Who are you, gifted one? a deep male voice asked.
What are you called? an old woman asked.
Please! the elderly man said. What is your name?
Vrell cowered, wincing at the force in her mind. Perhaps her headache was not from the hours on the road, the hot water, or the venison. These were bloodvoices she was hearing. She turned back to the knights. Were they hearing it too? And why was she unable to block them out?
Stop it! the man yelled. Don’t speak to me!
Vrell clutched her ears. So loud, this voice. So heavy the weight it brought to her mind.
Do not be afraid, Vrell’s mother said. It is a gift.
Vrell waited to hear more, curious what else her mother would say, but the sensation faded. Jax and Khai whispered to each other again, nothing she could overhear. She sank into her mattress and pulled the covers over her head.
She thought over the bloodvoicing conversation. Apparently a man had discovered his gift, but he was confused, alone, and possibly bleeding. Something had happened to his legs or his shoulder. Why had his thoughts brought such tremendous strain to Vrell? When she had discovered her gift, she had accidentally spoken to her mother’s mind. That was all. Mother had heard it and started to teach Vrell. But this…this was…frightening.
Vrell’s ears had not even tickled first, so this person had not been intentionally seeking her mind. But she had not been able to block him either. Without trying, his thoughts had bled over into dozens of minds. What could someone so strong do with his gift? Was that why the people had called out to him? Why Mother had called out?
And why hadn’t Mother tried to call her again? Vrell would have answered when she was in the steams. Why couldn’t Arman work the timing out so that Vrell and her mother could speak?
Vrell dwelled on the voices until she drifted to sleep. She dreamed of Mother comforting the frightened man. Mother wanted to know if he was okay and where he lived. Vrell wanted to know too so she could help him. There were so many voices and he did not know how to block them. Vrell could teach him.
In her dream, the man dropped to his knees and moaned. He was in pain. There was still blood.
Your home, dear, Mother said. Where is it?
The man yelled, Please stop! Stop!
And then all was silent.
Part 3. Unwelcome Changes
7
A rap on the skull woke Achan.
Groggy, he rose onto one elbow to find a dozen serving women fussing about the cellar, throwing potatoes, turnips, and onions into wicker baskets. Why were they in the cellar at this hour? He blinked his sleepy eyes, trying to remember the occasion, thankful he had slept in his trousers.
Poril scurried by the ale casks and reached down to knock Achan on the head with sharp knuckles again. “Up! There’s much to do, and Poril needs yeh up and able.”
Ah, yes. Prince Gidon’s coming-of-age celebration began today. And Achan hadn’t even milked the goats. He reached up, wincing at his sore shoulder muscles, and grabbed his tunic, which had dried in a stiff, triangular shape over the spout of the ale cask. He pulled it over his head and struggled to straighten it while lying down. He tied the rope belt and crawled out. Achan’s head pounded, so he took the narrow stone steps slowly.
The kitchens bustled with activity, warmth, and a mixture of scents: robust spices, fresh herbs, burnt toast, steamy soups, fish, and bloody meat. The meat smell turned Achan’s stomach, bringing the doe to mind. And that reminded him of the voices — the culprits behind his throbbing skull.
Poril had apparently recruited every serving woman in Sitna Manor to help prepare the dinner feast, and they were deep into gossip as usual.
“What you s’pose his skin looks like under that mask?” one of them asked, chopping a carrot into slices.
“I’ve heard it’s dark, like dried venison.”
“Well, if I’s the Duchess, I’d not marry him neither, him bein’ half-a man.”
Achan dodged between elbows, reaching arms, and twirling brown skirts, navigating toward the exit. He grabbed the milk pail from the shelf above the door and went outside heading for the stables.
The outer bailey had never been so crowded before dawn. Throngs of foreign servants darted around on various errands. Pages led horses — some already wearing their jousting armor and banners — to and from the stables. A dozen slaves dragged long slabs of wood toward the drawbridge. The butcher — apron soaked in blood — had wheeled his cart close to the kitchens. His apprentice fought to hold down the wings of a flapping goose. Achan passed by just before the chop of the axe severed the bird’s neck.
In the barn, Achan milked the goats quickly despite his exhaustion. When he set the milk on the table in the kitchens, Poril shoved a mug of tonic into his chest. “Drink.”
The bitter smell jogged Achan’s memory. Yesterday, Sir Gavin had suggested the tonic was poison — not able to kill, but bad in some way. Certainly not healthy.
A sharp throb bit through his skull.
Tell me where you live.
Are you there? Speak to me!
Achan’s heart rate increased at the voices in his head. He closed his eyes and focused on the allown tree, the sunset, the wind.
Something hard cracked on his head. “Ow!”
Poril stood before him, his knuckles raised to strike again. “Poril has no time for games today, boy. Drink now. And let Poril see yeh do it.”
Pig snout. Achan would get the truth from Sir Gavin today about this tonic.
He guzzled the bitter goo and stumbled to the mentha basket. He chewed a few leaves and began to feel better.
The serving women continued their gossip about Lord Nathak and the Duchess of Carm. One of them heaved a plucked goose from one table to another and began to stuff it with spices. “Does he really think cuttin’ off her supplies is gallant?”
“He’s got no sense,” said another, waving a wooden spoon. “Just look how Prince Gidon treats his women. ’Twas Lord Nathak who raised him, that’s clear enough.”
Achan went for firewood. The morning dawn had cast its pale light over the manor. The sky was clear. It would be a warm day. He found the outer bailey even more crowded now and was thankful the firewood was near the kitchens and he did not have to carry it far. By the time he returned, his head and stomach felt fine.
As he stepped into the sweltering kitchens he spotted Sir Gavin. The old knight had cornered Poril near the ovens. Achan dropped the wood beside the largest hearth and added a few pieces to the fire. He watched Sir Gavin and Poril between the bustling skirts, and strained to hear their conversation.
At length, Poril shouted, “Boy!” and the women cleared a path.
Achan hurried over, hoping to be sent with Sir Gavin again, but the knight had left.
“Yeh’ll go with the good knight, yeh will. Soon as yer done, get back, yeh hear?”
Achan swallowed his smile. “Yes, Master Poril.” He scurried out of the kitchens, running to catch up with Sir Gavin, whom he spotted striding toward the inner bailey.
The knight glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve little time to dress you for tournament.”
Achan stopped. Tournament? “You can’t think I’m ready to compete?” He made himself run to catch up again. “I’ve never even touched a sharp blade.”