From Darkness Won

by Jill Williamson

  Achan wanted to laugh. “Indeed. Very acceptable.”

  Sir Eagan smiled, his round cheeks balled up. “I suspected as much.”

  When Achan exited the meeting tent, the waves surging inside his gut threatened to knock him down. Sir Eagan must have been manipulating his emotions to keep him calm. Achan hadn’t even realized the situation had upset him until now.

  He was free. Truly free.

  So why should he care about Lady Averella? A sting to his ego, perhaps? To be rejected… again. Aw, who cared? He needed to tell Sparrow! He almost barged right in to her mind to tell her the news until he remembered their last conversation. Best wait a bit.

  Movement behind him caused him to turn. Cortland and Achan’s dark-skinned cousin followed close behind. Achan searched his memory but forgot his cousin’s name. Shung must be off duty. Perhaps Lady Gali was as well?

  Achan nodded to the men and started for his tent, stopping to return greetings to a few dozen soldiers along the way. The sun had nearly set. Seagulls circled overhead, dipping down to swipe food, no doubt. Achan was surprised Matthias hadn’t brought his dinner to the meeting.

  He found the boy waiting inside Achan’s tent. “Are you hungry, sir?”

  “Very.” Achan unlaced his doublet while Matthias laid out his meal at the table.

  Achan shrugged out of his doublet and tossed it on the bed. He untucked the waist of his tunic and shook it out, letting a cool draft of night air up his shirt. Much better.

  While Matthias filled a plate, Achan sat on the edge of his bed to remove his boots. But when he leaned over, his necklace swung into his view, which brought Sparrow to mind again. Though he knew better, he sent her a knock.

  Yes, Your Highness? Her cold tone did not bode well.

  He suddenly felt like a fool, but pressed on, giddy with his newfound freedom. I thought you should know I’m no longer betrothed to Lady Averella.

  Is that so? Her voice somehow grew colder.

  Achan sent his next words with a bit of sarcasm, the way he and Sparrow used to joke. Turns out she’s not actually Duke Amal’s daughter. What do you think of that?

  Shocking.

  It is, isn’t it? When no answer came, he said, What’s wrong, Sparrow?

  Why are you telling me this?

  I thought that… well… I just thought—

  That it would change things between us? Your Highness, to my mind, you are nothing more than a man I met in the Veil. I tried to make it clear that—

  I only wanted to say that now we can—

  —I cannot continue in this manner. I do not wish to be cruel, but if you insist on messaging me for intimate conversations, I will be forced to ignore you entirely.

  A stone grew in the place where Achan’s heart had recently stopped bleeding. Very well, Miss Sparrow. Good evening. Achan broke the connection.

  Matthias stood beside the table, a dinner of fish and potatoes laid out. “It’s ready, sir.”

  Achan was no longer hungry. Shung, where are you?

  A long moment passed before Shung answered. Visiting Lady Gali at the bonfire. Should Shung return?

  Pig snout. No, Shung. I just wondered where you were, that’s all. I’ll see you later. Have fun.

  Achan’s stomach clenched, jealous of Shung’s joy. Why did things happen this way? If only the knights had given him leave to choose his own bride before Mitspah.

  Everything had started going badly in Mitspah.

  Achan stood, walked to the table, glared at his meal. Perhaps if he wandered by the bonfire he could strike up a conversation with Shung and Lady Gali.

  “I’ll be back in a moment, Matthias.” Achan strode from the tent. Cortland and Achan’s cousin jogged to keep up. Achan ignored the occasional well-wishing soldier, each step increasing his anger. Typical of Sparrow to hide from the unknown. Finally, here was his chance to mend things—to make promises she thought he could never make—and she believed him a stranger.

  The bonfire raged in a clearing inside the wagon circle. He spotted Shung and Lady Gali right away, dancing merrily, black braids whipping the air, oblivious to everything around them.

  Soldiers stood in clusters, most holding mugs of mead. Achan narrowed his gaze to a wagon on the other side of the bonfire where Kurtz sat with a group of women. Cole sat crosslegged on the ground, his boyish freckled face gazing at Kurtz as if the man were Moul Rog the Great.

  Achan crossed to the wagon and gripped Kurtz by the shoulder. “Did not Sir Gavin give orders against spirits while we are engaged in war?”

  “Oh, hello, Pacey. How are you this fine evening, eh?”

  Achan glanced at Cole, then to his guards, and back to Kurtz. “Do not change the subject. Spirits? Sir Gavin? War?”

  “Worked that out, we have. No more than a hundred can drink each night, which leaves most the men on guard, eh?”

  Achan frowned. “Yet you seem to be indulging every night. Do you never take a turn on guard?”

  Kurtz grinned. “Someone has to organize it all, he does. Besides, I’m on your personal guard.”

  Typical Kurtz. “I see. Still, it seems dangerous, don’t you think? If we were to be attacked…”

  “Bah! The bottle calms you, Pacey. I’ll likely fight better than anyone, if it comes to that, eh? Besides, many aren’t drinking. Cole, here, is afraid of it. And Sir Shung won’t touch the drink. Just wants to dance with his lass. That’s all most the men want. A little friendly company. Plus, Sir Gavin’s not here tonight. Rode off with his scouts to see about something or other. Tonight’s the night, Pacey.” Kurtz passed him a bottle. “Think about it, eh?”

  Achan accepted the bottle from Kurtz, muddled by the man’s reasoning. It was true: all Achan wanted was a little company. To cross swords with Shung or wrestle out his anger.

  Instead he walked toward the sea, flanked by Cortland and Achan’s cousin from Nesos. The sunset dusted the prairie grasses in gold. The air smelled salty and cool in his nose and mouth. He swung the bottle by the neck, whipping the tall grass aside as he made his way to the beach.

  The prairie grass gave way to sand, sloping down a small hill to the surf. Achan sat in the dry sand, staring at the glassy sea, the sun sinking into the water like a yolk into a simmering pot.

  His gut festered. He wanted to rant at Arman about his misfortune, but he knew what Arman would say, if He bothered to answer. Achan didn’t want to hear it. He wanted things to go his way for once. It was selfish, sure, but he didn’t care.

  He ripped Averella’s sleeve off his arm and threw it. The lightweight fabric landed at his feet, the maroon glistening in the setting sun.

  He brought the bottle to his mouth, worked the cork free with his teeth, and spat it on the ground. He smelled the contents, expecting the briny smell of mead, but the tangy combination of currants and cedar filled his nostrils.

  Had Kurtz meant to give him wine? Achan had wine with dinner most nights, so it wouldn’t matter to drink some now. He took a sip. Robust sweetness filled his mouth. He swished his tongue around, tasting the flavor as long as it would linger. Blazes, that was good. Much better than what Lord Eli had served in Mirrorstone.

  Yet when the taste faded, the wine left his mouth dryer than before. So he took a longer drink and wished he had some food. The wine seemed to point out just how hungry he was. He should go back to his tent and eat.

  Instead he took another drink.

  The waves lapped against the shore, simmering like butter in a skillet. He dug the heels of his boots into the sand, extending his legs and making two deep trenches. He took another drink then stood and walked onto the smooth, wet sand. The tide slid in again, and he let it wash over his boots. As the water drew away, it pulled the sand from under his heels. He stopped and watched it erode, amazed at the power water had over dirt.

  Arman had that kind of power over men. The power to give and take away. Dying for any cause of Arman’s would be worth it. Achan recalled the intense pleasure the pull of Shamayim
had brought. He would not be unhappy to return to that place. That much he knew.

  Yet it seemed Arman wanted him here for now. So here, in Er’Rets, Achan must stay.

  Now Sparrow, she had that same water-over-sand pull on Achan. He did not know how or when it had happened, but she affected him. Too much. The things she said. How she said them. The way she looked at him. The way she smelled. He tried to stop thinking about her, but that decision only made her ever more present in his mind. Sparrow and her stubborn ways. Even without her memory.

  He took a long swallow.

  He’d had enough of this weakness, this power Sparrow had over him. Was he man or boy? He was a man—a prince. Soon to be king. He needed to forget about Vrell Sparrow. There were plenty of women who would covet his attention. And now he was free to choose any of them. He could have his pick of the most beautiful women in the world.

  His stomach clenched at that idea, for that was why Sparrow had claimed to be afraid to love him—back when she’d had her memory. That as king he would be surrounded by women seeking his attentions. He laughed to himself, alone on the beach but for his two Kingsguard shadows.

  “Yes, Sparrow, I can hardly keep the women away.”

  He snorted, then flubbed out a long breath through his lips. The idea of throngs of women trying to turn his head. He laughed, then sobered when he caught sight of his guardsmen standing where the grassy prairie met the sand.

  Achan suddenly wanted to see Sparrow’s thoughts. Plant memories, perhaps? Make her remember him. The desire only made him take another drink.

  The tide swept out, and Achan stumbled as the sand melted under his heels. He trudged up the hill. Dry sand stuck to his boots. He stomped to shake it free.

  A burst of laughter pulled his attention back to the orange glow of the bonfire. Shadows of dancers circled over the tops of the tents. The fiddle hummed, voices chorused, and the clapping and laughter tugged at his heart.

  He wanted to laugh too. So he did. Long and hard, like a madman. His guards followed a few paces behind. Achan glanced back every few steps, wondering what they thought of the laughing prince. The question made him snicker.

  Well, why couldn’t the Crown Prince have fun? Why must he always be alone in his tent or alone on the beach or alone with his advisors or shadows or servants?

  “Bah.” He smiled at the sound of his voice imitating Kurtz’s favorite word. He said it again, louder this time, “Bah!” and laughed. His smile lingered. Head tingling, he set off for the reveling.

  He stopped between two tents at the edge of the clearing. Over three dozen couples danced around the bonfire now. And the women were not all Berlanders. There were peasants in the throng. How had they gotten into camp? Was that safe? What if they were working for Esek? Wasn’t someone going to check?

  Achan furrowed his brow, wondering how anyone might prove such a thing about a woman.

  A couple whirled past him. The woman’s flowery smell brought Sparrow’s face to mind. He smiled at the pleasing aroma, then spotted Shung and Lady Gali swaying in the crowd. Lady Gali laughed at something Shung said and tugged on one of Shung’s fat braids.

  Achan’s smile faded. He squeezed the neck of the wine bottle. Why was it everyone could do as they pleased but him? Why could he not have fun? Forget the fear of the pending battle? Wash his cares away with a bottle of mead? Many men lost their sanity from the bottle. And he was safe here, was he not? He had two guards at his back, making sure of it, and an entire army of his own around him. He could think of no better time for such an experience. He tipped the wine bottle up to his lips.

  Only a sip dribbled out.

  Could he have drunk the whole thing? Impossible. Kurtz must have given him a half-empty bottle.

  He dropped it and threaded his way through the dancers toward where Kurtz sat on the end of the wagon with a peasant girl on his lap. If anyone had a fresh bottle of wine, it would be Kurtz.

  “Your Highness!” someone said.

  “It’s the prince!”

  A chorus of greetings rang out. The music segued into “The Pawn Our King.” Another man spoke to Achan, but Achan ignored him and pushed through the crowd.

  He bumped into a pair of dancers. “Sorry.”

  “Not at all, Your Highness.”

  Another couple plowed by, knocking into Achan’s sore shoulder. It hardly hurt anymore, but the contact aggravated the wound and threw him off balance. He spun halfway around, lost his footing, and fell onto the trampled grass. His shoulder stung, yet he couldn’t keep from laughing. His guardsmen rushed up on either side and helped him stand.

  “I’m so sorry!” someone said. “Is he all right?”

  Cortland tugged Achan away from the crowd. “Your Highness, let’s get you back to your tent.”

  Achan pulled his arm from Cortland’s grip and rolled his shoulder, easing away the soreness. “I’m fine.”

  Sir Gavin Lukos.

  Achan cocked his head and listened. A woman’s high-pitched giggle turned his gaze back to the wagon. Kurtz whispered in the peasant woman’s ear. She giggled again, drawing out her laugh as if she were tired of laughing yet couldn’t get enough of it. Kurtz kissed her neck, her lips.

  The woman’s eyes met Achan’s. He stared, heart thudding in his ears. She whispered to Kurtz.

  “Eh?” Kurtz pushed the woman off his lap and jumped off the wagon. “Heh-hay! Pacey! You came back!” He waved Achan over. “How’s my favorite oarsman?”

  Achan’s ears tickled. Sir Gavin Lukos.

  Achan grinned, remembering the time he and Kurtz had visited a tavern in Tsaftown. See? Kurtz knew how to have fun. “Your favorite oarsman is thirsty.”

  Kurtz’s eyes lit up. “Ahh…” He threw an arm over Achan’s shoulders and steered him back to the wagon. “The question is, thirsty for what?”

  Achan’s gaze roamed the wagon, searching the bottles for more wine, but his sights snagged on a set of dark brown eyes.

  Sir Gavin Lukos.

  Achan shook away the buzzing in his head. He blinked at the girl sitting in the back of Kurtz’s wagon. She was Lady Tara, yet she was not, for Tara’s eyes were blue. But this maiden had the same golden ringlets and sly smile that had weakened Achan’s knees.

  “Challa, would you like to dance with the prince?” Kurtz lowered his voice. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, Your Highness, you look like you could use a dance.”

  Achan stared at the girl. “Yes, I think so too.”

  Challa crawled to the end of the wagon, an unladylike thing to do, for the position bared more flesh of her neckline than Sparrow would ever find appropriate.

  Achan averted his eyes, then cursed himself for thinking of Sparrow again. Would she haunt him forever?

  “Help me down, Yer Highness?”

  The uncultured edge to Challa’s voice curled Achan’s lips into a small smile. She sat on the end of the wagon, kicking her bare feet and holding out both hands. He took them and tugged her forward. She jumped off the wagon and into his arms.

  She did that on purpose.

  Sparrow again. The words she’d said when Lady Jaira had fallen against Achan back in Mirrorstone.

  Get out of my head, Sparrow, Achan told himself.

  He stepped back from Challa and bowed.

  She tipped her head back and laughed. “Such a gentleman, yeh are. No one’s ever bowed to me before.”

  “A crime, my lady, for you look like a noblewoman I know.”

  Challa giggled. “A noblewoman? Me?”

  “Aye.” Achan bowed again, delighted by her laughter. “My lady Challa, may I request the honor of a dance?”

  “Well, I already said I’d dance, didn’t I?”

  Achan grabbed her hand and waist, and they joined the crowd of dancers. They danced a long while, stopped for a drink, and danced some more. The crowd seemed delighted by Achan’s presence, and he reveled in their unabashed attention. Then somehow—though Achan could not remember when it happened or whose i
dea it had been—he and Challa ended up lying on their stomachs underneath Kurtz’s wagon, watching the dancers from the waist down and trying to guess who was who.

  “That’s Shung and Lady Gali, for I’d recognize those charmice tails anywhere,” Achan said. “And there is Kurtz.”

  “No, Yer Highness, Kurtz has brown boots, not black. He’s there.” Challa pointed to the other side of the clearing.

  Achan squinted. Everything blurred together. “The torches must be burning low, Lady Challa, for I can hardly see your hand let alone where you’re pointing.”

  She waved her hand in front of his face.

  He laughed. “Now that I see.”

  Challa set her hand against his cheek and turned his face away from the dancers. The torchlight reflected in her eyes like sparks from a firesteel. And suddenly she was kissing him, hungrily, like he was food and she hadn’t eaten in days.

  He gasped for breaths between kisses, surprised by her affection, wondering if he should say something, but not wanting her to stop. She slid her hand up his tunic and clawed at his back like a baby cham bear.

  Achan heard himself whimper, sensed the barrage of words Sir Caleb might say, but kept all rational thought at bay, remaining firmly in the fog thrilling his senses.

  Challa pushed him to his back and crawled on top, nearly bumping her head on the bottom of the wagon. Dried grass pricked the back of his neck, but she kissed him again, and he forgot the irritation. Her kisses grew more intense.

  A distant song broke through the fog. A woman’s voice, growing nearer. Familiar tune. Familiar lyrics. Achan held his breath, frozen like a rabbit that sensed a predator. Challa moved her kisses to his neck.

  “… apart. Whenever we’re apart. Though I am nothing to you, I love—”