The heat of the Order Hall kitchens was intense; the chopping, slicing, sizzling and shouting from the staff overwhelming. A meaty smell filled the air as food cooked for fifteen dragons and their riders.
Holt stood armed with a scrubbing brush by a great basin of water. It was so deep that it would have covered his head as a child.
Huffing and puffing, he lunged for his next target, a heavy pewter pot. He brought the brush to bear against the crust of grease, pushing against the grime as though he were a spearman cutting into scourge. Once cleaned, Holt heaved the pot out and dried it, only to have a kitchenhand near enough pounce on it, take it back to his stove and begin throwing in hunks of beef with sun-burnt peppers and yellow spices.
Holt sighed and wiped his brow. A dull ache plagued his back. For each dish he washed, it seemed two were added. Yet working at a frantic pace he’d managed to get through the seemingly endless pile.
Another kitchenhand brought over a pan still spitting goose fat and placed it atop the stack without so much as a glance at Holt. The ache in his back flared into a throb. Groaning, Holt twisted sharply to pop his spine. Relief washed through him and, with a resigned sigh, he picked up the fat laden pan. He clung onto the knowledge that in just one month he’d be sixteen and the formal apprentice to his father. No more pot washing then.
Just as he was about to douse the pan into the soapy water, his father approached.
“Holt? What are you up to, lad?” His father looked harassed, his black hair was wild and messy just like Holt’s. He wore a stained apron over a
plump belly, but his eyes were bright and full of life. A feast always excited Jonah Cook, yet whereas Holt loved the gathering of dragons and magic, his father loved the food more.
“Washing up…”
“Good. Jolly good,” said his father, as though Holt washing pots was some novelty. His father could be terribly distracted at times like this. “Listen, I need to start on that elk for Silverstrike, but I think I left the recipe book down in the larder. Can you get it for me?”
Pleased for a chance to break the cycle of cleaning, Holt hurried to comply. He dabbed his wrinkly hands on a dry cloth before heading for the cellar door by the far wall.
A flight of wooden steps led down into the cool dimness beneath the kitchens. Down here there was only eerie lantern light. Candles flickered in the gloom as though floating in mid-air. The sheer rock walls of the Crag were cold to the touch, and, thanks to the feast, the many bare shelves only added to the cavernous feeling of the place.
It didn’t take long for Holt to find the recipe book. He’d had a hunch it would be by the spices and was proven right. There it lay upon a three- legged stool underneath the hanging lines of onions, garlic and ginger root.
The book itself was beautiful, bound in buttery smooth red leather with a silk tassel to mark the page. Embossed in gold upon the front was a steaming cooking pot beneath a dragon in flight.
Holt picked it up delicately. It was the most expensive item his father possessed, containing recipes to please dragons with all their peculiar tastes. Not all Cooks in the land held such a treasure tome of knowledge and it was likely why Holt’s father, grand-father and great-grandfather had worked in the Crag kitchens.
One day Holt would be given the book and he would work here too.
At least I won’t be any regular old Cook, Holt thought proudly as he scampered up the larder stairs to the kitchens.
He found his father inspecting the elk and counting out the other ingredients. He wiped his brow, looking relieved to see Holt.
“I’ll take that,” Jonah said. He opened the book at the page marked by the silk tassel and ran a finger down the page as his eyes flicked from the paper to the ingredients upon the table.
Holt knew the recipe well enough having poured over it. The cups of water and wine, the bacon, the mushrooms, cinnamon, ginger, and a small
dish of precious saffron seemed to be in order.
“If that is all, father, I’ll return to the dishes and make sure I get through them all before Silverstrike arrives.”
“Hmm?” his father grunted. “Remember I asked—”
“What?” Jonah said, distracted. “Oh yes, we’ll see, son. We’ll see.” Before Holt could press the issue, his father snapped the book shut and placed it upon the worktable. “Right, let’s get started on this one. It will need hours to simmer.”
Holt was taken aback. “You want me to help you?” “I want you to learn. Start by dicing the steak.”
And Holt did so. Happily. Working on Silverstrike’s meal was an honor. He carefully diced the meat, ensuring every cut was of equal size to cook evenly. Next, he thinly sliced the rashers of bacon, as well as the mushrooms in time for his father to return and inspect his work.
“Good job,” his father said approvingly. “Your knife skills have come a long way. Now bring it all here and I’ll get started.”
Holt searched for butter to line the pot, passed it to his father then returned for the chopping board heaped with meat. By the time he brought the board to his father’s side the butter was already browning, releasing a nutty smell. He was about to tip the meat into the pot when a sudden silence caused him to pause.
Rarely would the busy kitchens turn still in an instant. Yet for a rider to visit in person instead of their squire was an event rare enough to make everyone stop, put down their work, and stare.
Holt was no exception. For a moment he forgot about the butter and the meat and focused on the man who had just entered. It was Brode, one of the most experienced riders at the Crag. Brode the Bold as he’d once been known, although nowadays most called him Brode the Brooding. Holt sympathized with that sentiment.
Brode had a dark, sunken face, as though permanently under shadow. He was old, very old – no one of Holt’s station knew his age for sure – yet he appeared to be middle-aged with short gray hair and coarse stubble. Despite his age, he moved with a purpose and strength that spoke of a younger man, which Holt guessed was due to a piece of his dragon’s magic still within him. And that was how Brode differed from the others.
He no longer had his dragon.
Perhaps that was why he wore simple clothes – worn boots, trousers, a cream shirt and frayed black jerkin – instead of the full regalia of the Order. Despite his modest appearance he had the sort of intense, intelligent eyes that could command a room; eyes which now fell upon Holt’s father.
“Jonah, a word, if you will.”
“Right away, Honored Rider,” Jonah said. First, he rounded on Holt and thrust the wooden spoon into his empty hand. “Watch over this. We want a nice sear on all sides. And back to work everyone, come along now!” And then he was off, helplessly attempting to smooth down his apron as he approached Brode.
Holt dumped the meat into the pot and stirred while watching Brode out of the corner of his eye. It was most unusual for a rider to descend into the depths of the kitchens. Even for Brode, it was quite unexpected.
Smelling the bacon crisping, Holt gave the contents of the pot another good shake then sidled back to the worktop to gather the chopped mushrooms. He risked another glance towards Brode and his father, whose eyes widened.
“Here? Now?!” Jonah exclaimed.
Returning to the pot, Holt threw in the mushrooms, but forgot to stir, straining to overhear the conversation.
“Collect yourself, Mr. Cook. I’m certain you can do it. You’ll just need to work quicker.”
Jonah blustered something incoherent.
Holt felt a pang run through him. This could only mean that their guest of honor had arrived early, but that would mean the kitchens would need to work harder. He, Holt, would not get away to see Silverstrike.
All thought of the elk in the pot abandoned him. Holt turned, staring at his father and Brode in open-mouthed horror. Brode clasped a hand upon his father’s shoulder, then turned and began ascending the staircase to the upper levels; to the glory of the Order; to the wonder.
Jonah Cook shook his head and rubbed at his eyes before bringing his hands together in a decisive clap. A kitchen hand banged a ladle to help quieten the staff.
“Everyone, Silas Silverstrike has arrived. Commander Denna wishes the feast to begin earlier. I’m afraid we won’t have time for any breaks if we are to oblige her.”
A collective groan rose but the staff returned to their tasks, albeit at a more agitated speed. Jonah was soon surrounded by scullery maids and kitchen hands gesticulating and babbling at him.
Holt didn’t react at first. He stood dumbstruck. Few riders of such renown ever visited this outpost at the edge of the world. And now he was to be kept slaving in the hot kitchens, confined to the endless washing up.
“Holt, stir that for goodness sake.” His father’s fearful cry jolted Holt from his reverie. He smelled the problem before he saw it. The meat was starting to burn.
Holt tried to salvage it, but the bacon and venison stuck to the pot. Not good. Panicked, he grabbed the cup of water set out for the dish and poured it in. The pot hissed, spat and billowed steam. The meat and mushrooms moved a little easier now, and Holt finished by adding the two cups of wine. By this point his father was back on scene, his face reddened with worry. He seized the spoon from Holt and began to stir the mixture as though for all the world it would undo whatever damage had been done.
Then he lifted the pan off the hot charcoals and placed it on the cooler side of the stove.
“Of all the dishes, lad,” Jonah said. “Where’s your head at?” Without meaning to, Holt’s gaze drifted towards the stairs.
His father sighed. “I know you’ll be… disappointed.”
Holt mechanically returned to the chopping board and reached out to the bag of mushrooms to beginning preparing the ingredients again.
“I’m sorry. I will make everything ready for you, then return to the basin—”
“Holt,” his father said more softly. “I won’t get in your way.”
He had just picked up the knife to begin slicing when his father’s hand fell on his.
“Accidents happen.” “I shouldn’t have—”
“No, but you’re tired. We’re all tired.” The grim bags under Jonah’s eyes attested to this.
Holt wiped his hands upon a nearby cloth then rubbed at his own eyes. From work and worry they’d barely slept for days making everything ready and now it was to all be rushed.
“It just doesn’t seem fair,” Holt said.
“No, it isn’t. But who are we to make demands of the riders? If they want dinner a few hours earlier then that’s that.”
Holt turned his attention to the black pot. Perhaps, at least, he could try to make his mark on the occasion.
“With your leave I could prepare the chickens for Silverstrike’s dragon
—”
Jonah shook his head. “Why not?” Holt asked.
“You ruined this meal, for a start.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I got distracted but I can stuff and roast five
chickens.”
Jonah pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been over this, Holt. Our instructions are to roast the birds simply with plenty of butter and thyme, nothing more—”
“But our book says that storm dragons prefer it best when—” His father gave a harder sigh. “You’re only fifteen.”
“I’ll be your official apprentice soon.”
“Even if you were already, I couldn’t let you serve unrequested food, never mind to a dragon of Clesh’s caliber.”
“But—”
“What do you think will happen exactly? That Silverstrike’s dragon will be so impressed, you’ll be summoned to the great hall and the Flight Commander will initiate you on the spot?”
Holt lowered his head. “Low born have become riders before…”
He knew of the stories. Of Cedric the Common who died of his wounds after killing a scourge queen and ending that incursion into Brenin. Of Hild the Humble, a beautiful washer woman who had married a rider against everyone’s wishes and bonded with her husband’s dragon after he fell in battle. It wasn’t impossible. It had been done.
“What’s our name?” His father’s tone was serious now. “Cook.”
“And what will it always be?” “Cook.”
“It’s the way things are, Holt. Trying to fight it is like a mouse facing down a dragon.”
Still staring at his toes, Holt fought to control a flux of rising emotions. He felt powerless. Frustrated. Afraid. An anxiety boiled up that his father
was right, that his life was already charted, and this was all he would be.
Holt lost the battle for control. None of it was his father’s fault, but his father was the one standing before him. Holt raised his head, looked his father directly in the eye and said, “I’d rather face that dragon than live as a mouse forever!”
And with that, he ripped off his apron, threw it down and stormed off. A legendary rider was about to arrive, and he wasn’t going to miss it. After all, he would have endless time to be stuck down in the kitchens.
