"You call that a tart? Maker's fires, were you raised by wolves?" Neveshir strode across the kitchen, eyes narrowed on the deflated excuse for a pastry lumped into one of his finest tins.
The new hire — scion of some wealthy city family or other — stepped up to defend his abomination with lip curled. "I apprenticed to a master pastry chef at the culinary institute, and he said that one should never use a tin like—"
"He can say whatever the burning heavens he wants." Neveshir straightened. Height had its advantages. Looming over cocky prats from the culinary institute was one of them. "You're in my kitchen, now. Your feeble attempt at a tart is an insult to my tin — not the other way around."
The prat's coffee-dark eyes skipped from Neveshir's face down to the silver chain peeking from his collar, then further still to the fabric of his tailored black coat. The slightest sheen clung to his rucked sleeves — a mark of quality fireproofing.
Neveshir's bare wrists drew the prat's attention. The prat knew what he was. They all did. The missing iron jewelry should have given him pause, but much to Neveshir's frustration, that wasn't the case.
The prat's nose lifted in the haughty gesture of a man too accustomed to getting more credit than he was due. "At the institute—"
"What's your name?" Neveshir interrupted.
"Chef Idris, sir—"
Neveshir whirled, coattails flapping. 'Chef' Idris? Not on his watch. "Esra!"
"Yes, Veshir?" Esra materialized beside the oven, flour smeared across their apron, glasses askew. They lifted a brow at his long-suffering sigh.
He didn't miss the curled half-smile sitting in the corner of Esra's mouth. They'd warned him the kid had an ego bigger than the Delveri Mountains. He supposed this was his comeuppance for giving Idris a shot despite Esra's misgivings. After over a decade of working side-by-side — time in the army together notwithstanding — he ought to have trusted Esra's judgment.
"Something the matter?" Esra continued, far too chipper for someone who had been up baking since sunrise. The sunny disposition Neveshir had found incomprehensible in combat made a fine attitude for a pastry chef.
"You were right." He swore he saw Esra's lips twitch in response. "Put Idris back on the line."
Idris threw an over-the-shoulder scowl Neveshir's way as Esra corralled him towards the corner to peel potatoes with the apprentices.
Let the prat glare all he wanted. This was Neveshir's kitchen, the fruit of years of labor, the only good thing that had ever come from his two hands. He wasn't about to risk it on some kid who thought learning began and ended with his fancy institute education.
With Idris sorted and the offending tart thrown out the back door to feed the chickens, Neveshir continued his survey of the afternoon's activity. Mouthwatering smells filtered through the kitchen from stone-tile floors up to arched overheads. Chopping and chatter filled the room, interspersed with sizzling and bubbling and the friendly crackling of the fire.
His eyes skipped past rings of workstations to the blazing central hearth. The fire within stretched wider than a man and as tall as the ceiling. It licked at the mouth of the open vent as though it would climb to fill the sky if it could.
A knot formed in Neveshir's breast as his eyes rested on the flame. He rubbed at it with scarred knuckles, willing it away. Now wasn't the time to dwell — not tonight, when every touch had to be perfect.
He paused beside the outer workstations where apprentices with discerning eyes arranged finished trays. They placed garnishes by hand and paid loving attention to detail, just as he'd taught them.
"Not a leaf out of order, yes? We will spoil our guests and honor the Shah's return with our finest work."
"Yes, Chef!" came the reply, some voices merrier than others. Esra's rang out above the rest, accompanied by a preternaturally cheerful salute — an old habit from the war, still somehow as endearing as it was irritating. They returned to the oven then, messy top-knot of curls bouncing as they bent to check on their cakes.
Neveshir smothered a smile and turned inward to the second and third circles where pipelines carried the central fire to grills, ovens, and stovetops. Chefs bobbed their heads as he passed, opening doors and lifting lids to let him examine braised meats, colorful root vegetables, and candied nuts. Though he didn't have much use for flattery, he spared words of encouragement where they were due.
If he didn't let them know when they'd met his expectations, he wouldn't see them met a second time.
His own workstation lay in the inner circle, a messy tabletop just beside the heat of the central fire. It boasted rows of glassware jars filled with his favorite herbs and spices. In front of them lay the tools of transmutation in haphazard stacks: bowls here, deep-bellied spoons there, a pair of fine black gloves for lengthier projects.
Neveshir bent to prod at his biscuits, then checked the delicate frost-berry compote simmering on a low flame. Heedless of the heat, he dipped a finger and brought it up for a taste. Rich and tart, the spicy-sweet flavors of mid-winter burst across his tongue. His eyes slid shut.
Divine.
With a quick peek at his yams — still half-cooked, the ingrates — he began his customary amble around the inner circle of stations. His sous chefs, all Maker-touched and able to use open flame, earned their spaces through talent and innovation alike. They worked with heads down as though the fire raged beneath them instead of before them, whisking and stirring and kneading at a frenetic pace.
As he made a turn around the far side of the fire, the chef nearest to him glanced up, wide-eyed and quivering at his approach.
He resisted the impulse to sigh aloud. Leyla had spent a year in his kitchen. Unlike Idris, she was worth the risk he'd taken on her. She took direction well and showed promise as a Potionmaster: strong enough to sense potential energy in the world around her and use it to create anew. Based on the way she clutched a steaming bowl of unidentified liquid, he assumed she had flubbed an attempt at a new creation.
A third-order talent was no mean one, thus it never failed to amaze Neveshir how she bungled even simple recipes.
He waved his way up to her station just as the first fumes from the bowl assaulted his senses. "No, no, no. What is that?"
Leyla dropped the bowl onto her workstation with a clatter. "Not sure, Chef. I can tell you what it's not, and that's golden syrup—"
The sigh escaped unbidden, this time, as he shouldered into the space beside her and reached for ingredients he knew by heart. "Alright, watch me carefully. I'm not doing this for you twice." He dimly registered the 'thank you, Chef!' as he uncorked a long glass jar. "The trick is in the greenleaf, yes? Now pay attention — and not just with your eyes, mind."
Neveshir reached for the glasses tangled in his hair and flicked them down to shade his eyes. Leyla was still learning. Her work was rough and clumsy when she didn't focus, though that wasn't all her fault. She couldn't feel the spindles of potential in all living and material things unless she concentrated.
His talent was different. Energy and matter crystallized in his mind like glowing strings as he thrust the bowl — and his hands with it — directly into the fire.
The kitchens ground to a halt. Chefs and apprentices alike froze to watch him use his talent.
Neveshir didn't mind the flames licking his knuckles. It'd take a lot more than that to burn him, though he'd learned his lesson years earlier and invested in a flame-retardant coat, even for simple transmutations. It marked him for what he was, same as it marked his sous chefs.
First-orders could draw near to flame but not touch it. They used their talent to weave charms into objects. Others had to follow precise recipes, relying on charms and incantations, with nothing to show for their efforts if they strayed outside the recipe's boundaries.
Higher-order talents could create with fewer restrictions, but Potionmasters like Neveshir did more than create.
Transmutation was a funny thing. The fire raced up to his wrists, heating the bowl and the ingredients within, loosening the strands of energy around him to glowing malleability. Neveshir squinted. The reaction burned white-hot and bright even through his dark-tinted glasses, but the energetic strands of sugar, greenleaf, and nirrin spice lit clear and bright like braids of precious metal. He teased them apart, brushing up against the very fabric of the world as he recombined them into something new.
His chefs continued to stare. Their eyes prickled like needles between his shoulder blades, a nervous scrutiny they wouldn't give to the lesser-blessed. Neveshir was more than a charm-worker, though — more than a rangy farmer's son from eastern Esenia. He was a Karán, a fifth-order Potionmaster. His work inspired their fear as much as it inspired their awe. He didn't fault them for it. What did it matter that he'd sworn off blood-magic? They did well to keep a wide berth around a man who'd once turned an enemy squadron's lungs to dust.
That's what the Karán did. They didn't create — they destroyed.
As the last strands of energy wove together, the whispering began. Neveshir picked the prat's voice out from the others.
"What, he doesn't even boil the greenleaf first? At the culinary institute, they said—"
No regard for common sense, that one. He'd have thought a null-blooded chef would show more humility in his kitchen.
Neveshir pulled the bowl from the fire. "You know what they said during my training, Idris?" He turned to make eye contact even through his darkened lenses. He could imagine how he must look — sweating and sharp-featured, his anger taking on a near physical presence in the room with them. His training had come nowhere near the posh gentility of the culinary institute.
Idris stuck his chin out. "The head chefs at the institute say that if you don't boil the greenleaf, the syrup turns grey—"
"That so? Mine told me something different." He bared his teeth. "'When all else fails, throw a little magic at it.'"
Scattered, nervous applause filled the kitchen as he poured the syrup into a decanter in a stream of rich, thick gold — sweet to counteract the bitterness in his voice. He scowled at all of them, pushing his glasses back into his nest of hair, and dropped the bowl on the workstation.
Leyla laid a hand on his arm, still flame-hot from transmutation. "I see where I went wrong, now." Of course she did. But a prat like Idris? Null-blooded. Couldn't see a flaming thing. "Thank you, Chef. I'm sorry about the—"
"No apologies between the likes of us," he said, gruff, pressing her shoulder. "You're doing fine."
He turned away to avoid her beaming smile, only to find his kitchen staff still staring at him.
Neveshir rolled his eyes. "We're serving in two hours, let's move!"
Stalking back to his station, he flexed his fingers, working the kinks from his joints. He was getting too old for this.
His oven door opened with a yank. He crouched, hissing at his insubordinate yams. The blasted tray was still half-raw. "I'm not giving you more butter, you greedy little things," he muttered, shutting the oven. As he straightened to check on his compote, he saw Esra peek into their own oven.
Esra let out a whoop of glee and extracted a cake that looked and smelled like the hearth-goddess herself had baked it.
"You're Maker-touched as always," he called.
After setting the cake upon their workstation, Esra turned to salute again, winning a laugh from him in return — an old, scraping thing that rattled out of his throat. They'd serve a fine feast that evening, and no matter how he griped, his staff knew he lived for the hours of chaos that unfolded before the final presentation.
As if thoughts alone could bring ill-luck, the bang of a falling tray echoed through the kitchen. Neveshir startled like a frightened cat. He spun to find a group of apprentices standing frozen in one of the outer rings, staring in open-mouthed horror at the pile of biscuits on the ground.
He threw up his hands. "Oh, for the love of—"
"It's good to see you too, Nev." A deep, oh-so-familiar voice dripped like warm honey down his spine. "Still terrorizing your kitchen staff, I see."
Neveshir's breath caught in his throat.
He was here.
★★★