By Darkness Hid

by Jill Williamson

  Bran held out an apple. “Want it?”

  “Thanks.” Achan took the fruit and held it in his lap.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to Sir Gavin?”

  Achan looked at the squire’s peeling nose and shrugged. “I don’t know. Lord Nathak said he left and wouldn’t return.”

  “I heard Lord Nathak sent him away.”

  “Really?” That made much more sense. “He left me a note saying…” Achan paused, not wanting to admit he could hardly read. “Well, it wasn’t clear where he went or why.”

  Bran propped his elbows on his knees. “Sir Gavin can bloodvoice. Do you know anyone else who can? Maybe he’d try to contact you through them.”

  A cold tingle seized Achan. “I thought… Aren’t bloodvoices a myth?”

  “Of course not. Haven’t you heard of the Council’s bloodvoice mediators?”

  “No.”

  “They use bloodvoicing to tell if someone is lying. Very useful. I take it you don’t know anyone who could bloodvoice, then.”

  Achan was beginning to suspect that he could himself, although the idea still seemed outrageous. He met Bran’s questioning brown eyes. “I-I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  Bran nudged Achan’s leg. “So have him contact Sir Gavin for you. Then you wouldn’t have to wonder.”

  Contact Sir Gavin? How?

  Bran made small talk about the journey and Mahanaim. Achan was fascinated with his description of a city built in water, half of which was in Darkness. Sir Rigil called Bran for an errand, and Achan went back to his cold dinner. He tried to talk to Sir Gavin with his mind, but succeeded only in feeling foolish.

  Apparently he dozed off, because the shout of “Stray!” shocked him out of a slumber. He sat up straight and looked about. Prince Gidon stood outside his tent, holding a decorative jug. “Fetch some water.”

  There was no river near camp. “From where?”

  “Am I king? Use your head, dimwit.”

  Achan got to his feet and snatched the jug. He wove between tents until he found a large bonfire where the Kingsguards’ cook had prepared dinner. A meaty gravy smell hung in the air. A crowd of knights, squires, and Kingsguard soldiers congregated around the bonfire, laughing and eating and drinking. A soldier-turned-minstrel thumbed a lute and sang,

  The heir to Shamayim fallen and slain,

  Failure and tragedy meld with his name.

  Achan approached the cook. “Pardon me, sir. Could you spare a jug of water for Prince Gidon?”

  “Help yourself,” the cook said without looking up from turning the spit.

  Achan filled the jug from a cask and started back to Prince Gidon’s tent. A sinister pressure built in his head as he walked. Someone meant him harm. He slipped between two tents, hoping to avoid trouble.

  A beefy, olive-skinned knight with long, dark hair slicked back over his head stepped out from behind a green tent, arms folded. Achan turned to weave the other way, but the young squire from Barth, who’d defeated Bran in the sword fighting pen, stood in that path, his black hair puffed out like a seeding dandelion.

  Looming behind that squire like a shadow stood a towering full-grown knight version. An older brother, Achan assumed. The torchlight flickered off his black armor. He wore no helmet. Could a helmet even fit over such hair? Achan should have taken the time at the tournament to match faces with the names Sir Gavin had spoken of. He turned again, head pounding, only to narrowly miss crashing into Silvo Hamartano, who must have slithered up behind.

  “Servant or squire?” Silvo asked in his silky voice. “Which is it, stray? One minute you’re in a tournament for nobles, then you’re serving wine. Now you cart around a priceless sword and a jug of water. Why?”

  “The prince is thirsty, I suppose, or wants to wash.”

  “And always so witty.”

  Achan sighed. “I’m the gods’ plaything, meant only to amuse.”

  All four men closed in. Someone pulled Achan’s hair tail from behind, jerking his head back. Silvo snatched the water jug away before Achan could use it as a weapon, and passed it to the squire from Barth. The older brother backhanded Achan with his black iron gauntlet.

  The force blasted Achan’s jaw, which was still sore from when Sir Kenton had struck him. He crashed back into the green tent and slid down the coarse fabric.

  Despite the throbbing, he rolled into a crawl and darted between legs, hoping to escape. Someone grabbed the waist of his trousers. A boot met his temple, another his ribs.

  He gritted his teeth through the blows and grabbed the closest pair of ankles. He ducked his head between the low boots, protecting his skull for the moment. He wanted to draw Eagan’s Elk, but it was too long to wield from his position. Instead he bit down on one of the legs beside his head. Unfortunately, this not only lost him his shield, but he took a boot to the ear.

  He spotted a good-sized rock, grabbed it, and pitched it up over his head. Someone grunted and the rock clumped into the dirt to Achan’s left. He reached for it again, but a black boot crushed his hand. He sucked back a cry, gripped the ankle with his other hand, and pulled, managing to scrape his hand free. A strike to his lower back knocked the breath from his lungs.

  The zing of a sword leaving its scabbard paralyzed him.

  “Can we play too?”

  Achan didn’t recognize the voice, but the assault stopped long enough for him to pull to his knees. The movement burned his pummeled torso. Two more weapons sang from their scabbards.

  “This is not your concern, Sir Rigil,” an oily voice said. “Take your sunburned squire elsewhere, lest you lose him. I hear he’s slower with a sword than this stray.”

  Steel clashed against steel. Achan took advantage of the swordplay to crawl free and rise to his rubbery legs. He licked his bleeding lip and looked into the brawl.

  Bran and Silvo squared off against one another, as did the olive-skinned knight with Bran’s companion, whom Achan guessed was Sir Rigil. All four tangled in a fierce dance. Bran was faring far better tonight than he had in the tournament. Maybe he didn’t like being compared to a stray.

  Sir Rigil, who looked to be in his early thirties, had a wild air about him. A thin, reddish beard shaded his jaw, but his hair was short and blond. He wore midnight blue trimmed in black. Golden lightning bolts studded his black leather belt.

  The black-armored knight turned from watching the scuffle and locked eyes with Achan. He drew a black sword.

  Limbs shaking, Achan tugged Eagan’s Elk from his sheath and scrambled back. “Have we met?” Achan asked.

  “No.” The knight grunted the word.

  “Then why—”

  The knight lashed out, his sleek blade whipping through the air, the tip slicing into the green tent. Achan parried and ducked. The swords clanged, and Eagan’s Elk vibrated in Achan’s sore hands. He gripped it tighter and blocked another series of strikes. He had no desire to attack, only to evade and deflect. His opponent’s blade clipped his chin.

  Achan growled. He was still misjudging his parries. The closeness of the tents offered little room for anything but a massacre. Achan needed to get away, but the black-armored knight had blocked him in. Why were these men trying to kill him?

  Clashing swords rang out all around, but Achan couldn’t be bothered by any battle but his own. Sweat or blood, or a combination, dripped off his chin. The knight attacked fiercely. The blades blurred in between them, and Achan’s burning arms could barely hold off the knight’s relentless rhythm.

  Again and again his parry fell back under the force of his opponent’s strikes, and the black blade nicked him in small, teasing cuts. His forehead, his knee, his shin, his forearm. Achan ground his teeth. Why couldn’t he get it right? After a rapid combination of attacks and parries, Achan’s grip slipped. The knight lunged past Achan’s guard and sliced his bicep.

  Achan yelped, more in shock than pain, and reeled back. He tripped over a tent peg and crashed to the ground. The knight leaped forward. He
pressed his blade against Achan’s throat and stepped on his wounded arm.

  Achan choked back a scream. Swords clashed behind the black-armored knight, but Achan couldn’t see their wielders. He stretched for Eagan’s Elk, but his blade was out of reach.

  He looked into the knight’s grey eyes. He saw no hatred. Only an expression of superiority. Maybe he wouldn’t kill him. Maybe he was only toying with him.

  Achan panted out, “Looks like you win this time.”

  The knight only stared. Apparently, conversation was not on his list of skills.

  “What’s this?” Prince Gidon’s regal voice pierced the mêlée, and the swordfight ceased. The prince stepped around the black-armored knight and peered down at Achan, his crown and jeweled belt glittering in the torchlight. He raised one dark eyebrow. “Well, Sir Nongo, I see you’ve bested my squire. What has he done now? Made fun of your hair?”

  Sir Nongo, the black-armored knight, turned to the prince. “My hair, Your Highness?”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Silvo stepped forward and bowed. “Your squire insulted me and my sister, Jaira.”

  The prince’s brows shot up to his greasy hairline. “Lady Jaira is here?”

  “No, Your Highness. This was days ago.”

  “Yet you waited for Sir Nongo to do your dirty work?” The prince gave Silvo a bored stare. “I’m sure your claim is valid, Silvo. My squire does have a hinged tongue and a tendency for insubordination. Regardless, he’s all I have. Lord Nathak sent no one but Chora and this stray to serve me. So unless any of you wish to take my squire’s place, I suggest you let him live. I could care less who serves me. Any of you will do, and this stray does vex me greatly.” The prince looked from face to face. “No volunteers?” He sighed. “I suspected as much. Let him up, then.”

  Sir Nongo stepped back, and Achan staggered to his feet. He retrieved Eagan’s Elk and sheathed it with shaky arms. The cut on his arm stung terribly. Blood soaked his sleeve to the elbow. The knights and squires dispersed, leaving Achan alone with Prince Gidon. Achan was glad to see that none of those who had come to his aid appeared to be wounded.

  The prince sighed and strode off in the direction of his tent. “Don’t forget my water, stray.”

  Achan found the water jug, still full, and lugged it after the prince using his good arm. His torso ached with every step. He spat blood out on the ground.

  Those who crossed their path fell to their knees before the prince.

  He turned to Achan and pointed. “See how my people revere me, stray?” He cocked his head to the side. “Why is it that you do not do the same?”

  Achan shrugged, though the gesture stung his arm. He did his best to be obedient. If the prince wasn’t such a beast, he might try harder.

  Prince Gidon persisted. “You have never once kneeled in my presence. Why?”

  Achan didn’t answer as they approached the litter. It was true. He’d never kneeled before Prince Gidon, yet when Sir Gavin had introduced Prince Oren, Achan had fallen straight to his knees. Strange. “I dunno, Yer Highest.” He spat out another mouthful of blood. It hurt to talk.

  The prince threw up his hands. “You don’t know. Well, I demand you start!”

  Achan set the jug on the ground and lowered his bruised body to his knees, one at a time.

  The prince looked down his pointed nose at Achan and sighed. “Oh, get up!”

  “As yoo yish, Yer Highest.”

  “And shut up!”

  Achan was more than happy to, but raised one eyebrow just for fun.

  * * *

  That night the voices came in his mind, louder and more persistent than ever before. Achan remained open and silent, trying to listen for Sir Gavin, but the knight didn’t speak.

  The person with the scratchy voice did. You have learned to close your mind, have you? Scratch said.

  Aye. Achan was finding it easier to send thoughts back. I was just listening for someone.

  Who?

  I’d rather not say.

  A woman’s voice spoke, Who are you?

  What’s your name? a man asked.

  You’re very talented. I should like to know you.

  Can you all just be quiet? Achan said. I’d like to talk to Scratch.

  Who is Scratch?

  Block us out then. Have you no one to teach you?

  Oh, never mind. Achan reached out for the allown tree.

  * * *

  The next morning, Chora and the Shield found Achan as the caravan readied to leave.

  Chora held up a flask. “You are to drink this.” Chora twisted off the cap and offered it.

  The Shield stepped toward Achan. “Now.”

  Achan snatched the vial and smelled it. The tonic. If he took it, he wouldn’t be able to hear if Sir Gavin called to him. But his body had already been pounded like clay. He didn’t need to give Sir Kenton another reason to strike. He swallowed the bitter goop and handed the vial back. Chora nodded to Sir Kenton and they both walked away. No mentha. Clearly these fellows didn’t have all the facts.

  He considered digging out a bread roll, but without any mentha leaves, the tonic would likely come up soon. Why waste breakfast?

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, Achan retched into the bushes.

  The morning was cool and cloudy. The procession was all lined up and ready to go. Achan hoped he could manage to keep up. His body ached terribly.

  Bran approached. “Are you all right? Did they hit your head last night?”

  Achan spat the nastiness from his mouth. “No. Ate something sour. Thanks for last night, by the way. I’d likely be dead if you and Sir Rigil hadn’t stepped in.”

  Bran nodded, then said in a low voice, “Do you enjoy serving your prince?”

  Achan furrowed his brow. “Aye. So much as I enjoy the tip of a sword against my throat.”

  Bran smirked and scratched the back of his head. He glanced around and stepped closer. “Sir Rigil says, should you seek a different master, he’d welcome you.”

  “Leave Prince Gidon to serve Sir Rigil?”

  “Not exactly. We’re joining with the Old Kingsguard. Sir Gavin’s Kingsguard. They serve Prince Oren.”

  Prince Oren? Second in line to the throne behind only Gidon. Achan’s mind raced. Could this be a conspiracy rising up against Prince Gidon? How he’d love to be a part of that. But for Gren. “I…can’t. Prince Gidon, he…threatened my friend back in Sitna if I should try to…leave his service.”

  “Who?”

  “Gren Fen—Hoff. The Fenny and the Hoff family.”

  Bran nodded, his brow pinched. “Prince Gidon’s good at scaring people. He learned from the best.” Bran looked away and sighed. “With your permission, I’ll convey this information to Sir Rigil. There may be something he could do to help.”

  “I don’t know what anyone could do, but you have my permission.”

  A cloud of dust in the distance signaled that the caravan had pulled out. Bran glanced at Achan one last time. “Sir Rigil says the Great Whitewolf was the greatest Kingsguard commander ever. You’re fortunate to have learned from him, even for a short time.”

  Achan nodded and watched Bran jog to his horse. If he could contact Sir Gavin, he might know what to do with himself. Join the Old Kingsguard? Had that been Sir Gavin’s plan all along?

  * * *

  The procession marched on. Achan emptied the prince’s chamber pot, fetched water, and delivered message scrolls to Lady Kati, passing her husband’s angry remarks back to an amused Prince Gidon. The voices seemed to be coming to him again. At least he’d still be able to listen for Sir Gavin and talk to Scratch.

  Achan’s left bicep looked wretched. Sir Nongo’s black blade had sliced a deep gash three fingers wide. Achan had cleaned it as best he could, but the pink skin around the incision boasted his failure. Most of the smaller cuts had healed. His torso was badly bruised and sore, but the bones seemed to be in place—not that he knew what broken bones felt like. His face and jaw ached. Tha
nkfully, mirrorglass was scarce on the road. Achan didn’t want to know how his face looked.

  He tried to speak to Scratch. They managed a few words here and there, but someone in the caravan always interrupted. So far Scratch had told him nothing useful. Achan wasn’t enjoying bloodvoices much. Perhaps he was too practical to invite dozens of people into his head. He had so little control and privacy in his life. His mind was the one thing people couldn’t beat, manipulate, or force to obey. He didn’t want people trampling his last sanctuary.

  He hadn’t heard from that other warm and powerful voice since Cetheria’s temple. Was Cetheria really an idol? That would certainly explain a few things. He shrugged and walked on, choking on the dust of the road.

  As they neared Allowntown, the Evenwall loomed to their right. The Evenwall, as Achan understood it, was a gateway to Darkness and all that hid within it. The air grew thick and misty. Achan didn’t like the feel of the moisture on his face. He remembered Sir Gavin’s warning never to set foot in the mist.

  In the wide prairie to their left, women worked the potato fields, their skirts hiked up above their knees. Several soldiers hooted and called out to them. Pretty as some of them were, they only reminded Achan of how fetching Gren had looked as she stood in a tub of wool. He was thankful when the sun set on the day and the memories.

  They stopped in Allowntown for the night. The procession filed through a narrow gate and into an old motte and bailey-style manor. Guards began to pitch tents within the wooden curtain wall. Prince Gidon dismissed Achan and went inside the manor to sleep. Achan wandered around, looking for Bran.

  A distant allown tree caught his eye between two tents. He stepped back and stared at it from afar. It was the famous tree, the one from all the stories of King Axel’s murder, the day Darkness came. Achan walked to the tree and stood before it, mesmerized.

  Warmth surged inside him and the majestic voice coursed through his veins.

  Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, Achan Cham. Before you were born I set you apart.