The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  “Yes, although he ended up taking along more unwanted baggage than he would have wished. Relisar and Princess Illiana also insisted on coming. He was adamant that his sister should not go, it was too dangerous, but his father overruled him. He always gives her what she wants.” She sighed. “It is strange to think, that if he had not, I would not be sitting here.”

  “Quite. The presence of the Princess was a stroke of good fortune for me. Ravenshold could not have long withstood those siege engines that the Prince so laboriously hauled over the mountains.”

  Her eyes flew open in surprise.

  “Oh yes,” he confirmed, grimly noting her astonishment. “I knew. Your Prince is not a fool but he is overly burdened by his own noble character.”

  “You, however, have no such burdens.” The words were out of her before she could stop them. She tensed again, but once more he proved his unpredictability. A look of appreciation crossed his features, nonetheless he instantly retaliated.

  “In a way, it’s a pity for you that he is so universally noble. No doubt you took his gallantry and kindness as meaning something more particular than it did. You didn’t actually think that he could love a nobody like you?”

  The cruelty of the remark instantly halted any thawing in her attitude towards him. Her anger was instant, but so also was her hurt. Yet, she was acute enough to know that she was being baited and that only an unexpectedly honest reply might disconcert him.

  She looked at the ground while he waited for her reply.

  “No, I didn’t,” she managed to answer in a constricted voice. “He embodies everything that I admire but my admiration is from a distance. He never knew and I will never tell him. All I could do was to save him pain.”

  She looked up, her eyes a little misty, and for a split second surprised a very unexpected look on his face. It was hard to put a name to it, but it was not harsh. In an instant it was gone and he was his usual mocking self.

  “Such saintliness overwhelms me.”

  She leaned her chin on her hand, regarding him reflectively. “I just don’t understand you.”

  He gave her a wolfish smile. “Neither do my enemies. That’s why they have never defeated me.”

  Farther to the east, where the snow lay but lightly on the streets of Addania, a father and son faced each other in anger. For the first time in his life the King was finding his dutiful eldest son intractable.

  “I forbid it, Andarion,” the King uttered in well-practiced tones of finality. “Your sentiments do you credit but we must accept our losses and move on.”

  Andarion flung away from his father and crossed the room to stare out at the neat, snow-dusted lawns. Dewdrops on a spider’s web in the corner of the window had frozen like a net of crystal beads and every bush was stiff and brittle with frost. The Prince stood in silence for a moment, striving for mastery of his emotions. The King, mistaking his silence for sullenness, tried again.

  “Celedorn says she is still alive and I am inclined to believe him. She is no use to him dead. He demands that we do not attack him, but he must know that with winter far spent and spring approaching, we have no further time to waste on him. Out retreat was ignominious but ultimately no great harm has been done.”

  His son turned to stare at him incredulously. “No harm done!” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That......that killer holds Elorin in his power. We have only his very dubious word for it that she is alive, and will continue to live as long as we do not attack him, but did it ever occur to you, father, that being alive in Celedorn’s power is worse than death? Elorin gave herself to save Illiana, to save Eskendria. She knew what she was likely to face at Ravenshold and did not flinch, but risked her life to save us. So how can you now tell me that we must on no account attempt to rescue her?” He stepped towards the King, his face intense. “We must try, father, we must. I know very well that such an attempt has very little chance of success. Celedorn’s stranglehold on the mountains is so complete that we are unlikely to get close to Ravenshold without being detected, and even if we did, the castle is well guarded, but surely, in the interests of honour, it must be attempted.”

  But the King was adamant. “If there was even a slim chance of success, then we would try to rescue her, but there is none. Such an attempt is sheer folly, just throwing men’s lives away in a useless gesture. Did it ever occur to you that such a move might be interpreted by Celedorn as an attack? You would then be responsible for her death.”

  Noting his son’s misery, the King’s face softened a little and he laid his hand on the Prince’s shoulder and gripped it comfortingly. “Take solace from this, Andarion, Relisar says that this was meant to be. Whatever ultimately happens, it was her fate to go to Ravenshold. We cannot stand in the way of fate.”

  But Andarion refused to be comforted. “Unfortunately, Relisar has proved himself far from infallible.”

  Chapter Eight

  An Act of Cruelty

  Long before the argument had taken place in Addania, Elorin had come to the same conclusion as the King - a rescue attempt was out of the question. Although, considering the circumstance, her captivity was not as unpleasant as she might have expected, she never forgot that she was, nonetheless, a prisoner.

  Each morning Dorgan let her out of her cold, bare room and brought her down to the cheerful kitchen for breakfast. They then spent the rest of the day either working in the kitchen, conversing by the fire, or exploring the cold, echoing depths of the fortress. She noticed that he always took her to the deserted parts of the castle, never to the sections occupied by the men and was unsure as to whether his main concern was to protect her, or to protect Celedorn.

  Occasionally, in the evenings she received a summons to dine with the master of Ravenshold. These were always trying occasions for her as he had a sharp mind and an equally sharp tongue to go with it. But it was his inconsistency that she found most difficult to deal with. Occasionally he would demolish her with some sarcastic utterance but equally he could be a humorous and pleasant companion when he chose. He was well-read and well travelled and could be interesting when the notion took him; but unfortunately he was also moody, switching from humour to anger with a speed that left her reeling. If she said something to vex him, his revenge was swift and severe. He possessed an unpleasant ability to detect a sensitive spot and did not scruple to twist the knife in the wound. Yet he no longer threatened her with physical violence, nor did he again attempt to frighten her as he had once done.

  Inevitably these sessions increased her knowledge of him, if not her understanding. She began to recognise the signs that he was becoming displeased by a certain rigidity in his cheek muscles, a certain watchfulness in his eyes. When he was in the grip of strong emotion his scars, normally dead white, would flush a ghastly purple. She soon observed that he was very sensitive about his disfigurement. The first time she noticed the flushing phenomenon, he instantly detected the direction of her glance and turned his head away. Any reference to them, no matter how oblique, was guaranteed to bring on an alarming attack of derision. But she sometimes suspected that his mockery was directed more against himself than her.

  Interesting though these sessions were, she found them nerve-wracking and exhausting. Her predilection for offhand remarks often seemed to amuse him, but she always felt that just below the surface he was continually on the point of exploding and consequently her tension with him never eased.

  The weeks slipped by in this manner. The tendency to drift that she had noticed in herself when she first arrived in Addania, became more pronounced. She appeared willing to let others take control, but she sensed that this state of mind was not usual with her and beneath the placid surface more turbulent currents began to stir. She became restless, pacing her prison until she knew every dusty inch of it. In every dreary, deserted room she explored with Dorgan, her first act was to cross to the window hoping for a glimpse of the outside world.

  It was just as winter was b
eginning to relax its icy grip on the mountain valley, that she witnessed an event that convinced her, as nothing else could, that somehow she must escape from Ravenshold.

  The snow had gone from the courtyard below her prison window. The towers and crenellated walls were cold, bare stone again, unadorned by their usual cushions of snow. From the window of one of the other towers in the castle, she had obtained a rare view of the valley, with the mighty peaks beyond, still rearing their snowy-white heads against the sky. The snow lay only in patches in the valley, in shadowy nooks and crannies where the feeble spring sunshine never reached. The river chattered cheerfully over the rounded stones in its bed, unfettered by the restraints of ice and the bare fingertips of the tree branches were swollen with buds.

  Dorgan had hustled her back to her cell earlier than usual. He was expecting a large raiding party back and they would all be hungry. For some reason she didn’t understand, he was not keen for her to help but had bundled her up the stairs to her room, clearly anxious for her to be out of the way. Consequently, when she took up her station by the window it was still daylight. The top of the opposite tower was painted pale gold by the gelid sunshine but the courtyard below was plunged into shadows. The sound of many hooves approaching, echoed up the tunnel from the portcullis and the raiding party soon came into sight. She was used now to the fierce aspect of the men and no longer remarked upon their barbaric helmets, with the long nose and cheek guards which gave their faces such an inhuman appearance. She was accustomed to their heavy weaponry, swords, bows and axes, and the powerful horses snorting and stamping. About two hundred men filed through the gateway in loose, undisciplined formation. Celedorn, who had not been with them, came down the steps from the main door to greet them. As the last of the mounted party came through the gateway, she saw the reason for their loose formation - they had prisoners with them - Turog prisoners.

  She leaned closer to the window. There were about half a dozen of them. Dark grey skin, yellow eyes, wide mouths filled with pointed teeth and strong fingers ending in sharp, curved claws. These were small ones, not as tall as a man, bow legged but with long, powerful arms. Their weapons and armour had been removed and they wore the traditional Turog costume of studded leather tunics and heavy boots. Their hands had been tied and they were roped together in a line. One of the men cracked a whip over them and they shambled forward into the centre of the courtyard. Even from a distance, Elorin could see that they were terrified. They cowered a little, looking upwards with yellow eyes at the mounted men. Through the broken windowpanes she could hear them snarling and whimpering. Then one of them spotted Celedorn. It let out a wail of terror.

  “Zardes-kur!” it shrieked. The others took up the cry. “Zardes-kur! The Executioner!”

  Celedorn stood with his arms folded, watching them impassively. One of the men approached him and appeared to be asking for instructions what to do with them. She could not hear his reply but his orders soon became clear enough.

  One of the Turog was detached from the others. It struggled wildly and tried to bite the men as ropes were fastened to its wrists and ankles. Strong men took the four rope ends and remounted their horses. Elorin had a horrible premonition of what they were about to do. The centre of the courtyard cleared and the four men urged their horses in the direction of the points of the compass. The ropes took up the strain and the struggling Turog was lifted clear of the ground. The creature was screaming by now, as the force began to tear at its joints. The men clapped their heels into the horses’ flanks, and hooves scrabbled for purchase on the cobbles. The strain on the ropes increased, as the powerful horses pulled against each other. Elorin looked away and her gaze fell on Celedorn. Even from the height of the tower, the look of satisfaction on his face was revolting.

  She turned from the window, too sickened to watch. The screaming reached a crescendo, then suddenly stopped. The Turog was dead, torn limb from limb, the courtyard scattered with bloody fragments. She clapped her hands over her ears, as one after another the Turog were dealt with in the same manner.

  “I cannot stay here,” she moaned softly to herself. “I cannot stay.”

  Relisar was packing in his usual haphazard manner. A battered leather bag lay open on the table in his study and he lifted items at random in a leisurely fashion, sometimes forgetting what he was doing when he discovered something interesting amongst his books.

  “Yes, yes,” he remarked impatiently to the apparently empty room. “I’ll be finished in a moment. I just want to read to the end of this paragra.....” He got no further because the book that had claimed his errant attention flew from his hand and landed with a dusty thump on the floor.

  “Keesha!” he protested, “I don’t know what’s got into you lately but you have become intolerably short-tempered.”

  Anyone observing him would have heard nothing in reply but after listening for a few moments, he slowly nodded his head in agreement.

  “Yes, I know. I miss her too. I never realised until she had gone, just how fond of her I had become. I suppose that is the way of life, never to appreciate what you have until you lose it. Celedorn’s message told the King that she is alive and we must trust that it is so – indeed, I feel it in my bones that it is so - but I fear for her in the hands of the black-hearted villain.”

  Keesha appeared to have some comment to make, for he listened again.

  “Yes, quite,” he agreed. “But sadly I no longer have great faith in my intuition. I believed at the time that it was meant to be, that it was her fate to go to Ravenshold, but I no longer trust myself. In any event, there was nothing I could do to stop her. If Andarion could not talk her out of it, then no one could. She was determined to sacrifice herself to save us.”

  A short silence ensued. “As usual, Keesha, you are quite correct. Her greatest concern was to save the Prince. I might be a blind old fool, but I’m not so blind that I did not see that! She would be most concerned, after all her sacrifice to preserve the Prince, than he is now once more heading into danger. Sarrick’s scouts have reported a great deal of activity going on across the Harnor. Fortunately the river did not freeze during the winter, but that has only given us a temporary respite. They are on the move, Keesha, those infernal creatures. I feel the will of the Destroyer stretch forth towards Eskendria. My dreams have been troubled lately, full of fearful images of destruction and death. If only, if only I could have summoned the Champion. But it was not to be. I am a doddering old idiot who has lost his powers. I will go with the Prince to the Harnor because I feel it is my place to be with him, but I fear I can be of little use.” With an effort he shook off his gloomy mood. “Still, best to be prepared. Put the Book of Healing into my bag - just in case.”

  A little red-bound book arose off a shelf and travelled across the room before dropping into the bag.

  “Ah, well, at least there is some hope. The King of Serendar has invited the Prince to come to the City-by-the-Shore to put his case for an alliance before him. Who would have thought it, after the debacle with Celedorn? The Isles of Kelendore have even expressed an interest. What we must do now, is to deliver a pre-emptive strike against the Turog to delay their plans long enough for an alliance to be formed against them. I may be gone a long time, Keesha. You must look after Skah and keep this old tower safe against my return. If our plans go well, Prince Sarrick will be left in command of the army while Andarion and I travel to Serendar. King Orovin will not be easy to convince but at least we now have a chance to put our case. It is even possible that after Serendar, our next destination will be the Isles of Kelendore. It’s a long time since I have been on a ship. The last time, if I recall correctly, I was hideously seasick. Ah! The sacrifices one makes for one’s country - but put the blue elixir in my bag just to keep sacrifice to a minimum.”

  Elorin began to lay the plans for her escape, disquieted only by the fact that she must deceive her new-found friend. The only way she could overcome the guilt of betraying someone who had been kind to h
er, was to constantly remind herself that Dorgan was loyal only to Celedorn. Never once had he uttered a word of disapproval when he observed yet another act of ruthless cruelty. Always he tried to excuse or defend. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would not help her, indeed, if he got wind of what was in her mind he would go straight to Celedorn. She would then be locked in some underground dungeon to rot until she died. Nevertheless, he must unwittingly assist her. When his back was turned, she secreted food in her pockets and began to build up a store of supplies in her room. She must have enough food to get her through the mountains and into more civilised regions. Another problem would be the cold. The only way to escape from the valley was through the forest and up across one of the mountain passes still covered in spring snow. She had little in the way of warm clothing except her cloak - which unfortunately was of the conspicuous shade of red worn by the kings of Eskendria. She would rather have attempted a more unexpected way of leaving the valley, but she did not know the region, and many a mountain path that looks promising, has proved to fizzle out just at the critical moment. The only route she knew was the one that Hydar had used when escorting her to Ravenshold and she would be obliged to follow it. However, she would try to confuse pursuit by keeping to the higher ground and the cover of the trees as much as possible. The most important thing was to gain time before she was missed. That meant leaving just as darkness fell some evening. She was usually locked up about dusk and was then undisturbed until Dorgan let her out in the morning. That would give her many hours head start and every hour would take her further away from Ravenshold and its intimidating master.

  Getting out of her room, she hoped, would not be as difficult as it sounded, because she had noticed that when Dorgan turned the key in the door to her prison, he nearly always left it in the lock. If she could obtain a sheet of paper, she could use a very old trick indeed to obtain the key. Dorgan’s very carelessness reassured her that he had not the slightest suspicion of her intentions.