From Darkness Won Page 6

  Down. Toward Granton Castle. The stronghold grew beneath their feet.

  Achan could see the battle to the west. They drifted back toward the inner bailey, to the left of the great hall. The ground came closer. Nearer. His feet were almost there.

  They passed through the dirt. The odd sensation choked Achan. All light vanished. Down. Down.

  Darkness.

  How far? Did Duchess Amal know exactly where his body lay? What if they missed it and traveled all the way to the Lowerworld?

  He concentrated on his body, hoping that might help the duchess somehow. Arman, help me find it.

  Achan’s soul found its home in the wheeze of a sharp breath. He opened his eyes to blackness. The musty dirt and cool air were familiar, safe, reassuring.

  This is one of the secret entrances to the castle, Duchess Amal said to his mind. There are two ways out. Back the way you came. Or, if you continue on, you will come to a ladder that leads to a door in the ground. You are closer to the castle than to the trapdoor. Shall I inform Sir Caleb which direction you will go so he can come meet you?

  Achan heaved in another long, musty breath. I will continue to the trapdoor, my lady. I must… complete my task.

  Fare you well, then.

  Thank you, my lady.

  Achan heaved himself up onto shaky legs, berating himself for such stupidity. The experience had drained his strength. At least he knew where he was headed now. He also knew there was no need to go there. The battle was far away, and Sir Caleb would likely be waiting, armed with a sour expression and hefty lecture.

  Achan found his gloves on the floor and tucked them through his belt, checking again to make sure Ôwr was still there. He reached out until he found the dirt wall, then crept forward, keeping his right hand on the wall and his left hand stretched out to the blackness before him. Except for the occasional wooden post, the wall remained smooth dirt.

  A needle pricked Achan’s temple. Sir Caleb Agros.

  Achan clenched every muscle. He should answer. He’d been foolish to sneak away. Even more foolish to leave his body. Sir Caleb’s pointing that out would not change anything. It would only make Achan feel more inane. Perhaps he deserved such humiliation.

  Sir Caleb did not enjoy losing control of a situation. Knowing Achan was safe would relieve his fears for a moment but—

  Achan’s hand struck something solid. He ran his fingers along wide, smooth wood. They traced a cobwebbed corner, slid down a few inches and met another horizontal bar that went back the other way. A square.

  He patted the wood with both hands. Wooden rungs, thick with cobwebs, ran up the wall. His stomach danced. He had found the ladder.

  He climbed slowly, pausing after each grip to raise one hand above his head and feel for the ceiling.

  Sir Caleb Agros.

  Achan would deal with Sir Caleb once he was outside and standing on solid ground. I am well, Sir Caleb, I’ll speak with you in a moment. He sent the thought without opening his mind to a reply. He’d never done that particular feat, not to his knowledge anyway.

  He rather liked it.

  After a dozen rungs, his fingers broke through a crusty layer of cobwebs and touched spindly roots. He traced every inch of the ceiling until his fingers hit an obstruction. Iron. A ringlatch of some sort. He pulled it toward him. It barely moved, then suddenly snapped back.

  The ceiling shifted, raining dirt and dry bits of grass over his armor. A sliver of white light increased his already-pounding heartbeat. When his eyes had adjusted, he pushed the door open and climbed up another rung.

  He peeked out onto grassy ground. Thick vines hung overhead, heavy with plump red grapes. He let the door fall back against the grass. The air was cool in his lungs, but thick with smoke.

  Achan wiggled and squeezed to get his armor through the narrow opening, thankful no one was around to witness his ungraceful movements. As he stood, his helm tangled in the vines overhead. His location was a vineyard, completely outside the stronghold. The outer curtain wall loomed a few yards ahead. He shut the trapdoor and could barely see the rectangular outline in the thick grass.

  “This way!” a nasally voice said.

  Achan straightened, ready to meet Sir Caleb, Shung, and whatever soldiers they’d brought along. But the voice had come from the opposite direction of the curtain wall.

  A prickle scuttled up his spine. He crouched, hand on Ôwr’s hilt, and listened to the crunch of leaves, the rustling of vines, every sound muffled through his steel helm.

  A man screamed. “She bit me!”

  “Stop her! She’s getting away!”

  Footsteps rained over the ground. Achan peered under the vines. A woman ran his way. He could see her from the waist down only, her red skirt a flutter of fabric as she ran. Mere feet from his location, she tripped and fell, skidding over the leafy grass and into the stand of a trellis. Her blonde curls tangled over her face.

  Achan ran to her and grabbed her arms, but she screamed and crawled away. “Leave me alone!”

  He recognized her immediately. It was Duchess Amal’s second eldest. “Lady Gypsum. It’s Achan. Prince Gidon, I mean.” It was still difficult for him to claim that name. He smiled and held out his hand. “May I offer my assistance?”

  She grabbed his hand. “Your Highness…” She panted and he pulled her up. “There are bad men…” She glanced back the way she’d come. “They are coming. They took me, and I…”

  Achan bent down and spotted two sets of legs, one closer than the other.

  “My lady,” he whispered. “Your dress will give you away should these cretins think to crouch as I have. There is a trapdoor here.” He scanned the ground. “Somewhere.”

  “Yes, under the marker.” She stepped to the next row and reached up to the trellis where a piece of faded, frayed cloth was tied. She crouched underneath it and ran her hands over the grass. Her finger hooked around something, and she pulled. The next row away, the trapdoor popped open.

  “I see her! Who’s got her?”

  “Hurry, my lady.” Achan grabbed her hands and lowered her into the hole. Her dress billowed on the grass like a tent. “Have your feet found the ladder?”

  “Yes. You may let go now.”

  He released her hands and started to tuck her skirt down the hole, but her quick descent dragged her dress with her. “How will you see, my lady?”

  She smiled and Achan saw Duchess Amal’s beauty in her young face. “This is my home, Your Highness. I know my way.”

  “Arman be with you then.”

  She frowned. “You are not coming?”

  “You there?” A man’s deep voice yelled. “Have you seen a little lady?”

  Achan kicked the trapdoor closed. A burly man dressed in black armor stood on his row at least ten yards away. Achan ducked under the trellis on his right, and under the next few trellises, hoping to lure the man away from the trapdoor.

  “Soldiers!” a voice yelled in the distance. “Retreat!”

  Likely Sir Caleb come to fetch his headstrong prince. Achan stopped, listening for the big man’s footsteps. He squatted and looked toward the castle. Sure enough, a dozen or more sets of black boots charged into the vineyard near the trapdoor, which was now rows down from his position.

  Achan spun slowly on his toes and met a set of thick legs. The man in black armor stood over him, swinging a mace above his head. Achan popped to his feet and reeled backwards. He tried to draw Ôwr, but stumbled. The man sent his mace flying.

  Achan ducked, yet the mace struck his helm on the left side, just above his ear. Pain exploded in his head. He hit the ground on his back, nauseated. Trying to get up, he bumped against a trellis. Sick. Dizzy. Unable to sit. Death was coming. Yet… Where had the man gone?

  Achan rolled to his back. The sky spun above him. Strange to see it from below now. He sucked air through his nose so he wouldn’t vomit.

  His vision blurred. He should bloodvoice someone. Tell them of Lady Gypsum. Hot pain swelled over him l
ike a wave in the delta. He held his breath. Was he burning? He reached up to feel the fire, but his hand did not move.

  He finally released a long breath. The pain overtook him, darkening his vision like a door closing out all light.

  P A R T 2

  VRELL

  4

  “Are you sure it’s wise, m’lady?”

  “What are you so worried about, Syrah?” Vrell brushed past her maidservant and turned to the door to the receiving room, squeezing her hands together. The room, wallpapered in elegant paintings, held only a sideboard, four chairs, and a short table. She hoped Jax would be comfortable, despite the diminutive nature of the chairs. “There is nothing clandestine about receiving an honorable soldier when a chaperone is present.”

  “I’m hardly a reputable chaperone, m’lady. I doubt the duchess would approve.”

  “My mother will not find out, Syrah, because you will not tell her.”

  Syrah curtsied. “Yes’m.”

  Vrell sighed, frustrated she had spoken to Syrah so. “Forgive my tone, dearest. My daily dance on a pincushion is making me behave badly. But without this opportunity, I do not know what I shall—”

  A knock rattled the door. Vrell smoothed her skirt and straightened, aggravating the wound in her side. She held her breath against the pain, weighing whether or not she could handle such a posture for the entire conversation.

  What was she thinking? This was Jax, her friend. She nodded at Syrah and slouched, instantly relieving her side.

  Syrah opened the door to Jax mi Katt, a giant man who stood over seven feet tall. He ducked inside, and his long braids swung out before him. As always, he wore a red scarf over his head like a marauder. A bushy beard covered his face. Even indoors he wore daggers and axes strapped to his legs in leather sheaths.

  Jax’s large brown eyes settled on Vrell, and a rangy smile parted his beard. “Hello there.”

  Vrell beamed at her old friend until Sir Rigil entered behind him. What was this? Why bring Sir Rigil along?

  Sir Rigil, a knight in his early thirties, looked small next to Jax. He wore blue and black, the colors of Zerah Rock, his home town. His hair was blond and cut short, except for the top, which swooped back in a lazy wave over his head. His short sideburns and beard were red.

  Until Achan’s true heritage became known, Sir Rigil had been the most eligible bachelor in all Er’Rets. Years ago, Vrell had mistaken Sir Rigil’s chivalry for romantic interest. But over time he had become like an older brother. And now, being Sir Eagan’s half-brother, she realized he was her half-uncle.

  All this was unbeknownst to him, of course, as Sir Eagan had not publicly claimed Vrell as his child.

  Jax laid a hand on Vrell’s shoulder heavily.

  She hugged his waist. “I’ve missed you, Jax.”

  “Well, bless my belt! Lady Averella home at last.” Sir Rigil took both Vrell’s hands and squeezed. “I’ve asked your mother about you time and again, but she would not—”

  “Sir Rigil, Jax. Please, sit.” Vrell motioned to the chairs. “Are you thirsty? Syrah, offer the men something to drink.”

  Syrah rushed forward, but Sir Rigil waved a hand. “We’ve just come from the great hall. Why have you not eaten there? I hope you are not ill.”

  “Please, Sir Rigil. There is a reason I invited Jax here, and I will speak if you give me a chance.”

  Sir Rigil bowed. “But of course, my lady. I apologize.”

  The men settled in two chairs beside each other. Jax’s chair creaked under his weight, but he looked comfortable enough. Vrell sat in one on the other side of the table. “I have heard you leave first thing for Armonguard. Since I shall be going—”

  “Forgive me a moment, my lady, if you please.” Sir Rigil pointed between Jax and Vrell. “When did you become acquainted? I was under the impression you had not met.”

  Vrell stifled a sigh at Sir Rigil’s interruption, but Jax answered before she could.

  “Not officially,” he said. “We spent a week together last spring when Khai and I escorted her to Mahanaim.”

  “Mahanaim?” Sir Rigil’s lips pursed, as if his mind searched for an answer he could not recall. “I heard you were there, my lady. I also heard rumors of an abduction, but Prince Oren said it had been resolved. Since none of us ever saw you, I figured your presence had been rumor, as well.”

  “Vrell was dressed as a boy,” Jax said.

  “Wait.” Sir Rigil’s gaze fixed on Vrell. “Surely not!”

  Vrell cringed, wishing Jax had not opened the door to that henhouse.

  “My dear lady Averella, please tell me that it was not you traveling with the prince as his squire and healer?”

  Vrell’s stomach clenched. She should not allow Sir Rigil to shame her. None of this was his concern. She straightened, which made her side throb. “If you do not wish to hear the truth, Sir Rigil, then do not ask questions.”

  Sir Rigil balked. “Your mother knows of this?”

  “I thought you did not want to know.”

  “That all this time… ? Does Master Rennan know?”

  She sighed. “He did not. But I assure you he now—”

  “How very like a woman, constructing a fortress of falsehoods.” Sir Rigil looked away, brooding. “No thought as to what poor soul might be ensnared along the way.”

  Bitter anger surged up in Vrell. “And what poor soul have I ensnared by my fortress of falsehoods, Sir Rigil?”

  “Besides our future king? Master Rennan is my charge. I must ask why you did not tell him of this charade.”

  “It was not my charade, Sir Rigil. Not at first, anyway. My mother and your aunt arranged it. Mother sent me to Walden’s Watch, and Lady Coraline dressed me as a stray boy so Prince Gidon—so Esek—would not be able to find me. I had but one instruction: tell no one of my true identity until it was safe to do so. Yet no one foresaw that Macoun Hadar would sense my bloodvoice and claim me as his apprentice. Under the circumstances, I have done my best.”

  “But in Mahanaim! Master Rennan and I stood beside you. We spoke to you! You needed only look our way. We would have… My lady, I should have known. How could I have missed it?”

  Vrell relaxed and took a deep breath, easing the pain in her side. For Sir Rigil was not scolding her but himself. “I do not blame you for not recognizing me, Sir Rigil. I am plain as it is. This helped me escape notice. And without a dress, it seems, I was not at all feminine.”

  “I hear the prince pines away for you. Whilst he is engaged to… to you!” Sir Rigil’s eyes were wide. “Why let him suffer so? My dear lady, I never thought you so heartless.”

  Now he was scolding her. His stern expression stung like shards of glass on the backs of her eyes. She sought a dignified response, but emotion took over. “Your opinion of my heart is nothing I care to hear, Sir Rigil.”

  “Please, my lady. If you have no feeling in your heart, I pray you have mercy on his.”

  “His heart flutters about as much as yours. How am I to trust the word of a man who is enamored with a different woman every day?”

  “Such accusations are beneath you, Lady Averella.”

  The truth of Vrell’s heart? It felt like it was being wrung like a wet rag. This was not fair. She had known Achan only three months, and his head had been turned more times than she could count. How could she believe he truly loved her?

  None of that mattered at the moment. “Your opinion has been noted.” She shifted on the chair to face Jax. “Shall I bring my own armor, Jax? Do you expect any resistance on your journey?”

  Jax’s eyes shifted away. “Forgive me, Vrell, but Prince Oren requests you remain here with your mother.”

  Vrell stood, which put her at eye level with Jax. “That is impossible. I wish to use my healing gifts to assist in the coming war. I cannot do that from Carmine.”

  Jax would not meet her gaze. “Prince Oren says the coming battle is no place for a lady. He said with all you’ve been through, he’s surprised you’
d ask to leave again.”

  “Leave?” Sir Rigil stared up at Vrell. “Lady Averella, what are you thinking?”

  “I am thinking of serving my prince.”

  “To serve your— My lady, the truth would serve him best.”

  “Sir Rigil, you are not my father. You have no right to lecture me so.”

  “Well, someone must. I’ve always known you were headstrong, my lady, but not so selfish. Perhaps I mislaid my opinion of your character. For at this moment, you are no better than any spoiled young noblewoman I’ve met.”

  “It is not my fault I was raised in Granton Castle, given everything I wanted—even things I did not. I am tired of having my life lived for me. I choose my path, not Mother, not any prince, and certainly not you. Who invited you to this meeting, anyway?”

  “Forgive me, Vrell,” Jax said. “I asked Sir Rigil to come. I hoped—”

  “That he would talk some sense into me? I see now that I have put my hope in the wrong comrades.”

  Sir Rigil stood and circled the table to stand before her. “Now see here—”

  Vrell turned her back to him. “Please leave, Sir Rigil. And I trust you will keep this conversation—and my identity—to yourself.”

  “I would never betray your trust, but the prince—”

  “Need not know. You yourself have given your opinion of the attributes of my heart. He would be better off without such a deceitful woman in his life, would he not?”

  “You put words in my mouth, my lady. And whether or not he would be better off should be his choice.”

  “My choice, Sir Rigil, and I have made it.”

  “I will not lie to my prince and future king. Should he ask me of Lady Averella’s whereabouts…”

  “You will not know them.”

  Sir Rigil sighed. “But you will inform Master Rennan of this, will you not?”

  “I have already spoken with Master Rennan. He is aware of my situation.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Vrell averted her eyes.

  Sir Rigil snorted a knowing laugh. “That’s what I thought. Good lad, Master Rennan.”