The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels )

by Geraldine Harris

  A group of Galkian soldiers, in Jerenac's lilac and silver livery, stood in front of the temple. One of them advanced towards O-grak, holding out the white Flower of Peace. The Khan took the blossom, his huge hands accentuating its frailty. A blunted sword, the Orazian symbol of truce, was offered in return.

  “Be welcome, Khan. Lord Jerenac has been informed of your arrival and will attend you presently. May I offer wine?”

  The Galkian captain spoke Zindaric with the familiar lilt of the men of the Golden City, and Forollkin suddenly ached to be truly home. `If I had not gone with Kerish,' he thought, `I would be in this man's place.'

  Goblets of hot spiced wine were brought and accepted by O-grak and the four warriors attending him, but the servitors were ordered not to approach the two hooded figures, or the men who stood so closely behind them. The formal courtesies over, there was a heavy silence and the two groups stared at each other. O-grak's dark eyes darted to and fro, observing everything as he gulped down his wine. Forollkin noted that several of the Galkians were wounded and that all of them looked desperately tired. Staying with Jerenac would not have brought ease or safety.

  Across the entry to the sanctuary hung a tapestry. It showed the Gentle God throwing his most precious ring into the Jenze as a ransom for the lives of all those who would ever sail the dangerous river. Shortly after O-grak's first attack on Viroc, a fisherman had found an ancient ring, tangled in his nets. The priests of Zeldin had thrown it back but the people had begun to leave the banks of the Jenze.

  Suddenly the tapestry was flung aside. Two captains preceded the Lord Commander of Galkis and a third walked close behind, but Jerenac leaned only on a black staff. Each step betraying agony, the Lord Commander hobbled through the portico to greet his enemy.

  “I was sorry to hear that your wound will not heal,” said O-grak. “It looked a clean enough slash when I made it.”

  “If I wasn't aware that you lack such skills,” growled Jerenac, in the way that Forollkin remembered, “I would swear that the swords of Oraz were poisoned. As it is, I must chide my own bones as my betrayers.”

  “Your Lordship is right,” said O-grak promptly, “we leave the art of deceitful death to Galkis. The Men of Oraz deal in swift destruction, but to the sick and to the weary, we offer rest, so perhaps you will welcome my message.”

  “As a shield welcomes a spear,” answered Jerenac, “and rest brings new strength.”

  “But not, I think, new troops,” said O-grak dryly.

  Sweat beaded the Lord Commander's face and one petal dropped from the withering Flower of Peace. “Say what you have to say,” rasped Jerenac, “and be as swift as the destruction you boast of.”

  O-grak set down his cup and tucked his hand in his sword belt. “Then hear. The Princes of the Five Kingdoms say to the Lord Commander of Galkis, the Governor of Jenoza, you are betrayed by your own Emperor. Surrender now or your people will die unaided and unthanked. I hide nothing. If you give your authority into my hands, the walls of Viroc will be razed, the palace will be stripped of its treasures, the temple of the false bride destroyed and a heavy tribute levied, but . . . I offer life.”

  “And slavery,” Jerenac smiled grimly. “You do not offer a high price for our dishonor.”

  “Only fools offer everything they might give when they know they will be refused.”

  A second petal fell and Jerenac bowed his head sardonically. “I thank you for that at least. Now, if this is all you have to say, I order you to leave the sacred soil of Galkis.”

  Jerenac stood unmoved but his captains winced at the Khan's booming laughter.

  “The power of the Godborn is turned in on itself. I admire your loyalty to those you scorn, Jerenac, so I will offer more. What do you say to peace under a new Emperor? He would be a vassal to our Princes, but born of the blood you cherish.”

  Jerenac's mouth twisted with contempt. “My poor crazed cousin? Have you been listening to Zyrindella's whining, Khan?”

  “Among my people,” answered O-grak, “we honor those whom the Goddess scourges, but we do not crown them. Not Li-Kroch.”

  “Who then?” demanded Jerenac, as the third petal fell. “How many tame Emperors do you keep to feed from your bloody hand?”

  O-grak smiled. “Only one, and not yet tamed.”

  He motioned to the Prince's guards and they thrust Kerish forward and stripped off his cloak and hood.

  “No!” cried Jerenac, but one by one the captains of Galkis knelt. “No. Princes of the Godborn looked like that once, but not in this mewling age.”

  “Do you not recognize your own half-brother?” murmured O-grak. “Prince Kerish-lo-Taan.”

  “But you are lost . . . and Forollkin died with you.”

  “We are both safe,” said Kerish, unable to bear the bewilderment in Jerenac's gaunt face. Suddenly the Lord Commander of Galkis seemed old and sick and helpless.

  “Look, Forollkin is with me.”

  Forollkin shook back his hood and stared in horrified pity at the man who had once seemed to offer him so much.

  Then Jerenac recovered himself. “Khan, the Prince is not a warrior bound by your code. Ransom him as you would a woman or a child.”

  “There are worse weapons than the sword,” said O-grak. “No ransom would be enough for such a prisoner.”

  Kerish stepped forward. “Rise, my captains. Jerenac, the Khan is right. You have been betrayed by the Godborn, but of all his sons, I alone had our father's blessing and the High Priest gave the fate of Galkis into my hands. Lord Commander, will you serve me?”

  In slow agony, Jerenac forced himself to his knees. Forollkin started forward to help him and felt the prick of a dagger in the small of his back. Kerish stood unmoved.

  “I am bound to serve the Godborn,” said Jerenac wearily. “No doubt the Gentle God sends you as my final punishment.”

  “You never loved me, Jerenac, but obey me now.” Kerish looked round at the ruined village, the drawn faces of the Galkians, the figure of Zeldin on the scorched tapestry. “My sole command is this. Fight! Surrender only to death, and let the white-walled city burn before a single stone falls into the hands of our enemies. Die in battle or by your own sword, but never surrender!”

  Jerenac's eyes blazed with a fanatical joy. “My Prince, I shall obey. Khan, I thank you for giving me such a Lord!”

  “By the Breasts of Idaala.” O-grak dropped the Flower of Peace and dragged Kerish back as Jerenac tried to kiss the hem of his cloak. “You shall die in battle, Commander, and Viroc with you. On that day the people of Galkis will beg for peace. We shall see then, Prince, if you will stand by your proud words. Be sure that I shall make you look into the face of every innocent your orders have butchered. I promise, you shall not die until Galkis is a wasteland and Death herself is crowned in the Golden City.”

  *****

  The Khan did not speak to his prisoners on the journey back to the camp and they were sent straight to their tent. Gwerath greeted them anxiously and it was Forollkin who answered her questions. When he described Kerish's final command to Jerenac, she cried out, “Oh, magnificent!” But Gidjabolgo muttered, “Well, you have signed our death warrant with a fine flourish!”

  “What does that matter?” Forollkin flung an arm about his brother's thin shoulders. “You were right to do it, and I'm proud of you.”

  Kerish stared at Forollkin's excited face with a puzzled frown and broke away. He knelt in the darkest corner of the tent to pray. Full of embarrassed concern, Forollkin looked away and began talking to Gwerath, but Gidjabolgo's pale eyes were fixed on the Prince's bowed head. When he finally looked up, even Kerish couldn't read the Forgite's expression.

  That evening, when Forollkin's exhilaration had faded, and the long tedious hours had given them all time to realize exactly what Kerish's defiance might mean, O-grak sent for the Prince.

  The Khan was alone in his tent, except for the great serpent, coiled at his feet. Glancing round, Kerish had a brief impression
of simple furnishings carved in dark wood, contrasting with foreign treasures brought back from raids or journeys. There was a tapestry woven with sea-birds; a lamp of translucent alabaster carved like a shell, and a damaged statuette of the Gentle God that must once have stood in some Jenozan temple.

  As the guards withdrew, Shageesa surged towards Kerish and coiled about him lovingly.

  “She has been told of your words, as she is told everything. Shageesa dotes on courage,” said the Khan, “and by our Lady of Blood, so do I. Prince, I do not often lose my temper, you should be honored, but words spoken in anger must still be kept. Do you understand that?”

  The Prince disentangled himself from Shageesa's embrace and walked towards the Khan.

  “Your word will stand, and so will mine; however much sorrow, it brings on our heads.”

  “Sit and drink with me then,” said O-grak, “before I offer you life and power for the third time.”

  The Khan poured out a stream of red wine into a single horn cup and Kerish drew up a stool.

  “Viroc will fall to me,” began O-grak.

  “It seems likely,” answered Kerish calmly.

  Shageesa's head was on his knee and his fingers explored the texture of her cool, glittering skin.

  “Will you watch it burn unmoved?”

  “No.” Kerish was leaning over the snake and the Khan could not see his expression. “You will see a Prince of the Godborn curse his own words.”

  “Then why did you speak them?”

  “Because my quest has failed,” said Kerish slowly.

  “And has Galkis no hope but you?” O-grak took a gulp of wine. “Even I cannot match such pride!”

  “Galkis has no hope but the Promised Saviour, because what you want to take from us is our country's soul. To burn the Golden City and scorch the last drop of Godborn blood from Zindar would be small things beside robbing us of our Foremother. What does it matter now if I speak her name? Imarko suffered and died for us, to prove that men should not fear death. We must cling to her truth. It is the best we have. In your peace we should live like ghosts who have forgotten who they are.”

  “Brave words again, Prince.” O-grak handed him the horn cup. “But have you the right to speak them for anyone but yourself?”

  “I don't know. You won't need to show me those who die because of me. Their sufferings torture me already; but I will keep to my words.”

  O-grak watched the Prince drink and said, “I will mourn you, Prince, but you are too dangerous to live.”

  Kerish smiled wearily. “Spare your grief. I shall be more than ready.”

  “It will be quick, I promise you.” O-grak stared at the Prince's throat. “I could snap that neck with a single hand. But it must wait until the Golden City falls. I have sworn it. I will send you back to Orze with the next supply convoy and imprison you there till Viroc has fallen and we are ready to march north.”

  Kerish handed back the cup. “What will you do now when the throne falls? Let your allies fight over Galkis?”

  “Perhaps Jerenac was right, I should plot with Zyrindella and put your mad cousin on the throne. Your people will not follow him as they would have followed you, but it might persuade my allies to hold the Empire together. The mad are sacred to Idaala and my own followers might accept him . . . Ah Prince, when I have killed you, I shall miss having someone to speak my true thoughts to.”

  Kerish stared at the statuette of Zeldin whose broken hands reached towards the light of the lamp.

  “Did you speak to your daughter in the same way, before she was taken?”

  “To her, and to her mother while she lived.”

  “And can't you speak to Neeris now?”

  There was an angry pause before O-grak answered. “Prince, I would not endure such questions from anyone else. No, I cannot talk to Neeris. Her mind is nothing like my daughter's, however much the face resembles hers.”

  “All the better.” Kerish looked at the Khan again. “What is the use of talking to someone who thinks like you? To disagree with the great Khan of Orze may not always be a sign of stupidity.”

  O-grak smiled reluctantly. “You may be right but I cannot loosen her tongue for good or ill.”

  “Little wonder,” said Kerish, “when you give her no hint that you would value her words.”

  “Hah, how are you so wise in the ways of women?” demanded O-grak. “It's your brother who seems to know how to woo.”

  “Khan,” Kerish's face was shadowed again as he bent over Shageesa, “as I am to die, may I ask three favors of you?”

  “You would ask for your companions' lives?” O-grak scowled. “I cannot spare your brother, he would make too stout an enemy. He shall have a warrior's death, quick and clean. The girl may go free, unless she chooses to die with you. I will release the Forgite whenever you choose. What more?”

  “When I am dead, “ said Kerish quietly, “you will find six keys on a golden chain around my waist. Will you send them to the King of Ellerinonn?”

  “The Men of the Five Kingdoms have no dealing with sorcerers . . . but don't look so stricken, I'll get them to him if I can.”

  “Thank you, Khan. There is one last thing,” began Kerish carefully. “My third wish is that if your wife should ever ask to see me, you will allow it.”

  “By the Hair of the Goddess, that's a strange request to make of any husband!”

  “I think you know that you may trust her to my honor,” said Kerish stiffly.

  O-grak nodded. “True enough, and the wishes of the condemned should not be questioned . Granted then . . . if she asks.”

  He looked into the Prince's calm eyes. “I would drink to you, Kerish, but the words for such a toast are hard to find.”

  The Prince smiled at him. “Drink to where our thoughts meet.”

  “To that,” answered O-grak. “And to a brave conflict.”

  *****

  “I will die with you,” said Gwerath.

  “No!” protested Forollkin, for the third time. “Gidjabolgo can take you to a safe place, Ellerinonn perhaps or Gannoth, and . . .”

  “Do servants get no choice?” asked Gidjabolgo acidly. “Is the swift road only for the nobly born?”

  “I'm sorry,” said Kerish gently. “I should have made it clear; the choice is entirely yours.”

  “You're not obliged to help us,” continued Forollkin, “but I have saved your life before now and if that means anything to you, I charge you to help Gwerath to safety.”

  “I might forgive even that,” said Gidjabolgo sweetly, “but I don't think the lady wants my help . . .”

  It was the day after the parley and the four of them sat in a tight circle, as far as possible from the open tent-flap. The furnishings of their prison - the carpet of scuffed fur, the wooden stand that held a water jug with a handle shaped like a beast devouring a man, the stained platters and thin bedrolls - were deadeningly familiar now, but their own faces seemed more and more mysterious. Forollkin had spent dreary hours wondering what the others were feeling. He even found it difficult to remember what he had felt about anything before the end of their hopes.

  Once more, Forollkin tried to persuade Gwerath to leave them. He wasn't sure what he wanted her answer to be.

  “I know I promised not to send you away,” he said carefully, “but I shall die with an easier heart if you are safe.”

  “Safe! If I wanted to be safe I would have stayed in Erandachu!”

  Gwerath was wearing her boy's clothes again and her silver hair was hopelessly tangled. She looked very much like the impulsive young Torga that they remembered from Erandachu, except for the scarf glittering at her throat and the angry misery in her grey eyes.

  “Don't you understand that, Forollkin? Without you I have nothing. I have no home and no skill or wisdom that would make me welcome in a foreign land. I should be an unwanted stranger all my life.”

  “The King of Ellerinonn would be kind to you or. . .”

  “For your sake, not
mine, and I can't bear such kindness. Please understand. I have done nothing; I have nothing; except my love for you.”

  She hid her face but the ugly sobs that racked her body robbed her of even that frail privacy.

  Kerish, who wanted more than anything to hold and comfort her, got up very fast, and walked to the other side of the tent. After a moment Gidjabolgo followed him. Something had to be said to cover Forollkin's voice giving Gwerath her freedom to die.

  “And is the wise Prince of the Godborn really helpless before the barbarians?”

  Kerish smiled coldly. “O-grak believes that I am resigned to death and will not try to escape.”

  “He still sets guards.”

  “Only two: one stationed outside the flap, one marching round.”

  Gidjabolgo scowled. “There are a dozen others within call.”

  “But after dusk, not within sight.”

  “And can the fabled power of the Godborn not smite two guards?”

  Kerish shook his head dreamily. “I was never taught to wield the powers of the Godborn, but at least I understand them now. The gift of Zeldin was simply that we should understand men. From that gift flow many different kinds of power. When I know a person I can touch their mind more closely than they realize and even make my wishes theirs, though Zeldin knows, that is an abuse of his gift.”

  “And since you do not know our guards, I repeat my question,” said Gidjabolgo. “Are you helpless?”

  “Not quite,” murmured Kerish, still not looking towards Gwerath and his brother. “There is Neeris.”

  “She may eye you like a hungry Dik bird, but she has no claws to snatch you up.”

  “She has wings,” answered Kerish, “although they're folded.”

  Gidjabolgo snorted. “However much she may favor you, even the Khan's wife can't get us off this island. You can't swim any more than I can, and every boat must be guarded . . .”

  “Not every boat,” said Kerish. “I noticed on the way back from the parley. Every boat except one.”