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

Chapter 2

Parthenal looked around his chamber with a mixture of doubt and satisfaction. It was somewhat cell-like in its shape, with a single small, high window, yet its furnishings were luxurious to the point of absurdity. He didn’t need heraldic emblems on his bedclothes, or a gilded lampstand shaped like a stag; while the mosaic that almost filled one wall – a hunting scene in shards of coloured glass – was particularly disconcerting. Not least because it must have taken months of work; and all for what? It was dazzling, but it wasn’t beautiful.

On the other hand, the room was private. That in itself was a luxury which most of the Riders staying outside the castle would not share. And it was warm, although there was no fireplace: the warmth came through the floor, by some ingenious system of pipes, no doubt. Huldarion could probably explain it. There was a carved chest for his baggage, far larger than he needed. And when Parthenal tried them, the bed and chair were comfortable enough.

He lay on the low bed with legs crossed for a few moments, contemplating events so far. Only six men had accompanied Huldarion through the Keep Gate: the others were lodging in the city. So poor old Rothir had been left outside. His riding partner, having incurred Huldarion’s displeasure, was not one of the chosen six. But Rothir had expressed no jealousy although he had never been inside Kelvha Castle.

Neither had Parthenal. Despite several stays in Kelvha in the past, this was his first time inside the castle walls. When they had entered, he had been careful to look straight ahead – with no unseemly display of curiosity – but gained a general impression of extremely solid stone walls and high towers, a series of large courtyards with a maze of passages leading off them; and servants. Servants everywhere. In the third courtyard, where they had finally dismounted, a well-behaved crowd had gathered to view them. Male only, no women.

He had allowed himself one glance across the craning heads, concealing his interest. They were a good-looking people, these Kelvhans, although clearly many of the servants were not from Kelvha but from further south. That blond, well-shaped man…

Parthenal had looked away. He would be ascetic here, as far as that particular pleasure was concerned, and would content himself with the other luxuries on offer. Beginning with a banquet this evening, and apparently another one tomorrow: after weeks on the march he was looking forward to some decent food.

There was a knock on the door. When he opened it, a servant stood there, a ewer in his hands.

“Hot water, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll put in in your washroom.” This young man was remarkably well-dressed for a servant, with velvet sleeves and bleached hair in a finely-plaited top knot that Parthenal assumed was fashionable here. Having placed the ewer in the small wash-chamber – another luxury – the man turned round and smiled.

“I am Jaul, sir, your equerry.” By which Parthenal understood that this was not a servant at all, but a lesser member of the nobility, allocated to him as his squire. Not unattractive either. He nodded.

“The Arch-Lord Nerogun will receive your party in a half-hour,” Jaul went on. “After the reception, there will be the banquet. If you wish to wash and change, I can take your travel clothes away for cleaning.” He stood there as if expecting Parthenal to strip off on the spot.

“Thank you,” said Parthenal. “I will put them outside the door.” After a moment Jaul bowed and left.

He had few items of clothing; might have to buy some more. There would be opportunity enough for that, for Kelvha City was awash with markets, catering for all levels of society. Meanwhile, after washing, he donned the best of what he had and strapped on his sword-belt. This was by the orders of Huldarion.

“Every man is taller when he wears a sword,” Huldarion had said to his six men. “It will remind them of who we are.”

And Huldarion’s word was law to him. More than law. Standing before the unlikely horses glittering on the mosaic wall, he unsheathed his sword and held it upright before him, closing his eyes for a moment as he silently swore fealty to his chief – his king, in all but actual position. That throne awaited, if they could be successful here. So he must play his part.

He kissed the sword before he sheathed it once again. Then he was ready.

When he left the room Jaul was a little way down the torch-lit passage, waiting for him. He seemed to nod appreciation of Parthenal’s appearance before he led him through the maze of corridors and into the sudden blinding sunlight of yet another courtyard – a private one this time, or as private as it could be with a dozen narrow windows looking down on it from every side.

Here the others were assembling from various directions; Huldarion’s six chosen Riders were quartered all over the castle rather than in one spot. Parthenal was not sure what the reason for that was, but was sure that there would be a reason. So that they could not confer too much, perhaps; at least, not without being noticed. He gave a warm greeting to Sashel, who had so recently lost his brother, and a less warm greeting to Thoronal, for he could feel his older cousin’s disapproval of him even here. But Aretor was a more congenial companion – if not the brightest intellect – and Uld and Solon, the two elder counsellors, were reasonable enough.

Huldarion arrived and cast his eye over them. Parthenal hoped he saw no cause for dissatisfaction. But Huldarion smiled; a rare and difficult thing for him, because of the scars. Better than the sunshine, thought Parthenal, and no less necessary to me. He felt himself grow taller; never mind the sword, all he needed was approval in his leader’s eyes.

As they strode across the courtyard into a great hall he was aware of being watched by many other eyes. As one of the tallest and most striking of the Riders, he knew he drew attention. A little dark for Kelvhan tastes but his warrior appearance made up for that.

And that was why he was here. For his looks. So behave, he thought, be lordly: keep your eyebrows aloofly raised, your eyes open and your mouth shut.

At the far end of the echoing hall they were received by Nerogun and the young Prince Faldron – a likeable enough lad, in Parthenal’s view, if a bit shallow, but the years might put that right. The Post-Regent Nerogun, a solid and imperious man in his fifties, was by all accounts the one to watch. He had been in charge since the old king’s death a dozen years ago and more, and would be the main ruler of the country for the next year – until Faldron became High King on turning twenty-one – and probably beyond that, if he could.

Compared to the lively youth of three weeks ago, this Faldron seemed dispirited. No, that was the wrong word, for he was still cheerful. He greeted the Riders gladly enough, but the youthful ardency he had shown on the battlefield beside the Outland Forts had gone. Prince Faldron here seemed subdued and passive.

Doesn’t like being back home and confined, thought Parthenal, he wants to be out on a horse in his hunting-ground, not here making small talk under Nerogun’s thumb.

But Nerogun gave the Prince an easy means of escape. “Let me take you round the castle to meet some of the officials, my Lord Huldarion,” he said. “Your Highness, I expect you will not wish to accompany us?”

“No, I have seen quite a lot of the castle lately,” Faldron answered, somewhat listlessly. Yet up at the Outland Forts he had been eager for Huldarion to visit Kelvha; had seemed keen to show him round his kingdom. Perhaps the realities of diplomacy bored him.

So with a bow to the High Prince they left him, and, led briskly by Nerogun, proceeded on their tour: which was not so much to meet officials, Parthenal was soon certain, as to be made aware of just how strong and extensive Kelvha Castle was. This was the flourish of an armed fist, if a friendly one.

The sentry towers, the armoury, the knights’ hall, the guard-houses, the treasury and crown room were all displayed to them with an air of “What have you got to match this?” Even the dungeons were described, if not displayed, with pride; leaving Parthenal in no doubt that they were as solidly imposing as the rest. The décor, with all its gilt and jewel-bright paintings, mosaics, coats of arms and banners, could not hide the unyielding weight of stone beneath.

The officials, by contrast, were insignificant in their appearance, and designedly so. These were the men who did the actual jobs of Treasurer, Chief Herald, Keeper of the Crowns, and so on, while the titles belonged to noblemen whom Huldarion would meet later at the banquet. The noblemen had their own luxurious offices but none were present there: evidently the vast bulk of the work was delegated to these busy, careful, lower-ranking men, who bowed deferentially to Nerogun with varying degrees of anxiety.

Parthenal noted that anxiety. It could be seen in all these men except the Keeper of the Swords – or rather his deputy, the armourer: a strongly built, soldierly man who was almost swaggering in his demeanour as he showed off the rows of blades stacked in their cases and hanging on the walls of the large armoury. Perhaps he owed his confidence to the quality of the ironwork around him. The swords were very fine. Rothir would like this, thought Parthenal, and he opened his mouth for the first time.

“Do you have a forge within the castle?”

“Inside the north wall. Next to the bakery ovens,” the man answered. “Though that darkburn you brought back could replace both functions all on its own, I think.” He grinned at them in a way that Parthenal felt was over-familiar.

“Then don’t think, Iajo,” said Nerogun sharply. “You are not paid to think.”

“M’lord.” The man bowed, but sketchily, without any of the deference shown by the other officials.

Once they had left the armoury Huldarion said to the Post-Regent, “I gather that the presence of the darkburn, then, is generally known.”

“Only to certain higher ranks within the castle,” answered Nerogun, making Parthenal wonder about Iajo’s exact status. “The creature itself is both well hidden and well guarded, naturally. This is the last of the major offices, my lord; there are of course still many others, like the stables, the falconry mews, the kitchens and the archives, all available for you to visit if you are interested.” His tone implied that Huldarion would be above all such trivial things, although Parthenal himself felt quite interested in the first two, at least.

However, Huldarion said, “The archives may be useful to us. Amongst the wealth of learning that you no doubt store here, there may be information relating to the darkburns.”

“Really? What sort of information would you hope to find?”

“The darkburns’ history: where they might have come from, how they are made.”

Nerogun looked sceptical. “That would be better learnt from examining the thing itself. And our archives, you understand, hold the long and extensive records of our own nation, but not of others.”

“I understand that. Nonetheless…”

“If you wish.” With a shrug Nerogun led them past the tallest tower to a long, low, many-windowed edifice that leaned against the castle’s outer wall. Leaned, literally: despite its lack of height it was the only building that was not perfectly straight and upright. The roof bowed slightly underneath its ragged tiles.

“One of the oldest parts of the castle. Seven hundred years, I’m told, and looks it,” said Nerogun with a faint air of contempt, as he led them through the creaking door and into a well-lit space, past desks where several men were industriously writing. Behind them were stacks of shelves laden with scrolls and volumes. The place smelt of dust and leather. “Tradition, of course, must be maintained even if it is a little ramshackle… But the building serves its purpose. It’s good enough, is it not?”

“It is most impressive,” said Huldarion, and Parthenal supposed that this would be true if you took an interest in old documents. He had an idea that this place might be even bigger than the great library of Caervonn. Would that still be there? He had never cared much for its contents, yet the memory of that vast quiet space filled him with an ache of nostalgia.

“This reminds me of the library at Caervonn,” said Huldarion, giving him a faint shock of affinity. So close, so unattainable… He ought to be used to it by now. Somehow he never was.

They had reached the middle of the long room, and Huldarion’s last remark was aimed at a man who sat at a semi-circular desk, hunched and peering at some document which he was annotating with a quill. On being addressed he jumped up with a start, knocking over his pen-stand and sending the sheet fluttering to the floor. He half-stooped and straightened up twice, clearly not knowing whether to pick up the parchment or ignore it. Parthenal wanted to laugh. He bent and retrieved the sheet, handing it to the writer: a small, nervous, bumbling man, the sort, he thought, who had been born middle-aged.

“I’m told he has a fine mind,” murmured Nerogun, “but it doesn’t often show. Our archivist, Tamu: this is the Lord Huldarion of the Vonn.”

“I’m not actually the – that is, I mean, that is to say, the office of Keeper of the Scrolls belongs to the Arch-Lord Welgun–”

“Yes, yes, we know, but I don’t think we need trouble him at present. Your query, Lord Huldarion?”

“Have you heard of the creatures called darkburns?” asked Huldarion.

“I’m not sure if I – are they – should I have…?” His eyes darted to Nerogun in apprehension.

“If you haven’t, for stars’ sake just say so,” expostulated the Post-Regent. He rolled his eyes.

“I, er, that is – no. I mean possibly. I think I may have heard something of them.”

Patiently Huldarion explained the nature of the darkburns and his interest in their genesis. The little archivist listened, blinking and bobbing his head like an anxious bird.

“Well, our scrolls are generally concerned with Kelvhan history…”– he blinked again, glancing up at Nerogun – “that is to say, with the glorious chronicles of our noble realm of Kelvha from the first High King Khal-Arethgun, who, who much appreciated, I must say, I am sure, the aid in battle of your own noble forebear King Dorial of Caervonn–”

“Yes, yes,” said Nerogun.

“–in his many mighty victories,” concluded Tamu in a breathless gabble.

Huldarion said gently, “Might there be contained within those chronicles anything that is of moment to us?”

“Well, I – I suppose it’s possible, there are the Quests and Dialogues, let me see, and I believe in the reign of Garean some of the scrolls may perhaps have dealt with, ah, extraneous matters…” He made a move towards the shelves.

“Not now, for stars’ sake,” said Nerogun. “We have a banquet to go to.”

“I am afraid we cannot linger. But if you should find anything, I would be very grateful if you would bring it to us without delay,” said Huldarion. He nodded courteously to the little man and turned to go. Parthenal bent down again, to pick up the scattered quills and lay them on the desk. He smiled at the archivist, who stared back at him with something like shock.

“Come, Parthenal,” said Huldarion, with faint amusement in his voice. Parthenal thought he might be the only one who could detect it. When they were out of the building, and as Nerogun was striding ahead, Huldarion murmured, “It will not do to smile at too many servants, let alone pick up their belongings for them.”

“But we want that one on our side, I think,” he murmured in return, looking at Nerogun’s back. The Post-Regent, he felt, would not trouble to stir himself for the Vonn. But an anxious and despised little archivist just might.

“You know what I mean,” said Huldarion, and Parthenal did. Well, there was no need for Huldarion to worry there. If he were tempted to smile at anybody in that way, there were plenty of tall and handsome Kelvhans around for him to choose from. Not least his own equerry, Jaul; he had sensed something in the young man that suggested he might be responsive.

But you could never be certain of such instincts. And you would be a fool to succumb to them in Kelvha.