The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (13 page)

 The evening had started inauspiciously for Vesarion,
because he had been forced to endure seven handshakes even more finger-crushing
than Pevorion’s. He had then been regaled with a blow by blow account in the
minutest detail of how every deer had been brought down. To someone whose
interest in the chase was slight, this recital was even more testing than the
handshakes. The brothers then attacked the mead with enthusiasm, which had the
result of increasing the volume and ribaldry of their tales. Vesarion cast an
anxious glance at Sareth, sitting across the table from him, deep in
conversation with Lady Sorne, in the forlorn hope that she could not hear what
was being said. She only once looked in his direction and as their eyes met, he
read a mischievous twinkle in them that informed him more accurately than words,
that not only could she hear all that was going on, but was well aware of his
discomfort and was deriving an entirely inappropriate amount of amusement from
it.

 By the time the meal arrived, Vesarion was longing for
escape and only a rigid determination to adhere to good manners kept him in his
seat. He noticed, rather sourly, that such considerations had not weighed with
either Eimer or Bethro, for their chairs stood noticeably empty. The ruination
of his evening was merely completed when the venison was carried in with great
ceremony. Pevorion and his sons considered that the only food fit for a man was
venison, freshly caught and slapped onto a trencher while it was still twitching.
Vesarion looked at the huge piece of meat set on his plate, still running with
blood, and prodded it gingerly with his knife, half expecting it to leap up and
make a bid for freedom. But whatever his inward distaste, he schooled himself
to behave with flawless courtesy, and stoically ploughed his way through the
food, even summoning up a few hunting tales of his own with the aim of
diverting Sorne’s eldest son away from a graphic, and very loud, description of
his encounter with a woman of exceedingly relaxed morals.

 As the evening finally drew to a close, he felt it
necessary to apologise to his host for the absence of the Prince and Bethro,
but this proved a superfluous courtesy. Pevorion, who disliked Bethro’s airs
and graces and resented being patronised in the matter of learning, was quite
happy that he was absent. The young Prince, he excused indulgently on the basis
that when he had been Eimer’s age, he had always found formal banquets a dead
bore – much more fun to go out for a night on the town. Like Vesarion, he
suspected, that both truants were probably ensconced in some cosy tavern,
happily drinking the cellars dry.

 Vesarion, his temper sharpened by the evening he had
endured, determined to speak to them both severely when they turned up, unaware,
that at least as far as Eimer was concerned, his lectures always had the
opposite effect to the one intended.  For a man who prided himself on his
ability to read others, he was oblivious to the fact that he had a blind spot
when it came to the Prince and his sister.

  He drew in a final breath of night air before closing the
window. His present restless state was more to do with Pevorion than Eimer. He
conceded that their conversation had crystallised some thoughts that had been
floating around like a nebulous cloud at the back of his mind for some days
now. The one thing that Vesarion disliked above all others was the thought that
he was being taken for a fool. Such weakness did not sit easily with his view
of himself as Lord of Westrin, although he was honest enough to admit that the
more he thought about it, the more likely it appeared to be.

 By now, sleep was as distant as the moon, and acting on
impulse, he crossed to the door of his room with the intention of descending to
Lord Sorne’s study and purloining one of the musty books with the idea of
either diverting his mind, or boring himself into a state of unconsciousness.

 He descended the ornate staircase in the darkness, moving
quietly to avoid awakening the sleeping household and arrived at the great
hall, now tidy again, all trace of the banquet cleared away. Although intending
to cross to the study, he found himself drawn to the fire, still glowing redly,
providing the only source of light in the hall. The little flames danced and
writhed their way along the edges of the logs as he stared into their depths,
trying to pin down the faint but persistent feeling that he was fast
approaching a pivotal moment in his life. He didn’t want it, nor did he seek
it. He liked his ordered life as Lord of Westrin just as it was. He didn’t want
things to change. Inwardly and bitterly he cursed Enrick and all his
destructive scheming. He had thought that by staying in his mountain retreat away
from Addania and all its intrigues he would be immune from it all. But no, it
was just as it had been when they were children – Enrick could never bear to
see anyone content. It became almost a personal challenge to see just how much
strife and dissention he could cause. And now he had an entire kingdom to play
that game with. His reflections were interrupted by the sound of the great door
being pushed open. In the stillness, he could hear someone faintly whistling
under their breath, followed by a scuffling sound and mutterings of ‘why must
they make these doors so damned heavy’.

 He smiled to himself. The prodigal had finally returned.
Eimer sauntered into the hall without a care in the world. His jacket was
casually slung over one shoulder, his shirt was hanging out of his belt and he
had liberal amounts of straw stuck all over his clothes and hair. From his
slightly unsteady gait, it could be deduced that the inroads he had made into
the town’s supply of ale had been substantial.

 “Well, Eimer?” Vesarion announced  wickedly into the
darkness. “Nice of you to show up.”

 The Prince gasped and clutched his hand to his heart.

 “For pity’s sake, Vesarion, don’t do that! You frightened
the life out of me.” He peered owlishly into the gloom, and focused with some
difficulty on the silhouette of his friend against the red glow of the fire.

 “Oh, there you are. Why are you still up? I think it’s
quite late,” he declared a little uncertainly.

 “Where have you been? Or need I ask?  And what, may I ask,  have
you done with Bethro?”

 The Prince looked vaguely around him as if he had dropped
something. “Em….don’t know,” he finally pronounced. “He left a bit ahead of me
….I think. He should be back by now.”

 “No doubt he’ll show up. You’ve straw in your hair, by the
way.”

 Eimer, going slightly cross-eyed, managed to grasp a straw
hanging over his forehead and inspected it as if he had never seen such a thing
before.

 “Farmer’s daughter?” Vesarion inquired dryly.

 “Certainly not!” declared Eimer, outraged. Then descending
from the heights of dignity, added: “Barmaid, actually. A lovely girl. Blonde
hair. Blue eyes. A figure like….” Unable to think of a simile, he ended lamely:
“Very pretty.”

 “And very willing,” agreed his companion sardonically.
“Judging by the amount of straw stuck to you.”

 But Eimer was in no mood to be lectured. “You know your
trouble, Vesarion? You are fast becoming a dried up old stick, as crusty and
correct as someone’s maiden aunt. Maybe what you need is a tumble in a hayloft
with a pretty barmaid. That is, if you are capable of anything so human.”

 Vesarion’s lips twitched. “You forget that I am engaged to
your sister.”

 “So I did,” his erratic young friend admitted. Eimer
appeared to think this over and announced aggressively. “She’s too good for
you, if you ask me.”

 Vesarion could no longer suppress a grin. “That is not
exactly what you told me in Addania, if my memory serves me correctly.”

 Eimer sat down suddenly on a chair by the fire as if his
legs had given way under him. “I have changed my mind,” he announced grandiloquently.

 “You missed the banquet.”

 “Was it as bad as I thought it was going to be?” Eimer
enquired, grinning engagingly.

 “Young pup,” said Vesarion, the last vestiges of his irritation
evaporating. “Of course it was, in fact, probably worse.”

 “I, on the other hand,” declared the reprobate smugly, “had
a very pleasant evening. I say, Vesarion, I never knew any man to put away so
much mead as Bethro. I have seen a whole new side to him. Quite amazing,
really. He even knows quite a few songs that I haven’t heard before.”

 “Respectable?”

 The Prince gave a crack of laughter. “Not in the least!”

 Vesarion smiled. “Get to bed and sleep it off, you
impossible young whelp. You are going to have one hell of a headache in the
morning – and serves you right, too. If I had to suffer through that atrocious banquet,
it’s only fair that you should suffer as well.”

 With that friendly admonition, he headed back up the
staircase, forgetting the reason he had come down in the first place. He left
the Prince sprawled in the chair by the fire, engaged, not very successfully,
in trying to pick straw out of  his clothes.

 It was while engaged in this taxing occupation that the
Prince thought that he heard someone call his name. He turned in his chair.

 “Vesarion?” he enquired into the darkness. When he received
no answer, he assumed that he had imagined it and reclined back in his chair
again, re-living certain pleasurable moments of his evening.

 “Prince Eimer,” a voice said again, so close to him that he
jumped. He sat bolt upright in his chair and looked carefully around the
darkened hall. His eyes were accustomed to the dimness by now, and the soft,
intimate glow of the fire gave enough light for him to establish that he was
alone.

 “Must have had too much ale,” he muttered.

 “My lord Prince,” said the voice again, a little louder,
sounding as if it was right beside him. Once again, Eimer jerked into a upright
position as if he had been stung.

 “Who’s there?”

 “I am.”

 The Prince looked round him wildly, still unable to account
for what he was hearing.

  “I can’t see you. Show yourself.” When there was no reply,
he demanded: “Where are you?”

 “I am here,” said the voice again.

 Eimer swallowed, wondering if he was going insane. “It’s no
use. I can’t see you.”

 “That’s because you are looking in the wrong place. Look
up.”

 He did as he was bid but could see nothing other than the
roof above him, supported by its carved beams.

 “Look more closely,” advised the voice.

 The Prince’s eyes began to examine the tracery of vine
leaves out of which rose the carved heads with their frozen, maniacal
expressions. With a sudden stab of panic, he realised that one head was not
frozen. Before Eimer’s astounded gaze, it turned from its posture of rigid
laughter and looked down at him, its wooden eyes fixed upon him.

 He gasped and gripped the arms of his chair, vowing
inwardly never to drink to excess again.

 The head smiled, stretching its wooden lips. “I see you
have found me.”

 Eimer watched in disbelief, as the carved lips formed the
words.

 “What….what are you?” he stammered.

 “I am whatever you want me to be,” replied the head
provokingly. “I can take any form I wish. However, I suppose you would refer to
me as a spirit of the wood. These beams were carved from the mighty oak that
formed my home in the days before the fall of the Old Kingdom. Sometimes I
visit my old home, but ever more seldom. I find the world of men a place where
I do not wish to linger. “

 “This is crazy,” declared Eimer to the room in general.
“I’m talking to a piece of wood.”

 The head laughed softly. “I can take another form if you
wish. I could take the form of a wolf, or a deer, or perhaps you prefer
something more abstract like a flame or a cloud? Although I must confess that I
have not taken corporeal form in such a long time that I cannot vouch for the
results.”

 “No!” Yelped Eimer in alarm. “It’s bad enough talking to a
wooden head.”

 “Very well, young Prince. Calm yourself, I beg, for you may
be assured that I mean you no harm – quite the reverse, in fact.”  The head
looked around the hall to reassure itself that they were still alone. Eimer
could almost hear its wooden neck creaking. When its eyes returned to him, it
said solemnly: “I have come to give you a warning.”

 “Warning?”

 “You must on no account abandon your search for the sword.
No matter what your companions may say, no matter what they may wish to do, you
must persist. The sword carries with it not only the fate of the Kingdom of
Eskendria but the fate of humanity - that wayward race of men that we spirits
call the Children of Light. Every moment that the sword remains outside the
boundaries of the Kingdom,  you are in the most terrible danger. Pursue it,
Prince Eimer, with unswerving dedication until you find it and bring it home
again. Remember that it was made in the forges of the Old Kingdom with a skill
that has now been lost, for in those days when it was still glowing from the
heat of the furnace, one of the ancient orders of Sages, the Master of the White
Brotherhood, blessed it with incantations against evil that have now long been
forgotten. There are now none left with such power, and its like can never be
created again. So you must find it, and quickly.”

 “I have heard the legend that a hostile army can never
cross Eskendria’s borders while the sword is with us. Are you telling me that
it is not just legend. Surely it is just a myth?”

 “It is nothing of the sort,” snapped the head, the graining
on its forehead contracting into a frown. “It is the very truth. Moreover,
there are many things about the sword that are not yet known. An evil will is
bent against it, for the Destroyer suspects that the power of good, once
maintained by the Orders of Sages, is now weak enough to be broken. Since you
now have no one left with the skill or knowledge to use the Book of Incantations,
the sword has become the last relic of that power. The last of the Brotherhood is
dead, and enchantment has gone from this land. You will feel its lack before
your journey is done, but you must continue with what resources you have.”