By Darkness Hid

by Jill Williamson

  Achan nodded. “Keeping the hearths hot is my responsibility.”

  “Good. An axe uses different muscles than a sword. If I’m to train you in the axe, I need you strong enough to handle it.”

  “But what about you?” Achan asked. “Shouldn’t I see to your needs? Clean your armor, get your meals? I’m not sure which horse is yours. How will I—”

  Sir Gavin raised a calloused hand. “Not necessary, lad. You’ll be of little use to anyone a weakling. Get yourself strong first.” He handed the waster to Achan.

  Achan accepted the sword without meeting Sir Gavin’s eyes. He was far from a weakling. His fight with Riga and Harnu was proof of that. Besides, the wooden sword was lighter than he expected.

  But after practicing the guard positions over and over, Achan’s arms ached desperately and the waster didn’t seem so light anymore.

  At sunrise, Sir Gavin dismissed him. Achan hid the waster under in his wool blanket and rushed through the milking with aching forearms.

  When Poril left to deliver Lord Nathak and the prince’s breakfast, Achan quickly washed the dishes and ran to Gren’s cottage.

  No one answered the door, so Achan jogged around to the back. He found Gren standing in a wooden tub, skirts hiked up to her knees, legs splattered with dark, smelly water. A long rack stretched creamy wool on tenterhooks behind her like a frame.

  He stood watching her from the shaded wall of the cottage. Her chestnut hair hung long and silky to her elbows. As always, she wore her grass green dress that made her hair and skin look lustrous. Achan had once told Gren she looked pretty in green, and he’d never seen her wear another color since. He wished she’d wear a cloak, though. Outside in this cold with her feet in water like that…she was likely to catch a fever.

  “Is it so terribly difficult to remember a cloak, Gren?”

  She gasped and her wide, brown eyes found his. “You scared me!” She lowered her voice. “Well? How did it go?”

  “He gave me a waster.”

  “Really? How exciting!”

  “If I became a knight…” Achan inhaled deeply, still slightly out of breath. The rank smell of urine and dung from Gren’s fulling water filled his nostrils. “Would that change your father’s opinion of me?”

  Gren’s smile faded. She looked down to where her feet vanished into the smelly liquid and stomped on the fabric a bit. She didn’t speak for so long it seemed she’d forgotten to answer. “More wool,” she finally said. “We’re to dye it red for Prince Gidon. You’d think he has enough red clothing by now. I wish I could work with the silk that Lord Nathak orders on bolts from Nesos.”

  Achan’s joy fizzled. Gren’s change of subject did not bode hopeful.

  She must have read the disappointment on his face. “Oh, Achan,” she said. “You know Father’s been threatening to marry me off for two years.”

  Two long, torturous years. He faked a smile. “I thought he was only teasing.”

  She laughed, but it didn’t ring true. “I’m fifteen. Girls marry as young as twelve.”

  Achan met Gren’s eyes for a moment. They were sad eyes, filled with heartache.

  She looked back to her wool. “I think he’s settled on someone. I heard him and Mother talking about a…v-veil.” She paused as if to recover from saying that word. “He hasn’t told me yet, though…but…” She looked at him and sighed. “Doesn’t it take years to become a knight?”

  Achan nodded. Plus, Sir Gavin had asked him not to tell anyone, which meant he couldn’t plead his case to Gren’s father without going against Sir Gavin’s wishes. Achan was going to have to scrounge the great hall for table scraps to take to the temple.

  At this point, pleading to the gods was his only hope.

  * * *

  Achan sat on the ground in the Corner, leaning against the brownstone curtain wall. Gren sat on his right. Their shoulders touched, as if by accident, but their outside arms both reached behind their backs, where their fingers intertwined in secret.

  Night had fallen, and Minstrel Harp stood on the back of a cart plucking his lute and singing a lament about a kinsman man who fell in love with an otherling woman. Such marriages were forbidden, but no law could dampen the affection they held for one another.

  The song had transfixed the normally rowdy crowd. Even the small children were still as the bard sang. Achan wondered if the pie he’d taken from the kitchens to offer up to Cetheria would make a difference—and if Poril would notice it missing.

  The Corner was literally the northeastern corner of the outer bailey. The space was too jagged and narrow to build another cottage in and far enough from the keep that the revelry did not disturb Prince Gidon. Most nights at least two dozen peasants, strays, and slaves came to socialize, dance, or hear stories. Children wrestled or played games. This was where Achan had learned to fend for himself.

  Someone tapped his shoulder. He jumped and severed his contact with Gren.

  “It’s only me.” Sir Gavin slid down the wall on Achan’s left. He nodded toward a farmer, who stood glowering at the bard. “What do you see, lad? If he were your opponent?”

  Achan straightened and glanced at the farmer. “Well, if I didn’t know him—”

  “Nay, what you know matters. Use it.”

  “Aye, sir. That’s Marel Wepp. He works in the linen fields. The dark-haired girl he’s staring at is his eldest, Mistal. She’s—”

  “Mistel,” Gren whispered.

  Achan pursed his lips at Gren and continued. “She’s a singer, and Minstrel Harp always pays her lots of mind.”

  “A jealous man can be dangerous,” Sir Gavin said. “What else do you see?”

  Achan noticed that Marel’s beefy arms were crossed. “Marel is strong. I’ve seen him strike men before. I see no weapon on him.”

  “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one. Some weapons are small.”

  “Well, he wears no armor.”

  Sir Gavin raised a bushy eyebrow. “Are you certain? Did you hear any? Chain coats can be hard to see.”

  “No, sir. But he’s a farmer. He wouldn’t own armor.”

  “So armor is only for the rich?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Sir Gavin stood. “Go get your waster and meet me behind the barn.”

  “Aye, sir.” Achan smiled at Gren and hurried away.

  When he reached the barn, Sir Gavin was waiting with his own wooden sword. Only the moon lit the hay-strewn ground behind the barn. Achan could barely hear the music still playing at the Corner.

  “I want to explain some things about parries,” Sir Gavin said. “For a new swordsman, defense is your primary goal. Tell me, where do most knights strike first?”

  Achan thought back to the tournaments he’d seen over the years. “The legs, sir?”

  “Aye. A crippled man is a small threat. So that is where you need to be guarding first. Always parry with the flat of the blade, otherwise you chip or dull your cutting edge. Now, a cut most often comes at you from an angle. Why do you think that is?”

  Achan shrugged.

  Sir Gavin moved his waster in slow motion as he spoke, demonstrating his words. “If you come straight down, you risk chopping your blade into the dirt or your knee if you miss. If you strike level sideways, you risk throwing your weapon or throwing yourself off balance.”

  Achan could just see himself pitching his sword at his attacker as if skipping a stone.

  Sir Gavin brought the waster to his center, with the hilt pointing out from his abdomen as if he were holding a yoke plow. “All parries can be made from the middle guard position. You aren’t trying to strike with a parry. You’re trying to ease their strike against you. Meet their blow by stepping up to it, or cushion the blow by stepping back.”

  Sir Gavin spent the next hour showing Achan the different ways to parry attacks. Achan took dozens of strikes to his forearms and shins from Sir Gavin’s wooden blade. He was having the most trouble with the leg strikes.

  Sir Gavin swung his s
word at Achan’s shins again. Achan dropped his waster to low guard and moved it over to block his left leg. The swords clacked together, but Sir Gavin’s pushed Achan’s back enough to touch his leg.

  “Better, but a steel blade would’ve nicked you good. Make sure you move your blade out far enough so you won’t be cut if it’s knocked back.” Sir Gavin took a long breath and blew it out in a cloud around his face. “You’ve done enough for today, lad. You’ll be plenty sore tomorrow. Ease into the routine. The first week will be the hardest.”

  It was. Over the next few days, Achan never sat still. If he wasn’t running an errand for Poril or crawling under the tables in the great hall collecting scraps to offer Cetheria, he was sneaking away to go through his sword exercises. Poril snapped at his absences with threats of the belt, so Achan did his best to be two places at once.

  With the added activity, his appetite grew. Poril’s portions didn’t change, so Achan started joining Sir Gavin for meals. He ate his fill like never before, always saving something nice and whole for Cetheria.

  While they ate, Sir Gavin would talk about noble etiquette and table manners. Once Achan began eating with more grace, Sir Gavin moved on to speak of the other cities in Er’Rets and the nobles who lived there. He began with Sitna, where Achan lived. Sir Gavin said it was a tiny manor built for the sole purpose of raising the prince. He said that in most strongholds, the kitchens had at least three cooks who fed over two hundred people three meals a day.

  Achan soaked it all up and spilled it out to Gren each night at the Corner.

  By the second week, his arms ached less, his blisters had faded to calluses, and he felt more confident about his role as a squire. Although Sir Gavin would still not accept his service. Squires were required to bring their master meals, clean their armor, and care for their horses. Sir Gavin would have none of it.

  * * *

  Achan woke one morning to find a new orange tunic neatly folded on the floor by his pallet. He blinked his sleepy eyes until it dawned on him.

  Today was his coming-of-age day. Or at least the day Poril celebrated it. He was sixteen now. A man.

  He slipped the new tunic on. The linen was coarse and loose-weaved as ever, but at least it was new and clean.

  The kitchens were deserted when Achan passed through the sweltering room. Poril must have set the tunic out the night before.

  Achan met Sir Gavin in the wheat field for his daily practice.

  “Is that a new tunic?” Sir Gavin asked.

  “Aye,” Achan said. “Ever-thoughtful Poril gives me a new one every year when my age changes.”

  Sir Gavin stroked his mustache. “What is your day of birth?”

  Achan shrugged and moved his waster from middle guard to low guard and back. “No one knows for certain, so Poril always celebrates it on the first of spring. This is my sixteenth.”

  “Well, I should like to give you something as well. A day of birth is one thing, but you are a man now. And I feel you deserve a man’s weapon. As soon as you finish your squire training, I shall give you a real sword.”

  Achan’s lips parted. “Sir? Truly?”

  “Aye. Truly.”

  Achan stared at the old knight, dumbstruck at the mere idea of owning his own blade. “Wait. Am I really that close to becoming a knight? I thought—”

  “You’re close enough to be publicly declared my squire. And, in case you didn’t notice, most squires have a real sword.”

  Achan had noticed, but he also knew his situation was far from normal. He still couldn’t fathom why Sir Gavin needed him as a squire. He wasn’t doing squire’s work, after all. He’d done nothing but learn from the knight since he’d been recruited. Not that he was complaining.

  All day long, Achan walked tall. He hoped to see Gren—she always remembered Achan’s day of birth in some way—but he didn’t see her. When Poril went to bed that night, Achan snuck out to the Corner.

  A piper was playing a merry tune from his wagon, and several couples were dancing and laughing. A dozen more stood around talking. Mox and a larger boy were wrestling. A grin came to Achan’s face when he saw Mox was losing.

  “Achan!”

  Achan spotted Noam sitting on a stump behind the dancers. Achan wound his way through the crowd until he reached his friend.

  “Look at you, all crisp and stain-free in your new tunic,” Noam said, grinning.

  “Aye, Poril never forgets my day of birth. And he hasn’t beaten me since Sir Gavin came along. Perhaps the gods have noticed my offerings of late.”

  “Well, they’re giving you new boots too, if you can get your feet in them.” Noam held out a pair of brown leather boots. “My feet grow so fast I barely had time to wear these.”

  “Really?”

  Noam nodded. “There’s a hole here.” Noam showed where the heel was separating from the sole. “But I figured Gren could fix it for you, if you ask her nicely.”

  Achan grinned and accepted the boots. His first pair of boots. They would make such a difference on cold mornings.

  “You’re really training to be Sir Gavin’s squire?” Noam asked.

  “Gren told you?”

  “That, and I have eyes. You batting around that waster everywhere you go.”

  “He said he would give me a real sword soon.”

  “Will Lord Nathak give you up then?”

  Achan frowned. He’d never heard of Lord Nathak giving up a servant. Could Sir Gavin convince him? “I don’t—”

  “Achan!” Small hands slid around his waist as Gren hugged his side.

  Her action shocked him. She had never shown any affection in such a public place. He liked how she felt, tucked under his arm. She smelled faintly of fulling water and cinnamon, a strange combination that was very much Gren.

  “Hello,” he said. “I looked for you earlier today, but…”

  She sighed. “More fancy fabrics for the prince. He could order every person in Sitna a new outfit and not make a dent in his stores.”

  “But that would be a kind thing to do, and so not in line with his character,” Noam whispered.

  “Well, he isn’t the only one who can get fabric. I can weave.” She took Achan’s hand and tugged him between the curtain wall and the nearest cottage.

  “Bye, then,” Noam called.

  Gren led Achan as she wove around the cottages until she came to her own. She stopped behind the frame that was stretching a new batch of wool. She lifted something off a hook on the back side of the frame.

  “What are you doing?” Achan asked.

  She shook out some fabric and held it up against his chest. It was so dark behind the frame, Achan could hardly see.

  “What is it?”

  She slapped his chest. “It’s a shirt, silly, and a fine one. Brown, to match your skin. Happy coming-of-age day, Achan.”

  He looked down into her dark eyes and trembled. He had never felt so close to anyone. Her simple act of giving him something unique… and not another orange tunic or even hand-me-down boots. She treated him like an equal, though he was a stray and she the daughter of a craftsman. A brown shirt to run away in and not be suspected of being a stray.

  He gripped her shoulders. “You’ll come with me?”

  Her eyes glistened in the distant moonlight. Her breath grew ragged, and she looked down at her hands, which were still holding the shirt against his chest.

  He moved his hands up her shoulders and took the sides of her face in his palms. “Gren?”

  She lifted her gaze to his. Tears streaked down to her chin. He wiped them away with his thumbs. “I’ll talk to your father soon. Sir Gavin promised me a real sword. Any day now he’ll publicly declare me a squire. Then surely your father will at least—”

  “Grendolyn? Are you out there?”

  Gren stiffened at the sound of her mother’s voice. “I have to go. Happy coming-of-age day, Achan.” She bounced up to kiss his cheek and darted out from behind the frame, leaving Achan alone.

  * *
*

  A vast allown tree grew outside Sitna Manor. The trunk was as thick as two grown men, and its long upper branches splayed out against the blue sky. It loomed over the curve of the SiderosRiver at the edge of a field beside the stronghold.

  In the summer, the tree made a shady haven that was Achan’s favorite place to sit and watch the setting sun. Today, the tree looked lonely with its bare branches reaching up to the heavens as if pleading for Dendron to bring warmth sooner. No tree around compared to its glory. Achan felt drawn to it.

  His stomach full from a second lunch with Sir Gavin, Achan set off toward the allown tree to meet Gren. It was less cold today than it had been. Spring had arrived. He trudged across the field, swinging his wooden sword to beat the tall, dead grass out of his path. The sword already felt light and familiar in his grip.

  Gren leaned against the thick trunk. The barren branches bounced in the chill wind and cast dancing spider web shadows over her. The vast, brown SiderosRiver flowed past three paces from Gren’s feet. Her chestnut hair blew to the other side of her head, baring her chapped and rosy cheeks. Why couldn’t the weaver make his daughter something warmer for the winter cold? Her coarse linen cloak was too drafty and Gren too flighty to remember the hood.

  If Achan had owned a cloak, he would’ve offered it.

  He hid the sword behind him and approached, his trousers swishing in the grass. Gren turned, her eyes rimmed in red. She’d been crying. Achan wanted to say something to comfort her but didn’t know what. Instead of words, he pulled the wooden sword from behind his back.

  Her brown eyes widened and her lips parted in a slow smile. “Oh, Achan! You’re really going to become a Kingsguard knight.”

  He knelt between the bumpy roots beside her and gasped a laugh. “I never thought my station could change. The gods have blessed me greatly, Gren.”

  She rose to her knees. “Well, show me how it’s used…on that leaning poplar.” Gren pointed at a frail tree right at the edge of the river. The wind had already bested the poor sapling. Its roots poked out from the soil on one side, and the flimsy trunk leaned over so far the barren branches swam lazily in the swift, brown current.