Insignia, page 25
With all the arrows back in the quiver, Stirling slings it across his back and stands facing the tree. He removes an arrow holding it between his middle and index as she showed him.
Calming his breathing, Stirling hooks the back of the arrow on the string and pulls back.
He lets go and the arrow flies, skimming the trunk just left of where he was aiming. Chunks of bark fall to the ground, leaving a wound on the tree.
Sighing, Stirling takes out another arrow and readies himself.
Forty-Six
The midmorning light shines through the mosaic windows of the throne room embracing the entire room with a radiance of colorful light without the aid of candles. Poised at the base of the throne’s dais stands Amiria. Her leather riding gear has been exchanged for armor suited to be seen on display beside the king. Set aside from the public’s eye, she has an exact replica of the armor she is wearing now made with metal in the shade of night. Extra padding had been added to silence the midnight armor as she slips through the shadows in secrecy on missions that if questioned, never conspired.
Over her cream-colored gambeson, she wears a red pleated brigandine, designed with soft velvet fabric lined with sheets of steel plates, her crest pinned above her heart. Her newly polished armor glints, reflecting the multitude of colors blanketing her from the windows. A gorget encircles her neck and collar bones protecting the vulnerable skin.
Spaulders, shoulder armor etched with the Winged Cavalry emblem and gold start at her collar bone, extending over her shoulders onto her back. They run down her shoulder blades with three points, each lower than the other giving the appearance of wyvern wings.
Cowters cup her elbows sitting between the riveted rerebrace protecting her upper arm and vambraces on her forearms ending with her full coverage gauntlets. On her upper thighs, she wears a pair of cuisse enclosing her whole leg but her schynbalds only cover the front of her calves tied over her leather-riding boots.
Her long hair is hidden inside the heart-shaped open-face helm with golden trim encircling her soft features. She is King Dietrich’s favorite, his prized star to protect him through the night. She has convinced herself it’s only because of her skills and mastery of the personally crafted longsword hanging from her the scabbard on her hip. Out of her entire unit of seven Riders, he always requests her to be at his side. His personal shield, even when he has retreated to the solar to relax away from the public’s eye.
She stands there feeling his eyes burning into the back of her head. She shivers, pinpricks rising along her neck to the base of her head. She never dares to turn around. She plays it off, ignoring the lust in his eyes, playing naïve, pretending she doesn’t notice. He’s the king after all.
She needs to focus on her duties and her requirements. She should be honored to be chosen to stand beside the king. Every woman and man wants to stand where she stands. She can’t take this opportunity for granted. She is meant to be here, she worked her entire life to be here, but all she wants to do is put stone walls, buildings, towns, and an entire forest in between them. Anything to hide from his prying eyes.
“Amiria, looking lovely as always,” a deep voice calls across the room. The door nestled in the corner leading to the private sleeping quarters for her unit swings closed behind the young man. Living in the castle was a mandatory requirement given solely to Unit Larua. They were mere shouting distance away from King Dietrich, making them easily accessible for any urgent assignments.
She rolls her eyes as Calix, who has come to relieve her from her duties, struts across the room wearing matching armor.
“It’s our uniform,” Amiria snarls as Calix draws near.
She had learned the night of the banquet he was the previous recruit five years before her, a prodigy of his own which had gone quickly to his head. Not only is his mother then General but his father is Captain Gautier, the captain of their unit. He was born an elitist and remains entitled to it.
His skin, tanned and bronze, glows from the recent exposure to the sun. The wavy locks of thick dark brown hair hide beneath his own helm showing only his crystal eyes. His lean shape accentuated by the armor gives him the ideal “V’ shaped body the girls in the castle swoon over. His sculpted features loom over her as he stops less than an arm’s reach away.
She glares up at him, her eyes dark and serious.
He grins a perfect smile topped off with dimples on each cheek saying in a suave tone. “How about after my shift the two of us get together? I know where to find some of the finest wine. What do you say?”
“Let me guess, in the Castle’s buttery?” Amiria finds him absolutely. “No, thank you, Calix. I’d rather drink from the cities’ runoff.”
Revolting.
They are the youngest in their squad being only five years apart compared to ten-plus years for the rest of the average age in the group. Everyone slots them together. This is her assigned career, not her assigned marriage...yet. Who she wants to marry is one of the few freedoms the lower class has that she wishes was granted to her in this heavily controlled life. She could fall in love with someone with an acceptable class, but her father will have to approve. Everything is about bloodline. There is no marrying for love in this hierarchy.
She doesn’t want to marry and start a family. He is everything she despises. He is in love with status and himself. He feels everything should be handed to him because of who he is and not if he actually earned or deserves it. He doesn’t have feelings for her. He only believes he deserves to have her because they will make some sort of power couple. They will command the Winged Cavalry together, two unstoppable prodigies. He always gets what he wants and the fact that Amiria does not throw herself at him drives him mad.
“I at least deserve a reason why?” Calix replies, aggravated. He has been after her for three years and has never let up on his pursuit of her hand.
Amiria knows King Dietrich is watching them, so she has to refrain from using the words she feels accurately describe Calix and remain professional.
Stepping close she closes the small gap between them, only a finger’s length apart. Standing on her toes, she tilts her chin up to his ear so he can hear her and whispers, “I said, no.”
“You’ll come around,” he whispers back, smirking.
“Never.” Amiria puts her weight back on her heels, her voice returning to normal. “I have important matters to attend to and you’re wasting my time with your nonsense.”
She pushes past him, their armor clashing as their shoulders meet.
Calix’s eyes latch onto Amiria, his body turning as his head is pulled around by her. He doesn’t take his eyes off her as she strolls across the floor of the throne room. The two men watch her as if they are competitors in a hunt and she is the trophy. Focusing on her boots clicking across the granite floor, Amiria desperately wants to bolt out of the hall. She holds back, forcing herself to keep a steady pace. She can feel their penetrating gaze stabbing through her armor, the chill of the blood running down her spine. She grabs the door of the throne room and yanks it open. A force unbeknownst to her pulls her head to check over her shoulder.
Calix raises his eyebrows with a smirk, but King Dietrich isn’t watching her anymore. He has switched his priority; he wears an indistinguishable expression as he focuses on Calix.
Forty-Seven
With his hands busy kneading a lump of dough, Giles’ attention changes to the door of the bakery opening, “Oh, Amiria. I feared you might not make it today.”
Amiria wears a full grin as she closes the door behind her. She has changed out of her armor into civilian clothing consisting of a simple men’s cotehardie tailored to her liking with a pair of black tights accompanied by her usual tall riding boots. She refuses to ever slip into a dress even though it will be a more suitable attire for a woman. Gowns were not designed to run into a battle at a moment’s notice. Dresses aren’t designed to run in at all and that just isn’t her.
She had persistently returned to the bakery after that first time. She spent months gaining Giles’ trust. At each stop, she would ask him how he is doing. She wanted him to know there are people out there who care. She wanted him to know not everyone in the Winged Cavalry was born without a heart, as the rumors state. She didn’t know how to fix what had broken inside of him, but she didn’t want him to mend his pieces back together alone.
In the beginning, he would stand on the other side of the table, afraid of her, and grunt his answers. She never wore any Cavalry emblems and kept her insignia out of sight, but he knew what she was. Then one day, he was leaning against the counter and didn’t distance himself when she entered. He didn’t smile, but he gave her real words as a reply. A smile grew on her face that day and their friendship began to bloom.
“Mr. Bakere, after three years, you would know by now I’d never miss my weekly stop. You do have the best biscuits in Lumierna. I should know. I’ve been sent all over the city.” Amiria praises letting her shoulder bag, a simple leather satchel with a cross-shoulder strap, slide off her shoulder onto the table Giles is working at.
“It can’t be better than the white bread baked in the castle? It’s supposed to be purer than the darker bread we make down here,” he remarks.
Amiria waves her hand. “Don’t listen to them. They always say their stuff is superior, but it’s not. You can taste the passion in yours.”
“I’ll take your word for it. You are my most faithful customer,” he says, flattered.
Amiria’s bag slumps over, revealing the contents of meat pies, fruit, and cheese inside.
“One of these days though, you’re going to have to tell me who you always have your picnics with. I want to know who the lucky lad is,” he states, motioning to the bag.
Placing the palms of her hands on the wooden table, Amiria leans forward rocking up onto her toes in a playful manner, “You know I’ll never tell. A secret relationship is much more fun, but I assure you, you would highly approve of him.”
Giles shuffles over to the shelf pulling a rye bread off the rack, a small smile escaping, “I know I’ve said this many times before, but ever since my son passed away, it’s refreshing to have a young face frequently around here. Maybe in some other life, you two could have been friends.”
She rolls back onto her heels and her expression softens. “Yeah, maybe in another life we would have been able to be friends.” Amiria disguises her tone in an attempt to hide the vulnerability that had surfaced. “But that would be a weird friendship, a baker and a Winged Rider? Would it not?”
Setting the rye beside Amiria’s bag, Giles playfully pokes her forehead. “We’re friends, are we not? Or is it really only the pretzels that bring you back.”
Amiria puts her hand on her forehead and playfully pouts. “It’s definitely just the pretzels.”
Chuckling, Giles picks up a few biscuits from the nearby pile, adding them to her supplies. He remembers Stirling’s strong admiration for the Cavalry and how he had thought of his son as a fool. He had chased his only son off instead of taking the time to understand him. If only he had been more patient with Stirling, he could have met Amiria for himself. She would have answered all his questions informing him of the true harsh lifestyle of the Winged Cavalry, teaching him it isn’t the fantasy he believed. Then maybe, maybe his son would still be around.
At first, he hated the sight of her. He wished she would stop showing up. He wanted to be left alone, not reminded of the son he had lost. She would purchase her pretzel and depart, and he would get his wish. He would stand alone in the bakery so cold, no oven could heat it. He doesn’t remember the point when he started ardently waiting to see her, but as the week passed between her visits, he would fear something had happened to her. He feared the Cavalry had taken her, too. She was a sweet girl; she was the only person who asked how he was doing. The neighborhood news had moved on and so had the people, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. He still hasn’t.
He used to find it off that she traveled down to this lower district when she had any bakery to pick from. She has the luxury of waltzing into the castle’s kitchen and eating a bun pulled straight from the embers in the royal stove. But, she has chosen his shop, and now he has grown accustomed to her face every week. He has developed some sort of fatherly kinship towards her. She might not feel the same, but he will admit that if one week her face didn’t light up his shop he would be heartbroken.
He can’t place his finger on it but for some reason, she reminds him of Stirling.
Amiria slides the bread into her bag and slips the strap over her head so it lays across her chest. Her hand grips the strap holding it slightly away from her body. “Maybe one day life will be different. A life you can choose what to do with.”
Amiria blushes, biting her tongue. She doesn’t let herself speak in a liberal way outside the sanctuary of Stirling’s cave. Ideas like this can get you thrown into the stocks. She is part of the Winged Cavalry; she works personally with and is entrusted by King Dietrich. Words such as these can be misconstrued as treasonous, but inside this bakery, she feels as if this is the only place in town she can let her walls start to lower.
She finds it amusing how she is comfortable saying these things even though these beliefs are what pushed Stirling and his father to fight to the point he chose life as a fugitive rather than remain here and live by the laws. Maybe it really did take the loss of his only child for him to understand the way of life needs to change.
Staring at Amiria, Giles swears he can see Stirling standing there right in front of him.
Maybe, he thinks. Maybe, they’re onto something. Maybe the rest of us are stuck living this routine of past traditions because it’s easier than taking the lead and changing the future.
This is not what he says aloud.
He avoids eye contact with her, muttering, “That’s not something that can easily be changed. The system works. There’s no need to fix something that isn’t broken.”
Amiria fumbles through her coin purse replying with an earnest tone, “It may not be broken on the outside, but has anyone stopped to check inside?” She places the coins gently on the table, “I’ll see you next week Mr. Bakere.”
“Hold on,” he says, quickly reaching over to the shelf. “I almost forgot. I’ve got one more thing for you.”
He picks up an object wrapped in parchment. “It’s just gingerbread, but I thought you’d enjoy some on the house.” He holds out the small package the size of Amiria’s hand, offering it to her.
“Thank you,” Amiria says, appreciative, holding her hand out to accept his gift. “Any particular reason for this?”
“No, just felt like it would add something new to your picnic,” he answers quickly with a smile leading Amiria to the front door. He opens it for her, “See you next week?”
Amiria stops in the door frame returning Giles’ smile, the same smile as Stirling's. “Always.”
Like a protective parent sending their child off for the first time, Giles watches as Amiria hops down the stairs joining in with the rest of the crowd meandering from shop to shop who now know her as a familiar face. They show their respect with a rooted undertone of fear as they nod their heads and step aside, opening a clear pathway for her to walk through.
He leans his shoulder on the door frame letting the wood full of splinters and dents from generations of use hold up his weight. An uneasy feeling slowly sets over him like a thin sheet slowly wafting down to cover him after being tossed over the newly made bed.
Every week Amiria would always say, “I’ll see you next week.” She has always held true to her word. This time something feels off, as if the next time he sees her, it won’t be for her weekly visit for her picnic supplies.
Forty-Eight
Amiria treads silently through the dense forest. To keep a noticeable path from developing, she made a note to change her route as often as possible to allow the plants and leaves to cover up any marking she may have left.
Over the last three years, she hasn’t grown in height but her features are starting to become that of a woman’s. The delicate features of a child, any roundness to her cheeks have disappeared. Her face is still soft though the angles in her jaw and cheekbones have become more defined. Her dark round eyes remain the same. They are fierce and will stare down death itself, but they are the type of eyes that for the right people will bloom with love and compassion.
Without turning her head, Amiria’s ears perk to the sound of rustling leaves to her southwest. A single leaf floats gently to the forest floor, somersaulting as the thin object pushes through the air. The landing spot is near impossible to predict as the slightest breeze can alter its direction.
She can’t predict where the leaf is going to land, but she is always cunningly accurate in her prediction with people, whose heavier weight tends to move in a single direction.
The shadows overhead change, moving in a way not resembling leaves blowing in the wind or a small animal moving about. A smirk creeps onto her face pulling at the edges of her mouth as she takes a lunging step forward, bracing her stance. Reaching with both of her hands over her right shoulder, she firmly grabs the forearm of someone who had leaped from the trees like a wild beast.
Using the falling momentum of the attacker Amiria pulls their arm forward, catapulting them over her and slamming them into the ground onto their back, knocking the wind out of their lungs. Dust and leaves erupt into the air around them. She doesn’t give the person a chance to catch their breath and she yanks on their arm swiftly flipping them onto their stomach and swoops into a kneeling position.
Her knee digs into their lower spine while she twists their arm behind their back.
“Okay, okay. I give. I give,” Stirling shouts out in distress, his free arm slapping the dirt in front of him.
Amiria lets out a playful laugh releasing her grip and returning Stirling’s control of his own arm. She slides herself off his back into a sitting position beside him as he lifts himself up and sits back on his heels, ignoring the dirt now covering the front of him.
