The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (8 page)

 “Celedorn says she is still alive and I am inclined
to believe him. She is no use to him dead. He demands that we do not attack
him, but he must know that with winter far spent and spring approaching, we
have no further time to waste on him. Out retreat was ignominious but ultimately
no great harm has been done.”

 His son turned to stare at him incredulously. “No
harm done!” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“That......that killer holds Elorin in his power. We have only his very dubious
word for it that she is alive, and will continue to live as long as we do not
attack him, but did it ever occur to you, father, that being alive in
Celedorn’s power is worse than death? Elorin gave herself to save Illiana, to
save Eskendria. She knew what she was likely to face at Ravenshold and did not
flinch, but risked her life to save us. So how can you now tell me that we must
on no account attempt to rescue her?” He stepped towards the King, his face
intense. “We must try, father, we
must.
  I know very well that such
an attempt has very little chance of success. Celedorn’s stranglehold on the
mountains is so complete that we are unlikely to get close to Ravenshold
without being detected, and even if we did, the castle is well guarded, but
surely, in the interests of honour, it must be attempted.”

 But the King was adamant. “If there was even a slim
chance of success, then we would try to rescue her, but there is none. Such an
attempt is sheer folly, just throwing men’s lives away in a useless gesture.
Did it ever occur to you that such a move might be interpreted by Celedorn as
an attack? You would then be responsible for her death.”

 Noting his son’s misery, the King’s face softened a
little and he laid his hand on the Prince’s shoulder and gripped it
comfortingly. “Take solace from this, Andarion, Relisar says that this was
meant to be. Whatever ultimately happens, it was her fate to go to Ravenshold.
We cannot stand in the way of fate.”

 But Andarion refused to be comforted.
“Unfortunately, Relisar has proved himself far from infallible.”

Long before the argument had taken place in Addania,
Elorin had come to the same conclusion as the King - a rescue attempt was out
of the question. Although, considering the circumstance, her captivity was not
as unpleasant as she might have expected, she never forgot that she was,
nonetheless, a prisoner.

  Each morning Dorgan let her out of her cold, bare
room and brought her down to the cheerful kitchen for breakfast. They then
spent the rest of the day either working in the kitchen, conversing by the fire,
or exploring the cold, echoing depths of the fortress. She noticed that he
always took her to the deserted parts of the castle, never to the sections occupied
by the men and was unsure as to whether his main concern was to protect her, or
to protect Celedorn.

  Occasionally, in the evenings she received a
summons to dine with the master of Ravenshold. These were always trying
occasions for her as he had a sharp mind and an equally sharp tongue to go with
it. But it was his inconsistency that she found most difficult to deal with.
Occasionally he would demolish her with some sarcastic utterance but equally he
could be a humorous and pleasant companion when he chose. He was well-read and
well travelled and could be interesting when the notion took him; but
unfortunately he was also moody, switching from humour to anger with a speed
that left her reeling. If she said something to vex him, his revenge was swift
and severe. He possessed an unpleasant ability to detect a sensitive spot and
did not scruple to twist the knife in the wound. Yet he no longer threatened
her with physical violence, nor did he again attempt to frighten her as he had
once done.

 Inevitably these sessions increased her knowledge of
him, if not her understanding. She began to recognise the signs that he was
becoming displeased by a certain rigidity in his cheek muscles, a certain
watchfulness in his eyes. When he was in the grip of strong emotion his scars,
normally dead white, would flush a ghastly purple. She soon observed that he
was very sensitive about his disfigurement. The first time she noticed the
flushing phenomenon, he instantly detected the direction of her glance and
turned his head away. Any reference to them, no matter how oblique, was
guaranteed to bring on an alarming attack of derision. But she sometimes
suspected that his mockery was directed more against himself than her.

  Interesting though these sessions were, she found
them nerve-wracking and exhausting. Her predilection for offhand remarks often
seemed to amuse him, but she always felt that just below the surface he was
continually on the point of exploding and consequently her tension with him
never eased.

 The weeks slipped by in this manner. The tendency to
drift that she had noticed in herself when she first arrived in Addania, became
more pronounced. She appeared willing to let others take control, but she
sensed that this state of mind was not usual with her and beneath the placid
surface more turbulent currents began to stir. She became restless, pacing her
prison until she knew every dusty inch of it. In every dreary, deserted room
she explored with Dorgan, her first act was to cross to the window hoping for a
glimpse of the outside world.

  It was just as winter was beginning to relax its
icy grip on the mountain valley, that she witnessed an event that convinced
her, as nothing else could, that somehow she must escape from Ravenshold.

 The snow had gone from the courtyard below her
prison window. The towers and crenellated walls were cold, bare stone again,
unadorned by their usual cushions of snow. From the window of one of the other
towers in the castle, she had obtained a rare view of the valley, with the mighty
peaks beyond, still rearing their snowy-white heads against the sky. The snow
lay only in patches in the valley, in shadowy nooks and crannies where the
feeble spring sunshine never reached. The river chattered cheerfully over the
rounded stones in its bed, unfettered by the restraints of ice and the bare
fingertips of the tree branches were swollen with buds.

  Dorgan had hustled her back to her cell earlier
than usual. He was expecting a large raiding party back and they would all be
hungry. For some reason she didn’t understand, he was not keen for her to help
but had bundled her up the stairs to her room, clearly anxious for her to be
out of the way. Consequently, when she took up her station by the window it was
still daylight. The top of the opposite tower was painted pale gold by the
gelid sunshine but the courtyard below was plunged into shadows. The sound of
many hooves approaching, echoed up the tunnel from the portcullis and the
raiding party soon came into sight. She was used now to the fierce aspect of
the men and no longer remarked upon their barbaric helmets, with the long nose
and cheek guards which gave their faces such an inhuman appearance. She was
accustomed to their heavy weaponry, swords, bows and axes, and the powerful
horses snorting and stamping. About two hundred men filed through the gateway
in loose, undisciplined formation. Celedorn, who had not been with them, came
down the steps from the main door to greet them. As the last of the mounted
party came through the gateway, she saw the reason for their loose formation -
they had prisoners with them - Turog prisoners.

   She leaned closer to the window. There were
about half a dozen of them. Dark grey skin, yellow eyes, wide mouths filled
with pointed teeth and strong fingers ending in sharp, curved claws. These were
small ones, not as tall as a man, bow legged but with long, powerful arms.
Their weapons and armour had been removed and they wore the traditional Turog
costume of studded leather tunics and heavy boots. Their hands had been tied
and they were roped together in a line. One of the men cracked a whip over them
and they shambled forward into the centre of the courtyard. Even from a
distance, Elorin could see that they were terrified. They cowered a little,
looking upwards with yellow eyes at the mounted men. Through the broken
windowpanes she could hear them snarling and whimpering. Then one of them
spotted Celedorn. It let out a wail of terror.

  “
Zardes-kur!”
it shrieked. The others took
up the cry. “Zardes-kur! The Executioner!”

  Celedorn stood with his arms folded, watching them
impassively. One of the men approached him and appeared to be asking for
instructions what to do with them. She could not hear his reply but his orders
soon became clear enough.

 One of the Turog was detached from the others. It
struggled wildly and tried to bite the men as ropes were fastened to its wrists
and ankles. Strong men took the four rope ends and remounted their horses.
Elorin had a horrible premonition of what they were about to do. The centre of
the courtyard cleared and the four men urged their horses in the direction of
the points of the compass. The ropes took up the strain and the struggling
Turog was lifted clear of the ground. The creature was screaming by now, as the
force began to tear at its joints. The men clapped their heels into the horses’
flanks, and hooves scrabbled for purchase on the cobbles. The strain on the
ropes increased, as the powerful horses pulled against each other. Elorin
looked away and her gaze fell on Celedorn. Even from the height of the tower,
the look of satisfaction on his face was revolting.

 She turned from the window, too sickened to watch.
The screaming reached a crescendo, then suddenly stopped. The Turog was dead,
torn limb from limb, the courtyard scattered with bloody fragments. She clapped
her hands over her ears, as one after another the Turog were dealt with in the
same manner.

 “I cannot stay here,” she moaned softly to herself.
“I cannot stay.”

     Relisar was packing in his usual
haphazard manner. A battered leather bag lay open on the table in his study and
he lifted items at random in a leisurely fashion, sometimes forgetting what he
was doing when he discovered something interesting amongst his books.

  “Yes, yes,” he remarked impatiently to the
apparently empty room. “I’ll be finished in a moment. I just want to read to
the end of this paragra.....” He got no further because the book that had
claimed his errant attention flew from his hand and landed with a dusty thump
on the floor.

  “Keesha!” he protested, “I don’t know what’s got
into you lately but you have become intolerably short-tempered.”

 Anyone observing him would have heard nothing in
reply but after listening for a few moments, he slowly nodded his head in
agreement.

  “Yes, I know. I miss her too. I never realised
until she had gone, just how fond of her I had become. I suppose that is the
way of life, never to appreciate what you have until you lose it. Celedorn’s
message told the King that she is alive and we must trust that it is so –
indeed, I feel it in my bones that  it is so - but I fear for her in the
hands of the black-hearted villain.”

 Keesha appeared to have some comment to make, for he
listened again.

 “Yes, quite,” he agreed. “But sadly I no longer have
great faith in my intuition. I believed at the time that it was meant to be,
that it was her fate to go to Ravenshold, but I no longer trust myself. In any
event, there was nothing I could do to stop her. If Andarion could not talk her
out of it, then no one could. She was determined to sacrifice herself to save
us.”

 A short silence ensued. “As usual, Keesha, you are
quite correct. Her greatest concern was to save the Prince. I might be a blind
old fool, but I’m not so blind that I did not see
that
! She would be
most concerned, after all her sacrifice to preserve the Prince, than he is now
once more heading into danger. Sarrick’s scouts have reported a great deal of
activity going on across the Harnor. Fortunately the river did not freeze
during the winter, but that has only given us a temporary respite. They are on
the move, Keesha, those infernal creatures. I feel the will of the Destroyer
stretch forth towards Eskendria. My dreams have been troubled lately, full of
fearful images of destruction and death. If only, if
only
I could have
summoned the Champion. But it was not to be. I am a doddering old idiot who has
lost his powers. I will go with the Prince to the Harnor because I feel it is
my place to be with him, but I fear I can be of little use.” With an effort he
shook off his gloomy mood. “Still, best to be prepared. Put the Book of Healing
into my bag - just in case.”

 A little red-bound book arose off a shelf and
travelled across the room before dropping into the bag.

 “Ah, well, at least there is some hope. The King of
Serendar has invited the Prince to come to the City-by-the-Shore to put his
case for an alliance before him. Who would have thought it, after the debacle
with Celedorn? The Isles of Kelendore have even expressed an interest. What we
must do now, is to deliver a pre-emptive strike against the Turog to delay
their plans long enough for an alliance to be formed against them. I may be
gone a long time, Keesha. You must look after Skah and keep this old tower safe
against my return. If our plans go well, Prince Sarrick will be left in command
of the army while Andarion and I travel to Serendar. King Orovin will not be
easy to convince but at least we now have a chance to put our case. It is even
possible that after Serendar, our next destination will be the Isles of
Kelendore. It’s a long time since I have been on a ship. The last time, if I
recall correctly, I was hideously seasick. Ah! The sacrifices one makes for
one’s country - but put the blue elixir in my bag just to keep sacrifice to a
minimum.”

   Elorin began to lay the plans for her escape,
disquieted only by the fact that she must deceive her new-found friend. The
only way she could overcome the guilt of betraying someone who had been kind to
her, was to constantly remind herself that Dorgan was loyal only to Celedorn.
Never once had he uttered a word of disapproval when he observed yet another
act of ruthless cruelty. Always he tried to excuse or defend. She knew, without
a shadow of a doubt, that he would not help her, indeed, if he got wind of what
was in her mind he would go straight to Celedorn. She would then be locked in
some underground dungeon to rot until she died. Nevertheless, he must
unwittingly assist her. When his back was turned, she secreted food in her pockets
and began to build up a store of supplies in her room. She must have enough
food to get her through the mountains and into more civilised regions. Another
problem would be the cold. The only way to escape from the valley was through
the forest and up across one of the mountain passes still covered in spring
snow. She had little in the way of warm clothing except her cloak - which
unfortunately was of the conspicuous shade of red worn by the kings of
Eskendria. She would rather have attempted a more unexpected way of leaving the
valley, but she did not know the region, and many a mountain path that looks
promising, has proved to fizzle out just at the critical moment. The only route
she knew was the one that Hydar had used when escorting her to Ravenshold and
she would be obliged to follow it. However, she would try to confuse pursuit by
keeping to the higher ground and the cover of the trees as much as possible.
The most important thing was to gain time before she was missed. That meant
leaving just as darkness fell some evening. She was usually locked up about
dusk and was then undisturbed until Dorgan let her out in the morning. That
would give her many hours head start and every hour would take her further away
from Ravenshold and its intimidating master.

 Getting out of her room, she hoped, would not be as
difficult as it sounded, because she had noticed that when Dorgan turned the
key in the door to her prison, he nearly always left it in the lock. If she
could obtain a sheet of paper, she could use a very old trick indeed to obtain
the key. Dorgan’s very carelessness reassured her that he had not the slightest
suspicion of her intentions.