The Dead Kingdom (Seven Citadels)

by Geraldine Harris

  Kerish sat up straight and found himself looking into a prism, constantly splitting into new fragments. The colours flowed about and through him and the sense of loss he had felt in Tir-Roac flooded back. He bowed his head and the same colours shone unseen in his own tears.

  The others saw that the air was full of shapes in ecstatic flight. Above the prow arched two golden creatures with wings like sheaves of sunlight. A third, its mane a cluster of crescent moons, stretched its opaline coils half-way across the lake. For a moment a living rainbow swirled about the Starflower's mast. Beneath the dazzling colours, the lovely shape of its bones shone white and the veins flowed with crimson fire. For as far as they could see, the creatures burnished the air but some of the shapes were nearly lost in frozen torrents of jewels, while others, further off, glowed with a darker light.

  Gwerath realized that Forollkin was gripping her shoulder.

  "I think it's all right, " she murmured, "look how beautiful they are!"

  Forollkin stared in wonder at the amber glory of a creature caught forever in the highest leap of some wild dance, but Kerish still sat with bowed head and the expression on Gidjabolgo's face was closer to fear than wonder.

  A cerulean cloud, spiralled with silver, moved towards them, its reflection lancing the waters with pure light. But as they watched, the silver ceased to undulate, stiffened by some unseen frost. Beautiful in despair, the blue form writhed and twisted to escape from its silver cage.

  Then with a sudden crunching, the Starflower ran aground on the white sand and Kerish looked up again. "We're below Tir-Melidon."

  Beneath the lowest windows, splayed against the slope, was a creature huge as a castle. Its petrified wings glimmered like a dragonfly's and its tangled mane ran like a river of gold towards the lake, hiding the great head.

  "I can't see an entrance," said Forollkin. "We'll have to climb past the windows up the slope, to the top."

  He leapt ashore, as Gidjabolgo began to secure the boat. The others followed. Kerish went up to his ankles in the white sand as he jumped from the rail. He recovered without the help of Gwerath's proffered hand and joined Forollkin a little way down the beach.

  The young soldier was staring at another of the creatures. In shape it was like a cluster of half-opened flowers but its body was stained with a darkness like the smoke of incense. Parts of its skin were hard and bright as glass and Kerish glimpsed himself reflected in petals that enclosed a lidded eye. He thrust out a hand to hide the sight. His fingertips brushed a petal and it crumbled away, revealing a hollow blackness. They all looked back towards the Starflower and saw a silver and blue shape hanging quite motionless on the air.

  Forollkin's voice cracked as he spoke, "Let's get up that slope! There's a sort of path to the left here."

  They left the sand and followed a track through the tall grasses, with Gidjabolgo hurrying to catch them up. Their way was often barred by the creature stretched across the slope. At first they stepped carefully over its glittering coils, but as the slope grew steeper, Gidjabolgo began using them as footholds as he helped Kerish to climb one-handed.

  They paused to rest beside one unfurled wing and marvelled at the unknown colours gleaming through the limpid skin but, here and there, the wing was encrusted with dark jewels like the symptoms of some terrible sickness. Kerish was glad that the golden waterfall of hair hid the face.

  Ten minutes' hard climbing brought them level with the lowest windows of Vethnar's citadel. Only one was accessible. Normal courtesy long forgotten, Forollkin sidled along a narrow ledge, leapt, caught at the sill and raised himself for a few seconds to peer in.

  "What did you see?" demanded Gwerath eagerly.

  She had kilted up her grey dress and her hair was drying into a stiff mass of silver.

  He smiled at her. "Little enough. Just a small room with a single chair in it facing a wall I couldn't see."

  The last part of the slope was mantled with tiny white and golden flowers whose sweet scent attracted clouds of insects. Forced onto hands and knees, it was an undignified climb for the travellers and not everyone escaped stings as they disturbed the insects.

  As they reached the summit, Kerish heard the others exclaim and suddenly felt as if his eyes were being pulled out of his head. His vision was filled with a mass of rich blue with a golden centre surrounded by streaks of green. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was looking at a gigantic flower.

  "May a sorcerer never," began an irritated voice, "be granted solitude, even in his own citadel?"

  For a moment, Kerish seemed to be falling very fast. Then he blinked as his eyes re-focused on a small blue flower, half-hidden in the grass. Beside it, stood the sorcerer of Tir-Melidon

  The travellers had all seen merchants from Kolmandis: dark-skinned, stately and silent, but Kerish had the ridiculous conviction that Vethnar was only dressed up as a Kolgorn to play some elaborate trick. The Lord of Tir-Melidon was as black as the screaming rocks of Cheransee, with tightly curled hair the dull bronze of an ancient sword, but he was far from silent.

  "The Mountains of Chire, a drowned city, whirlpools, cliffs . . . all are useless to protect me. I might as well study in the market place of Kolmandis; at least the street-urchins might be awed into silence and not trample on my visions!"

  Vethnar was leaning on a staff of polished ebony. He seemed little older than Forollkin but, even stooping, he was a head taller. He wore a shapeless brown robe that fought a constant battle to encumber the violent gestures of his right arm.

  "Now here is a whole afternoon's work lost!"

  The lean dark fingers jabbed the air in the general direction of Forollkin, who began a startled apology.

  The sorcerer cut him short. "It is to your children and your children's children that you should apologize!"

  "Vethnar, you knew they were coming. You told me so yourself, not half an hour ago."

  For the first tune, the travellers noticed a plump old man sitting cross-legged on the turf a little way behind the sorcerer. A role of parchment was stretched across his lap and beside him were pots of ink and a jar of quill pens.

  "What if I did, child?" snapped Vethnar. "During journeys of the mind, it is most disturbing to be suddenly made to view the whole again."

  "The drawings were almost complete," said the other firmly.

  "Drawings of that flower?" asked Kerish.

  "Of course. " Vethnar squatted down beside the old man. "Show them, Dolodd."

  The travellers looked over Dolodd's shoulder at a series of exquisite drawings of petals and stamens.

  "Men never look at things," muttered Vethnar, "not really look, as I do, concentrating on a single blossom until it fills their whole world."

  "Perhaps we don't have the time," said Dolodd, rolling up the parchment. "Fifty years would be a very long time for a mortal to spend looking at flowers."

  "Hah! You mortals think fifty seconds is too long! You're obsessed with seeking outwards and spurn the treasures at your feet. Why can't you keep still and enrich yourself with what's in front of you, instead of grabbing at impossibilities?"

  "Surely it must be possible," said Kerish, "for the mind to enrich itself through the body's restlessness?"

  "I warn you it is not," declared Vethnar, "and I am the sorcerer of Tir-Melidon."

  The Prince seized his chance. "And I am Kerish-lo-Taan, and this is my brother Lord Forollkin."

  "And him?" Vethnar pointed eagerly at Gidjabolgo.

  "This is our companion, Gidjabolgo of Forgin."

  "Good, you look a quarreller and that's what I need."

  "And this," persisted Kerish, "is my cousin Gwerath, a Princess of the Sheyasa, from Erandachu."

  "A woman?" Vethnar got up to peer suspiciously at Gwerath. "No, no use at all."

  "I've told you before," said Dolodd, as he began to gather up his inks. "If you really want all opinions you should welcome women."

  "Why, does this one talk?"

  "Like a cage full
of Dik-birds," answered Gidjabolgo.

  "I knew a woman once who talked," murmured Vethnar, "moon-silver hair she had, just like that. She did nothing but interrupt our studies. Saroc and I worked well together before she lured him to her and soured his life."

  "You wrong Lady Sendaaka!"

  The Prince's reproof clashed with Gwerath's indignant, "Of course I can talk! I carry the lore of my tribe. . . "

  "Vethnar, you have offended all your new guests." Dolodd hauled up his comfortable bulk. "You must make amends."

  "Have I? How interesting. You must tell me how. But later, later, I know my duty." The sorcerer slashed a mark in the turf with the tip of his ebony rod and a circle of grass dissolved away to reveal a flight of steps. "Come down into my citadel."

  It was Dolodd who showed the Galkians and Gidjabolgo to a set of rooms overlooking the sea, before escorting Gwerath to her quarters. The first room was plainly furnished with three couches and a low table but the one set aside for Kerish was elaborately decorated in the fashion of ancient Galkis. The bed was hung with Imperial purple, a tapestry depicting the Poet Emperor and the Trieldiss covered one wall, and a vase of ice blue cirge filled with orchids stood on a window sill. Kerish's possessions had already been brought up from Starflower and arranged on a table. Since no chests had been provided for his clothes, these, neatly folded, were laid upon the bed.

  Forollkin's room was decorated with exotic swords and axes and a vivid painting of scenes from the Battle of Viroc; while Gidjabolgo's was crammed with gaudy treasures to imitate the vulgar splendours of a Forgite mansion.

  "If there is anything you dislike," said Dolodd, "Vethnar will change it for you. Don't be afraid to ask. The rooms have been prepared for weeks. Let nine out of ten of his words slip past you. They mean nothing, but seize on the tenth and worry at it till you're sure you know its meaning."

  Forollkin took down a scimitar that hung precariously over his pillow. "That sounds no easy task to me."

  "It isn't," agreed Dolodd, "I've had thirty years' practice and still mistake him once in a while. I will return for you soon."

  Forollkin sat down cautiously on the striped skin with dangling claws that sprawled across the bed and stared at the mural. He was forced to admit that the half-severed arm of the barbarian leader and the dying Galkian trampled beneath the hooves of his own horse were marvellously painted.

  "I'll give you a silk sheet off my bed to hang over it, " said Kerish, "in return for one of your blankets."

  "Accepted, dearest brother. I'm glad it's your task to talk to our host."

  "I fancy this sorcerer will expect you to talk as much as anyone. Vethnar clearly has no taste for shyness."

  "Then he should enjoy Gidjabolgo's company."

  The Forgite was occupied in stacking some of the more atrocious ornaments under his bed. Then he and the others explored a narrow passage that led to a small chamber with a bath sunk in the rock crystal floor. Three ewers and basins of lapis stood beside it but all were empty and there was no visible means of filling them or, apparently, any servants to summon.

  "No, there are no servants here," said Dolodd when he returned. "The power of Vethnar attends to all our needs, but I grant you he's often forgetful or thoughtless. There's a fountain behind the green door across the passage. You could fetch water from there, but there's no time now. Follow me and try to remember the way. It's not easy but the patterns that cover the floors are different on each level, which helps a little."

  The companions followed Dolodd down a passageway patterned with jet flowers blossoming in a sea of amethyst. Forollkin tried to place their guide, with his pale wrinkled skin, lively black eyes and thick grey hair elaborately dressed in tufts and coils.

  "Where do you come from, Dolodd?"

  "From Dard. I was sailing in my father's ship with a cargo of Dik feathers for Losh-Mindar when our sorcerer caught me."

  "Caught?"

  "The captain was a fool to sail so close to Silnarnin, but Vethnar is not greedy, he only took me. Now, here's your lady's rooms."

  He knocked on a low door glowing with waves of amber crested with foamy pearls. As he opened it, the corridor echoed with the sound of helpless laughter.

  "Stay there, Kerish," ordered Forollkin after one glance, and he stepped inside.

  Gwerath sat amongst the down pillows on a bed draped with shell-pink silk. Walls and ceiling were covered with mirrors and even the marble floor was polished to reflect her every movement. The room was half-filled by row upon row of chests, each overflowing with velvet robes, embroidered gowns, veils, dainty slippers, phials of perfume, hair-pins and every conceivable jewel and trinket. The only other furnishings were twelve vases crowded artlessly with flowers that thickened the air with their cloying scents.

  Gwerath had wound a rope of pearls twice round her slender neck and they still reached her knees. She giggled again at the myriad reflections of this absurdity.

  "Oh Forollkin, I shall suffocate in here! What can I do?"

  "We could put the vases in the corridor, " began Forollkin doubtfully, "and perhaps I could push some of the chests back against the walls."

  Gidjabolgo peered round the door and scowled at himself in the mirrors. "By the Nostrils of Golmion! A chamber fit for a Loshite to languish in!"

  "Gwerath, get up, the sorcerer is waiting."

  "Yes, Forollkin."

  With untrustworthy meekness, the Princess of the Sheyasa stripped off the pearls, smoothed her unruly hair, and joined her companions.

  They soon lost all sense of direction as Dolodd led them along winding passages and up and down spiral stairs till they came to a long chamber with windows overlooking the crater.

  "Welcome again!" Vethnar jumped up from his place at an oval table and beckoned to Kerish and Gwerath to sit amongst the cushions heaped on either side of him. Forollkin found Dolodd on his right and a thin, red-haired boy on his left. Gidjabolgo was seated opposite Vethnar, between a grizzled warrior in a snake-skin tunic and a younger man, whose pale hair and copper skin marked him as an Ellerinionn.

  In front of each place was an alabaster cup of spring water, a dish of raw meat and vegetables and a pearl-handled fork. Cauldrons were set into the centre of the table. One was filled with oil that bubbled and spat; the others with hot pungent liquids.

  "Now, before we eat," began Vethnar, "introductions. Prince Kerish, Lord Forollkin, Master Gidjabolgo and Princess . . ."

  "Gwerath."

  "Princess Gwerath. Now us. That frightful red hair belongs to Breldor. He's another Forgite, Gidjabolgo. On your right is Rezag-Khal, a worthy warrior of Chiraz, and beside you, Kerish, is Llartian, from Tir-Rinnon. Dolodd you already know. I'm sure you've had half his history already and the rest you won't escape for long."

  A basket of bread was passed around the table and Dolodd showed the travellers how to impale strips of raw meat on their forks, cook them in the boiling oil and dip them in the sauces.

  From one of his copious sleeves, Vethnar drew out a silver pot of some strongly scented spice which he proceeded to shake over everything he ate.

  "Flevel. I was bred on it," he explained. "Have you ever tasted Orga meat? No? Well if you had you'd know why all Kolgorns smother their food with spices. I can't seem to break the custom, it's an interesting example of . . ."

  "Before we start," interrupted Dolodd, "shouldn't you ask if your guests are happy with their quarters?"

  "So I should," said Vethnar amiably. "Are you?"

  Kerish and Forollkin prepared to be polite but Gwerath said firmly, "No. I have never seen anything so ridiculous. Why should I want all those chests of clothes and jewels? There's no room to move and I don't want any mirrors."

  "I assure you I took great pains to read about what women like." The sorcerer sounded genuinely taken aback. "And surely you can't object to the sight of your own beauty?"

  "I am not beautiful," said Gwerath quietly.

  "Nonsense, you're very like her. What about you
, Gidjabolgo?"

  Like Gwerath, Gidjabolgo had no qualms about speaking his mind. "You have the taste of my people to perfection. Now all I need is a golden bowl to vomit in."

  "Breldor, " cried the sorcerer, "I did your rooms the same, to make you feel at home. You like them, don't you? You've never complained."

  "Sir . . . I mean Vethnar, I'm very grateful," the boy plucked nervously at his red hair, "but I don't really care for . . ."

  "Ah, I see now that both of you dislike your countrymen. How interesting. So do I." Vethnar impaled a sliver of meat on his fork. "`Silent as Kolgorn', that's what men say. Stupid as Kolgorn, it should be."

  "The Kolgorns I have met before," began Llartian, "have been dignified and serious men who . . . "

  "Hah! Too dignified ever to admit natural ignorance. There is no sin as great in Kolgor as asking questions that your elders can't answer. "

  Kerish smiled. "I take it that you committed this sin."

  "As often as I could, till I grew sick of the elders and they of me. Then I stole my uncle's best Orga and rode across the desert to Roac . . . Don't flinch, it was a living land then and Shubeyash was still Crown Prince, but famous for his learning. " Vethnar plunged his fork into the oil and held it there, unnoticing, while the meat blackened. "He received me with great kindness. For years we studied together but I saw how it might be and turned away from the path he trod. I asked leave to go to Gannoth. When Shubeyash saw that he could not dissuade me, he loaded me with gifts and sent me in his own ship. I haven't thanked you, have I, Kerish? Shubeyash was my dearest friend."

  "His spirit is at rest now," said the Prince.

  Vethnar nodded. "The shadow he cast was long. I am glad he has stepped into the light again. I might as well say at once that there is nothing I can do about your hand Kerish, except seat you next to our thoughtful Llartian. "