From Darkness Won (29 page)

The dark-haired man raised his eyebrows and smirked. Achan glanced at the door, wanting only to be in his wagon. Sparrow was lost. He didn’t have time for these niceties.

“We’ll miss you, Your Highness,” the small Amal girl said.

Achan berated himself for not recalling her name.
Sir Caleb—?

Lady Terra, the duchess’s second youngest girl.

Thank you.
He bowed. “And I you, Lady Terra.”

“Your Highness,” Sir Caleb cut in, to Achan’s relief. “Please welcome Toros Ianjo to our company. He will serve you as a priest of The Way.”

Achan tried to keep his face passive, but Sir Caleb’s words were the furthest from what he had expected this man to be, though the interlocking circles should have tipped him off. He nodded at the priest. “Pleased to know you.”

Sir Caleb ushered them out into a sunny day. It was the first time Achan had stepped outside since he was struck down. He glanced at the fluffy white clouds, wondering if Sparrow were lost among them. They hurried through the inner bailey, the outer bailey, and finally out the gatehouse. Achan sensed conflicting emotions in the surrounding crowd. He kept his shields firmly in place. At the moment, he didn’t have time to worry about whether these people liked him or not.

North to south, thousands of soldiers on horseback and hundreds of wagons and carts stretched out in a line from one horizon to the other. Flags dotted the line, waving in the breeze. Most were banners of Armonguard, though Achan could see some Zerah Rock standards to the north.

Achan’s wagon waited directly outside the gatehouse. Actually, it was less a wagon and more a small cottage on wheels pulled by two horses. It had plain clapboard walls and a timber roof painted red. An entrance was cut into the center of the side facing the castle with a linen drape for the door.

Cole, the stray stableboy Achan had weaseled from Lord Yarden in Mitspah, stood behind the wagon, patting the nose
o
f a small, black and white rouncy that was harnessed to a cart filled with trunks. Dove and Scout, Achan’s horses, were tethered to the back of the cart. Dove was a white festrier warhorse that stood a full head taller than any other. He had been a gift from Sir Eric Livna. Scout was a sleek black courser Achan rode for speed or recreation.

“Who’s your new friend?” Achan asked Cole.

“This is Bart, Your Highness. He’s a piebald, and your new packhorse. But he gets to pull instead of carry this trip, since we’ve got the cart.”

Achan shook his head at the number of trunks in the cart. “What’s in those? I don’t own anything.”

“You do now.” The jingle of chain drew Achan’s gaze to Toros Ianjo, who stopped to pat Bart’s nose. “You’re a prince, after all, and princes never travel light.”

“Are you wearing chain armor?” Achan asked.

“We’re going into battle, aren’t we? I’m no fool.”

Achan smirked, unsure what to make of his new warrior priest. “Have you fought in many battles?”

“Enough that I’d rather not fight in another. Though Arman is not opposed to calling us to what we dread.”

Achan took a deep breath. “Sometimes it feels as if Arman has made a game of putting me in dreadful situations. I wonder if my life will ever be normal again.”

“Not for a king, I imagine.”

“Well, I never asked to be a king.”

“I hear you, Highness. Change isn’t my game, either.”

“Your game?”

Toros shrugged one shoulder. “My game is dice. One Hundred or Passage. I’m also fond of hawking.”

“You have a bird?”

“No. Point is, Highness, Arman uses change to stir us. Clarify priorities. Supply direction. The battle comes and we face it, for that is where Arman wants us to be. Normal is tedious, Highness. Don’t long for blissful lethargy. Long for change.”

Long for change?

Achan stared at the interlocking circles on Toros’s tunic. No matter what would come, Arman was in control. He would not allow Achan to fail. He would help Achan find Sparrow, defeat the Hadad, and push back Darkness.

Achan raised his gaze to Toro Ianjo’s scruffy face. “Thank you, Toros. Your outlook has raised my spirits a great deal. Now I must go.” For Sparrow was lost and needed to be found.

12

Averella reached out toward the tea rose again, and
again
her fingers passed through the two-tone petals. How could that be? Was she invisible? An apparition? Had she died? The knowledge evaded her mind, just out of reach.

She studied her body, intrigued that she could see through herself. She did not feel sad or frightened. But why was she wearing this peasant dress? It was hideous and itchy and stained and had no corset.

Confused, she continued to admire the garden. Not even the beauty of the courtyard in Granton Castle compared to this place. There were lilies, irises, rosemary bushes, sunflowers, daffodils, and more types of roses than Averella had ever seen.

Over the last year, she had missed her garden greatly. She had spent so many days there with Bran. But that had been fall. It was clearly summer now. Why had she neglected her garden all this time? Where had she been?

Averella drifted closer to the temple along a worn dirt path. Her transparent feet floated inches above the ground.

How very strange.

A man’s voice boomed, as if spoken in her ear.
Sparrow? You must return to your body.

Hello?
She spun around, pressing a hand to her heart.
Is someone there?

Sparrow. It’s Achan. You’ve been stormed. Return to your body right away.

Who are you?

Achan. Achan Cham.

Cham? Why would a stray address her so familiarly? Averella cocked her head to the side and listened. Distant sounds of chickens and children’s laughter drifted from beyond a nearby sentry wall, but she saw no man.
I cannot see you, Master Cham. Where are you and why do you jest? It is a lovely day. I cannot imagine it would storm.

Sparrow!
A moment of silence passed, then the invisible man growled.

Averella jumped at his angry tone. Sparrow, indeed! How peculiar. She continued to the temple and approached a guard dressed in a black New Kingsguard cape.

Good day, sir. May I—

“You there! Where do you think you’re going?”

Averella turned toward the voice. Two guards dragged a burly young man out of the inner gatehouse. She drifted closer. She did not believe she had ever seen this young man before, yet his familiar pockmarked face drew her near.

He struggled between the two guards. “I must get inside! You don’t understand!”

The guards pushed, the man pushed, back and forward like a game of reverse tug-o-war. On one of the tugs when the guards had the man back in the outer bailey, two peasants— a man and a woman—slipped through the gate and scurried toward the keep without looking back.

A diversion?

She breathed out a laugh. A diversion, indeed! Listen to her. One would think she had been cavorting with soldiers all her life to have such assumptions quick to her mind. Still, she drifted after the peasants, curious why they snuck about. Peasants came and went from Castle Granton. Why not here?

Wherever here was.

Averella followed the peasants inside. The stone structure cut off the heat and light from the sun, bathing her in cool shadow. The peasants stood inside a small foyer. A stone corridor led off on the left and right. Two flights of stairs lay ahead, one going up, the other down.

The man started up the stairs.

The woman stepped to the right and whispered, “Noam! Not that way!” She waved the man to follow and ducked into the dark corridor on the right.

The peasant girl’s brown dress was identical to Averella’s. She drifted behind Noam’s lanky form. Torches crackled every ten paces or so, lighting the corridor in a bronze glow. The peasant woman took the first left and strode through the dark halls as if this were her home. “No one will question us on the servants’ stairwell.”

“But someone will question us eventually,” Noam said. “Gren, please stop. We need more of a plan.”

Gren spun around, her chestnut hair twirling over her shoulders. “Fine. If anyone asks, Shelga sent us to mend a ripped canopy in Lady Marah’s chamber.”

Averella’s memory surged at the mention of Lady Marah, mistress of Sitna Manor, wife to Lord Nathak.

Then this must be Sitna’s keep. It was very cold and drafty compared to Granton Castle in Carmine.

Gren continued down the dark corridor and turned up a spiral staircase. Noam and Averella followed her to the top floor and exited on a well-lit passageway that stretched along the outer wall of the keep. Sunlight stabbed through dozens of arrow loops. Averella soared into a sunbeam and let the warmth soak into her.

Gren stopped where another corridor shot off on into the keep and peeked around the corner. “There are guards posted at the door,” she whispered. “Listen.”

“…guess he’s a god now,” a man’s voice croaked, low and slow, like a bullfrog. “Traded his soul for a new arm.”

“To who?” Another man’s voice. High-pitched.

“To Nathak’s sorcerer, I guess.”

Averella drifted around the corner. Two New Kingsguardsmen stood before a door. One had bushy brown hair and a beard. The other was younger, though his face was creased as if he had not slept in weeks. He also was missing four front teeth, two on the top and two on the bottom.

“This sorcerer collects souls?” The bearded man’s high-pitched voice sounded almost like a critical woman.

The toothless guard grinned, baring a black hole where his teeth should be. “Guess so. Guess that’s how he gets stuff done. Binds people to him.”

“You think that’s something to smile about, do you?”

“Nah, just that Prince Gidon was—”

“
Esek
.”

“Oh, you know who I mean. He was a thorn to serve, wasn’t he? Sent me to Myet twice for his own bad temper. Guess I can’t help but smile thinking of him being tethered so. To a master of his own, you know?”

Averella drifted to the door and reached between the men for the latch. Her fingers passed through the wooden surface. She moved slowly, unsure, but curious to know who or what was being kept behind this door.

She turned her head so her face was the last thing to pass through the dark wood. She soon found herself in a spacious chamber. On the exterior wall, the sun shone through a narrow balcony. A canopied bed stood in the far corner. Linen draped over the furniture, suggesting the room was not being used. No one was here. Why guard an empty chamber?

On her second survey of the room, she caught sight of a limp hand dangling over the bedside. She drifted closer. A body came into view, sunk into the linen drape that covered the mattress. A woman in a plain brown dress. A peasant. The woman’s face was twisted away, her thin black hair tangled in a pile that covered her face.

Averella did not know why, but a dark fear pressed in on her heart as she studied the woman. She skirted to the foot of the bed, trying to get a better view of the woman’s face.