The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) by R.J. Grieve

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