The Sword of Aradel

by Alexander Key

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing up here?”

  The fellow halted and looked up at him with little cold, beady eyes. He was redheaded and thin-lipped, and something about him reminded Brian of the righteous and utterly unfeeling prior back at the abbey. With his plain sword and short hauberk of chain mail he might have been a squire or one of the castle guards.

  The beady eyes narrowed and chilled. “I’ll ask the questions,” the man said harshly. “Just what are you doing here?”

  “That is no concern of yours!” Brian snapped, trying hard to hide his growing uneasiness. “Nor is this any time to be annoying visitors to Rondelaine. Back to your post—or you’ll be reported!”

  “Then you would have to report to me,” came the cold retort. “I am captain of the guard.”

  Merra, who had come out on the landing, suddenly stamped her foot and cried, “Fie on you, you unmannered wretch! That is no way to talk to the son of a nobleman! Be gone with you! Be gone!”

  The man’s face hardened. “I don’t like the looks of you two. You are not what you seem. You are evil.” He paused, then said gratingly, “If you are not evil, how did you get up there? Answer me that!” He shook a long, crooked finger at them accusingly. “Only days ago the lord Albericus, praise God, discovered that this part of Rondelaine was still contaminated. It reeked with the rot of those sinful books we found up there! They belonged to that foul brood we destroyed. So we burned them—and locked the tower door. We wanted no foot in the place till it could be properly cleansed in the eyes of God.”

  The guard paused. His thin lips turned down, and again he shook his accusing finger. “So, how did you get up here? Did you fly, like the birds you frightened off? Don’t deny it. I know what you are. I can spot evil a league away. Evil is for burning. The stake cries for it!”

  The accusing finger made the sign of the cross, and abruptly the hand it was attached to drew the heavy sword buckled about the hauberk. Grimly the guard started on up the stairway. “You will submit and come with me peacefully,” he said, “or I will cut you down. The choice is yours. Either way you will be burned.”

  Only mounting fury prevented Brian from retreating. The guard, obviously an experienced fighter, had the great advantage of strength and weight, as well as the protection of a coat of mail. But as Brian’s hand closed over the hilt of his own sword, causing it to fairly leap from the scabbard, he was determined to draw blood—as much of it as possible.

  “Run!” he said urgently to Merra. “Get back to Nysa. I’ll hold this murdering wretch!”

  Merra vanished behind him. He did not chance taking his eyes from the guard to watch her, for the fellow was only a short distance away, coming up swiftly. He had a momentary urge to step backward and give himself more room, but realized just in time that it would be a mistake. Instead he took a quick step forward to stand braced at the top of the stairway, dominating it and placing the oncoming fighter at a disadvantage. The sword, which had felt so heavy early in the day, now seemed light as a feather from the power it had drawn from the scabbard. He was able to whirl it in front of him with a speed and ease that the strongest of men would have found impossible to equal.

  Brian saw the little glittering eyes of the man widen at the sight of the flying blade, and he anticipated a sudden frenzied attack to cut through his guard. When it came he was ready. A deft turn of his wrist deflected the other’s weapon. Another quick turn slashed open and wrecked the man’s arm and hand, and sent the sword the hand would never hold again clattering down the stairs. An instant later a double handful of soot and ashes was flung into the staring and incredulous eyes. With it went the unleashed fury of Merra’s tongue. The fellow howled, lost his balance, and went tumbling after the sword.

  Brian turned and saw Merra, her small hands soiled with the ashes of the burned books. “I told you to get back to Nysa!” he said accusingly. “Why didn’t you? If he’d cut me down, he would have caught you!”

  “Oh, fiddle! You ought to know I wouldn’t desert you in trouble! Besides, I knew very well you’d give the wretch a treatment as sound as you gave that stupid Rupert. I merely thought I’d hasten it with the ashes—but your sword is faster than I thought. Why, I could hardly believe it!”

  “I could hardly believe it myself,” he admitted. “But of course it has drawn its power from the scabbard. Which makes me wonder: If the scabbard can do this to an ordinary blade, what would it do to the true sword?”

  Her green eyes flashed up at him curiously. “Sir Brian, you forget one thing—your own ability.”

  “I—I don’t understand. All I know is what your uncle taught me.”

  “Oh, don’t be so blind! Don’t you realize by now that you were born with a special power of your own? Young as you are, if you had the true sword, no one could stop you. Why, my uncle told me—”

  She paused suddenly, listening. From somewhere below Brian could make out, for the first time, the hoarse, agonized voice of the wounded guard, crying for help. And help must be coming, for he could faintly hear the answering calls of hurrying men.

  “We’d better leave!” he muttered.

  Catching Merra by the arm, he drew her swiftly up the stairs to the top of the tower. Quickly he sheathed his sword, and they stood back to back in one of the faint circles drawn on the floor, her small hands clasped tightly in his. Tancred fluttered down and perched on her shoulder.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready!”

  As she began her curious chant he could hear voices growing louder below, then the clink and clatter of arms as men started upward. Finally came Merra’s rhyme:

  “By right of blood and all my power,

  Take us from this blackened tower;

  Take us fast as fast can be!

  Take us home to Nysa’s tree!”

  Just in time he remembered to close his eyes. On the instant came the sudden giddiness, the feeling of whirling and flying apart, and the abrupt landing on his heels.

  When he opened his eyes—which he was careful not to do too soon—they were back in the cavelike area they had started from earlier. He knew they had been away only a matter of minutes, though it seemed they had been gone for hours.

  As they stepped from the landing circle, he was startled to hear the voice of the invisible Nysa just ahead of him.

  “Heaven be praised!” she said thankfully. “As soon as you were gone I had a terrible feeling about Rondelaine. You had trouble?”

  “Yes,” said Merra. “But Sir Brian’s sword took care of it.”

  “I prayed that it would. And the formula—you could not find it?”

  Merra’s lip trembled. “It—it was burned. Everything in the room was burned.” Suddenly her soiled hands became little fists beating at the air. “They even burned Cerid’s Bible! The rotten wretches! Oh, I’ll make them pay! I’ll burn them! I’ll burn them all! If it’s the last thing I do—”

  “Now, Merra.”

  Nysa’s voice, softly reproving, brought sudden silence. “I know how you feel, my dear,” she went on, shimmering so that all at once she became visible to Brian. “But vengeance is not the way of the Dryads. Of course, Albericus and many others must die—it cannot be avoided. Only remember: We fight not for vengeance, but to save Aradel.”

  “Oh, fie!” Merra burst out. “You are right—but how can I help hating? It’s awful to be so—so helpless!”

  Nysa gave a sad little sigh. “Then keep your hate. Maybe you will need it for what lies ahead. It will take more than courage to find the true sword.”

  She paused, then said, “Now, you had an idea of your own about the formula. Is it the same thought I have—to get Benedict’s help?”

  “Yes. But you’ll have to go and get him, because I haven’t the power to bring him. He’s too big.”

  “Very well. I’ll go for him. I know Benedict will do his best, but I can see certain difficulties. It may not even work.”

  Merra swallowed. “It’s got to
work. It’s our only chance.”

  “We’ll see. Call to him and tell him I’m on my way.”

  While Merra closed her eyes in concentration, Brian watched the slender Nysa move quickly to one of the departure circles and begin a rapid chant. So soft was her voice that he could not distinguish the words, and it surprised him when she abruptly vanished without the preliminary shimmering he had expected.

  It was long minutes before Merra opened her eyes. Afterward she stood frowning and biting her lip, obviously upset about something.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Everything! Uncle Benedict is not at the abbey, and on top of it the peasants—” She shook her head and looked ruefully at her soiled hands. “Let’s clean up and find something to eat, and I’ll tell you about it. It—it’s sort of complicated.”

  After they had washed outside by the crystal pool, Merra made tea at the fireplace just as Nysa had, and set out black bread and cheese from the cupboard. It startled Brian to see her start the fire for the tea, for she merely waved her small hands once over the coals, snapped her fingers, and the bright flame rose as quickly as it had for her aunt.

  “How do you manage to get a fire going the way you and Nysa do it?” he asked, after they had begun to eat.

  “Oh, it’s simple enough,” she said with a little shrug. “Mother was even better at it than we are. She could make anything burn. You just have to think a certain way, and sparks fly when you snap your fingers. I only wish it was as easy to become invisible, like the rest of the Dryads. I know how, but the best I can do is to fade out for just a few seconds. Then it takes all the strength I have. It makes me so mad!”

  “Maybe you’re not old enough yet.”

  “That could be. It does take lots of power, especially for someone like myself. I mean, it’s natural for me to be visible, so I have to manage it just opposite from the way Nysa does. Anyway, I—I’d feel a lot better about going after the true sword if I could vanish easily whenever I wanted to, the way Cerid could.”

  “Sure, it would be a help,” he admitted. “But the main thing is to get to wherever it is. What I don’t understand is why you think Brother Benedict can help us. You need a formula—but what does he know about it?”

  “He knows how to cast a spell,” she said quietly.

  “A—a spell?” He stared at her.

  “Yes. A spell. He’s very skilled at it.”

  “But how is casting a spell going to produce the formula?”

  “If he can put Nysa under a spell, he can send her mind over to—to where Cerid has gone and get the formula direct from her.”

  He stared at her again, incredulously. “Why, I—I never heard of such a thing!”

  “There’s much you haven’t heard of,” she retorted, giving a faint sniff. “Uncle Benedict was rather lax in your education. Anyway,” she admitted, “Nysa is afraid it won’t work. No one has ever put a spell on one of the Dryads. After all, we do have very peculiar minds.”

  “You certainly do have,” he affirmed. “Now suppose Nysa’s right, and a spell won’t work with her. What then?”

  “But it’s got to work!” she wailed. “It’s just got to!”

  Brian sighed and rubbed his jaw in doubt, then studied her curiously out of the corner of his eye. With her little-girl looks and grown-up mind, her golden braids and changeable green eyes—slanting green eyes that could be full of mischief one moment, or brimming with tears or blazing with rage the next—she was the strangest person he had ever known.

  Finally he asked, “What was this trouble you were going to tell me about?”

  With the question, her mood changed on the instant. Suddenly she gave one of her gay little laughs. “The news is out about you! Sir Brian, how would you like to become a nobleman?”

  Something in him recoiled at the thought. “I’d rather be myself,” he retorted. “Don’t forget, my father was a woodcutter. Only hours ago I was a stableboy, until you knighted me—and I still think you were having fun at my expense. Anyway, knights earn their rank—but not those born with titles. They’re all so—so worthless. The abbey school was full of that sort. Spoiled and rotten! They called themselves my betters, and I despised them all!”

  “Oh, dear me!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “Then you don’t want to become a nobleman?”

  “No! I just want to be myself.”

  She sniffed. “That’s really too bad. Because already the peasants are going quite wild about you. All they can talk about is the stableboy at St. Martin’s who cracked Rupert’s pate, and left Aradel without a ruler. La-de-de! Their leaders are having a secret meeting right now in the woods behind the village. They think you’ve got truly marvelous powers—already they’re calling you a count or something. They’re willing to march on Rondelaine immediately if you’ll lead them!”

  His jaw dropped.

  “Well?” she said, something devilish glinting in her eyes.

  “Is this the truth?” he demanded.

  “As heaven is my witness, Sir Brian. I got it straight from Uncle Benedict, who is there talking to them now.” She shook her head in mock sadness. “And still you don’t want to be a nobleman?”

  “Never! But tell your uncle I’d lead them this very evening if I had the true sword—which we must have for victory—and that they can count on me the moment I get it.”

  Her laugh tinkled again. “He’s already told them that, Sir Brian. And he’s busy begging them to hold off for at least two days while they gather more men. By that time you’ll have the sword.”

  “Two days,” he muttered. “Can we really find the sword and be back by then?”

  “It didn’t take Cerid any time to hide it.” Then she caught her breath. “We can surely find it if—if Nysa gets the formula for us this evening.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Waiting for him at one of our landing points at the edge of the village. She ought to be able to bring him here in just a little while.”

  He grunted and rubbed his knuckles across his jaw. The hint of deviltry, he noticed, was still in her eyes.

  “What is it about me that amuses you so?” he asked finally.

  “Oh, I was just thinking what a silly goose you are!”

  “A goose, am I?”

  “Of course! Imagine a peasant not wanting to be a nobleman!” She rolled her eyes. “For if you were one—though I’d prefer one truly born, in spite of what you said about them—you’d be able to marry me when I’m older. But naturally,” she added smugly, “I cannot marry too far beneath my station.”

  “No? And what is your—your station?”

  She sniffed and lifted one shoulder. “My father was a duke. That makes me a princess.”

  “A—a princess!”

  “Yes,” she said loftily. “And a highly ranking one at that. For I am destined, in due time, to become queen of Aradel.”

  He managed to close his jaws with a snap to keep from gaping at her. Suddenly he said accusingly, “You’re just like a cat with a mouse! Always having fun at my expense! Can’t you be serious with me? And—and truthful?”

  On the instant her expression changed. “I’m sorry, Sir Brian. You are very important to me, and if I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t tease you. Look at me! What do you see?”

  He stared at her. All hint of mischief had left her face. It startled him to realize she was extraordinarily pretty.

  “I—I see a—” he began.

  “You see a little girl,” she interrupted. “But inside I am old. I was born with knowledge it will take you more long years to learn. Some of the things I know are hard to live with—especially now. But when I tease you and have fun, they—they’re easier to bear.”

  She paused, and said slowly, “I really am a ranking princess, and it is quite true that I am destined to become the queen—but only if I survive until my next birthday.” She raised her green eyes and looked steadily at him. “Can you guess when it is?”

  He swa
llowed, for it suddenly hit him. “Don’t tell me it’s two days from now!”

  “Yes. At this very hour. Two days from now, at this hour, either we will return from our search, bringing the true sword—or—or we will be dead.”

  “No!”

  “Yes, Sir Brian. We cannot escape our fate, whatever it is. And your fate, strange to say, is closely bound with mine.”

  For a while he could only stare at her, unable to speak. Finally he stammered, “Then—then you must know all about me! E-everything!”

  “Yes.”

  “E-even my destiny?”

  “As much of it as I know of mine.”

  He ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips. “Then—then tell me—”

  Before he could finish—and it was only one of a dozen questions that had been burning for answers—she gave a little cry of relief and sprang abruptly to her feet.

  “They’re here!”

  Brian had heard nothing, but when he rose and turned he saw the burly figure of Brother Benedict approaching in the passageway. Nysa, a vague shimmering at his side, took form as they entered the room.

  A big hand clasped Brian fondly on the shoulder. It was a brief touch, for the monk’s face was tired and more than usually grim. “It is all arranged,” he said. “We have two days. And because time is so short, every minute is precious. But first, before we go to work, let us give thanks to the Almighty for this moment when the four of us are at last together, and ask for His help in what lies ahead.”

  They bowed their heads while Brother Benedict gave a short prayer. Afterward he told Nysa to sit at the table, and ordered Merra to bring ink, quills, some pieces of vellum to write upon, and a candle. The candle was placed in the center of the table, and Brian and Merra were told to sit on one side and carefully record everything Nysa said.

  When all was ready, the monk glanced at Merra and ordered quietly, “Light the candle, my dear.”

  Merra reached across the table, passed a small hand over the candle, and snapped her fingers. A point of flame rose from the wick.

  Now Brother Benedict settled his sturdy bulk on a bench and faced Nysa across the table. “Look directly at the candle,” he told her. “Do not take your eyes from it or think of a thing.”