“Your mother is right,” Lord Levy said. “That’s no job for a young lord. Besides, a slow death is more appropriate for a man who attacks the future king.”
Vrell glared at Master Hadar, but he avoided her gaze. They remained silent until the valet announced dinner. Master Hadar excused them, and he and Vrell walked back to his chambers.
Vrell could scarcely hold her tongue. “Forgive me, Master, but will you allow the squire to die? Did you not want him as a second apprentice?”
Master Hadar hummed. “I do, but there are things you don’t understand, boy. First, many consider me a stray.”
“You, Master?” No wonder he despised the orange tunic.
“Yes. Lord Levy seeks to be rid of me. But I’ve lived here since before he was born and have made myself indispensable. Still, I haven’t the rank to make demands of noblemen.”
Something was odd about such a confession. Vrell needed to contact Mother to see if Uncle Livna had information on who Macoun Hadar really was.
Master Hadar went on. “Prince Gidon is about to take his throne, but the Council has ruled for thirteen years. They do not relish the thought of giving up control completely. Lord Levy knows of my arrangement with Lord Nathak to use my gifts to watch over the prince. Despite his feelings toward me, Lord Levy is willing to give me a seat on the New Council if I keep him apprised of the king’s plans.
“For that I need your help.” They reached the staircase and Master Hadar paused. “The problem is, watching weakens you. The squire, then, is the perfect solution. But Lord Nathak refuses to give him to me. And I need Lord Nathak’s alliance to watch the prince’s mind, or he’ll tell the prince to block me. Prince Gidon cannot bloodvoice, but he knows how to block against those who seek to penetrate his thoughts. So you see, I have no remedy at present.”
Vrell stared at her master’s sunken eyes. She had heard the Council was corrupt, but this was lunacy. If Master Hadar reported every move and thought of Prince — no: King—Gidon, the king would have no control. The Council had been meant to disband once the king was in place, had it not? They should be seeking less control over the future king, not more.
And what was this talk of a New Council? Did Mother know of it? Would any one individual rule Er’Rets, or would it be run by everyone? With mini agendas and political coups, factions would rise up. Er’Rets would be at war with itself. And since everyone hated Gidon as prince, King Gidon would fall. Then what?
Master Hadar left her on the eighth floor, and Vrell continued on to the third floor. It was late. The torches on the stairwell had burned low. She lit a candle in her room and scraped her teeth, washed her face, and combed out her tangled hair. She climbed under her thin wool blanket and blew out the light. She did not like the blackness that shrouded her when the candle was out. With so much stone in the fortress, the smallest sound magnified as if it were inches away.
She lay awake praying Arman might show her what to do. Vrell wanted to help Er’Rets but could see no way to make a difference. She set her mind on finding Sir Rigil and freeing Achan before he was made to become Master Hadar’s pawn — or was killed for a crime he didn’t commit.
She tried bloodvoicing Achan but could find no sense of him despite holding the lock of hair she had cut from his head when he had been out with fever. Either he had run out of karpos fruit or he had perfected blocking.
There had to be someone who would help Achan. Perhaps Sir Rigil would. Achan had said that he’d come to his aid once before, and Bran seemed to like Achan as well. Yes. Vrell would find Sir Rigil. He would keep her safe and help Achan. It was a perfect plan. But what if she couldn’t find Sir Rigil? Mags might know. If only there were someone else who could help Achan, then Vrell could focus on her own problems.
Suddenly she knew. She crept down into the massive foyer of the Mahanaim stronghold, wove between the columns, and stood before the entrance to the Council’s meeting chamber. She snuck past the golden doors and examined the displays along the entry corridor.
Every five steps on both sides of the wall, little alcoves jutted off displaying tributes to the great Kingsguard commanders of old. She passed a bronze bust of Moul Rog the Great, the Kingsguard commander during King Trevyn the Explorer’s reign. Pittan Remy, a native of Carmine, served during King Johan’s time. There was a full body statue of him.
She stopped before a fluted pillar that held a limestone bust of a man with long hair and a braided beard. A cracked shield hung on the wall behind it. Vrell stepped around the bust, laid her hand on the shield, and, with her mind, sought out the face of the person it depicted.
The Great Whitewolf.
21
Achan Cham.
Achan lay on his stone bed, staring at the cobwebs hanging down from the ceiling and trying to ignore Sparrow. The runt was sitting outside his cell, picking at his mind with some strange trick that penetrated his walls and drew a headache.
He was still mad at the boy. Bran had asked him to deliver Achan’s stuff, not ransack it. The whelp had no business snooping. Achan sighed. He should’ve read Gren’s letter.
He lifted his head and thunked it down gently on the hay-strewn stone bed again and again. Everything looked the same in his cell, no matter the hour. He had no idea what time it was. Late. Sparrow had brought him dinner hours ago. The prisoner down the hall had stopped moaning.
So many times since leaving Sitna, he’d meant to read Gren’s letter. He didn’t want to admit he hadn’t done so because he was afraid of what it might say — but what else had stopped him? He’d likely never see Gren again. Probably he didn’t read it because her words would’ve felt so final. Like she’d died somehow. In a way, Achan guessed she had.
Still, that Sparrow read Gren’s words when Achan had not… It was like the runt held a secret that wasn’t his. Something about that bristled the hair on his arms. Now he wanted to know more than ever what Gren had—
A crash in the corridor outside Achan’s cell shot him to his feet. He darted to the door and peered outside. A man with shaggy, blond hair and a black cloak bent over an unconscious guard and pulled the keys from his belt. Achan flattened against the wall behind the door and waited. The bolts on the lock clicked, the door swung open, and the man stepped inside Achan’s cell.
Sparrow’s voice broke the silence. “What are you doing?”
“Where is the squire?”
“Who are you?” Sparrow asked.
Then came a scuffle, and the lad screamed like a girl.
Achan jumped out from behind the door. The man had pinned Sparrow to the floor. “Hey!” Achan kicked him in the side. “You looking for me?”
The man sprang up and elbowed Achan in the temple.
Achan went down, head throbbing. He rolled, trying to stand. He could hear Sparrow struggling and whimpering, but everything blurred before his eyes. He focused on his breathing, trying to clear his head.
The man’s blurry form leaned over him. A finger wormed between Achan’s lips and a woodsy liquid dribbled into his mouth.
Achan tried to spit the substance out, but a hand covered his mouth and held him down until he stilled, his eyes drooping. The man hoisted Achan off the floor and slung him over his shoulder. The door slammed shut and the lock clicked into place.
“No!” Vrell’s voice. Pounding on the door. “Guards! Help!”
Where were the guards?
Achan’s captor ran through the maze of dark corridors and down a flight of stairs, making Achan’s head bounce with each step. Achan wanted to protest, but words wouldn’t come. Blackness shrouded his vision.