Chapter 14 #2
He is a man in complete control of his body.
Arrek picks up the battle robe and puts it on in a single practised movement, then fastens the belt around his waist.
He walks out barefoot without ever looking back at me.
I watch him stride through the archway. He might be huge and monstrous, his body so massive that he almost seems to have to turn sideways to pass through it, but there is a deadly grace in the way he moves.
The feeling that he could accelerate without warning, lower one shoulder and slam straight through a wall.
He is built for killing.
I suddenly regret acting bratty towards a man who could pick me up with a single finger.
I shift uncomfortably upon the fur. The bell at my throat rings again, and I grip the dark-heartwood bars in frustration.
At first, I am grateful to be ignored, no longer the centre of attention for three pairs of those too-intense grey eyes.
I pull the fur around myself and try to sleep again, but the nap after lunch left me too rested. I close my eyes, shift onto my other side and slowly try every position I can think of. If I move carefully enough, the bell barely sounds.
Nothing.
Within minutes, I am bored out of my mind.
I have almost always had a rough plan for my day, something I intended to do, even if that plan might change on the fly.
The weather could switch on me or the fish might not be biting.
I could check my plants, set traps, gather firewood or spend a few hours whittling.
On the rare days I wanted to be around people, I could walk into the village.
When I went to sleep, I had the hard-earned soreness in my muscles and the deep relaxation of a day well spent.
Here, I do not have that exhaustion. The hour I have spent outside has barely been anything, and I have been eating much heavier than I normally would. I feel sluggish. I feel bored. I feel stupid. I feel like nothing good is going to happen to me until I get through these stupid ninety-nine days.
A cupboard opens in the kitchen, followed by the scrape of something heavy being pulled from beneath a counter.
Talarin does not acknowledge me.
I peer through the bars and beneath the long table, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Most of his body is cut off from view. I can see only his sandaled feet and the hem of his pure-white robes moving across the limestone.
Even to cook, he wears pure white, a brave man completely unfazed by splattering oil or stains.
Argh.
I look up at the ceiling, frustrated, gripping the bars tighter.
He bends beneath one of the counters, and for a moment more of him enters my narrow strip of vision as he lifts an enormous black pot. I hear him set it upon the burner with a heavy clang. A moment later, the burner catches, followed by the soft rush of fire blossoming beneath it.
The most mundane, boring things, and yet, with nothing else to stimulate me, watching him is as good as a holo-vid.
Everything here is strangely low-tech, almost familiar, like the local inn on the rare occasions I bought a meal and peered into the kitchen.
The first crack of Orb-Blades comes from behind the estate.
Black metal slams against black metal, and both blades aer wrapped in blue-black energy drawn from the Orb as the two men parry and strike. I know, from the wailing shriek of the blades clashing against each other that they are active.
Another impact follows.
Then another.
Talarin’s sandaled feet disappear into the passage. When he returns, something follows behind them through the gap beneath the table: an enormous waxed butcher’s sack, dragged across the limestone by one tied end.
His pale hand reaches down into view. A knife flashes, slicing through the thick material. He grips what is inside and heaves an enormous rack of ribs up onto the counter.
It lands with a heavy thud.
A moment later, I hear him begin butchering it. The steady strike of a heavy knife against the cutting board. The dull crack of bone.
Then another.
I wonder why he does not simply use his Orb-Blade. It could pass through the bones without effort. He would not have to put any strength into it at all.
The chopping continues.
I shift hard enough to make the bell ring, and Talarin does not react.
I do it again, sending another bright note through the dining hall. This time, the knife falls silent.
His sandaled feet appear beneath the table. A moment later, he comes around it and looks down at me.
“Do you need the washroom again?”
I shake my head.
“Speak, then.”
“Look, I don’t want to spend the next ninety-nine days bored out of my mind. Can I help chop the onions or something?” I glance towards the kitchen. “I promise I won’t stab you.”
Talarin gives a small snort.
I study his face, but there is no flicker of emotion anywhere else. I cannot tell whether that was his way of laughing.
“Okay.”
He turns and walks back into the kitchen.
I press one hand against the little door. It swings open. Arrek closed it but never locked it.
I crawl out, rise to my feet and follow Talarin.
“Wash your hands in the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
When I return, he is waiting with a small bundle of clothing. He unfolds a pair of soft pink shorts edged with little ruffles and a fitted cream shirt. The shorts are so short that they will barely cover my ass.
I look from the clothes to him.
“You guys haven’t interacted with many women, have you?”
Talarin raises one eyebrow. “Have you? How many women did you meet while skulking through my woods?”
I open my mouth to answer, but cannot find the words.
His grey gaze travels slowly down my naked body.
“You may remain naked if you wish,” he says. “I enjoy the view very much.”
I snatch the clothes from his hand.
While I pull them on, Talarin carries a heavy cutting board into the dining hall and places it upon the long table. At least that solves the problem of me having to jump up and down to reach the enormous kitchen counters.
The shorts cover me, but only just. The cream shirt clings tightly to my body, and the bell chimes repeatedly as I struggle to pull the neckline over it.
I am grateful there is no mirror nearby. I must look ridiculous. The shorts are almost the same pink as my collar, and the shirt does nothing to hide the shape of my breasts. Somehow, they have dressed me without making me feel any less exposed, and it’s the opposite of anything I’d ever wear.
The clothing makes me think of the two enormous duffel bags Talarin carried from the Reaver. If this came from one of them, what else did he buy?
I approach the table.
I recognize the dark grain of the cutting board. It comes from the grove of dark-heartwood trees growing within the estate walls. I wonder how old the furniture is in this place, and how much was crafted by their own hands, and how much from the ones who lived here over centuries and millennia.
Talarin places a finely edged knife beside it, pale ripples folded through the polished steel. It is sharper than anything I have ever used.
“The onions are there,” he says, pointing towards a low cupboard. “As well as anything else you might want to add.”
I glance towards the enormous rack of ribs.
“What is that? It looks like an ox.”
“Baton. It grazes in the northern mountains. Its fat has a rich, almost creamy taste.”
I open the cupboard. Inside, I find onions, garlic, shallots, carrots and celery, along with several glassroots, their silver-green skins brushed clean and dry, the clipped stems at their crowns still green.
I reach for the carrots, then reconsider. They would only add more sweetness to the rich baton fat.
I choose a glassroot instead. Beneath its thin skin, the flesh is pale and almost translucent, with a clean acidic bite that will cut through the heaviness.
I gather the glassroot, onions, garlic and celery and carry everything back to the cutting board.
I set the vegetables beside the cutting board while Talarin returns to the stove.
A thin layer of oil shimmers inside the enormous black pot. This, I have to watch. There’s just no way he gets through this with that perfectly white robe.
He lowers the first section of baton ribs into it. The oil erupts with a violent hiss, but he angles the meat with such precision that every splattering drop falls back inside. Not a single speck touches his white robes.
I have to admit, I’m impressed.
I turn to the onion.
The knife passes through it so easily that I barely feel any resistance, cutting through with a whisper and the annoying ring of my bell. I adjust my grip and begin again, trying to settle into the familiar rhythm of cutting.
Lift. Slice. Guide.
The bell chimes.
Lift. Slice. Guide.
Another bright note rings through the room.
I try moving more carefully, keeping my shoulders still, but it ruins my rhythm. The cuts become slower and less even, and frustration begins tightening my grip upon the knife.
Talarin appears beside me.
I freeze as his fingers brush the back of my neck. Without saying a word, he releases the clasp and lifts the pink collar away. Cool air touches my throat.
He places it beside the cutting board. The silver bell gives one final chime as it touches the wood, then falls silent.
Without a word, he returns to the stove.
I stare after him for a moment before resuming my work.
Several minutes later, he turns the first section of ribs. Once both sides have developed a deep brown crust, he lifts it onto a broad metal tray beside the stove and lowers the next section into the pot.
The smell...
It’s divine. It wasn’t that long ago that I ate, and my mouth is already watering again.
Then comes a frustrating beat of shame as I remember being forced to drool on myself. My eyes are beginning to tear from the onions, and I sniffle, pushing the memory away and returning to my almost meditative rhythm.
By the time I finish, the broad tray beside Talarin holds several massive sections of browned ribs. Their rich scent fills the room, and my stomach growls so loudly that I stop cutting.