by R. J. Grieve
“Who is this tall and silent stranger who hides his face from me?”
Andarion realised that events were slipping out of his grasp. He had intended to give an account of his adventures to his father, stressing the fact that the silent stranger had saved his life, and risked his own many times to protect them from the Turog, and then, just as the King was feeling grateful to him, reveal his identity.
“Father.......” he began.
But the King took a decisive step towards Celedorn, all his concentration bent upon him.
“Who is this man who is so silent? Who says nothing?”
With that, to the Prince’s consternation, Celedorn put back his hood.
“Celedorn!” hissed Sarrick, and instantly his sword flashed from its scabbard. The menacing scrape of steel echoed around the chamber as the guards all followed suit.
Andarion flung out his hand. “Stop!” he commanded. “Sheathe your weapons!”
“I will make an end to this black villain,” snarled Sarrick between his teeth.
Celedorn merely folded his arms, apparently unimpressed, but Andarion noticed that he had tucked his cloak behind his sword hilt, making access to it easier.
“Sheathe your sword, Sarrick,” Andarion again ordered. “Believe me, brother, if Celedorn draws steel upon you, you will die where you stand.”
But Sarrick paid no heed and began to advance purposefully, provoked by the look of contempt on Celedorn’s face.
Swiftly, Andarion blocked his path. “Who between us is the better swordsman?” he demanded.
Sarrick halted, a little disconcerted by the question. “You are,” he conceded reluctantly.
“Then permit me to tell you, that I fought this man once, and if the contest had not been interrupted by the Turog, I would not be standing before you today. He is a much finer swordsman that either of us - and we are both accounted skilled with the weapon.”
“He can hardly outmatch both me and a dozen guards,” said Sarrick in a tight, angry voice.
“No! I gave my word that he would be safe in this city. He has my protection.”
The guards looked uncertainly at the King for guidance.
All during the confrontation between the two brothers, the King had not for a moment taken his eyes off Celedorn’s face. Celedorn returned the stare coolly.
“We have not met before?” the King asked doubtfully.
“Indeed we have,” was the calm response.
“You seem.......familiar, somehow.”
“Look closer,” suggested Celedorn. “Look behind the scars.”
The King’s brow furrowed and everyone in the room grew silent and still, aware of a great tension between the two men.
Then quietly into the silence, like a stone dropped into a pool, Celedorn said: “Do you not know me - Uncle?”
The King’s face contracted with pain and disbelief. His hand flung up as if to ward off a blow. “It cannot be!”
“I am said to closely resemble my father,” said Celedorn softly but with a menacing edge to his voice.
“But......but you died twenty years ago! It cannot be!”
Relisar stepped forward. “He did not die. He is Calordin’s son. He is Berendore.”
The King looked distractedly at him. “But Sarrick said he was........everyone knows those scars can only mean that he is....is.....”
“He is Celedorn,” Relisar finished for him, “the brigand that you have been hunting all these years. Yet all that time, he has been the rightful Lord of Westrin. If your forces had caught him, they would have hanged your own nephew, your own sister’s son.”
Sarrick’s face was a mask of shock. His sword was still in his hand but he was no longer aware of it.
“Are you telling me,” he said to Relisar, “are you actually telling me, that this cut-throat, this criminal is my cousin?”
It was Andarion who answered him. “Indeed he is, and what is more, I owe my life to him.” He indicated his companions. “We all do. If it had not been for him, none of us would have made it alive through the Forsaken Lands. I owe him a debt I can never repay and so, in a sense, Sire, do you.”
The King sank into a chair, overcome by the revelations. “How do you know that what he claims about his birth is true?”
“Do you remember Calordin’s servant who came to you that day twenty years ago?” Relisar asked.
The King nodded.
“He returned to find the boy injured and wandering in the forest. Everyone else was dead. That servant is still alive and can vouch for the truth of what we tell you. Besides,” he flung his hand towards the impassively waiting Celedorn, “he is the image of his father. It is quite unmistakable - his dark colouring, the shape of nose and chin, yet his eyes are his mother’s.”
But as the King sat staring at Celedorn, his expression slowly hardened. “That does not alter the fact that for the last ten years he has terrorised the Westrin Mountains, robbing and pillaging, laying waste to our trade with Serendar.” His glance collided with his nephew’s like two swords scraping together. “Why did you do such a thing to your own country? Why?”
The tension in the room was palpable. Celedorn lifted his chin haughtily. “Revenge,” he said simply.
“Revenge? Revenge for what?”
“For the fact,” replied Celedorn grittily, clearly holding himself under tight restraint, “that you did not come to my father’s aid. Dorgan begged you on his knees and you would not come. You let my entire family be butchered by the Turog - and just in case I should ever try to forget that fact, the Turog gave me these.” He tilted his scarred cheek towards the King.
Everyone in the room saw the King stiffen. “There was nothing I could have done that day. There were too many of them.”
“Really?” said Celedorn scornfully.
“Mind your tone when addressing the King,” threatened Sarrick.
Celedorn paid not the slightest heed to him. “Really? How many men did you have with you? Five hundred, wasn’t it?” He made a gesture of distaste. “I have fought the Turog - and beaten them - with steeper odds than those.”
Andarion was watching his father closely. Celedorn had all but called him a coward and yet he had not exploded with rage as might have been expected.
“You were a boy at the time,” replied the King. “You could not understand these things.”
“I am a boy no longer,” said Celedorn softly, “and I understand these things only too well.”
Andarion realised that it was time to intervene. “Enough. We cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves when our very survival hangs in the balance.” He turned to his brother. “Is it true that the army will soon be given orders to retire on Addania?”
“It is true.”
“Is it also true that we are short of men for the defence of the city?”
“We are. We need several thousand more to be effective.”
Andarion switched his attention to Celedorn. “How many men are in Ravenshold?”
His cousin stared at him with the glimmerings of enlightenment. “A bold plan,” he murmured, “but it will not work.”
“How many?” Andarion insisted.
“About two thousand - possibly more now because of the war. Ravenshold is the first place that deserters will run to.”
Andarion approached his father, aware that he had come to the crux of the issue. “If Celedorn can bring us two thousand powerful warriors from Ravenshold, will you pardon his crimes and those of the men who come with him?”
“Pardon him? Never! The law is the law and they must pay for their crimes!”
“The law gives you the authority to pardon them,” Andarion gently reminded him.
“I will not use it. The Eskendrian people must see justice done.”
Andarion’s patience began to fray. “The Eskendrian people will not even see tomorrow unless we get some help. You know very well that if he goes back to Ravenshold with such a proposal, he will be risking his life. He must fight
and defeat whoever has taken his place and then persuade the men - those cut-throats, as Sarrick describes them - to follow him back here and put their lives at stake fighting the Turog in our cause. If he will do such a thing, then you must be prepared to pardon him.”
“Be careful, Andarion,” warned Sarrick, “you do not rule Eskendria yet.”
Celedorn had remained silent during this exchange, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts. The Prince suddenly confronted him. “If I asked you to attempt to bring these men from Ravenshold - would you?”
“Yes, I would. I do not wish Addania to fall. Whether I would be successful or not, is another matter.”
“If he has the courage to put his life at stake for Addania, then I beg you, Sire, in your wisdom, pardon him. After all, if Addania falls, the whole of Eskendria falls too and his punishment then becomes irrelevant.”
Relisar was nodding vigorously in agreement. “Indeed you must, Sire. The entire line of Westrin has gone - excepting only your sister’s son. You cannot destroy our last hope of aid, due to inflexibility or a misplaced sense of retribution. You cannot execute your sister’s son.”
The King sat for a long time deep in thought. Andarion resisted the temptation to say more and held his peace, relying on his belief that his father would put the interests of Eskendria before every other consideration. At last, with a deep sigh, King Tharin rose to his feet. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I have little choice. If you bring help from Ravenshold, I will pardon you and any man who comes with you.”
But Celedorn remained frozen, a rigid look on his face that Andarion interpreted with deadly accuracy.
He crossed to his intractable cousin and speaking so softly that none but Celedorn could hear, said: “Accept this, my friend.”
Celedorn’s look was stony. “I do not wish to receive a pardon from him, instead he should be begging one from me. I will offer my men the chance of a pardon, but I will accept none for myself.”
“This is no time for misplaced pride. You once told me that you would give ten years off your life for things to be different. Now is your chance. If you will not do this for yourself, then do it for Elorin. Think! You will no longer be hunted as a criminal. You will be a free man - free to live whatever life you choose.” A rueful smile crept into his eyes. “Provided, that is, we can defeat the Turog.” He looked into those storm-grey eyes. “I owe you my life, Celedorn and I have not forgotten that debt. Allow me to repay it a little.”
“There is no debt between us,” Celedorn replied a little stiffly.
“Then accept this as a gift. Not as a gift from my father, but from me.”
Andarion, who by now knew his friend well, could clearly see the inner struggle taking place. At last, with a great effort, Celedorn said: “Very well, as a gift from you, I accept these terms.”
Andarion turned back to his father. “Celedorn will leave for Ravenshold in the morning.”
Sarrick flung away, still angry and dissatisfied. “Two thousand men will make little difference.”
“Every extra man could make a difference,” retorted his brother sharply. “Besides, these men are tough fighters - you will recall that we have reason to know that, Sarrick.”
“What I recall is that he made a fool of you when you took our troops into the mountains to destroy him. He outmanoeuvred you, brother, and perhaps he is doing so again.”
But to Sarrick’s surprise, Andarion was not provoked, in fact, he even began to look faintly amused. “Has it ever occurred to you that his talents in that direction could be a very useful asset to us in our struggle against the Turog? His unconventional tactics will keep them guessing. Has it also occurred to you, that they fear his name as they fear no other? He terrifies them and that in itself is worth a thousand men. We are hard pressed, Sarrick, we need every advantage we can muster.”
The King, who had been deep in thought, lifted his head and looked at his son, as if seeing him clearly for the first time, as if seeing in his decisiveness the unmistakable ability to rule. In turn, it appeared to Andarion that grief and the cares of government had aged his father. There was grey in his fair hair and beard and he exuded a sense that he carried a heavy burden - something that the Prince had not been aware of before.
“My son, I am forced to concede that what you say makes sense. We are in such straits that we cannot afford to be choosy. If Celedorn brings us help, he will receive my pardon for his crimes - my word upon it.” Then he added tiredly, “I suppose that once he is a free man, he will wish to take his place as Lord of Westrin.”
Andarion, foreseeing difficulties with that issue, hastily leaped to reply before his incorrigible cousin could inform the King that he had no intention of taking the oath of loyalty.
“That is a matter for another day. My companions are tired and must rest. I am afraid that our customary hospitality in Addania has been somewhat lacking today.”
Sarrick sheathed his sword in resignation and signalled to one of the servants. “Find bedchambers suitable for these ladies.”
“Perhaps I should have mentioned,” said Andarion belatedly, “that during the course of our journey, Elorin became Celedorn’s wife.”
Sarrick raised a sardonic eyebrow at Elorin. “I see you have now acquired a name.”
Quick as a flash, Relisar replied. “Yes, and an ancient and noble one at that, for she is now the Lady of Westrin.”
With that, he bowed to the King, and turning to Elorin, said: “Come with me to my old tower. You cannot retire to bed without seeing Skah and Keesha. You too, Triana. The men wish to discuss the war and such discussions may very well continue to daybreak.”
As Elorin passed Celedorn, she murmured: “You do not have to do this for my sake. I loved you when you were a mountain brigand and I ask no more.”
“I know. Don’t worry, all will be well.”
She glanced anxiously at Andarion who nodded reassuringly. “My father has given his word. You need not fear for his safety.”
She tried to smile back but didn’t quite manage it. “It is Ravenshold that I now fear.”
“Come, my dear,” said Relisar taking her arm, and they followed Triana from the room.
The hour was late by the time Celedorn finally made his way to their bedchamber. Elorin was fast asleep, one arm flung across the bed, but she awoke when she felt him carefully slide in beside her. Instantly she nestled against him, pillowing her head on his shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she murmured drowsily, “but you were such a long time. What did you talk about?”
“The war - mainly making provision for the defence of Addania. The army is to try to hold off the Turog for another three days, to allow me time to get reinforcements from Ravenshold.”
Her eyes opened wide in the darkness. “Do you think they’ll come?”
“I have no idea. A pardon is worth little if you die in battle without the chance to enjoy it.”
“Will you have to fight their leader?”
“Undoubtedly. I must re-establish my authority and such men respect only one thing.”
Her arms tightened around him. “You are telling me I cannot come.”
He turned his head to brush his lips against her hair. “Not this time. This will need very careful handling and I stand a better chance alone.”
“Then I must stay here and worry about you.”
She sensed him smile in the darkness. “Not at all. If you think you will be rid of me so easily, you are quite mistaken.”
But she did not smile in response. “Andarion has great respect for your abilities with the sword, but you are not immortal.”
He drew a deep breath, remembering the commitment he had given on the Hill of the Seven Crowns. “No, I am not immortal,” he sighed.
Their parting in the morning was subdued. Elorin awoke in the dim light of dawn to find him already up and getting dressed. She had determined the night before not to let him see how troubled she was, and therefore s
at up in bed, hugging her knees, her expression carefully neutral. She watched him pull his shirt over his head and tuck it into his belt before donning his customary leather waistcoat and long black cloak. Neither of them spoke. When he was almost ready, she slid out of bed and handed him his scabbard and leather gauntlets.
He took them from her, looking down at her with understanding, not deceived for a moment by her expression.
“I will be gone only three days,” he said. “Expect me on the evening of the third day. If I am not successful in persuading them to come, then I will return alone.”
“Do you still get a pardon under those circumstances?”
“No.”
“Then you must not return.”
“I have done with the life I led before. My fate must be faced, one way or another. Besides,” he added, a faint smile like winter’s sunshine creeping into his eyes, “there is something precious in Addania that I would not leave behind.”
“I will come with you to the gate.”
He shook his head. “I think it is better that we part here.” He leaned towards her and touched his lips to hers as gently as thistledown.
“The evening of the third day,” he reaffirmed and tearing his hands from her grasp, swiftly left the room.
Elorin spent the next couple of days with Relisar and Triana, putting the ivy-covered tower in the courtyard back into order again. She returned to her little round room with the ivy climbing across the ceiling, and discovered that Keesha had kept it clean and neat in her absence. The blue counterpane on the bed was no longer dusty, and the silver brushes that Prince Andarion had given her, gleamed on the dressing table. A cupboard contained all her clothes, neatly folded and ready to be worn - a fact of which she was glad, as her own clothes, bought in Sirkris, were showing signs of wear and tear. The chair still stood by the open window and to her amusement, still contained a scattering of tiny mice bones. Skah was in his usual roost, perched on the back of the chair, his head sunk into his shoulders in sleep. However, when she entered the room, the huge golden eyes opened and stared unblinkingly at her.
