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

Chapter 3

“I expect you may be left with scars,” said Meya to Veron, who was lying prone within her carriage, “but no lasting damage. The wounds look superficial. There is hardly any blood.”

She was aware that she sounded more peremptory than sympathetic. She did not like Veron – an uncouth man who paid little heed to ceremony, appearing wholly unaware of the respect due to her rank – and beyond that, she was afraid of him.

It was not a pleasant feeling. Meya was not given to unnecessary fear and did not care to admit her unease even to herself. But Veron made her wary. Even now, while lying safely disabled on the comfortable couch within her carriage, the huntsman eyed her as a not-too-hungry wolf might eye a goose.

However, I’m no goose, she thought, except perhaps in stubbornness; and in protective fierceness where my offspring is concerned. In defence of my own daughter I would fight off any wolf.

The thought of Aliya brought that familiar surge of love, so close to pain. She turned to Shebel, the Riders’ herb-mistress who was waiting by her side, and told her, “You may as well try that moss of yours, now that we have stopped for the night.”

On her other side Huldarion looked on, his face showing as much concern as she had ever seen on it. Meya was learning to read that lean scarred face despite its immobility. She both resented and admired the solicitude he showed for his wounded Rider. Her own father, the esteemed General Borovin of Kelvha, had instilled in her the importance of attending to one’s inferiors.

Carefully Shebel began to apply poultices of dampened star-moss to Veron’s legs: the network of red oozing weals ran from the man’s knees down and round his shins.

A primitive treatment, Meya thought, no better than a folk remedy used out of habit and desperation. But then my salves have not succeeded in soothing the inflammation or lessening the pain.

Watching Shebel’s deft, skilled hands at work, she conceded to herself that she felt like an imposter in offering to tend the wounded man. It was true that she had nursed her mother prior to her death, and had treated many castle servants for more minor ailments; yet that made her no doctor.

However, Meya would never acknowledge such a failing aloud, even though she now found herself with nothing to offer but advice. And she would offer that to Veron whether he wanted it or not, because it made the loftiness of her position clear.

“You need to keep yourself still,” she instructed him. “No riding until your legs are healed. Drink plenty of water, and keep your body cool. You may have the use of this carriage for as long as you require.” She resigned herself to using her smaller, second carriage: a travelling-coach with narrow seats and space for luggage, not designed for comfortable sleeping, although it was where Janeya currently slept in the guise of her maidservant.

Instead, Janeya would have to sleep on the ground with the women Riders. It was a lot to ask of such a high-born lady – even one who had disgraced herself as Janeya had – but the girl would not complain. She was still too wrapped up in mourning her lost footman.

Meya felt some pity for her, but not a great deal, because Janeya’s pain was self-inflicted and only in her mind. For all her dislike she felt more pity for Veron, whose physical pain was evident. Despite her reassurances she knew his wounds were of a nature outside her experience.

Tough as an iron cable, she thought, for he uttered not a single moan while Shebel tended to his red-streaked legs; but the tension in his face betrayed him.

“No bandages,” he said in a weak rasp.

“Really?” said Shebel. “Then I shall leave your legs loosely dressed, just enough to keep the star-moss in place.” Her soft voice held compassion. From Veron, no response except a faint twitch of the jaw. Meya remembered that Uld’s horse, along with four others, had had to be put down in its increasing agony, which had not abated but had rather grown throughout the day, despite the plants’ removal and the attempts of the wizard to alleviate the pain. His magic spells had done nothing for them or for Veron.

Huldarion leaned over the couch. “I have painkilling drugs that you can take,” he said.

Veron shook his head. “I’m not a stoneman.” His voice was barely there.

“I know that. I do not mean the Athelid the stonemen use; only ethlon. If you don’t care for that, I have a medicine from Farwithiel called belvane, which is not addictive as ethlon is. It is not as strong either, but it serves to take the edge off.” Meya was reminded that Huldarion himself was an expert in enduring pain; he only occasionally allowed himself the minimum of medication to dull the throb and pull of his twelve-year-old burns.

After a few seconds Veron nodded. Huldarion reached under the folds of his cloak and brought out a vial. He raised Veron’s head with a gentle hand, so that Meya immediately felt excluded. Such tenderness, for such an uncouth man!

“I will have food and water sent in to you,” she said, and parted the curtain to step out of the carriage. Outside, several Riders and a pair of shaggy huntsmen were waiting for news.

“How is he?” Delgeb asked.

“He is in pain,” said Meya haughtily. She did not particularly care for Delgeb, any more than for Veron, and for similar reasons. A senior Rider she might be; but she lacked respect. She was loud and even pushy. Most unfeminine.

I too am pushy, an inner voice informed her.

But I am never loud, Meya corrected it swiftly. Or hardly ever. Only when needful. And I am of the highest rank of Kelvha and soon to be the queen of all these Riders. They should remember it.

So, adopting her most queenly manner, she announced, “The King is with Veron and is advising him on medicines for the pain.”

“The King!” said Delgeb. “He is not that yet.”

“It sounds strange to hear him called so,” commented Maeneb, who stood apart from the others. She could hardly talk of being strange, thought Meya; with her remote air and clipped speech Maeneb was, for all her beauty, one of the oddest women Meya had ever met... apart from the Lady Gaelera, with whom Maeneb had mysteriously become friendly back in Kelvha Castle. That unlikely friendship had filled Meya with a faint disquiet.

“Are we to ride on?” The query was from Piril. She was as bad as the rest. For a mere servant-girl to speak so bluntly to her, with no If it please my lady…

Meya felt a second’s outrage, and had to subdue it. For was she not responsible for Piril’s presence? Had she not arranged the escape of Piril and Janeya from the castle? If Piril no longer regarded herself as a lowly maidservant, Meya had only herself to blame. Perhaps she should have left the girl to suffer whatever punishment the Post-Regent might have chosen for her.

But no. That would not be right. Although she had no knowledge of what Nerogun got up to in his dungeons she was sure that it would not agree with her own ideas of justice.

So she swallowed her resentment and told Piril, “The army is to ride on with all speed, now that we have reached this more salubrious country.” They had left the desert of dust behind them, crossing woodland to reach an area of normal if unpopulated pastures.

“How will Veron travel?” This was one of the huntsmen, a wild-looking fellow.

“In my carriage,” answered Meya haughtily. “I have offered it for his use. I myself will leave you for a little while, and travel in my other coach to fetch my daughter.”

“Not alone, surely,” Delgeb said.

“Certainly not. There will be a driver. And the King – the Lord Huldarion, I should say – has allotted me four Riders to accompany me on the journey. Perhaps you could be so good as to summon them, Delgeb, for they are not all familiar to me. Rothir I believe I know. But Ikelder I do not; nor the Lady Camburé, although I am informed she is a sister of the Lady Tiburé. The fourth is Lady Tiburé’s daughter, the Lady Alburé, whom I have met before.”

“We will send them here to you,” said Delgeb with a bow. These female Riders did not curtsey, only bowed, an aberration of which Meya did not approve.

Maeneb bowed likewise. As the pair of them strode away in their unbecoming fashion, the others followed, the huntsmen trooping off reluctantly. Only Piril paused, and then dropped her a deep curtsey.

“My lady,” she said. Well. That was better. “My lady, I will go with you as your maidservant, if you so desire.”

“Thank you, Piril. But I need no servant for this short journey, and my daughter Aliya has her own nursemaid. It’s better that you should stay here with your mistress – I mean, your fellow-maid Jebil, who must now leave my second carriage. She may need looking after. I shall go and speak to her now.” Meya thought it was fortunate that there was no-one around who could have overheard her slip. Although several of the female Riders of the Vonn were aware of Jebil’s true identity, the male Riders were not.

And Huldarion was not. Meya did not like this secret that she had to keep from him. But if Lady Janeya’s identity should somehow be discovered – which the stars forbid – it must be provable that he was not complicit.

Piril bowed, dropped another curtsey, and then both frowned and smiled in confusion.

“A curtsey will suffice, my girl,” said Meya, conscious of her own magnanimity. No doubt Piril was trying her best in difficult circumstances; which was more than Janeya was doing.

When she entered her second carriage Janeya – now called Jebil – was in the luggage area at the back, crying again. Was the girl made of water? Her eyes were so red, her skin so blotched, her hair scraped back so unattractively that she was unrecognisable as the lively, high-born lady who once graced the dancing-hall of Kelvha Castle.

The one Huldarion should have chosen as his wife, thought Meya, before she sternly rebuked herself. Huldarion chose me, and he was right to do so. I shall prove that he was right... So long as I can be faithful to both him and Kelvha.

She stood still for an instant, caught in that thought, before addressing the weeping girl.

“Janeya, my dear. You are to join the ranks of Vonnish women for a while. This carriage is needed, for I am to go and fetch my daughter. You know that she is staying in the household of your relatives? Your uncle Melegan’s family?”

Janeya raised her blotchy face. “You told me Melegan is out of favour now,” she said dully.

“Sadly so. But while I’m there I can sound out his relations, the Lord and Lady Hapligan; and perhaps I can learn where some suitable refuge may be found for you.”

Janeya shook her head. “I want no refuge,” she murmured, “except in the grave with Lorolo.”

“My dear Janeya,” said Meya bracingly, “we don’t know that Lorolo is in the grave.” However, there was a fairly good chance of it, she thought. “Now gather your things. Piril will look after you.” Moved to pity by the girl’s wretched appearance, she moved forward to give her a brief, affectionate hug. Janeya succumbed but did not respond, so she stepped back again.

As Janeya mutely gathered up her bundles, Meya reflected that she certainly needed looking after. Piril would do that, as she had done for years… until she had betrayed her mistress.

Was Piril trustworthy? Well, she had also helped to save Janeya. And anyway the two of them would soon be gone – within a day or two, she hoped, once she had learnt where the Lord and Lady Hapligan would be retreating to. As Melegan’s relatives, they would probably seek obscurity in some far-flung corner of the Kelvhan dominions, but that very obscurity meant the girls would be as safe with them as anywhere.

She hustled Janeya with her belongings out of the carriage and towards the camp of female Riders just in time: for as she returned Huldarion came striding up to her. Her heart began to beat a little faster. Why was that?

It is this secret that I have to keep, she thought. How angry would he be to learn it? I am teaching myself to read his countenance, but I do not know the tenor of his mind. And yet I’ve lain with that scarred, strong, able body... Perhaps the body means more to me than the man does.

That was a disconcerting thought. Meya curtseyed low to hide her face in case it showed her guilt.

“No need for that,” said Huldarion, a little as she had just spoken to Piril. “I wonder if I ought to come with you when you go to fetch your daughter?”

“There is no need for that either,” she replied, raising her head. “You’ve given me four Riders. Why do you think you ought to come as well?”

He swept his arm back. “Because of what just happened on the march out of Kelvha. Because of the trap that was laid for us.”

Meya was startled. “Was that a trap? Was it not simply… some malign but random magic? Nobody could have guessed beforehand that you would choose to leave the causeway and cross that stretch of land.”

“So I would have thought,” he answered gravely. “We did not decide on that direction until the night before. I had considered that if any attack were to be made, it would be more likely on the causeway, where there are large areas of cover. I did not expect an ambush on that open, empty ground.”

“Yet you were ambushed,” she said. “And by a weed.”

“By sorcery. Which means that we were watched. Those dead stonemen that we saw may, I suppose, have been the spies, who then were felled by their own weapon – or rather, by Adon’s.” Huldarion sighed. “I hoped we might be free of spies once we’d left Kelvha. But now I must assume the opposite. We must be on our guard at all times.”

“Do you think Aliya may be at risk?” she asked anxiously.

“I was thinking more of you,” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.”

“But I would rather look after you, my dear.” He was standing close to her, so close that she could scent that strange faint odour of his body, both alien and attractive; which brought a disconcerting rush of memories of their bed. He took her hand.

Meya was alarmed. What was the meaning of this unnecessary gallantry? Although she had pledged to marry Huldarion, that was purely a political decision for both of them, was it not? The bedding had been an unexpected shock of pleasure; but this pretence at romance was not needed. And if it was not mere pretence – well, she needed the real thing even less.

“The men and women you have allocated to protect me will do that task ably for you,” she said, smiling, “and here they are now.” The arrival of the four Riders gave her an excuse to withdraw her hand from his.

The mere sight of Rothir, she thought, stern, broad and shaggy, should induce any lurking stonemen to run away immediately. The man beside him, thinner and awkward in his movements, with a crooked smile, was, she guessed, the promising young captain Ikelder.

Alburé – a handsome girl – appeared fittingly lofty and ladylike. The other woman, sadly, did not. This, presumably, was Camburé: faded and plain-faced, in an equally plain gown, she looked no more distinguished than a housekeeper of the middle tier. Meya suppressed a sigh at the thought of how far she was from the grandeur of Kelvha Castle.

“Ladies, please to accompany me in my carriage,” she said graciously. “The gentlemen shall ride. Shall we be gone without delay? I long to see my child.”

Even as she uttered the last sentence she wished it had been left unsaid. It sounded too dramatic, although it was true indeed – her longing for Aliya was a constant physical ache, the sense of her daughter’s nearness like a punch to the heart; yet that was exactly why she wished she had stayed silent. She had exposed herself.

And there was another worry. As the ladies settled in the cramped seats of the enclosed front section of the carriage, Meya found that various fears kept pushing forward in her mind. How was Aliya? Would her daughter be ready to leave at such short notice? For the sake of secrecy, no messenger had been sent ahead: they were not expected. How quickly could the nursemaid pack?

Outweighing all these was the worst fear of all. How well would Aliya remember her? Her child was only five, and it was a full two months since the last of Meya’s all too short, infrequent visits. Would Aliya even want to go away with her? What if her daughter cried?

This was so dismaying a prospect that Meya found herself barely able to make conversation as they swayed and jolted over the rough terrain in the rattling carriage. Her companions were no help; Alburé seemed lost in gloomy thought, while her drab aunt Camburé made a few mundane observations that required little answer.

“The countryside must be a lovely place for your daughter to grow up.”

“Yes, indeed, a very healthy place,” said Meya.

“And I understand she is to stay for a while on Olbeth’s farm. Also a very healthy, pleasant place. I am sure that she will like that too.”

“I trust so,” Meya answered coolly.

But that brought another worry. What sort of farm would this Olbeth woman have? Would it be suitable? What sort of person would she be? Peering out of the side window she saw Rothir’s forbidding countenance as he rode watchfully along. Would Olbeth be as grim and unprepossessing as her brother? What should Meya do if her child were to be made unhappy?

It seemed an endless journey to the tidy fields and orchards of the Hapligan estate. By the time the carriage rattled up the tree-lined driveway to the long low manor-house, her mind was a whirlpool of love and longing mixed with apprehension. When she saw three carts parked up outside the colonnaded entrance, the apprehension grew.

The carts were half loaded with bedsteads, chests and boxes. More boxes, with clothes spilling from them, stood piled haphazardly nearby. A wicker hamper had shed its load of linen, which had been trampled in the mud: but no people were in sight to rescue it. What was happening here? Why was no-one coming out to meet them? Where was Hapligan?

As her carriage pulled up she did not wait for its door to be opened for her. The wheels had barely stopped when she rose from her seat and jumped out. It was undignified, but Meya did not care. One over-powering question pounded through her head, drowning out all others: Where is my daughter?