by R. J. Grieve
Enrick looked at him disdainfully. “Not all the barons are traitors. I have seen a copy of Sorne’s missive – although from the flowery style it seems that it was actually written by that idiot Bethro. Quite a tale it was, incredible, even. More like something from the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom than anything even remotely believable. But tell me, how do I know that any of it is true?” He threw a challenging glance at Vesarion. “How do I know that you did not invent it all to put pressure on me to restore Westrin to you?”
Vesarion held his gaze for a tense moment and instead of replying, his hand went to his sword. Enrick, stiffened and his hand also began to drop towards his hilt, until what happened next halted it. For Vesarion merely slid his sword far enough from its sheath to reveal the incised chalice flowers on the blade.
When his eyes fell on the flowers, the King tensed further and his brows drew together in a frown.
“I see you recognise it,” Vesarion remarked dryly.
The two men stared tensely at one another and reading the moment accurately, Eimer knew he and Sareth were superfluous. “You two have much to say to one another and I think it best it is kept private between you. Sareth and I will leave you.”
Vesarion nodded and dismounting, handed his reins to Sareth. After a moment’s hesitation, Enrick, bowing to the inevitable, did the same.
As if freed from restraint by their departure, Enrick swung sharply to face Vesarion and demanded angrily: “Would you replace me with Eimer?”
Well aware that he must proceed warily, Vesarion was unequivocal in his denial. “No, I would not. Eimer has many fine qualities which you give him no credit for, including courage and a good brain, when he chooses to use it, but he is not the rightful king – only you are.”
Enrick stared at him suspiciously, as if he considered the words to be a trick, but behind the suspicion, Vesarion thought he saw the first tiny shoots of doubt. Pressing home his advantage, he continued: “And despite what you might think, I do not aspire to the throne, nor do I wish to see it taken from you. I claim only what is lawfully mine – the Barony of Westrin. Restore that to me publicly, before the assembled barons, and I will pledge to you my fealty. I also think that if you show the wisdom to revoke this hated land tax, all discontent will ebb away and the barons will rally to you.”
Enrick turned away, his arms tightly folded, and studied the walls of his city. In a bleak voice, over his shoulder he said: “How can I be sure of what you say?”
“Because if you do these things, I will acknowledge you as my liege-lord and king. I was unavoidably absent for your coronation and therefore have not taken the oath of loyalty. I would like to remedy that omission, here and now before my peers.”
Enrick was surprised into swinging round to face him once more. “You would do this?” he asked wonderingly.
And Vesarion knew that the time had come to heal the divide. “The enmity between us has existed for so long that neither of us can remember how or why it began, but during my absence, I have considered many matters that I never thought about in depth before and have gained, I hope, a little insight. You father was a kind and good man but it was, unfortunately, his kindness that was the cause of the rift between us. When I was orphaned as a young boy, he took me in and lavished attention upon me, trying to make up for the loss of my parents, but he was unaware that his ten year old son did not understand his motives. As far as you were concerned, he chose to spend time with me in preference to you. You saw me as an interloper who had stolen your place in his affections. Yet the truth was that although he had a fondness for me, you, and you alone, were his eldest son and heir, and he loved you as such. His mistake was in expecting a mere child to understand his actions in the way that an adult would. He thought that you knew that his attention to me sprang from compassion, but he was mistaken. So the seeds of enmity were sewn between us and over the years just grew and grew. I admit that I was partly to blame, for I mistook your hurt for spite and lost no opportunity to antagonise you. Even Eimer and Sareth unwittingly fuelled the flames by siding with me in every confrontation between us. You must have seen that as an act of betrayal on their part.”
Vesarion paused, but Enrick was staring at him strangely and made no attempt to interrupt. Picking up his thread again, Vesarion added: “We all carry the burdens of our past, perhaps me most of all, but for the sake of our county, we must let the hurts of childhood divide us no longer. A black tide moves against this land and we will need all of our resources to halt it. We must put aside all that might hinder us, in favour of a greater cause – the survival of our beloved Eskendria. If we do not, I fear it will not be you, or even Eimer, who sits on the throne of Eskendria, but Prince Mordrian. Now, at last, because of my marriage to Sareth, we are truly brothers, Enrick.” Taking a pace closer, he held out his hand. “So, as brothers, let us put our differences behind us and when we next draw swords, let it not be against one another, but side by side against the enemies of our country.”
Enrick stared, astounded, at the proffered hand. “You have changed,” he replied slowly, as if he could scarcely believe it. “In the past you would not have hesitated to condemn me and now you offer me your loyalty, knowing well that it will secure my rule.”
He hesitated, as if undecided, for old habits die hard. Then looking up into his cousin’s eyes, watching him so steadily, he knew he had been offered no falsehood. At last, with a sigh as if releasing pain, he took the outstretched hand in a firm clasp.
“I will restore Westrin to you as you asked,” he offered. Then smiling ruefully, added: “I fear you will accept no less, however, I cannot repeal the land tax, for it would show weakness and now is not the time.”
“Actually, now is the perfect time – but do not repeal it, merely suspend it for the duration of the war, to assist the barons in raising troops. Then, if all goes well and we are victorious, you can simply forget to reinstate it.”
For the first time Enrick laughed. “You have changed! You never used to be so subtle.”
Vesarion smiled, hiding his relief, and indicated their anxiously awaiting audience. “Shall we, sire?”
Enrick took a step towards them, then suddenly halted and looked back at his cousin.
“This does not mean that we are suddenly friends, you know. It just means that I accept that we must put aside our differences for the sake of the Kingdom. The past has not been forgotten, merely set aside to secure our future.”
Vesarion merely bowed slightly in acknowledgement.
The barons, who had been tensely watching from a distance the two figures deep in earnest conversation, had seen the handshake. It seemed a hopeful sign, but they were unsure exactly what it signified. Each had been standing at the head of his retinue, but when the King approached them, they coalesced into a group and advanced to meet him. The King signalled to his escort to join him and when they were all assembled, addressed them in a regal voice.
“Barons of Eskendria, I have now confirmed with my own eyes that the reports of my cousin’s demise in the Forsaken Lands were false,” At this point, he directed a stern look at Pevorion, who wilted a little. “I find, instead, that he has returned to us once more and I therefore have pleasure in revoking the office of Steward of Westrin and hereby rescind the articles of appropriation whereby the barony was forfeited to the crown.” Turning to Vesarion, the very epitome of a gracious king, he announced: “Before all my assembled barons, I restore into your hands the peoples and lands of Westrin. Rule them well, with the blessing of your rightful king.”
Vesarion inwardly acknowledged that it was a superb performance. Enrick had managed to make it sound as if he had summoned the barons to attend for that express purpose.
It was now time for his side of the bargain to be kept. “Thank you, sire,” he replied formally. “I was unable to be present at your coronation and therefore did not take the oath of loyalty. I now wish to repair that omission.” Before the watching eyes of all those assembled, he went down
on one knee on the grass before Enrick. Drawing his sword, he laid it hilt first across his forearm towards the King and spoke the well-known words.
“I, Vesarion 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.”
He looked up and the eyes of the two rivals met in something that might almost have been understanding. The King leaned forwards and touched the hilt of the sword to signify that he had accepted the oath and Vesarion sheathed his sword and arose to his feet.
Under his breath, Enrick said: “You have your faults, Vesarion, but you were never a liar, I’ll grant you that.” Then raising his voice to address the barons, at his most gracious, he declared: “My lord of Westrin has brought with him grave news. It seems that after so many years at peace, Eskendria is once more to know war. To make ready for this, much needs to be done in a very short time, and in acknowledgement of your loyal support in defending this country, I hereby suspend, for the duration of the war, the land tax.”
An immense cheer went up from all those present, and the barons, all powerful men, ready for a confrontation, almost visibly relaxed. Smiling benignly and raising his hand to acknowledge the applause, Enrick continued: “We have much to discuss, my lords, so for the first time in a generation, I call on all my barons to attend a council of war. We will meet in the council hall in the palace as soon as you have all entered the city. Those who would do harm to Eskendria will find us both united and prepared for them.”
As they entered the city, Eimer edged his horse alongside Vesarion’s. “That was quite a performance! What on earth have you done to him? Never have I seen a more poised or gracious king, completely in control of the situation.”
“Perhaps in the past we concentrated so much on his bad qualities, we never realised that he has some good ones. If he can be brought to realise that the exercise of power does not mean always throwing one’s weight about, he has definite potential.”
Eimer was more cynical. “More likely he is a pragmatist who is not about to maintain his feud with you at the risk of losing his throne.”
“You are, of course, quite right. Probably, he likes me not one jot better than he did yesterday, but he has realised that I have certain qualities that are useful to him. The important thing is that he is now convinced of the imminence of the threat and will do all in his power to defeat Mordrian.”
“Will it be enough?” Eimer asked quietly. “We stand at the eleventh hour, Vesarion, when perhaps it is too late for unity and courage to prevail.”
“Perhaps,” replied Vesarion, a little subdued, “but nonetheless we must try, for it is all that we can do.”
Chapter Thirty-six
War Council
The throne room in the palace at Addania had changed little over the years. Amongst the barons, only Veldor remembered that the entrance from the formal gardens had once been draped with a rampant rose, so exuberant that one almost had to stoop to get under it. It had gone now, like everything, falling victim to the passage of time. The pillared entrance of silver-grey stone now stood bare and unadorned. However, inside, everything was just as it had always been. The polished wooden floor still cast its golden light upwards, illuminating the many carved pillars that supported the distant roof. The throne still sat upon its dais under its canopy dotted with silver stars. It stood empty just now, and to one side of it the double doors leading to the council chamber stood open to reveal two lines of tall-backed chairs, each ornately carved with its owner’s coat of arms. They faced each other across an avenue set with polished black and white tiles that led to a chair that was greater than any. It’s tall back was topped with a carved crown gilded with gold and on its seat was a cushion of royal red. Many years of peace had meant that the chamber has been little used of late, each chair being filled only once a year at the customary oath-taking. Now the chamber buzzed with conversation as the barons stood in groups, earnestly discussing recent events whilst awaiting the arrival of the King. Vesarion was one of the last to arrive. He had received a warm smile from Sareth as she had passed him on her way to show Iska her apartments, but her brother seemed less sure what to do with himself. He loitered around outside the door, clearly at a loose end. His difficulty was that he wanted to be part of the inevitable discussion but knew that no one, other than the barons, was permitted in the chamber without the express authorisation of the King. When Enrick arrived, Vesarion, well aware of his young friend’s dilemma, caught the King’s eye and significantly gave a tiny jerk of his head towards the Prince.
Enrick paused in the doorway as the barons took up their positions before their respective chairs and looking over his shoulder, said: “Eimer, you may observe proceedings if you wish.”
The Prince, looking quite stunned by this uncharacteristically generous act, hastened to enter in his wake and the great double doors closed resolutely behind him.
Iska, meanwhile, was being shown the charms of the palace by someone, who having once announced that she never wanted to see it again, seemed surprisingly delighted to be back. Compared to the grandeur of the palace at Adamant, it was a much more homely affair, consisting of a disordered jumble of buildings liberally sprinkled with many illogical nooks and crannies. Quaint staircases disappeared up into slender towers. Doors, set at odd angles into pointed archways, were curiously carved with leaves and flowers, and tiny, latticed windows tunnelled through stone walls to reveal glimpses of ivy-clad courtyards or sheltered gardens. Sareth’s apartments were unaltered, having merely been locked since her presumed demise. Her windows overlooked an area of lawn, in the centre of which stood an old fountain, gently dribbling water into a stone basin, green with lichen. Sareth opened the window and leaned out, listening to the familiar sound of the fountain and the sleepy call of a family of doves inhabiting the thick ivy covering the encircling wall. Iska, approving of the comfortable rooms, flopped onto the bed contentedly.
“I like your home much better than mine,” she declared, rolling onto her back and looking up at the fan-vaulting on the ceiling. “It feels older, yet friendlier than Adamant – and that’s not just because it does not contain my horrible brother.”
Sareth smiled, turning from the window to observe her collapsed friend in some amusement. “Comfortable, Iska?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, oblivious to irony. “I suppose they’ll talk for hours about the war?”
“Probably. They have, after all, a lot to arrange in a very short space of time. The curse of it is that we do not know exactly how much time we have, and must therefore proceed with the greatest speed possible. It’s a pity that we have been forced to waste almost a week because of Enrick, but at least he now seems motivated to act. I’ll hear all about it from Vesarion when he emerges.” Noting that Iska was still lying on the bed staring thoughtfully upwards, Sareth intuitively guessed her thoughts. “I’ll organise some rooms for you and you’ll be surprised how quickly Addania will start to feel like home. When this is all over, I want you to come and stay at Ravenshold – and be prepared for a long visit, as it regularly gets snowed- in every winter.”
But Iska’s spirits were not lifted. “We can’t really make any plans, can we? Everything depends on stopping Mordrian. I don’t know why, Sareth, but sometimes I get a bad feeling about all this. I try to be optimistic, but there is more coming our way than just my evil brother. I just know it.”
Sareth didn’t reply but turned once more to view the garden, her frame tense. Sensing that something was troubling her deeply, Iska rose from the bed and put her arm around her shoulders.
“What is it?” she asked gently. “You are so happy these days and yet sometimes underneath it all, I think I can glimpse some sort of sorrow that you are hiding from everyone, even Vesarion.”
“Especially Vesarion,” Sareth agreed in a subdued vo
ice.
“Why can you not tell him?”
“Because it concerns him and because…..because it is foolish. In the Storm Fortress and again in Engorin, I had a dream about him, and….and it terrifies me.” Haltingly, giving into the sudden urge to unburden herself, she told Iska of her dream.
“Do you think me mad?” she asked. “Is it all nonsense?”
“I don’t know,” replied Iska honestly. “Most dreams mean nothing, but the fact that you have had it twice troubles me a little. You say that in both dreams the only piece of armour he was missing was his helmet?”
“Yes.”
“Then the circumstances of the dream cannot come true as long as he does not take off his helmet. I know that might seem like clutching at straws, but it’s all I can offer, because there is no way that you can prevent him taking part in this battle.”
Sareth nodded, but at the same time a tear ran down her cheek and she said brokenly: “I have never been one to do things by halves, Iska. I do not hold back in my love for him and this leaves me exposed to the greatest of all hurts, one from which I could never recover. After so many years waiting for him, I don’t think I could survive if anything were to happen to him. That’s what makes me so afraid.”
If Vesarion had been achieving some success with the King, Bethro was also about to achieve his own small victory. Although he had immensely enjoyed composing the letter to the barons and re-organising Pevorion’s papers until the distracted baron was unable to find a thing, he was overjoyed to be back in his familiar haunts again. Indeed, he could hardly wait to take up once more the slightly frayed threads of his position as King’s Librarian. As soon as he reached the palace, he made his way busily along the back corridors until he reached his own beloved little cubbyhole. But once there, he was in for a surprise – for the room was meticulously tidy. Bethro, adept at keeping the King’s documents in pristine order, did not extend the same courtesy to himself and consequently lived in a state of perpetual chaos. But now, all the heaps of scrolls and manuscripts had been tidied off the floor and placed neatly in the pigeonholes designed for the purpose. The large wooden table by the window was bare of its usual debris and was primly set with inkpots and quills, ready for use. Bethro blinked, staring around him suspiciously as if the room was under an evil spell. He soon, however, discovered the reason for its unusual state of order – his post had been taken over by someone else during his absence, and as far as he was concerned, the choice could not have fallen on a less worthy specimen.
