by R. J. Grieve
In this, as in all else, the two baronies differed. No one from Westrin had ever expressed the smallest desire to cross the river and live on the fringes of the Forsaken Lands. Although it had once been infested by Turog, little had been seen or heard of the few to survive the great battle, but their evil reputation lived on. He assumed that the Sorneans had been tempted by the Great Forest because of their love of woodland, but in his opinion his own people showed more sense in sticking to civilised regions. In recent days, he had heard a whisper that all was not well in the settlements across the river. He had heard tales of renegade Turog grown bold once more. It would be interesting to find out the truth from Lord Pevorion.
He knew the master of Sorne slightly from their meetings each year when all the barons assembled in Addania to take the oath of loyalty to the King. Although Pevorion was some twenty years older than Vesarion, he was not the man to demand the respect due to his seniority but was happy to share a glass of wine with any convivial companion and laugh loudly and heartily at the simplest of jokes. He had always struck Vesarion as a bluff, straightforward man, not much given to plotting or indeed any other strenuous mental exercise. He had the reputation of ruling his barony fairly, protecting those who obeyed the law, but was ruthless with those who transgressed. He did not mince his words and was always perfectly prepared to damn and blast anyone who annoyed him. Vesarion, usually able to read his fellow man quite accurately, thought that a lengthy conversation with Lord Sorne would most assuredly reveal to him whether the man was playing a deep game or not. His first priority was still the thief but there was no harm in killing two birds with one stone. Despite all he had said to Enrick, the issue of Pevorion’s loyalty was by no means straightforward.
Notwithstanding their lord’s notorious informality, the urchins fell short of entering Forestfleet. When the party passed beneath the rusting portcullis, they melted away, unwilling to be berated in his lordship’s thunderous accents. The travellers emerged into a cobbled courtyard that dozed gently in the warm afternoon sunshine. It was deserted except for an ancient retainer sitting on a bench cleaning tack. Their arrival went unacknowledged and apparently unnoticed. To Seldro’s displeasure, no one challenged their right to enter the castle and the reason was quite evident – there was not a single sentry on duty. To someone accustomed to the strict discipline of such a formidable fortress as Ravenshold, this laxity was inexcusable.
The wooden buildings inside the walls were exactly like the ones in the town only larger, and, if possible, even more ornate. Every available surface was adorned in raised relief with the barony’s crest – a red hart within a border of chalice flowers. The tall double doors at the top of the flight of steps that led to the great hall were unencouragingly shut.
Eimer twisted round impatiently in the saddle. “This is a fine welcome,” he declared. “Where is everyone? Are they all asleep?” Addressing the only person in sight, he called to the old man: “Hey, you there! Where is Lord Pevorion?”
The man looked up slowly and cupped his hand to his ear. “Eh? What’s that? Speak up, young man. Don’t mumble. Can’t abide mumblers.”
Vesarion suppressed a grin and said in an undertone: “That is one battle of wits you are not going to win.”
But before Eimer could reply, one of the doors of the great hall opened and a diminutive middle-aged woman appeared, plainly dressed and carrying a basket of apples on her hip.
She started when she saw the number of riders confronting her. Vesarion, assuming that she was a maid, and about to address her as such, was saved by his betrothed from making an embarrassing mistake.
“Kelda!” Sareth called delightedly and swinging her leg over the pommel in a manner that drew a disapproving look from Vesarion, she slid from the saddle. “I hope you have a welcome for me, because it’s not six months since I last imposed myself upon you.”
The woman gave a cry of surprise and dropped the basket. Sareth met her on the steps to receive a hearty embrace.
“My dear Sareth, you know you are always most welcome.” She looked past the Princess to the group of riders and identified two other faces that she knew. “Why! Prince Eimer, and Bethro! This is indeed a surprise” She glanced uncertainly at Vesarion, putting Sareth in mind of her duty.
“Lady Sorne, may I introduce you to my lord of Westrin.”
Kelda smiled. “You are most welcome, my lord. Had I known you were coming, you would not have received such a poor reception.”
Vesarion, who prided himself on his good manners, bowed slightly. “The fault is ours, Lady Sorne, I regret the suddenness of our visit but there were circumstances that dictated haste. I trust Lord Pevorion is at home?"
“He is around somewhere,” she replied a little uncertainly, looking around the courtyard as if she suddenly expected him to appear. “My sons are off on a hunting trip but they promised faithfully that they would return before sunset.” She laughed “A major crisis had broken out, you see! We were short of venison. Any excuse to disappear into the forest and kill something. Now, please come in and allow me to make up for my incivility by offering you some refreshments.”
The entire party dismounted but before they could even reach the steps, the doors of the great Hall hurst asunder and Lord Pevorion strode out, bellowing out a welcome, his face wreathed in smiles. He had changed little since Vesarion had last seen him at the oath-taking almost a year before. His fiery red hair had perhaps a little more grey in it and his habitual stubble, which was either a nascent beard or a disinclination to shave, bore the glisten of silver. His reputation as a good trencherman was evidenced by a stomach that was in the process of steadily expanding over his belt.
It was the wonder of the Kingdom that his marriage had lasted for so long, as no couple could have been so ill-assorted. They were opposites in nearly everything. He was as large and noisy as his wife was dainty and reserved. He was garrulous in the extreme, whereas she was a woman of few words. To everyone’s surprise, not least her own, Kelda had presented her boisterous husband with no less than seven strapping sons, not one of them under six feet tall. Their respective methods of dealing with their offspring was as diverse as everything else that they did. Whereas Pevorion expressed his fondness for his progeny by shouting and swearing at them until he was red in the face – a process they paid not the slightest heed to - one quiet word from their mother was all it took to swiftly bring them to heel. They would stand before her, towering over her tiny form, looking as guilty as a group of despondent bears, their heads hanging in contrition. They usually had something to be contrite about, for they all had red hair like their father and the passionate temperament usually associated with that colouring, hence they constantly fought with each other - that is, unless they could find an outsider to fight. However, their animosity was a shallow affair, and after honour was appeased with a few well-aimed punches, their usual amity was restored. Soon they would be engaged in their favourite occupation of drinking mead and telling improbable hunting tales, their fight forgotten as if it had never occurred. It was left to their mother to reflect, without rancour, that the greatest intellectual challenge they would ever conquer was learning to read. But she also saw in them the same fine qualities that she had first seen in their father – their honesty, generosity and kindness. Such things could not be acquired by learning and were far more valuable.
Pevorion descended on Vesarion, who, knowing from experience that he was about to get his shoulder enthusiastically thumped, stuck out his hand in a vain attempt at self-preservation. As a tactic, it was not entirely successful because he found his fingers crushed in a powerful handshake instead.
“Right glad I am to see you, Vesarion,” declared his lordship, not standing upon ceremony. “You find us stuck away in these back woods in the middle of nowhere and mightily tired of our own company. I certainly don’t count those idiot boys of mine fit company for anything better than a one-eyed Turog. I’m glad to see that for once you haven’t hidden yourself a
way in that mountain eyrie you call home, but are seeing something of the world.”
He then turned to Eimer who was, unluckily, within range. He got a slap on the back that, as he later informed Sareth, nearly made him swallow his teeth.
“Ha! Young Prince Eimer. I swear you have grown since I last saw you!”
Eimer winced. Pevorion always treated him as if he was ten.
When their host spotted Sareth, to Vesarion’s amusement, in contrast to his forceful method of welcoming his male quests, Pevorion delicately took her hand in his as if it were made of glass. “More beautiful than ever” he sighed sentimentally, as always showing a tendency to flirt with her. “What’s the matter with all those young bucks in Addania? Haven’t they any red blood in their veins? A lovely young woman like you should have been snapped up years ago!”
“Em…..” began Sareth in a vain attempt to interrupt him.
He leaned forwards conspiratorially, oblivious to her embarrassment. “I’d offer you one of those great lummoxes of mine, but they have all the intellectual capacity of retarded hens. No, we must find a prince for you, nothing less will do.”
“Em…..” tried Sareth again.
A certain manic gleam had entered his eyes, warning his wife that he was about to commit further indiscretions. Hastily she cut in.
“Pevorion, dear, Sareth is trying to tell you something.”
Sareth, finding all attention focused on her, suddenly realised that she was about to usurp Vesarion’s privilege of announcing their engagement. She turned an agonised glance upon him, only to discover that he was well aware of her difficulty and was looking amused rather than offended.
He spoke up. “It is, perhaps, the appropriate time to tell you that Sareth has done me the honour of agreeing to become my wife.”
Pevorion looked stunned for a moment before recovering himself and starting to bawl congratulations.
His wife showed less outward emotion but she too was surprised. “You said nothing of this to me when you last visited, Sareth,” she said softly. “It must have been very sudden.”
“Yes,” agreed Sareth uncommunicatively. “Very sudden.”
By this stage they had all entered the great hall and were looking around them with interest.
Even though the weather had turned warm, there was half a tree trunk smouldering gently in the huge fireplace. An impressively long, oak table flanked by ornately carved wooden chairs took up the dominant position down the centre of the hall. To one side a beautiful and obviously very old, staircase arose to the upper storey. Every spindle that supported the handrail was carved like a long-stemmed chalice flower, the petals gilded with a dusting of gold that gleamed subtly in subdued light. But what caught Bethro’s attention, to the point that he gasped in surprise, was the arched roof beams spanning the high interior of the steeply-pitched roof. For every beam was carved with a crowd of human faces staring out of a writhing network of vines and flower garlands. The faces stood proud of the flowers, some looking upward, some staring down at humanity passing below them and others looked slyly at each other. Each bore its own distinct expression. Some were clearly surprised, staring into space, their mouths carved into a startled circle. Others were slant-eyed, weighing up their neighbours, cunning or greed twisting their features. A few were distorted in anger, brows drawn down in a heavy frown or teeth bared in demonic glee.
Catching the direction of Bethro’s gaze, Kelda explained: “They are meant to represent the spirits of the forest. The beams were taken from a building much older than this one, now destroyed, and are so ancient that it is not known who carved the faces and gave them such animated expressions. I remember when I first saw them, I found them rather frightening. It took quite some time for me to accustom myself to them to a sufficient degree to be willing to cross this hall after dark. Now forgive me, Bethro, if I leave you now, as I must prepare your rooms.”
Pevorion, with unexpected shrewdness, had buttonholed Vesarion. “I take it that I am correct in assuming that you didn’t ride all the way out here from Addania just to inform me of your engagement? Your sudden arrival suggests a matter of urgency. I presume that you would like to speak to me in private?”
Vesarion nodded, grateful for such ready understanding.
“This way, then,” said Pevorion, leading him towards a side door. Eimer, who had overheard this exchange, made to follow them, but with something less than tact, Vesarion dismissed him.
“I could be some time with Lord Sorne. Perhaps you would keep Sareth company in the meantime.”
Eimer shrugged and turned away, concealing from his imperious companion just how much his words had hurt him. But not everyone was oblivious to the undercurrents. Sareth had both seen and understood her brother’s expression. She stepped forwards and tucked her hand through his arm conspiratorially.
“He didn’t invite me either, brother.”
Eimer glanced around to establish that they were alone, apart from Bethro who was at the other end of the hall engrossed in inspecting the carvings.
“No. I get a little tired of being treated as of no account. I mean, I am next in line to the throne after Enrick – not Vesarion, please note – even though from his behaviour you’d never think it. Father cares more for him that he does for either of us. I think that were it not for Enrick, he’d be quite happy to leave his kingdom to Vesarion. Don’t misunderstand me. In many ways I like Vesarion, it’s just that he always manages to make me feel like an immature young fool – and the worst of it, is that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.” He shrugged carelessly in a manner that did not deceive his sister. “Perhaps I have little choice but to play the role that everyone assigns to me.”
“Perhaps we all get stuck with the roles that others assign to us,” she conceded. “Remember the old days, Eimer, when we were children? Enrick was always using the fact that he was so much older than us as an excuse to boss us around and even though Vesarion gave him the occasional black eye because of it, it didn’t stop him. In the end the only thing we could do was to form our defensive pact against him. Do you remember? You were nine and I was ten and we got hold of an old parchment and some red ink and drafted what we thought was a very grand treaty establishing an alliance of mutual defence. I came across it the other day in an old chest. Very flowery and grandiose it was, too - if a shade creative when it came to the spelling. So maybe life has come full circle and it’s just the two of us against the world again.”
She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and looked up to discover that he was studying her with an oddly wistful expression on his face.
“You’re more like your old self again, now that we are away from Addania and Enrick. I’ve often thought that his intrigues to marry you off to his advantage vexed you to your soul, but you would never tell me about it. You haven’t confided in me in a long time.”
“Enrick would vex anyone,” she replied obliquely.
But he stood looking down at her, his youthful face unusually serious.
“Why are you marrying Vesarion? I mean, I can see the advantages in it. You get away from Enrick and have someone on your side who can really protect you from him. He’s also not a complete stranger – unlike the King of Serendar, and you will still be living close enough to see grandmother and me from time to time, but this is not a decision you should make for strictly logical reasons. That is Vesarion’s way of approaching things, but it is not yours. I thought that you had changed to become distant and ambitious, but these last few days have shown me that I was wrong. You are still the big sister I have always known, who used to beat me at fencing, who was ready for any adventure and would accept any dare, and who, most definitely, was not cold. So why are you doing this?”
When she remained silent, looking troubled, he added: “I can only assume that Enrick found some way of forcing you. Is that it?”
Without looking up, she nodded, still saying nothing.
“But there’s more to it than that, isn’t
there?”
Her eyes flew to his in astonishment and she realised that she, too, had been guilty of underestimating him. Then suddenly he did something that he had not done since the day long ago when they were children and Enrick had tormented her beyond bearing. He drew her into his arms and held her tightly.
“You’ll tell me when you’re ready,” he murmured
She returned his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder with the sigh that suggested pain a little eased.
He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “I know we’ve grown apart in recent years, Sarry, and I know it has partly been my fault for acting the fool but I want you to know that you can rely on me, no matter what.”
He could feel her smile against his shoulder. “You haven’t called me ‘Sarry’ in ages.”
Laughing, he released her and turned to Bethro who had sensitively been lurking in a corner trying to make himself inconspicuous.
“Bethro, my friend,” he called. “I noticed some welcoming taverns as we passed through the town when we arrived. They tell me that the mead is second to none here, not to mention the ale. What say you to the notion that we sally forth and sample their wares?”
Bethro’s round face split into a grin of undiluted delight. “An excellent idea, Your Highness.”
But Eimer wagged a disapproving finger at him. “If you are going to call me ‘Your Highness’, all evening, I’m not budging a step from this spot.”
Bethro’s grin widened. “Certainly not…er…Eimer.”
“Excellent,” declared the Prince. “Lead on, my friend.”
Chapter Eight
The Spirit of the Woods
Lord Sorne led his visitor into a cosy side room that might reasonably have been described as a study due to the book-lined walls, but one glance assured Vesarion that they were seldom read. Their spines were splitting and their beautiful leather bindings, tooled with gold, were spotted with mould. Every shelf bore evidence of neglect in the form of grey dust, clearly a persistent and seldom disturbed trespasser.
