Prince of the Godborn (Seven Citadels)

by Geraldine Harris

Kerish shouted, trying to drown the noise with a jumble of meaningless phrases. Attuned with horrible accuracy to the dark places of his memory, the noise coalesced into a long-suppressed nightmare. The scream sounded for a third time, filled with the fierce joy of a creature sighting its helpless prey.

  Catching Kerish's thoughts, Ellandellore moulded them into substance. Something began to move close by, dragging its gorged body across the rocks. Kerish could hear the rasping of its scales and claws. He shut his eyes but the screaming rocks seemed etched on his lids. There was no escape from the rocks or from the creature that crawled over them. It reared above him, blocking out the last of the sunlight. Retching at its foul stench, he reeled back against the rocks and waited, paralysed, for death.

  As the black coils slid towards him, Kerish clutched the Jewel of Zeldin and wondered distantly if he would die torn by the terrible claws or crushed in the huge mouth. The thought was so horrible that it was no longer quite believable. Though the claws would reach him in a few seconds, Kerish could not imagine so horrible a death.

  It was as if he had already passed over the chasm of death and could watch his threatened body from the other side with complete indifference. The rocks at his back no longer seemed the bars of a cage but like strong arms supporting him, holding him safe and steady. Their strength seemed to flow into him and he remembered the touch of his father's hands. `Be brave, Prince of the Godborn, braver than I have ever been.' Kerish heard the words and he was not afraid.

  The Prince of the Godborn opened his eyes and found himself standing on a quiet grey-green hillside. He stood there for a long time, completely forgetting the game until a gust of wind tugged at the chain around his waist and slapped the golden key against his thigh. Then he hurried towards Tir-Racneth before Ellandellore could draw on his thoughts to attack him again.

  The sorcerer conjured the dying Gankali to stagger towards Kerish imploring his aid. He barred the path with an alabaster sarcophagus, whose lid was cracking open, and with Brigands of Fangmere, whirling axes. To Kerish, the images seemed as remote as illustrations to some work of ancient history. He paced steadily towards them and they dissolved away. Desperately, Ellandellore tried to impose the Emperor's garden with its vividly remembered dangers, but through its hazy image Kerish still saw the landscape of Cheransee. With each firm step he ripped the veil of illusion. Ellandellore flung vision after vision at the rock of the Prince's calm. Kerish scarcely noticed them.

  He climbed the last hill and pushed open the door of the blue tower. Inside, among the glittering debris, his confidence slowly ebbed away. He felt as though he were shedding a suit of heavy armour, piece by piece. He was glad to be rid of the weight, but it left him exposed again.

  No living thing moved among the dusty treasures. The gilded shackles of the dead were there in profusion but no Ellandellore. Kerish understood now what the sorcerer had meant by saying, "Find me and know me."

  `Imarko aid me,', he thought gloomily. `How can I possibly recognize him? There are thousands of things in this room. He might have taken the form of any one of them.' Kerish checked himself. `I am my father's son. I must use the sight of the Godborn.'

  He took a deep breath, folded his hands over the jewel at his breast and looked round the room. It seemed to him infinitely pathetic. Kerish tried to imagine himself inside the mind of the child sorcerer. Where would he choose to hide? What would he be? A queen's crown? A noose of pearls? A wave-worn pebble? None of these surely. Sighing, Kerish stooped to pick up the battered wooden monkey that lay at his feet. The poor broken toy that Ellandellore loved. No, this was not broken. The toy was quite whole.

  “Ellandellore,” whispered Kerish, and found himself holding the sorcerer by the shoulders, “I know you. The game is mine.”

  Ellandellore pouted. “I suppose so, but I did frighten you, didn't I?”

  “A great deal,” admitted Kerish. “Now give me my prize.”

  “I don't want to,” said the sorcerer sulkily.

  “You must,” answered Kerish calmly, “or there can be no more games.”

  “All right then.”

  Smiling again, the sorcerer scrabbled through a heap of uncut gems and brought out the golden casket. Kerish took out Elmandis' key and unlocked the casket. Inside lay a second key set with a pale azure gem. Kerish hung both keys on the chain about his waist.

  “Now you have two pretty keys and I haven't any,” complained Ellandellore. “It isn't fair.”

  “But look at all the other things you have!”

  Kerish gestured at the glittering heaps of treasure.

  “I hate them!” wailed Ellandellore and his green eyes brimmed with tears. “I want you to stay and play with me.”

  “You promised to let me go.”

  “No I didn't. I only promised to give you the casket. I won't stay here alone any more. I'm frightened.”

  “Come back with me to Ellerinonn,” said Kerish gently. “Elmandis would be glad to see you and they are kind people there.”

  “No, Elmandis would punish me. I won't go!” He sounded genuinely terrified. “We'll stay here.”

  “All right, Ellandellore,” said Kerish wearily, “I'll stay and we will play another game.”

  The sorcerer looked up, his eyes bright with tears. “What sort of game?”

  “I'll hide and you can come and look for me.”

  “Yes. Where will you hide?”

  “That's my secret. Now close your eyes and count to a thousand. When you've finished you can come looking.”

  Obediently Ellandellore closed his eyes and began to count.

  Slipping out of the treasure chamber, Kerish glanced back at the sorcerer of Tir-Racneth; a small figure in gaudy rags, a crooked crown on his head, and tears still trailing down his cheeks. As the Prince fled down the hill, he reasoned with his conscience. He had no choice but to trick Ellandellore for the sake of the keys. `And how many other lies will you have to tell before this quest is over?' Kerish asked himself. `At least I'm not harming Ellandellore. Surely now Elmandis will help his brother? But to leave a child crying...He is no child. Think of all those ships, the men he has murdered. Can a child murder?'

  Kerish's thoughts were jolted back to the present. If Ellandellore discovered that his visitor was running away, he would be dangerous. Kerish found a narrow path that he hoped led down to the sea. He slithered down it, hurting his bare feet on rock and shingle, till he reached the cool sand. For a moment he flared up in panic. The sea lay in front of him but there was no boat waiting at the tide's edge. Then he saw it, a black speck in the distance, perhaps half a mile along the beach. The twisting path had brought him too far east.

  Kerish ran. It was not easy, for his feet kept sinking into the soft sand. He had thought that Ellandellore would cheat but he must still be counting. At last, fighting for breath, Kerish flung himself at the boat and pushed it out to sea. When the water was up to his knees he heaved himself in.

  He lay exhausted for a moment and then pressed his lips to the timbers and whispered the words Elmandis had taught him and the name of Rindiss Bay. A shudder passed through the boat as if it were still a black tree, bowing to the wind in the mountains of Gol. Then it slid slowly forward, breasting the white waves to reach the calm purple of the deep waters. As the shores of Cheransee receded a mood of exultation crept over Kerish. He had won two keys with no help from Forollkin!

  A distant shriek of anger and distress splintered his satisfaction. Looking back, he saw the small, bright-haired figure of Ellandellore standing on a cliff-top. Instinctively Kerish shrank down. The mists swallowed the childish form. Surely he was out of the sorcerer's power?

  The black boat sped skilfully on, faster and faster. The coast of Ellerinonn was in sight. Kerish shut out the thought that the craft his life depended on belonged to the angry sorcerer. He had a destiny. Zeldin would not let him die. He concentrated on happy memories, a trip to Tryfis with Forollkin, afternoons spent with Kelinda reading favourite poems; b
ut all the time he was listening for the fatal crunch as the boat dashed itself against some jagged rock.

  It did not come, for Ellandellore knew that it was crueller to let his victims think they had escaped. When the boat was barely a mile from the coast of Ellerinonn and safety, Kerish sat up and stretched. As if in answer, a gust of wind jolted the boat. Kerish fell back, banging his head. He struggled to sit up again and saw that the sky was turning black. The wind screamed like the rocks of Cheransee and lashed the waves into a fury. Ellandellore had sent a storm to drown the golden keys.

  Kerish, his hair whipping at his face, watched in horror as a towering wave swept towards him. The boat was still moving towards Ellerinonn but it would never reach the shore. A huge wall of water hit the black craft and overturned it.

  Kerish was thrown into the sea. He remembered somehow to shut his mouth and stopped swallowing seawater. He clawed his way to the surface but was pressed down again by a second wave. In a dark inferno, Kerish struggled wildly to reach the air before the pain in his chest became unbearable. For a brief moment he surfaced, gulped down air and water and sank again.

  While his body fought for life, his thoughts were like a whirlpool of disconnected images. The blue and golden ceiling of his bedroom in Galkis, the stupid expression on Forollkin's face as the whip lashed his cheek, Li-Kroch clutching a child who was not his son, the Emperor orchid almost in flower, the zeloka flying through his dreams. They vanished almost before he recognized them.

  Just before the darkness swallowed him, Kerish seemed to see the tearful face of Ellandellore and to hear Elmandis calling him home.

  * * *

  It was light, so it must be day, Kerish told himself drowsily.

  “Have I slept late?”

  Slowly a room seemed to materialize around him and Kerish realized that he was lying in bed staring up at the ceiling. With what felt like a very great effort, he turned his head and found himself staring at someone whose presence was reassuring.

  “Kerish? Are you awake?” Forollkin leaned over his brother. “Really awake?”

  “I think so,” whispered the Prince.

  “You must know whether you are awake or not,” snapped Forollkin, suddenly and unreasonably angry. His brother's great purple, black and golden eyes gazed up at him blankly. “Kerish?”

  Hearing their voices, Elmandis entered from the next room carrying a crystal cup filled with some clear liquid. Crossing to the bed, he held the cup to Kerish's lips. Forollkin slipped his hand under his brother's head to support him. Kerish drank and the fiery liquid seared away the mists from his mind and jerked him awake. He pushed the cup away. “It tastes terrible. I don't want any more.”

  “He is himself again,” said Elmandis lightly.

  “Imarko be praised,” muttered Forollkin, his thoughts dragging him back to the sight of Elmandis sucking the fury of the storm into himself. The sorcerer had tossed back the tide with a flick of his hand and lifted Kerish from the suddenly exposed seabed. Though the storm still raged in the sorcerer's eyes, Forollkin had been afraid that nothing could save Kerish. He could have sworn that his brother's breathing had already stopped but Elmandis had sent him out of the room. When he returned Kerish, was sleeping peacefully.

  Dizzily, the Prince was now trying to sit up but Elmandis pushed him gently back against the pillows.

  “No, Kerish, you must rest. Your body has not yet caught up with your mind's strength and tomorrow you must begin your journey again.”

  “But the keys!” persisted Kerish. “Did I lose them in the storm?”

  “No,” said Elmandis shortly.

  Kerish delved under the sheet and found the golden chain still knotted round his waist.

  “I did it then, I really did it?”

  Forollkin cleared his throat and said, a little stiffly, “I am proud of you, Kerish.”

  The Prince gave his brother an affectionate hug and looked up eagerly at Elmandis.

  “My Lord, what must we do next? Where must we go?”

  “I have already told Captain Engis that you will be sailing to Pin-Drouth,” answered Elmandis.

  “Pin-Drouth, the Frian capital!” exclaimed Forollkin, “But there is nothing in Lan-Pin-Fria but swamps.”

  “True enough. I hope you will enjoy your journey through them.”

  “But where are we going?” demanded Kerish.

  “Tomorrow you will know. Tonight you rest,” said Elmandis implacably, and left them together.

  After Kerish had picked at a light supper, Forollkin insisted that he try to sleep again. Kerish huddled down beneath the sheets but could not sleep. His mind went relentlessly over and over the events of the past weeks. He heard Ka-Metranee's curse, the despair in his father's voice and the screams of the dying on the Zeloka's embattled deck. He could not shake off the images of Yxin's sneering face, the Emperor crouched over an alabaster sarcophagus, Zyrindella cowering before Zeldin's statue and Ellandellore weeping.

  Just after midnight, Elmandis came quietly into the room carrying a lamp.

  “Kerish, are you troubled?”

  “I can't sleep. I just keep thinking about things that have happened.”

  “I cannot free you from the spectres of the past. Be grateful you have only eighteen years of them. I will fetch you a sleeping draught.”

  “My Lord, what will happen to Ellandellore?” asked Kerish.

  “He tried to kill you,” said Elmandis, without expression.

  “I tricked him and abandoned him. He was so alone!”

  Elmandis put down the lamp so that his face was in darkness.

  “You are more gentle with us than we deserve.”

  “What will happen to him?” repeated Kerish.

  “Without the key he will begin to age. His awakening from childhood will be a painful one,” answered Elmandis.

  “You won't leave him alone there?”

  “Even without our keys most of our power will remain for our natural lives. I can ask him to come to me but I cannot force him,” said the Lord of Tir-Racneth's brother.

  “I think he will come, if you keep asking.”

  “You must have guessed, Kerish, that it was I who made him what he is. I did not wish to outlive my little brother so I gave him immortality with a key, but he was far too young for the powers that went with it. When I tried, too late, to curb him...”'

  “My Lord, all that is far in the past.”

  “Now that you have our keys, I suppose it is. My mistakes will no longer seem as black as the day they were made. I will fetch you your draught, Kerish.”

  When the sorcerer brought him a cup of indigo liquid Kerish drank gratefully. He slept for eight hours and woke ravenously hungry.

  Kerish was in the middle of a large breakfast when Forollkin stalked in. The young captain sat down with a thump on the bed, spilling a jug of milk all over the sheets. When that had been cleared up, Kerish asked what was the matter. He could not recall having done anything recently to annoy his brother.

  “Oh, it isn't you, Kerish.”

  “What then? You look as if you've been stung by an irkfly.”

  “So I have, though one without wings.”

  “You're speaking in riddles. What do you mean?”

  Forollkin replied with uncharacteristic sarcasm, “I have had the honour and pleasure of meeting our travelling companion, Master Gidjabolgo.”

  “Oh well, Elmandis did say...” began Kerish.

  “Yes, Elmandis. I shall have a few choice words to say to him when next we meet.”

  “Then by all means say them now,' murmured the King of Ellerinonn, who had come quietly into the room.

  Kerish grinned as Forollkin shrank under the cool gaze and muttered an apology.

  Elmandis laughed. “You will never master Gidjabolgo if you are so easily put down. Look on him as a challenge. He will at least enliven your journey through Lan-Pin-Fria.”

  “My Lord, you promised...”

  “To tell you where you a
re going? Yes, Forollkin.”

  Elmandis sat down in a chair by the bed.

  “You are going north to the Ultimate Mountains, to the edge of the world. You look startled, Forollkin.”

  “But there is nothing there! Just ice and snow and mountain after mountain, by all I ever heard.”

  “There is the Citadel of Tir-Zulmar and its solitary sorcerer.”

  “How shall we reach it?” asked Kerish.

  “Since you must journey the length of Lan-Pin-Fria, I would suggest that you buy yourselves a passage on a Frian boat sailing north. It would be wisest to travel as minor Galkian noblemen. I see from your impatient look, Forollkin, that you've already been given that advice. Obey it then. Lan-Pin-Fria is a land of rivers. You must follow the greatest of them to its source. Let the waters of the Pin-Fran be your only guide.”