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

Chapter 45

Huldarion turned and lit the lantern hanging from the roof, for twilight was falling. It gave the maid time to rearrange her face. When he turned back she was once more almost composed.

“Your brother?”

The girl nodded. “Keril.” She said the name sadly, like a farewell.

“How old was Keril?”

“Seventeen,” said Piril. “I was supposed to be looking after him while he was in the castle.” Her voice shook slightly, but only for a second.

“Tell me about your brother,” Huldarion said gently.

“He came to the castle two years ago, sir, to work as a footman – although he wasn’t much good at it – he was too untidy. So after a while they put him in the stables. It was hard for me to keep an eye on him there. But I soon learnt that he had been shown favours by a lord called Jaul.”

“I know the man,” said Huldarion. He could already see the way this was going, and to give her a little more time he asked her, “How long have you worked in the castle, Piril?”

“Ten years, sir, since I was fourteen. So I know how things are. I know the rules. I know it’s meant to be forbidden – what Jaul and the others did.” She took a long breath. “I mean, they bedded my brother. I had not known that Keril was that way inclined but when I taxed him with it he didn’t seem averse. They paid him.”

“I see,” said Huldarion.

“He hadn’t told me, sir, but rumours spread inside the castle, amongst the servants. Keril thought I would be shocked. But it happens all the time with the women. The low-born ones, I mean, the maids. Except we don’t generally get paid. So I wasn’t all that shocked. But I was scared for him.” Her hands were tightly clasped together.

He nodded, not wanting to interrupt her.

“And – then – I learnt that they were trying to blackmail him.”

He waited. “Who are they in that?” he asked eventually. “Do you mean Jaul?”

“I mean Iajo, sir, the armourer. And, and…”

“She means the Post-Regent,” Tiburé put in. Meya compressed her lips. Piril stared at the ground. There was a many-patterned rug laid down beneath their feet but it did not keep the damp out.

“So; when your brother made his attack in the concert hall last night – you think he turned on his blackmailers?” said Huldarion. “And attempted to kill Nerogun?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No, sir, no, he would not do that. It was not at all in his nature. There was no violence in him.”

“There was, last night,” he countered.

“Sir. Pardon me, but no. Keril would not harm an ant. I am certain of this. So. I have – I have heard – something of what happens to men, servants I mean, who do what Keril did with other men and who are discovered by the wrong people, or fall out of favour.” She looked up at him briefly before staring at the rug again. “It is a horrible death, sir.”

“You need not go into detail,” Meya said. “Continue.”

“Ma’am. I believe they threatened Keril with this – this penalty, and gave him an alternative. To pretend to attack Nerogun and the other nobles. Keril must have known he would not reach the Post-Regent or anyone else with his knife before he was cut down. I think – I think he was relying on the guards to cut him down. To give him a quick death. The Lady Tiburé tells me it was quick.”

“He died instantly,” said Tiburé. “He would have had no time to be aware of any pain.”

Piril nodded. Her face clenched again, momentarily, as tightly as her hands. Then she had it under control: as impassive as Huldarion knew he was himself. To show no emotion, thought Huldarion, must be a lesson quickly learnt by servants in the castle,

“That is true,” he reassured her. “It was extremely swift. But how can you be sure that Keril did not do it of his own accord? Even if only in the hope that he would be cut down quickly, as you say.”

“Sir.” She looked up at him again. Such an ordinary, forgettable face. Such an unforgettable story. “Sir, I know because Keril had only lately joined the band of players. They did not know him and they would not have employed him were it up to them. He played the stibhult a bit back home, but not well. The players said he was given the position by a noble. They did not know which one.”

“So he was given a position with close access to the lords,” said Huldarion.

“And the guards were strangely late to arrive,” Tiburé added. “The danger to Nerogun was increased. Yet I can’t say that he looked alarmed.”

“He never does,” said Meya.

Huldarion nodded slowly. “I also noted that about the guards. Piril: I thank you for this information. So you and your fellow-maid intend to leave the castle and to ride with us to Outer Kelvha? I believe that might be wise.”

“Oh, sir. May I ride beyond that? May I join your band of women?”

He looked at the maid’s plain face. She has the courage, he thought, the self-possession, the endurance, probably the strength. “Can you ride?”

“A little.”

“Well,” said Huldarion. “Let’s get you safely outside Kelvha first. Then we shall see.”

The maid curtsied and departed from the tent, as did Tiburé. He was left alone at last with Meya, whose face was set in contemplation. But he could not guess her thoughts.

“That is quite a story. What do you make of it?” he asked her.

“Do I think that bodged assassination was staged? Yes, almost certainly,” she said firmly. “The man looked terrified. He knew that he was going to die. But it was not clear who he was aiming for. And as for the agent who directed him – I am at a loss.”

“Nerogun staging an attempt on his own life?”

“Perhaps. But why, I do not know.”

“Unless to show the castle how indispensable he is, how diligently he needs to be protected for the castle’s sake.”

“He already has the army at his command.”

“Not quite,” Huldarion said. “They have other commanders whom they value more. And you saw that recent mutiny against Nerogun’s intransigence.”

“Yes… that is true.” Meya looked concerned. “I don’t like Nerogun, but he is generally efficient. It worries me that the guard were so extremely slow to answer to the summons. Nerogun was put at real risk. I should hate to see civil discord within Kelvha.”

“We have no reason to think that is likely,” he told her. “Although I admit that I am glad to be outside the castle for this final night. All these secrets that I have to keep from Nerogun weigh on my mind.”

“Secrets?”

The bowl had been in his thoughts, but he gestured at the doorway. “The presence of the two maidservants. The fact that Tamu is leaving suddenly… It was generous of you to offer to arrange that for him, by the way.”

Meya shrugged. “I’m not afraid of the Keeper of the Scrolls. He’ll be put out, of course, but that’s too bad. Huldarion: to other, more important matters. I came to you this evening for several reasons.”

“And what are those?”

“Partly because of Piril, obviously, but also because I need to talk to you about the matter of – can we be overheard here?”

“No. These tents are surprisingly sound-proof.”

“Are they? I heard a strange sound earlier, a ringing, like a bell.”

“You may speak freely here,” he said.

“Very well. I need to tell you about Prince Faldron’s wine. I have had no chance till now.” Despite his assurance that the tent was sound-proof, she lowered her voice to a murmur. He moved the stool over to her chair, glad to have an excuse to sit closer to her. From here he could feel the warmth of her body. “You were correct in your suspicions,” Meya told him. Her voice was faintly husky; low, alluring.

“There was indeed something in the wine?”

“Yes. I spoke to the steward, Greshal. I think he already suspected some misdoing on the part of Faldron’s valet and was glad of the chance to tell me without fear of retribution. He let me into the servant’s quarters. In there I found a flask, containing a liquid that was colourless and odourless, but with a faint sour taste. It was not water. I decanted three quarters of the contents into a bottle, and used water to top up the flask.”

He nodded. “I presumed that what I drank that evening was diluted. One quarter strength, you said. I think I still felt some faint effect: a pleasant passivity, you might call it. Do you have any idea what the potion was?”

“I believe it contained the same ingredient as the stonemen’s drug; the medicine that you call Athelid.” He caught his breath as she continued. “Your herb-mistress Shebel had brought some of the Athelid paste to my own herb-mistress to see if she could identify it. She was unfamiliar with it, but the two drugs do appear to be the same.”

“Where is the bottle that you filled from the suspect flask?”

“In the still-room, under a new layer of dust, along with twenty other similar bottles.” She paused. “If someone were found to have been poisoning the Prince, that would be high treason.”

“But they could argue that it was not poison. It did him no physical harm, after all. It merely made him more… amenable. Who could have been responsible? Not just the manservant, presumably.”

“Greshal said the manservant had been hired by Nerogun.”

Huldarion nodded. No surprise there. Another servant hired to do the dirty work and take the blame. “What about Greshal? Is he reliable?”

“Yes. Greshal does not like the secrets he is obliged to keep, yet he keeps them well and faithfully,” she said. “He is a careful, loyal man. Loyal to me, at least.”

“Honour, care, fidelity,” murmured Huldarion.

“Yes, he has all those.” She looked at him. “Is that a motto?”

“You might call it that. Those are the three chief watchwords of the Vonn.”

She mused. He could tell she was saying the words again, internally, but could not tell what she was thinking.

Will I ever be able to read her thoughts, he wondered, if she should choose to stay with me? He breathed in her scent, deeply, surreptitiously. It was not just whatever flowered soap she used, but the faint scent of her body, of herself. He found one question was now uppermost in his mind; and it was not What is Nerogun’s aim? It was not even Will you still marry me? It was whether she would stay with him that night.

“Fidelity,” she said musingly. “I feel that I show little of that to Kelvha at the moment.”

“Nerogun is not the same as Kelvha. You owe no faithfulness to him.”

“I know that. But I meant… Ah, well.” She looked around at her surroundings. No breeze blew through the double thickness of the walls; as well as the rug underfoot, the seats were laid with folded, plain wool rugs. “I did not realise you were already quartered in your tents.”

“They are comfortable tents,” said Huldarion with a smile.

Meya raised an eyebrow. “Not too bad. But this has not the luxury of a Kelvhan camp.”

“That is certainly true. I visited Faldron’s quarters by the battlefield. Luxury indeed.”

“Naturally. Our travelling carriages are well-equipped. I expect I shall be comfortable enough when I follow you in the entourage.”

“You mean to come with us, then?” Although he had not expected it, he found that he was very glad; it showed her commitment to his cause, and to Caervonn. And other comforts came to mind.

“I shall not ride beside your soldiers,” she went on. “That would not be fitting for me. But my carriage shall follow you; indeed, until we come close to the battlefield, I shall journey alongside you. Why not? Where else should I be but with my husband?” And she looked at him directly, if still unsmilingly. “I am your wife already, in my own mind, and I hope in yours.”

He took her hand; but she withdrew it. Then she took a folded sheet of paper from her cloak.

“Also,” she said, “I have another reason to wishing to leave the city for a while – a more selfish one, I must confess. I want to see my daughter. Look; she sent me this picture of some ducks.”

Huldarion unfolded the piece of paper. Ducks were recognisable, just. He smiled.

“Aliya is staying in Outer Kelvha,” added Meya, “not too far from your route south-east, as I understand. She is living in the country with a noble family. Unfortunately, they are connections of Lord Melegan.”

“Ah. And Melegan is in trouble, I believe.”

“He is in exile.”

“What? So soon?” Huldarion was shocked.

“It has all happened very quickly and I don’t fully understand why. It may be that Melegan will retreat to that same country residence. I don’t know. But whether or not, Aliya cannot stay there. She has a nurse, of course, but the nurse has no standing of her own and naturally, no house in which to lodge.”

“I see. Other arrangements can be made, for both Aliya and her nurse.” Olbeth, he thought; a familiar image, so long harboured with affection. But lately he had put away all thoughts of Olbeth. “I know of somewhere – so long as you do not require a mansion for your daughter, but merely a comfortable and spacious farmhouse.”

Meya smiled, a little bleakly. “Will it have ducks?”

“If not, some shall be purchased,” he promised her. When he took her hand again, she did not withdraw it. Her skin was warm and smooth.

“The final reason for my visit here was…. But I had really hoped to find you still in the privacy of your castle chamber,” she said wistfully.

“Not in a tent?” His heart leapt in anticipation of her meaning.

She glanced around. “Everyone will know.”

“Everyone knows anyway,” said Huldarion, “and at least no one will be listening at any spyholes. But wait here and eat with us. And then you can decide if you will stay.”

“Oh, I have decided,” Meya said. And she leant towards him, and rested her head upon his shoulder.

So they did not wait till after dinner. Huldarion had still many things to organise; but this took precedence. He drew the screens across the tent and dimmed the lamp a little, but not entirely, for this time he desired to see as well as feel her, and Meya did not object.

She touched him tentatively at first, almost as if she had never touched her husband in this way: stroking him gently, not avoiding the scars, but learning him as he learnt her. For she allowed him – and then led him – to touch her everywhere he wished. And everywhere, her body felt entirely wonderful beneath his hands.

It is not exactly worship that I feel, he thought; and yet I venerate this body, so soft, so firm, so full, so responsive. It is another Meya altogether.

Her body was a delight to him, far more than his could be to her. Yet she did not seem to mind the scars and he felt his own unremitting awareness of them lessen.

Their love-making on the canvas camp-bed was slightly awkward, for she was concerned not to make too much noise: it was almost silent, ceremonious, and, for him, entirely satisfactory. He let Meya guide him as to what she wanted and made sure that she was not left hungry. If she gave a little less of herself than the first time – there was no exchange of confidences, no suspicion of a giggle even when the bed threatened to tip them off – it did not seem to matter.

As he held her while her body shivered into stillness he thought, this is the true sealing of our pact. May I treat her always with honour, care, fidelity. I already love this body, this other half of her.

Even so, there is no love between us two; not much, at least, not yet. Love is not mentioned on the bowl. It is not one of the watchwords of the Vonn. Our fourth, unwritten watchword is not love: it is accord. Yet love may spring from honour, care, fidelity, accord; and they all spring from love.

All these secrets, he reflected, the many secrets Kelvha keeps. I have my own secret now, from her. I have the bowl. Yet it is through my honour, my care for her, fidelity to her and to her people and my own, the necessity for our accord, that I will keep it secret.

Again he spoke the watchwords in his mind. And before they rose again, and dressed, and went to eat, while he still lay wrapped around her in languorous half-sleep, he heard in his imagination that long, insistent, ringing that had emanated from the silver bowl. That community of notes made one.

A plea, a prayer, a call: a summons to the bowl’s home. To Caervonn.