To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  “I am not being able to guess, but when the door was opening again, the bird was flying out with wet hair.”

  Wet hair? Achan patted the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Inko. You’re an amazing shadow informer. Keep it up.”

  Inko pointed at Achan’s knees. “Are you wanting help to be tying those for you?”

  Achan sighed and released the silver ties. “Please.”

  Inko crouched down, untied Achan’s knot, and started over, looping the long strips of fabric into a tight bow. “So what are you thinking Vrell was doing?”

  Achan scratched his temple. “Bathing, I suppose.”

  Inko stood and started in on the ties on Achan’s shirt. “But why not be going to the steams like the rest of us?”

  Achan didn’t know. “Perhaps Sir Gavin wanted him dressed to match me?” But an hour later, that proved false. Achan sat on the edge of his bed while the rest of his party stood in his chamber, Sparrow wearing a black tunic with a grey linen vest.

  Achan voiced his concerns aloud. “Why doesn’t Sparrow wear his blue satin?”

  “Because Vrell would rather be a healer than a squire.” Sir Caleb said. “In a week or so, you’ll have Shung as your Shield. You won’t need a squire until we go to war. By then, I’m sure we’ll find you another. Perhaps in Carmine.”

  Achan’s stomach felt like it had been kicked. He frowned at Sparrow. “You don’t want to be my squire?”

  Sparrow cheeks flushed. “I am excellent with herbs and healing, but Arman has not called me to such violence.”

  “But you just need—”

  “We need men called to both,” Sir Caleb said. “I’m glad you know your heart, Vrell.”

  Sparrow smiled until he met Achan’s eyes. Then he focused on his hands in his lap.

  How could this be? Sparrow was deserting him?

  “Don’t feel obligated to dance tonight, Your Highness,” Sir Caleb said. “We’re here to recruit men, not inappropriate love interests, of which there will be plenty.”

  “I disagree,” Sir Eagan said. “He must dance with every lady, for most have fathers who’ll be pleased to see him pay their daughters mind and will support him because of it.”

  Sir Caleb sighed. “I suppose. But take care not to pay more attention to any one girl, Your Highness.”

  Achan’s stomach flipped. No pressure there. “Wouldn’t it be safer to skip the formality of a banquet and keep moving? I mean, since Esek is nearby, won’t he come looking here?”

  “We have voiced the same concern,” Sir Gavin said. “But Lord Livna refuses to hear us. Tomorrow we’ll meet with him and the captain of his guard to discuss when the army will assemble and depart for Carmine.”

  A tingling haze clouded Achan’s mind as if this were all a dream. He could scarcely imagine that in two days’ time, he’d lead a host of soldiers south with the intent of starting a war.

  * * *

  That evening, the guard stopped them before they could enter the great hall. “Wait to be announced.”

  To Achan’s utter horror, a trumpet sounded and a herald cried out at the top of his lungs, “Make way for Prince Gidon Hadar and his royal Kingsguardsmen!”

  The guard nodded and stepped aside.

  Applause burst forth, bringing a chill over Achan’s arms. “Gee, I wonder where that Achan fellow might be? No one will ever find him with that introduction.”

  Keep the sarcasm in your head, Your Highness, Sir Caleb said.

  Achan took a deep breath and entered. The great hall stretched out before him, long and narrow built of rough hewn logs. A three-tier chandelier made of deer antlers and lit with dozens of stubby white candles hung in the center of the hammer beam roof. Flags bearing Tsaftown’s gold and black crest hung from every other beam.

  Achan stood on the center of a narrow platform that stretched the width of the hall. A half-dozen steps descended from it. A golden runner covered the floor under his boots, spilled down the center of the stairs, and ran all the way to the dais platform. A black and gold checkered cloth covered the high table that was only half occupied. A dagfish carved from wood was mounted in the center of the wall behind the high table. Antlers were mounted on either side of the dagfish.

  Tables stretching the length of the hall were packed with food and people dressed in expensive, courtly attire, who all stood staring. The applause died down.

  Sir Caleb’s finger in Achan’s back sent him walking forward, dream-like, down the stairs and up the center aisle. He briefly opened his mind and sensed overwhelming excitement and support. He also sensed a hint of deceit. He stopped where the golden rug split around the length of the dais and ran up a small stairs at each end of the platform.

  An unpleasant feeling grew in the pit of Achan’s stomach. He scanned the hall, seeking for the source of the deceit. Be ready, Achan said to Sir Gavin. I sense some trickery.

  From Lord Livna?

  Achan bowed to the Lord Livna, who stood behind his seat at the high table, and concentrated on the man’s thoughts.

  My, he looks like his father. Praise Arman, we’ll be spared. Spared!

  No, Achan said to Sir Gavin. Despite having sacrificed his daughter to a lunatic, Lord Livna is true.

  Keep your grudge to yourself, Your Highness, Sir Caleb said. We need this man. His people are housing your army right now.

  Lord Livna spoke. “I, and all of Tsaftown, wish to extend our support to you, My Prince, in all matters you may require. It is our fervent wish for you to occupy your father’s throne without delay. I pledge my soldiers to aid you in this effort. I welcome you and swear to serve you in any way I can.”

  Achan bowed and quickly thought up a flowery reply. “You honor me with your loyalty to my father’s throne.”

  “Come, sit beside me and be blessed.”

  Achan ascended the platform and sat beside Lord Livna, with Sir Gavin to his left, then Sir Caleb, Sir Eagan, and Inko. To Lord Livna’s right sat his wife, Lady Revada; his son, Sir Eric; Sir Eric’s wife, Lady Viola; and Captain Demry.

  A line formed along the wall and up the right side of the dais. A valet stood at Achan’s elbow and announced each person or group as they approached. Sir Caleb offered the occasional, private commentary.

  Lord Livna and Lady Revada gave Achan a gilded helm and breastplate, etched and embossed with chams and vines.

  “One can never have enough armor,” Lord Livna said.

  Especially armor that once belonged to Moul Rog the Great, Sir Caleb said. His bust is in Mahanaim’s hall of greats.

  Sir Eric Livna and his wife, Lady Viola, presented Achan with a long hooded hauberk of fine chain. “And my service. I’ll ride with you when you depart.”

  “Captain Roxburg Demry; his wife, Madam Demry; and their daughter, Meneya.”

  Achan found Captain Demry’s muscular build and dark eyes familiar. “I’m honored to pledge my Fighting Fifteen.”

  Who are excellent fighting men, Sir Caleb added, but have the tendency to drink themselves into hibernation. We met Captain Demry’s little brother, Carmack, in Tsaftown, who used to be among the Fifteen. Apparently, he’s been replaced.

  Achan took in the strapping dark-haired man, recalled Carmack’s grip on his throat, and was thankful the Demrys couldn’t bloodvoice. What might Carmack have told his brother of Achan’s blunder with Lady Tara?

  “And this dagger.” Meneya held out a black leather sheath with a carved ivory handle that resembled a leaping cham.

  “My brother is a smith,” Madam Demry said. “We thought this would fit you.”

  Achan gripped the handle and pulled the gleaming blade from the sheath. It was two hands long with a single raised rib that stretched along the double-edged blade to a sharp point.

  His own knife, not on loan like Eagan’s Elk. “Thank you.”

  The valet’s voice sent the Demrys on their way. “Lady Merris, mother to Lord Livna.”

  And mother to Lord Gershom, the instigator of Lady Tara’s unfortunat
e union.

  The old woman cracked a wrinkled smile and curtsied. “I have several unwed granddaughters who would make suitable queens. I give you my blessing for any of them.”

  Can I tell her I’d chosen the one granddaughter she’s forsaken?

  Best to hold your tongue, Your Highness.

  So Achan forced a smile. “I’m honored, Madam.”

  “Captain Freddel Wenk, his wife, Lady Wenk, his son Derby, and his daughters Julianna and Moriah.” Captain Wenk offered his service, then hurried his daughters along as if he feared Achan might ruin them as Esek was known to do.

  Achan received gifts of horses, food, ale, clothing, tents, and armor for his men.

  “Master Webb Ricks and his son Matthias.”

  The man bowed. “I’m the local netmaker. My eldest son’ll replace me someday. I’ve two other sons, five daughters, and little Matthias, here. He’s a good boy, but took a bad frost to his hands. He can use ’em fine, just not for tying knots. I can barely feed my family, let alone pay for Matthias to apprentice in another trade. I’d like to give him to you, Your Highness.”

  Nine children. The dirty-faced tot was no more than seven. He had a thatch of blond hair over big brown eyes. Achan swallowed hard. “Y-You’re giving me your son?”

  Master Ricks plowed on, as if his very life hinged on Achan taking his son. “He’s a bright lad, honest to a fault and quick. He’d make a good page or valet. Learns fast, he does.”

  Sir Caleb turned to Achan. What do you say, Your Majesty?

  I cannot take this man’s son. I’ll not keep slaves.

  He doesn’t offer you a slave but an employee. He sacrifices his son to give the boy a bright future in the king’s household.

  Little Matthias blinked, his eyes wide and fearful.

  You think we should take him with us?

  Only if you’ll be willing to let the lad learn to dress you.

  Achan set his jaw. Perhaps he can become my advisor when I demote you to jester.

  Perhaps. “Deliver the boy to Carmine within the month and we’ll give him a position in His Majesty’s household.”

  Master Ricks’ eyes filled with tears. “Oh, thank you, Your Highness, thank you kindly!”

  Achan watched the small boy walk away with Master Ricks as the valet announced, “Master Polk Mafellen.”

  A tanned man with cropped blond hair and round brown eyes knelt before Achan, reminding him of a baby chick. “I squired for the false prince ’til he fired me for winning a match with swords. I’m a strong swordsman, I can’t help it, so you’re getting a good man in me, Your Highness.”

  Achan could relate to Esek’s cruelty, but Polk’s pride ruffled him. “I thank you, Polk, and welcome your service.”

  Two familiar faces from Ice Island—Master Matar Bazmark and Master Brien Gebfly—pledged Achan their service.

  Then Lord Livna’s voice pulled his attention away. “The servants will take the personal gifts to your chambers, Your Highness. Let’s have some dancing!”

  * * *

  Vrell watched from the end of the lowest table, with a critical eye, thankful this was formal, proper dancing, not that brazen groping Kurtz had forced her to witness in the tavern. Kurtz stood across the room, hovering over poor Julianna Wenk. He was supposed to be watching the entrance with Vrell, not sniffing around for a dance partner. He should take care. Julianna’s father did not take kindly to men who spoke to his daughters without his permission.

  Achan had danced with the highest ranking, married ladies first, who gave him opportunity to learn the steps before he had to dance with Grandmother Merris, a conniving old woman whom Vrell had never been fond of, despite their blood relationship. Now, the young women formed a line to bask in their moment of attention from the Crown Prince. Vrell recognized many of the commoners: Meneya, Julianna and Moriah, Christola, and Bettly.

  But now Achan danced with Lady Lathia, Uncle Chantry’s youngest girl of seventeen. Vrell trusted Cousin Lathia with Achan as much as she had trusted Beska, the serving wench.

  Vrell forced her gaze away from Cousin Lathia to where her aunt and uncle danced. She had never been close to her uncle. Lord Livna was a man’s man with little time for female relatives, Tara’s unfortunate union a prime example. But Vrell adored Aunt Revada. She longed to confide the truth to her, and to ask about Tara’s wedding, to get it from her aunt how such a thing had come to pass. Aunt Revada could not have given up Tara easily, Vrell knew that much.

  She sighed. How strange to be in Lytton Hall and not be dancing, for there was little else to do in this place. She had visited countless times throughout her childhood, Tara and Lathia dragging her around by the arm to point out which new soldier they thought was most handsome.

  Those days were gone to the Veil now.

  * * *

  For Achan, the dancing proved more difficult than in Berland. Everyone moved together in coordinated steps, exposing every slow and disoriented move Achan made. He walked about, pranced in circles, and at one point, had to grab the waist of his partner, lift her up, turn, and set her down on his other side.

  He stumbled about with several forgiving ladies. Lady Revada. Lady Viola. Both safely married. Then came the unmarried girls, who showered him with flattery and smiles. He favored the shorter ones, for towering over them made him feel older, and the fact that he could lift them like feathers made him feel strong. Achan kept his eyes peeled for Sir Caleb, hoping he didn’t accidentally cross the fine line between being cordial and giving false hope.

  Finally the food came. Achan took his seat. The servants filed onto the dais holding jugs of drink and platters of rich-smelling food. Achan’s stomach growled. He ate heartily, chatting with Lord Livna.

  A young serving boy refilled Achan’s plate when he ate all his fish and fricassés, then took his goblet away to refresh it.

  Achan scanned the hall. He couldn’t see Sparrow, but found the boy’s mind easily. Are you certain you don’t want that job? Clearing my dishes.

  Quite.

  Achan didn’t want to admit how much it bothered him that Sparrow had deserted him. But it’s mostly standing around.

  Today. But tomorrow I might have to fight a battle to the death with daggers. I am sorry, Your Highness, but it is not for me.

  Sir Eagan crouched behind Sir Caleb’s chair. “It does not look good for the prince’s servant to be sneaking gulps of wine when he is supposed to be filling his cup.”

  Achan looked over Sir Eagan’s shoulder to see his serving boy crouched in the corner of the dais, gulping from his goblet.

  Achan rolled his eyes. What in flames was the lad thinking? Achan would have been flogged for such a thing.

  “Unbelievable!” Sir Caleb said. “Send him away, Eagan. I’ll serve the prince myself.”

  “Patience, Caleb. I’ll talk to him.” Sir Eagan walked away.

  Sir Caleb sighed. “Carmine, Your Majesty. I am certain we can find you a worthy page and squire in—”

  Lady Revada cried out, “Oh! The boy! Help him!”

  Lord Livna’s wife gaped at a spot behind Achan with a panicked expression. He whipped his head around to see his serving boy lying on the floor, eyes glazed, Sir Eagan crouching at his side.

  Achan dove from his chair and seized the boy’s arm. “Boy! What’s wrong?”

  The boy’s eyes flickered to Achan’s.

  Sir Eagan asked a white-haired serving man. “Was it the wine?”

  Achan stared up at the servant, who nodded, clearly horrified at the implication in Achan’s expression.

  “I-I…only poured…th-this.” He held out a large clay jug.

  Sir Eagan snatched it and smelled the opening. Frowning, he sniffed again and set it on the floor. He shot the servant a dark look. “Don’t touch that.” He scrambled on his hands and knees along the dais, just above the steps, and grabbed the goblet that had rolled against the wall.

  Achan lifted the boy’s head into his lap. Sparrow! My serving boy has falle
n. What can I do? He’s not moving.

  Has he a heartbeat?

  Achan lowered his cheek to the boy’s lips. He’s breathing.

  What did he eat? Sparrow asked.

  He drank my wine. Help him.

  The boy’s body trembled, then shook violently. With the exception of the people staring on the dais, chatter filled the rest of the hall, the other guests oblivious to what was happening on the floor behind the head table.

  Achan clutched the boy’s shaking head. Sparrow!

  At last, Sparrow slid between two guests and knelt at Achan’s side. He set a hand to the boy’s pallid face and leaned forward to look in his eyes.

  Sir Eagan, now standing at Achan’s side, handed him the goblet. “Look.”

  Achan accepted the cup. A soggy clump of olive green leaves clung to the bottom curve, leaking a froth of watery white slime, like wet sugar. Achan’s breathing slowed. Poison?

  Sir Eagan’s voice drifted down, confirming Achan’s fears. “A pellet containing poison. Someone must have put it in—”

  “Cranberry verbarium!” A man shouted from afar.

  “The pass code!” Lord Livna pulled out his chair. “An attack, my prince! You must escape.”

  Achan looked up, dazed, still clutching the cup. Escape?

  Sir Eric fell to his knees and pushed back the edge of the gold carpet. He lifted a trapdoor, slid the wood cover onto the floor under Achan’s chair, and jumped down into the hole.

  He motioned Achan to follow. “You must hurry. Our guard has been compromised. This will lead you out.”

  Achan pushed the boy’s rigid body toward Sir Eric, who pulled the boy down, feet first. Achan went next. Then Sparrow, Sir Gavin, Sir Caleb, Inko, and Sir Eagan.

  The trapdoor closed, extinguishing all light but what filtered though the lattice wall of the dais. Achan crouched in the cavity under the platform, squeezing the goblet.

  Someone had tried to kill him.

  Chairs shifted above. Murmurs hummed beyond the lattice wall. A party oblivious to the attempted murder.

  “Your Highness?” Sir Eric squatted in the back corner, his face shadowed. “The door out is here, come.”