From Darkness Won

by Jill Williamson

  “Fool song knows nothing.” Shung’s voice was a low growl. “Gali is Shung’s moon, stars. Shung’s everything.”

  “Aww. But still…” And Lady Gali finished the song. “I love you. How can I make it known, that I love you?”

  Her voice… It raked over Achan like an icy wind.

  He recalled Sir Eagan’s words from his manhood ceremony. “It is a man’s duty to protect a lady’s honor.”

  And Sir Caleb’s said during one of many lectures, “It’s the very things a man never intends to do that sneak up and ensnare him.”

  Achan gripped Challa’s shoulders and pushed her off him. “Forgive me, Challa. You are worth more than this.”

  “You want to pay me more?”

  Achan blinked, squinting to see her face in the darkness under the wagon. “Pay you?”

  “Well, Kurtz, he already paid me plenty of—”

  Achan sat up and bashed his head against the bottom of the wagon. He groaned through the pain and crawled out from under the wagon’s edge on his knees and one hand, the other hand clutching his head. He stood, and his vision swam in a blurry haze. He grabbed the wagon box to steady himself. When the dizzy spell passed, he crouched down and found Challa giggling.

  “Are yeh all right, Yer Highness?”

  Achan spoke softly, hoping to ease the pressure in his head. “I mean to say… that I am drunk on wine and pain. It was wrong of me to take advantage of you.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind, Yer Highness.”

  She didn’t mind? “You should, Challa.” Shouldn’t she?

  Not his problem. He stumbled away. Movement behind him caused him to turn, ready to apologize to Challa again if need be, but it was only his Kingsguard shadows. Both men averted their eyes when Achan looked their way. They had been standing nearby the whole night, he had no doubt.

  He turned, cheeks blazing, and trudged out of the clearing. The path ahead blurred the tents together. He tripped over a guy line and barely caught his balance before his shadows swooped in to coddle him again.

  “I’m fine!” He held out his hands to prove it and give his balance time to return. He stepped slowly along the path. Every movement sent pangs of nausea through his stomach.

  “Your Highness! Wait!” Kurtz’s voice, behind him.

  Achan gritted his teeth, angry at Kurtz, angrier still at himself.

  Kurtz wrapped an arm around Achan and pulled his head into the crook of his arm. “What happened, Pacey? Of all the women I’ve met tonight, Challa is by far the most beautiful. Did she do something wrong?”

  “You paid her to dance with me.”

  Kurtz rubbed his hand in Achan’s hair. “Aww, don’t take it that way, eh? We paid the lot of them to come. And Challa would have danced with you on her own, she would. Don’t you go doubting that, eh? Why not take her with us as your concubine? She can travel with you in your wagon. Sleep in your tent. And once you reside in the palace at Armonguard, you can give her a room in a different part of the castle from your wife.” Kurtz slapped the flat of his hand against Achan’s stomach and lowered his voice. “It’s always best to keep them apart from one another, it is.”

  Concubine? Achan’s head throbbed. “I would never destroy her life by doing such a thing.”

  Kurtz raised both eyebrows. “She’s a prostitute, Your Highness. If she became your concubine you’d be improving her life, eh?”

  The breath rushed from Achan’s lungs. “How old is she? Surely no more than sixteen years?”

  “I know better than to ask a woman her age.” Kurtz clapped him on the back. “You’d be doing her a favor to take her from here. Imagine, a peasant prostitute moves into the Armonguard palace. Minstrels would write songs about her.”

  “I—” Unwelcome thoughts of Challa’s smile filled Achan’s mind. “No, Kurtz. That is not how Arman would have me live—or Challa—or my queen.”

  Whoever she may be.

  “Bah! Foolhardy nonsense. Your father had many concubines, he did.”

  Achan wrinkled his nose. “No.” King Axel had loved his queen ever since he knew boys and girls were different. Sir Gavin had said so.

  “Eh… forgive me, Your Highness, but the king had dozens, he did. Mistresses too. Saw it with my own eyes more times than I can count. There’s no harm in it, eh? All men of power have the right, they do.”

  A wave of nausea peaked in Achan’s stomach. He took a deep breath and pulled away. “Good evening, Kurtz.” He trudged through the camp, head pounding as if something inside were trying to push its way out.

  Achan had painted a vivid history of his parents’ relationship in his mind. But it was based on songs sung by minstrels and snippets of stories from the knights. He pawed through his memories, seeking some hint he may have forgotten. Surely Kurtz was mistaken.

  Achan ducked into his tent, got tangled in the drape under the valance, and beat it away. His shoulder struck the edge of the doorway, shaking the entire structure. He stumbled inside. A lone candle burned. Achan squinted in the low light, trying to make out the best path to his bed.

  “Your Highness.” Sir Caleb’s voice came from somewhere nearby. “I was just about to message you.”

  Achan wanted—no, needed—to lie down. He spotted a large patch of blue to his left and stumbled toward it. His feet carried him slightly askew. He focused on the blue blankets and his course veered true.

  “Where have you been?” Sir Caleb’s voice spun around him, coming from everywhere at once. “Have you been drinking?”

  Achan turned toward the candlelight. His eyes stung. He could barely make out Sir Caleb, sitting at the table. “A bit.”

  Sir Caleb stood and snapped his fingers. “Dismissed.”

  Achan’s heart leapt at the sound. “Dismissed from what?” Footsteps scraped over dirt behind Achan. He turned to see his guardsmen trudge away. “Oh, them.” He scowled. “What is my cousin’s name? I can’t remember.”

  “Manu Pitney.” Sir Caleb motioned Achan toward him.

  Achan walked that direction and banged his shin against something solid. “Pig snout.” He cowered and rubbed his leg. In front of him, the chaise lounge came into view.

  “Sit,” Sir Caleb said.

  Achan lowered himself down slowly, careful not to jar his aching head. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for Sir Caleb’s lecture.

  “You smell… pretty.”

  And there it was. A hint of chastisement in tone. Achan sighed, not unhappy to have the subject broached. For he wanted answers of his own. “Kurtz said…” Achan lowered his voice. “He said my father kept concubines.” He opened his eyes, concentrating to focus on Sir Caleb’s expression.

  Sir Caleb pursed his lips then sighed. “If King Axel had been present the night of your manhood ceremony, I’ve no doubt he would have confessed that very thing.”

  Achan wilted. “But I thought… He and my mother…”

  “He loved your mother very much.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Certain things snare a man. Women. Power. The pipe. Anger. Wine.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t judge your father on his mistakes alone. For Arman conquered his snares. From the moment of your birth your father never paid mind to any woman but your mother. Arman changed him.”

  What did that mean? For Achan knew Arman, and he had nearly lost himself in Challa’s embrace. Was he not changed? “There was a girl. Kurtz introduced us. I didn’t know she was a prostitute.”

  Sir Caleb nodded as if he’d been expecting this confession. “Would you have brought her back here?”

  Achan’s face flamed, but he could only stare. His lips felt dry, his tongue and throat too. His stomach roiled.

  Sir Caleb chuckled. “I would have made it a merry trio. We could have played dice.”

  “Do not jest. I… I don’t… I’m afraid.”

  “Of?”

  “Toros said, what mastered the father will tempt the son. I never realized…”

  “So you have been tempted
. Did you fall to it?”

  “No.” Achan ran his hands over his head. “No. I apologized. I didn’t know that Kurtz had paid— I’m sorry, Sir Caleb. I know you said to treat women with—”

  “Shh. You are forgiven.” A long moment of silence passed. “Is there something else?”

  “I never felt like that. So lost in… I wanted so bad to just…” He let his head fall back against the chaise lounge. There was no other way to put it. “I had no intention of stopping her.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Sparrow.” He shrugged. “Or maybe it was Arman. Or the things you told me. Or all of it together.” Achan sighed. “I cannot say, exactly. But I don’t trust myself.” For what if Kurtz threw another pretty woman into his arms?

  “Nor should you.”

  “Will you always be sitting in my bedchamber?”

  Sir Caleb laughed. “Once we are at Armonguard, I will likely never be sitting in your bedchamber. In times of war, however…” He crouched before the long chair and slapped a hand on Achan’s shoulder.

  “Listen well,” he said. “If you wish to break your vows to Arman and your wife, you will do it. But it takes more than wishing to keep those vows. It takes strength and character and determination, all qualities you have in great measure. Do not despair, Achan. You are not a weak man. But temptation will always be there. And when you are tempted, resist, flee from it, refocus your thoughts. Find your strength in Arman. Only by Arman’s strength can you prevail.”

  Achan released a long, cleansing breath. It felt like he hadn’t breathed since he had talked to Sparrow.

  Please, Arman. Help her to remember me. I need her.

  YOU NEED ME.

  Achan closed his eyes. Aye, Arman. I need You.

  Achan woke to blinding pain.

  He must be dying. Esek must’ve hidden in his tent, stabbed a blade through his skull while he’d been sleeping.

  The gorbellied coward.

  Achan opened his eyes, which made the pain worse. He ran his hands over the sides of his head and found no knife.

  A sound made him turn to the other side. Matthias stood at his bed, eyes wide.

  “Morning, Matthias,” Achan mumbled.

  “You’ve got new wounds, sir.”

  Achan lifted his head and winced. “What?”

  “On your back.” Matthias pointed. “Cat scratches.”

  Achan’s mind swirled. A cat? He sat up and twisted around, trying to see what Matthias was on about. He could barely see the end of a pink welt that curled around his side halfway between his arm pit and his waist.

  What in all Er’Rets?

  “That cat got you pretty good, Your Highness. Best be careful around them in the future.” Sir Caleb was sitting at the table, poring over scrolls.

  Achan rubbed his eyes and squinted at Sir Caleb. “Have you been sitting there all night?”

  “No. For night has gone, as has the new morning and most of the new day.”

  Scenes from the previous night flashed through Achan’s memory. Challa. She had scratched him. He wilted under the force of his own stupidity. Praise Arman for new mornings.

  Matthias still stood at Achan’s bedside, awestruck. “Was it a chatul cat, sir? Did you kill it?”

  “Huh?” Achan’s tongue felt like a wood chip. He needed water.

  “The cat, Your Highness,” Sir Caleb said. “The boy would like to know if you killed it.”

  Blood rushed to Achan’s face. Pain spiked in his temples. His stomach seized. Fluid rose up his throat and nose. He pressed his lips together, clamped a hand over his mouth, and lunged out of bed toward the chamber pot.

  After retching for what seemed like an eternity, Achan fell onto his rear and lay on the floor, arms and legs spread out like the destination on a map. His nose and throat stung. He panted short, deep breaths to calm his angry stomach.

  A shadow passed over him. Sir Caleb looked down, shaggy blond mane framing his face. He held out Averella’s dress sleeve and a dark wine bottle. He smelled the bottle’s opening and set it down beside Achan’s waist. “Smells like it was good.”

  Achan groaned through another intense pang in his head.

  “I learned long ago, as you likely have from your experience last night, that one should not drink more than one glass of any Carmine red in one sitting. And never on an empty stomach.” Sir Caleb dropped Averella’s sleeve, which fluttered in the air over Achan until it settled on his bare chest. “Best not to lose that until after we are safe in Armonguard.”

  Sir Caleb walked away, and Matthias’s small face reappeared at Achan’s side. The boy crouched and sniffed the bottle then folded his arms and stared at Achan.

  Without moving his head, Achan shifted his eyes to meet the boy’s. “The cat got away, Matthias. She nearly killed me, though.”

  Matthias smiled, as if this concession made the whole ordeal worthwhile.

  18

  “Head for the main gate, Master Fox.”

  “Aye, m’lady.”

  Noam steered the wagon through the outskirts of Mahanaim. The road was deserted. In the Darkness, Averella could not guess the hour.

  “I shall bloodvoice Master Rennan to see if I can learn his precise whereabouts.” Averella closed her eyes and focused. Master Rennan? May I speak with you, please?

  Bran sounded tired. My lady, are you well?

  We are, thank you. We approach the gate. Can you tell me the way to the dungeon? Will the front entrance—

  Averella, do not attempt this.

  We stand a much better chance of success with your guidance, Master Rennan.

  Prisoners are being executed daily. Fed to the great tanniyn. I would never forgive myself if you were captured.

  Perhaps Bran still cared. We shall not stand by while innocent men are slaughtered. The location of the dungeon would help us greatly.

  Bran’s tone rose. Do not be a fool! There is nothing two women can do. Go home. Tell Gren I said the same.

  Averella bristled. Women are not so completely useless as you believe, Master Rennan. And as I mentioned before, we have two able men with us. Abandoning you would break Gren’s heart, for she seems intent on being near you.

  It’s far too dangerous for Gren. Bran’s voice softened. She could be hurt—or lose her child.

  Is this the real reason we have parted ways, Master Rennan? Is this child yours?

  Averella sensed Bran’s anger flare. You know me better than that. Even in his mind, he sighed with frustration. Fine. If you insist on this madness, the dungeons are in the lowest levels of the stronghold. Any descending staircase will lead you there eventually. Arman be with you.

  Averella opened her eyes. The scene blurred before her. Behind the jagged parapet of the sentry wall, the city of Mahanaim peaked like a mountain of stone. Hundreds of torchlights lit the structure, but the colors of the stone were dull under the shadow of Darkness. The overwhelming smell was like a privy filled with rotted fish.

  Before Master Fox could slow the wagon at the gate, two soldiers approached. They wore black armor and black capes with the gold symbol of Mahanaim on them.

  One of the men spoke. “State yer name and business.”

  “I’m Harnu Poe. We come seeking sanctuary from Darkness and to offer our service to the New Council.”

  “What do you know of the New Council?”

  “Just that things are changing in Er’Rets. I aim to serve however I can.”

  “Who you got with you?”

  “My wife and two servants.”

  “How do you plan to serve the New Council?”

  “My man and I mean to fight. If you’re in need of seamstresses, the women can sew.”

  “You’ll need coin to rent a room. Ask the stablemaster about trading that wagon for a boat.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “Come on down and let us search yer wagon.”

  The four of them climbed out and watched the soldiers ransack their supplies. They made a mess,
tossing everything about, but took nothing but a mouthful of dried fish.

  Then they searched Harnu and Noam.

  The man searching Harnu took his coin purse—which was really Averella’s. “We’ll be taking a fee for entry and an offering for Dâthos. And you’ll have to hand over that blade.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Harnu said, forbidding as ever. “If I’m to join the soldiers, I’ll do best with my own blade.”

  The soldier glanced at his partner, who shrugged. “Let him keep it. It’s in sad shape, if you ask me.” He pocketed a few coins and tossed the coin purse back to Harnu.

  The soldiers approached the women next. Averella clutched Gren’s arm. “You will not touch us!”

  The soldier laughed. “Oh, but we will, Madam. Plenty have tried to sneak trouble past our gate by hiding it on their women. Put your arms out, real nice like.”

  Averella shot a glance to Harnu, who shrugged. “We’ve nothing to hide. Search ’em if you must.”

  Typical male response. Harnu had acclimated to his role all too well. Averella closed her eyes as the guard ran his hands over her.

  A tickle at her neck. “What have we here?”

  She opened her eyes to see the guard pulling the gold chain that held the king’s signet ring. Her heart fluttered. She grabbed the chain.

  “None of that now,” the guard said. “We can’t allow you to wear such a trinket in times like these. It’s not safe. Plus, such an offering would please Dâthos.”

  Averella and the guard both held tight until the chain snapped. The guard pulled the chain through Averella’s fist until he had it all. She gasped when the ring did not appear. She could feel it still nestled inside her makeshift corset.

  The guard sneered and pocketed the chain. He didn’t know there had been anything else attached! “Yer free to enter. Make any mischief and we’ll feed you to the tanniyn.”

  As the guards raised the gate, Noam helped Averella and Gren into the wagon bed. Once everyone was seated, Noam steered the horses inside the stronghold.

  “Sorry ’bout your necklace, my lady,” Harnu said. “I didn’t think we should pick a fight just then.”

  “You were wise, Master Poe, though it would not hurt you to be more protective of your wife.” She reached into her neckline and pulled out the ring. “Fortunately I am not as shapely as Gren.” Averella blushed, shocked at her words. Since when did she say such forward things?