The Confectioner Chronicles Box Set

by Claire Luana

  Wren gave Thom and Olivia a weary smile before following, the sound of Dash’s low murmur and Olivia’s tinkling laughter chasing her all the way. She heaved a sigh. It seemed that they’d just let a fox into the henhouse. And there wasn’t a flaming thing she could do about it.

  Chapter 7

  There was a ship on the horizon.

  Lucas squinted through the telescope, blinking to clear his vision. It came back into focus—a dark speck against a palette of gray and blue. It was too distant to make out what flag it flew. Lucas wasn’t sure if it mattered. They were stranded here, but for a little sailing skiff that could hardly be trusted to get to the next island. If the Apricans had found them, they’d have nowhere to run.

  Lucas drained the dregs of his coffee, grimacing as it slid down. The drink had gone cold. Had he been sitting up here so long? He couldn’t remember. Time had a way of sifting through his fingers in this monochromatic house, with nothing but sea and fog around them. Or maybe it was the fact that for the first time in his life, he had absolutely nothing to do but sit with his grief. And it was driving him mad.

  Lucas pushed to his feet and stretched, trying to calm his nervous energy. They were due for a shipment of supplies and news from Maradis. No reason to suspect the ship wasn’t friendly. And no reason to excite or upset Trick and Ella until he knew.

  He stood in a room lined in glass, atop a house nestled on a bluff, on an island shrouded in misty fog. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out the wall of windows before him. The house had been built by their great-grandfather. He hadn’t been here in years, had all but forgotten about it until they desperately needed some place to lay low. It was the type of place the Imbris kings favored; they had remote outposts and safehouses all over Alesia and beyond—tucked-away corners of the world where they could plan and plot away from prying eyes.

  This house was the only building on this island—if you didn’t count the half-roofed boathouse. The island was one of a hundred in the Odette Isles, an archipelago off the coast of Nova Navis. The largest island was populated with a village of fishermen and craftswomen, but the farther you sailed from civilization, the smaller and more barren the islands became. The tail of the archipelago was perpetually foggy, as if a dark spell had been cast over it. The locals swore these islands were haunted—an ill omen at the least. They didn’t venture near. It was how Lucas knew that the ship was here for them. Either it was their shipment of foodstuffs to replenish their larder, or it was the Apricans come to haul them back to Maradis in chains, if not execute them outright.

  Lucas bent, looking back through the brass telescope, grimacing at the pull of the wound on his back. He was healing well, but still it pained him, throbbing and itching in turns. He straightened. The ship was closer, but he couldn’t see a flag. Perhaps that was a good sign.

  This room, like a little glass bird’s nest on top of the house, was furnished by only a worn leather armchair and the telescope. Lucas had spent most of the last two weeks here, staring at the islands of craggy rock and proud cedar trees that stretched as far as the eye could see, all of it frosted in wisps of white fog. His brother Patrick had found his home in the kitchen, spending his days pulling together meals that were far better than they had any right to be with the few supplies they had, and spending his nights drinking through their grandfather’s dusty wine cellar. Ella split her time between crying in front of the fire, snapping at her brothers, and sitting on a worn piece of driftwood on the bluff, staring vacantly into the sea. Ella had taken the murder of their parents and brothers the hardest—her grief was angry and red and raw. She felt too much, while Trick seemed intent on feeling nothing at all, his feelings buried under the busyness of keeping them fed or numbed by the sweet embrace of drink. Lucas didn’t know what he felt, how he grieved. That was how it worked. It was hardest to know yourself.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. If he was being honest with himself, he thought he did know a few things. In the last two weeks, he had become a world-class worrier. He’d always had a fundamental optimism about the world—even when things seemed difficult, he was confident he’d figure them out. It would be all right. Now, he was certain of nothing. The shock of witnessing the coup, his parents’ and brothers’ deaths—it had given way to worry. Even with Trick’s connections through the Vintner’s Guild, it had seemed impossible that they would make it out of the city—surely, the Apricans would find them huddled in the hold of the cargo ship.

  But they hadn’t, and their ship had made it out onto open water. Lucas and his siblings had been transferred to the Heronette, a fast little vessel manned by a Captain Guinyson, a friend of Trick’s friend Oban, who had arranged their passage out of the city. And even as the Heronette had successfully made the trip to Fletch Island, where they now resided, and deposited them with a few weeks’ provisions and a promise to bring more, Lucas worried. Their fortune seemed uncanny, too good to last. Lucas worried about what would happen if the Heronette didn’t come back. Would this be their life for the rest of their days, exiled to this sad little island? Lucas worried about what would happen if the ship returned and brought unfriendly faces with it. Because no matter how loyal Guinyson was to Oban…he was still a man. And men could be bought. Or tortured. Or killed.

  And then Lucas worried about Maradis. He worried about what the Apricans were doing to the city and the people he loved. He worried about Wren. He closed his eyes, letting the image of her wash over him, the pale expanse of her skin, so soft and delicate beneath his fingers, the rich chestnut of her eyes burning with determination. Her smell of caramel and coffee and home. The fierce set of her thin shoulders as she squared off against men three times her size—not fearless, but all the braver for it. Wren had saved them—given them a chance to get off that platform and out of the square where the rest of his family had been murdered. And he’d abandoned her, leaving her with nothing but an old ring. She was smart as a whip, but the ring he’d give her was such an obscure clue, he wasn’t sure even she’d be able to piece it together. He feared that she wouldn’t, and he’d never see her again. He worried that she would, and she’d be punished for it. He worried about it all.

  “Lucas!” Trick called from the kitchen below, startling Lucas out of his thoughts. “Do you see that? There’s a ship!”

  Lucas looked through the telescope again. The ship was close enough now; he recognized the blue stripe of the Heronette. He sighed in relief. Assuming there weren’t Aprican soldiers hiding on that vessel, it would bring news and food other than stale bread and canned vegetables. “It’s the Heronette,” he called before turning and taking the steep steps down to the house’s main level.

  “Where’s Ella?” Lucas asked, surveying the lunch Trick was putting together for them. His younger brother had managed to transform their sad store of vittles into appetizing-looking sandwiches with cured salami, pickled carrots, and creamy brown mustard. Lucas’s stomach growled, reminding him it was well past noon.

  “She’s down by the beach on her log,” Trick said. His brother’s gray eyes were bloodshot, his face puffy. Lucas wasn’t sure if it was from the crying or the wine, but he thought the latter. He supposed he didn’t look much better. His own hair was getting long, and he hadn’t shaved in weeks. He stifled a sigh. He’d thought he was doing the right thing by letting Trick and Ella grieve in their own ways, but maybe he’d been fooling himself. Maybe he was just being a coward.

  Trick pulled off his apron, throwing it on the counter. “We should go down and warn her before they circle into the cove and scare her to death.”

  Lucas and Trick headed out the back door, grabbing coats and hats as they went. October had not been gentle this year, especially way out here. They picked their way carefully down the rickety staircase to the beach below. The beach in the island’s little cove was rocky and strewn with kelp and bleached driftwood, not the type of place one would like to spend the summer. But it was the best place for rowboats to come ashore, and
the curve of the island provided shelter from the wind for any boat that wanted to anchor there.

  Wrapped in a coarse woolen blanket in the emerald green plaid of the Imbris clan, Ella was sitting in her usual spot. Her blonde curls were greasy and snarled from the wind. Her face was sallow and blank. The sight of her like this pained him deeply—it was as if her fire had gone out completely. And Lucas had no idea how to rekindle it again.

  “Ella!” Trick called.

  She turned slowly.

  “The Heronette is back,” Trick said.

  Lucas offered her a smile, but she merely nodded.

  Trick and Lucas sat down on either side of her, and Lucas wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into his side, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. “Are you warm enough, Ella?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured, but she leaned her head against his shoulder, burrowing into him.

  Trick scooted against her other side, wrapping his arm around Ella’s waist, tucking his fingers inside the fringe of the blanket. They stayed like that, looking out across the glassy dark water, until the Heronette glided into view.

  Captain Guinyson was a Maradis native and the son of an Alesian naval officer. The sight of him—with his bushy brown beard, navy cap pulled low, and gray woolen sweater—brought a smile to Lucas’s lips. “He looks like home, doesn’t he?” Lucas murmured.

  “Isn’t this home now?” Ella said flatly.

  Trick and Lucas exchanged worried glances over her head.

  “Ahoy!” Guinyson called as the rowboat ground up against the rocks. One of the sailors jumped out, pulling the boat in farther.

  Lucas and his siblings stood to greet their guests. “We’re glad to see you returned,” Lucas said.

  “Ready to eat something other than salami?” Guinyson asked with a warm laugh.

  “You have no idea,” Trick replied.

  It turned out Guinyson had been busy filling his little vessel with goods from Port Gris, the capital city of Nova Navis. “Oban told me to treat you all well, so I brought what I could,” he said, waving at the barrels of pickled meat, flour and butter, and canned vegetables and fruits. Trick almost looked happy pawing through all the new offerings. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up a wire cage.

  “Crab pot,” Guinyson said. “We got you a net for fishing and a special shovel for clam digging, too. I figured you’d enjoy some fresh seafood.”

  “Thank you,” Lucas said, grateful that he’d have something to fill his time. “What news from Maradis?”

  The smile dropped from the captain’s face. “It’s what you’d expect. I suppose it’s not as bad as it could be. The Apricans are requiring people to swear loyalty oaths.”

  “Any news of the Guilds?” Trick asked eagerly. “The Vintner’s—or the Confectioner’s?”

  Lucas looked sidelong at Trick. Why was Trick interested in the Confectioner’s Guild? Perhaps because he knew Wren was in the Guild?

  “More of the same,” Guinyson said. “As long as our friends keep their heads down, they should be all right. Not everyone is, though.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucas asked.

  “There’s a rebellion brewing.” The captain’s brown eyes sparkled. “Some Maradians got ahold of the Aprican black powder. They’ve been causing a lot of trouble for our new rulers. They go by the name the Falconers,” he said, casting a meaningful glance at Lucas.

  Lucas’s stomach twisted. The Falconers. On the one hand, it buoyed him to know that there were still people in Maradis loyal to his family, who were committed to resisting the Aprican occupation. But on the other hand, he didn’t want anyone killing in his name. And if these people wanted an Imbris back on the throne...he wasn’t sure he was willing to do that. To sit in his father’s chair, to seize the mantle of power, violently no less...

  “What do these Falconers want?” Lucas asked.

  Captain Guinyson reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. “You can find out yourself. I’ve got a letter for you from the Falconer himself.”

  Chapter 8

  Hale wanted nothing more than to set this piece of paper on fire and watch it burn. But a summons from Sim Daemastra wasn’t something you could ignore.

  “Don’t worry, Firena,” Lieutenant Ambrose called from the end of the dining table, taking a swig of ale. “I hear he’s real tender the first time.”

  “You’d know,” Hale said, standing and grabbing the heel of pumpernickel bread from his plate. “Lead the way,” he said to the servant who had delivered Daemastra’s summons, ignoring Ambrose’s scowl. The man was a buzzing fly—annoying but harmless. Hale knew that he headed where the real danger lay. Daemastra’s workshop.

  Sim Daemastra was holed up in the west wing of the palace, nestled against the sea wall. Hale hadn’t set foot in this wing in the few weeks since he had been serving the Apricans and was struck by how empty the area seemed. Hushed. Why did the man need so much space? Perhaps because Daemastra and his patricians did most of the ruling? The emperor was rarely seen, confining himself to his chambers. Hale wasn’t sure why Evander had even wanted this country if he wouldn’t even set foot outside to enjoy it.

  The page led Hale into a large, open kitchen filled with white-veined marble and ivory tile. Massive silver ice chests were set against the far wall, and a broad expanse of counters were covered with papers and measuring implements.

  The page fled the room as Daemastra turned. The man looked much as he had when Hale had seen him at the Aprican camp a few weeks ago. Preternaturally smooth skin and white teeth, blond hair as thick as a pelt. He wore the same strange attire he had then, a bastard combination of a cuisinier’s jacket and a priest’s robe. He wore the same hollow smile.

  “Ah! Mr. Firena.” Daemastra strode over and shook his hand. The man’s thin fingers were cold and dry. “So glad you could join me.”

  “Sure,” Hale managed, trying to figure out what exactly struck him so wrong about this kitchen. It looked innocuous, but...then it hit him. The smell. The kitchen didn’t smell of spices and chocolate and fresh herbs. It smelled like...a hospital ward. Chemicals and bleach. What was the man making in here?

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve summoned you. I’ve requested a transfer of your post, and the emperor has granted it. You are to be my assistant.”

  Hale’s blood slowed in his veins. “What?” His voice was flat. Yes, he knew he deserved to suffer pain and torment in this life for betraying his friends and failing Sable, but this?

  Daemastra ignored Hale’s poorly veiled shock. “I do important work here, Hale. I need someone with your talents and your discretion in my corner.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Daemastra pulled two stools out from under the butcher block island and motioned to one. “Please.”

  Hale found himself sitting, trying, he suspected unsuccessfully, to hide his distaste for this man.

  Daemastra clasped his spindly fingers before him on the countertop. “I’m going to tell you something that very few people in this empire know. So few that if I catch a whiff of this around the palace, I’ll make sure you meet with a very unpleasant end.”

  Hale nodded. He could hardly imagine an end that was more unpleasant than spending his life as this man’s assistant. Gods, even Daemastra smelled bad. Like meat starting to turn.

  “The emperor is not well. Not well at all.”

  That piqued Hale’s attention, drawing him back from his self-pity. “What do you mean?”

  “He has a degenerative condition. In fact, the only thing keeping him alive is a potion I concocted after years of effort.”

  “A potion?” Hale asked warily.

  “Let us be frank with each other, shall we? We are to work closely together. I know all about the Gifting—the infusion of magic into food. Perhaps you think it is unique to Alesia, but it is not. Certainly more prevalent here, but no. Your mother was Gifted, as were a select few Apricans. I have been studying this magic for the last thirty y
ears. Only in the last two has my work taken on such an urgent character.”

  “Studying it? How?” Hale wasn’t surprised to hear Daemastra confirm what he himself had long suspected. Hale’s mother’s wines had been prized throughout Aprica. She had been Gifted.

  “Cataloguing it. Identifying factors that influence its efficacy, its potency. Determining if it can be recreated, and under what conditions. Figuring out where the magic comes from.”

  “And have you? Figured out where it comes from?”

  “Oh yes. I will explain it, all in good time. I know where it comes from, I know how to recreate it, I know how to combine different types into something new. The only thing I do not know is how to make it permanent.”

  “Why would you want to?”

  “I have found a cure for the emperor’s condition. But I must continue to make the potion every few days. The ingredients...are rare and hard to come by. I desire a permanent fix. That is what brought us here to Maradis. Where magic was born.”

  Hale blew out a breath, shaking his head. “You invaded...for our knowledge? Why didn’t you just ask?”

  “The secret of the Gifting was the most carefully guarded secret of the Imbris crown and the Guilds alike. Perhaps the only thing they could agree on. There would be no free exchange of information.”

  “Okay,” Hale said. There was some truth to that. “But what’s this all got to do with me?”

  “You are extremely Gifted yourself. You know the Gifted in the city, you know the personalities. You can help...persuade them to lend me their aid in my quest.”

  “I’m no one’s favorite right now. They’d as soon gut me in the dark as help me.”

  “I have a feeling that the winds of political favor will be blowing our way quite soon.” Daemastra’s wide smile made the hair on the back of Hale’s neck stand on end. ”Don’t you worry about that.”