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

Chapter 27

Parthenal had thought the sea-water would refresh him. He wanted to be cleansed, rinsed free of all unneeded troublesome desires. Instead the swim had left him with a faintly sticky feeling; his skin felt dry and salty, and there were grains of sand inside his breeches and his shirt, and especially his boots which he had already emptied twice since departing from the beach. What should have been a pleasure had unwanted consequences.

Now all the Riders had dried and dressed themselves and were leading their horses westward atop the slowly rising cliffs. Previously they’d only been three yards above the sea; now they were twenty. And still the Riders climbed while the waves crawled down beneath them. Every so often Parthenal looked out at that moving tapestry of blue, green, grey, white: but it reared up in no gradual swelling mound as it had done before.

“Landel says it was a whale,” said Rigal, also looking out. “He got quite excited. I hope it rises properly. I’ve never seen a whale.”

“Hmm,” said Parthenal. He didn’t believe the whale theory. The phenomenon had most likely been some trick of the waves over hidden rocks; probably needing a certain set of tides. He was unsure how tides and currents worked and didn’t really care in any case.

“Look, there it is!” Rigal pointed eagerly: not out to sea, but along the cliff.

“I know,” said Parthenal, glancing unimpressed at the large edifice, a mile away as yet, which had unmistakably become a building. “Did stonemen put that up?” he asked sceptically. “A thing of that size and complexity would be beyond them.”

“I’d guess the stonemen were more capable back then, before they learnt to drug themselves,” said Tiburé.

“Back when?” demanded Parthenal. “How old is this place supposed to be?”

“I’m not sure. Huldarion might know; or Tamu.”

Parthenal found himself upset to hear the two men spoken of as equivalent in wisdom. He liked Tamu, certainly, and it seemed that everyone had started turning to him for odd bits of information; but to compare him to Huldarion!

However, Theol was already saying, “There’s Tamu, over there. Let’s ask him. Hey, Tamu!” He waved and beckoned. Tamu, who had been following a parallel path further from the edge, rode over reluctantly. Parthenal wondered if it was the cliff the man was anxious to avoid, or Parthenal himself. He still had an idea that the archivist admired him. Well, many men admired him. He felt a vague awareness that he did little to deserve it.

But it happened. Therefore he smiled on Tamu and saw the involuntary flicker of his eyelids. So his power had not deserted him: the power to draw men, the power to ignite desire.

It caused an inward grin; that fierce, familiar anticipation. All the same, his power was best not exercised on Tamu. Look for another recipient…

He glanced past Tamu, to where the train of Kelvhans followed their own path some fifty yards inland. There was Jaul. No, not him. If Jaul were to approach him he would laugh in his face; and then would turn his back with proud contempt.

But some of the others. That soldier he had noticed yesterday, with the scar along his cheekbone: that scar spoke to him. If the man were but a poor substitute for Huldarion, what of it? Everyone was a poor substitute. He sighed.

“How old is that building, Tamu, do you know?” Theol was asking.

Tiburé put in, “Your ancient merchant wrote about this settlement, did he not?”

Tamu nodded. “Yes, yes. It’s the, it’s what he called the Place of Terns. My merchant – that is, the Kelvhan merchant – reported it four hundred years ago.”

“What sort of place was it?” asked Tiburé.

“A town, it seems, but centred round a, round a monastery and with at least one temple. Several temples. Maybe, maybe, a temple complex.”

Parthenal wondered, is his nervousness because of me? It is my presence? When he looked back at the archivist he saw how the man’s brown eyes dropped to stare at his horse’s reins.

“So that’s where the early stonemen lived,” mused Rothir.

“And somewhere round here must be where they found the ingredients for Athelid,” said Yaret. “Tamu’s merchant said they dug it up from drains and ditches; I remember that.”

“I don’t feel inclined to dig in any drains and ditches at the moment,” said Parthenal.

“Not before bedtime,” agreed Theol. “Perhaps we’ll sleep tonight with a roof above our heads, instead of having to put up the tents, or lie underneath the stars.”

“I like the stars,” said Yaret.

“Stars won’t keep the rain off. Look at those clouds out to sea. That’s a storm a-brewing.”

“Then let us hope this monastery has a roof,” said Tiburé, “or it won’t keep the rain off either.”

Theol grinned at her. “Ah, but it’s bound to be cosier than a tent.” The two of them exchanged a look of some shared knowledge.

Parthenal could not bear it. Leaving the group, he steered Alba to a less level path where he didn’t have to talk to anyone. He studied the building on the cliff as it drew closer: the long curve of the bay allowed a good view of its seaward side. It was a much longer building than it had appeared at first. The vast wall that faced the sea was dotted with numerous small windows. Although its roofline was broken, much of the structure appeared to be intact. Certainly it was not derelict.

But now as they swerved inland he could see more ruins. A whole phantom town was gradually becoming visible – for these walls were no more than outlines on the ground, mere shadows of the buildings that once stood there. Few of the walls were more than a foot high. Between them were broad walkways, their cobbles almost totally concealed by grass.

The army dismounted to progress along these ancient cobbled ways, some taking one track, some another. But all paths ended at the centre of the ruined town, where there stood the foundations of a large building. Here the broken walls were in some places five or six feet high: enough remained to hold the shapes of former windows, or at least their bases.

To Parthenal the ruins had the sense of a lost grandeur. This had once been an important place. A palace, or a temple? Who might have walked here? Priests or kings?

No people now. Instead, inside the stony frame were four shaped stones, appearing small after the recent monoliths that he had passed although they were each longer than a man. Three lay flat; one leaned askew amidst the grass and thistles which were made both trim and odorous by nibbling goats. A warmish, wettish wind blew indecisively.

In the midst of these ruins Huldarion paused to gaze around. He seemed imperturbable, though Meya, alongside him, looked disconsolate.

This is no court for a king, thought Parthenal: what is this place that he has brought us to, this heap of stones at the dunce’s corner of the world?

It crossed his mind with shocking speed that the setting was entirely suitable for such a king – crownless, landless, ruined, exiled. Appalled at himself, he thrust the thought away.

“I think this place has been deliberately demolished. It was a very fine temple once, well-built; it wouldn’t have fallen down all on its own.” That was Leor, who had ridden up to him.

“Demolished by who?” growled Parthenal, miserable and tetchy.

“Its former owners, I presume, who had no further use for it.”

“So they destroyed it.”

“Their modes of living and beliefs had changed,” said Leor sombrely. He looked out past the shattered walls. “There were once farms here, around the town. Oats and barley. I see the fruit groves have all disappeared.”

“You’ve been here before? But you didn’t recognise the Red Roads.”

“I came around the coastline. So I missed the standing stones.” Leor’s terseness told him that the wizard’s discontent was equal to his own.

“What happened here, Leor? Why was the place abandoned?”

“Oh… Too far from everywhere. And too much salt here for the farms to thrive. They would insist on growing the wrong types of crop. They’d have been better off with rye and cabbages. I told them so.”

“I expect that went down well,” said Parthenal. “How long ago are you speaking of?”

“Over a hundred years. More like two.”

“We’re talking about the stonemen, aren’t we?”

“Yes. In the days when they simply wore their stones in headbands and not drilled into their skulls.”

“And did they back then coat the stones with resin from the skeln trees?”

“So I believe,” said Leor.

“Yet there were no darkburns for the resin to repel.”

“They valued skeln trees none the less, although I really don’t know why. I just know they used them in their worship,” said Leor mournfully. “There used to be a grove of skeln just over there, beyond that wall.”

Parthenal looked. “I can’t see any.”

“No. They all died long ago. The people cut them down and buried the dead branches with great ceremony in this very temple.” Leor sighed heavily. “Everything was different then. It’s all changed.”

“I can’t imagine stonemen worshipping anything,” said Parthenal, “apart from blood and death. I don’t see why Huldarion has brought us all this way to nowhere.”

Again, as he spoke, he was horrified at his own disloyalty. Ever since the exile from Caervonn a dozen years ago he had followed Huldarion unquestioningly; his faith in his chief’s wisdom had never been in doubt.

Keep faith, keep faith, he told himself in desperation. Huldarion will have his reasons even if he does not choose to tell them.

And indeed Huldarion did not seem to be dismayed – unlike Meya. He saw her speak to Huldarion: saw him shake his head, and reach out one hand to take hers, while the other hand pointed to the sea, to the long building on the cliffs. Parthenal imagined that conversation:

And have you brought me here to camp with goats and seagulls?

Patience, my dear, my new-beloved. For there is a palace awaiting on the cliff-top, where we may rest in one another’s arms…

“Some palace,” he muttered.

“Mm? What was that?”

But at another gesture from Huldarion, several Riders mounted their horses to head towards the building on the cliff-top. At once Parthenal retrieved Alda and cantered after them, desperate for activity.

The long building rose before him, darkly imposing underneath its shattered roof. A monastery, Tamu had said: Parthenal supposed that it was possible, although it was hard to imagine stonemen requiring such a place. Apart from its topmost course of ragged stone it was mostly still intact. Well-built, he acknowledged, and standing in a good position: from the roof-top, one would have a long and sweeping view of both the sea and land.

He pulled his horse up next to Ikelder’s while they scanned the building. It was constructed of large blocks of a reddish sandstone. Three storeys high, it had two wings set at right angles, dotted with many small, square windows. Seagulls wheeled overheard with wails like grieving ghosts. Parthenal had never liked the sound of seagulls. They did nothing but complain.

“A handsome place,” Ikelder said. “Let’s take a look inside.”

They walked up the wide flight of steps that led to the frontage, the broad stones underfoot planed into hollows by the tread of countless feet. At the top they were confronted with a choice of doorways: one at each end, and one in the centre. Since other Riders were venturing in at either end, Parthenal made for the central doorway. Its door was still present – a splintered slab of wood on rusty hinges that leaned crookedly open.

“Careful,” said Ikelder from behind him. “The place may still be occupied.”

“By mice, perhaps,” said Parthenal. “I don’t think anyone has been here for a while.”

Just inside the door he found a large porch, or small lobby, partly open to the sky, with a sand-strewn floor: he pointed out to Ikelder that there were no footprints on the sand, merely a liberal speckling of gull droppings.

Then he crossed it, feeling the fretful wind tug at him, and entered another doorway into a short passage. This quickly opened out into a larger hall lit by high windows and scoured by a stiff breeze. On either side of the hall were long straight corridors that stretched away in both directions; at their far ends he glimpsed spiralling flights of stairs.

As he walked down the corridor to his right his feet echoed softly. He passed further entrances, some still with doors and some without. Peering into one of these, he saw a little room – perhaps once a monk’s cell, empty but for a drift of sand upon the floor. A window looked onto the Riders gathering outside. There was Huldarion, very small and distant, framed by the thick stone wall.

He went out again and tried a doorway opposite: this had a closed wooden door, cracked but still solid. It opened more easily than he expected, as though it had been in recent use. He stepped inside and looked around.

The cell had been occupied in the last year or two, he thought. It held a bed – a straw mattress on a roped frame. A wooden cupboard, empty. On the cupboard, a large bowl made of rough brown pottery, slightly crazed, but clean and dry.

It was like a parody of his over-decorated bedroom back in Kelvha Castle. That room where he had so nearly accepted Jaul’s alluring invitation…

But he had not succumbed. He had not failed Huldarion. And this room was nothing like that one. No rugs, no fine mosaic wall, no spyhole. It had a window – unglazed – that looked out south on to the waves: so thick were the walls that the small square view of sky and sea appeared very far away, seen down a tunnel of stone. But he could hear the breathing of the sea.

And now he heard voices. Leaving the room he found the other Riders opening doors and poking into cells.

“This could well have a been a monastery,” remarked Ikelder. “What worries me is that it doesn’t seem to be too long deserted. Those straw mattresses must be this year’s: they smell fresh.”

Parthenal nodded. “I agree. Though I wasn’t aware that there were monks amongst the stonemen,” he said drily.

“I think we need not look for monks.” Huldarion stood at the end of the passage. Meya was beside him, gazing around keenly. “The days when this was a monastery are long past. But I think trainees of some sort, perhaps, could have lived here… Young stonemen, maybe. Scour the building. Make sure there are no inhabitants remaining.”

Parthenal nodded and joined in the search. Along with half a dozen others, he explored the central section. Three dozen cells, all empty. Most held mattresses: he sniffed at them, with caution. Ikelder had been right about the straw. But there were no other signs of recent habitation.

He went to the right-hand staircase and ran up the stone stairs. On the next floor was a chain of interconnecting chambers, all completely empty but for a few warped benches and a number of flat bluish stones lined up against the walls. Each was half the size of a man, and carved with lines and intersecting spirals. Perhaps they had been used in some long-forgotten ritual.

Another stair, another floor. Here was a further series of long chambers, many of them roofless and empty, the stained floors thick with bird droppings. He looked up at a haze of blue and a circle of high-wheeling birds. The neighbouring rooms on this level, however, still had some roofing, perhaps recently repaired: for these had evidently been used as dormitories. Each held up to thirty rudimentary beds, slatted wooden bunks and truckles – free of mattresses and despite the space none of them looking as comfortable as the small cells lower down. The windows were too high to offer any view.

To his surprise, in the largest of these dormitories he saw beneath a bed a mildewed book. When he bent down to retrieve it the pages were damp and pulpy, the faded writing barely visible.

“Who would have thought stonemen could read?” he said, turning to the group of Riders who had come in after him. One of them was Huldarion. He felt his heart turn over.

“May I see?”

In the act of passing him the book, their fingers touched. Another roiling turn of the heart. It made Parthenal feel sick.

“It’s old,” he said.

“Indeed. Some sort of prayer book, I suspect; presumably a relic of those early days before the stonemen changed.” Huldarion leafed carefully through the damp pages, and then laughed involuntarily, before he winced and shook his head.

“What is it?” Parthenal asked.

Huldarion held out the open book. Someone had been drawing in it, in charcoal: grinning faces with big eyes and wide smiles. A whole set of them. They were carefully yet crudely drawn, like children’s pictures.

“Hah,” said Parthenal. “Those look quite fresh. No artists, are they?”

“No.” Huldarion turned the page. Another face, with two stones sticking out; no grin. A bird with unfeasibly straight wings. A fish; no, possibly a dolphin. Lots of scribbling.

“That looks like someone trying to write, without understanding how,” commented Parthenal.

“It does.” Huldarion closed the book and placed it gently on the bed. So gently.

Parthenal turned away. He needed to do something, anything. Striding back to the staircase he ran up the last, narrow flight of stairs, which spiralled into increasing daylight until he came out on the roof.

A flagstoned walkway led around its edge, appearing sound for much of the roof’s circumference although the towers along it had been toppled. He walked a little way and stood looking down over the battered parapet. The air was still and sultry. Beneath him the sea clawed idly with long white fingers at the cliff’s base, growling as it did so. The birds mewed sulkily in answer. Was there a path down that steep rocky slope? If so, it was not visible. Whoever had once lived in those dormitories could no more escape from the high windows than they could see from them.

But no-one lived here now. It felt abandoned. He ran back down the flights of smooth-worn stone to the bottom floor. Here he lost his way out and unexpectedly found himself in a long low-ceilinged dining hall. Plain stone pillars formed four aisles, running parallel to the great fireplace set into the wall. On either side of the hearth were benches, some stacked or even thrown on top of one another, several broken; as were many of the trestle tables pushed against the wall. Piles of pottery stood in the fireplace – chipped plates and bowls.

The plates were empty but for grime and mouse-droppings. The fireplace was cold. But there was a cauldron hanging forlornly from its chains above the ashes; and Meya was prodding in it with a wooden spoon.

She looked up at him. “Long-congealed,” she said. “I think it was once a stew of beans and barley and some sort of fish. There are fishbones. It’s at least a few weeks old, more likely months.” She held up the wooden spoon, with a dried unappetising lump of something sticking to it.

“Tasty,” answered Parthenal with a grimace. In fact it sounded disconcertingly similar to their own rations; substitute mutton for the fish and add a few impromptu greens, and it was much like the meals that his company’s designated cook would serve up nightly.

“Serviceable food,” said Meya. “But there is a lack of ovens here. I should like to see the kitchen, if there is a separate one.” She sounded, not depressed and impatient as Parthenal expected, but interested. “There must be pantries,” she went on. “I wonder if there will be any food remaining in them?”

“Now that would be worth finding out,” said Parthenal, and he began to scout around for a kitchen. It was quickly discovered through a side door and down several steps. There was one main kitchen and three pantries, each a few steps further down, so that the last was underground.

The kitchen held a set of ovens and shelves of more brown pottery. There was only one cooking pan, which was full of some burnt food.

“They must have taken all the other pans,” Meya observed. “Pans are essential for a travelling army, of course. Whereas pottery is just dead weight.” She bustled down the steps and Parthenal hurried after her in case of lurking stonemen, or simply an uneven floor.

“Take care, my lady,” he cautioned. Although he did not much like Meya, he did not want to be responsible for any injury to her.

She halted in the lowest pantry. “Very good,” she said approvingly, peering into the shadows. “A well-appointed larder. It smells as if both meat and fish were here, some time ago.”

“And rats,” said Parthenal, noting their traces. Rats had been in both the other pantries too; their droppings decorated empty shelves. A limp sack on the floor leaked a last few husks. No grain remained, nothing edible at all except a pair of cheeses on a stone shelf which Parthenal approached and then rapidly retreated from.

“Whew. It’s not just fish that’s causing that appalling smell. Even the rats won’t touch these,” he commented, “although I expect Yaret would eat them up with glee.”

“The foreigner? Strange tastes,” said Meya. “I’m afraid there’s nothing here of any use to us.” She stood in the middle of the pantry, looking a little sad.

“We did not really expect it,” said Parthenal. “We’re not short of provisions.”

“No. We stocked up well at Olbeth’s farm.” Meya stared at the empty sack. “I do hope she’s all right.”

“Olbeth?” But Parthenal immediately corrected himself. Of course she was not thinking about Olbeth. “Your daughter is being well-looked after,” he told her reassuringly. “Olbeth is a very capable and kind young woman.”

“Of that I am sure,” said Meya sadly.

“And now that Veron is recovered, your daughter has another capable protector. I would back Veron against a whole company of stonemen.”

“And yet,” said Meya, “they have now seen fit to move her, to some other place, some other farm, one called Deloran.”

Parthenal was silent. He could hardly argue that Deloran was a suitable home for a small soon-to-be princess. Burnt out and roofless as it was, by all accounts, would it be any better than this place? Probably much less comfortable.

Meya sighed. “Huldarion seems to think this building may have once housed children,” she said musingly. “I don’t know why he thinks so.”

“Upstairs there are dormitories, with bunks and truckle beds.”

“Are there?”

“If this was indeed a monastery, they were for novices, perhaps.”

“Ah. Yes. I wish that I could see her,” she said softly.

“Soon,” said Parthenal.

“Maybe. I have no idea. I do not know exactly what Huldarion plans.”

“Whatever his plans, they will be wise ones.”

Meya turned to look at him. “You are a good and loyal soldier, Parthenal. My father would have admired you, I think. Huldarion is fortunate to have you as a henchman. It sounds as if more carriages are turning up outside. Those Kelvhans have arrived, perhaps; I’d better go and see.”

She nodded and left Parthenal standing in the shadows amidst the smell of ancient cheese.

I know all that, he thought, I know that I am a good and faithful warrior; though I am surprised that she acknowledges it. Generous of her. A soldier’s daughter. An eye for detail, for how things are organised. In other circumstances I could possibly grow to like her.

But, but: a henchman. I am a henchman. A squire, a bodyguard, a hanger-on. I hang on and on and what for, in the end? Huldarion will marry Meya and I will always be a henchman.