The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  She was returning from her ride a little later than usual. Darkness was falling by the time she crossed the bridge to the city gate and began to ascend the streets. She reached a square where a market was held during the daytime, expecting it to be empty, but many of the stalls were just beginning to pack up and there was still quite a crowd milling around them. The inns and shops around the square all had their doors and windows open, allowing light to spill out over the cobbles to mingle with the torches that some of the stall owners had lit. Elorin began to guide her horse through the edge of the crowd. She had become almost accustomed to receiving hard looks, so that she saw nothing amiss when those she passed glared at her. She guessed it was mainly disappointment about Relisar’s failure to produce the Champion and persuaded herself that it was nothing personal. But tonight was different. Something in the atmosphere was not right. Something in the attitude of the crowd was making her uneasy. Her feelings were transmitted to her horse, which began to sidle and become difficult to manage. The crowd ahead was so dense that she feared trying to force her way through. So she turned in the saddle, thinking of retreat, only to find that the throng had closed behind her.

  “There she is,” said someone, louder than the rest. “The one with no name. The one with no past.”

  “Relisar’s mistake!” scoffed another.

  “She brings us ill-fortune at a time when our Prince goes to face that beast in the mountains.”

  “Perhaps she is a demon, summoned by mistake by the old fool.”

  “Everyone knows demons have no past, they spring ready-formed from the mouth of the Destroyer.”

  Elorin’s unease was rapidly turning to fear. “I’m just a person like yourselves,” she said to the man nearest her. “I don’t know what Relisar got wrong but I’m just a human being.”

  She would have been better to have held her peace.

  “The Terrible One has sent her to spy on us, to betray our Prince and send him to his death.”

  “No!” she cried. “It’s not true! I would never do anything to hurt Prince Andarion!”

  But they did not hear and would not listen. They were milling around her by now, pressing against her horse, snatching at the bridle. Her horse, already nervous, suddenly reared up. Her foot slipped from the stirrup. She tried desperately to hang on, but inexorably she slid from the saddle and fell to the ground at the feet of the crowd. Rough hands grabbed her, some pulling her one way, some the other. She struggled and writhed but to no avail, there were too many of them. A blow fell on her shoulder.

  “She will not be allowed to betray our Prince,” yelled one. “For even demons can die!”

  “How do you kill a demon?” someone asked.

  “Hang them,” a deep voice replied.

  “No! No!” she screamed and fought all the harder. A howl of pain issued from one man who had hold of her .

  “She bit me! The demon bit me!”

  She was propelled across the square, her hair wild, her tunic ripped, until they reached the inn. With chilling certainty she knew why they had brought her there. A beam projected from the inn with pulleys and ropes attached to it. It was used to haul beer barrels off the wagons and into the cellar of the inn.

  A man grabbed the pulley and dragged a loop of rope downwards.

  “Bring her here!” he ordered. “We’ll send her back where she came from - and without Relisar’s help this time.”

  The crowd roared with approval.

  A wagon was rolled beneath the pulley and Elorin was thrown up onto it.

  “Tie her hands,” someone shouted and from somewhere cord was produced and her arms wrenched behind her back.

  In her terror Elorin could only groan. Through her head, unbidden, the old prayer ran, the litany against death.

  For an instant she must have closed her eyes, for she felt the rough rope pushed over her head and pulled tight around her neck.

  Suddenly there was a commotion at the edge of the crowd. Trumpets sounded in the night, startlingly loud over the hubbub of the crowd. All the shouting just drained away. She opened her eyes. Andarion, mounted on a black horse, was at the edge of the crowd with about a dozen mounted guards behind him. The Prince surveyed the crowd coldly. Even though they vastly outnumbered the guards, he advanced into them without fear. It said much for the respect in which he was held, that a laneway opened up before him, leading to the wagon on which Elorin stood. The man who had put the noose around her neck, froze with his hand still on the rope. The crowd was now utterly silent. In the face of the Prince’s anger, guilt - rather belatedly - began to take hold.

  “Release her!” he snapped to the man who held the rope. When Elorin was free, he asked her if she was hurt.

  She shook her head unable to command her voice to speak. He turned to address the crowd.

  “Is this the way Addanians treat their guests? Is this the behaviour of rational men? Only a few days ago I was telling this girl that Addania stood for justice and civilisation. Little did I think you would give me cause to regret my words. You have made me deeply ashamed of you. I never thought to be ashamed of my own people.” He turned to the man with the rope. “What you have tried to do is attempted murder. You will find the courts unsympathetic to your superstitious nonsense. Consider yourself lucky that I do not sit in judgement upon you.” He nodded to one of the guards. “Take him into custody.”

  As Elorin’s horse was nowhere in sight, the Prince took her up before him. She could feel his whole frame rigid with anger and shame.

  The crowd was totally silent and subdued as it watched them go. On the way up to the palace, Andarion said to Elorin: “Tomorrow you will have to come with me to the mountains. A battle with Celedorn is hardly the safest place to be, but it would appear to be safer than leaving you here.” But before he parted from her at Relisar’s tower, he added wearily: “Forgive them, Elorin, if you can, for they are terribly afraid.”

  Chapter Five

  The Master of Ravenshold

  The captive in the fortress of Ravenshold awoke the following morning aware of cold and pain. She had curled up on the bare slats of the bed the night before, wrapping herself in her cloak as best she could, as protection against the gusts of freezing air coming in through the broken windowpanes. Now she was stiff and sore and chilled to the bone. A dismal grey light was seeping into the room. She sat up with a groan and looked around. Daylight did not improve her surroundings. The grey stone walls were, if anything, even more cheerless than the night before. The great fireplace was empty, save for some charred sticks and fine silvery ashes. Clearly a fire had not burned in that grate for a very long time. However, she noticed something that had escaped her attention in the darkness of the night before - another door, facing the one through which she had entered. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up feeling slightly dizzy. Her cheek felt swollen and bruised, as did her wrist. Every fibre of her being appeared to have been penetrated by the cold, and to add to her discomfort, she realised for the first time that she was hungry. The guards had brought her nothing to eat. Perhaps they deemed it not worth the effort of feeding someone who was unlikely to survive another day. Indeed, no one had been near her since she had been locked in the room the previous day. The only thing that had disturbed her was the commotion of horsemen returning to the square below in the small hours of the morning, but she was too exhausted to care.

  She crossed the room to the other door and gave it a tentative push. It creaked on its hinges and moved a little. Feeling bolder, she pushed it open and discovered to her astonishment that it contained a bathroom. Evidently the castle in its prime, had been possessed of every luxury, but its days of glory had long gone. The marble bath sunk in the floor was stained and filled with rustling brown leaves, trespassers into the room courtesy of the broken window. The once-pretty mosaic tiles which had decorated the walls, had flaked, one by one, like coloured scales, to accumulate in sad heaps on the dusty floor. The huge wash-basin, too, was stain
ed and cracked, its once pristine white marble now rusty brown. She tried pushing the lever of one of the taps but it wouldn’t budge. The other one squeaked and turned a little. A startling groaning sound issued from under the floor and her efforts were rewarded with a dollop of brown sludge. Abandoning the tap she looked up and caught an unexpected glimpse of herself in the fragment of mirror still adhering to the wall. Her cheek was swollen and discoloured, her brown hair was tumbled and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Another wave of dizziness engulfed her and she gripped the edge of the basin. The full implications of her situation rushed in on her and the blue eyes that stared back from the mirror were suddenly filled with fear.

  Another wrestling session with the tap produced a liquid a little closer to water and she bathed her cheek and wrist, wishing the water was warm instead of icy cold.

  All that interminable day she sat shivering, waiting for someone to come. But nothing happened. The hours ticked by in discomfort and fear but no one disturbed her isolation. She spent much of the time looking out of the window down to the square below. There was much activity, constant coming and going of mounted men, but she saw no sign of Celedorn or Hydar. As the day wore on, hunger and thirst became her most predominating concern. She pushed her hand through one of the tiny, broken panes and managed to scoop some snow off the window-ledge. It did very little to alleviate her discomfort but she judged it better not to risk the rather revolting-looking water from the tap.

  Just as the day was beginning to fade, finally she heard footsteps in the corridor. She stood up abruptly, her heart beginning to pound and wondered if she had the strength and courage not to play the coward.

  A key rasped in the lock and the door swung open. A man she had not seen before was standing in the corridor holding a lighted torch. Without coming into the room, he gestured to her to follow him.

  “Come,” he said gruffly, “you’re wanted below.”

  She followed him down flight after flight of dimly lit stairs. Her legs were weak and she felt light-headed but tried to persuade herself that it was hunger rather than fear.

  Finally he stopped in front of a door she recognised. It was the room where she had encountered Celedorn. It proved to be the setting for a second encounter.

  He was sitting in the great carver at the head of the long table, his back turned to her. He neither looked around nor acknowledged her presence in any way. The guard gestured to her to stand by the table and silently withdrew.

  The room was more pleasant than the last time she had been there. The red curtains had been drawn against the darkness, a roaring fire blazed in the hearth and the table was lit by tall candles in pewter stands. Unfortunately, what their light revealed was a table set for dining. A small basket, quite near her, was filled with bread, and a beautiful silver bowl was piled with glossy red apples. Beside Celedorn, on a wooden platter, sat a side of beef. The carving knife, with which he had just helped himself to a generous portion, still sat on the table. In the centre of the table was a tall, glass flagon of wine flanked by several crystal wineglasses which refracted the firelight in a way she would have found beautiful had she not been so hungry. She eyed the food desperately and it took every ounce of her self-control not to snatch up something to eat.

  Celedorn continued in a leisurely fashion to enjoy his meal. He still had not acknowledged her existence in any way but she was perceptive enough to realise that he was deliberately tormenting her. Not for the price of her soul, would she have asked him for anything. She stood silently watching him, discreetly gripping the back of one of the wooden chairs for support.

  Finally, without raising his head, he indicated that she could sit down. With relief, she sank into the chair furthest away from him. She took the opportunity to study him. Although he had discarded his cloak and armour and was seated, rather than standing, she found him no less daunting. The candlelight flickered over the horrific scars on his cheek. Even the flattering light could do nothing to disguise their cruel ridges. As she had observed before, the middle scar came so close to his lip that it lifted the outer edge in an attitude of permanent disdain. The ragged, black beard covering his chin gave him a wild, unkempt air. As she watched, he pushed aside his plate and leaned back in his chair, a glass of ruby wine crooked in his fingers. She found herself being scrutinised by those cold, pale eyes. She had forgotten how piercing, how powerful was his gaze. To her annoyance, she found she had some difficulty meeting it. It became a matter of willpower not to drop her eyes.

  He tilted his head a little to one side, as if he had found something that interested him.

  When he spoke, he immediately caught her off guard by the unexpectedness of his question. “Are you afraid?” he asked quietly.

  Her instinct was to deny it, but she knew it would be foolish. It would seem like mere childish bravado.

  She met his look squarely: “Yes,” she confirmed. “I am afraid. Anyone who is in your power having angered you, and is not afraid, is a fool.”

  He raised his eyebrows, increasing his habitually mocking expression. “And you, of course, are not a fool?”

  “Only in certain respects.”

  Once again the silent appraisal was resumed. Indeed, it went on so long that she began to get uncomfortable. She knew that this was his intention, but was unable to stop herself from breaking the silence. “How did you know so quickly that you were being deceived? My disguise did not fool you for a single instant. How could you have known I was not the Princess?”

  He shrugged. “The wig was enough to fool Hydar and the others, because all they knew about the Princess was her most famous feature - her red-gold hair. However, I had the advantage of them, in that I had actually seen the Princess.”

  She gasped. “We thought that there was no likelihood of .......” she stopped abruptly, suddenly aware of what she had been going to say, but he finished her sentence for her.

  “........no likelihood of some mountain brigand knowing what King Tharin’s daughter looked like. That was bad luck. However, luck was not wholly against you. If I had come to escort the Princess myself, as I had intended, if.....ah....other matters had not called me away, your Prince would not have escaped.”

  She sat up abruptly in her chair. “You were too late to stop him! He got away.”

  The black brows drew a little together. “For the moment,” he conceded, “however, the same cannot be said for you. What intrigues me is how did they force you to do this? What threat, what reward, was great enough for you to risk certain death? What would make you throw your life away? You see, the last person who angered me, ended by begging me to kill him. You knew very well my reputation. So why did you do this?”

  “I wasn’t forced. I volunteered.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” he snapped. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s true nevertheless. I.....I owe Prince Andarion a great debt of gratitude, more than I can ever repay. When you demanded his sister as hostage, the Prince was thrown into the most impossible dilemma. He loves his sister dearly, moreover she is his father’s favourite child. To give her to a man such as you, hardly bore thinking about, yet to allow you to pin down and slaughter a sizeable proportion of the Eskendrian army, with the Turog just over the border, would have been folly. He was tormented for days trying to find a solution but in the end I found it for him. Both his sister and his army are safe. The only one who will pay is me.”

  “And who are you? Who is of so little account that they can be so easily disposed of?”

  “Me? I’m no one. No past, no future, very little present.”

  Once again a little flicker of anger glinted in his eyes. “Don’t play games with me,” he counselled in a voice as smooth a steel.

  “My name is Elorin.”

  His anger flared and for a moment she thought he was going to dive across the table at her. “Elorin is not a name,” he snapped. “It is the word for autumn in the old tongue.”

  “It’s the o
nly name I have. Prince Andarion gave me that name because Relisar made me appear on an autumn day.”

  Anger lifted as suddenly as a thundercloud from a mountain peak, as it was replaced by comprehension. “I know something of this. That old fool Relisar tried to summon the Champion of the Book of Light, and as usual, managed to bungle it. I heard all he managed to produce was one insignificant girl. A girl with no memory. I’m surprised the Prince tolerates that doddering idiot. Everything he touches turns to disaster. The Prince must have been desperate to try and resurrect that particular myth.”

  “You don’t believe in the prediction?”

  He gave a crack of cynical laughter. “Belief is for children, or idiots such as Relisar.”

  Suddenly, he noticed that she had turned deathly pale and realised that if he didn’t give her some food she would faint. He pushed the basket of bread towards her and filled a glass of wine. She took both gratefully but didn’t thank him, for she knew his motivation was not kindness. He wanted to continue with the sport of tormenting her.

  When she felt steadier, she asked: “Would you really have destroyed the Prince’s army?”

  “Why would I not?”

  “Because you would have left Eskendria completely vulnerable to attack from the Turog.”

  He shrugged, unimpressed. “Eskendria means nothing to me.”

  “But what about your own people? If Eskendria falls, all the other little kingdoms will fall. None of them have the strength to stand against the evil horde. And when they are all gone, what of you? Do you think you will survive here in your mountain fastness, immune from attack? The Turog hate you more than anyone. They call you Zardes-kur, the Executioner, the one who delivers death. If Eskendria had fallen as a result of your actions, do you think you would have survived?”