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

Chapter 5

“Hold still,” said Yaret. She laid a restraining hand on Veron’s shoulder as he tried to raise himself from the couch inside Meya’s ornate carriage. He was too weak to push against her. It seemed an odd reversal of a former time, on the midnight streets of Kelvha City, when he had seized her and dragged her down an alley. On that occasion she’d been helpless in Veron’s iron grip: but now he was the helpless one.

“You wriggle like a restless child,” said Shebel to him in courteous rebuke. “Does it hurt?”

A silly question, thought Yaret. Of course it hurt. The belvane that Huldarion had given Veron had had a minimal effect. She could tell that, not by any complaints he made, but by his face, gripped tight in pain. But she understood that pain was not the reason why Veron was trying to move.

“I know you want to be up and on your feet,” she told him, her hand still firmly on his shoulder, “because you don’t like being held down: but truly, you’ll heal faster with the star-moss kept in place.”

“I doubt it,” said Veron, his dark gaze snapping from one woman to the other.

“Why do you doubt it?” asked Shebel. Her tone was soft; and, to Yaret’s ear, ever so slightly patronising.

“Never needed it before,” Veron retorted. It was true that where the brienot had spared his legs, they were laced with old scars: some, at a guess, where he’d been gored by boar-tusks, and one appeared to be a vicious wolf-bite, while others less identifiable were no less cruel.

“You aren’t going anywhere for a while. Lay still,” commanded Shebel in her velvet tones.

“For a little longer,” added Yaret. “Until Lady Meya returns, at least.” She sympathised with him, suspecting that it was not the star-moss he resented – or even the necessity of succumbing to Shebel’s orders – but rather the fact that he had to do so in a Kelvhan lady’s carriage and on her fine embroidered bed.

However, now there came the rumble of another carriage drawing close to theirs. She heard Rothir’s voice with a faint but definite feeling of relief. They were safely back, then. Although there was no reason at all why they should not have been.

She heard the other carriage door open and the passengers descend. Meya’s voice spoke, so quietly that it was barely audible. “Rothir, I wish as few people as possible to know that my daughter has arrived.”

“I’m afraid a lot of people will have guessed,” said Rothir. “They knew the purpose of your journey.”

“None the less. Let them think that I was unsuccessful.”

Yaret stuck her head out of the carriage’s front awning. Meya frowned up at her.

“Can Veron be moved from there?” she asked.

“Better not just yet,” said Yaret, “although he’d be delighted to be free of Shebel’s ministrations.”

A small figure with tightly plaited hair was climbing down from Meya’s carriage. She looked about her solemnly, and then stared up at Yaret, who raised one hand in greeting. The child studied her and fingered her drab dun skirt as if wondering whether to curtsey, before she decided against it. Instead she rubbed her hands up and down her legs.

“I hurt my knee, mama, under that seat,” she said. “But I didn’t make a single noise, did I?”

“You did very well,” Meya assured her, with a faint throb in her voice which Yaret had not heard before. “And now, Aliya, it is time for you to meet the Lord Huldarion, who will be King of the Vonn, and who is so kindly looking after us.”

Nothing about her marrying him, Yaret noted – as doubtless did Huldarion himself, now striding towards them. But one thing at a time, she thought. First, the child had to meet Huldarion, and that was bad enough: for who could look on that dreadfully scarred face without flinching?

Aliya, however, did not flinch. She studied Huldarion as she had Yaret, with a faint frown, appearing to accept the scars. Then she whispered loudly to her mother, “Does he know who I am?”

“My dear,” said Meya with slight asperity, “he knows exactly who you are. And as I told you, not everybody needs to bow to you.”

Aliya evidently decided to remedy this omission with her own elaborate curtsey, so deep that she gave a wobble before recovering herself with massive dignity. “I am pleased to meet you, my Lord Odarion.”

Huldarion bowed stiffly, as was his wont, and held out his hand – the unscarred one. Aliya did not take it. Instead she turned and clung to her mother’s skirt, saying with a sob in her voice, “Mama, I’m tired and I’m hungry, and I want Flodda to put me on my proper dress!”

Yaret stepped fully out into the open. Up on the driver’s platform she swept her own bow, a more flourishing one than Huldarion’s.

“My Lady Aliya,” she said, “we hope this comfortable carriage will soon become available to you. The problem is, it already has an occupant whom we can’t kick out just yet – a renowned wolf-hunter who now lies wounded on the bed after being attacked by a fiendish magic plant. And that is entirely the truth,” she added, noticing Aliya’s eyes narrow, “and you may come and see him if you wish.”

Aliya needed no prompting. At once she released her mother’s skirt. Ignoring Meya’s attempt to restrain her, she scrambled up into the larger carriage, pushed aside the awning and surveyed Veron as he lay on the couch surveying her in turn. He had thrown off the coverings again and Shebel was tutting as she replaced the dislodged star-moss.

“Are you a famous wolf-hunter?” Aliya demanded.

“I am,” said Veron, with something of a snarl.

The snarl did not deter Aliya. “And have you been attacked by a magic plant?”

“He has indeed,” said Shebel.

Aliya sat down on the edge of the couch and inspected Veron’s half-covered shins. “A magic plant,” she said thoughtfully. “Hmm. It looks very red. If it was really magic I think you ought to see a wizard.”

“We have a wizard around somewhere,” said Yaret, “but I have to say he hasn’t been a great deal of use so far.”

Aliya settled herself more comfortably on the end of the couch. “When I feel ill, I like my maid to tell me a story,” she said to Veron, who gazed at her with a faintly appalled expression. “So I am going to tell you a story, Mr Wolfman, but you have to lie still and listen. It will make you feel better.” She looked up at Yaret. “You may bring my bags in now,” she said.

“Oh no,” said Veron. He looked more disconcerted than Yaret had ever seen him.

“Oh yes,” said Yaret, and retreated. As she climbed down from the carriage she heard Aliya’s voice.

“I said, lie still and listen. I am going to tell you a story about some ducklings and a naughty orange fox – no; I mean a naughty purple wolf.”

Veron’s voice rumbled, too muffled for the words to be distinct.

“This one is purple,” said Aliya, more clearly, and severely.

Yaret walked over to Rothir who was handing bags down from the back of Meya’s carriage to Camburé and a small maid who looked half-starved. As this servant put the last bag down, she turned and addressed Meya with nervous boldness.

“Ma’am, if you please, if it pleases you – if Aliya’s presence is to be kept secret, perhaps I could keep her by me as if she were my own child, ma’am, as I did at the Lord Hapligan’s.”

“An excellent idea,” put in Yaret, seeing from Meya’s thunderous expression that she was about to disagree.

“Indeed, it would seem politic,” said Camburé.

Meya’s mouth opened and closed again, before she said, barely opening her lips,

“Perhaps, then, Flodda, for a day or two. Just until she arrives at the farm where she is to stay.”

“It would be a wise precaution,” said Huldarion gently. Meya did not look at him.

“Am I to accompany her there also, ma’am?” asked the nursemaid.

“I expect so, Flodda. Yes.” Meya’s reply was barely audible.

“We can explain the necessity to Aliya,” said Yaret. “She seems like a bright child.” She turned to Flodda. “Have you knowledge of herbalism?”

“A little, ma’am.”

“Then you can be an army medic for the time being,” she suggested to the nursemaid. “You could stay in this carriage, perhaps, in pretence of tending the wounded man who currently lies there. In fact, you could usefully tend to him in earnest, if he will allow you. Aliya could stay with you, in the rear section, as if she were your daughter, while her true mother is in this neighbouring carriage.”

“Indeed, that arrangement will do until we reach the farm, my dear,” said Huldarion.

Meya sighed. “She’ll complain about her hair,” she said a little dully.

“Good,” said Yaret, “if it means that she complains of nothing worse. I expect she has a great deal to worry about just now, but let her pretend it’s only clothes and hair and it’ll be easier for her to cope with.”

Meya drew herself up as if to retort sharply – probably along the lines, Yaret predicted, of Pretend? How can you pretend to understand my child? But then she merely sighed again and nodded resignedly.

“We will move on to the farm as soon as may be,” said Huldarion.

“What, this whole army?” Meya asked.

“This is only half our army: the other active Riders of the Vonn will be already mustering at Olbeth’s farm. It’s an important source of stores for us – the only one in this area, in fact, since Bruilde’s farm is gone. So there the whole army will load up with provisions.”

“Then let us leave as soon as possible,” said Meya somewhat sadly.

“I will give the orders to move on,” replied Huldarion gently. He paused, looking at her as if he wished to say more. But she did not even glance at him before he walked away.

The bags that had been unloaded from the back of one carriage were hoicked up into the other. Meya and the subdued nursemaid climbed in. Lucky Veron, thought Yaret; she had no doubt that if he’d had the strength, he would have leapt out of the bed and made a swift escape.

She turned to Rothir. “Why the need for secrecy about Aliya?”

“A troop of soldiers stopped us on the way back here. I’m sure they were checking for her presence.” He was looking grave.

“But why? She’s five! Surely not even Nerogun could wish harm on a five year old child.”

Rothir shook his head. “It’s not the child herself that counts,” he said. “It’s the possibility of using her – whether for ransom or negotiation. She’s a lever. And I’m not totally convinced that it was Nerogun who sent those soldiers.”

“Why? Who else commands the Kelvhan soldiers?” Then she caught at the memory of a face; one she had seen after the battle in the northern Outland Forts. Old, sharp, grey-bearded, wily. “You mean Shargun? The Arch-Lord Marshal?”

“And nominal head of the Kelvhan army. Possibly. Actually I don’t know who I mean. That’s half the problem. When we reach the farm, will you come with me to meet Olbeth?”

“Oh,” said Yaret, taken aback. “Me? I mean, yes, of course I will – but she doesn’t know me. With so many hundreds of Riders, surely there are old friends she’d rather meet.”

“Plenty of time for all that. We’ll be there for a few days. I think you’ll like her,” said Rothir.

“Well... I hope she will like me.” Whilst she was not generally made shy by unfamiliar company, Yaret felt herself becoming anxious at the prospect of meeting Rothir’s sister. Yet there was no sane reason why that should be.

There was an insane reason, of course. But she was schooling herself to understand that Rothir did not think of her that way. So it was an unwelcome jolt to be made aware that despite her frequent sensible self-admonitions, she still thought of him with more than simple friendship.

That was something she would have to change. It would not be easy. And she felt the necessity for it as a kind of grief. She told herself, severely, that she had far greater causes for unhappiness. How could she place the deaths of all her countrymen on a lower tier than her own self-centred longings?

It is because I am alone, she thought, that I cling to this desire for closeness with Rothir. But the ones that I have lost, and the few I left behind, must not be forgotten. They must come first, always.