The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (15 page)

Jerenac's head lolled back on the pillow. “And
for this nothing you will rob me of my heir. Forollkin . . . you can't desert
me, boy. You did once, but not again. Take my command. Fight for my city. The
people must have a Godborn leader.” The scarred hands clutched feebly at
Forollkin's arm. “I can't see you. I can't see your face. Answer me, boy!”

“My Lord . . .” Forollkin was as pale as
the deathly face on the pillow. “I promised the Emperor I would never leave my
brother. I am bound to Kerish.”

A spasm wracked the Lord Commander and
blood frothed from his lips. Forollkin hid his face.

Kerish said quietly, “You promised the
Emperor never to leave me unless I released you from the oath.  Forollkin, I do
so now. You are free and I shall leave the city tonight with Gidjabolgo.”

“But you can't!”

At any other time Kerish would have laughed
at the amazement in his brother's face.

“You can't go without me. Your hand . . .”

“Gidjabolgo will look after me and there
isn't very much further to go. You are needed here.”

“Boy . . .”

Forollkin stooped over Jerenac's contorted
body. “I will stay. I will take command. I will save the city if I can . . .”

Jerenac gave a deep sigh and the Chief
Priest blew out the lamp so that death might come, as she preferred, in darkness.

“Come gentle death . . .”

Kerish heard the priest's murmured words
and felt for Kelinda's hand.

When the prayer was over, the lamp was
relit and Forollkin gently stroked the Lord Commander's face to smooth out the
fierce smile of death.

As they left the room, Kelinda was crying. “Poor
Jerenac. He gave so much to Galkis and received so little.”

“Giving without love is always bitter,”
said the Chief Priest as he led her down the stairs. The two brothers followed
them.

“Kerish . . .”

“Forollkin, please don't say anything, not
yet.”

Kerish turned to the Chief Priest and asked
when the refugees were to leave Viroc.

“In two hours' time, your Highness, from
the North Gate, but they are bound for Joze . . .”

“When we get to the Jen Mountains,
Gidjabolgo and I...”

“Kerish, you cannot wander the country by
yourself,” protested Kelinda. “Those who are loyal to Rimoka may try to kill
you and those who are not will beg you to lead them.”

Kerish smiled at her. “You are right, of
course. I cannot travel as one of the Godborn.”

“But how can you disguise yourself?” asked
the Queen. “Your eyes will always betray you.”

“So I must cover them.”

“But only a blind man would do that.”

“Then I shall be blind,” said Kerish
grimly, “and Gidjabolgo shall lead me. A blind singer from Galkis, arrived in
your train, Kelinda, and now fleeing to Joze. Will that story do?”

“Your Highness, the temple actors are
leaving Viroc tonight. You and your companion could travel unnoticed with them,”
suggested the Chief Priest.

“They must not know who I am,” said Kerish.

“They shall not.”

“But charge them to take special care of 
my favorite musician,” said the Queen.

“Kelinda.” Forollkin had been studying the
tapestry on the nearest wall as if it fascinated him, but now he turned from
the woven image of Imarko's farewell to her sons and said, “Kelinda, you should
go with the refugees to Joze.”

“I will go,” answered Kelinda, “if I would
be a trouble to you, but I should prefer to be of service to Viroc and to the
men who followed me here. After all, I have no reason to  value safety.”

Kerish understood why Forollkin winced at
her words but after a moment the new Lord Commander of Galkis said, “I know
better now than to force a brave soul to safety. The whole city will gain by
your presence.” He turned to the Chief Priest. “Give out that the Prince is
keeping a three-day vigil in the sanctuary of Zeldin. Those who leave the city
must believe that he has stayed behind.”

The old priest hesitated for a moment and
then said, “It shall be done. Zeldin will surely forgive a lie in such a cause.”

Forollkin nodded impatiently. “Kerish . . .
get ready. I will meet you at the North Gate, before the ninth bell.”

*****

Two hours later Forollkin stood looking
down on the North Gate from the tower that he had taken as his headquarters.
The square was rapidly filling with the people who were to leave the city, and
the soldiers of their escort. All the children had gone long before but there
were many women and old men who had only just been persuaded, or ordered, to
leave. The sick and the badly wounded were to be carried on litters slung
between placid oxen. Healing Priests were bent over their patients,
administering sleeping potions. In one corner of the square the temple actors
were loading their props and costumes on to a cart.

Every few minutes a scout sent out by
Forollkin to check that the north and east roads were still clear, would thread
his way through the crowd. The new Lord Commander acknowledged their reports
without moving from the window. The death of Jerenac had caused little stir in
the city. Only the officers who had known him well mourned their Commander. The
people of Viroc had respected Jerenac but had never loved him.

Below the window a soldier was saying
goodbye to his young wife. They were talking about trivial things, but their
hands gripped each other frantically. Gwerath had been given no time to reach
out to her love as she died. He hadn't even been looking at her . . .

“Forollkin,” said Kelinda for the second
time and at last the young Lord Commander turned round. “Forollkin, the Healing
Priests will need more room so I have told them to bring all wounded to the
Governor's Palace from now on. I was trained in healing on Trykis, so I can
help in the nursing as well as the organization.”

“I will gladly place the injured in your
charge,” said Forollkin gratefully. “Are there many too badly hurt to leave
tonight?”

“Only four, “ Kelinda's ink-stained hands
were clutching the lists of necessary supplies she had spent the last hour
drawing up, “but I presume you are expecting heavy casualties when the attacks
begin again.”

Forollkin nodded grimly. Following her
instinct, Kelinda began to talk about firewood and bandages and drugs. Slowly
Forollkin absorbed himself in the details of provisioning the hospital and
didn't notice that anyone had entered the room until a harsh voice said, “Well,
do we make convincing royal musicians?”

Gidjabolgo was holding the zildar in one
hand and guiding the Prince with the other. Kerish was dressed in a simple blue
tunic and cloak. His head was thrown back to reveal the silvered hair, but his
eyes were covered by a band of dark cloth.

“Forollkin?” Kerish took a few uncertain
steps forward as Gidjabolgo released his arm.

“No, not blind . . . Kerish, I can't bear
it. I can't let you go like this!”

Forollkin reached out to strip the bandage
from his brother's eyes, but Kerish resisted him with his good hand.

“Forollkin, please! If you take the
blindfold off now, I'll never have the courage to put it on again. Don't let me
see you . . .”

Kelinda said quickly, “Master Gidjabolgo, I
didn't know that you played the zildar. Is it very different from the stringed
instruments of Forgin?”

She drew him away from the window and they
discussed the merits of the instrument and played snatches of tunes while the
brothers tried to say goodbye.

“But we haven't talked about Gwerath,”
protested Forollkin, “and I couldn't to anyone else . . .”

“Talk to Kelinda,” said Kerish, still
holding back his brother's hand. “Help each other. Help me now. Chide me, bully
me, tell me I'm not fit to go out on my own . . .”

“I can't.” Forollkin shook his head
hopelessly. “It isn't true. I know you can do without me now. We've grown so
far apart.”

“No. We could never. . .”

“Kerish, I often think that Gidjabolgo
understands you better than I do. Sometimes I ache to have my spoilt,
quick-tempered, infuriating little brother back again,” Forollkin touched the
silvered hair. “Don't say anything, I know he died in Erandachu. You have to 
keep travelling and I'm needed here. I can't live without being needed. I'm
sorry, I'll let you go in a minute.”

“Forollkin, think about me each night at sunset
and I'll think of you. I promise we can still be close to each other.”

From the square below a horn sounded to
warn the travelers that the gate was opening.  Forollkin released his brother. “Well,
do you have everything you need for the journey? Spare shoes? A thinner tunic?”

Kerish nodded. “Yes, Forollkin.”

Gidjabolgo slung the zildar across his
shoulders. “It's time for me to take him down.”

“Goodbye again, Kerish,” Kelinda kissed him
on the cheek, “Zeldin go with you.”

“And remain with you,” responded Kerish
blankly. “Forollkin . . .”

Gidjabolgo tugged at his arm. “Time to go.”

Kerish allowed himself to be led from the
room. Outside the noise seemed overwhelming and he descended the steps into
darkness and chaos. As they entered the square, he gripped Gidjabolgo's arm
even tighter. “Forollkin?”

“He's standing at the window looking down
at you. The Queen is beside him.”

Kerish smiled in what he hoped was the
right direction and then let Gidjabolgo guide him towards the temple actors.

Chapter
7

The Book of the Emperors:
Promises

But the Emperor
blessed the players, saying, “Let no man condemn your craft. You have received
the noblest of burdens, for you empty yourselves so that you might be filled
with a greater presence. Those who watch will find joy and comfort in that
presence, but for you there will only be emptiness. For you, Zeldin and Imarko
will never walk the earth of Zindar again.”

As the moon rose the soldiers of the escort
put out their torches and rode like shadows beside the convoy, sometimes
darting ahead to check that the road east was clear, sometimes lingering to
pick up stragglers. They halted once to bury a wounded man who had died in his
jolting litter looking up at the stars. The captain would allow no more than a
minute for prayers over the grave, and was constantly urging the convoy to move
faster.

Then an enemy horseman was spotted and shot
from his saddle. The convoy halted, expecting a whole army to come down from
the hills, but nothing stirred. Confident that the horseman could only have
been a lone scout, the captain sent a few more soldiers on ahead and then gave
the signal for the convoy to move again.

Just ahead of the litters of the wounded,
rumbled the heavily laden cart of the temple actors. Amongst folds of
glittering cloth an old man lay dozing and a young girl was perched high on the
mound of costumes, staring about her. Two men and a straight-backed woman took
it in turns to lead the ox. Behind the cart walked the two strangers,
Gidjabolgo the Forgite and the singer known as Master Zelnis.

In answer to whispered inquiries about his
companion, Gidjabolgo had been eloquent. The poor young man was an orphan of
good birth. Brought up at court as a royal musician, he had recently been
struck with a terrible illness. The Healing Priests had saved his life but
Zelnis had been blinded and left with a crippled hand.

One of the troupe, who seemed to be a
musician, muttered about the justice of Zeldin but the other expressed such
sympathy that Gidjabolgo had to warn them not to mention his misfortunes to
Zelnis himself.

“No indeed,” the old priest had said. “Pity
often breeds bitterness. You can trust us not to offend him.”

As they walked together, Gidjabolgo hissed
questions at his companion. “What are these holy pageants, and what have
priests to do with acting?”

“To take the part of Zeldin or Imarko one
must be ordained,” answered Kerish listlessly.

“Why?” Gidjabolgo's hand hovered close to
Kerish's arm, ready to guide him when necessary.

“Because we believe that actors do not
simply play the Gentle God and his Queen: for a short time they become them. It
is a holy act. All our plays illustrate the teachings of
The Book of the
Emperors
, so actors belong in temples, except for the troops attached to
Imperial Palaces.”

“Ah I see,” exclaimed Gidjabolgo, “their
pious hope is to edify the audiences, not to let them enjoy themselves.”

“You are unjust.” Kerish forgot for a
moment to concentrate on feeling his way and stumbled over a cart-rut.

Gidjabolgo gripped his arm. “No doubt you
will tell me that excitement or amusement are poor things compared with the
joys of divine revelation.”

Kerish recovered himself and pushed away
the helping arm. “I wouldn't dare tell you that. I'd get more sneers than I've
room to flinch from, but I promise you our plays aren't dull. Some of the
poetry is beautiful. I know that you'll appreciate the sound of it, just as you
might enjoy looking at a language you couldn't understand, written in a
beautiful script. Since many of the plays are in High Galkian, they have to be
explained in the common tongue to most of the audience.”

“Well, you had better explain them to me,”
said Gidjabolgo. “After my supposed two years in Galkis, I ought not to be
totally ignorant.”

“No one would expect a foreigner to have
played for the Imperial actors, but it would be strange if you had never
attended a performance.”

As the long night wore on, Kerish talked
about the five chief players in each troupe and the splendid costumes and masks
that they wore. He described the famous speeches and choruses that most
Galkians knew from childhood and the ancient music that accompanied the plays.

The moon faded and the torches were relit.
Kerish began to stumble more often, as much from weariness as blindness, but
Gidjabolgo continued to buffet him with questions. In the chill grey dawn the
Prince outlined the plots of plays which Gidjabolgo could say that he had seen
at court.

“Then Prince Il-Keno enters the Jungle of
Jenze to look for the Enchantress . . .”

Gidjabolgo squeezed his arm in warning, as
the ox-cart halted for a brief rest and one of the actors walked towards them.

“Good morning,” called a cheerful voice. Then
came a loud whisper to Gidjabolgo. “Would your friend like a turn riding in the
cart? He looks bone-weary.”

“Deafness is not one of my afflictions,”
snapped Kerish.

The young man began to apologize but
Gidjabolgo interrupted, “Clumsily put, but no bad idea. I'll help you up,
Zelnis.”

“No,” said Kerish stubbornly, “I can walk
as well as anyone.”

“That's no argument,” returned the actor, “we're
all footsore. So take your turn in comfort like the rest of us. Desha, come
down off there, you lazy chit, and don't pretend to be asleep. I know you're
listening.”

The girl sat up with a mew of protest but
Kerish refused again. “I would rather walk. If I let myself rest, I don't think
I could start again, but thank you . . . I don't know your name.”

“It's Viarki. Just remember I'm the one who
sounds as if he's got a mouth full of pebbles - that's what keeps me as fifth
player.”

Kerish almost smiled. “Describe yourself
and complete the picture for me.”

“Oh, that's harder. When the masks are on I
could tell you whether I look like an old crone or a pompous official, a timid
priest or a fierce soldier, but without them . . .”

“A round face and a nose you have to look
at twice to see,” said Gidjabolgo uncharitably. “Short and sturdy, feet too big
in boots too small, clothes that wouldn't recognize a tub of water, hair as
matted as a thak bush, two eyes, both of them now bulging . . .”

“Zeldin forbid that you sing the way you
speak.” Viarki was still grinning. “Well, I've had my turn. Now try your tongue
on the rest of us.”

“I'll spare the old priest,” said
Gidjabolgo, “since you've spoken to him, Zelnis. Besides he looks too fragile
to bear a weight of words, let alone play a young god.”

“His voice is still young,” replied Viarki.
“Now what about Desha here.”

“A drab who acts as arrogantly as if she
were pretty,” announced Gidjabolgo. “Lank hair, painted lips, the lower jutting
like a drunkard's belly . . .”

The rest was lost in Desha's shriek of
protest. “How dare you say such things, monster . . . why, no one could look at
you without . . .”

“Be quiet, Desha,” murmured Viarki, “you'll
wake Leth-Kar!”

The old priest did indeed sit up and ask
what the matter was. Viarki scowled at the girl until she muttered something
about a nightmare. The signal was given to move and the ox-cart jolted forward
again.

“I think I had better finish the
descriptions,” said Viarki. “Most of us think that Desha is pretty enough, when
she's in a good temper. The lady walking by the ox is Marliann,  Leth-Kar's
wife. She's very tall for a woman. Her hair is grey now but . . . well, I
always think she looks as our Lady Imarko must have done when she began to age.
Does that give you a picture? Beside her is Feg. That must be short for
something but I've never been able to find out what. Don't think, Gidjabolgo,
that he's looking so gloomy because of the war. Feg always looks like that and
the red hair makes the glumness underneath seem worse. He's our chief musician.
The other two stayed in Viroc to serve as soldiers.”

“And your fourth player?” asked Kerish.

“He's played the role of the young hero so
often, he thinks he is one,” said Viarki, with a curious twist to his mouth. “He
stayed to fight.”

Sunrise brought no rest to the convoy. They
hurried eastwards throughout the morning. At noon they came to the ruins of a
village. Every house had been burned to the ground but the little stone temple
that was the villagers' pride was left standing. The Men of Fangmere had ripped
up
The Book of the Emperors
and shredded tapestries woven by generations
of village women. In the sanctuary itself, the statue of Imarko was smashed and
the Flower of Idaala was daubed on the walls in the blood of the priestess who
lay across the altar. The soldiers of the escort buried her and the convoy
moved on.

Late in the afternoon, the captain finally
ordered a long halt and they made camp in a small valley, just off the Joze
road. Sentries were posted on surrounding hills and a few small fires were lit
to warm up some food. The temple actors settled down around their cart to wait
for their share.

As they rubbed stiff limbs and blistered
feet, Kerish tugged at Gidjabolgo's arm. “Please take me away from them, from
everybody.”

“Where do you suppose we can go?” hissed
Gidjabolgo. “You've no royal apartments to withdraw to now when you're not in
the mood for company.”

“Just for this first night,” whispered
Kerish.

“Just this night and just the next . . . I
can see it going on. Don't flinch,” said Gidjabolgo, “it's not as if you were
really blind.”

“Isn't it?” Kerish wouldn't let go of the
Forgite's arm. “I order you . . . no I don't. I ask you . . . please!”

“Be quiet, they're staring at us. All
right. Just this once.”

Gidjabolgo darted away and spoke briefly to
Leth-Kar, then he led the Prince to a hillock, just inside the ring of sentries
and out of earshot of the rest of the convoy. He left Kerish guarding their
meagre luggage and queued at the fire for food.

Tense and exhausted, the Prince sat
listening to the subdued sounds of the tired and frightened convoy and thinking
about Forollkin. It was almost sunset. Suddenly he felt a warm but preoccupied
presence, as if his brother had briefly looked up from his work and smiled.

“It's me,” said Gidjabolgo, as Kerish
stiffened at his approaching footsteps. “And more to the point, a bowl of stew.
By the look of it the meat's been dead longer than my grandfather, but you
won't notice under the stink of spice.”

The Forgite squatted down. “I'd best feed
you, since you can't hold bowl and spoon.”

“No,” protested Kerish.

“Am I not fit to serve your Highness?”

“I'm sorry. I..I didn't mean that,”
stammered Kerish, “but I just can't bear . . .”

“I know what you meant.” Gidjabolgo thrust
a horn spoon into the Prince's hand. “You had better learn to read my voice
instead of my face.”

“I used to watch your hands and eyes,”
admitted Kerish, “to see if they betrayed your voice.”

“A pity we can't read ourselves that way,”
said Gidjabolgo. “I'm holding up the bowl.”

Kerish tried to scoop up a piece of meat. “Don't
watch me.”

“I wasn't,” lied Gidjabolgo. “You are
familiar, Galkis is strange. I am no longer beholden to my fellow travelers for
amusement.”

He talked about the things that had
interested him on the journey from Viroc until Kerish had finished his clumsy
attempts at eating. Without comment, Gidjabolgo wiped the Prince's face and ate
the rest of the stew. They lay down side by side, with one cloak spread on the
damp grass and the other covering them.

Gidjabolgo slept almost immediately but he
was woken before midnight by muffled sobs. The Forgite listened for a long time
before saying quietly, “Which of them are you crying for?”

“For all three of us,” gasped Kerish.

Gidjabolgo turned over and gripped the
Prince in his arms. “Don't waste tears on your brother.”

“But he loved Gwerath so much.”

“No,” said Gidjabolgo harshly. “It was the
idea of being loved that attracted him, not Gwerath. Until he realized that you
didn't need him anymore, he never gave her a thought. By all the gods I don't
believe in, your brother's simple lust for Pellameera was more honest than his
love for Gwerath.”

“No,” Kerish had almost stopped sobbing but
his body still shook. “No, you must be wrong.”

“Oh, it makes a prettier tale your way,”
agreed the Forgite, “but I'm not wrong. As for you . . . I suppose what you
felt could have been called love. You saw shadows of yourself in Gwerath and
loved those. Your love would have forced her to look at herself too closely,
and that she'd never have tolerated. As I once said, when you were in no state
to listen - she was best out of it.”

“Why did you dislike her so much?” asked
Kerish.

“Because I know what love is,” said
Gidjabolgo. “As for Forollkin - he'll grieve for you longer than for Gwerath,
but even facing death for Viroc he won't really be unhappy. He thrives on the
need of others and where could he be needed more? Cry for yourself if you must,
but only this one night. We have a task to finish.”

Kerish didn't speak again and after one
last sob, he lay quietly in Gidjabolgo's arms until morning.

At dawn, ten of the escort left on a
mission to scout the hills and organize resistance among the remaining
population. The captain still kept the convoy moving at a punishing pace but the
tension among the refugees gradually lessened. The forested hills began to be
noticed for their beauty rather than as places where the enemy could be hiding.
Conversation grew louder and was more concerned with the future than with what
had been left behind. People began to move out of their tight little groups and
songs were heard again. Chiefly they were the melancholy airs that Kerish
remembered haunting the Golden City at evening, but here and there someone
would launch into a comic song and the ancient jokes were received with almost
hysterical pleasure.