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

Chapter 13

Tamu had never seen a man so beautiful as Parthenal.

When the Vonn had first ridden into the castle, all the servants and officials had put down their tasks to go outside and stare. In fact they had been commanded to, in order to swell the welcoming crowd.

The seven Riders were impressive. As they entered behind the Kelvhan escort, they seemed to be not as self-consciously proud as their hosts, and their gear was far less rich; but they had a look of steady resolve and intelligence and strength. The other watchers close to him were all commenting on their chief, Huldarion – that stern scarred face – so Tamu murmured about him likewise, yet was staring at the others. Three of them were very handsome: one in particular, who was darker than the other two. He had, thought Tamu, the face and bearing of an angel, of a god. It was as if some bygone knight had stepped out of the old tales to ride into the castle.

The man turned his head to gaze across the crowd. His gaze seemed to brush past Tamu, alighting briefly on the man next to him, a blond young gardener. And some feather turned in Tamu’s chest, some wing unfolded.

He began to walk with the crowd that gathered behind the Riders. As a castle employee he was allowed into the inner courtyard, where he stood at the back and watched them all dismount. The man he had admired was the tallest of the group. He stood by his horse and looked about him with cool curiosity, with an acute gaze in which there was a hint of judgement and a hint of humour.

All this Tamu read in twenty or so seconds. He did not ask anyone the Rider’s name: that would not have been safe. But as he walked to the Scriptorium the wing inside his chest grew wider and beat its feathers in a way that made him breathless.

Some hours later the seven Riders of the Vonn were brought to the Scriptorium, and Tamu was introduced to them. Nerogun’s presence was enough to ensure that he was as nervous and bumbling as he had ever been. When he knocked over his pen-stand and dropped his papers, he heard Nerogun murmur some derogatory joke. He managed to gather himself sufficiently to play his part as archivist: to nod and frown as he tried to understand what it was that the Riders wanted. Indeed he immediately grasped it and was mentally listing all the places he could look.

The tall man’s presence added to his nervousness. But he looked attentively at Tamu; he picked up the fallen paper: and he smiled. Tamu knew the smile meant nothing – it was politeness, civil kindness. All the same the wing inside his chest beat harder.

And the leader spoke the tall man’s name. Parthenal. Once they had all gone, Tamu said the word silently to himself, over and over. Parthenal. Such a soft, sweet whisper of a word for such a strong, hard-looking man.

He had admired men before. But this was different. This was so much bigger. Tamu set to work assiduously hunting out any reference to darkburns in the archives, because that was all that he could do for Parthenal. Perhaps he might earn another smile. For the next few days he caught only rare and fleeting glimpses of the Rider as he moved around the castle; but Parthenal was always in his mind.

He gave nothing away to the scribes who sat around him. The long years of practice at dissembling came to his aid: that, and the knowledge of what would happen if anybody guessed the nature of his thoughts.

Tamu had learned the rules of the castle very quickly. For he had nearly been caught out ten years ago, soon after his arrival here: a quiet, bookish young man from the southern provinces, looking for employment. At first he had been put to work in the kitchens, but when the exasperated head cook discovered him reading the recipe books and correcting the spelling of ingredients, he was sent to the Archives as a trainee scribe.

He had hardly as yet spoken a word to anyone, so he was surprised one evening soon afterwards to be approached and propositioned by a palace footman. How could he have known? And the man so clearly did not fancy him that the proposition left Tamu gaping dumbly like a fish.

The footman took his surprise for indignation, laughed, and then explained.

“No offence. It’s castle policy to weed out any perverts. If you’d said Yes, you’d have been either kicked out or thrown off the Tell Tower – depending on who you are, and how his lordship’s feeling.”

“Quite right too,” said Tamu. “Which Lordship would that be?”

The footman cocked his head towards West Fort and mouthed “Nerogun.” By which Tamu gathered that nowhere was it safe to speak openly, even for Nerogun’s own agents; and having a quick and active imagination he at once understood the nature of the place he found himself in.

From that day he began to cultivate the persona that was in fact based on his own. In another, more congenial place he thought he would have been an absent-minded scholar; but he would not have become so abstracted, so bumbling and apologetic, so wrapped up in the Archives that he was seen as laughably unworldly in any other sphere. Although it kept him safe, Tamu regretted it; and he was lonely.

The more he learnt about the castle, with its labyrinthine passages and politics, its secrets and its spyholes, the less he liked it. Yet he could not afford to leave, because he was paid well – especially as he rose in the Scriptorium’s ranks – and his mother back home relied on what he sent her. But books were now his chief and safest friends.

Although the works in the Scriptorium were mainly genealogies and histories, they opened up a world of other lives: the tales of exploration, conflict and endeavour that he read within the chronicles stirred and strengthened his imagination. He lived his life within those ancient pages, falling in love with this heroic long-dead knight or that.

And he progressed. From clerk to senior scribe to assistant deputy; for he was clever and industrious and unlike many of the scribes was interested in his work. The shaky old archivist Jorgrid noticed Tamu’s interest, and became something of a mentor if not quite a friend. When Jorgrid died suddenly – slumping at his desk – Tamu was grieved, although not much surprised; what surprised him a great deal more was his own promotion to chief archivist.

The post should have gone to Elgur, the man whose junior he was. When the Arch-Lord Welgun, the Keeper of the Scrolls, made an appearance at the archives, he assumed that Elgur’s appointment would be a mere formality.

But Nerogun turned up too, and he asked the questions. How do you see the future of the archives? What changes need to be made?

Encouraged, Elgur was full of ideas which he expounded with enthusiasm. The archives could be extended to include scripts from outside Kelvha – new ideas, modern thinkers. The genealogies could perhaps be weeded in order to accommodate these new works; they took up vast amounts of space, and needed weeding anyway. Certain members of the lower orders could be allowed access to some of the collection.

Throughout all this Nerogun nodded and made no comment. Then he turned to Tamu. “And what would you advise?” he asked.

Although Tamu had his own ideas about the archives, which tallied in some ways with Elgur’s, he did not want to simply repeat what his senior colleague had just said. Indeed he saw some danger in doing so, for the Keeper of the Scrolls was frowning. So he coughed and stammered, “I would be guided by the Arch-Lord Welgun.”

“And?” said Nerogun. “What else? How would you manage the genealogies?”

“Well, more, more, more space is certainly required,” said Tamu nervously. “Perhaps the annexe – if it, if it were re-roofed – it would not do for any of the parchments to get damp…”

Elgur shook his head. “If you start to move the genealogies on that scale, you’d have to re-index them all,” he objected. “It would be a massive job. It would leave no time for anything else.”

“A new catalogue would be required,” admitted Tamu.

“Would that be difficult?” enquired Nerogun.

“It would certainly be very time-consuming,” said Tamu.

Nerogun nodded and led the Arch-Lord Welgun out. A week later, Elgur was moved to a clerical post in Outer Kelvha, and Tamu became Chief Archivist of Kelvha Castle.

The annexe was re-roofed. The genealogies were still being catalogued as they were moved, shelf by weary shelf: Tamu did that job meticulously although the genealogies meant nothing to him. His love was for the ancient chronicles and histories – the spidery scripts, the crossings and corrections, the little pictures in the margins; all were a dialogue with a friendly past. He sought out old manuscripts in the City’s second-hand shops, and sometimes wished that he could procure more recent works to add to the collection. But that would have to wait. Perhaps once Faldron was High King.

As for his daily life in Kelvha castle… mundane was the best word. He formed a few polite acquaintanceships with other officials of his rank; they talked mostly about books. Occasionally he harboured a small, secret passion for a stable-boy or clerk, or daringly, for some tall, handsome lordling. Not a sigh or an untoward glance had ever escaped him: his sighs he kept for when he was alone in bed.

None of these passions meant a great deal to him except in the fact that they were impossible. Were he ever to really feel love, for a real person, he knew that it could never come to anything. Even if Kelvha were different, it would come to nothing, because who would ever want him? There had been one boy back home… but he had soon lost interest. Even the footman hadn’t been able to pretend to want him.

And now had come the Vonn.

Although he didn’t care for jousts, all the minor officials were expected to attend. Tamu thought he might catch some distant glimpse of Parthenal up on the dais. That was all that he dared hope for. The hand to hand combats came as a shock to him: as first one, and then another of the Riders of the Vonn stood up, and he realised that Parthenal’s turn might well come next, his heart beat so hard and wildly that he could barely hide his agitation.

And then it was Dughin, of all men, whom Parthenal finally stood up against: a fierce, notorious man, permanently angry. The combat had been horrific – yet beautiful, marvellous. The way that Parthenal moved as he fought, the long lines of his limbs, his controlled strength, his skill, all left Tamu breathless and shaken. He was conscious that the wing inside his chest had grown. It had become a bird, huge and wonderful, some swan or soaring eagle, beating, beating to be let out.

Nobody noticed, because nobody ever did notice him. But he noticed one of them. He noticed Jaul.

Tamu knew of Jaul: he was aware that he performed the same function as that footman had, ten years ago, although Jaul moved only among the higher ranks. Tamu had heard mutters about him in the Scriptorium, and had been very careful to avoid Jaul’s eye.

But now, after the combat, he saw Jaul walk smiling up to Parthenal. So Jaul was his equerry. As he realised this, Tamu felt terrible alarm and fear. He thought it unlikely that Parthenal loved other men – that would have been too much to hope for – but a man like Jaul might succeed in entrapping him by some means anyway. He knew that spyholes were dotted round the castle: and feared lest somehow Jaul succeed in compromising Parthenal.

During the subsequent contest with the tiger, Tamu oohed and aahed along with all the others in the audience. But he barely noticed what was happening in the arena; the danger of it did not register with him. All he could think of was the danger that Parthenal was in, unknowingly. A fever of apprehension boiled up inside him. He needed to warn Parthenal.

After the tournament he summoned up the courage to ask a lower servant which was Parthenal’s room, pretending he had a message to take him. The answer – second lower left, fourth turn, North Tower – confirmed all his fears. There was a spyhole there.

But Tamu did not go there straight away. He did not dare. It would have to be managed very carefully.

Yet he knew there was a way to do it. Gathering up his courage he forced himself to plan. Back in the shelter of the Archives, he retrieved the Chronicles of Garean which he had already searched through and had begun to transcribe for the Vonn. He could use this as an excuse to talk to Parthenal. He wrote a message warning of entrapment, and hid it deep within the book.

What would he say when he spoke to Parthenal? It had to seem quite innocent. He made himself work it all out in his head, as if he was deciphering an ancient script. As he silently rehearsed it, he was terrified, but knew his terror would not matter as he always appeared so nervous anyway. It was a dreadful risk, but he would risk anything, oh, anything, to safeguard Parthenal.

Yet still he could not do it. He lurked at the entrance to the North Tower, clutching his huge book, and could not summon up the boldness to walk upstairs to the room and knock. He had known that he would fail. A lowly, anxious, unregarded man like him was bound to fail. Despising himself, he was about to retreat before any passing lord could wonder why he was lingering there, when he glimpsed Jaul, carrying a jug across the courtyard.

Jaul did not notice him. Tamu was able to follow at a safe distance: and he saw Jaul mount the stairs. He followed him, two bends behind. From the corner of the corridor he watched Jaul knock on Parthenal’s door and after a moment enter the room, closing the door behind him.

Now Tamu was desperate. He dared not do this. But he had to. He wanted to run away. But he must not. So he rehearsed his words again, and grasped his heavy book: and then he knocked, and bumbled in, and although he forgot half the words he had rehearsed it didn’t really matter. He bumbled so effectively that Jaul soon left. He dared not look at Parthenal. But he had given him the message.

He hoped that he had shown no hint of how he felt. The next day he had coped a little better, when Parthenal came into the Scriptorium with his scarred chief and the tiger-killer. Being on his own ground gave Tamu more confidence. It would be dreadful if Parthenal had guessed. But he was fairly sure that Parthenal did not guess. He did not really notice Tamu; nobody did. He noticed the words that Tamu spoke, but Tamu thought that he himself remained a cipher.

Yet still the wing in Tamu’s breast beat hard. He knew that he would have to carry this beating wing inside him all his life. It was terrible and painful: it was wonderful.

And somehow, after all, despite his lack of courage, he had managed it. Parthenal was safe.