The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (26 page)

 “You alone survived of your Order, is that not so?”
Vesarion asked.

 The dark eyes turned towards Vesarion. “Yes, Lord of
Westrin, I alone survived. Wounded and alone, relentlessly pursued by a band of
Red Turog, led by a demon who was by far too strong for me in my weakened
state, I found myself by the Lonely Lake, virtually at the point of death. I
was discovered by the spirits of the lake, who took pity on me and helped me
reach this old tower where my powers, as a Brother of the Sword, healed me. I
knew in my heart that all the rest of my Order had gone and that I was alone. I
also knew that alone I could not defeat the Destroyer and turn back the tide of
evil that had engulfed the Kingdom. Even when my Order was intact, in the last
days we were too few and too weak, and the forces ranged against us were many. Many
of my kind were brought down by the women of the House of Parth, who used their
dark arts to invade the minds of the Brothers and distract them long enough for
their enemies to overcome them.”

 At this point Iska hung her head, deeply ashamed.

 The movement caught the Keeper’s attention, and he spoke to
her gently. “Iska, my dear child, you are not responsible for things that
happened long before your birth. Nor are you responsible for every wicked act
carried out by the House of Parth. Each person bears their own burden in this
life and none other - and it is right that it should be so, for who has the
strength to carry the past? There is no such thing as inherited evil. Each
child that is born is a blank sheet, and it is the choices they come to make
that either saves or condemns them. The day the Old Kingdom fell, the Destroyer
gave your house the Ring of Haleb to be its domain, encircled by the curtain of
Adamant, cutting it off from the rest of humanity, but he could not exclude
goodness, and goodness has a strange way of turning up in unexpected places.”

 Iska lifted her head, a light shining in her eyes. “Thank
you, Keeper,” she said, with real gratitude in her voice. “How did you survive
after you came to the Tower?”

 “The spirits of the lake used their arts to confuse and
mislead my pursuers, luring them away in the wrong direction and when I was
well again, I stayed within my refuge and shunned the world. I used my powers
to extend my life for one reason and one alone. I had been permitted to know
that some day, far in my future, I would be of service in mankind’s struggle to
survive against the hatred and malevolence of the Destroyer – and now, at last,
I feel that day is near.”

 He halted, looking worn and exhausted by his narrative.
Sareth, who had noticed that he had eaten nothing, poured him a glass of wine
and offered it to him.

 “Bless you, Sareth,” he said, accepting it gratefully. “It
has been a long time since I talked so much and one grows unaccustomed. Kel and
I don’t need to talk to understand one another, do we Kel?”

 The cat paused in its ablutions and gave him a long stare.

 “Quite right, my friend. Kel has told me to get to the
point.”

 “Which is?” prompted Vesarion.

 “Which is that I know of your quest to recover the sword of
Erren-dar. Iska is correct in suspecting that it has been brought to the Kingdom
of Adamant, but I have been permitted also to know that one of you will endure
great suffering in order to find it.”

 They all looked anxiously at one another, wondering to whom
he referred.

 Eimer, less reticent than the rest, said: “ Can you tell us
who it is?”

 “No. That is not allowed. Glimpses of the future are rare
and given to very few, for the balance of destiny is very fragile and easily
upset by meddling, well-intentioned or otherwise.” He turned his sharp old eyes
to Iska again. “Daughter of Parth, throughout this journey you have felt that
time is pressing, that you must return to Adamant without delay, and I tell you
that your instincts are true. The time draws closer when the Demon of Darkness
will use the sword to further its master’s purposes, so you must make haste to
Haleb Lor, across the high passes of the Mountains of Discelion in order to
prevent this.”

 “We are uncertain of the way, Keeper,” Iska replied. “A
Turog has been guiding us but….”

 “Ah yes, the redoubtable Gorm.”

 “Yes, but Gorm has only seen the mountains from a distance
and has never tried to cross them. I crossed the eastern tail of them on my way
to Addania by way of the pass of Ogron but I’m not sure I can find it again
without a map.”

 Bethro spoke up, looking puzzled. “When Queen Triana
described her journey with Erren-dar from Adamant, I do not recall her
mentioning a mountain range to the south of the Kingdom.”

 “That is because Erren-dar took the westerly route, near
the sea, which avoids them. Iska’s route was far to the east and this old tower
stands somewhere roughly in the middle where the mountains are at their
highest. To go towards the Pass of Ogron would mean a long detour to avoid the
Morass of Engorin and would take too much time. No, you must travel directly
northwards from here, out through the far side of the Wood of Ammerith and onto
the open plains. Beyond the plains you will see the mountains rising in the distance.
Take your bearings on three sharp peaks known as The Cousins of Discelion and
you will come to the Vale of Rithlin – a long valley that wends its way up into
the heights. As the valley narrows, it divides in two. You must take the right
hand fork which will lead you to a hidden path that crosses the mountains
between two of the Cousins. Do not take the left fork, for that way, although
it also crosses between the peaks, is dangerous.”

 “I do not know if our horses will be fit for such a journey,”
said Sareth. “They have travelled far carrying a double load and are tired.”

 “Horses cannot cross the mountains by the Vale of Rithlin, it
is too steep for them. No, your animals must remain with me to recover from
their exertions and I will lend you some of my own horses which are fed and
rested and, so they tell me, itching for a gallop. When you reach the Vale,
unsaddle them and let them go. They know their way home. My role in your
journey may be small but at least I can provide you not only with horses but
also with food and warm clothing for the mountains. Once you cross between the
peaks, the Kingdom of Adamant is not far and Iska will know the way.”

 Vesarion, who had been listening intently and saying little,
as was his custom, felt for the first time since they had left Sorne, that
matters were now on a sustainable footing. His sense of responsibility for the
safety of the others, which had been weighing heavily upon him, began to
lighten a little and he felt the need to express his gratitude to the old man.

 “You have been most kind and generous to us, Keeper. Please
accept my thanks.”

 For the first time, the Keeper’s attention came to rest on
Vesarion.

 “I see that Erren-dar’s descendant is a courteous man who
keeps his own counsel. Once you come to know your own heart, Lord of Westrin,
you will have nothing to fear. You must learn to trust both in yourself and in
your companions. Remember, there is nothing to fear but fear itself.”

 An involuntary silence fell, as each person around the
table reflected on all that they had heard – all, that is, except Bethro, who
having finally finished his enormous repast, was sitting smiling beatifically,
mentally reliving the delights he had just sampled and resolutely avoiding
thinking about crossing mountains.

 Vesarion, more than any of the others, was plunged most
deeply in thought, his eyes fixed on the tiny flickering flame of a candle,
which he saw not at all. He stared into the depths of the flame, trying to
pierce the future, unaware that he was being observed, unaware that Sareth’s
eyes rested upon him, wondering why he looked so troubled.

 At last Iska spoke. “Could you not come with us, Keeper?
There is a force in Adamant that cannot be dealt with by human means. It cannot
be killed with a sword or bound by a rope and none of us here possesses the
power to oppose it.  I know it would be a difficult journey for someone of your
age, but surely your powers could sustain you.”

 “Alas, my dear, I have seen too many winters to leave this
place. My ability to extend the length of my days applies only within the
confines of the thorn hedge. Should I leave it, all my years will descend on me
at once and I would surely die. But do not be afraid, there are still forces to
be found on this earth with the ability to oppose evil, though often such things
only manifest themselves when the need is greatest. Now, my friends, an old man
requires his rest and I have talked until I am quite exhausted.”

 Shakily he rose to his feet. “Come, Kel,” he said gently
and began to shuffle across the room with the cat at his heels until he reached
the foot of the stairs. Vesarion was in the act of rising from his chair to
help him with the ascent, when the old man simply vanished. The cat, apparently
not having the same ability, shot up the stairs by conventional means.

 Eimer, taking the disappearance in his stride, yawned and
stretched his hands above his head. “I think I’ll follow his example – except
that, like the cat, I’ll use the stairs. I think I could sleep for a week.”

 One by one they departed to their rooms leaving only Sareth
and Vesarion in the candle-lit chamber. She watched him tenderly, desperate to reach
him, to draw him away from the trouble she saw in his eyes, but it was not to
be. He seemed unaware of her presence, not speaking, but staring into the
candle, locked away in some inner place to which she had no access, and with a
heavy heart she, too, retired to bed.

 In the morning, Iska found Sareth seated on a bench in the
garden engaged, rather absent- mindedly, in making a daisy chain from the many
bright little flowers scattered across the lawn.

 After watching Sareth’s busy fingers for a moment, she
stooped and picked a flower which she handed to her friend. “I was beginning to
forget how delightful it is to sleep in a soft bed instead of the hard, and
often damp ground, usually with a large stone digging into my back.” Handing
her another flower, she added: “I suppose we must be moving on today – which
will not suit Bethro because he is already looking forward to the meal this
evening. He certainly did justice to breakfast. At the moment he is clearing up
everyone else’s leftovers. Does Vesarion wish to set out early?”

 She merely received a casual shrug in reply. “How should I
know? I’m not in his confidence.”

 Iska, reading this comment correctly, tried to excuse
Vesarion. “You know that he feels obliged to ensure everyone’s well-being.
Perhaps he has been a bit distant lately because he likes to have everything
well planned and in control and this ill-prepared venture has left him feeling
a little at sea.”

 “I know. He has always possessed an over-developed sense of
responsibility.”

 “Why is that, do you think?”

 Sareth thought for a moment, then replied: “When his
parents died, my father took him away from Westrin and brought him to Addania
where he was brought up with my brothers and I. My father was always kind to
him, but because he was King and had many demands on his time, he was a little
remote, as indeed he was with all of us. If his own father had lived, Vesarion
would have been brought up as all the sons of barons are brought up. His father
would have taken him riding around the barony dispensing justice, resolving
problems, commanding the Ravenshold Brigands, teaching him how to govern so
great a domain - but Vesarion had none of that training. For eight years he
lived in the capital and never set foot in Westrin, so that when he reached his
eighteenth birthday and was told to go and take his rightful place as Lord of
Westrin, he was utterly unprepared. Many a young lad of that age would have taken
the easy way out and ruled through the services of a steward, staying in the
familiar environs of the city, but not Vesarion. He took it upon himself to
learn how to govern Westrin and to learn the hard way, through the rough
schooling of experience. He had to earn the respect of both his people and the
tough veterans of the Brigands, who could so easily have dismissed him as a
callow boy – and he succeeded, but at a price. The carefree days of youth were
denied to him. He learned to wield authority and to command the respect
necessary to do so and he earned it by never taking the easy path, by never
shirking his duty, no matter how much he might have wished to do so. I
sometimes think that it squeezed all the joy out of him, all the light-heartedness
that once he had possessed. I’m not sure that in subduing Westrin, he got such
a good bargain.”

 “You seem almost to be saying that it is the barony that
rules him, rather than the reverse.”

 “I have often thought that. For most of his adult life it
has dominated all his time, all his thoughts. Perhaps for that reason he has
grown accustomed to feeling that every decision is up to him. This weighs upon
him, particularly here in the Forsaken Lands where all the normal rules do not
apply. Sometimes when I laugh at something Gorm has done, I find him looking at
me in puzzlement, as if he simply cannot understand how I can be so carefree
and yet….and yet he was not always like that.”

 “He can be humorous sometimes,” Iska offered in mitigation.

 “Well, yes,” Sareth conceded with a wry smile. “His main
redeeming feature.”

 Neither of them was aware as they sat on the bench
together, that the subject of their conversation was observing them from the
window of his chamber. Although he was too far away to hear what they were
saying, the way they were sitting with their heads together suggested an
exchange of confidences of some kind. He thought it ill-advised of Sareth to be
so trusting as to befriend someone of whom they still knew so little. He watched
as Iska left the bench and returned to the tower, and was just about to turn
away from the window, when Sareth did something that incurred his instant
displeasure.

 When Iska had left, Sareth found that her restless mood,
far from abating by airing some of her thoughts, had instead increased. Feeling
a little confined within the hedge, she arose and approached it. Gathering her
courage, she faced it squarely and said the word: “
Chalcoria
!”

 Obediently, the tendrils and twigs began to uncurl
themselves, retracting and unwinding until, once more, a narrow passage had
opened, showing the golden trees beyond.

 Quietly, she walked through, seeking a short time of
solitude alone with her thoughts.

 She was in ignorance of the fact, that having watched her
exit from the garden, Vesarion was rapidly descending the stairs in pursuit of
her, already falling victim to the type of irritation that springs from concern.
That she should be so foolhardy as to leave the safety of the hedge, was beyond
his comprehension. Striding across the lawn, he too commanded the hedge to open
and quickly entered the forest, following the direction he had seen her take.

 He caught up with her in a little clearing freckled with
dappled sunlight, at no great distance from the tower. When she heard his
footstep, she spun round, reaching for Eimer’s sword, which she had, in fact,
forgotten.

 “So,” said Vesarion tightly, observing the gesture,
“unarmed as well as foolish. What possessed you to leave the safety of the
hedge, Sareth? We do not know what may be in these woods and if it were not for
the fact that I chanced to see you leave, no one would have known where you had
gone. Have you no sense?”

 Sareth, with all the irascibility of someone caught completely
in the wrong, responded tartly: “Apparently not. I merely wished for some time
alone. I do not know why you take so much upon yourself, Vesarion. I am
perfectly happy to answer for the consequences of my behaviour – but not to
you.”

 She saw him stiffen. “May I remind you that your safety
is
my responsibility – or do you forget that we are betrothed?”

 “No, but I sometimes think that you do.”

 “What does that mean?” he asked dangerously.

 “Nothing.”

 “If anyone forgets our betrothal, it is you. All during
this accursed journey you have done everything you can to undermine me.”

 “That’s not true!”

 “Really?” He raised his eyebrows imperiously. “Then let me
refresh your memory. You knew I did not wish to embark on this ill-advised
expedition and you had the chance to support me, but did you? No, Sareth, you
did not. Instead, you forced my hand, knowing that I could not leave you to
your fate, knowing that I am answerable to your father for your safety. You
used that against me. At every opportunity you have opposed me, even over the
issue of the Turog. I thought I could expect you to stand by me, but you
didn’t. If that is the way you mean to continue, it bodes ill for our marriage.”

 Suddenly she turned on him angrily, all the hurt and
rejection of the past years welling up uncontrollably in her.

 “It never had any hope,” she declared bitterly. “It never
had any future. All you want is someone of suitable rank to perpetuate the
House of Westrin and nothing else. My acceptability to you is my title and that
is all. When you entered into this, you had no idea who you were marrying, and
do you know the worst thing of all, Vesarion? You didn’t really care.”

 “What nonsense is this?” he asked scornfully. “How can you
possibly say that I don’t know you, when we have known each other since we were
children.”

 “Have we? I once thought that too, but recently, Vesarion,
I do not know you at all. You have become arrogant, and cold, and selfish.”

 “
Selfish
!” he exclaimed, nettled.

 “Yes. All you can think about is your role as Lord of
Westrin, of your authority, of the respect you feel is due to you.”

 He looked a little shaken. “If you really think that of me,
perhaps we are ill-advised to proceed.”

 “Perhaps we are,” she responded quietly.

 He looked at her in arrested fashion for a long moment, his
dark brows drawn down. “Are you telling me that you wish to break off our
engagement?” he asked in a brittle voice.

  “It was broken before it was even made.”

 He threw up his hands. “Fine. If that is what you want, I
won’t hold you to an arrangement that is so clearly repugnant to you.”

 Sareth felt a tide of distress welling up in her at the
ease with which he had let her go, but she was determined not to cry in front
of him. She swallowed her tears heroically and tugging off the ring he had
given her, held it out to him peremptorily.

 “Here, take it. It never meant anything anyway.”

 His thunderous scowl deepened as his temper mounted. “Keep
it!” he snapped. “It will serve as a timely reminder of a narrowly averted
disaster.”

 Seeing that he would not accept it, she set it down
abruptly on a fallen tree trunk.

“Take it or not as you wish,” she announced brusquely and
turning on her heel, strode off towards the tower.

 Vesarion, incensed beyond reason, cast his eyes upwards.
“Heaven preserve me from women!” he swore to the disinterested trees and
stormed off in the opposite direction.

 When the glade was quiet once more, with nothing stirring
except the soft wind whispering through the leaves, it emerged that a third
party had been witness to the quarrel.

 A pair of grey ears slowly appeared from behind a tree. A
pair of yellow eyes cautiously checked that the coast was clear.

 Gorm hadn’t really understood what the fight was about, but
one particular aspect of it did indeed interest him. His gaze fastened on the
ring sitting on the tree trunk. The diamond surrounded by moonpearls caught the
sun and twinkled invitingly. He licked his lips, acquisitiveness creeping over
his countenance. Thoughtfully, he turned his head in the direction in which
Sareth had disappeared.

 “Sareth not want it,” he said aloud.  Then he looked in the
opposite direction. “Vesarion not want it.”

 Finally his eyes came to rest greedily on the ring.

 “Gorm want it.”

 If all was not well at the Rose Tower, so, too, there was
strife far to the south, across the mighty river Harnor in the Barony of Sorne.

 Pevorion had been standing at the window of his study,
purportedly looking out through the tiny, diamond panes at the decaying walls
of Forestfleet, but in actuality bowed with a grief that lately never left him.
He might have stood thus almost indefinitely, indulging in an orgy of
self-blame, while the shadows began to fall as gently and invisibly as the dust
settling on the unread books on the shelves, when he was interrupted by a knock
at the door and a servant came in.

 “I regret disturbing you, my lord,” he said apologetically,
“but a man has arrived at the castle gates insisting upon seeing you – but he
will not give his name or state his business. Moreover, he wears a cloak with a
deep hood that conceals his face. I have tried to send him away, but he became
violent, attempting to push past me into the castle. It has taken three guards
to restrain him. What should I do, my lord?”

 Pevorion, in no mood to be meddled with, spun sharply upon
his heel from the window and said shortly: “I will deal with this charlatan myself.
Where is he?”

 “Still by the gate, my lord.”

 Pevorion crossed the Great Hall with long strides and
descended the steps to the courtyard. There, by the rusting portcullis, stood a
burly figure wearing a heavy, black cloak, which looked totally incongruous
given the mildness of the weather. His arms were pinned by the guards but he
was still struggling with them until his eye fell on Pevorion. Suddenly he
stood still and awaited the baron’s approach.

 “My lord,” the figure said in a low voice, saturated with
urgency. “I must speak with you in private.”

 “Who are you?” demanded Pevorion, in tones indicating he
was not to be trifled with.

 “Look beneath my hood,” directed the man softly.

 When Pevorion, who was taller, bent to look under the deep
cowl, he sharply drew in his breath and peremptorily ordered his guards to
release the stranger. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, he grasped the cloaked
intruder by the arm and fairly dragged him across the courtyard and into the
keep.

 When they reached the study, Pevorion slammed the door shut
in the faces of the curious servants and turned to the man before him.

 “You can put your hood back now, Captain Seldro. No one
will disturb us here.”

 Seldro obeyed, revealing an unshaven countenance, pale with
strain.

 “Where have you been?” demanded my Lord of Sorne. “You were
expected back days ago. What has kept you all this time?”

 “My lord,” began Seldro a little shakily. “I have ridden
hard all through the night to bring you evil tidings before you would hear them
from anyone else, in order that I might warn you of the danger in which you
stand.”

 Pevorion’s eyes sharpened at the words. Seeing that the
younger man was exhausted, he directed him to a chair.

 “What news?” he asked sharply, a premonition of what was to
come already falling across his mind like a shadow.

 Seldro drew a difficult breath and knew that there was no
easy way to say what must be said. “My lord, it gives me great pain to tell you
that King Meldorin is dead.”

 Pevorion sank into a chair as if his legs had failed him.