By Darkness Hid

by Jill Williamson

  Achan also knew that Prince Gidon favored strikes from the right. Perhaps if Achan switched to a left-handed grip for the briefest moment, it would throw the prince off enough so Achan could strike. He’d have to be careful. Because the Prince wore no armor, any hit could kill. And killing the Crown Prince would surely be a death sentence.

  Achan had heard the whispers: the people were saying that these demonstrations were rehearsed. Prince Gidon either didn’t think so or didn’t care. Achan did. He wasn’t about to let Lady Tara or Silvo think him an actor.

  Achan worked up to his attack, waiting for the perfect moment. He sidestepped Prince Gidon’s lunge, tossed Eagan’s Elk into a left-handed hold, and cut low and left.

  His blade struck true.

  Prince Gidon yelped and Ôwr thumped into the grass.

  The crowd gasped. Achan thought he heard Tara’s voice above the rest. What had she said? He turned to where she sat, but Sir Kenton’s angry face blocked his view.

  “Hold!” The Shield sprinted onto the field.

  Prince Gidon clasped a hand over his left thigh and snapped his other fingers. “Chora!”

  Chora scurried forward, but Sir Kenton arrived first. He examined the prince’s wound, then turned and smashed his fist into Achan’s mouth.

  Achan crumpled to the ground and rolled to his side, tasting blood.

  Well, at least Sir Gavin would be proud.

  Chora’s blubbering voice met Achan’s ears. “Yes, Your Majesty? Are you all right, Your Majesty?”

  Still clutching his leg, Prince Gidon glared down at Achan.

  Sir Kenton kicked Achan in the stomach, rolling him onto his back. The Shield gripped the neck of Achan’s cape and yanked him to his feet. Achan staggered, his palm clamped over his bloodied mouth. Sir Kenton clutched his throat in one beefy hand and thrust him against the wall of the keep. Achan’s head clunked off the stone, dazing him.

  Sir Kenton lifted Achan off the ground like he weighed nothing. “Do that again, and I’ll kill you.”

  Achan licked his swelling bottom lip and grunted in agreement. Sir Kenton dropped him.

  “Take the stray to Myet,” the prince told Chora, “then have him report to my chambers in twenty minutes. Be quick about it.” He limped away with Sir Kenton, to the soft applause of his shocked subjects.

  Achan’s body throbbed. He clambered to his feet and located Eagan’s Elk in the grass. He wiped the bloodied blade off on his trousers and sheathed it, then glanced to where Tara sat. Judging by her tense expression and Jaira’s pink cheeks and waving hands, they seemed to be engrossed in argument. He didn’t know who or what Myet was, but it probably wasn’t something he was going to like. He sighed. At least he’d made a good showing for Tara.

  Chora signaled to two guards. “You heard the king, be quick about it.”

  The men each seized Achan by an arm and dragged him away.

  * * *

  Myet, it turned out, was a man. A very cruel man who operated out of a dark room in the dungeons. The guards delivered Achan to Myet for twenty-three lashes. Then they dragged his sagging form up to the sixth floor.

  With each step all Achan could think was, Where is Cetheria’s voice now? So much for her protection. From now on, Achan would eat his offerings. He distracted his anger and frustration with sarcasm. Why twenty-three lashes? Why not twenty or twenty-five? Could Myet not count?

  The guards left him at the door to Prince Gidon’s solar. Achan pushed it open and stepped inside.

  At first the room appeared empty. The tapestries were arranged differently from the last time Achan had been in the room. The eastern windows were blocked off today, revealing the prince’s bed and the open doorway that led to the balcony. Lord Nathak’s voice drifted in from outside.

  “Give up this ridiculous obsession and let me send him back to the kitchens where he will be forgotten.”

  “I have no desire to forget him until he is dead,” Gidon said. “He is a nuisance in every way.”

  “My prince, I beg you to heed my warning. We must not harm the stray. Let him rot in obscurity. Find someone new to amuse yourself with. But leave him unharmed.”

  Achan froze at the foot of Gidon’s massive bed. Lord Nathak didn’t want him hurt?

  “Why do you protect him?” the prince asked. “His attitude and behavior toward me is scandalous. He should hang. If I allow him to treat me this way with no consequence, word of it shall spread to every rebel in Er’Rets. I must crush him in public where the people will see and take heed. I want my people to fear me, Lord Nathak. To know I am in control and my power cannot be taken from me.”

  Achan inched closer to the doorway.

  “I have always advised you well,” Lord Nathak said. “Do not forget you have not yet been voted in as king. That can still change. Focus on choosing a bride, I urge you. And forget the stray. I leave it to you to end this.”

  Footsteps clunked across the floor, and Achan darted back outside the chamber. The door opened and Lord Nathak stepped out. He jumped when he saw Achan and clasped a hand over his chest. He took a long breath and stalked away.

  A chill danced over Achan as he watched the man go. Why would Lord Nathak urge the prince not to harm him?

  Achan took a deep breath and re-entered the room, this time walking all the way inside. Chora spotted him and led him to the balcony overlooking the inner bailey courtyard and tournament field. Prince Gidon lay on a wooden chaise lounge wearing a red silk robe. He didn’t look injured. Achan hadn’t swung very hard anyway.

  Achan’s own shirt stuck to his throbbing back. He didn’t want to know how bad it looked after Myet’s handiwork. He shifted his weight and tugged at the back hem of his shirt to loosen it. His wounds tingled at the rush of cool air.

  Prince Gidon raised one hand and snapped at a servant who stood in the corner of the balcony. The servant stepped around Achan and held the fruit tray in front of the prince.

  “Well, stray,” Prince Gidon said, “in order to take the throne Lord Nathak insists I choose a bride. This very night.”

  Achan wrinkled his nose and glanced at the servant, who kept his eyes down. Achan could care less about Prince Gidon’s marital options. Did the prince expect him to respond? “He…wants you married? Tonight?”

  The prince took a handful of grapes and shooed the servant away with a snort. “No, fool. I must choose who I want tonight. The marriage will happen later. If I don’t choose, Lord Nathak will choose for me.”

  Achan didn’t know why he was here. Why would Prince Gidon want him around if he wanted him dead? Clueless to the rules of this game, he could only play along. “Is that bad, Your Highness?”

  “Possibly.” The prince sucked a grape into his mouth. “Have you seen Lady Gali? That beast is among my prospects.”

  Achan failed to stifle a snicker, which hurt his back. At twenty-two, Lady Gali of Berland stood over six feet and was as broad-shouldered as Sir Kenton. Besides her height, she wore bone bangles around her neck and arms, “jewelry” that looked more like shackles. What an intimidating couple she and the prince would make.

  “Then you see what I’m up against.” Prince Gidon popped another grape into his mouth. “The pickings are slim indeed. Who would you choose if you had to?”

  Lady Tara’s golden hair filled his thoughts. “I wouldn’t know, Your Highness.”

  Prince Gidon stood and grabbed Achan’s chin in a vice-like grip. He steered Achan toward the edge of the balcony. “I wish your opinion, stray. Who? The fairest? The wittiest? The curviest? I wouldn’t expect you to understand the politics of houses, so we’ll keep things simple. Who do you favor?”

  Achan stepped to the ledge in an act of obedience, but he merely wanted free of Prince Gidon’s touch.

  Below them, the inner bailey moved at a slower pace than what Achan was used to in the outer bailey. Pairs of young ladies strolled arm in arm near the temple gardens, picking flowers and feeding the ducks. Achan recognized a few faces from the hoodm
an’s blind game but knew none of them by name. He looked from lady to lady in the courtyard below, seeking the most vile.

  A familiar giggle rose from the side yard where a peasant boy was making a dog do tricks. Lady Tara clapped her hands, her lustrous hair shining brighter than Ôwr. Her blue gown was the color of the sky. He’d never recommend Lady Tara. Prince Gidon would ruin her.

  “You choose Tara.” The prince’s blue eyes flashed to Achan’s, then back to Lady Tara below.

  “No.” Achan said quickly. “She’s kind, that’s all.”

  “Kindness.” Prince Gidon grimaced. “A weakness in a queen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she would pity the people. Every beggar in Er’Rets would make the trek to Armonguard just to spin their tale of woe for her sympathy. And she would give it. She’d bankrupt the treasury in a season.”

  Lady Tara was no fool. She’d be kind to those who needed it. But Achan was relieved the prince did not desire her for a bride.

  “She is beautiful.” Prince Gidon paused to pour a fistful of grapes into his mouth. “Perhaps I will take her as a mistress.”

  Achan gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white.

  “But”—the prince smacked his lips—“nobles don’t make good mistresses. Too demanding. Plus it upsets their fathers, and there you edge into the politics that would melt your dimwitted mind. Who is that pretty brown maid who speaks to you so often?”

  “Gren?” Achan answered before thinking. How did the prince know who Achan talked to?

  “She is a peasant?”

  Achan could only stare.

  “Now she would make me an excellent mistress. I shall inquire about taking her with me to Mahanaim.”

  Achan sputtered. “I…uh…she’s betrothed…to Riga Hoff.”

  “Hoff, you say?” The prince snorted. “Then I would be doing her a favor.” He popped another grape into his already full mouth.

  Achan trembled. “If you say this is to punish me, Your Majesty, I beg you to choose another method. I’ll gladly face Myet again.”

  “Punish you?”

  “Gren is a quiet girl who dreams of raising children and chickens. She loves her family and would die without them. There are many others you could take on your journey.”

  The prince shrugged and looked down on the noblewomen. “But who will I marry, stray? Lady Halona is but a child. Lady Jacqueline would give the council too much control of me. My cousin, Lady Glassea, would give the rebels too much control of me. Lady Mandzee is the best political match, but her sister, Jaira, is far prettier, though she’d rob me blind.” He pounded the tray and sent grapes flying. “There is no one worthy!”

  Achan thought back to Sir Gavin’s lectures of the nobles in Er’Rets. “Does not Lord Sigul have a daughter? Lady Tova or something?”

  The prince scoffed. “I would rather wed a peasant.”

  “Could you?” Perhaps if Prince Gidon were to actually marry Gren it wouldn’t be so—

  For the briefest moment, the prince looked ghostly white. Then a wide smile spread over his face and he laughed. “Never. With a noble bride comes a dowry and land and an army and power…for me. And since there is nothing more important than my throne, I shall have to settle. Gods know who I want, but Lord Nathak has failed me there.”

  “Who do you want?”

  Prince Gidon fell back on the chaise lounge and propped both red satin slippers up on the back, crossing his ankles. “You need a shave, stray. I’ll not have a squire who looks older than me.”

  Achan ran his fingers over his scratchy, swollen jaw. His whiskers had grown fast since Wils’s shave. “I am older than you,” he paused, then quickly added, “Your Majesty.”

  “Ridiculous. Tomorrow be cleanshaven or you can fight me without your weapon.”

  Achan opened his mouth to protest, but when he took in Prince Gidon from head to toe, he saw the prince was right. It was ridiculous to think Achan was older than this man. He looked well over sixteen years of age. Maybe it was from eating so heartily his whole life.

  “You will accompany me on my journey to Mahanaim, of course,” Prince Gidon said. “Lord Nathak has dispatched my other squires on various errands, so you will have to do everything yourself. We leave in two days. You’re dismissed.”

  Achan’s jaw dropped. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  * * *

  Achan begged Noam’s help to put salve on his back. Then he washed out his shirt and put on his stray’s tunic. He took a knife from the kitchens and went to the river to shave.

  He knelt on the bank and leaned over to see his reflection. The sky was cloudy, so all he could see was a dark blob. Still, he scraped the blade over his cheeks again and again, trying to cut the hairs. He’d never seen a man shave and had no idea how to go about it. He jerked each time the blade nicked him, and cut himself more than his stubble. In the end his cheeks not only still felt prickly, but he’d drawn blood in several places. He tried again. Eventually he gave up and stalked to Gren’s cottage.

  She opened the door and gasped. “What’s he done to you now?”

  “No.” Achan held up the knife. “I did it to myself…trying to shave.” He forced his voice to imitate Prince Gidon’s lofty tone. “My prince demands it.”

  Gren rolled her eyes. “You silly boy.” She took Achan’s hand and led him to a chair by the table, then went to the fireplace. She rose on her tiptoes and reached onto the mantle searching for something. Her brown skirt swung like a bell above her bare ankles. “But your lip, Achan, how did you do that?”

  The Fenny cottage was like most in Sitna: a small main room with a fireplace and a table, then two more rooms in back.

  Achan sighed. “Ah. Well, Sir Kenton punched me.”

  “No!” She carried a roll of leather to the table, lips parted. “What happened?”

  “I struck Gidon.”

  Gren’s gasped. “You what?”

  Achan told Gren about his day as she filled a basin with cold water and set it on the table. Then she lifted the kettle from the hearth and added hot water, testing it with her fingers.

  She clicked her tongue, her eyes darting about his face. “What a mess, Achan. We can’t have you looking half dead if you’re to go to Mahanaim with the prince. You might even stand before the Council.”

  “No one will pay any attention to me. I’m sure Gidon will have a hundred errands to keep me occupied, like fluffing pillows and feeding him grapes.”

  She swabbed a wet rag over his face, then lathered soap over his cheeks. She unrolled the leather and held up a knife-like razor. “The right tool helps.” She sharpened the blade on a leather strop, set it at the top of his left cheek, and slowly drew it down.

  As Gren scraped the hairs from his face, Achan studied her brown eyes, her dark eyelashes, and each freckle on her nose and cheeks. She wiped the razor on a rag and a wispy chestnut curl fell over one eye. She raised the razor to his face again and blew the tendril aside.

  “Thank you, Gren. You’re a true friend.”

  She beamed.

  “Where did you learn to do this?”

  “Father. He’s been making me practice on him for…when I’m married.”

  Achan looked to his lap. He didn’t want to speak of this again. There was nothing to be done.

  Gren’s voice came soft. “I’d much rather marry you, you know.”

  He flushed, feeling awkward in the silence that followed. When he looked back to Gren, she was busy on his right cheek. He changed the subject. “Gidon asked about you. About taking you with him…as his…uh…mistress.”

  Gren’s eyebrows sank. “Why would he want me?”

  “Who wouldn’t want you?”

  She smirked and worked the razor over the strop again. “That’s sweet, Achan, but Prince Gidon can have anyone. He was probably only trying to upset you.”

  Achan hoped that was all. “Would you…want that, though?”

  She scowled and softly slapped his cheek.
“Achan Cham, what a thing to ask a girl! Of course I wouldn’t want that. No amount of wealth could make that a desirable life. Not that I’d have a choice in the matter if it were so.”

  Achan went red again, but relief melted his anger some, knowing he was right about Gren, that neither wealth nor title would sway her heart.

  She darted behind him, pressed one hand to his forehead and the razor to his throat, and hissed in his ear, “But if it were so, he wouldn’t take me without a fight.”

  Achan laughed at her caviler attitude, but he had a feeling it was the fight Prince Gidon enjoyed most. He kept that thought to himself.

  When Gren finished with his face, she held a finger against his chest. “Wait right there.” She scurried down the hall and returned with a vest. She held it up. “It’s finished.”

  His eyes bulged. This was more of a doublet than a jerkin or vest. It was sleeveless except for little caps shooting off the tops of the shoulders. A v-neck yoke cut across the chest, and below, tailored seams encased the waist before flaring out in a short peplum. It was tan, doeskin suede. And altogether beautiful. “My doe?”

  She nodded, eyes sparkling. “Try it on.”

  She helped him pull off his cape, then put on the jerkin. He held his breath to stifle his reaction to the pain when he reached back for the second sleeve. He didn’t want Gren to know about Myet’s workmanship. She fastened the silk ties into bows down the front. His chest swelled. She was so thoughtful to make this from his deer.

  “It will look even better with the brown shirt.” Gren swiped her hands over his dingy white Kingsguard sleeve. She ran her hands down either side of the laces, as if inspecting her own handiwork, then looked up, smiled, and took his face in her hands, one on each stinging cheek. “You’re destined for more than the life of a stray, Achan Cham, that I know.” She rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.

  Heat flashed over him as if he’d stepped out of the shade into the sun. Gren had kissed his cheek lots of times but never—