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

Chapter 25

Huldarion sat at the banqueting table and toyed with the heavy goblet in his hand. While he made what passed for conversation with the Lady Belfura – difficult, since she responded with nothing but a somewhat stony “Oh, indeed,” to any of his observations – he was watching High Prince Faldron as unobtrusively as he could.

It had already struck him that the young prince, while not exactly empty-headed, seemed much more suggestible here in Kelvha Castle than he had been on the distant northern battlefield; and never more so than after a glass or two of wine. But only at their meeting in the chart room had it become clear to Huldarion that Faldron had his own wine-flagon. He had wondered if this was to avoid any possibility of the wine being tampered with. It seemed unlikely, when Nerogun and the other lords drank freely from the common flagons.

At this banquet he paid more attention when the wine was poured. Faldron’s wine was brought over to the table separately to the rest, carried by a haughty serving-man. Seeing that the arrangement was obviously no secret, Huldarion made some polite comment on it across the table to the Prince.

Nerogun, on his left side, answered for him.

“It’s a Southern Weldish vintage,” the Post-Regent said indulgently. “A young man’s wine, eh, Faldron? Uncommon. Not to my taste, I must admit. But you prefer it.”

“Oh, I do,” said Faldron. “You must try some, Huldarion.” He motioned to his servant who carried the flagon forward and half-filled Huldarion’s goblet.

Huldarion preferred not to drink more than he could help at any of these occasions, because he wanted his wits about him, even at an informal banquet such as this. Normally he would take frequent small sips, so tiny as to barely wet his mouth. Now he picked the goblet up unwillingly. It was an object of great craft, the glass containing cloudy swirls of colour, and bearing gilt adornments on its outer surface. While an attractive vessel it was not conducive to studying the appearance of the wine.

“Southern Weldish, you say?”

“It has a peppery flavour that is much valued,” said Nerogun.

Huldarion raised it to his lips politely and pretended to drink whilst taking the merest drop. “Your good health, your Highness. Indeed, a very pleasant vintage. Peppery, as you say. I do not blame you for your preference.” He put the wine down with little idea of what it tasted like. He felt on edge; and not just because of the wine.

This was Kelvha’s idea of an informal occasion. As well as the high lords, several wives were present: Shildha, Tiburé’s hostess, was a little further down the table, giggling a great deal. The Vizier’s ancient wife sat stern-faced, looking somewhat sharper than her husband. Other rigid-faced old ladies were interspersed with younger, prettier ones.

But the women were there only to listen and exclaim and look decorative, while the men held centre stage. It made Huldarion uncomfortable. He was used to talking to women on more equal terms. Moreover, he was aware that all eyes were on him – whether obviously or not; and felt the wearying necessity of talking with suitable interest on every subject.

He would have liked to have exchanged some less guarded comments with Meya, who was sitting on the far side of the table, some way down. But he would have had to shout. Instead, he was obliged to be polite to the young ladies closer by: a tricky task, since they were three of his rejects. Of those three he was fairly sure that two had not forgiven him. Belfura had treated him to a single acid smile – no simpering now – while Gaelera barely acknowledged his presence at all. He noticed her father frowning at her. But when Gaelera glanced up at Nerogun he withdrew his gaze.

However, on the Riders’ entering the hall the High Princess Idria had greeted them with genuine warmth. So she bore no grudge. Idria was now sitting opposite his two youngest Riders, Aretor and Sashel, talking to them with a pleasant if naïve enthusiasm. Unlike the other ladies, then, she was allowed to talk; and was evidently not as shrinking as Huldarion had thought her. Certainly more lively than her listless brother Faldron, when in the right company.

Faldron attends too many banquets, thought Huldarion. Too much of that Weldish wine. He watched Faldron drink. Meanwhile Nerogun was discussing taxes – or, rather, holding forth about rates of taxation. Huldarion nodded and pretended to agree with everything he said.

As if I were one of the womenfolk, he thought. How exhausting it must be to be permitted no opinion.

Opposite them Thoronal sat with lips compressed. He did not approve even of the small deceit of pretending to agree with Nerogun.

“You think we should charge eight drebs per hundred? What is eight per hundred of fifty thousand?” said Faldron. He counted on his fingers before looking up with a disarming smile. “I make it eight hundred.” Huldarion resisted the urge to correct him.

“Ah. Arithmetic,” said Nerogun, “best left to clerks, eh, Faldron?”

“Definitely,” said Faldron.

“The Prince prefers lordly pursuits to humdrum matters of administration,” said Nerogun. “Much more suitable.”

“For one of my standing,” agreed the prince, taking another gulp of wine.

“Of course a prince must take some interest in state affairs,” said Huldarion.

“Of course,” said Faldron. “I always do.” He repeated whatever was said to him, without discrimination. Even though Huldarion had just been doing the same thing, he found it unnerving.

“Ah!” said Faldron, as if he had just remembered something. “My Lord Huldarion, you must have some more of my vintage. You liked it, didn’t you? Nerogun thought you would.”

Huldarion thought he detected a twitch of annoyance on Nerogun’s face. That twitch alarmed him. He took care to appear casual as the man-servant reached forward to top up his goblet.

What could be in the wine? Poison he ruled out. Faldron took this wine nightly and was clearly in good health. But none the less Huldarion was suspicious that there was some extra component in it: something that blurred the Prince’s wits and made him more than normally compliant.

He glanced at the goblet set before him, unwilling to drink. Yet it would be insulting to leave it there untasted. So, as before, he pretended to sip, and smiled, and talked about horses with the Prince, all the time wondering how he could avoid draining his goblet. He was now sure that Nerogun was watching him from the corner of his eye.

I cannot even pretend to spill it in this company, he thought. I need some distraction to happen, to have any chance.

He looked at his own men; but Thoronal was staring at the table, Uld was talking gently to the Vizier, and Sashel was making the princess Idria smile. Although that gave Huldarion a second’s unease, it was not something he could think about just now.

Would Meya understand what was in his thoughts? Would she know anything about the wine? Although he was aware that her face was turned towards him he dared not signal to her with the Post-Regent looking on. He played with the stem of the goblet and exchanged inanities with Faldron. Then he pretended to take another sip. But soon Faldron would comment on the fact that the goblet was still full. And then Nerogun would know of his suspicions.

The Vizier made some mumbled remark: and for one second Nerogun turned his head away in order to reply. In that second Huldarion looked across at Meya, down at his goblet, and back at her face. That was all he dared to do. Even if Nerogun was not watching him, Gaelera might be. Such a vague gesture was probably not enough. It would mean nothing to Meya.

And Meya did not seem to take the hint. She would not know it was a hint. A moment later she rose quietly from the table and departed from the room, but so discreetly that it created none of the distraction that he needed.

He took a third minute sip of wine. Nerogun was now openly watching him, counting sips, no doubt. So to avoid drinking he talked on, aware that he was talking rubbish. Meya glided back in and walked towards her place. She did not even look at Huldarion and he was quite unprepared when with a shriek and a thud she went flying across the floor.

But he was not so unprepared that he could not act. As Faldron and Nerogun – and several others – jumped up from their seats, Huldarion stood up too, the goblet in his hand emptying itself underneath the table. Nobody was watching him just then, not even Gaelera.

He put the empty goblet down and hurried around the table to Meya’s assistance. Although most of the shocked lords and ladies were on their feet, staring, the Vizier’s wife was the only other person to have gone to Meya’s aid. Nerogun was doing nothing to help her but appeared to be enjoying the sight of her bared calves as she sprawled inelegantly on the floor.

“My dear,” said Huldarion as he took Meya’s arm and helped her to stand up. She looked so shaken that he was not quite sure if the fall had been intended. “My dear, are you all right?”

Meya readjusted her skirts and frowned at the floor.

“Grease,” she said. She sounded shaken too. “The floor is greasy.”

“But no harm is done.” As she glanced up at Huldarion his back was to the company. Discreetly he mouthed, Thank you.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “No harm done, sir, as you say.” He escorted her to her seat and then returned to his own.

“Some servant needs a beating for that,” said Nerogun casually. “You can’t have been supervising them as thoroughly as you usually do, my lady. Too many other things on your mind, eh?” Although his tone was jocular, Huldarion at that moment loathed him.

“Never fear,” said Meya coolly. “I shall find the servant responsible.” She did not look at Huldarion.

“They never own up to their carelessness,” said the Vizier’s wife.

“Indeed, why would they?” said Gaelera. Although she gazed around as if waiting for an answer, nobody offered her one.

“More wine, Huldarion?” said Faldron.

He held up his hand. “Excellent though it is, your Highness, I think I’ve had enough. I don’t want to go the same way as Lady Meya!”

Faldron laughed, and now Huldarion despised himself as much as he had Nerogun a moment earlier. More. Because Meya had sacrificed her dignity at his bidding, and here he was laughing at her.

No doubt all the lords and ladies were as well, behind their politely smiling faces. But then the sweetmeats arrived – beautiful airy shells of pastry that encased exotic fruits – and in the lull while people turned their minds to food, their attention was at last withdrawn and he was freed of the laborious necessity to talk.

If the stars favoured him there would not be many more of these banquets to endure. He longed to be riding out of Kelvha. That matter of the temple of Borgun bothered him: another reason why he wanted to be gone, as soon as feasible. It would be harder for Adon to make his mischief in the wild. In Kelvha there were endless complications.

And now there was another possible complication close to hand. The Princess Idria was paying too much attention to Sashel. She was probably not aware of how often her eyes rested on the young Rider’s face, or of how admiring they were; and Sashel’s courtesy could not be faulted. But Huldarion knew he was unlikely to be the only one who noticed, and it was a worry.

At last the banquet ended. Still he had to linger, exchanging pleasantries and good-nights with the nobles, while Meya was the only one he wished to speak to. When Gaelera came up to him, the Lady Shildha, with whom he had been talking, looked alarmed and moved away; as did everyone else. They were left in a vacancy.

She is like a shark in the sea, thought Huldarion, that becomes suddenly empty of all the lesser fish. But surely Gaelera is no shark: that is her father. Presumably he has all the teeth she needs.

“I did not observe that the floor was greasy,” Gaelera said to him composedly.

“Perhaps the Lady Meya’s shoes were,” said Huldarion. He wondered what Gaelera had seen. Nothing, surely? Now she stood with her head a little on one side, as if considering.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Kelvha’s well-being is paramount to me, you understand.”

“Of course.” Where was this leading?

“My father is a very able man.”

“I have the highest respect for his abilities.”

She nodded. “You were wise.”

“Wise…?”

“In what you did,” said Gaelera, still perfectly without expression.

Did she mean the overturned goblet? But he did not think that she had not seen that. What else could she be referring to? His choice of wife? Before he could attempt a reply she turned and walked away, as stately and as careful of her dress as ever.

Huldarion stared after her, his composure gone for once. To conceal his momentary bewilderment he beckoned to one of the serving-men, asking for Lady Meya’s cloak to be brought to him.

But he could see Nerogun looking over at him uneasily. And when Nerogun strode across the room and said, “You are honoured. My daughter does not often talk to strangers,” he heard unmistakeable tension in the Post-Regent’s voice. That was interesting.

“Your daughter has impeccable manners,” said Huldarion. “She is very good to afford me such notice; and very complimentary about you.”

Nothing in that to disturb the Post-Regent. Yet the man said nothing, merely smiled with his lips only, before turning and clapping for the tables to be cleared, bellowing at a tardy footman as if to release some pent-up agitation.

At last Huldarion had the opportunity to go up to Meya, who had been waiting silently by her place.

“My dear,” he said as he approached, “I trust you are unhurt?”

That was a cold look she gave him. “I am perfectly unhurt, I thank you,” she replied.

“I have your cloak here. Would you care to take a turn in the garden with me? I should like some evening air.”

She inclined her head and accompanied him down the long stone passage towards the garden. Behind them trailed her maid and two tall footmen. Perhaps she had only waited for him for the appearance of politeness, for she neither looked at him nor spoke until they were walking around the garden paths in the cooling dusk.

Alongside him, the bushes were dark shadows studded with faintly luminous blooms. The fragrance was much more noticeable than by day. He thought of Meya in his bed, and wondered if he could embrace her here.

No. Absolutely not. There was no privacy. Even though the servants had kept a respectful distance, other lords and ladies paraded between the roses. However, there was space enough for him to speak.

“I thank you for your help back then,” he murmured.

“I gathered that you did not wish to drink the wine,” said Meya flatly, her voice equally low. “Why not? Surely you did not think it had been tampered with?” She was displeased.

“It was Faldron’s wine,” he said, and paused to bow and smile at a pair of elder ladies as they walked past. “I think it may possibly have been tampered with, but not at the table.”

“Where, then?” Still cold. She looked not at him, but straight ahead.

“At some point before it was served to Faldron. He drinks only his own wine. And I have noticed that he becomes unusually passive after drinking. He agrees with everything that is said. But he was not so up north on the battlefield.”

She was silent for a moment. “Wine affects different people in different ways.”

“Yes. But such passivity is not a normal side-effect.”

“You think the wine may make him more controllable,” she said.

“I do.”

“But others would have noticed, even if I did not. Admittedly I do not often speak to him on these occasions, or indeed any other.”

“Then who does? Who dines with the Prince regularly? Apart from Nerogun and Shargun?”

“The Vizier,” she began, and paused. “Well. I see what you mean. Other high lords at various times... But they would not speak to the Prince at table unless he addressed them. Your presence allows for a greater degree of freedom than is usual.”

He paused by one of the luminous blossoms. “Meya, smell this rose,” he said. “How beautiful it is, how sweet.”

She bent to sniff the rose, and smiled, briefly. “Yes. Sweet, indeed. I will investigate the matter of the wine.”

“Discreetly,” he suggested.

“Naturally.”

“Meanwhile, please forgive me. I did not wish you to up-end yourself. However, as a distraction it was most effective.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” she said, the smile gone. “And more realistic than I intended. So I am now a laughing stock.”

“Not to me,” he said, and took her hand to raise it to his lips. He wanted to draw some comparison between her and the rose, to say how sweet she was to him, how alluring: but he could not frame the words in time, and in any case she would not believe it.

“I have no idea what I am to you,” she said, very quietly. She withdrew her hand, curtsied to him, and swept herself away.