Twice they'd stopped to sleep, so Achan figured two days had passed. He still couldn't bloodvoice. Arman had not restored it, despite Achan's pleas for a miracle. Perhaps Arman couldn't hear him through the aleh tonic, either.
His mind drifted like a twig in a fast current, dwelling on all he'd experienced in the past months. For what? To die in Darkness, sacrificed to a false god? And how exactly did that work? Would the Barthians kill him? Would they wait for their god to show up? And if Barthos didn't come, would they take matters into their own hands?
His thoughts rippled. Was his mind drifting out of reality?
Movement caught his eye and he glanced up. A crowd had formed around the rock he sat on. Scores of men and women with grey skin and hair. Every set of dark eyes fixed on his.
He stood, heart seizing in his chest. "What's this?" Where had these people come from? He shook his head to clear it.
The crowd parted. Silvo and Sir Nongo approached. Silvo grabbed Achan's arms, spun him around, and kicked out his knees, pushing Achan over the rock on his stomach.
Sir Nongo drew his black sword. "For Barthos!" He raised the blade above Achan's neck-
The image shifted. Now Achan hung from a tree, his cuffs looped over a branch.
A man in a blood-splattered apron stood before him, sharpening a long knife on a whetstone. "I've skinned my share of animals but ain't never skinned a man. S'pose it works the same." He lifted the knife to Achan's waist-
Again a shift. Achan was now strapped to a wooden altar, looking up at a golden statue of Barthos, a creature with the body of a man and the head of a rabid wolf.
The temple was sweltering, filled with burning braziers and hundreds of people chanting, "Barthos. Barthos. Barthos."
A black knight wearing a wooden mask stood at the foot of the statue. He grabbed Achan's hair in his fist and held a dagger to his throat. "Rabab yarad."
Nausea welled in Achan's gut. "Don't. Please. Arman!"
The chanting vanished abruptly. Achan again sat on his rock by the wagon. The campfire crackled to his left. Silvo and Sir Nongo sat beside it. A horse neighed. All else was silent, except for Achan's heavy breathing.
Darkness. Playing on his fears.
Maybe he could sing one of Minstrel Harp's songs. Achan sang aloud, for it seemed the only way to focus.
"Hail the piper, fiddle, fife,
The night is young and full of life.
The Corner teems with ale and song.
And we shall dance the whole night long."
"Quiet!" Sir Nongo scowled in Achan's direction.
Achan went straight into the next verse.
"Hear the pretty maiden sing,
Hair and ribbons all flowing.
She can take my heart away,
By her side I long to stay."
A stone struck Achan's knee. He jumped.
"Shut up, stray," Silvo yelled.
Achan lowered his voice.
"Never love a knight, he cares only for his sword.
Never love a sailor, he spends all his life aboard.
Never love a merchant, he's too busy counting wares.
Never love a prince, for himself, only, he cares.
Never love a bard, for he'll put you in a song.
And if he doesn't you will know-ow!"
A rock the size of Achan's fist struck his foot. Surely the black knights thought him mad by now. He wished he were with Gren at the Corner. He could almost smell her, the mix of orange blossom and the subtle bitterness from the fulling water she used to clean wool. Was she still imprisoned?
Tired of singing, Achan returned to nagging Arman. Why do you torture me? You say all other gods are false. You tell me I'm your chosen king. Then you play games with my life. Does this amuse you?
Heat flashed through Achan's body as if he'd stepped into a bathhouse. He tensed, recognizing the heat as the signal that Arman was about to speak.
TRUST IN ME AND I WILL DIRECT YOUR PATH.
The heat swelled and subsided in the length of one long breath. When nothing else came he laughed bitterly. "That's it? Trust in you? How am I supposed to do that while lunatics drag me behind a cart? Sit and wait, I suppose. Well, I was already doing that, so thanks for finally speaking up, but you're not much help."
"Do you always talk to yourself?" Silvo's voice came from the campfire.
Achan shifted on his rock. "He started it."
"Who?"
"Arman. He keeps telling me things, like an old sage. He's so abstract I can't understand what he's saying half the time."
"You think the father god talks to you?"
"No, I said He told me things. If He'd talk to me, a back and forth conversation, we might get somewhere. But no. He spouts cryptic proverbs. Whenever He feels like it, of course. I've been praying for two days and finally He speaks. But is it an answer? No. 'Trust in me,' He says. Trust. For Cetheria's hand! I'm about to be killed and He says to trust him."
"Darkness has rotted your mind, stray. Sacrificing you to Barthos will be a mercy to you. You're mad."
Achan sighed heavily and lifted the back of his wrist to rub his tired eyes. Another wave of heat racked his body. He wheezed at the overpowering sensation.
ACHAN. The voice sent burning tremors through his heart. DO YOU KNOW CETHERIA?
Saliva pooled in Achan's mouth. N-No.
HAS SHE SPOKEN TO YOU?
Achan swallowed, sweat dripping down his forehead. No, sir. Never.
YET YOU'VE LEFT SACRIFICE AND LOVE OFFERINGS FOR HER ALL THESE YEARS.
I thought that's what I was supposed to do. Sir.
AND NOW?
Achan sucked in a cool breath. I haven't petitioned Cetheria since you told me not to.
YET YOU SWEAR BY HER HAND.
Oh. Achan panted, the heat incredibly intense. Well, that was just an expression.
OF YOUR ANGER AT ME?
Achan winced. I guess so. Sir.
I HAVE CHOSEN YOU, BUT YOU HAVE NOT YET CHOSEN ME. YOU MUST TRUST ME FULLY. ONLY THEN WILL YOU BE MORE AT LIBERTY TO MAKE DEMANDS AND EXPECT IMMEDIATE ANSWERS. SO, TRUST IN ME, LITTLE KING, AND I SHALL DIRECT YOUR PATH.
A long stretch of silence followed. Achan dared not move. A chill brought goose bumps over his arms and he shivered. The heat had gone. It was over.
His chest heaved. Moisture filled his eyes. He closed them. Arman, forgive me. I know not what I do. I've only ever wanted to be free, live my life as I saw fit, go where I wanted to, wear what I wanted to, love who I wanted to. I never aspired to king. I don't think I can do this.
A wave of heat. BUT I CAN.
Achan gasped as the warm sensation faded. He opened his eyes. He sat atop his rock, temples itching.
Itching? Praise Arman, a knock! Achan slid off the rock and kissed the craggy ground. He jumped to his feet and raised the shackles above his head. "Praise Arman!"
A pebble struck his shoulder. "Be shutting it, stray!"
Achan lowered his hands. "Thank you! Thank You."