by R. J. Grieve
“I do not know if our horses will be fit for such a journey,” said Sareth. “They have travelled far carrying a double load and are tired.”
“Horses cannot cross the mountains by the Vale of Rithlin, it is too steep for them. No, your animals must remain with me to recover from their exertions and I will lend you some of my own horses which are fed and rested and, so they tell me, itching for a gallop. When you reach the Vale, unsaddle them and let them go. They know their way home. My role in your journey may be small but at least I can provide you not only with horses but also with food and warm clothing for the mountains. Once you cross between the peaks, the Kingdom of Adamant is not far and Iska will know the way.”
Vesarion, who had been listening intently and saying little, as was his custom, felt for the first time since they had left Sorne, that matters were now on a sustainable footing. His sense of responsibility for the safety of the others, which had been weighing heavily upon him, began to lighten a little and he felt the need to express his gratitude to the old man.
“You have been most kind and generous to us, Keeper. Please accept my thanks.”
For the first time, the Keeper’s attention came to rest on Vesarion.
“I see that Erren-dar’s descendant is a courteous man who keeps his own counsel. Once you come to know your own heart, Lord of Westrin, you will have nothing to fear. You must learn to trust both in yourself and in your companions. Remember, there is nothing to fear but fear itself.”
An involuntary silence fell, as each person around the table reflected on all that they had heard – all, that is, except Bethro, who having finally finished his enormous repast, was sitting smiling beatifically, mentally reliving the delights he had just sampled and resolutely avoiding thinking about crossing mountains.
Vesarion, more than any of the others, was plunged most deeply in thought, his eyes fixed on the tiny flickering flame of a candle, which he saw not at all. He stared into the depths of the flame, trying to pierce the future, unaware that he was being observed, unaware that Sareth’s eyes rested upon him, wondering why he looked so troubled.
At last Iska spoke. “Could you not come with us, Keeper? There is a force in Adamant that cannot be dealt with by human means. It cannot be killed with a sword or bound by a rope and none of us here possesses the power to oppose it. I know it would be a difficult journey for someone of your age, but surely your powers could sustain you.”
“Alas, my dear, I have seen too many winters to leave this place. My ability to extend the length of my days applies only within the confines of the thorn hedge. Should I leave it, all my years will descend on me at once and I would surely die. But do not be afraid, there are still forces to be found on this earth with the ability to oppose evil, though often such things only manifest themselves when the need is greatest. Now, my friends, an old man requires his rest and I have talked until I am quite exhausted.”
Shakily he rose to his feet. “Come, Kel,” he said gently and began to shuffle across the room with the cat at his heels until he reached the foot of the stairs. Vesarion was in the act of rising from his chair to help him with the ascent, when the old man simply vanished. The cat, apparently not having the same ability, shot up the stairs by conventional means.
Eimer, taking the disappearance in his stride, yawned and stretched his hands above his head. “I think I’ll follow his example – except that, like the cat, I’ll use the stairs. I think I could sleep for a week.”
One by one they departed to their rooms leaving only Sareth and Vesarion in the candle-lit chamber. She watched him tenderly, desperate to reach him, to draw him away from the trouble she saw in his eyes, but it was not to be. He seemed unaware of her presence, not speaking, but staring into the candle, locked away in some inner place to which she had no access, and with a heavy heart she, too, retired to bed.
Chapter Fifteen
The Breaking of a Betrothal
In the morning, Iska found Sareth seated on a bench in the garden engaged, rather absent- mindedly, in making a daisy chain from the many bright little flowers scattered across the lawn.
After watching Sareth’s busy fingers for a moment, she stooped and picked a flower which she handed to her friend. “I was beginning to forget how delightful it is to sleep in a soft bed instead of the hard, and often damp ground, usually with a large stone digging into my back.” Handing her another flower, she added: “I suppose we must be moving on today – which will not suit Bethro because he is already looking forward to the meal this evening. He certainly did justice to breakfast. At the moment he is clearing up everyone else’s leftovers. Does Vesarion wish to set out early?”
She merely received a casual shrug in reply. “How should I know? I’m not in his confidence.”
Iska, reading this comment correctly, tried to excuse Vesarion. “You know that he feels obliged to ensure everyone’s well-being. Perhaps he has been a bit distant lately because he likes to have everything well planned and in control and this ill-prepared venture has left him feeling a little at sea.”
“I know. He has always possessed an over-developed sense of responsibility.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
Sareth thought for a moment, then replied: “When his parents died, my father took him away from Westrin and brought him to Addania where he was brought up with my brothers and I. My father was always kind to him, but because he was King and had many demands on his time, he was a little remote, as indeed he was with all of us. If his own father had lived, Vesarion would have been brought up as all the sons of barons are brought up. His father would have taken him riding around the barony dispensing justice, resolving problems, commanding the Ravenshold Brigands, teaching him how to govern so great a domain - but Vesarion had none of that training. For eight years he lived in the capital and never set foot in Westrin, so that when he reached his eighteenth birthday and was told to go and take his rightful place as Lord of Westrin, he was utterly unprepared. Many a young lad of that age would have taken the easy way out and ruled through the services of a steward, staying in the familiar environs of the city, but not Vesarion. He took it upon himself to learn how to govern Westrin and to learn the hard way, through the rough schooling of experience. He had to earn the respect of both his people and the tough veterans of the Brigands, who could so easily have dismissed him as a callow boy – and he succeeded, but at a price. The carefree days of youth were denied to him. He learned to wield authority and to command the respect necessary to do so and he earned it by never taking the easy path, by never shirking his duty, no matter how much he might have wished to do so. I sometimes think that it squeezed all the joy out of him, all the light-heartedness that once he had possessed. I’m not sure that in subduing Westrin, he got such a good bargain.”
“You seem almost to be saying that it is the barony that rules him, rather than the reverse.”
“I have often thought that. For most of his adult life it has dominated all his time, all his thoughts. Perhaps for that reason he has grown accustomed to feeling that every decision is up to him. This weighs upon him, particularly here in the Forsaken Lands where all the normal rules do not apply. Sometimes when I laugh at something Gorm has done, I find him looking at me in puzzlement, as if he simply cannot understand how I can be so carefree and yet….and yet he was not always like that.”
“He can be humorous sometimes,” Iska offered in mitigation.
“Well, yes,” Sareth conceded with a wry smile. “His main redeeming feature.”
Neither of them was aware as they sat on the bench together, that the subject of their conversation was observing them from the window of his chamber. Although he was too far away to hear what they were saying, the way they were sitting with their heads together suggested an exchange of confidences of some kind. He thought it ill-advised of Sareth to be so trusting as to befriend someone of whom they still knew so little. He watched as Iska left the bench and returned to the tower, and was just about to tu
rn away from the window, when Sareth did something that incurred his instant displeasure.
When Iska had left, Sareth found that her restless mood, far from abating by airing some of her thoughts, had instead increased. Feeling a little confined within the hedge, she arose and approached it. Gathering her courage, she faced it squarely and said the word: “Chalcoria!”
Obediently, the tendrils and twigs began to uncurl themselves, retracting and unwinding until, once more, a narrow passage had opened, showing the golden trees beyond.
Quietly, she walked through, seeking a short time of solitude alone with her thoughts.
She was in ignorance of the fact, that having watched her exit from the garden, Vesarion was rapidly descending the stairs in pursuit of her, already falling victim to the type of irritation that springs from concern. That she should be so foolhardy as to leave the safety of the hedge, was beyond his comprehension. Striding across the lawn, he too commanded the hedge to open and quickly entered the forest, following the direction he had seen her take.
He caught up with her in a little clearing freckled with dappled sunlight, at no great distance from the tower. When she heard his footstep, she spun round, reaching for Eimer’s sword, which she had, in fact, forgotten.
“So,” said Vesarion tightly, observing the gesture, “unarmed as well as foolish. What possessed you to leave the safety of the hedge, Sareth? We do not know what may be in these woods and if it were not for the fact that I chanced to see you leave, no one would have known where you had gone. Have you no sense?”
Sareth, with all the irascibility of someone caught completely in the wrong, responded tartly: “Apparently not. I merely wished for some time alone. I do not know why you take so much upon yourself, Vesarion. I am perfectly happy to answer for the consequences of my behaviour – but not to you.”
She saw him stiffen. “May I remind you that your safety is my responsibility – or do you forget that we are betrothed?”
“No, but I sometimes think that you do.”
“What does that mean?” he asked dangerously.
“Nothing.”
“If anyone forgets our betrothal, it is you. All during this accursed journey you have done everything you can to undermine me.”
“That’s not true!”
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows imperiously. “Then let me refresh your memory. You knew I did not wish to embark on this ill-advised expedition and you had the chance to support me, but did you? No, Sareth, you did not. Instead, you forced my hand, knowing that I could not leave you to your fate, knowing that I am answerable to your father for your safety. You used that against me. At every opportunity you have opposed me, even over the issue of the Turog. I thought I could expect you to stand by me, but you didn’t. If that is the way you mean to continue, it bodes ill for our marriage.”
Suddenly she turned on him angrily, all the hurt and rejection of the past years welling up uncontrollably in her.
“It never had any hope,” she declared bitterly. “It never had any future. All you want is someone of suitable rank to perpetuate the House of Westrin and nothing else. My acceptability to you is my title and that is all. When you entered into this, you had no idea who you were marrying, and do you know the worst thing of all, Vesarion? You didn’t really care.”
“What nonsense is this?” he asked scornfully. “How can you possibly say that I don’t know you, when we have known each other since we were children.”
“Have we? I once thought that too, but recently, Vesarion, I do not know you at all. You have become arrogant, and cold, and selfish.”
“Selfish!” he exclaimed, nettled.
“Yes. All you can think about is your role as Lord of Westrin, of your authority, of the respect you feel is due to you.”
He looked a little shaken. “If you really think that of me, perhaps we are ill-advised to proceed.”
“Perhaps we are,” she responded quietly.
He looked at her in arrested fashion for a long moment, his dark brows drawn down. “Are you telling me that you wish to break off our engagement?” he asked in a brittle voice.
“It was broken before it was even made.”
He threw up his hands. “Fine. If that is what you want, I won’t hold you to an arrangement that is so clearly repugnant to you.”
Sareth felt a tide of distress welling up in her at the ease with which he had let her go, but she was determined not to cry in front of him. She swallowed her tears heroically and tugging off the ring he had given her, held it out to him peremptorily.
“Here, take it. It never meant anything anyway.”
His thunderous scowl deepened as his temper mounted. “Keep it!” he snapped. “It will serve as a timely reminder of a narrowly averted disaster.”
Seeing that he would not accept it, she set it down abruptly on a fallen tree trunk.
“Take it or not as you wish,” she announced brusquely and turning on her heel, strode off towards the tower.
Vesarion, incensed beyond reason, cast his eyes upwards. “Heaven preserve me from women!” he swore to the disinterested trees and stormed off in the opposite direction.
When the glade was quiet once more, with nothing stirring except the soft wind whispering through the leaves, it emerged that a third party had been witness to the quarrel.
A pair of grey ears slowly appeared from behind a tree. A pair of yellow eyes cautiously checked that the coast was clear.
Gorm hadn’t really understood what the fight was about, but one particular aspect of it did indeed interest him. His gaze fastened on the ring sitting on the tree trunk. The diamond surrounded by moonpearls caught the sun and twinkled invitingly. He licked his lips, acquisitiveness creeping over his countenance. Thoughtfully, he turned his head in the direction in which Sareth had disappeared.
“Sareth not want it,” he said aloud. Then he looked in the opposite direction. “Vesarion not want it.”
Finally his eyes came to rest greedily on the ring.
“Gorm want it.”
If all was not well at the Rose Tower, so, too, there was strife far to the south, across the mighty river Harnor in the Barony of Sorne.
Pevorion had been standing at the window of his study, purportedly looking out through the tiny, diamond panes at the decaying walls of Forestfleet, but in actuality bowed with a grief that lately never left him. He might have stood thus almost indefinitely, indulging in an orgy of self-blame, while the shadows began to fall as gently and invisibly as the dust settling on the unread books on the shelves, when he was interrupted by a knock at the door and a servant came in.
“I regret disturbing you, my lord,” he said apologetically, “but a man has arrived at the castle gates insisting upon seeing you – but he will not give his name or state his business. Moreover, he wears a cloak with a deep hood that conceals his face. I have tried to send him away, but he became violent, attempting to push past me into the castle. It has taken three guards to restrain him. What should I do, my lord?”
Pevorion, in no mood to be meddled with, spun sharply upon his heel from the window and said shortly: “I will deal with this charlatan myself. Where is he?”
“Still by the gate, my lord.”
Pevorion crossed the Great Hall with long strides and descended the steps to the courtyard. There, by the rusting portcullis, stood a burly figure wearing a heavy, black cloak, which looked totally incongruous given the mildness of the weather. His arms were pinned by the guards but he was still struggling with them until his eye fell on Pevorion. Suddenly he stood still and awaited the baron’s approach.
“My lord,” the figure said in a low voice, saturated with urgency. “I must speak with you in private.”
“Who are you?” demanded Pevorion, in tones indicating he was not to be trifled with.
“Look beneath my hood,” directed the man softly.
When Pevorion, who was taller, bent to look under the deep cowl, he sharply drew in his breath and perempt
orily ordered his guards to release the stranger. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, he grasped the cloaked intruder by the arm and fairly dragged him across the courtyard and into the keep.
When they reached the study, Pevorion slammed the door shut in the faces of the curious servants and turned to the man before him.
“You can put your hood back now, Captain Seldro. No one will disturb us here.”
Seldro obeyed, revealing an unshaven countenance, pale with strain.
“Where have you been?” demanded my Lord of Sorne. “You were expected back days ago. What has kept you all this time?”
“My lord,” began Seldro a little shakily. “I have ridden hard all through the night to bring you evil tidings before you would hear them from anyone else, in order that I might warn you of the danger in which you stand.”
Pevorion’s eyes sharpened at the words. Seeing that the younger man was exhausted, he directed him to a chair.
“What news?” he asked sharply, a premonition of what was to come already falling across his mind like a shadow.
Seldro drew a difficult breath and knew that there was no easy way to say what must be said. “My lord, it gives me great pain to tell you that King Meldorin is dead.”
