Chapter Nine: Oak & Owl

Charles woke in a place that could not have been more different from the one he’d left moments earlier. Where there had been bitter cold, he felt warmth. Where darkness had blinded him, there was light. And where there had been pain, he knew peace. His vision settled. He sat up on his elbows, taking his measure of the room.

And what a room it was. Large enough to fit two rundown cottages with space to spare. The walls ran high. He could see clouds through a circular skylight built into the ceiling. He groaned and pulled himself up a bit more. To his left was a bed. A real bed, not a pile of straw trying to pass for one. It was handcrafted, blatantly extravagant, and built for a child. To his right, he saw an opulent oakwood desk—the kind with drawers that locked, and a hood of sectioned planks that could be pulled down to obscure its contents—strewn with ink and parchment. Among the sea of papers, in small islands of bare space, lay a handful of scattered items: a small, carved cutting board; a paring knife with a steel sharpening rod; and a small bowl of grapes. It was the only messy part of the room. Further right he noted a stuffed wardrobe swung half-open. Tailored ten-button coats, green-lined aprons, and fine black shoes had been meticulously folded, stacked, polished, and arranged to a tidy perfection. Not a lace out of order. Further still, a shelf of books towered floor to ceiling lined the remainder of the wall. These, too, were impeccably neat. He scanned the spines.

The Art of All Things Acidic

Uzkan Vanilla Pods: One Thousand Methods and Merits

Chiffonade: An Eleve’s Guide to Perfect Knifework

Charles' jaw dropped.

This is…

Outside. He had to see outside. Then he would know for sure. Light seeped in from a doorway across the room. Charles struggled to his feet, darted for the door, and stepped frantically out onto a wide balcony. So frantically, in fact, that he lost his footing and stumbled. Had there not been a banister built against the outer rim of the balcony, and had Charles not managed to grab hold of said banister to stop his momentum, he would have plunged straight over the edge. About half of him made it over anyways. His stomach slammed hard. He gasped again, but no sound came out. More of a dry wheeze. He couldn’t catch his wind or find the strength to pull himself upright. For a moment he awkwardly wheezed where he was, slumped across the banister, trying and failing to catch a steady breath. Dew drops flew into his face. The wind blew cold. His body hurt. But he could see the outside. All of it.

The Emerald District of Lutz shone in the dawnlight. Dangling at least fifty feet above the street, Charles had perhaps a greater view than he ever had before.

Grandfather had read Charles the story many times. How Lutz was only half-built by men. The other half was the work of gods. That half still belonged to nature, even after long centuries. The city spiraled down a grand, green hillside like an upturned corkscrew, crossed with long, staired passageways where one could ascend or descend to other levels without following the Spine, the largest road that looped from the heart of the Emerald District all the way to the city’s main gate. And with every stretch or turn or splitting of the Spine, there were trees. Great trees. Small trees. Trees that did not look like trees at all. Trees with white bark and black leaves. Trees that bloomed with seeds capable of flying to other continents, or that could set themselves on fire if they grew too fast, too quickly. There were even trees that could be molded as a skilled grower sat fit, taking the shape of chairs or statues or even crude buildings. Trees had long been revered in Dreyan culture. The soul of its art and architecture, and a lifeblood of its people. The two could not be separated any more than the shore and the sea. Charles saw green lights dotting the cobbled streets. They were ordinary lanterns fueled by a not-so-ordinary source–a special species of moss that, when burned, flared a green nearly identical to the shade found on the oak tree flag of Dreya. At night, the lanterns were so bright and plentiful it was like having two skies to choose from. When morning came, both stars and lanterns dimmed, one by one, as the city came alive and the smells of spiced bacon and roasted acorns came wafting through one’s windows.

Lutz was beautiful even on the gloomiest day.

He was home. Safe in his bedroom at the Boulier manor. With some doing, Charles managed to get on his feet again. In the distance, well past the Silver Fox District and stacked stalls of Commerce Row, beyond even the Outer Suburbs, he could just barely make out the silhouette of a gray, forgotten wood. It was less than a background. You could hardly tell one tree from another. It was the sort of place you would never notice if you didn’t already know it was there.

It is not yet your time.

His head burst with a wave of pain. Chills fell over him. Just like before, when he turned to the room again, he was not alone.

A blonde boy sat at the desk. He seemed to be concentrating, gripping the paring knife very carefully. With calm steadiness, he peeled away thin folds of skin from a red wine grape. Each fold came away without disturbing the soft core underneath. This Charles was not the little boy from the cottage. Nor was he the fifteen-year-old who had nearly fallen off the balcony a moment ago. He was somewhere between. Gone was the wild bird’s nest of hair, half dirt and leaves. The gaps of missing teeth had filled in. His adult teeth had grown straight and full. At some point earlier this morning, a servant must have combed his blonde locks into place until they were tamed—not one errant strand out of place. That same servant had likely set the boy’s bath and prepared his attire. No more tattered cloth or patch-covered shawls. No…this Charles was not allowed to wear things like that ever again. Nothing that would cause the household embarrassment. His every action would reflect on his name, down to what he wore. All his clothes were new and pristine.

He looked every inch the proper son of a noble family. As was his duty.

A clock hanging left of the door chimed. When the boy at the desk heard, he went pale. In the span of seconds he gathered a handful of belongings and all but flew from the room. Even in haste, he set the paring knife down delicately as a leaf.

Charles followed. He did not want to lose track of himself this time. Luckily, this was one path he was all too familiar with.

He managed to close the distance at the spiral staircase in the heart of Boulier manor. He smiled in amusement as his younger self checking this way and that to see if anyone was around. Once the boy was satisfied there were no prying eyes, he slid down the railing. This brief levity ended at the second floor, when they suddenly changed course toward the family library rather than continue down to the grand dining floor of the Oak & Owl. That could mean only one thing: his younger self was late and did not want to be seen leaving the manor. He would choose a more subtle route. One that looped around to the back door by the kitchens. Once you made it that far, sneaking out was simple. Charles could beat him there if he kept to the main stairs. A gut feeling warned him not to try. He followed again.

Portraits towered left and right. The subjects were grand men and women wreathed in rich furs, fingers glittering with gold bands and gems. Charles felt their cold stares fall on him. He shuddered under their judgment, and the burden of all they had built pressing squarely upon his shoulders. Pride and shame warred inside him. Some of the people in the portraits had Charles’ blonde hair and green-eyes, or wore the ten-button garb of a gourmet chef. Most shared Father’s dark hair and tall build, and other traits that were less obvious. The air about them was crushing. Demanding and uncompromising. Lord Evander Boulier poised with his knee raised high, victory upon his face and a hooked harpoon thrust toward the rain-drenched sky. There was no mastery that had not been conquered by a Boulier chef at some point or other, but as with all nations that did not border the sea, Dreyan unimara were rare. Evander had reason to be proud. He was standing on a great ebony shark that had fought a crew of eight men for a day and two nights. Charles shivered. While great ebonies were frightening enough in the water, it was only after hauling one out that you could appreciate the full horror. Adult males outweighed a carriage, and they were crammed to the brink with teeth long as a grown man’s hand. They attacked everything, including small vessels or even other ebony sharks. The beast had smashed and thrashed until the ship’s starboard crumbled and nearly dragged Evander to his death during the final struggle, but the filets yielded from its exotic meat proved worth the peril. The brooch that glittered at Evander’s breast had been fashioned in the shape of a green shark. Charles glanced at the next painting. A small part of him had always been comforted by the portrait of Evander’s grandson, Alexander Boulier II, a renowned Master of Vegetables. His was one of few faces smiling kindly at viewers. It was a smile that bordered on a laugh, but it carried no less greatness than any other of his line. A brooch of green lightning clasped the front of his fur robes together. At just twenty-one, he had departed Dreya alone, traversing continent and coast in search of new herbs in obscure corners of the world, only to veer off course and capsize in the wake of a typhoon. As the tale goes, he later swore his compass had failed that night, spinning in circles without cause or consistency. The island he woke on—later named Xandari in honor of its discoverer—became his home for just short of a year, until his rescue at the hands of an imperial spice trader. The trader, like him, had lost all navigation under strange circumstances. The two had joined forces and braved the journey to the mainland together, forging a lifelong friendship in the process. Stormgrass, a Xandari native, was still popular with roasted lamb.

Charles moved on.

Lord Denitt Boulier, inventor of the modern four-sided cheese grater. Lord Jean Boulier, who braved the Bridge of No Recourse in wartime to bring spiced curry recipes from the far east. Lady Gabriella Boulier II, the Pixie of Sweetness. Charles paused to look at her. It was true she had the same pixie face as his mother, but there was nothing sweet in that expression. Those eyes glared pure ice. She had not been known for her charms; however, her tarts, cakes, and frosted berry pies were so favored by Dreyan royalty the queen herself barred them from Frandt after her king husband grew too fat to get out of bed.

Luen V and his fraternal twin, Luenna. Charles grimaced. He made a special effort not to meet their gaze. In return, the pair seemed to scowl especially harshly. But scowls were hardly out of the ordinary. For every Alexander, there were ten lords or ladies who looked as though they had never smiled in their lives. They supped and dined on proud tradition. Duty flowed through their veins. Charles noticed his younger self rooted firmly at an enormous portrait further on.

He did not need to guess whose portrait it was.

Of all faces in the hall, none loomed larger or gazed colder than Francis Boulier I, founder of the Boulier merchant-lord line and one of nine authors of Sae Mercantes: the Oath of Merchants. His brooch gleamed. It was the green mallet and block, old symbols of justice from the dawn of the Age of Law.

A shaved, scarred head. A beard, full and white as freshly fallen snow. His features were so hard and harsh they could well have been chiseled from stone. Notably, he was the only lord painted with a sword, for swords were essential companions under the era he had been born. The Age of Might spared only the strong. He did not carry it long past the painting of this portrait, Grandfather had told Charles, having caught the young boy gaping at the painting one evening. When the Age of Law began, lords of trade like Francis set swords aside and left warfare to others. Commerce and the culinary arts became his weapons. In their way, they proved even more powerful than blades or armies. All he did was done for greater goods. Crown and family. A good lord devotes himself to these above all else. Do not forget, Charles.

Charles stood beside himself. Boulier heirs, past and present, looked to their forefather. Francis glowered disapprovingly. Charles simply looked away. He was used to the feeling. Sometimes, he knew, it was best to keep walking before you had too much time to dwell on it. The same could not be said for his younger self. Until now, he had run and bound and played excitedly; when he tore himself from the portrait, he moved slowly, his eyes downcast. When he stopped again, it was in front of the final door in the east wing. Luen’s room. Three sharp raps on the door went unanswered. Another three brought only the same result, but before the boy could bring himself to try again, he paused, then pulled his hand away.

Charles watched himself leave quietly, but lingered at the door a bit longer. It was shut firm. Always shut. Always closed off from everything. He had seen beyond this door only twice. The first was accidental. He’d become lost in the manor one night, shortly after he and Mother arrived. At the time, it had looked much like his own room did now. Strung with awards for high marks in academics. Accolades in reading, arithmetic, and history hung high. Shelves lined with cooking reference materials. Impeccable neatness.

And a painting of Father and Luen with a woman Charles had never met. She was beautiful, whoever she was. Tall and graceful, with white lilies in her hair. A young Luen was trying to place another lily with the others. He was laughing, and she was laughing with him. It was the only time Charles had ever seen him laugh. The painting had been propped against the wall opposite the bed. Placed so it could be seen when drifting off to sleep. He’d been staring at the woman when Luen found him.

“This isn’t your room. Get. Out.”

Years later, he had opened the door again. Not to go in. Just a crack to say dinner was ready. The stench had hit him first. A nauseating horror of a smell. The accolades still hung, but barely. Some had shattered to the floor and never been picked up. All traces of cooking had long since been thrown away, replaced by filth or empty space. The room had become pure decay…save for the portrait of the woman and her white flowers. It alone had been kept clean and beautiful. The way Luen had screamed at him then still echoed in his mind at times. He is in there, Charles thought. Right now. The door wouldn’t stop me. I could walk right through it, if I wanted. But he didn’t. The scowls of painted lords weighed heavily on him.

Did you feel the same weight as me, Luen?

Silence was the only answer.