Chapter 35 Rhianelle #4
I look across the council chamber at the young Aldarelf they chose to lead them. He cannot be much older than I was when the crown first became mine. His ceremonial robes seem too heavy for his narrow shoulders, and nervousness shows in the way his fingers tighten around the documents before him.
He looks too young.
The thought makes me understand why so many people once looked at me and decided I could not possibly rule. They saw my age and uncertainty before they saw anything else. Perhaps they were not entirely wrong to worry, but I learned because I had no other choice.
He does have a choice.
The young leader stepped forward because he wants to serve Aelfheim, and the people chose him because they believe he can. That matters more than his age.
When our eyes meet, I give him a small nod. He straightens beneath the weight of his robes and returns it.
I believe in him.
I know it’s not perfect. But it’s better and fairer. It also means I can leave and build a life somewhere else. I can finally do what I’ve always wanted.
The cottage sits on the border of Astefar near Feywildra.
It’s small and simple. There are only two main rooms, a kitchen and a bedroom. A workspace is built onto one side, while the front of the cottage opens into the part that matters most.
A bakery.
My bakery.
I stand in the kitchen now, looking at the oven Svenn built for me. He also made shelves along every wall, sturdy enough to hold sacks of flour, jars of sugar, and all the other ingredients I insisted I would need.
My dream after everything. I’m going to make bread.
“Do you have everything you need?” Svenn asks from the doorway.
“Yes.” I begin pointing across the kitchen. “Flour, yeast, salt, honey, goat butter, dried lavender, candied ginger, crushed hazelnuts, and the jar of pickled strawberries Aelfric sent.”
Svenn’s expression changes slightly. “You intend to put all of those into one loaf?”
“Not all of them.” I pause. “I haven’t decided whether the hazelnuts belong inside the bread or on top.”
“Your recipe is indeed... unique,” he says gently.
I could have opened my bakery anywhere. In Volundr, perhaps, or in the capital where the streets are busy and customers pass every hour. I could have chosen somewhere safer. Somewhere with cobblestones, foot traffic, and customers who don’t have scales or six legs. Somewhere ordinary.
Instead, I chose Astefar.
The curse has been lifted and the seal is broken. For the first time in centuries, the forest is open. The beings imprisoned within its borders are free to leave, and the rest of the world is eager to enter.
Some come with good intentions. Scholars want to study the magic hidden beneath the trees. Healers search for plants and ingredients that grow nowhere else, while adventurers arrive hoping to test themselves against the forest.
Others come for greed. Poachers want to capture rare creatures and sell them. Nobles seek bargains, and desperate people hope Astefar will grant them power and wealth.
That is why my bakery stands near the border. Almost everyone traveling toward Astefar passes this road, and most stop here for supplies.
I warn them. I explain that bargains made in Astefar always have consequences. I advise them to turn around. If they ignore me and enter anyway, then they have made their choice. Whatever finds them first is welcome to its free meal.
Living this far from Volundr should feel lonely, but it rarely does.
My friends visit often enough that Svenn said the cottage requires a guest ledger.
Aelfric arrives whenever he can escape his duties, usually carrying some new ingredient.
He insists I should never put the berries from Astefar into the bread.
Blaire comes with gifts from the capital and stays long enough to complain about Vayne.
Landon rides up on Dorcha every few weeks, bringing news and updates. But mostly, I think he just wants tea. He also comes so Svenn can inspect his metal arm. Svenn forged it with Hrolf’s help.
The arm is fashioned from layers of lightweight metal. Fine joints and perfectly fitted hinges allow every finger to bend independently, and the wrist turns almost as smoothly as a living one.
It does not move exactly like flesh, but it comes close. Each time Landon visits, Svenn makes another adjustment until the arm responds more naturally than it did before.
Landon is visiting today, which gives me the perfect excuse to try another recipe. I gather what I need, then head toward Svenn’s workshop to see whether they are ready for tea.
Voices drift through the half-open door. I peek inside just as Svenn tightens something near Landon’s metal wrist.
Landon cries out and nearly jerks his arm away.
“Hold still,” Svenn says, catching his wrist before he can move.
“Careful,” Landon warns. “I can punch you with this hand now.”
They’ve found common ground. I think they’re friends. Landon still irritates Svenn whenever he has the opportunity, and Svenn responds by threatening to dismantle his arm. Somehow, that appears to be friendship for them.
Most of Landon’s visits are not only about the arm.
He often asks Svenn about the wing braces he created for Coral and whether the design could help other wyverns with damaged wings.
Usually, injured wyverns are put down before they destroy themselves the way Coral nearly did, but Svenn’s braces changed that.
Landon wants to try. He thinks that if they can glide, even a little, it might be enough.
“I need three more sets,” Landon says, flexing his metal fingers once Svenn releases him. “We could save them if we could give them flight again.”
Svenn studies him for a moment, then nods. “Bring me their measurements.”
Landon’s shoulders loosen. “I have them.”
They immediately begin discussing the design. Landon describes the shape of each injury while Svenn asks about wingspan, weight, and how much movement remains in the damaged joints.
I slip back into the kitchen and leave them to it.
For Landon, I decide to make a loaf filled with mango.
I pluck the mangoes from the trees near Nimue’s pond, then slice them.
The pieces are soaked in honey and dusted with salt before being folded into the dough.
The sweetness should complement the bread.
The salt should stop it from becoming too sweet.
I follow the recipe I memorized, working the flour and yeast together until the dough becomes smooth beneath my hands.
Once it has risen, I spread it across the table, arrange the mango along the center, and fold the dough around it.
The loaf feels right when I shape it, and the scent of honey rises as soon as it enters the oven.
I wait until the crust turns golden before pulling it out.
Perfect.
I slice it, arrange it on a plate, and bring it out with the tea. The moment I enter the workshop, they both stop talking and look at me.
“Fresh bread,” I announce proudly.
“Thank you,” Landon says politely. “That’s very kind.”
Svenn stares at the bread instead of reaching for it. “What did you put inside?”
“Mango.”
His concern deepens. It is not entirely unreasonable. The last time I experimented with a new recipe, Aelfric ate two bites before losing consciousness at the table.
“Take a small bite,” Svenn tells Landon. “Chew carefully.”
Landon pauses with the bread halfway to his mouth and looks at him strangely. “I didn’t realize you cared so deeply for my well-being.”
I know my husband’s newfound concern is not because he cares whether Landon becomes ill or drops dead at our table.
Svenn’s problem is that sick guests tend to stay longer while I nurse them back to health, which means less time alone with me.
After Aelfric’s last visit ended with him unconscious in our spare bed for two days, Svenn has viewed every experimental loaf as a threat to our privacy.
Landon bites into the bread and I watch his face change.
“It’s good,” he says.
He chews slowly.
Nothing happens.
He does not choke, collapse, or turn an alarming shade of green. Svenn watches him with narrowed eyes while I wait for some sign that the mango from Nimue’s pond was a mistake.
Landon takes another bite. Then another.
“This may be the best thing I have ever tasted,” he says.
I stare at him. “Truly?”
“Truly.” He reaches for a second slice before he has finished the first. “You should open another bakery in Avalon. People would cross the kingdom for this.”
Warmth rushes through me. “Do you really think so?”
“I would purchase a loaf every day,” Landon promises.
“You never pay for the bread you eat here,” Svenn points out.
Landon ignores him and takes another bite.
A faint clicking sound comes from the open window. One of Jessica’s spiderlings crawls over the sill, its body already as large as a house cat. Eight bright eyes fix upon the plate.
The spiderling darts forward, snatches an entire slice between its fangs, and retreats beneath a shelf.
Several tiny winged forest folk emerge from behind the jars of flour a heartbeat later. One seizes a piece of crust while another grabs a mango slice that has fallen onto the table. They disappear through the window before Svenn can stop them.
Landon watches them go. “Do they always do that?”
“Yes,” Svenn says. “That is why the bakery is losing coin.”
“We are not losing coin,” I say quickly. “Some of them pay.”
“With rocks.” He points toward a shallow bowl near the door. It contains three smooth stones, a bundle of yellow leaves, and a blue feather.
“That one is pretty,” I mutter.
The forest folk have taken a liking to my bread and pastries. They linger around the cottage throughout the day, peering through the windows and waiting beneath the tables for crumbs. Some bring proper coins. Most leave whatever they believe has value.
Another of Jessica’s spiderlings lowers itself from the rafters on a strand of silk. It stops beside Landon’s shoulder and studies him while he eats.
“You’re cute,” it says in a high, clicking voice. “When I grow up, perhaps I’ll marry you.”