By Darkness Hid

by Jill Williamson

  The fortress was crowded. Servants, stewards, valets, and maids from all over Er’Rets dashed about on errands for their masters. As Achan climbed the narrow steps that led to the upper levels of the keep, he paused to peek from an arrow loop. Outside the manor, dozens of tents and pavilions had popped up like tarts in the northern field, each waving colorful banners and crests. Most the guests had arrived yesterday while Achan was hunting. Skilled knights and squires from distant cities had come to—what was it Sir Gavin had said?—spill their blood and crack their teeth?

  The jousting field sat farthest away. A long white tent with a red and white striped awning covered the grandstands beside it. Achan could see a horse and rider dart down the field in a practice run. Closer to the manor, square pens were set up to host a variety of events: hand-to-hand combat, the axe, the sword. Achan would’ve liked to spend the day out there, watching, learning, and, maybe someday, competing.

  He followed Sir Gavin to the fourth floor and down a dark hallway to the knight’s bedchamber. It was a nice room with a bed, a sideboard, a fireplace, and a chair by a window that overlooked the tournament field.

  A boy Achan’s age stood near the fireplace, two stools beside him—one empty, the other holding a basin of water.

  “Off with your clothes and sit,” Sir Gavin said. “Wils will get you clean.”

  Achan eyed Wils warily. “I washed last night at the well.”

  Sir Gavin raised a bushy white eyebrow, his moustache arcing in a frown. “You’re the most obstinate squire I’ve ever heard of. Will you simply obey without question, for once?”

  Achan’s cheeks burned. He stripped down to his linen undershorts. “I can wash myself.”

  “Sit in silence, Achan, please!” Sir Gavin walked behind Achan. “If you are to be a squire—” He gasped. “Eben’s breath, lad. What have they done to your back?”

  Achan shifted and folded his arms. So he had a lot of scars on his back. What stray didn’t?

  Sir Gavin’s calloused finger tapped Achan’s left shoulder. “You have a birthmark.”

  Achan twisted his neck. He could never see the brand clearly. “It’s the mark of the stay, sir. Don’t you have such a mark?”

  “No, I do not, but that is not what I refer to. The skin is red under your brand. A simple brand doesn’t do that.”

  Achan looked again, pawing at his shoulder to see, but it was physically impossible to get a look. “I don’t know. Maybe I do have a birthmark.”

  Sir Gavin walked to the window. He fell into a chair and sighed. “I was unable to speak with Lord Nathak yesterday. He was ‘not to be disturbed.’”

  The serving boy, Wils, rubbed a small brush over a brick of soap and attacked Achan’s back, dipping the brush into the water basin and applying more soap after every few scrubs.

  Achan scowled, feeling awkward and exposed. “Is that bad?” He was too distracted by Wils’s brush to remember why Sir Gavin had wanted to speak with Lord Nathak.

  “Not necessarily. I wanted to make it official with him before entering you in the tournament…out of courtesy.” Sir Gavin stood. “I’ll try once more. Wait for me here. We’ll go to the field together.”

  They’d better. Achan certainly wasn’t going out by himself. He wanted to say something to Sir Gavin about the tonic, but he didn’t want Wils to hear. So he sat still and allowed the valet to scrub him until his skin turned pink.

  * * *

  Never in all his life had Achan been so…fragrant. On the top half anyway. He wouldn’t let Wils near the rest of him. The valet had washed Achan’s hair with rosewater and braided it. Achan fingered the plait. A tail tied with a leather thong was all the patience he’d ever had for such things.

  Wils held up a mirrorglass. Achan stared at it, glanced at Wils, then leaned forward. He’d never seen a mirrorglass. He’d never seen his face at all, except in the river or the moat or the dishwater. He studied his reflection, pleased he didn’t find himself ugly. His skin was tan like the shell of a walnut. Black hair was pulled back into the braided tail, straight and smooth. Did that make his heritage kinsman?

  He had a good face, he thought. A bit square, but not long and oval like Noam’s or fat and round like Riga’s. Wils had even shaved him, something Achan had never done despite the few wisps of hair on his chin. His cheeks and neck still tingled from the razor’s edge.

  Achan leaned closer to the mirrorglass. His eyes were blue. He hadn’t known that about himself. Blue eyes were also a kinsman trait. He leaned back and nodded to Wils, who set the mirrorglass on a shelf over the fire. Achan smiled. He was kinsman.

  Wils helped him dress. First a thin white linen tunic and scratchy black wool leggings, then a padded, long-waisted wool tunic with long sleeves. After that, Wils had Achan sit on the bed so he could lower a thick coat of steel chain over his head. It draped heavily on his shoulders.

  “How am I supposed to swing a sword with this extra bulk and weight?”

  Wils shrugged and pulled another tunic—this one of fine yellow linen—over the chain. Fancy ties hung from the neck. Achan tried to lace them.

  Wils swatted his hands away. “I’ll do it.” He ignored the ties and, with a small smile, presented a black leather jerkin. “Last one.”

  Achan held out his arms so that Wils could slip the vest-like garment onto him. The leather was soft and a bit worn, but of high quality. Gren would approve.

  Achan never realized how much clothing noblemen wore. He hoped Master Fenny might see him dressed in such finery. Maybe he might change his mind and give Gren to him after all. Not even Riga had a coat of chain.

  Riga. Achan suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to see him. What if Achan were humiliated? What if he were killed?

  One of the loops on the chain coat irritated his neck, and he scratched at it while Wils laced up the tunic and jerkin. It would take Achan an hour to get everything off.

  “Ready for your belt and sword, Master Cham?”

  Wils had been doing that, calling him Master Cham, like he was someone special. Achan had burst into laughter the first three times, but this time his mouth hung open. He was to have a belt and sword? A real steel sword? “Where?”

  Wils went to the window and returned with a brown leather belt studded with steel and pale blue stones. A carved wooden scabbard hung from the belt, holding a sword that had an ivory grip. Achan could only gape as Wils fastened the belt around his waist. His life was worth far less than one jewel on this belt.

  When Wils backed away, Achan drew the sword. The sound of metal scraping against wood sent a tingle up his arms. He studied the carved ivory grip wrapped in worn leather, the long steel blade with one raised rib along the flat and a rounded tip—no good for thrusting—and the engraved copper and steel crossguard with some sort of ivory fish set into the center. He could almost imagine himself a Kingsguard knight.

  The door burst open, and Sir Gavin spoke, out of breath. “Pompous man. Can’t be bothered, not even for a—” He stopped and looked Achan up and down, jaw hanging open as if he had remembered something important. He shook it off. “Good, you’re ready. I’ve entered you in the first round lists. If we don’t hurry, you’ll miss your chance.”

  Achan held up the sword, eyes wide. “This belongs to you?”

  Sir Gavin thumped Achan on the back. “Belongs to you now.”

  “But, sir! I can’t possibly accept something so fine. I’ll be killed for it in my sleep.”

  Sir Gavin’s eyes twinkled. “Then sleep lightly, Achan. This belonged to a dear friend. Take good care of it.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  Sir Gavin blew out a long breath. “Oh, I don’t know. Decent blade like this, minus the hilt, would go for at least thirty pieces of silver, maybe as much as two golds depending on the smith. Add ten to twenty golds for the stones, ivory, and workmanship. Then there’s the value to the family, which…Well, as far as you’re concerned, it’s priceless.”

  The blood drained from Achan�
��s face. The most a paid laborer could hope to earn in a year was about two pieces of gold. He forced himself to ignore the value, though he knew that just wearing it in public would make him a target for every thief in Sitna.

  “D-Does it have a n-name?” Achan had to stop thinking about it. No one would steal a sword on the prince’s coming-of-age day. Right?

  “Well, of course it has a name, lad. All fine swords do.”

  Achan waited, and when Sir Gavin remained silent, he asked, “What is it then?”

  “What is it?” Sir Gavin frowned and stroked his beard-braid. “Eagan…Elk.”

  “Eagan Elk?” What kind of a sword name was that?

  “Eagan’s Elk.” Sir Gavin nodded and grinned, as if pleased with himself. He looked Achan up and down again, a far-off look in his eyes. “It suits you.”

  Achan felt ridiculous. Who was he trying to fool dressed in finery and carrying a priceless sword? He raised the blade to middle guard. “Is this a longsword or a short sword?” The grip felt shorter than the blunt he’d been using, but the blade looked longer.

  “Kind of somewhere in the middle.”

  “But I should use it like a longsword, right?”

  “Longsword is tomorrow. Today, I’ve entered you in the short sword and shield lists.”

  Achan sucked in a sharp breath. “But I’ve never practiced with a shield!”

  “Which means you’ll need this.” Sir Gavin fetched a round, badly beaten, wooden shield, edged in peeling brown leather, from the corner of the room. The same spiky fish was painted dead center, but much of the paint had faded and chipped away.

  Well, Achan thought, I’ll likely die today anyhow. A shield will make little difference. “Sir Gavin, I don’t know how to use this.”

  The knight sniffed long and slid the shield straps onto Achan’s forearm. “Aye. Probably should have gone over it. Probably should have started with the short sword and shield and saved the longsword for later. Probably should have called for Sir Caleb or done a thousand things differently.”

  He waved the thought away. “Well, I did what I thought best. Just…hold the shield between you and your enemy. Keep your blade in middle guard, tucked behind the shield, see.” He moved Achan’s arms into position. “Make your cuts and thrusts around the shield. The shield is a weapon. Parry with it. Thrust it against your opponent’s sword or body. Watch your head and legs. They’ll be primary targets.”

  It all sounded good in theory, but without practice Achan may as well try the joust. “How many squires have you trained, sir?”

  “You’re my first.”

  “What?”

  Sir Gavin shrugged and held out a plain steel helmet. “I was busy. Now, off we go. Thank you, Wils.”

  Wils bowed and departed. Achan struggled to sheath Eagan’s Elk one-handed. He failed and had to use his shield arm to hold the scabbard still. Once the sword was sheathed, he took the helmet and followed Sir Gavin to the stairs in a daze. The scabbard’s end clunked on the stairs behind him, and he pushed the pommel down to keep that from happening. Enamored with the jewels, he stumbled and decided now was not the time to be staring at anything but the ground in front of his feet.

  They marched from the manor. Achan’s clothing weighed him down. He’d been watching squires practice as long as he could remember. They always fought terribly when they first wore armor. They could hardly walk, let alone wield their weapons. Achan gulped.

  At the gate to the outer bailey, a knight passed wearing full plate armor and a helmet. Achan staggered about as he shoved his own helmet on his head. The inside was padded with stiff, worn wool. Sir Gavin had dressed him in antiques. The helmet had no visor, just a long slit for the eyes that hindered Achan’s peripheral vision. How was he supposed to fight with his vision impaired?

  They walked over the drawbridge. The footsteps and the surrounding voices of the guests and guards sounded oddly muffled inside the helmet.

  “I’ve negotiated a cow for you.”

  Achan turned his whole head to find a limited view of Sir Gavin’s face.

  “She’s sick, likely to die any day. When she goes, they’ll take her coat for leather. But instead of burning the carcass, they’ll give her to us.”

  “What do we want with a diseased carcass?” Achan’s voice sounded hollow beneath the steel.

  “You have to learn what it feels like to cut a man. You need flesh to practice on, to gauge the power needed to strike someone down in battle. A cow will be perfect.”

  Achan was suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

  They reached the eastern field where the tents began. Sitna manor was not big enough to house all the tournament guests. Only the highest nobles were staying in the keep. Everyone else had brought along their own tents. Achan would have preferred to stay in a tent to keep him close to the festivities.

  Sir Gavin led him to a square pen with long wooden benches along each side, crowded with peasants, slaves, and strays. Nobility preferred the shaded grandstands on the other side of the grounds, where they could sit on pillows and have servants bring them trays of tea and tarts.

  A herald paced along one end of the pen watching two squires circle each other, each armed with a short sword and shield. The smaller squire, dressed in black and white, wore no armor. He had grey skin and a puff of bushy black hair. He was quick and darted around the pen like a firefly. His opponent, stronger and slower, wore shabby gold and maroon over chain armor. His shield donned a familiar image of red grapes. Carmine. Achan had seen the neighboring city’s flags before.

  The Carmine squire swung his sword hard. Too hard. It thwacked into his opponent’s shield again and again, more like swinging an axe than swordplay. Achan grew tired just watching. The grey squire circled carefully, letting his opponent tire. Carmine stumbled. In a blink, the grey squire rained two crippling blows, knocking the Carmine squire to the ground, and poised his blade above his opponent’s chest.

  The herald called the match in Barth’s favor. Achan frowned and studied the grey squire closer. Barth was a city in Darkness.

  The Carmine squire pulled off his helmet to reveal a shock of short brown hair, frizzing in all directions. His face appeared flushed with anger, then Achan realized he was only badly sunburned. He lumbered to his feet and climbed out of the pen as Sir Gavin approached it.

  Achan’s heart pounded under all five layers of dress as Sir Gavin conversed with the herald. The sun beat down on his helmet, drawing sweat from his brow before he even lifted his sword. Would they let him compete? Would his animal surname cause a scene?

  Sir Gavin stepped back, and the herald said, “Master Silvo Hamartano of Jaelport against Master Achan Cham of Sitna.”

  A murmur rose in the crowd. Achan stiffened as heads turned toward him. His cheeks flushed under his helmet and he was thankful for the mask. He stepped over the wooden rail of the pen and waited, scanning the crowd for his opponent from the city in Darkness.

  An olive-skinned squire wearing green and grey moved through the crowd with the grace of a dancer. He was about Achan’s size. He laid a hand on the rail and vaulted the fence with his legs to one side as simply as if he were yawning. He and Achan were now alone in the pen. The squire wore a hooded coat of chain under his green jerkin and stood with regal posture, his brown lips twisted up to one side. He looked to the herald. “Seriously? I’m to fight a stray?”

  Achan stepped back to one side, drew his sword, and held his shield like the squire from Barth had. Were there rules to follow? What if Silvo struck him? Would the herald stop the match? Why hadn’t Sir Gavin explained—

  “Begin!” The herald scurried out of the way.

  Silvo charged, sword above his head, shield lax in his other hand, apparently believing a stray equaled zero skill.

  Achan took the staggering blow to his shield, thankful the old wood didn’t crumble under the force. Achan couldn’t believe his good fortune. The overbearing move had left Silvo wide open for all kinds of trouble. S
ir Gavin’s blunt had bruised Achan again and again for doing the same thing.

  Achan stepped back and swung Eagan’s Elk around the shield. The blade grated against the arm of Silvo’s chain coat.

  Silvo stumbled from the impact. Achan stepped around him and kicked him in the rear. Silvo crashed face first into the dusty red clay.

  Laughter rumbled through the crowd. Achan leaped forward and pressed Eagan’s Elk against the back of Silvo’s neck. The crowd laughed harder, some applauded.

  Achan fought the smile that wanted to claim his face. Silly, since no one could see under his helmet. He’d only won because of Silvo’s arrogance. The herald declared Achan the winner. Silvo jumped to his feet and fled as gracefully as he’d arrived.

  Achan joined Sir Gavin outside the pen. The old knight smiled and winked his brown eye. Achan couldn’t believe it. He’d won a match! He’d had visions of humiliating defeat, not of actually wining. He stood tall beside Sir Gavin, feeling like it might actually be possible to carve a niche for himself in this place.

  “What next?” Achan asked.

  “We wait until you’re called again. Each event is single elimination. You lose, you’re done.” Sir Gavin patted Achan on the back. “We’ll stay here until you lose.”

  They watched a few more matches, and Achan studied how the squires used their shields.

  Then the herald’s voice called again. “Master Achan Cham of Sitna against Master Shung Noatak of Berland.”

  Achan had to look up at his next opponent. Shung, a beast of a squire at six-foot-plus, was the hairiest man Achan had ever seen. Huge tendrils of black, frizzy braids hung long and loose around his head. Wide curly sideburns traced his jaw to a beardless chin. Even his shield was hairy—covered in coarse, black fur. It was a much smaller, hand-held shield called a buckler.