“I wouldn’t have expected a king to possess such pedestrian skills. Why bother? You have servants who can make you whatever you want, whenever you want it.”
“It started as a necessity for others, I suppose; both my siblings were notoriously picky eaters when they were younger, and the chefs were going mad trying to deal with the problem. So, I took it upon myself to create things they would eat. They aren’t as picky these days, but I still find myself wanting to come in here and create whenever I get the chance.”
“…It’s a comfort to you?”
He nods.
It makes me think of the art I create out of scraps. How my compulsion to make things doesn’t always make sense, given the battles surrounding me.
I don’t want to admit to these similarities between us, though—to believe we haveanythingin common. “It still seems like a questionable choice to be throwing a party, if the threat to your city is really as great as it seemed to be last night.”
“This feast has been held in the Mouren capital for over a century now, commemorating the day we crowned our first king. The stories say the dragons who served him took to the skies that day and stole the radiance from the sunset, pulling crimson and gold into their scales to show their allegiance to our kingdom’s colors.” He shrugs. “It’s tradition to celebrate. And my people will panic if things don’t carry on as they always have.”
“Wouldthey panic, though?”
“Do you think you know them better than I?”
“No.” I try to bite my tongue again, but I don’t succeed this time. “But you’d be surprised how resilient people can bewhen things don’t carry on as they always have. When the things they took for granted are ripped away from them, even.”
He stops in the middle of slicing one of the oranges in half.
“Maybe you could try depriving them of their glittering parties once in a while,” I continue, voice simmering with barely-suppressed anger. “Or depriving them ofanything, for that matter. It might make them—and you—more empathetic. Of course, it would also make you uncomfortable in the meantime, and we wouldn’t wantthat,I guess.”
The knife slices the rest of the way through the orange with a jarringly loudthump.
He squeezes the juice from the halved fruit with carefully measured force as he asks, “What do you want, Ashwalker? You’ve obviously come here with an agenda.”
I take a deep breath through my nose.
Calibrate, I command myself. I can’t air every single grievance I have with him at once.I need to focus on what’s most important right now.
“We had a deal regarding my friend,” I say. “And it’s been longer than a week.”
“Your progress has been less than satisfactory, according to Gareth’s reports.”
“You’ve spoken to him today?”
“Earlier this afternoon, before I met with my council. So yes, we’re all caught up and aware of your failures.”
“Failures?” I’m so stunned I can barely choke the word out. “That’s alie. I’m not failing. I’m doing everything that’s asked of me. She’s sharing her strength, her vision, her scales, and I heard her voice today…there’s been undeniable progress!”
He doesn’t reply—though something makes the corners of his mouth curve downward. An inkling of doubt, maybe, however slight. He picks up the other half of the orange and calmly squeezes it until it’s nothing but a shriveled husk.
An infuriating possibility occurs to me. “…Did he not tell you any of these things?” I ask—even though I can’t imaginewhyGareth would withhold this information.
Reave still doesn’t answer. All his focus is on measuring, mixing, and then taste-testing what looks to be a glaze of some sort.
“Or maybe hedidtell you,” I continue, seething, “and you’re just making excuses to deny what’s owed to me, so that you can keep using my friend asleverage.”
“I don’t need to make excuses.” His eyes finally settle back on me as he wipes one of his knives clean with slow, measured swipes. “Because I make the laws. Or did you forget about the crown I wear?”
“Where I come from, there are no crowns. And people who don’t keep up their end of bargains pay the price for it, regardless of their status.”
He lets out a dark little laugh. “Are you threatening me?”
“If you aren’t going to keep your word anyway, then it seems I have nothing to lose by doing so.”
“That’s a yes, then.” He removes his glasses, placing them with a stack of recipe notes, then slowly moves from behind the table. He goes briefly to the shelves, trailing his hand along them as if taking notes on ingredients. But he doesn’t return to his baking.
