by R. J. Grieve
“Send for the Master!” the Gatekeeper called and helped his brethren to carry the unconscious man into the building.
They followed the brothers down a long passage into a large, airy bedroom. The white wall facing the door was pierced by two tiny, pointed windows which stood on either side of a large wooden bed. The windows gave a glimpse of an orchard sheltering behind the monastery wall, now glowing with the last, quiet gold of the departing sun. A wooden chest sat beneath one of the windows and a tall chest of drawers stood against the wall by the door.
With some effort, the brothers managed to get Celedorn onto the bed. Another monk came in with his possessions and propped his sword, encased in its black scabbard, against the wall. Celedorn appeared to revive a little once he was lying down. He opened his eyes.
“Where am I?” he asked faintly.
“You are in the Monastery of the White Brotherhood,” one of the monks replied kindly. “The Master is on his way and will do all he can do to help you.” He turned to the two women. “You must leave now, until we get him undressed and into bed.”
Triana and Elorin retreated to the corridor and sat down on a wooden bench outside. Elorin’s head was in her hands. “This is my fault,” she whispered miserably. “This is all my fault. He is always so watchful, so alert but I distracted him with that stupid, stupid argument. If.....if he dies, it will be because of me.”
Triana said nothing but gently put her hand on her friend’s bowed head, the tears running down her face.
A moment later, the door opened and Relisar looked out. He beckoned to them to come in. The blood-soaked clothes had been removed and Celedorn lay in the large bed, a cool white sheet drawn up to his waist. The ugly wound was exposed and was still sluggishly bleeding. Elorin noticed that the skin around the wound had a grey tinge to it, in marked contrast to the tanned, healthy skin of his other shoulder.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside and the door opened to admit a tall, clean-shaven man with a mass of fluffy white hair. His face was lean and aquiline and his eyes as blue as a mountain lake. He wore the same long white robe as the others, but the broad sleeves were embroidered with many chalice flowers in blue and silver thread.
“I am Master Galendar of the Order of the Flower,” he said in a low, pleasant voice.
Relisar bowed before him. “I am Relisar of the Order of the Book. My companion here was wounded by a poisoned Turog arrow. I beg your help on his behalf.”
The Master crossed the room to stand beside Celedorn and for several moments looked down silently at him. Celedorn’s eyes were closed again and he seemed to have relapsed into a state of semi-unconsciousness. Occasionally he groaned and rolled his head. The Master’s gaze intensified, becoming more piercing, and it seemed to the Prince intently watching him, that he was looking beyond the surface, right into Celedorn’s soul. Suddenly Galendar stiffened, and drew in his breath abruptly as if he had made a discovery. He leaned forward and gently touched Celedorn’s forehead with the tips of his fingers.
When he drew back, he turned sharply to Relisar. “This man must not die,” he said with quiet vehemence. “He must at all costs be saved. I will exert all the skill I possess on his behalf, but there is still poison in that wound. You did well, my brother, to extract so much, but too much remains for him to fight himself.” He turned to one of the monks nearby and gave him some low-voiced instruction. Elorin moved forward and sat on the far side of the bed, taking Celedorn’s left hand in her own. He did not open his eyes or respond in any way.
The Master engaged in quiet conversation with Relisar, shot a keen glance in her direction but said nothing.
The monk returned with a tray upon which was set several bowls and phials. The Master took some white powder from one of the phials and mixed it with some other ingredients in a bowl until he had a white paste. Using a small wooden implement, he spread it across the wound. Celedorn groaned softly in response. Then Galendar poised his hand, fingers outspread, just above the wound, and began to chant some ancient spell below his breath. Celedorn gave a gasp of pain and his back began to arch. All in the room sensed that great power was being exerted.
“It is causing him pain,” Triana wept.
The Prince moved to her, unaware that Celedorn’s blood still stained his sleeve. “It must be done,” he whispered. “If he is to stand any chance at all, it must be done.”
Suddenly, the Master released the patient from the spell and he fell back on the bed.
“A little more has been removed, but some has already entered his system and cannot be withdrawn. That, he must battle himself. Tonight will see the crisis. Tonight he will have to fight for his life.”
The brothers were now deftly bandaging the wound, gently raising Celedorn from the bed to pass the rolls of linen underneath him, around his ribcage and over his shoulder.
“You must all leave now,” said Galendar. “One of my brothers will stay with him and I will look in from time to time. Allow me to show you to your chambers.”
“No,” said Elorin with stubborn determination. “I will not leave him.”
She looked Galendar directly in the eyes, her face white and strained. “I cannot leave him.”
He returned her look for a long time. “Very well, you may stay, but be warned, his fever will mount as the night wears on and he will very likely become delirious. Nursing him will be no easy task.”
“I understand.”
“We will do all we can to relieve his fever, but there is little else that can be done. It is now up to him.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Monastery of the White Brotherhood
So began the worst night of Elorin’s life. She sat on the edge of the large bed and watched him anxiously, noting how pale and haggard his face had become, observing the grey colour spreading down his arm. As darkness began to fall beyond the tiny, pointed windows, one of the brothers came in with a lighted candle which he set on the dresser. He also bore a cloth and a bowl filled with cold water. He placed his hand briefly on Celedorn’s brow, then shook his head morosely and handed the bowl and cloth to Elorin.
As the daylight declined, so Celedorn’s fever mounted. He ceased to lie at peace but began to toss and turn fretfully. Sometimes he groaned softly and opened his eyes, but she knew he did not see her, locked as he was in a prison of pain and fever.
She tried to bathe his forehead but he pushed her hand away and began to tug irritably at his bandages. Andarion came in, just in time to restrain such behaviour and eventually the restlessness began to subside a little. Elorin noted with misgiving that he did not move his right arm at all. It lay on the white sheet completely motionless and when she placed her hand upon it, it felt icy cold. Yet in contrast, the rest of him was burning up. Sweat broke on his forehead and began to roll in huge drops down his temples. He did not resist her now when she placed the cool cloth on his brow, but she interpreted that as a bad sign.
The Master looked in twice during the night but beyond looking grave, passed no comment. Elorin prepared her arguments against being removed from the room, but strangely he did not suggest it. Neither did Relisar, who came and sat with her for a while. It seemed to be taken for granted that she must stay with Celedorn for better or worse.
At one point during the still summer’s night, she went and sat on the wooden chest by the open window and looked out into the moonlit orchard. The night air was cool and scented, and the half-moon painted the trees with a calm silver light. Faintly in the distance, echoing along the stone corridors, she heard the sound of singing. Male voices, remote and ethereal, chanting a litany from the Book of Light. She recognised their song. It was the litany which gives power to those who fight darkness, and she knew they were singing for Celedorn, to give him strength in his battle against the evil poison now coursing through his veins.
For hour after hour, as the tall candle burnt lower and the moon drifted across the sky, Elorin sat beside him, trying to impart warmth to his cold
hand, trying to ignore the black cloud of guilt that hovered persistently at the back of her mind. But it was no use. She knew it was her fault that he lay so ill. She had distracted him, taken his attention away from his surroundings. She knew that this time she would never forgive herself. And as she sat there, willing him to fight the poison in his system, willing him to live, everything fell into place in her mind. Every argument was silenced, every doubt banished, every question answered.
Shortly after midnight, he began to become delirious, wandering in his mind, talking and muttering disjointedly. She caught Andarion’s name and her own. She heard snatches of something about Ravenshold and the Turog, but he said only two things which she could clearly distinguish and both were of a nature to make her very thoughtful.
Still the perspiration poured off him, until his dark hair was soaked and the bandages around his chest were damp. A fear more deadly than she had ever known engulfed her and she sank on her knees beside the bed and prayed for him with more fervency than she had ever prayed. Desperately, she pleaded for him with every fibre of her being. At last, exhausted, she leaned her head on the bed, feeling the cool of the sheet beneath her brow, aware of the soft breath of air from the open window brushing her neck, her soul in utter agony.
When she opened her eyes, she discovered that she was still sitting on the floor by the bed, her face pillowed on the covers, facing towards the door. With a sharp stab of panic, she realised that she must have been asleep for some time, for the quiet room was lit by the golden-pink blush of sunrise. The white wall facing the window was flooded with trembling patterns of golden light. The room was utterly still. Not a sound. Not a movement.
She sat frozen, absolutely terrified to move, terrified to lift her head and look at him, terrified as to what she might find.
Just then, she felt a slight movement and his hand gently touched her hair. Her heart gave a thump and she raised her head. He was looking at her, his grey eyes clear and his gaze focused. His face was still haggard and weary but his forehead was dry. She took his right hand in both her own and discovered that it was warm. The deathly coldness had gone. A tide of relief surged over her such as she had never known, making her feel almost faint. The skin of his right arm was no longer grey but bore the same healthy tan as his left.
She stared into his eyes, utterly unable to speak, trying to convey to him with her look all that she felt.
Finally, in a shaky voice she said: “It’s been a long night.”
“Yes,” he whispered. After a pause, he asked: “Where is this place?”
“It is the Monastery of the White Brotherhood.” She began to say something else, but at that moment the door softly opened and Relisar looked in. When he saw that Celedorn’s eyes were open, he advanced into the room with such joy on his face that he put the morning sunlight to shame.
Elorin quickly arose and slipped out into the corridor before her emotions could overcome her. She immediately encountered the Prince coming towards the room, and suddenly, unable to bear it any longer, she burst into tears.
His face paled with fear and he caught her shoulders. “Oh, no! Elorin, tell me the worst has not happened!”
“He....he’s better,” was all she could manage between sobs. “He’s going to be all right.”
Andarion heaved a deep sigh of relief. “That’s nothing to cry about.”
“I k-know. I’m sorry, it’s j-just the relief. I can’t help myself,” she wept.
The Prince put his arms comfortingly around her, now understanding the situation completely. “You love him, don’t you?”
He felt her nod against his shoulder and decided to pursue the matter a little further. “It was always him, wasn’t it? Never me.”
“I am a blind, stupid fool,” she declared bitterly. “I had to nearly lose him before my eyes were opened.”
“You must tell him.”
“I know, but it is going to be difficult after all that has happened.”
Andarion was privately of the opinion that it wouldn’t be difficult at all. “You do realise, of course, that he has loved you for a very long time, possibly since Ravenshold.”
“How did you know?”
“Relisar knew. Sometimes he can’t see what’s under his nose and other times he can be quite astonishing.”
He stood back from her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said and sat down weakly on the bench. “Go in and see him. I’ll wait here until my face is no longer a sorry sight.”
Andarion entered to find Relisar perched on a stool by the bed, warmly gripping Celedorn’s hand.
Celedorn managed a weary smile in response to the Prince’s greeting. “There’s a nasty rumour that I’ll live,” he remarked tiredly. “It seems that I was born to be hung after all.”
“You scared the wits out of all of us. Kindly don’t do it again,” the Prince reprimanded him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and briefly touched his brow. “Your fever has completely gone. You forehead is dry and cool. How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
“I’m not surprised. You fought a thousand demons last night, apart from losing a great deal of blood - and ruining my second-best shirt in the process.”
The door opened again to admit Triana. “Elorin says he is going to recover,” she said, before she noticed that the patient was awake and regarding her with a touch of tired humour.
“We have enough people in here to hold a market,” said Celedorn dryly, in much his usual manner.
Andarion laughed. “When you hear a comment like that, you can be assured that he is on the way to recovery.”
Triana crossed to the bed and bent over Celedorn in concern. “How do you feel now?”
“A little less daunting than my usual self.”
She flashed a smile at him. “Not at all, for it is remarks like that which make you so daunting.”
She saw from his expression that he deeply appreciated the observation, but with feminine sensitivity she also saw that he was very tired and wished to go to sleep. She ushered the others out of the room, but before she left she said: “Elorin will return to sit with you in a moment. I tried to persuade her to get some sleep, now that you are out of danger, but she refused. She has been up all night with you and would not leave you even for a moment. Perhaps you could persuade her to get some rest and I will sit with you instead. She is looking only marginally better than you at the moment.”
He nodded but when Elorin arrived a few moments later, she found that he was already asleep. She sat for a long time watching him resting peacefully, before reaching out and touching the warm skin of his right arm as if to reassure herself. Then wearily she curled up beside him on the bed and fell asleep with her hand tightly clasped around his.
Relisar, looking in a short time later, saw them and smiled sentimentally to himself. “She will save him,” he whispered, “I know that she will save him.”
Over the next number of days his recovery did not falter. He was very easily tired and was therefore content to accept Galendar’s decree that he must stay in bed and rest. Galendar, in his calm and unemotional manner, was pleased with his recovery, a little surprised by the strength with which he had fought the poison. The diamond-shaped wound had closed over and the fever showed no signs of recurring. He sometimes came and sat with his patient, talking quietly with him, and to the surprise of everyone else, the wicked brigand and the gentle, holy man appeared to enjoy one another’s company.
Some of the brothers came each day to change the bandages and generally attend to his needs and his companions were constantly in and out of his room. Triana brought him a vase of roses from the gardens and arranged them on the dresser. Relisar produced a rather boring book from the Master’s library and the Prince would sit and chat to him, but it was the times he spent alone with Elorin that he enjoyed the most. She would read to him from the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom, tales of courage and adventure, love and sacrifice and he lay listening to he
r gentle voice, as if hypnotised, watching the play of sunlight upon her hair. Day after day, the mellow late summer sunshine shone on the little orchard outside his window and the scent of roses filled the room. He wanted it to continue for ever, a beautiful, impossible dream from which he had no wish to awake. However, gradually his strength returned and when Elorin entered his room late one morning, she found him standing looking out the window dressed in breeches and boots. His shirt lay on the bed, ready to be worn. His back was turned to her and the bandages were startlingly white against his tanned skin.
“You shouldn’t be up!” she exclaimed.
He turned. “Galendar said that if I felt like it, I could try my legs today. As you see, they work fine.”
“You shaved as well! How did you manage that?”
He grinned. “I bullied one of the brothers into helping me. You see, I remembered how you so much disliked my beard.”
But his smile slowly faded and he turned to the window again. “I can feel autumn approaching. I can smell it in the air. I can see it in the quality of the light. Soon the leaves will begin to turn, and high in the Westrin Mountains the first snows will fall.” He sighed. “We must soon be moving on. Andarion has been very patient.”
Elorin sighed too. “I don’t want to leave this place.”
“Neither do I. I have been happier here than anywhere else I can remember.”
“Even despite being ill?”
“Even so.”
All at once she knew that the time had come. She had been unable to speak to him of her feelings, finding, for some illusory reason, that the moment had never been quite right. Always, just when she seemed on the point of screwing up her courage, she found herself at a loss to know how to begin. She, too, had been content to hide from reality, caught up in some kind of idyllic existence that did not extend beyond the sunlit room. Now she knew that she must speak, but she chose to go about it in an oblique way.
Drawing a deep breath she said quietly: “Why did you lie to me, Celedorn?”