The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (40 page)

 “So that, at least was true,” remarked Vesarion.

 “Yes. Like some lost spirit, I found my way into every
tunnel and passage. I explored the countryside until I knew every rock and
tree. Anything to avoid the fact that, apart from Callis, I had no one to care
whether I was alive or dead.”

 Eimer, who had been listening with a look of pity on his
face, stepped towards her with the intention of offering comfort.

 “You have us, Iska,” he offered. “We are your family now.”

 “One doesn’t lie to one’s family,” interjected Vesarion, a
little forbiddingly.

  Iska looked at him, tears standing in her eyes. “You have
no idea how ashamed I am of my birth. I am illegitimate, a nobody, a bastard. I
didn’t even inherit the gift. No, my lowly mother tainted the royal blood,
spoiling and diluting it so that it no longer carried the power of old – at
least, that is what my father thinks.  It was only when Callis let me read the
Book of Light that I began to hope that some day I might be judged not by my
parents’ actions but for myself.”

 “You are not responsible for your birth, Iska,” Sareth said
reassuringly, “and personally speaking, I don’t care who your parents are. I
understand why you hid it from us, but you had no need. No one here will judge
you harshly.”

 But looking around the circle of faces, Iska wasn’t sure.
Vesarion still looked stern and Bethro, a great admirer of ancient lineage, doubtful.
Only Gorm, sitting down examining a hole in the sole of his boot, was totally
disinterested. Yet when her eyes returned to Eimer, it was a different story.
He put his arm round her shoulders and gave her a brotherly hug.

 “I don’t care either,” he said, demonstrating how like his
sister he was. “I mean, take my brother Enrick, for example - totally
legitimate and one of the nastiest pieces of work you are ever likely to come
across. So, I assure you, legitimacy is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

 He managed to draw a smile from her, but she was watching
Vesarion who had been silent all this time.

 “Forgive me, Vesarion. I know you are a proud man and I
thought you would despise me.”

 He looked a little startled by that statement and his
expression immediately softened. “Of course I forgive you,” he offered
generously. “It is, after all, partly my fault that I made you afraid to tell
me. I should be asking your forgiveness for that.”

 He smiled at her and for the very first time, Iska began to
understand why Sareth loved him.

 “Now,” he said decisively. “If I remember your instructions
correctly, we must hide all weapons before we enter the city.”

 Although the Kingdom of Adamant was smaller than Eskendria,
its capital city was, conversely, much more grand - one reason being the fact
that it was not constrained by the need for fortifications. Addania was squeezed
onto an island that rose steeply out of the waters of a wide river. All its
houses and buildings were crammed within the protective confines of the walls
without regard to convenience or planning. But Adamant was very different. Its
walls were a fairly nominal affair, more decorative than defensive. They were
neither high enough, nor thick enough to repel an invading army. The city was
set within a perfect square, unprotected by moat or ramp. A magnificent archway
pierced each wall, free from the encumbrance of a portcullis and guarded only
by tall, ornately-carved wooden gates, that just now stood open to admit the
stream of dusty traffic coming in from the surrounding plain.

 Carts pulled by sturdy dray-horses approached the gates,
laden with all manner of produce from live chickens in cages, to bolts of
fabric; from wooden churns of milk to baskets of vegetables. There were vendors
pushing wooden wheelbarrows piled high with their wares and many individual travellers
both on foot and on horseback.

 Due to the fact that they refused to form an orderly line
but approached the impressive gates from all directions, the warm morning air was
soon rent by the sound of chaos. There were only half a dozen armed guards
manning the gates and they were attempting to levy some sort of tax on the
goods entering the city, resulting in a cacophony of vociferous complaints and
bickering. Vesarion, watching the melee in some amusement, began to understand
why Iska was so confident that they could slip past unchallenged. After depositing
Gorm in the wood a short distance from the eastern gate, they had concealed
their weapons and divided into two groups. Eimer, much to his chagrin, got
stuck with Bethro, while Vesarion went with the two women.

 “Remember,” said Iska in a low voice as they approached the
gate, “try not to speak and if you must, keep it short. At the inn you must
pose as our brother, Vesarion, as it would be unusual for two young women to be
travelling alone.” She gave a rather wicked grin. “It can’t be helped that you
don’t look like either of us. I could always say you are my step-brother but I
don’t think I could stand the strain of a third one.”

 “Actually,” he replied, “Sareth and I
are
distantly
related. Her great-grandfather and my great-grandmother were brother and
sister, so I think that makes us some sort of cousins, but I’ve never really
worked out what.”

 By the time they reached the gate, the guards were looking
harassed and over-heated. One, in the middle of conducting an argument with the
owner of a cart laden with cooking pots, glanced briefly at them, and seeing
that they carried no goods, distractedly waved them through.

 Sareth, relieved at how easy it had all been, resisted  the
temptation to look back at Bethro and Eimer a short distance behind, and
followed her two companions into the broad avenue that lay ahead of them within
the walls. The city seemed to be set out on a gridiron pattern. It had many
main thoroughfares, impressively broad, with grand houses bedecked with painted
shutters and red tiled roofs. Each major avenue was flanked by plinths bearing
bronze figures of dragons that obviously acted as some sort of torches, as they
were blackened with fire. However, once they took the side-street to the right,
the paved road became narrower and the houses less impressive, yet more appealingly
homely. Many archways and gates gave glimpses of shady courtyards, either
prosaically hung with washing, or crowded with flowerpots brimming with colour.
They began to come to a more commercial district with small shops, their wares
protected from the sun by colourful awnings. The streets were crowded with
townspeople and shoppers. Serving-girls in striped aprons, carrying baskets,
haggled with fishmongers. Carts trundled past, laden with goods, their wheels
rumbling on the square cobbles. A baker’s boy adeptly balanced a tray full of
loaves on his head, as he deftly weaved in and out of the throng. Flower-girls called
to passers-by, drawing their attention to displays bursting with scent and
vibrancy. A stray dog shot past them, a stolen joint of meat clamped determinedly
between its teeth, pursued by the irate butcher wielding a meat cleaver.

 Sareth drank it all in, delighted by all she saw, and was
almost sorry when they reached the quiet square where a fountain played within
the confines of a stone-edged basin. Bethro sat down wearily on the rim and
splashed his face with the cool water, while Iska explained what happened next.

 “I must go to the palace to get money and to see if I have
been missed. We should remain in two groups to be less conspicuous. I will take
you to separate inns and get you settled in. I’m not sure how long I will be,
but barring mishaps, we should all meet at this fountain in two hours time.
Then I would like to introduce you to Callis. I am longing to see him again. In
the meantime, you must stay out of sight in your rooms – and whatever you do,
don’t attempt to use coins of Eskendrian mint. I will provide you with some
local currency when we meet.”

 Iska, reverting to the habits of a lifetime, soon left the
busy streets behind and disappeared into a complex network of narrow alleyways
inhabited only by stray cats and pigeons. Without the slightest hesitation, she
threaded her way through the confusing maze until she arrived at the ornate
wall that bounded the parkland in which the palace stood. Casting a quick
glance around to make sure she was unobserved, she grasped an old ivy that was
lovingly embracing the wall and in an instant she was dropping down lightly
inside on the grass of a pleasant parkland, dotted with trees. In the distance
she could see the palace, its many tall windows opening onto wide terraces set
with urns of trailing flowers. Like the city, the palace was opulent, built for
pleasure rather than functionality. However, she did not approach the main
palace building but veered off towards the considerably less grand buildings
that housed the servants’ quarters and stables. Approaching the stable block
from the back, with practised ease, she shinned up a stout ash tree and
wriggled along a branch until she was close to a window on the floor above the
tack room. Expertly levering the casement window open, in a trice she was
inside, her progress observed by no one other than a magpie chattering its
disapproval from the top of the tree.

 The room was not a large one but could have been pleasant
were it not for the fact that it was in a rampant state of disorder. The air
smelt stale and unlived-in. The bed, unoccupied for weeks, had been left
unmade. An easy chair, its leather cover splitting to allow its horsehair
stuffing to burst forth exuberantly, was piled with discarded clothes. Books
were scattered carelessly over the floor and a plate sat on a table by the bed
with a lump of uneaten bread on it, now sporting a luxuriant fuzz of green
mould. A basket by the empty fireplace, filled with pinecones and nuts, bore
evidence of previous foraging expeditions. The room took up the full width of
the narrow building and hence there was a corresponding window on the far side,
shielded by closed curtains, that overlooked the stable yard.

 Iska, satisfied that the room was undisturbed, shoved her
hand under the mattress and withdrew a small leather purse which she stuffed into
her pocket. Then, on detecting the sound of voices in the stable yard, she
crossed to the window and peered out between the curtains.

 What she saw made her smile. A number of young recruits to
the Palace Guards were being put through their paces by a grizzled
master-at-arms. Not one of them was more than twenty years old. About a dozen
pleasant, fresh-faced lads were perched on a fence watching two of their number
being instructed in the noble art of swordsmanship. They were using blunted
weapons, so that their youthful enthusiasm didn’t result in a fatality. The
master-at-arms was not being overly strict with them and was allowing the
spectators to call out facetious advice and slanderous comments about their
colleagues’ lack of skill.

  It was all rather good-natured,  and she watched for a
moment or two, a smile lingering on her face, when suddenly the laughter in the
stable yard abruptly ceased. The lads on the fence jumped down and hastily
stood to attention. Craning her neck to see what had caused the transformation,
Iska found herself looking down at her brothers.

 They both had the family black hair and amber eyes, just as
she did , but there the resemblance stopped. Kerac had an anxious face and eyes
that shifted about restlessly, as if afraid that if they stayed too long in one
spot, some undesirable secret might be revealed. Although only in his
mid-thirties, his dark hair was already salted with grey. He signalled his
constant state of deferral to his elder brother by standing a pace or two
behind him. Mordrian was by far the more striking figure. He was tall and broad
shouldered and carried with effortless ease an air of command. Unlike Kerac,
his eyes were steady and unblinking, his gaze looked not so much at the outward
person, as into their depths. These were eyes that tried to pierce a man’s
thoughts, even his very soul.

 The combatants had stopped fighting and were standing
awkwardly to attention, not sure what to do with the blunted swords they
carried.

 Mordrian gave them one of his rather feline smiles and waved
his hand at them dismissively.

 “Carry on, gentlemen, carry on,” he announced airily. “Do
not stop for me. We do, after all, have need of good swordsmen, so I’ll be
interested to see how you are progressing.”

 Even from the height of the window, Iska could see the two
protagonists cast each other a look of consternation at being made to practice
before so formidable a figure. The grey-haired master-at-arms spoke to them
kindly: “Just continue what you were doing. Remember to concentrate and let the
Prince see you at your best.”

 Mordrian leaned one shoulder negligently against the wall
and folded his arms, apparently prepared to be entertained. Kerac, as usual,
hung back, looking as though he didn’t know what to do with himself.

 The two young men began to circle each other, all trace of
their former light-heartedness gone, but as they began to attack and parry,
Iska saw her brother’s expression change. He started to tap his foot
impatiently and a frown appeared between his dark brows, for it was perfectly
obvious that the recruits were being careful not to injure one another.

 Finally, losing patience, he stepped forward, halting the
fight.

 “I had expected better of you, master-at-arms,” he chided.
“This is not training. This is play-acting. Fetch me a couple of real swords
and I will see what your recruits are made of.”

 The master-at-arm’s battered face, normally impassive,
could not entirely conceal the alarm that the order produced, but he dared not
disobey.

 He picked up two sharpened weapons that had been sitting on
the bench by the stable door and handed them to the Prince.

 Mordrian, clearly enjoying himself, selected one of the
combatants, a fair-haired, ruddy-faced lad and handed him one of the swords.