Lord Nathak stared at Achan, his visible eye wide and fearful.
Achan turned on his heel and exited the solar, the air in the hallway hitting him as if he’d stepped into the kitchens when all the pots were boiling. As Chora led him down to the fourth level, Achan’s mind replayed what had just happened.
He was a squire to the prince now? Was that on top of working in the kitchens, or was he now permanently free from Poril? He’d been through so many reversals in the last few days he didn’t know what to believe. And what had Lord Nathak been afraid of? His concern for the prince’s safety with Achan as a sparring partner was laughable. It was Achan he should worry about, not that he ever would.
Chora knocked once on a narrow door and pushed it open. This appeared to be a sewing room. It was long and narrow with a single arrow loop window at one end. Bolts of linen and silk in a rainbow of colors lined one wall. Along the other wall, two women sat sewing, a third worked a loom, and a fourth cut red velvet on a table in the corner.
A short, pudgy woman with straight pins tucked into the cuffs of her sleeves turned from a bin of shirts and perched her fists on her wide hips. “What’s this?”
“Lord Nathak wants this one dressed as a soldier. He’s to squire for the prince.”
“Is he now?” The woman waddled to Achan and looked him over. Several moles dotted her flabby face. A large one hovered over her left eye. She was so short that her scowling face barely reached Achan’s chest. “He’s as tall as the prince. His Majesty don’t like having his squires so tall.”
“Just dress him, Shelga.” Chora opened the door to leave, then said to Achan, “Once she’s through, come to the armory for a sword.”
Achan nodded and Chora swept from the room.
Shelga motioned to the arrow loop window. “Get yourself into the light where’s I can look at you.”
Achan stepped into the stripe of brightness stretching across the thread-strewn floor.
Shelga snapped her fingers. “That’s far enough.” She drew a cord from around her neck and set about measuring him. “How’d you come by this assignment?”
“Luck, I guess.”
Shelga snorted. “’Tis not luck. The gods have cursed you. Haven’t you seen the prince’s squires limping about? Most are only able to tie nettle-hemp into fishing nets when he’s through with ’em. Unless he injures their hands.”
“What do you mean?” Achan had heard rumors of Prince Gidon’s temper with women, but nothing about his squires.
“You’ll find out. Least you’re his size. Maybe you’ll fare better than the runts he usually takes on. Off with your clothes.”
Achan stood still as she waddled to a row of baskets along the interior wall and pulled an item from each. She waddled back holding a stack of clothing. “Off with ’em! I haven’t got all day to waste on the likes of you.”
Achan groaned inwardly and soon found himself in his undershorts in front of an audience for the second time in as many days. At least he was free of the itchy leggings.
Shelga set the bundle of clothes on a stool and twisted her pudgy lips together. “Well? Think I’m going to dress you?”
Achan snagged the white shirt off the top of the pile, pulled it on, then reached for the trousers. Shelga slapped his hand.
“Take it off. ’Tis too tight. If you can manage to swing at all, you’ll tear it, and I’ve no time for extra mending with the prince’s new wardrobe due.”
Achan stifled a retort. He pulled off the shirt and found Shelga rummaging through a basket across the room. Several of the women had stopped working and were watching him. Achan quickly traded the shirt for the trousers and pulled them on. The shirt slid off the stool onto the floor behind him. He tied the trousers before turning to reach for it.
Shelga gasped.
Achan jumped to his feet and spun around. The woman’s face had turned white, her eyes bulged, and her bottom lip quivered.
“Are you well?” he asked.
She shook out of her trance. “Do they know what you are?”
He blinked at her. “Ma’am?”
“Think with a serving uniform and that handsome face you’ll fool everyone, do you? Well, I’ll not be party to your treason. Kiera! Fetch me Chora straight away.”
“Yes’m.” A portly woman with thick brown braids lumbered for the door. Her face had gone white as well.
Achan couldn’t guess what Shelga was on about. Again he crouched to retrieve the shirt.
Shelga snapped her fingers wildly. “Just you keep your front to me. That clear? I’ll not be looking on that cursed mark again.”
Oh. The mark of the stray. Achan reached across his chest and over his shoulder to finger the brand on the back. “Lord Nathak knows what I am, ma’am. I’m sorry it…surprised you.” But he wasn’t sorry. People had ignored him and bullied him all his life, but never recoiled in horror as if he carried some disease.
Kiera returned. “Chora says he knows, ma’am. He says it’s all right.” She bowed her head to Shelga and scurried back to the loom.
Shelga shot Achan a piercing glare, then thrust another shirt at him and waddled away. “Can’t believe I’m wasting my time dressing a stray. What madness is Lord Nathak up to now?”
Achan shrugged and dressed quickly. This second shirt fit to Shelga’s satisfaction. He pulled a plain black cloak over his head. It didn’t bear the embroidered crest of Mahanaim like Prince Gidon’s personal guards. It was just the uniform of a low-ranking soldier. Still, Achan left the sewing room a little taller. No stray he’d ever heard of had such a position. So far, his punishment felt like a reward.
He doubted the feeling would last.
Achan went straight to the kitchens to explain to Poril, but the cook had left to take lunch to the keep. Achan pulled off the thick, black gloves Shelga had given him and grabbed a chunk of bread. He went downstairs to stow the serving uniform under the ale casks, dreading his upcoming match with Prince Gidon. Achan guessed the prince wanted to humiliate him, perhaps cripple him—hopefully not kill him. But Achan had no intention of going down easily. In fact…
Eagan’s Elk lay tucked under his blanket, the pommel sticking out of one end. Achan dropped to his knees at the ale casks, a soggy clump of bread in his mouth. He threw back the covers and pulled the sword onto his lap.
A sheet of parchment fluttered behind him, and he turned to pick it up. Achan stared at the smudged ink and swallowed the lump of bread.
Tonic
was the only word he recognized. He studied the letters, compared them to what he knew from reading Poril’s lists, and managed to decode most of the short note.
Don’t drink the tonic. I’ll be in touch.
Sir Gavin
He didn’t know what t-o-u-c-h spelled and couldn’t manage to sound it out to any clarity. Could it be a town Sir Gavin had gone to? The scratchy writing looked as if it had been written in a hurry.
Achan stood and buckled Eagan’s Elk around his waist. He took the cellar steps two at a time. He tossed the note into one of the blazing fireplaces before starting off to the stables, pulling on the gloves as he went. Since he no longer needed a sword from the armory, he had enough time to see Noam before he was expected on the practice field.
Achan stepped in to the outer bailey and saw a group of nobles leaving for a hunt. Over two dozen fine horses trotted single file toward the gatehouse, their riders carrying birds or bows. Hounds scampered ahead, excited about the coming chase. A crown of platinum braids caught Achan’s eye. Tara rode full saddle on a chestnut mare, a brown-and-white merlin perched on one hand. She smiled at Achan.
He had never seen a woman ride like a man. Her blue skirts draped over the animal like a tent. Jaira rode beside her on a black courser, sidesaddle, holding a violet-and-black speckled bird. Achan bowed to the ladies, returned Tara’s smile, and entered the stables.
The scent of hay and manure filled his nostrils. The building was set up similar to the barn, with timber walls and a high, thatched gable roof.
Achan found his friend in a stall grooming a white destrier. He crossed his arms atop the fence-like gate. “They’re keeping you busy, I see.”
Noam whistled. “Where’d you get that uniform? Is that a sword?”
Achan fought back a smile. “First tell me this: did you happen to meet Tara?”
“Tara who?”
Achan shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw her on a chestnut mare just now with the hunting party. She rides like a man.”
“A young blonde wearing blue?”
“Aye,” Achan sighed the word.
Noam chuckled. “Yep. I met her. Lady Tara Livna of Tsaftown. She’s very kind.”
“She kissed me—my cheek. Yesterday.”
Noam’s lips parted until his mouth hung wide. “How in all Er’Rets?”
Achan told Noam his tale of the previous day, the fine clothing, Eagan’s Elk, Silvo, Shung, Jaira, and Tara, how he served at the banquet, and meeting Prince Oren.
Noam tugged his comb through the destrier’s tail. “You do get all the excitement.”
“Well, you must have met a lot of the nobles.”
“I met their horses,” Noam said. “Or their servants. Only three nobles spoke to me, one of which was your Lady Tara.”
Achan shut his eyes. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“‘My Lady Tara.’”
Noam whacked him with the comb. “Get over it, halfwit. Now, what’s this you’re wearing today? This is a Kingsguard cloak, not a leather jerkin.”
Achan stepped back and slid down the post across the aisle from the stable Noam was in. He sat on the hay-strewn dirt floor and watched through the gate as Noam braided the horse’s tail. “I’m to serve the prince as squire.”
“What!”
Achan recapped his morning visit to the keep.
“Achan,” Noam’s frown elongated his narrow face, “this is what comes from trying to be something you’re not. This can’t be a promotion.”
Achan lifted a strand of hay in his fingers and twirled it. “What can I do?”
Noam sighed. “Fight as well as you can, keep your eyes open, watch your back, and pray to Cetheria. That’s all you
can
do. You could ask Gren to make an offering for you.”
Achan considered this. All his offerings of late hadn’t changed Gren’s betrothal to Riga. He had nothing of true value to offer Cetheria, except his sword, but he couldn’t give that up in the face of Prince Gidon’s skill. Still, if the goddess was speaking to him now, he should do what he could to stay in her favor. He almost told Noam about the voices, but the mere thought of confessing such a thing out loud was inconceivable.
He changed the topic. “Did you see Sir Gavin leave this morning?
Noam pulled a leather thong from his pocket and wrapped it around the end of the braid. “Aye. Lord Nathak came himself with the instructions to ready Sir Gavin’s horses.”
“I’d hoped he’d take me with him.”
Noam pulled an apple from his pocket and fed it to the destrier. “That would’ve been something.”
Achan’s thoughts drifted to Gren. “Did Gren tell you about Riga?”
“Aye. Poor lass,” Noam said. “I’d poison myself before committing to a life with a Hoff—especially Riga. I see you’ve forsaken her already for
your Lady Tara
.”
Achan’s chest swelled with rage, but he let it out in a groan. He hadn’t thought of Gren since yesterday. How quickly he had allowed life to distract him from her bad fortune.
He silently compared the two women. Both were beautiful. He’d known Gren all his life and would marry her in a breath if he could. He scratched the dirt floor with his gloved finger and cursed his overactive imagination. Lady Tara was of noble birth. If he wasn’t allowed to marry Gren, a peasant, then Noam spoke true. He really was a halfwit to even waste thoughts on Tara. He sighed.
“Why do you think Sir Gavin bothered with me? A stray is not to be trained for the Kingsguard—that’s Council law. Yet now Prince Gidon disregards the law as well. Why?”
“It wasn’t always so,” Noam said. “Strays have only been singled out since one killed the king and queen. And they only knew that because a Kingsguard bloodvoiced it.”
“But there’s no such thing as bloodvoicers,” Achan said. “People who talk through their minds? It’s myth.” But his laugh quickly faded and he blinked. No. Bloodvoices couldn’t be what he experienced the night he killed the doe. He’d been delirious, that was all.
Noam raised an eyebrow. “Myth or not, you and I are marked for life as a result of that story. Myth doesn’t make laws, Achan. Reality does.”
* * *
Achan shoved thoughts of bloodvoices to the back of his mind as he wandered from the stables.
The noon sun shone brightly as he entered the inner bailey. He drew near the grassy courtyard that sat between the keep and the temple gardens. Grandstands had been built for Prince Gidon’s practice bouts. They sat so that they formed three sides of a square, boxing the area against the brownstone wall of the keep.
Chora paced along the wall, cloak billowing. He looked up and huffed. “Where have you been? You didn’t report to the armory.”
“I have the sword Sir Gavin gave me. Will it do?”
Chora shrugged. “A sword is a sword as far as I’m concerned.”
“What about a shield or armor?”
Chora shook his head. “His Majesty doesn’t spar with shields or armor.”