”
“Oh something that you have no use for. A small golden casket.”
Ellandellore nodded gravely. “I keep it in my tower. I keep it very safe. Elmandis said I must.”
“I see. Well of course you must do what your brother tells you,” said Kerish. “He always knows best.”
Ellandellore sat up and spoke indignantly, “No! I'll do what I like. I don't care what Elmandis says. People think he's clever but he's always sad and tired because of his silly humans and his precious Ellerinonn. That's stupid. I am wise. I am powerful. I am the Emperor of the Screaming Rocks and the Lord of Tir-Racneth. I do what I please and nobody stops me. That's what it means to be an Emperor and I'm richer than Elmandis, much richer. Shall I show you?”
The temptation to treat Ellandellore like a spoiled child and tell him to behave was very strong, but Kerish smiled encouragingly and said, “Yes, I would be honoured.”
In great excitement, the sorcerer seized Kerish's wrist and led him through the door of the twisted tower. Occupying the whole of the-ground floor was a treasure chamber crammed with the spoils of hundreds of ships. In fabulous confusion, gaping chests were piled to the ceiling; statues, lamps and swords were jumbled on the floor; lengths of Kolgorn silk and cloth of gold for an Emperor's coronation lay in rotting heaps; jars of rare spices and unguents spilled their contents on the flagstones. There were jewels in profusion; pearls from the Dirian Sea, amber buckles from Dorak, lapis ear-rings from Tryfarn, brooches, necklaces and rings of long-dead Queens and Princes. Yet mingled with the precious treasures were tawdry, worthless things: pieces of driftwood, a battered shield, fragments of pottery, cracked shells and dried sponges.
Ellandellore seemed to forget Kerish and chanting, “I am rich. I am rich,” he wandered among his treasure; stooping here and there to stroke a statue, blow on a flute, or try on a crown.
After a while, Kerish said carefully, “I see that your Majesty is indeed the richest sovereign.”
He bowed low. Ellandellore laughed delightedly.
“Look at this crown. I wear it on rainy days.”
He held up a silver circlet set with the pale gems known as the Tears of Imarko and made centuries before by a Galkian craftsman for a Prince of Gannoth.
“Oh, and do you like this?”
He handed Kerish a ball of smooth, green stone inlaid with flaming jewels. The sorcerer darted across the room to find more favourite treasures to show to his guest.
Ellandellore suddenly pounced on a crude wooden monkey, once the treasured toy of some Jenozan child. “This is Illixa. Isn't she lovely?”
He hugged the monkey to his breast and crooned over her. Kerish saw then why Elmandis had spoken of the Sorcerer of Tir-Racneth with compassion.
“I am amazed,” declared Kerish, “even the Emperor of Galkis would envy you such a treasury.”
“Yes, but I must have more treasure because I get tired of things.”
“Then you should throw away the things you are tired of. That will show how great and rich you are.”
“You are right,” said Ellandellore. “I like you. What was your name?”
“Kerish-lo-Taan. Shall we be friends?”
“Yes, if you want. I will throw things away. Here, you can have these.”
He tossed the Prince a rope of black pearls.
Kerish bowed but refused to take them.
“I thank you, my Emperor, but all I seek is one gold casket. I need it for...a game that must be played.”
“What kind of game? Can I join in?”
“I will tell you if you give me the casket.”
Ellandellore considered this. “I don't think I can give it to you, but I will show it to you if I can find it. Shall we look?”
The Prince and the Sorcerer burrowed through piles of treasure as if they were heaps of rubbish, tossing aside pectorals and chalices, tapestries and manuscripts in their search.
“Found it! Found it. I've beaten you!” cried Ellandellore. From under a fur cloak, he drew out a small, golden casket. “It's locked and even I can't open it. I've tried and tried.”
Kerish reached for the casket but suddenly snatched back his hand with a gasp of pain.
“I made it burn you,” said Ellandellore calmly. “Your face does look funny. Why are you twisting your mouth like that?”
“Ellandellore,” whispered Kerish, “don't you understand pain?”
The sorcerer frowned. “I remember the word but I don't understand it.”
“Then I pity you indeed,” said Kerish, cradling his burned hand.
Ellandellore stared at the Prince and began to whimper, “I don't understand. It isn't my fault!”
“Stop that, Ellandellore,” snapped Kerish, feeling that it was he who was a thousand years old not the Sorcerer. “You could be taught to understand. Elmandis would help you.”
“No he won't. He's angry with me. He told me once he wished I was dead. I remember what that means.”
“Ellandellore, I promise you Elmandis would never hurt you,” said Kerish, hoping it was true. “He will help you and if you give me that casket you need never be lonely or frightened again.”
The sorcerer stared at him, wide-eyed for a moment and then giggled. “No, you shan't have it. I want it for myself.”
Fighting a useless desire to do something violent Kerish said reasonably, “But you have many things more beautiful, great Emperor.”
“Yes, but I'm tired of them. I don't know what's inside the casket, so it's not so dull as the other things. Have you brought me anything new?”
Kerish thought frantically. The golden key at his waist must be kept at all costs. There was Kelinda's ring, but he did not want to part with his only remembrance of the Princess of Seld. Ellandellore had sidled up to him and was stroking the soft leather of his tunic.
“Nice,” he murmured. “The colour of the sea in summer.” He felt a lump beneath the tunic and tugged out the Jewel of Zeldin. “Oh, beautiful!” The jewel lit every line of the sorcerer's wondering face. “But the frozen fire hurts my eyes.” He wrenched at the chain. “Give it to me!”
“No. It is a jewel of great power and would destroy anyone to whom it was given unwillingly.”
Ellandellore believed this sudden invention and drew back.
“I will buy it then. I will give you a crown set with stars. I will give you a sword that can cut through rock. I will give you a flask of Heartsmead; one drop and the proudest lady in the world will love you. I will give you more treasure than the Godborn hoard in Hildimarn!”
Kerish shook his head. Ellandellore looked hungrily at the Jewel of Zeldin.
“I will give you the golden casket.”
“No.”
Kerish's answer was automatic but even as he spoke he thought himself stupid. Surely it was a fair exchange? Izeldon might have meant his gift for just such an occasion. Yet somehow Kerish knew that it would be wrong to part with the jewel before he had even learned what it could do. “No,” he said unhappily.
“Kerish, will you play a game with me?” asked Ellandellore softly. “An easy game and if you win you shall have the casket and keep your jewel. If I win,” He smiled mischievously, “I keep the casket and get the jewel. Will you play? Will you?”
“Emperor, how do I know that you will keep your word?”
Ellandellore considered this. “We could swear a promise if you like.”
“Swear by your own power and on pain of your brother's deadly anger,” said Kerish sternly.
Ellandellore's face changed. “Oh but he can't come here. Can he?”
“Not unless I let him. He will be able to if you break your word.”
“I think you're lying,” said Ellandellore fiercely.
“T
he Godborn do not lie,” answered Kerish haughtily. “What is your game?”
“I will take you to the edge of the island,” said Ellandellore. “You close your eyes and count to three hundred. Then you turn round. All you have to do is find your way back to Tir-Racneth and know me and say my name. I swear by my power and my brother's anger to give you the casket if you win, but you only have one guess.”
“And if I lose, you will have the jewel.”
“Yes and...” Ellandellore giggled again. “Wait and see.”
`Father,' thought Kerish, `I will need your gifts now.'
Chapter 11
The Book of the Emperors: Warnings
Knowledge without wisdom is like a sharp sword in the hand of a young child.
When the Zeloka anchored in Rindiss Bay, Elmandis and Forollkin went ashore. They were entertained in the largest house in the settlement, which belonged to a man named Gandalus. As Elmandis sat on a cool terrace overlooking the bay, sipping wine and discussing local affairs, Forollkin paced up and down, his feet scuffing the stones.
“How is your other guest?” Elmandis asked the master of the house.
“Master Gidjabolgo? I hardly know since he keeps to his room like a snake under a stone. When he does speak, it is to mock our ways.”
“Forgive me for burdening you with him, but he is soon to travel north with Forollkin.”
Gandalus bowed. “You have my sympathies, Forollkin. Shall I send him out to you?”
“Well?” asked Elmandis, “Would you like to meet your new travelling companion?”
“Lord King,” Forollkin was almost shouting, “how can you expect me to care what tricks you are going to play on us? How can you sit here so calmly while Kerish...”
“Gandalus, my friend,” the sorcerer spoke loudly but placidly, “would you be kind enough to leave us alone for a time?”
Gandalus gave Forollkin a shocked stare and left the terrace.
“And by what right did you stop me going with my brother? We are not your subjects. We are not your pampered slaves.”
A spasm of anger distorted Elmandis' face. “Forollkin, remember to whom you speak.”
“I speak to the king of a strange country. I am told you are a sorcerer, centuries old and I will try to believe it.”
“I could spin out your life through centuries of pain to make you believe it.”
“You may threaten till the seas boil,” shouted Forollkin, “but I will speak my thoughts. I, at least, am free.”
Elmandis raised his hands and opened his lips to speak. In spite of his brave words, Forollkin felt fear stab through his stomach. The deadly enchantment welled up from the dark pit of Elmandis' anger but suddenly the sorcerer broke off, burying his face in his hands.
After a long silence, Forollkin knelt by the King's chair and murmured, “My Lord?”
Elmandis looked up, his eyes as green as the icebergs of the northern ocean and his voice as cold.
“I will spare you the death that would ease my grief. Come with me to the top of that hill. It overlooks the Straits of Rac.”
The two men left the house together and walked up the gentle green slope. The grass grew lushly there, mingled with scented flowers and birds sang unseen in the trees. On the summit of the hill, Elmandis paused and gazed out across the straits to the mists of Cheransee.
“Do not imagine that my inner thoughts have left your brother. Kerish has come to no harm. For a moment there was great danger, but not from Ellandellore.” The sorcerer's eyes were open but they were not focused on anything that Forollkin could see. “He has met Ellandellore and handles him well. Your brother has a cunning tongue but one cannot reason with Ellandellore.”
“You will help him though...” began Forollkin.
“I cannot while he remains in the territory of Ellandellore. I would not even if I could,” answered the King. “To win the game he now plays would be a great victory and one he would not wish to share.”
“I was not aware that our search for the keys was a game,” said Forollkin indignantly. “I would have thought that you of all people would help for your country's sake, and not endanger the quest by pandering to Kerish's pride.”
Disconcertingly, Elmandis laughed.
“Forollkin, if anyone endangers this quest, it is you. I know something now of your brother's heart and let me warn you. He loves you but it is a love delicately streaked with hate. If you continue to treat him like a child, he will try to prove to you, by cunning or violence, that he is a child no longer. You know his temper, it is blazoned across your cheek.”
“That was just a moment's anger.”
“A moment may kill.”
“My Lord,” said Forollkin firmly, “I swore to the Emperor and the High Priest to protect my brother and I will. I love my brother...”
“Do you, Forollkin?” Elmandis turned his cold gaze on the young captain. “Do you? Is it not rather pleasant to keep a Prince of the Godborn in subjection? Does the son of a concubine not enjoy giving orders to the son of a Queen? You mock the powers of the Godborn because you cannot understand them, yet what would you give to be the Prince...”
“No!”
All too clearly Forollkin remembered the hours he had spent listening to his mother's tirades against the Godborn. How often she had complained of the injustice of her strong, brave Forollkin being forced always to take second place to the Prince she hated. He had never heeded her. Never consciously envied Kerish or made him suffer for it...
“Think about it Forollkin,” said Elmandis softly, “while I watch over your brother and mine. There is nothing you can do to help them.”
* * *
Kerish knew that he was standing on the very edge of a cliff. One step backwards and he would fall two hundred feet on to the jagged rocks below. In front of him was a gentle slope patched with purple flowers. About a mile away, just visible above the hilltops, was the blue tower of Tir-Racneth. This was the picture that Kerish had fixed in his mind before the sorcerer had ordered him to close his eyes and count.
It was a strange experience for Kerish. He had never joined in the games that Galkian children played. Only in the Emperor's garden could he escape from his grave tutors and play as he wanted to, but always alone. He wondered if it might have been the same for Ellandellore. He knew that he must win the second key to give the sorcerer of Tir-Racneth a chance to grow up at last.
While he thought, Kerish had been counting automatically. He reached three hundred, stopped and opened his eyes. He was standing again in the waste of grey sand with black shapes savaging the distance. Cautiously, Kerish inched one heel backwards. As he had expected, what looked like sand was space. If he stepped back he would fall to his death.
Wondering how many players of Ellandellore's games had taken that fatal step, Kerish walked slowly forward. In his mind he held firmly to the memory of the grassy hills of Cheransee. He knew he could not trust his eyes and he was unsure whether what he heard and smelt was true or false. In both reality and illusion, the sea dominated.
Kerish closed his eyes again and went forward like a blind man, stretching out his hands to feel for obstacles. After a few minutes of this, he kicked off his boots. To his relief, he felt the grass beneath his bare feet. Slowly but confidently, he moved towards Tir-Racneth.
Suddenly above the muted thunder of the sea sounded a terrible scream, a sound that no human mouth could have formed. Kerish's whole body was jolted by the shock of it. Without thinking, he opened his eyes. It was the worst mistake he could have made. The image of the gentle hills was stripped from his mind. He was back among the screaming rocks.
Like spears thrown by the earth to skewer the sun, the rocks thrust upward, fragmenting the light. Caged in stone Kerish closed his eyes again and ran forward. His hands met jagged rock and he flinched back. Opening his eyes, he saw blood trickling down his fingers. If he was bleeding, the rocks must be real!
Kerish tried desperately to force his thoughts into calm di
sbelief. With the end of his sash, he wiped away the blood. There were no cuts beneath. He attempted to replace the confidence he had lost by rebuilding the picture of the true way ahead. Even in his mind's eye, the black rock tore through the grassy slopes and the blue tower dissolved into the mist. Kerish knew that the rocks would trap him until he had the trust to walk through their seeming solidity. He stood quite still and thought instead of something easier to visualise: the Emperor's garden. Just as the remembered groves and pools and fountains began to soothe him, the scream sounded again.
Prince of the Godborn (Seven Citadels) Page 19