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

Chapter 46

“Thank the stars,” said Rothir, and he laughed aloud. He knew it was uncharacteristic of him, and he didn’t care. Parthenal, riding alongside him, raised an eyebrow.

“You’re that thankful to be free of Kelvha?”

“Aren’t you?” Rothir glanced around at the long train of carts and Riders that led all the way behind him to the South Gate of the city. Those walls looked very small now. Toy walls and a child’s model of a gate.

A thin pall of smoke still hung over the city’s furthest quarter, yet here the air was clean and fresh. He drank it in deeply. They were passing the villages and farms of Inner Kelvha, the little fields shining green with new spring crops. Small birds flocked overhead in shifting bands and filled the morning with their cries, an attractive jingle of faint see-saw bells; Rothir realised only now how much he had missed birdsong in the city.

The good cheer behind him in the Vonnish train seemed general. A mile or two away, the even longer train of the Kelvhan army was still forming itself. Rothir knew that inevitable hardship lay ahead, to say nothing of the predictable brutalities of war; yet for all that, he relished this moment of departure. To feel the steady hoofbeats of Narba thudding underneath him, to have his comrades all around him, to know that he would soon be visiting his sister Olbeth and her household – however briefly – all these were reasons to rejoice.

“I suppose I’m glad enough to leave,” said Parthenal flatly.

“You don’t sound glad. But then you’ve been living in the lap of luxury while the rest of us have slummed it in the town. You’ll miss the comfort. I won’t miss anything except the pies.”

“Things did not go well,” said Parthenal.

“Some things.”

“Quite major things. That tournament which nearly got you killed.”

“But didn’t,” said Rothir.

“That poor girl’s suicide, after Huldarion chose a different bride. That must have been quite horrible for him.”

“I think her death saddened him,” said Rothir, “but we don’t really know its cause.”

“Still. And the assassin just the other night. That was strange, and quite disturbing. And the fires rampaging through the northern quarter – no matter who started them, the effect was as terrible as if it really were a darkburn. And then to learn that it was Adon! And that he has allied himself to Nerogun!”

“Don’t talk about Adon now. It’s too fine a day.” Rothir shook his head to dispel any such thoughts. For this one morning he wanted to be free of worry.

“But what of the disappearance of the darkburn? What if Huldarion learns about your part in that?”

“No reason why he should,” said Rothir. “So long as you don’t tell.” The destruction of the darkburn was still a secret that was known – he hoped – only to those few concerned. He glanced over to where Leor and Veron rode side by side with the shaggy fur-clad hunters talking and laughing in their wake.

And in front of them all, at the head of the line, rode Huldarion. One cause for celebration there, at least.

“Some things went well,” Rothir insisted. “The most important things. Mission accomplished for Huldarion – he has his wife, and his alliance. I wasn’t sure that Lady Meya would hold to the bargain once it came to leaving Kelvha. When they came out of that tent last night I felt that we should all have cheered.”

He was not the only one who had had to repress a grin whilst walking past the tent on his way to dine: it was perfectly obvious to everyone what Huldarion and Meya had been doing. Even though Meya had comported herself with distant dignity, Huldarion had worn a certain air of… what was it? Ease. Satisfaction. Lucky man.

Still there was no response from Parthenal, which surprised Rothir until he remembered the gruesome tale of the assassin’s identity, which Huldarion, in sombre tones, had told his senior Riders after dinner. The story of that poor servant-boy would have touched a nerve in Parthenal’s tough heart, if anything could. Occasionally Rothir did wonder: had his friend ever truly loved? Or had he simply desired?

Well, for that matter, have I ever truly loved? he mused. I don’t think it was love I felt for Gwenna. Although right now, riding out on Narba to certain battle and an unknown destiny, I feel as though l could love anyone.

As for desire… well, there was none allowed in Kelvha – except for Huldarion. More chance for all of us now, but even with the city shrinking fast behind us, who could I ask? Shebel: she’s kind enough, but… can be a little patronising. Naileb. A bit bland. And she’s from Olbeth’s household, so better to steer clear. Felba. Always liked her. But she’s my second cousin and more like an older sister than a potential mate.

He glanced behind him for inspiration. Maeneb. No. Not unless he wanted to be knifed. Durba. No chance, even if she weren’t too young.

In any case Rothir had always told himself he wouldn’t bed any woman that he wouldn’t be prepared to marry. He must have been less choosy in those days, he thought, because he didn’t care for the idea of marrying any of the women he had just been considering in such an egotistical way.

And egotistical it was, for why would any of those women have him anyway? He saw a sudden image of himself as if he were gazing at the line of Riders from ten feet up in the air: a man broad-shouldered, wind-tanned, frowning, with none of the eye-catching good looks of Parthenal; grim, though probably looking considerably grimmer than he felt. Not much there to attract women.

So wait for Caervonn. Perhaps she would be waiting too, as she had been for so many years in his imagination.

Rothir glanced again behind him and saw Yaret – her appearance, as usual, more male than female; more boy-like, anyway. Hard to imagine trying to bed her. Not because he didn’t like her, for he liked her very much: but because it would ruin a good and valued friendship.

All that history between them. Near-death and disaster. He did not know what to do with some of it. That dead boy in the infirmary: her head on his shoulder in the chilly fort. Her knowledge of the huntress. Singing to darkburns. It bewildered him.

And that strange vision he had seen, while standing in the ruins of the northern quarter. He had been aware of what she called the lin, blinking stubbily in and out of sight – but what had momentarily kept him spell-bound was the woman he had seen appear behind Yaret. Round her: almost part of her. Shining somehow. Like Yaret and yet not like her. He did not understand it. No, best keep Yaret separate.

But those two women riding just behind her – who were they? He didn’t recognise that pair. They must be the castle maids whom Huldarion had mentioned: Piril and Jebil, those were the names. Poor girls. He hoped they had friends somewhere in Outer Kelvha who would give them refuge.

On peering further down the line, to his surprise he saw two more new faces. These ones were not maids, but men; and one of them at least was quite familiar.

“There’s the archivist,” he exclaimed. “What’s he doing in our train?”

That woke Parthenal up. He craned his head around. “What? Our little friend Tamu? Where is he?”

“Next to that cart, along with the thin man with the hollow eyes.”

“Oh, I see him now. He doesn’t look too comfortable there, does he? Timid little Tamu. But fancy him following us out here. I wonder why?”

“I expect he’s visiting somewhere on our route and will drop out of the line soon,” said Rothir.

“Probably… That hollow-eyed man next to him, that’s the priest of Borgun’s temple,” remarked Parthenal. “I saw him on the day of the fires, when Huldarion defended him from the wrath of the crowd. He must have attached himself to Huldarion out of gratitude.”

“As long as he doesn’t try to convert him.”

“I doubt if he’d be capable of that,” said Parthenal, sounding somewhat more like himself. He waved to a couple of women who were cantering up from behind to join them. “Alburé,” he said, as they drew level. “You’re looking quite different to the last time I saw you.”

Alburé smiled. Although different, she looked equally fine: her riding-breeches and brown tunic became her just as well as the sleek embroidered dresses she had worn in Kelvha Castle.

But she’s not the one for me either, thought Rothir. When will I find the one who is? Still, at least Alburé was smiling, which was good. Someone else relieved to be escaping Kelvha.

“Olbeth will be glad to see you,” he told her.

“Olbeth? She won’t be joining our army, will she?” asked Alburé in some surprise.

“No, not with the baby. But Huldarion says that we’ll pass close by her farm and encamp there for a day or two while we reprovision.”

“Olbeth is your sister, I believe?” That question was from Yaret, who had ridden up with Alburé. She looked like a true Rider of the Vonn, if not as strikingly well-dressed a one as Alburé; nor did she have the other woman’s air of proud assertiveness. But Yaret seemed at ease on Poda, who was practically prancing with the joy of being out with all the other horses.

“She’s my younger sister. I remember the wincing with which you first leant to ride on Narba,” Rothir remarked to her.

“And then you made me gallop full pelt on Poda all the way from the Gyr Tarn to that crag you called the thumb.”

“I did. It was cruel, but necessary.”

“You should have seen the look she gave me when she arrived,” said Parthenal.

“Dishevelled,” said Yaret. “I had no idea where I was or who I was looking for.”

“Well, our route from Kelvha will not be so lonely, nor should it seem so unfamiliar,” Rothir told her. “After we leave Olbeth’s farm we will skirt south of that plain you called the loft. We may even glimpse the escarpment from where you can look down upon the Darkburn forest.”

“The Darkburn,” said Yaret thoughtfully, and he knew that she was remembering – as he was – those early days together, as they had tried to care for the wounded Rider Eled. Such dark days those had been – in part: and yet at other times, he had felt something quite strange. Almost joy. He recalled a golden sunset. The relief of Eled being found.

That had been before the dreadful moment high above the River Thore. The memory of that still cut him to the bone although he had no idea why. Because here they were all safe and sound and on their way.

“And after that,” said Yaret, “where do we go then? Towards Caervonn?”

“Not directly, no. Much depends upon the news the scouts bring in,” he answered. “But Huldarion’s intention is, I understand, to head south first: towards the sea.”

“The sea,” repeated Yaret, as she gazed ahead. An attractive prospect lay immediately before them. Thicketed woods – the Kelvhan hunting forests – replaced the placid farmland; and beyond those, another twenty miles away or more, the hills put up their round grey heads to watch the Riders’ coming.

More cantering hooves approached them. This time it was Veron, leading Leor and Ikelder.

“The horses need a run,” called out Veron as he rode past, “and so do I.” With that he urged his wiry horse to a gallop and pounded on up the line. Leor and Ikelder followed him, Leor looking startled on his bony steed Bryddesda as if he had no idea why he was galloping. His red hair streamed behind him like an untidy flag.

“And so do I too,” said Parthenal. “Alburé?” She nodded, and they began to canter after the others.

Rothir looked at Yaret. “Shall we gallop?”

“Are we allowed?”

“Huldarion is smiling. He’ll be joining us in few minutes, I expect. Glad to leave Kelvha behind. We all are, I think.”

“We take Kelvha with us,” said Yaret, “along with every other moment of our lives. We take it all with us. But yes, let’s gallop.”

Poda and Narba needed no spurring. They eagerly stretched out their necks, vying with each other for speed before their riders brought them side by side.

The ground swept past beneath them; a flock of birds flew overhead, at first accompanying them; and then were finally left far behind, as the Riders galloped east and south, towards the sea.

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End of Book 3

The tale continues in

Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Terns

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