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something solid. Achan pushed off and kicked wildly toward the light. It had been Gren who had taught him to swim at age seven when none of the peasants would play with him.
    His head burst through the surface. He gasped and twisted around. Gren, Riga, and Harnu stood on the bank, shrinking from sight. The forceful current swept him along. No matter how hard he tried, his efforts to swim for the shore seemed useless.
    Like his life.
    Gren and Riga? Why? Didn’t Master Fenny know Riga was a selfish, lazy pig who couldn’t deserve Gren in a million—
    Achan saw a chance to escape the river. The poplar he had bested had gotten wedged into the entry channel of the moat that surrounded Sitna Manor. Achan reached for it and snagged the tip of a branch between his second and third fingers.
    The branch held, and his body paused in the swift current. Water parted around his buoyed form. Hand over hand he pulled himself toward the side channel. Stiff brown branches snapped and scratched his face and hands. Finally he safely entered the murky current of the moat.
    He let himself float along beneath the towering walls of the fortress. HeHHe shivered in the stinking water. The moat’s current was weak and didn’t flush the sewage from the manor’s privies and kitchen as well as it was designed to. The brownstone walls of the manor loomed above. Two guards on the wall laughed and pointed down. Word spread on the sentry walk. By the time Achan sailed around the northwest corner, at least ten guards had congregated at the gatehouse.
    Achan swam to the edge and hoisted himself up. Dirt from the bank muddied the front of his waterlogged tunic. His limbs shook with cold, and he stumbled under the portcullis, ignoring the jeers from above.
    A figure stepped in his path. Sir Gavin.
    Achan stood, soaked and stinking, trembling in the breeze. “I’ve l-lost my w-w-waster.” And, he realized, his shoes. He was thankful Gren was still repairing Noam’s hand-me-down boots. He would’ve hated to have lost those.
    “In the moat?”
    “R-Riga an ’ar-nu.”
    Sir Gavin nodded. “You’ll have to make another.”
    Great. Now he had to learn carpentry or woodsmithing or whatever craft it took to make a wooden sword. At that point he didn’t care. He had to get warm. He slouched past Sir Gavin toward the kitchens.
    He squished down the stone steps to the cellar. He stripped off his wet clothes and crawled onto his pallet under the ale casks to warm himself. The image of Gren’s tearful face was branded on his mind. Betrothed to Riga Hoff?
    Pig snout!
    *          *          *
    “What about your sword?” Achan asked Sir Gavin as he filed the edge of his new wooden blade. White oak shavings peppered his feet with each stroke. “I’ve only seen you with your waster. You have a real one, don’t you?”
    Achan loved the smell of fresh sawdust and always enjoyed coming to the woodshed. Sir Gavin sat on a fat stump that was used as a chopping block. Rows upon rows of firewood were stacked up against the curtain wall. Achan had always wanted to see if he could climb it and reach the walkway above.
    “Aye.” Sir Gavin whittled a small block of pine. Achan had no idea what he was making. “But it would look mighty strange for me to tote around two swords everywhere I went, wouldn’t it?”
    Achan nodded. As he filed, he weighed matters with Gren. Strays were rarely permitted to marry anyway, so his hopes of a future with Gren had never been founded on reality. And, like Gren had said, her father had been looking for a husband for her for years. But Riga Hoff? Sure, Achan had expected someone to snatch up Gren. But not Riga. Someone older. Someone with life experience. Someone less like a swine. Someone mature and wealthy who could give her better clothes, provide for her. Young men rarely took a—
    “If you’re not careful, lad, the blade will be uneven. An uneven sword is difficult to learn on.”
    Sir Gavin’s warning