He slipped the new tunic on. The linen was coarse and loose-weaved as ever, but at least it was new and clean.
The kitchens were deserted when Achan passed through the sweltering room. Poril must have set the tunic out the night before.
Achan met Sir Gavin in the wheat field for his daily practice.
“Is that a new tunic?” Sir Gavin asked.
“Aye,” Achan said. “Ever-thoughtful Poril gives me a new one every year when my age changes.”
Sir Gavin stroked his mustache. “What is your day of birth?”
Achan shrugged and moved his waster from middle guard to low guard and back. “No one knows for certain, so Poril always celebrates it on the first of spring. This is my sixteenth.”
“Well, I should like to give you something as well. A day of birth is one thing, but you are a man now. And I feel you deserve a man’s weapon. As soon as you finish your squire training, I shall give you a real sword.”
Achan’s lips parted. “Sir? Truly?”
“Aye. Truly.”
Achan stared at the old knight, dumbstruck at the mere idea of owning his own blade. “Wait. Am I really that close to becoming a knight? I thought—”
“You’re close enough to be publicly declared my squire. And, in case you didn’t notice, most squires have a real sword.”
Achan had noticed, but he also knew his situation was far from normal. He still couldn’t fathom why Sir Gavin needed him as a squire. He wasn’t doing squire’s work, after all. He’d done nothing but learn from the knight since he’d been recruited. Not that he was complaining.
All day long, Achan walked tall. He hoped to see Gren — she always remembered Achan’s day of birth in some way — but he didn’t see her. When Poril went to bed that night, Achan snuck out to the Corner.
A piper was playing a merry tune from his wagon, and several couples were dancing and laughing. A dozen more stood around talking. Mox and a larger boy were wrestling. A grin came to Achan’s face when he saw Mox was losing.
“Achan!”
Achan spotted Noam sitting on a stump behind the dancers. Achan wound his way through the crowd until he reached his friend.
“Look at you, all crisp and stain-free in your new tunic,” Noam said, grinning.
“Aye, Poril never forgets my day of birth. And he hasn’t beaten me since Sir Gavin came along. Perhaps the gods have noticed my offerings of late.”
“Well, they’re giving you new boots too, if you can get your feet in them.” Noam held out a pair of brown leather boots. “My feet grow so fast I barely had time to wear these.”
“Really?”
Noam nodded. “There’s a hole here.” Noam showed where the heel was separating from the sole. “But I figured Gren could fix it for you, if you ask her nicely.”
Achan grinned and accepted the boots. His first pair of boots. They would make such a difference on cold mornings.
“You’re really training to be Sir Gavin’s squire?” Noam asked.
“Gren told you?”
“That, and I have eyes. You batting around that waster everywhere you go.”
“He said he would give me a real sword soon.”
“Will Lord Nathak give you up then?”
Achan frowned. He’d never heard of Lord Nathak giving up a servant. Could Sir Gavin convince him? “I don’t—”
“Achan!” Small hands slid around his waist as Gren hugged his side.
Her action shocked him. She had never shown any affection in such a public place. He liked how she felt, tucked under his arm. She smelled faintly of fulling water and cinnamon, a strange combination that was very much Gren.
“Hello,” he said. “I looked for you earlier today, but…”
She sighed. “More fancy fabrics for the prince. He could order every person in Sitna a new outfit and not make a dent in his stores.”
“But that would be a kind thing to do, and so not in line with his character,” Noam whispered.
“Well, he isn’t the only one who can get fabric. I can weave.” She took Achan’s hand and tugged him between the curtain wall and the nearest cottage.
“Bye, then,” Noam called.
Gren led Achan as she wove around the cottages until she came to her own. She stopped behind the frame that was stretching a new batch of wool. She lifted something off a hook on the back side of the frame.
“What are you doing?” Achan asked.
She shook out some fabric and held it up against his chest. It was so dark behind the frame, Achan could hardly see.
“What is it?”
She slapped his chest. “It’s a shirt, silly, and a fine one. Brown, to match your skin. Happy coming-of-age day, Achan.”
He looked down into her dark eyes and trembled. He had never felt so close to anyone. Her simple act of giving him something unique… and not another orange tunic or even hand-me-down boots. She treated him like an equal, though he was a stray and she the daughter of a craftsman. A brown shirt to run away in and not be suspected of being a stray.
He gripped her shoulders. “You’ll come with me?”
Her eyes glistened in the distant moonlight. Her breath grew ragged, and she looked down at her hands, which were still holding the shirt against his chest.
He moved his hands up her shoulders and took the sides of her face in his palms. “Gren?”
She lifted her gaze to his. Tears streaked down to her chin. He wiped them away with his thumbs. “I’ll talk to your father soon. Sir Gavin promised me a real sword. Any day now he’ll publicly declare me a squire. Then surely your father will at least—”
“Grendolyn? Are you out there?”
Gren stiffened at the sound of her mother’s voice. “I have to go. Happy coming-of-age day, Achan.” She bounced up to kiss his cheek and darted out from behind the frame, leaving Achan alone.
A vast allown tree grew outside Sitna Manor. The trunk was as thick as two grown men, and its long upper branches splayed out against the blue sky. It loomed over the curve of the SiderosRiver at the edge of a field beside the stronghold.
In the summer, the tree made a shady haven that was Achan’s favorite place to sit and watch the setting sun. Today, the tree looked lonely with its bare branches reaching up to the heavens as if pleading for Dendron to bring warmth sooner. No tree around compared to its glory. Achan felt drawn to it.
His stomach full from a second lunch with Sir Gavin, Achan set off toward the allown tree to meet Gren. It was less cold today than it had been. Spring had arrived. He trudged across the field, swinging his wooden sword to beat the tall, dead grass out of his path. The sword already felt light and familiar in his grip.
Gren leaned against the thick trunk. The barren branches bounced in the chill wind and cast dancing spider web shadows over her. The vast, brown SiderosRiver flowed past three paces from Gren’s feet. Her chestnut hair blew to the other side of her head, baring her chapped and rosy cheeks. Why couldn’t the weaver make his daughter something warmer for the winter cold? Her coarse linen cloak was too drafty and Gren too flighty to remember the hood.
If Achan had owned a cloak, he would’ve offered it.
He hid the sword behind him and approached, his trousers swishing in the grass. Gren turned, her eyes rimmed in red. She’d been crying. Achan wanted to say something to comfort her but didn’t know what. Instead of words, he pulled the wooden sword from behind his back.
Her brown eyes widened and her lips parted in a slow smile. “Oh, Achan! You’re really going to become a Kingsguard knight.”
He knelt between the bumpy roots beside her and gasped a laugh. “I never thought my station could change. The gods have blessed me greatly, Gren.”
She rose to her knees. “Well, show me how it’s used…on that leaning poplar.” Gren pointed at a frail tree right at the edge of the river. The wind had already bested the poor sapling. Its roots poked out from the soil on one side, and the flimsy trunk leaned over so far the barren branches swam lazily in the swift, brown current.