The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

“All done?”


“Just a sec, just a sec,” he muttered. “You’re early.”

“We’ve been on duty since dawn,” one of the guards complained. “This is the last job of the night. Honestly, I don’t know why you put such effort into it, Thinly.”

“It’s what I do, and I want it done right.”

“Trust me, no one is going to complain. Nobody cares.”

“I care,” Ibis remarked, his voice sharp enough to end the subject.

The guard shrugged his shoulders and waited.

“Who’s the soup for?” Amilia asked.

The guard hesitated. “Not really supposed to talk about that, milady.”

The other guard gave him a rough nudge. “She’s the bloody Secretary to the Empress.”

The first one blushed. “Forgive me, milady. It’s just that Regent Saldur can be a little scary sometimes.”

Amilia agreed in her head but externally remained aloof.

His friend slapped himself in the forehead rolling his eyes. “Blimey, James you’re a fool. Forgive him, milady.”

“What?” James looked puzzled. “What’d I say?”

The guard shook his head sadly. “You just insulted the regent and admitted you don’t respect Her Ladyship all in one breath.”

James’ face drained of color.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Higgles, milady.” He swallowed hard and bowed again.

“Why don’t you answer my question then?”

“We takes the soup to the north tower. You know, the one ’tween the well and the stables.”

“How many prisoners are there?”

The two guards looked at each other. “None that we know of, milady.”

“So, who is the soup for?”

He shrugged. “We just leaves it with the Seret Knight.”

“Soup’s done,” Ibis declared.

“Is that all, milady?” Higgles asked.

She nodded and the two disappeared out the door to the courtyard, each holding one of the pot’s handles.

“Now, let me make you something.” Ibis said wiping his big hands on his apron.

“Huh?” Amilia asked still thinking about the two guards. “No thanks, Ibis,” she said, getting up. “There’s something I need to do, I think.”





***




The lack of a cloak became painfully uncomfortable when she was halfway across the inner ward. The weather had jumped from a friendly autumn of brightly colored leaves, clear blue skies, and crisp nights to the gray, icy cold of pre-winter. A half moon glimmered through hazy clouds as she stepped through the vegetable garden, now no more than a graveyard of brown dirt. She approached the chicken coop carefully trying to avoid disturbing the hens. There was nothing wrong with being out, no rules against wandering the ward at night, but at that moment she felt sinister.

She ducked into the woodshed just as James and Higgles passed by on their return journey. After several minutes, Amilia crept forward, slipped around the well and entered the northeast tower—the prison tower as she now dubbe it.

Just as described, a Seret Knight stood at attention dressed in black armor with the red symbol of a broken crown on his chest. Decorated with a red feather plume, the helm he wore covered his face. He appeared not to notice her, which was odd, as all guards bowed to Amilia now. The seret said nothing as she stepped around him toward the stairs. She was shocked when he made no move to stop her.

Up she went, periodically passing cells. None of the doors were locked, and she pushed some open and stepped inside. Each room was small. Old, rotted straw lay scattered across the ground. Tiny windows allowed only a fraction of moonlight to enter. There were heavy chains mounted to the walls and the floor. Some had a stool or bucket, but most were bare of any furniture. Amilia felt uncomfortable while in the rooms. It was not just the cold, it was the thought that she might end up in just such a place.

James and Higgles were correct; the tower was empty.

She returned down the steps to the seret. “Excuse me, but what are you guarding? There is no one here.”

He did not respond.

“Where did the soup go?”

Again, the seret stood mute. Unable to see his eyes through the helm, and thinking perhaps he was asleep while standing up, she took a step closer. The seret moved and, as fast as a snake, his hand grabbed hold of his sword and drew it partway from its scabbard, allowing the metal to hiss, a sound that echoed ominously in the stone tower.

Amilia fled.





***




“Are you going to tell her?” Nimbus asked.

The two were in Amilia’s office finishing the last of the invitation lists for the scribes to begin working on. Parchments were everywhere. On the wall hung a layout of the Great Hall, perforated with countless pinholes from the shifting of guest positions.

“No, I will not add to that witch’s arsenal of insanity with tales of mysterious disappearing pots of soup! I’ve worked for months to put Modina back together. I won’t allow her to be broken again.”

“But what if—”

“Drop it Nimbus.” Amilia shuffled through her scrolls. “I should never have told you. I went. I looked. I saw nothing. I can’t believe I even did that much. Maribor help me. The witch even had me out in the dark chasing her phantoms. What are you grinning at?”

“Nothing,” Nimbus said. “I just have this impression of you slinking around the courtyard.”

“Oh, stop it!”

“Stop what?” Saldur asked as he entered unannounced.

The regent swept into her office and looked at each of them with a disarming smile.

“Nothing, Your Grace, Nimbus was merely having a little joke.”

“Nimbus? Nimbus?” Saldur repeated eyeing the man trying to recall something.

“He’s my assistant, and Modina’s tutor, a refugee from Vernes,” Amilia explained.

Saldur looked annoyed. “I’m not an idiot, Amilia, I know who Nimbus is. I was thinking about the name. The word is from the old imperial tongue. Nimbus, unless I am mistaken, it means mist or cloud, isn’t that right?” He looked at Nimbus for acknowledgement, but he merely shrugged apologetically. “Well, anyway,” Saldur addressed Amilia. “I wanted to know how things were proceeding for the wedding. It is only a few months away.”

“I was just sending these invitations to the scribes. I have them ordered by distance so those living the farthest away should have couriers leaving as early as next week.”

“Excellent, and the dress?”

“I finally got the design decided. We’re just waiting for material to be delivered from Colnora.”

“And how is Modina coming along?”

“Fine, fine,” she lied, smiling as best she could.

“She took the news of her wedded bliss well then?”

“Modina receives all news pretty much the same way.”