The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (6 page)

 Still puzzled, the landlord produced his standard welcoming
smile. “Where are your travelling companions, young man?” he asked. “You seem
to have travelled far, surely not on your own? Is your father with you?”

 The boy’s black brows instantly descended into a heavy
frown, as if he considered being questioned an impertinence.

 “I have travelled from the Isles of Kelendore,” he replied
curtly. “And my father does not consider me too young to be travelling alone.
In fact, if you must know, he has sent me to Addania to further my education.
Now, do you have a room available or not?”

 The landlord was not so easily put down. “No offence, young
master, but do you realise that in a superior establishment like the Moat Inn,
accommodation does not come cheap? Oh no, a good room here can cost up to as
much as a demi-crown a night. Perhaps a more modest hostelry would suit you
better.”

 The scowl was thunderous by now. In reply the boy reached
into his pocket and placed a full crown on the landlord’s palm, with something
of a snap.

 “I will pay you in advance for two night’s stay – and I
require stabling for my horse,” he said curtly. “I trust that is acceptable.”

 The landlord looked at the gleam of silver in his hand and
resisted the temptation to carry it to the light. Clearly the young brat was
used to getting his own way. Probably some wealthy merchant’s spoilt son.

 As if realising that alienating his host was not the best
way to proceed, the scowl suddenly left the boy’s face and he smiled quite
charmingly. Turning to the sketch he had been admiring, he said:  “I’ve come to
study Eskendrian history. My father felt my education was not complete without
it.”

 The landlord, who indeed had not reacted well to his
guest’s abrasive style, was unable to resist the charm in the smile and thawed
a little.

 “I see you’ve taken a fancy to  the sketch.”

 “Yes, I was wondering if it was an accurate historical
representation of events, or whether it was just the product of the artist’s
imagination?”

 The landlord rubbed his chin, as if a little perplexed by
the question. “Well, the artist would have been too young to have been present
at the last siege of Addania but some histories have been written about those
times, so he could have used those as his inspiration. Why, Bethro, the King’s
librarian, is presently composing an epic poem in honour of Queen Triana,
recording the events in verse.” He nodded towards the sketch. “I think this is
meant to represent the moment when the old Sage, Relisar, used the summoning
spell to bring forth Erren-dar, the champion predicted in the prophesy to save
the city in its darkest hour.”

 The boy peered closer in the gloom. “What is this that is
shown on the edge of the sword that Erren-dar is holding?”

 “They say that when the spell was proclaimed, a blue flame
burned for an instant along the edge of the blade. At least, that is the
legend. I cannot tell you for certain because it was a bit before my time, I’m
afraid.”

 But the lad’s eyes were glowing. “It’s not just a story
then? It really happened?”

 The landlord laughed indulgently, not proof against such
enthusiasm. “You might be interested to know that the original sword still
exists, right here in Addania.”

 “Can I see it?” the boy asked eagerly.

 “Oh, no. It’s kept securely locked away in the Ivy Tower in
the citadel. Why, they say that as long as the sword remains in Eskendria, a
hostile army will never invade again. Bethro has the only key to the tower
because, amongst his other duties, he is the sword’s keeper – and I would
guess, knowing Bethro, that even the King doesn’t get to see it. Actually,” he
added, another thought striking him, “if you want to know about the history of
those days, you could ask no better person than Bethro. He comes in here most
evenings for a drop of cheer. If you like, I’ll point him out to you.” He
chuckled. “Mind you, getting Bethro to talk about those days is not a problem, it
is getting him to
stop
that is the problem. Properly obsessed, he is.
Now, let me show you to your room.”

 The subject of the conversation that had taken place
between Triana and Sareth in the garden, was staring across another part of the
grounds but this time from within the palace. The criss-crossed bands of the
latticed windows divided the outside scene into neat geometrical shapes, but
Westrin saw nothing of what lay before his eyes. His thoughts were bent
intensely inwards. Like Sareth, he too was suffering the qualms of misgivings,
but for an entirely different reason. Prince Enrick was being so entirely
pleasant and reasonable that some instinct for self-preservation was making his
hackles rise. For the first time he had begun to suffer doubts that he had
correctly read the Prince’s intentions. It was not as if he had anything
concrete to go on. The Prince had neither said nor done anything that could
reasonably be said to arouse suspicions – other than being somewhat
suffocatingly nice. But Westrin knew of old that it was against Enrick’s nature
to go the direct route to any destination and he began to suspect that he had
been drawn into some scheme of which he had barely scratched the surface.
Certainly, if the depth of his villainy matched his present affability, he was
planning something of truly dastardly proportions.

 All their lives, if the two men even shared the same space together,
the air had crackled like an electrical storm on a sultry summer’s day. Since adulthood
had brought them to their respective roles in the Kingdom, the rules of society
had obliged them to avoid the more physical confrontations of boyhood. So now their
personalities clashed in a battle of wills – a battle in which Vesarion was at
a slight disadvantage due to the fact that he was forced to show the necessary
respect to the office of Crown Prince. But this time, everything had changed. Enrick
was charm itself, laughingly turning aside every verbal thrust, going out of
his way to welcome his erstwhile enemy as his future brother-in-law – an
epithet that Vesarion found slightly nauseating.

 He decided the best course of action was to do nothing but
wait and watch. Sooner or later Enrick would make a slip that would reveal his
state of mind.

 At last he turned from the window to where Enrick and the
King sat awaiting his reply. Each was seated in an armchair on either side of a
blazing fire. The King was gazing into the flames, lost in some far away place.
He wore a long robe of sombre green which made him look older than his sixty
odd years. Indeed, Vesarion was shocked by how much the King had aged in the
last year. He had begun to look like a man who found his crown a heavy burden.

 Enrick, in contrast, although about the same age as
Vesarion, appeared even younger. He stood up from his chair and leaned his hand
negligently against the mantelshelf. As always, he was dressed richly in
wine-coloured velvet, a golden chain hanging around his neck. He knew himself
to be handsome and took almost indecent pleasure in the thought that he outdid
his rival in this respect - but in fact he erred. Although every feature of the
Prince’s visage, taken individually, was good, his face was less than the sum
of its parts. It was, perhaps, his habitual expression that marred the effect,
a shadow of the bitter character within. Vesarion noted that Enrick had grown a
beard during the last year, sculpted with such care around his lips and jawline
that it unfortunately trumpeted his vanity.

 The Prince’s rival, on the other hand, cared nothing for vanity.
He was clean-shaven and his brown hair was cut with military shortness. His
attire, though appropriate to his rank, bore the plainness of a man who thought
little about his appearance. The Prince would have been galled, had he but known
it, that for all the fair-haired good looks that his mirror told him he
possessed, when the two men were in a room together, it was Vesarion who drew
the eye.

 If any of these thoughts were passing through the Prince’s
mind that morning, nothing of them appeared in his manner. He leaned forward
with all the eagerness of a terrier at a rat hole. In contrast with his father,
he appeared vigorous and decisive. His confidence had grown markedly in the
last year, almost in direct proportion to the King’s decline.

 Vesarion directed a sharp glance towards the Prince,
revealing nothing of his thoughts. “All you have told me is interesting enough
in its way, but I see no evidence that the eastern baronies are on the edge of
revolt. My Lord of Sorne may be hot-tempered and a little rash, and I can well
believe that this new tax of yours hit hard, but he is by his very nature direct.
If he felt you had dealt with him unfairly, the first thing he would do would
be to get on his horse and come to Addania to tell you so to your face. The
others may grumble a bit and complain, but that is a far cry from insurrection.
I think you read too much into a bit of discontent.”

 “That is not what my informants tell me.”

 Westrin shrugged disdainfully. “Informants? You mean the
scoundrels who take your gold then tell you what you want to hear?”

 Enrick lost a little of his poise. “Do you think I
want
to hear of revolt?” he snapped.

  His cousin eyed him coolly. “Do you not?” he asked softly.

 The Prince shot a swift look at his father before
reattaching his smile. “Come, Westrin, let us not quarrel when there is no
need. I assure you that we are of one mind in this matter. We both know that
Eskendria’s strength lies in her unity and anything that undermines that unity
is something that we both abhor.”

 Westrin merely bowed slightly in reply, disconcerted that
the mask was back in place so quickly. He briefly turned his eyes to the King
to see how he was taking all this, but the older man was still gazing absently
into the fire as if he neither heard nor cared.

 Although unable to read his cousin’s thoughts, Enrick was
aware that he had failed to convince him.

 “Very well,” he said. “Since nothing less than seeing the
evidence with your own eyes will serve to reassure you that what I say is true,
go to Sorne on some pretext or other and do a little observing on your own
account.” He appeared to consider the matter further. “I know, take Sareth with
you and you can tell Sorne that you wished to inform him of your betrothal in
person. He will like that, as he has always had an inflated idea of his own
importance.”

 Vesarion, well aware that he was being manipulated, opened
his mouth to demur, but the Prince pre-empted him. “You said yourself that we
lacked accurate information and, forgive me, but I feel that anything I tell
you is by definition suspect.”

 The Prince had the satisfaction of seeing such direct tactics
pay off. Westrin knew he had been boxed in a corner and merely replied: “Not at
all.”

 Pressing his advantage, Enrick added: “There are issues
here that affect the future of Eskendria and I know your high sense of duty
will compel you to attend to the matter yourself.”

 “That’s right, Vesarion,” the King suddenly intervened,
showing he had been not quite as oblivious to their conversation as he
appeared. “Your loyalty has always been the jewel in the crown of Eskendria. I
would trust no one more to get to the bottom of this than you.”

 Vesarion’s face softened. He had an affection for the King,
arising from the kindness he had shown him when he had been left an orphan.

 “Very well, sire. Since you desire it, it will be my
pleasure to undertake this matter for you.”

 Enrick scowled, always over-sensitive to the fondness his
father bore for his arch-rival. He was also aware that the tables had been
somewhat turned upon him.

 However, whatever else Enrick might have said on the issue
was never to be known, for at that moment they were interrupted by sounds of an
altercation taking place outside in the corridor that lead to the King’s
apartments. A howling sound, distant at first but growing in volume, appeared
to be coming in their direction. It was punctuated by shouts that sounded like
challenges from the guards. Enrick’s frown deepened as he turned towards the
door. Even the King sat up expectantly. But before any of them could react, the
tall double doors burst asunder precipitating Bethro and four harassed guards
into the room. The strange howling sound, like a bear caught in a trap, was
issuing from Bethro and instead of ceasing in the presence of such august
company, actually rose to a crescendo.

 The guards had clearly been struggling to restrain him
without actually having to resort to lethal force. All four were looking
dishevelled and a little at a loss what to do. When they saw the King they fell
back respectfully.

 Enrick leaped to his feet, clearly outraged. “What is the
meaning of this, Bethro?” he demanded in furious tones.

 “Oooh! Nooo!” wailed the afflicted librarian. “This is
awful. This is a disaster. What’s to be done? I am a dead man. Oooh!”

 “What is a disaster? What are you talking about?”

 “It wasn’t my fault! You must believe me, it wasn’t my
fault!”

 Vesarion, realising that the guards were still interested
spectators to this performance, and sensing that it might be politic to keep
whatever Bethro had done, private, dismissed them with a wave of his hand. He
then strode forward and gripping the trembling librarian by the shoulders,
peremptorily shook him. “Pull yourself together,” he commanded in tones that
had never failed to have effect. “You’d better come up with a very good reason
for this exhibition.”

 His forceful air seemed to penetrate the fog of hysteria in
which Bethro had lost himself.

 “It’s gone,” he whispered fearfully, looking from one to
the other like a trapped hare.

 Vesarion grasped the remnants of his patience. “What’s
gone?”