Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir (55 page)

Ocari decided not to test how persistent I'd insist on being.

“Alright. But only because it's busy enough with the Phoenix Festival, never mind it coming on the tail of a funeral—rest His Majesty's soul,” Ocari said, nudging me towards a short, sturdy door that was kept unlocked. “In here. Sort out what's got to be thrown, what needs to be eaten soon. Put whatever'll last at the bottom. Whoever was last in here made a fine mess of things.”

The culprit in question, whether they were in the castle or miles away, must've felt the hairs on the back of their neck stand up without knowing why. I thanked Ocari, but they dismissed my gratitude with a wave, drawing more servants and their questions with every step they took.

The room was bigger than the door led me to believe. Plain stone floors greeted me, along with walls scarred by thick shelves, all of them packed from the floor to ceiling with sacks of flour. There was a divide in the form of a severe looking cabinet halfway through the room, filled with jars of honey and preserves, and behind that, I found barrels big enough to fall into, full of vegetables.

It was hardly the most important job in the castle, nor the most important job in that room, but there was a lot of work, and all of it was distracting. I tackled a barrel at a time, sifting through carrots and turnips and swedes, carefully pressing the pads of my thumbs against them to ensure they hadn't turned to mush beneath the skin. Hours in, and I'd sorted through a barrel and a half, rotten vegetables in a neat pile behind me. I was glad to be useful, even if it was in a way that no one would ever notice.

Sleeves rolled up to my elbows, I sat in the sunbeam speared through the small, square window so high up it touched the ceiling, and went long minutes at a time without thinking of fire. I didn't know when the executions would take place, or where, and it was better that way; they'd pass without my knowing, and I wouldn't be tempted to make my way down to the crowd that thought they were witnessing vengeance fifteen hundred years too late.

I felt a cruel sort of pity for Ianto; I was not sorry that he'd die, only sorry for the way he was to leave Bosma. Yet at the same time, I found myself frustrated that he would only burn once, while the necromancer's cries would run so deep into the core of Isin that they'd never quite stop echoing through the streets.

Without warning, the pantry door swung open, and my thumb slipped through the skin of a potato that had seen better days.

I heard muttering from the other side of the cabinet, coarse words tumbling out in a language I didn't understand, but the voice was instantly familiar to me.

Peering around the cabinet, I caught sight of Akela mumbling hastily under her breath, hands held out in front of her as though the sacks of flour within reach presented her with an impossible choice. She'd left her armour behind in favour of plainer clothes, hair slipping out of its ponytail.

“Akela?” I asked, wiping my thumb on the leg of my trousers. “Is everything okay?”

Akela's voice rose, undecipherable words coming out faster, abruptly leading onto, “
Northwood
. You are hiding away down here. Why is that?”

“I'm not hiding. I'm helping,” I insisted. “You aren't on duty today? I thought you'd be needed, what with all the Agadian diplomats.”

Akela made a guttural sound and shook her head sharply, eyes back on the flour.

“They didn't need you to translate?” I said, leaving the vegetables behind to help her stare up at the shelves.

“Hah. No, no. The Agadians, they are understanding us well enough—until they are disagreeing, which is always, and then they are pretending that they are mishearing, hoping that we are correcting ourselves,” Akela said, scoffing. She pulled a sack of flour free from a shelf so high up that even she had to push herself onto tiptoes to reach it. Her shirt was instantly covered in a thin film of flour as the bag hit her chest. “I am not attending meetings with... with people such as they are. I am making a
cake
.”

“A
cake
?” I asked, as though her palms weren't already covered in flour.

“Yes, yes. A cake. And if you are not keeping up, you are missing out,” Akela announced, using the sole of her boot to kick the door open.

I glanced back at the vegetables as though I hadn't already made up my mind. The sight of them didn't compel me to stay. Ocari tasked me with their care in order to be rid of me, and I felt little guilt in delaying the process. Especially when the prospect of cake loomed in front of me.

More than that, there'd been a bitter note caught up in Akela's voice, the kind I hadn't thought to hear from her. She'd been muttering to herself in Agadian, and I thought I might make better company than rows upon rows of flour.

Destination fixed firmly in mind, Akela took two turns through a web of narrow corridors, using her shoulder to open the door of a small kitchen, tended to by a single cook.

“I'm afraid this kitchen is in use,” the cook said when the sack of flour met the worktop with a thud.

“I am afraid I am making a cake for Queen Kidira, and if you are not letting me have this space to myself, then you are having to go to your Queen and explain why you are not letting Commander Ayad use your kitchen,” Akela said, dusting off the front of her shirt and making matters worse. “How do you think she is responding to that, hm?”

The cook didn't argue. Hands held up in front of them, they said, “Suppose I can be finding somewhere else to work, Commander,” and headed out through the door I was propping open.

Akela pulled the cupboard doors open, well acquainted with their contents, and heaped bowls and whisks and sieves into her arms, raiding the larder for slabs of butter and baskets of eggs. I stepped to the side, trying to keep out of her way as she swung a knife as though it were an axe, carving off a chunk of butter. I pulled the scales and the stack of weights away from the wall, but Akela was already throwing handfuls of flour and sugar into a bowl, not wasting her time with precise measurements.

The cake wasn't going to take long to come together. Akela slammed eggs open against the counter, and the stove door creaked on its hinges as I pulled it open, getting the fire going. It was barely big enough for the cake Akela was whisking together under one arm, and I supposed this kitchen was used to make the servants' meals, whenever the castle was particularly busy.

“Do not worry,” Akela said as I rose to my feet, oven lit. “Queen Kidira, she is liking the more—hm, modest cakes. Lemon sponge, this sort of thing, yes? Saying it is for her, that is only a ruse. We are making something with more substance, Northwood!”

Her idea of substance came in the form of cocoa powder, which she applied generously, turning the batter light brown. Placing the bowl on the counter, she attacked the contents with a wooden spoon, hair coming loose, falling about her face. With one arm holding the bowl in place and the other mixing, she tried to blow the stray strands out of her way. I pulled a chair across the room, legs scraping against stone, and hopped on it, pulling Akela's hair free and retying it.

“Ah. Thank you,” she said, and I jumped down, holding the steel pans as she poured the mixture in.

“Everything okay?” I asked cautiously.

The spoon chiming against the glass bowl as the last of the cake batter dripped into the pans was all the answer I thought I was going to get, until she said, “Yes, yes. Or it is being fine, in a number of days.”

I said nothing in reply, letting her know she could keep talking, if she wished to, and with a tea-towel in hand, opened up the oven door. Akela stood back, waiting for the swell of heat to rise, and carefully slid the cake pans into the oven.

Sat on the counter, we idly ate the cake batter left on the bowl, spoon and whisk, cupboard doors rattling as Akela rocked her feet back and forth.

“... it is Agados. They are coming here, and they are thinking they are having any say in who is taking King Jonas' throne. The Old West, they are trading with Agados for many, many decades, because Agados, it is having wealth enough to buy all the resources it is needing. There are veins of gold in their mountains, and they are chasing out the pane,” Akela eventually grumbled. “Agados, it is not a good place. They are wanting to influence Kastelir, and I know that they are not listening to Queen Kidira, no matter what she is saying. They are not listening to my Queen, and how are we to know what is really going on in their country? Agados, it is worse than you Felheimish, with your wall.”

“Claire said that even if Agados offered her help, she'd never take it,” I said, trying to understand. “I'd never really heard of Agados before all this.”

“Yes—that is how they are wanting it. They are keeping to themselves, they are only taking what they want, not letting outside influences in. Their Kings, they do not leave the Kingdom. Even now, even when they are burning a necromancer, they are only sending diplomats,” Akela said, frowning, “In Agados, they are putting people in boxes, they are forcing them to play roles. I am not wanting this for Kastelir.”

Perhaps Kastelirians didn't grow up on tales of Felheim's corruption, as we endured tales of Kastelir. Perhaps they grew up hearing about Agados' cruelty.

“Don't worry,” I assured her, licking the back of the spoon and dusting flour off the bridge of her nose. “No matter what the Agadians have planned, they won't be able to ignore Queen Kidira. She'll probably just glower at them until they run back to their King.”

Akela managed a laugh, boots thudding against the floor as she slipped from the counter. Not wanting to speak of Agados any further, she pushed herself up on tiptoes, retrieving a stack of chocolate hidden atop one of the cupboards. She dropped it carelessly onto the table, using a fist to smash it to bits, throwing the fragments she didn't melt down as a base for the icing into my lap.

Once the cake had cooled enough to bring it all together, it lived up to the smell that had preceded it. In spite of the way Akela had haphazardly thrown it together, it was one of the best things I'd ever tasted; it was beyond indulgent, so rich that a mouthful alone was almost enough to make my eyes water, and Akela effortlessly made her way through at least a third of it.

“It's good. It's
really
good,” I told her, wiping the crumbs from the corner of my mouth.

“Yes, I am knowing this,” Akela said with a grin, licking icing from her thumb. “My talents, they are not all involving the swinging of the axe.”

Akela was in better spirits, but still wasn't herself, and when I jokingly suggested that she help me sort through the rest of the vegetables, she was in enough need of a distraction to do so. We sat on the floor of the pantry together, picking at the cake, working until the light was so poor I could no longer discern between bruises and shadows.

“I am thinking, the festivities, they are done,” Akela said, standing and stretching, holding a hand out to me. “Queen Kidira, she is expecting me, and I am needing to change.”

What remained of the cake was wrapped in napkins and left in my care, and Akela and I parted ways once we reached the carpeted part of the castle. I stuck to the edges of the castle, wanting to avoid the Agadians, in search of Claire or Kouris, hoping that either or both of them were free.

It didn't take long. Kouris rounded a corner, almost walked into me, and said, “There you are, yrval. Been looking all over.”

She crinkled her nose, momentarily losing her chain of thought, tongue flicking out as though tasting the air.

“I, ah...” Kouris started again, shaking it off. “We've got a few hours before Kidira's gonna be dragging the dragon-slayer back off for another round of politics. Thought we could all sit down for a talk.”

In the last few months, I'd been rudely awoken by an axe-wielding assassin, confronted by a Knight who'd later ended up in a river, face split in two, been accused of killing a King, and found out that my Kingdom was founded on cruelty and lies. Had Kouris' words not sounded ominous, I would've known something was amiss.

“Cake?” I asked, holding a slice out, napkin peeling back.

Kouris' ears stuck straight up, as though lightning had torn through her spine, and with a furrowed brow, she took a step back.

“No. No thanks, yrval,” she said, waving her hands in front of her. “—as I was saying, we don't have all the time in the world. Best be getting on with it.”

I followed her with a shrug, supposing that it meant there was more cake for me and Claire. My stomach twisted at the thought of more chocolate, but I doubted that would stop me from having another bite or two. Necromancy, it seemed, was of no help when it came to poor dietary choices.

Kouris was far from skittish, but she wasn't in the mood to run into anyone, either. I took three strides for every one of hers, congratulating myself on starting to recognise my surroundings, when Kouris turned into a corridor that made me wonder if there was ever an end to the labyrinth that had engulfed the castle.

The staircase we climbed reminded me of the one that led to Queen Kidira's chambers, though no portraits hung on the walls, and clumps of dust broke apart under my fingers as I ran my hand up the banister. She pushed one of the double doors open, not having to duck into the room, and for as displaced from time as the staircase had been, the chamber beyond was remarkably well-kept.

It was much like Queen Kidira's, spears notwithstanding, and though sheets were draped across much of the furniture, what was on display was big enough for any pane. Light streamed lazily through clear windows, and I wondered if in twenty-seven years, the sheets protecting chairs and tables were the only change to the chamber.

“Good. She found you,” Claire said, sat in an armchair at least three times as wide as it needed to be. Kouris took her place on the sofa opposite her, and I joined Claire, leaning against the arm of the chair that came up to my shoulder.

“Cake?” I offered.

Claire's gloves were folded neatly on the table in front of her, and she took the cake eagerly, pulling away chunks with her fingers and eating without getting a single crumb on the side of her mouth, in her lap. I rubbed my fingers against my lips, just in case, but when I pulled them back, no chocolate was smudged across them.