The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (25 page)

“There is a legend among the Ferrabrinth,”
murmured Tebreega, “only a legend, as they have often stressed to me, of an age
when they dwelt in another land beyond the Great Ocean. There they lived in
huge hollowed trees and they tamed the birds and beasts of the forest. One of
these beasts showed more intelligence than the rest and that species became
their cherished companions. Over the centuries they lavished great care and
affection on generations of the beasts, teaching them to perform simple tricks
and tasks. Gradually, the species became quicker to learn and its method of
communication grew more complex. Then the creatures grew harder to train to
obedience. Some ran away into the forest where wild colonies sprang up.”

“One day a great sage amongst the
Ferrabrinth was making a journey through a remote part of the forest. There he
discovered an expanding city of trees. No craftsmen of the Ferrabrinth had
worked on it. It was made by the creatures; a crude but functional copy. The
sage returned to his people and told them that they must leave their homes, for
he had seen the future of the land and it was not theirs. Other wise ones were
consulted and finally the gods themselves, and it was agreed. The entire nation
of the Ferrabrinth sailed across the Great Ocean to a new land but they always
feared that they would be followed. They have a proverb, `Only our children
have the power to destroy us.'”

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.”