They steered their horses across the wetlands of what Inko told her was Melas Marsh, sloshing water for hours. Sir Gavin had them stop on a small, dry knoll. He drove a torch into the ground and they made camp around it in silence. Either the men were exhausted or something truly horrible had taken place in Barth.
Vrell was thankful for her own bedroll. Lord Eli had provided that, at least, despite his trickery and betrayal. She laid it a few feet from the torch and sat cross-legged, watching the bugs flock to the light, waiting for someone to speak.
Clinking metal drew her attention to Achan. He carried a long length of chain looped over his arm that hung past his knees, jingling as he limped about. Why would no one talk of what had happened? How had they managed to free Achan?
Achan lay on his bedroll on the other side of the fire, chains scraping each time he shifted.
Sir Gavin handed out rations of bread and apples. He crouched at Vrell’s feet and set her food on the end of the leather hide. “Would you mind looking at Achan’s feet, Vrell? They might need care.”
Before she could respond, Sir Gavin moved to Inko’s bedroll. Achan looked to be sleeping now. She picked up her satchel and circled the torch by way of Sir Caleb. She could not suffer another verbal beating. If Achan was still cross, she would need reinforcements.
“Sir Caleb,” Vrell said softly, “I am to check Achan’s wounds. Would you mind holding the torch so I can see?”
“Of course.” Sir Caleb jumped up and jerked the torch from the sand. Shadows danced as the only light for miles was moved. Vrell knelt at the foot of Achan’s bedroll. Sir Caleb crouched beside her and held the torch low. Dirt caked footprints on the soles of Achan’s bare feet. Vrell cringed at the blisters and streaks of dried blood that were nearly impossible to see against the dirt.
Sir Caleb laid his hand on Achan’s bare shin. “Your Highness?”
Achan’s breathing hitched, then fell back into a soft rhythm.
“Asleep already, poor lad. Can you imagine? A stray one day, a king the next. And in both lives, targets of wicked men’s wrath.”
Vrell’s chest constricted. “No, I cannot.”
“You think you can work on those feet a bit without waking him?”
“I shall do my best, sir.” She hoped she had enough supplies.
Vrell used water from her jug and a strip of linen from her satchel to wipe Achan’s feet as clean as she could without soaking them. Achan slept so soundly, he barely moved. She rubbed yarrow salve into the cuts and scrapes and used the rest of her linen to wrap his feet to keep out more dirt.
When she finished, she held the torch for Sir Caleb so he could pick the locks on Achan’s shackles. Once those were removed, Vrell did what she could with her remaining supplies to nurse the lacerations on his hands and wrists.
She packed up her satchel, leaned over Achan, and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
* * *
The next morning—if a dark sky with no hope of light all day could be called morning—Sir Gavin made sure to greet each of them face to face, then they mounted and rode without a word.
Vrell’s mind began to wander into a waking dream, scrambling reality with fear in a bizarre ongoing hallucination. If only she had brought along Achan’s chains, she could punish herself by wearing them. How might they look with a wedding gown? Would Sir Gavin approve? Life would be blissful when she and Sir Gavin finally wed, but would their children have long white beards? Different colored eyes? And would Bran object? Would he challenge Sir Gavin?
She managed to break free from the chain of thoughts and center her mind on Arman, but each wild imagining left her shaken. Had Sir Caleb run out of lectures? Why did no one speak?
“No!”
Vrell jerked upright in her saddle. Her horse stopped and snorted. A horse ahead of hers whinnied and stomped, splashing the marshland water. A man grunted. Water splashed, followed by quick footsteps in the water. Who was running?
“Achan!” Sir Gavin cried out. “Stop!”
“Her child! He’s dying!” Achan called from the darkness to Vrell’s left. “I must go to her!”
“Who’s dying?” Sir Caleb said from behind Vrell.
Leather slid against leather and boots splashed into the water at the front of the line.
A torchlight fizzed green behind Vrell, illuminating Sir Gavin’s white hair, flying out behind him as he bounded through the marsh.
Sir Caleb dismounted and followed, taking the green light with him. “Light a torch so we can find our way back!”
Inko started to dig in his pack. Vrell clutched the reins and listened to Achan’s screams in the distance. From the sounds of things, the men had caught him and he did not approve.
“What is he doing, do you think?” Vrell asked.
“Going mad, I’m guessing. It’s being the way of Darkness to be calling to your fears.”
Who did Achan think was dying? Vrell did not have to wonder long. Soon Sir Gavin and Sir Caleb dragged a sobbing, struggling Achan back to the horses.
“No!” Achan jerked against their hold, trying to get away. He plowed back and forth between them, causing all three men to stagger and slip in the ankle-deep water. “Let me go! Gren needs me. She’s all alone. They killed him.”
“Who did they kill?” Vrell asked.
Achan sobered and stopped struggling, eyes wide. He sniffled. “I must go. I must protect her from Esek. He intends to use her to get to me.”
Vrell’s face tingled as the blood drained away. She had thought Achan suffered from Darkness’s hold, but this seemed all too real. “Who did Esek kill, Achan. Who?”
“Her baby!”
Baby? Vrell frowned. “Achan, Gren has only been married a short time. She could not have a child yet.”
“He’s dead, I say!” He glared up at Vrell. “You don’t believe me? I don’t care. I don’t need any of you. I’ll go alone. Let me go! I must go to Gren!”
Sir Gavin’s voice swelled in Vrell’s inner ear. He’s delusional, Vrell. Don’t encourage this line of thought. Do you have something to help him sleep?
I have hops tea. But I will need hot water to prepare it and time for it to take effect.
“We’ll rest here a moment.” Sir Gavin spread his feet as Achan tried to pull away. “Inko, please help Vrell heat a bit of water to make Achan a drink.”
Achan grunted with his effort to break free. “I don’t need a drink. I need to get to Sitna. Let go!”
But the knights did not. They stood in the marsh with Achan and tried to distract him from his worry of Gren’s dead baby. Inko lit a torch and helped Vrell heat enough water to drink in a small tin cup. She had to wear one of Inko’s thick leather gloves to keep the little cup from burning her hands as the torchlight heated the water.
“I’ve grown lax.” Sir Gavin’s face had darkened with his effort to hold Achan. “I shouldn’t have ordered everyone to stay silent. Losing Achan should’ve made me more careful, not less. We must continue to communicate, focus our minds.”
Vrell added the herbs and the smell cleansed her sinuses and relaxed her nerves. When it had steeped, she poured it into a cool mug and brought it to Achan.
He shook his head. “You’re trying to give me âleh. You want to silence my bloodvoice so I can’t see Gren. Get away!”
Achan swiped at Vrell and nearly upset the cup. Sir Caleb grabbed his arms, but Achan fought him. They fell and rolled in the water until Inko and Sir Gavin managed to drag Achan off of Sir Caleb. Achan elbowed Sir Gavin and sprinted off again.
It took all three men to restrain him and a very long time for Vrell to get him to swallow the tea. Then they had to wait for it to put him to sleep. He fought it until he went limp. Sir Gavin tethered Achan’s horse beside his own, the knights hoisted Achan up, tied him to the horse, and they moved on.
Vrell prayed for Achan and for her own sanity. The horses’ hooves soon found the dry ground of the sandbar again. Vrell spotted light to the north. A single flame w
inking on the black horizon. Sir Caleb bloodvoiced techniques for fighting with a short sword, and before they could stop for their second meal, the whole horizon seemed to glow as if a fire ravaged the land.
Melas.
Part 3
Friends and Allies
17
Vrell nibbled a piece of dried fish and passed her gaze between the orange glow in the distance and Achan, curled up on a bedroll beside Sir Gavin. Achan had suffered so much. Would the people of Melas be kind? Depraved? Would they seek to exploit him? Kill him? Melas was the only place separating Southern Er’Rets from Northern Er’Rets this side of Mahanaim. It commanded the only way to cross the Strait of Arok.
Vrell could no longer stand the silence. “Will they let us enter through the gate?”
“My friend is expecting us.” Sir Gavin took a swig from his water jug. “He’ll meet us inside.”
“Who is he?” Vrell asked.
“A former Kingsguard soldier turned priest.”
Vrell hoped for a priest of the Way. It had been so long since she had heard Arman’s word.
Though the lights of Melas seemed close, hours passed before they approached the narrow bridge that crossed the mouth of the inlet and led up to a solid cast iron gate. A massive stone wall stretched along the northern shore of Arok Lake and out of Vrell’s eyesight. Torches blazed from the parapet, flames mirrored on the dark water. A fortress on a moonless night.
The hollow clunking of the horses hooves on the bridge rattled Vrell’s nerves after hours of sandy terrain.
A voice called out from the gate: “Who comes this way?”
“Sir Gavin Lukos and company. We’re here on business with Trajen Yorbride.”
“Hold.”
The horses stopped. Vrell’s eyes adjusted to the torchlight on the curtain wall. Achan slumped over his horse. She hoped he would wake with no memory of his strange behavior.
“Stand back for the guard,” the voice from the gatehouse said. “They will exit, count your party, then follow you inside. Then the gate will close again. Agreed?”
“Aye, we agree.” Sir Gavin twisted around on his horse. “Steer your mounts to the right of the bridge to make way for the guards. Do what they say and don’t argue.”
Vrell guided her horse as close to the right railing as possible. Why so much security just to enter Melas? What would happen if Achan woke and had another fit? Would they arrest him? Kill him? Leave him outside the gate?
A boom shook the bridge. Vrell’s horse jerked. Vrell patted the animal’s neck as the clanking of chains echoed over the water. The gate slid left like a curtain, baring a sliver of orange light from within. When the gate was wide enough for one man on a horse to pass, the chains stopped rattling. Hoofbeats clomped nearer as the guards approached, single file.
Three rode past Vrell. They wore long dark capes over dark armor. Vrell tensed, remembering the black knights. When the hoofbeats stopped, she glanced back. The guardsmen had circled their mounts and now faced the gate.
One of the guards called out. “There are five in the party. Move forward!”
Sir Gavin rode through the gap in the gate, pulling Achan’s horse behind. Vrell clicked her tongue and her horse followed. Two guards stood on either side of the gate, swords drawn. Vrell avoided eye contact as she passed under the gatehouse. She murmured a prayer over her uneasiness.
Inside the gatehouse, the knights circled the horses and waited for Sir Caleb to pay the guard.
Beyond the gatehouse, flaming torches perched atop three-level high stone walls gave everything an orange and brown glow. Melas seemed made of mostly stone. Narrow cobbled streets split off from the gate like branches on a tree.
When Sir Caleb returned, Sir Gavin rode out from the gatehouse. Vrell followed the knights down a wide street. Lanterns hung from iron hooks high along both walls. Flickering candlelight and shadow danced over stone walls and board and batten doors. The clatter of hooves on the cobblestone drowned out the voices inside. Thick grime and cobwebs coated the occasional glass window. No point in cleaning glass if the sun never shone through, Vrell supposed.
Sir Gavin rode up to a double arch separated by a thick drum pillar. A slender, dark-haired man dressed in brown linen stood before the pillar and waved, a kind face in a dark land.
Sir Gavin dismounted. “’Tis good to see you, Trajen. We’ve had a time of it out there.”
“Then let’s put up your horses and get some food in your bellies.” The man’s voice was friendly and deep.
Sir Gavin passed his reins to Trajen and led Achan’s horse under the right arch. Vrell followed into a stable. They left their horses and returned to the street. Sir Gavin walked with Trajen. Sir Caleb and Inko carried Achan between them. Vrell wished the men would lift Achan higher. She didn’t like his feet dragging over the soiled street.
Trajen led them down several cobblestone alleys lit by hanging lanterns. Narrow, two-level stone homes lined the streets, some no more than a man’s height wide. Sounds and voices reverberated between the stone walls. Vrell couldn’t tell what noise came from where.
Trajen entered a small house with the number twenty-seven carved on the door. Unlike the neighbor’s door—coated in broken cobwebs flecked with dead flies and moths—door twenty-seven was clean and dust-free.
Vrell entered into a tiny foyer facing a one-wall kitchen. A dog yipped incessantly. A baby cried.
“Ressa? I’ve found our visitors,” Trajen said. “Could you come out, please?”
“A moment, Tray,” a woman’s voice called.
“Ressa will be able to look at his wounds,” Trajen said, nodding to Achan.
“No trouble,” Sir Caleb said. “We have a healer with us.”
Vrell swelled at Sir Caleb’s reassurance in her abilities.
A small, shaggy, black dog scurried from leg to leg, sniffing. Vrell took in the cramped space. A sideboard covered the entire left wall. Before her, a rough-hewn table and eight chairs took up the left side of the room. A linen curtain draped over a doorway behind the table. On the right side of the room, two deep couches faced each other. They had backs made of lashed sticks and straw-filled cushions. Between them on the far right wall, pillows in a variety of colors made a mound as high as the couches.
Behind the table, a hand drew the curtain aside and Ressa entered, holding a crying child on one hip. She was a tan-skinned woman, Vrell’s height but much curvier. Her reddish-brown hair pulled back in a long braid. She smiled. “Hello.”
The child tugged at the neck of Ressa’s auburn tunic, pulling it off one shoulder. “Bite bite, Mima. Bite bite.”
“Shh, Romal. Mima will feed you soon.” She approached Trajen and tried to hand the child off, but he clung to her arm.
“Bite bite, Mima. Bite bite!”
Trajen peeled the child away, and Romal broke into a horrible wail. His face flushed crimson and his tongue curled in his mouth. Trajen bounced the child in his arms and offered his knuckle for sustenance. Romal pushed Trajen’s hand away and craned his neck from side to side looking for his mother.
Ressa had moved to where Inko and Sir Caleb held Achan. “You have an injured man? What’s happened to him?”
“I gave him hops tea,” Vrell said.
Ressa’s dark eyes didn’t leave Achan. “Was he in pain?”
“We were having trouble controlling him.” Sir Gavin shrugged off his pack. “He was hallucinating.”
Ressa skirted the table and waved a lazy hand over her shoulder. “Bring him.” She lifted the curtain aside.
Sir Caleb and Inko carried Achan through the narrow doorway. Vrell followed, not wanting that woman to steal her job. She ducked under the curtain into a narrow hall, stretching the length of the house. The curtain fell closed, dousing the light. Vrell ran her fingertips along the wall until a flash of candlelight revealed the silhouettes of the men ducking through a low doorway halfway back. Vrell hurried after them and stepped around another curtain.
The
men settled Achan on a pallet on the floor in a room barely bigger than the straw mattress. A stool sat in the corner, topped with a water basin. A long shelf stretched over the bed and held a lone candle burning in a jar. The men left.
Ressa dropped to her knees beside Achan and set the back of her hand to his forehead. “He has no fever.”
Vrell kneeled on Achan’s left. “No. I bandaged his feet as best I could in the torchlight.”
“My light is not much better. You’re the healer?”
“Yes. I am Vrell Sparrow.”
“Where’d you train, Vrell?”
Ressa’s direct questions and her low, silky voice inspired Vrell to give an impressive answer. “Under the Maysens of Walden’s Watch. Wayan is the apothecary. Mitt the midwife.”
“So you have a wide variety of training.”
“I do.” Vrell searched for a more impressive feat. “I also learned some battle healing from Jax mi Katt.”
Ressa’s lips curved into a small smile. “A giant?”
“Yes. Jax’s guidance enabled me to remove three arrows from the prince. He does manage to get hurt a lot.”
Achan’s dark eyelashes fell thick against the tops of his cheeks. Tiny cuts and smudges of dirt seasoned his skin. Dried blood caked the slice Esek had made on his left cheek. More blood pasted his greasy hair to his scalp in several places.
“This is the prince?” Ressa sat back on her heels and stared. “He’s so young.”
“Sixteen,” Vrell said. “He is called Achan.”
Ressa grabbed the candle and scooted to the foot of the pallet. She set the jar beside her and started to remove the bandages on Achan’s right foot. “Why don’t you unwrap his left foot and tell me what I’m looking at?”
To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2) Page 19