Chapter 46
“You should be pleased,” said Tiburé. She studied Huldarion’s face, which she had learnt to read, to some extent at least, over the years. Was he pleased? He looked, if anything, perturbed.
“I am sure I will be pleased,” he answered coolly, “once I have had a chance to think about it.”
“It’s what you’ve been aiming for. An official invitation into Kelvha, signed by the Post-Regent Nerogun, no less – he’s the real ruler there until Faldron’s crowned High King next year. And Nerogun is proposing an alliance. I don’t know the details, naturally, but the emissary I travelled with was very keen to hint at how important his mission was. I managed to get him to give me the general outline. A marriage is offered. So they mean business.”
He nodded, absently, and then looked up at her. “And you yourself are here in what official capacity, Tiburé?”
“To see my husband, naturally. To greet him with delight and hail his part in a victorious war.”
“I’m sure Solon will be glad to see you.” He sighed. “So. We had better go and meet this emissary now. Let me smarten myself up.”
She left the tent so that he could change his clothing. Wandering around the camp, she soon found Parthenal and Solon, and greeted her husband with a nod.
“Tiburé,” he said in faint surprise. “Have they kicked you out of Kelvha?”
“No. Although I almost wish they would. Life there drives me slightly crazy. Alburé’s enjoying it, though. Or she was, until the news about Gordal arrived.”
“Yes. Poor young man,” said Solon. She waited for more, about either Gordal or their daughter; but that was it. Well, it was stupid of her to have expected anything else. A triumph of hope over experience.
“I’m on an errand here,” she said.
“Ah. So the plans are coming to fruition?”
“I hope so. Although Huldarion didn’t seem to be that thrilled to hear it. I think he was on edge.”
Solon and Parthenal exchanged glances.
“There’s been some friction,” Parthenal said, and he explained how the Kelvhans had insisted on bringing back a captive darkburn from the battlefield.
“Dear stars,” said Tiburé, “do you mean it’s in their camp? In the old town? Where I’m staying? Well, that’s just wonderful. I can see why Huldarion’s upset.”
“Annoyed, certainly,” said her husband.
“Upset,” said Tiburé firmly. “You forget what he suffered at the hands – well, not hands, the whole body – of a darkburn. What he still suffers.” She remembered how she had helped to nurse Huldarion through those early months after the fire. She had found it astonishing that he could survive the pain at all, let alone so silently, with barely a murmur or a groan. “I think his revulsion at darkburns is visceral.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done about this darkburn now,” said Solon. “Did you say you’re staying in the old town?”
“Yes, in relative luxury. I’m quartered in one of the few buildings with a roof on it.”
“I see you’re still playing the part of the fine lady.” He gestured at the long grey travelling dress.
“Fine, no – I leave that to Alburé – but lady: that’s been necessary. I must admit I’d rather have been here with you.”
Solon laughed, somewhat harshly. “You mean you’d rather have been here.”
“I’d rather have been doing my job as a Rider,” said Tiburé, “than sitting around in gilded splendour in a Kelvhan mansion.”
“Personally I feel as if I could do with some gilded splendour,” remarked Parthenal.
“Well, with any luck, some will shortly come your way.”
She left them and returned to find Huldarion ready, along with Thoronal and Aretor. She nodded her approval: for Aretor, Solon’s second in command, was just the sort of man the Kelvhans admired. Fairer than the majority of the Riders, his good looks and casually aloof air would be to their taste. Such things mattered even when dealing only with an emissary – because the emissary would report back to his master, and his master would judge the response not just from his servant’s words but from the way he said them.
The master being, in this affair, the Post-Regent Nerogun, that brusque and bullish man, whom Tiburé did not like but had come to warily respect. Although she had spoken to him only briefly, on a few formal occasions, and was sure that he had barely registered her in her “country cousin” role, she had gleaned every bit of information about him that she could. Which was surprisingly little. He had an adult daughter and a dead wife: that was about all that she could learn. Nerogun oversaw the whole country, yet kept himself close.
Now the four of them rode together over to the old town – Tiburé side-saddle, which she still disliked but had become adept at – and after handing their horses to the waiting groom entered the Kelvhan emissary’s quarters.
The commander, Rhadlun, was there already. Huldarion bowed to the Kelvhans to the appropriate degree; if he felt any frostiness towards Rhadlun over the matter of the darkburn, it did not show. Then of course, Tiburé had to leave, because this was men’s work and she had no place in it.
Outside, she smiled at the young Kelvhan groom – a motherly smile; she was too old for anything else to have any effect on him – and asked with innocent interest about the darkburn they had brought back from the battlefield. Oh, yes, he answered, they were keeping it outside the north wall. It had made a terrible clattering at times but seemed quite still now.
“I hear you could fry a steak on top of its cage,” she said.
“Fry? You could burn a steak to cinders in ten seconds. It’s that hot.”
“I wonder, could I see it? I’m so curious to know what it is that you’ve been fighting.”
The young groom was flattered; he took her ignorance for granted. He hesitated, but evidently decided there would be no harm in it. So he led her, perched delicately on her horse, past the curious glances of the Kelvhan soldiers to the north wall of the dilapidated town.
There was the iron cage, a few yards from the wall, and well away from any of the tumbledown buildings. The grass around the wheels was dark and withered, while the ground steamed slightly.
“It’s not nice,” the groom said. “It stinks. And it gives you an unpleasant feeling if you get too close.”
“Yes, I can feel that.”
“It hates us,” said the groom.
“No doubt.” Although Tiburé had no stone with which she might repel the darkburn, she asked the groom to stay back where he was while she approached a little closer. Which was not very close before the heat became too intense. The sense of fear also increased, but she found she could detach herself from that quite easily. It helped that the darkburn was imprisoned.
Somewhat strangely, this darkburn – small, indistinct, a type she’d fought quite frequently – did not hurl itself against the bars in an attempt to reach her. It stayed huddled in one corner of the cage. Perhaps it had exhausted itself. Could darkburns tire?
“Do you feed it?” she asked the young groom, almost in jest. He answered seriously.
“We gave it a bit of meat before. It didn’t even touch it before it just burnt up.”
“I see. What an extraordinary thing. You must be very brave to fight such creatures.”
“Well, it’s our duty,” said the groom, almost preening himself. She resisted the temptation to ask him how many he, personally, had killed.
She herself had killed a dozen by hacking them into small pieces. And according to Rothir, if they spent long enough underwater they might eventually die. How long that took, however, was unknown.
Would darkburns sicken and die if kept captive, as some wild animals did? She gazed at the thing, aware that she had instinctively labelled it as alive. Better to say not die but become inert. Then she studied the cage, noting the thickness of its bars – some bent and distorted – and assessing the strength of the bolts that held it in.
“I do hope it can’t escape,” she said.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. It’s safe enough. We’ll keep it in there all the way to Kelvha.”
“And what will you do with it there?”
“The Post-Regent will decide.”
Nerogun in charge of a darkburn. The idea sent a shiver down her spine.
“What a terrifying thing,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. It would be useful to know how they are made.”
“Indeed.”
“And then we could make more, to do our bidding. That’s what’s Commander Rhadlun said. Personally, I think we could use them to fire our forges.”
“I think that is an excellent idea,” she said, to conceal her horror.
“I mean, it’s nice and cosy here, isn’t it? If you can stand the smell, and the funny feelings.”
“Indeed it is.” She thanked the groom with her motherly smile and let him lead her back into the town.
Make more darkburns. What an appalling thought. But surely the Kelvhans would not be able? It would be all they could do to keep this one safe, let alone get close enough to study it… That would need wizardry, surely.
She would have to warn Leor, she thought; and Huldarion.
But when Huldarion emerged from the meeting with the emissary his mind was obviously on other things.
“Success?” she said. Thoronal was smirking and Aretor trying unsuccessfully to repress a grin, but she could not read Huldarion’s face.
“Success. It is as you predicted. An alliance is offered. Two weeks from now, we should be entering Kelvha City in triumph.” If there was any triumph in his voice, it was well-controlled. “I would like to speak to you, Tiburé, about how things stand in Kelvha – in private, if we may.” The two other men withdrew to ride back to their camp.
Huldarion stared across the ivy-curtained ruins of the town: seeing what, she wondered? Caervonn, within his reach at last?
“Let us go for a walk,” he said. “It might calm my mind.” They walked over to the east side of the old town, well away from the darkburn – mention of that could wait till later, she decided – and there they stood outside the ruined walls beneath a clump of sadly singing pines. From here they overlooked the long green road that led eventually to Kelvha.
“What did you want to know?” She was expecting questions about the Post-Regent and his policies; but Huldarion sighed and said,
“About my marriage. Who I am likely to be offered – that is, if I get any choice at all. How the process will go ahead; how long it will all take.”
Tiburé nodded. “Not long,” she said. “To the Kelvhans it’s equivalent to a commercial transaction.”
“I know. And I’ve always known that this would be the price that must be paid. That I would not be free to take a wife of my own choosing.” He was looking not at her, but at the empty road that trailed into a hazy distance.
“Oh, you’ll have some choice,” she said. “They will offer you at least three to pick from. Up to six if you’re lucky, depending who’s available. Those will be the highest-ranking women. If none of them are suitable, there may be more of lower rank–”
“No. She will have to be of the highest rank. I don’t care about it, but Kelvha will. I just hope they won’t all be too young.”
Tiburé grimaced. “The chances are they will be. High-born Kelvhan girls get married off in their teens, or early twenties at the latest. I would expect the Princess Idria to be married before she’s twenty. They may even offer her to you. If they do, that would be a real mark of respect.”
“Faldron’s sister? How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
“Dear stars. And would I have to take her if she were offered to me?”
“Not necessarily. If you didn’t, they wouldn’t be unduly offended, if that’s what you mean; because they can keep her as a bargaining tool for somebody else.”
“Seventeen! I don’t want to wed some poor girl less than half my age.” He sighed again. “How long will I get to choose this wife?”
“In theory, several days,” Tiburé said. “In practice, I would reckon on three meetings, maximum, with any chosen candidate. Of about ten minutes each. So, all together, half an hour.”
“Half an hour?” Huldarion sounded appalled.
“Maximum. Plus thinking time in between the meetings, naturally. But the faster you decide, the better, in their eyes. It shows your commitment.”
“Ah. Commitment. That leads us to something else,” he said, still staring out along the road. “To show my commitment, I am apparently also expected to consummate the marriage before it happens.”
“You are indeed. It negates any complaints after the wedding night. If either of you is unable or unwilling for some reason, the marriage can be called off.” Tiburé eyed him cautiously. She knew there had been a woman in Caervonn, many years ago, before Huldarion’s exile – and before fire ripped across his body. That fire had probably put paid to any thoughts of physical love for quite a while. She did not know what women there might have been in his life since then. If any, he had been remarkably discreet.
However, there was no point in being discreet right now. So she asked, “Given your injuries, do you think that may be a problem?”
“I hope not. I trust I shall be able to rise to the occasion. It’s the girl that I’m more worried about, whoever she is. When she sees my scars” – he indicated down the left side of his body – “she may just want to jump straight out of bed and run away.”
“Dim the lights,” suggested Tiburé.
“That won’t work. You can feel it. There’s no hiding it.” He shook his head. “Imagine some poor teenage virgin facing that.”
“Teenage virgins are tougher than you might think,” she said.
“But Kelvhan ones are bound to be uneducated. Will she even know what the act of love involves?”
“She will be told that much. Of course she won’t expect to gain any pleasure from it. Pleasure is for men in Kelvha. In women, they see it as an aberration. Or a pretence by prostitutes. Maybe some of the women manage to educate their husbands, if they can work out what they want, but it would be an uphill struggle. It’s just not in their culture. For a woman, what’s going on in her mind is as important as what’s happening to her body; but some men don’t seem to think that women have minds – not fully functioning ones, anyway. It’s difficult for a woman to feel desire where there appears to be no liking or respect or even interest on the man’s side. Yet it seems that some men can desire anything from a dead fish upwards.” She realised that Huldarion was looking startled; and revised her tone of voice. “Yes, they will know what to expect.”
“Well, that’s something. Do you have any idea about which women might be presented to me, apart from the princess?”
“I can think of two or three candidates. The Lady Janeya, Lady Sina, possibly Belfura… Sina is the least high-born of those, but accounted a great beauty. I don’t see it myself. You might, however.”
“Which one of them would you recommend to me?”
“Ah, no,” said Tiburé, smiling. “The choice has to be yours. I don’t know if I’ve even given you the right names.”
“Half an hour,” muttered Huldarion despairingly. She decided to shift his attention on to other things.
“That darkburn,” she said. “The one cowering in its cage by the north gate. You know what is intended for it in Kelvha?”
“Supposedly they’re keeping it to study,” said Huldarion. “In actuality, to use against their enemies. Torture was mentioned.”
“According to the groom I spoke to, Rhadlun would like to know how it’s made so that they can make more.”
He turned round and stared at her. “What?”
“Though I doubt if they can do it. Wizardry must surely be involved.”
“Yes. It seems almost certain that the darkburns were created by Adon.” He was silent for a moment. “I had intended to ask Leor to accompany me to Kelvha. Perhaps that would not after all be wise – in case the Kelvhans twist his arm to make him work for them.”
“I don’t see Leor having his arm easily twisted.”
“No? I do. They would simply need to appeal to his pride. No, perhaps that is unfair: say rather to his wish to aid the greater good, and his knowledge that he can do so if he chooses.” Huldarion began to walk down towards the road, more for the sake of movement, she thought, than anything else. He was agitated.
She gathered up her skirts – annoying things, they did get in the way – and followed him.
“Having a wizard in your train in Kelvha will add to your importance,” she suggested.
“Yes. And Leor’s advice might well be useful to me there. But I will keep his presence hidden: I will not take him in my personal retinue. The invitation to the castle is for myself and six others. A few dozen more Riders can be stationed outside the castle walls; the rest to take their chances where they will. Leor can join them. I expect the cost of boarding houses will go up.”
“The six in your retinue will all be men, of course,” said Tiburé drily.
“Of course. I already had certain men in mind.”
“Who?”
“Three senior advisers: I thought of Thoronal, your husband, and Leor. But I must change my plans. Instead of Leor I shall take Uld.”
She nodded. Uld, a dry, clever, reticent man, was Huldarion’s second cousin. In Kelvha such things counted. “And your other three?”
“Picked for their beauty. You know what I mean: the tall warrior types that the Kelvhans hold in high esteem. Aretor and Sashel.”
“Sashel? I hear that he was wounded.”
“He is recovering. He could probably do with a little luxury.”
“And your last?”
“I had thought Rothir. No one could call him handsome, but he does have an imposing physical presence.”
“Some might say intimidating.”
“But Rothir has countermanded me,” said Huldarion. “He acted without my authority in this matter of the darkburn.”
“You’re angry.”
He turned his gaze from the green Kelvha road to face her. Rothir was not the only intimidating one, she thought, eyeing the stern scarred features beneath the close-shaven head. Huldarion kept his hair short because it would not grow on the left side in any case. But it made for a forbidding appearance, and despite her assurances to him she felt a frisson of anxiety lest the princess – and the other high-born girls – might recoil from the sight.
“I’m annoyed,” he said. “For a normally astute man Rothir made a poor decision. I do not wish to be seen as someone who lets others speak his will for him. So as my last man I shall now take Parthenal.”
“Really?” said Tiburé. “Is that wise? He certainly looks the part, but in view of what Kelvha thinks of men like him....”
“They won’t know.”
“Well,” she said, “make sure he understands that.”
“He will. And Rothir will understand that he cannot bypass my authority. He and Leor will have to stay outside the castle walls.”