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

Chapter 12

“You’re quite sure about the light?” asked Huldarion.

“I’m certain. I felt for my sword in the dark and pointed it in that direction,” said Parthenal. “When I looked this morning I was able to find the spyhole without making it obvious that I was searching for it. There is a hole drilled in the mosaic, about four feet above the ground. The wall seems thick, so I don’t think the visibility through it can be good. Much of the room would be obscured. But the bed would probably be fully visible.”

“I’d like to know who’s in that next room,” said Rothir.

“So would I. But there’s no door to it that I can see. It must be entered from a different passage: however, I don’t want to go hunting for it.”

“No, you should not do that,” agreed Huldarion. He wondered why he wasn’t more surprised. But after the trap – possible trap – laid for Veron in the public combat, Huldarion found himself meeting this news of a private trap with weary resignation. His main thought was: does Meya know?

“Then other rooms could have such spyholes too,” observed Rothir. The three of them were talking in Rothir’s lodgings outside the castle. Although there was no reason to think this place was watched, Rothir and Parthenal had carefully checked the walls before summoning Huldarion, just in case.

“They may indeed. But; you see, I think I was put in that particular room for a purpose,” said Parthenal with slight difficulty. “Jaul seems to have guessed my inclinations. I’m sure I gave him no indication by word or look. But he did offer me first women, and then… alternatives. Possibly himself, I think.”

“If you had succumbed,” said Rothir, “then at some point a senior lord would have burst into the room in outrage.”

“Several lords,” said Huldarion. “Multiple witnesses. Were you likely to succumb?”

After a moment’s pause, Parthenal admitted, “I was tempted.”

Huldarion felt exasperation. Why couldn’t the man keep his breeches on? I’ve managed to restrain myself these last nine years, he thought. Couldn’t Parthenal have coped with even one month’s celibacy?

But Parthenal had not succumbed. And he was an honest man. One of the best, not just on the battlefield. I love him, thought Huldarion, despite his casual insouciance; and instead of giving vent to his irritation he put a reassuring hand on Parthenal’s shoulder.

“You will not be tempted again,” he said, “not here.”

“What about the archivist, Tamu?” growled Rothir. “How far can we trust him? Is he looking for leverage?”

“I don’t know if he acted alone,” said Parthenal, “although I’d be inclined to think he did. He was obviously nervous, but I suspect that is his normal state.”

“He’s not from Kelvha, is he?” said Huldarion. “It’s possible he knows the ways of the castle and simply doesn’t care for them. He may not be averse to a little revenge. When we visited the archives, Nerogun didn’t exactly treat him with respect.”

“Tamu told me to come to the scriptorium to see the book.”

“Then we will do that. Whether the book is truly relevant, or was simply an excuse, it means he must have something else to tell us. But we will keep this incident between the three of us,” said Huldarion, “until we have learnt more.”

“We?” asked Rothir.

Huldarion studied him consideringly. Rothir looked completely back to normal now, apart from the long gash along his forehead.

“You’ve won yourself renown within the castle with that fight,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“I feel all right.”

“Then, yes, we. You may come with us into the castle, Rothir. But let me ask the questions.” He was still annoyed over the matter of the darkburn; yet he appreciated Rothir’s courage, and was relieved to see him recovered. Rothir had always been his friend – for twenty years and more had been a companion in play, in travel, and in battle – which meant that Huldarion was finding it hard to adjust to the correct kingly distance. He wished no distance was necessary; but if he did not make the hierarchy plain, the Kelvhans would have no faith in his authority.

However, it would be politic now to show his approval of Rothir the valiant tiger-killer – as long as it was clear who was the master.

The three of them re-entered the castle and rather than delay walked straight over to the archives. Seeing the Keeper of the Keys as they crossed the great paved yard, Huldarion greeted him with a nod of the head – no bow, he decided, for Melegan is my equal – and said,

“We have received a message from the archivist about a matter that requires our attention. I trust there is no obstacle to our visiting him?”

“None at all, my Lord,” said Melegan courteously; though with a hint of surprise and curiosity that made Huldarion sure that Melegan, at least, knew nothing about Tamu’s message. So he had not been party to the spying through the wall, although as Keeper of the Keys he had access to all parts of the castle. But so, presumably, did others.

When they entered the low, lopsided building that held the archives, he noticed Rothir look round in amazement at the rows of shelves stuffed closely with tight scrolls and folded parchments. Huldarion himself thought the place no rival for Caervonn’s great, vaulted, echoing library with its thousands of rare books. If they still existed… He repressed a sigh.

That enticing odour of old leather. The smell of age and learning. They passed the desks of hunched scribes and the sounds of diligent scratchings, to reach Tamu’s desk at the centre.

It appeared to have no privacy, Huldarion noted: for it was open to view from all the surrounding desks. Despite this, he quickly realised that it could be a sufficiently private place to talk. The piles of books and papers all around it seemed to catch and muffle sounds. Once he stood by the desk he could no longer hear the scraping pens. Unless they spoke loudly, the Riders were unlikely to be overheard.

And Tamu did, at first, speak loudly. He greeted them without surprise and without much ceremony.

“My Lord Huldarion. Welcome. You’ll want to see that chronicle about the chieftain Agor,” he said. “I have it here, ready: and I’m in the middle of writing out the transcript.” A large volume was already open on the desk. Tamu turned it round and the three Riders bent over to examine it. Huldarion could barely read a word of the crabbed script.

Parthenal asked Tamu in an undertone, “Why did you come last night?” It was an innocent enough question and allowed for an innocent answer should that be necessary.

But Tamu said quietly, almost with a shrug, “Well, they have used Jaul to entrap visitors before. I expect I need not spell out how.”

“No. But why did Jaul pick me?” Even Huldarion could barely hear Parthenal’s question, although he could still detect the strain in his low voice.

This time the archivist did not answer straight away. Instead he leant over the book and pointed to one line, raising his voice for a moment.

“And there, you see another reference to Agor’s enemy. The Dorchoile lurking in the forest: that could mean the darkburn. Or something similar at least.” He lowered his voice again to murmur, “We cannot be overheard here unless we speak too loud. They will frequently test newcomers that way. It’s hard to say why you were chosen. But Jaul has… a reputation. Sometimes I think he simply picks the best-looking man of a group to see how far he can get with him. That may have been the case with you.” He was carefully not looking at Parthenal but turned a great page of his book with an abstracted frown.

“He offered me a woman,” said Parthenal. “Would that have compromised me?”

“Hardly. Nobody would care. Now then, let us look at this page also. Because you never know who is watching.”

They looked. Tamu read out, in a high, nervous voice, a few lines from his transcription. Huldarion listened. If this was a reference to a darkburn – this spirit that set fire to the woods – it was a very ancient and poetic one. He was doubtful. Nobody said anything until Rothir quietly asked, “Why did you intervene?”

Tamu blew out his cheeks, and shuffled various sheets around on his desk until he found a pen.

“I don’t like their methods,” he said at last. “Let me just write something down for you.”

He took a clean sheet of paper. In a small, neat script he wrote:

All bedrooms lowest floor east wing. Most rooms first floor south tower, and second floor north tower. Chart room. Small council room. Blue receiving room. Probably others. Underneath the words he drew an eye.

“How do you know this?” said Huldarion.

“Rumour. And old records from the rebuilding of the castle. But of course they are probably out of date. Now then: the Dorchoile. I will give you the transcription as far as I have completed it. When I have done the rest, who shall I bring it to?”

This was spoken more loudly, and Huldarion answered in an equally clear voice.

“To me, if you please. May I take this with me now?” He rolled up the transcription with the smaller sheet of paper wrapped inside it. There were formal bows all round. Then they turned and left the little archivist busying himself once more at his desk.

“Well,” said Huldarion, as they passed the copyists, “what do you think?”

“It could be useful information,” answered Rothir. “Although I’m not sure about the significance of those references to the darkburn.”

“No. But worth following up. I shall have a look at this.” He tapped the scroll beneath his arm. Once they were outside he said, “The most useful information we have gained is that we are being spied on; and that we can never be sure exactly where. As Tamu said, that list is unlikely to be comprehensive. So we must act as if every room has its spyhole.”

As he spoke, Huldarion felt a slight nausea. Every room? His own bedchamber? It was in the east wing, on the lowest floor. What about Meya’s?

His mind had immediately flown ahead to the consummation prior to his marriage: he did not yet know when and where it would take place. He was unsure how to make the arrangements. Yet it was most important to him that it should go well, for personal as well as diplomatic reasons.

He had enough to worry about, without spyholes. His scars, for a start. They need not affect his own performance, he knew that at least; for nine years ago, seeking reassurance, he had had a brief liaison with a woman – a tall, cool, solitary potter. He’d explained the situation: and she had given him the trial and knowledge that he needed. He remembered her hands upon his maimed body, sure and steady, as if he were her clay.

But she had not been going to marry him. Meya’s situation was more involved. He already had confused emotions about the event, and he did not like confusion. The knowledge of spyholes around the castle added greatly to his unease.

“Well, they did not succeed with you,” he said to Parthenal as they crossed the yard. “That’s the main thing. Jaul must have thought it worth a trial, as the archivist suggested, just in case.”

He noticed Rothir glance at Parthenal, who said, somewhat awkwardly,

“Perhaps so. But he may have known. There was a soldier the week before we came here. A Kelvhan. I thought it strange at the time that he was so abrupt. But now…”

“I see,” said Huldarion drily. “Not necessarily just chance, then. But that will make you doubly careful.”

“It makes me glad I’m not lodging in the castle,” said Rothir.

“None the less,” Huldarion said, “you should still assume that you too may be spied on, at any time.” He stopped and turned to finish addressing them before they got too close to the castle buildings. “So speak no word against Kelvha. Do nothing that could be construed as treating them with dishonour or contempt. Nothing that could be used against us. Although it may not feel like it, our little friend in the archives has done us a great service. We should take heed.”