Lady Kati burst into a screeching giggle and spoke with a strange accent. “Oh, Your Highness. You are being so funny.”
Achan groaned inwardly. His only hope was that with the lady present, Prince Gidon would make less use of his chamber pot.
Soon it was time to move on again. The prince drew the curtains shut as he and his guest conversed. As the day wore on, Achan grew ill of the lady’s laugh and more so at the idea of what the prince could possibly say or do to illicit such reactions.
They made camp early at a clearing on the edge of the SiderosForest. The mountains rose up to the north. The sun had already begun to sink behind them. A grassy prairie stretched out to the south as far as Achan could see. It was filled with the sweet-smelling white blooms of daisies, asters, and yarrow.
Some of the knights went hunting for dinner. Night fell quickly. Achan wasn’t sure what to do with himself. A group of soldiers erected a massive red tent for Prince Gidon, but the prince yelled at Achan when he tried to help. So he lay down in the grass between the litter and the tent and stared at the stars. Lady Kati and Prince Gidon’s voices murmured inside the new tent, interrupted by the lady’s occasional high-pitched giggle.
Achan’s stomach growled. He sat up and drew Poril’s bag of food close. He looked at all the tents in the clearing. There were several striped tents, some of the same ones that had been set up on the tournament field. There were also many smaller, white, soldiers’ tents. The soldiers had also driven poles into the ground that held single torches at the top. These lit up the camp. Achan pulled out a meat pie from his bag and bit into it. The gravy had jelled, but the flavor was decent. He was considering reading Gren’s letter, when Bran came over and sat beside him.
Bran held out an apple. “Want it?”
“Thanks.” Achan took the fruit and held it in his lap.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to Sir Gavin?”
Achan looked at the squire’s peeling nose and shrugged. “I don’t know. Lord Nathak said he left and wouldn’t return.”
“I heard Lord Nathak sent him away.”
“Really?” That made much more sense. “He left me a note saying…” Achan paused, not wanting to admit he could hardly read. “Well, it wasn’t clear where he went or why.”
Bran propped his elbows on his knees. “Sir Gavin can bloodvoice. Do you know anyone else who can? Maybe he’d try to contact you through them.”
A cold tingle seized Achan. “I thought… Aren’t bloodvoices a myth?”
“Of course not. Haven’t you heard of the Council’s bloodvoice mediators?”
“No.”
“They use bloodvoicing to tell if someone is lying. Very useful. I take it you don’t know anyone who could bloodvoice, then.”
Achan was beginning to suspect that he could himself, although the idea still seemed outrageous. He met Bran’s questioning brown eyes. “I–I’m not sure. Maybe.”
Bran nudged Achan’s leg. “So have him contact Sir Gavin for you. Then you wouldn’t have to wonder.”
Contact Sir Gavin? How?
Bran made small talk about the journey and Mahanaim. Achan was fascinated with his description of a city built in water, half of which was in Darkness. Sir Rigil called Bran for an errand, and Achan went back to his cold dinner. He tried to talk to Sir Gavin with his mind, but succeeded only in feeling foolish.
Apparently he dozed off, because the shout of “Stray!” shocked him out of a slumber. He sat up straight and looked about. Prince Gidon stood outside his tent, holding a decorative jug. “Fetch some water.”
There was no river near camp. “From where?”
“Am I king? Use your head, dimwit.”
Achan got to his feet and snatched the jug. He wove between tents until he found a large bonfire where the Kingsguards’ cook had prepared dinner. A meaty gravy smell hung in the air. A crowd of knights, squires, and Kingsguard soldiers congregated around the bonfire, laughing and eating and drinking. A soldier-turned-minstrel thumbed a lute and sang,
The heir to Shamayim fallen and slain,
Failure and tragedy meld with his name.
Achan approached the cook. “Pardon me, sir. Could you spare a jug of water for Prince Gidon?”
“Help yourself,” the cook said without looking up from turning the spit.
Achan filled the jug from a cask and started back to Prince Gidon’s tent. A sinister pressure built in his head as he walked. Someone meant him harm. He slipped between two tents, hoping to avoid trouble.
A beefy, olive-skinned knight with long, dark hair slicked back over his head stepped out from behind a green tent, arms folded. Achan turned to weave the other way, but the young squire from Barth, who’d defeated Bran in the sword fighting pen, stood in that path, his black hair puffed out like a seeding dandelion.
Looming behind that squire like a shadow stood a towering full-grown knight version. An older brother, Achan assumed. The torchlight flickered off his black armor. He wore no helmet. Could a helmet even fit over such hair? Achan should have taken the time at the tournament to match faces with the names Sir Gavin had spoken of. He turned again, head pounding, only to narrowly miss crashing into Silvo Hamartano, who must have slithered up behind.
“Servant or squire?” Silvo asked in his silky voice. “Which is it, stray? One minute you’re in a tournament for nobles, then you’re serving wine. Now you cart around a priceless sword and a jug of water. Why?”
“The prince is thirsty, I suppose, or wants to wash.”
“And always so witty.”
Achan sighed. “I’m the gods’ plaything, meant only to amuse.”
All four men closed in. Someone pulled Achan’s hair tail from behind, jerking his head back. Silvo snatched the water jug away before Achan could use it as a weapon, and passed it to the squire from Barth. The older brother backhanded Achan with his black iron gauntlet.
The force blasted Achan’s jaw, which was still sore from when Sir Kenton had struck him. He crashed back into the green tent and slid down the coarse fabric.
Despite the throbbing, he rolled into a crawl and darted between legs, hoping to escape. Someone grabbed the waist of his trousers. A boot met his temple, another his ribs.
He gritted his teeth through the blows and grabbed the closest pair of ankles. He ducked his head between the low boots, protecting his skull for the moment. He wanted to draw Eagan’s Elk, but it was too long to wield from his position. Instead he bit down on one of the legs beside his head. Unfortunately, this not only lost him his shield, but he took a boot to the ear.
He spotted a good-sized rock, grabbed it, and pitched it up over his head. Someone grunted and the rock clumped into the dirt to Achan’s left. He reached for it again, but a black boot crushed his hand. He sucked back a cry, gripped the ankle with his other hand, and pulled, managing to scrape his hand free. A strike to his lower back knocked the breath from his lungs.
The zing of a sword leaving its scabbard paralyzed him.
“Can we play too?”
Achan didn’t recognize the voice, but the assault stopped long enough for him to pull to his knees. The movement burned his pummeled torso. Two more weapons sang from their scabbards.
“This is not your concern, Sir Rigil,” an oily voice said. “Take your sunburned squire elsewhere, lest you lose him. I hear he’s slower with a sword than this stray.”
Steel clashed against steel. Achan took advantage of the swordplay to crawl free and rise to his rubbery legs. He licked his bleeding lip and looked into the brawl.
Bran and Silvo squared off against one another, as did the olive-skinned knight with Bran’s companion, whom Achan guessed was Sir Rigil. All four tangled in a fierce dance. Bran was faring far better tonight than he had in the tournament. Maybe he didn’t like being compared to a stray.