The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (2 page)

Valorkis sat straight-backed in the straw
and spoke as if he was reporting to his commanding officer. “Lord Jerenac still
holds Viroc and all of Jenoza east of the river, but his losses have been
terrible. Now that the Men of Oraz are said to be massing for a new assault, he
needs fresh troops. The new Emperor, or to speak truer, the Empress his mother,
told the Lord Commander that all the troops in Galkis itself were needed to
guard the capital and Hildimarn.”

“She refused him?”

“No sir, but . . .” Valorkis stared down at
his manacled feet. “The Empress sent orders to the Princess Zyrindella in
Morolk, and to the new Governor at Tryfis, to send troops south.”

“New?” Is Lord Ylgon dead?”

“He died of a wasting sickness, sir, on the
eve of the Star-counting Festival. Lord Zeenib was appointed Governor of
Tryfanis in his place.”

“And the younger son?” said Forollkin
sharply.

“Lord Yxin?” The Galkian's face was blank
but there was a note of anger in his voice. “He was sent to govern Far Tryfarn,
but on his way he stopped to visit his sister, the Princess Zyrindella, in
Montra-Lakon.”

“And what about these troops for the south?”
asked Gidjabolgo, through a mouthful of bread.

“Princess Zyrindella refused to send the Empress
any troops,” answered Valorkis. “She claimed that she needed all her men to
defend Montra-Lakon and the western border from the Brigands. There was truth
in that, everyone said so.”

Forollkin was imagining Rimoka's anger.
However reasonable, she would never accept a denial from Zyrindella. “How did
the Empress respond?”

“Her Majesty sent messengers to the
Governor of Tryfania, telling him to go to Montra-Lakon and order the Princess
to surrender her office.”

“You cannot tell me she would do that meekly,”
said Forollkin.

“She seemed to, sir. She welcomed Lord
Zeenib into the city and they sat down to a banquet together, the Princess and
both her half-brothers.”

“And then?” rasped Gidjabolgo.

Valorkis glanced at the two Jorgan
Islanders, but they were quarrelling over the water-flask and hardly seemed to
be listening.

“I don't know for sure, but rumors flew
around the fleet. The three of them sat down to the banquet but by midnight
only the Princess Zyrindella and Lord Yxin were still alive. They gave out that
their brother had died of a sudden fever and those that wouldn't believe it
never came back to Tryfis. Lord Yxin had himself proclaimed Governor of
Tryfania and the Princess supported him with her troops. There was some
resistance, perhaps there still is. The Empress has condemned them both to
death. She means to take an army north . . .”

“Imarko's mercy, doesn't she . . .”

Valorkis hushed him. “Never mention her
when the Brigands might hear. They almost seem to honor Zeldin, but I've seen
them cut out a man's tongue for naming our Foremother.”

“Isn't one goddess as good as another?”
enquired Gidjabolgo.

“Our Foremother was not a goddess,” said
Valorkis stiffly. “She was as human as you or I.”

“And you say the fleet is stationed at
Ephaan?” persisted Forollkin, “and the Jorgan Isles are all but abandoned?”

Valorkis nodded. “They've paid tribute to
Fangmere for years, and given harbor to their ships.” He glanced at the mute,
shackled islanders. “Who can blame them? The Emperor means nothing to them and
for years we've lacked the strength to defend them. It was Quesheg, the captain
of this vessel, who led the Brigands in Jorgan waters.”

“But now he's sailing south?” Forollkin
shifted uncomfortably on the hard planks and matted straw. “Do you know where
we're bound?”

“To Zar, I think. I speak a little of their
tongue and I heard him say something about meeting a lord of Oraz. No doubt
they're planning some fresh attack on the Galkian coast and they'll meet with
little resistance. The fleet is spread too thin along the coast and the people
don't realize yet how bad things are...”

He broke off as Kerish glided out of the
shadows and sat down beside them.

Gidjabolgo took a grubby lump of bread from
his sleeve and put it into the Prince's hand.    “Did you think you'd escaped
the delights of our feast?”

Kerish struggled for a grateful smile. “Gwerath
is with some women and a child, taken from the Jorgan Isles as tribute. They
are all too frightened to speak to her and her hands are tied, but she's all
right.”

He had found his cousin struggling with the
ropes at her wrists and tossing her silver hair as if that also imprisoned her.
She had asked first about Forollkin's wound and then what the Brigands meant to
do with them.

Kerish had answered her plainly, “We will
be separated and you will be sold as a slave.”

“No! Surely they will let us choose death
together?”

“Gwerath, try to remember that my mother
was once in your place and she was ransomed by happiness.”

“How could she have been truly happy with
your father?” Gwerath had asked. “However much he loved her, she was still his
prisoner.”

“Isn't the beloved always the prisoner of
the lover?”

The guard had moved closer and Kerish had
been forced to leave before she could answer him.

*****

Forollkin repeated to his brother
everything that Valorkis had said, ending, “So Zyrindella and Yxin rule the
north and they would rather see barbarians in the Golden City than Rimoka and
her son.”

“And which side has our new High Priest
taken?” asked Kerish.

“His Holiness refused to lay a solemn curse
on the Princess and Lord Yxin, and gave out that he believed their story. A
month ago, after a raid close to the city itself, the High Priest left
Hildimarn.” The very neutrality of the Galkian's tone betrayed his feelings. “He
has withdrawn to the mountains above the Golden City, with most of the temple
treasure. He sent to the Governor of Ephaan to lend him men to escort his
baggage train along the Great Road.”

“But the High Priestess,” protested
Forollkin, “surely she is still in Hildimarn?”

Valorkis did not answer at once. “She would
never leave the Holy City but it is many weeks since she came out of our
Foremother's temple to bless the people. Just before I sailed from Ephaan, it
began to be whispered that she had starved herself to death.”

Valorkis looked away from the horror in
Kerish's face. “My Lord, it may not be true.”

“How fortunate you are,” said Gidjabolgo, “that
the Brigands of Fangmere have spared you such a homecoming.

*****

For three days Kerish walked the ship like
a shadow. Everywhere he was watched, but no one would talk to him. When he
spoke, the Brigands pretended not to understand and the interpreter was aboard
the other ship. Kerish restlessly explored above and below decks. Even amongst
themselves, the Brigands spoke very little. Off duty, they would sit for hours
silently polishing their axes or staring at one of the crude images of their
goddess that each man carried in the breast of his tunic. But they sang all
through the dark hours until the last of the dawn mists cleared. One man would
begin a low, lilting melody and then voice after voice took up the song. To
Kerish, each dying cadence seemed the acceptance of a human soul that it was
born to misery and the central tune murmured, “This is all you have.”

On the third night, Kerish glimpsed a
yellow light flickering on the horizon and knew that they were close to Zar. By
noon the next day the ships of Fangmere had anchored in a deep bay, ripped from
the island by an explosion so great that the sound and smoke had reached
halfway to the Golden City. The sea that lapped against the ships was warm. The
smoke from Zar's volcano pervaded the air and soon drove Kerish below with
smarting eyes so he did not watch the arrival of the ships of Oraz.

Heavy footsteps and the murmur of formal
greetings were soon audible to the prisoners below. Then just two voices were
speaking in the rising tones of barely suppressed anger. Kerish and Forollkin
could not make out a word, though Gidjabolgo swore from the rhythms that two
different languages were being spoken.

Suddenly the hatch was thrown open and the
Jorgan interpreter scrambled down the ladder. He sidled past the two Brigands
left to guard the prisoners, and pointed to Kerish. “You're wanted on deck,
hurry!”

“Am I? But can it he pious to disturb the
Chosen of Idaala from his rest?” Kerish stretched slowly. “I'm sure the
Brigands have interesting punishments for impiety.”

The interpreter smiled placatingly as his
eyes bulged with fright.

Kerish relented and stood up. “Why do they
want me?”

“The captain boasted of finding a sacrifice
with the face of Zeldin and now the Orazian lord demands to see you. Please,
will you hurry?”

Kerish went with him.

As he came on deck, the sunlight dazzled
Kerish and for a moment he saw no more of the Men of Oraz than the glitter of
their green tunics and bronze spears. Then a dark voice boomed out, “By the
Breasts of Idaala, do you know what you have here, Quesheg?”

Kerish shaded his eyes and saw a man,
taller by a head than any of the Brigands. He had a chest like a full-grown
Irollga and great, scarred hands, tucked awkwardly into his jeweled sword-belt.
An unruly mane of black hair and a vast beard, framed a face whose ugliness was
erased by limpid hazel eyes that seemed perpetually widened in childlike
pleasure or astonishment.

“Look at him, man, the bones, the eyes!”

Quesheg muttered sullenly in his own tongue
and the Khan of Orze snapped back, “That, Captain, is no stray drop of Imperial
blood. That is the late Emperor's darling, the Third Son, the lost Prince
himself!”

“Greetings, Khan O-grak,” said Kerish with
a twisted smile. He tried, without thinking, to make the formal gesture of
acknowledgement.

“What's the matter with your hand?” O-grak
snatched up the crippled hand as Quesheg hissed in displeasure. “Don't tell me
a Prince of the Godborn has been wounded in battle like a mere man?”

“It was a kind of battle, although no blood
was shed.”

“And was this battle won?”

“It was fought for someone else and the
victory was to make him accept his heart's desire.”

O-grak released the Prince's hand. “Didn't
he know his own desire? I despise men who are afraid to look into their own
hearts. Desire is strength.”

“It is also the nursery of despair,” said
Kerish coldly.

O-grak snorted. “Despair is a word that
belongs to Galkis. In the Five Kingdoms, while there is hope we fight. And if
we fail, we think it honorable to die.”

“That is despair and only the solitary can
afford it.”

“All men hunt alone.” O-grak seemed to have
forgotten the presence of his own men and the angry captain. “The Goddess wills
it so, for in our loneliness we are forced to love her more.”

“As the Men of Fangmere do, in their
loneliness?”

The Khan smiled. “Yes indeed, like my
virtuous allies of Fangmere. Quesheg, I will buy your prisoner.”

The captain still chose to reply in his own
language and O-grak's face darkened.

“You have dedicated him already? Let me
see.”

He gripped Kerish's chin, tilted back his
head and brushed aside the silvered hair. The scratches were healing well but
the Khan could still trace the outline of the Bloodflower on the Prince's
forehead.

“Quesheg, you do not understand the value
of a royal hostage.”

O-grak plunged into a fierce argument with
the Brigand in a clumsy mixture of languages. As soon as there was a pause,
Kerish said, “If you speak of hostages, Khan, you should consider my
companions. Below you will find my half-brother, Lord Forollkin, my cousin, an
Erandachi Princess, and Gidjabolgo, a notable musician from Forgin.”

“Have them fetched up!”

The interpreter fled to obey the Khan's
command before his master could disagree.

Gwerath was brought on deck first, screwing
up her eyes against the sudden light.

“My cousin Gwerath, the Princess of the
Sheyasa.”

“That?” O-grak eyed her dirty face, matted
hair and boy's clothes in evident disbelief. “A girl? Well, I'll take a
Prince's word, though if anyone else had said so, I'd have had a squeeze here
and there to test it.”

Grinning, he flexed one huge hand and
Kerish said hastily, “Gwerath, may I present O-grak, Khan of Orze and sometime
Ambassador to the Golden City.”

“No,” snapped Gwerath, “I do not wish to be
presented to a barbarian.”

“Me a barbarian! Hah, what are the
Erandachi but half-brothers to their pack-beasts?” The Khan gave Gwerath's hair
a tug. “If you would play at being civilized, where are your cities, your
armies, your learning?”

“The lore of my tribe is deep,” said
Gwerath with dignity, “and its songs are many.”

“If they tell of hunts and battles, you
shall sing them to me, but no woman's wailings, mind you.”

Forollkin and Gidjabolgo emerged together
from the hatchway.

“Captain Forollkin, I remember you well,”
boomed O-grak. “That scar on your cheek was fresh when we first met.” He turned
to Gidjabolgo. “By the Firebelcher of Zar, a man uglier than me! I must take
you home to show my wife.”

The prisoners stood close together, stared
at by the Khan's Orazian warriors, while O-grak and Quesheg argued or
bargained. Finally the Brigand captain signed to two of his men to stand on
either side of Kerish, while the others were released from their bonds.

“It is fortunate for you, Prince,” said
O-grak frowning, “that I have a better right than any man to say what sacrifice
the Goddess would find acceptable. Even so, now the preliminary dedication has
been made only the Chief Priest at Azanac can revoke it. We will sail to Az.
Though Captain Quesheg is willing enough to part with the others, he does not
yet trust me with you.”