“What are you called?” Master Hadar asked.
“Ffff…” Vrell paused and sucked in a deep breath. “Vrell Sparrow,” she whispered.
“You may go, Vrell. Join me here for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
“Ye-y-yes, Master.”
Vrell turned and strode as fast as she could without looking like she was in a hurry. Once the door clicked shut behind her, she fled down the stairs and back to her chamber. She pulled back the covers of her bed, climbed underneath, and sobbed.
13
Over the next few days, Achan woke to his usual chores and tonic with Poril, then sparred daily against Prince Gidon in the inner bailey courtyard, under the captive eyes of the noble tournament guests. He fought hard, despite his tender shoulder wound.
Although the prince never left him unscathed, Achan didn’t receive another cut as deep as he had the first day. He was quick to remember His Majesty’s title when he yielded, and the prince was slightly more forgiving with his final blows. Still, the multiple cuts and bruises on Achan’s body made him feel like a patchwork quilt. He would have much rather fought other squires out in the tournament pens. He wondered how far Shung had made it.
Each day the crowd grew, though Gren had not been able to come and watch again due to the amount of work she had. But on the final day of the tournament week, Lady Tara came to watch with Silvo, Jaira, and Bran.
Achan couldn’t resist the spunk that rose inside him in the presence of Lady Tara. He kept her light blue gown in his side vision without actually staring at her. Maybe he could manage to speak with her after today’s match. One thing was certain: he wasn’t about to lose today if he could help it, although he’d never beaten Prince Gidon and his body ached for a month of rest.
Again Achan took the field with Prince Gidon. Chora stood beside Sir Kenton at the edge of the field. The other seven Kingsguards sat in their usual spot along the bench. Gidon wore a quilted, red jerkin over a white shirt. The question was, would the prince manage to keep it clean today?
Their swords clashed. Achan’s and the prince’s feet trampled the grass. The crowd gasped or cheered on every cut. Achan remembered Sir Gavin’s counsel. He was never to think about his opponent’s station or skill. He was never to fear what might happen. He was to be confident in his own ability, remember his training, and do his best to win.
Achan had another advantage over his opponent. Since that first day, the prince had grown predictable in his movements. His lone strategy was to push Achan back into the wall or the stands, then strike. As long as Achan kept circling to the side, the match would drag on and on.
Achan also knew that Prince Gidon favored strikes from the right. Perhaps if Achan switched to a left-handed grip for the briefest moment, it would throw the prince off enough so Achan could strike. He’d have to be careful. Because the Prince wore no armor, any hit could kill. And killing the Crown Prince would surely be a death sentence.
Achan had heard the whispers: the people were saying that these demonstrations were rehearsed. Prince Gidon either didn’t think so or didn’t care. Achan did. He wasn’t about to let Lady Tara or Silvo think him an actor.
Achan worked up to his attack, waiting for the perfect moment. He sidestepped Prince Gidon’s lunge, tossed Eagan’s Elk into a left-handed hold, and cut low and left.
His blade struck true.
Prince Gidon yelped and Ôwr thumped into the grass.
The crowd gasped. Achan thought he heard Tara’s voice above the rest. What had she said? He turned to where she sat, but Sir Kenton’s angry face blocked his view.
“Hold!” The Shield sprinted onto the field.
Prince Gidon clasped a hand over his left thigh and snapped his other fingers. “Chora!”
Chora scurried forward, but Sir Kenton arrived first. He examined the prince’s wound, then turned and smashed his fist into Achan’s mouth.
Achan crumpled to the ground and rolled to his side, tasting blood.
Well, at least Sir Gavin would be proud.
Chora’s blubbering voice met Achan’s ears. “Yes, Your Majesty? Are you all right, Your Majesty?”
Still clutching his leg, Prince Gidon glared down at Achan.
Sir Kenton kicked Achan in the stomach, rolling him onto his back. The Shield gripped the neck of Achan’s cape and yanked him to his feet. Achan staggered, his palm clamped over his bloodied mouth. Sir Kenton clutched his throat in one beefy hand and thrust him against the wall of the keep. Achan’s head clunked off the stone, dazing him.
Sir Kenton lifted Achan off the ground like he weighed nothing. “Do that again, and I’ll kill you.”
Achan licked his swelling bottom lip and grunted in agreement. Sir Kenton dropped him.
“Take the stray to Myet,” the prince told Chora, “then have him report to my chambers in twenty minutes. Be quick about it.” He limped away with Sir Kenton, to the soft applause of his shocked subjects.
Achan’s body throbbed. He clambered to his feet and located Eagan’s Elk in the grass. He wiped the bloodied blade off on his trousers and sheathed it, then glanced to where Tara sat. Judging by her tense expression and Jaira’s pink cheeks and waving hands, they seemed to be engrossed in argument. He didn’t know who or what Myet was, but it probably wasn’t something he was going to like. He sighed. At least he’d made a good showing for Tara.
Chora signaled to two guards. “You heard the king, be quick about it.”
The men each seized Achan by an arm and dragged him away.
Myet, it turned out, was a man. A very cruel man who operated out of a dark room in the dungeons. The guards delivered Achan to Myet for twenty-three lashes. Then they dragged his sagging form up to the sixth floor.
With each step all Achan could think was, Where is Cetheria’s voice now? So much for her protection. From now on, Achan would eat his offerings. He distracted his anger and frustration with sarcasm. Why twenty-three lashes? Why not twenty or twenty-five? Could Myet not count?
The guards left him at the door to Prince Gidon’s solar. Achan pushed it open and stepped inside.
At first the room appeared empty. The tapestries were arranged differently from the last time Achan had been in the room. The eastern windows were blocked off today, revealing the prince’s bed and the open doorway that led to the balcony. Lord Nathak’s voice drifted in from outside.
“Give up this ridiculous obsession and let me send him back to the kitchens where he will be forgotten.”
“I have no desire to forget him until he is dead,” Gidon said. “He is a nuisance in every way.”
“My prince, I beg you to heed my warning. We must not harm the stray. Let him rot in obscurity. Find someone new to amuse yourself with. But leave him unharmed.”
Achan froze at the foot of Gidon’s massive bed. Lord Nathak didn’t want him hurt?
“Why do you protect him?” the prince asked. “His attitude and behavior toward me is scandalous. He should hang. If I allow him to treat me this way with no consequence, word of it shall spread to every rebel in Er’Rets. I must crush him in public where the people will see and take heed. I want my people to fear me, Lord Nathak. To know I am in control and my power cannot be taken from me.”
Achan inched closer to the doorway.
“I have always advised you well,” Lord Nathak said. “Do not forget you have not yet been voted in as king. That can still change. Focus on choosing a bride, I urge you. And forget the stray. I leave it to you to end this.”