Maggie Furey - Aurian

As usual, Anvar never saw the sly foot that tripped him. He was carrying the heavy bin full of meat offal and vegetable peelings toward the kitchen’s outer door when there was a sharp pain in his ankle. Then he was down, sprawling on the flagstones that he had scrubbed only this morning, in a welter of blood and stinking garbage.

The Head Cook’s furious bellow silenced the titters of the other kitchen workers. “Stupid, clumsy oaf!” Janok’s heavy boot caught Anvar hard in the stomach, in the ribs, and in the face. Seizing a broom that had been propped against the wall, Janok began to beat him, cursing him all the while. Anvar howled as the heavy shank struck down repeatedly on his back and shoulders. He tried to crawl away to escape the blows, but his feet slipped on the slimy offal and he went facedown into the bloody mess, cracking his chin hard on the stone floor. Dimly, he heard someone laugh. It saved him. Raging, Janok turned on the watching servants. “What are you standing there for? Get back to work, before I beat the lot of you. It lacks but two hours to the Solstice Feast!” He threw the broom across Anvar’s body and gave him one last kick for good measure. “Get this mess cleaned up, you!”

Whimpering, Anvar struggled to rise, afraid of the consequences if he did not.HHe felt sick and breathless, his body clenched in a knot of pain. Gently he probed the side of his face, where Janok’s boot had struck. Nothing seemed broken, but his jaw hurt, and he would have another bruise to go with the marks that Janok’s fists had left yesterday, and the days before. Using the broom for support, Anvar hauled himself shakily upright. No one offered to help him. Stiffly, painfully, he began to sweep up the mess. Now he would have the floor to scrub again.

The four months that Anvar had spent in the kitchens of the Academy had been a living nightmare. There were only eight Magefolk, but they were very awkward in their eating habits. They wanted separate and elaborate meals at different times and places, and refused to eat together in the Great Hall adjoining the kitchen. This made a great deal of work—and Janok gave Anvar all the worst tasks. The Head Cook was an evil-tempered bully who brutalized all the kitchen menials, but he had selected Anvar out for special attention.

Each day Anvar scrubbed the greasy stone floors, peeled root vegetables, and washed an endless succession of dishes until his hands were cracked and raw. Janok made him scrape and polish the blackened copper pots until they gleamed. He cleaned the silver, took out the rubbish, and cut and fetched wood for the ovens and ranges until his back ached. All he was given to eat were kitchen scraps. If Anvar dropped or broke anything, he was beaten. If he managed to drag his way to the end of a day without getting into trouble, Janok found an excuse to hit him anyway.

Things might have been easier if Anvar had made any friends among the other menials, but they were a miserable, surly lot, and letting someone else bear the brunt of the Head Cook’s temper suited them very well. Janok had made a point of telling them that Anvar had murdered his mother, and kitchen gossip being what it was, the tale grew with every telling. No one spoke to him, except to curse him or give him orders, and they went out of their way to get him into trouble with cruel practical jokes. When his back was turned, they poured boiling water into the pots he was washing, so that he scalded his hands. When he cleaned the silver, tarnished items would vanish, to reappear when Janok entered the room. If he was carrying hot food or trays of 3ishr£s, he was tripped or pushed so that his burden went flying. They blamed him for their own mistakes, too. If anything went wrong in the kitchen, it was Anvar’s fault.

Anvar was in constant torment over what the Archmage had done to him. How had he come to be here? Whenever he tried to remember what had happened in Miathan’s quarters, his thoughts were erased by the agony that knifed through his skull. After a while, it became easier to believe that he was being punished for Ria’s death. Anvar was consumed with grief for his mother, and he truly believed he was to blame. If he had been on time, she would still be alive. He might as well have murdered her. So great was his despair that only the thought of Sara kept him from taking his own life. What had become of her? He had let her down when she needed him. Anvar fretted himself sick over her fate, and that of her unborn child. But he was helpless—imprisoned here with the conspicuous Magefolk bondmark tattoed on the back of his left hand in indelible dye. In the early days, before his spirit was utterly broken, Anvar had considered trying to escape in one of the carts that brought fresh produce from the markets to the Academy each day, but it was hopeless. Janok had him watched constantly, and even if he had managed to get away, the penalties for runaway bondservants were severe.

Now the Winter Solstice was upon them, but the holiday brought no joy to Anvar. Once they had finished preparing the Mages’ Solstice Feast, the kitchen menials were free to celebrate the festival. Casks of ale were broached, and a lively party was soon under way in the kitchen. There was eating, drinking— lots of drinking—and a great deal of horseplay. Drunken couples cavorted on tables where food would be prepared tomorrow, and Janok had the youngest laundry maid facedown over the bags of flour that were stacked in a corner; his flushed, sweating face contorted in a slack leer as he lifted her skirts. Judging from her muffled shrieks, she was not enjoying the experience—but Janok was king of his little domain, and gave her no choice.

Anvar, watching from his damp and squalid sleeping place beneath the stone sinks, felt sick with disgust. They had excluded him from their festivities, and for once he was glad. It was now, when everyort? was celebrating, that he missed his home and family most keenly. Anvar crouched in his dank, cramped refuge, nursing his bruises and grief. Had he not been late that morning, Ria would be alive now. He and Sara would be married, and looking forward to the birth of their child in the spring. Anvar wondered where she was tonight, and how she was spending her Solstice. Overcome with despair, he wept. Anvar was exhausted. His body was weak and aching from grinding toil and Janok’s brutal beatings, and activity in the kitchen that day had been frantic, because of the Mages’ feast. Despite the din, he eventually dozed. When he awakened everything was quiet. The fire had burned low and the servants were snoring where they lay, sleeping off the ale. Anvar sat up, his pain and weariness forgotten. This was his chance to escape! At last he could see Sara, and set his mind at rest. Perhaps they could run away together!

D’arvan thought the Great Hall looked magnificent in its festive finery. He loved this vast, imposing chamber. For some reason, it had always been the place where he felt most at home. Its double row of supporting pillars, cunningly carved from dark stone in the shape of trees whose branches interlaced to support the ceiling, had been decorated with bright-berried evergreens, and Magelight blazed golden in crystal globes on the walls. The dancing flames of scarlet candles were reflected in the polished wood of the tables, and a huge log fire roared in the massive fireplace.

It was late, and most of the Magefolk had already retired. Elewin, the Academy’s Chief Steward, was up in the gallery serving mulled wine to the tired musicians, to fortify them for their journey home through the snow, and servants were clearing away the remains of the Solstice Feast. Though traditionally only the fruits of the wildwood were eaten at Solstice, Janok had outdone himself this year. D’arvan had been staggered by the variety of foodstuffs served. Haunches of venison and a roast boar stuffed with herbs and wild apples; roast pheasant and swan decorated with their own plumage, and pigeon and rabbit pies. Succulent trout from forest streams had been broiled with flaked nuts, and there were wild roots and winter greens, dried mushrooms in a sauce of wild garlic, and a mound of truffles. During the growing season, Janok’s nfiost trusted workers had scoured the woods near the city, seeking ingredients for this feast, and had preserved fruits and berries in syrups and fortified wines for cakes, tarts, and sweetmeats crystallized with honey. D’arvan sat back, and loosened his belt. What a feast it had been!