The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (60 page)

But all his attempts at procrastination were swept aside
like a sandcastle before an incoming tide.

 “It can’t be difficult. I mean, the words are in the Book
of Light – all you have to do is read them.”

 Sareth was still vibrating with suppressed mirth. “When you
said you could be persuasive, I had visions of something a little more subtle
than a charging bull.”

 At that moment, the others walked in.

 “What’s going on?” Eimer asked.

Blissfully disregarding any further protests that the Keeper
might wish to make. Vesarion announced blithely: “You are all invited to a
wedding.”

 Iska clapped her hands in excitement. “Wonderful! When?”

“Right now.”

 But Eimer  raised a caveat. “Er…shouldn’t you ask my
permission? That is, assuming it
is
Sareth you are intending to marry?
Since father is not here, I suppose I represent the head of the family,” he announced,
managing, with tolerable success, to keep his face straight.

 Vesarion, the bit well and truly between his teeth,
overrode that objection as well. “I already have your father’s permission, you
young pup.”

 “Yes, but that was for the first betrothal. He knows
nothing about the second – which is an entirely different matter. I mean, the
first was a nice, logical matter of state and then you had to go and ruin
things by falling for my tomboy of a sister. So, in my opinion, we have to
start again.”

 It was Iska who put an end to such nonsense. “Eimer?” she
asked sweetly. “Would you like to have your ears boxed?”

 Noting Eimer’s craven reaction to this offer, Vesarion forged
ahead. “Good. Then we’re ready.”

 “No we are not ready!” contradicted Sareth unexpectedly. “I
refuse, repeat,
refuse
to get married in breeches. Having waited so
long, I think you could spare me half an hour to get changed – and besides,”
she added, looking him over critically, “you could do with a shave.”

 He grinned. “Very well. Half an hour it is, then…..oh,
damn!” He clapped his hand to his forehead. “I forgot about the ring! Sareth,
could you give me back the ring?”

 She looked at him blankly. “What ring?”

 “The ring I gave you so long ago in Addania?” he explained
patiently.

 “But I haven’t got it. I left it on the log the day we had
our famous falling-out.”

 He frowned. “I don’t understand. I went back later that day
to get it and it had gone, so I assumed you had come back for it.”

 She shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

 They stared at one another in perplexity, then light dawned
on them at exactly the same moment.

 “
Gorm
!” they cried together.

 Vesarion turned to Eimer. “Would you oblige me by going to
fetch him? He won’t want to come, but don’t let that stop you.”

 Eimer had already taken a step towards the door, when Iska
called him back. “Wait. It can’t be Gorm because the Perith-arn emptied out all
his treasures in front of us and the ring was not there.”

 “We’ll see,” was all Vesarion replied, and he nodded to
Eimer to proceed.

 When he had gone, and Iska and Sareth had ascended the stairs
to get ready, Bethro, ever punctilious, pointed out that they were still a ring
short.

 “If you wish to follow the more recent fashion of
exchanging rings,” he advised portentously, “then a man’s ring is still
required.”

 The Keeper, who had sunk into a chair, a shade exhausted by
all this activity, said faintly: “Bethro, oblige me by bringing me the wooden
box that is in the dresser over there – Kel will show you,” The cat paraded
across the room with its tail in the air, followed a trifle ludicrously by Bethro.
It stopped by an ornate dresser and Bethro, rummaging in the interior, produced
a carved box and carried it to the Keeper.

 “When I took over this tower so long ago, it contained many
things, including this box.” He opened it to reveal an assortment of bits and
pieces that would have gladdened Gorm’s heart, but amongst the debris was a
large, silver ring, engraved all the way round with chalice flowers.

 “This ring is very old,” explained the Keeper. “Perhaps as
old as the tower itself. It’s a man’s thumb ring, but such things are long out
of fashion and it will be too big for your ring-finger, Vesarion. However, I
think we can do something about that, can’t we Kel?”

 The cat merely blinked and wrapped its tail around itself
smugly.

 The old man took the large ring and set it on his open palm.
Indistinctly, he began to mutter some words under his breath and before their
astonished gaze, the ring began to shrink.

 “There,” he declared in satisfaction. “I wasn’t sure I
could remember how to do that, but it is gratifying that I still know a trick
or two.” He handed the ring to Vesarion. “Try it for size.”

 Bethro watched, fascinated, while Vesarion slid the ring
onto the third finger of his left hand.

 “Perfect,” Vesarion announced. “Thank you, Keeper.” He
handed the ring to Bethro. “Keep it until we are ready – and speaking of
ready,” he added, rasping his hand over his chin. “I am reliably informed that
I am in need of a shave. I don’t suppose a clean shirt would go amiss either.”

 Acting on the words, he took the stairs two at a time.

 When he descended again, he found Sareth and Iska awaiting
him. Sareth was dressed in the same rose-pink dress she had worn before and her
rich, glossy brown hair was loose on her shoulders. As he approached, she gave
him a smile so radiant with happiness, that he felt his throat constrict. And
he realised that in all the years of striving to be the perfect Lord of
Westrin, during which he had bestowed justice and fairness on his people and
the blessing of being able to live in safety, he had never before brought happiness
to anyone, and the feeling was strangely humbling.

 The sound of an altercation in the passageway, signalled
the return of Eimer and Gorm.

 “Don’t
want
to see wizard,” an indignant voice
carried to them. “Don’t
like
stone tower.”

 Eimer came into view, dragging a protesting Turog by the
collar.

 “He wasn’t keen on the idea, I gather,”  Vesarion observed,
with masterly understatement.

 Eimer sucked a scratch on his hand. “You could say that,”
he agreed. “He seems convinced,  for some obscure reason, that the Keeper wants
to turn him into a piece of fungus.”

 Gorm had stopped struggling and had fallen silent by this
stage, for his eyes had fallen on the Keeper, sitting in a chair staring back
at him in some bemusement.

 “So, this is the famous Gorm you told me about,” he
remarked faintly. “Well, well. Who would have thought it? A Turog aiding
humanity against his own kind.”

 The Turog in question, wriggling free of Eimer’s grasp,
scuttled across to Sareth and said in a clearly audible whisper: “Don’t let him
turn Gorm into something nasty –
please
!”

 She smiled. “Don’t worry, Gorm, you are perfectly safe.
Vesarion just wants to ask you something.”

 Vesarion sat on his heels to bring his head level with the
small Turog’s.

 “Do you remember the last time we were here?”

 Casting a suspicious glance sideways at the Keeper, Gorm
nodded.

 “Do you remember out in the woods, Sareth and I had a
disagreement?”

 This evoked less response. Scenting a trap, Gorm said
nothing but remained staring back stonily at his interrogator.

 “Sareth set a ring on a log in the clearing that day,”
continued Vesarion. “Do you know what happened to it?”

 Still Gorm said nothing.

 Feeling she might have more luck, Sareth intervened.
“Please, Gorm, we need the ring back. Vesarion and I are to be married and we
need the ring.”

 Gorm’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t have ring.”

 “Are you sure it’s not amongst your treasures?” Sareth
asked.

 “Perith-arn emptied out all Gorm’s treasures,” he replied
evasively.

 “Except one, is that not correct?” Vesarion persisted.
“Your most prized treasure was not kept in your pouch, was it, Gorm?”

 The Turog still remained sullen. “Want to go now,” he
announced.

 But there was something in those yellow eyes that told Vesarion
he was on the right track. Realising that his victim was likely to prove
obdurate, he tried a more subtle approach.

 “If you give me back the ring, Gorm, I will give you
something even better in exchange.”

 “What?” demanded the Turog, interested but suspicious.

 Vesarion reached into his pocket and withdrew the little silver
box. “This.”

 Gorm’s eyes glistened greedily, but he was still wary.
“This a trick?”

 “No, I promise. I will give you the box in exchange for the
ring.”

 “Not
lend
?”

 Vesarion repressed a smile. “No, not lend. It will be yours
for ever.”

 Gorm looked at the coveted silver box and visibly weakened.
 “All right. Give ring back.”

 With that, he drew his hunting knife and using the tip, he
carefully slit the stitching on his belt and began winkling something out. In a
moment the ring lay sparking in his hand, but he refused to give it up until he
got the box first.

 The moment the desired item was his, he held it up to the
light and began to caper delightedly. Losing interest in the ring entirely, he
dropped it into Vesarion’s waiting hand.

 “Belongs to Gorm now!” he cried joyfully. “No more Vesarion
saying ‘
if you please’
. Ha-ha!”  

 Observing this performance, Eimer asked Iska: “Do you, by
any chance, get the impression that he’s pleased?”  He turned to her and for
the first time took her in. He saw her as he had never seen her before, dressed
in feminine attire, in a silk gown of pale blue. Her jet black hair was still
only chin-length, but was prettily held with a blue ribbon.

 “Blood and thunder!” exclaimed the tactless Prince. “What a
transformation!”

 Iska gave a smile reminiscent of Kel’s. “Sometimes, Eimer,
you cannot see what is under your nose.”

 Gorm, who had been sloping off towards the door with his
prize, in what he considered to be an unobtrusive manner, unfortunately
encountered Bethro coming in from the garden.

 “Ladies, gentlemen and…er…Turog,” the Keeper of Antiquities
announced grandly, “I have something to show you. Follow me, if you please.”

 Intrigued, everyone followed him along the narrow passage
to the door and out into the sunshine. There, a wonderful sight met their eyes.
For the thick, protective hedge, armoured with vicious thorns, was completely
covered in soft, pink roses. Some were merely in bud, while others had fully
opened into luxuriant blooms, but none had faded. A heady scent was issuing from
them, filling the whole garden. Everyone stood awestruck for a moment, scarcely
able to take in such a miracle.

 “The legend of the rose of Teltherion has come true,”
declared Bethro sentimentally. “It was said that when a true and selfless love
returned to the tower once more, the rose hedge would bloom again, and now, my
dear friends, it has.”

 He crossed to the hedge and carefully avoiding the long thorns
on the branches, picked a bunch of the finest roses and handed them, with a
flourish, to Sareth.

 “Princess Sareth, it is only fitting that you should have a
bouquet on your wedding day. I give you these pink roses, the colour of your
dress, and I know that should the spirit of Teltherion be watching over us, he will
bless your union with so worthy a man.”

 She took the flowers from him, her eyes shining. Vesarion
held out his hand to her and without hesitation she placed her hand in his.

 “You once told me that this journey had taught you that
every moment is precious,” he said, “and as you see, I have taken your words to
heart.”

 Looking at the old man, who was smiling mistily at him, he
said quietly: “Keeper, it is time.”

 And so, in the heart of the old tower, with the light
descending upon them like a benediction, Vesarion and Sareth were married. For
the first time in an age, the old Sage read the beautiful words from the Book
of Light. Watched by the friends that had become so dear to them, the rings
were exchanged and Sareth and Vesarion repeated the vows that they had already
made in their hearts in the cavern of Sirindria Eleth.

 When the simple ceremony was over, Iska showered them with
rose petals and Eimer, secretly delighted, shook Vesarion painfully by the hand
and informed him that along with a bride, he had also acquired a rather erratic
brother-in-law.

 The Keeper, although he ate little himself, considered no
celebration complete without substantial quantities of food, and conducted them
all to a table once more groaning under the weight of a truly royal repast. For
once, Bethro and his rival were in complete accord. Two sets of eyes, one
yellow and the other brown, gleamed at the sight. Gorm had been a little
bemused by the ceremony and had stood at the back with the appearance of a fish
out of water, not at all sure what to do with himself. However, he knew what to
do with a chicken. Diving across the table, he purloined an entire roast
chicken before Bethro could get to it, and thumped it down triumphantly on his
plate.

 It was a merry party and the old tower rang that afternoon
to the sound of laughter and conversation. Even Kel joined in, after the Keeper
had insisted on a place being set for him. He was seated beside Iska, who was
inspired to take off her hair ribbon and tie it around his neck in a becoming
bow – a humiliating process he endured with surprising good nature. The Keeper
told anecdotes of the Golden Kingdom in his faint voice, listened to only by
Vesarion, and brother and sister mercilessly teased each other in their
customary fashion. Only once during the course of the afternoon was Eimer
serious. Under cover of the general hub-bub, he leaned towards his sister and whispered
in her ear: “Don’t tell Vesarion this, but he is the only man I have ever felt
I could entrust you to. I wish you joy, Sarry.” Then, embarrassed by his lapse
from frivolity, he added in his usual manner: “I hope you don’t mind if your
brother wears out a trail to Ravenshold.”