By Darkness Hid (37 page)

Footsteps swished until a pair of gilded boots stopped beside Vrell. The battle must have ended.

The prince kicked the squire in the side. “Is he dead?”

Vrell kept her head down. “No, my lord.”

“Pity.” The prince kicked his squire again. No wonder he was so bruised. “He’s such a briar in my boot. If he dies, I shall make it worth your while.”

A hot rush of anger shot through Vrell. Prince Gidon wanted his squire—his hero and rescuer—dead? “He will not die because of me.”

“Well, in case you didn’t know, boy, I am the Crown Prince of Er’Rets. If you are a healer, I insist on being treated first.”

“You are injured?”

Prince Gidon turned his shoulder toward her. “I took an arrow in my arm.”

Vrell fought back a sigh. She gripped her knife and stood. Keeping her eyes down, she cut the red silk at the bicep and tore the sleeve off.

The prince twitched. “Was that necessary?”

“If you want me to care for it.” She dropped the shirt sleeve and examined his wound. It was as his squire had said: only a scratch. She cleaned it with a bit of her drinking water, added some salve, and left it unbandaged. “You will live, Your Majesty.” Unfortunately. “The air will be good for it.”

Vrell had a thought. Maybe the prince could be of some use. She needed a way to get the squire to Mahaniam. “Do you have a cart I could use to transport this man?”

Prince Gidon raised a dark eyebrow then stalked away into the mist.

Vrell sighed and scanned the ground. She spotted an arrow a few feet away with a bodkin point: a four-sided spike designed to penetrate armor. Advanced for people as primitive as the poroo. Not at all like their crude spears. The same people could not have made both weapons.

The stream gurgled. A breeze whipped through the trees. She shivered as she scurried over to the closest fallen Kingsguard. The man had died from a spear to the chest. No good. She needed a clean shirt. She ran to the next body and flipped him over. Her breath caught. His skull had been bashed in by something immense, probably a battleaxe. But his shirt was unsoiled.

She crouched to unlace the neckties and spotted someone’s travel pack under a briarberry bush. She abandoned the dead man and went to the pack. She found a clean shirt inside and beamed. Infection was her biggest concern. The cleaner her materials, the better his chances.

She hoisted the pack over one shoulder and ran back to the soldier’s side. She placed her palm against his forehead. He already burned with fever, likely due to his arm wound. She ripped the shirt into strips, anxious to get this over with. She still had to remove the arrows. At least bodkin arrowheads would be easier to remove than the barbed, broadhead kind.

She opened her satchel and used her small knife to cut his shirt down the center back. His bruised and scarred skin stole her breath. He’d been beaten, often. She invested her fury into cutting the shirt off. She sawed at the fabric around the arrow protruding from his lower back, then shifted to remove the material from around the arrow in his left shoulder.

When the cloth fell away, Vrell stopped as if Arman had frozen time. White, raised skin scarred an S onto the squire’s upper left shoulder. The skin underneath was maroon, a birthmark of some kind that brought out the S even more. The brand was slightly distorted due to the arrow piercing him.

The mark of a stray.

She remembered that the prince had called him stray. Why, then, did he wear a soldier’s uniform and wield such a fine sword? Wasn’t it against Council law to train strays for Kingsguard service? Prince Gidon had plenty of guards. Where were they? Where was the irritable Sir Kenton, the Shield?

Some Shield.

The wound in the squire’s lower back oozed thick blood, so she started there. She placed her hand against his skin, then stopped. Where was her head? How would she pack the wounds? She crawled to the stream, dunked her hand into the water, and clutched a handful of grainy soil. It was too coarse. She needed mud. If she dug a bit to find softer soil, she could probably make some.

She gazed into the bubbling stream, deep in thought. What else could be used to pack wounds? She didn’t have enough herbs or fabric to do the job. This particular forest seemed void of mosses. She jumped to her feet and ran to the nearest briarberry bush. Prying the branches aside revealed a thick, white web. Hopefully no one was home. Vrell hated spiders.

She ignored the shiver gripping her and tore the fine white web off the prickly branches. This would not be enough. She set about collecting fuzzy white sacs from every bush in the area until she had a handful. She set the webs on a strip of white cloth and scrubbed her hands in the creek with a bar of soap from her satchel.

Her heart throbbed when she looked at the arrow in his back.

Jax’s teachings played in her mind. She gently worked the arrow back and forth, pulling carefully. It would not do to lose the arrowhead in his body. When the arrowhead was visible, she gripped it with her thumb and forefinger and slid it out.

The squire squirmed and moaned. Blood pooled over the top of the wound and trickled down his side in a thick stream. Vrell shrank back and dropped the arrow. She scrambled for her water skin. Trembling, she doused the wound, dabbed it with a strip of fabric, and poked a glob of spider webs into the hole to clot the blood.
Then she packed it with yarrow and bandaged it. No easy task, wrapping strips of cloth around the torso of a man lying prostrate.

He’d ripped the arrow out of his leg during the battle, so Vrell rolled up his pant leg and tended that wound next. It wasn’t as deep.

The arrow remaining in his shoulder bothered her. She needed to cut the shaft somehow. After much thought, she decided to drive it out the way it had entered. She rolled him onto his side and used her knife to saw the sinews that bound the arrowhead to the shaft. When the binding severed, she gently pulled the arrowhead off and gripped the fletchings at the end of the arrow. She slid the shaft out in one swift motion, hoping it left no wood shards in its wake.

To her surprise, the squire did not react. She glanced at his chest, confirmed it was still moving, and set to work, quickly washing both sides of the wound and packing them with webs and yarrow. Then she wrapped his shoulder in strips of cloth, wrinkling her nose at his odor. Handsome or not, he needed a bath.

The infected wound on his bicep required more materials than she had. She cleaned it thoroughly, packed a little yarrow in, and bandaged it. She pulled a wool blanket from the pack and spread it over the pine-needled ground. She rolled the soldier back onto his chest on the blanket and draped a cloak from the pack over his back.

Vrell drew her knees against her chest and wrapped her arms around them. It was darker now than it had been, though it was difficult to guess the hour in the Evenwall mist. The ache in her stomach told her it was well past time for a meal. The sounds of battle were no more. The only voices she heard spoke in the king’s language. The poroo must have fled. And now the Kingsguards were regrouping.

She thanked Arman that the squire was alive and that she had known what to do. She suddenly felt traitorous. Her master, Macoun Hadar, wanted to take advantage of this young man. Vrell could warn him, but what good would that do? As soon as she found Sir Rigil or Prince Oren, she would be rescued. She had a way out. This stray likely wouldn’t.

She felt drawn to help this heroic warrior who did not know how to use his bloodvoices. She needed to keep him away from her master. If she went for her horse now, she could ride north toward home. Yet the squire would not survive such a journey. She bloodvoiced her mother, who confirmed their original plan: wait for Sir Rigil.

She hoped Jax would bring a cart soon. The squire’s wounds should have stitches, but she was not capable of such surgery. Hopefully her work would do the trick for now, but if he tried to ride or walk his packed wounds could burst.

A bit of color caught her eye. Prince Gidon’s shirt sleeve. The rich color brought a small growl to her lips. How many peasants did it take to make such a hue? Still…she thought of Maser Hadar’s basket of trinkets and the cabochon buckle. She picked up the sleeve and tucked it into her satchel. It might come in useful.

She studied the squire’s tanned and scruffy face. He needed a shave. His dark hair was long, tied at the back of his neck with a leather cord, though most of it had escaped in battle and now fell around his chin onto the dark blanket. She fought against the urge to fix it. She missed her long hair. She missed being a woman.

Being a boy had its advantages, though. Prince Gidon had not recognized her. Life as Vrell Sparrow would keep her safe until she found Sir Rigil. Besides, men had more freedom than women. She looked down at her patient. Well, maybe not all men. This squire was a stray. How much freedom could he have? She studied him again. If she really were a boy, she would want to look like him.

His eyes flashed open. Vrell noticed they were grey, but then she cowered as a force threatened to burst her skull.

Sir Gavin?
the squire bloodvoiced.

Dozens of voices called out in a rush.

What’s happened to you?

Ahhhh!

You are hurt. Tell me your location and I will send help.

Vrell whimpered and clutched her ears as if that might mute the sound. “Stop!” she screamed. “Block them!”

The squire lifted his head, tangled hair hanging over a furrowed brow. “Shut the door?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Please!”

Achan! Where are you, lad?

Close your mind, man! The pain is unbearable.

“Sir Gavin?” The squire bolted to his feet, only to stagger, groan, and fall to his knees.

“No!” Vrell picked up the cloak he had thrown off him. She crawled to him and clutched his arm, forcing herself to speak over the pain his mind caused. “You must not walk.” She panted and draped the cloak around his shoulders. “Lie back. You are wounded.”

He stared at her as if she had spoken a foreign language.

She pressed her fingers against her temples, against the pain. “Please!” She repeated his phrase. “Shut the door!”

He closed his eyes and the pressure faded. Vrell sighed, thankful it was over. But when she clutched his arm to pull him to the blanket, he jerked away and the pressure flared again.

“Sir Gavin! Where is Sir Gavin?”

Achan! Calm yourself. Where are you?

“Please.” Vrell tugged his arm. “You must rest your mind and your body.”

He blinked, eyelids heavy. “Why can’t I—”

“You were injured,” Vrell said. “You have lost much blood.”

“Sir Gavin?” He bellowed into the thick forest. “Sir Gavin!”

“He’s not here, you imbecile.” Prince Gidon stood above them, hands on his hips.

Vrell tensed. Where had he come from?

The squire looked up, pupils thick in his grey eyes. “But I hear him. Can’t you?”

Prince Gidon mumbled, “For the sake of the gods,” and punched the squire in the temple.

Vrell’s patient slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Prince Gidon turned and strode away. “I was sick of hearing him whine.”

19

Where am I?

Achan blinked and took in the dark, stone chamber that smelled of mildew and urine. He blinked again. Were those bars on the door? He rose onto one elbow and winced. His body felt like someone had beaten it to a—wait. Images of Silvo’s friends flashed in his mind. Someone
had
beaten him.

He lay on a deep, stone bench covered in loose straw. Pale stripes of torchlight lit the bottom of a wooden door and shone though a small, barred window on top. A small animal scurried across the dirt floor. Something else moved in the corner. Achan blinked rapidly, adjusting his eyes to the dim light. He sensed pain.

A scrawny, round-faced boy of thirteen or so stared at him under a mess of oily brown hair.
You are in the dungeon at Mahanaim.

Achan twitched. His eyes went so wide, the dank air tickled and he had to blink.
Scratch?

The boy stared, his eyes cat-like. “I do not— Um, I
don’t
know why you call me that,” he said out loud.

“Because your voice is scratchy, why else?” Achan struggled to sit. He sucked in a sharp breath at the knife in his lower back. At least that was what it felt like. His shirt and cape were gone. Strips of linen bandaged his stomach and shoulder. Proof of the nobles’ assault appeared in dark blotches on his skin, but what were the bandages for? “Where are my clothes? My bag?” A rush of cold flashed over him. He swung his legs off the bed and jumped to his feet, only to cower into a crouch at the pain. “My sword?” he croaked. “Where is my sword?”

“Your clothes were ruined,” the boy said. “These quarters are so unsanitary. I have washed your wounds three times a day to fend off infection. There is no point in a shirt until you are healed. I never saw you had a bag. And the guards locked your sword in the dungeon strongbox.”

I’m in a dungeon? And the dungeon has a strongbox?

Mahanaim receives more than its share of diplomats,
the boy thought to Achan.
This is actually one of the nicer cells.

Achan growled. “Stop that!”

Scratch’s eyes went wide, and he scooted back farther into the corner. “What’s your name?” he asked aloud.

“Achan Cham.” He limped to the door and rose on the toes of his right foot to see out the barred window of his cell. The stab in his lower back inhibited the movement of his left leg.

“So you
are
a stray?”

His cell appeared to be at the end of a deserted stone corridor. A single torch hung on the wall about five paces away. He could see the doors to four other cells before the corridor turned a corner. He gripped the bars on the window and gave them a good shake. His left arm didn’t want to obey. He glanced at his bandaged shoulder, then to Scratch. “Did someone claim otherwise?”