By Darkness Hid bok-1

by Jill Williamson

  “Your clothes were ruined,” the boy said. “These quarters are so unsanitary. I have washed your wounds three times a day to fend off infection. There is no point in a shirt until you are healed. I never saw you had a bag. And the guards locked your sword in the dungeon strongbox.”

  I’m in a dungeon? And the dungeon has a strongbox?

  Mahanaim receives more than its share of diplomats, the boy thought to Achan. This is actually one of the nicer cells.

  Achan growled. “Stop that!”

  Scratch’s eyes went wide, and he scooted back farther into the corner. “What’s your name?” he asked aloud.

  “Achan Cham.” He limped to the door and rose on the toes of his right foot to see out the barred window of his cell. The stab in his lower back inhibited the movement of his left leg.

  “So you are a stray?”

  His cell appeared to be at the end of a deserted stone corridor. A single torch hung on the wall about five paces away. He could see the doors to four other cells before the corridor turned a corner. He gripped the bars on the window and gave them a good shake. His left arm didn’t want to obey. He glanced at his bandaged shoulder, then to Scratch. “Did someone claim otherwise?”

  “You saved the prince. I saw you.”

  Saved the prince? Ah. The procession had been close to Mahanaim when the poroo had attacked. Achan had done what he could to aid that pompous… He stretched his good arm up over his head. His muscles were tight, everything ached, and he really needed to use that privy bucket in the corner. “He’s alive?”

  “Completely unharmed.”

  Achan sighed and nodded. “Then I’m not a complete failure.”

  “You are not a failure at all.”

  Achan huffed. “I’m sure Prince Gidon disagrees. Who are you?”

  Vrell Sparrow.

  Achan’s eyebrows sank. “Sparrow? You don’t wear the clothing of a stray.”

  My master dislikes the orange tunic. Where is yours?

  The boy’s voice in his head angered Achan. “How is it you speak without moving your lips? Are you a sorcerer or a demon that you enter my thoughts?”

  The boy whimpered, as if somehow injured. I am an herbalist sent to heal you.

  “A barber?”

  “An herbalist.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Sparrow rolled his eyes. “Instead of a knife, I use herbs to make healing teas, salves, and tonics.”

  “I hate tonics.” Achan paced the tiny cell, limping over the cool, clay floor. “How many days have I been here?”

  “Four. Your arm wound gave you a fever. I gave you hops tea to sleep it off.”

  “Four days?” Achan sat on the stone bed and stared at the boy. “Do you know what happened? I mean…the bruises I remember, and fighting the poroo, but…” He fingered the bandage on his lower back. “How did I get here?”

  “Poroo attacked your procession. Sir Kenton Garesh was knocked out by a rock that was thrown down from a treetop. The Kingsguard knights went to battle, and you led the prince to safety in the Evenwall. More poroo attacked and you fought them off alone. You were struck by three arrows as you fought to protect the prince. You are a hero.”

  Achan smirked. “What are you, some kind of minstrel?”

  Sparrow lowered his head and his cheeks darkened.

  Not meaning to embarrass the boy, Achan clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I’m a hero, you say? Well, this is some hero’s welcome, don’t you think? I particularly enjoy the platters of meat and dancing girls.”

  Sparrow shot him a smirk. “I shall ask them to bring you something to eat. I can do no more than that, I’m afraid.”

  “You’ll ask who?”

  But Sparrow had closed his eyes. He still sat in the corner, knees pulled up to his chin.

  Achan stretched his legs out in front. He could never sit as…small as the boy did. He stood again and hobbled to the door. He wanted out. The tiny space made him feel trapped, which was probably the point, seeing as this was a dungeon. Still.

  Flashes of the battle suddenly came to mind. His stomach churned. He’d killed seven or eight poroo. They’d struck first. They were ugly to look at, but they were people. Achan shivered at the ache in chest. Sir Gavin had warned him that a knight would have to kill. But that didn’t ease his memories.

  Sparrow’s soft voice in his mind interrupted his penitence. They are bringing you food.

  Achan wheeled around. He focused hard on the allown tree, trying to find the place where his mind would be closed.

  Sparrow seemed to notice. He sank into the corner and croaked, “Sorry.”

  Two burly guards with thick beards and black cloaks approached the door. A thin valet with carrot-orange hair stood behind them holding a tray.

  “Back up against the wall,” one of the guards ordered.

  Achan turned to Sparrow. “How did you know they were coming?”

  “I called them.”

  The guard kicked the door of the cell. “Against the wall!”

  Achan obeyed and the door opened. The valet entered and set the tray on the stone bed. It held a hunk of bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and a mug of red liquid.

  Achan pointed at the mug, knowing, but wanting to ask anyway. “What’s that?”

  “A tonic to give you strength,” the valet said.

  Achan forced a grin. “And I’ll wager it’s refreshing too.” He offered the mug to the valet. “Would you like some?”

  The valet stepped back.

  A hot current shot through Achan’s nerves. This would end, now. He threw the mug, shattering the pottery against the stone wall. The red liquid splattered like blood. Sparrow yelped.

  One of the guards swung his thick fist. Achan ducked, bashed his elbow into the guard’s back, and kneed the other guard in the stomach.

  He fled the cell, his lower back screaming with each step.

  The greystone halls were a maze that smelled of urine, torch smoke, and mildew. He ran past the occasional torch and barred wooden door. Inside each cell, chain scraped against stone or someone moaned. He met a dead end and backtracked until he found a stairwell leading up.

  He made it halfway to the top when four guards started down. He turned back, only to see the two guards from his cell climbing up.

  “Pig snout.”

  *

  He awoke back in his cell with fresh bruises and no lunch. Sparrow still occupied the corner.

  Achan sat up, his wounded body punishing him for the effort. “Aren’t you uncomfortable?”

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Sparrow reached into his lap and held up a bread roll.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  The boy tossed it to Achan. “Took it off your tray when you ran. You cannot escape from here, you know. At least, I do not think you can.”

  Achan’s mouth was too full of bread to comment on the wimpy scholar’s lecture. He finished his bite. “How would you feel if you were me?”

  Sparrow looked at the light streaming through the bars on the door. “Trapped. Alone. Like I have no control over my life.”

  Achan had forgotten the boy was a stray. Maybe he’d had a rough time of it too. “So, what am I thinking now?”

  “That I am a scrawny runt who could be bested by a one-armed hag.”

  One side of Achan’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “You are a sorcerer!”

  Sparrow huffed and turned away, though Achan could swear the boy blushed again.

  He wanted to continue the discussion he’d been having with Scratch — who was now Sparrow — to find out what the boy knew about bloodvoices. But Achan seemed incapable of admitting his bloodvoicing ability out loud and in person. Somehow that would make it all the more a reality. “Aw, Sparrow, don’t be mad! Tell me — why am I in the dungeon?”

  “You are being charged with attempting to murder the Crown Prince.”

  Achan burst into laughter. It jarred his wounds so he stopped. “But you said I saved him.
”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Well, did I or didn’t I save him?”

  “You did.”

  “But I’m still being charged?”

  “Yes.”

  Achan looked at the stone ceiling. “This reeks of Prince Gidon.”

  The guards and valet approached the door again. The valet held a corked vial. The guards drew their swords, apparently wary of another escape attempt.

  Achan groaned.

  This time Sparrow hopped to his feet and strode forward. He was short with skinny limbs but a bit pudgy around the middle. At least someone was getting his fill in Mahanaim.

  “Who are you and what is this potion you carry?” Sparrow asked in a commanding voice that raised Achan’s brows.

  “No potion, boy,” the valet said. “A tonic for the prisoner.”

  “Why does he need this tonic?”

  “I don’t know. But without it, my master assures me he’ll die.”

  “I am an herbalist.” Sparrow glanced at Achan. “He looks healthy to me, despite his wounds. Who is your master?”

  “Lord Nathak.”

  “He is not,” Achan said. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “His Lordship retained my services upon his arrival this morning,” the valet said.

  Achan lowered his head. Lord Nathak was here? Pig snout.

  Sparrow held up a silencing hand. “What does Lord Nathak want with a stray?”

  “This stray belongs to his lordship.”

  The valet pushed the door open an inch, but Sparrow put his foot against it. The valet slid his fingers into the crack, and the boy shoved the door closed on them. The valet cried out. Sparrow pried the vial from his grip and loosened the cork with his teeth.

  He smelled it and pulled back with a pinched face. “This poisons my patient! He will not take it.” Sparrow slung the vial in the privy bucket.

  The valet cursed. “You’ll pay if I’m punished.” He spun around and departed.

  The guards stared at Sparrow as if not knowing what to do. Finally, the one holding the keys locked the door, and they lumbered away, sheathing their swords. Sparrow returned to his corner and sank against the wall.

  Maybe Achan should talk with the boy. He seemed to know about the tonic. “You’re really an herbalist?”

  “I apprenticed for an apothecary before the Kingsguard knights brought me here.”

  “They brought you here for that? You must be a talented apothecary.”

  “No. They took me because I could bloodvoice.”

  A chill shook Achan. “And they knew that…how?”

  “My master sensed my ability and sent the knights to fetch me. On the journey here, I sensed you. We all did.”

  Oh, this was rich. Achan didn’t bother to hide his grin. “And you sensed what about me?”

  Sparrow shook his head. “I barely understood my own gift at the time, so when I first heard you it was very…confusing…and scary. The voices frightened you, I heard that much loud and clear. I sensed a great orange light and blood. Lots of blood…on your arm.” Sparrow reached up and touched his own left shoulder, his gaze downcast as if rehashing the memory. He looked up. “I thought you were injured at first. Other bloodvoicers wanted to know your name and where you lived.”

  Achan stared at Sparrow, speechless. The boy had been in his head that night, had seen the sun and felt the blood from the doe. Still… “Bloodvoices are a myth.”

  Sparrow huffed. “How can you say that when you and I have used it many times to speak to each other?”

  “You want to know what’s in my head? An ache. A massive headache. Got any herbs for that?”

  “Of course. I could bring you some chamomile tea, but that’s not what’s causing your pain. The only thing that lessens the pressure of bloodvoicing is practice. I can tell you what I have learned. But I should warn you,” Sparrow said, glancing at the cell door, “Master Hadar wants to use you.”

  “You work for the prince?”

  The boy shook his head. “Master Hadar is a very old and distant relative to Prince Gidon Hadar. He lives in this manor, on the eighth floor.”

  Achan rubbed his hands over his face, overwhelmed by this boy’s excessive information. Maybe if he played along, the know-it-all would explain how to reach Sir Gavin. “The tonic?”

  “It is made from the âleh flower. It quiets the bloodvoices.”

  Which Lord Nathak had been doing for years. Did he know about them then? “But even when I’ve taken it, I can still sense things. Intentions.”

  “Can you? You must be very strong to still have some ability through that tonic.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘strong.’ Right now I’m feeling anything but.”

  “Your gift is so potent you hurt my head when your mind is not closed off,” Sparrow said. “That is how so many can sense you. Your thoughts bleed over into every gifted mind, probably in all Er’Rets.”

  Achan’s eyebrows shot up. “I hurt you?”

  “You are doing it now. You cause so much pressure. You need to learn how to shut the door, as you put it, better than you do. And so people cannot find you. When your mind is open like that, if they are trying, they can find you anywhere.”

  “You think someone is looking for me?”

  “I told you, my master is. With a power as great as yours, yes, some will seek to exploit it.”

  Achan couldn’t process this. “Wouldn’t Lord Nathak want to use it, then? He clearly knows I have this…thing. Why else would he make me drink the tonic all these years?”

  Sparrow was silent for a long moment. “I hate Lord Nathak.”

  “Do you?” Achan grinned. “Then we have three things in common, Sparrow: hating Lord Nathak, strays who’ve lost their orange tunics, and this crazy bloodvoice business.”

  Sparrow straightened, eyes wide.

  “What’s wrong?” Achan asked.

  “My master comes.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Close your mind — focus hard on it — and deny you know anything about bloodvoices.” Sparrow stood and walked to the door just as the guards entered with an ancient-looking bald man in a thick grey cloak. Lord Nathak’s new valet followed close with yet another vial.

  The room seemed to grow colder. Achan lay back on his stone bed, closed his eyes, and pictured the allown tree on the edge of the SiderosRiver. In his mind, the wind blew the leaves about. He saw Gren’s chestnut hair billowing around her rosy face.

  Gren.

  The valet’s voice jerked Achan away from his longing. “He. Him. There.”

  Achan opened his eyes to see the carrot-topped valet pointing at Sparrow.

  “He’s the one who shut my hand in the door!” the valet whined.

  “Did you, Vrell?” the old man’s voice hummed as if each word he spoke tasted delicious. Achan had heard his voice before. In his mind.

  The man looked twice as old as Poril. He had the same spotted skin, but he was thinner and shorter and had bulging eyes like Jaira’s little dog. A thick grey cloak billowed around him. Now that was the kind of cloak Gren needed.

  “Aye, master,” Sparrow said. “He tried to give a tonic to the prisoner, but I think it is poisonous. If the valet would like to bring the ingredients down and prepare the brew in my presence, I could confirm whether it is safe.”

  The old man held out a claw-like hand and the valet handed him the vial.

  “The prisoner is ill,” the valet said. “He must take his tonic daily and has missed four doses in this mishap. If my master’s orders continue to be ignored, I fear for the prisoner’s life.”

  The old man pried the cork free. He stuck his pinky finger inside and touched it to his tongue. His face wrinkled, and he spat on the floor three times. “This is no regular tonic,” he hissed. “Why does the prisoner take this?”

  The valet shrugged. “He’s ill.”

  “On whose authority?”

  “Lord Nathak’s, sir.”

&nb
sp; The old man yelled, “Out!”

  “Lord Nathak shall hear of this,” the valet said before scurrying away.

  “See that he does,” the old man said to himself.

  “What is it, master?” Sparrow asked.

  “Silencer.” The old man turned toward Achan. His cadaverous, ashen eyes drilled into him.

  The coldness penetrated Achan’s mind. He glanced away and shivered.

  The old man mumbled, “Lord Nathak has gone to a great deal of trouble to hide this young man’s gift. I must discover why.” He worked the cork back into the vial and turned to the guards. “Let no one inside — Lord Nathak, especially.”

  The old man and the guards left.

  After a while, Sparrow said as if to himself, “I shall try to follow. My master is too strong to enter, but I might be able to jump through him.”

  The boy may as well have been speaking Poroo. “What are you talking about?”

  Sparrow ignored him and pulled something small out of his pocket.

  “What you got there?” Achan asked.

  Sparrow held up a scrap of cloth. “It is easier to connect with someone if you have something personal.”

  “And you collect fabric scraps?”

  “I cut it from my master’s pillow.”

  Well, that made perfect sense. Achan jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna use the bucket.”

  Sparrow flushed. He turned to face the corner, clutching the fabric against his chest.

  Strange boy, Vrell Sparrow.

  Achan made good time with the bucket and perched on the bed to watch Sparrow’s performance. He toyed with the idea of trying to hear Sparrow’s thoughts but decided against it. He didn’t want to mess up whatever the boy was trying to do.

  But Sparrow just sat there, boring Achan into a stupor. So Achan crouched behind him on the floor and placed one finger on the hem of his silky grey tunic. Cloth apparently formed some kind of connection. If so, and if what Sparrow said was true — that Achan was strong — maybe he could hear Sparrow’s thoughts.