Chapter Thirty-Nine
Aren
I spend the night lying on a hard wooden pallet between sacks of potatoes and flour in the kitchen pantry.
I’m woken up by a large boot prodding me in the side. I blink up at a shadow looming in the doorway. I can make out the shape of an apron and a cotton cap. It’s one of Namreth’s kitchen servants.
The man doesn’t say anything as he turns and leaves, which I take to mean it’s time to get to work.
I sit up and rub my eyes, pressing the heels of my palms deep into my sockets.
My eyes are still swollen and aching from crying most of the night.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember how Dietan looked at me as I was dragged away—the flatness, the indifference in those blue-green eyes.
He never cared about me.
He never felt anything for me.
He shook his head at me as if he was disgusted by my stupidity.
I should never have left Evandale.
Homesickness sweeps over me, an ache that pains me more than the soreness in my back from sleeping on the hard floor.
It permeates my bones, sinks its claws deep into my soul, and shreds any last hope I hold about ever seeing my family again.
From the wreckage, anger rises, propelling me to my feet.
It fuels me. The blood pumping hard in my veins reminds me that I’m still alive.
I’m alive, and I hate Dietan.
I walk out of the pantry. It’s still dark, and the only source of light in the room is the oven, where a scullery maid is tending to the fire. I’m used to rising before dawn when I open the Raven’s Beak. So this scene, at least, is a familiar one.
The kitchen is occupied by five other servants—now six, including me.
After they threw me in the pantry, they made me change out of my desert garb and into the simple smock and apron they all wear.
I can’t believe I’ve come all the way across Albion, only to end up right where I started.
I retie my apron tightly with a knot at my hip to give my hands something to do, the motion as natural as breathing.
The cook who woke me up, a gruff older man with only one hand, is standing at a nearby station. “You,” he says, pointing to the wooden counter next to his. It is clear and clean, save for jars of salt, flour, and yeast. Baking supplies.
So, this is where I’ll be working until the day I die.
Wonderful.
Eternity stretches out in front of me, narrowing to a pinpoint that is absolute and inescapable.
No matter how hard I try not to think of the traitor prince, my mind returns to the same question over and over: is Dietan alive, or has his uncle killed him yet?
I have to stop thinking about him or I’ll sink into despair.
With a deep breath, I take my place at the counter and splay my hands on the well-used wood cutting board, stroking the grooves made by hundreds of knife cuts.
I’m not the first baker to work at this station, and I won’t be the last. “What happened to the baker before me?” I ask.
Someone shushes me.
I glance at the other workers milling about. The kitchen is filled with the sounds of hopping, pans clanging, water filling pots. No one meets my eyes. Everyone keeps their head down and works in silence.
The atmosphere is tense, with none of the camaraderie I’d grown accustomed to at the tavern. Even the men at the local blacksmith’s in Evandale are more talkative, and I’ve only ever heard them say a handful of words at a time.
If only I was back at the Raven’s Beak, surrounded by the sounds of laughter and clinking mugs and the bacon sizzling in a pan. This silence, compared to the cozy kitchen of my past, is like a knife to the heart.
“The baker’s dead,” the cook says, keeping his voice low.
“The one before you.” He’s chopping a bunch of scallions with a knife in his right hand.
The empty space where his left hand used to be is marked by shiny, red skin.
It looks like it healed some time ago. He uses his knife to swiftly scoop the scallions into a nearby bowl.
He moves so gracefully; it’s clear he’s been doing this job for a while.
I gulp and look around warily. No one else seems to be paying attention, but I keep my voice low anyway. “Osian?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but then again, he doesn’t have to. The fear, the silence—it’s clear the mad king killed the cook. I wonder if he’s killed Dietan, too. An ache blooms in my chest. No, I can’t think of that liar right now. I won’t let my mind go there.
“I’m Aren,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s nice to meet you all.”
No one looks up from their work or even acknowledges that I’ve spoken. Maybe the king mandates silence among the servants…or maybe it’s better not to know anyone’s name, so it’s easier when they don’t come back to work the next day.
Without another word, I prepare the biscuits Dietan claimed are my only talent. Damn him, I think as I measure out flour and milk. Damn him and his cursed rings. Damn him and his lies.
Did he ever even want to get those Rings out of his body?
My anger could fuel a thousand suns, and I pour all of it into baking.
I know this recipe by heart. I start to dice butter, adding a splash of vinegar and salt, all based on the feel of it between my fingers.
These biscuits are a recipe passed down from my mother, and now I’m forced to make them for someone I despise.
When I’m finished, I scowl at the shaggy dough on my cutting board and consider spitting in it. A secret rebellion.
No one will ever know.
“Don’t,” the cook beside me says. His scallions have turned into a small mountain in the silver bowl. “You’ll just make it harder for us all,” he adds.
Sighing, I leave the dough alone.
I bake the biscuits in the oven, and they come out perfectly golden brown, smelling of butter and richness. I plate them for the king’s morning breakfast. Then I wait with the rest of the staff for the guards to unlock the kitchen door and let us into the main hall.
When it’s time to serve the king, I carry my plate of biscuits to the throne room, flanked on either side by two armed guards.
I try to appear impassive, even as I approach the king’s throne, where he’s seated before a table set for a feast for one.
Fellow servants set down plates and pitchers full of food and drink, moving silently in the vast room.
There is no sign of Dietan. I’m surprised my heart sinks—irritated, even.
I want to hate him for what he’s done to me, the fate he’s cursed me with, but I find it difficult.
Even when he was wielding the Whisting on the bridge to the Waste, conjuring a terrible and terrifying storm as he levitated off the ground, I wasn’t afraid of Dietan.
I was afraid for him.
And I’m afraid for him now, despicable liar or not. Surely some part of the man I treasured was real and not a lie.
A guard nudges me forward, and I bite my lip to stop it from trembling. I force my hands to stop shaking as I step up to the table, moving to set the plate of biscuits down on the far side of the buffet, but Namreth stops me. “Here.” He gestures to an empty place near his hand.
I shudder. I don’t want to get that close to him, but I can feel the guards’ eyes on my back, so I move stiffly toward the king.
I set the plate down and turn it, presenting him with the most appetizing view of the biscuits, which are still steaming from the oven. Golden biscuits in a golden castle.
He watches with that creepy smile of his. He’s almost handsome, but there’s something unnatural about him. Beyond his strange youth and his magic, he makes my skin crawl. I lower my eyes and step away, but Namreth stops me by grabbing my wrist, quick as a snake. His tight grip makes me wince.
“Don’t you want me to tell you how they taste?” he asks. “Don’t you want to know what’s happened to that precious prince of yours?”
What I want to do is tell him to choke on the damn biscuits, but fear holds my tongue.
He doesn’t let go of my wrist, even when he reaches out and selects a biscuit from the plate. He takes a large bite, groaning in apparent bliss as he tears it in half with his teeth. His eyes flutter closed, and he chews loudly, smacking his lips and savoring every morsel.
When he’s done, he licks the crumbs off his fingers, his pink tongue flicking out like a lizard’s. I feel trapped in his gaze as he runs his lips up and down his hand, softly moaning as he does.
Sick bastard.
He smiles when I can’t mask my disgust. “Delicious,” he says, eyes boring into mine. “My nephew was right about you. Too bad he’ll never enjoy these again.”
I might have fallen to my knees, if not for Namreth’s hold on me.
Dietan is dead.
The prince is dead.
My prince is dead.
I want to scream or cry or shake the king’s hand off my wrist, but I’m saved by the sound of a plate clattering to the floor.
An elderly servant, a man whose limbs tremble not just with fear but with sickness, kneels to pick up the silver platter he’s dropped along with the grapes now scattered all over the floor.
His bald head glistens with sweat, and he apologizes profusely, trying and failing to scoop up all of the grapes that roll out of his shaking hands and back onto the marble.
The anticipation in the room buzzes like a hive, all the servants on edge.
Namreth sighs with annoyance and finally lets me go. I stumble back as he raises two fingers and points them toward the man.
Without so much as a sound, the man clutches at his throat, eyes bulging.
Namreth picks up another biscuit and eats it languidly while his fingers are still aimed at the serving man now thrashing on the floor, slowly succumbing to what must be the Unseen Death.
I imagine an enemy of Dietan’s meeting the same fate at his hand, and for the first time, I wonder if the prince would ever have been capable of such brutality. Maybe all kings and princes are.