The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (20 page)

“Without an Imperial Guard to protect him,
or the city . . . no, I can't believe it.”

Gidjabolgo stared at him curiously. “Well,
they may have fled from a false rumor. I thought you hated the Empress. She
certainly hated you enough to order your murder.”

“No, she merely paid me the compliment of
judging me a threat to her sons.” Kerish spoke as if he were thinking aloud. “I
hated Rimoka as a child but now . . . My father can never have made it easy for
her and I think she may have loved him once. Besides, whatever her sins, she
was punished by sons unworthy of her. I can't believe she's really dead.”

The next day a makeshift stage was set up
in the temple courtyard and screens were borrowed from the Headman. Kerish and
Gidjabolgo had only one brief opportunity to be alone together, while the
evening meal was prepared. By dint of loitering around the temple stores,
Gidjabolgo had managed to steal a scrap of parchment and a piece of charcoal.
He kept watch while, for the first time in weeks, Kerish removed the bandage
about his eyes, and wrote a hasty note for Marliann. When he had finished Gidjabolgo
knotted the bandage again.

“I sold one of your bracelets, so we've
money enough to buy provisions and mounts.” 

He stopped at the sound of footsteps.
Viarki was coming to call them to supper. As they sat together in the Guest
Hall, the players talked about the coming performance but Viarki was much
quieter than usual and Leth-Kar seemed almost too exhausted to speak.

After supper the masks were taken from
their box and Gidjabolgo and Kerish were again present at the ceremony that lay
at the heart of the actor's craft. When Viarki received the Prince's mask,
Gidjabolgo noticed a grimness in the young player's face, as if he knew that
the task he undertook was hopeless.

The following day was stormy and
oppressive. Kerish again pleaded a headache and lay in his private darkness,
saying little, even to Gidjabolgo.

The performance began in the late
afternoon. A large crowd gathered in the temple courtyard and settled down with
fans and cushions and flasks of iced sherbet.

In the robing-rooms, leading off the temple
portico, watchful mothers supervised their daughters as they hid their bright
costumes under ragged cloaks, and the temple acolytes put on the gaudy feathers
and grotesque masks of the banebirds. It was not the first time for any of
them. On four days of the year it was the acolytes' duty to wear the bird
costumes and dance in the main square till they were beaten and chased from the
town by priests and citizens. Then the good fortune of Ferlic was assured for
the following months.

The maidens' chorus was soon grouped to the
right of the stage, with Feg to conduct them and Desha hidden among them. The
Hero Prince was to make his entrance from the left and Viarki had been ready an
hour before the performance. In the center of the stage stood a green and gold
screen which hid Kerish and Gidjabolgo with their zildar, drum and cymbals.
From behind it, Leth-Kar would make his entrance as Zeldin, to save Il-Keno
from the perils of the Forbidden Jungle.

The prologue, which should have been spoken
by the fifth player, was left out and the play began with a chorus lamenting
the fears and misfortunes of those who lived close to the jungle of Jenze.
Marliann's voice rose above them, first in lamentation and then in an appeal to
the Godborn, “Mighty Emperor send us help! Send us justice! Send us your son!”

Kerish remembered a day when a child with
his name had sat in the High Priest's quarters and had heard Izeldon say, “Now
my search is one of desperate haste and there is no one to send but you.”

Ragged with despair, Marliann's voice rang
out, “Prince of the Godborn, Prince born to be our protector, hasten to our
need!”

The golden keys lay cold and heavy against
his thigh. Six keys. Only one remained to be won, but was it already too late?
He had set out on his quest, dazzled by its importance, never questioning what
kind of help the people of Galkis needed. `They do not know how deeply we have
failed them', thought Kerish. In plays the call for justice and mercy was
always answered, but not in life. Was it right to try to restore the Empire to
its ancient strength and for its people to be forever dependent on the Godborn?
Was it right that the Godborn themselves should be forced to deny their
humanity and try to live as gods among men? `We are only shadows,' thought
Kerish, `who exist to teach men to love the figure that casts them' He smiled
grimly to himself. `Perhaps all our faults were preordained to turn the people
from the shadow to the reality. Perhaps my quest must fail to save Galkis from a
servitude worse than any the Five Kingdoms could impose.'

Silence fell at the sudden entry of Prince
Il-Keno. Kerish tried to imagine Viarki wearing his royal mask.

“Lament no more.” The first words were
firmly spoken. “For I will seek out the Enchantress, the Mistress of the
Banebirds.”

Then it was Kerish's turn to lead the
chorus in a sinister chant evoking the shifting terrors of the Forbidden
Jungle. His voice swooped through the frightened murmurs of the maidens'
chorus, warning of unnamed dangers, but the scene ended with the Prince's
promise. “People of Galkis, cease your weeping. I will not return until I have
freed you from fear.”

The audience fanned themselves, sipped
sherbet, and passed round sweetmeats, until Viarki stepped forward to begin the
second scene with a long monologue on his entry into the terrible stillness of
the Forbidden Jungle. Gidjabolgo picked up his cymbals, waiting for his cue,
and Leth-Kar came out of the robing-room and took his place behind the screen.
He was enveloped in a glittering cloak but still held his mask in his hands,
staring at the golden face.

Viarki's voice died away to a whisper.
Gidjabolgo crashed the cymbals together. With screeches of fury the scarlet
banebirds erupted on to the stage. Kerish pictured their dance as he had last
seen it in the Great Hall of the Imperial Palace, just before Gankali's death.
Gidjabolgo picked up his drum and beat out the fierce, discordant rhythms.
Trying to drag himself back to the present, Kerish whispered to the old man who
stood beside him. “Viarki does well. He can play the Prince, in spite of his
doubts.”

Kerish did not see Leth-Kar's nod or his
bitter smile but a moment later he heard a gasp and the crash of a fallen mask.
The old man dropped to his knees and the drumbeat faltered.

“No, play on.” Leth-Kar could barely force
out the words.

Kerish reached out to the old priest and
felt a great spasm racking his body. Gidjabolgo saw Leth-Kar's lips turn blue and
his eyes bulge as the pains stabbed his side.

On stage, Viarki cried out for the first
time, “Zeldin, Father of the Godborn, aid me!”

Kerish knelt helplessly beside Leth-Kar.
Viarki cried out again and the old priest clutched at the fallen mask.

“Lie back,” whispered the Forgite, “I'll
fetch Marliann.”

Leth-Kar shook his head and was convulsed
by another spasm. The splendid cloak slipped from his shoulders. “The play . .
.”

Viarki cried out for the third time. It was
the cue for the entry of the Gentle God but Gidjabolgo played on and the
banebirds danced, while Viarki stood bewildered and Marliann suddenly left her
place in the chorus.

“Rest. The play is nothing,” hissed
Gidjabolgo.

“Zeldin,” gasped Leth-Kar. “They must see
their god.”

“They shall,” said Kerish. He pulled the
bandage from his eyes. Stepping past the discarded mask, Kerish picked up the
cloak one-handed and draped it clumsily around himself. “Leth-Kar, you shall.”

His face contorted by a third spasm, the
old priest painfully turned his head and looked into the eyes of the Godborn.

Viarki cried out a fourth time, real dread
in his voice, “Zeldin, aid me!”

Suddenly the drumbeat stopped and a figure
emerged from behind the screen. The hair was raven and silver, the huge eyes
spheres of purple, black and gold and the burnished skin dimmed the torchlight.

The banebirds quivered and cowered as the
figure spoke, his voice pure with the beauty of youth and ancient with sorrows.
Only then did Viarki realize that Zeldin wore no mask.

The music faltered and there were
frightened whispers from the crowd. Kerish saw fear in Viarki's eyes and ached
to comfort him and reassure him of his own worth. He longed to strip Desha of
her destructive dreams and give her something real to strive for, and to make
Feg smile at other people's happiness rather than at their misery. He wanted
more than anything try bring peace to Leth-Kar and to lift the last of her
sorrows from Marliann's strong shoulders.

Kerish's own prayers mingled with the words
of Zeldin,
“Child of the Godborn, you shall never ask in vain. I am with you
always and there is no shield stronger than my love.”

The banebirds trembled, shrieked and fled.
Viarki knelt, covering his face against the glory of Zeldin. Amongst the
audience people had begun to move. Some stood and some knelt. Some stared
intently at the stage, some hid their eyes and a few ran out of the temple and
through the streets of Ferlic as if they would never stop.

Love for them all surged through Kerish and
broke from him like the light that had shattered the Jewel of Zeldin. The more
he gave the more he had to give. He opened his arms to embrace all Galkis and
the crooked fingers of his left hand straightened as he touched Viarki's
forehead.

At last the maidens began their chorus in
praise of the Gentle God and they were joined by voices from the crowd,
hesitant at first but mounting in awe and fervor. As the chorus reached its
height, the shining figure turned and left the stage.

Behind the screen knelt Marliann, cradling
her husband's head in her lap, while Gidjabolgo stood above them, the drum
still in his hands. Kerish took one step towards them. The old priest's face
was contorted with pain and ecstasy. “Zeldin! Gentle Zeldin.”

It was no more than a whisper, but it took
the last of his strength. Leth-Kar's body arched and his head lolled back.
After a moment Marliann closed the dead man's eyes.

Kerish stood like a sleepwalker gazing at
the strong straight fingers of his left hand until Gidjabolgo took the splendid
cloak from his shoulders. “I can move it again. I can move my hand.”

At Viarki's orders, Feg had hurried the
maidens on stage to begin the third scene.

“I think we should go now,” murmured
Gidjabolgo.

“Zelnis?” Marliann was looking up at him.

“I am Kerish-lo-Taan,” he said.

She nodded, as if not greatly surprised. “Prince,
I thank you with all my heart.”

“We must leave at once. I wrote you this
letter.” Kerish drew the parchment from his tunic and handed it to her.

“Whatever your Highness commands,” murmured
Marliann. “I will see that you are not followed. My blessing goes with you.”

White-faced beneath her mask and trembling
from what she had seen, Desha stepped on stage amongst the maidens' chorus. At
the end of the dance, Prince Il-Keno recognized her as the Enchantress and
Viarki's confident cry, “Can sorcery stand against the Power of Zeldin?” was
the last thing that Kerish and Gidjabolgo heard as they slipped away from the
temple.

Chapter
9

The Book of the Emperors:
Conflicts

He asked them
why they would not enter and they answered, “Because Zeldin has forbidden it.” “And
why has He done so?” They did not know, nor had they ever thought to ask and he
raged at them saying, “Are you beasts that you accept the goad without
question? If there were no reasons behind our Lord's commands He would be a god
unworthy of our worship. Therefore seek to understand, that you may know His
will. Obedience without thought is a barren stalk, it rears up in the sight of
men but will bear no flower. Struggle to understand with all your strength and
having failed, only then should you trust in Zeldin.” At these words even those
who had listened to him before were angry and they drove Jezreen  from the
city.

Just after dawn two travelers departed
unobserved from the Headman's Guest Hall. They rode quietly through the village
towards the path they had so often been warned against.

The village was screened from the jungle by
a low hill. Even then, each house was built facing west and a bundle of charms
hung above every door to protect the sleepers from `bird-dreams'. After playing
for his supper, the ugly foreigner had tried to find out more about these
dreams and had been rebuffed. The occasional unguarded word from an old man or
a child had revealed that the dreamer felt himself to be flying and saw
terrible visions, but not even the gently spoken blind youth could learn more.

There were storm clouds in the skies of
Jenoza and the rains were about to bring an end to the long summer. The grass
beneath the ponies' feet was already withered but ahead rose the brilliant
green ramparts of the jungle of Jenze. The younger rider smelled the
intoxicating scents of the jungle flowers and heard the ominous buzzing of
insects and the shrieks and songs of birds. Knowing himself safe he stripped
off his bandage and blinked in the unfamiliar sunlight.

“There seem to be no guardians to forbid
our entry,” said Gidjabolgo.

Kerish knew that he was remembering the
pillars that had barred their path on the Forbidden Hill.

“You heard what Viarki said - nothing
prevents you entering the jungle but no one does.”

“Except your famous Prince Il-Keno,”
Gidjabolgo reminded him.

“Vethnar did warn us that the story was not
entirely true.”

“And that the Enchantress of your Galkian
legends is our seventh sorceress. He was keeping something back,” said
Gidjabolgo sourly. “I remember his smile.”

“Tebreega, “ murmured Kerish. “That was her
name; the last sorcerer.”

*****

The journey to the Forbidden Jungle had
been swift and uneventful. After a long night's walk they had bought two ponies
in the village nearest to Ferlic. Gidjabolgo had repeated the court musician's
story but now gave out that he was escorting his blind companion to his home on
the border of the Desolation of Zarn. They had followed the foothills and then
turned east towards the jungle. Provisions were not plentiful but there was
just enough to spare for strangers, especially those who could pay well. In the
larger villages the traditional hospitality of the Headman's Guest Halls was
extended to them.

Kerish did his best to warn the people of
their growing danger. There were no troops stationed between them and the Jenze
and the men of the Five Kingdoms might forage further and further eastwards as
the winter came. The Headman murmured about posting more lookouts and
conserving supplies, but with no great sense of urgency.

The nearer they got to the Forbidden
Jungle, the shyer and more suspicious of strangers the people became. These
villages were chiefly governed by Headwomen, who listened attentively to
Kerish's warnings, but said nothing. They had the safest of all refuges in the
jungle, but the Prince knew that they would never take it. Yet in the last
village that they passed through, there was a path to the jungle's edge. It was
blurred with footsteps, as if many people had come close to the green wall of
trees and then turned back.

The travelers dismounted and Gidjabolgo
unloaded their meagre luggage - one spare tunic each, a single cooking pot, a
water-flask and a basket full of bread, white cheese and lentils. He tied them
all up in a single bundle.

“You're sure about the ponies?”

Kerish nodded. “We have no more need for
them.”

Gidjabolgo slapped the two ponies on their
rumps and they trotted lazily back towards the village.

“They can serve as a parting present,” said
the Forgite, “though I wouldn't care to speculate on what the villagers will do
with them. The people here may be Galkians in name, but they remind me of
Hemcoth's subjects in gloomy Gultim.”

“They also live at the edge of the world. I
suppose it breeds mistrust. I never imagined that once we returned to Galkis,
I'd have to leave it again so soon.”

Gidjabolgo slung the bundle across his
back. “And who knows where this last sorcerer will send us? Dorak? Ranin?
Kolgor? There are plenty of places to be visited before your education is
complete. Are we ready?”

Kerish had had little opportunity to remove
his bandage during the journey from Ferlic and his eyes were still adjusting to
the light. The trees ahead were far taller than those in the foothills. They
grew so close together that, except along the path, it was impossible to see
into the jungle for more than a few feet.

“Vethnar said take the first path we find
and follow it to Tir-Jenac.”

“But can we trust his memory,” asked
Gidjabolgo, “or his sense of humor?”

“We have to,” answered Kerish.

The noise of the jungle was truly
astonishing. Hundreds of small creatures hidden among the trees were rustling,
squawking, hissing, humming, chattering, shrieking.

Kerish took a step forward and there was
silence, so sudden and complete that it struck him like a blow. All movement
had ceased but the scents of the jungle seemed to intensify and a terrible,
humid heat dropped over him like a net.

Gidjabolgo murmured, “I had a dream once,
on the borders of Everlorn . . .”

“So did I,” whispered Kerish. “There was a
tunnel of golden trees. I  wanted so much to enter and I knew that the forest
would let me in.”

But not Gwerath, he remembered suddenly;
she had been left behind. He could almost hear her sobbing now, `Kerish, wait
for me!' Yet he knew that he wanted to enter the jungle more than anything in
Zindar and that if Gwerath had stood alive beside him, he would have cursed her
for holding him back. The thought sickened Kerish and he stumbled against
Gidjabolgo. The Forgite's face seemed to hold up a mirror to his own yearning
to discover the jungle's secrets.

“If we turn back now,” gasped Kerish, “I
don't think I could ever want anything again.”

“But perhaps if we enter the jungle, the
longing grows fiercer and fiercer,” said Gidjabolgo hoarsely. “I'm tempted to
knock you unconscious and drag you away.”

“I don't know if I'd be able to forgive
you,” admitted Kerish. “Remember, you don't have to come in with me.”

The Forgite didn't bother to answer. He
pushed past Kerish and stood on the path, just inside the jungle. After a
moment he murmured, “Once you're in, you want to be out again - like most
things.”

Kerish joined him. The moss that covered
the path deadened his footsteps, completing the silence. It seemed very dark.
At first, Kerish could not make out more than patterns of branches, blotched
with outlandish flowers, but slowly, he realized that there were eyes among the
leaves. They were observed from every trunk and bough by motionless birds and
animals and insects.

By unspoken consent, Kerish and Gidjabolgo
walked as quietly as possible, afraid of shattering so vast a silence. The
jungle seemed inquisitive rather than hostile but Kerish was reminded of
Tir-Roac where Shubeyash had watched them everywhere through dead men's eyes.

Gidjabolgo had bought a long knife in one
of the villages to hack a way through the undergrowth, but nothing encroached
on the narrow path; not so much as a fallen petal. The heat was appalling.
Kerish kept brushing back his clinging hair and Gidjabolgo grimaced at the
bundle chafing his shoulders, but he wouldn't let the Prince carry anything but
his zildar.

They walked for several hours, pausing
sometimes in pools of light to count the watchers in the trees. At what
Gidjabolgo guessed to be noon, they stopped to nibble at their bread and
cheese, which now seemed heavy and coarse, and to drink from their water-flask.
Kerish wondered tiredly how far it was to the citadel of Tebreega and then
remembered that Forollkin probably had to bear worse ordeals every day. He
tried to picture Viroc, but there were creepers on the white ramparts and the
dead and the wounded were covered with jungle flowers. In spite of the heat,
Kerish shivered and tried to blot out the image.

In the late afternoon, the path suddenly
emerged into a clearing. The ground was covered by a creeping plant studded
with azure flowers, but across it ran the moss-green path. The clearing was a
pool of silence, deep enough to drown in. The circle of sky above it seemed
suddenly frightening. Kerish wondered how they had ever endured such huge,
oppressive emptiness. Both of them walked across the clearing very fast,
anxious to reach the sheltering trees again.

Halfway across, a scarlet feather drifted
towards them. There was not a breath of wind, but the feather swayed and
spiraled and came to rest at Gidjabolgo's feet. Perfect in every barb, it
glittered with moisture. The Forgite stooped to pick it up.

“No!” hissed Kerish, and caught at his
hand. “Vethnar said we mustn't touch them, but don't leave the pathway. Jump!”

Fluttered by the intangible breeze the
feather moved towards them. The Forgite hopped over it, gasping for breath, and
ran for the trees. Kerish followed him. The path entered its dappled tunnel
again and the noise struck them.

Gidjabolgo dropped to his knees and Kerish
covered his ears. The jungle screamed and everything moved. Creepers tightened
their grip on groaning trees, flowers opened, butterflies hovered, birds beat
their wings, monkeys leapt from bough to bough, snakes uncoiled, and blind,
snuffling creatures stirred amongst the undergrowth. Kerish tried to absorb the
noise by dividing it into its parts and identifying them with the scents that swirled
about him. The air seemed cooler, as if the heat had escaped through the broken
barrier of silence and nothing watched the travelers now. The jungle seemed to
have accepted them.

Kerish and Gidjabolgo followed the path
until the sudden dusk. The Prince's thoughts reached out to his brother. He
stood very still, both hands stretched out in front of him. Leafy patterns hid
the expression on his pale face, but after a few moments, his arms dropped.

“I can't reach. I can't get the jungle out
of my thoughts. I can't get out!”

He felt more isolated than at any time
since he had left the Golden City. He had lost Forollkin.

“Gidjabolgo, if you weren't here, I think
I'd forget who I am.”

The Forgite shrugged. “To many men a place
where the past has no existence would be a paradise.”

Kerish looked him in the eyes. “And to you?”

“There are three moments in my life that I
would choose not to forget. The rest, I'd gladly be rid of. Are we stopping
here for the night?”

Kerish nodded absently. “Forollkin might
think I'm dead.”

“He'll be too busy to notice,” said
Gidjabolgo tartly, and started unpacking the food.

After a meal of cheese and bread, they
spread out their cloaks and rolled up their spare tunics as pillows. The
travelers lay down feeling horribly exposed to the creatures around them, but
Vethnar had warned them not to leave the path, so they could not look for
shelter. If anything, the jungle seemed more raucous at night. This was partly
because their own movements no longer distracted them from listening, and
partly because of the nocturnal hunters who swooped and snarled and hissed all
around them. They had expected to be plagued by insects, but although Kerish
could hear them humming and whirring close by, he suffered no bites or stings.
It was as if the pathway existed in a different space to the jungle that
enclosed it.

Both hovered for a long time on the border
between sleeping and waking, dragged back a dozen times by the exultant cry of
a hunter or the squeals of its prey. The last thing that Kerish remembered was
a welcome coolness, as if he were fanned by gentle wings, but he dreamed of the
Chamber of Seeing, and woke at first light tense with horror.

Gidjabolgo was still asleep, his face more
peaceful than Kerish had ever seen it. The Prince got up without waking him and
wandered along the path. Jeweled beetles crawled on tree-trunks and in the
branches above, male birds displayed their brilliant tail-feathers to drab
indifferent females. His presence did nothing to disrupt the courtship. Kerish
might as well have been invisible.

He paused in front of a clump of bushes,
laden with scarlet and ochre fruits. Delighting in the renewed strength of his
left hand, Kerish used it to fill the lap of his robe with fruit. By the time
he returned, Gidjabolgo was sitting up, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“I've brought us breakfast.” Kerish
squatted down beside the Forgite, sending the fruit tumbling on to the moss. It
smelled delicious, but seemed to vanish in the mouth, leaving only moisture
behind.

“Colored water,” spat Gidjabolgo. “Are we
to live on this?”

Kerish nodded dreamily. “On the scents and
sounds of the jungle. Shall we go on?”

They began the day's journey, walking
without haste, as the path led them south-east. They gradually became
accustomed to the noise, until it seemed a new form of silence, constant and
meaningless. The continual movement fascinated the travelers. Many times they
stopped to watch jewel-bright birds sucking nectar from flowers, monkeys
playing in the treetops, or butterflies hovering. Kerish often thought about
what Gwerath's reaction would have been, or imagined describing the wonders of
the jungle to her. His face betrayed him, but Gidjabolgo said nothing.