From Darkness Won

by Jill Williamson

  Achan bowed. “Thank you, my lady. Enjoy your meal.”

  “I am sure I will, Your Highness.”

  Achan and Shung exited Granton Castle. The sunny afternoon, chirping birds, and his destination made his burdens lighter. The blended smells of fresh-cut wood, dung, animals, and flowers tickled his nose.

  “You ask Duchess Amal same question whenever you see her,” Shung said.

  Achan shot Shung a quick smile. “I want to meet Lady Averella if I’m to marry her. Is that so shocking?”

  Shung grunted. “Duchess will tire of you.”

  “Good. Perhaps her fatigue will encourage her to draw Lady Averella out long enough to shake my hand.” Achan couldn’t stand not knowing what this woman looked like. He wasn’t about to give up his quest to find out.

  They passed through the gate to the outer bailey and into a throng of peasants, soldiers, and every sort of barn animal imaginable. Disdain from those around him flooded his senses. Achan met one soldier’s frowning gaze and staggered at the hatred pouring from the man. He considered reading the man’s thoughts, but Shung tugged his arm, pulling him aside. He narrowly missed treading on a boy carrying a basket of berries.

  “Pardon, my lord.” The boy bowed and scurried past as if Achan might beat him for being in the way.

  Achan couldn’t blame him. He’d been cuffed upside the head for the same many times in his youth.

  They wove through the outer bailey. Disapproval continued to seep into Achan. He caught sight of two middle-aged women carrying buckets of water, scowling and whispering between themselves. Achan looked into the mind of the one whose eyes he met first and the words she whispered to her counterpart filled his head.

  …has no right to come here and take over. I don’t care if he’s rightful king or not.

  And when you consider— Her friend gasped. Gods, no. Look who it is. There’ll be a fight now, Kera, just you wait. Who you think’ll win?

  Achan turned to where the women had focused their attention. A squadron of Carmine soldiers drew near, accompanied by more feelings of animosity. Perhaps Grigio Franc was among them.

  A set of familiar eyes met Achan’s from within the squadron. Bran Rennan. The squire left the formation, and the soldiers halted. One man glanced at the sleeve on Achan’s arm but seemed content to wait and watch.

  Achan’s own feelings of anger and distrust mingled with those around him, not certain how to feel about Bran Rennan, especially after this morning’s altercation.

  Bran bowed low and smiled. “Nice to see you again, Your Majesty. Where are you off to?”

  Not a shred of the animosity Achan sensed came from Bran. “I plan to visit Grendolyn Fenny,” Achan said. “Sir Caleb keeps me busier than a squirrel in fall, and this is the first opportunity I’ve had since my arrival.”

  Bran’s face tinged pink—at the mention of Gren’s name, perhaps?—but he went on as if nothing were amiss. “Do you know the way? If not, I would be happy to take you there.”

  Achan glanced at Bran’s companions and found their disdainful expressions fixed on him. Bran might not be angry, but everyone else seemed to be.

  “You’re not due elsewhere?” Achan asked.

  “I ate in the barracks and was heading to my post.”

  “And your post is?”

  “In the great hall, Your Majesty.”

  “Lead the way, then, Master Rennan.”

  Bran waved to the squadron. “I’ll be along in a bit.” He started toward the southeastern gate. His posture seemed to swell, as if walking alongside Achan were some sort of treat.

  Shung followed on Achan’s left.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve embraced your calling since last we met, Your Majesty,” Bran said.

  “If I did not, someone else would have.” Achan glanced at Bran. “When do you leave for Armonguard?” For this was one of the first orders Achan had given, that Jax mi Katt, Sir Rigil, and Bran return to Prince Oren to assist the southern troops and the Mârad rebels.

  “In the morning.” Bran led them over the drawbridge of the southeastern gate and followed a wide path through the surrounding vineyard. The nearly ripe grapes made the air smell sweet. Bees gathered around the bunches of fruit, helping themselves to a taste. Achan followed Bran past three women carrying baskets of grapes. All three glared at Achan.

  “For Lightness’ sake!” Achan stopped and turned to stare after the women. “What is the matter with everyone?”

  “It’s my fault, I’m afraid, Your Majesty,” Bran whispered. “The people have heard whose token you wear and they feel you have… um… stolen my intended.”

  “Yes, I am aware of this.” Achan huffed a dry laugh. “But Bran… I stole?” He set his hands on his hips.

  Soldiers were one thing, but the peasants too? After all the debate over the best match for Achan—to find the lady who could unite the biggest army, the lady Achan was betrothed to nearly against his will—now the people of Carmine thought he had stolen Bran Rennan’s love? It was almost funny, especially since Bran had broken his own engagement and stolen the heart of another. Gren Fenny’s, to be exact, whom Achan had once longed to wed.

  “Well,” Achan said, “this is awkward.”

  Bran looked at his boots. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I understood you severed your relationship with Lady Averella amicably. Was that not the case?”

  “As well as I could. But the people were not told.”

  For who would tell them? Nobles did not make a habit of announcing their decisions to every peasant in their manor. Still. “Rumor has not circulated?”

  “It has, but…” He lowered his voice. “Forgive me. The people think I’m covering for the duchess. That she withdrew her consent to make a better match for Averella.”

  Averella. So informal. A long history of friendship, likely. Similar to what Achan and Gren shared, perhaps. Achan struggled for words that would not insult Bran or Lady Averella. “It is not my wish to marry anyone. I—”

  “Completely understood, Your Majesty,” Bran said. “I know you did not choose Averella for yourself.”

  “I would never knowingly take another man’s love.”

  Bran’s complexion darkened. The comment had been cruel, perhaps. An unnecessary stab. Achan had no future with Gren Fenny—Hoff. He shook the thought away. But Bran had courted Gren, ignorantly perhaps, but still knowing that Achan had loved her.

  Bran took a long breath and bowed his head. “You are a noble man, Your Highness.”

  In word alone. If Bran could bloodvoice, he’d sense how ignoble Achan’s thoughts were at present. Oh, pig snout. He did not want an enemy in Bran. He had few friends, as it was. Maybe asking Bran’s aid could soften this awkwardness between them. “I should like to meet Lady Averella. She has not returned from her latest hideaway, and the duchess thinks it a dangerous time for her to travel. Tell me, is she comely?”

  Bran opened his mouth but did not respond. Then he blinked. “She is beautiful, Your Highness. But I do not know her whereabouts.”

  They walked again. Bran’s claim of Lady Averella’s beauty did not mollify Achan. Lady Jaira was beautiful. On the surface. “May I ask what happened between you?”

  “We… grew apart.”

  “We? Don’t you mean you?” In all his time spent protecting Gren.

  “No, Your Majesty.” Bran met Achan’s eyes briefly. “It turns out, absence does not always make the heart grow fonder. Sometimes the opposite is true. Averella… She found someone else.”

  Wonderful. So Achan was now betrothed to a lady who loved another. “A lot of that going around.”

  “Yes,” Bran said. “I…”

  Achan waited, but Bran seemed reluctant to say what was on his mind. “You what?”

  Bran swallowed and shuffled his feet on the dirt path. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I have no understanding with…” He glanced at Achan, then off into the vineyard, cheeks flushed worse than a scandalized maiden. “I made no p
romise to Madam Hoff. Though I may have unintentionally encouraged her affection, and for that I beg your forgiveness. It was never my motive to woo her.”

  Achan’s jaw stiffened. He glanced at Shung, who stared at the castle as if Achan and Bran didn’t exist. “And now?”

  Bran straightened, full of courage. “Only with your blessing, Your Highness.”

  Achan had not expected Bran to be so courteous. Yet as much as he once wanted to strike him for his carelessness toward Gren’s life and heart, his anger no longer burned. “I’ll give no such blessing until I speak with Gren.”

  Bran’s expression softened. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” They continued along the dirt path as it passed into a vineyard. “What of the lady who traveled with you? I heard she dressed as a man.”

  Achan’s eyes narrowed. “What business is that of yours?” Though even as he said it he saw Bran’s intention. Bran had as much claim to protect Lady Averella’s heart from Achan as Achan had claim to try and protect Gren’s.

  Bran shrugged. “I only point out that sometimes, when two people spend so much time together, it is difficult not to grow attached, despite how inappropriate the dynamics may be. I simply thought you might understand.”

  Achan smiled wryly. Bran was a clever one with his tongue. Achan might appoint him an ambassador to somewhere if he ever had peace in the land. “Point taken.”

  The path cut through the hedge wall that grew around the perimeter of the vineyard. It stretched across a grassy plain toward a group of cottages at the foot of a small hill. The sweet smell of grapes was replaced by that of grass and dust from the path. Asters sprinkled the green landscape in purple and yellow. More bees buzzed from blossom to blossom.

  “Duchess Amal assured me that Lady Averella had no attachments. But you suspect she has a suitor?” Achan had believed every word of Duchess Amal’s letter in which she had accepted Achan’s—or rather Sir Caleb’s—proposal. She had assured him her daughter’s heart was free. He did not relish the idea of marrying anyone who would be pining for another man. It was bad enough he still longed for Sparrow.

  His chest tightened at the thought. Sweet Vrell Sparrow. How he missed her.

  Bran stumbled over a pebble on the path and barely managed to catch his footing. “I-I spoke in haste, Your Majesty, and perhaps out of my own chagrin. I beg you forgive me. I’ve no proof Averella loves another. I suppose my pride clung to such a scenario in hopes that someone had wooed her from me, rather than her simply losing interest.”

  Achan could certainly relate to a woman’s rejection. “Peace, Master Rennan. If you still love the Lady Averella, I’ll reject the alliance this moment.”

  Bran flushed all the way down his neck. “’Tis valiant of you to offer, Your Majesty, but…” For several steps neither spoke. Finally, Bran shook his head. “I do not think I loved Averella as much as I loved the idea of her.” He took a deep breath. “I wish you both every happiness.”

  They had closed half the distance between the vineyard and the cottages when two women and a man stepped out onto the road. One of the women squealed and started to run toward them. As she neared, her short, curvy form and chestnut hair came into view.

  Gren.

  2

  Gren collided against Achan in a combination of tackle and hug. He caught her, staggering back to keep upright and wincing as his thigh and shoulder screamed. He breathed in her familiar smell of cinnamon and bitter fulling water.

  She looked no different but for her black dress, mourning for her deceased husband. Chestnut hair tied back in a braid that hung past her waist, freckled skin, deep brown eyes framed with thick eyelashes. Her figure had not changed. No lump yet to announce the child growing within.

  Achan’s chest heaved with a torrent of emotion. He fought it back, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her forehead, a brotherly gesture he forced himself to enact. “Gren, you look radiant. How have you been?”

  She didn’t seem a bit bothered by his controlled affection. “Terrible.” She peeked at Bran, and a rosy flush crept over her cheeks. “Oh, I’m not complaining, Master Rennan. You’ve been so kind.” She looked back to Achan. “It’s just that people here think horrible things about me.”

  Achan held out his arm, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t know to accept it. “Might I visit your home? I should like to pay my respects to your parents.”

  “Of course.” Gren pointed down the road. “Mother is just there.”

  Achan glanced up to see Gren’s mother crossing the distance toward them. Sir Rigil, the knight Bran squired for, walked at her side. Again Achan offered his arm to Gren, then gave up and took her hand. “Let us save your mother some walking.” He tugged her toward her mother, who was now jogging, arms outstretched.

  Madam Fenny’s fierce hug threatened to squeeze out his lunch. She slowly let go, stroking the back of his head, the sides of his face. “Dear boy. How the gods deceived us all.” She took his hands in hers and stepped back. “My, how handsome you look. Gren, doesn’t he look handsome?”

  “I’ve always thought so.” Gren smiled. “What a fashionable beard too. You’ve given up shaving?”

  Achan grinned at the memory of Gren giving him his first shave after he had nearly killed himself trying. “It’s but a mask, I’m afraid. To hide the marks Esek left on me, though I fear it fails.” Esek had used Ôwr, Achan’s father’s sword, to cut a long gash on each of Achan’s cheeks. The beard—nothing more than a short dusting of hair—managed to hide the humiliating scars somewhat.

  Gren scowled. “That horrible man.”

  “Perhaps we should move this visit to the Fenny cottage,” Sir Rigil said. “That would be most proper.” He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue and black doublet, his hair and beard were trimmed short, but something about his swagger and grin reminded Achan of a marauder.

  Achan nodded. “Thank you, Sir Rigil.”

  “Oh!” Gren’s mother clapped her hands to her face. “But Jespa will be cross if Grendolyn is late.”

  “Bran can send word.” Sir Rigil raised an eyebrow in Bran’s direction. “Run tell Jespa the Crown Prince requested a visit with the Fenny family.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bran bowed, cast a longing look at Gren, then turned and walked back toward the stronghold.

  Sir Rigil led the way to the Fennys’ cottage. It was a bit larger than their home in Sitna had been, but didn’t look all that different. It was strange to see their old table and chairs in a different home. Master Fenny greeted Achan like a long lost son, then he and Madam Fenny made excuses and left. Sir Rigil urged Shung to join him outside the front door.

  Which left Achan and Gren alone. Achan marveled at the irony. The last time he and Gren had been alone in the Fenny home, they’d been scolded. Clearly Achan’s station had changed enough that Master Fenny would give him Gren’s hand now. Yet it was far too late for that.

  Gren broached the subject herself. “You’re engaged to Lady Averella Amal.” She reached out and touched the bell edge of the maroon sleeve tied to his arm.

  “Aye,” Achan said. “Though I’ve never met her.”

  “Me either.” Gren giggled. “As if the heir to Carm would be introduced to a peasant. But I never even saw her.”

  An awkward silence descended. Gren stood between Achan and the table and chairs. A footstool sat under the window. Would she think to ask him to sit? He scoured his mind for something to say. “Have you heard from Noam?”

  She leaned back against the table. “Not since before I was arrested.”

  The memory of Gren in the Sitna cell filled his mind. “Gren, I’m sorry about this, about everything.”

  She waved her hand about. “None of it was your fault.”

  He glanced over her black dress. “It’s because of me that Riga is dead.”

  This sobered Gren. “I do regret that, for Riga wasn’t as bad a husband as I feared.”

  “You cared for him, then?”

  “I didn’t hate him, though
it’s a horrible thing to be married off against your will.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! For a girl, anyway. I’m sure it’ll be different for you.”

  Achan lowered himself to the stool under the window. A familiar sensation filled his mind. This very spot was where Bran had been sitting when Achan had looked in on Gren during Sir Gavin’s lesson. He shook off the strange memory. “All I ever wanted in life was to be a free man, Gren. But it seems I’ve only exchanged one set of chains for another.”

  “But you’ll be king, Achan. King of all Er’Rets.”

  He scoffed. “Being a king is not as pleasant as one may think. I never wished for finery and jewels, though I do like the food. You would think I’m free, but I dare not make a decision without consulting my advisors. I had to all but sneak away to have this moment to myself.” He sighed. “I am glad to know who I am—who my parents were. But I’d rather not be king.” Guilt nagged at everything so many had sacrificed to get him here. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  Gren lunged to the floor beside him, kneeling at his feet. “Oh, Achan. Why have the gods been cruel to us? If only I’d listened to you, we might be living in the forest in that cottage you wanted to build. This might be your child I carry. We could’ve—”

  “Let’s not dwell on what was lost.” Achan stroked her curls. “I must marry a noblewoman. My advisors chose Lady Averella, and Duchess Amal has given her consent. That’s my lot now.” He helped her into a chair. “The old Achan would have fled such chains, but the new Achan cannot. For if I were to be so selfish, all Er’Rets would suffer.”

  Gren smiled. “You’re the best of men, Achan.”

  “’Tis kind of you to say so, Gren, with all I’ve put you through.”

  “You’ve done nothing.”

  “Your entire family uprooted, your husband killed, you in a cell—and only because Esek wanted to punish me.”

  “It’s Lord Nathak I blame,” Gren said. “And don’t you blame another. He alone is at fault.”

  Achan cupped Gren’s cheek in his right hand. “Do you care for Bran Rennan?”