Jill Williamson: To Darkness Fled

Bran could wait. But Achan stopped before Sir Eagan. "I must speak with you right away, Sir Eagan."

Sir Eagan bowed. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

"Forgive me, Duchess," Achan said, "I require a moment with my father's Shield."

Duchess Amal released his arm and curtsied. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Sir Caleb knocked, but Achan ignored it. He gripped Sir Eagan's arm and led him between two rough hewn tables, not bothering to lower his voice, though Sir Eagan's calm already poured into him. "Where did you take her?"

"As far as the front door." Sir Eagan's blue eyes looked pained, as if he missed Sparrow too.

Hope welled in Achan. "She is here, then? In Carmine?"

"She could be, yes. She did not confide her plans to me."

The crowd murmured. Achan sensed their curiosity. "Did she give any clue where she might go? Where she was from?"

"Only that she had been living in Walden's Watch."

"You think she plans to return there?"

"I cannot say, Your Majesty."

Achan wanted to harangue this man, despite his being so much older, but Arman had taken his anger. "I was prepared to heed your council, to let her go. I only wanted to say farewell."

Sir Eagan's sympathetic gaze needled Achan. "Sometimes it is easier this way. Farewells can be difficult. Dangerous."

"Perhaps, but I am not you, Sir Eagan."

*

After a hearty lunch with the duchess, Anillo ushered Achan to a bath and fitting. The duchess had insisted on providing Achan a new wardrobe. Maybe she doted on him because she was a woman with no sons, or maybe his clothing had been truly shabby for a king. He could hardly tell.

Dinner followed. Achan wore a fancy gold and maroon outfit that reminded him of Esek so much he loathed wearing it. He met the duchess's four younger daughters, ages twelve, ten, seven, and four, and danced with them more than any other, though he feared encouraging the eldest, for there were several twelve-year-olds on his list of possible brides.

Still, better to dance with twelve-year-old Gypsum Amal than the older, lesser nobles of Carmine who flaunted and flirted. He'd never seen a crowd of young women more bedecked, with the exception of Jaira Hamartano. Clearly these poor girls had been instructed to win his favor at any cost.

When Achan finally fell into his bed on the fourth floor, he couldn't sleep. This room was bigger than two full cottages from Sitna. The bed itself could have slept six comfortably. He lay on his back and spread his arms and legs wide, gently stretching his sore arm and leg. He liked the silky feel of the sheets and the way his body sank into the featherbed.

Shung's snore grumbled steadily from the pallet Sir Caleb had insisted be brought in. Achan felt safe. Peaceful. No fear of Esek or a traitor killing him in his sleep.

Had Esek died? If so, Achan doubted Lord Nathak would report it right away, if ever. Achan shook the horrifying image of Esek's severed arm from his head and turned onto his side, burrowing into the mattress again.

His stomach rumbled. It was truly no use. He supposed he find sleep by shadowing one of the sleeping knights. Or maybe he could wander a bit, perhaps find the kitchens and a snack.

He climbed out of bed, put on an old tunic, and crept to the doors. Opening one a crack, he peeked out and sighed. Sure enough, three guards crouched at the end of the hall, next to the stairs, playing dice. More strangers willing to die for him because he was the Crown Prince. It still felt so awkward.

He peeked the other way. No guards to the left. Had the guards broken ranks to play dice? Clearly they were not concerned about Achan's safety. If he could sneak to the corner without being seen, he could go down that stairwell.

Achan slipped out of the room and pressed against the wall. Dice clattered over the wood floor and the guards erupted in a loud cheer. Achan sidestepped to the corner where a tower staircase stood. In Sitna, the kitchens were in the outer bailey. But this was a vast stronghold, similar to Mahanaim. The kitchens in Mahanaim had been in the basement.

Achan descended the stairs, his bare feet cool on the stone. A sudden though made him wince. He should have dressed better, at least put on boots. If he were seen, Sir Caleb would berate him for not being properly dressed. Nothing could be done about it now. He was too far into his quest.

He reached the bottom without seeing a soul and found himself in the corner of a damp passageway that stretched out like an L. Concentrating on what he remembered from outside, Achan tried to rebuild the stronghold in his mind. Logically, the kitchens would be near the great hall.

He went right. At the next corner, the corridor turned left and led him past a laundry room, a bathhouse, a massive wine cellar, and a buttery.

The smell of yeast and smoke urged him on. The walls fell away into a vast open area. Achan gaped. The kitchens in Sitna had consisted of two small rooms. This place was the size of the great hall above.

Drum pillars rose to the ceiling every ten feet or so. Fat candelabras hung from thick iron chains. Baking ovens ran along the left wall, fireplaces along the right. Dozens of long tables filled the center, some covered with bowls, some empty, some stone with iron grills built into the surface. Achan saw no movement at the moment, but with the size of this castle, cooks and maids likely worked around the clock.

He veered toward the fireplaces on the right wall and lifted a bowl from a shelf as he passed. Only one fireplace still burned under a round, iron cauldron pot. Achan pulled his sleeve over his hand and lifted the lid on the pot. The smell of beefy, hot stew flooded his nostrils. He grinned and ladled his bowl to the brim, then carried it to a rack of fluffy rolls beside a drum pillar. He dunked a roll into the stew and bit down.

Shamayim.

Standing by the rack, he finished the first roll in three bites. He grabbed three more and walked toward a table surrounded by squat stools. Likely where the kitchen staff ate. He sat down and finished half his bowl when the sudden urge seized him to sit under the table. At Sitna Manor, when he hadn't wanted to be seen, he often sat under the tables.

A prince probably shouldn't sit under a table like a dog.

Despite the foolishness of the idea, he did it anyway. Crossing his legs, he pulled the stool in and set his bowl on top. He smiled as he ate, feeling at home for the first time in months. Silly considering his comfort was due to a life of deceit and cruelty at the hands of Lord Nathak and Poril. Still, no amount of fancy clothes, featherbeds, or "Your Highnesses" could change his past. Being a stray was a part of him.

So engrossed in the stew, Achan didn't hear the light scuff of footsteps until it was too late. He sat motionless, hoping whoever it was would come and go quickly.

The rustle of fabric drew near until soft blue velour brushed his left hand. He jerked it into his lap, staring at the gold satin slippers that had stopped by his left knee. Slippers so fancy could only belong to a noblewoman. He held his breath. What noblewoman would walk in the kitchens at such an hour? The duchess' lady in waiting sent to fetch a snack, perhaps?

The layers of velvet rumpled as the woman crouched down, revealing inch by inch an immaculately embroidered robe and curling auburn hair cascading over her shoulders.

"Duchess Amal." Achan scrambled back and bumped into another stool. He pushed a stool to get out, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

"Why does the Crown Prince of Er'Rets sit under a table in my kitchen?"

Achan's cheeks flushed. "I…was hungry."

"Could you not call for a tray?"

"I wanted…" Achan cast his eyes to the bowl of stew on the stool. How could he explain without insulting this woman? He swallowed but could not meet her eyes. "I could not sleep and thought a snack might help. Take no offense, my lady, but I'm not used to such gracious hospitality."