Shard Knight (Echoes Across Time Book 1) (10 page)

They floated touching hands lost in the rhythm and grace of the dance. But, as happens with magical moments, the music stopped, and reality crashed home.

Breathless, Rika swept her hair behind her ear, looked into his eyes and smiled.

Ronan jumped when a hand tapped his shoulder.

“May I cut in?” A voice said.

Joy fled his heart replaced by a sickening tightness in his chest. He knew that voice’s owner, and he’d expected it. But, the man’s unwanted intrusion came as a personal invasion, and he wanted to rip out his throat.

Without waiting for confirmation, Bryson Slater, soon-to-be shard knight, strode past Ronan and grabbed hold of Rika’s hand.

A few weeks ago, the king’s council had ruled Ronan’s victory unlawful. They claimed, years later, the Prince had cheated in the tournament, and Bryson should receive the next available shard.

That a shard surfaced a mere week before the council’s ruling only added to the seething anger fueling Ronan’s unwavering thirst for revenge. The shard came from a dwindling group of knights forever loyal to Patron Tyrell. Pride’s guard executed the knight after receiving a tip the man hid in a seaside village along Meranthia’s southeastern coast.

She looked at Ronan with her bright gray eyes pleading.

“Of course,” Ronan stepped away from Rika releasing her warm hand.

She gave Ronan a slight nod and turned to Bryson flashing him a bright smile.

The orchestra started playing again as Bryson slithered into her arms. He curled his hand around her back and yanked her into him.

A kernel of rage simmered inside Ronan. He clenched his jaw and watched helplessly as the couple melted into the throng of dancers.

Ronan lowered his head and walked off the dance floor, slipping past dining tables where guests devoured roast lamb and sipped on hot spiced wine. Without turning back, he moved farther into the ballroom working his way past the dais where the shard ceremony would take place.

Atop the silver dais a velvet pillow with a hollow socket, adorned a golden pedestal. Later in the evening, Commander Renault would place the enhancement shard atop the gaudy pillow, and Bryson would absorb its battle magic thus joining the fabled Order of the Shattered Heart.

Ronan touched the vile nestled in his breast pocket. He didn’t how she made it, but she promised it’d do the job. Her Ayralen heritage held many secrets that she shared with him when the need arose.

Along the ballroom’s far wall, heavy velvet curtains hid the ebb and flow of the kitchen staff. Nestled in the back corner, a gold rope held back a single red curtain where servants exited carrying trays laden with food.

Ronan followed a servant carrying an empty tray behind the curtain and through swinging double doors.

Pots, pans, plates, and cutlery covered every available inch of counter space in the sprawling kitchen. Nestled in the hearth, apprentice chefs hand cranked spits roasting skewered lamb as sweat clung to white aprons tied around their waists.

At the center of the chaos, a muscular man wearing a tall white chef’s hat and an apron stained with gravy, stood like a captain directing troops in battle. “Vivian, make sure that soup is warm. Lady Hancher has sent it back twice already,” he said to a young female chef.

He spun on a teenage boy wearing a servant’s uniform. “Roland, those trays go to tables four, five, and six. Leave. Now.” He motioned the serving boy away with a wave of his thick arm.

Ronan approached the chef. “Excuse me.”

Chef wheeled on a young woman kneading a sticky mound of dough. “Jerrilyn, your pastries need to be ready in fifteen minutes. Forget the bread.”

“Chef!” Ronan said.

The harried chef jerked spinning on Ronan. “What?”

“The knights on the third floor want to eat before the ceremony. Can you bring them dinner?”

“Look around you. I don’t have time for that. If they want dinner, they can come to the dining room like everybody else.” Chef turned his back on Ronan.

“I could bring it to them,” Ronan said.

He turned back toward Ronan. “What? You?” Chef said. His eyes narrowed. “Who’re you? Aren’t you a guest?”

“I’m a guest of sorts,” Ronan said. “I trained at the citadel. But, I washed out of three shard tournaments. After that, I didn’t qualify for officer’s training. Now…” Ronan dropped his head. “Now, I’m a runner for Commander Renault.” Ronan’s voice faded over the final few words.

“A runner?”

“I run errands for the knights. I help with the horses, do their laundry, sometimes I even get to spar with the younger recruits. All sorts of things really.”

Chef nodded and rubbed his chin. “I see. Tell me boy, did they ever catch Tyrell?”

Ronan’s skin prickled. “No Chef. They haven’t yet. You knew him?”

“I ran the kitchen at the citadel many years ago. He’s a good man. I don’t believe the accusations.”

“I don’t believe them either Chef.”

“Here boy.” Chef reached under the counter and tossed a clean white apron to Ronan.

The heavy scent of cornstarch washed over him as he caught the smock.

“Wear that. You’ll get less trouble that way. Take these plates and put them on that silver tray.” He pointed to a row of plates filled with lamb, vegetables, and rice. “You’ll find water next to the kitchen stairs, be sure to grab some.”

“Thanks Chef. I’ll do that.” Ronan lifted the apron over his neck and tied it around his waist.

“One last thing. That tray’s heavy. Be careful.” Chef smiled and winked at him. He faced his kitchen staff and fired a barrage of instructions at a hapless soup chef tending a thick mixture of lentil and barley.

Ronan paused and pondered the meaning of Chef’s words when a servant bumped him bringing him back to reality. He grabbed the tray, loaded the plates, and made his way across the kitchen toward the rear stairs.

Near the kitchen’s winding stairway, a water barrel sat where Chef had promised. Above it, trays full of silver pewter drinking cups lined two long shelves.

Ronan grabbed four cups and ladled water from the barrel. With a quick glimpse over his shoulder, he watched kitchen staff swarm around him, but no one looked his way.

Ronan pulled free the vial and placed two drops of the brown liquid in each silver cup. Not taking any chances, he sprinkled the vial’s remaining mixture among the full plates of food. Taking one last peek around the kitchen, he tossed the empty vial into the hearth’s glowing embers.

Ronan hoisted the tray to his shoulder and steadied it with his hand. He made certain he had a firm grip. If he dropped the loaded tray, his and Rika’s hopes crashed with it.

Just past the water barrel, a set of stairs led upward. Ronan trudged across the kitchen and climbed toward his final destination on the third floor.

On the second floor landing a pair of shard knights watched his approach with only vague interest.

Under the heavy load, a few droplets of sweat clung to Ronan’s brow. “Good evening to you both. Chef ordered me to bring dinner for the knights on the third floor.”

“It’s best you run along boy. You don’t want to keep them waiting,” the knight said.

The shard knight appeared at least two years Ronan’s junior. Any humility the knights displayed under Tyrell’s command had seemingly vanished with him. “Yes sir. Thank you sir.” With his arm trembling, Ronan moved past the knights and climbed the stairs toward the third floor.

On the third floor landing, an empty hall stretched ten feet before ending in a split. Doors on either side of the spacious hallway stood closed.

As he worked his way along the short hallway, Ronan’s arm and shoulder throbbed under the continuous strain of the loaded tray. When he came to the intersection, a blur of motion sliced the air surrounding him, and a slight rush of air cooled his face.

“Stop. No one save the king himself gets past me.” The battle knight’s shard blade remained sheathed, and he showed not the slightest hint of concern at Ronan’s sudden presence.

“Of course sir. I meant no harm. Chef ordered me to bring your dinner.” He held his breath and waited.

“It’s about bloody time. I’m starving.” The guard wrenched the tray from Ronan appraising him with contempt. “What’re you looking at? Get out of my sight errand boy.”

“Yes sir.” He bowed low and started along the hallway. When he glanced over his shoulder, the knight had disappeared.

Rika told him the drug took a few minutes to work. He’d need to wait at least ten minutes before checking on the guards. He turned the door handle nearest him, stepped inside the room, and eased the door closed behind him.

A heavy maple desk dominated the room. It sat strewn with paper, ink, and several bulky books. Floor to ceiling shelves crammed with hundreds of books lined three walls. Hanging on the wall, a large map of Meranthia contained handwritten symbols and notes scrawled along the borders.

Someone, presumably Lord Randal, used this office for scholarly research. Ronan walked to the desk and noticed several maps of Meranthia and Freehold tucked under a heavy book. He moved aside the book entitled
Ayralen Lore and Fables
and sifted through the maps. They ranged in size, accuracy, and age. Each diagram contained handwritten notes scrawled along the borders or the map directly.

He picked up an ancient looking map of Freehold. Scribbles in an unfamiliar language littered the map’s edges with arrows and circles marking a location of importance.

As Ronan moved the map aside he froze.

An artist’s drawing of a ring lay atop the pile. The artist had beautifully captured every detail showing a golden band inlaid with silver and platinum swirls. The artist had painstakingly sketched layers of intricate vines weaving around the band.

The gold ring belonged to Ronan, and it rested on a silver chain nestled beneath his dress shirt and bare chest. He couldn’t understand why Lord Randal owned a picture of his family’s ring. It carried great personal significance for Ronan, but nothing more. He flipped the drawing and discovered a handwritten message scrawled along the bottom. It said,
Location: Unknown
.

Ronan slumped into the desk chair and stared at the drawing looking for additional clues. Without more information, he couldn’t draw any conclusions.

He leaned forward and rifled through the piled notes, maps, and books searching for answers. Ronan’s heart raced when he noticed the clock perched on the edge of the desk. He’d burned fifteen minutes in the office without realizing it.

Ronan leaped from the chair, untied the kitchen apron, and tossed it aside. He carefully folded the drawing and slipped it inside his breast pocket. As he opened the door, he held his breath and stepped into the open corridor.

Distant noise drifted from the kitchen, but the hallway remained blessedly empty.

Ronan eased the door shut and hustled along the hallway turning at the intersection where he’d come face-to-face with the shard knight a quarter hour earlier.

Next to a door where the hallway ended, two knights sat slumped unconscious on opposite sides of the corridor.

Ronan jogged ahead and stepped over the sleeping knights careful not to touch them.

An icy shiver ran up his spine. If these men woke they’d ask questions after they sliced him open where he stood. He took a deep breath, and opened the door in front of him.

Behind a four-poster canopy bed, double doors stood open revealing a balcony overlooking the Lord’s District. In front of a lit hearth on the room’s right side, sat an ornate cherry coffee table surrounded by a pair of stuffed leather chairs. Seated in each chair, unconscious shard knights lay slumped at awkward positions. The knight furthest from Ronan bore a captain’s insignia.

Ronan’s pulse quickened as time condensed. His actions over the next five minutes would decide the course of his life. No matter the result, the Order wouldn’t relent until they had his head. Four disabled shard knights, one a captain, would result in his immediate execution.

Atop the coffee table, the tainted half-eaten dinner plates rested on the silver tray. On the other end, a heavy steel lock-box sat closed and no doubt locked.

Ronan ignored the lock-box. The Order used the trap laden box as a final defense against a shard thief. A poison-tipped dart waited on a coiled spring ready to kill the unlucky soul unfortunate enough to break the seal.

He squatted before the stricken captain and rifled through his pockets. Under his armor he wore the navy blue dress uniform of his rank. Tucked into his top breast pocket, Ronan’s hand touched a cool smooth stone.

He smiled. The shard leveled the playing field. Without its magic, he couldn’t defeat Pride. As he pulled it free, he looked into its luminescent core with awe.

Inside the translucent shard, swirls of shimmering yellow and white light flowed like dancers on a stage. Ronan held the sixth enhancement shard in his palm. Before the Shattering, this shard rested closer to Elan’s Heart than the shard he’d won five years earlier. The strange yellow light inside its core moved toward his touch as if straining for release.

Ronan’s vision flashed white, and his head snapped to the right. Needles of sharp pain erupted on the left side of his head and shot across his brain. He tumbled to the soft carpet coming face-to-face with the heavy boots of the unconscious captain.