by R. J. Grieve
There was still no reply, so folding his arms determinedly, he remarked pleasantly through the door: “If you sulk, I’ll have no choice but to break down this door – and you know that I will keep my word, especially if you recall a certain incident when you sulked at me before.”
After a tense moment of silence, there was a click as the lock turned. Testing the handle, Vesarion found that the door swung open easily.
Sareth was sitting on the bed looking pale and tired but calm. He closed the door and came and sat beside her with a sigh.
“I have been thinking all afternoon about what you said to me and although I am not sure that either of us was wise to embark on this engagement in the first place, or whether our reasons were the correct ones, what I do know is that we have been friends for a very long time and I do not wish to be at odds with you. If I have been selfish and inconsiderate, believe me, it was not intentional. For whatever reason, I see that I have gone about this in the wrong way and if that has hurt you, I am truly sorry. I would never deliberately cause you grief, Sareth, no matter what you might think of me.”
She hung her head, refusing to meet his earnest look. “I know,” she answered quietly. “I am sorry too. I said some things to you that I regret….I….I got into a bit of a temper, you see.”
He smiled faintly. “I did, indeed, see. But given that I was equally in a temper, I can hardly blame you.”
She managed to smile a little back. “You have always been very fair-minded.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, in the manner of someone who has just made a momentous discovery. “Progress! She has finally found a virtue in me!”
Sareth, unable to resist, began to laugh. “You fiend! You always do this to me when we fall out. You make me laugh and I just can’t be angry with you any more.”
But he looked directly into her grey eyes and said: “This is a little more serious than our squabbles in the past, is it not? No, don’t look away.” He crooked his finger gently under her chin and turned her face towards him. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that even though we are not betrothed any more, you are still my friend.”
Sareth, utterly incapable of resisting such an appeal, nodded her head. “Yes, Vesarion, we are still friends.”
He then did something that Sareth wished with all her heart that he had done weeks ago. He took her in his arms and held her. Unable to resist the temptation, fleetingly she rested her cheek against his shoulder, wishing hopelessly that the moment might go on for ever, but he gently released her and said: “Now, there are three very anxious people waiting for their dinner downstairs. Shall we join them?”
In actual fact, Vesarion was only partially correct. There were indeed three people anxiously awaiting them, but for varying reasons. Two were concerned to know if the quarrel had been resolved and the other was worried that if he was kept waiting any longer for his dinner, it would spoil.
Eimer had found a note sitting beside the fruit bowl on the dining table, written in such shaky handwriting that it looked as if an inebriated spider had fallen in an inkwell then staggered across the page. It informed them that the Keeper was unfortunately feeling his years and was too tired to join them that evening.
When, much to Bethro’s relief, the absentees arrived, he was so busy applying himself to his food that he was the only one not to notice that the meal was a little strained at first. Everyone was trying just a little too hard to make the conversation flow smoothly, however, the wine and food had their usual mellowing affect and soon things grew more relaxed.
Under cover of Bethro telling one of his long and involved stories, Eimer whispered to Iska: “You didn’t seem particularly surprised when I told you that the engagement was broken off.”
“I wasn’t. In fact, it is the best thing that could have happened. That betrothal was just a millstone around both their necks. Now they can start afresh.”
“Start what?” asked Eimer, not following her.
Iska rolled her eyes comically. “Never mind, Eimer. Just go back to sleep again.”
“How come I never know what’s going on?” he grumbled.
Although the Keeper did not join them for the meal, he made his presence felt in other ways. In the morning, when they awoke, each of the companions found a pack sitting in their respective rooms, filled with everything they could possibly need for the journey.
After a brief breakfast that was attended by Kel but not his owner, they repaired with their belongings to the stables to find that five of the Keeper’s glossy horses had already been saddled. They led them round to the door of the tower and were about to go in search of their benefactor, when suddenly, in his own peculiar fashion, he was there, standing in the small arched doorway with his cat at his feet. In the harsh light of day, he looked even more frail and dusty than ever but his dark eyes were still as bright.
Vesarion approached him. “Keeper, your kindness and generosity to us has been overwhelming. We owe you a great debt of gratitude.”
“You owe me nothing, Lord of Westrin,” he replied in his fragile voice. “On the contrary, it is I who am in your debt and will be even more so when we meet again.”
Vesarion fixed his eyes on the old man in a curiously intense fashion. “Shall we meet again?” he asked a little doubtfully.
Something in his voice caught Sareth’s attention and once more she saw that troubled look in his eyes that she had seen once before. And yet again, it disturbed her that she did not understand it.
The Keeper smiled slightly at him. “It is my greatest desire that we should. Remember what I told you, heir of Erren-dar, trust in yourself and in your companions and do not be afraid to follow the promptings of your heart. In the moment of greatest need, should you doubt yourself, consider that your great ancestor was but a man, just like you.”
He then turned to Sareth. “You have great courage and a warm heart, my dear. Never fear, these attributes will never fail you.”
Transferring his attention to Eimer, he said: “Young Prince, you have a destiny the shadow of which has not even fallen across your mind. Those who have so lightly dismissed you, will one day learn the error of their ways.”
Then using his cane to descend unsteadily from the doorstep onto the daisy-covered lawn, he crossed to Iska and placed one hand lightly on her shoulder.
“My child, remember what I said – goodness can be found anywhere, even in the most unexpected places. It cannot be excluded from any kingdom, or race, or clan. When the time comes, listen to your instincts and do not be daunted by what you see before you.”
He lifted his gaze to encompass them all.
“Now, my children, your journey and your most testing times lie ahead of you. When you get to the Vale of Rithlin, remember to take the right-hand fork. Chalcoria Ferrenor. May the blessing of the chalice flower be upon you.”
He remained standing beside the old tower, a slight, grey figure, still strongly suggestive of cobwebs and old paper, watching as they mounted their horses. Bethro turned his mount toward the hedge, concealing his disappointment that the Keeper had no word for him but just as the hedge opened, the Keeper called to him: “Take care of these children, Bethro.”
Bethro raised his hand in acknowledgement, then the hedge closed behind him and the Keeper of the Rose Tower was gone from sight.
Chapter Sixteen
The Vale of Rithlin
To Vesarion’s intense displeasure, they had gone only a stone’s throw into the Golden Wood when they discovered that someone was waiting for them. Gorm was sitting at his ease at the foot of a tree, arms folded, pack beside him, yellow eyes alert. When he saw them, he scrambled to his feet and slung his pack over his shoulder.
“Hello, Gorm,” Sareth greeted him. “Where have you been?”
Eimer leaned towards Vesarion and muttered under his breath: “Off killing something, no doubt.”
“Probably. I was hoping he had taken himself off. I have no idea how he knew exactly when we would be leaving.”
“Black magic?” Eimer suggested.
Gorm, in the meantime, had bestowed on Sareth a toad-like grin that he reserved just for her and was a mark of great affection.
“All rested,” he announced. “Ready to go.”
“We have directions, Gorm,” said Bethro. “I’m afraid we don’t need a guide any more.”
Gorm gave him a baleful look. “Never mind,” he replied dismissively. “Come to protect Sareth.”
“Why is he so keen on coming with us?” Bethro asked the others.
“Probably nothing better to do,” was the Prince’s opinion.
Gorm’s brow drew down into a ferocious scowl at this.
“Protect Sareth,” he repeated. “Time to leave.”
The Prince opened his mouth again but before he could utter a word, he was pre-empted by his short companion.
“Chatter, chatter. Too much talk. Let’s go,” he commanded imperiously.
Even Vesarion couldn’t suppress a smile at that one.
Gorm, clearly in something of a huff that his services were no longer considered essential, led them at a fast trot along the winding paths of the Wood of Ammerith until the ground began to rise again. Up they ascended at a gentle gradient through the dense ranks of trees, until quite suddenly they emerged above the golden canopy onto a grassy ridge that marked the rim of the valley. After spending so much time in the enclosed confines of the dale, the view before them was liberating in its openness. There, stretching into almost infinite distance, was a rolling plain covered in long, lush grasses that shivered like fur when stroked by the boisterous breeze. The seclusion of the forest was behind them. Not a tree was in sight as far as the eye could see into the violet-smudged distance. A huge, azure sky vaulted over the grassland, scattered with towering white clouds driven along swiftly by the wind like great sailing ships.
They all drew a deep breath, as if what lay before them was the physical manifestation of freedom.
“This is wonderful,” cried Sareth and tapped Vesarion peremptorily on the shoulder. “What do you say to a gallop? These horses are so fresh that they could do with it. The first one to reach that rise is the winner.”
Without waiting for a reply, she clapped her heels to her horse’s flanks and shot off, with Vesarion in hot pursuit.
Eimer gave a whoop of delight and was about to follow suit, when he found himself hauled back by someone unceremoniously grabbing a fistful of his shirt.
“Let them go,” ordered Iska, “It will do them good to be carefree for a while.”
He frowned, then suddenly comprehension finally dawned on him. “Oh, so you think that they……”
“Never mind, Eimer,” she cut in, casting a warning glance at Bethro. “Let’s just say that the air has now been cleared, so we shall see what happens.”
“Well, I want a gallop. So come on, Madam I-know-all-about-everything, and see if you can beat me. Remember, the last time we raced, I won!”
Eimer careered off down the slope followed by a shriek of: “Cheat! You started first!”
She tore after him, leaving Bethro and Gorm looking in perplexity at one another.
“Sometimes I feel like I am the only adult on this expedition,” remarked Bethro grandly.
“Me too,” said Gorm, inadvertently demolishing him.
They travelled all that day beneath the immense sky, the horses seeming to wade through the ocean of shining grasses. The wind conspired with the sun to chase flocks of cloud-shadows across the plain, causing the light to change swiftly back and forth with great suddenness from sunshine so bright that it almost hurt the eyes, to dull, gelid shade.
Only the Turog did not find his surroundings enjoyable. His short stature made it tiring to be constantly fighting his way through the long strands. Moreover, the very openness that so pleased the others, made him uneasy, for there was nowhere to hide on the exposed plain and this went against all his woodlander’s instincts.
By late afternoon, a low, ephemeral, grey-green feature began to appear to the north , which turned out, as they drew closer, to be a line of slender willow trees. The reason for their sudden appearance on the otherwise treeless plain soon became apparent – they marked the course of a deep river, sunk between grassy banks, that formed a barrier across their path. It was not as big as the Harnor but it was wide and deep and most definitely not fordable at the place they had reached it. Vesarion and Eimer split up and began to search for a crossing place, but when they rejoined the party, wending their way through the shivering willows, they were forced to admit defeat.
“The Keeper didn’t mention a river,” complained Eimer, “ but surely he would not have sent us in this direction if it could not be crossed.”
Vesarion turned to Gorm, who had been suspiciously quiet. “Do you know a way across?”
Gorm looked sideways at him. “Yes,” he admitted sullenly.
Vesarion threw up his hands in his habitual gesture when exasperated. “Well why didn’t you tell us?”
“Didn’t ask,” was the annoying reply. He cast a look of dislike towards Bethro. “Got directions,” he mimicked. “Don’t need Gorm.”
Seeing that he was likely to sulk indefinitely, Sareth intervened.
“Please, Gorm, of course we need your help. We wouldn’t have got this far without you. I, for one, always value your advice.”
Eimer leaned confidentially towards Vesarion. “As nice a piece of female manipulation as I have seen, “ he whispered knowledgeably.
Gorm’s frown lightened, proving that he was not immune to flattery.
“Help Sareth,” he offered. “Stone bridge that way.” He pointed westwards with one thick finger. “But best camp here tonight. Not cross bridge in the dark.”
“Why not?” Sareth asked.
“Have to go past dead people.”
“Dead people?” Eimer repeated blankly.
“Many stones for dead people,” Gorm elucidated.
“I think he means a burial place,” Sareth suggested.
Gorm nodded vigorously. “Very old. Very scary. Go through in daylight. Don’t like dead people.”
Bethro, a little tired of the Turog being the centre of attention, remarked superciliously: “We are getting to know a great deal about what you don’t like. You don’t like magic hedges, or buildings, or wizards. It’s getting to be quite a list.”
Gorm, casting him a slit-eyed look loaded with venom, decided to complete the list for him.
“Don’t like fat Bethro,” he snapped, causing three of his audience to choke and one to turn away, her shoulders shaking.
Although there was still an hour or two of daylight left, Gorm would not be budged in his determination to give the graveyard a wide berth during the hours of darkness, so they camped amongst the willows within earshot of the soft swish and gurgle of the deep river.
When they were sitting round the fire that evening, Sareth asked Gorm how he had discovered the bridge.
“Many years ago, in days of Erren-dar, the Destroyer send his army south, through the Forsaken Lands to make war on Eskendria. Many Turog. Many waggons. Only place river can be crossed is old bridge. Bridge not made by Destroyer but by ancient people long ago.”
“You mean the Old Kingdom?”
“Yes. Made by men of Old Kingdom. Made many beautiful things in Old Kingdom but all gone to dust now. Gorm once found fallen city….”
“Korem?” Iska asked. “The capital?”
“Don’t know. All in ruins,” he said sadly. “All destroyed. Beautiful things all gone.” His hand inadvertently strayed to the little pouch attached to his belt as if to reassure himself that his own beautiful treasures were still safe.
“When Gorm crossed bridge with army, he drop pack in river. Great-turog punish him with long whip. Beat him sore.” He brooded on this for a moment before saying simply. “No one beat Gorm ever again, because now he is free.”
For once even Bethro, who was developing a taste for indulging in verbal
combat with the Turog, had nothing to say. The few halting words had conveyed more of a sense of desolation and destruction than all the librarian’s flowery stanzas. A silence fell as everyone stared into the fire, touched by a tragedy that had taken place a thousand years before, as if it were but yesterday.
The impression that they were trespassing into the domain of a Kingdom that had recently fallen instead of a millennium ago, increased the following day as they followed Gorm westwards along the river bank. Upon rounding a wide, placid bend of the river, they saw ahead of them, spanning the deep, swift-flowing water, a long bridge of great elegance. It was constructed of dark stone and traversed the river by means of many substantial stone piers, their feet sunk in the dark depths. Above the water-level, they were fringed with a thick beard of some brown, trailing weed that indicated that the river was low. Between the piers sprang beautiful pointed arches, their undersides illuminated by sunlight glancing off the water. From a distance it looked intact, but as they drew closer its ancientness became apparent. The stone blocks, though solid, were much eroded and worn and the joints between them, once so precise as to be almost invisible, were now widened by the frosts of many winters.
As they wound amongst the willows, sometimes losing sight of it, they discovered that the bend in the river had hidden something else from view. An extensive burial ground, almost engulfed by greenery, was set in low-lying meadows at the southern end of the bridge. At first only the occasional stone could be found, its inscription worn away by the relentless passage of time, leaning at a drunken angle amongst the warm grasses and clovers. But as they advanced deeper into the burial ground, the memorials became more and more elaborate. Tall pillars and obelisks, still faintly incised with the chalice flower, lay shattered on their sides, spotted with lichens, their stumps, like broken teeth, still projecting from the earth. Tombs like caskets, topped with what had once been carved figures, now eroded into indistinct lumps, became more frequent. Finally, near the foot of the bridge, they stopped before the most remarkable monument of all. There, standing on a pedestal, was a life-sized statue of a woman in white stone, so untouched by the passage of time that they all stopped before it in amazement. Her arms were outstretched towards them as if in supplication. Her garments flowed out behind her as though she faced into a strong wind and behind her shoulders, were outspread wings like a swan’s. But what should have been beautiful was rendered almost hideous by the fact that its head was missing. The slender stone neck was severed just above the shoulders, giving the figure a macabre air.