The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (50 page)

 In the late afternoon
they stopped amongst the trees to make camp. While Relisar hunted for firewood
and the two younger men tended to the horses, Triana seized the opportunity to
speak privately to her friend. Elorin was on her knees rummaging about in her
pack, when Triana came and sat beside her.

 “Elorin,” she ventured,
“is anything wrong? You have not been yourself lately. Is there anything I can
do to help?”

 Elorin looked up
briefly. “No thanks, I’m fine.”

 “You’re not fine. You
look so lost sometimes. I know something has happened to upset you and I’d do
anything to help you. It....it wasn’t me, was it? Have I offended you in some
way?”

 “Goodness, no! It’s
nothing to do with you, Triana.” Then seeing the look of sympathy on her
companion’s face, she suddenly felt the urge to unburden herself a little.
“It’s me. I’ve been behaving like a fool.”

 “It has something to do
with the night of the banquet, hasn’t it? You did not return and the Prince was
so upset that I could hardly get a word out of him for the rest of the
evening.”

 Elorin nodded.
“If......if you ever saw me as a rival for the Prince’s affections, you can now
dismiss the idea. The path is clear for you.”

 Triana’s soft eyes
filled with tears. “Oh, no, Elorin, I am so sorry. I didn’t know, truly I
didn’t.”

 “I misunderstood
something Andarion had done, yet......yet, looking back, I still think it was
an understandable mistake. After all, the Prince can hardly give me a dress and
a necklace shaped like a heart and then be surprised that I leaped to certain conclusions.”

 Triana’s eyes widened
with shock. “You thought it was the
Prince
!” she blurted out.

 “Well, you told me it
wasn’t you, so what else could I think?”

 Triana’s colour
abruptly changed from white to red and she began to stammer. “It.....I....oh dear.
Elorin it wasn’t the Prince who gave you the dress, but please don’t ask me who
it was because I have been sworn to secrecy. I gave my word I wouldn’t tell
you.”

 “If it wasn’t the
Prince then...........” Elorin broke off as the truth dawned on her. “
Celedorn
!”

 Triana panicked. “I
didn’t tell you! Remember, I didn’t tell you.
Ooooh
! He’s going to kill
me.”

 “Then he must have
given me the necklace too.”

 “I don’t know who gave
you the necklace,” replied her afflicted friend, glad for once to answer one
question unequivocally.

 A flash of anger sprang
into Elorin’s eyes. “Why could he not have told me? Why all the secrecy? It was
inevitable that some sort of misunderstanding would arise if the truth was
hidden from me.” She leaped to her feet. “Celedorn has some explaining to do.”

 “
No
!” Triana
almost shrieked. “He’ll
murder
me!”

 But Elorin was already
striding across the clearing in Celedorn’s direction. He was adjusting his
horse’s girth and did not see her approach. She tapped him peremptorily on the
shoulder.

 “I would like a word
with you in private.” she announced tightly.

  One look at her face
would have informed even the most unobservant person that she was displeased.
Mystified as to the cause, he followed her through the trees until they were
out of sight of the camp.

 “Why did you not tell
me that you bought that dress?” she accused, without preamble.

 “Triana.....” he began,
but she cut him short.

 “Triana told me
nothing. I worked it out for myself. Why could you not tell me? Why did you go
about it in such an underhand way? Why? You must have guessed that I would jump
to all the wrong conclusions.”

 “I knew nothing of the
sort,” he replied, a little nettled.

 “Of course you did. The
Prince secured an invitation for me, then suddenly an unknown benefactor buys
me a dress and a necklace shaped like a heart. What on earth did you expect?
The whole sorry mess arose that night because of you.”

 “I can’t help it if you
leap to all the wrong conclusions!”

 But she swept his
protest aside. “Even when you knew of my mistake, you didn’t tell me the truth.
How
could
you!”

 He shrugged
offhandedly. “What would have been the point in telling you? It would only have
precipitated a pointless scene like this.”

 “That’s no excuse! You
knew
how I felt about the Prince. You must have realised what I’d think.”

 His old sardonic
expression, recently absent, now reappeared. “I refuse to take the blame for
your injured pride, simply because you indulged in a fit of wishful thinking.”

 She opened her mouth to
argue, then realising that the point he made was unanswerable, made a sound of
disgust and turning sharply on her heel, strode off.

 But she had not taken
three paces, when she heard a horribly familiar sound behind her - the snick of
an arrow, followed by the dull thud as it found its mark.

 She whirled around in
time to see Celedorn sink to his knees, an arrow projecting from his right
shoulder. Half a dozen Turog immediately plumped down from the trees all around
them.

 Celedorn struggled to
his feet and drew his sword. They ignored Elorin and attacked him in a pack.
Elorin had no weapon and did the only thing she could - screamed at the top of
her voice for Andarion.

 She saw that Celedorn
was fighting with his left hand, his right arm hanging limply by his side. Even
with such a disability, he had already killed one of his opponents but the
others were pressing him hard, scenting that his strength was failing.

 The Prince charged into
the clearing, sword already in his hand, and without a moment’s hesitation,
attacked. The creatures snarled in alarm and turned to face him. Celedorn’s
face was now ashen, and blood had soaked his shirt and leather waistcoat. Even
so, with a mighty effort he swung his blade with his left hand and decapitated
a Turog distracted by the Prince’s arrival.

 Andarion, driven by
concern for his wounded companion, fought as he had never fought before and
literally butchered them. He lashed out with such unstoppable fury that the
last one fell before the body of the first had even hit the ground.

 Celedorn had fallen to
his knees again, the point of his sword was thrust into the ground and he was
supporting himself by leaning on the hilt.

 The Prince and Elorin
crossed to him, and helped him sit back against a tree, just as Triana and Relisar
came hurrying up.

 Celedorn grinned
faintly at the Prince. “My compliments,” he said. “As fine a piece of
swordsmanship as I have ever seen.”

 Andarion smiled back
but there was a worried frown between his brows.

 “Use your knife to slit
away his shirt and waistcoat,” Relisar ordered the Prince.

 When the wound was laid
bare, he drew in his breath sharply. “It is in deep.” His eyes met Celedorn’s
in understanding.

 “Green fletchings,”
commented the wounded man quietly.

 “What does that mean?”
asked Triana in alarm.

 Relisar straightened up
and looked at all the anxious faces around him. Elorin was deathly white.

 “Green fletchings mean
that the arrow is poisoned. That is why it is draining his strength so
quickly.” His voice lowered. “If he is to live, it must be drawn.” He turned to
Andarion and said firmly: “You must be the one to do this. It is in deep and
only you have the strength needed to withdraw it.”

 Andarion looked
appalled. “What if it is barbed?”

 Relisar’s reply was
delivered with utter finality. “If it is barbed, he will die.”

 Exercising every ounce
of self-control, Andarion replied: “I will do it.”

 Relisar helped Celedorn
to lie flat against the earth and directed the two women to lean their full
weight on his arms.

 “This is going to be
agony for him,” he whispered to them. “He will strain against you, so you will
have to use all the force you can to hold him down. I will put my weight across
his legs.”

 Andarion, as white as
the patient, placed his foot on Celedorn’s chest and gripped the arrow close to
the wound.

 “Are you ready?” he
asked, looking into Celedorn’s eyes.

 “Yes -  just
promise me that once you start, you will not stop until it’s out.”

 The Prince nodded and
tightening his grip on the shaft, began to exert his strength against it.

 A faint groan was
wrenched from Celedorn, his back began to arch and his teeth were clenched
tight shut in agony. Elorin and Triana struggled desperately to hold him down.
At first the arrow resisted Andarion’s efforts, but finally he felt it begin to
give. The sweat was standing on his brow by now, but he didn’t let up. He
exerted even more force against it, until at last, with a rush that caused him
to stagger backwards, it came out. Celedorn collapsed limply against the ground
as blood began to pour from the wound.

 Triana darted back to
the packs and returned with some clean shirts which she began to rip into
bandages.

 “We cannot bandage it
yet, my dear,” advised Relisar, “for there is poison in this wound and it must
be drawn. I will attempt a spell of retraction.

 Elorin, kneeling beside
Celedorn and tightly holding his hand, felt him tense again as Relisar began to
murmur the words of the spell. Twice the old man issued a word of command in a
strong voice and twice a little dark green fluid seeped from the wound.
Celedorn’s grip on Elorin’s hand had tightened to the point that he was
crushing her fingers but she returned the pressure, knowing that her pain was
nothing compared to his.

 Relisar shook his head
in dissatisfaction. “That is the best I can do, but I know it is not all out. I
have a little skill with the art of healing but not enough to deal with a wound
of this nature.”

 Celedorn drew several
deep breaths and wiped the perspiration off his upper lip with the back of his
hand.

 His companions looked
at each other in dismayed silence. Even the forest seemed silent. The dead
bodies of the Turog lay like black crows fallen from the sky. Not a breath of
wind caused the leaves to tremble. A sense of frozen, helpless desperation had
descended on every heart.

 Then softly, faintly,
echoing through the still forest came an unexpected sound. Somewhere in the
distance, a bell was tolling. Every head lifted in astonishment. The bell
continued to sound at regular intervals, low-pitched, resonant, its clear,
silver peal ringing between the trees.

 “It must be,” breathed
Relisar. “It simply must be, when our need is so great.”

 “What is it?” demanded
the Prince.

 “It must be the
Monastery of the White Brotherhood that the librarian told me about. It must
still be here. It was always the Order’s practice to toll a bell at sunset. We
must follow the sound, for if it is indeed the Brotherhood of the Flower, they
will be able to help him much more than I can.”

 “Can you ride?” the
Prince tersely asked Celedorn.

 “Of course I can.”

 Andarion looked at
Triana who was finishing the bandaging. “Hurry up. If that bell stops tolling,
we may never find the monastery.

 When she finished,
Celedorn made to rise but sank back dizzily. “Don’t just stand there,” he said
peremptorily to the Prince, “help me up.”

 While Andarion
supported Celedorn, the others flew back to the camp and flung their belongings
on the horses.

 Still, faintly and
mysteriously, the bell pealed. Unconsciously, everyone counted the peals,
dreading the moment when the next one did not come.

 With a heroic effort
that left him reeling with faintness, Celedorn managed to get into the saddle.

 “I have no feeling in
my right arm,” he murmured to Relisar.

 “It’s the poison.
Elorin, ride ahead and find the source of that bell before it stops.”

 She glanced at
Celedorn, unwilling to leave him, but she knew the only help she could give him
now was to find the monastery. She pulled her horse’s head round and
disappeared off through the trees at a gallop.

 The others followed,
but were forced to adopt a slower pace, as Celedorn was swaying in the saddle
verging on the edge of unconsciousness. At one point he lurched forward over
his horse’s neck and was only prevented from falling by some deep instinct
which held him in the saddle.

 Andarion dismounted
swiftly, and tossing his reins to Relisar, mounted behind Celedorn and held him
upright, aware that his arm around the wounded man was already covered with
blood. 

 The sound of galloping
hooves signalled Elorin’s return.

 “I’ve found it!” she
cried breathlessly. “It’s not far. Follow me.”

 A few moments later
they emerged at the edge of a wooded ridge to find themselves looking down into
a densely forested valley. In the centre, arising above the woolly green canopy
of the trees, on a grassy promontory stood the monastery. It was constructed of
golden stone and was surrounded by high walls pierced by a single gate. A tall,
slender tower arising from the clutter of buildings within the wall was the source
of the bell. It could be heard more clearly now, drifting above the treetops to
the ridge on which they stood. Suddenly it ceased and for some unknown reason,
everyone instantly looked at Celedorn. His head was hanging forward and his
weight was against the Prince, causing him great difficulty in holding him in
the saddle. The silence was ominous.