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

Chapter 8

Huldarion had long known this was the price that must be paid. He was not free to choose a wife without regard to his position. He had to make an apt alliance, and a useful one.

He had resigned himself to it for years; and at last the time had come. The Vonn needed Kelvha’s military might: Kelvha valued the prestige and ancient title of the Vonn, a lineage far older than their own. So now he was to be offered a Kelvhan bride.

Tiburé had told him that he would get a choice of offerings, all young, the number of them depending on which high-ranking girls were available at the time. He knew the young women concerned would not expect to have any say in the matter. The whole thing made him feel queasy, as if he were witnessing some barbaric sacrifice.

But he had not only to witness it, but to choose the victim… Sitting in the banqueting hall at the long top table, beneath the scarlet banners and the bright heraldic shields, he automatically praised the dishes set before him while his mind was wholly on his fate.

He found himself almost unable to eat. He had to pretend, which was a shame, because the food was very good. Baked this, roast that, sautéed the other, all served by a continuous synchronised line of servants – more numerous than the diners – who were constantly interweaving in a miracle of co-ordination to and from the large doors that must lead to the kitchens.

He imagined that back there would be a maelstrom of sweating cooks and frantic kitchen-maids: but out here all was serene luxury. A minstrel played a lutine in the corner. There was a polite murmur of conversation from the noblemen’s long table, set to his left, at right angles to the top table. On the table to his right hand there was silence: for that was where the women were, accompanied by their personal maids. None of them was speaking.

Huldarion wondered if the arrangement of women on the right was traditional, or was designed to hide the scarred side of his face from the victims for as long as possible. They would have heard about the scars, though, he assumed. He hoped so.

He turned to the High Prince, sitting on his left. “I congratulate you on your kitchen’s skill. This is a most delicious fowl, your Highness.”

“It is, isn’t it?” said Faldron artlessly. “I believe these are partridges or linnets or some such. A little small for hunting.” The ancient Vizier on the Prince’s other side nodded and kept nodding. The Prince’s great-uncle, he had once been a noted diplomat; had in his time been an astute and knowledgeable man. Now, when Huldarion spoke to him, that knowledge seemed vaguely and hesitantly offered.

On Huldarion’s other side, beyond the Post-Regent Nerogun, sat his own four men. Their presence was both a comfort and an embarrassment. They would be judging the offerings just as he did: wondering which woman he would take, assessing their reactions to him. When Uld appeared, to tell him with a bow that Rothir was now sitting up and talking, he was relieved but also faintly dismayed to have Uld added to the number of spectators.

At least he could stop worrying about Rothir for the evening. And his sixth man would not be here; for Parthenal had asked permission to miss the feast and stay with his injured friend. It now crossed Huldarion’s mind, strangely, that Parthenal might not wish to see him choose a wife…

But why think that? He had no reason to suppose it. Why think of Parthenal at all? Think only of the women.

There were five victims lined up for him, sitting at the long table to his right. He had hardly cast a glance at them – for to show curiosity would have been ill-mannered – but he was oppressively aware of them, highly adorned and immaculately dressed, their faces cast decorously down, waiting for their moment to be presented after everyone had eaten. They themselves barely ate. Perhaps eating was indecorous. Or perhaps they felt as apprehensive as he did himself.

He understood that after the banquet they were to be presented to him in descending order of rank and hence desirability. Top of the list was the Prince’s younger sister, the Princess Idria. To be offered her, Tiburé had assured him, was a sign of the Kelvhans’ high regard for him. So that was encouraging. And further down the list was Nerogun’s own daughter; for the Post-Regent was some sort of third or fourth cousin of the Prince – possibly twice over, so convoluted and close-knit were the lines of noble ancestry in Kelvha. He wondered if Nerogun had personally added his own child to the list of candidates.

At the moment, however, Nerogun was not looking towards his daughter or any of the women, but was keeping a sharp eye on the servants, although the busy ranks of waitresses and footmen were already well-controlled by the housekeeper bossing them about at the back of the hall. Huldarion pondered the fact that Nerogun was offering his daughter. What exactly did that mean? Would the girl have seen her potential groom already, even if only from a distance? Would any of them? His head hummed with conjectures.

Meanwhile he had to make small talk with the Prince and Vizier while the main courses were finished with dragging slowness. At last, while they were toying with the final sweetmeats – miniature edifices of decorative pastry – the minstrel ceased his somewhat monotonous playing. The chattering stilled. In the sudden silence the Princess Idria rose with a graceful movement and left her seat.

Her dress was swiftly rearranged by a brace of maids before she was led by footmen around the end of the ladies’ table and up the centre of the chamber. A very public progress. An ornate and uncomfortable-looking chair had been placed by a pair of footmen on the far side of the top table, opposite Huldarion.

The Princess walked in small, careful steps, eyes down, except for one swift glance that flickered along the table at the Riders. Making a deep curtsey, she settled herself in the chair, skilfully arranging her rich robes around her; her back to the room, her face towards him.

Huldarion knew then that it was the first time the Princess Idria had seen the full extent of his burns. Her recoil was instinctive and quickly controlled. None the less, he recognised it and was dismayed on her behalf. She sent another flickering glance along the table, and he thought, I’m sorry, my child, but neither Aretor nor Sashel is for you. You’re stuck with the ugly one.

He was filled with pity. She was only seventeen: less than half his age. Pale and pretty, with delicate features, not unlike a diminutive version of her brother who now waved a casual hand at her before picking up another sweetmeat. This momentous occasion in her life meant nothing to the Prince. It was just what women were for.

And she was a very unobjectionable princess, beautifully turned out, her manners polished and her voice sweet as she answered his commonplace questions. Yet she looked to be in shock. Although she managed to speak appropriately, she could not stop her eyes from darting to the scars.

He asked her the harmless questions that he had prepared: what her favoured pastimes were – did she like music, did she ride, what was the best walk in the palace gardens, and so on – all designed not so much for information as merely to try and put her at her ease. Despite her careful manners she could not be put at ease, and he felt sorry for her. He would not marry a frightened child no matter what her rank.

After the allotted ten minutes or so, he farewelled her courteously. She rose with a little flurry, no doubt of relief. He steeled himself as he waited for the next one to recoil in fright.

But the next one was a little better. Her name was Janeya, and although she was still young, she was not so dreadfully young – twenty-two, the Post-Regent assured him as she walked up, her steps not so small and tentative as Idria’s – and of impeccable pedigree. She was the niece of Melegan, the Keeper of the Keys, who was Tiburé’s host; Huldarion recalled him as a self-important but well-meaning man. Janeya’s hair was unbleached, an unfashionable glossy brown. Perhaps that was a sign of an independent spirit. And to be unmarried at the age of twenty-two might well indicate that she had refused at least one previous suitor.

He found himself hoping that she would not refuse him if he asked, because she might do. He thought that he could live with her, and perhaps she could bring herself to live with him. For she looked at him and his scar with compassion rather than with horror, and spoke gently and with intelligence. She liked music, played the lutine and the harp, and even asked him if he sang; at which he answered, truthfully, not very well. She smiled.

But her heart was not entirely in it. The smile was courteous, not warm. As she rose gracefully from her chair he saw her throw a swift glance towards the line of nobles seated on the left-hand table. And one young lord gave her a long, intense look back… So maybe that was it. He hoped the Post-Regent had not noticed. He had already seen that Nerogun did not like to be gainsaid: and he had a feeling that his reach was very long.

Still, Janeya was a possible. She was certainly a better prospect than the third, Belfura, the old Vizier’s grand-daughter: a pert young woman with a coy manner who evidently thought herself the obvious choice. Physically she was attractive enough but her complacent flirtatiousness repelled him. Eyelashes fluttering, she used one finger to twirl her stiff blonde curls as if to draw attention to them. While he spoke, she smirked and eyed him sidelong, her gaze skating off his scars. And when he asked her how she passed her time she just looked blank.

So, on to number four. This one, Gaelera, was older than the others, twenty-seven according to her father Nerogun. Although that was still young by Huldarion’s own standards, it was decidedly old by Kelvha’s, and he thought it strange she was not married. Perhaps the Post-Regent had considered nobody good enough for her till now.

But she herself was also strange. She equalled Huldarion in impassivity, giving him no clue to her feelings for the whole ten minutes. She remained totally expressionless.

“I embroider,” she said, answering his standard question, “in silks.” No mention of enjoyment.

“What do you embroider?”

“Dresses; furnishings; wall-hangings. It is traditional for ladies of the castle to thus employ themselves. You may see the offspring of their dextrousness in many rooms.” Despite the apparent mundanity of her existence Gaelera spoke well enough to show she was no fool. Nerogun, who had interposed one or two questions to the other women – showing his authority – sat back in his chair during this interview, and remained completely silent.

Was Gaelera a possible? Huldarion could not guess anything of her character from her words or manner: she was a blank, and he felt himself stymied. But he decided that he was not inclined to marry Nerogun’s daughter. Although it might be diplomatically advantageous he did not want that man for his father-in-law. The Post-Regent had too much power as it was. So, no. One left.

And the last one was the worst of all. Sina, a daughter of a lesser noble but a beauty, according to the Post-Regent, though Huldarion could not agree: stick-thin, gaunt-cheeked, she looked as if she had been crying. He wondered if she had been beaten into this. Or would be beaten if she failed. He questioned her as gently as he could and strained to hear her too-brief, whispered answers.

As she was led away, he smiled at her, although it hurt to smile, pulling at his scar. He hoped it would not look too much like a grimace. If she were beaten it must not have anything to do with his reaction.

“They are all lovely, are they not?” the Post-Regent commented once Sina had returned to her table. The women were all rising now, in a rustle of skirts, to be led out en masse.

“Exceptionally so. You make it very difficult to choose.” But he had to choose. It would have to be the second one, Janeya, thought Huldarion, as he watched the women start to walk away; and when he saw her cast another covert glance across the room towards the lordlings, his heart sank. You give yourself away, child, he thought, wincing. Could he do this do her? Again he hoped Nerogun had not noticed.

But luckily there was an abrupt distraction: a young footman standing behind the lords dropped a large pile of plates. They crashed spectacularly on the flagstoned floor, and as sweetmeats were scattered across laps, there were loud curses and chairs angrily pushed back. Nerogun pushed his own chair back with a snarl of impatience and strode over to chastise the careless youth.

The housekeeper got there first, marching briskly down from the back of the hall. The footman was subjected to a brief but withering scolding; she pushed him towards the door leading to the kitchens, out of Nerogun’s reach, even as the Post-Regent marched up, hands twitching.

She turned to Nerogun. “I’ll see that it’s cleaned up,” she said firmly, with an assurance that showed Huldarion she was not a housekeeper at all. Only a very high-ranking woman would dare to talk to Nerogun like that. She was not dressed for a banquet, but she was dressed well; her hair was tied back, severe and practical. Neither was she middle-aged as he had thought at first. He judged her to be over thirty, but not much over.

As the Post-Regent resumed his seat, grumbling, Huldarion asked him,

“Who is that lady?”

“She’s Meya. She’s my bossy cousin,” said the Prince, “second or third, is it, Nerogun?”

“Second cousin once removed. She is a widow, my lord. Her father was the late renowned General Borovin, and she was married to one of our most esteemed commanders, Inigun, who sadly died four years ago in battle. He is much regretted.”

“I am sure he is. May I be introduced to her?” asked Huldarion.

Nerogun looked surprised. “The Lady Meya? She is over thirty, my lord, and as I say, a widow. Spoilt goods.”

“We do not regard widows as such among our people,” he said levelly.

“Well…! If you wish, of course… She has high rank, and she is certainly fertile, there is that to be said for her. There is a daughter somewhere. I will have her called over.”

A footman was instructed to summon Lady Meya. She walked up to the table without bothering to adjust her dress, and curtseyed. Then she looked Huldarion straight in the eye with a faint air of impatience, as if she had better things to do. He liked that.

“Will you be seated?”

She sat down gracefully in the narrow chair although it only just accommodated her hips. She had a fuller figure than any of the other women, and held her head very upright.

“I trust I find you well,” said Huldarion. She inclined her head. She was not going to give him any help, then. He was amused.

“What are your duties here in the palace?” he asked her, and that did visibly surprise her.

“The ladies of our household have no duties,” put in the old vizier, as if it was a dirty word. “They may choose to take an interest if it amuses them.”

Huldarion inclined his head in turn. “We have a differing understanding of duty,” he said mildly. “In what do you take an interest, Lady Meya? Do you, perhaps, embroider?”

“I prefer to be active. I take an interest in making the castle run smoothly,” she answered in a calm, firm voice. “I like to see things properly done.”

Nerogun snorted. “Like that fiasco with the plates just now?”

“The serving-man will be duly punished, my lord. You need not concern yourself.” She spoke to the Post-Regent with just enough deference. Only just enough: Huldarion sensed Nerogun’s faint annoyance.

“And how many servants have you in the castle?” he asked Meya.

It was a vast quantity, of course. But she knew the exact numbers of maids, footmen, grooms and kitchen staff. When he inquired further, she knew from which villages they were most likely to be drawn. She knew where those villages were, and what goods they traded in as well as servants. After that first cool look she paid no particular attention to his scars. She did not look at Nerogun at all. She had self-discipline and self-assurance.

Huldarion was impressed, although he hoped he did not show it. He had an idea that there was some antagonism between Meya and Nerogun, and wondered if the Post-Regent resented a woman who would assume any semblance of power, even if only in the servants’ hall.

Instinctively he felt that mentioning her confidence or intellectual qualities would not serve his purpose. So after the conversation was concluded, when the Post-Regent asked him what he thought of Lady Meya, he said merely, “She is a fine figure of a woman,” and watched her walk away as if that figure were the only thing that interested him.

“She was once,” replied Nerogun. “She has thickened up since having her child, unfortunately.”

“I would describe her as pleasantly robust,” said Huldarion. He wished he knew how to assume a lustful look. He wished he could assume any look at all.

“If you like her,” said the Post-Regent indulgently, “you may certainly see her again. I can ask her for a further meeting.” Huldarion could almost hear his mental re-calculations: why waste a perfectly good princess on a man who would be content with older, spoilt goods? And they could be rid of a slightly troublesome woman into the bargain.

“I like Meya,” said the young Prince, artlessly, “but she can be a bit formidable. She once told me off for sliding down the banisters. Years ago, of course.”

“Then she spoke beyond her station,” said Nerogun sharply.

“I am sure she can be trained,” said Huldarion, although he was sure that she could not and that he would not want to try. But that was why he had already decided on her. She was not afraid of him. She would approach him as an equal. If she allowed a second meeting, he would offer for her: and she would not be afraid to refuse him, if she wished. But he hoped that she would not refuse.

And once this war against the stonemen was over – and if Caervonn was won – he could give her the option to get out of the marriage; and she would have the courage to do that as well if she wanted. All this he thought within one minute. He knew it was a terrifyingly swift decision, but probably the best that he could make under the circumstances. Other choices were unlikely to be offered now.

“Well, shall we arrange another meeting?” said Nerogun somewhat patronisingly. He had obviously marked Huldarion down for a lecherous fool.

He smiled. “Please do. She is a fine figure of a woman.”