By Darkness Hid

by Jill Williamson

“If the prince despises him, why not have him killed?”

  “I am not a murderer.”

  Achan heard Master Hadar snort. “I sense a different truth from you, Lord Nathak. You may be able to close your mind, but you cannot hide everything.” The old man hummed. “Is he who I think he is?”

  Lord Nathak leaned back in his chair. “What he is is my property. Prince Gidon has ordered him punished. I will not have him calling out for a rescue.”

  “Does he even know how to—”

  Sparrow’s voice seemed to scream in Achan’s head. “What are you doing?”

  Achan wheezed as if coming out of the water after nearly drowning. He blinked rapidly until Sparrow’s round face came into focus. He shuddered. “That was incredible!”

  Sparrow’s forehead wrinkled. “What was?”

  Achan rubbed the chill from his arms. The warmth of Lord Nathak’s chamber had vanished. “They’re going to beat me.” He grinned. “Shocking, isn’t it?”

  Sparrow set the back of his hand against Achan’s forehead.

  Achan batted it away and clambered to his feet. “You didn’t see? Or hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “I followed you. I touched your tunic and concentrated and, bam!” Achan slapped his hands together. “I was the old man in Lord Nathak’s chamber. A warm and spacious chamber, I might add. Do you think I’ll ever get a warm and spacious chamber?”

  Sparrow’s eyes popped wide. “You jumped?”

  Achan shrugged and sat down on his bed.

  “I could see nothing. What did they say?”

  Achan repeated the conversation.

  Sparrow got to his feet. “This is astonishing. I have never been able to enter my master’s mind, yet you used my connection for yourself and got further than I ever have. I did not sense you at all. Are you weary?”

  “Should I be?”

  Sparrow sat next to Achan on the stone bed. “Oh, Achan. No wonder they all want you. The power you have is magnificent…and dangerous. You must be careful.”

  Achan smirked. “Sparrow…”

  “Do you not see? I cannot enter my master’s mind, but you did. And through a jumped connection at that! Achan, you could enter any mind in Er’Rets.”

  Achan didn’t know why he’d want to do that, but he was glad he wasn’t afraid of the bloodvoices anymore. They had suddenly become a new plaything.

  “Have you ever heard a different kind of voice?” he asked. “One that warms you from the inside and seems to know exactly what is happening in every moment of your life?”

  Sparrow frowned, then opened his mouth to speak, but the door burst open and the two guards stormed inside. One carried a whip and a set of iron shackles.

  Achan didn’t like the looks of either. He stood and tried to look threatening. “You could have knocked first.”

  Sparrow scrambled into the corner.

  The guards seized Achan by his arms. Pain shot through his injured shoulder. Goosebumps rose on his arms at the sudden chill that wafted though his cell.

  “What are you doing?” Sparrow asked.

  “This one tried to kill the prince,” a guard said, clamping an iron cuff to Achan’s wrist.

  Sparrow wedged between the guards. “That is ridiculous. He saved the prince. I saw it happen.”

  “You know not what you say, Vrell.” The old man stepped into the cell again, with Lord Nathak and the valet at his heels.

  “Lord Nathak.” Achan panted slightly as he waved his good arm around to keep the guard from securing the second cuff. He was finished with trying to get on anyone’s good side. “I was just noticing how something smelled, and here you are.”

  Lord Nathak sighed. “The older you grow, the bolder you become. It does not suit a stray who hopes for a secure future.”

  “I hadn’t realized there was such a thing in your service, my lord.”

  Sparrow spoke. “Master, he should be allowed to appear before the Council, where I will testify as a witness to his heroism. I saw him save the prince, when all his other protectors were gone.”

  The guards forced Achan onto the stone bed. The loose straw poked and scratched, and he arched his back to keep his wounds from being aggravated. Lord Nathak stepped forward holding a ceramic funnel and a large wooden mug. One of the guards squeezed Achan’s cheeks until his jaw opened.

  Pig snout.

  Sparrow’s sorrowful voice pleaded, “Master, please. This is barbaric.”

  Lord Nathak wedged the funnel between Achan’s teeth and dumped the mug’s contents.

  Achan gagged but had no choice but to swallow the bitter goo. His teeth grated against the funnel, his eyes watered, and a tear ran down his cheek.

  The valet handed Lord Nathak another mug, and he poured it into the funnel. Achan tried to swallow quickly this time, but the overwhelming mentha taste tingled his throat. He coughed, which only made swallowing harder.

  The liquids trickled into Achan’s stomach, and a fog drifted over his mind. He was both outraged and relieved. He’d finally accepted the voices as his, but they had nearly driven him mad. He lost control of trying to close off his mind. The voices screamed now, as if they had been waiting for an opportunity to speak and could feel the tonic pushing them out.

  Do not go!

  Who are you?

  Come back!

  Achan, wait! Sir Gavin said. Stay open!

  Before Achan could reply to Sir Gavin, Lord Nathak removed the funnel and the guards yanked Achan to his feet. They looped the chains in his shackles through two iron rings high on the dank, mildewed wall.

  Achan ran his tongue over his teeth, seeking to clear his mouth of all flavor. His mind felt numbed, but he wasn’t bereft of his senses. “What exactly have I done to deserve this, my lord?”

  “You led the Crown Prince into the Evenwall,” Lord Nathak said, tapping his fingernails against the ceramic funnel, “thus endangering his life. Yet you were sworn to protect him. You will receive ten lashes for this blunder.”

  Achan stood facing the stone wall, the shackles holding him in place. “Ten? Oh, that’s not so bad. You do realize my taking him into the Evenwall saved his life. And, in case you missed it, I took three arrows for His Royal Plague. The one in my back is particularly painf—Aagh!”

  Achan screamed as a guard jerked the chains up the wall, raising his arms above his head and stretching his sore shoulder. His chest slammed against cold, slimy stone. Achan shivered and glanced at the beefy guard who held the chains. “Do you mind? I’m trying to have a conversation.”

  Lord Nathak motioned to the other guard. “Only ten. And go easy.”

  Go easy?

  The other guard stepped forward clutching the whip.

  20

  “Hold still,” Vrell scolded. The spicy smell of cloves mixed with calendula numbed her sinuses—a blessing in Achan’s rank cell.

  Achan lay prostrate on his horrible stone bed, his face buried in the crook of his arm, straw poking out from under him. “It hurts!”

  “I can see that.” Vrell scooped ointment with two fingers and ran it over a lesion on Achan’s back. His muscles tensed, but the ointment had already made a difference in the newest wounds on his back. She still couldn’t believe how scarred it was. She could not imagine Achan committing a crime that deserved such punishment.

  It’s cold, Achan bloodvoiced.

  Sorry. She scooped up another glob of ointment and rubbed it between her hands before tending the next gash. She gasped. “You can hear my thoughts, now? Despite the tonic?”

  “Aye. Your little fruit did the trick.”

  Vrell smiled. She had remembered Jax’s advice and had taken a sack of karpos fruit from the kitchens and given it to Achan when he’d awakened after the scourging.

  “What now?” Achan asked, his voice muffled by the fact that his face was buried in the inside of his elbow. “Teach me something.”

  Vrell twisted her lips. “Well, I am best at blocking. That would be a good t
hing for you to master. You must concentrate. It is like having drapes in your mind to draw closed around your thoughts. Once you learn, you can practice letting in only what, and who, you want.”

  Vrell rubbed more salve over the arrow wound on Achan’s left shoulder, then traced along one shoulder blade to the other, smearing ointment into his skin as she went. With wounds like his, infection could kill, especially in this disgusting cell where rats flourished. So she added more ointment.

  Achan’s head popped up. “Did you hear that?”

  “No. Did someone bloodvoice you?”

  “He said, ‘Gavin’s coming.’ But I didn’t recognize his— Um, Sparrow?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve put on enough gunk now, don’t you think? Or must you rub me raw?”

  “Yes—uh, no.” Vrell jerked back her hand and stood. Heat flooded her cheeks. “I believe that is plenty for now. Does it feel better?”

  “Like new.” He sat up and rolled his injured shoulder. “Think you can find me a shirt?”

  “I should be able to.”

  “I had a spare, in my bag.” Achan stared ahead as if remembering something sad.

  Vrell didn’t know what that sad thought might be. But judging from those scars on his back and the fact that he’d spent any time at all subject to Prince Gidon, his past was likely riddled with anguish.

  Perhaps when Vrell was home, she could convince her mother to speak to the Council about strays. It was senseless to treat a man like an animal. They were all the same inside, physically anyway. Plus, both Achan and Prince Gidon were dark-haired, tall, and strong. But where the prince was cruel, Achan was knightly. The way he’d fought to protect a man who wanted to kill him…

  Vrell shook her thoughts away, picked up the jar of ointment, and walked to the door. “Guard!” She turned back to Achan. “I shall try to bring more food as well.”

  He yawned and rubbed his droopy eyes. “While you’re at it, how ’bout finding me a feather mattress and some furs to sleep on? This straw is like twigs. Oh, and I wouldn’t mind a bath. But not from you. I’ll do it myself, thanks. Just bring me one of those big steaming tubs like Gidon uses. And some oatmeal soap. I don’t like that flowery rosewater stuff.”

  She smiled and slipped out. The guard locked the door behind her.

  “And some apples. Crunchy ones!”

  Vrell jogged up the dank stairwell to the first underground level. The Mahanaim dungeons—a labyrinth of stone hallways and barred doors—were located on the three levels below the stronghold’s surface. Achan’s cell was on the lowest level. Vrell climbed to the first level. As she neared the guards’ station, the raised voices of two men grew louder.

  “But it’s only clothing.” It was the voice of a young man. A very familiar voice. It slowed her steps shy of the corner.

  “The prisoner’s not to be seen or receive anything,” the guard snapped. “No exceptions!”

  “You still haven’t told me his crime. He did his duty. This I know as fact.”

  Vrell rounded the corner to see the back of the burly guard standing at the gate shaking his head. The man he was talking to was hidden behind the guard’s body. “I don’t put ’em here, I just keep ’em here. Take it up with Lord Levy if you like.”

  The visitor sidestepped as if preparing to leave, and locked eyes with Vrell. His head cocked to the side, and he looked her up and down.

  Bran.

  She sucked in a silent breath and held it. Her pulse rose. Oh, she hadn’t spoken to him since his proposal. It would be so wonderful if he recognized her—but the guard would report it to Master Hadar and all manner of unpleasantness would ensue. Mahanaim was not friendly territory these days. She doubted they would escape without being questioned.

  No. Now was a bad time to make herself known. She needed to find Sir Rigil first as Mother had suggested. But if Bran was here, so was the knight he served. She noted that Bran’s nose and face were peeling from sunburn. She had a salve that would help…

  Instead, Vrell held her breath, lowered her gaze, and wove between Bran and the guard, slouching and bobbing in her best boy walk, praying he would not recognize her. As she placed one foot on the bottom step, Bran spoke.

  “You there. Can you tell me anything about Achan Cham?”

  Vrell froze, cheeks burning. How did Bran know Achan, and why did his question bring waves of guilt? She had done nothing wrong. She turned. Keeping her head down and her posture slumped, she gave her best stray boy accent. “What you wanna know?”

  Bran strode forward, clutching a dirty linen sack in his hand. “These are his things. The guard won’t let me take them to him. I’d like to see him.”

  Vrell shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. No one’s to see him.”

  “But you’ve seen him?”

  “I’m tending his wounds.”

  Bran’s sweet, sunburned face lit up, and he held out the sack. “Then you could take him this. Please. It’s only clothing. I just… I think he’d want it.”

  Vrell accepted the grimy sack. Bran had come all this way to bring Achan his laundry? Why? “I’ll take it to him, sir.”

  Bran bowed to her, bestowing a great honor to a stray boy like Vrell. Oh, he was such a good man. His poor nose. She yearned to rub some aloe salve on it.

  “I thank you.” Bran strode toward the stairwell leading out, then turned back. “Would you give him a message as well?”

  Vrell nodded.

  “Tell him, the offer’s still good.”

  Vrell flushed. Oh, no, of course not. Bran was giving a message to Achan, not renewing his proposal. She swallowed her disappointment. “Will do, sir.”

  Bran bowed again and smiled at the burly guard. “I thank you.”

  When he was gone, Vrell trudged up to her room, leaking tears and wondering with each step where Bran was staying. It had felt strange to see him after so long. He looked different, but the same. Maybe even taller. She had wanted him to recognize her, sweep her off her feet, and take her home. At the same time, she’d hesitated. She furrowed her brow. She wanted to go home, did she not?

  Of course she did, but first she had to help Achan.

  She stopped on the landing halfway between the third and fourth floor. Why did she care about Achan, anyway? He did not have manners like Bran. He was rude and teased too much. But he was innocent and she’d seem him fight heroically to save a prince who despised him. Plus, he was injured. Without her help, his wounds could still become infected. And they had bloodvoices in common. There was something about him that drew her interest like moth to torch. What was it?

  She carried Achan’s sack to her room, which, as always, was dark and cold. She did not rank highly enough to have a fireplace in her chambers. She left the door open until she lit a candle. Then she dumped out the contents of Achan’s sack.

  A rock-hard bread roll tumbled across the floor, along with a few moldy meat pies, some clothing, a rolled up grey blanket, and a scrap of raw parchment that looked as if a child had made it. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of decayed food. What had Bran been thinking? There was no treasure here worth saving.

  She picked up a brown linen shirt and lifted it to her nose. It smelled stale like the bread, but looked clean. Achan would appreciate it. She draped it over one arm and reached down for the other garment: a soft, doeskin doublet. She ran the suede against her cheek and smiled. This was quite nice. She folded the clothing and set it, and the bundled blanket, on the edge of her bed.

  She lifted the parchment and unrolled it. The handwriting and spelling were atrocious.

  Akan,

  i cannat stand wuts to com. but i no what u did and i thank u for it. u ar mi best frend. u ar a tru keengsgard nite. my keengsgard nite. i dont want to mary Riga. id rathr mary u.

  Vrell flushed and set the parchment on top of the clothing. She had no business reading such a letter.

  She scurried to her sideboard and checked the new batch of ointment she was making for Achan. P
oor, sweet, abused Achan. He had a woman who loved him. What had happened? Vrell sighed deeply and frowned as she stirred the mixture. Must all love in Er’Rets be thwarted or manipulated? Vrell masqueraded as a boy to dodge marriage, and here someone loved Achan but was apparently being forced to marry this Riga person.

  Vrell stomped about the room, gathering the moldy and stale food from the floor. She set it outside the door for the chambermaid, then went back to her bed. She needed to go to the kitchens before taking these things to Achan. Maybe Mags could help her find some nice, crunchy apples.

  She peered at the parchment out of the corner of her eye. There had only been a few more lines. She twisted her lips and snagged it.

  prins gidon didint want me. he wantid to hert u. promis to get awey frum him. go to tafstown. wher yer nu cloths and be a nu man. i can nevr thank u fer saving me frum gidon. u wil alwas be mi hero. mi nite. i luv u.

  gren

  Vrell blinked back tears. Why did Prince Gidon insist on poisoning the lives of everyone? How she hated that venomous snake.

  She ran to her sideboard and dug through her satchel until she found the prince’s red silk sleeve, the one she had kept since that day on the battlefield. She could use it to see him in her mind, to know what he was up to. But how would that help Achan?

  She left the sleeve and put the parchment and clothes back into the sack. She wandered down the stone steps, guilt flooding every thought.

  Arman would not want her to carry so much hatred, she knew, even for a man as evil as Gidon Hadar. And was she any better? Reading Achan’s private letter…lying to everyone about her identity…avoiding Bran when he could have taken her straight to Sir Rigil. Was this what Arman would have her become? Certainly not.

  But Arman also would not want her to marry an abusive unbeliever. On that, she and her mother agreed wholeheartedly. There were few true believers in the Way in Er’Rets. Bran was one of them.

  She groaned, not knowing how to make any of this right. When she reached the pillared foyer outside the chamber where the Council of Seven met, she turned at the foot of the main staircase and walked down the narrow corridor that led to the kitchens.

  Vrell loved Bran. When all this was over, she was nearly certain Mother would permit them to marry. Mother had always said she wanted Vrell to be happy in marriage. Bran would be a good husband.