Drothiker

14.

The only thing Faolin liked about the scullery duty was the odor of Cook's food here. Something she hated the most was the hotness, though windows above the copper sinks were open to let the morning's cold breeze sweep in and keep everyone sweat-free. Cook was tending to the bubbling pots on the hearth, accompanied by Eliver, whilst Faolin sat with Vur and Syrene on the wooden table dividing the kitchen in two halves, cutting the vegetables.

Despite the absurdly early hour, Cook and Eliver laughed and cooked merrily, unlike the ones on the table.

Faolin hadn't slept last night, thanks to the lack of space, though she doubted Syrene had either—she hadn't moved a hair the whole night. Gnea had arrived late, but had uttered nothing and proceeded to her own bed after a glance towards Syrene. She'd embarked on her day before Faolin had so much as cracked open an eye today.

Wraith—Syrene was a wraith. When she had gone to bathe today, and hadn't returned after thirty minutes, Faolin had been half tempted to squeeze in and check on her. But the Grestel had turned up eventually.

What had engendered Vur's silence today, she hadn't the faintest idea. But the man had hardly smiled. The slices of his onions were as perfect as Faolin's, though she couldn't say the same about Syrene's. Cook had approached the table, frowned at her slices, but hadn't said a thing, noticing the human's state.

Whoever this Kessian had been, he'd been too important to have prompted such limpness.

"How did they go wholly extinct?" Eliver asked the raconteur, their voices taking a sharp edge. "I mean, a hundred or so had been spared after the Jagged Battle, right? And a heap must have been immortal, they never reproduced?" Hemvae—they were talking about the hemvae. Bore upon Drothiker.

Vur was shaking his head. Even being someone who believed in the device, the man was fed up with Eliver's relentless obsession.

And Cook seemed to have flustered at the half-hemvae's question about reproduction. But he said, "The Jagged Battle had been ... intricate. It is said that hemvae were children of stars—"

"If that were so, wouldn't Hexet Evreyan have been a full-hemvae? Since Evreyan bloodline was said to be blessed by stars too."

"Indeed. If there had been any hope for a full-hemvae to be born again, it would have been from her bloodline. But ... the duce never reproduced. Her bloodline concluded with her. Otherwise the next duce would have been her heir, not Deisn Rainfang."

There was silence for long moments. But then Eliver mused, "Someone once told me that there had been a hemvae king once, that he'd partaken in the battle. Whatever happened of him?"

Faolin didn't fail to notice the stiffness in Cook, and something like rage sparked before he seethed, "He fell, boy, in that battle. Ianov is on the brink of destruction because he used his eternal power to forge a devi—" Word cut off halfway, but—

Eliver went rigid, eyes widened; mirror to Faolin's own reaction no doubt. Air in kitchen seemed to have dispelled wholly. Vur motioned to look at Cook behind him, color leeching from his face, and muttered, "Ablaze Kosas."

Faolin was inclined to agree.

But Eliver's eyes were lavish with triumph. "That means rumors about Drothiker speak true." His gaze slid to Faolin. "I told you so."

It was suddenly hard to breathe—hard to register his words. Her glare remained on Cook, who had gone ashen at the forbidden information he'd just divulged. "That must mean the Elite Kaerions ..." Her words trailed off.