The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (65 page)

 Sareth propped her chin on her hand a little despondently.
“Enrick was never very good at listening.”

 At that moment they were interrupted by a light tap on the
door and a servant entered. “My lord,” he said formally, “My lords Veldor and
Gorlind are here and wish to speak with you as a matter of urgency.”

 Vesarion stood up, clearly surprised. “Show them in.”

 It was Captain Seldro who escorted them in and remained in
attendance. The two men who entered, although dissimilar in appearance, both
wore lightly the cloak of authority, common to those accustomed to rule. Veldor
was a burly man in his sixties, broad of shoulder, deep of gut, his grey hair
cropped close to his head in military fashion – clearly a plain man of plain
tastes. In comparison, his companion was obviously of a very different cut. He
was a slim, suave man in his forties, clearly a little vain, for his cloak was
of green velvet embroidered with silver oak leaves - the symbol of Gorlind.
Both were armed and had evidently ridden hard, as their boots were splashed
with mud. As Veldor strode into the room, in the act of pulling off his
gauntlets, his eye fell on Vesarion and he halted abruptly.

 “So, it is true,” he said reflectively. “I would not give
it credence until I had seen it with my own eyes.”

 “We both received Sorne’s letter,” interjected Gorlind,
“but the contents were so incredible that I felt I had to hear it from your own
lips. Veldor and I met on the road by chance but it seems we are both on a
similar mission.”

 Veldor had by now noticed Sareth and Eimer and bowed
courteously. “I believe, Princess, that you are now Lady of Westrin.”

 “That is correct, my lord Veldor,” she replied formally,
for he was the most senior of the barons and not a man one would ever consider
being familiar with.

 “I see,” was the rather arid response, and she noted he did
not congratulate her. He took a folded letter from his pocket that bore the
seal of Sorne and handed it to Vesarion.

 “Read this,” he commanded curtly, “ and tell me if all that
it contains is true.”

 Resisting a twinge of irritation at the tone, Vesarion
looked enquiringly at Gorlind.

 “The letter I received is identical,” his lordship replied
in response to the look. “We have compared them.”

 Swiftly, Vesarion’s eyes began scanning the lines,
repressing a smile now and then as he encountered a flowery phrase that was
clearly Bethro’s. When he had finished, he handed the letter back to Veldor in
silence, aware that the older man could be difficult to handle.

 “The letter is brief but in its essentials, it is correct.
Prince Mordrian of Adamant is preparing an army to attack Eskendria and that
attack will come soon – although I do not know exactly when.”

 “You recovered the sword, then?” Gorlind asked.

 Vesarion tapped the hilt by his side. “Yes. It will be
sorely needed, if all I fear comes to pass.”

 “Is all this true about the demon making the black sword
that can cut through steel?” Gorlind asked, with just enough scepticism in his
tone to cause Eimer to intervene.

 “It is,” he confirmed. “I saw it myself. They are also
assembling an army of black warriors and we know not what manner of creatures
they might be, for we never saw their faces.”

 Veldor turned and fastened his attention on Iska. “I assume
this is the girl who helped you, a daughter of the House of Parth. How do we
know that she is to be trusted? The House of Parth was ever the breeding-ground
of traitors.”

 “Yes, it was,” replied Vesarion, forestalling Iska’s reply.
“But not in this case. Iska has proved her loyalty beyond doubt. Without her
help, we would be in ignorance of what is about to befall us. I should, perhaps,
make it plain,” he said pointedly, “that she has my protection, should she
stand in need of it.”

 Veldor raised his eyebrows haughtily at the tone. “I have
never liked you, Westrin,” he said bluntly. “I have always considered that you
have too much pride for so young a man. I hear that you even on occasion
denigrate your famous ancestor. I think, perhaps, you need to learn respect.”

 Instead of taking offence, Vesarion smiled ruefully. “There
may once have been truth in what you say, but no longer. I have learned many
things on my journey and have unlearned even more. You are the eldest of the
barons, the only one amongst us who still remembers Erren-dar. If, in the past,
if I have caused offence by my attitude, I ask your pardon.”

 For the first time, Veldor’s phlegmatic features registered
surprise. “Your experiences have indeed changed you. It takes a strong man to
do what you have just done. Do you know, for a brief moment, you looked the
very image of your grandfather.”

 Just to prove the point, Vesarion, who at one time might
have taken offence at such a comparison, merely laughed disarmingly.

 “A compliment indeed – although you should be careful not
to feed my conceit.”

 But Veldor stood contemplating him. Something clearly
growing in his mind, and slowly said: “With your marriage, you now stand behind
only Prince Eimer in your claim to the throne.”

 Not making the mistake of taking this at face value,
Vesarion promptly replied: “I am Baron of Westrin. I aspire to no more. To do
so would be treason – and I am no traitor.”

 Gorlind nodded approvingly. “We feel as you do, but there
are those amongst our ranks who would go further and they may be difficult to
control. We had to be sure that you were not trying for the throne before
offering you our support. I believe you leave for Addania tomorrow?”

 “I do. I must persuade the King of our need to unite
against a peril that could engulf us all.”

 “Make sure he publicly restores the barony to you,” advised
Veldor, showing that he was no fool. “I have treated with this new King and
find him…er…elusive.” He glanced a little warily at Eimer, who had no
compunction in amending his statement.

 “I think you mean slippery,” he supplied.

 “We both have our personal retinues with us,” Gorlind informed
them, “but we cannot start raising troops without the King’s fiat – although I
fear a few of the rasher spirits amongst us have already begun to do so.”

 “Make no mistake about it, Westrin,” the older baron said
grimly, “our new King will be tricky to handle. He must not be made to feel
under threat, or I anticipate that he will harden in his attitudes. The matter
must be handled with great insight and diplomacy.” He looked at Vesarion
significantly from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “You have a delicate task ahead
of you.”

 No one present disagreed with him.

Seldro, watching the encounter, knew better than either of
the barons that something had changed in his master. Although, because of the
difference in their positions he could not claim friendship with him, over the
years he had come to know him very well. Although not normally a person of deep
insight, with sudden clarity, Seldro saw that the man who had always seemed to
have something to prove, both to himself and others, was now at peace within
himself. He had always been fairly intimidating, but now he had become a much
greater man, wielding authority with unconscious ease. However, from what
Seldro had seen of the new King, Vesarion would need every grain of his considerable
abilities if he was to stand any chance of succeeding.

 A long line of mounted men snaked across the Plain of
Addania into the hazy distance of the warm summer’s day. A clear sky vaulted
over a land just now golden with fields of ripe grain, some already harvested
and standing in neat rows of stooks. The air was rich with the sweet smell of
newly mown hay, and the labourers in the fields ceased their work to lean on
their scythes and stare curiously at the long cavalcade passing them by. Yet
already a certain chill in the early morning air and the silver dew on the
grass, signalled the advance of a new season. The summer had grown old, melting
gently into the mellow embrace of a ripe autumn, reminding those who saw it
that time which was lost, would never come again.

 The path of the convoy was marked by a plume of white dust
kicked up by the hooves of the many horses, plainly visible to those on sentry
duty on the walls of Addania as the breeze carried it westwards towards the
mountains. The Captain of the palace guards leaned against the solid stone of
the battlements high above the plain and peered into the distance, eyes screwed
up against the bright sun. What he saw struck unease into his heart, for several
thousand armed men were descending upon the city. He could make out the blue
cloaks of the Ravenshold Brigands but behind them came many mounted men bearing
the standards of their barons. He could distinguish the green, swallow-tailed
pennant of Gorlind and the square, scarlet banner of Veldor, but there were others
as well. At the head of the advancing column, rode a tall, straight-backed man
who was too far away for the Captain to clearly identify, but there was little
doubt who it was. The King had predicted that his cousin would descend on the
capital, and it would seem that he did not err. What had not been expected was
that he would do so with so large a force. The Captain, troubled by all he saw,
pushed himself away from the wall and set about the unenviable task of breaking
the news to the King.

 What he did not know was that it had not been Vesarion’s
intention to approach Addania with a force so large that it bore something of the
appearance of an invading army, but circumstances had taken the matter out of
his hands.

 They were barely half a day from Ravenshold, when the other
barons had started, one by one, to arrive, insisting on joining him in an
attempt to place their grievances before the King. They each came with their
personal retinues, which varied in size from a mere ten men, as in the case of
my lord of Devren, to a force of hundreds brought by the wealthier barons. My
lord of Sorne had also appeared, as bluff and hearty as ever, with all his
flame-haired sons in tow - and a certain rotund librarian. Bethro was beaming
with delight, both at being re-united with his friends and the realisation that
it was his letter which had stirred up such a storm amongst the nobility.

 Although in one respect, Vesarion appreciated their
support, yet in another, he fervently wished they had stayed at home, for their
numbers had swelled to such proportions that Enrick could very easily read it
as evidence of insurrection. Veldor’s assessment of the new king was correct.
If threatened, he would become intransigent. To persuade him needed a delicate
balance of sufficient force to get him to listen, and a convincing argument
tempered by enough deference to sooth his ruffled pride. Veldor, being somewhat
direct by nature, had fared badly, for he had a tendency to adopt the tone of a
schoolmaster lecturing a wayward pupil. To a man of Enrick’s temperament, that
had not gone down well. Now Vesarion rode with Veldor and the other barons, unsure
what sort of reception they might expect.

 Sareth unexpectedly found her heart lifting at the sight of
the city of her birth. Although at one stage she had thought that she never
wished to see it again, her attachment to it ran deeper than she had been
aware. Riding with the barons as they drew near to the city, she looked up at
its massive defensive walls, springing directly from the encircling waters of
the river. On the pinnacle of every tower gallantly flew the sky-blue flag of
Eskendria, emblazoned in gold with the chalice flower. She could make out the
inner walls surrounding the palace on the crown of the hill and could even
distinguish the very tip of the old ivy tower rising above them. Memories of
childhood came flashing back to her unbidden. Her eyes rested on the elegant
bridge that spanned the river to the city gate; the very same bridge that Eimer
had fallen off when pursued by his irate brother. Even the spot where Terebar
had regularly ditched the terrible twins into the moat, had memories for her
and brought a smile to her face. However, her recollections of her elder
brother were more equivocal. By virtue of the age difference between them, they
had never been close. His thought processes were an enigma to someone of her
more open temperament. Often he could be irritable, sometimes cruel, but
occasionally he could be pleasant and amenable – and never had Sareth been able
to work out the reason for any of his moods. Of course, she conceded fairly,
she and Eimer had never lost an opportunity to vex him and had rather
unreasonably expected Vesarion to shield them from the consequences. Now, she
realised, that with the fate of not only Westrin but the entire kingdom at
stake, she, the King’s own sister, had no idea how he would react.

 However, the approaching convoy began to get a clue as to
his state of mind the moment they arrived  beneath the city walls. For the
mighty gateway, the only entrance to the city, was shut and barred against
them. It was the first time in over sixty years, since the last siege of the
city, that it had been so.

 The Captain of the palace guards had returned to the walls
and was standing high on the bastion by the gate, looking down at those
assembled below, uncomfortable with his orders but prepared, nonetheless, to
carry them out to the letter.

 Five riders detached themselves from the throng and rode to
the foot of the bridge. The Captain saw four faces he recognised looking up at
him – Prince Eimer, Princess Sareth, my Lord of Veldor and the reputedly
deceased, Lord of Westrin. They were escorted by a young squire bearing a flag
of parley.

 “My lords,” called the Captain down to them in a strong
voice, “the King commands that you lay down your weapons and surrender
yourselves to his justice. You will send your forces home and you, my lords
Veldor and Westrin, will enter the city unarmed and on foot, to explain
yourselves to your rightful sovereign. All this I command you in the name of
King Enrick.”