by R. J. Grieve
These magic words caused the scowl to leave the landlord’s face in a flash. “Well, my lord,” he began ingratiatingly, clearly cudgelling his brains to find something of use. “I’m keen to assist you but it’s little enough that I can tell you. I have given a detailed description of him to Captain Seldro here, but the only other thing I can say is that although he told me he was from Kelendore, I was not convinced. Many merchants from the Isles stay here when they are trading in Addania, but his accent was not the same as theirs, nor, as you have already pointed out, was his style of dress. Although we get people from all parts passing through, I could not place him. There was just something….something different about him. However, as he seemed a respectable enough young lad and paid for two night’s stay in advance, I didn’t question him further. I got the impression he didn’t much like answering questions.” He rubbed his chin reflectively, before adding: “The only other thing which, with hindsight, was a bit odd was that he was completely fascinated by a sketch I have hanging on the wall of the back corridor. Absolutely mesmerised, he was. I mean, it’s just an amateur thing, of no value, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from it.”
Vesarion, who had been listening a little impatiently to this recital, suddenly stiffened to attention.
“Show me this sketch,” he commanded.
When they had all disappeared into the inn in the wake of the landlord, the boy realised that he had only a short breathing space to get out of the city before he was discovered. He wondered if the guards at the city gate had already been alerted, already primed with his description. He would have to take that chance, for speed was the only thing that might save him now. Once the city gates were closed, even the rabbit-warren of streets would offer no hiding place. They would hunt him down, street by street, house by house until they found him. And once they discovered where he came from, he could expect no mercy.
To add to his troubles, there was a detachment of guards in the stable yard which meant that access to his horse was out of the question. His brain whirled. What to do? All he had was the clothes he stood up in, the uneaten pastry and a couple of small coins.
Discreetly, he extricated himself from the crowd and selecting a street at random, disappeared into its reassuring anonymity. Away from the noise and excitement of the square, he tried to think. He had to get a horse – to try to escape on foot was madness. Even if he succeeded in getting beyond the city walls, they would overtake him in an instant. He counted his money gain. No use. Not enough to hire one. He leaned back against the cold wall of a house and took a deep breath. He had to get a horse, and quickly. Much as it went against the grain, he was going to have to steal one. He thought his best chance was a livery stable or a large inn with lots of coming and going where he might find one unattended for just long enough to serve his purpose.
Cautiously, ears pricked for sound of pursuit, he began to work his way down the winding streets towards the city wall. After travelling in a downwards direction for a few moments, he came across a livery stable that offered some possibilities. He loitered outside its gateway, watching all that went on within and was forced to admit after a short while, that all was not going to plan. He had thought that in a quiet moment he could slip into the stables, select the fastest-looking horse, saddle up and escape. It had all seemed so straightforward in his head, but in reality the unpredictability of humanity was frustrating his plans. The stable yard was relentlessly busy, with people returning horses or collecting them. Ostlers and stable lads were grooming horses, mucking out stables, or bringing in straw. In short, it was as busy as a disturbed ant heap. He watched this activity from the shadow of a doorway, getting more and more desperate by the minute. Soon the search for him would leave the inn and spread throughout the town. The whole place would be in an uproar and his anonymity – the only thing still protecting him – would be gone.
However, as he watched, an empty hay cart trundled into the stable yard and drew to a sedate halt. The carter jumped down and with the help of a stable lad, began to unhitch the wagon and back it into a shed. The boy looked at the enormous carthorse, from its long mane hanging sleepily over its eyes, to its huge feathered fetlocks, and decided, with a touch of despair, that it would have to do. It had no saddle but its long driving reins were still hanging down on either side of it.
He crept forward, keeping a watchful eye in the direction of the shed. A few people crossed the yard but no one paid any heed to him. When he got up close to the horse, he was somewhat daunted by the sheer size of it. However, it docilely allowed itself to be lead to a mounting block. The lad stood on the block and gently stroked its neck.
“Your trouble, my friend, is that you are all pulling-power and no speed. If only you had been a long-legged thoroughbred.” The horse put its ears forward intelligently and gave an apologetic snort. “Never mind,” murmured the boy in its ear. “Needs must.”
A quick scramble onto its back and a couple of insistent digs in its flanks with his heels and the ill-assorted pair headed at a lumbersome trot out of the gateway. One quick turn into a side street and they were out of sight of the stable yard, and one of them at least, let out a pent-up breath of relief.
However, it was a little premature, for the boy soon discovered that his mount, although formidable-looking, was in fact totally indolent. Its favourite pace was a dead stop, occasionally interspersed with a gentle amble. Not exactly, he reflected with a touch of black humour, the ideal transport for someone wanting to make a quick escape. The pair clopped down the street, skidding a little on the worn cobbles, until they reached the last corner before the straight section that descended to the city gate.
Afraid to dismount in case he couldn’t get up again, the boy eased his mount forward until they were both peering round the corner.
To his dismay, it was evident that the guards were turning away anyone trying to leave the city. As he watched, he saw several arguments take place as busy merchants protested at having their trade disrupted, but most were resigned, and with a shrug of the shoulders, went in search of the nearest tavern to while away the time until normality resumed.
Luck, however, was not entirely against him. The gates had not been shut, as people were still being allowed into the city. As he looked at the trickle of traffic coming through the gate from the surrounding countryside, into the boy’s mind sprang a plan so bold the very thought of it made his heart turn over with a thump.
He leaned forward and with a hand that shook slightly, patted the neck of his enormous steed.
“Never did I think that choosing you could actually be to my advantage,” he whispered. “Now, back up the hill a bit, there’s a good fellow.”
With one half of the partnership completely relaxed and the other with nerves tightly strung, the pair retreated up the hill a little.
“Now,” said the rider decisively, “you are going to have to produce your best speed.”
But the horse had other ideas. In response to some vigorous kicking, it reluctantly heaved itself into a gentle walk. In desperation, the boy unwound the long driving reins that he had gathered up and whacked the animal sharply on the rump with the tail of them. Startled out of its usual placidity, the horse managed to produce something just short of a slow canter. But the gradient started to achieve what coercion could not. Like a stone rolling down a mountainside, once the large animal had started down the steep, slippery slope it began to take on a momentum of its own. It began to move faster and faster, slithering on the cobbles, gathering speed, until stopping became an impossibility.
Down the street they careered, picking up speed with every stride, the horse more astonished than the rider. Startled townsfolk flung themselves out of the way as something resembling an equine battering ram hurtled past them, steel-shod hooves thundering on the cobbles. They skidded precariously into the last stretch before the gate. The guards, hearing the commotion, turned just in time to see their fate bearing down upon them. At breakneck speed the dray-horse came fl
ying, the boy clinging like a limpet to its back.
Two of the guards, with more presence of mind than their comrades but considerably less common sense, leaped into the path, spears at the ready.
Seeing their foolhardiness, the boy bawled at the top of his voice: “Out of the way! Out of the way, you idiots!”
But it was too late, the force approaching them had already reached maximum velocity and now would stop for nothing short of a brick wall. It crashed through them, knocking them to either side like dolls. It rocketed through the gate and out onto the bridge, brushing aside like flies any others who tried to intervene.
Bruised and dishevelled, the guards picked themselves up just in time to see the horse hammering up the white road to Sorne in a cloud of dust.
It fell to Eimer to have the pleasure of breaking this news to Vesarion.
“I know you gave the guards orders not to let anyone leave, Vesarion, but really it wasn’t their fault. They were just simply ridden down. They tried to stop him – but have you ever tried to stop a dray-horse going at full gallop? It just thundered down the last stretch of street and out onto the bridge. Any of the guards who tried to stop it were simply mown down. One has a dislocated shoulder, another broke his wrist and…..” amusement suspended his voice for a moment. “…..and apparently the other was knocked clean off the bridge into the river.” He shook his head at the unfairness of fate. “I’d have given anything to have seen it.”
“No doubt,” was the dry response. “Which road did he take? Or were they too knocked about to notice?”
Disregarding the sarcasm, Eimer replied: “He took the north-east road to Sorne. But, of course, he could leave the road at any time.”
“I am aware of that, but a least he is not going to achieve any great speed on that animal. It also renders him highly noticeable. I’ll have a brief word with your father and then I must be after him.”
“Yours truly is coming too,” announced the irrepressible prince.
“”Why?”
“Why? What a stupid question! For the fun of it, what else?”
“So you consider the theft of the sword fun, do you?”
“No, of course not. I’m just fascinated to find out whether the boy has the sword or not. The guards said he was not carrying anything. What could he have done with it?”
“We’ll soon find out. Meet me outside the Ivy Tower in a few minutes. Bring Seldro and no more than half a dozen of the Brigands. If we have to go as far as Sorne, I don’t want my lord Pevorion mistaking it for an invasion.”
Sareth was sitting alone in her apartments, supposedly reading, but in actual fact staring out the window at the spring sunshine bathing the garden, wondering for the hundredth time if what she was doing was right. She reflected, yet again, that seldom had there been a betrothal so coolly and logically made. Vesarion’s reasons were all too obvious – the line of Westrin must not be allowed to die out and her lineage suited his notions of what was due to his dignity. As for her reasons? Everyone seemed to have their own theory. Vesarion thought it suited her pride. Eimer thought she was ambitious. Her little brother’s opinion of her motives hurt her most of all, because the two of them had been close when they had been children. Only a year apart in age, they had always formed a defensive alliance against the much-older Enrick. It fact, it was only Enrick who knew at least some of the truth concerning her motives, mainly because he was the catalyst behind the odd engagement. He cared little what her feelings were on the subject, just as long as she was compliant in helping him to achieve his ends. But he thought she had obeyed out of fear alone, and in this he was mistaken. Only Grandmother suspected that there might be more to her motives than met the eye. It was as well the old queen was unaware of the lengths to which Enrick had been prepared to go get his own way. Sareth recalled, with a little stab of anger, the day Enrick had cornered her about the subject. He had been not at all reticent about airing his opinions and had made the choice he was presenting her quite starkly clear.
“Westrin is an unknown quantity in this struggle between the royal house and the barons,” he had declared smoothly, “but he is nevertheless the weight that could tip the balance either way. If he sides with the rebel barons, we are lost. If he sides with the royal house, I think they dare not revolt openly.”
She remembered how she had poured scorn on his talk of rebellion, for Enrick saw conspiracy everywhere and those who tried to say otherwise themselves became suspect.
“You know nothing of such matters,” he had cut her short with such smug certainty that her hand had itched to slap him. “Had you proved your worth by securing Serendar as our ally, this conversation would not be taking place. But you have failed, sister dear, in this, as you fail in everything. So now you must prove yourself of use in binding Westrin to our cause. He has an inflated opinion of his worth and the bait of a royal princess as his bride is something I think he will not be able to resist. Once he is secured to our house, father can rest a little more easily.”
“Father would rest more easily if you would stop filling his ears with poison,” she had snapped.
Enrick’s eyes had flashed with anger and he had grasped her arm in a deliberately painful grip. His handsome face, now close to hers, was twisted with anger. “Let me remind you, sister, of exactly who rules Eskendria. Run to father if you wish, but it will avail you nothing. My word is law here and you can either stand with me or join my enemies and set yourself against me. If you choose the latter, sister or not, I will throw you out on the street like a beggar. Remember that your high and mighty position in this land depends on me.” He suddenly released her, and assuming the cool tone that she loathed, he added: “Besides, you might like to consider the fact that if Westrin does not join with our cause, he is of no further use to me – indeed, he is a positive danger and such a danger cannot be allowed to exist. Do I make myself clear, sister? He may command two thousand Ravenshold Brigands but one knife in the darkness is all that is required.”
So Sareth kept her own counsel and found it something of a burden.
Certainly the one person who must never find out the truth was Vesarion. Unwittingly, he was playing along with Enrick and while he did so he was safe. It did not sit easily with her normally open nature to deceive him but if he ever discovered he had been manipulated, she feared that in order to thwart Enrick, he might plunge the Kingdom into strife.
These rather bleak reflections were interrupted by Queen Triana’s saucy little maid. The door fairly burst open, precipitating her into the room.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but you must come quickly. Queen Triana needs you straight away.”
Sareth paled. “Is grandmother ill?”
“No, no,” she replied hurriedly. “At least, I don’t think so, but she’s in a regular taking, fretting and fussing and saying that there’s no time and that she must see you at once. So please come – please!”
Sareth needed no further bidding. She picked up her skirts and fairly flew along the corridor, leaving the slower maid some distance in her wake. Down the grand staircase she ran, her silk skirts billowing behind her. She took a shortcut past the old Ivy Tower and arrived at Queen Triana’s apartments a little out of breath, her cheeks flushed. Standing on no ceremony, she threw the door open and ran into the room, flinging herself on her knees beside her grandmother’s chair.
The Queen was seated in her customary spot by the fire, her feet on the velvet footstool, but her usual serenity had deserted her and the eyes that met Sareth’s were brimming with urgency and a strange light that Sareth had never seen in them before. Sareth caught the Queen’s hands in both her own.
“What is it, grandmother? Are you ill? Your maid has alarmed me with her urgency. Is all well with you?”
The cool fingers returned the clasp affectionately. “I am well, Sareth,” she reassured her. “It is not myself I am concerned with, but you. At my age, shall we say, the veil grows thin and sometimes we are permitted to see things wit
h a clarity that comes with a certain detachment from this world. Do you understand?”
Sareth clearly did not. “No grandmother. You had me so worried.”
One hand left hers and gently smoothed her cheek. “My favourite grandchild,” she said affectionately. “If only Andarion had lived to see you grow up. If only he could see you as you are now. You are the only one of my descendants in whom I see his likeness – and that is why I must speak to you at once. You have heard that the sword has been stolen, have you not?”
“Yes, Eimer told me – even though he had been warned to keep it secret. If it were not for Eimer’s indiscretions, I would know nothing of what goes on.”
“Apparently they suspect some boy from Kelendore of having stolen it but he escaped from the city and is heading to Sorne. Vesarion and Eimer are meeting in a few minutes to lead the pursuit. You must accompany them.”
Sareth sat back on her heels, clearly at a loss. “That was what all the fuss was about? You want me to go with them to Sorne? Grandmother, I thought you were dying. You scared me half to death!”
The old woman smiled. “I’m sorry, my dear, but this is important. Whatever the reasons on both sides for this betrothal, they are not the right ones. You and Vesarion will never get to know one another making polite and very stilted conversation in the restrictive atmosphere of this palace. Go with him to Sorne! Have an adventure! I know your heart longs for it!”
Sareth laughed. “An adventure? Grandmother, it’s only Sorne! I have been there many times before.”
“Ah, but as I said, the veil grows thin and just perhaps at the end, I am allowed to see things that others do not.” Her gaze grew distant. “These days I hear my dear Andarion calling to me more clearly than ever. I hear his voice as if he were in the next room. I see his face constantly in my mind, looking exactly the way he did all those years ago when we first met in Kerrian-tohr. I feel him draw me to him.”