By Darkness Hid (30 page)

“Try not to make him angry and you should live until I get to Mahanaim.”

Why was Lord Nathak telling him this? Achan sought the man’s feelings but found only a chill in the air, as if Lord Nathak himself were the source of the cold. How did he do that?

“Well? Your prince is waiting.”

Achan walked out to the balcony and the heat of the late morning warmed him. What a magnificent view the prince had. To his right, Achan could see where the SitnaRiver met the ocean. Straight ahead the multi-colored tents on the tournament field were being dismantled. To the west, he could just barely see the dark ridge that was the Chowmah Mountain Range. “You wanted to see me, Your Highness?”

The prince stared at the river. “You will do something for me, stray. Your friend, Wren.”

Achan furrowed his brow. “Gren?”

“I want her to come along. I’m not returning to Sitna. The council will undoubtedly vote in my favor, then I will continue on to Armonguard as king. She should say her farewells to whomever.”

“But…I told you. Gren is betrothed to Riga Hoff.”

Prince Gidon straightened and gripped the railing. “I do not care about Riga Hoff. Bring her with you in the morning.”

“You can’t just—”

Prince Gidon turned. “Am I king?”

A rush of heat seared through Achan and he snapped, “Not yet, Your Highness.”

The prince stiffened then smiled, blue eyes flashing. “You are dismissed.”

The blood boiled in Achan’s veins. He turned to go.

“Do not do anything foolish, stray,” the prince said to his back. “Should you and the young lady go missing, I shall kill her parents first, then hunt you both down.”

Achan stormed from the room, down the stairs, and into the inner bailey. He paced toward the gate to the outer bailey, then turned back. As if Gren’s betrothal to Riga hadn’t been bad enough. At least with Riga she’d be near her family, her home—she’d have some…stability. Prince Gidon was about to be married to some random noblewoman! Gren would be nothing to him. How could he be so…

Why would Cetheria let this happen? And after she had told him to go to the keep that day. Achan could have left long ago. He could have been gone, and Gren safe. Achan stormed to the temple.

A guard stopped him at the colonnade. “Only nobility can enter.”

Achan drew Eagan’s Elk. “I am here on a very specific errand involving Prince Gidon.”

The guard stepped back, eyes wide. The man had his own sword, but Achan doubted anyone had ever threatened violence simply to enter the temple.

Achan strode forward and climbed the steps two at a time. He slowed on the porch and crossed the threshold with wide eyes. Inside the cella, marble pillars rose three stories high long the side walls. Incense filled his nostrils. The statue of Cetheria stood at the end of the room, her head nearly reaching the roof.

He froze when he saw her, his anger dwarfed by her size and splendor. Her skin was ivory, her gown sheets of gold leaf. She clutched a golden spear in one hand, a shield in the other. Her eyes, some sort of blue gemstone, stared forward, sparkling from the hundreds of candles burning at her feet. Treasure was piled there: gold cups, jewels, coins, toys. Perhaps the guards were posted outside mainly to keep people from stealing the offerings.

Achan approached the altar slowly, staring up at the jeweled eyes. “You’re not so beautiful. Not like Tara.” He winced, waiting to be struck down, hoping, almost, to be put out of his misery. Nothing happened.

“Why do you speak to me? I have little in this world, goddess. Why toy with a stray? Is this fun for you?” He scowled and threw Eagan’s Elk on the pile of offerings. “You want that? Is that what you want? It’s all I have. Take it. Take everything, but—” He fell to his knees, clutching his hands into fists. “Please leave Gren be.”

Heat swept around him like a summer wind, seeping through his skin and into his veins. He gasped.

Watch yourself carefully, Achan, so that you do not corrupt yourself with an idol of any shape, whether formed like man, woman, beast, or nature.

Take your sword and go. You know what you must do.

Achan cowered to the floor, trembling. The burning heat brought sweat to his brow. “Is it not Cetheria who speaks to me?”

But the voice did not answer. Achan gulped and rose to his knees, his gaze flitting back to Cetheria’s jeweled eyes. Was she really only an idol?

Achan jumped up and fetched his blade from the hoard. He sheathed it and fled. The guard stopped to search him at the gate, but let him go without further questions.

Achan set off at a jog for Gren’s cottage. The voice had said he knew what to do. All he really knew was that he could not allow this. Future king or not, Prince Gidon had no right take Gren. Achan might not be able to flee, but that didn’t mean there was nothing he could do.

He pounded on the door of Gren’s cottage. “Master Fenny!”

The door opened a crack, and Gren peered out. “Achan. What is it?”

“I must speak with your father. Is he home?”

Her eyes went wide. “Yes. What are you going to do?”

That she thought he might be speaking to her father against Riga flooded him with guilt. He pushed the thoughts aside. “Please, Gren. Now?”

She rolled her eyes and shut the door. A breeze gushed through the corridor between the cottages but did not quell the heat in Achan’s chest. The burn of that voice lingered.

Master Fenny opened the door. “What is it, boy?”

“Forgive me, but I must speak with you. It’s partly the business of Prince Gidon.”

“Oh. Do come in.”

“If you please, sir, this involves Master Hoff as well. Could we go to his home?”

Master Fenny was tall but his shoulders were hunched from years over the loom. He ducked out the door with ease and closed it behind him. The sun glared off his balding head. “Lead the way.”

Achan walked across the outer bailey, trembling with every step. His actions were openly treasonous, but he didn’t care. Let Gidon hang him.

Riga’s mother led them inside the cottage, which was bigger than the Fenny home, but not as clean. Father and son were eating lunch at a long table, a sight almost as disgusting as Prince Gidon eating grapes. Gren’s future prospects truly disappointed Achan.

Master Hoff stood, pea soup dripping down his fat chin. “What’s this?”

“The boy is on a task from the prince himself,” Master Fenny said.

Riga shot Achan a glare with his beady eyes and crunched down on bread roll. His round, pink cheeks bulged more with food in his mouth.

“Well, out with it, boy. We’re busy men here,” Master Hoff said.

“The prince leaves tomorrow for Mahanaim to appear before the Council,” Achan said. “Then he’ll go on to Armonguard, where he—”

Riga huffed a loud, groaning sigh. “Everyone knows this.”

“He wants to take Gren with—” Achan coughed, his throat too dry to force out the vile words.

“Take her where?” Master Fenny asked. “He shouldn’t need a seamstress on the journey. I’m certain there are seamstresses in Armonguard.”

Achan studied the floor, and the truth came out in a whisper. “Take her…as his mistress.”

Master Fenny paled. “What?”

Riga jumped to his feet. “But Gren is betrothed to me.”

“I told him that,” Achan said. “His answer was, ‘I don’t care about Riga Hoff.’”

Riga’s pudgy face turned pink.

Master Fenny slouched into an empty chair at the table. “This cannot be. Not my little girl.”

“She could run away, until he’s left,” Master Hoff suggested.

“No,” Achan said. “He said if she ran, he’d kill her parents first, then hunt her down.”

“What madness is this?” Master Fenny said. “He’s never once shown interest in Grendolyn.”

“If I may,” Achan croaked. All three looked to him. “I’m to fetch Gren tomorrow morning for the prince. If I were to find she’d already been”—he closed his eyes—“married, I could tell the prince I was mistaken that she was only betrothed.”

Master Hoff’s eyes bulged. “Married today?”

“He knows Gren and you are friends?” Master Fenny asked.

“Aye.”

“Then he won’t believe you didn’t know.”

“He might not.” Achan glanced at Riga. “But after all, I’m just a stray. Why would anyone share such
intimacies
with me?”

“That’s true,” Master Hoff said.

Riga’s coloring returned to normal. His everyday glare had vanished. His face softened and Achan could see his pale blue eyes.

“There’s no time!” Master Fenny said. “We need three days for a wedding.”

“We could say the ceremony had already begun,” Master Hoff said.

Gren’s father shook his head. “Still, Gren needs to make temple offerings of her childhood clothing and toys. With a priest present.”

“Go and do that now.” Master Hoff pushed his chair in and wiped his face with a napkin. “Riga and I will tend to the feast. We’ll need guests to stand up as witnesses.”

“The women can see to that. Perhaps she could wear her mother’s veil.”

Master Hoff paused. “Such deceitfulness could anger the gods.”

“Better a cursed marriage than have my daughter made a concubine!”

“Well, I don’t desire a cursed marriage for my son! He’s my only heir, as Gren is yours. If the gods are angered, they could curse her womb. Where would that leave us both?”

“Do I have a say?” Riga looked to Gren’s father. “The dowry has already been agreed upon. I’ve made dozens of sacrifices for this union. The gods won’t curse us. It’s my dedication to the gods that brings this warning to us. It is their gift to us in our time of need.”

Achan bit back a sarcastic remark. If the voice was right, and all the gods were idols, what did any of this superstitious talk matter?

Master Fenny sighed. “It shall be done then, if you agree, Vaasa.”

Master Hoff scratched his chin. “The cottage isn’t finished, but it’s livable. I’ll go to the priest this moment and ask him to perform the ceremony tonight. Word should spread fast.”

Achan slipped to the door and let himself out, unable to bear any more. He stopped to suck in a long, fresh breath. He could see the barn from here and the plumes of smoke from the kitchen chimneys. The door opened behind him. He turned to see Riga pulling it closed.

“You think she’ll be happier with me than the future king?”

Achan grimaced. “I do.”

“Why?”

“Because Gren loves Sitna, and you’re in Sitna. Be kind to her. Be kind to her family. If I ever hear you weren’t…” Achan set his hand on the hilt of his sword. Riga’s squinted eyes flew wide. Achan turned and stalked away.

That night he lay under the ale casks, mourning the death of the girl he loved. Come morning, she’d be a married woman.

He had once watched a wedding from a distance. In the final act of the ceremony, the unveiling of the bride, the father had announced to the groom, “In front of these witnesses, I give this girl to you.”

Tonight, Gren’s father would say that to Riga, and she’d be his.

Achan would not torture himself by watching the ceremony, even from afar.

His stomach churned. Now his own plans had been foiled as well. He couldn’t flee for fear of Prince Gidon’s wrath against Gren and her parents. Tomorrow they would both start a new life. Gren as Riga’s wife and Achan as the prince’s personal slave.

*          *          *

The next morning Achan lay staring at the casks overhead. He hadn’t slept well. Memories of Gren haunted his every thought.

He tugged his blanket over his head and noticed a jagged tear in the top corner. Someone had cut a square from the thick wool. Trivial as it might be on any other day, this morning Achan seethed. Could he have nothing that wasn’t rags? He’d just been given a new Kingsguard uniform, which Prince Gidon had shredded little by little each day. At least his sword was still intact.

He pondered his coming adventure as he dressed, then rolled the brown shirt and the doeskin doublet inside his blanket. Gren would make clothes for Riga now, but these might yet come in useful. He tied his blanket with his old belt and carried the bundle upstairs.

Poril stood at the bread table. He sprinkled flour on the surface and dumped out a lump of bubbly dough. Achan’s tonic sat on the table, but Poril made no mention of it.

“I’m leaving for Mahanaim.”

“That yeh are.” Poril sprinkled more flour over the dough, then kneaded his hands into it.

“I don’t know when…” Achan shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

“Yeh’ll be fine, yeh will. And if yeh never see Poril again…Poril wishes yeh well.”

A tight ache welled in Achan’s throat. Would he actually miss this old goat? “Well, I…thank you.” Achan stood in the entrance to the kitchens, watching Poril go about making bread. He wanted to leave but his feet wouldn’t move. His eyes misted and he clenched his jaw. “Farewell, then.” Achan turned and fled.