by R. J. Grieve
Celedorn nodded and shoved the boat off the sand.
Pelgar’s voice floated back to them across the water. “The Father of Light protect you, my friends, for you shall surely need it.”
They all stood in silence, a little overwhelmed by what they were undertaking, and watched the little boat head out to sea again until the darkness swallowed it.
Andarion let out a pent-up breath. “We are well and truly on our own now. For better or for worse, our journey begins.”
Celedorn was more prosaic. “We should take Pelgar’s advice and wait until morning. We had better move up to the head of the beach, as the tide is coming in.”
They sat down on their packs to wait for dawn. Each sat absorbed in thought, listening to the quiet crunch and hiss of the waves upon the sand. Occasionally Celedorn raised his eyes to the cliff-top and minutely examined its surface, silhouetted against the sky. Intercepting one of these glances, Elorin knew that his habitual watchfulness had returned.
The advent of dawn awoke the seabirds nesting on the cliffs. As the first grey glimmers lightened the sky, adult birds began to sally forth from their white-crusted ledges in search of food for their young. The black precipices were festooned with nests occupying every nook and cranny, utilising even the most improbable ledges. Gulls, kittiwakes, fulmars and guillemots sent up the most deafening din.
The sea was as grey and luminescent as a moonpearl. Phantoms of mist drifted across its nacreous surface. The cliffs smelt damp and salty and the hard sand was unmarked by any footprints other than their own. Just as Pelgar had described, a rock ledge jutted out from the foot of the cliff, sometimes broad and rising well above the deep water, and at others narrow and washed by the occasional wave bigger than its fellows. The dark rocks were much riven and cracked. Deep crevasses filled with golden fronds of seaweed, lay in wait for the unwary. But fortune for once favoured the travellers and the weather was calm. The sea was too relaxed to sweep across the shelf and merely contented itself with gently playing with the seaweed, swirling it in its clear waters.
Without waiting to consult the others, Celedorn climbed onto the ledge and leaping nimbly across the rocks, soon reached the point of the headland and disappeared from view. He returned almost immediately and signalled the others to follow him.
“Pelgar has not misled us,” he informed them. “The shelf continues southwards as far as I can see.”
Their first day in the legend-haunted domain of the Destroyer unexpectedly passed pleasantly enough. The ledge wound its way around the base of each headland, its progress interrupted now and again by sandy coves. Occasionally, at the head of these coves, little waterfalls dripped their way to the sea over curtains of slimy green lichens. The grandeur of the coastline was impressive. Many cliff-points were pierced with rock arches through which the gulls would fly with easy grace. Occasionally, a stack, an isolated pinnacle of stone standing like a sentry beside a bastion, would bear silent witness to the power of the sea to bring down such structures.
Elorin looked around her in wonder, as always, drawn by some inner insistence to the sea. The smell of salt and seaweed was so evocative that she could almost grasp the wisp of a memory. It was her preoccupation with the scenery that caused the only unpleasant interlude of the day. They had conducted their journey in single file, with Celedorn leading, followed by Relisar and the Prince. Elorin brought up the rear, lagging behind to admire the arches of stone. She had at first walked beside the Prince, delighting in his company, but after a while, his solicitous habit of tenderly helping her over every obstacle, no matter how small, had begun the chafe, and she had dropped behind.
When Celedorn rounded a headland in the late afternoon to discover a sandy bay suitable for spending the night, he also made the discovery that Elorin was missing. Neither Relisar nor the Prince could account for her absence. Celedorn, with an oath of annoyance, shed his pack onto the sand and leaped onto the rock shelf in pursuit of her, just as the truant herself rounded the headland. To Andarion’s astonishment and disapproval, Celedorn exploded with anger as soon as he saw her, and read her a lecture in unflattering terms as to what he thought of people who were so irresponsible as to behave as if they were on a picnic and not keep within sight at all time in such hostile territory.
Elorin was by no means prepared to quietly accept such an indictment, and a row of volcanic proportions ensued. As the Prince merely stood with his arms folded, looking at Celedorn with contempt, it was left to Relisar to make the peace.
“Celedorn, my friend,” he said gently, “the point you make is valid but you are too severe. After all, no harm has come to Elorin and she will be more careful in future.”
For a tense moment everyone thought that the old man was going to come under fire as well, but suddenly Celedorn turned away and began to unbuckle his pack.
“If we are going to light a fire to cook with,” he said coldly, “we should do so now while it is still light. Choose the driest of the driftwood to avoid smoke. It will have to be put out before darkness falls, as we do not wish to advertise our presence - not that caution is much use when we leave all these footprints in the sand for anyone to see. We must hope for a high tide tomorrow morning.”
Without a word to her protagonist, Elorin took some fishing-hooks and twine from her pack and defiantly climbed back onto the rocks again.
Relisar looked at her doubtfully. “Do you think she’ll catch anything?” he asked Celedorn.
“Only the sharp edge of my tongue if she disappears again,” was the brittle rejoinder.
But Elorin triumphantly returned an hour later with several small fish. A bright fire of driftwood was by that time burning merrily against the base of the cliff and she borrowed the Prince’s hunting knife to gut the fish and then cooked them on sticks over the fire. She offered one to Celedorn as an unspoken peace offering, which he took rather ungraciously.
When he had eaten, he moved a little apart from the others and sitting down on a convenient rock, began to clean his already spotless sword.
Relisar, less sensitive to his wish for solitude than the others, came and sat beside him.
“A beautiful weapon, Celedorn,” he remarked admiringly. “May I hold it?”
For a moment it looked as if his request would be refused, but reluctantly Celedorn proffered the sword, hilt first. The old sage turned the sword this way and that, watching the firelight flash off the gleaming blade.
“A beautiful weapon,” he repeated softly. “So finely balanced and of such superior workmanship.” He pointed to the three intertwined flowers engraved on the blade just below the hilt. “The motif of the chalice flowers indicates that it is a sword of the Old Kingdom. There are so few of them left. They say that their armourers had a skill that has been lost. Their swords never rust or break and their blades never lose their edge. Have you found it so?”
“I have,” said Celedorn, thawing a little. “It has never failed me.”
“Where did you get it?”
The thaw halted abruptly. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean.”
Relisar raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. “I was not implying that,” he replied mildly.
The sudden ire faded from Celedorn’s eyes. For a long time he said nothing, then reluctantly, almost as if the words were forced from him, he said: “It belonged to my father.”
Relisar looked at him strangely for a moment before carefully restoring the weapon to him.
“A magnificent sword,” he sighed, his eyes distant. “I have only once before seen its like.”
Elorin, who had been listening, leaned forward: “Relisar, I know the chalice flower is the symbol of the Old Kingdom, but what does it actually represent?”
“Legend has it that when the earth was young and the children of light still innocent, the Creator was so pleased with his handiwork that he delighted to be amongst them. But the first sin that ever entered this word was jealousy, and the Destroyer arose in envy and stole som
e of the children and twisted them to darkness and evil in some vile imitation of himself. When Yervenar saw what had happened, that innocence was lost for ever, he wept bitterly, and his tears fell to the earth like rain. Where each drop fell, there sprang up a little flower with petals as clear as crystal, a stem of purest gold and leaves as bright as an emerald. It is said that the chalice flower has miraculous powers. It can heal any wound - even a wound of the soul - and can restore the dead to life.”
She leaned her chin on her hand, enthralled by the story. “Has one ever been found?”
“No, my dear. In the days of the Old Kingdom, many brave men searched the entire earth for the flower of legend, even braving the Destroyer’s frozen kingdom in the north, but it was never found. One story tells that some of the flowers grew on the Hill of the Seven Crowns, near the royal city which in the old language was called Korem, but though every inch of the hill was searched, no chalice flower was ever found.”
“They don’t exist,” Celedorn interposed. “They are just another fantastic fable of the Old Kingdom.”
“Perhaps,” the Prince conceded, “but don’t forget that we are travelling through the land that used to be the Old Kingdom. Land that no human being has crossed since the days of Tissro, just before the fall of the last High King. Perhaps we will find more than we bargained for here. Perhaps there is some truth in the old stories.”
“You are romantic,” sneered Celedorn, making it sound like a disease. “All we are likely to find is the spawn of the Destroyer.”
Andarion shrugged. “They say some remnants remain.”
“Yes indeed,” agreed Relisar. “It is said that even some fragments of the other two Orders survive.”
“The other two Orders?” asked Elorin blankly, not for the first time bitterly resenting her loss of memory.
“Yes, Elorin, there are three Orders of Sages, each with different functions. The greatest was the Order of the Flower - or the White Brotherhood, as it was often known. Iit dealt with healing, understanding and spells of protection or adamant. The second Order, my Order, was the Order of the Book. We study learning, interpretation, dreams and portents. Lastly there was the Order of the Sword. This was a brotherhood of warriors - not using physical swords against physical enemies, you understand, but using the power of the spirit to resist the demons of evil that the Destroyer sent against the Old Kingdom, in order to weaken it by sowing discord and strife. Sadly, towards the last days of the Old Kingdom, their numbers declined and in the end they were overborne.”
“Why did their numbers decline?”
It was the Prince who replied. “Only children who pass the tests set by the Master of the Order can be apprenticed. They must show they have the gifts of the spirit, a latent ability which is inborn and which will be developed during their apprenticeship. Towards the end of the Old Kingdom, such children became rare. Each year, fewer and fewer passed the test. During the chaos of the fall of the Old Kingdom, two of the Orders were lost, scattered and destroyed. The Brothers of the Sword were hunted through the Great Forest, by evil things no longer seen on this earth, and were annihilated one by one. Only some of Relisar’s Order, including its master, made it across the Harnor into the last remnant of the Kingdom which has now become Eskendria. But still the numbers of children with the gift declined and now Relisar is the last of his kind. Master Tarlingdor died four years ago and now Relisar is truly the last.”
“Not exactly a glowing advertisement for his Order,” Celedorn muttered under his breath.
But Andarion heard him and his brows snapped together in anger. He would have leaped to his mentor’s defence but Relisar forestalled him.
“The criticism is just,” he conceded sadly, and all present clearly saw his grief. “It has been the purpose of my life to find Erren-dar, now more than ever, when he is needed so badly, and yet I have failed miserably. My one attempt to summon him achieved nothing but wrenching Elorin away from wherever she belonged and ruining her life.”
Elorin made to object, but he held up his hand. “I know you would deny it, even though we all know that it is true, simply because you are kind-hearted and wish to spare me pain, but in fact that makes me feel even worse. Let’s face it; I am an incompetent old bungler. If only there were more of my Order to share this burden with me but I am alone and must proceed as best I can. I haven’t entirely given up hope of achieving my task, but I confess that despair is only a short step away.”
Accurately interpreting Celedorn’s expression, Elorin observed: “Celedorn thinks you are chasing moonbeams.”
“We all know what Celedorn thinks,” the Prince remarked dryly. “He is not reticent when it comes to airing his opinions.”
But the object of his stricture refused to be baited and merely pointed out that it was getting dark. “Time to put out the fire. I will take the first watch.”
For the next two days they travelled southwards along the coast, meeting no life other than the seabirds. Each night they rested in one of the sandy coves. Celedorn was obsessive about leaving no trace of their presence in the morning, and conscientiously buried the burnt sticks of their fire and swept the area clean. Andarion tended to be dismissive about such precautions, but Elorin, having travelled through the Forsaken Lands before, knew that his watchfulness kept them safe. His skills were useful in other ways too. He was the quickest to get a fire going and was handy when it came to cooking. When Elorin expressed surprise at such abilities he informed her, in his own inimitable style, that on his travels before he came to Ravenshold it had been a case of learning such things or starving. The Prince, though anxious to do his share, had not the faintest idea how to go about such tasks. After he had managed to drop some fish that Elorin had caught into the fire, and scalded himself with hot water, she dispensed with his services.
By late afternoon of the third day, they rounded a point to be confronted with an awe-inspiring sight. A massive, flat-topped headland jutted out into the sea like a giant anvil, far surpassing all the headlands they had seen so far. It rose perpendicularly from the silver sea, its shape dark and brooding against the pale blue sky. On its extremity, the ruins of what had once been a magnificent palace were poised like a black crown. The towers of Kerrian-tohr pointed at the sky like accusing fingers.
“It is the Palace of the Queen,” breathed Relisar, a little unnecessarily.
“Past tense,” corrected Celedorn. “Even from this distance, one can see that it has been in ruins for centuries.”
“I must explore it.”
“Not now. The light has nearly gone and it will be too dark soon to see anything.”
Andarion grinned: “You are not, perchance, afraid of ghosts?”
Celedorn folded his arms. “Completely terrified.”
Elorin laughed and raised an eyebrow at the Prince. “Frustrating, isn’t he? You are beginning to understand what I have had to put up with.”
“Not at all,” was the unexpected response. “My sympathies are entirely with Celedorn.”
The object of his sympathy, gave a shout of laughter. “Your Prince begins to grow on me,” he informed the discomfited Elorin.
But as it turned out, it was the Prince who was the first to see the ghost.
He had agreed to take the watch for the hours leading up to dawn. When he relieved Relisar, who had been sitting on a rock with his head hanging forward, ripe for any passing Turog to jump on, he took his vacated seat and immersed himself in the coolness of the night air and the quiet whisper of the sea. The sky was lightly veiled with cloud, but there was a brightness out to sea that rendered the darkness less than stygian. He could distinguish thin lines of white, where the surf gently unravelled on the sand, and the heavy black presence of the headland. As his eyes travelled across the ragged outline of the ruins, their passage became arrested by something. The Prince stiffened, straining his sight in the darkness. A small, white light was travelling amongst the ruins. It swayed and bobbed and sometimes disappeared entirely
, but it always surfaced again, moving steadily, if erratically, towards the point of the cliff where the decaying walls stood directly over the sea.
The Prince watched this intently for some minutes before he became aware of a presence looming up beside him in the darkness. He gasped and was reaching for his sword, when the familiar sound of Celedorn’s voice arrested the action.
“I can make out only one light, I think,” Celedorn observed quietly, his voice little above a whisper so as not to disturb the others. “I thought at first there were several but I think it is just the same one appearing and disappearing.”
“The light is not blue as Pelgar described.”
“No. Nor is it a ghostly apparition. Someone is up there, moving amongst the ruins.”
“Turog?”
“Possibly. Pelgar was of the opinion that the Turog would not go near the ruins because they are haunted, but personally I never found them that imaginative. If whoever is up there looked over the cliff before nightfall, they would have seen our fire. We must face the possibility that they know we are here.”
“Should we wake the others?” Andarion asked.
“No, not yet. There are only two ways out of this bay - either back the way we came, or up the cliff face towards Kerrian-tohr - neither of which I would care to attempt in the darkness.”
“So we wait until dawn.”
“Yes.”
“And what then? If we proceed, we must pass close to the Palace. Do we investigate?”
“That’s a question that can better be answered once daylight arrives. I’ll stay on watch with you until then.”
The Prince stiffened haughtily. “You doubt my ability to stand watch alone?”
Celedorn eyed him with a certain cold humour. “If I intend to give offence, you will be left in no doubt about the matter. Until then, you should avoid the emotion.”
What Andarion might have replied, Celedorn was never privileged to learn, for at that moment Elorin sat up, sleepily demanding to know what was going on.
