But Arman also would not want her to marry an abusive unbeliever. On that, she and her mother agreed wholeheartedly. There were few true believers in the Way in Er’Rets. Bran was one of them.
She groaned, not knowing how to make any of this right. When she reached the pillared foyer outside the chamber where the Council of Seven met, she turned at the foot of the main staircase and walked down the narrow corridor that led to the kitchens.
Vrell loved Bran. When all this was over, she was nearly certain Mother would permit them to marry. Mother had always said she wanted Vrell to be happy in marriage. Bran would be a good husband.
He might not make a good duke, though. Whoever Vrell married would inherit Mother’s duchy. Bran was funny and kind and loyal, but he was no leader. He would need many advisors to run the duchy. Perhaps she should marry someone with experience with such things. If Bran were duke, Vrell would likely have to rule the duchy herself. But to be with Bran…it would be well worth it. She prayed Arman would forgive her until then.
Vrell entered the first kitchen and into a wall of heat. Along two walls were the hearths, only one of which was blazing. Vrell wondered how hot the room might be if all were lit. Six tables filled the center of the room. The cook, a plump woman with a stingy smile, stood at one, stuffing a chicken with bread crumbs and herbs. Three other servants were cleaning.
Vrell found the red-headed servant girl scrubbing dishes in a wooden tub. “Mags, think you could help me? I am gathering some things to take to the dungeon.”
“To yer patient, the squire?” Mags pushed a strand of her red hair behind her ear, leaving a smudge of suds on her cheek. “I ’ear he’s quite an Avinis.”
Vrell rolled her eyes at the mention of the god of beauty. “I would not know about that.”
Mags pinched Vrell’s cheek with soapy fingers. “Oh, don’t yeh sound so gloomy. Yeh’ll grow into yer own, and all us maids will be crazy for yeh.”
Vrell batted Mags’s hand away. “Can you help or not?”
“Of course. What yeh want for ’im?”
Vrell rattled off the things she hoped for, and Mags came through on all accounts. Vrell trudged to the dungeon with Achan’s sack, a jug of water, a wooden bowl, and her own lunch shoved into her pocket. The guard hassled her and searched the bag, but did not complain when Vrell reminded him that Master Hadar had assigned her to care for the squire.
Vrell didn’t know why her master seemed to be going along with Lord Nathak, but she did know he still craved Achan’s power. She guessed he would make a move to control Achan’s fate soon. Vrell had claimed the squire was near death — fever from the lashings and all. Master Hadar had not questioned her time spent in the dungeons after that. He had suspended her lessons until the squire was healed. But she couldn’t count on that ruse lasting too much longer.
The guard let Vrell into Achan’s cell.
He was sitting on the floor in her corner, scratching at the dirt floor with a chicken bone. “Just wondered what’s so great about this spot.” His grey eyes sparkled in the torchlight.
Vrell set the bowl and the water jug on the hay-covered stone bed. “Are you leaning against the wall? Achan, your wounds will get dirty. Now I shall have to clean them again.”
His gaze darted to the sack. “Is that mine?”
She sighed. “I met a squire who insisted you have it. The guards would not let him in to see you, but he gave me this, and a message.”
Achan jumped up and took the sack. He peered inside. “What’s the message?”
Vrell still was not used to him being so near her. Being so tall and…half dressed. She tried to act nonchalant, thankful he would be fully clothed soon. “He said to tell you, the offer is still good.”
Achan met her eyes. “Bran was here?”
Vrell treaded carefully. “He did not give a name, sir. Only the message.”
“No.” Achan shook his head and grinned. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Please don’t. I’m no one’s sir.” He reached into the sack and pulled out the smaller linen bag that Vrell had brought from the kitchen.
Vrell’s curiosity prompted her to snoop. “Is he a close friend, the squire?”
“Bran?” Achan sucked in a gasp as he discovered the contents of the small sack. “Sparrow.” He turned his wide smile to her — causing her stomach to boil with joy — and pulled out a fat, red apple. “Thank you.” He sat on his bed, dropped the bag between his knees, and bit into the apple with a loud crunch. He tucked the bite into his cheek and pointed at the bowl and water jug. “What’s all this?”
Vrell reached into her pocket and pulled out a half-used bar of soap. “It is unscented, all I could find. I figured you could use the bowl as a basin. The water will be cold, but…”
Achan slurped juice off his thumb. He took the soap and smelled it. “You sure know how to spoil a convict.”
Heat flooded Vrell’s cheeks, and she turned away, pretending to be looking for something on the ground. Was it foolish to be sweet to Achan? Would a boy do kind things for an innocent man? She settled in her corner and pulled the bread and figs from her pocket. She bowed her head and thanked Arman for His provisions.
“Why do you pray for food you already have?”
She glanced at Achan, whose eyes pierced through to her heart. She suspected that he, like most Er’Retians, believed in the host of false gods housed in ornate temples throughout the land. “I thank Arman for the blessing of having food to eat. I am not begging for more.”
“Why thank Arman? He does not create plants or animals.”
Vrell rolled her eyes. “There is only one God, Achan. His name is Arman. He creates everything. The other gods and goddesses are lies, devised to waste your days pining after false hope.”
His forehead crinkled, and he looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head.
So she got back to her sleuthing. She took a bite of her bread and tried to appear disinterested. “Bran is your friend? Have you known him long?”
Achan pulled his blanket from the sack and spread it poorly with one hand over the bits of straw on the stone bed. “He journeyed with us from Sitna. Helped me out when Silvo and his friends made trouble. Even drew his sword for my sake.”
Vrell grimaced. Silvo Hamartano. It figured. She pasted on an expression she hoped a boy might wear at the idea of a fight. “Tell me the story.”
“Bah.” Achan bit into the apple, held it in his teeth, and pulled the brown shirt over his head. His hair tousled as it poked through the neck opening. Vrell was glad he was finally clothed. Achan left the ties hanging loose and took the apple away from his mouth with a large bite. “It’s not much of a story.”
“Will you tell it? Please?”
Achan shrugged and took the suede jerkin into his lap, rubbing one finger over the nap. “Well, only if you don’t think less of me. I’m not as obedient as most strays.”
Vrell grinned and pulled her knees up to her chest. “This is going to be good.”
Achan started the story by telling about Sir Gavin Lukos. Vrell had never met the Great Whitewolf, but had heard tales of his campaigns on behalf of King Axel. He had been the former king’s closest advisor. Achan told how Sir Gavin had taken him as an apprentice in secret until he had killed the deer.
“That’s the blood you sensed when you first heard me,” he said. “I was carrying her back to Sitna Manor.”
Then he told about the tournament where he had met Silvo, Silvo’s sister — Lady Jaira— and Lady Tara Livna. Tara was Vrell’s cousin and dear friend. She loved Tara, but she bristled when Achan went on longer than necessary about Lady Tara’s kiss. Tara was stunning, with a voice like a lark. Vrell looked like a boy and sounded like a goose. A scratchy goose.