Achan stumbled through the darkness toward the barn. The morning cold sent shivers through his threadbare orange tunic. He clutched a wooden milking pail at his side and held a flickering torch in front to light his way.
He wove between dark cottages in the outer bailey of the castle, mindful to keep his torch clear of the thatched roofs. Most of the residents of Sitna still slept. Only a few of the twenty-some peasants, slaves, and strays serving Lord Nathak and Prince Gidon stirred at this hour.
Sitna Manor sat on the north side of the SiderosRiver. A brownstone curtain wall, four levels high, enclosed the stronghold. A second wall sectioned off the outer bailey from the inner bailey, temple, and keep. Achan wasn’t allowed to enter the inner bailey but occasionally snuck inside when he felt compelled to leave an offering at Cetheria’s temple.
The barn loomed ahead of him in the darkness. It was one of the largest structures in Sitna Manor. It was long and narrow, with a high, thatched gable roof. Achan shifted the pail to his torch hand and tugged the heavy door open. It scraped over the frosty dirt. He darted inside and pulled it closed.
The scent of hay and manure drifted on the chilled air. He walked to the center and slid the torch into an iron ring on a load-bearing post. The timber walls stymied the bitter wind, and Achan’s shivering lessened.
The torch cast a golden glow over the hay pile, posts, and rafters and made Achan’s orange tunic look brown. A long path stretched the length of the barn with stalls on each side penning chickens, geese, pigs, and goats. Two empty stalls in the center housed hay and feed. He approached the goat stall.
“Morning, Dilly, Peg. How are my girls? Got lots of milk for me?”
The goats bleated their greetings. Achan rubbed his hands together until they were warm enough to avoid getting him kicked. He perched on the icy stool to milk Dilly and begin his tedious routine. He could have worse jobs, though, and he liked the goats.
By the time Achan had finished with Dilly, the stool under his backside had thawed, though his breath still clouded in the torch’s dull glow. He lifted the pail to get a better look. Dilly had filled it a third. Achan set it between his feet, slapped Dilly on the rear, and called Peg. When he had finished milking her he moved his stool outside and set the pail on top of it. He grabbed a pitchfork off the wall.
“Anyone hungry?”
Dilly and Peg danced around as Achan dumped fresh hay into the trough. The goats’ excitement faded to munching. The other animals stirred, but they were not his responsibility. Mox, the scrawny barn boy, had arrived a few minutes ago and now shuffled from stall to stall at the other end of the barn.
As Achan leaned the pitchfork against the wall, he had to pause. A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. He felt the familiar pressure in his head. It wasn’t painful, but it brought a sense of a looming, sinister shadow. Someone was coming.
“Lo, Mox!” a familiar voice called from near the barn’s entrance.
“Moxy poxy hoggy face, we know you’re in here.”
Achan sucked in an icy breath and slid back into the goat stall. The voices belonged to Riga Hoff and Harnu Poe, Sitna Manor’s resident browbeaters.
Mox’s young voice cried out. “Stop it! Don’t do that! Ow!”
Achan set his jaw and thunked his head against the wall of the stall, earning a reprimanding look from Dilly. Poril would flay him if he returned late. And there was no guarantee he could beat both boys. He should mind his own business. Regular beatings had made him tough — they could do likewise for Mox.
Or they could cripple him for life. An image flooded his mind: a young slave being dragged through the linen field by Riga and Harnu. They’d crushed his hands so badly that all the boy could do now was pull a cart like a mule. Achan sighed.
He edged to the other end of the barn, stepping softly over the scattered hay. Two piglets scurried past his feet. He clenched his jaw. If the animals got out, Mox would be punished by his master too. Riga and Harnu knew that, of course.
Achan spotted them in a pig stall at the end of the barn. Harnu was holding Mox’s face in a trough of slop. The mere thought of the smell turned Achan’s empty stomach. Riga leaned over Harnu’s shoulder, laughing, his ample rear blocking the stall’s entrance. Fine linen stretched over Riga’s girth and rode up his back in wrinkles, baring more skin than Achan cared to see.
He sent a quick prayer up to the gods and cleared his throat. “Can I help you boys with something?”
Riga spun around, his mess of short, golden curls sticking out in all directions. His face was so pudgy Achan could never tell if his eyes were open or closed. “Stay out of this, dog!”
Harnu released Mox and pushed past Riga out of the stall. The torch’s beam illuminated his pockmarked face, a hazard from working too close to the forge. “Moxy poxy piglet got out of his pen. He needs to learn his place.” Harnu stood a foot taller than Riga and was the real threat in the barn. He stepped toward Achan. “Looks like you need to learn yours too.”
Achan held his ground. “Let him go.”
Harnu’s gaze flitted to a pitchfork propped against the wall. He grabbed it and swung. Achan jumped back, but the tines snagged his tunic, ripping a hole in the front and scratching his stomach. Achan squeezed his fists and blew out a long breath.
Harnu jabbed the pitchfork forward. Achan lunged to the side and grabbed the shaft. He wrenched the weapon away and spun it around, prongs facing Harnu. He waved it slightly back and forth, hoping to scare the brute into flight.
“The barn is off limits to your instruction. Anything else I can do for you boys? A little hay? Some oats, perhaps? Drag you to the moat, tie a millstone to your ankles, see how well you swim?”
Like a dog being teased with a bone, Harnu lunged.
Achan stepped back and raised the pitchfork above his head the way he’d seen knights do in the longsword tournaments. With nothing to stop his hurtling bulk, Harnu stumbled. Achan swung the tines flat against Harnu’s backside, and the bully knocked head first into the chicken pen. The birds squawked and fluttered, sending a cloud of dust over Harnu.
Riga slipped past the stall and made toward the milk pail. Achan darted forward and stuck the pitchfork in the clay earth to snag Riga’s foot. The big louse tripped and sprawled into the dirt and hay.
Footsteps behind Achan sent him wheeling around just in time to lift the pitchfork to Harnu’s chest. Over Harnu’s shoulder, Achan could see Mox climbing out of the geese pen with a squirming piglet under one arm.
Harnu raised his hands and stepped back, a thin scratch swelling across his reddened cheek. “Lord Nathak will hear ’bout this, stray. You’ll hang.”
Achan knew he wouldn’t hang for a tussle like this, but he might be whipped. And Lord Nathak’s guards were merciless. But Achan doubted Lord Nathak’s servants would bother their master with such a trivial matter. He shrugged. “Not much to tell. You fell into the chicken pen.”
“You attacked me with a pitchfork when I caught you trying to steal a horse.”
A tremor snaked down Achan’s arms. Stealing a horse was cause for a hanging. And no one — especially Lord Nathak — would take the word of a stray over a peasant, even one like Harnu. Achan jabbed the pitchfork out. “If Lord Nathak hears a breath of that tripe, I know where you lay your head.”
Harnu snorted and beat his chest with a clenched fist. “You dare threaten me?”
Achan glanced around for Riga, but the swine had vanished. He backed toward the hay pile, feeling cornered. Achan took another step back, keeping the pitchfork aimed at Harnu. His boot knocked against something.
Harnu cackled and pointed behind Achan’s feet. Achan looked down. The stool and pail lay on their sides, milk seeping into the clay soil.
Pig snout!
Riga charged out of the hay stall with a roar. Achan turned, but Riga jerked the pitchfork away. Harnu rushed forward and battered Achan to the ground.
The pitchfork dug into Achan’s back. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to give the brutes the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He was more upset over the spilled milk than the pain.
Pain, he was used to.
Mox pointed at Achan from the end of the barn, his face gooey with slop. “Ha ha!”
The ungrateful scab was on his own next time.
Dilly and Peg kicked against the wall of their stall, agitated by Achan’s distress.
Harnu crouched in front of him, grabbed the back of his head, and pushed his face toward the puddle seeping into the dirt floor. “Lick it up, dog!”
Achan thrashed in the hay but lost his battle with Harnu’s hand. He turned his head just as his cheek splashed into the milky muck. The liquid steamed around his face. Harnu released Achan’s head and sat back on his haunches, his wide lips twisting in a triumphant sneer.
Riga chortled, a dopey sound. “I’d like a new rug, Harnu. What say we skin the stray?” He dragged the pitchfork down Achan’s back.
They never learned.
Achan pushed up with his arms. The prongs dug deeper, but he was able to slide his right arm and leg underneath his body and twist free. He grabbed the handle of the pail and swung it at Harnu’s face. Harnu fell onto his backside, clutching his nose.
Achan scrambled to his feet. He grabbed another pitchfork off the wall and squared off with Riga.
The portly boy waddled nearer and lifted his weapon. Achan faked an upswing.
When Riga heaved the pitchfork up to block, Achan swung the shaft of his weapon into Riga’s leg.
The boy went down like a slaughtered pig.
Harnu approached, pinching his nose with one hand and wiping a fistful of hay across his upper lip with the other.
“This does grow old,” Achan said. “How many times do I have to trounce you both?”
“I’m telling Lord Nathak.” Harnu sounded like he had a cold.
“You’ve no right to attack us,” Riga mumbled from the dirt floor.
Achan wanted to argue, And what of Mox? but he’d sacrificed enough for that thankless whelp. He grabbed both pitchforks and fled from the barn.
Pale dawn light blanketed Sitna Manor. Achan jogged toward the drawbridge, glancing at the sentry walk of the outer gatehouse. The squared parapet was black against the grey sky. A lone guard stood on the wall above like a shadow.
Achan ran through the gate and over the drawbridge. As usual, the guards ignored him. Few people in the manor acknowledged anyone wearing an orange tunic. One small advantage of being a stray. He sank to his knees at the edge of the moat to wash the blood off the pitchforks.
Riga and Harnu wouldn’t let this go easily.
Achan sighed. His fingers stiffened in the rank, icy water. One of these days he’d accept pretty Gren Fenny’s offer to weave him a brown tunic, and he’d run away. He was almost of age — maybe no one would question his heritage. He could tell people his mother was a mistress and his father was on IceIsland. Sired by a criminal and almost sixteen, people wouldn’t ask too many questions.
But could Achan convince Gren to come with him? He scrubbed the pitchfork prongs with renewed vigor to combat the dread in his heart. Any day now, Gren had said. Any day her father might announce her betrothal and crush Achan’s hopes. He’d hinted at running away together, but Gren hadn’t seemed keen on the idea. She loved her family. Achan tried to understand, but as a stray, the concept of family was as foreign as a cham bear. He could only dream of it.
When the pitchforks were clean, Achan returned to the barn. His attackers had left and, thankfully, had not done any damage they could blame him for. He shuddered to think of what their feeble minds hadn’t. The torch still burned in the ring on the post. They could have burned the barn to ashes. They were truly the thickest heads in Sitna, maybe even in all Er’Rets.
Not that Achan was much brighter, sacrificing himself for an ingrate who was probably out chasing piglets.
Achan hung one pitchfork on the wall and used the other to clean up the hay. When the ground was tidy, he grabbed the empty pail and sat on the stool to catch his breath.
The consequences of his heroism were suddenly laid before him. The scratches on his back throbbed. The goat’s milk had completely soaked into the ground, the front of his tunic, and his face. Only the latter had dried, making the skin tight on his left cheek. His nose tingled from the cold. He shivered violently, now that he’d stopped moving. He scowled and pitched the pail across the barn. It smacked the goat stall, and the girls scurried around inside, frightened by the sound.
But Achan didn’t want a beating. So he picked the pail up again, dragged the stool into the stall, and managed to squeeze another two inches of milk from the goats. It was all they had. Poril would be furious.
Achan jogged out of the barn, around the cottages, and across the inner bailey. By now, more people were stirring — it was almost breakfast time. He wove around a peddler pushing a cart full of linens and a squire leading a horse from the stables. A piglet scurried past, just avoiding the wheels of a trader’s wagon. Achan ignored it. Mox could hang for all he cared.
Pressure filled his head again.
This time the insight that followed was not dread but kinship and hope. Achan paused at the entrance to the kitchens and turned, seeking out the source of the sensation. His gaze was drawn to the armory.
There, Harnu slouched on a stool clutching a bloody rag to his nose. His father stood over him, hands on hips. The warm glow of the forge behind their menacing forms brought to mind the Lowerworld song that Achan had heard Minstrel Harp sing in the Corner last night:
When Arman turns away, Shamayim denied
To Lowerword your soul will flee.
At the fiery gates meet your new lord, Gâzar
And forever in Darkness you’ll be.
Achan shuddered. The sensation of kinship was definitely not coming from them.
He spotted someone else. A knight stood leaning against the crude structure of the armory, watching Achan with a pensive stare. He wore the uniform of the Old Kingsguard — a red, hooded cloak that draped over both arms and hung to a triangular point in the center front and back. The crest of the city of Armonguard, embroidered in gold thread, glimmered over his chest. The knight pulled his hood back to reveal white hair, tied back on top and hanging past his shoulders. A white beard dangled in a single braid that extended to his chest.
Achan recognized him immediately. It was Sir Gavin Lukos, the knight who had come to train Prince Gidon for his presentation to the Council.
For what purpose did the knight stare? Achan had never met anyone above his station who hadn’t wished him harm or hard work. Yet his instincts had never been wrong. Sir Gavin harbored no ill will. Achan gave the old man a half smile before entering the kitchens to face Poril’s wrath.
Achan settled onto a stool by the chest-high table that was worn by years of knives and kneading. The kitchens were two large rooms under one roof. One was filled with water basins, tables, and supplies for mixing. The other held six chest-high tables and three hearth ovens that left the room sweltering nearly all day.
Poril, a burly old man with sagging posture, poured batter into stone cups and carried them to one of the hearth ovens. Serving women scurried about filling trays with food and gossiping about Lord Nathak’s latest rejection from the Duchess of Carm.
Achan’s stomach growled at the smell of fried bacon and ginger cake. He wouldn’t be able to eat until after the nobility were served, and then he would be allowed only one bowl of porridge. Poril had a knack of knowing if Achan had eaten something he shouldn’t have. Achan suspected the serving women’s tongues flapped for extra slices of Poril’s pies.
The scratches on his back burned. He was in no mood for Poril’s daily lecture, nor could he stomach the cook’s nagging voice and the queer way he spoke about himself using his own name. Especially not when he was hungry and had a beating coming. He only hoped Harnu would keep his accusations of thieving to himself. Maybe it was time to talk to Gren about that brown tunic.
Poril scurried back to the table with a linen sack of potatoes. His downy white hair floated over his freckled scalp. Sometimes Achan wanted to laugh when he watched Poril. The man looked more like he should be wielding a sword than a wooden spoon. Some of the serving women said Poril was part giant. Achan wasn’t convinced. The cook might be tall and thick, but his sagging posture and thinning hair just made him look old.
“It’s what comes from giving a stray responsibility, that’s what. But Poril’s a kind soul, he is. Mother was a stray and no kinder woman there ever was, boy, I’ll tell yeh that. Worked hard so Poril could have better, she did.”
Poril dumped the potatoes onto the table. Several rolled onto the dirt floor, and Achan scrambled to pick them up. He spotted a crumbled wedge of ginger cake on the floor and stuffed the spicy sweetness into his mouth. It was even a bit warm still. Achan took his time setting the potatoes back on the table and pressed the lump of cake into the roof of his mouth to savor it, hoping Poril wouldn’t see. Then he grabbed a knife and hacked at the peel of the biggest potato.
Poril pointed a crooked finger in Achan’s face. “It’s only ’cause Poril’s the best cook in Er’Rets that Lord Nathak won’t be aware of yer blunder with the milk today, boy. ’Tis my responsibility to beat some sense into yeh, not his. Poril’s a fair man, and yeh deserve to be punished, that’s certain. But turning yeh over to the likes of the master is cruel. And cruel, Poril’s not.”
Achan set the peeled potato aside and picked up another. Poril always threatened to tell Lord Nathak of Achan’s every misstep, but the man was all talk. He was more scared of Lord Nathak than Achan was. True, Poril was not as cruel as some, but he was of the opinion that beatings with the belt were kinder than beatings with a fist. Achan grew tired of both.
Poril clunked a mug of red tonic onto the table beside Achan’s potato peelings. Achan glanced at it.
The old man’s grey eyes dared him to refuse. “Drink up, then. Poril’s waiting.”
Achan sucked in a long breath and guzzled the gooey, bitter liquid. The taste killed the lingering ginger cake flavor on his tongue. He’d been fed the tonic every morning his whole life, and every morning Poril insisted on watching him drink.
The thick mixture always churned in his gut, begging to come back up. Achan sat still a moment, breathing through his nose to calm his nerves. Then he rose to settle his stomach with a few mentha leaves from the spice baskets. Achan might not have free range of the kitchens, but Poril had learned long ago to allow Achan as much mentha as he needed.
Poril always claimed that Lord Nathak had insisted Achan drink the tonic to keep away illness — that strays were full of disease. But the tonic hadn’t prevented Achan from being ill several times in his life. Plus no other stray he knew had to take it. The one time he’d refused, he’d received a personal summons from Lord Nathak.
Achan shuddered at the memory and chewed on the leaves. Their fresh taste dissolved the tonic’s bitterness and tingled his tongue.
Poril wiped his hands on his grease-stained apron and sprinkled a bit of sugar over the prince’s ginger cake. Hopefully he’d forget to clean the crumbs off the table when he left to deliver it.
“Never wanted yeh, Poril didn’t. But the master brought yeh to Poril to raise, and that’s what Poril’s done. Yeh brought none but trouble to the kitchens, the gods know. None but trouble. ’Tis why I named yeh so.”
As if an orange tunic wasn’t humiliation enough, achan meant trouble in the ancient language. Achan returned to his stool and raked the knife against another potato, trying to block out Poril’s braying voice. His pitchfork wounds stung, but it would be at least an hour before he could tend to them.
“…and Poril will teach yeh right from wrong too. That’s Poril’s duty to the gods.”
If that was true, Achan would like to have a little talk with the gods. Not that the all-powerful Cetheria would be burdened by the prayers of a stray — despite all the pastry tarts Achan had offered up at the entrance to the temple gardens over the years.
Day-old tarts didn’t compare to gold cups, jewels, or coins when you’re trying to win a god’s favor.
An hour later, Achan stood over the sink basin, washing dishes while Poril delivered Lord Nathak and Prince Gidon’s breakfast. There were servants to do the task, but Poril insisted on being present when the first bites were taken.
Achan shifted his weight to his other leg. He hated cleaning dishes. Standing in one position for so long made his back ache, and today, with his pitchfork wounds, the pain doubled.
Though strays were lower even than slaves in most parts of Er’Rets, Achan had more freedom than most slaves. Poril kept him busy tending the goats, getting wood, and keeping the fireplaces hot and both kitchens clean, but at least there was variety. Some slaves worked fifteen hours a day at one task. Such tediousness would have driven Achan insane.
Achan dried the last pot and hung the towel on the line outside. When he came back in, Poril had returned. The cook wiggled his crooked fingers, beckoning Achan to follow him down the skinny stone steps to the cellar. Achan sighed, dreading the bite of Poril’s belt buckle.
The cook lived in a cramped room off of the cellar, furnished with a straw mattress, a tiny oak table, and two chairs. Achan slept in the cellar itself, under the supports that held up the ale casks, although he barely fit anymore. He feared to be crushed in his sleep one night when he rolled against one of the supports and it finally gave way.
As per routine, Achan went to Poril’s table, removed his tunic, and draped it over the back of one chair. He straddled the other chair in reverse and hugged it with his arms. His teeth fit into the grooves of bite marks he’d made over the years. He clenched down and waited.
Poril ran a finger down one of the scratches on Achan’s back. “What’s this?”
Achan quivered at the feel of crusty blood under Poril’s touch.
“Well? Speak up, boy. Poril don’t have all day to waste on yer silence.”
“I met some peasants in the barn this morning.”
“Spilled yer milk, did they?”
Not exactly, but Achan said, “Aye.”
“Yeh cause trouble?”
Achan didn’t answer. Poril always complained when Achan defended himself or anyone else. He said a stray should know his place and take his beatings like he’d deserved them.
“Ah, yer a fool, yeh are, boy. One of these days yeh’ll be killed, and Poril will tell the tale of how he knew it would come to pass. The boy wouldn’t listen to Poril. Had to smart off. Had to fight back. Not even Cetheria will have mercy on such idiocy.”
Achan doubted it mattered if he stuck up for himself or not. If a stray was invisible to man, how much more so to the gods?
He heard the swoosh of Poril pulling his leather belt from the loops on his trousers. He hoped his pants fell down.
When Poril was done flogging Achan, he swabbed his back with soapy water, washed the blood from his tunic, and gave him an hour off to rest while it dried.
Good old Poril.
A kindly presence flooded his mind.
Achan was returning from the well carrying a heavy yoke over his shoulders with two full buckets of water. He rounded the edge of a cottage and found Sir Gavin Lukos heading toward him. Achan stepped aside, pressing up against the cottage and turning the yoke so the buckets wouldn’t hinder the great knight’s path. The buckets swung from his sharp movement, grinding the yoke into his shoulders.
Sir Gavin slowed. “What’s your name, stray?”
Achan jumped, wincing as the yoke sent a sliver into the back of his neck. Sir Gavin’s eyes bored into his. One was icy blue and the other was dark brown. The difference startled him. “Uh…Achan, sir.”
The knight’s weathered face wrinkled. “What kind of a name is that?”
Poril’s voice nagged in Achan’s mind, ’Tis trouble, that’s what. “Mine, sir.”
“Surname?”
Achan lifted his chin and answered, “Cham,” proud of the animal Poril had chosen to represent him. Chams breathed fire and had claws as long as his hand. Such virtues would tame Riga and Harnu for good.
Sir Gavin sniffed. “A fine choice.” His braided beard bobbed as he spoke. “I saw a bit of that ruthless bear in the barn with those peasants.”
Achan stared, shocked. He’d seen the fight? Would he tell Lord Nathak? “I…um…” Had Sir Gavin asked him a question? “I’m sorry?”
“I said, what’s your aim, lad?’
“I should like to serve in Lord Nathak’s kitchens…perhaps someday assist the stableman with the horses.”
“Bah! Kitchens and stables are no place for a cham. That’s a fierce beast. You need a goal fit for the animal.”
What could the knight be skirting around? “But I…I don’t have a…what choice have I?”
“Aw, now there’s always a choice, lad. Kingsguard is the highest honor to be had by a stray. Why not choose that?”
Achan cut off a gasping laugh, afraid of offending the knight. “I cannot. Forgive me, but you’re…I mean…a stray is not permitted to serve in the Kingsguard, sir.”
“It wasn’t always that way, you know. And despite any Council law, there are always exceptions.”
Achan shifted the yoke a bit, uncomfortable with both the weight and the subject matter. He cared little for myths and legends. Council law was all that mattered anymore. Despite his fantasy of running away, he was Lord Nathak’s property, nothing more. The brand on his shoulder proved that. “Even so, sir, one must serve as a page first, then squire, and no knight would wish a stray for either.”
“Except, perhaps, a knight who’s a stray himself.” Sir Gavin winked his brown eye.
A tingle ran up Achan’s arms. He’d known Sir Gavin was a stray because of his animal surname, but it had been years since strays had been permitted to serve. Surely he couldn’t mean—
“Come to the stables an hour before sunrise tomorrow. Your training mustn’t interfere with your duties to the manor. Tell no one of this for now. If I decide you’re worthy, I’ll talk to Lord Nathak about reassignment to me.”
Achan’s mouth hung open. “You’re offering to train me?”
“If you’re not interested, I’m sure another would be eager to accept my offer.”
Achan shifted under the weight of the yoke. “No. No, sir. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll show you a trick or two you don’t yet know.”
Achan grinned. “Yes, sir.”
At the rooster’s crow, Achan dressed and hurried out of the kitchens into the dark morning.
He stood for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. He hadn’t wanted to call the attention of Poril or anyone else by carrying a torch at this hour. The plump moon still hung low in the sky, and, with the torches lining the parapet wall above, the shapes of cottages slowly formed before him. He saw no sign of life but the sleeping guards on the parapet wall and the moths fluttering around the torches.
He started off at a silent jog, keeping on his toes. The frigid air stung his eyes. His mind raced. All his life he’d dreamed of being a knight: riding a horse and wielding a sword to protect the weak. Could the gods have finally taken notice of his measly offerings over the years? Could his station in life really change? If so, would Gren’s father look at him differently?
A sour thought slowed his steps, and he slid on the frosty dirt. How would he find time to serve two masters? Achan had seen Prince Gidon’s squires scurrying around the manor on various errands. How could Achan manage to serve Sir Gavin’s needs and Poril’s?
The stables sat between the gatehouse and the barn. The animal dwellings looked identical but for the stables being twice as wide. Most peasants felt the barn a waste of space, but the prince entertained often and needed the room to house his guests’ mounts.
Achan found Sir Gavin leaning against the western entrance to the stables, a torch in one hand. The knight smiled, his teeth thin and wolfish in the orange glow. Someone had obvious reasons for bestowing the surname Lukos. Or perhaps the name had changed the man. Achan hoped over time he wouldn’t grow to resemble a fire-breathing bear.
Sir Gavin’s smile faded as he looked Achan over. “You’re rail thin. Do you eat?”
“What I’m given.”
Sir Gavin slid his torch into a groove beside the stable door. “What do you know?”
“Kitchens, mostly.” Achan wrung his hands at his sides, his mind scrambling for words that might impress Sir Gavin. “I know about animals. I tend the goats, and I’ve helped Noam with the horses some.”
Several horses inside the stables whinnied as if in agreement.
Sir Gavin looked inside, perhaps wondering what had spooked the animals. He turned back to Achan. “Do you ride?”
“Never, sir.”
“Hmm. Can you read?”
“Some. Poril’s recipes and lists of ingredients.”
Sir Gavin held up a wooden practice sword, the sight of which warmed Achan’s soul. “Ever use a waster?”
“No, sir, but I’ve sparred with poles.” Servants gathered nightly to dance and play in the northeast corner of the outer bailey. Achan had grown up in the Corner, wrestling slave and peasant boys and fighting with sticks.
Sir Gavin grunted and looked slightly displeased. “How came you to Sitna?”
“Lived here all my life.”
“Your father?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Footsteps crunched over the frozen dirt. Noam, the stable boy, approached the entrance. Noam was tall and lanky and reminded Achan of Minstrel Harp’s song of the stretched man. Noam’s face was long and narrow and his thin frame seemed almost breakable. His gaze flicked between Achan and Sir Gavin. He met Achan’s eyes with raised brows. Noam hadn’t been at the Corner last night when Achan had told Gren about his opportunity with Sir Gavin. Noam pulled open the door and went inside, his torchlight spilling out the cracked-open door.
“What about your mother?” Sir Gavin asked.
Achan looked back to the knight and sighed. Some strays — like Noam — knew the identity of at least one parent, but Achan knew nothing of either. “I don’t know, sir.”
Sir Gavin raised a white bushy eyebrow, as if a stray not knowing the identity of his parents was some interesting fact. “How old are you?”
“Nearly sixteen.”
Sir Gavin raised the other eyebrow and rubbed his chin, his eyes boring into Achan’s. “You’ve not been a page, much less a squire — and most squires start at fourteen.” He squeezed Achan’s upper arm and sniffed long and hard like he was coming down with something. “You’ve got muscle, but you’ll need to get stronger. If the cook won’t give you enough, come to my quarters at mealtimes, and I’ll see you better fed. Tell no one of our arrangement for now. Come. Let us begin your training.”
Sir Gavin led Achan out of the stronghold and into a nearby wheat field. The sky was grey now, and the flat land stretched out in all directions. Frost painted glistening white stripes in the furrowed, dead fields.
Sir Gavin plunged the waster into the frozen earth and it listed to one side, not having gone very deep. He folded his arms. “First things first. Whenever you come against an attacker you need to study him in a glance. You’ve no time to dally in this, do you understand?”
Achan nodded. “What am I looking for, sir?”
“Weapons and armor, mostly. Different rules apply depending on whether your opponent is wearing armor, what kind of armor, and what kind of weapon you both have. There will be times when you see that you are outmatched. Every man wants to be brave, but sometimes it’s best to run.”
Achan had never heard of a knight running from anything.
Sir Gavin must have read his expression. “Aye, lad. We’ve all had to retreat at some point in life. Doesn’t mean we can’t keep fighting the next day. But you have to know when you’re beat. My point is, sometimes you can tell if you’re beat before you start fighting.
“Take a sword, for example,” Sir Gavin said, toeing the waster. “There are all types. Those with a rounded tip are cutting swords and therefore useless against all types of armor. And since that sword can’t cut through armor and doesn’t have a sharp point to pierce it, if you’re carrying a cutting sword and meet an armored opponent, you’re beat. Until you’ve been fighting as long as I have and are willing to risk your skill against armor — which is a daft thing to do, but you might have reason — you’d best not take on an armored man with a cutting sword. Understood?”
“Aye,” Achan said.
“Some will say that one should never fight without a shield. It’s true that the shield is a formidable weapon. One you can barely live without if you have no armor. But shields are often forgotten, broken, or dropped. So until you learn to hold your own without one, I shall not give you that crutch.”
Achan shifted and the frozen grass crunched beneath his feet. He struggled to grasp Sir Gavin’s meanings. It was almost as if the man were speaking in a foreign tongue. The sky was a pale grey now. They were running out of time before Poril would be expecting the milk.
“All right, then.” Sir Gavin yanked the waster from the grass and handed it to Achan, hilt first. “Let’s see your grip.”
Achan took the handle with both hands and spread his feet the way he’d seen knights do. He put his right foot forward and held the sword out in front, tipped slightly to his left.
Sir Gavin frowned and fingered his beard braid.
“Is something wrong?” Achan asked without moving. “Are my feet right?”
“You’re fine,” Sir Gavin said. “It’s just…not many are left-handed.”
Achan relaxed his posture and brought the sword down to his side. “Is that bad?”
The old knight’s eyes twinkled. It was like looking into two versions of the world: one a blue sky under a bright sun and the other a dark sky filled with stars.
“Not bad at all,” Sir Gavin said. “We will use this to your advantage. You will train right-handed as well as left-handed. A warrior is only as good as his biggest weakness. This way we will make you strong with both hands. It’s not a big difference with a longsword. You’ll notice it more with the short sword.”
A thrill washed over Achan. He was going to learn the short sword, too? “What other weapons will I learn?”
“Once you’ve got a grasp on the longsword, I’ll teach you the short sword and shield. Then the axe and the dagger. That should do to keep you alive.”
Achan’s eyebrows sank in puzzled humor. “Because so many are looking to kill me?”
“Riga and Harnu, to start.”
Achan stiffened. “I can take care of them. What about the lance, sir? Will I learn to joust?”
“No. Jousting is a sport these days. The lance will only slow down your training on the other weapons.”
“Are you in a hurry to teach me, sir?” Perhaps the knight would give him some important detail that would give him hope with Gren.
“Aye. I told you already: you’re behind. Practice all you can and waste no time on thoughts of jousting.”
The clip-clop of hooves turned Achan’s head back to the stronghold. Noam led Prince Gidon’s ebony courser over the drawbridge and into the field to exercise it. His curious gaze fixed on Achan and Sir Gavin.
The knight took the practice sword from Achan. “Keep this waster with you as much as possible, and whenever you can, practice guard positions. See here.” He raised the weapon above his head. “High guard.” He lowered it straight out in front. “Middle guard.” He pointed it at the ground between his feet. “Low guard. Practice switching between positions quickly and smoothly.” He swung the waster to the side of his right leg, then the left. “Back guards. Practice those too. You use an axe?”
Achan nodded. “Keeping the hearths hot is my responsibility.”
“Good. An axe uses different muscles than a sword. If I’m to train you in the axe, I need you strong enough to handle it.”
“But what about you?” Achan asked. “Shouldn’t I see to your needs? Clean your armor, get your meals? I’m not sure which horse is yours. How will I—”
Sir Gavin raised a calloused hand. “Not necessary, lad. You’ll be of little use to anyone a weakling. Get yourself strong first.” He handed the waster to Achan.
Achan accepted the sword without meeting Sir Gavin’s eyes. He was far from a weakling. His fight with Riga and Harnu was proof of that. Besides, the wooden sword was lighter than he expected.
But after practicing the guard positions over and over, Achan’s arms ached desperately and the waster didn’t seem so light anymore.
At sunrise, Sir Gavin dismissed him. Achan hid the waster under in his wool blanket and rushed through the milking with aching forearms.
When Poril left to deliver Lord Nathak and the prince’s breakfast, Achan quickly washed the dishes and ran to Gren’s cottage.
No one answered the door, so Achan jogged around to the back. He found Gren standing in a wooden tub, skirts hiked up to her knees, legs splattered with dark, smelly water. A long rack stretched creamy wool on tenterhooks behind her like a frame.
He stood watching her from the shaded wall of the cottage. Her chestnut hair hung long and silky to her elbows. As always, she wore her grass green dress that made her hair and skin look lustrous. Achan had once told Gren she looked pretty in green, and he’d never seen her wear another color since. He wished she’d wear a cloak, though. Outside in this cold with her feet in water like that…she was likely to catch a fever.
“Is it so terribly difficult to remember a cloak, Gren?”
She gasped and her wide, brown eyes found his. “You scared me!” She lowered her voice. “Well? How did it go?”
“He gave me a waster.”
“Really? How exciting!”
“If I became a knight…” Achan inhaled deeply, still slightly out of breath. The rank smell of urine and dung from Gren’s fulling water filled his nostrils. “Would that change your father’s opinion of me?”
Gren’s smile faded. She looked down to where her feet vanished into the smelly liquid and stomped on the fabric a bit. She didn’t speak for so long it seemed she’d forgotten to answer. “More wool,” she finally said. “We’re to dye it red for Prince Gidon. You’d think he has enough red clothing by now. I wish I could work with the silk that Lord Nathak orders on bolts from Nesos.”
Achan’s joy fizzled. Gren’s change of subject did not bode hopeful.
She must have read the disappointment on his face. “Oh, Achan,” she said. “You know Father’s been threatening to marry me off for two years.”
Two long, torturous years. He faked a smile. “I thought he was only teasing.”
She laughed, but it didn’t ring true. “I’m fifteen. Girls marry as young as twelve.”
Achan met Gren’s eyes for a moment. They were sad eyes, filled with heartache.
She looked back to her wool. “I think he’s settled on someone. I heard him and Mother talking about a…v-veil.” She paused as if to recover from saying that word. “He hasn’t told me yet, though…but…” She looked at him and sighed. “Doesn’t it take years to become a knight?”
Achan nodded. Plus, Sir Gavin had asked him not to tell anyone, which meant he couldn’t plead his case to Gren’s father without going against Sir Gavin’s wishes. Achan was going to have to scrounge the great hall for table scraps to take to the temple.
At this point, pleading to the gods was his only hope.
Achan sat on the ground in the Corner, leaning against the brownstone curtain wall. Gren sat on his right. Their shoulders touched, as if by accident, but their outside arms both reached behind their backs, where their fingers intertwined in secret.
Night had fallen, and Minstrel Harp stood on the back of a cart plucking his lute and singing a lament about a kinsman man who fell in love with an otherling woman. Such marriages were forbidden, but no law could dampen the affection they held for one another.
The song had transfixed the normally rowdy crowd. Even the small children were still as the bard sang. Achan wondered if the pie he’d taken from the kitchens to offer up to Cetheria would make a difference — and if Poril would notice it missing.
The Corner was literally the northeastern corner of the outer bailey. The space was too jagged and narrow to build another cottage in and far enough from the keep that the revelry did not disturb Prince Gidon. Most nights at least two dozen peasants, strays, and slaves came to socialize, dance, or hear stories. Children wrestled or played games. This was where Achan had learned to fend for himself.
Someone tapped his shoulder. He jumped and severed his contact with Gren.
“It’s only me.” Sir Gavin slid down the wall on Achan’s left. He nodded toward a farmer, who stood glowering at the bard. “What do you see, lad? If he were your opponent?”
Achan straightened and glanced at the farmer. “Well, if I didn’t know him—”
“Nay, what you know matters. Use it.”
“Aye, sir. That’s Marel Wepp. He works in the linen fields. The dark-haired girl he’s staring at is his eldest, Mistal. She’s—”
“Mistel,” Gren whispered.
Achan pursed his lips at Gren and continued. “She’s a singer, and Minstrel Harp always pays her lots of mind.”
“A jealous man can be dangerous,” Sir Gavin said. “What else do you see?”
Achan noticed that Marel’s beefy arms were crossed. “Marel is strong. I’ve seen him strike men before. I see no weapon on him.”
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one. Some weapons are small.”
“Well, he wears no armor.”
Sir Gavin raised a bushy eyebrow. “Are you certain? Did you hear any? Chain coats can be hard to see.”
“No, sir. But he’s a farmer. He wouldn’t own armor.”
“So armor is only for the rich?”
“I suppose so.”
Sir Gavin stood. “Go get your waster and meet me behind the barn.”
“Aye, sir.” Achan smiled at Gren and hurried away.
When he reached the barn, Sir Gavin was waiting with his own wooden sword. Only the moon lit the hay-strewn ground behind the barn. Achan could barely hear the music still playing at the Corner.
“I want to explain some things about parries,” Sir Gavin said. “For a new swordsman, defense is your primary goal. Tell me, where do most knights strike first?”
Achan thought back to the tournaments he’d seen over the years. “The legs, sir?”
“Aye. A crippled man is a small threat. So that is where you need to be guarding first. Always parry with the flat of the blade, otherwise you chip or dull your cutting edge. Now, a cut most often comes at you from an angle. Why do you think that is?”
Achan shrugged.
Sir Gavin moved his waster in slow motion as he spoke, demonstrating his words. “If you come straight down, you risk chopping your blade into the dirt or your knee if you miss. If you strike level sideways, you risk throwing your weapon or throwing yourself off balance.”
Achan could just see himself pitching his sword at his attacker as if skipping a stone.
Sir Gavin brought the waster to his center, with the hilt pointing out from his abdomen as if he were holding a yoke plow. “All parries can be made from the middle guard position. You aren’t trying to strike with a parry. You’re trying to ease their strike against you. Meet their blow by stepping up to it, or cushion the blow by stepping back.”
Sir Gavin spent the next hour showing Achan the different ways to parry attacks. Achan took dozens of strikes to his forearms and shins from Sir Gavin’s wooden blade. He was having the most trouble with the leg strikes.
Sir Gavin swung his sword at Achan’s shins again. Achan dropped his waster to low guard and moved it over to block his left leg. The swords clacked together, but Sir Gavin’s pushed Achan’s back enough to touch his leg.
“Better, but a steel blade would’ve nicked you good. Make sure you move your blade out far enough so you won’t be cut if it’s knocked back.” Sir Gavin took a long breath and blew it out in a cloud around his face. “You’ve done enough for today, lad. You’ll be plenty sore tomorrow. Ease into the routine. The first week will be the hardest.”
It was. Over the next few days, Achan never sat still. If he wasn’t running an errand for Poril or crawling under the tables in the great hall collecting scraps to offer Cetheria, he was sneaking away to go through his sword exercises. Poril snapped at his absences with threats of the belt, so Achan did his best to be two places at once.
With the added activity, his appetite grew. Poril’s portions didn’t change, so Achan started joining Sir Gavin for meals. He ate his fill like never before, always saving something nice and whole for Cetheria.
While they ate, Sir Gavin would talk about noble etiquette and table manners. Once Achan began eating with more grace, Sir Gavin moved on to speak of the other cities in Er’Rets and the nobles who lived there. He began with Sitna, where Achan lived. Sir Gavin said it was a tiny manor built for the sole purpose of raising the prince. He said that in most strongholds, the kitchens had at least three cooks who fed over two hundred people three meals a day.
Achan soaked it all up and spilled it out to Gren each night at the Corner.
By the second week, his arms ached less, his blisters had faded to calluses, and he felt more confident about his role as a squire. Although Sir Gavin would still not accept his service. Squires were required to bring their master meals, clean their armor, and care for their horses. Sir Gavin would have none of it.
Achan woke one morning to find a new orange tunic neatly folded on the floor by his pallet. He blinked his sleepy eyes until it dawned on him.
Today was his coming-of-age day. Or at least the day Poril celebrated it. He was sixteen now. A man.
He slipped the new tunic on. The linen was coarse and loose-weaved as ever, but at least it was new and clean.
The kitchens were deserted when Achan passed through the sweltering room. Poril must have set the tunic out the night before.
Achan met Sir Gavin in the wheat field for his daily practice.
“Is that a new tunic?” Sir Gavin asked.
“Aye,” Achan said. “Ever-thoughtful Poril gives me a new one every year when my age changes.”
Sir Gavin stroked his mustache. “What is your day of birth?”
Achan shrugged and moved his waster from middle guard to low guard and back. “No one knows for certain, so Poril always celebrates it on the first of spring. This is my sixteenth.”
“Well, I should like to give you something as well. A day of birth is one thing, but you are a man now. And I feel you deserve a man’s weapon. As soon as you finish your squire training, I shall give you a real sword.”
Achan’s lips parted. “Sir? Truly?”
“Aye. Truly.”
Achan stared at the old knight, dumbstruck at the mere idea of owning his own blade. “Wait. Am I really that close to becoming a knight? I thought—”
“You’re close enough to be publicly declared my squire. And, in case you didn’t notice, most squires have a real sword.”
Achan had noticed, but he also knew his situation was far from normal. He still couldn’t fathom why Sir Gavin needed him as a squire. He wasn’t doing squire’s work, after all. He’d done nothing but learn from the knight since he’d been recruited. Not that he was complaining.
All day long, Achan walked tall. He hoped to see Gren — she always remembered Achan’s day of birth in some way — but he didn’t see her. When Poril went to bed that night, Achan snuck out to the Corner.
A piper was playing a merry tune from his wagon, and several couples were dancing and laughing. A dozen more stood around talking. Mox and a larger boy were wrestling. A grin came to Achan’s face when he saw Mox was losing.
“Achan!”
Achan spotted Noam sitting on a stump behind the dancers. Achan wound his way through the crowd until he reached his friend.
“Look at you, all crisp and stain-free in your new tunic,” Noam said, grinning.
“Aye, Poril never forgets my day of birth. And he hasn’t beaten me since Sir Gavin came along. Perhaps the gods have noticed my offerings of late.”
“Well, they’re giving you new boots too, if you can get your feet in them.” Noam held out a pair of brown leather boots. “My feet grow so fast I barely had time to wear these.”
“Really?”
Noam nodded. “There’s a hole here.” Noam showed where the heel was separating from the sole. “But I figured Gren could fix it for you, if you ask her nicely.”
Achan grinned and accepted the boots. His first pair of boots. They would make such a difference on cold mornings.
“You’re really training to be Sir Gavin’s squire?” Noam asked.
“Gren told you?”
“That, and I have eyes. You batting around that waster everywhere you go.”
“He said he would give me a real sword soon.”
“Will Lord Nathak give you up then?”
Achan frowned. He’d never heard of Lord Nathak giving up a servant. Could Sir Gavin convince him? “I don’t—”
“Achan!” Small hands slid around his waist as Gren hugged his side.
Her action shocked him. She had never shown any affection in such a public place. He liked how she felt, tucked under his arm. She smelled faintly of fulling water and cinnamon, a strange combination that was very much Gren.
“Hello,” he said. “I looked for you earlier today, but…”
She sighed. “More fancy fabrics for the prince. He could order every person in Sitna a new outfit and not make a dent in his stores.”
“But that would be a kind thing to do, and so not in line with his character,” Noam whispered.
“Well, he isn’t the only one who can get fabric. I can weave.” She took Achan’s hand and tugged him between the curtain wall and the nearest cottage.
“Bye, then,” Noam called.
Gren led Achan as she wove around the cottages until she came to her own. She stopped behind the frame that was stretching a new batch of wool. She lifted something off a hook on the back side of the frame.
“What are you doing?” Achan asked.
She shook out some fabric and held it up against his chest. It was so dark behind the frame, Achan could hardly see.
“What is it?”
She slapped his chest. “It’s a shirt, silly, and a fine one. Brown, to match your skin. Happy coming-of-age day, Achan.”
He looked down into her dark eyes and trembled. He had never felt so close to anyone. Her simple act of giving him something unique… and not another orange tunic or even hand-me-down boots. She treated him like an equal, though he was a stray and she the daughter of a craftsman. A brown shirt to run away in and not be suspected of being a stray.
He gripped her shoulders. “You’ll come with me?”
Her eyes glistened in the distant moonlight. Her breath grew ragged, and she looked down at her hands, which were still holding the shirt against his chest.
He moved his hands up her shoulders and took the sides of her face in his palms. “Gren?”
She lifted her gaze to his. Tears streaked down to her chin. He wiped them away with his thumbs. “I’ll talk to your father soon. Sir Gavin promised me a real sword. Any day now he’ll publicly declare me a squire. Then surely your father will at least—”
“Grendolyn? Are you out there?”
Gren stiffened at the sound of her mother’s voice. “I have to go. Happy coming-of-age day, Achan.” She bounced up to kiss his cheek and darted out from behind the frame, leaving Achan alone.
A vast allown tree grew outside Sitna Manor. The trunk was as thick as two grown men, and its long upper branches splayed out against the blue sky. It loomed over the curve of the SiderosRiver at the edge of a field beside the stronghold.
In the summer, the tree made a shady haven that was Achan’s favorite place to sit and watch the setting sun. Today, the tree looked lonely with its bare branches reaching up to the heavens as if pleading for Dendron to bring warmth sooner. No tree around compared to its glory. Achan felt drawn to it.
His stomach full from a second lunch with Sir Gavin, Achan set off toward the allown tree to meet Gren. It was less cold today than it had been. Spring had arrived. He trudged across the field, swinging his wooden sword to beat the tall, dead grass out of his path. The sword already felt light and familiar in his grip.
Gren leaned against the thick trunk. The barren branches bounced in the chill wind and cast dancing spider web shadows over her. The vast, brown SiderosRiver flowed past three paces from Gren’s feet. Her chestnut hair blew to the other side of her head, baring her chapped and rosy cheeks. Why couldn’t the weaver make his daughter something warmer for the winter cold? Her coarse linen cloak was too drafty and Gren too flighty to remember the hood.
If Achan had owned a cloak, he would’ve offered it.
He hid the sword behind him and approached, his trousers swishing in the grass. Gren turned, her eyes rimmed in red. She’d been crying. Achan wanted to say something to comfort her but didn’t know what. Instead of words, he pulled the wooden sword from behind his back.
Her brown eyes widened and her lips parted in a slow smile. “Oh, Achan! You’re really going to become a Kingsguard knight.”
He knelt between the bumpy roots beside her and gasped a laugh. “I never thought my station could change. The gods have blessed me greatly, Gren.”
She rose to her knees. “Well, show me how it’s used…on that leaning poplar.” Gren pointed at a frail tree right at the edge of the river. The wind had already bested the poor sapling. Its roots poked out from the soil on one side, and the flimsy trunk leaned over so far the barren branches swam lazily in the swift, brown current.
Achan shrugged, happy to please Gren. He trudged toward the cockeyed sapling and pressed the tip of the wooden sword against the flaky trunk. “Halt, you foul excuse for a tree! In the name of Dendron, god of nature, surrender! Or I shall cut you into tinder for my fire.”
Gren’s merry giggle floated on the wind.
Though Achan felt incredibly silly, he warmed to her smile, so he played along. He sucked in a sharp breath. “You dare speak that way in the presence of this fine lady? I shall run you through!” He whacked the blade against the tree again and again, more like chopping wood than Sir Gavin’s swordplay. The pitiful sapling hunched lower, the trunk sinking into the yellow grass, the upper branches into the river.
The ground beneath Achan’s feet shifted. A deep cracking sent him scuttling back from the river bank. The tree, dragging a clump of roots and soil, ripped from the turf and sagged into the river. The current swelled briefly, sending a surge of icy water up the bank and over Achan’s ankles. He gasped as the freezing liquid seeped into his shoes and sent a violent shiver through his body. He turned to Gren, his mouth gaping, and uttered a small cry.
She giggled and jumped to her feet, clapping. “You’ve done it, my good knight. Look! Mine enemy retreats.”
Achan turned back to the river to see the sapling floating downstream. One branch remained above water, flapping in the wind like a sad flag. He laughed and turned to Gren. She stood beaming, her hair blowing about her face.
He marched toward her, knelt, and offered her his wooden sword on the palms of his hands. “For you, my lady.”
She hugged the waster to her heart, but her smile faded. Her eyes focused just over Achan’s head and went wide with fright. “Riga, no!”
Achan reached for his sword, but someone pulled him away by the back of his tunic. The weary threads cracked under the pressure. He realized that it wasn’t Riga pulling him — because his assailant dragged him past the potbellied peasant. Riga glared down over chubby cheeks. With his thick, sneering lips and squinty eyes, he looked to be suffering severe indigestion.
Achan’s captor yanked him to his feet and twisted him around.
It was Harnu. The scar on his cheek had mottled and darkened in the cold air. His jaw clenched as if something in his mouth tasted bad.
Achan smirked. These two should take more care over what they ate if it affected their appearance so.
Harnu gripped both of Achan’s wrists with one strong hand, squeezed his shoulder with the other, and pushed him back until his body leaned dangerously over the edge of the riverbank. Achan tried to get a decent foothold, but his frozen toes ignored his commands.
Riga spoke from the allown tree beside Gren. “Is this stray bothering you, my dear?” He draped a pudgy arm around Gren’s shoulders.
Her expression steeled, but she didn’t move away.
“Leave her be!” Achan yelled. “She’s done nothing to you.”
“It’s her honor I seek to protect, dog!” Riga said. “No maiden should consort with a stray at all, much less…alone.”
Achan fought against Harnu’s grip, pedaling his wet feet on the muddy bank, hoping to get some anchorage. “What Gren does is not your business.”
“On the contrary. She is my business, or hasn’t she told you?” Riga leered at Gren. “But of course, my dear. Why would you waste your sweet breath sharing such intimacies with a stray?”
Achan didn’t like Riga’s tone or the flush in Gren’s cheeks. “What are you on about?”
Riga straightened and sucked in a deep breath that brought his stomach in and his chest out. “Gren and I are betrothed.”
Achan’s gaze flickered to Gren. The fact that she wouldn’t meet his eyes told him that Riga spoke truth. “Gren?”
Harnu squeezed Achan’s wrists tighter, preventing his wiggling hands from escaping. Achan’s mind clouded.
Gren suddenly looked up. Tears streaked down her chin. “My father has made arrangements with Vaasa Hoff.”
Achan’s face tingled as the blood drained away. Gods no. It couldn’t be true.
Riga snatched the sword from Gren and held it up. “Pilfering a squire’s practice sword is a wicked thing to do, even for a stray. Whose is this?”
Achan lifted his chin. “Mine.”
Harnu leaned as close to Achan as possible without giving up his dominant position. “You’ll never be a knight, goat boy. Or a squire or a page. And you’ll never—”
“Marry a pretty girl,” Riga said from Gren’s side.
Harnu’s breath smelled like soured milk. “The closest you’ll ever get to the high table is to clean the scraps from the floor when everyone’s gone.” With that, Harnu shoved Achan backward.
Gren’s scream silenced in Achan’s ears when his body plunged beneath the icy surface.
Muted bubbling…a gulp of frigid water…a foot on something solid. Achan pushed off and kicked wildly toward the light. It had been Gren who had taught him to swim at age seven when none of the peasants would play with him.
His head burst through the surface. He gasped and twisted around. Gren, Riga, and Harnu stood on the bank, shrinking from sight. The forceful current swept him along. No matter how hard he tried, his efforts to swim for the shore seemed useless.
Like his life.
Gren and Riga? Why? Didn’t Master Fenny know Riga was a selfish, lazy pig who couldn’t deserve Gren in a million—
Achan saw a chance to escape the river. The poplar he had bested had gotten wedged into the entry channel of the moat that surrounded Sitna Manor. Achan reached for it and snagged the tip of a branch between his second and third fingers.
The branch held, and his body paused in the swift current. Water parted around his buoyed form. Hand over hand he pulled himself toward the side channel. Stiff brown branches snapped and scratched his face and hands. Finally he safely entered the murky current of the moat.
He let himself float along beneath the towering walls of the fortress. HeHHe shivered in the stinking water. The moat’s current was weak and didn’t flush the sewage from the manor’s privies and kitchen as well as it was designed to. The brownstone walls of the manor loomed above. Two guards on the wall laughed and pointed down. Word spread on the sentry walk. By the time Achan sailed around the northwest corner, at least ten guards had congregated at the gatehouse.
Achan swam to the edge and hoisted himself up. Dirt from the bank muddied the front of his waterlogged tunic. His limbs shook with cold, and he stumbled under the portcullis, ignoring the jeers from above.
A figure stepped in his path. Sir Gavin.
Achan stood, soaked and stinking, trembling in the breeze. “I’ve l-lost my w-w-waster.” And, he realized, his shoes. He was thankful Gren was still repairing Noam’s hand-me-down boots. He would’ve hated to have lost those.
“In the moat?”
“R-Riga an ’ar-nu.”
Sir Gavin nodded. “You’ll have to make another.”
Great. Now he had to learn carpentry or woodsmithing or whatever craft it took to make a wooden sword. At that point he didn’t care. He had to get warm. He slouched past Sir Gavin toward the kitchens.
He squished down the stone steps to the cellar. He stripped off his wet clothes and crawled onto his pallet under the ale casks to warm himself. The image of Gren’s tearful face was branded on his mind. Betrothed to Riga Hoff?
Pig snout!
“What about your sword?” Achan asked Sir Gavin as he filed the edge of his new wooden blade. White oak shavings peppered his feet with each stroke. “I’ve only seen you with your waster. You have a real one, don’t you?”
Achan loved the smell of fresh sawdust and always enjoyed coming to the woodshed. Sir Gavin sat on a fat stump that was used as a chopping block. Rows upon rows of firewood were stacked up against the curtain wall. Achan had always wanted to see if he could climb it and reach the walkway above.
“Aye.” Sir Gavin whittled a small block of pine. Achan had no idea what he was making. “But it would look mighty strange for me to tote around two swords everywhere I went, wouldn’t it?”
Achan nodded. As he filed, he weighed matters with Gren. Strays were rarely permitted to marry anyway, so his hopes of a future with Gren had never been founded on reality. And, like Gren had said, her father had been looking for a husband for her for years. But Riga Hoff? Sure, Achan had expected someone to snatch up Gren. But not Riga. Someone older. Someone with life experience. Someone less like a swine. Someone mature and wealthy who could give her better clothes, provide for her. Young men rarely took a—
“If you’re not careful, lad, the blade will be uneven. An uneven sword is difficult to learn on.”
Sir Gavin’s warning snapped Achan out of his lament. He quickly looked over his work and turned the wood to work a new spot. He clenched his teeth and returned to his thoughts. Never mind Gren — unless Achan could succeed as a knight and get out of Sitna, the best he could hope for was to end up like Poril. He shivered at the thought of a life serving Lord Nathak’s meals and having to watch Gren and Riga’s children chase the chickens around the outer bailey.
It took three days to finish the new waster. It wasn’t as smooth as the last one, but Achan liked it better. It was his craftsmanship, after all. He set about his squire training with renewed vigor. The rest of the time he did his regular work for Poril, steering clear of Gren. He couldn’t bear to face her just yet. Tired of walking around barefoot, he’d begged Noam to go and fetch the boots from her.
After one late-night practice, Achan asked, “Sir Gavin, can’t I try a blunted blade? I’d like to at least hold one.” The old knight had mentioned that blunts were used prior to real blades, and Achan was eager to get to the real thing.
Sir Gavin sniffed in a deep breath. “Aye, then. Tomorrow morning you can try it, but I think you’ll see right away that you’re not ready.”
The next day, Achan met Sir Gavin in the wheat field before dawn, eager to prove himself worthy of knighthood and impress Master Fenny. As quickly as possible. Maybe a long engagement was planned. Maybe there was still a chance.
“Before we start,” Sir Gavin said, stabbing one of the steel blades into the grassy soil, “we need to go over the basics.”
Achan hid an impatient sigh. He recited: “Stay focused. Breathe deep. Mind your footwork. Look your attacker in the eye.”
Sir Gavin cocked his head to the side. “Look him in the eye, but not just to stare him down. You want to watch all of him at once, see if you can anticipate his next move. Right?”
Achan nodded.
Sir Gavin handed him the blunt hilt first, then drew his own blade from the ground. “Now we’ll see how you hold up against some real cuts. But I warn you, blunts are much more painful than wasters.”
The fun was over. Sir Gavin knocked the blunt from Achan’s hands six times before Achan could grip it tightly enough to hold on to it through a strike. Every hit rattled the bones in his arms all the way to his teeth.
He had trouble remembering everything at once. If he focused on following through with his arms so the strikes didn’t sting, he forgot about his breathing. If he focused on his breathing, he forgot his footwork and stumbled. If he focused on his footwork, he forgot his arms and took a bruising blow or dropped his blade. And when he did get hit, the strikes hurt deeper than with the waster. He never once managed to look Sir Gavin in the eyes.
Sir Gavin paused for Achan to retrieve his blade from the ground yet again. “This is why we start with wasters. Tomorrow we go back to my way, but for today…” Sir Gavin grew ruthless. He nagged with each blunder and whacked Achan on the forehead with the flat of the sword.
Thwack! “Ow!”
“Pick it up! If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
Thwack! “Ow!”
“Never parry with the edge. Always use the flat.”
Thwack! “Raise your sword. Middle guard. Else I can run you through.”
Thwack! “Don’t attack from low guard. You’re not good enough yet.”
Thwack! “Stop whining and keep your grip tight…but not too tight.”
That night, Achan slept like he’d been drugged.
He woke to tremendous aches. They were back to using the wooden wasters that morning, and Sir Gavin guided him through slow motion role-play lessons. This was a much easier way to learn.
By the time Sir Gavin brought back the blunts, Achan could actually keep up. Still, he went to bed each night with fresh bruises on his hands, forearms, and shins.
Little by little, with each passing day, Achan improved.
One morning, as Achan choked down his tonic under Poril’s careful eye, Sir Gavin entered the kitchens.
The knight’s presence sent Achan’s heart racing. Had Sir Gavin convinced Lord Nathak to give him up already? Achan breathed deeply to calm his stomach.
The three serving women who were gathering meals for Prince Gidon’s officials stopped what they were doing and stared at Sir Gavin.
Poril hovered around him like a fly. “How can Poril service yeh, my good sir knight? Do yeh desire bread? Some porridge?” Poril waved one of the women over. She carried a tray that was being readied for Chora, Prince Gidon’s valet.
Sir Gavin ignored Poril’s offerings and stared over the cook’s shoulder, his expression curious. “What does the lad drink?”
Achan stumbled around the other two other serving women and headed toward the spice baskets in search of mentha leaves. He didn’t want to miss a moment between Sir Gavin and Poril, but he also didn’t want to lose his stomach on the kitchen floor.
“’Tis a tonic to keep the ills away,” Poril said.
Sir Gavin’s boots scuffed against the dirt floor as he moved to cut Achan off between two tables. Achan stepped back as the knight snatched the empty mug away and sniffed it. “If it’s sour enough to turn his stomach, perhaps the recipe is wrong or the ingredients stale.”
“I assure yeh, my good sir knight, the recipe is precise. Poril does not make errors in measurements or ingredients.”
The smell of hardboiled eggs and sausages set Achan’s stomach roiling. If only he could reach the mentha basket. “That’s how it always tastes, sir.”
Sir Gavin held out his empty hand to Poril, still clutching the mug in his other. “A crust of bread?”
Poril fluttered to the racks and handed the knight a chunk of flatbread. Sir Gavin ripped off a corner, wiped the inside of the mug, and popped it into his mouth.
Achan watched, cringing slightly, but knowing it couldn’t taste as bad muted by bread. Nevertheless, Sir Gavin’s face flushed. He spat the doughy lump into the mug and rounded on Poril. “You’d poison this boy?”
“Gods, no, my good sir knight! ’Tis not poison!”
“Nor is it given to ‘keep the ills away.’” Sir Gavin spat again. “Why, then, do you give him this?”
Poril’s eyes widened. His face flushed. “Because…Poril is sworn to…to keep him from…infecting the prince.”
Sir Gavin turned to Achan. “Have you ever met the prince, lad?”
Achan couldn’t speak. His tongue seemed to shrivel in his mouth. Poison? Who would want to poison him? Sir Gavin stared, waiting to be answered. Achan shook his head. He had seen the prince lots of times, but he had never been close enough to breathe on him.
“And you never thought to question before you drink?”
Achan didn’t know what to say. He’d sensed the tonic was wrong, but what could he do? He was a stray, branded by his owner. “I—”
“’Tis not the boy’s place to question orders,” Poril snapped. “Lord Nathak demands the boy drink the tonic. Poril doesn’t question His Lordship, nor should you.”
Achan struggled to comprehend what was going on. Did Poril’s answer mean Lord Nathak wanted to poison Achan? Why? He’d been drinking the tonic for years. It hadn’t affected his health — had it?
Sir Gavin gripped Poril’s shoulder. “Never give this to him again! Do you hear?”
But Poril stood his ground. “Poril does beg yer pardon, my good sir knight, but Poril does his master’s bidding. If my good sir wishes the boy not take the tonic, then yeh must take the matter up with Lord Nathak hisself.”
“I will.” Sir Gavin released Poril, tossed the remaining bread into the mug, and banged it down on the bread table. “And I’m taking the lad with me for today. Don’t expect him ’til morning.”
Poril sputtered. “Well — what do yeh mean, my good sir knight?”
“I mean, my good cook, I’m in need of an assistant today, and I’m taking yours. Let’s go, lad!”
Achan took one step forward, then stopped to keep the tonic down.
“Poril has much to prepare for tomorrow, he does. Prince Gidon’s coming-of-age celebration. Over two hundred are expected. Could my good knight not find another assistant?”
“Could you not?”
Achan looked from Poril to Sir Gavin and back to Poril, unsure of which master to obey.
Finally Poril decided for him. “Yeh heard the good knight, boy. Be quick about it.”
Achan started for the spice baskets to get mentha leaves, but Poril yelled, “Now! And Poril had better not hear any complaints from the good knight, or Poril will punish yeh good.”
Achan scrambled around the table and out the door, his stomach churning. The morning air was cool but warmer than previous days. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue.
Sir Gavin paused for Achan to catch up, then set off in the direction of the stables. “Does he punish you often?”
Achan shrugged and fought the queasiness in his gut. “I don’t know. Once, sometimes twice a week.”
Sir Gavin halted. He went red again. Veins pulsed in his forehead and neck. He took a long breath through his nose and blew it out in a whistle. Without a word, he resumed walking toward the stables.
Achan scurried to keep up. The outer bailey was crowded after breakfast, but even more so with the coming-of-age celebration. Sir Gavin stopped behind a crowd.
“Make way!” someone yelled.
The people jerked back. Achan backpedaled to keep from falling down. The sharp movement roiled his still-queasy stomach. He should have insisted on grabbing mentha leaves before leaving the kitchens. He wheeled around and heaved his breakfast at the backside of the armory. The nearness of the chimney’s bricks heated the right side of his face.
Sir Gavin’s voice came from above. “Are you all right?”
Achan cleared his throat and spat. “I usually chew some mentha to settle my stomach. The tonic doesn’t like to stay down.”
“Then I’m sorry I kept you from it. But be glad the poison is out for the day. Your head will be clearer without it.”
Achan wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood. “You’re certain the tonic is poison?”
“Aye. It won’t harm you, but you shouldn’t be taking it. I’ll speak to Lord Nathak about it the first chance I get.”
Achan nodded, though he wanted to know what the point of poison was if not to kill or make ill. Why poison a stray? Achan was nobody to anyone.
A chorus of gasps turned his head back to the crowd. Achan was tall for his age and could see easily from his position. A procession of black horses shrouded in green silk with silver trim passed by. The banners their riders held displayed a goat’s head. Achan smiled, thinking of Dilly and Peg.
The men also wore green. Their skin was olive-toned, and they all had hair as black as their horses’ coats. They steered their mounts into the inner bailey. A litter mounted onto four horses, two in front and two in back, jerked past. It was larger than the litter Prince Gidon rode around in, and just as ornate, though the wood was dark and polished rather than painted.
“Who are they?” Achan asked.
“Jaelport,” Sir Gavin said.
A shiver ran up Achan’s arms. Jaelport was a city in Darkness.
When the procession had passed and the crowd dispersed, Sir Gavin continued toward the stables.
They found Noam waiting with two saddled horses: a noble chestnut courser the color of Gren’s hair and a grey and white speckled rouncy. The courser was lean and sleek. The rouncy was round and bulky, though smaller in stature.
Noam’s small, brown eyes darted over Achan and Sir Gavin, and he smiled.
“Achan,” Sir Gavin said, stroking the nose of the rouncy, “this is Etti. She’s my pack horse but will be a good one for you to learn on. Take her reins and lead her into the field.”
Achan swallowed hard, bubbling with excitement, and took the reins. Not only did he have the day off from his chores and all the preparations for the celebration, but he was going to learn to ride. He glanced at Noam and grinned before guiding Etti out of the stables.
Achan led Etti across the courtyard, feeling like a real squire. He jutted his chin at the guards on the wall and passed through the main gate, his new boots tapping on the drawbridge with Etti’s hooves.
He stopped beside the moat and stared across the grassy field at the allown tree, feeling as though the tree were witnessing his life change. Etti began eating fresh spring grass at the side of the moat. Achan stroked her neck as she munched and waited while Sir Gavin led the chestnut courser over the drawbridge.
“This is Scippa,” Sir Gavin said when he’d stopped his horse beside Achan. “He’s the fastest horse I’ve ever seen, except the festriers in Xulon.”
“He’s beautiful,” Achan said.
“That he is.” Sir Gavin nodded to Noam, who stood watching from the drawbridge. “You ever see a festrier, Achan?”
“No, sir.” Achan had heard of the horses that measured as high as twenty-four hands. He believed in them about as much as he believed in the giants who were said to ride them.
“Someday you will.” Sir Gavin took Scippa’s reins in his left hand and held them up. “When you ride, always mount on the left side.” He reached up with his left hand still gripping the reins and fisted Scippa’s mane. Then he put his left foot into the stirrup, his right hand on the top edge of the saddle, and jumped. He pulled himself up and swung his right leg over the horse’s back.
It looked easy enough. Thankfully, Etti was small. Achan tried to imitate what Sir Gavin had done and just about fell into the moat. On the second try, Achan barely managed to mount. He flushed to think how that must have looked to Noam. It was a good thing he hadn’t been trying to mount a horse the size of Scippa.
“Nicely done, lad! Let’s go to the field for a bit.” Sir Gavin led Scippa toward the wheat field where Achan had spent so many hours with the waster.
Etti followed for a few steps then stopped, her head dipping back to the grass. Then she walked after Scippa again, only to stop a few paces later for more grass. Achan still gripped Etti’s mane in his left hand, and he held tight. Her body rocked him from side to side when she moved. It was like being a giant, to sit atop a horse. He grinned, liking the height very much but wondering just how he was to control this animal.
He looked up to see Sir Gavin heading back to him. A cloud of dust rose to the north. Likely another procession headed to the prince’s celebration.
Sir Gavin steered Scippa close. “Hold the reins loose but tight enough to pull if you need to. She’s an easy one, so lifting the reins a bit to the right or left is all it takes to steer her. Turn your head the way you want to go as well. She can feel your body move and sense your intentions.”
Achan tried a few turns on the road in front of the castle’s entrance. Etti responded well to his guidance. It was an empowering feeling.
“That’s right,” Sir Gavin said. “Now, gently tap your heel into her side to make her walk.”
Achan did, and Etti took a few steps forward. Then she stopped for more grass. He squeezed again, a bit harder, and this time she took off at a lazy amble.
“That’s it! Always thank her for doing a good job and you’ll win her over.”
Achan patted her neck. “Thank you, Etti girl.”
Etti snorted and followed Scippa out to the wheat field.
Achan steered Etti in circles around the field, practicing commands and reining until the sun burned high in the sky.
Two more entourages entered Sitna manor as they rode. Both groups carried banners of blue and black. Their passing filled the air with dust so thick it seemed like fog. One procession looked like tribal hunters draped in animal skins. The other group was neat and clean, like a bunch of scribes.
“Let’s get away from all this dust, shall we?” Sir Gavin steered Scippa west, past the allown tree, and followed the road that ran alongside the gurgling SiderosRiver.
The horses’ hooves clomped a steady rhythm in the dust. Achan swayed from side to side, starting to feel an ache in his lower back and thighs. Flies buzzed around Etti’s mane, and she flicked at them with her ears. The wind was soft and warm today. Birds chirped from budding treetops.
Sir Gavin twisted to look back. “You see that ridge there?” He pointed to the western horizon where a bumpy darkness edged the skyline.
“Aye.”
“Those are the ChowmahMountains. We’ll go as far as the SiderosForest today.”
Achan grinned. He’d never gone so far from home — or even seen a forest, for that matter. Their journey continued, always with grassy fields on his right and the smooth river on his left. Achan couldn’t wait to see a change in the land.
Sir Gavin stopped under a small grove of poplar. They tied the horses to a tree and sat on the bank of the river for a lunch of apples, bread, and cheese. Sir Gavin removed a dagger from his right boot and gave a lesson in how to fight with it. Achan practiced some stabs on a sturdy tree, then they continued with their ride.
Achan could now make out the SiderosForest. Hundreds of trees stretched from north to south as far as he could see. And the forest continued west, sloping up the side of the mountains until snow took over. Achan had seen snow a few times. It came down occasionally in Sitna but rarely stuck for more than a day.
Why would anyone want to live in endless fields when there was a beautiful place like this they could come to instead? The trees were taller than any he’d ever seen. If not for Gren, Achan might’ve wished that Sir Gavin would never take him back to the manor.
As they neared the thick forest, Achan noticed the fog that edged the skyline. A queer chill washed over him. He saw that halfway up the peaks, the snow transformed into a shifting grey cloud that seemed to stretch the length of Er’Rets.
The Evenwall.
Achan tried to look beyond it, but he saw only the mist. Yet he knew Darkness was there. The cursed land beyond the Evenwall hadn’t seen the sun since King Axel and Queen Dara were murdered. The black shroud was said to be a result of the gods’ anger. Punishment for the murder of their king. Achan had heard of the Evenwall but had never seen it himself. It looked like a fierce storm cloud approaching.
Sir Gavin stopped Scippa just outside the forest. “Eerie, isn’t it?” He nodded toward the mountains.
“It’s a nightmare,” Achan whispered.
“Too true. Hear this, young Achan: never go into Darkness. Never even as far as the Evenwall mist. It calls to men. It lures them inside. A man can go crazy in the haze and never find his way out.”
Achan had no intention of ever going into Darkness or the mist that was supposedly the doorway to the eerie place. “Do people actually live over there?”
“Aye, plenty. Therion used to be a land as fair as Nahar. But it’s a different world since the death of the king. Thirteen years ago Darkness pushed all light from the western half of Er’Rets.” Scippa shifted nervously beneath Sir Gavin, as if he didn’t like the topic. “The lack of light is the lack of Arman,” Sir Gavin said. “And the lack of Arman is Darkness indeed.”
Achan considered this, not quite understanding what Sir Gavin meant. Arman was the father god. But Sir Gavin’s story confused him. Couldn’t a god go anywhere? How could darkness push a god away? Etti turned toward a tuft of grass, and Achan had to steer her back so he could see the forest.
“Some of the noble houses have endured despite the lack of light,” Sir Gavin said, “although it is said that madness brews there aplenty.”
Achan could only imagine what it would be like to never see the light of day, the sun, or even the moon and stars. How did people cope?
Sir Gavin turned Scippa in a half circle.
Achan twisted around. “Are we going back?”
“I am. You have a mission.”
“I do?”
“Aye. Climb down.”
Achan slid down Etti’s side. Sir Gavin pulled the dagger from his boot and handed it down, hilt first. Achan took the weapon and looked up at Sir Gavin.
“It’s tradition that every squire kill his first beast alone.”
Achan’s lips parted. He glanced into the forest, then up at the mountains, not wanting to go near the cursed mist.
“No need to go far. You’ll find plenty of deer and fox in this forest here.”
Deer and fox?
“That’s right,” Sir Gavin said, as if reading Achan’s mind. “Don’t come home without an animal. A bird doesn’t count, and I don’t recommend trying for a bear your first time out.”
Achan stood gaping as Sir Gavin grabbed Etti’s reins. Surely he couldn’t be serious?
“I’m very serious, lad. To kill an animal takes wit, strength, and courage. I believe you have all of these traits in great measure, but to be publicly declared a squire, you must prove it to others. This is, and always has been, the way. Arman be with you, lad.” At that, Sir Gavin yelled, “Hee-ya!” and Scippa and Etti took off at a gallop.
Achan stood watching the plume of dust that rose in their wake and stung his eyes. When the dust settled, Achan turned toward the trees.
“So much for my day off.”
The trees stood before him, a legion of wood soldiers standing guard in both directions as far as he could see, separating the peaceful plains of northeast Er’Rets from the mountains leading to Darkness. He recognized allown, poplar, and pine trees, though they seemed bigger than those he was used to. He hoped the forest wouldn’t mind sparing a small animal to help him on his way to freedom.
Yet as he faced the woods, a thrill coursed in his veins. Publicly declared a squire. Could it be true? Would a squire be worthy enough to speak with Gren’s father? Achan winced, doubting that even a Kingsguard knight made as much income as a merchant. Likely Riga would inherit the business from his father.
He sighed. How exactly did one catch a fox? Certainly not by chasing it. Should he find a place to crouch and wait for one to wander by? And wouldn’t a deer be able to smell him coming? Sir Gavin had never once spoken of hunting. Achan had no idea how to go about it. Why did Sir Gavin give him this task now? And why hadn’t he left him Etti?
You must do this alone, Sir Gavin said.
Achan swung around, wondering why Sir Gavin had come back. But Sir Gavin had not returned. Where, then, had his voice come from? Had the Evenwall drifted further than Sir Gavin had thought? Was it already unraveling Achan’s mind? The air appeared clear around him, the sky cloudless, the sun bright…
He shrugged. It was probably just that he knew Sir Gavin so well now he could guess the kind of thing he would’ve said. Achan swallowed, gripped the dagger in his left fist, and stepped into the forest.
The scent of pine filled his nostrils. It was dark and cool under the thick, green canopy of poplar, allown, and pine. Low bushes grew between the trees. The forest floor was dotted with dead pine needles, pine cones, and little white flowers.
Achan walked a few paces and stopped. If he went deep into the forest, how would he find his way out? He stepped to the nearest poplar and stripped a wedge of bark off with the dagger, exposing a swatch of moist, white wood. He did the same at another poplar ten paces in. He decided he’d mark only the poplars. For some reason, cutting an allown tree seemed sacrilegious. Not that Achan was a strictly religious or overly superstitious man.
He smiled to himself. He was a man now. His sixteenth year had come and gone with little fanfare. Thoughts of being a man reminded him of the gifts he’d received that day, which reminded him of Gren.
Thankfully, the wedding was not scheduled until Riga’s father could build them a cottage. That gave Gren — and Achan — some time to get used to the sickening idea. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to build a cottage.
Normally a man had to build his own home. That very act proved him capable of providing for a wife and family. Riga was happy to cheat his way to manhood, letting his father pay a carpenter to build his home.
Poor Gren.
Something rustled to Achan’s left. A jackrabbit bounded down a narrow trail between some waist-high rosehip bushes. Achan followed. If a rabbit went this way, perhaps something bigger had too. His tunic snagged on the thorny bushes. Ripping it free made so much noise he decided to return to his original route.
Had Achan’s father built a cottage to win his mother? Or had his birth been a mistake? Achan didn’t know. Perhaps his father had been a soldier just passing though and never knew he had a son. But how, then, did Lord Nathak end up with Achan? He didn’t want to follow that train of thought, for it led to frightful scenarios he refused to consider, even for a moment.
Most infuriating was that Achan had no memory of his mother — or his childhood at all, for that matter. His earliest recollection was of a young noble pushing him into the mud when he was seven. Gren had come along moments later and helped him up.
Most children had some recollections of what had happened to them before they were seven. What was wrong with him? Had the tonic somehow robbed him of his earliest memories? What did Lord Nathak gain by forcing it on him? Was his head truly clearer without it, as Sir Gavin had suggested?
Achan twisted around and found he could no longer see the prairie through the trees. Pressure built in his temples and his pulse raced. On some level of his mind, he sensed an emotion from outside himself. A sound too soft to be identified reached his ears, and he wheeled around, wondering if a person was nearby. He spotted a doe munching the buds of a poplar ten paces away.
Though such a thing was impossible, the emotion seemed to be coming from the deer. Curiosity, perhaps. Achan’s eyes met the doe’s, and their minds connected somehow. The pressure grew and Achan cringed. He could taste bitter leaves and branches. It disturbed him.
Come here, girl. He formulated the words in his mind, preparing to speak them aloud.
But before he could make a sound, the doe turned away from the tree and, as if she’d heard his thought, trotted toward him.
Achan’s lips parted in awe as the animal silently maneuvered over a fallen tree, around a briarberry bush, and came to stand in front of him. Achan held out his right hand, and the doe sniffed it, her nose cold and wet against his fingertips. Could she hear him?
Come closer.
The doe stepped nearer. Achan scratched her ear, gripped the dagger tightly in his shaking left hand, and gulped.
I sense you! a male voice hummed. Tell me your name!
Achan stopped and turned around in the tall grass of the prairie. He’d left the road for a bit, hoping to take a shortcut. The orange sun sat low and bright on the horizon, but he could see the grey plumes of smoke from the castle’s chimneys in the distance, though the manor was still barely a speck on the horizon. He shielded his brow with his free hand but could see no one. The doe’s warm body draped heavily around his neck. His head throbbed from the smell of its blood.
Hello, new one. Welcome to our ears. My, how strong your presence is. Who are you?
A woman’s voice. Kind. Again Achan twisted around in the grass, nearly dropping the doe. “Who’s there?”
Grass surged for miles around like a great green sea. He was alone. He swallowed, his heart pounding, and gripped the doe’s legs tighter. Perhaps he’d been too close to the Evenwall after all. But wouldn’t he know if he’d stepped into the mist?
He turned back toward Sitna Manor and waded through the grass. He wanted to reach the gate before they raised the drawbridge for the night.
Who are you, gifted one? a deep male voice asked.
What are you called? an old woman asked.
Please! the humming voice said. What is your name?
Achan cowered, wincing at the strain on his mind. Perhaps his headache was not from the stench of blood. “Stop it!” Achan yelled to the voices. “Don’t speak to me!”
Do not be afraid, the kind woman said. It is a gift.
Achan screamed to block out the voices and staggered toward home.
Despite his efforts, it was after dark when Achan approached Sitna Manor.
The drawbridge was up. Arrow loops glowed brightly in the dark night. Yellow flames spaced around the parapet and listed to the east, flickering in the gentle breeze. Achan still held the slain doe around his neck, gripping two legs in each hand.
He stopped and yelled up to the guard. “Lower the drawbridge!”
Are you all right? the kind woman asked. I sense blood.
He cringed, by now hating the painful force the voices brought. Hating how they knew things. Hating how he couldn’t silence them.
“State yer name and yer business,” a voice yelled from the gatehouse above.
“’Tis Achan Cham. I’ve returned from an errand for Sir Gavin Lukos.”
Cham? He’s a stray!
Achan! Where are you, Achan? Is Sir Gavin with you? the deep-voiced man asked.
Achan stiffened. How did this strange voice know of Sir Gavin? He looked over his shoulder but already knew there was no one.
“Stay put,” a guard yelled down.
Achan waited. His back and shoulders were numb from the deer’s weight. The leaden stench of the doe’s blood haunted him. Its stickiness drenched his left side. His fists trembled and his head ached from the voices calling out. He’d gone mad. It was a certainty he could no longer deny. The Evenwall must have drifted lower, or maybe killing the doe had somehow—
The familiar boom of the lock and the clinking chain snapped him out of his deranged fog. The drawbridge lowered slowly, revealing a lone man standing inside the outer bailey facing him.
Sir Gavin Lukos.
When the drawbridge hit the ground, Achan dragged himself across it. His new boots made dull, hollow clunks on the thick wood. He then clacked over the flagstones of the gateway and clomped onto soft dirt. The outer bailey was dark and nearly deserted. A few guards looked down on him from the sentry walk. The forge still burned in the armory.
“What yeh got there, boy?” a voice called down from above.
Achan flinched as the compression in his head grew and voices attacked at once.
What has he got? a man asked.
He’s killed something, another said.
Killed? What have you killed, dear? the kind woman asked, a slight edge to her voice.
Achan stopped in front of Sir Gavin.
Are you well? Sir Gavin spoke inside Achan’s head, just like the others.
Achan perked up, ignoring the pain, and stared at Sir Gavin. Then somehow, he sent a thought of his own. How do you do that?
Please tell me where you live, dear, the kind woman asked. And if you are hurt.
Where are you? the humming voice asked. I must find you.
Do not say, another man responded. He’ll only bring you trouble.
But he must have training, the kind woman said.
If the gods will it, he will learn.
I can teach you much, droned the humming voice. Tell me your location, and I’ll send someone for you.
Achan dropped to his knees and moaned. He clutched his temples, and the doe’s body slid off his back and thumped onto the ground.
He’s fainted. This voice was familiar. A guard. Achan looked up to the gatehouse.
Naw, he’s hurt.
Think he stabbed himself? Dumb stray don’t know which end of the knife is which.
You’re a stray?
Speak to me for a moment, I beg you, the humming voice said. Concentrate on my voice alone.
Yep. That’s the boy’s blood, thought another guard. He’s keeling over. He’s wounded for sure.
You’re a boy? How old? the humming voice asked.
Achan leaned forward and set his brow against the dusty ground. They could know not only his thoughts and words but the thoughts of others around him? How could this be? His head pounded as if it might burst. He rolled onto his side, clutched his hands over his ears, and squeezed his eyes shut. Please stop! “Stop!”
Sir Gavin knelt beside him and massaged the base of Achan’s head, right where it hurt most. You must shut the door, Achan. Focus on a quiet place. See yourself there. Focus on the silence.
Sir Gavin’s voice and tone seemed to cushion Achan’s pain. The sensation was somehow familiar, like this had all happened before. But it hadn’t. Achan tried to sit, but the pain surged.
Listen to the knight, Achan.
This was a new voice. Unlike the others, this one seemed to come from inside him, like a warm breeze confined to his body alone. Achan froze and blinked up at the night sky. What was that?
Focus, Achan. A quiet place. Sir Gavin’s words flooded Achan’s mind again, blowing away the warmth of the strange voice. Only you can ease this pain.
Listen to the knight. Focus. Achan thought of the allown tree by the river, in a summer sunset. A pleasant wind rustled the grass, and the flax fields bloomed with lavender blossoms.
The pain in his head diminished instantly.
“That’s right. Concentrate.” Sir Gavin stopped rubbing. He patted Achan’s shoulder, then stood. “Now get up. Get your deer. Let’s go.”
Achan opened his eyes. The voices had gone, and the throbbing in his head remained manageable. He got to his feet and hoisted the deer over one shoulder.
“Let it be known,” Sir Gavin called out, “that on this day, Achan Cham has killed his first animal and is worthy of the journey to knighthood.”
Few people mingled in the outer bailey at this hour to witness his achievement. A handful of guards roamed the sentry walk. Harnu’s father stared from the armory, most likely working late on armor and swords for the coming tournament.
Right now Achan didn’t feel worthy to be a knight. He wanted to get the blood washed off him, crawl into his bed, hold a wet cloth to his temples, and sleep. He trudged across the outer bailey in a daze, following Sir Gavin past the stables and barn to the tanner’s wagon, which smelled strongly of urine. A high trestle stretched along the side of the wagon. A cowhide hung on one end, the brown pelt glistening in the torchlight.
Sir Gavin helped Achan hang the deer from the trestle. “I’ll see that someone takes care of this for you.”
Achan nodded and stared at the deer’s glassy eyes. “It had a fawn. I didn’t see it at first.”
“Most have fawns in spring.”
“You don’t understand.” Achan’s hands trembled. “The fawn is a stray now…like me…because of me.”
“Aye.” Sir Gavin stroked his beard. “And that’s the reality of it, Achan. In war, people die. Every one of them is important to someone. A child, a husband, a father, a brother, a mother, a friend. War’s ugly. And being a knight, you’ll have to deal with that. You’ll kill or be killed.”
But the doe hadn’t been at war, not with him.
Achan blinked. Being a knight was his chance at freedom, his only chance to win Gren. He wanted to learn to use a sword because it was exciting and made him feel strong and in control. But he’d never thought about actually killing anyone. His naïveté stung. Why else would he be learning to use the sword, axe, and dagger if not to kill?
Sir Gavin gripped Achan’s shoulder and steered him around to the back of the kitchens. He stopped at the well and drew out a bucket of water.
“I cheated,” Achan said. “I told the doe to come to me and she did. I’m no hunter. I’m a deceiver.”
Sir Gavin’s bushy eyebrows knit together. His one blue eye lay in shadow, making them both appear dark.
“Why could I talk to the deer? Why can you talk to my head? Why did I hear all those voices? One of them knew you were with me. How?”
Sir Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “How many voices did you hear?”
Achan shook his head. “Dozens. The whole way back. I think the Evenwall somehow…” He looked at the knight. “Why didn’t you leave me Etti?”
Sir Gavin’s questioning expression faded. He slapped Achan’s shoulder. “Stop whining. Go to bed. We’ll talk about the voices in the morning.”
Achan didn’t complain. He used Sir Gavin’s water to wash the blood from his body the best he could. Then he rinsed out his tunic. He didn’t remember walking down the stairs to the cellar, but suddenly he found himself there. He hung his tunic on one of the ale spouts to dry then crawled onto his pallet under the casks.
Prince Gidon’s coming-of-age celebration began tomorrow. Poril would be in a frenzy, and Achan wouldn’t have a moment to spare. But Sir Gavin had declared him worthy of knighthood. Would Poril allow him to watch any of the tournaments?
The thought should’ve thrilled him. But at the moment, he didn’t even care.