Kiera returned. “Chora says he knows, ma’am. He says it’s all right.” She bowed her head to Shelga and scurried back to the loom.
Shelga shot Achan a piercing glare, then thrust another shirt at him and waddled away. “Can’t believe I’m wasting my time dressing a stray. What madness is Lord Nathak up to now?”
Achan shrugged and dressed quickly. This second shirt fit to Shelga’s satisfaction. He pulled a plain black cloak over his head. It didn’t bear the embroidered crest of Mahanaim like Prince Gidon’s personal guards. It was just the uniform of a low-ranking soldier. Still, Achan left the sewing room a little taller. No stray he’d ever heard of had such a position. So far, his punishment felt like a reward.
He doubted the feeling would last.
Achan went straight to the kitchens to explain to Poril, but the cook had left to take lunch to the keep. Achan pulled off the thick, black gloves Shelga had given him and grabbed a chunk of bread. He went downstairs to stow the serving uniform under the ale casks, dreading his upcoming match with Prince Gidon. Achan guessed the prince wanted to humiliate him, perhaps cripple him—hopefully not kill him. But Achan had no intention of going down easily. In fact…
Eagan’s Elk lay tucked under his blanket, the pommel sticking out of one end. Achan dropped to his knees at the ale casks, a soggy clump of bread in his mouth. He threw back the covers and pulled the sword onto his lap.
A sheet of parchment fluttered behind him, and he turned to pick it up. Achan stared at the smudged ink and swallowed the lump of bread. Tonic was the only word he recognized. He studied the letters, compared them to what he knew from reading Poril’s lists, and managed to decode most of the short note.
Don’t drink the tonic. I’ll be in touch.
Sir Gavin
He didn’t know what t-o-u-c-h spelled and couldn’t manage to sound it out to any clarity. Could it be a town Sir Gavin had gone to? The scratchy writing looked as if it had been written in a hurry.
Achan stood and buckled Eagan’s Elk around his waist. He took the cellar steps two at a time. He tossed the note into one of the blazing fireplaces before starting off to the stables, pulling on the gloves as he went. Since he no longer needed a sword from the armory, he had enough time to see Noam before he was expected on the practice field.
Achan stepped in to the outer bailey and saw a group of nobles leaving for a hunt. Over two dozen fine horses trotted single file toward the gatehouse, their riders carrying birds or bows. Hounds scampered ahead, excited about the coming chase. A crown of platinum braids caught Achan’s eye. Tara rode full saddle on a chestnut mare, a brown-and-white merlin perched on one hand. She smiled at Achan.
He had never seen a woman ride like a man. Her blue skirts draped over the animal like a tent. Jaira rode beside her on a black courser, sidesaddle, holding a violet-and-black speckled bird. Achan bowed to the ladies, returned Tara’s smile, and entered the stables.
The scent of hay and manure filled his nostrils. The building was set up similar to the barn, with timber walls and a high, thatched gable roof.
Achan found his friend in a stall grooming a white destrier. He crossed his arms atop the fence-like gate. “They’re keeping you busy, I see.”
Noam whistled. “Where’d you get that uniform? Is that a sword?”
Achan fought back a smile. “First tell me this: did you happen to meet Tara?”
“Tara who?”
Achan shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw her on a chestnut mare just now with the hunting party. She rides like a man.”
“A young blonde wearing blue?”
“Aye,” Achan sighed the word.
Noam chuckled. “Yep. I met her. Lady Tara Livna of Tsaftown. She’s very kind.”
“She kissed me—my cheek. Yesterday.”
Noam’s lips parted until his mouth hung wide. “How in all Er’Rets?”
Achan told Noam his tale of the previous day, the fine clothing, Eagan’s Elk, Silvo, Shung, Jaira, and Tara, how he served at the banquet, and meeting Prince Oren.
Noam tugged his comb through the destrier’s tail. “You do get all the excitement.”
“Well, you must have met a lot of the nobles.”
“I met their horses,” Noam said. “Or their servants. Only three nobles spoke to me, one of which was your Lady Tara.”
Achan shut his eyes. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“‘My Lady Tara.’”
Noam whacked him with the comb. “Get over it, halfwit. Now, what’s this you’re wearing today? This is a Kingsguard cloak, not a leather jerkin.”
Achan stepped back and slid down the post across the aisle from the stable Noam was in. He sat on the hay-strewn dirt floor and watched through the gate as Noam braided the horse’s tail. “I’m to serve the prince as squire.”
“What!”
Achan recapped his morning visit to the keep.
“Achan,” Noam’s frown elongated his narrow face, “this is what comes from trying to be something you’re not. This can’t be a promotion.”
Achan lifted a strand of hay in his fingers and twirled it. “What can I do?”
Noam sighed. “Fight as well as you can, keep your eyes open, watch your back, and pray to Cetheria. That’s all you can do. You could ask Gren to make an offering for you.”
Achan considered this. All his offerings of late hadn’t changed Gren’s betrothal to Riga. He had nothing of true value to offer Cetheria, except his sword, but he couldn’t give that up in the face of Prince Gidon’s skill. Still, if the goddess was speaking to him now, he should do what he could to stay in her favor. He almost told Noam about the voices, but the mere thought of confessing such a thing out loud was inconceivable.
He changed the topic. “Did you see Sir Gavin leave this morning?
Noam pulled a leather thong from his pocket and wrapped it around the end of the braid. “Aye. Lord Nathak came himself with the instructions to ready Sir Gavin’s horses.”
“I’d hoped he’d take me with him.”
Noam pulled an apple from his pocket and fed it to the destrier. “That would’ve been something.”
Achan’s thoughts drifted to Gren. “Did Gren tell you about Riga?”
“Aye. Poor lass,” Noam said. “I’d poison myself before committing to a life with a Hoff—especially Riga. I see you’ve forsaken her already for your Lady Tara.”
Achan’s chest swelled with rage, but he let it out in a groan. He hadn’t thought of Gren since yesterday. How quickly he had allowed life to distract him from her bad fortune.
He silently compared the two women. Both were beautiful. He’d known Gren all his life and would marry her in a breath if he could. He scratched the dirt floor with his gloved finger and cursed his overactive imagination. Lady Tara was of noble birth. If he wasn’t allowed to marry Gren, a peasant, then Noam spoke true. He really was a halfwit to even waste thoughts on Tara. He sighed.
“Why do you think Sir Gavin bothered with me? A stray is not to be trained for the Kingsguard—that’s Council law. Yet now Prince Gidon disregards the law as well. Why?”
“It wasn’t always so,” Noam said. “Strays have only been singled out since one killed the king and queen. And they only knew that because a Kingsguard bloodvoiced it.”
“But there’s no such thing as bloodvoicers,” Achan said. “People who talk through their minds? It’s myth.” But his laugh quickly faded and he blinked. No. Bloodvoices couldn’t be what he experienced the night he killed the doe. He’d been delirious, that was all.
Noam raised an eyebrow. “Myth or not, you and I are marked for life as a result of that story. Myth doesn’t make laws, Achan. Reality does.”
* * *
Achan shoved thoughts of bloodvoices to the back of his mind as he wandered from the stables.
The noon sun shone brightly as he entered the inner bailey. He drew near the grassy courtyard that sat between the keep and the temple gardens. Grandstands had been built fo
r Prince Gidon’s practice bouts. They sat so that they formed three sides of a square, boxing the area against the brownstone wall of the keep.
Chora paced along the wall, cloak billowing. He looked up and huffed. “Where have you been? You didn’t report to the armory.”
“I have the sword Sir Gavin gave me. Will it do?”
Chora shrugged. “A sword is a sword as far as I’m concerned.”
“What about a shield or armor?”
Chora shook his head. “His Majesty doesn’t spar with shields or armor.”
“What?” Was the prince a fool?
Chora stepped close to Achan. “Our king is brave. Besides, he never chooses an opponent he cannot beat. Not that there are many who could best our king. Now wait here and hold your tongue!”
Achan stared at Chora for a moment, uncertain why the valet referred to the prince as king, when he had not yet been crowned. He leaned against the wall of the keep, resting the sole of one boot against the stone behind him.
The sun had warmed the wall and he basked in the comfort while he could. From his position, he faced the grandstands. For now, they were empty. Beyond, the stone colonnades from Cetheria’s temple peeked over the green hedges that separated the gardens from the rest of the inner bailey.
He thought over Chora’s statement. The prince never chose an opponent he couldn’t beat? How terribly brave. Achan shouldn’t be surprised. His presence on this field was likely an execution anyway.
Nobles drifted toward the makeshift arena in packs. Apparently Achan’s execution was going to have an audience. The small crowd consisted mostly of elderly lords and ladies, with a few young maidens. Achan was thankful Lady Tara and her friends had gone hunting. A piper stepped into the center of the field and began to play a festive tune. Achan wanted to break the instrument over his knee.
A murmur rose from the grandstands. Achan followed the turn of heads to see eight Kingsguards approaching in diamond formation. The group was led by Sir Kenton, Prince Gidon’s Shield. A tall, grey-skinned man lumbered in back. All eight wore black capes with the high-ranking gold crest of Mahanaim sparkling in the sun. Achan spotted specks of crimson flashing between the black uniforms. Prince Gidon Hadar walked in the center.
The Kingsguards poured into one corner of the field at a spot where two of the grandstands met, then peeled away. Prince Gidon waved at the crowd without so much as a smile. The audience applauded their future king.
Achan studied him. His hair was slicked back with oils and tied into a tail. His coloring was the same as Achan’s: dark hair, brown skin, blue eyes. It almost made Achan wish he hadn’t recently discovered that he was kinsman. He didn’t like having things in common with this man.
The prince moved with more grace and confidence even than Silvo. A fine, red linen shirt, tucked into black trousers, billowed in the wind, outlining a strong upper body. Oddly enough, Gidon wore no jerkin or doublet. Polished black leather boots rose to his knees. He wore a plain, leather sheath at his side that held a plain practice sword.
Seven of the Kingsguards sat on the lowest level of the center stands. Sir Kenton stood with Chora in the gap where the entourage had entered. Prince Gidon strode to the center of the field, spat on the ground, and drew his sword.
Achan licked his lips and swallowed. It was a good thing that intimidation was part of his everyday life. He stepped away from the wall and drew Eagan’s Elk—
Barely in time to stifle a cut from the prince’s blade. That was a dirty trick. Achan’s estimation of the prince dropped even lower, if that were possible. He pushed off and jumped back to get a better position.
The prince huffed and threw up one hand. “Stop!”
Achan lowered his sword.
The prince thrust his blade into the grass and turned to Chora. “What is he fighting with?”
Chora scurried over, his bold demeanor gone in the prince’s presence. “What are you fighting with, stray?”
“A sword.”
Chora turned back to the prince. “He fights with a…a sword, Your Majesty.”
The prince propped a hand on one hip. “I know it’s a sword, you ale-soused buffoon! Where did he get it?”
Chora, pink-faced, turned back to Achan. “His Royal Highness would like to know where you got your sword?”
“I told you, it was a gift from Sir Gavin.”
“He cannot wield a finer weapon than me,” Prince Gidon whispered. “Weren’t you supposed to dress him, Chora? Didn’t you provide a sword?”
Chora’s voice croaked, “He never came for one, Your Majesty.”
Achan held up Eagan’s Elk for Prince Gidon to see. “Because I already had one.”
Sir Kenton stepped between Achan and the prince. His curtain of black hair swung about his face like a chain hood. “We practice with plain swords here, stray. And watch your tone.”
Achan looked from the prince to the Shield to Chora. He had no desire to make trouble. Perhaps holding his tongue would be his best plan.
Prince Gidon turned to Sir Kenton and continued in a hushed voice. “His job is to make me look like the best swordsman in all Er’Rets. He’s failed already.”
Achan scowled. That was his job, was it? Well, he wasn’t about to go down easily. Achan would give him everything he had.
“Where is Polk?” Prince Gidon asked.
“Lord Nathak dismissed Polk,” Sir Kenton rumbled.
“Then fetch him back.”
“He sent Polk with the emissary to the Duchess of Carm,” Chora mumbled.
“My squire?” Prince Gidon’s posture swelled. “Who is king? Lord Nathak or me?”
Achan raised his eyebrows. So Prince Gidon had already proclaimed himself king.
Chora’s spine drooped.
“Well? Am I king?”
“Not yet,” Achan murmured.
Prince Gidon whipped around to face the grandstands. “Who said that?” His eyes scanned the crowd until his dark gaze fell to Achan. He stepped forward. “Was it you?”
Achan’s cheeks burned, but he maintained eye contact and shrugged one shoulder. Disrespecting the prince in public. Clever. What happened to holding his tongue?
The corner of the prince’s mouth twitched. “Chora, fetch me Ôwr.”
A murmur rose from the stands behind Achan. He shivered. What was Ôwr?
“But…f-forgive me, Your Majesty, they will not…release it to me.”
The prince waved his hand toward the keep. “Take Sir Kenton along.”
The Shield strode away, hair swaying, Chora scurrying alongside.
Achan stood staring at the prince in the sweltering sun. Prince Gidon snapped his fingers and two attendants ran out from behind the stands. One set a crimson pillow on the end of the center bench in the shade. The prince sat. The other attendant waved a large, wicker fan at his face. Achan raised his eyebrows and retreated to lean against the warm brownstone wall.
After a long wait, the valet and Shield returned carrying an ornate jeweled scabbard. Prince Gidon stood and Chora buckled a silver, jeweled belt around the prince’s waist. When it was secure, the prince strode back to the center of the field and drew a blade that sang as it scraped against its scabbard and gleamed in the sunlight like a white star.
“The Kingsword!” someone shouted.
The crowd murmured.
Achan turned his head in blinded surprise. “What sort of metal is that?”
“White steel.” Prince Gidon’s blue eyes glared. “A gift to King Willham from Câan, the son-god warrior, after his rebirth. No other weapon is made from this metal. It cannot be broken.”
The tale of Ôwr was another thing Achan had thought to be myth. Câan had used a special blade, named Ôwr, in a battle to free the kinsman people. But he’d died, having been captured by kinsman traitors and tortured. A few days later, the legend went, Arman had breathed life back into his son.
An impressive story, but few temples were built in Câan’s honor. Most minstrels sang no s
ongs of Câan, or if they did, they were comedies. The god killed by men was considered weak.
The weapon itself held great mystery. It was slightly longer than Eagan’s Elk. A narrow fuller ran down the center, catching the sun on its ridges. The tip was sharp and narrow, unlike Eagan’s Elk’s rounded point. Achan made note that, with this blade, Prince Gidon could cut and thrust.
Achan stepped away from the wall and breathed deeply. A sword was a sword. Myth didn’t make one better than the other. He drew Eagan’s Elk, which now looked very dull and grey in comparison, and waited for the prince to make the first move.
The sun blazed down. A hush fell over the crowd. Prince Gidon attacked. He swung Ôwr with amazing power for his lean frame. Achan parried, staggering back a step from the impact.
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.
By Darkness Hid Page 18