He might not make a good duke, though. Whoever Vrell married would inherit Mother’s duchy. Bran was funny and kind and loyal, but he was no leader. He would need many advisors to run the duchy. Perhaps she should marry someone with experience with such things. If Bran were duke, Vrell would likely have to rule the duchy herself. But to be with Bran…it would be well worth it. She prayed Arman would forgive her until then.
Vrell entered the first kitchen and into a wall of heat. Along two walls were the hearths, only one of which was blazing. Vrell wondered how hot the room might be if all were lit. Six tables filled the center of the room. The cook, a plump woman with a stingy smile, stood at one, stuffing a chicken with bread crumbs and herbs. Three other servants were cleaning.
Vrell found the red-headed servant girl scrubbing dishes in a wooden tub. “Mags, think you could help me? I am gathering some things to take to the dungeon.”
“To yer patient, the squire?” Mags pushed a strand of her red hair behind her ear, leaving a smudge of suds on her cheek. “I ’ear he’s quite an Avinis.”
Vrell rolled her eyes at the mention of the god of beauty. “I would not know about that.”
Mags pinched Vrell’s cheek with soapy fingers. “Oh, don’t yeh sound so gloomy. Yeh’ll grow into yer own, and all us maids will be crazy for yeh.”
Vrell batted Mags’s hand away. “Can you help or not?”
“Of course. What yeh want for ’im?”
Vrell rattled off the things she hoped for, and Mags came through on all accounts. Vrell trudged to the dungeon with Achan’s sack, a jug of water, a wooden bowl, and her own lunch shoved into her pocket. The guard hassled her and searched the bag, but did not complain when Vrell reminded him that Master Hadar had assigned her to care for the squire.
Vrell didn’t know why her master seemed to be going along with Lord Nathak, but she did know he still craved Achan’s power. She guessed he would make a move to control Achan’s fate soon. Vrell had claimed the squire was near death—fever from the lashings and all. Master Hadar had not questioned her time spent in the dungeons after that. He had suspended her lessons until the squire was healed. But she couldn’t count on that ruse lasting too much longer.
The guard let Vrell into Achan’s cell.
He was sitting on the floor in her corner, scratching at the dirt floor with a chicken bone. “Just wondered what’s so great about this spot.” His grey eyes sparkled in the torchlight.
Vrell set the bowl and the water jug on the hay-covered stone bed. “Are you leaning against the wall? Achan, your wounds will get dirty. Now I shall have to clean them again.”
His gaze darted to the sack. “Is that mine?”
She sighed. “I met a squire who insisted you have it. The guards would not let him in to see you, but he gave me this, and a message.”
Achan jumped up and took the sack. He peered inside. “What’s the message?”
Vrell still was not used to him being so near her. Being so tall and…half dressed. She tried to act nonchalant, thankful he would be fully clothed soon. “He said to tell you, the offer is still good.”
Achan met her eyes. “Bran was here?”
Vrell treaded carefully. “He did not give a name, sir. Only the message.”
“No.” Achan shook his head and grinned. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Please don’t. I’m no one’s sir.” He reached into the sack and pulled out the smaller linen bag that Vrell had brought from the kitchen.
Vrell’s curiosity prompted her to snoop. “Is he a close friend, the squire?”
“Bran?” Achan sucked in a gasp as he discovered the contents of the small sack. “Sparrow.” He turned his wide smile to her—causing her stomach to boil with joy—and pulled out a fat, red apple. “Thank you.” He sat on his bed, dropped the bag between his knees, and bit into the apple with a loud crunch. He tucked the bite into his cheek and pointed at the bowl and water jug. “What’s all this?”
Vrell reached into her pocket and pulled out a half-used bar of soap. “It is unscented, all I could find. I figured you could use the bowl as a basin. The water will be cold, but…”
Achan slurped juice off his thumb. He took the soap and smelled it. “You sure know how to spoil a convict.”
Heat flooded Vrell’s cheeks, and she turned away, pretending to be looking for something on the ground. Was it foolish to be sweet to Achan? Would a boy do kind things for an innocent man? She settled in her corner and pulled the bread and figs from her pocket. She bowed her head and thanked Arman for His provisions.
“Why do you pray for food you already have?”
She glanced at Achan, whose eyes pierced through to her heart. She suspected that he, like most Er’Retians, believed in the host of false gods housed in ornate temples throughout the land. “I thank Arman for the blessing of having food to eat. I am not begging for more.”
“Why thank Arman? He does not create plants or animals.”
Vrell rolled her eyes. “There is only one God, Achan. His name is Arman. He creates everything. The other gods and goddesses are lies, devised to waste your days pining after false hope.”
His forehead crinkled, and he looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head.
So she got back to her sleuthing. She took a bite of her bread and tried to appear disinterested. “Bran is your friend? Have you known him long?”
Achan pulled his blanket from the sack and spread it poorly with one hand over the bits of straw on the stone bed. “He journeyed with us from Sitna. Helped me out when Silvo and his friends made trouble. Even drew his sword for my sake.”
Vrell grimaced. Silvo Hamartano. It figured. She pasted on an expression she hoped a boy might wear at the idea of a fight. “Tell me the story.”
“Bah.” Achan bit into the apple, held it in his teeth, and pulled the brown shirt over his head. His hair tousled as it poked through the neck opening. Vrell was glad he was finally clothed. Achan left the ties hanging loose and took the apple away from his mouth with a large bite. “It’s not much of a story.”
“Will you tell it? Please?”
Achan shrugged and took the suede jerkin into his lap, rubbing one finger over the nap. “Well, only if you don’t think less of me. I’m not as obedient as most strays.”
Vrell grinned and pulled her knees up to her chest. “This is going to be good.”
Achan started the story by telling about Sir Gavin Lukos. Vrell had never met the Great Whitewolf, but had heard tales of his campaigns on behalf of King Axel. He had been the former king’s closest advisor. Achan told how Sir Gavin had taken him as an apprentice in secret until he had killed the deer.
“That’s the blood you sensed when you first heard me,” he said. “I was carrying her back to Sitna Manor.”
Then he told about the tournament where he had met Silvo, Silvo’s sister—Lady Jaira— and Lady Tara Livna. Tara was Vrell’s cousin and dear friend. She loved Tara, but she bristled when Achan went on longer than necessary about Lady Tara’s kiss. Tara was stunning, with a voice like a lark. Vrell looked like a boy and sounded like a goose. A scratchy goose.
“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Sparrow. Well, next to Gren.”
Vrell perked up at the name from the letter. “Who’s Gren?”
Achan twisted the stem of the apple until it popped free from the core, then tossed both into the waste bucket. “A peasant girl I grew up with. She made me this shirt.” He puffed out his chest. “Isn’t it nice?”
Vrell nodded then pointed at the doublet. “And that?”
“Yeah.” He beamed and pulled on the doublet, leaving it hang open like a vest. “She made this from the deer I killed. Clever, huh?”
Vrell should get back. Master Hadar would be waiting for an update. But she wanted to hear more. Achan told about serving wine to Silvo and Jaira at Prince Gidon’s banquet, then lingered on another moment shared with Lady Tara. Vrell was not a bit surprised that Tara had been kind to Achan. Tsaftown did not
keep slaves, and Achan was waggish and handsome. Still, it bothered Vrell how his face lit up when he spoke of Tara, beloved cousin or not.
Such thoughts! Vrell berated herself. She loved Bran, and he loved her. She had been gone from home too long. Life as an outcast was starting to take its toll.
Achan fiddled with the ties on his jerkin. “Lord Nathak discovered my training. After that, Sir Gavin left me. I still haven’t learned why. And Gidon punished me for insulting Jaira, by making me his sparring partner. I think he wanted to accidentally kill me. Silvo and his demented cohorts ambushed me on the first night of the trip to Mahanaim, claiming to avenge Jaira’s honor. As if she had any.”
He smirked. “Anyway, you saw the bruises. Bran and Sir Rigil came to my aid. And that’s that. To answer your question then: yes, Bran is a friend, if not for very long.”
As Achan tucked the small bag of food into his sack he paused and pulled out the parchment. He held it in his lap, staring down at it, his face paling. Then he crumpled it into a little ball and tossed it into the privy bucket in the corner.
Vrell gasped and scrambled to her feet to retrieve it, but it had already soaked into the foul liquid. She spun back to Achan. “What did you do that for?”
“There’s no reason for me to—” His eyes narrowed. “You little fox, you read it!”
Vrell straightened and turned up her nose. Hands on her hips, she stomped to the door. “Guard!”
Achan jumped up and grabbed her arm, dark brows furrowed, pupils swelling. “You had no right!”
“Back up!” the guard snarled.
Achan released his crushing grip, and Vrell slipped out, heart pounding. The guard slammed the door and clicked the bolts into place. Vrell glanced back to see Achan scowling through the black bars.
Maybe she should have denied his accusation.
Maybe she should not have read the parchment in the first place.
* * *
That evening, Master Hadar led Vrell to a lovely receiving chamber on the ninth floor and introduced her to the Levy family.
Vrell had been there years ago, and everything sat just as she remembered. Cream and indigo tapestries boxed in a spacious, warm expanse between two fireplaces, one on each end of the room. The family of five sat on carved couches that fanned out in a half circle around the fireplace nearest the door.
The valet announced, “Master Macoun Hadar and his apprentice, Vrell Sparrow,” and led them before the family seated on the couches.
No one stood. Lord Levy nodded politely, an ivory pipe between his lips. His white hair and short, pointed beard made him look more snobbish than ever. She knew how Lord Levy felt about strays. As chairman of the Council of Seven, he had spearheaded the campaigns to brand strays and ban them from Kingsguard service.
Lord Levy’s wife, Lady Fallina, sat near the hearth—elegance in human form. Her golden hair piled onto her head, held by a dozen sapphire clips. Gold embroidery embellished her cobalt silk gown, which draped over her body like a second skin. Her every movement captivated the eye. She smiled and said, “Welcome to Mahanaim.” Even her voice was musical.
“Thank you,” Vrell said with a bow.
Lady Fallina’s charm had not been passed on to her daughters. Vrell had met the girls on several occasions, but thankfully they did not recognize her or give her more than a fleeting glance.
The eldest, Jacqueline, was Vrell’s age. She looked like her mother, but whined like a mule. She too wore a gown of cobalt silk, but hers hung on her bony body like a tent. Her younger sister, Marietta, at fourteen, was blessed with her mother’s figure and smile, and, had she been less chatty, might have been a real contender for queen. But everyone knew that Prince Gidon despised what he considered insipid women and would certainly never choose one as his queen.
Reggio, a scrawny twelve-year-old and even more stuck up version of Lord Levy, said, “Really, Father, another stray?” He glared at Vrell, then Master Hadar. “They’re not staying for dinner, are they? I’m certain Prince Gidon would not appreciate their presence.”
Vrell shot Reggio her nastiest glare. She had heard he was a squire now. She pitied the knight who had taken him on. Whoever it was had most likely been pressured or paid, or both, by Lord Levy. She would have to ask Achan if he knew.
If he would still speak to her.
Marietta stood from the couch and skipped up to Vrell. She took her hand and twirled underneath Vrell’s arm. “Can I borrow him, Father? He’s ever so polite and not too tall.”
Lord Levy looked up from his pipe. “Borrow him for what?”
“To practice dancing. My chambermaid doesn’t do the boy part very well, and I want to be the best dancer at Prince Gidon’s wedding.”
“He’s announced a bride?” Jacqueline clutched Lord Levy’s arm, jerking the pipe from his lips. “Father?”
Lord Levy sighed and moved his pipe to his other hand. “Nothing has been formally announced, but it appears the match will be made with Mandzee Hamartano.”
Jacqueline shrieked. “Mandzee! Oh, Mother! How will I tolerate her as queen? It’s not fair. Am I not pretty enough?”
Vrell stood silently beside Master Hadar, glad to have been momentarily forgotten.
“Oh, Jacqueline,” Lord Levy said, “you’re a jewel. You must understand that this marriage is more for the political match than the prince’s fancy. That I know from Lord Nathak. Mandzee Hamartano is from Jaelport, a strong city far south and in Darkness. An alliance with them will fortify the area for the kingdom.”
“It will fortify my forever being subject to Mandzee’s scorn,” Jacqueline said. “She’ll never let me forget this.”
“Then you shouldn’t have told her he’d pick you,” Marietta said.
Jacqueline stuck out her tongue at Marietta.
Vrell worked to keep her reaction internal. If Mandzee Hamartano really was to be queen, Vrell would have to consider moving across the sea. Jaelportian women had an eerily persuasive way about them. It was little wonder how she was chosen as Prince Gidon’s bride. She had simply worked her magic, whatever it was.
Reggio sighed dramatically. “Who cares about queens and weddings?” He turned to Lord Levy. “Has the stray that attacked the prince been sentenced?”
“Sentenced? A stray has no right to trial, as far as I’m concerned,” Lord Levy said. “I believe Lord Nathak is keeping him in our dungeons for now.”
“Why not execute him?” Reggio said. “I could do it, if you’d let me use an executioner’s axe.”
Lady Fallina sucked in a sharp breath. “Reggio! For shame, to think of such things.”
“Your mother is right,” Lord Levy said. “That’s no job for a young lord. Besides, a slow death is more appropriate for a man who attacks the future king.”
Vrell glared at Master Hadar, but he avoided her gaze. They remained silent until the valet announced dinner. Master Hadar excused them, and he and Vrell walked back to his chambers.
Vrell could scarcely hold her tongue. “Forgive me, Master, but will you allow the squire to die? Did you not want him as a second apprentice?”
Master Hadar hummed. “I do, but there are things you don’t understand, boy. First, many consider me a stray.”
“You, Master?” No wonder he despised the orange tunic.
“Yes. Lord Levy seeks to be rid of me. But I’ve lived here since before he was born and have made myself indispensable. Still, I haven’t the rank to make demands of noblemen.”
Something was odd about such a confession. Vrell needed to contact Mother to see if Uncle Livna had information on who Macoun Hadar really was.
Master Hadar went on. “Prince Gidon is about to take his throne, but the Council has ruled for thirteen years. They do not relish the thought of giving up control completely. Lord Levy knows of my arrangement with Lord Nathak to use my gifts to watch over the prince. Despite his feelings toward me, Lord Levy is willing to give me a seat on the New Council if I keep him apprised of the king’s pla
ns.
“For that I need your help.” They reached the staircase and Master Hadar paused. “The problem is, watching weakens you. The squire, then, is the perfect solution. But Lord Nathak refuses to give him to me. And I need Lord Nathak’s alliance to watch the prince’s mind, or he’ll tell the prince to block me. Prince Gidon cannot bloodvoice, but he knows how to block against those who seek to penetrate his thoughts. So you see, I have no remedy at present.”
Vrell stared at her master’s sunken eyes. She had heard the Council was corrupt, but this was lunacy. If Master Hadar reported every move and thought of Prince—no: King—Gidon, the king would have no control. The Council had been meant to disband once the king was in place, had it not? They should be seeking less control over the future king, not more.
And what was this talk of a New Council? Did Mother know of it? Would any one individual rule Er’Rets, or would it be run by everyone? With mini agendas and political coups, factions would rise up. Er’Rets would be at war with itself. And since everyone hated Gidon as prince, King Gidon would fall. Then what?
Master Hadar left her on the eighth floor, and Vrell continued on to the third floor. It was late. The torches on the stairwell had burned low. She lit a candle in her room and scraped her teeth, washed her face, and combed out her tangled hair. She climbed under her thin wool blanket and blew out the light. She did not like the blackness that shrouded her when the candle was out. With so much stone in the fortress, the smallest sound magnified as if it were inches away.
She lay awake praying Arman might show her what to do. Vrell wanted to help Er’Rets but could see no way to make a difference. She set her mind on finding Sir Rigil and freeing Achan before he was made to become Master Hadar’s pawn—or was killed for a crime he didn’t commit.
She tried bloodvoicing Achan but could find no sense of him despite holding the lock of hair she had cut from his head when he had been out with fever. Either he had run out of karpos fruit or he had perfected blocking.
By Darkness Hid Page 31