The Seer And The Sword (31 page)

‘The Sword! But Kareed destroyed it.’

‘No, the Sword is hidden somewhere, not destroyed.’

His face went white, eyes freezing. ‘Surely Vesputo would not dare.’

‘Could it be done? Could Vesputo make the Sword do evil?’

Landen suddenly seemed as remote as if he were half a world away, face impenetrable. ‘No one ever said. There was supposed to be a curse on anyone who used it for conquest. What if that meant in the wrong hands it could do great harm? I have to find it, before he tries.’

Goosebumps rose on her skin. He must hate her, for
what her father had done. ‘Landen, I swear I never knew!’

‘You say the Sword is hidden? Where is it?’

Eagerly, she returned to the crystal. She stared and stared. All she saw was a vague, muted outline. Her lips quivered as she begged for something more.

‘I’m sorry, Landen. It’s concealed somehow. I can’t see where it is.’

His hands clenched. ‘Tell me how Beron plans to kill the high king. I’ll ride to warn Dahmis, then go to Archeld for the Sword.’

‘It may already be too late. He’s on his way. Take me with you!’

‘No, Torina. I must ride hard. There’s only one horse, and the country is full of assassins seeking you.’

Blood beat loudly in her ears.

‘I’m sorry, Princess.’ His eyes thawed. He scooted close and wrapped his arms round her, rubbing his face in her hair. ‘Dear Torina. I can’t face the idea of sacrificing you to this danger. You must stay alive.’ He caressed her cheek.

‘Hear me,’ he went on. ‘Even if you feel only friendship. Torina, I’ve loved you since the day you helped me to my feet. I tried so hard to stop. Then I thought you were dead, and my life hurt every day.’

‘Y— you love me?’ she stammered. ‘After all my stupidity?’

‘Could you ever doubt it?’

She felt an utter, endless belonging. How had she doubted? She no longer knew.

‘And you. Never doubt, Landen. I love you. I believe
it was always so, except for a while I lost my senses. I’m thankful my folly didn’t cost everything.’

His face pulsed with transfiguring gladness as he pulled her near. Their lips met, and time opened the blissful arms of eternity for them.

It took Landen three days to get to Glavenrell’s fortress. He arrived in the middle of the night. Covered with dust, he dismounted his horse in one leap and ran for the entrance. Guards crossed spears in front of him. He held up the obsidian emblem and the way opened.

He’d never been inside the fortress. Its towering dimensions bewildered him. Carrying the black crest dangling from its red cord, he persuaded the night guards to wake the high king, giving the name of Andris when they insisted on knowing who he was.

Deep in the maze of corridors, behind a studded door, Dahmis greeted him and nodded the guards away. Landen sank into soft cushions, peering at Dahmis through a fog of fatigue.

‘You look as if you haven’t slept since we last talked, my friend,’ Dahmis said. ‘Did you find Vineda?’

‘Yes, she’s safe.’

Dahmis let out a great sigh. ‘Thank you. I must ask – was she the woman you once knew?’

‘I have known her, yes. Did you believe she betrayed you?’

‘No. Her character wouldn’t allow something so despicable.’

‘You’re right. She’s sorry, now, that she didn’t help you.’

‘Ah. Tell me, my friend, do you by chance know where she comes from? May I ask where you knew her before?’

Landen wondered how much to confide in this strong king. Should he speak for Torina? Now would be the perfect time to tell Dahmis the full truth.

No, it would be wrong without her consent. She didn’t want force applied to Archeld for her sake, didn’t want the high king to strong-arm her birthright. Landen might as well tell Dahmis he was the prince of Bellandra and ask for battalions to win back the Sword. And that, he would never do.

Landen rubbed his eyes, his weariness turning to raw pain. ‘My king, I can’t tell you that. But she wants to help you now,’ he said.

Landen wouldn’t stay for all the high king’s hospitable offers.

‘Please, Bellanes. If you hid Vineda yourself, I’m sure she’s hidden well. And what sort of protector is a man dead from lack of rest?’

‘No, my king. I must go.’

He accepted a fresh horse, unwilling to tire his good stallion any further. Though fatigue clawed at his senses, slowing him, he believed that even if he lay down he wouldn’t sleep. Bellandra’s Sword, dismissed from his mind for so many years, now burned inside him with
unquenchable heat. Torina had said it wasn’t destroyed after all, that Vesputo sought to use it to bring the kingdoms under his rule.

Landen couldn’t allow that. He must find where Vesputo had hidden the Sword. He could almost feel it in his hand: a mighty, glorious weapon, powerful enough to finish Vesputo.

He rode off into grey light on a black mare. The sky seeped sad rain, turning his road muddy. He rode in a delirium of haste towards Archeld, never stopping except to exchange horses.

He left the road before the border checkpoint, entering Archeld by way of boggy fields. When he was well past the border, he still kept off the main thoroughfares, galloping through scattered hamlets. The rain stopped. Soon, mud covered him and coated the legs of his tiring horse. He would have to change mounts again.

Landen found a village big enough to boast an inn. He enquired about a fresh horse. The innkeeper eyed him suspiciously. Landen forgot what a strange appearance he must present, spattered in muck. He forgot to smile and flash gold at the man.

‘It may be I have a horse for you,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Wait here.’

Landen leaned against the hitching post.

When the doors to the inn opened, soldiers bounded out. Soldiers in green. The village wasn’t only big enough for an inn: it housed one of Vesputo’s patrols.

Landen was so tired from lack of sleep that he
simply ran from them, leaping on his poor, exhausted horse. The horse did its best to obey his heels, running hard. The patrol overtook them easily.

In desperation, Landen showed the high king’s emblem.

‘If you allow me to go, you’ll be spared the high king’s wrath.’

It convinced the soldiers he was someone of importance, someone who should be seen by their king. They trussed him up.

Torina spent two idyllic days alone in the hidden high valley. She thought of nothing that might bring sorrow or worry, reflecting instead on the beauty of nature and her reunion with Landen. Love hummed in her heart, making her dance. The meagre food supplies at the hut tasted finer than any delicacy she’d eaten when living as a princess.

Sitting beside the spring, taking luxuriant breaths, it seemed the world was hardly big enough to hold her gratitude. She was almost ready to thank Vesputo for betraying her and driving her into the suffering of exile.

Each morning and evening she looked in the crystal, relieved to find it blank and quiet. She believed Dahmis would be spared the death Vesputo planned; Landen would recover the Sword of Bellandra and Vesputo’s time of power end. She told herself nothing more was needed from her. She’d won a second chance from fortune; now she could let others take the actions necessary.

So, it was a shock on the third day when she gazed
at the crystal. She rubbed it against her skirt, trying to wipe away the image, gasping in horror as it held steadfast.

Landen. Bruised and bound, standing before Vesputo in the castle of Archeld.

Torina’s hand closed over the crystal. She jumped to her feet.

‘God help me!’

She dashed into the hut, searching in panic for her scarf. When she found it, her trembling fingers would hardly allow her to tie up her hair. Unable to think, she glanced round, forgetting food and water.

Racing out into the evergreens, she headed down the foothills.

Beron was getting close to Glavenrell’s fortress; its outlines were visible on the horizon. The day was pleasant as he jogged along at a steady pace, filled with anticipation. Vesputo had entrusted
him
with the paramount mission of assassinating the high king! The rewards would be enormous.

Beron remembered the day Vesputo enlisted him, and thought of all that had happened since. Vesputo’s rise to kingship; the riches he granted those who served him. What might he give in return for this undertaking? Beron’s imagination soared.

A weak voice nagged inside him, telling him Archeld was not at war with Glavenrell, had in fact pledged allegiance to the high king. He remembered Emid’s lessons: to kill an ally was a terrible deed. He could still get out of it, ride north into Emmendae and
disappear. No. Vesputo would seek him through all the kingdoms, just as he did Princess Torina.
Besides, Vesputo is my king. He’s a good king. Archeld is better off now than ever. Kings have always tried to extend their lands. It’s their right
.

Beron rode up to the gates of Glavenrell’s fortress, sure of the welcome given emissaries of the allied kings. He reined in at the checkpoint, dismounted and stretched his legs.

‘Urgent message for King Dahmis’ ears alone,’ he told the captain of the guard. The man signalled for a groom, and Beron’s horse was led away to be tended. Waiting for his papers to be checked, Beron yawned.

The captain looked his seals over, said something to the soldiers standing nearby, and waved Beron through the gate.

Two soldiers escorted him inside the fortress. Beron tried not to look awestruck, but Glavenrell’s grand archways and marble corridors impressed him. At sight of all the watchful uniformed men patrolling, fear began in the small of his back, crawling inexorably towards his throat. Vesputo had promised that the tiny vials of poison he carried in his sleeves would be slow acting, giving him plenty of time to meet with King Dahmis and leave the fortress. Now he wondered if he’d ever come out alive.

He was conducted into a room and invited to wait in a rich chair. Wine was brought for him. He gulped it, nervously waiting. If there had only been a second goblet, he might have mixed the poison instantly. As it was, he sat for what seemed an age. He poured more
wine, unable to keep himself from drinking more than he should.

When King Dahmis entered, General Larseld was with him. Beron rose, bowing formally.

‘I’m honoured to meet with you, my king.’

‘Your king? I thought you served Vesputo.’ Dahmis’ words had a discourteous edge.

‘Certainly. But you are High King. He acknowledges that.’

‘Does he indeed?’

‘Of course, my lord. And the message I have for you is only for your ears.’

Making no move to dismiss General Larseld, the high king took a chair facing Beron.

‘But perhaps I already know your message.’ The king’s voice sounded ironic.

Beron shook his head slowly, feeling fogged, his fear mounting. Was this the way honoured envoys were treated? The memory of Toban’s face, hideously distorted in death, came to his mind.

‘I doubt that, sir,’ he said, smiling. His words seemed to hit the floor with a dusty sound.

‘Do you? The sentence for treason is death,’ Dahmis answered.

Beron flinched. ‘Treason? What are you talking of, my king?’

‘Turn out your sleeves. And don’t think to run. There are a hundred men within yards of me, each itching to test their weapons on you.’

Overcome by weakness, Beron slid down in his chair. How could Dahmis have known? The Princess
Torina was dead. Or was she? Had someone else learned to use her stone? Who had told Dahmis? Who had undone his life?

As General Larseld stripped his shirt from him, shaking out the vials of poison, Beron wished his mouth would work so he could ask King Dahmis about Torina. But his tongue wouldn’t form words.

He watched as the poison was stirred into his wine. There was plenty there to kill several men his size.

General Larseld extended the goblet. ‘Drink it,’ he said.

Beron wavered. Should he dash the wine into the high king’s face? Strike down Larseld?

‘Those men outside are quite ready to force this down your throat,’ King Dahmis said. ‘Or, you could drink it yourself, and keep what dignity remains to you.’

Slow acting. Perhaps it will be quicker, since they’ve given it all to me
.

Dully, Beron’s hand closed round the goblet. Without protest, he swallowed the wine.

Torina found a road. She wondered which direction to take, for it led north and south and she wanted to go west.

A horse was coming down the bend; a fine, well-groomed animal, stepping along at a leisurely amble. Riding him was a dapper young man, bow and arrows slung across his back. He ignored Torina until she stepped in front of his horse and held up her hand. He looked at her pointedly; she could feel him taking in her threadbare clothes, hot dusty face and drab scarf.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Do you know the way to Archeld?’ She stroked the horse’s mane, calming her desperate nerves.

The young man pointed back the way he had come. Torina steeled herself to his disdain. ‘My name is Vineda. Yours?’

‘Samed,’ he answered, as if he was used to his name being password to anything he wanted.

‘Will you let me borrow him?’ she asked, caressing the horse’s nose. ‘Please. It’s important.’

Samed sniffed. ‘You must be joking.’

‘Please. At least take me part of the distance I must go.’

Samed sneered in disbelief.

‘A fine bow, I see,’ Torina persisted. ‘Are you a fair shot?’

‘Better than fair.’

‘I can outshoot you.’

‘Ha!’

‘I can.’

The young man abruptly dismounted. He unslung his bow. ‘Show me.’

‘No, no. First, we place our bets. I bet you the horse and bow that I can outshoot you.’

‘High stakes, ma’am. What do you have to put up?’

What did she have? Dahmis’ emblem, which was probably priceless, but Samed wouldn’t know or believe its value and besides she could never sell it. Putting her hand in her pocket, her fingers closed over the crystal. She brought it out and held it up. Sunlight flashed in its depths. She felt a sharp pain at the thought of giving
it up. But it was all she had, and surely valuable enough.