The Sword of Aradel (7 page)

“Maybe you're not old enough yet.”

“That could be. It does take lots of power, especially for someone like myself. I mean, it's natural for me to be visible, so I have to manage it just opposite from the way Nysa does. Anyway, I—I'd feel a lot better about going after the true sword if I could vanish easily whenever I wanted to, the way Cerid could.”

“Sure, it would be a help,” he admitted. “But the main thing is to get to wherever it is. What I don't understand is why you think Brother Benedict can help us. You need a formula—but what does he know about it?”

“He knows how to cast a spell,” she said quietly.

“A—a spell?” He stared at her.

“Yes. A spell. He's very skilled at it.”

“But how is casting a spell going to produce the formula?”

“If he can put Nysa under a spell, he can send her mind over to—to where Cerid has gone and get the formula direct from her.”

He stared at her again, incredulously. “Why, I—I never heard of such a thing!”

“There's much you haven't heard of,” she retorted, giving a faint sniff. “Uncle Benedict was rather lax in your education. Anyway,” she admitted, “Nysa is afraid it won't work. No one has ever put a spell on one of the Dryads. After all, we do have very peculiar minds.”

“You certainly do have,” he affirmed. “Now suppose Nysa's right, and a spell won't work with her. What then?”

“But it's
got
to work!” she wailed. “It's just
got
to!”

Brian sighed and rubbed his jaw in doubt, then studied her curiously out of the corner of his eye. With her little-girl looks and grown-up mind, her golden braids and changeable green eyes—slanting green eyes that could be full of mischief one moment, or brimming with tears or blazing with rage the next—she was the strangest person he had ever known.

Finally he asked, “What was this trouble you were going to tell me about?”

With the question, her mood changed on the instant. Suddenly she gave one of her gay little laughs. “The news is out about you! Sir Brian, how would you like to become a nobleman?”

Something in him recoiled at the thought. “I'd rather be myself,” he retorted. “Don't forget, my father was a woodcutter. Only hours ago I was a stableboy, until you knighted me—and I still think you were having fun at my expense. Anyway, knights earn their rank—but not those born with titles. They're all so—so worthless. The abbey school was full of that sort. Spoiled and rotten! They called themselves my betters, and I despised them all!”

“Oh, dear me!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “Then you don't want to become a nobleman?”

“No! I just want to be myself.”

She sniffed. “That's really too bad. Because already the peasants are going quite wild about you. All they can talk about is the stableboy at St. Martin's who cracked Rupert's pate, and left Aradel without a ruler. La-de-de! Their leaders are having a secret meeting right now in the woods behind the village. They think you've got truly marvelous powers—already they're calling you a count or something. They're willing to march on Rondelaine immediately if you'll lead them!”

His jaw dropped.

“Well?” she said, something devilish glinting in her eyes.

“Is this the truth?” he demanded.

“As heaven is my witness, Sir Brian. I got it straight from Uncle Benedict, who is there talking to them now.” She shook her head in mock sadness. “And still you don't want to be a nobleman?”

“Never! But tell your uncle I'd lead them this very evening if I had the true sword—which we must have for victory—and that they can count on me the moment I get it.”

Her laugh tinkled again. “He's already told them that, Sir Brian. And he's busy begging them to hold off for at least two days while they gather more men. By that time you'll have the sword.”

“Two days,” he muttered. “Can we really find the sword and be back by then?”

“It didn't take Cerid any time to hide it.” Then she caught her breath. “We can surely find it if—if Nysa gets the formula for us this evening.”

“Where is she now?”

“Waiting for him at one of our landing points at the edge of the village. She ought to be able to bring him here in just a little while.”

He grunted and rubbed his knuckles across his jaw. The hint of deviltry, he noticed, was still in her eyes.

“What is it about me that amuses you so?” he asked finally.

“Oh, I was just thinking what a silly goose you are!”

“A goose, am I?”

“Of course! Imagine a peasant not wanting to be a nobleman!” She rolled her eyes. “For if you were one—though I'd prefer one truly born, in spite of what you said about them—you'd be able to marry me when I'm older. But naturally,” she added smugly, “I cannot marry too far beneath my station.”

“No? And what is your—your station?”

She sniffed and lifted one shoulder. “My father was a duke. That makes me a princess.”

“A—a princess!”

“Yes,” she said loftily. “And a highly ranking one at that. For I am destined, in due time, to become queen of Aradel.”

He managed to close his jaws with a snap to keep from gaping at her. Suddenly he said accusingly, “You're just like a cat with a mouse! Always having fun at my expense! Can't you be serious with me? And—and truthful?”

On the instant her expression changed. “I'm sorry, Sir Brian. You are very important to me, and if I didn't like you, I wouldn't tease you. Look at me! What do you see?”

He stared at her. All hint of mischief had left her face. It startled him to realize she was extraordinarily pretty.

“I—I see a—” he began.

“You see a little girl,” she interrupted. “But inside I am old. I was born with knowledge it will take you more long years to learn. Some of the things I know are hard to live with—especially now. But when I tease you and have fun, they—they're easier to bear.”

She paused, and said slowly, “I really am a ranking princess, and it is quite true that I am destined to become the queen—but only if I survive until my next birthday.” She raised her green eyes and looked steadily at him. “Can you guess when it is?”

He swallowed, for it suddenly hit him. “Don't tell me it's two days from now!”

“Yes. At this very hour. Two days from now, at this hour, either we will return from our search, bringing the true sword—or—or we will be dead.”

“No!”

“Yes, Sir Brian. We cannot escape our fate, whatever it is. And your fate, strange to say, is closely bound with mine.”

For a while he could only stare at her, unable to speak. Finally he stammered, “Then—then you must know all about me! E-everything!”

“Yes.”

“E-even my destiny?”

“As much of it as I know of mine.”

He ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips. “Then—then tell me—”

Before he could finish—and it was only one of a dozen questions that had been burning for answers—she gave a little cry of relief and sprang abruptly to her feet.

“They're here!”

Brian had heard nothing, but when he rose and turned he saw the burly figure of Brother Benedict approaching in the passageway. Nysa, a vague shimmering at his side, took form as they entered the room.

A big hand clasped Brian fondly on the shoulder. It was a brief touch, for the monk's face was tired and more than usually grim. “It is all arranged,” he said. “We have two days. And because time is so short, every minute is precious. But first, before we go to work, let us give thanks to the Almighty for this moment when the four of us are at last together, and ask for His help in what lies ahead.”

They bowed their heads while Brother Benedict gave a short prayer. Afterward he told Nysa to sit at the table, and ordered Merra to bring ink, quills, some pieces of vellum to write upon, and a candle. The candle was placed in the center of the table, and Brian and Merra were told to sit on one side and carefully record everything Nysa said.

When all was ready, the monk glanced at Merra and ordered quietly, “Light the candle, my dear.”

Merra reached across the table, passed a small hand over the candle, and snapped her fingers. A point of flame rose from the wick.

Now Brother Benedict settled his sturdy bulk on a bench and faced Nysa across the table. “Look directly at the candle,” he told her. “Do not take your eyes from it or think of a thing.”

Brian, watching curiously, wondered what would happen next. Was this how one was placed under a spell? Somehow he had expected something quite different.

“You are going to sleep,” Brother Benedict was saying softly to Nysa, his voice as soothing as Brian had ever heard it. “Your eyes are getting heavy. You cannot keep them open. You are going to sleep. Sleep … Sleep …”

Nysa's eyes were closed now. Her delicate body relaxed, and her breathing became slower and deeper. She began to fade, slowly.

“You are going beyond the candlelight,” Brother Benedict continued. “Into the world where Cerid went. When you reach it, call to Cerid, and she will come to you.”

Nysa faded completely. Out of the corner of his eye Brian caught a glimpse of Merra's taut face, her lower lip caught tightly between her teeth. They waited. The room became so quiet he could hear, high overhead, the vague movements of the great tree's gnarled old limbs in the evening breeze.

Suddenly from the empty chair across the table came a whisper of sound. All at once the invisible Nysa gave a little cry.

“Oh, Cerid! You are here!”

6

Journey at Dawn

B
RIAN WAS SCARCELY ABLE TO BELIEVE WHAT
followed. He heard only Nysa's voice, but it was a suddenly gay and laughing sound as she talked rapidly to a sister she had not seen in years. That Cerid was with her, and speaking just as fast, he had no doubt; but nothing she said was audible.

This curious meeting was interrupted by Brother Benedict. “The formula!” he said tersely. “Get it from her before your connection weakens. You haven't much time!”

As Nysa's voice changed and became questioning, the monk turned his head and said quickly, “Have your quills ready, you two. Don't miss a word—here it comes!”

It came abruptly, fast. At least it seemed fast to Brian, for he had had no experience taking dictation, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he was able to jot down the words and numbers before they escaped him. Several times Brother Benedict interrupted Nysa and called for a careful repeat. Then, as the swift seconds passed, it was evident that the connection between the sisters was weakening, for now it was Nysa who was asking for repeats, and who seemed to be finding it hard to distinguish Cerid's words.

“Get details on the sword!” Brother Benedict ordered abruptly, when Nysa's voice died. “Where did she leave it? With whom? Get the location!”

Nysa tried, but little of it seemed intelligible to Brian as he hurriedly wrote it down. Finally Nysa, whose voice seemed to be coming from a great distance, said unhappily, “It is over. Cerid is fading from me and I can no longer hear her.”

“Very well,” said Brother Benedict. “You may now return from beyond the candlelight. At the count of five you will become visible again, then you will awaken and remember all you saw and heard.”

The monk counted slowly. When he reached five, there was a sudden shimmering in the empty chair, and a sleepy Nysa appeared and opened her eyes.

She blinked at them and shook her head as if she had been dreaming, then abruptly sat up straight. “Oh!” she gasped. “Oh, dear!” Suddenly, as if vividly recalling what she had experienced, she put her slender hands over her face and cried.

“Now, now,” Brother Benedict purred, hurrying over to her and petting her as he would a child. “I'm sorry, my dear. If it wasn't absolutely necessary for you to help us, I would have blanked out your memory. I know this is hard …”

“It—it's all right, Benedict,” Nysa answered. “It was such a shock to suddenly be with Cerid and actually talk to her, then to have a sort of curtain come between us. And such a gorgeous place! Such flowers!”

“I didn't expect it to be a bog with vipers,” the monk said dryly. “Now, here's what you must do: Take Merra's quill and some vellum, and write down the formula as you remember it—and everything Cerid told you about the sword. While you are doing that, we'll be comparing our two copies.”

Merra's copy, Brian saw, was far better than his own. Both copies, however, had gaps in them, though not always in the same place. Brother Benedict placed the two copies side by side, studied them carefully, and filled in most of the doubtful spots by substituting words from one copy or the other. Finally, when Nysa finished her version of what Cerid had said, the monk used it for additional corrections.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” he told them. “We cannot be far off.”

Merra shook her head. “Uncle Benedict,” she began in a strained voice, “this isn't a formula for traveling in Aradel. One little mistake in the figures might not matter too much here—so long as we didn't have to worry about heights. But—but—don't you see? When we go after the sword, we'll be traveling through
time.”

“I do understand, Merra,” her uncle said. “The formula
must
be absolutely correct. And I'm convinced that the four of us can come up with a copy that is. It's just a matter of remembering what we heard, and carefully going over and over—”

“I—I've an idea,” Brian interrupted. “Why don't we make the most perfect copy we can, and then you place Nysa under another spell and—and send her back to Cerid for corrections?”

“There isn't time,” he was told. “What you don't realize is that it has taken a great deal of energy to contact Cerid this evening. Not only mine, but Nysa's. She's depleted. It will be another full day before she can build up reserve enough to try it again. Then it may be too late.”