The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  “Oh, he has the measure of Enrick, my dear. The question is, what will he do about it? He is very loyal to your father, and such a high sense of duty may very well make it incumbent upon him to be loyal to the Crown Prince, too, no matter how much it goes against the grain. Vesarion has his faults but he is neither a fool nor a traitor. He knows very well that if the Barony of Westrin pits its strength against the royal house, it will plunge Eskendria into civil war. He will not want that, for he is a man who loves order. Revolution is not part of his make-up.”

  “This offer of marriage clearly indicates that he has thrown in his lot with the royal house,” observed Sareth dejectedly. “Enrick, it seems, has achieved his aim.”

  Triana sat watching her granddaughter pensively for a while. Sareth, with the knowledge of long acquaintanceship, knew that something important was brewing.

  Finally, the Queen clasped her hands tightly and decided to face the issue that had been troubling her since the conversation began.

  “I think it rather unkind of you, Sareth, to try to deceive an old woman.”

  Sareth’s eyes widened. “Grandmother!”

  “You have not been altogether honest with me, have you? Don’t forget, I have known you since you were a baby, and although I know that what you have told me is true, it is not the whole story, is it? Enrick’s threat to throw you out is not the whole reason you accepted Vesarion’s proposal, is it?”

  Sareth dropped her head again. “No,” she whispered.

  The Queen reached forward and gently placed her hand on the bowed head. “Tell me what troubles you, my dear?” she asked gently.

  The head shook slightly under her hand. “I can’t. Maybe some day, but not now.”

  “You have become very reticent of late, not like the little girl who used to tell me everything. You know you were always my favourite. I always thought it a great pity that you had not been an only child.”

  Sareth gave a gasp, half shocked, half amused. “Grandmother, you are truly outrageous!”

  Triana gave a saucy smile, as if it pleased her still to be able to shock. “Really? Do you not think I know that my elder grandson calls me an old witch and that reprobate of a younger grandson announces to all and sundry that he is terrified of me and would rather face a whole army of Turog? Ha! He only says that because he has never had to face one, and very likely never will. I have given up any hope I had of him growing up, accepting his responsibilities and putting a brake on Enrick’s ambitions. Is it not enough for Enrick that he will be king one day? Can he not wait for death to deliver what he wants? The only one who could do anything is Vesarion, and I will confess to you Sareth, that lately I find I no longer understand him. He has grown distant from me in that eagle’s nest of his, shunning the court and its intrigues. When he speaks now I can no longer see behind the words into his mind. It’s not that I think he is deceitful, like Enrick, saying one thing and thinking another, it’s just that he is a closed book.” She looked off across the garden, her gaze distant. “Or perhaps it is just that I am getting old. It’s too late for me to fight such battles anymore. I must leave such things to a younger generation, and with Eimer being what he is, that means you and Vesarion.” She sighed regretfully. “If only it had been a love match, I would be very well content to leave you in his care, and depart in peace, but as it is, I fear he will only break your heart.”

  It was Sareth’s turn to gaze into the distance. “Perhaps my heart is not so fragile.”

  “Then you do not know yourself, my dear. I know for certain that whatever his reasons for making this proposal, love does not number amongst them. That spells only misery.”

  A rather set face was turned to her. “I have to do this, grandmother, I have to. You do not know the full extent of Enrick’s plans. This is the only way I can protect Vesarion, for as you have just said, without him we are lost.”

  Triana’s brows met together. “Protect him? What exactly is Enrick up to?”

  “I….I can’t tell you. I can’t. But believe me, I will do whatever I can to keep Vesarion safe – the irony is that he will never know it.”

  “I will not press you to tell me more if you do not wish to, but tell me one thing – are you sure you know what you are doing? Westrin has many excellent qualities but he is both proud and stubborn. You have scarcely set eyes on him in the last few years, so any preconceived ideas you might have about him should be discarded. You were very young when he left to rule Westrin and perhaps you have constructed in your mind a fairy tale figure that bears little resemblance to reality. He, on the other hand, has some six-and-thirty years under his belt and has ruled Westrin for the best part of twenty of them. He has acquired the habit of command and is not likely at this late stage to change his ways. He is not about to suffer any check on his will, least of all from a girl almost ten years his junior.”

  To her surprise, Sareth smiled. “You make him sound tyrannical.”

  The old woman’s serious expression softened. “No, at least, not intentionally. He may not think it, but he has still much to learn about himself. Before he broached the matter to you, I told him that he should only marry for love, but he didn’t heed me. You see, he had made up his mind what he was going to do, and once he has done that, it is about as easy to deflect him as it is to hold back the tide. So once again, I ask you, are you certain that you know what you are doing?”

  Sareth stared out across the bare garden to the ivy-covered palace walls. “I am doing what must be done. You see, grandmother,” she added with a wan smile, “I can be every bit as stubborn as he is.”

  The boy had the strangest amber-coloured eyes that the landlord of the inn had ever seen. They were not the more common dog-like brown, nor yet were they hazel, shot through with green or blue, but were instead the colour of a deep mountain pool when the sun plumbs its depths, turning everything to the colour of mead.

  The youth stood in the dim corridor at the back of the inn that lead from the stable yard to the taproom. His hands were clasped lightly behind his back and while he waited for his host to appear, he studied with strange intensity, a roughly-done sketch hanging on the wall. The sound of the landlord’s footsteps caused him to turn from his study and with a nonchalance that was just a little too perfect to be natural, he said: “I trust your stable-lad informed you that I require one of your best rooms, landlord. I am uncertain as to the duration of my stay but probably about a week – possibly two.”

  His interlocutor, with the well-practiced speed of his species, was rapidly assessing his new customer - principally with regard to his ability to pay.

  He was forced to admit that the boy who stood before him, regarding him with those strange amber eyes, was hard to categorise. He was slightly built, with a mop of glossy black hair, but was too fair skinned to come from the south, from the arid regions that bordered the Great Desert. His style of clothes was obviously foreign, as was his accent, but his attire was of good quality. It was difficult to say what age he was, because although he had the self-possession of someone older, his smooth face and fine features suggested youth. The landlord guessed he might be as young as fifteen, certainly too young to be travelling alone.

  Still puzzled, the landlord produced his standard welcoming smile. “Where are your travelling companions, young man?” he asked. “You seem to have travelled far, surely not on your own? Is your father with you?”

  The boy’s black brows instantly descended into a heavy frown, as if he considered being questioned an impertinence.

  “I have travelled from the Isles of Kelendore,” he replied curtly. “And my father does not consider me too young to be travelling alone. In fact, if you must know, he has sent me to Addania to further my education. Now, do you have a room available or not?”

  The landlord was not so easily put down. “No offence, young master, but do you realise that in a superior establishment like the Moat Inn, accommodation does not come cheap? Oh no, a good room here can cost up to as much as a de
mi-crown a night. Perhaps a more modest hostelry would suit you better.”

  The scowl was thunderous by now. In reply the boy reached into his pocket and placed a full crown on the landlord’s palm, with something of a snap.

  “I will pay you in advance for two night’s stay – and I require stabling for my horse,” he said curtly. “I trust that is acceptable.”

  The landlord looked at the gleam of silver in his hand and resisted the temptation to carry it to the light. Clearly the young brat was used to getting his own way. Probably some wealthy merchant’s spoilt son.

  As if realising that alienating his host was not the best way to proceed, the scowl suddenly left the boy’s face and he smiled quite charmingly. Turning to the sketch he had been admiring, he said: “I’ve come to study Eskendrian history. My father felt my education was not complete without it.”

  The landlord, who indeed had not reacted well to his guest’s abrasive style, was unable to resist the charm in the smile and thawed a little.

  “I see you’ve taken a fancy to the sketch.”

  “Yes, I was wondering if it was an accurate historical representation of events, or whether it was just the product of the artist’s imagination?”

  The landlord rubbed his chin, as if a little perplexed by the question. “Well, the artist would have been too young to have been present at the last siege of Addania but some histories have been written about those times, so he could have used those as his inspiration. Why, Bethro, the King’s librarian, is presently composing an epic poem in honour of Queen Triana, recording the events in verse.” He nodded towards the sketch. “I think this is meant to represent the moment when the old Sage, Relisar, used the summoning spell to bring forth Erren-dar, the champion predicted in the prophesy to save the city in its darkest hour.”

  The boy peered closer in the gloom. “What is this that is shown on the edge of the sword that Erren-dar is holding?”

  “They say that when the spell was proclaimed, a blue flame burned for an instant along the edge of the blade. At least, that is the legend. I cannot tell you for certain because it was a bit before my time, I’m afraid.”

  But the lad’s eyes were glowing. “It’s not just a story then? It really happened?”

  The landlord laughed indulgently, not proof against such enthusiasm. “You might be interested to know that the original sword still exists, right here in Addania.”

  “Can I see it?” the boy asked eagerly.

  “Oh, no. It’s kept securely locked away in the Ivy Tower in the citadel. Why, they say that as long as the sword remains in Eskendria, a hostile army will never invade again. Bethro has the only key to the tower because, amongst his other duties, he is the sword’s keeper – and I would guess, knowing Bethro, that even the King doesn’t get to see it. Actually,” he added, another thought striking him, “if you want to know about the history of those days, you could ask no better person than Bethro. He comes in here most evenings for a drop of cheer. If you like, I’ll point him out to you.” He chuckled. “Mind you, getting Bethro to talk about those days is not a problem, it is getting him to stop that is the problem. Properly obsessed, he is. Now, let me show you to your room.”

  The subject of the conversation that had taken place between Triana and Sareth in the garden, was staring across another part of the grounds but this time from within the palace. The criss-crossed bands of the latticed windows divided the outside scene into neat geometrical shapes, but Westrin saw nothing of what lay before his eyes. His thoughts were bent intensely inwards. Like Sareth, he too was suffering the qualms of misgivings, but for an entirely different reason. Prince Enrick was being so entirely pleasant and reasonable that some instinct for self-preservation was making his hackles rise. For the first time he had begun to suffer doubts that he had correctly read the Prince’s intentions. It was not as if he had anything concrete to go on. The Prince had neither said nor done anything that could reasonably be said to arouse suspicions – other than being somewhat suffocatingly nice. But Westrin knew of old that it was against Enrick’s nature to go the direct route to any destination and he began to suspect that he had been drawn into some scheme of which he had barely scratched the surface. Certainly, if the depth of his villainy matched his present affability, he was planning something of truly dastardly proportions.

  All their lives, if the two men even shared the same space together, the air had crackled like an electrical storm on a sultry summer’s day. Since adulthood had brought them to their respective roles in the Kingdom, the rules of society had obliged them to avoid the more physical confrontations of boyhood. So now their personalities clashed in a battle of wills – a battle in which Vesarion was at a slight disadvantage due to the fact that he was forced to show the necessary respect to the office of Crown Prince. But this time, everything had changed. Enrick was charm itself, laughingly turning aside every verbal thrust, going out of his way to welcome his erstwhile enemy as his future brother-in-law – an epithet that Vesarion found slightly nauseating.

  He decided the best course of action was to do nothing but wait and watch. Sooner or later Enrick would make a slip that would reveal his state of mind.

  At last he turned from the window to where Enrick and the King sat awaiting his reply. Each was seated in an armchair on either side of a blazing fire. The King was gazing into the flames, lost in some far away place. He wore a long robe of sombre green which made him look older than his sixty odd years. Indeed, Vesarion was shocked by how much the King had aged in the last year. He had begun to look like a man who found his crown a heavy burden.

  Enrick, in contrast, although about the same age as Vesarion, appeared even younger. He stood up from his chair and leaned his hand negligently against the mantelshelf. As always, he was dressed richly in wine-coloured velvet, a golden chain hanging around his neck. He knew himself to be handsome and took almost indecent pleasure in the thought that he outdid his rival in this respect - but in fact he erred. Although every feature of the Prince’s visage, taken individually, was good, his face was less than the sum of its parts. It was, perhaps, his habitual expression that marred the effect, a shadow of the bitter character within. Vesarion noted that Enrick had grown a beard during the last year, sculpted with such care around his lips and jawline that it unfortunately trumpeted his vanity.

  The Prince’s rival, on the other hand, cared nothing for vanity. He was clean-shaven and his brown hair was cut with military shortness. His attire, though appropriate to his rank, bore the plainness of a man who thought little about his appearance. The Prince would have been galled, had he but known it, that for all the fair-haired good looks that his mirror told him he possessed, when the two men were in a room together, it was Vesarion who drew the eye.

  If any of these thoughts were passing through the Prince’s mind that morning, nothing of them appeared in his manner. He leaned forward with all the eagerness of a terrier at a rat hole. In contrast with his father, he appeared vigorous and decisive. His confidence had grown markedly in the last year, almost in direct proportion to the King’s decline.

  Vesarion directed a sharp glance towards the Prince, revealing nothing of his thoughts. “All you have told me is interesting enough in its way, but I see no evidence that the eastern baronies are on the edge of revolt. My Lord of Sorne may be hot-tempered and a little rash, and I can well believe that this new tax of yours hit hard, but he is by his very nature direct. If he felt you had dealt with him unfairly, the first thing he would do would be to get on his horse and come to Addania to tell you so to your face. The others may grumble a bit and complain, but that is a far cry from insurrection. I think you read too much into a bit of discontent.”

  “That is not what my informants tell me.”

  Westrin shrugged disdainfully. “Informants? You mean the scoundrels who take your gold then tell you what you want to hear?”

  Enrick lost a little of his poise. “Do you think I want to hear of revolt?” he snapped.


  His cousin eyed him coolly. “Do you not?” he asked softly.

  The Prince shot a swift look at his father before reattaching his smile. “Come, Westrin, let us not quarrel when there is no need. I assure you that we are of one mind in this matter. We both know that Eskendria’s strength lies in her unity and anything that undermines that unity is something that we both abhor.”

  Westrin merely bowed slightly in reply, disconcerted that the mask was back in place so quickly. He briefly turned his eyes to the King to see how he was taking all this, but the older man was still gazing absently into the fire as if he neither heard nor cared.

  Although unable to read his cousin’s thoughts, Enrick was aware that he had failed to convince him.

  “Very well,” he said. “Since nothing less than seeing the evidence with your own eyes will serve to reassure you that what I say is true, go to Sorne on some pretext or other and do a little observing on your own account.” He appeared to consider the matter further. “I know, take Sareth with you and you can tell Sorne that you wished to inform him of your betrothal in person. He will like that, as he has always had an inflated idea of his own importance.”

  Vesarion, well aware that he was being manipulated, opened his mouth to demur, but the Prince pre-empted him. “You said yourself that we lacked accurate information and, forgive me, but I feel that anything I tell you is by definition suspect.”

  The Prince had the satisfaction of seeing such direct tactics pay off. Westrin knew he had been boxed in a corner and merely replied: “Not at all.”

  Pressing his advantage, Enrick added: “There are issues here that affect the future of Eskendria and I know your high sense of duty will compel you to attend to the matter yourself.”

  “That’s right, Vesarion,” the King suddenly intervened, showing he had been not quite as oblivious to their conversation as he appeared. “Your loyalty has always been the jewel in the crown of Eskendria. I would trust no one more to get to the bottom of this than you.”