Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 7

Huldarion was on his feet in shock and alarm. Parthenal had already started up and was running down the stairway to the tilting-ground.

Huldarion turned to Uld. “Go with him,” he said, for he must be seen to have ordered and approved this sudden movement. Uld immediately ran down the steps after Parthenal. Huldarion wanted to follow, but made himself wait.

I am being shaped already by these people, he thought; I must not allow that to continue beyond what is necessary. But what is necessary? Oh, Rothir, your death was not necessary. I will blame them for ever.

But Uld, kneeling down beside the two bodies – the long striped one and the human, beloved one – raised his arm with open fist: the battlefield sign for life. Rothir lived. Huldarion drew a long breath and did not care if the Kelvhan lords around him overheard this sign of his relief. Men began to hurry over with a stretcher. Veron squatted by the bodies, while Parthenal propped Rothir up with a tender arm around his shoulders.

“Your champion, Parthenal, seems very fond of his companion,” said the Post-Regent who still sat next to him, apparently unmoved.

Huldarion glanced at him sharply. “As am I,” he said. “I would be loath to lose such a valued warrior in this way.”

“Naturally. That is the man who authorised the raising of the darkburn, is it not?”

“It is. A strong and loyal man.”

Nerogun stroked his chin. “No doubt he wished to prove his strength and loyalty to you just now, by taking on this fight.”

“I have no doubt he did.” But Huldarion was not sure why Rothir had done it. He gathered his wits together, mastering his emotion. “I take it this celebration is now over? A most impressive display. I thank you for your hospitality.” He bowed first to the High Prince, and then to Nerogun and the other dignitaries.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” said Prince Faldron. “I thought the tiger was the best.”

Huldarion felt his heart freeze in his chest. Evenly he replied, “It was indeed most striking, your Highness. I and my men would now like to withdraw for a while, to make ready for the feast this evening.” I will not ask for permission, he thought in chilly anger, I will be my own master here. Only I am not. There is clearly only one master in Kelvha, and his name is Nerogun.

“Oh yes, the feast,” said Faldron. “Yes, that should be very fine as well.”

And this is the man who will be High King of Kelvha in less than a year, thought Huldarion as he swiftly descended the steps with the remainder of his retinue. Faldron is not malicious, as least. And hardly a fool. But he would be the better for a little more concern and empathy.

The crowds were still amassed, watching him as he crossed the tilting ground. Let them see his concern.

Rothir was lying on a stretcher now, unconscious and streaked in blood, breathing shallowly. Kneeling beside him, Huldarion laid a hand upon his brow and then his throat. His pulse seemed steady.

“I don’t think he has any major wounds,” said Uld. “Some gashes from its claws, but none life-threatening. I don’t think he can have lost too much blood. He was probably stunned when the cat fell on him.”

“Or inwardly crushed,” said Huldarion, voicing his own fear.

“Shall we carry him to the castle doctor?” asked one of the stretcher-bearers.

“No. Take him to the Vonn's’ quarters outside the castle,” said Huldarion. He was averse to letting the castle doctors tend Rothir, excellent men though they might be. But after the appearance of the tiger – of which he was sure Veron had received no more warning than he had himself – he did not trust the goodwill of the Kelvhans. Perhaps all this was normal: a grand climax to their tournament. Perhaps not.

“I’ll accompany him,” said Uld.

“And I,” said Parthenal, who looked uncommonly shocked and anxious for a man normally so self-assured.

Huldarion nodded and turned towards Veron. “What do you think? Will he recover?” He really wanted to ask something else: whether Veron had truly been about to refuse the fight when Rothir had run forward. But he could not ask that in front of the others, so he was glad when Veron said nothing but walked aside a few paces. He followed; and they spoke together quietly.

“I don’t know,” said Veron. “Rothir should recover. Probably. That was just a penalty. If she’d wanted to kill him she’d have done it.”

“She.”

“My wife.”

“I did not see her,” said Huldarion, taken aback.

“No. But she was here. Because of…” He indicated the tiger’s corpse.

“Is that animal her kin?”

“Kin enough that I could not destroy it, not in the way the Kelvhans were demanding. She would have killed me if I had; or abandoned me.” Veron spoke low and rapidly. “Killing me would have been preferable.”

“But you did not ask for this contest. You had no choice in the matter.”

“Yes, I had. Once I saw the cat, I chose to refuse it, even if it were to slay me: which it would have done. Either way I’d die. Better die by it than by the huntress. Rothir saw all that.”

“I saw nothing,” said Huldarion, baffled, because he was used to seeing more than most people.

“No. She didn’t wish to be seen. But she was here.”

“Where is she now?”

Veron simply looked at him. Then he said, “I told her Rothir had to do it. That’s why he’s still alive.”

“Then I hope to the stars he stays alive,” said Huldarion, and he turned back to the stretcher where Rothir still lay unconscious, breathing effortfully. As he watched his friend being carried off towards the Riders’ quarters, his mind was as busy as a beehive.

Why the tiger? Why Veron? Did the Kelvhans mean for him to die? Did they know he would refuse? He had the feeling that some sort of trap had been laid.

But by whom? Surely Nerogun would not know about the huntress. The Kelvhan marshal, Shargun, who had been there on the battlefield, had no idea where the great snow leopard had come from. He had not seen its transformation from a woman. He did not know about the connection with Veron.

Even Huldarion himself had not known until lately who Veron’s wife was. Who else would know – or care – enough to lay such a trap?

One person might, he thought, one person. But he is not here. How could he be here, the ignoble one? This is just coincidence, or simple mischief on Nerogun’s part. Nerogun surely would not have let Veron die: or would he? To see Veron fall in such a combat would have lowered our stock. Reduced our leverage. It might have affected which girls they will present to me this evening. Diminished the strength of our alliance.

This evening. The feast. The choice. So much to think about: too much. As they stepped outside the arena, following the stretcher, Huldarion paused, signalling his four remaining men to halt.

“It does not need all of us to accompany Rothir; Uld and Parthenal are enough,” he said, although his emotions revolted. He ought to stay until he knew Rothir was safe. None the less he walked away from the stretcher, flanked by his counsellors, towards the west gate of the castle. But slowly. He wanted to regain his composure.

Tiburé was waiting for him by the gate, alone. She nodded curtly to her husband Solon, but it was plainly Huldarion whom she wished to see.

“Can I talk to you?” she said in her brusque way. “There are things you need to know.”

“Is it urgent? There’s a lot going on just now,” he said. “A man is injured.”

“Who? Is it Veron?”

“Veron?” He was surprised that rumour could have reached her so fast. “No. Veron is fine. But he could easily have been killed were it not for Rothir. Can this wait?”

“It’s important,” said Tiburé. “But not urgent.”

“What’s it about?”

“Two things,” said Tiburé. “Firstly: we have found the darkburn, in the northern quarter. Secondly, we have found out something about Borgun and his temple, in the same part of the city.”

“Very well. Both of those can wait until tomorrow. I will be occupied till then.”

“Enjoy the feast,” said Tiburé, and she retreated.

Enjoy the feast! Little hope of that, Huldarion thought, with his anxiety for Rothir and his bewilderment at Veron’s words and his suspicion of Nerogun all buzzing in his head.

So clear it, he instructed himself sternly. Put it aside. The banquet is what matters now. Go and change: put on your finest robes.

Put on your majesty, put on your kingship of Caervonn. Put on your courtesy and chivalry. Prepare to meet the women. Prepare to meet your bride.