by R. J. Grieve
Iska glanced at the sky, now the deep sapphire blue of approaching night. “We’re not going to find them in the darkness.”
“No. We must find a place to camp for the night and resume our search in the morning.”
“By camp, you mean hard ground and no fire, I take it?” returned Sareth dryly.
Eimer grinned. “And one of us on guard at all times – so very little sleep either.”
Iska, who was already beginning to gain a fair insight into the Prince’s character, added mischievously: “I think he’s beginning to enjoy this.”
But Sareth held her brother’s eyes a moment longer. “You’re sure, Eimer?” she asked quietly.
He looked up at her, all laughter gone from his face. For a moment he was tempted to lie to her in order to put her fears to rest, but in the end, honesty won.
“I cannot be completely sure,” he replied gravely. “The light was poor and my view of the ravine floor limited, but I swear to you that I did not see any bodies.”
When Sareth had dismounted and moved a short distance away, he caught Iska looking at him questioningly.
“Sareth and Vesarion are betrothed,” he explained. “Not a love-match, you understand, but a marriage of convenience, however, Vesarion was brought up with us when his parents died and he is an old friend.”
“When we find them, Eimer, we must proceed with all haste to Adamant to recover the sword. I will go myself if I must, but I hope that you and the others will come, for sometimes I feel that this is a task that is too much for me on my own. We must rescue the sword, no matter what the cost.”
Eimer looked into those amber eyes, gazing directly into his with great earnestness and remembering the warning given to him by the wooden head, made a sudden decision.
“You won’t have to deal with this alone, Iska. No matter what the others decide to do, I will come with you.”
Sareth could not sleep that night, and her restlessness had nothing to do with either the hardness of the ground or the possible presence of the Turog. She was thinking about Vesarion, wondering where he was and if he was safe. She had overheard her brother’s remark to Iska about her betrothal and realised that he had no idea that, at least on her part, it was not entirely true. He thought she had agreed to the engagement to get away from Enrick and as a means of protecting Vesarion from whatever threat Enrick posed to him, but that was only partly true – for Sareth had loved Vesarion since she was a child; since the day Enrick, using the advantage of being so much older than she, had tormented her until he had reduced her to tears. Vesarion, coming unexpectedly on the scene had not hesitated but had waded into the attack, flooring the Crown Prince with one well-delivered punch. When Enrick had fled to the King to report this misdemeanour, Vesarion had picked up the little girl in his arms and dried her tears, completely unaware that he had inspired a devotion that would last through many lonely years. Following his departure from Addania at the age of eighteen to take his rightful place as Lord of Westrin, his visits to the capital had grown more and more rare. Sareth treasured them like a miser hoarding coins, always hoping for a kind look or some acknowledgement that her existence mattered to him, but although he was always pleasant and polite to her, he was impersonal, showing no particular desire to be in her company.
She knew that she could have dealt with Enrick’s threat by alerting Vesarion. He would have been safe in Ravenshold, but that would remove him from her once again – possibly for a very long time, particularly if a civil war had broken out as a result. So instead she had entered into the engagement, convincing herself that it was a matter of duty. Yet, the truth was far removed from this. She had thought that by spending time with him, their relationship might ripen; that affection might grow between them, but their journey was proving quite the reverse. Far from admiring her independence, it appeared to irritate him and far from seeking her company, he had largely ignored her. Sareth’s heart had been sore for a long time but a stubborn little flicker of hope had kept her waiting for him. Now the cold wind of despair blew its icy breath upon her ever more strongly.
She began to wonder if she had created a fantasy figure in her head that bore no resemblance to the real man. When he had retreated to his romantic castle amongst the snow-tipped mountains she, deprived of his presence, had perhaps woven a daydream, investing him with qualities he did not possess. And yet the feeling that beneath the cool, practical exterior there was warmth in him, would not die, despite all evidence against it. She had always suspected that Vesarion had two different layers to him, like strata in a rock. The surface one, which he wished the world to see, was typified by his role as Lord of Westrin. This was the poised, remote personality, very much in control of every situation. But underneath she felt there was another Vesarion, who was warm and compassionate and not always very certain of himself – and this was the one she loved. Yet in recent years, she had seen so little of this aspect to him, she began to wonder if it existed at all. She had thought that being more frequently in his company was bound to reveal it, but if it was there at all, it was effectively hidden behind the impenetrable wall he had built around himself in his role as master of the greatest barony in the Kingdom.
So Sareth lay on her back on the unyielding ground, looking up at a patch of dark sky visible between the leaves, her eyes fixed on a tiny, distant star, and wondered if she was a fool.
Not so very far away, the object of her thoughts could not sleep either, but for a very different reason - Bethro was snoring.
They had followed the river upstream, impeded by the twists and turns of the ravine walls which, after initially broadening, had shown signs of narrowing again. The damp rocks had relentlessly drawn closer together as they travelled upstream. Finally, they had arrived at a small tongue of shingle around which the river looped. Beyond it the passage narrowed so much that a man standing in the middle of the river could have stretched out his hands and touched either wall. They could go no further, in any event, because it was now fully dark. Bethro, after spending some time complaining of hunger, soon fell asleep on the shingle and was now producing a noise of such volume that Vesarion wondered why every Turog in the region was not down upon them.
So, unable to sleep, he paced back and forth across the short strip of shingle, listening to the sounds of the night - the soft bubble of the river, the occasional trill of a night bird and the somewhat less appealing sound of his companion. He paced his allotted stretch and as was his custom, was going over in his mind the events of the day, when for some reason, with crystal clarity he saw before him Sareth’s face as she had thrust the sword through her opponent’s throat. He knew, without having to think about it too much, exactly what it was that had so disturbed him about it – not the thought that she could kill, but the observation that she was completely unafraid. He had seen concentration in her look, determination, but no fear, and what troubled him so much was that he could not say the same thing of himself. When he had been fighting the Turog trying to entrap him, he had known fear such as he had never experienced before. All his experience as Lord of Westrin had not provided for this. His natural element was command, ruling his barony or directing the Ravenshold Brigands. He was even perfectly confident that he could contain Enrick’s plotting, but nothing in his civilised existence had prepared him for the experience of being alone, surrounded by a group of shrieking Turog intent on butchering him, with no help at hand and no one to command.
He reflected that Westrin, once the most lawless barony, was now a model of civility. On the rare occasions he had to deal with any serious breach of order, he had at his disposal a crack cavalry regiment, every member of which would obey him instantly and without question. Never before had he been forced to rely solely on his own strength and courage.
Then there was Bethro. Not only had there been a marked absence of instant obedience, but he had been forced into lengthy and acrimonious arguments in order to achieve his purpose. Yet Bethro’s helplessness meant that he was relyi
ng on Vesarion to save them both, and in truth, he was far from sure what was going to happen next. All he could hope for was to find a way of escaping the trap that the ravine was rapidly becoming, find the others, and return just as quickly as possible, to the more predictable regions south of the Harnor. He had carried out his orders from the King and apprehended the fugitive. His task was therefore done. He had no intention of going off on a wild goose chase after the sword. He appreciated its symbolic significance, but did not believe for an instant all the mythical powers attributed to it. Nor did he believe the girl’s wild tale of demons of darkness and hidden kingdoms. She would find that he was not so easily deceived, no matter how gullible the others might be.
No, he would not embark on such a nonsensical quest but would insist on their immediate return to Eskendria, where more urgent issues still remained to be dealt with.
Chapter Eleven
The Ravine
It was hunger that eventually awoke Vesarion the next morning. Even before he was properly conscious, he was aware of a gnawing, empty feeling in his stomach. He opened his eyes to find that he was lying on his side on the shingle bar, his head pillowed on his arm, looking across the river at the far wall of the ravine, just now artistically webbed with a net of shimmering golden light cast upwards by some magical angle of sun and water. He lay for a moment peacefully watching it, mesmerised by the beauty of the delicate lacework of light wavering with elfin beauty against the mossy stone. Then suddenly he realised its significance – it meant he had over-slept. The sun only found its way into the ravine when it was high in the sky. He sat up abruptly, estimating by the position of the sun that it was mid-morning. However, his gaze then fell on an even more interesting sight. Bethro was standing in the middle of the stream, trousers rolled up, back bent, utterly intent upon something in the river just in front of him. His hands were immersed in the water up to his wrists and he was lowering them with infinitesimal slowness, his concentration absolute. Suddenly, with astonishing speed, he struck and with a deft flick of the wrist and a flash of silver, a small trout landed on the shingle. It writhed and flopped in front of Vesarion’s astonished gaze until Bethro waded out of the water to deliver the fatal blow.
“Ah!” he exclaimed in satisfaction, seeing Vesarion sitting up. “You are awake, my lord. Four small trout as a peace offering,” he announced, lining them up proudly on the shingle.
“Peace offering?”
Bethro looked uncomfortable. “Well…er…I may have been a shade trying yesterday,” he offered, with masterly understatement.
Vesarion shook his head in wonderment. “Bethro,” he declared, “you never cease to amaze me. I didn’t know you had such skill.”
The fisherman grinned from ear to ear, creating three double chins, delighted with the compliment and Vesarion realised, to his shame, that it was the first kind word he had ever spoken to him.
“It requires patience and a cunning hand,” replied Bethro a little pompously. “I was very good at trout tickling as a boy because I always seemed to know where the fish were to be found. Being a trifle sturdily built, even then, it was the only sport I excelled at.” He looked fondly at his catch as if the sight evoked happy memories of sun-dappled streams. “It’s just a pity we have no means of cooking them.”
“I might be able to help you there,” offered Vesarion, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a little silver box beautifully engraved with a hunting scene. The edge of the lid was inlaid with a border of tiny pieces of turquoise.
“How exquisite,” Bethro exclaimed, ever appreciative of beauty. Leaning forward to examine it more closely, he asked: “What is it’s purpose?”
Vesarion opened the box to reveal flint and steel. “It was a gift from the King,” he explained. “He gave it to me for my twelfth birthday. He said it might come in useful someday, although I don’t suppose he had this precise scenario in mind. It’s really too ornate to be carried around in one’s pocket, but for some reason I always like to have it with me.”
He had been studying the little box sitting on his palm but he suddenly looked up and caught a rather unexpected look of understanding on his companion’s face. A little embarrassed in case he had revealed too much, he said gruffly: “If you gather some of the sticks brought down by the river, we’ll see what can be done.”
Using the tip of Vesarion’s sword, Bethro, rather awkwardly managed to gut the fish and cooked them on sticks over the small fire that the King’s gift had procured. By the time the meal was finished, each was in perfect charity with the other – a state of affairs that was almost certain not to last.
After concealing all traces of the fire, they began to wade upstream, scanning the walls as they went for a means of escape. The fringe of pebbles had gone and now the walls rose sheer out of the water, their surface furred with lichens. A few times Vesarion attempted to climb out but was forced to drop back again in frustration. Eventually they came to a place where some large boulders had piled up at the foot of the cliff and beyond that, the floor of the river fell away suddenly into a long, deep pool. The colour of the water had been growing darker as they travelled towards its source, tainted with peat brought down from its birthplace high on some heathery moorland. Where the walls opened their oppressive embrace a little and the sun plumbed the depths, it turned them to translucent amber, magnifying with remarkable clarity every rounded stone on the river bed, and some tiny brown trout, well out of Bethro’s reach. The pool continued for some distance before a sharp spur of cliff thrust forward, cutting off their vision upstream.
Vesarion stared into the limpid depths. “If we are to proceed any further it looks as though we’ll have to swim.”
“Ah-hem,” coughed Bethro, in the manner of someone with an announcement to make.
Heart sinking, Vesarion raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“I…er….suppose,” began Bethro tentatively, “this would be a bad time to tell you that I can’t swim.”
“You can’t swim?” repeated Vesarion disbelievingly. “Are you telling me that the intrepid catcher of trout can’t actually swim a stroke?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m quite happy standing knee-deep in water but that’s as far as it goes.”
Vesarion looked at the deep pool, a little at a loss. Finally he said: “It may not be worth our while proceeding any further in any event. We have seen nothing so far to suggest that we are going to find any way out of this accursed trap. I’ll swim as far as the spur to see if the passage ahead offers anything but I have a feeling we are going to have to turn back.”
He started to shed his clothes onto the mossy rocks, and Bethro, always a little prudish, promptly turned his back.
At first the water was numbingly cold, causing the swimmer to gasp, but as he glided forward, propelled by long, over-arm strokes, Vesarion began to enjoy the experience. He remembered that he had always liked swimming as a boy and realised, with a sense of astonishment, that it was a very long time since he had indulged in anything so carefree. Perhaps his dedication to duty had been a little too single-minded in recent years, he reflected, with an uncharacteristic twinge of regret. The golden water flowed over him like cool silk, but he soon detected a current pushing against him and had to put a little more power into his strokes in order to reach the spur of rock. However, all that awaited him when he got there was disappointment. He grasped the sharp edge of the spur and began treading water to maintain his position. It did him little good, for all that he could see upstream was a dark, gloomy tunnel filled with deep water now rendered a forbidding black again by the shadowy walls. The way was clearly impassable, even for him.
He retreated, letting the current carry him until he emerged once again on the rocks where Bethro was anxiously awaiting him. The Keeper of Antiquities handed him his shirt while looking steadfastly in a skywards direction. However, Bethro’s over-developed sense of modesty turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for his upwards gaze led him to notice the presence of a little r
ill descending the side of its greater cousin from the forest above. As the weather had been dry for the last few days, its feeble flow had shrunk to a few drips, but over the years its persistence had carved an erratic little channel that offered the possibility of some handholds. Bethro pointed out its presence to Vesarion, just as he was buckling on his scabbard. Tightening his belt, he stood back as far as the rocks would permit and shielding his eyes against the light, examined it minutely.
“You’re right,” he confirmed. “It offers possibilities but it looks highly slippery. You’d better stay here while I give it a try. Here, hold my sword. It will only get in my way.”
“Be careful,” advised Bethro nervously, gingerly clutching the sword by the hilt.
“Don’t worry. You forget that I was born in the Westrin mountains and was therefore taught to climb almost as soon as I could walk.”
As Vesarion began the ascent, he soon discovered that he had spoken no less than the truth - the climb was far from easy. Although the rill provided some hand and toe-holds, the water had so saturated the mosses that they had become like sponges, squeezing out water with the slightest pressure, causing his foot to slip on more than one heart-stopping occasion. But at last, forehead damp with perspiration, he emerged above the rim of the ravine to find himself high up amongst a sparse stand of pine trees, a fresh breeze ruffling his hair. Behind the trees lay a heather-covered upland, dotted with stands of pines and bright yellow gorse bushes. He stood breathing deeply, feeling like someone released from prison, and slowly pivoted on his heel to get his bearings. The first thing he realised was that he had emerged from the ravine on the opposite side to the one by which he had so precipitately entered it. He turned to look at the far side, still densely clothed in trees, and wondered where the others were. A brief stab of apprehension pierced him, as the thought that they might all be dead shot across his mind, but he shook it off fiercely. If he could survive with a dead weight like Bethro in tow, then they could, too. He could not afford to distract his thoughts with speculation, because Bethro and he were very far from being out of trouble yet. With well-practised self-control, he put his fears out of his mind and turned to the immediate problem of how to get one portly librarian up a slippery cliff face. Moving cautiously, he descended the rock wall once more, marking his route carefully in his mind. He had prepared himself for arguments from Bethro, dissention, even hysteria, judging from past experience, but in the end he got none. Left alone at the bottom of the cliff with no more hope of salvation than Vesarion’s goodwill, Bethro came to two very sensible conclusions – that it would not be wise to alienate his rescuer, and that as there appeared to be no other way out than upwards, there was no point in quibbling about the risks involved in the climb.