Free Lady Of The Helm (Book 1) by T.O. Munro Page A

punishment.”  The Bishop went quiet before suddenly wheedling to Kimbolt.  “Couldn’t you tell me?”
    “Of course,” Kimbolt began, but then some shadow fell across his certainty.  He looked away, trying to pin point the elusive thought that had darkened his happy security. 
    Suddenly his chin was caught by the Bishop’s hand as Udecht gently turned him back to face his good friend and look him in the eye as he repeated the question.  “Couldn’t you tell me?”
    “Kopetcha,” the word sprang to Kimbolt’s lips.  “Kopetcha is the password.”
    Udecht’s eyebrows rose and he murmured with a nod, “his mother’s name.  How like the boy!”
    KImbolt was pleased to have been of service to his good friend, though something troubled him still.  He couldn’t place the thought, but Udecht supplied an answer.  “I sense your fear, Captain.  I feel it too. Something is amiss.  I have heard rumours.”
    “What rumours ?”
    “I believe ou r Castellan harbours some ill intent.”
    “Prince Thren, no?” Kimbolt tr ied to shake his head, but the Bishop held him still, his piercing gaze beseeching Kimbolt’s support.  “What would you have me do?”
    “Perhaps it might be a good time to pray?”
    Kimbolt’s religious observances had ne ver been particularly devout. The army as his master always took precedence over the Goddess as his mistress.  However, this suggestion of prayer seemed an excellent and timely idea. “Together, your reverence?”
    Udecht shook his head.  “No, I have much to do tonight.  But if you find a quiet corner of the temple and pray there, I am sure you will be heard.”
    “What should I pray for?”
    “An untroubled sleep would be a start,” Udecht suggested.
    “Of course,” such a sensible suggestion, Kimbolt could have kicked himself for not realising it.  “I shall go at once.”
    Udecht nodded as the Captain rose and made for the door, but then held him back with a call.  “And Captain!”
    “Yes, your reverence.”
    “ Do come to me if anything unusual should come to pass, to me, you understand, not Prince Thren. I trust him not, his eyes are too far apart.”
    “Of course your reverence,” Kimbolt hurried away, reflectin g deeply on the spacing of the Castellan’s eyes.
***
    Sahira Psah bustled into the servants’ kitchen, her eyes sweeping the tables and shelves for a missing plate of victals or her daughter or both.  “Hepdida!” she called.  “Where is that plate of sliced meat from the Castellan’s table?  I had plans for it”
    She hesitated, and ran a hand through her own dark hair.  She was much like a n older version of her daughter, one who had worn the years well, albeit that actually she was only just past thirty summers herself.  She swung round as the pantry door, which had stood ajar, somehow contrived to close itself with an audible creak.  Sahira’s mouth opened, but then closed, her cry of triumph unuttered. She chose instead to approach the pantry with light footsteps.  As she flung the door open, her daughter fell out, her attempt to listen at the door quite unequal to her mother’s subterfuge.
    “Well,” Sahira demanded.  “I guess the missing weeks’ worth of dinners has something to do with you.  And I have already told your father to expect it, so where is it?”
    The gir l stood up, gaze averted, and muttered inaudibly.  “What was that?” Sahira demanded, swinging her daughter round by the shoulder.  “Have you been crying?”
    “No,” sniffed Hepdida, smearing dried tears across reddened cheeks.
    Sahira shook her head.  “Nothing so unattractive to a man as a woman’s tears. You look awful.”
    “I thought he liked me,” Hepdida sobbed.
    Sahira frowned and shook her head. “Is that where all my week long supply of choice meat has gone, fool girl, squandered on wooing some soldier. You should have come to me. There’s not much about the ways of men I don’t know.  Reckon you’ve got charms