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

Chapter 42

Meya immediately recognised that singing note. She turned to Huldarion in consternation.

“The alarm bell! Does it mean that stoneman are nearby?”

Everyone was looking at the carts, whence the ringing came, with puzzlement.

Thoronal, however, shuffled, and said, “Perhaps we...” with a sidelong glance at Huldarion, who now appeared to be completely frozen, a man of ice, immobile, his face pale. It alarmed Meya as much as the bell did. Then, with an abrupt movement, but without a word, Huldarion started forward and began to push through the Riders.

“Is it an ambush?” said Meya anxiously to those around her.

“Ma’am, there is no enemy in sight,” said Parthenal. “The sentries have not given any warnings.”

“Then who is ringing the bell?” asked Faldron. “A mystery! Let us go and see.”

He strode after Huldarion; and so did the other Captains, while Meya scurried to keep up with them. Huldarion was walking so fast that he was almost running by the time he reached the carts.

“Well, this is most intriguing,” Faldron said. “A cart that rings!”

Huldarion passed Meya’s own pair of decorative carriages, where Gaelera was standing like a bland-faced, dressed-up doll. She dipped her head to Faldron and looked at Meya with one eyebrow raised a very small amount. She took no notice of the approaching retinue of Kelvhans although they were now close.

Close, enough, indeed, for Captain Rhadlun to be hurrying over to greet them, followed by Iajo, the unpleasant armourer. Meya discerned with a sinking heart the burly figure of Lord Nerogun. Shargun, too... She felt a deep foreboding. Faldron’s presence was difficult enough, with Huldarion in such unsettled temper. She did not want the Kelvhan lords to unsettle him any further.

For a moment she remembered that huge serpent on the monastery roof: its twisting coils, making the air steam and stink. It had filled her with repulsion, and a fear so deep it still rippled through her brain. Had it been the same for Huldarion? He had often been exposed to these dire creatures. Such terror must have its effect.

As she glanced back at the Kelvhans, she realised that her instinct was to protect Huldarion. Rothir had told him to beware of Kelvha, and she had not liked the implication. But where Nerogun was concerned she understood it.

Huldarion headed for a plain wagon that stood near to Gaelera’s: the cart occupied by the Kelvhan priest from the Temple of Borgun. So was the priest now ringing the alarm?

Meya pushed past Riders who parted courteously to let her through. The sound certainly emanated from here: extremely loud, yet managing to retain a singular sweetness, a layered note as if of many notes all sung at once by clear inhuman voices.

Huldarion climbed stiffly up onto the boards and pulled aside the awning. Meya could see in: there was no-one visible. Nor could she observe a bell. Yet the ringing did not cease. When he turned round, he looked both furious and horrified, and her heart gave a thump. What was happening?

He glowered over at Gaelera – the only person who had been close – and spoke in loud, accusing tones, his voice harsh over the insistent ringing of the bell.

“What did you do?”

“I?” Gaelera said.

“Did you go into this cart?”

“I did not,” she answered calmly.

“Then who has been interfering with it?”

“I have no idea.”

But now the other Kelvhans had ridden up, with Nerogun at their head.

“Of what do you accuse my daughter?” he demanded, and for a bizarre moment Meya thought he was actually eager for his daughter to be accused of something. But that was a nonsensical idea.

Huldarion opened and closed his mouth before saying, “My Lord. I accuse her of nothing.”

“Father,” said Gaelera. “So you have managed to find me at last.”

“I knew where you were all along,” Nerogun snapped.

Gaelera put her head on one side with a faint half-smile, and laid her hands across her skirts.

“And I am very glad to see you too,” she said.

“What? I can’t hear you for that dreadful noise. What in stars’ name is it?”

Huldarion did not answer. Turning away, he dived back into the singing space of the priest’s cart, pulling the awning roughly closed behind him.

Meya immediately scrambled up on to the shafts to follow him, thinking: Let Nerogun mock me; I am still nimble enough for all my size. It was not curiosity that impelled her, but rather a strong wish to be seen to support Huldarion; and also to get in the way of anybody else who might decide to climb up here.

When she peered through the awning she saw nobody but him. The dim brown light that filtered through the canvas roof fell on a pile of lidded crates and boxes, one of which he was wrenching open. He reached inside: she glimpsed a blanket as he tried to swathe the contents, crouching over the box like an anxious father bent over a crying cradle.

The sight made her afraid. What could be in there that was as important as a child to him, that gave him such concern? It was surely no ordinary bell that he was trying to conceal. Was this sorcery?

For despite his efforts the sound would not be muffled. Yet it was not unpleasant; rather, it seemed to summon. It commanded attention.

And it was gaining it. The cart swayed as someone else climbed up behind her. She put out her arm instinctively to bar the intruder – only to find, to her dismay, that it was Prince Faldron.

“Let me look,” he ordered over the ringing, so that she had to move aside. “What is it, Huldarion? What have you there?”

Ducking under the awning the prince stepped over to the crate and drew away the cloth from Huldarion’s reluctant hand. Meya heard him gasp.

“My word,” he said. “A pretty thing, Huldarion, and a pretty noise it makes.”

“I need to silence it so that it will not disturb us.” Huldarion tried to pull the blanket from him, but Faldron would not release it.

“This should be displayed,” he said. “It is a thing of quality. Let us take it out.”

“It must stay hidden,” said Huldarion, his voice straining against the long sweet chime. “It is an heirloom and most precious.”

“So I imagine. It is a thing to be admired. You would surely not deny the Lords of Kelvha a sight of such a splendid artefact? Let us lift it down.” The prince called through the awning. “Rhadlun? Come up and help me with this source of all the ringing: and a wondrous source it is too.”

Meya had to give way. She stepped down carefully, accepting Thoronal’s hand. As she watched Rhadlun climb up in her stead, she wondered at Huldarion’s reluctance to display the bell: for anything that impressed the prince so greatly must be fine indeed. And a rich heirloom would certainly raise Huldarion’s standing with the Kelvhan lords.

But it would inevitably be made extremely public now. Riders and Kelvhans alike stood craning their necks to see the cause of all the fuss.

“What is this bell?” she asked Thoronal in a murmur.

“No bell,” he answered, in his self-important manner – no doubt waiting for her to ask him more. So she did not. Instead, she watched.

Rhadlun and Faldron carried down an object wrapped in the blanket, and carefully set it upright on the shafts. It was wide and evidently heavy. She was surprised that the High Prince would exert himself in such labour; but he whisked aside the covering blanket with a flourish and the object was revealed.

Meya caught her breath. It was indeed no bell, but a great bowl: a golden bowl, most beautifully wrought, with lines of writing delicately engraved around the outer surface.

And still it chimed. The murmur of the watching crowd mingled with the sound.

“Well,” said Nerogun, evidently impressed.

“What a treasure!” exclaimed Shargun shrilly, his narrow eyes boggling.

“It is an heirloom of our house,” said Huldarion. His scars were fiery red as if he were under some great stress. Meya could understand that he might not wish for Shargun to lay greedy eyes upon this bowl – but she did not understand why it had been kept a secret from her. Would she not soon be Huldarion’s queen? Was she not entitled to know about this heirloom? She had entrusted the man with her daughter. Could not he entrust her with a sight of this?

The strain in Huldarion’s face bid her stay silent. Indeed it was hard for anyone to speak. But now the ringing was starting to diminish, as if having gained its audience the summons was required no longer. The long chime grew more distant, and yet more lovely as it lost its force. After a few more seconds the sound was just a shimmer in the air.

“You carry it around with you?” said Nerogun.

Huldarion’s mouth barely moved as he replied. “For now – until it can be reinstated at Caervonn.”

“And what does the engraving say? I can’t read that curly writing,” complained Shargun, stooping to peer with a frown at the interior. Can you read at all? thought Meya with dislike.

“Inside the bowl,” Huldarion answered with an effort at calmness, “are written the watchwords of the Vonn: Honour, Care, Fidelity.”

“No fourth? Not courage?” asked Nerogun.

“There is a fourth word,” said Huldarion, “not written, but implicit in the rest.”

“And what is that?” asked Faldron.

But Shargun interrupted. “What’s that scribble on the outside? What does that say?”

“Your archivist has read it for us,” announced Thoronal, “and he said–”

“–that the bowl was inscribed at the command of King Dorial of Caervonn,” finished Huldarion.

“The archivist? You mean Tamu?” said Nerogun.

“He’s been hanging around here,” said Iago.

“He’s here – with the Vonn? Why on earth?” Nerogun looked both suspicious and perturbed.

“That over-educated little runt,” said Shargun.

Meya felt it was time for her to speak. “I gave Master Tamu leave from his position in the castle,” she answered haughtily. “It was well overdue. Tamu has an interest in old lore and accompanied us in order to observe the ancient stones.” She had no idea if this was true. She had granted Tamu his freedom after he had glimpsed and recognised Janeya in her maid’s disguise; and while he had obviously been relieved to escape from Kelvha City, Meya had not expected him to follow the Vonn army all this way. Possibly he had nowhere else to go.

“Indeed, Tamu translated the runes on the great stone a few miles away, where the Red Roads meet the sea,” commented Rhadlun. “The inscription spoke of victory going to the righteous, as I remember.” Mentally Meya thanked him for this unwitting support of her explanation. And as a further, welcome distraction, the priest now came hurrying over to the cart, his long robes gathered in both hands.

“My Lord?” he panted. “I was helping with the tents, when I heard–”

Nerogun turned to him wrathfully. “You’re the wretch from the temple of Borgun. What in the stars’ name are you doing here?”

“The priest Hokiro is here with us to guard the bowl,” put in Thoronal, somewhat pompously. Huldarion gave him a look.

“Why? What has your heirloom got to do with this renegade priest?” demanded Nerogun.

“It was in…” The priest faltered, looking at Huldarion, who was at his most immobile.

“It was in what? Spit it out, man!” Shargun said.

“I act in Borgun’s wish,” Hokiro murmured. “I am commanded by Borgun to guard the bowl. I trust it is not damaged? When I heard it ringing, I was afraid that someone might be stealing it.”

“Borgun! I think we heard too much of Borgun in the city,” said Nerogun contemptuously.

“This knave is not a fit custodian of your property, Huldarion. I am suspicious of his motives. He ought to be detained.”

“The man is harmless,” said Huldarion.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” the priest said anxiously.

“Then you won’t object to being taken for a little questioning, will you?” snapped back Nerogun. “What do you know of this bowl, and this inscription?”

“I cannot read the script.”

A cold finger went down Meya’s spine. Although she did not know exactly what Nerogun meant by questioning, she imagined that it would not be merely verbal. And while she did not care much for the temple of Borgun – which merely encouraged the poor to think above their station – she felt pity for the priest. She pitied anyone subject to unfriendly questioning by the Post-Regent. The unlucky serving-man Lorolo, Janeya’s lover, jumped into her mind; those soft brown eyes, the gentle smile… What had become of him?

“Please leave Hokiro here with us,” Huldarion said. “He travels under my protection.”

“Why does he need the Vonn’s protection? He’s a Kelvhan citizen, ain’t he?” snapped Shargun.

“I do not wish to go with them,” Hokiro said plaintively.

“If you are an honest man,” said Nerogun, “which I have to say I doubt, you have nothing to fear. Take him, Iajo.”

The armourer snapped his fingers: two soldiers stepped up to seize Hokiro and lead him away. Huldarion said nothing. Faldron looked from man to man, but did not speak.

“And while you’re at it, Iajo, find Tamu,” Nerogun added. “His place is with the Kelvhan army.”

“I must protest. Tamu is on leave,” said Meya, in horror. What if Tamu were questioned? What if he spilled out his knowledge of Janeya’s presence?

“I don’t know what he wants with leave,” said Nerogun contemptuously. “Do you think I get leave, to swan around at leisure? I do not. Iajo! Find Tamu.”

The armourer grinned and strode away, without so much as the pretence of a bow. Faldron looked after him thoughtfully.

“And what about that wayward daughter of yours?” said Shargun to the Post-Regent with a sneer in his voice. “Shall we have her taken back to Kelvha, hey?”

“Master Shargun,” said Gaelera in her clear, unexpressive voice, from her perch up on the carriage, “I advise you not to rise above your station. My duty is to my father the Post-Regent, not to you.” She turned to Nerogun. “Father. I have no doubt that you are pleased to see me.”

Nerogun seemed momentarily taken aback. Then he put out his arms.

“Of course, my dear daughter! I am relieved to see you safe – and uninjured, I trust?”

Gaelera did not climb down to meet his embrace. Instead she gave a curtsey, and Nerogun let his outspread arms drop to his sides.

“I am entirely uninjured,” she replied, “due to the efforts of the Lord Huldarion’s Riders, and one of our own soldiers, who put his life at risk to rescue me.”

“Which of our soldiers? He shall be rewarded.”

“Indeed he shall,” Gaelera said, her voice perhaps a little higher than usual. “His name is Captain Novesnu.”

“Hmph! Not a Kelvhan, then.”

“None of the Kelvhan men jumped into the sea to rescue me. I should also like a memorial raised to the Rider Durba, who sacrificed herself to save me from the linwyrm.”

“Yes, yes,” said Nerogun, with a puff and snort like an impatient horse, “but none of this would have happened had you not driven off to join the Vonn. A fair fix you managed to get yourself into, daughter!”

Gaelera put her head on one side. “Father. It must be hereditary. I shall remain amongst the Vonn for now. I am pleased you are so glad to see me safe. Because if anything were to happen to me…”

Nerogun stared at her. “I would not have anything happen to you for the world,” he said, his voice a little husky. Meya found herself moved. Perhaps it was possible that Nerogun cared, after all, for some human being besides himself. But a second later he spun round and addressed Huldarion.

“What now?” he demanded with impatient gruffness. “No attack seems imminent, Huldarion. Those stoneman boats are few, and stay off-shore. They’re just there to keep an eye on us.”

“We don’t know that,” Huldarion answered. “The stoneman army will be gathering.”

“Miles away. Not here. Or are you expecting more giant worms to swim out of the sea? Or giant beetles to crawl out of the ground, maybe? Or perhaps a giant bird, shitting down on you as it flies overhead? Well, while we wait for those wonders to arrive, I’m going back to camp.”

Meya gasped, outraged at this extraordinary rudeness. But Nerogun strode off, with a leering Shargun scuttling after him. Faldron gazed after them for a moment, his brow furrowed, before he followed: and the Kelvhan troop went with him, heading back towards their army. Like their masters, they gave Huldarion no salute.

Huldarion stood as still as one of the great stones, her heirloom on the shaft beside him, a thing of dazzling beauty, now silent and ignored. His Riders too stood silent, with questioning looks: confused, upset, and sombre.

And how very, very few those Riders were, reflected Meya. A small band of hapless Vonn, lost amidst the vast bewildering maze of the Red Roads, where the Kelvhan army swarmed in such great numbers: hardly more than a huddled boatload of landless fugitives, left to drift or wreck themselves upon this swirling shore.