From Darkness Won (44 page)

Achan’s gaze roamed the wagon, searching the bottles for more wine, but his sights snagged on a set of dark brown eyes.

Sir Gavin Lukos.

Achan shook away the buzzing in his head. He blinked at the girl sitting in the back of Kurtz’s wagon. She was Lady Tara, yet she was not, for Tara’s eyes were blue. But this maiden had the same golden ringlets and sly smile that had weakened Achan’s knees.

“Challa, would you like to dance with the prince?” Kurtz lowered his voice. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, Your Highness, you look like you could use a dance.”

Achan stared at the girl. “Yes, I think so too.”

Challa crawled to the end of the wagon, an unladylike thing to do, for the position bared more flesh of her neckline than Sparrow would ever find appropriate.

Achan averted his eyes, then cursed himself for thinking of Sparrow again. Would she haunt him forever?

“Help me down, Yer Highness?”

The uncultured edge to Challa’s voice curled Achan’s lips into a small smile. She sat on the end of the wagon, kicking her bare feet and holding out both hands. He took them and tugged her forward. She jumped off the wagon and into his arms.

She did that on purpose.

Sparrow again. The words she’d said when Lady Jaira had fallen against Achan back in Mirrorstone.

Get out of my head, Sparrow, Achan told himself.

He stepped back from Challa and bowed.

She tipped her head back and laughed. “Such a gentleman, yeh are. No one’s ever bowed to me before.”

“A crime, my lady, for you look like a noblewoman I know.”

Challa giggled. “A noblewoman? Me?”

“Aye.” Achan bowed again, delighted by her laughter. “My lady Challa, may I request the honor of a dance?”

“Well, I already said I’d dance, didn’t I?”

Achan grabbed her hand and waist, and they joined the crowd of dancers. They danced a long while, stopped for a drink, and danced some more. The crowd seemed delighted by Achan’s presence, and he reveled in their unabashed attention. Then somehow—though Achan could not remember when it happened or whose idea it had been—he and Challa ended up
l
ying on their stomachs underneath Kurtz’s wagon, watching the dancers from the waist down and trying to guess who was who.

“That’s Shung and Lady Gali, for I’d recognize those charmice tails anywhere,” Achan said. “And there is Kurtz.”

“No, Yer Highness, Kurtz has brown boots, not black. He’s there.” Challa pointed to the other side of the clearing.

Achan squinted. Everything blurred together. “The torches must be burning low, Lady Challa, for I can hardly see your hand let alone where you’re pointing.”

She waved her hand in front of his face.

He laughed. “Now
that
I see.”

Challa set her hand against his cheek and turned his face away from the dancers. The torchlight reflected in her eyes like sparks from a firesteel. And suddenly she was kissing him, hungrily, like he was food and she hadn’t eaten in days.

He gasped for breaths between kisses, surprised by her affection, wondering if he should say something, but not wanting her to stop. She slid her hand up his tunic and clawed at his back like a baby cham bear.

Achan heard himself whimper, sensed the barrage of words Sir Caleb might say, but kept all rational thought at bay, remaining firmly in the fog thrilling his senses.

Challa pushed him to his back and crawled on top, nearly bumping her head on the bottom of the wagon. Dried grass pricked the back of his neck, but she kissed him again, and he forgot the irritation. Her kisses grew more intense.

A distant song broke through the fog. A woman’s voice, growing nearer. Familiar tune. Familiar lyrics. Achan held his breath, frozen like a rabbit that sensed a predator. Challa moved her kisses to his neck.

“… apart. Whenever we’re apart. Though I am nothing to you, I love—”

“Fool song knows nothing.” Shung’s voice was a low growl. “Gali is Shung’s moon, stars. Shung’s everything.”

“Aww. But still…” And Lady Gali finished the song. “I love you. How can I make it known, that I love you?”

Her voice… It raked over Achan like an icy wind.

He recalled Sir Eagan’s words from his manhood ceremony.
“It is a man’s duty to protect a lady’s honor.”

And Sir Caleb’s said during one of many lectures,
“It’s the very things a man never intends to do that sneak up and ensnare him.”

Achan gripped Challa’s shoulders and pushed her off him. “Forgive me, Challa. You are worth more than this.”

“You want to pay me more?”

Achan blinked, squinting to see her face in the darkness under the wagon. “Pay you?”

“Well, Kurtz, he already paid me plenty of—”

Achan sat up and bashed his head against the bottom of the wagon. He groaned through the pain and crawled out from under the wagon’s edge on his knees and one hand, the other hand clutching his head. He stood, and his vision swam in a blurry haze. He grabbed the wagon box to steady himself. When the dizzy spell passed, he crouched down and found Challa giggling.

“Are yeh all right, Yer Highness?”

Achan spoke softly, hoping to ease the pressure in his head. “I mean to say… that I am drunk on wine and pain. It was wrong of me to take advantage of you.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, Yer Highness.”

She didn’t mind? “You should, Challa.” Shouldn’t she?

Not his problem. He stumbled away. Movement behind him caused him to turn, ready to apologize to Challa again if need be, but it was only his Kingsguard shadows. Both men averted their eyes when Achan looked their way. They had been standing nearby the whole night, he had no doubt.

He turned, cheeks blazing, and trudged out of the clearing. The path ahead blurred the tents together. He tripped over a guy line and barely caught his balance before his shadows swooped in to coddle him again.

“I’m fine!” He held out his hands to prove it and give his balance time to return. He stepped slowly along the path. Every movement sent pangs of nausea through his stomach.

“Your Highness! Wait!” Kurtz’s voice, behind him.

Achan gritted his teeth, angry at Kurtz, angrier still at himself.

Kurtz wrapped an arm around Achan and pulled his head into the crook of his arm. “What happened, Pacey? Of all the women I’ve met tonight, Challa is by far the most beautiful. Did she do something wrong?”

“You paid her to dance with me.”

Kurtz rubbed his hand in Achan’s hair. “Aww, don’t take it that way, eh? We paid the lot of them to come. And Challa would have danced with you on her own, she would. Don’t you go doubting that, eh? Why not take her with us as your concubine? She can travel with you in your wagon. Sleep in your tent. And once you reside in the palace at Armonguard, you can give her a room in a different part of the castle from your wife.” Kurtz slapped the flat of his hand against Achan’s stomach and lowered his voice. “It’s always best to keep them apart from one another, it is.”

Concubine? Achan’s head throbbed. “I would never destroy her life by doing such a thing.”

Kurtz raised both eyebrows. “She’s a prostitute, Your Highness. If she became your concubine you’d be
improving h
er life, eh?”

The breath rushed from Achan’s lungs. “How old is she? Surely no more than sixteen years?”

“I know better than to ask a woman her age.” Kurtz clapped him on the back. “You’d be doing her a favor to take her from here. Imagine, a peasant prostitute moves into the Armonguard palace. Minstrels would write songs about her.”

“I—” Unwelcome thoughts of Challa’s smile filled Achan’s mind. “No, Kurtz. That is not how Arman would have me live—or Challa—or my queen.”

Whoever she may be.

“Bah! Foolhardy nonsense. Your father had many concubines, he did.”

Achan wrinkled his nose. “No.” King Axel had loved his queen ever since he knew boys and girls were different. Sir Gavin had said so.

“Eh… forgive me, Your Highness, but the king had dozens, he did. Mistresses too. Saw it with my own eyes more times than I can count. There’s no harm in it, eh? All men of power have the right, they do.”

A wave of nausea peaked in Achan’s stomach. He took a deep breath and pulled away. “Good evening, Kurtz.” He trudged through the camp, head pounding as if something inside were trying to push its way out.

Achan had painted a vivid history of his parents’ relationship in his mind. But it was based on songs sung by minstrels and snippets of stories from the knights. He pawed through
h
is memories, seeking some hint he may have forgotten. Surely Kurtz was mistaken.

Achan ducked into his tent, got tangled in the drape under the valance, and beat it away. His shoulder struck the edge of the doorway, shaking the entire structure. He stumbled inside. A lone candle burned. Achan squinted in the low light, trying to make out the best path to his bed.

“Your Highness.” Sir Caleb’s voice came from somewhere nearby. “I was just about to message you.”

Achan wanted—no, needed—to lie down. He spotted a large patch of blue to his left and stumbled toward it. His feet carried him slightly askew. He focused on the blue blankets and his course veered true.

“Where have you been?” Sir Caleb’s voice spun around him, coming from everywhere at once. “Have you been drinking?”

Achan turned toward the candlelight. His eyes stung. He could barely make out Sir Caleb, sitting at the table. “A bit.”

Sir Caleb stood and snapped his fingers. “Dismissed.”

Achan’s heart leapt at the sound. “Dismissed from what?” Footsteps scraped over dirt behind Achan. He turned to see his guardsmen trudge away. “Oh, them.” He scowled. “What
is
my cousin’s name? I can’t remember.”

“Manu Pitney.” Sir Caleb motioned Achan toward him.

Achan walked that direction and banged his shin against something solid. “Pig snout.” He cowered and rubbed his leg. In front of him, the chaise lounge came into view.

“Sit,” Sir Caleb said.

Achan lowered himself down slowly, careful not to jar his aching head. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for Sir Caleb’s lecture.

“You smell… pretty.”

And there it was. A hint of chastisement in tone. Achan sighed, not unhappy to have the subject broached. For he wanted answers of his own. “Kurtz said…” Achan lowered his voice. “He said my father kept concubines.” He opened his eyes, concentrating to focus on Sir Caleb’s expression.

Sir Caleb pursed his lips then sighed. “If King Axel had been present the night of your manhood ceremony, I’ve no doubt he would have confessed that very thing.”

Achan wilted. “But I thought… He and my mother…”

“He loved your mother very much.”

“Then why—?”

“Certain things snare a man. Women. Power. The pipe. Anger. Wine.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t judge your father on his mistakes alone. For Arman conquered his snares. From the moment of your birth your father never paid mind to any woman but your mother. Arman changed him.”

What did
that
mean? For Achan knew Arman, and he had nearly lost himself in Challa’s embrace. Was he not changed? “There was a girl. Kurtz introduced us. I didn’t know she was a prostitute.”