A Son of Dreya (Part Two)

Inside the Galley's canvas walls was the only stroke of fortune Charles had received all morning. A glint from the far corner made him shield his eyes. There was a pile of fresh ingredients―seven bags of flour and sugar, roughly a dozen slaughtered Cornish-breed chickens still feathered and needing to be plucked clean, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, a headless pig hanging from a steel hook, and an overturned basket of grapefruits―that had not been present earlier. But it was what sat in the middle that filled his soul with relief. Even compared to Magnus’ cooking steel, there was a special quality in the way the stockpot Father had gifted him shined in the dim morning light.

Charles rushed to his belongings. He picked them up and held each of them just to know that they were real. His grandfather’s ladles. His frying pan. His jar of...entirely dead everflies. He murmured a quiet apology to the fallen bugs. Braiser, saute and sauce pans. No nicks or dents that he could see. They were unharmed! His knives. Bread and paring. Fillet. Boning. Father’s chef’s knife. Even the cleaver. A wave of emotion rolled over him. Oh, thank the gods, nothing had happened to his knives. He had been certain he would never lay eyes on them again. This was all...this was all he had left of home. It was part of himself. He clutched the stockpot close to his chest. It must have looked childish, he knew, but he had been pushed so low by the day’s events that for this brief instant even shame could be set aside. Just briefly. Just to feel alright for a few seconds.

“Do you need a moment alone with that?” Magnus said dryly.

Charles’ cheeks tinged pink. The shame returned. Shame made him think of his family, which made him think of Father. Father made him think of…

He tore through every nook and cranny. Between his pans. Under the wrappings and his dragonhead cruet. Everywhere. But his bloodline’s cookbook was nowhere to be found.

Ricenne di Boulier was missing.

“Chef,” he said, more than a little desperation in his voice. It was telling that, even under stress, he still instinctively referred to the kitchen’s chief with the proper formality. “Was a leather-bound book delivered with these supplies? It would be old and worn, with a thick spine. Did you see it anywhere? It’s very important.”

“A book?” Magnus said, folding his arms. “Can’t say I have. Although…,” he drummed a finger against his bicep. “If it was a good read, the cardinal might have taken it for his personal library. He keeps a small collection for nighttime reading.” Charles gave him an incredulous look. “Now, now. Don’t let appearances fool you―from what I’ve seen, he’s actually quite the academic. When he’s not covered in other people’s blood, anyways. Thorne is a cardinal and an officer. The man may be a fanatic but that does not mean he isn’t educated. Your book may have intrigued him.”

“Thorne just killed a man and went on to eat his breakfast like it was nothing! What could that...brute find intriguing about our family's cookbook!?” Charles took a deep breath and gathered himself. Outburst like that were very rare for him. He had never been one to raise his voice, especially not at someone of a higher station, but what Magnus was suggesting was more than a little offensive. For centuries, Boulier chefs had played an important, irreplaceable role in the social order. They did far more than merely feed men. Any amateur could manage that much. Bouliers were artists. Their craft was special, and took a special level of insight to recognize. Culinarians strived to create great works from the simple ingredients at their disposal. The Spears of Mercy created nothing; they knew only how to destroy. The idea of someone like Thorne, a savage butcher of humans without a refined bone in his body, thinking he could appreciate all the generations of careful study and dedication Ricenne di Boulier represented, could not be borne.

Charles was about to say as much, but the grave look Magnus gave him stifled the words in his throat.

“Let me tell you a little story,” the red-haired chef said. “Before you blunder into the same hole as one of the Green Galley's former tenants, a young fool by the name of Gadius." Magnus sighed. "He was a noble third-born from an old family, and when he was conscripted by lottery to join a lowly team of cooks for the Spears, he tried to protest the decision in court. And by protest in court, I mean he tried to bribe the judge to weasel out of it. Common behavior for the aristocracy, and just as commonly accepted. Before he died, he confided in me that he had been certain his father’s influence would be enough to escape real service on the front lines. I’m certain it would have, had he been trifling with another man. But he miscalculated. The cardinal appeared in person to represent the Spears at the proceedings. You can imagine the judge’s fear of him far outweighed any greed for money. Thorne offered blunt terms: ‘If your son defeats me in a duel of his choosing, his conscription will be nullified.’ Actual combat, quite obviously, was a death sentence. But there are other ways. In the empire, games of wit are recognized as a legal form of dueling, so long as both parties consent. It seemed a quick solution. Gadius took one look at this brute, as you say, and thought his problems over. He went as far as inviting his friends to make a show of embarrassing his opponent. The day of the duel, he chose the game he had the greatest talent for: Bracta. It is a test of one’s subtlety and skill in deception, where victory is decided by who best can predict an opponent’s next move. It was not a close game. From the way Gadius described it, he was pulverized in front of his family and peers, and the next day found himself on a horse headed for the warfront. Six weeks later he was missing two of his fingers, and in another week he was dead.”

Charles felt the color drain from his face as he listened. This had to be some sort of sick cosmic joke. As if sheer size and might weren't enough. He has intelligence as well? Charles thought with despair. And he has our book. He’s the worst person who could have taken it. I have my gifts back. Even Father’s knife. There’s just one piece remaining, but how am I supposed to ever get it back from him? I’m still missing the most essential piece.

Missing…

A thought occurred.

“Um...Chef,” he said. “Where is Luet?” There had been commotion upon commotion this morning, yet the pastretta hadn’t shown a trace of himself. Magnus snorted.

“Right where I left him.” He gestured his foot toward the fraying cots, where Luet snored gently under a pile of blankets. “That upjumped éclair could sleep through a full-blown hurricane. Be a good lad and wake him. We’ve got lunch to cook and dinner prep to complete.”

“Right,” Charles said. But he faltered. Then he bowed his head humbly. “Chef...I thank you."

"Huh?" Magnus tilted his head.

"For what you did before . If you hadn’t stepped in, I’m not sure how that would have ended. I may very well owe you my life.”

Magnus was stone-faced. His piercing green eyes gave no indication that he accepted or rejected Charles’ gratitude. “Really, I should be thanking you,” he finally said. He stretched, as though he had been bearing a heavy pack on his back and had only just had a chance to set it down. “I’ve wanted to tear into those reds full-force since I got here. You just gave me an chance to let it out. I certainly feel better now. Refreshed, even. That should tide me over for a good while, so do try to wait before you go picking any more fights.”

“I didn’t pick any fight. He just lost it and hit me out of nowhere. I’m not even sure what I did to make him angry,” Charles protested.

“Perhaps he hadn’t strangled enough small animals this morning?” Magnus suggested. The eleve did not laugh. “Well, what’s your theory then? Usually when a man hits another man there's some sort of reason. Usually.”

Charles couldn’t be sure. Not entirely. But he did have one guess. “I think…,” he said. It was unlikely, but he said it anyways. “I think maybe he could tell I felt bad for that Shattered. That I thought his life was tragic. The red Spears...they’ve all been taught that foreign heathens can’t be decent people while they’re alive. The idea of one of them pitying somebody he cared about might have been more than he could take.” Or perhaps he could tell that, for half a heartbeat, I felt pity for the red Spears, too.

Magnus merely grunted.

“Little episodes like today’s are exactly why my wife begged me to hang the white hat and trade my Lead Chef role for Head Chef,” he said. “My in-person management ‘drives money straight out the door.’ Her words, not mine. I acknowledge we were starting to get...a bit of a sour reputation with diners, but it's their own fault. Am I really expected to turn a blind eye to customers mistreating staff? I was never good at letting things go. Just isn’t in my blood.” Magnus gazed at the red sea serpent on his arm. He seemed to be remembering a time and place long past. “It’s funny. I was conscripted for the Spears just when I was getting nostalgic for my old position. When this is all over, the next time nostalgia comes knocking I’ll be sure to slam the door.” Charles nodded in understanding.

To the unfamiliar ear, Lead Chef and Head Chef rang quite similar. It was enough to puzzle anyone who didn't cook. But in practice, the two titles lived in entirely different worlds. It was like comparing a vessel’s captain to the man who controls the entire shipping company. Lead Chefs managed the front lines of restaurants, directing masters, eleves, porters, mirettes, mirennes and so on. Any and all day-to-day operations. The Oak & Owl's Lead Chef, Charles' father, governed their kitchen with an iron fist, but even he was beholden to the wishes of his Head Chef, Charles’ grandfather. If Louis Boulier, Chef-Owner and patriarch of the Boulier household, wanted change, the old norm was as good as gone. Any decisions regarding money, the procurement of ingredients, and staff were rightly his to make. It was he who dined with the great figures of the culinary world, brokering deals with foreign suppliers to secure the continued prosperity of their name. It was not the sort of role that appealed to Charles. He enjoyed the act of cooking far too much to ever abandon it for a life of schmoozing and bureaucracy. The idea that he had been expected to succeed his father as Chef-Owner someday had kept him awake through more than a few nights. He knew how Magnus felt. Were he in the older man’s place, he would miss being a Lead Chef as dearly as his own child.

Thankfully, Luet was roused without incident this time. Charles had half-expected (and fully dreaded) a repeat of the night prior. Whatever dreams the pastretta had been lost in must have been gentler than before.

The three chefs gathered.

Lunch’s pogitier dish was a considerable step above simple pancakes. Smooth prepwork would require written instructions. Magnus handed each of them a proper recette outlining the various ingredients and how he wanted the soup prepared. Soups reveal a great deal about a chef, Grandfather would say. You can circle this world a dozen times over and never taste two with quite the same flair. Soups were a mastery easily started and exceedingly difficult to finish. For every eleve who reached the summit, a dozen more would burn out and return home empty-handed. A true pogitier chef’s soup told a rich story and enticed the soul through aroma alone. Seasoning. Broth. Stock. Center. Garnishes. Light or dark. Thick or thin. A wealth of subtleties. There were few areas in cooking where creativity and experience shined through so clearly, and even fewer where a single mistake could destroy a delicate tightrope-walk of flavor. Great soups and stews could do far more than fill one’s empty belly. They made an ideal meal for the sick or injured with worn, weakened jaws that could not chew and swallow anything strenuous. Perhaps this, Charles reasoned, was why so many soups with remarkable medical properties marked the pages of culinary history. When Father’s Master of Vegetables, Gustav, combined his talents with Master Joanna’s, they could craft a soup of spinach and roasted roots that tasted as though your fever was drowning under a tsunami of savory herbs. It was a deep warmth that delved straight through to your toes. Not once had it failed to make an ill child of the Boulier household lively again.

Charles scanned every line. Chicken as the center. Boiled inside the broth over a gradual period. No stock this time. Instead, Magnus’ recette called for its boneless cousin. Broth deviated from stock, though they shared superficial similarities. Broth was meant to be sipped and sampled. Stock would make for poor fare on its own, but might form the foundation for an elaborate sauce. The former existed for taste; the latter, for substance. This would be a far thinner, lighter creation than the chanterelle soup Charles had crafted in the woods. Onions, parsnips, celery, and carrots for the body. A handful of simplistic spices. Whole black peppercorns. Minced garlic, naturally. Turmeric? Charles wrinkled his nose. Now that was a bit unorthodox. It wasn’t as though turmeric roots tasted terrible or anything; on the contrary, their earthy flair went quite well with curries and could even be made into a soothing tea. They sported such a strong yellow tinge that, when powdered, they could be used to color food for a bold, golden presentation. It was said some religious orders in far-off lands even used it to dye their robes. There must have been some extra turmeric in stock that needed to be put to use before it spoiled. It would certainly be interesting to see how the combination fared.

Magnus had taken the role of carnender, as he had earlier. Luet was assigned legumon duties, while Charles prepped the broth. Historically speaking, soups and stews had long been the final resting place of decrattes. Table scraps, or leftovers that could not be utilized for other dishes. Nowhere was that more true than broth. It was amazing what you could throw in and receive something extraordinary in return. A base of chill water. A fistful of peppercorns. Dried thyme. Rosemary pulverized to release its full array of flavor. Bay leaves (no more than three, so as not to overwhelm the other spices). He considered tossing in a bit of bitter ginseng; the recette did not call for it, but it could be a powerful additive that enhanced a dishes’ initial punch. In the end he set it aside. Coaxing that bitterness out of the roots would take too much time over the heat. In the kitchen, every minute mattered.

Part of him wished he had a more complex task to distract himself with, but he was grateful for any chance to leave his woes behind in the calm of cooking for a while. Or at least, that was what he tried to do. The memories of his encounter with the mysterious man at dawn dogged his thoughts.

Think of your nation. Think of your family. Think of what is noble and right.

What is noble and right…

Charles had lived his fifteen years believing such things were obvious. His teachers had taught him tainted paths might tempt him from ones that led to virtue, but that he would always know which was which by the way he felt in his heart. Was that not how virtue was supposed to be? It had always seemed that way, until recently. But a great deal had changed recently. He felt lost and blind. It is easy enough to say that men are honor-bound to their duties, but where did honor and duty lie here? It is simple to preach the merits of courage, but what do you do when the courageous course is unclear?

He knew what a successful escape meant. Ricenne di Boulier, the very pride of his house, would be left behind in the hands of the Spears. He could imagine few scenarios where he managed to retrieve it from Thorne later. Such a mission might take the rest of his life, if it was even possible to begin with. He might forever be known as the Boulier who lost his family’s entire legacy.

Staying meant he would at least be close to the book. It was a vantage point from which, given the right opportunity and a bit of luck, he might have some chance of snatching it back. But to be here, cooking for these killers...to remain a servant of evil purposes...was that not also disgraceful to his ancestors, as Darr had said? The thoughts circled and circled. A bubble breached the surface of his broth. Then several more. It would be ready for the vegetables to be added soon. He had a single day to think everything over. Most of that would be spent in this kitchen. He would have to make up his mind right here, as he cooked.

“What were you two talking about?”

Charles jolted. He was getting spooked at the drop of a hat lately. Luet had joined his station again, but the eleve had been too lost in thought to take notice.

“With Magnus,” Luet clarified. His tone was frank. Bordering on accusation. Yet that smile never left his cheery face. It was an inviting smile, like a warm welcome on a chilly evening. “I hadn’t realized the two of you had gotten so chummy. You were chatting like old friends when you came in. What were you talking about?” Charles was about to answer honestly and explain all that had happened while the pastretta lay buried under his pile of blankets, but an odd detail in Luet’s question stopped him.

When you came in.

He replayed the morning in his mind: he and Magnus entering the Galley together, Charles embracing his stockpot, the two of them speaking on the Spears. Then by a discussion on cooking, Lead, and Head Chefs. After that...there was only Magnus stating Luet had been asleep for most of the morning. Charles felt a cold chill. That’s right...Luet was sleeping. He shouldn’t have been awake for any of those events. So how did he know that they had been talking?

He was only feigning sleep?

“Oh! Uh...food. We were just talking restaurant culture. Customer service and all that,” Charles said nervously.

“Ah,” Luet said, neatly halving an onion before he set to slicing carrots into neat even segments. His cuts were passable, but his form was off. He gripped his knife by the handle. Not by the neck. “Is that all?”

“Well...no. The two of us had a bit of a brush with some of the Spears this morning,” Charles said. “I’m sorry if it ends up causing trouble for you.”

“Oh…,” Luet said, smile dimming for once. “Well, that certainly explains your face. Are you alright? What did they do?”

“Nothing serious,” Charles said. It was a lie. His jaw throbbed unbearably. “It doesn’t matter. There’s something else I…”

Should he tell him? They were together and out of earshot. This would likely be the best opportunity. It seemed the proper thing. Luet was his countryman, after all. If he had a chance to leave this place with Darr, he ought to be informed. Unlike Charles, his legs were perfectly healthy, and he had spoken of escaping before. Tonight might be the widest fate was going to leave the door ajar. But if he goes at my prompting and something goes wrong, I’ll have guided a man straight to his death. The thought was so nauseating it nearly silenced him. Nearly, but not quite.

“We might be able to escape here tonight.”

Luet’s paring knife slipped off the edge of a parsnip and clanged against the cutting board. Both cooks instinctively checked if Magnus had noticed.

All clear.

“What are you talking about?” Luet whispered. Charles relayed his encounter with the man by the old stump in hushed tones. The pastry chef’s mouth hung slightly by the end of the story.

“To be clear, I have my own doubts,” Charles said. “But this is a man’s choice. It’s not my place to make it for you. You deserve to know. And who can say? If all goes well, you could be with your wife and daughter soon.”

Luet did not answer immediately.

“Tell me,” he said. “If only one of us were to leave, what would happen to the one who remained behind?”

“I don’t know,” Charles said. That he had not even considered. He had no earthly idea what would happen then, but none of his anxiety’s suggestions were pleasant. There would be rage to face, surely. Rage and retribution.

“I’ll give it some thought,” Luet said after a time. “It’s no small risk.” Charles nodded. He was glad not to be the only unsure one. “What about you, Charles? Where do you stand?”

“I wish I knew. I’ve never been very good with important choices.” In his life before that grim day, nearly everything worth deciding had already been decided for him. Father and Grandfather had their plans, and little patience for anything that deviated from them. Had things not gone so astray, had the Spears never attacked that night, his future would have largely been a closed matter. A story that was already written.

“You’re young, but you can’t say you’ve never made a bold decision in your life,” Luet said. “You must have made some tough choices to get this far? How did you do it then?”

Charles mulled on this. There were examples, even recent examples, of him acting in ways he would normally never expect from himself. Had he not found the will to act quickly when Cardinal Thorne was about to run him through? Reaching for the lid of his stockpot had undoubtedly saved his life. A half-second slower and his soul might have left this mortal realm behind. But that was merely the rush of the moment, his doubts told him. You were able to act because death was barreling towards you. Stopping to think was no option. You hadn’t the time to second-guess yourself.

That rang true. Acting on reflex and making a reasoned decision were hardly the same thing. But what about before then, when he had left the roads in search of ingredients? Was that not a bold choice? Had he not shown courage then? And look how well that turned out for you. Courage rewarded you with capture, and you ended up a prisoner in this nightmare of a camp. Perhaps you should have taken your chances with the dirt road. He felt even less certain than before.

“Do you think Magnus would try to escape, if he were us?” The question came from nowhere.

Luet’s smile cracked a bit. “What does that matter?” he said irritably.

“I suppose it doesn’t," Charles said.

Luet glared at the tattooed chef’s back. “I know his type,” he said. “If he were in our shoes, he’d throw anyone he had to straight to the wolves. Wouldn’t even think of escape. More likely, he’d be trying to worm his way into the Spears’ good graces. That man is a seasnake through and through. Just like every other imperial.”

“Don’t you think that’s oversimplifying it a bit?” Another question from nowhere. Charles immediately wished he had kept it to himself. Luet’s smile vanished.

“Have you forgotten who’s invaded who?” he snapped. “You need to keep a clear head, Boulier. This is no game. Remember what’s important here.” The pastretta discreetly reached into a pocket sewn inside the fabric against his chest. With some ruffling and rummaging he produced a small pendant. It was a dazzling work of craftsmanship. One that entranced Charles with its simplistic beauty. A frame of dark emerald leaves held in their grasp the most intricate carving the young chef had ever seen.

The acorn of a titan oak. A symbol of limitless potential. Grown into greatness, but born of humble origins. It had been an icon adorning the flags of Dreya from the nation’s founding days. Given a few hundred years, genuine titan acorns could tower into trees immense enough to flatten a fortress when they fell.

“Life is simpler than the Old Thinkers tried to make it out to be. It was all laid bare for us in scripture long ago,” Luet said. As he spoke, the pendant danced and twisted, swaying one way, then the other. “In this world, there are evil souls and good. Oppressors and those they oppress. The privileged elite who hoard power for themselves, and the common man destined to reclaim it. The empire uses the One Mercy as an excuse to beat weaker nations to their knees, but are our gods not the ones who are truly merciful? Does Alestria the Beloved not favor the downtrodden? Does Johannder, born a mortal of Dreya and ascended to godhood through valorous deeds, not stand with the common man? When the hour comes, Gohra the Justice will strike down those who abuse the positions of their birth. Fate is on the side of those in opposition to evil. I know you are not grown, and all of this is not easy, but you can’t go getting your head twisted backwards. Never forget where you come from.”

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

It was a sermon ripped straight from the mouths of Lutz’ elders, but it hooked Charles in a way their preaching never quite had before. The patriot inside him perked up, coursing with a new sense of pride. He felt as if great unseen forces stood with him. As if his every action would inevitably bring himself, his lineage, and his nation glory.

He was a son of Dreya.

“R-right,” Charles said, nodding. “I won’t forget.”

“Boulier!” came the cry across the kitchen. “I need that broth! Quickly now!”

The young chef heaved and hurried the stockpot across the way. It was difficult to see anything directly in front of him, so he sidestepped, careful not to catch his foot on a stone or creeping root. He set it in place, and the chicken was submerged. Hearty thigh and breast meat, legs, wings and back sank into the boil. Bones were set aside, no doubt to serve as the future base for a tantalizing chicken stock.

“Save the giblets. They make for an excellent gravy,” Magnus said. The (rather unfortunately named) giblets—perfectly edible parts of the chicken often dismissed as mere waste or scraps, such as the gizzard and neck, liver, heart, and kidneys—were placed into their own distinct pile. Charles had always thought they deserved more credit than Father, who tended to toss them out, granted them. Magnus had the right of it. Giblet gravy was excellent and criminally underrated. Aside from the liver, which turned horrifically bitter if you tried to boil it, the organs and gizzard could be submerged with herbs, transforming the arrangement into a mild but pleasant stock.

“You seem distracted,” the red-haired chef noted. “I need your head here in my kitchen, not just the rest of you. What is it?”

Charles paused. It was a bold task that awaited him, and Magnus had shown no small amount of boldness earlier. Not even that dagger poised for the deathblow had phased him. What was it that men like him and Jon possessed that made them that way? Experience? Worldliness? Perhaps it was just in their blood.

“Chef…”

“Boulier,” Magnus replied dryly, waiting. He was one of only two left-handed chefs Charles had seen in action. The other, Master Boregard, reduced whole beasts into their respective cuts of meat with an efficiency few could hope to match. When Magnus gripped his santoku knife a certain way, it looked a bit like the sea serpent held the blade in its jaws. The red-maned man took a close look at one of his cuts and spewed a swear that would have earned Charles a week without supper in the Boulier household.

“Not my finest work,” Magnus said. He brushed a few strands of red from his face. “But then mainland cuisine isn't exactly my forte. It’s a shame. Under different circumstances, you might have had a chance to experience my true cooking.”

Charles saw what he thought might be an opening. Would you try to break free? Would you think it’s the right path? It was a tricky thing. He wanted Magnus’ opinion, but could hardly request it outright. He would have to be subtle, to ask without asking.

“Have you…,” he began. “Have you ever tried empress puffer fish?”

“What?” Magnus scoffed, raising a brow again. He stopped his knifework a moment. “Empress puffer fish? Out of everything you could have asked, I’ll say I wasn't expecting that.”

“Your mastery was as an uminara, wasn’t it? A sea chef,” Charles guessed. They could be found in any country with a coastline or a strong ocean-river, though the most skilled of them came from island nations far to the east.

“Give the lad a prize,” Magnus grinned, holding up his red serpent arm. The scales shimmered when he twisted them in the light. “I’ve spent more of my life off dry land than on it, but I haven’t gone back to the ocean in years. She'd likely drown me if I ever tried, after a left her for another woman." He sneezed, rubbing his bare shoulders. "Ugh. Damn this cold inland climate. Doesn’t agree with me in the slightest. What about it? Not every sea chef serves pufferfish, you know.”

“I just thought...since you have the right experience, you might have tasted it at some point,” Charles said cautiously.

Magnus gave a faint smile and closed his eyes, as if recalling a fond and foolish memory. “Well, yes. Once, when I was about your age. I even prepared the cuts myself, if you can believe it."

"But you had been trained for it, right?"

Magnus grinned again. "No."

Charles' jaw fell. This guy...is insane.

"Yes, yes, I know. Don’t give me that look. I’ve done some idiotic things in my life but that one still stands out. The crew egged me on, of course, but I would have done it anyways. I wanted to do it. Had something to prove, I guess.”

“Well...obviously it turned out alright in the end?” Charles said. "Didn't it?"

“The fish? Yes. The aftermath? Not quite. You think that punch you took earlier was harsh? When the captain found out what I’d done, he gave me a thrashing that made yours seem rosy,” Magnus said.

“Your captain beat you?”

“I earned every blow,” Magnus said casually. “I was...different then. Talented and hungry for glory, but with no patience to learn. All bravado and no brains. It’s a miracle I didn’t leave this world gasping and clawing for air,” he said. No exaggeration there, Charles thought morbidly. The average puffer fish carried enough poison to end a man twenty times over. A victim might die in less than an hour or left to linger in agony for days. First, the symptoms rendered you powerless to move. Then you could not breathe. Then...oblivion. The Silent Death, it was called. Empress puffer fish were another beast entirely. The harshest species by far. Twice the effect at half the dosage. You could forget about treatment once it gripped you. No cure existed. All this, and still thousands would line up, willing to pay handsomely for a platter or hotpot crowned with the empress. It had no small following in certain corners of the world. “Somehow, it seemed important at the time. Looking to go toe-to-toe with puffer fish, Boulier? I’d say you court enough danger as it is.”

That’s rich, after the story you just told.

“Oh no, I’d be too nervous to eat it myself. Prepare it, maybe, but not taste. I just find the skill involved in removing the poison from ingredients interesting,” Charles said. It was mostly the truth. As a small child, he’d naively pledged to try every dish ever made, but the chilling reality was that some ingredients didn’t stop being spiteful just because they were dead. He could probably recount close to a hundred stories involving dishes that tried to take the eater down with them, with a great many succeeding. One last curse on the way out. “How was the flavor then?”

“Didn’t care for it,” Magnus said with a shrug, ending the topic rather abruptly. An awkward pause took hold.

“...You don’t serve puffer fish at your restaurants then?”

“And have some noble meet his death on my floor?” Magnus said indignantly. “Or a group of drunken boys looking to prove how bold they are? A single overlooked detail can be the difference between success and disaster. One misplaced nick on that fish. No, thank you.”

He has changed a great deal then. He has others to consider now, rather than only himself. Charles changed his question slightly.

“Do you believe it’s dishonorable to serve a dish with such danger to it? A dish that could hurt someone?”

“Dishonorable?” Magnus scoffed. He sipped a spoonful of the broth to check its seasoning. “Couldn’t say, really. Never gave much thought to honor. I believe I don’t need any bad rumors driving my profits away. It’s a matter of practicality. The rewards just aren’t worth the trouble. We’re chefs. We choose to make certain dishes and customers choose to eat them. What makes you so strangely fixated on whether it’s moral or not? You’re starting to sound like one of those Old Thinkers. You should focus more attention on staying alive and in one piece.”

“Strangely fixated?!” Charles said. He was getting flustered. “Isn’t that normal? You know, to try to make sense of things? To understand the meaning? To want to know the proper way to live so you don’t make the wrong decisions?” Charles knew he bordered on rambling now, but he couldn’t reign himself in. “You’ve never thought about it? It’s a matter of life and death. We could have died today, just like that Spear! What would it have meant if we had? Don’t you care at all!? How can you be so nonchalant when you’re just...free-floating with no direction?”

At that, Magnus’ expression grew cold. Colder than the young chef had thought it capable. There was no small amount of contempt in what came next. “Free-floating without direction is what it means to be grown. The proper way to live? Anyone who claims they can give you that is either misguided or wants to take advantage of you." He pressed a long finger to Charles' chest. "You will never become a full-fledged chef so long as you keep leaning on others to tell you how best to do everything. You are too old to be expecting clear answers and simple solutions all the time. That is how children live, Boulier,” Magnus said. “Men can’t expect clear answers. They must take the risks they are willing to accept. You will have to discover yours alone, as we all must. You may have talent, but the way you are now, I wouldn’t recommend preparing or tasting any puffer fish. That’s enough idle chit-chat. Get back to work.”

Charles cooked in sullen silence, and asked no more questions. Whatever strength or certainty he might have felt after speaking with Luet had smoldered. Three shifts of Spears came and went at midday, and another three by late afternoon.

Because their roles as cooks revolved around keeping the Spears well-fed and ready to perform their duties at any moment, there was no point in the day that allowed Charles, Magnus or Luet to sleep for more than three hours. There was an opening just after breakfast, when the foundation for the day’s prep work was set, and another after dinner before they began another long night. Charles had lost his opportunity this morning. He had not slept since his uneasy ride in the saddle, and had not slept properly for far longer. He was beyond exhaustion, but pushed the tiredness away.

I will wait until the last light of dusk, and no longer. You have until then to make your choice.

The sun was sinking now. Ten minutes remaining, give or take. Magnus, who looked the worst rested of the trio and took the least sleep, laid himself to rest in the cot farthest from the others and, after several tense minutes of waiting, lay still. Charles held back until he was sure the tattooed chef was dead to the world, then tried to wake Luet.

The pastretta stirred.

“It’s time,” Charles said.

A tide of emotions shown in Luet’s eyes. Hope. Terror. Sorrow. Joy. Determination. Resignation. Turmoil. In the end, he averted his gaze and shook his head. His silence said it all. I am not going.

“But...but you said it, didn’t you?” Charles whispered. “That fate was with us. That the gods were on our side. Why do you not come with me, then? Don’t you have faith?”

“In the gods, yes,” Luet whispered back. “But not this stranger of yours. Who’s to say if we can really trust him? We know nothing of his character. What if he means to use us for his own ends? You said he would lead the Spears away to give you time to escape. Does that not seem too generous to you? For all you know, he means to let the crippled boy go first and make a dash for freedom while they’re occupied turning him into a corpse.”

“That is not true,” Charles said, seething as quietly as possible. The accusation was outrageous. “You did not meet him. He is a true patriot, and a man of honor. He would never sacrifice a son of Dreya in such a way.” But Luet would not be moved. He turned away, and did not respond to any further plea or prompting.

Fine then. I will go alone if I must. He wrapped his father’s master chef’s knife until the blade was rendered harmless, then tied it to his leg beneath his clothing where it would not be seen. He told himself that someday, somehow, he would find a way to take back Ricenne di Boulier and the rest of his belongings, but he could not leave this.

The camp was settling in for the night. He had to be inconspicuous. Don’t rush. Don’t look like you’re trying to hide anything. Go with the flow others set. There were open alleys through the sea of tents that served as makeshift arteries ferrying men, horses, supplies, and orders through the heart of the raiders’ territory. The smallest paths were just enough for a lone person to squeeze through; the largest allowed four mounted Spears to pass at once. It was these wider routes that the reds and blues naturally gravitated towards. The former stomped in their rigid marches. The latter moved in tight packs that clung closely together. Charles fell in behind a cluster of five or six Shattered. A few red raiders glanced his way from their fires. None paid him any particular mind. They really do view me as broken, he thought. And would he honestly view himself any differently? A scrawny, wiry boy of fifteen who walked with a limp? Not exactly a grave threat. He grit his teeth. It did not matter what they thought. So long as he did not draw attention to himself, it would simply be assumed he was out performing some duty of the Green Galley.

He made it to the sea’s shore unmolested.

Before him lay the open east. The sprawling green wild. Freedom. A handful of plateaus dotted the distant horizon and, if he strained his sight, deep lines of forests beyond. His legs shook. A quick glance in each direction told him no one was nearby. The insects sang their chirping songs, and he thought he heard a toad croak every now and then, but apart from that it was quiet. Almost eerily so.

He made to take a step beyond the border where the last of the tents ended. There he froze in place as though he were about to walk off the highest precipice in all the world. He tried to force his foot down. It twitched, but stayed where it was. Another try. This time it did not even twitch.

He raged silently. This was getting him nowhere.

Charles had spent much of his childhood quietly observing other people’s mannerisms. That was how, in his young boyhood, he had entertained himself in the halls of Boulier manor. Thanks to this quirk of his, he had always possessed—what he considered—an uncanny ability to guess what others would say if they were placed in a particular situation. How they would react. What they might be feeling. Even their expression, or whether they might sit in a relaxed pose, place their hands on their hips, or roll their eyes. He could create a vivid image of every hypothetical detail, and in that sense the voices of others remained his companions no matter how far he wandered. They were like ghosts; they whispered what he did and did not want to hear. Sometimes his ghosts offered advice or consolation. More often they criticized or berated. It was this habit of speculating on others’ reactions that made him so clearly see Father's disapproval or hear his rants every time he broke a rule of cooking. It showed him Luen’s resentful scorn and Nina’s naive adoration. Grandfather’s distant guidance. His mother’s love. He had done this for so long that the ghosts often came to mind without him even willing it. Now, staring into the plains, stuck solid with one foot in the air, the voice of Jon Darr crept into his thoughts. What words would he offer now, if he saw this hesitation?

“It is time,” the faceless form of Darr would say to him. His cloak of green and gold whipped in the wind. “Why aren’t you limping onward, Charles Boulier? You must make the most of the moment.”

This is folly, Charles thought. I’d be stupid to think this will work. I’m going to be seen.

“Do you believe with all your soul that there is no chance for you to get away?” the voice asked. Charles ignored it.

I am not prepared enough, he thought. What of food and water? If I stay, I’ll have time to gather more provisions. That is the wiser course.

“Is that your real answer? Is that why your legs tremble?”

The book, he thought. My family’s legacy. I can’t leave without it. It wouldn’t be honorable.

“Is that truly why you hesitate!?” the voice thundered. “Do not disgrace the notion of honor with your lies!”

I…

“You what? Speak!”

I...

Charles put down his excuses and laid himself bare. “I am afraid,” he said aloud. His voice was small. Fragile and pitiful. He sank to his knees and clutched at the cloth on his legs with both hands. A single tear escaped him, passing silently down his bruised cheek. “I don’t want to die.”

“Cardinal Thorne has sworn to convert you when his forces return to the empire,” the voice said. “You will die if you stay.”

“Maybe,” Charles said. “Probably. But even still, at least it won’t be today. At least I’ll have the time between now and then. If I go now and they catch me...I won’t have anything. I’ll just be dead, and I’ll never know what my life could have been if I had just stayed alive another day.”

Another tear fell.

“You are a coward,” the voice said. “And a failure. But it was always going to be this way, wasn’t it? The decision was already made. If you wanted to be brave, you would have reached for your father’s knife when the cardinal confronted you. But you did not. You knew what it meant when you reached for your stockpot instead. It meant trading your dignity for servitude, yet you chose it all the same.”

Charles set his head against the ground and fought the urge to cry. He had not cried since the day Lutz burned. Men were not supposed to cry. He fought through his longing to see his loved ones once more: the way Nina would throw up her arms and wait for him to pick her up and spin her round, or how he and Mother would cook fruit-filled tarts in the Boulier kitchen late into summer evenings. Master Boregard’s lessons in animals. Joanna teasing Gustav about his thick Uzkan accent. In time his fight turned bitter as he dug his nails into the soil; he seethed in helplessness, anger, and frustration that he lacked the strength to determine his own fate.

He fought it back, and pressed it down.

And when the fighting left him drained, he dragged his misery to a small hill overlooking a gradual slope of hillside running away from the eastern edge of camp and sat alone. There he waited under the stars for the hurt inside him to subside. He did not want anyone else to see him this way.

The day was fading. Just a few rays from beyond the horizon now. By this point, Jon would likely have already snuck away into the coming darkness. He would seize a future of his own where lesser men like Charles faltered. He would be a free soul. What will you do with freedom, Jon? he wondered. Will you make the most of it, for both of us? The eleve consoled himself with daydreaming, wondering just what such a future might look like. Fantasizing was his only means to be somewhere other than here. He was lost deep in his imaginings when a flicker snatched his attention.

Something momentous and entirely unexpected started to unfold before him. Something he would never forget so long as he lived. When they had encountered each other that morning, Darr had been perfectly clear in stating he would be making his escape toward the west, into the setting sun. But that was not what occurred now.

A flash darted through the green below him. To the east.

Charles glanced from his high vantage at the fleeing form. It was a hooded runner swathed in a flowing green cloak, moving across the pass below. They were fast. Faster than fast. Were all couriers this much faster than normal men? No, that couldn’t possibly be. The average courier could not reach this fleetness of foot if they were being chased by the very jaws of death. The figure darted and flew, putting its all into gaining as much distance between itself and the camp as possible. There were no Spear patrols within sight. No scouts. No one at all. The runner’s timing had been flawless. They ran further and further from the woven sea’s border, its outline growing faint as it darted for the safe curtain of night.

He’s really going to do it! Charles’ excitement was rivaled only by his jealousy. His heart pounded like a drum. He’ll make it!

Another hundred feet and the figure would disappear from view.

I’m such a fool! He cursed himself again and again. What had he been thinking? He should have simply left when he was instructed to. If he had only shown an ounce of determination, the two of them could be leaving this place together. What have I done? After all that, I made the wrong decision, and now I have to watch the door to freedom shut behind him!

But it wasn’t too late. No guards? Even ground? There were no real obstacles to speak of. The path was open. He could still make it before the door shut. Yes! If he made a break for it with all he had and followed right now, he would still have a chance.

"I'll do it, Jon," he said with determination. "I'll make the most of this moment."

A horrifying scream pierced the dusk. Charles’ head exploded with pain. Pain so fierce it brought him to the ground, curling in on himself in the tall grass. He sealed his ears, trying desperately to block out the noise. To protect his hearing before he went deaf. Yet still he felt the sheer pressure of the noise worming into his skull, a sound like jagged metals scraping fiercely against one another. It screamed and screamed and screamed. It seemed impossible that such an awful noise could even exist. All he was capable of thinking of was whether he’d be able to endure another second of this cataclysm that had somehow been given a voice. It was a nightmare. Utterly inhuman.

But the sound ceased as abruptly as it had come. Strong wings beat overhead. It was coming straight toward him. Charles had just enough time to plaster himself flat against the grass and pray he would go unnoticed before the crimson drake rushed overhead. Though it may have been an infant, it still measured nearly a dozen feet long. The winds it whisked with every wingbeat bent weeds and reeds flat. It snaked and coiled through the air without effort, its long whip of a tail winding all the while. It barreled after the hooded runner’s heels, closing the gap in a matter of seconds. Then it circled round and came to a stop before him, barring the path to freedom.

The two faced each other in silence. A fell wind blew. Unbeknownst to either, Charles watched the impasse in stunned silence.

Then the dance began.

A narrow blade sprang from the sleeve of the hooded figure's green cloak. He deftly leapt aside before his opponent’s tail split the ground with a crack. He lunged and slashed in a quick flurry, driving forward with each motion. The drake fell back, its long body nimbly winding through the air. The figure pursued, unleashing a savage barrage of swordplay that would have quickly ended any normal duel within seconds...but he could never quite meet his mark before the winged creature's scaled retreated just beyond his reach. The blade flashed and stabbed and sang, to no avail. When it became obvious this first tactic wasn't working, he switched to a new one, and tried valiantly to maneuver his way through. If fighting was not the answer, fleeing was still a viable option. He ducked and rushed and feinted, more agile than any human footwork Charles would have thought possible, working ever more desperately to get around the beast and break out. But for every movement he could manage, the drake could manage three. And with every swoop, the coiling encirclement grew tighter. The drake was looping the long coils of its body around its opponent, gradually strangling its hold, though never close enough to risk being hit. The fight was dead even. Neither man nor beast could strike a solid blow, until...

At one point the hooded figure seemed to press too far. He missed a step, stumbling to one knee. Charles gasped. But when his foe rushed in, jaws bared to tear an arm or leg clean off, the sword flashed faster and cleaner than any strike that had preceded it. The drake screamed, a fresh wound across its front leg oozing blood so dark it nearly ran black.

He baited it.

The sword renewed its flurry, but the drake's behavior had changed. Now that it was wounded and vulnerable it, too, seemed to have swapped strategies. It kept its distance more than ever, no longer aggressively snapping and whipping its tail, instead focusing solely on boxing the hooded figure in, trying to limit his movement as much as possible. What’s it doing? It’s not even trying to attack. It had stopped going on the offensive entirely. But seconds later it became evident that it did not need to. Not yet.

After all, its purpose had never been to defeat an escaped prisoner. From the beginning, its mission had only been to alert the camp, then mark where a runner was. To hold him in check until its master’s arrival.

A streak of red flew across the fading gold and green. A lone warhorse, but Charles knew its massive rider at once. Cardinal Thorne bore down on the trapped runner, armed and armored with fiery imperial steel, a demon come to claim the sinners and heathens of this world. His spear rose, the steel insignia of a rising dawn reflecting the last light of Dreya’s sunset. The figure was cornered, his first enemy airborne before him, and the second charging from the back. A voice commanded Charles: avert your gaze, it said, you must not look. But he could not tear himself away.

Blade and beast lunged as one.

It was over in an instant. Jon Darr, the man who would not be molded, was gone. The crimson drake let loose a final cry that chilled the young chef to his core. Then all grew quiet. The hills fell still, and the insects sang their songs no more.

Charles backed away from the scene in terror, his body trembling. Then he turned and fled. Far more raiders glanced his way now, for he was hobbling as fast as he could for the heart of the camp with no regard for subtlety. He stumbled and fell, then pulled himself up and kept going. Again, none bothered to stop him. There had never been any need to stop him.

He lurched inside the Galley in a trance. In haste, he tore the Spears’ loaned clothes free of himself. He could not bear to have them touch him right now. His father’s knife was unwound. It shone in the moonlight, but he could not look at it. Though it was winter and quite cold, he collapsed in the cot wearing almost nothing. Half of him wanted to be sick, and the other half felt only numbness. He lay awake, staring intently at the ceiling for a long while.

Vivid images flashed in his mind. In the depths of his inner thoughts, he saw a large, weathered trunk. The type it took three men to move up a set of stairs. The type that might store old memories and trinkets in an attic for half a century without being disturbed. All of his anger, his resentment, his sadness, his family and his nation went inside it, one by one. He filled it with everything that caused him pain. And when all was securely inside, he closed the lid and pushed it over the edge into a dark abyss. It fell for ages. Twisting a turning and wrapping toward the deep recesses within. Finally, it vanished from view. I promise I’ll return for you someday, he swore to himself. It was not a promise he was sure he could keep.

For now, he did not dwell on that. He did not have time to dwell on it. In a few short hours, he would need to wake up and help prepare breakfast. Tomorrow was coming. He rolled over and sank into a heavy sleep. A sleep of sheer exhaustion, free from dreams or nightmares. His last conscious thought was that it might be best if the sun did not rise. That this night might be the end of all things.

But the sun rose as it always did and always would, without bias, judgement, or sentiment.

Charles emerged into the following dawn changed, though he would not recognize it then. Something inside him had left forever. Something else entirely had been born. The nature of both would never fully be clear to him. Many years later, he would remember these events as the decisive close in the chapter of his life’s story dedicated to his childhood, and the start of a new unknown.

The morning light stabbed his eyes, but he endured. He stared ahead at the grotesque display without blinking.

“I hear the camp is moving today,” Luet said. Charles didn’t acknowledge the master at his side. “We’ll be heading out in a few hours. I’d have let you know sooner, but they never tell us these things until the last minute.”

“Ah,” Charles said absently. He kept staring ahead.

“Seems the man you talked to decided to go through with it after all,” Luet said, as if that was not obvious. “Thorne caught him trying to get away last night. Poor man never stood a chance.”

“Was it Darr?” Charles said. He had thought about it for hours, but still wasn’t fully sure. There was still a nagging feeling of doubt because he could not technically confirm it. He had not heard the runner’s voice. Only the cry of the drake. He had not seen the man’s face. Only his fate.

“Darr?” Luet said. “Who is that?”

“Jon Darr!” Charles said in anger, seizing the pastry chef by the shoulders. “A son of Dreya! The one I spoke to by the tree stump. The one you refused to believe in.” But Luet only looked at him with confusion and sadness.

“I don’t know of any prisoner in the camp by that name,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you who it was they caught. I’m sorry, Charles. Truly, I am.”

Charles let him go.

The body was left out in the open. Some kind of ritual pledging the deceased to the One Mercy? Or a blunt message to any who dared think they could leave with the Spears’ approval? Possibly both. Charles strained his sight. It was far. Too far for a full view of the details. The corpse rose high, impaled and suspended on a trio of spears. It faced skyward toward the morning sun, calling a murder of crows to the carrion. The cloak the dead man wore might have once been green and gold, but it was too soaked through with blood to know for sure. His face was beyond recognition.

Around him, raiders packed their tents and provisions. Shattered saw to the horses, carefully balancing cargo and distributing weight among the packs to allow the most to be carried with the least effort. Everyone was going about their business. Charles retreated inside to finish his prep work. Before lunch, the Green Galley and all its equipment and ingredients, its acids and oils, salts and seasonings, pans and pots, would be packed away as well. His stockpot and ladles. His cruet with the dragon’s head. The jars of bacon grease he had meticulously saved. His chef knives. And somewhere in Cardinal Thorne’s private belongings, Recenne di Boulier.

The camp was getting ready to move on, and him with it.