Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Ternss by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 9

“I’m not happy about the piglet,” Meya said.

Huldarion looked up from the map that was lying open on the table; initially with pleasure at hearing her voice, and then in slight exasperation as he registered the words.

“What does the piglet matter?” he asked. “Your daughter seems happy to be here. She’s already settling in well. If a piglet adds to her happiness, why not accept it?”

“It is not seemly for my daughter to adopt a piglet as a pet,” Meya said with indignation.

Huldarion sighed inwardly. “She’s only five, my dear. There will be time enough for her to worry about what’s seemly when she’s older. For now, just let her be content.” He was not accustomed to using this tone of voice: to reassure, to soothe; and suspected that he was not much good at it. He hoped that Meya would not require soothing often. His natural inclination was to be logical, dispassionate, commanding.

“If you are to be a king, Aliya will be a princess,” said Meya stiffly.

Huldarion immediately thought that that was not necessarily the case – unless he were to adopt Meya’s daughter. Take her on, as if she were a little piglet, he thought.

“Why are you smiling?” demanded Meya. “I find nothing to entertain me in our current situation.”

He did not think he had been smiling. His scars prevented it. How had she detected his amusement? But her tone of voice removed any temptation to reveal the source of his humour.

Deliberately he rolled up the map that he had spread out on the oaken table in the great hall. It told him nothing new in any case: it was merely a reminder of how far he had to go.

He had already made the decision to march on southwards to the Place of Terns, before turning east to find the enemy. A perverse decision, perhaps. Yet he felt drawn to see the area marked on the old merchant’s map that Tamu had found.

It was not only that he thought there might be knowledge to be gained there – ancient stonemen’s habitations, and even existing strongholds – but he also felt a strong curiosity, a pull towards the place for another reason. Ever since he’d heard the captive stoneman speak of his childhood in the Place of Terns, Huldarion had felt that pull: as inexorable as the heavy tug of tides against the sea. He needed to discover if the stoneman had been accurate in what he said.

The prisoner – no, not just a prisoner, no nameless soldier, for his name was Girik – had spoken of a dormitory by the sea; of swimming, and of dolphins; and he had said that he was twelve years old. He had looked twenty.

This revelation, above all, nagged at Huldarion. It drew a thin dark thread of unease through all his carefully woven plans. Although he’d kept it from his soldiers – indeed, from everyone – he needed to understand the truth of the stoneman’s claim. Hence his desire to see the Place of Terns, to find out if the story was corroborated.

Was this foolish? The Kelvhan commander Jeveran, whose opinion he respected, had clearly been sceptical about the diversion. The Kelvhan army, Jeveran announced, would not take the same route. It would meet up with the Vonnish army later, to the east, once Huldarion had finished what Jeveran obviously regarded as an unnecessary detour.

He wondered if Meya regarded his march south in the same way. Without full knowledge of his motives, she must wonder at it. Sometimes he wondered at himself.

Huldarion sighed. Meya was right, he thought. There was little to lift the mood in their current situation, apart from the sight of Aliya hugging her beloved pig. The whereabouts of the enemy was unknown. They were not close – the scouts had ascertained that much – but the stoneman army would be massing somewhere, that was certain. Probably far eastwards, closer to Caervonn, by the fringes of the Darkburn forest, or deep within it…

And meanwhile he was heading to the sea. He told himself that if stonemen truly lived there, it would be a useful stage in his campaign to overcome them. But he knew that he did not fully convince himself.

“How is Veron?” asked Meya. “I dare not go into his room.”

“I hardly dare myself,” Huldarion said. “He snarls and snaps as if he were a wolf. At least he’s staying put: I think that’s largely down to Olbeth.”

“I thought it was the Athelid that made him obedient.”

“Up to a point. He has not been indoctrinated to subservience all his life as the stonemen have. They have no agency beyond what their leaders tell them. Veron, I think, commands himself despite the Athelid’s effects.”

“When you leave here…”

“We will have to leave Veron behind,” Huldarion said reluctantly. “I can only hope that his wounds will slowly heal and that the Athelid will no longer be required. Meanwhile Olbeth will tend him, as will your nursemaid Flodda; and a dozen other Riders will stay on here too – those still recovering from old injuries.”

“A dozen wounded men? Will they be enough to protect Aliya, if enemies attack the farm? Because the stonemen have been here already and may come again.” Her voice was twanging with anxiety.

Huldarion took her hand; and then, at the faint tightening of her brows, let it drop. How baffling, he thought, that she who was so welcoming and warm in bed was so aloof and cool outside it. But he was aware that unlike him, Meya did not feel at home here, on this unassuming farm.

“The fact that the stonemen’s attack did not succeed may well deter them from any more attempts. Remember, that attack was not targeting us, but more probably our stores, most of which will soon be loaded on our carts. In truth, few of the Vonn know of Aliya’s identity,” he reassured her. “To them she’s Flodda’s child. But they’ll look after her because she is a child. Olbeth will care for her” – again he saw that small tightening of her brows – “and I will leave Camburé here also, to share the load with your nursemaid.”

“It was Camburé who put the idea of a piglet into Aliya’s head in the first place,” muttered Meya; but at least she raised no more objections. Huldarion rose from the table.

“Come,” he said. “We shall inspect the troops together, now that all the Riders are collected. Tomorrow I’ll ride out to meet the Kelvhans, who are camped ten miles away: and our army will depart the day after. You, my dear, may either come with us or stay at Olbeth’s farm. The choice is yours entirely.”

“You need not call me your dear,” she said, a little coldly. “I am affianced to you. That is sufficient. Let us go and see these troops.”

She does not like this place, Huldarion thought, it is not grand enough. I wish it didn’t matter so much to her. She plainly doesn’t care to leave her daughter here. None the less, Aliya will be as safe here as she could be anywhere.

He refrained from offering her his arm as they crossed the cobbles of the courtyard. When they walked across the muddy fields towards the tents, Meya lifted up her skirts, but did not slow her step.

Although she likes things done with due propriety, he reflected, she is not physically fastidious. That’s just as well, considering the damaged body she has married. It seems a miracle that she does not reject me…

Again he repressed the urge to take her hand: that warm, sometimes caressing hand. I am a novice still where women are concerned, he thought.

The tented town of Thield was lately much expanded, with more tents in the process of being set up on its fringes. They now numbered several hundred, including those that held equipment and provisions. Their mottled walls were well camouflaged against the churned-up ground. Beyond them stood the ranks of carts, equally plain but serviceable, nothing like the showy gilded carriages that Kelvha used. Meya’s own pair stood out like vaunting peacocks amidst a flock of curlews.

All around him, reunions were taking place, as Riders met old friends or family members. He saw Hilbré with her husband, deep in conversation. They rode in different companies, for Seldec was her junior in rank. Yet her manner to him was attentive and respectful. A successful marriage surely despite that gap.

Two of his senior counsellors had also just been reunited with their wives. Huldarion greeted them with new-found curiosity, wondering how their long marriages coped with the strains of separation. Uld’s wife Jonab seemed as easy-going as ever, despite the wheezing of her lungs – an affliction she had suffered for some years. Was her good temper an illusion? What did she really think of her husband’s riding off once more to war, to leave her wheezing alone?

He did not like to ask. But Uld and Jonab’s fondness for each other was evident in the way they spoke, in soft elliptical half-sentences; in the small touch of a finger on an arm; in the shared pride they expressed in their children – both now adults, a tall young woman and a taller, younger man who were riding in the ranks.

Uld and Jonab seemed to have successfully ridden through any battles in their partnership. So too surely had Thoronal and his wife Eblaine, although she was as reticent as always. Their boys were ten and thirteen now; Eblaine had brought them from their small town in Outer Kelvha to see their father before the army set out once again. While Thoronal joked with his sons in his laborious manner, Huldarion spoke to his wife.

“Eblaine. I’m sorry we cannot stay here for longer. It’s hard for you and for the boys to be so long parted from your husband.”

“We’re used to it,” she said. Perhaps a touch of resignation there.

“But it must be difficult.”

She gave him a quarter smile and a half shrug. “Thoronal is happy.”

“He has not been quite at ease these last few weeks. I think perhaps he misses you.” In fact Huldarion knew well the true cause of Thoronal’s disquiet: it had been apparent ever since he made that fatal error in battle, not so far from here. Thoronal’s over-confidence had led to the deaths of seven of his Riders. Death by firedrake: a terrible end. He wondered if Eblaine had heard about it.

If she had, she gave no sign. “I don’t think he misses me much,” she said coolly, and turned to watch her husband with his children.

“He holds you very dear,” Huldarion said, because Thoronal had once muttered words to that effect. Eblaine did not respond. So she resented his absences, most probably, and blamed Huldarion for them. That was an inevitable by-product of their exile. If the Vonn were ever to return to their ancestral home, it must mean marching out to battle.

With a sigh he went to greet his other captains and saw with gratification that Meya was already talking to them earnestly. Crade and Orbrel had been scouting to the west, without finding any signs of stonemen: Meya knew the questions to ask them and showed knowledge and interest in the answers. Huldarion could see it pleased his men. However, maybe the women would not be so impressed, for he had noticed that Meya did not speak so naturally to the senior female Riders.

Delgeb, for instance, who came up to them now. “The tallies are all done,” she said. “We’ve allocated Riders to the usual companies, as you requested.”

“Good. We may reallocate before we fight, depending on how many captains are appropriate.”

“And the women?” Delgeb asked, her voice somewhat sharp.

Huldarion answered courteously. “I said I would not keep you hidden away despite Kelvha’s dislike of seeing women fight in battle. And I will not hide you in the battles yet to come. Perhaps we can’t have female captains in those future conflicts; but for now, we shall have three. You are one, Delgeb. Hilbré and Tiburé shall be the others.”

“Tiburé?” asked Solon. “Are you sure that she’s still up to it?”

Huldarion glanced over at him, surprised at this open display of bitterness. That was one long marriage that had not gone well... Although their rift was common knowledge, Solon normally kept any grievances to himself. Perhaps some new argument had occurred between them.

“I’m sure that Tiburé is fully capable,” he answered.

“She’s younger than I am,” Uld pointed out.

“Yes, but you don’t go hot and red, and shout and sweat like women of that age,” said Solon, somewhat unnecessarily in Huldarion’s view.

“There are remedies for that,” said Meya coolly. Delgeb too was looking askance at Solon.

Huldarion swiftly changed the subject. “The provision carts should now be almost loaded,” he said, and sniffed the air. “Talking of provisions, something smells good around here. Is that roasting meat?”

“Mutton,” said Rothir. “Courtesy of Wiln.”

“How thoughtful of him. Wiln and Olbeth are being very generous to us. We must not overtax their hospitality. Tomorrow we will finish our preparations, and ride out early the next morning.”

“South?”

“Provided Kelvha are still in accord. They do not altogether agree with my route; but from their point of view, it is but a few days wasted,” Huldarion said. “When I meet Commander Jeveran – what’s that sound?” For a strange noise had just started up: a dim, insistent hum.

“I don’t know,” said Rothir.

“Is it bees?” suggested Crade. The captains’ heads turned, as did Huldarion’s, while they tried to identify the source of the peculiar sound. It seemed to come from all around them.

“It might be a swarm of bees, I suppose. Or the wind,” said Uld doubtfully.

But both ideas seemed equally unlikely, for the sound was rapidly growing stronger. It became a resonant, throbbing, almost singing note – or several notes laid over one other – like the ringing of a distant, penetrating bell.

“Oh,” said Uld, in sudden shock. His wife looked at him in surprise. But Huldarion felt the same shock; for, like Uld, he now recognised it.

“Uld? Solon? Come with me,” he said swiftly. “The rest of you, please return to your tents. Meya? Will you kindly escort Jonab? I’ll join you in a little while.”

Without waiting for an answer he strode away, the two men following, and also Thoronal; the only other man amongst his Riders who knew what made that sound.

It was no bell, although it rang like one when touched. No bell, but a bowl: the great, gold-plated, finely engraved bowl which had been found concealed within the walls of the ancient temple of Borgun. A mere touch on its rim was enough to make it sing.

As he marched downhill towards the carts Huldarion’s predominant emotion was sheer anger. Who had dared to touch it? He blamed the over-serious young priest, who had vowed to guard the thing, promising it would stay hidden in its cart amongst provision sacks. It must be Hokiro who was making the bowl ring – and if not, why wasn’t he protecting it according to his vow? Why had he allowed some other person access?

“Kelvha must not learn about that bowl,” he muttered. “It would put our whole alliance in jeopardy. It must not become common knowledge. Who in stars’ name has had the gall to tamper with it?”

For he knew the bowl’s inscription, telling of Kelvha’s ancient subservience to Caervonn, would be anathema to the lords of Kelvha. But quite apart from that, the bowl’s great age and rarity as a precious heirloom of his house also made his anger flare.

They reached the carts. The ringing sound still seemed to flow around them, encircling them in its clear bright call: the Riders who had been loading up the gear were looking in all directions in bewilderment – everywhere but at the guilty wagon.

Solon ran ahead and climbed up into the covered cart that held the bowl. A second later he emerged, dragging the priest out roughly by his blue gown and long hair.

“He’s the only one in there with it,” said Solon, breathless.

It was as he had thought, then. Huldarion walked up to the priest.

“What were you doing?” he said, despite his fury keeping his voice low. His mere presence was already drawing gazes, but the continued ringing served to shield his words.

“I did nothing,” said Hokiro. A hollow-cheeked, earnest man, he did not resist Solon’s grip. “I did nothing. When I heard the bowl begin to ring I entered the cart to see who had crept in. But there was no-one there.”

“Somebody set it off,” growled Solon.

“If no-one’s touching it, it should stop soon,” suggested Uld.

But the sound showed no sign of diminishing. Its chime washed over them like a shimmering, calm sea. In other circumstances, Huldarion would have called it beautiful. He climbed up into the cart, his scars complaining, and ducked beneath the canvas canopy.

There was the bowl: not laid in its wooden crate, nor wrapped in a woollen blanket as it ought to be; but standing on the lid of the closed box with the discarded cloth beside it; and still singing. Huldarion placed his hands upon its rim to try and stop the sound. He felt the vibrating tremor of the metal running through him, up his arms and through his chest. It seemed to shake his very heart.

And still it rang. His hands were not enough. He picked up the blanket, and threw it over the bowl, folding it over and round. The sound was muffled now. He held the great bowl in his arms, hugging it as if it were a crying child, his dearest object; and slowly, slowly, the ringing became hushed and finally shivered into nothing.

This is my Aliya, he thought, my love, my country, my chief reason for living. The thing for which I strive. My beloved kingdom of Caervonn.

He released the bowl and straightened up. Now that it was silent he almost missed the sound: that sense of many voices twined in one, the clear, pure, woven notes.

Uld had climbed up and stood beside him. They looked at each other, before Uld shook his head in wonderment.

“Let us place it in the box,” Huldarion murmured. The two men stowed the wrapped bowl in the crate. Then both stepped back outside.

“I did not set it singing,” said the priest. “I swear it.”

“Somebody did. Who took the bowl out of its box? Who uncovered it?” Huldarion knew his voice was stern. So it ought to be. This priest needed to be aware of his displeasure.

“I did that,” confessed Hokiro. “Once I knew that we had stopped for a few days, I felt that the bowl needed air. And light, after being so long incarcerated.”

“It needed air.” Solon’s voice was scathing.

The priest nodded.

“It’s a heavy thing,” said Uld. “Too heavy for one man. Who helped you lift it from its crate?”

“I asked the Kelvhan bookman – Tamu. He already knew about the bowl: he was the one who read the inscription, if you recall. I have allowed nobody else to see it, as you told me. But it was yesterday when he helped me lift it out, and it did not ring then.”

“Where is Tamu now?” Huldarion asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I saw him before we walked over here,” said Uld. “He was with Leor, a good distance away. I don’t believe this can have been him.”

“I think Tamu has too much sense in any case,” Huldarion said. He looked into the priest’s face. Previously he would have said that this too was a sensible man, and one incapable of deceit.

But would I not say that also of myself? he thought. Yet I am fully able to deceive, given the right circumstances. Every man is, for the sake of something that he loves – or hates.

“How would Borgun interpret the ringing of this bowl?” he asked the priest severely.

Hokiro took a long breath and then stared into space as if listening.

“Borgun would say: it does not sing without a reason. It may be a summons. It may be a celebration. It may be a warning.”

“Which?” said Huldarion sharply. He was searching for a clue as to Hokiro’s motive; for he must surely be responsible. So he was nonplussed when Hokiro hesitated.

“I don’t know. But I think perhaps – because it rang of its own volition – that it sensed danger. So maybe both a summons and a warning.”

Solon grunted. “Hah! A warning not to leave it in the care of a half-witted priest!”

Huldarion put up his hand to bid Solon be silent, and addressed Hokiro. “What sort of danger?”

As if to answer him, a strident horn-cry called across the hill.