The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (38 page)

 “Come too,” interjected Gorm, who had not lost sight of the
original issue. “Not be seen. Very stealthy.”

 Sareth looked at Iska in despair. “If you refuse him, he’ll
only follow us anyway. The chances are that if we travel at night, he won’t be
noticed.”

 “Well, we can’t take him into the city. If we get that far,
he must hide in the wood that lies just beyond the eastern gate.” Iska turned
to the recalcitrant Turog. “Is that agreed, Gorm?”

 He looked uncertainly at Sareth, as if seeking guidance.

 “Please, Gorm,” she pleaded. “I don’t want anything to
happen to you.”

 Suddenly he grinned his toad-like grin at this evidence of
affection on the part of his goddess.

 “Hide in wood,” he declared amicably. “Don’t like places of
stone anyway.”

“How far is it to the Curtain of Adamant?” Vesarion asked
Iska.

 “We’ll reach it tomorrow morning but it will take several
more hours to reach the spot where I found the tear.”

 After the grim coldness of the mountains, it was a joy to
descend the lower reaches into warm sunshine. Cloaks were packed away and they
all found themselves walking with a certain spring in their step. The slopes
were clothed in a fairly open woodland made up of stately beech trees, their
myriads of bright leaves fluttering cheerfully in the soft air. The sunlight
that found its way between the branches to dapple the ground, was warm, even a
little somnolent and woodpigeons conspired with it by producing their gentle, throaty
calls suffused with peace. The woods were rich in birds and game and they
spotted shy deer several times, but were thankful that it was deserted of human
occupation due to the restraining power of the curtain.

 In the slanting sunshine of late afternoon, Gorm
disappeared off on some expedition of his own, and returned just as they were
making camp, dragging behind him the carcass of a young deer.

 Bethro, although normally making a point of finding fault
with all that the Turog did, could not resist rubbing his hands together with
delight at the prospect of roast venison. While he took charge of the cooking,
Sareth managed to cajole her brother into giving her some practice with the
sword. Although they were using real blades, Iska, sitting beside Vesarion to
watch the show, got the impression that neither of them seemed to be taking
things very seriously, for there was a good deal of laughter and banter going
on. Observing them, she realised that although they were superficially
different, brother and sister were in fact, underneath it all, quite alike.
They both shared a certain devil-may-care attitude to life and a ready sense of
fun.

 Vesarion, guessing the direction of her thoughts, remarked:
“Enrick used to call them the terrible twins, because although there is a year
between them in age, they always stuck together like glue. When they were
younger, he was constantly the butt of their practical jokes, and as he has no
sense of humour whatsoever, he was always complaining about them to the King –
not that it had much effect on such an irrepressible pair. But as the years
went on, he eventually got the upper hand. He excluded Eimer from all affairs
of state, making him feel useless and ignored, and he wore Sareth down with his
constant scheming to marry her off to his own advantage. She became silent and
withdrawn, very unlike what you see now. So changed was she at one point, that
I thought he had broken her spirit. I think that was why she agreed to our
betrothal,” he added, she thought, a little sadly. “Anything to get away from
him.”

 Iska, presented with a dilemma by that statement, was
almost glad when an interruption occurred. The clashing of weapons and
accompanying laughter that had been going on in the background, suddenly ended
in a cry of pain from Eimer.

 She looked up to discover that the Prince was clutching his
arm and Sareth had dropped her sword and was pressing her hands to her cheeks
in horror.

 “Oh, Eimer!” she cried contritely. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t
mean it!”

 He suppressed an impudent grin and tried to assume the
expression of a martyr. “I might have known it! I knew that I wouldn’t come out
of this unscathed. You are just too damn fast!”

 “Here, let me see,” she said, trying to remove his hand
from his arm.

 “It’s only a scratch,” he declared. “And you stay away from
me! You’re a menace. I’ll get Iska to take care of it.”

 Iska rose to her feet, laughing, but as she led the
afflicted Prince away, she said to Sareth:  “Why don’t you practice with
Vesarion?”

 The wounded victim, intent on getting full value out of his
position of moral superiority, declared roundly: “She’ll not tackle Vesarion
because he’s too good a swordsman for her. She only likes someone she can beat.”

 Vesarion grinned. “That was unchivalrous, Eimer.”

 “Ha!” cried the Prince, enjoying himself immensely. “Said
with all the ignorance of an only child. But by all means, Vesarion, if you are
feeling brave, have a go. I’m too weakened by loss of blood to continue. Oh,
and by the way, oblige me by carving her into strips, will you?”

 Vesarion lifted his sword and rose to his feet a little
reluctantly. When he faced her in the clearing, he said: “I know that Parrick
taught you well, but my technique is a little different to his. I make use of
the double-handed grip. He disapproved of that because it restricts one’s reach
but it puts more power into the blow. Look at my sword,” he offered, holding it
out for her to inspect. “You will see that it has the longer hilt, designed for
a two-handed grip.”

 “Like the sword of Erren-dar?”

 “Yes. Your hilt is a little on the short side for that, but
see what you can manage.”

 Stepping back a pace, she swept the sword upwards in a
two-handed grip, and instantly, with a speed she knew she could never match, he
parried. The two blades met with a clash.

 “Good,” he commended. “You have speed and your angle is
good but you are putting your weight too far forward and that invites this
response.”

 He slid his blade down hers until the swords locked at the
hilts.

 “It then becomes a struggle of brute strength and you will
not win that one, Sareth. You must keep your distance, striking in and out
swiftly. Also, move around your opponent. Keep him guessing from which
direction the attack will come. Whatever you do, don’t allow him to box you in,
because that deprives you of your one advantage.”

 The swords were still locked together and although he was
exerting no pressure against her, the position brought them close against one
another. He looked up from the crossed hilts and straight into her eyes and for
some reason, their gaze locked as tightly as the sword hilts. Grey eyes met
blue ones, and neither could look away. And for the first time, Sareth saw
something in his expression that she had never seen there before and instantly
her heart began to quicken. For a moment, as she held her breath in anticipation,
she thought he was going to say something. She sensed the words crowding behind
his lips, then suddenly, for reasons she did not understand, the moment was
lost. It was as if a chill cloud had covered the sun.

He disengaged his hilt and stepped back.

 “Let me see how you parry,” he said in a neutral voice.

 For the briefest moment she stared at him bereft, then
hiding her sense of rejection, followed his instructions almost automatically,
all joy completely extinguished.

 When Eimer returned a little later, he found Vesarion
sitting with his back against a tree, watching Gorm, who was entering into the
spirit of things by teaching Iska the finer points of swordplay using a couple
of sticks. Sareth was giving advice, which was largely being ignored, as the
mismatched pair tackled one another with good-natured enthusiasm.

 He looked up when Eimer sat down beside him with a sigh.

 “What’s the prognosis?” he asked with a gleam of humour.
“Is there any chance that you’ll survive, or will half the female population of
Addania have to live in a state of permanent disappointment?”

 “Oh, very witty and drole,” returned the Prince. “Just like
something my vixen of a sister would say.”

 He sat in silence for a moment, then every trace of levity
gone, remarked: “According to Iska, we will reach the tear in the curtain tomorrow,
then we will truly be in enemy territory. She seems convinced that her brother has
brought the sword to the city, and in such crowded environs, we really
will
be walking into the lion’s den. Any chance that our mission has of success will
then depend on Iska.”

 “I am aware that we will be totally in her hands.”

 “You still doubt her?”

 Vesarion’s gaze shifted to Iska, still gleefully battling
Gorm. “No, not any more. I used to pride myself on my ability to read people
but sometimes when I look back now, I find my judgment a little suspect.”

 “That’s an admission indeed. Perhaps when we recover the
sword, you will even have to revise your opinion of Celedorn. You have always
poured such scorn on him.”

 Vesarion looked surprised. “Is that what I do?”

 “Why, yes. You never have a good word for him.”

 “Have you ever stopped to wonder why?” asked Vesarion bitterly,
his emotions still a little raw from his encounter with Sareth.

 But he got an answer he didn’t expect. “Yes, recently I
have and I think I know the answer. You feel that you constantly live in his
shadow. That you are merely the grandson of a man who became a legend in his
own lifetime and you feel that it is impossible to compete with that.”

 Vesarion stared at him in astonishment.

 The Prince, seeing that he had dumbfounded his friend,
pulled his mouth down wryly and added: “Perhaps your judgment has been a little
off with regard to me too.”

 “Eimer…I….”

 “Never mind. The role of court jester that Enrick had
assigned to me suits me very well, I think.”

 “It does not. I have never thought you a fool, Eimer, but I
had not realised that you could be so perceptive.”

 “It actually doesn’t take much insight, especially to
someone who has known you as long as I have. When you took over command of
Westrin, you changed. I think you sacrificed yourself to duty. You were
determined to be the perfect Lord of Westrin, to show how different you are to
Celedorn, who actually so far forgot himself to become a brigand and attack his
own country. No, instead, you would be a model of correctness and good
governance, no matter what the cost.”

 Vesarion, as if touched on the raw, stood up swiftly and
walked a few paces away.

 “I did not think you knew me so well, Eimer. My grandfather
stood as the very epitome of courage and heroism – so what am I in comparison?
Always, I must be some sort of failed version of him. How often have I heard
myself referred to, not by my name, but as the grandson of Erren-dar. All I
have heard my whole life is how my famous forebear saved Eskendria by his
courage and skill. How can I compete with that? You have always felt belittled
by your brother, but I am belittled by a legend. Tell me, Eimer, how do you
fight that? Think of it. What in comparison have I achieved? I was born into a privileged
life, brought up in a palace, given command of the most powerful barony in the
Kingdom at a youthful age. Everything has fallen into my hand without the need
for me to earn any of it. When do I have to show courage? When? I have two
thousand elite cavalrymen to command. Where is the personal courage in that?
When do I have to show wisdom? I rule a barony where few would care to disagree
with their lord. A man never knows what he is capable of until he is tested –
and I have never been tested.”

 Suddenly it all fell into place for Eimer. And all at once
the man he had known all his life, shed the polished steel image as the poised
and faultless Lord of Westrin and became instead something much more
understandable – he became human.

 “You cannot doubt your courage, Vesarion,” Eimer protested.
“I saw you risk your life to save my sister. I watched you descend that
terrifying cliff without any safety rope or protection whatsoever, knowing that
one slip would cause you to fall to your death. How can you doubt your courage
after that?”

 Vesarion shrugged dismissively. “It was not as brave as you
make out. I have always had a good head for heights and in Westrin, as you well
know, boys are taught to climb from a very young age. It becomes almost second
nature.”

 Eimer too rose to his feet and faced him, deeply troubled
for him. “You do not have to prove yourself to me, for I have never seen you
play the coward, and if I were in a tight spot, as we often have been during
this journey, I would rather have you at my side than anyone else.”

 But Vesarion merely turned away and was silent, staring off
amongst the trees, still lit by the last mellow rays of the sun.

 “What will it take for you to be convinced?” Eimer asked sombrely.
“How will you prove yourself?”

 Vesarion’s voice came back to him over his shoulder as he
stood with his back turned. “I don’t know, but the Keeper said something that I
can’t get out of my head.”

 “He said that one of us would go through great suffering,”
Eimer said, causing his companion to turn swiftly in surprise. “I saw how you
looked when he said it and although I didn’t understand then, I do now. You
think it will be you, don’t you?”

 “I’m not sure. Part of me hopes not, but if I have to face
this thing, I can only pray that I do not fail.” He stood in silence for a
moment, his eyes resting on Sareth as she laughingly attempted to instruct Iska,
and almost against his will, with quiet bitterness, he added: “One thing I have
learned about myself recently. I have discovered that I am the sort of fool who
only realises what he had, when he has lost it.”