The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (18 page)

Desha's voice had taken on some of the rich
sweetness that had flowed from behind the mask. “In the last scene, she dies in
his arms and the Emperor rages against fate and the chorus compare his grief to
Zeldin's. Then, in the epilogue, Imarko herself appears to tell of the happy
union of the Emperor and his Queen beyond the Gate of Death and of how glorious
their only son will be. Of course, when we first performed the play the Empress
had given out that the Third Prince was dead, but no one believed her and now
he's returned and Leth-Kar's going to add some new lines about it for the next
performance.”

“And who,” asked Kerish shakenly, “plays
Taana?”

“I do, of course, because she was a Queen,
never an Empress. It's my favorite role and one day I will play her in the
Golden City in front of the whole court. As soon as the war is over . . .”

“You aim to enter the palace troupe?”

“I know I shall,” said Desha proudly. “Even
Marliann says I'm good enough.”

“And is there nothing to bind you to the
south?”

“No one,” said Desha harshly. “Tell me
about the court and the palace players.”

“Child, you are tiring Master Zelnis.” It
was Marliann's gentle voice. “Leth-Kar wishes you to go over a speech with him.
Join him please.”

“You can tell me later,” said Desha
ungraciously, and strode away.

“Try not to tell her all of the truth,”
murmured the priestess. “The Golden City is the corner-stone of her dreams and
without them she is beggared.”

“You don't think she will achieve her
dream?” asked Gidjabolgo.

“Even if the Empire survives these wars,”
answered Marliann slowly, “much will be changed. There may be no court and no
players. In gentler times I would have tried to wean her from her dreams but
now I can offer nothing else. Be kind to her.”

“You were once at court . . .?”

“Many years ago, Zelnis,” said Marliann, “and
even then the glory of the Golden City was dimmed. It made me feel old before
my time and I pitied its children.”

On the next day's journey, Desha pestered
Kerish with questions. To her intense annoyance most of them were taken up by
Gidjabolgo, whose answers reeked of malicious invention and kept her
continually snorting in disbelief. Viarki intended to come to the rescue but he
couldn't resist asking a few questions of his own. When Kerish was persuaded to
describe some rich ceremony or a performance by the temple actors, more than
just the young players crowded close to listen.

That evening the convoy camped in a
sheltered hollow in hills ringed with scented trees and close to a clear
spring. When they were fed and rested, Leth-Kar declared that it was time they
began to practice songs again and the troupe's instruments were retrieved from
the cart. Feg was a musician of the old-fashioned type. He ignored the form of
musical notation used in the north and preferred to learn and teach without
ever writing a tune down. Indeed, like many southerners, he declared that to
write anything down was to kill it. The music for the temple plays had often
been handed down through hundreds of years, each generation providing its own
additions and embellishments. One song was even said to have been carried to
Galkis by the ship that bore Imarko and was older than the Golden City itself.

An innocent question from Kerish launched
Feg into a gloomy tirade on the evils of change to which none of the actors
made any pretense of listening. In the absence of the second and third
musicians, Viarki was to play the flute and Desha was sulkily dangling a pair
of cymbals in her lap. With grave courtesy, Leth-Kar asked the Forgite if he
would play with them. Gidjabolgo shrugged assent and unslung the zildar from
his shoulder. Feg examined it in pretended disapproval, plucking the strings
and tapping the delicate fretwork. He played a few chords and muttered, “It
will serve.”

“Serve!” cried Viarki. “It's exquisite and
you know it. I've never seen such a zildar. Surely, painted with a zeloka it
should be a royal instrument. We have a model just like it for scenes with the
Poet Emperor.”

“It was a royal gift,” said Gidjabolgo
truthfully enough.

“Is it yours, Zelnis, and did you play it
for the Queen?” Viarki stroked the gilded wood with great respect.

“I used to play it,” said Kerish somberly. “Now
you may as well call it Gidjabolgo's.”

“Zelnis, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind
you,” stammered Viarki.

Touched at the distress in Viarki's voice,
his own misery melted away. Kerish felt for the young player and squeezed his
shoulder. “I know it. Rest assured, Gidjabolgo plays the zildar as well as I
ever did.”

They soon heard the proof of that. Feg,
with Viarki's wavering support on the flute, played a simple hymn tune used in
the interludes of several plays. Gidjabolgo quickly picked up the melody and
began weaving harmonies that reduced Feg to mingled dislike and respect. He
taught the Forgite several further pieces: the whispering chorus of trees that
mourned the Poet Emperor, the Dance of the Banebirds, a hymn extolling the
beauties of holy Hildimarn, and a marching song that commemorated the first
Battle of Viroc. This last, Kerish had known since childhood and he lifted his
voice to join the fierce, bright rhythms. Many of the convoy had gathered to
listen and even the captain of the escort briefly left his fireside to speak to
them.

“Your singing cheers everyone. When we
reach a town with a proper temple it would be a service to the province to
perform there. Something hopeful to hearten the people.”

Leth-Kar answered courteously but Kerish
bowed his head, remembering the captain from among the soldiers on the wall,
the morning the Imperial Guard had reached Viroc.  As soon as he had gone,
Marliann said softly, “Master Zelnis, may we not entreat you to sing something
for us?”

He would have refused any of the others,
but not her.

Kerish chose the same song he had given
long before to the court of Elmandis. The story of the Poet Emperor and his
hunt for the Trieldiss, the creature whose death could give him his heart's
desire; the creature that he could not bear to kill. This time, Kerish's
blinded eyes saw the Trieldiss as clearly as if it stood before him and its
beauty thrilled through his voice and the sorrow of its loss and the wonder of
its gift to the Poet Emperor pierced each of the hearers.

When the song was over, they crowded round
Kerish, praising his voice. No-one told him that Leth-Kar was weeping as if he,
too, had glimpsed something that he was never destined to capture.

Chapter
8

The Book of the Emperors:
Chronicles

“You say that
the Godborn will endure in power and splendor, but I tell you that we are like
a mountain stream. The stream is fair and swift, but when the snows melt, how
much greater will the torrent be.” “But then the stream is lost in the torrent,”
cried out the Emperor, and Jezreen answered him, “Yes, but the torrent may
flood the whole earth.”

It was a week before the convoy reached a
town of any size, and by that time everyone had heard of the blind singer who
spoke so vividly of the marvels of the north. At each halt, people gathered to
listen to him. Kerish no longer hid himself away or refused to speak. He
answered all the questions put to him, whether they were eager or shy, sensible
or foolish. Slowly, he began to enjoy the small deceptions he had to practice,
and Gidjabolgo's acid comments on them.

To a succession of listeners, Kerish
described the beauty of the Nine Cities and their tangled histories, just as he
had once conjured them for lbrogdiss in the marshes of Lan-Pin-Fria. Then, he
had simply articulated memories, now he seemed to create the cities as he
spoke.

After a while, Kerish began to ask a fee
from his listeners: a description of themselves and their own lives. Some
thought that he was mocking them, but the Prince listened patiently to their
halting accounts and asked questions that produced unexpected eloquence, even
from the most timid. He spoke to old men, carpenters and tanners, shipwrights
and dyers who had followed their crafts in the proud Guilds of Viroc, and to
women skilled in the arts of calligraphy or weaving, the lore of herbs or the
blending of scents. All of them fretted at the disruption of their work, but
none were tainted with despair. The blow had fallen hardest on servants lost
without a master and the dull, comfortable tasks that had filled their days,
and on women who had lived only through their husbands and sons.

These people were sought out by Marliann
and sometimes Kerish went with her when she tried to comfort them. The priests
of Zeldin were respected, but it was to the priestesses of Imarko that the
people of Galkis turned in times of trouble. Marliann wept with them all and
then coaxed out smiles. She gave hope to traders who had lost their
livelihoods; to young girls who had dreamed of marriage and now saw the young
men they had teased and longed for, marked for death; and to old men, too proud
to live on charity. The priestess shared in all their feelings, understanding
petty worries and deep griefs, and yet Kerish sensed in her an almost daunting
serenity. She was beyond the reach of any hurt to herself. Wondering what that
could mean to the one who was closest to her, Kerish vowed to seek out
Leth-Kar's company.

He was almost too late. One morning the old
priest had a seizure and suffered for a time with terrible pains in the chest.
They left him very weak. For several days he lay in the cart, swathed in cloaks
and blankets to ease the worst of the jolting, with Marliann constantly beside
him.

Every evening, Kerish reached out for his
brother. Sometimes Forollkin's presence was warm and vivid; twice he could not
be reached at all. Once, Kerish guessed that Forollkin must have fallen into a
dreamless sleep. Once, another presence seemed to be filling his brother's
thoughts.

On the seventh day, the convoy entered the
town of Dhil, and for the first time, they glimpsed the Jen Mountains piercing
the horizon. The captain of the escort  considered his duty over and only two
soldiers were detailed to guide the convoy on the remainder of the way to Joze.
The rest of his men set about recruiting more soldiers to harry the enemy
forces, and persuading the people of Dhil of Viroc's urgent need of supplies
and arms. Burdened already by much higher taxes than usual, the townspeople
were in a sullen mood, so the captain encouraged the refugees to wander among
them, talking about the hardships they had endured in Viroc and the destruction
they had seen.

The actors were lodged, like the other
priests and priestesses from Viroc, in the temple guesthouse. The temple at
Dhil was fine and large, built in the characteristic coral stone of the Jen
Mountains, with a portico that served as a stage for festivals and pageants.
The actors were asked if they would perform on the following evening.

Leth-Kar was barely recovered, so they
chose `The Bracelet of Truth', which only required him to sit on the Emperor's
throne in solemn judgment. A chorus of children, few of whom had any aptitude
for singing, was hastily assembled and despairingly coached by Feg. Marliann
laughed and prophesied that their parents would admire them, however badly they
sang. Gidjabolgo was pressed into service as second musician and spent several
stormy sessions with Feg learning hymns and songs. Kerish agreed to sing the
solos on condition that he could not be seen by the audience.

At dusk on the following evening, the
townspeople began to assemble in the temple courtyard and scented torches were
lit. Hidden behind a screen, Kerish heard Viarki's opening speech in Low
Galkian, relating the story of the play. Those few among the audience who
claimed a knowledge of High Galkian made the traditional gesture of covering
their ears, but most people listened attentively.

The first scene depicted a quarrel between
a Lord of Galkis and his young wife. Putting on his mask and a glittering
cloak, Viarki stepped into the husband's role and demanded to know why his wife
no longer wore the bracelet of Dirian pearls he had given her on their wedding
day. The audience knew that she had left it beneath her lover's pillow, but Desha,
as the faithless wife, declared that one of her servants must have stolen it
while she was bathing. The old woman who had poured the bath was summoned and
accused. Marliann's rich voice came out from behind her wrinkled mask in a
frightened whisper. The husband continued to believe his wife's story. In
desperation, the old woman appealed to the Emperor's justice. The scene ended
with a chorus summoning the troubled and oppressed to bring their grievances to
the Emperor, and praising the justice of the Godborn.

The children sang raggedly but with great
gusto and Kerish's pure voice soared above theirs in perfect counterpoint. The
two musicians played, while a purple and gold backcloth was hung up to
represent the Imperial Palace. Kerish heard the audience murmuring and coughing
and the cries of the vendors of sweetmeats and cordials touting their wares.

Leth-Kar took his place as the Emperor
Var-Sheekin on a makeshift throne at the center of the stage and the Lord and
his Lady prostrated themselves before him. Desha spoke first, and with such
gracious calm that nothing in her tale rang false. She curtsied demurely and
stepped back. Kerish heard Marliann as the old woman stumble forward and
whisper that she did not know how to plead. Then Leth-Kar's voice, still firm
and resonant, rose in an invocation to Imarko, beseeching his Foremother to
speak for the servant. Kerish imagined the old woman straightening and looking
her accuser in the face. Her fear was stripped away and when she spoke again,
it was with the voice of the Lady of the Stars.

First came a denial of the accusation and
then the truth: that the bracelet would be found beneath the pillow of a
certain officer of the Imperial Guard. Desha's calm shattered and she shrieked
denials. Imarko spoke through the old woman on the nature of Truth and the Sin
of Untruth and the chorus sang an eerie chant, describing how men could unmake
Zindar with lies. With one last cry, Desha turned to show the audience an empty
sleeve, instead of the arm that the bracelet should have encircled. The old
woman fell into a swoon, and when she recovered, her voice was her own again.
The Emperor decreed that the servant should be rewarded with the value of the
bracelet and that the Lord should punish his wife as he chose. The second scene
ended with a brief song in praise of Truth. The complex accompaniment tested
Gidjabolgo to the limit, but he made no errors.

In the third scene, the Lord and his Lady
were once again in their home. Desha confessed her sins and pleaded for forgiveness
but Viarki, as her husband, vowed that he would never pardon her until she
could embrace him with two arms again. Weeping, the faithless wife begged her
servant's forgiveness too. The old woman told her that to feel the presence of
Imarko was worth any suffering. Not only did she forgive her mistress, she
thanked her with all her heart. The old woman clasped the Lady's vanished hand
and it became living flesh again. The husband stood abashed, and when his wife
flung her two arms around him, he truly forgave her. The play ended with the
chorus still praising Justice but Kerish's lone voice glorifying Mercy.

As usual, there was no applause, but the
audience joined happily in the final hymn and a blessing was given by the
priests of the temple. The actors remained in seclusion, until each felt that
they had fully returned to their own personality. Then, when the masks were
carefully put away and the costumes folded, they went out to mingle with the
crowd. Kerish and Gidjabolgo stayed behind one of the screens, talking quietly,
but Viarki soon returned with a flask of cordial and a handful of sticky
sweetmeats.

“It went well; considering the terrible
chorus and shifters who couldn't move their own feet. The audience was pleased.
They'll go away feeling that they've done something virtuous themselves, and
that should make them happy, except for the ones Feg catches and warns to
repent. Zelnis, you sang beautifully. Yarlin never really got that more than
human quality you need in the Chant of Unmaking. It ought to make you shiver,
and it did tonight. I thought I'd dissolve on the spot. You, Gidjabolgo,
deserve Feg's praise but you won't get it, that's not his way.” Viarki stuffed
a plump sweetmeat into his mouth, but kept on talking. “Marliann is always
wonderful in `The Bracelet of Truth', but isn't it odd how the part of the
faithless wife suits Desha? The collection should be a good one, and of course
you'll get your share.”

Kerish seemed taken aback. “I don't want
money.”

“Well, not for food and lodgings,” agreed
Viarki, handing round the flask again. “The temples will see to that, but there
are other things.”

“Pay no attention,” said Gidjabolgo. “Zelnis
has been spoiled by palace life. We'll take what we're offered. Are you sure
the temples ahead will look after us? Won't they already have enough actors and
musicians in Joze?”

Viarki frowned. “Some may have gone west to
fight, but yes I suppose we'll be forced to take second place. They'll probably
send us out on the road, to visit the small towns and the villages. I don't
mind. I'm used to starting at the bottom, but it's hard on Leth-Kar at his age.”

When they left Dhil, Kerish and Gidjabolgo
were each richer by two silver theegs. The Prince turned them over and over in
his hand. They were old coins and must bear his father's head. He never
remembered having touched one before.

“Don't drop them,” muttered Gidjabolgo. “They'll
come in useful to buy food when we leave the convoy. What's the value of a
theeg? Would it run to the hire of two horses?”

“I don't know. “ Kerish smiled at his own
ignorance. “You had better find a roundabout way of asking Viarki.”

The convoy moved off at noon. As he stood
in his usual position, gripping the edge of the cart, Kerish heard the old
priest and his wife approaching. Marliann lightly touched the Prince's
shoulder.

“Zelnis, there is a young woman in one of
the other carts who is close to her time. I have promised to stay with her.
Would you ride in the cart, just this once, and keep Leth-Kar company?”

Her husband began to murmur that it wasn't
necessary, but after a moment's hesitation, Kerish agreed. Feg helped him on to
the cart and then tugged at the ox's halter to lead it forward. Gidjabolgo and
Viarki followed, talking vigorously. Desha walked a little way behind, her face
lit by a greedy smile as she dreamed of the Golden City.

Kerish settled down amongst a heap of
cloaks that glittered with false gold, and asked the old man if he was
comfortable. Leth-Kar assured him that he was and there was a long, but not an
awkward, silence. The town boundary was passed and the diminished convoy joined
the Joze road again. Kerish asked if Leth-Kar had been this far east before.
The old priest nodded and then remembered. “Yes, for I was born in a village
not twelve miles from Joze. Since I showed some liking for learning I was sent
to the temple school there.”

“So this is a kind of homecoming for you,”
said Kerish.

“I have not been back in forty years,”
murmured Leth-Kar, “nearly everyone I knew will be dead. I never thought I'd
have to return.”

“You were unhappy in Joze?”

“I was not happy,” agreed the old priest, “though
I cannot say that I was ever ill-treated. I entered that school when I was nine
years old and the following spring I saw my first performance by the temple
actors. It was `The Hunting of the Trieldiss'. Your song reminded me . . .”

He did not speak again for some time and
Kerish hardly dared to move or breathe, in case he shattered the old man's
memories.

“I saw the Trieldiss in my mind's eye that
day,” murmured Leth-Kar at last, “and I knew that I wanted to be a temple
actor. I wanted to be the Godborn, to be Zeldin himself. When I heard you sing,
I saw the Trieldiss again and I recognized that, given the Prince's choice, I
would have loosed the arrow. Perhaps I did once have that choice and perhaps I
murdered my heart's desire.”

“Surely you became all that you wished, “
Kerish said. “What is it you still lack?”

“I began my training at Joze, but I could
not stay there. There were too many people who knew me, my family, my childhood
friends . . . how could I play Zeldin in front of them? I feared their mockery,”
admitted Leth-Kar, “so I begged to be sent away. I came west to Viroc. There I
achieved my ambition, and Marliann too. Perhaps that was one gift too many.”