The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels )

by Geraldine Harris

  The audience fanned themselves, sipped sherbet, and passed round sweetmeats, until Viarki stepped forward to begin the second scene with a long monologue on his entry into the terrible stillness of the Forbidden Jungle. Gidjabolgo picked up his cymbals, waiting for his cue, and Leth-Kar came out of the robing-room and took his place behind the screen. He was enveloped in a glittering cloak but still held his mask in his hands, staring at the golden face.

  Viarki's voice died away to a whisper. Gidjabolgo crashed the cymbals together. With screeches of fury the scarlet banebirds erupted on to the stage. Kerish pictured their dance as he had last seen it in the Great Hall of the Imperial Palace, just before Gankali's death. Gidjabolgo picked up his drum and beat out the fierce, discordant rhythms. Trying to drag himself back to the present, Kerish whispered to the old man who stood beside him. “Viarki does well. He can play the Prince, in spite of his doubts.”

  Kerish did not see Leth-Kar's nod or his bitter smile but a moment later he heard a gasp and the crash of a fallen mask. The old man dropped to his knees and the drumbeat faltered.

  “No, play on.” Leth-Kar could barely force out the words.

  Kerish reached out to the old priest and felt a great spasm racking his body. Gidjabolgo saw Leth-Kar's lips turn blue and his eyes bulge as the pains stabbed his side.

  On stage, Viarki cried out for the first time, “Zeldin, Father of the Godborn, aid me!”

  Kerish knelt helplessly beside Leth-Kar. Viarki cried out again and the old priest clutched at the fallen mask.

  “Lie back,” whispered the Forgite, “I'll fetch Marliann.”

  Leth-Kar shook his head and was convulsed by another spasm. The splendid cloak slipped from his shoulders. “The play . . .”

  Viarki cried out for the third time. It was the cue for the entry of the Gentle God but Gidjabolgo played on and the banebirds danced, while Viarki stood bewildered and Marliann suddenly left her place in the chorus.

  “Rest. The play is nothing,” hissed Gidjabolgo.

  “Zeldin,” gasped Leth-Kar. “They must see their god.”

  “They shall,” said Kerish. He pulled the bandage from his eyes. Stepping past the discarded mask, Kerish picked up the cloak one-handed and draped it clumsily around himself. “Leth-Kar, you shall.”

  His face contorted by a third spasm, the old priest painfully turned his head and looked into the eyes of the Godborn.

  Viarki cried out a fourth time, real dread in his voice, “Zeldin, aid me!”

  Suddenly the drumbeat stopped and a figure emerged from behind the screen. The hair was raven and silver, the huge eyes spheres of purple, black and gold and the burnished skin dimmed the torchlight.

  The banebirds quivered and cowered as the figure spoke, his voice pure with the beauty of youth and ancient with sorrows. Only then did Viarki realize that Zeldin wore no mask.

  The music faltered and there were frightened whispers from the crowd. Kerish saw fear in Viarki's eyes and ached to comfort him and reassure him of his own worth. He longed to strip Desha of her destructive dreams and give her something real to strive for, and to make Feg smile at other people's happiness rather than at their misery. He wanted more than anything try bring peace to Leth-Kar and to lift the last of her sorrows from Marliann's strong shoulders.

  Kerish's own prayers mingled with the words of Zeldin, “Child of the Godborn, you shall never ask in vain. I am with you always and there is no shield stronger than my love.”

  The banebirds trembled, shrieked and fled. Viarki knelt, covering his face against the glory of Zeldin. Amongst the audience people had begun to move. Some stood and some knelt. Some stared intently at the stage, some hid their eyes and a few ran out of the temple and through the streets of Ferlic as if they would never stop.

  Love for them all surged through Kerish and broke from him like the light that had shattered the Jewel of Zeldin. The more he gave the more he had to give. He opened his arms to embrace all Galkis and the crooked fingers of his left hand straightened as he touched Viarki's forehead.

  At last the maidens began their chorus in praise of the Gentle God and they were joined by voices from the crowd, hesitant at first but mounting in awe and fervor. As the chorus reached its height, the shining figure turned and left the stage.

  Behind the screen knelt Marliann, cradling her husband's head in her lap, while Gidjabolgo stood above them, the drum still in his hands. Kerish took one step towards them. The old priest's face was contorted with pain and ecstasy. “Zeldin! Gentle Zeldin.”

  It was no more than a whisper, but it took the last of his strength. Leth-Kar's body arched and his head lolled back. After a moment Marliann closed the dead man's eyes.

  Kerish stood like a sleepwalker gazing at the strong straight fingers of his left hand until Gidjabolgo took the splendid cloak from his shoulders. “I can move it again. I can move my hand.”

  At Viarki's orders, Feg had hurried the maidens on stage to begin the third scene.

  “I think we should go now,” murmured Gidjabolgo.

  “Zelnis?” Marliann was looking up at him.

  “I am Kerish-lo-Taan,” he said.

  She nodded, as if not greatly surprised. “Prince, I thank you with all my heart.”

  “We must leave at once. I wrote you this letter.” Kerish drew the parchment from his tunic and handed it to her.

  “Whatever your Highness commands,” murmured Marliann. “I will see that you are not followed. My blessing goes with you.”

  White-faced beneath her mask and trembling from what she had seen, Desha stepped on stage amongst the maidens' chorus. At the end of the dance, Prince Il-Keno recognized her as the Enchantress and Viarki's confident cry, “Can sorcery stand against the Power of Zeldin?” was the last thing that Kerish and Gidjabolgo heard as they slipped away from the temple.

  Chapter 9

  The Book of the Emperors: Conflicts

  He asked them why they would not enter and they answered, “Because Zeldin has forbidden it.” “And why has He done so?” They did not know, nor had they ever thought to ask and he raged at them saying, “Are you beasts that you accept the goad without question? If there were no reasons behind our Lord's commands He would be a god unworthy of our worship. Therefore seek to understand, that you may know His will. Obedience without thought is a barren stalk, it rears up in the sight of men but will bear no flower. Struggle to understand with all your strength and having failed, only then should you trust in Zeldin.” At these words even those who had listened to him before were angry and they drove Jezreen from the city.

  Just after dawn two travelers departed unobserved from the Headman's Guest Hall. They rode quietly through the village towards the path they had so often been warned against.

  The village was screened from the jungle by a low hill. Even then, each house was built facing west and a bundle of charms hung above every door to protect the sleepers from `bird-dreams'. After playing for his supper, the ugly foreigner had tried to find out more about these dreams and had been rebuffed. The occasional unguarded word from an old man or a child had revealed that the dreamer felt himself to be flying and saw terrible visions, but not even the gently spoken blind youth could learn more.

  There were storm clouds in the skies of Jenoza and the rains were about to bring an end to the long summer. The grass beneath the ponies' feet was already withered but ahead rose the brilliant green ramparts of the jungle of Jenze. The younger rider smelled the intoxicating scents of the jungle flowers and heard the ominous buzzing of insects and the shrieks and songs of birds. Knowing himself safe he stripped off his bandage and blinked in the unfamiliar sunlight.

  “There seem to be no guardians to forbid our entry,” said Gidjabolgo.

  Kerish knew that he was remembering the pillars that had barred their path on the Forbidden Hill.

  “You heard what Viarki said - nothing prevents you entering the jungle but no one does.”

  “Except your famous Prince Il-Keno,” Gidjab
olgo reminded him.

  “Vethnar did warn us that the story was not entirely true.”

  “And that the Enchantress of your Galkian legends is our seventh sorceress. He was keeping something back,” said Gidjabolgo sourly. “I remember his smile.”

  “Tebreega, “ murmured Kerish. “That was her name; the last sorcerer.”

  *****

  The journey to the Forbidden Jungle had been swift and uneventful. After a long night's walk they had bought two ponies in the village nearest to Ferlic. Gidjabolgo had repeated the court musician's story but now gave out that he was escorting his blind companion to his home on the border of the Desolation of Zarn. They had followed the foothills and then turned east towards the jungle. Provisions were not plentiful but there was just enough to spare for strangers, especially those who could pay well. In the larger villages the traditional hospitality of the Headman's Guest Halls was extended to them.

  Kerish did his best to warn the people of their growing danger. There were no troops stationed between them and the Jenze and the men of the Five Kingdoms might forage further and further eastwards as the winter came. The Headman murmured about posting more lookouts and conserving supplies, but with no great sense of urgency.

  The nearer they got to the Forbidden Jungle, the shyer and more suspicious of strangers the people became. These villages were chiefly governed by Headwomen, who listened attentively to Kerish's warnings, but said nothing. They had the safest of all refuges in the jungle, but the Prince knew that they would never take it. Yet in the last village that they passed through, there was a path to the jungle's edge. It was blurred with footsteps, as if many people had come close to the green wall of trees and then turned back.

  The travelers dismounted and Gidjabolgo unloaded their meagre luggage - one spare tunic each, a single cooking pot, a water-flask and a basket full of bread, white cheese and lentils. He tied them all up in a single bundle.

  “You're sure about the ponies?”

  Kerish nodded. “We have no more need for them.”

  Gidjabolgo slapped the two ponies on their rumps and they trotted lazily back towards the village.

  “They can serve as a parting present,” said the Forgite, “though I wouldn't care to speculate on what the villagers will do with them. The people here may be Galkians in name, but they remind me of Hemcoth's subjects in gloomy Gultim.”

  “They also live at the edge of the world. I suppose it breeds mistrust. I never imagined that once we returned to Galkis, I'd have to leave it again so soon.”

  Gidjabolgo slung the bundle across his back. “And who knows where this last sorcerer will send us? Dorak? Ranin? Kolgor? There are plenty of places to be visited before your education is complete. Are we ready?”

  Kerish had had little opportunity to remove his bandage during the journey from Ferlic and his eyes were still adjusting to the light. The trees ahead were far taller than those in the foothills. They grew so close together that, except along the path, it was impossible to see into the jungle for more than a few feet.

  “Vethnar said take the first path we find and follow it to Tir-Jenac.”

  “But can we trust his memory,” asked Gidjabolgo, “or his sense of humor?”

  “We have to,” answered Kerish.

  The noise of the jungle was truly astonishing. Hundreds of small creatures hidden among the trees were rustling, squawking, hissing, humming, chattering, shrieking.

  Kerish took a step forward and there was silence, so sudden and complete that it struck him like a blow. All movement had ceased but the scents of the jungle seemed to intensify and a terrible, humid heat dropped over him like a net.

  Gidjabolgo murmured, “I had a dream once, on the borders of Everlorn . . .”

  “So did I,” whispered Kerish. “There was a tunnel of golden trees. I wanted so much to enter and I knew that the forest would let me in.”

  But not Gwerath, he remembered suddenly; she had been left behind. He could almost hear her sobbing now, `Kerish, wait for me!' Yet he knew that he wanted to enter the jungle more than anything in Zindar and that if Gwerath had stood alive beside him, he would have cursed her for holding him back. The thought sickened Kerish and he stumbled against Gidjabolgo. The Forgite's face seemed to hold up a mirror to his own yearning to discover the jungle's secrets.

  “If we turn back now,” gasped Kerish, “I don't think I could ever want anything again.”

  “But perhaps if we enter the jungle, the longing grows fiercer and fiercer,” said Gidjabolgo hoarsely. “I'm tempted to knock you unconscious and drag you away.”

  “I don't know if I'd be able to forgive you,” admitted Kerish. “Remember, you don't have to come in with me.”

  The Forgite didn't bother to answer. He pushed past Kerish and stood on the path, just inside the jungle. After a moment he murmured, “Once you're in, you want to be out again - like most things.”

  Kerish joined him. The moss that covered the path deadened his footsteps, completing the silence. It seemed very dark. At first, Kerish could not make out more than patterns of branches, blotched with outlandish flowers, but slowly, he realized that there were eyes among the leaves. They were observed from every trunk and bough by motionless birds and animals and insects.

  By unspoken consent, Kerish and Gidjabolgo walked as quietly as possible, afraid of shattering so vast a silence. The jungle seemed inquisitive rather than hostile but Kerish was reminded of Tir-Roac where Shubeyash had watched them everywhere through dead men's eyes.

  Gidjabolgo had bought a long knife in one of the villages to hack a way through the undergrowth, but nothing encroached on the narrow path; not so much as a fallen petal. The heat was appalling. Kerish kept brushing back his clinging hair and Gidjabolgo grimaced at the bundle chafing his shoulders, but he wouldn't let the Prince carry anything but his zildar.

  They walked for several hours, pausing sometimes in pools of light to count the watchers in the trees. At what Gidjabolgo guessed to be noon, they stopped to nibble at their bread and cheese, which now seemed heavy and coarse, and to drink from their water-flask. Kerish wondered tiredly how far it was to the citadel of Tebreega and then remembered that Forollkin probably had to bear worse ordeals every day. He tried to picture Viroc, but there were creepers on the white ramparts and the dead and the wounded were covered with jungle flowers. In spite of the heat, Kerish shivered and tried to blot out the image.

  In the late afternoon, the path suddenly emerged into a clearing. The ground was covered by a creeping plant studded with azure flowers, but across it ran the moss-green path. The clearing was a pool of silence, deep enough to drown in. The circle of sky above it seemed suddenly frightening. Kerish wondered how they had ever endured such huge, oppressive emptiness. Both of them walked across the clearing very fast, anxious to reach the sheltering trees again.

  Halfway across, a scarlet feather drifted towards them. There was not a breath of wind, but the feather swayed and spiraled and came to rest at Gidjabolgo's feet. Perfect in every barb, it glittered with moisture. The Forgite stooped to pick it up.

  “No!” hissed Kerish, and caught at his hand. “Vethnar said we mustn't touch them, but don't leave the pathway. Jump!”

  Fluttered by the intangible breeze the feather moved towards them. The Forgite hopped over it, gasping for breath, and ran for the trees. Kerish followed him. The path entered its dappled tunnel again and the noise struck them.

  Gidjabolgo dropped to his knees and Kerish covered his ears. The jungle screamed and everything moved. Creepers tightened their grip on groaning trees, flowers opened, butterflies hovered, birds beat their wings, monkeys leapt from bough to bough, snakes uncoiled, and blind, snuffling creatures stirred amongst the undergrowth. Kerish tried to absorb the noise by dividing it into its parts and identifying them with the scents that swirled about him. The air seemed cooler, as if the heat had escaped through the broken barrier of silence and nothing watched the travelers now. The jungle seemed to have accepte
d them.

  Kerish and Gidjabolgo followed the path until the sudden dusk. The Prince's thoughts reached out to his brother. He stood very still, both hands stretched out in front of him. Leafy patterns hid the expression on his pale face, but after a few moments, his arms dropped.

  “I can't reach. I can't get the jungle out of my thoughts. I can't get out!”

  He felt more isolated than at any time since he had left the Golden City. He had lost Forollkin.

  “Gidjabolgo, if you weren't here, I think I'd forget who I am.”

  The Forgite shrugged. “To many men a place where the past has no existence would be a paradise.”

  Kerish looked him in the eyes. “And to you?”

  “There are three moments in my life that I would choose not to forget. The rest, I'd gladly be rid of. Are we stopping here for the night?”

  Kerish nodded absently. “Forollkin might think I'm dead.”

  “He'll be too busy to notice,” said Gidjabolgo tartly, and started unpacking the food.

  After a meal of cheese and bread, they spread out their cloaks and rolled up their spare tunics as pillows. The travelers lay down feeling horribly exposed to the creatures around them, but Vethnar had warned them not to leave the path, so they could not look for shelter. If anything, the jungle seemed more raucous at night. This was partly because their own movements no longer distracted them from listening, and partly because of the nocturnal hunters who swooped and snarled and hissed all around them. They had expected to be plagued by insects, but although Kerish could hear them humming and whirring close by, he suffered no bites or stings. It was as if the pathway existed in a different space to the jungle that enclosed it.

  Both hovered for a long time on the border between sleeping and waking, dragged back a dozen times by the exultant cry of a hunter or the squeals of its prey. The last thing that Kerish remembered was a welcome coolness, as if he were fanned by gentle wings, but he dreamed of the Chamber of Seeing, and woke at first light tense with horror.