The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (62 page)

 Without a word, everyone followed him into the dim interior
of the wooden hall. As Eimer entered, he glanced up at the arching roof beams,
but the carved head was back in its place, staring blindly down on all that
passed beneath it. Even though the day was warm, some logs were burning
sleepily in the huge fireplace. Pevorion’s eldest son, Aythar, was in the act
of placing more wood on the fire when he looked up to see who was entering and
immediately dropped the lot.

 His father shook his head repressively at him and escorted
his guests to the leather-covered armchairs set around the fire.

 “I think you should sit down, my dear,” he said
solicitously to Sareth, “before you hear what I have to tell you.” Then, taking
a deep breath, he said: “I wish I could think of some way to break this gently
to you, but since you went missing, both your father and Queen Triana have…
have passed away.” He heard Sareth’s cry of distress and continued hurriedly.
“Queen Triana’s death was not unexpected, for she was of a great age and she
passed quietly away in her sleep but your father’s death was a shock to us
all.”

 Eimer, who was as white as his shirt, leaned forward and
said in a tense voice: “I don’t understand this. How can this be?  My father
was fit and well when we left him.”

 “Aye, he was, lad,” replied Pevorion, forgetting etiquette,
“but what man, even in the prime of life, could withstand the shock of hearing
that in one day he had lost his son, his daughter, and a man who was as dear to
him as his own son? It was my sorry lot to have to write to your father telling
him that you were missing in the Forsaken Lands. I had to tell him that we had
found Ferron and the guards butchered by the Turog and that despite searching
for you during every hour of daylight, we could find no trace of you. According
to those who were with him at the time, the moment he read my letter, he turned
pale and collapsed where he stood, still clutching the letter. He spoke only
one word before the end.” Pevorion turned to Vesarion, who had Sareth in his
arms, trying to comfort her. “He spoke your name, Vesarion, but no one knows
what was in his mind when he did so.”

 “Did Queen Triana hear this news?” Bethro asked,
heartbroken that his poem in her honour would never now be finished.

 “No, I am thankful to say that she did not, for she died
only a….”

 “….only a few days after we went missing,” Vesarion
finished for him. “Is that not correct?”

 Pevorion looked at him strangely. “How could you possibly
know that?”

 “I have not told anyone before,” he replied, looking down
into Sareth’s tear-stained countenance, raised questioningly to his, “but when
we were in the Great Forest, one night I had a…..well, I’m not sure what it
was, a dream, or vision, perhaps, in which Celedorn came to me and told me that
Triana was now with him in the Monastery of the White Brotherhood where they
had been so happy before. He told me we were actually encamped right within its
walls but that we were not permitted to see it. Triana, he said, was once more
united with her beloved Andarion and would never again be parted from him.” He
looked down again at Sareth and continued gently: “Grieve for your father,
Sareth, as I do, but do not grieve for grandmother, for she has at last gone
where she longed so greatly to be.”

 Sareth nodded and wiped her tears away with the back of her
hand. “I know,” she replied quietly.

 Eimer raised his head from his hands in despair. “Then
there is no one to welcome us home,” he said disconsolately, “for we will get
no welcome from Enrick.”

 Again, the Lord and Lady of Sorne exchanged significant
glances and the travellers knew that all had not yet been told to them.

 It was Kelda who replied. “That is more true than you
think. Enrick was crowned king, in breach of the traditional mourning period,
barely a month after your father’s death. His first act upon ascending the
throne was to declare you all dead, and as Westrin has no heir, he forfeited
the barony to the crown.”

 “
What!
” The word shot from Vesarion like the crack
of a whip.

 “He can’t do that!” cried Eimer.

 “Apparently, he thinks he can,” observed Pevorion
sardonically.

 Vesarion, now gripped by a cold anger that made his blue
eyes as icy as glaciers, said harshly: “It is our law that a person who has
gone missing cannot be declared legally dead until a year has elapsed. I need
not point out that we have been away only three months. This is nothing short
of theft!”

 “There is more,” intervened Kelda. “He has appointed his
henchman, Berdis, to rule Westrin on his behalf as steward, and from all I
hear, Westrin is no longer the happy place it once was. He extorts money from the
people by force, and all semblance of justice and the rule of law that you were
at such pains to cultivate, has vanished. There is no joy left in Westrin any
more, Vesarion.”

 Eimer was outraged. “He appointed a commoner – a mongrel
like Berdis, to rule the greatest barony in the Kingdom! Has he taken leave of
his senses?”

 “Apparently so,” replied Vesarion dryly, striving with some
success to master his wrath. “How did the other barons react to this,
Pevorion?”

 “Not well, Vesarion, not well. Not unreasonably, they feel
that if Enrick can disregard the law in order to appropriate one barony, then
he can do the same to others. None of us feel secure any more. He continues to
strip money from us with this iniquitous land tax, which I begin to think is a
deliberate policy to keep us impoverished and incapable of rebellion. But in
that he errs. What began as a few grumbles about the tax, has now grown to such
proportions that the barons are on the brink of outright insurrection. My lord
of Veldor was appointed by his peers to plead their case to the King, but
instead of listening with respect to the oldest and most venerable baron, this
young king sent him away with a flea in his ear. He leaves us in the unenviable
position that if he will not listen to reason, then we have no other recourse
but to defy him?”

 Aythar, who had remained respectfully silent during the
discussion, spoke up for the first time. “There are those amongst us, Prince
Eimer, who will be glad of your return for many reasons, not least of which is
that they will see in you some hope. We all wish to a man, that your father had
left his kingdom to his younger son instead of his elder.”

 Eimer, accustomed to being regarded as irrelevant in
matters of state, looked genuinely astonished but his reply was unequivocal. “I
may not like what he is doing, but Enrick is my brother and the rightful king.
You know well, Aythar, that in Eskendria a king does not choose to whom he
leaves his kingdom. It goes by right to the first born son and like it or not,
that is Enrick. I admit that he must be made to see reason, and quickly, too,
given what we have to tell you, but I will have no part in any plot to
overthrow him.”

 Aythar nodded, a little shamed by the words, but he stood
his ground on one issue. “What about the barony of Westrin?”

 “That is a different matter,” intervened Vesarion. “Eimer
is correct. His brother has the right to wear the crown, but even the King must
respect his own laws or this land will descend into chaos. Enrick has taken
what he has no right to take and I will not hesitate to oppose him in this
matter, but I have no wish to unseat him from the throne.” He turned to
Pevorion, who was nodding agreement. “Where are the Ravenshold Brigands?”

 “Half are at Ravenshold and half are acting as Enrick’s
personal bodyguards in Addania. Apparently, he doesn’t trust his henchman with
the entire force.”

 “Then I must go to Westrin and confront this usurper. To
head for Addania and try to take on Enrick where he is strongest, would be
folly. Ravenshold was ever the power-base of the Westrins and I must take it back
again.”

 “There is one in Westrin who would help you. Captain Seldro
has been in hiding in the mountains since you left. The King issued a warrant
for his arrest on the grounds of treason, but the real reason is that he knows
he would try to keep the Brigands loyal to you, should he remain in command. He
came here one night to tell me of the King’s death and he gave me directions as
to how he could be contacted should the need arise.”

 “Good. Send word for him to meet me at the inn in
Ravenshold, two days from now.” He rose and crossing to the fireplace, gripped
the tall mantelshelf with one hand. Every eye was riveted to him, for he had
the air of a man arranging his thoughts before embarking on a speech of great
importance. Absently, he pushed at the smouldering logs with one booted foot.
“All this could not have come at a worse time. I regret to say that I have returned
with even worse news that I have been given. We have discovered on our journeys
that the Kingdom of Adamant not only exists but is in the process of assembling
an army that will shortly be unleashed against Eskendria. I had thought to
hasten home to warn King Meldorin and assist him in rallying the barons to its
defence, but now I find this land in such disarray that our future begins to
look very uncertain.”

 In as few words as he could manage, he related all that had
happened to them, cutting out all irrelevant details and getting to the heart
of the matter with masterly speed and conviction. When he had finished, quietly
he unsheathed his sword and held it out in the firelight for his stunned
audience to examine.

 “I know it all sounds incredible, but we have no time to
ponder matters and I must ask you to believe me and take this threat seriously.
As proof, I show you this, my grandfather’s sword, recovered from Prince
Mordrian’s clutches. At the moment, it is the only advantage we have.”

 Pevorion leaned forward, reverently scrutinising the
shining blade in the firelight. “Heaven be praised that you got it back, for
this is fearful news you bring with you. I had thought Adamant was just part of
the legend of Erren-dar, not meant to be taken too literally but all the time
the threat has been growing and we were in ignorance of it. You return to find
a kingdom torn and divided, just when we most need to unite.” He paused
thoughtfully, his eyes shrewd. “With your permission Vesarion, I will write to
all the other barons telling them of your return and giving them a brief
account of your discoveries. The standing army is depleted. Only the Brigands
are up to full strength and they cannot take the place of infantry. As in the
old days, in time of war, the barons must raise recruits and make them ready.
They must be armed and taught to move in formation – and all before the onset
of winter! Vesarion, my friend,  I do not see how this is going to be
accomplished in time.”

 “Neither do I, but nevertheless, it must be done, for
unless this is achieved, Eskendria is lost. The King must send to Serendar and
our other allies for aid, but first of all we must resolve this dissention and
unite the country once more. We cannot fight an enemy if we are occupied in
fighting each other. The first step is to recover control of Westrin, and to do
that swiftly I am going to have to take something of a risk.”

  The valley of Sadris-karn lay before them, nestling with
unexpected verdancy between the soaring peaks of the Westrin Mountains. Only
four of the company emerged from the shade of the woodlands to view the
sheltered vale, just now bathing contentedly in the late summer sunshine.
Bethro had remained behind at Forestfleet, as he had been summarily
requisitioned by Pevorion to act as his scribe in assisting with the lengthy
business of composing letters to all the barons. If truth be told, although he
indulged in a token amount of grumbling, it was a task Bethro relished - and a
comfortable bedchamber with feather pillows, and three enormous meals a day did
nothing to detract from its appeal.

 The remaining companions were possessed by urgency, leaving
at first light the following morning. Only one incident had marred their
departure. Aythar had lost no opportunity in informing his brothers of the state
of affairs, for their help would be needed to raise the necessary recruits from
Sorne. His youngest sibling, an amiable lad of somewhat limited mental
resources, had fixed his eyes in fascination on Iska, who was seated opposite
him at breakfast.

 “So you’re from Adamant,” he said, in the manner of someone
clearing the ground before asking another question. “I hear you are one of those
witches of Parth.”

 Iska looked at him warily and did not reply, but Eimer’s
spoon halted its journey half way to his mouth.

 “The witches of Parth were said to have great power,”
continued the lad, oblivious to atmosphere. “Why don’t you help us by putting a
spell on this Mordrian? Or do you not want to because he is your brother?”

 Eimer’s spoon landed back in his bowl with a clatter, and
he said with uncharacteristic sharpness: “I don’t know what Aythar has been
telling you, but Iska is no witch. Do you not realise that the very fact that
she did not inherit the dark powers, put her life in danger? If Mordrian could
get his hands on her, he would kill her. She has lost her home and very nearly
her life to save Eskendria, so do not dare to address her in such a fashion.”

 The young man, like all Pevorion’s sons, was of impetuous
temperament and ready to take offence. He began to rise from his chair, until
his father, endorsing the Prince’s stricture, told him perfunctorily to sit
down and mind his own business. Nevertheless, the incident had brought home to
Iska that her position in Eskendria was tenuous at best.

 She had half been expecting Vesarion’s barony to be like
the storm fortress – a bleak affair set amongst hostile mountains, but it
surprised her by being very different. The Westrin Mountains were majestically
beautiful. The lofty, violet peaks were snow-tipped, outlined with dreamy purity
against a cobalt sky. Their remoteness was pierced by many sheltered valleys of
great size, clothed with alternating areas of woodland and neat farmsteads and
bifurcated by chattering rivers that descended from the melting snow above. The
high mountain air had an exhilarating quality all of its own, rendering every
colour so clear and bright that it almost hurt the eyes. Wide expanses of turf
swept down to the valley floor, clothed in grass that seemed impossibly green. The
pasture was studded with many mountain flowers – blue gentians, golden hawksbit
and heavily-scented thyme, all grazed by nimble sheep that scattered before
their horses. Down below, the rivers cast back the sun like dazzling bands of
silver. Yet above them, circling the iron-hard peaks on stiff wings, a solitary
eagle released its lonely cry.