"Much, much better," Gurnil nodded approval and led me down the hall toward the Library door. "Normally I would fly down, but as you can't," he saw no need to finish the sentence and truly I did not require it. I could see easily enough how being without wings in this place was a decided disadvantage.
Likely, the basket I'd ridden inside was the only way in or out on the outside, and once at the bottom, there were no boats in which to sail away from a narrow strip of sand. Because of its location, the glass palace was a sanctuary for those with wings. Built as the ultimate defense, long ago, my senses informed me. Stifling a sigh, I followed silently behind Master Gurnil.
The kitchen when we arrived was a noisome place—more so, even, than Wolter's kitchen in Lironis. Pots clattered, voices shouted, laughed or talked and there were no fireplaces anywhere. All of the workers—every single one, had yellow wings. Those wings were either held away from bodies to cool off or clamped tightly against backs as things were stirred or chopped or kneaded. And every Yellow Wing, male and female, eventually stopped talking and stared directly at me.
"What's that doing here?" One large male, brandishing a meat cleaver, pointed the sharp instrument in my direction. An angry frown darkened his face, which was round and normally might have held a sunny smile. Nothing close to that was aimed in my direction. "Send it to the King, for extermination." He chopped furiously at a leg of lamb, venting his obvious displeasure at my presence.
"The King sent her to me last night, after the Orb appeared and prevented her death. Twice." Gurnil's words were clipped and angry. "She is here, now, by the King's decision. If she does not work out, then bring her back to me and I will search for another post."
"How long?" The words were punctuated by heavy chops into the flesh of a young lamb.
"At least a moon-turn. Mind you, she is to be treated like any other Avii while she is in your kitchen."
"Our laws do not protect that filth."
"Our laws were designed around them. I ask that you recall your history." Gurnil snapped his wings and stalked out of the kitchen, leaving me at the mercy of nearly two dozen angry Yellow Wings. And, since Gurnil had not stayed long enough to give any name for me, I was called girl the rest of the day. But that was not the worst of my troubles.
"You got them killed," a woman hissed in my ear as a tray piled high with filled plates was handed to me and I followed other servers to a wide dining hall, where many Black-Winged men and women waited for breakfast. All were seated on long, communal benches and tea or coffee was offered, in addition to fruit juice, something I'd seen little of during my lifetime.
Counting quickly, I moved past the server before me and began serving past what she held enough plates to feed. When my tray was empty, I returned to the kitchen for another load, then another, until I'd made five trips. Seven others served with me; four of the seven were female, three were male. These were younger than the others in the kitchen, but the eldest of the servers was still older than I.
The entire time I carried heavy trays, I wondered at the woman's words and wondered even more about who they might be. In my recollection (at least past the age of three or four), I had never willingly participated in any death, so my curiosity was aroused as to why she would think that of me.
I was set to loading dishes into a dish machine, as the woman called it who now supervised my every movement. The moment came while I was heaving rather large pots into the wide maw of this metal monster, the moment I'd expected from the beginning.
"Half-blood naked wing," was sung at my back, accompanied by a thwack from a wooden spoon that landed between my shoulder blades. Ignoring the second blow that landed, I kept loading the dish machine until it was full, added the powder that I understood would make the dishes clean and shut the door, starting the flow of water that sprayed from multitudes of tiny openings inside the machine itself.
"What's the matter, can't talk? Did they cut out your tongue?" The young man backed away when I turned to face him.
"Wouldn't surprise me any," my supervisor said, setting more dishes onto the wide, wood-block table next to the dish machine. "They're barbarians, plain and simple. Probably can't read, either. I hear they're not educating anyone, these days. Doesn't matter, they'll all die in the mud and slop, and good riddance to them when they do." Another pile of plates was thumped onto the table.
I watched the woman carefully as she spoke; she looked young but my senses told me otherwise. Her age surprised me when I searched for it—she was nearing three hundred turns and looked less than one-tenth that amount. It frightened me so badly that I refused to search ages on anyone else for a while.
My day went much the same, with taunts, insults and questions about my breeding coming into play, in addition to several blows while the Master Cook wasn't looking. I was sent away after serving an evening meal—those who came on duty before the midday meal would stay and clean up.
Grateful to get away from the noisy kitchen and those inside it who thought so little of me, I made my way through the halls, intent upon reaching the Library. Unerringly, as was my gift, I made my way, arriving just in time to find Gurnil leaving it.
"I thought I'd have to guide you back," he was quite surprised to find me there. "Have you eaten?" I shook my head. I'd not been offered food or drink the entire day. Punishment for some offense attributed to all Fyrisians, I'd decided. I'd been given an apron, at least, so my clothes were mostly clean although I did smell as if I'd worked inside a kitchen all day, with cooking smells clinging to skin and fabric.
"Well, come with me, then. Your work kitchen is the one that feeds the guard and army. I'll take you to the one that serves the Guild journeymen and artisans." I followed Gurnil down a different path, arriving in a smaller dining hall where I gaped at the different wing colors present.
"I see you haven't been taught, so I will tell you now that the wing colors represent what each one does," Gurnil pointed me to a chair at a table. These tables were not long and had individual chairs instead of benches lining each side. I settled into the seat indicated, while Gurnil sat beside me. Shockingly enough, Daragar the Larentii appeared and somehow, making a chair on the opposite side much larger to fit his size, sat as well.
"He doesn't eat, he just prefers to observe. Occasionally he talks," Gurnil smiled at me. I stared open-mouthed at the Larentii. He didn't eat? How did he live?
He must have read my expression, as he suddenly smiled. The white of his teeth was like sunlight breaking through clouds on a rainy day, it was so dazzling. "I consume sunlight," he informed me gently. "It feeds me. Therefore, I do eat, after a fashion."
"Quin, I've never gotten that much information from him before. Usually he's as silent as a fish twenty fathoms down." Gurnil winked at me before turning to Daragar. "How do you consume sunlight?"
"When Quin speaks, she may ask." Daragar wasn't going to answer Gurnil.
You don't have to answer, I already know, I silently informed him. Daragar blinked at me before smiling again. I did know. As soon as he'd said he consumed sunlight, I realized it soaked through his skin and fed his energy.
"The little one does not consume meat of any kind," Daragar said, causing Gurnil to stare at me. "You should inform the servers accordingly."
"I'll do that," Gurnil rose from his seat and went toward the kitchen door.
"The wings are divided thus," Daragar said after Gurnil disappeared inside the kitchen. "Yellow, the most common wing color, becomes a servant, a cook or a kitchen helper. Black Wings are born to be guards, warriors and officers. Gray Wings are farmers, herders and butchers. Brown Wings are blacksmiths, artists and artisans, including weavers, tailors and such. Green Wings are healers, healer's assistants and chemists. Blue Wings are scholars, librarians and teachers. Red Wings, well, Red Wings are royalty. At this time, there are only five of those, and of those five, only one is female. Jurris wishes to make Halthea Queen, but Justis, his brother and former Captain of the Queen's guard, insists that Que
en Elabeth refused to name Halthea heir and so Halthea stews over it. So far, Justis has managed to hold his brother the King off, saying that a Queen will come for the Avii. Jurris grows tired of waiting, little one. If a Red Wing female does not come soon, then Halthea will be placed on the Avii throne."
"They're preparing vegetables for Quin," Gurnil sat beside me again. Too bad he hadn't gotten the information I did from Daragar. The Larentii became quiet when Gurnil returned.
Plates were brought out before long; vegetables for me, tender roast for Gurnil. Staring at the greens on one side of my plate, I carefully avoided them as I ate everything around them.
"What's the matter, don't you like greens? Those are very good, with salt and butter," Gurnil urged me to eat them.
"Then tell your kitchen staff not to spit in them next time," Daragar said and disappeared again. I shoved my plate away at Daragar's verification of what I'd already known.
"I'll blister their ears," Gurnil pushed back his chair. I gripped his arm and shook my head at him.
"It will make it worse next time, won't it?" he settled into his seat. Wordlessly, I nodded. "Did Daragar tell you? I understand he has mindspeech. Camryn and Elabeth had it too, and they spoke to another Larentii who visited during their time. Well, all that is over, now. We have Jurris, who has no mindspeech. Are you ready? You look weary."
I nodded at his question and meekly followed him away from the dining hall. Most of its occupants had quieted when we walked in and voices were raised the moment we walked out.
* * *
Two weeks in the kitchens saw no improvement in my treatment. Insults came every day, food was refused and blows were delivered when no one of import was watching. Mostly they were dealt by a young man named Jadin, who was quite adept at hiding his misdeeds from the others.
Several Black Wings refused to be served by me after a while, so I avoided them. Still, I was shoved by one guard or another as I made my way down the lengthy tables, handing out plates of food. At times, it became a balancing act as I wobbled this way and that after a shove, just to keep from spilling the tray of food onto the floor.
The day came, however, as it surely must, when I did drop my tray, and it wasn't from a shove or an insult or even from a wooden spoon between my shoulder blades. No—on this day, one of the Black Wings decided to pull a nub. Had I known it would be so painful? My vision went black from the hurt of it, the tray went crashing onto the floor and I right behind it, bent double from the agony in my back.
"Do that again," a voice hissed above me, "and I'll have you court-martialed. Do you hear me?" The voice's owner had jerked up the one who'd grabbed my nub and was hissing a threat in his face as I cowered at their feet.
"Yes, Commander Justis." The answer was stuttered—the offender was terrified of Commander Justis. If I hadn't been rocking in pain on the floor, covered in food and broken pottery, I might have recalled that Daragar had mention Commander Justis. Only he'd called him the former Captain of the Queen's guards. With the absence of a Queen, he'd chosen to command the Palace guards, instead.
"Girl," I was lifted from the floor by a hand on my arm, "Go to the Healer's Wing and ask them to look at the injury. Tell them Justis sent you." I stared into eyes as black as his wings and hair. This was the King's brother, after all, but Justis' face held none of the cruelty belonging to his red-winged sibling.
"She can't speak, Commander. Hasn't, anyway." That, from one of my fellow servers—a female.
"Then go with her. You," he poked the offender in the chest, "You'll clean up this mess and then help serve. Do it now. I'll be watching." Commander Justis stalked away while I waited for the Yellow Wing to come with me. The clatter of broken crockery being piled onto a tray sounded behind us as the girl led me away from the dining hall.
"Master Healer Ordin, this is Quin, a half-blood from the kitchens," the girl introduced me to a robust Green Wing after we climbed many steps to reach the Healer's aerie.
"Dena, how is your mother?" Master Ordin smiled gently at the girl, his brown eyes kind, his brown hair fine and floating about his head in morning sunlight.
"My mother is fine," Dena hung her head, seemingly ashamed.
"Dena, there is no shame in any job well-done," Master Ordin scolded. "And no shame in real love, either. Your mother has three mates and it was a gamble on whether you'd have your mother's Brown or your father's Yellow. Now, what did they do to this one?" He turned me gently to look at my back.
"One of the guards pulled a nub," Dena explained.
"I see that. He should be whipped for this," Ordin muttered. "It doesn't matter if they're half or whole. Nubs this large are tender and fragile. But then you already know that, don't you, child? Hold on, I'll get the salve and bandages."
I jerked my head up at the Healer's words. Salve? Bandages? What had happened?
"They bleed when they're like this," Dena whispered. "As well as being painful if anyone squeezes them. Nine-year-olds here start growing their wings, and everybody tiptoes around them, they're so touchy and the wings so painful. I remember when mine were growing." She didn't finish; Master Ordin had returned.
Gently he cleaned the injured nub, put salve on it and wrapped it carefully. "No work for two days, and the bandage can come off then," he announced. "If it troubles you, come back and I'll have another look."
Dena and I parted after a while so she could go back to the kitchen and I could find my way to Gurnil's Library. He started to ask questions when I appeared, then saw the bandage on my nub and pulled his words back. I walked past him into the Library itself and closing my eyes, searched for what I wanted most. Without fail, my talent answered, so I walked to a shelf three rows back and pulled a book from a shelf almost too high to reach.
The Deaths of Elabeth and Camryn, the title proclaimed. Now I would discover what many talked of when they hurled insults my way. I was determined to know why someone would feel compelled to injure me when they knew from experience how tender the nubs might be. I imagined the pain of it was akin to a kick in the testicles.
"You read?" Gurnil was walking beside me as I opened the book and flipped past the first few pages to get to the actual beginning. What I read that afternoon explained much, and Gurnil kept an eye on me, offering me lunch after a while.
As I read, I learned that there had never been a King in Fyris before Tamblin. Tandelis, his elder brother, had held the throne before Tamblin took it. He and all the previous male rulers of Fyris had borne the title of Prince.
Tamblin, thinking to take the throne by force from his brother and declare himself the first King, killed Tandelis and a group of visitors inside the throne room one summer morning nearly sixteen turns earlier. That group of visitors included King Camryn, Queen Elabeth and Princess Lirin of the Avii.
"All dead," Gurnil read over my shoulder while sipping a cup of tea. "It was most heartbreaking when Lirin's tiny body was delivered with the others. Most heartbreaking, indeed."
"Yevil killed them." My voice cracked from turns of disuse.
"Yevil?" Gurnil hid his shock at my speech as well as he could.
"King Tamblin's right hand. He is evil." I shut the book forcefully and stood.
"Calls himself King, does he? We call him bastard and murderer. If it weren't for the First Ordinance, he would be dead, now."
"None are safe around Yevil Orklis. If you have a word that means worse than bastard or murderer, then that is Yevil Orklis."
"How did you learn to read?" Gurnil trailed after me.
"I have no idea," I told him and became silent once more.
* * *
Two days later, I was back in the kitchen, carrying trays of food to waiting officers. Gurnil informed me that Justis' presence inside the dining hall on the day of my attack was a fortuitous accident—he normally ate with the King and other members of the King's Council. Gurnil knew of this because he, as Master of the Scholar's Guild, was a member of the King's Council even as Justis was, being Comma
nder of the Black Wing Guards.
Nevertheless, I was not attacked or shoved again by the guards, but that did not keep Jadin from delivering blows along with his insults, or keep the other kitchen workers from leveling their hatred at me. I wanted to tell them that Tamblin, Yevil and the King's inner circle were only fourteen men out of many people who populated Fyris, and most of those did not deserve the hatred of the Avii. They'd had no hand in the killing of Camryn, Elabeth or their child. Now, all I had to do was find a reference to the First Ordinance that Gurnil had spoken of.
Food was still not offered to me as I worked my shifts in the kitchen, and when I wasn't serving, I was set to peeling or chopping vegetables. I was not allowed near the stove, which fascinated me—it was operated by power instead of burning wood.
Master Cook Barth would frown if I walked anywhere near it, so I quelled my curiosity and stayed away. Every day I went to my small room near the Library, very hungry and increasingly weary. At times, I followed Gurnil to the Guild dining hall, but as I was truly not welcome there, he often brought a plate back to me, after watching the cook dish it up herself.
The first moon-turn was winding down, too—I'd kept count and there were two days left of it as I made my way to the kitchens that morning. The day started like any other, and the normal insults were ignored as I walked to the serving table to pick up a tray. One of the cooks was pregnant and probably two months from delivery. She it was who laid out sliced meats on plates while others dipped porridge or set out cut fruit or eggs.
I was thinking of my own hunger as I pulled a laden tray onto my shoulder. The pregnant one went to her knees with a cry. Jerking my thoughts away from my own misery, I knew immediately that something terrible had happened. If the baby were not delivered quickly, it would die. I also knew that children among the Avii were a rarity, since they lived such long lives.
Shoving the tray onto the table, I ran toward the pregnant cook, who now writhed in the floor, weeping. "Get back, get back!" I shouted at those crowding around her. "Send for Master Ordin. Quickly!" I dropped to my knees beside the distraught mother and using up every bit of energy that I held, pulled the babe from the mother's body so it could breathe.
Finder: First Ordinance, Book One Page 11