A Flight of Ravens by John Conroe (books to improve english .TXT) 📕

thick, steel-bound door, currently closed.  Dust floated down onto my hair from the murder holes above me and I heard the sound of boots shuffling on sanded stone.  A voice called out a muffled order above me.  Seconds ticked by before the oak door opened, revealing three armed and armored guardsmen, two with spears, the third bearing just a long, shining steel needle that glistened with a green fluid at its tip.  Behind the three were another four, two holding span-and-a-half body shields while two snipers rested heavy war crossbows on the tops of the shields.  The crossbow men were two spans apart, only their faces and arms exposed.  The shield bearers each held a naked sword, ready to rush forward should the spear holders and the tester die.

Above me, I was confident that at least four men held heavy war spears over the murder holes, ready to drive them down and through me should I not check out.

I stepped to the forward gate and pushed my right arm through.  The needlebearer moved forward and pricked my arm, then slid back smoothly to watch the results.  Seconds ticked by, but only a small spot of red blood welled up from the puncture wound and the green fluid left by the needle failed to change color.

“Clear,” the needle man said loudly.  The gate in front of me lifted smoothly, admitting me to the grounds of the castle.  As soon as I was through, the gate was lowered and the heavy door was closed and re-bolted.

Glancing back as I walked toward the castle, I could see a wooden sled holding tons of stone just to one side of the door.  When my business in the castle was complete and I left, the sled would be pulled by oxen back in front of the oaken door, locked into place by metal rods pounded down into the packed earth, all to fortify the weak point in the wall.

Looking forward, I found a young royal guard’s officer waiting for me.  “All okay, sir?” he asked, saluting me and holding it until I returned it.  Holder of the Kingdom Cross and all that.

He wasn’t just being courteous; he knew I had helped design the defenses and entry procedures throughout the castle.

“Looks good—for now,” I allowed.  “Where’re we headed, Lieutenant?”

“Queen’s Garden sir,” said the young officer, whose name I thought might be Ty Berill.

Chapter 3

Brona had taken over her mother’s private garden, fiercely maintaining it to the exacting standards of Ilana Warcan. And when I say she maintained it, I meant that she maintained it, by her own hands, with only her mother’s elderly gardener, Veece, to help her.  He was well into his eighth decade but looked ten years younger thanks to constant exercise, fresh air, and excellent castle food.

Lieutenant Berill escorted me to the stone archway that opened into the queen’s private garden, closing the door behind me and no doubt taking up guard outside.  The garden was square, maybe ten spans by ten spans.  High overhead, a network of clever glass windows let the sun in but kept out much of the cold.  I shuddered to think what those had cost the kingdom.  Brona called it a greenhouse—an old pre-Punishment word.

Normally, green and flowering plants grew in great profusion against all the walls, climbing trellises and the single wooden pergola at the rear of the square. Now, with winter close if not already here, most of the garden’s green came from four potted juniper trees, posted at the four corners of the square path that traveled around the raised beds in the center of the garden.  Brona, clad in brown trousers and a thick jacket, was bent over the only other green things left, rows of lettuce, spinach, kale, cabbage, and chard that grew in great bunches.  Brown vines held the last of the winter and butternut squash gourds, the sharp knife in the princess’s hand indicating that their time on the vine was at an end, which admittedly was far past most other farms or gardens in the kingdom.  Brona was seeking affordable ways to create more of these greenhouses without falling afoul of the church’s religious edicts on technology.

I took a moment to admire my hardworking princess, hardly ever getting to see her in well-fitted pants.

“You’re looking at my behind again, aren’t you?” she asked without turning around.  The pruning knife flashed in her hand, releasing another vegetable from its parent plant.

“Just nice to see a royal hard at work,” I said.

She snorted.  “Right.  Quit your gawking and come load these crates.”

“Bound for the soup kitchens, are they?” I asked, moving up beside her.  Partially empty crates each held one variety of leafy green vegetable, except one that held two different squashes.

“Most of it goes to them, but a bit, maybe a fifth, goes to the castle chef.  Papa likes what I grow in Mother’s garden,” she said.  As her mother had before her, she donated most of the vegetables the Queen’s Garden produced to the needy.  But Brona took it further, funding and running food pantries and kitchens throughout the kingdom, using money from her own investments, such as the stable that currently held Tipton.  Growing plants or growing money, Brona was equally skilled, and she took her responsibilities for her people extremely seriously.

I loaded crates from the piles she’d already harvested, catching up fairly quickly.

“As honored as I am to be in your mother’s garden, I doubt you needed my hands for this.”

She gave me a sly grin and grabbed my nearest hand.  “I happen to like these hands a great deal,” she said, then the smile slipped away.  “But yes. I wanted to tell you that our guest in the castle basement has revealed some interesting things lately.”

“Which, the lady or the meathead?”

“The lady, of course.  She’s our only guest.”

That told me that Dorn, Siril Ossiman’s henchman, had likely left this mortal realm.  Brona is rather ruthless and her father, the king, has zero tolerance for those