Chapter 13: Under the Fallen Snow

A light snow began to fall the night their secrets were finally laid bare. The hour of the witch loomed. A full moon hung low. Amelie would have called such a night the setting for a fateful encounter. The Black Galley was seated in the heart of camp. For practical reasons, it had to be at least a bit isolated from the sea of lesser tents around it, bolstered with enough open space on any given side, both to dampen the sounds of chefwork through the night and to give the reds enough room to gather round at mealtimes.

Charles was on a mission. He’d been given a specific request from a larger group this time—a hearty meat stew with yet another addendum asking about ‘those cookies’. He rolled his eyes. At this point, whether his dishes would end up going to blues or reds was anyone’s guess. At first, the requests had been purely essential. At some point they had started to become something less rigid. Basil…or maybe chives instead? He picked at the spice rack, his hands hovering over various jars, often pausing hesitantly before switching to something else. Caution was key. He needed to take only what the Galley could do without. It was only once he’d relaxed a bit that he heard it, clear and distinct. Behind him. Creak. Charles whipped around. The master chef’s knife was drawn and ready before he even realized it. He’d taken to keeping it close lately. After the last incident, he was not about to be caught helpless in the dark again. Would it really help if that moment ever came? Likely not. But even if it wasn’t much, at least gripping it made him calmer.

There was nothing there. Nothing obvious, anyway. Still, he thought it best to check the rest of the tent, just to be prudent. He ducked and crept, knife raised, making his way toward the far side of the Galley, where the stove smoke left through a small hole in the roof's lining. He peeked out, expecting a flash of red…only to sigh in relief when he was met with green instead.

Luet was sound asleep. Gently snoring, draped over the side of the cold stove. Charles relaxed. Don’t go scaring me like that. He lingered a moment. It was strange. Maybe the chaos of the kitchen made it harder to notice, but looking at him now, Luet seemed… different than even just a few months earlier. He looked less stocky, and the baby fat in his cheeks had mostly melted away. He’s thinned out. Especially in his face. Had he not been eating as much? Or had their circumstances done this to him? That second thought made him sad. Charles remembered the stranger he had seen in the creek’s reflection. How much more had his own face changed since then? He hadn’t made a habit of checking. After a while, you stopped prioritizing that sort of thing. It’s not just me. Luet. Cade. The Twins. We are all different now. Maybe forever, in some ways. Would the people we knew before even recognize us as we are?

He considered waking Luet so he could sleep in his own tent, but the sound of sobbing quickly changed his mind. The pastretta shivered. He curled in and grasped the stove like it was the most dear thing to him in the world, and in his mind, Charles realized, it probably was.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered softly to the air. A louder sob came, and a lone tear fell. “I’m so sorry. Please…please forgive me.”

The night terrors had him in their grip again. Right now he was probably being tormented by visions of those he’d been separated from. Charles did not want to be here anymore. He felt wrong hearing this. Ashamed, even. Everyone had pains they did not wish to share with others, and that was their right. It was hard enough wondering where Mother and Nina were. Whether they were safe. But Charles was not a father. He couldn’t even begin to understand what it must be like to worry for a daughter. Grab what you need and go. Give him his privacy. He gathered up the spices he needed, folded them away in one of Magnus’ old aprons, and was halfway gone before he was stopped by a sudden noise for the second time.

“I’m so sorry, Luet.” Charles froze. He turned back slowly. There was another stifled sob. Moonlight fell on the curls of black. “I just wanted to live,” the sleeping man said. “Forgive me. Don’t you understand, I never wanted you to die.”

Charles jolted back—straight against a nearby table. A silver stockpot shifted. Tilted. Started to fall. Shit! He dipped, his hands outstretched, straining to make it and (to his own surprise) caught it at the very last moment.

Yes!

He had just enough time to take pride in his reflexes before a second stockpot clattered violently to the ground right next to him.

The sleeping figure jolted upright. He twisted this way and that, muttering incoherently, as though expecting an attack from any and every direction at once, before centering on the fifteen year old in front of him. “Wha…Charles?” He stared at Charles, and his features began to change in rapid succession. “What are you-.” Confusion. Sudden realization. A long pause of obvious horror, one that could have hung for seconds or as long as several minutes. Then a gradual return to calm. Something like acceptance. Finally, he was even. Luet—or the man who had called himself Luet—stood up. The changes in his appearance were even more obvious when he was upright. The gut of a stomach he’d carried before was no longer visible under his clothes. His cheekbones hadn’t just lost their smoothness; they were sharpened. Fresh scars lined his fingers and the backs of his hands. He was like another Luet entirely. Composure returned to him. His breathing was no longer labored. But he did not smile at the young chef as he had before, and there was no friendliness in his gaze. Only a cold focus.

Charles brandished his father’s knife.

“Easy now, Charles,” the man said, raising his hand. He took a step forward.

“Get away from me,” Charles said. He placed the tip of the knife firmly between himself and the other man. “D-don’t come any closer.”

“Or what?” the man asked calmly. “You’ll slash your countryman open with a kitchen knife? One of your only allies in a camp overflowing with enemies? Calm down and think for a moment. We’re on the same side.”

Being told to calm down, of course, had the exact opposite effect on Charles. Amelie’s final card raced through his mind. The impaled general. A poisoned noble. The figure of death and the promise woven by his shroud. “The same side?” he said. He kept the knife firmly in front of him. “Sure we are. We’re supposed to ‘stick together in trying times’. To trust each other? You definitely make the effort to look friendly, but it’s all just a hollow mask, isn’t it? Who are you, truly? What’s your name?”

“What are you saying? You know my name. It’s Luet. Luet Bartrow of Greenfi-.”

“Try again,” Charles said, cutting him short. “You just uttered that name in your sleep, like you were talking to someone else. I won’t ask a third time, what is your true name?”

The pastretta went pale. “You…You’re misunderstanding things.”

He is a worse liar than me. Charles shook his head. He kept his gaze down. Master Erickson had once told him you needed to watch a man’s legs to know if he was about to charge you. He did so, straining for the slightest sign, but both feet stayed where they were. “No, I think I’m starting to see things clearly. You’ve been shoveling me falsehoods from the beginning. All that nonsense about us being countrymen. You were just trying to manipulate me, weren’t you?" I know his type. If he were in our shoes, he’d throw anyone he had to straight to the wolves. “Those things you said about Magnus. It’s all projection, isn’t it? You only care about saving yourself. I heard it from your own mouth. You just said the real Luet was dead. That you killed him so you could live!”

“No!” the dark-haired man all but shouted. There was a crack in his icy demeanor. He stared at his hands. They started to tremble. “That’s not….I’m not…I didn’t…”

He denies it?

“Everything about you has been off from the start,” Charles continued. “You’re…uncanny, like two minds crammed in one body. When we first met, your knifework was worse than a first-year eleve, and you couldn’t recognize spices any decent chef would know. I was a fool to give you the benefit of the doubt, to look the other way and pretend I did not notice. How much of what you’ve told me is even real? Any of it?"

The man said nothing. Charles pressed him again. "Did you lie about having a wife and child!? Was it just your way of garnering sympathy!?"

More silence.

"Well!?”

Charles waited, though he wasn’t sure what for. Proof, maybe. As if Luet was going to suddenly pull out a toy or trinket that had belonged to his daughter, or open his emerald necklace to reveal a portrait of himself with his wife. In his heart, part of him still hoped for a convenient answer that would explain all of this away. That he truly had misunderstood, and everything between them could be well again. That they really were on the same side. So when the older Dreyan simply avoided his gaze, saying and doing nothing to refute him, something inside him snapped.

What about you? he remembered asking the day he arrived in camp. Even then, in the worst of the darkness, for a fleeting moment he’d actually felt a ray of joy and excitement at the prospect of meeting a new master. What drove you to your mastery?

Family tradition. My father, his father before him. You know how it goes.

It was all lies. Not only had he been made a complete fool, but by a fake cook of all things. Him. A Boulier.

Charles seethed. Seethed as he had never seethed before. No one would claim he was prone to anger. He was not like Magnus. The decorum of a noble had guided him through most of his life, but like anyone, he had his sore spots. Family. Cooking, of course. And perhaps most delicate of all, honor. So by dressing himself in false laurels, by pretending to be a master from an old name, this...this charlatan had found a way to stomp on all three in one go. Charles heard a strange sound; it took a moment to realize it was the grinding of his own teeth. You bastard fraud.

“Your mastery. You said it was family tradition, didn’t you?” he said. His voice started calm and even, but at some point it gradually began to rise. “Handed down through generations, going back decades or even centuries. That’s not the small lie you seem to think it is. Lineage and traditions aren’t petty frivolities! They’re not something you make claims to just to flatter yourself!” He was shouting now, all self-control lost to him. He started gesturing with his knife as he spoke. “They're sacred responsibilities, not that you would understand! And that surname? Bartrow? Is that a bunch of fake rubbish, too?” The man stiffened. Those words seemed to prick him. Charles drove them in harder. “Should have guessed as much. If it was a name worth mentioning, I’d have heard of it before we met. You’re no pastretta. You have no mastery at all. You’re nothing! Just an jumped-up plebian! Are your family even cooks?”

The man broke his silence. “Yes, they are!” he spat with a bitter scorn that matched Charles’. “The Bartrows are skilled and honest cooks, and that name is not rubbish! Don’t you dare look down on it just because it’s not a snooty line of gourmets like yours, Boulier.”

Charles stopped shouting.

“You really thought I didn’t know about you people? Heirs to the Oak & Owl, green jewel of the crown merchant empire. Favored dogs catering to the rich and powerful. Every Dreyan who earns coin with cooking knows your name. They don’t get a choice. It must be nice not to have your craft constantly compared to another’s and found lacking. You braggarts think every chef in the world should kneel and kiss your boots. Even in Greenfield, people acted like cooking didn’t exist until your pompous ancestors deigned to invent it.”

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“How dare you!” Charles fumed. “You ingrate. Who the hell do you think you are? The Bouliers are a pillar of this country. The royals and the noble families built Dreya up from nothing.”

“You built it on the backs of common men while you watched and took the credit for yourselves,” the man said. He placed a hand at his chest. “You want to know my name? I am Luke Eris DeBraun, sworn brother of Luet Bartrow, and I am proud to be everything you are not, noble boy.”

Charles’ glare narrowed. Sworn brother?

“You speak of lineage and tradition. The pride of one’s bloodline. I shared your arrogance, too, once,” the man who called himself Luke said. A finger drummed against his temple. “It’s a sickness of the mind. I thought my blood gave me the right to speak down to others. That our family’s prestige and wealth made us better than the rabble. Oh, we were so special. Like the gods themselves. Beautiful. Dignified. More righteous than anyone. Until the flames came and burned that pride to the ground with everything else.”

“Your family’s prestige?” Charles scoffed. “What are you-” But those words stirred something deep in his memory. A fleeting comment. So faint in the back of his mind it may as well barely existed at all, but when he followed the thread, weaving through the chaos of the past months to the moment he was tossed into the Galley for the first time, he found himself right back at one of the first conversations he and Luet—or rather, this man who had claimed the identity of Luet—had shared. I had a younger brother as well. Parents took pity and adopted him after his birth family died in a fire. They were a rich household, too, so you can imagine he didn’t care much for his new humble home.

Luke turned his attention to the glow of the sunroot. It was getting healthier again. Pale white had been replaced by a radiant yellow. “It took a light as terrible as that fire to open my eyes,'' he said softly. “I lost everything, even my very sense of self, but in exchange the gods showed me what nobles really are…and what I might have become if not for their guidance.” His eyes locked with Charles. Hazel met emerald green. Yet none of his supposedly noble neighbors could be bothered to lift a finger when he needed help. Not one stepped forward to adopt him. All that money and old status can’t buy virtue, now can it? “That was the first time I saw the nobility as most do—unfeeling tyrants who flaunt ill-gotten power, caring nothing for the suffering of those they deem beneath them. Do you know what it’s like to have someone look at you like you’re less than human? You? A pampered brat who's only known a life of plenty?”

Charles did not answer that question. He stared blankly. It was difficult to even process what he was hearing. “It was you,” he finally said. “The younger brother. An orphan taken in by commoners. You spoke of yourself then? Then…you stole Luet’s name and pretended to be him? But…that can’t be true. That would make…you cannot be-.”

“Of noble blood? An heir?” Luke finished for him, wincing in disgust. “An heir to ashes, maybe. It is the truth, to my shame.”

“Your shame!?”

“What else?” Luke said dismissively. “When I was cold and starving, ready to give up on living, Luet’s family gave me a new life with new meaning. Their gods taught me humility. His father—my true father—taught me proper honor, and our mother, empathy. Even in the worst times, they selflessly shared a bakery’s humble profits in the service of others, to leave this world better than they found it. Can you imagine nobles doing the same? My birth parents spit on commoners for the crime of merely existing. To be related to people like that…what else is there to feel but shame?”

Charles clutched his father’s knife so hard his entire shoulder tensed. He didn’t even have the words to explain why, but every syllable dug into him in a way he could not bear. The eleve's words were steady. He did not let his voice rise when he spoke this time. “It sounds like they taught you a great deal,” he began. “Selflessness. Honor. Important lessons. So tell me, when did you decide to ignore them and become a disgrace to chefs everywhere instead?"

Luke glowered.

"Let me take a guess as to what happened the day Greenfield fell. The Spears came bringing slaughter, but not for everyone. They were in need. Almost all of their cooks were dead, so they were seeking replacements. Anyone with close experience would do. Even a pastretta from a local bakery. So when they came, did you drive a blade in your sworn brother’s back so you could be the one that saw tomorrow? Was that your peasant father’s idea of honor?”

Luke picked up the first serviceable object within reach—in this case, a dark cast-iron pan, solid as the strongest stone—and leveled it threateningly. “Watch your tongue, Charles. Or I'll…or I won’t hold back. There are lines you do not cross.”

“On that much, we agree.”

“Take it back,” Luke said darkly. Despite his words and the fire in his eyes, there was something off about the way he held the pan. Not much, but it was there. A slight trembling at the grip. Was it nervousness? Was it his first time in a situation like this? Charles was certain of it. This man was no fighter.

Neither are you, his doubts reminded him.

Charles ignored them. He tried to forget the trembling in his own hands. There was no going back now. Not with his honor of his name intact. What was a two-bit fake with a pan? He held the master chef’s knife, the symbol of house Boulier’s pride. So long as their will stood with him, he felt strong. “Luet…Luke…whatever your name is. Every day, I’m surrounded by monsters a million times more frightening than you. Next to the reds...well, excuse me if I’m not trembling in my boots.” The next bit left his lips before wisdom or sense could put a stop to it. “I’ll take nothing back, you coward traitor!”

“Conceited crownservant!” Luke flew at him with a wide swipe of the pan. On pure instinct, Charles swung the master chef’s knife to meet it. Iron met steel. Time slowed. For a brief instant, each seemed equally matched. Then, far faster than he could follow, the knife’s angle twisted sharply before it was wrenched clean from his hands. Soaring across the Galley, it cleared several full rotations as it arced past the oven and Magnus’ spice rack, then buried itself blade-first in a wooden barrel with a resounding clang. Charles’ stared at his empty hand. His confidence evaporated. Every ounce of it, gone in an instant. And in its place, weakness, worthlessness, and the plain knowledge that he had bitten off more than he could chew came rushing in all at once.

The moment ended. Time moved forward again. While both Dreyans had been briefly stunned by the spectacle of the knife, Luke recovered first, his features contorting in rage.

Another swing came. Charles felt the wind of it rush through his hair, but managed to duck in time. The rows of kitchenware hanging from hooks behind him were less lucky. A shower of ladles, whisks, slotted spoons, spatulas with long wooden handles, metal sieves, and a great deal more spilled to the ground. Luke roared in frustration. His grip was doublehanded. Full force and fully committed. But that made his swings wide and predictable. Straight from the left. Right and downward. A thrust toward the stomach. Luke roared again. The blind rage of it was probably the only thing that kept Charles safe during those first hectic seconds. His senses pulsed. Despite the panic pounding in his ears, he was somehow doing a decent job of keeping out of range...

Right until he stepped square on a rolling pin that had fallen with the rest of the wood and steel. What!? He slid like melted butter in a skillet, tilting back, then lurching forward in a desperate effort to right himself. He managed it, but at the cost of half a second he couldn’t afford to lose. Too far.

Another sweep from the left. He tried to dodge, but his positioning was poor. Too late.

Luke’s iron caught him. A glancing blow, barely more than a graze, but it did the job. Charles cried out in pain. His body buckled, then fell to one knee. He had taken the blow on the broad of his bad leg. A second thrust drove the edge of the pan into his stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs. He went down hard. A moment later the Black Galley ceiling sprawled overhead. Sparks mingled with the strings of red, green, and yellow chilis tied in rows overhead, flickering across his vision. He wheezed. He was pretty sure he had struck his head on the way down. The world blurred. It was then, between the stars and the ringing in his ears, that he started to hear the ghosts.

Drossborn fake! You’re no brother of mine.

Repulsive…

Not now. Why did it have to be now? Couldn’t they leave him alone for a change? Charles hurt. His leg throbbed like a church bell at dawn. He tried to get up; it only brought more seizing and sharp stabs. The voices clamored. A few he recognized. Most were strangers, a crowd of his ancestors near and ancient peering down at him from above. Taunting. Shouting.

Is this all the heir is capable of?!

Worthless…

This is how you repay the act of granting you our name!?

He is a disgrace to our household…

You never deserved to be anything!

No good. His leg wouldn’t respond. He could hardly hear himself think. The ghosts were so loud. So merciless. They always had been, especially when he was at his lowest. He started to see them as well as hear them now. One moment Luen leaned over him. Then Father. Then the creature from his dream, a headless mass swirling with light and darkness. You are not even worth the effort. You could not save a single one of them. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes. Not even yourself. He was ready to give in. To resign himself for whatever pain or darkness came next. He covered his head with his arms and curled to a ball.

Mon piquet. He blinked. Impossible. Had he just heard…

His sense of smell was sharp. Against all logic, it told him cinnamon and nutmeg clung to the air.

Fight, Ace. You need to stand up. Mace mingled with the other spices. Light stabbed at his eyes. A silhouette with a wild mane stood over him, illuminated by the glow of the sunroot. At some point during all the chaos, the poor plant must have been knocked off its perch and rolled near where Charles fell. Luke’s shadow washed over him, and the figure of Erickson vanished.

“You nobles really are arrogant,” Luke breathed, huffing and puffing. All those heavy swings with the pan had taken a toll on him, too. “You actually thought you could beat me with that leg of yours!?” The pan rose.

In mother’s stories, it was moments like this where the heroes managed to sneak a clever quip in before turning the tables. Something charming or memorable to make the children ooh and awe or gasp with admiration. After ten pounds of iron to the stomach, the best Charles could manage was a miserable wheezing noise, and when he finally did speak, it wasn’t even audible.

“I guess we must be,” he gasped. “You and I both.”

“What!?”

Charles seized a fistful of the sunroot’s leaves and shut his eyes tight. It was true he’d never cooked or eaten a sunroot before, so he knew less about them than he’d have liked…but he did remember one detail Master Gustav had mentioned in passing. Edible plants are always vulnerable, so over the centuries they developed ways to defend themselves. Some hid under spines or thick armor-like bark when burrowing voles or heat-hunting viper weevils came looking for an easy meal. A few even sprayed paralyzing mist the moment one of their leaves was disturbed. Sunroots knew a clever trick of their own, but instead of mist they leaned even harder on the gift nature had given them.

Charles tore the leaves free, and light exploded. The Black Galley flared white. Now! “Maybe you’ve forgotten, Luke…,” he said, cracking an eye open. For the next few seconds, he alone would be able to see. “But I’m not the only one working with a handicap here!” He reared back his good leg, then delivered the sharpest kick he could muster…straight into the bandages barely visible under Luke’s gloved right hand.

The cast iron fell to the dirt. Luke made a sound like an arrow-riddled animal. He doubled over, clutching at his wrist. Charles went for broke. Having an edge for a few seconds wasn’t enough. When it was over everything would reset, and he would be right back in the same losing position. It was now or never. Time to make the most of the moment. He ignored the pain and kicked Luke again; this time it caught the fraud square in the face and sent him sprawling back. Now! Get up! Charles bit down on his sleeve and forced his way to one knee, trying to keep as little weight on his bad leg as possible, but it still felt like being dragged through a pit of glass shards. He bit through the pain. Slowly, unbearably, the first leg unbent. Then the other, and with one last push he was upright. Sweat poured down the sides of his face. He knew then that this would probably be as much as he could manage. If he was knocked down again, there would be no third wind. But there was no point in dwelling on that. He couldn’t spare the energy right now.

You’ve got to be…

Credit where credit was due. I underestimated him. As he underestimated me. Even after two savage kicks, Luke had still managed to stand first, though with far less dignity than when the fight started. His left eye remained clenched shut, still blinded by the sunroot. Red flowed in ruby streams from his bruised mash of a nose, and he had to lean against the edge of the stove to keep steady. He was battered and bloodied, but he raised his fists, his fire still alight.

“That all you’ve got, noble?” he spat, wiping blood away on his sleeve.

Charles managed not to grimace. I think it might be. His body was barely holding together. It wanted nothing more than to collapse and call it a night. Instead, he stood tall and raised his fists, too. He hadn’t failed to notice it. Luke had called him a noble like before, but not a boy this time.

“Like hell it is.”