To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  Queasiness flashed in Gren’s stomach. I will not! She pivoted and stalked into the vines on her left, down the path Master Rennan had taken. One row to her right, she glimpsed Mak, the spider crab, creeping parallel through the vines.

  Gren, please run, Achan said. Find Bran.

  Gren started to jog. A hand snagged the ties of her apron and jerked her back. She twirled around and pushed the big man’s bull-like chest, fire engulfing her limbs. Let go of me.

  The man swung a fist. Gren screamed, ducked, and tore after Bran. Mak leaped in her path. She darted left, thrusting her body through the vines, and let her legs take over her swirling mind. Achan urged her on, his own heart pounding with the horror of Gren’s reality.

  Gren sprinted, darting from path to path toward the hedge wall that grew around the perimeter of the vineyard. Exits cut through hedge wall every so often. She had to find one. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed no one. She slowed to a stop, gulping in deep breaths, and listened. Leaves rustled. Had the noise come from behind her or…

  Cetheria, great goddess of protection, shield me from those scoundrels. I beg you keep me safe. Lead me to the exit.

  No, Gren, Achan said. Call on Arman.

  Arman?

  Mak stepped out of the vines and stood, legs apart, hands on his hips.

  Gren wheeled around and plowed into the big man’s chest again. Achan fumed. How could a man so huge sneak up on anyone?

  Gren edged back, but this time the big man lunged forward and grabbed her wrists. With all the power her lungs contained, she screamed. Bran! Help. Two—

  The man struck her and she crumpled to the ground, head ringing, throbbing. Her vision blurred, cloudy and strange. She couldn’t concentrate. She must get up, right? A vague urgency nagged at the back of her mind.

  Aye, Gren. Get up! Achan heard her groan but could no longer see. Her body scraped over leaves and dirt, her shoulders ached. Vines, leaves, and twigs slapped at her feet.

  She stinks! the big man said.

  The boys threw cow dung at her, Chod. Mak’s voice, nasal and high-pitched grated on Achan’s nerves.

  Next time I’ll pay them less if they can’t hit the right target.

  Gren! Grendolyn Fenny, wake up. What could Achan do, trapped in her mind? He concentrated on Mak’s jarring voice and suddenly found himself in the young man’s mind as he leered at Gren’s limp body. Achan wanted to kill this man for the thoughts in his head.

  Chod dropped Gren’s feet and smiled at Mak with rotting teeth.

  Achan attacked through Mak. He punched Chod twice, only seeming to hurt Mak’s hand. Fire shot through Achan’s.

  Chod stared at Mak, sluggish eyes sad. What’s that for?

  Achan ripped down a trellis and broke the narrow board over his knee. He lunged, poking Chod in the chest. Chod snagged it away. Achan charged, but Mak’s size was no match for Chod, who knocked Mak flying with one punch.

  Achan’s mind floated into the air, drifting, detached from any other. He looked down on the scene from above. Gren, Chod, and Mak in the center of the vineyard. A dozen rows away, Bran searched.

  Achan blinked and found himself inside Bran’s head. The squire was filled with a fury and fear that matched Achan’s. Aye, Achan much preferred Bran’s thoughts.

  Achan concentrated in Gren’s direction. She’s that way.

  Thank you, Arman! Bran took off, sprinting, ducking under trellises, dodging low vines, cutting across paths.

  A scream tore through the air, and Bran poured on the speed, heart beating as though it might erupt.

  You passed them! Achan concentrated harder on the location. Go back two rows and turn left.

  Bran obeyed and found Gren and Chod rolling on the ground. Gren clawed at the big man’s bloodied face. He tried to hold her down, but Gren kneed him and wriggled free.

  Bran drew his sword, steel scraping over wood. Chod froze.

  Pulse thudding in his ears, Bran’s hands trembled, making his blade quiver. Get up!

  Chod stared, heavy eyes sizing up his opponent.

  I could kill you or let you rot the rest of your days in the dungeon. Decide now!

  Chod pulled one knee up and pushed himself to—

  Icy water doused Achan’s head. He jerked and gasped. He lay on cold ground on a dark night. Shadowed men stood above him. How had he gotten here? Was this Chod’s reality? In the dungeon?

  “Achan, for Lightness sake, lad, speak to us!”

  Achan pushed himself to one elbow. “Sir Gavin?”

  The sound of a long sniff and sigh met his ears. “Welcome back, lad.”

  Achan clutched the frosty grass beneath him and shivered. “Gren.” Bran had arrived in time. He relaxed but his throat tightened, his eyes flooded. He blinked rapidly, not in the mood for his emotions to best him. “I looked in on Gren.” He panted, sniffed away his agitation. “All is well now.”

  “Tell us,” Sir Caleb said.

  So Achan did.

  Inko groaned. “This is going to be the end of him. You’re all knowing that, right? If he’s not being taught the proper way to use his gift, we’ll be losing him.”

  “How?” Achan asked. “What did I do?”

  “’Tis my fault,” Sir Gavin said. “I told him to look in on a friend the other night, to teach him to watch. I forgot to explain he shouldn’t do it often.”

  “What Sir Gavin means,” Sir Caleb said, “is you should never watch without someone staying with your body, to check on you. The longer you watch, the more comfortable you can get. You can forget to come back or be lost to the Veil—”

  “Or be killed,” Sir Gavin said. “’Tis happened plenty of times. Man gets too fond of watching and someone stabs him while he’s out of his body.”

  “And you mustn’t control others with your mind,” Sir Caleb said. “That’s not an ethical use of your gift.”

  “It is a dark use of your power,” Sparrow said. “Macoun Hadar wanted to teach me. Thankfully I left before he could.”

  Achan recoiled under the weight of so many rebukes. Hot frustration took over. “But I was saving her! You don’t know. You weren’t there. I couldn’t let them… What was I supposed to do?”

  “You must focus on your task, in your own body,” Sir Caleb said.

  “There’s nothing to focus on! We’re riding through Darkness for days on end.”

  “The lady is not your responsibility,” Sir Caleb said. “You must leave her to Sir Rigil and Master Rennan.”

  Achan fought to bottle his anger. “Sir Rigil wasn’t present. Bran was easily fooled by dung-wielding rascals who got paid for their diversion. No offense to Bran, but he failed today.”

  “And he’ll learn from this experience and next time be more prudent,” Sir Caleb said. “These things happen to us all. It’s part of learning how to—”

  “I’ll not risk Gren to his inexperience.” Achan stood and brushed the wetness from his britches. “He should learn before being entrusted with a lady’s well-being, not during.”

  Another long sniff and sigh from Sir Gavin. “Let’s keep going and we’ll talk more of this tonight at camp.”

  * * *

  Vrell kept a close eye on Achan. She worried for him. All he’d lost. And now his guilt over putting Gren in harm’s way. She could think of nothing to do but pray.

  They found the Zamar River and followed it north. Their horses carried them over the first patches of snow. Sir Caleb gave Achan and Vrell capes he’d acquired in Mirrorstone. Then he taught Vrell to make a snare out of twine, though they blessedly never stopped long enough to try it. He also gave more swordplay lessons and lectured Achan and Vrell on technique. Vrell’s confidence grew the more she learned, but she dreaded every rustle or creak as an impending battle she would fail to survive.

  The weather got colder and, thankfully, there were no more mosquitoes. Vrell woke one morning to find fresh snow covering her bedroll. They were still a day or two from Berland and were not supplied for such
weather. When they stopped the next night, Sir Gavin allowed Sir Caleb to build a campfire. Sir Caleb tried to talk Vrell into going hunting with him along the river, to sneak up on a gowzal nest. Vrell did not want to kill anything with a knife. She went to Sir Gavin and begged his help. Sir Gavin urged Sir Caleb to take Inko instead.

  But once they had gone, Sir Gavin lectured her. “If Vrell Sparrow doesn’t wish to be Achan’s squire, he should be honest with Caleb about it. There’s no shame in being a healer. ’Tis a noble profession for a young man. Squiredom isn’t for everyone. Caleb will understand.”

  “I’ll find a way to tell him.” Vrell cleared a spot in the snow beside the fire and put out her bedroll, loathing the impending confession. She stared into the orange flames. Sir Caleb might understand why Vrell Sparrow did not want to be a squire, but would Achan?

  21

  Achan trudged through the snow into the small clearing the knights had dug out. Sparrow sat cross-legged on his bedroll, pink fingers outstretched toward the flames.

  Achan crouched beside the boy, numb from the cold. He drew his cloak tighter. Sir Gavin stood by the horses, rummaging through his saddlebag. Inko and Sir Caleb were hunting. The day’s ride had been long and tedious. He had to do something active or he’d freeze. Or go insane.

  He glanced at Sparrow. Time for another lesson. He pounced, knocking the boy off his bedroll. Their heads sank beneath the snow edging the clearing. Sparrow squirmed like a fish on the bank and beat his fists on Achan’s chest. Achan rolled to his knees, flipped the boy over, and straddled his waist. Sparrow was a feather, despite his chubby gut.

  “Get off!” Sparrow yelled. “The snow is freezing.”

  Achan swung his leg off the boy and fell into the snow on his back. “You should be more aware of who’s around you.”

  Sparrow crawled to his bedroll. “I was aware you were warming your hands, but I did not expect you to attack.”

  Achan sat up and shook the snow from his hair. “If you don’t take this seriously, I’ll have to replace you as my squire.”

  “I have been practicing hard—” Sparrow paused. “Ah, well, now that you mention it, I am certain another would be better qualified for your squire.”

  “Exactly my point. I don’t want someone else, but you’re a weakling. There must be a way to help you grow some muscle. Maybe you should start carrying Sir Gavin’s pack.”

  “You are supposed to be a king, not a jester.”

  “I wasn’t jesting. Sir Gavin made me do exercises to strengthen my arms. You should too. Come here.”

  “But I am cold.”

  Achan stood. Snow fell over the tops of his boots and melted down his legs. “Come here, Sparrow. Now.”

  Sparrow sighed and stood. He trudged through the snow and stopped before Achan, slouching, eyes rolled in defeat.

  It amused Achan how well Sparrow obeyed. “Try the leg sweep again. Knock me down.”

  “I cannot do the leg sweep.” Sparrow’s voice warbled. “You know that.”

  “You can, you’re just afraid. The trick is to get close and push. Best if I don’t see it coming.”

  “But you do see it coming, you are telling me to.”

  “Then try to get me off balance another way, use my weight against me. See that rock by the river?”

  “No. I see a lump of snow.”

  “It’s a rock covered in snow, Sparrow. Stop being difficult.” Achan positioned himself in front of the rock. “If we were fighting, you could back me up to the rock and I’d trip. Maybe fall in the river. Both are to your advantage.”

  “Thank you for the riveting advice, but I am cold and do not want to learn at the moment. Do not forget I bested Larken to save you from marrying Jaira. If the circumstances arose, I could do it again. But I do not respond to mock lessons.”

  Achan grabbed Sparrow’s head in one hand and pulled it against his side. He pushed the boy’s face down into the snow. “Mention Jaira again and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

  Sparrow elbowed Achan in the abdomen, then twisted the skin on the back of his hand. Achan laughed and shoved Sparrow forward. The boy sprawled head-first into the snow. He rolled over, and Achan pounced, folding his arms over the boy’s chest, pinning him again. “Watch where you swing those elbows, Sparrow. You almost crippled me.”

  Sparrow got one hand free and pulled Achan’s braid. “I meant to,” he said over a grunt.

  “Oh ho?” Achan snagged Sparrow’s hand and pushed it back in the snow. “If you’re going to fight cheaply you best be prepared for the repercussions.”

  “I can take anything you throw at me.”

  “This said by the boy immobilized in the snow. That so?”

  “Yes, Your Whininess.”

  The contempt in Sparrow’s voice deserved a lasting lesson. Achan considered something painful but not debilitating. He brought up his knee—

  “Achan!” Sir Gavin called. “I need you, lad.”

  Achan pushed off Sparrow. “Well, Luckyfox, fate has intervened and saved you from a world of hurt.”

  “Now, Achan!” Sir Gavin’s tone seemed almost angry.

  Achan scooped two handfuls of snow over Sparrow’s face and backpedaled toward the horses, laughing. Sparrow sat up and shook his head like a wet dog, snow sizzling into the fire.

  Achan trudged to Sir Gavin. “You need me?”

  Sir Gavin clutched a dead gowzal by the feet. “You must go easy on the lad.”

  “Sparrow? I was only playing with him.”

  “Aye, but…some are natural fighters. Others…less so.”

  “That’s my point. Sparrow’s about as far from a warrior as a maiden at a joust.”

  “Aye, and there’s reason for that. He…well, he, uh… He has a… condition.”

  Achan’s enthusiasm sobered. “What? Like a weak heart?”

  “Something like that.”

  Achan looked back to Sparrow at the fire. No wonder the boy was so scrawny. “That’s the secret he’s keeping?”

  “Uh, sort of.”

  “Why doesn’t he say so?”

  “’Tis Vrell’s decision, Achan. Let it be.”

  “But he wants to learn to fight. He asked me.”

  “You can teach him. Just be…gentle.” Sir Gavin stepped past Achan, toward the campfire.

  “Gentle?” Gentleness and fighting were as much a match as darkness and light. What fellowship could they possibly have with one another?

  * * *

  Sir Gavin approached Vrell carrying a dead gowzal by the feet. “Cooking has never been my strong suit. Inko handed me this, and he and Caleb are still hunting. Can you help?”

  Vrell’s eyes widened. “I do not think I can stomach eating a black spirit, Sir Gavin.” Plus, she knew nothing of cooking.

  “The creature is merely a bird. The spirit leaves it when it dies. Eating it now is perfectly safe.” He dropped the beast at her feet and whispered, “Thank you, my lady. You’ve saved an old man from a terrifying ordeal.” He walked back to the horses.

  Vrell scanned the camp for ears, heart pattering at the sound of “my lady” spoken aloud. Achan and Sir Gavin stood by the horses. The others were hunting. Still, Sir Gavin’s gutsyness unhinged her. She stared at the bird, hesitant to even touch it. She removed her knife from her satchel and crouched before the dead thing. She pinched a feather and sawed it off.

  There must be an easier way. People spoke of plucking birds. Vrell held the beast down, grabbed a feather, and jerked. The sound of the shaft ripping from flesh sickened her. Her body inflated with tension. Being female did not mean she knew how to cook. Was it not enough that she had the stomach to heal grievous wounds? For the first time ever, she regretted having confided in the Great Tactless Whitewolf.

  She grabbed another feather, winced, and yanked it out. She gripped another.

  “What are you doing?” Achan’s voice came from behind.

  She pulled, the feather vane slipped through her fingers, and her fist whacked Achan
’s leg. “Sorry. Sir Gavin asked me to cook this, this…thing for dinner.”

  “Do you know how?” His words were laced with laughter.

  Vrell held up a feather. “How difficult can it be?”

  His hand stretched over her head. “Give me the knife.”

  Vrell handed it over. Achan carried the bird to the large mound of snow at the water’s edge. He knelt and swiped off the mound with his forearm, baring a large, flat boulder. Vrell’s posture slumped. She had truly believed it to be only snow.

  Achan laid the gowzal on its back. “Plucking will take too long, and there’s more to it than ripping out random feathers. Besides, we’ve no need to be fancy, so I’ll skin it.”

  Vrell recoiled. “Skin a bird?”

  “Sure.” Achan turned the gowzal on its side and straightened its head. He cut the neck again and again until he was able to pull it free. The sound of ripping tendons grated worse on Vrell’s nerves than feathers ripping out.

  “First the head, then the feet.” Achan set down the knife and took one leg in two hands. He twisted the leg at the knee, pulled and twisted until it hung by threads, then used the knife to sever the remaining tendons.

  Vrell tried not to look, wincing at every snap and crack of the beast’s dead body. Achan’s lips curved slightly, as if he were actually enjoying himself.

  He twisted off the wings next, rotated the bird to its back, smoothed the feathers aside, and cut the belly open. He slid his fingers in and pushed back the skin, feathers and all. Vrell’s stomach lurched. She closed her eyes and stifled a whimper.

  “See?” Achan said. “Not too hard. It might not look pretty for a feast, but it’ll taste fine. All we have left is to gut it.”

  Vrell did not learn how to gut the bird because her eyes were closed. She hummed a chorus to drown the sounds of tendons ripping and skin tearing. When she opened her eyes, Achan pushed a pile of feathers and bloody goo to the side. The beast did look to have nice chunks of meat on it.

  Achan washed the meat in the river. “Go get your sack.”

  Vrell hurried away and returned with her satchel that bulged with supplies from Ressa’s apothecary friend. Movement in the distance caught her eye. Sir Caleb and Inko returned carrying three more gowzals. She cringed, hoping the men would not insist she learn this horrible skill. She appreciated Mother’s cook more than ever.