Book 1: The Academy of Ambrosia

Part I: Festivities

Archie peered into the shifting fog within the crystal ball, desperate for confirmation that his dream would become his reality.

“Do you believe in predestination?” the Blue Jacket Chef, doubling as a waiter, asked Archie.

Archie’s eyes flicked to his father and then back to the waiter. “What’s predestination?”

Arty, Archie’s father, stifled a laugh.

For his twelfth birthday, Archie had begged his father to take him to Clairvoyance, a Red Jacket Restaurant in the heart of Ambrosia City. Despite living a full day’s ride north of Ambrosia City, Archie stayed up to date with all the latest news from Restaurant Row by stealing his neighbor’s monthly newsletter.

But despite the childlike wonder on Archie’s face, Arty showed nothing but skepticism. His fingers slid up his stubbled chin and pressed his lips closed so that he wouldn’t interrupt the experience.

“Well, it’s like destiny,” the Blue Jacket explained, leaning in to avoid Arty’s squinting eyes. “It’s the belief that Ambrosia has a plan for you. That the moment you’re born, she determines the events of your life.”

A fuzzy warmth grew in Archie’s chest as he thought of the god of their land, the original Chef, plotting his course. Surely in her generosity, she would fulfill Archie’s dream. He wanted to say yes, yes, I believe. But when he glanced at his father, he felt like maybe he should say no, people control their own lives.

Arty stared at his son with the complex expression of an inquisitive father. Serious, but not stern. Comforting, but not lacking in importance. Intense. Alert. Narrowed eyebrows that compelled Archie toward risk, but a slight smile that told Archie that his father would be there if he failed.

Archie had seen the expression many times, yet it still gave him pause. It made him believe that the question had an importance that he couldn’t yet understand.

Archie couldn’t answer.

“Perhaps it’s too heavy of a question for a child,” Arty remarked.

The Blue Jacket chuckled. “Maybe. Well…I believe. Our Executive Chef, Sage, believes. And he’s found a way for us to see our destiny.”

The Blue Jacket placed a small golden mallet, hardly bigger than a spoon, onto the table in front of Archie.

“Give it a small tap to crack it, then breathe in the smoke. You will see your destiny.”

He bowed, took one wayward glance at Arty, and exited.

Archie eyed the mallet. Even just looking at it excited him. Goosebumps. Hairs prickling up. Heartbeat. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. His adrenaline reduced the chatter of the other guests from coherent conversations to mumbled words to an indistinguishable collage to total silence. Everything faded except for the crystal ball. His destiny, soon to be made clear. Purpose. Knowledge. Direction. Everything a young boy needed. His hand moved forward and reached—

—and was stopped by Arty’s sudden movement. Archie barely saw it happen, but his hand was now held in his father’s.

“Archie. What do you think you’ll see?” He still wore his signature expression, but something in it changed. An extra wrinkle around the eyebrows. Worry? Or anger?

“My future.” Archie did not want to elaborate. Putting his destiny into words could change it.

Arty sighed. “My guess is…you’ll see what you want most. They can’t tell you your future, but they can exploit your desires. If they show you what you want to see, you’ll never say it’s just a trick.”

Archie started to withdraw his hand, satisfied that the conversation had run its course. But Arty’s hand gripped harder. Too hard. “Why isn’t your name Arty?”

Arty, short for Artichoke, keeping with the traditional belief that naming a child after a food or plant increased the odds of them becoming a Chef. The name had been applied to their entire branch—the last remaining branch on the Kent family tree. Arty Kent, his father. Arty Kent, his father’s father. Arty Kent, great grandfather, so on and so on.

And then Archie. Vaguely respectful of heritage, but also a daring rebellion against their memory.

Archie shrugged and looked down. Even if he knew the answer, the intensity of the conversation would have left him mute.

“Because you’re not me. You’re not an Arty Kent. You’re not any Kent that came before you. Their legacies do not define you. You’re Archie. You will make your own legacy. And it is yours to make. Your choices.” Arty released Archie’s hand. “Your future is yet to be determined, and it is you who will determine it. It can’t be found in a magic trick.”

Archie’s hand rested next to the mallet, but did not grab it. It didn’t feel appropriate. Part of him wanted to leave and go home, but that’d make their expensive trip a waste—and even at twelve, Archie knew his family couldn’t afford to waste anything.

Finally, he looked back up at his father, who nodded to the mallet. Archie picked it up. A surge went from his hand into his belly, turning his stomach over twice before returning back to the mallet. The surge went back and forth from the mallet to his hand, quickly, all at once, a yo-yo going in both directions. It took a deliberate thought for Archie to raise his hand and hold it over the crystal ball.

He took a deep breath in. A deep breath out. His heart demanded that he breathe faster, but he took another breath to slow the world back down. Then he let the weight of the mallet fall.

Vapor spilled from a small crack in the crystal ball. It swirled around the air until it found Archie’s nose, rushing into it. Archie breathed in. The vapor seemed alive, worming its way to his brain. As he breathed, the vapor poured forward, opening the crack until the entire orb split in two and released a cloud that washed over Archie.

He looked up, but Arty had disappeared.

In his father’s place, a dirt path led to a building covered in haze. Archie focused, both in eye and brain, and the details became clear. The dirt road transformed to stone. A plaza grew out of the path. A building formed from nothing.

He saw a sign that said Petrichor, the name of his family’s restaurant. But while the Petrichor that Archie knew had failed under his father, this Petrichor teemed with life. Chairs that Archie had only ever seen empty were now filled with energized guests that raved over the food and asked question after question to any Chef or waiter that wandered near. The whole town outside the restaurant buzzed with excitement. A revival had taken place.

Archie focused on the restaurant, his mind’s eye moving him closer through the dream. Through a window, Archie saw two familiar figures.

A man he had seen everyday, now a little older. Brown hair that folded over itself, beaten back just a bit further by that receding hairline. A masculine, boxy face with a wide chin. Blue eyes that had become a little silver with age. A little more narrow. More wrinkles. Deeper wrinkles, especially the one that ran from the corner of his eye down toward his ear. All the Kent men had that line. Even Archie had it at twelve.

A woman, just as familiar. Blonde hair coming down to her shoulders in poofy waves. Big, puffy cheeks, made even more prominent by the deep wrinkles in her smile lines. She had a longer face—one that she had given to Archie.

Archie’s vision fogged again. He focused, but nothing changed. Then he realized that this haze was different. It wasn’t the haze of the magic crystal ball. It was his joy and sadness. He wiped tears from his eyes.

His mother and father sat, not as Chefs, but as diners, eating, happy, happier than Archie had ever seen. A White Jacket Chef, the pinnacle rank of culinary society, approached with their food. The Chef looked familiar too. Mostly like his father, but with a touch of softness from his mother. Brown hair that went blonde at the temples and curled up into awkward waves. That same Kent line from the eyes.

Archie had to shake the eerie feeling of impossibility before accepting that he was watching himself serve his parents. He looked older, and where he walked, people turned to look.

The haze returned. Archie rubbed his eyes, but the haze only got worse. Fuzzier and fuzzier. Then clearer. Clearer. Petrichor faded and faded, replaced by the broken crystal ball in front of him. The chatter of Clairvoyance returned. Arty returned.

His father had never looked away. Arty blinked and blinked and blinked, keeping the tears in. Archie’s tears, on the other hand, had flown freely. At least that part had been real.

“Dad, I—”

Arty raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t tell me. That dream is yours. It’s for you. Now come on, let’s get you back to your mother.” Arty rose and Archie followed.

“But dad!” Archie protested. “You didn’t do one!”

“It’s alright,” Arty assured Archie as he scooped him into a hug. “I got everything I ever wanted right here.”

Archie smiled and thought of his vision. Petrichor restored. The Kent name restored. The Blue Jacket said the crystal ball contained destiny. His father said it just contained a dream.

While Archie believed his father to be correct about everything in the world, he desperately hoped that his father was wrong just this one time.

The night before the Festival of Ambrosia, two nights before his eighteenth birthday, Archie wished the vision of Petrichor would come to him again. But he couldn’t sleep, so he couldn’t dream. He managed a drowsy wink here or there, but his nerves never let him rest long.

The world celebrated Ambrosia in many ways—they named the continent after her, they named their capital after her, and when the five kingdoms entered into an alliance, there were no protests about being called United Ambrosia. But of all the ways they celebrated their god, nothing compared to the Festival of Ambrosia.

As the first Chef, Ambrosia used her magic to cook, to grow crops, to speak to animals. She sated hunger and performed miracles. She established a home for mankind, beating away the wild evils that had ruled the earth for millenia. Her food healed better than any doctor. It comforted better than any priest. It warmed better than any fire. Fields of rock sprouted into rows of crops. Dragons gave her riches in exchange for her cooking. Thunder clouds drooped down to her doorstep to be gathered in a vial, eager to be included in her magic as one of her ingredients. And in her final, most miraculous act, she created one final meal. One final gift. She fed her body to the earth.

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In turn, the earth changed. Her essence spread across the continent, serving as the foundation for miracles. Ambrosia’s children shared her abilities, and soon, that essence turned a lucky few into new Chefs. With each passing year, Ambrosia’s gift found its way across the land. Over the course of a few generations, Chefs went from creatures of mythology to a natural part of society.

When Ambrosia fed herself to the earth, she used her magic to create two rules to inheriting her power.

First, to preserve the innocence of childhood, she prevented anyone under eighteen from being able to utilize her power.

Second, the first rule would be broken one day a year—the day that Ambrosia sacrificed herself. The Festival of Ambrosia.

On this day, the youth would cook for festivals across the five kingdoms. Even if they had no skills in the kitchen, the children and teenagers would know how to produce intricate meals as if Ambrosia herself whispered instructions in their ear. And for about one in every thousand people, an amateur cook would manifest the abilities of Ambrosia, signaling their future as a Chef and earning them an invite to one of the five culinary academies. Those that reached eighteen without manifesting would never be capable of Ambrosia’s magic.

At first, Arty had prevented his son from participating in the festival. The first time, Archie was three and wanted to make a ham sandwich. Arty stopped him. At five, Archie gathered all the ingredients to make a stew, but Arty stopped him again. Finally, at seven, Archie’s wits had sharpened and he managed to sneak his way into participating, making a grilled cheese at home and slipping it onto one of the serving tables in the town square. He watched and waited until someone scooped up the sandwich and took a bite. Nothing happened. No magic. Just a satisfied nod and a second bite. Archie cried and cried and cried until Arty figured out what had happened.

Archie was not reprimanded. Instead, his father looked at him with that signature, intense expression for the first time. “Do you want to do this?” he had asked. Archie said yes. The next year, Archie was given free reign of Petrichor’s kitchen for the festival.

Eight, nine, ten years old. A soup, a bread, a cake. Nothing happened. Eleven, twelve, thirteen. A cookie, a scone, an ice cream. Nothing. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. A chicken, a pasta, a pie. Nothing.

Now, seventeen. One last chance. If that crystal ball had truly revealed his destiny, this would be the day that Archie’s magic finally manifested. Otherwise, Archie would never become a Chef. He would never be able to help restore Petrichor and the Kent name.

Sleep eluded Archie. The dream never came, but he could still feel it. He could always feel it. That obsession. The restoration of legacy. It isolated him from the other kids his age. He’d be a Chef, and they wouldn’t, and he’d go to the Academy of Ambrosia. He’d rather spend his time in Petrichor’s kitchen than with those he’d leave behind.

The break of dawn gave Archie the excuse he needed to leave bed. But something made him wonder if he should stay in bed all day. Some strange thought, prompted by so many years of failure, pinned him down. He couldn’t fail if he didn’t try. He shook the thought off of him along with his covers and stumbled downstairs into the kitchen of Petrichor.

“You should still be asleep,” his mother, Adeline, said from a small table in the corner of the kitchen. Archie jumped. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw the red eyes and wet cheeks of his mother. “Sit,” she said.

Archie sat. He looked down at his mother’s outstretched hand, overcame a moment of teenage reluctance, and took it in his own.

“You could stay home today,” she said. Somehow she had sensed his thoughts. Cooking was just one magic in the world. Mothers had the rest.

A heaviness in Archie’s chest kept him from responding. They sat in silence for a while.

“Sometimes I wonder…” Adeline looked down at Archie’s palm. “Would your father have been happier if he had never manifested?”

Archie scoffed. At seven, his father had made a raspberry tart that made people see their lost loved ones as clear as day. It had been one of the greatest pieces of magic ever performed—and at such a young age.

“He was a genius,” Archie said.

“And he never knew happiness until he met me,” she responded.

Archie had never thought of this before, but he did not struggle to accept it as fact. He knew the tragic story. Each year, young Arty performed another piece of magic. But each year, the magic was less impressive. Miracles became forgettable parlor tricks. By eighteen, pushed on by his prodigy reputation, he stumbled into the Academy of Ambrosia and was spit out two years later.

In his brief time at the Academy, he met Adeline, a fellow student. She supported him as he failed to support Petrichor and the reputation of the Kent name dwindled into obscurity. Then, three years later, despite still running the failing Petrichor, Arty had happiness and a new purpose in life in the form of a little bundle that he named Archie.

“You don’t have to,” Adeline said. “Let’s take a carriage out of here, just the three of us. Stay in another town for a night.”

“No,” Archie said. “I’m doing this.” He stood up, nowhere to go, but too full of purpose to be still.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Archie returned to his bed, gripped a small glass bottle underneath his pillow, and managed to sleep at last.

A raspberry tart.

That was the secret.

That’s how Arty had manifested. Archie would replicate the dish and finally manifest.

The festival lasted all day, but Archie wanted his meal to be served at dinner. No one had done an extensive study, but superstition said more magic happened at dinner than at lunch. Superstition also said that naming a child after a food increased their chance of becoming a chef. Being named Archibald did him no favors, so he hoped serving at dinner would cancel out the bad luck.

Archie wanted his tart to be a surprise, so instead of cooking in Petrichor’s kitchen, he went to the community kitchen, a little building with three brick ovens and stoves.

Archie didn’t particularly feel the community of the community kitchen. Within minutes, he made sure everyone knew that the kitchen belonged to him. He snapped at a twelve year-old to clear space. He snatched a bowl from a hoarding nine year-old. They’d have another chance to manifest. For Archie, this was it.

He got started.

Butter and sugar. Mixed. For how long? Could it be over-stirred? If Ambrosia guided him, why could he not hear her?

No matter. He just had to trust in Ambrosia. As he stirred, confidence came over him. After all, he had a secret ingredient.

He pulled the glass bottle from his pocket. This would be the difference maker.

Eight months ago, Archie had used all of his savings to purchase two vanilla beans and a small vial of nearly pure alcohol. Put together in a vial, protected, loved, cared for, and shaken gently once per week, the combination had aged into the finest vanilla extract for miles around.

It had all the makings of a magical catalyst. Expensive, rare ingredients. Months of tending. And of course, as any Chef would say, the most important ingredient: love and care.

Archie poured it into his mixture and stirred until the bowl was full of dough. He dumped it onto a flour-dusted table and worked it into a nine-inch disk. He mashed raspberries, creating a base of fruit before putting whole raspberries on top. He tossed it into a baking tin, turned, and—

Wham!

A kid ran into his side. The world slowed down. The tin drooped, dough leaping out of the corner and threatening to fall onto the ground. A split second from ruin.

But not today.

Archie maneuvered the tin to recapture the dough. With his dream nearly splattered on the ground, Archie turned and said something that made the kid cry.

Archie put his hand near the oven. Satisfied with the warmth, he put the tin in. It’d take one hour, so Archie decided to step out and see the festival.

The festival had seemed grander when Archie was a kid. Sadly, it wasn’t just Archie’s loss of childlike wonder. Sain was a village in decline. Twenty years ago, Archie’s grandfather had committed the cardinal sin of salting the fields around Sain. On top of preventing growth, he also managed to prevent Ambrosial essence from taking root, leading to a yearly decline in the culinary scene, population, and spirit of Sain.

The new Kent legacy.

The people of Sain tried to fight the decline, and during the Festival of Ambrosia, they did their best to put on the shows of old.

In the center of town, people crowded around the buffet stands that lined the streets. Dancers performed in a march. A large paper dragon, needing twelve people to hold, wiggled and floated its way down the street, representing the fable of Ambrosia taming a dragon.

But where once there had been many Chefs performing magic, Sain only had a few left. One conjured 10-foot noodles that waved through the air. Another transformed into an eight-foot tall wheel of cheese, barrelling past the dancers that dove away at the last second. The crowd roared with laughter.

Archie laughed with them, but missed the days when a dozen Chefs would perform their magic. He absent-mindedly grabbed a rice cake from the nearby table and sat on the dirt. The performances never ended. A blistering hot summer day did little to deter the theatrics. Theater actors wheeled by on a float as they reenacted Ambrosia’s death by performing The Final Gift. A group of zealots waved their tomes in the air as they warned the masses of the rise of Gluttony.

After a while, Archie returned to the kitchen. A rare, odd silence filled the room. No children ran around. They had all cleared out as if having fled the scene of a crime. He looked at the oven, but it was empty.

The reflection of the setting sun came off the ground. A shiny piece of tin had been flattened onto the floor. A footprint on the metal. A sunburst pattern of mushy red surrounding it.

His dream had been splattered and crushed.

Archie fell to the ground and sobbed. The world turned into a haze of undropped tears. So many years. So many attempts. And this was it. His last chance, his best chance, squandered. A little bit of hooliganism to officially kick off the life of a disappointment.

The sound of shuffled footsteps.

Archie looked up and rubbed his eyes, clearing away tears. A young woman stood in the doorway. Or was she old? She had a mystifying quality that made her age impossible to guess. Honey blonde hair, made even more beautiful by the orange sky, curled down onto her chest. A white dress, billowing in the breeze. She looked at Archie, then at the destroyed tart. She offered a small smile. One of knowing and consolation, not happiness.

“What’ll you do?” she asked in a voice that reminded Archie of honey and stained glass.

“I don’t know,” Archie said, his voice clearer than he expected. Just a moment ago he had felt his spirit bleeding out of him. The woman’s presence had plugged the wound. “I guess this is it for me.”

He let out a heavy sigh. He thought back to that crystal ball. It was just a dream. Not destiny. His destiny was nothing so grand.

“My dad is always working so hard during these things,” he said. “I’ll just bring him some water and try to enjoy the show.”

The woman smiled. Happiness, this time. “That’s a good idea. Here.” Her hand disappeared for a moment in the folds of her dress and produced a lemon half. “It’ll make it more refreshing.” She smiled again, placed the lemon down on the counter, and left without saying goodbye.

Archie collected himself from the ground, grabbed a cup and tossed the lemon into a glass pitcher of water.

He found his father and burst into tears again as he ran to him. “Someone destroyed it,” he managed to get out between sobs as he clung to his father. The pitcher dangled from his hand, pouring out a steady stream of water onto the road.

Arty repeated, “it’s okay,” as he patted Archie’s back. “Maybe it’ll be good for you. There’s a lot to be accomplished in this world. You don’t need to be a Chef to do it.”

“I just…” Archie broke down into another sob. As his body shook, the water sloshed out of the pitcher and splashed their shins.

“I know.” Arty’s heart broke for his son. He picked up his tone, trying to change the mood and subject. “Now, I see you brought water. How about a glass? I’m thirsty.”

Archie took a few deep breaths before breaking the hug. He realized that the water had spilled out into a puddle and nearly sobbed again—but then he realized that the pitcher still had plenty of water left. Arty reassured him again and took the cup. Archie poured from the pitcher. Arty drank it all in two swallows.

“You know, Petrichor hasn’t been very busy. I think it does better in the spring. Your mom and I were talking about maybe taking a little sabbatical. Maybe go to Uroko for the fall. Labrusca for the winter. What do you think?” Arty held up the glass for another pour, and Archie obliged.

Archie couldn’t think of the future. He couldn’t think beyond this moment. He couldn’t think of tomorrow. He couldn’t think of what had been in that crystal ball. Still, he knew what to say. “Yeah, dad. I think that could be nice.”

Arty finished drinking and let out a refreshed sigh. “Good. Now gimme one more glass and then I gotta get back to work. Gotta move some tables into the square for the finale.”

Archie looked down. The pitcher should have been empty, but it seemed near full, the lemon bobbing around at the top. A tingle went up his spine.

He held the pitcher up to assess its fullness, poured the cup, then lifted the pitcher again.

The water level remained the same.

Magic!

Arty came to the realization at the same time. He used his spare hand to tilt Archie’s, causing a steady stream of water to pour from the pitcher. Water splashed onto the dirt. Pooled. Started to stream down the road. They righted the pitcher. Still full.

Archie looked up at Arty, whose intense, thoughtful expression was nowhere to be found.

Instead, he had the biggest smile that Archie had ever seen.