Galadriel Coffeen's Blog, page 2

Wren & Kelta Trivia

Kelta of Darias Clan

Hair: blonde
Eyes: blue
Height: 5′ 6″
Birthday: February 2

Theme Song: “Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis,” by Ralph Vaughan Williams

Family:
Uncle Haias Ganat

Likes: music, martial arts, quiet mornings alone
Dislikes: prying questions, noisy crowds, people touching her without permission

Gentle Wren Elspur

Hair: black
Eyes: brown
Height: 5′ 10″
Birthday: August 13

Theme Song: “Freedom Battle,” by Michael W. Smith

Family:
Father Gavin Elspur
Mother Geraldine Cavender Elspur
Brother Gallant Elspur
Uncle Treman Cavender

Likes: drinking with friends, playing cards, sailing fast in a strong wind
Dislikes: condescending people, incompetent leaders, spicy food

The Destruction

“Sir!” called a voice from outside the tent. “Sir, it’s starting!”

Hanaskit bolted to his feet and flung his golden general’s capelet over his shoulders without stopping to check that the fringe of red and green feathers lay smoothly. He paused only long enough to snatch his farseer from his desk and slip it into the holster on his belt before he pushed open the tent flap and hurried outside.

“Where?” he demanded as he strode past the soldier who had summoned him.

The man fell into step beside Hanaskit and pointed to the west. “The sentries saw the first light due west, sir.”

Hanaskit’s chest tightened, and he struggled to keep his face impassive as he turned to squint toward the setting sun. He had never been convinced that this was the right course of action. Sailing north was all well and good; landing in the unclaimed lands to the east in hopes of flanking the Alokite defense line was perfectly sound strategy. But calling down fire from heaven…that was another matter altogther.

“There, sir!” shouted a sentry from his post on a tall, flimsy tower built from spare yards and ropes borrowed from the ships. The man was nearly invisible, with his dark skin and dark green scout’s cloak blending into the dusk, but Hanaskit didn’t need to see the soldier’s pointing finger. The light was visible to anyone who was looking in the right direction.

It was smaller and dimmer than Hanaskit had expected, a mere streak of golden light slicing across the sunset. But then his sense of scale caught up to him, and his breath stopped in his throat. Hanaskit’s army was more than fifty miles from the Alokite capital where the mage-fire was meant to fall. Fifty miles away, and Hanaskit could see the bolt of flame like a shooting star.

He pulled out his farseer with a trembling hand and lifted it to his eye, invoking the small trickle of magic that activated the device. Distance warped; the sky itself seemed to melt and twist in the viewing lens, and an instant later, Hanaskit was looking at the city of Gath, a tiny glittering shape of white marble and gilded skylights. Even with the farseer’s aid, Hanaskit couldn’t make out individual buildings, only the overall shape of the city. A thread of dark smoke already rose from one side, and as he watched, the second fireball struck, looking no larger than a spark thrown from a campfire. A second line of smoke joined the first.

Hanaskit lowered the farseer, his stomach churning. This was wrong. War was never meant to be waged from such a distance or with such brutal impartiality. When an entire city looked no larger than a marble, how could any commander be expected to take thought for the lives he was ending? Each of those innocuous smudges of black smoke represented dozens of buildings destroyed, scores of people killed or injured — most of them probably civilians, not soldiers. And this was only the beginning.

“Keep watch with farseers,” Hanaskit ordered. “The bombardment shouldn’t last more than a few hours. We’ll begin our march at dawn.”

With that, he turned away and returned to his tent with a white-knuckled grip on his own farseer. He sank down onto the folding stool beside his desk and stared down at the magical instrument in his hand. Gods above and below, what was the world coming to? When Hanaskit was young, magecraft had been treated as sacred. There was a time, not so very many years ago, when the Holy Circle had used their melded power to raise new buildings in a day or to heal dozens who should have died, not to call down fire from the skies.

They never would have managed it if they had conjured the fire from nothing. But the starwatchers had foreseen a rain of burning stars that would skim through the upper sky, and the Holy Circle had joined their powers to drag the stars down onto Alok.

Hanaskit leaned his forehead against his hand. He’d made his objections to the plan and been overruled; the time for argument and uncertainty was long past. Now he had a job to do. His army had to cover fifty miles in the next two days, destroy whatever Alokite forces survived the magical attack, and occupy the capital city of Gath. Hanaskit had a feeling his men would spend the following days rescuing people from the rubble, not fighting off Alokite reprisals.

A sudden tremor jolted Hanaskit out of his thoughts. A groundquake, here? Hanaskit hadn’t thought there were any volcanoes in this part of the world. He frowned at the pitcher on his desk; the surface of the wine quivered and rippled for a moment, then fell still. Then it suddenly slopped over the edge of the pitcher as a second, more powerful tremor shuddered through the earth. Hanaskit’s silver goblet tipped and fell to the ground with a clatter. He pushed to his feet, and his stool toppled over behind him.

Outside, someone shouted, sounding panicked. Hanaskit rushed out of his tent again, then dodged to the side as the sentry’s tower pitched over. Wood splintered and ropes snapped with enough force that one of the loose ends whipped a bloody gash across the face of the nearest man, flinging him to the ground.

“One of the fireballs missed the city, General!” someone shouted, running toward Hanaskit. “It fell wide by at least twenty miles! Hit halfway between us and Gath, as best as we saw.”

Hanaskit swore and turned westward again. Darkness was falling quickly; the sunset had changed from crimson to deep violet, and the first few stars had appeared overhead. The streaks of fire stood out white-hot against the darkening sky. Hanaskit didn’t need his farseer to tell that something had gone wrong. The fireballs were supposed to fall in sequence, one at a time, systematically striking Alok’s largest military outposts. But a dozen streaks of light filled the sky now, spiralling in all directions, scattering and turning back on themselves.

It didn’t take a genius to see what was happening. Alok had its own mages, every bit as powerful as the Holy Circle in Nebor. And they were fighting back. Hanaskit watched wide-eyed as a bolt of fire arced overhead. Surely that one had been larger than the rest? He lifted his farseer to his eye and stared out to sea, tracking the massive streak of light. It sprang into focus: not one falling star but four, clustered together so tightly that they formed a single trail of fire as they plunged into the ocean. A great cloud of steam gushed up, obscuring Hanaskit’s view.

“Gods have mercy!” someone screamed, and Hanaskit jerked the farseer away from his eye to see a blazing star plunging down toward them.

For an instant Hanaskit froze, staring upward at it, but then decades of battlefield experience snapped into place and pushed him into action. “Away from the shore!” he roared. “It’s going to hit the harbor! Drummer, sound the retreat! Move inland!” Hanaskit siezed the nearest unit leader and thrust him toward the nearest group of frantic men. “Get them moving, soldier!”

Discipline saved them. Orders jarred them out of their panic and sent them rushing into motion. Division commanders screamed at the unit leaders, who in turn bellowed at their men, and in seconds the army was on its feet, thousands of men surging away from the shore, dragging the camp supporters with them.

Hanaskit ran with them, heedless of decorum. Someone stumbled and nearly knocked him down; he caught the woman by the hand and dragged her back to her feet. A laundress, by the coarse lye-cracked texture of her skin. She in turn steadied a mage in his brilliant white and red feathered uniform, and the three of them ran onward together, clutching each other’s arms as if they were best friends instead of utter strangers.

The fireball struck the harbor. There was a flash like lightning, and an instant later a wall of air slammed into Hanaskit’s back and flung him to the ground. He landed on top of the laundress and rolled sideways, banging his head painfully against the mage’s knee. Hanaskit found that his ears were ringing, and his entire body felt strange, as if his very bones were gongs still resonating after being struck with a hammer.

It took him a moment to catch his breath and roll to his knees. Then half a dozen hands caught his arms, pulling him upright. “General, are you all right?” The voice sounded oddly distant, as if someone was trying to shout over the noise of the gongs that were his bones. Hanaskit nodded numbly and found his balance.

He turned back to see the harbor in flames. The army had sailed north aboard thirteen ships of war. Three of them appeared to have been shattered instantly by the impact. Four more were broken and quickly sinking. The rest were ablaze. “Gods,” Hanaskit whispered. He’d left only skeleton crews aboard the ships, but even so, he’d just lost dozens of men in a single instant. Not to mention the vessels themselves. The army’s way home to Nebor.

“Sir, the forest!” someone called, and Hanaskit turned west once more to see smoke rising from the pine woods. A smaller fireball must have landed among the trees. Within moments, flames jumped up, a hellish red glow that spread through the trees, silhouetting the black shapes of trunks and branches. There hadn’t been much rain this time of year, and the dry pine needles and sap-cracked bark went up like torches. There must be fifty trees ablaze already; in five minutes, it would be a hundred.

Hanaskit took a long, shaky breath and tried to steady himself. This wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to think quickly to salvage a situation. His men needed him to be an unshakeable rock, now more than ever. “Form up!” he called. “We’re moving northeast.”

Nobody objected, even though that direction would take them deeper into the unclaimed wilderness east of Alok. They had nowhere else to go. Their ships were gone; their path into Alok was blocked. Right now, the only thing that mattered was getting clear of the rapidly growing forest fire. Then — then Hanaskit would have to decide what to do next.

Jubilant Excerpt

Chapter One

Pistol fire flashed through the mist, and Kelta’s lucky stone flared hot against her throat, warning her. She leapt aside and heard the gun’s report at the same instant that she felt pain flare along the side of her neck. She stumbled, tripped over a dead body, and fell to the deck. The boards under her back were slick with her crewmates’ blood.

Several more shots rang out, but they didn’t echo off the water; the mist deadened the sound. Then silence fell. The fight had only lasted seconds; Kelta hadn’t even had time to draw her swords. There was no noise but the creak of the rigging overhead and the swish of water against the hull. Kelta held her breath.

“Is that all of them?” asked a harsh voice, no more than two paces away. Kelta tensed but didn’t move. The man’s accent sounded Alokite, but he spoke the Fosseni trade language.

“That was the last one!” another voice replied. “We did it, we actually got them all! Damn Taxians aren’t so impressive when you catch them half asleep, are they? What the hell are they doing this far north, anyway?” He also spoke Fosseni, but with a soft Poravian accent that sent a shiver down Kelta’s back.

She felt blood trickling from her neck where the pirate’s bullet had grazed her, but it wasn’t spurting; it wouldn’t kill her. She could still fight. She was close enough to reach those two speakers before they knew what was happening. She could leap up, draw her swords — and die in a hail of bullets as the other pirates surrounded her.

So she lay still with her eyes shut and focused on keeping her breathing slow and silent while her mind raced. She should have known the pirates had surrendered too easily. They had attacked out of the mist shortly after nightfall and realized too late that their target was a Taxian warship. Their abrupt surrender in the face of overwhelming od2ds would have made sense — except that half their crew was Poravian. Kelta of all people knew how sly and conniving Poravians could be. 

Of course it had been a false surrender. Of course they had a plan to retake their vessel.  But how had they done it? Ten experienced Taxian warriors didn’t simply nod off all at the same time in the middle of their duties, even if they’d been awake all night after a battle. Somehow, the pirates had drugged them—

The water. The barrel on deck, the barrel Kelta’s crew had been drinking from since they captured the pirate ship. The pirates must have drugged it before they surrendered. Kelta had been too focused on steering through the fog to drink, and that had saved her life.

But if a Taxian warrior ought to know anything, it was how to use her enemy’s weapon against them, and Kelta had survived this long by doing just that.  For the moment, she had to assume she was the only survivor. Facing a score of enemies alone would be fatally stupid. The teardrop of black stone on her necklace still felt hot against her skin, still warning her of danger; not that she needed her lucky stone to tell her that. She could hear the pirates talking around her; she could feel the vibration of their footsteps through the boards of the deck.

Kelta hunched her shoulder against the side of her neck, trying to staunch the blood without moving too much. She listened, hardly daring to breathe, as the pirates strode past her, laughing and jeering at their success. They had broken out of the hold, found weapons, and brought down ten Taxian warriors so fast that Kelta barely knew what had happened. That was a notable accomplishment. But now they were too busy congratulating each other to bother checking the bodies, and that, too, was fatally stupid.

They moved away from Kelta, and she heard a few of them shouting orders to adjust the ship’s course. The thick mist rolling across the deck muffled their voices, but Kelta concentrated on the vibrations in the planks under her back, tracking the men’s footsteps as well as she could. One moved behind her, to the wheel she’d abandoned. Some went below, and what felt like three sets of footsteps climbed into the rigging. Eventually, silence fell.

The man Kelta had tripped over lay beside her, obviously dead, with his eyes staring blankly, but most of her crew had fallen several yards away; some of them might still be alive. If they were, the fog muffled any sounds of breathing or moaning.

Kelta waited a little longer, counting thirty slow, careful breaths to be sure she was alone, then drew the small knife sheathed against her forearm and reached low across her stomach to cut a strip of cloth from her opposite sleeve. The motions were awkward, trying to hold tension in the fabric to cut it without moving too much, and her braided hair pressed irritatingly into her spine as she lay on top of the thick plait. But she didn’t sit up. The pirates might see that, despite the early morning darkness and the mist, and besides, she didn’t want to risk disturbing the wound in her neck. It might not seem bad right now, but if she moved too suddenly, it could start bleeding more heavily.

She moved her hands up to her neck, pressing the piece of her sleeve against the wound. She let out a soft breath of relief as the blood failed to seep through the wad of cloth. It really wasn’t too bad. Kelta cut a longer strip of cloth from the hem of her tunic, still keeping her motions slow and quiet in case any of the pirates looked in her direction, and wrapped it around her neck, trying to pull it tight enough to stop the bleeding without constricting her breathing. It felt clumsy and bulky. The Keltorax’s surgeon would do a better job when she got back to the larger ship; for now, Kelta would settle for not bleeding to death before she had a chance to win back their prize.

Kelta slipped her wrist knife back into its sheath and rolled carefully onto her stomach, trying to listen for approaching pirates at the same time that she tested her body’s movement. Lifting her head sent a twinge of pain down her neck, but she didn’t feel dizzy or weak. Good. That meant she wouldn’t have to waste time trying to hide and recover her strength.

She watched the helmsman for a moment, waiting for a particularly thick band of fog to cross the deck between his lantern and her position; then she pushed to her feet and moved to the rail, scrambling up into the shrouds before the mist parted again. She clung there, listening and staring around, her neck throbbing with every heartbeat. Nobody shouted the alarm or ran toward her. No sudden weakness came over her after her rush of movement. She still had a chance.

It was a slim chance. She and Kalon, the fighting master’s mate, had counted the pirates when they locked them below. Twenty-one men, and she had to assume they were all armed now. If she wanted to live, she’d have to kill every single one of them. As she leaned her face against the wet ratlines in front of her, she felt the clear focus of combat settling over her body. The world beyond the schooner disappeared from her mind as if the mist had seeped inside her, leaving her with only one thought: twenty-one.

Kelta clung there for another moment, listening to the ship, then set to climbing. She had heard three men approach the rigging near her. Those three were now isolated, even from each other, by a fog-laden tangle of lines and sails. No one would notice them missing for a while. 

So she hunted the three pirates through the rigging. She moved carefully across the slick ropes and yards, aware of the slight weakness in her left shoulder near her wound, and aware that the pirates were probably more nimble in the rigging than she was. She’d only been at sea three years; all the pirates were probably better sailors than Kelta — but none of them were better killers.

She inched out along one of the upper yards and found the dark outline of a man below her in the fog. He didn’t even look up as she swung down next to him. Kelta caught him around the throat with one hand and twisted the back of his head with the other, using her knees to grip the spar. She looped the footropes around his ankles to keep him from falling loudly into the water or onto the deck below, then left him to dangle upside-down. 

Twenty.

The next man was in the crow’s nest, probably looking for signs of the Keltorax returning to find the prize she’d lost in the fog. Kelta wrapped the dead man’s cloak around her shoulders and used the lubber’s hole to come up behind her second target. He glanced at her, fooled for a moment by the sight of his comrade’s cloak. A moment was all Kelta needed. She wrung his neck and left him where he was. 

Nineteen.

She felt her clumsy bandage loosening as she moved in search of the next man, and blood started seeping out, warm against her skin in sharp contrast with the chill dampness of the fog. Her pulse throbbed too hard in her neck and temple. Kelta paused long enough to adjust the bandage and to make sure her body still moved properly. Sharp twinges of pain ran up the side of her neck and down into her shoulder and arm, but she didn’t feel light-headed, so she kept moving.

The third man was at the top of the mast, loosing the t’gallant sail for a bit more speed. It wasn’t wise to sail quickly in a fog like this — but then, it wasn’t wise to stay near a Taxian warship after killing ten of their warriors, either. Running was the smart choice, not that it would do them any good. Kelta wished she dared to send up a signal for the Keltorax, but anything loud or bright enough to alert the Taxian ship would also alert the pirates. Kelta would be dead long before her crewmates reached her.

The man loosing the t’gallant happened to look down as Kelta climbed up; she was still wearing the first pirate’s cloak, but his eyes widened as he saw her unfamiliar face framed in the hood. He let out a cry of surprise, but the fog muffled his voice, and an instant later, Kelta reached him and silenced him permanently. Again, she tied him in place so he wouldn’t fall and alert the others.

Eighteen.

Before climbing down, she dragged her attention from her hunt long enough to stare in all directions, hoping for a glimpse of the Keltorax. She saw nothing but the dark grey swirls of fog folding around her. She returned to the deck.

Three of her companions lay near the mast, on the opposite side of the vessel from where Kelta had fallen. She lay down among them so any passing pirate would mistake her for a corpse, then turned toward each in turn, checking for signs of life. One was dead. Beside him lay Samos, one of Kelta’s fellow officers in training, still breathing but unconscious and bleeding heavily from the scalp. Kelta untied the sash from the young man’s waist and wrapped it around his head, then turned the other direction and found herself face to face with Kalon, the fighting master’s mate. He’d been in charge of securing the prisoners below deck.

The young man blinked, struggling to focus on her, his jaw set with a mixture of determination and pain. Blood stained his upper arm, and a livid bruise blotched his forehead and temple. “Good to see you,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to reach her even though her face was mere inches from his.

Kelta gave him a curt nod that didn’t betray the relief that rushed through her. She wasn’t alone. Her odds of survival had just doubled. “What happened?” she breathed.

“Not sure.” Kalon started turning his head, then stopped and shut his eyes, looking nauseated by the motion. “They got the door unlocked,” he mumbled. His voice had a faint slur to it, as if he’d been drinking. Was that from the blow to his head, or from the drugged water? “Threw it open so fast I didn’t have time . . . hit me with something.”

“Not hard enough,” Kelta whispered, drawing her wrist knife again and sawing at the hem of Kalon’s tunic. “You got behind them.” She’d seen him leap up through the hatch behind the escaped prisoners in the instant before she’d been shot.

“Killed one,” he said. “Lost my balance. . .”

She nodded as she started wrapping the strip from his tunic around his arm. If that dark bruise on his head was any indication, it was a wonder Kalon had stayed on his feet long enough to follow the prisoners up the ladder at all, even if he hadn’t drunk any of the water. He was a Taxian warrior to the bone, too stubborn to let a little thing like a bashed head stop him from pursuing his enemy. And the man he’d killed left seventeen.

“Second one shot me,” Kalon said. He opened his eyes again and tried to focus on her. “You all right?”

“Fine,” said Kelta, ignoring a fresh twinge of pain in her neck. “I played dead.”

“Well done.” Kalon gave her a small nod of approval, as if she needed his reassurance. “All right, we’ll need to see if any of the others are alive. Stay low and quiet and try to use the fog for cover; we can’t afford for the pirates to notice us.”

Kelta bit back a sharp reply. Kalon had a habit of giving unnecessary advice. Did he really think a snake-style fighter like Kelta, trained in stealth, needed tips on staying unnoticed — especially from a student of the drachon style, which solved all its problems by hitting them harder? “I’ve confirmed two dead so far,” she said coolly as she knotted the bandage around Kalon’s arm. “Samos is alive. I’ll find any others.”

“Snake guide you,” Kalon whispered.

Kelta nodded again, accepting the blessing. The fathom snake was the Teacher of Cunning, the patron of her chosen fighting style. She’d need all the cunning she’d ever learned if she was going to defeat seventeen more men on her own. 

And she intended to do just that. She left Kalon and moved aft again, passing the man she’d tripped over when she was shot. Kelta already knew he was dead, so she didn’t look at his face or let his name slip into her thoughts; she couldn’t afford distraction. She lay on her belly again as she approached the helm, crawling on her elbows. The pirate at the wheel stared almost directly over her head as he tried to steer through the mist. Kelta slithered past Meniphos, the Keltorax’s second mate, who had been in command of the prize crew. She glanced at him just long enough to confirm that he’d been shot through the heart. That made three of her crew dead, three alive, and the other four still unaccounted for. Kelta thought the others had been near the bow when the fight broke out — if such a quick, decisive ambush counted as a fight.

Kelta rose suddenly beside the helmsman, grabbing throat and head and twisting sharply. She leaned his body against the wheel and threaded his arms through the spokes; in this fog his comrades would have to stand beside him and look him in the face to see that he wasn’t alive. 

Sixteen. 

She started moving forward again, hoping to find other crewmates still alive near the bow, then ducked behind a stowed boat as two men came up from the hatch. She waited to see if any others followed them, then watched them separate. 

One headed forward, carrying a lantern. He called to the men in the rigging and frowned when he got no response. The other man went to the rail to answer nature’s call. He was barely two paces from Kelta.

She slipped up and snapped his neck like she had the others. There was no reason to get creative as long as the same method kept working. In a fight in broad daylight or one in which men might survive long enough to learn from their mistakes, such tactics would be fatal, but these men would never get that chance. Kelta guided the body to fall into the narrow gap between the rail and the stowed boat, out of sight. She’d have let him drop overboard, but the splash might make too much noise.

Fifteen.

She leapt out toward the diffuse glow of the other man’s lantern, just as he turned back toward his partner. He saw Kelta coming for him, and her knife flashed into her hand as she lunged forward. He yelped and reached for his pistol, but not fast enough. Kelta’s blade sliced through his throat as her fist grazed past him; she pivoted to follow his falling body and drove her knife into his back to be sure he was dead. 

Fourteen.

The lantern fell with a crunch of breaking glass. The candle sputtered and went out, but someone might have heard the smash of the lantern or the man’s aborted cry for help. Kelta returned to her hiding place behind the boat and crouched beside the corpse she’d just stowed there, her heart beating hard and her breath coming quickly.

Two heads appeared through the hatch a moment later, peering around as they rose into sight. “I’m telling you, I heard something,” one of them said in a nasal, whining voice. Even this far away from the helm lantern’s light Kelta could see his fiery red Alokite hair.

“You heard Arvon walking past the hatch, idiot,” grumbled the other. He, too, sounded Alokite. Maybe Kelta should keep one of the Alokites alive. They weren’t as dangerous as Poravians, and she still needed to determine whether this crew had any information about Grand Haias Alphira’s whereabouts. That was the only reason the Taxians had left the pirates alive when they first captured the ship: they needed information about their missing ambassador. But at this point, it would be easier if Kelta just killed all the pirates; she wasn’t in any state to guard prisoners alone, even for the short time it would take the Keltorax to come back for her.

  She realized her focus was slipping and drove her mind sharply back to the present. She and Kalon had killed seven so far. No matter the difficulty, it was her duty to keep at least one officer alive for questioning. So now she only had to kill thirteen.

“No, it was some sort of thump.” The whiny-voiced pirate peered around. His eyes widened as he spotted the dark shape of his shipmate crumpled beside the mast, half-hidden in the fog. “I told you!” he yelped, drawing a weapon and darting toward the fallen man, directly past Kelta’s hiding place.

Kelta let him pass. Now that the pirates were alerted, it was time for blade work. She still held her wrist knife in her hand; that would do for now. She waited for the second man to exit the hatch and struck him first, a slice to the side of his neck that sprayed blood and dropped the man almost on top of the hatch. 

The whining one spun around too late; he yelled and tried to block Kelta’s knife, but she slapped his upraised arm aside and stabbed him in the throat. He gurgled and fell, while Kelta let out a breath of relief. If he’d screamed more loudly, he’d have ruined her chances. As it was, she might still have a few minutes before the rest of the crew found her.

Eleven.

She dragged away the man who had fallen beside the hatch, leaving him near Samos and Kalon where he might be mistaken for a dead Taxian.

“Other survivors?” murmured Kalon. His eyes were a bit clearer now, though he still looked pale and dazed. He struggled to sit up, but Kelta pushed him back down, and he didn’t resist.

“I don’t know yet,” she whispered. She glanced at the dead man she’d just dragged across the deck: he carried a pair of pistols thrust through his belt. Kelta pulled them free and checked that they were loaded. Kalon’s sword lay beside his leg, but he was in no state to use it. “Can you use a gun?” she asked.

He managed an incredulous look. Of course; she’d asked a foolish question. Most Taxian warriors disdained the slowness and inaccuracy of firearms, and many fighting schools taught that they depersonalized, even trivialized, death. Haias Ganat, their captain, belonged to that school of thought. But Kalon was training to be a ship’s fighting master: he studied all types of weapons. Kelta nodded and pressed the guns into his hands. “I’ll be back,” she murmured.

She hurried forward. The darkness was lifting a little; somewhere beyond the mist, it must be dawn. A few more minutes, and she’d lose the cover of darkness, even if the mist didn’t burn away. She found the last four members of her crew near the foremast. Three were dead. Kaphor was alive, his limp hands curled over a gut wound. He might survive, if she finished this quickly and got him back to the Keltorax’s surgeon.

Kelta knelt beside the man to stop his bleeding, again using a piece of his own tunic for a bandage. His eyes flickered and his breath hitched, but he didn’t properly wake. He must have drunk enough of the drugged water to knock him out. That was probably for the best; Kelta had heard belly wounds were among the most painful of injuries.

Only four of ten had survived — ten fully trained Taxian warriors, who should have been more than capable of controlling or killing twenty-one pirates. They shouldn’t have underestimated Poravian guile. Kelta knotted the bandage around Kaphor’s waist and moved back to her hiding place behind the boat with anger burning in her chest. This should not have happened.

Light spread from the east; the fog took on a paler tint but still hung low and heavy over the ship instead of burning away in the sunlight. It must be a cloudy morning. Sure enough, a few minutes later a light rain began falling through the mist. The patter of water against the deck wouldn’t mask any loud noises, but it was enough to give Kelta a bit more of an edge. 

“—and I’ll get a sighting as soon as the mist starts clearing,” said a voice, growing louder and revealing a distinct Poravian accent as the speaker climbed up through the hatch onto deck. Kelta shivered. He sounded a little like the man who — no. She quickly shut that thought away and focused on preparing herself for the next kill. “Those Taxian bastards turned us west, best as I can tell,” the Poravian continued, “but I reckon we’re heading north again now.” 

“Well, that’s something,” came the reply as a second, heavier set of footsteps creaked up onto the deck. The combination of fog and rain blurred the men’s figures as they turned away from Kelta, moving toward the helm. The larger man’s footsteps scraped and thumped suddenly, as if he’d tripped. “Damn it,” he growled. “Why are these corpses still decorating my deck? Roust out a few of the boys and throw the garbage overboard.”

Kelta sprang out of her hiding place and kicked the hatch closed on her way past, spraying collected rainwater from the edges of the frame. She charged the two men, drawing the matching short swords at her sides for the first time today. The heavier man was closer to her. He swore and reached to his waist for a weapon, but Kelta stabbed him before he could finish drawing. 

The second man got off a pistol shot but missed as Kelta spun toward him, both blades slicing parallel through the rain to catch his arm and side. He cried out in pain, and Kelta finished him off with a thrust to the heart. 

But the hunt was over now; even fog and rain couldn’t conceal a gunshot, and that long yell of pain was unmistakable, too. It would be a pitched battle now, but she’d whittled down the enemy force to ten men in under an hour, and only nine of those who remained needed to die. Eight, if she wanted to give her captain a better chance of getting the information he needed. 

Kelta didn’t return to her hiding place; she didn’t want to be trapped. Instead, she leaped into the rigging again. Weariness and pain seemed to drop away in a sudden surge of energy, her heart beating harder as she crouched with her arm hooked over a rope, waiting for the fight.

Men boiled up through the hatch, brandishing weapons and staring around in confusion. One of them tripped over the body closest to the hatch and let out a yell as he realized it was his crewmate, not a Taxian. 

“They’re not all dead!” the man beside him shouted. “We didn’t get them all! There’re still Taxians on board!”

“The helmsman’s dead!” someone else yelled as he moved toward the wheel. “Gods only know what direction we’re going in this fog!”

“Take the wheel,” said someone else in a calmer voice. He sounded like he was in charge, and he spoke with an Alokite accent: he’d make a good choice to keep alive. “We’ll have to search the whole ship,” he ordered. “Split up. You four sweep the deck — and get rid of those bodies while you’re at it. We don’t want them hiding among the dead. You stay with the helmsman and make sure the bastards don’t get to him and turn us off course again. You two, come with me to check below and lock up the extra weapons. Give a shout if you find something and we’ll all come running.” 

The initial confusion and panic calmed quickly. These men were well organized, for pirates. They knew they’d made a mistake in assuming all the Taxians were dead; the ones sweeping the deck began stabbing bodies through the heart. They started with Meniphos. Kelta held perfectly still, ignoring the water that dripped across her eyelashes, her teeth clenched as she watched them jab her commander repeatedly with their swords even though he was obviously dead, his eyes glassy and a hole through his chest. And just like that, Kelta became the hunter again, even as they thought they were hunting her.

Two of the pirates dragged Meniphos toward the rail, while the other two kept plying their swords. They stabbed the man Kelta had tripped on when she was shot. She caught a breath as she saw them moving toward Samos and Kalon. Samos was still unconscious; he faced Kelta, and she could see his pale, slack features and closed eyes, unaware of the rain beating against his cheeks. Kalon faced the other way, his head lolling to the side, but Kelta saw the tension in his arms and the faint bulges of the pistols concealed under the splayed edges of his tunic. He might be fighting with unfamiliar weapons, but Kelta had sparred with him often enough to know how good he was. He could take two men if she took the others.

Kalon’s hands snapped up suddenly, holding the pistols straight and steady. The double report cracked through the air, and the two pirates bending to stab Samos screamed and staggered back. Neither shot was aimed well, but Kalon couldn’t miss at such close range: one man fell clutching his thigh, while the other stumbled against the rail with a hand pressed to his side before toppling overboard with a splash.

The two carrying Meniphos turned awkwardly in surprise, dropping their burden, as Kelta descended from above. Her swords swept out in both directions, slicing deep into flesh. One man howled with pain; the other was dead before he hit the deck. Another step forward brought Kelta in range of the one Kalon had shot in the leg; she dispatched him with a quick thrust.

“Give me their guns,” said Kalon, sitting up with an effort. His voice still carried an almost drunken slur. He swayed, clearly dizzy, and his eyes blurred in and out of focus for a moment. He raised one hand to his head, pressing the other to the planking to prevent himself from toppling over. But he’d already proven he could shoot despite his wounds. Kelta sheathed her swords for a moment, snatched two more pistols from the fallen pirates and tossed them into Kalon’s lap, then rushed onward.

The two pirates near the helm were already racing toward Kelta, shouting the alarm in case their companions below hadn’t heard the gunshots. Kelta felt the thumps of booted feet rushing up from below. Six lefts. That was nothing compared to the original odds, but six men with guns could still surround and kill her if she wasn’t fast enough.

She dropped her wrist knife into her hand and flung it. It sliced through the mist and buried itself in the chest of the nearest man coming from the helm. Kalon fired at the other; he missed, but the man ducked behind the mast, giving Kelta the time she needed to close the distance, drawing her swords again as she ran. 

The pirate saw her coming. His gun swung toward her, but her left-hand sword swept outward, shearing into his wrist and slamming the gun aside as he pulled the trigger. The shot went wild, and the man’s cry cut off as Kelta’s other sword drove into his chest.

That only left the four below. Kelta turned in time to see the first one coming up through the hatch with a gun already aimed at her. The crack of the report came before Kelta could move — and the pirate fell forward and dropped his gun to lie with his face in a puddle and his legs still dangling down the ladder behind him. Kalon’s second shot had taken him in the back.

Kelta raced to the hatch and flung the dead man back down inside, hoping he wasn’t the officer she’d picked out from earlier. A muffled yell of surprise was followed by hasty scrambling noises, and Kelta jumped straight down on top of the dead man, who had fallen on top of the man climbing up behind him. She landed on both of them, jumped clear of the wriggling pile of limbs, and slammed her boot hard into the head of the man on the bottom, driving his skull against the lowest rung of the ladder. He’d live, probably, but he’d wish he hadn’t by the time the Taxians finished with him.

A heartbeat later she heard the last two men running toward her. The men had split into pairs to search below, and this pair was a little farther away than the first. 

She leapt to meet them fast enough to slap aside the first man’s pistol as he raised it toward her. The shot fired past her, and she launched off her back foot to plant the other heel squarely into the man’s chest. Bones cracked beneath her boot as she slammed him into the bulkhead, and he collapsed, senseless.

She followed him to the floor to avoid being shot by the last man coming from the afterhold. The bullet whizzed overhead; he rushed at her and tried to club her with the empty pistol, but she grabbed his arm, clawing her way up his body to regain her feet. As her hand found his neck she twisted, slamming him bodily into the bulkhead. Sometimes even in a pitched fight the same trick worked twice. She slapped his head against the bulkhead once more for good measure, then let his body slump over his companion’s.

She scrambled over the pile of men and retrieved her two swords where she had dropped them, then started counting backwards in her mind to make sure she’d gotten them all. Leaving these last three alive, and accounting for Kalon’s two, she had just killed sixteen men in about an hour.

Kelta stood there in the dark, breathing heavily, with blood dripping from the blades of her swords and water dripping from the rest of her body. Every pulse drove pain through the side of her neck; she’d almost forgotten the wound, but now she felt fresh blood seeping through the rain-soaked bandage. Her body trembled from the familiar mixture of pain and blood loss and the aftermath of a hard fight.

She forced herself to keep moving anyway. She walked through the lower deck and the hold, checking that she hadn’t missed any pirates. She was not going to repeat their mistake. Once she’d assured herself there was nobody hiding or playing dead, she checked that none of the three she’d knocked unconscious looked Poravian. As it turned out, they were all Alokite, with red hair and braided beards. Safe enough to keep alive, as long as she was careful.

Kelta tied one of them to the ladderway with his hands spread the distance of the rungs so he couldn’t use them, then dragged the other two to the gun deck and lashed them between guns, looping rope through the carriages to keep the men as still as possible. Then she stabbed the one Kalon had shot, just to be safe, and returned to deck to do the same to the rest of the pirates.

The rain had slowed and the light filtering through the fog had shifted from grey to pearly white. The mist was starting to thin as the sun rose higher. The air felt less heavy, and the noise of the waves slapping against the hull came crisp and clear.

Overhead, the sails luffed briefly, then hung limp. With nobody to adjust the sails or man the helm, the little schooner had turned into the wind: she was in irons, moving with the waves instead of the breeze. For the moment, that was good. It meant they weren’t moving any farther from the Keltorax or straying into dangerous waters in the mist.

“Is that all of them?” Kalon asked, his voice hoarse and still slightly slurred. He was sitting up again, leaning against the rail with the bodies of friends and foes still strewn around him.

“That’s all,” Kelta said. She looked down at her swords, watching the rain wash them clean, then returned them to their sheaths at her sides. “Can you stand?”

“Yes.” Kalon answered without pausing to consider. He had tossed aside the empty pistols and laid his sword across his lap; now he sheathed the blade and pulled himself up the rail to stand, swaying and pale. “You sure that’s all of them?” he asked. “Did you count them?”

“Yes,” Kelta said, too tired to care if he was checking up on her again or if he was just being cautious.

“Survivors?” he asked.

“Samos. Kaphor, if we get him to the doctor quickly enough.”

Kalon started to nod and caught himself, cupping a hand gingerly over his bruised temple. “Let’s get them out of the rain.” He motioned toward a roll of tarred canvas stowed beside the rail. It wouldn’t make much of a shelter, but Kelta doubted either of them had the strength to carry their unconscious comrades down the ladder to the schooner’s cabin.

By the time they had rigged a rough awning over Samos and Kaphor, the rain had slowed to a bare drizzle and the mist was shredding away as sunlight brightened overhead. Kalon sank down to lean against the mast and gestured Kelta to sit as well.

She hesitated. She was in command of the schooner now; as senior sorhaias, that duty fell to her with Meniphos’ death. She had to calculate their location or find the Keltorax. But that could wait a few minutes. She sat down and peered under the edge of the tarpaulin at Samos and Kaphor. Samos seemed to be sleeping naturally now; his breathing was steady and his face had regained some color. Kaphor looked worse, with sweat beading his white face and tremors running through his body. Kelta bent over him, examining his wound, but she couldn’t tell much except that he’d stopped bleeding.

The sand glass that hung beside the wheel had run through long since with nobody to turn it or strike the bell, and without a clear view of the horizon or the sun, Kelta couldn’t guess at the time. She felt as though it should be noon by now, but in reality, she doubted it was more than an hour past sunrise. Her stomach grumbled for breakfast and her mouth and throat felt dry, but she couldn’t trust any of the pirates’ provisions.

They sat there, silent, exhausted, and hurting, until the last of the fog burned away and the tall blue sails of the Keltorax appeared nearby, crimson wind spells flickering along the edges of the canvas as she rushed back to reclaim the misplaced prize.

A Neborite Meal

Jump to Recipes — Melon Curry — Fried Vegetables — Flatbread — Coconut Peach Jelly — Hot Chocolate

You step through the archway into a courtyard garden. Flowering trees shade the flagstone paths, and small fountains trickle and bubble here and there, filling the whole space with the soft sound of running water. At the center of the garden stands a circle of comfortable chairs, each with its own tiny table.

This is an informal meal, so there’s no ceremony and no concern about seating order. A buffet table stands to the side, and several guests have already served themselves. You move around the circle of chairs, pick up a bowl from the end of the buffet, and begin filling it.

A massive pot of stew holds pride of place on the table. It smells of coconut milk, curry, and other strong spices. As you ladle it into your bowl, you spot chunks of chicken, green melon rind, and tender bamboo shoot. Beside the stew pot stands a row of bowls, each holding a different type of vegetable so you can choose what to add to your curry. You heap eggplants, mushrooms, bitter-melon, and white radish into your bowl.

Claiming a second bowl, you pile it full of flatbread, plantain chips, and honeydew melon before returning to your seat. The host passes around a bottle of pineapple wine, and everyone fills their own glass. For a few minutes, everyone chats lightly while eating, but after a while the conversation breaks into small groups. At the far side of the ring of chairs, a few people move their chairs and tiny tables into a smaller circle so they can talk privately. The people to either side of you turn their chairs to face toward you so none of you have to turn sideways to converse.

When everyone has eaten their fill, the host steps inside and returns with a tray filled with dessert bowls. Everyone rises to take a bowl, and you return to your seat admiring the delicate confection. The bottom layer is pale, creamy pink, with a smaller layer of translucent pink on top, and several scaly lychee fruits sit to one side. You peel one of the lychee to reveal the pearly white flesh and nibble the fruit away from the seed, then scoop up a mouthful of the gelatinized dessert. The rich taste of coconut milk is balanced by a light peach flavor and the faintest hint of citrus.

The host ducks inside again and returns with a steaming pitcher this time. The evening is growing cool, and you gladly accept a mug of what turns out to be rich sweet chocolate. You lean back in your cushioned chair with a sigh of contentment, nibbling at the light jelly between sips of thick chocolate.

Melon Curry

1 (15 ounce) can crushed tomatoes
2 cups coconut milk
1 1/2 cup plain yogurt
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 ½ teaspoons minced fresh ginger root
2-3 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro
2 tablespoon curry powder
2 teaspoon ground cumin
2 teaspoon ground coriander
2 tsp paprika
1 teaspoon black pepper
2 teaspoons salt
2 cups melon rind, chopped
2 cups fresh bamboo shoot, chopped
2 pounds chicken, chopped

Place a large pot on the stove at high heat and pour in tomatoes, milk, yogurt, and lemon juice. Stir well.When the liquid approaches a boil, reduce to medium heat and add onion, garlic, ginger, cilantro, and spices. Stir well. Simmer until onions turn translucent, stirring occasionally.While broth simmers, sear chicken in a pan. Add melon rind, bamboo shoot, and par-cooked chicken to the stew pot. Continue simmering until chicken is fully cooked and melon rind is softened. If the broth begins to thicken too much, add water and stir well.

Fried Vegetables

2 Japanese eggplants
2 bitter-melons
2-3 cups whole white mushrooms
6-8 inches daikon radish
curry powder
salt and pepper to taste
cooking oil

Cut the eggplants into small pieces. Slice the bitter-melons lengthwise and scoop out the pith with a spoon. Peel and chop the daikon radish.Cut the bitter-melons into small pieces and salt liberally. Allow to sit 5-10 minutes, then par-boil 2-4 minutes and drain.Prepare a small pan with about 2 tsp oil and 1/2 cup water. Add the par-boiled bitter-melons and season to taste with curry, salt, and pepper. Fry until the water has evaporated and the vegetables are softened and beginning to brown.Set aside the bitter-melon in a bowl. You may want to place the bowl in the oven on low heat to keep it warm. Prepare the pan the same way as before and fry the eggplants.Repeat this process with mushrooms and daikon, keeping each type of vegetable separate for the buffet-style meal.

Flatbread

4 cups flour
1 cup olive oil
2 tsp salt
1-2 cups water

Mix flour, oil, salt, and 1 cup water. If the batter is too thick to pour, add more water a little at a time until it reaches the consistency of pancake batter. Optional: add herbs such as rosemary or oregano.Heat a griddle or pan and pour small flatbreads, about 1/2 cup of batter per round of bread.When the edges begin to bubble, flip and fry the other side. Serve with curry.

Coconut Peach Jelly

2 packages peach Jello
3 cups coconut milk
1 cup flavored water (citrus or tropical fruit)
fresh lychee

Bring 2 cups of coconut milk to a near boil. Do NOT allow to reach a full boil. Separate into 2 bowls, 1 cup of hot milk per bowl.Pour a Jello packet into each bowl and stir well until fully combined with no lumps.Mix 1 cup of cold coconut milk into one bowl and 1 cup of flavored water into the other.Pour each Jello mixture into a muffin tin and refrigerate until firm.In each serving bowl, place a piece of coconut milk jello on the bottom and a piece of flavored-water jello on the top. Serve with lychee fruit.

Hot Chocolate

1 can coconut milk
1 can Cream of Coconut (sweetened condensed coconut milk)
1 cup almond milk
1/2 cup cocoa powder
2-3 tsp vanilla
2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 cup dark chocolate chips

Pour coconut milk, cream of coconut, and almond milk into a small pot and stir together on medium heat. Do not allow to boil.Once the liquid is hot, add cocoa powder, vanilla, and cinnamon. Stir constantly until powder is fully dissolved. You may want to use a whisk, as cocoa powder tends to form lumps.Remove from heat and add chocolate chips. Continue stirring until chips are fully melted and incorporated.Pour or ladle into cups. Serves 5-6. Add more almond milk if the mixture is too rich or too thick.

A Poravian Meal

Jump to Recipes — Figgy Salmon — Spiral Bread — Roasted Eggplant — Taro Sesame Cones — Rosemary Lemonade

You sit down with your friends around the richly appointed dining table. The cloth is shimmery gold, lit by delicate porcelain candle-holders shaped like old-fashioned oil lamps. Your place has already been set with an embroidered placemat, engraved silverware, and two goblets made of colored glass.

As soon as everyone is seated, servants emerge from a side door carrying plates of food and bottles of drink. The host doesn’t say anything to introduce or begin the meal; words are cheap, and the meal should speak for itself. One servant circles the table pouring wine, while another fills the larger glasses with rosemary lemonade.

Once everyone has their drinks, the servants return to the kitchen and begin carrying out artistically arranged plates of food. A rich smell of figs and mustard drifts to your nose as one of the servers sets down your plate in front of you. A large crispy piece of salmon fills the center of the plate, with mushrooms and slices of roasted eggplant spiralling out toward the edges, all of it covered with a decadent reddish-orange sauce.

You wait with your hands folded in your lap, watching as the servants dart back and forth. A meal is a presentation, almost a performance, and it’s rude to eat or drink before everything is in its place. The servants finish serving the main plates and return again, this time carrying small side plates heaped with grapes and spirals of warm bread with a faint purplish color. One of the men sets a porcelain butter-dish in the middle of the table with a flourish, and with that the meal is ready to eat.

Everyone politely waits a moment longer, appreciating the attractive arrangement of the food and enjoying the aromas, before the host picks up his fork, signalling the beginning of the meal. There’s plenty of chatter and laughter over the food, but as always, actions are more important than words. The guests smile and nod to each other, keep the butter dish passing around so nobody ever needs to ask for it, and touch each other’s arms affectionately as they talk. Instead of telling the host how delicious the food and drink are, everyone makes a show of how much they enjoy it. As you finish your food, you settle back in your chair with a sigh of satisfaction — a bit exaggerated for effect, but not at all false.

The servants wait until all the plates are empty before returning to clear the guests’ places, refill cups, and bring a platter of small dark-colored cones of sweet taro and sesame paste. You continue chatting with your friends late into the night, sipping slowly at your wine and nibbling at the sweets while the meal settles.

Figgy Salmon

10 figs, chopped
1/3 cup white wine
¼ cup whole-grain mustard
2 tsp lemon juice
salt and pepper, to taste
3 tbsp olive oil
Four salmon fillets
2-3 cups fresh mushrooms

Chop the figs into pieces and put them in a small saucepan with the wine. Simmer until the mixture reduces and the figs break down. Stir occasionally, making sure to break up and mash the figs in the process.Remove the fig reduction from the heat and add mustard, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Stir well.Pour olive oil into a pan and bring to medium high heat. Place the salmon fillets and the mushrooms in the pan and cook about 5 minutes. Flip salmon, stir mushrooms, and cook another 5 minutes.Pour the fig sauce over the salmon and mushrooms and spread evenly. Cook another 3-5 minutes, until sauce begins to bubble and salmon is fully cooked. Serve with bread and roasted eggplant.

Spiral Bread

2 cups grape juice
1 tsp instant yeast
5 cups flour

Warm the grape juice and stir in the yeast. If it does not foam to your satisfaction, add a small amount of sugar or honey. Allow to sit until the yeast is active and bubbly.Measure the flour into a large shallow bowl and pour in the grape juice mixture. Stir or knead until it comes together into a smooth dough.Split the dough into 6-8 sections. Roll each section out into a long narrow cylinder, then coil it into a spiral shape.Bring a pot of water to a rolling boil and drop the dough spirals into it. Allow each spiral to boil for 2 minutes, then lift it out with a slotted spoon and set on a towel to drain off excess water.Once all the spirals have been boiled, arrange them on a baking sheet and bake for 15-20 minutes at 350 F. Serve hot with butter.

Roasted Eggplant

1 large eggplant
1-2 tsp salt
3 tbsp olive oil
2-3 tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped

Cut the eggplant in half lengthwise and sprinkle the exposed flesh liberally with salt. Allow it to sit at least 5 minutes to reduce bitterness.Spread olive oil evenly over the surface of a baking tray.Chop the eggplant into small pieces and arrange on the baking tray, stirring to coat the pieces evenly with olive oil. Sprinkle with fresh rosemary.Bake at 350 F for 25-30 minutes or until eggplant turns golden brown. The centers of the pieces should remain soft while the edges are slightly crispy.

Taro Sesame Cones

1/2-3/4 pound fresh taro
1 tbsp olive oil
1/4 cup sugar
1 cup sesame powder
1 cup crushed walnuts
2 dried figs, finely diced
1/3 cup honey
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp sugar

Peel the taro root. Chop into small pieces and place in a pot with water. Boil, stirring often, until taro becomes mushy.Drain the taro and mash until it becomes a crumbly paste. Return it to the pot with sugar and olive oil. Cook on medium heat and stir constantly until it reduces to a thick, smooth paste that pulls away from the sides of the pot.Measure the taro paste and return 1 cup to the pot. (Keep any extra to use in other recipes.) Add sesame powder, walnuts, figs, and honey to the pot.Stir constantly on medium heat until it forms a smooth dough. Remove from heat.Once dough is cool enough to handle, form small balls (about 2 tbsp each) and pinch each ball into a cone or pyramid shape.Mix lemon juice and sugar in a small bowl. Brush over surface of dough cones. Optional: sprinkle with powdered sugar.Cover and refrigerate until firm, 1-2 hours. Serve cold.

Rosemary Lemonade

2 quarts water
1/3 cup lemon juice
1/3-1/2 cup honey
3-5 tbsp fresh rosemary, crushed

Fill a pitcher with cold water. Add lemon juice and honey. Stir well. Taste-test and add more lemon or honey as needed to balance flavor. Place rosemary in a diffuser or teabag, or sprinkle directly into the water. Allow to steep 4-8 hours under refrigeration. Serve cold.

“Magical Mechanics” Excerpt

Pa was passed out with his face on the table when Denny slipped out of bed. There were two bottles on the table, one half full and the other empty and tipped over on its side.

Denny felt a stab of anger at the sight. Pa had gotten his hours cut this past week, but instead of going out looking for more work, he sat here every night complaining about the unfairness of life while he drank himself to sleep. Of course it never occurred to him that life might be easier if he stopped drinking away his paycheck.

Denny tiptoed past the table and opened the cupboard. There wasn’t much inside, just a loaf of bread, a chunk of dry cheese, and Pa’s last bottle. Denny was careful to take less than a third of the food. If Pa didn’t get a proper meal, he’d start swearing and throwing things at whoever was closest, which would be Ma this morning. Denny wrapped the food in his handkerchief and tucked it in his coat pocket. The quicker he got out of the apartment, the better his day would go.

“Sneaking out, are you?” The slurred voice froze Denny on his way to the door.

“Just going out, Pa,” Denny said. He tried not to let his wings quiver nervously.

“Going out to see that girl?” Pa lifted his bleary face away from the table. “I told you to stay away from her. She’s no good, always putting on airs. Thinks she’s better than the rest of us.”

“She does not,” Denny retorted. Normally he wouldn’t try to argue, but he couldn’t ignore Pa insulting Pretty.

“Are you talking back to me?” Pa demanded.

“No, sir.” Denny backed up a step as Pa’s hand closed on the empty bottle and his wings flared angrily behind him. “Just telling the truth. Pretty doesn’t think she’s better than any of us. She thinks all of us are better than the humans say we are.”

That was apparently too complicated for Pa right now. He grimaced, let go of the empty bottle, and picked up the half-full one instead. His wings flopped down over the back of his chair. “Give me some breakfast, boy.” Denny quickly pulled bread and cheese out of the cupboard and offered it to Pa. He grunted sourly. “This all we’ve got?”

Denny nodded.

“And I’m sure you’ve taken more than your share. Show me that kerchief you were trying to hide from me.”

Anger churned through Denny’s stomach again, but he didn’t argue. It wasn’t worth it. He unfolded his handkerchief and stood quietly as Pa took back half the cheese Denny had claimed. At least he left all the bread.

“Get that look off your face,” Pa growled. “You want more to eat, you’d damn well better start paying for it. You’re twenty years old, boy! It’s past time you pull your own weight around here.”

“I give you everything I earn,” Denny protested.

“You earn pennies!” Pa slammed his bottle down on the table. “A ten-year-old could earn more than you! And don’t start on the excuses. I’ve heard them all before. There aren’t enough jobs, nobody wants fairies, life is so hard,” he whined mockingly. “I don’t know why you’re too proud to join me in the factories—”

“You know exactly why!” Denny’s hands clenched at his sides. “After what happened to Sammy—”

Pa pushed his chair back and lurched to his feet. “You got no call to bring Sammy into this. That’s past and done. Forget about it!” Pa drained his bottle and flung it at Denny. It missed by an arm’s length, but Denny flinched anyway. The bottle shattered against the wall. Denny’s eyes flicked toward the curtain that separated Ma and Pa’s bed from the rest of the room. If Ma wasn’t awake already, the bottle breaking surely would have woken her, but there wasn’t a sound from behind the curtain. Ma always tried to hide as long as possible when Pa was angry.

Pa clutched his head and grimaced at Denny as if the noise of the bottle breaking was his fault. “I can’t afford a whiny, useless little freeloader clinging to my coat-tails. I should have put my foot down years ago. You’re going to fly right over to the nearest factory and get yourself a job!”

Denny swallowed. “I — I can’t go to the factories, Pa. You know I can’t.”

Pa swore and slammed a hand down on the table, then winced at the noise and gripped his head again. “If my head didn’t hurt so much, I’d march you over there myself. As it is—”

“I’ll find something,” Denny cut in. “I promise. Just give me a few more days, and I’ll find a decent job. I will!”

“You’d better.” Pa eyed him sourly, then sighed and sank back down at the table. “I’m too damn soft on you,” he grumbled. “You got until the end of the week. You’d better have a job by Dawn Festival, or I’m done with you. You come back with a job or not at all! You hear me?”

Denny nodded, snatched his handkerchief of food, and bolted out the door before Pa could decide to throw the other bottle at him. He shouldn’t have mentioned his brother. Pa had been trying to drink away his memories of Sammy for years; talking about him was the quickest way to make Pa angrier.

Outside, Denny slowed to a walk. It was still dark out, of course; there would be some light later in the day, but this far north, the sun wouldn’t rise properly until the end of the week. It must be strange for people in the south, where the sun rose and set every day all year round. They’d have sunlight in winter. And night in summer, too!

Denny tried to think about that instead of Pa’s threat. Imagining strange things usually made a good distraction. But today he couldn’t stop his thoughts from jumping back to what Pa had said. And what Denny had promised. Give him a few more days, and he’d find a decent job? What a stupid promise. Denny had spent years looking for a decent job, and he’d never come close. He usually managed to find day labor, but real jobs were another matter. There were just too many fairies in the city, and not enough work to go around.

But maybe this time he’d have some luck. He couldn’t let himself start the day feeling defeated, or he’d get nowhere. Denny adjusted the blue knit cap he wore — it was a little small for him, since it used to belong to Pretty — and made a point of walking in a relaxed, carefree sort of way. He even started humming a cheerful tune. He had found that if he acted like he was happy, most of the time it helped put him in a better mood.

He was feeling at least a little better by the time he reached Pretty’s apartment building down the block, and he felt a lot better as soon as he spotted Pretty waiting for him under a street-lamp. Denny’s chest felt a little too small for his breath, like it always did when he first saw her. Growing up, he’d never looked at her twice, but recently, it seemed like he couldn’t stop looking at her. They’d been sweethearts for a month, and he still couldn’t quite believe he’d ended up with a girl like Pretty. She turned and smiled at him, that wide, brilliant smile that made her blue eyes light up and sent a warm shiver through Denny.

“Morning,” she said brightly.

“Morning.” He smiled back at her. There were dark circles under her eyes. It didn’t make her less pretty, but it brought back a little of Denny’s worry. He hadn’t seen her looking well-rested in weeks. “Look for dawn,” he said.

Pretty slipped her arm through Denny’s. “Look for dawn,” she echoed as they started walking. The greeting was supposed to build anticipation for the first sunrise of the year, but the words felt too hopeful for this dreary neighborhood. There wasn’t much sign of Dawnmonth celebration here in Bugtown; only a few cheap lanterns hung in the dim streets, and there weren’t any pennants or streamers.

“Have you gotten a chance to talk to Miss Searden yet?” Denny asked. Pretty had seemed eager to talk to the reporter.

She shook her head, looking unhappy, and Denny wished he’d asked about something else. He didn’t want to remind her of her worries. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It was a silly idea, anyway.”

“It was not,” Denny protested. “Didn’t Miss Beka even say it was a good idea?” Connie Searden was the only person who had shown any sympathy toward Pretty’s father. Her newspaper articles had explained how he’d been forced into bad company, while everyone else just treated him as a villain. Denny knew how much it hurt Pretty, hearing people talk about her Pa as a horrible person who had deserved to die. A couple weeks ago, Pretty had been on fire to tell Miss Searden the full story and let people know what her Pa was really like. “You shouldn’t give up so easily,” Denny told her. He put his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t you want people to hear the truth about him?”

Pretty shrugged and looked away. “It doesn’t matter,” she said again. “I have more important things to think about.”

Denny tightened his arm around her. Pretty was too busy to talk to Miss Searden; that was the truth of it. She hadn’t stopped caring, but how was she supposed to find time to talk to a reporter when she had to bring in enough money to keep a roof over her family’s head? Her oldest brother was twelve; he could earn his keep. But the four younger children couldn’t.

Denny wished he could do something to help. With both his parents working and no children besides Denny, there should be money to spare. Denny should have been able to help somehow. But he gave every penny he earned to Pa, who always bought drink first, then left Ma to buy groceries and pay rent with whatever was left over.

And if Pa followed through on his threat to kick Denny out, he wouldn’t even have enough money to take care of himself, let alone help anyone else. He was more of a burden than a help. By all rights, he should step away from Pretty and let her find a man who could support her properly.

He swallowed and tried to push those thoughts out of his head. “You could send Miss Searden a message,” he suggested. “If she knows you want to talk, maybe she’ll come to you.”

“Maybe.” Pretty let out a long breath. “What about you? Are you all right? You don’t look very happy this morning.”

Denny managed a lighthearted shrug. “Just had an argument with Pa, that’s all. He’ll kick me out if I don’t have a job by the end of the week.”

Pretty turned to stare at him, gripping his arm to make him stop walking. “That’s all? Denny, that’s awful!”

“He wants me to go back to the factories.” Denny looked down at his feet, trying not to think about what happened to his big brother. “I told him I won’t, but if it’s that or getting thrown out, I — I might not have a choice.” He remembered Sammy screaming as he got caught in the works. The machinery just kept grinding and spinning without even slowing down. He shivered.

“You always have a choice,” Pretty said fiercely. She started walking again, pulling at Denny’s arm until she was practically dragging him down the sidewalk, ignoring the patches of dirty half-melted snow that squelched underfoot. “You can’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do!”

“I’m not giving up,” Denny assured her. “I’m sure I can find something.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt. Three days wasn’t long enough. There must be work out there somewhere, but Denny just wasn’t talented enough at anything to compete with all the other fairies looking for work.

“Have you tried the warehouses?” Pretty asked. She slowed to a more reasonable pace again and even noticed a mud puddle in time to swerve around it. “They’re always looking for people to load and stack and things like that.”

Denny nodded. “I’m not good at making things lighter with magic, and I’m not strong enough to carry much weight without magic. I’ve gotten day work a few times when they’re short-handed, but they won’t hire me permanently.”

“The messenger services always need—”

“Good fliers,” Denny said. “Which I’m not.” His magic was so weak he could barely stay aloft for ten minutes at a time. He shook his head. “I’ve looked everywhere, believe me. But there are so many fairies in Dreth these days, and not so many places that will hire us.”

Pretty narrowed her eyes. “Well, maybe it’s about time that changed.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

“And that means there’s no point trying?” Pretty stopped again and turned to face him with that familiar defiant light coming back into her eyes. “Everyone told me a girl couldn’t become a driver, but here I am. There’s nothing stopping you from doing the same thing. It doesn’t matter what sorts of jobs fairies are supposed to have. There’s plenty of other work in the city. You just have to make them take you seriously.”

“I suppose.” Denny’s insides twisted uncomfortably as he started walking again, with Pretty keeping pace. Part of him was excited at the idea of breaking the rules and making his own place in the world. But it was hard to believe it was possible. Pretty made it look easy, but she was one of those people who just — made things work for her, somehow, no matter how the humans tried to keep her down.

Denny was different. He wasn’t good at much of anything. He’d learned not to feel resentful about that, but he couldn’t avoid the truth of it. He was average at best, and average people didn’t change the world: they just got by as well as they could. He’d be happy if he could simply find a job he was good at and earn enough to keep a roof over his head. And maybe over Pretty’s head, too, eventually. And maybe even a family. It wasn’t greedy of him to want a job that could provide for a wife and a few children, was it?

“Look, there’s a newspaper.” Pretty pointed at a discarded paper caught in the gutter, then let go of Denny’s arm and darted over to pick it up. She shook it out as she fell back into step beside him. “Here, let’s look at the job listings. There’s sure to be something for you. How about this?”

Denny leaned over to look at the advertisement, his lips moving as he sounded out the words. Like Pretty, he’d learned to read at the neighborhood charity school, but he’d started working a lot younger than her, so he’d never gotten past the basics. He could muddle through the newspaper, but it was slow going.

“Fairies would make perfectly good bellhops,” Pretty said. “Even without much magic, you can carry more luggage than a human and run messages around the hotel more quickly. And what about this one? Anybody can check inventory in a warehouse.”

“I’m not sure I read well enough for that,” Denny pointed out.

“Well, it can’t hurt to try.”

He hesitated, then nodded. She was right. He had to try. Hadn’t he just assured her he wouldn’t give up? He couldn’t go to the factories, not unless it was the very last option. Maybe not even then. He pulled the job listings page out of the damp newspaper and folded it into his pocket.

They slowed as they reached Pretty’s workplace, an ordinary-looking brick building with a sign reading “Royal Investigative Service.” She’d managed to find not one but two good jobs, driving for the investigators during the day and packing deliveries for a grocery store in the evenings. If she could do it, surely Denny could too, even if he wasn’t as talented as her.

Pretty gave him a quick smile and a squeeze of his hand. “Everything’s going to work out. You’ll see.”

When she said it, Denny could just about believe it.

Continue Reading on Kindle!

An Ellondese Meal

Jump to Recipes — Beef Roast — Popovers

A servant greets you at the door and takes your coat before escorting you to the dining room. The snowy tablecloth is laid out with crystal goblets, lace napkins, and freshly polished silverware. This isn’t a formal meal, so there aren’t multiple sets of forks and spoons for different courses. Still, your host wants to honor you with the best he has, so the center of the table is decorated with a richly embroidered runner and several tall candles in crystal holders.

Everyone is here, so the host gestures toward the table, and everyone takes a seat. “It’s a great pleasure to have you all here this evening,” the host says, beaming around the table. “I hope you enjoy the meal. My wife oversaw the preparations with great care.” He reaches across the corner of the table to take his wife’s hand, and she smiles and nods graciously in acknowledgement.

“Well, then, let’s not stand too hard upon ceremony,” the host continues. He lifts one hand in benediction, lays the other over his heart, and prays: “May the Five Saints grant us knowledge, which through Contemplation begets devotion, the seed of true Patriotism, whose good result is Charity.” It’s a rote prayer that you’ve heard a thousand times, and you’ve often wondered what it has to do with sitting down for a meal, but you rest a hand on your chest respectfully until the host finishes.

The servant must have been listening for the prayer to end: he immediately enters carrying a tray filled with crystal plates. He moves quickly around the table, giving everyone a plate, and you inhale the rich scent of beef and gravy. Your plate is full of potatoes, onions, and carrots arranged artistically around a piece of beef so tender it’s already falling to shreds. At the side of the plate sits a small round popover, with a dense custardy texture and a crispy golden top flecked with rosemary.

As you begin eating, the servant makes the rounds again, filling everyone’s glasses with a rich red wine that pairs well with the beef and potatoes. The meat tastes of thyme, dill, and some milder herb that you can’t identify as easily.

The dinner conversation is light and pleasant; everyone avoids controversial topics like politics and religion, instead using the time to share family news or reminisce about other fine dinners. The servant continues checking the table every few minutes, serving more popovers and refilling wine glasses.

As soon as the last plate is empty, the servant begins whisking away the settings. Conversation continues easily as the man brings fresh wine glasses and fills them with a sweet, fruity blush wine. The pink color glitters pleasantly through the cut crystal of the goblets. A moment later the servant returns again with small glass bowls, each holding a sweet popover with a spiral of sliced apple baked into the top. The scent of spices and sugar rise from the warm treat as you pick up your fork to take a bite.

Beef Roast

1-2 pounds of beef
4 red potatoes
2 white or yellow onions
3 carrots
1 1/2 tbsp dill
2 tbsp parsley
2 tbsp thyme
2 tbsp oregano
1 tsp salt

Chop the potatos, onions, and carrots into small chunks.Place beef in the bottom of a slow cooker or crock pot. Layer the vegetables on top of the meat.In a small bowl, mix herbs and salt. Sprinkle the mixture evenly over the food in the crock pot.Fill the pot until the vegetables are just covered. Set to high and cook 4-6 hours. If you like your vegetables to have a firmer texture, consider waiting to add vegetables until the meat has already cooked 2-3 hours.Serve with rosemary popovers.

Popovers

2 eggs
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup milk
2 tbsp unsalted butter, melted
1 cup all-purpose flour

For savory version:
1 1/2 tbsp finely chopped fresh rosemary
1/2 tbsp parsley

For sweet version:
1/4 cup sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp cloves
2 granny smith apples

Mix eggs, milk, butter and salt thoroughly. For savory version, add flour, rosemary, and parsley and stir until combined. Do not over-mix.For sweet version, add flour, sugar, and spices and stir until combined. Do not over-mix.For sweet version, thinly slice apples and arrange several slices in each cup of a greased muffin pan, allowing the tips of the slices to stick up past the top of the cup to create a fan or spiral pattern.Pour or scoop batter into muffin pan, filling each cup about 2/3 full.Place in a cold oven, set the temperature to 425, and bake for 20 minutes (including the time it takes for the oven to heat).Reduce heat to 375 and bake until popovers are golden, another 10-15 minutes.Serve savory version with beef roast or sweet version with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.

An Alokite Meal

Jump to Recipes — Cold Summer Soup — Sweet Potato Bread — Marinated Eggs — Fried Honey-Cakes

As you cross the courtyard, your host steps forward to meet you. You bow deeply, and he bows in return. “Welcome, guest. What is mine is yours so long as you remain. All troubles are set aside, all feuds forgotten. Let us feast together.” He offers you a tiny square rug, no larger than the palm of your hand. You accept the gift and follow your host into the house.

A short hallway with murals painted along both walls opens into a large dining area. Braziers warm the air and waft the scent of incense around the room. The floor is piled with thick rugs and fat cushions of all sizes. The other guests have already gathered in two groups, women at one side of the room and men at the other. Each group sits on cushions around a low table just large enough to hold everyone’s drinks. Plates and bowls rest on people’s laps or on the floor beside them.

“Take your ease,” the host says, gesturing toward an unoccupied cushion. “I’ll bring your food to you.”

You settle on the floor. The person next to you hands you a silver cup, and you pour yourself a drink from the bottle in the middle of the tiny table. It’s fermented tea, flavored with tropical fruit imported from Fossen.

The host returns a moment later carrying your food: a bowl of cold soup with bits of ham and cucumber peeking through the creamy broth, and a narrow rectangular plate holding a marinated egg, a roll of sweet-potato bread, and several types of pickles.

The meal is a leisurely affair, with a lot of quiet talk and laughter among the guests. At the far side of the room, several musicians enter the room and settle on the floor against the wall, and at the first notes from the accordion player, a man and woman in flowing striped robes step out and begin an undulating dance. They sway their hips, twine their arms back and forth in serpentine motions, and occasionally pick up brightly painted sticks and whirl them through the air in complicated patterns.

Before you know it, everyone has finished eating, and the host makes another round of the room, carrying a plate of fried honey-cakes. You gladly take one of the crispy golden twists and nibble at it between sips of tea, feeling relaxed and satisfied as the cheerful conversation washes over you and the upbeat music continues in the corner.

Cold Summer Soup

1 onion finely chopped
3-4 potatoes diced
4 cups water
3 cups milk
¼ cup apple cider vinegar
2 tsp salt
3 tbsp fresh cilantro
2 tsp dried dill
1 cucumber finely chopped
2 carrots diced
½ ham diced
3 hard boiled eggs diced

Place the onion in a pan and cook until translucent. Add the potatoes and continue cooking until the potatoes are soft and the onions are transparent. Set aside and allow to cool.In a large pot or bowl with a lid, combine water, milk, vinegar, and salt. Stir well.Add herbs, vegetables, ham, and eggs. Stir again to combine.Add cooled onions and potatoes and mix well. Refrigerate until ready to eat. Serve with pickles.

Sweet Potato Bread

1 tbsp yeast
¼ cup sugar
1 cup warm water
1 cup butter
2 tsp salt
2 eggs
2 medium sweet potatoes
4-5 cup flour

Peel the sweet potatoes. Chop into small pieces and boil until the pieces can easily be crushed with a fork.Drain the potatoes and mash thoroughly with a fork, pastry cutter, or hand mixer.Combine yeast, sugar, and warm water in a small bowl and stir. Allow to sit until yeast becomes frothy.Meanwhile, combine butter, salt, and eggs in a large bowl. Add 2 1/2 cups of mashed sweet potato and mix well.Pour the yeast mixture into the sweet potato mixture and stir well. The result will be very watery. Begin adding flour 1/2 cup at a time, stirring constantly until it reaches the consistency of thick batter.Scoop batter into muffin tins and bake at 400 F for 20 to 25 minutes. Makes 24 rolls. Serve with butter.

Marinated Eggs

6 eggs
3 tbsp apple cider vinegar
1 tsp dill
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tbsp lemon juice
salt and pepper to taste

Hard-boil the eggs. Peel them and place them in a container large enough that all of them can lie flat on the bottom.Pour vinegar, dill, garlic, lemon, and salt over the eggs. Add water until the eggs are completely covered, then stir or swirl to combine the ingredients.Cover the container and marinade in the refrigerator 4-6 hours.

Fried Honey-Cakes

2 cups flour
1/4 cup butter
⅓ cup honey
pinch of salt
1/4 to 1/2 cup warm water
coconut oil for frying

½ cup cream cheese
¼ cup butter
2 tbsp milk
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla

Combine flour, butter, honey, and salt. Mix until it forms a crumbly dough. Add warm water 1 tbsp at a time, kneading until you have a smooth, elastic dough.Split the dough into small balls, each around 2 tbsp. Flatten each ball into a small strip and twist into a screw-like shape.Put a generous amount of coconut oil in the bottom of a pan and allow it to melt and heat until sizzling. Place dough twists in the oil and fry until bottom is golden brown. Turn several times, until all sides are crispy and golden. Place on a plate lined with paper towels to allow excess oil to drain.For dipping sauce, combine cream cheese, butter, milk, sugar, and vanilla in a small sauce pan. Stir over low heat until well combined and smooth.

A Taxian Meal

Jump to Recipes — Fish and Vegetables — Yogurt Dip — Corn Flatbread — Eggplant Dip — Fruit Salad — Whiskey Tea

The family talk quietly among themselves as they settle down to eat. You take the offered place near the middle of the group, settling cross-legged on one of the small wooden blocks that serve as stools around the low table. The matriarch and patriarch sit on either end, with the youngest and least experienced members of the family placed to either side where they can learn from their elders’ conversation.

The smell of food fills the air, but the table is bare except for several stained-glass lamps and a small wooden bowl and cup in front of each place. People glance around expectantly, and as if on cue, a young man opens the door to the next room and steps through, carrying a large crystal pitcher. “I hope you came hungry,” he says with a smile. “It must all be eaten tonight!”

“Then tonight we will build our strength for the fight tomorrow,” the matriarch replies formally. Then she smiles and leans forward to look at you. “I don’t think you’ve met my oldest grandson. This is Talos, just promoted to rohaias at the Golden Lotus restaurant. He’s an amazing cook.”

“Give him a few more years, and he’ll be haias of his own restaurant!” the patriarch adds.

Talos’ cheeks redden slightly at the praise as he sets down the pitcher. The patriarch fills his cup, then lifts it toward his grandson with a proud smile. “Your gift strengthens us.”

Talos takes a sip before returning the cup. “Your strength guides me,” he answers. He beams around the table, then hurries back to the other room and starts bringing in one dish after another.

In moments, the table is crammed with food. In the center stands a massive dish of roasted fish with chick-peas and vegetables. Mismatched bowls of wood and ceramic hold creamy golden eggplant dip, crispy corn chips, yogurt sauce, and steaming rounds of yellow flatbread fresh from the pan. At the far side of the table, you spot a dish of fruit, nuts, and yogurt waiting for dessert.

There’s little ceremony in serving food. The plate of flatbread passes quickly around the table, and then everyone reaches for whichever dish catches their attention. You spoon vegetables and broken fragments of fish onto your flatbread, dribble yogurt sauce over it, and start munching, leaning forward to let your bowl catch any crumbs. Beside you, one of the children uses a bit of bread to scoop up eggplant dip straight from the serving bowl, and nobody scolds him for it.

The pitcher of tea goes around, and you fill your cup and take a refreshing sip of the chilled drink. It has a spicy tang of ginger and cinnamon, mixed with the smooth flavor of whiskey. Everything is delicious, and conversation stops for a while as people focus on their food. The cook, Talos, settles with everyone else and digs into his meal as eagerly as the rest of the family.

After a while, the woman beside you turns to you and comments, “Kahai!” It’s a unique Taxian word to share your satisfaction with someone’s work. It would be rude to praise the cook directly for his accomplishment, of course.

You smile and nod in reply. “Kahai.” The meal really is wonderful.

Fish and Vegetables

olive oil
8 garlic cloves, minced
1/3 cup tomato juice
1 onion, diced
1 red pepper, cored, sliced
1 cup sliced mushrooms
1 can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 1/2 cup water
1 cup fresh cilantro
salt and black pepper
4 small salmon fillets
3/4 tsp paprika
1/2 tsp cumin
1 tsp cinnamon
Juice of ½ lemon

In a large pan with cover, heat 2 tbsp olive oil. Add minced garlic, tomato juice, onion, peppers, and mushrooms. Cook for over medium heat until onions turn translucent, stirring frequently.Add chickpeas, water, cilantro, and salt and pepper to taste. Bring to a boil, then lower heat again and allow to simmer about 20 minutes.Meanwhile, in a small mixing bowl, combine paprika, cumin, cinnamon, and salt and pepper to taste. Coat fish with olive oil and spice mixture.Add the fish to the pan and ladle sauce on top of the fillets. Add lemon juice and cook another 10 to 15 minutes over medium-low until the fish is fully cooked and flaky.Garnish with fresh cilantro and serve with yogurt dip and flatbread.

Yogurt Dip

2 cups plain yogurt
1/2 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp cumin
2 tsp lemon juice
1 small cucumber

Dice the cucumber into very small pieces.Add salt, cumin, and lemon juice to yogurt and mix thoroughly.Stir diced cucumber into the sauce. Serve over fish and vegetables.

Corn Flatbread

2 cups cornmeal
1 cup milk
1 cup water
1 tsp olive oil
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp oregano

Mix together all ingredients. Stir thoroughly, then allow to sit 5 minutes. Cornmeal will absorb liquid. If the batter looks too thick, add more water. The consistency should be similar to pancake batter.Grease a large pan with olive oil and heat on medium-high. When the pan is ready, scoop or pour batter, using about 1/2 cup for each flatbread.Cook until the edges are dry and bubbly, then flip and cook the other side about the same length of time.Top with fish and vegetables or dip in eggplant dip.

Eggplant Dip

1 large eggplant
olive oil
1-2 tbsp plain yogurt
1 ½ tbsp tahini paste
1 garlic clove
1 tbsp lime juice
Salt and pepper
½ tsp to 1 tsp cayenne pepper

Cut the eggplant in half lengthwise and salt the exposed flesh lightly. Allow to sit 5 minutes to reduce bitterness.Preheat the oven to 425 F. Place the eggplant halves flesh side down on an oiled backing shet and bake 30-40 minutes.Allow eggplant to cool, then scrape the flesh away from the skin and combine with all other ingredients.Mash and stir thoroughly using a pestle, fork, or food processor. Allow to cool before serving.

Fruit Salad

1-2 cups of plain yogurt
1/3 cup honey
1/4 cup orange zest
1/2 of a honeydew melon, cubed
1 package strawberries, cored and halved
1 can pineapple chunks
1 can mandarin orange slices
3/4 cup sliced almonds

Combine yogurt, honey, and orange zest in a small bowl and stir well.Combine melon, strawberries, pineapple, and orange slices in a large bowl.Pour yogurt mixture and sprinkle almonds over the fruit and mix or toss gently to combine.

Whiskey Tea

2 teabags black tea with ginger or cinnamon
2 tbsp fresh ginger, finely chopped
2 cinnamon sticks, broken into pieces
1 nutmeg (or 1 tbsp ground nutmeg)
1 tbsp lime juice
apple whiskey

Place ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a diffusing bag or directly into the bottom of a pitcher. Add teabags and lime juice.Fill pitcher with hot water, then refrigerate while tea steeps.Put a shot of whiskey in each 8-ounce teacup, then fill the rest of the way with tea.

A Fosseni Meal

Jump to Recipes: Pork Pot — Mango Rice — Drinks

“Welcome! Come, sit with us.” The dark-skinned woman beams at you from under a bright yellow headscarf as she ushers you toward the table. A dozen friends and family members already crowd around the table, chattering and laughing. Every one of them wears brighter colors and patterns than the last.

You squeeze into the last remaining chair as the hostess returns to the head of the table. She gives her husband a kiss on the forehead in passing before raising her hands over the table. “Our thanks go to the god of the sea who brings the rain, and to the goddess of the earth who brings the bounty spread before us.”

Her husband throws up a hand. “And to the woman of the house who cooked this meal!” The guests laugh and cheer in agreement.

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” asks the hostess. “The food’s not going to stay warm forever.” She sits down with a swirl of orange and blue skirts, and with that the meal begins.

Some people pass bowls of food, but others simply stand to reach across the table and serve themselves. The man sitting to your right gives you a friendly grin and heaps food onto your plate for you before anyone else can snatch the serving dish away.

In moments, your plate is heaped with fragrant brown rice, pork so tender it falls apart at a touch, and a mixture of stewed fruits and vegetables. The woman at your left passes you a small bowl already filled with sticky sweet-rice, sliced fruit, and creamy sauce. She winks at you. “Best take a serving early, before my boys eat the pot dry.”

You intercept a teapot as it passes around and fill your mug. The aromas of berries and coconut cream rise from the cup. A pitcher comes around the table from the other direction, carrying the sharper scent of rum, lemon, and blueberries. The man beside you fills the squat glass that sits beside your mug, then leans over the table to fill the glass of the woman across from him.

The woman beside you elbows you lightly. “Eat up!” she encourages. With a smile, you pick up your wooden spoon and dig in.

PORK POT

3 pounds pork, cut into pieces 
1 white onion, chopped 

1 can coconut milk
2 cups chicken stock 
juice from 1 can of pineapple chunks

1 1/2 tsp salt 
1/2 tsp pepper 
1/2 tsp thyme 
1 1/2 tsp cardamom 
1 tsp cinnamon 
1/2 tsp nutmeg 
1/4 tsp cloves 
3 cloves minced garlic 
2 tbsp lemon juice 
1 tsp minced ginger

2 cups watermelon or honeydew rind, chunked
1 large mango, chopped 
1 can pineapple chunks
1 bell pepper, chopped

Place the pork and onion in the bottom of a crock pot or large stovetop pot.In a bowl, mix the chicken stock, coconut milk, and pineapple juice. Add the spices and stir thoroughly.Pour the liquid mixture over the pork and onions and set the crock pot to high. Alternately, set your pot to simmer on medium-low. Cook for 3 hours.Add the melon rinds and cook for another 30 minutes. Add mango, pineapple, and peppers and cook for another 30 minutes. Serve with brown rice.

MANGO RICE

1 cup sweet rice (aka sticky rice or mochi rice)
1 1/2 cups water
1 can coconut milk, divided
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 to 4 tablespoons molasses, to taste
2 ripe mangoes

Place the rice in a pot with 1 1/2 cups of water, 1/2 can of coconut milk, salt, and 1 tablespoon of molasses. Stir well.Bring to a gentle boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes or until the rice becomes thick and sticky. Stir frequently to prevent rice from sticking to the pot.In a separate pot, warm (do not boil) the other 1/2 can of coconut milk. Add 2-3 tablespoons molassas to taste, stirring to dissolve. Allow the sauce to thicken slightly.Prepare the mangos by cutting them into small pieces.Serve the rice with mangos on top and sauce poured over it all.

DRINKS

Tea: Brew a pot of herbal fruit tea and allow to steep at least twice as long as the package instructs. Add coconut milk to taste. Do not add sugar.

Fruity Rum: Fill a pitcher 2/3 of the way with water. Add lemon juice and honey to taste. Fill the remaining 1/3 of the pitcher with blueberry juice or another fruit juice of your choice. Mix well. Put a shot of rum in each glass, then fill the rest of the glass with the fruit juice mixture. Add blueberries or other small pieces of fruit.