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

Chapter 11

As he entered the grand hall, Parthenal saw the Kelvhan noble against whom he’d fought in single combat. Would have beaten, if the man hadn’t forced a draw by such dubious means. They eyed each other; no hint of a smile there. Parthenal bowed slightly and moved away. The other man did likewise.

Politeness, that was the thing. The forty or so Riders here were all on their best behaviour. This was meant to be a celebration of Huldarion’s forthcoming marriage. Wine and dance. But Parthenal wouldn’t drink much, because he wanted to stay on top of things.

What those things were, he wasn’t quite sure. It was stupid to feel such confusion – almost amounting to pain – within his breast. After all, he’d always known this time would come. Huldarion had to marry.

And he would marry without knowing anything of what Parthenal felt for him. That was the pact he had made with himself: Huldarion should not have even a hint. Ever. In return for this impeccable behaviour, Parthenal allowed himself licence to do what he liked, with anyone willing. Although not here in Kelvha city, of course.

He bowed again, to a gowned Kelvhan – it was Melegan, the Keeper of the Keys, Tiburé’s somewhat pompous host; this time he got a vague, amiable smile – and then he made his way towards the other Riders who were seating themselves before the music started. There was no Rothir with whom he could exchange murmured observations: so he sat next to Sashel, who seemed more relaxed and less dejected than of late. Castle life was doing him good.

From his chair Parthenal was able to study Huldarion and the woman who sat beside him. Meya. He had been surprised when he first saw her: she was so old! So stout! On being introduced he had bowed and wished her well, and she had thanked him coolly. No trace of a smile from her either.

Meya looked like someone who would tolerate no nonsense. What their coming consummation would be like, Parthenal could not imagine, and did not want to, although his imagination would insist on trying. Pointless. He only knew it had to happen before the marriage. It sealed the pact.

And the marriage sealed the tactical alliance with Kelvha. Huldarion must have chosen Meya for her rank; which was evident in the upright, almost haughty way she bore herself. He would doubtless be content enough with his new wife, no matter what her age or girth or manner...

Don’t be so mean-spirited, Parthenal told himself sternly. Meya’s probably younger than you are. Probably cleverer. And better her, than some willowy beauty that Huldarion might actually fall in love with. That was a consoling thought.

Once everyone was seated around the three sides of the hall the music began, executed by the dozen men on the dais. Executed being, in Parthenal’s opinion, the aptest word for it: there was an excess of trumpets, in his opinion, not enough lutines, and definitely too many of another peculiar stringed instrument – he couldn’t recall its name, but it was played screechily in an unlikely manner with a stick. Although he generally enjoyed music he did not enjoy this.

However, others seemed to, and after a couple of tunes the dancing started, led by Huldarion and Meya. While Meya moved with surprising elegance for one so stout, Huldarion was somewhat stiff – but that was to be expected, and perhaps no more than was suitable for the occasion. Parthenal found himself willing Huldarion to keep in time, and he did. Well, of course he did. Huldarion had never needed instruction in anything.

He sighed and looked away. Many of the Kelvhans were walking to the dance floor to join in now: first the High Prince holding the hand of his sister, Princess Idria – a dainty scrap of a thing – and then the other nobles and their wives.

The Post-Regent Nerogun stood at the sidelines like a critical dance-master: he had no wife to dance with, apparently, although he must have had one once because his daughter sat amongst the rows of Kelvhan ladies, their ranks now rapidly thinning as the men asked for their hands in the dance. Sashel had pointed out several of the ladies for him at the start. Gaelera, that was the daughter’s name: he was surprised Nerogun did not ask her to stand up with him rather than sit there alone and increasingly conspicuous. Maybe dancing with one’s daughters was not done.

Few of the Vonn had stood up to dance. Beside him Sashel’s foot was tapping but his friend did not rise from his chair. Parthenal was tempted, for he liked dancing in the right circumstances, and the steps were not difficult; yet in truth, who could he dance with?

He was wary of the Kelvhan ladies, and there were only a handful of female Riders present. Tiburé and her daughter Alburé, of course, who had already been living in Kelvha for a while. But most of the other female Riders who were present sat in a close-knit group in their drab breeches, while several more had not turned up, having nothing suitable to wear.

However, Shebel was looking very fetching in a dress that had presumably been borrowed from Alburé. Alburé herself was resplendent in a gold-embroidered mid-blue gown – typically Kelvhan – but looked a little sad.

As one dance ended and the next prepared to start, Sashel stood up. Parthenal expected him to go over to Alburé, but instead Sashel walked up to the Princess Idria to request her hand. It was accepted prettily. Parthenal glanced at Huldarion; he saw a faint nod, and Aretor too stood up and went to ask one of the Kelvhan ladies for a dance.

So he supposed he had better do the same. But not a Kelvhan. After a moment he got up and walked over to ask Alburé. They were old friends, and he knew that she was suffering after the death of Sashel’s twin in battle. He wondered whether to speak of Gordal but decided better not. The screechy instruments restarted and they spent the first round of the dance accustoming themselves to the steps in sober silence. Nearby Sashel was dancing with careful grace and with a smile: the Princess seemed to be at her ease. Alburé did not look at them.

“I trust you like it here in Kelvha,” said Parthenal next time they turned together in the dance.

“I like it very much. A magnificent place, and my hosts are so kind.” She had to say that: the conversation could not be private, and it would be bad manners for them to converse in Vonnish.

“You look very lovely tonight, Alburé.” In response, her mouth turned up in a thin semblance of a smile. He felt for her. “I’m surprised the Kelvhan gentlemen aren’t lining up to dance with you,” he said, with more feeling.

“Well, they might, now that they’ve seen I don’t actually have two left feet,” she said, rousing herself a little before reverting to formality. “We ladies will have our own celebration soon in any case. The lady Meya has honoured us with an invitation to the castle: the ladies of Kelvha are to meet those of the Vonn.”

“I’m sure that will be very pleasant. Will there be dancing?”

“Amongst the ladies? I have no idea.”

“You will have to loan out some more dresses.”

She gave him a glance which reminded him that the remark was on the border of acceptability. Probably over it. So he switched to commenting on the splendour of their surroundings – true enough – and was pleased to see her looking a little more like herself as she responded.

They made a handsome couple, Parthenal was perfectly aware: he knew that he danced well, and so did she. At the end of the dance he kissed Alburé’s hand, as was expected: and then, looking down at her, he bent and kissed her on the brow. That was perhaps not expected but was done out of affection for her. Also it would not hurt for him to be seen kissing a woman.

Alburé’s prediction was soon fulfilled: two Kelvhan noblemen came up to her, vying for the next dance. Parthenal was satisfied. He wondered whether to risk asking a Kelvhan lady next. But not many were free. Although Gaelera still had no partner, he was cautious about standing up with Nerogun’s daughter. And another girl that Sashel had pointed out to him – Sina, the one who looked half-starved – met his enquiring glance with such unmistakeable alarm that he immediately turned away.

As he did so he noticed his equerry, Jaul, gazing at him with a certain look. Parthenal recognized that look. He did not gaze back, although he thought, Ah, there’s a man I’d dance with, were such things allowed.

The idea made him smile. But he did not smile at Jaul; who, in any case, now had to step backwards as the fierce duellist with the eyebrows barged into him and then looked daggers down his nose, as if it were Jaul’s fault. Although he felt a fleeting sympathy with his equerry, Parthenal took care not to pay too much attention. Instead he sat down again, pretending a casual interest in proceedings, while he watched Huldarion.

Huldarion was dancing now with an elderly woman who looked as if she could barely move beneath the weight of her red dress and her adornments: they equalled each other in stateliness. A sense of tiredness washed over Parthenal. He tapped his leg in time to the music and waited for it all to end.

When at last it did, he retired as swiftly as was courteous to his over-decorated chamber, wondering what he actually felt about Huldarion’s marriage. He decided it was resignation. Listlessness. A sense of possibilities being over. As if the possibilities had ever been there at all…

He sat and pondered, and had not yet started to undress when he was startled to hear a low knock at his door.

It was Jaul, with a jug of hot water. This had not happened – Jaul attending to him personally – since his first night in the castle: a lesser servant had been delegated to the task. Parthenal did not take the jug but opened the door wider for Jaul to carry it in.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself this evening, My Lord Parthenal,” Jaul said as he set the jug down. He sounded a little wistful.

“It was a pleasant occasion, thank you.”

“You dance… very expertly. As expertly as you fight. I saw you in the combat against Dughin.”

“Is he the man with the eyebrows?”

“He is a man feared in combat. It was most impressive. Do you do everything so well?”

Parthenal was taken aback. “I try to,” he replied.

“The ladies looked most lovely this evening, did they not, my lord?”

“Indeed they did.”

“I know of one or two ladies who would be glad to dance with you in private. Ladies not so noble as those present this evening, naturally, but more… accommodating.”

Again he was taken aback. “I thank you, but I require no lady’s company,” he said.

“I admit I’m glad of it,” said Jaul, relaxing into a disarming smile. “A girl you have never met before… you don’t know what she will be like, do you? But if you change your mind, or if you decide that anything else appeals… I am always available.”

The smile was inviting. There had been a faint emphasis on the I, small but unmistakeable. And it did appeal. Huldarion would have his woman, after all.

But this was Kelvha. Such leanings were supposed to be forbidden. Could Jaul really mean what he had seemed to indicate? Parthenal made no immediately reply, but was simply staring at the man with a slight frown, when a second knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he said automatically.

A round, anxious face appeared. It took Parthenal a few seconds to recognise the small official from the dusty archives: what was his name? Tamu. He was carrying a huge, antique-looking book in both arms.

“Ah,” said Tamu apologetically, “my pardon for interrupting you, my lord, but I have found something which I thought you ought to see immediately. I would have brought this to the Lord Huldarion, but he is busy, and I recalled your name, and so – so I came here.” He bustled in, giving them each a nervous half-bow and already beginning to open the heavy volume which had book-marks flapping from its ragged pages.

“What is it?” asked Parthenal, both bemused and amused. He did not know whether to be sorry or not for the interruption.

“At this hour?” said Jaul.

“It is late, I know, but I only thought of this particular book an hour ago,” said Tamu, “that is to say, the Annals of Coleran, a work which, which, which though it is very much in the second league of historical importance, I am afraid, to say nothing of style, quite ungrammatical at times, does cover the relevant years of Garean’s reign. Now this may be nothing after all, but it may be of significance. So I felt I had to bring it to you. May I?”

Without waiting for permission he deposited the vast book on the small table with a grunt and carefully opened it at one of the bookmarks. “Now then,” he said.

“Will this take long?” said Jaul.

Tamu looked at him with timid surprise. “Lord Huldarion did ask for anything of importance to be reported immediately, sir,” he said. “So that is what I am doing.” He bent his head to the book. “Now, in the reign of Garean, in the year 22 of his august sovereignty, we find this missive from the chieftain Agor.”

Jaul gave a small snort of impatience and looked at Parthenal enquiringly.

“You had better go,” said Parthenal to him.

“I will call back later, in case there is anything you require.”

“I don’t think I’ll require anything, thank you,” said Tamu, using an eyeglass to peer at his book.

Jaul rolled his eyes at Parthenal, shook his head with a half-smile and went out.

“The year 22, let me see,” said Tamu. “Ah, here we are. Now just read this.” He pointed to the bookmark.

Parthenal read. On the bookmark was written in small, neat handwriting:

Entrapment. Say nothing. Keep looking down. Spyhole in mosaic in wall opposite.

Parthenal stopped breathing. He stopped moving. Although he immediately wanted to look up at the wall, he kept his head down. Tamu was chattering on:

“Now, as I said, we have this missive from the chieftain Agor, written to the king in an appeal for military support prior to the battle of Denj – which King Garean wisely declined. But see here, the reference to the dorchoile?”

Parthenal looked at the words and saw nothing. His head was whirling. Nothing was safe. Still he dared not even move. Luckily the nervous flood of Tamu’s words filled any gap.

“Now, this I believe is the old term, current several centuries ago but since fallen into disuse, Dorchoile or its more recent variant Dorchill, meaning, I believe, the Darkburn. See the reference to the forest – and see below also, the description of its fearsome creatures scaled and clawed!”

He seemed to pause in triumph. Parthenal managed to say something which was both anodyne and true.

“I have difficulty in reading this old script.”

“Of course,” said Tamu. “I’m used to deciphering such works. I don’t expect you can decide on its importance now, but I felt you ought to be made aware of it at once. I can’t leave the book here, you understand, it is too valuable, but it will be at my desk in the Scriptorium at any time you and your colleagues care to look at it. I can make a transcription for you if that will help.”

“Perhaps,” said Parthenal, and then, gathering his wits, added, “Yes, certainly. Perhaps tomorrow. We need to look into this matter further. I am very grateful.”

Tamu nodded, closed his book – concealing the bookmark – and gathered it up again in both arms. After another clumsy half-bow, not looking at Parthenal, he scuttled out of the room.

Parthenal closed the door behind him. He knew now what he had to do; which was to behave naturally.

Easier said than done. So quelling all urges to stare at the mosaic, he sat down on the bed for a few minutes looking thoughtful, which was not hard: for he was mentally going through what exactly he had said to Jaul before Tamu arrived. Nothing incriminating, he was sure. Then he stretched his shoulders in a yawn, pulled off his boots and surcoat and began to brush them down.

He had almost finished when there was a third knock at the door. Before he could open it, Jaul had let himself in.

“Little Tamu gets carried away with his job,” he said with a smile which no longer looked so appealing to Parthenal.

“Certainly he seems very conscientious,” he answered coolly.

“Oh, he’s very single-minded. One might even say simple-minded. Is there any further service you require?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Really? Anything is available, my lord Parthenal.” He seemed to linger on the name. “Anything at all. You have but to say the word.”

“Nothing more, I thank you.” He nodded to Jaul and turned to fold up his surcoat. He was aware that his heart was thumping.

He heard Jaul hesitate for a long moment before leaving the room. He glanced up briefly at the closed door, then went to the bathroom and washed in the warm water from the jug. When he returned he still took care not to look for more than an instant at the wall opposite. That instant told him nothing. So intricate and busy was the mosaic that any spyhole would be impossible to discern at a mere glance.

But what now? What did he usually do before he went to bed?

One thing he could do. It was a frequent task, and although it was not normally one he undertook last thing at night, it would not hurt to remind any watchers of just who he was and how he was armed. So he unsheathed his sword and looked up and down the blade for any sign of rust, or scratches that might encourage rust.

Then he oiled it carefully with the rag he kept for the purpose, before choosing a few strokes from his usual drill, controlling the hissing blade in its moves through the air. Its weight in his hand had the reassurance of familiarity. The act gave him the reassurance of his own skill. He finished by holding the sword upright, both hands on the hilt, the flat side of the blade against his forehead. He closed his eyes and silently vowed fealty to Huldarion.

Then, calmed, he sheathed the sword and placed it on the floor beside his bed. He locked the door and pulled off his outer garments; lay down, rearranged the bedclothes around him and snuffed out the lamp.

And there, in the opposite wall, a small round point of light still shone for half a second before it too was hastily snuffed out.