By Darkness Hid (40 page)

“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 thing 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. Poor, 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.

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?”