The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  “I’m looking forward to seeing her.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed the Prince. “ Said with all the smugness of a man with a clear conscience.”

  Chapter Three

  Queen Triana

  In another part of the palace a diminutive elderly lady sat staring thoughtfully into the bright fire burning within the confines of its ornate hearth. Her faded blue eyes were distant, as her thoughts strayed from the present, slipping easily into the past as if she were more at home there. Her feet rested primly side by side on a velvet-covered footstool, just visible under the voluminous skirts of her blue robe. Her hair was creamy-white, caught up in a dignified bun on top of her head. Although her face was lined, her high cheekbones and arching brows indicated the beauty that had been hers in her youth.

  So absorbed was she in her reflections, that she did not notice the clear spring day quietly fade beyond the leaded panes, nor did she observe twilight creep stealthily into the room, until the daylight was almost gone and the room lit only by the faint, rosy glow of the fire.

  An unwelcome tap at the door finally brought her back to the present. However, she showed no irritation at the interruption, for long years of royal duty had taught her to resign herself to constant demands upon her time. A maid entered the room and bobbed a respectful curtsey.

  “Oh ma’am!” she exclaimed, “it’s got so dark in here. I’ll light some candles for you. You shouldn’t be sitting here in the dark.”

  The Queen suppressed a sigh as the maid suited her actions to her words and began to light candles in their tall silver holders. Their warm light soon began to force the twilight to retreat back to the garden.

  “Not too many, if you please,” Triana objected. “You must understand that at my age one finds the darkness restful.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” agreed the maid, who didn’t understand in the least. Then in an apologetic tone, she added: “I’m afraid Bethro is here and wishes to see you again. I told him I didn’t think you were available, but he insisted. Do you want me to send him away?”

  “No, I’ll see him. If the Keeper of Antiquities is writing an epic poem in one’s honour, the least one can do is to humour him.”

  “Are you sure, Ma’am? He tired you so much the last time with all his ranting and raving.”

  The Queen smiled slightly at the protective tone. “ It’s all right. I’ll see him. Oh, and if my Lord of Westrin stops by, show him in immediately. I believe he arrived this morning but has been closeted with the King since then.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The maid opened the door and with a roll of her eyes not lost on her mistress, announced the Keeper of Antiquities.

  A rotund, middle-aged man with a head of woolly brown hair, salted with grey, and the comfortable stomach of one who enjoys his ale, bustled into the room, his arms filled with papers and scrolls which he proceeded to drop all over the place. The maid, supressing a giggle, helped to pick them up. By the time they had finished, the man’s face was flushed an unbecoming red with the exertion and all attempt at a dignified entrance had evaporated. Triana bit her lip in an attempt to repress her amusement.

  “Well, Bethro? How goes the great work?”

  He surged forward his round face beaming. “It progresses well, ma’am, but as you know, a work of such heroic proportions cannot be rushed. It is like a majestic river,” he declared grandiloquently, “it must take its course. After all, the legend of Erren-dar is one of the greatest events in the history of Eskendria.”

  “Legend? My dear Bethro, it is not legend, for I myself witnessed the events.”

  “Indeed so, ma’am, that is why I find your help so invaluable. Sadly, you are the last to have known Erren-dar well. To those of us who were born after these events, they are so amazing as to be like one of the fables from The Chronicles of the Old Kingdom. That is why my work is of such importance to future generations of Eskendrians as yet unborn, for it is vital that my epic has all the historical accuracy that can only be supplied by an eye-witness. I must therefore finish it before….I mean…..just in case…..”

  “….in case the last relic of the old days cocks up her toes you mean?” the Queen suggested wickedly, gaining a certain unholy satisfaction from his discomfiture.

  He went even redder in the face and began to bluster. “No, indeed, ma’am, that’s not what I…..I did not intend…..that is…..”

  “Never mind, Bethro. Now tell me, how can I help you?” she enquired, gesturing him to the seat opposite her.

  He seated himself and fell to ferreting around in his papers making now-where-did-I-put-it noises. At last he triumphantly extracted a large scroll and unrolled it, in the process, scattering the rest of the papers over the floor again.

  “Ah! Here it is! Now, I have got to the part in the story where Erren-dar has left Addania to accept the Great-turog’s challenge to fight for the survival of the city.”

  “It would be incorrect to refer to him as Erren-dar at this sage,” Triana objected. “At this stage, it was not known that he was the Wielder of the Sword of Flame referred to in the Book of Light – in fact he didn’t even know it himself. He was known to us simply as Celedorn.”

  “Ah yes, an excellent point,” agreed Bethro, making a minute alteration to his manuscript.

  “Now, what I want to know is this - did the Great-turog recognise him the moment he saw him?”

  “No. He had been told he was going to fight the Lord of Westrin but he had no idea who that was, as he was convinced that he had slain the entire Westrin family over twenty years before. He had no idea that the boy he had left injured in the forest all those years ago had, in fact, survived and would now be his opponent.”

  Bethro looked up. “He found that daunting, perhaps?”

  Triana laughed. “Not at all, perhaps a little disconcerting, but you must remember that all the Great-turog were over seven feet tall and none of them had ever been defeated by a man in single combat. He had no doubt of his ability to win. Indeed, when he realised who Celedorn was, he began to taunt him about that evil day so long ago, but in doing so, he made a mistake for he inflamed his opponent’s anger, and Celedorn, when angry, was a daunting proposition.”

  “Was it at this stage that it became clear that Celedorn was in fact Erren-dar?”

  “Yes. Relisar, the last of the Sages, had several times before conducted the summoning spell intended to make Erren-dar appear as predicted in the Book of Light, but it had always failed. He came to realise that he had to solve the riddle of the Champion’s names before he could summon him, and he did indeed solve it - just in the nick of time - as the two armies faced each other to watch their champions fight. When he called out the spell, he ordered Celedorn to draw his sword, and as he did so, everyone could see that along the edges of the blade there burned an intensely blue flame.” Triana sighed, but her eyes were glowing at the recollection. “I have never seen anything like it, Bethro, yet I still feared for him. My dear Andarion often said that Celedorn was by far the most gifted swordsman that he had ever seen, but standing there that day watching that creature tower above him with cruelty in its yellow eyes, I feared for him.”

  “He did not flinch from his task?”

  “Indeed no. He had been searching for the Great-turog for twenty years, consumed by the desire for vengeance and he knew he could not rest until the issue had been faced. No, Celedorn was eager for the fight.”

  “Wonderful! Wonderful!” exclaimed Bethro, obviously fired with enthusiasm. “Now, I have gone through the fight scene with you before and have it down tolerably well, but perhaps you could describe how Celedorn looked in a little more detail for me? I know he was tall and dark but perhaps you could be a little more precise?”

  “If you want to get some idea how he looked, study his grandson. The present Lord of Westrin has something of the air of his grandfather, although not as dark and not such an air of restrained violence about him. Perhaps it is not unfair to say that he is like a more
civilised version of his grandfather.”

  “Celedorn was very good friends with King Andarion, I believe?”

  “Indeed he was. For two men not at all alike in personality, he and my dear Andarion were very close and remained so their entire lives – just as I remained friends with Elorin. She changed Celedorn, once they were married, you know. The harshness in him softened and the bitterness that had been planted in him in his youth faded away. They made Ravenshold a home again and Celedorn brought the Barony of Westrin back to a state of law and order. The days when the brigands raided all those who passed through the mountains, seemed a very long time ago. The days when bitterness had driven Celedorn to such an occupation, even more so.”

  She lapsed into silence. Her mind, having stepped through the portals of the past, was reluctant to return to the present. She stared into the fire, deep in thought, having forgotten Bethro’s presence entirely. The Keeper of Antiquities, with surprising sensitivity, sat quietly watching her, refusing to break into her thoughts and force them where they did not wish to go.

  Once again, it was the pert little maid who interrupted them.

  “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but you did say that if My Lord of Westrin called, I was to show him in.”

  Triana looked up swiftly, as if a little disorientated to realise where she was. “Yes, indeed. Please show him in.” She turned to her companion. “We will finish this another time, if you please, Bethro.”

  He hastily gathered up his papers and prepared to bow his way out of the room just as Westrin arrived.

  “My lord,” he said, executing another quick bow which caused him to shed a few parchments. “I...er...trust you are well?” he asked, frantically grabbing his belongings.

  Westrin smiled that rather superior smile that always flustered the older man. “I am well, thank you, Bethro. How goes your magnificent poem?”

  Suspecting him of irony but unable to do anything about it, Bethro replied: “Oh, slowly but surely, my lord. Queen Triana’s help has been invaluable to me.”

  He then bundled himself out the door before his rather daunting interlocutor could say anything more.

  Triana wagged a finger at her visitor in admonition. “You are not very kind to our poor Bethro,” she chided. “His poem honours your grandfather, you know. You should be more appreciative.”

  Vesarion shrugged. “My grandfather? The brigand, you mean?”

  The Queen’s eyes narrowed at the tone but she decided to let the comment pass. “Come into the light and let me look at you.” She studied him from the crown of his dark brown hair to the toes of his boots. “A little older and a little more set in your ways, I imagine,” was her verdict.

  He bent and kissed her cheek. “Whereas you have not changed by a hairsbreadth,” he murmured.

  Her finger pointed at him accusingly again. “Don’t play your tricks on me Vesarion. I’ve know you since you were born. Not changed by a hairsbreadth indeed!” she snorted derisively. “I know what that means. It means I’m still the cantankerous old lady I have always been.”

  He laughed and sat down opposite her. “ You wrong me, grandmother. I simply mean that you do not age.”

  “Bah!” exclaimed the Queen, clearly unimpressed. “Practice your flattery on someone a little younger. What age are you anyway, Vesarion? Thirty-four? thirty-five?”

  He pulled down his mouth. “Thirty-six, ma’am.”

  “High time you were getting married, then. The House of Westrin hovers perpetually on the brink of extinction. You are the last of the Westrins, time you married and thought about another generation.”

  A muscle quivered in his cheek. “As always, I will do my best to oblige you.”

  “Very pretty. But I well know you take no one’s counsel but your own.” Suddenly embarking on another issue, she demanded: “What did that horrible grandson of mine want to see you about?”

  “It was the King who summoned me, ma’am.”

  “I never thought to say this of my own son, but Meldorin is a fool. Apart from his fair colouring, I see nothing of his father in him. He is weak and lets himself be dominated by others.” Her eyes suddenly twinkled mischievously. “Which was fine as long as he listened to me, but I’m too old for politics now and he had fallen completely under the thumb of the….that….popinjay who calls himself the Crown Prince.”

  “Don’t distress yourself, grandmother. In fact the King wanted to see me about an issue that you, yourself, are always bringing up. He too thinks that it is time that I should…er…settle down.”

  “Oh? I take it that he has someone in mind for you?”

  “Yes,” he replied laconically. “Sareth.”

  “What!”

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” he replied urbanely.

  “Sareth! But…..”

  “She did not tell you?”

  The old woman looked astounded. “ No, not a word. She has changed recently. She used to confide in me, but now she keeps to herself. She has become quiet and withdrawn. I thought perhaps that it was her brother’s attempts to marry her off to his advantage that was vexing her, but she must know that he cannot force her to do such a thing.”

  “You are referring to the King of Serendar?”

  She nodded “Very subdued she was when she came back. What does she say about all this?”

  “She is apparently agreeable.”

  “What do you mean ‘apparently’?”

  “The King informs me that she is willing to receive my addresses.”

  Triana looked at him coldly. “You have not spoken to her yourself?”

  “Not yet. I intend to see her this evening.”

  There was a tense pause, broken finally by the Queen. “You don’t love her, do you? After all, how could you, you have barely seen her these last number of years. When you went to Ravenshold to take up your inheritance, she was but a child and you have seen little of her since. This smacks of a political deal manoeuvred by Enrick. He is finding some of the barons something of a handful to manage, so he thinks by marrying you to his sister, he will secure your services against them.”

  Vesarion shrugged. “I imagine that is what is in his mind.”

  “And you would go along with this?” she asked incredulously.

  “As you say, grandmother, I am not getting any younger. An alliance between your house and mine is not unusual after all. If you wish for a precedent you need look no further than the fact that my great-grandsire married a royal princess.”

  “So, Sareth is acceptable to you because she is of the Royal House? I take it that you consider nothing less would suit your pride? I always knew you valued your own worth, Vesarion, but this is the first time I have come to realise that you are arrogant.” She shook her head in sad recollection. “You were too young when your parents died, too young when the reins of government were thrust into your hands. For too long now you have been accustomed to having your will obeyed, and it has not improved you as a human being. It would seem that you have become cold and selfish. Just a few moments ago, I was telling Bethro that if he wanted an idea of what Celedorn was like, he should look no further than you, but I was wrong. You are not like your grandfather. Although he could effect coldness to put someone he disliked in their place, he was not in fact a cold man but one who was intensely passionate. I never saw him so emotionless as I see you now.”

  He rose suddenly to his feet as if her comments had finally touched him on the raw. “I do not understand this idolisation of Celedorn,” he remarked coldly. “Before he gained the respectability of becoming Erren-dar, he was a brigand, robbing and pillaging, bringing shame on the noble name he bore.”

  “There was a reason for that, which you know very well.”

  “I do not find any reason sufficient justification for dragging the name of Westrin through the mud,” he replied tightly.

  Triana leaned back in her chair, surveying him thoughtfully. “Sit down, Vesarion,” she commanded softly. He stared at her, an arres
ted expression on his face, as if he would have liked to have told her to go to the devil, but finally he complied. Triana resumed: “I always thought it strange that Celedorn’s son was not like him. He was like Elorin. He had her laughing eyes and open disposition, yet in you, and you alone, I thought I saw the blood of Westrin run true and it comes as a severe disappointment to me that you do not carry their greatness of spirit.” She saw him stiffen a little at the words. “Oh, I admit you have many admirable qualities. You have courage and determination, you are fair-minded and loyal, but you have no love in you. All you have is pride – and pride was the first and greatest sin ever to enter this world.”

  “I thought it was jealousy.”

  “No, Vesarion. The humble are not jealous, only the proud. You marry Sareth to suit your own dignity. You take, but you do not give. Have you ever stopped to wonder if you can make her happy? No, to you, being Lady of Westrin is happiness enough. But is it enough for Sareth? Have you asked her?” They stared at one another in silence. “You disappoint me, Vesarion,” she added quietly.

  “Perhaps it is Sareth who disappoints you,” he suggested stiffly. “According to Eimer, having failed to become Queen of Serendar, Lady of Westrin was her next choice.”

  “I admit that Sareth does not confide in me any more, but that does not sound like her.”

  He shrugged indifferently. “People change.”

  “So it would seem,” she responded dryly.

  “I realise that I have vexed you, grandmother. But believe me that was not my intention. I will do my best to make Sareth happy. Despite all you say about me, I would not be deliberately unkind.”

  Her face softened. “My dear Vesarion, I did not say you were unkind. You have just had life a little too much your own way so far. Sometimes a little adversity is character-forming. Speak to Sareth, if you wish, but remember, I would rather you married a peasant girl if you but loved her.”

  The Queen would have been dismayed, but not entirely surprised, to know that her words had not deflected Westrin from his purpose. When he left her apartments, he crossed a cobbled courtyard in which stood an ivy-covered tower, now dark and deserted, and entered another wing of the palace by a small side door, also in danger of being submerged by the rampant ivy. He swiftly passed along a dimly-lit corridor panelled in a sombre, dark wood, until he reached the foot of a magnificent, ornately carved staircase. A few swift bounds took him to the top, where he came face to face with an oaken door delicately carved with a tracery of vine leaves. For the first time his purposeful progress halted and he stood outside the door for a moment with a slight, uncharacteristic air of indecision. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned the handle.