by R. J. Grieve
Vesarion’s face softened. He had an affection for the King, arising from the kindness he had shown him when he had been left an orphan.
“Very well, sire. Since you desire it, it will be my pleasure to undertake this matter for you.”
Enrick scowled, always over-sensitive to the fondness his father bore for his arch-rival. He was also aware that the tables had been somewhat turned upon him.
However, whatever else Enrick might have said on the issue was never to be known, for at that moment they were interrupted by sounds of an altercation taking place outside in the corridor that lead to the King’s apartments. A howling sound, distant at first but growing in volume, appeared to be coming in their direction. It was punctuated by shouts that sounded like challenges from the guards. Enrick’s frown deepened as he turned towards the door. Even the King sat up expectantly. But before any of them could react, the tall double doors burst asunder precipitating Bethro and four harassed guards into the room. The strange howling sound, like a bear caught in a trap, was issuing from Bethro and instead of ceasing in the presence of such august company, actually rose to a crescendo.
The guards had clearly been struggling to restrain him without actually having to resort to lethal force. All four were looking dishevelled and a little at a loss what to do. When they saw the King they fell back respectfully.
Enrick leaped to his feet, clearly outraged. “What is the meaning of this, Bethro?” he demanded in furious tones.
“Oooh! Nooo!” wailed the afflicted librarian. “This is awful. This is a disaster. What’s to be done? I am a dead man. Oooh!”
“What is a disaster? What are you talking about?”
“It wasn’t my fault! You must believe me, it wasn’t my fault!”
Vesarion, realising that the guards were still interested spectators to this performance, and sensing that it might be politic to keep whatever Bethro had done, private, dismissed them with a wave of his hand. He then strode forward and gripping the trembling librarian by the shoulders, peremptorily shook him. “Pull yourself together,” he commanded in tones that had never failed to have effect. “You’d better come up with a very good reason for this exhibition.”
His forceful air seemed to penetrate the fog of hysteria in which Bethro had lost himself.
“It’s gone,” he whispered fearfully, looking from one to the other like a trapped hare.
Vesarion grasped the remnants of his patience. “What’s gone?”
Bethro gulped. “The sword of Erren-dar.”
“What!”
The one word, issued in thunderous accents, was enough to cast the Keeper of Antiquities into panic again. Excuses tumbled out of him.
“It wasn’t my fault. I swear it wasn’t. The door was locked. I don’t know how it happened.”
“Compose yourself, Bethro,” the King said gently. “Start at the beginning and tell us what happened.”
The calm words had more effect than all the younger man’s anger. Bethro visibly mastered his panic and took a deep breath.
“When I went to the tower this morning to check on the sword, I found the outer door of the tower locked securely and everything seemed normal. The inner room where the sword was kept was also locked and seemingly undisturbed, but when I lit the lantern I had brought with me – the room has no windows you understand – the table where the sword should have been, was empty. The two velvet cushions were in their usual place – they even bore the imprint of the sword, but of the sword itself there was nothing to be seen. Even the scabbard was gone. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes. I looked under the table, I searched the stairs and the other rooms in the tower, I even checked the doors for sign that they had been forced, but I found nothing. Even the dust in the room seemed undisturbed. It was as if it had simply vanished into thin air.”
“When did you last see the sword?” Prince Enrick asked.
“Er….several months ago,” replied Bethro looking sheepish.
“Several months!”
“Well, I mean, there is no reason to go to the tower more often,” Bethro prevaricated. “I have the only key and as long as I do, no one can get near the sword. Also, anyone wishing to reach the tower has to pass the guards at the palace walls. They are not, I believe, in the habit of permitting access to strangers.”
“You still have the key?” Vesarion asked.
“Yes,” nodded Bethro. “Look.” He withdrew the beautiful and ancient object from his pocket still attached by its silver chain to his belt. “As you see, it has never left me.”
“What did the guards at the palace gates have to say? Have they noticed anything unusual lately?”
“I …I don’t know. I didn’t ask them. All I could think of was that I must report my findings immediately to the King. You see, the sword must not leave Eskendria. Its importance cannot be over-estimated, for it is our talisman, our shield. As long as the sword stays within this kingdom, our borders will never again be invaded by a hostile force.”
The Prince flung away from him. “Ha! Stories! Fairy tales! Little better than nonsense.”
“Not quite,” Vesarion amended dryly. “The people believe it, and that is what is important. It matters not whether there is any truth in the legend. If the people believe that the presence of the sword keeps them safe, then knowledge of its absence could be catastrophic, and as we know, there may be those who would profit from such a situation.” He turned once more to the librarian and asked Bethro the one question he had been dreading. “Why did you go to look at the sword today?”
“I thought…I…er…” The few disjointed words soon fizzled out under the accusing stare of the three most powerful men in the Kingdom. As the strained silence began to stretch a little, the King took pity on his afflicted servant. “I think you had better tell us everything, Bethro.”
“I… er…. promised to show it to someone later today. I was going to make sure it was polished and looking its best.”
The Prince’s eyes narrowed. “You are not permitted to show it to anyone without the King’s permission.”
Bethro hung his head. “I know,” he mumbled. “I have never done anything like this before. It was just that he had come such a long way and seemed so disappointed at the thought that he would never get to see it.”
Vesarion frowned. “Who?”
“The boy…the one from Kelendore. He knew all the old legends – indeed better than most Eskendrians – and had come all this way to see it.”
“What boy? What are you talking about?”
Slowly and painfully, like pulling teeth, they extracted the story of how Bethro had met the boy the previous evening at the Moat Inn.
“He seemed such a pleasant young lad,” he concluded lamely. “He had travelled all the way from the Isles just to see the sword and hear the story of Erren-dar from the foremost expert on the subject. I was to meet him at noon today.”
Enrick and Vesarion exchanged significant glances, the matter explained to them in an instant.
“Did you show him the key?” inquired the King.
“Well…er…yes.”
“You didn’t let him handle it, I trust,” exclaimed Vesarion in some alarm.
“Just briefly – and it remained on its chain attached to my belt the whole time. It was never out of my sight – not even for an instant.”
Vesarion was not appeased. “Do you not know, you idiot, of the old thieves’ trick? He could have had a piece of wax hidden in his palm and taken an impression of the key!”
Bethro, if possible, looked even more crushed.
“Some Keeper you have turned out to be,” Enrick railed, “you fall victim to the crudest flattery, you are deceived by a very simple trick and now the sword has gone.”
The King intervened. “We are getting ahead of ourselves. We do not know yet whether the boy is involved at all. He could very well be awaiting Bethro at the inn, unaware of all this.”
“That is something that can soon be ascertained,” sn
orted Enrick, turning on his heel towards the door.
But the King halted him. “Wait, Enrick,” he commanded. “It is vital that we keep this affair quiet and if the Crown Prince turns up at a common inn asking a lot of suspicious questions, I think it unlikely that the truth would remain hidden.”
He turned to Vesarion, waiting patiently, well aware of what was coming next. “My dear Vesarion, once again I must trespass on your kindness by asking you to investigate this affair. No one beyond this room must know of this matter. I know I can rely on your discretion.”
Vesarion bowed slightly. “You may safely leave the matter to me, sire.” He then turned to the librarian, still impotently wringing his hands, and said somewhat less courteously: “Show me the room where the sword was kept.”
Chapter Five
The Fugitive
Vesarion held the lantern higher to allow its light to fall into every corner of the bare, stone room. The dark wood of the table gleamed, casting back the reflection of the light. The blood-red cushion still bore the imprint of the sword, just as Bethro had said, as clearly as a footprint in damp sand. Almost against his will, Vesarion stretched out his hand and gently traced the outline of the hilt on the velvet, captured in a prism of the past, unaware that Bethro still babbled inanely behind him.
“You see? All is as I told you. The door to the tower has not been forced and the lock has not been tampered with. I remember well on my last visit thinking how rusty it has become and that I really must get it oiled.” Unaware that Vesarion wasn’t listening to him, he turned and indicated the small door behind them standing open to the corridor. “The door to this chamber was also locked. I know you think that I was careless when I was last here, and left without securing the tower, but I didn’t… I swear I didn’t. I….I confess I have not attended to my duties quite as…er… assiduously as I might have, but I swear that when I last left it, the sword was secure.”
Vesarion heard nothing of this, but remained stock-still studying the imprint of the sword, reflecting that he had not seen the original since he had been brought to Addania by the King as very young boy. He had asked to see his grandfather’s sword the very day he had arrived, and the King, mindful of the lad’s recent loss, was inclined to be indulgent and had taken him personally to the old tower. He remembered his youthful disappointment when he had first beheld it. He had heard all the legends, drinking in the stories, captured by the sense of adventure, but reality had proved less than the sum of his imaginings. He had expected it to be more impressive, glittering with jewels and gold, and was consequently deflated by its plainness. It would not have attracted attention if left in any armoury. Except for the finely incised chalice flowers below the hilt, it differed little from any other well-made sword. Yet strangely the image had stayed with him over the course of time with such clarity that all these years later he could recall it in the minutest detail. He could almost see the flash of light on the shining, elegant blade. And even though he had not been permitted to touch the sword, for some peculiar reason, he could almost feel the satisfying firmness of the leather-bound hilt in his hand, almost sense its fine balance and hear the hiss of its keen blade slicing the air.
Mentally, he shook himself. This was nonsense. He was no longer an impressionable boy, led astray by myths. A little irritated with himself, abruptly he stepped back from the table and collided with Bethro who had been peering over his shoulder, wondering why his silent companion had been staring at the cushions so intently, as if he had been expecting the sword to re-materialise before his eyes.
Vesarion frowned in annoyance. Bethro had a remarkable talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and the seriousness of his failure seemed to have rendered him more clumsy than ever.
“Very well, “ he said. “Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that the last time you were here you did indeed lock the doors. What about the windows?”
“Closed. Rusted shut,” said Bethro despairingly. “No signs of having been forced. The ivy has covered most of them and it has not been disturbed. Moreover, the lowest one is half-way up the tower. One couldn’t reach it without a ladder and I…er…assume the guards would have noticed such strange activity.”
“The guards maintain that they have seen and heard nothing unusual,” responded Vesarion shortly. “So we are back to the theory that someone must have obtained a copy of the key, and as you are certain it has never been out of your sight, it is looking increasingly likely that the boy at the inn must have taken an impression of it when you let him hold it. Now, tell me again how you met him - and Bethro,” he added warningly, “leave nothing out.”
The boy had awoken early that morning, unable to contain a certain restless excitement at the prospect that he was actually going to see the sword. Even though he was not due to meet Bethro until noon, he arose early, too tense to lie any longer in bed. He was also enticed by the prospect of exploring the city. So after the landlord provided him with a fine breakfast in the taproom, which he scarcely touched, he headed out into the busy streets.
It was all very different to his home. Not here, the grand avenues and palatial buildings set out in an orderly pattern that he was accustomed to. No, in comparison with his home city, Addania was chaotic. The place was a rabbit-warren of narrow cobbled streets, densely overhung by embellished wooden balconies that in places almost cut out the light. The streets twisted their way up the hill, turning corners and doubling back until even those who prided themselves on an excellent sense of direction, were completely lost. Yet it was a vibrant, bustling place, alive with activity and colour. To his delight, he found that many of the streets were arranged according to trade and were named accordingly. The Street of the Armourers was ringing with the din of hammers striking the red-hot metal fresh from the glowing depths of the forges. Outside a smithy, he watched as a burning horseshoe was dipped into a barrel of water to cool, with a hissing explosion of steam.
The Mercer’s Street was quieter, the tiny shop fronts hung with billowing fabrics, from fine silks and velvets in jewel-like hues, to more humble bales of woollen cloth in rustic browns and greens. He wandered along a lane of perfumers awash with heady scents of lavender, and lingered in the Street of the Goldsmiths, where artisans kept a careful eye on their glittering wares. However, it was the irresistible smell of bread, fresh from the oven, that drew him to the Street of the Bakers. He discovered a shop that sold pastries, and by now regretting that he had eaten so little of his breakfast, he proceeded to demonstrate to the fascinated owner, just how many pastries one thin lad could pack away.
But his enjoyment came to an abrupt end when, with a shock, he heard from high up on the citadel, the trumpet call that signalled noon. Snatching up an uneaten pastry and stuffing it hastily in his pocket, he got directions from the shopkeeper and sped along the cobbled streets, almost running in his haste. Twice, frustratingly, he took a wrong turn, but at last he arrived at the large square where the inn was situated, hot, slightly out of breath and most definitely late.
What he saw, however, caused him to instantly recoil back into the shadow of the laneway.
There was obviously some sort of commotion taking place at the inn. A detachment of palace guards was drawn up in the square, engaged in making sure that no one either entered or left the hostelry. From the open windows, could be heard voices raised in protest. He distinguished the landlord’s voice loudly remonstrating with some unseen person. An interested crowd was gathering in the square, all craning their necks and keen to enjoy the fun. Using them as cover, the boy edged closer. A crash could be heard from within the inn accompanied by another howl of protest.
“I tell you, he’s not here,” bellowed the landlord. “He left this morning and has not been seen since – no, he is not in that cupboard! Leave it alone! What has Eskendria come to when a respectable landlord cannot run his tavern in peace?”
Someone appeared to respond in a quieter tone that the listener could not distinguish.
/> “No! That is not good enough! I don’t care what the young brat has done! Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me.” The landlord and a guard emerged into the square, carrying on their argument. “I demand to speak to my lord of Westrin,” the outraged proprietor insisted.
“He’s gone round to check the stables,” was the casual reply. “He’ll be back soon – but take a word of advice and moderate your tone with him. My lord does not brook insolence.”
“He won’t find the boy in my stables,” pronounced the innkeeper, disregarding the last piece of advice.
A tall man, clearly in authority, rounded the corner of the inn at that moment followed by two soldiers and one flustered-looking librarian. He appeared to have overheard the landlord’s last remark, for looking at him directly, he said dryly: “You are quite correct. He is not in the stables but his horse is, so he can’t have gone far. He was due to meet Bethro at noon but has failed to turn up.”
“I know nothing of that, my lord,” said the landlord, suddenly deeming it prudent to be respectful. “All I can tell you about the lad is that he arrived yesterday, telling me that he had travelled alone from Kelendore and that his father had sent him here to finish his education by studying Eskendrian history. Naturally enough, I pointed him in Bethro’s direction, I mean, no one knows more about our history than he.”
The listener, who had been filtering unobtrusively closer through the throng, suddenly noticed Bethro casting his eye across the crowd. Quickly, he pulled up the hood of his jerkin and turned his face away.
“I’m not blaming you,” said Westrin calmly. “But it is imperative that this boy be found, so you must tell me all you know about him. I have been through his belongings and can find nothing of any significance – certainly nothing to indicate who he is, or where he came from. The clothes are foreign in design but I can’t identify them. If you can give me any information that would assist in his apprehension, I would be grateful. If my men have been…ah…a little enthusiastic in their search, I will pay for any damage caused.”