The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (30 page)

 “Pelgar has not misled
us,” he informed them. “The shelf continues southwards as far as I can see.”

 Their first day in the
legend-haunted domain of the Destroyer unexpectedly passed pleasantly enough.
The ledge wound its way around the base of each headland, its progress
interrupted now and again by sandy coves. Occasionally, at the head of these
coves, little waterfalls dripped their way to the sea over curtains of slimy
green lichens. The grandeur of the coastline was impressive. Many cliff-points
were pierced with rock arches through which the gulls would fly with easy
grace. Occasionally, a stack, an isolated pinnacle of stone standing like a
sentry beside a bastion, would bear silent witness to the power of the sea to
bring down such structures.

 Elorin looked around
her in wonder, as always, drawn by some inner insistence to the sea. The smell
of salt and seaweed was so evocative that she could almost grasp the wisp of a
memory. It was her preoccupation with the scenery that caused the only
unpleasant interlude of the day. They had conducted their journey in single
file, with Celedorn leading, followed by Relisar and the Prince. Elorin brought
up the rear, lagging behind to admire the arches of stone. She had at first
walked beside the Prince, delighting in his company, but after a while, his
solicitous habit of tenderly helping her over every obstacle, no matter how
small, had begun the chafe, and she had dropped behind.

 When Celedorn rounded a
headland in the late afternoon to discover a sandy bay suitable for spending
the night, he also made the discovery that Elorin was missing. Neither Relisar
nor the Prince could account for her absence. Celedorn, with an oath of
annoyance, shed his pack onto the sand and leaped onto the rock shelf in
pursuit of her, just as the truant herself rounded the headland. To Andarion’s
astonishment and disapproval, Celedorn exploded with anger as soon as he saw
her, and read her a lecture in unflattering terms as to what he thought of
people who were so irresponsible as to behave as if they were on a picnic and
not keep within sight at all time in such hostile territory.

 Elorin was by no means
prepared to quietly accept such an indictment, and a row of volcanic
proportions ensued. As the Prince merely stood with his arms folded, looking at
Celedorn with contempt, it was left to Relisar to make the peace.

 “Celedorn, my friend,”
he said gently, “the point you make is valid but you are too severe. After all,
no harm has come to Elorin and she will be more careful in future.”

 For a tense moment
everyone thought that the old man was going to come under fire as well, but
suddenly Celedorn turned away and began to unbuckle his pack.

 “If we are going to
light a fire to cook with,” he said coldly, “we should do so now while it is
still light. Choose the driest of the driftwood to avoid smoke. It will have to
be put out before darkness falls, as we do not wish to advertise our presence -
not that caution is much use when we leave all these footprints in the sand for
anyone to see. We must hope for a high tide tomorrow morning.”

 Without a word to her
protagonist, Elorin took some fishing-hooks and twine from her pack and
defiantly climbed back onto the rocks again.

 Relisar looked at her
doubtfully. “Do you think she’ll catch anything?” he asked Celedorn.

 “Only the sharp edge of
my tongue if she disappears again,” was the brittle rejoinder.

 But Elorin triumphantly
returned an hour later with several small fish. A bright fire of driftwood was
by that time burning merrily against the base of the cliff and she borrowed the
Prince’s hunting knife to gut the fish and then cooked them on sticks over the
fire. She offered one to Celedorn as an unspoken peace offering, which he took
rather ungraciously.

 When he had eaten, he
moved a little apart from the others and sitting down on a convenient rock,
began to clean his already spotless sword.

 Relisar, less sensitive
to his wish for solitude than the others, came and sat beside him.

 “A beautiful weapon,
Celedorn,” he remarked admiringly. “May I hold it?”

 For a moment it looked
as if his request would be refused, but reluctantly Celedorn proffered the
sword, hilt first. The old sage turned the sword this way and that, watching
the firelight flash off the gleaming blade.

 “A beautiful weapon,”
he repeated softly. “So finely balanced and of such superior workmanship.” He
pointed to the three intertwined flowers engraved on the blade just below the
hilt. “The motif of the chalice flowers indicates that it is a sword of the Old
Kingdom. There are so few of them left. They say that their armourers had a
skill that has been lost. Their swords never rust or break and their blades
never lose their edge. Have you found it so?”

 “I have,” said
Celedorn, thawing a little. “It has never failed me.”

 “Where did you get it?”

 The thaw halted
abruptly. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean.”

 Relisar raised his
bushy eyebrows in surprise. “I was not implying that,” he replied mildly.

 The sudden ire faded
from Celedorn’s eyes. For a long time he said nothing, then reluctantly, almost
as if the words were forced from him, he said: “It belonged to my father.”

 Relisar looked at him
strangely for a moment before carefully restoring the weapon to him.

 “A magnificent sword,”
he sighed, his eyes distant. “I have only once before seen its like.”

 Elorin, who had been
listening, leaned forward: “Relisar, I know the chalice flower is the symbol of
the Old Kingdom, but what does it actually represent?”

 “Legend has it that
when the earth was young and the children of light still innocent, the Creator
was so pleased with his handiwork that he delighted to be amongst them. But the
first sin that ever entered this word was jealousy, and the Destroyer arose in
envy and stole some of the children and twisted them to darkness and evil in
some vile imitation of himself. When  Yervenar saw what had happened, that
innocence was lost for ever, he wept bitterly, and his tears fell to the earth
like rain. Where each drop fell, there sprang up a little flower with petals as
clear as crystal, a stem of purest gold and leaves as bright as an emerald. It
is said that the chalice flower has miraculous powers. It can heal any wound -
even a wound of the soul - and can restore the dead to life.”

 She leaned her chin on
her hand, enthralled by the story. “Has one ever been found?”

 “No, my dear. In the
days of the Old Kingdom, many brave men searched the entire earth for the
flower of legend, even braving the Destroyer’s frozen kingdom in the north, but
it was never found. One story tells that some of the flowers grew on the Hill
of the Seven Crowns, near the royal city which in the old language was called Korem,
but though every inch of the hill was searched, no chalice flower was ever
found.”

 “They don’t exist,”
Celedorn interposed. “They are just another fantastic fable of the Old
Kingdom.”

 “Perhaps,” the Prince
conceded, “but don’t forget that we are travelling through the land that used
to be the Old Kingdom. Land that no human being has crossed since the days of
Tissro, just before the fall of the last High King. Perhaps we will find more
than we bargained for here. Perhaps there is some truth in the old stories.”

 “You are romantic,”
sneered Celedorn, making it sound like a disease. “All we are likely to find is
the spawn of the Destroyer.”

  Andarion shrugged.
“They say some remnants remain.”

 “Yes indeed,” agreed
Relisar. “It is said that even some fragments of the other two Orders survive.”

 “The other two Orders?”
asked Elorin blankly, not for the first time bitterly resenting her loss of
memory.

 “Yes, Elorin, there are
three Orders of Sages, each with different functions. The greatest was the
Order of the Flower - or the White Brotherhood, as it was often known. Iit
dealt with healing, understanding and spells of protection or adamant. The
second Order, my Order, was the Order of the Book. We study learning,
interpretation, dreams and portents. Lastly there was the Order of the Sword.
This was a brotherhood of warriors - not using physical swords against physical
enemies, you understand, but using the power of the spirit to resist the demons
of evil that the Destroyer sent against the Old Kingdom, in order to weaken it
by sowing discord and strife. Sadly, towards the last days of the Old Kingdom,
their numbers declined and in the end they were overborne.”

 “Why did their numbers
decline?”

 It was the Prince who
replied. “Only children who pass the tests set by the Master of the Order can
be apprenticed. They must show they have the gifts of the spirit, a latent
ability which is inborn and which will be developed during their
apprenticeship. Towards the end of the Old Kingdom, such children became rare.
Each year, fewer and fewer passed the test. During the chaos of the fall of the
Old Kingdom, two of the Orders were lost, scattered and destroyed. The Brothers
of the Sword were hunted through the Great Forest, by evil things no longer
seen on this earth, and were annihilated one by one. Only some of Relisar’s
Order, including its master, made it across the Harnor into the last remnant of
the Kingdom which has now become Eskendria. But still the numbers of children
with the gift declined and now Relisar is the last of his kind. Master
Tarlingdor died four years ago and now Relisar is truly the last.”

 “Not exactly a glowing
advertisement for his Order,” Celedorn muttered under his breath.

 But Andarion heard him
and his brows snapped together in anger. He would have leaped to his mentor’s
defence but Relisar forestalled him.

 “The criticism is
just,” he conceded sadly, and all present clearly saw his grief. “It has been
the purpose of my life to find Erren-dar, now more than ever, when he is needed
so badly, and yet I have failed miserably. My one attempt to summon him
achieved nothing but wrenching Elorin away from wherever she belonged and
ruining her life.”

 Elorin made to object,
but he held up his hand. “I know you would deny it, even though we all know
that it is true, simply because you are kind-hearted and wish to spare me pain,
but in fact that makes me feel even worse. Let’s face it; I am an incompetent
old bungler. If only there were more of my Order to share this burden with me
but I am alone and must proceed as best I can. I haven’t entirely given up hope
of achieving my task, but I confess that despair is only a short step away.”

 Accurately interpreting
Celedorn’s expression, Elorin observed: “Celedorn thinks you are chasing
moonbeams.”

 “We all know what
Celedorn thinks,” the Prince remarked dryly. “He is not reticent when it comes
to airing his opinions.”

 But the object of his
stricture refused to be baited and merely pointed out that it was getting dark.
“Time to put out the fire. I will take the first watch.”

  For the next two days
they travelled southwards along the coast, meeting no life other than the
seabirds. Each night they rested in one of the sandy coves. Celedorn was
obsessive about leaving no trace of their presence in the morning, and
conscientiously buried the burnt sticks of their fire and swept the area clean.
Andarion tended to be dismissive about such precautions, but Elorin, having
travelled through the Forsaken Lands before, knew that his watchfulness kept
them safe. His skills were useful in other ways too. He was the quickest to get
a fire going and was handy when it came to cooking. When Elorin expressed
surprise at such abilities he informed her, in his own inimitable style, that
on his travels before he came to Ravenshold it had been a case of learning such
things or starving. The Prince, though anxious to do his share, had not the
faintest idea how to go about such tasks. After he had managed to drop some
fish that Elorin had caught into the fire, and scalded himself with hot water,
she dispensed with his services.

 By late afternoon of
the third day, they rounded a point to be confronted with an awe-inspiring
sight. A massive, flat-topped headland jutted out into the sea like a giant
anvil, far surpassing all the headlands they had seen so far. It rose
perpendicularly from the silver sea, its shape dark and brooding against the
pale blue sky. On its extremity, the ruins of what had once been a magnificent
palace were poised like a black crown. The towers of Kerrian-tohr pointed at
the sky like accusing fingers.

 “It is the Palace of
the Queen,” breathed Relisar, a little unnecessarily.

 “Past tense,” corrected
Celedorn. “Even from this distance, one can see that it has been in ruins for
centuries.”

 “I must explore it.”

 “Not now. The light has
nearly gone and it will be too dark soon to see anything.”

 Andarion grinned: “You
are not, perchance, afraid of ghosts?”

 Celedorn folded his
arms. “Completely terrified.”

 Elorin laughed and
raised an eyebrow at the Prince. “Frustrating, isn’t he? You are beginning to
understand what I have had to put up with.”

 “Not at all,” was the
unexpected response. “My sympathies are entirely with Celedorn.”