He stretched out and weighted open several scrolls for their inspection; his dark face glowing with an enthusiasm that reminded Kerish of Hemcoth in his library. Beside the butterflies were brief poems written in the curious script of Dard.
"There are eleven varieties of butterfly in the Dardic islands," Vethnar informed them. "It is said that an early Lord of Dard had eleven beautiful wives. Then he married a Princess of Gannoth who was jealous of the other wives and used her sorcery to turn them, one by one, into butterflies. The Lord was most displeased but he feared the Princess and did no more than make a garden where his former wives could live amongst the flowers and cluster about him. The garden is still there, is it not Dolodd?"
"There is an ancient garden by the manor."
"And it is still forbidden in Dard to kill a butterfly. The small one there is a Shereelia; she was supposed to be the prettiest wife."
"How lovely the blue sheen on its wings is," said Gwerath, "but Kerish paints as well as this. I remember the border of flowers and insects you once showed me . . ."
The Prince demurred but Vethnar looked very pleased.
"Excellent, royal-blood and such accomplishments rarely go together. Hemcoth is another exception, of course. You cannot imagine how I have been tempted to steal him. He would be so much happier here. I cannot, as Gannoth is under my care and, though you disapprove of me, Llartian, I do have some sense of responsibility. Still, he would be a great help with the catalogue," finished Vethnar wistfully.
"You need an army, not just one stolen Prince, to finish this catalogue," put in Dolodd.
"Do you collect all kinds of books?" asked the Princess.
"I collect all knowledge." Vethnar still seemed a little uneasy when directly addressed by Gwerath. "So you will find all manner of books, history, poetry, legends, in every tongue of Zindar in my library. I, myself, have added a little over the centuries to this store of knowledge. At present we are looking at late spring, its flowers, birds, insects."
"Is that why it seems to be spring here when it should be autumn?" demanded Forollkin.
"Yes. I have kept it so for about two hundred of your years."
"Why does it take so long?"
"Why? A single patch of ground may contain a dozen different grasses and as many flowers and insects to be drawn and studied; enough to occupy me for fifty years. As I've said before, you humans are too shallow. You have no interest in details."
"I still don't see why it matters," said Forollkin stubbornly.
Vethnar tugged ferociously at his sleeve and straightened to his full height. "If you wanted to make a cart or a boat and had no experience, what would you do?"
"Well, I suppose I'd . . ."
"You'd take one to pieces and see how it fitted together, or at least look very closely, then copy it and perhaps improve on your model. Well, it's the same with Zindar. Men will never master their world till they've looked at every part of it, every part. Nothing could be more important. So you must understand, there can be no question of giving up my key. I've too much still to do. Now what would you like to see first?"
Kerish squeezed Forollkin's arm warningly and said, "Do you have any early copies of the Emperor Tor-Koldin's Poems to the Moon's Gift?"
"I have the original," declared Vethnar proudly. "In his own hand, if I can find it."
"Galkian room," said Dolodd without looking up from the labels he was inscribing. "The alcove nearest the window."
"Will you come with us?" asked the sorcerer humbly.
"No, too busy, but look out for Breldor on your way. I sent him down to Chronicles half an hour ago to fetch a scroll. He's probably lost."
"Only in a book, I'm sure," said Llartian.
After descending the shell-like stair they turned in a new direction and walked through a series of narrow galleries to a circular chamber where the books were bound in crimson leather.
Vethnar plucked one from a shelf. "This should interest you Rezag-Khal - The Lay of Chirandermar. It's full of the high deeds of one of your Khans. Oh, I know you can't read but I'll teach you."
The Chirazian spat on the polished floor. "Reading is work for women and the maimed."
"Nonsense, we'll begin your lessons tomorrow."
He turned to replace the book. Swifter than a snake Rezag-Khal drew his dagger and plunged it in the sorcerer's back.
Too late, Forollkin seized the warrior's arm but Vethnar blew some dust from the crimson leather and said mildly, "You may hack at me all you will, if it makes you feel better, but I fear I cannot oblige you with any blood."
Stunned, Forollkin released the Chirazian. Rezag-Khal tore out his dagger. Growling with fury, he tried to turn it on himself, but though sweat poured down his brow he could not move the weapon an inch towards his heart.
"It is useless. Listen to me." Vethnar gripped the warrior's shoulders and shouted at him as if to a deaf man. "You are going to live. Do you understand? Live, live, live!"
"The child of my Khan died," said Rezag-Khal. "He was in my keeping."
"It was an accident. Live to serve your Khan again if you cannot think of a better reason. Oh, take him away, Llartian. Take him and talk to him."
The Ellerinionn nodded and Rezag-Khal followed him, meek as the child he mourned so fiercely.
Vethnar led the travellers to a star-shaped chamber, lit by a single window. Nine chests contained rare scrolls and books bound in purple filled twelve alcoves about the walls.
"Ah here it is." Vethnar pounced on a slender volume whose ivory pages were filled with drawings of the Poet Emperor's cats and poems written in his own distinctive script.
"I had always heard," began Kerish, "that this book was lost in the fire which destroyed the library at the Winter Palace of Joze."
"Lost books have a way of straying into my hands," replied Vethnar without embarrassment.
Gwerath exclaimed in delight at a sketch of the first Lilahnee, curled up asleep on a rich robe of green brocade.
"That is the Robe of the Spring Festival," explained Kerish, "but when the Emperor found Lilahnee sleeping on the morning of the ceremony, he could not bear to wake her and went as he was, dressed in blue, so now the Robe of Spring is always blue."
The Prince read aloud several of the poems, translating into Zindaric, as Gwerath turned the pages, but his glance kept straying back to another volume upon the shelf: one bound in dark silk patterned with golden eyes. The Book of Secrets.
Vethnar was anxious to show the travellers more of his library so they soon left the Galkian room and were led through a bewildering maze of chambers and galleries, haunted by the smell of parchment and old leather. Often the sorcerer would pause and take down some favourite volume to display.
"Look at this, Gwerath, an account by an ancient Merchant of Forgin of a visit to Erandachu. He wrote down many legends and is most interesting on your religious customs, for example, the worship of. . ."
"Why is this door locked?" asked Kerish hastily.
"Oh, that's the Loshite room," said Vethnar, ever willing to be diverted. "Dolodd insisted I lock it up when Breldor arrived but I cannot, myself, see why. A few surprises never harmed anyone and besides, most of it seems very improbable. Ask for the key whenever you like. Now, I'm sure you'd be interested in the Seldian Book of Queens . . ."
They finally came to the Hall of Chronicles and found Breldor curled up on a window sill, a heavy, iron-studded tome open across his knees. Through the crystal panes Kerish glimpsed a glorious flash of colour.
"Library windows are for letting in the light, not for staring out of," snapped Vethnar.
The boy jumped down apologizing.
"No matter, child. What were you reading?"
"The Annals of the Khans of Zoanaxa."
"The account of the Battle of Serpent's Mound perhaps? A fine example of useless courage. You must read it, Forollkin."
But the young Galkian had been patient long enough.
"Sir, you refuse to give up you
r key. Well, I'm sure my brother will have more to say to you concerning that but I should like things clear. Are we free to leave your citadel whenever we choose, or are we your prisoners?"
Vethnar closed the book carefully. "You are my guests and very welcome, too."
"Yes, but . . ."
"See how upset you're becoming," said Vethnar solicitously. "You need rest after your arduous journey In a few months, in the world's spring, you may go if you wish. In the meantime, wander where you will on Silnarnin."
*****
When questioned the next morning, Kerish seemed to have no definite plan and merely urged his brother to enjoy his enforced rest. Exasperated, Forollkin could do nothing but follow that advice and so after breakfast he asked Gwerath to explore the island with him. Breldor was deputed to show them a stair to the surface while Gidjabolgo and Kerish returned to the library, where they found Dolodd.
The Forgite had borrowed Kerish's zildar and was soon ensconced amongst rare scrolls of music from all over Zindar, teaching himself new songs. The Prince stayed longer with Dolodd, learning, with all his customary quickness, something of the workings of the great library.
As Kerish leant over his desk the old man studied the pure, impassive profile and the dark downcast lashes hiding eyes of startling brilliance.
"It would be better for you to stay, you know. I don't understand exactly what you want of Vethnar, but it's clear that he won't give it. You can't go forward and there's never any purpose in going back. If you're anything like Breldor, and I fancy you are, you can't have been happy at the court of Galkis but here you could be. I'd be easier in my mind if I knew that he and Vethnar would have you for company when I'm gone."
"Gone? Surely this citadel lies outside time . . ."
"So it does," agreed Dolodd, "but a man's length of years and a peaceful death is all I ask."
"And will Vethnar permit it?"
"He's tried for over thirty years to argue me out of it, but storm and bluster as he may, he'll not deny my right to die."
"Yet he has no respect for Rezag-Khal's right to die."
"Oh, he would have, if the man produced a good enough argument. Why don't you stay? Breldor will never stand up to Vethnar but you could deal with his quirks and fancies. He needs a firm hand."
"And affection?" asked Kerish.
"And love," answered Dolodd. "That poem you asked about on the building of the Western Wall . . . you'll find it in The Snow Book of Keshilarn. Galkian room; just to the right of the door."
For an hour Kerish browsed amongst rare volumes brought from the nine great cities of Galkis and tried to ignore the one book he really wanted to read. No copies of The Book of Secrets ought to have existed outside the Imperial Palace and the Temple of Zeldin at Hildimarn. Kerish wondered how Vethnar had come by it and his fingertips brushed against the purple spine. In those pages there would surely be far more about the Saviour and his prison than could be gleaned from the poems and prophecies in the rest of The Book of the Emperors. If he could learn where the Saviour was imprisoned and by whom, then his quest would have a greater chance of success. It was his duty to read the book, in spite of it being forbidden . . . With unwelcome clarity, Kerish saw that Shubeyash must have reasoned in the same way when he searched for the forbidden knowledge that Roac had paid for so dearly.
"But I have no kingdom. I am the only one to pay for my mistakes . . ."
He took down the book and it seemed unnaturally heavy in his hands. Opened at random, the pages were a confused mass of colour. Then he realized that he was looking at a map, a map of the Imperial Gardens of the Inner Palace. It was obviously a very ancient map. Kerish recognized a few groves and pools and the Crystal Pavilion was marked, but ruined shapes were painted all around it, as if the gardens concealed the remains of some vast building. He held the book closer, trying to decipher the single crabbed line of High Galkian that ran along the bottom of the map. `All that grows here is rooted in ancient sorrow.'
"Dolodd told me you were here," said Vethnar from the doorway. "Did I make you jump?" He strode across the room and sat down beside Kerish, frowning at the blank vellum.
"Oh, The Book of Secrets. I went to a great deal of trouble to have that stolen from Hildimarn, only to find every page empty, but perhaps your eyes see more than mine. The eyes of the Godborn, how strange they are . . . "
He leaned forward and stared into the Prince's eyes, as if he was studying a rare flower or an interesting insect. Kerish flinched back and closed the book.
"Now, why did I come?" demanded Vethnar "Ah, yes."
He delved into his sleeves and, with much jangling, finally brought out a bunch of keys. "I know this is only a small consolation for the one I must refuse to give you but here are the keys to my citadel so that all my books are accessible."
"I can go wherever I like?"
"They open every door," promised Vethnar. "There are very few mysteries in Tir-Melidon. Tell your friends that."
"Thank you." Kerish replaced the Book of Secrets on its shelf. "Gidjabolgo will profit from your kindness, but my brother and my cousin have little time for scholarship."
"I thought your cousin seemed very interested in the scrolls I showed her."
"Gwerath loves all beautiful things and she knows truth when she sees it. There is very little that I can teach her."
For several minutes Kerish talked about Gwerath while Vethnar sat drawing patterns in the dust on the window-sill, listening intently.
"Women are rarely wise," murmured the sorcerer, "but I have known exceptions."
"I have proof of her intelligence," said Kerish bitterly. "She sees through my pretensions."
"Why didn't you go with them to explore Silnarnin?"
"They don't need my company."
"Forollkin is helping her across a stream . . ." Vethnar seemed to be gazing through the rock walls of his citadel. "It is true that she looks happy but . . ."
"May I have the keys now?" Kerish asked abruptly.
"Of course."
Kerish took the heavy bunch of keys and left but Vethnar sat motionless for a long time."Silver hair," he said at last, "silver as stars in twilight."
*****
For several days, Kerish explored Tir-Melidon and found, as Vethnar had promised, few mysteries. He unlocked every door and even went into the Loshite Room. Kerish glanced at one book, with fascinated disgust and then hastily put it back on the shelf. On the second morning of his exploration he noticed a narrow stair in a corner of the Kolgorn Room. Above was an octagonal chamber full of books bound in plain black. Kerish opened one small volume. Its mouldering leather binding stank like a stagnant pond but the blood-red lettering of the incantations had not faded. On the first page were the words, `To Vethnar, my companion in learning, from Shubeyash, Prince of Roac.'
On the third day, Kerish wandered through the lowest level of the library. At the end of a passage flanked with baskets of clay tablets from Fangmere was a low door. One-handed, Kerish clumsily tried a dozen keys in the silver lock and pushed open the door with his foot as the last one fitted.
He found himself in a room which he recognized at once from Forollkin's terse description. He sat down in the single chair that faced the north wall, where he could just make out the shape of a picture-frame hidden beneath a curtain of blue silk. There was nothing else in the room, except a lingering scent of spice. For a long while Kerish stared at the curtain. Then, without lifting it, he left the room and locked the door behind him.
*****
On the same bright morning, Forollkin and Gwerath were exploring the wooded slopes of the western part of the island. By unspoken agreement they kept away from the crater and its creatures, staying within the sound of the sea. The cliffs were stark and silent but the island itself was full of birds singing from their nests in the trees or amongst the reeds that fringed the numerous pools and streams. The birds were very tame and would willingly perch on Gwerath's hand but the herds of goats were more timi
d. They had long soft coats of blue-grey, barred with brown and silver. Gwerath would have liked to stroke one but they always scattered with bleats of panic as the travellers approached. They reminded her of the wild Irollga of the plains and she began to talk about the painful process of learning to ride.
"I fell off once and bruised myself so badly that I refused to mount again. My father was so angry with me that I had to try and ride another Irollga. That time I didn't fall. The next day father gave me a bridle with bronze studs. He had paid a trader four Irollga skins for it. I was so proud of that bridle."
They reached a brook. She sat down on a mossy stone, lifted her grey skirts and dipped her bare feet in the water.
"The windflower in the vase by my bed is still blooming, so it can't be real. They always die within a day of being picked."
Forollkin found himself a tree-stump and sat down, stretching out his long legs and tossing back hair, bleached by the long summer.
"Starflowers are the same."
"What do starflowers look like?" asked Gwerath listlessly.
"They're purple, with a sort of golden centre," said Forollkin vaguely, "and their scent is very strong. I used to hate it as a child. When my mother found out, she stole some of the temple incense they make from the petals and had my nurse burn it in a brazier by my bed every night. I had to get accustomed to it because of the initiation ceremony. I told you about that didn't I?"
Gwerath nodded. "The Emperor; did he love your mother?"
"He loved Kerish's mother."
"But surely he was fond of your mother?"
"Not particularly," answered Forollkin. "Nor of me."
Gwerath parted a clump of water-weed with her foot and startled a shoal of tiny speckled fish. "It was the same for me. Tayeb always wanted a son."
"Well he nearly got one. You've a warrior's courage. Gwerath what have I said . . .? Don't look so angry."
"I'm not. I know you think that women should be meek and dainty and drift about in silk and pearls like the fine ladies of Seld and Galkis. Well," she finished defiantly "I could be like them if I wanted to, but I don't."
The Dead Kingdom (Seven Citadels) Page 17