He lay on a deep, stone bench covered in loose straw. Pale stripes of torchlight lit the bottom of a wooden door and shone though a small, barred window on top. A small animal scurried across the dirt floor. Something else moved in the corner. Achan blinked rapidly, adjusting his eyes to the dim light. He sensed pain.
A scrawny, round-faced boy of thirteen or so stared at him under a mess of oily brown hair. You are in the dungeon at Mahanaim.
Achan twitched. His eyes went so wide, the dank air tickled and he had to blink. Scratch?
The boy stared, his eyes cat-like. “I do not— Um, I don’t know why you call me that,” he said out loud.
“Because your voice is scratchy, why else?” Achan struggled to sit. He sucked in a sharp breath at the knife in his lower back. At least that was what it felt like. His shirt and cape were gone. Strips of linen bandaged his stomach and shoulder. Proof of the nobles’ assault appeared in dark blotches on his skin, but what were the bandages for? “Where are my clothes? My bag?” A rush of cold flashed over him. He swung his legs off the bed and jumped to his feet, only to cower into a crouch at the pain. “My sword?” he croaked. “Where is my sword?”
“Your clothes were ruined,” the boy said. “These quarters are so unsanitary. I have washed your wounds three times a day to fend off infection. There is no point in a shirt until you are healed. I never saw you had a bag. And the guards locked your sword in the dungeon strongbox.”
I’m in a dungeon? And the dungeon has a strongbox?
Mahanaim receives more than its share of diplomats, the boy thought to Achan. This is actually one of the nicer cells.
Achan growled. “Stop that!”
Scratch’s eyes went wide, and he scooted back farther into the corner. “What’s your name?” he asked aloud.
“Achan Cham.” He limped to the door and rose on the toes of his right foot to see out the barred window of his cell. The stab in his lower back inhibited the movement of his left leg.
“So you are a stray?”
His cell appeared to be at the end of a deserted stone corridor. A single torch hung on the wall about five paces away. He could see the doors to four other cells before the corridor turned a corner. He gripped the bars on the window and gave them a good shake. His left arm didn’t want to obey. He glanced at his bandaged shoulder, then to Scratch. “Did someone claim otherwise?”
“You saved the prince. I saw you.”
Saved the prince? Ah. The procession had been close to Mahanaim when the poroo had attacked. Achan had done what he could to aid that pompous… He stretched his good arm up over his head. His muscles were tight, everything ached, and he really needed to use that privy bucket in the corner. “He’s alive?”
“Completely unharmed.”
Achan sighed and nodded. “Then I’m not a complete failure.”
“You are not a failure at all.”
Achan huffed. “I’m sure Prince Gidon disagrees. Who are you?”
Vrell Sparrow.
Achan’s eyebrows sank. “Sparrow? You don’t wear the clothing of a stray.”
My master dislikes the orange tunic. Where is yours?
The boy’s voice in his head angered Achan. “How is it you speak without moving your lips? Are you a sorcerer or a demon that you enter my thoughts?”
The boy whimpered, as if somehow injured. I am an herbalist sent to heal you.
“A barber?”
“An herbalist.”
“What’s the difference?”
Sparrow rolled his eyes. “Instead of a knife, I use herbs to make healing teas, salves, and tonics.”
“I hate tonics.” Achan paced the tiny cell, limping over the cool, clay floor. “How many days have I been here?”
“Four. Your arm wound gave you a fever. I gave you hops tea to sleep it off.”
“Four days?” Achan sat on the stone bed and stared at the boy. “Do you know what happened? I mean…the bruises I remember, and fighting the poroo, but…” He fingered the bandage on his lower back. “How did I get here?”
“Poroo attacked your procession. Sir Kenton Garesh was knocked out by a rock that was thrown down from a treetop. The Kingsguard knights went to battle, and you led the prince to safety in the Evenwall. More poroo attacked and you fought them off alone. You were struck by three arrows as you fought to protect the prince. You are a hero.”
Achan smirked. “What are you, some kind of minstrel?”
Sparrow lowered his head and his cheeks darkened.
Not meaning to embarrass the boy, Achan clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I’m a hero, you say? Well, this is some hero’s welcome, don’t you think? I particularly enjoy the platters of meat and dancing girls.”
Sparrow shot him a smirk. “I shall ask them to bring you something to eat. I can do no more than that, I’m afraid.”
“You’ll ask who?”
But Sparrow had closed his eyes. He still sat in the corner, knees pulled up to his chin.
Achan stretched his legs out in front. He could never sit as…small as the boy did. He stood again and hobbled to the door. He wanted out. The tiny space made him feel trapped, which was probably the point, seeing as this was a dungeon. Still.
Flashes of the battle suddenly came to mind. His stomach churned. He’d killed seven or eight poroo. They’d struck first. They were ugly to look at, but they were people. Achan shivered at the ache in chest. Sir Gavin had warned him that a knight would have to kill. But that didn’t ease his memories.
Sparrow’s soft voice in his mind interrupted his penitence. They are bringing you food.
Achan wheeled around. He focused hard on the allown tree, trying to find the place where his mind would be closed.
Sparrow seemed to notice. He sank into the corner and croaked, “Sorry.”
Two burly guards with thick beards and black cloaks approached the door. A thin valet with carrot-orange hair stood behind them holding a tray.
“Back up against the wall,” one of the guards ordered.
Achan turned to Sparrow. “How did you know they were coming?”
“I called them.”
The guard kicked the door of the cell. “Against the wall!”
Achan obeyed and the door opened. The valet entered and set the tray on the stone bed. It held a hunk of bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and a mug of red liquid.
Achan pointed at the mug, knowing, but wanting to ask anyway. “What’s that?”
“A tonic to give you strength,” the valet said.
Achan forced a grin. “And I’ll wager it’s refreshing too.” He offered the mug to the valet. “Would you like some?”
The valet stepped back.
A hot current shot through Achan’s nerves. This would end, now. He threw the mug, shattering the pottery against the stone wall. The red liquid splattered like blood. Sparrow yelped.
One of the guards swung his thick fist. Achan ducked, bashed his elbow into the guard’s back, and kneed the other guard in the stomach.
He fled the cell, his lower back screaming with each step.
The greystone halls were a maze that smelled of urine, torch smoke, and mildew. He ran past the occasional torch and barred wooden door. Inside each cell, chain scraped against stone or someone moaned. He met a dead end and backtracked until he found a stairwell leading up.
He made it halfway to the top when four guards started down. He turned back, only to see the two guards from his cell climbing up.