“But you said never underestimate an opponent. I could have gotten my sword back—”
“Don’t be naive. In a real battle he’d have killed you the instant you dropped it. The only point of wielding a sword is to kill. Never forget that. Are you certain you’re well? Your leg?”
Achan swallowed further debate and looked down at the dark wetness plastering his leggings to his shin. “It will be fine. A bruise or two will rise to the surface by tomorrow. But aren’t you pleased? At least I wasn’t humiliated.”
“If I thought you’d be humiliated, I’d not have entered you.”
Sir Gavin’s backward way of teaching irked Achan. “I should have been humiliated with all the training I’ve had with a shield.” Achan cast his eyes to the ground, shamed at his own attitude. This knight had no reason in all Er’Rets to train a stray. Achan needed to remember that.
But Sir Gavin only sniffed and bobbed his head. He tied the shield’s strap in a knot and helped Achan loop it over his head and one shoulder so it hung off his back.
“It was hard,” Achan said, trying to soften his complaint with discussion. “I couldn’t guess when he was feinting or striking.”
“Aye. That takes practice. You’ve had little.”
The herald called out two new names and Sir Gavin led Achan away from the short sword and shield pen.
Achan stumbled alongside Sir Gavin. Only two fights and already his body craved his bed. Yet his mind couldn’t sleep. All his life he’d watched tournaments from afar; now he was a participant. The fact put a bounce in his weary steps. “Why did Shung scream so?”
“Gives him more power and unnerves his opponents.”
“And he stopped screaming toward the end.” So Shung had gone easy. Achan scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me about the screaming?”
Sir Gavin shrugged. “I’ve never been the best teacher.”
Achan inhaled to argue, but could think of nothing to say that would make any difference. “What next?”
Sir Gavin stopped. “Why don’t you wander a bit? There’s someone I must speak with. I’ll meet you back here shortly and introduce you.” With that, he turned and strode into the crowd.
Achan looked around himself. He stood near the hand-to-hand combat pen, where two squires were rolling in the dirt. Peasants were chanting, “Ne-sos, Ne-sos.” Two large, red tents obscured his view of the longsword and axe pens.
In the distance, a cloud of dust rose before the red and white striped awning of the grandstands overlooking the jousting field. Achan drifted that direction, hoping he could see at least one match. But before he’d gone very far, his stinging hip reminded him of his wounds, so he stepped between two tents to inspect them.
He lifted his layers of shirts and drew the waistband of his leggings away with his thumb. The tip of Shung’s sword had pierced the chain and grazed off his hipbone, a gash as wide as two fingers. The bone itself was tender, but the cut didn’t look too bad. He checked his leg wound and found a shallow scrape. He’d cut himself worse peeling potatoes.
Squeals of laughter rose from nearby. Achan wove between the colorful tents in search of the source. He emerged in a clearing shaded by several poplar trees about twenty feet from the open tent where squires were helping their masters dress in armor for the joust.
A group of squires and maidens about his age ran about laughing and shrieking, playing hoodman’s blind.
Achan shouldn’t linger. Despite his armor and jerkin, he was a stray, and he doubted very much — judging by the lavish attire — that these people were. But their game migrated closer, and soon Achan stood in the midst of it. He quickly spotted the hoodman: a maiden with long curls so golden they were almost white, and tiny braids in a crown around her head. She wore a blue embroidered dress with layers of skirt. A grey blindfold covered her eyes.
The sunburned squire from Carmine who’d been defeated in the short sword pen bumped into Achan and laughed. The maiden came closer, the hem of her dress swishing in the grass, her arms outstretched, feeling the air. An olive-skinned maiden with dozens of oily black braids tipped with wooden beads, snuck up, whispered in the hoodman’s ear, then darted behind a poplar.
The hoodman spoke, her voice filled with spunk. “I’ll get you, Jaira, you wicked!”
The hoodman backed against Achan’s chest. Her wild curls smelled like jasmine. Before he could remember the rules of the game, she whirled around and grabbed him in a hug.
“Got you!”
Achan jerked back in surprise and pulled free, causing the maiden to trip on her skirt. She screamed, and he reached out and caught her under the arms.
She giggled madly, gripped his forearms until she was steady, and tore off the blindfold. “What hero saved me from that fall?”
Achan blinked. The maiden was Cetheria in human form. The goddess protector, beautiful and golden. Her eyes were blue crystals that sparkled as she studied him. He stepped back, her scrutiny bringing a wave of uncomfortable heat. A crowd clustered around, waiting to see who the next hoodman would be.
“Well, who are you, hero?” the maiden asked.
“Achan.”
“Just Achan?” Her lips parted in a teasing smile. “What knight do you serve?”
“Sir Gavin Lukos.”
“The Great Whitewolf?” the Carmine squire asked.
Jaira, the maiden with the oily black braids, stepped out from behind the poplar and said, “He’s ancient!”
The Carmine squire folded his arms. His sunburned nose was peeling. “He’s not jousting, is he?”
“I doubt he could hold the lance,” a scrawny, brown-haired boy said. “He’s so old.”
“Isn’t he a stray?” Jaira asked.
Achan shrugged, hoping to appear like he belonged. “Lots of Kingsguard knights are strays.”
“A handful. Of Old Kingsguards.” The scrawny boy plopped down under a poplar and leaned back against the trunk. “The Council doesn’t trust strays anymore. And with good reason. My father will never budge on that law.”
Some grunted in agreement. Achan swallowed his unease and sought a polite way to exit.
Jaira pulled her black braids to one side of her neck and ran her fingers though them. “It’s frightful that strays still have any authority in Er’Rets.”
The blonde who had been the hoodman addressed Achan. “You have competed, I see. Did you win?”
His chest swelled. “Won one, lost one.”
She smiled, but Achan wasn’t sure if she was impressed, indifferent, or sympathetic. “Are you from Tsaftown?” she asked. “You wear our crest on your shield and our colors.”
Achan blinked and looked down at his black vest. Tsaftown’s crest and colors? “I’m, uh, from Sitna.”
“What’s your surname?” the Carmine squire asked. “I’d like to tell Sir Rigil who the Great Whitewolf has convinced to squire. He’s never had a squire that I’ve heard of.”
Why hadn’t he? Sir Gavin appeared strong and bright. Doubt crept over Achan. Maybe Sir Gavin had gone mad in his old age to take Achan for a squire.
The group had gone silent waiting for Achan’s reply. The Carmine squire must have left the short sword pen before Achan’s lack of surname was announced. Achan could guess how this group would react once they heard it. He glanced at the pretty blonde with the sparkling eyes, the cause of his knotted tongue. He didn’t want to see her fair face scowl and be the cause of it.
But now, with Eagan’s Elk at his side and a legitimate victory under his belt, he didn’t care what they said. “I’m Achan Cham.”
Jaira gasped. “You’re the stray who beat Silvo! He said you cheated.”
“I did not!” Achan straightened to his full height. “His arrogance cost him the match.”