The door opened and Sir Eagan entered.
Duchess Amal’s body shifted. She sat up, her delicate complexion tinged pink. She smoothed her hair, stood, and shook out her wrinkled skirt. “That is enough lesson for today. Next you will learn how to storm in battle.”
Achan wanted to ask when she would return—he couldn’t wait to learn how to be a Veil warrior—but Duchess Amal walked to the door and curtsied. “Good day, Your Majesty. Sir Shung.” She met Sir Eagan’s gaze and her voice softened. “Sir Eagan.” And she left.
Sir Eagan approached Achan’s bedside. “I am pleased to see you awake, Your Highness. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, fine.” Recovering from Duchess Amal’s presence. “How is all that going?” He gestured to the door. “You know, you and Duchess Amal?” For Sir Eagan and Lady Nitsa had loved one another in their youth but had been parted for nearly eighteen years.
Sir Eagan glanced at the door and smiled. “Very well, thank you.” He took Achan’s chin in one hand and set his other hand on his head. “This is healing quickly. You are a fortunate man.” He pressed on the lump.
Achan gritted his teeth at the pressure. “Shung tells me Sparrow is here.” He hitched in a short breath. “Perhaps she could serve as my healer again?”
Sir Eagan raised an eyebrow. “You think she would not have to determine the level of your pain?”
Achan grunted, for Sparrow took healing just as seriously as Sir Eagan. “She’s nicer to look upon, at least.”
“True.” Sir Eagan ran his fingers over Achan’s chest, neck, head, and stomach, pushing down and asking how much everything hurt.
Nothing hurt but his head, though his cham wounds and thigh were still tender.
“My assessment is that you are fine,” Sir Eagan said. “We should be able to depart as planned.”
Depart. “Will Sparrow visit again? Has she returned for good?” Would she come back to him? Could she, now that he was betrothed to Lady Averella?
“I have not seen her since the vineyard.”
“So that wasn’t a dream?”
“Not a dream, Your Highness. She found you, called us to bring you in, and so we did.”
Achan closed his eyes and reached for Sparrow. He found her mind impenetrable, as always. A giddy thought grew within. If the duchess taught him more, he might somehow be able to find Sparrow in spite of her shields.
The little fox could not hide from him forever.
8
Vrell had hoped to ride out at dawn amongst the harvesters, but Gren’s joining her delayed their departure until after breakfast. To Vrell’s frustration, Gren had never ridden a horse. How the girl thought she would steal one and make it through the gates unnoticed—black mourning gown and all—Vrell would never guess.
After a lesson in how to ride, they left the stronghold behind a group of wagons headed to the orchards. They rode through the partially burned vineyards that the enemy had destroyed and out of Carmine.
The air smelled sweet and fresh as they passed by hay fields. Dozens of men waded through the timothy grass, swinging scythes against the golden hay. Boys with pitchforks scurried behind, spreading it flat so it could dry.
The day passed slowly. Vrell stopped at a creek to water the horses, and she and Gren changed from their dresses into dingy blue tunics and brown trousers. Though this time, Vrell did not bother with fake bellies. Once Gren’s black mourning dress and Vrell’s green travel dress were packed away in their saddlebags, they continued their journey more comfortably. Men’s clothing was much cooler to wear.
When night fell, they made camp in a grove of olive trees at the foot of a grassy knoll not far from the road. The trees sheltered them and their horses from any passersby. They sat on bedrolls under a bushy olive tree, munching on dates and cheese. Gren inhaled her food like a man.
Vrell supposed the child within wanted his or her share, so she gave Gren a bit more. “When is your child expected?”
“Mother guesses the end of winter.”
“That seems so far away.”
“I think so too.”
“Does it hurt? Being with child?”
“I get sick in the mornings, and I seem to live with a never-ending headache.”
“I have feverfew in my satchel.” Vrell pointed to her things propped against the tree trunk. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Gren lifted the satchel and dug inside it.
Vrell closed her eyes and sought out Bran. He, Jax, and Sir Rigil were sitting on bedrolls in their own camp, hashing out their suspicions as to whether or not Esek was still alive.
Gypsum seemed to think so. But the only way Esek could have survived the loss of a limb was if a skilled healer had been present. Perhaps one had been.
Vrell fingered the chain at her neck that held Achan’s signet ring. She wanted it close until she decided what to do.
“Is this Achan’s hair?”
Vrell glanced up to see Gren clutching feverfew leaves in one hand and a lock of black hair in the other. “It is.”
“I cut his hair so many times… It looked familiar.” Gren twirled the lock in her fingers. “Did he cut this for you?”
Vrell laughed heartily. “Does that sound like something Achan would do?”
A small smile curved Gren’s lips. “I guess not.”
“I cut it,” Vrell said, “back when he was wounded in the Mahanaim dungeon. I was learning to bloodvoice at the time.”
“Locks of hair help with bloodvoicing?”
“Personal possessions increase the ability of connection. I thought hair would be personal enough.”
“So you met Achan in Mahanaim?”
“I did.”
Gren’s tone hardened. “Then how come he’s never met you? For he confessed as much to me only days ago.”
“I…” Vrell would never escape her own lies if she could not prune herself of all deceit. What was that Bran had claimed? That the truth would set her free? “When we first spoke, Achan believed I was a boy.”
Gren studied her. “A boy? But you’re so beautiful.”
Vrell’s cheeks warmed. “I am not shapely like you. Once I put on a tunic and trousers like these, no one suspected a thing.”
“But why dress as a boy, my lady?”
“It is the same as what we’re doing now, Gren.” Vrell sighed. “Back when we all thought he was Prince Gidon, Esek wanted to marry me. When Mother refused, he tormented us. So Mother sent me to Walden’s Watch to hide under the guise of a stray boy. But a man sensed my bloodvoice and brought me to Mahanaim to train as his apprentice.”
Gren’s eyes were saucers. “You must’ve been terrified.”
“I was.” Vrell went on to tell about her journey to Mahanaim with Jax and Khai, her training with Macoun Hadar and his obsession with Achan.
Gren frowned. “I don’t understand bloodvoicing. You mean that people could feel Achan’s mind?”
“Before he learned to contain it, his power released a painful pressure into every bloodvoicer in Er’Rets.” Vrell recalled Achan’s experiment the other day. “So, Master Hadar, hungry for another apprentice, sent me to fetch Achan. I found him injured in the wake of a battle. Once he was transported to Mahanaim, I cared for his wounds. And when he woke, he thought I was a boy named Vrell Sparrow. That is how we became friends.”
Gren’s eyes widened. “He called you Sparrow in the field. He knows you’re a woman?”
“He knows now,” Vrell said. “But he does not know that Vrell Sparrow and Lady Averella Amal are one and the same.”
Gren rolled onto her knees. “Yet you are betrothed.”
Vrell tugged at her necklace. “The betrothal is a political match Achan’s advisors planned with my mother.”
“But why didn’t you tell him you are Lady Averella?”
Why indeed? “Things are complicated, which is why I needed to leave.”
“But…” Gren stared, mouth flapping. “You love him. You sang to him. He looked s
o forlorn when he spoke about his engagement.” She gasped. “It’s because he loves Vrell Sparrow and thinks he will never have her. The poor dear.”
Vrell looked at her hands. “I do not know what to do.”
“Tell him the truth and marry him,” Gren said.
“If life were that simple, you and he would be married.”
“I suppose.” Gren nibbled at a feverfew leaf. “But from a woman who was forced to marry, believe me, to marry for love would be worth any complication.”
Even breaking Arman’s laws? “I grow weary of this discussion. Please, I would like to sleep now.”
Gren rolled her eyes and leaned back against the olive tree. “Must be nice to order your problems away.”
Vrell lay down on her bedroll and pulled the blanket up to her chin. “It is not nice. Ordering them away only prolongs the pain of indecision.”
“So make a decision,” Gren said, as if Vrell were choosing which dress to wear.
Vrell rolled on her side, putting her back to Gren. “I have. That is why I’m following Jax.”
“You won’t marry Achan?”
“No. I will not.” Though even as she said the words, she did not know if she meant them. Tears pooled in her eyes. She did her best to stifle the sound of her crying.
The following day passed as slowly as the first. Sitna was a two-day journey on horseback, but Gren, not used to riding, refused to allow her horse to do anything but walk, claiming faster movement jarred her queasy stomach.
Vrell’s boredom tempted her to look through Achan’s eyes. She had never been capable of such, and the last time she tried he had sensed her. Instead, she looked in on Mother several times and found her busy coordinating supplies for Achan’s army or strolling around the castle with Sir Eagan.
It did not appear that Mother had noticed Vrell’s absence yet. Not surprising.
While they stopped for lunch, Gren urged Vrell to check on Bran’s progress.
“From the look of the land, they are still north of Allowntown. I pray Jax will linger there a day or two. For that is the only chance I have of catching up.”
Gren set down her figs. “If you’re so set on deserting Achan, it makes no sense for us to part in Sitna. I have two friends— strong men—that’ll escort me the rest of the way. Why not come with us? It’ll be safer.”
Vrell met Gren’s reproving gaze and wrung her hands. Stopping in Sitna would likely waste another day. But Jax was already so far ahead, perhaps travelling with Gren and her friends would be wisest.
It was late afternoon on the third day when Vrell and Gren arrived in Sitna, a small, brownstone castle surrounded by a dingy moat. Gren led her over the drawbridge to a long clapboard stable. They dismounted and took their horses in.
“Hello there.” A stray, tall and thin, walked toward them. The sight of his orange tunic brought back memories of Vrell’s time as a stray. How quickly she had forgotten the orange tunic in her weeks of comfort in Carmine.
“See here now,” Gren said, faking the low voice of a man. “We two men wanna put up our horses, and we want you to be quick about it, see?”
“I’d be happy to, sir.” The man stopped and squinted at Gren. “Gren?”
“Noam!” Gren rushed forward and embraced him.
He bent awkwardly to hug her short frame. “What are you doing here? Has your family returned? Why are you dressed like a man?”
Gren’s eyes glittered. “I’m in disguise. And I came without my parents. I couldn’t stay in Carmine any longer. It was horrible, Noam. You won’t believe what happened to me.”
“You must tell all.” Noam studied the mare beside Gren. “Including where you got such a fine horse.”
“Oh, forgive me!” Gren slid back to include Vrell in the conversation. “Lady Averella Amal, this is Noam Fox. The horses are hers, Noam. She’s in disguise too.”
Noam stared a long moment, his gaze taking in Vrell’s clothing, then he jerked into a low bow, his spine pressing against his thin tunic. “An honor, m’lady.”
Mercy. Did the poor man ever eat? Vrell hoped this was not one of the men intended to escort Gren to Armonguard. He did not look able to stand up to the weakest soldier.
“Noam is Sitna Manor’s stableman.”
“Don’t say such things, Gren. Oster will hear you.” Noam glanced around as if expecting this Oster person to charge out from one of the stalls and reprimand him. His worried gaze shifted to Vrell. “I’m the stable hand, m’lady. Nothing more than a stray.”
Vrell opened her mouth to speak, but Gren said, “You’re more of a stableman than Oster. You do all the work.”
Noam shifted his feet and lowered his voice. “Gren, please. Can we speak of this later?”
“We need to talk to you about why we’ve come. Can you take a break?”
“You know I can’t. What if we meet at the Corner tonight?”
Gren clapped her hands and jumped. “Oh, yes, we must. A brilliant plan, Noam. We need speak with Harnu too.”
Noam raised a dark eyebrow. “Reconsidered his offer, have you?”
Gren shoved Noam with both hands. “I most certainly have not, Noam Fox, you take that back!”
“Calm yourself,” Noam said, rubbing his chest. “It was just a question.”
“Which is all I want with Harnu. To ask a question. Where is he?”
“The armory, as usual.” Noam’s gaze bounced between Vrell and Gren. “Did you know Lord Levy has come?”
“To visit?” Vrell asked.
“To stay, it seems. Lord Nathak is preparing to move to Armonguard to assist Prince Gidon’s rule. Lord Levy came to replace him and govern Sitna.”
Gren shoved Noam again.
He clapped a hand to his chest. “What now?”
“Achan is Prince Gidon, not that pigheaded…” She pushed Noam. “Evil…” She pushed him again.
He grabbed her arms and pulled her into a hug. “All right, Grenny. I know it, you hear? It just slipped out. I meant Esek. He’s who Lord Nathak plans to help rule.”
“You have seen Esek recently?” Vrell asked.
“No, m’lady. Not here. Not for months.”
Praise Arman. “But Lord Nathak is here?”
“Aye. And I urge you take care, m’lady. There’s a ransom on your head. They seek a woman dressed as a lad. You’d both be wise to change and fast.”
“A peasant’s dress,” Gren said, approaching Vrell. “I’ll do your hair in pigtail braids.”
Vrell felt queasy. People were hunting her. Stopping in Sitna had been a mistake. “Is my hair long enough?”
Gren fingered Vrell’s stubby tail. “Just.”
“Stray!” a man yelled from the back. “Put those horses up and get on with the stalls!”
“Yes, sir!” Noam took the bridles of both horses. “Until tonight, then.”
“Farewell.” Gren pulled Vrell by the hand, outside and across the crowded bailey. Vrell kept her head down and pulled her hand away. Men holding hands would surely seem odd.
In Carmine, the armory had its own building. Here it was a shelter with two walls on the back corner and the front corner open, held up with a wooden post.
An old man wearing a leather apron held a stick of white hot iron with tongs and swung a hammer on it again and again. Each strike sent dozens of sparks into the air.
Vrell did not want to remain out in the open. “What are we doing here?” she whispered to Gren.
“Looking for Harnu.”
“I thought we wanted to change? Pigtail braids?” Vrell’s nerves tingled at the idea that Lord Nathak was so near.
“Stand behind me if you’re worried.” Gren walked up to the old man. “Master Poe, have you seen Harnu?”
“Grenny girl! Haven’t seen yer father. When yeh get back?” The man set down his hammer and brushed his hands on his apron. “How’s the baby comin’ along? And why yeh dressed like a man?”
“Father’s not here, Master Poe. Just me and my friend. An
d please keep your voice down. We’re trying to blend in.”
Vrell’s lips parted, breath frozen in anticipation. Surely the girl would not introduce her to every old friend in Sitna. These peasants likely needed money enough to turn her in.
The old man looked Vrell up and down. “I’ve seen yeh before. Not ’n the flesh, but on Nathak’s scrolls. Ever’ day some soldier comes sniffin’ fer yeh an’ the pawn. S’prised I was to hear yeh stole the pawn’s heart. Didn’t think that boy’d ever get over losin’ Grenny to Riga Hoff.”
“The pawn?” Vrell’s apprehension grew. If there were scrolls bearing her likeness, she needed to hide her face.
“That’s what the people in Sitna call Achan now that the truth is known,” Gren said. “There’s even a song.”
“Beg yer forgiveness, m’lady,” Master Poe said. “It ain’t fittin’ to speak ill o’ the dead.” He nodded to Gren. “An’ I mean no disrespect to yeh or yer unborn child. But Harnu was always a simple lad. Did what he was told. Followed that Riga like a lost pup. Ever’ idea’r those two got into sparked with Riga Hoff. My son’s changed since the pawn’s days here. Like to think I beat enough sense into ’im.”
“Master Poe.” Vrell kept her voice low and her eyes on the people passing by the armory. “I harbor no ill will toward you or your son. And I assure you, Achan is kind and forgiving. I am certain he would be willing to pardon your son for any wrongdoings in the past.”
The old man laughed. “Well, I’ll be forged. She calls ’im Achan.”
“Gren?” a man’s voice said.
Vrell spun around. But instead of a soldier holding a scroll, as Vrell feared, a strong young man stood outside holding two buckets of water, frowning at Gren. He had a plain, pockmarked face and dark hair. He too wore a leather apron over a brown tunic and trousers.
“Hello, Harnu.” Gren’s cool tone lacked the familiarity she shared with Noam and Master Poe.
Vrell looked between Harnu and Gren, intrigued by Gren’s behavior. Was it Harnu’s past treatment of Achan that angered Gren, or had these two shared something more?
“These fine young men wanna talk to yeh, son.” Master Poe gripped Harnu’s shoulder and chuckled. “Go on an’ see what’s so urgent.”
From Darkness Won Page 12