by R. J. Grieve
What had seemed a dismal place under the leaden skies of the day before, now shone with a wild and lonely beauty peculiar to itself. Iska, seated behind Vesarion, looked around her with interest, noting the abundant bird life. Wild geese bobbed on the waters and overhead the sound of whistling wings could be heard, signalling the approach of a flight of snowy-white swans coming in to land. Most beautiful of all were the water lilies. They were everywhere; their stiff, waxy-white blooms set off by the perfect foil of their glossy leaves. Many times the boats passed between them, close enough for the occupants to see the rich golden stamens nestling within their virginal embrace. Little moorhens tiptoed delicately across the lily leaves, their light steps barely disturbing them, and dragonflies, resplendent in ruby or azure stripes, hovered above them on clear, glassy wings.
Vesarion, enchanted by it all, looked towards the boat bearing Sareth, and catching her eye, received a smile that told him that she shared his delight.
Twice they came within sight of wooded islands, but the oarsmen did not stop. They charted a course that took them deeper and deeper into the drowned land, until Vesarion realised, with a sense of alarm, that he no longer knew the way back.
Finally, skirting a tall stand of bulrushes, their dark heads quivering in the light breeze, they emerged to see a much larger island ahead of them, floating serenely on a glassy area of open water across which small, white clouds chased their reflection.
As soon as the boats touched the landing stage hidden amongst the reeds, the captives were hustled ashore and escorted by the huntsmen into the shadows of a forest of beech trees. As they progressed, they gathered up a curious crowd, all dressed in the greys and duns favoured by the Perith-arn, that rendered them invisible amongst the reeds. Children raced in and out of the trees, calling to one another in excitement, and Sareth guessed that strangers were very much a novelty. Half a dozen dogs, entering into the spirit of things, joined in with enthusiasm until they caught the scent of Turog. Abruptly they stopped in their tracks, sniffed the air suspiciously, then uttering shrill howls of alarm, shot off into the trees.
The centre of the forest was occupied by an extensive clearing, ringed by close ranks of trees. Above it hung a perfect circle of blue sky. The clearing was occupied by many circular wooden houses topped by conical roofs, thickly thatched with reeds. The roofs swept down so low to the ground, that the houses contrived to look as if they were being pushed into the earth. Outside every door hung fishing nets, spread out to dry. Longbows and lighter hunting bows were common, leaning against walls or under repair, indicating how this remote community survived. A woman, sitting on a bench outside a house, busily plucking a goose, looked up from her task as they passed but when Sareth smiled at her, she did not return the smile.
In the centre of the clearing, stood a building identical in design to all the others, but many times larger. The golden thatch of its roof rose high against the sky, from the apex of which trickled a thin wisp of smoke. The only means of entrance was a single wooden door flanked by heavy posts deeply incised with chalice flowers. Sareth, catching Vesarion’s attention, flicked her eyes significantly towards these symbols, and he nodded in understanding. Their guards abruptly ordered them to halt in the open area just before the door. Eimer, who alone of the companions hadn’t understood the order, tried to carry on, and was hauled back by the collar like an over-eager young dog.
The excited calls of the urchins died away, and they stood quiet and round-eyed, looking at the door. Even Eimer managed to grasp that something of importance was about to happen.
A handsome, middle-aged man, his dark hair lying on his shoulders, emerged from the doorway. In his hand he carried a tall, ceremonial staff, its head carved like a water lily.
“This is the council hall of the Khaldor,” he announced formally. “Who seeks admittance?”
One of the guards indicated the prisoners. “These strangers, trespassers on our land, seek the judgment of the Khaldor.”
The man slowly surveyed the small group before him, one by one. His eyes rested the longest on the small, hooded figure, squirming against its bonds.
“Who will speak for you, strangers?”
Every eye turned to Vesarion, who was forced to resign himself to being volunteered.
“I will,” he said, stepping forward. “I wish to present our case to the Khaldor.”
“Very well. How will the Khaldor address you?”
“I am Vesarion, Lord of Westrin,” he said, instinctively drawing himself up to his full height.”
“Follow me, Lord of Westrin.”
With a swift, reassuring glance at the others, Vesarion followed the man into the dimness of the hall. After the glory of the sunshine, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.
The hall was large and perfectly circular, but its floor-space was dwarfed by the size of its roof. The conical space, lined with the golden underside of the thatch, rose above the hall to an impressive height. Although there were no windows, it was not dark, for a diffused light filtered its way downwards from two openings set high in the thatch. The openings were guarded by tilting covers operated by ropes tied to a central supporting pillar. Near this mighty pillar, sat a large brazier, glowing redly, giving off the pleasantly acrid scent of wood smoke. On the far side of the hall stood a heavy table flanked by many carved wooden chairs. At the head, stood a larger, more imposing chair draped with black fur, and upon this impressive seat, reclining at his ease, was the Khaldor. His hair was long and iron-grey, but his brows were as dark as the fur cloak spread over his broad shoulders. Although no longer young, he retained a certain vigour and an almost tangible air of command. A pair of shrewd blue eyes were set amongst a nest of wrinkles, and were assessing the man before him. It was the sight of these lines that, strangely, gave Vesarion hope, for they could only have been caused by habitual merriment, and such a thing sat ill with cruelty.
The usher approached the Khaldor and whispered something long and involved in his ear, before retreating to the doorway.
“Approach, Lord of Westrin,” instructed the Khaldor and indicated that he should take a chair at the opposite end of the table.
“I am informed,” he continued, “that you and your companions were found on one of the outer islands last night by a hunting party. I am also informed that you brought with you a Turog, a tool of the Destroyer. It seems that you were driven into the land of the Perith-arn by necessity. Prince Mordrian knows nothing of our existence, but I know something of him, and I believe he is not a man that one would wish to antagonise. Do I have these facts correctly?”
“Yes,” replied Vesarion, a little unsure of the correct protocol. “That is correct, my lord Khaldor.”
“I am no lord, stranger. When a Khaldor dies, his successor is elected by the elders of the three tribes. We have acknowledged no king since the last High King of the Golden Kingdom, who fell before the invading hordes of the Destroyer.”
“That was over a thousand years ago, and yet you still speak the language of the Old Kingdom.”
“So do you, it would appear.”
Vesarion shook his head. “It is not my native tongue. In my country, it is a dead language, taught only so that one may read the ancient texts such as the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom or the Lays of Tissro the Wanderer.”
“Where is your country?”
“I am Eskendrian. My country lies far to the south of here, beyond the Great Forest, across the river Harnor. It was once a province of the Old Kingdom and was the only part of it not to fall to the Destroyer. Over the years it has become a kingdom in its own right, but ever it is harried and attacked by the creatures of the Destroyer. I fear he sees its existence as a testimony to his failure to wipe out the Old Kingdom entirely.”
The patriarch tilted his head a little to one side, considering this. “Other elements of the Old Kingdom survive – Adamant, for example.”
“Adamant survived because the House of Parth gained immunity from attack
by assisting the Destroyer in his attempt to eradicate humanity. They exist because they betrayed their own kind.”
The accusation caused such little surprise that Vesarion suspected that the Khaldor had known this all along and was testing him.
“We have no dealing with Adamant. Normally, they stay behind their magic wall and do not trouble us, but of late, some have begun to emerge. It is rumoured that the invisible shield begins to fail. Their Prince could not have come to our lands unless there was truth in this. So that brings me to the question of what exactly you have done that is so heinous that it has brought Prince Mordrian beyond the bounds of his kingdom?”
“The Prince stole a mighty talisman from Eskendria, in the hope of weakening the Kingdom prior to invasion. As we speak, he is assembling a great army which will soon cross this land on its way to make war on my country. My heinous crime, as you call it, was to take the talisman from him again.”
The Khaldor signalled to the usher, who left briefly and returned carrying Vesarion’s sword. Almost reverently, the man set it down on the table before the patriarch.
“Is this the talisman of which you speak?”
For the first time, Vesarion hesitated, unsure whether it was wise to reveal this or not. But he looked into the eyes watching him so steadily across the table and knew that a lie would be detected.
“Yes, it is.”
“A sensible decision,” was the revealing reply.
The Khaldor gently withdrew the sword from its scabbard just far enough to reveal the incised flowers.
“The sacred symbol,” he murmured. Then turning his piercing gaze on Vesarion once more, he said: “This is the only reason you are still alive. This is the only reason you have been given the opportunity to plead. For whoever you are, and whatever your reason for coming here, no creature of the Dark Prince would carry such a thing. However there is one amongst your company whose presence contradicts the meaning of this flower. There is one amongst you who owes no allegiance to it.”
“I once felt as you do. Indeed, I still hold all Turog to be my enemies – except for one. In a tower far to the south of here, we encountered the last of the sages, the last of the Brotherhood of the Sword, and he told me that goodness can be found anywhere, in any race or clan, and to my astonishment, against all my initial prejudice, Gorm has proved himself loyal and true. He has abandoned the service of his former master and devoted himself to us. And although it still seems strange, even in my own ears, to hear myself saying this, I trust him.”
“I remain to be convinced,” replied the patriarch dryly. “I think, perhaps, Lord of Westrin, that it is time for you to tell me the story of your quest to retrieve this beautiful sword.”
So Vesarion did as he was asked, reliving it all, sometimes surprising himself as he related the events of their journey, by how much his experiences had changed him. As he spoke, he found himself opening up more and more, as the sense grew in him that this man possessed both wisdom and insight. The only thing he kept from the Khaldor, simply because it was too close to his heart, was his love for Sareth.
His audience did not interrupt or question him, nor, when he paused occasionally to collect his thoughts, was he prompted to continue. The patriarch just sat quietly, caught in the dusty golden light as it descended from the ceiling, watching the play of emotions and recollection across the features of the man before him. He watched with the intense concentration of someone who knows that they must not err in their decision. And as he did so, the Khaldor began to sense, ever more strongly as the story progressed, that lies were foreign to this man.
When at last Vesarion ground to a halt, his emotions deeply affected by all he had related, he looked his silent listener in the eyes, wondering if such a strange tale would be believed.
“So now, Vesarion of Westrin, you hurry home to warn your country that war is about to be unleashed against it.”
“We have little time to prepare. Every day’s warning that we can give, could mean the difference between destruction and survival.”
“Tell me,” the Khaldor asked consideringly, “even if all you have told me is true, why should any of it matter to the Perith-arn?”
Vesarion knew that they had come to the crux of the issue and he must tread very carefully.
He leaned forward across the table and stretched out his hand towards the sword.
“Because of that,” he said with utter conviction. “Because of the chalice flower and all that it stands for. I would guess that when the Old Kingdom fell, some of its people fled to these marshes and took refuge here from the hordes of Turog sweeping the land. And here you have stayed, in isolation and secrecy, passing down the language and traditions of your ancestors from generation to generation.”
“What of it?”
“You hold true to the Book of Light, as does Eskendria, but if my country falls, this land, as well as mine, will be overrun by Parth, by a clan still so loyal to their master of old, that they meddle with such agents of evil as the demon I told you of. And what of this other army that is forming? An army of black warriors who hide their faces? I cannot tell you what lies behind those masks, but I do know this – they, too, serve the Dark Prince and as such, they are as much your enemies as mine. If this army is victorious, there will no longer be any place where you can hide. Prince Mordrian will rule all this land from Adamant to Eskendria and then secrecy will avail you nothing, for all will be within the shadow and power of the Destroyer.”
The Khaldor was silent for a moment and Vesarion knew that his words had made an impression. Finally he asked: “And your tame Turog? What of him?”
“I ask your leniency for him alone. All other Turog that cross my path are my foes, and I will readily slay every one of them with the very sword that lies before you.”
The Khaldor said nothing but stood up, and walking slowly over to the brazier, stared into its glowing depths. The hall was very quiet. Motes of dust floated languidly in the honeyed light descending from above. Distantly, Vesarion could hear children playing, but this normal sound seemed to make the silence, the sense of waiting, even deeper. All his hopes were concentrated on this man, for not only had he pleaded for his own life and the lives of his companions, but perhaps for the very survival of Eskendria.
The Khaldor remained lost in thought, staring into the fire for a long time. At last, he roused himself and turned back to his captive.
“You have told me many things, Vesarion of Westrin, and although your tale is strange, I think you are no liar. However, I must judge what is the safest and wisest course for my people. The fate of Eskendria is not my foremost consideration. For me, the survival of the three tribes is of paramount importance and it is upon this that I must base my decision. This is not a matter, therefore, to be decided in haste. I wish to take counsel with my elders and in the morning you will know your fate. Until then, the Turog must remain imprisoned but you and your companions are free to roam this island – just do not attempt to leave it.”
He nodded to the usher, who approached Vesarion.
“This way, my lord,” he said, shepherding him towards the door.
Looking back, Vesarion wondered if there was more he should have said. But seeing the figure in the black cloak, his head bowed with the gravity of what he must decide, he knew there was nothing more to be done. Everything they had fought for, struggled for and suffered for, lay in the hands of this man.
The slim young man they had met on the island the day before, turned out to be Teneth’s son, Demeron, and he seemed to have taken a shine to Eimer. Upon Vesarion emerging from the council hall, he found them deep in amicable conversation. A reluctant Bethro had been coerced into translating and they seemed to be getting along magnificently. It took little to establish the source of Eimer’s enthusiasm, for there, perched on his arm, was a beautiful hunting falcon, its talons gripping the leather glove lent to him by its owner.
“Look, Vesarion!” called Eimer happily. “Is he not impressiv
e? I have a peregrine at home, but not as beautiful as this bird. Demeron tells me that he has taught him to respond to whistles rather than the lure.”
Vesarion looked at Sareth in patent disbelief. “I have just been in there for the entire morning trying not only to persuade the Khaldor not to execute us, but to allow us to continue on our journey, and all Eimer can think of is falconry!”
She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know why you are surprised. You have, after all, known him since he was born!” Jerking her head discreetly towards the hall, she asked: “How did it go?”
“I’m not sure. He will give us his decision in the morning. I think he believed me, but he is concerned for the safety of his people. I think he will only decide in our favour, if he can be made to see that his interests lie with ours.”
Demeron proved a pleasant host, taking them on a tour of the island and answering all their many questions.