The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  She noticed, for the first time, that the mocking sneer had gone. He looked a little tired. “Eskendria would not have fallen. In truth your Prince was in no danger. You are not the only one who can deceive. You are not the only one to attempt to present a lie as the truth. The only difference is that I am more successful than you.”

  Suddenly her mind made an intuitive leap. “You were bluffing. You hadn’t enough men to hold all the passes. If the Prince had attacked you, he could have broken through.”

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “The Prince showed his inexperience in military command. He should have sent scouts to check the information he was given. He has yet to learn that all may not be as it appears.”

  But her eyes were not focused on him, they were looking at some inward place in which he had no part, and she remarked, almost to herself: “He went through such agony. Such heartbreak. All because he is an honest man unused to dealing with deceit. Would to God I could have spared him that.”

  She looked up in time to see an unpleasant smile cross Celedorn’s face. “So,” he observed softly, “we have the answer to the riddle. Allow me to compliment you. You certainly aim high. You were willing to sacrifice yourself because you actually had the temerity to fall in love with the heir to the throne of Eskendria. It would be pathetic if it were not so entertaining.”

  With keen perception he saw that he had hurt her. To avoid looking at him, she reached for the decanter without asking his permission and refilled her glass. He made no comment, intrigued to see what happened next. With courage fortified by the wine she had consumed, she lifted her glass in a mocking salute. “Permit me to compliment you. You have made cruelty a fine art.”

  She thought he looked a little stung but it might just have been the effect of the wine. Everything was getting a little hazy, a little remote. “For your information,” she continued. “I did not aim that high. I was always aware of the differences between us. I will never forget that he is a prince and I am a nobody, without even a past to call my own.”

  “You have had too much wine,” he remarked.

  “I have never been drunk in my life,” she declared virtuously, then ruined the effect by adding, “That is, what I can remember of it. If only I could remember more. It has been months now and nothing has come. I have discovered things about myself, like my ability to read the old language, but I cannot remember being taught it. Did my father teach me? Do I have a brother or sister? Do I really come from the Land of Marshes as Relisar suspects? I would give anything to remember.”

  But with one of those quick mood changes which she found disconcerting, his cynical gaze had gone and he was staring thoughtfully into his wine, watching the firelight glimmer blood- red in its depths.

  “It’s strange,” he remarked, without taking his eyes off his glass. “you would give anything to remember your past and I would give anything to forget mine.”

  It was the first human thing he had said. The first thing inconsistent with his image of ruthless cruelty. Yet there were other things which did not quite fit the pattern. His voice was well educated, even cultured. He knew the Book of Light and was clearly acquainted with the old language. Moreover, he was more perceptive that she would have predicted. She supposed intelligence must not be inconsistent with cruelty.

  He proceeded to demonstrate the point. “So, the Prince and his army have gone. They have decided in all probability that teaching me a lesson is too expensive an exercise for the present, but that leaves me with you. With the Princess in my control I could have named my price, but with you, well, I doubt anyone would pay so much as a groat to get you back. Relisar’s mistake! What an embarrassment! They are probably glad to be rid of you. But what shall I do with you? As you rightly pointed out, I do not relish having been made a fool of. You seem intent on making a sacrifice of yourself, and I have no intention of depriving you of the satisfaction. The problem is that the choice is endless.” He appeared to consider the matter. “I could give you to my men. There are few women up here and they no doubt would make the most of the opportunity. Then again, there are several inventive and unpleasant ways to die, most of them long drawn out affairs..... ”

  “.......that is unworthy of you” she interrupted. “You’re trying to frighten me and that is the mark of a bully - but you are not a bully.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because bullies are cowards and whatever your reputation, you are no coward.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “I know I have angered you. I know also that you will do to me whatever you deem expedient, and there is nothing I can do to stop you. But if it gives you any satisfaction, let me tell you that I am already so afraid, that nothing you can say will make my fear any worse. If you want to kill me, just do it. Just lift that carving knife and slit my throat.”

  “Do you think I won’t?”

  “I think you are capable of anything.”

  Suddenly, to her amazement, a hint of amusement crossed his face. “You keep telling me you are afraid, but you don’t look afraid. Moreover, you have said things to me that few people would have dared to say.”

  She smiled wryly in response. “That’s just the wine talking.”

  “Perhaps, but I think that is not entirely the answer. Perhaps you think that if you build up some kind of rapport with me, I will not be able to kill you.”

  She looked a little disconcerted, because that was exactly what had been in her mind.

  “You are not what I expected,” she conceded. “But that is both good and bad. You are not the unthinking brute I was led to expect, but on the other hand your intelligence makes you difficult to deal with.”

  Although his expression did not alter, once again she had the impression that he was secretly amused.

  “Are you always so frank?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. It has got me into a great deal of trouble at times.”

  “Does your Prince not admire the quality?”

  “He’s not my Prince, and yes, he admires honesty, it’s just that my honesty can stray into the regions of tactlessness on occasion.”

  “I can well believe it,” he murmured.

  She leaned across the table towards him, unconsciously stretching out her hand in a gesture of supplication.

  “Why don’t you just let me go? I’m of no value to you. You can’t use me to bargain with. Why not just let me go?”

  But as she looked at him, she knew the wine had betrayed her. She knew that she had made a mistake.

  “Your Prince may not return your regard, but he is a man with a conscience and that is a weakness which can be exploited. I imagine his conscience is giving him a great deal of trouble at the moment and he may be prepared to bargain something to put it to rest. Then there is the not insignificant matter of the fact that you have made a fool of me before my men. I do not rule a kingdom where position and respect are inherited, a mere accident of birth. I hold this place with two things - strength and fear. If my men do not fear me they will not obey me. One of them may even challenge me for the leadership. Now, we can’t have them thinking I’m getting weak, allowing someone who has betrayed me to go unpunished. Your fate will depend on whether I think you are of more value to me dead or alive.”

  His speech, however, did not have quite the intended effect. She had been sitting with her head hanging, and when he finished speaking, she quietly, rather gracefully, slumped forward onto the table.

  He observed her for a moment before remarking: “You are about to add to your meagre store of experiences, for you are going to have one monumental headache in the morning.”

  Chapter Six

  An Unexpected Friend

  As Celedorn had predicted, Elorin awoke the following morning with a thundering headache. Cautiously she sat up, holding both sides of her head with her hands, as if sudden movement might cause it to fall off. Her recollections of the night before were a little hazy. Parts of her conversation were cle
ar, others might have been something she had dreamed. She had a vague notion that she had said some things that in the cold light of day would have been better left unsaid. But here she was, back in her prison, still in one piece - except for her headache.

  When she tried to get up she made another discovery - she was lying on a rather lumpy mattress instead of the bare boards and someone had put a blanket over her. She stared at the blanket. She had no recollection of going up to her room and assumed that one of the guards must have carried her. She wondered if the blanket was part of his orders but guessed that it probably was not. She rose a little unsteadily and went into the bathroom. The mirror informed her that her looks had not improved. The swelling had gone down in her cheek but it was now several interesting shades of purple.

  “You certainly wouldn’t pass for a princess today,” she informed her reflection. “Indeed, your behaviour last night was not exactly dignified.” She sighed. “Too much fear, not enough food or sleep and too much wine. An appalling combination, but not exactly an excuse.”

  She leaned on the basin, wondering if it was worth trying to wrestle with the tap again. Her head hung forward and through the pain of her headache she was conscious of a dense fog of depression beginning to settle on her. At that moment she heard the sound of a key turning in the outer door. She stepped swiftly back into the room and stood with her back against the wall, facing the gradually opening door with trepidation.

  But a rather unexpected sight met her eyes. In the doorway stood a burly figure so rotund as to be almost completely circular. He was dressed, unlike the others she had seen, in a homely brown tunic that might have belonged to a farmer. It was held at the waist by a belt that struggled to meet around his ample middle. He was older, too, than the others. His bald pate was fringed by grey hair and his brown eyes twinkled merrily out of the folds of flesh. Even more interesting, he carried a tray set with several covered dishes.

  “You are Elorin?” he beamed, making it more of a statement than a question. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Dorgan - a civilised being, I might add, without sacrificing modesty - or at least, what passes for civilised in these environs.”

  Elorin gaped at him, completely nonplussed by the appearance of someone within the grim fortress who did not exude evil and death. His cheerful homeliness was incongruous in the extreme. He looked as if he should be in a marketplace selling apples or sitting in the sun on a bench outside some country tavern drinking cider.

  Undaunted by her lack of response, Dorgan said: “I’ve brought you some breakfast. I heard those barbarians brought you nothing to eat yesterday. I also heard that you.....er.....over-indulged with the decanter last night. Sore head this morning?” he enquired sympathetically, but before she could answer he continued: “Never mind, it will soon pass once you get some proper food in you.” He began lifting the covers off the dishes. “And just look what those black-hearted scoundrels have done to your poor face. Hydar, I would guess? He has red hair, you know, and a temper to match.”

  She finally found her voice. “No, it wasn’t Hydar, it was Celedorn.”

  “Ah, well,” he excused, “he was mightily provoked. Indeed, the men can’t understand why he hasn’t ........well, never mind all that, my foolish old tongue sometimes runs away with me. Here, come and eat. Nothing ever looks bright on an empty stomach.”

  He held out a plate of fresh bread and slices of ham. “Just go ahead, don’t mind me.” He settled himself on the end of the bed, as if he proposed to become a permanent fixture, and watched her as she ate.

  “I’ll stay and talk to you for a while, if you like. I miss a bit of conversation that doesn’t involve words such as ‘pillage’ and ‘slaughter’.” He winked at her, his little eyes dancing mischievously. “It gets a bit monotonous, if you know what I mean.”

  She couldn’t resist smiling back. “Was it you who put the blanket over me last night?”

  “Yes, indeed,” he admitted. “You didn’t think that it was one of those uncouth fellows?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “How do you come to be here, Dorgan, amongst all these......er......uncouth fellows?”

  “Ah, my dear, that is a long story full of the vagaries of fate. Perhaps some day I will tell you when you have several hours to spare. A rushed story is never a good one and I don’t believe in précis when it comes to matters of importance.”

  The rebuff was so pleasantly done, that she accepted with equanimity that he was telling her to mind her own business.

  When he saw she had finished, he said: “Now, what shall we do for the rest of the day? How about a tour of this impressive pile? But before you get too excited at the prospect, I should tell you that I haven’t asked Celedorn’s permission yet. I have only lived to a ripe old age because I am always most circumspect when it comes to asking his permission. I’ll go and find him and attempt to use my limited powers of persuasion.”

  He lifted the tray and whisked himself out of the room most nimbly for a man of his bulk. However, she noticed, with some chagrin, that he turned the key in the lock behind him. He was so long in returning, that she gave up pacing the dusty floorboards and took to staring out of the window at the deserted courtyard below, convinced that he had forgotten about her. However, he proved true to his word and arrived back, picking up where they had left off as if he had only been away for a moment.

  “All is well. Permission has been granted. Actually, Celedorn’s response was that I could do what I liked with you - provided I didn’t lose you.”

  He held the door open for her and seeing her hesitate, added: “Come, don’t look so anxious. I’m really perfectly harmless. Indeed, I’m the only person you could say that of within these walls.”

  “I could believe that. I did, after all, spend an evening with Celedorn.”

  He studied her reflectively. “The personification of evil, in fact?”

  “Well.......” she hesitated, unsure of him.

  “A little more complex than you thought.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, relieved to find common ground.

  “Nevertheless, it is dangerous to relax with him. Your uninhibited conversation might have entertained him last night but it is a dangerous game to play. The only thing one can predict about Celedorn with any certainty, is that he is always unpredictable.”

  She stared at him, alarmed.

  “Oh dear, I have brought back that anxious expression that I was so set on banishing. Now, come with me downstairs and we will begin in the main hall.”

  As Dorgan guided her around, she soon discovered that he had an almost inexhaustible flow of pleasant but inane conversation. However, there appeared to be certain subjects upon which he was reluctant to be drawn. He was strangely loyal to Celedorn, often attempting to excuse the inexcusable but would give little information about him. In reply to some probing question, he would invariably reply that if Celedorn wanted her to know, no doubt he would tell her himself.

  After trailing round many long, gloomy corridors and inspecting empty rooms where the dust lay as thick as grey flour, the highlight of the tour for Elorin was the kitchen. It was reached by a narrow flight of steps leading down from the great hall. Another door accessed the kitchen from the courtyard. It was by far the most cheerful, and somehow human, room she had yet seen. The empty halls she had seen earlier were beginning to make her feel the castle had only brigands and ghosts to offer. But here was a room as cheerful as her companion.

  He held open the door for her. “This is my domain. Do you like it?”

  A huge fire glowed in the hearth, reflecting its flickering light off rows of gleaming copper saucepans, glass jars full of bottled fruits and herbs and a huge scrubbed table, neatly stacked with dinner plates. Herbs hung in aromatic bunches from the ceiling and strings of onions cascaded lumpily from hooks on the wall.

  Elorin’s face lit with enthusiasm. “Dorgan this is wonderful - it’s just so unexpected. How I should love to have a kitchen like this?”r />
  “You like cooking?”

  But the smile faded as swiftly as it had appeared. “I....I don’t know. I can’t remember doing any cooking but....but I have a sort of feeling that I once liked it. During the last few months this has happened sometimes. When I’m not really trying to remember, a shadow of something comes to me. For instance, one day in Addania, I just sat down without thinking and played chess with Relisar. How did I know how to play? Who taught me? I couldn’t remember and the more I tried the less certain I became, but the fact remains that somehow I knew how to play.”

  He was watching her understandingly, all his usual mischief missing from his eyes and at that moment she knew they would be friends for whatever duration Celedorn decreed her existence would continue.

  “Come,” he said, lifting a cloth cover off a bowl, “the dough has rested and now we must shape the loaves.”

  The dark and dreary day outside passed unnoticed. The snow, which had shown an inclination to turn to slush, froze again, setting footprints as hard as stone. Icicles that had been weeping miserably from the eaves, suddenly froze solid, forming a brittle, uneven fringe. Secretively, it began to snow again, tiny flakes here and there, almost invisible, that soon increased to a silent, feathery blanket. Elorin looked up from her task and glanced out of the tiny window.

  “When I was a child, I used to pretend that the clouds were huge feather quilts which had burst apart and were shedding their contents on the world below.”

  Dorgan smiled significantly at her. She smiled back but also shook her head. “It’s no use, Dorgan, if I try to grasp it, it will disappear.”

  Instead, she told him much of her life in Addania and found him a surprisingly good listener - for someone who talked so much. The bread baked in the oven, filling the kitchen with its warm scent. The glow of the fire grew richer and deeper as the day diminished.