From Darkness Won - Jill Williamson [72]
Cole, the stray stableboy Achan had weaseled from Lord Yarden in Mitspah, stood behind the wagon, patting the nose of a small, black and white rouncy that was harnessed to a cart filled with trunks. Dove and Scout, Achan’s horses, were tethered to the back of the cart. Dove was a white festrier warhorse that stood a full head taller than any other. He had been a gift from Sir Eric Livna. Scout was a sleek black courser Achan rode for speed or recreation.
“Who’s your new friend?” Achan asked Cole.
“This is Bart, Your Highness. He’s a piebald, and your new packhorse. But he gets to pull instead of carry this trip, since we’ve got the cart.”
Achan shook his head at the number of trunks in the cart. “What’s in those? I don’t own anything.”
“You do now.” The jingle of chain drew Achan’s gaze to Toros Ianjo, who stopped to pat Bart’s nose. “You’re a prince, after all, and princes never travel light.”
“Are you wearing chain armor?” Achan asked.
“We’re going into battle, aren’t we? I’m no fool.”
Achan smirked, unsure what to make of his new warrior priest. “Have you fought in many battles?”
“Enough that I’d rather not fight in another. Though Arman is not opposed to calling us to what we dread.”
Achan took a deep breath. “Sometimes it feels as if Arman has made a game of putting me in dreadful situations. I wonder if my life will ever be normal again.”
“Not for a king, I imagine.”
“Well, I never asked to be a king.”
“I hear you, Highness. Change isn’t my game, either.”
“Your game?”
Toros shrugged one shoulder. “My game is dice. One Hundred or Passage. I’m also fond of hawking.”
“You have a bird?”
“No. Point is, Highness, Arman uses change to stir us. Clarify priorities. Supply direction. The battle comes and we face it, for that is where Arman wants us to be. Normal is tedious, Highness. Don’t long for blissful lethargy. Long for change.”
Long for change?
Achan stared at the interlocking circles on Toros’s tunic. No matter what would come, Arman was in control. He would not allow Achan to fail. He would help Achan find Sparrow, defeat the Hadad, and push back Darkness.
Achan raised his gaze to Toro Ianjo’s scruffy face. “Thank you, Toros. Your outlook has raised my spirits a great deal. Now I must go.” For Sparrow was lost and needed to be found.
12
Averella reached out toward the tea rose again, and again her fingers passed through the two-tone petals. How could that be? Was she invisible? An apparition? Had she died? The knowledge evaded her mind, just out of reach.
She studied her body, intrigued that she could see through herself. She did not feel sad or frightened. But why was she wearing this peasant dress? It was hideous and itchy and stained and had no corset.
Confused, she continued to admire the garden. Not even the beauty of the courtyard in Granton Castle compared to this place. There were lilies, irises, rosemary bushes, sunflowers, daffodils, and more types of roses than Averella had ever seen.
Over the last year, she had missed her garden greatly. She had spent so many days there with Bran. But that had been fall. It was clearly summer now. Why had she neglected her garden all this time? Where had she been?
Averella drifted closer to the temple along a worn dirt path. Her transparent feet floated inches above the ground.
How very strange.
A man’s voice boomed, as if spoken in her ear. Sparrow? You must return to your body.
Hello? She spun around, pressing a hand to her heart. Is someone there?
Sparrow. It’s Achan. You’ve been stormed. Return to your body right away.
Who are you?
Achan. Achan Cham.
Cham? Why would a stray address her so familiarly? Averella cocked her head to the side and listened. Distant sounds of chickens and children’s laughter drifted from beyond a nearby sentry wall, but she