Cinnamon Rolls and Villainy

Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

NOW

A yc has just pushed through the door to his pastry kitchen when a voice pipes up, “How do you do it?”

Ayc squints into the sunlight shining from the single window in the corner. Through the particles of flour that always flutter through the air like pixie dust, he finds Xylie sitting on the long wooden counter at the center of the kitchen, her feet swaying back and forth. The pots and pans hanging from the iron rack above her head cast shadows on her face, which is fixed into an expression of all-knowing. If she shifts even an inch to her right, she’ll crush a platter of his carefully crafted fruit tarts.

“Hello to you, too, Xylie,” Ayc says with a grin as he adjusts the platter to add a few more inches between it and an impending disaster.

He examines the rest of his masterpieces that are laid out on the counter: cupcakes, biscuits, pastries, and, of course, little cups of his chocolate pudding that—other than cinnamon rolls—is his most raved about delicacy. It’s all exactly the way he left it before he went to entertain at Yris’s request. They look utterly perfect. One should never skimp on presentation.

Xylie scowls at him, narrowing her deep brown eyes. She means to look fierce, but her nose wrinkles. That, combined with her slight frame, makes her appear about as threatening as a bunny. Despite her turning eighteen last month, Ayc can’t look at her without seeing the thin child who showed up at Wyntra seven years ago, looking as lost and confused as Ayc felt. She still wears her hair in dozens of braids, weaved with ribbons of turquoise, a color that stands out against her black hair and skin. Her knee-length coat—made of knitted blocks of swirling color pieced together with a deep blue border—has always seemed too chaotic and bright for her usual studious demeanor, but she wears it like a second skin, no matter the temperature.

“I know the fire trick is just powder,” she says, pointing to the shelves in the corner of Ayc’s kitchen, next to his massive stove. The glass vials line the shelves, filled with powders that have nothing to do with pastries. He stores them right above all the jars of ingredients she uses for her own alchemy.

When she accidentally started a fire in the castle dungeons, back when she first arrived from Lycendi lands, Yris banned her from doing alchemy, which was like trying to ban Xylie from breathing. Her father was an alchemist, and she inherited a gift that, even as the eleven-year-old she was then, far exceeded anyone Ayc has ever seen come through Wyntra. So, Ayc offered to share his little kitchen. Since Ayc also has an aptitude for setting things aflame, Yris had Onanna spell his kitchen to be fireproof. He didn’t know seven years ago when he invited Xylie into his space that he’d never be rid of her again, that they would become inseparable. He’s never regretted it, though. Not once.

Ayc’s cheeky grin doesn’t waver. “You’ve got it all wrong, Xy. I’m” — He swirls his hands through the air grandly — “touched by the divine.” The burned cuff of his shirt catches his eye and he quickly rolls up both sleeves to his elbow, hiding it from view.

“Really?” she says flatly. “What’s that on your hands?”

A few granules of purple powder dust his fingertips. Few would notice. But Xylie sees everything.

Ayc shrugs. “That’s just sprinkles.”

She leans closer, and with her sitting on the counter, she matches his tall height. She narrows her eyes, but doesn’t fully meet his gaze, focusing instead on the center of his forehead, as she always does. “Then lick it off.”

Ayc would have, except the powder would likely ignite in his mouth. Instead, he steps to the sink, turns on the pump of water, and washes his hands. “A good baker never licks their hands. It’s unsanitary.”

Xylie huffs. This is the game they play every single time he performs. He knows it’s pointless to deny; she already knows the truth. He doesn’t know if there’s anything Xylie doesn’t know. She could recite theories of alchemy and brew medicines from memory. She can explain the intricate workings of the inventions that blend sorcery and alchemy—the lights that turn on with a flick of a switch, the airships that sail above land, the indoor plumbing—which were new to him when he came to Everadyn. So, of course, she’s seen right through Ayc’s tricks from the beginning, but he’s never been able to admit she’s right .

And it’s not that Ayc doesn’t trust her. She’s one of the few people in this castle he knows he can trust to keep his secret. But, sometimes, giving up the lies we cloak ourselves in is too uncomfortable a thought.

He never surrenders, but then, neither does she.

“What I can’t figure out is the disappearing trick,” Xylie says, changing tactics.

He turns off the tap, wipes his hands with a nearby towel, and leans his back against the sink, facing her. “How were you even watching me?”

She wouldn’t have been in the crowded hall. Xylie doesn't just hate crowds; she becomes paralyzed by them.

“Through a crack in the side door,” she snips back. “ Don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’d never ," he says.

“Then tell me how you do the invisibility trick.”

Ayc grins again, big and bold and gleaming, and lies through his teeth. “There’s no secret, Xylie, and there’s no trick.”

Xylie rolls her eyes. “What do you think I’m going to do? Tell my aunt?”

She snorts, but Ayc hesitates to laugh at her self-deprecating joke. Xylie’s father was one of Yris’s many half-siblings; apparently, Yris’s father, who was Sovereign before her, was quite the philanderer. Despite having been taken in by Yris, Xylie can’t utter a word in her presence. It isn’t something unique to Yris. According to Xylie, she was six before she uttered a word, learning to speak the common sign language long before she ever felt able to utter a syllable. Her difficulty with speech returned when she was eleven, after she was the sole survivor of a Drakr attack on her Lycendi mountain village. She crammed herself in a cabinet which was hidden by a spell cast by her mother, a sorcerer. There, Xylie listened as her parents were slaughtered. She remained alone in the darkness until Everadyn warriors found her.

After, she didn’t utter a sound, not for several years, and now, she speaks only to Ayc and her cousin, Loraphne. Before that, they learned to communicate through signs, something she returns to when anyone else is around.

Ayc wouldn’t have blamed her if, after that trauma, she never spoke again. After Creed Castle, every word he uttered for a long time felt heavy and impossible. That kind of weight never fully goes away.

Perhaps that is what forged their friendship so swiftly and so strongly. Neither of them ever speaks of their past, but it mirrors each other just the same.

“Believe what you will.” Ayc pushes himself off the sink. He picks up a tray of fruit tarts, drawing their familiar game to an end. “But right now, I have other jobs to attend to.”

Baker. Magician. Server. All in a day’s work.

“But—” Xylie begins to protest.

Ayc cuts her off. “Your cousin is here.”

Xylie blinks. “Lora?” She snaps her fingers as a smile springs to life on her face. “Ha. I knew it.”

Ayc arches an eyebrow. “You knew she was coming?”

“No, I knew there was a reason you caught yourself on fire.”

Ayc snatches a tart off his tray. “I suppose she still strikes fear of my own mortality into me, after all these years.” He pops the pastry into his mouth, knowing it’ll likely be the only food he gets during the party. The acidic taste of strawberries explodes in his mouth and mixes with the sweetness of custard. The crust melts in his mouth, perfectly cooked but still soft in the center. Damn, he’s good.

“Fear?” Xylie repeats skeptically. “With the way you always purposefully try to get under her skin? I’m not sure fear is the right word.”

Ayc swallows and resist the urge to cram another dessert into his mouth. Though Xylie has always been close to her cousin, Ayc and Xylie have an unspoken, mutual agreement to not discuss Lora. He only broke that agreement in the hopes of distracting Xylie, but it’s only gotten Xylie to latch onto something else.

“And what would you call it?” he asks, while backing toward the door. “Well-honed self-preservation instincts?”

“No.” She runs a finger up and down her nose, the way she does when she’s thinking. Then she says, with a nod of finality, “Unperceptive.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I’m leaving now.” Ayc saunters toward the door. “Have one of the pudding cups, Xy. They’re wonderful.”

He leaves quickly, kicking the door closed behind him, but not quick enough to avoid Xylie’s mutter of, “I’m only saying that, sometimes, I can’t tell whether you actually hate her or just…”

Hate, Ayc thinks as he makes his way back to the great hall. Definitely hate.

It’s a foundational truth so sturdy he could build palaces upon it. He hates Lora, and Lora unequivocally hates him , too. In the story of his life, if he’s the hero, then he has two villains.

Yris.

And her daughter.

The Everadyn fae certainly know how to throw a party.

It's one of the many things Ayc has come to admire about them after all these years of living among them. As he serves tray after tray of his creations, a band plays their amplified instruments with such vigor the windows overhead rattle. Ayc weaves through the crowd, reciting jokes into pointed ears, and performing little magic tricks to appease the children. He lives for moments like this. Moments when he can forget everything. Moments when the thrill of being alive extinguishes the sting beneath his skin and eases the tension and pain in the muscles of his back. There is no past or future. No pain or memory. There is only music and laughter and joy.

He can survive on moments like these.

The crowd laughs and sings and dances. The clans all intermingle and befriend one another with only a few noticeable exceptions.

Yris and her Five do not join the fun.

Her daughter doesn’t either. Ayc tries hard not to look at her, but he’s aware of where she stands: in her usual dark corner, watching with a scowl on her face.

Then, of course, there are those visitors from the clan of Lux Aester. They sit, stiff as boards, declining to participate in such ‘heathen’ antics. Ayc reluctantly serves them. They take his sweets but turn up their noses at his jokes… or maybe it’s at him . Ayc isn’t sure what offends them most: his earrings, his long hair, or the nail polish on his fingernails.

He hopes all of it.

A girl who looks about seventeen is the only one who dares speak to Ayc. “I liked your performance,” she says, but her words are so low Ayc barely catches them. She keeps her gaze fixed on her hands, folded primly against the blue skirts of the high-collared, long dress most Lux Aester women wear. In fact, she resembles most Lux Aester fae, who are not as free with their appearance—or their breeding—as the other clans. She is white and pale-haired and looks so uncomfortable in her own skin, Ayc winces for her.

Ayc is about to say thank you, when another voice rings out, “Sister Avabeth, what have I told you countless times?”

Oh , Ayc thinks, fuck me up ways, sideways, and every way but here.

Ayc knows that voice—knows it far too well.

Marcellus.

In the last few years, Yris has allowed Ayc to attend festivals around Everadyn, setting up a stall to sell his bakery creations. There, Ayc has heard Marcellus’s voice magnified through the crowd, as though he’s trying to drown out every note of happiness at the fair. Marcellus gives speeches that quickly turn into revivals, teaching people about the divine and the ancient texts that have been “so disgracefully polluted through popular culture” .

Hearing Marcellus’s voice now, Ayc wonders if jumping out the nearby window would be an overreaction.

He’s still considering it as Avabeth drops her head farther and murmurs, “A woman of the divine only speaks when spoken to.”

On second thought, Ayc thinks that jumping out the window just got up-ranked to a splendid idea . Because it’s a much better fate than what Yris will do to Ayc if he gives into his desire to punch Marcellus in his smug little face .

“Hello, Marcellus,” Ayc says, hoisting his lips into a smile that's as heavy as an anvil.

Like most adult fae, Marcellus appears nearly ageless, but is probably at least a century old. He’s so insidiously tangled in the roots of his clan that he must have been around for decades. And of course, he’s far too handsome. Who would grant him the power he has if he wasn’t? His blond hair doesn’t fall past his ears, and he wears a smug expression that perhaps he means to look pious but comes across almost constipated. His expression becomes more pinched when he turns to Ayc. “It’s High Priest Marcellus… as I’ve told you before.”

Ayc shrugs. “I have a terrible memory.”

Marcellus looks him over. “I did also enjoy your performance. It’s a shame your talents are so wasted on entertainment. They’re a gift from the divine, and therefore, should be devoted to his service. If you came to one of Lux Aester’s temples, your gifts would be put to much better use.”

I’d rather choke on my own dick, Ayc thinks.

“Oh, fuck no, that sounds awful,” Ayc says instead, aware that it's only slightly better. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

Marcellus shrugs. “The divine grants all men agency to choose.”

“And the women just do as they’re told? Your version of the divine sounds like an asshole.”

Marcellus remains miraculously composed. Avabeth dares to peek through her curtain of hair but quickly drops her gaze when Marcellus’s attention cuts back to her.

“This is why we must be careful of the company we keep,” Marcellus declares to her, and then to Ayc says, “I’ll bid you farewell.”

Marcellus bows his head in a note of respect and pauses a beat like he expects Ayc to do the same. When Ayc does not, Marcellus sniffs indignantly, turns, and walks away.

“Pious little shit,” Ayc mutters.

Marcellus halts in place, his back tense.

A Lux Aester male sitting next to Avabeth bursts to his feet and roars, “What did you say?”

Avabeth squeaks and flings her hands in front of her face.

No one is allowed to bring weapons into the great hall. The highly-gifted royal guards cast a simple spell to ensure it before anyone enters. But the dinner knife the male clutches can certainly do enough damage. Ayc jumps back a step. The man probably won’t kill him—given the whole divina and generations of bad luck thing—but damn, there’s a lot Ayc can live through.

Marcellus turns around, but the expression of utter calm on his face tells Ayc he doesn't intend to assist. Ayc doesn’t think anyone else at the Lux Aester table will either. Avabeth is still hiding her face in her hands.

Ayc smiles at the man and offers his tray. “Fruit tart?”

The man growls and advances a step, pulling back the knife.

“Stop!” hisses a voice so close to Ayc’s ear that he jumps again.

It’s another voice he knows all too well. It's one that shoots a vibration down his spine, that haunts all of his nightmares and, unfortunately, many of his dreams.

The Lux Aester fae stops. Marcellus holds up the palm of his hand like he was the one to issue the order and not the woman who has appeared at Ayc’s side.

“Loraphne,” Marcellus addresses her.

And Ayc…

Well, as it turns out, Ayc really should have jumped out that window.

NINE YEARS AGO

The knife thudded into the wall right beside Ayc’s head. Though Ayc had known it was coming, he didn’t dare shield himself. He kept his hand flat on the wall as he was supposed to. Any closer and the blade would have severed his ear from skull. It wasn’t luck, though. Peregrin had placed the knife exactly where they had intended.

Peregrin stood a few feet away, in the center of the Sovereign’s office. The former elite warrior might as well have worn a helmet with a visor for how little feeling crossed their face as they gazed upon Ayc. Not a single emotion had played on their face over the last hour, as they threw knife after knife at Ayc. Not anger. Not interest. And certainly, not sympathy.

Behind Peregrin was Lora. Her long curls had been pulled back like she was trying to imitate her mother. Even her bored expression mimicked the look the Sovereign wore from her place sitting behind the desk.

“Come now, human,” Yris said, barely glancing up from where she scratched a jet-black quill across a stack of papers. “Protect yourself.”

Ayc shivered, unable to speak. This torture was the latest of the Sovereign’s attempts to convince his divine gift to present itself. It had been a year since the slaughter at Creed Castle, a year since he had been shoved onto a ship that crossed the Bellum Sea to Wyntra Castle. An entire year since the Sovereign had begun attempting to see what divine gift lurked within him.

At the beginning, her tactics seemed reasonable. Onanna, the sorcerer who was Yris’s Second, had attempted to teach Ayc. Onanna forced him to read stacks of books, but he managed to focus only on a few pages, and those he read held knowledge that seemed to slip out of his head as soon as he forced it in. The sorcerer tried to teach him meditation, telling him to seek a magical thread that was supposedly within him, but he could never sit still longer than a few minutes. But when months went by with nothing to show, Onanna suggested a new tactic.

In her research, she had learned that, sometimes, a gift only presents itself after significant stress, like a survival instinct in a near-death experience. And so, Yris began attempting to almost kill Ayc.

First, she’d had him tied to the cliffs outside Wyntra that overlooked the Bellum Sea. Hour after hour, the tumultuous icy, gray water had crept up as the tide rolled in. Meanwhile, the fae children who lived at Wyntra jeered at him from above. Lora had stayed the longest.

“What’s taking you so long?” she had demanded. “Hurry! Use your power! The water is rising.”

Like he hadn’t already known.

The water had been at his throat when she stormed away. It had been at his chin when Fennix finally came and cut him down.

Next, Yris had thrown Ayc into the pasture that served as the gryphons nesting ground. It had been birthing season, and the only thing testier than the easily offended fledglings were their irritable new mothers. Ayc had tried to be respectful, tried to not wake any of the new fledglings as he waited. But he was always the restless sort. He couldn’t help it, and his fidgeting made them agitated.

It had been Peregrin’s own bonded gryphon, Tempest, that had been his salvation when the mothers had surrounded him, looking like they wanted to trample him beneath their sharp paws or at the very least peck out an eyeball. Perhaps, Tempest remembered all those times Ayc snuck food out of his window in the pastry kitchen. Carrot cake and raw salmon were her favorite.

When Peregrin had found him and their gryphon later, Ayc had been tucked beneath Tempest’s wing as he slept.

Peregrin’s intervention was perhaps why they were here, playing a role in Yris’s game. By rights, Peregrin should be out in the courtyard, where they served as one of the many instructors of the Wyntra school.

In his time studying with Onanna, Ayc had learned that Everadyn had eight national schools—a school in each of the clans and Wyntra. Throughout their twelve years of formal training, each fae child would leave their local schools behind to spend a few weeks at a clan school, in order to learn the skill the clan was known for. Bromalis were known for their study of botany and herbology, and Totus Omni were artists, writers, and musicians. Audori were skilled in forging and metalwork, particularly the fae weapons, beautiful blades that blended tungsten, silver and iron. Lycendi were the healers, scholars and alchemists. Lux Aester were the irreplaceable farmers, masons and, of course, priests, while Noxumbra produced some of the greatest of fighters. Sal Maris were fishers, merchants, and sailors of ships of both sea and the sky. The time spent at each school would help pinpoint the children’s interest and their talents.

But Wyntra was separate from it all. Every few weeks, children rotated in and out, and were tested and trained by the professors: the retired warriors and sorcerers and alchemists and priests, trying to identify the most elite of children. They would come every few years, starting from when they were young, to identify any child with innate gifts who might be sent to Velphin, the international school of sorcery. They returned a final time the summer after they turned eighteen, to identify the students’ final placement. Based on their Final Testing, they would go to serve in the infantry or temples, the trades or the arts, on farms or in factories. The most elite students would be sent to one of three schools: Adamant, the school that trained the greatest warriors; Splendor, the school of alchemy and healers, or to continue training at Velphin, for sorcery.

Every Everadyn child’s duty was to learn and be taught. But not Ayc. The only time he was allowed to leave his kitchen and closet-sized bedroom was to serve the desserts Yris requested or when Yris wanted to torture him like this.

“Are we almost—” Peregrin began, glancing toward Yris.

“Let Loraphne throw the next one,” Yris said, without removing her eyes from her paper.

Peregrin stiffened almost imperceptibly. “My lady?”

Yris shifted her eyes upward and pinned them with her icy glare. “Peregrin, let her.”

Peregrin hesitated, which was more defiance toward the Sovereign than Ayc had ever seen from anyone else. They glanced past Yris, to the fae who stood in the corner, a royal guard dressed in a silver cloak. Most of the guards pretended they saw nothing Yris did, little more than statues who could always be found in proximity to Yris. But this man, Irving, sometimes gave Ayc a sad, sympathetic smile that seemed genuine. The guard nodded at Peregrin.

Peregrin drew a short dagger from the dozens of sheaths lining their crossbody belt and handed it to Lora. The girl stared at it and then at Ayc. Something flickered over her face, a momentary lapse in the bored mask. Was it glee? Ayc certainly didn’t hope for regret.

In the last year, he’d tried to befriend her, telling her jokes when he served her dessert. She gave him nothing in return other than blank stares or the occasional order to shut his mouth. The only thing he’d learned about her was that, though her mother called her Loraphne, almost everyone else called her Lora.

Lora tightened her grip on the knife. The sweat on Ayc’s back had already drenched through his shirt, but he felt the panic everywhere now. On his neck, his forehead, and mostly, behind his sternum where his heart pounded.

“I’m not as skilled as Peregrin,” Lora said. “I might hit him.”

“Good,” said Yris, meeting her eyes. “Hit him.”

“My lady!” Peregrin snapped sharply.

“Don’t question me, Peregrin! I will have you demoted.”

Peregrin pressed their mouth taut, folding their hands together behind their back.

Lora still stared at the knife in her hand.

Ayc flattened his hands against the wood. Please. If there are any gods listening, let me be magic. Please, give me a gift.

He’d prayed the prayer many times. He’d prayed to the gods and goddesses the humans worshipped, even though his mother had told him they were nothing more than stories. He’d prayed to the divine the fae believed in. He’d even prayed to darker beings. No one ever answered.

Yris drummed her hand against the desk impatiently. “No more hesitating, Loraphne. Must I remind you again ? Kindness is weakness.”

Lora snapped to attention and turned. Adjusting her grip on the dagger, she looked at Ayc, her eyes darker than he’d ever seen.

“Remember, Lora,” Peregrin began, but Lora had already pulled her wrist back and hurled the knife forward.

Fuck, it hurt. Years later, ayc can still remember the way it hurt as the knife sliced through the top of his ear. Blood flooded down the side of his face, and he bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out.

Yris clapped. “Well done, dear.”

Lora only stared at Ayc, her expression cold and unfeeling.

This, he realized, was why all the other children called her villainess. From his window, he’d watched them play heroes and villains in the courtyard of the castle. The other children always made her play the villain, because she was so, so good at it.

And to think, he’d foolishly wanted to be her friend. Whatever mercy he thought he saw in her at Creed Castle, he was clearly mistaken. Those tears on her cheeks meant nothing. She was Yris's daughter, through and through.

Peregrin marched toward Ayc, each step punctuated by a limp. Sometimes, their gait was bad enough they had to use a cane, but today, they didn't have it. They yanked a handkerchief from their pocket and pressed it to the side of Ayc’s head, to the bleeding ear. That hurt, too, so much that a wave of dizziness nearly sent him to the floor, but Peregrin grabbed Ayc by the arm and kept him upright.

“I’m going to take him to the healer,” they said.

Yris didn’t protest as Peregrin dragged Ayc toward the door and out into the hallway. Peregrin stayed with Ayc, sitting on a nearby stool with arms crossed, as the castle healer laid Ayc on a bed and began to stitch. Ayc tried not to cry—he really did—but despite the numbing potion the healer smothered over the ear, he felt every stitch. He bunched the pillow around his face so Peregrin wouldn’t see his tears.

After the healer was done, Peregrin escorted Ayc back into his room. Before Ayc could step into the pastry kitchen, Peregrin wrapped a fist around Ayc’s collar and yanked him closer. They were hardly taller than Ayc was at thirteen, so the two were nose to nose.

“Listen to me, boy,” Peregrin snapped. “If you don’t figure out a way to prove useful to Yris, you’re going to end up dead. She’s going to figure out that man at Creed Castle lied, and there isn’t a drop of magic in you. Is there?”

Ayc swallowed. He didn’t nod, but he didn’t deny it either, and that was just as good.

Peregrin released him. “You’re smart. Figure something out. She’s only going to let me keep saving your ass for so long.”

Ayc nodded, mumbled something like thanks, and stepped into the pastry kitchen. Peregrin slammed the door shut. The lock on the outside of the door clicked.

Ayc slumped down on the floor, touching first the stitches that lined his ear, and then fiddling with the clasps on both of his leather bracelets. In the months he’d been here, he’d often dreamed someone might come to save him. Perhaps, his mother might arise from the dead by some miracle and storm this place. Or maybe his father—who’d forgotten Ayc when his mother died—might remember he had a son and want to save him, too. Surely, anything was better than this.

But Peregrin was right. No one was coming to save Ayc. He needed to save himself.

He undid the buckle of one bracelet, but quickly fastened it again. No, his mother had said to never take them off, and he didn’t want to disobey her now. There had to be another way. He looked around him, his eyes locking on the shelves full of powders—baking powders, ones Yris kept stocked to ensure she could demand desserts whenever she wanted.

Evander had taught Ayc a few tricks that could be done with the simplest of ingredients. Tricks that, if someone didn’t know better, could almost look like magic.