Page 6

CHAR SWALLOWED HARD , craning his neck to see whether Fendle might have gone to another camp momentarily, but a glance over at Jensen saw him frowning. Clarise started leading the horses over to their owners, and still Fendle didn’t appear.

“Traitors! Liars!” Tarken yelled as he strode into view on the path. His fighters ranged behind him, quickly joined by the other groups.

“Mount up,” Jensen called, even as Char moved farther back, almost to the second fire near the tents.

The sharp sliding sound of metal rang out as swords were unsheathed, but Char could practically feel the nerves of his group. There were only a dozen of them—less since two were on sentry duty and Fendle was missing—against all the other companies. This wasn’t a fight they could win, but they didn’t have a choice but to try, and Char would have to watch.

Jensen always had a horn hanging from his hip; Char hadn’t wondered why before now, but he brought it to his lips and blew three short blasts followed by a pause and three more.

The horn appeared to enrage Tarken since he roared. The mercenaries roared back and started to run, and the battle was on.

Char couldn’t do anything to help. He was a chef, not a soldier. His skill with blades was exclusive to the kitchen. He didn’t know the first thing about fighting, and if he tried, he knew he would only get in the way. Yet standing around and waiting wasn’t really an option either. He might not be able to aid Jensen, Char decided firmly, but perhaps he could do something for Fendle.

He dashed into the woods where the trees and brush provided cover from the advancing fighters. The way was densely packed, Char fighting through tangling vines and spiked thorns. He tried to stay parallel to the lake so he didn’t lose his direction. He also attempted to be quiet, but it was impossible when he was thrusting past branches and stepping on invisible sticks beneath the bed of crunchy leaves underfoot. Luckily, Jensen blew the horn again—three blasts followed by a break and then three more blasts—and that sound combined with the starting clangs of steel against steel as the two forces met helped conceal his noise.

The command tent where Fendle had gone was close to the entrance of the clearing around the lake. Char didn’t know how much time had passed before he saw the tents of Tarken’s camp through the trees. His heart was beating in his throat as he turned and crept closer. He carefully lowered a branch, peeking through the abundant leaves.

Four people were milling about in the middle of the camp. Three were wearing red-dyed and fitted leather and looked important. They carried swords at their hips, but Char was used to seeing his group of fighters every day; despite the swords, these three didn’t stand like people who knew their way around a blade. The fourth was wearing the sky-blue and black patch of the Cannibals—Tarken’s group—and appeared to be waiting on the other three. A glance at the tent revealed two more people, likely guards since both were wearing leather armor topped with metal vambrace and greaves, standing on either side of the entrance.

Char would not be getting in that way. However, he didn’t see anyone else nearby. He slid out between the trees, crouching low and scuttling to the back of the tent. He fumbled his belt knife when he pulled it free, got a better grip, and thrust it into the canvas. Even though it was only an eating knife, Char kept all of his blades in peak slicing condition just in case. The heavy canvas split easily.

Another horn sounded: four blasts, a break, then another four blasts. And then a massive roar erupted, as if hundreds of people were answering the call of that horn. The forest was suddenly full of people a second later, all of them dashing into the camp. Char hurriedly dragged his knife down the rest of the way and slid through the gap, stepping into the darkened interior of the tent.

At first, he didn’t see anyone inside and for a horrible moment Char worried Fendle had been moved elsewhere and all his efforts were a waste. Then he saw the body lying on the ground. His heart stopped and Char let out a sharp gasp, but his eyes were adjusting to the dim space, and he realized the body’s chest was rising and falling. Both of the body’s hands and feet were bound with rope. Char was still shaking as he crept closer, immediately recognizing Fendle’s blond hair. His hazel eyes were open and furious, but they widened in surprise when he saw Char step into view.

“I really am glad I decided not to kill you,” he whispered as Char carefully slid his knife into the ropes, sawing until Fendle’s wrists were freed.

Before Char could reply “Me too,” light flashed as the tent flaps opened. Char squeaked and accidentally dropped the knife.

“Looks like your lucky streak just ended,” someone said as he stepped inside, his tone smarmy with just the wrong amount of slime. He cut off with a sharp swear, and Char looked up in time to see him draw his sword.

It was one of the red-leather guys, and he did not look pleased to see Char. He advanced and Char swallowed hard. Fendle was still tied up; Char was the only thing between him and the sharp edge of that weapon.

Except… Now that he thought about it, a sword was basically just an elongated knife. Right? Char was used to blades that ranged in shape from the smallest paring knife to the largest cleaver, which were nothing like a sword. But, if he could use his magic to prevent those from cutting him, perhaps the magic would work with a sword too? Perhaps, but that was Char’s only hope so he had to try.

Magic was intangible. Every creature on earth had some inside them, but only through training and hard work could they access and use it. The classes at school were intensive, particularly for someone aspiring to be a level one chef. Char pulled the magic from the well inside himself with barely any effort, used to using it automatically and without thought whenever he was cooking.

The sword swung and Char ducked, tucking his head behind the protective shelter of his arms which he coated in magic and were glowing a faint shade of blue. The impact against his right arm sent him sprawling with a smacking sound and a flare of pain at the point of impact—but no feel of blood gushing or crack of bones breaking. Char scrambled back to his feet, galvanized as he faced the attacker again.

“Magic,” the stranger said with a sneer at Char. “Etoval shows its weakness when it relies on such a crutch. Real warriors rely on proper training.” He thrust forward, aiming for Char’s stomach, but Char crossed his glowing arms and the tip slid aside, harmlessly bouncing off Char’s forearm and passing to Char’s left.

“Magic isn’t a crutch because we use it to augment our prowess, rather than you Namin bastards who abandon all sense when you discover you can use magic instead,” Fendle said, standing behind Char. He handed Char his dropped knife as he stepped in front. “Let me demonstrate.”

He held his right hand out at shoulder height and widened his fingers to their full extent. As he relaxed them again, they started to glow gold, and Char swallowed a gasp.

Blue was classified as things of the home: cooking, cleaning, construction. Green was classified as things of the body: healing, psychology, and military. But gold... Char shook his head, awed. The royal families of the continent hoarded the secrets of their personal magic, which was far more powerful than most could ever dream to access. Char had heard not every prince or princess was capable of using it. He had also heard the training was far more rigorous than even Char’s had been—and the training to achieve level one chef status had been incredibly rigorous.

Fendle curled his fingers as if he were gripping something and slowly moved his arm to the right. From empty air, he pulled a sword, the entire blade glowing gold.

“The saying the royals of Toval are always armed, even when naked in the bath, isn’t a joke. Isn’t that right, Prince Clament?” Fendle asked as he brought the sword up to a guard position. That was the only warning he gave. Fendle stepped forward and swung in one smooth movement. Clament belatedly parried, stumbling over his feet. At a glance, Fendle was clearly the better-trained swordsman. Fendle didn’t stop moving, thrusting and slashing against Clament’s awkward responses until Fendle twisted his wrist just right, and Clament’s sword went flying across the tent. Fendle lowered his sword to point at Clament’s chest.

“Surrender,” Fendle instructed, his tone low and dangerous. “On your knees.”

Clament dropped to the ground, his hands held in the air, and Fendle mirrored his movement with the point of his sword.

Before they could do anything else, the tent flaps flew open and Jensen rushed inside. “Captain!” he yelled, frantically glancing around the space, sword out and ready. He paused when he saw Fendle and Clament, and then lifted an eyebrow when he caught sight of Char. “Beaten on my rescue mission by our chef,” he said, grinning. “We were wondering where you’d gotten to. Glad you’re okay.”

“I’m glad he beat you here too,” Fendle replied with his own smile. “He definitely saved my life. Anyway, what’s the status out there? I heard the horns go, but that’s about it.”

“Reinforcements arrived as requested, led by Captain Zain. She’s madder than a wet hen about having to hide in the woods for two days while we enjoyed our cushy tents, so good luck with that, but she’s rounding up the last of the surviving mercs. She has someone processing them per the mercenary code, so we’ll slap some fines on them, give their group the black mark they deserve for attempting to attack us, and send them on their way. We thought we’d missed one of the Namin bastards, so Captain Zain will be happy to know you nabbed him for us. Might offset the madder than a wet hen issue. Might not.” He shrugged.

“Casualties?” Fendle asked.

“Clarise is the worst, but the healers got to her quickly, so she should survive. I don’t know if she’ll swing a sword again, but her wife will be happy to have her back and retired with honors. Everyone else is like me. Bumps, bruises, and cuts, but nothing worse.” Jensen indicated his arm that had a nasty slash through the sleeve and was bleeding sluggishly, but not dangerously. “Mercs just haven’t got the training to compete with the royal guard, you know?”

Char stifled a cough of surprise, choking as he swallowed wrong. Fendle used gold magic. Jensen was a royal guard. That could only mean one thing.

“Thanks for the update,” Fendle replied after glancing over at Char to make sure he was okay. “I’ll see if I can do something to assuage Captain Zain’s ire. Can you take our guest, Prince Clament, somewhere more comfortable?”

Jensen’s grin took on a sharp edge. “I’d be happy to.” He turned to Clament and pointed his sword at him. “Up. Let’s go.”

Clament sneered, but obeyed, walking out of the tent with Jensen right behind him, leaving Char alone with Fendle.

Spending time with Fendle was usually a pleasure and a confusion, but never before had Char felt this uncertain. Fendle was definitely one of the princes of Toval and Char had no business hanging out with him like they were friends.

“I know who you are too, you know,” Fendle said suddenly. “Charmaine Obenson is your public name, same as Fendle is the one I use whenever I’m on a mission.”

Char grimaced. Since his cousin worked in the palace in Etoval, it was no surprise a prince of Toval knew about their family.

“You’re Charmaine Oba-Musen. If chefs could have golden magic, the Musen family would wield it. They’re also the only ones with the ability to develop passive magic that neutralizes poison. In many ways, you’re a more important person than I am. Any dish you make is worth its weight in gold and platinum.”

“You know who I am,” Char replied, exhausted by the day and suddenly feeling bold. “Who are you exactly?”

“Prince Fenwick, fourth child of King Aurelius and Queen Trina, but as fourth I’m barely in line for the throne, especially since two of my older siblings have already had kids. Mostly, I’m referred to as Commander Fenwick of the Royal Guard, but please, call me Fen.” He sounded as exhausted as Char felt, but his smile was as gentle and welcoming as always. He walked to the tent flaps and pulled one side open, holding it back for Char. It was only as Char passed him that he realized Fendle’s sword had vanished. No. Fen’s sword had vanished. Prince Fen, Commander Fen—he had all these fancy titles, and yet all Char could focus on was the tilt of his lips as he smiled and the bright sparkle in his eye as he watched Char walk by.

Back out in the bright sunlight, Char was able to see Fen’s face clearly. The left side was swollen and purpling, and his lip bloodied as if he had been backhanded at some point.

“You’re hurt!” He reached out without thinking to trail his fingertips over the puffy cheek, then snatched them back when Fen sucked in a sudden breath. “Sorry!” Char stuffed his errant fingers in his pocket. “I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“You didn’t—” Fen began but stopped when a woman in full armor stomped into view. She had her helmet under one arm, revealing a gorgeous arrangement of thick braids keeping her black hair tight to her scalp. She was tall and powerful looking, her dark skin gleaming in the late morning sun, especially against the shine of her breastplate, which had the dragon and sickle emblem of Toval etched into it.

“Now that I’m done cleaning up your mess, that’s when you show up?” she snapped, scowling at Fen.

“Hey, Z. Glad you made it.” Fen’s reply was nonchalant and his grin at her mischievous as if he wanted to induce her to deepen her scowl—which she did, growling at him. A man wearing brown breeches and a light green tunic with the healer’s college insignia on the breast pocket walked up to Fen and, without asking, placed one hand over Fen’s cheek. The hand glowed green and when the healer pulled away, the swelling had gone down significantly. Fen was still bruised, but at least the damage was fixed.

“Took us less than five minutes from the time your second blew the horn, even in these conditions. If my soldiers don’t get a commendation, it’ll be your head.” Captain Zain—she had to be the captain Jensen had mentioned earlier—snorted. “Not a single couch potato among them.”

“My potatoes!” Char gasped out, reminded of the lunch he had been in the midst of preparing. He dashed off, heading back to his cooking fire.

“Who’s that?” Captain Zain asked.

“We picked him up along the way. He’s my chef,” Fen replied. “Now, tell me what else needs to be done before we can pack up and head home.”

Char traveled out of earshot, but he was glad to have had an excuse to leave. Besides the fact that Captain Zain was extremely intimidating, seeing someone else touch Fen so gently—even if it had just been a healer—had made something ugly and sour erupt inside Char. Worse than sucking on a lemon. And yet, that ugly feeling fought with the butterflies that erupted when Fen said “my chef” in that almost proprietary tone. Char found it far easier to focus on the potential of burnt or trampled potatoes than to try figuring out what the heck was wrong with him. He hurried back to camp and to his fire where he could pretend life was simple again.