Page 5

CHAR REALLY WANTED to make oat cakes. He had the oats and sugar, and the recipe didn’t call for eggs, but what he did need was baking soda. There wasn’t any baking soda in the middle of the mountain, and he wasn’t going to magically find some growing along the lake’s edge—since baking soda didn’t grow. Substitutes like baking powder, egg whites, club soda, or even bananas were also a no-go out here.

He could make oat cakes without any leavening, but they would end up hard and tacky. Even with all the concessions he’d made to quality due to the conditions, Char could not justify something he knew would turn out extremely subpar.

Char sighed, but started measuring out water, calculating cups for the entire group. Once the pot was full of cold water, Char added a dash of salt before moving the pot onto the grill. He measured out the ratio of cups of oats, gently pouring them into the water. Most recipes said to wait for the water to boil before adding the oats, but Char found letting them absorb the water while it heated made for a softer and creamier final dish. Of course, oatmeal was always better when made with milk, rather than water, but there weren’t any cows wandering by the lake.

As the water began to steam and the oats puff, Char added sugar. Oatmeal by itself was bland. It needed sugar of some kind or it wasn’t worth eating. Usually for regular white sugar, Char liked to add cinnamon for a bit of extra punch. He didn’t have cinnamon though. The molasses in the brown sugar he was using instead was just as good, albeit in a very different flavor profile. Unfortunately, the pouch of dried fruit was starting to run low, so Char only put in half the amount he would have liked. He couldn’t compensate by adding more sugar either, since there wasn’t too much of that left as well. They might not need to ration the rest of their food just yet, but Char could definitely see the squeeze coming.

It was too late in the season to be able to scavenge any spring fruits, and way too early for the apples or any autumn offerings to be ripe. Perhaps they might find honey out here, but Char wasn’t about to risk getting his group stung by bees to collect some. Breakfast might end up being jerky and dried mushrooms—or plain oatmeal without any seasonings to make it palatable, which was even worse—if he wasn’t careful.

“What did the fruit ever do to you?” Fendle asked as he strode over. Char looked up and realized he had been frowning at the bag in his hands.

“Just trying to plan breakfast for the next few days. I’m tired of oatmeal, but it’s all we have. Problem is the oatmeal might also be inedible if we run out of sweetener.” He paused, but a glance around said they were still alone; the crowd of hungry fighters were still completing their morning duties. “Any word from Tarken today?”

Fendle shook his head. “No, but if the people we’re waiting for don’t arrive today, I suspect some of the mercenary groups will pick up camp tomorrow and cut their losses. I’m hoping our erstwhile hosts realize that and don’t leave us waiting.” He sighed. “Anyway, sounds like oatmeal again this morning. Any plans for the rest of our meals?”

That made Char’s frown return in earnest. “The potatoes are starting to sprout, so it’s going to be potatoes all day. I’m thinking a loaded baked potato for lunch, although since we don’t have any sour cream or butter I’m not sure I can comfortably call it that. Dinner will have to be mashed potatoes, but without butter and milk they won’t be particularly creamy. The oil will smooth it out and some spices will make it palatable, but it will still be dry.”

“Can you make a sort of shepherd’s pie with it?” Fendle asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Char snorted. “I need eggs, cream, and flour. Pie needs a proper dough for a crust and the filling ought to be a proper béchamel. Although...maybe I could come up with a quasi-deconstructed version...” He trailed off, lost in thought for a moment, but the weight of Fendle’s gaze forced him to glance up.

Fendle was looking at Char with the slightest smile lifting his lips at the corners. The look wasn’t condescending or pasted on, but Char had no idea what it meant.

“What?” he asked, unable to let the mystery go unanswered.

Fendle’s smile grew. “Has anyone ever told you how cute you are when you get so lost talking about food?”

“I’m—what?” Char spluttered out, his cheeks heating even as his swirling thoughts about potatoes ground to a sudden halt.

“Absolutely adorable,” Fendle said, filling in the empty spot left by Char’s inability to get any more words out.

“No. That’s not true. I’m—” Obsessive bordering on fanatical were the nicest terms Char had ever heard himself described with. He couldn’t make himself finish the sentence; the sting in his chest and his throat from just thinking about it kept those hateful words inside.

“Everyone else is clearly brain-dead, if they don’t see how incredibly cute you are when you’re captivated by food.” Fendle reached out, and for a moment Char wasn’t sure whether to be excited or frightened of the idea that Fendle might pull him close. But, instead, Fendle picked up the spoon resting on a plate next to the fire and gave the neglected oatmeal a much-needed stir.

Char stifled any disappointment, refusing to allow such strange and unwarranted feelings to surface. Fendle would change his mind soon enough after all.

Ralph and Laura arrived before Char inadvertently let any of his swirling emotions or worries escape, both apparently on kitchen duty today as they each dropped a load of cut wood onto the pile. They were quickly followed by everyone else, and Char was glad to let assuaging rumbling stomachs distract him from the confusion that was Fendle.

Emptied bowls were just being stacked into a pile for washing when a commotion from farther up the beach had everyone turning to look. A group of about ten people on horses had ridden into the sprawling camp.

“Looks like we finally get to learn why we’re here,” someone muttered.

“Right,” Fendle called. “I’m going to head over and see what’s up. You all know what to do.” He glanced around until he found Jensen, his second in command, who nodded. Then Fendle’s eyes drifted over to Char. He smiled again, reigniting those butterflies Char had just banished, and then turned and strode off down the path.

Ralph and Laura gathered the dirty dishes and headed to the water. The rest of the group drifted off, although none of them went too far away. Char left them to it. His role was to cook, and he had potatoes to worry about.

He grabbed one potato per person, purposefully picking the ones with the green stems growing from multiple spots, as those needed to be eaten first. Char headed down to the water too, a few feet away from the splashing from the dishwashing, and used a small brush to scrub the skin of the potatoes clean. Gentle pressure from the pad of his thumb snapped off the stems, leaving behind only spots that would soften while cooking and be perfectly edible.

When he returned to the fire, Char dug out a protective mitt for his hands. Normally, he wouldn’t need the mitt, but they might be under surveillance, and Fendle had asked him not to reveal his abilities. He stuffed each potato deep into the ashes, under the rosy coals, where they would slowly bake over the next few hours. Char would have liked to wrap the potatoes first to keep the skin edible, but he was happy to make do with what they had on hand—which was lots and lots of potatoes. Closer to lunch he would do something with oil, meat, and mushrooms to give the illusion of a loaded potato, but for now he sat next to the fire and relaxed in its warmth.

Laura and Ralph returned and put away the cleaned dishes before drifting off to hover around the campsite with everyone else. They all carried tension in their shoulders as if expecting someone to sneak up behind them as they went about regular camp activities. Resetting tent stakes, airing out bedrolls, grooming horses, and other mundane, easy tasks were completed all while they kept looking over their shoulders, down toward the embankment, where Fendle had disappeared into a large tent along with the new arrivals and other group leaders.

Char sighed and sat up. He ought to wander down to the onion patch. Sautéed onions and mushrooms would be a good topping for his potatoes for both lunch and dinner. And now that he was thinking about onions, it wouldn’t be too difficult to knock together an onion soup for dinner. If he ground up some of the dried pasta and used oil, he could make an approximation of a roux. The soup wouldn’t be as flavorful as he would have liked without wine or nutmeg, but he did have rosemary which wasn’t traditional but was an acceptable substitute since it would punch up the flavor. Cutting all the onions would take almost as long as actually cooking, but it would provide a different texture and experience to dinner than just mashed potatoes.

Decided, Char stood and dusted off his pants, ready to go harvest lots of onions. A shout from the direction of the command tent echoed through the valley, the actual words muffled. A second shout was followed by people erupting from the tent, group leaders dashing in the direction of their camps.

“Gather up!” Jensen called, striding into the cleared central area of their camp. Everyone joined him except for Jeorgi and Clarise, who ran to the horses to start removing their hobbles. Char hung back, staying by the fire, but he was close enough to join them in watching the path.

Fendle didn’t appear. The other leaders all made it to their camps and their yelling galvanized their people to start moving, but there was no sign of Fendle having left the command tent. And Char suddenly knew what was about to happen wouldn’t be good.