Chapter 45
Yaret spent the afternoon with Durba, endeavouring to create some feeling of normality by involving her in mundane tasks. The Riders had pitched camp to the south of the ruined town: although less well-sheltered than the Kelvhan company’s quarters, their camping-ground was dry and flat. Not too far from the tents stood huddled groves of trees, handy for collecting firewood, while a couple of thin streams trickled past close by.
At one of these streams, they cleaned their gear and washed out a few clothes. Durba seemed fully able to do these tasks, though to Yaret’s carefully undemanding comments she made no reply except an occasional stammering assent. She was still trembling at times but not as badly as she had been on the battlefield.
Yaret was reminded of Renna’s muteness on her first arrival in Obandiro, which had seemed to her a reasonable response to the horrors that the girls had gone through. Renna had been cured – if that was the right word – by Anneke’s arrival; so Yaret hoped that the gentle familiarity of their activities now would help Durba in the same way.
“Shall we go and gather some wood for the cooking fires?” she suggested. “Do the other Riders a favour. We won’t have to go far: we’ll try that nearest copse.”
Durba nodded; so they rode together to the copse a mere half-mile to the east, taking Helba with them as an additional pack-horse. It was a relief to turn their faces away from the churned-up battle-plain.
When they reached the trees they found them to be mostly spindly ash and willow, with young hazel muscling its vigorous way through to sprout its robust, rounded leaves; and here and there were delicate bower-bushes, already in flower though not in leaf. All was peaceful but for a lone thrush, repeating each inquiring phrase before trying out another, and the hum of bees investigating the creamy blossom of the bower-bushes, enlivened by the sun.
The subtle intricacies of the natural world continued here as if a hundred miles from battle or from stonemen. They could stroll in airy ease. There was plenty of dead wood lying around, and as they bent to gather sticks, it seemed to Yaret that Durba was relaxing at long last.
Were faraway stonewomen doing their own harvesting and gathering, she wondered? Somebody must do it, after all. Would the women too have stones set in their heads?
No – don’t think about the stonemen or the war. Here is enough. An early butterfly in jerky, eager flight. A fastidious kirrfinch gathering twigs for nest-building; old nests hiding there in the matted bushes. And those white lilies, arched and bowed as if they’re praying underneath the trees… I know those, don’t I? Springbells. Oh, that sweetness.
It made her heart lurch. The thin, sweet perfume of the lilies took her straight back to Obandiro, to the edges of the Bander woods, the lilies pale against the green: and she felt a sudden, rather dreadful surge of homesickness; a tenderness just on the wrong side of joy, the wrong side of memory.
She stood up abruptly with a gasp. That emotion. That was it. That was the sudden flash of feeling that had come from the imprisoned darkburn.
Not quite homesickness, but something close. Regret. A sort of longing.
“A… a… a…?”
Yaret realised that she was standing with her mouth open.
“I’m all right,” she said, “just thinking about supper,” and she picked up her pile of brushwood to load it on to Helba’s back. The bigger chunks they threw into sacks to be carried by the other horses.
“It’s a nice spot,” she commented as they secured the load. “Did you see those springbells?”
Durba nodded.
“And we’ve done well here. The Riders should be grateful: we’ve saved them all a job.”
“Yes.”
A whole word. That was progress. But Yaret, deciding it would be wiser not to take much notice of it, said only, “We should head home now.”
As they led the horses back towards the camp they could see the returning pairs of Riders scattered across the marches. Yaret hoped that they had all come back safely, and strained her eyes to check. Beyond the Riders, she could make out the men of Melmet on their smaller horses, also returning to their own camp: there was Jerred, and that must be Inthed riding alongside him. She had been surprised at Inthed’s decision to continue this far with the army, and had said so to Jerred the previous day.
“He’s got debts,” Jerred had replied succinctly. “Nobody waiting for him in Gostard apart from a load of disgruntled tradesmen.”
“Ah.” She had reflected that Inthed did not lack for courage: although a turnip-head, he was not a coward. “But you’ve got a wife and family waiting for you, Jerred. What are you still doing here?”
Jerred had merely shrugged. “Same as you. My wife knows me. I’ve sent word home: my sons are old enough to look after the business for a while.”
Jerred, she thought now, was surely an old soldier reawakened to the lure of battle. While she was musing about what previous campaigns he might have fought in, there was a wordless cry from Durba.
“Ah!”
“What?” She turned round. Durba was a dozen yards behind her, staring at something next to Yaret.
Or rather, staring at nothing next to her. Yaret had the impression that an instant earlier there had been a small figure standing within touching distance of her feet. Now there was only a dead stump.
“Oh! It’s a lin,” she exclaimed, in a mixture of pleasure and bewilderment, because she had not seen a lin for so long now. This was the first one since she had arrived at Melmet. But ever since then, her mind had been on other things. However, this quiet, shrubby countryside was certainly the right sort of landscape for lins, when it wasn’t full of army.
“We need to say the rhyme,” she added, and duly recited it first in Standard and then in Bandiran. Not that a lin out here would understand Bandiran: even so, it was only courteous. Durba was looking baffled.
“You know about lins?” asked Yaret.
“Hob.” Another word. Yaret gave a silent cheer.
Then she explained about the lin’s grace and the difference between lins and hobs and woodwones, while they walked back to the camp where the tired Riders were now milling around. They took the laden horses over to where Rothir and Parthenal’s companies had pitched their tents and were stripping off their war gear.
“Ah,” said Theol, “firewood, and plenty of it too. That’s a welcome sight.”
“How did it go out there?”
“Clean as a whistle,” said Theol. “I think we got all the stragglers. Some of the stoneman troops might have escaped further west, but not many. I don’t think they’ll bother us now. Huldarion ought to be pleased.” He looked over to Huldarion, who was striding towards them.
It was impossible to tell if Huldarion were pleased or not. His face was like carven stone.
“Rothir,” he said. “On whose authority did you tell Leor to raise that darkburn for the Kelvhans?”
Rothir looked up and dropped his leather breastplate to the ground.
“On my own authority,” he said. “But I thought it was probably what you would have wanted.”
“On the contrary. I would not have wanted it at all. Why didn’t you send word to ask me first?”
“It would have taken too long. Commander Rhadlun was impatient.”
“And so were you. You should have refused him,” said Huldarion.
“And incurred his displeasure?” Rothir asked. “He was already implying that to refuse would mean that we were enemies to Kelvha. Or that Leor was, at least.”
“Better that Leor should appear an enemy of Kelvha than become their plaything – their pet wizard, that they can order to do as they like.” Yaret became aware that despite his impassive expression, Huldarion was extremely angry. Although he did not raise his voice, his tone was withering.
Rothir looked him full in the face, his own expression as stern and inscrutable as his chief’s. They were of a height, and while Rothir was the broader, Huldarion had a whipcord toughness which seemed accentuated by his scars.
“I hardly think that that will happen,” said Rothir evenly.
“You hardly think at all. You should have stayed out of the matter and taken Leor with you.”
“To be fair,” Yaret put in, “it seems Leor had already told the Kelvhans that he could get the darkburn out.” Huldarion turned on her a look which made her wish she hadn’t spoken. She lowered her eyes to the ground.
“It is not only that you have now given Kelvha a hold on Leor,” said Huldarion. “You have given them a darkburn. What do you think that they intend to do with it, Rothir?”
“To study it, they said. I can see no harm in that. It could even be useful.”
“They certainly intend to use it.” Huldarion’s voice was low and steely. “They intend to use it as a weapon. And possibly an instrument of torture: so Commander Rhadlun implied when he told me about the captive darkburn just now. Rhadlun is most content. I am not.”
There was silence for a moment. “I apologise,” said Rothir.
“And so you ought.” Huldarion turned on his heel and stalked away. There was silence all around them for a moment until Parthenal let out a long, loud breath, and the others began to talk in muted voices: not about darkburns, but about carefully neutral subjects like their supper.
“Where do you want the wood?” said Yaret after a few seconds.
“Anywhere,” said Rothir. He was staring into space. Then he recalled himself. “No, put it behind that tent.”
“I think they would have got Leor to raise the darkburn anyway,” she said tentatively. “With or without your permission.”
“Maybe. But I should not have sanctioned it.”
“If Leor hadn’t done it, the Kelvhans would most likely have gone back later with more horses and found a way to pull the darkburn out themselves.”
At that Rothir looked at her. “You don’t need to make excuses for me. The point is that I authorised it. And now Huldarion has to pretend to Kelvha that he’s happy with it, because he cannot be seen to have had his wishes over-ridden by an underling.”
“Perhaps somebody could go over to their camp at night and let the darkburn out,” she suggested. “Pretend it escaped by itself.”
“Are you out of your mind?” demanded Rothir. “Let a darkburn loose on the camp? It won’t just go romping home over the hills, you know.”
“No. Silly idea.” Somehow she had thought that it would. That was what came of singing to the captive darkburn, ascribing to it feelings that she doubtless had projected on to it – imagining that it had any purpose beyond the need to burn and kill.
As for keeping a darkburn as an instrument of torture: that had never occurred to her. It didn’t bear thinking about.
“If the Kelvhans are prepared to use a darkburn as a weapon, or for torture,” she said, “then Huldarion should not be willing to enter into an alliance with them.”
“If we were willing only to ally ourselves with those whose ideas exactly match our own,” said Parthenal with a grim smile, “we would end up very lonely. And we would have no chance of winning back Caervonn.”
In that case, maybe Caervonn would be better left un-won, she thought.
But that was not something she could say. So she stacked up two-thirds of the firewood behind the tent whilst saying nothing.
“Who is the rest of the wood for?” asked Theol.
“Melmet. I’ll go back and camp with them tonight. I want to keep myself in their good books,” she told him.
“Ah! Including the ones you’d like to swear at?” remarked Parthenal. She shrugged. “So, you ally yourselves to those who don’t share all your values. Why is that, I wonder?”
“Gratitude,” said Yaret. At a touch on her shoulder, she turned round.
It was Durba. She was holding out the two stones Yaret had asked her to look after. Yaret had forgotten them entirely.
“Yours,” she said.
Another word. That made three. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Pocketing the stones she gave Durba a brief hug, and the others a formal salute – as her superiors in command – before she led away her pair of horses.
Poda and Helba: two different worlds, she thought, yet they manage to work together. The worlds of Melmet and the Vonn.
But neither of them is from my world. Mine is the world of donkeys, quiet and slow. A shrubby nowhere, with a few springbells. The world of lins. And darkburns.
Where did that thought come from? She put it aside.