The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (9 page)

 The old woman smiled. “I’m sorry, my dear, but this is
important. Whatever the reasons on both sides for this betrothal, they are not
the right ones. You and Vesarion will never get to know one another making
polite and very stilted conversation in the restrictive atmosphere of this
palace. Go with him to Sorne! Have an adventure! I know your heart longs for
it!”

 Sareth laughed. “An adventure? Grandmother, it’s only Sorne!
I have been there many times before.”

 “Ah, but as I said, the veil grows thin and just perhaps at
the end, I am allowed to see things that others do not.” Her gaze grew distant.
“These days I hear my dear Andarion calling to me more clearly than ever. I
hear his voice as if he were in the next room. I see his face constantly in my
mind, looking exactly the way he did all those years ago when we first met in
Kerrian-tohr. I feel him draw me to him.”

 “Do not say that!” cried Sareth. “This is not the end. Do
not leave me, grandmother, you are all I have!”

 The Queen’s  gaze returned to the young woman kneeling
beside her, looking up at her so earnestly. “I know your family has failed you,
Sareth. The fact that you say so readily that I am all you have, tells its own
story. Your betrothal should mean that your mind should go first of all to Vesarion
when you are in trouble, but it does not. That is why I say to you to go with
him to Sorne, my dear – and do not take no for an answer. He will try to
dissuade you, you know. All I can tell you for certain is that I feel most
strongly that if you don’t go, all hope is lost for the two of you. Now,
quickly, Sareth, you must get ready.”

 The white road to Sorne stretched into the distance,
striped by long, purple shadows cast by the late afternoon sunshine. A party of
ten riders, led by a tall man on a glossy chestnut mount, was travelling the
road at an easy canter. He was followed by six Ravenshold Brigands, including the
ubiquitous Captain Seldro, in neat military formation, the evening light gleaming
on their spotless helmets and chainmail. Trailing a little behind them was a
young man and woman, enough alike to be identified as brother and sister, who
rode close together, their heads inclined towards one another in conversation.
Last of all came the unmistakable form of Bethro, bumping along uncomfortably
with all the grace of a sack of onions, clearly wishing he was somewhere else –
a sentiment shared by his horse.

 He was not alone in that wish. Vesarion, leading the
ill-assorted group, bore the look of a man whose commands have, for the first
time in his life, been disregarded, and who has no intention of getting used to
the experience. Bethro was the first to irritate him by foisting his unwelcome
presence upon him, claiming with aggravating persistence that he felt
responsible for the loss of the sword and must therefore, much against his
naturally indolent nature, inflict himself upon the pursuit party. Not all Vesarion’s
reasonable objections had the least affect on him. He announced, with a
stubbornness that infuriated the younger man, that if he wasn’t allowed to
accompany them, he just would follow them anyway, and probably get lost and die
of hunger and cold, and it would all be Vesarion’s fault.

 Then there had been the matter of a public display of
intransigence from his betrothed that had left him seriously wondering about
the wisdom of embarking on the matrimonial state.

 Sareth had turned up at the old tower in a pair of riding
breeches and a leather jerkin, astride a fresh-looking gelding, announcing that
she would come too.

 Vesarion’s temper, somewhat abraded by his confrontation
with Bethro, ignited. He announced in icy tones, that to those who knew him
well indicated annoyance of no mean order, that she should get off her horse,
return to the palace and dress according to her rank as princess.

 It had never occurred to him that she would defy him, much
less that she would do so publicly in front of an interested audience of
Ravenshold Brigands, all staring stonily ahead, pretending that they were not
listening.

 She informed him, in penetrating tones that could have been
heard as far away as the Harnor, that if he wanted abject obedience, he should
buy himself a dog. This was rather too much for Eimer, who choked and dissolved
into laughter. Acutely aware that the soldiers were within earshot, Vesarion
had cast a fulminating glance at his audience just a little too quickly for
them to wipe the grins off their faces.

 Public embarrassment was an entirely new experience for the
Lord of Westrin and one he found himself ill-equipped to deal with. When Sareth
declared that her presence was as a result of Queen Triana’s orders, he
snatched at this straw as a means of escaping from what had all the makings of
becoming a juicy piece of gossip.

 That was several hours ago and now he rode along in silence
a little ahead of the group, not at all mollified by the fact, that carthorse
or not, their fugitive had managed to keep ahead of them.

 There were aspects to the situation which troubled him. In
the rush to set off in pursuit, there had been little time for thought, but
during the course of the ride his mind had begun to revisit that morning’s
events. No matter how many times he surveyed the information they had about the
theft of the sword, Vesarion could not rid himself of the feeling that it all
did not make sense. Nothing seemed to fit together as it should. Who was this
boy? Who had sent him? And why send a mere youth to steal so important an
object? Moreover, they had not established exactly when the sword had been
stolen. Bethro’s negligence meant that it could have been months ago. It also
occurred to him that it was a little too convenient that Enrick had wished him
to go to Sorne and now he appeared to be heading precisely there, and at great
speed. Enrick was nothing if not a manipulator, and the uneasy thought that
perhaps the Crown Prince knew a good deal more about the disappearance of the
sword than he was revealing, had already crossed his mind. But he had no evidence
of any of this. It was mere supposition, and in the meantime what evidence he
did have, seemed to point to the boy as having some involvement in the matter.
After all, if he was innocent, why the dramatic bid to escape?

 These rather circular musings were interrupted when he
reached a fork in the road, where he  was forced to draw rein and wait for the
others to catch up.

 Captain Seldro was not a bad tracker but he valued Eimer’s
opinion more. For all his dissolute ways, the young prince was a keen huntsman
and had unerringly maintained them on the trail of their quarry.

 Vesarion studied the ground but could see nothing. Straightening
up, he surveyed the countryside around him. The main road, the most direct
route to Sorne, continued ahead of them, curving gently around the rounded,
grassy hills that characterised the region, each one  now haloed with gold as
the sinking spring sun declined. The other fork led slightly westwards. It, too,
went to Sorne but by a slightly more circuitous route towards the forest of
Ninn, just visible as a dark presence in the distance. Their late start meant
that whichever way they went, they would not reach the village of Elig,
normally the halfway stopping place on a journey between the capital and Lord
Pevorion’s castle of Forestfleet. It meant an uncomfortable night on the open
road and he experienced a twinge of satisfaction at the thought. That would
teach Bethro and Sareth that it was unwise to disregard him.

 When Eimer arrived at the fork, he did not have to ask why
they had halted. He dismounted and bent towards the ground. The road itself was
packed hard with the limestone dust that gave it its distinctive white
appearance. For the first time, Eimer showed hesitation and began to quest over
the ground without offering an opinion. Puzzled, he left the road and began to
examine the verge alongside the main route, his verdict awaited by the entire
party. Apparently finding nothing, he re-traced his steps and tried the road
towards the forest.

 “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Hoof prints of that size are not
easily mistaken. Moreover, one of them has a nick out of the shoe – quite
distinctive.”

 He crossed to Vesarion and looked up at him, squinting against
the low sun.

 “He has headed westwards towards the forest. It’s hard to
be certain, but I think we’re  catching up with him.”

 “My lord of Westrin?” Bethro called. “Where do we stop for
the night?”

 “We don’t,” replied Vesarion, conscious of taking a certain
unworthy satisfaction in the words. “There is a moon tonight, so we continue to
travel.”

 He glanced at Sareth to see how she was taking this, but
she said nothing. They had not exchanged a single word since leaving Addania.

 But Eimer was still a little perplexed and returned to the
hoof prints, staring at them as if willing them to give him answers.

 Finally, he said quietly: “This doesn’t make sense,
Vesarion. If the boy is from the Isles of Kelendore, he should be making for
the coast instead of going further inland. I mean, once he gets to Sorne, what
then? The barony is bounded to the north by the River Harnor and beyond that
there is only the Forsaken Lands.”

 “Maybe that is where he is heading. Perhaps he thinks it
will be easier to shake off pursuit in such wild and uncharted territory,”
Vesarion suggested.

 “You could be right, but he takes a risk going into those
regions. Little more is known about them now than was known before the war. A
few hardy pioneers have established two or three small villages just across the
river at the edge of the Great Forest, but none have ventured beyond sight of
the Harnor.”

 Sareth eased her horse alongside, anxious to get away from
Bethro’s inanities. “Why the delay?” she asked Eimer. “Have you lost the
trail?”

 It was Vesarion who answered. “No. Apparently our fugitive
is heading for the forest of Ninn.”

 “Ah!” exclaimed Sareth in the manner of someone to whom the
information conveyed meaning. “Perhaps this is the time to mention that on the
last occasion I was staying with Lord Pevorion, he advised me to avoid Ninn, as
a band of cut-throats had been operating there – but that was six months ago.
Maybe he has dealt with them by now.”

 Vesarion appeared undaunted. “If they’re still at large,
they will be looking for easy pickings. They won’t want to tackle a party of
armed soldiers.”

 While he was speaking, Sareth’s attention had been diverted
to the sky to the north. “It looks like the weather is turning,” she observed.
“I assume that you will not want to stop to find shelter, so it seems that we
are in for a soaking.”

 The words ‘
well, you did want to come
’  were on the
tip of his tongue but he bit them back.

 It fell to Eimer to lighten the atmosphere. “Indeed,” he
agreed brightly. “Soon the only thing dry about us will be our wit.”

 Vesarion laughed, never proof against the young prince.

 Sareth’s prediction unfortunately proved right. Heavy
clouds rolled in, blotting out the sun just as it was giving up its struggle to
stay above the horizon. They extinguished whatever light might have lingered in
the sky and frustrated Vesarion’s desire to make use of the moonlight by spreading
a dense blanket across the heavens. Soon the only thing that could clearly be
distinguished in the gloom was the white road, faintly luminous, curving
towards the dense mass of the forest ahead of them.

 When they reached the wood, Eimer sought out Vesarion in
the darkness and grasped his arm.

 “This is madness, my friend. I understand the need for
urgency but we can’t even see each other in this darkness, never mind a trail.
We could pass within a stone’s throw of our quarry and never see him – and
matters are only going to get worse once we are amongst the trees. We must stop
until dawn.”

 “You’re right,” Vesarion conceded regretfully. “I had hoped
to be able to catch up with him tonight, but now he will be further ahead than
ever and we may very well lose his trail.”

 “Perhaps not,” said Sareth. “I suspect he might have been
forced to stop as well.” She held out her hand, palm upwards. “And just to
prove that problems never come singly, I believe the rain has arrived.”

 And rain it did. The clouds, as if weary of their burden,
shed water in unrelenting torrents. The party went a short distance into the
wood in search of shelter but there was little to be found. The ash trees,
always the last to produce their leaves, still bore the immaturity of spring
and offered them little respite. They dismounted and huddled miserably under
their cloaks, stoically enduring the discomfort. Sareth, crouching with her
back to a tree, breathed in the delightfully musky smell of damp leaf-mould and
listened to the oddly quiet sound of heavy rain. She heard the pattering of
water from the trees and the rather musical pinging sound as droplets struck
the metal breastplates and helmets of the soldiers. And despite the discomfort
of being cold and wet-through, what Sareth breathed in was freedom. Only now
did she realise how trapped and confined she had felt in Addania and inwardly
she blessed Triana for sending her on this mission – no matter what the
outcome.

 As the night wore on and the rain eased a little, most of
the pursuit party, inured to rough travelling, managed to doze against their selected
tree trunks. Even the horses, steaming gently in the cold air, hung their heads
sleepily. Only Bethro could not sleep. He was tired, cold, wet and hungry –
four unpleasant conditions that he had managed to avoid for most of his life.
If he crouched by a tree, like the others were doing, he got cramp and water
ran down the back of his neck, so he restlessly paced about, occasionally
tripping over an irritated sleeper.

 But it was Bethro’s inability to endure discomfort that
saved the entire expedition. For not only was he awake, but he was uneasy. That
same feeling of being observed that he experienced every time he descended into
the depths of the old tower, had reappeared. Twice he thought he heard a
footstep amongst the trees. Twice he turned sharply, his eyes probing the
darkness, his breathing held in abeyance, but he could see nothing. Logic told
him that it was his imagination playing tricks. After all, in all the years he
had experienced this feeling in the tower, nothing bad had ever happened. But
logic was proving an ineffectual weapon and the feeling persisted.

 Finally, just as the rain ceased, Bethro heard something
that he knew he did not imagine – the distinctive scrape of a sword being drawn
from a scabbard.

 He let out a yelp of alarm. “Wake up! Wake up! We are being
attacked!”

 The Ravenshold Brigands proved the worth of their training,
for in a instant they were all on their feet, weapons drawn.

 But nothing happened. The night was inky black and silent.

 Vesarion strode forward, sword in hand. “What are you
about, Bethro?” He demanded angrily. “Did you have a nightmare?”

 “No!” exclaimed the librarian, revolted by the suggestion.
“I wasn’t asleep. I heard a sound. I think it was……”

 He got no further because out of the darkness came the
unmistakable whistle and thud of a crossbow bolt finding it mark. One of the
soldiers gave a sharp cry of pain.

 “Is he hit?” Vesarion asked of the darkness.

 Captain Seldro’s voice replied. “Yes,” he growled. “They
were lucky to hit anything in this darkness.”