Chapter One
Ayala
“ANOTHER ORDER, AYALA.” Sparger, one of the runners who serves the court, impales the paper he holds upon the spike that sits precariously at the edge of the baking table. “Same old, same old.”
Wonderful. Why change what’s boring?
I swipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand before wringing my fingers in my soggy apron. It’s hot as Dubnos with all twenty ovens blasting. The windows are too tiny to let in enough air. The door only opens halfway.
The place is redolent of sweat, sugar, and rancid stench.
My stench. I’ve worked for the last thirty hours straight without a shower.
As I see Sparger’s nose wrinkle at the foul smell I’m emitting, I realize I should have taken the time for at least a sponge bath from the water barrel outside the door.
Yes, it’s meant to collect rainwater from the roof to nourish the edible flower garden, but what would the flowers know if I used it first?
When I’m busy creating the same old cakes, day after day, hour after hour, time gets away from me.
Not that it matters. Friends aren’t flocking to see me.
No stags line up to mate me. The only visitors I ever receive are those who either add more work to my list or bark orders.
Hmm, there’s a thought. Maybe I’ll never bathe again?
Cut down on unwanted visitors in the baking kitchen, which might give me the opportunity to experiment with some of the recipes burning in my head.
“Why in the name of Dubnos does he only want vanilla? Can you tell me that?” I mutter as I search for a napkin in which to wrap one of the bread bowls I keep on hand for peckish intruders like the runner. They’re on their feet all day. They never have a chance to eat a full meal.
Time’s apparently hard for them to keep track of, too. Maybe it’s hard for everyone in service.
Sparger shrugs his narrow shoulders. He looks like a laundry pin, all straight and skinny with a long face to match, but he’s not a bad sort, even if he is addicted to mint cream and rouelle. Speaking of.
“How much did you lose last night?”
His expression falls. “Too much.”
“Who won off you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Hey, do you have any of the pumpkin-acorn paste left?”
I layer some into the bowl, offering him a smile. “Don’t worry. Flavored with vanilla.”
“His Majesty says, the rest follow.” His chin darts to the paper he impaled on the spike.
“Two hundred long cakes, by the way. There’s a contingent arriving after supper with some cat-faced brides for His Majesty to give the once over.
” He looks around the stone room before he steps closer and lowers his voice.
“Honestly, Ayala, would it be so terrible for him to choose one of his own?”
“If the king heard you talk like that, he’d string you up for speciesist talk. You know how he feels about cooperation among all the shifters of Wylding, especially the others who employ earth magicks.”
“Probably wants to be selected as High King if and when the time comes.” He nods his long head, his mousy brown hair flopping into his eyes. “Believes that claptrap from the Aurory about his destiny.”
“What, that he’s going to change society? And you don’t?”
He shrugs. “How many years has he sat the Antler Throne? Notice much changing?”
“Not the spicing, that’s for certain.” Or the hierarchy of stags and does, but some things are immutable. “Anyway, he’s better than Charlin, who gossips say used to rape the servants, stags and does both.”
Sparger makes the V sign on his forehead to ward off evil.
I spoon a second layer of the pumpkin-acorn paste into the bowl. “Anyway, King Cian’s nice to look at, at least from a distance.”
Sparger grabs his treat, frowning into the depths. “He’s the same up close. Thanks for the treat, Ayala.” He starts to turn, seems to debate with himself, winces, and finally says, “You know, speaking of dreams...”
“Were we?” The king’s dreamy. Maybe that’s what he means.
“...if you want to work your way up the bake shop ladder, why not show His Majesty what you can do with some real flavors, like the ones you make for the inns for Roffey?”
“What, like the crumb cake? Or the boysenberry tartlets?” The only time I ever get the chance to use spices other than vanilla is when I bake for places outside the court, and then only when the head baker approves, of course.
“Why not? You know that once Roffey pins down Fawn, he’ll probably spend all his time luxuriating around her father’s estate. She’s not going to want him sweating in the baking kitchen. Maybe you’ll be made head baker.”
“Ah, to be the artist who gave vanilla a good death.” I laugh. As if.
Sparger shrugs his narrow shoulders. “Just think about it. You can’t know that the king will hate other flavors until you put them in front of him, and you’ll never know how high you can rise until you try.
” Lifting his napkin-wrapped goodie into the air in a gesture of goodbye, he flees the pit in which I’m stuck.
I blow out a great gust of air. Two hundred long cakes on top of the pastry and bread for the evening meal means I’ll be lucky to finish by dark. Once again, no time to walk the glen and forest and feel the soft grass beneath my feet. But I’m definitely going to find time for a shower.
Crossing to the corner, I heft the barrel of flour into my arms. It’s nearly as large as I am, and likely twice as heavy.
Happily, I’ve developed some muscles working in the king’s bakery.
After setting the barrel nearer to where I work, I return for the smaller casket of precious sugar, eggs from the aviary, and finally, go to retrieve the vanilla from the spice closet.
I’m an ant with a thousand blades of grass, capable of shouldering far more than my weight.
Yeah, watch me roar.
I take out my key, only to find the storeroom of spices is already unlocked. Frowning, I check the contents of some of the costlier spices, but everything seems to be at an acceptable level. I don’t even know why we house the exotics when I’m only allowed to flavor with vanilla.
Carefully, I lock the door behind me before I start on the dough for the long-cakes. Time retreats as it usually does once I find my rhythm. Slap, slap, slap. Pound, pound, pound. Mix, mix, mix. Slice.
Maybe Sparger is right. Maybe with a little courage, I could move from Under-Baker to Head Baker to the King.
My salary would increase. The tiny room in the furthest keep I currently occupy could be upgraded into a larger apartment, maybe one with access to the lake.
I could decorate with icings and fruit fillings, maybe even spin some sugar for the tops of the cakes to make them festive rather than plain.
It's only when I pop the cakes into the large gaping maws of the twenty ovens that are kept fired up twenty-four hours a day that I dab at my sweat-stained face again and sink onto the bench at the far corner of the room. There’s a breath of cool air slipping through a narrow ribbon in the stone, and if I sit just right, I can catch it.
Thirst assaults me, a reminder I’ve once again forgotten to drink most of the day.
With a groan, I rouse myself onto my legs once more.
The water pump is just outside the kitchens.
After downing a fresh cup, I return to my bench, there to pull out my recipe book.
The Head Baker-to-the-King, Roffey Hornbeam, usually puts in an appearance just as the day fades to gloaming, thereby missing the worst excesses of the heat.
If he finds me “lazing about” with my recipe book, he’ll take my head. I’ll need to be quick.
My gaze slides over my new juniper and lemon cake recipe.
My mouth waters in response. That would be ideal to tempt the king’s palate.
And Sparger’s right—now’s the time. Rumor is that Roffey’s finally got Fawn Freeborn on the hook of his antlers.
Normally, I’d be the last person in the world to believe that the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Freeborn would be interested in mating with a baker, even if said baker comes from a long line of strong stags.
But he can boast sixteen points on his antlers, which I’m supposing is the draw.
That’s the equivalent of next-to-noble in some shifter societies.
Ooh. Orange-cinnamon swirl. But no. No oranges. I’d have to order them imported from the southern lands of the water magick shifters. No, gooseberry would be better. But juniper... I haven’t tasted it since I was a child. I think there’s some dried in the closet.
Roffey strides in, his wide bulk temporarily blocking the outside light and further imprisoning the heat.
“Damned nobles. You’re lucky you’re beneath their notice, Ayala.
” He grabs an apron from a hook on the stone wall and wraps it around his sufficient waist. “Why, the king himself hired me straight from my cushy job with the monks of Mayhaven. There I was, spreading a cool whipped cream atop a parfait of vanilla wafers and gooseberry preserves, when he walked into the kitchens and demanded I come with him. And now? I’m subject to insults at every turn. ”
“The Freeborns?”
He snorts. “I’m worthy of Fawn. I am.”
“I’m sure you are.” I slide my recipe book under the bench and find my feet. He’s so distracted with his own life that I don’t think he noticed me reading. “Is Lady Fawn still playing hard to get?”
He waves his meaty hand through the air.
“It’s not her. She’s a sweetheart. It’s her father.
The duke called me a flour pounder. Can you imagine?
As if honest toil is shameful. And after what I’ve done for them, the chances I’ve taken, only to be so insulted.
..” But suddenly, he looks furtive, casting me a glance from the sides of his eyes. “Well, you know how it is.”
“I don’t, thankfully. I’m so lowbrow, no one bothers with me.”
Yeah. Go, me.
He waves his hand in front of his face as I cross to the ovens to check my goods. “Fan still not working? I thought the maintenance team was supposed to take care of it today.”
“Magick’s down all over Cerf-Biche. I heard some of the guards talking. They say the ley lines are impaired all across this part of Wylding. Only the strongest are managing to use theirs.”
The cakes in the oven are browning nicely. Another minute. I turn back to him.
“Damn. Shifting, too?”
“Most seem to be managing. It’s the other stuff that’s on the fritz.”
“And all from the ley-line damage?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Damn lightning strike.”
“Above my pay grade. Plus, not shifting isn’t a problem for me.”
He casts me a faux grimace of sympathy before sliding behind his desk in the corner, there to look at receipts.
Focusing on the lump of dough on the table in front of me, I take a moment to breathe, trying to calm my erratically beating heart. Maybe I should wait. It’s true that with magick glitching, this is a bad time to take risks.
The image of the ant carrying a thousand blades of grass on his back skips into my mind and steals my resolve. It was my favorite story as a child. My mother always said, I might end up the lowest, just like an ant, but with a will, I could carry whatever life threw at me.
It's never thrown me a chance at success before. Success is a different sort of weight to carry.
Right. If I wait any longer, I’ll never make the attempt.
I have just enough raw dough left that I can make a small batch of daisy-cakes for the High Table.
Juniper berries, lemon, and a hint of vanilla, since His Majesty seems to like it so much.
If I’m lucky, Roffey won’t notice and won’t demand a taste test before I can send the specialty out the door.
And if the dark and devastating king tastes my juniper cakes, he’ll grant me the ability to make more of the recipes that I furiously scribble and can taste in my mind.
The dreams of bakers are small.