To Darkness Fled (55 page)

"The pass will slow us down greatly," Sir Gavin said.

"Why not be sending scouts into Light now?" Inko asked. "If it's being safe, that direction is being quickest. The duchess could still be sending aid if we were to be needing it."

Sir Eric shook his head. "Lingering keeps your men open to attack. What's left of the
Ice
Island
guard is searching for prisoners and traitors. The refugees are being housed all over the city. All are at risk until we can get you on your way."

People were in danger, hiding Achan's army in their homes. How many others had lost their lives for Achan's sake? Lord Livna. The serving boy. Achan's stomach lurched, queasy. He clenched his fists, willing away the soft emotions. They would do him no good.

Months ago Achan would have given anything to change his station. But king? He'd never dreamed of such a calling. It was too much. He missed his old life. Sleeping under the ale casks. Milking the goats. Chatting with Noam at the Corner. Sitting with Gren under the allown tree by the river.

Gren would know how to comfort him. But these men? Not one tear shed for that serving boy. Though he knew he shouldn't, Achan looked in on Gren.

--trying to put it through the strainer and into the jar, but it spilled. It took me hours to clean up.
Gren stood looking at a table covered with jars of pickled apples. She reached behind her back and worked at the knot on her apron.

Smells good, though
, Bran said.

Gren's heart raced.
You're just being kind.

No, I love pickled apples, especially over lamb chops.

Gren fought the knot a second more, then stomped her foot. She turned her back to Bran, her skirt twirling around her legs.
Help me untie this? My fingers are all prunes, and the knot is too tight
. Bran's fingers tugged at the ties.
I'm glad you came to visit
.

Bran didn't answer right away.
I'm glad you're liking the kitchens. It's safer in here, I think, with all the women.
The apron loosened. Bran's hands fell away.
There you are.

Thank you.
She folded the apron and peered into the kitchen. Jespa, the cook, engrossed in trimming the pastry off the edges of a pie, paid them no mind.

Bran watched Gren with a crooked smile.

Her stomach zinged to her heart.
What?

Nothing.
He looked toward the stairwell.
I should go. I need to get back to my post.

Gren blinked repeatedly, not wanting to cry. This had been the first time Master Rennan had come to visit in days. What could she do to make him stay longer? She brushed her finger against the side of his hand. He snagged her hand in his and released it just as quickly, but at least his eyes were locked with hers again. She inched closer, gazing into his brown eyes, willing him to care. He leaned forward, ever so slowly.

Achan jumped through Gren into Bran's mind and found himself aching to kiss Gren.
No,
he said to Bran, alarmed at the course this friendship had taken.
Don't you dare.

Bran's chest swelled with a deep breath and he stepped back.
I'll try and come again tomorrow. Farewell.
He took two steps back, then darted up the servants' stairs.

Achan concentrated on Gren and returned to her head.

Farewell
, she mumbled, sticking out her bottom lip. Surely Master Rennan cared more than he let on. She went back to her jars of pickled apples, started adding lids, but by the time she got to the third jar, she was crying.

Achan withdrew, but kept his eyes closed, struggling over what he'd seen. Clearly, Gren and Bran fancied each other. A pang of loneliness dug into his gut like a chisel. Any hope he harbored at reconciling with Gren was hopeless now. He pictured himself sitting on a throne, haggard, staring at his wife, a woman who despised him, who'd never wanted to marry him. Their children hid behind her skirt, afraid of the man Mother despised.

He coughed, choking on the rush of saliva in his throat. Darkness had a way of attacking whenever he pitied himself. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. He had lost Gren long ago. No need to relive it.

Still, he worried. Bran shouldn't spend time with Gren when he was betrothed to another. Sir Caleb had spoken true. Gren's heart had attached to Bran because Bran hadn't guarded his actions toward her. It wasn't fair to either lady.

Achan hoped they got to Carmine soon. He'd like to have a word with Bran Rennan.

Betrayal fresh on his mind, an idea seized him. If a traitor existed amongst his newly formed army, he needed to find the man before anyone else lost their life. He could do this for himself, for his men, and for all Er'Rets. And he wouldn't stop until he succeeded.

* * *

Yet another myth come reality, Achan sat atop a massive white festrier, looking over the tops of every head around him. His new army--over three hundred, Sir Caleb had said--gathered in the courtyard outside Lytton Hall, preparing to depart.

The icy air smelled of pitch and dung. Lamp stands threw light and shadows over the mob of men and horses. The din of voices kept Achan on edge. Three hundred had not sounded like a large army, but now that he saw them he felt small perched above this crowd.

Scout, loaded down with gear, had been tethered behind Achan's new warhorse, Dove, a gift from Sir Eric. Whether or not Scout was bothered by his demotion to pack horse, guilt kept Achan talking to the animal.
It would have been rude to say no, Scout. I can't imagine riding this beast all the time. You and I will still ride.

Dove heaved a sigh beneath Achan, as if he perceived the kinship between Achan and Scout and was exasperated by it. The movement rocked Achan in the saddle. He gripped the
saddlehorn
with his gloved hand and tried not to think about how it would feel if the animal took off running. The width of the beast's back stretched Achan's legs wider than he was used to. He felt like a child, boots dangling a league above the snowy ground. He hoped he'd be able to control the beast.

"Don't let his size fool you." Sir Eric patted Dove's neck. "He's as gentle as his name. A gift from Lord Dromos after Father took him on a fishing expedition."

Sir Eric's generosity and endurance amazed Achan. Sorrow sagged the man's expression and posture, bled into Achan's senses, yet Sir Eric plunged ahead with wisdom and energy. "Are you certain you can spare so many men? What if Esek should return?"

"Only sixty-five of my soldiers have joined you. The rest of these men are from
Ice
Island
, be they former Kingsguards, former prison guards, or former prisoners. Does that concern you?"

"Not at all." Except that one of them was probably a traitor. Achan studied the motley recruits.

Captain Demry's men wore fur capes over gold and black armor and carried round shields emblazoned with dagfish, like the one Achan had used in the tournament last spring. The other men wore fur capes over peasant clothes. No one would suspect Brien Gebfly--the thief who'd used Achan's knife to spring the lock in the Pit--had been a prisoner. Even his scraggly beard blended in well.

"Thank you for dressing the men, I suspect that was you?"

Sir Eric nodded. "Most pardons come with clothing. You know, to the men who've accepted your offer, you've given them more than freedom. You've given them a purpose to live for. That makes a man stand tall. They respect you already. I see why Arman chose you to lead Er'Rets."

Achan flushed at the compliment. He'd come for the Kingsguard prisoners to form his army, but he hadn't freed the other prisoners with any forethought. It had all happened so quickly. And the prisoners could just as easily have killed him for his boots and knife than decide to sign on.

Polk stopped beside Dove and glanced up with his round, brown eyes. "I'm a good horseman, Your Highness. Should you need help caring for that animal, my father was a breeder."

The words were kind enough, but Achan sensed dishonesty in Polk, as if he were making the whole thing up to impress him. "Thank you, Polk. I shall keep that in mind."

The cavalry set off south toward Mitspah by way of Sir Eric's suggested hunting trail, though the men hadn't been told their destination in case a bloodvoice traitor was among them.

Achan blinked to keep his eyelashes from freezing, though he may as well keep his eyes closed for all he could see, despite the half dozen torches spaced along the line. Sir Gavin led the procession with Sir Eagan and Captain Demry. Each horse was tethered to the one before it. Achan, Dove, and Scout were in the middle of the procession with Sir Caleb and Kurtz before him and Inko and Sparrow on their mounts behind him.

The wind howled and pressed against Achan's back, reaching through his furs and skin to shake his bones. He knew not how long they journeyed before the procession stopped and dozens more torches flamed to life.

The soldiers cleared away a spot in the snow and erected Achan's tent first, a brown, double-pole pavilion made from yaks' wool. Achan tried to help, but the men wouldn't allow it.

Achan presented his concerns to Sir Caleb in his mind, where no one would overhear.
I'm very capable of helping. I don't want to be treated like Esek.

But you're not simply one of the men, either, Your Highness. You're their future king, crowned or not. They want to serve you. They need to. It's their way of serving Arman.

I'm not a god.

No, but you're his emissary, his flesh on earth, so to speak. When you show the men approval, they'll soar, and when you scold them, they'll feel Arman's judgment. This is why you cannot act like a mere man. You must hold yourself to a higher standard. You must sacrifice your own wants and comforts to fill this role.

And since my comfort is to work, I must sacrifice that by sitting on my backside?

Exactly. And if you praise your men for their efforts they'll never tire of serving you.

Achan sighed and rubbed his gloved fingers against his temple.
There must be something I can do?

Practice your reading and writing?

Achan groaned. In Tsaftown, Sir Caleb had given him ink, parchment, and a copy of a history text with the intent of furthering Achan's reading skills and teaching him to write.

Achan removed the saddlebag from Dove and carried it into his tent, thanking the men who'd erected it as he entered. Unfortunately, Polk had been one of them.

"I've set up tents before, Your Highness, all by myself. None were more complex that the fake prince's pavilion."

Achan forced a smile and entered his tent. The air inside smelled like a wet dog. A small campfire burned in an iron brazier directly under a hole in the center of the roof between the two peaks, filling the center room with light. Above his head, spokes fanned out from each pole like two, oversized wagon wheels on their sides. On the right, two brown, linen curtains hung from spokes, sectioning off a private room.

Sir Caleb followed him in. "Not a bad home, is it? This end room is for you. Us knights will sleep out here. Go in and relax. Kurtz and Bazmark are standing guard outside your walls, so you needn't fear anyone slipping under the edge."

Achan ducked between the curtains. Straw mats had been layered over a bed of frozen moss and twigs, Achan's bedroll arranged on top. An oil lamp atop a chunk of firewood at the foot of his bed cast dancing light over the walls and spokes.

Achan pulled off his gloves and sat on his bed. He removed the parchment and quill from his saddlebag. Even with the slight warmth from the fire, his fingers were too cold to pinch the quill. The ink was probably frozen too. He set the writing tools aside and leafed through the book.

The letters jumbled together. His mind drifted. One of his men had betrayed him. Could there be others? Working together? Or perhaps each with their own agenda? Maybe Achan could use bloodvoicing to monitor each man's thoughts and discover who'd tried to poison him.

But what about gifted men? They would guess their destination soon enough and could communicate the information to Esek--or someone else. Hadad, maybe? The person--was it a demon? a shadow mage?--who had visited him in the pit in Barth, what was his agenda? He had wanted Achan to join him, but to what end? Would Achan's death get Hadad the same goal, whatever that might be?