As she began to think of him, she lowered herself from the stool and worked to pry the board from its spot and retrieve the bottle. The cool glass shone in her hands, and the gray sleepheather rolled slowly in its vessel. She stood in thought, remembering the day he had died. It was the siege. The sudden, horrific attack. The look on his face was forever etched in her mind. She watched his eyes and knew the moment his soul left his body.
The King had been seated at the large dining table. It wasn’t breakfast, which was still several hours away. Still, he was up. He enjoyed his eggs mixed and cooked in the way only she made them.
Tunia felt herself begin to tighten, recalling that day when three castle Sentries stormed into the kitchen—her kitchen—with the King. They were looking for a quick place to keep him safe until they could clear out the Mysra invaders. For who would ever think to look for him in here? The low horn blew for the first time and the hair on her neck stood. She had only heard it for rare military trainings before that.
Her fingers pulled the cork free.
It was for his immediate safety, until things were under control, they had explained. The kitchen was close to the dining room, and the enemy wouldn’t guess the King would be hidden there.
Then came the loud smack from the door banging back against the wall, a sound she still heard every time someone hurried in to her kitchen.
When the Sentries rushed in, Tunia loosed a loud gasp.
The King was panting at the great strides made to get there. He wiped at his brow. The Sentries separated; two running outside to guard, and the other to stay in the kitchen as a last form of defense for the King.
Her throat knotted as she remembered his face those final moments. While sitting in absolute silence, they looked at one another with panicked and disoriented gazes. They listened to the sounds of screaming outside, and even from just outside, in the hall. Then, growing in sharpness, the sounds of swords clashing loudly just outside the kitchen. Odana Sentries were fighting, spending their very lives to protect the King at every cost.
She poured the gray syrup into the small waiting wine barrel. A few drops had been enough to set all the Mysra slumbering a few nights before.
Suddenly, the remaining Sentry had dutifully left the kitchen to go to their aid. But returning to the kitchen moments later, instead . . . was Grude.
Her heart pounded violently, even now, in this moment, she felt it.
The King had leaned slowly from the stool, looking at Grude. The look on the King’s face. He was done. That look of abandonment. For he knew in that instant, it was over.
With a silver flash, Grude had delivered a smooth strike through the King’s heart. Fast. So fast, Tunia didn’t know if she was actually seeing it. The King, her beloved King—his lifeless body thudded onto the wooden kitchen floor. His eyes remained on hers. He just crumpled there, his arms and legs giving no response to the fall.
Grude said not a word. He merely gave Tunia a cold smile and stormed out. His vengeance for the King’s denial of the trillium he so craved, was now delivered.
Tunia had loosed a piercing scream and rushed over to the King’s lifeless body. She threw herself on the cold stone floor and jerked his collar to rouse him. Blood spewed crimson from his shirt, pouring out. But no matter her attempts to revive him; she knew he was gone. His lifeless eyes stared into eternity with unwavering focus. There was no one to come to his aid, and even if there were, he was already gone.
In this moment of quiet memory in the kitchen, Tunia felt rage building. She smacked the bottom of the bottle, an attempt to empty the last of the contents into the waiting barrel. Damn, it’s so thick and slow.
The door of the kitchen flew to smack against the stone wall behind it. The sound made Tunia spill viscid drops of the potion.
Oh fires!
Tunia’s eyes flicked up to Nizen as he stormed in.
“I’m hungry, I want”—the guard inhaled and stopped short. His focus was now on her hands where she stood. On the wine barrel. On the hole. On the grey liquid dribbling out.
Tunia was balancing on her stool, still holding the glass bottle. She looked guilty, and it was a look he had never seen her wear.
“You!” He stomped closer to her, his steps rattling the hanging pots and pans. “What is that?!” His voice was low. “What are you doing to the wine?” His eyes glared red in mounting fury.
Tunia tried to quickly squirrel away the bottle in her skirts.
“No. Give me that!” he growled, grabbing her fleshy arm hard. He squeezed and she winced in pain.
It wasn’t the first time he had hurt her.
He raised her tightly squeezed arm and squinted at the revelation—a glass bottle containing syrupy silver liquid. He grabbed it from her hand, lifting the bottle closer to his squinting eyes for further examination. He refused to wear spectacles and look like a weakling.
“Sleepheather oil,” he read from the faded yellowed label. He paused, thinking and then realizing. “Sleepheather oil!” He railed, turning to the large barrel. Visible traces of the gray liquid oozed around a small opening at the top. His eyes widened at the revelation.
Horrified that he knew of this particular oil, Tunia interjected feebly, “It’s—It’s medicinal. I—I use this to sleep.” Nizen stood looking gravely at her. It was possible he’d slam his fist against her head, but it was more likely he was going to kill her. But she continued anyway. “I—I thought it would be helpful for everyone to get rest since they’ve all been working so hard.” Tunia stumbled over her words.
She could see in his reaction that he didn’t believe her. Understanding that she was out of options, understanding she wanted to avoid a public thrashing and hanging like punished mining slaves, she decided to end it. End the years of joylessness, the never-ending moments of despair. She’d reunite with her beloved King and loved ones stolen from her. Her eyes welled with tears.
She snatched the glass bottle back from Nizen’s grip. Throwing her head back, she gulped the dense liquid, but only a few thick droplets left. It was tasteless in her mouth. He grabbed it back. But it was too late. She swallowed hard against the thickness, forcing her throat to squeeze it down. Its power struck. That instant, in a flash, she entered an eternal slumber. Her skirts billowed around her in a soft blur of blue as her body fell from her stepping-stool. She landed on her familiar wood floor with a heavy thud.
Nizen stood still with his hand out, holding the bottle. Anger brewed from within, a blazing furnace in his gut. He wouldn’t leash it. No. He squeezed his fingers into rolled fists as a growing heat surged to his face. That moment he realized this dead slave was responsible for the heavy slumber that had plagued his warriors and fellow guards. The heavy slumber had allowed six precious slaves to escape and she had been the culprit all along! That lowly bitch!
The sleep that caused Grude to degrade and to humiliate me—to put me next on his butchering list! He had to make an example of this—this . . . deceitfulness. She was lucky to have ended herself. He would have skinned her alive in front of everyone. He’d find a way to make her an example, meant to show the slaves what consequences look like. This disobedience would stop. Now. Too much had been at risk around here these days.
He had the perfect ammunition to drive home the severity of her betrayal and raise fear about the punishment of such treachery.
He dropped the bottle, which clattered and slid across the floor. The glass remained intact, thick syrup still coating the inside as a cold molasses.
His cape brushed the floor as he squatted and scooped up Tunia’s stout body with ease. Seething anger pulsed through his veins and blurred his vision even more. He turned from the kitchen and stumbled through the open doorway and into the hall outside. Tunia’s lifeless limbs and head hung and swayed at his strides. His heart pounded against her corpse, seemingly weightless in his muscle-wrapped arms.
He walked down and around the spiral mountain slope to the base of the castle. As he approached the castle slave encampment
carrying Tunia, gasps and shrieks erupted in horror. Some ran, and others disappeared into dilapidated huts at the approaching terror.
Nizen held a scowl as his eyes darted around, contemplating where to drop her body. Dizzy from hunger and rage, he tumbled Tunia to the ground. He didn’t bother to fix her tangled blue skirts or the awkward position of her body. She was nothing more than a pile of refuse to him—he forgot her that very instant.
He stood erect to yell for anyone within earshot. “This!” he pointed, “See this! This is what happens when you betray!” Thick spit flew at his forced words: “Learn from this corpse!” His glare took in several random, paled faces. “I will always find out if there is plotting!” He caught the fleeting gaze of a horrified male slave. “You . . . take this body to the slave cemetery and”—he threw his arms up—"deal with it.” The slave nodded.
Nizen grunted. He still needed to eat. He turned from them and paced the incline back to the castle.
He thrust open the kitchen door, smacking it against the wall, and Cantata jumped. She stood in the kitchen holding a hand over her chest. She had hoped to find Tunia in here – anyone one in here. But when she found the kitchen slave absent, she had been sneaking around for something to eat. Trilla had been ordered to the mines after all. Her heart now raced at the menacing Nizen. The kitchen grew warmer in an instant as boiling anger radiated from his body.
His eyes widened in recognition. Trying, but not succeeding, to damper his anger, he spoke to her in a slightly lightened growl: “You’re Cantata, the singer . . .” His red eyes glared down at her.
Death. His eyes looked like death to her. Her mouth hung open and she gave a silent nod.
“I understand that you also assist in the kitchen,” he said. That had been truly only once, but sensing his rage, she gave more silent nodding. “Good!” he breathed. “You’re to take Tunia’s place in the kitchen—for now.” He stared threateningly at her. The next round of kitchen slaves weren’t due for a small while yet.
She knew no matter how popular she was, he’d rip her to shreds at a hint of her refusal. Nizen wasn’t one to cross. She might have been able to mold Grude a little, but not this hated guard. She again nodded silently, her wiry hair swaying. She’d question the details later, and correct the misapprehension that she was a slave, but that would be at a time when she was not fearful of losing her life. She’d tell Grude—or perhaps show Grude—her dormant culinary skills. Perhaps I could get paid even more—
“Here!”
She jumped again.
He inhaled sharply. “Fix me lunch.” He stifled the shouting in the back of his throat with every word the came from his mouth. “I want what Tunia served from yesterday. You can find what’s left over, in there.” He pointed a commandingly to the icebox in the corner.
“When you’re done, I’ll be in my tent near the Purple Hall.” And without a further word, he turned and marched out. The door smacked again and his red cape whipped as he turned the corner.
Cantata stood quivering in silence. Then she collected her breath, patted down the sides of her head, and wiped her hands against her dress. She looked around. Lunch. Lunch. Lunch. The icebox, right. Her eyes landed on a forgotten glass bottle. She bent to pick it up. “Sleephea—"Sleepheather oil! She inhaled and slapped her hand over her mouth. This was a rare find indeed. A potentially useful poison. She licked her thin lips.
“Mmm . . . where can I put you?” she muttered. Her dark eyes went to the small wooden barrel that held yellowberry wine, a drizzle of gray liquid running down the side. Tunia was caught trying to poison the Mysra, she gathered. All the more reason to stash this bottle away. “Never know when I may need you,” she whispered, tucking it away in a cupboard behind the royal stemware and crystal. It was invisible so far back and this was the only cupboard she was familiar with, for now.
Nizen had been so overcome with rage, he’d forgotten about this detail, for the time being. She could sweeten up to him a bit, gain his trust. If he asked, she’d simply say that she threw it away. He’d believe her. She was Cantata, the most trusted, beloved, and talented WynSprign.
A sly full smirk curved across her ivory face. She turned on her heel and danced to the icebox to fetch Nizen some lunch.
A song fluted from her lips.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Scrambling under leadership
Dust swirled in the air as the Mysra camp stirred. It seemed dawn had arrived in her purple hue a bit too soon, and before long the beautiful shades of purple, pink, and orange would give way to the flashing white-hot of the Yellow Vast. Neen was determined to get his troops out quickly. He figured they didn’t need to be well rested or prepared for the minor task ahead of them, and their rider had probably reached Grude by now to alert him of their location. Taking the WynSprigns would be simple enough. They weren’t used to fighting and his warriors were. Plus, he had many small barrels of trillium in tow.
The day before they had safely arrived at the brook. The horses had their share of water, and the Mysra enjoyed more fish. The stench from the dead hags had reduced since his last visit—it seemed all was going as planned. The horde was rested, fed, and ready for the siege.
Neen raised his arms in the air as he called the charge. Enough time had been spent. “Delay no more! We’re moving out to claim our slaves! Now!”
Some shouted in great anticipation. They were ready for this. They were determined to make Grude happy and to enjoy their trillium reward and the plunder.
✽✽✽
The sun was up, and the Yellow Vast was bright in the unfiltered, un-misted light. The land was stable, as if sleeping—with no hint of disturbance, no birds or other animals stirring about. Freck was starting to wonder if the Mysra were actually going to come. He was more than ready to defend his fellow WynSprigns. He was made for this, having famed ancestors whose warrior blood ran thick through his veins. He was ashamed to admit that he almost looked forward to the challenge—learning, testing the extent of his warrior training in real-life. The downfall, however, was having the others succumb to battle injury, or even death. Ultimately, he didn’t want the impending battle.
Thinking over the possible realities of a battle, he looked back at Tarn and Jain. They were relaxing, munching on the wild berries they’d found earlier, peaceful and unaware. He looked over to his other side, where Stefin was lying on his stomach, holding his chin in his hands and staring out into the bright wilderness. Freck was glad to see him quiet for once and not rambling on as he usually did.
Freck returned his hunter’s gaze out to the Yellow Vast. It was then. He spotted something . . .
His now-familiar view had changed. Far off in the distance a thin black line skimmed the horizon, and tan plumes of what he imaged was dust lingered over it as a veil. His heart stopped. He focused. Yes. Something was coming, fast.
“Hey—Hey! You guys, look!” He whirled to look back at Tarn and Jain, and then over at Stefin. “You see that? there on the horizon”—he pointed to the thin dust cloud in the far-off landscape. His voice held slightly below panic.
The three stood to peer in the direction he pointed and they, too, saw the dust cloud grow over the movement beneath it.
“You see it?!”
A flash of curses erupted behind him. “Yes!” Stefin shouted. “I see it too!” He paused. “You think this is it? Should we leave now?” His previously calm gaze had grown wild.
Freck remained steady. He took a deep breath. He needed to be sure there was a reason for alarm. “Let me see just a bit more,” he mumbled, squinting. “I just want to make sure before we go running and getting everyone ready for battle.” He focused on the horizon, licking his thin lips. Sweat beaded on his brow.
Stefin narrowed his gaze at Freck, waiting anxiously for his response. He was fidgeting with the antler bit in his pocket—a normal reaction from him.
It had only been seconds when suddenly a long trailing line of riders could just be seen, still far off,
but enough to show the line curved over the horizon. A thin, dark line of death. It was hard to tell at this distance, but they looked large and there were many of them—Oh fires, perhaps a hundred! Any movement in the Yellow Vast, they knew from their short time there, was rare. This was definite cause for alarm.
“Yes! We must move!” Freck yelled as a pungent kick of reality brought him to the present. “Move! Move! Move! Leave our things—it won’t matter if they see ‘em. With our foot traffic, they’d be able to track us into the village anyway! We need our hunting bows and arrows! Take them up! Quick!”
In swift movements they responded to his orders. The young hunters turned, grabbing their quivers and bows, and bolted for the Great Mist realm. Adrenaline coursing through them, they ran faster than they ever had before, whizzing past the trees. The sparse boughs slapped their faces as they raced haphazardly through the dense brush, hardly noticing as low-lying brush whipped at their charging legs.
✽✽✽
The Great Mist warriors had gathered at Fenner’s house with their weapons, to train where the trees were loftier. In the midst of morning training, they stopped at the sound of the approaching runners, and at the head of them, Freck wasted no time shouting his announcement: “They’ve come!”
Heads whirled in his direction. The new warriors froze in unfamiliar alarm, their weapons lowered. Staring. Blinking.
“It’s time! They’ve come!” Freck insisted. “We spotted them on the horizon!” He panted, searching for air, trying to stir them to action.
“They’re probably much closer by now!” Stefin contributed, panting. He just arrived at Freck’s side.
Warriors looked around in disbelief, like stunned deer.
Freck’s mouth gaped at them. “Did you hear me? Get going to your posts! Now!”
They scrambled as they awoke to his leadership.
Hearing the shouting, Fenner stumbled out from Lanico’s home. “They’ve come?” he asked, peering through his thick eyebrows and finding Freck.
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 29
