From Darkness Won - Jill Williamson [207]
At the foot of the watchtower, masons mixed sand, straw, lime, and water in a square trough, making mortar to repair the holes. Soldiers used a basket hooked to a rope to raise new stones up to the broken wall. A faint chorus of “The Pawn Our King” carried over the sound of building below.
Achan should feel happy. The curse of Darkness had gone. He would soon be inducted as king. He was home, finally. Home for good. But the knot in his stomach consumed this thoughts. Would Sparrow blame him for Bran’s death? If only he had tried to help Bran sooner.
“Armonguard has been home to the royal family since Echâd Hadar first came to Er’Rets,” Prince Oren said. “It will be so again.”
Achan met his uncle’s measured gaze. “It’s a big house.” Much bigger than a cottage in the woods.
Prince Oren chuckled. “It is what you make it, nephew. Would you like a tour of your home?”
“I would like that very much.”
And so went the rest of the morning. Prince Oren took Achan around the bailey, through the northern arc, into the western arc, and finally into the southern arc of the keep. They toured the dungeons, the kitchens, the stables and barn, the temple of Arman, the great hall, and the gardens.
It all left Achan dumbstruck, especially the gardens.
And then Prince Oren led Achan from the gardens into the foyer of the southern arc, passing under the grand staircase. This was the most ornate room yet. The ceiling rose two levels high. Eight whitestone pillars ran side by side, holding up the vaulted cathedral ceiling, which was a turbulent ocean of white plaster and dark walnut ribs and bosses. Intricate murals were painted onto sections of the walls. Achan made a note to study each painting another day.
Prince Oren hobbled through the foyer and turned to face the grand staircase of red mosaic tile with a gold leaf banister. The rails were the same dark walnut as the wood on the ceiling.
The staircase mirrored itself and swept up both sides of the room. It curled around the contours of the arched wall and met back in the center on the second level. There, a balcony wrapped around the room with a half dozen corridors leading out from it. Underneath stood the doors they had entered through. The doors to the gardens.
Prince Oren led them up the stairs, down one corridor, and through a double doorway.
“The throne room.”
Achan’s pace slowed until he stood in the middle of the room. It was also two levels high with a flat coffered ceiling of gilded squares. Scarlet fabric lined the walls and was divided by gilded pilasters and gold torch sconces. Mosaic tile in a combination of porphyry, alabaster, shell-pearl, and turquoise covered the floor and sparkled in the torchlight.
Two thrones sat side by side on a raised dais at the end of the room. The chairs had high backs and were upholstered in white satin that was embroidered in gold with the crest of Armonguard. Behind them, another dais, this one higher, held a simple altar crafted from walnut.
“Would you like a moment here?” Prince Oren asked.
“No.” Though Achan could not help but wonder who would sit on the chair beside his. Sparrow would, wouldn’t she? He wanted to go see her.
Prince Oren led him to the king’s quarters next. The room was as large as three of Sitna’s cottages, but all the furniture and walls were draped in sheets of white linen. It was like walking through clotheslines. An ornate canopy bed stood against one wall. A fireplace occupied the opposite wall. To his left, on the arched wall, were a set of double doors. Two single doors divided the right wall into three.
Achan lifted a linen sheet from the wall and found a mural beneath it. “You never used this room?”
“I was not king,” Prince Oren said.
Achan walked to the double doors and pulled one open. The linen sheet