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

Chapter 37

“I came to consult with your herb-mistress, if I may,” said Yaret, with a slightly clumsy bow. “I find my leg is paining me.”

“I am sorry to hear that. Of course you may see her,” said Meya immediately. “Let me take you to the sickroom. I’ll send my maid to fetch Boral – my herb-mistress – and she will find us there.”

Meya had been wondering how she was to get news about Janeya. She had even contemplated sending her maid Eral to the Vonn women’s lodgings on some concocted errand, risky though that would have been. So it was a relief to see Yaret, even if the woman was not a true member of the Vonn.

She assumed that Yaret’s leg was merely a pretext for this visit. Certainly her limp was hardly noticeable as they commenced the long walk through the winding passages of the castle. The smell of smoke still hung in the air: Meya had been busy all day instructing servants in the removal of the dust of ash. It would be an annoyingly long job.

But Yaret – perhaps wary of stray listeners, and probably rightly so – said nothing about the fires or anything else, until Meya apologised for the castle’s smoky atmosphere.

“Even from so far away the after-effects have reached us. I understand the Vonn assisted in the rescue of inhabitants?” she said.

“Yes, so I believe,” said Yaret in her careful Kelvhan. “I did not see the result of the fire until this morning, when I visited the northern quarter; and very depressing it was. I spent some time helping people to clear their houses. But in many cases little could be saved.” Yaret stared into space as if seeing something other than the plain stone walls.

“Bread is to be provided to them,” Meya reassured her.

“And other aid?”

Meya shrugged. “We cannot afford to rebuild every house that a careless citizen sets alight. There would be no end to it.”

After a small silence Yaret said cautiously, “I understood that the cause might possibly have been arson.”

“Really? I can’t say I’m surprised, in that part of the city.”

Another silence for several paces. “Will you visit the quarter?”

“Perhaps,” said Meya, although she had not even considered this. She was not sure why she would want to visit, or what she could do there; her role lay within the castle.

Yaret gazed ahead again. Meya thought she was judging some comment, weighing her words before she spoke; but in the end all she came out with was, “I trust you stay in good health, Lady Meya.”

“I am well, I thank you,” answered Meya. “I am always well.”

“You are fortunate.”

“Yes. Except that I am known for being well. It gives me no chance to retire to my chamber on the grounds of illness.”

Yaret smiled. “Then you are unlike some,” she said, “who stay in their room all day, although they are perfectly healthy. I know of one such. No, two.”

Meya took this as a guarded reference to Janeya and her maid Piril, and relaxed a little.

“But they cannot stay there for ever, I suppose,” she said.

“No. Eventually they must depart. Speaking of which, soon we are to take our leave of the castle – and of your hospitality – and ride out with the Kelvhan army.”

“How soon?”

“Maybe no more than three days from now, as I understand. It seems quite sudden but we are all prepared. We have sufficient gear. So we shall all leave together.” Was there the faintest emphasis on the “all”?

They had now arrived at the sickroom, and Meya saw Boral hurrying along the arched corridor towards them with her head down, looking anxious as she always did. Meya longed to tell her to Lift her head! Square her shoulders! Look people in the eye! But she restrained herself, for she seldom spoke her exasperation aloud.

Being a servant, she thought as she waited for Boral, is probably harder than I imagine. I presume it would be fairly easy, but then I am an organised person. The inner life of a servant is almost as hard for me to imagine as is that of an inhabitant of the northern quarter. Of course, nobody has to live there if they work hard enough. All the same, I would not want to.

And as for riding out as a soldier with the Vonn, as Yaret will soon do… well, I would only be a liability. None the less, I should like to do something – to go to the battlefield, to be near while they fight, to support my husband. My husband!

The idea of the battle shocked her less than the fact that she had automatically thought of Huldarion as her husband. She felt caught out. But unless he died in battle, she had pledged herself to him unshakeably.

Opening the door to the sick-room Meya looked at the neat white bed within. The notion came to her that she ought to visit Huldarion’s bed before the armies left to fight; to offer him at least that comfort. It was her duty. She dismissed the thought that it might also be a pleasure.

“If you permit, may I see your leg, my lady Yaret?” asked Boral.

Yaret laughed. “I am no lady, but a common archer,” she said, sitting on the bed and prising off her boot. “You could call me Miss, I suppose.”

“Yes, Miss. How long is it since this injury happened?” Boral showed no surprise at the sight of the truncated limb. But Meya was shocked, not only by the sight of the stump itself – which looked somewhat red and raw – but by the violence with which the foot must have been hacked off.

“Last autumn,” Yaret said, quite calmly. “It was a stoneman’s axe.”

“And then, Miss, I hear the stoneman pushed you down a chasm, did he not,” enquired Boral, “so that you fell two hundred feet into a river? And then you had to swim out and bind up your leg without aid, by yourself? And wait overnight to be rescued?”

Yaret looked as astonished as Meya felt. “More or less,” she said. “I didn’t have to swim, though, just scramble to the shore. But who told you all that?”

“My sister is a junior housekeeper of the Lord Melegan’s household. She was present while the Lady Tiburé was talking to her daughter about the matter. You must forgive her curiosity, but she was not asked to leave the room.”

“Her curiosity is natural,” said Yaret politely.

Boral turned to Meya and curtseyed. “My lady, my sister sends her humble compliments, and asks if perhaps employment might be found for her here, within the castle.”

“What? Why does she want to move?” asked Meya, feeling somewhat bewildered by so many strange developments all at once.

“My lady, word goes round that Lord Melegan’s household may soon be… diminished.”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” said Meya. But she immediately thought of Gaelera’s words in the courtyard as they stood beside the crumpled body that had fallen from the Tell Tower. A weakness in the family…

Well, there was no weakness in Nerogun. He must have moved fast.

And once Nerogun took against him, Melegan would have to leave his palatial quarters just outside the castle. He would have to leave the city altogether: it would mean exile to Outer Kelvha at the least. She did not feel much pity for Melegan, who was a pompous bore; but she felt sorry for Shildha, his pretty, harmless wife.

And her own daughter, Aliya, was staying on a country estate that belonged to a relative of Melegan’s. It might be wise, though inconvenient, to move her.

Then Meya felt a rush of guilt – for was not this, ultimately, her own doing? Was it not a result of her cover-up of Janeya’s supposed suicide? The corpse of poor Felipa was to be buried tomorrow, with all the ceremony due to one of Janeya’s rank. Meanwhile Janeya herself had to get out of the city, or be got out somehow.

“You female Riders,” she said. “Will you all ride out? Will any stay behind?”

“All will ride, without exception,” answered Yaret, and then winced as Boral began to apply a tincture to her stump. “That stings!”

“It stings because the skin is broken. You have not been looking after it,” said Boral in reproof, and added as an afterthought, “my lady. I mean Miss.”

“I did have some cream to put on it, but it ran out a while ago.”

“Then why didn’t you obtain some more?”

Yaret looked embarrassed. “Well, there are no shops on the battlefield. And… I don’t have much money to buy medications.”

Boral compressed her lips. “I’ll find you something that will help. Wait here while I go up to the still-room.” She hurried out.

“She can be quite strict, can’t she?” said Yaret, gazing after her.

“She has never been strict with me.”

Yaret smiled. “No, I expect not. But then you are always well.”

“You yourself look tired,” said Meya, studying her more closely.

“Ah, that’s only because we have a lot to do just now. We have some volunteers who have lately joined our forces, so there have been plenty of things to sort out in the way of horses and equipment.”

Meya thought this might be another veiled reference to Janeya and her maid. “Will your volunteers be willing to fight, do you think?”

Yaret considered this. “I think so. One of them at least. Of course they may just wish to travel. They have nothing to keep them in Kelvha.”

Meya imagined Janeya prancing around in armour, riding off to battle… Yes, the girl would probably love that, she thought sardonically. Sina would be jealous if she knew: that foolish girl had already expressed a wish to leave the city with Durba, dressed as a boy. It was nonsense, of course, for Sina would never have the courage nor the confidence to do such a daring thing.

However, it was true that, since meeting Durba, both Sina’s courage and her confidence had grown… An unsettling thought.

“How big will your army be, in all?” she asked, in order to leave the subject.

“Kelvha have promised, I believe, twenty thousand men. They are most generous with their support,” Yaret said formally, as if the walls were listening. Which they might be, even here, reflected Meya; for she could not check every corridor and room for newly-added spyholes as she could in her own chambers. “As for the Vonn – I’m not quite sure. I think there are around two thousand active Riders encamped elsewhere, but I don’t know how many will join Huldarion once he rides out of Kelvha.”

“You have not been with the Vonn for long, I think.”

“No. We were thrown together by accident while I was travelling. I’m a pedlar of woven goods and I met them on my route. But I have vowed to represent my townspeople in the fight against the stonemen.”

“Why you?”

“Oh… just accident, again. I volunteered to come since I had already encountered stonemen and knew what to expect.”

Meya thought it odd that none of the men from her home had accompanied her to war. Perhaps it was too far away for them to care.

“What sort of place is your town?” she asked, genuinely curious. She found herself drawn to this woman who, though she had neither the beauty nor the adornments that were expected of Kelvhan gentlewomen, yet possessed a quiet, thoughtful assurance. And presumably some degree of courage and resilience, given the leg. It was a pity she was so low-born.

Yaret did not answer immediately. Once again she seemed to be gazing into the middle distance, as if considering what to say. It occurred to Meya that it might not be spyholes that she was wary of, so much as Meya herself.

But before either of them could say anything, Boral came hurrying back in. She had a jar in her hand and a worried – no, a scared – appearance on her face.

“What is it?” said Meya sharply. For some reason her mind flew to the still-room, to the flask that still stood on a dusty shelf, disguised by the proximity of so many other, similar flasks. Boral had lately confirmed what Meya had suspected: that the Prince’s Weldish wine had been laced with the same nameless ingredient as the stonemen’s drugs. That must be through the will of Nerogun. The flask had weighed heavy on her mind until Janeya had provided a counterweight that was much heavier. Now she feared discovery.

But Boral said breathlessly, “There is some disturbance in the armoury yard, my lady. I saw it from the still-room window.”

She breathed more easily. “What do you mean? What sort of a disturbance?”

“My lady, there are soldiers out there, a whole troop of the castle guard,” said Boral, her voice unusually high with agitation. “I think – well, I couldn’t hear it all, but there was a lot of shouting, about injustice, I think, and cruel punishment – and they are armed, my lady! They are armed, and they are demanding to see the Prince!” She clasped the jar tightly between both hands.

“Soldiers? Mutiny?”

This was something altogether new. Now that Meya knew it was not about the flask, her confidence returned to her.

“I had better go and see,” she said.

She marched out of the sick-room and hurried to the stairs. She had always been able to quell the fractious grumblings of the servants – it took little more than a stern word and a sterner look – and did not doubt that this task of quelling soldiers would not be much harder. They would not dare to contradict her, such a lofty and authoritative lady of the castle. She knew the effect she had on the lower orders.

The two other women were following her at a short distance as she ran swiftly down the stairs. She did not stop to wait for them at the bottom of the stairwell but strode on through the cloister to the Armoury yard.

And then, on the point of entering the yard, Meya saw the soldiers. Suddenly she realised that this was a very different matter to a handful of discontented servants. She stepped back underneath the arches and stood on Boral’s foot.

“This is dangerous,” she said to the two women quietly. How had she thought that she could quell this situation with a stern word and a look?

Two dozen soldiers of the fifteenth regiment were standing in the middle of the square. They were in formal ranks, all with swords held up before them. At their head was a man she recognised: the captain Amerrun. He had been promoted by her late husband and was, she knew, a capable and well-respected soldier.

And loyal – or so she had thought. Yet around him lay the scattered bodies of three of the palace guard; and Amerrun’s sword was bloody.

Behind him, in the middle of his troop, two or three of his men were shouting half-coherently – something about cruel punishment – while Amerrun tried forcefully to speak over them. His tone was more measured than his men’s but the import was the same.

“My Lord, we do not accept your judgement. We demand to see the High Prince! He is our highest judge and arbiter. My Lord Nerogun, your condemnation of my troop is both unmerited and unjust–”

“You didn’t need to order our men killed!” shouted the man behind him. “We are not cattle!”

“No, you are less than cattle!” bellowed a powerful voice; and Meya saw Nerogun standing like an angry bull at the entrance to the armoury.

Now he marched out into the open. Beside him stood Iajo, holding a mace and swinging a chain, and flanked by more of the palace guard – who were armed with spears and halberds as well as swords. Meya took another step back into the shadow of the stairwell.

“My lord, my men have served you long and faithfully–” began Amerrun.

“Faithfully? When four of them let our most precious prisoner be stolen from us?”

“My lord, the thing was an unnatural creature, whose powers were–”

“Be quiet! I have spoken!” Nerogun gestured to Iajo, who raised his mace and stepped forward threateningly.

But at the same time, there was sudden movement on the far side of the yard. The High Prince Faldron came striding in flanked by footmen. He was followed by Huldarion and two of his Vonnish counsellors, one of them one carrying rolled-up documents.

“What is all this? We have been trying to consult together and this rumpus has disturbed us. What’s going on here?” Faldron demanded, with considerably more authority than Meya had heard in his voice before. “Nerogun? What are these troops doing in the castle? What is the problem?”

“Your Highness, the problem is these mutinous and incompetent excuses for soldiery,” said Nerogun with furious contempt.

“But these are men of the Fifteenth,” objected Faldron, as he strode up to Nerogun and turned to survey the ranks of soldiers. “I fought beside them at the Outland Forts. What has gone wrong?”

“Your Highness, regrettably the sheer insubordination of–”

Amerrun’s voice was raised over the Post-Regent’s. “Your Highness, I and my men have been falsely accused of treachery, and threatened with death without trial, without court-martial, without even the opportunity to plead to you for mercy, as our highest commander – which I do now.” He went down on his knees.

“Get up,” said Nerogun, his voice full of scorn. “Your Highness, I am sure you will agree with me when I say that mutiny cannot go unpunished.” He raised his arm to Iajo.

“Wait,” said Faldron. “You have no right to execute these men without my being informed.”

“I am informing you now.”

“And without my assent,” said Faldron. Meya was taken aback by his decisive tone. Was this the frivolous youth she had observed drinking away his evenings? He was sober enough now.

Nerogun too looked taken aback. “Your Highness, I have your safety and well-being foremost in my mind!”

“So do I,” said Faldron. “Captain. You may speak.”

The man on his knees said, his voice almost on the point of breaking, “Sir, four of my men have been already put to death for their supposed failure to guard the fire-demon imprisoned by the northern wall.”

“The darkburn that got out and caused such devastation in the city,” Faldron said. “That was a grievous error indeed.”

“But it was not their fault!” cried a man from within the troop.

“Of course it was,” said Nerogun. “Their fault or their treachery.”

Faldron put up a hand to silence him. Nerogun’s mouth opened and closed again, in some astonishment.

“Captain Amerrun. Go on.”

“Sire. My men were truly dismayed to find the darkburn had escaped. They could not explain it except by magic arts.”

“Such nonsense,” growled Nerogun. “They are cowardly traitors!”

Meya found herself confused by what happened next. There was a clatter and a shout: then a soldier was running out of the troop with upraised sword, charging at the Post-Regent.

The captain got quickly to his feet. Iajo had already begun to run over, brandishing his heavy mace: but one of the Vonnish councillors – Solon, it was – moved more quickly than either. Before Meya had blinked he had drawn his sword and struck the soldier down; not with the blade, but with the head of the hilt.

The man sprawled writhing on the floor. Iajo rushed up and glowered over him: it seemed as if he would have smashed the man’s head with his mace had not Solon still been standing over him.

“This is an outrage!” bellowed Nerogun. “The whole lot of them should be hung from the city walls!”

“Wait,” said Faldron, his hand lifted again. “Thank you, Solon. Iajo, you may step back now. The man seems to have been dealt with adequately for the moment.” He waited while Iajo and Solon returned to their former posts: Solon with a glance at his companion Thoronal – who had stood stock-still throughout – and Iajo sneering.

Then the Prince resumed. “This darkburn. I don’t have the full story. Captain Amerrun, you just said you saw it escape into the city.”

“No, sir, I did not. Nobody saw it leave, nobody saw it get into the city. When we arrived to change the guard, it was simply gone. Vanished. We do not understood how, for all the locks were fastened and secure.”

“In that case, how can we be certain that the darkburn caused the fires?” asked Huldarion slowly. At once Meya knew that he did not like to ask the question in case it caused offence; but she also saw his deep concern about the answer.

“What else could it have been?” snapped Nerogun. “The fierceness and number of the fires – the speed with which they spread, leaping from roof to roof – that surely leaves no room for doubt.”

Yet Huldarion’s doubt, she saw, was only increased. The line between his brows deepened as he repeated, “Spreading from roof to roof?”

“It was the darkburn. Deliberately let loose by soldiers of this regiment – who had probably been bribed by the Keeper of the Keys.”

“Really? I don’t believe that Melegan would do such a thing,” said Faldron. “And I don’t really know why you wanted the darkburn kept inside the city wall at all. See what it has led to.” He tapped his foot. “Huldarion. You have experience of darkburns. Can you explain its disappearance by any means but treachery?”

“I cannot,” said Huldarion in a low voice.

“The Keeper of the Keys–” began Nerogun.

“Enough,” said Faldron. Nerogun looked astounded. Faldron surveyed the soldiers, and tapped his foot some more.

Everybody else was silent; even Nerogun, who chewed his lip sullenly. Meya found that she did not know how to read this royal youth who had suddenly, almost overnight, developed a questioning mind and possibly even a conscience, both traits markedly absent in the High Prince until now.

“Hmm. Well, Huldarion, what do you think I should do with these supposed traitors?” he asked at last.

“In that I cannot advise your Highness,” said Huldarion.

“Try,” said Faldron.

And Meya realised on hearing that one word that the new Faldron was possibly a dangerous man – or at least one not to be discounted – and that Huldarion, no matter what he said in answer, was bound to displease either the High Prince or the glowering Post-Regent. Nerogun wanted the men summarily executed; Faldron, it seemed, did not.

Huldarion paused, considering; and in the pause somebody edged past Meya and walked out into the centre of the yard.

“What?” said Meya, but it was too late to tell her to come back.

“Who are you?” barked Nerogun.

“My lord, I am Yaretkoro Thuleikand of Obandiro in the north, and I fought beside you in the Outlands.”

Faldron cocked his head at her. “You’re that northern archer,” he said. “I remember. You spoke up for the Ioben traitors, no?”

“Sire.” Yaret bowed.

“So now you’re going to speak up for these traitors who are in league with the darkburn,” said Faldron, with a trace of his old jesting manner. “Make a habit of it, do you?”

“Not normally, sire. I do not know these men. But I do know darkburns.” Yaret spoke in a low voice, and Meya thought it very likely that Faldron and Nerogun both took her for a man. That was fortunate. Huldarion, on the other hand, was gazing hard at her with his brow creased.

“And what do you know about them?” asked Faldron.

“Sire, a darkburn cannot talk. It cannot be in league with anyone. All it can do is burn. And while it cannot burn through iron, it seems it can, in certain circumstances, burn through earth. If your prison was built on earth foundations – especially damp and loose or peaty ones – it is possible it could have burnt its way out through the floor. Earth subsiding into the gap would mean that there is little trace.”

“Have you seen this happen?” demanded Faldron.

“Sire, on my travels in the north I encountered a darkburn that had been trapped inside a pit too deep for it to climb out of. The next morning it was gone although the earth inside the pit still steamed. When I investigated I found an especially hot patch of looser earth in the pit wall. I surmised that it had escaped by tunnelling.”

“And where did it come out?” asked Faldron, intrigued; although Solon’s eyes had narrowed slightly as he gazed at Yaret.

“I don’t know the exact spot, sire, but I saw the darkburn about half a mile away. At least, it looked like the same one.”

“Hah! That bath-house is built over drains,” commented Faldron. “Wet earth. You were a fool to keep it there, Nerogun.”

“And these men were greater fools not to guard it properly!” burst out the Post-Regent.

Faldron turned to look at the Captain and his men consideringly.

“I suppose, archer, you would have me pardon these men as I pardoned those Iobens in the north,” he said.

“Sire, as I said, I know nothing of these men,” said Yaret submissively. “Their fate lies in your hands. But, in the same way as those Iobens, they might be more useful dying on the battlefield than being slaughtered now.”

Faldron laughed. “I like that. Yes, more useful indeed. Captain Amerrun? You will be deprived of your arms and rank and escorted to your barracks. You and your men will there be kept under close guard and not allowed to leave until it is time for the army to ride out. Only on the verge of battle will your weapons be returned to you. If you fight valiantly for Kelvha – and survive – then your cases may be reconsidered. Do you understand?”

The captain bowed his head.

“I thank you, sire, for your justness and your mercy,” he said, his voice husky. Then he stood up, offering his sword to the palace guardsman who stepped up to formally arrest him. As the men were led away, more quietly than they had arrived, Faldron turned back to Yaret.

“Just what are you doing here in the castle, archer?”

“That’s what I would like to know as well,” said Nerogun. Faldron pointedly ignored him.

“This archer came with my consent to consult my herb-mistress about medicines,” said Meya, stalking forward. It was a very late intervention, she thought, but the only effective one she could have made. If she had pleaded for the Captain’s life she would have been dismissed as a hysterical female. Yet the Prince had listened to a low-born archer!

She was annoyed – with everyone. None the less she needed to back Yaret up. The deferential presence of her herb-mistress behind her confirmed her story so effectively that Faldron merely nodded and dismissed them with a curt gesture.

Not so Huldarion. He was looking them over with a sombre, considering stare. Although his gaze was as impassive as always, Meya was sure that he did not care for much of what had just passed. She dropped him an unsmiling curtsey and glided away with Yaret limping behind her.

Neither uttered a word. Not until they were crossing the inner courtyard – and even Boral was well out of earshot – did Meya ask Yaret quietly,

“Was that true, about the darkburns? That they can burn their way through earth?”

“No,” Yaret responded in an equally quiet murmur. “No, I lied.”