“Breathe, Cassia,” Ventillas murmured. “You don’t want to faint in front of the lady.”
Cas had been holding his breath. He sent Ventillas a dark look, which only made him laugh. Turning back to Lena, Cas bowed slightly, returning the greeting.
Ventillas swung the hammer onto his shoulder. “You first,” he offered.
Cas picked up the mace. He circled the statue once, determining where best to strike, then swung. The spikes slammed into the chin and half the head broke away, including the nose, especially the nose, flying straight up into the night sky. By the time it returned to earth, splashing into the fishpond, the cheering had erupted.
In the end, the statue was reduced to rubble. Cas and Ventillas were on their knees, trying to catch their breath. Cas could feel his hair, stiff with sweat, bouncing around his head like a rooster’s crown.
A festive atmosphere had taken hold, helped along by flowing barrels of wine. Food had arrived as well, heaped on tables near the shrubbery. Master Jacomel was off by the fishpond, overseeing the removal of Cas’ stone head.
Ventillas contemplated their work. “It’s an improvement.”
“Agreed.” All that was left was a stone boot on the pedestal.
Ventillas gave him a sideways glance. “What do you say, little brother? Tired enough to sleep?”
Startled, Cas turned his head, met his brother’s eyes. Was this why Ventillas had done it? Trying to tire him to shreds so that his mind sought out nothing but rest? Ventillas, more parent than brother because he had to be. Cas swallowed past the lump in his throat. He nodded, because he could not speak.
“Good.” Ventillas’ hand came down on Cas’ shoulder, using it as leverage to push himself to his feet. He called out, “All right then, the lot of you, the entertainment’s over. Off to bed. Master Jac is old and needs his rest.”
Cas woke to the sounds of thunderous snoring; Ventillas lay face-down beside him. More snoring came from the two pages sprawled on pallets by the window. Cas sat up, yawning, before it came to him. It was well past dawn. He had slept dreamlessly for the first time in three years.
10
Cook wept when she saw him.
Cas endured the tears soaking his tunic and the kisses peppering his face because he would not hurt her feelings for anything. And because she fed him. Mountain food, food he had dreamt of for years. He would never admit it to a soul, but he had missed Cook and her kitchen even more than he had missed his brother.
“She’s hardly left the ovens since she heard you were home,” Captain Lorenz remarked, sitting across from Cas with a steaming mug in his hand. “Any other time we are rationed. There’s barely enough to keep a grown man standing.”
“Oh, hush. You don’t look hungry.” At the next table, Cook cracked brown eggs into a bowl. Her birth name was Talesa, but no one used it except maybe the captain when no one else was about. Theirs was a relationship of long standing. Like the captain, she was the age Cas’ parents would have been, had they lived. She wore a white apron over a red dress. Dark hair had been pulled into a knot high on her head, the shape of it the same as the plump pastry buns lined up on a table, awaiting the ovens. She had always been thin, suspicious for a cook, but doubt never lasted longer than the first bite of her red rice, or her chicken kelaguen, or her bunubunus, sweet and fried, filled with the season’s fruit.
A little boy sat beside her on a high stool. Five years old, he cheerfully rolled strips of dough into noodle thinness. He wore short trousers and a loose-fitting tunic. Cas could see right through him to the wall where pots and pans of every size hung from iron hooks.
Cas averted his eyes. When Ventillas was an infant, a fire had broken out in this very kitchen. Two people had perished. A gamekeeper, and Cook’s young son, who had been napping in a corner. The spirit had always been there, Cas knew. Sitting beside his mother, longer than Cas had been alive. The only difference was that now Cas could see him. A disquieting thought, imagining all the things that had once been hidden from him.
The kitchen was a loud, clamoring space with rough stone walls and a fireplace on each end. Tables scattered about, some for eating, others for the undercooks to knead, chop, and gut. The household staff dined here throughout the day. Servants and guards snatching meals on their way to various tasks. Cas kept company with a handful of soldiers. Bittor was among them, his nose only a little red, along with several women Cas learned were tapestry weavers. No one mentioned Faro or his hand.
Cas finished a bowl of latijas in moments. Closing his eyes on the last spoonful, he savored the taste of custard, cake, and cinnamon on his tongue. Cinnamon. The sudden dropping off of conversation had him opening his eyes.
Cook was weeping again. The others, when he turned in their direction, studied their mugs and bowls with great concentration. Self-conscious, Cas set his spoon down. At least he had not licked the bowl. Quietly, he said, “I am perfectly well, Cook.”
She flapped a hand at him, sniffling. “Of course you are. It is the spices. They upset my eyes.”
“Here, lad.” Captain Lorenz’s words were gruff. He heaped a bowl full of frit Palmerin—black Palmerin pig and wild rice cooked with oil and onions—and slid it across to Cas. “Where are you off to today?”
Whoever the archer was, he left no trail for us to follow. Ventillas’ words came back to him. They were likely true. But Cas could not stop thinking of the window by the lake, and the man who owned the house. What harm could there be in taking a second look? Accepting the bowl from the captain with thanks, he said only, “I’ll walk the city, I think. Get my bearings.”
Ventillas entered, a ribboned scroll in hand. He wore a brown leather tunic that fit him perfectly. Cas wore an identical tunic, only his stretched tight across the shoulders. He had been careful this morning not to make any sudden movements. Ventillas stopped when he saw the array of dishes before Cas. “You never make latijas for me,” he said to Cook.
“Or me,” Captain Lorenz added.
A good-natured chorus of agreement rose from the soldiers.
Cook poured batter into a pan. “You have all discovered my secret. Lord Cassia is my favorite.”
Ventillas’ words were wry. “That has never been a secret.” Pushing aside platters and cups, he unrolled the parchment onto the table. “Tell me again where you saw the lynx.” Cas had told Ventillas of the cat with the bloodied eyes. He had warned there could be more. Cas took a closer look at the parchment. It was a map of Palmerin, the city proper as well as the surrounding lands all the way to the borders. He traced the aqueduct’s path until he saw a familiar copse of trees. “Here. You’re going hunting?”
“We can’t have these on the roads.” Turning to Captain Lorenz, Ventillas said, “We’ll need archers.”
“They’ll be ready to ride when you are,” Captain Lorenz said.