The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (25 page)

 “Do you think it is the Keeper of the Tower,” she whispered,
avoiding its gaze.

 Sareth crossed to the cat and picking it up in her arms,
began to stroke it – a process that elicited a contented rumbling sound from
it.

 “No, Iska,” she replied, “it’s just a cat. Perhaps it
belongs to the keeper -  but where is he? Clearly this room has been recently
occupied.” She looked up at the galleries encircling the room. “I can see doors
opening off the galleries. Perhaps we should search them.”

 Gently setting down the cat, she was  heading towards the
stairs when Vesarion caught her arm.

 “None of us should go alone,” he cautioned. “You and I will
take the first floor and the others can investigate the second.”

 As they mounted the stairs together, Vesarion with his
sword still in his hand, Sareth asked: “Do you think this is all some sort of
elaborate trick?”

 “Perhaps.”

 “Surely the spirits would not mislead us?”

 He glanced at her, giving away nothing of his thoughts.
“Again, perhaps.”

 However, upon reaching the gallery, Vesarion, who was a
little ahead of Sareth, stopped so abruptly that he caused her to bump into
him.

 Without thinking what he did, he reached out and clasped
her hand.

 “Look!” he commanded, pointing to an arched wooden door
that faced them at the top of the stairs.

 There, pinned to the door, was a small slip of white paper
bearing one written word:-
                                                            
‘Sareth’

Hardly able to believe her eyes, she leaned closer, peering
over Vesarion’s shoulder in case she had misread the word.

 “It appears we were expected,” remarked her companion in a characteristically
dry manner.

 Sword at the ready, he pushed open the door. Beyond it lay
a pleasant room with curved walls, the outer of which were deeply pierced by
tiny, pointed windows that admitted the last rays of the dying sun. Between two
of the windows sat a large wooden bed covered in a blue counterpane and banked
up with many white, lace-edged pillows. Set out in orderly fashion on the cover
were all of Sareth’s meagre belongings.

 She stared at this doubtfully. “I thought we left all our
things in the stables?”

 “We did. This place gets more mysterious by the moment.”

  She looked around the sunlit room, probing the atmosphere
with her senses and felt no presentiment of danger at all, in fact, quite the
reverse. There was a certain peace, a certain benignity about the place which
meant that although she did not understand what was happening, she felt
strangely safe.

 She began to explore the room and opening at random the
door to a large cupboard, discovered that it was full of clothes – shirts of
finest linen, dresses of silk in various colours, riding breeches, boots – and
all in exactly her size.

 She let out a breath. “I’m beginning to like this place
more and more.”

 But Vesarion didn’t answer. He had been prowling around the
farther side of the room and was now confronting suspiciously a curtain drawn
across one corner. Slowly, he drew it back, using the tip of his sword, then
almost laughed out loud at what he found.

 “Sareth,” he called, still chuckling. “It appears that a
derogatory comment is being made about the state of your cleanliness.”

 He stood aside to reveal a copper bath full of hot water,
with a towel and soap set primly to one side.

 At that moment Eimer burst in. “You’ll never guess what
we’ve found, Vesarion. We all have rooms with our names on them – even you. Oh!
I see Sareth got a bath, too. I was beginning to take it as a personal insult.”

 Vesarion, on whom the pleasant surroundings were finally
having a mellowing effect, could not resist saying: “Did it not occur to you
that there was a reason why everyone has been riding up-wind of you recently?
Perhaps you should avail yourself of the offer before the water gets cold. I
don’t know who has done this but it appears that they mean us no harm – so make
the most of it.”

 Eimer raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Sometimes traps are
baited with honey.”

 “I am aware of that, but for once I am prepared to take
things as I find them. After all, if the Keeper of the Tower has power to do
all this, he could have disposed of us with the greatest of ease any time he
wished. It seems that we can either gratefully accept all this bounty or we can
spend a cold, hungry night in the forest with the rodent – that is, if we can
get the hedge open again. Personally, I feel like I haven’t slept in a proper
bed in a million years.”

 Eimer, delighted to go along with all this, grabbed him
enthusiastically by the arm. “Come and see your room,” he ordered, dragging his
captive unceremoniously towards the door. “You’ve got a bed big enough to
accommodate a Great-turog!”

 By the time Sareth had bathed and changed into one of the
dresses she had found in the cupboard, a soft, intimate dusk had fallen as
gently as a silken scarf around the old tower. When she emerged onto the
landing, she discovered that all the candles in their elegant holders had been
lit, illuminating her way down the staircase to the main chamber. Vesarion was
there ahead of her, freshly shaved and dressed with his usual military
neatness. He was seated in the large armchair by the fire with the grey cat ensconced
on his knee.

 “I see you’ve found a friend,” she laughed.

 He looked up to see her standing on the bottom step, clad
in a dress of deep pink silk. She wore her brown hair in a loose cascade over
her shoulders and the candlelight picked out streaks of honeyed-gold that he
had never noticed before. For a long moment he looked at her as if seeing her
for the first time.

 Misinterpreting his expression, she explained: “I found the
dress in my room and, like Gorm, I’m not stealing it, just keeping it safe.”

 He smiled a little in response to this sally but keeping
his thoughts to himself, merely remarked: “Would you mind taking this cat? It
jumped up on my knee without so much as a by-your-leave and I can’t persuade it
to get down.”

 However, when she crossed to him to comply with his
request, the cat leaped down of its own accord and sat in front of the fire,
staring into its glowing depths enigmatically. Vesarion then drew Sareth’s
attention to something she had not noticed before. The dining table was set
with places for six diners and was fairly groaning under the weight of a
magnificent banquet. Roast meats, vegetables in silver dishes, bread, fragrant
from the oven, puddings, nuts and fruit all vied for space.

 She stared at it, unable to take in such bounty and in the
end could think of only one thing to say.

 “I know someone who will be very happy to see this.”

 “I have no idea who you could mean,” he remarked with
aplomb, and they both laughed.

 When the others joined them, the object of their joke
showed no hesitation in fulfilling their prophesy.

 “Ah!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“This is more like it. For the first time since we embarked on this venture, I
think I am going to enjoy myself.”

 It was left to Iska to point out that the table was set for
six diners.

 “Perhaps the Keeper of the Tower thought that Gorm was coming
with us?” Eimer suggested.

 “There was no room allocated to Gorm,” Vesarion reminded
him. “Not that he’d know what to do with one even if there was. Also, if the
Keeper knows such details as the size of  boots I wear, he knows very well that
there are only five of us – so it appears that someone else is expected.”

 At this juncture, the cat got up from the fire, yawned,
stretched and padded its way across the room to the table. Without hesitation,
it jumped up on one of the chairs and began to wash its face, indifferent to
the gaze of five pairs of eyes.

 Suddenly, with a crash, one of the tall candelabras fell
over, putting out all its candles and scattering pieces of broken wax across
the floor. Every head snapped round in alarm, but as soon as they realised that
it was nothing sinister, they began to repair the damage, righting the fallen
stand and re-lighting the stumps of the candles. When all was in order again
and they turned back to the table, there, sitting in the chair where the cat
had been, was a very old man, dressed entirely in dusty grey. He had fine,
wispy white hair and a straggly beard that brushed his thin chest. His frame
bore all the fragility of very great age and although he was seated, he was
clutching a walking stick of agate. His whole appearance gave the impression of
ancient dust and cobwebs, like an old book left forgotten on a top shelf for
too long. He had the air of things long disintegrated with time, by the passing
of many winters, the fading of many suns, worn away by the attrition of
millions of forgotten raindrops. The only things that were sharp and clear
about him were his eyes which were dark and deep and bore the sorrow of great
wisdom

 “You
were
the cat!” exclaimed Iska.

But he shook his head slightly and pointed with a feeble
hand to the chair by the fire where the smug feline was back in residence
again.

 In a thin, reedy voice, he said: “I bid you all welcome to
the Tower of Teltherion. I am its keeper and within these walls, protected by
my power, you have nothing to fear.”

 “What is your name?” Eimer asked respectfully.

 “My name?” repeated the old man blankly. “Young Prince, it
has been so long since I used my name that I have all but forgotten it.” He
strained to penetrate the fog of disuse “I think once, in the days of the Old
Kingdom, I was known as Inniar. Yes, that’s it. I was called Inniar, but the
name comes strangely to my tongue, for in recent years I have been known only
as the Keeper of the Tower – to those few who know of my existence at all.”

 “You knew we were coming?”

 “Yes, indeed. For a long time I have been expecting you,
never thinking that you would come only at the eleventh hour when the fate of  the
Kingdom of Eskendria hangs in the balance. Now, be seated and join me in the
meal I have prepared for you.”

 Casting each other mystified glances, the companions took
their places around the table. Bethro, appointing himself to a role he
relished, took up position to serve them.

 “I eat little myself, these days,” continued the Keeper,
“but it does my heart good to see you young people enjoying your meal. It is so
long now since I have had any other company than Kel, that it is a treat for me
to share my table with visitors once more.”

 “Kel?” Iska queried.

 “My cat,” he explained. “He is an excellent judge of
character and will not tolerate those who are mean-hearted or false. Once, a
long time ago, he was one of the lesser spirits. He rarely took corporeal form
and, alas, when he changed into a cat, he forgot how to change back again. He
becomes more feline in nature with every passing day. I even caught him hunting
mice in the stables a few days ago but he still retains much of his wisdom and
rescues me from loneliness.”

 “Keeper,” began Bethro, looking up from the delicate task
of making a selection from the fruit bowl. “We call this place the Rose Tower,
but you called it the Tower of Teltherion – why is that?”

 “Both names are correct. You know the legend, do you not, Bethro?
Teltherion was the name of the spirit of the woods who fell in love with a
mortal woman. He built this tower in the forest and set around it a hedge that
bloomed with roses every day of the year as a mark of his love. Together they
lived happily here for many a long year but although he used his powers to
extend her life, he could not hold death at bay for ever. The day she died, so
too died every rose in the hedge and it has borne not a single bloom ever
since. Legend has it that the rose hedge will only bloom again when a true and
abiding love returns to the tower.”

 After a moment’s silence, Eimer said: “Keeper, you referred
to being known as Inniar in the days of the Old Kingdom but, with the greatest
of respect, the Old Kingdom fell over a thousand years ago. Are you telling us
that you, too, are a spirit, immune to mortal decay?”

 The old man chuckled, a faint, rather musical sound that
made everyone smile.

 “I am no spirit, young man, but a human being like
yourself, with one minor difference – I am of the Order of Sages.”

 Bethro gulped and dropped the apple he had been inspecting.
“But…..but there are no Sages left since Relisar died. And, in any event, you
could not possibly be…..I mean, you couldn’t be…..”

 “Over a thousand years old?” the Keeper finished for him.
“Ah! Relisar, the last of the noble Order of the Book. You will remember from your
studies, Master Bethro, that there were three Orders of Sages - the Orders of
the Book, the Sword and the Flower. The latter was the greatest of the three
Orders and was sometimes also known as the White Brotherhood. When the Old
Kingdom was under attack from the forces of the Destroyer, the members of the
Orders were hunted down ruthlessly by creatures of the enemy in both the
physical and spiritual realms. Only a few of the Order of the Book, including
its Master, made it safely across the Harnor into Eskendria. Of the other
Orders, the remnant of the White Brotherhood remained hidden from the enemy in
their sanctuary deep in the forest, but I was not of their order. I was of the
Order of the Sword…..”

 “But I thought the entire Order was wiped out!” interrupted
Bethro.

 Before the Keeper could reply, Iska intervened. “The Order
of the Sword?” she repeated, fascinated. “Does that mean you were once a great
warrior?”

 Once again, the Keeper laughed softly. “No, my dear, not in
the sense you mean. My Order fought evil with spiritual weapons, using our
gifts to protect the Kingdom from the demons and other wicked creatures of the immortal
realm that the Destroyer used to further his ends. We did not use physical
swords but the weapons of power that are contained in the minds of those who
are born with our unique abilities.”