By Darkness Hid (3 page)

A sour thought slowed his steps, and he slid on the frosty dirt. How would he find time to serve two masters? Achan had seen Prince Gidon’s squires scurrying around the manor on various errands. How could Achan manage to serve Sir Gavin’s needs
and
Poril’s?

The stables sat between the gatehouse and the barn. The animal dwellings looked identical but for the stables being twice as wide. Most peasants felt the barn a waste of space, but the prince entertained often and needed the room to house his guests’ mounts.

Achan found Sir Gavin leaning against the western entrance to the stables, a torch in one hand. The knight smiled, his teeth thin and wolfish in the orange glow. Someone had obvious reasons for bestowing the surname Lukos. Or perhaps the name had changed the man. Achan hoped over time he wouldn’t grow to resemble a fire-breathing bear.

Sir Gavin’s smile faded as he looked Achan over. “You’re rail thin. Do you eat?”

“What I’m given.”

Sir Gavin slid his torch into a groove beside the stable door. “What do you know?”

“Kitchens, mostly.” Achan wrung his hands at his sides, his mind scrambling for words that might impress Sir Gavin. “I know about animals. I tend the goats, and I’ve helped Noam with the horses some.”

Several horses inside the stables whinnied as if in agreement.

Sir Gavin looked inside, perhaps wondering what had spooked the animals. He turned back to Achan. “Do you ride?”

“Never, sir.”

“Hmm. Can you read?”

“Some. Poril’s recipes and lists of ingredients.”

Sir Gavin held up a wooden practice sword, the sight of which warmed Achan’s soul. “Ever use a waster?”

“No, sir, but I’ve sparred with poles.” Servants gathered nightly to dance and play in the northeast corner of the outer bailey. Achan had grown up in the Corner, wrestling slave and peasant boys and fighting with sticks.

Sir Gavin grunted and looked slightly displeased. “How came you to Sitna?”

“Lived here all my life.”

“Your father?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Footsteps crunched over the frozen dirt. Noam, the stable boy, approached the entrance. Noam was tall and lanky and reminded Achan of Minstrel Harp’s song of the stretched man. Noam’s face was long and narrow and his thin frame seemed almost breakable. His gaze flicked between Achan and Sir Gavin. He met Achan’s eyes with raised brows. Noam hadn’t been at the Corner last night when Achan had told Gren about his opportunity with Sir Gavin. Noam pulled open the door and went inside, his torchlight spilling out the cracked-open door.

“What about your mother?” Sir Gavin asked.

Achan looked back to the knight and sighed. Some strays—like Noam—knew the identity of at least one parent, but Achan knew nothing of either. “I don’t know, sir.”

Sir Gavin raised a white bushy eyebrow, as if a stray not knowing the identity of his parents was some interesting fact. “How old are you?”

“Nearly sixteen.”

Sir Gavin raised the other eyebrow and rubbed his chin, his eyes boring into Achan’s. “You’ve not been a page, much less a squire—and most squires start at fourteen.” He squeezed Achan’s upper arm and sniffed long and hard like he was coming down with something. “You’ve got muscle, but you’ll need to get stronger. If the cook won’t give you enough, come to my quarters at mealtimes, and I’ll see you better fed. Tell no one of our arrangement for now. Come. Let us begin your training.”

Sir Gavin led Achan out of the stronghold and into a nearby wheat field. The sky was grey now, and the flat land stretched out in all directions. Frost painted glistening white stripes in the furrowed, dead fields.

Sir Gavin plunged the waster into the frozen earth and it listed to one side, not having gone very deep. He folded his arms. “First things first. Whenever you come against an attacker you need to study him in a glance. You’ve no time to dally in this, do you understand?”

Achan nodded. “What am I looking for, sir?”

“Weapons and armor, mostly. Different rules apply depending on whether your opponent is wearing armor, what kind of armor, and what kind of weapon you both have. There will be times when you see that you are outmatched. Every man wants to be brave, but sometimes it’s best to run.”

Achan had never heard of a knight running from anything.

Sir Gavin must have read his expression. “Aye, lad. We’ve all had to retreat at some point in life. Doesn’t mean we can’t keep fighting the next day. But you have to know when you’re beat. My point is, sometimes you can tell if you’re beat before you start fighting.

“Take a sword, for example,” Sir Gavin said, toeing the waster. “There are all types. Those with a rounded tip are cutting swords and therefore useless against all types of armor. And since that sword can’t cut through armor and doesn’t have a sharp point to pierce it, if you’re carrying a cutting sword and meet an armored opponent, you’re beat. Until you’ve been fighting as long as I have and are willing to risk your skill against armor—which is a daft thing to do, but you might have reason—you’d best not take on an armored man with a cutting sword. Understood?”

“Aye,” Achan said.

“Some will say that one should never fight without a shield. It’s true that the shield is a formidable weapon. One you can barely live without if you have no armor. But shields are often forgotten, broken, or dropped. So until you learn to hold your own without one, I shall not give you that crutch.”

Achan shifted and the frozen grass crunched beneath his feet. He struggled to grasp Sir Gavin’s meanings. It was almost as if the man were speaking in a foreign tongue. The sky was a pale grey now. They were running out of time before Poril would be expecting the milk.

“All right, then.” Sir Gavin yanked the waster from the grass and handed it to Achan, hilt first. “Let’s see your grip.”

Achan took the handle with both hands and spread his feet the way he’d seen knights do. He put his right foot forward and held the sword out in front, tipped slightly to his left.

Sir Gavin frowned and fingered his beard braid.

“Is something wrong?” Achan asked without moving. “Are my feet right?”

“You’re fine,” Sir Gavin said. “It’s just…not many are left-handed.”

Achan relaxed his posture and brought the sword down to his side. “Is that bad?”

The old knight’s eyes twinkled. It was like looking into two versions of the world: one a blue sky under a bright sun and the other a dark sky filled with stars.

“Not bad at all,” Sir Gavin said. “We will use this to your advantage. You will train right-handed as well as left-handed. A warrior is only as good as his biggest weakness. This way we will make you strong with both hands. It’s not a big difference with a longsword. You’ll notice it more with the short sword.”

A thrill washed over Achan. He was going to learn the short sword, too? “What other weapons will I learn?”

“Once you’ve got a grasp on the longsword, I’ll teach you the short sword and shield. Then the axe and the dagger. That should do to keep you alive.”

Achan’s eyebrows sank in puzzled humor. “Because so many are looking to kill me?”

“Riga and Harnu, to start.”

Achan stiffened. “I can take care of them. What about the lance, sir? Will I learn to joust?”

“No. Jousting is a sport these days. The lance will only slow down your training on the other weapons.”

“Are you in a hurry to teach me, sir?” Perhaps the knight would give him some important detail that would give him hope with Gren.

“Aye. I told you already: you’re behind. Practice all you can and waste no time on thoughts of jousting.”

The clip-clop of hooves turned Achan’s head back to the stronghold. Noam led Prince Gidon’s ebony courser over the drawbridge and into the field to exercise it. His curious gaze fixed on Achan and Sir Gavin.

The knight took the practice sword from Achan. “Keep this waster with you as much as possible, and whenever you can, practice guard positions. See here.” He raised the weapon above his head. “High guard.” He lowered it straight out in front. “Middle guard.” He pointed it at the ground between his feet. “Low guard. Practice switching between positions quickly and smoothly.” He swung the waster to the side of his right leg, then the left. “Back guards. Practice those too. You use an axe?”

Achan nodded. “Keeping the hearths hot is my responsibility.”

“Good. An axe uses different muscles than a sword. If I’m to train you in the axe, I need you strong enough to handle it.”

“But what about you?” Achan asked. “Shouldn’t I see to your needs? Clean your armor, get your meals? I’m not sure which horse is yours. How will I—”

Sir Gavin raised a calloused hand. “Not necessary, lad. You’ll be of little use to anyone a weakling. Get yourself strong first.” He handed the waster to Achan.

Achan accepted the sword without meeting Sir Gavin’s eyes. He was far from a weakling. His fight with Riga and Harnu was proof of that. Besides, the wooden sword was lighter than he expected.

But after practicing the guard positions over and over, Achan’s arms ached desperately and the waster didn’t seem so light anymore.

At sunrise, Sir Gavin dismissed him. Achan hid the waster under in his wool blanket and rushed through the milking with aching forearms.

When Poril left to deliver Lord Nathak and the prince’s breakfast, Achan quickly washed the dishes and ran to Gren’s cottage.

No one answered the door, so Achan jogged around to the back. He found Gren standing in a wooden tub, skirts hiked up to her knees, legs splattered with dark, smelly water. A long rack stretched creamy wool on tenterhooks behind her like a frame.

He stood watching her from the shaded wall of the cottage. Her chestnut hair hung long and silky to her elbows. As always, she wore her grass green dress that made her hair and skin look lustrous. Achan had once told Gren she looked pretty in green, and he’d never seen her wear another color since. He wished she’d wear a cloak, though. Outside in this cold with her feet in water like that…she was likely to catch a fever.

“Is it so terribly difficult to remember a cloak, Gren?”

She gasped and her wide, brown eyes found his. “You scared me!” She lowered her voice. “Well? How did it go?”

“He gave me a waster.”

“Really? How exciting!”

“If I became a knight…” Achan inhaled deeply, still slightly out of breath. The rank smell of urine and dung from Gren’s fulling water filled his nostrils. “Would that change your father’s opinion of me?”

Gren’s smile faded. She looked down to where her feet vanished into the smelly liquid and stomped on the fabric a bit. She didn’t speak for so long it seemed she’d forgotten to answer. “More wool,” she finally said. “We’re to dye it red for Prince Gidon. You’d think he has enough red clothing by now. I wish I could work with the silk that Lord Nathak orders on bolts from Nesos.”

Achan’s joy fizzled. Gren’s change of subject did not bode hopeful.

She must have read the disappointment on his face. “Oh, Achan,” she said. “You know Father’s been threatening to marry me off for two years.”

Two long, torturous years. He faked a smile. “I thought he was only teasing.”

She laughed, but it didn’t ring true. “I’m fifteen. Girls marry as young as twelve.”

Achan met Gren’s eyes for a moment. They were sad eyes, filled with heartache.

She looked back to her wool. “I think he’s settled on someone. I heard him and Mother talking about a…v-veil.” She paused as if to recover from saying that word. “He hasn’t told me yet, though…but…” She looked at him and sighed. “Doesn’t it take years to become a knight?”

Achan nodded. Plus, Sir Gavin had asked him not to tell anyone, which meant he couldn’t plead his case to Gren’s father without going against Sir Gavin’s wishes. Achan was going to have to scrounge the great hall for table scraps to take to the temple.

At this point, pleading to the gods was his only hope.

*          *          *

Achan sat on the ground in the Corner, leaning against the brownstone curtain wall. Gren sat on his right. Their shoulders touched, as if by accident, but their outside arms both reached behind their backs, where their fingers intertwined in secret.

Night had fallen, and Minstrel Harp stood on the back of a cart plucking his lute and singing a lament about a kinsman man who fell in love with an otherling woman. Such marriages were forbidden, but no law could dampen the affection they held for one another.

The song had transfixed the normally rowdy crowd. Even the small children were still as the bard sang. Achan wondered if the pie he’d taken from the kitchens to offer up to Cetheria would make a difference—and if Poril would notice it missing.

The Corner was literally the northeastern corner of the outer bailey. The space was too jagged and narrow to build another cottage in and far enough from the keep that the revelry did not disturb Prince Gidon. Most nights at least two dozen peasants, strays, and slaves came to socialize, dance, or hear stories. Children wrestled or played games. This was where Achan had learned to fend for himself.

Someone tapped his shoulder. He jumped and severed his contact with Gren.

“It’s only me.” Sir Gavin slid down the wall on Achan’s left. He nodded toward a farmer, who stood glowering at the bard. “What do you see, lad? If he were your opponent?”

Achan straightened and glanced at the farmer. “Well, if I didn’t know him—”

“Nay, what you know matters. Use it.”

“Aye, sir. That’s Marel Wepp. He works in the linen fields. The dark-haired girl he’s staring at is his eldest, Mistal. She’s—”

“Mist
el
,” Gren whispered.

Achan pursed his lips at Gren and continued. “She’s a singer, and Minstrel Harp always pays her lots of mind.”

“A jealous man can be dangerous,” Sir Gavin said. “What else do you see?”

Achan noticed that Marel’s beefy arms were crossed. “Marel is strong. I’ve seen him strike men before. I see no weapon on him.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one. Some weapons are small.”

“Well, he wears no armor.”

Sir Gavin raised a bushy eyebrow. “Are you certain? Did you hear any? Chain coats can be hard to see.”