“Do you have a torch lit?” Vrell asked.
“Candle.”
“It glows brightly for a candle.”
“You’ll see.”
Peripaso’s crouched form took shape as it silhouetted against the silver light. He swung out of sight into the silver opening. Vrell’s heart pounded. She hurried forward and looked out. What she saw ripped the breath from her lungs.
A cavern with a vaulted ceiling, twice the size of the one by the dripstone tree, shimmered before her eyes. The walls rippled like the tunnel of the underground river, but instead of roots, this looked like ice. Yet the room was hot and muggy and smelled of smoke.
She could see the makings of a home below. A bedroll, a collection of cooking utensils, a fire pit, stacks of fabric, and tools. Vrell crouched in the opening. A smooth stone ledge tapered down to the floor below. A rope ladder also hung from the ledge as a way to climb back up.
“Slide down.” Peripaso scuttled below on the clean stone floor gathering things from around the cavern.
Vrell sat on her rear and pushed off. Her hair blew back from her face as she flew down the stone slide. She smiled when she reached the bottom. That was fun. She got to her feet and walked to the wall.
She ran her fingers over the shiny ripples on the wall. “Are they crystals?”
“Silver. Cave’s full of silver. Hot springs cause dripstones to form from the minerals in the soil. Nice, ain’t it?”
“It is wonderful.”
“Maybe you’d better not mention it to that little man.”
Vrell sniffed a laugh. “You are right. Khai would surely mine the silver from your home.”
“It ain’t much silver.” Peripaso twisted twine into a large ball. “Someone greedy enough could destroy the cave and not end up with enough for one goat.”
Vrell nodded. “I will tell no one about your home.”
“Much appreciated. Don’t usually talk to strangers passing through.”
“Well, Jax is kind.”
Peripaso shoved the twine into a burlap sack and grunted. “For a giant. I ain’t the most fond of ’em. Know they ain’t all bad. But I can’t help but think of ebens when I sees one.”
“Why did you help Jax, then?”
Peripaso shrugged. “Right place at the right time. Was hunting me a reekat.”
“Are they terribly vicious?”
“They can be.”
Vrell strolled around the cavern and surveyed Peripaso’s belongings. A brown fur bedroll on a raised ledge of rock appeared to be made from reekat fur. Bits of hay and dried-out rushes of sweet flag grass lay strewn over the floor. There were no pellet-like droppings to be seen here, but Vrell did spy a few black beetles creeping about under the rushes. Water trickled down a crevice in the opposite wall, where Peripaso had organized a kitchen of sorts. A small hearth blackened the stone around it and the ceiling above.
Peripaso came to her side. “Can’t let a fire go long. Smokes me out.” He picked up a wooden mug and held it under the stream in the crevice. “Like a drink? Water’s cool.”
“Thank you.” Vrell took the mug and drank. The lukewarm liquid tasted thick with minerals. It was not until she finished that she realized how dry her throat was. She thrust the mug back under the flow for a refill as Peripaso went about his business. When Vrell finished drinking, she said, “You never finished your story about how you came to live here.”
“Well, the king and queen got killed by a stray up north, and ArmonguardCastle went into a fit. Kingsguard knights arrested every stray they could find. Tossed ’em in the dungeons. Friend of mine worked as a guard. Told me of a tunnel that went out from there. He wasn’t certain, but rumor said it went all the way to Tsaftown. For me, it was tunnel or prison. So I packed up and went for it. And no. They don’t go to Tsaftown. Tunnels only go as far north as ArokLake.”
Vrell smiled at the image of a man crawling the entire length of Er’Rets. “You have truly lived in this cave for thirteen years?”
“This cave? Only nine. Took a few years to learn the tunnels. Go as far as I could, start to run out of food, and have to go back. When I found this place,” he said, gesturing around the glittering cavern, with its safe location and running water, “I knew I’d found home.”
“It is very unique.”
Peripaso held up a burlap sack with a long strap. “Mind carrying this? I’ll take the others.”
Vrell draped the sack over her shoulder.
“Best be heading back. Like another drink first?”
Vrell helped herself to one more mug of water before following Peripaso up the rope ladder and back into the tunnel. As with most journeys, the trip back went much faster.
Jax and Khai were waiting with the torn boat when Peripaso and Vrell arrived back in the sweltering cavern. Vrell watched as Peripaso and Jax mended the boat with a sheet of reekat skin, twine, and some very smelly, clear gel.
“What is that?” Vrell asked.
“Reekat fat,” Peripaso said. “Seals up the seams. Waterproofs it.” He turned to Jax. “You should sleep here and wait for it to dry. Moist as this cave is, though, won’t ever dry completely. Should be strong enough in a few hours to get you to Mahanaim. Jest don’t run into no more reekats.”
Vrell was sick of reekats. When Peripaso passed around dried reekat meat for dinner, she wanted to throw it in the river. What she really wanted was a large bowl of grenache grapes and a wedge of goat cheese. Instead she bit off a chunk of the greasy meat and chewed it into leathery mush.
As they sat around waiting for the fat to dry, Peripaso told more stories of his exploits in the Nahar underground rivers and tunnels. Vrell loved his twangy voice. If she hadn’t been so ill from the smells, the mosquito bites, and the reekat meat, she would have liked a long visit with him. When he announced their boat would be fine to set off, Vrell sighed with relief.
She hugged the wrinkled man, which hopefully was not too strange for a boy, and climbed into the bow of the boat. The lantern had been destroyed, but Peripaso gave them a small torch and two spares. He said they would stay lit as long as they were kept low, out of the wind. Peripaso pushed the boat off, and Vrell waved good-bye to her strange, half-naked friend.
She settled down in the bow to sleep, annoyed to find the stench of reekat fat by her head.
Part 4. New Masters
11
Achan awoke under the allown tree.
It was past dawn. His hair and clothing were damp with dew. His legs itched under the wool stockings.
He jumped up and wandered back to the kitchens to change, dreading the inevitable confrontation with Poril. He’d talked with nobles, snuck off with a pie, slept outside, and had yet to milk the goats. He could already feel Poril’s belt on his back.
Would Sir Gavin be upset as well? The knight had told him to stay put, and he hadn’t.
The tournament was still in full swing. Nobles, servants, and peasants crowded the manor inside and out. It was another clear day and already much later than Achan first thought. He walked quicker. Dilly and Peg would be about to burst.
Achan entered the kitchens. The old cook glared from the fireplace, then pointed to the mug on the table. The tonic. Achan slunk toward it and chugged it down. Back to life as usual.
“Yer teh see Lord Nathak.”
Achan cringed. That was worse than a beating. Poril must have been plenty angry to report his behavior. Perhaps he shouldn’t have returned at all. He could have hiked up the SiderosRiver and—
“Get goin’!”
“What about the goats?”
“Mox has seen to it.”
Mox? Achan grabbed a few mentha leaves and trudged across the inner bailey toward the keep. Truly, he should flee and take his chances in the SiderosForest. It would be a lonely life. Maybe he could talk Gren into coming along. He stopped and considered it. Would she go with him?
Go to the keep, Achan. I shall direct your path.
Achan glanced around. This voice was so odd, so diffe
rent from the way Sir Gavin and the others had spoken to his mind the night he’d killed the doe. This voice brought intense warmth to his veins. It did not press as if invading. His eyes locked on the roof of Cetheria’s temple poking out of the lush gardens. Could the goddess protector be speaking to him?
Achan swallowed and hastened to the keep, now afraid not to — Cetheria might strike him down if he disobeyed her. He climbed the narrow stairs to the sixth floor and entered a drafty corridor. Achan wasn’t positive where he was going. He only knew Lord Nathak’s chambers were on the sixth floor. Chora, Prince Gidon’s valet, stood at a carved door. His long brown robes blended in with wood so well that Achan almost didn’t see him.
Achan was about to inquire where he might find Lord Nathak, but Chora opened the door, blinked over his bulbous nose, and in a disdainful voice announced to those inside, “The stray, Lord Nathak.”
“Send him in.”
Achan entered a sweltering solar that was partitioned off by vibrant tapestries that told the story of how Lord Nathak found the infant prince wandering in the fields. The room was likely much larger, but Achan knew that the tapestries were used to keep the heat in. At night they would be moved around the bed.
Hay and rushes crunched under Achan’s boots. He stopped on the center of a garish red and gold rug edged in black fringe. This was a corner room. Two large windows took up half of the outer walls.
Lord Nathak sat at a window in a high-back wooden chair, overlooking the delta where the SiderosRiver poured into the sea, his back to Achan. The ties of his black leather mask were cinched over his two-tone hair. Achan inched closer, hoping to see something more of Lord Nathak’s disfigurement. Maybe he could gather some feeling from the man that could—
A slurping sound turned Achan’s head.
Prince Gidon slouched on a chaise lounge eating grapes from a tray held by a servant boy. Though the prince was fit and almost exactly Achan’s age, he was propped up like an invalid by tufted velvet cushions in shades of emerald and red. He wore a maroon velvet robe embroidered with gold ribbons. A delicate crown, studded with rubies and garnets, squished his oiled, black hair against his forehead. A short, black beard shaded his chin.
Seeing the heir to Er’Rets so close, Achan’s heart went wild, as if trying to break free of his body and flee. Unfortunately, his feet didn’t obey this instinct. Despite his fear, he focused, seeking the pressure in his head, searching for any clue his intuition could discover. Nothing came. Both Lord Nathak and the prince were empty as far as he could tell. Achan frowned. How could that be? He’d never sensed emptiness in anyone.
A chill caused Achan to shiver, and he wondered how the temperature had changed so quickly. He waited as Lord Nathak gazed out the window and the prince munched grapes with the manners of a hound. The longer the men ignored him, the more the horror of being in their presence faded. He grew bored and looked around the chamber.
Achan had never seen so much finery. The red and gold rug covered most the floor, edged with rushes of sweet flag and chamomile that made the room smell fresh. Elaborate brocades upholstered the polished furniture. A silver tray heaped with fruit, two ornate goblets, and some of Poril’s fancy cakes sat on a table behind the prince’s chair. The cream filling from a half-eaten tart dripped from the center and pooled on the silver tray. Achan puzzled over how he could be shaking with cold while it was hot enough to melt Poril’s cream filling.
“Sir Gavin has left us,” Lord Nathak said finally, still facing away. “He will not return.”
Dizziness swept over Achan. Left? Without saying farewell? Was it because Achan had placed so poorly in the tournament? That wasn’t all his fault. He might’ve held his own in other matches had Lord Nathak not banished him to the kitchens. Besides, Sir Gavin hadn’t seemed upset at the feast.
A sudden thought gripped his heart. Would Achan be punished for training as a squire? He’d broken Council law and trained behind his owner’s back. Would he be executed? Achan wanted to run. He remained frozen, though, almost captivated by the rhythmic slurping of grapes.
“Sir Gavin claimed you are a squire.” Lord Nathak continued to gaze out the window.
Achan glanced at the prince then back to Lord Nathak. An eagle soared outside the window. Achan could almost see the corner of the grandstands at the jousting field.
“It is my purpose in life to protect the Crown Prince at all costs.” Lord Nathak turned to Achan, his one eye staring as if awaiting an answer.
The sight of that one dark eye sent a molten shiver through Achan that he feared would melt him into a puddle on the fine rug.
Achan didn’t know where to look. Lord Nathak’s leather mask clung to the right side of his face as if held there by something sticky. Achan’s eyes darted from the mask to the shriveled skin he could see near Lord Nathak’s nose, to his two-tone hair, to his forked beard, to his visible eye.
Achan cleared his throat and said in a small voice, “A noble purpose, my lord.”
“Indeed,” Lord Nathak said. “And one you will help me with.”
Achan gulped. “My lord?”
“Since you think yourself worthy of squiredom, I shall grant your wish.”
Achan froze. “My lord?”
“You shall serve the Crown Prince as squire. He has several, of course, but you shall clean his chambers, ready his horse, and fetch anything—”
“No.” Prince Gidon sat up. His tone was defiant. “This one will serve as my sparring partner.”
Lord Nathak bolted to his feet. “I cannot allow that, my prince.”
“And since I cannot compete in my own tournament,” Gidon said, “I will fight the stray in front of an audience. That will teach him to insult my guests.”
Achan’s jaw sagged. He could only mean the venomous Lady Jaira. How thoughtful that she’d further torment him by tattling to the prince. Achan’s mind whirred to find an excuse, but his overly quick tongue now left him speechless.
“It would be too dangerous,” Lord Nathak said.
An abnormally wide smile stretched across Prince Gidon’s face. “It was your idea to invite my guests to watch me practice. Now they may witness my skills firsthand.”
So Achan would be the lucky recipient of the prince’s skills. The man had been trained by the best weapons masters since birth. Was this a trap to frame Achan or put him in harm’s way? Perhaps a fancy execution?
Lord Nathak looked slightly green. Certainly he wasn’t afraid Achan could best the prince?
Prince Gidon reached for a bunch of grapes. “Report to the practice field after lunch, stray — and don’t wear those serving clothes. Chora will provide proper attire. Dismissed.”
Lord Nathak stared at Achan, his visible eye wide and fearful.
Achan turned on his heel and exited the solar, the air in the hallway hitting him as if he’d stepped into the kitchens when all the pots were boiling. As Chora led him down to the fourth level, Achan’s mind replayed what had just happened.
He was a squire to the prince now? Was that on top of working in the kitchens, or was he now permanently free from Poril? He’d been through so many reversals in the last few days he didn’t know what to believe. And what had Lord Nathak been afraid of? His concern for the prince’s safety with Achan as a sparring partner was laughable. It was Achan he should worry about, not that he ever would.
Chora knocked once on a narrow door and pushed it open. This appeared to be a sewing room. It was long and narrow with a single arrow loop window at one end. Bolts of linen and silk in a rainbow of colors lined one wall. Along the other wall, two women sat sewing, a third worked a loom, and a fourth cut red velvet on a table in the corner.
A short, pudgy woman with straight pins tucked into the cuffs of her sleeves turned from a bin of shirts and perched her fists on her wide hips. “What’s this?”
“Lord Nathak wants this one dressed as a soldier. He’s to squire for the prince.”
“Is he now?” The woman waddled to
Achan and looked him over. Several moles dotted her flabby face. A large one hovered over her left eye. She was so short that her scowling face barely reached Achan’s chest. “He’s as tall as the prince. His Majesty don’t like having his squires so tall.”
“Just dress him, Shelga.” Chora opened the door to leave, then said to Achan, “Once she’s through, come to the armory for a sword.”
Achan nodded and Chora swept from the room.
Shelga motioned to the arrow loop window. “Get yourself into the light where’s I can look at you.”
Achan stepped into the stripe of brightness stretching across the thread-strewn floor.
Shelga snapped her fingers. “That’s far enough.” She drew a cord from around her neck and set about measuring him. “How’d you come by this assignment?”
“Luck, I guess.”
Shelga snorted. “’Tis not luck. The gods have cursed you. Haven’t you seen the prince’s squires limping about? Most are only able to tie nettle-hemp into fishing nets when he’s through with ’em. Unless he injures their hands.”
“What do you mean?” Achan had heard rumors of Prince Gidon’s temper with women, but nothing about his squires.
“You’ll find out. Least you’re his size. Maybe you’ll fare better than the runts he usually takes on. Off with your clothes.”
Achan stood still as she waddled to a row of baskets along the interior wall and pulled an item from each. She waddled back holding a stack of clothing. “Off with ’em! I haven’t got all day to waste on the likes of you.”
Achan groaned inwardly and soon found himself in his undershorts in front of an audience for the second time in as many days. At least he was free of the itchy leggings.
Shelga set the bundle of clothes on a stool and twisted her pudgy lips together. “Well? Think I’m going to dress you?”
Achan snagged the white shirt off the top of the pile, pulled it on, then reached for the trousers. Shelga slapped his hand.
“Take it off. ’Tis too tight. If you can manage to swing at all, you’ll tear it, and I’ve no time for extra mending with the prince’s new wardrobe due.”
By Darkness Hid bok-1 Page 17