The Sword of Aradel

by Alexander Key

  “What invasion?” Brian asked. “Do you mean the peasant uprising?”

  Merra burst out hotly, “There was never a peasant uprising! They fought, but only against the invaders. The idea of an uprising was an evil lie spread by Albericus to hide the truth!”

  “Then—then what was the truth?” he asked.

  “The truth,” Nysa replied sadly, “is that Frederick, who just died, was formerly the count of Calabria, that little barony to the north. He not only broke his truce with Gratian, who was king, but broke the Truce of God and invaded Aradel on a Sunday. Albericus planned it, and it was Albericus himself who helped kill Gratian’s family and Cerid’s husband, Gerald. The worst of it was they entered Rondelaine Castle under the pretense of bringing gifts—and all they brought was death.”

  “But the sword!” Brian exclaimed. “The true sword—surely, if the king had it—”

  “Gratian wasn’t there. He was ill, and Benedict—whom you know as Brother Benedict at the abbey—had taken him down to the sea at Celadon for his health. Thank heaven Merra was with them, or she might have been slaughtered with the rest at Rondelaine.”

  “Nysa had divined that I’d die if I stayed at Rondelaine,” Merra said quickly.

  “So I did,” Nysa murmured. “I wish I could have done as much for the others, but all I could see was a great black cloud hanging over Aradel. I sent a warning to Gratian, but no one knew quite what to make of it. Anyway, one does not change the future by divining bits of it. What will be, will be. As it was, Merra only barely escaped death at Celadon.”

  “How was that?” Brian asked.

  “Well, her mother escaped the butchery at Rondelaine only because she was of the Dryads. When poor Cerid saw her husband and the others die, and realized that all was lost, she made herself invisible and escaped to the tower where she kept her records. Within minutes, by using a formula, she was at Celadon talking to Benedict and the king.”

  Nysa paused and shook her head. “It was terrible news to bring to a sick old man. The shock of it killed Gratian, but not before he had given her the sword, and ordered her to hide it where no man could find it.”

  “So that’s why she hid it in the future!” Brian said.

  “That, and the fact that she had just finished a formula that would take her there. I think the sword would have been just as safe if she’d hidden it here under the hill. But Cerid was in a state of shock herself, and at the moment I suppose all she wanted was to get as far away as possible.”

  “What happened to Merra at Celadon?” he asked.

  “I’m getting to that,” Nysa told him. “Before Cerid left to hide the sword—she had to leave from here, because this spot is used as a base for all calculations—she put the written formula in that little silver box for me to keep. When she returned three days later, she couldn’t wait to go on to Celadon and see Merra. But Celadon had been destroyed.”

  “Destroyed!” Brian echoed.

  “Yes. Within hours of Gratian’s death. And according to the peasants, every soul there killed—by men-at-arms Albericus had already sent there before taking Rondelaine.”

  “But you escaped,” he said to Merra.

  She nodded, biting her lip. “Uncle Benedict managed to get us away,” she said. “No one can touch him with a sword. We reached the forest, and hid. Then, since there was nowhere else to go at the time, we started for here. It took us days and days. That was five years ago, when I was too young to use a formula properly. Poor Mother, she thought I was dead …”

  “Cerid was heartbroken when she came back here,” Nysa added. “With Gratian and his entire family gone, she thought that was the end of Aradel. And without Gerald and Merra, she was through with life here. So it was only natural that she would want to follow her husband to the next world.”

  Brian watched a tear roll down Merra’s pale cheek. He had the curious feeling that she, without realizing it, had said something about her escape that was very important to him, but he could not think what it was.

  Finally he looked at Nysa, and asked, “Did Cerid say anything about the sword before she—before she left?”

  Nysa thought a moment. “Why, yes. She was so discouraged about Aradel, she said that since there was no one left who had a right to the sword, perhaps it would be better if it remained hidden forever.”

  Brian stared at her. Again he had the feeling that he had heard something of great importance. He sat down on a stool, trying to sift it out. But before the answer came he suddenly saw another truth.

  “It was Cerid who took the formula!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Can’t you see? She thought Aradel was lost, and that everyone was dead who might have saved it, even Brother Benedict. So—so she decided the formula had better be destroyed.”

  Nysa turned stricken eyes upon him. Slowly she nodded. “Of course! It had to be that way. Poor Cerid … she was so discouraged …”

  Merra put her hands over her face and sobbed. Finally she managed to whisper, “What—what are we going to do now?”

  Brian swallowed. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “But if that sword can be found, I’m going to find it. There must be a way.”

  For a while they were held in an unhappy silence. Finally Nysa murmured, “What we need is tea. Perhaps it will help us to think.”

  Brian watched as she crouched by the hearth and placed twigs and small faggots upon the dark coals of the old fire. The last spark seemed to be out and he wondered how she was going to make it burn. But she merely waved her slender hands over it, snapped her fingers once, and bright flame rose from the coals. Soon the kettle hanging from its crane was singing merrily, and she made tea from a collection of herbs kept in jars on a shelf.

  It was a spicy, thought-stirring drink, and Brian’s mind was working swiftly before he had finished half a cup.

  “I have an idea,” he said abruptly.

  “So have I,” said Merra. “But let us hear yours first, Sir Brian. Mine is complicated, and I—I’d rather not try it if yours is easier.”

  “Well, mine shouldn’t be too hard. Have you a formula that will take us to Rondelaine?”

  “Of course. We used it often in the past.”

  “What part of the castle will it carry us to?”

  “The highest part. The top of the little watch-tower that rises above the main tower.”

  “Is that the same tower where your mother kept her records?”

  “Why—why, yes! I see what your idea is. There are only two rooms in the tower, and hers was the upper one. It’s a tiny place, just big enough for a cabinet, a stool, and a little table where she did her calculations. She—she liked to work there because it was so hidden away that no one ever disturbed her.”

  “Have you been there since—since she—”

  Merra shook her head. “Not to the room. But I was in the tower only a few weeks ago to leave a message. I—I may as well tell you, Sir Brian—if you haven’t already guessed—we’ve been organizing the peasants so we’ll have an army to follow the sword. If we ever find it …”

  “We’ll find it. Now tell me: It’s been five years since your mother used the room. Do you think there’s a chance her notes and records will still be there?”

  “I don’t see why not. It’s an awfully big place, Rondelaine, and the little room is way up high where hardly anyone ever goes. There are so many stairs to climb that Mother always went there by formula from her apartment. Anyway, anyone who went into the room wouldn’t pay much attention to a pair of old account books full of figures and symbols.”

  Brian stood frowning, rubbing his bony knuckles against the hard line of his jaw. Because of a certain grimness in his face and his thick shock of unusually pale hair, he looked at that moment more like a young Viking marauder than a former stableboy. Suddenly he said, “What is the hour?”

  Nysa, who was just beginning to dim, closed her eyes for a second and replied, “The sun is halfway down the sky. You have four hours till darkness.”r />
  “Then there is time enough. Let us go to Rondelaine.” He looked at Merra. “How do we manage it?”

  “Wait!” said Nysa, all at once becoming sharply visible again. “It will be much safer if I go to Rondelaine instead of you two. They can see you. But I can go everywhere without anyone even suspecting …”

  “No, please,” Merra said quickly, shaking her head. “We’ll be safe enough. Besides, this is a good chance to show Sir Brian how we travel. He should know a little about it before we start for the sword.”

  “Oh, very well. I suppose you are right. But he should take his weapon, just to get used to carrying it, and it ought to be in a scabbard. Wait a minute.”

  Nysa hurried up the stairway, and returned presently with a very old and beautiful scabbard, intricately engraved, and with a band of great amethysts set in gold around the top.

  At the sight of it, Brian whistled softly. “That must have belonged to a king!”

  “It has belonged to many kings,” she told him. “For generations this scabbard has held the true sword of Aradel. Cerid was forced to leave it behind because she was too small to wear it. The scabbard and the sword together would have been too difficult for her to carry.”

  Reverently he buckled it about his waist, as high as he could, and found he was just tall enough to keep the golden tip from dragging on the floor. The new sword fitted into it easily.

  “The scabbard has a power of its own,” Nysa went on. “It comes from the jewels. Draw the sword, and you will see what I mean.”

  Brian’s hand went to the hilt. The moment his fingers touched it, the sword, in spite of its length and weight, seemed to leap from the scabbard as if propelled by a spring. He was even more astounded when he raised it, for it had entirely lost its feeling of heaviness.

  “Have no fear of it,” Nysa said. “The lighter it seems to the hand, the harder the blade will strike.” She turned to Merra. “Take him into the hill and show him how we travel by formula. And do be watchful!”

  Merra called to Tancred, and with the nightingale on her shoulder she led the way into the curving passage beyond the little alcove. It soon widened into a broad cavelike room with a smooth stone floor. The floor was covered with large circles drawn with chalk. These were more than an arrow’s length across, and each was filled with a design made of different geometric figures. Numbers and symbols filled the spaces between the circle and the enclosed design.

  “These are departure points,” said Merra, indicating the circles. “Each one will take you to a different place. From here you can go to the abbey, the village, Celadon, and any of the main towns and castles of Aradel.” She pointed to a circle enclosing a hexagon. “If we stand in the center of that one, and repeat the right formula, it will take us to another circle in the top of the little tower at Rondelaine.”

  “How do we get back?”

  “We’ll stand in the circle in the tower, I’ll say the formula in reverse, and we’ll land in the larger circle over yonder.”

  “I see.” He frowned at the large circle, then stared at a much bigger one in the corner beyond it. It was the largest of all, containing circles within circles, and an intricate design of triangles in the center. “What’s that big one for?”

  Merra bit her lip, and said almost in a whisper, “It is the one we will use when we leave to find the true sword.”

  At the thought, a little shiver of uneasiness went up his spine. He was still wondering what trials the fates had in store for them when she drew him into the circle with the hexagon. He was ordered to stand back to back with her and and clasp her hands tightly.

  “Don’t dare let go,” she cautioned. “It could break the power that holds us, and only heaven knows what would happen then. Now, ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Then close your eyes and don’t open them till I tell you to.”

  Dutifully he closed his eyes, and she began a curious chant that started with numbers and finished with a rhyme:

  “By all my right, and power bright,

  Transport us to that highest height

  Where Cerid fled when all were slain,

  That dreadful day at Rondelaine.”

  At the final word he felt a sudden giddiness, as if he were whirling and flying apart, then abruptly he seemed to come down hard on his heels. Instinctively he opened his eyes. It was several seconds before she told him he could do so, and he was in time to glimpse the inside of their landing place as if it were made of things transparent and not fully formed. Then he heard Merra’s voice, and the heavy masonry solidified and he saw they were in the center of a small covered tower. The thick wall was slitted all around for the convenience of archers. Directly in front of him a narrow stairway twisted downward.

  Brian had had a secret fear that the tower would be occupied when they arrived. It was, but only by dozens of nesting sparrows that flew off in sudden alarm, chirping loudly. The sparrows worried him.

  He said to Merra, “Anyone seeing those birds will wonder what’s going on up here. We’d better get busy.”

  She nodded and sent Tancred down the winding stairs to keep watch. But in spite of the need for haste, she could not resist a glance through one of the long arrow slits at the sprawling majesty of Rondelaine.

  “Oh, it was so wonderful here once,” she said softly. “Everyone was happy, even the poorest peasant. There were parties out on the terrace above the courtyard, and we used to watch the archery contests and the peasant dances below. In the evenings there would be the minstrels to play and sing, and troubadours from Lombardy and Aquitaine to recite their poetry and bring us news of the world …”

  Her voice faded, and he was all at once aware of the dismal tolling of the chapel bell. It reminded him that a tyrant was dead, and that thousands of lives would depend upon the finding of Cerid’s formula.

  He started to draw her to the stairway, but suddenly she seized his arm and pointed.

  “Look! Look!” she whispered tensely. “Coming into the courtyard!”

  He peered over her head and across another tower at the great arched and battlemented entrance in the outer wall. The drawbridge had been lowered over the moat, and moving slowly into view on weary horses were a dozen men-at-arms and their attendants. In their midst was a motionless figure on a stretcher.

  “That can’t be Albericus returning,” he muttered. “He couldn’t possibly get here before dark. But I’m sure those are some of the men he had with him at the abbey this morning.”

  “And who is that wounded one they are escorting, Sir Brian?”

  “How should I know? Anyhow, I can’t make out his face from here.”

  The hint of a giggle came from her. “Do you really have to, Sir Brian?”

  “Huh? You—you don’t mean that’s Rupert! Why, I didn’t—”

  “But you did, noble sir. You really clouted the wretch. I talked with Uncle Benedict earlier, and he said you’d given the upstart such a blow that his head is broken, which will probably keep him addled for life. And a good thing, I say. Now let us to Cerid’s room.”

  He followed her down the narrow stairway to the first landing. In front of the small, blackened door she hesitated, lip caught between her teeth, then gave it a trial push. The door swung inward at an angle, held by a single hinge.

  With the sudden movement a large flock of nesting birds flew up, making a great racket, and streamed out of the window from which a shutter had burned. The room was a blackened mess. Everything in it that was burnable had been piled together on the stone floor and set afire. Bird nests, feathers, and bits of straw covered most of the wreckage.

  For a moment Merra stood stricken, then with a little cry she darted to the burned pile and began pawing through it frantically. She stopped abruptly and drew forth a tooled and gilded corner of burned leather that had once been the cover of a fine book.

  “Oh, no!” she gasped.

  “What is it?” Brian asked.

  “Cerid’s Bible. It—it
was specially done for her by Brother Meritus, who used to be the scribe at St. Martin’s. It took him five years to copy it and make the illuminations. Oh, it was such a beautiful book! And—and she more than treasured it because it was a gift from Alain and Andrea, her best friends.”

  “Who were Alain and Andrea?”

  She turned and looked at him strangely a moment, tears streaming down her face. “Alain was Gratian’s son. He—he was the prince of Aradel. Andrea was his princess.” Then in a broken whisper she added, “And Albericus killed them—and my father, too!”

  All at once she jumped up, her face contorted, and screamed, “That rotten beast! That animal! I’ll claw his eyes out! I’ll bind him to that post by the bridge and burn him and burn him and burn him!”

  He did not know what post she meant till he raised his eyes and looked out of the window. It gave him a view of part of the drawbridge across the moat, and of a great iron post set in the ground just beyond it. All about the post were the heaped bones of the gaunt monk’s victims. His hands clenched, and a terrible rage mounted in him.

  “I’ll settle with Albericus,” he ground out. “Sword or no sword, I’ll settle with him.”

  A sudden flutter of wings and a bird’s quick cry made him turn. Only now did he become aware that a frantic Tancred must have been trying to gain their attention, and had been forced to fly all the way up from below.

  “Oh, Tancred,” Merra whispered. “I—I’ve been so upset I didn’t hear you. What—”

  Brian silenced her with a warning finger, and swung to the doorway. He could make out the soft scrape of stealthy footsteps mounting the stairs.

  5

  A Spell Is Cast

  IT WAS TOO LATE TO RUN AND ATTEMPT TO reach the upper part of the tower without being seen. Nor was it possible to fasten and secure the fire-wrecked door. Their only chance, Brian reasoned, was to put up a big pretense and act as if they had every right to be here.

  He stepped boldly out on the landing, hands on hips, and looked arrogantly down at the man on the stairway. After his years at St. Martin’s, the ways of the high and mighty were not hard to imitate.