Chapter 12: Amélie’s Gift

Charles set the second letter down.

He would go back to it later, if only to flesh out a few details of what had followed. How cooking for the blue called Nichola in secret had become a regular part of his routine. How, not long after that night, a second Spear had cornered him with demands for a similar arrangement. Apparently Nichola was not the only Shattered having trouble with the snake meat. The “talk” lasted a minute or so, but it had all the typical ‘Spears of Mercy’ charm. Aggression. Haughty arrogance. Veiled threats to his life and body. All the unpleasantness Charles had grown near-numb to from the reds, but he was grateful that at least this one did not throw a punch or pull a knife on him. Funnily enough, for all his harsh words the man hadn’t laid a finger on him. Charles had dismissed it as luck; it would not be long before he was proven wrong.

But there were other things on his mind. He was worried. How had word of the deal leaked in the first place? And so quickly, at that. Charles had been careful not to be seen. Very careful. He certainly wasn’t foolish enough to have told anyone. Nichola the blue couldn’t have said anything. He was bedridden and could barely talk to begin with. Of course, that left only one other person who could have let the information slip. For someone who wanted me to keep this little conspiracy quiet, he could have made an effort to do the same. What game is he playing at? He had been certain danger would show up when he least expected it. That he would be punished.

But hours went by, and there was nothing. Then days. There was no sign that he was in any kind of trouble, so he had tried to forget the whole mess and lose himself in his duties.

That did not work. Several days after the second Spear, a third had approached him as he was gathering creekwater to boil for a side dish. This one was a bulge-necked brute, taller than Magnus and broad as Boregard, with a helm so sunwashed the color had faded to a shade of dull orange. A scarred hand had gripped the eleve’s shoulder. Charles had braced himself for the worst.

But no threats came. No shouting or demands, either. Only gruff sentences uttered in low tones. Another Shattered. Bedridden. Emaciated. The right food was needed and it was needed quickly. In the proper light, it might have even been passed for a polite request. When it was over, the red discreetly handed him something: a new quill with a brilliant crimson feather.

It sent a shiver down Charles’ spine.

At that point he’d known more requests were probably on the way. The only question was how many, and from whom? When the fourth came it was stranger than any of the others. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, under a slivered moon, a pair of raiders had blocked his path while he was out on an errand for Magnus. They did not speak. Instead, they passed a note with the details—what sort of dishes to make, what restrictions to avoid, what tent to deliver it to, and at what time. At the bottom (butchered with misspellings) were a few scrawled lines Charles wasn’t even sure he could read, but when he squinted he could faintly make it out: a request for chruściki. Without waiting for a reply, they’d taken the note back, thrust a small bag into his arms, and melded back into the darkness. Charles had glanced inside with trembling hands, expecting some horror, only to immediately shut it again, glancing this way and that to make certain no one had seen.

The bag may as well have been stuffed with gold and jewels. It was a fresh pair of boots. Never worn, by the look of them. Deep in the sole, he even found three sets of clean socks. Fine luxuries for anyone inside the camp, let alone a prisoner. These weren’t stolen, he’d noted, eyeing the knitwork of the socks. They’re imperial. Made by a machine.

But why? He’d scratched at the gold whiskers on his chin. Was it some sort of mistake? Was he meant to bring them to someone else? Why would they go out of their way to-

Realization had clicked.

“Are they…bribing me?” Ridiculous. There was no way. And yet…the longer he considered it, the more the strange behaviors began to make a disturbing sort of sense.

Special favors for special favors. Kind for kind.

The thought sickened him. He had dangled the boots by the straps over a deep ravine, boiling with anger, Father and Boregard’s stern voices shouting that he must let go, that his honor could not abide this. How could he call himself a Boulier strolling around in new shoes while his fellow Dreyans went without?

But his feet begged him to reconsider. They hurt. They had hurt for a long while. Especially his bad leg. The sound of Mother’s voice told him it was alright. That he should be allowed this small comfort. His grip had tightened. He had tried to imagine what Amélie would say, but her ghost was silent. In the end, he had made the mistake of trying the boots on before deciding. Once he felt them, the idea of going back to the tattered pair that blistered his skin was more than he could bear. At the bottom of the bag he’d found a jar of black ink. Charles needed this, too; he had started to run low, and once the camp moved he might not be able to get more from the wreckage of the Galley. But he somehow doubted the Spears had included it as a courtesy.

A bribe and a threat. Now that was the Spears’ courtesy he’d come to expect. Damn them. They were underestimating him again. For now, Charles would make them rue it. He would take every advantage he could get. Ricenne di Boulier was still in enemy hands. Someone had to survive and recover it at any cost.

***

Charles yawned and stretched his back a bit.

Going over the first two letters had taken a long time. He would need to be quick with this third one. Quill met parchment. He could write faster and with far cleaner penmanship now. The red-feathered quill made that possible. Reeds served, but they snapped if you were not perfectly gentle with them.

Words became paragraphs, and before long, ink flooded the page. He was on an excellent pace. This letter would tell of no fierce battles, giant boas, or bloodthirsty raiders, but to Charles it was a day more meaningful than any of that. It had begun, as kitchen crises often do, with a missing ingredient.

***

“What the shit!” Magnus raged, peering into the mouth of a slender bottle. “Damn it all! Is this thing leaking!? I could have sworn I had more oil in here!” Charles turned away and tried to look busy. He was used to the uminara’s ranting by now, but this was different. There was no leak. Of that he was completely certain.

Magnus stared him down. His eyes narrowed. “Oy…Boulier.”

Oh no.

“Yes, Chef?” Charles said in what he hoped was a calm, composed manner. He had never had any talent for lying; the shame of it would probably unmask him in an instant. He tugged at the collar of his apron. Was it warmer in the Galley than usual?

“How would you two like to take a short break?” Magnus said with a sly grin. Charles blinked in surprise. Even Luet perked up at his station.

A normal chef might have just used water to test if the bottle was actually leaking. Luckily for Charles, Magnus had his own way of doing things. He ended up finding the highest, steepest, ugliest cliffside edged along the camp and—with a warcry—hurling the bottle skyward as hard as he could. “Get fucked, cheap foreign manufacturing!”

Charles applauded politely. It was dark, but he could see the bottle sailing towards the top of its arc, weaving between distant stars. The sea chef had quite the arm. All three chefs held a hand to their ear to catch the satisfying crash of glass against the jagged rocks far below. “That’s what I get for buying provincial,” Magnus said. “Boulier, be a good lad. Fetch a new bottle, would you?”

“I can lend you my cruet for the time being, assuming you’re not going to throw it off a cliff.”

“That depends. Any leaks?”

When Charles brought his dragonhead cruet to the Black Galley, Magnus eyed it as an appraiser might an old vase. It was long and slender, with thick, hearty glass. Though it might not survive a plunge from Highland cliffs, a clumsy drop in the kitchen would sooner crack the floor than the bottle. And if the glass was not enough, winding whips of a dragon’s tail, forged in red steel, wrapped around the base, protecting it even further. The spikes near the center of the spine had been melded in such a way that they provided a near-perfect grip, while applying a bit of pressure to the back of the dragon’s head with your thumb would reveal a gaping maw of metal teeth, and in the back, a round opening where a steady stream could pass through. When Master Erickson used it to drizzle oils over searing cuts of beef or basilisk, for an instant the dragon would alight as though truly breathing fire.

Magnus nodded his approval. “Impressive craftsmanship. I’m surprised you own something this menacing, Boulier. It doesn’t exactly fit your image. No offense.”

“None taken,” Charles said with a resigned sigh. “It was a gift from my teacher. He’s an ignitier.” The dragon was one of seven gifts he had received for his fifteenth birthday: the cruet from Master Erickson, his stockpot from Master Joanna, his steel sharpener from Master Boregard, an Uzkan gardening kit from Master Gustav, an encyclopedia on food decor (large enough to line an entire shelf) from Master Kristoph, a beautiful green cloak woven with the sigil of House Boulier from Amélie, and his knife set from Father, the Oak & Owl’s acting Master of Sauces. To Charles, they were as precious as his own life. That had only made the cut deeper when the cloak, kit, and Master Kristoph’s books had been lost to him as he fled Lutz. The flames claimed all three. He had to do his utmost to protect the four he still had left. Father’s gift, even more so than the others, was of great importance. It was more precious than his life. By passing down the Boulier master chef’s knife, Father had formally recognized him as heir apparent to their household. Even if he somehow lived forever, Charles doubted he could ever feel more pride than he had at that moment.

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“Ah, a fitting gift from a master of flames,” Magnus said. “It should serve. Only it looks like your dragon might be choking.”

“Eh?”

Magnus showed him. Wedged in the throat, he could just spot the tip of something poking free. A piece of paper? Charles unscrewed the head until it came free with a light pop.

It was paper. More accurately, a tiny scroll stuffed into the dragon’s mouth from inside the neck, bound with an equally tiny black ribbon. How long has this been here? It was hard to say. Everywhere he had been since leaving Lutz, the cruet had gone with him. He kept it secure in Joanna’s stockpot with the rest of his belongings, and it hadn’t actually been used for…he wasn’t even sure how long. Not since…

A subtle scent drifted from the scroll. A blend of cinnamon and nutmeg. Charles unraveled the scroll and blinked at the first line.

Mon piquet.

Charles flushed. He was immediately grateful it had been him and not Magnus who yanked the note free.

“Well? What is it then?” Magnus said.

“N-nothing! Nothing. A quick moment, please.” He took several steps back and turned around, hoping to hide both the note and his face.

Mon Piquet,

By the time you find this, I won’t be in Lutz anymore. I probably won’t even be in Dreya, and for now I have no plans to return. I’ve left on a noble quest, in search of adventure wherever the roads may take me. Or at least that is what I tell myself.

Most would not have been able to tell, but to Charles it was clear Amelie had been deeply troubled writing this letter, because in the next line she used a word she reserved only for rare, serious moods: his birthname.

Charles, I know you must be angry with me for not saying goodbye. You have every right to feel that way. I should have ended things properly. With you, with Aunt Juliette, little Nina-Bel, and everyone else. You all opened your doors to me and treated me as blood. But in the end, it seems I am a coward. I was too scared to take a risk. No one could know I was going. Not until I was long gone. Mother and Father want what is best for me. They love me, yes, but love is not always the same as understanding. I cannot live their lives. I cannot be them.

There was a small gap in the lines, and what Charles suspected was a small, black tear.

Oh, but listen to me, getting all glum, feeling sorry for myself. He could practically see her wipe a second tear away from her lashes, laughing as she did whenever the mood became too grim. In place of sad farewells, I want to leave you a small token. Something to remember me by, but also a promise. If fate is kind, I am certain you will return them to me someday, when you become the honorable lord and chef you always speak of. Look inside your cruet, would you? Charles did so. He found a package, lightly wrapped with paper that smelled even stronger of nutmeg than the note, and bound with another ribbon.

These cards are from my personal seer-deck. I've imbued them with every prosperity and protection spell I know. Though not as grand a gift as the cloak I weaved for your birthday, they are very precious to me, so do take good care of them while we’re apart. I hope the future they divine lifts your spirits and keeps you safe, just as that cloak was woven with care to shield you from bitter winds. Remember to read the cards back to front, as we practiced. I did not peek, so the outcome will be for you alone. Until we meet again, be sure to stir up a touch of trouble every now and then on my behalf.

Charles smiled just a little. Until we meet again.

Below was where Amelie’s signature should have been. Instead, there were scratchings, scribblings, and some kind of strange symbol he didn’t recognize. Odd. Had she decided not to sign the letter for some reason? He turned his attention to the package. Inside he found three cards, which he laid face down so as not to reveal them. He had seen the artwork before, but it still heated his cheeks a bit; each card had a naked woman on the back.

Magnus whistled and clapped him roughly on the back. “Love letters from proper ladies as well, now? That’s two surprises in one day, Boulier. I would never have painted you as such a debaucherous sleaze. Including those cards is a bit on-the-nose of her, though, don’t you think? Not exactly subtle.”

“Wha-? How did you know it was from a lady?” Charles said.

“Please. Letters from men don’t smell like that,” Magnus said dryly.

“It’s a farewell letter. From another of my father’s masters. She left these cards for me, too. I suppose she must have hidden them a long while ago, before she left my home. They’re for seer-reading. You know…to divine the future?”

Magnus scoffed. “Well that’s less fun.”

“Occult magic,” Luet said suddenly. He glared at the cards as though they might burst into flames at any moment. “You mustn’t read them, Charles. Such evils will only taint your future.” It was the first time in weeks he had spoken to the eleve outside of relaying orders in the kitchen.

“Oh, do grow up,” Magnus said. “Divination? Magic? Aren’t the two of you a bit old to be buying into petty parlor tricks?”

“They were a gift,” Charles said firmly. “I’m going to read them.”

With a bored sigh, the sea chef poked his head through the Galley’s entrance, then returned moments later. “Fine, then. This lady-friend of yours went through a lot of trouble to get those to you, Boulier. We might as well see this reading of yours. When it’s done, stuff those cards away and never mention them again, before the wrong eyes see them. This had better be entertaining at least.” Charles swallowed. Fear and furor warred within him. He flipped the first card.

On the other side lay a scene of a massive fleet of ships struggling against a powerful cyclone. Nearly half the ships had already fallen beneath the waves. The dead lay strewn about like insects, their broken bodies littering the unforgiving sea. Survivors clung to barrels, doors, and each other. Anything they could get their hands on. Only those ships who managed to gain control of their sails were spared, their bows steered firmly towards calmer waters beyond the gray darkness and toward a bold, blue horizon. Charles knew this card well. Of all the readings Amelie had given him, it had appeared in almost one of three, always as the first card.

What was waiting on that horizon for those who had defeated the storm? He had always wondered. He was about to explain the card, or his best interpretation, but surprisingly Luet beat him to it.

“The Wind,” the pastretta noted grimly.

“You know it?” Charles said.

“Of course I do. It’s a common omen in all northern faiths. A sign of great, irreversible change. The gods themselves fear a sudden change in the wind. You should follow their example and end the reading here.”

“Change?” Magnus said. He made no effort to hide his skepticism. “That doesn’t say much on its own. How are you expected to divine good change from bad?”

“I’m not sure,” Charles said honestly. “Amélie would probably know better, but I know you’re supposed to interpret all three cards together.”

He flipped the second card, unveiling a cave and a crystal mirror. A beautiful but vain prince, transfixed by his own reflection, stood motionless before it, oblivious to the cracks and strains of the foundation holding the mirror in place. In mere moments, it was going to fall and crush him. Through the reflection of the mirror, the card’s viewer could see the prince’s fate. His body lay in six fractured pieces, each impaled by a separate sword-like shard of crystal.

“Six of Blades,” Charles said, reading it aloud. “Set in reverse.”

Luet grimaced in disgust. Magnus nodded sagely. “Fascinating. Also gross. What does it mean, exactly?” This time Luet folded his arms and said nothing, so Charles clarified. “It’s a sign of personal trials. ‘If you can’t decipher the reality in front of you for what it is…you will never advance.’ Something like that.” His memory was a touch hazy. He struggled to recall the words Amelie had used to describe each card, or what a reversal of this one might mean.

“That’s enough,” Luet said. “You’re meddling with dark forces.”

Magnus rolled his eyes in exasperation. “For fuck’s sake, the whole thing is so vague it could mean almost anything. Decipher reality? What reality? How can you take this seriously, Boulier?”

Charles flipped the final card. Luet retreated a half-step. Magnus’ smirk vanished. He had no more quips or comments. There was nothing vague about this card. It painted a plain picture of blood and rage. Of resentments festering like mold in a dark cellar. To the left, a mounted general stared in horror at the spearhead protruding from his chest, his attacker a common cavalryman who had struck true from behind. Only it was not an enemy. Both men were draped in the same shades of orange and green, and bore identical sigils of the sun and moon. To the right, a fattened noble lay dead upon the floor, his face colorless, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. The blood flowed until it met what could only be a pool of poisoned wine tipped from a golden goblet on the floor. A servant who held the platter of matching gold knelt to pluck the rings from the lord’s grasping fingers. Above, the spirit of a reaper sharpened its scythe, preparing for a fresh crop of souls. A single word flowed across the card, the letters weaved from the rolling tendrils of the reaper’s dark robe.

Betrayal.

***

Charles set the feathered quill down. He felt his heart begin to race again just from having written the word. Part of him disliked admitting it because the cards were a gift from Amélie, but Magnus had been right about the first two being open to a healthy amount of interpretation? But the third? Who was it? Who meant him harm? His thoughts drifted to Lila and Thom, the strangers who had saved his life and stolen his silver in the same night. It calmed him a bit. Perhaps the card had already been fulfilled, and he worried for nothing. Perhaps he needed to remind himself they were merely paper and ink. Charles hoped so, but whether the reading was prophecy or not mattered little right now. The damage had been done. While Magnus had laughed the whole thing off and been back to his usual banter within minutes, Luet was incensed. Rather than simply not speaking to him, the older Dreyan refused to even look his way now. He had warned Charles not to flip the cards, and Charles had ignored him.

Midday was coming. He had no more time left, and he had spent so much of it on the letters, he hadn’t gotten any rest at all. But before he left, he read Amelie’s letter again, and when he reached the end, he flipped the page over, revealing more on the back. He had not realized it was there until he was alone in his tent after the reading. What he had taken for scribblings had actually been abandoned sentences, each no longer than two or three words, and what he had thought an odd symbol was an arrow pointing to the other side, crossed out and redrawn several times.

There is one other thing, mon piquet, the letter continued. No jokes or bravado. Just something that has weighed on my mind.

Charles flushed again, but his excitement faded to sadness quickly.

The truth is that I worry for you. I've worried in silence for a long time now. Being heir in a family like ours is no small thing. Master Boregard was right, I can’t even imagine the weight you must feel. You have so many voices around you. Most children are lucky to be gifted with two parents, but with all of us bickering over you, at times it must feel like having eight. So many expectations and wills, all pulling in different directions. I feared sooner or later we might tear you apart. I was guilty of it myself. For what it’s worth, I wish I had not done that. For years, I’ve watched Uncle and the others lord over you. That will not change. People will try to tell you what to be. What to believe. Even what to love, be it cooking or the family or gods know what else. But if I had one wish for you, it would be that you remember to love yourself, too. I was proud to call you my student, and blessed to have you as my family.

All my love,

Amélie

Tears welled at the corners of his eyes. Charles drove them back. Men were not supposed to cry. You did say goodbye, after all. As he tucked the letter in his stockpot with the others, he paused to look at his reflection in the steel. Green eyes met green eyes. Only after a long while did he step out into the sunlight. His duties were calling. I’ll make it today, for sure. Tomorrow, probably. After that…

He was not sure he could honor his master’s wish, but he would try.