Megan E. Parmerter
Ash and dust rained down from the sky like dirty snow. Sam peered through the hazy air, looking for any familiar landmark on the cobbled city street. The blue handkerchief tied over his mouth and nose helped to keep the worst of the dust out, but he could still taste it on his tongue, and his skin itched with its grimy covering.
“Guide, help me,” he muttered. “Is there anyone else here? Is there anyone I need to help?”
“Sam!” One of the other Seekers shouted from across the street. “We’re done. There’s nothing more we can do here. Even the dogs aren’t picking up anything.”
But that didn’t sit right with Sam’s soul. He could feel a tug, something pulling him further up the ruined street. He drew down his handkerchief to shout back, “Give me five more minutes!” Grit coated his lips and teeth, and he hurried to cover his face and move down the block, dodging broken chunks of masonry.
He knew he was on Bakers Street, so called for the many bakeries that lined it. Or rather, that used to line it. With the Eltosian army’s attack and their use of magically-enhanced artillery, there was almost nothing recognizable. But there was one bakery in particular he was trying to find.
He stopped at a crumbled intersection. “This is Rose Court. Which means, if I turn here…”
A hot wind full of soot and smoke filled his vision, hiding all from view.
He closed his eyes against the smoke, ducking low. “Guide, there’s nothing left!”
But then he felt that tug again, that need to move. Keeping his eyes shut, he prayed, reaching out with his Seeking ability to feel a presence, any presence, in this disorienting heap of ruins.
There it was. A pulse, a heartbeat, buried across the street to his right. He moved toward it, eyes still shut against the wind, blindly Seeking someone to save.
Through the wreckage, a woman called out. “Is anyone there?”
He knew that voice. He opened his eyes and found himself before a collapsed building. At his feet lay a smashed wooden sign, but enough of the gilding remained for him to recognize the painted bread loaf that marked For the Love of Loaves. He knew this place.
“Miss Renald?” He reached for the handle of the oak door, but heavy chunks of rubble blocked it. “Miss, can you hear me?”
“Can you help me?” A tinge of panic colored her words.
“I’m trying to find a way in, Miss Renald,” he said, pushing a fallen beam from in front of a shattered window. “Hang on.”
She coughed. “Wait, do I know you?”
“Yes…Well, no.” He grunted as he finally managed to shove the beam into the street and out of the way. “I’m an occasional customer of yours.”
“Oh?” Another heavy cough. “What do you order?”
Sam stepped carefully through the broken window. “Uh, a blueberry tea—”
Her strained voice was excited as she finished, “With two sugars and two slices of cinnamon raisin toast, buttered. That’s you, isn’t it? Seeker Toast?”
“Seeker what?” The ground rumbled, and the debris over and around Sam shifted. “Miss, we have to move quickly.”
“I can’t. There’s a beam on my leg.” Her words wavered hopefully. “Can you lift it?”
Sam pushed into the dim interior, his boots crunching on gravel and shards of glass. “Let me find you first.” He reached out, Seeking her, and he could feel and hear that she was somewhere off to his right. In the back of the bakery, maybe? Now that he was closer, he could sense more about her—her erratic heartbeat, her frantic breaths, flashes of pain. He moved faster, pushing through the wreckage to a dark doorway. More oak beams from the collapsed ceiling were scattered in the ruined kitchen. There on the floor, pinned under one of them, was the bakery’s owner. Her dark hair was covered in thick dust, and her green eyes stared at him a bit wildly. A smile flitted onto her face as he drew near and crouched down beside her.
“Seeker Toast. I was right.” She laughed shakily. “Maybe I’ll finally learn your real name now.”
He pulled down the handkerchief from his face. “Have you been wondering what it is?”
She flushed. “Only since you first stopped in the shop about five months ago.”
Sam could sense a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity flitting out from her. A bit bewildered, Sam busied himself with studying her pinned leg. “I think I can leverage this off of you, but we’ll have to be quick. The building isn’t stable.” He found another piece of wood and, jamming it under the beam, he fought to lift it. Sweat poured down his face and the muscles of his arms burned, but it finally moved enough to free her. She groaned in relief as she pulled her leg away.
Sam helped her up onto her feet. “Can you walk?”
She gingerly set her foot on the ground, wincing. “Not well. I’ll need your help. And your name.”
“It’s Sam.” He pulled one of her arms over his shoulders, supporting her weight. “And you’re not just Miss Renald, are you?”
“No. I’m Bess.” Her face was pinched with the pain Sam could sense from her, but she kept her voice light. “I’m sorry I don’t have any tea or bread for you today. Seems I no longer have a bakery.”
What could he say to that? But there was no time to comfort her as the building shook around them. He quickly lifted her up in his arms to step back through the broken window and out onto the smoke-filled street. Sam reached out, Seeking the way back to the others. He felt a comforting pull towards safety even as Bess’s green-eyed gaze up at him tugged at something inside.
“Maybe I could offer you some toast and tea back at camp?”
She squeezes writing into a schedule filled with loving on her husband and two kids, taking care of a growing homestead, and trying any and every crafty thing she can get her hands on.
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