To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  Achan studied Sparrow out of the corner of his eyes. She stood by the window, hugging her shivering arms. He unlaced his doublet and pried it off, doing his best to act nonchalant. “Sparrow bested me. For the first and last time, mind you.” He peeled his tunic over his head, wadded it into a ball, and pitched it at Sparrow. It whacked her in the face and she squeaked. “Well done, Sparrow.”

  “Yes, well done, minnow!” Kurtz said.

  “Gracious, don’t kill him, Vrell.” Sir Gavin’s mustache curled. “We can’t show up in Armonguard with a black and blue prince. Go easy next time.”

  Laughter rang out.

  Achan shot Sir Gavin a bland look. “Fear not for my well being. It is I who’ll no longer be going easy on Sparrow.” He spun around the room, trying to locate his pack with one working eye. He fixated on Sparrow’s pale face and cast her a challenging, one-eyed stare.

  She grinned, a smile that vitalized her whole face despite her tangled, wet hair and dirty cheeks. Achan’s stomach zinged.

  “I assure you, Your Majesty,” she said, “I do not need you to go easy on me. I can take anything you toss my way.”

  35

  For an hour that afternoon, the knights and Achan discussed the future. The plans for leaving the next day, what would happen in Carmine, and of course, more discussion over Achan’s future bride. The knights talked, actually. Achan simply sat, overwhelmed, stewing and daydreaming—even dozing at one point. Thankfully, Sir Gavin dismissed him early. Achan entered into his chamber to see Sparrow standing at the window that overlooked the courtyard below.

  Her eyes widened. “Forgive me. My new room does not have a window. I thought you were meeting with the knights, so…”

  Achan closed his eyes and peeked through Sir Gavin.

  He is too young to marry, Sir Eagan said. Why not focus on a long betrothal? Give him time to get used to the idea a bit more.

  What’s to get used to? He can figure it out, he can. If he needs help, he’s got me, eh?

  Thank you, Kurtz, for your offer, but that is not what concerns me.

  Achan pulled away from the discussion and sighed. “Aye, they’re still…talking. Sir Gavin excused me. The conversation had begun to annoy.” He didn’t want to explain the ongoing debate over who he should marry. For here stood Sparrow and he could no longer see her as anything but a pretty young woman in trousers. A breeze from the window blew a wisp of ebony hair across her alabaster cheek.

  She smiled and brushed the strand away.

  What folly. Why was he such a fool where women were concerned? Why did he continually choose the wrong ones? Why couldn’t he simply accept his position with grace and marry whomever the knights ordained would be best?

  He recalled what Poril had always said of his stubborn spirit. Ah, yer a fool, yeh are, boy. Had to smart off. Had to fight back.

  Achan had never liked being ordered around.

  “Are you well, Your Highness?”

  Sparrow moved to the center of the room. Her wide green eyes were fixed on him, her slender eyebrows pinched together.

  “As well as anyone in my position would be, I suppose,” he mumbled.

  She walked toward him, toward the door. She was leaving? Achan reached out and grabbed her elbow. He let his grip slide down her arm and caught her hand. A tingle danced up his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “I— ” Her cheeks tinged pink. “I-I should not be…”

  Achan pulled her close and reached up with his free hand to tug out the thong in her hair. With both hands, he combed her silky hair around her sweet face.

  Her lips parted, her breath a tremor on his neck. He held her warm cheeks in his hands and drew his thumb over her lips, marveling at the softness of her skin.

  What could she be thinking? He didn’t dare look inside, for fear it would ruin this moment.

  He tilted his face down and closed his eyes. She inhaled a sharp breath and tensed beneath his hands. His lips pressed against hers. They were soft and sweet like honey. Warmth shuddered through him as her breath mingled with his, entered his mouth and seized his soul.

  She grabbed two fistfuls of his tunic and tugged him closer, deepening the kiss. Her hands snaked up the back of his neck, into his hair, and held tight.

  A door clicked shut. Sparrow turned to stone in his arms. Achan broke away and found no one there. He frowned, uncertain if the noise had come from the door to his room or Sir Caleb’s. He turned back barely in time to see Sparrow’s hand flying toward him. It struck his cheek with the force of a cham bear. He staggered sideways to keep his balance.

  He set his hand to his cheek and found the skin hot. “What was that for?”

  She blushed, her eyes liquid with tears. “I would think it would be obvious.”

  He sucked in a deep breath but could think of no obvious answer. “First my eye, now this? For not wanting to kill, you’re a violent woman, Sparrow.”

  She propped her hands on her hips. “Never kiss a girl without asking first.”

  “Why not?” He massaged his smarting cheek.

  “Well…because…it is rude. She might not want you to.”

  “How am I supposed to know that? I’ve never kissed anyone at my own instigation.”

  Sparrow raised her eyebrows. “You kissed Jaira.”

  Curse Jaira Hamartano to the Lowerworld forever. “That doesn’t count.”

  “Beska?”

  “She kissed me.” Looking back, something occurred to him. Sparrow had been jealous.

  Her voice wavered. “Not even Gren?”

  Achan shook his head slightly, feeling odd to be speaking of Gren. Why did girls have to talk so much? He met her eyes and grinned. “May I kiss you, then?”

  She shrank back. “Absolutely not!”

  He stiffened, as if she’d slapped him again. “Is this because I spared Polk? I’m sorry, Sparrow. Prison is fairer than death. Esek had been threatening his family.”

  Her scowl faded. “You have a kind heart. It is not a thing to apologize for.”

  “Why, then?”

  Her brows pinched. “Because I am not a wanton woman. I explained that fully out—”

  “It was only a kiss. Don’t get your britches in a bind.”

  She pursed her lips and huffed through her nose. “My britches are not in a bind. I do not expect you to understand having been raised by… Well, I am simply not the kind of girl who kisses a man she does not intend to marry.”

  Marry? Could he marry Sparrow? It was laughable. He could imagine Sir Caleb’s response to the idea. “Well, what if—”

  She held up a finger. “Do not say things you are not permitted to say.”

  He straightened to his full height. “I can say what I want.”

  “Then do not waste your breath saying things we shall both regret.”

  “I won’t regret it.”

  “This is utterly inappropriate. You should never have entered a room with a woman alone. Have you no propriety?”

  “Me? This is my room, Sparrow. And you’re the woman running around in trousers. I’m no expert at propriety, but I’d say you were in violation first.”

  “I was simply looking out your window, as my room does not have one. I will leave. Good day, Your Highness.”

  “Sparrow, wait.”

  But she stormed past like a winter wind and jerked the door shut behind her.

  Pig snout. Achan fell back on his bed and stared at the low timber ceiling. It had been going so well there for a moment. Hadn’t she kissed him back? A moment of abandon—bah! No doubting it. He was a miserable failure at romance.

  The door to Sir Caleb’s room scraped open. Achan twisted his head to see Kurtz closing the door behind him, a handful of clothing under his arm.

  Achan sat up, heart thumping wildly. Had Kurtz entered back when Achan heard the click? Back when…?

  Kurtz crept to Achan’s door, eyes shifting slightly as he reached for the handle.

  Achan jumped to his feet. “Kurtz
!”

  The knight paused, facing the door.

  “Kurtz…uh…please sit a moment.” Achan swallowed, for his mouth had gone quite dry. “It, um…what you saw…it wasn’t what it looked like. I can explain. Sparrow’s not—”

  Kurtz pulled open the door and spoke to the floor. “Your business is your own, it is.” He swept out the door as fast as Sparrow had.

  Achan groaned and fell back onto his bed.

  Pig snout!

  * * *

  Vrell fled down the stairs, trying unsuccessfully to stopper her tears. Her boot caught and she stumbled down the last four steps. She caught herself on the door jamb at the foot of the stairwell and held tight, gripping the stone as if doing so might remove the last few minutes of her life.

  How could she have been so foolish! She had convinced herself that she had misunderstood Achan’s behavior at the waterfall. How wrong she had been! Had she encouraged him? But they had been playing games since they had entered Darkness. She turned her back to the curve of the tower and sank, weeping to the floor. Silent wails shook her.

  Approaching footsteps in the hallway broke her tirade. She gasped in short breaths, calming herself, hoping the person would pass right up the stairs without seeing her. She smoothed her hair back behind her head, twisting it into a tail, though she no longer had a thong to fasten it.

  A brown rope swept through the door jamb, followed by Atul’s weathered face. As if he knew she were there already, he immediately looked down. “Master Sparrow, just the person I was lookin’ fer.”

  “Me, Atul?” She sniffled and lifted her chin. “How can I assist you?”

  He held a hand out. “Need approval on ’n alteration. Fer the prince’s wardrobe.”

  “But that is something to ask Sir Caleb. He supervises the prince’s wardrobe.” She tucked her hair into the neck of her tunic and accepted his hand. A chill combed her spine when he pulled her to her feet.

  “Sir Caleb’s ’n a meetin’. ’Tis a simple matter. But my seamstress don’t wanna proceed without a go-ahead o’ some kind. Won’t yeh take a look?”

  “Of course.” Vrell followed Atul to a room on the first level, attempting to keep the memory of Achan’s kiss from kindling more tears. Atul held open the door.

  Vrell walked inside. The long and narrow room was lined with shelves that were loaded with folded fabric. A small candle burned in an iron sconce mounted beside the door, muting the many colors of fabric to dull, earthy tones.

  There were no seamstresses here.

  The door clicked shut. Vrell spun around. Atul grabbed her and clamped a moist cloth over her mouth. The familiar, bark-like scent called forth panic from every nerve in Vrell’s body. This was the same substance Macoun Hadar had given her outside the Council meeting. She seized Atul’s robes and pushed him, hooking his leg at the same time. His dark eyes flew wide as he thudded to the stone floor.

  Vrell leaped over him, but Atul grabbed her ankle and she tripped. Her hands scraped down the bottom half of the door. She winced at the stinging splinters in her palms and tried to push herself up despite the pain. A fog settled over her mind, blunting her movements. She tried to focus, to call out to Achan, but even her mind had been crippled by the soporific.

  She could hear Atul moving, feel him pulling her across the moist floor by her boots, then all went dark.

  * * *

  Vrell moaned, stretched her stiff back. Her head throbbed. She tried to stretch her arms, but they did not move. She pulled harder, opened her eyes to discern the problem.

  A thick knot of hemp bound her wrists in front. A swell of nausea gripped her at the memory of Atul the traitor. She lifted her head and looked around. She was in a single-pole, circular pavilion. A small fire blazed in a bronze brazier in the center of the room, lighting the extravagant tapestries on the walls. The smoke trailed out a hole in the roof into a dark sky.

  It must be night.

  She lay on a burgundy silk blanket that covered a pallet of goose down. A table, two chairs, and three massive trunks sat to the right of the bed. A changing screen hid the left side of the tent from view. An elaborate red and blue gown hung over the side of the screen. Could this be a woman’s tent?

  She needed to bloodvoice Achan, to tell him Atul was a traitor and had taken her. But what if it were a trap to lure him here? Perhaps she should at least discover where she was before contacting him.

  Men’s voices grew outside the tent, drawing near.

  “It will take me three days to prepare more. Why didn’t you tell me you were out?” The familiar, raspy voice brought a shiver over Vrell. Khai Mageia.

  “I never had none to be out of.” This bad grammar belonged to Atul. “Polk was s’posed to give me some, but Sir Gavin took all Polk’s gear. What could I of done?”

  “You could’ve asked me to make you more days ago.”

  “Enough. This matters not. If she calls to the stray, he’ll come for her.”

  Esek Nathak’s snide, condescending voice brought tears to Vrell’s eyes. Caught, after all this time, by the very man she had been hiding from. Arman, why?

  “Send scouts to watch for him, Sir Kenton—but not you. You ride with me.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Footsteps faded out of earshot.

  A gust of cold air swept into the tent. “Still she sleeps? I have no time for this. You said it wouldn’t last long, Mageia.”

  Strong hands grabbed Vrell’s waist and rolled her over. Khai Mageia’s dark eyes stared through his flop of greasy brown hair. His wild mustache twitched, baring yellowed teeth in a malicious smile. “She’s awake, Your Majesty.”

  Esek Nathak peeked over Khai’s shoulder, sending a chill up Vrell’s spine that coated her palms in sweat. She tensed at how much Esek resembled Achan. Blue eyes, tanned skin, and dark hair… They could be brothers.

  Esek’s nose wrinkled in a disdainful grimace. “She smells like rot. Are you certain this is Lady Averella?”

  “Positive,” Khai said.

  Esek grunted. “I’ll have to have that coverlet aired. Stand her up so I can get a good look.”

  Khai pulled Vrell off the bed. She wanted to struggle, but her head pounded so much she found it difficult to focus. The next thing she knew, she stood before the bed facing Esek, Khai, and Atul.

  Esek wore a long, red, wool cape bucked at his throat with a ruby and gold cabochon the size of her fist, black trousers, and black boots. A thin gold crown sank into his oily black hair that had been slicked back into a braided tail. His beard had thickened since she last saw him and made his jaw and chin look like it was trimmed in black rabbit fur.

  Esek’s blue eyes met hers. “Really, my dear, am I so revolting you would sink to this level just to avoid me?”

  “Just kill me,” Vrell said, though she did not want him to.

  He slid his bejeweled fingers over his short, black beard. “But you are to be my bride. I marry you to keep tabs on the north. And I’m quite fond of grapes.”

  Vrell tried to spit at Esek, but her saliva dribbled down her chin. Her face flamed. How did men always spit so far?

  “Ug!” Esek shrank back. “The things I do for this land. I recall having seen you quite fetching, my lady. Do tell me you have not forgotten how to wear a dress?”

  “I will die before I marry you.”

  “Yes, well, I cannot allow that. But you are welcome to death anytime after the wedding.”

  “You honestly think Carm would fight for you if you took me without my or my mother’s consent?”

  “I care not. Frankly, I’ve no time to chat, my dear. I am at war with Mitspah. My men are weakening the stronghold as we speak. Get yourself presentable and you may bid me farewell.” He turned and strode from the pavilion.

  Vrell seethed. “I care not whether you leave!” She focused her gaze on Khai and Atul. “What do you want?”

  “You’re to wear this.” Atul skirted the bed and walked to the changing screen. “I took it from Lady Rubel’s closet.�
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  Vrell snorted a laugh. “If you think for a moment that Lady Rubel’s gown will fit me, you are blind.”

  Atul draped the gown over the bed. The beaded bodice and skirt sparkled in the firelight. Khai stepped forward and drew a dagger from a leg sheath. Vrell drew back.

  “I’m to cut your bindings, my lady.”

  “Oh.” No sense arguing there. Vrell held out her wrists.

  Khai sawed through the hemp. “The tent is surrounded. Do not bother trying to escape. I will return in five minutes, my lady. If you are not dressed, I will do it myself.”

  * * *

  Vrell felt ridiculous in such a gown. It was as fine as many of her own, but the fit mocked her insufficiencies. As promised, Khai returned and escorted her from the tent.

  Esek’s camp was in a clearing beside a dirt road. Torch posts held lanterns and torches, filling the air with the smell of pitch. New Kingsguard soldiers scurried around, armor jangling beneath their black capes. There appeared to be at least fifty armed men here, though it was difficult to count with so many tents. Horses whinnied and snorted. Khai led her past a tent where men were laughing around a game of dice.

  The smell of horses reached her before she saw Esek in the gloom. He stood with Sir Kenton and Chora beside his ebony courser. In the torchlight she could see that the animal was draped in red banners embroidered with the crest of Armonguard.

  She scowled. Armonguard’s crest should appear on a purple background, not red. She reached out for Achan and sent a knock. No answer.

  “Ah, a vast improvement.” Esek twirled his finger in the air. “Turn around. Let’s see.”

  The audacity of this man, barking orders as if she were his property. She folded her arms and stared him down.

  A sharp point pricked her back. Stale breath blew hot in her ear. “Obey your king, my lady.”

  Vrell darted around to see Khai holding his dagger out.

  He waved it forward. “All the way, my lady.”

  She blew out an bitter breath and twirled. The beaded skirt funneled, sucking a chilled draft up her trouser-clad legs.