In the jungle, Kerish had been afraid of forgetting who he was, but Gidjabolgo had been there to hold up the forbidden mirror. Now there was no one. No one to stop him fading into the greyness of the Desolation. “Not with your mind.” The words of the sorceress rang in his thoughts. Kerish stepped forward. “I will make you a garden,” he said aloud. “I will furnish you with color and life and beauty and while I am alive there will be no Desolation.”
It was not easy country for walking. The ground rose in small hills, each bringing the hope of some new prospect and dashing it with the same dreary vista. The hills fell away sharply into narrow gullies that might have been the beds of streams long ago when the wasteland had life. There was no sound but the hiss of the hostile wind as it sifted the loose sand from the stones.
Kerish tried to transform the hiss into the rustling of leaves in the Emperor's Garden. He pictured the gullies as lily ponds and the hills as grassy mounds but the scree still slipped from beneath his feet. He twisted his ankles several times before learning to walk more cautiously. Kerish rested at noon but there was little shade and the sun scorched his skin wherever it was unprotected.
At sunset he tried to reach Forollkin. Slowly he built up a detailed picture of his brother, trying to remember him at his happiest on Vethnar's island, hand-in-hand with Gwerath. There was no answering warmth. Perhaps the person he was trying to reach had died with Gwerath.
Wrapped in his purple cloak, Kerish drifted into sleep, thinking of their journey through the Sea of Az. In his dreams, the Desolation of Zarn was strewn with soul figures, cracked by the heat, blurred by the winds, but still human. He tried to bury the soul of Khan O-grak, but the stones slipped from his bleeding fingers.
The light woke him on the fifth morning since his parting with Tebreega. Kerish decided that today he would walk through Ellerinonn. As he slithered up and down the dry hills he clothed them in emerald grass and planted stately trees. Every so often he would pause, trying to remember the exact form of a statue. In the heat of the day he ringed himself round with fountains.
The fresh fruit that the sorceress had given him was rotting now, but there were no insects to be drawn by its rankness. Kerish forced himself to eat it for his evening meal. There were enough dried rations to last at least a week but now the moist fruit was gone he would need more water. Kerish had topped up his flask at the last pool but it was not much: five days' supply, six if he was careful, seven at the very most. He had vaguely expected there to be something in the Desolation that he could live off, roots perhaps or berries, but there was nothing.
“Is it far?”
“Very far, but it will not take long.”
On the sixth morning the muscles in his thighs and calves ached worse than ever. The rope sandals chafed at his blistered feet but the ground was too hot for him to walk without them. The wind scorched him but Kerish forced it to rustle, not sand, but the grasses of Erandachu. The windflowers swayed as he moved, though he could not remember their scent. He sent herds of Irollga galloping down the gullies as the dust clouds choked him. Sometimes there was Gwerath to walk by his side, but he could not hold her image in his thoughts for long.
In the worst of the heat he squatted down in a frail patch of shadow and raised the hillocks into the Ultimate Mountains but the world did not end in their splendor; it faded into the Desolation of Zarn. Kerish forced himself to go on.
At sunset he ate his meagre ration of dried fruit and lentil cakes, wishing they didn't make him so thirsty. He decided that he would have to avoid moving during most of the day and travel mainly at night. The skies were clear and the stars were the only beautiful things in the Desolation of Zarn. The Prince followed them southward, thinking of Gwerath.
On the seventh day he narrowed his world to a path through the dappled shade of Everlorn. When the heat became too intense he curled up under his cloak and tried to soothe himself to sleep with memories of Kelinda's kindness. Instead he dreamed of Pellameera dancing in her tomb, and danced with her. He woke in the early evening and walked till past midnight.
On the eighth day he was woken by the pain of his blistered skin as the sunlight touched it. He moistened his dry lips and began to walk. The golden chain slipped down from his thin waist to bruise his hips as he moved. Stubbornly, Kerish filled the wasteland with marshes. Now, even the memory of Lan-Pin-Fria seemed beautiful: the thickets of reeds, bright with birds; the tangled trees overgrown with flowers and everywhere water - cool green streams and pools and rivers. Kerish's hands strayed to the water-flask but he knew he must wait until noon. `More detail, concentrate, concentrate.' Struggling up a fierce slope with the scree bruising his ankles, Kerish remembered flowers and insects and birds and the faces of lbrogdiss and Dau.
After a while, Lilahnee walked beside him, kittenish at first, sometimes crying to be picked up and carried, sometimes bounding impulsively ahead. Within an hour she had grown to her full size; fierce and disdainful as she fell in with his slow pace, but how soft her fur was . . .
“No!” Kerish opened his eyes with a start. He had been almost sleepwalking. He must banish the Desolation but not at the cost of surrendering to his dreams. He must remember where he was going and why. `But I don't know,' he protested to himself, and found the answer, `Southwards to the Seven Gates.'
In the cool of evening his head cleared. If he turned back now he might have just enough food and water to get him to the edge of the wasteland. If he went on . . . surely Tebreega would not have sent him to his death? But he remembered her face as they parted. She had never expected him to return. The High Priest, the Emperor, had they known that this quest would demand a slow and painful death? How could it profit any of them for him to die alone in the Desolation of Zarn? Who would even know?
On the ninth day he eagerly licked the blood from his cracked lips. The sun tortured his tender skin. He longed to hide all through the daylight hours but to lie half-choked beneath his cloak, with nothing to distract him from the agony of his swollen tongue and aching throat, was worse still. He staggered southwards. “Don't stop while you still have strength to move,” Tebreega had said, “or your quest will fail.”
Kerish tried to raise the jungle around him. Unraveling the strands of uproar, he knotted them again when he had remembered and identified each individual noise. He forced trees to grow among the stones, decked them with flowers and creepers and peopled them with singing birds and mischievous animals. In the noonday heat, he invoked the Ferrabrinthin and made the scorching wind the movement of its fiery wings.
He could not hold the images steady. An Or-gar-gee rose from the crystal pool, Ellandellore's twisted tower blocked his path, and the painted faces of Loshites stared from among the boughs.
Kerish threw up his hand to block out the sight and found himself falling. The jungle dissolved as he lay winded and bruised at the bottom of the gully. He hadn't been noticing the real path. Kerish sat up slowly. There was nothing broken. `But there might have been', he told himself. `Then I would have died here. How Gidjabolgo would scold,' he thought dreamily, `and Forollkin too . . . Forollkin – Viroc- concentrate!' With shaking hands he drew out the last of the dried fruit and ate it. Now there were only two lentil cakes and a few mouthfuls of water left.
On the tenth day he finished the food. Kerish climbed the next hill and stood unsteadily on the summit. Before him the Desolation of Zarn stretched inexorably to the horizon. He knew then that he was going to die amongst its grey hills.
After that it seemed easier to keep on walking. All he had to do now was obey Tebreega's order. If his quest had failed he was paying the full price and no one could reproach him. His progress was slow. Sometimes he wandered in circles until the images of Galkis that filled his mind jolted his memory and he turned south again.
On the eleventh morning he drank the last sip of water and threw away the bottle. All that day and through the night, Lilahnee walked beside him. He heard her soft footfalls in the sighing of the wind. Gwerath
's hair was tangled with the stars and made them too bright to stare at.
By the twelfth day violent pains in his stomach sometimes bent him double but he still moved southwards. His thoughts were uncontrollable, like water slipping through his fingers. He was afraid that he might throw away the keys. They seemed an intolerable weight now. Every so often he felt beneath his tattered robe to assure himself that they still hung at his side. Then he would stare fascinated at the shapely bones that the shrunken flesh of his hands exposed.
Gradually the individual pains of hunger and thirst, sunburn and exhaustion, merged into one general agony that seemed a natural part of his existence. He could not imagine being free of it. `Though if Forollkin was here,' he thought, `or Gidjabolgo, they would take it away.' He could no longer be sure if he was thinking or speaking. The noise of his movements seemed to defile the Desolation. There should be silence; nothing but bones and dust and silence . . . “No!” Kerish forced himself to walk all through the night. He knew that once he lay down he would never get up again.
On the thirteenth morning the sun beat him to his knees. He clutched at the keys. The gold burned his tender skin but he would not let go. “Go on to the last of your strength.” The words lashed at him. He could no longer remember their meaning but they still forced him to go on.
He crawled towards the next hill and up the royal road to Zeldin's temple but the snows were grey. Kerish's head dropped and he inhaled the cruel dust. A spasm of coughing wracked his thin body and for a moment the pain jarred him into lucidity. `Zeldin! Imarko!' His swollen tongue could not form the words. Scree rattled past him. He was falling off the mountain. Everyone was waiting for him but he would never reach the temple. `Gentle Zeldin . . .'
Kerish's fingers clenched on the keys. Then his hand fell open and he lay still.
*****
The wind mocked him with the sound of wings. The fountains of his memory overflowed. `They will wash me away,' thought Kerish, `down the mountainside, down to a purple sea.' Waves rocked him. The cool waters stripped away layers of pain. There was only emptiness left; the Desolation of Zarn and of all men . . .
Why had he thought it was water surrounding him? It was music. For a long time Kerish pondered whether he still had eyes, and if he did, how to open them. At last his lashes quivered and he was looking into a brightness turbulent with colors. Before he could close his eyes again, the brightness surged over and into him and there was no emptiness left.
With a thrill of terror, Kerish knew that he was too heavy now for the rocks to bear him up. Surely he would sink through them? Perhaps he already had. He could feel nothing above or beneath him. The brightness was within him and outside him but it was shrinking, concentrating itself on a single point.
Kerish could see again. The glimmering wasteland stretched all around him, pale and insubstantial as a shroud of dust. The Prince stood up, still half afraid to look at the heart of the brightness, to look at the purple and golden bird blazing amongst the rocks. Its song was the music that had cleansed and healed him. Kerish shaded his eyes against the zeloka, the messenger of Zeldin and Imarko. The bird spread its shining wings and spiraled upward, still singing.
Kerish yearned to follow. `I can't walk,' he thought desperately, `I have no strength left', but he found himself running southwards. The Desolation dissolved at his heels into shimmering dust colored by the zeloka's song. He ran within the eye of the storm and remade the world with each step.
When at last the music ceased, Kerish's stillness unfolded to form a landscape of silvered rock and white sand. Ahead of him lay the storm, frozen into ramparts of light. Seven ramparts, seven circles, one within the other and each higher than the last. Kerish was afraid that his slightest movement would shatter them and unleash a hurricane of color to sweep away the pallid world of men. Yet in the center of the first rampart was a darkness so intense that even the radiance of the zeloka could not pierce it. Kerish knew that it was a gateway.
The first key was ready in his hand, its purple gem a pale reflection of the zeloka's plumage. Very slowly Kerish-lo-Taan approached the prison of the Saviour.
He dared not touch the blackness of the door but he felt its coldness pass through him. The very rocks seemed to shiver with him. Hovering above his head, the zeloka sang a single note and a point of silver appeared in the blackness. Kerish knelt to fit the first key in its lock. The black door swung open and Elmandis was standing beside him. The King of Ellerinonn bowed and Kerish saw the face of an old man, still struggling to acknowledge peace. The Prince held out the key but Elmandis shook his head and vanished.
The zeloka alighted on the second rampart and sang again. Kerish replaced the first key and drew out the second. He walked through the gate towards an azure wall of light and the sorcerer of Tir-Racneth. Ellandellore stood almost as tall as the Prince now and there was a new gentleness in his face. Kerish stooped to unlock the second of the black gates. It opened without a sound and the zeloka flew towards the third rampart. Kerish offered the key. Ellandellore's fingers passed through his hand as the sorcerer felt for the cool gold. In that instant Kerish knew that Ellandellore was the reality and he was the vision. He tried to speak, but the young sorcerer released the key, as if he had gained enough strength simply by touching it. Ellandellore bowed, smiled and vanished.
On ramparts gleaming with the colors of ice in sunlight, the zeloka perched above the third gate. A single crystal note lanced its blackness. Beside the gate stood two figures with their arms around each other. Saroc's face was peaceful and proud. Sendaaka's had warmed into joy and she was no less graceful for the coming child. Kerish opened the gate and did not even offer them the key. They gave him a long look before they vanished and he winced under their compassion. The space between the third and the fourth ramparts was empty. Saroc would never be parted from his wife again.
The zeloka sang. The note thrilled with urgency and the darkness splintered. Kerish unlocked the gate in the crimson wall and passed through into a different kind of emptiness. The ramparts shimmered with silver. For a moment a shadow flickered beside the gate and its touch was like a caress. Kerish opened the dark gate and returned the fifth key to the golden chain. The power of the keys was meaningless to Shubeyash now.
Kerish followed the zeloka's flight towards glowing earth-brown ramparts and the restless figure of Vethnar. The song of the zeloka broke through the blackness of the gate and Kerish reached up to turn the key in the silver lock. The gate opened and he offered the sixth key to the sorcerer of Tir-Melidon. Vethnar grimaced, bowed, swung away and vanished.
As Kerish approached the seventh rampart Tebreega came towards him with her arms outspread. She embraced him but he could not feel her. Before he could speak she gave him a loving smile and vanished.
The zeloka was singing as Kerish drew the last key off the golden chain and the lock burst like a star from the blackness of the seventh gate. Kerish sank to his knees. `I can't deserve this,' he thought dazedly, `without the help of the sorcerers, without Forollkin and Gidjabolgo and Gwerath, I wouldn't be here. I've wanted this moment for so long and now I can't bear it. Zeldin, Imarko, let me go back, please let me go back.'
The zeloka spread its wings and enfolded him with light. The black gate seemed taller than the Ultimate Mountains, but he knew that the lock was not beyond his reach.
Kerish-lo-Taan turned the key and opened the seventh gate.
The Saviour stepped forward. He was not tall and the body within the austere grey robe seemed slight and frail. Silvered hair framed a calm sad face, but the golden and purple eyes blazed with hope and the beautiful hands were clasped in prayer.
Kerish-lo-Taan stood for a long time looking at his own reflection. For a moment his heart had lurched with shock and he had been poised not just to run, but to shatter the prison of his body in the last escape. Only for a moment. He was no longer the child who had been trapped in a cage of mirrors amongst the Screaming Rocks. He had learned to face even his own s
crutiny.
Like the wound in the face of Shubeyash, a terrible disunity was still present in this reflection. Kerish could see both the part of him that had been shaped by the twenty years of his life and the part which did not, and never would, belong in Zindar. He saw shame for much that he had done and an intense longing for something glimpsed in the distance and never quite understood, but he knew that he was almost healed.
Even so, it was a while before he realized the full significance of what he had found behind the seventh gate. Part of him gasped with this second shock; part of him had always known it.
“Not me? Zeldin, not me.”
Shock dissolved into laughter at this ultimate absurdity. His reflection trembled. Kerish reached out, as if to steady it, and stepped through his own image.
He was back at in eye of the storm. Colors raged about him and then coalesced into the shining form of the zeloka. The seven gates stood open behind him, but Kerish ran forward, not through a Desolation but a garden. The song of the zeloka rose on a tide of joy and Kerish was swept away by it. He no longer knew if he was running or swimming or flying, only that he was being drawn towards the center of the garden and of all songs.
With a torrent of ecstatic notes the zeloka swooped down to a beckoning hand. Kerish found himself kneeling at the foot of a great stair and looking up into a woman's face. Her slender hand was steady beneath the zeloka's weight, but the marvelous bird seemed abashed and hid its head under one glorious wing.
“Welcome, Saviour Prince.” She was old and frail. Her face was marked with pain and grief and was infinitely beautiful. “Welcome child.”
Even in that wise, piercing beauty he could see a likeness to his own features. Wordless, Kerish held out the seven keys and she received them.
The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) Page 25