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

Chapter 41

“You shouldn’t be afraid of Huldarion,” said Parthenal as he led the way into the stables. “He doesn’t bite. Not hard, anyway.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” said Yaret, although she felt that this was not altogether true. “But I am afraid of letting slip anything that he ought not to know.”

“You won’t do that. In any case,” said Rothir, “you shouldn’t worry about the killing of the darkburn. That’s my problem, and Veron’s; it’s our responsibility.”

“Even so,” said Yaret.

It wasn’t just the disappearing darkburn that gnawed at her conscience. It was the presence of Janeya within the Riders’ lodgings – for none of the men knew anything about that: not Rothir, not Parthenal, none of them. She feared, not Huldarion himself, but his swiftly analysing intellect.

However, it was too late now. She had agreed that the leader of the Vonn needed to be told about her theory; and that prospect brought another fear, that he would not believe her. After all, why should he? What use were theories to anybody, in any case?

The stables that housed the horses of the Vonn were warm inside, the air thick with the scents of manure and hay. Motes drifted through a single sunbeam; all else was drowsing brown half-shadow. Rothir strode over to speak to the Kelvhan stable-boy, while Parthenal stepped across to his horse Alda, stroking her with a tender sympathy he seldom showed to any human other than the wounded. Then he moved up and down the stalls to check the other Riders’ horses, monitoring their breathing, inspecting legs and eyes.

“Happy enough. But they’ll be glad to be let out,” he said. “Not long now.”

Yaret went over to the stall where Poda stood, looking gracefully noble even in repose. Far too grand a horse for her, she was aware. Smoothing Poda’s mane, she thought about her donkeys – now so far away, not just in terms of miles. Ambling around their quiet corner of the world; or a corner that she hoped stayed quiet. She missed them. Soon she would ride Poda out of the city and across wildlands she had never seen, to further battle, and she did not know whether to be glad or fearful.

But first, this. Huldarion and his three most senior men, as well as Veron, now entered the sleepy half-light of the stables. Thoronal wrinkled his nose fastidiously at the heady wholesome stink.

“There are no spy-holes here, I presume?” he asked.

“I doubt if they bother spying on the horses,” answered Solon with a note of languid derision.

“Rigal and I have checked already,” said Rothir, “and I’ve just sent the stable-boy out on a long errand.”

Huldarion turned to Yaret. “You asked to see me. What is it about?” He was framed by a golden halo of soft light, in which the straw-dust drifted: yet despite this ethereal aura his manner seemed, if anything, more forbidding and austere than ever. Perhaps it was the effect of living permanently on his guard, surrounded by listening servants and spyholes.

“Yaret has a theory,” said Rothir, and she felt a wave of gratitude for his solid presence.

“An eccentric one,” added Parthenal, with an amused smile at her. That also helped.

“It’s about lins and darkburns,” she said, kicking down her nervousness. Then she had to explain all over again what lins were, for Thoronal’s benefit. But no-one disputed their existence, after the visions of the previous day. Even Solon nodded.

“I saw four of them suddenly appear amongst the ash like mushrooms: and then – poof – they were gone again. And it was Leor who revealed them,” he said thoughtfully. “Who knew he had such power at his command?”

“He wasn’t trying to reveal the lins, apparently,” said Rothir. “He said he was hoping to uncover where the dead lay, underneath the ash and rubble.”

“But the spell uncovered a whole number of other hidden things, quite apart from lins,” added Parthenal. “Durba found her voice. Landel found a hoard of antique coins; it’s been handed over to the Kelvhan soldiers, though they didn’t seem too interested.”

“They wouldn’t put much value on anything found in the northern quarter,” observed Uld.

“Tiburé found her wedding ring,” said Yaret, before belatedly realising that this might not be a tactful thing to say in front of Tiburé’s husband – or ex-husband – Solon. She hurried on. “And Theol saw an inn-sign hanging where none had been before.”

“He would,” said Parthenal.

“The priest inside the temple of Borgun found a concealed chalice,” remarked Veron.

But Huldarion waved away all these wonders with a flick of his scarred hand. “Go back to the lins. What in your opinion is their connection to the darkburns?”

“I believe they are, in essence, one and the same thing. They behave in similar ways.” Slow down, Yaret told herself. Take up male mode, be strong-voiced: confident and self-assured. But it wasn’t easy, in such company, for she felt like an impostor. She continued none the less. “Lins and darkburns are both repelled by the stonemen’s stones. When we carry the stones they retreat from us.”

Huldarion frowned more deeply. “Lins do that? Are you quite sure?”

“I’ve seen it ever since I first acquired a stone.” That caused a painful twinge of memory: for the stone had been taken from the first stoneman she had killed – or stoneboy, rather, abandoned in Erbulet, that burnt out town far to the north. In his lonely agony, he had begged Yaret for death. Just as the darkburns did...

She went on with some difficulty. “While I had the stones in my pocket, no lin came within ten or twenty yards of me. Without them, though, it was a different matter. Which of us had kept our stones with us yesterday, during the appearance of the lins?”

“None of us, I should think,” said Uld. “There was no need; no darkburns to protect against.”

“And we all saw lin close by.”

“That is no proof of anything,” said Thoronal.

“Not on its own,” she said. “But according to Leor, the stonemen’s ancestors used to control spirits of earth or stone with the resin of the skeln tree. That’s the same ingredient that they use now to control the darkburns.”

“There is no certainty that by such spirits the lin are meant,” said Huldarion. “Nor does it mean that the lin and darkburns are necessarily related.”

She persevered. “Both are indistinct and hard to see. But when they become visible, their shapes are sometimes similar: woodwones are long and branched, for instance, not unlike some of the darkburns.”

Huldarion frowned. “Yet others are totally dissimilar. Remember the darkburn that you and Eled first encountered in the forest: you told us that was lizardlike, as were the firedrakes that attacked our Riders in the south. Is that not so, Parthenal?”

“Lizardlike indeed,” Parthenal replied. “Low, and crawling on four legs: nothing like the majority of darkburns. And then there was that strange darkburn that we came across while pursuing the stoneman army – it had once been winged, like a giant eagle, but with the head of a dog. It reminded me of a creature from a storybook. A storybook of nightmares.”

“All the same, I believe they are related,” Yaret persisted stubbornly, aware that her feeble argument was in danger of falling to pieces. “Lins gather where the darkburns are – so long as there aren’t any stones or stonemen close by to repel them.”

“Hmm,” said Solon.

“So you are now an expert on the darkburns,” said Thoronal with heavy disdain. “Yet you spun those lies about them in front of Nerogun and the Prince. Tunnelling through the earth! What sheer nonsense. I’m amazed that Faldron fell for it.”

She in her turn was surprised at Thoronal’s obtuseness. “Of course I spun a tale. What, would you have rather seen all those soldiers slaughtered for no reason?” she asked. “They had committed no crime.”

“Their crime was to have let the darkburn escape,” said Huldarion. “And escape it certainly did. Do you have any knowledge of what happened there?”

Yaret caught her breath. She felt Rothir, alongside her, become very still. Veron, on the other hand, looked exactly as he always did; keen and interested as if he would like to know the answer too.

“I assumed that Leor had something to do with it, although I have not asked him,” she replied. That was perfectly true, after all.

“I note that Leor has avoided meeting us since then,” said Uld reflectively.

“Indeed,” said Huldarion, his gaze still boring into Yaret. “Although he sent a message to me earlier today. He tells us that the fires were started by Adon and Nerogun – presumably after they found the darkburn had mysteriously vanished. So if wizardry was used to dispose of the darkburn, it was not by Adon’s will.”

“Leor’s, then? But Leor has repudiated his own wizardry,” Uld pointed out.

“Only when it suits him,” Solon said. “He raised that darkburn from its ditch in the first place, did he not?”

Huldarion nodded. “Leor may well have had a hand in it,” he said. “But I would be extremely angry were it to be found that any of my Riders had been involved in the darkburn’s disappearance, without my knowledge or consent.”

As he looked round slowly at each of them in turn, Yaret was glad that his gaze did not rest on Rothir for more than a second. It rested somewhat longer on her.

Well, I am not a Rider, she thought defiantly, as she gazed back. I am your ally but not your subject.

All the same it seemed an endless minute before Huldarion finally spoke again.

“Well, well. Perhaps, after all, it was the guards’ incompetence. Who knows? The darkburn is gone.” None the less, Yaret felt sure that he had merely decided to set the matter aside for the time being.

“At least the Kelvhans can perform no experiments with it now,” said Uld.

“Until they find themselves another,” said Thoronal. “Yes? What is it?” For Rigal, standing sentry outside the stable, had poked his head around the door.

“There’s someone from the castle,” he said. “Wishing to see Lord Huldarion. Man by the name of – what was it again?”

“Tamu,” said a small voice. The archivist stood behind Rigal in the doorway, blinking and looking horrified at the sight of so many tall and stern-faced Riders. Yaret gave him a reassuring smile, but nobody else did; and in the shadows deepened by that single dusty sunbeam, he did not seem to notice her.

“Tamu. What can I do for you?” said Huldarion. His forbidding expression did not change.

Tamu tiptoed in across the straw-littered floor, past the stalls of restless horses. They were not used to so much activity in their stables.

“Sir, I mean Sire, I mean my lord, um, all my lords,” he said, twitchy with nervousness and bowing several times. “I did not know where to find you, I mean it took a while. I have come across a document that might be of interest, I mean, I can’t be sure, obviously, but it seems to me...” His voice disappeared amidst the snorting and shuffling of the horses.

“For stars’ sake, man, get on with it,” exclaimed Thoronal. “We have important matters to discuss here.”

“And Tamu may have important matters to divulge to us,” said Parthenal. He smiled at the archivist, and that smile, Yaret perceived, did register with Tamu; although, if anything, it left him looking even more frightened than before. “Would you like privacy with Huldarion?” enquired Parthenal gently. “Shall we leave you?”

“It may be nothing,” said Tamu helplessly.

“You spoke of a document. Do you have it with you now?” Huldarion asked.

Tamu pulled out a yellow folded parchment from his inner pocket. It was charred along one edge and smelt strongly of smoke.

“I – I found this in a burnt-out bookshop, in the northern quarter,” he said. “In amongst a load of other papers. Most of them were just stock-taking and accounts. They are notes made by a merchant on his journeys four hundred years ago. He was a trader of spices and incense who travelled along the southern coast both to east and west; but it is the eastern leg that is of import here.”

Tamu was gaining confidence as he spoke. Yaret thought, that is because he knows what he is talking about. Unlike me.

“And?” said Solon.

“He made several visits to the Place of Terns. It’s mentioned on this sheet, just here.” Unfolding the parchment, Tamu held it up to the sunbeam and pointed to the spidery scrawl.

“What’s that? It’s illegible. It could say anything,” complained Thoronal.

“It’s an unusual and antique form of Kelvhan, which has taken me some time to decipher. The merchant noted down the customs of the people of the Place of Terns: partly out of interest, I think, but also because of the commercial possibilities of the place.”

“Commerce? What sort of commerce?” queried Uld.

“The local people seem to have used a lot of incense in their worship,” answered Tamu, “as well as pigments from the earth, and plants. The merchant was interested in all these. The inhabitants were avid worshippers of natural phenomena: he mentions stones, trees, and the sea.”

“The sea,” repeated Huldarion.

“Yes. They referred to themselves in their own tongue as the stonemen, because of their veneration of stones. The Place of Terns was a sacred site where these people built monuments and a temple complex.” Tamu paused.

Thoronal said, with what Yaret thought was unnecessary dismissiveness, “We know about all this. Do you have nothing new to add?”

“Give him a chance,” said Parthenal.

“Please go on,” said Huldarion, still severe. Tamu took a deep breath before continuing.

“They also, also built a monastery,” he said, more stammeringly, “and a, and a, what you might call a school to train their priests.”

“Let me see this document.” Huldarion took the parchment from Tamu, and walked over to stand beneath the window with it. A horse stamped and sighed. The rest of them waited while he scrutinised the pages.

Yaret in turn studied Huldarion, reflecting on how hard it must be to appear kindly with those scars; to always have to wear that fearsome mask that could not be removed. To have that constant air of unapproachability.

Yet when Huldarion lowered the parchment and turned again to Tamu his voice was much more gentle than his face.

“Did the site have dormitories?” he asked. “Did children live there?”

“Children? I’m not sure,” said Tamu, looking puzzled, “at least, the merchant doesn’t say. He was more concerned with anything he could trade. He wrote of a drug they used during their rituals: it seems to have heightened their consciousness, for they told the merchant that it made their minds open to all things. They called it Athil.”

“Ah! An early form of Athelid,” said Uld.

Thoronal opened his mouth – no doubt to object again – until Huldarion gave him a fleeting glance, at which he closed it.

“That is interesting,” said Huldarion. “Where did they obtain this drug?”

“It seems they manufactured it themselves,” the archivist replied. “The merchant enquired of what herb the drug was made. Unfortunately he did not fully understand their answer. They told him that the Athil was dug up from drains and ditches in the area.” Yaret noted how under Huldarion’s attentive gaze Tamu had grown more sure of himself again.

So dependent is he on the kindness of others, she thought, a little sadly. But then are not we all?

“Drains and ditches,” repeated Solon. “A weed, then.”

“But they dug it up,” said Parthenal.

“So? Possibly a root.”

“Or not a plant at all, but some mineral,” suggested Yaret, although she did not know why that idea came into her mind.

Solon looked askance at her. “An edible mineral? That would be a first.”

Yaret thought of salt; and of the clay that some doctors in Obandiro prescribed for stomach upsets. Used to prescribe. She closed her mouth.

“Tamu; do your merchant’s notes tell you anything else about the stonemen’s settlements, or the road that leads there?” asked Huldarion.

“Well, he talks of Red Roads, which it seems were not roads at all but many winding streams or maybe inlets. A stoneman he met showed him the way through. And – quite unexpectedly – I found a map the merchant made: I have it here.” Tamu rustled in his pocket again. “It had been hidden amongst the accounts. I can leave it with you.”

“Is it not a precious archive?” asked Parthenal with a little laughter in his voice.

“Oh, no,” said Tamu seriously. “This is not part of the castle collection. It was rescued from the burnt-out shop I spoke of, on Old Tanneries Street.” He handed the parchments over to Huldarion.

“I thank you,” said Huldarion. “You said that there were other documents?”

“Mostly accounts. But I intend to go back tomorrow to the same shop and see if there is anything else to be found there.”

“A good idea. We will reimburse you for anything relevant that you buy. Take one of my Riders.”

“I’ll go,” said Solon, off-handedly.

“Or I can,” offered Parthenal.

Huldarion surveyed each of them, before saying, “Thoronal: you go.”

Thoronal looked sulky. Tamu was not happy either: Yaret saw his eyes flicker half-way towards Parthenal and away again.

Oh, little man, she thought with compassion, don’t hanker after him. He’s kind to you, but that might just be because Thoronal is not, and Parthenal likes to thwart his cousin. Don’t yearn for Parthenal, whatever you do.

But after all she was probably mistaken. There was nothing in Tamu’s behaviour to suggest any hankering of the sort. It was only the memory of the evening she had dined with Tamu that had put it in her head: for she had noticed how Tamu became more confused and clumsy as soon as Parthenal walked into the eating-house. Still, that might have been from sheer nervousness. She had mentioned it to nobody, because it would not be fair to do so.

And Tamu did not look at Parthenal again now. He said unenthusiastically to Thoronal, “Should we meet at the castle gate, an hour after dawn?” Thoronal replied with a grunt.

“We are grateful to you, Tamu,” said Huldarion, as he rolled up the document. “Shall we see you at the music hall this evening?”

“Me?” He looked startled. “Oh no, no. I am not permitted to attend the musical event.”

“A shame. It should be a rare treat,” said Solon in his sarcastic way.

“Well, hardly that. But we ought to make the most of it,” said Parthenal. “Not many more such delightful evenings are left to us now, thank goodness.” At those words, she thought Tamu looked a little downcast.

“I am surprised that the event is still being held, in the light of the Lady Janeya’s untimely death,” Uld remarked.

“Indeed,” replied Huldarion gravely. “It was extremely sad. I grieve for her. And also for those many victims of the fires: it seems indecent to continue with the music as if nothing much had happened.”

“But this is Kelvha,” murmured Tamu. Then, looking aghast at what he had just said, he made a sketchy bow and almost ran out of the stables.

After a few more words, Huldarion and his three senior counsellors also left. Yaret found herself breathing more easily. Her various secrets were, it seemed, still safe. She turned to Parthenal.

“A musical evening? Why will that not be a treat?” she asked. “Music is always a treat.”

“But they have some very strange instruments in the castle,” he replied. “Screechy is the best description.”

“Would you care to go to it, Yaret?” asked Rothir. “Female Riders are invited.”

“Take my place,” put in Veron. “I certainly won’t be going.”

“In that case, yes, I would like to. Thank you.” The invitation gave her pleasure: for she enjoyed music.

But no, be honest, she reproved herself. My pleasure is because it was Rothir who asked me.

Yet am I so dependent for my happiness on one man’s attention? I am as bad as Tamu, she thought a little wearily; yearning after a Rider who would not even consider me that way. To Rothir I’m just an affable one-legged companion. So stay affable. Be content with that.

“And what will you be doing, Veron, while we’re enjoying screechy music?” enquired Parthenal.

“Me? I’m off to talk to Martun. He might ride out with the army when we leave.”

“Why?” said Rothir.

“Why not? An armourer is always useful.”

“Veron, did you see anything when the lin appeared?” asked Parthenal. “Anything secret that leapt into sudden view?”

“See that all the time,” said Veron, “and I thank the stars for it.” He nodded to them and departed.

“He doesn’t care about the lin,” said Yaret.

“Well, I suppose they’re not nearly as impressive as the huntress,” Parthenal remarked. “Unobtrusive little things. Like Tamu. I wonder what hidden wonder Tamu saw at that moment, cocooned in his archives.”

“The map,” said Yaret. “But you saw the lin, did you not, Rothir?”

“I suppose so. If they were the little stubby beings, like tree-stumps.” Rothir paused as if weighing his words, before he went on. “I saw something else as well. I saw a woman.”

“A woman?” repeated Parthenal with a laugh.

“Standing just behind Yaret.” Rothir turned to face her. “Or even wrapped around you, somehow, like a cloak. It was strange. I wasn’t sure if I ought to tell you.”

Yaret stared at him, shocked. “What sort of woman? Not the huntress?” she asked, in sudden trepidation.

“No, no. Not the huntress,” he assured her. “Not as tall or terrifying. Not silver: more of gold... a warm, soft gold, like the light upon that pile of straw. She seemed almost to be another one of you – a reflection, or a glowing shadow.”

“Oh,” said Yaret. “Was it my mother?” She looked over at the ray of sunlight that fell upon the straw, and felt tears welling in her eyes.

Stupid, stupid. Stop it now, she commanded. He did not like her crying.

And in truth, why weep? She had hardly known her mother – who had died when she was three, whom she did not even remember except as an occasional quiet presence in her dreams. A presence with no face.

“I have no way of knowing who it was,” said Rothir sombrely.

Yaret could tell that now he wished he hadn’t mentioned it. So she blinked determinedly and said, “Well, I’ll see you later. I’ll come round for the screechy music.” Walking quickly out of the stable-block she escaped across the yard.

But oh, my mother, she thought, once she was in the anonymity of the street. Hurrying pedestrians brushed past her: she dodged to avoid them, and wiped her face, because no-one now was looking.

Oh, my mother, she whispered to the breeze, and felt the words be swirled away into the sky.

My mother. Were you there, beside me? Are you there still, a shade of light embracing me, hidden until Leor’s spell revealed you?

Or if not my mother, Madeo. My ancestor, the bard.

Or if not her, my grandmother, my Gramma Thuli. Or any of the dead I left behind, the lost people of Obandiro, who stand always at my shoulder.

For whom I do all this, and for no other reason. I must not forget.