Seer of Souls (The Spirit Shield Saga Book 1) Page 5

  “Alcina, what do you have to report?”

  “Great One, we have picked up a trail that may lead us to whom we seek. We have heard rumours of a presence in the north country by the sea that could be promising.”

  The shadows trembled. “Rumours do not produce the prophesied heir. I feel that your motivation is not strong enough in this matter. Perhaps a demonstration is in order?”

  “No!” gasped Alcina. “No, Great Mistress! I desire to find this usurper to my throne! I will not stand to have our plans…I mean, your plans…derailed at this time! I long to serve beside you…I mean beneath you,” she hastily amended at the growl of the Goddess, “for all eternity!”

  She panted, trying to slow her racing heart, fear prickling along the nerve endings of her hair, which tried to stand on end in response.

  “See that you do not forget who the goddess is here, Alcina. I will grant immortality to those who serve me well. As for those who do not, they will also live forever. But I do not believe that they will find it a pleasant experience.” She chuckled and the sound was as if she dragged her fingernails down a chalkboard. The sound shrieked through Alcina’s soul, deafening her to all but her own fear.

  “I will not fail you, Mistress!”

  “See that you do not,” the goddess replied as she faded from the room.

  ***

  Cayden eased himself out of the cave and stood facing the sea. He breathed in deeply, eyes closed, tongue tasting the salty tang in the air. He exhaled, seeking calm and courage in the shushing of the waves over the rocks below. He reached out with his senses and found the shadows of those animals now bound to him by his flutes and felt at peace with his decision.

  Opening his eyes, Cayden climbed back to the ridge, then examined the forest ahead, as he crossed the clearing. He saw the crown of the ancient oak towering above the rest of its prodigy on the forest floor. He trotted toward the matriarch to retrieve a flute or two to keep him company during his travels, wherever the legion took him.

  Reaching the base of the tree, he knelt down and scooped away the leaves and branches hiding the entrance. Reaching inside, he retrieved the brown bag and untied the drawstrings.

  He took out the longer, thicker flute, the base of which he had carved with a symbol vaguely reminding him of a paw print. The other one he selected was narrow and thin, delicate like the bones in the wing of a bird. The song of this flute was the cry of an eagle on the hunt.

  He left the remaining flutes in the bag and secured it back under the roots, carefully covering the opening with more leaves and sticks.

  His feet retraced the familiar, well-worn path home that he had trod most of his life. As he approached the farm’s boundary, the sheep in the closed pasture bleated to him in greeting.

  He entered the squat cabin, took a leather satchel from a post by the door, and then hurried into his room. He grabbed a coil of string used for snaring and a hook with line used for fishing, shoving both into a pocket of his oiled leather duster. In the other pocket, he put a short-bladed knife and sheath and a piece of flint and striker stone. Into the bottom of his satchel, he put the two flutes he had retrieved and the one he had carved that day, wrapping them with his woolen socks.

  Next to go in were two wool sweaters, two lightweight shirts with leather lacings, and a spare pair of pants. A bar of soap and some shaving supplies followed the clothing. He took one last look around, before throwing his duster on over his clothes.

  As he turned towards the door, his eyes fell on the blue agate stone his sister had given him. She had sworn she could always find him if he kept it on his person. He had laughed off her claims as childish fantasies, but in light of his own abilities, he decided to take it with him. Besides, it would help remind him of home and why he was choosing to join the legion in the first place. He tucked the stone into a hidden inner pocket of his shirt, close to his heart.

  The next stop was the kitchen, where he grabbed some dried beans, dried mutton, a small cooking pot, and a leather waterskin. These were also placed in his satchel.

  He snatched up the quill and ink jar, lying on the table, unstoppered the jar, then retrieved a piece of parchment and a quill and quickly scrawled a note. Dipping the tip in the ink, he wrote:

  “Father, I know this decision of mine will seem sudden to you, but you have always known of my desire to see the world and especially Cathair and joining the legion seems the perfect opportunity to do so. Know that I choose this of my own free will and do not follow me. Take care of Avery. Give her my love. I will send word when I am able.” All of the above was a lie, of course. Cayden knew his father would see through the ruse, but he was afraid to leave a more personal and incriminating note. He signed his name and placed the note under the kettle sitting on the counter.

  Picking up his bow and quiver, he committed this last view of his childhood home to memory.

  Closing the door behind him, Cayden left the cabin.

  Chapter 8

  “What is the price of freedom? What is the cost of war? As the storm crashes against the mountain so shall be the salvation of the world.”

  —EXCERPT FROM THE TOME OF SALVATION

  CAYDEN STEPPED ONTO THE DUSTY ROAD at the outer edge of the last farm, leading his horse. An eerie quiet hung over the town as he entered in sharp contrast to the Beltane bustle present a few hours earlier. The reason became evident as he rounded the corner of the building leading to the village square.

  The buildings making up the village had been emptied and everyone herded to the village square. A ring of soldiers, swords drawn, surrounded the men, women, and children huddled together with their heads bowed. Cayden spied Ryder in the group, head bent in a submissive posture. Ryder avoided his eyes, although Cayden could feel his gaze.

  Cayden stopped walking. His gaze swung to the tall man he had seen earlier on horseback, who was gripping the front of Cayden’s father’s shirt. Blood trickled from his split lip and he spat to the side.

  “I told you. I have not seen my son since noon, my lord,” Cayden’s father said quietly.

  “He is the only person not accounted for in this hellhole of a village. I will know where he is or this town will rue the day he was born. Now tell the truth!”

  The two men holding Cayden’s father’s arms tightened their grip in anticipation of another blow from the lord.

  “I am here!” Cayden cried out. He strode toward the small group of soldiers.

  At his words, heads swung in his direction, and he felt his father’s sorrowful face following his path, full of disappointment. A contingent of soldiers detached themselves and with weapons drawn, surrounded Cayden, as he walked up to his father.

  The high lord grabbed Cayden by his coat front. “Where have you been hiding, boy?” he snarled.

  “I haven’t been hiding anywhere. I was at home gathering some things together to volunteer for the queen’s service.”

  “No one volunteers for the queen’s service from these parts,” he snarled into Cayden’s face. “Volunteer service is for ten years. Conscription is for an additional five years, and a liar’s service? That is for life, as we make sure they do not make it through the fifteen years.” The soldiers surrounding Cayden barked a laugh, eyeing the skinny frame of the new recruit. “Now tell me again. Why would a farm boy like you volunteer?”

  Cayden’s father, Gaius, blinked in confusion. Pride shone from his eyes, shadowed with worry.

  I’m sorry, Father. Cayden apologized with a mental grimace for the lie, as he opened his mouth to respond. “I have hated the farm my entire life. Who wants to chase sheep for the rest of their days?” Cayden announced loudly. “I have yearned to travel and see the world. What better way than in the Queen’s Guard?”

  At that moment, a rider from the legion camp galloped into the village, dirt flying beneath his horse’s hooves. Hauling his sweaty mount to a halt, he saluted. “My lord! One of the scouts has been murdered, my lord. His throat was cut on patrol. The other two sc
outs say two men jumped them in the woods and fled after they were confronted.”

  “They have tracked these men back to their camp?”

  “No, my lord. They said they followed their trail to the river where they lost them.”

  The high lord grimaced and waved the guard away. “Likely they were thieves attempting to rob the camp, scavengers from this sorry, godforsaken backwater.” He returned his focus to Cayden and hatred of his duty transferred to the fresh recruit in front of him. “Since you are so eager to join our ranks, you will return with this rider to the recruitment tents. Guardsman, escort our fine new volunteer back to camp.”

  Saluting, the mounted guardsman prodded Cayden with his booted foot. “Get moving, recruit,” he said, pointing in the direction of the camp.

  Cayden’s father made to grab him, but the lord promptly struck him across the face, knocking him to the ground again.

  Cayden’s heart lurched. “Please, Father, accept my decision. I will write when I have time.” Cayden mounted up and joined the soldiers. He did not look back.

  ***

  Avery watched from the midst of the huddled people in the middle of the square. Mothers clutched their children to their skirts and the men’s eyes darted around, anxiously watching the sharp swords surrounding them.

  Avery’s heart sank as she watched her brother walk up to her father. She could not hear his words, but she saw her father’s expression. She knew. It was as she had foreseen.

  Her brother glowed with a soft blue aura that never left him. The light pulsed with his feelings. She sensed a riot of emotions although outwardly his face was calm. He was fury mixed with fear, but overriding it all was concern for their father.

  The elder lord struck her father again and Cayden’s aura pulsed angrily even though his face remained expressionless. He is hiding his true intentions, she thought to herself. Why? And why is he carrying his satchel as though he planned…No! He is planning to join them?

  She stifled a cry as he rode away in front of the mounted guardsman. Cayden picked her out of the crowd and grinned at her. She felt waves of reassurance coming from him.

  He has my stone, she realized suddenly.

  “Release them!” the lord snapped to the guards who still surrounded the villagers. “They are of no further use to us. Report back to camp.”

  The men sheathed their swords and swung into saddles. Forming up, they clattered back down the street, following Cayden and the lone guardsman.

  The lord addressed Avery’s father. The men holding Gaius let go of him and he collapsed to the dirt of the street. With a final kick to the ribs, they left him lying curled in a ball and, laughing, mounted their waiting horses and rode away.

  Avery ran over to her father and knelt down beside him, grasping his shoulder and rolling him over onto his back.

  “Are you OK? What did they want with Cayden, Father?” Avery said, running her hands over his ribs checking for broken bones.

  “They were searching for new conscriptions and Cayden was missing. I tried to hold them off, but then Cayden walks right up to them and volunteers! What in the world was he thinking? He should have hid until they left.”

  Avery glanced in the direction of the road that had swallowed Cayden’s form. “I don’t think they would have left, Father. I think they were determined to take away one person from this village. Cayden is up to something. I know it.”

  Gaius sat up, wincing at the pain in his side. Avery helped him to his feet. Gaius did not understand the connection between the twins, but he knew it was real. He had observed it from their first breaths. His wife used to say it was like they drew the same breath. And yet, they were very different. If Avery said Cayden was up to something, he was.

  Turning, she helped him back to the inn and onto a chair by a table inside the door. Ryder Briarman walked in right behind them and paused by their table. His face was stiff, lips compressed into a straight line.

  “I need to speak to you both. Not here not where we can be overheard. Join me in the corner booth by the fireplace?”

  They nodded, claiming the table in the corner, sliding onto the bench side by side. Ryder strode to the bar and ordered three mugs of ale. Collecting them from the barmaid, he carried them to the booth and placed a mug of beer before each of them. Gaius accepted gratefully, taking a tender sip. He dabbed at his split lip with a handkerchief from his pocket. Ryder slid onto the bench across from them, eyes downcast.

  Avery starred impatiently, mug untouched, and waited for Ryder to speak. Reluctantly, he met her eyes.

  “You know what is going on with Cayden,” she stated. “You know what this is all about. Cayden would never volunteer for the legion. He hates violence and everything to do with it. He is afraid of violence. What’s going on, Ryder?”

  Ryder opened his mouth and, voice soft, told them what had happened.

  Gaius frowned and Avery gasped, flinging hands over her mouth to stifle the sound. Ryder hung his head and his voice quivered when he reached the part where he admitted to killing the guard. Gaius bolted to his feet jostling the table in his haste. Avery pulled him back down with a quick glance around the inn. Thankfully the room was empty as the villagers had gone home with their families.

  “It was the only solution we could come up with, at the time.” Ryder’s shoulders drooped. “I didn’t want him to do this, but he insisted. He did not want a repeat of what happened to my village all those years ago.”

  Ryder hugged his body, his beefy arms bulging with the effort to hold in his pain. His fists clenched, the veins in his arms bulging with tension. My best friend is gone. When will I ever see him again?

  Avery reached across the table, unfolded the fingers, and took his big rough hand in hers in comfort.

  Gaius’s face was pale and etched with sad lines. He took a deep breath.

  “We know you did not want him to go alone.” Frowning, he voiced his thought aloud. “Do you think the other two guards will recognize Cayden?”

  Ryder’s heart jumped in his chest with fear. He groaned, guilt wriggling in his chest as though the snakes of Cayden’s prank resided there. “Oh lords! What will they do to him if they realize he was with me?”

  “We will have to trust Cayden to this,” Gaius said. “He is a smart lad. He will figure out a way to survive in the legion. One thing is certain. We must play along with his ruse or we will draw attention to the timing of his choice.”

  Worry etched all their faces as they contemplated the reality of all that had transpired.

  “Did they take any other boys?”

  Gaius shook his head. “Not from this village. I heard they took two boys from Maiden’s Head a week back, but I know of no others.”

  Gaius stood, drawing Avery up with him. “It’s time to get back to the farm, if we are to arrive before the sun sets. Thank you for telling us this.” He gripped Ryder’s shoulder for a moment and then they were gone.

  Ryder watched them both leave the inn. He had never felt so alone in his life. Not since those early days so long ago. Cayden was gone and Ryder had no idea when he would ever see him again. Ryder put his head down on his arms. His great shoulders shook with pent-up grief.

  Chapter 9

  THE PEOPLE OF THE VILLAGE of Lower Cathair watched from windows and doors as the formation of the Queen’s Guard marched past the town in orderly rows, their pikes and halberds stowed on backs bristling like porcupines. Most of the watchers were grey-haired men, backs curving with age, weary-eyed from their toils of the day in the hot spring sun.

  The soldiers paid little attention to the villagers as they marched past. This town had been cleared of young men long ago, as its proximity to the castle gate assured men of conscription age had been identified and secured for the throne.

  Dust stirred in the wake of the stomping boots and drifted in a cloud behind the thousand or so troops, as they disappeared over the rise of the hill.

  Denzik frowned and lowered the pipe from his mouth,
watching the retreating backs of the soldiers.

  He was a good Kingsman, when such things had been allowed, and he still considered himself such. No kingdom should be ruled by a queen and especially not one acquiring power in the manner of the current one.

  He had not reached sixty years of age without having seen a thing or two in his time. Rumours or no, the power of the land was held by the queen, and it seemed might made right…for now at least.

  Glancing down, he noticed his pipe had gone cold. He reached inside his pocket, took out his tobacco pouch, and pinched enough to fill his pipe bowl between his forefinger and his thumb. He used his thumb to compact it in place and then leaning over, took a small stick and lit it in the fireplace by his side. He brought the glowing end to the bowl of his pipe and puffed it into flame. Smoke curled up to form a haze around his head.

  He opened the front door and stepped out onto his porch. By the central well stood the village baker, Fabian Tavish, and beside him was Nelson McDermid, the owner of The Kings Steed, the village pub and inn. Denzik stepped off his porch and walked over to join the two men.

  Fabian was short and as round as the sticky honey buns that had made him famous across the valley. Many rumoured he sampled every batch he made to be assured they were the finest. Denzik mused that it might even be true; however, it was best not to judge the baker by his girth as he had been one of the best captains ever to ride in the King’s Cavalry, before their abrupt dismissal.

  Nelson was equally as short but skinny and leathery as though the food served at his inn was not fit to eat. That did not stop the locals from flocking to the inn before heading home in the evenings to gossip and share news of the day over a cold pint. Nelson ran his inn with a strict hand. The pub and inn were scrupulously clean, the food served piping hot, and the ale chilled in the stream behind the inn where Nelson had hollowed out an underground cellar and plumbed in water to act as a cooling system. The underground room also served as a cold cellar where he refrigerated his food supplies. It was the envy of the town. Sometimes he even managed to make iced creams, a delicacy reminding Denzik of sweetened butter.