By Darkness Hid (15 page)

In her dream, the man dropped to his knees and moaned. He was in pain. There was still blood.

Your home, dear,
Mother said.
Where is it?

The man yelled,
Please stop! Stop!

And then all was silent.

Part 3

Unwelcome Changes

7

A rap on the skull woke Achan.

Groggy, he rose onto one elbow to find a dozen serving women fussing about the cellar, throwing potatoes, turnips, and onions into wicker baskets. Why were they in the cellar at this hour? He blinked his sleepy eyes, trying to remember the occasion, thankful he had slept in his trousers.

Poril scurried by the ale casks and reached down to knock Achan on the head with sharp knuckles again. “Up! There’s much to do, and Poril needs yeh up and able.”

Ah, yes. Prince Gidon’s coming-of-age celebration began today. And Achan hadn’t even milked the goats. He reached up, wincing at his sore shoulder muscles, and grabbed his tunic, which had dried in a stiff, triangular shape over the spout of the ale cask. He pulled it over his head and struggled to straighten it while lying down. He tied the rope belt and crawled out. Achan’s head pounded, so he took the narrow stone steps slowly.

The kitchens bustled with activity, warmth, and a mixture of scents: robust spices, fresh herbs, burnt toast, steamy soups, fish, and bloody meat. The meat smell turned Achan’s stomach, bringing the doe to mind. And that reminded him of the voices—the culprits behind his throbbing skull.

Poril had apparently recruited every serving woman in Sitna Manor to help prepare the dinner feast, and they were deep into gossip as usual.

“What you s’pose his skin looks like under that mask?” one of them asked, chopping a carrot into slices.

“I’ve heard it’s dark, like dried venison.”

“Well, if I’s the Duchess, I’d not marry him neither, him bein’ half-a man.”

Achan dodged between elbows, reaching arms, and twirling brown skirts, navigating toward the exit. He grabbed the milk pail from the shelf above the door and went outside heading for the stables.

The outer bailey had never been so crowded before dawn. Throngs of foreign servants darted around on various errands. Pages led horses—some already wearing their jousting armor and banners—to and from the stables. A dozen slaves dragged long slabs of wood toward the drawbridge. The butcher—apron soaked in blood—had wheeled his cart close to the kitchens. His apprentice fought to hold down the wings of a flapping goose. Achan passed by just before the chop of the axe severed the bird’s neck.

In the barn, Achan milked the goats quickly despite his exhaustion. When he set the milk on the table in the kitchens, Poril shoved a mug of tonic into his chest. “Drink.”

The bitter smell jogged Achan’s memory. Yesterday, Sir Gavin had suggested the tonic was poison—not able to kill, but bad in some way. Certainly not healthy.

A sharp throb bit through his skull.

Tell me where you live.

Are you there? Speak to me!

Achan’s heart rate increased at the voices in his head. He closed his eyes and focused on the allown tree, the sunset, the wind.

Something hard cracked on his head. “Ow!”

Poril stood before him, his knuckles raised to strike again. “Poril has no time for games today, boy. Drink now. And let Poril see yeh do it.”

Pig snout.
Achan would get the truth from Sir Gavin today about this tonic.

He guzzled the bitter goo and stumbled to the mentha basket. He chewed a few leaves and began to feel better.

The serving women continued their gossip about Lord Nathak and the Duchess of Carm. One of them heaved a plucked goose from one table to another and began to stuff it with spices. “Does he really think cuttin’ off her supplies is gallant?”

“He’s got no sense,” said another, waving a wooden spoon. “Just look how Prince Gidon treats his women. ’Twas Lord Nathak who raised him, that’s clear enough.”

Achan went for firewood. The morning dawn had cast its pale light over the manor. The sky was clear. It would be a warm day. He found the outer bailey even more crowded now and was thankful the firewood was near the kitchens and he did not have to carry it far. By the time he returned, his head and stomach felt fine.

As he stepped into the sweltering kitchens he spotted Sir Gavin. The old knight had cornered Poril near the ovens. Achan dropped the wood beside the largest hearth and added a few pieces to the fire. He watched Sir Gavin and Poril between the bustling skirts, and strained to hear their conversation.

At length, Poril shouted, “Boy!” and the women cleared a path.

Achan hurried over, hoping to be sent with Sir Gavin again, but the knight had left.

“Yeh’ll go with the good knight, yeh will. Soon as yer done, get back, yeh hear?”

Achan swallowed his smile. “Yes, Master Poril.” He scurried out of the kitchens, running to catch up with Sir Gavin, whom he spotted striding toward the inner bailey.

The knight glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve little time to dress you for tournament.”

Achan stopped. Tournament? “You can’t think I’m ready to
compete
?” He made himself run to catch up again. “I’ve never even touched a sharp blade.”

“Whether you’re ready or not, you’ll do your best. A squire must see his blood flow and feel his teeth crack under an adversary’s strike. Just standing in the ring is an act of courage, and you need to work on yours.”

Achan didn’t like the sound of fighting squires who were much more advanced, but he wasn’t about to let Sir Gavin call him a coward. “I’m brave.”

“In some things, aye, in others…”

Achan frowned and followed Sir Gavin through the gate that led to the inner bailey.

To their left, the keep stretched six levels into the pale blue sky. A grassy courtyard spread out between it and the hedged walls of Cetheria’s temple gardens. The temple itself lay at the far right of the inner bailey. Achan rarely came this far into the fortress, unless he had direct orders to. Doing so without permission was a good way to earn an extra beating. Still, he occasionally snuck as close to the temple garden walls as possible to leave an offering. He wasn’t allowed inside the temple itself.

The fortress was crowded. Servants, stewards, valets, and maids from all over Er’Rets dashed about on errands for their masters. As Achan climbed the narrow steps that led to the upper levels of the keep, he paused to peek from an arrow loop. Outside the manor, dozens of tents and pavilions had popped up like tarts in the northern field, each waving colorful banners and crests. Most the guests had arrived yesterday while Achan was hunting. Skilled knights and squires from distant cities had come to—what was it Sir Gavin had said?—spill their blood and crack their teeth?

The jousting field sat farthest away. A long white tent with a red and white striped awning covered the grandstands beside it. Achan could see a horse and rider dart down the field in a practice run. Closer to the manor, square pens were set up to host a variety of events: hand-to-hand combat, the axe, the sword. Achan would’ve liked to spend the day out there, watching, learning, and, maybe someday, competing.

He followed Sir Gavin to the fourth floor and down a dark hallway to the knight’s bedchamber. It was a nice room with a bed, a sideboard, a fireplace, and a chair by a window that overlooked the tournament field.

A boy Achan’s age stood near the fireplace, two stools beside him—one empty, the other holding a basin of water.

“Off with your clothes and sit,” Sir Gavin said. “Wils will get you clean.”

Achan eyed Wils warily. “I washed last night at the well.”

Sir Gavin raised a bushy white eyebrow, his moustache arcing in a frown. “You’re the most obstinate squire I’ve ever heard of. Will you simply obey without question, for once?”

Achan’s cheeks burned. He stripped down to his linen undershorts. “I can wash myself.”

“Sit in silence, Achan, please!” Sir Gavin walked behind Achan. “If you are to be a squire—” He gasped. “Eben’s breath, lad. What have they done to your back?”

Achan shifted and folded his arms. So he had a lot of scars on his back. What stray didn’t?

Sir Gavin’s calloused finger tapped Achan’s left shoulder. “You have a birthmark.”

Achan twisted his neck. He could never see the brand clearly. “It’s the mark of the stay, sir. Don’t you have such a mark?”

“No, I do not, but that is not what I refer to. The skin is red
under
your brand. A simple brand doesn’t do that.”

Achan looked again, pawing at his shoulder to see, but it was physically impossible to get a look. “I don’t know. Maybe I do have a birthmark.”

Sir Gavin walked to the window. He fell into a chair and sighed. “I was unable to speak with Lord Nathak yesterday. He was ‘not to be disturbed.’”

The serving boy, Wils, rubbed a small brush over a brick of soap and attacked Achan’s back, dipping the brush into the water basin and applying more soap after every few scrubs.

Achan scowled, feeling awkward and exposed. “Is that bad?” He was too distracted by Wils’s brush to remember why Sir Gavin had wanted to speak with Lord Nathak.

“Not necessarily. I wanted to make it official with him before entering you in the tournament…out of courtesy.” Sir Gavin stood. “I’ll try once more. Wait for me here. We’ll go to the field together.”

They’d better. Achan certainly wasn’t going out by himself. He wanted to say something to Sir Gavin about the tonic, but he didn’t want Wils to hear. So he sat still and allowed the valet to scrub him until his skin turned pink.

*          *          *

Never in all his life had Achan been so…fragrant. On the top half anyway. He wouldn’t let Wils near the rest of him. The valet had washed Achan’s hair with rosewater and braided it. Achan fingered the plait. A tail tied with a leather thong was all the patience he’d ever had for such things.

Wils held up a mirrorglass. Achan stared at it, glanced at Wils, then leaned forward. He’d never seen a mirrorglass. He’d never seen his face at all, except in the river or the moat or the dishwater. He studied his reflection, pleased he didn’t find himself ugly. His skin was tan like the shell of a walnut. Black hair was pulled back into the braided tail, straight and smooth. Did that make his heritage kinsman?

He had a good face, he thought. A bit square, but not long and oval like Noam’s or fat and round like Riga’s. Wils had even shaved him, something Achan had never done despite the few wisps of hair on his chin. His cheeks and neck still tingled from the razor’s edge.

Achan leaned closer to the mirrorglass. His eyes were blue. He hadn’t known that about himself. Blue eyes were also a kinsman trait. He leaned back and nodded to Wils, who set the mirrorglass on a shelf over the fire. Achan smiled. He was kinsman.

Wils helped him dress. First a thin white linen tunic and scratchy black wool leggings, then a padded, long-waisted wool tunic with long sleeves. After that, Wils had Achan sit on the bed so he could lower a thick coat of steel chain over his head. It draped heavily on his shoulders.

“How am I supposed to swing a sword with this extra bulk and weight?”

Wils shrugged and pulled another tunic—this one of fine yellow linen—over the chain. Fancy ties hung from the neck. Achan tried to lace them.

Wils swatted his hands away. “I’ll do it.” He ignored the ties and, with a small smile, presented a black leather jerkin. “Last one.”

Achan held out his arms so that Wils could slip the vest-like garment onto him. The leather was soft and a bit worn, but of high quality. Gren would approve.

Achan never realized how much clothing noblemen wore. He hoped Master Fenny might see him dressed in such finery. Maybe he might change his mind and give Gren to him after all. Not even Riga had a coat of chain.

Riga. Achan suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to see him. What if Achan were humiliated? What if he were killed?

One of the loops on the chain coat irritated his neck, and he scratched at it while Wils laced up the tunic and jerkin. It would take Achan an hour to get everything off.

“Ready for your belt and sword, Master Cham?”

Wils had been doing that, calling him Master Cham, like he was someone special. Achan had burst into laughter the first three times, but this time his mouth hung open. He was to have a belt and sword? A real steel sword? “Where?”

Wils went to the window and returned with a brown leather belt studded with steel and pale blue stones. A carved wooden scabbard hung from the belt, holding a sword that had an ivory grip. Achan could only gape as Wils fastened the belt around his waist. His life was worth far less than one jewel on this belt.

When Wils backed away, Achan drew the sword. The sound of metal scraping against wood sent a tingle up his arms. He studied the carved ivory grip wrapped in worn leather, the long steel blade with one raised rib along the flat and a rounded tip—no good for thrusting—and the engraved copper and steel crossguard with some sort of ivory fish set into the center. He could almost imagine himself a Kingsguard knight.

The door burst open, and Sir Gavin spoke, out of breath. “Pompous man. Can’t be bothered, not even for a—” He stopped and looked Achan up and down, jaw hanging open as if he had remembered something important. He shook it off. “Good, you’re ready. I’ve entered you in the first round lists. If we don’t hurry, you’ll miss your chance.”

Achan held up the sword, eyes wide. “This belongs to you?”

Sir Gavin thumped Achan on the back. “Belongs to you now.”

“But, sir! I can’t possibly accept something so fine. I’ll be killed for it in my sleep.”