by R. J. Grieve
The Prince admonished his friend. “You are no gentleman, Celedorn, or you would know not to laugh when a lady falls into a holly bush.”
He turned to Triana. “If we could find that damned fidgety horse of yours, then I think we should get out of here. The snakes may not leave their tunnel, but we cannot assume that the guards will not pursue us beyond the borders of the kingdom. Come up behind me and we will see if we can find him.”
Her horse had not gone far, but was standing forlornly in a glade having brought itself to a halt by treading on one of its reins.
“Which way?” asked the Prince.
“South,” replied Celedorn firmly. “Always south.”
The hours of darkness slowly passed and dawn arrived bringing with it a burst of birdsong, and banishing to their proper place the fears of the night. As mile after mile fell behind them, it became apparent that they were not going to be pursued beyond the boundaries of the Kingdom of Adamant. Relisar’s view was that King Morthren dared not trespass beyond the domain allotted to him by the Destroyer. His power, though great, could not challenge his master’s.
During the next two days, they climbed higher through the pine forests until they crossed through a narrow passage between two mountain peaks. To their surprise, there was no sign of the Turog. They never knew if any of the ones who had pursued them into the tunnel had escaped to tell their story. Even if none of them had ever returned to report their presence to their masters, it was strange that the pine forest was now so completely empty. As they descended the far slopes of the mountain, the pine trees began to give way to deciduous woods that seemed to continue without a break as far as the eye could see.
Yet there appeared to be little joy amongst the companions that they had escaped. Triana noticed that all, except Relisar, appeared quiet and subdued. At first she thought it was perhaps a reaction to the danger they had been through, but as time passed, she became convinced that something was wrong. Elorin, in particular, was quieter than she had ever known, often riding at the rear on her own, responding uncommunicatively to any remark addressed to her.
Elorin was in fact troubled by what she considered to be her own perfidy. She was also aware, that for the first time in a long while, Celedorn was a stranger to her. He had often told her that she did not know him and she began to wonder if he was right. His actions were shrouded in mystery. At one moment he had kissed her with overwhelming passion, now he was aloof. She wondered if his kiss was just a physical response from a man of strong emotions - as she knew him to be. She had witnessed him in the grip of many powerful feelings. She had feared his anger at Ravenshold, seen the fierce glow in his eyes when in battle, observed him bitter, arrogant, hurt. But somewhere, unexplored in her mind, was the knowledge that it was more than that. In that brief moment when he had looked into her eyes, she had seen something else. Yet he was now utterly remote, scarcely addressing a single word to her.
She little realised that his aloofness arose due to the fact that he had been plunged into despair. It was as if the gates of heaven had been slammed in his face. The moment’s dizzying sensation when she had responded to his kiss, had swiftly been followed by her coolness towards him and his subsequent sense of rejection. She didn’t speak to him. She didn’t look at him. She trailed behind the others looking sad.
For the first time he reviewed his life with distaste, all his defiance and bravado gone. All the reasons in the past that he had used to justify his behaviour now had a hollow, empty ring. His past deeds defiled him, and in bitterness of spirit, he knew it was too late to change. What had been done could not be undone. He was Celedorn the brigand, the scoundrel, the criminal. Very likely what she was feeling now was revulsion.
In the late afternoon they stopped amongst the trees to make camp. While Relisar hunted for firewood and the two younger men tended to the horses, Triana seized the opportunity to speak privately to her friend. Elorin was on her knees rummaging about in her pack, when Triana came and sat beside her.
“Elorin,” she ventured, “is anything wrong? You have not been yourself lately. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Elorin looked up briefly. “No thanks, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You look so lost sometimes. I know something has happened to upset you and I’d do anything to help you. It....it wasn’t me, was it? Have I offended you in some way?”
“Goodness, no! It’s nothing to do with you, Triana.” Then seeing the look of sympathy on her companion’s face, she suddenly felt the urge to unburden herself a little. “It’s me. I’ve been behaving like a fool.”
“It has something to do with the night of the banquet, hasn’t it? You did not return and the Prince was so upset that I could hardly get a word out of him for the rest of the evening.”
Elorin nodded. “If......if you ever saw me as a rival for the Prince’s affections, you can now dismiss the idea. The path is clear for you.”
Triana’s soft eyes filled with tears. “Oh, no, Elorin, I am so sorry. I didn’t know, truly I didn’t.”
“I misunderstood something Andarion had done, yet......yet, looking back, I still think it was an understandable mistake. After all, the Prince can hardly give me a dress and a necklace shaped like a heart and then be surprised that I leaped to certain conclusions.”
Triana’s eyes widened with shock. “You thought it was the Prince!” she blurted out.
“Well, you told me it wasn’t you, so what else could I think?”
Triana’s colour abruptly changed from white to red and she began to stammer. “It.....I....oh dear. Elorin it wasn’t the Prince who gave you the dress, but please don’t ask me who it was because I have been sworn to secrecy. I gave my word I wouldn’t tell you.”
“If it wasn’t the Prince then...........” Elorin broke off as the truth dawned on her. “Celedorn!”
Triana panicked. “I didn’t tell you! Remember, I didn’t tell you. Ooooh! He’s going to kill me.”
“Then he must have given me the necklace too.”
“I don’t know who gave you the necklace,” replied her afflicted friend, glad for once to answer one question unequivocally.
A flash of anger sprang into Elorin’s eyes. “Why could he not have told me? Why all the secrecy? It was inevitable that some sort of misunderstanding would arise if the truth was hidden from me.” She leaped to her feet. “Celedorn has some explaining to do.”
“No!” Triana almost shrieked. “He’ll murder me!”
But Elorin was already striding across the clearing in Celedorn’s direction. He was adjusting his horse’s girth and did not see her approach. She tapped him peremptorily on the shoulder.
“I would like a word with you in private.” she announced tightly.
One look at her face would have informed even the most unobservant person that she was displeased. Mystified as to the cause, he followed her through the trees until they were out of sight of the camp.
“Why did you not tell me that you bought that dress?” she accused, without preamble.
“Triana.....” he began, but she cut him short.
“Triana told me nothing. I worked it out for myself. Why could you not tell me? Why did you go about it in such an underhand way? Why? You must have guessed that I would jump to all the wrong conclusions.”
“I knew nothing of the sort,” he replied, a little nettled.
“Of course you did. The Prince secured an invitation for me, then suddenly an unknown benefactor buys me a dress and a necklace shaped like a heart. What on earth did you expect? The whole sorry mess arose that night because of you.”
“I can’t help it if you leap to all the wrong conclusions!”
But she swept his protest aside. “Even when you knew of my mistake, you didn’t tell me the truth. How could you!”
He shrugged offhandedly. “What would have been the point in telling you? It would only have precipitated a pointless scene like this.”
“That’s no excuse! You
knew how I felt about the Prince. You must have realised what I’d think.”
His old sardonic expression, recently absent, now reappeared. “I refuse to take the blame for your injured pride, simply because you indulged in a fit of wishful thinking.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then realising that the point he made was unanswerable, made a sound of disgust and turning sharply on her heel, strode off.
But she had not taken three paces, when she heard a horribly familiar sound behind her - the snick of an arrow, followed by the dull thud as it found its mark.
She whirled around in time to see Celedorn sink to his knees, an arrow projecting from his right shoulder. Half a dozen Turog immediately plumped down from the trees all around them.
Celedorn struggled to his feet and drew his sword. They ignored Elorin and attacked him in a pack. Elorin had no weapon and did the only thing she could - screamed at the top of her voice for Andarion.
She saw that Celedorn was fighting with his left hand, his right arm hanging limply by his side. Even with such a disability, he had already killed one of his opponents but the others were pressing him hard, scenting that his strength was failing.
The Prince charged into the clearing, sword already in his hand, and without a moment’s hesitation, attacked. The creatures snarled in alarm and turned to face him. Celedorn’s face was now ashen, and blood had soaked his shirt and leather waistcoat. Even so, with a mighty effort he swung his blade with his left hand and decapitated a Turog distracted by the Prince’s arrival.
Andarion, driven by concern for his wounded companion, fought as he had never fought before and literally butchered them. He lashed out with such unstoppable fury that the last one fell before the body of the first had even hit the ground.
Celedorn had fallen to his knees again, the point of his sword was thrust into the ground and he was supporting himself by leaning on the hilt.
The Prince and Elorin crossed to him, and helped him sit back against a tree, just as Triana and Relisar came hurrying up.
Celedorn grinned faintly at the Prince. “My compliments,” he said. “As fine a piece of swordsmanship as I have ever seen.”
Andarion smiled back but there was a worried frown between his brows.
“Use your knife to slit away his shirt and waistcoat,” Relisar ordered the Prince.
When the wound was laid bare, he drew in his breath sharply. “It is in deep.” His eyes met Celedorn’s in understanding.
“Green fletchings,” commented the wounded man quietly.
“What does that mean?” asked Triana in alarm.
Relisar straightened up and looked at all the anxious faces around him. Elorin was deathly white.
“Green fletchings mean that the arrow is poisoned. That is why it is draining his strength so quickly.” His voice lowered. “If he is to live, it must be drawn.” He turned to Andarion and said firmly: “You must be the one to do this. It is in deep and only you have the strength needed to withdraw it.”
Andarion looked appalled. “What if it is barbed?”
Relisar’s reply was delivered with utter finality. “If it is barbed, he will die.”
Exercising every ounce of self-control, Andarion replied: “I will do it.”
Relisar helped Celedorn to lie flat against the earth and directed the two women to lean their full weight on his arms.
“This is going to be agony for him,” he whispered to them. “He will strain against you, so you will have to use all the force you can to hold him down. I will put my weight across his legs.”
Andarion, as white as the patient, placed his foot on Celedorn’s chest and gripped the arrow close to the wound.
“Are you ready?” he asked, looking into Celedorn’s eyes.
“Yes - just promise me that once you start, you will not stop until it’s out.”
The Prince nodded and tightening his grip on the shaft, began to exert his strength against it.
A faint groan was wrenched from Celedorn, his back began to arch and his teeth were clenched tight shut in agony. Elorin and Triana struggled desperately to hold him down. At first the arrow resisted Andarion’s efforts, but finally he felt it begin to give. The sweat was standing on his brow by now, but he didn’t let up. He exerted even more force against it, until at last, with a rush that caused him to stagger backwards, it came out. Celedorn collapsed limply against the ground as blood began to pour from the wound.
Triana darted back to the packs and returned with some clean shirts which she began to rip into bandages.
“We cannot bandage it yet, my dear,” advised Relisar, “for there is poison in this wound and it must be drawn. I will attempt a spell of retraction.
Elorin, kneeling beside Celedorn and tightly holding his hand, felt him tense again as Relisar began to murmur the words of the spell. Twice the old man issued a word of command in a strong voice and twice a little dark green fluid seeped from the wound. Celedorn’s grip on Elorin’s hand had tightened to the point that he was crushing her fingers but she returned the pressure, knowing that her pain was nothing compared to his.
Relisar shook his head in dissatisfaction. “That is the best I can do, but I know it is not all out. I have a little skill with the art of healing but not enough to deal with a wound of this nature.”
Celedorn drew several deep breaths and wiped the perspiration off his upper lip with the back of his hand.
His companions looked at each other in dismayed silence. Even the forest seemed silent. The dead bodies of the Turog lay like black crows fallen from the sky. Not a breath of wind caused the leaves to tremble. A sense of frozen, helpless desperation had descended on every heart.
Then softly, faintly, echoing through the still forest came an unexpected sound. Somewhere in the distance, a bell was tolling. Every head lifted in astonishment. The bell continued to sound at regular intervals, low-pitched, resonant, its clear, silver peal ringing between the trees.
“It must be,” breathed Relisar. “It simply must be, when our need is so great.”
“What is it?” demanded the Prince.
“It must be the Monastery of the White Brotherhood that the librarian told me about. It must still be here. It was always the Order’s practice to toll a bell at sunset. We must follow the sound, for if it is indeed the Brotherhood of the Flower, they will be able to help him much more than I can.”
“Can you ride?” the Prince tersely asked Celedorn.
“Of course I can.”
Andarion looked at Triana who was finishing the bandaging. “Hurry up. If that bell stops tolling, we may never find the monastery.
When she finished, Celedorn made to rise but sank back dizzily. “Don’t just stand there,” he said peremptorily to the Prince, “help me up.”
While Andarion supported Celedorn, the others flew back to the camp and flung their belongings on the horses.
Still, faintly and mysteriously, the bell pealed. Unconsciously, everyone counted the peals, dreading the moment when the next one did not come.
With a heroic effort that left him reeling with faintness, Celedorn managed to get into the saddle.
“I have no feeling in my right arm,” he murmured to Relisar.
“It’s the poison. Elorin, ride ahead and find the source of that bell before it stops.”
She glanced at Celedorn, unwilling to leave him, but she knew the only help she could give him now was to find the monastery. She pulled her horse’s head round and disappeared off through the trees at a gallop.
The others followed, but were forced to adopt a slower pace, as Celedorn was swaying in the saddle verging on the edge of unconsciousness. At one point he lurched forward over his horse’s neck and was only prevented from falling by some deep instinct which held him in the saddle.
Andarion dismounted swiftly, and tossing his reins to Relisar, mounted behind Celedorn and held him upright, aware that his arm around the wounded man was already covered with blood.
The sound of gal
loping hooves signalled Elorin’s return.
“I’ve found it!” she cried breathlessly. “It’s not far. Follow me.”
A few moments later they emerged at the edge of a wooded ridge to find themselves looking down into a densely forested valley. In the centre, arising above the woolly green canopy of the trees, on a grassy promontory stood the monastery. It was constructed of golden stone and was surrounded by high walls pierced by a single gate. A tall, slender tower arising from the clutter of buildings within the wall was the source of the bell. It could be heard more clearly now, drifting above the treetops to the ridge on which they stood. Suddenly it ceased and for some unknown reason, everyone instantly looked at Celedorn. His head was hanging forward and his weight was against the Prince, causing him great difficulty in holding him in the saddle. The silence was ominous.
“He is unconscious,” said Andarion. “We have not a moment to lose.”
By the time they reached the gate, the sun was sinking fast and its last rays turned the walls of the monastery to purest gold. It had obviously been raining there earlier in the day, for the ground smelt damp and earthy. Tendrils of steam drifted like phantoms into the summer air and the trees occasionally dropped crystal beads of water. Relisar fell out of the saddle and hammered with his fist on the gate. A small hatch at head height opened and a voice said: “Who troubles the Brotherhood of the Flower?”
“I am Relisar, of the Brotherhood of the Book. One of my companions has been grievously wounded by the Turog and needs your help.”
“Wait here,” the voice replied. “I must ask permission of the Master of our Order.”
“There’s no time!” Elorin wailed. “The arrow was poisoned. If you don’t help us immediately, he will die!”
The speaker hesitated for a moment, then slammed shut the hatch. They heard the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back and slowly the gate began to swing open.
It revealed a courtyard surrounded by buildings. Several of the brothers, dressed in long white robes like Relisar’s, came hurrying up and helped lower Celedorn from his horse.