He heard the swoosh of Poril pulling his leather belt from the loops on his trousers. He hoped his pants fell down.
When Poril was done flogging Achan, he swabbed his back with soapy water, washed the blood from his tunic, and gave him an hour off to rest while it dried.
Good old Poril.
A kindly presence flooded his mind.
Achan was returning from the well carrying a heavy yoke over his shoulders with two full buckets of water. He rounded the edge of a cottage and found Sir Gavin Lukos heading toward him. Achan stepped aside, pressing up against the cottage and turning the yoke so the buckets wouldn’t hinder the great knight’s path. The buckets swung from his sharp movement, grinding the yoke into his shoulders.
Sir Gavin slowed. “What’s your name, stray?”
Achan jumped, wincing as the yoke sent a sliver into the back of his neck. Sir Gavin’s eyes bored into his. One was icy blue and the other was dark brown. The difference startled him. “Uh…Achan, sir.”
The knight’s weathered face wrinkled. “What kind of a name is that?”
Poril’s voice nagged in Achan’s mind, ’Tis trouble, that’s what. “Mine, sir.”
“Surname?”
Achan lifted his chin and answered, “Cham,” proud of the animal Poril had chosen to represent him. Chams breathed fire and had claws as long as his hand. Such virtues would tame Riga and Harnu for good.
Sir Gavin sniffed. “A fine choice.” His braided beard bobbed as he spoke. “I saw a bit of that ruthless bear in the barn with those peasants.”
Achan stared, shocked. He’d seen the fight? Would he tell Lord Nathak? “I…um…” Had Sir Gavin asked him a question? “I’m sorry?”
“I said, what’s your aim, lad?’
“I should like to serve in Lord Nathak’s kitchens…perhaps someday assist the stableman with the horses.”
“Bah! Kitchens and stables are no place for a cham. That’s a fierce beast. You need a goal fit for the animal.”
What could the knight be skirting around? “But I…I don’t have a…what choice have I?”
“Aw, now there’s always a choice, lad. Kingsguard is the highest honor to be had by a stray. Why not choose that?”
Achan cut off a gasping laugh, afraid of offending the knight. “I cannot. Forgive me, but you’re…I mean…a stray is not permitted to serve in the Kingsguard, sir.”
“It wasn’t always that way, you know. And despite any Council law, there are always exceptions.”
Achan shifted the yoke a bit, uncomfortable with both the weight and the subject matter. He cared little for myths and legends. Council law was all that mattered anymore. Despite his fantasy of running away, he was Lord Nathak’s property, nothing more. The brand on his shoulder proved that. “Even so, sir, one must serve as a page first, then squire, and no knight would wish a stray for either.”
“Except, perhaps, a knight who’s a stray himself.” Sir Gavin winked his brown eye.
A tingle ran up Achan’s arms. He’d known Sir Gavin was a stray because of his animal surname, but it had been years since strays had been permitted to serve. Surely he couldn’t mean—
“Come to the stables an hour before sunrise tomorrow. Your training mustn’t interfere with your duties to the manor. Tell no one of this for now. If I decide you’re worthy, I’ll talk to Lord Nathak about reassignment to me.”
Achan’s mouth hung open. “You’re offering to train me?”
“If you’re not interested, I’m sure another would be eager to accept my offer.”
Achan shifted under the weight of the yoke. “No. No, sir. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll show you a trick or two you don’t yet know.”
Achan grinned. “Yes, sir.”
2
At the rooster’s crow, Achan dressed and hurried out of the kitchens into the dark morning.
He stood for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. He hadn’t wanted to call the attention of Poril or anyone else by carrying a torch at this hour. The plump moon still hung low in the sky, and, with the torches lining the parapet wall above, the shapes of cottages slowly formed before him. He saw no sign of life but the sleeping guards on the parapet wall and the moths fluttering around the torches.
He started off at a silent jog, keeping on his toes. The frigid air stung his eyes. His mind raced. All his life he’d dreamed of being a knight: riding a horse and wielding a sword to protect the weak. Could the gods have finally taken notice of his measly offerings over the years? Could his station in life really change? If so, would Gren’s father look at him differently?
A sour thought slowed his steps, and he slid on the frosty dirt. How would he find time to serve two masters? Achan had seen Prince Gidon’s squires scurrying around the manor on various errands. How could Achan manage to serve Sir Gavin’s needs and Poril’s?
The stables sat between the gatehouse and the barn. The animal dwellings looked identical but for the stables being twice as wide. Most peasants felt the barn a waste of space, but the prince entertained often and needed the room to house his guests’ mounts.
Achan found Sir Gavin leaning against the western entrance to the stables, a torch in one hand. The knight smiled, his teeth thin and wolfish in the orange glow. Someone had obvious reasons for bestowing the surname Lukos. Or perhaps the name had changed the man. Achan hoped over time he wouldn’t grow to resemble a fire-breathing bear.
Sir Gavin’s smile faded as he looked Achan over. “You’re rail thin. Do you eat?”
“What I’m given.”
Sir Gavin slid his torch into a groove beside the stable door. “What do you know?”
“Kitchens, mostly.” Achan wrung his hands at his sides, his mind scrambling for words that might impress Sir Gavin. “I know about animals. I tend the goats, and I’ve helped Noam with the horses some.”
Several horses inside the stables whinnied as if in agreement.
Sir Gavin looked inside, perhaps wondering what had spooked the animals. He turned back to Achan. “Do you ride?”
“Never, sir.”
“Hmm. Can you read?”
“Some. Poril’s recipes and lists of ingredients.”
Sir Gavin held up a wooden practice sword, the sight of which warmed Achan’s soul. “Ever use a waster?”
“No, sir, but I’ve sparred with poles.” Servants gathered nightly to dance and play in the northeast corner of the outer bailey. Achan had grown up in the Corner, wrestling slave and peasant boys and fighting with sticks.
Sir Gavin grunted and looked slightly displeased. “How came you to Sitna?”
“Lived here all my life.”
“Your father?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Footsteps crunched over the frozen dirt. Noam, the stable boy, approached the entrance. Noam was tall and lanky and reminded Achan of Minstrel Harp’s song of the stretched man. Noam’s face was long and narrow and his thin frame seemed almost breakable. His gaze flicked between Achan and Sir Gavin. He met Achan’s eyes with raised brows. Noam hadn’t been at the Corner last night when Achan had told Gren about his opportunity with Sir Gavin. Noam pulled open the door and went inside, his torchlight spilling out the cracked-open door.
“What about your mother?” Sir Gavin asked.
Achan looked back to the knight and sighed. Some strays — like Noam — knew the identity of at least one parent, but Achan knew nothing of either. “I don’t know, sir.”
Sir Gavin raised a white bushy eyebrow, as if a stray not knowing the identity of his parents was some interesting fact. “How old are you?”
“Nearly sixteen.”
Sir Gavin raised the other eyebrow and rubbed his chin, his eyes boring into Achan’s. “You’ve not been a page, much less a squire — and most squires start at fourteen.” He squeezed Achan’s upper arm and sniffed long and hard like he was coming down with something. “You’ve got muscle, but you’ll need to get stronger. If the cook won’t give you enough, come to my quarters at mealtimes, and I’ll see you better fed. Tell no one of our arrangement for now. Come. Let us begin your training.”