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

Chapter 20

“Keep still, can’t you, Parthenal?” begged Tiburé. “Stop pacing up and down. You’re making me jittery; and I had enough of feeling jittery in Kelvha. I don’t need it in this peaceful place.” Even as she spoke, she knew that she was not being fair.

It isn’t Parthenal who’s setting all my nerves on edge, she thought. It’s not those Kelvhans either, unwanted though they are. It’s Solon. What should I call him? My husband? My worst enemy? Better half? Unwilling ally?

“You think it’s peaceful here?” said Parthenal, sounding grumpy. “I think it’s soporific. Static. A piece of nothing, stuck in time. And we’re stuck with it.” He slapped his hand against the nearest stone – one of eleven that made up the large circle that they stood in.

“Why beat the stone?” Tiburé asked, half amused, half puzzled. “It’s not the stone’s fault.”

“It is, if it makes Huldarion want to stop an hour before we need to. And it’s the stone’s fault if it makes Gaelera stay here with us; which means we’re lumbered with those star-forsaken Kelvhans.”

Rothir laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Don’t worry about Jaul,” he said in his quiet rumble. “He won’t try anything out here. And if he does he won’t succeed.”

Parthenal gave a short, brief laugh.

“He’s lost status,” Tamu murmured. “Probably because of that, I mean, the thing, in the castle. You know.”

Tiburé did not know, although Rothir was nodding. Evidently something had gone on in Kelvha Castle which they were conscious of and she was not. Something that embarrassed Tamu; so she could make a guess. She gazed over at the man they were talking about – an elegant young Kelvhan noble, all long hair and legs. The hair was carefully curled, the legs fashionably clad. Not really Parthenal’s type, she would have thought, a little too languid; but then what did she know?

Jaul was standing apart from the select group of Kelvhans who were talking to Huldarion. So perhaps he was not sufficiently high-ranking to join in. Her eyes were drawn to Solon, standing next to Huldarion: his dignity and stature. Her eyes were always drawn to Solon. A fine-looking man. Had that misled her from the start? Looks were not a dependable measure of suitability as a mate. They should not influence her; yet they did.

She and Solon had thought they were each other’s type, at first. They’d seemed well-matched: both handsome, strong and clever. Too strong, perhaps. Although Tiburé thought she was still handsome, it was after the fashion of a wilful ageing woman, which was not what Solon wanted. He could probably have put up with the ageing, but not the wilfulness.

And Tiburé knew that she had been at fault. Her current liaison with Theol was only one of many through the years. She had had reasons for her faithlessness, but it had been too much, too soon. She had hurt that dignity that was so great a part of Solon, even if she hadn’t hurt his heart; for had he ever truly loved her? Whether or no, he would not forgive her.

Parthenal frowned at Jaul for a few seconds before he turned to frown at Tamu. “Jaul’s lost status? How can you tell?”

Tamu shrugged. “Changes in his clothing. He’s wearing fewer rings. No hair adornments. The question of which ranks can wear what is very tightly regulated.”

“But he doesn’t need adornments here. He’s riding with an army,” said Rothir.

“Not by his choice. Jaul has never been a soldier,” Tamu said.

Parthenal groaned. “Then he can only be here for another purpose.”

“Punishment,” said Tamu thoughtfully. “For his former failure.”

“Now don’t go feeling sorry for him,” advised Rothir, with a smile.

“Oh, I won’t,” Parthenal assured him. “Don’t worry, dwarf. I have no sympathy to spare for Jaul. I shall avoid him altogether.” That made Tiburé certain that Parthenal had failed to avoid Jaul in the past; no great surprise there. What puzzled her more was that Tamu seemed to know about it.

In fact the number of things that the archivist knew was proving, she reflected, quite eye-opening. She had heard him talking to Leor in the train, with an enthusiasm which the wizard did not match. Leor was moody for some reason and she thought that Tamu was trying to cheer him up. Not always successfully; for Tamu’s breadth of knowledge, particularly about history or languages, made Leor look even more despondent. Yet Leor had had vast opportunities for learning. Perhaps they were also opportunities for forgetting.

Yaret came up to the group, limping slightly.

“Nice stones,” she said. “Did anybody know that they were here?”

“They’re mentioned in our Chronicles, though those aren’t too reliable,” Tamu said apologetically. “The chroniclers wrote down any travellers’ tales they heard, without attempting to investigate their truth. All sorts of unlikely legends found their way in – like that of giants building this ladder to the sky.” He put his hand gently on the nearest stone, caressing it where Parthenal had slapped it.

“I like that idea,” said Yaret.

“Symbolic giants, though,” said Rothir. “Intellectual giants, perhaps.”

“Or these stones could be needles, sewing the sky and ground together,” she suggested.

“Now there’s a weaver’s metaphor.”

“Of course. A fine soft silk the sky is,” said Yaret.

“The ground is evidently burlap, then,” said Rothir, smiling. Tiburé looked at him suspiciously.

“You seem very happy, Rothir,” she said.

“He’s annoyingly cheerful at the moment,” said Parthenal. “I can’t adjust to it. I’m used to gruff monosyllables.”

“Am I using too many long words for you?” said Rothir.

“Too many words altogether, dwarf. It’s most unsettling.”

“Ah, it’s because we’re finally on our way towards Caervonn,” replied Rothir. “I feel it beckoning.”

“A very slow, roundabout, digressive way,” said Parthenal grumpily.

Rothir actually laughed. “Why not enjoy the slowness while you can?”

“But those old tales,” said Yaret. “They must have called this stone a ladder for a reason. A ladder climbing up to what?” She hobbled over to the tallest stone, beside Tamu, and laid her hand upon it.

“Your leg’s hurting,” said Rothir.

“Just stiff.” She looked up the length of the stone. “A ladder to the stars,” she said. “It feels similar to the stones of the Semmuru’s tower, if not as warm.”

“How can you know that?” demanded Parthenal. “All stones feel much the same.”

Tiburé was puzzled. “The Semmuru’s tower? What’s that?”

“Just an old building we came across,” said Yaret vaguely.

“The same ancient people built both places, maybe,” said Rothir. “Is Piril still mourning for the Arac Semmuru?”

“She’s mourning for her brother,” answered Yaret quietly, “and also for the life she’s lost.”

“Not much of a life,” said Parthenal.

“Maybe not. But better than most women of her class ever managed to achieve. Handmaiden to one of the highest ladies in the kingdom. And I think she loved Janeya,” said Yaret, withdrawing from the stone.

“Poor girl,” said Rothir. He still had no idea. But Tiburé felt worried by the mere mention of Janeya, who was in fact so nearby, hiding in the carriage. How long would it be before one of the men saw her close up, and put two and two together?

The girl should have left our train, she thought. We should have made her leave; both her and Piril. But it’s too late now.

“Where is Piril?” she asked.

“On the next island.”

Tiburé looked across at the long mound which held the avenue of stones. Carts were being drawn up round its edges, and the horses, released from the shafts, began to graze. Piril was trudging up the avenue, the stones’ great height making her look smaller and more fragile than she really was.

A lonely girl, thought Tiburé, watching the Kelvhan maid walk slowly from one stone to the next. She stopped at its base before leaning forward to rest her forehead on the stone’s grey surface. There she remained. For some reason Tiburé was reminded of her sister Camburé, to whom she was not close: although much older, she was another plain-faced, unobtrusive woman, self-contained and difficult to read. Though I never really tried, thought Tiburé: after this is over, I should seek her out.

“She’s looking for that ladder,” said Yaret softly. “Looking for some solace.”

Tiburé almost asked, And where do you find solace? But she refrained, because it would not be tactful. Tact was something she found difficult. She ought to cultivate it.

Especially just now. For here came Solon striding through the stream towards them, ignoring the splashes on his boots and breeches.

My husband is a man without vanity, she thought with the remnants of sad pride; at least where his appearance is concerned. Or maybe he is simply so confident in his own body that physical vanity is superfluous.

“What’s the joke?” she said to him, for he was smiling.

“Huldarion wishes us all to pitch camp on that area with the double row of stones.”

“Very well. But what’s funny about that? You look amused.”

“Ah. We were just talking about that girl, Gaelera.”

“Hardly a girl,” Tiburé remarked. “She’s an independent woman and has been for some years.”

“Yet still unmarried, which is certainly unusual for a Kelvhan woman of her rank,” said Solon more coolly. “An odd female. Iajo is of the opinion that marriage would soon cure her of her foibles.”

“That thug? Have you been obliged to talk to him? What a very unpleasant man he is.”

“A powerful one, however.”

“He shouldn’t be. And I still don’t see the joke.”

Solon raised his eyebrows. The smile had entirely gone since he had started speaking to her. He really dislikes me, thought Tiburé with sad regret. She moved away so that the others would not hear his chilliness.

“I was merely thinking about how people act with Gaelera,” he said, coldly offhand. “Tiptoeing around her.”

“She is Nerogun’s daughter.”

“Yes; but only his daughter, not his son. She has no power and never can have. Yet even Thoronal talks to her as if she’s made of glass and will shatter at a word too loudly spoken. But then Thoronal seems over-cautious of everything in general.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him these days.”

“He’s lost his self-belief, and he always had more of that than brains.” Solon studied her with narrowed eyes. “Did you know that Huldarion is considering making you a counsellor in Thoronal’s stead? Now that Huldarion is free of the restraints of Kelvha regarding women, I think he’d rather have you at his side than Thoronal.”

“Oh… Really? He hinted something of the sort.” In fact it had been more than a hint; but Tiburé was trying to exercise that tact she had just vowed to cultivate.

“However, I told him that he could not have us both,” Solon continued distantly. “That wouldn’t work.”

Tiburé wanted to retort that it could work if he allowed it to. She said, “I expect I could deal with Gaelera more effectively than Thoronal does.”

“Gaelera? She doesn’t matter. I think they over-value her importance.”

“I don’t think they do at all,” said Tiburé, and then immediately condemned her failure to practise tact, for Solon’s lip took on a pronounced curl. He did not like to be disagreed with. That was one of her faults – her many faults; she would insist on having loud opinions that did not tally with his own.

“What I mean is,” she amended, “I don’t think anyone knows enough about her to be sure what she is capable of. She keeps herself and her thoughts so well concealed.”

“If only other people did,” said Solon, and he strode over to Crade to pass on the message about pitching camp.

Tiburé felt like lashing her own back as she set off to find her horse and gear. Why could she not be quiet and biddable with Solon? Why could she not just nod and smile, and echo his own words back to him to keep him happy? Or happyish. She had told him that she wanted a divorce; and she still did, but she wished that he would grant it with regret, not refuse it with ill-hidden anger. What a fool she was where Solon was concerned.

Picking up her cloak she splashed heedlessly across the shallow water to where other Riders were assembling – too heedlessly, for she tripped, and fell at full length in the water.

It was deep enough to soak her but annoyingly not deep enough to break her fall. She landed heavily on the hard rock just beneath the surface. When she stood up, spluttering and rubbing her bruised hands on wet clothes, Uld came hastening over to offer his assistance. Closer by, that unpleasant armourer, Iajo, was doing nothing to help but instead stood sneering.

“Not used to those riding breeches yet, my lady?” he said. Now, too late, he offered her his outstretched whip; but Tiburé would not take it. In fact she had a sudden but distinct idea that it was the whip that she had tripped over. When she turned away she saw her husband Solon standing on the far bank, smiling.

So she turned again to accept Uld’s kindly hand, and hauled herself out of the shallows. Her sodden clothes were heavy and uncomfortable. And she felt herself frozen by her husband’s mocking gaze.

I will catch a chill, she thought, my limbs will ache; I am an old bedraggled fool.

Yet am I really old at all, except in Solon’s eyes?

If I am old, yet still I am a fool, she thought: a fool for wanting him to want me, when in truth I don’t want him.