“Try not to make him angry and you should live until I get to Mahanaim.”
Why was Lord Nathak telling him this? Achan sought the man’s feelings but found only a chill in the air, as if Lord Nathak himself were the source of the cold. How did he do that?
“Well? Your prince is waiting.”
Achan walked out to the balcony and the heat of the late morning warmed him. What a magnificent view the prince had. To his right, Achan could see where the SitnaRiver met the ocean. Straight ahead the multi-colored tents on the tournament field were being dismantled. To the west, he could just barely see the dark ridge that was the Chowmah Mountain Range. “You wanted to see me, Your Highness?”
The prince stared at the river. “You will do something for me, stray. Your friend, Wren.”
Achan furrowed his brow. “Gren?”
“I want her to come along. I’m not returning to Sitna. The council will undoubtedly vote in my favor, then I will continue on to Armonguard as king. She should say her farewells to whomever.”
“But…I told you. Gren is betrothed to Riga Hoff.”
Prince Gidon straightened and gripped the railing. “I do not care about Riga Hoff. Bring her with you in the morning.”
“You can’t just—”
Prince Gidon turned. “Am I king?”
A rush of heat seared through Achan and he snapped, “Not yet, Your Highness.”
The prince stiffened then smiled, blue eyes flashing. “You are dismissed.”
The blood boiled in Achan’s veins. He turned to go.
“Do not do anything foolish, stray,” the prince said to his back. “Should you and the young lady go missing, I shall kill her parents first, then hunt you both down.”
Achan stormed from the room, down the stairs, and into the inner bailey. He paced toward the gate to the outer bailey, then turned back. As if Gren’s betrothal to Riga hadn’t been bad enough. At least with Riga she’d be near her family, her home — she’d have some…stability. Prince Gidon was about to be married to some random noblewoman! Gren would be nothing to him. How could he be so…
Why would Cetheria let this happen? And after she had told him to go to the keep that day. Achan could have left long ago. He could have been gone, and Gren safe. Achan stormed to the temple.
A guard stopped him at the colonnade. “Only nobility can enter.”
Achan drew Eagan’s Elk. “I am here on a very specific errand involving Prince Gidon.”
The guard stepped back, eyes wide. The man had his own sword, but Achan doubted anyone had ever threatened violence simply to enter the temple.
Achan strode forward and climbed the steps two at a time. He slowed on the porch and crossed the threshold with wide eyes. Inside the cella, marble pillars rose three stories high long the side walls. Incense filled his nostrils. The statue of Cetheria stood at the end of the room, her head nearly reaching the roof.
He froze when he saw her, his anger dwarfed by her size and splendor. Her skin was ivory, her gown sheets of gold leaf. She clutched a golden spear in one hand, a shield in the other. Her eyes, some sort of blue gemstone, stared forward, sparkling from the hundreds of candles burning at her feet. Treasure was piled there: gold cups, jewels, coins, toys. Perhaps the guards were posted outside mainly to keep people from stealing the offerings.
Achan approached the altar slowly, staring up at the jeweled eyes. “You’re not so beautiful. Not like Tara.” He winced, waiting to be struck down, hoping, almost, to be put out of his misery. Nothing happened.
“Why do you speak to me? I have little in this world, goddess. Why toy with a stray? Is this fun for you?” He scowled and threw Eagan’s Elk on the pile of offerings. “You want that? Is that what you want? It’s all I have. Take it. Take everything, but—” He fell to his knees, clutching his hands into fists. “Please leave Gren be.”
Heat swept around him like a summer wind, seeping through his skin and into his veins. He gasped.
Watch yourself carefully, Achan, so that you do not corrupt yourself with an idol of any shape, whether formed like man, woman, beast, or nature.
Take your sword and go. You know what you must do.
Achan cowered to the floor, trembling. The burning heat brought sweat to his brow. “Is it not Cetheria who speaks to me?”
But the voice did not answer. Achan gulped and rose to his knees, his gaze flitting back to Cetheria’s jeweled eyes. Was she really only an idol?
Achan jumped up and fetched his blade from the hoard. He sheathed it and fled. The guard stopped to search him at the gate, but let him go without further questions.
Achan set off at a jog for Gren’s cottage. The voice had said he knew what to do. All he really knew was that he could not allow this. Future king or not, Prince Gidon had no right take Gren. Achan might not be able to flee, but that didn’t mean there was nothing he could do.
He pounded on the door of Gren’s cottage. “Master Fenny!”
The door opened a crack, and Gren peered out. “Achan. What is it?”
“I must speak with your father. Is he home?”
Her eyes went wide. “Yes. What are you going to do?”
That she thought he might be speaking to her father against Riga flooded him with guilt. He pushed the thoughts aside. “Please, Gren. Now?”
She rolled her eyes and shut the door. A breeze gushed through the corridor between the cottages but did not quell the heat in Achan’s chest. The burn of that voice lingered.
Master Fenny opened the door. “What is it, boy?”
“Forgive me, but I must speak with you. It’s partly the business of Prince Gidon.”
“Oh. Do come in.”
“If you please, sir, this involves Master Hoff as well. Could we go to his home?”
Master Fenny was tall but his shoulders were hunched from years over the loom. He ducked out the door with ease and closed it behind him. The sun glared off his balding head. “Lead the way.”
Achan walked across the outer bailey, trembling with every step. His actions were openly treasonous, but he didn’t care. Let Gidon hang him.
Riga’s mother led them inside the cottage, which was bigger than the Fenny home, but not as clean. Father and son were eating lunch at a long table, a sight almost as disgusting as Prince Gidon eating grapes. Gren’s future prospects truly disappointed Achan.
Master Hoff stood, pea soup dripping down his fat chin. “What’s this?”
“The boy is on a task from the prince himself,” Master Fenny said.
Riga shot Achan a glare with his beady eyes and crunched down on bread roll. His round, pink cheeks bulged more with food in his mouth.
“Well, out with it, boy. We’re busy men here,” Master Hoff said.
“The prince leaves tomorrow for Mahanaim to appear before the Council,” Achan said. “Then he’ll go on to Armonguard, where he—”
Riga huffed a loud, groaning sigh. “Everyone knows this.”
“He wants to take Gren with—” Achan coughed, his throat too dry to force out the vile words.
“Take her where?” Master Fenny asked. “He shouldn’t need a seamstress on the journey. I’m certain there are seamstresses in Armonguard.”
Achan studied the floor, and the truth came out in a whisper. “Take her…as his mistress.”
Master Fenny paled. “What?”
Riga jumped to his feet. “But Gren is betrothed to me.”
“I told him that,” Achan said. “His answer was, ‘I don’t care about Riga Hoff.’”
Riga’s pudgy face turned pink.
Master Fenny slouched into an empty chair at the table. “This cannot be. Not my little girl.”
“She could run away, until he’s left,” Master Hoff suggested.