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

Chapter 13

“What place is that?” breathed Yaret.

“Is it stone? It’s so smooth that I can’t tell,” said Maeneb.

“Perhaps it’s a guard tower or a roundhouse. Only it’s too tall for a roundhouse,” said Yaret.

“And it’s not round,” said Rothir. Riding out of the water, he warily approached the tower. It looked more substantial the closer that he got.

He saw that, far from being built out of shadow, it was constructed from large, finely hewn stones, almost black in this unnatural gloom, and closely fitted without mortar. The cracks between the blocks could barely be discerned; yet the walls appeared weathered, even ancient.

The tower was, he judged, a little more than twenty feet in height. The roof of cloud seemed to hover just above its flattened top. The sides facing them were windowless and doorless. Several sides: for while the tower was not round, neither was it square; the walls adjoined at shallow angles.

“It might be a hexagon, like the towers of Caervonn,” said Parthenal, echoing Rothir’s own thought.

But Leor, sliding off his horse to walk up to the wall, said, “Not six-sided. Maybe eight.” With that he began to pace around the building, and was soon out of their view. Rothir had the irrational feeling that he might vanish altogether; but a few seconds later the wizard reappeared, stroking his long beard and saying, “Seven.”

“It’s seven-sided?” asked Maeneb.

“Yes. I wonder why.”

“It would be a horribly difficult thing to plan and build,” said Parthenal.

“Not really,” offered Tamu. “Quite simple, actually. All you need is a piece of string.”

“String?”

“Use it as a compass to draw a circle. Draw a straight line from the circle’s centre to the edge. Draw another circle of the same size centred on where that line meets the first circle.”

“What?” said Maeneb.

Tamu went on doggedly. “Then draw a straight line between the points where the two circles intersect. Set one end of your compass at that line’s midpoint, and let the other end be at one of the intersections. Starting from that intersection use that length of string to draw an arc that cuts through the circle. From that point draw another arc, and so on in the same way all around the circle until you have seven points and are back at your starting place. It’s not quite a perfect heptagon but it’s close. It’s a technique mentioned in the Mathematical Asides of Prince Gorun.”

Parthenal glanced down at him in considerable surprise. “Well, I’ll take your word for that,” he said. “Do you memorise all the books you read?”

“Not all. I like mathematics,” said Tamu.

“And is there such a thing as a seven-sided tower in your chronicles?”

Wordlessly, Tamu shook his head.

“Did you find an entrance, Leor?” asked Rothir.

“There is no door that I could see,” the wizard said. “And no windows either. It’s totally enclosed, unless the top is open. Maybe one could climb a ladder to look… but there’s no ladder, nor any other way to climb it.” His eyes gleamed as he stood back to survey the tower, with a baffled yet curiously triumphant air. “Perhaps it’s some sort of ceremonial edifice.”

“But even if it is, I don’t understand,” said Rothir. Like the others, he dismounted and stood staring at the tower. It narrowed slightly towards the top; despite Tamu’s assurance that it would be simple to design, it would surely be an awkward thing to build, he thought, requiring much skill in the shaping and fitting of those cornerstones. “I’ve seen Huldarion’s maps, and there ought to be no tower or any other building for thirty miles in each direction.”

“Maybe the maps are wrong,” suggested Parthenal. “Or too old.”

“But this tower must be old too,” said Maeneb. She laid her hand upon the stones, and then withdrew it sharply, with a gasp. “It’s warm!”

In quick alarm, they all stepped backward. Darkburn, thought Rothir, immediately visualising one somehow imprisoned behind these walls.

“There’s no aura,” said Yaret. Rothir realised this was true: no sense of fear pervaded him. Stepping forward to the tower again, he reached out his hand to lay it flat upon the stone. It was warm indeed: but pleasantly so, not hot, the same temperature as his horse’s skin, as if the wall had been basking in the sun instead of being enswathed in cloud.

“It feels odd,” he said.

Yaret walked up beside him and also spread her hand upon the wall. “There’s a pulse,” she said after a few seconds. “A vibration. Is that what you feel?”

“I can feel something; but I thought it was my own pulse,” said Rothir. She laid her fingers briefly on his wrist.

“Yours is slower than mine,” she said, “but not as slow as this.” He was very conscious of her cool touch, which seemed to over-ride other sensations. Such an unusual thing to feel another person’s hand against his own. As she removed it, he concentrated on the wall; and realised that the deep, faint, heavy beat he felt was certainly too slow to match his heart. Perhaps it was a vibration caused by the distant marching of the army… although he had never previously experienced such a thing.

“Like a heartbeat of the stone,” he said. The others came up to join him, tentatively laying hands upon the wall with various exclamations of surprise. Last of all the seven came Leor.

“I’ve travelled through this land before,” the wizard said, “though not for many years, I must admit. And yet I never came across this tower, or even heard of its existence. It’s a marvel that has been revealed to us for reasons not yet clear.” He sounded almost proud as he laid his own long fingers on the stones in a proprietorial way.

At once Parthenal cried out a sharp warning. The others all jumped back a second time.

For an opening had appeared beneath the wizard’s hand. A vertical slit had grown, rapidly widening, the stones on either side appearing to shrink back, or perhaps re-shape themselves, to create an entrance. It happened so swiftly that Rothir could not see the mechanism.

Yet a second later a tall, thin doorway, looking as if it had always been there, offered a way in through the wall. Beyond it all was dark.

“What spell did you do, Leor?” asked Parthenal, his voice hushed in amazement.

“No spell,” said Leor, equally subdued. “That just… happened.” Slowly he withdraw his outstretched hand, which rested now not on grey stone but on the empty air. Behind it, through the narrow entrance, lay a chamber full of shadow.

“Do we go in?” murmured Yaret.

“We appear to be invited,” said Rothir, “for why else throw the door open? Maeneb? Do you detect anyone inside?”

Maeneb listened and then shook her head, though not with certainty. “No. At least I don’t think so. But there’s just a… There is something there; not human, though. Something dormant. I don’t know what it is.”

“Then let us find out,” said Parthenal. “I’ll go first. Just wait a moment.” Returning to Alba, he withdrew his sword from the sheath affixed to the horse’s saddle. The singing of the blade was like a call to arms; but Rothir felt strangely certain that no arms were necessary here.

Distrusting that instinct, he too retrieved his sword. Then he walked in behind Parthenal, through the narrow gap into the darkness, for he would not let his riding partner face unknown peril on his own.

The walls were a full yard thick. Inside, the air was warm. Rothir was aware of the others trailing in behind, their curiosity greater than their fear, and wondered how many of them bore weapons. But he perceived no foe in here against which a sword might be required.

What he saw amidst the shadow was a chamber, narrowing slightly to the roof, or rather to no roof: for the tower was open to the sky, or what would have been the sky were it not shrouded by that overarching mass of cloud which let in a dim furtive light. The floor was made of beaten earth, the only thing upon it – the only object in here – being a high stone plinth to one side, upon which stood a great statue, taller than Parthenal by some distance. It appeared to represent an animal, for it had four legs… Or no, perhaps it was a bird; because as Rothir’s eyes adjusted to the gloom he thought he made out wings.

But he could not make out any more for the first few seconds, until Leor walked in behind him. At once the chamber leapt up into visibility, lit by a golden glow.

“Good magic,” remarked Parthenal in an undertone.

“That wasn’t me,” the wizard muttered.

Rothir said nothing. He was gazing in wonder at the statue on the plinth. Brought suddenly to vividness, it shone and sparkled with a hundred different hues. There appeared to be a pattern of intricate stone inlays set into the statue’s metal surface. Was it bronze? Or copper?

He walked a little closer. It was the statue of an animal – obviously some mythical creature, for it was made up of several elements. It had the feet and body of a lion, proudly sitting on its haunches; the narrow head of a dog or possibly a wolf, inlaid with greys and silvers; the strong wings of an eagle, half-outstretched – though greater far than any eagle’s, and striped with greens and blues – and a fully outspread peacock tail whose feathers dazzled in a delicate filigree of coppery metal and many-coloured gems. The stone eyes stared out over his head: and everyone stared back at it in awe.

The realisation came to him only slowly.

“Parthenal,” he said, “we have seen this thing before.”

Parthenal took a step back, drawing a breath in sharply as he understood.

“But it was not like this,” he said.

“No. It was burnt,” said Rothir, and turning to the others he explained. “Last year, while we were riding after the stonemen who had captured Arguril, we saw a creature like this one, which we assumed had escaped its cage and had been abandoned by the stonemen. It had the feet and body of a lion, the head of a dog, and the wings of an eagle – or rather, the remains of wings, for they were burnt almost to shreds. It attacked us. It was a darkburn.”

“But unlike any other darkburn we have ever come across,” said Parthenal. “It was not indistinct, as so many of them are. Its shape was clear, and quite extraordinary. I remembered I had seen a picture of a similar creature, years ago, in an old story book: I can’t remember its name now, but it was about a knight who travelled far to the west and met all sorts of extraordinary beings–”

“The Uirsegleave,” said Tamu’s voice. “That’s, um, that’s the name of the book.”

“What? Do you know it?” Parthenal turned his wondering gaze from the statue to the archivist.

“We have more than one copy in the castle archives,” Tamu said. “It’s a famous book. In fact the creature here appears in several ancient tales. It’s called a Semmuru.”

“A Semmuru,” repeated Parthenal, turning back to face the statue.

“It’s a beautiful thing,” said Yaret reverently. “Just look at the artistry of those inlays. That must be jet and quartz set on the head, and is it feldspar? I don’t know the names of all these gems. But surely opal on the wings, and turquoise; and maybe garnet and polished ironstone on the legs.”

“Chalcedony,” murmured Tamu. “Tourmaline.”

“It’s certainly quite remarkable. What do you know about this legendary creature, Leor?” asked Rothir.

Leor shook his head, gazing transfixed at the statue. “Nothing. I have to admit it’s something that I’ve never heard of. What did you call it? A Semmuru?”

And when he spoke that word, the statue moved.

Slowly, its head lifted. Its chest swelled as if it were drawing breath. The great bejewelled wings that were half spread out on either side flexed, and stretched a little further. A fore-foot shifted, extending long gold claws.

The eyes, which had been staring straight out from the head like gleaming stones, now widened, blinking once, and then looked down upon the group who stood around the plinth as if turned to stone themselves. Rothir was dumb-struck. If this thing were to attack them, what use would weapons be? He let his sword hang loosely from his hand. So did Parthenal, whose mouth had fallen open. The stone eyes moved to take them in.

After a second’s immobility, Piril stepped forward. Deliberately she knelt down on the earthen floor, and placed her palms and then her face upon the ground in a gesture of abject humility. Yet with her it did not look abject. It looked quite natural, as if it were something she were accustomed to.

“Lord Semmuru,” said Piril, in her quiet, even voice, which seemed designed to be as unobtrusive as possible, “we pay you homage.”

“Lady Semmuru,” said Tamu in an undertone, “so I believe. Or maybe both. Or neither.”

The great head slowly turned to face Piril. Not a wolf, but a hunting dog, thought Rothir, a hound, like Olbeth’s hounds if they wore gems instead of hair.

“Arac Semmuru.” The words came from the head although the mouth did not appear to move. The voice was husky, grainy, neither male nor female: it echoed round the chamber as if the cloud lying heavily above the roof trapped the sound within.

“Arac Semmuru,” said Piril, lifting her head to repeat the words. “How is that you honour us with your living presence, great Arac Semmuru?”

Trained to flatter, thought Rothir; but whether through flattery or no, her supplication seemed to work. The statue answered, rising a little from its plinth, glittering with a thousand newly shining facets as it did so.

“You are one of seven,” the strange voice answered huskily. “And we know you.”

Piril looked nonplussed. She sat up on her knees. “We don’t know you,” she said.

“Yet we know you all, from your births, from your first cries,” said the voice, both firm and guttural: a voice made of stone, the echoes rippling out from it to reverberate in the space like a slow whirlpool. “We know you, especially.” And as the statue spoke, its jewelled head moved so that the eyes were gazing not at Piril, but on Leor.

Leor looked as nonplussed at Piril had.

“Me? You know me?”

“From your birth. From your first cry. We know you and your brother.”

And now the creature flexed its wings again, so that they spread across the tower. The wing-tips almost touched the walls, the stripes of turquoise and blue cobalt flashing where they caught the light. Where did that light come from? Rothir could not tell. He felt bathed in it, warmed by it.

“What? Who–? I have no brother,” protested Leor, sounding stricken.

“You and your twin. You were found together.” The great wings beat with one slow single movement, creating a soft thump as if of something falling: Rothir felt the air whoosh past him. There was a scent on the breeze that they created. Some faint spice; fresh; distant, like a pull of childhood memory, a sense of comfort and of longing.

“What do you mean,” said Leor almost in a whisper, “what do you mean, we were found together?”

Slowly the wings settled again, rustling, and were still. They all waited, Leor seeming to barely breathe until the creature spoke again.

“Your mother died in bearing you,” the glittering dog-head told him in that resonating voice. “She lay beside you, her flesh cooling. We took you and your new-born twin, as you lay crying next to her broken body.”

“Wait,” said Leor. “My mother? I had a mother? What was her–”

“Ssh,” said Piril, standing up to put her hand upon the wizard’s arm. “Of course you had a mother. Just listen. Let it speak, in case it stops.”

Leor paused. There was silence till at last the creature spoke again. A voice of granite, or of marble – yet warm, thought Rothir; nothing cold about it.

“Because you asked for knowledge, and you have returned, as one of seven, it is ordained that you may know,” it said.

“Returned–?”

“Ssh,” said Piril again, squeezing Leor’s arm.

The statue gazed at Leor with its gleaming eyes for a long moment; then continued.

“Here you were brought as new-born babes. Here, for a little while, you both were kept, within this tower of Arac Semmuru. You were bathed in the still waters of the lake of Arac. You took the waters in. Your voices cried out and were entwined together. They cried out for a mother: so mothers were found for you. Three mothers, and three fathers.”

“My guardians,” said Leor, his voice barely audible. “There were six of them.”

“You and your twin made seven,” said the statue.

Leor frowned. “No, no; we made eight.”

“You made seven. For you were joined when you were born. You were two children but your bodies were as one.”

“What?” Leor’s voice seemed no more than the creak of a door that did not want to open.

“You and your twin were joined,” said the Arac Semmuru. “You were clasped together at the abdomen, face to face. You embraced each other. We took you up, and separated you, and healed you, with the aid of the powers of the waters of Arac. We nurtured you, for otherwise you would have died. But in the healing, you partook of the waters of the lake. It could not have been done otherwise. Thus you gained the Arac’s powers.”

“What?” said Leor, his voice almost inaudible. “You mean – my magic?”

There was another pause before the voice echoed around and round the tower.

“You gained the powers of Arac, you and your twin. You gained long life and health. No further could we nurture you within the tower. When you were still babes we found the guardians to care for you, as was ordained.”

Leor’s lips moved, but no more questions came. It was Tamu, surprisingly, who tilted his head back and asked:

“Ordained by who?”

“Ordained by time,” the creature said. “By which all truth shall be revealed: from whence you came, and whither you will go.”

“Time?” said Yaret.

“Whither six of us will go,” said Maeneb. “Leor cannot die.”

The great wings flexed once more, sending bright shards of coloured light around the chamber. Again Rothir breathed in that hint of fragrant scent like antique memory. It made him yearn for something but he knew not what.

“All living things can die, and must,” the statue said. “Some further on in time than others.”

“Are you yourself a living being?” asked Rothir.

Then he wished he had not spoken, for the creature – the Arac Semmuru – stood up on all four of its lion’s feet. Instinctively he took a step back.

It was even larger than it had appeared when lying down. As it rose, its legs and body seemed to spark and shoot out red, gold, green, and orange fires; although, thought Rothir, all those words were insufficient, for there were so many glowing shades of each. Surely this was a thing that man had made. It stood aloft and gazed at him with jewelled eyes.

It said, “This body that you see is not alive. It is a thing created by men’s and women’s craft, many and many years ago. It moves and speaks through the powers that are invested in it. It serves the Arac Semmuru.”

“What is the Arac Semmuru?” asked Piril.

“We are the nurturer.”

“Have you always been here?” Piril had clasped her hands as if begging for something.

“For long. But the Semmuru is called on seldom. For who now knows of us? The shapers of this statue that contains us are long dead. None have called for many hundred years, till now.”

“But we saw you in the west,” said Parthenal, “or something like you, in a different body.”

“Burnt,” said Rothir in a low voice. He did not want to say the name of darkburn in this tower.

For many seconds the Semmuru did not answer.

“Our bodies are bereft and desecrated, filled with pain,” it said at last. “Our spirits live. Yet only in this tower of Arac can we speak. This thing of stone that holds our words cannot be burnt; and so we keep it hidden.”

They were all silent, digesting this, until Tamu asked, “The lake of Arac – is that the water we just crossed?”

“The lake of Arac is a lake of time. It is both within and beyond the bounds of humankind.”

“I see,” said Tamu. Rothir was not sure if he himself saw anything at all.

Yaret was looking up thoughtfully at the creature. “O Arac Semmuru,” she said, “you opened up your tower to us. Do you ask something of us?”

“We ask for nothing,” said the statue, “except that you use well the lives you have been given.”

Now Parthenal took a step forward, gripping his sword. It made for a storybook picture, thought Rothir: a legendary knight confronting the great gleaming winged creature. A picture painted in gold leaf and lapis lazuli and crushed rubies.

“But what are we doing here?” demanded Parthenal. “Why did you admit us to this tower? Why have you let us in, and spoken to us?”

“Because the one in seven called to us.” The shining eyes moved to fix themselves on Leor.

“What? Me? I…. I called no-one,” said the wizard. He looked stunned; indeed, thought Rothir, almost horrified. “I merely let my power go where it willed.”

“And it came home,” proclaimed the Arac Semmuru. “It found this place where it was born. It bid you lay your hand upon the stone, and speak our name.”

Leor’s mouth moved again, wordlessly.

“But Leor’s twin,” said Maeneb. “His other half. Adon. Where is he? Can you tell?”

The immense head turned gradually, first one way, then the other, as if listening. “He is in the world.”

“I wish that he were out of it,” said Leor, finding his voice again fully; he sounded vehement and harsh after the slow resonant tones of the immense statue. “Adon does nothing but evil. You gave him life. Can’t you stop him?”

The head stared down at him again. “Do you yourself do nought but good?”

“I try to,” said Leor.

“You both are who you are,” the statue said. “We are the Nurturer. We do not destroy. Time will do that.”

“Time will not destroy Adon,” said Leor bitterly.

“It will,” the statue said. “You called upon us to reveal to you your origin: the source of your great power. Now we have told it. You are answered.”

And on speaking those words the creature slowly folded up its gleaming wings, with care: the bronze legs stretched themselves and then lay down: the dark stone eyes looked steadily at each of them in turn, before becoming still, fixed on a point above their heads.

“Arac Semmuru,” said Piril pleadingly. “Don’t leave us.”

The voice spoke with a fainter echo now: Rothir had to strain to catch it.

“We never leave you.” Then it was silent.

“Arac Semmuru,” said Piril, falling to her knees before the statue, which was now unmistakably a statue once again, an artefact, marvellous to look at but no longer showing any sign of life. “Arac Semmuru,” she said again, her face distorting. Rothir saw to his dismay that she had started crying, in a paroxysm of grief and desolation.