The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels )

by Geraldine Harris

  The glimmering grew until it lit the whole chamber, lit the remains of his sordid meal and the discarded coverlet crouching like an animal in the corner. Kerish lifted his hand but the light could not penetrate the blackness of the crack. Then one dream at least surfaced into memory. He had built a palace for Gwerath on the seashore, but as fast as he built, its beauty was marred. The walls continually split open and though no visible darkness flowed in, the palace seemed so much altered that when Gwerath knocked at the gate, he dared not let her in. Fully awake now, Kerish stood and faced the crevice and the light in his hand faded.

  With a rattle of bolts the door was thrust open.

  “What, Prince, all in darkness?” demanded O-grak. “Perhaps that's no disadvantage in such lodgings.”

  Kerish turned very slowly. “I have known worse on my travels.”

  “Ah, these travels of yours.” O-grak fixed his own torch in the sconce and studied the Prince by its light. “I could believe anything of them when I see how much they've changed the dainty, quick-tempered Prince I remembered. Have you killed a man yet?”

  “I have tried to.”

  “In hatred?” asked O-grak, “or in your own defense?”

  “In hate and jealousy. “ The Prince spoke very calmly and his face was the impassive mask of the Godborn.

  “Do you still hate?” demanded O-grak.

  Kerish smiled. “No. Not now that I have cause.”

  “I am glad you are still no warrior. It will make it easier to protect you. My people do not kill those who have no blood on their hands.”

  “The Brigands of Fangmere do not make such a distinction.”

  “The Brigands of Fangmere do not kill, they sacrifice. They cling to older ways as though piety was their greatest treasure, and if you'd seen Fangmere you'd know that it is. That makes releasing you no simple task.”

  Kerish sat down on the couch again. “Is one hostage worth so much trouble?”

  “You rate yourself too low, and modesty is not called a virtue here.” O-grak sat down beside Kerish. “In Zoanaxa, it is rumored that you left Galkis to seek for some secret way to save the Godborn. Since your quest is at an end, you may as well tell me what it was.”

  “I will not despair until Zeldin tells me to,” said Kerish.

  “If eyes were daggers there would be a hole in my heart.” O-grak was smiling. “Have you considered that your Zeldin may have wanted you to fall into my hands? Did you know that your Gentle God was once the consort of Idaala? He left her for the one whose name we do not speak. For that, the Men of Fangmere hate the Godborn, the children of Zeldin the Betrayer . . .”

  “That can't be true!”

  “No? Well, the Godborn should know. I only tell you what our Lore-keepers say.” The latch of the door was rattled from the outside. “Now I must crawl deeper into the temple for your sake and abase myself before the Chief Priest.” O-grak got up, sniffing the air. “There is a fullness here where there should be emptiness. Remember one thing. If she should come, don't look at her.”

  “The Goddess?”

  “Her living body. If She herself came, you would not be able to close your eyes on your destruction. Whatever may happen, don't look.”

  “I will remember.”

  A jovial blow nearly knocked Kerish from the couch as O-grak strode out.

  *****

  Gwerath bullied her attendants into surrendering enough of the Second Tower's meager water supply for her to wash herself and her hair. Of all their baggage, only one dress remained, the dress the Brigands had spared for Gwerath to wear on the slave-block. The necklace that Kerish had given her was gone with the rest of the jewels but Forollkin's scarf was still knotted about her throat. Gwerath's two attendants slipped the Seldian dress over her head, just as the Khan's wife entered.

  “May I touch it?”

  Gwerath nodded and watched curiously as the other woman stroked the silver-green silk as if it were a live thing that might suddenly dart away.

  “Surely the wife of a Great Khan has many dresses as fine?”

  “No man may give such treasures to a woman without angering the Goddess, and the greater the man, the greater her jealousy.” She spoke like a child repeating a lesson, but suddenly a smile transformed her pale, pinched features. “Yet I have one treasure and he lets me wear it.” O-grak's wife rolled back her drab sleeve to display a silver bracelet set with rubies. “The Prince of Galkis sent it to me. He is not afraid of the Goddess!”

  “Customs are different in Galkis but,” added Gwerath kindly, “it is very beautiful.”

  Indeed it was the only beautiful thing that Gwerath had seen in the austerity of the Second Tower, the Tower of the Women.

  “Your Lord . . . the Prince's brother,” began the Khan's wife timidly, “does he give you such gifts?”

  “He gave me this scarf.”

  The other woman touched its glittering folds. “And are you to marry him?”

  “I don't know . . . perhaps when there is peace. How long have you lived with the Khan?” asked Gwerath hastily.

  “Nearly three years. I am not his first wife.”

  “And do you have any children?”

  “There are no children now in the Towers of O-grak. Shall I take you to your Lord?”

  “To my friends,” said Gwerath firmly. “Yes, if you may.”

  “I think I may.” She looked miserably uncertain.

  “I'm sure the Khan did not mean to keep us apart. What is your name?” asked Gwerath.

  The Khan's wife seemed startled at the question, as if her name had long ago fallen into disuse.

  “It is Neeris,” she whispered.

  They crossed the rope-bridge between the towers, with Gwerath gripping the swaying ropes and hardly daring to look down at the scorched rock below. A few serfs were trudging along the road from the harbor, laden with supplies, but no other people were in sight and the nearby groups of towers seemed deserted.

  “Are there always so few people in Azanac?” Gwerath shouted against the wind.

  Neeris nodded. “The Goddess demands that there always be one Khan or Prince to honor her in Azanac. Most of them come for no more than one month in three years. My Lord is different.”

  Before Gwerath could ask her why, Neeris had turned her back and continued along the footbridge.

  Once inside the First Tower again, Gwerath was struck by the noise. The wooden walls and floors of the upper chambers were so thin that every sound carried.

  “How can you bear to live so close to each other?” she demanded.

  “Oh, it is so much better than the emptiness of the great Halls of Orze,” said Neeris. “Here, you need never feel alone!”

  Gwerath remembered that when she was left alone with Forollkin and as he came to meet her, whispered, “Where's Gidjabolgo?”

  “Why? Are you disappointed to find only me?”

  “No! I thought he could . . . Oh, you're teasing me.”

  Forollkin smiled. “You're easy to tease and I like to watch you prickle, like a marsh kitten refusing to be stroked. Gidjabolgo is listening to anyone who will talk, and trying to find out about the temple where Kerish is held.”

  “The Khan will soon free him.”

  “We can't be sure of that.”

  “If O-grak has said he will do something, we can be sure of it.”

  “The Khan seems to have found an admirer.” Forollkin sat down on one of the bedrolls that were the small room's only furnishings. “I shall never understand women.”

  “I am not women. I am Gwerath.”

  Forollkin stared up at her. “ When we met, it troubled me that you didn't fit my idea of what women were like, but now...”

  “How many women were there before me? I mean...”

  “I know what you mean,” said Forollkin hastily, “er...customs are different in Galkis and what's past is past...”

  “I have never loved anyone but you.”

  “And I...”

  A curious
expression clouded Forollkin's face and he stopped speaking.

  “You were going to say that you had never loved anyone else either, but it wouldn't be true. I do mind about the Queen, but I mean to make you forget her.”

  Gwerath knelt down to kiss him. Forollkin kissed her back but they broke apart when a cough from the sentry just outside reminded them how little privacy they had.

  “Do you think we'll be ransomed?” asked Gwerath.

  “If the Khan negotiates with Jerenac, the Governor of Jenoza, then yes, but if he deals directly with the Emperor . . . Rimoka would rather have us killed than freed. Even if we are returned to Galkis, it may only be a brief respite. .The whole Empire is at war.”

  “My people are warriors, I am not afraid,” said Gwerath, but her hands were twisting the silk of her skirt.

  “I should be afraid for you,” answered Forollkin. “Gwerath . . .”

  “No! Don't send me away! I don't want to be safe. I want to be with you, whatever happens.”

  Forollkin pulled her towards him and stroked her silver hair. “I won't send you away. I promise.”

  *****

  Kerish was determined not to lie down again. He circled the chamber, tracing the joins between the great boulders with his fingertips. The workmanship was crude but there was nothing profane about its ugliness. The temple seemed a natural thing, a hill of shadows; but was the darkness to hide the forbidden beauty of the Goddess or to imprison it?

  Kerish wished he knew more about the Men of the Five Kingdoms. In Galkis they were simply thought of as the barbarians at the other end of the sword. He tried to remember everything about his brief meetings with Khan O-grak. `My word on it, Prince, for your brothers the sword, but for you, soft captivity.' Where he had once threatened slavery, the Khan now seemed to hint at freedom, but why? If it was only a fat ransom that O-grak wanted, he must know that with the Emperor Ka-Litraan and Lord Izeldon both dead, there was little chance of payment. It was a bitter thought. The only one who would be anxious to save him was Queen Kelinda, and she was his brother's wife, not even blood kin.

  `No,' thought Kerish wearily, `the Godborn are no longer worthy to rule. If there was justice in Zindar, Zeldin would reject his children: but the people . . .'

  He remembered with agony the gentle resignation of Valorkis. Would the Galkians still trust the Godborn as the Men of Fangmere dragged them to Idaala's altar? Kerish pictured ruin and murder in the nine cities and could almost smell the blood. The jangling of the keys at his waist seemed to mock at him and his head ached.

  Kerish strode up and down to clear it, but the stench of blood had seeped from his thoughts into the air. Perhaps a sacrifice was taking place in a nearby chamber. Kerish touched each of the keys; the cold jewels chilling his fingertips. What could be more useless than a key without a lock? “Hope without fulfillment is more cruel than despair” - the first words of The Book of Warnings. Was that a warning against the beauty and splendor that shone through the pages of The Book of the Emperors, or against despair itself? Kerish knew that he had inherited despair, but however painful, he must choose hope.

  In the darkness something rustled and the hairs crawled on Kerish's neck. He had paced to the furthest end of the chamber and stood in front of the crack, facing the door. The torch flared brighter in defiance of the shadows stumbling through the room. This time Kerish shuddered at the velvet touch of darkness and the rustling sounded closer.

  “It's nothing,” said Kerish aloud. “And Zeldin guard me from all empty fears.”

  The torch spluttered and the darkness sprang. It wrapped itself around Kerish and for a moment he thought he would suffocate and tried to tear it away. His fingers met nothing and he found he could breathe again, but the air seemed richer and heavier.

  “Do not utter His name here; it has no power. “ The soft voice spoke close behind him. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Kerish-lo-Taan and I was once a Prince of Galkis.”

  “I saw your face in a dream and it was His face. Look at me, you are mine now.”

  “Lady, to me His name has power in all places. I greet you humbly but I am not yours.”

  “But you are the offering they bring me.” It was the sweetest voice Kerish had ever heard. “The others died so quickly: but you will live and we will love again as we did in the morning of the world. Look at me!”

  “Lady, it is dark, I couldn't see you.”

  “No! This is not darkness. You are as mistaken as the rest of them. This is true light. It shines from me but men cannot bear its radiance so they call it darkness. Look and you will understand.”

  A slender hand reached through the crevice and touched his hair.

  “Lady, I must not.”

  “The priests dare not look at me. They crawl blindly and I despise them. You are not like them. Who told you that you must not look? No one may command you, but the Queen of Love asks you to look at her.”

  The exploring fingers stroked his cheeks. A sweet perfume enfolded him and his mind filled with crimson flowers.

  “Lady, men say that you are too beautiful for any man to look at you and live.”

  “You alone could endure my beauty; others would die, desiring what is yours.”

  The fingers delved through his hair. Bloodflowers . . . it was the scent of Bloodflowers. Kerish would have stumbled away but the sweetness made him giddy.

  “Ah, you are faint, turn and rest in my arms.”

  Kerish leaned back against the rock and two hands moved over his face, tracing the line of his lips, caressing his brow.

  “Open your eyes. It will only hurt for a moment.”

  “I can't; I mustn't!”

  He was no longer sure why. The fingers slid down to his throat.

  “You shall!” Sharp nails dug into his flesh and darkness surged around him. “No man may refuse Idaala. Look at my beauty before I tear out your eyes. You shall not betray me again!”

  Kerish tried, one-handed, to break the terrible strength of her grip, and failed. He twisted and struggled as the hands crushed his throat. His blood screamed in every vein and his eyes would surely burst from his head.

  “Oghara,” a new voice rang out, distorted by a sea of pain, “let him go!”

  “No, he is mine. His blood belongs to me!”

  “It does not. The Chief Priest has released him to me.”

  “All men must look on my beauty and die.”

  “I look on it and I do not die,” said Khan O-grak. “Let him go, Oghara.”

  “But I am the Goddess.” The voice sank to a whimper and the grip loosened. “In all Zindar, there is nothing so precious as my beauty.”

  “Nothing,” echoed O-grak gently. “Release him and depart.”

  The hands opened and Kerish slid gasping to the ground. The voice was sweet again, and childlike. “Father, don't leave me in the dark.”

  “It is yours now,” said O-grak, stooping over the Prince. “Go!”

  A sigh filled the room, and for a moment the scent of Bloodflowers lingered; then the torch flared into life.

  The Khan pulled Kerish to his feet and half carried him to the couch.

  “Your throats bruised but the cuts are shallow.” O-grak brushed the blood from the Prince's throat with his sleeve. “Since you kept so staunchly to my advice, you'll come to no harm.”

  “But you looked at her.”

  O-grak turned his face away. “Three years ago the Priests of Az chose the Living Goddess from among the fairest daughters of the Khans and Princes.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “She believes it herself now,” said O-grak slowly. “Perhaps she truly is possessed by the Goddess. I shall never know. To me she will always be Oghara, my only child.”

  “She is beautiful then?”

  “You were tempted to look? No,” said O-grak grimly, “she is not beautiful now. Can you walk?”

  “Away from here? Yes.” Kerish stood up unsteadily.

  “Good, then I will ta
ke you home. You are fortunate that even the Priests of Az will listen to the father of the Living Goddess.”

  Kerish looked back at the crevice. “How can you bear to leave her here?”

  “She would have killed you, Prince, like the rest of her consorts. She belongs to darkness now.”

  Chapter 3

  The Book of the Emperors: Warnings

  And Jezreen spoke to his kinsmen, rebuking them that they would not journey beyond Galkis to seek out new gods, but the High Priest answered him saying. “Truth and goodness dwell in other lands in other shapes. Zeldin has given us our shapes, let us rejoice in His gifts rather than covet the truths of others.”

  Yet Jezreen said, “I will accept no gift, until I know its worth. It is the duty of the young to doubt all teachings, and to seek new things.” “And it is the duty of the old to forget them again,” said the High Priest, and when he saw that the Prince would not be humbled, he denounced him to the Emperor.

  KERISH stood close to the wooden wall, to study the crimson comb and brindled feathers of a bird, painted weaving its nest between branches.

  “I don't know why we paint them like that,” said O-grak cheerfully.” I've never seen a bird that color, but then I take more notice of them in the pot than on the wing. You look better now, Prince.”

  A scarf hid the lacerations on Kerish's throat. Bathed and rested, there was nothing to show for his ordeal but pallor.

  “My brother . . .” began Kerish, but O-grak chose not to listen.

  “You'll be better still with food inside you. Sit to it!”

  Kerish crossed meekly to the trestle-table and the unappetizing bowl of boiled salt-meat.

  “The outsides of your towers are so stern. I would never have guessed that the insides would be so charmingly painted. “

  “I told you, I don't know why it's done, but old ways are kept here.”

  O-grak was sprawled in a massive chair with the tower serpent coiled at his feet. Both of them seemed out of place against the delicate tracery of branches painted on the circular walls.