The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (4 page)

BOOK: The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)
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Vesarion shrugged. “I imagine that is what is in his mind.”

 “And you would go along with this?” she asked incredulously.

 “As you say, grandmother, I am not getting any younger. An
alliance between your house and mine is not unusual after all. If you wish for
a precedent you need look no further than the fact that my great-grandsire
married a royal princess.”

 “So, Sareth is acceptable to you because she is of the
Royal House? I take it that you consider nothing less would suit your pride? I
always knew you valued your own worth, Vesarion, but this is the first time I
have come to realise that you are arrogant.” She shook her head in sad
recollection. “You were too young when your parents died, too young when the
reins of government were thrust into your hands. For too long now you have been
accustomed to having your will obeyed, and it has not improved you as a human
being. It would seem that you have become cold and selfish. Just a few moments
ago, I was telling Bethro that if he wanted an idea of what Celedorn was like,
he should look no further than you, but I was wrong. You are not like your
grandfather. Although he could effect coldness to put someone he disliked in
their place, he was not in fact a cold man but one who was intensely
passionate. I never saw him so emotionless as I see you now.”

 He rose suddenly to his feet as if her comments had finally
touched him on the raw. “I do not understand this idolisation of Celedorn,” he
remarked coldly. “Before he gained the respectability of becoming Erren-dar, he
was a brigand, robbing and pillaging, bringing shame on the noble name he
bore.”

 “There was a reason for that, which you know very well.”

 “I do not find any reason sufficient justification for
dragging the name of Westrin through the mud,” he replied tightly.

 Triana leaned back in her chair, surveying him
thoughtfully. “Sit down, Vesarion,” she commanded softly. He stared at her, an
arrested expression on his face, as if he would have liked to have told her to
go to the devil, but finally he complied. Triana resumed: “I always thought it
strange that Celedorn’s son was not like him. He was like Elorin. He had her
laughing eyes and open disposition, yet in you, and you alone, I thought I saw
the blood of Westrin run true and it comes as a severe disappointment to me
that you do not carry their greatness of spirit.” She saw him stiffen a little
at the words. “Oh, I admit you have many admirable qualities. You have courage
and determination, you are fair-minded and loyal, but you have no love in you.
All you have is pride – and pride was the first and greatest sin ever to enter
this world.”

 “I thought it was jealousy.”

 “No, Vesarion. The humble are not jealous, only the proud.
You marry Sareth to suit your own dignity. You take, but you do not give. Have
you ever stopped to wonder if you can make her happy? No, to you, being Lady of
Westrin is happiness enough. But is it enough for Sareth? Have you asked her?”
They stared at one another in silence. “You disappoint me, Vesarion,” she added
quietly.

 “Perhaps it is Sareth who disappoints you,” he suggested
stiffly. “According to Eimer, having failed to become Queen of Serendar, Lady
of Westrin was her next choice.”

 “I admit that Sareth does not confide in me any more, but
that does not sound like her.”

 He shrugged indifferently. “People change.”

 “So it would seem,” she responded dryly.

 “I realise that I have vexed you, grandmother. But believe
me that was not my intention. I will do my best to make Sareth happy. Despite
all you say about me, I would not be deliberately unkind.”

 Her face softened. “My dear Vesarion, I did not say you
were unkind. You have just had life a little too much your own way so far.
Sometimes a little adversity is character-forming. Speak to Sareth, if you
wish, but remember, I would rather you married a peasant girl if you but loved
her.”

 

 The Queen would have been dismayed, but not entirely
surprised, to know that her words had not deflected Westrin from his purpose.
When he left her apartments, he crossed a cobbled courtyard in which stood an
ivy-covered tower, now dark and deserted, and entered another wing of the
palace by a small side door, also in danger of being submerged by the rampant
ivy. He swiftly passed along a dimly-lit corridor panelled in a sombre, dark
wood, until he reached the foot of a magnificent, ornately carved staircase. A
few swift bounds took him to the top, where he came face to face with an oaken
door delicately carved with a tracery of vine leaves. For the first time his
purposeful progress halted and he stood outside the door for a moment with a
slight, uncharacteristic air of indecision. Finally, he took a deep breath and
turned the handle.

 A young woman was waiting for him in the salon that lay
beyond, just as he had known she would be. The deep red curtains had been drawn
against the night and the room was rendered cosy with the glow of the fire and
several branches of candles. Sareth, too, wore red, the royal colour of the
Eskendrian kings. A gown of velvet clung closely to her slender figure before
falling to the floor in luxuriant folds. Around her neck lay a fragile necklace
of the famous moonpearls of Serendar. She had been sitting gazing abstractedly
into the fire but when her cousin entered, she started to her feet and stood
staring at him tensely as if she had never met him before.

 He had not seen her in several years and was forced to
admit that she had improved. Her light brown hair fell in an unfettered,
curling mass down her back, and her grey eyes looked at him steadily. To be
critical, he was forced to admit that she did not quite merit the epithet
‘beautiful’ for her chin was a little too determined, her nose a little too
aquiline, but only the most censorious would have found fault with her
appearance.

 She stood watching him, making no move to be the first to
speak. He advanced towards her, for the first time feeling a little unsure of
himself.

 “Cousin, you look well,” he said formally.

 “Thank you, Vesarion. So do you. The mountain air must
agree with you.”

 He smiled slightly. “That younger brother of yours thinks
that I get too much mountain air. He informs me I am becoming uncivilised.”

 She shook her head. “That is Eimer’s attempt at humour. I
have always found you most punctilious,” she observed, in a rather starched
manner that he did not recognise. He began to realise that Eimer’s assessment
of his sister had been correct – the tumultuous tomboy had disappeared and a
reserved, rather correct woman had taken her place.

 Still she did not move from her place by her chair. As the
silence stretched between them uncomfortably, Vesarion realised that the
stiffness between them would only be broken by frankness – something that
suited his mood exactly.

 “I think we need to talk, Sareth. Your father informs me
that you know the reason for my visit but I would rather hear from you how you
feel about the matter. I trust that Enrick is not putting any pressure on you.”

 She had sunk, stiff-backed, into the chair again, but
looked up swiftly at the words, as if startled. “What makes you say that?”

 He took a chair facing her and leaned forward earnestly.
“Ravenshold may be remote but I know your brother. He will use any method to
achieve his ends. I assume he gave you a difficult time upon your return from
Serendar.”

 She nodded. “He wished for an alliance with Serendar, that
is why I was sent there. He is convinced that my failure was deliberate, and
has spoken bitterly and at length on the subject. Do you….do you care that I
was sent on such a mission?”

 If she expected him to show jealousy, she was disappointed.
“Such an alliance would have been desirable but I think he went about it the
wrong way.” He smiled slightly “But then I feel Enrick goes about everything
the wrong way.”

 “Including this?”

 “Yes. He thinks that if we marry, he will command my
services at his pleasure. What do you think, Sareth? Will he?”

 “No, but let him believe it if he pleases.”

 Her eyes dropped to her lap and she began to twist a ring
round and round on her finger. It was the only sign of agitation she had shown.

 Observing this, he asked: “And what do you wish? Do you
wish to become Lady of Westrin? Is that what you want? If it is not, or if you
have any doubts, do not fear that you will spend the rest of your life hearing
reproaches from Enrick. I will tell him that I was the one to withdraw, and he
can like that or not as he wills. His displeasure will have little effect on
me.” He paused, then added dryly: “Especially if I remain out of earshot at
Ravenshold.”

 “Do you wish to withdraw?” she asked quietly.

 “No.” His denial was swift enough to be flattering, but she
read nothing more into it than his usual determination once his mind was made
up.

 She decided that she also could be determined. Drawing a
deep breath, she declared: “Then I, too, will stand fast.”

 “Thank you, Sareth.”

 “Like you, I seldom see eye to eye with my brother, and
lately, I feel that father, too, has distanced himself from me. Apart from grandmother,
I feel I have hardly any family left.”

 “What about Eimer?”

 She frowned. “I cannot depend on Eimer. He makes an art-form
out of unreliability. Instead of being the voice of reason with my father, he
acts the fool, always involved in some infantile prank that plays nicely into Enrick’s
hands. Still, I suppose all this only troubles me because I am so close to it.
I assume from the distance of the mountains all these things will shrink to
their proper perspective.”

 She rose to her feet, indicating that the interview was
coming to a close, and stood looking at him expectantly. He also arose and they
faced one other.

 Feeling that some kind of conclusion to their conversation
was needed, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a golden ring set with a
beautiful diamond surrounded by tiny moonpearls. “I would be deeply honoured if
you would wear this as a token of our betrothal, Sareth.”

 Silently, she held out her hand and watched as he gently
slid the ring onto her finger.

 Vesarion, uncertain as to whether he was expected to mark
the occasion by some show of affection,  leaned towards her to kiss her, but
she was staring at him with such a wooden, unemotional look on her face, that
he was a little daunted, and instead settled for lightly kissing her cheek. She
did not withdraw from him, but neither did she give any indication that the
kiss gave her pleasure. He found her difficult to fathom.

 More to break the silence than for any other reason, he
said: “I hope you will like Ravenshold. You have not been there since you were
a child. I hope you won’t find it too remote.”

 “No, it couldn’t be too remote for me. The further away
from Addania the better.”

 “Oh?”

 “I’m tired of the city. Tired of all the intrigues. The
clean mountain air appeals to me.”

 “You will miss Eimer and grandmother?”

 “Yes, but Eimer is perfectly capable of making his way to
Ravenshold as many times as he wishes and as for grandmother? She….well, she
has been worrying me lately.”

 Vesarion raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I visited her
just a short while ago. She seemed in excellent health.”

 “She does but…oh, I don’t know. Recently she has been
saying that when Bethro’s epic poem is finished, her time here on earth will be
done. Increasingly, she lives in the past, in the days of Erren-dar. The
present seems an intrusion to her, a nuisance. She has been talking more and
more about grandfather recently, even though he has been dead twenty years.
Hardly a conversation takes place without her referring to her ‘dear
Andarion’.” Her voice sunk low. “She loved him very greatly, you know, and even
now, she still loves him.”

 “Such a thing is rare.”

 “Very rare,” she agreed in a subdued voice.

 

 Bethro, glad to escape from Vesarion’s intimidating
clutches, was comfortably ensconced in his little cubby-hole of a room, overlooking
the courtyard where stood the old ivy-covered tower. He was standing at the
latticed window, his back turned to the chaotic, ink-stained disaster that was
his room and was thoughtfully regarding the darkening scene. The tower had been
abandoned for a long time now and was showing signs of neglect. For most of
Bethro’s life it had seemed immune to time, immune to change. But now, as he
regarded it closely, he saw that it, too, was going the way of all things. Some
of the little panes in the latticed windows were cracked, there were gaps in
the mortar and the hinges on the oak door – the only means of access - were
visibly rusting.

 Bethro sighed. The tower had once belonged to Relisar, the
last of the old Brotherhood of Sages, the last with the gift of enchantment.
Now, since his death, it had stood unoccupied, a physical reminder that the old
Orders of the Book, the Flower and the Sword were finally gone and magic
existed no more in the world of men. There were no new apprentices with the
latent gift. No masters left to develop their talent and train them in the Arts
of Light. The world had become a mundane, work-a-day place.

 Even Keesha, the invisible spirit that had guarded the
tower, was gone, departed, they said, the very moment that Relisar had died.

 Bethro, despite his comfortable, rounded appearance and
fondness for good food and wine, was in his heart a hopeless romantic and
longed for the return of those days. Now, alas, there were no more adventures,
no more tales-in-the-making of courage and love and sacrifice. No more
magnificent stories, like how Elorin’s love had saved Celedorn from bitterness
and enabled him to become Erren-dar. In a dusty, unexplored corner of his mind,
seldom inspected, he knew that his obsession with history was no dry exercise
in gathering facts, but a yearning for great deeds and stirring events.

BOOK: The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)
13.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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