The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (12 page)

With half the awning flung back, moonlight
bared the secretive faces of the soul figures; blind creatures dragged on an
unknown journey. `And Zeldin knows', thought Kerish, `that's apt enough'.

As the bottom dropped away, Forollkin swam
for a few yards pushing against the boat, while Gwerath and Gidjabolgo lowered
the makeshift oars. Then he scrambled in, and tried to wring the water from his
sodden clothes.

“I'm sorry, Kerish, I had to kill the
guard. He was about to cry out. His death will have bought us enough time.” His
brother failed to answer but Forollkin went on more cheerfully, “The wind's
right. Zeldin and Imarko must be with us. Once we're out of this bay, the wind
and the current ought to sweep us towards Viroc.”

For the first half-hour their progress was
agonizingly slow. Gwerath took the steering oar, and Forollkin and Gidjabolgo
struggled with the makeshift oars against the capricious waters. Kerish was
anxiously scanning the shore for lights, or signs of movement that would herald
the discovery of their escape. If they were still in the bay when that
happened, there would be no hope. Several times tension tricked him into
thinking that the uproar had begun, but nothing stirred on the dark shore, and
just after midnight they rounded the headland.

The open water was rough. The boat plunged
and rocked and the wooden figures slid along their benches and tumbled into the
aisle. Gidjabolgo pushed them back to lean drunkenly against one another. When
the tide ran high in the estuary of the Jenze, the current known as the Hair of
Idaala entangled ships and drew men to their deaths. To the travelers, its grip
seemed a gift from Imarko bearing them towards the Galkian shore. The oars were
pulled in a second too late. The ferocious current had already ripped one
shield away.

“I'm sorry, Gwerath.” Forollkin laid down
the dripping spear. “Your scarf has gone with the shield.” He was not sure of
her expression in the elusive moonlight. “I'll get you a better one when we're
back in Galkis.”

Gwerath fingered her bare throat, still
saying nothing.

Gidjabolgo spat on his blistered hands. “Do
I take it that we're relying on your Lord Jerenac keeping a poor watch? Or what
is to stop the sentries on the walls of Viroc shooting us on sight?”

“Very little,” answered Forollkin. “The
watch will be good, you can be sure of that. I hope we can land on the coast
somewhere before we reach Viroc itself.”

“Haven't we anything that Jerenac's men
would recognize as Galkian?” asked Gwerath.

“Only the Prince,” murmured Gidjabolgo, “and
not even a mast to nail him to.”

“We could sing a hymn to Imarko as we
approach,” suggested Kerish. “No Orazian would do that, even as a stratagem.”

Forollkin nodded. “That's a good idea. You
and I will stand in the prow and let's hope they do recognize Galkian blood and
hold their fire until we're within hailing distance.”

He had lashed the steering oar, and there
was nothing to do but wait for the current to bring them close enough to the
coast. The moon was fitful and a cold wind was blowing. Forollkin shivered in
his wet clothes and there was nowhere comfortable to rest.

Huddled in the narrow aisle, Gidjabolgo and
Gwerath did manage a little sleep but they were woken in the darkest hour of
the night by a cry from Kerish, and Forollkin's anxious voice demanding, “What
is it? What's the matter?”

“They know we've taken the Boat of Souls.”
Kerish was doubled up as if someone had hit him. “They'll follow us soon. “

“How do you know?” whispered Gwerath.

“I felt the strength of their anger,”
murmured Kerish, “and the shock of it. None of them could believe it at first,
not even O-grak.”

The long wait for dawn, wondering how close
the coast of Galkis really lay, and how far the pursuers were behind them, was
the worst of all. Still shivering, Forollkin refused Kerish's offer of his dry
cloak, but asked instead for a song or a story.

“A story to bring the sun?” Kerish smiled
grimly and leant his head against the wooden thigh of the soul of Khan O-grak.
For warmth, they had covered the boat again with its awning and only one flap
was raised to let them see the grey shadows of the false dawn.

“In the morning of the world . . .” Kerish
spoke just loudly enough to be heard above wind and water, “Imarko, fairest of
Queens, looked into her mirror and saw amongst the glory of her sable hair, a
single thread of silver. On that day she left the Golden City, and went up into
the mountains. In the starlight, Zeldin came to her and the mountains themselves
bowed down to honor him. When he took her hand, Imarko felt no cold amid the
eternal snows and they danced together and celebrated their love.

But when the timid dawn disturbed their
joy, Imarko spoke to Zeldin, saying, `Oh my Lord, I grow old.' He did not hide
the truth from her but answered, `To you and to our children I have given a
great span of life, but age and death will come at last, for that is the
pattern of this world.'

And Imarko bowed her head and wept, as the
stars faded from the sky.

`Yet for you, my Queen,' said Zeldin the
Ever-Young, `the pattern may be altered. I will take you up with me, out of
Zindar, and you shall suffer neither age nor death.'

And Imarko cried out in her joy and the sun
rose over Galkis. But then she remembered her children and her people, and
asked, `But must they die?'

And Zeldin answered, `Death is a precious
gift, yet they will fear it, with none to guide them through the darkness.'

Then Imarko looked down at her land and
said, `I have chosen. I will age; I will sicken; I will die; to be a light to
my people in their darkness. Forbid me, Lord, to break this promise.'

`That I may not do,' answered the Gentle
God. `The choice is yours alone. Three times I will ask before the end, whether
your mind is changed. Three times only. Ah, do not weep, my Queen, for all men
will love and praise you.'

Imarko returned to the Golden City and grew
old. When her hair was silver as the moon and her skin like parchment, Zeldin
came to her. He loved her as before, but when they parted he offered her the
gift of freedom from death, and she refused. When the children of the children
of the sons of Imarko were almost grown, Zeldin came to her a second time and
she refused his gift with harsh and bitter weeping. At last the Queen fell sick
and suffered ceaseless pain. Zeldin came to her tenderly, and she refused his
gift for the third time.

With great sorrow the First Emperor watched
by his mother, and she felt death near and was afraid. She called to Zeldin and
he did not come. Then Imarko ordered her sons to carry her up into the
mountains and they laid her litter on the edge of the snows, but still the
Gentle God did not appear.

Death seized her and her sons wept but at
the last a smile brought back her beauty and Imarko whispered, `O my children,
do not fear death, for Zeldin is here and his hand is in mine to lead me
through the dark.' Smiling still, she died.”

“Dawn's breaking,” muttered Gidjabolgo.

Forollkin sat up eagerly, but Gwerath was
still staring at Kerish. “I don't know if I believe in your Zeldin, but I will honor
your Lady.”

“The coast's in sight!” called Forollkin,
and the others scrambled to kneel beside him.

“We're further north than I'd hoped. Do you
see that glimmer of white, Gwerath? That's the ramparts of Viroc. “

The awning was tugged right back and Kerish
stood up to see better, shading his eyes against the rising sun.

“There's a Galkian boat between us and the
walls, beyond the path of the current.”

“A patrol boat,” said Forollkin. “I should
have thought of that. Have they spotted us yet?”

“I don't think so,” Kerish swung slowly
round. “But Khan O-grak is close behind us.”

“What!” Forollkin and Gwerath sprang up,
setting the boat rocking, but Gidjabolgo crouched down, gazing at the coast of
Galkis. “A pretty story,” he murmured absently.

Three boats were following, the dark waters
of the Jenze lashed by their furious oars. In the prow of the first boat was
the huge shape of Khan O-grak and behind him were four bowmen. They were not
yet in firing distance, but at such a pace it couldn't be long. There was only
one way of slowing them down.

“Down, all of you,” shouted Forollkin. “Lie
flat. The current will bring us into hailing distance of that Galkian boat in a
few minutes and then I'll try to steer towards. . .”

“Khan O-grak's boats will catch us first,”
said Kerish. “Throw the soul figures overboard.”

For a moment, even Forollkin was speechless
at the icy determination in his brother's voice. “What? To lighten the load?”

“No. They will have to stop to pick them up
or watch their souls sink and be lost.”

“Zeldin, but you were the one who . . .”

“Do it!”

Forollkin nodded. “Gwerath, Gidjabolgo,
help me. Get them beyond the current if you can.”

He lifted one of the smaller figures from
its bench and tossed it overboard. A bubbling scream echoed in Forollkin's head
but he bent over the next figure as Gwerath rushed to help him. Even at the
distance between them, the cry of horror from the Orazian boats was audible.
The Galkian patrol boat heard it too.

“They've seen us.” Kerish raised his high,
pure voice in the ancient lament for the death of Imarko. Forollkin joined in
raggedly, but gusts of wind carried their voices away from the shore.
Gidjabolgo tried to pick up the tune but he was overridden by the splash of
falling figures and a mournful screaming, like the cry of storm birds. The
waves were full of soul figures, floating until the water seeped in to weigh
them down.

“No, not that one!” shouted Kerish, as his
brother seized the soul of Khan O-grak.   Forollkin let go and went on to push
the next figure over the bows.

The Orazian oarsmen faltered as the first
of the souls floated into reach. Kerish heard an angry roar and guessed that
the Khan was ordering his men to row on but O-grak's soul was not at risk and
he had lost the right to command them.

Kerish raised his voice again, straining to
be heard against the wind as the Galkian boat rowed towards them. One of its
crew was winding a horn to alert the sentries on the walls of Viroc, and they
had archers standing ready in the prow. Kerish lifted his arms to show that
they had no weapons.

The last of soul figures was flung out.
Only the brooding figure of Khan O-grak remained and all the Orazian boats had
halted. Still panting with effort, the others joined Kerish. Gidjabolgo took
one look at the approaching boat and squatted down, tugging at Gwerath's
sleeve.

“Down, you fool. Do you look like a
Galkian?”

The Princess stood stubbornly between
Kerish and Forollkin. Both of them were waving. Kerish sang on and Forollkin
shouted, “We're Galkian. Galkian!”

The first arrows whined towards them and
fell short.

“Help us. We're Galkian!”

This time the captain of the oncoming boat
heard. Too late, he seized the arm of the first archer. The arrow aimed at
Kerish had already been loosed. The Prince's eyes were closed as he prayed to
Zeldin and Imarko so he never saw it.

“Kerish, look out!” As Gwerath pushed the
Prince down, the arrow meant for him lodged in her breast.

She fell without a cry, as Forollkin
shouted on, “We're Galkian. Enemy ships behind.”

The Galkian captain heard him clearly.
“Swim to us.”

“Can't!” shouted Forollkin. “Only one can
swim.”

“Wait then.” The captain bellowed an order,
and his oarsmen struck up a fast pace. Forollkin sprang for the steering oar
and tried to turn them out of the current and towards Viroc. Behind, two of the
Orazian boats were still fishing for the soul figures, but the third was rowing
towards them again and the current was with the Men of the Five Kingdoms.

Forollkin ducked as the Orazian archers
began to shoot. “The Galkian boat will soon...Gwerath!” He crawled towards the
slight figure cradled in Kerish's arms. “She's hurt?”

Gidjabolgo held out a blood-stained arrow
with a broken point. “She's dead,” he said flatly.

There was a jarring thud as the prow of the
Galkian boat struck their bows and voices called out to them. Two soldiers,
holding up shields against the whistling arrows, clambered into the boat.            

“Hurry, climb back with us.”

One of them gestured at Gwerath. “Do you
need help with her?”

“No,” said Forollkin quietly, “I'll carry
her.”

Arrows thudded into the shields as they
made the perilous transfer. Then the Galkians were pushing the Soul Boat back
into the grip of the current.

“Highness!” The captain gasped in
recognition and Kerish remembered his face from the parley. “Your Highness,
we'll soon have you safe.”

The travelers crouched down within a wall
of shields as the Galkian archers fired towards the three longboats. Kerish
heard a ghastly choking as one man fell with an arrow in his throat but the
Orazian fire was slackening. Four Galkian ships had been launched to aid the
patrol boat and the walls of Viroc were perilously close.

The longboats of Oraz turned back as one of
the catapults on the ramparts launched a great stone towards them. The Boat of
Souls, with its solitary passenger, drifted out to sea.

“Don't pursue them,” ordered Kerish as they
entered the shadow of Viroc's walls. “Forollkin. . .”

His brother stroked Gwerath's cold cheek.  “Now
I think of it, there were no birds. I heard them crying but there were no
birds.”

Chapter
6

The Book of the Emperors:
Sorrows

And he cried
out, saying, “Alas, give to me some other task, for I do not have the strength
to carry out your command.”

But Zeldin
answered him, “There is no command stronger than your own will. Even I cannot
take from you the knowledge of what is right.”

THE Prince and his companions were shown to
the richest suite of rooms in the Governor's Palace. Their metal collars were
wrenched off and fresh clothes and food and wine were hastily brought. Neither
Kerish nor Forollkin would rest until they had seen Gwerath's body laid out on
a couch in the chapel of Imarko. Four priestesses spread a silver cloak over
the Princess of the Sheyasa and knelt beside her to pray for her soul.

The captain of the patrol boat stammered a
plea for forgiveness and the archer himself knelt to beg for punishment.
Forollkin had just enough strength left to fear his own injustice and walk
away.

“You are forgiven,” said Kerish numbly. “You
did nothing but your duty.”

He flinched as the grateful archer kissed
his hand.

When they returned to their rooms, a
servant offered Kerish the customary hood and veil. “Highness, forgive us for
looking at your face, but we had no royal robes prepared.”

Kerish permitted the man to wind the purple
cloth around his head and fasten the veil across the lower half of his face.
The servants bowed and withdrew.

In the next room, Gidjabolgo was seated at
an ebony table with a glass of wine in one hand and a bunch of fruit in the
other. “Can you eat in that thing? You should try. You both should.”

The half-brothers sat down opposite the
Forgite. The table was spread with the best the beleaguered city could provide.

“Gidjabolgo is right,” murmured Kerish. “You
should eat.”

He pushed a dish of kardiss towards his
brother. Forollkin shook his head. “Eat it yourself.”

Gidjabolgo peeled a wrinkled yellow fruit
for Kerish. At the first bite its sweetness turned his stomach and the Prince
left it unfinished. He tried to stop himself believing that in a moment he
would look up and Gwerath would be there, eager to learn about Galkis. There
were so many things he wanted to show her...

Gidjabolgo held out a glass of wine. “Drink
this.”

Kerish obeyed, fixing his whole attention
on the patterns in the golden glass.

“I can't understand,” began Forollkin, “why
you didn't see the arrow coming. Why didn't you . . .”

“Hold your tongue,” said Gidjabolgo
savagely. “Galkis would have broken her. This was a good, clean death and she
was best out of it.”

Nobody spoke again until the servants
returned to clear away the unwanted meal and to ask when the Prince and his
brother wished to see Lord Jerenac.

“Now,” said Forollkin.

*****

The Lord Commander no longer occupied the
Governor's Palace. His wives had been sent to comparative safety beyond the Jen
Mountains and Jerenac now lived in a single large room in the great tower that
overlooked the harbor of Viroc. As the three travelers entered the lofty room,
Gidjabolgo wrinkled his nose at the odor of decaying flesh. Though the city
shimmered in the heat of high summer, Jerenac lay swathed in furs and he did
not rise from his couch to greet them.

“Your pardon, Prince,” rasped the Lord
Commander. “I took you for a weakling or a fool, like the rest of our royal
brothers, and I see that you are neither.”

Kerish bowed his head in silent
acknowledgement as Forollkin walked forward to salute his old commander.

“I am sorry about the woman,” said Jerenac.
“I hear you were betrothed. You must believe in a future then, even for Galkis
. . .”

“I did,” said Forollkin wearily.

“Whatever hope you had, forget it. Do you
care for your country? Your kin? Your friends?” demanded Jerenac. “Forget them;
none of them is worth dying for.”

“Then what is?” asked Kerish gently.

“Yourself,” Jerenac's face was grey with
pain. “If you had been betrayed by country and kin and friends as I have, you
would know that anything is better than to betray yourself.”

“Do you mean that it is better to die than
to live as a slave?”

“I mean, Forollkin, that it is better to
die than to live as a willing slave. Come here, boy.”

Ignoring the stench of the suppurating leg,
Forollkin came closer to Jerenac's couch. “At least one thing is unchanged in
Galkis . . . your spirit.”

“My spirit!” Jerenac spat out the words. “How
much do you think it cost me, boy, to smile at O-grak's taunts? He mocked at my
loyalty and spoke of my scorn for the Godborn. That was too weak a word. I do
not scorn my high and holy kin; I loathe them. I used only to despise them, but
now I hate the Godborn and I curse the soul of the Emperor who fathered us. He
saw this darkness coming and smiled and stepped aside to let it pass.”

“Our mission was one attempt he made to
save Galkis,” said Kerish unsteadily.

“Your mission?” growled Jerenac. “Some mad
tale of an imprisoned Saviour . . . it was nothing but a trick to send his favorite
son out of danger and it robbed me of an heir. Do you really think that
Ka-Litraan believed in this Promised Saviour?”

“No, he did not believe.” Kerish's
expression was hidden by his veil, but his voice was desolate. “Yet he accepted
the High Priest's belief.”

“Izeldon? What did he ever do but bewail
our woes? I have more respect for Rimoka or Zyrindella; at least they are
prepared to fight for what they claim as theirs.”

“Izeldon fought in his own way.”

Jerenac raised himself on one elbow. “You
ordered me to fight to the last. Will you do as much yourself?”

“I will fight in whatever way Zeldin
commands,” answered Kerish.

“Then listen to me.” There was a
frightening urgency in Jerenac's voice. “O-grak himself has pointed the way. If
you would serve your Gentle God, take the throne of the Godborn.”

“Zeldin, not again!” Kerish walked abruptly
away towards the window and the cleaner air but Jerenac's eyes pursued him.

“Take my signet ring and go to Ephaan. I
promise that my troops there will obey you. Let Zyrindella rule the north as long
as she can defend it from Fangmere, but seize Galkis itself and hold it. The
people have never learned to love the new Emperor or to trust the Empress
Rimoka, but they know no evil of you and absence has lengthened your shadow.
They would flock to follow you. Raise an army to protect the capital and
something may be saved from the wreck of Galkis.”

Forollkin looked uncertainly at his brother
and Kerish said slowly, “Jerenac, you yourself gave me my answer. I might
betray my country and my family, but not myself. You may be right that I should
seize the throne, but I cannot do it.”

The Lord Commander took his refusal with
bitter calm. “Then we shall defend Viroc and await the outcome.”

“The defense of Viroc is vital,” admitted
Kerish, “but our task lies elsewhere, our quest must continue.”

“Kerish, surely we . . .” Forollkin
faltered as the door was flung open and a messenger ran into the room.

“Sir, a large force is landing about two
miles down the river. Captain Felnik has called in the patrols, but we need
more troops to throw the enemy back.”

“How many boats?”

“About thirty longboats, Sir.”

“So, Prince,” Jerenac smiled grimly, “you
have made O-grak angry enough to attack before all his forces are ready. That
is good, though you may not find it so easy to leave Viroc now.”

He gave out a stream of orders and
Forollkin listened intently and said at the first pause, “Let me lead one of
the sorties. “

Jerenac refused. “Not until you have
rested. For the moment you can help me by telling me what you know of O-grak's
plans. He does not often make a mistake and I wish to my heart that I was
fighting beside him, instead of against him. I shall not live to see his
victory, but I do not grudge it to him.”

*****

By evening and through the night reports of
further landings reached the city. Jerenac's troops were not numerous enough to
repel them all. In some places they could do no more than harry the invaders
and retreat before them. By dawn a large contingent of the Men of Oraz had set
up camp within sight of the south wall of Viroc. At noon the enemy troops began
fanning out to cover all the approaches to the city. An hour later, half the
fleet of Fangmere arrived at the entrance to the deep channel that linked the
main harbor of Viroc with the sea.

Jerenac sent out horsemen to summon back
the soldiers guarding the south-west of his province. For the sake of holding
Viroc, all Jenoza between the river and the Jungle of Jenze might have to be
abandoned to the enemy.

It was no longer possible to bury Gwerath
on a hillside overlooking the sea, as she might have wished. A grave was dug
for her in a lonely corner of the Palace gardens within sound of the sea.
Forollkin had refused offers of robes and jewels for Gwerath. She was buried
wrapped in his cloak, her only ornament a new scarf tied at her throat. Kerish
watched two priests heap the dark soil over Gwerath's body and remembered the
Valley of Silence. `I laughed there once,' he thought, but he felt no guilt. He
knew that Gwerath would have hated that quiet place.

Forollkin walked away before the formal
rejoicing over the flight of Gwerath's soul began. He left the Governor's
Palace and strode up to the first officer he saw, demanding information on the
city's supplies. The man told him how the spring planting and the summer
harvesting had been hindered by raiding parties from across the river. It was
three weeks since a cargo ship had got through from Ephaan and Jerenac was
forced to allot more men than he could spare to guarding the supply route from
Joze. The order had just been given to butcher the remaining livestock and salt
down the meat. The siege might last all winter and there was hardly enough
fodder for the soldiers' mounts. Families who had fled with their treasured
animals into Viroc were now weeping or pleading with the slaughterers.

Forollkin hardly noticed them as the
officer led him to the main storehouse and armory. It was obvious that Jerenac
had prepared prudently for the long-expected siege. The people thought him
harsh, but they might learn in the months ahead to trust harshness more than
indulgence. Of all the supplies, arms had suffered most from the indifference
of the capital to Viroc's danger. Forollkin counted every arrow in the armory.
It took a long time and when he had finished he counted them again.

After the funeral, Kerish had gone back to
his rooms in the Governor's Palace. He settled in a window-seat with a book
across his lap. Gidjabolgo sat nearby, tuning the zildar and watching the Prince
read the same page over and over again.

In mid-afternoon, three ships of Fangmere
entered the channel and sailed towards the harbor. The channel was too narrow
to take more than a couple of large craft abreast and the ships of Fangmere had
no chance of turning unless they reached the harbor itself. Two Galkian ships
hastily positioned themselves to block the mouth of the harbor, while two more
waited behind to bring up fresh men and arms as they were needed. The foremost
ships were soon locked in combat and the axemen of Fangmere swarmed on to the
Galkian decks.

Anxiously watched from the tower and the
ramparts, the battle raged for more than three hours. Slowly the Men of
Fangmere were overwhelmed and their ships were captured, but the cost was heavy.
Sixteen Galkians lay dead on the decks and more would die later of the terrible
wounds inflicted by the axes of Fangmere.

Forollkin came down to the harbor as the
wounded were being brought ashore on stretchers. He knelt to comfort a soldier
who did not yet realize that his leg was half severed. As he tried to talk
steadily and cheerfully, Forollkin saw a growing understanding of the grimness
of their situation in the faces around him. The crew of the three ships of
Fangmere were either dead or seriously injured, but the enemy could suffer such
losses for months before their strength was appreciably diminished, while the
small garrison of Viroc could hardly afford to lose a single trained soldier.
In fanatical devotion to their goddess, the Men of Fangmere would fling
themselves on Viroc day after day, week after week, month after month, and it
was O-grak who would profit from the slaughter on both sides.

One of the city's overworked Healing
Priests reached the man whom Forollkin was comforting and knelt to administer a
drug to ease the pain. No longer needed, Forollkin crossed the city and climbed
the southern ramparts to observe the enemy forces. The Orazian troops were
hurriedly assembling the rams and catapults and scaling towers whose components
had been brought across the Jenze under cover of darkness. For centuries the
Men of the Five Kingdoms had considered the use of these weapons dishonorable,
but O-grak had no such scruples. He had spent years patiently gathering the
necessary skills and materials. His trained men clustered about the
half-completed weapons, while the warriors of Fangmere looked on
contemptuously. They were preparing for the land battle with prayer and
fasting, dedicating their gleaming axes to the glory of Idaala.

Forollkin paced along the walls until he
came to a slender tower that marked the easternmost limit of the city. Kerish
had overheard Cil-Rahgen and O-grak discussing this weak place in the ramparts,
so now nearby houses were being pulled down and the masonry piled against the
tower to strengthen it. An old man who had lived in one of the houses all his
life was sitting, bewildered, in the middle of the street, surrounded by his
possessions. His thin hands clutched a little silver figure of the dying
Imarko, as though he were determined to save that if nothing else. Forollkin
turned on his heel and went back to the armory.