“I’m a count facing a horrific foe in an unsettled land, leading a doughty people,” I corrected. “My ego is not to be bruised so easily. But I have one,” I assured him. “Perhaps not as pompous in person as I appear in song, but I will attempt to live up to the high expectations of your verse.”
Jannik gave me a genuine grin at that. “Then you do realize the meaning of the song,” he said, continuing to drink his mead.
“I thought it was a bit rowdy,” giggled Rael. “But fantastic! Oh, Minalan, don’t you dare get upset by it!” she urged.
“I’m not upset,” I insisted. “And the song was more than jest, it was a test . . . wasn’t it, Jannik?”
The minstrel shrugged his spare shoulders, an expression of pure innocence on his face. “I yield to your insight and wisdom, my lord. If I finished the set and was clapped in irons, then it would be clear what kind of lord you were. If you warned me never to speak your name in verse, well, that would also tell me much about you. Indeed, I could draw a great number of conclusions from how you reacted to that bit of doggerel.”
“And what conclusions have you drawn?” urged Thinradel, who was enjoying the conversation.
“That Count Minalan is a man of deep insight, with a thick skin, a good heart, and he is a fine judge of character,” concluded Jannik, loudly. Those around us cheered a little. “I’d like to add a boundless capacity for forgiveness to the list,” he added, shooting me a glance. “And an uncommon generosity.”
“Are those your observations or reflections from the people?” I asked.
“Can’t it be both?” he riposted. “I am one of the people, after all. An entertainer. A mere commoner. As were you, once,” he emphasized. “But I’ll not piss on your head and tell you it’s storming,” he continued. “If you become a tyrant, you can expect harsh treatment from my instruments.”
“That’s a dangerous attitude for a minstrel to have, Master Rysh,” noted Thinradel. “Do you not fear the wrath of the Spellmonger?”
“If he had, he never would have sung the song,” argued Maithieran.
“In truth, I dodged the clutches of the gurvani and their dark lords for six years, off and on,” Jannik reported over the rim of his glass. “I fear nothing from humanity, compared to what lay waiting for me in the Penumbra.” There were dark things implied in his tone. His face wore a wooden expression.
“In truth, it is a more dangerous thing for a ruler to constrict the voice of the people,” I proposed. “Especially magelords. We are as prone to making mistakes as any man. If my people think I’m a well-meaning but pompous ass, I want to know that. If they see me a tyrant, that I’d know as well.”
“That’s uncommonly generous from a common-born count,” observed Jannik. “I assure you, my lord, I will absolutely skewer you, should you earn it. I shall flay you with fragrant verse, demolish you with a jaunty tune, and grind you between my caustic wit and whatever metaphor is handy,” he promised.
He said it in a jovial tone, and everyone at the table smiled and laughed. But I could tell that behind his casual manner, he was deadly serious. He would spare me no criticism out of gratitude or an attempt to flatter me. “I can also count the song successful on another count: I wager you’ll never look at a pork pie quite the same way again!”
Chapter Five
Of Curds and Kings
Let us sing a hymn of praise to the Goddess of the Kine!
Praise be the Bearer of Burdens! Praise be the Pure One!
She who pulls the sacred plow, she who gives the blessed milk!
The Queen of the Herds bestows on us the gifts of abundance and wisdom!
Praise her in the springtide when the calves are sacrificed!
Praise her in the autumn, when the bulls are culled!
Life and death, in the service of life, we praise Bova the Blessed for her abundant benevolence! Moo! Moo! Moo!
Hymn to Bova, Goddess of the Kine
From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh
Among the many other things I was doing that spring – preparing for war, practicing politics, plotting to save the world – I indulged my wife by building her a creamery.
That might seem a wildly unimportant priority, considering all of the other burdens on my shoulders, but she had requested we build one when we had first come to survey the site for Spellgarden. Of course, she had also asked for a lake, but it seemed easier to build a creamery.
It wasn’t unimportant to me, however. Not only do I like cheese, this creamery represented a possible means for Alya to ground herself in this world.
My hope was that the sights and smells, the feelings and the familiar surroundings of a simple creamery would help reinforce the work that the Handmaiden was doing in repairing her mind. She had been in a creamery since she was a little girl, then she managed her family’s enterprise in Boval Vale. Alya might have been hopeless at needlework, but she knew how to make cheese.
I spared no expense; I was lavish with both financial and arcane support. I’d consulted with as many people as possible, before proceeding, and in truth it only took a day or two out of my life to begin the process, and then inspect it as it was progressing.
For those unfamiliar, making cheese is one of the humani arts that the Alon don’t seem to practice. In fact, some (especially among the Alka Alon) find the idea completely foreign and repugnant. Other Alon have no opinion or enjoy the food for the unique humani novelty that it is.
Only the Tal Alon, among all the Alon, seemed to delight in the consumption of cheese, and have even tried their hand at making it, once they saw the utility. Their particular variety was usually a semi-soft goat cheese wrapped in cabbage leaves and fermented in the dark recesses of their burrows. The cabbage keeps the exterior moist, I’d learned, and propagated a particular kind of mold that the Tal favored. As they are the only Alon with significant fat deposits, I assume it’s because the protein-rich food encourages them to store energy in such a way. Gurvani and Karshak seem indifferent to the idea, as a rule.
Cheese is the fermented product of curdled milk solids. You take fresh milk – either sheep, goat, llama or cow – and keep it from spoiling by spoiling it on purpose. By adding a curdling agent, most of the milk solidifies; the protein in the milk binds together in a smooth clump. The rest of the milk is a translucent fluid called whey, which also has uses. But the curds are the important part. That’s where the valuable protein and fat is found. Once the curds are strained from the whey, salted and pressed, they congealed into a solid or semisolid mass. Then they start to ferment, giving cheese its distinctive odor and flavor. Once it sits around long enough, the molds introduced to the curds transform the milk solids into a smooth, protein-rich foodstuff that can be preserved for months or even years.
Actually, once I describe the process, I think I can see the Alon’s point. If you are unfamiliar with cheese, then what it is, where it came from, and how it’s made and aged does seem a little . . . disgusting.
The Alon, as a rule, don’t domesticate many animals, compared to humans. We emerged from the Void with hundreds of species of animal cultivated for various uses – from faithful dogs and cows to the horses that bore our burdens and, still, carry us into battle. For good cheese made in the traditional Wilderlands manner, the preferred milk came from cows. And in our case, the herds that would provide the milk were just becoming established in the three small estates around the domain over the winter, while a large corral was being built in Spellgarden. But there was a lot to be done before they could begin grazing in the newly exposed meadows and start delivering milk.
I knew little about the process, but I hired a dozen Wilderfolk who did, and as soon as the ground thawed, they began constructing the creamery, with my castellan’s assistance. Master Speredek was intrigued by the project, though he had dozens of others underway around my castle. Like most arcane professionals he understood the theory of such things, but he lacked any real experience. Mostly, he watched, and provided what spel
lwork he thought would improve the process. I checked in with him periodically to ensure everything was being done to Alya’s specifications.
It was a grand example of a creamery. The main cowshed was long and low, built a foot into the ground and constructed of stone, to encourage a cool, damp environment. A drain was dug from the center of the place, and at one end a room was carefully sealed against drafts and pests. It was lined with shelves of cedar to store the cheese once it had been formed.
Two great earthenware vats were procured from the Wizard’s Mercantile for use in turning milk into curds and whey. Long, dull copper knives and a supply of wire was secured to cut cheeses. Alya bought yards and yards of rough-woven cotton muslin and bleached linen for cheesecloth. She ordered new wooden molds and a press to be constructed in Vanador. The perimeter of an entire pond was seeded with string grass, because cheese-making apparently uses a lot of string, and a couple of casks of cider vinegar was ordered, for cleaning. A great wagon load of sea salt was brought in from Rael’s warehouses. Milkmaids were interviewed. Two Kasari lads were hired to whittle the many wooden implements necessary for the creamery.
I monitored the construction from afar, allowing Alya the freedom to direct the project . . . with plenty of gentle assistance from her crew when she experienced episodes of distraction. I was gratified to see those become few and of less intensity when she was involved in the creamery. I reckoned it was the familiarity of the process that kept her engaged with her humanity – she had been making cheese since she was a little girl, and those deeper memories were strong.
But, other than a few casual visits, I kept my distance and contented myself to watch. Alya was truly in charge, which was refreshing to see. The creamery allowed her to take some independent agency over herself, and to speak with an authority that had been absent since her injury. When she was confronted by one of her spells of madness, Speredek and the nuns – one of whom was always attending her – would quickly calm her down and, if needed, summon aid. The children frequently accompanied her, intrigued at seeing their mother actually do something other than sit and stare at the fire.
The work went quickly, as projects with unlimited budgets and substantial magical support often do. Nor was it poorly constructed, for all the haste in its building. The utensils and crockery, molds and cloths were of exceptional quality, and the aging house was ideal, the cheese experts said, for the purpose of turning milk into cheese. Indeed, it was perhaps the most splendid and charming cheese shed ever built in the Wilderlands.
The creamery’s fenced-off compound was the one area where Alya felt in command of herself. She knew what she was doing, here. That was untrue anywhere else – even in caring for her children.
Actual production could not begin until the small but important ritual known as Bova’s Sacrifice was conducted. I’d never really heard of it, as it is of interest primarily to those whose livelihood depends on dairy herds, and therefore a fundamentally rural practice. But cheese-making in the Wilderlands was dependent upon it.
“All cheese comes from curdling milk,” Alya explained to me as she proudly gave me a tour of the finished facility. The words spilled from her lips easily. That was a welcome change to the short answers she usually gave in conversation. I thrived, hearing her speak so easily and fluidly.
“The methods of curdling can vary, according to your resources,” she continued. “The very poor Wilderfolk merely let their milk spoil and retrieve the curd after a few weeks. Some cheeses are made using the juice of nettles or lemonwort, which can be harvested and prepared in the wild. But the very best cheeses are made with rennet from the stomach of a new calf,” she explained. “That implies that the rancher has a large enough herd to justify slaying the weakest for that purpose.”
“Which implies that they are wealthy, or part of a wealthy manor,” I suggested, conversationally.
“Exactly,” she nodded, enthusiastically. “Father’s herds at Hawk’s Reach were large enough that we had to slaughter two calves to provide that much rennet. The two weakest calves,” she added, “to strengthen the herds. The stomach lining, when properly dried, is the very best means of curdling milk. And there was always a big feast, that night, after the butchering. A welcome break from the long winter diet of preserves.
“But the rennet is the important thing,” she continued, as we walked through the muddy yard. “You have to have good rennet. That turns the milk into curds and whey – curds are the solids, whey the liquid,” she told me, as if I was unaware. I didn’t take offense. I was enjoying this.
“We use whey for baking bread,” I nodded, recalling my father receiving crocks of the stuff from local peasants. It added a richness to the crumb that he liked for some recipes.
“The curd is essential,” she assured me. “You cut it with the knives, let it sit, then remove the remaining whey through straining and pressing – that’s the short version. There are endless ways you can do it, though. That’s a good bit of the art of cheesemaking.”
“What’s the other part?” I asked, curious.
“The molds and the aging,” she supplied. “All cheeses are fermented, but the flavor and the texture depend on which molds are used and how long it’s aged for. And the conditions. But it all starts with good, fresh milk and good rennet.”
She led me through the compound hand-in-hand, pulling me to each building and explaining its role in the process. I silently used magesight to examine the magical architecture that had been employed to, say, keep the icehouse frozen, the aging shed cool and damp, and the creamery, itself, free from malicious spores and germs. That included a spell to keep the calves in the small byre attached to the complex from straying from their corral.
“The sacrificial ceremony will be tonight, by the light of the full moon,” Alya told me, as we petted the nose of the two calves chosen for the sacrifice. “We managed to scare up an authentic priestess of Bova, from the Wilderlaw. Milksister Dawnza. She arrived yesterday.”
“I’ve never met a milksister, before,” I realized, amused.
“Me, neither . . . I think,” Alya admitted. “She’s nice. Very . . . matronly,” she decided. “She’s already blessed these two calves and their mothers. And she’s very impressed by the creamery,” Alya said, pleased. “There are a lot of dairy herds in the eastern Wilderlaw, apparently. But she says the milk from the highlands in spring is considered superior to all other milk, for cheese-making. She also brought me some culture mediums from down south,” she bragged. “It will help with my experiments.”
I was surprised. “Experiments? What are you experimenting with?”
She sighed. “I want to try to re-create Bovali cheese,” she explained. “Only, that’s impossible. The conditions and cultures in Boval Vale were unique.”
“It was just another mountain vale,” I said, confused. “Meadows, pastures, calves . . . what made it so unique?”
“It was Boval Vale,” she said, as if that explained everything. “It was . . . its own place,” she said, fumbling for the words. “The vales to the north and to the south, they were their own places. They cannot be replicated. You could make cheese in exactly the same way in three different vales, and they could – and will – be different. I need to find the right cheese for this place – for Spellgarden,” she said, glancing up at the tower. “That will take some time and experimentation.”
“How will you know when it’s the right cheese?” I asked, confused.
“It just will be,” she assured. “You just know.”
“I suppose it’s a bit like magic,” I decided. “A lot of the art in it comes from the subtle and intuitive. That’s why each wizard leaves unique traces in their spellcraft. It tends to get mixed up in just about everything you do.”
“I plan on using the first milk of spring to try the first batch,” she said, happily. “Then we can start the first trials. I’m excited!” she confessed.
“As am I, my love,” I smiled in return. “And cheese is useful s
tuff,” I added, as if trying to lend legitimacy to the investment. “It’s about the only way to preserve milk beyond a few days. Without magic,” I added. Some stasis spells could retard the spoilage of milk for at least a week or two, but it wasn’t the sort of magic that was often indulged in.
“Cheese is its own magic,” she assured me. “The flavors, the textures . . . there’s just something terribly human about them,” she said, still struggling for words.
“I’m partial to it,” I agreed. “And I look forward to tasting your efforts.”
“Oh, the first cheeses will be awful,” she predicted. “Even with all of this . . . these magnificent supplies you have provided me. It will take time and effort to see what the best process is suited to this environment. This is a beautiful land,” she said, gazing out over the pastures. “It will produce a beautiful cheese, one day,” she promised.
Yes, it was a bit silly. I was probing the secrets of the universe while defending my people from certain destruction. But indulging my wife in her passions was the most important thing in the world to me, that moment.
“Tonight is the last waxing moon before equinox,” I agreed. “And if anyone can find the right cheese for this country, you will, my love,” I said, confidently. We embraced. I felt a little silly. I didn’t give a damn. Sometimes making your wife happy is more important than anything else.
***
After Bova’s Sacrifice and the resulting feast, Alya and I retired to our chamber late in the evening, tired from the late-night ceremony. Milksister Dawnza had been an imposing woman, but she was adept at her craft, and her sense of ceremony was admirable. I learned more about bovine husbandry and cheesemaking that night than I ever imagined.
But I was awakened from a sound sleep by Ruderal, who had an urgent look on his face.
“Master,” he whispered, as he shook my shoulder gently. “A runner came from the Mirror Array. You have a message: a summons to attend the king at your earliest possible convenience!” he said, a worried look on his face.
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