The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (51 page)

 “He is unconscious,”
said Andarion. “We have not a moment to lose.”

 By the time they
reached the gate, the sun was sinking fast and its last rays turned the walls
of the monastery to purest gold. It had obviously been raining there earlier in
the day, for the ground smelt damp and earthy. Tendrils of steam drifted like
phantoms into the summer air and the trees occasionally dropped crystal beads
of water. Relisar fell out of the saddle and hammered with his fist on the
gate. A small hatch at head height opened and a voice said:  “Who troubles
the Brotherhood of the Flower?”

 “I am Relisar, of the
Brotherhood of the Book. One of my companions has been grievously wounded by
the Turog and needs your help.”

 “Wait here,” the voice
replied. “I must ask permission of the Master of our Order.”

 “There’s no time!”
Elorin wailed. “The arrow was poisoned. If you don’t help us immediately, he
will die!”

 The speaker hesitated
for a moment, then slammed shut the hatch. They heard the sound of heavy bolts
being drawn back and slowly the gate began to swing open.

 It revealed a courtyard
surrounded by buildings. Several of the brothers, dressed in long white robes
like Relisar’s, came hurrying up and helped lower Celedorn from his horse.

 “Send for the Master!”
the Gatekeeper called and helped his brethren to carry the unconscious man into
the building.

 They followed the
brothers down a long passage into a large, airy bedroom. The white wall facing
the door was pierced by two tiny, pointed windows which stood on either side of
a large wooden bed. The windows gave a glimpse of an orchard sheltering behind
the monastery wall, now glowing with the last, quiet gold of the departing sun.
A wooden chest sat beneath one of the windows and a tall chest of drawers stood
against the wall by the door.

 With some effort, the
brothers managed to get Celedorn onto the bed. Another monk came in with his
possessions and propped his sword, encased in its black scabbard, against the
wall. Celedorn appeared to revive a little once he was lying down. He opened
his eyes.

 “Where am I?” he asked
faintly.

 “You are in the
Monastery of the White Brotherhood,” one of the monks replied kindly. “The Master
is on his way and will do all he can do to help you.” He turned to the two
women. “You must leave now, until we get him undressed and into bed.”

 Triana and Elorin
retreated to the corridor and sat down on a wooden bench outside. Elorin’s head
was in her hands. “This is my fault,” she whispered miserably. “This is all my
fault. He is always so watchful, so alert but I distracted him with that
stupid,
stupid
argument. If.....if he dies, it will be because of me.”

 Triana said nothing but
gently put her hand on her friend’s bowed head, the tears running down her
face.

 A moment later, the
door opened and Relisar looked out. He beckoned to them to come in. The
blood-soaked clothes had been removed and Celedorn lay in the large bed, a cool
white sheet drawn up to his waist. The ugly wound was exposed and was still
sluggishly bleeding. Elorin noticed that the skin around the wound had a grey
tinge to it, in marked contrast to the tanned, healthy skin of his other
shoulder.

 Footsteps sounded in
the corridor outside and the door opened to admit a tall, clean-shaven man with
a mass of fluffy white hair. His face was lean and aquiline and his eyes as
blue as a mountain lake. He wore the same long white robe as the others, but
the broad sleeves were embroidered with many chalice flowers in blue and silver
thread.

 “I am Master Galendar
of the Order of the Flower,” he said in a low, pleasant voice.

 Relisar bowed before
him. “I am Relisar of the Order of the Book. My companion here was wounded by a
poisoned Turog arrow. I beg your help on his behalf.”

 The Master crossed the
room to stand beside Celedorn and for several moments looked down silently at
him. Celedorn’s eyes were closed again and he seemed to have relapsed into a
state of semi-unconsciousness. Occasionally he groaned and rolled his head. The
Master’s gaze intensified, becoming more piercing, and it seemed to the Prince
intently watching him, that he was looking beyond the surface, right into
Celedorn’s soul. Suddenly Galendar stiffened, and drew in his breath abruptly
as if he had made a discovery. He leaned forward and gently touched Celedorn’s
forehead with the tips of his fingers.

 When he drew back, he
turned sharply to Relisar. “This man must not die,” he said with quiet
vehemence. “He must at all costs be saved. I will exert all the skill I possess
on his behalf, but there is still poison in that wound. You did well, my
brother, to extract so much, but too much remains for him to fight himself.” He
turned to one of the monks nearby and gave him some low-voiced instruction.
Elorin moved forward and sat on the far side of the bed, taking Celedorn’s left
hand in her own. He did not open his eyes or respond in any way.

 The Master engaged in
quiet conversation with Relisar, shot a keen glance in her direction but said
nothing.

 The monk returned with
a tray upon which was set several bowls and phials. The Master took some white
powder from one of the phials and mixed it with some other ingredients in a
bowl until he had a white paste. Using a small wooden implement, he spread it
across the wound. Celedorn groaned softly in response. Then Galendar poised his
hand, fingers outspread, just above the wound, and began to chant some ancient
spell below his breath. Celedorn gave a gasp of pain and his back began to
arch. All in the room sensed that great power was being exerted.

 “It is causing him
pain,” Triana wept.

 The Prince moved to
her, unaware that Celedorn’s blood still stained his sleeve. “It must be done,”
he whispered. “If he is to stand any chance at all, it must be done.”

 Suddenly, the Master
released the patient from the spell and he fell back on the bed.

 “A little more has been
removed, but some has already entered his system and cannot be withdrawn. That,
he must battle himself. Tonight will see the crisis. Tonight he will have to
fight for his life.”

 The brothers were now
deftly bandaging the wound, gently raising Celedorn from the bed to pass the
rolls of linen underneath him, around his ribcage and over his shoulder.

 “You must all leave
now,” said Galendar. “One of my brothers will stay with him and I will look in
from time to time. Allow me to show you to your chambers.”

 “No,” said Elorin with
stubborn determination. “I will not leave him.”

 She looked Galendar
directly in the eyes, her face white and strained. “I cannot leave him.”

 He returned her look
for a long time. “Very well, you may stay, but be warned, his fever will mount
as the night wears on and he will very likely become delirious. Nursing him
will be no easy task.”

 “I understand.”

 “We will do all we can
to relieve his fever, but there is little else that can be done. It is now up
to him.”

 So began the worst night of
Elorin’s life. She sat on the edge of the large bed and watched him anxiously,
noting how pale and haggard his face had become, observing the grey colour
spreading down his arm. As darkness began to fall beyond the tiny, pointed
windows, one of the brothers came in with a lighted candle which he set on the
dresser. He also bore a cloth and a bowl filled with cold water. He placed his
hand briefly on Celedorn’s brow, then shook his head morosely and handed the
bowl and cloth to Elorin.

 As the daylight
declined, so Celedorn’s fever mounted. He ceased to lie at peace but began to
toss and turn fretfully. Sometimes he groaned softly and opened his eyes, but
she knew he did not see her, locked as he was in a prison of pain and fever.

 She tried to bathe his
forehead but he pushed her hand away and began to tug irritably at his
bandages. Andarion came in, just in time to restrain such behaviour and
eventually the restlessness began to subside a little. Elorin noted with
misgiving that he did not move his right arm at all. It lay on the white sheet completely
motionless and when she placed her hand upon it, it felt icy cold. Yet in
contrast, the rest of him was burning up. Sweat broke on his forehead and began
to roll in huge drops down his temples. He did not resist her now when she
placed the cool cloth on his brow, but she interpreted that as a bad sign.

 The Master looked in
twice during the night but beyond looking grave, passed no comment. Elorin
prepared her arguments against being removed from the room, but strangely he
did not suggest it. Neither did Relisar, who came and sat with her for a while.
It seemed to be taken for granted that she must stay with Celedorn for better
or worse.

 At one point during the
still summer’s night, she went and sat on the wooden chest by the open window
and looked out into the moonlit orchard. The night air was cool and scented,
and the half-moon painted the trees with a calm silver light. Faintly in the
distance, echoing along the stone corridors, she heard the sound of singing.
Male voices, remote and ethereal, chanting a litany from the Book of Light. She
recognised their song. It was the litany which gives power to those who fight
darkness, and she knew they were singing for Celedorn, to give him strength in
his battle against the evil poison now coursing through his veins.

 For hour after hour, as
the tall candle burnt lower and the moon drifted across the sky, Elorin sat
beside him, trying to impart warmth to his cold hand, trying to ignore the
black cloud of guilt that hovered persistently at the back of her mind. But it
was no use. She knew it was her fault that he lay so ill. She had distracted
him, taken his attention away from his surroundings. She knew that this time
she would never forgive herself. And as she sat there, willing him to fight the
poison in his system, willing him to live, everything fell into place in her
mind. Every argument was silenced, every doubt banished, every question
answered.

 Shortly after midnight,
he began to become delirious, wandering in his mind, talking and muttering
disjointedly. She caught Andarion’s name and her own. She heard snatches of
something about Ravenshold and the Turog, but he said only two things which she
could clearly distinguish and both were of a nature to make her very
thoughtful.

 Still the perspiration poured
off him, until his dark hair was soaked and the bandages around his chest were
damp. A fear more deadly than she had ever known engulfed her and she sank on
her knees beside the bed and prayed for him with more fervency than she had
ever prayed. Desperately, she pleaded for him with every fibre of her being. At
last, exhausted, she leaned her head on the bed, feeling the cool of the sheet
beneath her brow, aware of the soft breath of air from the open window brushing
her neck, her soul in utter agony.

 When she opened her
eyes, she discovered that she was still sitting on the floor by the bed, her
face pillowed on the covers, facing towards the door. With a sharp stab of
panic, she realised that she must have been asleep for some time, for the quiet
room was lit by the golden-pink blush of sunrise. The white wall facing the
window was flooded with trembling patterns of golden light. The room was
utterly still. Not a sound. Not a movement.

  She sat frozen,
absolutely terrified to move, terrified to lift her head and look at him,
terrified as to what she might find.

 Just then, she felt a
slight movement and his hand gently touched her hair. Her heart gave a thump
and she raised her head. He was looking at her, his grey eyes clear and his
gaze focused. His face was still haggard and weary but his forehead was dry.
She took his right hand in both her own and discovered that it was warm. The
deathly coldness had gone. A tide of relief surged over her such as she had
never known, making her feel almost faint. The skin of his right arm was no
longer grey but bore the same healthy tan as his left.

 She stared into his
eyes, utterly unable to speak, trying to convey to him with her look all that
she felt.

 Finally, in a shaky
voice she said: “It’s been a long night.”

 “Yes,” he whispered.
After a pause, he asked: “Where is this place?”

 “It is the Monastery of
the White Brotherhood.” She began to say something else, but at that moment the
door softly opened and Relisar looked in. When he saw that Celedorn’s eyes were
open, he advanced into the room with such joy on his face that he put the
morning sunlight to shame.

 Elorin quickly arose
and slipped out into the corridor before her emotions could overcome her. She
immediately encountered the Prince coming towards the room, and suddenly,
unable to bear it any longer, she burst into tears.

 His face paled with
fear and he caught her shoulders. “Oh, no! Elorin, tell me the worst has not
happened!”

 “He....he’s better,”
was all she could manage between sobs. “He’s going to be all right.”

 Andarion heaved a deep
sigh of relief. “That’s nothing to cry about.”

 “I k-know. I’m sorry,
it’s j-just the relief. I can’t help myself,” she wept.

 The Prince put his arms
comfortingly around her, now understanding the situation completely. “You love
him, don’t you?”

 He felt her nod against
his shoulder and decided to pursue the matter a little further. “It was always
him, wasn’t it? Never me.”

 “I am a blind, stupid
fool,” she declared bitterly. “I had to nearly lose him before my eyes were
opened.”

 “You must tell him.”

 “I know, but it is
going to be difficult after all that has happened.”

  Andarion was privately
of the opinion that it wouldn’t be difficult at all. “You do realise, of
course, that he has loved you for a very long time, possibly since Ravenshold.”

 “How did you know?”

 “Relisar knew.
Sometimes he can’t see what’s under his nose and other times he can be quite
astonishing.”

 He stood back from her.
“Are you all right?”

 “Yes,” she said and sat
down weakly on the bench. “Go in and see him. I’ll wait here until my face is
no longer a sorry sight.”

 Andarion entered to
find Relisar perched on a stool by the bed, warmly gripping Celedorn’s hand.

 Celedorn managed a
weary smile in response to the Prince’s greeting. “There’s a nasty rumour that
I’ll live,” he remarked tiredly. “It seems that I was born to be hung after
all.”

 “You scared the wits
out of all of us. Kindly don’t do it again,” the Prince reprimanded him. He sat
down on the edge of the bed and briefly touched his brow. “Your fever has
completely gone. You forehead is dry and cool. How do you feel?”

 “Tired.”

 “I’m not surprised. You
fought a thousand demons last night, apart from losing a great deal of blood -
and ruining my second-best shirt in the process.”

 The door opened again
to admit Triana. “Elorin says he is going to recover,” she said, before she
noticed that the patient was awake and regarding her with a touch of tired
humour.

 “We have enough people
in here to hold a market,” said Celedorn dryly, in much his usual manner.

 Andarion laughed. “When
you hear a comment like that, you can be assured that he is on the way to
recovery.”

 Triana crossed to the
bed and bent over Celedorn in concern. “How do you feel now?”

 “A little less daunting
than my usual self.”

 She flashed a smile at
him. “Not at all, for it is remarks like that which make you so daunting.”

 She saw from his
expression that he deeply appreciated the observation, but with feminine
sensitivity she also saw that he was very tired and wished to go to sleep. She
ushered the others out of the room, but before she left she said: “Elorin will
return to sit with you in a moment. I tried to persuade her to get some sleep,
now that you are out of danger, but she refused. She has been up all night with
you and would not leave you even for a moment. Perhaps you could persuade her
to get some rest and I will sit with you instead. She is looking only
marginally better than you at the moment.”

 He nodded but when
Elorin arrived a few moments later, she found that he was already asleep. She
sat for a long time watching him resting peacefully, before reaching out and
touching the warm skin of his right arm as if to reassure herself. Then wearily
she curled up beside him on the bed and fell asleep with her hand tightly
clasped around his.

 Relisar, looking in a
short time later, saw them and smiled sentimentally to himself. “She will save
him,” he whispered, “I know that she will save him.”

  Over the next number
of days his recovery did not falter. He was very easily tired and was therefore
content to accept Galendar’s decree that he must stay in bed and rest.
Galendar, in his calm and unemotional manner, was pleased with his recovery, a
little surprised by the strength with which he had fought the poison. The
diamond-shaped wound had closed over and the fever showed no signs of
recurring. He sometimes came and sat with his patient, talking quietly with
him, and to the surprise of everyone else, the wicked brigand and the gentle,
holy man appeared to enjoy one another’s company.

  Some of the brothers
came each day to change the bandages and generally attend to his needs and his
companions were constantly in and out of his room. Triana brought him a vase of
roses from the gardens and arranged them on the dresser. Relisar produced a
rather boring book from the Master’s library and the Prince would sit and chat
to him, but it was the times he spent alone with Elorin that he enjoyed the
most. She would read to him from the  Chronicles of the Old Kingdom, tales
of courage and adventure, love and sacrifice and he lay listening to her gentle
voice, as if hypnotised, watching the play of sunlight upon her hair. Day after
day, the mellow late summer sunshine shone on the little orchard outside his
window and the scent of roses filled the room. He wanted it to continue for
ever, a beautiful, impossible dream from which he had no wish to awake.
However, gradually his strength returned and when Elorin entered his room late
one morning, she found him standing looking out the window dressed in breeches
and boots. His shirt lay on the bed, ready to be worn. His back was turned to
her and the bandages were startlingly white against his tanned skin.

 “You shouldn’t be up!”
she exclaimed.

 He turned. “Galendar
said that if I felt like it, I could try my legs today. As you see, they work
fine.”

 “You shaved as well!
How did you manage that?”

 He grinned. “I bullied
one of the brothers into helping me. You see, I remembered how you so much
disliked my beard.”

 But his smile slowly
faded and he turned to the window again. “I can feel autumn approaching. I can
smell it in the air. I can see it in the quality of the light. Soon the leaves
will begin to turn, and high in the Westrin Mountains the first snows will
fall.” He sighed. “We must soon be moving on. Andarion has been very patient.”

 Elorin sighed too. “I
don’t want to leave this place.”

 “Neither do I. I have
been happier here than anywhere else I can remember.”

 “Even despite being
ill?”

 “Even so.”

 All at once she knew
that the time had come. She had been unable to speak to him of her feelings,
finding, for some illusory reason, that the moment had never been quite right.
Always, just when she seemed on the point of screwing up her courage, she found
herself at a loss to know how to begin. She, too, had been content to hide from
reality, caught up in some kind of idyllic existence that did not extend beyond
the sunlit room. Now she knew that she must speak, but she chose to go about it
in an oblique way.

 Drawing a deep breath
she said quietly: “Why did you lie to me, Celedorn?”