By Darkness Hid bok-1

by Jill Williamson

  Poril pointed a crooked finger in Achan’s face. “It’s only ’cause Poril’s the best cook in Er’Rets that Lord Nathak won’t be aware of yer blunder with the milk today, boy. ’Tis my responsibility to beat some sense into yeh, not his. Poril’s a fair man, and yeh deserve to be punished, that’s certain. But turning yeh over to the likes of the master is cruel. And cruel, Poril’s not.”

  Achan set the peeled potato aside and picked up another. Poril always threatened to tell Lord Nathak of Achan’s every misstep, but the man was all talk. He was more scared of Lord Nathak than Achan was. True, Poril was not as cruel as some, but he was of the opinion that beatings with the belt were kinder than beatings with a fist. Achan grew tired of both.

  Poril clunked a mug of red tonic onto the table beside Achan’s potato peelings. Achan glanced at it.

  The old man’s grey eyes dared him to refuse. “Drink up, then. Poril’s waiting.”

  Achan sucked in a long breath and guzzled the gooey, bitter liquid. The taste killed the lingering ginger cake flavor on his tongue. He’d been fed the tonic every morning his whole life, and every morning Poril insisted on watching him drink.

  The thick mixture always churned in his gut, begging to come back up. Achan sat still a moment, breathing through his nose to calm his nerves. Then he rose to settle his stomach with a few mentha leaves from the spice baskets. Achan might not have free range of the kitchens, but Poril had learned long ago to allow Achan as much mentha as he needed.

  Poril always claimed that Lord Nathak had insisted Achan drink the tonic to keep away illness — that strays were full of disease. But the tonic hadn’t prevented Achan from being ill several times in his life. Plus no other stray he knew had to take it. The one time he’d refused, he’d received a personal summons from Lord Nathak.

  Achan shuddered at the memory and chewed on the leaves. Their fresh taste dissolved the tonic’s bitterness and tingled his tongue.

  Poril wiped his hands on his grease-stained apron and sprinkled a bit of sugar over the prince’s ginger cake. Hopefully he’d forget to clean the crumbs off the table when he left to deliver it.

  “Never wanted yeh, Poril didn’t. But the master brought yeh to Poril to raise, and that’s what Poril’s done. Yeh brought none but trouble to the kitchens, the gods know. None but trouble. ’Tis why I named yeh so.”

  As if an orange tunic wasn’t humiliation enough, achan meant trouble in the ancient language. Achan returned to his stool and raked the knife against another potato, trying to block out Poril’s braying voice. His pitchfork wounds stung, but it would be at least an hour before he could tend to them.

  “…and Poril will teach yeh right from wrong too. That’s Poril’s duty to the gods.”

  If that was true, Achan would like to have a little talk with the gods. Not that the all-powerful Cetheria would be burdened by the prayers of a stray — despite all the pastry tarts Achan had offered up at the entrance to the temple gardens over the years.

  Day-old tarts didn’t compare to gold cups, jewels, or coins when you’re trying to win a god’s favor.

  An hour later, Achan stood over the sink basin, washing dishes while Poril delivered Lord Nathak and Prince Gidon’s breakfast. There were servants to do the task, but Poril insisted on being present when the first bites were taken.

  Achan shifted his weight to his other leg. He hated cleaning dishes. Standing in one position for so long made his back ache, and today, with his pitchfork wounds, the pain doubled.

  Though strays were lower even than slaves in most parts of Er’Rets, Achan had more freedom than most slaves. Poril kept him busy tending the goats, getting wood, and keeping the fireplaces hot and both kitchens clean, but at least there was variety. Some slaves worked fifteen hours a day at one task. Such tediousness would have driven Achan insane.

  Achan dried the last pot and hung the towel on the line outside. When he came back in, Poril had returned. The cook wiggled his crooked fingers, beckoning Achan to follow him down the skinny stone steps to the cellar. Achan sighed, dreading the bite of Poril’s belt buckle.

  The cook lived in a cramped room off of the cellar, furnished with a straw mattress, a tiny oak table, and two chairs. Achan slept in the cellar itself, under the supports that held up the ale casks, although he barely fit anymore. He feared to be crushed in his sleep one night when he rolled against one of the supports and it finally gave way.

  As per routine, Achan went to Poril’s table, removed his tunic, and draped it over the back of one chair. He straddled the other chair in reverse and hugged it with his arms. His teeth fit into the grooves of bite marks he’d made over the years. He clenched down and waited.

  Poril ran a finger down one of the scratches on Achan’s back. “What’s this?”

  Achan quivered at the feel of crusty blood under Poril’s touch.

  “Well? Speak up, boy. Poril don’t have all day to waste on yer silence.”

  “I met some peasants in the barn this morning.”

  “Spilled yer milk, did they?”

  Not exactly, but Achan said, “Aye.”

  “Yeh cause trouble?”

  Achan didn’t answer. Poril always complained when Achan defended himself or anyone else. He said a stray should know his place and take his beatings like he’d deserved them.

  “Ah, yer a fool, yeh are, boy. One of these days yeh’ll be killed, and Poril will tell the tale of how he knew it would come to pass. The boy wouldn’t listen to Poril. Had to smart off. Had to fight back. Not even Cetheria will have mercy on such idiocy.”

  Achan doubted it mattered if he stuck up for himself or not. If a stray was invisible to man, how much more so to the gods?

  He heard the swoosh of Poril pulling his leather belt from the loops on his trousers. He hoped his pants fell down.

  When Poril was done flogging Achan, he swabbed his back with soapy water, washed the blood from his tunic, and gave him an hour off to rest while it dried.

  Good old Poril.

  A kindly presence flooded his mind.

  Achan was returning from the well carrying a heavy yoke over his shoulders with two full buckets of water. He rounded the edge of a cottage and found Sir Gavin Lukos heading toward him. Achan stepped aside, pressing up against the cottage and turning the yoke so the buckets wouldn’t hinder the great knight’s path. The buckets swung from his sharp movement, grinding the yoke into his shoulders.

  Sir Gavin slowed. “What’s your name, stray?”

  Achan jumped, wincing as the yoke sent a sliver into the back of his neck. Sir Gavin’s eyes bored into his. One was icy blue and the other was dark brown. The difference startled him. “Uh…Achan, sir.”

  The knight’s weathered face wrinkled. “What kind of a name is that?”

  Poril’s voice nagged in Achan’s mind, ’Tis trouble, that’s what. “Mine, sir.”

  “Surname?”

  Achan lifted his chin and answered, “Cham,” proud of the animal Poril had chosen to represent him. Chams breathed fire and had claws as long as his hand. Such virtues would tame Riga and Harnu for good.

  Sir Gavin sniffed. “A fine choice.” His braided beard bobbed as he spoke. “I saw a bit of that ruthless bear in the barn with those peasants.”

  Achan stared, shocked. He’d seen the fight? Would he tell Lord Nathak? “I…um…” Had Sir Gavin asked him a question? “I’m sorry?”

  “I said, what’s your aim, lad?’

  “I should like to serve in Lord Nathak’s kitchens…perhaps someday assist the stableman with the horses.”

  “Bah! Kitchens and stables are no place for a cham. That’s a fierce beast. You need a goal fit for the animal.”

  What could the knight be skirting around? “But I…I don’t have a…what choice have I?”

  “Aw, now there’s always a choice, lad. Kingsguard is the highest honor to be had by a stray. Why not choose that?”

  Achan cut off a gasping laugh, afraid of offending the knight. “I cannot. Forgiv
e me, but you’re…I mean…a stray is not permitted to serve in the Kingsguard, sir.”

  “It wasn’t always that way, you know. And despite any Council law, there are always exceptions.”

  Achan shifted the yoke a bit, uncomfortable with both the weight and the subject matter. He cared little for myths and legends. Council law was all that mattered anymore. Despite his fantasy of running away, he was Lord Nathak’s property, nothing more. The brand on his shoulder proved that. “Even so, sir, one must serve as a page first, then squire, and no knight would wish a stray for either.”

  “Except, perhaps, a knight who’s a stray himself.” Sir Gavin winked his brown eye.

  A tingle ran up Achan’s arms. He’d known Sir Gavin was a stray because of his animal surname, but it had been years since strays had been permitted to serve. Surely he couldn’t mean—

  “Come to the stables an hour before sunrise tomorrow. Your training mustn’t interfere with your duties to the manor. Tell no one of this for now. If I decide you’re worthy, I’ll talk to Lord Nathak about reassignment to me.”

  Achan’s mouth hung open. “You’re offering to train me?”

  “If you’re not interested, I’m sure another would be eager to accept my offer.”

  Achan shifted under the weight of the yoke. “No. No, sir. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Good. I’ll show you a trick or two you don’t yet know.”

  Achan grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  2

  At the rooster’s crow, Achan dressed and hurried out of the kitchens into the dark morning.

  He stood for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. He hadn’t wanted to call the attention of Poril or anyone else by carrying a torch at this hour. The plump moon still hung low in the sky, and, with the torches lining the parapet wall above, the shapes of cottages slowly formed before him. He saw no sign of life but the sleeping guards on the parapet wall and the moths fluttering around the torches.

  He started off at a silent jog, keeping on his toes. The frigid air stung his eyes. His mind raced. All his life he’d dreamed of being a knight: riding a horse and wielding a sword to protect the weak. Could the gods have finally taken notice of his measly offerings over the years? Could his station in life really change? If so, would Gren’s father look at him differently?

  A sour thought slowed his steps, and he slid on the frosty dirt. How would he find time to serve two masters? Achan had seen Prince Gidon’s squires scurrying around the manor on various errands. How could Achan manage to serve Sir Gavin’s needs and Poril’s?

  The stables sat between the gatehouse and the barn. The animal dwellings looked identical but for the stables being twice as wide. Most peasants felt the barn a waste of space, but the prince entertained often and needed the room to house his guests’ mounts.

  Achan found Sir Gavin leaning against the western entrance to the stables, a torch in one hand. The knight smiled, his teeth thin and wolfish in the orange glow. Someone had obvious reasons for bestowing the surname Lukos. Or perhaps the name had changed the man. Achan hoped over time he wouldn’t grow to resemble a fire-breathing bear.

  Sir Gavin’s smile faded as he looked Achan over. “You’re rail thin. Do you eat?”

  “What I’m given.”

  Sir Gavin slid his torch into a groove beside the stable door. “What do you know?”

  “Kitchens, mostly.” Achan wrung his hands at his sides, his mind scrambling for words that might impress Sir Gavin. “I know about animals. I tend the goats, and I’ve helped Noam with the horses some.”

  Several horses inside the stables whinnied as if in agreement.

  Sir Gavin looked inside, perhaps wondering what had spooked the animals. He turned back to Achan. “Do you ride?”

  “Never, sir.”

  “Hmm. Can you read?”

  “Some. Poril’s recipes and lists of ingredients.”

  Sir Gavin held up a wooden practice sword, the sight of which warmed Achan’s soul. “Ever use a waster?”

  “No, sir, but I’ve sparred with poles.” Servants gathered nightly to dance and play in the northeast corner of the outer bailey. Achan had grown up in the Corner, wrestling slave and peasant boys and fighting with sticks.

  Sir Gavin grunted and looked slightly displeased. “How came you to Sitna?”

  “Lived here all my life.”

  “Your father?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Footsteps crunched over the frozen dirt. Noam, the stable boy, approached the entrance. Noam was tall and lanky and reminded Achan of Minstrel Harp’s song of the stretched man. Noam’s face was long and narrow and his thin frame seemed almost breakable. His gaze flicked between Achan and Sir Gavin. He met Achan’s eyes with raised brows. Noam hadn’t been at the Corner last night when Achan had told Gren about his opportunity with Sir Gavin. Noam pulled open the door and went inside, his torchlight spilling out the cracked-open door.

  “What about your mother?” Sir Gavin asked.

  Achan looked back to the knight and sighed. Some strays — like Noam — knew the identity of at least one parent, but Achan knew nothing of either. “I don’t know, sir.”

  Sir Gavin raised a white bushy eyebrow, as if a stray not knowing the identity of his parents was some interesting fact. “How old are you?”

  “Nearly sixteen.”

  Sir Gavin raised the other eyebrow and rubbed his chin, his eyes boring into Achan’s. “You’ve not been a page, much less a squire — and most squires start at fourteen.” He squeezed Achan’s upper arm and sniffed long and hard like he was coming down with something. “You’ve got muscle, but you’ll need to get stronger. If the cook won’t give you enough, come to my quarters at mealtimes, and I’ll see you better fed. Tell no one of our arrangement for now. Come. Let us begin your training.”

  Sir Gavin led Achan out of the stronghold and into a nearby wheat field. The sky was grey now, and the flat land stretched out in all directions. Frost painted glistening white stripes in the furrowed, dead fields.

  Sir Gavin plunged the waster into the frozen earth and it listed to one side, not having gone very deep. He folded his arms. “First things first. Whenever you come against an attacker you need to study him in a glance. You’ve no time to dally in this, do you understand?”

  Achan nodded. “What am I looking for, sir?”

  “Weapons and armor, mostly. Different rules apply depending on whether your opponent is wearing armor, what kind of armor, and what kind of weapon you both have. There will be times when you see that you are outmatched. Every man wants to be brave, but sometimes it’s best to run.”

  Achan had never heard of a knight running from anything.

  Sir Gavin must have read his expression. “Aye, lad. We’ve all had to retreat at some point in life. Doesn’t mean we can’t keep fighting the next day. But you have to know when you’re beat. My point is, sometimes you can tell if you’re beat before you start fighting.

  “Take a sword, for example,” Sir Gavin said, toeing the waster. “There are all types. Those with a rounded tip are cutting swords and therefore useless against all types of armor. And since that sword can’t cut through armor and doesn’t have a sharp point to pierce it, if you’re carrying a cutting sword and meet an armored opponent, you’re beat. Until you’ve been fighting as long as I have and are willing to risk your skill against armor — which is a daft thing to do, but you might have reason — you’d best not take on an armored man with a cutting sword. Understood?”

  “Aye,” Achan said.

  “Some will say that one should never fight without a shield. It’s true that the shield is a formidable weapon. One you can barely live without if you have no armor. But shields are often forgotten, broken, or dropped. So until you learn to hold your own without one, I shall not give you that crutch.”

  Achan shifted and the frozen grass crunched beneath his feet. He struggled to grasp Sir Gavin’s meanings. It was almost as if the man were speaking in a foreign t
ongue. The sky was a pale grey now. They were running out of time before Poril would be expecting the milk.

  “All right, then.” Sir Gavin yanked the waster from the grass and handed it to Achan, hilt first. “Let’s see your grip.”

  Achan took the handle with both hands and spread his feet the way he’d seen knights do. He put his right foot forward and held the sword out in front, tipped slightly to his left.

  Sir Gavin frowned and fingered his beard braid.

  “Is something wrong?” Achan asked without moving. “Are my feet right?”

  “You’re fine,” Sir Gavin said. “It’s just…not many are left-handed.”

  Achan relaxed his posture and brought the sword down to his side. “Is that bad?”

  The old knight’s eyes twinkled. It was like looking into two versions of the world: one a blue sky under a bright sun and the other a dark sky filled with stars.

  “Not bad at all,” Sir Gavin said. “We will use this to your advantage. You will train right-handed as well as left-handed. A warrior is only as good as his biggest weakness. This way we will make you strong with both hands. It’s not a big difference with a longsword. You’ll notice it more with the short sword.”

  A thrill washed over Achan. He was going to learn the short sword, too? “What other weapons will I learn?”

  “Once you’ve got a grasp on the longsword, I’ll teach you the short sword and shield. Then the axe and the dagger. That should do to keep you alive.”

  Achan’s eyebrows sank in puzzled humor. “Because so many are looking to kill me?”

  “Riga and Harnu, to start.”

  Achan stiffened. “I can take care of them. What about the lance, sir? Will I learn to joust?”

  “No. Jousting is a sport these days. The lance will only slow down your training on the other weapons.”

  “Are you in a hurry to teach me, sir?” Perhaps the knight would give him some important detail that would give him hope with Gren.