By Darkness Hid (19 page)

The hoodman spoke, her voice filled with spunk. “I’ll get you, Jaira, you wicked!”

The hoodman backed against Achan’s chest. Her wild curls smelled like jasmine. Before he could remember the rules of the game, she whirled around and grabbed him in a hug.

“Got you!”

Achan jerked back in surprise and pulled free, causing the maiden to trip on her skirt. She screamed, and he reached out and caught her under the arms.

She giggled madly, gripped his forearms until she was steady, and tore off the blindfold. “What hero saved me from that fall?”

Achan blinked. The maiden was Cetheria in human form. The goddess protector, beautiful and golden. Her eyes were blue crystals that sparkled as she studied him. He stepped back, her scrutiny bringing a wave of uncomfortable heat. A crowd clustered around, waiting to see who the next hoodman would be.

“Well, who are you, hero?” the maiden asked.

“Achan.”

“Just Achan?” Her lips parted in a teasing smile. “What knight do you serve?”

“Sir Gavin Lukos.”

“The Great Whitewolf?” the Carmine squire asked.

Jaira, the maiden with the oily black braids, stepped out from behind the poplar and said, “He’s ancient!”

The Carmine squire folded his arms. His sunburned nose was peeling. “He’s not jousting, is he?”

“I doubt he could hold the lance,” a scrawny, brown-haired boy said. “He’s so old.”

“Isn’t he a stray?” Jaira asked.

Achan shrugged, hoping to appear like he belonged. “Lots of Kingsguard knights are strays.”

“A handful. Of
Old
Kingsguards.” The scrawny boy plopped down under a poplar and leaned back against the trunk. “The Council doesn’t trust strays anymore. And with good reason. My father will never budge on
that
law.”

Some grunted in agreement. Achan swallowed his unease and sought a polite way to exit.

Jaira pulled her black braids to one side of her neck and ran her fingers though them. “It’s frightful that strays still have any authority in Er’Rets.”

The blonde who had been the hoodman addressed Achan. “You have competed, I see. Did you win?”

His chest swelled. “Won one, lost one.”

She smiled, but Achan wasn’t sure if she was impressed, indifferent, or sympathetic. “Are you from Tsaftown?” she asked. “You wear our crest on your shield and our colors.”

Achan blinked and looked down at his black vest. Tsaftown’s crest and colors? “I’m, uh, from Sitna.”

“What’s your surname?” the Carmine squire asked. “I’d like to tell Sir Rigil who the Great Whitewolf has convinced to squire. He’s never had a squire that I’ve heard of.”

Why hadn’t he? Sir Gavin appeared strong and bright. Doubt crept over Achan. Maybe Sir Gavin had gone mad in his old age to take Achan for a squire.

The group had gone silent waiting for Achan’s reply. The Carmine squire must have left the short sword pen before Achan’s lack of surname was announced. Achan could guess how this group would react once they heard it. He glanced at the pretty blonde with the sparkling eyes, the cause of his knotted tongue. He didn’t want to see her fair face scowl and be the cause of it.

But now, with Eagan’s Elk at his side and a legitimate victory under his belt, he didn’t care what they said. “I’m Achan Cham.”

Jaira gasped. “You’re the stray who beat Silvo! He said you cheated.”

“I did not!” Achan straightened to his full height. “His arrogance cost him the match.”

The Carmine squire grinned. “Silvo
is
arrogant.”

Jaira shoved the Carmine squire’s chest. “Shut up, Bran!”

Bran barely swayed from her assault. “You’d know best, Jaira. He’s your brother.”

“
Lady
Jaira,” she snapped. “And Silvo is better with a sword than you.”

“Aye,” Bran said. “I didn’t say he wasn’t good with a sword. I said he was arrogant.”

Jaira’s sculpted eyebrows sank over her narrow eyes. She turned her scowl to Achan. “Why are you here, anyway? Who let you compete?” She whipped around to face the scrawny boy under the tree, the beads in her braids clacking. “Reggio? Would your father approve?”

Reggio glared at Achan. “Most certainly not.”

Jaira turned her pointed nose to Achan, lips pursed in victory. “Then why don’t you scurry off to the stables or barns or wherever it is you strays live.”

“Leave him be,” the blonde said. “There is nothing wrong with being a stray.”

Achan raised his brows. Nothing wrong with being a stray? He’d never heard anyone say such a thing.

“I beg to differ, Tara.” Jaira wrinkled her nose. “They stink.”

Reggio, the scrawny runt, burst into laughter.

Achan didn’t care. He had just learned the blond girl’s name. Tara. And Tara felt there was nothing wrong with being a stray.

Their mockery entered again into his awareness. Achan raised one eyebrow at Jaira, who was beaming at the attention. “Because we sleep with the animals in the barn, is that right,
my lady
?”

Jaira’s gaze snapped back to his and she frowned. “Well, don’t you?”

The canvas tents flapped in the wind. Everyone stared. Achan searched his memory for Sir Gavin’s lessons on Jaelport, Jaira’s city. He recalled their almost exaltation of women, which explained Jaira’s countenance. They employed slaves and more eunuchs than the rest of Er’Rets combined. They worshiped Zitheos, god of animals.

Achan smiled wide. “Can you fault me, my lady? You prefer the company of animals yourself, do you not? Tell me, does not your god, Zitheos, have the head of the goat? Having met you and your brother, the rumors are confirmed. Those from Jaelport do take after their god.”

Some of the boys laughed, but Jaira’s chest swelled with a long intake of air. She looked Achan up and down with flashing dark eyes. “How dare you!”

Achan shrugged then bowed his head slightly. “You asked,
my lady
.”

“Come, let us play.” Tara forced a smile, wide peacemaking eyes darting between Achan and Jaira. She held the blindfold out to Achan. “I tagged you, so it is your turn.”

Achan studied the faces around him. All but Jaira and Reggio looked content. It appeared as though they would let him play. He took the blindfold from Tara, and the touch of her hand sent tingles up his arm. She blushed and looked at the ground. The moment he pulled the blindfold up to his eyes he heard a dreadful nasal voice.

“Stop, Achan, this instant!”

Achan froze. He knew that voice. He took one last beholding gaze at Lady Tara, whose sapphire eyes had doubled in size, then reluctantly turned to his lord and master.

Sir Luas Nathak, Lord of Sitna Manor, strode toward them from the jousting field. His emerald cape billowed in his wake. A black leather mask completely covered the right side of his face. Dark, shriveled skin peeked out from the edges. His beard forked in two, half black, half white. His hair split also—the white half partly covered by the mask, the black half oiled back in a swell over his head. He wore a black leather glove on his right hand to hide the ruined flesh.

Gossip varied regarding Lord Nathak’s condition. Some whispered of a rare skin disease. Other’s claimed a fire had burned him horribly. No one knew for certain.

The squires and maidens shrank back a few steps, leaving Achan to face Lord Nathak alone. Achan squared his shoulders. He knew better than to speak first. He bowed his head and prayed Cetheria would have mercy.

Pressure built at the base of his skull as a great fear washed into his mind. At first he assumed it was from someone in the group, but when he looked up and met Lord Nathak’s eye, the feeling vanished. An icy tremor ran through Achan as if from an invisible breeze. He glanced at the budding branches on a nearby poplar and found them still as a statue. No wind had given him that chill.

How odd.

“Explain your presence here.” Lord Nathak spat out his words like they tasted sour.

“I’m entered in the tournament, my lord…” Achan swallowed… “as a squire.”

“On whose authority?”

Achan glanced up and found Lord Nathak’s one eye horribly intimidating. “Sir Gavin Lukos, my lord.”

Understanding tightened the visible half of Lord Nathak’s face. “
You
are his new squire?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I heard he was training someone,” Lord Nathak mumbled and tugged on the chin strap of his mask. “Then you have no time for games, do you? You should find him right away and see he has help dressing for his events. Is that not what squires do? Master Rennan?”

The Carmine squire, Bran, jumped, his sunburned face pinker than ever. “Yes. Yes, it is, my lord.”

“Get to it, then. All of you!” Lord Nathak stormed past, bumping hard against Achan’s shoulder. The other squires scrambled off.

Jaira gripped Tara’s arm. “Come! Let us find seats for the joust. I’ll introduce you to Sir Nongo. He’s desperately handsome.”

“It was nice to meet you, Master Cham.” Tara rested a hand on his shoulder, bobbed up on her toes, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for catching me.”

Jaira rolled her eyes in a huff and pulled Tara away, but Tara looked back over her shoulder at Achan twice before disappearing around the corner of a blue-and-white-striped tent.

Achan stood staring at the place where he last saw her, the scent of her jasmine hair lingering in his nostrils.

*          *          *

Achan left the shady clearing and made his way back to the hand-to-hand pen, where two different squires were fighting. Sir Gavin was nowhere to be found.

Achan watched the match while he waited. One squire wore blue and white. He had a full, black beard, grey skin, and was two heads taller than his scrawny, bleeding opponent. The freckled redhead, who couldn’t be more than thirteen, seem to favor the run-and-cower strategy. His purple, red, and silver striped tunic draped over his small frame like a shroud. Neither wore armor.

The big squire punched with such force that the boy made a dent in the dirt. Achan winced and ran his tongue over his teeth. For some fool reason, the boy scrambled to his feet and jogged around the perimeter of the pen. Begging for more pain, Achan guessed. Soon enough, the boy’s wish was granted. The big squire cornered him and rained blows like Poril kneading bread dough. Why didn’t the herald put a stop to this?

Thankfully, the boy finally stayed down. The herald called the match in favor of the squire from Hamonah. Achan couldn’t recall from his lessons with Sir Gavin where that was.

Sir Gavin had still not returned, so Achan approached the herald. “Excuse me, sir. Have you seen Sir Gavin Lukos?”

“Not since this morning.”

Achan surveyed the crowd one last time, searching every bit of red, hoping to spot the Old Kingsguard cape. He turned back to the herald. “Sir Gavin wanted me to compete here. Must I wait for him to enter?”

“What’s your name?”

Achan took a deep breath. “Achan Cham.”

The herald looked Achan over, clearly confused about Achan’s rank. “Lord Nathak says you’re to report to the kitchens…sir.”

Achan nodded. He stepped back from the pen, then spun around and stormed toward the manor, loosening his jerkin as he went. The kitchens? By Lord Nathak’s direct order? Why couldn’t he allow him to serve Sir Gavin at least for one day? Lord Nathak had plenty of servants. Poril had plenty of help.

Achan stalked to the keep and up to Sir Gavin’s bedchamber. The room was empty. Wils was probably off dressing some other poor sap. Achan jerked the shield over his head and let it clatter to the floor. He fought with his clothes until he got them all off, pulling out a tuft of hair along with the chain shirt. After folding them as neatly as his temper would allow, he left them, the shield, and Eagan’s Elk lying atop Sir Gavin’s bed.

He stared at the beautiful sword and scabbard. For a morning he’d been a real squire. He sighed. No reason to keep the blade now, though. It looked like Lord Nathak was denying him his knightly apprenticeship. Besides, the sword was much too good for cutting vegetables.

He washed his wounds and dug around until he found some strips of cloth to bind them. At least he would not die from infection. He fought two matches today, met a group of nobles who could have had him arrested, and came face to face with Lord Nathak. He should be thankful to be alive.

Achan spent the rest of the day in the kitchens running errands for frantic Poril. As if the gods didn’t feel this day was humiliating enough, Poril told Achan he was to serve at the feast. Poril made Achan wear a fancy green servant’s uniform. It made him look like a jester.

Any other day Achan would have been thrilled for such an opportunity. But he’d been an equal with squires today, even insulted a noblewoman. To serve them now…well…he’d rather not.

Poril gave him instructions in the kitchen. “Yer not teh speak unless yer spoken to. Pages and squires will serve food to their lords, so yeh’ll not be causing any trouble there. Once the squires sit, yeh’ll serve them.”

Fabulous! Perhaps Achan could offer up some ale or choice wine to Reggio or Bran or Shung or Silvo. He scowled at the floor.

Achan took his place in the serving room off the entrance to the great hall. Dozens of identically dressed servants crowded the tables and filled platters with food. No one had recognized Achan yet. He did see Reggio arguing with Poril about the best cut of lamb for Sir Jabari. Thankfully Poril dealt with the pompous runt himself. Maybe all would be well. Maybe no one would recognize him at all.