by R. J. Grieve
“I hope you are pleased to see me again, Skah,” she said.
He continued to stare at her, then gave one long blink.
Keesha celebrated their return by indulging in a bout of tidying. Relisar’s study was her first victim, as she hadn’t had the heart to clean it since he had been reported drowned. To Triana’s alarm, books and phials began to travel, apparently of their own accord, back and forth across the room. Relisar was in his element, hopping about amongst all his scrolls and potions again, lifting things at random, peering into dusty books, and generally frustrating all Keesha’s attempts to restore order.
On the morning of the third day, if he and Triana needed any reminding of the significance of the day, they got it when they saw Elorin. She was dressed in the lavender-blue dress she had worn on the day of her wedding and the pearl of Skerris-morl hung round her throat.
“He is not expected until evening,” she explained, “but I have put on the dress, just in case he is early.”
“Do you think he will have been successful?” asked Triana, gently stroking Skah’s head with one finger - a process that reduced him to a state of idiotic bliss.
“I hardly care, just as long as he returns safely.”
Relisar looked up from the revolting-looking brew he was stirring. “Have confidence, my dear, Celedorn can be very persuasive.”
Triana laughed. “I think he’ll probably persuade them with the edge of his sword.”
Elorin turned away with a rustle of silken skirts and crossed to the tiny window, peering out between the ivy leaves, wondering why neither of them seemed to realise how much it had cost her to try to appear calm during the last two days. She was not privileged to see the concerned glance exchanged between her two friends behind her back.
As she stared down into the bright courtyard through the meagre space left between the luxuriant leaves, she suddenly heard the faint sound of trumpets echoing up the narrow streets from the city’s gate.
“Did you hear that?” she asked abruptly. “What does it mean?”
Relisar dropped his spoon. “It means someone of importance has arrived. They will be coming up through the city to the palace. Quick, follow me. I know a section of the wall where one can get an excellent view of the approach to the palace.”
Quick as a startled hare, he hoisted up the tail of his robe and darted down the winding staircase. He burst out of the pointed doorway at the bottom, and charged, with a speed quite remarkable in one of his age, across the sunlit courtyard, hotly pursued by Elorin, her lavender skirts billowing behind her. Triana, always a little slower than the others, was left to bring up the rear, wondering what fiend had possessed him. By the time she caught up with them, they had ascended several sets of steps that climbed up the inside of the palace walls, and were now positioned high on the battlements, leaning over the parapet to get a better view down to the gate below and the narrow city streets beyond. A crowd was beginning to gather, lining the edges of the streets, all craning their necks to see who was coming. They were not to be disappointed, for into view came a long cavalcade of mounted men. The buzz of conversation in the crowd fell silent, as the long convoy, three abreast, wound up the street towards the palace at the top of the hill. The riders all wore heavy armour and were laden with weapons - swords, battle-axes and maces. The long nose and cheek guards of their helmets left little of their harsh faces visible, but did not conceal their air of savage competence. Everyone was a powerful, formidable warrior. The men looked neither to right nor left, and paid no heed at all to the crowds, but rode with an aura of restrained aggression, as if they might explode into violence at any moment. All down the length of the street the convoy streamed, until a distant bend cut off the view.
“The brigands from Ravenshold,” the whisper went round the crowd, and the rumour spread like flames in summer grasses. “They have come to fight the Turog.”
At their head, rode a man dressed entirely in black. His face, too, was concealed by a helmet but one person watching intently from the wall, instantly knew without a doubt who he was.
Elorin leaned over the wall, high above them, willing him to look up, and as if in response to her wish, he briefly raised his eyes to hers and nodded.
However, one of his company, not inhibited by issues of dignity, caught sight of her and waved enthusiastically.
“Elorin! My dear child! You have come back to me!”
Elorin gave a cry and nearly fell over the wall in surprise. “Dorgan! My old friend, how are you?”
“Fat as ever,” he chuckled. “As you see, I have inflicted my bulk on this noble animal, for there was no possibility that I would be left at Ravenshold when I had the chance to see you again.”
He received a repressive glance from Celedorn and subsided. “I will speak to you later,” he mouthed theatrically at Elorin.
The convoy had halted before the palace gates, which were tightly shut, as if in refusal, but as they watched, they slowly swung back to reveal the two princes standing in the archway.
Celedorn was the first to speak. He fixed a stern eye on Andarion. “I keep my word, my lord Prince. I have brought over two thousand men, willing to fight the Turog in exchange for their pardon.”
“And I keep mine, my lord,” replied Andarion formally, not noticing how Sarrick started at that form of address. “Your men have received their pardon.” He turned to the captain of the guard. “Find quarters for these men and their horses - and remember, they come to fight the Turog on our behalf. Their past is forgotten.”
The captain saluted and approached them, but the brigands would not move until they received a nod of approval from Celedorn.
They began to file through the gateway, following the captain into a courtyard to the left. Celedorn and Dorgan remained to one side, watching them until the last had entered the palace compound. They then dismounted and gave their horses to a servant. Celedorn removed his helmet and passed it to Dorgan.
“Come, Celedorn,” said Andarion. “My father will wish to hear of this in person.”
Relisar was listening intently from the top of the wall. “They are going to see the King,” he whispered to Elorin. “We must be quick if we don’t want to miss anything.”
Once more he made a dive for the steps and he and his companions arrived at the rose-strewn archway which led to the throne-room, just a few moments behind the Prince.
The sun was shining obliquely into the hall. The polished wooden floor reflected the light upwards, lighting the rose-coloured pillars and filling the room with a subtle, yet glorious, golden glow. Unlike the last time Elorin had seen the throne, this time it was occupied. The King, regal with a golden circlet upon his brow, sat beneath the sable canopy. He was flanked by his two tall and handsome sons, with the full complement of barons to the right. Before the throne stood Celedorn, with Dorgan a pace or two behind him.
Relisar and his companions slipped into the back of the hall unnoticed.
Elorin was filled with pride as she watched her husband. He stood tall, straight-backed, aristocratic, a commanding figure in black from his dark hair to the tail of his jet-black cloak just touching the polished floor. One side of his cloak had been flung back over his shoulder to reveal the hilt of his sword projecting from its scabbard. He raised his chin defiantly and looked directly at the King.
“I have fulfilled my part of the agreement. Over two thousand men, have I brought you. Men, who in their time, have slain many Turog and will slay many more.”
“Very well,” replied the King in measured tones. “My part of the agreement I also fulfil - your men are pardoned of their crimes.”
Andarion stiffened and turned to his father. “And Celedorn also,” he reminded.
The King did not immediately reply but remained staring at the man standing before him. For no ascertainable reason, the atmosphere in the hall became a little tense.
“I keep my word,” he said at last, reluctance heavy in his voice. “You, Celedorn, I also pa
rdon. You are a free man.”
Andarion, not sure whether he was wise to press the issue or not, took a deep breath and said: “He is then free to take up his rightful position as Lord of Westrin.”
Celedorn’s brows came down in a dark frown and his eyes bored into the Prince disapprovingly, but he said nothing.
The King was not surprised. “You are all too predictable, my son,” he observed, a little sourly. “I knew you would not rest until that issue had been confronted.” His cold blue eyes came to rest on Celedorn. “You claim to be Berendore, son of Calordin, last Lord of Westrin. Can you prove such a claim?”
Celedorn’s back stiffened haughtily and Andarion knew he was going to be difficult. “I have no desire to prove it.”
But an unexpected intervention occurred. From behind Celedorn, a voice said: “I can prove it.”
Every eye in the room fastened on Dorgan. “I can prove it, Sire,” he said. “I have known Berendore since his birth. I found him that day, twenty years ago, when he was only a lad of fourteen, wandering injured in the forest. I have travelled with him to many foreign lands and have remained with him during the last ten years when he has been at Ravenshold, his identity hidden from all but me.” He paused. “Do you not remember me, Sire? I am Dorgan, personal steward of Calordin, last Lord of Westrin, and the man who came to you that day twenty years ago, to beg for help that you never gave.”
The King stared at him as if turned to stone. When at last he spoke, it was as if he was awakening from a dream. “You have changed.”
“Alas, yes, Sire. I have grown old and stout, but my loyalty to the House of Westrin has not changed.”
“You knew that day, that even with the forces I had brought with me, we were still outnumbered.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“So you understood why I could not come.”
“No, Sire. Had the positions been reversed, my master would have come for you.”
“A king is not free always to follow the promptings of his heart. Sometimes difficult choices have to be made.”
“That is the price of power, but with respect, Sire, I suggest that you have a choice today which will allow you to follow your heart and restore your friend’s son to his rightful position.”
The two princes watched their father closely. Although he did not look directly at them, he was acutely aware of their scrutiny.
“You are right, Dorgan,” the King replied softly. Then directing a sharper glance at the tall, silent man before him, he said: “Berendore, your lineage has been established beyond doubt. I will therefore restore you to all your father’s land, power and titles. You may assume the position of Lord of Westrin upon taking the oath of loyalty.”
The room was utterly silent. Every single person held their breath awaiting Celedorn’s reply. When it came, it was delivered quietly but with devastating effect.
“I will not swear loyalty to you.”
Pandemonium broke out, with everyone except the King and Celedorn talking at once. A still watchfulness prevailed between the two men. A silent battle of wills. The King read accusation in every line of Celedorn’s body.
Andarion intervened. “You must take the oath in order to assume your title, Celedorn,” he said urgently.
“I have told you many times that I will not swear loyalty to your father. You would have done well to have heeded me.”
Relisar, unnoticed until that point, hurried up the hall to address Andarion. “My Lord Prince, I have perhaps the solution to the impasse. The law requires the oath to be to the crown of Eskendria, not necessarily the person of the king.”
An arrested expression stole over Andarion’s features as he realised the import of the old man’s words.
Relisar bowed to the King. “Would an oath to the crown be acceptable, Sire?”
“I do not see how that is to be accomplished.”
“I do,” said Celedorn unexpectedly. He turned slowly and looked Andarion full in the eyes. In that moment, the Prince read his intention.
Celedorn reached his hand across to the hilt of his sword and drew it. The barons tensed and reached for their own swords, but their hands fell back to their sides when they saw what he did next.
Slowly, he sank on one knee before the Prince and offered him the sword, hilt first, laid across his left forearm.
Deeply touched, Andarion said in a low murmur: “You do not have to do this, Celedorn. Your friendship is enough for me.”
“I know,” was the low reply. “That is why I do it.” Then in a loud, clear voice that carried around the hall, he said: “Crown Prince Andarion of Eskendria, I, Celedorn of Westrin, swear to you my loyalty and pledge to you my sword. To you I bind in faithfulness the Barony of Westrin and all her people. Your enemies from this day are henceforth mine. Before all those assembled here, I give my sacred oath. Accept, I beg you, this my bond.”
Andarion leaned forward and lightly laid his hand on the sword-hilt to signify that he had accepted the oath. “Sheathe your sword, Lord of Westrin.”
When Celedorn arose to his feet and obeyed him, Andarion signalled to Elorin to come forward and placed her hand in her husband’s. Then turning to the assembled company he announced: “I present to you the Lord and Lady of Westrin.”
There was a moment’s stunned silence. No one moved. No one spoke. Then Veldor stepped forward, a little hesitantly, and held out his hand to Celedorn.
“I knew your father, my lord, a fine man whose death grieved me greatly. I think now his soul will be at peace.”
The other barons, reluctantly following Veldor’s example, came forward also.
Finally, Celedorn found himself confronted by Sarrick, who conspicuously did not offer his hand.
“We will soon see if we have bought ourselves a bad bargain or not. It will be interesting to see your performance in battle.”
A look of slightly wicked humour crossed Celedorn’s face and he merely bowed slightly in reply.
Despite himself, like many before him, Sarrick felt the first twinge of respect.
But the King was in the grip of a hard, tight anger, all the sharper for being concealed. He was astute enough to know that if he now showed that the unusual oath-taking met with less than his total approval, he would appear foolish and petulant before the assembled barons. Nonetheless, he was angry with Andarion for outflanking him. At the same time, a remote corner of his mind was pleased to recognise that his son’s experiences in the Forsaken Lands had changed him, bringing a promising personality to maturity and banishing the last lingering traces of the boy. He would have liked to have condemned Celedorn’s influence on his son as a bad one, but in all honesty, he was forced to admit that he had uncovered the steel in the Prince that even his own father had begun to think was lacking. However, he now faced the new Lord of Westrin a little stiffly, unable to control his resentment enough to appear affable, unable to acknowledge his need for forgiveness and well aware that Celedorn was not prepared to offer it.
“You are welcome in my court, Lord and Lady of Westrin,” he said in a dry voice.
Celedorn knew well what value to place on the words and merely inclined his head slightly in reply. Elorin, taking her lead from him, dropped a curtsey, glad that for once she was appropriately dressed.
“A council of all the barons in Eskendria is about to take place in the adjoining chamber,” continued the King. “It will be the last before Addania is besieged. You must attend, Lord of Westrin, and fill the chair that has stood empty since your father’s death.”
When the King had led the princes and barons from the room, Dorgan heaved a great sigh of relief and turned to Elorin.
“So you are now Lady of Westrin. I told you that you would not always be a prisoner, in fact, it appears that if anyone was held captive at Ravenshold, it was not you.”
“I have not forgotten how kind you were to me.”
“I could not help but be kind to you, my dear, but there was an added reason. You see, even then, I k
new that he loved you. You cannot watch over someone from their birth without getting to know them pretty well - even someone as good at disguising their feelings as Celedorn. Almost from the moment you arrived, I detected a change in him, nothing I could quite put my finger on, but something different. Then one day I caught him looking at you when he thought he was unobserved and I knew you were the one for him.”
She laughed. “I think your powers of perception increase with the benefit of hindsight.”
He grinned back, creating three double chins in the process. “Now, if it were not for those accursed creatures, I would think that all has ended happily.”
“Did he......did he have to fight whoever had taken his place?”
“Surprisingly no, he did not. Suffice it to say, that the man who had taken over the leadership had seen Celedorn fight many times and chose....er....voluntarily to surrender his position.”
“How did he persuade them to follow him?”
He smiled tolerantly at her. “They may be brigands, my dear, black-hearted, unprincipled cut-throats, but they are not fools. They know better than anyone, that if Addania falls, then nothing on this earth will save Ravenshold. Their only chance of survival is to add their strength to the King’s, otherwise they are as good as dead already. However, as most of them have sentence of death hanging over their heads, they could hardly return to the grasp of the law. Celedorn’s message solved their dilemma. Doubtless, if the Turog are defeated, many of them will fall back into their old ways, but for the moment, necessity puts them on the same side as the King.”
“Do you think their numbers are sufficient to make a difference?”
Dorgan, who privately thought that they would make little difference, said: “Who knows? We have done all we can. Our futures are now in the hands of fate.”
The council chamber was a long, lofty hall at the head of which stood a mighty carved chair inlaid with gold. Running down the hall, in an avenue facing each other, were two rows of carved chairs, a little smaller and less magnificent than the one at the head. The tall back of every chair was carved with the coat of arms of each of the baronies. One chair had stood empty for twenty years - the chair bearing a circle of chalice flowers surrounding a sword - the emblem of Westrin. As the King took his seat at the head of the chamber, he directed Celedorn to this chair. He took his place amidst many black looks and mutterings of discontent. The barons, while recognising the necessity of what the King had done, had not forgotten, or entirely forgiven Celedorn’s past misdeeds.
