The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  The sheet of paper, however, proved somewhat difficult to obtain. She took the first opportunity, when Dorgan’s back was turned, to search the kitchen but found nothing that would do. Memory reminded her that all the rooms she had visited were empty, except for dust and phantoms. All the rooms, that is, except Celedorn’s. She almost gasped as the idea occurred to her. Even the very thought of it set her heart racing. As she stood undecided, the object of her thoughts walked past the kitchen window on his way to the stables. Before her courage could desert her, she made an excuse to Dorgan (whose attention was on his bread which would not rise) and fled up the steps to the great hall. She flew with all of her considerable speed across the flags, across the stain which marked the spot where Hydar had died, and took the stairs two at a time. The door to Celedorn’s quarters was slightly ajar and with trembling hand, she pushed it open and slipped inside. She knew the room well now and crossed to a tall cabinet standing in one corner. Quickly she opened the drawers and began to riffle through the contents. Nothing. Time was pressing. He could return at any moment. She jerked open another drawer with such haste that something fell out. It was a small dagger, its exquisite hilt set with diamonds and emeralds. The beautiful little object glittered and sparkled in the firelight, almost dazzling her. She stared at it fascinated, for a moment forgetting her purpose. Then swiftly she returned it to the drawer and resumed her search. Still nothing. She cast a look at the door, her hearing sharpened by fear. All appeared to be quiet. The only possibility left was to search the room which opened off this one, a room that she had never seen but presumed to be a bedchamber. Quickly she entered it and found that her surmise was correct. The room was bare and stark. It contained only an unmade bed, a cupboard and a chest of drawers. His sword stood propped against the wall. Irresistibly drawn, she lifted it, surprised by its weight, and withdrew it from its scabbard. The shining blade slid effortlessly from its cover. The steel gleamed coldly. Just below the hilt, the blade was engraved with three intertwined flowers that somehow looked familiar. But her fascination was broken when she remembered its spotless surface stained with Hydar’s blood. Quickly she restored it to its place and crossed to the chest of drawers. As luck would have it, the very bottom drawer contained a sheaf of writing paper. She extracted a single sheet and replaced the rest in the drawer. But just as she was in the act of turning towards the door, her acute hearing detected footsteps in the corridor outside. She froze, hoping they would pass, but they stopped briefly, then entered the outer room. She recognised Celedorn’s voice.

  “Tell Teblar to get his men mounted up. They won’t need provisions as we shouldn’t be away very long, but tell them to bring bows. I wouldn’t waste a sword-blade on those animals if it can be helped. Bring my horse round to the front, I’ll be down in a moment.”

  Someone left and she heard the click as the outer door closed behind him. She tensed, her hand grasping the sheet of paper, wondering if everyone had gone, then the sound of a slight movement in the outer room disabused her of this hope. Suddenly, with some uncanny instinct, she knew he was going to come in. She threw herself on the floor and wriggled under the bed, pulling the sheet down to conceal her. She was scarcely in place, not daring even to breathe, when the door opened. From the crack of visibility left to her under the sheet, she saw a pair of black boots enter the room. She watched their passage across the floor to where the sword stood. The point of the scabbard, which had been within her range of vision, vanished and the boots retraced their passage. They paused by the door and she could almost hear his cold voice saying: “Perhaps you would care to come out now.”

  The impression was so strong that she was almost shocked when the door closed behind him. She lay where she was, listening intently. There were a few muffled sounds from the outer room, then all was quiet. Still she dared not move, then all at once she remembered Dorgan. She had been away much longer than she had intended. What if he was looking for her?

  She squirmed out from her hiding place and brushed the dust off her tunic. Carefully she folded the paper, tucked it in her pocket and crept to the door. On softly opening it, she breathed a sigh of relief to find the room deserted and fled down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Dorgan was nowhere in sight but the kitchen door was open and peering out, she saw him in the courtyard talking to Celedorn. Quickly she sat down at the table trying to still her ragged breathing.

  When Dorgan returned to the kitchen he showed surprisingly little interest in where she had been.

  “Another band of Turog has been seen near the Kelgor Pass,” he remarked. “Their incursions are becoming persistent. Celedorn is going himself to deal with them but hopes to be back some time tomorrow. He must move quickly if he is to catch the creatures, so the men will be travelling light without supplies. No doubt they will all be as hungry as wolves when they come back. There’s nothing like hunting Turog to give one an appetite.”

  “Where is the Kelgor Pass?”

  “To the north-west, not far from the Harnor.”

  Elorin smiled to herself. Celedorn was going in the opposite direction to herself. With him out of the way, she rated her chances of success a good deal higher then she had before. She had intended to try her luck during the course of the next few days, but it appeared that fate was presenting her with an irresistible opportunity.

  Later that evening, when Dorgan escorted her up to her austere room, she turned to him impulsively.

  “I......I wanted to thank you for being so kind to me, Dorgan. Never did I think, when I entered these forbidding walls, that I would find a friend such as you.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Why, thank you, Elorin, but it is your presence that has brightened these grim surroundings for me. Tomorrow, when Celedorn returns, I will ask him if he will let you go riding. I am afraid you will have to be accompanied by one of the men, or perhaps by Celedorn himself, as I am not unkind enough to inflict my weight on any poor horse. I think the exercise will do you good. You have been looking a little pale and wan recently.”

  Her guilt at this further evidence of his kindness meant that she could only respond by smiling a little uncertainly at him. “Thank you.”

  His brown eyes twinkled. “Don’t thank me just yet, my dear, for Celedorn may very well tell me to go to the devil.”

  She stepped back into the room and he closed the door. There was a loud click as the key turned in the lock and his footsteps diminished down the corridor. Elorin fell to her knees and peered into the lock. The end of the key was clearly visible: he had not removed it.

  A glance towards the window told her that dusk was falling. Swiftly she made her few preparations. She donned her deep red cloak, wishing yet again that it was a less conspicuous colour and tied up the food in the cloth bag she had secreted from the kitchen.

  Carefully she removed the paper from her pocket and smoothed out the creases. Despite the danger, she was highly diverted by the thought that she was about to secure her escape from such a grim and formidable fortress, by a trick that every schoolboy knew.

  When the paper was flattened, she slid it under the door, positioning it beneath the lock. Then she lifted a charred stick from the fireplace and tried to push it into the lock, but suffered a check when it wouldn’t fit. It was slightly too thick. Cursing herself for not testing it earlier, she worked at it, getting very grubby in the process, until she had peeled off some of the charred bark. She tried again and this time it made contact with the end of the key. Gently she began to push. The key shifted slightly. It must not turn or it would become stuck. Taking a deep breath, she exerted pressure against it. It moved backwards. Then suddenly it fell. She dropped flat to the floor to peer under the door. If it had bounced, all would be lost. But to her relief it was lying with its heavy round head on the paper. Slowly and carefully, she withdrew the paper and had the satisfaction of seeing the key appear from beneath the door. A moment later she was in the corridor, locking the door behind her.

  Cha
pter Nine

  The Escape

  Softly she glided down the stairs, alert for the slightest sound. As she passed Celedorn’s rooms, she cast them an anxious glance, even though she knew he was not there. The door leading from the great hall to the kitchen was open and she could hear the clatter of dishes and the familiar sound of Dorgan humming to himself. The great oak doors leading to the courtyard were firmly shut. Only one torch was lit in the great hall, casting sinister shadows in the corners, making it difficult for her to be sure that the hall was truly empty. She began to imagine Celedorn’s black form emerging from the shadows.

  “So you thought I had gone, did you?”

  Mentally she shook herself. “He’s only a man,” common sense advised. “He is not omnipotent. He is travelling to the west at this very moment, unaware of what is happening at Ravenshold.” But imagination refused to be reassured and her nerves remained strung as taut as a harp string.

  When she was certain all was quiet, she crossed to the door and tugged. It didn’t move and a stab of alarm shot though her at the prospect that it might be locked, but then she remembered its enormous weight. She had even seen some of the men struggle with it. Bracing one foot against the wall, she grasped the handle with both hands and heaved backwards. With a groan it opened just wide enough for her to slip through into the darkness of the courtyard.

  This was the point where she was most likely to be caught. She had expected the corridors and hallways of the castle to be deserted at this time of night - they always were, because the men’s quarters were in a different part of the building. But the courtyard led to the main gate and night and day there was always a certain amount of coming and going. She melted into the deep shadow provided by a buttress positioned by the tunnel leading to the portcullis. The gateway was guarded, but long hours of observation from her window in the tower had yielded interesting information. She had discovered that at night-time, when the guard on the gate was changed, the guards coming off duty came up into the courtyard to share a tankard of beer with their relief, leaving the gate unguarded for a short time. The nights were cold and a long stint on watch was a boring occupation: human nature did the rest. Nonetheless, she noticed that this only tended to happen when Celedorn was absent from the fortress. The opportunity this provided was slight but perhaps it was just enough for one shadow to slip out of the gateway unseen.

  The figure in the shelter of the buttress stiffened as the sound of the guard coming off duty echoed up the short tunnel from the portcullis. She heard footsteps and rough voices. At the same time, a door on the far side of the courtyard opened, spilling light and about a dozen men out onto the cobbles. These men were loud and rowdy, clearly already a little drunk, already a little quarrelsome. Elorin tried to press herself against the stone, certain that when the two converging groups met, she would be discovered. But the argument in the square was becoming more heated. Voices were raised. The altercation must have reached the ears of the guards coming up the tunnel for one of them called out, demanding to know what was going on. When he got no reply, the four guards emerged from the gateway to find out for themselves. The argument in the middle of the courtyard had already reached the pushing and shoving stage. The guards stopped just inside the gateway, unaware that they stood with their backs turned to the fugitive, unaware that if she had but stretched out her hand she could have touched them, but their attention was elsewhere.

  “What’s all this about?” demanded one.

  “Mind your own business,”

  “It’s my business when you are sent to relieve us and you don’t appear. Get down to the gate.”

  In reply he was called a word that Elorin had not heard before, but clearly the guard had, for he lost the last vestiges of good humour and strode across the courtyard with his companions to join the melee. The shouting increased and Elorin heard the crack of a heavy punch connecting with bone.

  It was now or never. Silently she slid round the buttress and vanished into the dark tunnel. The sounds of the fracas echoed after her, swelled by more voices joining in. In marked contrast, the portcullis was deserted. Its cruel teeth suspended above the gateway, its gaping jaws wide open.

  Further to the west, long after darkness had fallen, Celedorn stood in a moonlit glade surveying a scene of slaughter. His gleaming sword, which Elorin had so admired, was now fouled with blood. The silver light shone with indifferent serenity on the battleground, giving the heaps of bodies the surreal look of a stage set, as if they would arise to their feet for the final curtain. But fifty Turog and about a dozen men would never rise again.

  Celedorn’s swift departure from Ravenshold had secured his objective. He had ridden his men hard, knowing better than any, how even a large body of Turog could vanish into the forest like phantoms. This he had resolved would not happen. They were on his territory now and incursions into the mountains must be paid for in blood. He suspected that they were on their way to spy on Eskendria’s preparations to meet the threat of invasion. An assault was clearly brewing across the river. The irony that he was inadvertently assisting Prince Andarion was not lost on him. These Turog would never return to report their findings to their masters, for not one of them would ever leave the mountains.

  One of the men, sword drawn and still a little out of breath, approached him.

  “Each body has been checked. They were all dead.” He smiled with a certain gallows humour. “Or at least, it they were not, they now are. Thirteen of our men are also dead. We have some minor wounds, nothing so severe as to delay our return to Ravenshold.”

  “Very well. Take anything of value and mount up.”

  “I found this on the one who appeared to lead them - the one you killed yourself. It’s not valuable but I have never seen its like.” He handed Celedorn an iron wristband. On its dull surface was stamped a curious design. Celedorn turned it to the moonlight in order to see it better. To the man silently watching, it appeared that the colour drained from his face - or perhaps it was just the effect of the moonlight. Celedorn studied the band for a moment before casting it into the trees.

  “It is of no value,” he remarked curtly. “Tell the men to get ready to leave.”

  But what he had seen etched on the band had disturbed him deeply - a snarling wolf with a dagger through its throat. Much against his will, his mind was dragged back to the occasion when he had seen such a motif before. Back many long years to an event that had seared its pattern on his memory like a branding iron. An event that had changed the entire course of his life. With a gesture of distaste, he rubbed his hand on his sleeve, as if somehow he had become polluted by touching the object. Suddenly, he was aware that he still held his sword and bent to wipe the blade clean on the soft moss of the forest floor. When he straightened, he glanced uneasily at the moon.

  “Our return to Ravenshold must not be delayed,” he remarked to himself. “For these scum have become too bold for comfort.”

  As the cold, grey light of dawn began to dilute the darkness, Elorin was well out of sight of Ravenshold. She had risked following the valley floor, along the course of the river during the darkness, as she could make better speed by following the moonlit water rather than stumbling about amongst the maze of trees that clothed the sides of the valley. Somehow she felt that she must put as much distance as she possibly could between herself and Ravenshold by morning. As the daylight grew stronger, she would be forced into the concealment of the trees and must ascend through the wooded areas until she emerged above the tree line onto the bare, windswept pass that squeezed between two mighty pinnacles of snow. Before entering the woods, she took her bearings on these peaks. They stood remote and majestic, lit a pale lavender against the brightening sky. She took a few deep breaths, glad to draw the clean spring air into her lungs and expel the last lingering remnant of prison. She supposed that she should have been rejoicing in her freedom, in how unexpectedly easy her escape had been, but an insistent, nagging unease had gripped her. All during her hurrie
d flight along the valley the night before, her ears had strained for the sound of galloping hooves, her eyes had searched the darkness. Many times she had stopped and looked over her shoulder towards the fortress, as if it might be following her. It was now out of sight behind a projecting ridge but still she felt the watchful malevolence of its presence. Very soon her escape would be discovered. Soon Dorgan would go up to her prison to release her for the day and would find it empty. Her advantage lay in the fact that Celedorn was elsewhere. Without his strength of will to organise and command the search, with any luck the pursuit might be a little haphazard, perhaps even wanting in prosecution.

  But he was due back that day. If only something would delay him until nightfall, she would have crossed the pass by then and be much more difficult to find. However, in gauging the length of time it would take her to reach the pass, Elorin had not allowed for the fact that on the inward journey she had been riding a swift and powerful horse. Moreover her escort had taken the most direct and easy route - which she could no longer do. The silent forest seemed more daunting on foot, its still ranks of trees almost hostile. It stretched for so great a distance that if she had not obtained glimpses now and then of the pinnacles, she could easily have become disorientated and lost her way. Indeed, the brooding silence of the forest began to gnaw at her nerves. There were few birds, no animals. Spring had barely begun to open little fans of leaves at the ends of the dark branches. Every crack of a twig had her jumping, every rustle of the wind sounded like pursuit.

  The long day wore on, grey and gloomy. The brightness of the dawn soon was dimmed by black clouds rising up from the west, piling up one upon the other until they filled the sky. It became colder and she almost believed that it would snow again, so dark was the sky. By late afternoon she still had not reached the edge of the trees. The pinnacles were closer, she now had to tilt her head backwards to look up at them, but their tips were lost in swirling mist that sank ever lower down their massive flanks. She stopped only once. Briefly, beside a little brook, she ate some food but was soon moving again, careful to leave not the slightest trace of her passage. All day she climbed higher through the trees, up banks strewn with last year’s leaves, past shy clumps of wood anemones not yet in flower. Beech, oak and chestnut trees closed ranks around her, awaiting the touch of spring. She was tired now, anxiety as well as physical exertion was beginning to take its toll. She knew she had not the strength to keep going all night and must find somewhere to rest. Disappointment dragged her spirits downwards as she conceded to herself that she would not cross the pass that day.