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

Chapter 43

Old Tanneries Street was, if anything, in an even worse state than it had been two days previously, despite the efforts that had been made to clear the area.

Tamu gazed around in sad despair. Several buildings had collapsed entirely – or, more likely, had been pulled down before they fell – while most of those that still stood upright had their doors and windows boarded up.

Yet people were still living in some. What a dreadful, chilly, hand-to-mouth existence they must have, he thought. The air around him stank of rotting food, raw sewage, and – above all – stale smoke.

A single cart stood in the middle of the street with a long dispirited queue snaking behind it. Four soldiers were distributing bread. No meat, no vegetables; not even the castle’s leftover pastries. No blankets. No lamp oil. No fresh water. Their lives were difficult enough before: now they must be all but impossible.

Yet no-one in the queue said a word. This was because of the dozen further soldiers who patrolled the street: there not to help in clearing up, but to keep the people quiet.

And Tamu knew that this street was not even the worst. Somehow, during the fire, the river had been diverted to put out the flames round here before they could destroy the place entirely. But further south were half a dozen streets where nothing at all remained: grey wastelands of ash with the occasional black spar or pitiful remnant of a wall the only marker.

He knew this because he and Thoronal had just walked through them. Now he glanced up at Thoronal striding glumly alongside him. The Rider had hardly said a word since they had left the castle. Tamu had wanted to ask him about the assassination attempt in the music hall; rumours had been flying around. A madman, some said. A plot, asserted others, although it wasn’t clear who might have been behind it.

Tamu longed to ask whether Parthenal had been there. He hungered to hear any word about Parthenal – the merest scrap of information would have been a treasure to him. When he had gone to find Huldarion in the stables, seeing Parthenal there had so unnerved him that he could barely speak at first. Yet Parthenal had smiled! And then Tamu had been terrified that somebody would realise how much that smile meant to him.

But nobody had noticed; because he was not noticeable. And now he repressed the urge to mention Parthenal. Instead he broke the silence to say, experimentally,

“A dreadful sight here, isn’t it?”

Something between a grunt and a snort was the only answer. After a moment Thoronal muttered, “Dreadful.” Tamu had the impression that his mind was on something else entirely.

“The poor people,” he went on. “They had little enough before and now they have less.”

Still no reply. Tamu tried again. “Well, I expect you have seen equally dreadful sights in your battles. Or on your travels. I know the Vonn have travelled widely.”

Thoronal gave a long sigh. Then he said, abruptly, “How did you know about Parthenal?”

“What? How… how, what?”

“About his tendencies. His inclinations. The reason he was targeted by that equerry in the castle.”

Tamu was almost dumb-struck. “I… it was… the man who, who, who was the equerry, Jaul… He is well-known. I mean, notorious.”

“I see. So he knew about Parthenal. No need to wonder why.” Thoronal heaved a deep sigh. “The problem is, Parthenal’s my cousin. I’m the head of the house, so I try to keep him in line, but he’s… incorrigible.” He shook his head in exasperated gloom.

Tamu said nothing. He felt almost stunned. He had longed to hear Parthenal’s name, and here it was, in abundance. Yet he was shocked that Thoronal would see fit to tell him this – if he was indeed telling him what he thought he was – for did the man not understand the danger of it here, within Kelvha city? Thoronal was obtuse.

“Promiscuous,” said Thoronal heavily. “Any man will do.”

Promiscuous. The word echoed around Tamu’s head. Well, of course he is promiscuous, he thought. Any man is probably an exaggeration. But what man that way inclined would not want Parthenal? Who would say no to him?

Parthenal loves men, he realised; and now he found himself almost shaking with emotion: amazement and some unfamiliar delight. His thoughts tumbled over each other. Parthenal is promiscuous. I forgive him. It is natural for him. Parthenal loves many men. I wish I could be one of them. But any man would never include me.

He tried to get a grip on himself. No time to think about it now. Save it for later. Don’t talk about it.

For he knew he needed to watch what he said. So he stayed silent as they walked down the wasteland of Old Tanneries Street, although a whirling sea of thoughts washed round him.

“Well, at least it came to nothing after all,” said Thoronal. “I suppose I should thank you for that. Where is this manuscript seller?”

“Just here.” The doorway of the bookshop had been boarded over; but the board was smashed. Tamu stepped over the pieces with a feeling of misgiving.

However, on entering the shop he immediately saw the owner, throwing sodden books and charred scrolls into a pile. The old man looked even more antique and fragile than his wares: his face was grey and hollow-eyed. He did not seem to recognise Tamu.

Filled with sympathy – for he could easily imagine how despairing he would feel were his own library to be laid waste – Tamu walked up and said to him gently, “Don’t throw those away yet, please. We would like to buy some of your stock.”

“Wait! We don’t know that,” objected Thoronal. “We haven’t even looked at it yet.”

“I’ll have a look now,” said Tamu. He knew that Thoronal was carrying at least two hundred drebs, and he was determined to find something here to make him spend it.

But when he returned to the spot where he had found his merchant’s documents, and began to pick through the remaining blackened, crumbling scrolls, he quickly realised that his chances of finding anything of note were very slim. He replaced the parchments on the pile and went to hunt along the shelves, where Thoronal was gloomily picking up one volume after another and laying them down after a brief glance inside.

Tamu was on the point of telling him that none of those books was old or rare enough to be of interest – for you could easily see that by the bindings – but he bit back the words. At least it kept Thoronal occupied. He himself was looking for scrolls, not books, because they would be older. Unfortunately the shelves where he had previously stacked up the damp scrolls had been emptied, and he had to resort to hunting through the variety of parchments dumped anyhow in buckets or unravelling along the floor.

After a while he had found only one contender for anything of relevance: a copy of the Annals of Medrun, heavily stained and with a number of mistakes, but appearing to cover the High King’s battles to the south with more detail than the version he was familiar with. It was probably just fabulation on the part of the copyist (who had added his own pictures too, mostly of dogs) but it was enough to make it worth purchasing. He would offer forty drebs and hope the old man would try to haggle him up.

So Tamu made his way back through the piles of sodden books and rubble to the bookseller, only to find another customer already talking urgently to him.

“Nothing like that,” the old man was saying, shaking his head. “No, no, I have no books like that. If I did, how would you expect me to find it? Look at the place!” He made a weak, despondent gesture.

“I see it, and I am truly sorry,” said the other customer. He was a young man in long blue robes; bearded, with a thin serious face: and Tamu knew him. This was the priest whom he had seen being dragged out of the temple of Borgun by the mob after the fire, just up the road from here.

“What exactly are you looking for?” he asked the priest, chiefly because anyone searching for a book gained his immediate fellow-feeling. “I have been scouring these shelves and have an idea of what lies on some of them, at least.”

“You tell him,” the old man mumbled to Tamu. “You show him. Nothing left here. I don’t suppose that you’ve managed to find anything you want.”

“Indeed I have,” said Tamu. “I will buy this scroll from you, for fifty drebs.”

“Fifty?” said Thoronal, who was listening in.

“Please pay the man,” said Tamu.

The priest’s eyes widened slightly on hearing this exchange. “You value parchments highly,” he said in wonder.

“This one I do,” said Tamu. “It’s a copy of an antique chronicle of Kelvhan kings, most likely at least three centuries old. I am the assistant archivist of the castle, so I know about such things.”

“An archivist? Do you know ancient scripts? Perhaps you can help me find what I want here,” said the priest. “I came to seek any books or information about strange alphabets.”

“What sort of alphabets?” asked Tamu, instantly intrigued.

“I don’t know. I have found some writing that I do not recognise, on – on an artefact which has lately come to light within my temple. That is the temple of Borgun, my Lord of the Vonn,” the priest added, with a deferential bow to Thoronal, “which your master Lord Huldarion defended only the other day. For that, I am extremely grateful. My name is Hokiro, priest of Borgun.”

“Well,” said Thoronal, seeming almost at a loss.

What an ungracious, clumsy man, thought Tamu. Why on earth did Huldarion appoint him as a counsellor? Since Thoronal said no more, he spoke for him.

“As castle archivist, I will be happy to take a look at this artefact of yours,” he told Hokiro. “I can at least inform you if the script is one I recognise. Would you like us to come to the temple with you now?”

The priest’s face brightened. “If you please. It’s only a few minutes’ walk.” He began to lead the way out of the shop.

“Wait a minute,” said Thoronal. “I have something to ask you first. Do you have followers in the castle?”

Hokiro stopped in the doorway. “Followers? I myself have followers nowhere. Borgun has followers everywhere, if that is what you mean.”

“Including in the castle?”

“Perhaps. I do not ask all those who worship in the temple whence they came.”

“Is any of your followers a stable-boy?”

“It is possible,” said the priest patiently, “that one of Borgun’s followers may be; but I would not know.” He began to stride up the ashy street, after a moment adding over his shoulder, “I can tell you only that there are not many boys among our worshippers. Not many are even as young as I am.”

“And how old are you?” asked Tamu, hurrying to keep up.

“I am thirty.”

“That’s young for a priest,” said Thoronal.

“Are your priests older, then?”

“We have no priests among the Vonn,” said Thoronal, somewhat loftily.

Hokiro inclined his head politely, without comment. After that he did not speak but strode purposefully past the piles of litter and the listless queue behind the bread cart, to the temple door. Only once they had all gone through it did he again turn to address Thoronal.

“Perhaps you would wish to tell the Lord Huldarion that no-one with his image has been seen here lately; not since the last occasion.”

“Veron keeps an eye on such things,” said Thoronal cryptically. Tamu had no idea what they were talking about, but Hokiro nodded as if he understood. He walked ahead of them down an uneven, sloping aisle between rows of benches, all unpopulated, and stopped in front of three well-worn statues which raised their wooden faces to the uncertain light that leaked in through the door.

“Borgun,” he said, bowing to the statues. “Our protector. Healer of all ills.” Behind the statues lay a row of half a dozen long shapes covered with cloths. The smell of smoke and decay was strong in here: it gripped Tamu’s throat. He had an idea that underneath the cloths lay bodies, guarded against intruders by the statues as well as by the soldier at the door. Clasping his hands, he touched them to his forehead in a gesture of respect.

“Will this take long?” said Thoronal, and Tamu winced. Quite apart from the reverence due to the dead, the man should know how to behave inside a temple even if the Vonn had no temples of their own.

Tamu himself was familiar with the story of Borgun – it was well-documented in the archives – and felt the solemn weight of history and tradition here. He was aware that he felt also some affinity with the followers, the outcast, the injured, the disfigured and disabled.

For am I not abnormal in the eyes of Kelvha? he reflected sadly. Am I not a monster, morally deformed, according to their laws? And I am injured accordingly. Not by my own nature, but by their response to it.

For the first time in his life he felt indignation at his Kelvhan masters, as well as fear. But the fear would always be there. Kelvha would not change. Tamu stared at the statue on the right, which depicted an aged man with one arm uplifted, and thought of Parthenal: so straight and tall, holding his sword up to the sky.

Oh, give me a way out of here, I beg you, give me a way out! he pleaded silently, meaning a way out not from the temple but from Kelvha, or at least the crippling chains of Kelvhan customs. Or maybe from himself.

He sighed, and said aloud, “Where is the artefact you spoke of?”

“It is down here.” Leaving the statues, the priest walked in increasing shadow to a curtained alcove at the back of the deep, narrow building. The rough dark stones rose high above them in a windowless wall.

“This cell is where I store my robes of office,” Hokiro said, drawing aside the black curtain. “And this is where, after the inexplicable fire and flood, a greater wonder than either of those happened. For the inner stones fell down: and this was revealed behind them, within the very wall of Borgun’s temple.”

Tamu could see nothing in the alcove until Hokiro lit the lamps that hung on either side. Then something gleamed into existence: a golden harvest moon, no, half a moon; until in the growing lamplight it became transformed into a half-sun. It stood huge and gleaming in the alcove’s tiny sky.

It was, he realised, a great bowl. Although it shone it was not smooth; for it was inscribed with writing all around its outer side. Almost two feet in diameter, it rested on a stone shelf built within the thickness of the temple wall. On the floor around it more stones lay tumbled.

“Borgun has revealed this chalice to us,” the priest whispered. “I heard the concealing stones fall even though nobody had touched them. It is the lost hand of Borgun that has cast them aside.”

“What a marvellous thing,” said Tamu in wonder.

“Is it gold?” Thoronal sounded dazed.

“Perhaps,” replied the priest. “It is certainly very heavy.”

“It looks like a wine bowl. A ceremonial one,” said Thoronal.

“A libation bowl,” Hokiro said. “Restored to its rightful place within the temple by the grace and mercy of Borgun.”

“Maybe the heat of the fires caused the wall to crack and fall away,” murmured Thoronal. The priest was silent.

Tamu gazed at the bowl. The inscription fascinated him. It was beautifully done: a masterpiece of engraving, with three lines of graceful cursive writing threading around the outside of the bowl. At first sight, he thought it was a script unknown to him; yet certain letters looked familiar. There was some sort of stamp or seal beneath the lines of writing.

“May I touch it?”

When the priest nodded, Tamu put up a hand to try and turn the bowl a little. But it was indeed too heavy for him to move alone. Hokiro assisted him in lifting it down and placing it upon a small high table – a lectern, probably – which stood at the alcove’s side. The bowl seemed to whisper with faint echoes as they removed their hands.

There Tamu inspected it more closely. The writing went all the way around the outer side. Yes, there were definite similarities to the Ondial script, or Pre-Ondial rather, although Tamu had never seen it written with this degree of ornamentation. It was, he thought, quite beautiful.

He looked inside the bowl: just three words were written in its base. He studied them for a moment while the priest looked on and Thoronal ran a finger along the bowl’s edge. It sang faintly like a remote bell and Thoronal, alarmed, withdrew his hand abruptly.

“It is a holy sound. It is like the ringing of the golden sphere of Borgun,” said the priest reverently, “that he beheld within his courtyard, with his eye that was destroyed.”

But Tamu, still studying the writing, smiled with growing pleasure. “I can read these three inner words, at least,” he said. “And they are not in Kelvhan.”

“Not Kelvhan?” The priest’s voice held some dismay.

“I think the language is not so different to antique Standard, although the vowels have shifted somewhat. In modern Standard those three words inside the bowl would say: Honour. Care. Fidelity.”

“What?” said Thoronal in shock. “But those are the watchwords of the Vonn! Honour, care, fidelity is written along the back of the royal throne.”

“Caervonn’s throne?” Hokiro asked.

“Yes. Those words are our rule and maxim. Tamu, can you read the rest?”

“Let me see,” said Tamu. He was determined not to be hurried, and unmoved by Thoronal’s evident shock. Honour, care, fidelity might be anybody’s watchwords. They certainly ought to be.

“Paper and a pen would help,” he suggested to Hokiro, who hurried out to fetch them. When the priest returned, he held one of the lamps over the bowl, while Tamu began to carefully write down the words in Standard script. Many of them looked strange; but not all that strange. Definitely a dialect of antique Standard. It was most interesting.

Thoronal looked on, frowning, as Tamu studied the bowl, deciphered, wrote down the transcription: and studied the bowl again. Recognising a few words of Old Standard, he read them out. “This line says, in an ancient dialect, the bowl was ‘made to mark their victory in battle’.”

He read the line out as it was written – despite its links to Standard, when spoken it sounded like another language altogether – and then saw Thoronal draw back in shock.

“But this is not possible,” said Thoronal hoarsely. “That language. It’s Vonnish, as near as makes no odds. How can that be?”

“It’s ancient Standard, so the languages are probably related,” Tamu began to explain. But at the same time Hokiro spoke.

“Ah, perhaps it is because the Vonn were here,” he said solemnly. “Eight hundred years ago at the founding of Kelvha City, the Vonn were here. They rode behind their king all the way from Caervonn, to aid the High King of Kelvha – as he was later known. It’s in the history books.”

“It is indeed,” said Tamu, still peering and deciphering. “But it’s most unlikely that the Vonn were in this very spot.”

“On the contrary,” said Hokiro unexpectedly, “it is extremely likely. For this building – which is now the temple of Borgun – was once the palace of that first king.”

“It was what?” At that, Tamu straightened up to stare at him incredulously. “There is nothing in the archives about that.”

“I dare say not. The Lords of Kelvha prefer to forget their humble origins. They do not like to be associated with the poverty and squalor of the northern quarter. And they did not stay here for long. None the less,” the priest said gravely, “according to the lore handed down by the temple priests, these stones were once the earliest palace walls.”

Tamu stood open-mouthed and stared at him, meanwhile running through the chronicles in his head, and pondering.

It was certainly possible. The earliest chronicles were all copies; even the oldest had been written a full hundred years after the founding of Kelvha City. They were vague about exactly where that first monarch, Khal-Arethgun, had made his residence, before his son began to build the castle that now dominated the centre of the city.

But the northern quarter was the city’s oldest part. And the temple was one of very few stone buildings within it. Tamu studied the massive thickness of the wall which had until so recently held close the chalice. The breadth of the walls, their roughly hewn great stones, the temple’s height and depth, and the smallness of its narrow windows were all consistent with the design of ancient clan halls. It was a fascinating thought.

“Can you read the rest of the inscription?” asked Thoronal, part impatient, part ingratiating.

“Please rotate the bowl,” said Tamu, and as the others did so, he carefully traced the lines of the archaic notation. “Not solid gold, I think,” he said, writing down the words of the engraving, “but a layer of gold with silver underneath. The lettering stands out because the exposed silver has become tarnished.”

“Really? Not solid gold?” Thoronal sounded disappointed.

“It is an exquisite piece of craftsmanship,” said Tamu, somewhat reprovingly. “This stamp underneath the writing might be a silver-smith’s.” He rubbed it carefully with his sleeve before peering at the bowl more closely. “Why, no,” he announced with fresh delight, “this is the King’s Stamp of those early days. Khal-Arethgun’s own sealing mark, impressed into the metal! Well. I have only seen this mark three times before. This dates the bowl to those early times without the slightest doubt!”

“But can you read the writing?” asked Thoronal.

“I think so. Now then.” Tamu studied the inscription he had copied down. Certainly an unusual form of antique Standard; but all the words were guessable. He began to read his transcription aloud, substituting the modern version of the words for the ancient ones where necessary.

“This – talking? no, chanting – bowl made to mark their victory in battle is given by Dorial, of Caervonn sole sovereign–”

“Ah!” said Thoronal, with an indrawn breath.

“–to Khal-Arethgun, chief of the land of East Kelv, to mark their alliance and... joint? just? glory in the defeat of the lawless tribes of south Kelv. And on this day Khal-Arethgun is named High Lord and Governor of this province beneath the–” Tamu stopped abruptly.

“What? It doesn’t finish there, does it?” demanded Thoronal.

“I – I can’t make the rest out,” stammered Tamu.

“Let me see,” said Hokiro, who had been following Tamu’s finger on the paper. “The next word merely repeats what is said on the line above, does it not? Beneath the sole sovereign of Caervonn and of East Kelv, Dorial. Oh.” He stared at the paper and then at the bowl. “So it predates Borgun by four hundred years,” he said sadly.

Tamu would have wanted to laugh had he not been so terrified.

“Wait a minute,” said Thoronal. “Khal-Arethgun was High Lord under King Dorial? Dorial was his master? Caervonn ruled Kelvha?”

“It may be a figure of speech,” said Tamu miserably. “There is nothing about it in the chronicles.” The later chroniclers would have made very sure of that, he thought. He swallowed. “The best thing you can do is wall it up again.”

“Wall it up? But it is a thing of beauty,” said the priest. “And Borgun revealed it to me for a reason.” He put out a hand and rang a reverent finger very lightly along the golden rim. Again the bowl sang, with a deep, quivering note that took several seconds to die away completely. The sound was entrancing.

Yet Tamu knew that this bowl – or, rather, its engraving – was, for all its grace and beauty, a potential firebomb.

That inscription! Saying that the chief of Kelvha was subject to the rule of Caervonn! And his unmistakable embossed seal was stamped beneath it!

The chaos and discord this could cause, thought Tamu in horror and dismay, would be worse than any darkburn – worse by far. It could lead to war. The High Kings of Kelvha to be discovered not to be High Kings at all, but merely governors? Underneath Caervonn?

“Oh no no no,” he said, in panic. “You have to wall this up again!”

“We need to take it to Huldarion,” said Thoronal firmly. “As the descendent of King Dorial, it should belong to him.”

Tamu was about to object that if it belonged to anyone, it was to High Prince Faldron: but his horror increased at the thought of what might then ensue.

“But – but the, the lords of Kelvha – Nerogun, Prince Faldron, they must never know about this bowl! Wall it up again, wall it up, I beg of you!” he exhorted the priest desperately.

“There is no reason why they should not know about it,” declared Thoronal.

“But the wording! Its significance!” How could Thoronal not see how explosive this inscription was?

The Rider merely pursed his lips. “All the more reason to give it to Huldarion. And then maybe we can use it if Nerogun becomes difficult.”

“Difficult? That is hardly the word for how he would react to this,” said Tamu, appalled and desperate. “Please, I beg of you, Hokiro! Do not permit this bowl to be removed! Let it stay hidden in the temple, as it has been for so long!”

The priest looked from face to face, his brow creased in doubt. “Borgun revealed the sacred bowl to me,” he said. “I pray that I may see the reason for it with the lost eye of Borgun. May his knowledge fall on me.” Laying his hands upon the bowl, he closed his eyes. Nobody spoke.

Slowly he reopened them.

“Borgun tells me that our time is now at hand,” he announced soberly. “The coming of the Vonn marks indeed the coming of our freedom. And the finding of this wondrous object shows that we poor, neglected, despised citizens of the temple are not bound to Kelvha’s Kings, but to Caervonn. To Huldarion. Let us take him the bowl.”