The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  A young woman was waiting for him in the salon that lay beyond, just as he had known she would be. The deep red curtains had been drawn against the night and the room was rendered cosy with the glow of the fire and several branches of candles. Sareth, too, wore red, the royal colour of the Eskendrian kings. A gown of velvet clung closely to her slender figure before falling to the floor in luxuriant folds. Around her neck lay a fragile necklace of the famous moonpearls of Serendar. She had been sitting gazing abstractedly into the fire but when her cousin entered, she started to her feet and stood staring at him tensely as if she had never met him before.

  He had not seen her in several years and was forced to admit that she had improved. Her light brown hair fell in an unfettered, curling mass down her back, and her grey eyes looked at him steadily. To be critical, he was forced to admit that she did not quite merit the epithet ‘beautiful’ for her chin was a little too determined, her nose a little too aquiline, but only the most censorious would have found fault with her appearance.

  She stood watching him, making no move to be the first to speak. He advanced towards her, for the first time feeling a little unsure of himself.

  “Cousin, you look well,” he said formally.

  “Thank you, Vesarion. So do you. The mountain air must agree with you.”

  He smiled slightly. “That younger brother of yours thinks that I get too much mountain air. He informs me I am becoming uncivilised.”

  She shook her head. “That is Eimer’s attempt at humour. I have always found you most punctilious,” she observed, in a rather starched manner that he did not recognise. He began to realise that Eimer’s assessment of his sister had been correct – the tumultuous tomboy had disappeared and a reserved, rather correct woman had taken her place.

  Still she did not move from her place by her chair. As the silence stretched between them uncomfortably, Vesarion realised that the stiffness between them would only be broken by frankness – something that suited his mood exactly.

  “I think we need to talk, Sareth. Your father informs me that you know the reason for my visit but I would rather hear from you how you feel about the matter. I trust that Enrick is not putting any pressure on you.”

  She had sunk, stiff-backed, into the chair again, but looked up swiftly at the words, as if startled. “What makes you say that?”

  He took a chair facing her and leaned forward earnestly. “Ravenshold may be remote but I know your brother. He will use any method to achieve his ends. I assume he gave you a difficult time upon your return from Serendar.”

  She nodded. “He wished for an alliance with Serendar, that is why I was sent there. He is convinced that my failure was deliberate, and has spoken bitterly and at length on the subject. Do you….do you care that I was sent on such a mission?”

  If she expected him to show jealousy, she was disappointed. “Such an alliance would have been desirable but I think he went about it the wrong way.” He smiled slightly “But then I feel Enrick goes about everything the wrong way.”

  “Including this?”

  “Yes. He thinks that if we marry, he will command my services at his pleasure. What do you think, Sareth? Will he?”

  “No, but let him believe it if he pleases.”

  Her eyes dropped to her lap and she began to twist a ring round and round on her finger. It was the only sign of agitation she had shown.

  Observing this, he asked: “And what do you wish? Do you wish to become Lady of Westrin? Is that what you want? If it is not, or if you have any doubts, do not fear that you will spend the rest of your life hearing reproaches from Enrick. I will tell him that I was the one to withdraw, and he can like that or not as he wills. His displeasure will have little effect on me.” He paused, then added dryly: “Especially if I remain out of earshot at Ravenshold.”

  “Do you wish to withdraw?” she asked quietly.

  “No.” His denial was swift enough to be flattering, but she read nothing more into it than his usual determination once his mind was made up.

  She decided that she also could be determined. Drawing a deep breath, she declared: “Then I, too, will stand fast.”

  “Thank you, Sareth.”

  “Like you, I seldom see eye to eye with my brother, and lately, I feel that father, too, has distanced himself from me. Apart from grandmother, I feel I have hardly any family left.”

  “What about Eimer?”

  She frowned. “I cannot depend on Eimer. He makes an art-form out of unreliability. Instead of being the voice of reason with my father, he acts the fool, always involved in some infantile prank that plays nicely into Enrick’s hands. Still, I suppose all this only troubles me because I am so close to it. I assume from the distance of the mountains all these things will shrink to their proper perspective.”

  She rose to her feet, indicating that the interview was coming to a close, and stood looking at him expectantly. He also arose and they faced one other.

  Feeling that some kind of conclusion to their conversation was needed, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a golden ring set with a beautiful diamond surrounded by tiny moonpearls. “I would be deeply honoured if you would wear this as a token of our betrothal, Sareth.”

  Silently, she held out her hand and watched as he gently slid the ring onto her finger.

  Vesarion, uncertain as to whether he was expected to mark the occasion by some show of affection, leaned towards her to kiss her, but she was staring at him with such a wooden, unemotional look on her face, that he was a little daunted, and instead settled for lightly kissing her cheek. She did not withdraw from him, but neither did she give any indication that the kiss gave her pleasure. He found her difficult to fathom.

  More to break the silence than for any other reason, he said: “I hope you will like Ravenshold. You have not been there since you were a child. I hope you won’t find it too remote.”

  “No, it couldn’t be too remote for me. The further away from Addania the better.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m tired of the city. Tired of all the intrigues. The clean mountain air appeals to me.”

  “You will miss Eimer and grandmother?”

  “Yes, but Eimer is perfectly capable of making his way to Ravenshold as many times as he wishes and as for grandmother? She….well, she has been worrying me lately.”

  Vesarion raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I visited her just a short while ago. She seemed in excellent health.”

  “She does but…oh, I don’t know. Recently she has been saying that when Bethro’s epic poem is finished, her time here on earth will be done. Increasingly, she lives in the past, in the days of Erren-dar. The present seems an intrusion to her, a nuisance. She has been talking more and more about grandfather recently, even though he has been dead twenty years. Hardly a conversation takes place without her referring to her ‘dear Andarion’.” Her voice sunk low. “She loved him very greatly, you know, and even now, she still loves him.”

  “Such a thing is rare.”

  “Very rare,” she agreed in a subdued voice.

  Bethro, glad to escape from Vesarion’s intimidating clutches, was comfortably ensconced in his little cubby-hole of a room, overlooking the courtyard where stood the old ivy-covered tower. He was standing at the latticed window, his back turned to the chaotic, ink-stained disaster that was his room and was thoughtfully regarding the darkening scene. The tower had been abandoned for a long time now and was showing signs of neglect. For most of Bethro’s life it had seemed immune to time, immune to change. But now, as he regarded it closely, he saw that it, too, was going the way of all things. Some of the little panes in the latticed windows were cracked, there were gaps in the mortar and the hinges on the oak door – the only means of access - were visibly rusting.

  Bethro sighed. The tower had once belonged to Relisar, the last of the old Brotherhood of Sages, the last with the gift of enchantment. Now, since his death, it had stood unoccupied, a physical reminder that the old Orders of th
e Book, the Flower and the Sword were finally gone and magic existed no more in the world of men. There were no new apprentices with the latent gift. No masters left to develop their talent and train them in the Arts of Light. The world had become a mundane, work-a-day place.

  Even Keesha, the invisible spirit that had guarded the tower, was gone, departed, they said, the very moment that Relisar had died.

  Bethro, despite his comfortable, rounded appearance and fondness for good food and wine, was in his heart a hopeless romantic and longed for the return of those days. Now, alas, there were no more adventures, no more tales-in-the-making of courage and love and sacrifice. No more magnificent stories, like how Elorin’s love had saved Celedorn from bitterness and enabled him to become Erren-dar. In a dusty, unexplored corner of his mind, seldom inspected, he knew that his obsession with history was no dry exercise in gathering facts, but a yearning for great deeds and stirring events.

  However, the familiar view of the tower was causing Bethro some uneasiness that evening. Although he was proud of his title ‘Keeper of the Sword’ he knew in his heart that he was neglectful of his duties. He felt that the old tower, which he so seldom visited, was silently reproaching him and his conscience, usually an amiable companion, was awake and inconveniently pricking him. The truth was that he disliked visiting the tower. He disliked the silence and the darkness and the sense of waiting. His failure was not entirely the result of sloth, but an indefinable unease that took him the moment he forced open the little door against its rusting hinges. For Bethro could not rid himself of the feeling that he was being watched, and by eyes that did not wish him well. He wondered if Keesha had really gone. Perhaps she still lurked there, a hostile and invisible presence, resenting any intrusion into her domain. He was supposed to visit the sword once a week to check on its safety and make sure the blade was polished. In actual fact, the second part of his task was superfluous, for it never dulled or tarnished, nor did it ever lose its edge – as he had discovered to his cost in one careless moment.

  The memory caused him to turn over his hand and examine the thin, white scar that adorned his palm. The sword was sufficient of itself. It did not need him. It lay on its velvet cushions, beautiful, deadly and unchanging. So Bethro’s visits became rarer and rarer as he succumbed to cowardice, and now, casting back in his mind, he realised with a shock that it had been six months since he had last unlocked that little pointed door and forced back the ivy.

  The thought elicited another sigh from him. The nagging of conscience was becoming so acute that it was almost driving him to the point of having to face his fear – almost, but not quite. He knew that duty demanded that he fetch a lantern, unlock the door with the key attached to his belt by its silver chain, and descend into that quiet, death-like blackness. But as Bethro watched the shadows deepen and night descend, he cravenly decided that his conscience could wait until the morning.

  A glass of mead beside a cosy fire in his favourite tavern would soothe his ruffled feathers and restore his normal good humour, and after all, the sword would still be there in the morning.

  Chapter Four

  Bethro’s fall from Grace

  The day was so bright and clear that it irresistibly tempted Queen Triana to do something that she now seldom did – leave her chambers and take a turn around the walled garden. The air was crisp and still. Every breath hung like mist for a moment before quickly vanishing, like a half-finished thought. A blackbird, a little confused about the time of year, or else just wishing to steal a march on its kindred, was casting forth his clear call, puffing out his chest and telling the world what a handsome fellow he was. The daffodils, responding to the sunshine, loitered in golden crowds, turning up their faces to the light, shivering a little when touched by the cool breeze. In fact, the only cloud in an otherwise perfect sky was the presence of the chatty little maid, who, despite all attempts at persuading her to the contrary, insisted on accompanying her mistress, taking her arm protectively.

  “A perfect spring day,” murmured the Queen, as they descended the stone steps from the terrace onto the formal lawn.

  But the maid viewed nature in a purely practical light. “Oh, it’s clear, Ma’am, but cold, very cold. Really, I think you would be so much better by the cosy fire in your apartments.”

  “I’m tired of the cosy fire in my apartments,” Triana replied tartly. “I want a change of scene.” She refrained from adding – ‘and a change of company’. “You may leave me now. I’m quite all right on my own.”

  The maid was horrified. “Oh, no, Ma’am, I couldn’t do that! If anything happened to you, the King would murder me!”

  The old woman raised her eyebrows. “And what, pray, do you suppose will happen to me within the palace gardens? Kidnapped by brigands, no doubt?” Fortunately for Triana, just as the maid drew breath to expostulate, her eye fell on her granddaughter sitting by the fountain. “There is Sareth,” she announced with the satisfaction of someone who knows they have just won an argument. “She can protect me from the brigands.”

  The maid, unimpressed by the Queen’s humour, bobbed a disapproving curtsey and was gone.

  Triana followed the path to the place where her granddaughter sat staring into the waters of the fountain and sat down with a sigh beside her. She did not fail to notice her companion’s thoughtful, indeed, rather sombre demeanour.

  “Not quite the expression one would expect on a young woman’s face the day after she announces her betrothal.”

  Sareth summoned up a smile. “You missed the banquet last night, grandmother, but as usual, you know all that goes on. I kept hoping that you would come. Somehow a celebration is not complete without you.”

  “Was it a celebration, Sareth?”

  All she got in response was a shrug. “My brother was certainly celebrating, for in one fell swoop he got rid of me and secured Westrin’s services for the crown.”

  “Political matchmaking?”

  “What else?”

  “And what about Vesarion?”

  The reply was evasive. “What about him?”

  “Look me in the eye, my child,” the Queen insisted gently. When Sareth did not obey, she crooked her finger under her chin, and turned her face up to the light, but the grey eyes still would not meet hers.

  “Why are you marrying him, my dear? He does not love you. So why would you do this? What chance of happiness is there for either of you in such a union?”

  Sareth turned her face away. “What chance of happiness is there for me here?” she murmured. Then straightening up, she smiled suddenly, a pale, wintry smile not yet touched by spring. “Do you remember when I was a child I once told you I wished that I had been born a boy?”

  The Queen nodded and chuckled at the recollection. “You certainly lived like one,” she declared. “Climbing trees, falling out of windows, fighting with Eimer and generally getting into mischief.”

  Sareth could not restrain a laugh at the description but there was a tinge of regret there too.

  “I was quite a tearaway, wasn’t I? But suddenly it all ended. On my eighteenth birthday I was told to put up my hair, put on a dress and behave like a lady.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “It meant the end of my freedom. It meant being bored, restrained and ordered around by fools like Enrick.”

  “My dear, I could not see you being ordered around by anyone. You have your mother’s strength of will. Live life as you choose.”

  Sareth swung round to face the Queen, her eyes fierce. “But what choice do I have? I have nothing, grandmother, nothing. Unlike Enrick or Eimer I have no land, no estates, nowhere to run to. I owe everything I have, from the roof over my head to the very clothes I stand in, to my father’s goodwill – and these days that means Enrick’s goodwill. In return I am supposed to earn my keep by making a marriage that is politically advantageous to Eskendria. That is what is expected of me. That is the duty of a royal princess. Yet time after time I have failed in my duty and f
oiled Enrick’s plans to marry me off. Again and again I have managed to scare off potential suitors, until Enrick has finally run out of patience with me, and now has informed me that if I do not marry Westrin, he will disown me as his sister and throw me out on the street.”

  The Queen’s eyes snapped with anger. “He wouldn’t dare!”

  “Wouldn’t he? He dares anything these days. My father constantly defers to his will. Eimer refuses to face up to his responsibilities.Who is to stop him?”

  Triana’s eyes still blazed “If he tries anything of the sort he will find he has me to deal with.”

  Sareth shook her head in despair. “I’m sorry, grandmother, but he cares nothing for that. He has my father where he wants him and no one can now gainsay him. Do you not know that in all but name he now rules Eskendria?”

  The fire faded in the Queen’s eyes and she became reflective. “Vesarion could stop him, if he put his mind to it. How much of this does he know?”

  “Of Enrick’s threat to me? – nothing. As for the rest, I’m not sure. He says little, and you know what Vesarion is like – utterly impossible to read. I don’t know whether his reticence on the subject merely stems from his usual closeness, or whether news of what happens here simply never gets through to Ravenshold.”