To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  “You secretly love our king to be. I can see it plain as the Evenwall approaching. And the only reason you’ve stayed a stray-nobody in his eyes was so he could meet you on your own terms.” Bran raised his thick eyebrows. “But what now, my dear? Your ploy has failed. Now he catches you in your lie or you never meet him again. My, what a tangled web a spider weaves.”

  Vrell stood. “You dare call me a spider? What of you and the widow Hoff? Now who is weaving a spider’s web? She clearly loves you, but you will not sink to consider a mere peasant when you could marry a noblewoman. Wait and see if things work out with the duchesses’ heir first. If not, there is always the widow Hoff.”

  Bran paled so much he didn’t look at all sunburned. “I don’t know what the servants have been saying, Averella, but I ignore Gren’s affection because of my promise to you. It has nothing to do with my social status or hers. Don’t twist this around. You’re angry because I’m right. You and I are not meant to be. And it pains me I’m not more grieved. But that’s wide of the point. I forgive you, Averella, for loving another. But don’t punish me over your lies to the prince. And don’t punish him, either.”

  Vrell pressed her hand to her heart, trying to control her breathing and the threatening tears.

  Bran paused at the doorway. “Be warned, he still seeks you, my lady. He has men in the area.”

  Her eyes widened and she looked out the window, scanning the inner bailey. “Achan is here? Already?”

  Bran chuckled. “No, my lady. King Esek. It was rumored you’d come home. His men have been seen nearby.”

  “Oh.” Vrell fell back on the sofa. Surely this rumor had been before Achan had crippled him? If Esek were still alive, would he be a broken man or as much of a tyrant as ever? Would he give up his claim to the throne, or, after all her hiding, would he find her in her own home and take her away?

  “Marry Achan, Averella. Be our queen. For you would be a marvelous one.”

  Vrell glared at Bran. What had she even seen in such a rude individual? “Please go.”

  “Very well.” Bran bowed. “Farewell, my lady.”

  40

  Achan sat atop Dove, his right arm in a sling to keep the pressure off his shoulder. Shung rode on his left, Cole on his right, riding Scout. The procession to Carmine passed several families migrating from the encroaching Evenwall. People carried packs and baskets, led animals, drove wagons, or pulled carts, packed with all their possessions.

  Achan now understood his purpose, more than to be king, was to bring Arman’s love to the people. Being king was simply the role he needed to complete such a task. But he knew so little of Arman. He had so much to learn before he could proclaim Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd, Arman hu shlosha be-echâd with confidence.

  Lord Yarden had been distressed by Esek’s attack, apologetic, even, as if he were to blame for Atul being a traitor. Achan had allowed the man to blame himself a bit longer than necessary before explaining about the broken windows in the temple. For a moment he’d feared Lord Yarden might faint, but Shung had spoken, repeated the words he’d said to Achan when Câan had vanished.

  “Rare the man whose prayers move the earth.”

  That had been enough to bring Lord Yarden back, nodding and beaming as if having his property destroyed were the greatest honor to be had in all Er’Rets. Perhaps now he would intentionally never repair it.

  The city of Carmine could be seen from miles away in the center of a luscious green valley. Farms and vineyards stretched to the horizon in all directions. The cupola roof on a brownstone tower, as tall as the one on Ice Island, peeked out of a matching curtain wall.

  They approached the grounds from the northwest. A simple, six-foot brownstone wall enclosed the vineyards of Granton Castle. There were no guards at the first gate. The procession raised a cloud of dust as it trampled the dirt road. Vines stretched on and on, heavy with bunches of plump red grapes. Achan mouth watered. He hoped he’d get to try some.

  At the end of the vineyard, Sir Gavin stopped before a single tower gate at another brownstone wall. A wide moat separated another dirt road—which appeared to circle the inner edges of the vineyard—and the three-level curtain wall. The narrow drawbridge was down, but the guard had to raise the portcullis to let them enter.

  A group of soldiers clustered on the sentry wall near the tower, looking down on their group. They pointed and chattered. Some cheered. A few guardsmen further down the wall ran toward the tower as if hoping to get a glimpse of the visitors.

  Achan considered reaching out to hear what they were saying, but he had a guess. Which one is he?

  He kept his head down and spurred Dove along. He, Shung, and Cole rode five pairs back from Sir Gavin. They crossed the drawbridge and entered an outer bailey ten times larger than the one at Sitna manor. Soldiers on horseback wore red Old Kingsguard capes like Sir Gavin’s. Women bustled about with loads of fabric or laundry, boys carried wood or led animals, dogs and chickens ambled underfoot, children played games and laughed. The cool tones of a lute drifted on the air. As Achan’s men neared, all went silent and stopped to stare.

  The procession paused at yet another wall, this gate a double tower five levels high, like two rolls of stone parchment standing on end. More guards stared down from the wall.

  Shung’s voice pulled Achan away from the guards. “You are downcast, Little Cham?”

  Achan glanced at his hairy friend. “I’m tired of traveling, and I know it won’t stop until a war has killed many. I don’t look forward to the coming months.”

  “But we do not fight tonight. Tonight we eat grapes and drink wine.” Shung smiled. “Perhaps dance as well?”

  “I don’t want to dance.”

  “You are missing Little Vixen. Shung does not think she will be gone forever.”

  Achan hoped that were true.

  The horses moved again, under the tall, double tower gate of the inner curtain wall. Inside, Granton Castle loomed, massive, like Mahanaim, only clean. It even smelled sweet. The building sat like two interlocking manors. The front, southwestern section was much smaller. Two narrow towers flanked a set of massive maroon doors, the front entrance to the castle. The western tower stood eight levels high. The other stretched as high as the Pillar. Each had cupola roofs as if topped with gazebos.

  The back, northeastern section of the castle stood like a gigantic brick, six levels high, with dozens of arrow loops on each level. Smaller towers supported the center and corners.

  Hundreds of soldiers in red capes cheered and waved Armonguard’s flag. Achan pushed the overwhelming sensation aside and searched every black-haired head for Sparrow’s round face. He tried again to look through her eyes and failed.

  Achan and the knights dismounted at the entrance. Cole scurried over and took Dove’s reins.

  “Thank you, Cole.”

  The boy beamed and led Dove and Scout away. Achan’s body still ached. He limped after Sir Gavin and followed the knight inside one of the tall maroon doors.

  A small foyer opened into a great hall. Bronze candelabras hung from a vaulted ceiling. Servants lined both sides of the aisle leading to the dais, which stretched the width of the hall. To Achan’s right, a brownstone staircase fanned out into the foyer. Dozens of people stood along the railing, peering down. Achan kept his eyes on the back of Sir Gavin’s head and trailed the knight to the foot of the stairs.

  A woman descended, petite yet regally imposing. Her auburn hair was tucked under a gold circlet and gauze veil. She wore a maroon gown—the same color as the front doors—trimmed in ivory lace. The long skirt spilled over the steps behind her. Her bell sleeves trailed within inches of the floor.

  A slender, white-haired man shadowed her like a bobcat, agile and aware. He wore a plain white tunic with a maroon vest and black trousers. A scar across his neck suggested he could cheat death. “I am Anillo, advisor to the duchess.” His voice carried a slow authority, as if crossing him would be a poor, perhaps fatal, choice. “May I p
resent her ladyship, Nitsa Amal, the Duchess of Carm?”

  The woman flowed off the bottom step like a petal on a stream. She wove around the others and stopped before Achan. How did she know what he looked like? She probably owned the painting of his father.

  So short, she looked up into his eyes. Achan felt like a giant. Her skin was like a porcelain vase. Not a blemish or wrinkle. She couldn’t have lived more than thirty-five years. Hers eyes were green and bright, calculating yet kind.

  No wonder Sir Eagan loved this woman still.

  The duchess’ silky and kind voice pulled Achan’s attention to her lips. He knew this voice.

  “Your Highness, I am honored to finally meet you. You are most welcome at Granton Castle. My home is yours.” She curtsied then held out her hand.

  A wave of heat rushed over him as he scrambled to remember what Sir Caleb had advised him to do and say. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. Then a deep bow, keeping eye contact, while he released her hand. “It’s I who am honored, my lady. I hear you have many concerns. I pray we’re not a burden to you at this time.”

  “You are anything but. I have been praying to meet you ever since I first heard your bloodvoice.”

  Achan bowed his head again, comprehension dawning. He’d heard her so many times in his mind and hadn’t known who she was. “I thank you for your kind words that day, my lady, for I feared I had lost my mind.”

  “My heart aches for what you have suffered at the hands of Esek.” She glanced at his arm. “Are you badly wounded?”

  “I am mending.” He wanted to say something of Esek. “I hear Esek has plagued you as well. I’m troubled over the safety of your daughter, Lady Averella. Prince Oren informed me of her plight. Is there any way we might come to her aid?”

  “Thank you, no. She is well and safe, though unable to greet you this visit.”

  Achan nodded, though his thoughts strayed. If the lady Averella ever made it home, how would she react when she discovered she’d lost her suitor to a peasant widow expecting a child? And if she were one of the candidates the knights thought might make for a good queen, he’d want to see if she looked like a horse or not. But he forced his mind back to business. “Has Lord Nathak caused any mischief for you recently?”

  “We have not seen him in weeks. It is my hope he has moved on to Armonguard.”

  “There’s much I have to share with you on that matter.” Achan glanced at Sir Caleb. “Perhaps there will be a time later where we can talk privately with you and my men?”

  The duchess smiled and curtsied again. “Of course, Your Highness. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m sure my men could empty your kitchens in a day, my lady. We’ve brought provisions and don’t wish to impose.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Offer your arm, Your Highness, Sir Caleb said.

  Achan spun to her side and held out his left arm so that his sword and sling would be away from her.

  She gripped his bicep with both hands and led him into the great hall. “How long do you plan to stay with us?”

  “A week, to recruit men to our cause.”

  “You shall stay as long as you like. I offer Granton Castle as a base for you and your generals to plan your strategies.”

  Generals? “Thank you, my lady. You’re most generous.”

  The duchess steered Achan up the center aisle toward the high table. They passed a host of servants and staff, including Sir Rigil, Bran, and Sir Eagan. Achan sensed each man’s guilt and guessed the reasons. Sir Rigil for failing to keep an eye on Bran and Gren. Bran for his growing affection for Gren. Sir Eagan for taking Sparrow away.

  Bran could wait. But Achan stopped before Sir Eagan. “I must speak with you right away, Sir Eagan.”

  Sir Eagan bowed. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  “Forgive me, Duchess,” Achan said, “I require a moment with my father’s Shield.”

  Duchess Amal released his arm and curtsied. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Sir Caleb knocked, but Achan ignored it. He gripped Sir Eagan’s arm and led him between two rough hewn tables, not bothering to lower his voice, though Sir Eagan’s calm already poured into him. “Where did you take her?”

  “As far as the front door.” Sir Eagan’s blue eyes looked pained, as if he missed Sparrow too.

  Hope welled in Achan. “She is here, then? In Carmine?”

  “She could be, yes. She did not confide her plans to me.”

  The crowd murmured. Achan sensed their curiosity. “Did she give any clue where she might go? Where she was from?”

  “Only that she had been living in Walden’s Watch.”

  “You think she plans to return there?”

  “I cannot say, Your Majesty.”

  Achan wanted to harangue this man, despite his being so much older, but Arman had taken his anger. “I was prepared to heed your council, to let her go. I only wanted to say farewell.”

  Sir Eagan’s sympathetic gaze needled Achan. “Sometimes it is easier this way. Farewells can be difficult. Dangerous.”

  “Perhaps, but I am not you, Sir Eagan.”

  * * *

  After a hearty lunch with the duchess, Anillo ushered Achan to a bath and fitting. The duchess had insisted on providing Achan a new wardrobe. Maybe she doted on him because she was a woman with no sons, or maybe his clothing had been truly shabby for a king. He could hardly tell.

  Dinner followed. Achan wore a fancy gold and maroon outfit that reminded him of Esek so much he loathed wearing it. He met the duchess’s four younger daughters, ages twelve, ten, seven, and four, and danced with them more than any other, though he feared encouraging the eldest, for there were several twelve-year-olds on his list of possible brides.

  Still, better to dance with twelve-year-old Gypsum Amal than the older, lesser nobles of Carmine who flaunted and flirted. He’d never seen a crowd of young women more bedecked, with the exception of Jaira Hamartano. Clearly these poor girls had been instructed to win his favor at any cost.

  When Achan finally fell into his bed on the fourth floor, he couldn’t sleep. This room was bigger than two full cottages from Sitna. The bed itself could have slept six comfortably. He lay on his back and spread his arms and legs wide, gently stretching his sore arm and leg. He liked the silky feel of the sheets and the way his body sank into the featherbed.

  Shung’s snore grumbled steadily from the pallet Sir Caleb had insisted be brought in. Achan felt safe. Peaceful. No fear of Esek or a traitor killing him in his sleep.

  Had Esek died? If so, Achan doubted Lord Nathak would report it right away, if ever. Achan shook the horrifying image of Esek’s severed arm from his head and turned onto his side, burrowing into the mattress again.

  His stomach rumbled. It was truly no use. He supposed he find sleep by shadowing one of the sleeping knights. Or maybe he could wander a bit, perhaps find the kitchens and a snack.

  He climbed out of bed, put on an old tunic, and crept to the doors. Opening one a crack, he peeked out and sighed. Sure enough, three guards crouched at the end of the hall, next to the stairs, playing dice. More strangers willing to die for him because he was the Crown Prince. It still felt so awkward.

  He peeked the other way. No guards to the left. Had the guards broken ranks to play dice? Clearly they were not concerned about Achan’s safety. If he could sneak to the corner without being seen, he could go down that stairwell.

  Achan slipped out of the room and pressed against the wall. Dice clattered over the wood floor and the guards erupted in a loud cheer. Achan sidestepped to the corner where a tower staircase stood. In Sitna, the kitchens were in the outer bailey. But this was a vast stronghold, similar to Mahanaim. The kitchens in Mahanaim had been in the basement.

  Achan descended the stairs, his bare feet cool on the stone. A sudden though made him wince. He should have dressed better, at least put on boots. If he were seen, Sir Caleb would berate him for not being properly dressed. Nothing could be done about it now. He was
too far into his quest.

  He reached the bottom without seeing a soul and found himself in the corner of a damp passageway that stretched out like an L. Concentrating on what he remembered from outside, Achan tried to rebuild the stronghold in his mind. Logically, the kitchens would be near the great hall.

  He went right. At the next corner, the corridor turned left and led him past a laundry room, a bathhouse, a massive wine cellar, and a buttery.

  The smell of yeast and smoke urged him on. The walls fell away into a vast open area. Achan gaped. The kitchens in Sitna had consisted of two small rooms. This place was the size of the great hall above.

  Drum pillars rose to the ceiling every ten feet or so. Fat candelabras hung from thick iron chains. Baking ovens ran along the left wall, fireplaces along the right. Dozens of long tables filled the center, some covered with bowls, some empty, some stone with iron grills built into the surface. Achan saw no movement at the moment, but with the size of this castle, cooks and maids likely worked around the clock.

  He veered toward the fireplaces on the right wall and lifted a bowl from a shelf as he passed. Only one fireplace still burned under a round, iron cauldron pot. Achan pulled his sleeve over his hand and lifted the lid on the pot. The smell of beefy, hot stew flooded his nostrils. He grinned and ladled his bowl to the brim, then carried it to a rack of fluffy rolls beside a drum pillar. He dunked a roll into the stew and bit down.

  Shamayim.

  Standing by the rack, he finished the first roll in three bites. He grabbed three more and walked toward a table surrounded by squat stools. Likely where the kitchen staff ate. He sat down and finished half his bowl when the sudden urge seized him to sit under the table. At Sitna Manor, when he hadn’t wanted to be seen, he often sat under the tables.

  A prince probably shouldn’t sit under a table like a dog.