The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (63 page)

 Andarion’s ears pricked
up. “His new bride?”

 “Indeed. He recently
cemented an alliance with Kelendore by marrying the daughter of the Lord
Protector. Much good may it do him. Kelendore has a strong navy but no army
worth mentioning, and what is needed here is a strong army.”

 “His bride....em....is
she the youngest daughter of the Lord Protector?”

 “No, the eldest. He was
betrothed to the youngest but she drowned in the great storm on her way to
Serendar.”

 The Prince smiled
inwardly to himself and said nothing, but any satisfaction he might have felt
on a purely personal level soon evaporated when Veldor began to outline the
current position.

  “We fought them at the
Harnor, trying to prevent the bridgehead being established, but it was no good.
They beat us back with an immense loss of life on both sides. What made the
difference, was the fact that the Turog just kept bringing more and more
reinforcements across the Harnor, whereas we.....well, all our reserves were
already committed. We had no more resources to call upon.” He drew a deep breath.
“Ten thousand men were lost in the battle of the Harnor.” He saw the Prince
turn pale with shock. “Aye, my lord Prince, ten thousand good men and there is
no one to replace them. Since then we have fought three more battles, and each
time, although we are not utterly defeated, we are driven back and weakened by
the loss of more men. Foot by foot, relentlessly they are forcing us back on
Addania. We are now only a day’s ride from the city. It is a question only of
when, not if, Addania will have to stand siege. I suspect your brother was
summoned back to the city to discuss plans for its defence - but between you
and me, my Lord, there is little hope. Time is on the side of our enemy.
Militarily speaking, Addania is a difficult nut to crack but they can afford to
wait and starve us out.”

 “Addania has long been
provisioned against such an eventuality.”

 “Aye, it has, but what
does that do, other than to delay the inevitable?”

 “You are telling me
that we have run out of options,” said Andarion fatalistically.

 “I am afraid so. We
have no choices left. I would guess that when Prince Sarrick returns, his
orders will be to retreat on Addania and save what forces we can for the
defence of the city.”

 The Prince stood up,
hardly aware that he did so. “All these months, when I was travelling back
across the Forsaken Lands, my fear was that I would arrive too late, that I
would find Eskendria just a smoking ruin triumphed over by the Turog. Yet it
seems that I have arrived just in time to witness such an event.”

 Veldor looked at him
with helpless compassion. “Do not yet despair, my lord, we are not beaten yet
and while there is breath left in any of us we will fight them. Why, the very
knowledge that you are alive will put new heart in the men. They have need of
good news. Although your brother is a competent commander, he is not loved as
you are loved. Our army would fight to the last man for you.”

 The Prince was deeply
touched, for he knew Veldor was not prone to flattery and he turned his face
away to hide his emotion. His companion, looking at his tense shoulders and
hands balled into fists, knew that the Turog had a fight on their hands. They
would pay in blood for every foot of Eskendria they gained.

 “If they want Addania,”
said the Prince with quiet savagery, “it will cost them dearly.”

 It was still dark when
Celedorn felt a hand shake his shoulder. Although he had been deeply asleep,
his mind instantly sprang to alertness, as was his habit. He was already
reaching for the hilt of his sword, when he recognised Andarion’s voice in the
darkness.

 “No need to reach for
your sword, it’s only me. I have much to tell you, but we must speak quietly as
I have no wish to wake Relisar.”

 A gentle but rhythmic
snoring issued from across the tent, informing the Prince that his
consideration was superfluous.

 “Bad news, I take it?”
said Celedorn softly.

 “It could hardly be
worse. Or army is retreating on Addania. A siege is inevitable.”

 “That is bad news
indeed, but Addania is strong. It will hold out until help comes from
Serendar.”

 Andarion ground his
teeth. “No help is coming from Serendar. King Orovin has decided to leave us to
our fate.”

 A soft growl of anger
broke from Celedorn. “I always knew he was a fool and a coward - I just never
knew how much.”

 “He played games with
me the whole time I was in Serendar trying to get his help. It is just as
Varinia said, he stands on his sandcastle as the tide comes in - but it is of
little comfort to me that Serendar will not long survive Eskendria. The future
suddenly seems so very fragile.”

 Celedorn seemed to
agree, for he said: “My affairs are somewhat irrelevant now. Do you still wish
me to come with you to Addania?”

 “Yes. I still want to
go through with what I have in mind. I feel, somehow, despite the
circumstances, that it is important.”

 “Very well, if you wish
it, I will come.”

 Andarion stretched
wearily. “I’d better get a couple of hours sleep, for we ride for Addania at
dawn.”

 “You can take my bed,
if you like.”

  The Prince managed a
tired smile. “Oh no, cousin, I wouldn’t hear of it. I have accommodation in
another tent.” A stertorous snort issued from the blissfully unconscious
Relisar, causing the Prince to add: “Where the silence is unbroken.”

 “Ah!” exclaimed
Celedorn, as one discovering treachery. “Now I know why
I
got to share a
tent with him.”

 At first light, they
left the camp behind and started on the final stage of the journey to Addania.
The Prince was tormented with urgency to reach their goal and barely allowed
his companions time to snatch a bite to eat in the morning. He also refused Veldor’s
offer of an escort, fearing that Celedorn’s identity might be compromised.
However, he gladly accepted the loan of fresh horses, as they would have to
ride hard to reach the city by nightfall.

 As they travelled, he
explained the situation to the others and found himself amused by the fact that
in the midst of all the news of doom and disaster, Triana fastened on to one
rather trivial point.

 “King Orovin did
what
?”
she demanded in outraged accents.

 “He married your
eldest.......”

 “I heard you! Well I
don’t think much of him! So much for faithfulness!”

 “But Triana,” Elorin
objected, highly entertained. “He thought you had drowned.”

 “Well how long did he
wait before marrying my sister? A whole
hour
was it?”

 “But you didn’t want to
marry him.”

 “That is beside the
point,” said Triana with dignity. “He could have waited a decent length of time
before running off to get someone else. I wish my sister joy of him.”

 “Surely the point is
that you are now free to.......”  Elorin halted abruptly when she received
a repressive frown from Celedorn.

 A short while later,
when she was riding beside him, she said: “Why did you scowl at me?”

 “You know very well
why, madam innocent. You were about to be indiscreet. The barrier between them
has now been removed. Kindly allow them to manage the rest themselves.”

 An irrepressibly
roguish dimple peeped out. “You are a much better person than me,” she observed
dulcetly.

 “Only intermittently,”
he flashed back.

 Predictably, and
somewhat infuriatingly, Celedorn proved to be right, for when they stopped
briefly for something to eat at noon, Triana and Andarion wandered off a little
distance by themselves and were seen to be in earnest conversation. However, to
Elorin’s disappointment, when they returned, they did not make the expected
announcement. Instead the Prince renewed his demands that they make haste and
their onward journey continued at the same relentless pace.

 Darkness had already
fallen when they arrived at the city, so Triana was denied her first glimpse of
its beauty.  The first check that they encountered was the guard at the
bridge across the river. Flambeaux burned in the cool night air, mounted on two
pillars at the end of the bridge. They cast their flickering light over a
strong detachment of guards armed with bows and swords. They were obviously
highly alert, for the instant the party came into sight, they fairly bristled
with aggression. Swords were drawn and bows made ready, so that by the time the
companions reached the bridge, the slightest untoward movement on their part
would have resulted in instant death.

 Andarion drew rein in
front of them, his horse’s breath misting in the chill air. He rapidly scanned
the faces before him until he found one that he recognised.

 “Do you not know me,
Nendorth? Has it been so long since we last met that you have forgotten? A few
months only have passed, and yet it appears that already I am a stranger in my
own land.”

 One of the guards
stepped forward and peered suspiciously at the Prince in the uncertain light.

 “It can’t be,” he
breathed.

 Andarion slid out of
the saddle and faced the man. “I ask you again, Nendorth, do you not know me?”

 The man gave an
incredulous gasp and sank on one knee before the Prince. “My lord Prince,” He
looked over his shoulder at his comrades. “Do you not know who this is, you
fools? It is Prince Andarion. Our Prince has returned to us from the dead.”

 They all clustered
around him, pushing and shoving each other in order to get a glimpse of him.
Then, all at once, as if they had suddenly confirmed that what they saw was
real and not some vision, a cheer went up. It was taken up by more and more of
the guards. One ran back across the bridge shouting the news to those stationed
within the gate. Soon the news began to spread like fire through a dry forest.
More and more people began to come out of their houses, asking what was going
on, wondering what all the cheering was about.

 The Prince remounted
his horse, and entered the city as if coming home in triumph after a great
victory. By the time he reached the streets, a throng of soldiers and citizens
lined the way, cheering and shouting for joy.

 The others followed
discreetly behind the Prince, Celedorn with his hood drawn up, glad that in all
the excitement they were being ignored.

 “It appears our Prince
is well loved,” murmured the dark figure in the cloak to Elorin. It was not
lost upon her the use of the possessive word and the faint note of pride in his
voice.

 High up, in the palace
at the top of the hill, candles still burned in the council chamber. The King,
Prince Sarrick and some of the army commanders still pored over a table strewn
with maps and plans. Yet although the chamber was cheerful and brightly lit,
the expression on every face was sombre, for however much they planned and
schemed there was little hope to be found.

 During a lull in their
discussions, as they stood staring in silence at the maps of the city, Sarrick
suddenly stiffened to attention.

 “I hear cheering,” he
remarked in a surprised voice. “What can it be?”

 The cheering swelled in
volume as it drew closer.

 “Find out what is going
on,” the King ordered one of his aides.

  The man turned smartly
on his heel to obey, but just as he reached the tall double doors, they were
flung open and a confused crowd of people was seen outside. When they suddenly
became aware of the presence of their King, they stopped short of entering the
chamber and the cheering died away.

 From the crowd, a tall,
fair-haired figure stepped forward. Every particle of colour drained from the
King’s face.

 “Have you nothing to
say to me, father?” Andarion asked.

  
For the space of a heartbeat, the King was absolutely
speechless. Then the most utter joy began to spread over his countenance.

 “My son, they told me
you had drowned,” said he in a voice trembling with emotion. “How can this be?”

 Without waiting for a
reply, he stepped forward, stretching out his hands toward Andarion in a
gesture that pleaded for reassurance.

 Andarion, his face
charged with his feelings, took the King’s hands and sank on one knee before
him.

 “Sire,” he said in a
voice as unsteady as the King’s. “I have journeyed long and far to come home to
you.”

 “I thought that life
could offer me no further joy,” said the King, drawing his eldest son to his
feet and warmly embracing him.

 But Celedorn, watching
events closely from beneath his hood, saw one face that was not entirely
overjoyed.

 Sarrick stepped forward
to greet his brother. “So, the sea could not hold you, Andarion.”

 Andarion took his hand
but his eyes searched beyond him. “Where is Illiana?”

 “She is in Sar-es-Marn.
With a siege pending, it was thought best.” Sarrick signalled to the guards to
close the doors, shutting the curious crowds outside. “And you, Relisar, it
appears that you too have come back from the dead.”

 The King finally tore
his eyes away from Andarion, and for the first time, noticed the four people
standing quietly at the back of the chamber.

 “Relisar too? Another
face I thought I would never see again,” he said.

 “A bad penny always
turns up,” muttered Sarrick, but his father heard him and rounded on him. “Let
me not hear from you such a discourteous speech concerning a man so much your
senior.”

 Sarrick bowed stiffly
in reply. “My apologies, Relisar.”

 “One other face I
recognise,” observed the King thoughtfully. “Surely this is the girl with no
name.”

 “She has a name now,”
said Andarion. “She is Lissoreth - a direct descendant of Tissro the Wanderer,
but she has honoured me by choosing to continue to use the name I bestowed upon
her.” He turned to her and smiled. “Elorin - autumn.”

 “And this other child?”

 The Prince took a deep
breath and taking Triana by the hand, led her forward. “May I present Triana,
youngest daughter of the Lord Protector of Kelendore - and your future
daughter-in-law.”

 To his relief, the King
was puzzled rather than shocked. “You are betrothed to this lady? How can this
be?”

 “When our ship sank off
Sirkris, my companions and I decided that the only way to return home, was to
cross the Forsaken Lands. Our path led us past Kerrian-tohr, where Triana
herself had been shipwrecked by the same storm. Since then, she has travelled
in our company and I have grown to love her. Nothing could be said between us,
however, because her father had arranged her betrothal to King Orovin in order
to cement an alliance, and it was only yesterday that I heard that the King,
believing her drowned, had married her sister. Our betrothal, therefore, only
dates from today. I have come to ask your blessing, Sire.”

 The King leaned towards
Triana, a faint smile hovering on his lips. “My son has always had excellent
taste,” he said graciously. “You are indeed a pretty child. Your father, no
doubt, will be pleased to make an alliance with Eskendria after this.”

 She dropped a curtsey
to him. “Let us hope so, Sire.”

 But to Andarion’s
dismay, the King’s attention then fastened on Celedorn.

 “Who is this tall and
silent stranger who hides his face from me?”

 Andarion realised that
events were slipping out of his grasp. He had intended to give an account of
his adventures to his father, stressing the fact that the silent stranger had
saved his life, and risked his own many times to protect them from the Turog,
and then, just as the King was feeling grateful to him, reveal his identity.

 “Father.......” he
began.

 But the King took a
decisive step towards Celedorn, all his concentration bent upon him.

 “Who is this man who is
so silent? Who says nothing?”

 With that, to the
Prince’s consternation, Celedorn put back his hood.

 
“Celedorn!”
hissed Sarrick, and instantly his sword flashed from its scabbard. The menacing
scrape of steel echoed around the chamber as the guards all followed suit.

 Andarion flung out his
hand. “Stop!” he commanded. “Sheathe your weapons!”

 “I will make an end to
this black villain,” snarled Sarrick between his teeth.

 Celedorn merely folded
his arms, apparently unimpressed, but Andarion noticed that he had tucked his
cloak behind his sword hilt, making access to it easier.

 “Sheathe your sword,
Sarrick,” Andarion again ordered. “Believe me, brother, if Celedorn draws steel
upon you, you will die where you stand.”

 But Sarrick paid no
heed and began to advance purposefully, provoked by the look of contempt on Celedorn’s
face.

 Swiftly, Andarion
blocked his path. “Who between us is the better swordsman?” he demanded.

 Sarrick halted, a
little disconcerted by the question. “You are,” he conceded reluctantly.

 “Then permit me to tell
you, that I fought this man once, and if the contest had not been interrupted
by the Turog, I would not be standing before you today. He is a much finer
swordsman that either of us - and we are both accounted skilled with the
weapon.”

 “He can hardly outmatch
both me and a dozen guards,” said Sarrick in a tight, angry voice.

 “No! I gave my word
that he would be safe in this city. He has my protection.”

 The guards looked
uncertainly at the King for guidance.

 All during the
confrontation between the two brothers, the King had not for a moment taken his
eyes off Celedorn’s face. Celedorn returned the stare coolly.

 “We have not met
before?” the King asked doubtfully.

 “Indeed we have,” was
the calm response.

 “You
seem.......familiar, somehow.”

 “Look closer,”
suggested Celedorn. “Look behind the scars.”

 The King’s brow
furrowed and everyone in the room grew silent and still, aware of a great
tension between the two men.

 Then quietly into the
silence, like a stone dropped into a pool, Celedorn said: “Do you not know me -
Uncle?”

 The King’s face
contracted with pain and disbelief. His hand flung up as if to ward off a blow.
“It cannot be!”

 “I am said to closely
resemble my father,” said Celedorn softly but with a menacing edge to his
voice.

 “But......but you died
twenty years ago! It cannot be!”

 Relisar stepped
forward. “He did not die. He is Calordin’s son. He is Berendore.”

 The King looked
distractedly at him. “But Sarrick said he was........everyone knows those scars
can only mean that he is....is.....”

 “He is Celedorn,”
Relisar finished for him, “the brigand that you have been hunting all these
years. Yet all that time, he has been the rightful Lord of Westrin. If your
forces had caught him, they would have hanged your own nephew, your own
sister’s son.”

  Sarrick’s face was a
mask of shock. His sword was still in his hand but he was no longer aware of
it.

 “Are you telling me,”
he said to Relisar, “are you
actually
telling me, that this cut-throat,
this criminal is my
cousin
?”

 It was Andarion who
answered him. “Indeed he is, and what is more, I owe my life to him.” He
indicated his companions. “We all do. If it had not been for him, none of us
would have made it alive through the Forsaken Lands. I owe him a debt I can
never repay and so, in a sense, Sire, do you.”

 The King sank into a
chair, overcome by the revelations. “How do you know that what he claims about
his birth is true?”

 “Do you remember
Calordin’s servant who came to you that day twenty years ago?” Relisar asked.

 The King nodded.

 “He returned to find
the boy injured and wandering in the forest. Everyone else was dead. That
servant is still alive and can vouch for the truth of what we tell you.
Besides,” he flung his hand towards the impassively waiting Celedorn, “he is
the image of his father. It is quite unmistakable - his dark colouring, the
shape of nose and chin, yet his eyes are his mother’s.”

 But as the King sat
staring at Celedorn, his expression slowly hardened. “That does not alter the
fact that for the last ten years he has terrorised the Westrin Mountains,
robbing and pillaging, laying waste to our trade with Serendar.” His glance
collided with his nephew’s like two swords scraping together. “Why did you do
such a thing to your own country? Why?”

 The tension in the room
was palpable. Celedorn lifted his chin haughtily. “Revenge,” he said simply.

 “Revenge? Revenge for
what?”

 “For the fact,” replied
Celedorn grittily, clearly holding himself under tight restraint, “that you did
not come to my father’s aid. Dorgan begged you on his knees and you would not come.
You let my entire family be butchered by the Turog - and just in case I should
ever try to forget that fact, the Turog gave me these.” He tilted his scarred
cheek towards the King.

 Everyone in the room
saw the King stiffen. “There was nothing I could have done that day. There were
too many of them.”

 
“Really?”
said
Celedorn scornfully.

 “Mind your tone when
addressing the King,” threatened Sarrick.

 Celedorn paid not the
slightest heed to him. “Really? How many men did you have with you? Five
hundred, wasn’t it?” He made a gesture of distaste. “I have fought the Turog -
and beaten them - with steeper odds than those.”

 Andarion was watching
his father closely. Celedorn had all but called him a coward and yet he had not
exploded with rage as might have been expected.

 “You were a boy at the
time,” replied the King. “You could not understand these things.”

 “I am a boy no longer,”
said Celedorn softly, “and I understand these things only too well.”

 Andarion realised that
it was time to intervene. “Enough. We cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves
when our very survival hangs in the balance.” He turned to his brother. “Is it
true that the army will soon be given orders to retire on Addania?”

 “It is true.”

 “Is it also true that
we are short of men for the defence of the city?”

 “We are. We need
several thousand more to be effective.”

 Andarion switched his
attention to Celedorn. “How many men are in Ravenshold?”

 His cousin stared at
him with the glimmerings of enlightenment. “A bold plan,” he murmured, “but it
will not work.”

 “How many?” Andarion
insisted.

 “About two thousand -
possibly more now because of the war. Ravenshold is the first place that
deserters will run to.”

 Andarion approached his
father, aware that he had come to the crux of the issue. “If Celedorn can bring
us two thousand powerful warriors from Ravenshold, will you pardon his crimes
and those of the men who come with him?”

 “Pardon him? Never! The
law is the law and they must pay for their crimes!”

 “The law gives you the
authority to pardon them,” Andarion gently reminded him.

 “I will not use it. The
Eskendrian people must see justice done.”

  Andarion’s patience
began to fray. “The Eskendrian people will not even see tomorrow unless we get
some help. You know very well that if he goes back to Ravenshold with such a
proposal, he will be risking his life. He must fight and defeat whoever has
taken his place and then persuade the men - those cut-throats, as Sarrick
describes them - to follow him back here and put their lives at stake fighting
the Turog in our cause. If he will do such a thing, then you must be prepared
to pardon him.”

 “Be careful, Andarion,”
warned Sarrick, “you do not rule Eskendria yet.”

 Celedorn had remained
silent during this exchange, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts. The
Prince suddenly confronted him. “If I asked you to attempt to bring these men
from Ravenshold - would you?”

 “Yes, I would. I do not
wish Addania to fall. Whether I would be successful or not, is another matter.”

 “If he has the courage
to put his life at stake for Addania, then I beg you, Sire, in your wisdom,
pardon him. After all, if Addania falls, the whole of Eskendria falls too and
his punishment then becomes irrelevant.”

 Relisar was nodding
vigorously in agreement. “Indeed you must, Sire. The entire line of Westrin has
gone - excepting only your sister’s son. You cannot destroy our last hope of
aid, due to inflexibility or a misplaced sense of retribution. You cannot
execute your sister’s son.”