To Darkness Fled (17 page)

The unattainable expectation gnawed at Achan. He reached up to Scout's saddle horn. "How do you know this?"

Sir Gavin looked down on Achan. "It was that way for your father. And it's written in the Book of Life."

Achan heaved himself back onto Scout. He'd never heard of such a book.

"Where is the book now?" Sparrow asked.

Sir Gavin sighed. "Only Prince Oren knows. Lord Nathak didn't find it a worthy enough treasure when he took Owr and the crown jewels from the palace at Armonguard."

Sparrow huffed, as if he had been a Kingsguard knight with Sir Gavin all these years and took this personally. "They discard the one treasure that matters."

Achan might as well be listening to one of Minstrel Harp's long tales. Could this truly be his life? Destined to be the most powerful bloodvoicer? Arman had not spoken to him since he stood before the Council of Seven.

What if he'd imagined it?

* * *

As they rode through Darkness, Vrell tried to picture Bran's face. She could see his sandy brown hair, brown eyes, and sunburned skin individually but could not put it all together.

Had it been so long?

Once she got home, her first task would be to plan her wedding. She envisioned herself in a blue gown standing with Bran before the priest and all their friends and family.

Yet in her vision Bran scowled down.
I revoke my proposal, my lady.

A winepress squeezed Vrell's heart.
But...why?

You are thin and homely and look like a boy. I wanted to be Lord of Carm, but that is not reason enough to settle for one such as you.

Vrell tensed, throat burning.
But you said I was beautiful. You called me a dove.

That was long ago. I've had time to think. I mean, you've been dressed a boy for months and no one has ever doubted that is what you are. I'm to be a knight. How could I marry someone like that?

But you love me. You told Achan about me.

Only to brag. If you were here, maybe I could be persuaded, but you cannot expect me to wait forever. There are many truly pretty girls in Er'Rets.

Please, Bran, this is so unlike you. I do not...

Vrell gripped her reins and snapped back to her physical location. Another trick of Darkness? It had been a long while since she had spoken to another. "Sir Gavin, can we talk aloud? My thoughts are beginning to wander."

"Of course. Caleb?"

Sir Caleb filled the miles with tales of the kings of old. Hours later, they made camp on what Sir Gavin claimed was a sandbar that ran for miles along
Arok
Lake
. The air was cool and damp this close to the water. After a meal of smoked fish and flatbread, Achan and Vrell practiced swordplay around a red torchlight stabbed into the sand. Sir Gavin kept watch with his nose and mind.

The red glow cast eerie shadows over Achan's face. It was difficult to see his sword when he swung it above his head.

"I like having my own weapon, even if it is a poor thing." Vrell held her sword the way Achan held his. "I felt so vulnerable without one."

"A man does tend to walk taller with a sword at his side." Achan swung at her legs and she managed to parry his blow. "I did when I first wore
Eagan
's Elk."

Vrell hid her smile. Achan walked taller every time he wore--she lowered her sword. "Did you say
Eagan Elk
?"

The red flame sparkled in Achan's eyes. "
Eagan
's
Elk. Aye. That's my sword's name."

Vrell's mind spun. "Really?"

Achan grinned, lopsided. "What? Don't you like it?"

"Oh, no. It is a fine name." Only Vrell had heard the name Eagan Elk from her mother. It was a person's name. An odd name for a sword.

Achan tapped his blade against Vrell's. "Why don't you name yours?"

Vrell frowned at her little sword, feeling foolish to have paid so much for a weapon Achan found so inferior. Though she had only paid for half. Jax had paid the balance. Had the giant known the weapon was so flawed? "I would not know how to name a sword."

"Why not a name to fit the bearer? You're small and witty. How about Little Kwon or Firefox?" Achan broke out into a wide grin. "What about Gebfly?"

Vrell clicked her tongue. "Are you calling me a locust?"

"They
are
pests."

"Are you calling me a pest?"

Achan shrugged. "If the boot fits."

Vrell raised her weapon to middle guard and spread her feet in the sand, ready to fight. "I like Firefox, thank you."

Achan's hearty laugh made her crack a smile. "Very well. But I suggest you get it sharpened when next we stop, or
Dullfox
might be a more appropriate title."

Vrell gritted her teeth and swung. Achan dodged and Vrell lunged past. He slid an arm around her neck and brought his blade to her throat. "Hmm. Maybe
Slowfox
."

She jammed her elbow into Achan's ribs.

He released her, chuckling. "
Ticklefox
?"

She lifted her weapon again. "Arrogance does not suit you, Your Highness."

He raised his eyebrows. "Nor does the title
Your Highness
." He swung at her waist.

Stubborn man. Vrell lifted to parry, but his blade whacked her hip. She stumbled sideways, kicking up sand, thankful for the cushion of her disguise. It would not stop Achan's blade for long. "Maybe we should not drill without armor."

"We don't have any armor, and you want to learn to protect yourself. Besides, I'm not even swinging hard."

He went easy on her for a while. It bolstered her courage to hear Firefox hit his blade, but the exercise tired her quickly. Thankfully, he stopped often to explain things.

"If you parry with the edge, you dull your blade further. Parry with the flat... Don't try to defend from back guard. It leaves you vulnerable... Back up, Sparrow. No one in his right mind would begin with swords crossed... You swing too slow. Try for a combination of strong, quick thrusts. Your goal is to weaken my guard, to break it so you can strike."

Finally Vrell could take no more. She fell onto her rear in the sand, gasping for air, limbs aching. "I am pathetic." She took a short breath. "None of this will make a bit of difference." Another breath. "I am simply not strong enough."

Achan sat beside her and leaned back on his elbows, panting. "Remind me your age."

"I will be fifteen years this fall." Eighteen, actually, but who would believe her to be a seventeen-year-old man?

Achan took a deep breath. "So you're small for your age. Sir Caleb said he'd teach you some tricks. I'm no expert. You recall how Sir Kenton nearly killed me?"

She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "Achan, you are incredibly brave. You struck down at least ten Poroo."

"So? Poroo are terrible warriors. That's why they attack from the trees."

"Still, I would have run from the battles you faced. Sir Kenton has been a knight many years--and he betrayed your father. You have been sword-fighting how long? Three months? I could not have done all you have. I would never have tried."

Achan stared into the red flame, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. Always so hard on himself. Blaming himself.

Despite Vrell's best efforts, the cut on Achan's cheek had healed in a long, red slash. And his other cheek looked even worse after the fight with the black knights.

Achan dug a hole in the sand with the heel of his boot. "We each have our skills, I suppose. Just know, Sparrow, you're as much a hero with your bag of weeds as any of us are with a sword."

Vrell lifted her sword. "Fire
weed
?"

Achan chuckled. "I think
Weed
says it best."

Vrell and Achan put away their weapons and crawled into their bedrolls. Sir Gavin put out the torchlight, and Vrell replayed Achan's words again and again in her mind.

He thought she was a hero.

13

Achan held his shield over his head to protect it from the rocks the Poroo pitched from the treetops. The melon-sized stones clunked against the wood with such force that his forearm continually bashed against the top of his head.

A Poroo warrior charged from the side, spear held high. Achan lowered his shield in time to deflect the spear, but a rock struck his unprotected head and he crumpled. The Poroo poured out of the trees upon him, massing, swarming.

A screech woke Achan. He pressed his hands against moist sand and pushed himself to a sitting position, relieved the Poroo had only been in a nightmare. He patted the sand. Where was his bedroll? He blinked into the surrounding void, straining to see any sign of movement.

"Sir Gavin?"

The darkness returned only silence.

"Who's on watch? Inko? Sparrow?"

Achan's voice seemed so loud. Could he still be dreaming? He raised his voice. "Hello? Sir Caleb?" The sound sent a throb through his skull. Wincing, he lifted a hand and found a tender lump on the back of his head.

His stomach lurched. Had someone attacked while he'd been sleeping? Poroo?

He got to his knees and reached out to his right, then left, patting the moist ground, hoping to get his bearings, hoping he'd simply rolled off the bedroll in his sleep. Wet sand wedged under his fingernails. No bedroll.

Nothing but sand.

His heart pounded faster. "Sir Gavin?"

A piercing squawk answered from Achan's left. He cringed, eyes darting around the dark, searching for any change in the inky-black hue. One of the demon birds was close. He quickly fortified his mind, then reached out.

Sir Gavin?

His temple twitched, but no name accompanied the knock. He took care not to attack in case this was a test.

Sir Caleb?

Achan sought out Inko's mind next. Why did no one answer? Had they been taken? Killed?

Sparrow?

Whoever was trying to penetrate his mind increased their efforts. Achan's temples throbbed more than the welt on the back of his head. The pressure increased tenfold, brutal, forceful. Achan clutched his face and bent forward until his forehead met the grainy sand. He screamed.

An oily voice magnified in his mind.
Get up.

Unable to disagree with the voice, Achan gritted his teeth and stood. In his head, he multiplied himself ten times and surrounded the fortress of his mind, forcing the oily voice, and its control, out. The pain subsided. He called for Sir Gavin again, then Sir Caleb, then Sparrow.

No one answered.

A green light shot into the air and hovered above his head, illuminating the sandy terrain in an eerie glow.

Achan released a long breath laced with a moan.

Black knights.

He squatted, groped for his sword. Pig snout! Where was it?

Four men slid into the green glow, dressed in black armor with hard black masks. The one on the end held his hand aloft, pointing at the green orb above Achan's head. Achan studied them, pausing on the third knight in the line. Lofty bean pole posture and graceful stride brought a familiar fury.

Silvo Hamartano?

The third knight lifted his hand and a green ball of light shot out from his palm, up above his head, lighting more of the sandbar and the greasy black hair at the top of his mask.

It
was
Silvo.

Achan punched one fist into his other hand. The bezel and crest on Prince Oren's ring pressed inside his palm. He rubbed his thumb over his engraving, sought his uncle's face, and called out.
Prince Oren?

His uncle's voice shot into him with a staggering force.
Achan? What is it?