Achan awoke under the allown tree.
It was past dawn. His hair and clothing were damp with dew. His legs itched under the wool stockings.
He jumped up and wandered back to the kitchens to change, dreading the inevitable confrontation with Poril. He’d talked with nobles, snuck off with a pie, slept outside, and had yet to milk the goats. He could already feel Poril’s belt on his back.
Would Sir Gavin be upset as well? The knight had told him to stay put, and he hadn’t.
The tournament was still in full swing. Nobles, servants, and peasants crowded the manor inside and out. It was another clear day and already much later than Achan first thought. He walked quicker. Dilly and Peg would be about to burst.
Achan entered the kitchens. The old cook glared from the fireplace, then pointed to the mug on the table. The tonic. Achan slunk toward it and chugged it down. Back to life as usual.
“Yer teh see Lord Nathak.”
Achan cringed. That was worse than a beating. Poril must have been plenty angry to report his behavior. Perhaps he shouldn’t have returned at all. He could have hiked up the SiderosRiver and—
“Get goin’!”
“What about the goats?”
“Mox has seen to it.”
Mox? Achan grabbed a few mentha leaves and trudged across the inner bailey toward the keep. Truly, he should flee and take his chances in the SiderosForest. It would be a lonely life. Maybe he could talk Gren into coming along. He stopped and considered it. Would she go with him?
Go to the keep, Achan. I shall direct your path.
Achan glanced around. This voice was so odd, so different from the way Sir Gavin and the others had spoken to his mind the night he’d killed the doe. This voice brought intense warmth to his veins. It did not press as if invading. His eyes locked on the roof of Cetheria’s temple poking out of the lush gardens. Could the goddess protector be speaking to him?
Achan swallowed and hastened to the keep, now afraid not to — Cetheria might strike him down if he disobeyed her. He climbed the narrow stairs to the sixth floor and entered a drafty corridor. Achan wasn’t positive where he was going. He only knew Lord Nathak’s chambers were on the sixth floor. Chora, Prince Gidon’s valet, stood at a carved door. His long brown robes blended in with wood so well that Achan almost didn’t see him.
Achan was about to inquire where he might find Lord Nathak, but Chora opened the door, blinked over his bulbous nose, and in a disdainful voice announced to those inside, “The stray, Lord Nathak.”
“Send him in.”
Achan entered a sweltering solar that was partitioned off by vibrant tapestries that told the story of how Lord Nathak found the infant prince wandering in the fields. The room was likely much larger, but Achan knew that the tapestries were used to keep the heat in. At night they would be moved around the bed.
Hay and rushes crunched under Achan’s boots. He stopped on the center of a garish red and gold rug edged in black fringe. This was a corner room. Two large windows took up half of the outer walls.
Lord Nathak sat at a window in a high-back wooden chair, overlooking the delta where the SiderosRiver poured into the sea, his back to Achan. The ties of his black leather mask were cinched over his two-tone hair. Achan inched closer, hoping to see something more of Lord Nathak’s disfigurement. Maybe he could gather some feeling from the man that could—
A slurping sound turned Achan’s head.
Prince Gidon slouched on a chaise lounge eating grapes from a tray held by a servant boy. Though the prince was fit and almost exactly Achan’s age, he was propped up like an invalid by tufted velvet cushions in shades of emerald and red. He wore a maroon velvet robe embroidered with gold ribbons. A delicate crown, studded with rubies and garnets, squished his oiled, black hair against his forehead. A short, black beard shaded his chin.
Seeing the heir to Er’Rets so close, Achan’s heart went wild, as if trying to break free of his body and flee. Unfortunately, his feet didn’t obey this instinct. Despite his fear, he focused, seeking the pressure in his head, searching for any clue his intuition could discover. Nothing came. Both Lord Nathak and the prince were empty as far as he could tell. Achan frowned. How could that be? He’d never sensed emptiness in anyone.
A chill caused Achan to shiver, and he wondered how the temperature had changed so quickly. He waited as Lord Nathak gazed out the window and the prince munched grapes with the manners of a hound. The longer the men ignored him, the more the horror of being in their presence faded. He grew bored and looked around the chamber.
Achan had never seen so much finery. The red and gold rug covered most the floor, edged with rushes of sweet flag and chamomile that made the room smell fresh. Elaborate brocades upholstered the polished furniture. A silver tray heaped with fruit, two ornate goblets, and some of Poril’s fancy cakes sat on a table behind the prince’s chair. The cream filling from a half-eaten tart dripped from the center and pooled on the silver tray. Achan puzzled over how he could be shaking with cold while it was hot enough to melt Poril’s cream filling.
“Sir Gavin has left us,” Lord Nathak said finally, still facing away. “He will not return.”
Dizziness swept over Achan. Left? Without saying farewell? Was it because Achan had placed so poorly in the tournament? That wasn’t all his fault. He might’ve held his own in other matches had Lord Nathak not banished him to the kitchens. Besides, Sir Gavin hadn’t seemed upset at the feast.
A sudden thought gripped his heart. Would Achan be punished for training as a squire? He’d broken Council law and trained behind his owner’s back. Would he be executed? Achan wanted to run. He remained frozen, though, almost captivated by the rhythmic slurping of grapes.
“Sir Gavin claimed you are a squire.” Lord Nathak continued to gaze out the window.
Achan glanced at the prince then back to Lord Nathak. An eagle soared outside the window. Achan could almost see the corner of the grandstands at the jousting field.
“It is my purpose in life to protect the Crown Prince at all costs.” Lord Nathak turned to Achan, his one eye staring as if awaiting an answer.
The sight of that one dark eye sent a molten shiver through Achan that he feared would melt him into a puddle on the fine rug.
Achan didn’t know where to look. Lord Nathak’s leather mask clung to the right side of his face as if held there by something sticky. Achan’s eyes darted from the mask to the shriveled skin he could see near Lord Nathak’s nose, to his two-tone hair, to his forked beard, to his visible eye.
Achan cleared his throat and said in a small voice, “A noble purpose, my lord.”
“Indeed,” Lord Nathak said. “And one you will help me with.”
Achan gulped. “My lord?”
“Since you think yourself worthy of squiredom, I shall grant your wish.”
Achan froze. “My lord?”
“You shall serve the Crown Prince as squire. He has several, of course, but you shall clean his chambers, ready his horse, and fetch anything—”
“No.” Prince Gidon sat up. His tone was defiant. “This one will serve as my sparring partner.”
Lord Nathak bolted to his feet. “I cannot allow that, my prince.”
“And since I cannot compete in my own tournament,” Gidon said, “I will fight the stray in front of an audience. That will teach him to insult my guests.”
Achan’s jaw sagged. He could only mean the venomous Lady Jaira. How thoughtful that she’d further torment him by tattling to the prince. Achan’s mind whirred to find an excuse, but his overly quick tongue now left him speechless.
“It would be too dangerous,” Lord Nathak said.
An abnormally wide smile stretched across Prince Gidon’s face. “It was your idea to invite my guests to watch me practice. Now they may witness my skills firsthand.”
So Achan would be the lucky recipient of the prince’s skills. The man had been trained by the best weapons masters since birth. Was this a trap to frame Achan or put him in harm’s way? Perhaps a fancy execution?
Lord Nathak looked slightly green. Certainly he wasn’t afraid Achan could best the prince?
Prince Gidon reached for a bunch of grapes. “Report to the practice field after lunch, stray — and don’t wear those serving clothes. Chora will provide proper attire. Dismissed.”
Lord Nathak stared at Achan, his visible eye wide and fearful.
Achan turned on his heel and exited the solar, the air in the hallway hitting him as if he’d stepped into the kitchens when all the pots were boiling. As Chora led him down to the fourth level, Achan’s mind replayed what had just happened.
He was a squire to the prince now? Was that on top of working in the kitchens, or was he now permanently free from Poril? He’d been through so many reversals in the last few days he didn’t know what to believe. And what had Lord Nathak been afraid of? His concern for the prince’s safety with Achan as a sparring partner was laughable. It was Achan he should worry about, not that he ever would.
Chora knocked once on a narrow door and pushed it open. This appeared to be a sewing room. It was long and narrow with a single arrow loop window at one end. Bolts of linen and silk in a rainbow of colors lined one wall. Along the other wall, two women sat sewing, a third worked a loom, and a fourth cut red velvet on a table in the corner.
A short, pudgy woman with straight pins tucked into the cuffs of her sleeves turned from a bin of shirts and perched her fists on her wide hips. “What’s this?”
“Lord Nathak wants this one dressed as a soldier. He’s to squire for the prince.”
“Is he now?” The woman waddled to Achan and looked him over. Several moles dotted her flabby face. A large one hovered over her left eye. She was so short that her scowling face barely reached Achan’s chest. “He’s as tall as the prince. His Majesty don’t like having his squires so tall.”
“Just dress him, Shelga.” Chora opened the door to leave, then said to Achan, “Once she’s through, come to the armory for a sword.”
Achan nodded and Chora swept from the room.
Shelga motioned to the arrow loop window. “Get yourself into the light where’s I can look at you.”
Achan stepped into the stripe of brightness stretching across the thread-strewn floor.
Shelga snapped her fingers. “That’s far enough.” She drew a cord from around her neck and set about measuring him. “How’d you come by this assignment?”
“Luck, I guess.”
Shelga snorted. “’Tis not luck. The gods have cursed you. Haven’t you seen the prince’s squires limping about? Most are only able to tie nettle-hemp into fishing nets when he’s through with ’em. Unless he injures their hands.”
“What do you mean?” Achan had heard rumors of Prince Gidon’s temper with women, but nothing about his squires.
“You’ll find out. Least you’re his size. Maybe you’ll fare better than the runts he usually takes on. Off with your clothes.”
Achan stood still as she waddled to a row of baskets along the interior wall and pulled an item from each. She waddled back holding a stack of clothing. “Off with ’em! I haven’t got all day to waste on the likes of you.”
Achan groaned inwardly and soon found himself in his undershorts in front of an audience for the second time in as many days. At least he was free of the itchy leggings.
Shelga set the bundle of clothes on a stool and twisted her pudgy lips together. “Well? Think I’m going to dress you?”
Achan snagged the white shirt off the top of the pile, pulled it on, then reached for the trousers. Shelga slapped his hand.
“Take it off. ’Tis too tight. If you can manage to swing at all, you’ll tear it, and I’ve no time for extra mending with the prince’s new wardrobe due.”
Achan stifled a retort. He pulled off the shirt and found Shelga rummaging through a basket across the room. Several of the women had stopped working and were watching him. Achan quickly traded the shirt for the trousers and pulled them on. The shirt slid off the stool onto the floor behind him. He tied the trousers before turning to reach for it.
Shelga gasped.
Achan jumped to his feet and spun around. The woman’s face had turned white, her eyes bulged, and her bottom lip quivered.
“Are you well?” he asked.
She shook out of her trance. “Do they know what you are?”
He blinked at her. “Ma’am?”
“Think with a serving uniform and that handsome face you’ll fool everyone, do you? Well, I’ll not be party to your treason. Kiera! Fetch me Chora straight away.”
“Yes’m.” A portly woman with thick brown braids lumbered for the door. Her face had gone white as well.
Achan couldn’t guess what Shelga was on about. Again he crouched to retrieve the shirt.
Shelga snapped her fingers wildly. “Just you keep your front to me. That clear? I’ll not be looking on that cursed mark again.”
Oh. The mark of the stray. Achan reached across his chest and over his shoulder to finger the brand on the back. “Lord Nathak knows what I am, ma’am. I’m sorry it…surprised you.” But he wasn’t sorry. People had ignored him and bullied him all his life, but never recoiled in horror as if he carried some disease.
Kiera returned. “Chora says he knows, ma’am. He says it’s all right.” She bowed her head to Shelga and scurried back to the loom.
Shelga shot Achan a piercing glare, then thrust another shirt at him and waddled away. “Can’t believe I’m wasting my time dressing a stray. What madness is Lord Nathak up to now?”
Achan shrugged and dressed quickly. This second shirt fit to Shelga’s satisfaction. He pulled a plain black cloak over his head. It didn’t bear the embroidered crest of Mahanaim like Prince Gidon’s personal guards. It was just the uniform of a low-ranking soldier. Still, Achan left the sewing room a little taller. No stray he’d ever heard of had such a position. So far, his punishment felt like a reward.
He doubted the feeling would last.
Achan went straight to the kitchens to explain to Poril, but the cook had left to take lunch to the keep. Achan pulled off the thick, black gloves Shelga had given him and grabbed a chunk of bread. He went downstairs to stow the serving uniform under the ale casks, dreading his upcoming match with Prince Gidon. Achan guessed the prince wanted to humiliate him, perhaps cripple him — hopefully not kill him. But Achan had no intention of going down easily. In fact…
Eagan’s Elk lay tucked under his blanket, the pommel sticking out of one end. Achan dropped to his knees at the ale casks, a soggy clump of bread in his mouth. He threw back the covers and pulled the sword onto his lap.
A sheet of parchment fluttered behind him, and he turned to pick it up. Achan stared at the smudged ink and swallowed the lump of bread. Tonic was the only word he recognized. He studied the letters, compared them to what he knew from reading Poril’s lists, and managed to decode most of the short note.
Don’t drink the tonic. I’ll be in touch.
Sir Gavin
He didn’t know what t-o-u-c-h spelled and couldn’t manage to sound it out to any clarity. Could it be a town Sir Gavin had gone to? The scratchy writing looked as if it had been written in a hurry.
Achan stood and buckled Eagan’s Elk around his waist. He took the cellar steps two at a time. He tossed the note into one of the blazing fireplaces before starting off to the stables, pulling on the gloves as he went. Since he no longer needed a sword from the armory, he had enough time to see Noam before he was expected on the practice field.
Achan stepped in to the outer bailey and saw a group of nobles leaving for a hunt. Over two dozen fine horses trotted single file toward the gatehouse, their riders carrying birds or bows. Hounds scampered ahead, excited about the coming chase. A crown of platinum braids caught Achan’s eye. Tara rode full saddle on a chestnut mare, a brown-and-white merlin perched on one hand. She smiled at Achan.
He had never seen a woman ride like a man. Her blue skirts draped over the animal like a tent. Jaira rode beside her on a black courser, sidesaddle, holding a violet-and-black speckled bird. Achan bowed to the ladies, returned Tara’s smile, and entered the stables.
The scent of hay and manure filled his nostrils. The building was set up similar to the barn, with timber walls and a high, thatched gable roof.
Achan found his friend in a stall grooming a white destrier. He crossed his arms atop the fence-like gate. “They’re keeping you busy, I see.”
Noam whistled. “Where’d you get that uniform? Is that a sword?”
Achan fought back a smile. “First tell me this: did you happen to meet Tara?”
“Tara who?”
Achan shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw her on a chestnut mare just now with the hunting party. She rides like a man.”
“A young blonde wearing blue?”
“Aye,” Achan sighed the word.
Noam chuckled. “Yep. I met her. Lady Tara Livna of Tsaftown. She’s very kind.”
“She kissed me — my cheek. Yesterday.”
Noam’s lips parted until his mouth hung wide. “How in all Er’Rets?”
Achan told Noam his tale of the previous day, the fine clothing, Eagan’s Elk, Silvo, Shung, Jaira, and Tara, how he served at the banquet, and meeting Prince Oren.
Noam tugged his comb through the destrier’s tail. “You do get all the excitement.”
“Well, you must have met a lot of the nobles.”
“I met their horses,” Noam said. “Or their servants. Only three nobles spoke to me, one of which was your Lady Tara.”
Achan shut his eyes. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“‘My Lady Tara.’”
Noam whacked him with the comb. “Get over it, halfwit. Now, what’s this you’re wearing today? This is a Kingsguard cloak, not a leather jerkin.”
Achan stepped back and slid down the post across the aisle from the stable Noam was in. He sat on the hay-strewn dirt floor and watched through the gate as Noam braided the horse’s tail. “I’m to serve the prince as squire.”
“What!”
Achan recapped his morning visit to the keep.
“Achan,” Noam’s frown elongated his narrow face, “this is what comes from trying to be something you’re not. This can’t be a promotion.”
Achan lifted a strand of hay in his fingers and twirled it. “What can I do?”
Noam sighed. “Fight as well as you can, keep your eyes open, watch your back, and pray to Cetheria. That’s all you can do. You could ask Gren to make an offering for you.”
Achan considered this. All his offerings of late hadn’t changed Gren’s betrothal to Riga. He had nothing of true value to offer Cetheria, except his sword, but he couldn’t give that up in the face of Prince Gidon’s skill. Still, if the goddess was speaking to him now, he should do what he could to stay in her favor. He almost told Noam about the voices, but the mere thought of confessing such a thing out loud was inconceivable.
He changed the topic. “Did you see Sir Gavin leave this morning?
Noam pulled a leather thong from his pocket and wrapped it around the end of the braid. “Aye. Lord Nathak came himself with the instructions to ready Sir Gavin’s horses.”
“I’d hoped he’d take me with him.”
Noam pulled an apple from his pocket and fed it to the destrier. “That would’ve been something.”
Achan’s thoughts drifted to Gren. “Did Gren tell you about Riga?”
“Aye. Poor lass,” Noam said. “I’d poison myself before committing to a life with a Hoff — especially Riga. I see you’ve forsaken her already for your Lady Tara.”
Achan’s chest swelled with rage, but he let it out in a groan. He hadn’t thought of Gren since yesterday. How quickly he had allowed life to distract him from her bad fortune.
He silently compared the two women. Both were beautiful. He’d known Gren all his life and would marry her in a breath if he could. He scratched the dirt floor with his gloved finger and cursed his overactive imagination. Lady Tara was of noble birth. If he wasn’t allowed to marry Gren, a peasant, then Noam spoke true. He really was a halfwit to even waste thoughts on Tara. He sighed.
“Why do you think Sir Gavin bothered with me? A stray is not to be trained for the Kingsguard — that’s Council law. Yet now Prince Gidon disregards the law as well. Why?”
“It wasn’t always so,” Noam said. “Strays have only been singled out since one killed the king and queen. And they only knew that because a Kingsguard bloodvoiced it.”
“But there’s no such thing as bloodvoicers,” Achan said. “People who talk through their minds? It’s myth.” But his laugh quickly faded and he blinked. No. Bloodvoices couldn’t be what he experienced the night he killed the doe. He’d been delirious, that was all.
Noam raised an eyebrow. “Myth or not, you and I are marked for life as a result of that story. Myth doesn’t make laws, Achan. Reality does.”
*
Achan shoved thoughts of bloodvoices to the back of his mind as he wandered from the stables.
The noon sun shone brightly as he entered the inner bailey. He drew near the grassy courtyard that sat between the keep and the temple gardens. Grandstands had been built for Prince Gidon’s practice bouts. They sat so that they formed three sides of a square, boxing the area against the brownstone wall of the keep.
Chora paced along the wall, cloak billowing. He looked up and huffed. “Where have you been? You didn’t report to the armory.”
“I have the sword Sir Gavin gave me. Will it do?”
Chora shrugged. “A sword is a sword as far as I’m concerned.”
“What about a shield or armor?”
Chora shook his head. “His Majesty doesn’t spar with shields or armor.”
“What?” Was the prince a fool?
Chora stepped close to Achan. “Our king is brave. Besides, he never chooses an opponent he cannot beat. Not that there are many who could best our king. Now wait here and hold your tongue!”
Achan stared at Chora for a moment, uncertain why the valet referred to the prince as king, when he had not yet been crowned. He leaned against the wall of the keep, resting the sole of one boot against the stone behind him.
The sun had warmed the wall and he basked in the comfort while he could. From his position, he faced the grandstands. For now, they were empty. Beyond, the stone colonnades from Cetheria’s temple peeked over the green hedges that separated the gardens from the rest of the inner bailey.
He thought over Chora’s statement. The prince never chose an opponent he couldn’t beat? How terribly brave. Achan shouldn’t be surprised. His presence on this field was likely an execution anyway.
Nobles drifted toward the makeshift arena in packs. Apparently Achan’s execution was going to have an audience. The small crowd consisted mostly of elderly lords and ladies, with a few young maidens. Achan was thankful Lady Tara and her friends had gone hunting. A piper stepped into the center of the field and began to play a festive tune. Achan wanted to break the instrument over his knee.
A murmur rose from the grandstands. Achan followed the turn of heads to see eight Kingsguards approaching in diamond formation. The group was led by Sir Kenton, Prince Gidon’s Shield. A tall, grey-skinned man lumbered in back. All eight wore black capes with the high-ranking gold crest of Mahanaim sparkling in the sun. Achan spotted specks of crimson flashing between the black uniforms. Prince Gidon Hadar walked in the center.
The Kingsguards poured into one corner of the field at a spot where two of the grandstands met, then peeled away. Prince Gidon waved at the crowd without so much as a smile. The audience applauded their future king.
Achan studied him. His hair was slicked back with oils and tied into a tail. His coloring was the same as Achan’s: dark hair, brown skin, blue eyes. It almost made Achan wish he hadn’t recently discovered that he was kinsman. He didn’t like having things in common with this man.
The prince moved with more grace and confidence even than Silvo. A fine, red linen shirt, tucked into black trousers, billowed in the wind, outlining a strong upper body. Oddly enough, Gidon wore no jerkin or doublet. Polished black leather boots rose to his knees. He wore a plain, leather sheath at his side that held a plain practice sword.
Seven of the Kingsguards sat on the lowest level of the center stands. Sir Kenton stood with Chora in the gap where the entourage had entered. Prince Gidon strode to the center of the field, spat on the ground, and drew his sword.
Achan licked his lips and swallowed. It was a good thing that intimidation was part of his everyday life. He stepped away from the wall and drew Eagan’s Elk—
Barely in time to stifle a cut from the prince’s blade. That was a dirty trick. Achan’s estimation of the prince dropped even lower, if that were possible. He pushed off and jumped back to get a better position.
The prince huffed and threw up one hand. “Stop!”
Achan lowered his sword.
The prince thrust his blade into the grass and turned to Chora. “What is he fighting with?”
Chora scurried over, his bold demeanor gone in the prince’s presence. “What are you fighting with, stray?”
“A sword.”
Chora turned back to the prince. “He fights with a…a sword, Your Majesty.”
The prince propped a hand on one hip. “I know it’s a sword, you ale-soused buffoon! Where did he get it?”
Chora, pink-faced, turned back to Achan. “His Royal Highness would like to know where you got your sword?”
“I told you, it was a gift from Sir Gavin.”
“He cannot wield a finer weapon than me,” Prince Gidon whispered. “Weren’t you supposed to dress him, Chora? Didn’t you provide a sword?”
Chora’s voice croaked, “He never came for one, Your Majesty.”
Achan held up Eagan’s Elk for Prince Gidon to see. “Because I already had one.”
Sir Kenton stepped between Achan and the prince. His curtain of black hair swung about his face like a chain hood. “We practice with plain swords here, stray. And watch your tone.”
Achan looked from the prince to the Shield to Chora. He had no desire to make trouble. Perhaps holding his tongue would be his best plan.
Prince Gidon turned to Sir Kenton and continued in a hushed voice. “His job is to make me look like the best swordsman in all Er’Rets. He’s failed already.”
Achan scowled. That was his job, was it? Well, he wasn’t about to go down easily. Achan would give him everything he had.
“Where is Polk?” Prince Gidon asked.
“Lord Nathak dismissed Polk,” Sir Kenton rumbled.
“Then fetch him back.”
“He sent Polk with the emissary to the Duchess of Carm,” Chora mumbled.
“My squire?” Prince Gidon’s posture swelled. “Who is king? Lord Nathak or me?”
Achan raised his eyebrows. So Prince Gidon had already proclaimed himself king.
Chora’s spine drooped.
“Well? Am I king?”
“Not yet,” Achan murmured.
Prince Gidon whipped around to face the grandstands. “Who said that?” His eyes scanned the crowd until his dark gaze fell to Achan. He stepped forward. “Was it you?”
Achan’s cheeks burned, but he maintained eye contact and shrugged one shoulder. Disrespecting the prince in public. Clever. What happened to holding his tongue?
The corner of the prince’s mouth twitched. “Chora, fetch me Ôwr.”
A murmur rose from the stands behind Achan. He shivered. What was Ôwr?
“But…f-forgive me, Your Majesty, they will not…release it to me.”
The prince waved his hand toward the keep. “Take Sir Kenton along.”
The Shield strode away, hair swaying, Chora scurrying alongside.
Achan stood staring at the prince in the sweltering sun. Prince Gidon snapped his fingers and two attendants ran out from behind the stands. One set a crimson pillow on the end of the center bench in the shade. The prince sat. The other attendant waved a large, wicker fan at his face. Achan raised his eyebrows and retreated to lean against the warm brownstone wall.
After a long wait, the valet and Shield returned carrying an ornate jeweled scabbard. Prince Gidon stood and Chora buckled a silver, jeweled belt around the prince’s waist. When it was secure, the prince strode back to the center of the field and drew a blade that sang as it scraped against its scabbard and gleamed in the sunlight like a white star.
“The Kingsword!” someone shouted.
The crowd murmured.
Achan turned his head in blinded surprise. “What sort of metal is that?”
“White steel.” Prince Gidon’s blue eyes glared. “A gift to King Willham from Câan, the son-god warrior, after his rebirth. No other weapon is made from this metal. It cannot be broken.”
The tale of Ôwr was another thing Achan had thought to be myth. Câan had used a special blade, named Ôwr, in a battle to free the kinsman people. But he’d died, having been captured by kinsman traitors and tortured. A few days later, the legend went, Arman had breathed life back into his son.
An impressive story, but few temples were built in Câan’s honor. Most minstrels sang no songs of Câan, or if they did, they were comedies. The god killed by men was considered weak.
The weapon itself held great mystery. It was slightly longer than Eagan’s Elk. A narrow fuller ran down the center, catching the sun on its ridges. The tip was sharp and narrow, unlike Eagan’s Elk’s rounded point. Achan made note that, with this blade, Prince Gidon could cut and thrust.
Achan stepped away from the wall and breathed deeply. A sword was a sword. Myth didn’t make one better than the other. He drew Eagan’s Elk, which now looked very dull and grey in comparison, and waited for the prince to make the first move.
The sun blazed down. A hush fell over the crowd. Prince Gidon attacked. He swung Ôwr with amazing power for his lean frame. Achan parried, staggering back a step from the impact.
He focused on the prince’s every move, memorizing his cuts and thrusts. He circled just out of reach, but the prince came after him like a mosquito, annoyingly persistent. Achan dodged, deflected, and stifled, spending every bit of energy on defense. It was smarter this way. Achan knew precious few offensive moves. Until he got a feel for Prince Gidon as a swordsman, or until Achan could learn more attacks, it was better just to let him tire himself out.
The match went on to the cheers of the crowd, until Achan’s knees wobbled, his arms tingled, and his lungs were void of air.
Prince Gidon changed strategies. Instead of trying to attack him with elaborate moves, now he was simply herding him. He worked Achan back toward the wall of the keep. Every time Achan tried to step around, the prince cut him off, his footwork excellent. Achan drew back to parry, and his elbow struck the stone wall so hard he dropped his sword. He cringed, both in pain and at the realization that Prince Gidon had boxed him in. The crowd cheered. Achan froze as the prince pushed Ôwr’s sharp tip against his left shoulder.
“Do you yield?” Prince Gidon’s oily voice oozed amusement. He didn’t even sound out of breath.
Achan nodded, panting. “Aye.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, Prince Gidon jabbed the tip into Achan’s flesh. “Do you yield?”
Achan sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes! I said yes.”
The prince pushed a bit further until he drew a ragged gasp from Achan. “Do. You. Yield?”
What did he want to hear?
A familiar green shifted in the distance. Achan glanced over Prince Gidon’s shoulder to the captivated audience and caught sight of Gren standing between two grandstands, a pile of green fabric in her arms that was nearly the same color as her dress. She stared at him with wide eyes and mouth. He would not allow himself to be killed in front of her.
He clenched his teeth to work up the courage. Like lightning, he gripped the end of Ôwr’s blade with both gloved palms, kicked Prince Gidon’s stomach enough to startle him, pushed the blade back, and dodged free.
The prince staggered back and regarded Achan with narrowed eyes. He pursed his lips and stepped forward. Then, just as quickly as Achan had broken free, Prince Gidon bashed Ôwr’s pommel against Achan’s temple.
As he fell, Achan heard Gren’s scream and a mixed reaction of cheers and gasps from the crowd. He hit the ground on his hands and knees. His head throbbed. The blades of grass blurred before his eyes.
Prince Gidon’s disdainful voice floated down from above. “Tomorrow. Same time. And for future reference, stray, it’s, ‘I yield, Your Majesty.’”
Achan sat back on his haunches in time to see the prince hold Ôwr out to the side as if to dispose of it. Chora scurried forward to claim the weapon.
“Make my new squire clean the blade,” Prince Gidon said. “It is his job.”
With that, the prince strode away, crimson shirt fluttering in the wind. The Kingsguard hurried to form their protective cordon around him. The crowd began to disperse.
“Never you mind about Ôwr,” Chora said. “I’ll see it cleaned. No stray should touch the Kingsword.” The valet scurried after the prince, cradling the blade like a child.
Achan trembled. His shoulder stung, as did his fingers and head. He lifted his hands to see blood seeping through gashes in the black leather gloves. The crowd drifted away in the prince’s wake, and when all were gone, Achan slouched back against the brownstone wall.
Gren approached and crouched beside him. “Oh, Achan. Noam told me about your new position. I came straight away. Are you all right?”
He looked up into her worried face. “He stabbed me.”
“I saw.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “He stabs all his squires…or cuts them or…knocks them about with the pommel.” She tugged at Achan’s cloak, and he leaned forward so she could pull it over his head. “I’ve never heard of him using the Kingsword before. Not ever. It’s said to be kept under lock and key until his coronation.”
“Well, I humiliated him by owning a sword. Apparently he’s the only one allowed—” Achan gasped as Gren pressed her apron on his shoulder. “Will I die?”
Gren giggled and the sweet sound lessened his pain. “Of course not.”
Achan regarded Gren’s tanned, freckled face and dark hair. How different she and Lady Tara were. One golden, one bronze. Achan decided at that moment that he preferred Gren’s coloring. Tara’s resemblance to Cetheria almost made her intimidating. Gren was familiar and warm and sweet.
Gren looked at him sympathetically. “You’re a mess, Achan. Your hair…” She fingered his frizzy braid. “Did you braid this?”
“My valet,” Achan said, thinking of Wils.
Gren giggled again. “Your valet. You’re one for surprises, Achan Cham.” She took his hand and brought it up to his shoulder. “Press down.”
Achan did, a bit softer than Gren had. She moved to her knees and patted the grass in front of her. “Sit here.”
He scooted into place, his back to her, and she combed out his hair with her fingers. Achan closed his eyes. The sensation distracted him from his stinging wounds.
“I skinned your deer,” she said.
Achan opened his eyes. “You did? I thought the butcher had claimed it.”
“He took the meat. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“How’d you even know about it?”
“Father left the keep late that night. He’d been working all day on a brocade for the prince’s coming-of-age ensemble. He saw the whole thing.”
So Gren’s father knew of Achan’s…position? Did Achan even have a position now? Squire to the prince sounded good in theory, but like Shelga had said, most ended up tying nettle-hemp. Gren would say something if there was anything worth saying.
But she didn’t. She rebraided his hair and came to kneel before him. She tugged off the glove on his free hand. “I’m tanning the deer’s hide to make you a jerkin. Shelga has taken me as an apprentice. It will keep me busy when I’m…married.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
Achan winced, but not from the pain of Gren scraping at his fingers with her handkerchief. “Gren, if I could do anything, I—”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “I don’t like you serving Prince Gidon. He’s cruel. You know what they say here about a maid with a bruised face?”
“What?”
“That she must have displeased her prince. Yet you purposely provoked him today. That’s unwise, Achan. When I finish your jerkin, you should leave. Run away north to Carmine or Zerah Rock or Tsaftown. The people up north are kinder, so I’ve heard. They don’t keep slaves in those cities. And when I’m done with you, you won’t look a stray, plus carrying a sword like that…”
Run away. Without Gren.
Achan knew he should be concentrating on Gren’s words, but the idea of leaving Sitna without her brought his thoughts back to Lady Tara. Lady Tara of Tsaftown.
Thinking of one pretty girl while in the presence of another was probably something that would get him in trouble. Not that he had any experience with such things. Why did he feel compelled to follow a woman? Why not go alone? Yet his mind did wander north. Tsaftown was the northernmost city in all Er’Rets. Perhaps Lord Livna could use another guard for his watch.
“Would I freeze in Tsaftown?”
Gren twisted her lips in a frown. “You prefer Tsaftown?”
He shrugged and looked at a tuft of grass beside his leg.
“If you make it there before summer’s end,” she said, “you could hunt on your way and trade the furs to a seamstress who could sew you something warm.”
Achan let his imagination drift to a snowy city he’d never seen. A sharp pain in his finger jerked him back to reality. “Ow!”
“Hold still,” Gren said. “You’ve got a sliver of leather wedged into the cut. Why would you grab his sword?”
“I’ve seen knights do it.”
“With mail mittens!” Gren rolled her eyes and stood. “Let’s go for my needle.”
Achan rose. He paused for his head to clear, then picked up his sword and sheathed it, grabbed his cape, and followed Gren out of the inner bailey toward her family’s cottage. “I can’t believe he stabbed me!”
“It’s his way.” Gren weaved behind the armory to a narrow corridor between cottages.
Achan stepped to the side to allow two boys to run past. “I looked a fool. I wanted to win, but I don’t know him well enough to even try.”
Gren stopped beside him. “Win? Achan Cham, do you know how it would look if the prince’s squire beat him in a practice match? A match performed before the nobles to make His Highness look good?”
Achan grinned.
Gren swatted his stomach with the back of her hand. “Don’t be foolish! You’ve already pushed your luck. He’ll worse than prick you next time.”
Inside Gren’s family’s cottage, Achan sat at the oak table and waited for her to find a needle. She returned to the table, lit a candle, and held the needle in the flame. “Give me your hand.”
Achan obeyed. Gren dug into his finger with the hot point. It tickled, and her expression as she bit her bottom lip amused him greatly. His laughter shook his hand and the needle poked. “Ow!”
She glared at him, then went back to her task. “You’re much handsomer than the prince, you know.”
He huffed a laugh. “Of course I am.”
She slapped his leg. “Modesty, dear stray.”
Achan sighed. “But what matter my very good looks if I’m dead?”
“I think the maids — and even some of the noblewomen — were hoping you’d live.”
He fought another chuckle that trembled his hand.
She looked up, her face serious. “You fought well, Achan. Sir Gavin would be proud. You did so much better than the day you bested the tree.”
A cool breeze woke Vrell. She felt a gentle rocking. She opened her eyes to a sky so bright she had to immediately shut her eyes again.
The boat was in the ocean. They’d left the tunnels. Praise Arman!
She sat up and turned to see Jax paddling, alternating his oar from side to side. Khai slouched against the side of the boat, asleep, his neck tipped over the edge at an awkward angle. Apparently it was his turn to rest.
Slate grey waves surrounded every side but the left. A rocky coastline topped with a thick forest stretched in both directions as far as she could see. The sun shone down from a cloudless, pale blue sky.
“Good morning,” Jax said.
“How much farther?” Vrell asked.
“We should reach the first gate before lunch. Then it’s another hour to the city.”
Gate? She focused for a moment to remember where they were going. Right. Mahanaim could be reached by water from the south through the Reshon Gates.
The dream she had been having came back to her mind full force. The man with the bloodvoices had been hurt. “Jax?” She glanced at Khai, heard his low snore, and continued. “What happened that night in Xulon? When the voices called out?”
Jax nodded. “Someone discovered his bloodvoice.”
Vrell had guessed that much. “But why did people call to him? And how is it we heard the exchange?”
“His gift is greater than any I’ve sensed in a long while. It does not happen that way for many.”
“Who is he?”
Jax propped the oar on the side of the boat and water poured off the blade and into the ocean. “That’s what we all would like to know. It’s why so many called out — to ask him.”
Vrell twisted her lips and looked out over the peaking waves. “You have sensed others who are great?”
“I’ve never sensed such strength in someone’s discovery. The greatest power I have felt has come from old men. Macoun Hadar, your new master, for one. King Axel was another.”
“You sensed the king?”
Jax dipped the oar back into the water and stroked. “Aye. When I first joined the Kingsguard as a young soldier. King Axel led us in battle against Cherem.”
“That must have been exciting.”
Jax nodded. “Bloodvoicing is a great power when used for good.” He paddled two great strokes and his bushy, black eyebrows furrowed. “Be wary of your new master. He was once a very powerful bloodvoicer, but his stamina has decreased over time. Now he’s simply conniving. He uses his apprentices for strength, teaching them only enough to manipulate them into tools for his own agenda.”
He glanced at Khai, then back at Vrell. “Thank Arman for your unique gift, Vrell. You may not be as strong as the newly gifted one, or many bloodvoicers before you, but your ability to block is unprecedented. Continue to guard yourself at all times. Remember, no one can own a man. Stay true to yourself, no matter what your master commands you to do. Someday we all will have to answer to Arman for our actions.”
Vrell swallowed this information, thankful that Jax had confided it to her, but terrified of what lay ahead. She wanted to ask if he believed in Arman as the only true God, as she did, for she had never heard him mention His name in such a way, but before she could form the question, he spoke again.
“I sense Macoun Hadar hides much from the Kingsguard and the Council of Seven. Arman does not like when His gifts are misused. Hadar knows this, but I think he grows overconfident in his old age, despite his weakness. Or desperate. Another reason to keep your wits about you.”
Vrell looked over the side into the water. She could see nothing beneath the dark waves. She glanced up at the forest and saw that it would soon end in a jagged cape. “I have never heard of Macoun Hadar. Is he related to the prince? Why does he live in Mahanaim?”
Jax nodded. “He is very old. He was related to King Johan, Axel’s grandfather. He has lived in Mahanaim since Lord Levy’s grandfather ruled the stronghold. Which is probably why Lord Levy has let him stay.”
Vrell wished for more of Peripaso’s cave water to soothe her parched throat. She had not considered what she would be doing when they actually got to Mahanaim. Jax’s warning sent a shiver along her bones. Hiding out in Mahanaim until Prince Gidon married another did not seem as appealing as it had under the blistering sun on the NaharPeninsula. Nothing about the place she was headed felt safe.
“The drink he gave you,” Jax said, jutting his chin at Khai, “was it red?”
Vrell looked down to a stain of the gooey mixture on the hem of her tunic. “Yes.”
He nodded. “The âleh plant stifles bloodvoices and opens your mind to be read. If you are ever forced to take some, eat karpos fruit. It counteracts the âleh.”
Vrell filed this knowledge away. “Jax, could you teach me to fight? I would like to have a trick up my sleeve should anyone decide to force such a drink on me again.”
The boat rocked with Jax’s booming laugh. “I don’t know, Vrell. You might be small, but you did manage to knock out a fully trained Kingsguard knight and tie him to a stalagmite. Not bad, if you ask me.”
Vrell’s cheeks burned and she glanced at Khai. “Still, there may not always be dripstones to aid me. I used to practice with Lord Orthrop’s younger sons. They taught me the basics. But Shoal always bested me in a heartbeat.”
Jax chuckled again. “There is little I could teach you in one day, Vrell, but you are right. You cannot hide under a fern your whole life. Still, in a fight, there are advantages to being short.”
Vrell swelled with excitement. “That is what I must learn.”
She listened as Jax shared stories of crippling blows humans had used on him over the years. She would hide and duck if need be, but she wanted to learn to defend herself at her full height, short as it might be. The next time Khai or someone like him tried to attack, she would be…
The boat slowly rounded the rocky cape, and the land ahead came into view. Vrell gasped. The rocky coast on her left came to a point where it nearly met the flat, grassy land that curved down from the right. Two colossal pillars — clearly manmade — rose from the land on either side, each one wider than three redpines. An iron portcullis stretched across the sea between the pillars, its black bars woven in a tight, intricate pattern.
Beyond and slightly to the right, she could see the second set of the Reshon Gates standing sentry, looking much smaller from her position. Further right, in the distance, the stone city of Mahanaim sat like stacked yellow, brown, grey, and orange blocks against the velvety backdrop of Darkness.
Vrell shivered at the sight of the Evenwall. She had been to Mahanaim several times but had never gotten used to seeing the cloudy mist fogging half the city like a rainless thunderstorm. She had never set foot on the side of Mahanaim that was in Darkness.
Jax rowed the boat toward a small dock jutting out from the gatehouse at the foot of the northern pillar. A guard wearing a black Kingsguard cloak with no embroidery walked toward the boat, his footsteps hollow on the wooden dock.
“Sir Jax. We worried you had fallen off the edge of Er’Rets. I see Khai is making himself useful as always.”
Jax chuckled. “The Mârad has been making trouble to the south. We had quite a battle before Sir Dromos took us in.”
Vrell wondered why Jax didn’t mention the ebens, who seemed more to blame for the trouble than the Mârad rebels.
“I hope to get the full story of it tonight in the barracks.” The guard glanced at Vrell. “Well, I’ll get the gate so you can be on your way.”
He walked back to the shore and around the pillar to the edge of the gate. He gripped a black handle and turned a crank. A small gate within the large one clinked as it rose into the air. Khai stirred, but did not wake. When the clinking stopped, Jax paddled the boat toward the opening and under the first Reshon Gate.
“Will we go under both gates?” Vrell asked.
“No. Our boat’s small enough to take the ArobCanal straight into the city.”
Vrell had only ever come to Mahanaim on horseback. She had seen the slimy canals from the safety of the keep but had never traveled one. They were not considered safe for a lady, so Lady Fallina Levy had said. As Jax rowed nearer to the city, Khai slept and Vrell worried.
The hour passed quickly. The temperature rose and the air became moist and muggy. Soon Jax steered the boat into a bog-like canal walled in stone. It was early afternoon, but the nearness of the Evenwall made it seem as if the sun had passed behind a thick cloud. Vrell could not see her reflection in the murky water. Lime foam clustered around weeds that climbed the stone wall as if hoping to escape their swampy home.
A sandstone curtain wall loomed ahead, stretching across their path in both directions. Jax slowed the boat alongside a large stone ledge that shot out from a gatehouse on the right. An iron portcullis gate blocked their path into the city.
“We’re back.” Khai’s nose twitched and he opened his eyes. “I could smell it.”
Jax took a deep breath and bellowed, “Lo! Jax mi Katt wishes to enter.”
A voice floated down from the gatehouse. “Jax is back!”
Vrell could not see any men, but the portcullis started to rise. Jax paddled under it and into the city of Mahanaim.
Buildings made from all colors of stone loomed above like hundreds of fortress keeps side by side. Swampy canals separated them from each other like miniature moats. The thick mist of the nearby Evenwall moistened Vrell’s face. Every so often their boat passed long canals that stretched west and gave Vrell a glimpse of Darkness. Vrell couldn’t imagine why people lived on the dark side of the city.
Jax guided the boat through the maze of canals without hesitation, though Vrell couldn’t tell one canal from the next. She would be lost here on her own. Grungy men shot dark looks down on them from the buildings above, as if casing their boat. Jax’s size repelled their gazes as quickly as they came. Vrell drew her arms around herself.
Lord Levy’s manor seemed to hover before them like a mountain cliff. It stood at least ten levels tall. Only the curtain wall separated them from being inside the fortress now. Three towers divided the southern wall, each twice the width of a redpine and built from a different color: yellow, grey, and brown. The jagged orange parapet that edged the curtain wall was slightly familiar, though Vrell had never entered Mahanaim by this route. A few boats were out, but none were headed into the manor itself.
“What day is it?” Khai asked with a yawn.
“I don’t know,” Jax said. “It’s taken us much longer than expected. They may be gone.”
“Who?” Vrell asked.
“Lord Levy and his family,” Jax said. “Prince Gidon’s coming-of-age celebration was due around this time. I’m not certain of today’s date, but it could be that Lord Levy is still in Sitna for the event.”
Vrell considered what this meant for her. She had visited this fortress many times. The Council of Seven meetings were held here, and her mother was on the Council, so Vrell had often accompanied her. Even so, she had never been formally introduced to Lord Levy, the master of this stronghold and chairman of the Council. She had played with his spoiled daughters years ago but doubted they would recognize her now.
Jax stopped the boat before another portcullis gate and the guards cheerfully let them enter. It seemed that Jax was well-liked wherever he went. Vrell wasn’t surprised that no one spoke to Khai. Jax paddled the boat a bit farther and coasted to a stop beside a stone pathway. Khai hopped out and looped a rope around a peg on the path. Vrell looked up to the jagged orange parapet of Lord Levy’s manor. They had arrived.
They exited the boat. Jax led her to a narrow stone stairway that climbed three flights along the curtain wall before exiting at the back of the gatehouse, just inside the Mahanaim stronghold. Jax and Khai went inside to speak with one of the guards. Vrell waited outside in the humid air and looked across the fortress.
Voices, squawking fowl, and the sounds of animals met her ears. The smell of the canals was not as strong up here — or else it was overpowered by the scents of animals, roasting meat, and incense.
This fortress was unlike most castles. Here, the inner bailey and keep were contained all under one roof. The outer bailey consisted of a cobblestone courtyard that stretched out from the gatehouse to the castle on all four sides. Vendors and traders sold their wares from tents or wagons during the day. Vrell remembered shopping here with her mother.
In the center of the courtyard, a grand fountain circled a bronze statue of the Mahanaim justice scales. The scales were the symbol of the Council of Seven, which had been started to rule Er’Rets until Prince Gidon came of age and took the throne.
A little girl with a filthy face and bare feet approached carrying a basket of orchids. “A flower for your love?” she said, holding out a purple bloom.
Vrell smiled and took the flower. “Thank you.” She reached for the velveteen bag of coins Lord Orthrop had given her, but it was not on her belt. Her heart thumped in a panic. She had had the bag when she had left Peripaso. Perhaps she had dropped it in the boat.
She handed the flower back to the girl. “I’m sorry, beautiful one. It seems as though I have lost my coin purse.”
The child took the blossom back and threaded it under the handle of her basket. She batted her eyes at Vrell and padded away.
Vrell’s heart raced. There was a great deal of money in that pouch, and she wanted it. She inched toward the gatehouse, hoping to catch Jax’s eye without interrupting. She stopped under his elbow.
“Hello, Vrell. Sorry we’ve kept you waiting. I’m sure you’re anxious to get settled.”
“It seems I have lost my coin purse. I wanted to run down and see if I left it in the boat.”
Jax frowned then turned to Khai. Had he taken it? Since he had not been able to sell her secret, would he steal her money?
Jax seemed to think so. He pulled Khai away from his conversation by the shoulder.
“What?” Khai asked, struggling to free himself.
“Give up Vrell’s coin purse. Now.”
Khai snorted. “I don’t have his coin purse. Why ever would you think such a thing?”
Jax gripped Khai by the hair and lifted.
Khai squealed. “Okay! Okay. I’ll give it back. Let go.”
Jax put Khai down and the scrawny Kingsguard jerked back and smoothed his oily hair flat again. He reached into his shirt, pulled Vrell’s velveteen pouch out, and tossed it to her feet.
“I was only testing him to see how bright he was. Took him long enough to find it missing.” Khai scurried back into the gatehouse.
Vrell picked up her coin purse and tied it to her belt.
“He’s not a thief,” Jax said. “Or at least not primarily a thief.” He bent closer to her ear. “It’s easier to reach into someone’s mind if you have a personal belonging.”
“You think because he had my coin purse he could have succeeded?”
“Probably not, but Khai isn’t one to give up easily.” Jax settled one beefy hand onto Vrell’s shoulder. She stiffened under the weight. “Let’s get you inside before he can do you any more harm.”
Vrell smiled and followed the giant across the courtyard. Anxiety fought with her excitement. Mahanaim was a wonderful place to visit, but she did not look forward to meeting Macoun Hadar, especially after Jax’s warnings. They passed a vendor selling golden cups, which caused Vrell to look over her shoulder to where she remembered the temple was.
A circular colonnade filled the northeastern corner of the courtyard. Black and white banners draped around the roof. Mahanaim worshipped Dâthos, the god of justice. Vrell recalled how suspicious the people of Mahanaim could be, attributing good fortune to the amount of good deeds done and decreeing that those who suffered bad times had brought them upon themselves by doing too many bad deeds.
Vrell turned back and followed Jax around a fur trader’s wagon. On the other side, she had a clear view of the entrance to Lord Levy’s manor. Two doors as tall as those in Xulon marked the entrance to the grand building. They were propped open and guarded by two New Kingsguard soldiers. Jax nodded at them and passed through without stopping.
They walked into a vast foyer. Decorative limestone columns painted bright yellow held up the high ceiling every ten feet. The floor was covered in a mosaic of multicolored bits of stone. At the far end, a grand staircase spilled out into the foyer. Around the back of the staircase, the steps continued down.
Halfway across the foyer, along the right wall, they passed the golden doors that led to the Council of Seven’s meeting chambers, where Lord Levy presided as chairman. Vrell remembered that the room was round and filled with grandstands that sat five hundred spectators. Her favorite part of going inside had always been the hallway that led up to the auditorium. It was decorated with displays and statuary commemorating the great warriors and leaders in Er’Retian history.
A red-haired servant girl met them at the foot of the staircase. “Ah, yes,” she said after Jax introduced them. The girl’s name was Mags. “Master Hadar’s been s’pecting you,” Mags said. “I’ll fetch him.”
Vrell and Jax waited in the vacant foyer. Several minutes passed before another servant came down the stairway and continued down to the lower levels. Perhaps Lord Levy and his family were still at Sitna. It did not seem that Mahanaim was very busy at the moment.
A long wait later, the serving girl walked down the steps beside an old man wearing a grey satin tunic and black leggings. The man reminded Vrell of a white jackrabbit. He had lots of thick, white hair tied in a low ponytail, large ears, and small brown eyes. Vrell reached out and sensed his excitement. His thoughts came easily.
He doesn’t look like much. At least he’s alive. The master will be very pleased.
This was not Master Hadar? Vrell looked to Jax, her brows furrowed.
“That’s Master Hadar’s man, Carlani.”
Carlani inched along as if his legs had been injured in some way. Clearly he did not move like a jackrabbit. Perhaps it was only his age. His tunic looked draped over bones.
“Welcome, young man,” Carlani said in a rasping voice. “The master has been eagerly expecting you.”
Vrell forced a smile and bowed. “It has been a long journey.”
Again Jax’s heavy hand settled on her shoulder. “Good luck to you, Vrell.”
“Thank you, Jax.” How she longed to throw her arms around him and kiss his big, hairy cheek. Instead, she reached out her hand. He took it gently in his huge hand, and they shook.
“I’ll show you to your chamber,” Carlani said. “Mags. Run ahead and prepare the boy’s room.”
Mags, the red-headed servant girl, nodded and scurried up the stairs. Vrell followed Carlani, wiggling her fingers at his infuriatingly slow pace. Carlani hobbled up the first flight of stairs.
“I’m sure you’re tired from your journey,” Carlani rasped, “but the master is anxious to meet you. He greatly opposes the uniform of a stray, so you must change first. I’ve set out your new clothing in your chamber.”
When they reached the third floor, Carlani moved down a long corridor. They passed Mags on the way.
“The room’s ready,” she said.
Thankfully, Vrell’s status as a stray and apprentice would keep her closer to the ground floor. The last time she had stayed at Mahanaim, her chambers had been on the seventh floor. It would have taken Carlani another hour to get there.
Carlani stopped at a room at the very end of the corridor and pushed the door open. “Change as quickly as you can and meet me on the eighth floor. I’ll be waiting for you there.”
As slow as he moved, he would need to start now. Vrell stepped into the dark chamber and closed the door. A single candle flickered on a waist-high sideboard. Once Vrell’s eyes adjusted to the dark, she took in her new home. The room was tiny and narrow, only as wide as the straw mattress at the end. A set of clothes lay folded on the stiff mattress. A basin of water — warm, she hoped — sat on the narrow sideboard.
She knelt on the bed to look out the small arrow loop window. At first she thought the window was false because she could see nothing but blackness. Then a few vague yellow glows came into focus and she shuddered.
Her window overlooked Darkness.
It was the only logical explanation. It had still been light when she and Jax had entered the castle not long ago, so it couldn’t be nighttime already. She turned and sank against the wall, the reality of her location continuing to make her tremble. She had never wanted to set foot in Darkness, ever. Now, without knowing it, she had wandered right into it. May Arman keep her safe.
She sighed deeply and carried the change of clothes to the doorway. Standing with one foot keeping the door shut, she changed into a pale satin tunic and black leggings, thankful to be rid of the hideous orange tunic. Probably no one would enter without knocking, but she would not take that chance. Her padded undergarment was still damp from her swim in the hot springs. She hoped it would not mold in the Mahanaim humidity.
Once she was dressed, she caught up to Carlani on the stairs just past level seven. He smiled, panting, and lifted his foot to tackle another step. At the top of the stairs, he led to the right and knocked twice at the third door.
A muted, “Enter,” drifted through the thick cypress door.
Carlani pushed it open and inched inside a small, stone antechamber. The room was like standing in an oven: dark and very hot. It was empty but for a blazing fireplace straight ahead and a bald man sitting before it in a wicker chair. Two doors led off the room on each side wall.
The bald man rose from the chair. He was draped in a thick, charcoal cloak. His skin was milky and semitransparent, revealing blue veins and liver spots. He had sunken grey eyes in hollow sockets and no eyebrows. It was as if they had been burned off. He rose to his feet and took two steps forward, the hem of his cloak falling around bare ankles. He wore black satin thong slippers revealing long yellowed toenails.
Vrell averted her gaze to the fire and fought back her revulsion. She fortified the walls around her thoughts, just in case.
“Carlani,” the man said.
The valet hobbled forward. Vrell watched in frustration at the feeble man’s slowness. Carlani picked up his master’s chair and turned it.
The bald man settled back down. “You’re the one from Walden’s Watch?” he asked, his voice a monotone hum.
“I am, sir.”
“Very good. You are how old?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“You will call me Master or Master Hadar. Are you tired?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Then we shall let you rest, after a small test.” Master Hadar glanced at Carlani. “Tell me what Carlani is thinking.”
Vrell’s stomach churned. That was not a very kind thing to do with poor Carlani right here, but the valet did not appear to be paying attention. He was picking hairs and fuzz from his master’s cloak. She sought Carlani’s mind again.
…should have a cloak of silk or satin. Wool does tend to pick up every little thing in this drafty castle. But the wool keeps Master warm. Maybe I should suggest a bonnet. It would keep the heat in…
Vrell pulled back and cocked an eyebrow. “He is concerned with your cloak, Master. Every little thing clings to it. He knows the wool keeps you warm, but he thinks a bonnet might do the trick and maybe a cloak of silk or satin.”
Master Hadar’s sunken eyes bulged. “Good! Very good!” He purred and rubbed his gnarled hands together. “Carlani’s mind is like a child the way it’s so easy to read. Still, you’re more advanced than I expected. Excellent. One more test.”
Master Hadar stared at Vrell, his eyes as grey as his cloak. Her ears itched, so she swallowed and focused on closing her mind. He raised a hand and waved her closer. She took one step forward but he continued to wave. She walked until her knees touched his. He reached up, pressed his wrinkled thumb in the softness under her chin, and his fingers against her temple, cupping her face. His intimate touch startled her, and she glanced into the orange flames to remain calm and focused. Her face burned from her nearness to the crackling fire.
A tiny pinch started in the base of the back of her skull. The sensation grew slowly until it felt like a fist had reached inside and squeezed her brain. She let out a ragged breath and swallowed again. A tear trickled down her cheek, into the place where his thumb touched her chin. Her limbs trembled. She fought to steady them. Her arm twitched involuntarily and slapped his. He did not flinch. He did not release her.
Vrell uttered a small cry, sucked in another breath, and steeled herself against the ferocious pain. Her forehead grew damp with sweat. She glanced down to her master’s storming, enlarged pupils and her knees buckled. She pulled back to catch her balance, and severed his grip.
Master Hadar hummed. “Excellent! Your tolerance is incredible. Had you not met my eyes you’d have lasted longer. I could get nothing from you. Nothing at all.”
Vrell couldn’t stop shivering. She did not want to last longer. She never wanted him to touch her in such a way again. What horrible magic did this man wield?
“What are you called?” Master Hadar asked.
“Ffff…” Vrell paused and sucked in a deep breath. “Vrell Sparrow,” she whispered.
“You may go, Vrell. Join me here for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
“Ye-y-yes, Master.”
Vrell turned and strode as fast as she could without looking like she was in a hurry. Once the door clicked shut behind her, she fled down the stairs and back to her chamber. She pulled back the covers of her bed, climbed underneath, and sobbed.
Over the next few days, Achan woke to his usual chores and tonic with Poril, then sparred daily against Prince Gidon in the inner bailey courtyard, under the captive eyes of the noble tournament guests. He fought hard, despite his tender shoulder wound.
Although the prince never left him unscathed, Achan didn’t receive another cut as deep as he had the first day. He was quick to remember His Majesty’s title when he yielded, and the prince was slightly more forgiving with his final blows. Still, the multiple cuts and bruises on Achan’s body made him feel like a patchwork quilt. He would have much rather fought other squires out in the tournament pens. He wondered how far Shung had made it.
Each day the crowd grew, though Gren had not been able to come and watch again due to the amount of work she had. But on the final day of the tournament week, Lady Tara came to watch with Silvo, Jaira, and Bran.
Achan couldn’t resist the spunk that rose inside him in the presence of Lady Tara. He kept her light blue gown in his side vision without actually staring at her. Maybe he could manage to speak with her after today’s match. One thing was certain: he wasn’t about to lose today if he could help it, although he’d never beaten Prince Gidon and his body ached for a month of rest.
Again Achan took the field with Prince Gidon. Chora stood beside Sir Kenton at the edge of the field. The other seven Kingsguards sat in their usual spot along the bench. Gidon wore a quilted, red jerkin over a white shirt. The question was, would the prince manage to keep it clean today?
Their swords clashed. Achan’s and the prince’s feet trampled the grass. The crowd gasped or cheered on every cut. Achan remembered Sir Gavin’s counsel. He was never to think about his opponent’s station or skill. He was never to fear what might happen. He was to be confident in his own ability, remember his training, and do his best to win.
Achan had another advantage over his opponent. Since that first day, the prince had grown predictable in his movements. His lone strategy was to push Achan back into the wall or the stands, then strike. As long as Achan kept circling to the side, the match would drag on and on.
Achan also knew that Prince Gidon favored strikes from the right. Perhaps if Achan switched to a left-handed grip for the briefest moment, it would throw the prince off enough so Achan could strike. He’d have to be careful. Because the Prince wore no armor, any hit could kill. And killing the Crown Prince would surely be a death sentence.
Achan had heard the whispers: the people were saying that these demonstrations were rehearsed. Prince Gidon either didn’t think so or didn’t care. Achan did. He wasn’t about to let Lady Tara or Silvo think him an actor.
Achan worked up to his attack, waiting for the perfect moment. He sidestepped Prince Gidon’s lunge, tossed Eagan’s Elk into a left-handed hold, and cut low and left.
His blade struck true.
Prince Gidon yelped and Ôwr thumped into the grass.
The crowd gasped. Achan thought he heard Tara’s voice above the rest. What had she said? He turned to where she sat, but Sir Kenton’s angry face blocked his view.
“Hold!” The Shield sprinted onto the field.
Prince Gidon clasped a hand over his left thigh and snapped his other fingers. “Chora!”
Chora scurried forward, but Sir Kenton arrived first. He examined the prince’s wound, then turned and smashed his fist into Achan’s mouth.
Achan crumpled to the ground and rolled to his side, tasting blood.
Well, at least Sir Gavin would be proud.
Chora’s blubbering voice met Achan’s ears. “Yes, Your Majesty? Are you all right, Your Majesty?”
Still clutching his leg, Prince Gidon glared down at Achan.
Sir Kenton kicked Achan in the stomach, rolling him onto his back. The Shield gripped the neck of Achan’s cape and yanked him to his feet. Achan staggered, his palm clamped over his bloodied mouth. Sir Kenton clutched his throat in one beefy hand and thrust him against the wall of the keep. Achan’s head clunked off the stone, dazing him.
Sir Kenton lifted Achan off the ground like he weighed nothing. “Do that again, and I’ll kill you.”
Achan licked his swelling bottom lip and grunted in agreement. Sir Kenton dropped him.
“Take the stray to Myet,” the prince told Chora, “then have him report to my chambers in twenty minutes. Be quick about it.” He limped away with Sir Kenton, to the soft applause of his shocked subjects.
Achan’s body throbbed. He clambered to his feet and located Eagan’s Elk in the grass. He wiped the bloodied blade off on his trousers and sheathed it, then glanced to where Tara sat. Judging by her tense expression and Jaira’s pink cheeks and waving hands, they seemed to be engrossed in argument. He didn’t know who or what Myet was, but it probably wasn’t something he was going to like. He sighed. At least he’d made a good showing for Tara.
Chora signaled to two guards. “You heard the king, be quick about it.”
The men each seized Achan by an arm and dragged him away.
Myet, it turned out, was a man. A very cruel man who operated out of a dark room in the dungeons. The guards delivered Achan to Myet for twenty-three lashes. Then they dragged his sagging form up to the sixth floor.
With each step all Achan could think was, Where is Cetheria’s voice now? So much for her protection. From now on, Achan would eat his offerings. He distracted his anger and frustration with sarcasm. Why twenty-three lashes? Why not twenty or twenty-five? Could Myet not count?
The guards left him at the door to Prince Gidon’s solar. Achan pushed it open and stepped inside.
At first the room appeared empty. The tapestries were arranged differently from the last time Achan had been in the room. The eastern windows were blocked off today, revealing the prince’s bed and the open doorway that led to the balcony. Lord Nathak’s voice drifted in from outside.
“Give up this ridiculous obsession and let me send him back to the kitchens where he will be forgotten.”
“I have no desire to forget him until he is dead,” Gidon said. “He is a nuisance in every way.”
“My prince, I beg you to heed my warning. We must not harm the stray. Let him rot in obscurity. Find someone new to amuse yourself with. But leave him unharmed.”
Achan froze at the foot of Gidon’s massive bed. Lord Nathak didn’t want him hurt?
“Why do you protect him?” the prince asked. “His attitude and behavior toward me is scandalous. He should hang. If I allow him to treat me this way with no consequence, word of it shall spread to every rebel in Er’Rets. I must crush him in public where the people will see and take heed. I want my people to fear me, Lord Nathak. To know I am in control and my power cannot be taken from me.”
Achan inched closer to the doorway.
“I have always advised you well,” Lord Nathak said. “Do not forget you have not yet been voted in as king. That can still change. Focus on choosing a bride, I urge you. And forget the stray. I leave it to you to end this.”
Footsteps clunked across the floor, and Achan darted back outside the chamber. The door opened and Lord Nathak stepped out. He jumped when he saw Achan and clasped a hand over his chest. He took a long breath and stalked away.
A chill danced over Achan as he watched the man go. Why would Lord Nathak urge the prince not to harm him?
Achan took a deep breath and re-entered the room, this time walking all the way inside. Chora spotted him and led him to the balcony overlooking the inner bailey courtyard and tournament field. Prince Gidon lay on a wooden chaise lounge wearing a red silk robe. He didn’t look injured. Achan hadn’t swung very hard anyway.
Achan’s own shirt stuck to his throbbing back. He didn’t want to know how bad it looked after Myet’s handiwork. He shifted his weight and tugged at the back hem of his shirt to loosen it. His wounds tingled at the rush of cool air.
Prince Gidon raised one hand and snapped at a servant who stood in the corner of the balcony. The servant stepped around Achan and held the fruit tray in front of the prince.
“Well, stray,” Prince Gidon said, “in order to take the throne Lord Nathak insists I choose a bride. This very night.”
Achan wrinkled his nose and glanced at the servant, who kept his eyes down. Achan could care less about Prince Gidon’s marital options. Did the prince expect him to respond? “He…wants you married? Tonight?”
The prince took a handful of grapes and shooed the servant away with a snort. “No, fool. I must choose who I want tonight. The marriage will happen later. If I don’t choose, Lord Nathak will choose for me.”
Achan didn’t know why he was here. Why would Prince Gidon want him around if he wanted him dead? Clueless to the rules of this game, he could only play along. “Is that bad, Your Highness?”
“Possibly.” The prince sucked a grape into his mouth. “Have you seen Lady Gali? That beast is among my prospects.”
Achan failed to stifle a snicker, which hurt his back. At twenty-two, Lady Gali of Berland stood over six feet and was as broad-shouldered as Sir Kenton. Besides her height, she wore bone bangles around her neck and arms, “jewelry” that looked more like shackles. What an intimidating couple she and the prince would make.
“Then you see what I’m up against.” Prince Gidon popped another grape into his mouth. “The pickings are slim indeed. Who would you choose if you had to?”
Lady Tara’s golden hair filled his thoughts. “I wouldn’t know, Your Highness.”
Prince Gidon stood and grabbed Achan’s chin in a vice-like grip. He steered Achan toward the edge of the balcony. “I wish your opinion, stray. Who? The fairest? The wittiest? The curviest? I wouldn’t expect you to understand the politics of houses, so we’ll keep things simple. Who do you favor?”
Achan stepped to the ledge in an act of obedience, but he merely wanted free of Prince Gidon’s touch.
Below them, the inner bailey moved at a slower pace than what Achan was used to in the outer bailey. Pairs of young ladies strolled arm in arm near the temple gardens, picking flowers and feeding the ducks. Achan recognized a few faces from the hoodman’s blind game but knew none of them by name. He looked from lady to lady in the courtyard below, seeking the most vile.
A familiar giggle rose from the side yard where a peasant boy was making a dog do tricks. Lady Tara clapped her hands, her lustrous hair shining brighter than Ôwr. Her blue gown was the color of the sky. He’d never recommend Lady Tara. Prince Gidon would ruin her.
“You choose Tara.” The prince’s blue eyes flashed to Achan’s, then back to Lady Tara below.
“No.” Achan said quickly. “She’s kind, that’s all.”
“Kindness.” Prince Gidon grimaced. “A weakness in a queen.”
“Why?”
“Because she would pity the people. Every beggar in Er’Rets would make the trek to Armonguard just to spin their tale of woe for her sympathy. And she would give it. She’d bankrupt the treasury in a season.”
Lady Tara was no fool. She’d be kind to those who needed it. But Achan was relieved the prince did not desire her for a bride.
“She is beautiful.” Prince Gidon paused to pour a fistful of grapes into his mouth. “Perhaps I will take her as a mistress.”
Achan gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white.
“But”—the prince smacked his lips—“nobles don’t make good mistresses. Too demanding. Plus it upsets their fathers, and there you edge into the politics that would melt your dimwitted mind. Who is that pretty brown maid who speaks to you so often?”
“Gren?” Achan answered before thinking. How did the prince know who Achan talked to?
“She is a peasant?”
Achan could only stare.
“Now she would make me an excellent mistress. I shall inquire about taking her with me to Mahanaim.”
Achan sputtered. “I…uh…she’s betrothed…to Riga Hoff.”
“Hoff, you say?” The prince snorted. “Then I would be doing her a favor.” He popped another grape into his already full mouth.
Achan trembled. “If you say this is to punish me, Your Majesty, I beg you to choose another method. I’ll gladly face Myet again.”
“Punish you?”
“Gren is a quiet girl who dreams of raising children and chickens. She loves her family and would die without them. There are many others you could take on your journey.”
The prince shrugged and looked down on the noblewomen. “But who will I marry, stray? Lady Halona is but a child. Lady Jacqueline would give the council too much control of me. My cousin, Lady Glassea, would give the rebels too much control of me. Lady Mandzee is the best political match, but her sister, Jaira, is far prettier, though she’d rob me blind.” He pounded the tray and sent grapes flying. “There is no one worthy!”
Achan thought back to Sir Gavin’s lectures of the nobles in Er’Rets. “Does not Lord Sigul have a daughter? Lady Tova or something?”
The prince scoffed. “I would rather wed a peasant.”
“Could you?” Perhaps if Prince Gidon were to actually marry Gren it wouldn’t be so—
For the briefest moment, the prince looked ghostly white. Then a wide smile spread over his face and he laughed. “Never. With a noble bride comes a dowry and land and an army and power…for me. And since there is nothing more important than my throne, I shall have to settle. Gods know who I want, but Lord Nathak has failed me there.”
“Who do you want?”
Prince Gidon fell back on the chaise lounge and propped both red satin slippers up on the back, crossing his ankles. “You need a shave, stray. I’ll not have a squire who looks older than me.”
Achan ran his fingers over his scratchy, swollen jaw. His whiskers had grown fast since Wils’s shave. “I am older than you,” he paused, then quickly added, “Your Majesty.”
“Ridiculous. Tomorrow be cleanshaven or you can fight me without your weapon.”
Achan opened his mouth to protest, but when he took in Prince Gidon from head to toe, he saw the prince was right. It was ridiculous to think Achan was older than this man. He looked well over sixteen years of age. Maybe it was from eating so heartily his whole life.
“You will accompany me on my journey to Mahanaim, of course,” Prince Gidon said. “Lord Nathak has dispatched my other squires on various errands, so you will have to do everything yourself. We leave in two days. You’re dismissed.”
Achan’s jaw dropped. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Achan begged Noam’s help to put salve on his back. Then he washed out his shirt and put on his stray’s tunic. He took a knife from the kitchens and went to the river to shave.
He knelt on the bank and leaned over to see his reflection. The sky was cloudy, so all he could see was a dark blob. Still, he scraped the blade over his cheeks again and again, trying to cut the hairs. He’d never seen a man shave and had no idea how to go about it. He jerked each time the blade nicked him, and cut himself more than his stubble. In the end his cheeks not only still felt prickly, but he’d drawn blood in several places. He tried again. Eventually he gave up and stalked to Gren’s cottage.
She opened the door and gasped. “What’s he done to you now?”
“No.” Achan held up the knife. “I did it to myself…trying to shave.” He forced his voice to imitate Prince Gidon’s lofty tone. “My prince demands it.”
Gren rolled her eyes. “You silly boy.” She took Achan’s hand and led him to a chair by the table, then went to the fireplace. She rose on her tiptoes and reached onto the mantle searching for something. Her brown skirt swung like a bell above her bare ankles. “But your lip, Achan, how did you do that?”
The Fenny cottage was like most in Sitna: a small main room with a fireplace and a table, then two more rooms in back.
Achan sighed. “Ah. Well, Sir Kenton punched me.”
“No!” She carried a roll of leather to the table, lips parted. “What happened?”
“I struck Gidon.”
Gren’s gasped. “You what?”
Achan told Gren about his day as she filled a basin with cold water and set it on the table. Then she lifted the kettle from the hearth and added hot water, testing it with her fingers.
She clicked her tongue, her eyes darting about his face. “What a mess, Achan. We can’t have you looking half dead if you’re to go to Mahanaim with the prince. You might even stand before the Council.”
“No one will pay any attention to me. I’m sure Gidon will have a hundred errands to keep me occupied, like fluffing pillows and feeding him grapes.”
She swabbed a wet rag over his face, then lathered soap over his cheeks. She unrolled the leather and held up a knife-like razor. “The right tool helps.” She sharpened the blade on a leather strop, set it at the top of his left cheek, and slowly drew it down.
As Gren scraped the hairs from his face, Achan studied her brown eyes, her dark eyelashes, and each freckle on her nose and cheeks. She wiped the razor on a rag and a wispy chestnut curl fell over one eye. She raised the razor to his face again and blew the tendril aside.
“Thank you, Gren. You’re a true friend.”
She beamed.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“Father. He’s been making me practice on him for…when I’m married.”
Achan looked to his lap. He didn’t want to speak of this again. There was nothing to be done.
Gren’s voice came soft. “I’d much rather marry you, you know.”
He flushed, feeling awkward in the silence that followed. When he looked back to Gren, she was busy on his right cheek. He changed the subject. “Gidon asked about you. About taking you with him…as his…uh…mistress.”
Gren’s eyebrows sank. “Why would he want me?”
“Who wouldn’t want you?”
She smirked and worked the razor over the strop again. “That’s sweet, Achan, but Prince Gidon can have anyone. He was probably only trying to upset you.”
Achan hoped that was all. “Would you…want that, though?”
She scowled and softly slapped his cheek. “Achan Cham, what a thing to ask a girl! Of course I wouldn’t want that. No amount of wealth could make that a desirable life. Not that I’d have a choice in the matter if it were so.”
Achan went red again, but relief melted his anger some, knowing he was right about Gren, that neither wealth nor title would sway her heart.
She darted behind him, pressed one hand to his forehead and the razor to his throat, and hissed in his ear, “But if it were so, he wouldn’t take me without a fight.”
Achan laughed at her caviler attitude, but he had a feeling it was the fight Prince Gidon enjoyed most. He kept that thought to himself.
When Gren finished with his face, she held a finger against his chest. “Wait right there.” She scurried down the hall and returned with a vest. She held it up. “It’s finished.”
His eyes bulged. This was more of a doublet than a jerkin or vest. It was sleeveless except for little caps shooting off the tops of the shoulders. A v-neck yoke cut across the chest, and below, tailored seams encased the waist before flaring out in a short peplum. It was tan, doeskin suede. And altogether beautiful. “My doe?”
She nodded, eyes sparkling. “Try it on.”
She helped him pull off his cape, then put on the jerkin. He held his breath to stifle his reaction to the pain when he reached back for the second sleeve. He didn’t want Gren to know about Myet’s workmanship. She fastened the silk ties into bows down the front. His chest swelled. She was so thoughtful to make this from his deer.
“It will look even better with the brown shirt.” Gren swiped her hands over his dingy white Kingsguard sleeve. She ran her hands down either side of the laces, as if inspecting her own handiwork, then looked up, smiled, and took his face in her hands, one on each stinging cheek. “You’re destined for more than the life of a stray, Achan Cham, that I know.” She rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.
Heat flashed over him as if he’d stepped out of the shade into the sun. Gren had kissed his cheek lots of times but never—
The door swung open. Gren’s mother stood in the sunlit opening, one hand on her hip, the other holding a bundle of fabric against her chest. She shut the door quickly. “You both are too old for these types of visits. This is vastly inappropriate, more so than ever with Grendolyn’s betrothal.”
Achan looked to the floor, seized by a different kind of heat. He shuffled his feet and desperately wished he could vanish.
Gren stepped away and set about clearing the shaving materials off the table, her voice shaky as she defended herself. “Achan needed help shaving because the prince—”
“Achan will have to take care of himself from now on.” Her mother set the fabric on the table and sighed. “I know you’re friends, but this must stop. Forever. Now, say your farewells. Your father is not far behind.” She walked past the table and into the back room.
Gren rolled the razor and strop inside the swatch of leather and did not look up when she whispered, “Farewell, Achan.”
A horrible ache welled in his throat. He glanced at Gren, who returned the leather roll to the mantle and stood poised like a statue.
In a hoarse whisper Achan said, “Gren, I…”
She looked up and shook her tear-streaked face. “Don’t.”
He walked to the entrance, dragging his feet. His boots scraping over the dirt floor sounded extra loud in the silence. He turned back and met her forlorn gaze. She glanced away.
He stood at the door. “Thank you, Gren. For everything.”
As much as Vrell did not want to see Macoun Hadar again, she guessed she had better report to breakfast. The sooner she learned how to contact Mother, the better.
She took the time to pray, then wandered up the staircase uncertain of what she would do when she arrived. If only she could find Carlani first. He did not threaten her, and she thought of him as an ally. They both served the same master, anyway.
A chambermaid carried a basket of clothing down the stairs.
“Excuse me,” Vrell said. “Where could I find Carlani’s room?”
“He sleeps on a pallet in his master’s chamber,” the girl said. “Master Hadar is very demanding.”
“Thank you.” Vrell continued to the eighth floor. She should have guessed. Servants often bunked in their master’s room in case they were needed at any hour. Someone as old and odd as Macoun Hadar would not want to be kept waiting. Strange that he relied on such a snail of a servant.
Vrell knocked on the antechamber door. When no one answered, she crept inside. The antechamber had cooled since her visit the previous evening. A few glowing embers smoldered in the fireplace. The other two doors were identical to the first: cedar panels held together by a diagonal plank and rounded at the top. She knocked at the one on the left first. When no answer came, she pushed it open and saw that it led to another dark antechamber. This room had no other doors, no windows, and no fireplace — just a completely empty stone room, like some sort of dungeon cell.
Vrell closed the door, noting that it locked from the inside only. For some reason this brought relief. She could not be locked in. She walked to the other door and knocked.
Master Hadar’s muffled voice said, “Enter.”
Vrell took a deep breath and pushed open the door. She entered a bright, sweltering room. This appeared to be Master Hadar’s bedchamber. It sat on the east side of the stronghold. The morning sun shone through three large windows on the east wall, spilling long beams of sunlight across the wooden floor. Despite the natural heat, a fire blazed in a hearth twice the size of the one in the antechamber.
Master Hadar sat on the end of a canopied bed like a mini king, his feet resting on a small stone slab, ugly toes poking out the ends of his satin slippers. Thick, grey, wool tapestries hung around his bed. He did not seem fond of color.
Master Hadar’s sunken eyes watched her, but he said nothing, compelling Vrell to speak.
“Good morning, Master. Am I late?”
“No. Carlani has not yet returned with breakfast.”
Vrell wondered how long ago Carlani had left and if he would return before lunch.
Master Hadar pointed a gnarled finger at a small table sitting under the center window. “Bring that here.”
Vrell blinked, then walked across the room. She stole a glance out the window. The entrance to the stronghold stretched out below, the shining sun casting a golden glow onto the stone buildings. In the distance, beyond the parapet wall enclosing the city, the Lebab Inlet edged the skyline like a shimmering, silver blanket.
Lovely.
The table was tall and awkward but not heavy. Vrell lugged it toward the bed.
“Here.” Master Hadar pointed to his feet. “Then we can eat.”
Vrell positioned the table over the stone slab. Master Hadar pointed to a stool in the corner. Vrell fetched that as well, which he had her set opposite him.
Then he pointed to the mantle above the hearth. “There’s an old bronze ring. Fetch it.”
The mantle sat a foot higher than Vrell’s eyes. She reached up to the dusty surface and felt along the top. Carlani was not much of a housekeeper.
“No, no. The other end.”
Vrell moved to the opposite end and found the ring. She held it up.
Master Hadar nodded. “That’s right. Bring it here.”
Vrell carried the ring to her master and set it in front of him on the table.
He did not pick it up but looked at her with his sunken grey eyes. “Sit.”
Vrell sat on the stool.
“Find Carlani.”
Vrell blinked. “Master? You want me to find him?” Perhaps Master Hadar was as hungry as she was. Waiting for Carlani on a regular basis must get frustrating.
“That’s right. Close your eyes and concentrate.”
Of course. Time to learn. She hoped he would not touch her again. Jax’s warning came to mind. She would be wary of becoming this man’s pawn. Vrell closed her eyes and focused. A massive coldness loomed before her and she shivered. She assumed that was Master Hadar closing off his mind. Strange that she could sense his closed mind but had not sensed anything from Jax or Khai. Did that make the knights stronger or weaker?
She pictured the old servant in her head. She thought about Carlani’s wrinkled face, his hunched posture, his white ponytail, and his tiny brown bird eyes. She furrowed her brow but could not sense him. That either meant he was too far away or he was blocking her. She opened her eyes.
Master Hadar was staring, the wrinkled skin hanging from his cheeks as if it might slide off. Crescents of pink flesh peeked out from under his sunken eye sockets. How was it a man could have no eyebrows? He reached his twisted fingers above the ring and slid it toward her with one finger, the bronze scraping across the polished wooden surface. “Try again, holding this.” He lifted his finger off the ring.
Goosebumps broke out over Vrell’s arms at the curious humming tone of his voice. He expected a different outcome with this ring. Was it magic? Vrell did not want to play with mage magic. Arman would not approve.
She gulped and picked up the ring. She gripped it in her fist and closed her eyes again. Before she could even try to picture the white-haired valet, she found him in a kitchen.
“…doesn’t like it. But add a bit of bacon for the boy and some milk. Skin and bones, he is,” Carlani said.
“Would you like if I carried it up for yeh?” a girl’s voice asked.
“Oh, that would be nice, Mags. It’s such a long walk, and I could use the company.”
Mags sighed. “No. I meant I’d deliver…oh, never you mind.” She picked up a tray, and the aroma of bacon, tea, and toast filled Vrell’s nostrils. She inhaled a deep breath.
A throaty chuckle popped Vrell’s eyelids open. Master Hadar’s thin lips twisted in a smile revealing brown teeth. “Found him, did you?”
Vrell nodded. “I smelled the bacon.”
Master Hadar wrinkled his nose. “I don’t eat meat.”
Vrell set the ring back on the table. “Is it a magic ring?”
“Magic? No. It belongs to Carlani. I use it to find him quicker. The older I get, the harder it is for me. I have to resort to the tricks of my youth.”
“Tricks?”
“The ring.” Master Hadar reached out a crooked finger and pulled the ring toward him. “What do you know of bloodvoicing?”
“Very little.”
“Well, bloodvoicing is the ability to hear the thoughts and share the experiences of others. You can learn to use it on any living thing. However, those who have the gift can learn to block others out. That you already know how to do.”
Vrell nodded.
“If you tried to seek out a friend, someone you know very well, you should be able to find them without help. But if you haven’t seen them in a while or don’t know them, are out of practice or weak from illness or age, it helps to have something of theirs. Personal belongings increase connection.”
Which was why Khai had stolen her coin purse.
“You’ve a question?” Master Hadar asked.
“No.” Vrell shifted on her stool, not liking that this man could tell when she was thinking, if not what. “Yes, actually. Why me? Why did I get this gift?”
“It travels through blood, hence its name. It’s an ability that was bestowed upon King Echâd, the first king of Er’Rets, when the father god, Arman, gave him rule of this land. To be able to hear and influence the thoughts of others is a gift only the gods have. But King Echâd was given that ability to aid in his rule. The gift passed through his bloodline the same as any human trait: brown hair, blue eyes, crooked teeth…”
Master Hadar coughed. “Not all his descendants were born with the ability. Of those who were, each had a variation of the gift. No one has ever had the full power that King Echâd originally had.”
“So I am a descendant of King Echâd?” Vrell knew this already, but she wanted to confirm she understood the gift properly.
“You must be.”
“How was it you sensed me in Walden’s Watch?”
“I’ve been around long enough, boy. I know everyone who has the bloodvoices and where they live. No one in Walden’s Watch had it. But recently, I sensed the gift there. So I sent the Kingsguards to fetch you.”
Vrell took a risk and asked, “How did you know where to find me and that I was a boy?”
“I didn’t…at first. But there are always clues. I sent Jax and Khai to Walden’s Watch. As they neared, I could sense you through them even though they couldn’t sense you. This is called jumping. Jax is stronger than Khai. Upon entering the manor house, Jax sensed a bloodvoice presence, but he couldn’t discern who or how old or the level of ability. You walk about with your shields up, which is wise. Through Jax, I could sense you were someone young and someone who didn’t belong.”
Heat flushed over Vrell. How close he had come to knowing the whole truth.
“Once Jax spoke with Lord Orthrop and discovered he had a new ward, I figured that was who had the gift. When Jax saw you, I sensed your power.”
“But you could not hear me?”
“No. You block too well. I sensed you were there, heard your conversations with Jax and Khai through their thoughts, but I could not hear your thoughts directly.”
Vrell thought about the newly gifted man. “There is one voice, a new one whom Jax, Khai, and I heard on our journey here. His thoughts blast into my mind, even though my guard is up.”
“Yes.” Master Hadar’s eyes sparkled. “The boy. Achan. I’ve been seeking him.”
Achan. He hadn’t sounded like a mere boy to Vrell. “Why do you seek him?”
“His strength would be of great use.”
Vrell tilted her head. “Why do you think him a boy?”
“Clues. You heard all the voices?”
“Yes.”
“Good. But I listen to what they said. Some referred to him as a boy. These were likely the thoughts of regular men who were near him at the time. He was transferring their thoughts for all bloodvoicers to hear without realizing it. It’s like the reverse of jumping. Very hard to do.”
Vrell glanced at the ring. How strange that thoughts could be sent so easily, yet she could not contact Mother. Had she been away from Mother too long to reach her? She had none of her mother’s belongings in her possession. Would that help if she did? Would a possession keep others from listening in? “How could I call out to you, Master, without Jax or Khai or someone else hearing me — sensing me?”
“That’s called messaging. I’ll teach it to you soon enough. It will be important for you to be my eyes in places an old man is not able to go.”
Vrell wondered what sorts of places Master Hadar had in mind. Did he intend to make her into a spy?
Someone tapped on the door.
Master Hadar called out, “Enter.”
Carlani inched his way inside. Mags, the thin, red-haired servant girl, walked with him, her steps fidgety, her expression tense. Vrell jumped up and took the tray from her hands. She must have had a very long and frustrating walk beside Carlani. Mags’s eyes fluttered over Vrell. She smiled, then left the room. Vrell set the tray on the table before Master Hadar. Carlani hobbled to a sideboard in the far corner that held a water pitcher and mugs.
Vrell turned to Master Hadar. “How can I speak to Carlani? To send him a message?”
Master Hadar dug into his bowl of gruel, sloppily putting some to his lips. “You can’t. Carlani does not have the gift. But you can influence him.”
Vrell narrowed her eyes.
Master Hadar’s thin mouth twisted into a sinister smile, globs of gruel showing between his lips. He slurped. “These are things I’ll teach you over time. Things some consider…immoral.”
Vrell shivered in the hot room, not liking the sound of that.
Lord Nathak canceled the prince’s sparring practice due to his injury. Even though it was not for his benefit, Achan was grateful. He wore his Kingsguard uniform anyway and carried Eagan’s Elk at his side. He didn’t want to be caught off-guard and without a weapon, nor could he simply leave a priceless sword lying around.
He spent the morning peeling potatoes under Poril’s mournful eye and planning his escape to Tsaftown. Deserting the prince was punishable by death, but death was just what Gidon had in mind for him, so he may as well get away while he was still whole.
Chora had informed Poril that Achan would be traveling to Mahanaim. Poril moped around the kitchens, suddenly unable to do anything without Achan’s assistance. The old man still stood sentry until Achan drank his tonic. Achan wanted to heed Sir Gavin’s warning not to drink it, but he didn’t want to start a war with Poril on their last day together.
Achan was melancholy but couldn’t fathom where the feeling came from. He shook off thoughts of Poril and focused on the potatoes. His dreams of leaving were going to come true at last, but not how he’d hoped. Tonight he’d flee Sitna a fugitive rather than a free man. And Gren would not be coming along.
Gren.
She refused to run away. Achan wasn’t surprised. She loved her family and home. Still, he felt like she had chosen Riga over him. Could Achan simply leave her here? Maybe he could come back to make sure that Riga was treating her well. The thought of Riga quickened his knife, and soon all the potatoes were peeled and chopped.
A page raced into the kitchen. “Master Poril, sir.” The boy paused to catch his breath. “Prince Gidon requires the stray’s presence immediately.”
The stray’s presence.
Achan slid off his stool and stormed outside. He would face this tyrant for the last time. Prince Gidon was nothing but a glorified Riga or Harnu. Achan’s back still smarted as he bounded up to the sixth floor, boots stomping all the way.
Chora hushed him at the door, then let him through. “Master Cham, Your Highness.”
Achan strode into Prince Gidon’s solar. The prince stood on the balcony, arms propped on the railing, hip jutting out to the left. He wore a deep maroon doublet and brown leather trousers bound below the knees with gold garters. Achan started toward him, but someone cleared his throat. Achan turned to see Lord Nathak at a desk in the corner of the room reading a scroll.
Lord Nathak tossed the scroll aside and looked at Achan. The ties of his mask had come undone under his chin, letting the mask gape slightly. Achan caught a glimpse of the ruined flesh. “You are ready to leave in the morning?”
Achan stiffened. He’d be leaving before then, but he couldn’t reveal that here. “Yes, my lord.”
“I will not be coming with you. I will follow behind with the nobility.”
Achan knew all this already. Prince Gidon’s procession would ride out first, accompanied by the knights and squires. Lord Nathak would follow at a slower pace with the lords and ladies and their children who were going south. Some of those would attend the Council vote in Mahanaim, but many — including Lady Tara, Achan had discovered — were going home until the actual coronation that would commence in the fall.
“I’m counting on you to serve his every need, as his attendants are not used to travel.”
Achan fought to keep his face passive. He’d never spent time as a personal servant and had no intention of starting now. Come morning, he would be deep in the SiderosForest on his way to Mitspah.
Lord Nathak went on. “Chora will be with him, as will Sir Kenton, but should anything happen, are you prepared for battle?”
Battle? Achan blinked. “Yes, my lord.” But he wasn’t. Not really. Who would be insane enough to attack a procession of Kingsguard knights? Achan searched his memory. Had Sir Gavin ever mentioned anyone who might want to kill the prince? Hundreds of people, probably, but Achan couldn’t remember anyone specific.
“Try not to make him angry and you should live until I get to Mahanaim.”
Why was Lord Nathak telling him this? Achan sought the man’s feelings but found only a chill in the air, as if Lord Nathak himself were the source of the cold. How did he do that?
“Well? Your prince is waiting.”
Achan walked out to the balcony and the heat of the late morning warmed him. What a magnificent view the prince had. To his right, Achan could see where the SitnaRiver met the ocean. Straight ahead the multi-colored tents on the tournament field were being dismantled. To the west, he could just barely see the dark ridge that was the Chowmah Mountain Range. “You wanted to see me, Your Highness?”
The prince stared at the river. “You will do something for me, stray. Your friend, Wren.”
Achan furrowed his brow. “Gren?”
“I want her to come along. I’m not returning to Sitna. The council will undoubtedly vote in my favor, then I will continue on to Armonguard as king. She should say her farewells to whomever.”
“But…I told you. Gren is betrothed to Riga Hoff.”
Prince Gidon straightened and gripped the railing. “I do not care about Riga Hoff. Bring her with you in the morning.”
“You can’t just—”
Prince Gidon turned. “Am I king?”
A rush of heat seared through Achan and he snapped, “Not yet, Your Highness.”
The prince stiffened then smiled, blue eyes flashing. “You are dismissed.”
The blood boiled in Achan’s veins. He turned to go.
“Do not do anything foolish, stray,” the prince said to his back. “Should you and the young lady go missing, I shall kill her parents first, then hunt you both down.”
Achan stormed from the room, down the stairs, and into the inner bailey. He paced toward the gate to the outer bailey, then turned back. As if Gren’s betrothal to Riga hadn’t been bad enough. At least with Riga she’d be near her family, her home — she’d have some…stability. Prince Gidon was about to be married to some random noblewoman! Gren would be nothing to him. How could he be so…
Why would Cetheria let this happen? And after she had told him to go to the keep that day. Achan could have left long ago. He could have been gone, and Gren safe. Achan stormed to the temple.
A guard stopped him at the colonnade. “Only nobility can enter.”
Achan drew Eagan’s Elk. “I am here on a very specific errand involving Prince Gidon.”
The guard stepped back, eyes wide. The man had his own sword, but Achan doubted anyone had ever threatened violence simply to enter the temple.
Achan strode forward and climbed the steps two at a time. He slowed on the porch and crossed the threshold with wide eyes. Inside the cella, marble pillars rose three stories high long the side walls. Incense filled his nostrils. The statue of Cetheria stood at the end of the room, her head nearly reaching the roof.
He froze when he saw her, his anger dwarfed by her size and splendor. Her skin was ivory, her gown sheets of gold leaf. She clutched a golden spear in one hand, a shield in the other. Her eyes, some sort of blue gemstone, stared forward, sparkling from the hundreds of candles burning at her feet. Treasure was piled there: gold cups, jewels, coins, toys. Perhaps the guards were posted outside mainly to keep people from stealing the offerings.
Achan approached the altar slowly, staring up at the jeweled eyes. “You’re not so beautiful. Not like Tara.” He winced, waiting to be struck down, hoping, almost, to be put out of his misery. Nothing happened.
“Why do you speak to me? I have little in this world, goddess. Why toy with a stray? Is this fun for you?” He scowled and threw Eagan’s Elk on the pile of offerings. “You want that? Is that what you want? It’s all I have. Take it. Take everything, but—” He fell to his knees, clutching his hands into fists. “Please leave Gren be.”
Heat swept around him like a summer wind, seeping through his skin and into his veins. He gasped.
Watch yourself carefully, Achan, so that you do not corrupt yourself with an idol of any shape, whether formed like man, woman, beast, or nature.
Take your sword and go. You know what you must do.
Achan cowered to the floor, trembling. The burning heat brought sweat to his brow. “Is it not Cetheria who speaks to me?”
But the voice did not answer. Achan gulped and rose to his knees, his gaze flitting back to Cetheria’s jeweled eyes. Was she really only an idol?
Achan jumped up and fetched his blade from the hoard. He sheathed it and fled. The guard stopped to search him at the gate, but let him go without further questions.
Achan set off at a jog for Gren’s cottage. The voice had said he knew what to do. All he really knew was that he could not allow this. Future king or not, Prince Gidon had no right take Gren. Achan might not be able to flee, but that didn’t mean there was nothing he could do.
He pounded on the door of Gren’s cottage. “Master Fenny!”
The door opened a crack, and Gren peered out. “Achan. What is it?”
“I must speak with your father. Is he home?”
Her eyes went wide. “Yes. What are you going to do?”
That she thought he might be speaking to her father against Riga flooded him with guilt. He pushed the thoughts aside. “Please, Gren. Now?”
She rolled her eyes and shut the door. A breeze gushed through the corridor between the cottages but did not quell the heat in Achan’s chest. The burn of that voice lingered.
Master Fenny opened the door. “What is it, boy?”
“Forgive me, but I must speak with you. It’s partly the business of Prince Gidon.”
“Oh. Do come in.”
“If you please, sir, this involves Master Hoff as well. Could we go to his home?”
Master Fenny was tall but his shoulders were hunched from years over the loom. He ducked out the door with ease and closed it behind him. The sun glared off his balding head. “Lead the way.”
Achan walked across the outer bailey, trembling with every step. His actions were openly treasonous, but he didn’t care. Let Gidon hang him.
Riga’s mother led them inside the cottage, which was bigger than the Fenny home, but not as clean. Father and son were eating lunch at a long table, a sight almost as disgusting as Prince Gidon eating grapes. Gren’s future prospects truly disappointed Achan.
Master Hoff stood, pea soup dripping down his fat chin. “What’s this?”
“The boy is on a task from the prince himself,” Master Fenny said.
Riga shot Achan a glare with his beady eyes and crunched down on bread roll. His round, pink cheeks bulged more with food in his mouth.
“Well, out with it, boy. We’re busy men here,” Master Hoff said.
“The prince leaves tomorrow for Mahanaim to appear before the Council,” Achan said. “Then he’ll go on to Armonguard, where he—”
Riga huffed a loud, groaning sigh. “Everyone knows this.”
“He wants to take Gren with—” Achan coughed, his throat too dry to force out the vile words.
“Take her where?” Master Fenny asked. “He shouldn’t need a seamstress on the journey. I’m certain there are seamstresses in Armonguard.”
Achan studied the floor, and the truth came out in a whisper. “Take her…as his mistress.”
Master Fenny paled. “What?”
Riga jumped to his feet. “But Gren is betrothed to me.”
“I told him that,” Achan said. “His answer was, ‘I don’t care about Riga Hoff.’”
Riga’s pudgy face turned pink.
Master Fenny slouched into an empty chair at the table. “This cannot be. Not my little girl.”
“She could run away, until he’s left,” Master Hoff suggested.
“No,” Achan said. “He said if she ran, he’d kill her parents first, then hunt her down.”
“What madness is this?” Master Fenny said. “He’s never once shown interest in Grendolyn.”
“If I may,” Achan croaked. All three looked to him. “I’m to fetch Gren tomorrow morning for the prince. If I were to find she’d already been”—he closed his eyes—“married, I could tell the prince I was mistaken that she was only betrothed.”
Master Hoff’s eyes bulged. “Married today?”
“He knows Gren and you are friends?” Master Fenny asked.
“Aye.”
“Then he won’t believe you didn’t know.”
“He might not.” Achan glanced at Riga. “But after all, I’m just a stray. Why would anyone share such intimacies with me?”
“That’s true,” Master Hoff said.
Riga’s coloring returned to normal. His everyday glare had vanished. His face softened and Achan could see his pale blue eyes.
“There’s no time!” Master Fenny said. “We need three days for a wedding.”
“We could say the ceremony had already begun,” Master Hoff said.
Gren’s father shook his head. “Still, Gren needs to make temple offerings of her childhood clothing and toys. With a priest present.”
“Go and do that now.” Master Hoff pushed his chair in and wiped his face with a napkin. “Riga and I will tend to the feast. We’ll need guests to stand up as witnesses.”
“The women can see to that. Perhaps she could wear her mother’s veil.”
Master Hoff paused. “Such deceitfulness could anger the gods.”
“Better a cursed marriage than have my daughter made a concubine!”
“Well, I don’t desire a cursed marriage for my son! He’s my only heir, as Gren is yours. If the gods are angered, they could curse her womb. Where would that leave us both?”
“Do I have a say?” Riga looked to Gren’s father. “The dowry has already been agreed upon. I’ve made dozens of sacrifices for this union. The gods won’t curse us. It’s my dedication to the gods that brings this warning to us. It is their gift to us in our time of need.”
Achan bit back a sarcastic remark. If the voice was right, and all the gods were idols, what did any of this superstitious talk matter?
Master Fenny sighed. “It shall be done then, if you agree, Vaasa.”
Master Hoff scratched his chin. “The cottage isn’t finished, but it’s livable. I’ll go to the priest this moment and ask him to perform the ceremony tonight. Word should spread fast.”
Achan slipped to the door and let himself out, unable to bear any more. He stopped to suck in a long, fresh breath. He could see the barn from here and the plumes of smoke from the kitchen chimneys. The door opened behind him. He turned to see Riga pulling it closed.
“You think she’ll be happier with me than the future king?”
Achan grimaced. “I do.”
“Why?”
“Because Gren loves Sitna, and you’re in Sitna. Be kind to her. Be kind to her family. If I ever hear you weren’t…” Achan set his hand on the hilt of his sword. Riga’s squinted eyes flew wide. Achan turned and stalked away.
That night he lay under the ale casks, mourning the death of the girl he loved. Come morning, she’d be a married woman.
He had once watched a wedding from a distance. In the final act of the ceremony, the unveiling of the bride, the father had announced to the groom, “In front of these witnesses, I give this girl to you.”
Tonight, Gren’s father would say that to Riga, and she’d be his.
Achan would not torture himself by watching the ceremony, even from afar.
His stomach churned. Now his own plans had been foiled as well. He couldn’t flee for fear of Prince Gidon’s wrath against Gren and her parents. Tomorrow they would both start a new life. Gren as Riga’s wife and Achan as the prince’s personal slave.
*
The next morning Achan lay staring at the casks overhead. He hadn’t slept well. Memories of Gren haunted his every thought.
He tugged his blanket over his head and noticed a jagged tear in the top corner. Someone had cut a square from the thick wool. Trivial as it might be on any other day, this morning Achan seethed. Could he have nothing that wasn’t rags? He’d just been given a new Kingsguard uniform, which Prince Gidon had shredded little by little each day. At least his sword was still intact.
He pondered his coming adventure as he dressed, then rolled the brown shirt and the doeskin doublet inside his blanket. Gren would make clothes for Riga now, but these might yet come in useful. He tied his blanket with his old belt and carried the bundle upstairs.
Poril stood at the bread table. He sprinkled flour on the surface and dumped out a lump of bubbly dough. Achan’s tonic sat on the table, but Poril made no mention of it.
“I’m leaving for Mahanaim.”
“That yeh are.” Poril sprinkled more flour over the dough, then kneaded his hands into it.
“I don’t know when…” Achan shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
“Yeh’ll be fine, yeh will. And if yeh never see Poril again…Poril wishes yeh well.”
A tight ache welled in Achan’s throat. Would he actually miss this old goat? “Well, I…thank you.” Achan stood in the entrance to the kitchens, watching Poril go about making bread. He wanted to leave but his feet wouldn’t move. His eyes misted and he clenched his jaw. “Farewell, then.” Achan turned and fled.
He was five steps from the entrance when Poril yelled, “Achan!”
Achan turned expecting to see the cook holding up the mug of tonic.
Instead, Poril hobbled up and handed Achan a bulky sack. “’Tis a long journey ahead. Maybe yeh’ll be hungry. Guards can’t cook worth much.”
Achan dropped the bag and hugged the old man. “Thank you, Master Poril.”
Poril wiggled away, rubbing his eye. “No trouble, boy. No trouble at all.”
Achan sniffed and shoved his blanket into Poril’s bag. Did the old man regret naming him Achan—“trouble”? Was he trying to say he was sorry? It was a nice thought, and he tried to keep it in the center of his mind as he hurried to the Fenny’s cottage, anxious to get this over with and be gone from Sitna. He’d had his fill of emotions.
He knocked on the door and stepped back, secretly hoping Gren would open the door like always. Instead, her mother did.
The woman squealed and pulled Achan into a hug. He stood stiffly as her body trembled with sobs. He patted her back.
Thankfully Master Fenny came to the door. “Ah, Achan. What can we do for you this fine morning?”
His words came out monotone. “I…I’ve come for Gren. Prince Gidon requests her company on his journey.”
Gren’s mother reeled into a new chain of sobs and squeezed Achan so tight, he feared she might sever his body at the waist.
“I’m sorry,” Master Fenny said. “You’ll have to check with her husband. She’s a married woman now.”
Achan couldn’t help but smile at his performance. “Oh, that is new information. I’ll relay that to His Highness.” Achan peeled away from Gren’s mother. He wanted to see Gren, but that would be hugely inappropriate. “I cannot write… so I couldn’t say farewell…could you tell Gren I—”
Gren’s mother burst into tears again. Master Fenny clapped him on the back. “She already knows, Achan, but I’ll tell her.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Achan left Gren’s cottage behind and ran over the drawbridge. There, the caravan of horses and wagons was lined up along the river. He stood with Noam as his friend harnessed a horse to a wagon, neither saying a word.
Finally Noam spoke. “Chora says you aren’t allowed a horse.”
Achan closed his eyes and smirked. “That sounds about right.”
“You won’t miss this place, Achan,” Noam said. “You won’t even think of us when you’re living in the palace at Armonguard.”
“I might never live in the palace. I might be back in a fortnight. I might be dead.”
“Nah. You’re too lucky to be killed. Cetheria has always watched over you, even though you think she hasn’t. I’m almost certain you’ll stand in the Armonguard palace someday. Maybe I’ll come and visit.”
“I thought you didn’t like adventures.”
“Don’t.” Noam pulled a scrap of parchment from his pocket. “Gren brought this by yesterday.”
Achan’s brow furrowed as he stared at the curled parchment in Noam’s hand.
A red and gold litter approached, carried by four men. Achan had seen the litter travel in and out of the Sitna Manor before, but never had he loathed it so. It was a floating bedchamber painted red with golden trim and carved scrolling. Thick gold fringe and tassels outlined the roof. Birds were carved at each corner. The heavy, red wool curtains were drawn closed.
The men stopped and lowered the litter near the front of the procession. Prince Gidon exited, dressed in a red embroidered silk doublet over a white shirt with flowing sleeves and golden leather trousers cinched below the knees with scarlet garters. A thin gold crown studded with rubies and diamonds held his slicked-back hair in place. He stood with his hands on his hips as a large wagon, stacked high with ornate trunks, came to a halt behind the litter. The prince’s luggage perhaps?
Prince Gidon’s gaze met Achan’s. “Stray!” He snapped his fingers in the air.
Achan sucked in a deep breath and snatched Gren’s letter from Noam’s hand. He crammed it into the bag Poril had given him, and strode toward the prince. “You snapped, Your Highness?”
“Where is Wren?”
“I don’t know any Wren, Your Highness.”
Prince Gidon pursed his lips. “You know who I mean. Where is the girl?”
“She’s not here, Your Highness.”
“And why not?”
“It seems I was wrong about her betrothal, Your Highness. I was happy to find her already married. Apparently I was not invited to the ceremony, nor did she share the date and time with me. I am, after all, only a stray.”
The prince’s eyes narrowed. “Married?”
“You didn’t want me to take her from her husband, did you?”
“Of course not.” Prince Gidon folded his arms and looked back to the manor. “This is most disappointing. In fact…” He strode toward the manor. “Come.”
Achan glanced back to Noam, then jogged after the prince.
Chora scurried up to them from the back of the procession. “Your Majesty, where are you going?”
“The stray and I have an errand.”
“But we are ready to leave. We’ve already lost an hour—”
Prince Gidon stopped and grabbed the valet’s shoulder. “Am I king, Chora?”
Chora nodded and circled back.
Achan and the prince walked in silence until they reached the drawbridge. A trader’s wagon blocked the way as the guards checked the cargo.
Prince Gidon stopped behind it and paced, arms crossed. He turned to Achan. “The thing is, stray, it’s all a little too convenient, don’t you think?”
“What is, Your Highness?”
“The whole—”
“It’s His Royal Highness!” a guard yelled from the sentry walk.
“On foot?”
As the wagon rolled forward, Achan feigned interest in a fresh patch of mason work on the brownstone walls.
The prince cleared his throat and held a hand out in front. “Lead the way, stray.”
“Where, Your Highness?”
“To the married woman’s new home. I’d like to see where Riga Hoff lives.”
“I don’t know where they live.”
Prince Gidon’s eyes went wild. “Then let’s find out. Lead the way to her old cottage, and we shall ask her father.”
Achan blew out a deep breath and trudged to the Fenny home. It was very early and the outer bailey wasn’t crowded, but whenever someone recognized the prince, they fell to their knees, head bowed. Achan reached the Fenny’s cottage. He knocked on the door and stepped back.
The door opened a crack. “Achan! Is something wrong?” Gren’s mother pulled the door in, but before she could step out, the prince pushed past her into the house. She squeaked and knelt in the doorway. “Your Highness! To what do I own such an honor?”
“You have a daughter, woman?” Prince Gidon’s voice came from the back bedroom. He moved from one room to the next, searching. “Who sleeps in these rooms?”
Still on her knees, Gren’s mother said, “I…my husband… He’s gone to fetch water for the wash. I’d do it, but I sprained my wrist.”
Achan took her elbow and helped her to her feet. “It’ll be all right. Tell him.”
She gulped and said, “M-My husband and I are on the left, and the other room belonged to my daughter, G-Grendolyn.”
“Where is this Grendolyn?”
“She lives with her husband now.”
“Show me.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty.” Gren’s mother bowed and scurried from the house.
Achan waited for Prince Gidon to pass before closing the door behind him. Gren’s mother led them though the maze of tiny thatched cottages to a fresh one crammed against the northern parapet wall. Sawdust peppered the dirt around the entrance. Instead of the wooden shutters that covered most cottage windows, sheets of undyed wool were nailed over the openings. The sound of maidens singing rose softly from inside.
Achan’s stomach muscles tightened. He didn’t want to go in and witness the celebration that was not yet over.
Gren’s mother pushed the door in softly.
The prince grabbed Achan by the back of the neck and shoved him inside. The singing stopped. Candles flickered along the walls and floor, incense burned, and the pale faces of Gren’s four maiden friends stared in shock from where they sat at the table.
“It’s him,” one of the girls said.
“What’s he going to do?” said another.
This cottage looked just like all the others. It had a table and fireplace in the front room and a hallway leading to the bedrooms. The only difference was that it encompassed everything Achan could never have. He did not want to be here. He did not want this thrown in his face.
A third maiden squeaked. “It’s the prince!”
The girls jumped from their chairs and knelt on the floor. Prince Gidon ignored them and scanned the room.
Harnu stood in the hallway before a closed door to one of the bedrooms. According to wedding night ritual, the best man must guard the happy couple from intruders. Harnu’s face paled so quickly it almost made Achan laugh. Which would he honor: his duty to the groom or his duty to the prince?
The prince pushed him aside. He found the door locked and pounded on it. “Open up for Prince Gidon.”
Achan wondered how often the prince had to announce himself.
Riga opened the door in his nightshirt. He flushed like a maid and awkwardly lowered his bulky form to his knees in the bedchamber doorway. The sight of Riga, the louse who stole Gren from him, shot fire through Achan’s veins.
The prince stepped over Riga. He caught his jewel-encrusted boot on Riga’s sleeve and tripped. Achan smirked — until he heard Gren’s small scream.
Riga clambered to his feet just as Achan reached the door. The two crashed into each other. Achan clenched his fists and let Riga go first.
He followed him inside, and found Gren on her knees in a long white nightgown. Prince Gidon towered above, one hand clutching her hair in his fist, the other hand perched on his hip. Riga paced at the foot of the bed like a scared bulldog, until the prince dropped Gren and rounded on him. Riga cowered.
“This cottage is unfinished,” Prince Gidon said.
Gren’s mother, gods bless her, was in rare form. She moved toward the prince. “They were so in love, Your Highness, that they couldn’t wait for the house to be finished.”
The prince forced a smile. “When was the happy day?”
No one spoke or met Prince Gidon’s eyes. It was obvious the wedding guests were still here. Achan looked from Gren to Riga to Gren’s mother.
Riga finally said, “Yesterday, Your Majesty.”
Prince Gidon turned to Achan and raised a dark eyebrow. “I see.” The prince looked down his nose at Gren and strode from the room, banging the front door closed behind him.
Achan shuddered and stepped toward the entrance.
“Achan, wait!” Gren hopped to her feet and gripped him in a hug, reminiscent of her mother’s from that morning. Her hair smelled like orange blossoms, but her eyes were bloodshot. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to do or say anything that might get Gren in trouble. He wanted to carry her away from here. He wanted to kill Riga and take his place. He didn’t like the way he felt like he was losing control.
“Thank you, Achan,” Gren said.
He could only nod.
Gren released him. Her mother kissed both his cheeks. Then Riga opened the door and gave him to Harnu, who towed him out the front door and slammed it in his face.
Some gratitude.
Wanting to get as far away as possible, Achan ran through the maze of cottages, out the drawbridge, and toward the procession. He caught sight of the prince a few yards ahead and hung back.
But Prince Gidon rounded on him. “You think me a fool, stray? I know you did this. Stay close to me on this journey. If I even think you’ve deserted me, that ‘happy couple’ will be dead before you can bother to explain.”
The prince stomped to his litter, which was now harnessed to two horses, one in front and one in back. He climbed inside and whipped the curtains closed. His jerky movements upset the animals, and Noam and two guards did their best the calm them.
Achan stood simmering in the morning sun. It was simple then. As long as he endured Gidon’s wrath, Gren would be safe. So be it. He’d never have been free anyway. He might be leaving Sitna, but his life really wasn’t changing. He was still a stray — only now his master would be a king instead of a cook. He didn’t imagine things could get much worse. He looped the drawstring of Poril’s bag of food over one shoulder and waited.
A cloud of dust billowed into the air at the front of the line. The caravan was moving. It took over ten minutes before the litter was able to move. Achan gave Noam one last wave and trudged along beside it. He didn’t look back again.
Vrell reported to her master’s chamber, only to find the dull, grey room empty. The only color in the room came from the sun shining though the windows on the eastern wall across from the chamber’s entrance. Master Hadar’s bed sat against the northern wall. The southern wall held a huge fireplace near the entrance, and a sideboard and shelves near the window wall. An alcove jutted out in the center of the southern wall, where an oak desk sat cluttered with scrolls.
She helped herself to a mug of water from the sideboard in the corner, then inched toward the fireplace, sipping her drink and taking everything in as she went. Halfway to the fireplace, she paused at her master’s oak desk. A small stack of scrolls lay piled on one side. A bottle of ink with a quill poking out sat beside a sheet of parchment in the center of the desk. The letter had likely been left out to dry. The quill was plain. A gull’s feather, perhaps. Mother always used a lovely peacock quill when she corresponded with—
The name on the top of the letter caught her eye: Sir Luas Nathak, Lord of Sitna. A chill raked her body. Lord Nathak? That man had pined for her mother’s hand for years following Father’s death. Vrell hated men who sought a wife when they already had one. It was the deepest form of cruelty and selfishness. Worse was the fact that Lord Nathak only wanted control of Carm. Apparently, he had advised his ward, Prince Gidon, to accomplish what he could not.
Lord Nathak’s eerie mask and disfigurement did not help his reputation. Nor did his behavior since her mother’s refusal. He had used threats to try to get his way. He had even resorted to force once, but Mother’s guards had been quick and thorough.
In Vrell’s mind, the man was pure evil. And his ward was worse. She walked around to the other side of the desk to read the letter.
My Good Sir Luas,
Thank you for accepting my invitation to meet. I look forward to your coming visit.
Macoun Hadar
Vrell frowned and glanced at the stack of scrolls. Why did her master want to meet with Lord Nathak? She closed her eyes but sensed no sign of Master Hadar’s cold-walled mind. So she set down her cup and reached for the scroll on the top of the stack. She unrolled it and read.
Master Hadar,
I will be travelling in the second party, sending our king ahead with his attendants and knights. Watch over him as he prepares to meet with the Council. All is going according to plan.
Luas
Plan? What could these two men be plotting with Prince Gidon? Vrell shivered. The prince was coming to Mahanaim? Did that mean his coming-of-age celebration was at an end? Had he chosen a bride?
She lifted another scroll, but a coldness pressed in on her mind. Master Hadar was near. She quickly returned everything to its original position and hurried to the center window. The warmth of the sun, and the drink now back in her hand, calmed her thumping heart as the door squeaked open. She turned to see Carlani scooting inside.
“The master requires your presence.”
Vrell set her mug on the sideboard and joined Carlani at the door. “Where is he?”
Carlani nodded across the antechamber to the second door, the one that led to the empty stone chamber. Vrell’s lips parted. What would her master be doing in such a cold and empty room? He’d been so near while she’d read his letters?
Carlani inched his way across the antechamber, knocked twice on the door, and pushed it open. He raised his hand, urging Vrell to enter first. As she swept past, he whispered, “I’m not allowed to enter this room.”
Carlani closed the door behind her, and Vrell fought the chill that tickled her spine. She turned to see Master Hadar sitting on a small stool, eyes closed. The room was empty, like a dungeon cell, but cleaner and without a cot or privy bucket.
A second stool sat empty beside Master Hadar. A lantern on the floor by his feet splashed golden flecks of light over his dark robes. She watched, fidgeting with the hem of her satin tunic. With the exception of his steadily rising and falling chest, and the occasional flicker of his eyelids, he remained motionless.
Vrell swallowed and began the mundane task of counting the bricks along the outer wall. She counted to sixty-three before her master spoke.
“This is my quiet room.” He motioned to the stool beside him. “Bloodvoicing is best done in a room like this. No distractions.”
Vrell sat on the squat stool, its lowness and her short height put her shoulder at Master Hadar’s elbow. Something red glistened between his gnarled fingers: a ruby cabochon belt buckle. A jewel that exorbitant could only belong to royalty. She pointed at it. “Whose is that?”
Macoun opened his palm, displaying the cabochon under Vrell’s nose. “This belongs to Prince Gidon Hadar.”
Vrell shuddered. “Surely His Royal Highness would miss such a jewel?”
“On the contrary, boy. Prince Gidon has more jewels than he can keep track of, especially red ones. Besides, Lord Nathak of Sitna sent this to me. He’s the young prince’s caretaker. Do you know the story of how this came to be?”
“Aye.” Vrell couldn’t imagine a soul in Er’Rets who did not. Though she despised Prince Gidon she wouldn’t wish that kind of sorrow on anyone. Vrell herself had lost one parent, but to lose both at such a young age, without having known either…so sad. Even more so to be raised by such a horrible man. It explained a great deal about Prince Gidon’s callous reputation. Having those two in charge did not bode well for the future of Er’Rets.
“Lord Nathak depends upon my gift to look over the prince,” Master Hadar said. “It helps to have another set of eyes when rumors of assassination blow like the wind.”
If the prince wanted fewer enemies, he should try being more kind. Once he took the throne, the attempts on his life would no doubt increase. With a scepter in his hand, Prince Gidon would dole out one horrifying order after another. Vrell hoped to be safe at home by then.
Master Hadar nudged her shoulder and held out the cabochon. “Take it.”
Vrell opened her hand, and her master dropped the heavy, smooth stone. She fingered it. It was lovely. An oval ruby set in engraved gold. So much artistry and money to hold up the prince’s trousers. What a waste.
“Seek him.”
Vrell’s jaw dropped. She looked up at her master with wide eyes. “Seek the prince’s mind? Surely that cannot be acceptable?”
“For a prince to be truly protected, much privacy is sacrificed. Trust me, this man cares not what anyone thinks of his actions. He won’t feel violated. He won’t even know. Besides, you might fail. This is a difficult task, seeking one you’ve never met. Concentrate.”
Vrell swallowed the truth, hoping it did not show on her face. She had met the prince before, more times than she liked. She sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes.
She sought his narrow face, his dark hair…and something rattled. A heaviness closed in on her mind. Grass, horses, and the faint smell of lavender gripped her senses. A purring rose around her, spasmodic — snoring. A light breeze rippled red curtains around the sleeping prince. Muted voices…laughter…the clomping of hooves along dirt.
Like a feather caught in a gust of wind, Vrell whipped out of the curtains and floated into a soldier’s mind. Everyone around this young man rode a horse, yet he trudged along on foot in a cloud of dust, caked from head to toe. His cape was tossed up over his shoulders, covering his nose and mouth to keep from breathing the filthy air. His cheap boots hurt his feet. His heart overflowed with grief. He did not want to be here. He hated Prince Gidon.
What is your name? Vrell asked him.
The soldier tensed and drew up his walls, spitting Vrell out.
She flew into the air and into a black cloud. Her head nodded forward with a jerk, and she opened her eyes. She gasped, shocked at the fatigue gripping her bones. She looked up to find Master Hadar looking down on her hungrily.
“Well?”
“He travels, asleep in his litter.” She held the stone out to her master, anxious to be rid of this draining connection with Prince Gidon and his soldier.
Master Hadar’s jowls gathered into a devious smile as he accepted the stone. “Excellent! How quickly you succeeded. Delightful, the vigor of youth.” He reached under his stool and pulled out a straw basket filled with small items. He tossed the cabochon in as if it were a mere pebble. “You’ll practice with these. Try another. Tell me what you see. Take your time. We have all day.”
Wary of taxing herself further, Vrell accepted the basket and studied the objects inside, careful not to touch any. There were dozens of swatches of cloth, a few ribbons, a turquoise bracelet, several brooches. Had these things all been pilfered from their owners? Would she have to resort to thievery to become proficient in bloodvoicing? And what about her energy? How would she last all day if one look at Prince Gidon drained her so? Or had it been his soldier who had drained her?
A lock of auburn hair in the basket caught her eye. She dug it out from under a swatch of leather, consumed by the color and curl. She lifted it to her nose, but it only smelled of the straw and metal surrounding it.
“A romantic, are you?” Master Hadar raised the skin above his eye where an eyebrow should be. “Go on then.”
Vrell closed her eyes, gripped the silky hair, and thought of its russet color.
A familiar laugh grew in her mind. The subtle scent of grape blossoms brought a gasp to her lips. It was Mother!
A warm breeze flittered across her mother’s face, blowing her auburn hair about. Honeybees buzzed around her. Someone held her arm. A friend.
It’s been a warm spring, Mother said. We’ve had an incredible crop. Lost nothing so far. But once the grapes set, we’ll have to put out bird nets.
Lady Coraline’s voice came loud, as though spoken in Vrell’s ear. Bird nets?
To keep them from eating the grapes, Mother said. Orioles and cardinals are the worst. I cannot blame them — the grapes are very sweet. Everything will have to be netted.
Is that difficult?
Yes. It takes the workers several weeks to cover all the crops.
The smell is enchanting. All these years, and I still haven’t gotten used to the fishy smell of—
The sun blazed overhead. Vrell was not with her mother anymore. She was back with Prince Gidon’s caravan. And the young soldier. He tossed his cape up over his shoulders again to let his skin breathe. He wore far too many layers for such a journey on foot. His linen shirt clung to his chest with sweat.
Why had he pulled her away from Mother? What do you want? she asked the him.
The soldier tensed, but this time he spoke back. What do I want? It’s you who are in my head. I didn’t invite you.
Yes, you did. Stop pulling me here.
Vrell tried to leave, to focus again on Mother and Lady Coraline, but she hit something hard. Her eyes flashed open and she wheezed.
She found herself lying on her back on the cold floor of the chamber. She tried to lift her head but couldn’t. She opened her hand, and the lock of hair fell to the floor. Good. She still had some control of her limbs.
Master Hadar peered down from his stool, the golden glow of the lantern casting black fissures over his lumpy skin. “What did you see?”
Vrell closed her eyes and tried not to show her alarm. Why did Master Hadar have a lock of her mother’s hair? Was he spying on her? And why hadn’t she tried to communicate to Mother when she’d had the chance? She breathed deeply until the pressure faded from her mind. When she opened her eyes again, she met her master’s hollowed eye sockets. They were wide, watching.
“I couldn’t see…” She took a deep breath, half exhausted, half exaggerating her state. “Why does this weaken me so?”
“Perhaps you’ve not practiced enough. There are ways to get stronger. I’ll teach you everything in good time. Let us stop for breakfast. Food gives strength as well, and you’ve not eaten, have you?”
Vrell shook her head.
Master Hadar rose and swept to the door. “Breakfast then.” He left her lying on the floor.
She stared at the timber ceiling and shivered.
How dangerous this bloodvoicing business was. Not only did it weaken her, she had almost given away her identity. Master Hadar could not sense her thoughts, but she supposed he might be able to jump through her to Mother. Maybe it was best that she hadn’t had time to try to send her a message.
And what of that soldier? Who was he? How could he pull her mind into his without meaning to? Clearly he knew nothing of his own power. Could he be the one called Achan, whom Master Hadar thought was a boy? Surely one so powerful wouldn’t be relegated to walking in the dust while so many horses and wagons were available with the prince’s entourage.
It was nice to know the crop at home was good. Carmine would eat well for the next year unless a storm came, which was doubtful now that they were well into spring.
Vrell’s energy returned quickly, and she joined Master Hadar and Carlani for breakfast. The master had business afterward and sent her away. With relief, she went outside the keep.
The courtyard was bustling with activity. Vrell wove between people, horses, and wagons, looking at the things for sale. She was thankful she had the bag of coins from Lord Orthrop. She purchased small linen cloth and a sage tooth scrub so that she could clean her teeth. She also bought a small antler bone comb. She could hardly wait for the cleansing she would give herself that night.
She came to Dâthos’s temple. The round structure, surrounded in regal pillars, was beautiful, but it gave Vrell a chill. Vendors had set up booths on all sides selling gold, silver, and bronze cups in all shapes and sizes. People plunked down a lot of coins to give temple offerings to gods who were false. Guards stood at the entrance, keeping the peasants, slaves, and strays from entering. Such lowly worshippers left offerings around the outside of the temple instead.
Vrell walked on. She enjoyed the feel of the breeze, but it was not the same as the haunting smells from home. Mahanaim was a port city, and as such it smelled of fish and the rancid saltwater that filled the canals. Vrell bided her time, browsing the carts of merchants selling furs, fabrics, wooden bowls and cups, tools, and weapons.
She paused at the local smith’s workshop and watched from a distance as he pounded red-hot iron into a long shape. She stepped closer, enthralled by the flying sparks.
The smith’s apprentice was a short, husky boy in his early teens. The youth filed another blade. He glanced up through sweaty dark blond hair, meeting Vrell’s gaze with a bored expression before turning back to his work.
Vrell stepped closer. “Do you sell any swords, sir?”
The smith looked up. His dark skin was caked in sweat, black smudges, and pockmarks from sparks that had scarred his skin. “You’re in the market?”
“Aye. My master wants I should buy one.”
The boy glanced at Vrell again, this time with curious eyes. “Who’s your master?”
“Jax mi Katt,” Vrell said.
The boy’s mouth lifted in a one-sided grin.
The master smith turned to her, his face wrinkling with amusement. “You’re training in the Kingsguard?”
“Aye,” Vrell said, straightening her posture.
“Why come to me? Kingsguard knights get their weapons from Kingsguard smiths.”
Oh. Well, if Vrell had known that, she would not have weaved such a tale. She furrowed her brow. “I am not training to be a knight. Still, my master says I should buy one. He is going to show me a thing or two once I get myself a sword.”
“Is he now? And just how much money do you have, boy?”
Vrell was no fool. “First tell me the cost.”
The smith laughed. “And if I said a sword costs a hundred silvers?”
Vrell smirked and glanced at the apprentice, who had stopped filing to watch this exchange. “Then I would have to keep looking, for that price is thievery. Surely you are not the only one selling weapons this fine morning. Maybe I would do better to purchase a bow or axe.”
At this, the young apprentice burst into laughter. “You’d be struck down thrice over before managing to swing a battle axe. Even a bow requires more muscle than you have. I suggest a set of handaxes or a dagger. Perhaps you could use them while your enemy sleeps?”
Vrell huffed and said to the smith, “Thank you, sir, for your time.” She turned away, scanning the carts for a peddler with premade weapons.
“Come now,” the smith called after her. “Don’t mind the boy. If you’ve got ten silvers, we can make you a fine short sword. Nothing fancy, but it would hold its own for you to learn on.”
Vrell turned back to the smith and beamed. “When can I have it?”
The smith took the blade he was working on and thrust it into a drum of water, sending a cloud of hissing steam around his face. “Pay half up front, and you’ll get it in a week.”
“Agreed.” Vrell pulled out her coin purse and counted out five silvers.
*
“I’m going to teach you two new things today,” Master Hadar said.
It was after breakfast. They were sitting in the empty cell across from Master Hadar’s chambers. The room was cold and dark, but for the lantern.
“These are very important to the work you’ll be doing for me. First, you must learn to recognize a knock. This is when someone is trying to message you while your mind is closed. And you must also learn to message, to speak to one person without anyone picking up on your conversation. First we will practice messaging.”
Vrell fought to keep herself from beaming. She was going to learn to contact Mother! She waited patiently for Master Hadar to explain.
“Speaking to one person at a time is all about concentration and control. You must allow one person inside, blocking off an area for them in your mind, careful to hide everything else from them. The stronger your mind, the easier this is to do. You will exercise by jumping from one individual conversation to another, trying to keep them each private as you go. You’ll practice today with Sir Jax, Khai, and myself. Once you understand the concept, we will practice knocking.”
Master Hadar brought out his basket of trinkets and dug through it. He selected a little stone horse and a charm made from feathers and beads, and set them on the table. “The horse belongs to Jax. The charm is Khai’s. Reaching me shouldn’t be difficult since I’m right here. Begin.”
Vrell practiced. With bloodvoicing, that seemed the only way to learn.
She gripped the little stone horse and focused on Jax’s face. Jax mi Katt, she called to the picture she visualized in her mind. Jax mi Katt.
Hello, Vrell. Jax’s voice boomed in her head. It startled her so much she dropped the horse and lost the connection.
“Well?” Master Hadar said.
“It worked!” Vrell said. “But I lost him.” She picked up the stone horse. “Are you certain he cannot know all my thoughts when he speaks to me?”
“Not if you are guarding them.”
Vrell tried again and had a successful conversation with Jax. Master Hadar made her practice that for a while, then he moved on to conversations with multiple people at once. She spoke to Jax and Master Hadar at the same time.
Khai made things difficult, always barging in uninvited. Vrell solved this problem by setting up a cottage in her mind and organizing her thoughts into rooms. A knock, as Master Hadar called it, felt like a heavy itch to her ears or a quick stab to her temple, depending on whether it came from Jax or Khai. It was followed by the voice of the person trying to reach her saying her name. This was what Mother had been doing to reach Vrell, but Vrell hadn’t known how to answer at the time.
Khai knocked over and over, bringing a dull headache to Vrell within minutes. To combat him, she added a foyer to her cottage. The next time Khai knocked, she invited him inside there to wait his turn. Soon she had Khai and Master Hadar waiting in the foyer while Vrell and Jax had a private discussion about skinning reekats.
Master Hadar was thrilled with Vrell’s progress. Although she got better and better at the process, her energy continued to drain just as fast. Master Hadar could find no reason for this.
It had been a blessing, finally learning to bloodvoice someone securely. Vrell made good use of her new skill that very night.
Alone in her chamber, she fortified her mind. When she was certain no one could overhear, she focused on the memory of her mother’s face and called out to her.
Within seconds she got an answer.
Vrell? Is that you, dearest?
Mother! Vrell laughed though her tears. Mother, forgive me. I have been so frightened. I wanted to answer you, but… Oh, Mother. I am in Mahanaim. I have been taken as a bloodvoice apprentice to Macoun Hadar. Do you know of him? I had wanted to confess to Lord Orthrop when the Kingsguards came to fetch me, but I was afraid. You had said to trust Coraline, but I did not know how Lord Orthrop would respond.
You are still disguised as a boy?
Yes. I am almost certain that none suspect. Master Hadar is training me. I learned just today how to message.
My dear child, tell me everything.
Vrell started at the beginning and told her mother all she had gone through from Walden’s Watch to her new training with Master Hadar.
I know of no man named Macoun Hadar, Mother said. You say he is old?
He must be in his eighties.
I will write my brother and ask if Father ever spoke of such a man. I am not sure where else to inquire. You say the giant cautioned you against him?
Yes. Jax said that Macoun Hadar was not to be trusted.
I do not like this, my love. I want you home.
What shall I do?
Prince Oren will be in Mahanaim soon for the Council meeting. You should be able to find him without much difficulty. I will tell him to be looking out for you. Sir Rigil will be there as well. He may be more easily approached by a stray than the prince. Find him or Prince Oren and either will see you safely from Mahanaim.
But you will be coming as well, will you not? Mother held a seat on the Council of Seven. If they were meeting, she would be there.
Only if I can be assured that my land will be safe in my absence. Lord Nathak is up to no good. Though I know he will be at the Council meeting, I do not trust him. His men have been spotted on our land. They claim to be hunting. If I think there is any danger of trouble, I will not leave. I will send my proxy with Anillo.
Anillo was Mother’s trusted advisor, a man Vrell had recently discovered had the ability to bloodvoice. He was a logical choice to send in Mother’s place as he would be able to instantly relay to her all that was taking place.
Vrell did not like to hear of trouble at home. Regardless, after that talk with her mother, she slept soundly for the first time in months. Her days as a boy were numbered now. Soon she would be going home.
Achan traipsed alongside the prince’s litter, dust from the horses clouding him in a fog. He threw his cloak up over his nose to try and filter the air, but the dust stung his eyes as well. He considered walking a few yards out, but he didn’t want Gidon to think he was running away.
He tried not to focus on anything, but his mind kept flitting back to Gren. He didn’t want to dwell on her, that he’d never see her again, that she was Riga’s wife. He gritted his teeth and counted to twenty, hoping to distract himself. He wanted to leave. He hated Prince Gidon.
A scratchy voice said, What’s your name?
Achan froze at the voice in his mind and thought of the allown tree.
“Hey! Keep moving!”
Achan turned to see a mule in his face. The beast was pulling a cart. The man steering held up both hands. “Is there a problem?”
“No. Sorry.” Achan scurried after the litter and resumed his pace beside it, tensing against the flood of voices that were sure to fill his mind. Were they going to come back? What had kept them gone for so long?
A charcoal palfrey trotted off to the side of the procession, traveling in the opposite direction. Achan recognized the squire from Carmine, Bran Rennan. He steered the strong horse toward Achan. Bran looked bigger than he truly was on such an animal, though no squire could hope to look fierce with a peeling, sunburned nose like Bran had. He turned the animal to walk alongside Achan. “You were given no horse?”
Achan looked up. “You’re observant.”
Bran frowned. “Sir Rigil suspected as much. He sent me to check on you. Have you got water?”
“No.” Achan hadn’t thought to ask Poril for a water jug.
Bran lifted a strap from over his neck and lowered a water skin down to Achan. “You’re welcome to it. We always carry plenty anyway, and this is a short trip, so running out isn’t a concern.”
Achan draped the strap over his head and worked the cork free. “Thanks.”
“I’ll see you at camp.”
Achan nodded. Bran’s horse cantered away. Achan hadn’t expected to befriend anyone. The idea lightened his mood somewhat. He guzzled half the water and replaced the cork in time to dodge a trail of horse dung. The sun blazed above. He tossed his cape back up over his shoulders and reveled in the cool air on his arms. His linen shirt clung to his chest, drenched in sweat.
What do you want? the scratchy voice demanded.
Achan tensed, but this time he left the connection open. What do I want? It’s you who are in my head. I didn’t invite you.
Yes, you did. Stop pulling me here.
Achan waited for the voice to speak again but it didn’t. He constructed a theory. Somehow, the tonic quieted the voices. Since he hadn’t consumed it this morning, the voices were coming back. But why Lord Nathak insisted he take the tonic, and why Sir Gavin insisted he didn’t, baffled him. He considered Noam’s mention of bloodvoices, but the idea seemed too farfetched. This was life, not a bedtime story. There were no such things as bloodvoices.
Or strange voices who rejected other gods.
In the early afternoon, the procession paused at the foot of the ChowmahMountains to water the horses at a rocky stream. Achan was drawn to the forest. It was thick with allown trees. He wished he could someday live in such a place.
Achan came back from filling his new water skin to find a chamber pot sitting outside Prince Gidon’s litter. He thought nothing of it until Chora came by and said, “What are you standing around for? Do you think this empties and cleans itself?”
Mortified, Achan carried the stinking bronze pot toward the river. He dumped it in the bushes and sloshed it about down river. When he returned, a young lord and lady stood talking to the prince. Chora had drawn back the curtains on the litter to each side, and the prince sat on the floor of the litter like it was a throne.
Thin and tall with shocking orange hair, the young lord pleaded his case. “It’s just that the heat is so much stronger than we expected. Kati nearly fainted twice from heat stroke and this the first day of the journey. I fear she may fall from her horse.”
Achan wondered why the fool had insisted on bringing along his wife — dressed in twenty-five pounds of embroidered wool — when all the other women had waited to travel in the slower moving party.
“I would love to have company.” Prince Gidon offered his hand to the pretty, plump, grey-skinned lady. “I am bored to weeping in here all alone. Gods know my squire is as dull as the dust coating his hair.”
Lady Kati burst into a screeching giggle and spoke with a strange accent. “Oh, Your Highness. You are being so funny.”
Achan groaned inwardly. His only hope was that with the lady present, Prince Gidon would make less use of his chamber pot.
Soon it was time to move on again. The prince drew the curtains shut as he and his guest conversed. As the day wore on, Achan grew ill of the lady’s laugh and more so at the idea of what the prince could possibly say or do to illicit such reactions.
They made camp early at a clearing on the edge of the SiderosForest. The mountains rose up to the north. The sun had already begun to sink behind them. A grassy prairie stretched out to the south as far as Achan could see. It was filled with the sweet-smelling white blooms of daisies, asters, and yarrow.
Some of the knights went hunting for dinner. Night fell quickly. Achan wasn’t sure what to do with himself. A group of soldiers erected a massive red tent for Prince Gidon, but the prince yelled at Achan when he tried to help. So he lay down in the grass between the litter and the tent and stared at the stars. Lady Kati and Prince Gidon’s voices murmured inside the new tent, interrupted by the lady’s occasional high-pitched giggle.
Achan’s stomach growled. He sat up and drew Poril’s bag of food close. He looked at all the tents in the clearing. There were several striped tents, some of the same ones that had been set up on the tournament field. There were also many smaller, white, soldiers’ tents. The soldiers had also driven poles into the ground that held single torches at the top. These lit up the camp. Achan pulled out a meat pie from his bag and bit into it. The gravy had jelled, but the flavor was decent. He was considering reading Gren’s letter, when Bran came over and sat beside him.
Bran held out an apple. “Want it?”
“Thanks.” Achan took the fruit and held it in his lap.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to Sir Gavin?”
Achan looked at the squire’s peeling nose and shrugged. “I don’t know. Lord Nathak said he left and wouldn’t return.”
“I heard Lord Nathak sent him away.”
“Really?” That made much more sense. “He left me a note saying…” Achan paused, not wanting to admit he could hardly read. “Well, it wasn’t clear where he went or why.”
Bran propped his elbows on his knees. “Sir Gavin can bloodvoice. Do you know anyone else who can? Maybe he’d try to contact you through them.”
A cold tingle seized Achan. “I thought… Aren’t bloodvoices a myth?”
“Of course not. Haven’t you heard of the Council’s bloodvoice mediators?”
“No.”
“They use bloodvoicing to tell if someone is lying. Very useful. I take it you don’t know anyone who could bloodvoice, then.”
Achan was beginning to suspect that he could himself, although the idea still seemed outrageous. He met Bran’s questioning brown eyes. “I–I’m not sure. Maybe.”
Bran nudged Achan’s leg. “So have him contact Sir Gavin for you. Then you wouldn’t have to wonder.”
Contact Sir Gavin? How?
Bran made small talk about the journey and Mahanaim. Achan was fascinated with his description of a city built in water, half of which was in Darkness. Sir Rigil called Bran for an errand, and Achan went back to his cold dinner. He tried to talk to Sir Gavin with his mind, but succeeded only in feeling foolish.
Apparently he dozed off, because the shout of “Stray!” shocked him out of a slumber. He sat up straight and looked about. Prince Gidon stood outside his tent, holding a decorative jug. “Fetch some water.”
There was no river near camp. “From where?”
“Am I king? Use your head, dimwit.”
Achan got to his feet and snatched the jug. He wove between tents until he found a large bonfire where the Kingsguards’ cook had prepared dinner. A meaty gravy smell hung in the air. A crowd of knights, squires, and Kingsguard soldiers congregated around the bonfire, laughing and eating and drinking. A soldier-turned-minstrel thumbed a lute and sang,
The heir to Shamayim fallen and slain,
Failure and tragedy meld with his name.
Achan approached the cook. “Pardon me, sir. Could you spare a jug of water for Prince Gidon?”
“Help yourself,” the cook said without looking up from turning the spit.
Achan filled the jug from a cask and started back to Prince Gidon’s tent. A sinister pressure built in his head as he walked. Someone meant him harm. He slipped between two tents, hoping to avoid trouble.
A beefy, olive-skinned knight with long, dark hair slicked back over his head stepped out from behind a green tent, arms folded. Achan turned to weave the other way, but the young squire from Barth, who’d defeated Bran in the sword fighting pen, stood in that path, his black hair puffed out like a seeding dandelion.
Looming behind that squire like a shadow stood a towering full-grown knight version. An older brother, Achan assumed. The torchlight flickered off his black armor. He wore no helmet. Could a helmet even fit over such hair? Achan should have taken the time at the tournament to match faces with the names Sir Gavin had spoken of. He turned again, head pounding, only to narrowly miss crashing into Silvo Hamartano, who must have slithered up behind.
“Servant or squire?” Silvo asked in his silky voice. “Which is it, stray? One minute you’re in a tournament for nobles, then you’re serving wine. Now you cart around a priceless sword and a jug of water. Why?”
“The prince is thirsty, I suppose, or wants to wash.”
“And always so witty.”
Achan sighed. “I’m the gods’ plaything, meant only to amuse.”
All four men closed in. Someone pulled Achan’s hair tail from behind, jerking his head back. Silvo snatched the water jug away before Achan could use it as a weapon, and passed it to the squire from Barth. The older brother backhanded Achan with his black iron gauntlet.
The force blasted Achan’s jaw, which was still sore from when Sir Kenton had struck him. He crashed back into the green tent and slid down the coarse fabric.
Despite the throbbing, he rolled into a crawl and darted between legs, hoping to escape. Someone grabbed the waist of his trousers. A boot met his temple, another his ribs.
He gritted his teeth through the blows and grabbed the closest pair of ankles. He ducked his head between the low boots, protecting his skull for the moment. He wanted to draw Eagan’s Elk, but it was too long to wield from his position. Instead he bit down on one of the legs beside his head. Unfortunately, this not only lost him his shield, but he took a boot to the ear.
He spotted a good-sized rock, grabbed it, and pitched it up over his head. Someone grunted and the rock clumped into the dirt to Achan’s left. He reached for it again, but a black boot crushed his hand. He sucked back a cry, gripped the ankle with his other hand, and pulled, managing to scrape his hand free. A strike to his lower back knocked the breath from his lungs.
The zing of a sword leaving its scabbard paralyzed him.
“Can we play too?”
Achan didn’t recognize the voice, but the assault stopped long enough for him to pull to his knees. The movement burned his pummeled torso. Two more weapons sang from their scabbards.
“This is not your concern, Sir Rigil,” an oily voice said. “Take your sunburned squire elsewhere, lest you lose him. I hear he’s slower with a sword than this stray.”
Steel clashed against steel. Achan took advantage of the swordplay to crawl free and rise to his rubbery legs. He licked his bleeding lip and looked into the brawl.
Bran and Silvo squared off against one another, as did the olive-skinned knight with Bran’s companion, whom Achan guessed was Sir Rigil. All four tangled in a fierce dance. Bran was faring far better tonight than he had in the tournament. Maybe he didn’t like being compared to a stray.
Sir Rigil, who looked to be in his early thirties, had a wild air about him. A thin, reddish beard shaded his jaw, but his hair was short and blond. He wore midnight blue trimmed in black. Golden lightning bolts studded his black leather belt.
The black-armored knight turned from watching the scuffle and locked eyes with Achan. He drew a black sword.
Limbs shaking, Achan tugged Eagan’s Elk from his sheath and scrambled back. “Have we met?” Achan asked.
“No.” The knight grunted the word.
“Then why—”
The knight lashed out, his sleek blade whipping through the air, the tip slicing into the green tent. Achan parried and ducked. The swords clanged, and Eagan’s Elk vibrated in Achan’s sore hands. He gripped it tighter and blocked another series of strikes. He had no desire to attack, only to evade and deflect. His opponent’s blade clipped his chin.
Achan growled. He was still misjudging his parries. The closeness of the tents offered little room for anything but a massacre. Achan needed to get away, but the black-armored knight had blocked him in. Why were these men trying to kill him?
Clashing swords rang out all around, but Achan couldn’t be bothered by any battle but his own. Sweat or blood, or a combination, dripped off his chin. The knight attacked fiercely. The blades blurred in between them, and Achan’s burning arms could barely hold off the knight’s relentless rhythm.
Again and again his parry fell back under the force of his opponent’s strikes, and the black blade nicked him in small, teasing cuts. His forehead, his knee, his shin, his forearm. Achan ground his teeth. Why couldn’t he get it right? After a rapid combination of attacks and parries, Achan’s grip slipped. The knight lunged past Achan’s guard and sliced his bicep.
Achan yelped, more in shock than pain, and reeled back. He tripped over a tent peg and crashed to the ground. The knight leaped forward. He pressed his blade against Achan’s throat and stepped on his wounded arm.
Achan choked back a scream. Swords clashed behind the black-armored knight, but Achan couldn’t see their wielders. He stretched for Eagan’s Elk, but his blade was out of reach.
He looked into the knight’s grey eyes. He saw no hatred. Only an expression of superiority. Maybe he wouldn’t kill him. Maybe he was only toying with him.
Achan panted out, “Looks like you win this time.”
The knight only stared. Apparently, conversation was not on his list of skills.
“What’s this?” Prince Gidon’s regal voice pierced the mêlée, and the swordfight ceased. The prince stepped around the black-armored knight and peered down at Achan, his crown and jeweled belt glittering in the torchlight. He raised one dark eyebrow. “Well, Sir Nongo, I see you’ve bested my squire. What has he done now? Made fun of your hair?”
Sir Nongo, the black-armored knight, turned to the prince. “My hair, Your Highness?”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Silvo stepped forward and bowed. “Your squire insulted me and my sister, Jaira.”
The prince’s brows shot up to his greasy hairline. “Lady Jaira is here?”
“No, Your Highness. This was days ago.”
“Yet you waited for Sir Nongo to do your dirty work?” The prince gave Silvo a bored stare. “I’m sure your claim is valid, Silvo. My squire does have a hinged tongue and a tendency for insubordination. Regardless, he’s all I have. Lord Nathak sent no one but Chora and this stray to serve me. So unless any of you wish to take my squire’s place, I suggest you let him live. I could care less who serves me. Any of you will do, and this stray does vex me greatly.” The prince looked from face to face. “No volunteers?” He sighed. “I suspected as much. Let him up, then.”
Sir Nongo stepped back, and Achan staggered to his feet. He retrieved Eagan’s Elk and sheathed it with shaky arms. The cut on his arm stung terribly. Blood soaked his sleeve to the elbow. The knights and squires dispersed, leaving Achan alone with Prince Gidon. Achan was glad to see that none of those who had come to his aid appeared to be wounded.
The prince sighed and strode off in the direction of his tent. “Don’t forget my water, stray.”
Achan found the water jug, still full, and lugged it after the prince using his good arm. His torso ached with every step. He spat blood out on the ground.
Those who crossed their path fell to their knees before the prince.
He turned to Achan and pointed. “See how my people revere me, stray?” He cocked his head to the side. “Why is it that you do not do the same?”
Achan shrugged, though the gesture stung his arm. He did his best to be obedient. If the prince wasn’t such a beast, he might try harder.
Prince Gidon persisted. “You have never once kneeled in my presence. Why?”
Achan didn’t answer as they approached the litter. It was true. He’d never kneeled before Prince Gidon, yet when Sir Gavin had introduced Prince Oren, Achan had fallen straight to his knees. Strange. “I dunno, Yer Highest.” He spat out another mouthful of blood. It hurt to talk.
The prince threw up his hands. “You don’t know. Well, I demand you start!”
Achan set the jug on the ground and lowered his bruised body to his knees, one at a time.
The prince looked down his pointed nose at Achan and sighed. “Oh, get up!”
“As yoo yish, Yer Highest.”
“And shut up!”
Achan was more than happy to, but raised one eyebrow just for fun.
That night the voices came in his mind, louder and more persistent than ever before. Achan remained open and silent, trying to listen for Sir Gavin, but the knight didn’t speak.
The person with the scratchy voice did. You have learned to close your mind, have you? Scratch said.
Aye. Achan was finding it easier to send thoughts back. I was just listening for someone.
Who?
I’d rather not say.
A woman’s voice spoke, Who are you?
What’s your name? a man asked.
You’re very talented. I should like to know you.
Can you all just be quiet? Achan said. I’d like to talk to Scratch.
Who is Scratch?
Block us out then. Have you no one to teach you?
Oh, never mind. Achan reached out for the allown tree.
The next morning, Chora and the Shield found Achan as the caravan readied to leave.
Chora held up a flask. “You are to drink this.” Chora twisted off the cap and offered it.
The Shield stepped toward Achan. “Now.”
Achan snatched the vial and smelled it. The tonic. If he took it, he wouldn’t be able to hear if Sir Gavin called to him. But his body had already been pounded like clay. He didn’t need to give Sir Kenton another reason to strike. He swallowed the bitter goop and handed the vial back. Chora nodded to Sir Kenton and they both walked away. No mentha. Clearly these fellows didn’t have all the facts.
He considered digging out a bread roll, but without any mentha leaves, the tonic would likely come up soon. Why waste breakfast?
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Achan retched into the bushes.
The morning was cool and cloudy. The procession was all lined up and ready to go. Achan hoped he could manage to keep up. His body ached terribly.
Bran approached. “Are you all right? Did they hit your head last night?”
Achan spat the nastiness from his mouth. “No. Ate something sour. Thanks for last night, by the way. I’d likely be dead if you and Sir Rigil hadn’t stepped in.”
Bran nodded, then said in a low voice, “Do you enjoy serving your prince?”
Achan furrowed his brow. “Aye. So much as I enjoy the tip of a sword against my throat.”
Bran smirked and scratched the back of his head. He glanced around and stepped closer. “Sir Rigil says, should you seek a different master, he’d welcome you.”
“Leave Prince Gidon to serve Sir Rigil?”
“Not exactly. We’re joining with the Old Kingsguard. Sir Gavin’s Kingsguard. They serve Prince Oren.”
Prince Oren? Second in line to the throne behind only Gidon. Achan’s mind raced. Could this be a conspiracy rising up against Prince Gidon? How he’d love to be a part of that. But for Gren. “I…can’t. Prince Gidon, he…threatened my friend back in Sitna if I should try to…leave his service.”
“Who?”
“Gren Fen — Hoff. The Fenny and the Hoff family.”
Bran nodded, his brow pinched. “Prince Gidon’s good at scaring people. He learned from the best.” Bran looked away and sighed. “With your permission, I’ll convey this information to Sir Rigil. There may be something he could do to help.”
“I don’t know what anyone could do, but you have my permission.”
A cloud of dust in the distance signaled that the caravan had pulled out. Bran glanced at Achan one last time. “Sir Rigil says the Great Whitewolf was the greatest Kingsguard commander ever. You’re fortunate to have learned from him, even for a short time.”
Achan nodded and watched Bran jog to his horse. If he could contact Sir Gavin, he might know what to do with himself. Join the Old Kingsguard? Had that been Sir Gavin’s plan all along?
*
The procession marched on. Achan emptied the prince’s chamber pot, fetched water, and delivered message scrolls to Lady Kati, passing her husband’s angry remarks back to an amused Prince Gidon. The voices seemed to be coming to him again. At least he’d still be able to listen for Sir Gavin and talk to Scratch.
Achan’s left bicep looked wretched. Sir Nongo’s black blade had sliced a deep gash three fingers wide. Achan had cleaned it as best he could, but the pink skin around the incision boasted his failure. Most of the smaller cuts had healed. His torso was badly bruised and sore, but the bones seemed to be in place — not that he knew what broken bones felt like. His face and jaw ached. Thankfully, mirrorglass was scarce on the road. Achan didn’t want to know how his face looked.
He tried to speak to Scratch. They managed a few words here and there, but someone in the caravan always interrupted. So far Scratch had told him nothing useful. Achan wasn’t enjoying bloodvoices much. Perhaps he was too practical to invite dozens of people into his head. He had so little control and privacy in his life. His mind was the one thing people couldn’t beat, manipulate, or force to obey. He didn’t want people trampling his last sanctuary.
He hadn’t heard from that other warm and powerful voice since Cetheria’s temple. Was Cetheria really an idol? That would certainly explain a few things. He shrugged and walked on, choking on the dust of the road.
As they neared Allowntown, the Evenwall loomed to their right. The Evenwall, as Achan understood it, was a gateway to Darkness and all that hid within it. The air grew thick and misty. Achan didn’t like the feel of the moisture on his face. He remembered Sir Gavin’s warning never to set foot in the mist.
In the wide prairie to their left, women worked the potato fields, their skirts hiked up above their knees. Several soldiers hooted and called out to them. Pretty as some of them were, they only reminded Achan of how fetching Gren had looked as she stood in a tub of wool. He was thankful when the sun set on the day and the memories.
They stopped in Allowntown for the night. The procession filed through a narrow gate and into an old motte and bailey-style manor. Guards began to pitch tents within the wooden curtain wall. Prince Gidon dismissed Achan and went inside the manor to sleep. Achan wandered around, looking for Bran.
A distant allown tree caught his eye between two tents. He stepped back and stared at it from afar. It was the famous tree, the one from all the stories of King Axel’s murder, the day Darkness came. Achan walked to the tree and stood before it, mesmerized.
Warmth surged inside him and the majestic voice coursed through his veins.
Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, Achan Cham. Before you were born I set you apart.
Achan sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around. No one was paying him any mind. The heat inside him was already fading. Was that all the voice had to say? Set apart? Like this tree, set off from all the other trees? He looked up at it.
Half of the tree was dead. Half was alive. This was surely the tree from the legends. The living half, so like the allown tree back on the SiderosRiver, calmed him. But the other half…
Gnarled, black branches twisted in the air like monstrous claws, the mist so thick around them, they blurred into the black sky. A heavy wind rustled the leaves on the living side, but the barren branches on the dead side cracked and swayed like they were reaching, hoping to squeeze the life out of Achan.
He shivered, torn. It was as if the tree was his heart. He’d always felt a kinship with allown trees, as ridiculous as that sounded. This one, more so. But it repelled him at the same time. It was a most awkward emotion.
Despite the dead side of the tree, Achan lay down on the soft grass under the rustling leaves, feeling like he’d finally come home, and fell asleep.
Yet into his peace came horrifying dreams.
The voices called out. He tried to concentrate on the allown tree in Sitna to silence them, but an image of this eerie tree filled his mind instead. They knew he was here. Under the Allown Tree, where life meets death.
A woman screamed. A baby cried. A horrific sound split the night like one massive roar of thunder.
Warriors would go through the mist and bring back food. The women and children would have to wait until their return. The pale ones were hungry.
They were coming.