The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels )

by Geraldine Harris

  Gidjabolgo's laughter broke a long silence but Tebreega took Kerish's hand. “Now those eyes are full of pain. The legend may be false and even if it is true, your ancestry is different from the rest of us and the Ferrabrinth know it. If they trusted any of the races of men, it would be the Godborn.”

  “And we are dying,” said Kerish bleakly. “I wish I could stay. I wish I could learn to talk to the Ferrabrinth but I cannot.”

  “No indeed,” answered the sorceress, “for tomorrow I shall give you the last key.”

  *****

  Kerish slept badly and woke to find a grey monkey sharing his pillow. He sat up slowly. The monkey began a chirrup of protest but when Kerish held a finger to his lips it repeated the gesture and, pleased with its new accomplishment, bounded off across the glade. Kerish slid cautiously out of his hammock.

  Gidjabolgo showed no signs of wakefulness but the clack of a shuttle told him where to find Tebreega. He drew back the feathered folds and entered her pavilion. Inside there was very little light but Tebreega seemed to need none for her weaving. Stretched across the loom was an expanse of purple cloth.

  “The nights can be cold in the Desolation of Zarn,” said the sorceress. “You will need a new cloak.”

  She sat cross-legged, still working deftly as she spoke. There seemed to be nothing in the chamber beside the loom and one plain wooden chest but Kerish sensed that it was crowded with memories.

  “You will not be the first,” she continued softly, “to go down into the Desolation arrayed in imperial purple.”

  “My ancestors who sailed down the Zin-Gald and out of Galkis . . .” began Kerish, “I have always believed that they chose death. Is that true?”

  “It is not for us to question their choice or their fate,” said Tebreega gravely. “Come here, sweetheart.”

  He knelt down beside her, fascinated by the flying movements of her hands.

  “It is nearly finished,” said Tebreega. “Today, rest and enjoy Tir-Jenac. Tomorrow you will begin again.”

  “The last part of my journey?”

  The sorceress nodded.

  “And will it take me long? Viroc and Forollkin have so little time. Is it far?” asked Kerish plaintively.

  “Very far, but it will not take long,” said Tebreega.

  “What must I do?”

  “I shall bring you to the very edge of the wasteland and give you provisions,” answered the sorceress. “Then you must trust in Zeldin and walk south. When you have gone far enough a messenger will bring you to the gates. Don't stop while still you have strength to move or your quest will fail. Go on to the last of your strength or the Saviour will never leave his prison.”

  “Tebreega, I can't take Gidjabolgo with me.” Kerish's voice was full of pain. “Galkis has no right to demand a sacrifice of him.”

  “Though perhaps you have. But I agree, he must not go.”

  “I shall tell him then but . . .”

  “...he will take no notice. Nothing would make him leave you now. Remember that, when you next doubt yourself “ The sorceress was smiling at him. “It is harder to befriend a monster than to kill one.”

  “I will have helped him very little if all I have done is make him dependent on my company,” said Kerish. “Perhaps Gidjabolgo is right, only an honest selfish love is harmless.”

  Tebreega stopped her weaving. “I am not the one to say that you are speaking nonsense, since I have misused love all my life. One thing is clear. We must build him a new center to his life. I have offered one and I think he begins to nibble at the bait.”

  “To teach the Ferrabrinth about humans? Nothing could suit him better,” declared Kerish. “Let them hear the worst of us and perhaps see the best in him.”

  “I will keep him then,” said the sorceress placidly. “My birds and beasts accept him gladly. Perhaps in time he will learn to like me.” She rumbled with laughter. “Am I too old to go courting? We shall shake the jungle with our quarrels. Of course, he may never forgive me for preventing him from following you. It is not a task I shall enjoy but you deserve all the help that I can give. Fetch the casket. You know where I keep it.”

  Kerish left the pavilion and hurried to the trees. Gidjabolgo was sitting up in his hammock glaring at the monkey who sat on his stomach, holding one wrinkled finger to its lips.

  “You look pleased with yourself, “ he said. “If your eyes sparkle any brighter they'll set fire to your lashes.”

  With a wicked smile Kerish rocked the hammock so violently that the Forgite tumbled out. All the monkey's polite gestures failed to stem the flow of curses.

  “When you've finished,” said Kerish, “could you help me reach the casket?”

  Gidjabolgo gave him a grudging heave and the Prince scrambled up into the branches. He found the golden casket and prepared to jump down.

  “Keep one hand free to balance yourself,” snapped the Forgite, “or you'll be delaying us with a sprained ankle.”

  Kerish leapt down light-footed and they entered the pavilion together.

  “Such a small casket,” murmured Tebreega. “It's a long while since I looked at it.”

  Kerish bowed as he gave it to her. She stared at the gold in her hands, a frown dragging the ugly scars upwards and burying the small eyes.

  “A long time. Only beautiful women should weep, scowls suit me better. Open it then.”

  Kerish took Vethnar's key from the chain at his waist and turned it in the lock. Within the casket lay the last key, set with a deep green gem. Kerish stared for so long that Gidjabolgo muttered, “Curse you, take it.”

  The Prince's slender hands closed over the key and he added it to the six hanging from the golden chain.

  “Now,” said Tebreega, “I shall finish your cloak while you enjoy the morning.”

  “And then?” asked Gidjabolgo.

  “Tomorrow the quest leads into the Desolation of Zarn, “ answered the sorceress.

  “Where else?” snorted the Forgite. “We've tramped through all the other undesirable parts of Zindar. I suppose, as usual, that we don't know where we're going?”

  Tebreega was smiling again, as she shooed them from the pavilion. “No, you don't.”

  In the heat of midday, they bathed in the crystal pool. Afterwards Kerish sat on the bank combing out his long hair with deft fingers. Gidjabolgo watched until he saw the Prince shiver. “What is it? Did a memory bite you?”

  Kerish shook his damp head. “I was just thinking that I have never really been alone. In the palace I was often lonely among the crowds, but I knew that there was always Forollkin and since we left Galkis, I have never been without a friend.”

  “So you've never learned to guard your own back,” said Gidjabolgo easily. “Well, there are other ways. For those with charm enough there will always be someone glad to do it for them.”

  “Yes, always.” There was no humor in Kerish's smile. “And I was not given the choice of refusing my face.”

  “Nor your nature,” said Gidjabolgo. “All your faults are pretty ones.”

  “No! If you think that you don't know me,” protested Kerish. “Look back at what I've done on our journey together: tried to murder my brother, mocked you, betrayed O-grak . . .”

  “I warn you,” answered Gidjabolgo calmly, “you will have to punish yourself, because no one else will do it.”

  “Except Gwerath,” said Kerish. “She saw me as I was.”

  Gidjabolgo spat into the crystal waters. “Never. She saw you only as her precious Forollkin's brother. Tell me you hated them for that and I'll condemn you.”

  The pale hands were still amongst the tangle of black and silver hair. “Gidjabolgo, tell me, what you would have done in my place?”

  “Used my knife a little more efficiently that night in Erandachu,” answered the Forgite dryly.

  “But she would have hated me forever.”

  Gidjabolgo smiled at the horror in Kerish's voice. “What, and resist the flattery of being killed for? The risk
would have been worth taking, and at least she'd have had nothing to love in your place. There! I warned you that my faults weren't pretty ones.”

  “I wonder,” said Kerish faintly, “what the Ferrabrinth would think if they knew all of our story.”

  “They would probably think that we were trivial creatures. I suspect that the Ferrabrinth kill each other from much more high-minded motives. It would be interesting to find out.” He threw the Prince a towel. “Are you going to sit there dripping all morning?”

  A short time later, Tebreega announced that she had finished her weaving and that they would now move south. As they watched, Tebreega seized one corner of the feathered pavilion and gave it a gentle tug. It fell towards her, folding into a pile of cloth no larger than a handkerchief, which she rapidly tucked into her sleeve.

  The travelers waited, a little apprehensively, as the sorceress unclasped her cloak and whirled it around her head. It soared upwards, spread till it filled the sky and descended on the trees in the center of the glade. Kerish blinked in disbelief. There were no trees, only the red and blue cloak, lying at Tebreega's feet. She flourished it again and scooped up the crystal pool in the same way.

  “Now my dears,” she murmured, “it's your turn.”

  Kerish and Gidjabolgo couldn't help flinching as the cloak flew towards them. The world was stained scarlet and blue and they experienced the same sense of falling, followed by a gentle rocking motion. It lasted longer than before and Kerish actually slept, only to be woken by a tumble to earth.

  He sat up in a different glade. The pavilion, the pool and the central clump of trees were the same, but the jungle that surrounded them had changed. The trees were huge-girthed and their roots broke from the soil to form miniature forests. In their shadow all lesser vegetation died. The riotous undergrowth of the northern jungle had given way to gloomy avenues drifted with the leaves of centuries. There was still noise from scattered colonies of birds and insects, and sombre color in the thick mosses and lank flowers, but the jungle no longer seemed a garden.

  “Welcome to Tir-Jenac,” said Tebreega. “The Ferrabrinth seldom come here for they sense the presence of the Desolation of Zarn, so you may wander where you like.”

  All the short afternoon they walked amongst the trees, sinking ankle deep into the leaf-mould. Most of the jungle creatures ignored them but occasionally they would feel a sudden nudge and a soft flanked deer would be walking beside them or a bird would alight on their outstretched hands and sing for them. Together they hunted for the pale, beautiful flowers that grew from the slimy bark and on the twisted roots of the great trees.

  “My father would have given a fortune for just one of these flowers,” said Kerish. He drew back his hand from the sticky petals of a poisonous plant that imitated the patterns of a butterfly's wing to lure small predators to a slow death. “Rimoka always hated orchids She said their smell made her sick. People laughed at that because everyone knows that most orchids have no scent but I think she was telling the truth. I remember a Spring Festival when the Emperor set a bowl of orchids in front of the Queen's throne just to torment her. She was so pale. I was sure she would faint.”

  “Perhaps they only stink when they sense that they're disliked,” suggested Gidjabolgo.

  Kerish didn't seem to have heard. “My father's first queen was already dead when he married my mother, but I wonder now if Taana ever thought about Rimoka or Forollkin's mother – or Zyrindella's, and how they must have felt. I wonder if she was sorry for them.”

  “Victors can afford pity,” said Gidjabolgo, “it's no credit to them. Where did your father put all his women? Was the palace big enough to keep them apart?”

  Kerish ducked under an arching root and began to describe the women's quarters in the Inner Palace.

  Several times, as he wandered amongst the trees talking about Galkis, Kerish nearly stopped and told Gidjabolgo that these were the last hours they would spend together. Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on looking for orchids among the shadowy boughs and on recollections of their journey.

  “Do you remember how Vethnar could make flowers look as tall as trees, so every detail was enlarged? This jungle would drive him mad. Where would he start?”

  “Mad with delight,” agreed Gidjabolgo, fingering the furry petals of a vermilion flower. “And ready to waste ten men's lifespans counting the types of moss at his feet. Still, if you're condemned to immortality, a talent for ignoring anything really important may be an aid to survival.”

  “That's true enough.” Kerish sat down on the curve of a tree-root and swung his feet through a drift of leaf-mould. “Small things clutter the face of time. Large actions or large thoughts need space around them. Then you can't help seeing how far away you are from anyone else. Yet our sorceress seems to have struck the right balance.”

  “Tebreega?” Gidjabolgo rubbed the bark slime off his hands and on to his tunic. “She's got more sense than most.”

  Just as they mentioned her, the travelers heard Tebreega's deep voice echoing through the trees. A gaggle of animals bounded towards them to whine and chatter and tug at their clothes to summon them back to Tir-Jenac.

  In the center of the glade Tebreega knelt over a misshapen cooking pot, stirring vigorously and tossing back the long tresses that continually slid across her face. Kerish searched for and found the bowls and spoons and they sat down to gigantic helpings of spiced vegetable stew. Kerish surreptitiously fed half of his to the monkeys while asking more questions about the Ferrabrinth. Some were ignored, others provoked a spate of information. Gidjabolgo snapped at Tebreega's answers, often demanding to know the reason behind the Ferrabrinth's actions.

  “Why do they dislike water?”

  “I'm not sure. “ Tebreega's forehead puckered. “Perhaps because the sea cannot be reduced to order; it remains unpredictable.”

  “And do they find us lacking in order, too?” asked Gidjabolgo.

  “Woefully,” answered the sorceress.

  “Have they never considered,” began the Forgite, “that disorder may be necessary to every society? That without it the mind stagnates?”

  Kerish leaned back against a tree-trunk, stroking the animals curled in his lap and listening placidly to the others talking. No, he thought, your faults are not pretty and your virtues are those that are hardest to love. Kerish fixed in his mind a final picture of Gidjabolgo pouncing on Tebreega's words and worrying the truth out of them like a glutton stripping meat off bones. There was no courtesy between them and no animosity either. Tebreega seemed to thrive on the Forgite's rudeness. Her small eyes sparkled and the color in her cheeks blurred the old scars. `I am right to leave him,' thought Kerish sadly. `He will grow out of me here.'

  “You are very silent, Prince,” said Tebreega at last.

  “I am tired,” answered Kerish truthfully.

  “Sleep then,” the voice of the sorceress was very gentle. “You have an early start tomorrow.”

  The Prince left the others sitting beside the fire-pit, still arguing about the uses of disorder.

  *****

  Just after dawn, Tebreega woke him. “Sweetheart, it's time to go.”

  “Gidjabolgo?”

  “He will sleep until tomorrow,” whispered the sorceress. “Better a peaceful start to your journey.”

  Kerish slipped out of his hammock and followed Tebreega into the pavilion. He accepted the purple cloak that she had woven and clasped it over the blue-grey robe. The sorceress handed him stout rope sandals, a sack of provisions that he could fasten across his shoulders and a water-flask to hang at his hip.

  Then Kerish walked back across the glade to Gidjabolgo's hammock. The Forgite lay on his back, snoring loudly, with two squirrels curled up on his stomach. Kerish unfastened the bracelet that Gidjabolgo had always admired. It was too narrow for the Forgite's wrist but Kerish laid it on the pillow so that he would see it when he woke. The zildar was already propped against the nearest tree. There was nothing else lef
t to give. Tebreega's hand touched his shoulder.

  “I am ready,” said Kerish-lo-Taan.

  Chapter 12

  The Book of the Emperors: Sorrows

  And they asked him to speak over the graves but he denied them saying, “If Zeldin himself came to you at this hour and spoke the truth, you would drive Him from you with stones and curses. Do you not hate those who smile at the deaths of children? No, this truth I offer cannot be spoken to the many, it can only be passed from one heart to another.”

  Kerish woke in the chill of dawn and reached down to stroke the small animals curled up at his side. They were gone. The paw-marks in the dust led back towards the jungle and the birds were missing from the rock they had perched on. He was alone. Kerish got up and shook out the cloak that had done little to soften his bed of stones. Ahead lay the Desolation of Zarn: silent and grey and endless.

  In comparison, the country he had journeyed through in the last three days seemed a paradise. There had been pools of brackish water, clumps of thorn trees with fierce orange flowers and patches of straggly grass. There had been the whining of the insects and occasionally the dry patter of a startled lizard darting beneath a rock. There had even been reminders of humanity: small cairns built by men who had come seeking death but after seeing Zarn, had turned back to life again. All the time a flock of Tebreega's birds and three monkeys had followed him, singing and gamboling, even though the hottest hours of each dreary day. Now they were gone and he had reached the true edge of the wasteland.

  Tebreega had stooped to kiss him as they parted and whispered, “Enter the Desolation with your body but not with your mind.” He understood her now. Two days ago Gidjabolgo would have woken and raged at being left behind Was he reconciled yet? Was the fascination of the Ferrabrinth strong enough to hold him at Tebreega's side?