He focused on the prince’s every move, memorizing his cuts and thrusts. He circled just out of reach, but the prince came after him like a mosquito, annoyingly persistent. Achan dodged, deflected, and stifled, spending every bit of energy on defense. It was smarter this way. Achan knew precious few offensive moves. Until he got a feel for Prince Gidon as a swordsman, or until Achan could learn more attacks, it was better just to let him tire himself out.
The match went on to the cheers of the crowd, until Achan’s knees wobbled, his arms tingled, and his lungs were void of air.
Prince Gidon changed strategies. Instead of trying to attack him with elaborate moves, now he was simply herding him. He worked Achan back toward the wall of the keep. Every time Achan tried to step around, the prince cut him off, his footwork excellent. Achan drew back to parry, and his elbow struck the stone wall so hard he dropped his sword. He cringed, both in pain and at the realization that Prince Gidon had boxed him in. The crowd cheered. Achan froze as the prince pushed Ôwr’s sharp tip against his left shoulder.
“Do you yield?” Prince Gidon’s oily voice oozed amusement. He didn’t even sound out of breath.
Achan nodded, panting. “Aye.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, Prince Gidon jabbed the tip into Achan’s flesh. “Do you yield?”
Achan sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes! I said yes.”
The prince pushed a bit further until he drew a ragged gasp from Achan. “Do. You. Yield?”
What did he want to hear?
A familiar green shifted in the distance. Achan glanced over Prince Gidon’s shoulder to the captivated audience and caught sight of Gren standing between two grandstands, a pile of green fabric in her arms that was nearly the same color as her dress. She stared at him with wide eyes and mouth. He would not allow himself to be killed in front of her.
He clenched his teeth to work up the courage. Like lightning, he gripped the end of Ôwr’s blade with both gloved palms, kicked Prince Gidon’s stomach enough to startle him, pushed the blade back, and dodged free.
The prince staggered back and regarded Achan with narrowed eyes. He pursed his lips and stepped forward. Then, just as quickly as Achan had broken free, Prince Gidon bashed Ôwr’s pommel against Achan’s temple.
As he fell, Achan heard Gren’s scream and a mixed reaction of cheers and gasps from the crowd. He hit the ground on his hands and knees. His head throbbed. The blades of grass blurred before his eyes.
Prince Gidon’s disdainful voice floated down from above. “Tomorrow. Same time. And for future reference, stray, it’s, ‘I yield, Your Majesty.’”
Achan sat back on his haunches in time to see the prince hold Ôwr out to the side as if to dispose of it. Chora scurried forward to claim the weapon.
“Make my new squire clean the blade,” Prince Gidon said. “It is his job.”
With that, the prince strode away, crimson shirt fluttering in the wind. The Kingsguard hurried to form their protective cordon around him. The crowd began to disperse.
“Never you mind about Ôwr,” Chora said. “I’ll see it cleaned. No stray should touch the Kingsword.” The valet scurried after the prince, cradling the blade like a child.
Achan trembled. His shoulder stung, as did his fingers and head. He lifted his hands to see blood seeping through gashes in the black leather gloves. The crowd drifted away in the prince’s wake, and when all were gone, Achan slouched back against the brownstone wall.
Gren approached and crouched beside him. “Oh, Achan. Noam told me about your new position. I came straight away. Are you all right?”
He looked up into her worried face. “He stabbed me.”
“I saw.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “He stabs all his squires…or cuts them or…knocks them about with the pommel.” She tugged at Achan’s cloak, and he leaned forward so she could pull it over his head. “I’ve never heard of him using the Kingsword before. Not ever. It’s said to be kept under lock and key until his coronation.”
“Well, I humiliated him by owning a sword. Apparently he’s the only one allowed—” Achan gasped as Gren pressed her apron on his shoulder. “Will I die?”
Gren giggled and the sweet sound lessened his pain. “Of course not.”
Achan regarded Gren’s tanned, freckled face and dark hair. How different she and Lady Tara were. One golden, one bronze. Achan decided at that moment that he preferred Gren’s coloring. Tara’s resemblance to Cetheria almost made her intimidating. Gren was familiar and warm and sweet.
Gren looked at him sympathetically. “You’re a mess, Achan. Your hair…” She fingered his frizzy braid. “Did you braid this?”
“My valet,” Achan said, thinking of Wils.
Gren giggled again. “Your valet. You’re one for surprises, Achan Cham.” She took his hand and brought it up to his shoulder. “Press down.”
Achan did, a bit softer than Gren had. She moved to her knees and patted the grass in front of her. “Sit here.”
He scooted into place, his back to her, and she combed out his hair with her fingers. Achan closed his eyes. The sensation distracted him from his stinging wounds.
“I skinned your deer,” she said.
Achan opened his eyes. “You did? I thought the butcher had claimed it.”
“He took the meat. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“How’d you even know about it?”
“Father left the keep late that night. He’d been working all day on a brocade for the prince’s coming-of-age ensemble. He saw the whole thing.”
So Gren’s father knew of Achan’s…position? Did Achan even have a position now? Squire to the prince sounded good in theory, but like Shelga had said, most ended up tying nettle-hemp. Gren would say something if there was anything worth saying.
But she didn’t. She rebraided his hair and came to kneel before him. She tugged off the glove on his free hand. “I’m tanning the deer’s hide to make you a jerkin. Shelga has taken me as an apprentice. It will keep me busy when I’m…married.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
Achan winced, but not from the pain of Gren scraping at his fingers with her handkerchief. “Gren, if I could do anything, I—”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “I don’t like you serving Prince Gidon. He’s cruel. You know what they say here about a maid with a bruised face?”
“What?”
“That she must have displeased her prince. Yet you purposely provoked him today. That’s unwise, Achan. When I finish your jerkin, you should leave. Run away north to Carmine or Zerah Rock or Tsaftown. The people up north are kinder, so I’ve heard. They don’t keep slaves in those cities. And when I’m done with you, you won’t look a stray, plus carrying a sword like that…”
Run away. Without Gren.
Achan knew he should be concentrating on Gren’s words, but the idea of leaving Sitna without her brought his thoughts back to Lady Tara. Lady Tara of Tsaftown.
Thinking of one pretty girl while in the presence of another was probably something that would get him in trouble. Not that he had any experience with such things. Why did he feel compelled to follow a woman? Why not go alone? Yet his mind did wander north. Tsaftown was the northernmost city in all Er’Rets. Perhaps Lord Livna could use another guard for his watch.
“Would I freeze in Tsaftown?”
Gren twisted her lips in a frown. “You prefer Tsaftown?”
He shrugged and looked at a tuft of grass beside his leg.
“If you make it there before summer’s end,” she said, “you could hunt on your way and trade the furs to a seamstress who could sew you something warm.”
Achan let his imagination drift to a snowy city he’d never seen. A sharp pain in his finger jerked him back to reality. “Ow!”
“Hold still,” Gren said. “You’ve got a sliver of leather wedged into the cut. Why would you grab his sword?”
“I’ve seen knights do it.”
“With mail mittens!” Gren
rolled her eyes and stood. “Let’s go for my needle.”
Achan rose. He paused for his head to clear, then picked up his sword and sheathed it, grabbed his cape, and followed Gren out of the inner bailey toward her family’s cottage. “I can’t believe he stabbed me!”
“It’s his way.” Gren weaved behind the armory to a narrow corridor between cottages.
Achan stepped to the side to allow two boys to run past. “I looked a fool. I wanted to win, but I don’t know him well enough to even try.”
Gren stopped beside him. “Win? Achan Cham, do you know how it would look if the prince’s squire beat him in a practice match? A match performed before the nobles to make His Highness look good?”
Achan grinned.
Gren swatted his stomach with the back of her hand. “Don’t be foolish! You’ve already pushed your luck. He’ll worse than prick you next time.”
Inside Gren’s family’s cottage, Achan sat at the oak table and waited for her to find a needle. She returned to the table, lit a candle, and held the needle in the flame. “Give me your hand.”
Achan obeyed. Gren dug into his finger with the hot point. It tickled, and her expression as she bit her bottom lip amused him greatly. His laughter shook his hand and the needle poked. “Ow!”
She glared at him, then went back to her task. “You’re much handsomer than the prince, you know.”
He huffed a laugh. “Of course I am.”
She slapped his leg. “Modesty, dear stray.”
Achan sighed. “But what matter my very good looks if I’m dead?”
“I think the maids — and even some of the noblewomen — were hoping you’d live.”
He fought another chuckle that trembled his hand.
She looked up, her face serious. “You fought well, Achan. Sir Gavin would be proud. You did so much better than the day you bested the tree.”
12
A cool breeze woke Vrell. She felt a gentle rocking. She opened her eyes to a sky so bright she had to immediately shut her eyes again.
The boat was in the ocean. They’d left the tunnels. Praise Arman!
She sat up and turned to see Jax paddling, alternating his oar from side to side. Khai slouched against the side of the boat, asleep, his neck tipped over the edge at an awkward angle. Apparently it was his turn to rest.
Slate grey waves surrounded every side but the left. A rocky coastline topped with a thick forest stretched in both directions as far as she could see. The sun shone down from a cloudless, pale blue sky.
“Good morning,” Jax said.
“How much farther?” Vrell asked.
“We should reach the first gate before lunch. Then it’s another hour to the city.”
Gate? She focused for a moment to remember where they were going. Right. Mahanaim could be reached by water from the south through the Reshon Gates.
The dream she had been having came back to her mind full force. The man with the bloodvoices had been hurt. “Jax?” She glanced at Khai, heard his low snore, and continued. “What happened that night in Xulon? When the voices called out?”
Jax nodded. “Someone discovered his bloodvoice.”
Vrell had guessed that much. “But why did people call to him? And how is it we heard the exchange?”
“His gift is greater than any I’ve sensed in a long while. It does not happen that way for many.”
“Who is he?”
Jax propped the oar on the side of the boat and water poured off the blade and into the ocean. “That’s what we all would like to know. It’s why so many called out — to ask him.”
Vrell twisted her lips and looked out over the peaking waves. “You have sensed others who are great?”
“I’ve never sensed such strength in someone’s discovery. The greatest power I have felt has come from old men. Macoun Hadar, your new master, for one. King Axel was another.”
“You sensed the king?”
Jax dipped the oar back into the water and stroked. “Aye. When I first joined the Kingsguard as a young soldier. King Axel led us in battle against Cherem.”
“That must have been exciting.”
Jax nodded. “Bloodvoicing is a great power when used for good.” He paddled two great strokes and his bushy, black eyebrows furrowed. “Be wary of your new master. He was once a very powerful bloodvoicer, but his stamina has decreased over time. Now he’s simply conniving. He uses his apprentices for strength, teaching them only enough to manipulate them into tools for his own agenda.”
He glanced at Khai, then back at Vrell. “Thank Arman for your unique gift, Vrell. You may not be as strong as the newly gifted one, or many bloodvoicers before you, but your ability to block is unprecedented. Continue to guard yourself at all times. Remember, no one can own a man. Stay true to yourself, no matter what your master commands you to do. Someday we all will have to answer to Arman for our actions.”
Vrell swallowed this information, thankful that Jax had confided it to her, but terrified of what lay ahead. She wanted to ask if he believed in Arman as the only true God, as she did, for she had never heard him mention His name in such a way, but before she could form the question, he spoke again.
“I sense Macoun Hadar hides much from the Kingsguard and the Council of Seven. Arman does not like when His gifts are misused. Hadar knows this, but I think he grows overconfident in his old age, despite his weakness. Or desperate. Another reason to keep your wits about you.”
Vrell looked over the side into the water. She could see nothing beneath the dark waves. She glanced up at the forest and saw that it would soon end in a jagged cape. “I have never heard of Macoun Hadar. Is he related to the prince? Why does he live in Mahanaim?”
Jax nodded. “He is very old. He was related to King Johan, Axel’s grandfather. He has lived in Mahanaim since Lord Levy’s grandfather ruled the stronghold. Which is probably why Lord Levy has let him stay.”
Vrell wished for more of Peripaso’s cave water to soothe her parched throat. She had not considered what she would be doing when they actually got to Mahanaim. Jax’s warning sent a shiver along her bones. Hiding out in Mahanaim until Prince Gidon married another did not seem as appealing as it had under the blistering sun on the NaharPeninsula. Nothing about the place she was headed felt safe.
“The drink he gave you,” Jax said, jutting his chin at Khai, “was it red?”
Vrell looked down to a stain of the gooey mixture on the hem of her tunic. “Yes.”
He nodded. “The âleh plant stifles bloodvoices and opens your mind to be read. If you are ever forced to take some, eat karpos fruit. It counteracts the âleh.”
Vrell filed this knowledge away. “Jax, could you teach me to fight? I would like to have a trick up my sleeve should anyone decide to force such a drink on me again.”
The boat rocked with Jax’s booming laugh. “I don’t know, Vrell. You might be small, but you did manage to knock out a fully trained Kingsguard knight and tie him to a stalagmite. Not bad, if you ask me.”
Vrell’s cheeks burned and she glanced at Khai. “Still, there may not always be dripstones to aid me. I used to practice with Lord Orthrop’s younger sons. They taught me the basics. But Shoal always bested me in a heartbeat.”
Jax chuckled again. “There is little I could teach you in one day, Vrell, but you are right. You cannot hide under a fern your whole life. Still, in a fight, there are advantages to being short.”
Vrell swelled with excitement. “That is what I must learn.”
She listened as Jax shared stories of crippling blows humans had used on him over the years. She would hide and duck if need be, but she wanted to learn to defend herself at her full height, short as it might be. The next time Khai or someone like him tried to attack, she would be…
The boat slowly rounded the rocky cape, and the land ahead came into view. Vrell gasped. The rocky coast on her left came to a point where it nearly met the flat, grassy land that curved down from the right. Two colossal pillars — clearly man
made — rose from the land on either side, each one wider than three redpines. An iron portcullis stretched across the sea between the pillars, its black bars woven in a tight, intricate pattern.
Beyond and slightly to the right, she could see the second set of the Reshon Gates standing sentry, looking much smaller from her position. Further right, in the distance, the stone city of Mahanaim sat like stacked yellow, brown, grey, and orange blocks against the velvety backdrop of Darkness.
Vrell shivered at the sight of the Evenwall. She had been to Mahanaim several times but had never gotten used to seeing the cloudy mist fogging half the city like a rainless thunderstorm. She had never set foot on the side of Mahanaim that was in Darkness.
Jax rowed the boat toward a small dock jutting out from the gatehouse at the foot of the northern pillar. A guard wearing a black Kingsguard cloak with no embroidery walked toward the boat, his footsteps hollow on the wooden dock.
“Sir Jax. We worried you had fallen off the edge of Er’Rets. I see Khai is making himself useful as always.”
Jax chuckled. “The Mârad has been making trouble to the south. We had quite a battle before Sir Dromos took us in.”
Vrell wondered why Jax didn’t mention the ebens, who seemed more to blame for the trouble than the Mârad rebels.
“I hope to get the full story of it tonight in the barracks.” The guard glanced at Vrell. “Well, I’ll get the gate so you can be on your way.”
He walked back to the shore and around the pillar to the edge of the gate. He gripped a black handle and turned a crank. A small gate within the large one clinked as it rose into the air. Khai stirred, but did not wake. When the clinking stopped, Jax paddled the boat toward the opening and under the first Reshon Gate.
“Will we go under both gates?” Vrell asked.
“No. Our boat’s small enough to take the ArobCanal straight into the city.”
Vrell had only ever come to Mahanaim on horseback. She had seen the slimy canals from the safety of the keep but had never traveled one. They were not considered safe for a lady, so Lady Fallina Levy had said. As Jax rowed nearer to the city, Khai slept and Vrell worried.
By Darkness Hid bok-1 Page 19