By Darkness Hid Read Online Free PDF Page A

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