Jill Williamson: By Darkness Hid

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.”

“No, sir. But he’s a farmer. He wouldn’t own armor.”

“So armor is only for the rich?”

“I suppose so.”

Sir Gavin stood. “Go get your waster and meet me behind the barn.”

“Aye, sir.” Achan smiled at Gren and hurried away.

When he reached the barn, Sir Gavin was waiting with his own wooden sword. Only the moon lit the hay-strewn ground behind the barn. Achan could barely hear the music still playing at the Corner.

“I want to explain some things about parries,” Sir Gavin said. “For a new swordsman, defense is your primary goal. Tell me, where do most knights strike first?”

Achan thought back to the tournaments he’d seen over the years. “The legs, sir?”

“Aye. A crippled man is a small threat. So that is where you need to be guarding first. Always parry with the flat of the blade, otherwise you chip or dull your cutting edge. Now, a cut most often comes at you from an angle. Why do you think that is?”

Achan shrugged.

Sir Gavin moved his waster in slow motion as he spoke, demonstrating his words. “If you come straight down, you risk chopping your blade into the dirt or your knee if you miss. If you strike level sideways, you risk throwing your weapon or throwing yourself off balance.”

Achan could just see himself pitching his sword at his attacker as if skipping a stone.

Sir Gavin brought the waster to his center, with the hilt pointing out from his abdomen as if he were holding a yoke plow. “All parries can be made from the middle guard position. You aren’t trying to strike with a parry. You’re trying to ease their strike against you. Meet their blow by stepping up to it, or cushion the blow by stepping back.”

Sir Gavin spent the next hour showing Achan the different ways to parry attacks. Achan took dozens of strikes to his forearms and shins from Sir Gavin’s wooden blade. He was having the most trouble with the leg strikes.

Sir Gavin swung his sword at Achan’s shins again. Achan dropped his waster to low guard and moved it over to block his left leg. The swords clacked together, but Sir Gavin’s pushed Achan’s back enough to touch his leg.

“Better, but a steel blade would’ve nicked you good. Make sure you move your blade out far enough so you won’t be cut if it’s knocked back.” Sir Gavin took a long breath and blew it out in a cloud around his face. “You’ve done enough for today, lad. You’ll be plenty sore tomorrow. Ease into the routine. The first week will be the hardest.”

It was. Over the next few days, Achan never sat still. If he wasn’t running an errand for Poril or crawling under the tables in the great hall collecting scraps to offer Cetheria, he was sneaking away to go through his sword exercises. Poril snapped at his absences with threats of the belt, so Achan did his best to be two places at once.

With the added activity, his appetite grew. Poril’s portions didn’t change, so Achan started joining Sir Gavin for meals. He ate his fill like never before, always saving something nice and whole for Cetheria.

While they ate, Sir Gavin would talk about noble etiquette and table manners. Once Achan began eating with more grace, Sir Gavin moved on to speak of the other cities in Er’Rets and the nobles who lived there. He began with Sitna, where Achan lived. Sir Gavin said it was a tiny manor built for the sole purpose of raising the prince. He said that in most strongholds, the kitchens had at least three cooks who fed over two hundred people three meals a day.

Achan soaked it all up and spilled it out to Gren each night at the Corner.

By the second week, his arms ached less, his blisters had faded to calluses, and he felt more confident about his role as a squire. Although Sir Gavin would still not accept his service. Squires were required to bring their master meals, clean their armor, and care for their horses. Sir Gavin would have none of it.

Achan woke one morning to find a new orange tunic neatly folded on the floor by his pallet. He blinked his sleepy eyes until it dawned on him.