The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [47]
An hour passed, then another. She waited patiently until Garamond exhaled deeply, then stirred no more. Her fingers pressed against his wrist, searching for a pulse. There was none; he was finally at rest.
J’ross pulled the basket out from under the bed to set about her next task.
“The king is sleeping. Do not disturb him,” she commanded as she walked past the guards.
Deemus nodded; Pymer sheathed his knife and fell into step beside her. As the lady of the manor she had the right to an armed escort, but over the last year she had noted a subtle shift in the guard’s demeanor, an increased vigilance and attention to her activities. As Garamond’s health worsened, the privilege of Pymer’s company had become more difficult to decline, and the few opportunities to slip away from his supervision had been hard won. Her guard was rapidly becoming her jailer.
They proceeded to the House kitchen in silence since her past attempts to make light conversation had only rendered Pymer more surly. This failure to charm confirmed her suspicions that the Aegis soldiers were ready to transfer their loyalty to Taramuk.
“Th’a! It’s hot down here,” cried Pymer as they descended the back steps. “This is no work for a soldier.”
“The king’s chamber is cool. You could have stayed there.”
He only scowled.
No queen had set foot in the kitchens before J’ross, but then no other queen of the House had been a baker. Some of the servants admired her ascent into nobility, while others scorned her common origins; they all kept their distance when she entered their domain.
She threaded her way between bustling cooks and table servers with their trays, but the soldier was less nimble and earned several muttered curses when he blocked their path or tripped their feet.
By the time he caught up with her, J’ross had pulled a ball of dough from her basket and was pinching shut the cracks in its surface. She then placed it on a wooden paddle and shoved it inside the nearest oven.
Pymer began to sweat. “How long is this going to take?”
“Not long,” she said. “Spiced kahla doesn’t need to rise.”
His scowl etched deeper and deeper into his face as they waited, and his face had flushed a bright green from the radiant heat before she pronounced the crust to be properly browned.
“Anyone could do this,” said Pymer as they retraced their path to the king’s chamber. Irritation had loosened his tongue.
“It’s not so easy as it looks,” said J’ross. She swung the bread basket from one arm, but her free hand wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow.
Their entrance into the chamber caught the single sentry in the middle of a yawn. “The king is still sleeping.”
“I hate to wake him, but he must eat to keep up his strength.” She raised her voice as she approached the bed. “I’ve brought you fresh baked kahla, my lord. Your favorite delicacy.”
She peered down at the old man’s face.
“My lord?”
She dropped the basket and fell to her knees by his bedside. “My lord! My lord is dead!”
Her cries turned to sobs as she threw herself over the still body. She could hear the pounding of the sentries’ boots as they ran toward her.
“Move aside, woman!” commanded Deemus, shoving her away so that he could examine the king for himself. He touched the man’s face, then snatched back his hand. “Th’a! He’s already cold.”
“Then he died on your watch,” said Pymer quickly.
“Idiot, Taramuk won’t care when the old king died.” J’ross watched Deemus scrabble frantically through the bedcovers. “It’s the rock that matters now. Where is—” He spun around, sword drawn clear of its sheath by the time he faced her.
Deemus, reflected J’ross ruefully, was much brighter than Pymer.
“Drop it, m’lady, or I shall be forced to kill you.”
“Brave man, to attack the holder of the Ko N’ya.” To her relief, the soldier froze in place. “With a single tap on this stone I could burn out your heart and twist your entrails into a knot. A wave of my hand and this castle will come crashing down over your heads, plague will kill any survivors,