I dig my boots into the ground. “Where?” I’m not about to follow anyone around here unless I want to.
He is taken aback by my question, but he answers me anyway. “Kitchen duty.”
At least that gets me inside the castle. Progress! I look around for Jander and spot him by the open stable door. I point to him. “He was fighting too. It’s only fair.”
“You’re giving orders now, huh?” the guard barks at me. But he takes one look at Jander and gives in. “Fine. He’s good at washing floors.”
I nod to Jander. He comes out from the doorway and follows the guard. I step behind him, glaring at Luce. He glares back. Then, finally, he smirks and disappears into the barn.
But I’m the one who gets the last laugh. Wonder who will shovel manure for them now?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shadow
THERE ARE ONLY THREE MEN and one boy in the kitchen, but there’s so much going on that it feels like at least twice that many. There are two enormous cooking hearths, each with two massive black pots bubbling, and a bread oven. More pots of various sizes line the walls, though they’re probably rarely used. I’m sure this kitchen hasn’t prepared grand multicourse feasts in quite a long time.
The cooks are sweaty, their shirtsleeves rolled up past the elbow and white caps holding their hair back. One of them frantically scrubs out bowls, stacking them beside him on the butcher block counter to dry. Some of the bowls still have bits of food left in them. The wheeled cart from the dining hall is next to him, full of dirty dishes. Another cook is peeling potatoes, and the other is chopping them. He fills a bowl, runs it to the pot, dumps it all in, then returns to chopping at the table.
The head cook notices Jander and I are waiting for orders, so he grabs a mop from the pantry doorway and hands it to me. “There’s another around here somewhere. The hall needs a good wash. Go to it.”
Jander and I find another mop and pails and begin cleaning the dining hall. The cook wasn’t joking—the floors haven’t been cleaned in a rather long time. The initial swipe of the mop leaves muddy smears, but under those layers of dirt is a gorgeous mosaic tile floor. Were the windows clean, the floors would be glittering in the sunlight. As we uncover more and more of it, I see that the tiles make a giant floral pattern, blue and red blooms with green stems and leaves, against a black background.
I keep cleaning, and as I do, I begin to doubt this whole scheme. What am I doing here? Why am I at Deersia? Am I even helping Caledon or just hurting myself?
I jump back and shout, “Ouch!”
Jander looks at me quizzically. “Just a shock,” I tell him. But that’s not true; it’s the weeping willow at Baer all over again. The feeling of lightning runs up my spine and down my arms. It’s overwhelming, and a bit scary, but curiosity floods me before fear can take hold.
I hunch down and run my finger along the emerald stem of a bright red rose, admiring the tile’s craftsmanship. I get another shock and press my finger against the flower and hold it there. Maybe a vision will give me information, help me find Caledon.
The dining hall, except the dining hall from long ago, wavers into focus. The tiles are brand-new, glossy and perfect, not a scratch or chip anywhere. A blurry figure sits at the head of a grand table set with white cloth and gold dishes. The figure . . . is it human? I take a deep breath in and the image gets clearer. Human, yes. With waist-length silver hair, wearing a long-sleeved, full-length white tunic and an emerald gem around his neck. Violet eyes bore into me with a fiery intensity.
I pull my hand up and the vision disappears. Jander is still mopping the far end of the hall, and everything is dingy and plain again. My mind races. There was something strangely familiar about that figure. Was I imagining that they looked straight into my eyes? When I saw King Esban at Baer, no one there seemed aware of me watching.
I need to know. I’m not sure if I can make the vision return, but I have to try.
So I press both my hands against the floor and close my eyes, willing myself, with every bit of my heart and mind, to return to Deersia’s past again. I want to see. I want to see . . .
It works. In a flash, the entire floor stretches out around me, glistening and new, sparkling in the light coming through the brand-new panes of glass. I’m awed by the beauty of it—a floor, of all things. Though, really, it’s a work of art.
There’s an eerie silence. Almost a void of sound. Then footsteps approach, thunking, echoey. A gust of air blows my hair and I look up—a silver-haired mage with violet eyes gazes down at me. Omin of Oylahn. The founder of Avantine.
I hear a voice in my head. Omin is speaking to me.
Follow your path.
That’s all I hear before I’m yanked backward to the dirty floor of the dining hall.
Jander is standing there, looking concerned. “I’m okay,” I say. “Really, I’m okay.” He mimics throwing up. “No, no,” I say. “I’m just tired. I was daydreaming.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go.
Follow your path, Omin said. Does that mean I am on the right one? Is this where I’m meant to be? It was the same message I received from my mother—the one that sent me here.
It takes all morning and many fresh buckets of water pumped from the kitchen well outside, but we finish the room without incident. I can’t stop thinking about what I saw. Who I saw.
But I can think more about it later. I need to find Caledon.
When we’re done, I stand back and admire our work. It’s not quite as stunning as it was in the vision, and we couldn’t get to every nook and cranny with all the tables in the way, but compared to how it looked at breakfast, it’s a dramatic transformation.
* * *
JANDER AND I ARE sent to the kitchen to assist the cook. A guard pops his head in while we’re working. “Renold? I was wondering if it’d be possible for me to start my rounds a little earlier tonight. I was hoping to join the card game in a few . . .”
The cook frowns.
“I can take the food to the prisoners,” I say. “Then we don’t have to rush to have the food ready, and he can go to the card game.”
Maybe I might even be able to find Caledon.
The cook chews the offer over for a second or two. “Well, I suppose I can’t see why not,” he says. He tucks the errant hairs back under his cap.
The guard claps his large, rough hand against the doorway. “Excellent,” he says, beaming. “The route is easy. I have the east wing and the turret. Takes no time at all. None at all.”
Not long after, I’m pushing a tall, shelved cart piled with trays through the damp halls. It’s a far walk from the kitchens, so I was worried about the food getting cold, but I’ve learned that the prison staff gets the freshest food and the prisoners get week-old pea soup that’s been simmering for days on end and yesterday’s leftover biscuits. I feel guilty giving it to anyone.