The Children of the Wind (Seven Citadels)

by Geraldine Harris

  "And then my father carves the meat and gives the best portion to the warrior at his side, and the Votaries of the Hunter dance. Here, cousin."

  Kerish accepted the heavy clay bowl of Irollga milk, drank deeply and passed it on.

  "Then the plunder will be displayed and we shall have to take a share on behalf of the Goddess."

  Kerish's attention drifted away from her again as he caught sight of Gidjabolgo, crouching in the shadow.

  "Well, what news of our hero?" The Forgite had asked when Kerish returned to his tent.

  "He is safe, unwounded."

  "He has a gift for keeping a whole skin. I must congratulate him on his prudence."

  "Forollkin is a hero of the Sheyasa!"

  "No need for your temper to flare, Master. What deeds has the Lord Forollkin done?"

  "I don't know," Kerish had said tersely. "He didn't want to talk to me."

  "What? Will he not talk to you now about warriors' deeds? He treats you like a child, my Master. He should remember that you are his Prince, and you should command him to leave the Sheyasa, in spite of their adulation."

  "Forollkin wants to escape just as much as I do."

  "Just as much? Well, my Master knows his brother best, even if he no longer confides in you.”

  *****

  The meat was ready and the plumpest of the calves was carried to Tayeb to be carved. The first slice, spitted on the Chieftain's own dagger, was handed to Forollkin. Remembering the tangled emotions Kerish had sensed in his brother during the battle, he wondered what Forollkin had done to deserve the honour.

  Torches were lit and the bowls of fermented milk passed round again. Kerish drank and, after all the warriors were served, he and Gwerath received their portions of meat. Tayeb spoke, promising another attack and the Votaries of the Hunter put on their black and scarlet robes. In the centre of the circle they danced to the beat of drums and the wailing of horns.

  Neither of the Galkians really watched the dancers leaping and twisting to avoid the spears they carried. Gwerath gave up trying to talk to Kerish and sat with bowed head, the silver hair she had combed so carefully hiding her face.

  The bowl of Irollga milk came round again and this time Forollkin noticed how much Kerish was drinking and spoke to him in Galkian.

  "That's too much and you've hardly eaten, it will make you sick."

  "It doesn't affect me, but what about you, you haven't devoured your hero's portion. Don't you deserve it?"

  "Kerish you wouldn't understand..."

  "Wouldn't I? You think you can shut me out but you can't," whispered Kerish. "I don't know what you did in the battle, but I know how you felt. What made you hate yourself so much?"

  "How do you know, Kerish?" Even in the torchlight Forollkin was pale and he gripped the Prince's shoulder hard enough to hurt him. "How?"

  "The powers of the Godborn, brother, the powers you scorn," said Kerish. "I felt what you felt and lent you my strength. You see, I know you better than you could ever believe."

  "I don't believe you at all. You're guessing, lying..."

  "The first time was when you fought the or-gar-gee, and were so proud of your victory. You bungled the spear cast but I remembered the dagger."

  "Kerish, you're lying, stop it."

  "I am not lying. The second time, I kept you calm before the Bull of the Tribe. The third time you felt me with you, when you fought Enecko."

  "When I nearly killed Enecko, dear Zeldin . . ."

  Appalled, Forollkin released his half-brother, recoiling from the eyes of the Godborn that blazed with anger and excitement.

  "Dear Zeldin, you have no right. No-one has such a right."

  "The Godborn do, and may I not defend myself? Must I always be beholden to you? On the Zeloka you refused me weapons, you were afraid of what I might do, what I might become..."

  "Afraid, yes," said Forollkin, "afraid to trust a child with a sharp sword!"

  "I am not a child," whispered Kerish, "and I will prove it to you, brother, even without the powers of the Godborn. Gwerath, when may a man be tested as a warrior?"

  Gwerath had listened bewildered to the anger in her cousins' voices. Now, when Kerish switched to Zindaric, she answered hesitantly, "At any time when a third of the warriors, or more, are present and the Chieftain permits."

  "Good." Kerish got up from his place and drew the white dagger from his tunic. "Tayeb!"

  The Chieftain set down his skewer of meat and paused in his conversation with the Torgu of the Hunter.

  "Kinsman, why do you disturb our feast?"

  "Tayeb, I carry a weapon and claim the status of a warrior."

  "A warrior . . ." Enecko's voice floated across the circle. "You are a Torgu."

  "May a Torgu not also be a man?" demanded Kerish.

  "Yes," said Tayeb reluctantly, “if he proves it in combat."

  "Then let me fight."

  "No," whispered Forollkin, alarm beginning to blunt his anger. "Tayeb, he is drunk."

  "I am not drunk," said Kerish furiously. "I demand my right of combat!"

  "He should have it," shouted Enecko, casting off his black and scarlet robes and drawing his dagger. "I will gladly fight you, Torgu."

  "Kerish, no!" Forollkin bruised his brother's arms again. "Sit down at once. I absolutely forbid it."

  "Kinsman, do you challenge Enecko?" asked Tayeb calmly.

  "No," said Kerish, "I challenge Gift-bringer."

  Gwerath gasped. Gidjabolgo scuttled forward to the edge of the torchlight and Tayeb's calm was broken.

  "Kinsman, you cannot challenge your own brother!"

  "Half-brother, " said Kerish cruelly. "Is it against the lore of the tribe?"

  "It is not," murmured the Torgu of the Hunter. "Let them fight."

  Forollkin's hands had dropped to his sides. "And if I refuse the challenge?"

  "Then I will fight Enecko," answered Kerish, "dagger to dagger."

  Forollkin closed his eyes. Angry as he was, the thought of his brother at Enecko's mercy was intolerable. `Imarko,' " he prayed, `give me the skill to disarm Kerish without hurting him.'

  Aloud he said, "I accept the challenge."

  "Oh no, kinsmen, no!"

  Gwerath would have run between them but Tayeb held her back.

  "The challenge is accepted, make a circle for them."

  Forollkin drew the High Priest's dagger from its sheath at his belt and tossed it on to the grass.

  "I cannot use this against a kinsman. Tayeb, lend me yours."

  "Gladly, Gift-bringer," said the Chieftain and handed across his bronze weapon. A circle was marked out with torches and the Galkians stepped into it.

  Kerish saw Forollkin's shadow, but he would not look up at his face. 'He is sure he can defeat me,' thought the Prince, 'but not this time.'

  "Begin," said Tayeb softly.

  There was a long ridiculous moment while neither moved and then Forollkin lunged, intent on disarming his brother as quickly as possible. He aimed to kick Kerish in the shins and bring the flat of his hand down hard on his brother's wrist; but Kerish moved more swiftly and effectively than Forollkin anticipated. He parried Forollkin's blow, side-stepped the kick and danced back.

  Forollkin tried a feint at his brother's face and only just escaped a slash on the arm as Kerish seemed to read his thoughts. Doggedly, Forollkin attacked again, only to be parried by a dagger hand of surprising strength.

  For several minutes they circled each other, falling into a pattern of grim attack and lively defence. Kerish made no mistakes; he moved more swiftly than his brother and obviously planned to tire him, before he made his own attack.

  Dangerous as it was, Forollkin realized he must get in close and overpower Kerish by sheer strength. He rushed at his brother and their daggers clashed in mid-air. Forollkin tried to twist the dagger from Kerish's hand and while his brother concentrated on that threat, Forollkin seized his left arm and dragged him into a fierce embrace.

  Kerish kicked ou
t but Forollkin had anticipated that. Taking the kick with a grunt he twisted his right leg around Kerish's and they fell together, Forollkin uppermost. With the breath half-knocked out of him, Kerish bit into Forollkin's hand. Startled by the pain, Forollkin's grip on his dagger relaxed just long enough for Kerish to knock it from his grasp. But by then his own dagger hand was paralysed, trapped beneath Forollkin's weight. Kerish twisted his body and bringing up his left hand scratched viciously at Forollkin's cheek.

  Forollkin still gripped Kerish's dagger hand but with his own free hand half-lifted the Prince and slammed him down again with his left arm pinioned beneath him. The pain was so bad that Kerish thought at first that his arm was broken, but then Forollkin relaxed the pressure a little to concentrate on forcing the dagger from the Prince's right hand. Forollkin squeezed his brother's wrist until he thought he would hear the bones crack.

  Kerish felt beneath his back the hard shape of Forollkin's discarded dagger. If he could lift his body just an inch and free his trapped arm .. . Kerish knew he only had the strength to resist his brother for a few seconds. He cried out as if the pain were unbearable. His right hand jerked open and the dagger fell on to the grass.

  Then, with all his strength Kerish arched his back and thrust his body upwards. Sure of his victory, Forollkin reacted just a second too slowly. Even as a strong embrace pushed him back, Kerish had freed his left arm. His groping hand found the dagger and faster than thought, he plunged it in his brother's side.

  The warm gush of blood seemed to wake Kerish from a vicious trance. He pulled himself from under Forollkin, rolled over and lay gasping, his bloody hands marking his face.

  Forollkin, who had never thought he was fighting for his life, sighed and began to crawl towards his brother. Kerish shrank back. Forollkin's body shuddered and lay still.

  Gwerath ran to him while Tayeb pulled Kerish to his feet.

  "Are you hurt?"

  Kerish shook his head as he watched Gwerath open Forollkin's tunic to get at the wound.

  "Kinsman," said Tayeb, "you are welcome to our tribe as a warrior."

  Kerish stood impassively as a scarlet cloak and fillet were fetched and bound on him by the Torgu of the Hunter.

  Tayeb spoke to his daughter, "Will Gift-bringer live?"

  "I do not know," said Gwerath, "let me take him to Eamey."

  "First you must welcome your kinsman as a warrior," ordered Tayeb.

  "Welcome, kinsman," said the Torga of the Goddess bitterly. "You have learned your lessons well."

  Chapter 10

  The Book of the Emperors: Sorrows

  Though to all men his action seemed strange, each day of his life had brought him closer to it. Each day he could have turned aside from the path that led to sorrow, but none showed him the direction of his steps.

  Kerish crouched in his tent and Lilahnee came to him and began to lick the blood from his hands. Violently, he pushed her away, buried his face in the cushions and sobbed.

  "What, crying like a child, when you have proved yourself a man?"

  Kerish sat up, trying to control the shuddering of his body. Gidjabolgo stood over him.

  "I have brought you some water to wash in. That bright face should not be marred by blood." Gidjabolgo smiled down at the Prince. "You are not so handsome now as when I saw you first."

  Kerish could not stop the dry sobs. "Go away, Gidjabolgo!"

  "No, not so handsome." He set down the bowl of water by the pallet. "They say, of course, that beauty springs from the soul. How pure and bright I thought your soul must be when I first saw your face. Well at least learning the truth about you has kept me amused on our journey together."

  "Stop it, stop it!"

  The Forgite watched Kerish's sobbing and when the first paroxysm was exhausted, knelt beside him.

  "I will cleanse you."

  Ignoring Kerish's protests, he scrubbed the blood from the Prince's hands and face.

  "Now, do you remember who you are and the reason for your journey?"

  Kerish nodded.

  "Then go to your brother," said Gidjabolgo.

  "I can't!"

  "Are you so afraid to look at what you've done? It was a brave fight. Get up!" ordered the Forgite. "Would you have Forollkin die among strangers without his beloved brother to comfort him?"

  "Why are you so cruel?" Kerish's face was still hidden by his hand. "I don't understand you."

  "Is the truth cruel? What will you do if he dies?"

  "Kill myself."

  "Oh, a coward and a fool," said Gidjabolgo. "And what of your splendid quest? Will it never be completed?"

  "Yes. No. I can't do it without Forollkin."

  "So more than your brother suffered with that stroke. Will you still not look at what you've done?"

  "Oh Zeldin, " whispered Kerish, "yes, I will go to him."

  *****

  Forollkin was still unconscious. Eamey had washed and bandaged the wound. He lay very still under the fur coverlet, paler even than Kerish. The Prince came into the tent so quietly that neither of the women noticed him until he spoke.

  "How is he? May I stay with him?"

  "No!" Gwerath spread out her arms to shield Forollkin. "Go away, he mustn't see you when he wakes."

  Kerish backed away from her but Eamey came quickly round the pallet and took his hands.

  "Of course he must. Sit here by his head and try not to get in our way."

  "But he hates Forollkin," protested Gwerath, "he..."

  "What do you know about hate and love?" asked Eamey sharply. "Go and sleep and at midnight you can take my place."

  "I will pray and watch here all night."

  "Gwerath, you're exhausted ," said Eamey, more gently. "If you won't leave, lie down here for a while."

  "I won't sleep while he's here!"

  Gwerath had begun to cry but Kerish did not seem to see or hear the two women. He looked perfectly composed, kneeling beside his brother. Eamey moved round the tent, re-filling the lamps and allowed Gwerath to cry out her angry misery.

  A little before morning, Gwerath did sleep where she was, on the end of Forollkin's bed. Eamey leant over the Galkian's still figure; a fresh stain had appeared on the bandages. Her deft fingers paused for a moment when Kerish spoke. She had almost forgotten his presence.

  "Will he die?"

  "It is possible," she answered gravely, "but I have seen men survive worse wounds."

  "Thank you," whispered Kerish.

  At dawn Forollkin grew more restless. Once he was almost conscious and whispered Kerish's name but the Prince moved back as far as he could from the bed.

  Eamey woke Gwerath and they boiled milk and herbs to make a drink that might calm the wounded man. Unless he kept quite still Forollkin would lose more blood and he had already lost too much.

  `Dear Zeldin,' repeated Kerish silently, `Zeldin, Imarko, don't let him die! Take my life not his.' Agonizingly he remembered those who had trusted him. Izeldon, the Emperor, Elmandis, Sendaaka . He had failed them all. `If he lives,` swore Kerish, `I will give all my strength to our quest. I promise to complete it, even if it costs me my life, but let Forollkin live.`

  The women tried to make Forollkin drink the potion, but with little success. An ominous flush had replaced his pallor. He began to toss and moan. Gwerath obeyed Eamey's orders neatly and swiftly, the tears sliding unnoticed down her cheeks.

  Kerish had crept closer again and when Forollkin turned over and flung out a hand, he caught it and held it to his heart. He remembered how easily Elmandis had cured Forollkin's wounded leg but there was no sorcerer to help them now. `A healer's hands,' Elmandis had said. Kerish leaned over his brother and placed his right hand on the wound.

  "What are you doing? Eamey, stop him!"

  "Please, let me,” whispered Kerish.

  "It is your right," said Eamey and stifled Gwerath's protests.

  For six hours Kerish stayed in his cramped position, one hand on the wound, the other holding Forollkin's,
while his brother lay quiet.

  Just after noon Forollkin opened his eyes.

  "Kerish," his voice was the barest whisper, "I've had such bad dreams."