From Darkness Won

by Jill Williamson

  The man groaned. His body stiffened.

  “Shh. You are very brave.” Vrell laid her linen over his neck and pressed down lightly, concerned about his breathing. “Are you thirsty?”

  The man’s face turned pink. One blink.

  “Good. We’ll get you a drink in a moment.”

  The man sucked in short gasps. Vrell lifted the linen from his neck, uncertain where to press to stop the bleeding and not cut off his air. She pressed down with two fingers where the blood seemed to pool. Better.

  She reached for her water jug with her free hand, wedged it between her knees, and pulled out the stopper. “Here is a drink.” She tipped the jug over the man’s lips. His chin quivered as he lapped the water. “Tell me, sir, do you know Arman, the One God?”

  The man blinked once.

  Joyous heart. Arman would save his soul, then, if she failed to save his body. “I would like to ask Him to ease your pain. Would that be acceptable?”

  The man gurgled an intelligible response. His eyebrows sank, and he blinked.

  Vrell took hold of his hand and closed her eyes. He squeezed until her fingers pinched. “Arman, You are aware of this man’s pain. We ask for Your healing touch on his body. We know You are able to mend these wounds.” The man’s grip relaxed. Vrell forced her voice to remain even, though tears tightened her throat. “We also know You will choose what is best. Bring this man comfort and strength. Be glorified in his life. May it be so.”

  Vrell opened her eyes. The man’s eyes remained closed. He had stopped trembling. She laid his hand over his chest and set hers on top of Gren’s.

  “Thank you, Gren. That will do.”

  Gren pulled her hands away. “Is he dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Gren sucked in a short breath. “I knew him. Not his name. But up until a few weeks ago, he served night duty between the great hall and the kitchens.”

  “And he joined the Kingsguard?”

  “Captain Loam assigned him to personal guard. The man was mighty proud. I heard him bragging to his chums.”

  “A personal guard to whom?”

  “Lady Gypsum.”

  Vrell met Gren’s gaze, no doubt exchanging the same curiosity, but neither willing to voice it aloud. Why would one of Gypsum’s guards be in the vineyard at such an hour?

  Vrell called to Anillo. Lady Averella Amal.

  Yes, my lady?

  I am in the southwestern vineyards helping the wounded. I found a man who I believe is one of Gypsum’s guardsmen. He is dead. Would you send someone for his body, please? He lies in the tenth row thereabouts.

  Right away, my lady. Should I inform your mother of your location?

  If you must. Vrell stood and gathered her satchel and water jug. But why might Gypsum’s guard be out here?

  It would be best if you returned to the castle.

  Fire sparked in Vrell’s chest and spread quickly through her limbs. Tell me now, Anillo.

  Very well. Lady Gypsum was abducted from the courtyard. Do not fret! She is back in the castle, well and safe. Her abductors took her through the vineyards. She will be saddened to hear that Arne did not survive.

  Vrell glanced down at the soldier named Arne. He gave his life to save my sister.

  He tried, my lady. Lady Gypsum says that Arne was struck down long before she escaped. My lady, if you don’t mind looking… The prince helped Lady Gypsum into the southwestern tunnel. Yet he did not follow her and is no longer responding to the duchess’s calls.

  The prince? Achan had been here? Was he here still? She couldn’t let him see her. And yet… Her eyes strayed to Arne’s ruined body.

  Please, Arman. Let him be well.

  Vrell crouched and scanned the ground under the vines. She counted three bodies at various distances away. I will find him, Anillo. Vrell bounced back up and ran to the road. The tunnel’s entrance was not far. “Come, Gren. There are more wounded.”

  Vrell’s heart pounded as she jogged down the road, scanning each row for the next body or the scrap of fabric that marked the trapdoor to the secret tunnel. She spotted a downed man and ran to him. It was not Achan, however, but an enemy soldier—dead from an amputated leg.

  Vrell backpedaled, bumped into Gren, and darted past.

  Gren cried out, “He’s dead too?”

  Vrell turned back and gripped Gren’s shoulders. “Gren, please. I am sorry that you are seeing this, but we must keep moving. Besides, he was one of the enemy.”

  She sniffled. “How can you tell?”

  “He is wearing a New Kingsguard cape. Black. Not red.” Vrell jogged to the road and waved Gren to follow.

  Gren stumbled after her, sobbing. “I didn’t even notice his cloak. I’m just so sad for that other soldier. He was so excited to be a guardsman. I don’t even know his name.”

  “Arne.” Vrell gripped Gren’s hand, tugged her along.

  Gren panted. “How do you know?”

  “Anillo told me. I bloodvoiced him to ask him to send someone for the body.”

  “Oh.”

  Down the next row, a leg stuck out from under a clump of vines. “Wait, Gren. Here is another.” Vrell ducked under a broken trellis and made her way down the row. The vines on her left were a mess. Some had come loose from the trellis and hung like fallen garland. Some were broken and hung like the branches of a weeping willow.

  The man lay on his back, arms spread out as if he could fly. His body appeared to have knocked down the trellis, for pieces of wood and bunches of red grapes lay on the ground around him. His head, covered in a gilded helm, was turned away. The helm was twisted slightly and dented with the star-like imprint of a mace.

  Vrell stopped, dumbstruck by the etching on the glided breastplate that had once belonged to Moul Rog the Great.

  Achan!

  6

  Vrell knelt at Achan’s side and studied the dent in his helm. Only one spike had pierced the steel. A thin trail of blood trickled through it. There did not appear to be an abundance of blood on the grass.

  She carefully pulled off the helm. Some of Achan’s black hair frizzed, wanting to stay with the wool cushioning of the helm. The rest was stuck to his temple with blood. An odd tingle started in her belly and ran up to her head. She could almost hear the sound of his voice saying, “We need you as much as you need us. If not for you, who would patch us up when we’re half dead?”

  Indeed. She parted his hair with her fingers, looking for the wound near the large lump on his head. Only a small hole had been pierced in the flesh, just above his ear. The spike could not have gone too deeply.

  She cupped his cheek and turned his head. Tears flooded her eyes, blurring his face. She leaned over him, placing her cheek in front of his lips.

  She could not feel his breath. She needed to get his armor off so she could see his chest. “Gren, help me!”

  Footsteps crunched over leaves, and Gren knelt on Achan’s other side. “Oh! ’Tis Achan.” Gren grabbed Achan’s shoulders and shook him. “Achan! Wake up!”

  Vrell seized Gren’s wrists and squeezed. “Stop! You could make him worse shaking him like that. Help me untie the points on his breastplate. We must get it off.”

  Gren let go. Vrell began to untie the points on Achan’s right side. Gren stared for a moment, then mirrored her movements.

  When Vrell finished, she looked to Gren. “Almost done?”

  “No! I-I can’t do this. My hands are shaking.”

  Vrell stood and stepped over Achan to his other side. She crouched beside Gren and loosened the points. As she untied the last one, the waist of the backplate fell to the grass. Vrell reached across and grabbed both sides. Gren leaned over her shoulder.

  “Back up, please, Gren. I need some room.”

  Gren’s presence vanished, and Vrell lifted. The breastplate was heavier than she expected. She gripped it tightly and passed it to Gren.

  Achan’s eyes shot open and he sucked in a loud, croaking breath that morphed into a y
ell. He panted and yelled again, sucking short breaths between his teeth. “What!” He gasped. “My head. Ahh!”

  Vrell leaned over him, catching his gaze, thrilled to see him awake. “Shh. All will be well.”

  Achan’s eyebrows sunk low over his eyes. “Sparrow? Sparrow, are you here?” He gripped her arm. “Am I dream…” His eyes fell closed then flashed open again. He lifted his head and groaned, his gaze roaming over her. “A dress, Sparrow? You look lovely. I miss you.”

  Vrell’s cheeks flamed. “Shh. Be still.”

  His eyes widened as his gaze flitted over her. “You’re… bleeding?” His head thumped to the grass. Unconscious.

  Vrell sighed, pushing back her emotions. Dried blood was smeared on her skirt, hands, and sleeves. Probably her face as well. She sent a knock to Sir Caleb. Vrell Sparrow.

  Vrell? How have you been? Are you—?

  Achan is hurt. In the southwestern vineyard, about eighteen rows west of the eastern gate, six paces in. Bring something to carry him on.

  Right away.

  Vrell unlaced Achan’s surcoat. His necklace caught her attention. A cham’s claw as long as her index finger hung from a cord of braided leather and red twine. She fingered the cord. The twine had been hers. She had used it to decorate the jar of rue juice she had left to help Achan with his fleas. Her chest tightened.

  She could not deny her feelings for this man.

  She squeezed the cham’s claw in her fist. “Oh… I’m such a fool,” she whispered. “What do I do? What do I—?”

  Vrell?

  She jumped at Sir Caleb’s voice in her head and dropped Achan’s necklace.

  We are not far, Sir Caleb said. How is he?

  She smoothed Achan’s fly-away hair. He is asleep, Sir Caleb. He was struck in the head. A mace.

  Blazes. That boy.

  Gren crept up beside Vrell. “Is he… ?”

  “He should be fine.”

  Gren knelt at Vrell’s side, perusing Achan’s body with a doe-eyed stare. “When will you two marry?”

  Vrell’s gaze left Achan’s face and settled on the burgundy sleeve tied to his left arm. Her sleeve. Gren would have heard that Achan was betrothed to Lady Averella Amal. All of Carmine knew. “I know not.”

  “But you said he’d be fine.”

  “He will be. But no date has been set…” She threaded her fingers through his and squeezed his limp hand. It was sweaty and cold. The words of a song flitted to her mind. The song Yumikak had sung to Achan and Vrell in Berland.

  View not my face, I am undone beside you

  The beating of my heart will not cease

  Whilst I am near you, whilst I am near you

  Tears flooded Vrell’s eyes. She blinked them back to no avail. The sun had risen now, bathing the vines and grapes in a golden glow and warming her face.

  Arman, what do I do? What can I do?

  Footsteps crunched over leaves. Sir Eagan, Sir Caleb, Shung, Kurtz, and two servants bounded down the row. One of the servants carried two poles wrapped in canvas over his shoulder. A healer’s litter. Vrell dropped Achan’s hand and backed away, pulling Gren with her.

  Sir Eagan, her father, nodded to Vrell. A calm warmth wrapped around her. Sir Eagan’s bloodvoicing specialty, no doubt.

  The servant dropped the litter beside Achan’s body and unrolled it. Shung and Sir Eagan crouched by his head. The servants crouched on either side of his legs.

  “On three,” Sir Eagan said. “One, two, three.”

  The men lifted Achan off the ground and set him on the litter. He groaned but did not wake. Shung walked back out of the row, as if to clear the path. The servants hoisted the litter and carried Achan away.

  “I shall care for him now.”

  Sir Eagan’s voice tore Vrell’s gaze from Achan’s body. She met his piercing blue eyes and nodded. “Thank you.”

  Sir Eagan held her gaze a moment, which only added more weight to the pressure in her chest. Then he walked away, following the men carrying the litter.

  “Well now, Vrell Sparrow. You look fetching, you do, even covered in blood.” Kurtz stood before her, brown eyes grazing her as if she were an apple tree. Kurtz, one of the soldiers freed from Ice Island, knew how handsome he was. Tall, blond, burly, and more shameless than a boy in the sugar jar. “You know, now that the prince is set to marry that stuffy young noblewoman, perhaps you and I could—”

  “I think not.”

  “But we’re closer to the same rank, we are. And I can show you things our young prince hasn’t dreamed of.”

  Vrell wanted to slap the leer off Kurtz face. She picked up her satchel and walked to the road. “Good day, Kurtz.”

  “Aw, don’t be cross, Vrell. It was just an idea, it was.”

  Sir Caleb remained on the road. He looked haggard, like a father whose son had not returned from war. He ran his hands through his shaggy blond hair. “How did you find him, Vrell? What are you even doing here? We thought you’d gone elsewhere. And forgive me, but that dress.” He looked her up and down. “Where did you get such a gown?”

  Say it, she urged herself. Say, “I am Lady Averella Amal.” That would put Kurtz in his place. But words would not come. Instead, she curtsied and ran after the litter.

  She stifled her tears. She would not allow herself to cry until she made it inside the castle. Now that the sun was up, she felt exposed. She stopped suddenly, remembering Kopay, and veered toward the stables. Where had she left her horse?

  “My lady!”

  Vrell spun around at Gren’s voice. The girl hastened toward her, her ample bosom bouncing, face pale and clammy. Vrell melted. Gren had done far too much this morning for a woman with child. She should rest.

  Gren stopped before Vrell, chest heaving. “Where are they taking Achan? How will I know he’s well?”

  “Word will spread through the servants. If not, you could ask Remy. He is Anillo’s assistant.”

  “But,” Gren panted, “I can’t stand not knowing.”

  “I told you, he should be fine.”

  “Should be, you say.”

  Vrell closed her eyes, angry that this peasant dared ask such a thing of a noblewoman, yet her anger was only pride. She no longer cared about classes. After all she had endured living as a stray. Bran was right. She hid behind her title as much as she had hid within the walls of Granton Castle.

  Bran!

  Vrell sat on the edge of a trough and closed her eyes.

  “My lady?” Gren said.

  “A moment, please.” Vrell reached for Bran.

  The sun beat down, but the wind of flight on horseback blew his hair away from his face as he traveled down a dusty road behind Sir Rigil’s black courser. Grassy plains stretched out all around him. All was well. No fear clouded his thoughts. No concerns.

  She opened her eyes, relieved that Bran, Jax, and Sir Rigil were safe. And Achan too.

  Praise You, Arman. And thank You.

  Vrell reached a hand to Gren. “Help me find and stable my horse, and I shall take you to Achan.”

  Gren pulled Vrell up and released a shaky sob and a stream of tears. Vrell wished she could afford such transparency.

  They found Kopay back in what was left of the stables. Nothing but a corral inside the stone walls. The roof and all the stalls were gone. At least the animals could not roam free. Griscol had started to gather saddles and tack on a cart outside the stables. Vrell found her pack there. She hoisted it over her shoulder and led Gren around to a servant’s entrance on the east side of the castle.

  They followed the corridor that stretched along the north side of the courtyard. Vrell picked up a low-burning candle and ducked inside Mother’s receiving room in the north wing. She closed the door, thankful they had not run into anyone.

  The dark room slowly took shape around them in the low light. Vrell left her pack here. She moved the candle to her right hand and reached for Gren with her left. “Take my hand.”

  Gren’s hands clasped hers. “Where
are we?”

  “My mother’s receiving room. Trust me, please, and would you mind closing your eyes?”

  “My eyes? Why?”

  “If you want to see Achan… Mother would not like that I’ve brought you here. You must promise not to tell a soul what you see today. Do you?”

  “Sure. Close my eyes now?”

  “Please.” Vrell held the candle aloft so the light fell over Gren’s face. Her eyes were shut. The rest of her body melted into the darkness, black dress and all. “Thank you, Gren.” Before Vrell turned to go, she looked kindly on the girl’s face. “Gren, you did very well helping me today. You are a good friend.”

  Gren smiled, and Vrell pulled her slowly across the room to the painting of her mother. Her fingers found the latch on the upper left side of the frame. She pulled until it clicked and the painting bounced out from the wall.

  “Only a moment longer.” Vrell helped Gren inside the passageway and pulled the painting closed behind them. “All right. You may open your eyes.”

  Gren studied the corridor. “Where are we?”

  “In one of the secret passageways in Granton Castle.”

  “There are secret passageways?”

  “Yes. But you must be absolutely silent, or we will be discovered.”

  “I can keep quiet.”

  “Good. Follow me.”

  Vrell led Gren all the way to the peephole that looked in on Achan’s chambers. She glanced inside and saw that the men had already put Achan in his bed. Sir Eagan was smearing something on his head. Yarrow salve, likely. Shung stood behind Sir Eagan. A young boy stood at Shung’s side.

  “Is he dead, sir?” the boy asked.

  “Sleeping.”

  “Will he sleep forever?”

  “No, Matthias,” Sir Eagan said. “He will wake when he is ready, once his body is rested.”

  Vrell stepped back from the peephole, motioned for Gren to look, then reached up and felt for the stone ledge she often used for her candle. When her fingers found it, she set the candle down and leaned against the opposite wall.

  “Is he well?” Sir Caleb’s voice carried through the wall.

  “He should recover fully,” Sir Eagan said, “though we must make sure that he wakes every few hours.”