From Darkness Won - Jill Williamson [47]
“Oh, fine.” Recovering from Duchess Amal’s presence. “How is all that going?” He gestured to the door. “You know, you and Duchess Amal?” For Sir Eagan and Lady Nitsa had loved one another in their youth but had been parted for nearly eighteen years.
Sir Eagan glanced at the door and smiled. “Very well, thank you.” He took Achan’s chin in one hand and set his other hand on his head. “This is healing quickly. You are a fortunate man.” He pressed on the lump.
Achan gritted his teeth at the pressure. “Shung tells me Sparrow is here.” He hitched in a short breath. “Perhaps she could serve as my healer again?”
Sir Eagan raised an eyebrow. “You think she would not have to determine the level of your pain?”
Achan grunted, for Sparrow took healing just as seriously as Sir Eagan. “She’s nicer to look upon, at least.”
“True.” Sir Eagan ran his fingers over Achan’s chest, neck, head, and stomach, pushing down and asking how much everything hurt.
Nothing hurt but his head, though his cham wounds and thigh were still tender.
“My assessment is that you are fine,” Sir Eagan said. “We should be able to depart as planned.”
Depart. “Will Sparrow visit again? Has she returned for good?” Would she come back to him? Could she, now that he was betrothed to Lady Averella?
“I have not seen her since the vineyard.”
“So that wasn’t a dream?”
“Not a dream, Your Highness. She found you, called us to bring you in, and so we did.”
Achan closed his eyes and reached for Sparrow. He found her mind impenetrable, as always. A giddy thought grew within. If the duchess taught him more, he might somehow be able to find Sparrow in spite of her shields.
The little fox could not hide from him forever.
8
Vrell had hoped to ride out at dawn amongst the harvesters, but Gren’s joining her delayed their departure until after breakfast. To Vrell’s frustration, Gren had never ridden a horse. How the girl thought she would steal one and make it through the gates unnoticed—black mourning gown and all—Vrell would never guess.
After a lesson in how to ride, they left the stronghold behind a group of wagons headed to the orchards. They rode through the partially burned vineyards that the enemy had destroyed and out of Carmine.
The air smelled sweet and fresh as they passed by hay fields. Dozens of men waded through the timothy grass, swinging scythes against the golden hay. Boys with pitchforks scurried behind, spreading it flat so it could dry.
The day passed slowly. Vrell stopped at a creek to water the horses, and she and Gren changed from their dresses into dingy blue tunics and brown trousers. Though this time, Vrell did not bother with fake bellies. Once Gren’s black mourning dress and Vrell’s green travel dress were packed away in their saddlebags, they continued their journey more comfortably. Men’s clothing was much cooler to wear.
When night fell, they made camp in a grove of olive trees at the foot of a grassy knoll not far from the road. The trees sheltered them and their horses from any passersby. They sat on bedrolls under a bushy olive tree, munching on dates and cheese. Gren inhaled her food like a man.
Vrell supposed the child within wanted his or her share, so she gave Gren a bit more. “When is your child expected?”
“Mother guesses the end of winter.”
“That seems so far away.”
“I think so too.”
“Does it hurt? Being with child?”
“I get sick in the mornings, and I seem to live with a never-ending headache.”
“I have feverfew in my satchel.” Vrell pointed to her things propped against the tree trunk. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Gren lifted the satchel and dug inside it.
Vrell closed her eyes and sought out Bran. He, Jax, and Sir Rigil were sitting on bedrolls in their own camp, hashing out their suspicions as to whether or not Esek was still alive.
Gypsum seemed to think so. But the only way Esek could have survived the loss of a limb was if a skilled healer had been present. Perhaps one had been.
Vrell fingered the chain at her neck that held Achan’s signet ring. She wanted it close until she decided what