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

Chapter 14

“Well, it’s not surprising that she was upset,” said Yaret. “It’s the whole nurture thing.”

“What nurture thing?” said Rothir.

“It’s what she lacks. What she has lost.” Yaret could tell Rothir was doing his best not to show irritation. She had learnt that he did not take well to tears; he felt they hampered action, were generally unnecessary; he did not know what to do about them. For that reason she doubly appreciated his almost wordless attempts to comfort her last winter, when he had found her weeping in the darkness of that far infirmary fort.

A painful, precious moment, that was often in her mind. Unwisely, perhaps. But it served to remind her of Rothir’s difficulty. So she attempted to explain, while he listened with head bent, frowning and attentive.

“I know that Piril hasn’t lost as much as other people: Zan, for instance, whose village was burnt down; but even so. Piril left home when she was fourteen to go and work in Kelvha Castle. She never saw her father again, because he died soon afterwards, and she hardly ever saw her mother. But she doesn’t want to go back home, because she’ll have to tell her mother that her brother’s dead. And in such a way, too – beheaded in the music hall. Piril feels she failed to protect him. To nurture him. Not only does she lack anyone to nurture her, she thinks that she has failed to nurture. Hence her sorrow.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I talk to her,” said Yaret.

They were back on their horses now, riding away from the seven-sided tower. Long had they lingered in its warm interior, Yaret crouching with her arm around the quietly weeping Piril, until the golden light that had embraced them slowly faded. Nobody had wanted to forsake that jewelled presence even as its brightness dulled back into shadow.

“I don’t think it’s going to speak again,” Tamu had eventually murmured.

“No. We’d better leave in case it decides to close the door on us,” said Parthenal. So they trooped out of the tower; behind them, a few seconds later, the gap in the wall closed noiselessly and shut them out.

That brought more tears from Piril, although to Yaret she had always seemed a resilient and self-contained young woman. But the Arac Semmuru unlocked her grief. Yaret had to help her mount her horse – or rather, Yaret’s sturdy packhorse Helba, who turned her head to try and nuzzle Piril’s arm in sympathy.

When they first set out again, gloom both physical and mental cloaked them all; Leor in particular, thought Yaret, noting his dazed, appalled expression. She herself, like Piril, felt the loss of the Arac Semmuru as an unexpected grief. She mourned that being so beautiful and ancient, the remnant of what surely must have been a better time than now.

But there was no going back to a happier past: the only way was forward. And as they rode, the physical gloom, at least, began to lift. The cloud that blanketed the ground was slowly thinning, so that she could see a little further every minute. With the increasing visibility she realised that the ground was dotted, near and far, with the remnants of round walls, so low that they were largely overgrown with grass.

“Look: old roundhouses,” she said wistfully. These were more pieces of the past, though not such a perfect and mysterious one. The roundhouses she had visited in Ioben had been damp and smoky, uncomfortable homes although the locals clung to them. There had been a few such also near her home town of Obandiro, left ruined, like old memories to be smiled at wryly.

Here, there were many ancient houses. A host of circular grassy mounds outlined whole villages of unseen, unfelt ghosts.

“Ah!” said Rothir, pointing with relief. He was less interested in the ruins than in what lay between them, marked into the mud: a recent trail of hoof marks and deep wheel-ruts. “The army. We’re heading in the right direction.”

“The tower’s gone,” said Piril sadly. And when Yaret swivelled in the saddle she saw no tower behind them: nothing but a pool of water, its surface black.

“It might still be there, only hidden,” she suggested. “What do you think, Leor?”

The wizard shook his head without replying. He looked almost as dismayed as Piril. His hair stood on end where he had been running his hands through it.

Yaret felt compassion for him, given what he had just learnt. Yet could it all have been such a very great surprise? She steered Poda closer to him, before saying quietly,

“It’s only confirmation of what you must have suspected, Leor. That Adon is your brother.”

“More than my brother. My twin! My other half! My mirror image! Conjoined with me!” Leor was distraught.

“It means you started out as equals,” observed Tamu, on Leor’s other side.

“And look at us now. We are hardly equals. Look at what he’s done. Look at what I’ve failed to do.”

“Exactly,” said Tamu, although he did not elaborate.

“What is the Semmuru?” Parthenal enquired of the archivist. “You seem to be the expert here.”

Tamu gave a small, dismissive shrug. “I don’t know much. The Semmuru was quite a well-known mythical being – though evidently not mythical after all: because there it was. Or there its mouthpiece was. I wonder how many other marvellous beings are not mythical in truth, if one only knew?” He stared into the distant hills that were emerging slowly from the mist.

“How old are the accounts of the Arac Semmuru?” asked Yaret.

“In the legends it is just the Semmuru. The Arac must, I think, relate to a location; perhaps the lake it spoke of. Its origins seem unclear, but the legends go back two thousand years at least. Maybe three.” Tamu’s nervousness had disappeared while he spoke.

“That old?” said Parthenal in surprise.

“There were civilisations before Kelvha, you know, and even before Caervonn,” said Tamu with mild reproof. Then he looked aghast at his own temerity. “That is to say – I didn’t mean to imply–”

“Go on, Tamu, put Parthenal in his place,” Rothir advised. “I’d be amazed if he’s read a single book since that Uirsegleave you mentioned.”

“Almost true. Not quite. I seem to remember the Semmuru was a benevolent creature in that story,” said Parthenal.

“It did good deeds,” Tamu affirmed. “It rescued people from disaster; especially children who were in trouble or in danger. It was a kindly being. But as for the lake of Arac – I’ve never read anything about that at all.”

“Well, Leor, at least you know now where your magic came from,” said Maeneb, who rode a little apart from the others. She sounded more brusque than sympathetic.

“Yes! It came to me by accident! As a by-product of being born joined to – joined to that – to the–” Leor did not finish, but clenched his fists around the reins.

“I’m sorry you didn’t find out more about your mother,” Piril said.

“We killed her. We killed our mother, in the act of being born,” said Leor, anguished. Yaret thought he might burst into tears; and she felt that weeping aloud, though understandable in her view, would seem to him a terrible wound to his own dignity, no less than it would to Rothir.

“Don’t blame yourself for that,” she put in quickly. “It happens. Not just to you. It’s not so rare.” She thought of her own mother and her baby brother, who had died together; not at his birth, true, but not long afterwards. A fever, she’d been told – although she remembered almost nothing of that time. Her mother was a mere haze of imagined memory, while her brother had been lost entirely behind the passing years.

“Mothers are over-rated,” said Rothir gruffly, and she recalled that Rothir’s mother had left home when he was sixteen. But he had had her until then; so Yaret would not allow his cynicism to go unchallenged.

“Not generally,” she said. “Mothers are under-rated, if anything. Taken for granted. I expect you loved yours well enough. That’s why you missed her – because she was necessary to you.”

He looked over at her frowning, and seemed about to make some sharp retort; but then he nodded, answering gravely. “I beg your pardon. I’d forgotten.”

“Nobody’s life is simple,” said Yaret, “even if it looks to be so. Leor, I think, is discovering that.” She glanced across at Leor, who was no longer listening. His head was in his hands again. Bryddesda plodded on sedately without guidance, as if he were used to such behaviour on his rider’s part.

“Oh, look,” said Tamu. “Look, Leor, do you see? It’s clearing every minute up ahead.”

The shadowed trail was brightening. In a few more minutes figures became visible – the rear of the Vonnish army, a mere hundred yards away. The heavy roof of cloud had almost lifted now.

But Leor’s heavy mood had not. He still rode with a wretched face and shoulders slumped. When they caught the Riders up and heard their cheerful greetings, Leor made no answer.

“What happened to you lot?” asked Ikelder, who had waited for them.

“We got lost in all that fog,” said Rothir.

Ikelder nodded. “Ah well, no harm done. That was a weird freak of the cloud base, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“Never seen anything quite like it. But Huldarion’s calling a halt soon. Once this weather lifts some more and we have a better view, we’ll choose a campsite for the night. Are the rest of the carts very far behind you? We’ve only got three-quarters of them here.”

“I’m not sure where the others are,” said Rothir. “A few were close behind us at one time, but they were veering east. We haven’t seen them since.”

“They’ll find us too, once they can see their way. They can’t have gone too far off course,” Ikelder answered confidently.

When the group of seven rejoined the body of the army, no-one enquired into what had held them up – the weather seeming cause enough – and by a mute agreement they all kept quiet about the hidden tower and its extraordinary occupant. Yaret felt that in any case she would not have known how to tell the tale. And in her opinion, it was not her tale to tell, but chiefly Leor’s; so perhaps the others felt the same way too.

As for the army, it appeared that they had had an entirely uneventful march beneath the cloud. All the same they were relieved at its passing.

The uneventfulness continued. They were crossing scrubby pasture dotted with ruined houses and black pools, and abruptly cut off on the eastern side by the line of hills – lower and more distant than before, but still a daunting barrier. When Yaret looked back she could not pick out where the tower had been. And neither could she see the missing carts.

A campsite was selected, and the Riders began to unload tents. But many found themselves without a tent to raise; for they had been loaded on the lost carts, which were some fifteen in number, including Meya’s second-best carriage. Yaret worried about that one, because Janeya had been in it.

After helping Delgeb and her team to pitch the women’s tents, Yaret paused to rest her leg, while she gazed northward for the carts. She was not the only one. Several Riders were scanning the horizon, muttering about bedrolls and supplies. Piril stood silently looking over to where some scouts could be seen galloping off to hunt for the missing wagons.

“I should not have left her,” murmured Piril.

“I’m sure they’ll turn up soon,” said Yaret, although she thought it strange the carts were not in sight.

“If one had shed a wheel, or got stuck in a pond,” Ikelder said, “and the others stopped to pull it out, that could hold them all up for a while. Something like that could easily explain it.” His tone was kind.

Piril, biting her lip, did not answer for a moment. Then she said, “It’s Jebil that I’m worried about, the Lady Meya’s chambermaid. I promised to look after her – and the Lady Meya’s things, and now I can’t.”

“There are plenty of others there who can,” Delgeb assured her.

“But she’s – she’s not well.” Piril turned to Delgeb in appeal. “May I not go out and search for her?”

Delgeb was curt. “Unnecessary,” she said. “The scouts are doing that.”

“Can I not ride out too?”

“Certainly not. Not on your own, at least.”

“But–”

“I don’t mind going to have a look, Delgeb,” put in Ikelder. “I’ll go with Piril, since she’s so concerned.” Yaret felt a rush of liking for the young man. Ungainly as he was, she knew he was an accomplished warrior, and more importantly, had good sense and good humour.

Delgeb shrugged. “Well, if you really must,” she said. “No less than four of you. And clear it with Huldarion.”

“Let me come, then,” said Yaret immediately, because she too felt anxious about Janeya. In her former life in Kelvha Castle the girl had been so full of ardent grace. That old Janeya was dead, and she had to remain so, for her own safety – and also for the sake of the alliance with Kelvha.

But none of the men knew this. So Yaret was not sure whether to be glad or sorry when Leor raised his head and said, reluctantly, “I will accompany you too.”

Had the wizard ever seen Janeya? She thought not. But Ikelder might have. Better that his discretion should not be tested: so all the more reason why she herself should go.

Huldarion’s permission was swiftly granted. Ikelder came back from his chief’s tent rubbing his hands and saying, “Let’s set off straight away, shall we?”

He was a man who liked to be active, Yaret thought, but who did not let his wish for action cloud his judgement. She appreciated the restraint with which he led them out, checking that Piril’s horse could keep up before gradually accelerating to a canter; but a gentle one, for neither Piril nor her horse enjoyed a gallop. Helba had never had much speed. Indeed, after a couple of miles they had all had enough of splashy cantering, and slowed down to a walk.

Although she thought they must have passed close by the spot where the Semmuru’s tower had stood, Yaret could not identify the place. There were so many wide dark pools, no more than inches deep, their surfaces freckled with tiny skidding insects. She studied the ruined roundhouses: none had seven sides.

What sort of life would those ancient inhabitants have led? Sweetroots ought to grow well in this boggy soil. Would barley? There were no trees to burn, but perhaps there had been once; and there was peat, to judge by the ground’s soft blackness. Around the water’s edge grew yellow spikes of river-flax, a rarity in Obandiro.

Finding that the memory of Obandiro made her ache, she turned to Leor, who rode in silent gloom.

“Why did you come with us, Leor? You look tired.”

He drew himself up. “Tired? I’m not tired. Disillusioned, maybe.”

“What about? Ah, your origins, I presume.”

The wizard slumped again. “Yes. I need distraction. It is a most dismaying thing to learn – that I was once joined face to face with Adon.”

“Stomach to stomach.”

“Whichever. I would rather have no relationship with him at all.”

“Did you look like twins, when you were young?” she asked.

Leor sighed. “Perhaps we did,” he said reluctantly. “Our features were, I think, quite similar, and I remember that his hair was red too, early on. But he changed its colour. He would change it often, and alter other elements of his appearance too. His face is not the same as then it was, and has not been for a long time. I might not recognise it now.”

“Was he as tall as you?”

“No. I was always taller.” Leor rode on, pondering, while Bryddesda whisked his tail. “I think I was the physically stronger of the two of us, from infancy.’

“He wouldn’t have liked that, I imagine. Being the smaller and weaker.”

“I never thought about it,” said Leor, so that she felt a faint impatience.

“No, you didn’t need to. Being the bigger twin wouldn’t have bothered you,” she said. “But perhaps it should have.”

“My body may have been robust, but I never felt myself to be stronger than Adon in any other way,” Leor answered glumly. “His will was always stronger than mine was.”

“Do you mean his will, or his selfishness?”

He looked back at her, a little startled. “I’m not sure. I suppose I tended to fall in with his plans.”

“When did you stop doing that?”

“Ah…. Well. Our paths diverged perhaps five centuries ago… it’s hard to work it out. It was not sudden.”

Yaret tried to think of words to comfort him, although once spoken they sounded trite and obvious. “At birth your bodies may have been as one,” she said, “but your minds and souls must always have been separate.”

Despite the triteness he seemed encouraged, for he straightened up again. “Yes. Yes. One in body, but not one in spirit.”

“Look,” said Piril, interrupting them, “those scouts are veering west. Should we head east?”

“That’s a good idea. Don’t worry, Jebil will be found,” Ikelder told her. “Carts don’t just disappear.”

True, thought Yaret; so long as they have not fallen in some hidden magical pool or been held spellbound in an invisible tower.

But on riding east the land rose gradually, becoming drier. They saw no pools, no towers, and no people. Only occasional swift flights of birds passed overhead.

Piril gazed up. “Some say they are the spirits of the dead,” she murmured.

“Those ones are geese,” said Yaret.

The jagged hills looked no more attractive close up than from a distance. Their slopes were clothed in scree: long streams of rocks, some as large as boulders, that painted them in stippled shades of grey. As the four riders approached, one thin stream of stones began to flow down the hillside with a hissing rattle, until after a few seconds it slowed and stopped again. A single stone rolled on down to the grass at the slope’s foot.

And something else had been there. “See that? Cartwheels,” said Ikelder.

The wheel-ruts ruts ran in a long curve through a shallow pass into the hills. Perhaps, thought Yaret, once the carts began to swerve east underneath the cloud, the swerve had widened in the gloom, and led them here.

The horses picked up speed to canter along the rutted valley, Piril wincing with a discomfort that Yaret remembered well. As they skirted the first hill, a herd of goats, taking alarm at their appearance, scattered themselves across the rocky hillsides that were streaked with rivulets of rushing water as well as waterfalls of rattling scree. Yaret wondered how the animals kept their footholds on those shivering slopes.

And soon her own horse’s foothold became precarious. The valley was littered with large stones, while tumbling streams formed noisy, treacherous gutters across their path. They all slowed to a careful walk before they rode around the next bend; and immediately saw before them a cluster of stationary carts.

“There they are,” said Yaret. “Stuck in a ditch, Ikelder, just like you predicted.” No magic forces, no mystery involved, she thought, with marked relief.

One cart was lying almost on its side, with two wheels high in the air, two evidently mired in a stream. The other carts were grouped nearby, their horses grazing on the sparse turf between boulders. Meanwhile a dozen men were pushing and pulling at the upturned one, trying to manoeuvre it upright.

Piril frowned. “But I don’t understand. That’s a Kelvhan carriage,” she said.

“You mean it’s Lady Meya’s carriage? The one Jebil was in?” Yaret asked, in new alarm; for Jebil needed no such attention being drawn to her.

“No,” said Piril. “I can see Jebil’s carriage over there, with the blue awning. It looks all right. The one that’s on its side is green and gold.”

“We had no such grand carriage in our train,” said Ikelder, suddenly thoughtful. “Come.”

When they rode on, it became obvious that the toppled cart was different to the rest. Even Yaret, who had no interest in carriage-work, could identify it easily as Kelvhan. But there was no sign of any Kelvhan occupants.

Dismounting, Ikelder walked over to the Riders who were trying to heave the fallen carriage upright.

“Bramal! Cavir!” he called out. “How goes it? Can’t you get it free?”

One of the men trudged towards them, panting. “Ikelder. Good to see you! How far away are the others?”

“Less than two hours, once you’ve got that cart upright,” Ikelder said.

“That could take a while. It would help if we had longer ropes,” the Rider grunted, muddy and annoyed.

“What happened, Bramal?”

“We got lost in that curst cloud. And no sooner did it start to clear – and we realised that we’d gone astray into the hills – than we heard shouts for help. But the shouts came from behind us, would you believe? That carriage had joined up with us at some point, I don’t know when, in all that murk. We’d never seen it until then. It’s not one of ours.”

“But the Lady Meya’s carriage – is that quite safe?” begged Piril.

“Oh, yes. All the other carts are fine,” said Bramal. “It’s just that Theol said we had to stop and wait until we got this one out of trouble. In fact, he insisted.”

“That was noble of him,” said Leor gloomily. “But not really necessary, surely? Where’s the driver? It’s his responsibility.”

“It’s Kelvhan, isn’t it?” asked Yaret.

“It’s Kelvhan all right,” said Bramal with a snort. “That’s why we had to stop and help.”

“Because we’re allies?”

But Bramal shook his head. His face was glum. “We’d have given up the attempt an hour ago, but for one thing. That’s no ordinary Kelvhan’s carriage. It belongs to the Lady Gaelera.”