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

Chapter 44

Tamu was lurking when he heard the tuneful ringing of the bowl. It charged him with even more anxiety than he already felt.

He was lurking because he did not know where he was safest. Since the arrival of Rhadlun and Iajo, he had kept his distance from the Kelvhans, moving discreetly between the priest, certain friendly females of the Vonn, and Leor. He would have liked to lurk with Parthenal but that, of course, was out of the question. He didn’t want the Kelvhans to see him anywhere near Parthenal.

But he was comfortable with Leor. He felt an empathy with the wizard, as another man who really did not know what he was doing here.

His companion, though, had barely spoken on the journey back to the Red Roads. Once he said aloud, “I froze the sea!” and Tamu could not tell if pride or awe or fear infused his voice. Perhaps all of them. Leor seemed so wrapped up in the mystery of his own magic that he was aware of little else.

And Tamu was wrapped up in memory. The dreadful serpent tried to keep a writhing habitation in his head: but he had found a way to shut it out. Again and again he relived that magic hour with Parthenal in a dazzling inward vision, as if of some winged messenger whose glory scattered shadows. It glowed within his consciousness so brightly that he feared it must be visible to everyone, and was almost surprised that they didn’t notice any change in him. When he gazed back at the forbidding black hulk of the monastery he found it had become to him the most precious place in all the world.

Or one room within it had. That room with the deep window full of dusk. The low straw bed. The way that Parthenal had bent and kissed him… He shuddered with anguish and delight, remembering.

And now he was shuddering with apprehension at the ringing of the bowl. Clear and lovely as the sound was, it held for him a threat. He knew that strife and anger lay within, waiting to pour out.

There was already enough strife and anger at the news about the stonemen’s youth. Tamu was not sure what to make of that, having seen stonemen for the first time only very recently, at a distance, before they were all killed by Solon’s company. But whatever the truth about the stonemen, it was plain that no more strife was needed now: and if the inscription on the bowl were to be understood by Kelvha, it would cause uproar. Kelvha – a mere vassal state of Caervonn! Kelvha’s first king not a king at all – no more than a tribal chieftain subject to the ruler of the Vonn!

It would not matter that the ancient bowl had no legal standing. It was the fact of its existence – its being treasured by Huldarion – that would make it so offensive to the Kelvhan lords.

And Tamu had translated the inscription. So at the onset of the bowl’s ringing, his first instinct was not just to lurk, but to hide.

Leor came striding fast towards him, almost at a run.

“What’s happening?” asked Tamu.

“Huldarion’s furious. I’m getting out of the way.”

Tamu shrank from the idea of such fury – not just Huldarion’s, but the Kelvhans’.

“Leor,” he said desperately, turning to the wizard, “I would rather not be seen for a while. Can you help?”

“What?”

“Can you make me invisible?”

“Why?”

“Just because,” said Tamu helplessly. The ringing continued, like a brilliant lamp of sound, a summons that caused the feet to twitch and want to run towards it – as indeed many Riders were now doing. Nearby, a group of men from Melmet began to argue whether they should follow the ringing. But Tamu wanted only to escape.

Leor shook his head. “I can make myself invisible,” he said, “or hard to see, at least, which is not really the same thing. And I’ve done the same to animals. But I cannot do it to another person.”

“Can your brother?”

“Probably,” said Leor gloomily. “Why do you want to disappear?”

“Like you, I’d just prefer to stay out of the way.” Now he could see Nerogun riding up to the priest’s cart, along with Iajo the savage armourer; and his heart thumped. What were they saying? He could not tell. But at last the ringing faded into silence. That was a relief.

The tallest of the men of Melmet standing nearby said, “They’re all looking at something that they took out of that cart. Wonder what it is?”

“Stars help me!” muttered Tamu.

The man turned and looked at him: a loud and thuggish man, whom Yaret had once introduced to him as Inthed, and whom ever since Tamu had been careful to avoid.

“You’re that friend of Yaret’s, aren’t you?” he demanded.

“Yes,” he said. “Where is she?” But he knew that Yaret couldn’t help him either.

Nobody could. For now he heard a shout. “Tamu! Tamu!” And he saw a figure by the cart mount a horse and start to ride towards him.

He knew that purposeful, strong figure. It was Iajo, of all men after Nerogun the one he feared the most. Should he run? No, that was useless. If Leor could not hide him, he could not hide himself. And running implied guilt.

So as Iajo approached he waited, trying not to tremble. He was guilty of nothing, after all.

The armourer pulled his horse up sharply. The animal jerked its head and snorted. “So here you are, Tamu. You’re wanted by the Lord Nerogun.”

“What for?” said Tamu. He found himself amazed that he could speak at all.

“For questioning,” Iajo answered with a leer. “About some fancy bowl. Your master the Post-Regent thinks your place is with the Kelvhan troops where he can keep an eye on you.”

“I am not at present in his employment,” Tamu said.

“You’re always in his employment,” said Iajo. “Are you coming, or do we have to drag you?”

To Tamu’s great surprise, another voice spoke up: not Leor, but the thuggish Inthed.

“You can’t take him,” he said. “He’s mine.”

“What?” Iajo looked confounded for a moment.

“He’s mine. He’s my slave,” said Inthed belligerently. “I won him in a bet.”

“True enough,” said his companion, a grizzle-headed barrel of a man. “Inthed here won him fair and square at dice. Tamu is ours.”

“And we’re not Vonn,” said Inthed. “So you can’t tell us what to do.”

Iajo looked enraged. He wheeled his horse round so vigorously that it tried to buck until he hit it round the shoulders. Then he laughed. “Oh, so you won him? He’s your type, then, is he? A little crooked bum-boy?”

“What?”

“Don’t you know what he is?”

Tamu wanted to melt into the ground. Inthed looked taken aback. But then he said determinedly, “I beat him at dice, and he’s in our service now. To groom our horses.”

“Oh, of course. Well, grooms are famous for it.” There was a sneer in Iajo’s voice.

The second, grizzled man looked levelly at Iajo. “Live and let live, is what I say.”

“It’s what I say too,” announced Inthed pugnaciously. “He’s mine, won fair and square, and you can’t have him.”

In answer, Iajo wheeled his horse around again, grabbed Tamu by the collar, almost choking him, and forced him to stumble to the horse’s side. He could feel the horse trembling almost as much as he was himself. He felt for it but also feared that it would kick him.

“Try and stop me,” Iajo snarled at the pair. They looked wary.

“We’ll want him safely back here in one piece,” said the grizzled man.

“We’ll see,” Iajo said, and he wrenched Tamu away. The men of Melmet shifted but did not try to hinder him.

Nor did Leor. That hurt Tamu more than the grip of Iajo’s fist. The two northerners had made an attempt on his behalf, quite unexpectedly, and he was surprised and grateful. He would not forget it. But Leor! The wizard had more authority, yet he had said nothing, done nothing. Tamu felt that he would never be able to forget that either.

And now he was being dragged along past scattered members of the Vonn, and some of them did remonstrate with Iajo about his roughness though not about the armourer’s right to kidnap him. He was being restored to his proper place with Kelvha, and they could not interfere.

But then Parthenal came striding over and stood full in the horse’s way as Iajo pulled Tamu along. He was not a man who could be sneered at like the Melmet soldiers: his standing as one of Huldarion’s captains, his reputation as a warrior, his very stature and demeanour forbade it. Tamu felt a tremendous flood of love and pride flow through him. At the same time he wished furiously that Parthenal would go away, just walk away, say nothing! For he was terrified.

“You will treat him kindly,” said Parthenal, his voice stern. He put his left hand upon the head of Iajo’s horse. It stilled.

Iajo laughed. “Do you mean that beast? It’s mine and it knows to obey me. Or do you mean your little pet? We’ll treat him just as he deserves.”

“Which is kindly,” answered Parthenal. His right hand rested on his belt, next to his sword hilt. Tamu did not look at him. He willed him desperately to shrug and leave, because he did not want the armourer to link the two of them in any way.

“Oh, we know how you’d like to treat him,” said Iajo. “You soft-headed Vonn. No better than wanton girls, some of you. Now get out of my path.”

Tamu understood these veiled allusions although possibly Parthenal did not. Jaul knows, he thought. Jaul knows what happened. So Iajo knows. So Nerogun knows. Perhaps they all know about me and Parthenal.

And with the thought, his legs lost all their strength. He would have fallen but for Iajo’s grip.

Still Parthenal stood there, despite Tamu’s fierce willing. His right hand released his belt to rest lightly upon Tamu’s shoulder.

“Have courage, Tamu,” he said. “Kelvha will not hurt you.”

Go, go away, pay no attention to me, thought Tamu at him. Parthenal’s touch burned through his skin. He could not look up at that beautiful beloved face. And after a moment Parthenal did turn away at last and Iajo rode on, dragging Tamu with him.

Over the Red Roads the armourer led him, splashing through the shallow waters which caught at Tamu’s legs as if entreating him to stop and play. By the time they reached the Kelvhan camp his lower half was soaked and he was shivering from cold as well as fear.

“Where’s Nerogun?” said Iajo to a group of Kelvhan soldiers.

They bowed; one answered cautiously, “Still with the Vonn, sir. Is that the master archivist you’ve got there?”

“Wanted for questioning,” said Iajo. The other man looked at Tamu and then again at Iajo. He turned away, saying nothing.

As everyone in Kelvha does, thought Tamu in bitterness and anguish. Turn away and say nothing. He was dragged through a melée of horsemen – all looking at him, then looking away and saying nothing – until they arrived at the long ranks of Kelvhan carriages, so much grander and more colourful than the plain carts of the Vonn.

Now Tamu saw that he was not alone in his captivity. Fifty yards away the priest stood, trapped against a carriage, and surrounded by a gaggle of Prince Faldron’s underlings. When Iajo pulled Tamu over the underlings dispersed like rats at the sight of a snake. Tamu saw that the priest’s wrist was shackled by a chain tied to the carriage shafts. It filled him with a fresh surge of panic.

“We are citizens of Kelvha,” he said loudly and breathlessly as he was shoved towards the priest, and bundled round to face the cart. “According to the dictates of the fifth king of the city Khal-Torgun may his majestic name be lauded we may not be mishandled without a legitimising mandate from the highest authority of justice, for such is the right of the obedient and law-abiding citizen of the second tier.”

“Where do you get all that from?” demanded Iajo.

“That is the law,” said Tamu. In fact although such a citizen’s right had been made law at the time of the fifth king – a favourite period of his within the chronicles – he was not sure if it had since been repealed, or was simply generally ignored.

“Well, you’re in luck then, aren’t you,” sneered Iajo, “seeing as the highest authority of justice around here is his Lordship Nerogun. You’ll get full justice at his hands, don’t you worry.”

“Actually,” said Tamu, horrifying himself by his boldness, “you’re wrong. The highest authority here is not Nerogun. It’s the Lord High Prince.”

Then he winced as he faced the cart, expecting his retort to bring a blow, or at the very least a sneering dismissal.

Instead, there was a silence. Tamu half turned his head and saw Prince Faldron, sitting upright on his horse, looking down at them with an enquiring gaze. The other Kelvhan guards shrank back surreptitiously. After a moment Iajo made a sketchy bow.

“Hmm,” said Prince Faldron. “The fifth king, did you say, Master Archivist?”

“Yes... Yes, your Highness, the most august King Khal-Torgun the Wise, may he be honoured.”

“And the name of his son?”

“He had two, your Highness,” said Tamu. “King Khal-Meridigun the Impetuous, and his younger son Prince Sangiron the Adventurer.”

“Sangiron, yes,” said Faldron reflectively. “I recall. Are you familiar with the Chronicles of Sangiron?”

“I – I am, your Highness.”

“Well enough to recite them?”

“I believe so,” said Tamu, wondering where this was leading.

“Good,” said Faldron. “I would like some entertainment on these weary nights. We should have brought a minstrel or two. But you will do instead, my Master Archivist. You may stay within my valet’s cart, and be at call for when I require diversion.”

“Lord Nerogun wants him for questioning,” growled Iajo.

“Yes, I am aware of that, armourer. Some trivial matter of an inscription. Let us get it done with now. You read the writing on the Vonnish bowl, did you not, Master Archivist?”

“Yes,” admitted Tamu, inwardly trembling.

“And what did it say?”

“It said, that, ah, that the bowl was made at the request of King Dorial King of Caervonn, mighty and victorious, to celebrate the vanquishing in battle of some tribe whose name was unfamiliar to me.”

“Is that all?” asked Faldron.

“It gave some additional titles to King Dorial: um, the Magnificent, the Unsurpassed Warrior, The Bold Commander, Protector of his People…”

Tamu ran out of ideas. But Faldron nodded casually. It was the sort of inscription he was familiar with.

“That all seems straightforward enough,” he said. “Iajo? You may pass that information on to the Post-Regent Nerogun.”

“But Nerogun wants the man.”

“As I understood, he wanted merely the translation, not the man himself,” replied the prince. Tamu knew that it was probably the exact opposite of the truth. Nerogun cared little for the words upon the bowl – since he did not know what they actually were; but he cared much more to exercise his power upon a truant archivist of Kelvha. He licked his dry lips and waited for Iajo’s reaction.

Iajo seemed stymied for a moment. Then he demanded, “What about this priest? He’s here for questioning about the bowl as well.”

“The priest knows nothing of the bowl,” said Tamu to the prince, before Hokiro could speak. “He cannot read the script. He joined the Vonn in gratitude to the Lord Huldarion, who defended his temple against a mob after the fires. When he heard that the Lord Huldarion carried a fine heirloom in his train, he offered to protect it. That is all there is to the matter, is it not so?” He looked at the priest.

Thankfully Hokiro nodded, if a little uncertainly. “I am guided in all things by Borgun,” he said, and cast his eyes up to the clouds.

“Then Borgun can guide you off to Nerogun,” said Iajo. “Unless you want this one as well, Highness?”

“Armourer. You forget your place.” Faldron’s voice was cool and distant.

“My…?” The armourer turned and stared at the prince. Then, reluctantly, he bowed. “Your Highness.” There was an edge there, not quite of insolence, but not far off it.

“Take the priest. You are dismissed.”

Iajo unlocked Hokiro’s fetters and began to pull him away, Hokiro offering a hasty bow to Faldron before Iajo dragged him off. Tamu stood there submissively, feeling immensely relieved on his own behalf if not Hokiro’s, and wondering how much gratitude it would be wise to show. Certainly some.

“Your royal Highness, I am honoured by your attention,” he said, and would have added more had not Faldron waved him away.

“Yes, yes. You may stow your things inside that carriage. I may call for you later.”

Tamu did not dare to say that he had nothing to stow; which was surely obvious to the prince in any case. Faldron no doubt meant that he should stow himself well out of sight.

So he climbed up into the carriage – a substantial wagon, with a royal standard fluttering from its roof – and found it already occupied by a tall, middle-aged man, folding up clothes, who showed neither indignation nor surprise.

“Master Tamu,” he said. “Not much free space. You’ll have to sleep on top of that gown chest.” The cart was tightly packed with three large clothes chests, a couch, a folded decorative travelling-table, several gilded chairs, what looked like at least two suits of armour, but in bits, and smaller crates, one open to show jars of spices. All the accoutrements needed by a prince of Kelvha riding into battle.

Tamu looked around at this display of grandeur and then, more carefully, at the servant. “I thought you were a footman,” he said.

“I was. The castle steward, Mister Greshal, put me forward for this post. My name’s Obor.”

“What happened to the previous man?”

“Caught stealing,” said Obor. Tamu sat down upon the chest and watching him folding the gown. The man did not seem to mind. He was stolid, calm, quiet. Restful company.

I am fortunate, he thought. So much unforeseen good-will, or not ill-will, at least.

Apart from Leor… There, no will at all.

But am I any better than Leor? I have abandoned the priest, just as Leor abandoned me. Still, at least I gave Hokiro what I could. I gave him a story. Not enough, probably. But what else could I do, against the might of Kelvha?

What else could Leor do, against the might of Kelvha? Why should I have expected him to do anything? He would only get himself in trouble.

Trouble everywhere. The inside of the carriage seemed a haven of delights, a cloud of dreams. Sounds from outside were pleasantly muffled. This was a tiny world cocooned in finery.

He studied the gown in Obor’s careful hands, which was embroidered with a pattern of lozenges in gold thread on a silk of peacock blue, with braided buttons down the front. Its collar was softly trimmed with what Tamu thought at first was soft, fine fur. But as Obor gently straightened it, he saw that it was lined with feathers. Swansdown, maybe.

A sudden faint disturbance of the air made him and Obor both look up. There was nothing for them to observe but the heavy painted canvas of the carriage roof.

“Wings,” said Tamu. “I think I heard them earlier, beating overhead. But I could see no birds.”

Obor nodded, and kept on folding.