From Darkness Won (14 page)

“She does.” Though Vrell had no desire to speak with Captain Loam about her mother. “Is the battle truly over?”

“For now. Sir Gavin would like to take the offensive as soon as possible. I can’t help but agree. Carmine will only be safe once we eradicate these traitors for good. To attack peasants under cover of night. It isn’t right.”

“Darkness has been their master for years, Captain Loam. They do not hold true to your high standards of conduct and chivalry.”

“My lady, I am grateful for your care of my men.”

“I consider them my men as well, Captain.”

“That they are, my lady. But I’d feel better if you’d return to the castle. We have other healers out now.”

“I can help a bit longer. The outer gates will keep me safe.” Vrell changed the subject, hoping to glean some knowledge that would help her. “If Sir Gavin does take the offensive, will Sir Jax and his party ride south with the army?”

“Sir Jax departed last night, my lady. I pray they got through without running into the enemy.”

“Last night?” The blood drained from Vrell’s face. Had Jax changed his plans because of her? And what if the enemy had intercepted them? What if Jax and Sir Rigil had been killed? What if Bran had been killed? Vrell nodded to Captain Loam. “Good day to you, Captain Loam. I must continue my work.”

“I’ll send some soldiers to assist you.”

Guard her, he meant. There was nothing to be done about it now. The whole stronghold would know she was home. “Come, Gren.” Let the guards seek them out.

Vrell stumbled toward the southwestern vineyard. The wounded needed her now. She could worry about Bran later. “We shall walk along the road and check each row of the vineyard, since that is where our men found the enemy.”

Gren plodded alongside Vrell. She sniffled and heaved in a deep breath.

“Are you well, Gren?”

“I—” Gren turned her tear-streaked face toward Vrell. “How do you know my name?” She curtsied. “If you please, my lady.”

Vrell pursed her lips, scrambling for a suitable answer, then stopped herself. No need to fib. The truth would do fine. Some of it, anyway.

“You are the prince’s childhood friend. My mother brought you here to keep you safe. My knowing your name cannot be the reason for your tears.”

Gren’s eyes widened. “Oh. No. I… the battle, I suppose.”

Vrell doubted Gren was giving
her
the full truth either.

They moved along the road, peering down each row they passed. Vrell wanted to use her bloodvoice to check on Bran, but she needed to be sitting down to do that, for watching made her weak. It would not be wise to try until she finished assisting the wounded and was safely indoors.

“There!” Gren pointed past Vrell, down the next row. A young soldier lay on his back, writhing.

Vrell ran toward him. Upon seeing his condition, she bit back a cry. He had been hit with a mace in the neck and chest. Blood had completely soaked his scarlet Kingsguard cape to a deep maroon. Vrell crouched at his side.

The man’s eyes focused on hers. Deep brown eyes, pleading for help. He sucked in short, strangled breaths and grunts, as if trying to speak. From the wound on his neck, Vrell feared he could not. His entire body trembled as if he were freezing. The shock of pain to his body had taken control. Vrell began to tremble herself as she considered what, if anything, she could do to help.

Gren’s footsteps approached. “Sorry, my lady. I can’t keep up. I’m queasy most mornings and I— Cetheria’s hand! What happened to him?”

Vrell spun around, fixing the deepest scowl she could muster. This man would not live, but there was no reason he need know. “He fought bravely, Gren—that is what happened. Now, hold your tongue and get me some fresh linen.” Vrell turned back to the solider and smoothed his sweaty brown hair back off his head. “Do not try to speak. Just blink. Once for yes, twice for no, all right?”

The man blinked once.

“Good. I know you are in pain, but try to relax and lie still. You are bleeding. I would like to stop that, but it might hurt some. Are you ready?”

One blink.

“Very well.” Vrell took a bundle of linen from Gren and tore it in two. She rolled half into a wad and handed it to Gren. “Put pressure on his chest.”

“Me?”

“Now, please.”

Gren crouched beside Vrell, her black skirt puffing around her. Arms shaking, she set the linen on the man’s chest and pressed down with her fingertips.

“Harder.”

Gren’s hands shifted a bit. Vrell pushed her hand over Gren’s to show how much pressure.

The man groaned. His body stiffened.

“Shh. You are very brave.” Vrell laid her linen over his neck and pressed down lightly, concerned about his breathing. “Are you thirsty?”

The man’s face turned pink. One blink.

“Good. We’ll get you a drink in a moment.”

The man sucked in short gasps. Vrell lifted the linen from his neck, uncertain where to press to stop the bleeding and not cut off his air. She pressed down with two fingers where the blood seemed to pool. Better.

She reached for her water jug with her free hand, wedged it between her knees, and pulled out the stopper. “Here is a drink.” She tipped the jug over the man’s lips. His chin quivered as he lapped the water. “Tell me, sir, do you know Arman, the One God?”

The man blinked once.

Joyous heart. Arman would save his soul, then, if she failed to save his body. “I would like to ask Him to ease your pain. Would that be acceptable?”

The man gurgled an intelligible response. His eyebrows sank, and he blinked.

Vrell took hold of his hand and closed her eyes. He squeezed until her fingers pinched. “Arman, You are aware of this man’s pain. We ask for Your healing touch on his body. We know You are able to mend these wounds.” The man’s grip relaxed. Vrell forced her voice to remain even, though tears tightened her throat. “We also know You will choose what is best. Bring this man comfort and strength. Be glorified in his life. May it be so.”

Vrell opened her eyes. The man’s eyes remained closed. He had stopped trembling. She laid his hand over his chest and set hers on top of Gren’s.

“Thank you, Gren. That will do.”

Gren pulled her hands away. “Is he dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Gren sucked in a short breath. “I knew him. Not his name. But up until a few weeks ago, he served night duty between the great hall and the kitchens.”

“And he joined the Kingsguard?”

“Captain Loam assigned him to personal guard. The man was mighty proud. I heard him bragging to his chums.”

“A personal guard to whom?”

“Lady Gypsum.”

Vrell met Gren’s gaze, no doubt exchanging the same curiosity, but neither willing to voice it aloud. Why would one of Gypsum’s guards be in the vineyard at such an hour?

Vrell called to Anillo.
Lady Averella Amal.

Yes, my lady?

I am in the southwestern vineyards helping the wounded. I found a man who I believe is one of Gypsum’s guardsmen. He is dead. Would you send someone for his body, please? He lies in the tenth row thereabouts.

Right away, my lady. Should I inform your mother of your location?

If you must.
Vrell stood and gathered her satchel and water jug.
But why might Gypsum’s guard be out here?

It would be best if you returned to the castle.

Fire sparked in Vrell’s chest and spread quickly through her limbs.
Tell me now, Anillo.

Very well. Lady Gypsum was abducted from the courtyard. Do not fret! She is back in the castle, well and safe. Her abductors took her through the vineyards. She will be saddened to hear that Arne did not survive.

Vrell glanced down at the soldier named Arne.
He gave his life to save my sister.

He tried, my lady. Lady Gypsum says that Arne was struck down long before she escaped. My lady, if you don’t mind looking
…
The prince helped Lady Gypsum into the southwestern tunnel. Yet he did not follow her and is no longer responding to the duchess’s calls.

The prince? Achan had been here? Was he here still? She couldn’t let him see her. And yet… Her eyes strayed to Arne’s ruined body.

Please, Arman. Let him be well.

Vrell crouched and scanned the ground under the vines. She counted three bodies at various distances away.
I will find him, Anillo.
Vrell bounced back up and ran to the road. The tunnel’s entrance was not far. “Come, Gren. There are more wounded.”

Vrell’s heart pounded as she jogged down the road, scanning each row for the next body or the scrap of fabric that marked the trapdoor to the secret tunnel. She spotted a downed man and ran to him. It was not Achan, however, but an enemy soldier—dead from an amputated leg.

Vrell backpedaled, bumped into Gren, and darted past.

Gren cried out, “He’s dead too?”

Vrell turned back and gripped Gren’s shoulders. “Gren, please. I am sorry that you are seeing this, but we must keep moving. Besides, he was one of the enemy.”

She sniffled. “How can you tell?”

“He is wearing a New Kingsguard cape. Black. Not red.” Vrell jogged to the road and waved Gren to follow.

Gren stumbled after her, sobbing. “I didn’t even notice his cloak. I’m just so sad for that other soldier. He was so excited to be a guardsman. I don’t even know his name.”

“Arne.” Vrell gripped Gren’s hand, tugged her along.

Gren panted. “How do you know?”

“Anillo told me. I bloodvoiced him to ask him to send someone for the body.”

“Oh.”

Down the next row, a leg stuck out from under a clump of vines. “Wait, Gren. Here is another.” Vrell ducked under a broken trellis and made her way down the row. The vines on her left were a mess. Some had come loose from the trellis and hung like fallen garland. Some were broken and hung like the branches of a weeping willow.

The man lay on his back, arms spread out as if he could fly. His body appeared to have knocked down the trellis, for pieces of wood and bunches of red grapes lay on the ground around him. His head, covered in a gilded helm, was turned away. The helm was twisted slightly and dented with the star-like imprint of a mace.

Vrell stopped, dumbstruck by the etching on the glided breastplate that had once belonged to Moul Rog the Great.

Achan!

6

Vrell knelt at Achan’s side and studied the dent in his helm. Only one spike had pierced the steel. A thin trail of blood trickled through it. There did not appear to be an abundance of blood on the grass.

She carefully pulled off the helm. Some of Achan’s black hair frizzed, wanting to stay with the wool cushioning of the helm. The rest was stuck to his temple with blood. An odd tingle started in her belly and ran up to her head. She could almost hear the sound of his voice saying,
“We need you as much as you need us. If not for you, who would patch us up when we’re half dead?”