Chapter 2 Neirin #2
Nyana scrunched her nose, and remorse hit me like a wave—remorse that the life I led put me at risk, and that she was often left to see the effects of it.
Remorse for the many nights of my childhood, she muffled her tears when she thought I was sleeping.
Remorse for all the worry I’d brought her, all the pain.
And, more than anything else, remorse for what she didn’t know. For the cause of Thatch’s death.
“Please don’t worry over me,” I coaxed, conscience heavy.
I hated to see her burdened. I leaned forward to take the rag from her, but as I did, Nyana regained her composure and sniffled.
With pointed purpose she pressed the soaked cloth to my ribs, a bit less careful than perhaps she could have been, and I hissed, taken by surprise.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t fidget.”
I raised my hands in mock surrender.
When my wound was cleaned and bandaged with a long strip of white cloth wrapped about my chest and over one shoulder, I slipped my tunic back on.
Nyana bent to pick up my belt, and her hand went to the small of her back as she grunted.
Her hair, streaked blond and silver for as long as I could remember, was of late leaning more toward the latter.
Tendrils of it fell from her cap, enough this time to cause her to huff her annoyance and pull it from her head.
As she tucked the cap into the tie of her apron, solemness weighed on me.
I wanted to tell her to rest, but the words would be lost on her.
As a child, I thought she was only stubborn, but life wasn’t as simple as that.
She was a cook, and though she was good at what she did, she was replaceable.
I had the coin to provide for her, but she insisted against it whenever I broached the subject.
This kitchen was her home, the girls that worked alongside her the closest thing to family she had left, aside from myself.
Her work here gave her purpose. I, of all people, could understand the need for that.
“You’ll give yourself wrinkles if you worry your brow like that,” Nyana chided as she reached her arms around my waist and drew the leather strap of my belt back through at the front. I let her mother me because I knew it brought her comfort.
“I worry about you,” I admitted.
“I know.” She pulled the strap and raised her eyes to mine. “But I’m happy here, Neirin. With my girls.” She nodded to one with a glint of affection.
“If it were up to me—”
“It’s not up to you.” She adjusted her hair and pulled it back into a tight bun. “If you want to help and have the time, wash up, and you can peel some vegetables.”
“I have the time.” I would always make time for her.
Along the side wall, a washing bucket sat atop a long counter.
Fine slivers of ice floated at the top, broken up by whoever washed last, another reminder of the cold.
Before me, and level with the countertop, an open stone archway looked out to the kitchen gardens.
The yellow light of late dawn cast shadows between large clusters of herbs and berry brambles, alluding to the possibility of warmer weather as the day went on.
I took a bar of tallow soap from the worn stone bowl beside the washing bucket and lathered my hands. It had a slight herbal scent, though I couldn’t name the plants. Nyana made her own soaps, had been doing so since I could remember. I smiled to myself because the scent was familiar, comfortable.
“Neir!”
The bar of soap leapt from my hands and slid across the countertop. “Dammit, Harlan,” I cursed as the young prince popped his head through the archway. “What are you doing here?”
The boy beamed, even as his head dipped back out of view.
The elevation outside was lower, dug out for level planting, and Harlan was too short to see through the gap without clambering his boots against the stone wall.
When he rose again, pulling himself up and bracing his weight with his arms, I fought the urge to splash cold water at him.
But I wasn’t a child anymore, and at four and ten, he wasn’t really either.
“You should be in your classes,” I said pointedly.
Harlan adjusted his arms and gave a little sound of frustration, his hazel eyes squinting beneath dark lashes. He dropped to the ground, and the top of his head, a mess of umber curls, disappeared around the corner.
“Harlan’s here,” I warned Nyana over my shoulder.
She came through a doorway that led up from the root cellar, huffing, as she hefted a crate of carrots.
I cursed under my breath and went to her side, taking the burden from her.
Though she wasn’t old, the years of hard work and dedication she had committed to the kitchen showed in her slightly crooked stance, stiff joints, and the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
The job had aged her, as had my upbringing and Thatch’s death, surely.
When she looked up at me, a smile beamed across her face, and my heart warmed, ebbing the ache.
The rapping of boots on stone warned me of Harlan’s approach, and I raised the crate I held just in time to be assaulted by the gangly boy. His arms wrapped around my waist, squeezing tightly. I sighed, reservations about being close to him battling with my desire to return his carefree affection.
Harlan released me, and I brought the carrots to the island counter, setting the crate beside a few others containing an assortment of root vegetables—potatoes varying in size and color, orange and violet beets, and sweet parsnips.
Had Nyana brought them all up herself? A frown tugged at my lips.
Hopefully, she’d asked her girls for help with the heavier items.
Beside me, Harlan backed up to the counter and hefted himself to sit atop it. “That’s a lot of carrots.” His voice hit the telltale highs and lows that prefaced the transformation out of boyhood, whether he was ready for the responsibilities of a man or not.
“Many people will be coming for the festival,” I pointed out, having no better response to his rather obvious declaration.
Nyana wouldn’t be responsible for all the cooking, of course.
Vendors would erect stands. Most people would purchase their meals in the market.
Nyana would cook for the King and his guests.
All the kingdom’s lords and their families had either arrived or were en route.
They would gather in the upper levels of the castle, where they would converse and dine before the start of the night’s celebrations.
Harlan aimlessly sorted through the carrots, occasionally picking one up and setting it back in the crate. “I wonder if there will be marzipan cake again this year.”
“Likely,” I acknowledged, selecting a wooden board to work on.
All kinds of baked treats would be set out on the tables within the castle, along with chalices of wine, plates of cheeses, breads, and other snacks.
Once the festivities began in the courtyard, nearly any food imaginable could be sought out and purchased.
“Have you tried it before? It’s nutty, but sweet too. I asked my maid to call for some, but she told me it wasn’t something made in the eastern lands, only in the west. Did you know that?”
The pang of apprehension I felt before returned at the mention of the western lands, and I swallowed. “I did not … I put higher stock in the knowledge of politics and major trade than where nutty cakes are baked. Do you know where our carrots come from?” I nodded to the crate.
Harlan scrunched his nose, detecting my challenge at his knowledge of the kingdom, and turned the subject back to the festival, brushing past my question.
“I overheard Mother’s ladies’ maid say a storyteller would be posted in the courtyard telling tales of the old lore and the history of Ayrenven.
Isn’t that interesting?” His gaze grew distant.
“Mother sent her off though, before I could hear any more. She seemed upset.”
No surprise there. I grunted and took the crate of multicolored carrots, halting my brother’s aimless investigation of them.
The boy was always doing something with his hands or fidgeting in some other way as if he were incapable of sitting still.
With nothing to do, Harlan began to swing his legs, his boots kicking the lower cupboards, and leaned back on his palms.
“What happened?” Harlan asked, gaze set at the low-dipping neckline of my tunic.
“Thieves,” I said with a sigh of frustration. I did not enjoy the prospect of retelling my story for the fourth time.
“An ambush?” Excitement twinkled in his eyes. “You must tell me everything, Neir.”
The boy reveled in tales of bravery and adventure. In a sense, it pleased me that he held such a view of my life. Still, I was a bastard, and he was a prince. He needed to focus on his schooling. It was safer for him, too, to spend his time within the upper levels of the castles than with me.
Nyana joined us with a small basket of red berries in her arms and sat it atop the counter. She drew a rag from where she kept it tucked into the tie of her apron and swatted the boy with it. “Down. You may be a prince, but this is my kitchen, lad, and I don’t need your rump on my counter.”
Harlan grinned ear to ear and jumped down, giggling.
Nyana’s expression softened, and she tousled his hair.
The gesture was simple—an older woman showing affection to a child—yet outside of the kitchen walls, she would never show such familiarity with him.
It was the hierarchy of things. While on another occasion the heft of my guilt may have caused me to push Harlan to leave, the looming possibility of my departure made me hesitate; my gratitude for the moment winning over my conscience.
“Do you not have classes today?” I asked, hoping the boy had forgotten about my wound.