A rap on the skull woke Achan.
Groggy, he rose onto one elbow to find a dozen serving women fussing about the cellar, throwing potatoes, turnips, and onions into wicker baskets. Why were they in the cellar at this hour? He blinked his sleepy eyes, trying to remember the occasion, thankful he had slept in his trousers.
Poril scurried by the ale casks and reached down to knock Achan on the head with sharp knuckles again. “Up! There’s much to do, and Poril needs yeh up and able.”
Ah, yes. Prince Gidon’s coming-of-age celebration began today. And Achan hadn’t even milked the goats. He reached up, wincing at his sore shoulder muscles, and grabbed his tunic, which had dried in a stiff, triangular shape over the spout of the ale cask. He pulled it over his head and struggled to straighten it while lying down. He tied the rope belt and crawled out. Achan’s head pounded, so he took the narrow stone steps slowly.
The kitchens bustled with activity, warmth, and a mixture of scents: robust spices, fresh herbs, burnt toast, steamy soups, fish, and bloody meat. The meat smell turned Achan’s stomach, bringing the doe to mind. And that reminded him of the voices — the culprits behind his throbbing skull.
Poril had apparently recruited every serving woman in Sitna Manor to help prepare the dinner feast, and they were deep into gossip as usual.
“What you s’pose his skin looks like under that mask?” one of them asked, chopping a carrot into slices.
“I’ve heard it’s dark, like dried venison.”
“Well, if I’s the Duchess, I’d not marry him neither, him bein’ half-a man.”
Achan dodged between elbows, reaching arms, and twirling brown skirts, navigating toward the exit. He grabbed the milk pail from the shelf above the door and went outside heading for the stables.
The outer bailey had never been so crowded before dawn. Throngs of foreign servants darted around on various errands. Pages led horses — some already wearing their jousting armor and banners — to and from the stables. A dozen slaves dragged long slabs of wood toward the drawbridge. The butcher — apron soaked in blood — had wheeled his cart close to the kitchens. His apprentice fought to hold down the wings of a flapping goose. Achan passed by just before the chop of the axe severed the bird’s neck.
In the barn, Achan milked the goats quickly despite his exhaustion. When he set the milk on the table in the kitchens, Poril shoved a mug of tonic into his chest. “Drink.”
The bitter smell jogged Achan’s memory. Yesterday, Sir Gavin had suggested the tonic was poison — not able to kill, but bad in some way. Certainly not healthy.
A sharp throb bit through his skull.
Tell me where you live.
Are you there? Speak to me!
Achan’s heart rate increased at the voices in his head. He closed his eyes and focused on the allown tree, the sunset, the wind.
Something hard cracked on his head. “Ow!”
Poril stood before him, his knuckles raised to strike again. “Poril has no time for games today, boy. Drink now. And let Poril see yeh do it.”
Pig snout. Achan would get the truth from Sir Gavin today about this tonic.
He guzzled the bitter goo and stumbled to the mentha basket. He chewed a few leaves and began to feel better.
The serving women continued their gossip about Lord Nathak and the Duchess of Carm. One of them heaved a plucked goose from one table to another and began to stuff it with spices. “Does he really think cuttin’ off her supplies is gallant?”
“He’s got no sense,” said another, waving a wooden spoon. “Just look how Prince Gidon treats his women. ’Twas Lord Nathak who raised him, that’s clear enough.”
Achan went for firewood. The morning dawn had cast its pale light over the manor. The sky was clear. It would be a warm day. He found the outer bailey even more crowded now and was thankful the firewood was near the kitchens and he did not have to carry it far. By the time he returned, his head and stomach felt fine.
As he stepped into the sweltering kitchens he spotted Sir Gavin. The old knight had cornered Poril near the ovens. Achan dropped the wood beside the largest hearth and added a few pieces to the fire. He watched Sir Gavin and Poril between the bustling skirts, and strained to hear their conversation.
At length, Poril shouted, “Boy!” and the women cleared a path.
Achan hurried over, hoping to be sent with Sir Gavin again, but the knight had left.
“Yeh’ll go with the good knight, yeh will. Soon as yer done, get back, yeh hear?”
Achan swallowed his smile. “Yes, Master Poril.” He scurried out of the kitchens, running to catch up with Sir Gavin, whom he spotted striding toward the inner bailey.
The knight glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve little time to dress you for tournament.”
Achan stopped. Tournament? “You can’t think I’m ready to compete?” He made himself run to catch up again. “I’ve never even touched a sharp blade.”
“Whether you’re ready or not, you’ll do your best. A squire must see his blood flow and feel his teeth crack under an adversary’s strike. Just standing in the ring is an act of courage, and you need to work on yours.”
Achan didn’t like the sound of fighting squires who were much more advanced, but he wasn’t about to let Sir Gavin call him a coward. “I’m brave.”
“In some things, aye, in others…”
Achan frowned and followed Sir Gavin through the gate that led to the inner bailey.
To their left, the keep stretched six levels into the pale blue sky. A grassy courtyard spread out between it and the hedged walls of Cetheria’s temple gardens. The temple itself lay at the far right of the inner bailey. Achan rarely came this far into the fortress, unless he had direct orders to. Doing so without permission was a good way to earn an extra beating. Still, he occasionally snuck as close to the temple garden walls as possible to leave an offering. He wasn’t allowed inside the temple itself.
The fortress was crowded. Servants, stewards, valets, and maids from all over Er’Rets dashed about on errands for their masters. As Achan climbed the narrow steps that led to the upper levels of the keep, he paused to peek from an arrow loop. Outside the manor, dozens of tents and pavilions had popped up like tarts in the northern field, each waving colorful banners and crests. Most the guests had arrived yesterday while Achan was hunting. Skilled knights and squires from distant cities had come to — what was it Sir Gavin had said? — spill their blood and crack their teeth?
The jousting field sat farthest away. A long white tent with a red and white striped awning covered the grandstands beside it. Achan could see a horse and rider dart down the field in a practice run. Closer to the manor, square pens were set up to host a variety of events: hand-to-hand combat, the axe, the sword. Achan would’ve liked to spend the day out there, watching, learning, and, maybe someday, competing.
He followed Sir Gavin to the fourth floor and down a dark hallway to the knight’s bedchamber. It was a nice room with a bed, a sideboard, a fireplace, and a chair by a window that overlooked the tournament field.
A boy Achan’s age stood near the fireplace, two stools beside him — one empty, the other holding a basin of water.
“Off with your clothes and sit,” Sir Gavin said. “Wils will get you clean.”
Achan eyed Wils warily. “I washed last night at the well.”
Sir Gavin raised a bushy white eyebrow, his moustache arcing in a frown. “You’re the most obstinate squire I’ve ever heard of. Will you simply obey without question, for once?”
Achan’s cheeks burned. He stripped down to his linen undershorts. “I can wash myself.”
“Sit in silence, Achan, please!” Sir Gavin walked behind Achan. “If you are to be a squire—” He gasped. “Eben’s breath, lad. What have they done to your back?”
Achan shifted and folded his arms. So he had a lot of scars on his back. What stray didn’t?
Sir Gavin’s calloused finger tapped Achan’s left shoulder. “You have a birthmark.”
Achan twisted his neck. He could never see the brand clearly. “It’s the mark of the stay, sir. Don’t you have such a mark?”
“No, I do not, but that is not what I refer to. The skin is red under your brand. A simple brand doesn’t do that.”
Achan looked again, pawing at his shoulder to see, but it was physically impossible to get a look. “I don’t know. Maybe I do have a birthmark.”
Sir Gavin walked to the window. He fell into a chair and sighed. “I was unable to speak with Lord Nathak yesterday. He was ‘not to be disturbed.’”
The serving boy, Wils, rubbed a small brush over a brick of soap and attacked Achan’s back, dipping the brush into the water basin and applying more soap after every few scrubs.
Achan scowled, feeling awkward and exposed. “Is that bad?” He was too distracted by Wils’s brush to remember why Sir Gavin had wanted to speak with Lord Nathak.
“Not necessarily. I wanted to make it official with him before entering you in the tournament…out of courtesy.” Sir Gavin stood. “I’ll try once more. Wait for me here. We’ll go to the field together.”
They’d better. Achan certainly wasn’t going out by himself. He wanted to say something to Sir Gavin about the tonic, but he didn’t want Wils to hear. So he sat still and allowed the valet to scrub him until his skin turned pink.
*
Never in all his life had Achan been so…fragrant. On the top half anyway. He wouldn’t let Wils near the rest of him. The valet had washed Achan’s hair with rosewater and braided it. Achan fingered the plait. A tail tied with a leather thong was all the patience he’d ever had for such things.
Wils held up a mirrorglass. Achan stared at it, glanced at Wils, then leaned forward. He’d never seen a mirrorglass. He’d never seen his face at all, except in the river or the moat or the dishwater. He studied his reflection, pleased he didn’t find himself ugly. His skin was tan like the shell of a walnut. Black hair was pulled back into the braided tail, straight and smooth. Did that make his heritage kinsman?
He had a good face, he thought. A bit square, but not long and oval like Noam’s or fat and round like Riga’s. Wils had even shaved him, something Achan had never done despite the few wisps of hair on his chin. His cheeks and neck still tingled from the razor’s edge.
Achan leaned closer to the mirrorglass. His eyes were blue. He hadn’t known that about himself. Blue eyes were also a kinsman trait. He leaned back and nodded to Wils, who set the mirrorglass on a shelf over the fire. Achan smiled. He was kinsman.
Wils helped him dress. First a thin white linen tunic and scratchy black wool leggings, then a padded, long-waisted wool tunic with long sleeves. After that, Wils had Achan sit on the bed so he could lower a thick coat of steel chain over his head. It draped heavily on his shoulders.
“How am I supposed to swing a sword with this extra bulk and weight?”
Wils shrugged and pulled another tunic — this one of fine yellow linen — over the chain. Fancy ties hung from the neck. Achan tried to lace them.
Wils swatted his hands away. “I’ll do it.” He ignored the ties and, with a small smile, presented a black leather jerkin. “Last one.”
Achan held out his arms so that Wils could slip the vest-like garment onto him. The leather was soft and a bit worn, but of high quality. Gren would approve.
Achan never realized how much clothing noblemen wore. He hoped Master Fenny might see him dressed in such finery. Maybe he might change his mind and give Gren to him after all. Not even Riga had a coat of chain.
Riga. Achan suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to see him. What if Achan were humiliated? What if he were killed?
One of the loops on the chain coat irritated his neck, and he scratched at it while Wils laced up the tunic and jerkin. It would take Achan an hour to get everything off.
“Ready for your belt and sword, Master Cham?”
Wils had been doing that, calling him Master Cham, like he was someone special. Achan had burst into laughter the first three times, but this time his mouth hung open. He was to have a belt and sword? A real steel sword? “Where?”
Wils went to the window and returned with a brown leather belt studded with steel and pale blue stones. A carved wooden scabbard hung from the belt, holding a sword that had an ivory grip. Achan could only gape as Wils fastened the belt around his waist. His life was worth far less than one jewel on this belt.
When Wils backed away, Achan drew the sword. The sound of metal scraping against wood sent a tingle up his arms. He studied the carved ivory grip wrapped in worn leather, the long steel blade with one raised rib along the flat and a rounded tip — no good for thrusting — and the engraved copper and steel crossguard with some sort of ivory fish set into the center. He could almost imagine himself a Kingsguard knight.
The door burst open, and Sir Gavin spoke, out of breath. “Pompous man. Can’t be bothered, not even for a—” He stopped and looked Achan up and down, jaw hanging open as if he had remembered something important. He shook it off. “Good, you’re ready. I’ve entered you in the first round lists. If we don’t hurry, you’ll miss your chance.”
Achan held up the sword, eyes wide. “This belongs to you?”
Sir Gavin thumped Achan on the back. “Belongs to you now.”
“But, sir! I can’t possibly accept something so fine. I’ll be killed for it in my sleep.”
Sir Gavin’s eyes twinkled. “Then sleep lightly, Achan. This belonged to a dear friend. Take good care of it.”
“What’s it worth?”
Sir Gavin blew out a long breath. “Oh, I don’t know. Decent blade like this, minus the hilt, would go for at least thirty pieces of silver, maybe as much as two golds depending on the smith. Add ten to twenty golds for the stones, ivory, and workmanship. Then there’s the value to the family, which…Well, as far as you’re concerned, it’s priceless.”
The blood drained from Achan’s face. The most a paid laborer could hope to earn in a year was about two pieces of gold. He forced himself to ignore the value, though he knew that just wearing it in public would make him a target for every thief in Sitna.
“D-Does it have a n-name?” Achan had to stop thinking about it. No one would steal a sword on the prince’s coming-of-age day. Right?
“Well, of course it has a name, lad. All fine swords do.”
Achan waited, and when Sir Gavin remained silent, he asked, “What is it then?”
“What is it?” Sir Gavin frowned and stroked his beard-braid. “Eagan…Elk.”
“Eagan Elk?” What kind of a sword name was that?
“Eagan’s Elk.” Sir Gavin nodded and grinned, as if pleased with himself. He looked Achan up and down again, a far-off look in his eyes. “It suits you.”
Achan felt ridiculous. Who was he trying to fool dressed in finery and carrying a priceless sword? He raised the blade to middle guard. “Is this a longsword or a short sword?” The grip felt shorter than the blunt he’d been using, but the blade looked longer.
“Kind of somewhere in the middle.”
“But I should use it like a longsword, right?”
“Longsword is tomorrow. Today, I’ve entered you in the short sword and shield lists.”
Achan sucked in a sharp breath. “But I’ve never practiced with a shield!”
“Which means you’ll need this.” Sir Gavin fetched a round, badly beaten, wooden shield, edged in peeling brown leather, from the corner of the room. The same spiky fish was painted dead center, but much of the paint had faded and chipped away.
Well, Achan thought, I’ll likely die today anyhow. A shield will make little difference. “Sir Gavin, I don’t know how to use this.”
The knight sniffed long and slid the shield straps onto Achan’s forearm. “Aye. Probably should have gone over it. Probably should have started with the short sword and shield and saved the longsword for later. Probably should have called for Sir Caleb or done a thousand things differently.”
He waved the thought away. “Well, I did what I thought best. Just…hold the shield between you and your enemy. Keep your blade in middle guard, tucked behind the shield, see.” He moved Achan’s arms into position. “Make your cuts and thrusts around the shield. The shield is a weapon. Parry with it. Thrust it against your opponent’s sword or body. Watch your head and legs. They’ll be primary targets.”
It all sounded good in theory, but without practice Achan may as well try the joust. “How many squires have you trained, sir?”
“You’re my first.”
“What?”
Sir Gavin shrugged and held out a plain steel helmet. “I was busy. Now, off we go. Thank you, Wils.”
Wils bowed and departed. Achan struggled to sheath Eagan’s Elk one-handed. He failed and had to use his shield arm to hold the scabbard still. Once the sword was sheathed, he took the helmet and followed Sir Gavin to the stairs in a daze. The scabbard’s end clunked on the stairs behind him, and he pushed the pommel down to keep that from happening. Enamored with the jewels, he stumbled and decided now was not the time to be staring at anything but the ground in front of his feet.
They marched from the manor. Achan’s clothing weighed him down. He’d been watching squires practice as long as he could remember. They always fought terribly when they first wore armor. They could hardly walk, let alone wield their weapons. Achan gulped.
At the gate to the outer bailey, a knight passed wearing full plate armor and a helmet. Achan staggered about as he shoved his own helmet on his head. The inside was padded with stiff, worn wool. Sir Gavin had dressed him in antiques. The helmet had no visor, just a long slit for the eyes that hindered Achan’s peripheral vision. How was he supposed to fight with his vision impaired?
They walked over the drawbridge. The footsteps and the surrounding voices of the guests and guards sounded oddly muffled inside the helmet.
“I’ve negotiated a cow for you.”
Achan turned his whole head to find a limited view of Sir Gavin’s face.
“She’s sick, likely to die any day. When she goes, they’ll take her coat for leather. But instead of burning the carcass, they’ll give her to us.”
“What do we want with a diseased carcass?” Achan’s voice sounded hollow beneath the steel.
“You have to learn what it feels like to cut a man. You need flesh to practice on, to gauge the power needed to strike someone down in battle. A cow will be perfect.”
Achan was suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast.
They reached the eastern field where the tents began. Sitna manor was not big enough to house all the tournament guests. Only the highest nobles were staying in the keep. Everyone else had brought along their own tents. Achan would have preferred to stay in a tent to keep him close to the festivities.
Sir Gavin led him to a square pen with long wooden benches along each side, crowded with peasants, slaves, and strays. Nobility preferred the shaded grandstands on the other side of the grounds, where they could sit on pillows and have servants bring them trays of tea and tarts.
A herald paced along one end of the pen watching two squires circle each other, each armed with a short sword and shield. The smaller squire, dressed in black and white, wore no armor. He had grey skin and a puff of bushy black hair. He was quick and darted around the pen like a firefly. His opponent, stronger and slower, wore shabby gold and maroon over chain armor. His shield donned a familiar image of red grapes. Carmine. Achan had seen the neighboring city’s flags before.
The Carmine squire swung his sword hard. Too hard. It thwacked into his opponent’s shield again and again, more like swinging an axe than swordplay. Achan grew tired just watching. The grey squire circled carefully, letting his opponent tire. Carmine stumbled. In a blink, the grey squire rained two crippling blows, knocking the Carmine squire to the ground, and poised his blade above his opponent’s chest.
The herald called the match in Barth’s favor. Achan frowned and studied the grey squire closer. Barth was a city in Darkness.
The Carmine squire pulled off his helmet to reveal a shock of short brown hair, frizzing in all directions. His face appeared flushed with anger, then Achan realized he was only badly sunburned. He lumbered to his feet and climbed out of the pen as Sir Gavin approached it.
Achan’s heart pounded under all five layers of dress as Sir Gavin conversed with the herald. The sun beat down on his helmet, drawing sweat from his brow before he even lifted his sword. Would they let him compete? Would his animal surname cause a scene?
Sir Gavin stepped back, and the herald said, “Master Silvo Hamartano of Jaelport against Master Achan Cham of Sitna.”
A murmur rose in the crowd. Achan stiffened as heads turned toward him. His cheeks flushed under his helmet and he was thankful for the mask. He stepped over the wooden rail of the pen and waited, scanning the crowd for his opponent from the city in Darkness.
An olive-skinned squire wearing green and grey moved through the crowd with the grace of a dancer. He was about Achan’s size. He laid a hand on the rail and vaulted the fence with his legs to one side as simply as if he were yawning. He and Achan were now alone in the pen. The squire wore a hooded coat of chain under his green jerkin and stood with regal posture, his brown lips twisted up to one side. He looked to the herald. “Seriously? I’m to fight a stray?”
Achan stepped back to one side, drew his sword, and held his shield like the squire from Barth had. Were there rules to follow? What if Silvo struck him? Would the herald stop the match? Why hadn’t Sir Gavin explained—
“Begin!” The herald scurried out of the way.
Silvo charged, sword above his head, shield lax in his other hand, apparently believing a stray equaled zero skill.
Achan took the staggering blow to his shield, thankful the old wood didn’t crumble under the force. Achan couldn’t believe his good fortune. The overbearing move had left Silvo wide open for all kinds of trouble. Sir Gavin’s blunt had bruised Achan again and again for doing the same thing.
Achan stepped back and swung Eagan’s Elk around the shield. The blade grated against the arm of Silvo’s chain coat.
Silvo stumbled from the impact. Achan stepped around him and kicked him in the rear. Silvo crashed face first into the dusty red clay.
Laughter rumbled through the crowd. Achan leaped forward and pressed Eagan’s Elk against the back of Silvo’s neck. The crowd laughed harder, some applauded.
Achan fought the smile that wanted to claim his face. Silly, since no one could see under his helmet. He’d only won because of Silvo’s arrogance. The herald declared Achan the winner. Silvo jumped to his feet and fled as gracefully as he’d arrived.
Achan joined Sir Gavin outside the pen. The old knight smiled and winked his brown eye. Achan couldn’t believe it. He’d won a match! He’d had visions of humiliating defeat, not of actually wining. He stood tall beside Sir Gavin, feeling like it might actually be possible to carve a niche for himself in this place.
“What next?” Achan asked.
“We wait until you’re called again. Each event is single elimination. You lose, you’re done.” Sir Gavin patted Achan on the back. “We’ll stay here until you lose.”
They watched a few more matches, and Achan studied how the squires used their shields.
Then the herald’s voice called again. “Master Achan Cham of Sitna against Master Shung Noatak of Berland.”
Achan had to look up at his next opponent. Shung, a beast of a squire at six-foot-plus, was the hairiest man Achan had ever seen. Huge tendrils of black, frizzy braids hung long and loose around his head. Wide curly sideburns traced his jaw to a beardless chin. Even his shield was hairy — covered in coarse, black fur. It was a much smaller, hand-held shield called a buckler.
Shung grinned down on Achan, baring his yellow teeth. “You ready for Shung?”
Achan’s eyes stung, and he realized he was staring at the circle of carved bone that looped through Shung’s ear. “Aye.”
The herald’s voice started the match, but Achan and Shung remained still, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
“How old are you anyway?” Achan asked.
“Two and twenty.”
That explained it. “Shouldn’t you be a knight by now?”
Shung sidestepped. “In Berland, peasants can’t rise above rank of squire.”
Yet another city in Darkness. Achan stepped back and right. “What’s Darkness like?”
Shung cracked his neck. “Dark.” His long legs brought him within striking distance, and he swung his sword with immense power, screaming as he did.
Achan tensed, pushed his shield into the blow, and the force rattled his chain coat. He swung for Shung’s arm as he had with Silvo, but his opponent blocked the strike with the edge of his shield then cut for Achan’s legs with another piecing cry.
Forgetting his shield, Achan barely managed to parry with his sword, but Shung’s force drove his guard back and the blade nicked Achan’s shin.
He danced out of reach and tried to look as if he wasn’t hurt. The cut sent throbs of pain up his leg. Achan grew instantly frustrated. He didn’t know how to use a shield as well as Shung, let alone a sword. What was Sir Gavin thinking?
Shung crept nearer, and Achan put all his force behind his shield and rammed into his opponent. Wood, leather, and fur scraped against each other. Achan swung for Shung’s legs and met plate armor under his trousers.
Oh, well, that was fair. Where was Achan’s leg armor?
Shung’s sword came over the top of Achan’s shield and struck his helmet. Achan ducked back and swung Eagan’s Elk out blindly. It clattered uselessly against Shung’s shield.
Achan circled. “So, is Berland dark like twilight or dark like a moonless night?”
Shung came back with a downward cut from high guard, growling as he did. Achan parried with his shield, and Shung’s blade cleaved into the wood, stuck.
Achan spun to the side, hoping to rip the sword from Shung’s grip, but the sound of splintering wood sent him running as he realized he’d left his back unguarded. In the corner, he turned back to see Shung advancing.
“Dark like black,” Shung said.
For a long while, nothing but the muted crack of swords on shields, and Shung’s yelling, rang in Achan’s ears. He focused, his heart stampeding, his body sweating — partly from fear — but he breathed, he followed through, he moved his feet, and he made a point of glancing into Shung’s beetle-black eyes as much as possible.
And for some reason, he kept up the conversation. “So was that concerning? When Darkness came? Do you remember?”
Achan’s head suddenly filled with pressure, and he gleaned Shung’s desire to strike at his legs. The thought confused his actions, sending his feet hopping about awkwardly.
Shung easily drove him back against the fence. Their shields clunked together again. On a whim, Achan thought of the allown tree. The pressure, and Shung’s strategies, faded from his mind.
Interesting.
When they broke apart and circled again, Shung said, “Therion forest always dark. Briaroaks and snarespruce grow thick.” He adjusted his grip on his furry shield.
“Sounds painful.” Achan lunged forward and struck Shung’s wrist hard and fast.
Shung wore chain mittens, but the force of the blow caused him to drop his buckler. He backpedaled, using his sword two-handed to deflect Achan’s offense. “Only if you forget your handaxes.”
Achan didn’t know what handaxes were, so he focused on where Eagan’s Elk would strike next. Shung’s jerkin roused Achan’s interest. Black suede, fur, and dozens of dangling brown tails. “How many animals did you kill for that vest?”
Shung grunted and stabbed under Achan’s shield, into his hip. “Seven and thirty.”
Achan jumped back, stunned and furious that Shung did as well without his buckler. Achan needed much more practice with this ridiculous shield. He reminded himself that most squires had practiced daily for the past five or six years. Shung, closer to ten. Achan should be thankful to still have all four limbs.
He lowered the shield a bit, emulating the grey squire from Barth, then rained his favorite combination of strikes on Shung. The moves felt strange and awkward one-handed.
Shung darted forward with a cry and gave Achan’s forearm a bruising blow, splitting the strap on Achan’s shield. It clattered to the ground, and Achan stumbled over it. He gripped Eagan’s Elk in two hands and they fought on.
Achan felt better this way. This was familiar, what he’d been practicing day after day. Still, his side pinched from fatigue, and his hip, shin, and forearm throbbed from Shung’s strikes. “I’m tired.”
Shung laughed, a deep throaty sound akin to gargling. Maybe he was tired too.
Achan felt pressure under his boot. His ankle twisted, and he stumbled back, catching his balance too late. Shung struck, and Eagan’s Elk betrayed him by zinging from his hand and clattering to the ground. Achan dodged a thrust by falling onto his stomach and found himself lying on his shield, the cursed object he’d tripped over. He picked it up and cowered behind it.
Shung barred his yellow teeth in a wide grin. “Maybe you should give up now.”
“Likely.” Squatting, Achan twisted on his toes as Shung circled. “But I’m stubborn.”
Shung swung again, silent this time.
Achan heard Sir Gavin’s voice. “Yield, Achan.”
Yield? He wasn’t about to yield. Eagan’s Elk was only a few paces away. If only—
Shung came at him again, silently. Achan, still crouched on the ground, parried a staggering wallop with the shield. The force knocked him to his rear. He planned to inch his way around the pen toward Eagan’s Elk, but Shung stepped on the shield.
For a lighter man, this would have been a mistake. Achan could have pushed up or twisted the shield to the side and caused his opponent to fall. Shung, however, pressed Achan into the dirt like butter between two cuts of bread.
The herald proclaimed Shung the winner — although technically, Shung hadn’t pinned him with the blade. Perhaps the herald was as tired of this match as Achan was. The sparse crowd clapped as if they’d rather be somewhere else. Apparently a squire from Berland and a stray brought little excitement.
Shung offered his hand. Achan gripped it, and Shung yanked him to his feet. “You well to talk to, Achan Cham. If ever you venture to Berland, we will hunt the beast of your name.”
The next morning, Vrell stood in a steamy chamber similar to the bathhouse but three times as long. Torches flickered in rings on the walls. Mosquitoes swarmed. Instead of a stone floor that dropped off at the underground river, here a dirt floor sloped like a beachfront into the same vaporous tide. The river looked to be twice as wide as Jax was tall.
Lord Dromos and Ez stood in the chamber with Vrell and the knights. Six animal-skin boats were anchored to the shore by ropes looped around stone spikes, their wide ends bobbing in the rippling current. Ez, the wispy manservant, lowered two burlap sacks into the boat on the far left and strode to the chamber’s wall. Khai darted forward and dropped his pack in the boat. Ez returned carrying a long staff with a glowing lantern on the end. He lowered it into a slot in the bow.
The slimy, brown tunnel wall gleamed in the lamplight. The walls were not clean here as they were in the bathhouse upriver. Over time, moisture and minerals had created gnarly textures along the walls like the roots of a tree.
Khai walked past Vrell for another pack.
“What about the horses?” Vrell asked him.
“They’ll stay here. We can always get more horses. But gods forbid we lose your precious face to an eben spear. Master would rage. Therefore we go under the ebens, by boat. It’s safer for everyone.”
Lord Dromos stood with Jax, both giants ankle-deep in the hot springs. The giant lord pointed down the dark tunnel. “It’s a two-day journey to the Lebab Inlet. You’ll have to take shifts piloting the boat as there is nowhere to stop for the night.”
Jax swatted a mosquito away from his face. “We appreciate your hospitality, my lord.”
Lord Dromos walked backward and raised one hand. “Gods be with you all.”
Jax, Khai, and Vrell climbed inside the boat. Ez untied it and pushed off. The humid air rushed past Vrell’s face as the current sucked the boat into the dark tunnel. Jax had placed her in the bow, but moving at such speed into unknown blackness sent a tremor through her limbs. She turned her back and burrowed down into the boat’s narrow front.
The current was so swift here that rowing wasn’t necessary. Jax and Khai did not speak. Both held oars out to the side, stoic faces focused ahead. Every so often the boat jolted when one of them pressed an oar against the tunnel wall to steer the boat back to the center of the river.
Vrell did not like how the men’s dark faces seemed to be looking at her. She twiddled her fingers, scratched a fresh mosquito bite on her wrist, then traced the tight stitches in the seam of the boat with her right forefinger.
She looked up. Craggy dripstones of various girths — some long and smooth, some tiny and jagged — covered the tunnel ceiling. A drop of water landed on her cheek, then her nose, then her forehead. With the intense humidity, she had not noticed the gentle shower.
A thick pressure filled Vrell’s ears. It was the man newly gifted in bloodvoices. He was thinking of poison.
The low-voiced old man begged, Tell me where you live.
Another man said, Are you there? Speak to me!
Then the connection vanished.
Vrell’s eyes flicked to Jax’s. The giant’s gaze was focused straight ahead. She glanced to Khai and met his black-eyed stare. She looked away, wondering if they had heard the voices as well. How could this man make everyone hear him? At least he appeared to have learned to close his mind. Perhaps he was someone’s apprentice, as she would soon be.
Khai’s oily voice echoed off the rock walls. “Clearly you know you have the gift or you wouldn’t be so skilled at blocking others.”
Vrell stiffened. “What gift?”
Khai cackled. “I’m no fool, boy. We were sent to bring you to Master Hadar. He wouldn’t send Kingsguardsmen on a mission for nobody.”
Vrell looked back to Khai. “But I am no one of consequence.”
“Not now.” Khai’s eyes darted away as his oar clunked against the tunnel wall. “It’s a long journey ahead. We could practice bloodvoicing, communicate with that new boy, help him.”
Boy? His voice had not sounded like a boy’s to Vrell.
“Khai!” Jax’s booming voice made Vrell twitch.
“Well, why not?” Khai slapped a mosquito on his cheek. “We could ready this boy for his apprenticeship and find out about the other one for Master.”
“What Vrell hides is his own business. We were sent to fetch him, not to poke around in his head.”
“His secret could be valuable to someone. Perhaps we could both profit from it.” Khai looked from Jax to Vrell. “There are ways to force it from him.”
“I won’t sink to witchcraft, nor will you in my presence,” Jax said. “We’ll deliver Vrell unharmed, nothing more.”
Khai mumbled to himself.
Vrell’s heart quaked beneath her layers of padding. Both of these warriors obviously knew she was hiding something, and at least one of them wanted to sell it to the highest bidder.
She did not know how or why her defense against their ability was so strong, but thank Arman it was. Should Khai discover her secret, his reward would be great and Vrell’s life would be over. She could not allow the weasel to intimidate her into letting her guard down. Jax was a good man. If she stayed close to him, she knew he would protect her from Khai’s greed.
But that alone was not a good enough plan. Vrell needed to learn to protect herself, and she needed a weapon. Her persona’s age was fourteen — almost a man. She could not rely on others to save her for long. It would brand her a coward. She wanted to grow a fine reputation as a young man. Who knew how long she would have to live as Vrell Sparrow.
Hopefully not long enough to rouse suspicion about her lack of height — or whiskers.
Thankfully, Khai did not speak to her again until he passed on figs and bread for lunch. Vrell thanked Arman for her meal and munched on the bread slowly, glad to have something to pass the time.
Mid-bite, a great force thumped under the boat, knocking it against the tunnel wall. The frame scraped along the rock face. Vrell dropped her lunch and pressed her hands against the sides of the bow. Had they hit the roots of a tree?
Jax was crouched on his feet, axes drawn, when another impact struck the hull, lifting the boat off the water for a brief moment. Jax fell and the boat slapped back to the surface.
The combination sent a wave of hot water splashing up over the bow, soaking Vrell. She gasped and held back a scream as the boat spun around to the side. “What is happening?”
Jax’s face tensed. He sheathed his axes, grabbed the oar, and paddled fiercely to straighten the craft. Khai’s right hand clutched one side of the boat, his oar nowhere to be seen.
A third strike lifted the boat again, bringing another wave of hot water over Vrell when it splashed back into the current. The boat spun out of control, Jax’s paddling useless to right it.
Vrell peered over the boat’s edge. She could not be certain, but she thought she saw a large, dark body vanish into the waves like a giant fish.
She rolled back and sunk into the bow in time to see Jax duck. Vrell cringed, wondering what could possibly cause a giant to cower. Seconds later, the staff holding the lantern struck a low, fat stalactite. Glass shattered overhead and everything went black.
Vrell plastered herself against the side of the boat, choking in gasps of steamy air.
A piercing howl echoed in the darkness, the volume so terribly extreme it seemed to come from the walls themselves.
Vrell froze. “Wh-What was that?”
Jax’s voice was soft in comparison. “A reekat.”
Vrell thought back to Po’s fur boots. “What is a reekat?”
“A problem,” Khai said as if this were a routine chore he would rather assign to someone else.
Something rustled near Vrell’s feet, then grazed her foot. She screamed and scrambled up into a squatting position, pressing back into the bow as far possible.
“Keep it down, you coward!” Khai hissed. “I’m only looking for my pack.”
The reekat bumped the boat again. Then the ear-splitting howl came, beside her head this time, vibrating her cheek against the thick sheet of animal skin that formed the hull of the boat. Vrell held her breath, trembling in perilous silence. Were the Kingsguards going to do anything? Both had weapons, but could they use them in the dark?
Her dizzy head confirmed the boat was still spinning. It had been several seconds since the reekat’s last scream. “Wh-What are you going to do?”
“Shhh!” Khai hissed. “Jax is seeking its mind.”
Vrell frowned. What did that mean? Could Jax hear the thoughts of the creature? Could bloodvoicing be used on animals? Even if it could, what good would it do?
“There are two,” Jax said.
Vrell prayed Arman would protect them and keep them safe. If she could live, she would be more obliging to her mother when she returned home — less stubborn, even giving up Bran if her mother wished it. She could learn to love another, could she not? She vowed to try if Arman would only deliver her from this ordeal. She breathed the words under her breath. “If it is your will, Arman, I give him up.” Tears ran down her face at the sacrifice she had made.
Or maybe that was only the dripstones.
Two wailing howls shattered the silence, a lower-pitched one starting first, followed by a higher one, like a song sung in a round. Jax’s words haunted her to the point of nausea.
There are two.
A force knocked the bow, slapping the boat against the stone wall with a loud crack. Vrell’s head smacked the bone frame, shooting pain through her ear. Another force hit the stern, lifting the boat from the water. Before it could reconnect to the surface, something butted the hull, tipping the boat onto its side. Vrell tumbled into the steaming hot springs.
She gasped, hands gripping at the slimy textured wall, but found no hold. The current pulled her along, banging her body against the wall again and again. She was going to die!
Her life would end here, alone in pitch-blackness, drowned or perhaps eaten by a reekat, whatever that was. She would never see her mother or her sisters or her home again. Never grow her hair back out long enough to braid, ride Kopay, or snuggle with her cats. Never marry Bran or anyone at all. Her body would likely float out to sea and be netted by fishermen or drift into the canals of Mahanaim and be picked at by fish and birds.
The beasts’ screeches came from behind, followed by the clash of steel on rock, a series of grunts from Jax, and a horrific ripping.
Vrell focused on her own situation and struggled to stay near the wall, but it suddenly vanished from beneath her fingertips. She surged forward and groped for the deformed stone, wanting to call out to Jax, afraid the reekat had eaten him and would eat her if she made a sound. There was only water where she felt the wall should have been.
Had she turned a sharp corner? Perhaps the tunnel had only grown wider? Her body whipped around in a small whirlpool. As she spun, she thought she saw light. Her stomach roiled from the tiny circles, and in a huge burst of effort, she swam free.
She bobbed in place, no longer caught in the current. She blinked as the darkness around her slowly took shape. She had drifted into some pond-like appendage of the underground river. A golden light glowed in the distance. She swam toward it as silently as possible, not wanting to alert any water beasts.
As she drew closer, the cavern around her came into focus. Stalactites covered the ceiling and dripped over the water’s surface in a tribal rhythm. The dull, yellow glow illuminated the entrance to a cave, the opening as wide as two doors from Walden’s Watch. On the bank, in front of the cave’s entrance, several large stalactites had twisted together until they reached the ground, forming a tree of sorts. A massive cluster of thin, craggy dripstones on the ceiling above looked like icicle leaves.
As Vrell swam near the “tree,” the cave behind it glowed fiery orange. Her feet found loose soil. She stood on shaky legs, waded toward the riverbank, and stepped onto a sandy shore.
A swarm of mosquitoes attacked, and she swung her arms around to ward them off. The steam carried a putrid stench that choked her. As she neared the cave’s entrance, the light grew enough to see the ground. It wasn’t sand she walked on, but some sort of pellet-like excrement…and a few shiny black beetles. She shuddered, quickened her pace, and stepped through the doorway into a long narrow cavern.
The light turned out to be from a flickering torch stuck in a crevice in the wall on one end. The space was no bigger than two servant’s quarters end to end. Too small for a giant. And a reekat, whatever that was, could not light a torch. There had to be a human around somewhere.
“Hello?” she called.
A well-walked trail through the droppings stretched to the opposite end of the cavern, away from the torch. Vrell crept along it with soggy steps, dodging beetles. She found a gaping hole in the wall, waist high. It led to a narrow tunnel that burrowed up through the rock.
She stood staring into the shaft, unsure what to do. The tunnel could lead to a human who could help her…or hurt her. It could also be a cave for the water beast.
Perhaps it would be best to stay with the torch. She walked back toward the light, but the sound of splashing and grunting stopped her feet. Something was out there. Vrell darted out of the cave and behind the dripstone tree. She peeked through a gap where two stalactites narrowed.
It was Khai, staggering to the shore.
A shudder shook her limbs. Where was Jax? If something had happened to the giant…
Khai trudged up to the light, just as Vrell had. She stepped carefully around the dripstone tree to avoid being seen. She watched Khai lift the torch from the crack in the wall, examine it, and return it to its place. Then he looked down.
Vrell cringed. Her wet footprints would give her away.
Sure enough, Khai followed them to the other end of the cavern where the tunnel was. He lingered out of sight, but Vrell knew he would follow her footsteps back to the dripstone tree. She froze. Could he sense her presence? Vrell concentrated to close her mind, to be invisible, having no idea if it would work. Her ears suddenly tickled.
“Boy?”
Her breath caught in her throat. He could sense her. Could he sense her fear? Her location?
She could no longer see him from her position on the riverbank. She watched the edge of the dripstone tree trunk, listening for his footsteps over the patter of raining stalactites. His shadow loomed on the cavern wall, placing him near the cave’s entrance, coming closer. She stepped back carefully over the gnarly base of the dripstone tree.
“I won’t let the reekat get you, boy.” Khai’s voice was smooth and low and very close. He meant her harm. She could sense it. He wanted her secret. He could force it from her.
His shadowed face poked around the side of the tree. Vrell darted backward and leaned against a tall, thin stalagmite. The formation snapped against her weight. She crashed onto the hard ground, turned to her hands and knees, and scurried over the droppings in a crawl to her feet.
Khai jumped out in front of her, having gone the other way instead of following her over the craggy stalagmites. He grabbed her shoulder and lifted a dagger to her throat.
Vrell cringed. She had never in her life been treated so, not even as a stray. Her body quivered, her knees buckled, and although Khai tried to hold her up, his grip was not firm enough. She dropped to her knees.
He crouched beside her and gripped her shoulder tighter.
She scrunched her eyes shut. “Wh-What do you wa-wa-want?”
He reapplied his blade to her neck. “Your secret.”
A shiver gripped every pore. She was cold despite the steamy heat. Vrell kept her voice low, doing all she could to keep him from guessing her gender. “I c-cannot tell you. I would d-die.” In a sense that was true. Her spirit would die if she was forced to marry such an arrogant buffoon.
Khai pushed the blade against her skin. It pinched, but she did not think it had cut her. He released her shoulder and fumbled with a pouch on his belt. He drew out a small vial. “I made this over the past few days in hopes I’d get a chance to use it.”
Vrell’s eyes widened as Khai took the cork stopper in his teeth and worked it free. He spat it to the ground. The moist air tingled her eyes, and she blinked.
“Don’t look at me like that, boy. It’s not the witchcraft Jax spoke of. I haven’t the time or materials for such ceremony. This”—he tapped the mouth of the vial to the tip of Vrell’s nose—“is simple nature. A special blend to weaken that fortress around your mind.” He straightened and kicked Vrell’s arm. “Get up!”
Vrell slowly rose to her feet.
“Back,” Khai said. “Into the spikes!”
Vrell obeyed, unsure what else to do. She backed up until she was wedged against the trunk of the dripstone tree and the slimy formations were rubbing against her wrists.
Khai pressed the blade to her throat and held the vial to her lips. “Drink.”
Vrell shook her head, lips pursed. Without knowing the ingredients of this tonic, she would not ingest it. Master Masen and Mitt had both told horror tales of those who swallowed something wicked and suffered until death.
Khai pressed the dagger firmly against her throat. “Drink, I say!”
Something fluttered overhead. A bat! There were bats on the ceiling!
Vrell hated this place. She hated Khai. She hated having to play Vrell Sparrow to avoid a horrible marriage. Her arms and legs were free. She could fight, but she was uncertain about the blade. Dull as it may be, she did not doubt it would do damage with a powerful thrust. Khai might not be able to maintain control if he lost his temper.
He lowered the blade to where Vrell’s neck met the top of her shoulder and drew the steel along the side of her throat.
At first she thought he had done nothing. Then a terrible sting throbbed where the knife had passed.
Khai leaned in, baring every flaw of his porous, sweaty skin. He remained there, pressing in on her mind, breathing his hot, stale breath in her face. He wiped the flat of the blade over her wound and leaned back, holding the weapon where she could see the dark blood smeared across the flat.
Tears welled in her eyes. Where was Jax? Had the reekat—
“That, boy, is your blood,” Khai said. “I’m quite prepared to spill more of it, next time where it counts.” He shoved the vial to her mouth. “Drink!”
She opened her lips and drank. It was gooey like honey but horribly bitter. Her stomach heaved as she held the repugnant liquid in her mouth, determined not to swallow. Khai’s eyes glittered as the vial drained, and the pressure of his dagger’s point lessened on her skin.
Vrell kneed Khai in the place that hurt a man most. He groaned and doubled over enough for her to slide between the dripstones away from his weapon. She ran to the river, stumbled over the broken chunk of stalagmite, and spat the mixture from her mouth. She slurped a handful of hot, putrid water and gargled the bitterness away.
Khai grabbed her hair and pulled, lifting her out of the water. She took hold of the broken stalagmite and turned and bashed it against Khai’s head. The stalagmite crumbled into smaller chunks. Khai’s eyes bulged and he collapsed at her feet.
Served him right.
Vrell removed her soggy satchel and dug out her small knife. She cut two long strips off the hem of Khai’s cloak. She propped him against a fat stalagmite and tied his wrists behind it. She also bound his feet, just to be sure.
Then she walked into the cave and kicked away the droppings and beetles to form a clear spot under the torch. She sank against the stone cavern wall and wrapped her arms around her knees, as sobs gently rocked her.
Achan clambered over the rail of the short sword pen and stumbled through a group of peasants, who laughed at him. He pawed at his helmet, but it seemed welded to his skull. Sir Gavin tugged it off. The cool air tingled Achan’s sweaty face.
“Are you all right?” Sir Gavin asked.
Achan took a deep breath. His arms trembled from the fight with Shung. His hip and leg still throbbed, but the adrenaline coursing through him dulled the pain. “Aye.”
“You should have yielded when you lost your sword. You risk getting killed dodging around like that. If he had hit you with his full power…”
Achan turned to see Shung stalking away through the crowd. “You think he went easy on me?”
“No. He fought hard until you lost your sword. Once you weren’t a threat, he eased up. There are few who would kill another in tournament.”
“But you said never underestimate an opponent. I could have gotten my sword back—”
“Don’t be naive. In a real battle he’d have killed you the instant you dropped it. The only point of wielding a sword is to kill. Never forget that. Are you certain you’re well? Your leg?”
Achan swallowed further debate and looked down at the dark wetness plastering his leggings to his shin. “It will be fine. A bruise or two will rise to the surface by tomorrow. But aren’t you pleased? At least I wasn’t humiliated.”
“If I thought you’d be humiliated, I’d not have entered you.”
Sir Gavin’s backward way of teaching irked Achan. “I should have been humiliated with all the training I’ve had with a shield.” Achan cast his eyes to the ground, shamed at his own attitude. This knight had no reason in all Er’Rets to train a stray. Achan needed to remember that.
But Sir Gavin only sniffed and bobbed his head. He tied the shield’s strap in a knot and helped Achan loop it over his head and one shoulder so it hung off his back.
“It was hard,” Achan said, trying to soften his complaint with discussion. “I couldn’t guess when he was feinting or striking.”
“Aye. That takes practice. You’ve had little.”
The herald called out two new names and Sir Gavin led Achan away from the short sword and shield pen.
Achan stumbled alongside Sir Gavin. Only two fights and already his body craved his bed. Yet his mind couldn’t sleep. All his life he’d watched tournaments from afar; now he was a participant. The fact put a bounce in his weary steps. “Why did Shung scream so?”
“Gives him more power and unnerves his opponents.”
“And he stopped screaming toward the end.” So Shung had gone easy. Achan scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me about the screaming?”
Sir Gavin shrugged. “I’ve never been the best teacher.”
Achan inhaled to argue, but could think of nothing to say that would make any difference. “What next?”
Sir Gavin stopped. “Why don’t you wander a bit? There’s someone I must speak with. I’ll meet you back here shortly and introduce you.” With that, he turned and strode into the crowd.
Achan looked around himself. He stood near the hand-to-hand combat pen, where two squires were rolling in the dirt. Peasants were chanting, “Ne-sos, Ne-sos.” Two large, red tents obscured his view of the longsword and axe pens.
In the distance, a cloud of dust rose before the red and white striped awning of the grandstands overlooking the jousting field. Achan drifted that direction, hoping he could see at least one match. But before he’d gone very far, his stinging hip reminded him of his wounds, so he stepped between two tents to inspect them.
He lifted his layers of shirts and drew the waistband of his leggings away with his thumb. The tip of Shung’s sword had pierced the chain and grazed off his hipbone, a gash as wide as two fingers. The bone itself was tender, but the cut didn’t look too bad. He checked his leg wound and found a shallow scrape. He’d cut himself worse peeling potatoes.
Squeals of laughter rose from nearby. Achan wove between the colorful tents in search of the source. He emerged in a clearing shaded by several poplar trees about twenty feet from the open tent where squires were helping their masters dress in armor for the joust.
A group of squires and maidens about his age ran about laughing and shrieking, playing hoodman’s blind.
Achan shouldn’t linger. Despite his armor and jerkin, he was a stray, and he doubted very much — judging by the lavish attire — that these people were. But their game migrated closer, and soon Achan stood in the midst of it. He quickly spotted the hoodman: a maiden with long curls so golden they were almost white, and tiny braids in a crown around her head. She wore a blue embroidered dress with layers of skirt. A grey blindfold covered her eyes.
The sunburned squire from Carmine who’d been defeated in the short sword pen bumped into Achan and laughed. The maiden came closer, the hem of her dress swishing in the grass, her arms outstretched, feeling the air. An olive-skinned maiden with dozens of oily black braids tipped with wooden beads, snuck up, whispered in the hoodman’s ear, then darted behind a poplar.
The hoodman spoke, her voice filled with spunk. “I’ll get you, Jaira, you wicked!”
The hoodman backed against Achan’s chest. Her wild curls smelled like jasmine. Before he could remember the rules of the game, she whirled around and grabbed him in a hug.
“Got you!”
Achan jerked back in surprise and pulled free, causing the maiden to trip on her skirt. She screamed, and he reached out and caught her under the arms.
She giggled madly, gripped his forearms until she was steady, and tore off the blindfold. “What hero saved me from that fall?”
Achan blinked. The maiden was Cetheria in human form. The goddess protector, beautiful and golden. Her eyes were blue crystals that sparkled as she studied him. He stepped back, her scrutiny bringing a wave of uncomfortable heat. A crowd clustered around, waiting to see who the next hoodman would be.
“Well, who are you, hero?” the maiden asked.
“Achan.”
“Just Achan?” Her lips parted in a teasing smile. “What knight do you serve?”
“Sir Gavin Lukos.”
“The Great Whitewolf?” the Carmine squire asked.
Jaira, the maiden with the oily black braids, stepped out from behind the poplar and said, “He’s ancient!”
The Carmine squire folded his arms. His sunburned nose was peeling. “He’s not jousting, is he?”
“I doubt he could hold the lance,” a scrawny, brown-haired boy said. “He’s so old.”
“Isn’t he a stray?” Jaira asked.
Achan shrugged, hoping to appear like he belonged. “Lots of Kingsguard knights are strays.”
“A handful. Of Old Kingsguards.” The scrawny boy plopped down under a poplar and leaned back against the trunk. “The Council doesn’t trust strays anymore. And with good reason. My father will never budge on that law.”
Some grunted in agreement. Achan swallowed his unease and sought a polite way to exit.
Jaira pulled her black braids to one side of her neck and ran her fingers though them. “It’s frightful that strays still have any authority in Er’Rets.”
The blonde who had been the hoodman addressed Achan. “You have competed, I see. Did you win?”
His chest swelled. “Won one, lost one.”
She smiled, but Achan wasn’t sure if she was impressed, indifferent, or sympathetic. “Are you from Tsaftown?” she asked. “You wear our crest on your shield and our colors.”
Achan blinked and looked down at his black vest. Tsaftown’s crest and colors? “I’m, uh, from Sitna.”
“What’s your surname?” the Carmine squire asked. “I’d like to tell Sir Rigil who the Great Whitewolf has convinced to squire. He’s never had a squire that I’ve heard of.”
Why hadn’t he? Sir Gavin appeared strong and bright. Doubt crept over Achan. Maybe Sir Gavin had gone mad in his old age to take Achan for a squire.
The group had gone silent waiting for Achan’s reply. The Carmine squire must have left the short sword pen before Achan’s lack of surname was announced. Achan could guess how this group would react once they heard it. He glanced at the pretty blonde with the sparkling eyes, the cause of his knotted tongue. He didn’t want to see her fair face scowl and be the cause of it.
But now, with Eagan’s Elk at his side and a legitimate victory under his belt, he didn’t care what they said. “I’m Achan Cham.”
Jaira gasped. “You’re the stray who beat Silvo! He said you cheated.”
“I did not!” Achan straightened to his full height. “His arrogance cost him the match.”
The Carmine squire grinned. “Silvo is arrogant.”
Jaira shoved the Carmine squire’s chest. “Shut up, Bran!”
Bran barely swayed from her assault. “You’d know best, Jaira. He’s your brother.”
“Lady Jaira,” she snapped. “And Silvo is better with a sword than you.”
“Aye,” Bran said. “I didn’t say he wasn’t good with a sword. I said he was arrogant.”
Jaira’s sculpted eyebrows sank over her narrow eyes. She turned her scowl to Achan. “Why are you here, anyway? Who let you compete?” She whipped around to face the scrawny boy under the tree, the beads in her braids clacking. “Reggio? Would your father approve?”
Reggio glared at Achan. “Most certainly not.”
Jaira turned her pointed nose to Achan, lips pursed in victory. “Then why don’t you scurry off to the stables or barns or wherever it is you strays live.”
“Leave him be,” the blonde said. “There is nothing wrong with being a stray.”
Achan raised his brows. Nothing wrong with being a stray? He’d never heard anyone say such a thing.
“I beg to differ, Tara.” Jaira wrinkled her nose. “They stink.”
Reggio, the scrawny runt, burst into laughter.
Achan didn’t care. He had just learned the blond girl’s name. Tara. And Tara felt there was nothing wrong with being a stray.
Their mockery entered again into his awareness. Achan raised one eyebrow at Jaira, who was beaming at the attention. “Because we sleep with the animals in the barn, is that right, my lady?”
Jaira’s gaze snapped back to his and she frowned. “Well, don’t you?”
The canvas tents flapped in the wind. Everyone stared. Achan searched his memory for Sir Gavin’s lessons on Jaelport, Jaira’s city. He recalled their almost exaltation of women, which explained Jaira’s countenance. They employed slaves and more eunuchs than the rest of Er’Rets combined. They worshiped Zitheos, god of animals.
Achan smiled wide. “Can you fault me, my lady? You prefer the company of animals yourself, do you not? Tell me, does not your god, Zitheos, have the head of the goat? Having met you and your brother, the rumors are confirmed. Those from Jaelport do take after their god.”
Some of the boys laughed, but Jaira’s chest swelled with a long intake of air. She looked Achan up and down with flashing dark eyes. “How dare you!”
Achan shrugged then bowed his head slightly. “You asked, my lady.”
“Come, let us play.” Tara forced a smile, wide peacemaking eyes darting between Achan and Jaira. She held the blindfold out to Achan. “I tagged you, so it is your turn.”
Achan studied the faces around him. All but Jaira and Reggio looked content. It appeared as though they would let him play. He took the blindfold from Tara, and the touch of her hand sent tingles up his arm. She blushed and looked at the ground. The moment he pulled the blindfold up to his eyes he heard a dreadful nasal voice.
“Stop, Achan, this instant!”
Achan froze. He knew that voice. He took one last beholding gaze at Lady Tara, whose sapphire eyes had doubled in size, then reluctantly turned to his lord and master.
Sir Luas Nathak, Lord of Sitna Manor, strode toward them from the jousting field. His emerald cape billowed in his wake. A black leather mask completely covered the right side of his face. Dark, shriveled skin peeked out from the edges. His beard forked in two, half black, half white. His hair split also — the white half partly covered by the mask, the black half oiled back in a swell over his head. He wore a black leather glove on his right hand to hide the ruined flesh.
Gossip varied regarding Lord Nathak’s condition. Some whispered of a rare skin disease. Other’s claimed a fire had burned him horribly. No one knew for certain.
The squires and maidens shrank back a few steps, leaving Achan to face Lord Nathak alone. Achan squared his shoulders. He knew better than to speak first. He bowed his head and prayed Cetheria would have mercy.
Pressure built at the base of his skull as a great fear washed into his mind. At first he assumed it was from someone in the group, but when he looked up and met Lord Nathak’s eye, the feeling vanished. An icy tremor ran through Achan as if from an invisible breeze. He glanced at the budding branches on a nearby poplar and found them still as a statue. No wind had given him that chill.
How odd.
“Explain your presence here.” Lord Nathak spat out his words like they tasted sour.
“I’m entered in the tournament, my lord…” Achan swallowed… “as a squire.”
“On whose authority?”
Achan glanced up and found Lord Nathak’s one eye horribly intimidating. “Sir Gavin Lukos, my lord.”
Understanding tightened the visible half of Lord Nathak’s face. “You are his new squire?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I heard he was training someone,” Lord Nathak mumbled and tugged on the chin strap of his mask. “Then you have no time for games, do you? You should find him right away and see he has help dressing for his events. Is that not what squires do? Master Rennan?”
The Carmine squire, Bran, jumped, his sunburned face pinker than ever. “Yes. Yes, it is, my lord.”
“Get to it, then. All of you!” Lord Nathak stormed past, bumping hard against Achan’s shoulder. The other squires scrambled off.
Jaira gripped Tara’s arm. “Come! Let us find seats for the joust. I’ll introduce you to Sir Nongo. He’s desperately handsome.”
“It was nice to meet you, Master Cham.” Tara rested a hand on his shoulder, bobbed up on her toes, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for catching me.”
Jaira rolled her eyes in a huff and pulled Tara away, but Tara looked back over her shoulder at Achan twice before disappearing around the corner of a blue-and-white-striped tent.
Achan stood staring at the place where he last saw her, the scent of her jasmine hair lingering in his nostrils.
*
Achan left the shady clearing and made his way back to the hand-to-hand pen, where two different squires were fighting. Sir Gavin was nowhere to be found.
Achan watched the match while he waited. One squire wore blue and white. He had a full, black beard, grey skin, and was two heads taller than his scrawny, bleeding opponent. The freckled redhead, who couldn’t be more than thirteen, seem to favor the run-and-cower strategy. His purple, red, and silver striped tunic draped over his small frame like a shroud. Neither wore armor.
The big squire punched with such force that the boy made a dent in the dirt. Achan winced and ran his tongue over his teeth. For some fool reason, the boy scrambled to his feet and jogged around the perimeter of the pen. Begging for more pain, Achan guessed. Soon enough, the boy’s wish was granted. The big squire cornered him and rained blows like Poril kneading bread dough. Why didn’t the herald put a stop to this?
Thankfully, the boy finally stayed down. The herald called the match in favor of the squire from Hamonah. Achan couldn’t recall from his lessons with Sir Gavin where that was.
Sir Gavin had still not returned, so Achan approached the herald. “Excuse me, sir. Have you seen Sir Gavin Lukos?”
“Not since this morning.”
Achan surveyed the crowd one last time, searching every bit of red, hoping to spot the Old Kingsguard cape. He turned back to the herald. “Sir Gavin wanted me to compete here. Must I wait for him to enter?”
“What’s your name?”
Achan took a deep breath. “Achan Cham.”
The herald looked Achan over, clearly confused about Achan’s rank. “Lord Nathak says you’re to report to the kitchens…sir.”
Achan nodded. He stepped back from the pen, then spun around and stormed toward the manor, loosening his jerkin as he went. The kitchens? By Lord Nathak’s direct order? Why couldn’t he allow him to serve Sir Gavin at least for one day? Lord Nathak had plenty of servants. Poril had plenty of help.
Achan stalked to the keep and up to Sir Gavin’s bedchamber. The room was empty. Wils was probably off dressing some other poor sap. Achan jerked the shield over his head and let it clatter to the floor. He fought with his clothes until he got them all off, pulling out a tuft of hair along with the chain shirt. After folding them as neatly as his temper would allow, he left them, the shield, and Eagan’s Elk lying atop Sir Gavin’s bed.
He stared at the beautiful sword and scabbard. For a morning he’d been a real squire. He sighed. No reason to keep the blade now, though. It looked like Lord Nathak was denying him his knightly apprenticeship. Besides, the sword was much too good for cutting vegetables.
He washed his wounds and dug around until he found some strips of cloth to bind them. At least he would not die from infection. He fought two matches today, met a group of nobles who could have had him arrested, and came face to face with Lord Nathak. He should be thankful to be alive.
Achan spent the rest of the day in the kitchens running errands for frantic Poril. As if the gods didn’t feel this day was humiliating enough, Poril told Achan he was to serve at the feast. Poril made Achan wear a fancy green servant’s uniform. It made him look like a jester.
Any other day Achan would have been thrilled for such an opportunity. But he’d been an equal with squires today, even insulted a noblewoman. To serve them now…well…he’d rather not.
Poril gave him instructions in the kitchen. “Yer not teh speak unless yer spoken to. Pages and squires will serve food to their lords, so yeh’ll not be causing any trouble there. Once the squires sit, yeh’ll serve them.”
Fabulous! Perhaps Achan could offer up some ale or choice wine to Reggio or Bran or Shung or Silvo. He scowled at the floor.
Achan took his place in the serving room off the entrance to the great hall. Dozens of identically dressed servants crowded the tables and filled platters with food. No one had recognized Achan yet. He did see Reggio arguing with Poril about the best cut of lamb for Sir Jabari. Thankfully Poril dealt with the pompous runt himself. Maybe all would be well. Maybe no one would recognize him at all.
He waited for his turn to serve by peering through the doorway into the great hall. He had never seen the room during mealtime, and nothing could prepare him for the clamor of two hundred voices, ripping meat, chewing, and slurping. Brightly-colored gowns and embroidered doublets complemented the polished poplar beams holding up the high ceiling.
As if circumstances didn’t cause him enough sweat, the dozens of torches on the walls and so many bodies crowded together raised the temperature to such a degree, Achan was tempted to go dive into the moat.
A table draped in white linen stretched along a platform at the end of the hall. Prince Gidon Hadar sat in the center on a throne-like chair with a high, carved back. He was tall and strong. A jagged crown of gold sat over his oily black hair. A short, black beard shaded his chin. He looked ridiculous in his gold silk doublet with the red, ruffled sleeves of his shirt flouncing down to his bejeweled fingers. Gren had likely spent hours dyeing the fabric to achieve such a rich shade.
Lord Nathak and his wife sat to the prince’s right. Sir Kenton Garesh, Prince Gidon’s personal protector, also called the shield, sat at Gidon’s left. Everything about Sir Kenton was thick but his black hair, which hung like a curtain about his pale face.
Two dozen others sat around them, dining and laughing above those unworthy to sit at the high table. Two more tables extended the length of the great hall, one along each wall, each seating eighty. All seemed to savor Poril’s feast.
When the high table was served, Achan and nine others dressed like him carried tray upon tray of food to the lower tables in the great hall. Achan quickly spotted Lady Tara and her friends on the left wall facing the high table. He made a point of serving the far end of their table, where he would be neither seen nor summoned. When every trencher was full, the servants took their places along the walls. Five on each side stood in a line against the wall three paces back from those seated at the long tables.
Achan stood last in his line, nearest the door, and on the same side as Lady Tara. He watched the back of her head for a while then glanced over the shoulder of a fat man in front of him, who had already emptied his trencher twice. The man looked around greedily. Achan wondered if he might eat the trencher itself. Achan and the servants waited silently against the wall, moving only when summoned.
Someone to Achan’s left snapped his fingers. “Servant. Some wine.”
Achan retrieved a jug from the serving room and filled the man’s goblet. He turned to go back to his place, but a woman dressed in turquoise held up her glass in silent request. Achan barely managed to fill it around her billowing sleeve. More glasses went up. Achan made his way down the table as guest after guest seized the opportunity for a refill. They raised their goblets and continued their conversation, as if the wine magically poured itself.
He spotted Jaira, the catty, braid-wearing, stray-hating noblewoman from Jaelport he had insulted earlier. She was sitting beside Lady Tara. A chill washed over Achan when Jaira lifted her goblet in the air, her olive-skinned fingers clad in copper and silver rings.
The way she held it, high up under his nose while she chattered to Silvo, made it difficult to pour. It would help to get a better angle. The last thing he needed was to spill on this infernal woman. So he plucked the goblet from her hand.
She gasped. “How dare you touch me!”
Conversation around Jaira dwindled and onlookers stared. Achan ignored them, filled Jaira’s goblet, and set it in front of her plate. Out of nowhere a tiny, hairless dog leaped out of Jaira’s lap. It dunked its head inside the goblet and started drinking.
Achan slid back against the wall and bumped into an overweight servant standing there. He flattened himself beside the pot-bellied man. Though he averted his gaze, he felt the burn of many sets of eyes, including Jaira’s. A sinister pressure built in his mind. Trouble.
“Silvo.” Jaira’s chair scraped on the hardwood floor. “Look at this!”
A request for wine at the end of the table sent Achan scurrying in that direction, but someone caught him by the arm and squeezed.
“Pretty strong arm for a servant,” Silvo said.
Achan jerked free and walked toward the passage leading to the kitchens, praying he’d get outside without a scene. A trencher flew over his shoulder. Something whacked the back of his head. He didn’t stop.
“Hey! I’m talking to you, stray!”
Achan paused, breathed deeply, then turned and growled through clenched teeth. “Sir?”
Silvo stood, hands on hips, a single dark eyebrow cocked. His narrow eyes glittered. “Get us some wine down here.”
The entire row of guests seated on the left wall seemed to be staring at Achan. Behind Silvo, he could see the blur that was Lady Tara’s golden head turn his way.
“My jug is empty, sir,” Achan said. “I need to refill it.”
Something cool nudged his shoulder. Another servant traded a full jug of wine for Achan’s empty one. Achan glared at the servant. Perhaps he could meet this boneheaded slave in the hand-to-hand pen immediately following this humiliation. Where was Sir Gavin anyway?
Achan strode back to Silvo, Jaira, and the rat-dog. He filled Silvo’s goblet. Then Jaira’s. The drunken mutt lay curled by his lady’s trencher, sleeping. Silvo had drained his goblet by the time Achan filled Jaira’s, and the impudent squire clunked it repeatedly against Achan’s jug. Achan filled it again, all the while warmly aware that Lady Tara was watching the scene.
“Tell me, stray.” Silvo took another sip. “How does this squire-servant thing work?”
“It doesn’t really,” Achan murmured.
“I would think not.” Silvo snorted, then snarled, “I demand a rematch, stray. You embarrassed me in front of a lot of people today and—”
“You embarrassed yourself, Master Hamartano,” Lady Tara said.
Silvo’s eyes widened. His olive cheeks flushed maroon.
Lady Tara cocked an eyebrow and held up her goblet. “May I have some wine, please?”
“Of course, my lady.” Achan took his time filling Lady Tara’s goblet, his own cheeks burning from the effect of her stare.
“I think a man of many talents is quite the man indeed,” she said. “Tell me, Master Hamartano, can you serve wine with one arm? Most servants I’ve seen use two to hold the jug. It must be very heavy.” She looked at Achan. “Pass the jug to Master Hamartano, good sir. I fear Sir Nongo is parched at the high table. We cannot have Master Cham serving your knight, can we, Master Hamartano?”
The boiling rage in Silvo’s eyes brought a grin to Achan’s lips. The squire snatched the jug from Achan and glided on agile feet to the high table.
“I see we are even, Master Cham,” Lady Tara said with a coy smile. “Now I have rescued you.”
Achan smiled down on her. “That you have, my lady.”
“Could you not tell me how you went from squire to servant in half a day?” She sipped her wine, her eyes never leaving his.
His stomach danced a jig. As much as he wanted to talk with her, he remembered his place, and bowed. “Is there anything else you need, my lady?”
“Only your company. Could you not pull up a chair?”
“I could not, my lady. Forgive me.” Achan bowed again, feeling the fool, but enjoying himself nonetheless.
Lady Jaira clucked her tongue. “Really, Tara. You degrade yourself. I don’t understand why you must—”
“Achan!”
It was Sir Gavin’s voice. Achan spotted the knight sitting at the end of the high table itself. The knight was waving him over, his eyebrows trying to send a message Achan couldn’t translate.
Could it have something to do with a servant holding conversation with a noblewoman in the great hall? Although he didn’t sense anger from the knight, Achan blew out a deep breath, turned to Lady Tara, and bowed once more. “Excuse me, my lady.”
He turned to walk the long way around the room to Sir Gavin — in order not to have to pass Silvo at the high table — and met Poril at the entrance. A sense of foreboding closed in on his mind, and from the cook’s bloodshot eyes and clenched teeth Achan figured he’d also seen Achan’s exchange with Lady Tara. Well, why not add a beating to this momentous day?
Knowing Poril would rather die than make a scene in the great hall in the middle of the prince’s coming-of-age celebration, Achan passed him right by and went around to Sir Gavin. He squatted beside the knight’s chair.
“For Lightness’s sake, lad, stand up,” Sir Gavin hissed.
Confused, Achan stood. He preferred the cover of squatting behind the table. He was tired of being stared at and longed to leave the great hall.
“Achan, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Prince Oren Hadar.”
Prince? Achan knew of no claimant to the throne beside Prince Gidon. Achan averted his gaze for a moment, then curiosity won out. He looked up at the man seated beside Sir Gavin. Prince Oren Hadar had black hair, blue eyes, and a long, narrow nose. He wore a thin crown of gold on his head. It was so thin, in fact, that Achan might not have seen it if the torches on the wall hadn’t reflected off the shiny metal. The prince studied Achan with narrowed eyes, as if searching his memory for something.
Achan’s thrilling moment with Lady Tara had left his brain on the other side of the room. He put it to work at once. Was this man in some way related to Prince Gidon? Achan glanced to the center of the table where the prince sat presiding over his coming of age celebration.
“Prince Oren is King Axel’s baby brother,” Sir Gavin said. “Second in line for the throne, behind only Gidon.”
Achan went straight to his knees.
Prince Oren chuckled. “None of that for me, lad. And I’m no baby, ‘baby brother’ though I be.” He winked at Achan. “I think my nephew, Gidon, gets his handsome face from his mother.”
“Bah!” Sir Gavin waved his hand. “Dara was beautiful. That”—he nodded to the prince—“is far from beautiful.”
Achan failed to bite back a laugh. Sir Gavin had better watch himself or he’d be hanged for insulting the prince. People had been hanged for less around here.
The thought of unnecessary cruelty brought Lord Nathak to mind. “Sir Gavin, I need to tell you about what happened today—”
“How did you do?” Prince Oren asked. “Gavin tells me you clobbered Silvo Hamartano.”
“Only because he was over-confident, Your Highness.”
Prince Oren raised an eyebrow. “Modest.”
“No, really,” Achan said. “He assumed because I’m a stray I’d be weak. He led with a move easily deflected by any beginner, leaving him wide open and off balance.”
Again Prince Oren laughed. “I hear Sir Gavin’s logic in your words, my boy.”
“Achan.” It was Poril’s thin voice.
Pig snout! Would no one let him be for five minutes? Achan turned.
Poril walked toward him as if each step brought the old man closer to death. Approaching the high table without food, wine, or invitation was a good way to meet a noose. Poril’s gaze flickered between Lord Nathak and Prince Oren as if he were unsure who might banish him first.
Achan sighed and looked back to Sir Gavin. “I waited for you at the hand-to-hand pen, but you didn’t return, and Lord Nathak told them I couldn’t compete. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to be beaten for my dual roles at Sitna Manor today.” He glanced across the hall and caught Lady Tara watching him. He grinned. “It was worth it, though.”
Poril whispered, “Achan!” The cook now stood three yards from the high table. He beckoned Achan toward him with the jerk of his head.
Achan had never seen him ask so strange. “Farewell.” Achan bowed his head to Prince Oren. “It was an honor, Your Highness.”
Sir Gavin grabbed his elbow. “See here, you’ll not be whipped because of me.”
Achan waved him off. “Oh, it’s not really your fault, sir, and a very long story.”
Sir Gavin chuckled. “See what I mean? He has that way about him, does he not?”
Prince Oren flashed Achan a curious smile. The stares of both men brought a flush to Achan’s cheeks for no reason he could explain. He sensed a secret in them, something clandestine that somehow involved himself. He swallowed, bowed again to Prince Oren, and started toward Poril, who turned and made a beeline for the kitchens.
Achan was surprised to find Sir Gavin at his heels.
“Sir Gavin!” Lord Nathak’s nasal voice amplified over the chatter, sending an icy chill up Achan’s arms. “A word?”
“I’ll be right back, Achan. Don’t go anywhere.”
But Achan desperately wanted to exit the great hall. He watched Poril’s back, wondering what his reaction would be when he found Achan not following. He sighed. He’d almost take a beating just to feel some cool air on his face.
He stood where Sir Gavin had left him, torn between whom to obey. Then he saw Silvo’s dark eyes spot him. The thin squire stood and started his way, no good on his mind. Achan wasn’t willing to take that kind of beating. That settled it. He made a quick exit from the great hall.
He found Poril waiting outside. The cook gripped Achan’s arm as if squeezing juice from a lemon. “Yer through serving, yeh are. Talking with noble folk like yer one of ’em? Never has Poril been in such a place to be forced to interrupt a prince. Gods have mercy on poor, miserable Poril. Lord Nathak said to keep yeh away from the knight, but yeh went right to ’im. What’s Poril to do, I ask yeh? Into the kitchens until Poril can get his belt teh yer hide. That’s what.”
Lord Nathak would never allow Achan to train as a knight, and this proved it. Achan stalked out of the inner bailey. The sun beat down on him as if to laugh at his feeble attempt at a new life. He passed through the outer bailey and stepped into the kitchens.
He stood in the doorway and watched the women bustle about preparing desserts. He had never been filled with more rebelliousness in his life. The gods had given him a taste of noble life today and, with the exception of his bath, he didn’t want to lose it. He stepped into the kitchens, lifted a briarberry pie from the table, and slipped away.
Normally he would’ve sought out Gren, and they could’ve shared the pie together in secret. But she was engaged now. And besides, he had only bad news to share. Lord Nathak’s discovery of his training would likely mean the end of Achan’s dreams of knighthood, which crushed his hopes of rescuing Gren from a life with Riga. So instead of heading to her home or even the Corner, Achan carried his pie over the drawbridge and toward the river.
The sun shone high in the sky as Achan sank against the allown tree. He shoved a bite of pie into his mouth. The sweetness brought comfort, but changed nothing. It was foolish to hope. No stray could serve in the Kingsguard. Achan knew the law. Why had Sir Gavin insisted on breaking it?
Achan sat under the allown tree until the sun sank behind Sitna Manor, watching the rushing river and picking at the pie until it was gone. He should return and take his beating like a good stray. Instead, he lay down and dreamed of Lady Tara’s kiss.
“What’s this?”
Vrell could see Khai’s boots through the cave entrance from her position under the torch. He was still unconscious. It was not his voice that spoke. Nor was it Jax’s.
“Somebody done a number on him,” the voice said. “That’s quite a wallop.”
Vrell leaned to the right until she saw the speaker. A hunched man stood at Khai’s side, wearing only blackened undershorts. He had a narrow, skeletal build, but his sinewy arms and legs burst with muscles. A few wisps of black hair lay matted to his bald head. It looked like he’d tried to shave his head but had missed a few spots.
Jax stepped into Vrell’s line of sight. Her heart leapt to see him alive and well. He crouched behind the stalagmite where Khai’s wrists were bound.
“No!” Vrell scrambled to her feet and ran to the men, who turned to her in surprise. “Leave him!”
“Vrell!” Jax stood, his wide smile baring two rotten bottom teeth. “I thought the reekat ate you for sure.” He motioned back toward the river. In the dim light, she saw a wet form at the craggy base of the dripstone tree. A swollen brown beast lay where the water met the shore. In the shadow of the dripstone tree it was difficult to make out anything specific.
“Is it…”
“Dead,” the near-naked man said. His skin was winkled all over as if he had been in water his whole life.
Jax pointed down at Khai. “Did you do this?”
She looked at Khai’s face. A small turnip had swelled from his temple, shiny and purple. “He attacked me.” She pointed to the sticky cut on her neck. She had forgotten to clean it, not that it would matter in such a filthy place.
Jax’s bushy black eyebrows sank into a scowl. “Why would Khai attack you?”
Vrell looked at her feet. “He said he wanted my secret. He forced me to drink something bitter, but I spit it out.”
Jax sighed. “I’m sorry, Vrell. I meant to keep an eye on that.” Jax rubbed his face, fingers lingering on his right eyelid. “But I can’t leave him like this. Khai’s greedy, but he’s my partner. I need to untie him, make him comfortable. You understand?”
Vrell swallowed but nodded.
The giant pulled a dagger from his boot and cut Khai free. He lifted the unconscious Kingsguard over his shoulder and carried him into the cave.
Vrell glanced back at the wrinkled man. He was watching her with raised eyebrows. Feeling self-conscious, Vrell walked into the cave. She cleared a spot in the droppings across from the dark tunnel that led up into the cave wall and sat. She watched Jax out of the corner of her eye, but he spent only a moment settling Khai under the torch before joining the wrinkled man by the dripstone tree.
The two men dragged the reekat into the cave. Under the torchlight, the beast came into full view. It was a slug-like creature covered in short brown fur. It had the whiskers and scrunched face of a bobcat, a short tail, and webbed feet with thick claws on each toe.
Jax glanced over his shoulder to Vrell before giving the front left limb of the reekat a final tug. “Peripaso here saved me.”
“Ah, you’d of done all right.” The man — Peripaso, apparently — stood and stretched his arms overhead until his bones cracked. “We’ll just leave her for now. I’ll skin her tonight.”
“It is huge,” Vrell said.
“Aye. She’s a big one,” Peripaso said.
“But how? What do they eat that makes them so big?”
“Oh, they got themselves a filter in their mouths like a whale to swallow tiny fish from the springs. Garra, dace, suckers, and chubs.”
“Then why do they attack?”
“They’re real territorial. They got at least one nest up river. Likely have a young one. It’s the right time of year.”
Vrell kicked a beetle away from her foot. “What are we going to do now?”
“Peripaso has invited us to dine with him,” Jax said.
The wrinkled man burst into laughter. Jax joined in, the sound so jolly Vrell smirked.
A groan from Khai silenced them all.
Jax squatted beside his companion. “All right, Khai?”
The knight rolled to his side and up onto his knees. “What happened?”
“Met some help up river,” Jax said. “Peripaso here killed the reekat.”
“Jax nicked the first one,” Peripaso said.
“Scared it away.”
“Well, that’s a big one,” Khai said, staring at the beast. He turned to Peripaso. “You live down here?”
“Up in a cave. Reekats don’t leave the water much, and when they do, they’re too fat to get in my tunnel.”
Khai fingered the lump on his head and rose to his feet, glaring at Vrell. “Was the boat destroyed?”
“Only torn,” Jax said. “Peripaso says he can mend it, but we’ll have to fetch it first. It anchored when it tipped. It’s upstream a ways.” Jax tugged the handkerchief from his hair, wrung it out, then retied it. “Vrell, if you don’t mind helping Peripaso bring down supplies from his place, Khai and I will fetch the boat.”
Vrell’s eyes bulged. “Me? Go up there?” She stared up the dark tunnel.
Jax nodded. “Once we’ve eaten and the boat’s mended, we can head out again.”
“But how will you swim upstream?” Vrell asked. “The current is too strong.”
“I’m tall enough to walk it. I’ll carry Khai on my back.”
“Just leave me,” Khai said. “Thanks to the boy, I feel ill. I’ll only be a burden.”
“I’d let you rest if I could,” Jax said. “But I’ll need help should another reekat come along.”
Peripaso turned to Vrell. “What you say, laddy?”
Vrell stood. If it got them out of the underground river faster, she would do her part. “What must I do?”
“You jest follow me. Tunnels are a maze and blacker than tar. Stay close now.”
As Peripaso turned and hoisted himself into the tunnel, Vrell caught a glimpse of the brand on his back. A curly S the size of her fist popped out on his right shoulder in raised, white flesh. The mark of a stray. Vrell shivered. If anyone ever looked, they would find no such burn upon her skin. She was glad for that, of course, but it would instantly destroy her disguise.
With one last glance to Jax and Khai, Vrell heaved herself up. The tunnel was tall enough that she could walk in a squat. Humid, stale air closed in as she inched up the steep tunnel grasping onto slick, craggy rocks for leverage. Vrell’s nerves tingled with each step up and away from the light. She turned to see the entrance, a beige circle below. She did not like the idea of going into a tunnel that was blacker than tar. “Could we bring a torch along?”
“Nah. Air’s not so good. Snuffs ’em out. Long as we keep movin’, we’ll be fine.”
Vrell twisted back to the dark path and scooted after Peripaso’s fading silhouette. “How far is it?”
Despite her attempts to keep up, the old man’s form vanished. His voice drifted back from the blackness.
“We’re ’bout a quarter of the way. Tunnels wind all over Nahar and Arman. If you know the way, you can go almost anywhere. I’ve traveled ’em all. Took one all the way to Darkness. Scare me half to death when I come out to find ebens havin’ some sort of tribal ceremony. Bonfires everywhere. Watched long as I dared, then turned and come home. Caved that tunnel in right after. Didn’t like the idea of them sneakin’ up on me, like I did them.”
The tunnel leveled out. Vrell bumped into Peripaso, who had stopped. She jumped and fought back a scream.
“Feel.” His wrinkled hand patted Vrell’s shoulder, down her arm, and stopped at her wrist. He drew her hand against the stone of the passageway. It slid along, and then fell away. A side tunnel. “This one run down to the Lebab Inlet. Take almost a week to crawl through here. You could always go this way. Though it makes better sense to fix your boat and take the river. Besides, your giant friend won’t fit up here.”
All the way to the Lebab Inlet? Vrell’s mind ticked off possibilities. If she could take the tunnels, she could escape from the knights, Khai, especially. She could stay hidden from the prince and the ebens. She could talk to Mother. “Can you go to Walden’s Watch through there?” If she could get back there, she would ask Mitt to hide her until Lady Coraline’s return.
“Sure. Can even climb your way as far as ArokLake.”
Vrell’s heart raced. Maybe she could sneak away. If Peripaso would show her the right tunnel…
Something grabbed Vrell’s hand and she gasped and swatted at it.
“Is jest me now.” Peripaso pulled her hand along the rock to the right until she could feel a small opening. “Passed by this one hundred times ’fore I found it. Takes me right to Xulon’s dungeons.” He released Vrell’s hand.
“Who built all these tunnels?”
“They say King Granton I had the heart of his granddaddy, King Trevyn the Explorer. But ol’ King Trevyn discovered pretty much all there is in Er’Rets, so King Granton found new places to explore. He liked the idea of being able to sneak his men up to jest ’bout anywhere too.”
She heard his steps scratching away and stayed close behind, occasionally smacking her hands or head on the invisible rock. Not being able to see him brought stabs of fear. She sought out his mind.
Seven…eight…nine…ten…left. Six more paces to the fork.
Peripaso hobbled forward a bit more and stopped. “This fork will get you to the sea that lies south of NaharPeninsula.”
Vrell reached out with her hands, feeling for the hole. She would never venture into one of these tunnels alone, unless… “Could you tell me how? I am hoping to travel to Walden’s Watch.”
“You jest come from there, boy. Goin’ to Mahanaim, aren’t you?” There was a moment of silence in the dark, then, “You a prisoner?”
If you only knew. “Not exactly. I am being taken there for an apprenticeship.”
“Well, that’s promisin’, then. Few strays get such opportunity.”
But she was not a stray! Vrell groaned inside. She heard Peripaso shuffling onward and hurried along. “Why do you live down here…up here…wherever this is?”
Peripaso chuckled. “I’m also a stray, laddy.”
“But it is so dark down here. Life as a stray is not so awful.”
“Oh, I don’t mind dark.” He chuckled. “You know the story of King Axel’s death?”
“Of course.”
Vrell’s knees were sore from crawling on the rock. She raised herself onto her toes, but her back struck the ceiling. The most comfortable position was back on her hands and knees. At least the humidity had died down some, which also made the rocks less slippery.
“Lived in Armonguard at the time.” Peripaso’s voice faded some as he continued on.
Vrell leaned her shoulder against the tunnel wall and crawled after his voice.
“Met the king twice, I did. Worked in the falconry, mostly cleaning cages. My master was kind. Let me feed and hold the birds. King Axel had a gyrfalcon, finest I ever seen. Spent hours visitin’ that bird, takin’ it huntin’. Both times we met, he’s kind to me. Didn’t mind strays. Queen Dara, now she’s another matter. Look. We’s almost there.”
Something silvery glowed in the distance.
“Do you have a torch lit?” Vrell asked.
“Candle.”
“It glows brightly for a candle.”
“You’ll see.”
Peripaso’s crouched form took shape as it silhouetted against the silver light. He swung out of sight into the silver opening. Vrell’s heart pounded. She hurried forward and looked out. What she saw ripped the breath from her lungs.
A cavern with a vaulted ceiling, twice the size of the one by the dripstone tree, shimmered before her eyes. The walls rippled like the tunnel of the underground river, but instead of roots, this looked like ice. Yet the room was hot and muggy and smelled of smoke.
She could see the makings of a home below. A bedroll, a collection of cooking utensils, a fire pit, stacks of fabric, and tools. Vrell crouched in the opening. A smooth stone ledge tapered down to the floor below. A rope ladder also hung from the ledge as a way to climb back up.
“Slide down.” Peripaso scuttled below on the clean stone floor gathering things from around the cavern.
Vrell sat on her rear and pushed off. Her hair blew back from her face as she flew down the stone slide. She smiled when she reached the bottom. That was fun. She got to her feet and walked to the wall.
She ran her fingers over the shiny ripples on the wall. “Are they crystals?”
“Silver. Cave’s full of silver. Hot springs cause dripstones to form from the minerals in the soil. Nice, ain’t it?”
“It is wonderful.”
“Maybe you’d better not mention it to that little man.”
Vrell sniffed a laugh. “You are right. Khai would surely mine the silver from your home.”
“It ain’t much silver.” Peripaso twisted twine into a large ball. “Someone greedy enough could destroy the cave and not end up with enough for one goat.”
Vrell nodded. “I will tell no one about your home.”
“Much appreciated. Don’t usually talk to strangers passing through.”
“Well, Jax is kind.”
Peripaso shoved the twine into a burlap sack and grunted. “For a giant. I ain’t the most fond of ’em. Know they ain’t all bad. But I can’t help but think of ebens when I sees one.”
“Why did you help Jax, then?”
Peripaso shrugged. “Right place at the right time. Was hunting me a reekat.”
“Are they terribly vicious?”
“They can be.”
Vrell strolled around the cavern and surveyed Peripaso’s belongings. A brown fur bedroll on a raised ledge of rock appeared to be made from reekat fur. Bits of hay and dried-out rushes of sweet flag grass lay strewn over the floor. There were no pellet-like droppings to be seen here, but Vrell did spy a few black beetles creeping about under the rushes. Water trickled down a crevice in the opposite wall, where Peripaso had organized a kitchen of sorts. A small hearth blackened the stone around it and the ceiling above.
Peripaso came to her side. “Can’t let a fire go long. Smokes me out.” He picked up a wooden mug and held it under the stream in the crevice. “Like a drink? Water’s cool.”
“Thank you.” Vrell took the mug and drank. The lukewarm liquid tasted thick with minerals. It was not until she finished that she realized how dry her throat was. She thrust the mug back under the flow for a refill as Peripaso went about his business. When Vrell finished drinking, she said, “You never finished your story about how you came to live here.”
“Well, the king and queen got killed by a stray up north, and ArmonguardCastle went into a fit. Kingsguard knights arrested every stray they could find. Tossed ’em in the dungeons. Friend of mine worked as a guard. Told me of a tunnel that went out from there. He wasn’t certain, but rumor said it went all the way to Tsaftown. For me, it was tunnel or prison. So I packed up and went for it. And no. They don’t go to Tsaftown. Tunnels only go as far north as ArokLake.”
Vrell smiled at the image of a man crawling the entire length of Er’Rets. “You have truly lived in this cave for thirteen years?”
“This cave? Only nine. Took a few years to learn the tunnels. Go as far as I could, start to run out of food, and have to go back. When I found this place,” he said, gesturing around the glittering cavern, with its safe location and running water, “I knew I’d found home.”
“It is very unique.”
Peripaso held up a burlap sack with a long strap. “Mind carrying this? I’ll take the others.”
Vrell draped the sack over her shoulder.
“Best be heading back. Like another drink first?”
Vrell helped herself to one more mug of water before following Peripaso up the rope ladder and back into the tunnel. As with most journeys, the trip back went much faster.
Jax and Khai were waiting with the torn boat when Peripaso and Vrell arrived back in the sweltering cavern. Vrell watched as Peripaso and Jax mended the boat with a sheet of reekat skin, twine, and some very smelly, clear gel.
“What is that?” Vrell asked.
“Reekat fat,” Peripaso said. “Seals up the seams. Waterproofs it.” He turned to Jax. “You should sleep here and wait for it to dry. Moist as this cave is, though, won’t ever dry completely. Should be strong enough in a few hours to get you to Mahanaim. Jest don’t run into no more reekats.”
Vrell was sick of reekats. When Peripaso passed around dried reekat meat for dinner, she wanted to throw it in the river. What she really wanted was a large bowl of grenache grapes and a wedge of goat cheese. Instead she bit off a chunk of the greasy meat and chewed it into leathery mush.
As they sat around waiting for the fat to dry, Peripaso told more stories of his exploits in the Nahar underground rivers and tunnels. Vrell loved his twangy voice. If she hadn’t been so ill from the smells, the mosquito bites, and the reekat meat, she would have liked a long visit with him. When he announced their boat would be fine to set off, Vrell sighed with relief.
She hugged the wrinkled man, which hopefully was not too strange for a boy, and climbed into the bow of the boat. The lantern had been destroyed, but Peripaso gave them a small torch and two spares. He said they would stay lit as long as they were kept low, out of the wind. Peripaso pushed the boat off, and Vrell waved good-bye to her strange, half-naked friend.
She settled down in the bow to sleep, annoyed to find the stench of reekat fat by her head.