Seer of Souls (The Spirit Shield Saga Book 1) Page 22

  Aossi drifted down and gently pumped Ziona’s chest, forcing her heart to move and circulate its blood again. Cayden bent over and placed his lips on Ziona’s and breathed a long soulful breath into her lungs. Her body jerked as his breath inflated her lungs and the heart took over pumping her blood.

  Aossi grinned and pinched his cheek, laughing at the blush that grew there.

  “Remember what I said, young one. “ She winked at him one last time and disappeared.

  The time bubble dropped and real time returned.

  Ziona’s eyes shot open and she gasped at the gentle pressure of Cayden’s lips meeting hers.

  The soldiers of the camp ran over form a solid barrier around them.

  Cayden cupped Ziona’s cheek and gazed into her eyes. “I nearly lost you.”

  Ziona cupped his cheek in response, holding him to her with the touch, her eyes searching his. “I am with you always to the end of days.”

  Cayden’s eyes crinkled at the corners with joy. Vibrant green eyes locked onto hummingbird green and the bond flared between them.

  Can you hear my thoughts? Cayden sent his thoughts to her with his mind.

  Ziona’s eyes widened in surprise and she sent back: Yes, is that really you? I can hear your thoughts in my head!

  Yes, it’s me, but I have no idea how I am doing it. Aossi said we would have a bond from this moment on, something about how we saved your life.

  Aossi was here? She swivelled her head, her eyes searching for Aossi’s form.

  Cayden cleared his throat and resumed normal speech. “Can you sit up yet, Ziona?”

  She stared down at her torso, observing the tattered clothing and the large pool of blood all around her. She ran her hand over the mended skin in wonder.

  “I should be dead,” she whispered.

  Cayden helped her to a sitting position as Tobias arrived.

  “My lord! My apologies, my lord! We were blocked by a large group of soldiers. We fought our way through them just now. They were intentionally delaying us.” Tobias gasped as his gaze switched to Ziona for the first time. “My lady, you have been wounded!” He spun on his feet and bellowed, “Medic, get over here now!”

  Cayden caught his arm. “It’s OK, Tobias. I have tended to Ziona. She is fine now. She will need rest, but I am sure there are other more critically wounded.”

  Tobias took a closer look at Ziona. His hand trembled over the healed skin where her belly wound had been. He instantly dropped to his knees, bowing his head to the earth. “My lord, forgive me for my lack of faith. You are as great as we have been told. Praise to the king, the Protector of Souls! Praised be the Spirit Shield, true heir of Cathair!”

  The soldiers around Cayden and Ziona instantly followed suit, picking up the chant and kneeling where they stood.

  Cayden scrambled to his feet and held up his hands to quiet the men.

  “Please, we have no time. Tend to your brothers and sisters in arms.”

  They rose and resumed their duties. As they did so, Cayden heard the whispering tale take flight amongst the troops.

  In no time at all, word spread to every soldier and cook in the company or at least their version of it. The story would grow and evolve with the retelling, as all great tales do, but for those lucky few who were present for the event, there was no doubt in their minds they had witnessed the birth of a legend.

  Chapter 42

  THE CITY GATES WERE FLUNG WIDE OPEN under the brilliant sky. The curved gate was broad enough for three carts to travel side by side with ease. They dwarfed the farmers’ and merchants’ wagons moving in and out in a steady stream. Dust stirred in the air, brought in on the hooves of horses and wheels of the wagons, despite the smooth paving stones lining the road.

  The dust is lesser here than on the open road beyond the two-mile marker, Fabian thought, but still the buns are sticky and any dirt is unacceptable. He glanced back into his covered wagon where sat three of his apprentices. They maintained a tight grip on the stacked trays of buns, adjusting the cloth covers to prevent the dusty air from settling on them. The heat of the day brought out the smells of cinnamon and the caramelized sugar glaze that was the hallmark of his recipe. Others had tried to emulate it but had failed. His were simply the best.

  He drew up at the checkpoint and nodded to the officer who approached his wagon.

  “Destination?” he yawned around the words in a bored voice.

  “Castle cook’s kitchen. I have a delivery of sticky buns.”

  The officer sniffed the air and then, in a voice filled with longing, groaned. “I have always wanted to try one of those.”

  “We don’t often make the market these days. They are sold out long before I can get them here.”

  Fabian studied the officer for a moment and then snapped his fingers, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Say, maybe we can make a deal. I need a guard till we reach the kitchens. Oh, not a real guard, someone to keep the crowds away from the wagon so these arrive fresh and hot, the way Her Majesty likes them. Spare a lad, say that one over there…to give us a hand?”

  The officer motioned to the young recruit who was lounging against the wall, appearing as bored as his superior.

  “Anthony!” he called.

  The recruit marched over and snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

  “Escort this wagon to the castle kitchens. They are not to be disturbed. Understood? Keep the crowds away. This is a delivery for the queen.”

  “Yes, sir!” Anthony took up position beside the horse team’s head.

  “Thank you, Captain, and please enjoy this with our compliments.” He handed down a huge sticky bun oozing with caramelized sugar resting on a paper napkin.

  The officer grinned and waved Fabian on. Fabian clucked to the horses and they clopped forward with a jingle of the harness.

  Anthony temporarily slowed his gate, allowing Fabian to pull up beside him. Keeping his eyes forward, Fabian muttered in a low voice, “Good to see you again, Anthony. Is all prepared?”

  “Yes, I have people in place within the castle with access to the dungeons. They are ready to act when we are.”

  “Excellent. Now let’s see if we can get there safely without getting mugged for our load of sticky buns.”

  The cart horse plodded along, the way through the streets a familiar route for the old mare. As they approached the castle, she automatically turned down a side alley, cast in deep shadow from the wall of the castle on one side and a two-story building on the other. The alley narrowed to a width that barely allowed the cart through without scraping the sides. After three hundred paces, it opened into a small square. The castle wall was set with solid wooden doors, their heavy iron hinges recessed into the native limestone.

  The square was a dead end. Directly ahead was the entrance to a set of stables. Two guards stood at the entrance. The horses of visiting lords and ladies were typically housed within these stables. The royal stables backed up to them through a common door in the castle wall that was never opened unless for an emergency and then only with the proper password.

  Fabian halted at the gate and Anthony stepped forward to introduce the arrival to the guards posted at the kitchen receiving gate. He was greeted jovially and with much back slapping. Fabian overheard the words “…sticky buns?” and “…would be worth the lecture for a taste…”

  The guards signaled to the watchman high on the wall and the gates rolled back on wheels set to assist the movement of their ponderous weight. The sunny inner courtyard slowly revealed women and men dressed in service livery, some carrying baskets balanced on their shoulders and others carrying pails or pulling small carts loaded with supplies. To the right, teams of horses and wagons were lined up, their owners waving their hands, instructing the servants on the delivery of their goods.

  Fabian pulled up beside the last delivery and hopped down from his wagon. Anthony waited for Fabian at the back of the wagon and then whispered, “I can’t remain here for long, but I c
an see you safely inside and to our contact.” In a louder voice he said, “This way, please.”

  Fabian’s assistants jumped down from the wagon bed and pulled out the sticky bun trays. They each carried two trays and left Fabian to pick up the last two and follow them.

  The procession was keenly watched, as hungry workers caught a whiff of the delectable treats that drifted in their direction. Fabian glanced around and thought his plan for an escort was wise regardless of his other plans. He shook his head, bemused at the attention his wares were gleaning.

  They reached the kitchen delivery doors without incident and crossed into the comparatively cooler interior. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust after the brilliant sunlight of the courtyard. They blinked, hastening the adjustment of their eyes to the dimmer setting. The main kitchen was a large three-sided stone room, the fourth set with large windows facing the courtyard. Long wooden shutters were thrown open to allow the heat to escape and to tease a breeze into the warm interior.

  Three wooden tables ran parallel to the length of the room, stacked with plates and bowls and food in various stages of completion.

  Large-bricked wall ovens flanked the end wall and in each open hearth, spits of meat sizzled as they were rotated, the metal spit attached to a wheel which was in turn was connected to a larger wheel set with handles. The spit boy cranked the wheel slowly, as he had been taught, wiping his sweaty forehead on a towel draped over his shoulder on one side. Fabian observed him crank the wheel five times, which set up the spring and the spit turned as it slowly unwound. The boy then moved to the next and then the next and by the time he finished the entire row, the first oven was ready to be wound again.

  “Now isn’t that efficient,” said Fabian, gesturing to the lad.

  “Sir, if you will follow me.” Anthony marched away down a side corridor out of the main kitchen.

  They followed Anthony down the corridor, the heat fading somewhat as they walked. At the end of the hallway, they entered a stone passageway that led to a set of circular stairs disappearing into the gloom. A hole in the wall displayed a wooden platform and a set of ropes alongside it. A dumb waiter, Fabian guessed.

  They walked carefully down the curving staircase, eventually reaching the dim recesses below. A hallway led back underneath the main kitchen. A wooden door blocked the end of the dark hallway, which was lit by a couple of torches.

  “This is the refrigeration room,” Anthony explained. “You may store your baked goods here.” He pulled on the door, swinging it open. Inside were wooden shelves lined with supplies; bags of potatoes and carrots, heads of cabbage, onions, and apples in bushel baskets rested on the floor.

  Fabian found a spot on the far wall cleared for their trays. They placed them carefully on the rack.

  “The queen requests that you stay and enjoy the hospitality of the castle.” Anthony bowed to Fabian. “Your apprentices may join in with the other serving staff and enjoy the evening.”

  Fabian nodded to the staff, dismissing them. They grinned and trotted quickly out of the cold room, happy for an early beginning to a day in the capital. They quickly disappeared back up the winding stairs.

  Once they were alone, Anthony dropped all formality.

  “Come, we only have a couple hours before you will be expected to be in Her Majesty’s presence. She has wanted to meet the creator of her favourite sweet for ages.”

  They pulled closed the cold storage door, and then Anthony led Fabian off down a side passage leading back toward the east end of the castle. He lifted a lantern from a wall stand and lit it, carrying it along in front of him. After about three hundred feet, they arrived at another set of stairs, carved directly out of the limestone which made up the base of the castle. They wound down the worn steps which opened out onto a railed stone landing. Fabian stepped up to the railing and gazed over the edge. Wooden doors with iron grills were set into either end.

  Below a set of guards were seated with their booted feet up on a trestle table. Their swords were resting on the table beside their boots, reflecting the light of the lantern hung on a peg above their heads. Both guards held cards in their hands, intently studying the faces on each one. One guard leaned forward and tossed a card on the stack in the center on the table.

  “Sire of hearts,” he said. The other guard grunted.

  “Squire of diamonds,” he huffed, throwing his card on the pile.

  “You know, they had better arrive soon. Our shift is almost over,” said the first guard. The second grunted once more.

  “Sire, consort, and bastard of diamonds. I win.” The second tossed his remaining cards on the table.

  The first growled and peered over his feet at the display, suspicious.

  “You always pull that set. How is it you always get those cards?” The second guard shrugged, grinning.

  Anthony harrumphed loudly from the landing.

  Both guards shot to their feet, peering up at the balcony above. Spying Anthony, they relaxed.

  “About time you got here! What took you so long?”

  “There was a near riot in the courtyard for this guy’s sticky buns. He attracts more flies than…well you know, that’s not important now.” Anthony opened the door on the left and headed down the stairs approaching the guards, Fabian trailing in his wake.

  “When will the meal guard be around?”

  “Soon. Wendell usually arrives about a quarter to the hour which should be any time now.”

  “You are sure he is on board?”

  “Yeah, he has been doing this duty for twenty years. Sour to it, he is, always passed over for a promotion. He is keen to earn some gold though…and to get away from carrying chamber pots.” He chuckled, while reaching for a lantern.

  “This is Fabian, the one I told you about,” he said, waving vaguely in his direction. “Come on. Let’s find Wendell so we can get these cells open.”

  The second guard stood and produced a rusty keychain on which dangled around twenty long metal-toothed keys. It rattled as he searched for the correct key, and then he inserted it into the lock. With a creak of rusting hinges, the door opened to a gloomy interior hallway.

  The wavering light fell immediately on a ruddy face, lips parted to reveal a swollen tongue. Glassy eyes bulged as the corpse’s hands clutched the rope around his neck. The rope led up and over a crossbeam inside the doorway. His feet dangled as the body swayed mere inches from the floor.

  Chapter 43

  RYDER CHEWED HIS LOWER LIP AND THOUGHT. He chewed it some more and stewed over his choices. How does one hide five hundred plus soldiers from the eyes of the queen of the land as one descends on her city? His thoughts ran round and round in his head, but no answer presented itself.

  The swelling band pushed their way slowly through a rough terrain consisting of scrub brush and rocky abandoned farmers’ fields, keeping away from the main roads.

  The recent rains had left flooded pockets of mud, their path clearly visible to any who wished to follow. He hoped no one was interested in them. He snorted in response to the absurdity of his own thoughts, as more people drifted into his ranks on a daily basis. He feared the news of their movements was far outstripping their progress.

  Darius rode at his one shoulder, Laurista at his other. Both examined the shoreline ahead as they approached the banks of the river once more. They needed to find a good place to ford the river before they reached the capital proper.

  One of the scouts appeared out of a stand of trees about two hundred yards ahead of their location. Ryder saw it was the young lad Michale they had rescued from the legion camp. Ryder hadn’t realized Darius had recruited him into the scouting ranks.

  The lad rode up and joined Darius to give his report.

  “My lord, there is a good fording point not far from our location. The river widens and there are sandy shoals for about half of the river.”

  Ryder acknowledged the report with a nod. “Darius, alert the men and women and let the wagon drivers know
we are going to attempt a fording of the river. They may need to lighten their loads.”

  “Yes, sir.” He saluted and rode off to give the orders. Michale claimed a position out front, leading the way.

  Laurista watched the young man ride away. “He is adjusting well to his new duties. I had feared for his sanity when he was first brought to me. He was barely coherent. He is still a boy, only now entering his manly years.”

  “Yes, but war and violence will make a man of a boy before he realizes what has happened. One cannot witness what he did and not have his innocence stripped from him.” Ryder followed the lad’s progress with his eyes. He reached into his pocket and fingered the pouch he had received from the mysterious man in Pert Soaidh. It contained a coin to match the one he had recovered in Cottonham and a brooch with the insignia of the Royal House of Cathair, a golden shield wreathed in blue spirits.

  Laurista regarded Ryder. “Yes, it changes a boy into a man, doesn’t it?” She lifted an eyebrow knowingly at him.

  Ryder shifted in his saddle and chose to ignore her.

  The Band of the Rebel’s Land had swollen to over five hundred men. Ryder felt the weight of responsibility keenly. He had dreamed of becoming a knight, not the general of an army. He knew nothing of battle strategy or of fighting. Cayden had at least received some training. Ryder had none.

  Yet Cayden was relying on him to help and he would do exactly that. Cayden was changing too, Ryder mused; they all were.

  He had instructed Darius to search amongst the new volunteers for those men (and women) with battle experience. He had then seen them organized them into a rough command structure. He prayed it would be enough for he also realized they would be put to a true test one day soon. Every day they moved closer to the capital, and it pulled them closer to a confrontation with the Cathair garrison. He had no intention of riding up to the city gates alone. It would be suicide.

  By the scouting reports, it appeared they would reach the outskirts of the town in about two days.