Vrell moaned and rolled all night, so vivid were the voices, the fear, the hunger in her mind. Something terrible was about to befall the young soldier. A sharp prick to her temples woke her.
Macoun Hadar.
Master Hadar was knocking. She let him inside the foyer of her mind.
Boy! he bloodvoiced. Did you hear him? The gifted one?
He must mean the soldier. Yes, Master.
Come to my chambers at once.
Vrell dressed and hurried to the eighth floor. She had not told Master Hadar about her conversations with the soldier, but she was almost certain he was the one her master sought.
She found Master Hadar sitting on the end of his bed, grotesque feet propped on the stone slab. A lantern hung on a stand beside his bed. His eyes were wide and glassy in the dim light. Out the windows, the sky was charcoal grey. Dawn had not yet broken.
“Vrell,” Master Hadar said. “You’ll go north with Jax mi Katt and find this gifted boy. He’s in danger and we must locate him quickly.”
“You know his whereabouts?”
“He slept in Allowntown last night, under the Memorial Tree. Prince Gidon’s party camped there. If he’s with them, they’ll be headed here, so finding them should be no problem. Go and bring him to me.”
“How will I know who he is?”
“Don’t be a fool. With your mind, boy, how else?”
“Yes, Master.” Vrell bowed out of the chamber.
She went to her room and fetched her pouch of healing herbs and ointments. If there had been a battle, she might be able to help the wounded. She filled her water skin in the courtyard fountain. She wished her sword was finished. Going into a battle without a weapon, or with a weapon but without the training to use it, seemed terribly foolish. She found Jax at the stables and was shocked to see a squadron of Kingsguard knights ready to depart.
“Vrell!” Jax greeted her with a smile. “We journey again.”
The familiar, little, white courser Jax presented thrilled Vrell’s heart. He reminded her of Kopay, her horse back home. Jax sat atop a massive, black festrier. Vrell felt like she was riding a colt in comparison.
The strain the young soldier brought to her mind pressed against her all morning, but she could not see him clearly. His power was close, though, and she sensed great fear. Judging from the concern on Jax’s face, he could too. He did not try to pace the horses, but galloped north at top speed.
After an hour of hard riding, Jax pulled up at the top of a hill overlooking a vast green valley. Vrell stopped beside him.
Darkness rose like a wall to the west, stretching for miles in each direction, separated from the green prairie and forest by the vaporous Evenwall. There was no sign of Prince Gidon’s procession. A great foreboding hung over the squadron like a cloud. Vrell opened her mind slightly to those who were gifted. All sensed the same thing from their fellow Kingsguards who escorted Prince Gidon: fear.
“What is it?” Vrell asked Jax.
“Poroo.”
Vrell’s heart quaked. The poroo had once been a peaceful race of men, but Darkness had driven them mad. It was rumored they ate anything they could catch, humans included. “But they live in Darkness.”
“Aye. That they do. They must be very hungry to cross into Light.”
“Do you sense the soldier?” Vrell asked.
“Barely. He fights. They all do. The poroo attacked from the Evenwall at first light.” Jax wheeled his massive horse around and addressed the soldiers. “Our prince is in trouble! We must aid our Kingsguard brothers to see him brought safely to Mahanaim. The poroo attacked from the trees with spears and rocks. Go carefully.” Jax yanked an axe from the sheath on his left thigh and raised it high above his head. “For our prince!”
The other soldiers and knights each waved their weapons high and echoed, “Our prince!”
Jax turned to Vrell. “Wait here for our return. If we should fail, report to Mahanaim.”
With that, Jax kicked his horse in the side. It galloped down the hill, raising a cloud of red dust behind. The squadron followed.
Vrell sat atop her horse, staring after them, lips parted. Her orders from Master Hadar were to find the gifted one and stay with him. How could she do that from more than a mile away? And did she really want to?
Vrell carefully closed her mind and concentrated, sending a knock to her mother.
Vrell? What is it, dear?
Remember the soldier I told you about? There has been a battle. Master Hadar sent me to bring the soldier back. I hesitate to deliver him to Master Hadar, but I also do not want to leave him with no training.
When the fighting is over, take the boy to Master Hadar, Mother said. A battle is no place for you. When the fighting is over, take the boy to Master Hadar. But warn him to be wary. When Sir Rigil arrives, make sure he knows who the boy is. He may be able to help.
Vrell closed the connection to her mother and sought out the soldier. She could barely sense him. His distracted state acted as a closed door against her search. Below, Jax’s squadron had reached the valley and was galloping toward a tree line at the far end. Vrell watched them move across the plain, the poroo battle nowhere in sight. Surely she could get a little closer than this. She steered her horse back onto the road and cantered down the hill.
Scattered trees on her right grew thicker, and soon Vrell found herself in a kind of corridor. Dense, green forest on her right. Grey, misted Evenwall on her left. It was cooler here than Mahanaim’s humidity. A breeze blew the stale, Evenwall mist over her, dampening her skin. An army of poroo could be standing just inside the cloud, watching, and she would never know until it was too late.
At the clash of metal, Vrell halted her horse. The sound had come from the forest on her right, but she sensed that the soldier was not there. She turned her head to the left, zeroing in on the mist, and a shiver raked her soul.
The soldier was in the Evenwall.
Vrell stared into the churning vapor, her shaking hands clutching the reins. She thought she heard a whisper somewhere close. “Hello?” Her eyes darted around the mist but detected no living thing.
Perhaps it had been only the wind. She nudged her horse forward, toward the Evenwall, but the beast was smarter than that. She nudged harder and the horse jerked forward. The air cooled instantly. Dampness clung like dew.
Contrary to what she had expected, the Evenwall was not pitch black. It was like standing in a forest on a rainy day. Everything ashen, somber, and chilled. Like twilight.
Vrell steered her horse slowly, able to see only a few yards in any direction. She wove around drooping willows and redpines. Under their leafy canopy, the shadows deepened, limiting her visibility.
She sensed a presence, a foreboding that someone was watching. A hiss to her left stiffened her posture. But she saw no one, only mist wavering around tree branches. She pressed on in the direction of the soldier. She sensed his fatigue. He needed rest.
Muted sounds of blades clashing, men grunting and screaming, and frightened horses grew as Vrell forged through broken branches and over trampled ground. She had gone too far. She had only meant to get a little closer, but now Jax would be cross. So would Mother. She did not even have a weapon.
At least she was in the wake of the battle and not in front of it.
A body came into view, lying on the turf to her right. She approached slowly and saw that it was only an arm, severed just above the elbow. Vrell looked away, horrified.
A few more paces revealed the body the arm had come from. Mud had been painted on his milky white skin like war paint. His glassy eyes stared into the sky. He wore a knotted combination of animal pelts and fabric.
A poroo, she supposed.
A crude spear lay beside him, its head a chiseled, leaf-shaped stone. Vrell dismounted, careful to hold the reins in case her horse decided to abandon her, and stepped over the pine needles to retrieve the weapon. The forest seemed to whisper indiscernible words. Or maybe it was the mist itself. She did not look at the dead man until she was safely back on her horse. Feeling better with a weapon, she urged her mount toward the sounds of the distant action.
She could not see anyone through the thick, green forest, but she did hear far-off sounds of men yelling and steel clashing. It reminded her of a dreadful haunted swamp, without the watery ground.
Vrell should have stayed on the hill.
She saw movement and stopped. The pearly skin of poroo soldiers popped in the distant, shadowed wood. It was harder to see their Kingsguard opponents. Vrell’s white horse would be a beacon to her presence. The thought sent a tremble up her spine. She dismounted and tied the courser to the nearest tree. Vrell would blend in better without it.
She crouched low and darted from tree to tree, clutching her spear. The cries of dying men tugged at her heart strings. She had brought her satchel. Perhaps she could help some of them. But she pressed on, ignoring the wounded and the whispering forest — to find the gifted one.
She waded across a shallow stream. Several dead bodies lay on the forest floor. Vrell identified two Kingsguards and a half dozen poroo without having to look too closely. A steep hill rose up before her. She climbed it, heading in the direction she sensed the soldier. She wove around briarberry bushes and grappled for tufts of grass to pull herself up the incline, but the mist had dampened her hands and she slid backward every few steps.
Pain shot through her skull. She cowered in a briarberry bush, clutching her temples. The soldier was close, debilitating her with the pressure of his untamed bloodvoice.
She concentrated on closing her mind, something she had never needed to do simply to keep from experiencing pain. The pressure eased some, and she crawled to the top of the ridge and peeked over.
Shrouded in fog, a Kingsguard soldier fought two poroo in a small clearing, his movements quick but careful.
Vrell darted behind an oak tree to get a clearer view and clutched the scratchy bark. She had been right. The gifted one was a soldier. Younger than she had expected, but no mere boy. He was tall, strong, and wounded. Plum bruises covered his handsome face. His dark, wet hair and soggy Kingsguard cape whipped about as he swung his sword. Studded jewels on the ivory crossguard caught Vrell’s eye. He must be a noble to wield such a weapon, yet she had never seen him at court. And he’d been walking instead of riding.
Movement to the far left turned her head. Prince Gidon! The heir to the throne of Er’Rets leaned against an allown tree, watching the soldier fight. A hedge of briarberry bushes concealed him somewhat. She and the prince stood on the same ridge that sloped down the hill to the stream. He was simply further down. Vrell crouched lower, heart thudding.
Where were his distinguished guards? The mighty Shield? And why was His Highness just standing there? He was quite gifted with the sword, or so his reputation said. He could be helping the soldier fight off the poroo.
Vrell snorted. Our new and noble, lazy king.
A third poroo charged up behind the soldier.
Look out! Vrell yelled to his mind.
Scratch? The soldier spun around just in time to parry the jab of a spear. He scurried back in the pine needles, holding his sword up to his attackers. “If you’re not going to help, Your Highness,” the soldier said to the prince, “at least climb the tree. I’d hate for you to be killed. Your death would secure my own.”
Vrell’s brows shot up at his snide tone. Prince Gidon only smirked. One of the poroo charged. The soldier waited until the last moment before dodging and swinging his blade into the creature’s side. The soldier stiffened and the poroo fell at his feet.
Vrell felt his horror of having killed. He swallowed and exhaled before wrenching his blade free with a growl. His grey eyes flashed to the other two poroo. He steeled himself and stepped forward.
He could do this.
One of the poroo threw his spear. The soldier dodged it, and it sank into the soil near the prince’s briarberry bush. The soldier advanced on the weaponless man and swung into his side, severing the man’s arm above the elbow and cleaving into his torso. The soldier screamed as loud as the dying man. His eyes were wide, as if he hadn’t expected that to happen.
The other poroo, a quite tall one, darted forward and jabbed his spear at the soldier, who jerked his blade free from the dying man and spun around. With a quick swing of his sword, the soldier cracked the spear. The poroo broke it fully over his knee and held up the shortened version.
An arrow thwacked into Vrell’s tree. She jumped back. Two more arrows sank into the soil near Prince Gidon’s briarberry bush sanctuary.
Three poroo approached from behind the prince, forcing him out into the open. Vrell hoped he would be killed so someone else would be king. Then she thought better of such treasonous hope, especially if the soldier would be punished for failing to protect his future king.
She concentrated. The prince needs help.
The soldier’s head jerked to the side, taking note of how Prince Gidon skirted the bushes and the poroo chased him. The soldier, still fighting his poroo, couldn’t get away to help. He swung a few times at his tall opponent, but the man dodged every strike — until an arrow pierced him through the back. The poroo stood still for a moment, then dropped his half-spear and collapsed.
The soldier grabbed the broken weapon and sprinted for the prince, bounding over dead bodies and ignoring the arrows raining through the mist.
“Your Highness!” The soldier tossed the half-spear to the prince and attacked a poroo with his sword.
“Typical insolence.” Prince Gidon stabbed one poroo in the chest and kicked him into the other poroo attacking him. They fell. “Give your king a broken spear when you wield a sword.” He crouched and jerked the spear free, then stabbed the second poroo in the neck.
Vrell looked away.
Where were the arrows being shot from? She crouched to peer through the trees, but she could not see any archers. In fact, there were no more Kingsguards fighting in this area of the forest, though there were quite a few bodies. She could see movement in the distant east. She could hear battle cries. But where were these poroo coming from?
The answer came as she turned back to the soldier’s battle. The poroo were coming from the west. From Darkness.
The soldier dodged the thrust of his poroo attacker’s spear. He grabbed the shaft with one hand and jerked it forward. The poroo man stumbled, and the soldier cut him down.
Prince Gidon pulled the bloody spear free from his second victim and waved the weapon about. “I’ll tell you who I’d like to stab.”
Two more poroo closed in on the soldier and he raised his sword. “I’m sure you’ll get your chance.” The soldier moved with incredible speed, and he quickly overcame all his attackers. He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead and flinched at an arrow sailing past his shoulder. “Will you get in the tree, now?”
Prince Gidon pointed the spear at the young soldier. “If you were to die by this spear, everyone would think it was at the hand of the enemy.”
The soldier wiped each side of his blade on his trousers and sheathed it. “For Cetheria’s hand, get in the tree.”
The prince scowled. “But if I stabbed you, they might declare you a hero.” He threw the spear down. “And I cannot have you exalted in death.”
“Please, Your Highness.” The soldier grabbed the prince’s elbow and pulled him toward an allown tree with low branches.
“Don’t touch me, stray!”
Vrell frowned. Stray?
The soldier released the prince. “Please. Climb up.”
“I will not hide in a tree like a coward.”
“Yet you hid in the briarberry bush moments ago,” the soldier said.
Vrell smiled.
So did Prince Gidon. “I was hoping to see you killed. Alas, the gods have been thwarting my entertainment dreams of late.”
The soldier continued, “It’s my duty to protec—” He screamed.
Hot pain shot through Vrell’s lower leg. She pulled away from the soldier’s mind.
He spun around to the arrow protruding from his lower left calf. He grabbed the shaft, yanked it out with a grunt, and pitched it aside.
Vrell fortified her mind, shocked to have shared his pain so vividly.
The soldier pushed Prince Gidon toward the tree, gently at first, then harder, limping a bit. He growled through clenched teeth. “Now, Your Highness, I beg you!”
Prince Gidon pushed the soldier back. “Do not touch me!”
Arrows whooshed over the ridge and into the soil around them — they were coming from the trees! — and the soldier lost his patience. He punched Prince Gidon in the mouth, sending him stumbling back.
Vrell clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
The prince dabbed his lip. “You’ll pay for that, dog!”
“Get. In. The. Tree!”
An arrow sliced across Prince Gidon’s shoulder. He howled. “I’ve been hit!”
The soldier grabbed the prince’s arm and inspected it, dragging him behind the allown tree in the process. “Just a scratch, Your Highness. Now, please. Get in the tree, or I’ll hit you again!”
Prince Gidon glowered. “You’re through, stray. I’ll have you hanged!”
The soldier stood, a barrier between the prince and the mysterious arrows, while Prince Gidon clambered up.
An arrow plunged into the soldier’s shoulder, jerking him forward. He stumbled and spun around, face white. He grabbed the branch with his good arm, but couldn’t pull himself up. He hung swinging by one arm, trying to hook a leg over the branch.
Prince Gidon offered no assistance, the snake.
Vrell held her breath and watched from her hiding spot, fury pounding through her veins. She sought out Jax, annoyed she had not thought to do so before now. She told him of their location, the prince’s predicament, and the archers, then closed her mind before he could lecture her for disobeying.
The soldier dropped from the branch and crashed to the ground. He staggered back to his feet and toward the hedge of briarberry bushes. Before he reached the gnarly sanctuary, another arrow pierced him, this time in his lower back.
He screamed and crumpled to the ground. He writhed like an inchworm, struggled to his right hand and knee and tried to crawl, but the arrows rendered his left arm and leg useless. His body tipped over the ridge of the hill and slid away.
Vrell feared the prince seeing her and possibly recognizing her, but she had to act to save the soldier. She bolted from her hiding place to the ledge, still clutching her own spear. She brought her pouch of healing herbs around to her front.
She got to the ridge but could find no sign of the soldier. She inched down the incline, until she spotted him lying facedown in the pine needles a few paces from the stream, arrows sticking out of him like garden stakes.
She ran the rest of the way and slid to his side, praying he would live. He had fought so bravely to save his wretched prince. He was unconscious but breathing. She lifted her healing pouch from her shoulder and set it beside her spear on the ground. She thought back to Mitt’s training and Jax’s stories of the battlefield. She would need her yarrow salve, something for bandages, and water.
The gurgling stream volunteered its service. She grabbed the soldier’s hands and tugged him toward the sound. He was heavy, and thankfully, she did not have to drag him far before one foot sank into cold, shallow water. He moaned softly but did not wake.
Vrell unfastened his damp cloak and pulled it from under his limp body. She sucked in a sharp breath. Blood matted his once-white shirt. Patchy, brownish stains gave evidence to previous wounds. His left sleeve clung stickily with half-dried blood. She inspected that wound first and found a swollen, infected cut he must have received earlier and not cared for. She huffed. Men.
“Lo! Boy! What are you doing?” Prince Gidon’s haughty voice called from behind.
Vrell shivered, remembering the last time he had spoken to her, at the tournament in Nesos. At least his words and tone were only demanding today, lacking familiarity. He was such a fool. For all he knew she could be his enemy, and the simpleton risked himself to speak to her.
“Yes, my lord?” She searched the ground for one of the arrows she had seen shoot over the ridge. If she was going to treat these wounds, she needed to know what kind of arrowheads these were.
“I said, what are you doing to my squire? The battle is over. Leave him.”
Vrell paused. She’d known this soldier was a stray — the prince had said as much. But since when could a stray be squire to a Crown Prince? Peculiar. “I am trying to save his life. He did save yours several times over.”
Footsteps swished until a pair of gilded boots stopped beside Vrell. The battle must have ended.
The prince kicked the squire in the side. “Is he dead?”
Vrell kept her head down. “No, my lord.”
“Pity.” The prince kicked his squire again. No wonder he was so bruised. “He’s such a briar in my boot. If he dies, I shall make it worth your while.”
A hot rush of anger shot through Vrell. Prince Gidon wanted his squire — his hero and rescuer — dead? “He will not die because of me.”
“Well, in case you didn’t know, boy, I am the Crown Prince of Er’Rets. If you are a healer, I insist on being treated first.”
“You are injured?”
Prince Gidon turned his shoulder toward her. “I took an arrow in my arm.”
Vrell fought back a sigh. She gripped her knife and stood. Keeping her eyes down, she cut the red silk at the bicep and tore the sleeve off.
The prince twitched. “Was that necessary?”
“If you want me to care for it.” She dropped the shirt sleeve and examined his wound. It was as his squire had said: only a scratch. She cleaned it with a bit of her drinking water, added some salve, and left it unbandaged. “You will live, Your Majesty.” Unfortunately. “The air will be good for it.”
Vrell had a thought. Maybe the prince could be of some use. She needed a way to get the squire to Mahaniam. “Do you have a cart I could use to transport this man?”
Prince Gidon raised a dark eyebrow then stalked away into the mist.
Vrell sighed and scanned the ground. She spotted an arrow a few feet away with a bodkin point: a four-sided spike designed to penetrate armor. Advanced for people as primitive as the poroo. Not at all like their crude spears. The same people could not have made both weapons.
The stream gurgled. A breeze whipped through the trees. She shivered as she scurried over to the closest fallen Kingsguard. The man had died from a spear to the chest. No good. She needed a clean shirt. She ran to the next body and flipped him over. Her breath caught. His skull had been bashed in by something immense, probably a battleaxe. But his shirt was unsoiled.
She crouched to unlace the neckties and spotted someone’s travel pack under a briarberry bush. She abandoned the dead man and went to the pack. She found a clean shirt inside and beamed. Infection was her biggest concern. The cleaner her materials, the better his chances.
She hoisted the pack over one shoulder and ran back to the soldier’s side. She placed her palm against his forehead. He already burned with fever, likely due to his arm wound. She ripped the shirt into strips, anxious to get this over with. She still had to remove the arrows. At least bodkin arrowheads would be easier to remove than the barbed, broadhead kind.
She opened her satchel and used her small knife to cut his shirt down the center back. His bruised and scarred skin stole her breath. He’d been beaten, often. She invested her fury into cutting the shirt off. She sawed at the fabric around the arrow protruding from his lower back, then shifted to remove the material from around the arrow in his left shoulder.
When the cloth fell away, Vrell stopped as if Arman had frozen time. White, raised skin scarred an S onto the squire’s upper left shoulder. The skin underneath was maroon, a birthmark of some kind that brought out the S even more. The brand was slightly distorted due to the arrow piercing him.
The mark of a stray.
She remembered that the prince had called him stray. Why, then, did he wear a soldier’s uniform and wield such a fine sword? Wasn’t it against Council law to train strays for Kingsguard service? Prince Gidon had plenty of guards. Where were they? Where was the irritable Sir Kenton, the Shield?
Some Shield.
The wound in the squire’s lower back oozed thick blood, so she started there. She placed her hand against his skin, then stopped. Where was her head? How would she pack the wounds? She crawled to the stream, dunked her hand into the water, and clutched a handful of grainy soil. It was too coarse. She needed mud. If she dug a bit to find softer soil, she could probably make some.
She gazed into the bubbling stream, deep in thought. What else could be used to pack wounds? She didn’t have enough herbs or fabric to do the job. This particular forest seemed void of mosses. She jumped to her feet and ran to the nearest briarberry bush. Prying the branches aside revealed a thick, white web. Hopefully no one was home. Vrell hated spiders.
She ignored the shiver gripping her and tore the fine white web off the prickly branches. This would not be enough. She set about collecting fuzzy white sacs from every bush in the area until she had a handful. She set the webs on a strip of white cloth and scrubbed her hands in the creek with a bar of soap from her satchel.
Her heart throbbed when she looked at the arrow in his back.
Jax’s teachings played in her mind. She gently worked the arrow back and forth, pulling carefully. It would not do to lose the arrowhead in his body. When the arrowhead was visible, she gripped it with her thumb and forefinger and slid it out.
The squire squirmed and moaned. Blood pooled over the top of the wound and trickled down his side in a thick stream. Vrell shrank back and dropped the arrow. She scrambled for her water skin. Trembling, she doused the wound, dabbed it with a strip of fabric, and poked a glob of spider webs into the hole to clot the blood. Then she packed it with yarrow and bandaged it. No easy task, wrapping strips of cloth around the torso of a man lying prostrate.
He’d ripped the arrow out of his leg during the battle, so Vrell rolled up his pant leg and tended that wound next. It wasn’t as deep.
The arrow remaining in his shoulder bothered her. She needed to cut the shaft somehow. After much thought, she decided to drive it out the way it had entered. She rolled him onto his side and used her knife to saw the sinews that bound the arrowhead to the shaft. When the binding severed, she gently pulled the arrowhead off and gripped the fletchings at the end of the arrow. She slid the shaft out in one swift motion, hoping it left no wood shards in its wake.
To her surprise, the squire did not react. She glanced at his chest, confirmed it was still moving, and set to work, quickly washing both sides of the wound and packing them with webs and yarrow. Then she wrapped his shoulder in strips of cloth, wrinkling her nose at his odor. Handsome or not, he needed a bath.
The infected wound on his bicep required more materials than she had. She cleaned it thoroughly, packed a little yarrow in, and bandaged it. She pulled a wool blanket from the pack and spread it over the pine-needled ground. She rolled the soldier back onto his chest on the blanket and draped a cloak from the pack over his back.
Vrell drew her knees against her chest and wrapped her arms around them. It was darker now than it had been, though it was difficult to guess the hour in the Evenwall mist. The ache in her stomach told her it was well past time for a meal. The sounds of battle were no more. The only voices she heard spoke in the king’s language. The poroo must have fled. And now the Kingsguards were regrouping.
She thanked Arman that the squire was alive and that she had known what to do. She suddenly felt traitorous. Her master, Macoun Hadar, wanted to take advantage of this young man. Vrell could warn him, but what good would that do? As soon as she found Sir Rigil or Prince Oren, she would be rescued. She had a way out. This stray likely wouldn’t.
She felt drawn to help this heroic warrior who did not know how to use his bloodvoices. She needed to keep him away from her master. If she went for her horse now, she could ride north toward home. Yet the squire would not survive such a journey. She bloodvoiced her mother, who confirmed their original plan: wait for Sir Rigil.
She hoped Jax would bring a cart soon. The squire’s wounds should have stitches, but she was not capable of such surgery. Hopefully her work would do the trick for now, but if he tried to ride or walk his packed wounds could burst.
A bit of color caught her eye. Prince Gidon’s shirt sleeve. The rich color brought a small growl to her lips. How many peasants did it take to make such a hue? Still…she thought of Maser Hadar’s basket of trinkets and the cabochon buckle. She picked up the sleeve and tucked it into her satchel. It might come in useful.
She studied the squire’s tanned and scruffy face. He needed a shave. His dark hair was long, tied at the back of his neck with a leather cord, though most of it had escaped in battle and now fell around his chin onto the dark blanket. She fought against the urge to fix it. She missed her long hair. She missed being a woman.
Being a boy had its advantages, though. Prince Gidon had not recognized her. Life as Vrell Sparrow would keep her safe until she found Sir Rigil. Besides, men had more freedom than women. She looked down at her patient. Well, maybe not all men. This squire was a stray. How much freedom could he have? She studied him again. If she really were a boy, she would want to look like him.
His eyes flashed open. Vrell noticed they were grey, but then she cowered as a force threatened to burst her skull.
Sir Gavin? the squire bloodvoiced.
Dozens of voices called out in a rush.
What’s happened to you?
Ahhhh!
You are hurt. Tell me your location and I will send help.
Vrell whimpered and clutched her ears as if that might mute the sound. “Stop!” she screamed. “Block them!”
The squire lifted his head, tangled hair hanging over a furrowed brow. “Shut the door?”
“Yes!” she cried. “Please!”
Achan! Where are you, lad?
Close your mind, man! The pain is unbearable.
“Sir Gavin?” The squire bolted to his feet, only to stagger, groan, and fall to his knees.
“No!” Vrell picked up the cloak he had thrown off him. She crawled to him and clutched his arm, forcing herself to speak over the pain his mind caused. “You must not walk.” She panted and draped the cloak around his shoulders. “Lie back. You are wounded.”
He stared at her as if she had spoken a foreign language.
She pressed her fingers against her temples, against the pain. “Please!” She repeated his phrase. “Shut the door!”
He closed his eyes and the pressure faded. Vrell sighed, thankful it was over. But when she clutched his arm to pull him to the blanket, he jerked away and the pressure flared again.
“Sir Gavin! Where is Sir Gavin?”
Achan! Calm yourself. Where are you?
“Please.” Vrell tugged his arm. “You must rest your mind and your body.”
He blinked, eyelids heavy. “Why can’t I—”
“You were injured,” Vrell said. “You have lost much blood.”
“Sir Gavin?” He bellowed into the thick forest. “Sir Gavin!”
“He’s not here, you imbecile.” Prince Gidon stood above them, hands on his hips.
Vrell tensed. Where had he come from?
The squire looked up, pupils thick in his grey eyes. “But I hear him. Can’t you?”
Prince Gidon mumbled, “For the sake of the gods,” and punched the squire in the temple.
Vrell’s patient slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Prince Gidon turned and strode away. “I was sick of hearing him whine.”
Where am I?
Achan blinked and took in the dark, stone chamber that smelled of mildew and urine. He blinked again. Were those bars on the door? He rose onto one elbow and winced. His body felt like someone had beaten it to a — wait. Images of Silvo’s friends flashed in his mind. Someone had beaten him.
He lay on a deep, stone bench covered in loose straw. Pale stripes of torchlight lit the bottom of a wooden door and shone though a small, barred window on top. A small animal scurried across the dirt floor. Something else moved in the corner. Achan blinked rapidly, adjusting his eyes to the dim light. He sensed pain.
A scrawny, round-faced boy of thirteen or so stared at him under a mess of oily brown hair. You are in the dungeon at Mahanaim.
Achan twitched. His eyes went so wide, the dank air tickled and he had to blink. Scratch?
The boy stared, his eyes cat-like. “I do not— Um, I don’t know why you call me that,” he said out loud.
“Because your voice is scratchy, why else?” Achan struggled to sit. He sucked in a sharp breath at the knife in his lower back. At least that was what it felt like. His shirt and cape were gone. Strips of linen bandaged his stomach and shoulder. Proof of the nobles’ assault appeared in dark blotches on his skin, but what were the bandages for? “Where are my clothes? My bag?” A rush of cold flashed over him. He swung his legs off the bed and jumped to his feet, only to cower into a crouch at the pain. “My sword?” he croaked. “Where is my sword?”
“Your clothes were ruined,” the boy said. “These quarters are so unsanitary. I have washed your wounds three times a day to fend off infection. There is no point in a shirt until you are healed. I never saw you had a bag. And the guards locked your sword in the dungeon strongbox.”
I’m in a dungeon? And the dungeon has a strongbox?
Mahanaim receives more than its share of diplomats, the boy thought to Achan. This is actually one of the nicer cells.
Achan growled. “Stop that!”
Scratch’s eyes went wide, and he scooted back farther into the corner. “What’s your name?” he asked aloud.
“Achan Cham.” He limped to the door and rose on the toes of his right foot to see out the barred window of his cell. The stab in his lower back inhibited the movement of his left leg.
“So you are a stray?”
His cell appeared to be at the end of a deserted stone corridor. A single torch hung on the wall about five paces away. He could see the doors to four other cells before the corridor turned a corner. He gripped the bars on the window and gave them a good shake. His left arm didn’t want to obey. He glanced at his bandaged shoulder, then to Scratch. “Did someone claim otherwise?”
“You saved the prince. I saw you.”
Saved the prince? Ah. The procession had been close to Mahanaim when the poroo had attacked. Achan had done what he could to aid that pompous… He stretched his good arm up over his head. His muscles were tight, everything ached, and he really needed to use that privy bucket in the corner. “He’s alive?”
“Completely unharmed.”
Achan sighed and nodded. “Then I’m not a complete failure.”
“You are not a failure at all.”
Achan huffed. “I’m sure Prince Gidon disagrees. Who are you?”
Vrell Sparrow.
Achan’s eyebrows sank. “Sparrow? You don’t wear the clothing of a stray.”
My master dislikes the orange tunic. Where is yours?
The boy’s voice in his head angered Achan. “How is it you speak without moving your lips? Are you a sorcerer or a demon that you enter my thoughts?”
The boy whimpered, as if somehow injured. I am an herbalist sent to heal you.
“A barber?”
“An herbalist.”
“What’s the difference?”
Sparrow rolled his eyes. “Instead of a knife, I use herbs to make healing teas, salves, and tonics.”
“I hate tonics.” Achan paced the tiny cell, limping over the cool, clay floor. “How many days have I been here?”
“Four. Your arm wound gave you a fever. I gave you hops tea to sleep it off.”
“Four days?” Achan sat on the stone bed and stared at the boy. “Do you know what happened? I mean…the bruises I remember, and fighting the poroo, but…” He fingered the bandage on his lower back. “How did I get here?”
“Poroo attacked your procession. Sir Kenton Garesh was knocked out by a rock that was thrown down from a treetop. The Kingsguard knights went to battle, and you led the prince to safety in the Evenwall. More poroo attacked and you fought them off alone. You were struck by three arrows as you fought to protect the prince. You are a hero.”
Achan smirked. “What are you, some kind of minstrel?”
Sparrow lowered his head and his cheeks darkened.
Not meaning to embarrass the boy, Achan clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I’m a hero, you say? Well, this is some hero’s welcome, don’t you think? I particularly enjoy the platters of meat and dancing girls.”
Sparrow shot him a smirk. “I shall ask them to bring you something to eat. I can do no more than that, I’m afraid.”
“You’ll ask who?”
But Sparrow had closed his eyes. He still sat in the corner, knees pulled up to his chin.
Achan stretched his legs out in front. He could never sit as…small as the boy did. He stood again and hobbled to the door. He wanted out. The tiny space made him feel trapped, which was probably the point, seeing as this was a dungeon. Still.
Flashes of the battle suddenly came to mind. His stomach churned. He’d killed seven or eight poroo. They’d struck first. They were ugly to look at, but they were people. Achan shivered at the ache in chest. Sir Gavin had warned him that a knight would have to kill. But that didn’t ease his memories.
Sparrow’s soft voice in his mind interrupted his penitence. They are bringing you food.
Achan wheeled around. He focused hard on the allown tree, trying to find the place where his mind would be closed.
Sparrow seemed to notice. He sank into the corner and croaked, “Sorry.”
Two burly guards with thick beards and black cloaks approached the door. A thin valet with carrot-orange hair stood behind them holding a tray.
“Back up against the wall,” one of the guards ordered.
Achan turned to Sparrow. “How did you know they were coming?”
“I called them.”
The guard kicked the door of the cell. “Against the wall!”
Achan obeyed and the door opened. The valet entered and set the tray on the stone bed. It held a hunk of bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and a mug of red liquid.
Achan pointed at the mug, knowing, but wanting to ask anyway. “What’s that?”
“A tonic to give you strength,” the valet said.
Achan forced a grin. “And I’ll wager it’s refreshing too.” He offered the mug to the valet. “Would you like some?”
The valet stepped back.
A hot current shot through Achan’s nerves. This would end, now. He threw the mug, shattering the pottery against the stone wall. The red liquid splattered like blood. Sparrow yelped.
One of the guards swung his thick fist. Achan ducked, bashed his elbow into the guard’s back, and kneed the other guard in the stomach.
He fled the cell, his lower back screaming with each step.
The greystone halls were a maze that smelled of urine, torch smoke, and mildew. He ran past the occasional torch and barred wooden door. Inside each cell, chain scraped against stone or someone moaned. He met a dead end and backtracked until he found a stairwell leading up.
He made it halfway to the top when four guards started down. He turned back, only to see the two guards from his cell climbing up.
“Pig snout.”
*
He awoke back in his cell with fresh bruises and no lunch. Sparrow still occupied the corner.
Achan sat up, his wounded body punishing him for the effort. “Aren’t you uncomfortable?”
“Aren’t you hungry?” Sparrow reached into his lap and held up a bread roll.
“Where’d you get that?”
The boy tossed it to Achan. “Took it off your tray when you ran. You cannot escape from here, you know. At least, I do not think you can.”
Achan’s mouth was too full of bread to comment on the wimpy scholar’s lecture. He finished his bite. “How would you feel if you were me?”
Sparrow looked at the light streaming through the bars on the door. “Trapped. Alone. Like I have no control over my life.”
Achan had forgotten the boy was a stray. Maybe he’d had a rough time of it too. “So, what am I thinking now?”
“That I am a scrawny runt who could be bested by a one-armed hag.”
One side of Achan’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “You are a sorcerer!”
Sparrow huffed and turned away, though Achan could swear the boy blushed again.
He wanted to continue the discussion he’d been having with Scratch — who was now Sparrow — to find out what the boy knew about bloodvoices. But Achan seemed incapable of admitting his bloodvoicing ability out loud and in person. Somehow that would make it all the more a reality. “Aw, Sparrow, don’t be mad! Tell me — why am I in the dungeon?”
“You are being charged with attempting to murder the Crown Prince.”
Achan burst into laughter. It jarred his wounds so he stopped. “But you said I saved him.”
“I am sorry.”
“Well, did I or didn’t I save him?”
“You did.”
“But I’m still being charged?”
“Yes.”
Achan looked at the stone ceiling. “This reeks of Prince Gidon.”
The guards and valet approached the door again. The valet held a corked vial. The guards drew their swords, apparently wary of another escape attempt.
Achan groaned.
This time Sparrow hopped to his feet and strode forward. He was short with skinny limbs but a bit pudgy around the middle. At least someone was getting his fill in Mahanaim.
“Who are you and what is this potion you carry?” Sparrow asked in a commanding voice that raised Achan’s brows.
“No potion, boy,” the valet said. “A tonic for the prisoner.”
“Why does he need this tonic?”
“I don’t know. But without it, my master assures me he’ll die.”
“I am an herbalist.” Sparrow glanced at Achan. “He looks healthy to me, despite his wounds. Who is your master?”
“Lord Nathak.”
“He is not,” Achan said. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“His Lordship retained my services upon his arrival this morning,” the valet said.
Achan lowered his head. Lord Nathak was here? Pig snout.
Sparrow held up a silencing hand. “What does Lord Nathak want with a stray?”
“This stray belongs to his lordship.”
The valet pushed the door open an inch, but Sparrow put his foot against it. The valet slid his fingers into the crack, and the boy shoved the door closed on them. The valet cried out. Sparrow pried the vial from his grip and loosened the cork with his teeth.
He smelled it and pulled back with a pinched face. “This poisons my patient! He will not take it.” Sparrow slung the vial in the privy bucket.
The valet cursed. “You’ll pay if I’m punished.” He spun around and departed.
The guards stared at Sparrow as if not knowing what to do. Finally, the one holding the keys locked the door, and they lumbered away, sheathing their swords. Sparrow returned to his corner and sank against the wall.
Maybe Achan should talk with the boy. He seemed to know about the tonic. “You’re really an herbalist?”
“I apprenticed for an apothecary before the Kingsguard knights brought me here.”
“They brought you here for that? You must be a talented apothecary.”
“No. They took me because I could bloodvoice.”
A chill shook Achan. “And they knew that…how?”
“My master sensed my ability and sent the knights to fetch me. On the journey here, I sensed you. We all did.”
Oh, this was rich. Achan didn’t bother to hide his grin. “And you sensed what about me?”
Sparrow shook his head. “I barely understood my own gift at the time, so when I first heard you it was very…confusing…and scary. The voices frightened you, I heard that much loud and clear. I sensed a great orange light and blood. Lots of blood…on your arm.” Sparrow reached up and touched his own left shoulder, his gaze downcast as if rehashing the memory. He looked up. “I thought you were injured at first. Other bloodvoicers wanted to know your name and where you lived.”
Achan stared at Sparrow, speechless. The boy had been in his head that night, had seen the sun and felt the blood from the doe. Still… “Bloodvoices are a myth.”
Sparrow huffed. “How can you say that when you and I have used it many times to speak to each other?”
“You want to know what’s in my head? An ache. A massive headache. Got any herbs for that?”
“Of course. I could bring you some chamomile tea, but that’s not what’s causing your pain. The only thing that lessens the pressure of bloodvoicing is practice. I can tell you what I have learned. But I should warn you,” Sparrow said, glancing at the cell door, “Master Hadar wants to use you.”
“You work for the prince?”
The boy shook his head. “Master Hadar is a very old and distant relative to Prince Gidon Hadar. He lives in this manor, on the eighth floor.”
Achan rubbed his hands over his face, overwhelmed by this boy’s excessive information. Maybe if he played along, the know-it-all would explain how to reach Sir Gavin. “The tonic?”
“It is made from the âleh flower. It quiets the bloodvoices.”
Which Lord Nathak had been doing for years. Did he know about them then? “But even when I’ve taken it, I can still sense things. Intentions.”
“Can you? You must be very strong to still have some ability through that tonic.”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘strong.’ Right now I’m feeling anything but.”
“Your gift is so potent you hurt my head when your mind is not closed off,” Sparrow said. “That is how so many can sense you. Your thoughts bleed over into every gifted mind, probably in all Er’Rets.”
Achan’s eyebrows shot up. “I hurt you?”
“You are doing it now. You cause so much pressure. You need to learn how to shut the door, as you put it, better than you do. And so people cannot find you. When your mind is open like that, if they are trying, they can find you anywhere.”
“You think someone is looking for me?”
“I told you, my master is. With a power as great as yours, yes, some will seek to exploit it.”
Achan couldn’t process this. “Wouldn’t Lord Nathak want to use it, then? He clearly knows I have this…thing. Why else would he make me drink the tonic all these years?”
Sparrow was silent for a long moment. “I hate Lord Nathak.”
“Do you?” Achan grinned. “Then we have three things in common, Sparrow: hating Lord Nathak, strays who’ve lost their orange tunics, and this crazy bloodvoice business.”
Sparrow straightened, eyes wide.
“What’s wrong?” Achan asked.
“My master comes.”
“Is that bad?”
“Close your mind — focus hard on it — and deny you know anything about bloodvoices.” Sparrow stood and walked to the door just as the guards entered with an ancient-looking bald man in a thick grey cloak. Lord Nathak’s new valet followed close with yet another vial.
The room seemed to grow colder. Achan lay back on his stone bed, closed his eyes, and pictured the allown tree on the edge of the SiderosRiver. In his mind, the wind blew the leaves about. He saw Gren’s chestnut hair billowing around her rosy face.
Gren.
The valet’s voice jerked Achan away from his longing. “He. Him. There.”
Achan opened his eyes to see the carrot-topped valet pointing at Sparrow.
“He’s the one who shut my hand in the door!” the valet whined.
“Did you, Vrell?” the old man’s voice hummed as if each word he spoke tasted delicious. Achan had heard his voice before. In his mind.
The man looked twice as old as Poril. He had the same spotted skin, but he was thinner and shorter and had bulging eyes like Jaira’s little dog. A thick grey cloak billowed around him. Now that was the kind of cloak Gren needed.
“Aye, master,” Sparrow said. “He tried to give a tonic to the prisoner, but I think it is poisonous. If the valet would like to bring the ingredients down and prepare the brew in my presence, I could confirm whether it is safe.”
The old man held out a claw-like hand and the valet handed him the vial.
“The prisoner is ill,” the valet said. “He must take his tonic daily and has missed four doses in this mishap. If my master’s orders continue to be ignored, I fear for the prisoner’s life.”
The old man pried the cork free. He stuck his pinky finger inside and touched it to his tongue. His face wrinkled, and he spat on the floor three times. “This is no regular tonic,” he hissed. “Why does the prisoner take this?”
The valet shrugged. “He’s ill.”
“On whose authority?”
“Lord Nathak’s, sir.”
The old man yelled, “Out!”
“Lord Nathak shall hear of this,” the valet said before scurrying away.
“See that he does,” the old man said to himself.
“What is it, master?” Sparrow asked.
“Silencer.” The old man turned toward Achan. His cadaverous, ashen eyes drilled into him.
The coldness penetrated Achan’s mind. He glanced away and shivered.
The old man mumbled, “Lord Nathak has gone to a great deal of trouble to hide this young man’s gift. I must discover why.” He worked the cork back into the vial and turned to the guards. “Let no one inside — Lord Nathak, especially.”
The old man and the guards left.
After a while, Sparrow said as if to himself, “I shall try to follow. My master is too strong to enter, but I might be able to jump through him.”
The boy may as well have been speaking Poroo. “What are you talking about?”
Sparrow ignored him and pulled something small out of his pocket.
“What you got there?” Achan asked.
Sparrow held up a scrap of cloth. “It is easier to connect with someone if you have something personal.”
“And you collect fabric scraps?”
“I cut it from my master’s pillow.”
Well, that made perfect sense. Achan jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna use the bucket.”
Sparrow flushed. He turned to face the corner, clutching the fabric against his chest.
Strange boy, Vrell Sparrow.
Achan made good time with the bucket and perched on the bed to watch Sparrow’s performance. He toyed with the idea of trying to hear Sparrow’s thoughts but decided against it. He didn’t want to mess up whatever the boy was trying to do.
But Sparrow just sat there, boring Achan into a stupor. So Achan crouched behind him on the floor and placed one finger on the hem of his silky grey tunic. Cloth apparently formed some kind of connection. If so, and if what Sparrow said was true — that Achan was strong — maybe he could hear Sparrow’s thoughts.
Achan closed his eyes and pictured Sparrow. Short Sparrow, with a gut like an old man. Blushing Sparrow, who’d blend in better wearing a skirt. Greasy-haired Sparrow, who bossed about guards and valets, despite his lowly station. Achan liked this boy. He pictured himself tiptoeing into Sparrow’s head and looking under a pile of brains.
Then Achan was walking down a corridor, his back stiff and hunched. He pushed open a heavy door and entered a room filled with warm sunlight. Lord Nathak sat at a desk in front of a large window. Goosebumps raised on Achan’s arms as he reveled in the room’s heat.
Lord Nathak spoke without looking up. “Why have you kept my valet from the squire?”
Achan’s arm held up the vial and spoke in the old man’s voice. “He tries to poison the boy.”
Achan held his breath. He was the old man. Amazing!
Lord Nathak sighed. “You and I both know what you hold in your hand is not poison.”
“Then tell me what game you play, Lord Nathak. His gift is the strongest I’ve ever felt. Why do you wish it hidden? If you want my help, you must convince me of the cause I aid.”
Lord Nathak tugged at the ties of his mask where they ran under his chin. “He disturbs the prince. His bloodvoice is untamable.”
“I can tame anyone — given the chance.”
“The prince despises him and does not wish him trained.”
“Then why make him a squire? It’s against Council law anyway, so why do it?”
“I did not make him a squire. Sir Gavin Lukos did. I merely made use of his training.”
“If the prince despises him, why not have him killed?”
“I am not a murderer.”
Achan heard Master Hadar snort. “I sense a different truth from you, Lord Nathak. You may be able to close your mind, but you cannot hide everything.” The old man hummed. “Is he who I think he is?”
Lord Nathak leaned back in his chair. “What he is is my property. Prince Gidon has ordered him punished. I will not have him calling out for a rescue.”
“Does he even know how to—”
Sparrow’s voice seemed to scream in Achan’s head. “What are you doing?”
Achan wheezed as if coming out of the water after nearly drowning. He blinked rapidly until Sparrow’s round face came into focus. He shuddered. “That was incredible!”
Sparrow’s forehead wrinkled. “What was?”
Achan rubbed the chill from his arms. The warmth of Lord Nathak’s chamber had vanished. “They’re going to beat me.” He grinned. “Shocking, isn’t it?”
Sparrow set the back of his hand against Achan’s forehead.
Achan batted it away and clambered to his feet. “You didn’t see? Or hear?”
“Hear what?”
“I followed you. I touched your tunic and concentrated and, bam!” Achan slapped his hands together. “I was the old man in Lord Nathak’s chamber. A warm and spacious chamber, I might add. Do you think I’ll ever get a warm and spacious chamber?”
Sparrow’s eyes popped wide. “You jumped?”
Achan shrugged and sat down on his bed.
“I could see nothing. What did they say?”
Achan repeated the conversation.
Sparrow got to his feet. “This is astonishing. I have never been able to enter my master’s mind, yet you used my connection for yourself and got further than I ever have. I did not sense you at all. Are you weary?”
“Should I be?”
Sparrow sat next to Achan on the stone bed. “Oh, Achan. No wonder they all want you. The power you have is magnificent…and dangerous. You must be careful.”
Achan smirked. “Sparrow…”
“Do you not see? I cannot enter my master’s mind, but you did. And through a jumped connection at that! Achan, you could enter any mind in Er’Rets.”
Achan didn’t know why he’d want to do that, but he was glad he wasn’t afraid of the bloodvoices anymore. They had suddenly become a new plaything.
“Have you ever heard a different kind of voice?” he asked. “One that warms you from the inside and seems to know exactly what is happening in every moment of your life?”
Sparrow frowned, then opened his mouth to speak, but the door burst open and the two guards stormed inside. One carried a whip and a set of iron shackles.
Achan didn’t like the looks of either. He stood and tried to look threatening. “You could have knocked first.”
Sparrow scrambled into the corner.
The guards seized Achan by his arms. Pain shot through his injured shoulder. Goosebumps rose on his arms at the sudden chill that wafted though his cell.
“What are you doing?” Sparrow asked.
“This one tried to kill the prince,” a guard said, clamping an iron cuff to Achan’s wrist.
Sparrow wedged between the guards. “That is ridiculous. He saved the prince. I saw it happen.”
“You know not what you say, Vrell.” The old man stepped into the cell again, with Lord Nathak and the valet at his heels.
“Lord Nathak.” Achan panted slightly as he waved his good arm around to keep the guard from securing the second cuff. He was finished with trying to get on anyone’s good side. “I was just noticing how something smelled, and here you are.”
Lord Nathak sighed. “The older you grow, the bolder you become. It does not suit a stray who hopes for a secure future.”
“I hadn’t realized there was such a thing in your service, my lord.”
Sparrow spoke. “Master, he should be allowed to appear before the Council, where I will testify as a witness to his heroism. I saw him save the prince, when all his other protectors were gone.”
The guards forced Achan onto the stone bed. The loose straw poked and scratched, and he arched his back to keep his wounds from being aggravated. Lord Nathak stepped forward holding a ceramic funnel and a large wooden mug. One of the guards squeezed Achan’s cheeks until his jaw opened.
Pig snout.
Sparrow’s sorrowful voice pleaded, “Master, please. This is barbaric.”
Lord Nathak wedged the funnel between Achan’s teeth and dumped the mug’s contents.
Achan gagged but had no choice but to swallow the bitter goo. His teeth grated against the funnel, his eyes watered, and a tear ran down his cheek.
The valet handed Lord Nathak another mug, and he poured it into the funnel. Achan tried to swallow quickly this time, but the overwhelming mentha taste tingled his throat. He coughed, which only made swallowing harder.
The liquids trickled into Achan’s stomach, and a fog drifted over his mind. He was both outraged and relieved. He’d finally accepted the voices as his, but they had nearly driven him mad. He lost control of trying to close off his mind. The voices screamed now, as if they had been waiting for an opportunity to speak and could feel the tonic pushing them out.
Do not go!
Who are you?
Come back!
Achan, wait! Sir Gavin said. Stay open!
Before Achan could reply to Sir Gavin, Lord Nathak removed the funnel and the guards yanked Achan to his feet. They looped the chains in his shackles through two iron rings high on the dank, mildewed wall.
Achan ran his tongue over his teeth, seeking to clear his mouth of all flavor. His mind felt numbed, but he wasn’t bereft of his senses. “What exactly have I done to deserve this, my lord?”
“You led the Crown Prince into the Evenwall,” Lord Nathak said, tapping his fingernails against the ceramic funnel, “thus endangering his life. Yet you were sworn to protect him. You will receive ten lashes for this blunder.”
Achan stood facing the stone wall, the shackles holding him in place. “Ten? Oh, that’s not so bad. You do realize my taking him into the Evenwall saved his life. And, in case you missed it, I took three arrows for His Royal Plague. The one in my back is particularly painf — Aagh!”
Achan screamed as a guard jerked the chains up the wall, raising his arms above his head and stretching his sore shoulder. His chest slammed against cold, slimy stone. Achan shivered and glanced at the beefy guard who held the chains. “Do you mind? I’m trying to have a conversation.”
Lord Nathak motioned to the other guard. “Only ten. And go easy.”
Go easy?
The other guard stepped forward clutching the whip.
“Hold still,” Vrell scolded. The spicy smell of cloves mixed with calendula numbed her sinuses — a blessing in Achan’s rank cell.
Achan lay prostrate on his horrible stone bed, his face buried in the crook of his arm, straw poking out from under him. “It hurts!”
“I can see that.” Vrell scooped ointment with two fingers and ran it over a lesion on Achan’s back. His muscles tensed, but the ointment had already made a difference in the newest wounds on his back. She still couldn’t believe how scarred it was. She could not imagine Achan committing a crime that deserved such punishment.
It’s cold, Achan bloodvoiced.
Sorry. She scooped up another glob of ointment and rubbed it between her hands before tending the next gash. She gasped. “You can hear my thoughts, now? Despite the tonic?”
“Aye. Your little fruit did the trick.”
Vrell smiled. She had remembered Jax’s advice and had taken a sack of karpos fruit from the kitchens and given it to Achan when he’d awakened after the scourging.
“What now?” Achan asked, his voice muffled by the fact that his face was buried in the inside of his elbow. “Teach me something.”
Vrell twisted her lips. “Well, I am best at blocking. That would be a good thing for you to master. You must concentrate. It is like having drapes in your mind to draw closed around your thoughts. Once you learn, you can practice letting in only what, and who, you want.”
Vrell rubbed more salve over the arrow wound on Achan’s left shoulder, then traced along one shoulder blade to the other, smearing ointment into his skin as she went. With wounds like his, infection could kill, especially in this disgusting cell where rats flourished. So she added more ointment.
Achan’s head popped up. “Did you hear that?”
“No. Did someone bloodvoice you?”
“He said, ‘Gavin’s coming.’ But I didn’t recognize his— Um, Sparrow?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve put on enough gunk now, don’t you think? Or must you rub me raw?”
“Yes — uh, no.” Vrell jerked back her hand and stood. Heat flooded her cheeks. “I believe that is plenty for now. Does it feel better?”
“Like new.” He sat up and rolled his injured shoulder. “Think you can find me a shirt?”
“I should be able to.”
“I had a spare, in my bag.” Achan stared ahead as if remembering something sad.
Vrell didn’t know what that sad thought might be. But judging from those scars on his back and the fact that he’d spent any time at all subject to Prince Gidon, his past was likely riddled with anguish.
Perhaps when Vrell was home, she could convince her mother to speak to the Council about strays. It was senseless to treat a man like an animal. They were all the same inside, physically anyway. Plus, both Achan and Prince Gidon were dark-haired, tall, and strong. But where the prince was cruel, Achan was knightly. The way he’d fought to protect a man who wanted to kill him…
Vrell shook her thoughts away, picked up the jar of ointment, and walked to the door. “Guard!” She turned back to Achan. “I shall try to bring more food as well.”
He yawned and rubbed his droopy eyes. “While you’re at it, how ’bout finding me a feather mattress and some furs to sleep on? This straw is like twigs. Oh, and I wouldn’t mind a bath. But not from you. I’ll do it myself, thanks. Just bring me one of those big steaming tubs like Gidon uses. And some oatmeal soap. I don’t like that flowery rosewater stuff.”
She smiled and slipped out. The guard locked the door behind her.
“And some apples. Crunchy ones!”
Vrell jogged up the dank stairwell to the first underground level. The Mahanaim dungeons — a labyrinth of stone hallways and barred doors — were located on the three levels below the stronghold’s surface. Achan’s cell was on the lowest level. Vrell climbed to the first level. As she neared the guards’ station, the raised voices of two men grew louder.
“But it’s only clothing.” It was the voice of a young man. A very familiar voice. It slowed her steps shy of the corner.
“The prisoner’s not to be seen or receive anything,” the guard snapped. “No exceptions!”
“You still haven’t told me his crime. He did his duty. This I know as fact.”
Vrell rounded the corner to see the back of the burly guard standing at the gate shaking his head. The man he was talking to was hidden behind the guard’s body. “I don’t put ’em here, I just keep ’em here. Take it up with Lord Levy if you like.”
The visitor sidestepped as if preparing to leave, and locked eyes with Vrell. His head cocked to the side, and he looked her up and down.
Bran.
She sucked in a silent breath and held it. Her pulse rose. Oh, she hadn’t spoken to him since his proposal. It would be so wonderful if he recognized her — but the guard would report it to Master Hadar and all manner of unpleasantness would ensue. Mahanaim was not friendly territory these days. She doubted they would escape without being questioned.
No. Now was a bad time to make herself known. She needed to find Sir Rigil first as Mother had suggested. But if Bran was here, so was the knight he served. She noted that Bran’s nose and face were peeling from sunburn. She had a salve that would help…
Instead, Vrell held her breath, lowered her gaze, and wove between Bran and the guard, slouching and bobbing in her best boy walk, praying he would not recognize her. As she placed one foot on the bottom step, Bran spoke.
“You there. Can you tell me anything about Achan Cham?”
Vrell froze, cheeks burning. How did Bran know Achan, and why did his question bring waves of guilt? She had done nothing wrong. She turned. Keeping her head down and her posture slumped, she gave her best stray boy accent. “What you wanna know?”
Bran strode forward, clutching a dirty linen sack in his hand. “These are his things. The guard won’t let me take them to him. I’d like to see him.”
Vrell shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. No one’s to see him.”
“But you’ve seen him?”
“I’m tending his wounds.”
Bran’s sweet, sunburned face lit up, and he held out the sack. “Then you could take him this. Please. It’s only clothing. I just… I think he’d want it.”
Vrell accepted the grimy sack. Bran had come all this way to bring Achan his laundry? Why? “I’ll take it to him, sir.”
Bran bowed to her, bestowing a great honor to a stray boy like Vrell. Oh, he was such a good man. His poor nose. She yearned to rub some aloe salve on it.
“I thank you.” Bran strode toward the stairwell leading out, then turned back. “Would you give him a message as well?”
Vrell nodded.
“Tell him, the offer’s still good.”
Vrell flushed. Oh, no, of course not. Bran was giving a message to Achan, not renewing his proposal. She swallowed her disappointment. “Will do, sir.”
Bran bowed again and smiled at the burly guard. “I thank you.”
When he was gone, Vrell trudged up to her room, leaking tears and wondering with each step where Bran was staying. It had felt strange to see him after so long. He looked different, but the same. Maybe even taller. She had wanted him to recognize her, sweep her off her feet, and take her home. At the same time, she’d hesitated. She furrowed her brow. She wanted to go home, did she not?
Of course she did, but first she had to help Achan.
She stopped on the landing halfway between the third and fourth floor. Why did she care about Achan, anyway? He did not have manners like Bran. He was rude and teased too much. But he was innocent and she’d seem him fight heroically to save a prince who despised him. Plus, he was injured. Without her help, his wounds could still become infected. And they had bloodvoices in common. There was something about him that drew her interest like moth to torch. What was it?
She carried Achan’s sack to her room, which, as always, was dark and cold. She did not rank highly enough to have a fireplace in her chambers. She left the door open until she lit a candle. Then she dumped out the contents of Achan’s sack.
A rock-hard bread roll tumbled across the floor, along with a few moldy meat pies, some clothing, a rolled up grey blanket, and a scrap of raw parchment that looked as if a child had made it. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of decayed food. What had Bran been thinking? There was no treasure here worth saving.
She picked up a brown linen shirt and lifted it to her nose. It smelled stale like the bread, but looked clean. Achan would appreciate it. She draped it over one arm and reached down for the other garment: a soft, doeskin doublet. She ran the suede against her cheek and smiled. This was quite nice. She folded the clothing and set it, and the bundled blanket, on the edge of her bed.
She lifted the parchment and unrolled it. The handwriting and spelling were atrocious.
Akan,
i cannat stand wuts to com. but i no what u did and i thank u for it. u ar mi best frend. u ar a tru keengsgard nite. my keengsgard nite. i dont want to mary Riga. id rathr mary u.
Vrell flushed and set the parchment on top of the clothing. She had no business reading such a letter.
She scurried to her sideboard and checked the new batch of ointment she was making for Achan. Poor, sweet, abused Achan. He had a woman who loved him. What had happened? Vrell sighed deeply and frowned as she stirred the mixture. Must all love in Er’Rets be thwarted or manipulated? Vrell masqueraded as a boy to dodge marriage, and here someone loved Achan but was apparently being forced to marry this Riga person.
Vrell stomped about the room, gathering the moldy and stale food from the floor. She set it outside the door for the chambermaid, then went back to her bed. She needed to go to the kitchens before taking these things to Achan. Maybe Mags could help her find some nice, crunchy apples.
She peered at the parchment out of the corner of her eye. There had only been a few more lines. She twisted her lips and snagged it.
prins gidon didint want me. he wantid to hert u. promis to get awey frum him. go to tafstown. wher yer nu cloths and be a nu man. i can nevr thank u fer saving me frum gidon. u wil alwas be mi hero. mi nite. i luv u.
gren
Vrell blinked back tears. Why did Prince Gidon insist on poisoning the lives of everyone? How she hated that venomous snake.
She ran to her sideboard and dug through her satchel until she found the prince’s red silk sleeve, the one she had kept since that day on the battlefield. She could use it to see him in her mind, to know what he was up to. But how would that help Achan?
She left the sleeve and put the parchment and clothes back into the sack. She wandered down the stone steps, guilt flooding every thought.
Arman would not want her to carry so much hatred, she knew, even for a man as evil as Gidon Hadar. And was she any better? Reading Achan’s private letter…lying to everyone about her identity…avoiding Bran when he could have taken her straight to Sir Rigil. Was this what Arman would have her become? Certainly not.
But Arman also would not want her to marry an abusive unbeliever. On that, she and her mother agreed wholeheartedly. There were few true believers in the Way in Er’Rets. Bran was one of them.
She groaned, not knowing how to make any of this right. When she reached the pillared foyer outside the chamber where the Council of Seven met, she turned at the foot of the main staircase and walked down the narrow corridor that led to the kitchens.
Vrell loved Bran. When all this was over, she was nearly certain Mother would permit them to marry. Mother had always said she wanted Vrell to be happy in marriage. Bran would be a good husband.
He might not make a good duke, though. Whoever Vrell married would inherit Mother’s duchy. Bran was funny and kind and loyal, but he was no leader. He would need many advisors to run the duchy. Perhaps she should marry someone with experience with such things. If Bran were duke, Vrell would likely have to rule the duchy herself. But to be with Bran…it would be well worth it. She prayed Arman would forgive her until then.
Vrell entered the first kitchen and into a wall of heat. Along two walls were the hearths, only one of which was blazing. Vrell wondered how hot the room might be if all were lit. Six tables filled the center of the room. The cook, a plump woman with a stingy smile, stood at one, stuffing a chicken with bread crumbs and herbs. Three other servants were cleaning.
Vrell found the red-headed servant girl scrubbing dishes in a wooden tub. “Mags, think you could help me? I am gathering some things to take to the dungeon.”
“To yer patient, the squire?” Mags pushed a strand of her red hair behind her ear, leaving a smudge of suds on her cheek. “I ’ear he’s quite an Avinis.”
Vrell rolled her eyes at the mention of the god of beauty. “I would not know about that.”
Mags pinched Vrell’s cheek with soapy fingers. “Oh, don’t yeh sound so gloomy. Yeh’ll grow into yer own, and all us maids will be crazy for yeh.”
Vrell batted Mags’s hand away. “Can you help or not?”
“Of course. What yeh want for ’im?”
Vrell rattled off the things she hoped for, and Mags came through on all accounts. Vrell trudged to the dungeon with Achan’s sack, a jug of water, a wooden bowl, and her own lunch shoved into her pocket. The guard hassled her and searched the bag, but did not complain when Vrell reminded him that Master Hadar had assigned her to care for the squire.
Vrell didn’t know why her master seemed to be going along with Lord Nathak, but she did know he still craved Achan’s power. She guessed he would make a move to control Achan’s fate soon. Vrell had claimed the squire was near death — fever from the lashings and all. Master Hadar had not questioned her time spent in the dungeons after that. He had suspended her lessons until the squire was healed. But she couldn’t count on that ruse lasting too much longer.
The guard let Vrell into Achan’s cell.
He was sitting on the floor in her corner, scratching at the dirt floor with a chicken bone. “Just wondered what’s so great about this spot.” His grey eyes sparkled in the torchlight.
Vrell set the bowl and the water jug on the hay-covered stone bed. “Are you leaning against the wall? Achan, your wounds will get dirty. Now I shall have to clean them again.”
His gaze darted to the sack. “Is that mine?”
She sighed. “I met a squire who insisted you have it. The guards would not let him in to see you, but he gave me this, and a message.”
Achan jumped up and took the sack. He peered inside. “What’s the message?”
Vrell still was not used to him being so near her. Being so tall and…half dressed. She tried to act nonchalant, thankful he would be fully clothed soon. “He said to tell you, the offer is still good.”
Achan met her eyes. “Bran was here?”
Vrell treaded carefully. “He did not give a name, sir. Only the message.”
“No.” Achan shook his head and grinned. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Please don’t. I’m no one’s sir.” He reached into the sack and pulled out the smaller linen bag that Vrell had brought from the kitchen.
Vrell’s curiosity prompted her to snoop. “Is he a close friend, the squire?”
“Bran?” Achan sucked in a gasp as he discovered the contents of the small sack. “Sparrow.” He turned his wide smile to her — causing her stomach to boil with joy — and pulled out a fat, red apple. “Thank you.” He sat on his bed, dropped the bag between his knees, and bit into the apple with a loud crunch. He tucked the bite into his cheek and pointed at the bowl and water jug. “What’s all this?”
Vrell reached into her pocket and pulled out a half-used bar of soap. “It is unscented, all I could find. I figured you could use the bowl as a basin. The water will be cold, but…”
Achan slurped juice off his thumb. He took the soap and smelled it. “You sure know how to spoil a convict.”
Heat flooded Vrell’s cheeks, and she turned away, pretending to be looking for something on the ground. Was it foolish to be sweet to Achan? Would a boy do kind things for an innocent man? She settled in her corner and pulled the bread and figs from her pocket. She bowed her head and thanked Arman for His provisions.
“Why do you pray for food you already have?”
She glanced at Achan, whose eyes pierced through to her heart. She suspected that he, like most Er’Retians, believed in the host of false gods housed in ornate temples throughout the land. “I thank Arman for the blessing of having food to eat. I am not begging for more.”
“Why thank Arman? He does not create plants or animals.”
Vrell rolled her eyes. “There is only one God, Achan. His name is Arman. He creates everything. The other gods and goddesses are lies, devised to waste your days pining after false hope.”
His forehead crinkled, and he looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head.
So she got back to her sleuthing. She took a bite of her bread and tried to appear disinterested. “Bran is your friend? Have you known him long?”
Achan pulled his blanket from the sack and spread it poorly with one hand over the bits of straw on the stone bed. “He journeyed with us from Sitna. Helped me out when Silvo and his friends made trouble. Even drew his sword for my sake.”
Vrell grimaced. Silvo Hamartano. It figured. She pasted on an expression she hoped a boy might wear at the idea of a fight. “Tell me the story.”
“Bah.” Achan bit into the apple, held it in his teeth, and pulled the brown shirt over his head. His hair tousled as it poked through the neck opening. Vrell was glad he was finally clothed. Achan left the ties hanging loose and took the apple away from his mouth with a large bite. “It’s not much of a story.”
“Will you tell it? Please?”
Achan shrugged and took the suede jerkin into his lap, rubbing one finger over the nap. “Well, only if you don’t think less of me. I’m not as obedient as most strays.”
Vrell grinned and pulled her knees up to her chest. “This is going to be good.”
Achan started the story by telling about Sir Gavin Lukos. Vrell had never met the Great Whitewolf, but had heard tales of his campaigns on behalf of King Axel. He had been the former king’s closest advisor. Achan told how Sir Gavin had taken him as an apprentice in secret until he had killed the deer.
“That’s the blood you sensed when you first heard me,” he said. “I was carrying her back to Sitna Manor.”
Then he told about the tournament where he had met Silvo, Silvo’s sister — Lady Jaira— and Lady Tara Livna. Tara was Vrell’s cousin and dear friend. She loved Tara, but she bristled when Achan went on longer than necessary about Lady Tara’s kiss. Tara was stunning, with a voice like a lark. Vrell looked like a boy and sounded like a goose. A scratchy goose.
“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Sparrow. Well, next to Gren.”
Vrell perked up at the name from the letter. “Who’s Gren?”
Achan twisted the stem of the apple until it popped free from the core, then tossed both into the waste bucket. “A peasant girl I grew up with. She made me this shirt.” He puffed out his chest. “Isn’t it nice?”
Vrell nodded then pointed at the doublet. “And that?”
“Yeah.” He beamed and pulled on the doublet, leaving it hang open like a vest. “She made this from the deer I killed. Clever, huh?”
Vrell should get back. Master Hadar would be waiting for an update. But she wanted to hear more. Achan told about serving wine to Silvo and Jaira at Prince Gidon’s banquet, then lingered on another moment shared with Lady Tara. Vrell was not a bit surprised that Tara had been kind to Achan. Tsaftown did not keep slaves, and Achan was waggish and handsome. Still, it bothered Vrell how his face lit up when he spoke of Tara, beloved cousin or not.
Such thoughts! Vrell berated herself. She loved Bran, and he loved her. She had been gone from home too long. Life as an outcast was starting to take its toll.
Achan fiddled with the ties on his jerkin. “Lord Nathak discovered my training. After that, Sir Gavin left me. I still haven’t learned why. And Gidon punished me for insulting Jaira, by making me his sparring partner. I think he wanted to accidentally kill me. Silvo and his demented cohorts ambushed me on the first night of the trip to Mahanaim, claiming to avenge Jaira’s honor. As if she had any.”
He smirked. “Anyway, you saw the bruises. Bran and Sir Rigil came to my aid. And that’s that. To answer your question then: yes, Bran is a friend, if not for very long.”
As Achan tucked the small bag of food into his sack he paused and pulled out the parchment. He held it in his lap, staring down at it, his face paling. Then he crumpled it into a little ball and tossed it into the privy bucket in the corner.
Vrell gasped and scrambled to her feet to retrieve it, but it had already soaked into the foul liquid. She spun back to Achan. “What did you do that for?”
“There’s no reason for me to—” His eyes narrowed. “You little fox, you read it!”
Vrell straightened and turned up her nose. Hands on her hips, she stomped to the door. “Guard!”
Achan jumped up and grabbed her arm, dark brows furrowed, pupils swelling. “You had no right!”
“Back up!” the guard snarled.
Achan released his crushing grip, and Vrell slipped out, heart pounding. The guard slammed the door and clicked the bolts into place. Vrell glanced back to see Achan scowling through the black bars.
Maybe she should have denied his accusation.
Maybe she should not have read the parchment in the first place.
*
That evening, Master Hadar led Vrell to a lovely receiving chamber on the ninth floor and introduced her to the Levy family.
Vrell had been there years ago, and everything sat just as she remembered. Cream and indigo tapestries boxed in a spacious, warm expanse between two fireplaces, one on each end of the room. The family of five sat on carved couches that fanned out in a half circle around the fireplace nearest the door.
The valet announced, “Master Macoun Hadar and his apprentice, Vrell Sparrow,” and led them before the family seated on the couches.
No one stood. Lord Levy nodded politely, an ivory pipe between his lips. His white hair and short, pointed beard made him look more snobbish than ever. She knew how Lord Levy felt about strays. As chairman of the Council of Seven, he had spearheaded the campaigns to brand strays and ban them from Kingsguard service.
Lord Levy’s wife, Lady Fallina, sat near the hearth — elegance in human form. Her golden hair piled onto her head, held by a dozen sapphire clips. Gold embroidery embellished her cobalt silk gown, which draped over her body like a second skin. Her every movement captivated the eye. She smiled and said, “Welcome to Mahanaim.” Even her voice was musical.
“Thank you,” Vrell said with a bow.
Lady Fallina’s charm had not been passed on to her daughters. Vrell had met the girls on several occasions, but thankfully they did not recognize her or give her more than a fleeting glance.
The eldest, Jacqueline, was Vrell’s age. She looked like her mother, but whined like a mule. She too wore a gown of cobalt silk, but hers hung on her bony body like a tent. Her younger sister, Marietta, at fourteen, was blessed with her mother’s figure and smile, and, had she been less chatty, might have been a real contender for queen. But everyone knew that Prince Gidon despised what he considered insipid women and would certainly never choose one as his queen.
Reggio, a scrawny twelve-year-old and even more stuck up version of Lord Levy, said, “Really, Father, another stray?” He glared at Vrell, then Master Hadar. “They’re not staying for dinner, are they? I’m certain Prince Gidon would not appreciate their presence.”
Vrell shot Reggio her nastiest glare. She had heard he was a squire now. She pitied the knight who had taken him on. Whoever it was had most likely been pressured or paid, or both, by Lord Levy. She would have to ask Achan if he knew.
If he would still speak to her.
Marietta stood from the couch and skipped up to Vrell. She took her hand and twirled underneath Vrell’s arm. “Can I borrow him, Father? He’s ever so polite and not too tall.”
Lord Levy looked up from his pipe. “Borrow him for what?”
“To practice dancing. My chambermaid doesn’t do the boy part very well, and I want to be the best dancer at Prince Gidon’s wedding.”
“He’s announced a bride?” Jacqueline clutched Lord Levy’s arm, jerking the pipe from his lips. “Father?”
Lord Levy sighed and moved his pipe to his other hand. “Nothing has been formally announced, but it appears the match will be made with Mandzee Hamartano.”
Jacqueline shrieked. “Mandzee! Oh, Mother! How will I tolerate her as queen? It’s not fair. Am I not pretty enough?”
Vrell stood silently beside Master Hadar, glad to have been momentarily forgotten.
“Oh, Jacqueline,” Lord Levy said, “you’re a jewel. You must understand that this marriage is more for the political match than the prince’s fancy. That I know from Lord Nathak. Mandzee Hamartano is from Jaelport, a strong city far south and in Darkness. An alliance with them will fortify the area for the kingdom.”
“It will fortify my forever being subject to Mandzee’s scorn,” Jacqueline said. “She’ll never let me forget this.”
“Then you shouldn’t have told her he’d pick you,” Marietta said.
Jacqueline stuck out her tongue at Marietta.
Vrell worked to keep her reaction internal. If Mandzee Hamartano really was to be queen, Vrell would have to consider moving across the sea. Jaelportian women had an eerily persuasive way about them. It was little wonder how she was chosen as Prince Gidon’s bride. She had simply worked her magic, whatever it was.
Reggio sighed dramatically. “Who cares about queens and weddings?” He turned to Lord Levy. “Has the stray that attacked the prince been sentenced?”
“Sentenced? A stray has no right to trial, as far as I’m concerned,” Lord Levy said. “I believe Lord Nathak is keeping him in our dungeons for now.”
“Why not execute him?” Reggio said. “I could do it, if you’d let me use an executioner’s axe.”
Lady Fallina sucked in a sharp breath. “Reggio! For shame, to think of such things.”
“Your mother is right,” Lord Levy said. “That’s no job for a young lord. Besides, a slow death is more appropriate for a man who attacks the future king.”
Vrell glared at Master Hadar, but he avoided her gaze. They remained silent until the valet announced dinner. Master Hadar excused them, and he and Vrell walked back to his chambers.
Vrell could scarcely hold her tongue. “Forgive me, Master, but will you allow the squire to die? Did you not want him as a second apprentice?”
Master Hadar hummed. “I do, but there are things you don’t understand, boy. First, many consider me a stray.”
“You, Master?” No wonder he despised the orange tunic.
“Yes. Lord Levy seeks to be rid of me. But I’ve lived here since before he was born and have made myself indispensable. Still, I haven’t the rank to make demands of noblemen.”
Something was odd about such a confession. Vrell needed to contact Mother to see if Uncle Livna had information on who Macoun Hadar really was.
Master Hadar went on. “Prince Gidon is about to take his throne, but the Council has ruled for thirteen years. They do not relish the thought of giving up control completely. Lord Levy knows of my arrangement with Lord Nathak to use my gifts to watch over the prince. Despite his feelings toward me, Lord Levy is willing to give me a seat on the New Council if I keep him apprised of the king’s plans.
“For that I need your help.” They reached the staircase and Master Hadar paused. “The problem is, watching weakens you. The squire, then, is the perfect solution. But Lord Nathak refuses to give him to me. And I need Lord Nathak’s alliance to watch the prince’s mind, or he’ll tell the prince to block me. Prince Gidon cannot bloodvoice, but he knows how to block against those who seek to penetrate his thoughts. So you see, I have no remedy at present.”
Vrell stared at her master’s sunken eyes. She had heard the Council was corrupt, but this was lunacy. If Master Hadar reported every move and thought of Prince — no: King—Gidon, the king would have no control. The Council had been meant to disband once the king was in place, had it not? They should be seeking less control over the future king, not more.
And what was this talk of a New Council? Did Mother know of it? Would any one individual rule Er’Rets, or would it be run by everyone? With mini agendas and political coups, factions would rise up. Er’Rets would be at war with itself. And since everyone hated Gidon as prince, King Gidon would fall. Then what?
Master Hadar left her on the eighth floor, and Vrell continued on to the third floor. It was late. The torches on the stairwell had burned low. She lit a candle in her room and scraped her teeth, washed her face, and combed out her tangled hair. She climbed under her thin wool blanket and blew out the light. She did not like the blackness that shrouded her when the candle was out. With so much stone in the fortress, the smallest sound magnified as if it were inches away.
She lay awake praying Arman might show her what to do. Vrell wanted to help Er’Rets but could see no way to make a difference. She set her mind on finding Sir Rigil and freeing Achan before he was made to become Master Hadar’s pawn — or was killed for a crime he didn’t commit.
She tried bloodvoicing Achan but could find no sense of him despite holding the lock of hair she had cut from his head when he had been out with fever. Either he had run out of karpos fruit or he had perfected blocking.
There had to be someone who would help Achan. Perhaps Sir Rigil would. Achan had said that he’d come to his aid once before, and Bran seemed to like Achan as well. Yes. Vrell would find Sir Rigil. He would keep her safe and help Achan. It was a perfect plan. But what if she couldn’t find Sir Rigil? Mags might know. If only there were someone else who could help Achan, then Vrell could focus on her own problems.
Suddenly she knew. She crept down into the massive foyer of the Mahanaim stronghold, wove between the columns, and stood before the entrance to the Council’s meeting chamber. She snuck past the golden doors and examined the displays along the entry corridor.
Every five steps on both sides of the wall, little alcoves jutted off displaying tributes to the great Kingsguard commanders of old. She passed a bronze bust of Moul Rog the Great, the Kingsguard commander during King Trevyn the Explorer’s reign. Pittan Remy, a native of Carmine, served during King Johan’s time. There was a full body statue of him.
She stopped before a fluted pillar that held a limestone bust of a man with long hair and a braided beard. A cracked shield hung on the wall behind it. Vrell stepped around the bust, laid her hand on the shield, and, with her mind, sought out the face of the person it depicted.
The Great Whitewolf.
Achan Cham.
Achan lay on his stone bed, staring at the cobwebs hanging down from the ceiling and trying to ignore Sparrow. The runt was sitting outside his cell, picking at his mind with some strange trick that penetrated his walls and drew a headache.
He was still mad at the boy. Bran had asked him to deliver Achan’s stuff, not ransack it. The whelp had no business snooping. Achan sighed. He should’ve read Gren’s letter.
He lifted his head and thunked it down gently on the hay-strewn stone bed again and again. Everything looked the same in his cell, no matter the hour. He had no idea what time it was. Late. Sparrow had brought him dinner hours ago. The prisoner down the hall had stopped moaning.
So many times since leaving Sitna, he’d meant to read Gren’s letter. He didn’t want to admit he hadn’t done so because he was afraid of what it might say — but what else had stopped him? He’d likely never see Gren again. Probably he didn’t read it because her words would’ve felt so final. Like she’d died somehow. In a way, Achan guessed she had.
Still, that Sparrow read Gren’s words when Achan had not… It was like the runt held a secret that wasn’t his. Something about that bristled the hair on his arms. Now he wanted to know more than ever what Gren had—
A crash in the corridor outside Achan’s cell shot him to his feet. He darted to the door and peered outside. A man with shaggy, blond hair and a black cloak bent over an unconscious guard and pulled the keys from his belt. Achan flattened against the wall behind the door and waited. The bolts on the lock clicked, the door swung open, and the man stepped inside Achan’s cell.
Sparrow’s voice broke the silence. “What are you doing?”
“Where is the squire?”
“Who are you?” Sparrow asked.
Then came a scuffle, and the lad screamed like a girl.
Achan jumped out from behind the door. The man had pinned Sparrow to the floor. “Hey!” Achan kicked him in the side. “You looking for me?”
The man sprang up and elbowed Achan in the temple.
Achan went down, head throbbing. He rolled, trying to stand. He could hear Sparrow struggling and whimpering, but everything blurred before his eyes. He focused on his breathing, trying to clear his head.
The man’s blurry form leaned over him. A finger wormed between Achan’s lips and a woodsy liquid dribbled into his mouth.
Achan tried to spit the substance out, but a hand covered his mouth and held him down until he stilled, his eyes drooping. The man hoisted Achan off the floor and slung him over his shoulder. The door slammed shut and the lock clicked into place.
“No!” Vrell’s voice. Pounding on the door. “Guards! Help!”
Where were the guards?
Achan’s captor ran through the maze of dark corridors and down a flight of stairs, making Achan’s head bounce with each step. Achan wanted to protest, but words wouldn’t come. Blackness shrouded his vision.
The bouncing stopped. “Inko!” his captor said. “Help me.”
Achan felt his body lowered onto an unstable surface. Pale, yellow light danced over a dark, craggy ceiling. A cave?
“Did you be giving him the soporific?” a low, raspy voice asked in a jilted accent.
“Aye,” his captor said.
Achan felt like he was falling. He gripped the wooden edge of something, which caused the bed he lay in to rock. A boat! He was in a boat in some underground canal. The motion made him queasy, and he focused again on his breathing until the pale light faded to black.
Over the next period of time — minutes? days? — he jerked in and out of consciousness, only to feel lost in a dream. Had he been taken into Darkness? Had they crossed over to the other side of the Evenwall?
Eventually they stopped. Someone lifted him out of the boat and tried to help him stand, but Achan’s legs were as faulty as his vision. Cool air gripped his pores. Water sloshed against a wall of some sort. A single torch burned to his left but did not shed enough light to help his cause. Footsteps clunked over hollow-sounding wood. A drawbridge? A dock?
Again he was tossed over someone’s shoulder and carried up several flights of stairs. A door creaked open. His captor brought him inside and lowered him onto a firm surface. Achan wanted to wake and see where he was, but sleep won out before he could focus.
Achan awoke on a straw bed. He swung his legs off the side and managed to sit.
He first noticed a small fire burning in a smoke-stained hearth. It brought the only light to a small room. He blinked. Bare walls, the ceiling dripping with cobwebs. A scuffed wooden floor. Achan turned to the other side of the room and jumped.
A man with grey skin stared at him. He sat in one of two mismatched chairs at a battered table on the other side of Achan’s bed. His white hair grew straight up off his head like a round hedge. Like his abductor, this man wore a black cape.
“Who are you?” Achan asked.
“You may be calling me Inko.” The man nodded, eyes fixed past Achan’s shoulder. “He is being named Sir Caleb.”
Sir? Achan swiveled his head back past the fireplace. His wild-eyed kidnapper sat on the wooden floor beside his bed, leaning against the bare wall. His chin-length, blond hair was frizzy. He looked to be middle-aged. The firelight darkened the weathered lines on his cheeks and forehead. “You’re a knight?”
“Aye. We both are.” Sir Caleb smirked. “Or were.”
Were? “What do you want with me?”
“Only to hold you until our master arrives.”
Dizziness washed over Achan. He propped a hand on the bed to steady himself. “Who is your master?” Achan blinked fast to regain focus. His voice sounded far away and hollow. “And what does he want with me?”
“All in good time.” Sir Caleb stood and pushed Achan back down to lie on the bed.
Sleep, lad. Sleep.
Achan’s eyes fluttered closed, then snapped open. He bashed a fist into Sir Caleb’s jaw, hopped off the bed, and managed to run to the door before crumpling to the floor in a haze.
Inko swept him up and tossed him back on the bed. Sir Caleb grimaced and massaged his jaw.
Achan glared. “Don’t play with my mind!” He tried to focus on the allown tree, but his head merely throbbed.
Sir Caleb’s wild eyes grew wider. “It’s true? You can bloodvoice, then?”
Achan feigned ignorance and scooted back on the bed until his back touched the wall. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Those who can sense it have the power to do it themselves.”
Achan remembered Sparrow’s warning that some would seek to abuse his power. Playing the fool was his best defense for now. “What power?”
“Bloodvoices.”
Achan forced a cynical laugh. “You speak of kingly fables. No such ability exists in the real world of flesh and blood. Besides, I’m not a king.”
Sir Caleb leaned over the bed, his shaggy hair framing his face like a sunflower. His bulging eyes glistened in the firelight. “The gift runs in royal blood. You do not have to be a king to have it, although you may be.”
Vrell banged on the door of Achan’s cell and called for help until she lost her voice. Finally, one of the guards regained consciousness enough to stagger to the door and let her out.
She ran to Master Hadar’s chamber to report. She found him sitting at his desk, writing. She sucked in a long breath. “Someone has taken the prisoner, Achan. He’s gone.”
Master Hadar bolted to his feet. “Who?”
“I know not,” Vrell said, her heart still beating wildly from her run up eight flights of stairs. “He locked me in. I—”
The door flew open and banged against the interior wall. Lord Nathak strode into the chamber. “You!” He pointed at Vrell. His eye was bloodshot and bulging. “You were left to watch him and warn your master of any complications. Where is the stray?”
Vrell shook at the volume of his voice. “I–I am sorry, my lord. I–I do not know.”
Lord Nathak seized Vrell’s shoulder and held a dagger up to her throat. “Where?”
Vrell choked back a sob. “Please, my lord! I–I do not know!”
Lord Nathak gripped the side of her face and stared into her eyes.
Master Hadar hurried over. “Lord Nathak, please allow me.”
Lord Nathak released Vrell with a slight push and she stumbled.
Master Hadar’s sunken eyes drilled into hers. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Vrell explained how the man with the wild hair had attacked her and carried Achan away.
“Can you sense the squire?” Master Hadar asked.
Vrell shook her head.
Lord Nathak pointed the dagger at her throat again. “Try.”
“Seek him out, boy,” Master Hadar said. “You’ve spent enough time with him. It shouldn’t be difficult.”
Vrell did not want to. If someone had rescued Achan, he was better off not being found. But if she did not try, she could face Lord Nathak’s blade. Yet even if she reached out, Achan could block her. He had been blocking her all day. She was too good a teacher, it seemed.
Vrell closed her eyes. She cupped her hands over her face and breathed in the smell of the clove and calendula ointment that lingered on her hands. She thought about Achan’s scruffy face, dark hair, and grey eyes.
Images of a dark chamber grew in her mind.
“He is close.”
*
Achan Cham.
Achan lifted his head off the straw mattress. Sparrow?
Are you safe?
He wasn’t certain. He lay on his side on the straw mattress, hands bound behind his back, ankles bound too. But he sensed no hatred or hostility from his captors. Both men sat at the table mumbling to each other. He certainly didn’t want to go back to Lord Nathak. I don’t know. They’ve bound me.
Lord Nathak wants me to locate you.
“No!” Achan thought of the allown tree, and Sparrow faded away.
Sir Caleb was at his side in an instant. He sat on the bed beside Achan, a fresh bruise swelling on his jaw. “I’m sorry for the restraints. You left me little choice.”
Achan’s heart thundered in his chest. Who to trust? He sighed heavily. He’d take his chances with these men over any life with Lord Nathak. He decided to confide this truth. “Lord Nathak is looking for me.”
“How do you know?” Sir Caleb asked.
“He’s using Sparrow.”
“A bird?”
“A boy. The old man’s apprentice.”
Inko jumped to his feet and bounded to the bed. “Be blocking it, quickly!”
“No. Let’s see what they know.” Sir Caleb nodded once. “Tread carefully.”
Achan pictured Sparrow’s small, ever-blushing, round face and narrow, green eyes. Voices from that targeted location flooded his mind, and he cringed as his head filled with pressure.
You must be patient, Lord Nathak, Hadar said. The boy can do it. The old man stood over Sparrow, sunken eyes like stone caverns. He wanted Sparrow’s secret.
Achan frowned. What secret?
The boy is too slow, Hadar! Lord Nathak screamed, pushing the old man closer. Do it yourself.
I cannot, Hadar said. I’ve spent no time at all with the squire. Leave it to Vrell.
Vrell? Achan frowned. Oh, right. Vrell was Sparrow’s first name.
Lord Nathak pushed the old man away and seized Sparrow by the hair. Something sharp bit into the boy’s throat.
Coldness flashed over Achan. He clutched the stinging tickle at his neck but found no weapon. All he could feel were the prickles of his own need to shave. Sparrow? I feel pain at my throat. What are they doing to you?
Achan heard Sparrow speaking aloud to the men. He rambled, sobbing, hysterical. He’s in a dark room… Two men are with him… The one who attacked me is there. I cannot— Sparrow sobbed, then quietly, like a whisper, Achan, do you want to be found?
Achan glanced at his captors. No. I don’t think so.
I cannot see anything else, Sparrow said aloud to Lord Nathak.
Lord Nathak slapped Sparrow with the back of his hand then pressed the blade to the boy’s throat again. Find him! Your life depends on it.
No, Lord Nathak, Hadar said. You must let me do this.
Sparrow gasped and broke into a long sob. The boy’s pain and regret seeped into Achan, bringing tears to his own eyes. He could hear Sparrow’s feelings.
It is too difficult to keep up this charade, the boy thought. I cannot pretend any longer. I want to go home to be with—
Sparrow let out a high-pitched scream. Achan winced as an icy vise gripped his head. Only it was Sparrow’s head that was hurting. Sparrow’s ears that were tingling.
Sparrow?
Hello, young man, Hadar’s cold voice rang loud between Achan’s ears. Vrell is helping me to reach you. Aren’t you, Vrell?
Achan heard Sparrow whimper.
What have you done to him? Achan asked.
He’ll be fine. A little weak, perhaps, but he’ll recover. Lord Nathak cannot hear us, gifted one. So listen carefully. I have a proposition for you that does not involve him.
I’m not interested in your propositions.
Is not Vrell your friend?
Achan paused, thinking of how Sparrow had taken care of him, maybe saved his life. But the little snoop had read his letter. That’s debatable.
Sir Caleb prodded Achan’s shoulder. “What do you hear?”
Achan ignored him. He needed to know what Hadar wanted.
Your bloodvoice is very strong, Achan. I can mold you into a powerful man. Meet me at dawn tomorrow behind the tavern called Mig’s Pit.
Why should I?
I hold Vrell’s life in my hands.
There was a long silence and the pressure from the old man’s mind lessened its hold on Sparrow. Achan heard the old man speak aloud. I can see no more than Vrell, Lord Nathak. A dark bedchamber and two men. I don’t recognize either, and now the squire has—
Achan regretfully pulled back and closed his mind. Goosebumps broke out on his arms at the sudden warmth. Or was that the lack of coldness? The gods had truly forsaken him, if there were any gods. The moment he was free of one crazy, manipulative master, he was forced into the service of another.
He looked at Sir Caleb, who was staring intently at him. “What do you want? Do you want to teach me too?”
“Teach you what?”
“How to use my oh-so-powerful gift?”
“I don’t give a pig’s eye about your gift.” Sir Caleb got up and stoked the fire. “I just do as I’m told. What did you hear?”
But Achan wasn’t sure he trusted these men any more than Nathak or Hadar. His wrists chafed against the rope that bound him. He inched around until he was on his side and could see Sir Caleb. “What’s so great about bloodvoicing anyway?”
“Well, for me and Inko, bloodvoicing is one of the reasons for our recruitment and quick promotion in the Kingsguard. The ability makes us better soldiers.”
“You’re both Kingsguards?”
“Old Kingsguards, in case you were not noticing,” Inko said.
“At least I still have color in my hair,” Sir Caleb said.
Inko snorted. “Very little of it.”
Achan lifted his head. “You’re Old Kingsguards? Do you know Sir Gavin?”
Sir Caleb smirked. “Aye. The name sounds familiar.”
Achan’s head turned between the two knights, studying their expressions. “Well, why should Lord Nathak care so much about me?” Achan asked. “I’m nothing to anyone.”
Sir Caleb blinked his wide eyes. “The question itself should lead you to some conclusions.”
“It does not.”
A pounding rattled the door. Achan pushed himself into a sitting position, hoping this might be his chance to escape. Though how far he could get with his ankles bound, he didn’t know.
Inko’s eyes glazed slightly and he broke into a narrow smile. “What has been taking you so long?” He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Sir Gavin bounded into the chamber.
Achan broke into the first true smile in days. His stomach filled with light, joyous air.
Sir Gavin was a mess. He looked like a hunchback with his red cape jutting out over a massive backpack. The cape was soiled with dirt and as wrinkled as his forehead. His beard braid frizzed out so much that Achan almost couldn’t see the braid.
“Did you come on foot?” Sir Caleb asked.
“The forest is vast, my friends. Still, I made a two-weeks’ journey from Tsaftown in five days. Was that not fast enough for you?” Sir Gavin looked to Achan and bared his wolfish teeth in a wide smile. “Hello, Achan.” Then he frowned at Inko and Caleb. “Was it necessary to bind him?”
“Yes.” Inko shut the door and settled back in his chair. “He is otherwise being a handful of ants.”
Sir Gavin dropped his pack and crossed to the bed.
“Careful,” Sir Caleb said. “He’s gifted strong. He comes into you with massive force.”
Sir Gavin smiled and winked his brown eye. “Aye, he does.” He sat on the bed and loosened the bonds on Achan’s wrists. “I’d expect nothing less from this one.”
“You sent them to free me?” Achan rubbed his wrist, then the other. “Why didn’t they just say they were with you?”
Sir Gavin shrugged and looked to Sir Caleb. “Why didn’t you just say so, Caleb?”
“I barely understand this mission, Gavin. You expect me to spill my guts to a stranger? I left the business of talking to you. He has been bloodvoicing with a boy in Lord Levy’s manor. Lord Nathak seeks him.” Sir Caleb sat on Achan’s other side and put his elbows on his knees. “Tell us, boy, what did you discover?”
Sir Gavin looked at Achan, his mustache curling up in another smile. “You’ve learned to bloodvoice?”
“Sort of. Sparrow taught me some.” Achan paused, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “He says I’m strong, and his master wants to take me as an apprentice.”
“Wait.” Sir Gavin put a hand on Achan’s shoulder. “Who’s this Sparrow?”
“Lad who was with him in the dungeon,” Sir Caleb said. “Pudgy little thing. Screams like an old hag.”
“A criminal?”
“Macoun Hadar’s apprentice,” Achan said. “Sparrow took care of my wounds. Used to apprentice for an apothecary before the Kingsguards took him.”
“He’s the one who called out to me then!” Sir Gavin reached down and untied Achan’s ankles.
Achan’s eyes widened. “Sparrow called out to you? When?”
“Two nights ago. He said your life was in danger and gave me the location of your cell. Freeing you couldn’t wait until I arrived, so I sent Inko and Sir Caleb.”
Sparrow had called Sir Gavin? Then he had saved him. And now he was suffering at the hands of Nathak and Hadar. He had to try to help his fellow stray, this Vrell Sparrow.
Sir Gavin tugged on his beard braid. “You say the boy is Macoun Hadar’s apprentice?”
Achan nodded. “Who is Macoun Hadar, anyway? Some royal cousin?”
“He’s King Johan’s illegitimate son.” Sir Gavin slipped off his boots and stretched his legs out. “Which makes him King Axel’s uncle, of sorts. He’s not to be trusted, Achan. Macoun Hadar operates on his own agenda. And his age drives him to desperation.”
“What do you mean?”
“He goes through several apprentices a year, uses them to do what he cannot. He spies on people. Knows more secrets than Arman himself.”
Achan smirked. “Can’t be that bad, then. Arman knows nothing compared to Isemios.”
Inko sat straight up in his chair. “What? Isemios? The boy is not already believing in the Way?”
“Why would he?” Sir Gavin said. “Who in Sitna would have taught him right? They worship Cetheria there.”
Inko shook his head. “I am being much hesitant, Gavin. Are you having certainty about this — absolute certainty?”
Sir Gavin yawned. “I am, old friend. But even if I’m wrong, his character speaks for itself. And anything would be better than what we have now.”
Achan kept trying to follow but could not understand this thread of conversation.
“But there is Prince Oren,” Sir Caleb said. “He is a believer, at least.”
Sir Gavin folded his arms. “We shall take it before the Council and see if the truth will set us all free.”
“Wait!” Achan yelled. “What are you talking about?”
Sir Gavin patted Achan’s shoulder. “Nothing to worry yourself with today, lad. Did you learn anything from this Sparrow?”
Achan reluctantly let his confusion go. “He could sense this room, but not its location. He sensed two men with me. Then Hadar used Sparrow to speak with me.”
Inko sucked in a sharp breath.
Sir Gavin’s eyes zeroed in on Achan’s. “What did he say?”
“He wants me as his apprentice. He said he has a proposal for me that doesn’t involve Lord Nathak. And he said if I don’t meet him at dawn, Sparrow will die.”
“Fire and ash!” Inko jumped from his chair and paced to the door. “I am telling you, we should not be mingling with this man.”
Sir Gavin turned to Inko. “We’re not mingling with him. We’re avoiding him.”
“But he will be sitting there to be hearing it all. To be knowing our plans.” Inko motioned to Achan. “It could be that he is listening right now.”
Achan scowled. “I know how to block.” Thanks to Sparrow.
“Don’t worry,” Sir Gavin said. “He’d find out soon enough regardless. It’s in Arman’s hands. He’ll see justice done.”
Achan grew ill of this coded banter. “What of Sparrow? Can’t we help him? He’s a smart little twig. And he’s helped me more than once. Maybe you could use a healer like him on your assignments.”
“We don’t get assignments anymore,” Sir Caleb said. “We’ve been banished.”
“By who?”
“The Council of Seven,” Sir Gavin said. “I’m the only one who still gets to serve, though even I am not considered an active Kingsguard. I don’t know how much longer they’ll use me at all. Over the past few years, Lord Nathak has corrupted several Council members. As have Macoun Hadar, Lord Levy, and a dozen others. They all seek to fulfill personal agendas.”
Sir Gavin sighed. “When Prince Gidon takes the throne, the downward spiral will happen quickly. All who seek truth are being banished or killed. Their false gods have corrupted their minds. They’ve all lost their way and will drag Er’Rets into chaos and war if something isn’t done.”
War? A chill ran over Achan. “What can be done?”
“You’ll soon see.” Sir Gavin twisted his beard. “Now, tell us where you’re to meet Macoun Hadar, and we shall try to save your little friend.”
Vrell woke on the floor in front of the fireplace in Master Hadar’s bedchamber. She focused in on a kettle hanging above the flames. Her head throbbed as if someone had taken an axe to it.
Then she remembered: Master Hadar had used her to speak to Achan. What had they discussed? Why had it hurt so? Because she had not invited him in? Or had he used her physical strength to compensate for his own?
She struggled to her feet, thankful Lord Nathak was gone. Master Hadar sat writing at his desk. She glanced at the windows and saw that it was dark outside. Still night.
Master Hadar rose from his desk. “Good. You’re awake.” He walked to his sideboard. “Sit, sit. I’ll tend your wound.”
Vrell lifted her fingers to her throat and released a trembling breath. The crusty scratch stung at her touch, but it could not be bad if the blood had dried. Why had Master Hadar not cleaned it already? She shakily lowered herself onto the stool at the table by his bed and fought back tears. What would Bran say if he knew Vrell had been threatened at knifepoint twice since leaving home? Not only threatened, but cut by deranged men?
She needed to find Sir Rigil. The sooner the better. Hope welled inside. With Achan safe, she could now leave here without any worries. And she would. As soon as Master Hadar dismissed her.
Master Hadar offered a wet towel. “It’s only a scratch. I doubt you’ll even need a salve.”
“Thank you.” Vrell pressed the cool cloth to her neck.
Master Hadar hurried to the fireplace and carried the steaming kettle to the sideboard. “Some tea will calm you. Lord Nathak’s temper sometimes causes accidents.”
Vrell watched him fiddle with different canisters. Why was he being so nice? Never had he offered her tea. Rarely had she seen him so much as move, yet now he flitted about his chamber like a firefly.
He carried a mug of tea and a slice of bread to the table and set it before her. A blue vein pulsed on his forehead. “There now. That should help you feel better.”
Vrell lifted the tea to her lips and sipped. A familiar bitterness flooded her mouth. The âleh flower! Master Hadar had doused the tea with honey, but its flavor could not be masked. Was he wanting to silence her bloodvoice — or open her mind to his probing?
She pretended to sip and nibbled the bread until the tea cooled. Master Hadar sat at his desk, eyes closed. Was he speaking to someone or spying?
Vrell took her chance. She lowered the cup to her side and drained it into her right boot. The tepid, slimy liquid doused her foot, but it was better than the alternative. Plus, if Master Hadar thought she was immune to the effects of the âleh flower, perhaps he would not try to sneak the tonic on her again. Before she could finish her bread, someone knocked on the door.
Master Hadar said, “Enter,” without opening his eyes.
Jax ducked through the doorway, followed by Khai. The men were dressed in their Kingsguard uniforms.
Vrell smiled, glad to see her giant friend. “Hello, Jax.”
“How are you, young Vrell? Faring well in your apprenticeship, I hope?”
Vrell nodded.
Jax’s gaze lost focus, as did Khai’s.
Vrell looked to Master Hadar, wondering what he was voicing to them. She tried to hear, but their connection was secure. A sudden notion grew deep within her. What if Master Hadar had discovered she was a woman? She had no memory of what he had said to Achan when he had jumped though her. Maybe he had discovered the truth while he was in her head.
Then why give her the silencer?
Khai’s eyes snapped open. He sneered and stepped toward Vrell. She shuddered as if millions of ants crawled over her skin. They knew! Jax also walked toward Vrell, although his expression was somber.
Arman save her, it was all over.
“Jax?” Vrell slipped off her stool and backed into the corner, hoping to appeal to the kinder man. The liquid in her right boot squished around her foot.
“It’ll be all right, lad,” he said. “Don’t fight, and you’ll be fine.”
Khai reached her first and snagged her by the hair. Vrell gasped.
Jax lunged forward and pulled Khai away. “If you’re going to be cruel, I’ll do it. He’s just a boy.”
Vrell froze, ignoring her stinging scalp. Boy? Praise Arman — they didn’t know. But what were they doing, then?
Jax frowned and pulled a length of cord from his belt. “I need to tie your arms, Vrell. And your ankles. Would you like to sit first?”
Bind her? What was this madness? “Why?”
“No talking!” Master Hadar snapped.
Vrell’s ears tingled.
Jax mi Katt.
Vrell opened her mind.
It’s all right, Jax said. I’ll watch over you.
Vrell offered her hands to the giant, thankful Arman had chosen him for this insane moment. Jax bound her wrists in front, then her ankles, and helped her sit in the corner.
“Master,” Vrell said. “Why are you doing this? What have I done?”
Khai helped himself to Vrell’s bread and stood over her, looking out the window. He chewed with his mouth open, a nasty combination of slurping and smacking.
“Please, Master. I promise to do better.”
The old man ignored her. He just continued writing with his quill. Jax shot her several apologetic glances.
When Jax had finished binding her, she expected him to pick her up and carry her off somewhere. Perhaps on some new boat trip, or maybe to Achan’s former cell in the dungeon. But Jax just backed away and sat against the hearth. Khai stood at the window. And Master Hadar dipped his quill into the ink and started in on a fresh scroll. So why had they bound her?
No one spoke for a long time. Vrell’s ears tickled again and again with no declaration of who was knocking. Dozens of attempts to enter her mind failed. She glanced at Master Hadar. It had to be him. He thought she’d taken the âleh tonic and that her mind would now be easier to invade. Hopefully, all these failures would make him think she was immune to âleh.
She pressed her ear against the wall, attempting to ease the itch. The toes on her right foot felt cold and wet. A whisper and footsteps drew near. She closed her eyes. Someone nudged her side. Khai. She would recognize the point of his boot anywhere.
The weasel hissed, “He sleeps, Master.”
“Very well. Come to the fire and we’ll make our plan.”
“Why not tell the boy?” Jax’s low voice rumbled. “He’s loyal. I’m sure he’d help.”
“No,” Master Hadar said. “Should something go wrong, I’ll need to sacrifice him. And I doubt anyone is that loyal.”
Vrell stiffened. Sacrifice?
Khai’s steps faded with his voice. “He hides a secret, Master. Did you discover it?”
“No. Vrell’s mind is a strongbox. Nothing I do can penetrate it. I forced myself into his mind to jump yesterday, but he managed to keep his walls up the whole time. Even now, after the âleh tea, I sense nothing. It’s amazing. If only I could find such immunity for myself.”
Vrell smiled in the darkness and wiggled the pruned toes in her right boot.
“What is your plan?” Jax asked.
“I seek a stronger mind,” Master Hadar said.
Khai hummed. “The new one? I’ve sensed him.”
“His power is amazing,” Master Hadar said. “Yet he’s not immune to âleh like Vrell. And I’ll need your help to see I get to keep both prizes.”
“I’ll do all I can, Master,” Khai said.
“What exactly do you want us to do?” Jax asked.
Their conversation ceased, but Vrell figured they were bloodvoicing. She drifted to sleep.
*
They left before dawn. Vrell sat in the bow of a boat, limbs still bound. Master Hadar and Khai sat together on the center bench. Jax sat at the stern of the boat, paddling down a wide canal that led away from the northern side of the stronghold. The putrid smell of the water seemed stronger in the dark.
Vrell’s eyes drooped. The surrounding darkness gave her all the more reason to go back to sleep, though her mist-soaked tunic left her chilly and uncomfortable. She felt Master Hadar’s eyes on her as the boat moved through the canal.
She still did not understand what had transpired between Achan and Master Hadar. Had they made some sort of deal? Was Achan so angry over Vrell reading his letter that he had agreed? Fear seized her heart. She should have gone to Bran when she’d had the chance.
They rowed for what seemed hours. Dawn broke and lit their surroundings to a slate murkiness. Every so often, orange torchlight blared through the thick Evenwall fog. Jax stopped the boat along a dock skirting a two-story redstone building on the corner of intersecting canals. A sign above the door read Mig’s Pit. It looked like a tavern, though the place was silent. She guessed even the reveling patrons were not up at this hour.
Master Hadar pointed to the back door of the tavern. “Sit him there.”
Jax lifted Vrell out of the boat and set her on the dock. Her wrists ached from being bound for so long.
Sparrow?
Vrell jumped. It unnerved her how Achan could penetrate her mind without any warning or knock. She scanned the canal and surrounding docks but could see very little through the thick fog. The stone buildings on the four corners of the intersection loomed above, looking dark and deserted. She did not see Achan.
She focused, closing out everything else before answering. I am here.
We’ve got a little surprise for your friends.
Please do not hurt the giant. He is kind.
For Lightness sake, Sparrow. How are we supposed to—
Achan, hush! a deep, harsh voice said. Anyone with a bloodvoice can hear you, lad. You need more practice, and this is not the time for it.
Vrell looked to where Khai and Master Hadar stood whispering. She hoped Achan had not spoiled the plan. Her heart thumped fast under her chubby disguise. Finally some knightly heroes. It had been two months since she’d left Walden’s Watch. She had nearly given up hope that anyone good still existed in this cursed land.
“Hello?” A wooden dory emerged from the mist. She saw Achan rowing alone down the same wide canal that led from the Mahanaim stronghold.
“Ah!” Master Hadar rubbed his wrinkled hands together. “This way, young man.” He waved Achan toward the dock, then leaned toward Khai. “When he arrives,” he whispered, “I want him bound. Be careful. I hear he knows how to use a sword.”
“But his sword is still locked up in the dungeon, Master,” Vrell said. She did not want Khai to be too prepared. Let the weasel think it was no contest.
Worry crept over her hope as she imagined how the scene might play out. Khai likely had more experience with a sword. He’d massacred all those ebens in a breath. What if he hurt Achan?
Nonsense! Achan had the Great Whitewolf on his side.
Plus, Arman would not let Vrell get this far only to perish, would He?
The boat glided nearer, parting the layer of slime like film on pea soup that had sat out too long. Achan looked well. He wore the same clothing he had been wearing when he had been taken from the dungeon: the doeskin vest and brown shirt from his girl.
The men stared, waiting. Vrell prayed fervently. Finally Achan’s boat scraped against the dock right behind Master Hadar’s boat. Jax stepped forward to help him out.
How was this a good plan? Where was Sir Gavin?
Master Hadar wrapped his cloak tightly around him and said to Achan, “As soon as you’re bound, we’ll lower the boy into the boat.”
Bound? Achan was trading himself for her? Even if Achan did have some kind of trick planned, why would he be willing to give himself up for her? Didn’t he hate her for reading his letter?
“No,” Achan said. “Sparrow gets into the boat now, then you can bind me.”
Khai drew his massive sword. “You’ll follow the master’s rules, lad.”
“Whoa.” Achan stepped back and raised his hands.
Why hadn’t he brought a sword? What was he thinking?
Vrell caught sight of a grey-skinned man on a roof across the canal. He was gathering a rope, which slowly lifted out of the water, dripping with slime. As he pulled the rope, Achan’s boat tugged away from the dock. No one else noticed. Something creaked overhead. Vrell looked up to see another rope being lowered over the side of the building, right above her head.
A ping thronged in Vrell’s temples. Sir Gavin Lukos.
She opened to him.
Sir Gavin’s voice boomed, Grab on.
The knotted end of the rope fell into her lap. She carefully tucked the knot between her legs so she could sit on it like a rope swing. Achan and Khai were still arguing when Vrell’s body lifted silently off the dock. She twisted slightly and planted her feet to keep herself steady as long as possible. It was hard to hold on with her wrists bound.
Are you secure? Sir Gavin asked.
Yes, sir.
The rope suddenly jerked up two feet, then another two. Vrell’s feet left the dock and she twisted, banging against the stone wall of the building. She tried to keep herself from spinning, but only managed to swing from side to side — over the dock, over the canal, over the dock, over the canal.
“Master!” Khai yelled, turning. “The boy!”
Vrell prayed Sir Gavin would pull quicker. She was no higher than Achan’s head. Khai’s boots thudded across the dock. Achan ran at his heels.
A flaming arrow shot out of the darkness and thunked into Master Hadar’s boat. On the roof of the building diagonally across the intersecting canals, the grey-skinned man ran down a flight of stairs, a bow looped over one arm.
Master Hadar yelled, “Put out the fire!”
Jax crouched over the side of the dock and splashed water onto the boat, but the flame only increased. Khai threaded his way around Jax and drew his sword, narrow eyes on Vrell above him.
Achan kicked him in the rear. Khai spun around, sword ready, and Achan hit the dock on his belly. The weasel turned back and swung at Vrell instead.
The sword cut the rope and Vrell fell.
Her hip scraped on the dock, and she splashed into the canal. She writhed in the tepid water, but with her wrists and ankles bound, she could not swim. Mother!
Vrell?
Mother! Mother, I’m drowning!
A hand gripped her arm and pulled.
Averella! What’s happening?
Khai’s voice boomed in her consciousness. Averella? That’s a woman’s name!
No! She drew her mind closed and jerked back, but it was too late. Khai’s grip on her arm remained firm. He groped along her undergarment for confirmation. She thrashed, kicked, and tried to bang her head into his, but he was too strong. She needed air. If she could push off the bottom, perhaps she could surface for a breath.
Something crashed against her back. A hand clawed and pounded at Khai until his hold vanished. A strong arm closed around Vrell’s waist and she was hoisted up. She choked, sucking in a gulp of thick, tepid, water that tasted like mud.
Her head burst through the surface. She gasped and sputtered until her throat stung.
Everything was in shadow. She and her rescuer were under the dock. She looked at who held her. It was Achan. He held the back of her tunic in one hand, swimming silently. His hair was matted to his scalp like black syrup. A glob of green slime clung to his cheek. He put one finger to his lips.
“Khai!” she heard Master Hadar call from the planks above. “Khai!”
“He’s there,” Jax said.
Vrell turned in the water until she spotted Khai surface in the middle of the canal. Had he already bloodvoiced her gender to Jax and Master Hadar? How had he heard her words to Mother?
Achan reached up and grabbed onto a wooden beam. “Sparrow,” he whispered. “Loop your arms over my neck.”
Vrell nodded and lifted her bound wrists out of the water. A thick glob of scum dripped off her right elbow with a loud plop. She shuddered and, through an open knot in the wooden dock, met Jax’s eyes.
She tensed, a wave of fire shooting through every nerve. Her ears tingled and she let him in.
Be safe, Vrell, Jax bloodvoiced.
She shuddered a sigh. Thank you, Jax.
Vrell looped her wrists over Achan’s neck, and he twisted around until she hung off him like a backpack. One arm at a time, Achan pulled them along the beam under the dock, down the narrow canal, and away from Master Hadar and Jax and Khai.
A boat waited around the corner of the next intersecting canals. Sir Gavin Whitewolf and the grey-skinned man sat inside it. Sir Gavin’s hair and beard were long and white. Inko’s grey skin marked him as being of Otherling descent. The men pulled Vrell into the boat and sat her in the center.
Was she truly free? Free of Master Hadar and Lord Nathak and cruel Khai? She felt like weeping for joy.
Sir Gavin and the grey-skinned man hoisted Achan aboard next. Achan sat beside Vrell. Water ran off their clothing and pooled at their feet.
“Thank you, Inko,” Achan said.
The grey-skinned man nodded from the back of the boat. He picked up the oar and rowed away with more precision and speed than Jax ever had.
Achan wiped the gunk from his face and spit into the canal. “That water’s vile.”
Vrell smiled and thanked Arman for her rescue. Achan untied her wrists. Her wet clothing clung to her and she shivered.
Sir Gavin sat in the bow. He turned to look at Vrell. “We need to get Achan’s sword, Vrell. We will not have time later. Can you help us?”
Go back? Vrell had no desire to set foot in the Mahanaim stronghold again, especially now that Khai knew her identity. But she could not very well tell her rescuers no. “Um, there are two guards at the dungeon gate. One holds the key to the strongbox.”
Inko steered the boat through the canals. Vrell untied her ankles, glad to have the use of her limbs again. The craft sailed toward a decaying yellowstone building too fast for Vrell’s comfort. They were aimed for a hole in the stone wall that didn’t quite look big enough to fit though.
“Watch your heads.” Sir Gavin put out a hand and helped guide the boat through the opening.
Darkness swept over them as they entered the building. Vrell blinked to adjust her eyes, but there was no light. What if they crashed?
As if in answer to her fears, a torch whooshed to flame in the bow of the boat. It cast an orange glow over Sir Gavin’s head. Inko paddled though a series of openings in stone walls. They were going under the buildings.
“Is this the way you took me out?” Achan asked.
“It is,” Inko said.
The boat entered a cavern. Legions of dripstones hung from the ceiling, but they did not rain perspiration as they had in the Xulon hot springs. Vrell thought of Peripaso’s underground home. Oh, to be there instead of heading back toward the place where people knew her secret!
Inko stopped the boat at a stone ledge. They climbed out and Sir Gavin led the way through a gaping crack in the cavern wall.
The smell of minerals was strong as Vrell zigzagged with the men through dark tunnels lit only by Sir Gavin’s torch. They climbed a crude staircase that had been chiseled out of the rock. At the top, the stone closed in so that Vrell’s shoulders brushed each side. The men, with their broad shoulders, had to walk sideways.
Sir Gavin stopped and wedged his torch in a crack in the rock wall. “We’ll leave this here,” he whispered.
Vrell followed the men away from the light. Blackness surrounded them again, and Vrell bumped into Achan’s back. The men had stopped. A dull orange glow filled a narrow slit between two rocks. Vrell peered through the opening into a corridor and saw that this tunnel had brought her to a place between the first and second dungeon levels. There had been a way to escape.
“Gavin and I will be getting the sword,” Inko said in his strange accent. “Be waiting here.”
Sir Gavin and Inko slipped out into the corridor.
Vrell wrung her hands together. She could only see a sliver of Achan’s face in the dim light penetrating the crack. “Why do they want to get your sword so badly?”
The one eye of his that was visible flicked to hers. “Don’t really know. Sir Gavin gave it to me. Said it belonged to a friend.”
It must have special meaning then, for Sir Gavin to come back for it.
Achan’s gaze was intense. “What did the letter say?”
A sudden warmth washed over Vrell at the thought of Achan’s letter. Maybe he wanted to make peace. He had gone to great lengths to rescue her, after all. Should she apologize? Perhaps Achan hadn’t read it because he could not read. Typical then, that he’d thrown the letter out before asking for help. Men were stubborn about such things. “You never read it?”
His voice sounded strained. “I meant to, but I didn’t want Gidon to catch me.”
Vrell loved how Achan called the prince Gidon, like he was no better than anyone else. “I cannot remember it word for word, but—”
“She can’t spell.”
“I noticed.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Tell me.”
Vrell was glad for the dark. The whole thing was desperately awkward. “Well, she said you were her true Kingsguard knight. She wanted you to run away from the prince. She wanted to marry you and not…Riga, was it? She loves you.”
He blew out a sigh. “Figured it was something like that.”
“Why did you throw it away?”
His feet shuffled. “Because it didn’t matter what she wrote. It changes nothing.”
Vrell’s stomach tightened. “How can you say that? It must have broken her heart to write those words. You should have cherished it.”
He scoffed. “So I can read it again and again, dragging myself through the memories? That would be torture. Sparrow, you should have been born a woman.”
Vrell bit her lip, then shoved Achan, figuring that was what a boy would do when called a woman. She chose her next words carefully. “What’s wrong with remembering?”
“It hurts, that’s what. And I want to forget. That’s why I tossed it.”
“Could you go back for her?”
His tone grew sharp. “I thought you said you read it. Look. I was just curious. I don’t want to discuss this. Ever again. She married someone else. End of story.”
“Well,” Vrell said, feeling irked, “it is a terrible story.”
Achan sighed bitterly. “Welcome to my life. Seriously, is there somewhere we can drop you off? Because I attract trouble. You do know achan means ‘trouble’ in the ancient tongue? That’s me in a nutshell. The gods — or God, if you must — never let up with the trouble in my life. Something big and bad is probably about to happen any moment. Just you wait.”
But nothing happened. After another ten minutes Sir Gavin and Inko returned with Achan’s sword. They went back to the boat, and Inko paddled them through the darkness to a different yellowstone building, five floors high.
They went to a room on the third floor. The small space was the same one Vrell had seen through Achan’s mind when he had been taken.
The shaggy kidnapper who had broken Achan out of the dungeon was waiting for them, a pile of clothing heaped on the bed beside him. His nose wrinkled. “What happened? Did you swim in the canal?”
“We’ve no time, Caleb,” Sir Gavin said. “The Council of Seven convenes in an hour to decide Prince Gidon’s fate. We need to be there and be presentable, especially Achan.”
Achan’s eyebrows sank. “Why me?”
No one answered. The shaggy Sir Caleb grumbled under his breath and dug through the clothing. He tossed a blue bundle to Vrell. She caught it and stood awkwardly hugging the garments to her chest. Sir Caleb steered Achan before the fireplace and unlaced his doublet. Inko poured water from a kettle into a basin.
Sir Caleb peeled Achan’s doublet over his shoulders and tossed the soppy doeskin in the corner. Then he jerked Achan’s shirt up his chest. “Arms up, make it quick.”
Achan groaned and lifted his arms.
Vrell swallowed. Would they unclothe him fully? Worse, was someone going to help her change too? “Is there a privy? I need to—”
“You will be finding it on the left down the corridor,” Inko said. “Be knocking seven times to be coming back inside here.”
Vrell fled. She found the privy straight away. The smell struck her like a slap to the face. Nothing inside but a jagged hole cut in a wooden ledge. Vrell took a deep breath and stepped inside. The room was so small she whacked her hand on the wall as she turned. There was no water basin.
She peeled off her black leggings and grey tunic and dropped them down the hole. Good riddance. She loosened her undergarment and let herself breathe a moment. The smell of mildew and body odor of her undergarment rose over the stench of the privy. Where would she clean it now? Would she smell like the Mahanaim canals until she was safely home? Would she ever get home, now that someone knew her secret?
Home. Mother. Vrell sat over the hole and closed her eyes. She thought of home, the vineyards, the manor, her mother’s auburn hair. Weeping, she sent a knock. Mother?
Mother’s fearful voice came strong. My darling, are you all right?
Tears poured down Vrell’s cheeks as she told her mother all that had happened.
I cannot understand how he overheard me. No one has overheard me all this time. Why him? Why now?
You were panicked and he was touching you. Both are reason enough for a trained man to break though someone’s defenses.
What now, Mother? We are going back to the Council. Sir Gavin plans something. I do not want to go back.
Yet it is the only way for you to locate Sir Rigil or Prince Oren. Averella, you must. Stay by Sir Gavin’s side, and no harm will come to you, I am sure. He is a good man. But do not reveal your true self until you hear from me. Stay with Sir Gavin and away from Macoun Hadar.
But Mother, the Council is convening and you are not here? What has happened?
In his latest attempt to win my hand, Lord Nathak has destroyed most of our wells and cut off our route to the SiderosRiver. We are making do with help from the north, but I did not dare travel now. He has posted sentries around the perimeter of the manor. Anillo has my proxy. All should be well.
Vrell processed this. Lord Nathak was a horrible fool. Did he truly think he could imprison and blackmail Mother into his good favor? Or do so by Vrell’s marriage to the prince? Will this never end, Mother? Is there no one who will help us?
Arman will help us, dearest.
This is the last place I’d ever thought I’d be. In the room when they vote for Prince Gidon to be king. What if I am discovered? Khai could have told the whole stronghold by now. What if the prince should still claim me?
Stay close to Sir Gavin. I will watch through you. Do not try to speak to me or see me, for someone may be watching you and my connection could make you weak. Keep your wits about—
Vrell waited a moment. Mother? She sensed no connection, so she concentrated and called out again. Mother?
The privy’s stink suddenly seemed overwhelming. She coughed and tucked her nose into her elbow. Mother!
Vrell prayed and prayed and called for her mother again and again, but there was no answer. Had something happened? Vrell didn’t want to fret unnecessarily, but Mother had said that Lord Nathak’s men were all around the stronghold. What if they had done something to Mother?
Through heavy tears, Vrell changed into the blue tunic and black trousers Sir Caleb had provided, both of which were far too big for her. She tucked the pant legs into her wet boots and cinched the rope belt tight around her waist. She hoped she had taken long enough that the men would be properly clothed. They would just have to deal with the canal water smell that clung to her corset and hair. She would not be having a bath in their presence.
Sure enough, when Inko opened the door, she found Achan cleanshaven and dressed for court. Her stomach somersaulted at the sight. They had dressed him in a blue shirt as deep as Lady Fallina’s cobalt gown. A black leather doublet fit snugly around his torso. He wore his sword with the beautiful crossguard, black trousers, and a pair of shiny black boots. His hair was wet and shaggy around his face. Clearly they were not finished.
Still…
“You, uh, look nice,” Vrell said. She couldn’t help but notice that they matched. She was dressed as Achan’s page.
Achan scowled. “I smell like rosewater.”
“No.” Sir Caleb tugged a comb through Achan’s hair. “You smell like canal water, despite my best efforts. I didn’t know I’d need to prepare a bath.”
“Sparrow’s sorry for falling into the canal. Aren’t you, Sparrow?” Achan grinned, then grimaced as Sir Caleb tugged a knot out of his hair. “Must you do that? Am I going to tournament?”
“Worse. You’re going before the Council.”
Sir Gavin and Inko sat down at a small table on the opposite side of the room. Vrell stood by the door, unsure what to do.
“But why take me to the Council?” Achan asked. “They want to kill me, remember? Why rescue me only to take me back?”
“He’s such a whining squire, Gavin,” Sir Caleb said, yanking the comb through another tangle. “How ever did you put up with him?”
“It’s time.” Sir Gavin stood. “Finish his hair in the boat.” He glanced at Vrell appraisingly. “Good enough. Let’s go.”
They traipsed back down to the dory. Vrell sat on the center bench beside Achan, her heart stampeding in her chest. Sir Gavin sat in the front. Sir Caleb sat in the back with Inko, who paddled the boat from the yellowstone building down wider, more-traveled canals, heading toward the front entrance of the Mahanaim stronghold. Sir Caleb braided Achan’s hair into a tail as they drew near.
Inko rowed until they came to the northern curtain wall. Then, instead of entering there, he turned left and paddled along the wall. Suddenly, bright, warm sunlight washed over them. Vrell shielded her eyes and twisted around to see the Evenwall mist fading away. The air was still muggy, but a warm breeze tightened the pores on her face. Judging from the position of the sun, she determined it to be near lunchtime.
Vrell studied Achan, seeing him for the first time in full daylight. When she’d first met his eyes in the Evenwall, she’d thought they were grey. But the mist, and later the dungeons, had made everything dim. Here in the morning sun, she saw that his eyes were the brightest blue she had ever seen. He was clearly of kinsman descent. Looking at him in such light, there was something almost familiar about him.
They turned at the gatehouse entrance and glided under the open portcullis. Dozens of empty boats lined the edges of the canal along the same stone ledge where Jax had first brought Vrell, only today they were coming from the opposite direction. Many had come to Council today. For locals, the vote for Prince Gidon was something not to miss. Goose pimples freckled Vrell’s arms, and she sucked in a deep breath of humid air. She did not want to be here.
Achan asked the question that Vrell already knew the answer to. “What is happening in the Council today that we need to be there?”
“Gidon will be presented,” Sir Gavin said. “He’ll announce his intended bride, thus clearing the way for him to take the throne. The Council will vote on whether or not he is ready to be king.”
Inko’s voice came from behind. “And whom will he be marrying?”
Vrell tensed and watched Sir Gavin with interest.
“I know not,” Sir Gavin said, stroking his beard. “Nor can I imagine any lady who would willingly have him, even for the title of queen. He’s such a pestilence.”
Inko chuckled. “Those are treasonous words you are speaking, my friend.”
Vrell smirked, then remembered Lady Jacqueline’s jealousy of Lady Mandzee. There were plenty of ladies willing to sink that low.
Inko steered their boat up to the ledge, and it knocked against the empty crafts on either side.
Sir Gavin tied the boat to a peg. “When he is king, Gidon may hang me. Until then…”
Vrell offered up her knowledge as they climbed out of the dory. “I believe, sir, that the prince has settled on Lady Mandzee Hamartano of Jaelport. I heard Lord Levy say as much to his daughter.”
Vrell prayed that it would go as Lord Levy had suggested. That the prince would have finally chosen another. That he and Lord Nathak would have given up on trying to control the north. Though if her recent conversations with her mother were any indication, that was not the case. She only hoped Gidon would have at least chosen another bride.
Inko turned to Sir Gavin. “An alliance with Jaelport would be making the south quite strong.”
“Better for us than his having control of the north,” Sir Gavin said.
The group climbed the narrow stairs and walked across the cobblestone courtyard to the entrance of the Mahanaim fortress. There were no throngs of people as Vrell expected. Probably because Vrell’s group was late. She had hoped to blend in with the crowd. What madness was Sir Gavin plotting? The entrance to the chambers was at the front of the room. If they walked in while the Council was already in session, they would draw the notice of everyone in the room.
Vrell dwelled on this fear as she followed Sir Gavin through the spacious but empty foyer. The golden doors to the Council auditorium were propped open. Sir Gavin led them single file along the entry corridor, past his own limestone bust and broken shield, to the inner doors. Vrell tensed, her pulse pounding in her temples. Sir Gavin pushed the doors open with a bang and strode inside, his boots clicking over the white and black speckled marble floor.
Vrell cringed. So much for staying out of sight.
They entered the packed auditorium. A raised platform stretched along the front wall. The seven Council members, a ruling lord from each duchy in Er’Rets, sat at a high table in ornate chairs. They each wore long black robes. Lord Levy sat in the center of the high table and wore a tall drum-like hat to signify his position as chairman over the proceeding.
Grandstands rose three stories high in a half circle around the high table. In the center front of the grandstands, Prince Gidon sat on a throne, facing the high table. A small wooden platform enclosed with half walls sat off to the right of the high table. Here, men and women were called to testify in a trial. New Kingsguardsmen lined the wall behind the witness platform. Three more stood just inside the entrance, only feet from where Vrell stood. Vrell scanned the guards for Jax or Khai but did not see either.
Hundreds of spectators filled the stands. Nobles and wealthy merchants occupied the lower seats. Peasants and slaves sat near the stone ceiling. Several nobles in front directed their attention to Sir Gavin as he barreled into the chambers. She caught sight of Bran and Sir Rigil sitting in the fifth row from the floor. Her heart fluttered. She only needed to get a moment to speak with them in private.
Vrell studied the faces of the Council leaders. She saw Prince Oren Hadar, Sir Dovev Falkson, Duke of Berland, Sir Yagil Hamartano, Duke of— Wait. Her mother was absent, yet seven seats were filled. Who had taken Mother’s seat? She had expected to see Anillo, the advisor Mother had sent with her proxy, but that was not him in her spot.
The Council session had already begun. The crowd was unnaturally silent. Lord Levy, who was chairman of the Council of Seven, was moderating in an appropriately bored voice.
“We accept the report from the steward from Hamonah.” Lord Levy looked up from his notes and turned to the door where Sir Gavin, Vrell, Achan, Inko, and Sir Caleb had entered. Lord Levy frowned. “What’s this? Sir Gavin?”
Sir Gavin paced into the center of the room and shouted, “I’ve come to make a claim before Arman and this Council.”
A murmur rose from the stands. Vrell heard Sir Gavin’s name. Some pointed at him.
Just then, Vrell spotted the impostor on the Council. Lord Nathak squirmed in Mother’s seat at the end of the platform, his eye flickering over Sir Gavin’s group. Vrell scowled. Who had given the seat to Lord Nathak? Certainly not Mother. And no one else had authority to do so. Where was Anillo?
“I’m sorry, Sir Gavin,” Lord Levy said, “but the time for new business is over. You will have to wait until next month.”
“The business I bring cannot wait. It must be dealt with today.” Sir Gavin strode to the center of the room and stood facing Lord Levy. “I’ve come before this Council to shed light on the truth.” Sir Gavin pointed to Lord Nathak. “This man, Sir Luas Nathak, has deceived us all.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Vrell’s arms prickled. What was this? Did Sir Gavin have some way of incriminating Lord Nathak? Perhaps he knew of how he had been pressuring Mother.
Lord Levy leaned forward, scowling. “See here, Sir Gavin. You cannot storm into my Council room and make such a claim. Explain yourself.”
Sir Gavin turned to face the audience. “All these years Lord Nathak has foisted a deception upon us all. We know the story. Good Lord Nathak discovers young Gidon Hadar in a field near Allowntown at age three. The boy’s parents tragically murdered. Good Lord Nathak takes him in to raise as his own and to prepare him to take the throne. But that man”—Sir Gavin pointed to Prince Gidon, who sat on a throne-like chair, looking slightly bored—“is not Gidon Hadar.”
The crowd burst into rattling chatter. Vrell stared at Prince Gidon. Could it be? Was the pig not really the prince after all? Maybe this would end well. If the man was not a prince, he could not force her to marry him, even if she should be discovered.
Lord Levy banged his gavel again and again. “Silence. I will have order in my Council chambers.”
But before the voices quieted, Lord Nathak stood so quickly, his chair fell behind him. “I contest!” He glared at Sir Gavin. “How dare you interrupt this Council with such an accusation. Do you have proof?”
“My proof lies in the truth,” Sir Gavin said dramatically. “Chairman Levy, I beg you to call Lord Nathak to testify — before the bloodvoice mediators.”
A collective gasp filled the auditorium, and the crowd began to talk again.
Lord Nathak slammed his palms on the table. “This is an outrage!”
Lord Levy banged his gavel. “Silence! Sit down, Lord Nathak. Silence in this chamber!” When the chatter stopped, Lord Levy looked down on the Great Whitewolf. “Sir Gavin, make your claim. What is it you seek to prove?”
Sir Gavin approached the end of the table where Lord Nathak stood. The knight lifted a steady arm and pointed at the Lord of Sitna Manor. “I charge that Sir Luas Nathak did indeed find the child Gidon Hadar, the true heir to the throne. Yet before returning him to this council, he substituted his own son in his place.”
Vrell jerked her gaze to Sir Gavin, mouth gaping. Could this be true?
The crowd erupted in reaction, gasping, crying out, and shouting all manner of comments.
Prince Gidon had straightened, sitting tall and stiff on his throne. His brow crinkled, he stared at Sir Gavin as if willing the man to burst into flame.
“Preposterous!” Lord Nathak yelled, his voice shrill.
“Calm yourself, Nathak,” Levy said. He turned to Sir Gavin. “Then what, pray tell, did Lord Nathak do with the real Prince Gidon?”
“He branded him a stray and forced him to work in the kitchens of Sitna Manor.” Sir Gavin turned and pointed at Achan. “Here he is.”
Had Sir Gavin lost his mind?
Achan dug a finger inside the neck of his blue shirt and tugged. It was too tight. He couldn’t breathe. Every eye in the huge room was on him. He wanted to melt into the floor. Was the knight hoping to convince these people he was royalty? Absurd.
The crowd had gone wild, so loud that Achan could not hear any one conversation with clarity.
Lord Levy banged the gavel so hard it offset his round, bucket-like black hat. “Silence! I will have silence in this chamber!” The noise quelled to whispers. He turned his pointed, white beard to the knight. “Sir Gavin. I will not have this Council in an uproar. If you have no evidence for this wild claim, I shall have the guards escort you and your party out. Really, the idea of a stray being royal!”
“I do have evidence.”
Achan’s eyes went wide. What new strategy was this? Surely this was some game Sir Gavin was playing. Achan couldn’t be the — what would this make him? — the true prince of Er’Rets? Impossible. No, it had to be a ploy. Perhaps Sir Gavin was acting to disrupt Prince Gidon’s accession. But why? Could this be a part of the resistance Sir Rigil and Bran were a part of? Men loyal to Prince Oren?
“Then I shall hear this evidence first,” Lord Levy said. He stood. “Sir Gavin, join me in my chamber.”
Sir Gavin followed the chairman into a room on the far wall. Lord Nathak scurried there as well.
Lord Levy turned to face him before they entered the room. “No, Lord Nathak. You will wait at your seat while I decide if this claim is of merit.”
“I would like to hear the details of this outrageous claim myself,” Lord Nathak said.
“If it is warranted, you will,” Lord Levy said. “Now take your seat. Or do you need Kingsguard assistance to find it?”
Lord Nathak stormed back to the high table. He righted his chair and fell into it.
Lord Levy and Sir Gavin entered the room on the far wall. A guard shut the door, and the audience burst into talk.
Achan stood in the center of the room with Inko, Sir Caleb, and Sparrow. The Council members at the high table stared, some puzzled, some scowling. Achan purposely avoided eye contact with Lord Nathak but caught Prince Oren’s gaze. The man smiled and winked. Achan couldn’t look at him after that.
Prince Gidon sat on his throne looking as if he were being burned on the inside. Curious, Achan opened his mind to try to hear his thoughts. Instead, dozens flooded his mind at once.
A stray, our king? Never!
I knew the son of Axel and Dara would never be so cruel.
For Lightness sake! Who would have thought?
Gods help us all! We’ll have a stray as king!
But how could we not have known? How could we have missed such treason?
How could they have? It must be a mistake. Achan closed his eyes and concentrated on the allown tree, Gren, and the SiderosRiver.
A peaceful silence settled over him.
Sometime later, someone grabbed his elbow. He turned to find Sparrow looking up at him with wide, green eyes.
“Sir Caleb and Inko have sat down,” Sparrow said. “Are you well?”
His lips parted, but no words came out. He allowed Sparrow to guide him to a bench on the far right wall and settled between Sir Caleb and Sparrow. Surely this was some trick of Sir Gavin’s. It couldn’t be true. Achan wasn’t a prince. He had no parents.
Sparrow’s scratchy voice filled his head. Neither does the prince have parents, Achan.
“That doesn’t mean Prince Gidon is not who he claims to be,” Achan said. “Or that I am who Sir Gavin claims I am.”
Sir Caleb leaned close. “Use your head, boy. Gidon had whiskers at twelve. He must be nearly twenty. He cannot bloodvoice, as both King Axel and Queen Dara could. Nay. He’s Lord Nathak’s puppet. Besides, Gavin would know Axel’s child at a glance. He and the child had a bond.”
Achan stiffened. He remembered the day he’d first seen Sir Gavin watching him from the armory. Was this why Sir Gavin had made him a squire? No. It had to be a mistake. “Just because Gidon cannot bloodvoice doesn’t mean he’s not the prince,” Achan said. “Not all royals are born with it, right?”
“But Gidon Hadar was,” Sir Caleb said. “His bloodvoice was the strongest I’d ever felt in an infant.”
“For me as well,” Inko said.
Achan sighed.
“It’s true,” Sparrow said. “I remember rumors of the scandal. It was said his skill faded away. Many thought it would return when he got older, but it never did. Prince Gidon — or whoever it is sitting in that throne like a mule — does not have the gift, not even in the slightest measure.”
The door to the side chamber opened, and Lord Levy took his place at the high table. Sir Gavin returned to the center of the room, a bushy white eyebrow raised at Achan.
Achan could only stare. Would it have been too difficult for Sir Gavin to share his little plan before they had come in? A little warning would have been nice.
Lord Levy struck with his gavel. “The Council will hear evidence from Sir Gavin Lukos on the matter of the true identity of Prince Gidon Hadar.”
The audience burst into debate.
An icy chill wrapped around him. This could not be. What could Sir Gavin possibly have said to convince the chairman of this charade?
Lord Nathak leaped again from his seat at the high table. “This is outrageous. I demand to put this matter aside until I can see this evidence myself.”
“We shall all see this evidence now, Lord Nathak,” the chairman snapped. “Sit down.”
Lord Nathak lowered himself into his chair and glared at Achan, his eye smoldering.
Lord Levy lifted his chin. “The Council recognizes Sir Gavin Lukos.”
Sir Gavin stepped forward. “Greetings, honorable Council members and citizens of Er’Rets. In the past few months I’ve stumbled onto a conspiracy. As most of you know, this Council sent me to Sitna to observe Prince Gidon. I was to ascertain his level of knowledge and skill in a variety of subjects and to report back as to whether I thought him ready to take the throne.
“The prince avoided me in Sitna, helped by Lord Nathak. When cornered, the prince barely acknowledged my presence. I thought this very strange, given the powerful connection the true prince and I had had when the lad was an infant. One morning in Sitna, I sensed something familiar. When I saw the face of this stray,” he waved Achan forward, “I was drawn to him.”
Achan somehow moved to Sir Gavin’s side. Had he floated? Was he dreaming? He glanced at the Council. The scrutiny in their gaze brought a wave of heat. From then on, he kept his gaze fixed on the marble floor, inspecting the flecks of black.
The knight put his hand on Achan’s shoulder and turned Achan to face the grandstands. “I served King Axel all my life. He was my friend and confidant. I served with him through many campaigns and joys.” Sir Gavin patted Achan’s shoulder. “This boy was the mirror image of the prince I squired for in my youth! Not only that, but I sensed his ability to bloodvoice.
“I bided my time in Sitna training this lad as my squire. I discovered not only that he’s left-handed, like his father, but that he’d been forced to take âleh tonic each morning of his life, by order of Lord Nathak.”
Whispers tore through the crowd.
Achan felt sick. He ran his left fingers over his sword’s crossguard. Things that had always puzzled him were starting to make sense. But he couldn’t accept this twist of fate. It had to be a cruel prank. He stared at his new, polished boots. They stood firmly on the bright marble floor, despite the sensation that he was falling, tumbling, spinning down into a pit of shadow.
“One morning this boy managed to not have the tonic in his system. Without the âleh silencing him, suddenly those of us gifted in bloodvoices heard his discovery, sensed his power. Even from half the kingdom away.” Sir Gavin walked to the center of the high table and turned back to the audience. “This boy’s bloodvoice is so strong because he is King Axel’s son! And as such, he — and only he — is capable of bringing truth to Er’Rets and pushing back Darkness.”
Achan winced at the level of noise from the crowd. Women shrieked. Feet stomped on the wooden grandstands creating the effect of a stampede. Applause. Boos. Three young pages scurried down the stands and out the door, as if running off to report this news to someone too busy to be here.
Achan gulped, his mind spinning with questions. Pushing back Darkness? What did that mean? He couldn’t even imagine such a thing.
When the crowd’s reaction died down, Sir Gavin continued. “I entered him in Prince Gidon’s coming-of-age tournament to see how he’d fare in battle. When Lord Nathak discovered this, he not only sent this boy — named Achan Cham — back to the kitchens and forbade him to compete further, but he banished me as well. His words were, ‘The Council no longer requires your service.’”
Lord Levy glared at Lord Nathak, who leaned back in his chair, the visible half of his face slack.
“I knew then my suspicions were valid.” Sir Gavin reached into the neckline of his tunic and drew out a swatch of grey wool on a cord around his neck. “I cut this from Achan’s blanket. Over the next few weeks, I kept an eye on him through bloodvoicing.”
Achan stared at the snip of cloth. Sir Gavin had been the one to cut from his blanket under the ale casks in Poril’s cellar. Achan turned to Sparrow, the fabric collector. The boy offered a loopy grin.
Sir Gavin went on. “This Council has not heard the true story of Prince Gidon’s ambush two weeks ago. Achan has been charged with attempting to murder the Crown Prince. He was thrown into the Mahanaim dungeons. But this was more deception from Prince Gidon and Lord Nathak.
“The truth of it? Achan rescued Prince Gidon, almost single-handedly, from more than twenty poroo attackers. Through my bloodvoicing I was with him, encouraging him. I saw him save this false prince’s life and nearly lose his own. Yet Lord Nathak pressed charges. Accused him of attempted murder! When I got word of Achan’s arrest, I broke him out of the dungeons, and upon dressing him for court today—”
“Sir Gavin,” Lord Levy said. “This court does not condone breaking into our dungeons.”
“—I was reminded of one last confirmation of his true identity.” Sir Gavin strode back to Achan’s side and circled behind him. “It was well documented the infant prince bore a birthmark on his left shoulder. Not only does Achan have this mark, he bears the brand of the stray over it — despite the rule that all stray brands be placed over the right shoulder. Clearly this accident was meant to further conceal the truth.”
Achan reached over his shoulder to feel the mark. He’d always assumed he’d been branded on the left by mistake.
“He’s a fake!” someone shouted from the crowd.
“Absurd,” Lord Nathak yelled.
Lord Levy banged his gavel and stood. “I will have no more outbursts in this assembly. The next person to speak out of turn will be held in contempt.”
The room went silent.
“Continue, Sir Gavin,” Lord Levy said.
“If we compare the two young men,” Sir Gavin said, glancing at Prince Gidon, “I assure you, the evidence is stacked against this impostor. He cannot bloodvoice. He bears no birthmark. And he looks little like King Axel. Whereas this boy,” he said, turning to Achan, “can bloodvoice, does bear the mark, and looks exactly like the King Axel I knew since boyhood.” He pointed at Gidon. “This is a fake. An imposter. A puppet prince Lord Nathak substituted after finding King Axel’s signet ring.”
Achan’s gut churned. He sucked in a long breath to settle his nerves and realized he hadn’t been breathing much at all.
Someone called out from the crowd. “Let us see the birthmark!”
“Yes! Let us see for ourselves!”
Lord Levy banged his gavel. “We will examine both men for the birthmark. Step forward.”
Achan was already standing before the high table, so he continued to stare at the floor, unsure of what was to happen next.
“Um…Prince Gidon,” Lord Levy said. “We will need your participation in this matter, as well.”
Achan turned to see the prince gripping the arms of his throne. “And if I refuse?”
The chairman nodded to a burly Kingsguard knight standing at the end of the high table. The knight stalked across the room toward Prince Gidon, but the prince jumped up at the last possible second and strode forward.
He ripped open his black satin doublet and tossed it dramatically to the floor, then he pulled his red linen shirt over his head and threw it at Sir Gavin. Raising both hands above his head, he twirled in a slow circle for all to see.
He did indeed have a mark on his left shoulder. It was pink, but that was all Achan could see about it.
“You too,” the chairman said to Achan. “I call Master Ricken to the floor. Are you in the stands today?”
“Aye!” a voice called from the grandstands. A short, bald man hurried down the steps.
“Master Ricken is a medical expert I have known for many years,” Lord Levy said as a short, thin man approached Prince Gidon and Achan.
Achan unlaced his doublet and shrugged it off. He untied his shirt and pulled it over his head. He draped the fine clothing over one arm, then folded his arms together across his chest.
He didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t feel comfortable showing the audience whatever was on his back, so he faced away from them. His heart pounded in his chest and vibrated all the way to his head. He wanted a good long nap, free from whips, arrows, dungeons, Prince Gidon, Lord Nathak, bloodvoices, and standing half-naked in front of people. At that point, even his bed under the ale casks would’ve been welcome.
Master Ricken approached Gidon first. He stepped behind the prince and leaned close, humming to himself. He touched the prince’s back and Gidon flinched.
“Show us the stray’s mark,” someone yelled.
Sir Gavin nudged Achan’s elbow and nodded.
Achan gritted his teeth and turned.
The crowd gasped. A woman cried out. Achan squeezed his fists and closed his eyes, mortified to have the brutality of his life on display. He knew his back was scarred. Sir Gavin hadn’t been the first person to comment on it.
Master Ricken stepped toward him and sucked in a sharp breath. His cold fingers trailed over Achan’s shoulder and back.
Achan held his breath, not knowing what the man was looking for, not caring. He only wanted to be dismissed. He threw up a desperate prayer to Sparrow’s god. The boy claimed there was only one god, and so did the voice. It was worth a try.
Arman, help me. Why is this happening?
A burning rose in Achan’s chest like a flash of fear, but continued to swell until he felt like he’d stepped into a sauna.
For I have appointed you as king over this nation. There is no one like you among all the people.
Master Ricken jerked to the side and looked at his own hand.
Achan gasped as the heat subsided. He pressed a hand against his forehead and wiped away the sweat. He breathed deeply as his pounding heartbeat slowed, trembling at the meaning behind the words he’d just heard in his mind from that other, mighty voice. The one that had told him nothing but truth. Achan, appointed by the gods—the God? — as king over Er’Rets? A single tear fell down to his chin.
Master Ricken stepped to the high table and whispered to the chairman. He turned, glanced at Achan with bulging eyes, then walked between Achan and Gidon back into the grandstands. Achan pivoted to face the audience and hide his back. He kept his head down.
The chairman cleared his throat. “Master Ricken has served as healer to the Mahanaim stronghold the past twenty years. No one doubts the validity of his expertise in matters of health and healing. It is his professional opinion that this man, Achan, bears an oval birthmark on his left shoulder that was branded over with the mark of a stray. He claims the mark on Prince Gidon’s shoulder is not a birthmark at all, but a scar from some kind of burn, likely one that was inflicted more than once.”
Shouts rang out from all sides. Achan flinched.
The chairman pounded his gavel into the hardwood table again and again until the crowd silenced. “Thank you, Prince Gidon and Master Cham, for your willingness to submit to examination. You may both be seated.”
Achan hurried to his seat on the far left of the room and sat beside Sparrow. His wooden scabbard knocked against the bench, but he hardly noticed the sound over all the talk in the auditorium. He pulled his clothing back on with shaking arms.
Sparrow’s voice came in a gentle whisper. “It will be okay.”
Achan closed his eyes. How could anything ever be okay again? His entire life had been a lie. He had no doubt now that it was Arman who had been speaking to him. And if Arman — said to be the one true God — was real, didn’t that mean Cetheria and Isemios and the rest were false gods? But what was he to do about what Arman had said? He had no business being king. He knew nothing of ruling. He knew nothing of anything important. Peeling potatoes. Stoking a fire.
Sparrow slid his small, thin fingers into Achan’s hand and squeezed. Achan stiffened and glanced at Sparrow without moving his head. The boy squeezed again, smiled, and let go. Achan drew his hand into a fist and pulled it to his lap.
“Sir Luas Nathak,” Lord Levy said, “please take the stand.”
Lord Nathak rose from his seat and stepped down off the platform. He climbed into the witness box at the end of the high table and sat. Two men dressed in black capes came out of the side chamber. They climbed onto the platform and sat on either side of Lord Nathak.
Achan stared at the bloodvoice mediators. What did they do exactly? Were they there merely to scare Lord Nathak into speaking the truth? Or could they force the truth from him?
The chairman began, “If it is lies you hope to spread, Lord Nathak, do not bother. These two men are bloodvoice mediators, as I’m sure you know. You are also aware how bloodvoice mediators work. They are trained to sense deceit and omission. Tell us the truth, and we will take your honesty into consideration in the end. Now, by the authority of this Council, I implore you to tell us your side of this tale.”
Lord Nathak sat in silence for a long moment. “As you know,” he finally said, “I found the prince child near Allowntown, just over thirteen years ago.”
“Remind the court how you knew the child was Prince Gidon,” Lord Levy said.
“He wore the king’s signet ring on a chain ’round his neck. I took him home, uncertain of what to do at first. He was King Axel’s son, and I sensed his father’s weakness in him.”
A murmur rose in the court. Achan’s eyes widened. He’d never heard anyone claim King Axel had been weak.
Someone yelled, “Traitor!”
“Silence!” the chairman cried. “Lord Nathak, you will refrain from insulting our fallen king in this Council room.”
Lord Nathak bowed his head. “My apologies, Chairman Levy.”
“Continue.”
“My own son, Esek, had just turned four. Prince Gidon, I guessed, was nearly three. I kept the prince for several weeks, praying to the gods for guidance. Despite the age difference, the boys looked like twins. As they played together, Esek pounded the prince daily. He knocked him down, took his food and playthings. The gods’ message was clear. King Axel had ruled the same way: weak and apathetic.”
Murmurs rose again, but Lord Nathak spoke over them. “He allowed neighboring peoples to pillage our lands, our foods, our gold. If I allowed this weak prince to take the throne, I would be responsible for another generation of the same in Er’Rets.”
Fury rose in Achan’s chest. Weak? He’d been merely a babe!
Then he shook his head, surprised at his own thoughts. So now he believed this incredible story?
“Nearly six months passed before I sent word that I’d found the boy,” Lord Nathak said, with a glance at the mediators. “When I brought him to Mahanaim, I presented Esek, my son, as the prince, wearing Hadar’s signet ring. Those closest to the king had died in the attack. No one suspected. The ring was all that mattered.”
Achan glanced at Gidon, who sat with one leg casually thrown over the other as if this tale bored him. But his hands betrayed his true emotions. They gripped the sides of his throne, knuckles white.
He hadn’t known the truth either.
The chairman asked, “What became of the real Prince Gidon?”
“My cook lost his wife and child in childbirth.” Lord Nathak’s voice softened, as if trying to convince the court he was kind and thoughtful. “I urged him to raise the boy as his own. In this, they would have each other, and I would be able to watch over the boy’s safety.”
Achan scoffed. Safe at the end of Poril’s belt. Why hadn’t Lord Nathak just drowned him? There had to be more to this story than Lord Nathak was revealing. Why keep him alive?
“And you branded him a stray to hide his birthmark?” the chairman asked.
“He had food and a place to sleep. Death would have been worse.”
“And this is when you gave him the âleh tonic?”
“I have given him the âleh tonic since his first day in my household.”
Achan squeezed his fists until the veins popped out on his inner wrists.
“Why did you do this?” Lord Levy asked.
“It was well known the prince had the gift. If my plan was to work, I couldn’t have people sensing his ability.”
Lord Levy folded his hands on the tabletop. “Remind the Council how you came to the responsibility of raising the prince. You found him, yes, and presented your son in his place. But the boy should’ve passed to Prince Oren. Remind us why he was given to you to raise.”
“Nearly everyone who cared for the child had been killed along with the king and queen, or sent to IceIsland. Prince Oren took the boy in for a short period, but he sent him back.”
“Because the prince knew the boy was a fake,” Sir Gavin mumbled.
Achan looked to Prince Oren. The man sat silent, one hand gripping his chin.
Lord Nathak shrugged. “My son missed me and his mother. His silence and depression worried the advisors. With the king dead and the heir so young, this Council was formed to rule until the prince grew to manhood. This same Council granted my plea to raise the boy. I built the stronghold in Sitna to keep the child away from prying eyes. I have taught him how to be a great king. He is shrewd and wise and quick with a sword. We have negotiated his betrothal to Lady Averella Amal of Carmine, and, once wed, he will move to Armonguard to take the throne.”
Sparrow squeaked and turned pink over this latest declaration.
What was wrong with him? Achan frowned at this latest information from Lord Nathak. The Duchess of Carm had a daughter? He did not recall ever seeing the lady visit Sitna. Bran was from Carmine. Achan wondered if Bran knew of her.
A murmur rose in the fifth row of the stands. There was Bran, on his feet, face redder than from sunburn alone. Sir Rigil, the young knight Bran served, stood beside him. He whispered and tugged Bran’s elbow. Suddenly Achan could hear their conversation as if he were a fly on Bran’s shoulder. Or maybe he was looking though Bran…
I will speak, but I will not make accusations, Sir Rigil said.
Then I will, Bran said. Lord Nathak is a usurper and traitor. He holds the Duchess hostage! Her daughter has fled to avoid his son’s hand. I will not stand here and let him claim he has obtained Averella’s hand by her own choosing!
This is not a battle for today. Sir Rigil pushed down on Bran’s shoulder. Sit yourself down or I shall be forced to drag you out.
Bran fell into his chair and crossed his arms like a sullen child.
“Sir Rigil?” Lord Levy said.
Achan noticed that everyone in the chamber seemed to be watching Bran and Rigil. Even Lord Nathak had fallen silent to observe the knight and his squire.
Sir Rigil turned to the high table. “Yes, my lord chairman?”
“Have you something to add to our discussions?” Lord Levy asked.
Sir Rigil raised his voice. “I beg the Council’s pardon. Duchess Amal spoke to me of this matter, this ‘arrangement’ for marriage, when I stopped in Carmine on my way to the tournament for the prince’s coming-of-age celebration.”
The chairman banged his gavel. “The Council recognizes Sir Rigil Barak of Zerah Rock. What do you know of this matter?”
“That she has consented to no such match.”
Nor will she, Bran said at the exact moment that Achan heard Sparrow mumble it under his breath.
Sparrow glanced up at Achan and stammered. “I m-mean, she’d have to be crazy to marry him, right?”
Achan turned back to Bran. A familiar fury filled his friend’s visage. So Gidon had tried to take the woman he loved also. Achan wished the lady well, wherever she had hidden herself.
Chairman Levy sighed. He turned to face the witness stand. “Bloodvoicers, what say you? Has this man been truthful?”
The men on either side of Lord Nathak stood. One said, “He has. Though I sense he is withholding something greater. We would need more time to discern what that might be.”
“I agree,” said the second bloodvoice mediator. “I request additional time to question him further.”
Lord Levy nodded. “Very well. Lord Nathak, you are dismissed until further notice.” He addressed the audience. “We shall postpone any marital arrangements until this matter of identity is settled. The Council must take time to deliberate. We will reconvene when we have a majority vote.”
The chairman rose and left the platform, heading to the side chamber. The rest of the Council members went after him. Lord Nathak left the interrogation platform and followed the Council.
“Why does Lord Nathak go to consult?” Sparrow asked. “What part does he play in the Council of Seven?”
“He was being seated on the platform when we were arriving,” Inko said. “Something is being amiss. I shall be discovering it.” Inko slinked toward the grandstands.
Achan watched Sir Gavin. The knight stood against the wall, eyes half closed as if in a trance, despite the noise of the crowd. Achan recalled that day in the dungeon when he had “jumped” through Sparrow’s mind and witnessed Hadar and Lord Nathak’s discussion. Could he do the same now with Sir Gavin?
Achan walked to the knight’s side and stood so their shoulders touched.
Sir Gavin stirred, reached up, and gripped Achan’s shoulder. “All will be well, lad.”
Achan nodded. When Sir Gavin’s mind drifted again, Achan closed his eyes and reached.
It came easily this time. Instantly he was in a florid chamber. Carved bronze sconces pinned massive torches to the wall between vibrant tapestries. An equally impressive bronze chandelier hung above a circular table, its flickering candles illuminating the faces of the Council members. Sir Gavin was watching the Council’s deliberations! Achan was not certain whose eyes he looked out from.
The men all spoke at once, but Chairman Levy silenced them. “I want to hear from you all, one at a time. What is your will?”
The man whose mind Achan and Sir Gavin shared spoke, and Prince Oren’s voice came forth. “Esek is not the prince. He is false. He is not who we thought him to be and has no claim to the throne. He cannot rule. There is nothing to discuss.”
“Agreed,” Duke Pitney said.
Duke Pitney? Achan studied the bronze-skinned man with black hair and mustache, then glanced at each face around the table, suddenly aware of each man’s name, their duchy, their manor. He seemed privy to Prince Oren’s knowledge. How strange.
“Then we should elect you, Prince Oren?” Duke Hamartano said. Achan recognized Silvo’s father — he looked like an older version of his sons. His black hair was slicked back over his olive skin and was tied back in a tail.
“Not I,” Prince Oren said. “Our true king sits in the courtroom. He is a good, strong young man who only needs a bit of instruction.”
Achan wanted to believe that about himself, but his doubt was stronger than his desire.
Lord Nathak banged a fist on the table. “Esek has been trained to rule his whole life. The stray knows nothing of being king.”
“He is not a stray,” Prince Oren said. “And I myself shall train the boy to rule rightly. Chairman Levy, why is Lord Nathak even here? His deceit should have banned him from this debate.”
“I concur,” Duke Pitney said.
“We’ve all seen his letter of proxy,” Lord Levy said. “Duchess Amal has sent him as her emissary.”
“Rubbish,” Duke Pitney said.
Prince Oren persisted. “Shouldn’t his deceit void such a letter? I was not aware the Council was so forgiving where treason was concerned.”
“Treason!” Lord Nathak leaned past Duke Orson’s hairy profile to glare at Prince Oren.
Duke Hamartano’s voice came smooth. “Your brother’s lax rule nearly destroyed Er’Rets, Prince Oren. The Council has only just managed to set a level of order.”
“Do not confuse compassion with neglect, Duke Hamartano. My brother was loved by the people.”
Grey-skinned Duke Falkson murmured, “Peasants and slaves.”
“It was illegal to keep slaves when King Axel ruled,” Prince Oren said.
“My point exactly,” Duke Hamartano said. “King Axel was soft, and his son, raised as a stray, will have pity on every lowlife in the land. It will be his father’s reign, only worse.”
Prince Oren folded his hands and stared at a mound of wax that had formed in the center of the table, having dripped from the candelabra above. “Chairman Levy,” he glanced at the chairman, “the throne has never been open for debate. We must obey Arman in this matter. Achan is rightful king.”
“Hang Arman and hang the stray!” Lord Nathak yelled. “It will take years to train that nitwit. You forget, I know the boy — he was my stray. He’s stubborn, rude, thick-skulled, and temperamental. Esek is ready for the throne, and Er’Rets needs a king. Let the Council vote.”
Duke Falkson grunted in agreement.
“The Council was only created to serve until the prince was of age,” Prince Oren said. “He sits there, of age, ready to serve. There is nothing to vote on.”
“He knows only the life of a stray!” Lord Nathak cried. “He’s at best a cook’s apprentice.”
“He is a squire,” Prince Oren said, “and a good one, trained by Sir Gavin Lukos. And very worthy of much more.”
“And we are to trust Sir Gavin?” Lord Nathak threw up his hands. “King Axel was murdered on his watch. He is lucky not to live on IceIsland with his friends! Let us not repeat mistakes of the past by placing fools and sentimentals in positions of power.”
Achan jerked loose and floated back into his own eyes. King Axel was murdered on Sir Gavin’s watch? He stood in a daze, contemplating all he had heard, unhinged that a roomful of men debated his future.
“I shall tell you my side of it someday,” Sir Gavin said.
Achan wrenched his gaze to Sir Gavin. He knew Achan had been jumping through him? They stared at each other a moment, neither speaking.
A crowd had gathered on the floor, milling about and staring at Achan. Sir Rigil and Bran dodged through the crowd to where Achan and Sir Gavin stood. Sir Caleb approached them from the bench.
“What news?” Sir Rigil asked. His short blond hair stuck out in all directions. If it were longer, he might look like a younger Sir Caleb.
Inko slid between Sir Rigil and Sir Gavin. “Lord Nathak is having a letter of proxy from the Duchess of Carm. He is sitting in her place today because of it.”
“The letter is false,” Sir Rigil said. “Lord Nathak holds the Duchess hostage in her home. I had hoped to raise a party of knights to run off Nathak’s thugs, but it is still difficult to tell who serves who. Perhaps this vote will help define the sides.”
Sir Gavin sighed, his two-colored eyes flashing with rage.
“Calm, Gavin,” Sir Caleb said. “All is going according to plan, is it not? Isn’t the Council siding with the truth?”
A sniffle turned Achan’s gaze back to Sparrow who still sat on the bench. Was the runt crying?
Sir Gavin shook his head. “Prince Oren pleads well, but he’s outnumbered by greedy men. The mere fact that they deliberate at all shows they never meant for the new king to have power. It matters not who takes the throne in their eyes. They’ll choose the easiest to control. Some among them might think a boy raised as a kitchen stray would be easier to manipulate, but Achan’s deeds have proven him too noble to be their puppet.”
What deeds? Achan could recall having done nothing to gain any reputation at all. Except fall in the moat. He stepped to the bench and sat down beside Sir Caleb.
Achan’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, and now he’d missed lunch. It had to be almost dinnertime. He glanced quickly over the crowd and saw that most were staring at him. Gidon’s miniature throne was empty.
Sparrow slid up beside Sir Gavin. “It’s true,” he hissed in a strangely low voice. His face was white, but all signs of tears were gone. “I saw scrolls in Master Hadar’s chamber, letters. And he told me himself that Lord Levy promised him a seat on a ‘new council’ if he would report the king’s every move.”
“Insolence!” Inko snarled.
“New council? When did he tell you this, lad?” Sir Gavin asked.
Sparrow wrinkled his tiny nose. “Four days ago, I believe.”
“And what of the scrolls?” Sir Rigil asked.
“Correspondence between Lord Nathak and Master Hadar. They planned to meet here in Mahanaim to discuss their plans. Lord Nathak pays Master Hadar to watch Prince Gidon, to see that no one attempts assassination.”
“So the old man is taking bribes from both sides, yet he is turning them to being against each other,” Inko said. “We should be destroying him.”
Prince Oren burst out of the side chamber, strode up to Achan, and drew his sword.
The crowd gasped.
Achan shrank back against the wall.
But instead of striking, Prince Oren knelt before Achan and offered the blade to him on his palms. “I swear fealty and service to the crown of Er’Rets, to ever give wise counsel, to uphold the laws and customs of our land, to serve where I might, according to my knowledge and ability. Thus swear I, Prince Oren Hadar, to you, my king.”
A chill broke out over Achan’s body. His heart rate thundered and his face flushed. He glanced at Sparrow, whose eyes were as wide as his, then to Sir Gavin. The Great Whitewolf nodded.
Achan didn’t know what to do or say. With shaky hands, he took the impressive weapon from Prince Oren and set it on his knees. He glanced again to Sir Gavin, who only nodded again, eyebrows raised.
Sir Caleb leaned close and his thoughts flooded Achan’s mind. Say, “Thank you.”
Achan licked his lips. “Thank you.”
Sir Caleb. You accept.
“I accept.”
Sir Caleb nudged Achan’s elbow. Now give it back.
Achan turned the weapon, hilt out, and Prince Oren accepted it. He bowed low until his head disappeared below Achan’s knees, then stood and walked back to his seat at the high table.
“This does not bode well,” Sir Caleb said.
Sir Gavin sighed. “No. If Prince Oren left the chamber already, he’s unhappy with the turn the discussion has taken.”
Sir Rigil stepped forward and went to his knees before Achan. “Prince Oren declares you the rightful heir. That is more than enough for me. My sword is yours, my king, however you see fit to use it.”
Achan repeated the awkward procedure with Sir Rigil. When the knight sheathed his blade, Bran jumped forward and fell onto his knees.
Achan tensed again. “Oh, no. Bran, please don’t.”
Do not insult him by making light of his oath, Sir Caleb warned.
Bran removed his sword and swore fealty to Achan as Sir Rigil and Prince Oren had done. Achan went through the motions quicker this time, feeling like he was playing a game with a bunch of friends. He tried to act solemn, but it was fear, not pride that heated his cheeks. The crowd had arranged itself in a semicircle around the impromptu fealty ceremony, and when Bran stood, a nobleman and his wife knelt down in his place.
Achan’s chest tightened. He’d never seen people bow before Prince Gidon in such a way. With Gidon, they knelt out of fear. They cowered. These people beamed with hope. They wanted a real king to lead them. Achan couldn’t do that or be that. He didn’t know how.
Regardless, he forced himself to smile and spit out every phrase Sir Caleb sent to his mind. He couldn’t help but wonder, Who is the puppet prince now?
After twenty minutes of this, during which everyone who desired to swear fealty to Achan had done so, the doors to the side chamber grated open, and the Council members came out. The people scurried back to their seats to hear the verdict.
Achan didn’t want to know what the Council would say. Either way, life as he knew it would never be the same.
The prince came back and sat on his throne, accompanied by his Shield, Sir Kenton. The Kingsguard stood beside the throne and blocked Achan’s view of Gidon.
When all the Council members were in their places at the high table, the chairman spoke. “We have verified the validity of Sir Gavin’s claim. Master Achan Cham is the true son of King Axel Hadar.”
Much of the audience broke out in applause. Some heckled. With Sir Kenton in the way, Achan could only see Gidon’s ear, which was glowing red.
Lord Levy pounded his gavel, and the crowd quieted. “We are now ready to take a vote as to whom this Council feels would better serve Er’Rets as king.”
Sir Gavin stood and clutched the shoulder of Achan’s shirt. “Be ready to go. They will vote for Nathak’s son. They can better control him. And then we had better not be around.”
Achan pulled his doublet on and fastened the laces with shaky fingers. At least it gave him something to do.
“Where will you go?” Sir Rigil asked.
“Into hiding for now,” Sir Gavin said. “We need time to develop a plan.”
“You will keep in touch with Prince Oren?”
“Aye.”
Sir Rigil nodded. “We will stay with him then, and serve you however we can, though we must do our part to free the Duchess of Carm from her invaders.”
Sir Gavin raised a bushy eyebrow at Achan and jerked his head toward Sir Rigil.
Achan realized Sir Rigil had been speaking to him when he’d said “serve you.” He croaked, “Thanks.”
Sir Caleb groaned softly. You need much training in diplomacy. Tell him you wish we could be of assistance in that matter. That your prayers go with them.
Achan regurgitated Sir Caleb’s words. Sir Rigil thanked him. Bran bowed, face beaming with admiration. Achan caught Sparrow’s glowing smile from behind Inko.
The chairman spoke. “Prince Oren Hadar of Arman. How do you cast your vote?”
“I vote for the true king, my nephew, the real Gidon Hadar, who is also known as Master Achan Cham.”
Several people in the crowd cheered wildly. Tears threatened Achan’s eyes. He blinked them back and berated himself for the weakness. What a great way to show what a kitten he was.
The chairman continued, “Sir Choresh Orson, Duke of Therion.”
The hairy man said, “Master Achan Cham.”
The crowd cheered again.
“Sir Dovev Falkson, Duke of Barth. How do you vote?”
“I vote in favor of Prince Gidon, the old one, that one.” The grey-skinned man pointed to Prince Gidon, who sat sneering with folded arms.
The audience gave sporadic applause, though someone hissed. Gidon glared at Achan. If the people were this divided, what would that mean for the Council’s authority? Or a king’s reign? Would there be civil war?
“Silence!” the chairman banged his gavel, his black hat falling off his head. “I will have silence! To avoid confusion, from this point on, we will refer to the two men by their given names, Esek Nathak and Gidon Hadar.”
Achan’s eyes bulged. Well that wouldn’t be at all awkward. Now he was Gidon?
The chairman replaced his drum-like hat. “Sir Herut Pitney, Duke of Nahar. How do you cast your vote?”
“Gidon Hadar.”
The crowd clapped awkwardly, as if they too, were uncertain who that was.
“Sir Yagil Hamartano, Duke of Cela. How do you vote?”
No doubts there. Silvo’s papa would certainly have heard of his son’s humiliation at the hands of the stray squire.
“Esek Nathak.”
Sparrow leaned to Achan’s ear. “That these dukes would actually choose such a snake as their king… I cannot wrap my mind around this foolishness.”
Achan huffed a laugh. “Am I so much better?”
Sparrow grinned. “You are one hundred leagues better. You must know that.”
“I know nothing of the sort.”
The chairman straightened in his chair. “I, Sir Abidan Levy, Duke of Allown and chairman to this proceeding, do vote for Esek Nathak.”
Sparrow groaned.
The chairman said, “The vote is three to three. Lady Nitsa Amal, Duchess of Carm is not present. Lord Nathak is serving as her proxy as per Lady Nitsa’s personal message.”
Sparrow stood and strode toward the high table. “Lies!”
Achan straightened. What was the fool up to now?
“A forgery!” someone yelled.
“Nathak favors the pretender,” someone else called. “He should get no vote!”
Sir Gavin stepped forward and addressed the chairman. “My Lord Chairman, certainly Lady Nitsa could not have known of this matter. Her proxy might not be given so surely in light of the deceit Lord Nathak has wielded all these years.”
Lord Levy sighed. “Yet I see no other way. We cannot wait on this matter to send a messenger. Carmine is more than a week’s journey.”
“Surely you do not forget Lady Nitsa’s bloodvoice ability? Why not ask your mediators to contact her?”
Lord Levy’s chest swelled. “Surely you do not think me such a poor chairman to this Council, Sir Gavin. A page arrived with her letter of proxy before this meeting began. We have verified the signature as hers. We tried to bloodvoice Lady Nitsa for confirmation but she has not answered. I have no choice but to—”
“Is that not a sign of foul play? Lord Nathak has surely done something—”
“I have no choice but to accept the proxy at this time. I will send a Kingsguard squadron to Carmine after this proceeding to investigate. Today, however, my hands are bound. I must move on.”
“My Lord Chairman, if I might speak?” Sparrow now stood before the high table, head held high as if he were the prince himself.
Sir Caleb leaned against Achan and whispered, “What’s the lad up to?”
Achan shook his head.
Lord Levy raised his hand toward Sparrow, as if to say, “Why not?”
Sparrow cleared his throat. “Chairman Levy, my lord. I have information invaluable to this proceeding. I beg a private audience to discuss the matter.”
Sir Gavin turned to Achan, bushy white eyebrows raised in question.
Achan shrugged. He had no idea what Sparrow was doing. Maybe he had more information about Lord Nathak’s dealings with Macoun Hadar.
Lord Levy leaned forward to peer over the edge of the table. “What’s this?”
“Please, my lord,” Sparrow said. “A moment of your time to refute this…proxy.”
Vrell lifted her chin. This was the only way. If she did not reveal herself now, they would vote for Lord Nathak’s son. If the impostor were to take the throne, he might still seek Vrell’s hand. She shivered. All along, the man who had sought her hand had been a fraud. Thank Arman he had been exposed. She would do her part to see the impostor fail.
“Apologies, my lord!” a wheezy voice said from the grandstands.
Vrell turned to see an old man creeping closer. It was Master Hadar!
“My apprentice vanished this morning,” Master Hadar said. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Would someone please apprehend the runaway?”
Two Kingsguards rushed forward and seized Vrell’s arms.
“No!” She twisted back to Lord Levy. “My lord, I beg you! Do not believe his lies. I am not what he claims. I—”
One of the guards clamped a hand over Vrell’s mouth.
Master Hadar swept up beside her, Khai at his side. “Forgive me, my lord. This young stray is here without my consent. With your permission, I’ll remove him.”
Vrell thrashed and bit the hand covering her mouth. The guard did not flinch.
Lord Levy waved his hand in dismissal and banged his gavel. “Order please, and we will continue our vote.”
The men dragged Vrell toward the door, and she squirmed to look over her shoulder. Achan! Do not let them take me!
Achan stared, mouth gaping. What are you doing, Sparrow? Are you mad?
I must confess. I am not who you think I—
Lord Levy’s voice rang out in the chamber. “Lord Nathak, how do you vote?”
Vrell held her breath.
“I vote Esek Nathak the rightful king.”
The crowd erupted in a divided chorus of cheering and booing.
The guards dragged Vrell through the door, past the tributes to great warriors, across the great foyer, and into a small chamber on the first floor. It looked just like Master Hadar’s bloodvoicing room, empty but for a single wooden chair. They forced her to sit and bound her wrists and ankles with thin hemp twine.
She tried again, concentrating with all her strength. Mother?
There was still no answer.
She forced herself not to think about what might have happened to her mother and let her fear turn to anger. “Untie me at once!” Vrell yelled. “How dare you treat me this way!”
Master Hadar looked down his pointed nose. “A stray mustn’t speak to his master in such a manner, boy. Whatever are you thinking?” He motioned to Khai.
The weasel darted forward and uncapped a vial.
Vrell clamped her lips closed.
Master Hadar chuckled. “It’s not what you think, my dear. I know the âleh flower has no effect on your mind. This is something more…basic.”
Khai and the guard with the massive hands forced the liquid into her mouth. It was thin and tasted like bark. She tried not to swallow, but the guard covered her mouth and pinched her nose closed. She held off as long as possible, but as she ran out of air, she finally swallowed. The guard released her, and she sucked in a deep breath.
Vrell looked to her lap. Tears rained down on her tunic. She breathed in and out, calming herself, wondering what they had given her. She could not guess the ingredients from the taste. Her head spun, but that might be from the loss of air. She met Master Hadar’s gaze. “Why are you doing this?” She glared at Khai. “What did he tell you?”
“More importantly, my dear child, is what he told our newly elected king.”
Vrell looked from Khai to Master Hadar. Their faces blurred. “And what was that?”
“That he’d found His Majesty’s elusive love. We’ve made a negotiation. You for Achan. The prince was all too willing. It seems he was going to get rid of his squire anyway.”
Vrell wept from the injustice and from knowing she was about to pass out. They had given her some soporific. Her limbs tingled from its effect. “You cannot… Achan is…rightful… You cannot…locked up…serve your…ambitions.” Her eyes drooped.
“Oh, but I can. Rightful king or not, Achan will soon be mine.” Master Hadar leaned close, his face a beige blur. “Life isn’t always fair, my dear, as I’m sure you know.”
Achan. Vrell’s head fell forward, eyes closed. You must flee. Now!
*
Sparrow? Sparrow!
Achan’s sense of the boy vanished. He inched along the wall of the audience chamber behind Sir Gavin, heading toward the exit. Now was not the time to speak.
“Chairman Levy,” Lord Nathak said at the high table. “What shall become of Achan? Of Gidon Hadar?”
Achan kept moving, but listened for the answer with trembling steps.
“I imagine he shall go to Armonguard and serve however our new king sees fit,” the chairman said. “He is now second in line to the throne and must be available should anything—”
“You cannot suggest these two serve side by side?” Lord Nathak snapped. “It would be an assassination waiting to happen!”
Which was why Achan was enacting the exit-and-flee plan.
“The Council leaves that to the king and his many advisors. I trust it will not be long before Esek takes the throne.”
Esek?
Sir Caleb reached the door first and pushed it open. It squeaked horribly. A guard outside the door raised his eyebrows.
“Sir Gavin leaves!” someone shouted from the stands.
Sir Caleb drew his sword. “Let’s be quick about this, shall we?”
Inko and Sir Gavin ran past Sir Caleb, who knocked out the guard with the pommel of his sword. Achan quickly passed the old knights, mainly because their running was more like jogging. The group fled through the massive foyer, dodging around the yellow pillars, but New Kingsguard knights swarmed the entrance to the stronghold.
Sir Gavin and Inko drew their swords. Sir Gavin looked back, his gaze focused over Achan’s shoulder. Achan turned to see Sir Caleb shove a display sword — ribbons and all — through the Council Chamber’s door handles, locking it from the outside.
“Caleb,” Sir Gavin said, “take Achan out the back. Hurry! We’ll meet you there.”
Sir Caleb sprinted deeper into the stronghold, dodging around pillars that reached above like redpines. He yelled over his shoulder, “Try to keep up, Your Highness.”
Achan flinched at the title and ran after the knight. “Where are we going?”
Downstairs, Sir Caleb said to Achan’s mind. Sir Gavin will meet us with the boat.
Achan concentrated on Sir Caleb’s back, his blond hair, his wild eyes. The dungeons, then?
Sir Caleb slowed and grabbed Achan’s shoulder. “My apologies, Your Highness. But no bloodvoicing for you until you are better trained. You’ve just announced our plans to anyone who can hear.”
The blood drained from Achan’s face.
“’Twas my fault. Best hurry, then.” Sir Caleb sprinted around the rest of the pillars toward the grand staircase. He ran around to the back and started downstairs. Two flights down, he stopped on the landing and turned. “Change of plans. Back up the stairs. Quickly!”
Achan could see black Kingsguard cloaks approaching from the lower levels. He swiveled around and ran up the stairs and back into the foyer. Three Kingsguards approached from the entrance.
“This way.” Sir Caleb ran to the far left of the foyer and sprinted into a corridor that stretched the length of the stronghold.
They made it halfway down before two Kingsguard knights stepped into the hallway from the other end. Sir Caleb spun and darted back to the foyer. Six guards spread out in an arc, inching toward them. Four more guards descended the stairs, boots pattering like rainfall as they spilled out onto the mosaic tile floor.
Sir Caleb pointed at Eagan’s Elk. “Know how to use that?”
Achan drew the weapon, his hands trembling. “Aye.”
Sir Caleb drew his own sword. Back to back, they inched into the center of the foyer as the black-cloaked Kingsguards circled around. The pillars acted as bars, further hemming them in. This didn’t look like a battle they could win.
“Think positive, Your Highness,” Sir Caleb muttered. “And please close your mind.”
“Seize them!” Esek’s voice rang out across the vast foyer.
Achan took quick, short breaths. Close his mind. Fight a battle of two against twenty. Answer to Your Highness. He’d had quite enough of this day. Regardless, he concentrated on the allown tree and raised his weapon to middle guard.
Behind him, someone clashed swords with Sir Caleb. Before Achan could turn to offer aid, a Kingsguard swung at him.
Achan stifled the blow with the flat of his blade and pushed off. Another guard struck. Achan ducked, and the guard’s sword cracked against a pillar, sending bits of plaster over Achan’s hair. He kicked the guard’s knee in, and the man went down howling.
Achan sprinted left, desperately needing more space to work with. He turned abruptly, swinging Eagan’s Elk at the soldier on his heels. His blade cut into the man’s arm.
Achan winced but didn’t have time to feel sorry. He jerked his blade free in time to parry a strike from another guard. Sir Caleb’s shaggy blond mane twirled in his peripheral vision, then the knight collapsed. Achan screamed, but didn’t have time to stop as he deflected blow after blow.
A shrill, familiar voice screamed, “Guards! Back away from the stray.”
Achan’s opponents drew back. Achan lowered his weapon and panted. He scanned the floor. Sir Caleb lay on his stomach, pinned by two guards, his face maroon with fury. Achan breathed a relieved sigh to find him alive. He quickly counted six bodies on the floor that were not.
Esek, the former Prince Gidon, raised a hand above his head and snapped. “Sir Kenton.”
The Shield advanced from behind a pillar, gripping a thick sword in his hand. His steps on the mosaic tile were like the chop of an axe.
Achan lifted Eagan’s Elk with his weary arms.
Forget his size and identity, Your Highness, Sir Caleb said to his mind. He is just a man. Hold on until Sir Gavin and Inko get here. They are coming. Just hold on.
Sir Kenton raised his weapon and paused.
Achan coached himself. If he could beat this man, he could go free. One man. That was all. One more win. Just one. And he didn’t even have to beat him. He only needed to stall long enough until help arrived.
Sir Kenton finally lunged forward and swung for Achan’s head. Achan waited, hands shaking, ready to block, and sure enough, Sir Kenton arched his sword the other way toward Achan’s legs. Achan stepped back and parried.
Sir Kenton quickly worked Achan back against the wall. Achan barely managed to block the forceful cuts Sir Kenton delivered and, with each near miss, grew more uncertain of his ability to win. He didn’t want to die, but how could he possibly defeat this adversary?
Where was his help? Achan opened his mind. Sir Gavin?
Hundreds of voices flooded into his mind at once. He quickly fortified his mind, but there were still so many voices. He turned to parry a strike and saw why.
A crowd had formed. The audience was pouring through the golden doors that led to the auditorium. Help was coming. Many of these people had cheered for him before. Surely someone in the crowd would step in. But the Kingsguard soldiers formed a wall, pushing the crowd back from where Achan and Sir Kenton fought until Achan could no longer see them.
Sir Kenton drove Achan back behind the staircase to the corridor. The Shield swung for Achan’s neck. Achan blocked it, and the knight reversed his swing. Achan jumped back. He met the strike to his legs, but his sword slipped in his weakening hands. He fumbled for the briefest moment, and Sir Kenton batted it to the ground.
Achan slid back against the wall, his eyes glued to Sir Kenton’s.
Esek clapped. “Well done, Sir Kenton, well done.”
The knight lifted his sword to Achan’s chest, then seized Achan’s throat in his massive hand and squeezed.
Esek strutted forward and wove around Sir Kenton to stand at Achan’s ear. He spoke softly. “You were a pitiful squire. Do you wish to take my throne?”
Airless, Achan croaked, “I…can’t…”
“Oh, let him go, Sir Kenton.”
Sir Kenton released his hold on Achan’s neck but did not lower his sword.
Esek winkled his nose as if smelling something rank. “You may be the son of a dead king, but that does not make you king. The Council voted in favor of me.”
Sir Caleb spoke from the floor. “Only because you’re so weak they know they can control you.”
Esek slowly turned to glare at Sir Caleb. “The gods have spoken, traitor. I am king. Nothing can change that now.”
“You’re mistaken,” Sir Caleb said. “Arman will—”
“Save your breath, Sir Caleb,” Achan said. “I don’t want to be king.”
Esek smirked. “I believe you. A stray could never handle the pressure of ruling a nation. And that’s what you are. Whatever royal heritage you may have had is long gone. Back away, Sir Kenton.”
Sir Kenton stepped aside but kept his sword out, as if daring Achan to move.
Achan stood still, eyes downcast. He was tired of fighting. He simply wanted to sit with Gren under the allown tree or listen to Minstrel Harp sing in the Corner.
Esek drew Ôwr from its scabbard and poised it over Achan’s heart. “For some reason,” Esek said, “Lord Nathak doesn’t want you hurt. That, I never understood, even less so now that your true identity is revealed. If he wanted me to be king, why not kill you and be done with it?”
Achan couldn’t help but wonder that himself. Or what was keeping Sir Gavin and Inko.
“So I ask myself, am I king?” Esek’s eyes went wide, and he flashed a wicked smile. “What a coincidence. The Council says I am. Why, then, should I not have my way?” He traced an X over Achan’s chest, Ôwr’s tip scraping over the black leather doublet. “This was your father’s sword. Did you know that? Soon you shall die by it.”
“No!” Lord Nathak ran up behind Esek with Chora and a squadron of Kingsguards at his heels. “You must not do this.”
Esek raised the weapon’s tip to Achan’s throat. “I’ve wanted to kill him ever since his ratty boot first stepped on my fine rug. Give me one reason — one real reason— why I shouldn’t.”
Lord Nathak said, “Because…”
“Why are you protecting him?”
Lord Nathak stuttered.
“I AM KING!” Esek screamed. “TELL ME THE TRUTH! NOW!”
Achan flinched as the sound resonated against the high ceiling.
Lord Nathak laid a hand on Esek’s shoulder. “I will tell you, my son, I promise. But not here.”
Esek shrugged Lord Nathak’s hand off. “I am not your son.” Esek remained still for a long moment, his face twitching with horrible expressions.
Lord Nathak glanced at Achan with his one eye then back to his son. “You may deny the truth all you want, Esek, but I did what I hoped was best for us all.”
Achan stood motionless against the stone wall. Esek raised Ôwr’s tip to Achan’s ear and drew its edge down one cheek. Achan flinched at the sting. Then the other cheek. Achan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He could feel the blood ooze down both cheeks, tickling as it went.
Then Esek withdrew his sword and held it out to the side as if finished with it. Chora scurried forward and accepted the weapon.
Esek raised his voice in proclamation. “I shall kill you slowly, one nick at a time. But first a trade. My bride is being held hostage nearby and, for whatever reason, you are the price. I must deliver you unharmed if I am to secure her.” He sighed dramatically. “But do not garner hope, stray. If you think I will not seize you back and kill you as soon as I have Averella by my side, you are a fool.”
Esek turned to Lord Nathak. “Be careful where you place your loyalties, Lord Nathak, or your flesh too will sharpen my sword.” Esek lifted his arm and snapped his fingers. “Chora, we depart for Armonguard shortly. Guards, secure my prize.” Esek strode away, parting the Kingsguard squadron like a flame in parchment.
Lord Nathak glared at Achan. He turned and stalked after his son, his black Council cloak billowing behind.
Two Kingsguard knights approached Achan. One clamped irons onto his wrists. Achan sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth at his stinging cheeks. He kept his eyes shut, hoping that by not seeing what was happening he’d not fall further into despair. For there was truly no hope for him now. The guards jerked his arms and pulled him away.
Jax mi Katt.
Vrell took a deep breath and groaned. She did not want to wake.
Jax mi Katt.
Vrell opened her eyes. Her temples ached and her ears tingled. Someone was knocking in her mind. At the sight of the dark room, reality came rushing back. Khai and Macoun Hadar. They were going to hand her over to Prince Gidon. But he was not the real prince. He had always been an impostor. Achan was the real prince. Kind, sweet Achan.
Jax mi Katt.
Vrell opened her mind to the giant. Jax?
Vrell! Are you okay? Where have they taken you?
I…um… She looked around the barren chamber. A single torch, burned down to a stump, hung in a loop by the wooden door. I am in a small chamber off the first-floor corridor. A servant’s quarters, I think. It was the…third door on the right, I believe.
How many are with you?
Vrell blinked. Where had all her captors gone? I am alone.
Good. I am coming for you. Hold tight.
A shiver ran up Vrell’s arms. Could Jax help her before it was too late? And where were her captors? She was still bound to the chair. She twisted and pulled, but the ropes held tight.
What had happened to Achan? With Lord Nathak’s illegal vote, the Council had elected the impostor. Would they let Achan go free? She doubted it. She closed her eyes and reached for him.
She sensed movement…pain. His surroundings came into focus. The main staircase off the foyer, going down. Achan’s wrists were shackled and his face throbbed. Vrell winced. Had someone struck him?
The sound of stone grating on stone jerked Vrell away from Achan’s plight. She looked over her shoulder. Mags, the serving girl from the kitchen, stood in a dark opening in the wall, holding a torch.
Mags scurried to Vrell’s chair. “Yeh poor thing. What’ve they done to yeh? And all ’cause yeh don’t want to ’prentice fer that creepy, ol’ fool.” Mags laid the torch aside carefully and untied Vrell’s wrists. “Well, I say yer a smart boy fer wantin’ to get away from ‘Master’ Hadar.”
All Vrell could say was, “Thank you.”
Mags untied Vrell’s ankles and motioned toward the stone door. “Go on in. ’Tis a secret passage. I know it’s a bit creepy at first, but it’s the best way to move through the castle without being seen.”
Vrell stepped through the dark doorway and into a cool, stone passageway. The flickering torch in Mags’s hand cast a circle of yellow light in her immediate position, but Vrell could see only blackness beyond the torchlight in either direction.
Mags stepped in after her and pulled the stone door closed. It swung with a grating sound that raised goose pimples on Vrell’s arms. When it was closed, Mags lifted the torch and led Vrell down the dark, narrow passage that smelled of mildew.
“Jax said to get yeh to the kitchens. He’d of come hisself, but he’s too tall for this route.” Mags giggled.
Vrell nodded and scurried along behind Mags, praising Arman every step of the way.
“Hold.”
The guards jerked Achan to a stop on the landing between the first and second lower levels.
The guard who had been leading them whirled around with his sword in hand.
Achan’s heart thudded. What was this?
They stood on the far side of the landing between the two floors. A lone torch burned from an iron loop on the wall.
“Trizo,” said the guard on Achan’s right. “What are you doing?”
“The keys, Jarek,” the guard with the sword said.
Jarek reached to his belt and drew his sword instead. The third guard followed suit. “You cannot beat us both,” Jarek said.
A wide smile stretched across Trizo’s face. “I don’t have to.”
Footsteps pattered on the stairs below. Sir Rigil and Bran stepped into view on the landing, swords drawn.
Bran flashed a wide smile. “Hello, Achan.”
“Bran!” Sir Rigil snapped.
Bran’s pink face darkened a shade. “Sorry. Hello, Your Highness.”
Achan managed a nervous laugh. “That’s really not necessary.”
Trizo lifted his weapon. “The key?”
Jarek lowered his sword and held out a single key on a scrap of leather. “You’ll hang.”
Trizo snagged the key from Jarek. “Not when he takes the throne,” he said, nodding at Achan. “And he will. Let go of him, now, and back away, both of you.”
The guards released Achan’s arms and stepped back.
Trizo waved him over. “This way, Your Highness.”
Achan stepped to Trizo’s side in a daze, shocked at his good fortune.
The third guard spoke. “You know we’ll report you as soon as we walk away.”
Sir Rigil drew his sword and jutted his head at the guards. “Which is why you won’t walk away.” Sir Rigil jerked his sword up the stairs. “Up you go, quickly now.”
The guards turned and climbed the stairs.
Bran followed and spoke over his shoulder: “See you later, Your Highness.”
Achan smiled in spite of himself.
Trizo led Achan down the stairs to the bottommost level. There they followed a long a corridor that stretched out the length of the stronghold just like the one on the entry level had. Trizo tapped his fingers lightly on each door they passed, as if counting. He stopped in front of a battered narrow door. He knocked three times, coughed, then knocked twice again. The door swung open to a servant’s chamber decorated with a rough-hewn table and sleeping pad. They entered and the door swished shut behind them.
Achan turned to see Prince Oren twist the lock on the door. The prince, in his fine clothes, looked very out of place in the shabby room.
Prince Oren’s taut lips stretched into a wide smile. “Achan, my boy. It’s good to see you! What happened to your face?”
“Gidon— er, Esek.” Achan shook his head.
Prince Oren took Achan’s chin in thumb and two fingers and turned it from side to side. “He did this, but did not kill you?”
Achan swallowed, shaken by Prince Oren’s intense scrutiny. “He said he needed to trade me for his bride first. Said someone holds the lady hostage and wants to exchange her for me.”
“Lady Mandzee?”
“No. Lady Averella Amal.”
Prince Oren’s brows sank and he gripped Achan’s shoulder. “Truly? I had heard she was safely hidden. This is most distressing. I hope the poor child is all right. Should Esek get hold of her, Nitsa will never forgive me.” He patted Achan’s shoulder. “Your wounds need tending, but there is nothing I can do here. They are not life-threatening, and my priority is to see you safely out of this castle.”
“Will you be taking me out?”
Prince Oren gave a tight smile. “I’m afraid that would be unwise. The knights can get you out unseen.”
“You really believe I’m…who they… Your…”
“Aye, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I know Esek is false, and I know Arman has not spoken to me as king.”
Achan tilted his head at Prince Oren. “You as king?”
“I am King Axel’s brother, as you know. But if Arman had chosen me to serve as king, He would be speaking to me, preparing me, guiding me.” Prince Oren sat back on the mattress. “Has he spoken to you, Achan?”
Achan opened his mouth to explain about the voice he’d heard in the Council chambers and elsewhere, but a noise outside stopped him.
Three knocks, a cough, and two more knocks sent Trizo to the door. He opened it, and Sir Rigil and Bran slipped inside. They appeared out of breath but exhilarated.
Bran wiped his hands on his doublet. “Two enemy guards are taken care of, Your Highness — Highnesses.”
Achan chuckled despite the pain in his cheeks.
“Shall we leave, then?” Sir Rigil asked.
“Aye.” Prince Oren removed a ring from his pinky finger. He took Achan’s hand and set the ring on it. “You are also a mirror image of my big brother when he was your age. We share the same blood, you and I. On that you can take my word. This ring will bring you help if shown to the right people. Sir Gavin will know who to trust. Stay with him, Sir Inko, or Sir Caleb at all costs. Obey them, for they know best how to make things right.”
Prince Oren walked to the door. “You and I have much to discuss, Achan. When you are safe and have learned the basics, bloodvoice me. Hold the ring when you do, and it will be easier. Until then, my nephew, I bid thee well.”
Achan glanced at the ring. At the top of the wide circle of gold, the shape of a castle was engraved with the letters OAH. He blinked rapidly to deflect the mist wetting his eyes. He gazed at Prince Oren, at his blue eyes and the thin crown of gold nestled into his black hair. This man was truly his family — his blood uncle. He was no longer a stray. He had family. Perhaps he was no longer even Achan. He stifled a shaky breath and stuffed the ring on his middle finger.
Prince Oren drew him into a quick embrace and patted him on the back. “Go.”
Achan followed Sir Rigil to the door.
“Wait, men,” Prince Oren said. “I’ve had news of Lady Averella.”
Bran straightened. “What news?”
“Achan tells me Esek planned to trade him for her. That someone is holding her captive.”
“How could that be?” Bran’s eyes darted wildly around the room, as if this girl might jump out from under a rug. “I was told she was in hiding.”
“I do not know. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation. Once Achan is safe, I will do all I can to help you find her.”
Sir Rigil gripped Bran’s shoulder. “And I.”
Achan looked at the floor. He shouldn’t feel guilty about this situation. He’d never once laid eyes on Lady Averella of Carmine, after all. Yet he felt responsible for her somehow. Esek had agreed to trade her for him. What would become of her when Achan didn’t show? “Maybe if I went along with the exchange, and you were watching, you could get the lady to safety, then come for me later.”
Bran’s lips curved in a small smile. “I thank you, Your Highness, but no. It’s too risky. Plus, Averella would maim me if she found out I had risked the true king ‘just’ to help her. She hates Prince Gidon — forgive me: Esek—more than anything.”
Achan grinned. “A sign of her good taste.”
“And we have no proof anyone truly holds her captive,” Prince Oren said. “This is not your worry, Achan. We will see to Lady Averella once you are safe.”
Achan nodded, and Sir Rigil led him into the hallway. Bran and Trizo followed. The men went slowly back down the corridor toward the stairs, watching for guards as they went.
Mags slid open a wooden screen and peered through a tiny hole in the wall. “All clear.” She pushed the wall, and it swung open like a door, scraping the floor lightly. Light flooded through the opening, revealing a cellar the size of Vrell’s chambers upstairs. “Jax said he’d meet yeh here.”
“Thank you, Mags.”
“Aw, ’twas nothin’.”
Vrell hugged the serving girl and stepped into the cellar. The room overflowed with baskets, barrels, and sacks of food. Mags pulled the door closed, which turned out to be a shelf stocked with flour.
More than one set of footsteps sent Vrell ducking behind a barrel of pickles. She held her breath, hoping she would not be caught so soon after having escaped.
She heard Sir Rigil’s voice. “Sir Caleb was supposed to meet us here.”
Then came a voice as familiar as a dream. Bran’s voice. “I hope he wasn’t caught again.”
Vrell tingled with joy and indecision. What should she do? Should she reveal herself? This was her best chance to speak with Sir Rigil. And there was no time to spare. If Lord Nathak’s men had done something to her mother, she needed to get home right away.
“Bran,” Sir Rigil said, “run up and see if Prince Oren can make contact with Sir Caleb. Have him find out where he is.”
“Aye, sir.”
Vrell heard the slapping of boots on stone. And just like that, Bran was gone.
Sir Rigil spoke to someone else. “Are you sure you’re all right? Those cuts look nasty.”
“I’m fine.”
Vrell peeked over the pickle barrel. She spotted Achan, his face covered in blood. He leaned back against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, straightening his legs out in front.
Tears flooded Vrell’s eyes and she stood. “Achan! What’s happened?”
Sir Rigil drew his sword, and Achan dove away from the wall.
Vrell flinched and met Achan’s eyes. His head cocked to the side. He huffed and leaned back against the wall. “You. Sparrow, where did you come from? And what’s with you today? What was that stunt you pulled at the Council meeting?”
Vrell ran to him and crouched at his side. The cuts on his cheeks were not so deep, but they needed to be tended or they would scar terribly. “How did this happen?”
“Just Esek venting a little steam.”
“Oh, Achan.” She stood and her foot caught on something. She looked down. His scabbard was empty. “Where is your sword?”
Achan’s expression drooped. “Lost. I dropped it when Sir Kenton bested me. The guards took me away, and I don’t know if anyone picked it up.”
“I am so sorry. What a terrible loss.”
Vrell took in the shelves that filled the wall behind Sir Rigil. They were stocked with baskets of apples, pears, onions, and turnips. A shelf of hard bread lined the next wall. Vrell took a deep breath and her stomach pinged at the scents of food.
Sir Rigil sheathed his weapon. “You’re Hadar’s apprentice. The one they dragged out of the Council chambers.” He turned to Achan. “You sure you trust this lad?”
Achan sighed. “I don’t know who to trust anymore. Every time I think I’m on the right track, something happens to prove me wrong.”
Vrell opened her mouth to speak, to reveal to Sir Rigil who she really was and perhaps hasten the rescue of her mother. But no words came. How embarrassing to admit such deceit in front of Achan — her king — especially when he felt he could trust no one. Maybe she could wait until he was away. Then he never need know.
Her ears tingled.
Jax mi Katt.
Vrell let him in. Jax?
Are you safe now?
Yes. Thank you.
I have your sword. I ran into a blacksmith’s apprentice, who mentioned you had it commissioned. I paid the balance. Would you like it before you go?
Vrell clapped her hands. “Yes!” Oh, Jax, thank you!
“Are you talking to someone, Sparrow?” Achan asked.
“Yes. Just a minute. Achan, this is a cellar. Grab a sack and collect some food for your journey. If you are to go with Sir Gavin, he might not have had time to gather supplies.”
Sir Rigil’s jaw dropped like a drawbridge.
Achan held up his hands. “Hey! Who’s the king? You or me?” But he smirked at Sir Rigil and clambered to his feet. “As if I don’t know what a kitchen cellar looks like. I only slept in one all my life.”
Sir Rigil glared at Vrell. He dumped out a sack of potatoes and started filling it with chunks of bread from the back shelf.
Jax voiced to Vrell. You deserve proper training to go with this weapon. Perhaps our new king can teach you.
You will not serve Esek?
I never really did. I am a Mârad spy, Vrell. I served Prince Oren Hadar until he swore fealty to the true king. Now I serve that king myself. Can I do anything else for him or you?
Vrell looked at Achan, who cradled a pile of green apples in his arms, holding the top one under his chin. A thick stripe of blood dripped down his cheeks, off his jaw, and onto the apples.
Vrell wrinkled her nose. I need the satchel from my room. It is my healing kit. The king was wounded.
I shall bring it right away. You are in the cellar?
Vrell paused a long moment. She trusted Jax, but if she was wrong, it would be a terrible mistake. The first kitchen.
I’ll be there soon.
Vrell turned to Achan. “Someone is coming with my healing kit so I can tend to your wounds. I suggest you stay here in case he turns out to be against you. I do not think he is, but it is best not to risk it.”
Sir Rigil gave the bag of bread a spin. “Who is this person?”
“His name is Jax mi Katt. He is a Kingsguard giant from—”
“I know him,” Sir Rigil said. “He’s on our side. Still, it’s best he doesn’t see us. That way, if he’s interrogated he won’t know anything. Let us hide ourselves, Your Highness.”
“Fine.” Achan bit into an apple, then froze, eyes narrowed, jaw stiff. “That hurts.”
“Then do not eat,” Vrell said.
He pouted. “But I’m hungry. In case you forgot, we didn’t have breakfast or lunch.”
“Then eat bread or something soft.”
Achan dug his thumbnail into his apple, ripped out a chunk, and slid it into his mouth.
Vrell rolled her eyes.
Jax’s voice came like a whisper, Vrell?
“He is coming,” Vrell said. “Go.”
The corner of Achan’s mouth curved up. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
Vrell sneered as Sir Rigil ushered Achan to the shelves filled with flour sacks. She had had her fill of his teasing. It would be nice to be a woman again and spend time in the company of people with manners. In Bran’s company, especially.
Vrell hurried out into the first kitchen and made her way past cooks and servants bustling between the tables and hearths. The smells of fresh bread, pheasant, and mince pies set Vrell’s stomach to growling. She had not eaten a bite all day, either.
A massive shadow spilled through the doorway and over the stone floor. Jax ducked inside. He smiled down, eyes twinkling, and held up a steel sword and her satchel.
“Afternoon, Mr. Jax,” a serving girl said. “You hungry?”
“Not now, thanks. I’ve just come to see Master Sparrow.”
The serving girl smiled and went back to her kettle.
Vrell led Jax to the far corner of the kitchen, where they would be out of the way. She took the satchel and draped its strap over her head and one arm. “Thank you, Jax, so much.”
He shook the sword. “You know how to wear one of these?”
“I am certain I can manage.”
He lowered his bulk onto his knees and waved her over. Vrell stepped toward him. He drew a metal ring out of his pocket. “Untie your belt.” Vrell did and Jax took it from her. He looped the cord through the metal ring, securing it with a knot so it wouldn’t slip. Then he handed it back. “You need this to hold your weapon, since you have no scabbard or sheath.”
Vrell retied the belt over her tunic so the ring sat over her left hip. Jax handed her the sword and she threaded the point through the loop. The metal hung at her side, resting against her leg. She beamed. Now she could protect herself on the journey home, though traveling with Sir Rigil and Bran, she would surely have no need.
“Don’t go using that without training. You can get yourself killed in a wink.”
“I shall be careful.”
Vrell? Jax voiced.
“Yes?”
Are you truly all right going with the men?
She had no plans to go with Achan once she revealed her identity to Sir Rigil. Still, it might be better if Jax thought she had. Then, if rumors spread, Esek and Master Hadar would not look for her in the castle. She didn’t know how long it would take Sir Rigil to sneak her to a safe place. Of course, she thought to Jax. I am getting away from those who seek to exploit my skill. I will be with the true king and Sir Gavin. I will be fine.
Aye. But they are men, and you are not.
The blood drained from Vrell’s face. Had Khai confided his discovery to Jax? She studied the giant’s soft and caring expression. How long have you known?
Since I first saw you. He smirked. You do not smell like a man.
Vrell’s eyes went wide, then she laughed. “I am so happy you were on my side.”
“As am I, Vrell.”
She said farewell — in case she never saw him again — with a big hug, then hurried back through the second kitchen to the cellar.
The room appeared empty. “Hello? Sir Rigil?”
A hand popped out from behind the shelf stocked with flour sacks. “In here.”
The secret passage. Vrell found the crack and squeezed through.
On the other side of the door, everything went dark. She bet this tunnel continued on to the canals. She felt along the wall. “Sir Rigil?”
“He’s left.” Achan’s voice came from very near Vrell’s right shoulder. It made her jump. “It’s just us,” he said.
“And we should have left by now.” Sir Caleb spoke from near Achan. “Have you got what you need to mend Achan’s wounds?”
Vrell shuddered, tears stinging her eyes. No Sir Rigil? No Bran? They must have left when Vrell had been speaking with Jax. If only she had stayed in the cellar. “But where are they? Won’t they be joining us?”
“No. They’ve gone back to assist Prince Oren,” Achan said.
“Boy?” Sir Caleb said. “Have you got it?”
“Uh…y-yes. Yes, I have it.”
“Good. Let’s go then. The sooner we get Achan out of here the better for everyone.”
But Vrell wanted to stay. She wanted to be with Bran. She needed to go home. A heavy tear fell down her cheek. She could reveal herself now, but…
A flame whooshed to life and Achan and Sir Caleb’s faces appeared in the darkness. They looked orange and shadowed. Sir Gavin carried the torch down the tunnel. Achan shot Vrell a crooked grin, then touched his cheek as if the smile had been painful. He stumbled after Sir Gavin.
He needed her help. How awful for her to even consider deserting her king. Poor Achan. He had had the most terrible day. Vrell had forgotten that this morning Achan had been a stray and now he was king of Er’Rets. She could serve her king a while longer, could she not?
She sniffled and scurried to keep up with the men’s long strides.
*
Achan sat in the center of a small boat, clutching two moist handkerchiefs to his face, at Sparrow’s insistence. The boy had said they had some kind of healing ointment on them.
Inko paddled the boat through the mist. The water smelled rank and slapped against the sides of their boat, no doubt leaving a line of green slime. The Evenwall muted the afternoon sun, and the damp air clung to Achan’s face like sweat. Or was that blood? Achan could only see a foot or two of the scummy water on any side of the boat.
Sparrow and Sir Caleb sat in the bow. Sir Gavin and Inko sat in the back. The two knights had rescued Sir Caleb when Sir Rigil and Bran had rescued Achan. They had been waiting in the cave when Achan, Sir Caleb, and Sparrow had arrived.
Achan looked the boy over. Sparrow sat on the front bench facing him, mixing something gooey in a jar with a stick. The boy’s eyes were puffy as if he’d spent the day bawling. He still hadn’t explained his behavior in the Council chambers that morning. Achan didn’t entirely trust the little fox. His eyes caught sight of a sword hanging from Sparrow’s belt.
“Where’d you get the blade?”
Sparrow’s wide eyes darted to his. “I bought it. Jax delivered it with my satchel.” He glanced down. “Where did you get yours? I thought you lost it.”
“He did. Twice,” Sir Caleb said. “And twice we’ve rescued it for him.”
Achan looked at his boots. He was so thankful Sir Caleb had found Eagan’s Elk. If only he could learn to use it as well as Sir Kenton used his. He sighed. He couldn’t believe the incredible turn his life had taken. He didn’t want to think about it, which wasn’t difficult, considering their destination. They would soon enter Darkness, a place Achan didn’t want to go.
He turned to Sir Gavin. “I thought you said never go into Darkness.”
“Aye, that I did.”
“And yet toward it we go?”
Sir Gavin glanced at a sign on a building that they were gliding past. It read: Tanner. “Aye, that we do.”
“Won’t we all go crazy in there?”
“Not if we stay together. And right now we need a place to hide.”
Great. Achan had gone from an invisible nothing to a hunted king. Way back in that barn in Sitna, when he’d rescued Mox from Riga and Harnu, when he’d longed to change his station, he’d simply wanted a cottage of his own and the right to wear whatever color pleased him. Now look at him. “Do you have a plan?”
Sir Gavin chuckled. “Of course I have a plan. We head for Tsaftown.”
“Lady Tara lives in Tsaftown.” Achan’s heartbeat upped a notch at the idea of seeing her again. Would their meeting be different with his new identity? He couldn’t help but grin. “How long will it take to get there?”
Sparrow clunked the jar down on the bench and ripped the handkerchief away from Achan’s right cheek.
“Ow! Take it easy, will you?”
“Sorry,” Sparrow mumbled.
It was not yet dark in the Evenwall, though it had to be nearing dusk. Few boats were out on the narrow canal they traveled. Inko wanted to steer clear of the main waterways, for fear that they were being watched.
“Tsaftown is a very long journey,” Sir Gavin said. “Much longer in Darkness. And we are without horses. We could have Sir Rigil bring our horses to Allowntown, but it will take us almost a week on foot to reach them.”
“So, maybe a month to reach Tsaftown?” Achan asked as Sparrow swabbed his cheek with something cool.
“Or more.”
Achan sighed. A long time, but at least seeing Lady Tara was something to look forward to. He did not relish entering Darkness, nor did he look forward to upcoming arguments in which Sir Gavin would try to turn him into a king. At least now he understood why Sir Gavin had never accepted the service he’d tried to give him as a squire.
Sparrow spread more gunk from his jar over Achan’s cheek. It seeped into his cuts and burned. “Ow!”
“Oh, stop being such a girl,” Sparrow said.
Achan tried to block out the pain. “What do we seek in Tsaftown?”
“Not Tsaftown, exactly,” Sir Gavin said. “IceIsland.”
“IceIsland?” Sparrow cried.
Achan wondered too what they sought in the biggest prison in Er’Rets.
“We have friends to set free there,” Sir Gavin said. “Friends wrongly imprisoned. That’s where I went when Lord Nathak banished me. I was hoping to raise an army and come back for you. I ran out of time.”
“What friends?” Achan asked.
“Old Kingsguard friends.”
Sparrow looked terrified. Then his lips curved in a goofy grin and his cheeks flushed. “I am going to do the other side now.”
Achan raised his eyebrows and turned his head. “Thanks for the warning.”
Sparrow gently pulled the handkerchief away and swabbed Achan’s cheek. He slathered gunk on, then froze, his fingers pressed against Achan’s wound, and looked up.
The light faded, and Sparrow’s face vanished before Achan’s eyes.
They had entered Darkness.
NOT THE END
This is the end of the book 1 of the Blood of Kings series. Book 2 continues the adventures of Vrell and Achan as they flee into Darkness to avoid Esek’s wrath. Sign up for newsletters from Marcher Lord Press or Jill Williamson’s Web site to get updates on the status of To Darkness Fled: Blood of Kings, Book 2.