by R. J. Grieve
“Come too,” interjected Gorm, who had not lost sight of the original issue. “Not be seen. Very stealthy.”
Sareth looked at Iska in despair. “If you refuse him, he’ll only follow us anyway. The chances are that if we travel at night, he won’t be noticed.”
“Well, we can’t take him into the city. If we get that far, he must hide in the wood that lies just beyond the eastern gate.” Iska turned to the recalcitrant Turog. “Is that agreed, Gorm?”
He looked uncertainly at Sareth, as if seeking guidance.
“Please, Gorm,” she pleaded. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Suddenly he grinned his toad-like grin at this evidence of affection on the part of his goddess.
“Hide in wood,” he declared amicably. “Don’t like places of stone anyway.”
“How far is it to the Curtain of Adamant?” Vesarion asked Iska.
“We’ll reach it tomorrow morning but it will take several more hours to reach the spot where I found the tear.”
After the grim coldness of the mountains, it was a joy to descend the lower reaches into warm sunshine. Cloaks were packed away and they all found themselves walking with a certain spring in their step. The slopes were clothed in a fairly open woodland made up of stately beech trees, their myriads of bright leaves fluttering cheerfully in the soft air. The sunlight that found its way between the branches to dapple the ground, was warm, even a little somnolent and woodpigeons conspired with it by producing their gentle, throaty calls suffused with peace. The woods were rich in birds and game and they spotted shy deer several times, but were thankful that it was deserted of human occupation due to the restraining power of the curtain.
In the slanting sunshine of late afternoon, Gorm disappeared off on some expedition of his own, and returned just as they were making camp, dragging behind him the carcass of a young deer.
Bethro, although normally making a point of finding fault with all that the Turog did, could not resist rubbing his hands together with delight at the prospect of roast venison. While he took charge of the cooking, Sareth managed to cajole her brother into giving her some practice with the sword. Although they were using real blades, Iska, sitting beside Vesarion to watch the show, got the impression that neither of them seemed to be taking things very seriously, for there was a good deal of laughter and banter going on. Observing them, she realised that although they were superficially different, brother and sister were in fact, underneath it all, quite alike. They both shared a certain devil-may-care attitude to life and a ready sense of fun.
Vesarion, guessing the direction of her thoughts, remarked: “Enrick used to call them the terrible twins, because although there is a year between them in age, they always stuck together like glue. When they were younger, he was constantly the butt of their practical jokes, and as he has no sense of humour whatsoever, he was always complaining about them to the King – not that it had much effect on such an irrepressible pair. But as the years went on, he eventually got the upper hand. He excluded Eimer from all affairs of state, making him feel useless and ignored, and he wore Sareth down with his constant scheming to marry her off to his own advantage. She became silent and withdrawn, very unlike what you see now. So changed was she at one point, that I thought he had broken her spirit. I think that was why she agreed to our betrothal,” he added, she thought, a little sadly. “Anything to get away from him.”
Iska, presented with a dilemma by that statement, was almost glad when an interruption occurred. The clashing of weapons and accompanying laughter that had been going on in the background, suddenly ended in a cry of pain from Eimer.
She looked up to discover that the Prince was clutching his arm and Sareth had dropped her sword and was pressing her hands to her cheeks in horror.
“Oh, Eimer!” she cried contritely. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it!”
He suppressed an impudent grin and tried to assume the expression of a martyr. “I might have known it! I knew that I wouldn’t come out of this unscathed. You are just too damn fast!”
“Here, let me see,” she said, trying to remove his hand from his arm.
“It’s only a scratch,” he declared. “And you stay away from me! You’re a menace. I’ll get Iska to take care of it.”
Iska rose to her feet, laughing, but as she led the afflicted Prince away, she said to Sareth: “Why don’t you practice with Vesarion?”
The wounded victim, intent on getting full value out of his position of moral superiority, declared roundly: “She’ll not tackle Vesarion because he’s too good a swordsman for her. She only likes someone she can beat.”
Vesarion grinned. “That was unchivalrous, Eimer.”
“Ha!” cried the Prince, enjoying himself immensely. “Said with all the ignorance of an only child. But by all means, Vesarion, if you are feeling brave, have a go. I’m too weakened by loss of blood to continue. Oh, and by the way, oblige me by carving her into strips, will you?”
Vesarion lifted his sword and rose to his feet a little reluctantly. When he faced her in the clearing, he said: “I know that Parrick taught you well, but my technique is a little different to his. I make use of the double-handed grip. He disapproved of that because it restricts one’s reach but it puts more power into the blow. Look at my sword,” he offered, holding it out for her to inspect. “You will see that it has the longer hilt, designed for a two-handed grip.”
“Like the sword of Erren-dar?”
“Yes. Your hilt is a little on the short side for that, but see what you can manage.”
Stepping back a pace, she swept the sword upwards in a two-handed grip, and instantly, with a speed she knew she could never match, he parried. The two blades met with a clash.
“Good,” he commended. “You have speed and your angle is good but you are putting your weight too far forward and that invites this response.”
He slid his blade down hers until the swords locked at the hilts.
“It then becomes a struggle of brute strength and you will not win that one, Sareth. You must keep your distance, striking in and out swiftly. Also, move around your opponent. Keep him guessing from which direction the attack will come. Whatever you do, don’t allow him to box you in, because that deprives you of your one advantage.”
The swords were still locked together and although he was exerting no pressure against her, the position brought them close against one another. He looked up from the crossed hilts and straight into her eyes and for some reason, their gaze locked as tightly as the sword hilts. Grey eyes met blue ones, and neither could look away. And for the first time, Sareth saw something in his expression that she had never seen there before and instantly her heart began to quicken. For a moment, as she held her breath in anticipation, she thought he was going to say something. She sensed the words crowding behind his lips, then suddenly, for reasons she did not understand, the moment was lost. It was as if a chill cloud had covered the sun.
He disengaged his hilt and stepped back.
“Let me see how you parry,” he said in a neutral voice.
For the briefest moment she stared at him bereft, then hiding her sense of rejection, followed his instructions almost automatically, all joy completely extinguished.
When Eimer returned a little later, he found Vesarion sitting with his back against a tree, watching Gorm, who was entering into the spirit of things by teaching Iska the finer points of swordplay using a couple of sticks. Sareth was giving advice, which was largely being ignored, as the mismatched pair tackled one another with good-natured enthusiasm.
He looked up when Eimer sat down beside him with a sigh.
“What’s the prognosis?” he asked with a gleam of humour. “Is there any chance that you’ll survive, or will half the female population of Addania have to live in a state of permanent disappointment?”
“Oh, very witty and drole,” returned the Prince. “Just like something my vixen of a sister would say.”
He sat in silen
ce for a moment, then every trace of levity gone, remarked: “According to Iska, we will reach the tear in the curtain tomorrow, then we will truly be in enemy territory. She seems convinced that her brother has brought the sword to the city, and in such crowded environs, we really will be walking into the lion’s den. Any chance that our mission has of success will then depend on Iska.”
“I am aware that we will be totally in her hands.”
“You still doubt her?”
Vesarion’s gaze shifted to Iska, still gleefully battling Gorm. “No, not any more. I used to pride myself on my ability to read people but sometimes when I look back now, I find my judgment a little suspect.”
“That’s an admission indeed. Perhaps when we recover the sword, you will even have to revise your opinion of Celedorn. You have always poured such scorn on him.”
Vesarion looked surprised. “Is that what I do?”
“Why, yes. You never have a good word for him.”
“Have you ever stopped to wonder why?” asked Vesarion bitterly, his emotions still a little raw from his encounter with Sareth.
But he got an answer he didn’t expect. “Yes, recently I have and I think I know the answer. You feel that you constantly live in his shadow. That you are merely the grandson of a man who became a legend in his own lifetime and you feel that it is impossible to compete with that.”
Vesarion stared at him in astonishment.
The Prince, seeing that he had dumbfounded his friend, pulled his mouth down wryly and added: “Perhaps your judgment has been a little off with regard to me too.”
“Eimer…I….”
“Never mind. The role of court jester that Enrick had assigned to me suits me very well, I think.”
“It does not. I have never thought you a fool, Eimer, but I had not realised that you could be so perceptive.”
“It actually doesn’t take much insight, especially to someone who has known you as long as I have. When you took over command of Westrin, you changed. I think you sacrificed yourself to duty. You were determined to be the perfect Lord of Westrin, to show how different you are to Celedorn, who actually so far forgot himself to become a brigand and attack his own country. No, instead, you would be a model of correctness and good governance, no matter what the cost.”
Vesarion, as if touched on the raw, stood up swiftly and walked a few paces away.
“I did not think you knew me so well, Eimer. My grandfather stood as the very epitome of courage and heroism – so what am I in comparison? Always, I must be some sort of failed version of him. How often have I heard myself referred to, not by my name, but as the grandson of Erren-dar. All I have heard my whole life is how my famous forebear saved Eskendria by his courage and skill. How can I compete with that? You have always felt belittled by your brother, but I am belittled by a legend. Tell me, Eimer, how do you fight that? Think of it. What in comparison have I achieved? I was born into a privileged life, brought up in a palace, given command of the most powerful barony in the Kingdom at a youthful age. Everything has fallen into my hand without the need for me to earn any of it. When do I have to show courage? When? I have two thousand elite cavalrymen to command. Where is the personal courage in that? When do I have to show wisdom? I rule a barony where few would care to disagree with their lord. A man never knows what he is capable of until he is tested – and I have never been tested.”
Suddenly it all fell into place for Eimer. And all at once the man he had known all his life, shed the polished steel image as the poised and faultless Lord of Westrin and became instead something much more understandable – he became human.
“You cannot doubt your courage, Vesarion,” Eimer protested. “I saw you risk your life to save my sister. I watched you descend that terrifying cliff without any safety rope or protection whatsoever, knowing that one slip would cause you to fall to your death. How can you doubt your courage after that?”
Vesarion shrugged dismissively. “It was not as brave as you make out. I have always had a good head for heights and in Westrin, as you well know, boys are taught to climb from a very young age. It becomes almost second nature.”
Eimer too rose to his feet and faced him, deeply troubled for him. “You do not have to prove yourself to me, for I have never seen you play the coward, and if I were in a tight spot, as we often have been during this journey, I would rather have you at my side than anyone else.”
But Vesarion merely turned away and was silent, staring off amongst the trees, still lit by the last mellow rays of the sun.
“What will it take for you to be convinced?” Eimer asked sombrely. “How will you prove yourself?”
Vesarion’s voice came back to him over his shoulder as he stood with his back turned. “I don’t know, but the Keeper said something that I can’t get out of my head.”
“He said that one of us would go through great suffering,” Eimer said, causing his companion to turn swiftly in surprise. “I saw how you looked when he said it and although I didn’t understand then, I do now. You think it will be you, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure. Part of me hopes not, but if I have to face this thing, I can only pray that I do not fail.” He stood in silence for a moment, his eyes resting on Sareth as she laughingly attempted to instruct Iska, and almost against his will, with quiet bitterness, he added: “One thing I have learned about myself recently. I have discovered that I am the sort of fool who only realises what he had, when he has lost it.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The Hidden Kingdom
Bethro discovered the Curtain of Adamant the next day by the simple expedient of walking into it. They already knew that it was an invisible barrier, impenetrable to man or beast, but The Keeper of Antiquities, unable to resist the opportunity to instruct, was explaining at tedious length the history of the curtain. How it had taken the power of three sages to raise it to protect the infant kingdom from the Turog. How the old sage, Relisar, had managed to create a tear in the curtain which had allowed Erren-dar and his companions into the hidden land. He went over again, largely ignored by his audience, how the existence of Adamant had been concealed from the rest of humanity for centuries until its presence was exposed by Relisar.
They had left the lofty mountains behind them now and were walking amongst some low foothills interspersed with pleasant sunny valleys, shaded here and there by huge oaks of great antiquity, and laced by busy streams, icy cold from the heights.
Bethro, feeling much more confident in such tranquil surroundings, was out in front, delivering his lecture over his shoulder, when suddenly his words were cut short. He recoiled violently, staggered backwards, flapping his arms wildly like a mad crow, and failing to keep his balance, sat down abruptly, his ample posterior hitting the ground with a resounding thump. They all stared in astonishment, but their attention was soon diverted by the reaction of one of their number.
A strange hooting, barking noise began to issue from Gorm. His face contorted, his pointed teeth bared, and he rocked back and forth, gripping his knees for support. The companions began to smile, as they realised that the Turog was finding Bethro’s discomfiture irresistibly funny. They had never seen him laugh before, and their grins began to widen, as the strange barking noise increased in volume. Gorm, quite overcome, sank down on the earth, helpless with mirth.
“How clever of you, Bethro, to find the curtain” said Iska dulcetly, “I’m never quite sure of its position.”
“How do we get through?” Vesarion asked.
But Iska only responded with an annoyingly enigmatic smile. “You’ll see.”
She led them along the edge of the curtain, occasionally striking the invisible wall with a stick to avoid making Bethro’s mistake. At last they arrived at a group of willows through which the curtain seemed to pass. One of the trees, clearly the matriarch, more wizened and ancient than its surrounding offspring, had reached such an advanced age that the gnarled and twisted trunk had split in the middle, creating a teardrop-shaped aper
ture.
“Now watch this,” said Iska. She picked up a small twig and tossed it to one side of the tree. It flew through the air in an arc, then suddenly rebounded in mid-air and bounced back towards them.
“Now,” she said again, like a conjuror demonstrating a magic trick, “watch this.”
Lifting a pebble, she cast it towards the gap in the tree. It sailed through it as easily as threading a needle.
“How did you find this?” Eimer asked, clearly impressed.
“I saw a fox go through it. A clever old vixen had her cubs safely on the inside of the curtain but preferred to hunt outside it, where game is more plentiful. I have to warn you, it’s going to be a bit of a squeeze for some of us,” she cautioned, trying not to look too pointedly at Bethro.
Divesting herself of her pack, Iska walked up to the narrow opening and wriggled through. Then she turned to face her companions and spreading her arms wide, bowed theatrically to them.
“Welcome, my friends, to the Kingdom of Adamant.”
The opening was so small that the packs had to be handed through one by one, and both Vesarion, who was tall, and Bethro, who was round, had great difficulty squeezing through. Indeed, Bethro, predictably, got stuck and had to be hauled through with much popping of buttons.
When they were all through, Iska said: “These are fairly deserted regions, so we may travel openly for the rest of today, but from then on, we will be entering more populated areas with farms and villages and must travel by night. I know this region well from my many expeditions and I know exactly where the villages are, but there is always a chance of encountering someone unexpectedly, so we must hide during the day and travel cross-country by night until we reach the city.”
The weather obliged them by providing clear skies for a lazily waxing moon to light their way. The nights were mild and balmy, the air scented by summer smells of sun-warmed grasses and new-mown hay. The haloed moon shed a delicate silver gilding over a land that was a model of good husbandry. It lit fields of wheat and barley, rustling softly in the breeze, and apple orchards, where the gnarled trees cast tangled shadows. Only the livestock in the fields at night saw the passage of five dark and silent shadows. The cattle watched them with sleepy disinterest, but the sheep scattered in alarm. Sometimes they had to pass close to villages, with their many tiny windows under the thatch glowing comfortingly in the darkness.
