A slurping sound turned Achan’s head.
Prince Gidon slouched on a chaise lounge eating grapes from a tray held by a servant boy. Though the prince was fit and almost exactly Achan’s age, he was propped up like an invalid by tufted velvet cushions in shades of emerald and red. He wore a maroon velvet robe embroidered with gold ribbons. A delicate crown, studded with rubies and garnets, squished his oiled, black hair against his forehead. A short, black beard shaded his chin.
Seeing the heir to Er’Rets so close, Achan’s heart went wild, as if trying to break free of his body and flee. Unfortunately, his feet didn’t obey this instinct. Despite his fear, he focused, seeking the pressure in his head, searching for any clue his intuition could discover. Nothing came. Both Lord Nathak and the prince were empty as far as he could tell. Achan frowned. How could that be? He’d never sensed emptiness in anyone.
A chill caused Achan to shiver, and he wondered how the temperature had changed so quickly. He waited as Lord Nathak gazed out the window and the prince munched grapes with the manners of a hound. The longer the men ignored him, the more the horror of being in their presence faded. He grew bored and looked around the chamber.
Achan had never seen so much finery. The red and gold rug covered most the floor, edged with rushes of sweet flag and chamomile that made the room smell fresh. Elaborate brocades upholstered the polished furniture. A silver tray heaped with fruit, two ornate goblets, and some of Poril’s fancy cakes sat on a table behind the prince’s chair. The cream filling from a half-eaten tart dripped from the center and pooled on the silver tray. Achan puzzled over how he could be shaking with cold while it was hot enough to melt Poril’s cream filling.
“Sir Gavin has left us,” Lord Nathak said finally, still facing away. “He will not return.”
Dizziness swept over Achan. Left? Without saying farewell? Was it because Achan had placed so poorly in the tournament? That wasn’t all his fault. He might’ve held his own in other matches had Lord Nathak not banished him to the kitchens. Besides, Sir Gavin hadn’t seemed upset at the feast.
A sudden thought gripped his heart. Would Achan be punished for training as a squire? He’d broken Council law and trained behind his owner’s back. Would he be executed? Achan wanted to run. He remained frozen, though, almost captivated by the rhythmic slurping of grapes.
“Sir Gavin claimed you are a squire.” Lord Nathak continued to gaze out the window.
Achan glanced at the prince then back to Lord Nathak. An eagle soared outside the window. Achan could almost see the corner of the grandstands at the jousting field.
“It is my purpose in life to protect the Crown Prince at all costs.” Lord Nathak turned to Achan, his one eye staring as if awaiting an answer.
The sight of that one dark eye sent a molten shiver through Achan that he feared would melt him into a puddle on the fine rug.
Achan didn’t know where to look. Lord Nathak’s leather mask clung to the right side of his face as if held there by something sticky. Achan’s eyes darted from the mask to the shriveled skin he could see near Lord Nathak’s nose, to his two-tone hair, to his forked beard, to his visible eye.
Achan cleared his throat and said in a small voice, “A noble purpose, my lord.”
“Indeed,” Lord Nathak said. “And one you will help me with.”
Achan gulped. “My lord?”
“Since you think yourself worthy of squiredom, I shall grant your wish.”
Achan froze. “My lord?”
“You shall serve the Crown Prince as squire. He has several, of course, but you shall clean his chambers, ready his horse, and fetch anything—”
“No.” Prince Gidon sat up. His tone was defiant. “This one will serve as my sparring partner.”
Lord Nathak bolted to his feet. “I cannot allow that, my prince.”
“And since I cannot compete in my own tournament,” Gidon said, “I will fight the stray in front of an audience. That will teach him to insult my guests.”
Achan’s jaw sagged. He could only mean the venomous Lady Jaira. How thoughtful that she’d further torment him by tattling to the prince. Achan’s mind whirred to find an excuse, but his overly quick tongue now left him speechless.
“It would be too dangerous,” Lord Nathak said.
An abnormally wide smile stretched across Prince Gidon’s face. “It was your idea to invite my guests to watch me practice. Now they may witness my skills firsthand.”
So Achan would be the lucky recipient of the prince’s skills. The man had been trained by the best weapons masters since birth. Was this a trap to frame Achan or put him in harm’s way? Perhaps a fancy execution?
Lord Nathak looked slightly green. Certainly he wasn’t afraid Achan could best the prince?
Prince Gidon reached for a bunch of grapes. “Report to the practice field after lunch, stray — and don’t wear those serving clothes. Chora will provide proper attire. Dismissed.”
Lord Nathak stared at Achan, his visible eye wide and fearful.
Achan turned on his heel and exited the solar, the air in the hallway hitting him as if he’d stepped into the kitchens when all the pots were boiling. As Chora led him down to the fourth level, Achan’s mind replayed what had just happened.
He was a squire to the prince now? Was that on top of working in the kitchens, or was he now permanently free from Poril? He’d been through so many reversals in the last few days he didn’t know what to believe. And what had Lord Nathak been afraid of? His concern for the prince’s safety with Achan as a sparring partner was laughable. It was Achan he should worry about, not that he ever would.
Chora knocked once on a narrow door and pushed it open. This appeared to be a sewing room. It was long and narrow with a single arrow loop window at one end. Bolts of linen and silk in a rainbow of colors lined one wall. Along the other wall, two women sat sewing, a third worked a loom, and a fourth cut red velvet on a table in the corner.
A short, pudgy woman with straight pins tucked into the cuffs of her sleeves turned from a bin of shirts and perched her fists on her wide hips. “What’s this?”
“Lord Nathak wants this one dressed as a soldier. He’s to squire for the prince.”
“Is he now?” The woman waddled to Achan and looked him over. Several moles dotted her flabby face. A large one hovered over her left eye. She was so short that her scowling face barely reached Achan’s chest. “He’s as tall as the prince. His Majesty don’t like having his squires so tall.”
“Just dress him, Shelga.” Chora opened the door to leave, then said to Achan, “Once she’s through, come to the armory for a sword.”
Achan nodded and Chora swept from the room.
Shelga motioned to the arrow loop window. “Get yourself into the light where’s I can look at you.”
Achan stepped into the stripe of brightness stretching across the thread-strewn floor.
Shelga snapped her fingers. “That’s far enough.” She drew a cord from around her neck and set about measuring him. “How’d you come by this assignment?”
“Luck, I guess.”
Shelga snorted. “’Tis not luck. The gods have cursed you. Haven’t you seen the prince’s squires limping about? Most are only able to tie nettle-hemp into fishing nets when he’s through with ’em. Unless he injures their hands.”
“What do you mean?” Achan had heard rumors of Prince Gidon’s temper with women, but nothing about his squires.
“You’ll find out. Least you’re his size. Maybe you’ll fare better than the runts he usually takes on. Off with your clothes.”
Achan stood still as she waddled to a row of baskets along the interior wall and pulled an item from each. She waddled back holding a stack of clothing. “Off with ’em! I haven’t got all day to waste on the likes of you.”