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

Chapter 9

“The Lord Huldarion begs another meeting,” said Nerogun in the empty dining hall, his tone a mixture of complacency and faint contempt.

Meya looked over at him with some surprise, which she took care not to show. “He begs?”

“Requests. It seems he likes the fuller figure. I daresay you could make him beg if you showed him a little more of it.”

Meya closed the cupboard whose contents she had been inspecting, and considered.

“I am flattered,” she said eventually, without emotion, because whatever she decided, she did not want to seem too eager.

“He likes his women pleasantly robust. You seem to fit the bill. Well, Lady Meya? What is your answer?”

My answer is that you should show more courtesy, she thought; but Nerogun’s disdain of her was not new and would not change now. Unless she took Huldarion.

But it really had not seemed a possibility. Although last night she had mulled over the unexpected interview, she had come to the conclusion that Huldarion was simply curious about the workings of the castle. Or curious about her role in it. Which was, admittedly, unusual; and Nerogun was not the only man who did not care for it. She, for her part, did not care for Nerogun.

Nerogun could have me ousted at any time, she thought, despite my standing. I could be relegated to the ranks of maiden aunts who have no role, no status, and no occupation. And what about my daughter?

“Well?” He was impatient.

She gazed at the cupboard door and visualised Huldarion: a man hard to read, although she had not had long to try. The scarring did not help. Otherwise, however, the scars were irrelevant to her apart from how they might affect his character. Her husband’s war wounds had sometimes made him tetchy.

“I suppose there is no harm in a second meeting,” she replied eventually, as if in resignation. “It commits me to nothing, after all.”

“It commits you to plenty,” warned Nerogun in a low rumble. Even when talking quietly his voice held the weight of his authority. Like a battering ram moving steadily towards its target, she thought. “You would need a very good reason to refuse him after a second meeting.”

“And he may give me a very good reason,” she said calmly.

“The honour of Kelvha is at stake.”

“When have I ever failed to uphold the honour of Kelvha?” Meya was indignant, but did not show her anger, because Nerogun liked anger almost as much as he liked distress. He pretended to dislike them both but she saw differently. So she merely added, “Let me know in good time when the meeting is to be,” and walked on down the long dining hall to the next cupboard.

She opened it to inspect tureens. One was not quite clean. By the time she looked round again, with it in her hands, Nerogun was gone.

And now Meya drew a long breath and sat down on the carved oak bench under the window, with the tureen in her lap, to consider. Was this really wise?

She knew that Nerogun was right: to accept a second meeting was as good as saying she would wed the Vonnish chief. A man she had spoken to for a bare ten minutes, although she had observed him for a little longer than that.

For last night she had watched Huldarion carefully, in between watching the servants, from the moment he had walked into the banqueting hall – not because she had any interest on her own account, but because she cared about the welfare of at least two of his potential brides. In fact, three of them; but the Princess Idria would always be well looked after. Idria would never find herself being thrown out of the castle for disobedience or whipped for her failure to please.

Huldarion had probably decided Idria was too young. Meya thought so herself; like her brother Faldron, the princess was immature even for her age. Another year would help her. Meya had decided that if Huldarion had any sense, he would pick Janeya, and she was relieved to see that Janeya had behaved herself. Until that last moment, anyway, when the crash of plates had provided such necessary distraction.

But he had not asked for Janeya. He had asked for her. Meya could not fathom it, unless Janeya were also, in his mind, too young. Belfura had probably overdone the eyelash-fluttering – how inexplicably vain that ignorant girl was! – and if Gaelera had given him her usual stone-face it was no surprise that she had not been chosen.

Meya wondered briefly how her father Nerogun had reacted to that, but she did not care so much about Gaelera. She cared about Janeya. And also Sina. She had seen the way Huldarion had smiled at Sina, at the end of the parade of brides. It had been an awkward smile – inevitably, given his scars – but, Meya thought, it had been compassionate. It had been kindly meant.

Then she realised that was what she’d visualised a few minutes ago, when she agreed to a second meeting with Huldarion. She had remembered that kindly-meant, grimacing, stiff, awkward smile, directed at another woman. It wasn’t much to go on. But it was all she had.

Well, she’d taken the decision now. Unless Huldarion proved on second meeting to be completely unacceptable, she would have to marry him. It could make sense for her. Though she knew little of Caervonn, life there could hardly be more restrictive than it was in Kelvha. Meanwhile, her position here would be secure. And her daughter…

Oh, Aliya, she thought, Aliya, my Aliya, feeling that sudden, familiar ache, that need to hold her, impossible to fulfil. Her daughter was in Outer Kelvha, living in the countryside, as was customary for younger children, with a high-born family – relatives of Melegan, and, like him, generous and benign. Aliya had been there for eighteen months already, and although Meya visited when she could, it was not often enough.

But in another two years, when Aliya was seven, she would need to return to Inner Kelvha and begin her duties at the castle. I do not want that for her, Meya thought.

Her daughter was still in her mind when she received the formal message. She immediately sent back her answer. Yes, she would meet with the Lord Huldarion in two hours, in the castle gardens.

She appreciated his choice of venue. It meant a modicum of privacy: there would be several others there, of course, attending them around the gardens, but those others would not be able to note every word and look while strolling round the rose-beds as they could when seated at a table. Inside the castle buildings, walls had ears. The shrubs outside did not.

The two hours were to allow her to prepare her dress, her hair, her face, her ornaments and anything else required. She did none of that beyond a cursory look in the mirror and a neatening of her hair, tied back as always. No fine robe could give her the slender figure of a seventeen year old princess; however, she was satisfied that her dress did make the most of such assets as she had, if Huldarion really cared about those. And her plain gold necklet was ornament enough.

She went to summon her first maid, who would need to accompany her: and found her, after some irritated searching, in an upper room near Lady Sina’s quarters, in a huddle with Sina’s chambermaid. They were whispering together.

“What is it, girls?” she asked, walking up to them. The servants knew they would not be punished for speaking plainly to her; at the same time, Meya did not permit insolence. She had long ago learned how to raise her chin and tilt her head a little, quelling with a look. It always surprised her that so many other noblewomen could not do the same.

Her own maid, Eral, dropped a curtsey. “Ma’am, Kimal says that the Lady Sina is having one of her turns and will not be consoled.”

She turned to the other maid. “Kimal. Your mistress does not have turns. She is indisposed.”

“Yes, ma’am. But she won’t take any remedy, she just keeps on crying, ma’am, and nothing I try to say to her helps, and really I’m at my wits’ end when she–”

“Kimal.”

“Ma’am.”

“Your concern for your mistress does you credit. But the way in which you speak of it does not. Is she alone in her room now?”

“The Lady Janeya is with her.”

“I took the liberty of fetching the Lady Janeya, Ma’am, when I could not find you,” said Eral. “The Lady Janeya being her friend, Ma’am.”

“Very well. I will go and talk to them.” As she swept into Sina’s private chamber she wondered how much the servants’ hall knew of the previous night’s banquet. Everything, probably, given the numbers that had been present: wherever a servant went, a story would come out. And why not? They had no interest in keeping the secrets of their superiors.

In any case last night’s events could hardly be a secret to anybody in the castle. So many people had witnessed her being called up before Huldarion even if they could not hear the conversation.

None the less she closed the door carefully behind her before she said, “Sina, what is it? Is it your uncle?”

The pair of them were sitting in the window seat, Sina crying and hiccuping, Janeya with one arm around her, trying to comfort her. When the weeping girl turned to face Meya, her appearance was haunted, with red eyes and pale, hollow cheeks. A living ghost, thought Meya in pity and some exasperation. It would help if the girl would eat.

Sina’s words were broken up with sobs. “He s-said I was a dis-disgrace to the family. He said I looked like a, a, a frightened slave.”

“Who said? Your uncle Shargun? How would he know what you looked like? He wasn’t even there.”

“He said if, if, if I’d really tried I could have had Huldarion. I did try. I did, did my best. But I knew all along that he wouldn’t, wouldn’t want me, that he’d choose Idria or Janeya…”

“He hasn’t chosen anyone yet,” said Janeya, holding her hand.

“I knew my uncle would be angry with me no matter what I did.” And Sina burst into another wave of crying, the breath coming in great whoops as her thin body shook with the effort of misery.

“Be still,” said Meya. She tried to conceal her exasperation because it would upset Sina further. “Be still, my dear. Huldarion has asked for a second meeting, but not with either Idria or Janeya.” She looked at Janeya. “I’m sorry, Janeya.”

“I’m not,” she said with a long sigh. “Oh, what a relief that is!”

“Hush! Don’t speak that way,” Meya adjured her. “You may think it but don’t say it.” Walls had ears.

“But who has he…? Not Gaelera, surely?” asked Janeya in a quieter voice.

“Belfura,” murmured Sina.

“Extraordinary though it is,” said Meya, “it seems that he has chosen me.”

They both looked at her in wide-eyed incredulity. Sina’s sobs halted to a gulping shudder, although her mouth stayed open. So that’s the way to stop her tears, thought Meya with resigned amusement. Surprise her with the impossible.

“According to Nerogun,” she continued wryly, “Huldarion prefers a fuller figure. Presumably a woman closer to his own age too. It seems widowhood is no bar for the Vonn. Actually,” she added, voicing the thought that had come to her while she walked through the castle, “it may be simply because I’m both the widow and the daughter of military men. And that’s the world he lives in, so he has chosen someone familiar with it. So, Sina, next time your uncle tries to belittle you, blame Huldarion for his strange tastes. Or else blame me.”

“Have you accepted him?”

“I go to the second meeting in an hour or two.” They both knew what that meant.

“Well,” said Janeya, “I wish you very happy, Lady Meya. I’m sure the Lord Huldarion will make you an excellent husband.” And she curtseyed very nicely.

“Thank you, Janeya.”

“Yes, I’m sure he will,” said Sina, more doubtfully. “I wish you happy.” Her misery had been replaced by astonishment. Meya reflected ruefully that they both regarded her as too old and stout to be attractive, and Huldarion’s choice as nothing less than eccentric. But in the light of that choice, surely even Shargun would now agree that Sina had stood no chance from the start.

“Belfura will be annoyed,” Janeya said.

“She would be wise not to tell me so,” said Meya coolly.

“Oh. Quite.” The two of them were still staring at her. She wanted to say to Janeya, Don’t think this means that you can follow your own wishes now. However, that was something that would have to wait until they could be private.

So she merely said, “Wipe away your tears, Sina, and then eat some lunch.”

“I’ll try,” said Sina.

She left the two girls hugging each other, and told Kimal to go back in to them. Her own maid, Eral, she bade make herself ready to accompany her to the castle garden. She did not tell her why.

What about the other candidates? As Meya returned to her own chambers, she thought about their reactions. Idria would not take offence; like Janeya, she would probably be relieved. But the news needed to come to her through official channels, not from Meya. Belfura she did not care about. Gaelera…

She stopped in mid-stride, considering, and then changed her direction and made her way to the south wing where Gaelera had her quarters in the corner tower, quite separately to her father Nerogun’s.

Meya knocked and was announced by the maidservant. When she entered the small, high-roofed chamber, Gaelera sat in the window seat, embroidering. She was always embroidering when anyone was announced, although Meya suspected that the needle was only picked up for visitors, and she had no idea how Gaelera actually spent her days. Perhaps in looking out of the window at the activity in the courtyard down below.

She swept a deep curtsey, for although nominally she out-ranked Gaelera, she was cautious of her. And not just because of her father. She chose her words with care.

“My lady Gaelera. I wished to be the one to tell you, out my respect for you, that the Lord Huldarion has requested a second meeting with me.”

There was a long silence while Gaelera gazed at her, laying her sewing in her lap. Her face gave no hint of her thoughts. In the corner of the room a caged linnet sang its busy, ever-changing song. A beautiful sound: there was no other. The maid stood by with her head bowed.

After a moment Meya felt obliged to add, “It was not something that I sought.”

“But you have accepted the second meeting.”

“Yes.” Again she felt obliged to elucidate. “I felt it was my duty.”

“No doubt,” Gaelera said. She still gazed at Meya. “What does my father say of the matter?”

“I… believe that he does not object.”

“No.” At last she dropped her gaze and resumed her sewing. “I thank you for the visit.”

Meya curtseyed and left the room. She stood outside the door to wonder, as always. What went on inside Gaelera’s head? But there was never any clue.

And now it was almost time. She returned to her quarters to collect her maid Eral, who became more flustered than she was herself at the news of why they were going to the garden. Meya had to calm her as they walked down the long stairs.

The gardens were just outside the castle wall on the south side, encircled by their own high wall and entered through a gateway that was really a short stone tunnel. It was chilly in the tunnel, then warm in the spring sunlight.

He was there, with two of his men. One of them frowned at her and then looked at the ground. Huldarion did not smile with his mouth but his eyes seemed to smile, perhaps, a little. Nerogun was there too, of course, and Jorgun the old Vizier, who was absent-mindedly inspecting the roses: and there were several footmen standing round the edges.

“My lady Meya,” said Huldarion, “is there a walk which you prefer?”

She had already thought about this, and said, “I like the herb garden. It is this way.” The path was just wide enough for them to walk side by side. His two men had to follow behind, and Nerogun to lurk on a parallel path. The old Vizier lingered by his roses.

“You prefer useful plants to pretty ones?” Huldarion asked her.

“I prefer everything useful, if it can be.”

When he spoke again, she could hear the smile. “I know that you have made yourself extremely useful in the castle. But I hope you might consider taking up other duties – other interests, I should say – elsewhere.”

Her heart gave a great leap. “The castle is my home,” she said, “but a person may have more than one home.”

“A person may have many. I have many homes, if you may call them that, at present: but one true home which I have not seen for several years, yet where I hope to live and rule again.”

“Caervonn.”

“Caervonn.”

From the way he said it she understood at once: that was where his heart lay. Caervonn was what he loved and longed for. A wife was merely necessary to open the path there.

“I would like to hear about Caervonn,” she said, feeling as a woman might who asked about a former lover. A little curious; left out. But she did not mind. The scent of roses dissipated as they entered the herb-garden with its less sweet but more interesting fragrances. Its untidy shrubs, thyme and rosemary and her favourite, hyssop, were scattered with their first small purple blooms, ignored by flower-pickers but beloved by the bees.

Caervonn was built to echo a bee-hive, said Huldarion, and he began to picture it for her; describing hexagonal towers, many six-sided courtyards filled with greenery and blossom, the far views from banked terraces towards the distant sea. He spoke with love and yearning manifest in every word, although he probably did not realise it.

I will be King there, he said with quiet authority. But Caervonn lacks the queen that every hive requires.

So, in that herb-garden, by the seductive murmuring disorder of the hyssop-bed, Huldarion asked Meya to marry him. She paused a moment, listening to the hum of bees, and rubbed the leaves between her fingers; and then she answered yes.