by R. J. Grieve
The Prince had the grace to look a little shamefaced but Relisar had not finished. “Believe me, the spell was performed correctly, this was not what we expected but it was meant to happen.”
Andarion looked reflectively at the girl. “Do you think she is the one?”
“No, the Book specifically refers to a man, a great warrior.”
“Then I’m afraid, my friend, that an error has somehow occurred.”
When the Prince had gone, Relisar turned to Elorin. “He will not tell King Tharin of this, you know, but his brother will. I taught Andarion when he was a little child and he still bears some affection for me, but it is otherwise with his brother. The King’s anger can be daunting. Even I, old as I am, fear it, but more than his anger I fear his despair if the tide of this war does not turn in our favour.”
He stood abstractedly staring into space for a moment, as if he had forgotten her presence. Sensing that he could stand thus almost indefinitely, she recalled him to the immediate by clearing her throat.
“Ah yes, where were we? A room, yes, you will need a room. I think there is a guest room further up the tower,” he remarked, looking by no means certain about it. “Follow me. It’s up another flight of stairs. You don’t mind stairs do you?”
She looked amused. “No, not in the least.”
“Ah, it’s wonderful to be young. I mind them more and more each year. I would bring my bed down to my study but I suspect I would only lose it.”
As he led her to a little door at the head of the staircase, a thought seemed to strike him. “You don’t mind sharing with Skah, do you?”
“Skah?”
“My owl. Well he’s not mine really, he just chooses to live with me. He likes this room because I leave the window open for him. He sleeps most of the day but he will be out hunting all night.”
He pushed open the door and led her into a tiny, round-walled room. A bed with a dusty blue counterpane stood to one side. A dressing-table with a spotted mirror stood beside it, and near the open window, an easy chair was littered with tiny, dry bones. The ivy, taking advantage of the open window, had clambered in and was sending sensitive tendrils across the ceiling.
Relisar, conscious of his duties as host, scooped up the bones and threw them out of the window.
“Mice bones,” he explained. “Skah is a wonderful hunter but not a very tidy eater. He appears to be out at the moment but no doubt he’ll turn up later. Just remember not to shut the window. Well, I’ll leave you to settle in. Just come down when you’re hungry.”
“You have a kitchen here?”
“Dear me, no. They send something over from the palace for me. The last time I made myself a sandwich, I put antimony in it by mistake - with rather startling results. So they don’t trust me to make anything for myself.”
When he had left, Elorin sat down on the dusty bed, her smile fading. Depression descended on her as gently and inevitably as the dust now settling on the room. There were so many questions unanswered, so many uncertainties, issues on too large a scale for the human mind to cope with. But revolving around all the questions, was the fear that she would never remember who she was. She would be left with a permanent, empty, blank feeling. What if she had no past? What if she had no existence before she appeared on the forest floor? No one had any answers, least of all herself. She might spend the rest of her life as one of Relisar’s mistakes.
She lay back, ignoring the little puff of dust that exploded from the pillow. “We are our past, the sum of our history, our experiences,” she remarked to the empty room. “That makes me nothing.”
Chapter Three
The Ivy Tower
Elorin had not come down when she was hungry as Relisar had suggested, but instead had sunk into a deep sleep that had only ended when the morning sun, peeping in at the little window, had touched her face. The first thing her eye fell on was a magnificent barn owl perched on the back of the chair by the window. His talons were dug into the fabric and a dead mouse lay on the seat. He had been staring out of the window, but as if aware that he was being observed, his head revolved through 180 degrees and she found herself staring into large, unblinking amber eyes.
“You must be Skah,” she remarked. “I see you brought me a present.”
Skah did not respond but continued regarding her with such intelligence in his huge eyes that she was half convinced that he understood every word.
Clearly someone had been in the room while she slept because the dust had been removed from the dressing-table and on it sat a white china jug of water, a bowl and a comb.
Having availed herself of their services, she descended to Relisar’s study. He was there amongst the chaos as usual, muttering and fussing over a phial of clear green liquid which was bubbling over a lighted candle. His breakfast lay untouched on a tray beside him.
“Ah! There you are!” he exclaimed. “Slept well I trust? All refreshed now?”
She couldn’t resist a smile “Yes, I slept very well and thank you for the things you left on the dressing table.”
“Oh, that wasn’t me, that was Keesha, the spirit of the tower. She has taken quite a fancy to you. Gave me quite a ticking off for not preparing your room for you. I think she and Skah have decided to adopt you. Skah was asking me if you would care for a freshly-caught mouse.”
Elorin was staring at him as if he had taken leave of his senses but he appeared not to notice.
“Have some breakfast,” he beamed, pointing to his abandoned tray. But as he watched her eat, his sunny mood appeared to evaporate.
“You are feeling strong? I mean, feeling well? No ill-effects from your sudden appearance?”
She shook her head, her mouth full of toast.
“Good, good. I’m afraid we have been summoned. The King wants me to account for.....for yesterday’s incident. He’s bound to be angry, furious in fact. It does so confuse me when people shout. Still, he won’t shout at you. It wasn’t your fault after all.”
She looked down at her shabby clothes, made even worse by the fact that she had slept in them.
“I can’t go to see a king dressed like this!” she protested.
“Nonsense, you look charming!” said Relisar, who looked scarcely less disreputable himself. Elorin noticed that some of the green liquid had found its way onto the sleeve of his gown. By way of sprucing himself up, he wiped his hands on his beard.
“Have you had enough to eat? All finished?” She noticed that he appeared to talk in questions when he was nervous “Then I think we had better go. We don’t want to incur further wrath by being late.”
Relisar led the way across the paved courtyard she had seen the day before and through an ivy-covered arch set in the opposite wall. The square was deserted and as they passed beneath the arch, Elorin jumped as the silence was shattered by a flock of doves exploding out of the ivy and flying away, their wings whistling. The archway led to a formal sunken garden of tiny clipped hedges and straight paths intersected by neat lawns in geometric shapes. The garden lay basking in the mellow autumn sunshine. Not a soul was in sight.
“Where is everyone?” Elorin asked.
“Oh, there are usually plenty of people around, but mostly at the main entrance on the other side. We are coming in from the back, where it’s quieter. Indeed, in the courtyard where my tower stands, I am the only occupant. All the other buildings are empty now, only used for storage. In the old king’s day, the present king’s father, you understand, every room was occupied, every hall crowded, but the war has taken a heavy toll on this once fine nation.”
As he spoke, they approached a broad flight of steps which led to a colonnaded terrace. The elegant pillars were rose-draped, a shaggy profusion of pink and white flowers in such numbers that the back of the terrace was rendered quite dim. Relisar ducked under the flowers and led the way to a heavy door, flanked by two guards in the royal livery. They stood motionless, spears held stiffly before them, as if carved out of the same stone as the two crouching
lions at the head of the steps. They did not acknowledge the presence of the old man and his companion, but neither did they try to prevent them entering the hall beyond.
Elorin gasped when she saw the hall, for it was the throne room, the centre of power in Eskendria. A double line of tall pillars, fashioned of rose-coloured stone, sprang from the floor to such dizzying heights that the ornate ceiling could only be dimly perceived. Each pillar was garlanded in swathes of flowers carved in the same rose stone. The floor on which they stood was of some golden wood, polished until its surface reflected the light like a mirror, sending gilded glimmers up the pillars towards the ceiling. At the head of the room, on a raised dais of stone, sat a mighty chair. Its tall back was carved with a pointed crown that was emblazoned with gold and gems. Draped artistically across the throne was a swathe of crimson velvet embroidered with golden flowers, and high above it was a canopy, black as ink, dotted with silver crowns and stars.
Elorin stood transfixed, attempting to take all this in at once.
“It’s so beautiful,” she breathed. “What kind of flowers are these?” she asked, examining the pillars. “I noticed them before on the Eskendrian flag.”
“They are chalcoria - chalice flowers. The flowers of the legend.”
Elorin was about to demand an explanation when she noticed that he was preoccupied, uneasy at the thought of his coming interview with the king.
“That door on the far side, leads to the council chamber of the barons, but it is only used once a year - unless the King summons a council of war,” he explained. She took a step towards the door but he caught her arm.
“No, no, this way,” he corrected her, and crossed the hall to a smaller door partly concealed behind some hangings.
This time, the room they entered was occupied. The sun slanted in softly through the latticed windows, touching the blue curtains and rich, polished furniture with its gentle light, dimming by contrast the fire burning within the confines of its ornate fireplace. But this time Elorin’s attention was not on the rich decor, but on the group of four people in the room. Seated in a chair by the fire was a man in his sixties. His hair and neatly trimmed beard were fair but with a hint of silver. His frame, however, was lean and fit. A circlet of gold and clothes of royal crimson proclaimed his station. His face was hawk-like, high cheekboned, beak-nosed, with eyes of piercing blue. Behind his chair stood Prince Andarion and his brother, and to one side, seated on a stool by her father’s knee, was the most beautiful girl Elorin had ever seen. She was dressed in a flowing robe of emerald green which set off to perfection her red-gold hair. The bright, curling mass tumbled unrestrained over her shoulders, putting the autumn sunshine to shame with its glory. Clear green eyes, fringed with long black lashes, watched Relisar’s arrival. Her hand resting negligently on the arm of her father’s chair, spoke clearly of a position in his affections more privileged than either of her brothers.
The King looked at the two before him, his glance travelling up and down them in a displeased manner.
“Well Relisar? Another debacle, I hear. Explain yourself.”
“Sire,” Relisar began, clearly flustered, “I followed the incantation exactly from the Book of Light. I knew only too well the importance of what I was doing and read the spell beforehand so many times that I knew it off by heart. Everything was right. The stone circle, the season, the time of day. All the portents were favourable. I cannot understand what went wrong. But perhaps all is not lost, for a voice spoke to me. I felt its power. It said that every door requires a key.”
Without taking his eyes off Relisar, the King said to Andarion. “Did you hear this voice?”
Looking a little guilty, as if he was betraying the old Sage, Andarion replied: “No. All I heard was distant thunder.”
The King’s eyes grew colder still, but suddenly Elorin, who until then had been a mere bystander, found herself caught in their gaze.
“So this is what you produced, Relisar,” he observed coldly. “Not exactly the Champion we were expecting.”
Prince Andarion intervened protectively. “It was not her fault, father.”
A slight look of displeasure crossed the King’s features. “I did not say it was her fault. Nevertheless, we have no Champion, no help against the Turog. What use is this girl?”
“None,” replied Sarrick before his brother could answer. “She is just the latest debacle in a long line. Just another example of Relisar’s failing powers. She is no use whatsoever to us in our struggle with the tide of evil. Why, she can’t even remember her own name!”
“Is this true?” the King asked Elorin.
“Yes, Sire” she replied sadly. “I can remember nothing about myself before I awoke in the stone circle. I cannot remember where I came from, or what my home was like. I can remember nothing about my family. As Prince Sarrick says, I do not even know my own name. It was Prince Andarion who gave me my present name.”
“So you do not know if you were sent to us for a purpose?”
“No. I greatly wish that I could be of some help to you, but I know of nothing that could assist you.”
Relisar, who had been fidgeting during the conversation, could contain himself no longer.
“But there is a purpose, Sire,” he burst out. “I’m sure of it. Just before she appeared, the voice said that every door requires a key. She must be the key.”
“The key to what?” Sarrick demanded contemptuously.
“I suspect that it is the key to the door of knowledge. The knowledge needed to summon the Champion.”
The Prince was sceptical. “You are clutching at straws, Relisar. What knowledge? What door? We don’t need knowledge, we need Erren-dar, the Wielder of the Sword of Flame, and if he comes with an army at his back, so much the better.”
“Is there any reference to a key in the Book of Light?” Andarion asked, uncomfortable with his brother’s patently scathing attitude to the old man.
“No. I spent last night going through it and could find nothing. The only reference I could find was in the Lays of Tissro the Wanderer. If you recall, when he approached the city on the hill, he was greeted by an old man who told him the gates were shut. When Tissro asked how he could get in, the old man told him that to every destination there leads a path, to every path a door and to every door there is a key.”
“But Tissro thought that the key was purpose, not knowledge. He could not get into the city because he lacked purpose.”
“True, but the two are not so very far apart. Purpose is the beginning of any task and knowledge is the beginning of understanding.”
“What knowledge has she brought us?” the King asked. “What words of wisdom can she give us? She cannot remember her name. Where is this knowledge you speak of?”
Relisar hung his head, clearly deflated. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I don’t know.”
Elorin, who had remained remote from this discussion, observing each speaker in turn, had noticed that one voice was conspicuous by its absence. One voice had remained silent. The Princess watched all that went on intently, but kept her own counsel. Briefly her glance met Elorin’s but her eyes were as inscrutable as a cat’s. The discussion raged around them, but Illiana sat in a self-contained pool of silence like sunlight in a forest glade. Detached, remote, yet observant.
Finally the discussion ground to a halt, mainly through lack of information to go on. Silence descended on the apartment broken only by the pleasant crackle of the fire.
After a moment Relisar said: “I’m sorry you were disappointed, Sire. I know the situation is such that any help would have been welcome. I know that you think me a bungling fool but I tried my best. Perhaps the time is not yet right for the fulfilment of the prophesy, or perhaps we are going about it the wrong way. The incantation may be only part of a more complex process to obtain our goal. All I can tell you, by way of consolation, is that Elorin’s appearance was not by chance. She has some role to play.”
The King looked up, a t
ired smile on his face. “Thank you, Relisar. I suppose in truth we are no worse off than we were before, but the situation does not improve with each month that passes. Now it appears that it is more desperate than we knew. My son,” he said, indicating Sarrick, “led a party of men to our northern border at the River Harnor. The news he has brought back makes it even more imperative to obtain help. The Turog are massing in huge number in the forest beyond the river. Their camp-fires stud the forest by night. By day, the forest rings with the forging of weapons and the sound of their axes felling trees. It is only a matter of time before they sweep across the Harnor into Eskendria. We are vastly outnumbered and our allies desert us. Moreover, many of our men are tied down in the mountains to the west, trying to keep that blackguard Celedorn from harassing the trade routes to the coast. We cannot fight on two fronts at once. In fact, I intend to send Andarion with a large force to put an end to that brigand once and for all.”
Andarion nodded. “My preparations are well under way. I leave in a few weeks for the Westrin Mountains. We must deal with Celedorn. He must be destroyed before the Turog attack because our army must not be split. It is most likely that the Turog will attack in the spring, when the weather improves, but we cannot rule out the possibility that they will take advantage of the winter ice to cross the Harnor. The river is wide and deep, and as we destroyed the only bridge across it some years ago, it constitutes a formidable barrier. In spring they must construct their own bridge - but we would soon get to hear about that. Sarrick left scouts posted all along the southern banks of the river. The Turog are vulnerable while trying to construct the bridge and we will do all we can to prevent its completion, but they may deem the risks of a winter campaign worth it, in order to be able to march across the river once it is frozen.”
“We must pray for a mild winter,” Relisar remarked.
“Indeed, but in the meantime, Celedorn must be dealt with. Perhaps if we got rid of him, our old allies on the coast might change their minds. After all, he has disrupted their trade as much as ours. If he were gone, communications with the coast would be much easier. At the moment, any messenger sent to Serendar most likely falls into Celedorn’s net. A victory over him just might bring them into this war on our side.”
