The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (41 page)

 “What is your name?”

 “Temrin, my lord,” he replied, looking at the sword as if
it were a snake about to strike. Summoning up his courage, he added haltingly:
“My lord Prince, it is not fitting that I fight you. If I injured you, it would
be treason and my life would be forfeit.”

 The Prince laughed. “Nonsense. It’s just a little practice,
besides, there is very little likelihood of you injuring me, as my skill with
this weapon is not exactly in doubt. Is that not so, master-at-arms?”

 “Yes, my lord,” he acknowledged in a subdued voice. “It is
well known that you are the finest swordsman in the Kingdom. The boy is
privileged to have the opportunity to learn from you.”

 As they began to circle each other, Iska’s grip on the
curtain tightened. She knew her brother and knew not only his skill with the
sword, but also his nature, and consequently, she feared for the young man.

 Temrin did his best, but it was not enough. Mordrian’s
skill was so far superior that the practice session became like a cat toying
with a captive mouse. Every attempt at attack was dismissed with contempt. The
young man was beginning to understand the peril in which he stood and tried to
take risks to get out of trouble. But it was to no avail. The spectators were
silent, every frightened face evidenced the fact that they were all aware that
the Prince was not merely practicing.

 The boy, his face shining with sweat, chest heaving with
fear, made a wild lunge. The Prince, with a lightning fast twist of his wrist,
brought his blade underneath his opponent’s and flicking it upwards, prised the
sword clean out of his hand. Every astonished eye followed it, flashing in the
sun, as it flew across the stable yard to land in the dust.

 Temrin, his heart gripped with fear, went down on one knee.
“I acknowledge that I am defeated, my lord Prince,” he conceded. Then seeing
something disturbing in the Prince’s eyes, he said hastily: “I ask for
quarter.”

 The Prince smiled. “There is something that you do not know
about me, Temrin,” he said pleasantly. “I never give quarter.”

 Then without hesitation, he drove his sword with dreadful
force into his kneeling opponent’s chest.

 Temrin gasped and for a moment clutched the blade as if he
couldn’t understand how it came to be there, then he fell, his eyes still open
in surprise, at the Prince’s feet.

 Mordrian jerked his sword free and tossed it nonchalantly
to the grim-faced master-at-arms.

 “That’s how to teach them,” he remarked casually.

 As he turned to leave, he glanced up at the window above
the tack room, causing Iska to draw back sharply with a gasp, but he gave no
sign of having seen her and left without waiting for his brother.

 As Iska watched the grieving group carry the body into the
building, her hand tightened convulsively on the curtain until it formed a
fist. Looking in the direction in which Mordrian had gone, she said tightly
between clenched teeth: “I hate you, brother. I truly hate you.”

 Vesarion had been looking forward to the prospect of
stretching out on a proper bed in a comfortable room, but perversely, when
presented with the opportunity, he found that he was restless and unsettled.

 The inn was unpretentious, with a steeply-sloping roof clad
in grey slates, pierced by many tiny dormer windows like sleepy eyes. Inside
was a little dark and old-fashioned but the rooms were spotlessly clean and the
beds comfortable. His room was at the back, overlooking a narrow alleyway, but
Sareth and Iska’s room, just across the corridor, looked out over a pleasant
square with an old chestnut tree growing out of the cobbles. When they had
arrived at the inn, he had let Iska do the talking, and the landlord,
fortuitously distracted by the sound of crashing dishes in the kitchen,
accepted without question that they were from an outlying district, visiting
relatives in the city.

 Vesarion was honest enough to admit to himself that the
source of his unease was their total reliance on Iska. It was not so much that
he distrusted her, but that he could no longer direct events himself – a
situation with which he was not comfortable. So he restlessly paced his room,
obeying his instructions to keep out of sight, until the time approached when
they were due to meet her.

 He crossed the corridor, and gently knocked on the door of
the room opposite. On receiving no reply, he came to the logical conclusion
that Sareth must have fallen asleep, and indeed, upon softly opening the door,
he found this to be the case.

 Sareth had taken the bed beneath the little curved window
set snugly under the sloping roof. The window was open, admitting a soft waft
of warm summer air and the sleepy cooing of the many pigeons who were sunning
themselves on the slates. Her breathing was soft and even, and she seemed so
peacefully asleep that he was loath to wake her. For a long time, he stood
looking down at her with great tenderness. Her hair, always a little unruly,
had escaped from restraint and a fine strand lay carelessly across her cheek.
Lightly, he lifted it between his fingers and drew it back, and as he leaned
closer he studied every line of her face as if he had never seen it before. He
saw the sweep of her brows, the crescent of dark lashes, the curve of her lips.
And all at once, just as in his dream, he experienced the overwhelming urge to
touch his lips to hers. He realised with a shock, that in all the years he had
known her, he had never kissed her. To his shame he recalled with painful
clarity the day he had asked her to marry him. All he had been able to summon
up on that occasion was one chaste peck on the cheek, and casting his mind back,
he could not decide if it had been indifference or merely cowardice on his
part.

 He looked back at himself on that day that now seemed so
long ago, and it was like looking at a stranger whose thought processes were
alien to him. He remembered that she had once called him cold and distant, and although
at the time he had dismissed the words as merely being spoken in the heat of
the moment, he knew now that the accusation was well-deserved. He had assumed
the outward form of the Lord of Westrin with such dedication that he was in
danger of losing his true self altogether. He now knew that in the last few
weeks he had changed beyond return. Their journey had stripped away the veneer
he had worked so carefully to assume, and now, for better or worse, he was
Vesarion, a man uncertain of who he really was.

 Carefully, he sat down on the bed beside her, wondering how
to tell her all this. He wondered  how to tell her that she was the catalyst
which had caused this upheaval within him. He thought of the arrogant man who
had felt that she should be grateful for the honour he was bestowing upon her,
and the memory now filled him with distaste. How could he convince her that he
was no longer that man? How could he make her love someone she had never known?

 So deep in thought was he, that it was with a start that he
suddenly realised that her grey eyes were open and she was looking directly up
at him.

 He knew he had been taken with his guard down and wondered
what she saw. She was returning his look with great intensity, not moving, her
eyes unblinking. For some strange reason, to him the moment seemed almost
suspended in time, as if the forward passage of the minutes had stopped and
they were caught in a glass prism that was the present. Although his eyes never
left her, he was acutely aware of everything around him. He could hear the
sound of footsteps in the street below. He was aware of the pigeons’ caressing
call and the gentle breath of air from the window brushing his cheek.

 “Sareth?” he said, his voice quiet in the still room.

 “Yes?”

 The words that he wanted to say were there, right at the
very forefront of his mind. He could hear them in his head. He could hear his
heart urging him on.

‘Say it,’
it tempted.
‘Just say it’
.

 Then, like a curse, there flashed into his mind that
fateful day in the Wood of Ammerith when he had let her go with such careless
ease, such lack of concern, that it had been bitterly hurtful. And he knew that
whatever her reasons had been for agreeing to marry him, she could not possibly
love so cold a man as he had allowed duty to make him.

 Seeing him hesitate, she prompted him. “Vesarion?”

 “Nothing,” he replied a little harshly, angry and
dissatisfied with himself. “It’s time to go.”

 The library was an impressive, porticoed building on one of
the grandest avenues. Tall, polished oak doors opened onto room after room
lined with shelves right up to the high ceilings, and every shelf was loaded
with books and scrolls. Bethro gazed around him with his mouth open in a rustic
manner that totally belied his intellect. He compared it with his crowded, rather
poky domain in Addania and found himself humbled. Iska led them unerringly through
each room, mostly deserted, except for the occasional dusty scholar intent upon
his work. When they left the public part of the library behind, they entered a seemingly
endless rabbit-warren of narrow corridors at the back.  Her mentor was finally
run to earth in a private room in the depths of the building. The title ‘King’s
Physician’ was emblazoned on the door in gold lettering but the interior was
much more to Bethro’s approval. The room was filled to overflowing with books
and potions, medical instruments and diagrams, pestles, powders and brightly coloured
jars, all meticulously labelled, set on shelves and tables in fascinating
profusion. There were some stuffed animals, part of an unidentifiable skeleton,
and a glass jar with some tiny fish swimming aimlessly around in it.

 Callis was seated at one of the tables measuring out powder
on minute scales but when the door opened, he started to his feet, his face
breaking into a smile and crossed to them to embrace Iska fondly. He was a
tall, thin man with a dry, academic face and the calm manner of one who has
seen many sorrows in life. His dark eyes fastened on Iska with fatherly affection.

 “My dear child, I have missed you dreadfully and have
prayed every day for your safe return. It is strange how a great city full of
people can seem empty because just one is missing.” He turned his attention to
her companions and when she had performed the introductions, Iska said without
preamble: “They have come back with me because I was too late, Callis. The
sword had already been stolen. My friends have come with me to take it back
again. I have assured them that Mordrian will have brought it here, and can
only hope I am not mistaken. You must tell me all that has happened in my
absence.”

 Catching her words, Bethro, who had been prowling around
the room, examining all its treasures, burning to find out more from someone so
obviously learned in his profession, knew that he had missed his chance. He was
tempted to interrupt, but was forced to resist, for he was acutely conscious of
the fact that, having already incurred everyone’s displeasure, he must be on
his best behaviour. It really wasn’t fair, he reasoned, for it had been as much
Eimer’s fault as his. When Eimer and he had left the inn to keep the rendezvous
at the fountain, he had lagged behind to look longingly at the wares on display
in a bakery. Soft bread rolls, warm from the oven, tartlets filled with apple
or jam, little honey cakes decorated with nuts. Bethro beheld heaven set out
before his adoring eyes. When he had finally prised himself away, Eimer was
nowhere to be seen, and panicking a little at being on his own, he had promptly
lost his way. As a consequence, he had been late for the meeting. When he
finally got there, the others were on edge - doubly so, when it emerged that he
had stopped a butcher’s boy to ask for directions. Iska had distributed to each
of them a small sum of money in the local currency, just in case of
emergencies, but was constant in her advice to avoid contact with the residents
of the city, and to his indignation, had even taken the trouble of singling him
out for a lecture on the subject.

 So Bethro continued to prowl around the fascinating room,
his curiosity unsatisfied, hoping for a chance to collar the physician before
they left.

 Callis gestured to his other guests to sit down. “Much has
happened since you have been away, Iska, and none of it good. For the first
time in the history of Adamant, the King has ordered an army to be assembled. A
camp has been set up on the plains to the east of the city and levies of
recruits come in from the countryside day by day. The officers and masters-at-arms
have been training them intensively, driven on relentlessly by Prince Mordrian,
as if he were running out of time. Every forge in the city is busy making
weapons. Horses are being requisitioned in great numbers, as are wagons and
carts. The quartermasters are buying up all the grain the country can produce.
Wherever it is that this army is intended to fight, it is not nearby. Clearly a
long journey is anticipated.”

 “Eskendria?” asked Vesarion in an ominous voice.

 “I do not know. The destination is being kept a
closely-guarded secret but I think we must assume that it is. Moreover, the
fact that Mordrian is contemplating taking an army beyond the borders of
Adamant, suggests that he has found a way of lowering the curtain. Don’t forget
the curtain works both ways. It keeps out, but it also keeps in. Even the women
of Parth with the gift of power, never found a way of controlling it. The small
tear that Iska found probably occurred as a result of the curtain’s great age,
but it is of no use to an army. No, Mordrian must be confident that he can
control it, that he can not only lower it, but raise it again behind him, for
he would not leave this kingdom unprotected once his army has departed.”

 “But who could have such power?” Iska asked, perplexed.
“There are no women with the gift, and legend has it that when it was created,
it took so much power from the three sages who raised it, that it cost them
their lives. So how can he do this?”

 Callis spread his hands. “I do not know, my dear Iska. All
I know is that Mordrian seems confident in what he is doing.” He then turned to
Vesarion. “I also have some news for you, heir of Erren-dar. Mordrian is keeping
something of great value in the old crypt. I do not know what it is, so I
cannot tell you that it is your grandfather’s sword, but the crypt is being
closely guarded day and night and Mordrian has been seen making many visits
there.” He gave a dry smile. “I doubt he is merely paying his respects to his
ancestors. Iska has told you the story of what she saw there. The Prince is
dabbling in supernatural powers normally the preserve of the Destroyer and I
can see no good coming of it. I think it possible that what she saw there was a
Demon of Darkness, one of the Destroyer’s most powerful minions, so clearly the
crypt is some sort of focal point for Mordrian’s plans.”

 “Then we must go there,” responded Vesarion promptly, “and
see for ourselves.”

 Hastily, Iska intervened. “No, Vesarion.
I
must go
there, and I must go alone. You cannot come with me.”

 “I am not happy with you risking yourself without anyone to
protect you. What if you are caught?”

 “I won’t get caught. No one has ever caught me.”

 She saw him draw breath to protest again and added
reassuringly: “Don’t forget that I can move about this city as invisibly as a
black cat on a dark night. I will find out if the sword is there and report
back to you. Then, depending on what I find, we will lay our plans to recapture
it. Don’t worry, I have been in and out of places I was not supposed to go
since I was twelve. I am the best person to find out what my brother is up to,
but what I must do, I can only do alone. Forgive me, for I know your intentions
are good, but you would only be an encumbrance to me. I will leave as soon as
it is dark. I’m uncertain how long it will take me, so I think it best if we
arrange to meet at Eimer’s tavern for breakfast. I can then tell everyone what
I have discovered.”

 She glanced at Callis, who had been listening silently to
all that she had said. “I take it that no one was aware of my absence?”

 “I think not, but one can never be certain of what goes on
in Mordrian’s head.” Then reading her thoughts all to clearly, he added: “I
missed you terribly, my child. I hope that in some small way that makes up for
your undeserving family.” He hesitated a little and she saw that he still had
some more news to impart. “I have one other thing to tell you, although perhaps
it will not surprise you. Your father’s health is failing. He is an old man now
and he keeps ever more to his chambers. His public appearances have become
fewer and fewer and Mordrian now represents him in all that goes on. It goes
without saying that he has the full weight of his father’s approval behind him,
for they have always been of one mind. In my professional role, I have been
called to your father’s side many times in the past few weeks, but I doubt
there is much more that I can do for him. My remedies appear to revive him a
little, but such relief is only short-lived. I fear he may not have much longer
left to him. Does….does that distress you?”