From Darkness Won (43 page)

That it would change things between us? Your Highness, to my mind, you are nothing more than a man I met in the Veil. I tried to make it clear that—

I only wanted to say that now we can—

—I cannot continue in this manner. I do not wish to be cruel, but if you insist on messaging me for intimate conversations, I will be forced to ignore you entirely.

A stone grew in the place where Achan’s heart had recently stopped bleeding.
Very well, Miss Sparrow. Good evening.
Achan broke the connection.

Matthias stood beside the table, a dinner of fish and potatoes laid out. “It’s ready, sir.”

Achan was no longer hungry.
Shung, where are you?

A long moment passed before Shung answered.
Visiting Lady Gali at the bonfire. Should Shung return?

Pig snout.
No, Shung. I just wondered where you were, that’s all. I’ll see you later. Have fun.

Achan’s stomach clenched, jealous of Shung’s joy. Why did things happen this way? If only the knights had given him leave to choose his own bride before Mitspah.

Everything had started going badly in Mitspah.

Achan stood, walked to the table, glared at his meal. Perhaps if he wandered by the bonfire he could strike up a conversation with Shung and Lady Gali.

“I’ll be back in a moment, Matthias.” Achan strode from the tent. Cortland and Achan’s cousin jogged to keep up. Achan ignored the occasional well-wishing soldier, each step increasing his anger. Typical of Sparrow to hide from the unknown. Finally, here was his chance to mend things—to make promises she thought he could never make—and she believed him a stranger.

The bonfire raged in a clearing inside the wagon circle. He spotted Shung and Lady Gali right away, dancing merrily, black braids whipping the air, oblivious to everything around them.

Soldiers stood in clusters, most holding mugs of mead. Achan narrowed his gaze to a wagon on the other side of the bonfire where Kurtz sat with a group of women. Cole sat crosslegged on the ground, his boyish freckled face gazing at Kurtz as if the man were Moul Rog the Great.

Achan crossed to the wagon and gripped Kurtz by the shoulder. “Did not Sir Gavin give orders against spirits while we are engaged in war?”

“Oh, hello, Pacey. How are you this fine evening, eh?”

Achan glanced at Cole, then to his guards, and back to Kurtz. “Do not change the subject. Spirits? Sir Gavin? War?”

“Worked that out, we have. No more than a hundred can drink each night, which leaves most the men on guard, eh?”

Achan frowned. “Yet
you
seem to be indulging every night. Do you never take a turn on guard?”

Kurtz grinned. “Someone has to organize it all, he does. Besides, I’m on your personal guard.”

Typical Kurtz. “I see. Still, it seems dangerous, don’t you think? If we were to be attacked…”

“Bah! The bottle
calms
you, Pacey. I’ll likely fight better than anyone, if it comes to that, eh? Besides, many aren’t drinking. Cole, here, is afraid of it. And Sir Shung won’t touch the drink. Just wants to dance with his lass. That’s all most the men want. A little friendly company. Plus, Sir Gavin’s not here tonight. Rode off with his scouts to see about something or other. Tonight’s the night, Pacey.” Kurtz passed him a bottle. “Think about it, eh?”

Achan accepted the bottle from Kurtz, muddled by the man’s reasoning. It was true: all Achan wanted was a little company. To cross swords with Shung or wrestle out his anger.

Instead he walked toward the sea, flanked by Cortland and Achan’s cousin from Nesos. The sunset dusted the prairie grasses in gold. The air smelled salty and cool in his nose and mouth. He swung the bottle by the neck, whipping the tall grass aside as he made his way to the beach.

The prairie grass gave way to sand, sloping down a small hill to the surf. Achan sat in the dry sand, staring at the glassy sea, the sun sinking into the water like a yolk into a simmering pot.

His gut festered. He wanted to rant at Arman about his misfortune, but he knew what Arman would say,
if
He bothered to
a
nswer. Achan didn’t want to hear it. He wanted things to go his way for once. It was selfish, sure, but he didn’t care.

He ripped Averella’s sleeve off his arm and threw it. The lightweight fabric landed at his feet, the maroon glistening in the setting sun.

He brought the bottle to his mouth, worked the cork free with his teeth, and spat it on the ground. He smelled the contents, expecting the briny smell of mead, but the tangy combination of currants and cedar filled his nostrils.

Had Kurtz meant to give him wine? Achan had wine with dinner most nights, so it wouldn’t matter to drink some now. He took a sip. Robust sweetness filled his mouth. He swished his tongue around, tasting the flavor as long as it would linger. Blazes, that was good. Much better than what Lord Eli had served in Mirrorstone.

Yet when the taste faded, the wine left his mouth dryer than before. So he took a longer drink and wished he had some food. The wine seemed to point out just how hungry he was. He should go back to his tent and eat.

Instead he took another drink.

The waves lapped against the shore, simmering like butter in a skillet. He dug the heels of his boots into the sand, extending his legs and making two deep trenches. He took another drink then stood and walked onto the smooth, wet sand. The tide slid in again, and he let it wash over his boots. As the water drew away, it pulled the sand from under his heels. He stopped and watched it erode, amazed at the power water had over dirt.

Arman had that kind of power over men. The power to give and take away. Dying for any cause of Arman’s would be worth it. Achan recalled the intense pleasure the pull of Shamayim
h
ad brought. He would not be unhappy to return to that place. That much he knew.

Yet it seemed Arman wanted him here for now. So here, in Er’Rets, Achan must stay.

Now Sparrow, she had that same water-over-sand pull on Achan. He did not know how or when it had happened, but she affected him. Too much. The things she said. How she said them. The way she looked at him. The way she smelled. He tried to stop thinking about her, but that decision only made her ever more present in his mind. Sparrow and her stubborn ways. Even without her memory.

He took a long swallow.

He’d had enough of this weakness, this power Sparrow had over him. Was he man or boy? He was a man—a prince. Soon to be king. He needed to forget about Vrell Sparrow. There were plenty of women who would covet his attention. And now he was free to choose any of them. He could have his pick of the most beautiful women in the world.

His stomach clenched at that idea, for that was why Sparrow had claimed to be afraid to love him—back when she’d had her memory. That
as king
he would be surrounded by women seeking his attentions. He laughed to himself, alone on the beach but for his two Kingsguard shadows.

“Yes, Sparrow, I can hardly keep the women away.”

He snorted, then flubbed out a long breath through his lips. The idea of throngs of women trying to turn his head. He laughed, then sobered when he caught sight of his guardsmen standing where the grassy prairie met the sand.

Achan suddenly wanted to see Sparrow’s thoughts. Plant memories, perhaps? Make her remember him. The desire only made him take another drink.

The tide swept out, and Achan stumbled as the sand melted under his heels. He trudged up the hill. Dry sand stuck to his boots. He stomped to shake it free.

A burst of laughter pulled his attention back to the orange glow of the bonfire. Shadows of dancers circled over the tops of the tents. The fiddle hummed, voices chorused, and the clapping and laughter tugged at his heart.

He wanted to laugh too. So he did. Long and hard, like a madman. His guards followed a few paces behind. Achan glanced back every few steps, wondering what they thought of the laughing prince. The question made him snicker.

Well, why couldn’t the Crown Prince have fun? Why must he always be alone in his tent or alone on the beach or alone with his advisors or shadows or servants?

“Bah.” He smiled at the sound of his voice imitating Kurtz’s favorite word. He said it again, louder this time, “Bah!” and laughed. His smile lingered. Head tingling, he set off for the reveling.

He stopped between two tents at the edge of the clearing. Over three dozen couples danced around the bonfire now. And the women were not all Berlanders. There were peasants in the throng. How had they gotten into camp? Was that safe? What if they were working for Esek? Wasn’t someone going to check?

Achan furrowed his brow, wondering how anyone might prove such a thing about a woman.

A couple whirled past him. The woman’s flowery smell brought Sparrow’s face to mind. He smiled at the pleasing aroma, then spotted Shung and Lady Gali swaying in the crowd. Lady Gali laughed at something Shung said and tugged on one of Shung’s fat braids.

Achan’s smile faded. He squeezed the neck of the wine bottle. Why was it everyone could do as they pleased but him? Why could he not have fun? Forget the fear of the pending battle? Wash his cares away with a bottle of mead? Many men lost their sanity from the bottle. And he was safe here, was he not? He had two guards at his back, making sure of it, and an entire army of his own around him. He could think of no better time for such an experience. He tipped the wine bottle up to his lips.

Only a sip dribbled out.

Could he have drunk the whole thing? Impossible. Kurtz must have given him a half-empty bottle.

He dropped it and threaded his way through the dancers toward where Kurtz sat on the end of the wagon with a peasant girl on his lap. If anyone had a fresh bottle of wine, it would be Kurtz.

“Your Highness!” someone said.

“It’s the prince!”

A chorus of greetings rang out. The music segued into “The Pawn Our King.” Another man spoke to Achan, but Achan ignored him and pushed through the crowd.

He bumped into a pair of dancers. “Sorry.”

“Not at all, Your Highness.”

Another couple plowed by, knocking into Achan’s sore shoulder. It hardly hurt anymore, but the contact aggravated the wound and threw him off balance. He spun halfway around, lost his footing, and fell onto the trampled grass. His shoulder stung, yet he couldn’t keep from laughing. His guardsmen rushed up on either side and helped him stand.

“I’m so sorry!” someone said. “Is he all right?”

Cortland tugged Achan away from the crowd. “Your Highness, let’s get you back to your tent.”

Achan pulled his arm from Cortland’s grip and rolled his shoulder, easing away the soreness. “I’m fine.”

Sir Gavin Lukos.

Achan cocked his head and listened. A woman’s high-pitched giggle turned his gaze back to the wagon. Kurtz whispered in the peasant woman’s ear. She giggled again, drawing out her laugh as if she were tired of laughing yet couldn’t get enough of it. Kurtz kissed her neck, her lips.

The woman’s eyes met Achan’s. He stared, heart thudding in his ears. She whispered to Kurtz.

“Eh?” Kurtz pushed the woman off his lap and jumped off the wagon. “Heh-hay! Pacey! You came back!” He waved Achan over. “How’s my favorite oarsman?”

Achan’s ears tickled.
Sir Gavin Lukos.

Achan grinned, remembering the time he and Kurtz had visited a tavern in Tsaftown. See? Kurtz knew how to have fun. “Your favorite oarsman is thirsty.”

Kurtz’s eyes lit up. “Ahh…” He threw an arm over Achan’s shoulders and steered him back to the wagon. “The question is, thirsty for what?”