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

Chapter 10

Rothir wasn’t used to being given so much attention. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it felt strange.

When he woke up he’d been surrounded by the staring faces of several Riders – Parthenal, Uld, Veron, Tiburé and a few others – and he couldn’t think why they were all there looking down at him. Although he soon became aware that he was lying on his bed within his lodgings, it took a few more moments for him to realise he was sore and bleeding.

So he had evidently been fighting in some battle. But memory of it eluded him until Veron said,

“I expect you don’t remember. People sometimes don’t, after she’s... reproved them. If they survive.”

“Remember what? Who do you mean?” He began to heave himself stiffly into a sitting position until Parthenal pushed him down again, gently but firmly.

“Lie still. I’ve got another gash to clean up yet. None of them is life-threatening, amazingly enough, but you don’t want them to get infected. You never know, with claws like that.”

“Claws?”

“I mean my wife,” said Veron. He rested his hand briefly on Rothir’s forehead. Yet his fingers did not touch the skin: there seemed to be a bandage there. “I thought she might have killed you.”

Then Rothir remembered, in a flash of blinding white and blue. It was like a spear of ice that splintered through his head. He saw again the great cat pacing in its cage; he felt himself run down to leap the gate, rash blundering idiot that he was. He knew himself, incredulously, to have held up his home-made sword and short knife against those lethal claws. That magnificent sleek power. Those eyes, those golden eyes…

He closed his own again. “I wish I hadn’t been the one to kill it.”

“I know,” Veron said. “But you saved a few lives there as well as mine. Those guards could never have kept it out of the audience. I told her that you had to do it.”

“You told…” At this, Rothir’s eyes reopened and he did sit up, against Parthenal’s restraining hand, to look around. “Is everybody safe? Is everyone all right?”

“Everyone except you,” said Uld. He patted Rothir briefly on the shoulder. “I’ll go back to the castle now, and let Huldarion know that you’re alive and kicking. He’ll be relieved.”

“He’ll be thinking about other things,” said Parthenal drily. “We’ll want to know how it all goes at the banquet, Uld.”

Uld shook his head as he left. He would not be the man to tell them anything.

Rothir lay back again as Parthenal finished dressing the gash along his arm. Although he didn’t remember getting the wound, that was often the way in battle. And it had been a battle: he was remembering it fully now, reliving it unwillingly but inescapably; and the memory shocked him.

“I’ll leave you too,” said Veron, his voice unusually tender. He held out his hand, and Rothir, not knowing what was expected of him, took it. A cool, tough hand. “You may find you feel… a little strange for a while to come. That’s simply the effect of being rebuked by her. It was only a token – a reminder. The huntress could have killed you easily. Take it as a grace from her that she chose not to.”

“I am grateful,” Rothir said. Feel a little strange? He felt strange now. Floating on some silver sea. Not altogether there. And, yes, grateful. Veron released his hand, and left.

“I think that must be the most I’ve ever heard him talk,” said Delgeb.

“You can’t have been listening,” said Parthenal. “There. All done.” He began to roll up the unused bandages. Rothir inspected the used ones: both arms, one leg, his chest, his head. But despite their dressings they were still all there, intact.

“Thanks,” he said. “You’d better hurry off and join the others at the feast. Aren’t they expecting you?”

“No; I told them I’d stay here to keep an eye on you. I’m not bothered about the banquet.”

“You’re not curious?” asked Delgeb.

“Not especially.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If they were young men you would be.”

“Hah! But even so, not as curious as you,” retorted Parthenal.

“You’re probably right there. However,” Delgeb said, “I’m more curious about something else just now. Tiburé has told us that she’s found the darkburn.”

“The darkburn?” said Rothir, trying to work out why a darkburn had suddenly entered the conversation. “What… Where was it? Was it close?” Even at the word he seemed to feel its sudden intense heat. But maybe that was fever.

Everyone had turned to look at Tiburé, who was wearing a stately, heavy Kelvhan dress, although he could not quite remember why. As Tiburé began to tell her tale of a journey through the city, he tried to listen. But half of him seemed to be somewhere else, adrift on that heavy shining sea. He felt muddled.

“What temple?” he asked. “What was Yaret going in there for?”

Tiburé sighed and explained that they wanted to find out about Borgun. None of it made sense to him.

“Anyway, what she learnt in the temple will have to wait until I see Huldarion,” said Tiburé. “That’s not what I was going to talk about.”

“So tell us how you found the darkburn!” Landel begged.

Next she began to describe a walk through city streets, and seeing the hunter Zan. Rothir could not understand what Zan was doing in the story but did not like to ask. He made a greater effort to follow Tiburé’s account. Still not much of it made sense.

“Why the bath-house? What’s the darkburn doing there?” he said eventually, and put a hand up to his head. It hurt. He became aware that everything was hurting, although it hadn’t earlier. Now not just his head but all his flesh was throbbing, tearing, burning.

Parthenal was looking at him with a slight frown. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been eaten and spat out,” Rothir said thickly.

“Well, anyone would spit you out,” said Parthenal. “Tough as an old boot. Delgeb? Can you go and find Shebel?”

He tried to say that he didn’t want Shebel or her herbs, he wanted something else entirely, but the words wouldn’t make their way to his mouth. His head was filling up with silver ocean. He lay back again and let the waves wash though him. Painful waves. Heavy, smooth, like quicksilver. They rose at his forehead and crashed at the back. They were almost solid. They threatened to submerge him. He tried not to be submerged but it was difficult.

Then Shebel arrived and made him drink something bitter, which might have been ethlon, and after a moment the heavy silver tide withdrew just enough to let him realise that she had brought three other women with her: Maeneb, Naileb and Yaret, three maids all standing in a row. It would have been funny if they hadn’t looked so anxious. But Parthenal had said his wounds weren’t life-threatening.

“I’m fine,” he said. Or did he say it? He wasn’t sure. And if Maeneb had come into a crowded room just to see him, maybe he wasn’t so fine after all.

Shebel said, “You’re not well at the moment. But you will soon feel better, and then you’ll sleep. It’s just a little fever, and maybe slight concussion.” Parthenal took her to one side, to talk in a low voice; but Yaret sat down next to his bed.

“I feel like Eled,” he said. His tongue wouldn’t work properly.

She said nothing, but took his hand in hers: smoother than Veron’s, and smaller. A companionable hand.

“I think that’s just the effect the huntress has,” she said after a moment. “Still prowling round inside your head.”

“With claws,” said Rothir. Of course, he thought, she’s met the huntress too. Face to face. She knows. And she’s still here. She’s still alive. Her hand is warm. Steadying... Holds me up. There was something that I had to tell her. But maybe it doesn’t matter now she’s here.

And soon, whether because of the hand or the drugs, he did begin to feel a little better. The silver waves were not so high nor so impenetrable; he was able to swim through them. He didn’t feel like sinking any more. Surfacing in silver ripples. Good medicine.

“I’ll be all right now,” he mumbled, just before he fell asleep. He had no dreams.

Next morning he woke to find that he had slept a full twelve hours; and he felt almost normal. The drugs had done their job. That, and someone who had held his hand. Veron, had it been? The huntress must have let him off.

So he was quite all right. None the less everybody kept telling him to take things easy. They were apparently expecting to hold some sort of celebration in the castle that evening – something to do with Huldarion, if a meeting went as hoped, he didn’t quite follow it – but thankfully he would not be needed to attend.

“Fresh air is what you want,” Theol told him. “You’re coming out for a gentle ride with me. I’ve brought Narba over from the stables.”

Rothir acquiesced. Theol, his second in command through the recent battles, was a sensible, easy-natured man, a dozen years older than Rothir although he seldom told him what to do. So when he did, Rothir listened.

“Where are we going?”

“Through the city gate and round the outer wall a little way,” said Theol. “To find a bit of peace and quiet. It’ll do you good to get out of the noise of the city.”

The dressings on his chest had been removed. The ones on his arms and leg remained, although they had apparently been changed while he had slept. Neat work. He didn’t even need to roll his sleeves up. And although it was a little tricky mounting Narba he was fine once he was up there. No dizziness at all.

And certainly it was pleasant to ride sedately on his beloved horse despite the crowded streets. In any case it was much quieter beyond the west gate. This was not nearly so grand as the east gate, through which the Vonn had made their entrance… When had that been? How many days ago? Not many, but he couldn’t quite work out the exact number. Anyway, Theol spoke to the guards at the gate and they were very courteous. Their little group was allowed through with salutes and respectful bows.

“It seems that you’re already famous,” Theol commented once they were outside.

“What for?” he asked.

Theol rolled his eyes. “Tiger?”

“I don’t want to be famous for that.”

“You have no choice,” said Maeneb. She had accompanied them, saying she too needed to get out of the streets and into the fields, away from all the voices of the city. There were four of them in the group, a good number, because Yaret came too, although she did not say why. She was riding her little horse Helba which made him laugh. A sturdy little horse, but no beauty. Scruffy. He must have said it aloud.

“She suits me,” said Yaret with a smile. “How are you feeling now?”

Rothir thought about it. They were riding north, with the high curved bulk of the city wall on their right. To their left were fields interspersed with farm sheds and cottages. It was all very ordinary. Tame. But none the less.

“I feel quite happy,” he said, surprising himself. Yet it was true. It was probably relief at being out for a ride, at feeling Narba’s reassuring bulk beneath him, at still being alive when yesterday he’d thought those golden eyes would be the last ones that he’d ever see.

Relief was happiness. He had often thought that before. But now it reminded him. Where had he been that time? Ah, when he found Eled.

He turned to Maeneb. “Where is Eled? Can you feel him? How is he doing?” He felt an extra concern and affinity for his young colleague now, because he had an idea that this odd mingling and mangling of his thoughts might be how Eled felt. Eled had concussion too. Confused together.

“He’s the same as he was two days ago, when you last asked me,” Maeneb said.

“Tell me again.”

Maeneb put her head a little on one side, and seemed to listen. Then she shook her head. “No, I can’t hear the Farwth from here. But I believe Eled is still in Farwithiel. The last report from the Farwth was just before we entered Kelvha. Eled was all right then. Still recovering, slowly.”

“I hope I don’t take that long,” said Rothir.

“You won’t,” Theol assured him. “Veron said the strangeness will soon pass. Meanwhile it’s good that you’re feeling happy. Maybe I should take a cuff round the ear from the huntress myself if that’s the result it has.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” said Yaret and Maeneb in unison. Yaret added, “I don’t think happiness is the usual result. That’s just coincidental.”

“It’s good to be outside,” said Rothir, and he patted Narba’s strong shoulders in a surge of affection for his horse. “The four of us. Remind me where we’re going.”

“Just along the outside of the walls,” said Yaret. “For a change of view and some fresh air. Does Caervonn have walls as huge as this?”

“Caervonn has terraced gardens all along its walls,” said Rothir dreamily, “where you can walk in the summer evenings and look out from the top, and see fields and woods, and sometimes a hint of the sea.”

“That will all be changed now,” Theol said. “The terraces will be fortified.”

“Did any of you leave family in Caervonn?” asked Yaret.

“My mother and I escaped with Huldarion,” answered Maeneb. “We had no other family.”

“I left several friends behind,” said Theol. “We ended up on opposite sides during the war of succession.”

“It was hardly a war,” objected Maeneb. “It was a disagreement. It needed no war to decide it, merely a judgement by the council. Olvirion knew he was wrong to declare himself king instead of Huldarion.”

“But Olvirion would never have accepted the council’s judgement if it went against him. He would have still made war,” said Theol. “And he would still have used the darkburn to ensure he won.”

“Don’t talk about the darkburn,” Rothir said. “It’s too nice a day.” Hazy sunlight made the pastures shine. When they passed occasional farm carts, the drivers doffed their hats. Everything was pleasant.

Yaret looked at him. “Your family, Rothir?”

He shook his head. After a moment Theol said, “His father died in the war that apparently wasn’t a war. His mother…”

Rothir normally never talked about his mother. He had never understood how she could have left them and his father. The anger and pain and grief at the time had been worse than if she’d died. But it didn’t matter so much now. So he said,

“She’d already gone away, several years earlier, when I was sixteen. After the fire I brought my sister Olbeth out. She’s married a farmer south and east of Kelvha; they have a baby. He’s a good man. Wiln. They have hard winters on their farm.” It had been a hard, bleak winter indeed – he remembered its cold emptiness, but spring had come. Everything was all right now. He smiled into the sunshine. Relief, that was the key.

He decided it would be good to ride on ahead. He was on a small hill of happiness, above the world, and wanted to stay there. So he began to trot on Narba, although he found that trotting was not as easy as it ought to be. It jolted his head and sent silver ripples through it. He speeded Narba to a canter, which was a little smoother, although it seemed to alarm Theol who rode up alongside him and grabbed hold of Narba’s reins.

“I’m all right,” said Rothir as they slowed. The cantering had done him good. It was enjoyable to have the company of Theol and the pair of women. They were easy company, those two; they could look after themselves, meaning that he didn’t have to. Everyone was looking after him today, it seemed, so he didn’t need to worry. Though sometimes it would be nice to have a woman to look after.

All in due course. Wait for Caervonn. There would be one there, the faithful, loving woman, as perfect as a rose, throwing petals from a balcony: he would know her when he saw her. Not all of them were like his mother. He knew that yearned-for woman was a fantasy, a soft dream to carry him through the hardness of his life. But sometimes you needed a soft dream. Not right now, though, because everyone was safe.

But it reminded him. “How did the banquet go last night? Huldarion and the ladies?” He had somehow forgotten about it until now.

“He chose one. But not the one that anyone expected,” answered Theol. “A high-ranking widow, over thirty, quite handsome, Sashel said, but a bit scary. Sashel thought Huldarion would have gone for one of the first two. The princess was the prettiest, apparently: lovely manners, but very young and shy. Sashel felt quite sorry for her.”

“I feel quite sorry for all of them,” said Yaret, but Rothir found that he had already forgotten who they were talking about. They had come to a series of interesting buildings ranged along the wall, or built propped up against it. They seemed to be workshops from which clangs and thuds and hammering rang out.

“We’re nearing the north gate,” said Theol. “Can you feel anything, Maeneb?”

“I’ve never been able to detect it like I can people,” she replied.

“We should all be able to feel it,” said Yaret, “if we get close enough. Even through the wall.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“We’re looking for where there might be a bath-house,” said Yaret.

“You want a bath-house? Don’t your lodgings have a bath?” He studied the buildings. Too small. Ramshackle. None of them looked like a bath-house.

But there was a forge. The sign of the anvil hung outside it. That reminded him. He swung his leg over the saddle to dismount and grabbed his sword as he made for the entrance.

“Hey,” said Theol. “Where are you going?”

Wasn’t it obvious? “Into the forge.”

When he entered, Theol followed him. The dark, the heat: the ringing of the hammer, so familiar; it made him think of Olbeth’s farm, and he wished he was there now, hammering at ploughshares, with nothing to worry about.

There was always something to worry about. Not here, though, and not now, because he remembered that everyone was safe. And all was well. A young man in a leather apron put down his hammer and turned to face them.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” said Rothir. He gazed around. The tongs, the clamps, the buckets, the acidic smell of metal, such instruments of comfort. It was a warm, dark haven. “I have a sword that’s badly notched. Could you repair it?”

“Certainly, sir. Would you like me to do it now?”

“Oh, wait,” said Rothir, staring down at his sword, “it’s the other one. My old one. This is the one I made.”

“He’s had a blow on the head,” explained Theol.

“So I see,” the smith replied, making Rothir wonder if he still wore his bandage. He put his hand up to check. Ah yes, there it was. Left by the tiger.

“You made that sword?” the smith asked. “May I see it?”

Rothir handed it over. The smith took it to the doorway, held it up and looked along its length.

“It’s well forged,” he said. “The hilt could be better.”

“The next one will be better,” said Rothir.

“Forgive me, sir, but you look like one of the Vonn noblemen who have lately honoured our city.”

“I am a Rider of the Vonn.”

“Then how is it you are a bladesmith?”

“Luck,” said Rothir. “May I see your work?”

The smith bowed and ushered him over to the furnace.

“Don’t let him near the fire,” warned Theol. “Or the hammers.”

Rothir smiled. He was enthralled by the smith’s work: its fine, clean lines. On wooden panels set around the wall hung rows of arrowheads and spear points and halberds: and standing in the corner like a headless soldier was a full set of plate armour. Impressive, if too small for him, and he would never wear it anyway.

But he decided to buy a dozen arrowheads for Yaret, who for some reason he had forgotten was using stone ones. Then he realised he shouldn’t buy a present for Yaret alone; so he picked out a small, neat knife for Maeneb.

After paying for these, he needed to ask the smith how he could improve his bevelling, and what he should do about the pommel of his sword. It didn’t seem to matter that he promptly forgot the answers. He was very happy.

After a while Theol had to drag him out. “The man has work to do,” he said.

“You’re always welcome,” said the smith, and Rothir put out his hand, saying, “Rothir.”

The smith wiped his hands on his apron and shook his. “Martun,” he said.

“Three hands in two days,” said Rothir. Or did he only think it? He hoped so. It would be a strange thing to have said aloud. But it didn’t matter because here were the two women, riding back towards them.

“What kept you?” Maeneb asked.

“A blacksmith with one ear,” said Theol.

“He had two ears,” said Rothir. “Didn’t he?”

“One was missing,” Theol said. “That’s why he’s a smith. A deformity. Not handsome enough for his noble family.”

“Did he say that?” said Rothir. He felt confused.

“He implied it. While you were looking at the halberds.”

“I bought you a present,” said Rothir. “Both of you.” He handed the presents over to the women, and watched Yaret open the little leather wallet and inspect the arrowheads. She looked delighted. He’d got it right, then.

“Thank you,” she said, “very much.”

“Neat little knife,” said Maeneb. “It’ll do for fruit.”

“Where’s mine?” asked Theol.

“Your reward is in my presence,” Rothir said, “or something.”

“You’re still happy,” remarked Yaret. “Aren’t you?”

“I am quite content.”

She studied him with a smile. “So maybe that’s your normal state. Not dour and stern at all.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said Theol. “Did you find the darkburn?”

He was startled. “Darkburn?”

But Yaret did not seem surprised at this sudden invasion of the enemy. “Yes,” she answered. “We think so, anyway.”

“Hang on,” said Rothir. “Darkburn?”

“The one they’re keeping in the northern bath-house,” she explained. “We think it’s quite close to here on the other side of the wall – only a couple of hundred yards away, not far from the north gate. There’s a stream outlet through the wall: it smells terrible. There’s a tannery nearby, but it’s not just that, and it’s not drains either. Come and have a look. Or a sniff.”

He had forgotten all about the captive darkburn. How was that possible? But now they left the forge and rode on past the workshops and the tannery.

As they approached the north gate, the group paused as if contemplating the landscape, not the outlet in the wall beside them. Rothir had already seen the iron grid through which the water flowed. It was not a big opening, but big enough for a stooping man to step through, if the grid were to be removed.

And it stank. With that smell, the memories came lurching in.

“Locked,” said Maeneb. “In fact, two locks. But not guarded on this side.”

“The bath-house is probably inaccessible from this side,” said Theol. “But I think you’re right. It’s there. It’s the feel of it as well as the stink. Dismal, isn’t it? Let’s move away.”

Rothir felt it too: the darkburn aura – the pall of failure, the heavy falling veil of regret, despair, impending doom. It turned the happiness grey and reminded him of all the things he needed to be worrying about.

“We shouldn’t be chasing darkburns,” he said. “We should leave it well alone.”

“But the Kelvhans won’t leave it alone,” objected Maeneb. “We ought to keep track of it.”

“It shouldn’t be here at all,” said Yaret.

“Well, it is, and there’s nothing we can do about it,” Rothir said. The surge of memory was gathering speed and volume. Everything seemed to rush back at him: the crash and blood and weariness of battle; the dreadful burials on the cold bleak plain; the stink of the darkburn trapped down in its pit, and how despite his misgivings he’d authorised Leor to raise it: how he’d watched apprehensively as it was carried back to Kelvha in its iron cart.

He was responsible for its presence here. No wonder Huldarion was angry. The knowledge pushed him off his little hill of happiness and beat him down.

“You’re not going to try and set the darkburn free, are you?” he demanded. “Nothing could be more dangerous.”

“I know that,” said Yaret. “We just want to keep an eye on it. We’ve got no means of freeing it in any case.”

“But someone might. What about Leor? Where is he?” He looked around accusingly as if the wizard might be lurking in one of the sheds that propped themselves against the city wall. He wouldn’t put it past Leor. Too good at hiding.

“He’s in the city somewhere,” Maeneb said. “I feel him from to time. He’s quite distinctive. He’s on the south side: I think he might be staying in a tavern.”

“How can you know that?” he said severely.

“People feel different when they’re drunk.”

“Well, neither you nor Leor should be doing anything about this darkburn.” He was addressing Yaret this time. “You should leave it to the Kelvhans. Keep out of the whole business. Leave the thing alone.”

Yaret raised an eyebrow at him, and then nodded, quizzical, and slightly sad.

“Welcome back,” she said.