Chapter Two: Silver & Gold

Since he was very small, Charles had been told many times by the adults in his life that his thoughts were obsessive in nature. That he was the type to dwell on everything, good or bad, asking questions upon questions until he resolved whatever was on his mind. Mother had praised him for it. She’d often told him that thoughtful men were a rarity.

Father had chided him. A man must own his thinking. It must not own him.

As for Charles himself, per usual he wasn’t sure what to think or how to feel.

Why did you take it? he repeated to himself for the hundredth time. Why couldn’t you have asked for help? If you needed money, there’s no harm in saying so. Did you think me so dishonorable that I wouldn’t return your kindness?

That was the only explanation that made sense. It was his fault. He had not done a good enough job of convincing them he could be trusted. He had disgraced his name again. They must have been sure he would try to take advantage of them, or that he would leave without offering repayment. So they left first.

And why wouldn’t they think those things? As he was, he didn’t exactly leave the most flattering first impression. He looked terrible and probably smelled worse. Who would want someone like him tagging along all the way to the capital? The shame crept in again.

It was past noon now. The rain had stopped and had not returned since the last storm. Autumn had gasped its last. Charles watched the winds of winter sweep across the green hills, an object grasped in each hand. It was a triumph that he could do that much without running out of breath.

After the evening's events, the fifteen-year-old had been trapped in a nightmare, as he had every night these past weeks. A fogged half-reality plagued with riders draped in red. He’d abruptly woken, groggy and gasping for breath, to a fly buzzing irritably about his face. Reflexively, Charles moved to shoo it away. His arm barely twitched. That was when the full cost of the previous night became clear. That small attempt at movement forced him to rest for several minutes, fighting for air, before he could summon the energy to do anything else. This repeated again and again. Lifting his head. Sitting against the wall. Draining the entire skin of water, which for the first time he felt extremely fortunate to have. Each set the young chef squarely back to zero.

It took him an entire day to stand up.

It was somehow worse than when he’d hobbled down the muddy country roads on his injury. Every act, each insignificant milestone, was a sheer climb up a crumbling cliffside. Improvement came slowly, when it came at all. The bandaged leg still troubled him, but in a distinctly different way than before. The sharp pang was gone. In its place, a dull ache clung to him at all times, whether he put pressure on his bad foot or not. The pain had leveled out, constant but without the unbearable extremes.

Eventually, he settled into a slight limp that carried him just a little further before needing rest with each attempt. It was enough to make a kind of hobbling progress. If he allowed himself to be cautiously optimistic, Charles felt as though whatever war the infection had waged against him had started to tilt in his favor. The struggle was not over, but this danger, at least, had been put on the defensive.

Overall, it hurt far less...and drained him far more. Charles imagined this must be what an infant went through when developing motor skills on newborn limbs. The vulnerability of it was alarming. If a grazing thrust from that spear had nearly killed him, Lila’s cure might still finish the job.

Lila. He glanced at the two objects in his hands. In his left, the empty pouch where he’d kept the silver. Apparently, Thom had decided he had no need for it when he took the coins and left a sleeping Charles to fend on his own. Hazy memories, some mistaken for a dream, had floated back to Charles over the course of the first morning. Enough to paint a rough picture.

The fever. His fall. Mothwood. An argument. Kind for kind. As everything pieced together, so too did the impact of what had actually taken place. Lila’s mothwood had probably saved his life. What’s more, she had spoken up on his behalf. Yes...that much he remembered for certain. However briefly or halfheartedly, this woman, a stranger, had valued his humanity enough to vouch for him against the word of her husband. She had even wanted him to come with them. She had thought Charles was worth something...even though he could not cook for her.

Then she had consented to abandoning him. Though not without a small act of defiance. He turned to the object in his right hand.

He had found it while rifling through his stockpot in a panic, terrified that his knives would also be missing. The silver meant nothing. Money was replaceable. But if he lost those as well...it was preferable not to think about. To his immense relief, all five were accounted for, still wrapped and waiting dutifully where he had left them. Even the cleaver, he thought dully. Perhaps Thom’s untrained eyes simply hadn’t recognized the fortune such a set of steel could fetch if matched with the right buyer. He was no chef after all, and there was little reason to steal what he would have viewed as ordinary kitchen knives.

Or perhaps he did have some idea of their worth, but also knew enough to be wary. The knives were rare. Incredibly rare. Rare enough to draw a great deal of attention. What few sibling sets existed were wielded by some of the finest cooks alive, each with reputations stretching the world over. If a pair of windblown refugees, people who had no history in professional cooking and no business owning such knives, were to suddenly present them in the capital with no clear explanation, people might start asking uncomfortable questions.

Or perhaps, he admitted, it was pity and nothing else. The speculation went round and round. It mattered little, he reminded himself. Regardless of why, Charles had his knives. That was all he cared about.

He had most of what he’d left home with. Aside from the silver, nothing else had been disturbed. The pots. His grandfather’s ladles. The everflies, burning a furious red. All present.

And something more, too. A small, hard something that Charles had needed to reach deep into the stockpot to retrieve.

Even now, he stared at it in disbelief, unsure how to react. It was a pair of shards. Quartz, light gray and made to strike against each other in rapid succession.

Lila had left him flint. The very thing he needed most. She must have gleaned his situation and snuck it to him as a parting gift, possibly while Thom wasn’t watching. He could light sparks now, and since the rain seemed to be letting up at last…

Fire. He could have a real fire. Stave off the cold, keep his apron dry. Maybe even cook. The thought filled him with hope, but it also reminded him of the ugly fact he’d been ignoring. Two of his biggest obstacles up to this point, the leg and the cold, were now at least somewhat addressed. They were not nearly so frightening as before. Not for the present, anyways. That left one mountain to clear, and unfortunately time was not on his side. He was still a chef with no food, and a chef with no food is no chef at all. A particularly harsh growl came from his midsection. How many days since his last proper meal? Three? Four? He’d lost a day trying to get on his feet, so it might be five by now. His brain was foggy. It was hard to recall. His agitated stomach was certainly no help. It roared and moaned that it had been at least a thousand years since Charles last fed it anything. While the excitement of Thom and Lila’s visit and the painful treatment of his leg had kept hunger distracted, recovery brought back the instinctive drive to sate it full force. It had grown overpowering. Intense to the point where he quite literally could not focus on anything else.

How many more days did he have before it put him right back on the ground again, unable to rise this time? He’d last tomorrow, certainly. The day after...probably. After that?

The capital must wait. Survival was the looming concern. His hunger needed to be addressed, by dusk if possible. Before his stomach lost faith in him entirely and ate itself. If Charles had nothing to work with, he would find something to work with. He faced the rolling green land sprawling endlessly before him.

That meant turning to the wilds, completely unpredictable and unfamiliar territory. He would have to leave the relative safety of the roads. To the east lay the edge of a forest ascending on a series of plateaus, each towering above the last like a giant set of stairs. He noted a flock of birds breaking formation to land somewhere in the high canopy. Were they in search of food, too?

The birds weren not the first to try their luck. Charles had noticed others. Bushy-tailed red squirrels and burrowing chipmunks. Grey moths and mayflies. Even a small herd of grassen deer, the only species to, for unknown reasons, decorate their antlers with vines and flowers. Each conspiciously veered from their path, only to make a sudden streak for the great staircase.

A forest oasis. A place where flora and fauna converge.

It might just be worth his while.

Charles was no woodsman. One honest look at his current state made that plain. He had never cooked with ingredients that had not been hand-delivered by someone else. Procurement was the work of servants, and it was not without perils, he knew. If he tried to brave the open forests, there was little protecting him from beasts or bandits.

Or worse. He might get lost. He might fall and injure his leg even further. If that happened, his odds plunged from slim to nonexistent. It might be the end of him. But if he stayed this course...sooner or later the dark hand of malnutrition would close around him. No capital. No safety. No second chances. That was as true as anything he knew. It was a man’s gamble, with life and death holding the cards.

Now was the time. Until today, he had intended to keep it out of sight, never mentioning its existence to another living soul until he was safely inside the City of Hope. Until today, that had seemed like the prudent choice. But that was then. He could not fulfill his mission if he starved out here. Today, there was little alternative but to bring out that.

During his nightly routine, there was one item Charles steadfastly refused to allow outside the security of his stockpot. Not for more than a minute or so. He feared the wind, wet or mud would soil it, and even imagining that was intolerable. He’d kept this sacred symbol of his family concealed between his sauce and saute pans, but now he retrieved it, for the wisdom contained within would be his best chance at salvation.

It was a heavy thing. The spine—almost too thick to grip with a single hand—bent just a bit. That was of no importance. A spine could be repaired. The pages were musty. They reminded him with sadness of the old library in Boulier manor. The paper had yellowed with the decades, but their contents remained as pristine as ever. That was of importance. As long as he could read these words, Charles felt comforted. In a way, they made him feel he was not truly alone no matter no how far he traveled.

Recenne di Boulier. The Boulier recipe book. The sum culinary experience of his bloodline dating back to its very roots, and the only thing he’d ever possessed worth more than his knives. Was it even possible to assign price to something like this?

Strictly speaking, it did not belong solely to him. It was the shared property of his household, both past and future generations. Only his surname permitted Charles to read it. Father had pressed the weathered book into his hands amongst the backdrop of flames and horror, and told him to keep it close, always.

This is the life-work of many. Mine, my father, his father before him. Now I entrust it to you, Charles. You will watch over it until we meet again?

Until we meet again…

Charles clenched his fist. The book could never be allowed to fall into the hands of outsiders. It was his duty as a man, the secret task given to him in service of the Boulier name, to deliver this from harm and protect their legacy. His legacy. A new sense of determination filled him. Charles held the book aloft with an almost holy reverence, half-expecting a surge of knowledge to flow through him from the mere act of touching it.

A minute later, he sat flipping through the aged pages like a normal person, just a touch disappointed. I suppose that would be asking a bit much.

He set about the work at hand. His task was a daunting one. New territory, certainly. How to make a proper dish using only what he could find in the woods and open plains? No seasoning on hand. No herbs. No acids. No clue where to begin. The limitations grew the longer he brooded on them. Charles had memorized hundreds of recipes. None were of much use here. Without access to the vast stores and stockpiles found in a real kitchen, they were ideas and little more. Out of everything he lacked, what pained him most was not having his salt. One of the basic pillars of cooking, and here he was without a granule. Being a chef with no salt felt like being a chef with no arms.

Nearly everything he had learned about cooking was tripping over itself, granting momentary flashes of inspiration, only for him to remember he didn't have some essential component. He decided to narrow down his options by starting with what wasn’t possible.

Right away, he ruled out any recipes centered around meat. Charles wasn’t half as skilled with butchery as Father’s carnender, a gruff Master of Meats named Boregard, and even if that were not the case, he was about as likely to find livestock or capture wild game as he was to fly to the capital on the seat of a dragon. That left mainly vegetables, fungi and fruits. The realm of a Master of Vegetables, a legumon, or perhaps a Roundsman Chef, also called the Jack of the Kitchen. Despite fervent searching, he had not come across any edible crops outside the farms surrounding Lutz, and any that were still in the fields were as good as dead. The winter chill and autumn rains would have seen to that.

What about fungi? A mushroom dish, perhaps? In some circles they were called the meat of the forest. Charles scratched his chin. Mushrooms were hearty, nutritious, and there was no shortage of wild species nearby. However...there was also no shortage of risk. Many had poisoned themselves picking mushrooms that were toxic or even lethal by accident. Bad mushrooms mimicked edible ones. Only the seasoned eye could confidently discern the two.

But surely that was little challenge for any true Boulier chef. It was decided.

He skipped to the section on mushrooms, then searched under pogitier. Master of Soup entries.

King bolete. Bearded tooth. Drake’s flame. Red Pine. The next page seized his attention. A golden yellow mushroom with a large, flourishing cap stared up at him. Golden Chanterelle soup. A staple of rural Dreyan cuisine, still popular with inns and taverns. Charles brightened. He had always been fond of the unique taste of chanterelles: earthy and full, yet punctuated with a sweetness not unlike the ripest apricots. He enjoyed cooking with them even more. The way they could be gentle in one dish, yet pack forceful flavor in others. They would make an ideal center. Eating only one or two of them didn’t give you much energy, though. This would require quite a bounty of gold. The text called for a stock made with bone. He clicked his tongue with a “tsk”, a habit of expressing irritation he had built over many years of being scolded for sighing or voicing complaints during lessons. Already, the tirade father would have buried him in for deviating from the recipe—his own ancestor’s recipe, no less—was playing out in his mind. Taking liberties with such things had always been scorned in the Boulier household. To the chefs of their line, tradition and authenticity were not matters to be trifled with. Please forgive me. I mean no disrespect to your memory, but I’m not going to find any bones to work with. I swear I wouldn’t do it if I had any choice.

He sat and pondered for a while. If need be, he could probably improvise with a rough vegetable stock. Yes...yes, that would be far better suited to this environment. And some common basil, if he happened upon it. Or bay leaves. And something to offset that mild peppery aftertaste-.

The chef in him was getting off-track. He closed the book and began to pack up.

He had feared the change in elevation might be more than his body could handle, but so long as he stuck to the natural paths carved out by animals, he managed to hold together. Far from the constant danger he had expected behind every tree, his first expedition as a gatherer started on an almost miraculous note.

Charles stared at the bubbling natural spring in front of him, equally amazed and worried by his strange fortune.

Well then. He had been foraging less than half an hour when the rushing sound drew him from a narrow deer path. It was perfectly safe to drink, and he would need to fill his stockpot roughly a third of the way up with the crystal clear liquid to form the foundation of his broth. It was a blessing, undoubtedly, but...why did fate keep serving him so much water when for so long it had guarded food, medicine, and human companionship with jealousy?

It was like a bizarre curse with terms that were too vague to understand. Was this some twisted form of judgement? The gods had no answer. How many men have died in these woods because they weren’t able to find this? The gods had no answer for that, either. If this was spite, Charles humbly accepted it as he filled the empty skin. At the very least, he would not be dying of thirst anytime soon.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The spring lay nestled in a clearing on a high wooded hilltop. A good vantage point, he noted. It made him more comfortable knowing he would have a clear view of the surrounding countryside while he managed his prepwork. Once it was full of sloshing water, the stockpot proved too cumbersome to carry far. Charles opted to craft his kitchen right where he was. He dug a small pit in the soil, removed the stockpot’s long steel handles, and set them flat over the opening so they formed what appeared to resemble a tiny bridge across a ravine. This particular pot had a trick up its sleeve; it had been cleverly designed to sit on top of its own handles while a fire dug below cooked its contents. He took a quiet joy in setting the water to simmer. When he was confident the fire would not spread past the pit, he left to hunt down the rest of his recipe.

Charles eyeballed the yellow caps sprouting free of the soil. Pretty tricky, but you won’t fool a Boulier that easily. The disguise was a decent one. An amatuer might fall for it. Fortunately he was no amatuer. This was a cluster of false chanterelle. Almost identical to the real thing at a glance, but with a closer look the deceptions begin to unravel. It was a dark yellow. Too dark. Almost orange, and the color faded from cap to stem where the true chanterelle was solid gold. The gills were all wrong, too. Golden chanterelles’ gills didn’t fork like this, and they were thicker. Smell was a giveaway as well. He wanted a faint, fruity aroma. Not the garden-variety smell these gave off. Charles let them be. Unlike their grim cousins, the setting sun chanterelles, these were not harmful to eat, but they were overly chewy and bland, especially compared to what he was really after. His leg was starting to complain a bit, but it was a good sign that he was able to walk like this unassisted.

Along the way, Charles took his pick of anything that would benefit the overall chemistry of his dish. He inhaled the aroma of each to check their quality. Walnuts. Thyme (a warm, spicy scent). Wild onions, a pungent aroma that bit his nose and sent his appetite into a frenzy. Patience. Remember your dignity. Stalks of asparagus, some growing higher than his knee. He intentionally picked through them for younger, shorter stalks. Asparagus grew hard and tasteless as it aged; chewing old asparagus was only slightly more pleasant than chewing wood. He picked Alliaria, an herb that emulated the scent of garlic. Ginseng roots would clash with the soup he had in mind, but they could be dried and used another day. Charles whistled as he tossed them in one of his smaller pots. A fistful of bitter bay leaves; a powerful asset in building flavor, though they were not meant to be eaten whole. Turnips and some stringy carrots (to his knowledge, neither were native, and had likely been introduced by settlers over the centuries). He tossed back a spiky cucumber covered in some sort of grey mold, trying not to think about the fact that he had the mold’s spores inside his nose now. Chestnuts.

Charles paused...then gave one a quick taste. It was necessary. To check for rancidity, of course. A dandelion, freshly bloomed. Charles broke. He snatched it and bit off the flower in one go...then paused mid-chew, realizing he probably should have checked if there were any bugs on it first. Bugs or no, to him the petals were sweet as fresh honey.

He swallowed.

For a moment he was five, not fifteen. The winds of winter melted away, replaced by the summer sun. He sat against the warmth of his mother's embrace as she showed him something new and wonderful.

Look, Charles! You can pick these and eat them right off the ground. Aren’t they beautiful? Gold and green, the colors of Dreya. Go ahead and try one. It won’t bite.

He balled his fists until the nails dug into his flesh. He would not cry. Men were never supposed to cry. He let what was left of the dandelion fall to the dirt. His first morsel in ages, but it only brought loud demands from his stomach for more. The floodgates were open. When he spotted a blackberry bramble, all that kept him from picking it clean was the image of his ancestor’s disapproving faces and one particularly traumatic childhood experience. A much younger Charles had wreaked havoc on his digestion by eating too many berries in too short a span. It took everything to tear himself away after only a dozen. Many more went into the pot. His composure returned. He took a breath.

“Any man can live hand to mouth,” he said in the voice of his father. It took sensibility to create real art from food. A capacity to think of the future over the present. "That is what it takes to cook like a Boulier."

He walked on. The young chef was distracted, lamenting that he was unlikely to find celery or tomatoes anywhere near here—it was the wrong season for the former and the wrong region for the latter—when he saw a distinct yellow in the corner of his eye.

Solid gold. A veritable treasure trove. Charles paused. Then he smiled.

The stockpot had reached a frothing boil when he returned, but before adding his ingredients he cleaned them in the springwater. His vegetables were diced and set to saute; he tossed in the onions first, added the carrots and turnips after a time, then let the asparagus join last. Thankfully, there seemed to be enough grease clinging to the pan to make up for not having any olive oil. Sorry, old friend. I promise I’ll get you spiffed up as soon as we get to the capital. He sat, occasionally stirring the pieces over the flames. This was the excruciating part for a hungry chef. The aromas were coming to harmony, the onions sizzling pleasantly as they slid across the grease, releasing juices that coalesced with the mild sweet smell of cooked turnips and the bitter flavors of wild carrots.

His stomach made a sound swearing vengeance for his torturous treatment. Just a little longer. We’re very close now. Tending to his vegetables, hissing pleasantly and dancing about in the pan until the onions had fully caramelized, took the better part of an hour. Boiling them down with the herbs until half the water had dissipated took longer still. Finally, he added his fried chanterelles to the mix. The mushrooms had a pleasing texture. Soft, like biting into a ripe plum. There was an odd satisfaction that came with slicing through one. They would add much needed substance to his soup, as well as that subtle, fruity element. This was usually the point where Charles liked to declare his dish complete with a dramatic dash of salt. He settled for an imaginary dash, then clapped his hands. His role as chef was finished.

Now then. The moment of truth.

He drank deep from his ladle, savoring the song his dish sang just for him. A rich contrast of sweet and tart. The chanterelles warred against the turnips and onions without tilting too far in either’s favor. The ladle was filled again. He tasted a mouthful of mushroom and chestnuts, each accentuating the earthy tone of the other. A bit too much, he thought. It was a dish as untamed as the ingredients comprising it. But there was potential. A bit of reeling in here, a gentle push there, and this might be fully servable. All circumstances considered, Joanna—Father’s pogitier—would be proud. A rough creation, but one he was confident would remain with him the rest of his days. Perfect in its imperfection. A dish he looked forward to honing with a proper spice rack at his fingertips.

“Von bierre!” His cry of victory echoed over the open valley. Charles was ecstatic in a way only this could bring. It was the most alive he’d felt in weeks. With one more ladle of soup, he set the lid and sealed his flawed masterpiece. That should give everyone a minute to mingle.

He hummed, helping himself to another blackberry. The barbed threats from his insides had subsided, if only a little. Now that it was certain Charles had warm food to spare, his body seemed to be slowly accepting this surreal new reality: that there was something like safety here by this spring. For today, he decided to do nothing other than enjoy it. He would need to keep eating in stages to build back his strength without overburdening his stomach and intestines with a sudden avalanche of soup. Tomorrow, he would loot for gold again. Perhaps a few days after as well, until he had built a large enough stash of ingredients to make a respectable traveling chef. With that, the last of his major problems would be put to rest. He had overcome. He still looked and smelled like an animal. He was still a long way from home, and even farther from his destination. But he was not going to die. Not of thirst, hunger, an infected leg or anything else.

It was over.

He lay in the windswept grass, reaching out to the passing clouds. Certainly a less stressful experience when the sky isn’t trying to drown you.

It was a much-needed respite. The young man closed his eyes and let his woes slip from his shoulders. He was going to live. Everything was going to be alright. Maybe not today. Maybe not all at once. But in time. However, if his plans were once again within reach, it meant there was now a great deal to consider. For the first time, his mind felt clear enough to really think about what came next for him. What would he do when he actually reached the City of Hope? Look for his family, obviously. Seek out anyone arriving from Lutz; that went without saying. But surely he could be of more use than that. If he arrived first, then he should try to start earning money as soon as he could. Not just for himself, but for Mother, Nina, and Luen, too. There would always be high demand for even meager skill with food. How difficult could it be? He was a Boulier. Surely there were head chefs needing a roundsman or two in the capital. Instantly, another of Father’s tirades began forming, this time at the notion of his son cooking as a jack with no mastery. Charles waved it away and went back to fantasizing. Supposedly, there were more mouths to feed in the capital than anywhere else. More restaurants than the three nations that surrounded it combined. And the trade. So many exotic spices, herbs and sauces to test. It would put this armpit of the wilderness to shame. Just imagining the wealth of available ingredients was starting to thrill him. New tastes. Bold recipes. Will there be chefs there that have cooked meat from a dragon? Would they let me cook a dragon? His giddiness was running away with him. A place where legends were born, and men of character and talent propelled themselves to greatness. Practically a site of pilgrimage for young chefs from every corner of the map. Charles was supposed to be one of those pilgrims, though not quite this early.

Not like this.

He was always meant to further his education in the city once he came of age, first through a culinary academy (any choice less prestigious than the Institute of White or Li Perrei would be soundly rejected), then managing the day-to-day operations of a restaurant in an apprenticeship under one of Father’s associates. There he would gradually develop his mastery until he graduated from the apprentice rank of eleve. He might get away with mastering roasting as a rotundrier, but more likely he would become a saucier like Father and Grandfather. The journey was tradition. Just another expectation for him as heir. One of the few he’d always looked forward to fulfilling. Sadness fell over him again.

His thoughts turned to Lila and Thom. Part of him wondered where they were now, how they were faring, and if he would ever see them again under kinder circumstances. Another part bitterly hoped they stayed far away for the rest of his life. A third part, one he hoped was much smaller than the others, wished for darker things. He tried to deny it, but being abandoned had wounded him deeply. Charles did not fare well alone, but he had always struggled with figuring out what he was supposed to do when he wasn’t. I’m better with food than people, he thought. Meeting the couple had cost him his silver, but had he never met them his leg would have surely festered. Right now, he would probably be laying facedown in a ditch. He certainly would never have found his gold. What was the true weight of having known them, if only briefly? What had he gained? What had he lost? The young man was uncertain.

Everything was uncertain now. The life he used to know seemed faint. Like a daydream he had been forever woken from. The winds of change had thrown everything to chaos when...

When...

Charles opened his eyes and sat up.

No...no, it couldn’t be. He laid down and pressed his ear flat against the grassy hillside. His face went blank with a quiet terror. His hands began to quiver. There was no mistake. He had not imagined the ever-so-faint tremors reverberating through his body. The ground was shaking. Too soft for an earthquake. Charles paled. The tremors were growing stronger now.

A spring with enough fresh water to fuel hundreds of men on the move. Significant enough to be marked on a map.

A clear vantage point to see the surrounding countryside...and to be seen.

A fool shouting in excitement over mushroom soup.

A column of smoke from a cookfire.

He flew to his knives and Recenne di Boulier, but it was too late. A streak of red darted between the trees to his right. First one. Then several more behind it. Retreat toward the deep wood was cut off. He turned to make a feeble half-run for denser brush across the clearing, but they erupted like a tide from that side as well. The thunder of hooves stormed all around him as they circled, choking off the faintest paths to escape. Everywhere he looked, red flowed across the green. There were dozens of them now, armored riders draped in flowing cloaks of blood. They were helmed and hooded, their passing faces made of stone. It was hard to pick one from the others in the spree of movement. But their weapons...their weapons he saw all too clearly. Each bore a long, cruel spear emblazoned with the rising sun on his back. Only some of the spears were clean.

Charles went blank. Even as they tightened the encirclement, closing in like a serpent strangling ever deeper, he made no effort to move away. He had stopped trying to run. He had stopped trying to do anything. What would come next, he knew well. He had witnessed the work of these men firsthand, and heard it whispered in hushed tones many times prior. There were few in his homeland who hadn’t. Everyone feared the emperor’s personal battalion of raiders, the vanguard of a crusade to spread the imperial faith to all humanity. The butchers of his beautiful home of Lutz, and countless towns just like it.

The Spears of Mercy.

The circling slowed. Then it stopped. A gap in the wall opened, and something massive began to stride through. The largest man Charles had ever seen climbed down from his warhorse and approached with all the gravity of a casual evening stroll. The difference in height was almost comical. A mammoth before a mouse. Out of all the raiders, only this one wore something setting him blatantly apart from the rest. Something obviously intended to denote supreme rank and authority. It was a mask. More accurately, half a mask shrouding the right side of his face, stopping precisely deadcenter at the bridge of his nose. Snow white and rounded, like the waxing moon. The smooth surface was interrupted by a lone hole, just wide enough for his steel gaze to measure the prey in front of him. His other eye was long gone, a gnarled scar marking the empty socket it had once occupied.

“Let’s not keep the lord in suspense, boy,” he said without emotion. “Have you pledged yourself to the One Mercy?” Charles balked. Of all he’d expected, questions were not part of it. A glimmer of hope flickered. Did...did they actually intend to spare him if he answered yes? He glanced about. The others were leaning forward on their mounts. They were paying close attention now. Even through hoods and helmets, Charles caught flashes of expression.

They were smiling. Subtle, cruel smiles, but smiles nonetheless. His hope extinguished. In its place, he felt a rush of sorrow and rage. Fury for those who had torn apart his home, his country, and his life over nothing. Enough to grant him a moment of reckless courage. Forgive me, father. I wasn’t able to keep my word. If I am to die a failure, I will at least die a man. I won’t lose my dignity as a Boulier. He met the one-eyed raider’s gaze. They would not make a game of him.

“I have not. Nor will I ever.” A few of the raiders laughed. Their leader raised his hand, and they fell silent. He drew uncomfortably close, his face inches from Charles’. The stench of slaughter was overwhelming.

“Your name,” he said. This was not a question.

“C-Charles. Charles Boulier.”

“You were wise not to lie, Charles Boulier,” he said. “The lord hates liars, for dishonesty is the mark of the irredeemable. My men hate liars. The last people who lied to us are still coating their spears. Look.” Charles did look, despite himself. He saw what the masked raider intended for him to see...and more. A strip of cloth from a yellow dress, waving to him from the barbed hook of a towering spear. The blood was fresh. It gleamed like rubies in the sunlight.

“Rejoice, young Charles,” the towering raider said. His voice rang with pious pride, and something disturbingly like genuine affection. His men raised the shafts of their spears and brought them down as one. They, too, cried “rejoice!”

“The One Mercy pierces the vanity of mortal flesh. And when it is done, the worthy shall be parted from mere chaff. Sinners who declare false worship become no more than a stain upon steel, their souls forever chained to the weapon that struck them down. But you will be different. Your body may perish, but your spirit shall ascend and know redemption.” He brandished his hooked spear, an eight-foot terror covered in the blood of Charles’ countrymen. “Your conversion will be brief, so long as you are still. Be without fear.”

The young chef had never known greater fear. Had never comprehended that such fear was even possible. All of his earlier boldness had evaporated. He wanted to live. To cook. To taste. To love. To see Mother and his siblings again. He trembled, desperate for something—anything—to shield himself from this fate. But it was useless. The only shield he had ever wielded in life had been the influence of his name, and that was less than nothing here. Without the name Boulier, he was just Charles. And what could Charles hope to do in the face of this? He was cornered. The closest thing he had to a weapon was…

The master chef’s knife. It was unwrapped. Within reach. Resting beneath the book just behind him. One second, he told himself. Two at most. Two was all he would need to plunge his family’s knife into this savage’s throat in Lutz’ name. That would serve him. A taste of vengeance for all the wrongs left in his wake. It would be courageous. It would be justice. It would be utter suicide. Even if by some miracle he avoided the first spear, a dozen more would skewer him like a roasted pig before he could blink. His conversion was unlikely to be brief then. He cursed his weakness. Were futile gestures all that were left to him?

The winds of change were blowing again. An impulse guided Charles’ hand. Before he had time to doubt himself, he lunged—not for his knife, but for the closer lid of his stockpot—and released a burst of white steam. By the time his mind fully processed what he had done, there was already steel hovering a hair’s breadth from his throat. Before I can blink.

It was more than enough to make plain the gap between a fifteen-year-old, one who had never been in so much as a fist-fight, and a seasoned killer. Shame consumed him. He would never have reached the dicing knife without being run through first.

The enormous raider glowered over him through that single masked eye. Then...he sniffed. His expression shifted. Surprise. Confusion. Then curiosity. In a gesture blatantly demonstrating how little threat Charles posed, he pulled the spear away and turned his back, as though he’d suddenly remembered an errand and lost interest in the young chef. He peered into the steaming stockpot still wafting its sweet aromas on the breeze. He snapped. A second raider dismounted and was at his side at once.

“Taste it.” The second raider obeyed without question, drinking deep from the ladle. His eyes widened. He gave a firm nod signaling what Charles prayed was approval. His superior’s assessment was less telling. Whether he loved or hated the soup was nearly impossible to discern, though he at least he did not spit it out. Finally, he spoke without facing the young chef.

“You made this by yourself?” he said.

Charles managed a coherent “yes.”

“You can prepare food for many men?”

“I-I would need ingredients, but yes,” Charles said. The masked man grew quiet. He seemed to be weighing many contradictory circumstances. The pause was unbearable, but none dared interrupt him.

“One of our cooks met his end to pneumonia two nights ago,” he finally said. “You will serve the One Mercy as his replacement until we return to the Emperor. Then I, personally, will convert you.”

He turned around and spoke an iron command.

“Seize him.” Several redcloaks surrounded Charles. One moved to snatch his knives while another was already examining the sacred pages of Recenne di Boulier. He shouted in protest, so consumed by his outrage he failed to notice the shackles until they were already sealed around his wrists. He was forced down. Then all he saw was the brief flash of a straw sack as it was forced over his head, silencing his scream and plunging him into the dark.