The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (7 page)

 Hydar flung his hand in Elorin’s direction. “You
have not punished her,” he growled. “She made fools out of all of us and yet
she lives.”

 “She made more of a fool of some than others, is
that not so?  Your concern about her fate would have nothing to do with
the fact that your pride was injured, I presume? Be sure of this, whatever
happens to her will be my decision, and mine alone. Is that clear?”

 Hydar bristled. “Perhaps we are all a little tired
of your decisions.”

 “Oh dear,” Dorgan muttered under his breath. “There
will be no going back now.”

 But to Elorin’s surprise, Celedorn smiled slightly,
a chill smile that did not touch his eyes.

 “You are no match for me, Hydar, and you know it.
Your  weakness is your temper, for you have never learnt to control it.
However, what has been said cannot now be withdrawn. If you wish to challenge
me, you must do so with more than words.”

 For the first time, Elorin thought she saw just the
tiniest flicker of fear in Hydar’s eyes and guessed that his temper had driven
him further than he had really intended to go.

 However, he was aware that two witnesses were
watching his behaviour and that if he retreated, word of his cowardice would
spread like wildfire around the fortress. If that happened, the other men would
tear him apart like a pack of wolves. Pride mingled with fear to reinforce his
anger. With a semblance of nonchalance, he bowed ironically.

 “Any time you wish.”

 The distant, grey eyes did not even blink. “Now,”
was the devastatingly simple reply. “In the great hall.”

 Hydar stared, nonplussed, then shrugged and pushing
his way past Celedorn, mounted the stairs to the great hall.

 Elorin followed with Dorgan. “Does this often
happen?”

 “Now and again. There is always some fool who wants
to try his luck. I knew Hydar’s temper would lead him to this some day. I just
didn’t expect it so soon.”

 “I hope they kill each other.”

 “Nonsense,” Dorgan snapped, but refused to say any
more.

 “Why should I care? What difference does it make
whether I am killed by Hydar or Celedorn?”

 He looked strangely at her for a moment, but merely
said: “We will get a better view from the half-landing.”

 She followed him, a little disappointed that he
found the proposed contest merely a form of entertainment.

 In some mysterious fashion word had got around that
something was happening in the great hall. They had scarcely taken up their
position on the stairs, when men began to arrive in twos and threes until a
jostling crowd of tough-looking characters lined the walls. The long table was
lifted back against the wall and the torches were lit, forcing the shadows back
into the corners. More men arrived, lining the bare, echoing hall, leaving a
large area of stone flags clear in the middle.

 An older man, that Elorin had not seen before,
stepped into the arena and addressed those assembled.

 “The challenge will be carried out in the
established fashion. No weapons other than swords. No armour or protection. No
interference from the onlookers. No quarter to be given.”

 The two combatants were standing facing each other
at opposite ends of the hall. Both were in their shirtsleeves and carried naked
swords in their hands. The long blades gleamed, wickedly sharp, in the
torchlight. Celedorn looked sinister in his customary black, like a projection
of the haunted shadows around him. The torchlight flicked over his scarred
face, giving him an evil, almost demonic, look. He stood silently waiting, his
sword point resting lightly on the stone flags. Hydar, by contrast, was
ebullient, calling to comrades in the audience, making swift passes through the
air with his sword.

 The older man addressed Hydar.

 “Do you challenge?”

 Hydar grinned wolfishly. Watching from the height of
the staircase, Elorin was not sure whether it was real confidence or mere
bravado. He certainly looked formidable. He replied in a strong voice: “I
challenge.”

 The man turned to Celedorn. “Do you accept?”

 In contrast, the reply was quiet, almost casual. “I
accept.”

 “Then begin,” the man said and retreated to the
wall.

   For a moment nothing happened. The brigands
around the walls were silent, watching intently for the first move. The
uncertain light flickered over the two men facing each other. Hydar moved
forward, cat-like, his sword poised. He began to circle to Celedorn’s left,
judging it to be the weakest side of a right-handed man. Celedorn’s expression did
not alter. He slowly raised the point of his sword from the flags and pivoted
to keep his enemy in front of him. Hydar’s eyes were fierce, his lips drawn
back in what was intended to be a mocking smile but had instead become a
grimace. Compared to him, Celedorn looked almost bored, certainly a trifle
disinterested, but closer inspection would have revealed granite-hard eyes
sharp with concentration.

  Hydar’s sword flashed like lightning. With
impressive speed it sliced through the air, too fast, it seemed to Elorin, for
any response to be made. But a heavy, metallic clash resounded through the hall
as his blade collided with Celedorn’s.  She had not even seen Celedorn
move, yet the two swords had met with stunning force. The heavy blades slid
down each other, rasping cruelly until they locked at the hilt. Such a position
meant a struggle of brute strength rather than skill and Celedorn surprised her
by refusing the contest. Deftly, he disengaged his sword and in the same fluid
movement, flashed his blade above Hydar’s. If his opponent had not leapt back
with almost instantaneous reflexes, he would have lost his life. As it was, the
point of Celedorn’s sword ripped across the shoulder of his shirt and blood
began visibly to seep from the wound.

 Hydar gave a cry and looked startled, but he was no
coward, and soon shrugged it off.

  “It’s just superficial,” murmured Dorgan, “it won’t
slow him down, not yet.”

 They began to circle each other again. Both were
tall, powerful men but as she watched each attack and counter attack, each blow
received and parried, Elorin realised that Celedorn was the faster and more
cunning swordsman. Sometimes he feinted to left or right, throwing Hydar off
balance before delivering his real attack. Hydar was strong and swung the heavy
weapon at Celedorn with terrifying force, but his technique was rather like a
farmer felling a tree. Celedorn took the blows on the edge of his sword,
angling his own blade to deflect them, depriving them of much of their power.
His movements were swift and poised, but he expended no unnecessary energy and
still contrived to look provokingly calm. His opponent, on the other hand, was
sweating. The torchlight glittered on the beads of perspiration standing on his
forehead and his red-gold hair and beard were darkened with sweat.

  No one in the hall said anything. Elorin had
expected the men to call encouragement to whoever they supported, but all that
went on was watched in morbid silence. She scanned the hard faces of the men
below and saw no emotion, other than a vulture-like interest in who should win.

  Celedorn’s greater experience soon proved its
worth, for he wounded his opponent again, this time on the thigh.

  Everyone in the hall knew at that moment that Hydar
would not win. Indeed, there were times when it looked as if Celedorn was only
toying with him. Suddenly, as if deciding that it was time to finish the
matter, Celedorn gripped the heavy sword with both hands and struck such a blow
against his opponent’s blade that Hydar staggered back under the force of it.
Another and another swept down. Hydar retreated before them, struggling to put
up a defence. Finally, a blow fell with such shattering force, that it knocked
Hydar’s weapon clean out of his hands. His chest was heaving, his face dripping
with perspiration and his shirt stained with blood. For a moment he looked
wonderingly at his empty hands, then slowly he sank on one knee.

  Celedorn stood before him, his feet planted apart,
his sword poised, the torchlight highlighting his disfigured face. Hydar looked
up at him.

 “I submit, Celedorn.” he said.

 “It is too late for that,” was the harsh reply. The
blade glittered as it rose. Elorin swiftly closed her eyes, but she could not
stop her sense of hearing. The heavy, sickening sound of the blow, told her the
blade had found its mark. Against her will, she looked downwards in time to see
Celedorn withdraw his sword from his opponent’s neck and wipe it casually on
the clothes of his fallen enemy. Hydar’s head was almost severed from his body
and a dark tide of blood was flooding across the stone flags. Elorin turned
away, sickened to her soul, quite certain for the first time that she hated
him. 

  Over the next few days she saw little of Celedorn.
Most of her time was spent with Dorgan in the warm kitchen, watching him
bustling about, preparing meals, lending what help she could.

 The fight had been mentioned only once between them
and had been the sole source of discord in their otherwise blossoming
friendship. Dorgan had asked her if she condemned Celedorn for what he had
done. She suspected the question was asked in order to give Dorgan the
opportunity to defend him, nevertheless, her reply was swift and unequivocal.

  “I hate him,” she replied in a low, intense voice.
“I hate his cruelty. Hydar acknowledged he was beaten and Celedorn showed him
no mercy. He’s nothing but a ruthless killer.”

 Dorgan raised his brows. “I didn’t know you were so
fond of Hydar.”

  “I wasn’t, but he was a human being. He admitted
his defeat and all he got was the edge of Celedorn’s sword.”

 But Dorgan was not impressed. “Don’t be foolish,” he
reprimanded her. “If their positions had been reversed, Celedorn would have
received no mercy and expected none. He must show no weakness in front of the
men. Do you not realise that the challenge arose directly as a result of the
fact that Celedorn has let you live?”

  “And why is that, do you think?” she asked
sarcastically. “Has he suddenly been overcome with kindness? No, he keeps me
alive because he thinks he might have a use for me. He once made some remark to
the effect that Prince Andarion’s conscience could be used against him.”

 Dorgan didn’t argue with her but merely shook his
head and remarked enigmatically: “I have known Celedorn a very long time.”

 She was silent for a moment, not quite sure what the
remark was intended to convey. Dorgan went on peeling vegetables as if the
conversation was over, but finally she said: “How did he get those scars,
Dorgan?”

  He looked up, momentarily surprised. “If Celedorn
wants you to know then.......”

  “........then no doubt he will tell me himself.
Yes, I know how the formula runs, but tell me one thing, was he born with
them?”

  He hesitated before replying. “No, he wasn’t born
with them but he’s had them a long time.”

 The topic of their conversation gratified Elorin by
continuing to stay remote from her, but a few days after the conversation had
taken place, when she was passing his apartments on her way to be locked up in
her cold prison for the night, the door opened and the ruthless killer himself
appeared before her. If he was surprised by the encounter, he gave no sign of
it but merely dismissed Dorgan and signalled to her to come into the room. She
obeyed, her heart already thumping, her legs annoyingly wobbly.

 The corridor outside had been dark but when he
turned to face her in the candlelight of the room, she realised that something
had changed. His ragged, jet-black beard had gone and he was
clean-shaven.  

 As usual, when surprised, she said the first thing
that came into her head.

 “Your beard has gone!”

 She saw a flicker of amusement cross his face but he
answered sardonically: “Your powers of observation do you credit. No doubt you
were going to tell me that I am now quite as handsome as your prince.”

 She gasped in surprise, unsure whether it was safe
to laugh or not, and decided to err on the side of caution. On receiving no
response, he gestured to her to sit in one of the battered leather chairs by
the fire and took the one facing her. She sat on the extreme edge, every muscle
tense, not at all reassured by being thrown off balance so easily. Subjected
yet again to one of his intimidating silences, she remarked: “You shouldn’t let
your beard grow again, it only.....” she halted abruptly, almost falling victim
once more to her most prevalent trait. But with his usual uncanny knack, he
knew exactly what she had been going to say.

 “......it only makes matters worse,” he finished for
her. “Looking in a mirror is not such a pleasure for me that I would do it
every day.”

 The bitterness in his tone was patent, even to
someone who did not know him well. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of
sympathy. However, this was instantly dispelled when the vision of him standing
over Hydar’s body with bloodied sword, arose unbidden to her mind. The
conversation had dwindled again into silence, but not an awkward one this time.
He was staring into the fire, his booted legs stretched out before him,
negligently crossed at the ankles, his gaze on some distant place far beyond
the tendrils of flame that danced along the edges of the logs.

  Free, for once, of his intimidating gaze, she
observed him, wondering if his unpredictability would always disconcert her.
She had come into the room expecting threats, mockery, even violence but
instead he was sitting relaxed in his chair, the firelight reflected in his
pupils, in a not uncompanionable silence.

  Seduced by the warmth of the fire and the
relatively benign atmosphere, little by little her tension eased. She leaned
back in her chair. The slight movement appeared to interrupt his reverie, for
without lifting his gaze from the fire, he addressed her:

 “The King of Eskendria will today have received a
message about you. He now knows you are still alive and if he wishes that state
of affairs to continue, he will not attack me again.”

 “Do you think I am so valuable to him that your
message will have any effect?”

 He looked up. “You had better hope so. In actual
fact, I rely on the Prince to plead my cause for me. You risked your life for
him, the least he can do is try to preserve it. He is, after all, a man of
honour.”

 “The Prince owes me nothing. As I told you before, I
owed him a great debt. I was only repaying it.”

  He raised his brows incredulously. “You mean, the
fact that he saved you from a lynching party?”

 She cast an exasperated look at him. “Is there
anything that goes on that you
don’t
  know about?”  

 He smiled suddenly, showing even, white teeth, but
his scars rendered the smile a little lopsided. “Ravenshold survives by more
than mere military might. Some of my men were in that crowd. They observed your
gallant Prince’s rescue bid. Is that the reason he brought you with him?”

  “Yes, although he ended up taking along more
unwanted baggage than he would have wished. Relisar and Princess Illiana also
insisted on coming. He was adamant that his sister should not go, it was too
dangerous, but his father overruled him. He always gives her what she wants.”
She sighed. “It is strange to think, that if he had not, I would not be sitting
here.”

 “Quite. The presence of the Princess was a stroke of
good fortune for me. Ravenshold could not have long withstood those siege
engines that the Prince so laboriously hauled over the mountains.”

 Her eyes flew open in surprise.

 “Oh yes,” he confirmed, grimly noting her
astonishment. “I knew. Your Prince is not a fool but he is overly burdened by
his own noble character.”

 “You, however, have no such burdens.” The words were
out of her before she could stop them. She tensed again, but once more he
proved his unpredictability. A look of appreciation crossed his features,
nonetheless he instantly retaliated.

 “In a way, it’s a pity for you that he is so
universally noble. No doubt you took his gallantry and kindness as meaning
something more particular than it did. You didn’t actually think that he could love
a nobody like you?”

 The cruelty of the remark instantly halted any
thawing in her attitude towards him. Her anger was instant, but so also was her
hurt. Yet, she was acute enough to know that she was being baited and that only
an unexpectedly honest reply might disconcert him.

 She looked at the ground while he waited for her
reply.

 “No, I didn’t,” she managed to answer in a
constricted voice. “He embodies everything that I admire but my admiration is
from a distance. He never knew and I will never tell him. All I could do was to
save him pain.”

 She looked up, her eyes a little misty, and for a
split second surprised a very unexpected look on his face. It was hard to put a
name to it, but it was not harsh. In an instant it was gone and he was his usual
mocking self.

 “Such saintliness overwhelms me.” 

 She leaned her chin on her hand, regarding him
reflectively. “I just don’t understand you.”

 He gave her a wolfish smile. “Neither do my enemies.
That’s why they have never defeated me.”

Farther to the east, where the snow lay but lightly on the
streets of Addania, a father and son faced each other in anger. For the first
time in his life the King was finding his dutiful eldest son intractable.

 “I forbid it, Andarion,” the King uttered in
well-practiced tones of finality. “Your sentiments do you credit but we must
accept our losses and move on.”

 Andarion flung away from his father and crossed the
room to stare out at the neat, snow-dusted lawns. Dewdrops on a spider’s web in
the corner of the window had frozen like a net of crystal beads and every bush
was stiff and brittle with frost. The Prince stood in silence for a moment,
striving for mastery of his emotions. The King, mistaking his silence for
sullenness, tried again.