He changed the topic. “Did you see Sir Gavin leave this morning?
Noam pulled a leather thong from his pocket and wrapped it around the end of the braid. “Aye. Lord Nathak came himself with the instructions to ready Sir Gavin’s horses.”
“I’d hoped he’d take me with him.”
Noam pulled an apple from his pocket and fed it to the destrier. “That would’ve been something.”
Achan’s thoughts drifted to Gren. “Did Gren tell you about Riga?”
“Aye. Poor lass,” Noam said. “I’d poison myself before committing to a life with a Hoff — especially Riga. I see you’ve forsaken her already for your Lady Tara.”
Achan’s chest swelled with rage, but he let it out in a groan. He hadn’t thought of Gren since yesterday. How quickly he had allowed life to distract him from her bad fortune.
He silently compared the two women. Both were beautiful. He’d known Gren all his life and would marry her in a breath if he could. He scratched the dirt floor with his gloved finger and cursed his overactive imagination. Lady Tara was of noble birth. If he wasn’t allowed to marry Gren, a peasant, then Noam spoke true. He really was a halfwit to even waste thoughts on Tara. He sighed.
“Why do you think Sir Gavin bothered with me? A stray is not to be trained for the Kingsguard — that’s Council law. Yet now Prince Gidon disregards the law as well. Why?”
“It wasn’t always so,” Noam said. “Strays have only been singled out since one killed the king and queen. And they only knew that because a Kingsguard bloodvoiced it.”
“But there’s no such thing as bloodvoicers,” Achan said. “People who talk through their minds? It’s myth.” But his laugh quickly faded and he blinked. No. Bloodvoices couldn’t be what he experienced the night he killed the doe. He’d been delirious, that was all.
Noam raised an eyebrow. “Myth or not, you and I are marked for life as a result of that story. Myth doesn’t make laws, Achan. Reality does.”
*
Achan shoved thoughts of bloodvoices to the back of his mind as he wandered from the stables.
The noon sun shone brightly as he entered the inner bailey. He drew near the grassy courtyard that sat between the keep and the temple gardens. Grandstands had been built for Prince Gidon’s practice bouts. They sat so that they formed three sides of a square, boxing the area against the brownstone wall of the keep.
Chora paced along the wall, cloak billowing. He looked up and huffed. “Where have you been? You didn’t report to the armory.”
“I have the sword Sir Gavin gave me. Will it do?”
Chora shrugged. “A sword is a sword as far as I’m concerned.”
“What about a shield or armor?”
Chora shook his head. “His Majesty doesn’t spar with shields or armor.”
“What?” Was the prince a fool?
Chora stepped close to Achan. “Our king is brave. Besides, he never chooses an opponent he cannot beat. Not that there are many who could best our king. Now wait here and hold your tongue!”
Achan stared at Chora for a moment, uncertain why the valet referred to the prince as king, when he had not yet been crowned. He leaned against the wall of the keep, resting the sole of one boot against the stone behind him.
The sun had warmed the wall and he basked in the comfort while he could. From his position, he faced the grandstands. For now, they were empty. Beyond, the stone colonnades from Cetheria’s temple peeked over the green hedges that separated the gardens from the rest of the inner bailey.
He thought over Chora’s statement. The prince never chose an opponent he couldn’t beat? How terribly brave. Achan shouldn’t be surprised. His presence on this field was likely an execution anyway.
Nobles drifted toward the makeshift arena in packs. Apparently Achan’s execution was going to have an audience. The small crowd consisted mostly of elderly lords and ladies, with a few young maidens. Achan was thankful Lady Tara and her friends had gone hunting. A piper stepped into the center of the field and began to play a festive tune. Achan wanted to break the instrument over his knee.
A murmur rose from the grandstands. Achan followed the turn of heads to see eight Kingsguards approaching in diamond formation. The group was led by Sir Kenton, Prince Gidon’s Shield. A tall, grey-skinned man lumbered in back. All eight wore black capes with the high-ranking gold crest of Mahanaim sparkling in the sun. Achan spotted specks of crimson flashing between the black uniforms. Prince Gidon Hadar walked in the center.
The Kingsguards poured into one corner of the field at a spot where two of the grandstands met, then peeled away. Prince Gidon waved at the crowd without so much as a smile. The audience applauded their future king.
Achan studied him. His hair was slicked back with oils and tied into a tail. His coloring was the same as Achan’s: dark hair, brown skin, blue eyes. It almost made Achan wish he hadn’t recently discovered that he was kinsman. He didn’t like having things in common with this man.
The prince moved with more grace and confidence even than Silvo. A fine, red linen shirt, tucked into black trousers, billowed in the wind, outlining a strong upper body. Oddly enough, Gidon wore no jerkin or doublet. Polished black leather boots rose to his knees. He wore a plain, leather sheath at his side that held a plain practice sword.
Seven of the Kingsguards sat on the lowest level of the center stands. Sir Kenton stood with Chora in the gap where the entourage had entered. Prince Gidon strode to the center of the field, spat on the ground, and drew his sword.
Achan licked his lips and swallowed. It was a good thing that intimidation was part of his everyday life. He stepped away from the wall and drew Eagan’s Elk—
Barely in time to stifle a cut from the prince’s blade. That was a dirty trick. Achan’s estimation of the prince dropped even lower, if that were possible. He pushed off and jumped back to get a better position.
The prince huffed and threw up one hand. “Stop!”
Achan lowered his sword.
The prince thrust his blade into the grass and turned to Chora. “What is he fighting with?”
Chora scurried over, his bold demeanor gone in the prince’s presence. “What are you fighting with, stray?”
“A sword.”
Chora turned back to the prince. “He fights with a…a sword, Your Majesty.”
The prince propped a hand on one hip. “I know it’s a sword, you ale-soused buffoon! Where did he get it?”
Chora, pink-faced, turned back to Achan. “His Royal Highness would like to know where you got your sword?”
“I told you, it was a gift from Sir Gavin.”
“He cannot wield a finer weapon than me,” Prince Gidon whispered. “Weren’t you supposed to dress him, Chora? Didn’t you provide a sword?”
Chora’s voice croaked, “He never came for one, Your Majesty.”
Achan held up Eagan’s Elk for Prince Gidon to see. “Because I already had one.”
Sir Kenton stepped between Achan and the prince. His curtain of black hair swung about his face like a chain hood. “We practice with plain swords here, stray. And watch your tone.”
Achan looked from the prince to the Shield to Chora. He had no desire to make trouble. Perhaps holding his tongue would be his best plan.
Prince Gidon turned to Sir Kenton and continued in a hushed voice. “His job is to make me look like the best swordsman in all Er’Rets. He’s failed already.”
Achan scowled. That was his job, was it? Well, he wasn’t about to go down easily. Achan would give him everything he had.