Chora held up a flask. “You are to drink this.” Chora twisted off the cap and offered it.
The Shield stepped toward Achan. “Now.”
Achan snatched the vial and smelled it. The tonic. If he took it, he wouldn’t be able to hear if Sir Gavin called to him. But his body had already been pounded like clay. He didn’t need to give Sir Kenton another reason to strike. He swallowed the bitter goop and handed the vial back. Chora nodded to Sir Kenton and they both walked away. No mentha. Clearly these fellows didn’t have all the facts.
He considered digging out a bread roll, but without any mentha leaves, the tonic would likely come up soon. Why waste breakfast?
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Achan retched into the bushes.
The morning was cool and cloudy. The procession was all lined up and ready to go. Achan hoped he could manage to keep up. His body ached terribly.
Bran approached. “Are you all right? Did they hit your head last night?”
Achan spat the nastiness from his mouth. “No. Ate something sour. Thanks for last night, by the way. I’d likely be dead if you and Sir Rigil hadn’t stepped in.”
Bran nodded, then said in a low voice, “Do you enjoy serving your prince?”
Achan furrowed his brow. “Aye. So much as I enjoy the tip of a sword against my throat.”
Bran smirked and scratched the back of his head. He glanced around and stepped closer. “Sir Rigil says, should you seek a different master, he’d welcome you.”
“Leave Prince Gidon to serve Sir Rigil?”
“Not exactly. We’re joining with the Old Kingsguard. Sir Gavin’s Kingsguard. They serve Prince Oren.”
Prince Oren? Second in line to the throne behind only Gidon. Achan’s mind raced. Could this be a conspiracy rising up against Prince Gidon? How he’d love to be a part of that. But for Gren. “I…can’t. Prince Gidon, he…threatened my friend back in Sitna if I should try to…leave his service.”
“Who?”
“Gren Fen—Hoff. The Fenny and the Hoff family.”
Bran nodded, his brow pinched. “Prince Gidon’s good at scaring people. He learned from the best.” Bran looked away and sighed. “With your permission, I’ll convey this information to Sir Rigil. There may be something he could do to help.”
“I don’t know what anyone could do, but you have my permission.”
A cloud of dust in the distance signaled that the caravan had pulled out. Bran glanced at Achan one last time. “Sir Rigil says the Great Whitewolf was the greatest Kingsguard commander ever. You’re fortunate to have learned from him, even for a short time.”
Achan nodded and watched Bran jog to his horse. If he could contact Sir Gavin, he might know what to do with himself. Join the Old Kingsguard? Had that been Sir Gavin’s plan all along?
* * *
The procession marched on. Achan emptied the prince’s chamber pot, fetched water, and delivered message scrolls to Lady Kati, passing her husband’s angry remarks back to an amused Prince Gidon. The voices seemed to be coming to him again. At least he’d still be able to listen for Sir Gavin and talk to Scratch.
Achan’s left bicep looked wretched. Sir Nongo’s black blade had sliced a deep gash three fingers wide. Achan had cleaned it as best he could, but the pink skin around the incision boasted his failure. Most of the smaller cuts had healed. His torso was badly bruised and sore, but the bones seemed to be in place—not that he knew what broken bones felt like. His face and jaw ached. Thankfully, mirrorglass was scarce on the road. Achan didn’t want to know how his face looked.
He tried to speak to Scratch. They managed a few words here and there, but someone in the caravan always interrupted. So far Scratch had told him nothing useful. Achan wasn’t enjoying bloodvoices much. Perhaps he was too practical to invite dozens of people into his head. He had so little control and privacy in his life. His mind was the one thing people couldn’t beat, manipulate, or force to obey. He didn’t want people trampling his last sanctuary.
He hadn’t heard from that other warm and powerful voice since Cetheria’s temple. Was Cetheria really an idol? That would certainly explain a few things. He shrugged and walked on, choking on the dust of the road.
As they neared Allowntown, the Evenwall loomed to their right. The Evenwall, as Achan understood it, was a gateway to Darkness and all that hid within it. The air grew thick and misty. Achan didn’t like the feel of the moisture on his face. He remembered Sir Gavin’s warning never to set foot in the mist.
In the wide prairie to their left, women worked the potato fields, their skirts hiked up above their knees. Several soldiers hooted and called out to them. Pretty as some of them were, they only reminded Achan of how fetching Gren had looked as she stood in a tub of wool. He was thankful when the sun set on the day and the memories.
They stopped in Allowntown for the night. The procession filed through a narrow gate and into an old motte and bailey-style manor. Guards began to pitch tents within the wooden curtain wall. Prince Gidon dismissed Achan and went inside the manor to sleep. Achan wandered around, looking for Bran.
A distant allown tree caught his eye between two tents. He stepped back and stared at it from afar. It was the famous tree, the one from all the stories of King Axel’s murder, the day Darkness came. Achan walked to the tree and stood before it, mesmerized.
Warmth surged inside him and the majestic voice coursed through his veins.
Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, Achan Cham. Before you were born I set you apart.
Achan sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around. No one was paying him any mind. The heat inside him was already fading. Was that all the voice had to say? Set apart? Like this tree, set off from all the other trees? He looked up at it.
Half of the tree was dead. Half was alive. This was surely the tree from the legends. The living half, so like the allown tree back on the SiderosRiver, calmed him. But the other half…
Gnarled, black branches twisted in the air like monstrous claws, the mist so thick around them, they blurred into the black sky. A heavy wind rustled the leaves on the living side, but the barren branches on the dead side cracked and swayed like they were reaching, hoping to squeeze the life out of Achan.
He shivered, torn. It was as if the tree was his heart. He’d always felt a kinship with allown trees, as ridiculous as that sounded. This one, more so. But it repelled him at the same time. It was a most awkward emotion.
Despite the dead side of the tree, Achan lay down on the soft grass under the rustling leaves, feeling like he’d finally come home, and fell asleep.
Yet into his peace came horrifying dreams.
The voices called out. He tried to concentrate on the allown tree in Sitna to silence them, but an image of this eerie tree filled his mind instead. They knew he was here. Under the Allown Tree, where life meets death.
A woman screamed. A baby cried. A horrific sound split the night like one massive roar of thunder.
Warriors would go through the mist and bring back food. The women and children would have to wait until their return. The pale ones were hungry.
They were coming.
Part 5
The Gifted One
18
Vrell moaned and rolled all night, so vivid were the voices, the fear, the hunger in her mind. Something terrible was about to befall the young soldier. A sharp prick to her temples woke her.
Macoun Hadar.
Master Hadar was knocking. She let him inside the foyer of her mind.
Boy!
he bloodvoiced.
Did you hear him? The gifted one?
He must mean the soldier.
Yes, Master.
Come to my chambers at once.
Vrell dressed and hurried to the eighth floor. She had not told Master Hadar about her conversations with the soldier, but she was almost certain he was the one her master sought.
She found Master Hadar sitting on the end of his bed, grotesque feet propped on the stone slab. A lantern hung on a stand beside his bed. His eyes were wide and glassy in the dim light. Out the windows, the sky was charcoal grey. Dawn had not yet broken.
“Vrell,” Master Hadar said. “You’ll go north with Jax mi Katt and find this gifted boy. He’s in danger and we must locate him quickly.”
“You know his whereabouts?”
“He slept in Allowntown last night, under the Memorial Tree. Prince Gidon’s party camped there. If he’s with them, they’ll be headed here, so finding them should be no problem. Go and bring him to me.”
“How will I know who he is?”
“Don’t be a fool. With your mind, boy, how else?”
“Yes, Master.” Vrell bowed out of the chamber.
She went to her room and fetched her pouch of healing herbs and ointments. If there had been a battle, she might be able to help the wounded. She filled her water skin in the courtyard fountain. She wished her sword was finished. Going into a battle without a weapon, or with a weapon but without the training to use it, seemed terribly foolish. She found Jax at the stables and was shocked to see a squadron of Kingsguard knights ready to depart.
“Vrell!” Jax greeted her with a smile. “We journey again.”
The familiar, little, white courser Jax presented thrilled Vrell’s heart. He reminded her of Kopay, her horse back home. Jax sat atop a massive, black festrier. Vrell felt like she was riding a colt in comparison.
The strain the young soldier brought to her mind pressed against her all morning, but she could not see him clearly. His power was close, though, and she sensed great fear. Judging from the concern on Jax’s face, he could too. He did not try to pace the horses, but galloped north at top speed.
After an hour of hard riding, Jax pulled up at the top of a hill overlooking a vast green valley. Vrell stopped beside him.
Darkness rose like a wall to the west, stretching for miles in each direction, separated from the green prairie and forest by the vaporous Evenwall. There was no sign of Prince Gidon’s procession. A great foreboding hung over the squadron like a cloud. Vrell opened her mind slightly to those who were gifted. All sensed the same thing from their fellow Kingsguards who escorted Prince Gidon: fear.
“What is it?” Vrell asked Jax.
“Poroo.”
Vrell’s heart quaked. The poroo had once been a peaceful race of men, but Darkness had driven them mad. It was rumored they ate anything they could catch, humans included. “But they live in Darkness.”
“Aye. That they do. They must be very hungry to cross into Light.”
“Do you sense the soldier?” Vrell asked.
“Barely. He fights. They all do. The poroo attacked from the Evenwall at first light.” Jax wheeled his massive horse around and addressed the soldiers. “Our prince is in trouble! We must aid our Kingsguard brothers to see him brought safely to Mahanaim. The poroo attacked from the trees with spears and rocks. Go carefully.” Jax yanked an axe from the sheath on his left thigh and raised it high above his head. “For our prince!”
The other soldiers and knights each waved their weapons high and echoed, “Our prince!”
Jax turned to Vrell. “Wait here for our return. If we should fail, report to Mahanaim.”
With that, Jax kicked his horse in the side. It galloped down the hill, raising a cloud of red dust behind. The squadron followed.
Vrell sat atop her horse, staring after them, lips parted. Her orders from Master Hadar were to find the gifted one and stay with him. How could she do that from more than a mile away? And did she really want to?
Vrell carefully closed her mind and concentrated, sending a knock to her mother.
Vrell? What is it, dear?
Remember the soldier I told you about? There has been a battle. Master Hadar sent me to bring the soldier back. I hesitate to deliver him to Master Hadar, but I also do not want to leave him with no training.
When the fighting is over, take the boy to Master Hadar,
Mother said.
A battle is no place for you. When the fighting is over, take the boy to Master Hadar. But warn him to be wary. When Sir Rigil arrives, make sure he knows who the boy is. He may be able to help.
Vrell closed the connection to her mother and sought out the soldier. She could barely sense him. His distracted state acted as a closed door against her search. Below, Jax’s squadron had reached the valley and was galloping toward a tree line at the far end. Vrell watched them move across the plain, the poroo battle nowhere in sight. Surely she could get a little closer than this. She steered her horse back onto the road and cantered down the hill.
Scattered trees on her right grew thicker, and soon Vrell found herself in a kind of corridor. Dense, green forest on her right. Grey, misted Evenwall on her left. It was cooler here than Mahanaim’s humidity. A breeze blew the stale, Evenwall mist over her, dampening her skin. An army of poroo could be standing just inside the cloud, watching, and she would never know until it was too late.
At the clash of metal, Vrell halted her horse. The sound had come from the forest on her right, but she sensed that the soldier was not there. She turned her head to the left, zeroing in on the mist, and a shiver raked her soul.
The soldier was in the Evenwall.
Vrell stared into the churning vapor, her shaking hands clutching the reins. She thought she heard a whisper somewhere close. “Hello?” Her eyes darted around the mist but detected no living thing.
Perhaps it had been only the wind. She nudged her horse forward, toward the Evenwall, but the beast was smarter than that. She nudged harder and the horse jerked forward. The air cooled instantly. Dampness clung like dew.
Contrary to what she had expected, the Evenwall was not pitch black. It was like standing in a forest on a rainy day. Everything ashen, somber, and chilled. Like twilight.
Vrell steered her horse slowly, able to see only a few yards in any direction. She wove around drooping willows and redpines. Under their leafy canopy, the shadows deepened, limiting her visibility.
She sensed a presence, a foreboding that someone was watching. A hiss to her left stiffened her posture. But she saw no one, only mist wavering around tree branches. She pressed on in the direction of the soldier. She sensed his fatigue. He needed rest.