The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (17 page)

 “No,” she replied,
moving reluctantly closer, “but you do bark.”

 She felt his arm go
around her shoulders and made no resistance as he drew her against him.

  His solidity and
warmth were reassuringly human in the cold, eerie darkness and after a little
while she relaxed enough to lean her head against his shoulder.

 They sat in silence
staring into the darkness, listening to the soft patter as the wind shook
raindrops from the trees, for the moment no dissension between them.

    The King
of Serendar was expecting the arrival of Prince Andarion and consequently he
was greeted with the full splendour due to his rank. As the Eskendrian delegation
descended from the gentle hills towards the broad coastal plain, they could see
that Sar-es-Marn - the City by the Shore - was decked out in all her legendary
beauty. The city was situated in the curve of a wide bay, its houses and towers
gleaming white against the backdrop of intensely blue sea. On a slight
promontory, the citadel’s massive white walls rose sheer to the crenellated
battlements from which flew the golden pennant of Serendar.

 Andarion halted the
convoy to look his fill, glad of the fact that his arm was no longer in a
splint. King Orovin was younger than Eskendria’s king, only in his forties, but
already he had a reputation for cunning. Andarion knew his arguments must
survive keen scrutiny. The King already knew the reason for his visit and the
chances were that he had already made up his mind on the issue. Eskendria and
Serendar were traditionally allies, linked not only by their geographical
proximity but by trade, culture and marriage. But lately there had been a
certain coolness emanating out of Sar-es-Marn: nothing really tangible but a
slight chill in the air, a slight unwillingness to co-operate. Eskendria had
tackled Celedorn alone because King Orovin had prevaricated when asked to help.
The problem of the mountain brigands was mutual to both countries, but without
exactly refusing the request, the King had been frustratingly elusive until
Eskendria could wait no longer. Vaguely, Andarion wished that his brother was
by his side. Sarrick’s common sense and practicality were always reassuring. In
contrast, Relisar was of little use, always with his head stuck in a book,
always off on some flight of fancy. What Andarion had to achieve could not be
brought about by spells or incantations. What he needed was a strong, solid
military alliance.

 As he watched, the city
gates opened and a troop of cavalry came into view, heading undeviatingly up
the white, dusty road towards the Eskendrians. They wore the dark blue uniforms
of King Orovin’s personal guards. As they came closer, the sun could be seen
glittering on the chalice flowers embroidered in gold thread on the hems and
sleeves of their tunics. Unintentionally, they confirmed the Eskendrians’
prejudice that the residents of the City-by-the-Shore had an excessive love of
finery. Their captain halted his horse before the Prince and bowed low over its
shoulder.

 “Crown Prince Andarion
of Eskendria, His Majesty, King Orovin, sends his greetings and welcomes you to
Sar-es-Marn. I have been instructed to escort you to the apartments that have
been prepared for you. The King thought that you would wish to rest after your
long journey before meeting with him. A banquet is to be held in your honour
tonight.” He smiled slightly. “It is not often in these troubled times that we
have the honour of entertaining such an esteemed guest.”

 The Prince merely bowed
slightly in reply, so immune to flattery that he scarcely noticed it.

 The Serendarian cavalry
executed a neat, if somewhat showy, manoeuvre to about-face, that raised a few
eyebrows amongst the Eskendrian troops, before they led the way back to the
city.

  Andarion was aware
that he was not the King’s equal in rank and could therefore not expect to be
greeted by him in person but he felt that it boded ill that he had not been
accorded that privilege. Nevertheless, this was not the time to be haughty and
take offence. A hasty temper had ruined many a promising negotiation and the
Prince resolved not to lose sight of his purpose.

 The company wound its
way down narrow, cobbled streets flanked by immaculate white houses, their
balconies overhung with a riot of colourful flowers. At last they emerged from
the shady coolness of the streets onto a broad promenade by the sea that baked
in the full glare of the sun. The light glittered so brilliantly on the water
that it was almost painful to look at it. Dozens of fishing boats, all painted
in bright blues, reds and greens were tied up at the quays which projected into
the sea from the promenade. Some had unmoored and were raising white sails as
they took advantage of the fresh breeze to put out to sea: others were tied up
three and four abreast at the quay, their nets either spread out to dry or
being mended by groups of fishermen, their hands deftly flying back and
forward. Further out in the bay, two large warships, distinguishable by their
much greater size and subdued colour, were anchored, their sails furled with
naval precision.

 The ground floors of
the houses facing the sea were all converted into shops or taverns. Many of the
warehouses displayed the exotic wares brought in by the merchant ships - gems
from the ruby mines of  Kelendore, silks from the south, pearls from
Skerris-morl, perfumes from the lavender fields of Eskendria. The Prince,
observing the colourful bustle around the shops, wished that he visited the
City-by-the-Shore just as an ordinary traveller whose time was his own. It
would have been pleasant to have strolled along the harbour, chatting with the
fishermen, investigating the treasures of the nearby warehouses and perhaps visiting
one of the quaint taverns to try one of Serendar’s famous seafood dishes.

  They were nearing the
end of the sweeping promenade and a broad ramp arose before them, ascending at
a gentle gradient towards the citadel. The horses clattered through a deep
archway, their hooves echoing in the sudden coolness. Relisar for once was
paying attention to his surroundings. He was looking around him with interest,
twisting in the saddle in a manner that was clearly irritating his horse. The
animal had a discontented look in its eye and Andarion hoped it did not rid
itself of its rider in its customary fashion. To his relief, they dismounted in
a large, shaded courtyard. Two men emerged from a great doorway and came down
the steps to greet them. One was the King’s chamberlain, a dignified,
grey-haired man of about Relisar’s age, whom Andarion recognised from an
earlier visit. The other was a stocky, bearded man with dark hair salted with
grey, who advanced towards them with the assurance born of power. The Chamberlain
introduced him as Goradis, the Lord High Counsellor, head of the cabal of war
barons. The information conveyed a world of intelligence to the Prince, for it
meant that after the King, he was addressing the most powerful man in the
Kingdom. Goradis said all that was appropriate to the occasion but the Prince
knew that those heavy-lidded eyes were evaluating him: assessing him both as a
Prince and as a man. For some peculiar reason, he sensed hostility despite the
urbane smile. However the Lord Counsellor conversed pleasantly enough as he
escorted the Prince to his apartments, sticking carefully to mundane matters.
Relisar trailed behind, chatting with the King’s Chamberlain and shaking dust
out of his grey robes all over the highly polished floor.

  The magnificence of
the apartments allocated to them completely eclipsed the more homely charms of
the palace at Addania. Slender white pillars rose to an intricately carved
ceiling whose ornate curlicues were picked out in gold leaf. The floor was of
the famous azure marble, as deep a blue as the sea. The marble was found only
in one place in the Isles of Kelendore and the fact that the palace was so
liberally adorned with it, spoke of the good relation she enjoyed with her
island neighbour. They were both seafaring nations, a brotherhood from which
Eskendria was excluded by virtue of the fact that it was landlocked. The
archipelago lay to the north-west of Serendar, its five islands wealthy and
powerful out of all proportion to their size. Kelendore had stayed aloof from
the recent collisions with the Turog. She had a small army but a powerful navy
which guarded her shores most effectively. Generations had grown up without
ever seeing a Turog and the threat was becoming remote. Although the Turog
possessed ships, they were not natural seafarers and were always ill at ease on
such an alien element. They tended to confine themselves to picking off lone
merchant ships plying their way to Serendar or to the tiny independent island
of Sirkris which nestled uncomfortably close to the coast of the Forsaken
Lands. The Kelendorians countered such threats by organising their merchant
ships into convoys escorted by powerful warships. Thus their trade continued
uninterrupted, the only minor annoyance being the difficulty of getting goods
through the Westrin Mountains to the markets of Eskendria. Celedorn’s name was
in poor odour even as far away as the Isles.

  When Goradis and the
servants had departed and Andarion finally found himself alone, he crossed the
shining blue floor and ascended the couple of steps which led to a balcony. The
view had been screened by softly stirring silk curtains but when he drew them
aside and stepped out onto the white terrace, he caught his breath once again
at the magnificence of the city. His windows looked back along the curve of the
bay. The deep, cobalt blue of the sea put the azure marble to shame and the
purity of the white buildings was almost too dazzling for the eye to bear.

  Beyond the gentle
backdrop of rolling hills, their flanks dotted with neat farms, the Westrin
Mountains rose, misty and lavender blue in the distance, their highest
pinnacles still  romantically tipped with snow. He sat down on the wall of
the balcony and gazed at them a long time. They once had represented the largest
and most powerful barony in Eskendria, ruled by the Lords of Westrin, second
only in power to the monarch. Indeed so powerful had the Lords of Westrin been,
that the Kings of Eskendria had required them to travel each year to the
capital to swear an oath of loyalty. It was on such a journey that the last
Lord of Westrin and his family had met their fate. Now the ancient line had
ended and a region once well governed was wild and lawless, part of Eskendria
in name alone. Inevitably, as the Prince gazed at the mountains his thoughts
led him to Elorin. At best she was a prisoner in some vile dungeon, at worst
slain by Ravenshold’s cruel master. Andarion knew that no matter how long he
lived his conscience would give him no rest. Guilt would torment him for
allowing Elorin to sacrifice herself. The fact that he had little choice did
nothing to alleviate his pain. He had been a fool to allow himself to be
trapped and it was consequently his failure to protect her that had been at
fault.

 At that moment the Prince’s
rather gloomy reflections were interrupted when the door of his apartments
burst open precipitating Relisar into the room. He was looking more than
ordinarily disreputable: his hair was on end, his gown rumpled and his beard
stuck out in all directions.

  He was clearly
agitated and began pacing the room, wringing his hands and uttering
inarticulate noises of distress.

 The Prince smiled
tolerantly and descended the steps into the room. “Well Relisar?”

 The old man uttered one
word. “Elorin!”

 Andarion frowned.
“Strange, I was just thinking of Elorin.”

 Relisar appeared not to
hear him but continued to pace the floor. “It can’t be. I must be wrong. I
must
be wrong.” He wrung his hands until the knuckles cracked.

 The Prince winced.
“What is all this about? Have you heard news of Elorin? Would you please stop
pacing the floor, you’re making me dizzy.”

 The Sage turned to face
him, utterly distraught. “It’s no use, I know it was Elorin.”

 Andarion’s brows drew
together but before he could speak, Relisar started his perambulations again.

 “Sit down, and try to
be coherent,” ordered the Prince with an edge to his voice that would have
informed someone even less observant than Relisar that he was getting
impatient.

 Relisar obeyed,
collapsing into a chair as if his legs had given way under him.

 He took a deep breath.
“After I was shown to my room, I thought I’d have a little nap after the
journey, you know, so that I would be bright-eyed and at my best for the
banquet this evening. At my age a long ride can be most fatiguing. You young
people have no appreciation of how.....”

 “Can we stick to the
point?”

 “Oh....er....yes, well,
I fell asleep and then it happened.”

 “What happened?”
snapped the exasperated Prince.

 “The dream came to me.
I dreamt of Elorin. I saw her in some dark place and she was falling, falling
backwards into some horrible black abyss. She screamed and I felt her fear -
sheer, utter terror. She is in deadly peril, I am sure of it. I.....I felt her
fear go through me like an icy wind. It was literally the fear of death.”

 Andarion’s face was
white by this stage. He knew Relisar’s dreams of old and knew they were not to
be lightly disregarded.

 “Is she......is she
dead, Relisar?” he asked, his voice a little unsteady. “That savage in the
mountains, has he.....?” his voice trailed off, unable to proceed.