The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  She wished she could share her discovery with Vesarion, but when she returned to him with a bowl full of warm water from the pool, he hadn’t moved. Gently she went to work on him, bathing his back with the spring water and dusting his injuries with the white powder. Then, with great tenderness, she smoothed the pungent salve over every bruise she could reach. All during this process, he didn’t stir, but lay as still as death. Not even when she applied the ointment to his swollen eye, did he respond, and a stab of fear, hastily suppressed, shot through her heart.

  “He is not unconscious,” she told herself fiercely. “He is only sleeping and a long, deep sleep is the best thing of all to restore him.”

  As the sun journeyed across the sky and the descending shafts of light changed their angle, Sareth kept watch over him, only once briefly leaving him to go out through the waterfall into the tangled woods to collect firewood. At last the sun left the cave altogether, plunging it into a mysterious indigo twilight, its quietude pierced only by the merry bubbling of the springs and the homely noise of the horses placidly cropping the grass.

  Deciding it was now time to light a fire, Sareth shoved her hand into the pocket of her breeches and withdrew the little silver box, and for the first time, closely examined it. She read the words ‘may it prove useful’ engraved inside the lid and remembered Gorm’s obsession with it. Smiling slightly in amusement, she recollected his inability to resist its lure. She could see in her mind Vesarion holding out his hand peremptorily. ‘If you please’ he would say, and Gorm, faced with no alternative, would surrender it with poor grace. Then her memory shifted and she saw it sitting on the table outside his prison cell, the light from the candle gleaming upon it. And somehow the spell of happy memories was broken and she sank to her knees, holding it against her like a talisman. Tears streamed unchecked down her face and with every fibre of her being, passionately she begged for him to be spared.

  As night fell and tiny pin-pricks of stars became visible through the great void in the roof, it seemed to Sareth that her only companion was the little fire, its flames licking along the edges of the wood, creating a tiny, intimate glow of light in the immensity of the cave. Although every few minutes her eyes would seek Vesarion, she felt that he was not really present with her. He was lost in some dark maze of suffering where she could not follow, and all she could do was to hold on tightly to the hope that he would find his way out of that labyrinth and return to her. So, for hour after hour of that endless night, she sat by the fire, her eyes rarely leaving him. Sometimes she arose to place fresh wood on the fire, oddly gripped by the conviction that at all costs she must not let it go out. At others she crossed to him and placed her hand over his, just to make sure it was still warm. She leaned close to him, straining to hear his faint breathing, for he lay as still as one whose soul has departed. She remembered the dream she had in the Storm Fortress, when she saw him lying like this, pale as death, in her arms, but tried to reassure herself that things were not the same as in her dream. He was not wearing armour and most certainly was not in possession of the sword of Erren-dar. She reflected that all their plans for the recovery of the sword had now gone awry. Now, most likely, they would have to return to Eskendria empty-handed. Iska had been so set on achieving their goal, even lying to them to prevent them turning back. What would she do now? And where were Eimer and Bethro? She sorely wished they were with her now, for never had she felt so alone. Never had she felt so utterly helpless. As the night grew old and the flames on the fire died down to a red glow, all these thoughts revolved in her head, until at last, head reeling with tiredness, she lay down near Vesarion, resting her cheek on her arm.

  “I’ll rest, just for a moment,” she murmured wearily to herself. “Just for a moment.”

  When she awoke, the cavern was filled with sunlight. The hour was so advanced that the sun had climbed high enough to plunge joyfully into the pool again. The fire had gone completely out, and was now no more than a mound of fine, grey ashes. She might even have slept longer, were it not for the fact that her horse had awoken her by gently snorting in her ear and lipping at her hair with its velvet muzzle. She sat up quickly, her heart suddenly pounding and firmly pushing the horse away, swung round to look at Vesarion. He had turned over in the night and was now facing her, and what was more, his eyes were open. Not even taking the time to stand up, she crawled over to him.

  “How do you feel?” she managed to ask, as a wave of almost unbearable relief washed over her.

  He started to speak, then had to clear his throat and try again.

  “Marginally less dead than yesterday,” he croaked. Then in a gallant attempt at humour, added: “I see you’ve managed to ruin yet another of my shirts.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t get it off you. You weigh about as much as a horse, you know!”

  To her delight, that sally drew a pale smile from him. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Sirindria Eleth,” she replied. “Iska found it, apparently by chance. The springs have healing properties and according to the instructions Callis has given me, you are to bathe in them twice a day.”

  “I don’t remember much of how we got here. All I can recall is clinging to that damned saddle like a drowning man.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “A little, but if I’m going to bathe in these famous springs of yours, I’d better do it before breakfast.”

  “Should you not rest?”

  Very slowly and stiffly, he managed to sit up. “I feel as if I have slept for about a thousand years. Now I want to see more of this place.”

  Sareth removed the two halves of his shirt, promising to mend it, but for the first time, saw the heavy bruising across his chest and stomach. She said nothing, however, and helped him over to the edge of the pool.

  He stood swaying for a moment, gripping her shoulder to steady himself, so enchanted that he ignored his pain. His eyes followed the shaft of sunlight down from the heights of the roof to where they pierced the blue-green waters.

  “This is beautiful,” he said in an awed voice. “I’m glad you brought me here.”

  “Can you manage on your own? I mean, you’re not going to drown yourself or anything, are you?”

  “I’ll try not to. Now, don’t fuss, I’m all right.”

  For Vesarion, the warm waters brought such relief, it was little short of heaven. Although the minerals stung his back slightly at first, their warmth soon began to penetrate every bruise and hurt with such soothing relief that he was loath to get out again. Not feeling quite up to swimming, he merely stood on the sandy bottom and sank into the healing waters up to his chin, indeed, he even held his breath and ducked right under the surface so that they could reach the damage to his face.

  He stayed in so long that Sareth, who was getting flustered because she was on the point of burning breakfast, came to fetch him. She held out the towel peremptorily.

  “Breakfast is rapidly getting beyond ready,” she informed him. “I should warn you that I am not as good a cook as Bethro or Iska. In fact,” she added in a burst of honesty, “the best you could say of anything I make, is that it probably won’t kill you.”

  “Sareth,” he said, with the weary air of a martyr, “I have known you all your life, you do not need to tell me that.”

  She gave a choke of laughter but before she could think of a suitably witty reply, he flicked water at her.

  “Now, go away,” he ordered, “ and let me get out of here in peace.”

  “I could always take the towel with me,” she replied saucily. “That would bring you to heel.”

  But she lost that round, too, for he merely shrugged casually, and began to rise from the water causing her to drop the towel and retreat discomfited.

  For Vesarion and Sareth, the next week was one of undiluted happiness. They were each aware that embraced within the enchantment that was Sirindria Eleth, they were growing closer to one another. For it seemed that the magic of the springs healed not only physical
hurts but those of the heart, and although nothing directly was said between them, each sensed that all the misunderstanding and awkwardness of the past was fading away.

  At first Vesarion slept for many hours, leaving Sareth to keep watch over him as protectively as a cat with one kitten, but as the waters of Sirindria Eleth began to do their work, they spent more time with each other, talking together, or sitting side by side on the stone bench in companionable silence, their shoulders touching. Sareth showed him Callis’ letter and its fascinating story of the spirit of the pool.

  “I think the spirit has found you worthy,” she told him one day, as she applied the salve to his bruises. “You are healing so quickly that it is little short of a miracle. Your lip is completely better and the swelling has gone from your eye - although it’s still an interesting array of colours, and every wound on your back has closed.”

  She was gently smoothing the salve on a bruise on his chest and although he could have perfectly well have done it for himself, it had become an intimate ritual between them. Not for the first time, he closed his eyes and pretended that her touch was not one of healing but of love. He remembered his failure to speak that day at the inn and how it had been brought home to him with a vengeance, how fragile life can be. He recalled sitting in his prison cell, convinced he was about to die, bitterly regretting that he had not seized the moment. And now, against all the odds, he had been given another chance and he had no intention of letting it slip through his fingers. His strength was returning, his injuries healing, and he knew the moment was very near. During the last few days, for him the world had faded away. He was not Lord of Westrin. Eskendria did not exist. And the city of Adamant was no more than a dreadful dream. All he knew was that he and Sareth were alone together in this wonderful place and he never wanted it to end.

  But as in every paradise, there was one tiny flaw. Although he felt that a bond had grown between them, he could not rid himself of the tiny, niggling doubt that Sareth’s affection might just be rooted in the hero-worship of childhood, rather than the altogether deeper emotion he longed for.

  That night, when his old friend the moon found its way into the cave, it touched Vesarion’s face with its cold light, awakening him. For some reason, he sat up and looked towards the place where Sareth slept. The little fire had died low. Only a few red embers were left, but he could clearly see that her blankets were empty.

  He stood up, unaccountably a little alarmed, his eyes searching the darkness for her, and as he did so, his gaze fell on the pool.

  A shaft of silver light descended from the night sky directly to touch the waters. Where it did so, it turned them to the deepest, translucent sapphire blue. Little gauzy tendrils of mist, drifting close to the surface of the water, glowed ethereally in the pure light, imparting a mystical quality to the scene. To add the last, perfect touch to complete the enchantment, there, swimming languidly in the ray of argent light, was a female form. It might almost have been the spirit of the pool, lit by the descending beam, but he realised that it was Sareth. She had pinned her hair on the top of her head, but a few strands had come loose and floated on the water beside her. She swam smoothly in the sapphire-blue water, barely creating a ripple, the moon gilding her arms and shoulders with its radiant light. To the man who stood beside the willow tree, holding his breath, unable to look away, she was indeed the spirit of the pool, for she had healed him and brought him hope. He knew that never again in all his life would he see anything so lovely, and he vowed that before the moon looked into the waters of Sirindria Eleth again, he would tell her what was in his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Black Sword

  The soldier advanced further into the room, his eyes narrowing.

  “Who are you?” he demanded again. “Answer me!”

  Bethro merely sat gawping at him, his mouth open in an attitude of mental vacancy.

  It was Callis whose quick thinking saved the day. “He is a patient of mine and I’m afraid he cannot answer you, Captain. He is a deaf-mute and has been unable to speak all his life. He lives in a remote region but comes to me now and again for treatment.”

  “How did he get that injury to his forehead?”

  “Alas, there are some who think that when he does not respond to them, he is being insolent, and tempers flare. Such ignorance is lamentable but it is human nature, after all.”

  The soldier studied Bethro with interest. “Well, you must admit that he does look a bit slow- witted.”

  Bethro was quite content to be attributed with the inability to speak, but the inability to hear was another matter. His indignation at being referred to as ‘slow-witted’ was such that it threatened to overcome his judgement. As he was supposed to have no idea what was going on, he was obliged to hide his annoyance behind a large handkerchief by pretending to blow his nose.

  “You wished to speak with me, Captain?” Callis prompted.

  “Er….yes, you are wanted at the palace. The King has taken a turn for the worse.”

  “I’ll be along in a moment,” Callis replied, unperturbed. “I have some things I need to collect, so go ahead and tell them I shall be there shortly.

  When the soldier had gone, he turned to find the librarian fuming.

  “Slow-witted, indeed!” he raged, showing all the signs of someone about to embark on a lengthy diatribe.

  Callis nipped it in the bud. “I must go now. I’ll try to get word to Iska. In the meantime, stay here and lock the door behind me.”

  Iska was, in fact, still combing the streets looking for her missing charges and was becoming more and more worried by their total absence. She would have been quite incensed to have known that all her anxiety, at least as far as Eimer was concerned, was quite wasted.

  Eimer had, in fact, spent a very pleasant night hidden in the little garret room of his rescuer. In the morning he had awoken early, full of the virtuous intention of going to find his friends but circumstances had intervened to change his plans. It was the maid’s day off and so enamoured had she become with her unexpected find in the garden, that she had every intention of spending the day with him. When he tried to insist that he had to leave, she did everything in her power to dissuade him, finally resorting to a woman’s most powerful weapon – a bout of tears. Of course, Eimer felt obliged to comfort her and what with one thing leading to another, it was almost noon before he found himself walking along the busy street in the direction of the library, an assignation already made for the evening.

  The Prince, being a young man not much prone to worrying, sauntered along with delightful insouciance, his jerkin flung carelessly over one shoulder and his shirt buttoned up the wrong way. He looked as if he hadn’t a care on the world, and was blissfully oblivious to the fact that half the guards in the city were still searching for him.

  However, a bird flying over the streets would have seen that his fate was fast closing upon him. A cross and disgruntled Iska was approaching from a side street, having begun to surmise, fairly accurately, what had happened to him. They met abruptly at the corner.

  “Iska!”

  “Eimer! Where have you been?” she demanded with a certain edge to her voice that alerted the Prince to the fact that he was in disgrace.

  He smiled smugly in a manner that made her long to box his ears. “Oh! You know, here and there.”

  The statement merely confirmed Iska’s suspicions. “I take it ‘here and there’ wasn’t on your own? Barmaid or dairymaid?”

  Eimer laughed, caught a little off balance. “Er…chambermaid, if you must know.”

  Iska gave vent to her annoyance. “For a Prince, you have all the morals of an alley cat,” she pronounced roundly.

  But Eimer was unabashed. “That’s what Enrick always says.”

  “He begins to grow on me,” replied Iska sourly. “Do you not know that you have driven us all half crazy with worry? Also, you disappeared just when we most needed your help. Have you not heard that Vesarion has been ca
ptured?”

  The words wiped the smile from his face. “What? They’ve caught Vesarion? What happened? Where is he?”

  She glanced cautiously around her, for the Prince had not been speaking quietly. “We can’t talk here. Come with me to the bell tower, and I’ll explain on the way.”

  By the time they reached the tower, she had finished her recital, leaving Eimer looking as worried as it was possible for Eimer to look. He stood in numbed silence as she ran her hand around the door frame, looking for the key. She found more than the key, for her hand touched a little rolled up note bearing Callis’ distinctive handwriting.

  Ascending the stairs behind her, Eimer looked around the tower with interest before announcing: “You’d have to be really keen on pigeons to like this place.”

  A lugubrious voice from the shadows said: “Don’t like pigeons.”

  “Gorm!” cried the Prince, genuinely delighted to see him. “How are you, old fellow? Still grumpy?”

  Gorm merely snorted in reply.

  But the Prince’s smile faded when he peered out through the broken slats at the square below.

  “Is that the pillar?” he asked Iska grimly.