The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (22 page)

“And love?” asked Kerish, looking steadily
into the Forgite's face.

“I'll allow love, as long as it's selfish,”
said Gidjabolgo, “then it does no harm.”

*****

The path continued to climb and to widen.
Outcrops of rock, twice the height of a man, burst through the moss. The rocks
were entwined with creepers which were the haunt of singing birds and scuttling
crabs that spat blue liquid when disturbed. For several nights Kerish and
Gidjabolgo slept in the shadow of the rocks and had tranquil dreams. They felt
themselves floating rather than flying and woke remembering past happiness.

Finally the path reached its highest point
and began to dip again. As they stood on the summit of a hill, the trees were
too tall to allow them a general view of the jungle, but they could see for a
long way down the path ahead. Below them was a maze of rock and amongst it
something moved.

Kerish gripped Gidjabolgo's shoulder to
warn him to be still. The Forgite only saw a blur of scarlet, but to Kerish,
the creature was much clearer. Wide-winged, long-beaked and almost the height
of a man, it walked with a curious juddering motion, as if it were a puppet worked
by an unskilled hand. Kerish was suddenly reminded of the guardians of Saroc's
citadel who had killed Lilahnee. The creature stabbed the moss with its beak,
swallowed something, and stalked back into the jungle.

“Did it see us?” whispered Gidjabolgo.

“It didn't look at us,” answered Kerish
uncertainly.

They waited for a few minutes and then
walked down into the valley of the rocks.

No creepers entwined these outcrops. The
surface of the coral rock had crumbled away, leaving behind elaborate patterns,
subtly colored by encroaching lichens. The delicate whirls, blotched circles
and starry meshes reminded Kerish of small sea-creatures and they seemed to
pulsate as he looked at them.

There appeared to be no end to the valley.
For three days they walked amongst the rocks, marveling at the changing colors
and ever more intricate patterns. On the fourth morning Kerish knelt to study a
creamy outcrop.

“Surely wind and rain could never produce
such variety. The patterns here look like animals, like slugs with feathers . .
.”

“Who knows what weather this jungle has,”
murmured Gidjabolgo, tracing with one stubby finger an interlocking design of
fringed wheels, tinted indigo and mauve. “Or given time, what it can do?”

They walked on, past rocks of every shade
of brown, with patterns like the bark of trees, and paused to eat under a white
outcrop, veined with blue and bulging with cloudlike curves.

By the time they reached the next group of
rocks it was dusk and they settled down for the night without looking at them.
Tired, but unable to sleep, Kerish felt trapped by his own body. He studied it
from the outside, like a stranger, feeling the shape of every limb pressed
against the moss, the texture of the hair lying across his forehead, and of the
tongue touching his dry lips. He slept eventually, hypnotized by the rhythmic
sound of his own breathing and the beating of his own heart.

The next morning they ate their breakfast
quickly and moved on. The rocks they had slept beneath were a dull red with
patterns like bundles of straw, sliced in two and splaying outwards.

Kerish and Gidjabolgo walked close
together, carefully talking of trivial things.

The next line of rocks was tall and
intricately colored. Kerish felt a curious reluctance to examine them. The
pattern in the rock surface seemed at first to be beautiful and wholly
abstract. There was a dark center surrounded by a glimmering starburst and then
a circle of gold and green filaments. The design was repeated over and over
again. The Forgite leaned forward to touch one just as Kerish backed away.

“They're eyes! Gidjabolgo, they're eyes!”

After a moment, the Forgite nodded. “Yes,
human eyes. Shall we go on?”

As they walked, Kerish tried not to think
about what some of the other rock patterns might have been, but as each new
outcrop blocked their path, he felt compelled to look. There were teeth with
their long, tangled roots, and bones, cut across to display their texture. They
hurried past outcrops shaped like skulls, but Gidjabolgo paused in front of a
rock stained with matt crimson.

“Hearts,” he murmured. “Have you never
watched a beast's heart cut from its body? Perhaps our sculptors have seen a
human heart.”

They did not stop to eat or rest, hoping to
reach the end of the valley by nightfall. Just before dusk they came to one
last line of rocks. Gidjabolgo ran his hands over the pale surface.

“Don't,” said Kerish, “or at least, don't
tell me what they show.”

“You can stop quivering,” answered the
Forgite, “the surface seems prepared for carving, but there's nothing here.”

Dusk came abruptly but Kerish and
Gidjabolgo stumbled on till the rocks were left behind. The path narrowed and
the jungle closed in on them again. They lay down very close together and
talked for most of the night. With cruel humor, Gidjabolgo catalogued the
weaknesses of his Forgite masters and the idiocies of life on the Merchant
Isle. Kerish described his schooling and Forollkin's youthful exploits, growing
gradually more incoherent, till his sentences began to drift apart. “Of course
the priest didn't know about the kirzan fruit and it took weeks to get the
color out of his skin. But I lost the ring in the Moon Pool and Forollkin
laughed and said I should have it back when the cats of Hildimarn took to
water. I wish I could swim, almost as good as flying . . . oh yes, I was
telling you about Forollkin . . .”

Kerish fell asleep in the middle of a
confused anecdote about his brother's first hunt. Gidjabolgo covered the Prince
with his cloak and lay awake until dawn.

He woke Kerish and they ate quickly and
then made an early start. Gidjabolgo was still in a talkative mood. As they
crossed a broad clearing he spoke freely of the tricks he had played and the
people he had blackmailed to earn enough money for his trip to Ellerinonn.

“I'm sorry,” Kerish broke in suddenly, “I
treated you very badly in those days.”

“So you did,” agreed the Forgite. “It used
to give me a great deal of pleasure to goad a Prince of the Godborn into
betraying his ideals.”

“But why?” Kerish rarely touched Gidjabolgo
but now he gripped him by the shoulders.

“Why? On Forgin,” said Gidjabolgo slowly, “I
met many Lords and Ladies who were praised for their beauty and virtue, but
people do not care what they do or say in front of a hired fool. I have seen
even the best of them behave like beasts . . .”

“And did you believe that everyone must be
the same? Whatever the world said of them?” The Prince's voice was heavy with
concern. “But it isn't true! On our travels we've met with real goodness in so
many people . . .”

“It is a fact,” murmured Gidjabolgo, “that
you have given me a few surprises.”

Kerish smiled uncertainly. “At least you've
taught me to keep my temper . . .”

He stopped as Gidjabolgo's expression
suddenly changed, and turned round to see what the Forgite was staring at. From
amongst the trees came two scarlet-feathered creatures. Black eyes winked at
the travelers, yellow-barred wings were spread wide, the long beaks were open,
and the wrinkled legs ended in clawed feet that clutched at the spreading
creepers on which the banebirds stood.

Very slowly, Kerish and Gidjabolgo backed
along the path, until they heard the rustle of wings behind them. Two more
creatures had emerged from the jungle. Kerish studied the long legs -  no, they
couldn't hope to outrun the banebirds, and a blow from one of those wings could
break a limb.

“Don't worry,” he whispered to Gidjabolgo. “I
don't think they can harm us if we keep to the path.”

As he spoke, one of the creatures turned
its head towards them and Kerish saw a third eye, small opaque and unlidded, in
its narrow forehead.

They edged forward again along the narrow
path through the clearing but more and more banebirds came out of the jungle.
They spread their wings and, with curious jerky strides, moved in to surround
the travelers.

“Don't worry,” repeated Kerish, with less
and less confidence.

The path was still clear but the banebirds
were very close. Kerish felt as if their sharp beaks were already probing him.

Suddenly a sound came from the creature
nearest to Gidjabolgo. It was not the high thin sound he would have expected,
but laughter, low, raucous and cruelly human.

A curious expression crossed Gidjabolgo's
face, as if he were looking at his own image for the first time.  Before Kerish
could grab him, Gidjabolgo stumbled back off the path and a creeping plant
suddenly twined about his ankles and held him fast.

The Prince struggled to pull him back to
the safety of the pathway but it was like trying to uproot a tree. A banebird
was close to Kerish watching him with its third eye. Its beak opened and more
laughter spilled out: not a low, ugly sound like the first but clear and
sweet-toned and far more horrible. The laughter was taken up by one banebird
after another.

“Run!” gasped Gidjabolgo.

Kerish shook his head and the laughter
doubled as he fought against recognition. He had laughed like that once at the
man whose hand he now grasped. Secure in his youth and beauty, he had laughed
at deformity of body and spirit. He cringed from the sound, but it pursued him:
laughter shattering the peace of the Valley of Silence, mocking the dead.

Spite and disdain welled up like poison
inside him. Rigid with self-loathing, Kerish tore at his skin, desperate to
escape from his own cruelty.

For a moment, pain brought clarity and he
cried out, “Zeldin, help us.” The laughter echoed on.  “Zeldin,” he murmured
again, and retched at the thought of the Gentle God hearing and judging that
laughter.

Then a woman's voice suddenly spoke in a
foreign tongue and Kerish found that his face was wet with tears. They streamed
down his cheeks, soothing the scratches that his own nails had made. The
laughter stopped and with a mighty beating of wings the banebirds took flight.
Gidjabolgo lay moaning on the ground. Kerish knelt beside him anxiously.

The woman's voice, rich and beautiful,
spoke again. “Prince, it is fortunate for him that you exist. If he had never
shared the sorrows of another, there would be little I could have done to help
him escape the malice the bane-birds have awoken.”

Chapter
10

The Book of the Emperors:
Secrets

And the sculptor
answered him, saying, “Is it not sinful to give divine images the beauty which
we envy and covet in our fellow men? Surely the shape of goodness must be different
from anything we have corrupted?”

Kerish stood up and turned towards the
voice. After a startled moment he bowed and said, “Lady Tebreega?”

She smiled. “Bless you for your courtesy,
sweetheart. Prince Il-Keno was not nearly so composed.”

She was huge: taller by a head than Kerish,
and almost as broad as she was tall. Her great bulk was covered by a robe the
color of pondweed, but a cloak of gaudy feathers hung down her back and she
held a wand entwined with feathers in her hand.

The cloak was almost hidden by the fall of
her hair, black and lustrous and trailing onto the mossy path. Kerish only
noticed it after he had looked away from her face. Her skin had the pallor of a
night creature but was shadowed by a maze of wrinkles. Small colorless eyes,
almost hidden by bulges of flesh, flanked a hooked nose. The lips were large
and loose and the teeth crooked, but the face's humor was marred by the
terrible scars that ravaged one cheek, dragging down the left eye and
permanently twisting the mouth.

Kerish helped Gidjabolgo to his feet. “Lady,
this is my friend, Gidjabolgo of Forgin.”

For once, the Forgite seemed unable to
speak. He just gaped at the sorceress.

“Was it you who saved Il-Keno from the
banebirds?” Kerish asked hastily.

Tebreega nodded, though her neck was too
deeply buried among her many chins to be visible. Kerish wrenched his mind away
from the fascination of her ugliness. “In Galkis, they call you Mistress of the
Birds . . .”

“They also call me beautiful, do they not?
Ah, a Prince of the Godborn lost for words.” Tebreega chuckled. “Don't fret, my
dears. Stare all you like. Beauty is common enough but I'm a rare sight. Yes, I
am Mistress of the Birds, but only of the natural creatures of this jungle. The
banebirds are no doing of mine. They respect my presence but they are
mischievous creatures and very curious, since that's what they were made for. I
watched your progress carefully in case you met with them.”

“If they were made, but not by you. . .”
began Kerish.

“Ah, that's a deep question,” said
Tebreega. “Prince Il-Keno found the answer and kept his promise never to reveal
the knowledge that haunted him.”

“Lady, we will keep your secrets,” promised
Kerish.

“No doubt, but  I'm not sure I have the
right to bind you to it,” said Tebreega, “since you carry the keys of six
citadels.”

“You know about our quest?”

“Vethnar warned me in his roundabout way.
Elmandis told me more directly.” Tebreega frowned. “But I can see that there
are things they both omitted. I am afraid we shall have to go back to the
Valley of the Rocks, but for the moment you are tired and should be fed and
rested. Take hold of my cloak. You too, Master Gidjabolgo.”

The Forgite gingerly stretched out a hand
as if he could scarcely bear to touch her, but she smiled at him warmly. “The
Prince is a problem but you are welcome without reserve. Now close your eyes,
or you'll be giddy.”

Kerish gasped as he felt himself tossed up
into the air. Somewhere close, Gidjabolgo grunted with the same shock. Then he
was falling, faster and faster, only to be caught in a net of softest down and
rocked like a baby. Kerish relaxed and for a moment he opened his eyes. All
around him was a glory of blue and scarlet feathers. He closed his eyes again,
smiling and lay on the verge of sleep for a long time until he was suddenly
thrown in the air again and landed with a jolt. He was sitting in the middle of
a glade, still entangled in the folds of Tebreega's cloak. Gidjabolgo lurched
to his feet. Kerish got up rather more gracefully, though the ground seemed to
be swaying under his feet.

Tebreega gave them her huge twisted smile. “I'm
sorry I couldn't set you down more gently, but one of you wasn't trusting me
enough.”

Kerish looked round the glade. “This is
Tir-Jenac?”

“Wherever I am, is Tir-Jenac,” answered the
sorceress.

At one edge of the glade was a pool of
clear water. The rest was bounded by tall trees, entwined with gorgeous
creepers and bent under the weight of ripe nuts or berries. Another clump of
trees, lower and silver-trunked, grew in the center of the glade. Hammocks were
slung from their bottom branches, small platforms were fixed further up and the
topmost boughs were full of silent birds and sleepy monkeys. A pavilion was
pitched to one side of the trees, its canvas covered with feathers of every
imaginable shade.

At first the travelers took in only the
riot of color, then pictures began to emerge: Tebreega with a living cloak of
birds; beautiful maidens dancing before a Prince; a black-haired woman weeping
before a naked rock. Kerish stepped forward to look at them more closely and
the pictures dissolved into colored patterns again.

In front of the pavilion was a fire-pit
from which enticing smells were rising. Tebreega eyed her guests. “Neither of
you look fit for feasting yet. Go and bathe in the pool. You'll find fresh
clothes laid out for you on the bank.”

She moved her wand in a circle. A dozen
birds flew purposefully off into the jungle and as many more fluttered down to
assist her.

Kerish and Gidjabolgo made their way to the
pool. The Forgite insisted on undressing behind a bush and kept glancing
suspiciously at the sorceress as they waded through the crystal waters.
Tebreega was pulling back turfs to uncover the fire-pit, more hindered than
helped by the birds who fluttered around her excitably raking the ashes with
their claws. Kerish simply luxuriated in the coolness and laughed at the tiny
curious fish that tickled him in shoals.

When they emerged, they found a sheet to
dry themselves laid out on the bank, and two loose robes made from soft
feathers of grey and fawn and speckled blue. Gidjabolgo's was slightly too long
and Kerish's rather full at the shoulders.

“I was not too far out,” said Tebreega,
when she saw them. “But you came across Jenoza more quickly than I'd expected,
so I had to finish them hurriedly.”

“You made them with your own hands?” asked
Kerish politely.

“Like almost everything you'll see here,”
answered the sorceress. “As mistress of the seventh key, I have all the time in
the world. The more time you have, the less need you find for magic, or so I
feel. The others wouldn't agree but you must already know that. You've met them
all - even Shubeyash. I am glad that he has atoned at last.” The sorceress
piled steaming food on to platters of stiff leaves. “Of all of them, his work
was the closest to mine. I could have made his mistake very easily. I still
could, but I am fortunate in having no kingdom to shape.”

“But isn't the jungle your kingdom?” asked
Kerish.

“Mine? No.”

Birds had begun to return, carrying rare fruits
and berries which they dropped into a wooden bowl held up by Tebreega.

“I am suffered to remain here. These
creatures serve me willingly but the jungle could never be mine, for I am
Galkian. Now, I used to have two extra spoons but it is centuries since I last
entertained humans . . .”

She looked up and spoke in a high twitter.
There was a great flurry of activity in the clump of trees as the birds began
to search. The travelers saw that there were many objects hanging from the
branches or piled on the small platforms: feathered cloaks, baskets of hair,
cooking knives, globes of amethyst, a trowel and spade, a royal coronet, combs,
nets and a golden casket.

Eventually a pair of vermilion birds flew
down with one spoon, and a sleeping monkey was found to be clutching the other.
Tebreega rescued him from a cloud of officious birds and coaxed the beast into
yielding up the spoon. Dumping the monkey into Kerish's lap, she began handing
round the food. The glade was in an uproar. More and more birds were gathering
in the trees and all kinds of animals were slipping out of the undergrowth to
make a circle round the fire-pit.

As the monkey clambered up to snuggle under
Kerish's chin, a tree-crab sidled on to his lap and a timorous deer-like
creature settled itself on the hem of his robe. Gidjabolgo was rapidly
surrounded by myopic squirrels and found a water-snake coiling damply up his
arm.

“Just shoo them off if they're a nuisance,”
said Tebreega, who was herself encumbered by a glumly croaking bird on one shoulder
and a lizard continually changing color on the other.

Before each of the travelers, the sorceress
placed slices of some baked root vegetable with an array of sauces, made with
fruits, spices and herbs from the surrounding jungle. From gourd bottles she
poured out cordials flavored with flower petals.

“Now,” she said, as Kerish and Gidjabolgo
cautiously began their meal, “what manner of music shall we have?”

The travelers looked blank.

“I'll choose then.”

Tebreega retrieved her wand from a playful
monkey and pointed it at one of the groups of birds gathered at the edge of the
grove. Instantly, they sang. Kerish soon realized that it was not the lovely
but simple sound of ordinary birdsong. They were singing a tune: the Galkian
air of “The Prince and the Enchantress”.

Gidjabolgo sat with his food halfway to his
mouth, his eyes big with disbelief, until one of the squirrels had licked his
spoon dry. Kerish slowly ate his portion of roots, which tasted very like white
meat, and tried all the sauces.

When the birds had finished he asked how
long it had taken to train them.

“About four generations,” answered
Tebreega. “An absurd project, but the Masters of the Jungle were pleased, for
they are fascinated by our music, as you discovered. I hope you were not too
badly frightened.”

“The unknown is always frightening. . .”
began Kerish hopefully.

“Later, my dear,” interrupted the
sorceress. “At a feast your mouth should be filled with food not questions.”

She ladled out bowls of a rich nut and
vegetable stew and raised her wand again.

Another group of birds began to sing. There
seemed no definite tune but there was a subtle weaving of harmonies such as
Kerish had never heard in the dawn chorus.

“They are my instruments, “ said Tebreega, “and
they let me play on them.”

As the chorus continued, twelve gorgeous
birds strutted across the glade and danced as they would in courtship,
displaying shimmering wings, ruffled crests and the frail magnificence of their
tails.

Tebreega reclined against the ungainly bulk
of a tusked creature that purred at her touch. She ate little herself but
constantly pressed further helpings on her guests and scattered fragments of
food to the animals and birds clustered around her. When the stew was finished,
Kerish and Gidjabolgo were faced with a huge array of fresh fruits and berries.
As they began to pick and taste, monkeys replaced the dancing birds and
gamboled and somersaulted for their delight.

“I shall burst,” said Kerish, “if I have to
eat any more, or hold back my questions any longer.”

“A waste of a good robe. Ask then, my dear,”
answered Tebreega, with her crooked smile.

“First, do you know what is happening in
Viroc, and if my brother, Forollkin, is still safe?”

The sorceress nodded. “I have kept watch.
There was a time when I almost hated Galkis - not all the legends told about me
are false - but I grieve for her now. In the north the forces of Zyrindella and
Yxin are victorious. Morolk and the greater part of Tryfania are in their
hands. The Empress Rimoka drowned crossing a swollen river as the Imperial army
retreated back to Tryfis.

“Viroc's danger is grave,” she continued. “Supplies
are low, many have died in the fighting and the people were bewildered when
they realized that the Third Prince was no longer with them. Yet they are well
led. They have learned to trust your brother and Queen Kelinda is their
greatest comfort. The worst attacks come by sea. The entrance to the harbor is
blocked by sunken ships but the Men of Fangmere still attack from small boats
and they are merciless fighters. The land forces are not so well commanded, now
that the Khan is dead.”

“O-grak?” Kerish's voice shook.

“Ah, I forgot you could not know. The Khan
was stabbed by one of his own captains. He managed to kill his attacker and the
wound need not have been fatal but it festered and he did not have the will to
fight the fever. They denied him the proper burial of his people because he had
no soul, and burned his body and scattered his ashes out at sea. Grieve,” said
Tebreega softly, “but don't condemn yourself. His wife wept for him and he died
in her arms. As for your brother, wait quietly and I will show him to you. He
is thinking about you as we speak. That will make the task easier.”

The sorceress got up and unfastened her
feathered cloak. She passed her wand over it three times and her lips moved in
a silent incantation. Kerish stroked a grey-furred monkey, and tried to hold
back the image of Khan O-grak offering the cup of friendship, and of the lone
dark figure at the prow of the Soul Boat.

“Watch!” commanded Tebreega as she tossed
her cloak in the air. It seemed to fly towards Kerish like a live thing,
swirling about him until his vision was filled with blue and scarlet and his
ears with the beating of wings. Then he heard voices; distant at first, but
coming closer.

“There is nothing; every sunset, there is
nothing.”

Kerish's heart lurched at the familiar
voice. Then a woman spoke. “Perhaps he is too far away now to reach you. “ The
voice was tired and gentle and there was a blur of light at the center of the
scarlet. “If anything had happened to him, if he was dead, surely you would
know? You have been so close all your lives.”