The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels )

by Geraldine Harris

  “Khan, there is another prisoner below, a Galkian captain . . .”

  “Then there he stays,” said O-grak, with a wide implacable smile, “I'm paying dearly enough for you four.”

  *****

  Forollkin, Gwerath and Gidjabolgo were taken across to O-grak's ship and Kerish was sent below. Before they sailed, the Khan sent some of the furnishings of his own cabin to make the Prince more comfortable in the bare hold. There were cushions of scarlet leather, a coverlet, a bronze lamp, a flagon of wine and bowls of dried fruits and sweetmeats.

  Kerish was aware of the helpless jealousy in the eyes of his fellow prisoners. Valorkis tried to conceal his, the islanders were pathetically naked in their envy. As soon as the Men of Oraz had gone and their indifferent guards had turned their backs, Kerish offered the flask to one of the islanders. It was snatched from his hand. He tried to make his companions more comfortable, easing the cushions under their cramped bodies, and putting the food within reach.

  “Keep some back for yourself, my Lord,” said Valorkis, as scrabbling hands upset the bowl of sweetmeats. Kerish clumsily spread the coverlet over half the straw and sat down.

  “Shall I break this fruit for you?” persisted the Galkian.

  “I can still feed myself,” said Kerish icily, and immediately repented. This was the prisoner he had failed to save. “But thank you.”

  “Your companions . . .” began Valorkis anxiously.

  “They are safe on board the ship of the Khan of Orze,” said Kerish. “The lady too. He means to use us as hostages and bargain with the Emperor. No doubt the Emperor will pay him well to have us quietly killed.”

  “Kill you! But surely you belong to the Godborn? Your eyes, your face . . .”

  The Prince smiled wearily. “I am Kerish-lo-Taan, Third Son of the Emperor Ka-Litraan, may his soul find rest.”

  “You are the lost Prince?” For a moment Valorkis gaped at him and then he struggled with his chains, trying to prostrate himself.

  “Please, no!” Kerish raised him gently.

  In the eyes of the Jorgan Islanders he saw the beginnings of understanding, and fear. `Is that all our rule has meant to them', thought Kerish numbly, `a tribute of fear?'

  Aloud he said, “Am I still remembered then in Galkis?”

  “Oh yes, your Highness, yes.” Valorkis was trembling with excitement. “I have a cousin who lives on the Great Road, close to Ephaan. He is a carpenter and he brought his adze and chisel for you to touch. Now there is a strength and beauty in his work that was never there before. And the fields you blessed brought a double harvest. Men say that you went to seek Zeldin himself and that he would send you back to save us. My Lord, is that true, or is it forbidden to ask?”

  “To seek Zeldin himself?” Kerish leaned back against a scarlet cushion. “I suppose there is some truth in that, but I am not the one who will save you. Do you know the prophecy of the Promised Saviour?”

  Valorkis frowned intently. “There is a song we used to sing in Tryfis about a prisoner behind seven gates, but I thought it was just a fable.”

  “Perhaps it is. What does your song say about the Seven Gates?”

  “Highness, I can't remember much, except that we never sang the seventh verse because that was unlucky.”

  “Like my quest.” Kerish's good hand strayed to his waist and he felt the golden chain beneath his tunic. They had left him the keys, but not the power to use them.

  “Highness, why did the Khan not take you to his ship as well?”

  “Because Quesheg has dedicated me to the Goddess and he will not let me go until the Chief Priest absolves him of the vow. Valorkis, I asked the Khan to ransom you but he refused . . .”

  “It no longer matters to me,” said the Galkian, after only a moment. “I have reached the Peace of Zeldin. If I were suddenly freed from the Brigands now I should feel like a dead man walking out of his grave. But your Highness will return to Galkis somehow.”

  Kerish winced at the certainty in Valorkis's voice.

  “My Lord, my wife is dead, but I have a son, six years old. He lives with my sister in Tryfis. Perhaps you could look to their safety . . .”

  “Tell me their names and the house where they live and I will not forget them.”

  Valorkis talked for some time about his family and suddenly exclaimed, “Ah, that's reminded me of the sixth verse of that song. There was a time when my son used to sing it over and over.

  Open the gate, Open the gate!

  What have you for a key?

  Open the gate, Open the gate!

  All that I ever shall be!'

  It's just a child's song Highness, but it seemed to comfort him when his mother died.”

  Chapter 2

  The Book of the Emperors: Love

  And he smiled and said to them, “Do not think that I mean you to crush all desire as you strive for purity. Desire for our own happiness strengthens our will to attain what Zeldin would have us seek. Therefore desire fiercely!”

  But they could not tell whether he spoke in jest.

  After a calm voyage the ships of Oraz were first into the great harbor of Azanac. Heavily guarded, O-grak's prisoners were allowed on deck to watch the perilous entry through the Teeth of Kir-Noac. The air was heavy with summer and through the haze the sacred island seemed nothing but a barren rock. It was Gidjabolgo who realized that they were already looking at the famous temple of Idaala. A humped darkness sprawled towards the edge of a cliff, above the purple sea. Vast boulders thrust against each other as if the temple was held together by hatred of itself.

  No city surrounded the Place of the Goddess but the travelers soon saw that what they had taken for pinnacles of rock were towers that rose in slender columns and then swelled out, like half-opened flowers. The towers stood in groups of three, joined by slender bridges high above the ground.

  Gwerath jumped as the Khan suddenly boomed in her ear, “Well, Plainswoman, I hope you're not afraid of heights.”

  “Men live in those?”

  “There was a time,” said O-grak, “when all our people were mewed up in such towers. They still build them in Fangmere, where discomfort is a virtue. In Orze, the halls are broad enough even for my bulk, but here we keep to the old ways, to please the Goddess.”

  *****

  Kerish was brought ashore just before dusk, with barely a moment's warning. As they took him, Valorkis crawled to his chains' full length to implore a blessing. Kerish clasped his hand and murmured the ancient words. Then the Brigands wrenched them apart.

  *****

  As Kerish climbed the path from the harbor towards the cliff of Idaala, Az seemed as desolate as Roac itself. Then he began to notice that tiny speckled flowers grew in the crevices in the dark rock and the same bright birds that nested in Jenoza, perched here among the thorn bushes.

  Quesheg strode in front of the Prince, flanked by two of his men, while three more marched behind. In the fading sunlight, old bloodstains showed clearly on their cloaks and the clean glitter of their axes seemed beautiful in comparison. They walked in silence but occasionally one of the Brigands would leave the path and stoop to gather flowers for his goddess.

  The temple itself seemed no more than a mound of stones and Kerish could not guess how far it extended. There was no gate in the outer wall, only a jagged gap between two ancient boulders. Beyond lay a large enclosure, cluttered with the mean huts of collared slaves and pens of bleating animals, awaiting sacrifice.

  The Brigands hurried past towards the inner wall, where three fire-pits smoldered. The smoke was black and rank and charred bones jutted from the ashes. Against the wall stood a huge copper bowl, surrounded by withered bunches of flowers and a cloud of flies. Beside the bowl crouched two slaves, blinded for service to the Goddess, and a third, grosser figure. His pale bulk was clothed in nothing but a black loincloth and a gold slave-collar, but his hands and feet were stained crimson as the cloaks of Fangmere and his face was hidden by a dark veil.

&n
bsp; The Brigands knelt and crawled forward through the dust to offer the flowers they had gathered. The gold-collared priest accepted the bunches and then flung them carelessly against the wall. He dipped one fat hand into the copper bowl and smeared the Brigands' foreheads with fresh blood. Then Kerish was pushed forward and the dripping fingers traced the flower on his brow. Quesheg began an explanation but it did not seem to be needed. The priest cut him short with a contemptuous gesture. Quesheg kissed the crimson foot and crawled backwards.

  The only entrance to the temple was a dark hole, half the height of a man. The priest disappeared through it and the blind slaves forced Kerish to follow. As he passed under the crude arch, Kerish felt as if it was the temple which was entering him and that his body was now riddled with dark hollows and strange echoes.

  There was no light at all in the low tunnel. The floor was uneven and, hindered by his crippled hand, Kerish's progress was slow and painful. He could not see the priest ahead of him but he heard the plump man's gasping breath and the occasional sharp command to hurry. Then the slaves would strike at Kerish from behind and force him to go faster.

  At length, the roof rose. As Kerish struggled up from his bruised knees he found his wrists seized by the two slaves, who led him deftly through the darkness. The Prince guessed that they were now passing through rooms of considerable size. There was only an occasional chink of light between the rough stones, but both priest and slaves seemed confident of their way. Sometimes, though, all three would pause and stand very still, as if they were listening for something. Only when they were sure of complete silence would they go on. Once they stood motionless for several minutes, waiting for a faint rustling sound to die away.

  Finally Kerish's eyes caught the glint of metal and after a moment he heard the sound of bolts being drawn back and a door creaking. Then he was thrust forward into a narrow chamber and stood blinking in the sudden torchlight. The wayward flame showed him a low couch, draped with worn furs, and a dish of charred meat and a leathern flask placed on a rough wooden table. The door was bolted behind him and the footsteps receded into silence.

  Kerish walked slowly round the chamber. On three walls he couldn't thrust a finger between the dank stones but the fourth was cracked right across. The crack was level with his face and a hand wide, but Kerish could make out nothing in the intense darkness beyond. Still, he was certain the crack opened on to a vast chamber and perhaps it was that which made him curiously uneasy. As he turned away, the crack seemed to have imprinted itself on his eyes, a black slash across his vision. Impulsively Kerish snatched up the fur coverlet and tried, one-handed, to block up the crack. It wouldn't stay in place. Kerish kicked the useless fur into a corner and paced back to the table.

  The room was oppressively hot. Kerish raised the flask and gulped down the coarse red wine, fast enough to avoid thinking about the taste. Then he realized how hungry he was. Kerish picked up the meat and tore off chunks with his teeth. The skin was burnt and the inside half raw but it tasted good. He stripped the bone of every sliver of flesh till his face and hands were smeared with blood and grease.

  Suddenly disgusted, Kerish dropped the bone and tried to clean himself with his sleeve. His head swam with the strength of the wine. He lay back on the couch, intending to pray for his companions but as he pictured them, dark crevices opened in their faces. Flinging the image from him, Kerish curled up on the couch and began a formal prayer.

  Within a few minutes the measured words had dissolved into meaningless repetition and he slipped into an unquiet sleep.

  *****

  As Khan O-grak and his retinue approached the tallest of his three towers, a wooden door opened fifteen feet above the ground and a voice called down, “Who seeks entry to the Towers of the Khan of Orze?”

  Instead of calling out his name, O-grak tilted back his head and gave a high-pitched cry that ended in a long drawn-out hiss. Gidjabolgo, whose ears were the sharpest, thought he heard an answering hiss. Then a rope-ladder was sliding down the smooth wall towards them.

  “I am told, little Princess, that in some lands women take the precedence.” O-grak tweaked Gwerath's newly combed hair. “But if you went first this time you might find your welcome too overwhelming.”

  He straightened the ladder and it was soon creaking under his huge weight. None of O-grak's men made a move to follow him. The tall shaven-headed Orazians were all staring up at the entrance to the tower. Then the Khan reached the top of the ladder and bellowed, “Ah, my pretty one, have you come to greet me?”

  O-grak's men seemed to relax and one of them indicated to Forollkin that he should go first. Gidjabolgo followed, ducking to avoid the swing of the Galkian's cloak, and Gwerath came last.

  As Forollkin hauled himself over the threshold into a small circular chamber, he instinctively felt for the dagger that no longer hung at his side.

  “See, my pretty, the Galkian wants to save me from your embraces.”

  O-grak roared with laughter at the amazement in Forollkin's face. The great, green serpent encircling the Khan rubbed her glittering head against his beard to regain O-grak's attention.

  “Shageesa, the one gaping like a vrork that's just crushed its own eggs is Lord Forollkin. The accident of nature behind him is Gidjabolgo the Forgite, and here is the little barbarian who calls herself a princess. Come closer, all of you, and hold out your hands.”

  The serpent uncoiled itself from O-grak's waist and slid languorously towards Forollkin. He stood absolutely still and closed his eyes as the narrow head rose level with his own and a tongue flickered towards his cheek. Within seconds the serpent had turned its attention to Gidjabolgo and brushed playfully against him.

  “A pretty pet,” muttered Gidjabolgo, “but doesn't it object to the murder of its relations?” He nodded at the tunics and cloaks of green snakeskin worn by all the Orazians.

  O-grak grinned. “Shageesa is a queen among serpents and does a queen care for the death of a few slaves?”

  The small chamber could take no more of O-grak's retinue and the Khan had already started up the spiral stair when Gwerath flinched back from the swaying serpent and Forollkin sprang in front of her. Shageesa hissed in displeasure. O-grak signed to two of his men to push Forollkin aside.

  “The tower serpent must acknowledge all of you, or you will never be safe from her vigilance.”

  Shageesa rubbed teasingly against Gwerath's cheek. The Princess of the Sheyasa stood motionless and Shageesa turned towards her master again. The guards released Forollkin and he put an arm around Gwerath's trembling shoulders.

  “Oh that's the way of it, eh?” murmured the Khan. “I'd meant to put the Princess in my wife's keeping, but you can lodge together if you like. A bed's a better place to worship the Goddess than any temple ever consecrated.”

  “The Princess must have the best your women's quarters can offer,” said Forollkin frostily.

  O-grak shrugged. “All Galkians are fools, I hope you know that, girl. Now, before the rest of my men fall off the ladder, come up and greet my wife.”

  The great serpent went first up the narrow, rush-strewn stair. The speed and vigour with which she coiled and uncoiled to force her long body upwards, was almost comical. Every so often, Shageesa would turn and hiss reproachfully at O-grak, who followed at a respectful distance. The steps were steep and badly lit and the rushes stank as if they hadn't been changed for many years, but as the tower swelled out the travelers emerged into a large, round chamber lit by a dozen unglazed windows. In the upper part of the tower only the central stair was stone. The walls were wooden and brightly painted with birds perching in leafy boughs.

  The travelers hardly had time to blink in surprise at the paintings, before a woman came down the stair. She was barefooted and wore a plain grey robe, shaped only by the belt that held her dagger. She was a slight creature and her cropped hair and timid look made her seem very young.

  “Welcome, Lord of the Towers,” she said tonelessly. “All remains as
at the moment of your departure . . .”

  “Ah, leave the old phrases. I know them well enough,” commanded O-grak. He picked up his wife, tossed her like a baby and caught her and kissed her. “Now wife, you must prepare a warmer welcome.”

  “The watchmen said that you had prisoners . . .”

  “Call them captives of affection,” said the Khan with a sly smile. “This is Lord Forollkin and this is Gidjabolgo. Look at him carefully and tell me if you'd rather wake up with that face on your pillow or mine?”

  The Khan's wife blushed and failed to answer.

  “And this,” continued O-grak, “is Gwerath, a Princess of Erandachu. Do you remember where that is? Well, take her away and perhaps the tales she can tell will fill your hollow head better than my teaching. Ah, and we must prepare for a fourth guest - Prince Kerish-lo-Taan himself. What? Interested at last?”

  “The Prince of Galkis? The one who sent it to me?”

  “The same. Now take the Princess to your quarters.”

  Khan O-grak's wife timidly stretched out her hand and Gwerath grasped it firmly.

  *****

  Kerish woke drenched with sweat and could not remember his dreams. The single torch was burning out. `Good', thought Kerish drowsily, `the dark is better'. The torch died in a shower of sparks. He snuggled down again. The dark seemed like a tangible thing, gently coiling around him to keep him warm and safe.

  His crippled hand twitched violently. Kerish gripped it with his other hand to stop the tremors and his dreams seemed to float to the surface of his mind and sink again, just before he remembered them. All his uneasiness returned and he sat up. Against the darkness, his left hand faintly glimmered. Kerish remembered the brilliance of the Jewel of Zeldin and thought, `But now I am my own light'.