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

Chapter 44

Huldarion had shut Meya out, and he knew she did not like it. She sat in frowning state in the next tent, no doubt smouldering slightly. She had been smouldering, it seemed, for days, and Huldarion did not know why. His brief meetings with her were too public for him to ask her what the matter was. Second thoughts about her marriage, probably, now that the test of war came close. Her moodiness disturbed him more than the prospect of battle.

And it was not just Meya’s moodiness that was disturbing. He had the constant sense of matters being decided just beyond his grasp, of secrets whispered just outside his hearing.

That is the problem with castle life, he thought: all those spies and listeners are inducing paranoia in me – some of it justified, undoubtedly; but I do not know how much.

Tonight, however – his final night in this place of strange concealments – would be spent not in the castle, but outside the city walls, in the tents pitched by the South Gate where the forces of the Vonn were mustering. His tented city of Thield had re-encamped itself a mere two miles away, and half a dozen tents had been placed here by the gate, for himself and some of his men.

Just now Huldarion was very glad of it. Ironic that these flimsy walls of cloth should be so much more secure than the thick stones of Kelvha Castle. But here, in the swirling wind, even the sentries a few yards away outside his tent could not hear what was being said within.

And what was currently being said was astonishing to him. Uld and Solon, he could see, were equally astounded. They gazed in wonder at the golden bowl that had been set upon the table.

The little archivist Tamu had ceased his stammering explanation and now looked as if he wanted to sink into the ground. Not surprisingly, thought Huldarion. Tamu could never take this bowl and its inscription back to present it to the Keeper of the Scrolls or any other lord. It would cause consternation. The archivist would be instantly out of a job – or worse.

But beside Tamu, Thoronal and the solemn, thin-faced priest were waiting in intense expectation for his judgement.

“We can use this,” Thoronal suggested.

“How?” asked Huldarion. It was not an academic question. This great, gleaming bowl told him that Caervonn had the right to rule over Kelvha – in theory: but there were lots of ifs attached. If the bowl was genuine, if Tamu’s transcription was correct, if that right had never been superseded by some later, equally arcane decision. If Kelvha would accept it: which they would never do.

“It could be a lever if the Kelvhan lords fall short in their aid to us,” said Thoronal. “Or if they try to go too far and take some of Caervonn’s lands for their own.”

At this Solon stirred. “Have you any knowledge that Kelvha intend to do so?”

“Having acquired some knowledge of Kelvha and its rulers these last two weeks,” said Thoronal, “I would not be surprised.”

Huldarion considered this. “I know why you say that, yet I think perhaps you underestimate the integrity of Kelvha: of its military chiefs, at least. Honour holds as high a part in their morality as in our own.”

“But Nerogun has his own morality,” said Solon.

Huldarion thought about what Maeneb had said to him: that even Nerogun’s own daughter had doubts of his commitment to Caervonn. And what of Leor’s report, that the Post-Regent was in league with Adon?

No, Nerogun was not to be trusted. Yet it was too late to pull out of this alliance now – indeed, without the help of Kelvha there was little chance of defeating the stonemen and the darkburns. The stonemen that Adon controlled…

But Huldarion strongly suspected that Nerogun had no more loyalty to Adon than he had to Huldarion himself. The Post-Regent was a pragmatist: he would ally himself to anyone who served his purpose. Most likely he would be happy to see the stoneman threat to Kelvha nullified. Once that was done, though, who knew what Nerogun would want?

Well, I am a pragmatist myself, thought Huldarion. We are united against the stonemen and the darkburns, for the moment. And Nerogun’s power and influence will soon wane, once Faldron becomes High King. It is Faldron I must seek to cultivate.

He looked at the little archivist, who was growing increasingly nervous.

“Tamu; I thank you for your help and expertise,” he said courteously. “You will wish to return now to your work within the castle.”

“Not really,” said Tamu. “I mean – I – what will you do with the bowl? If they know that I… What do I tell them?”

“Tell them nothing,” ordered Thoronal. “No-one in the castle needs to know.”

Huldarion cast him a slightly exasperated glance, thinking, For stars’ sake, man! It should be obvious to Thoronal that if any use were to be made of the bowl – or even if its discovery were publicised, by the priest, for instance – then Tamu’s position would become very uncomfortable. To say the least.

“You brought some other documents for us, I see,” he said to the archivist.

“Yes, I – in the shop – old chronicles – but I’ve, but I’ve not read them yet, they’re just a, probably of no importance…”

“Then please take them with you into the next tent,” said Huldarion, feeling compassion for the man’s anxiety. “The Lady Meya is in there. Refreshments have been served. Feel free to partake of those, and have a look through your chronicles to see if there is anything of relevance to us. You need not mention this bowl to Lady Meya. We can talk again a little later.”

The idea of keeping Lady Meya company did not make Tamu look any happier. All the same he ducked his head obediently before he scurried out.

Once he was gone Huldarion looked at the priest, who up till now had waited patiently, saying little except to explain the miracle by which he had found the hidden bowl. From the awed way in which he spoke it was clear that he had no prior knowledge of the thing’s existence; and that he regarded its discovery as a divine act by the hand of Borgun.

“What would you have me do with this?” Huldarion asked him now – not because he felt inclined to follow advice from a priest, but purely out of curiosity.

“It is yours, my Lord of the Vonn,” the priest answered, looking at him over the shining bowl. “It is for you to judge. I ask only that wherever you go, wherever you take the sacred chalice, I shall now go also, for it is written here that you are the master of the ancient fort of Kelvha and of the temple of Borgun.”

“Is it not written here on this object that I am master of all Kelvha?” Huldarion asked him.

“Perhaps. I do not understand the politics of it. But it is certain that you are the master of the temple of Borgun.”

“Well,” Huldarion said. “I see. May I ask you also to step outside the tent for a little while? I will speak to you again shortly.”

The priest bowed and left.

Thoronal laughed. “So now he wants to leave his temple – and do what? Worship you instead of his old statues? Join the army? Fight the stonemen? Because of a dish!”

“Because of his beliefs. The question still remains,” said Huldarion, “what to do with this.” He put out his scarred left hand and tapped the side of the bowl.

Then he stepped back in amazement. For the bowl gave out a low, ringing note – no, two, three notes, no, more, all sounding out at different levels. The note that was many notes seemed to pulse and prowl around the tent before fading slowly into silence.

“My word. If you hit that with a mallet it could summon an army,” said Uld after a moment.

“I expect it could.” Huldarion brushed the edge of the metal with his sleeve. The same note whispered, circling. It fascinated him.

“I do not recall ever seeing such a thing in Caervonn,” he said musingly. “The question is, do we take it with us? The alternatives are: to present it to the Kelvhans; to replace it in the temple of Borgun and wall it up; to hide or bury it elsewhere.”

“The first could be extremely controversial,” warned Uld. “It would jeopardise the whole relationship.”

“I agree. We keep this artefact from Kelvha.”

“The priest will not allow us to do the second thing, to wall it up again,” said Thoronal. “He would have it unwalled as soon as we were gone. He is a stubborn man, not to say bone-headed.”

“And if we bury it, then anyone could dig it up,” said Solon.

Huldarion nodded. “Again, I agree. I think the best thing we can do is take it with us; but wrapped up, well concealed. It can go in one of the carts with the tents.”

“And then we can always use it against Kelvha if it becomes necessary,” added Thoronal.

“I do not know what you mean by use it. Do you mean, flourish it in their faces and say, You belong to us? That would be a swift road to war.” Huldarion knew that he spoke sternly. But had Thoronal no sense?

It seemed not, these days; ever since that battle in the south where he had lost his confidence, Thoronal had also lost his judgement. Or maybe he no longer trusted his own judgement, and that was why he threw out rash, unconsidered ideas. Huldarion had sent him with Tamu to the area of devastation, hoping it might help to reawaken his humanity; rouse his compassion. It seemed it had not worked. Thoronal had not even mentioned the plight of the northern quarter.

I shall have to replace him, thought Huldarion. Find another counsellor. But not yet. There is no need just now.

He picked up one of the woollen rugs that lay folded on the couch behind him, and threw it over the bowl. Even once hidden it seemed to linger, glowing, in his mind: such a lovely object, beautiful to look at and to hear. A fitting heirloom for the rulers of Caervonn.

“By the favour of the stars, one day this will grace our palace,” he told his counsellors. “But first we have to get there. There is much to do.”

So he put thoughts of the bowl aside to attend to other pressing matters. The four of them went through the allotted tasks of the muster – the final organisation of arms, horses and provisions – and the three counsellors left to set about those duties.

Huldarion walked out of the tent behind them.

“Let no-one enter,” he instructed the sentries. The priest waited a few yards away, his arms folded in his sleeves. Huldarion looked him in the eye, assessing him keenly. A young man; but his lean, wistful, slightly haggard face spoke of years of hardship and of longing.

“Hokiro. I do not regard myself as your lord,” said Huldarion, “nor are you beholden to me in any way. Rather I am greatly beholden to you, for bringing this vessel to me.”

“I heard it sing just a little while ago,” the priest said yearningly. “I heard the voice of sky and earth together.”

“Indeed. Truly a remarkable sound. But it will not sing again while it is here.”

“What will you do with it?” asked Hokiro.

“I will take it with us when we travel. I will keep it secret, and well-guarded.”

The priest inclined his head. “Then may I ask to be the one who guards it?”

This was a solution which had already occurred to Huldarion. “Are you determined to go whither I and my people go?”

“I am. Borgun commands it.”

“But what about your temple?”

“I shall appoint a deputy.”

“I think you would not wish to be a soldier.”

“I will not bear arms. But I do not seek to prevent others from bearing them in a just cause. And I have some skill in medicine,” said the priest, “which I can offer in your service.”

“Have you a horse?”

“I will find one.” The man’s eyes were alight now, with hope and conviction.

“Then I accept that service from you, both as a healer and as a guardian of the bowl, until either of us shall ask to end the contract.” A strangely formal conversation, thought Huldarion, but this priest seemed to inspire seriousness and respect. He suspected that Hokiro would follow him in any case, with or without permission; so the permission might as well be given.

He put out his right hand expecting it to be lightly taken and then dropped, as was the Kelvhan custom. Instead the priest reached for his other hand as well, the scarred along with the whole, and clasped them both together in his own. Then, releasing them, he raised his hand to touch Huldarion’s forehead, where the scars began, in a gesture of gentle blessing.

“Borgun,” he said. He turned and walked away, leaving Huldarion both moved and faintly uneasy.

Well, what’s done is done, he told himself. The man is hardly likely to convert my army wholesale to pacifism. And he has compassion, which should lead him to care well for the wounded. Another medic will be useful.

So with this reflection he went over to the tent where Meya was awaiting him. He suspected that Meya would not be content either at being kept waiting, or at the company she had been forced to keep; for Tiburé and a couple of maids had offered to sit with her, rather than leave her rudely on her own. He knew that Meya was wary of Tiburé, being uncertain of her joint position as a Rider and as a lady of the castle. And she would regard Tamu, he thought, as very much beneath her rank and notice.

But as he walked in, he thought in surprise, why no, I have misjudged her. For Meya was sitting next to Tamu and talking to him with kindly animation. No sign of moodiness. She looked up at Huldarion and spoke with calm assurance.

“My lord. I have just recommended to the Assistant Keeper of the Scrolls that he should take some respite from his labours and pay a long overdue visit to his mother in Outer Kelvha.”

“I am sure that is a good idea,” said Huldarion, as Tamu, looking almost overwhelmed, began to stammer out words of gratitude in a tone of deep relief.

This matter of the bowl has scared him more than I had realised, thought Huldarion. But I trust that he has told Meya nothing of it.

Meya continued. “Master Tamu, I shall speak to the Keeper of the Scrolls myself; you need not approach him. I shall inform him of a family emergency. I expect you are owed at least a month of leave. Are you not?”

It was a command, not a question. “I – I – I, possibly, Lady Meya. It would be a... I am indebted to you.”

Meya patted his hand. “Then you should set out as soon as possible. Off you go and pack your things,” she said, as if she were his grandmother. In fact they were probably about the same age.

“Before you leave us,” said Huldarion. “That other matter, of the inscription that you found, Tamu. We will bear it in mind. However, you need take no further action.” As he spoke he was aware that he sounded over-lordly.

“Thank you,” said Tamu. “I will – I would like – if it were permitted–”

“Yes?”

“I will check these last few parchments before I go,” said Tamu with a gasp, and almost ran out of the tent.

Huldarion watched him leave with an inward smile. It was unfair of him to feel amusement, he knew, at a man so timid and yet trying so hard to be of use.

“What inspired you to offer him a holiday?” he asked Meya.

She gave a shrug. “I have always liked Tamu. He works hard, and he knows his place. It struck me that lately he has been over-working. He said nothing of his business here, but he looked tired and even over-wrought. Was it an important inscription that he brought to you?”

He shrugged in his turn. “Something the priest had turned up. I don’t think it’s directly relevant to our purpose.”

Meya nodded, not that interested after all, to his relief. Instead she turned to Tiburé. “Well,” she said, “I suppose that we had better tell him now.”

Huldarion sat down on the stool opposite them, his relief switching back to wariness.

“Tell me what?”

Another doubt about our marriage? he wondered. But, no, it cannot be; for she would not talk about such things in front of Tiburé. Perhaps there was after all some other reason for her strangely haughty moods.

Meya looked up at him, both troubled and faintly embarrassed. “My lord. I must confess that I have been deceiving you. For I – Oh! That sounds all wrong!”

“It certainly does,” said Tiburé drily. “You will give him entirely the wrong impression. Why not leave it to Piril to explain?”

To Huldarion’s surprise the maid who had been hovering behind them stepped forward. Her head had been bowed, but now she raised it and looked him in the eye as she spoke directly, without any fluttering curtsey or nervous preamble.

“My lady Meya means to say, sir, that your lady Riders have been harbouring me and another maidservant in their lodgings without your knowledge, which was something Lady Meya asked them to do, sir.”

“Harbouring you? Let me think a moment,” said Huldarion, feeling grateful that it was nothing more important. “You are a maid from the castle? But not Lady Meya’s maid.”

“No, sir, I was Lady Janeya’s chambermaid.” The girl spoke quietly but was unabashed. An inconspicuous girl. If she had accompanied Janeya at the banquet, he did not remember. But now he understood her presence.

“Ah. I was grieved indeed at Lady Janeya’s sudden death.” Indeed, although he had been told it was a suicide the circumstances were a mystery to him, and he had not had any private moment since then with Meya in which he could ask her about it.

He sincerely hoped the death had nothing to do with his choice of bride, when he had effectively turned Janeya down. Although he had been sure that Janeya did not wish to marry him – having her eye on another man – perhaps her relatives had felt differently. He did not pretend to understand the pressures brought to bear upon the marriageable young ladies of the castle; yet he could imagine that if Janeya had been forbidden to marry whatever young lord she had chosen, she might have been driven to destroy herself.

And he could readily believe that Janeya’s maids would be made convenient scapegoats. “You were in trouble after her death?” he asked Piril.

“Yes, sir. The Lord Post-Regent was very angry with us when poor Lady Janeya was found to have killed herself, although it happened while we were sleeping, sir. We had no idea that she intended it. The Lady Meya arranged for us – that is, for me and another maidservant – to flee the castle. The ladies of your company have been most kind to us, sir. We would like to ride out with them, if you would permit us, sir.”

“As far as Outer Kelvha,” put in Meya, with a stern look at Piril. “And then you can make your own way to your home village, can you not, Piril?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So,” said Huldarion. “I am deceived indeed.” Had all the women Riders in the city kept this from him? That was disconcerting. But he understood why they might hide the maids: so that if they were discovered, he could truthfully deny all knowledge of the matter. “I am glad you have found my fellow Riders so hospitable. However, I admit I would have preferred not to have known of this deceit until we were well clear of Kelvha.”

“Oh, sir, may I stay with the lady Riders until then?”

“What alternative have I? I am not going to cast you back to Nerogun.” He was torn between compassion and mild annoyance. “But one thing I wonder. Why do you choose to tell me now?”

“Because Master Tamu recognised the other maid, sir,” said Piril, “when he came into the tent before.”

Huldarion looked around. “Ah, I see. Where is she gone?” For there was no sign of the second maid.

“She went out. She was upset,” said Meya, who herself now seemed a little irritated. “But that is enough of maidservants. My Lord Huldarion, there was another, more pressing reason why we wished to speak to you.”

“It concerns last night’s assassin, at the music hall,” Tiburé added.

“Another sad event,” said Huldarion gravely. “The man was very young, and I suspect deranged. But he need not have been slaughtered so abruptly.”

“Sir,” said Piril, very quietly, “sir, if you please, he was my brother.”