He sighed. How exactly did one catch a fox? Certainly not by chasing it. Should he find a place to crouch and wait for one to wander by? And wouldn’t a deer be able to smell him coming? Sir Gavin had never once spoken of hunting. Achan had no idea how to go about it. Why did Sir Gavin give him this task now? And why hadn’t he left him Etti?
You must do this alone, Sir Gavin said.
Achan swung around, wondering why Sir Gavin had come back. But Sir Gavin had not returned. Where, then, had his voice come from? Had the Evenwall drifted further than Sir Gavin had thought? Was it already unraveling Achan’s mind? The air appeared clear around him, the sky cloudless, the sun bright…
He shrugged. It was probably just that he knew Sir Gavin so well now he could guess the kind of thing he would’ve said. Achan swallowed, gripped the dagger in his left fist, and stepped into the forest.
The scent of pine filled his nostrils. It was dark and cool under the thick, green canopy of poplar, allown, and pine. Low bushes grew between the trees. The forest floor was dotted with dead pine needles, pine cones, and little white flowers.
Achan walked a few paces and stopped. If he went deep into the forest, how would he find his way out? He stepped to the nearest poplar and stripped a wedge of bark off with the dagger, exposing a swatch of moist, white wood. He did the same at another poplar ten paces in. He decided he’d mark only the poplars. For some reason, cutting an allown tree seemed sacrilegious. Not that Achan was a strictly religious or overly superstitious man.
He smiled to himself. He was a man now. His sixteenth year had come and gone with little fanfare. Thoughts of being a man reminded him of the gifts he’d received that day, which reminded him of Gren.
Thankfully, the wedding was not scheduled until Riga’s father could build them a cottage. That gave Gren — and Achan — some time to get used to the sickening idea. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to build a cottage.
Normally a man had to build his own home. That very act proved him capable of providing for a wife and family. Riga was happy to cheat his way to manhood, letting his father pay a carpenter to build his home.
Poor Gren.
Something rustled to Achan’s left. A jackrabbit bounded down a narrow trail between some waist-high rosehip bushes. Achan followed. If a rabbit went this way, perhaps something bigger had too. His tunic snagged on the thorny bushes. Ripping it free made so much noise he decided to return to his original route.
Had Achan’s father built a cottage to win his mother? Or had his birth been a mistake? Achan didn’t know. Perhaps his father had been a soldier just passing though and never knew he had a son. But how, then, did Lord Nathak end up with Achan? He didn’t want to follow that train of thought, for it led to frightful scenarios he refused to consider, even for a moment.
Most infuriating was that Achan had no memory of his mother — or his childhood at all, for that matter. His earliest recollection was of a young noble pushing him into the mud when he was seven. Gren had come along moments later and helped him up.
Most children had some recollections of what had happened to them before they were seven. What was wrong with him? Had the tonic somehow robbed him of his earliest memories? What did Lord Nathak gain by forcing it on him? Was his head truly clearer without it, as Sir Gavin had suggested?
Achan twisted around and found he could no longer see the prairie through the trees. Pressure built in his temples and his pulse raced. On some level of his mind, he sensed an emotion from outside himself. A sound too soft to be identified reached his ears, and he wheeled around, wondering if a person was nearby. He spotted a doe munching the buds of a poplar ten paces away.
Though such a thing was impossible, the emotion seemed to be coming from the deer. Curiosity, perhaps. Achan’s eyes met the doe’s, and their minds connected somehow. The pressure grew and Achan cringed. He could taste bitter leaves and branches. It disturbed him.
Come here, girl. He formulated the words in his mind, preparing to speak them aloud.
But before he could make a sound, the doe turned away from the tree and, as if she’d heard his thought, trotted toward him.
Achan’s lips parted in awe as the animal silently maneuvered over a fallen tree, around a briarberry bush, and came to stand in front of him. Achan held out his right hand, and the doe sniffed it, her nose cold and wet against his fingertips. Could she hear him?
Come closer.
The doe stepped nearer. Achan scratched her ear, gripped the dagger tightly in his shaking left hand, and gulped.
I sense you! a male voice hummed. Tell me your name!
Achan stopped and turned around in the tall grass of the prairie. He’d left the road for a bit, hoping to take a shortcut. The orange sun sat low and bright on the horizon, but he could see the grey plumes of smoke from the castle’s chimneys in the distance, though the manor was still barely a speck on the horizon. He shielded his brow with his free hand but could see no one. The doe’s warm body draped heavily around his neck. His head throbbed from the smell of its blood.
Hello, new one. Welcome to our ears. My, how strong your presence is. Who are you?
A woman’s voice. Kind. Again Achan twisted around in the grass, nearly dropping the doe. “Who’s there?”
Grass surged for miles around like a great green sea. He was alone. He swallowed, his heart pounding, and gripped the doe’s legs tighter. Perhaps he’d been too close to the Evenwall after all. But wouldn’t he know if he’d stepped into the mist?
He turned back toward Sitna Manor and waded through the grass. He wanted to reach the gate before they raised the drawbridge for the night.
Who are you, gifted one? a deep male voice asked.
What are you called? an old woman asked.
Please! the humming voice said. What is your name?
Achan cowered, wincing at the strain on his mind. Perhaps his headache was not from the stench of blood. “Stop it!” Achan yelled to the voices. “Don’t speak to me!”
Do not be afraid, the kind woman said. It is a gift.
Achan screamed to block out the voices and staggered toward home.
Despite his efforts, it was after dark when Achan approached Sitna Manor.
The drawbridge was up. Arrow loops glowed brightly in the dark night. Yellow flames spaced around the parapet and listed to the east, flickering in the gentle breeze. Achan still held the slain doe around his neck, gripping two legs in each hand.
He stopped and yelled up to the guard. “Lower the drawbridge!”
Are you all right? the kind woman asked. I sense blood.
He cringed, by now hating the painful force the voices brought. Hating how they knew things. Hating how he couldn’t silence them.
“State yer name and yer business,” a voice yelled from the gatehouse above.
“’Tis Achan Cham. I’ve returned from an errand for Sir Gavin Lukos.”
Cham? He’s a stray!
Achan! Where are you, Achan? Is Sir Gavin with you? the deep-voiced man asked.
Achan stiffened. How did this strange voice know of Sir Gavin? He looked over his shoulder but already knew there was no one.
“Stay put,” a guard yelled down.
Achan waited. His back and shoulders were numb from the deer’s weight. The leaden stench of the doe’s blood haunted him. Its stickiness drenched his left side. His fists trembled and his head ached from the voices calling out. He’d gone mad. It was a certainty he could no longer deny. The Evenwall must have drifted lower, or maybe killing the doe had somehow—