The kitchens of White Hold had been on the cusp of turning into chaos since dawn.

  Rembrandt stood in the center of it all, gesturing with a ladle like a conductor's baton, his artist's smock dusted with flour and something that might have been gravy. Around him, servants rushed between tables laden with vegetables, meats, and an alarming number of pastries in various states of completion.

  "No, no, no!" Rembrandt waved the ladle at a hapless cook carrying a platter of roasted duck. "The garnish must be arranged in a spiral. A spiral! It represents the turning of fortune, the cyclical nature of—"

  "It's duck," the cook said flatly.

  "It's art."

  In the corner, Annah followed Rembrandt's instructions precisely, shaping honey pastries according to his "vision.” The dough was too dense because he'd insisted on a specific texture that "held the pattern better." She was preparing the glaze of honey and rosewater glaze. Rembrandt wanted more rosewater. Annah knew this would be a mistake.

  She tried not to think about how much better they could have been.

  Julia caught her eye and mouthed, "Looks beautiful, thank the gods we don’t have to eat it."

  Annah nodded and kept working.

  She tried not to look at the five peacocks laid out on the preparation table.

  They'd been magnificent once. Blue-green feathers, iridescent even in death, carefully prepared and roasted and their features painstakingly restored to resemble the original bird. A centerpiece worthy of a king's feast.

  But the smell...

  Annah had grown up in a small rural village where they took pride in the food they served. She knew what meat should smell like. This wasn't it.

  One of the other cooks—Julia, who'd been kind to her when she'd first arrived—caught her eye and made a face. Annah looked away quickly.

  "The peacocks!" Rembrandt announced, sweeping toward the table with his arms spread wide. "My masterwork! Look at them! The feathers will shimmer in the candlelight. The nobles will be speechless."

  A kitchen boy whispered something to the head cook, who frowned and approached Rembrandt carefully.

  "Master Rembrandt, sir... about the birds..."

  "Yes? What about them?"

  "They've been... that is, the smell is..."

  "Character!" Rembrandt declared. "The meat has character. That's what happens when you cook something properly aged. The nobles will appreciate the sophistication."

  The head cook opened his mouth, closed it, and walked away.

  Julia caught Annah's eye again. This time Annah allowed herself the smallest shake of her head.

  "And the pastries!" Rembrandt swooped toward Annah's work table. "These are... acceptable. Yes. Acceptable. Though perhaps if we glazed them in a crosshatch pattern? To represent the weaving of fate?"

  "The pastries are too hot to glaze yet, Master Rembrandt," Annah said quietly.

  "Just glaze the pastries, girl. We're out of time. The Assay begins in an hour and nothing is ready. Nothing!"

  He swept away again, leaving Annah with her perfectly shaped, completely adequate pastries.

  Julia leaned over and whispered, "When the king tastes those peacocks, we're all going to be executed."

  "The Assayer will taste them first," Annah whispered back.

  "Then the Assayer will be executed and we'll be next."

  They both looked at the peacocks.

  The feathers really were beautiful.

  ***

  The great hall of White Hold blazed with candlelight bouncing off the gilt chandeliers and candelabras.

  Theron adjusted the servant's livery he'd borrowed—plain grey wool, unremarkable, the kind of thing nobles looked through rather than at—and picked up a wine jug from the serving station. Around him, the real servants moved with the grace of pride in their work and the elegance of experience, carrying platters, refilling cups, clearing plates between courses.

  No one looked at him twice.

  He'd positioned himself near the head of the table, where Jorvan sat alone in crimson and gold, smiling that wide, performative smile. To Jorvan's right sat Lord Caradoc—grey-bearded, stiff-backed, representing old Eldmere nobility. Beside Caradoc, Valgarr in his pristine white robes, serene as always. And beside Valgarr, Brother Maelwyn, head of Eldmere's Cydweli Order, looking uncomfortable in his formal vestments.

  On Jorvan's left, the merchant—Theron had heard him introduced as Aldric Thorne, made wealthy through timber and grain—sat with the false ease of a man trying to look like he belonged. Beside him, the Baron of Lune, whose stiff posture and careful distance from the merchant spoke volumes.

  At the far end of the table, nearly lost in the crowd of lesser nobles and their families, sat King Helmut in his formal robes, his face carrying the expression of a man who was starting to feel like he was only there as decoration.

  Theron walked around the guests, topping up their wine, listening.

  "—tremendous honor to be here, Your Highness—"

  "—of course, my daughter has been trained in all the courtly—"

  "—the timber shipments from Garanwyn have been most reliable—"

  The first courses arrived. Trenchers filled with pottage. The Assay had been performed, the Cupbearer had sipped from the King's cup—but no one would touch their food until Jorvan did. The nobles waited hungrily, waiting.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Jorvan, for his part, seemed in no hurry.

  He was talking. Gesturing. Telling a story about something that had happened in Garanwyn—"Tremendous weather we have there, tremendous, nothing like Eldmere's rain, I have to say"—while his food sat untouched before him.

  The Assayer was the only one who'd enjoyed the food hot. The food had reached them warm. But Jorvan carried on talking—gesturing, storytelling, performing—and by the time he finally took his first bite, the nobles' meals had gone cold.

  Theron moved along the middle of the table, pouring wine, listening to the lesser nobles and merchants talk more freely.

  "Doesn't matter to me who sits on the throne. Jorvan won’t interfere with Eldmere’s..."

  "Best not to cause a stir. Wait and see what Jorvan’s plans…"

  "Garanwyn's thriving under Jorvan's rule. He'll do far better than Helmut ever did."

  “I do hope that Jorvan will continue the work King Cocky started…”

  Theron continued circling the guests, pouring wine. He'd seen Valgarr work before - the way people leaned in, nodding, when Valgarr gave them exactly what they wanted. He kept his head down and moved to the next table.

  ***

  As the servants were collecting the trenchers, Valgarr used the opportunity to propose his expansion plans to Brother Maelwyn.

  Valgarr's rings hummed softly as he leaned toward Brother Maelwyn. "The work you do is admirable, Brother. Truly. In Garanwyn, we've found that the faith itself, properly channeled, can accomplish remarkable things. Healing, sustenance, even the extension of life for those who serve the Order faithfully." Valgarr explained to the head of Eldmere’s Cydweli order.

  Maelwyn's tired eyes widened slightly. "The extension of life?"

  "Through prayer and proper guidance, yes. I would very much like to discuss how Eldmere's order might benefit from what we've learned." Valgarr's smile was warm, genuine-seeming. "There is no reason your people should suffer when we have the means to help."

  Valgarr knew Brother Maelwyn would agree to his plan as soon as he saw the expression on Brother Maelwyn's face. He smiled and looked over to Jorvan, but Jorvan was too busy talking to notice him.

  ***

  The peacocks arrived near the end of the meal, carried by twelve servants on six silver platters.

  Theron was near the serving station when they came through the kitchen doors. He caught the smell before he saw them—something sweet and wrong caught in his nostrils.

  One of the servants carrying the platters—a young man, barely twenty—pulled a face as he set the bird down at the center of the table. He glanced at the servant beside him, mouthed something that might have been "Don't let anyone eat this," and retreated quickly.

  The peacocks sat in the candlelight, feathers shimmering blue-green, magnificent and wrong.

  The smell reached the nobles a few seconds later.

  Theron watched from his position by the wall. Some nobles shifted back slightly, catching the sweet-wrong smell of meat that had turned. Others leaned forward, intrigued by the exotic centerpiece.

  Jorvan stood, spreading his arms wide, beaming.

  "Peacock! Now THAT is what I call a centerpiece!" His voice filled the hall. "Look at these feathers! Aren't they remarkable? The colors—you see them? Blue and green, shimmering in the light. It's a little tribute, shall we say, to your late King Cocky. You remember? The bird-king? Ha!"

  He laughed, loud and delighted, waiting for the room to join him.

  No one did.

  Jorvan's smile flickered. He looked around—at people looking at their plates, avoiding eye contact.

  "The colors," he said again, louder this time. "The peacock feathers. The same colors as—well. You must have noticed. It's the same blue-green as King Cocky's feathers. Ha! A little joke. A memorial, even."

  Theron watched Lord Caradoc's hands tighten on his cup.

  The Baron of Lune set down his napkin very carefully and didn't pick it up again.

  A woman at the far end of the table stood, pushed in her chair, and left without a word.

  Jorvan turned to Valgarr, confusion beginning to show at the edges of his smile.

  Valgarr's black nails caught the candlelight as he raised his wine cup, expression serene. "A magnificent choice, Your Highness."

  Jorvan nodded, seemingly reassured, and sat back down.

  A voice rose from the middle of the table. A younger noble Theron didn't recognize, eager-faced, stood and gestured toward the Carver.

  "Might I try some of His Majesty's magnificent peacock? It looks extraordinary."

  The Carver froze. His eyes flicked to the peacock, then to the noble, then briefly—so briefly—to the head cook standing near the kitchen door.

  He lifted his carving knife.

  The hall had gone very quiet.

  The Carver sliced into the breast, the meat parting with a wrongness that anyone who'd ever carved a bird would recognize. He placed a portion on the noble's plate, complete with feathers still attached, and stepped back.

  The noble lifted a piece to his mouth. Chewed. Smiled broadly at Jorvan.

  "Exquisite, Your Highness. Truly exquisite. The flavor is remarkable." He gestured to those around him. "You must try it. Really, it's exceptional."

  No one moved.

  Jorvan clapped his hands together, delighted. "You see? You SEE? Someone who appreciates quality! This is what I'm talking about. Sophistication. Artistry."

  The noble took another bite, still smiling.

  Theron watched from his position by the wall, he did not want to be that man in a few hours.

  At the far end of the table, Helmut watched Jorvan accept praise for Rembrandt's peacocks—the birds Rembrandt had spent two days preparing, obsessing over every feather, every angle of presentation.

  Artistry, Jorvan had called it. Sophistication.

  Rembrandt would be so pleased.

  Maybe this was a good sign. Maybe Jorvan was starting to appreciate what they could offer. Maybe things would get better now.

  Helmut picked up his wine and drank, letting himself believe it.

  ***

  The meal ended. Servants cleared the tables—including the five untouched peacocks, feathers wilting in the heat—and the nobles filed out of the great hall toward the ballroom where musicians waited.

  Theron slipped away from the serving line and made his way down to the kitchens.

  The controlled chaos had died down to exhausted cleanup. Servants scraped plates, washed platters, salvaged what could be saved. In the corner, Rembrandt stood with the head cook, gesturing emphatically about something.

  And at the washing basin, a young woman with dark hair was scrubbing her hands clean of flour and honey.

  Theron was about to leave when the kitchen door opened and Jorvan walked in.

  The room went still.

  Jorvan smiled—not the wide performance smile from the hall, but something smaller, more genuine—and looked around.

  "You," he said, walking toward the young woman at the basin.

  She looked up, startled. "Yes, Your Highness."

  "You did a brilliant job with the food this evening." He said it simply, without flourish. He paused, and the smile turned almost shy. "Thank you, Annah."

  The girl—Annah—stood frozen, soap dripping from her fingers.

  "I..." she managed. "Thank you, Your Highness."

  Jorvan nodded once and left.

  The kitchen stayed quiet for three full seconds after he was gone.

  Then Rembrandt swept forward. "You see? Artistry! Artistry is always recognized! The pastries were arranged exactly as I specified—"

  Theron slipped out the kitchen door before anyone noticed he'd been there.

  ***

  Above them, in his chambers, Valgarr sat alone, touching the line between his brows.

  The banquet had gone well. Better than expected, really.

  Brother Maelwyn would think about his offer. The nobles had seen Jorvan's and Valgarr's position at the head of Eldmere. The hierarchy was clear.

  And if some of them had left hungry, uncomfortable, offended by rotten peacocks and cold food... well. That was Jorvan's problem.

  Valgarr pulled out a clean sheet of parchment and began drafting his proposal for taking over Eldmere's Cydweli Order.

  The people would smile. They would bend.

  Everything could be solved, given time and the right application of pressure.