To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  “But the boy.” Achan knelt beside him, slapped his cheek lightly, whispered, “Boy, come back to us.”

  “Where’s Kurtz?” Sir Gavin asked.

  “He was sitting near the entrance with me,” Sparrow said.

  “He is still there,” Sir Eagan said. “He tells me a squadron of New Kingsguard soldiers approaches the door.”

  Esek!

  Achan dropped the cup and crawled before the holes in the lattice. He peered out into the great hall. Sir Eric knelt at Achan’s side. Silence had fallen on the great hall. A pattering of distant boot steps on hard wood the only sound.

  A crowd of men in black cloaks spilled onto the entry platform. A flash of red and a figure pushed to the front. Esek Nathak, wearing a red wool doublet, clumped down the steps and strode up the aisle, his black, knee-high boots seemingly filled with lead. Sir Kenton followed behind.

  “Lord Livna. I have no time for niceties. Where are you keeping the stray?”

  Footsteps clicked over the dais above, down the steps on the right, and Lord Livna passed before the lattice and met Esek halfway down the aisle.

  Lord Livna blocked Achan’s view of Esek and Sir Kenton. “You enter my home, uninvited, kill my guards, and interrupt a private gathering. Do not make demands of me.”

  Esek’s voice sneered. “Am I king, old man? I answer to no one. Tell me what you have done with Achan Cham and his ancient knights, and I might let you live.”

  “You are king of nothing. Best take your pompous self out of here before you and your men end up in my dungeon.”

  A scrape of steel on wood, a flash of light, and a blade’s point protruded from Lord Livna’s back.

  Women screamed. Men bolted to their feet. Guards along the wall drew their swords, only to have Esek’s Kingsguards draw against them. No one struck. No one seemed to know what to do next.

  Beside Achan, Sir Eric let out a small groan.

  Esek jerked Ôwr free and Lord Livna slumped to the floor. Esek held the sword out to his side, the white steel blade streaked red. “Who is next in line to rule this shabby manor?”

  A chair scraped back on the dais above. “My son, Sir Eric, is next in line,” Lady Livna said in a commanding voice.

  “And where is he?”

  Sir Eric’s arm trembled against Achan’s, but Achan couldn’t tear his eyes away from Ôwr’s bloody blade. Esek still held it out to the side, a gruesome reminder of his power.

  Lady Livna’s answer brought Achan back to reality. “He is escorting our guests to Berland, Your Majesty.”

  Berland? She was attempting to throw Esek off his trail. Achan didn’t deserve such devotion.

  “Berland,” Esek said. “Why there?”

  Lady Livna’s voice rang smooth and calm in spite of her husband’s body, lying between her and Esek. “I do not know, but I overheard my husband and son talking of Lord Orson’s invitation to host a celebration. It is my understanding that men intend to duel for rank in…Gidon Hadar’s army.”

  Esek shifted his posture from one foot to the other, his face tinged pink. “There is no Gidon Hadar! The stray deceives you.” He waved Ôwr’s blood-streaked blade at the crowd. “Consider well what an alliance with such a man will get you.” He kicked Lord Livna’s body and spun around. “Chora!”

  From the mob of Esek’s guards on the entry platform, a voice called, “Let me pass. The king needs me.”

  Esek’s men parted. Chora, Esek’s valet, scurried down the steps, brown robes billowing. He swept beside Esek and took the bloody sword. As Chora wiped Ôwr clean with a handkerchief, Esek and Sir Kenton whispered to one another in the center of the great hall. Esek scanned the crowd. Did he think Achan would simply be cowering behind some woman?

  Not that hiding under the dais was any braver. Achan wanted to go out and fight Esek, but he didn’t dare make things worse for the Livna family. He would wait for Sir Eric’s lead.

  Esek strode from the room, Chora and Sir Kenton trailing behind. When he passed through the doorway, Sir Eric moved away from the lattice and croaked, “This way.”

  They crawled through a hole in the back wall. Achan paused to help Sparrow with the boy’s body. Sir Eric pushed open a second door; a sliver of yellow light lit his face as he crawled out. Achan wriggled on his side, pulling the serving boy’s body to the second door with Sparrow and Sir Eagan’s help. Sir Eric reached through the door, grabbed the limp boy under the arms, and pulled him through.

  Achan emerged from the bottom cupboard of a sideboard and onto a wool rug behind the desk in Lord Livna’s study. He looked up to the shelves crammed with scrolls and books that filled two walls, the cold fireplace in the corner. He stood to see Sir Eric across the room, sliding a board into slats to bar the door. The boy lay on the floor in front of the desk, eyes open, lips parted. Achan closed his eyes and stepped back against the cold hearth so the desk obscured the still body.

  The boy had saved his life. Died in his place.

  The sideboard door slammed and Achan jumped. Sparrow climbed out, followed by Sir Eagan, Sir Gavin, Sir Caleb, and finally Inko.

  “Any word from Kurtz?” Sir Gavin asked.

  “He’s says Esek and his men are mounting up in the bailey,” Sir Eagan said. “He’ll shadow, see where they go.”

  Achan caught sight of himself in a mirrorglass above the hearth. A closer look proved it wasn’t a mirrorglass but a painting of a man in a gilded frame. The man, possibly in his thirties, had a walnut complexion, a square jaw, and stared back with sapphire eyes. Glossy, black, shoulder-length hair hung in neat ringlets beside his short black beard. A golden crown studded with rubies and emeralds sat on his head.

  Achan recalled the Ice Island guard’s mention of the painting in Lytton Hall. This was King Axel, Achan’s father. He stood staring, unable to look away. An odd ache stabbed through the pressure already pushing on his stomach.

  A hand on his shoulder sucked the pain and pressure away. He looked over to Sir Eagan’s raised brows. “Every manor in Er’Rets was given such a painting after his coronation.”

  Little doubt as to why Sitna Manor had never displayed their painting where anyone could see it. “He looks older than I expected.”

  “Few kings are crowned as young as you. He was thirty-five at his coronation. Fifty-eight when you were born.”

  “So old?”

  Sir Eagan smirked. “Even in Ice Island, I heard songs of King Axel’s long-awaited son.”

  Achan tore himself away from his father’s confident expression. He had not thought to connect the rhymes of bards to his own past. Perhaps Sir Caleb should teach him of his father’s reign next.

  Sir Eric slid down against the barred door. “We should stay until… Mother will come…” He put his head in his hands and his body shook with silent sobs.

  Sir Eagan crouched beside the serving boy and sniffed. “Devil’s porridge.” He closed the boy’s eyes and sat back on his haunches.

  “What’s that?” Achan asked.

  “Hemlock.” Sparrow looked over Sir Eagan’s shoulder, tears pooling in his eyes. “It is very potent.”

  Achan squeezed his hands into fists and paced back a step, wishing he could draw Eagan’s Elk and hack away at Lord Livna’s desk. A glance at Sir Eric stilled him and he voiced his original question aloud. “How could this have happened? Whoever put the poison in likely got away.”

  “It couldn’t have been the chief servant, Your Highness.” Sir Eric’s voice cracked but grew stronger. “Arne has been with my family for years. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “The jug did not smell of hemlock,” Sir Eagan said. “But there was a pellet in the prince’s goblet. How much of your wine did you drink, Your Highness?”

  Achan’s jaw dropped. “Uh, I… Half a…not quite half. Then the food came.”

  “It had not dissolved enough to affect you, but by the time the boy took it to refill…” Sir Eagan heaved to his feet. “Someone dropped it in your goblet. Maybe during the gifts?”<
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  “It should’ve been me,” Achan said. “Someone was trying to kill me. The boy was a fool to drink from my cup.”

  “My guards did not permit just anyone into the great hall tonight,” Sir Eric said. “Until…”

  “But who could be vouching for all the servants?” Inko asked.

  “My wife could, I expect. At least the servants who were stationed on the dais.” Sir Eric frowned. “I’ll question them all. Haddie too. She’s our cook. My real concern is that this man might join your army. Continue to travel with you. Try again.”

  Achan lay awake that night overwhelmed by the evening’s festivities. He wanted to help, to at least speak to Lady Livna—to offer his condolences. But the knights had locked him away in his chamber. If he were to be king, shouldn’t he be able to make some decisions? Shouldn’t he be able to tell the knights what to do? At least make suggestions?

  Being cooped up in his chamber left him no viable task but to shadow the minds of the knights who weren’t guarding the outside of his door. Sir Gavin and Sir Caleb met with Captain Demry to talk circles around the poisoning. Sir Eagan met with Sir Eric and Lady Livna, as he apparently spent much of his youth living here and was as grieved over Lord Livna’s death as they were. Sparrow lay in bed, weeping over who knew what.

  Achan had never considered how much people would sacrifice for their king. Treasures, merchandise, service, their own children.

  All for a man locked in his chamber with no power whatsoever.

  31

  The next morning, the knights, Sir Eric, and Captain Demry came to Achan’s chambers. Achan sat against the headboard on his bed, legs outstretched, ankles crossed. He wanted to take part in this discussion, to add something significant, but what would he say? He didn’t know what they should do next.

  Kurtz had returned from shadowing Esek’s men and gave his report. “Esek and his soldiers—around ninety—exited the Tsaftown gates and rode for Berland.”

  “Roxburg, and as many men as I can spare, will join you on your journey,” Sir Eric said. “I must stay to console my mother and rule Tsaftown until my brother returns from sea. Then I will join you.”

  Achan piped up before anyone else could. “We thank your mother for her diversion. How does she fare?”

  “She is in seclusion. I will pass on your concern,” Sir Eric said, as if he couldn’t be bothered with any more emotion. “I know you plan to visit Carmine next, but it is unwise to set out until scouts check the way. Since you should not linger here, either, I suggest taking the hunting trail over the mountain to Mitspah. Send scouts on the dark and light roads to report what they see. By that time, if any of Esek’s men block the road to Carmine, you could ask Duchess Amal to send aid.”

  “The pass will slow us down greatly,” Sir Gavin said.

  “Why not be sending scouts into Light now?” Inko asked. “If it’s being safe, that direction is being quickest. The duchess could still be sending aid if we were to be needing it.”

  Sir Eric shook his head. “Lingering keeps your men open to attack. What’s left of the Ice Island guard is searching for prisoners and traitors. The refugees are being housed all over the city. All are at risk until we can get you on your way.”

  People were in danger, hiding Achan’s army in their homes. How many others had lost their lives for Achan’s sake? Lord Livna. The serving boy. Achan’s stomach lurched, queasy. He clenched his fists, willing away the soft emotions. They would do him no good.

  Months ago Achan would have given anything to change his station. But king? He’d never dreamed of such a calling. It was too much. He missed his old life. Sleeping under the ale casks. Milking the goats. Chatting with Noam at the Corner. Sitting with Gren under the allown tree by the river.

  Gren would know how to comfort him. But these men? Not one tear shed for that serving boy. Though he knew he shouldn’t, Achan looked in on Gren.

  —trying to put it through the strainer and into the jar, but it spilled. It took me hours to clean up. Gren stood looking at a table covered with jars of pickled apples. She reached behind her back and worked at the knot on her apron.

  Smells good, though, Bran said.

  Gren’s heart raced. You’re just being kind.

  No, I love pickled apples, especially over lamb chops.

  Gren fought the knot a second more, then stomped her foot. She turned her back to Bran, her skirt twirling around her legs. Help me untie this? My fingers are all prunes, and the knot is too tight. Bran’s fingers tugged at the ties. I’m glad you came to visit.

  Bran didn’t answer right away. I’m glad you’re liking the kitchens. It’s safer in here, I think, with all the women. The apron loosened. Bran’s hands fell away. There you are.

  Thank you. She folded the apron and peered into the kitchen. Jespa, the cook, engrossed in trimming the pastry off the edges of a pie, paid them no mind.

  Bran watched Gren with a crooked smile.

  Her stomach zinged to her heart. What?

  Nothing. He looked toward the stairwell. I should go. I need to get back to my post.

  Gren blinked repeatedly, not wanting to cry. This had been the first time Master Rennan had come to visit in days. What could she do to make him stay longer? She brushed her finger against the side of his hand. He snagged her hand in his and released it just as quickly, but at least his eyes were locked with hers again. She inched closer, gazing into his brown eyes, willing him to care. He leaned forward, ever so slowly.

  Achan jumped through Gren into Bran’s mind and found himself aching to kiss Gren. No, he said to Bran, alarmed at the course this friendship had taken. Don’t you dare.

  Bran’s chest swelled with a deep breath and he stepped back. I’ll try and come again tomorrow. Farewell. He took two steps back, then darted up the servants’ stairs.

  Achan concentrated on Gren and returned to her head.

  Farewell, she mumbled, sticking out her bottom lip. Surely Master Rennan cared more than he let on. She went back to her jars of pickled apples, started adding lids, but by the time she got to the third jar, she was crying.

  Achan withdrew, but kept his eyes closed, struggling over what he’d seen. Clearly, Gren and Bran fancied each other. A pang of loneliness dug into his gut like a chisel. Any hope he harbored at reconciling with Gren was hopeless now. He pictured himself sitting on a throne, haggard, staring at his wife, a woman who despised him, who’d never wanted to marry him. Their children hid behind her skirt, afraid of the man Mother despised.

  He coughed, choking on the rush of saliva in his throat. Darkness had a way of attacking whenever he pitied himself. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. He had lost Gren long ago. No need to relive it.

  Still, he worried. Bran shouldn’t spend time with Gren when he was betrothed to another. Sir Caleb had spoken true. Gren’s heart had attached to Bran because Bran hadn’t guarded his actions toward her. It wasn’t fair to either lady.

  Achan hoped they got to Carmine soon. He’d like to have a word with Bran Rennan.

  Betrayal fresh on his mind, an idea seized him. If a traitor existed amongst his newly formed army, he needed to find the man before anyone else lost their life. He could do this for himself, for his men, and for all Er’Rets. And he wouldn’t stop until he succeeded.

  * * *

  Yet another myth come reality, Achan sat atop a massive white festrier, looking over the tops of every head around him. His new army—over three hundred, Sir Caleb had said—gathered in the courtyard outside Lytton Hall, preparing to depart.

  The icy air smelled of pitch and dung. Lamp stands threw light and shadows over the mob of men and horses. The din of voices kept Achan on edge. Three hundred had not sounded like a large army, but now that he saw them he felt small perched above this crowd.

  Scout, loaded down with gear, had been tethered behind Achan’s new warhorse, Dove, a gift from Sir Eric. Whether or not Scout was bothered by his demotion to pack horse, guilt kept Achan talking to the animal.
It would have been rude to say no, Scout. I can’t imagine riding this beast all the time. You and I will still ride.

  Dove heaved a sigh beneath Achan, as if he perceived the kinship between Achan and Scout and was exasperated by it. The movement rocked Achan in the saddle. He gripped the saddlehorn with his gloved hand and tried not to think about how it would feel if the animal took off running. The width of the beast’s back stretched Achan’s legs wider than he was used to. He felt like a child, boots dangling a league above the snowy ground. He hoped he’d be able to control the beast.

  “Don’t let his size fool you.” Sir Eric patted Dove’s neck. “He’s as gentle as his name. A gift from Lord Dromos after Father took him on a fishing expedition.”

  Sir Eric’s generosity and endurance amazed Achan. Sorrow sagged the man’s expression and posture, bled into Achan’s senses, yet Sir Eric plunged ahead with wisdom and energy. “Are you certain you can spare so many men? What if Esek should return?”

  “Only sixty-five of my soldiers have joined you. The rest of these men are from Ice Island, be they former Kingsguards, former prison guards, or former prisoners. Does that concern you?”

  “Not at all.” Except that one of them was probably a traitor. Achan studied the motley recruits.

  Captain Demry’s men wore fur capes over gold and black armor and carried round shields emblazoned with dagfish, like the one Achan had used in the tournament last spring. The other men wore fur capes over peasant clothes. No one would suspect Brien Gebfly—the thief who’d used Achan’s knife to spring the lock in the Pit—had been a prisoner. Even his scraggly beard blended in well.

  “Thank you for dressing the men, I suspect that was you?”

  Sir Eric nodded. “Most pardons come with clothing. You know, to the men who’ve accepted your offer, you’ve given them more than freedom. You’ve given them a purpose to live for. That makes a man stand tall. They respect you already. I see why Arman chose you to lead Er’Rets.”

  Achan flushed at the compliment. He’d come for the Kingsguard prisoners to form his army, but he hadn’t freed the other prisoners with any forethought. It had all happened so quickly. And the prisoners could just as easily have killed him for his boots and knife than decide to sign on.