To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  Vrell crawled to the end of the bed and tugged at the bandage on Achan’s other foot. “I’m not certain what happened. When I got to him, his feet were covered in dirt and quite cut up. He also had iron cuffs on his wrists.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  “Sir Gavin bid us not speak. By the time we made camp, Achan was asleep. Sir Caleb didn’t want me to wake him.”

  “This happened last night?”

  “Or the day before. It is difficult to measure time here.”

  Ressa lifted Achan’s foot into her lap, examining it with narrowed eyes. She sniffed. “You put yarrow on it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was all I had.”

  “You’ve done fine. They’re shallow cuts and should heal quickly.” She lowered Achan’s foot. “His head wounds seem to be healing on their own. We’ll let him sleep it off.”

  Vrell seized the moment to ask about supplies. “I would like to redress his feet, but I have used all my linen.”

  “I have some we can use. And I’ll take you to the apothecary to restock your bag. When he wakes, I’ll make him a nice hot bath so he can soak those feet a bit. Sound good?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled at Vrell and her eyes sparkled in the torchlight. “Now let me see what I might have to feed all you men.”

  * * *

  Vrell followed Ressa back to the main room and found the men at the table, deep in a heated discussion. Vrell sat on the bench beside Sir Caleb.

  He smiled at her and turned back to the men. “But who sent the black knights?”

  Sir Gavin spoke from the head of the table. “Esek or Lord Falkson.”

  “I’m not liking it, Gavin,” Inko said. “We are being far too vulnerable on this journey. I’m being afraid we won’t be making it all the way to Tsaftown.”

  Sir Caleb shot a disapproving glare Inko’s way. “Your fear is proof you don’t trust Arman.”

  “I am trusting Arman, but I am not thinking it is wisest to go this route with so few men.”

  “Then you don’t trust Gavin.”

  “You are pulling words from my mouth that I am not saying. We need—”

  Sir Gavin slapped his palm on the table. “The smaller the party, the easier to hide, blend in. We are safest small and in Darkness.”

  “But twice already the prince’s life has been—”

  “Shh.” Ressa held a bowl under one arm and stirred its contents. “The prince will feel better if he wakes on his own. And I’d rather you not wake the children.”

  Children? Just how many children did they have?

  Sir Gavin pushed back from the table. “We’ll discuss this further when Achan wakes.”

  Trajen gave a verbal tour. Three chambers lined the back hallway. The knights would sleep in the first—one man on guard—Achan in the second, and the back chamber belonged to Trajen and Ressa and their children. Vrell would sleep on the couch in the front room.

  Vrell sat at the table, watching Ressa dart about the home. Vrell liked her more by the minute. The woman created a feast for seven with black beans and rice, set water heating for Achan’s bath, fed her babies—for she had twins!—answered Trajen’s call’s, and still looked like she had energy for more.

  Achan stepped through the curtain, looking around with sleepy eyes. Vrell’s heart raced. She hoped he had forgiven her.

  Sir Gavin jumped up and made introductions. “Trajen Yorbride, meet King Axel’s son. He goes by Achan.”

  Trajen bowed his head, took Achan by the shoulders, and kissed his forehead. “A great honor, Your Majesty.”

  Achan’s posture stiffened. “Thank you.”

  Trajen motioned to Ressa on the pile of pillows holding a sleeping babe in each arm. “My wife, Ressa, and our children, Romal and Roma.”

  “You’re welcome here, Your Majesty,” Ressa whispered.

  Achan nodded once and rubbed his cheek, staring at the lady of the house with a puzzled expression.

  “Trajen, if you’ll take Romal, I can make the prince a bowl,” Ressa said.

  “Never you mind, my love. You rest. I can serve the prince.” Trajen dished a bowl of beans and rice and set it at the head of the table. “It’s not much, but Arman does provide.”

  “Thank you.” Achan claimed the stool, moving slowly. “It’s not dried meat or porridge, so to me, it’s a feast.”

  Sir Gavin sat beside Inko. “We must hear the story of what happened when you were taken from camp. If you’re up to telling the tale. Prince Oren told Gavin some.”

  “To the point when you returned,” Vrell added, not wanting any detail left out.

  “Aye,” Sir Gavin said. “Vrell and Ressa would like to know how you were injured and if you’re injured elsewhere.

  Achan set his bowl down. Vrell didn’t like the looks of the rings edging his eyes. She hoped he would sleep again soon.

  Achan stared at the table with glassy eyes. “I woke alone on the sandbar. I called out but no one answered. I still don’t understand why I could only reach Prince Oren.”

  “Locto spiked our drinking water with âleh and mint,” Sir Caleb said. “He knocked you out, dragged you away, and conjured the illusion while we slept.”

  “Explain that,” Achan said. “This illusion actually looked like me?”

  “Aye,” Sir Gavin said. “Just as black knights are able to duplicate themselves, they duplicated you.”

  Achan nodded. “They surrounded me when I woke. Prince Oren stormed two, but I ended up inside Silvo Hamartano’s head and left my body empty for attack.”

  Vrell’s insides coiled. Silvo Hamartano was a black knight?

  “Needless to say, I lost. I must learn to do this right before someone kills me.” Achan glanced at Sir Gavin. “Please?”

  “We’ll work on it tonight if you’re up for it.” Sir Gavin sighed through his nose. “But I wish you’d stop experimenting. It’s not safe for you or us. That’s likely how Esek’s men found us. Kenton or Khai could be tracking your bloodvoice.”

  Achan hung his head. He combed his fingers through his tangled hair and yanked them free. “I woke with my head in a water trough. They had taken my clothes.”

  Achan went on to name Sir Nongo as Silvo’s accomplice, and how Arman had restored his bloodvoices. He’d been thrown in a pit, met some crazy man called Hadad, was attacked by gowzals, then strung up on some sort of spikes as an offering to Barthos. It mortified Vrell to discover Achan had been hung there when she had knocked repeatedly. He kindly skipped over her intrusion.

  Eyelids heavy, Achan turned his gaze to Sir Gavin. “What do those words mean? The ones you all said to Barthos?”

  “Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd, Arman hu shlosha be-echâd. Hatzileni, beshem Câan, ben Arman.” Sir Gavin’s weathered face relaxed as if the mere act of speaking those words calmed him. “It’s the old language for Arman is God, Arman is One, Arman is Three in One. Deliver me in the name of Câan.”

  “Ah.” Achan yawned. “How is it you speak the old language?”

  “I’ve learned it from the Book of Life. You’ll learn it too.”

  Ressa left to pour Achan’s bath in his room while the men continued to talk out front.

  “Will we leave first thing?” Achan asked. “I’m eager to get to Tsaftown and see the sun again.”

  “Achan, the sun does not shine in Tsaftown,” Sir Gavin said. “The city sits over five leagues west of the Evenwall.”

  Achan’s dark eyebrows wrinkled. “I don’t remember that.”

  “I taught you in a hurry, Your Highness. I apologize for the confusion. We won’t see the sun again until Mitspah.”

  “And we’ll go to Mitspah when?” Vrell asked.

  “After we build our army in Tsaftown.”

  Vrell only wanted to know how close they were to Carmine. “So from here we go to Tsaftown, then to Carmine?”

  “Nay.” Sir Gavin’s eyes focused on hers. “From here we pass through Berland, then on to Tsaftown. We’ll g
o to Ice Island first. Once we free our army, we’ll go to Carmine.”

  “How long will all of this take?” Vrell asked.

  “I cannot say. Much could waylay us. If all goes smoothly, we could be in Carmine before the fall harvest.”

  Vrell sucked in a sharp breath at the long journey ahead. “Wh-What season it is now?”

  “Early summer,” Trajen said.

  “And will we raise support here as well?” Vrell asked.

  “Nay,” Sir Gavin said. “Melas is a dangerous place. The sooner we reach friendly soil, the better. Duke Orson voted for Achan at Council. Berland will be a good place to rest.”

  “I agree it wouldn’t be wise to linger in Melas,” Trajen said. “But we have a remnant here that serve Arman. Could you not stay to meet our flock?”

  Sir Gavin stroked his beard braid.

  “I, for one, would like to stay, at least for Teshuwah,” Sir Caleb said. “It’s been many weeks since I rested and many more since I’ve had the opportunity to attend a temple service. It would do us all good. Besides, Achan has probably never experienced a service like ours.”

  “Strays weren’t permitted to enter the temple in Sitna.”

  “They’re welcome here,” Trajen said. “Everyone who asks may eat at Arman’s table.”

  The curtain rustled and Ressa appeared. “Your Highness? Your bath is ready.”

  Achan twisted on the stool and stood. He limped to where Ressa held the curtain aside.

  “What say you, Gavin?” Trajen asked. “It’s only two sleeps until Teshuwah.”

  Sir Gavin’s gaze followed Achan. “What would our prince like to do?”

  Achan stopped, keeping his back to the table. When he spoke, his words were a whisper. “Whatever you think best, Sir Gavin. As long as they don’t call on Barthos.” He ducked through the opening and his footsteps shuffled down the hall.

  18

  Sir Gavin’s mustache lifted at the ends, indicating a smile, as he watched Achan go. “I think it’s best we stay for Teshuwah.”

  Trajen clapped his hands. “Excellent. I’ll be honored to introduce His Majesty to the temple of Arman.”

  Vrell smiled. It would be nice to stay here a bit longer. She bet Sir Gavin would see to it she got a bath. And she couldn’t wait for the Teshuwah service. The last time Vrell worshipped Arman in the company of believers had been last winter in Carmine. She couldn’t believe how much longer it would be until she were safely home. Fall harvest…

  When Achan finished his bath, Ressa and Vrell went to his room to redress his wounds. Ressa removed several splinters from Achan’s arms and legs while Vrell bandaged his feet. Achan sat patiently, hair shaggy around his face, still dripping from his bath. Vrell put ointment on the welts on his wrists and the bites on his nose, cheek, and a bad one in his scalp. She tried to put balm on his chapped lips, but he snatched the jar from her and did it himself.

  When Ressa finished, she left Achan and Vrell alone. Trajen had given Achan new clothes and boots. Green looked nice against his dark skin and hair.

  Achan stretched his arms above his head. “Pretty lady.”

  Vrell flushed, then flushed again when she caught his meaning. “Ressa?”

  Achan tousled Vrell’s hair and laughed. “Do you see any other women around?”

  Vrell blinked, annoyed at her misunderstanding. “She’s Trajen’s wife.”

  “And he’s a fortunate man to have such a wise, hardworking, and beautiful wife.”

  “I suppose.” Vrell scooted back against the wall. “So that is why you sat so still and didn’t fuss like you do for me.”

  Achan grinned, but Sir Gavin ducked into the room before he could answer.

  “You’re certain you’re up for a lesson tonight? We could do this in the morning.”

  “No. I want to do it now. Please.”

  “Very well.” Sir Gavin moved the basin off the stool and sat down. “Ahh. My weary bones are getting a mite too old for this kind of adventure.” He rubbed his opposite shoulder. “So, whenever you try to message, you end up watching?”

  Achan shook his head. “No matter what I try, I end up watching. I tried to storm Silvo, and I ended up in his head.”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” Vrell said, “but you called on Prince Oren and did not watch through him.”

  “When he helped me fight the black knights. That’s true.”

  “You understand the difference between the different skills?” Sir Gavin asked.

  “Well,” Achan wiped balm from his bottom lip, “watching is to look through another’s eyes. Jumping is when I look through another gifted person to see through the mind they’re watching. And I think storming is when I attack the mind attacking mine?”

  “Let’s put storming aside for now. The most important methods I want you to learn are messaging: sending and receiving conversation, and watching: seeing through another’s mind and allowing another to see though your mind. And doing all this while your mind is shielded.”

  “If I may add something?” Vrell said. “You message people all the time. The problem is, you rarely remember to knock. You simply barge through our shields and we answer. We cannot do that. If a gifted man’s shields are up, we must knock and he must let us in before we can speak. I think when you are trying to message, you trick yourself into thinking it is more difficult than it really is. You concentrate too hard and end up watching instead of simply messaging. I suspect you don’t need the extra concentration.”

  Sir Gavin stroked his mustache. “Try it as Vrell suggests. Speak to only me. Will you help us, Vrell? Try to overhear our conversation. And, Achan, do not storm Vrell. Ignore him.”

  “Gladly.”

  Vrell sneered at him and concentrated. She found only a slight chill in the air.

  Sir Gavin’s voice broke the silence. “Well done. Now speak to Vrell and I’ll try to break in. Don’t storm me, either.”

  Achan’s voice burst into her mind. Can you believe all she does? I mean, I’ve never had beans and rice together. So simple. Likely inexpensive. I wonder what Poril would have said about such a dish?

  Vrell stifled a groan, annoyed at Achan’s captivation with Ressa. Can you at least knock before barging your way into my mind, Your Highness? And what is so shocking about beans and rice?

  Not shocking. It was just… Do you think Lady Tara can cook?

  Vrell rolled her eyes. I doubt it. Tara was more of an artist. What does she have to do with anything?

  Sir Gavin clapped his hands once. “Well then? Did you succeed? I could hear nothing.”

  “We had a delightful conversation, didn’t we, Sparrow?”

  Vrell averted her eyes. “Riveting.”

  Sir Gavin tugged his beard braid. “I’d like you both to try watching someone you know isn’t gifted. Choose someone safe who would never betray us, should you accidentally speak. And keep in mind, bloodvoicing is a gift from Arman, not a game. Should you intrude upon an intimate moment, please disconnect immediately. Go ahead and try, both of you.”

  Vrell had wanted to look in on Bran for ages, but it had seemed so invasive. She was thankful for permission to try. She closed her eyes and pictured his face. Unable to see the whole of it, she concentrated on each feature. Sunburned nose. Thick brown hair, tousled by the wind. Dark, brown eyes.

  A room came into view from a low angle. Small and clean and quite sparse. A cottage, like the peasant’s homes in Carmine. The sun shone through a curtainless window, casting a bright beam of light across a wooden floor. Chopping filled the room along with the smell of onions. A young woman stood at a table, her back facing where Bran sat on a squat, wooden stool. At first Vrell thought of Ressa, but this woman seemed taller, and her hair was russet and longer than Ressa’s, bound in a single plait that dangled past her waist.

  She wore a brown dress with a linen apron tied in back. The ivory ties cut into her waist and accentuated her hourglass form. Yet Bran stared at her bare ankles that peeked out bet
ween her long dress and black slipper shoes.

  Vrell frowned.

  I’m sorry my father’s not here, the young woman said, keeping her back to Bran. He could be out a while. He’ll need to get used to the soil here. It’s not that he won’t be able to do as good as he did in Sitna. It’ll just take time. He wove excellent fabrics for Lord Nathak and the prin— Well, he wove excellent fabrics.

  She turned and smiled at Bran. Her face was lovely: caramel, freckled skin with rosy cheeks; wide, brown eyes, watery from the onions, with dark lashes. Her thick chestnut hair pulled back from her face into the braid, but wispy tendrils had escaped and framed her rosy cheeks. No wonder Bran stared. Vrell wished she could elbow him.

  You sure I can’t get you some ale or tea or…or water? Her chest heaved with a deep breath. She fidgeted with the frayed top edge of her apron, then jerked her hand away as if realizing she might call attention to her neckline. She spun back to the table so quickly her skirt coiled around her legs and slowly unwound.

  Bran’s attention drifted back to her bare ankles. A glass of water might be nice, madam, if it’s no trouble.

  Madam? This pretty young girl was married? Praise Arman. Vrell relaxed a bit.

  The young woman curtsied, No trouble at all, sir, and scurried from the room.

  Bran straightened on the stool and chuckled softly.

  The young woman returned in a moment holding a mug in two hands. She crossed the room, her eyes focused on the mug. She stumbled and some of the water slapped to the floor. Her eyes bulged and her whole face darkened.

  Oh! I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean—

  A clap of hands and Sir Gavin’s, “Did you succeed?” zapped Vrell away from the mystery girl and her spilled water.

  Vrell faced Sir Gavin, but her thoughts were back in Carmine. What was Bran doing at that peasant’s cottage? He had wanted to speak to the girl’s father? Why? Who were they?

  “Well?” Sir Gavin asked.

  Achan frowned and traced the red welt around his right wrist. “I’ve looked in on Gren before. I mean…I think I have. I didn’t know if I was bloodvoicing or if Darkness was playing with my mind. Last night on the sandbar… I think I misunderstood. But, Sir Gavin, something is amiss. Why would Gren have left Sitna and why would Bran Rennan be visiting her father?”