The Forest of Peldain

Vorduthe felt shame. He had led his men into a trap.

Before he could reply, another voice called out.

“That man must be kept apart from the others!”

It came from Mistirea. Vorduthe raised his eyes and saw four figures descending the staircase. The High Priest was pointing to Vorduthe, and Octrago was by his side.

With them was a man very advanced in years who stepped carefully with the aid of a stick, watched over by an accompanying servant. He wore a robe of a glowing lilac color laced with silver, more sumptuous than anything Vorduthe had yet seen in Arelia. The skin of his face was like bone bleached and weathered on the beach. Yet except for its age, even taking national likeness into account, it was remarkably like Octrago’s.

The four stopped a few steps from the floor. There was a sudden silence, and the guards paused in their work to bow to the old man, who inspected everything with a kind of bewildered interest.

Vorduthe would have expected a roar of rage from the seaborne warriors at the entrance of Octrago. Instead they were as still as statues, and as silent, only their eyes betraying their feelings.

“This trap has been well laid,” Vorduthe announced loudly. “Your talent for treachery now becomes evident, Askon Octrago—tell me, is this your cousin Kestrew, the false king we were to turn off the throne? If so, why are we prisoners and you are not?”

The old man gave a puzzled look to Octrago, who twisted his mouth in a cynical smile.

“There is no cousin Kestrew,” he told Vorduthe. He sounded almost sad. “That was a tale I spun to serve my purpose. But as for treachery, I want you to understand that everything I have done I did for the sake of my country. And since you ask, you see before you King Kerenei, undisputed monarch of Peldain—whose eldest son I am.”

Vorduthe’s head swam with this news. “Korbar was right all along,” he muttered. “Everything has been lies.…”

“Nearly everything.”

For the first time the old king spoke, quaveringly. “Askon, what should be done with these strangers?”

Octrago did not reply instantly. He looked pensively at Vorduthe, who held the gaze, and it seemed that his supercilious expression softened slightly.

“They must all be put to death, father; and immediately. Perhaps I could wish it otherwise, but they are hopeful fools whom I have led a long way from home and used to good purpose. They will be dangerous to us while they live.”

Were it not for the guards who held him Vorduthe would have hurled himself at Octrago’s throat, but instead it was Mistirea who intervened. He swept past Octrago, pointing to Vorduthe.

“If you kill this man, Peldain dies with him!”

“The High Priest suddenly develops a conscience,” Octrago said caustically. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Give the order now, father, before my nerve breaks too.”

Mistirea addressed himself imploringly to Kerenei. “Will no one listen to me? I am High Priest of the Lake no longer!”

“This is preposterous,” Octrago drawled. “Father, I did not go through unimaginable trials just to have our High Priest prove obstinate now. These are desperate times and if he will not cooperate—force him!”

“You may torture me unto death,” Mistirea said calmly. “It will make no difference. Peldain is doomed unless my successor can be found. Why, when I retired to the mountains, could you find no one to take my place? It is because there is no Peldainian able and worthy to fill the role, and if providence had not sent us new blood the Cult of the Lake would have died with me. This I have known for a long time.”

He turned, pointing his-finger at Vorduthe again. “This man is your new High Priest. There can be no other.” He cast darting glances around him. “Who will gainsay me? You, Prince Askon? Do you have mental insight, to look into a man and tell whether he has the power of communion? Yes, you have impossible bravery and extraordinary resourcefulness too—but you are not an initiate of the cult.”

King Kerenei’s look of incredulity had become more and more pained. He stamped his stick on the stair. “Enough! I can take no more! After all this time my son, whom I had thought lost on a gallant but hopeless enterprise, has returned to me. He has succeeded beyond all our dreams, and still matters are not right! I cannot bear it!” He turned to mount the stairs. “Askon, look into this matter. Mistirea’s knowledge must be our guide.”

“As you say, Father.”

While the King took his leave Octrago, author of Vorduthe’s misfortunes, sauntered to him. Despite himself he was evidently intrigued by what Mistirea had said.

Vorduthe spoke stiffly. “Whatever you want from me will not be forthcoming if a single one of my men is harmed.”

“You are quick to seize a scrap of advantage.…” Octrago fingered the hilt of the upward-pointing Arelian sword he still wore. A hint of friendliness returned to his manner. “Well, we shall see what transpires.”