The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels )

by Geraldine Harris

  “Zeldin will heal all. . .” began the Galkian and then faltered suddenly.

  In the pool of light below the hatchway stood a young man, robed in crimson. A flower of blood welled from the pallor of his forehead. Flecks of gold glimmered in his eyes like the stars of Imarko.

  “Zeldin,” whispered the Galkian, but Forollkin cried, “Kerish!” and the stillness shattered.

  In a moment the Prince was beside his brother.

  “Kerish, I thought they'd cut your throat,” said Forollkin dazedly.

  His fingers slipped nervously over the Prince's body and finding it solid, pummeled and prodded and finally pulled him into a hug tight enough to leave them both gasping.

  For a moment Kerish rested his good hand on Gidjabolgo's shoulder and then said, “It seems that I have been chosen for a greater sacrifice. I am to be offered as a consort to the Goddess herself. The interpreter was kind enough to tell me that I might live as long as a year if I was fortunate. The flower shows that I am sacred to Idaala and not to be touched by impious hands . . . don't worry, the scratches are only shallow.”

  “And where do they keep this goddess?” asked Gidjabolgo.

  “On the Isle of Az they honor a woman thought to be possessed by Idaala,” answered Kerish, “and each year she takes a new consort.”

  “But why choose you?”

  “The interpreter told me that the captains say I have `the face of Zeldin the Betrayer'.”

  “What do they know of Zeldin?” asked Forollkin incredulously.

  “Truly, Lord, you do have the face of Zeldin,” said the Galkian prisoner timidly. “I never saw any of the Godborn, but there is a statue of the Gentle One in the temple at Tryfis. I used to pray before it . . . For a moment when I saw you standing there I thought that Zeldin had come for me.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Valorkis, my Lord. I was Captain of the Mooncat until the Brigands caught us off Jorg.”

  Kerish smiled at him. “This is Gidjabolgo, a Forgite. This is my brother, Forollkin and I . . .”

  “Lord, I beg you not to tell me who you are, if you don't want the Brigands to discover it. The less I know, the less they can tear from me.”

  *****

  The ships of Fangmere left the Third Footstep at noon, while the charred wreck of the Starflower still smoldered. Half a dozen of the crew came down into the hold. One man, now wearing the High Priest's dagger at his hip, brought the prisoners a flask of water and a platter of unleavened bread, garnished with a few strips of dried meat. The two Jorgan Islanders had watched the newcomers with silent awe but that was forgotten as they scrambled to be first at the food.

  “They give us better rations than they have themselves,” murmured Valorkis. “For murderers, they treat their prisoners well.”

  “I must find Gwerath,” said Kerish.

  “She's at the other end of the hold,” Forollkin told him, “but will they let you through?”

  “Now I am dedicated, I can wander where I choose, but the interpreter made it plain that you would suffer for my offences, so I must go meekly.” He slipped away into the shadowy depths of the hold. Every Brigand he passed stared intently, but none of them tried to stop him.

  Forollkin leaned his head against the timbers and closed his eyes. Now the immediate danger was over he was conscious of a violent headache. Gidjabolgo prodded him and thrust a hunk of bread into his hand. “Eat, or you'll only faint and take up twice your share of space. “

  The bread was as stiff as an uncured hide but Forollkin forced it down and felt a little better.

  “Your ship, Valorkis . . . were you sailing alone?”

  “No, sir, there were four vessels. The Governor at Jorg had sent to Ephaan begging for a fleet to defend the islands that remained to him. We were all that could be spared; a gesture of honor. We had barely reached the islands before a fleet of sixteen vessels attacked us. We made the best fight we could but there was no hope. Those who survived the battle and sacrifice were divided up among the ships of Fangmere, and these two sailed south.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Five days, six perhaps, it's hard to tell when the sun dies unmourned.”

  “What's happening in Galkis?” asked Forollkin. “We've been away so long and heard no news since the High Priest's death.”

  “May his journey be swift!” exclaimed Valorkis piously. “You have heard nothing about Morolk?”

  Forollkin shook his head, regretted it, and leant back against the rough timbers again. “Tell me all you can.”

  Valorkis sat straight-backed in the straw and spoke as if he was reporting to his commanding officer. “Lord Jerenac still holds Viroc and all of Jenoza east of the river, but his losses have been terrible. Now that the Men of Oraz are said to be massing for a new assault, he needs fresh troops. The new Emperor, or to speak truer, the Empress his mother, told the Lord Commander that all the troops in Galkis itself were needed to guard the capital and Hildimarn.”

  “She refused him?”

  “No sir, but . . .” Valorkis stared down at his manacled feet. “The Empress sent orders to the Princess Zyrindella in Morolk, and to the new Governor at Tryfis, to send troops south.”

  “New?” Is Lord Ylgon dead?”

  “He died of a wasting sickness, sir, on the eve of the Star-counting Festival. Lord Zeenib was appointed Governor of Tryfanis in his place.”

  “And the younger son?” said Forollkin sharply.

  “Lord Yxin?” The Galkian's face was blank but there was a note of anger in his voice. “He was sent to govern Far Tryfarn, but on his way he stopped to visit his sister, the Princess Zyrindella, in Montra-Lakon.”

  “And what about these troops for the south?” asked Gidjabolgo, through a mouthful of bread.

  “Princess Zyrindella refused to send the Empress any troops,” answered Valorkis. “She claimed that she needed all her men to defend Montra-Lakon and the western border from the Brigands. There was truth in that, everyone said so.”

  Forollkin was imagining Rimoka's anger. However reasonable, she would never accept a denial from Zyrindella. “How did the Empress respond?”

  “Her Majesty sent messengers to the Governor of Tryfania, telling him to go to Montra-Lakon and order the Princess to surrender her office.”

  “You cannot tell me she would do that meekly,” said Forollkin.

  “She seemed to, sir. She welcomed Lord Zeenib into the city and they sat down to a banquet together, the Princess and both her half-brothers.”

  “And then?” rasped Gidjabolgo.

  Valorkis glanced at the two Jorgan Islanders, but they were quarrelling over the water-flask and hardly seemed to be listening.

  “I don't know for sure, but rumors flew around the fleet. The three of them sat down to the banquet but by midnight only the Princess Zyrindella and Lord Yxin were still alive. They gave out that their brother had died of a sudden fever and those that wouldn't believe it never came back to Tryfis. Lord Yxin had himself proclaimed Governor of Tryfania and the Princess supported him with her troops. There was some resistance, perhaps there still is. The Empress has condemned them both to death. She means to take an army north . . .”

  “Imarko's mercy, doesn't she . . .”

  Valorkis hushed him. “Never mention her when the Brigands might hear. They almost seem to honor Zeldin, but I've seen them cut out a man's tongue for naming our Foremother.”

  “Isn't one goddess as good as another?” enquired Gidjabolgo.

  “Our Foremother was not a goddess,” said Valorkis stiffly. “She was as human as you or I.”

  “And you say the fleet is stationed at Ephaan?” persisted Forollkin, “and the Jorgan Isles are all but abandoned?”

  Valorkis nodded. “They've paid tribute to Fangmere for years, and given harbor to their ships.” He glanced at the mute, shackled islanders. “Who can blame them? The Emperor means nothing to them and for years we've lacked the strength to defend them. It was Queshe
g, the captain of this vessel, who led the Brigands in Jorgan waters.”

  “But now he's sailing south?” Forollkin shifted uncomfortably on the hard planks and matted straw. “Do you know where we're bound?”

  “To Zar, I think. I speak a little of their tongue and I heard him say something about meeting a lord of Oraz. No doubt they're planning some fresh attack on the Galkian coast and they'll meet with little resistance. The fleet is spread too thin along the coast and the people don't realize yet how bad things are...”

  He broke off as Kerish glided out of the shadows and sat down beside them.

  Gidjabolgo took a grubby lump of bread from his sleeve and put it into the Prince's hand. “Did you think you'd escaped the delights of our feast?”

  Kerish struggled for a grateful smile. “Gwerath is with some women and a child, taken from the Jorgan Isles as tribute. They are all too frightened to speak to her and her hands are tied, but she's all right.”

  He had found his cousin struggling with the ropes at her wrists and tossing her silver hair as if that also imprisoned her. She had asked first about Forollkin's wound and then what the Brigands meant to do with them.

  Kerish had answered her plainly, “We will be separated and you will be sold as a slave.”

  “No! Surely they will let us choose death together?”

  “Gwerath, try to remember that my mother was once in your place and she was ransomed by happiness.”

  “How could she have been truly happy with your father?” Gwerath had asked. “However much he loved her, she was still his prisoner.”

  “Isn't the beloved always the prisoner of the lover?”

  The guard had moved closer and Kerish had been forced to leave before she could answer him.

  *****

  Forollkin repeated to his brother everything that Valorkis had said, ending, “So Zyrindella and Yxin rule the north and they would rather see barbarians in the Golden City than Rimoka and her son.”

  “And which side has our new High Priest taken?” asked Kerish.

  “His Holiness refused to lay a solemn curse on the Princess and Lord Yxin, and gave out that he believed their story. A month ago, after a raid close to the city itself, the High Priest left Hildimarn.” The very neutrality of the Galkian's tone betrayed his feelings. “He has withdrawn to the mountains above the Golden City, with most of the temple treasure. He sent to the Governor of Ephaan to lend him men to escort his baggage train along the Great Road.”

  “But the High Priestess,” protested Forollkin, “surely she is still in Hildimarn?”

  Valorkis did not answer at once. “She would never leave the Holy City but it is many weeks since she came out of our Foremother's temple to bless the people. Just before I sailed from Ephaan, it began to be whispered that she had starved herself to death.”

  Valorkis looked away from the horror in Kerish's face. “My Lord, it may not be true.”

  “How fortunate you are,” said Gidjabolgo, “that the Brigands of Fangmere have spared you such a homecoming.

  *****

  For three days Kerish walked the ship like a shadow. Everywhere he was watched, but no one would talk to him. When he spoke, the Brigands pretended not to understand and the interpreter was aboard the other ship. Kerish restlessly explored above and below decks. Even amongst themselves, the Brigands spoke very little. Off duty, they would sit for hours silently polishing their axes or staring at one of the crude images of their goddess that each man carried in the breast of his tunic. But they sang all through the dark hours until the last of the dawn mists cleared. One man would begin a low, lilting melody and then voice after voice took up the song. To Kerish, each dying cadence seemed the acceptance of a human soul that it was born to misery and the central tune murmured, “This is all you have.”

  On the third night, Kerish glimpsed a yellow light flickering on the horizon and knew that they were close to Zar. By noon the next day the ships of Fangmere had anchored in a deep bay, ripped from the island by an explosion so great that the sound and smoke had reached halfway to the Golden City. The sea that lapped against the ships was warm. The smoke from Zar's volcano pervaded the air and soon drove Kerish below with smarting eyes so he did not watch the arrival of the ships of Oraz.

  Heavy footsteps and the murmur of formal greetings were soon audible to the prisoners below. Then just two voices were speaking in the rising tones of barely suppressed anger. Kerish and Forollkin could not make out a word, though Gidjabolgo swore from the rhythms that two different languages were being spoken.

  Suddenly the hatch was thrown open and the Jorgan interpreter scrambled down the ladder. He sidled past the two Brigands left to guard the prisoners, and pointed to Kerish. “You're wanted on deck, hurry!”

  “Am I? But can it he pious to disturb the Chosen of Idaala from his rest?” Kerish stretched slowly. “I'm sure the Brigands have interesting punishments for impiety.”

  The interpreter smiled placatingly as his eyes bulged with fright.

  Kerish relented and stood up. “Why do they want me?”

  “The captain boasted of finding a sacrifice with the face of Zeldin and now the Orazian lord demands to see you. Please, will you hurry?”

  Kerish went with him.

  As he came on deck, the sunlight dazzled Kerish and for a moment he saw no more of the Men of Oraz than the glitter of their green tunics and bronze spears. Then a dark voice boomed out, “By the Breasts of Idaala, do you know what you have here, Quesheg?”

  Kerish shaded his eyes and saw a man, taller by a head than any of the Brigands. He had a chest like a full-grown Irollga and great, scarred hands, tucked awkwardly into his jeweled sword-belt. An unruly mane of black hair and a vast beard, framed a face whose ugliness was erased by limpid hazel eyes that seemed perpetually widened in childlike pleasure or astonishment.

  “Look at him, man, the bones, the eyes!”

  Quesheg muttered sullenly in his own tongue and the Khan of Orze snapped back, “That, Captain, is no stray drop of Imperial blood. That is the late Emperor's darling, the Third Son, the lost Prince himself!”

  “Greetings, Khan O-grak,” said Kerish with a twisted smile. He tried, without thinking, to make the formal gesture of acknowledgement.

  “What's the matter with your hand?” O-grak snatched up the crippled hand as Quesheg hissed in displeasure. “Don't tell me a Prince of the Godborn has been wounded in battle like a mere man?”

  “It was a kind of battle, although no blood was shed.”

  “And was this battle won?”

  “It was fought for someone else and the victory was to make him accept his heart's desire.”

  O-grak released the Prince's hand. “Didn't he know his own desire? I despise men who are afraid to look into their own hearts. Desire is strength.”

  “It is also the nursery of despair,” said Kerish coldly.

  O-grak snorted. “Despair is a word that belongs to Galkis. In the Five Kingdoms, while there is hope we fight. And if we fail, we think it honorable to die.”

  “That is despair and only the solitary can afford it.”

  “All men hunt alone.” O-grak seemed to have forgotten the presence of his own men and the angry captain. “The Goddess wills it so, for in our loneliness we are forced to love her more.”

  “As the Men of Fangmere do, in their loneliness?”

  The Khan smiled. “Yes indeed, like my virtuous allies of Fangmere. Quesheg, I will buy your prisoner.”

  The captain still chose to reply in his own language and O-grak's face darkened.

  “You have dedicated him already? Let me see.”

  He gripped Kerish's chin, tilted back his head and brushed aside the silvered hair. The scratches were healing well but the Khan could still trace the outline of the Bloodflower on the Prince's forehead.

  “Quesheg, you do not understand the value of a royal hostage.”

  O-grak plunged into a fierce argument with the Brigand in a clumsy mixture of languages. As
soon as there was a pause, Kerish said, “If you speak of hostages, Khan, you should consider my companions. Below you will find my half-brother, Lord Forollkin, my cousin, an Erandachi Princess, and Gidjabolgo, a notable musician from Forgin.”

  “Have them fetched up!”

  The interpreter fled to obey the Khan's command before his master could disagree.

  Gwerath was brought on deck first, screwing up her eyes against the sudden light.

  “My cousin Gwerath, the Princess of the Sheyasa.”

  “That?” O-grak eyed her dirty face, matted hair and boy's clothes in evident disbelief. “A girl? Well, I'll take a Prince's word, though if anyone else had said so, I'd have had a squeeze here and there to test it.”

  Grinning, he flexed one huge hand and Kerish said hastily, “Gwerath, may I present O-grak, Khan of Orze and sometime Ambassador to the Golden City.”

  “No,” snapped Gwerath, “I do not wish to be presented to a barbarian.”

  “Me a barbarian! Hah, what are the Erandachi but half-brothers to their pack-beasts?” The Khan gave Gwerath's hair a tug. “If you would play at being civilized, where are your cities, your armies, your learning?”

  “The lore of my tribe is deep,” said Gwerath with dignity, “and its songs are many.”

  “If they tell of hunts and battles, you shall sing them to me, but no woman's wailings, mind you.”

  Forollkin and Gidjabolgo emerged together from the hatchway.

  “Captain Forollkin, I remember you well,” boomed O-grak. “That scar on your cheek was fresh when we first met.” He turned to Gidjabolgo. “By the Firebelcher of Zar, a man uglier than me! I must take you home to show my wife.”

  The prisoners stood close together, stared at by the Khan's Orazian warriors, while O-grak and Quesheg argued or bargained. Finally the Brigand captain signed to two of his men to stand on either side of Kerish, while the others were released from their bonds.

  “It is fortunate for you, Prince,” said O-grak frowning, “that I have a better right than any man to say what sacrifice the Goddess would find acceptable. Even so, now the preliminary dedication has been made only the Chief Priest at Azanac can revoke it. We will sail to Az. Though Captain Quesheg is willing enough to part with the others, he does not yet trust me with you.”