The Confectioner Chronicles Box Set

by Claire Luana

  “It’s not for you,” the captain growled, unbuttoning the stiff collar of his jacket and taking a swig.

  Rum? Wren didn’t think she had ever had the stuff, though she knew certain confection recipes that incorporated the liquor. She almost laughed at herself for focusing on such a mundane detail. Here they were, captured by the enemy, likely to be tortured for knowledge they didn’t even have. Tears pricked her eyes as the memory of her last encounter with torture swam into her mind, unbidden. Killian had slid a hot needle under her fingernail, sending searing pain all the way up her arm. It had been such a small thing, yet she knew he had just been warming up, knew there were so many other ways to hurt a person, to maim them irreparably. Especially a woman. Wren’s lungs suddenly felt tight, as if they were trying to forcefully expel all her air. Her breathing grew ragged.

  Hale stood and rubbed her back, which was awkward to do with his hand shackled with irons.

  “What are you doing?” the captain asked, clearly alarmed to see Hale out of his seat.

  “She’s having a panic attack,” Hale said. “No doubt because she’s been plucked out of the sea by a boat full of hostile invaders. Lean forwards, Wren, and breathe slowly.”

  She did as instructed, feeling foolish for letting her anxiety overtake her, but willing to try anything to get air back into her chest.

  The tension began to ease, and she nodded at Hale. “I’m okay,” she said.

  Hale was sitting once again when another man strode in. Wren straightened to meet the new visitor, drawing in a shuddering breath. He was tall, like every Aprican, with sandy blond hair and a tanned, weathered face with a slicing scar on the right side of his chin. His white jacket bore even more medals and decorations, marking him as someone important. What was it about these Apricans and white? The man’s green eyes were shrewd but calm. Almost gentle. Wren relaxed in her chair ever-so-slightly.

  Captain Dysom handed the other glass of rum to this fellow. The other man took a small sip and set the glass down. “So here’s what the tide dragged in.”

  “We observed them in the king’s residence. We believe they work for him.”

  The white-jacketed man was studying Hale with the intensity of a falcon diving for a mouse. “You look familiar,” he said.

  Wren looked to Hale and realized that he wore a similar expression—half-confusion, half-recognition.

  “So do you.” Hale cocked his head, as if trying to place the man’s face.

  “Are you Aprican?”

  “Yes.” Hale stood, offering a manacled hand. “Hale Firena.”

  Recognition flared in the man’s eyes. “By the sun god himself.” He took Hale’s hand and shook it. He opened his mouth to speak but shut it, turning to the captain. “I’ll question the prisoners alone, Captain.”

  “But…” the captain protested.

  “But, General, is what I think you mean,” the man said. “That’s an order.”

  “Yes, General.” Captain Dysom saluted and slunk out, glaring at the trio over his shoulder. Wren hid a smile with a cough.

  The general closed the door and pulled up one of the chairs from the little dining table across the cabin. “I’m General Jax Marius. I helped you and your family escape Se Caelus after King Evander’s coup.”

  “That’s it!” Hale said. “I remember! You came to our house, you…dropped me like a bad habit.”

  “I believe you were coming at me with a very warlike yell.” General Marius chuckled. “You had spirit, I’ll give you that. Not a lick of brains.”

  Little has changed, Wren thought, but she held her tongue. “I’m Wren Confectioner.” She held out her shackled hands to shake his.

  He took it. “Let me get these irons off you. Nowhere to go but into the drink anyway.”

  “He left the keys on the credenza.” Hale nodded to the ledge where the bottle of rum sat.

  “Idiot,” the general muttered before returning with the keys and removing both their irons. “Now, since we’re old allies, perhaps we can spare each other the unpleasantness. Will you tell me the truth about your relationship with the king? Do you indeed work for him? Because if you do, I would advise you to get out while you can. Being an ally of King Imbris is going to become a very dangerous status in about twenty-four hours.”

  “The army will be at the walls by then?” Hale ventured a guess.

  General Marius inclined his head in affirmation.

  Wren’s heart sank, though she knew it had been only a matter of time. Maradis would be under siege in less than a day.

  “The truth is, we don’t work for the king. Wren and I are both members of the Confectioner’s Guild. You must know, the Aperitive Guilds have significant political power in the Alesian government.”

  “We had heard as much,” General Marius said. “Though I don’t know why a bunch of bakers would have so much power.”

  Hale snorted. “Is Daemastra still sitting at the right hand of King Evander?” Hale asked. That was the cuisinier Hale had mentioned. The one who had taken too much interest in people with uncanny abilities. Wren shuddered.

  “Fair point,” the general said. “All right, so you’re members of this Guild. That doesn’t explain why you were in the king’s residence on Dash Island. We had been watching it, hoping he would send someone of importance there for safety.”

  “We were hoping the same, in a way,” Wren said. “We suspect the king has kidnapped a member of our Guild. We were looking for him, hoping he might be located here. He wasn’t.”

  The general looked between them, stroking the scar on his chin. “So there is discord between the king and his Guilds?”

  Hale sighed, nodding. “There’s discord between the king and just about every sector of Alesian political and economic society. He’s not popular. And the Aprican threat has only made him more…”

  “Desperate,” Wren muttered.

  “I was going to say ruthless. He’s like a wounded dog. Just as likely to lash out as his owner as any intruders at this point.”

  General Marius considered this, and a long moment passed before he spoke. “I would like to take you to camp to speak with our leadership. Perhaps there is a way we can work together. For a more prosperous Alesia.”

  “You mean spy for you?” Hale said.

  “Our king desires to leave Alesia as an independent territory after King Imbris is dealt with. Ruled by Alesians, governed by Alesians. Certain…tributes will be paid to Aprica, and Aprica will have a say in the direction Alesian politics takes, but our king does not have the time or interest to rule three countries. We’ve set up a similar situation in Tamros.”

  “I heard there were enough heads on pikes in Terrasia to line the walls of the entire palace. Is that the type of self-rule we can expect to enjoy under King Evander as well?” Hale countered.

  Wren blanched. She hadn’t heard such a horrible thing.

  “There are always certain…personalities who need to be eliminated. Who will never see the benefits that could come from Aprican rule. It’s unfortunate and distasteful. But sometimes necessary,” General Marius said, his mouth twisting.

  “If we say no, what will be done with us?” Wren asked. “Will we be allowed to go on our way?”

  “Unfortunately…no,” the general said. “I know Hale, so I would be able to ensure that you had comfortable accommodations. But you know too much at this critical juncture of our campaign here to let you go. Perhaps after the war is won.”

  “So we come with you as guests, or as prisoners,” Hale said.

  The general nodded.

  Hale exchanged a look with Wren. “Guests it is.”

  Chapter 20

  Night had fallen by the time Hale, Wren, and their captors reached the Aprican camp. The ship had sailed to a harbor a few miles north of Maradis, and then they had taken a carriage the rest of the way, backtracking towards the city. Hale stepped down from the carriage, offering his hand to help Wren. Gods, Maradis’s walls were close. The Aprican sie
ge had begun.

  General Marius led them through the camp’s neat rows of tents and cookfires towards a large white tent emblazoned with the golden sunburst of Aprica. Hale’s emotions had been roiling ever since he’d laid eyes on the man. The general’s presence transported Hale back to that night in Se Caelus when his friend Roan had run in, breathless, to tell them that Hale’s father had been murdered in Evander’s coup. Marius had followed soon after, sent by an old family friend to help them escape, but Hale hadn’t given him time to explain that, attacking the man with a wild fury. Marius had subdued Hale in seconds, leaving his backside—and his ego—bruised. And now Hale found himself again with his life in the man’s hands. And worse, he had gotten Wren into this mess, too. Five years had passed and it seemed nothing had changed. Hale was still charging into situations without thinking them through—trusting his luck and his charm to get him out. He felt a fool. No wonder Sable had pushed him away. She deserved a man, not an idiot teenager. What had happened to the new Hale? Less than a week had passed and he had already reverted to his old ways.

  General Marius held the door flap of the large tent open for them, but Wren paused before she entered, her brown eyes fixed on a sight a few hundred yards away. Hale followed her gaze to where a man was tied to a pole in a clearing of tents, surrounded by a ring of torches. He would be lit up for everyone on the walls to see. Even from here, he looked bloodied and barely coherent.

  “Who is that?” Wren asked.

  “Prince Casius,” Marius said simply, without a hint of apology. “He was captured during the raid on the harbor.”

  They ducked into the tent. “Why is he tied up there for everyone to see?” she asked.

  “It’s a test,” Marius explained, pouring himself a glass of water from a pitcher on a lacquered table and downing it in one swig.

  “What kind of test?” Wren asked, taking the words from Hale’s mouth. She seemed to have recovered some of her strength from her moment of panic on the ship and now stood with her shoulders thrown back, her head high. Wren had a way of donning a hard veneer when necessary. It seemed that skill was serving her well now.

  Marius answered. “We need to see what kind of adversary King Imbris is. Is he the type that ignores his son and leaves him to rot, accepting the cold, calculated loss? Is he hot-blooded—driven to a rage by our insolence? Is he a brave, idealistic man who will stage a rescue? Or will he be merciful and send an arrow into his son’s heart to end his suffering? A test.”

  Anger coursed through Hale, heating him. It seemed that all these years later, Evander was still playing with people’s lives like they were pawns on a Fox and Geese board.

  Wren sank into a nearby chair.

  Hale sat in the chair next to her and patted her knee.

  She offered him a weak smile.

  Hale examined the interior of the tent, searching desperately for some way out of this mess. The furnishings were surprisingly cozy—patterned Ferwich lanterns hung from the ceiling, giving off geometric patterns of light on the functional furniture. No crisp whites here, but blues and greens. There was a bed, a writing desk, a stand that held a suit of armor. “Is this your tent?” Hale asked.

  “It is,” Marius said. “I thought you’d be more comfortable here. I can sleep with my men.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Hale said.

  Marius unbuttoned his jacket and drew over another chair along with a tray of fruit and meats and cheeses, which he set on the little table between Hale and Wren. “Eat,” he said. “I’m going to get the king’s chief advisor, Sim Daemastra.”

  Hale stiffened at this, his hand frozen in the act of popping a grape in his mouth. Sim Daemastra was here? It didn’t surprise him, but somehow, he had still harbored some futile hope that he wouldn’t have to see the man.

  “You know him,” Marius said.

  Wren looked at Hale quizzically.

  “I do,” Hale said carefully. Perhaps the only consolation of Hale’s mother’s death two years ago was that she would be spared the Aprican occupation of Maradis. Hale was more convinced than ever that his mother had been Gifted, though he didn’t think she’d understood what that meant. But Daemastra did. Hale felt it in his bones. Daemastra knew of the Gifting and was searching for Gifted. What Hale didn’t know was why. Hale continued as the silence stretched. “He always showed a peculiar interest in my mother.”

  The general nodded. “That’s right. I vaguely remember that. Well, he’s still as creepy as hell, but I’ve come to trust him over the years. You can, too, if you agree to work for us. He has an uncanny ability to get things done. We wouldn’t be nearly as far as we are today if he hadn’t been at the king’s right hand.” Marius stood. “I’ll go fetch him, if he’s available. He’ll be interested in discussing how you might be able to help us.”

  General Marius disappeared through the tent flap.

  Wren turned to Hale. “I don’t like this. Didn’t you say that Sim whoever chased you halfway to Alesia?”

  Hale nodded grimly. “There’s no way in hell I’ll work with that spooky bastard. Or with the Apricans at all. I like Marius, but King Evander killed my father. I just went with it on the ship to buy us more time to think.”

  “And now?” Wren gestured around.

  “Now…it seems we’re screwed,” Hale said, rubbing his face. It was bad. But Hale had been in worse predicaments before and he had escaped those. They would get through this. Somehow.

  Wren groaned. “I’m not sure we wouldn’t have been better off diving off the ship. Or trying to break out of the carriage.”

  “We’d be dead if we had done either of those two things, and now we’re alive. So I think we made the right choice so far.”

  Another fifteen minutes passed before the tent flap parted and the strangest man Wren had ever seen entered the tent. He was thin and gaunt, yet he stood straight as an arrow and had a certain vitality to him. He wore white robes trimmed with gold, as if he were some sort of priest. His skin was unmarred by the lines of age, but it was stretched too tight, too shiny, as if there were something unnatural about his youth. He had a full head of dark brown hair, and his hairline seemed as if it swooped too low. Though all the trappings of youth and health were pulled around him, the man seemed…ancient.

  “Hello,” the man said, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his robes. His voice was as slippery as oil. “I am Sim Daemastra.” His eyes fixed on Hale, and a smile spread across his face. Somehow the smile was even more horrible than his regular face. Wren hadn’t thought that was possible.

  “I heard that our prodigal son had returned. Hale Firena, in the flesh.”

  “I’m not sure it qualifies as a return if you invade my country,” Hale muttered.

  The man let out a little peal of laughter. “Always the comedian. Nice to see there are some constants in this world. Tell me, how is your mother?”

  “She died in the red plague a few years ago,” Hale said.

  Daemastra’s face fell. “I’m so sorry to hear that the light of a star such as hers was extinguished.” He walked closer to Hale, leaning down to examine him until he was almost nose to nose with him.

  Hale sat back in his chair, as straight as a board, trying to ignore this Sim Daemastra’s obvious scrutiny. “But perhaps her light hasn’t been completely extinguished. I hear you’re a member of the Confectioner’s Guild.”

  “I am,” Hale said. What normally carried a sense of pride came out hesitantly.

  “And you as well.” Daemastra turned his gaze on Wren, making her skin crawl.

  “Yes,” she breathed. Wren sat on the edge of her chair, feeling like a flighty doe who’d caught the scent of a predator.

  “Some remarkable confections come out of that Guild,” Sim Daemastra said. “I pay attention to such things as a cuisinier. Confections so good they’re almost magic.”

  Hale let out a forced bark of laughter. “Magic. Nonsense. Now if we could find a way to keep the chocolate from ending upon our
customers’ hips… Then people would come from the world around to buy it.”

  Wren pasted a smile on her lips at Hale’s terrible jest. At least he was trying to divert this man from the topic at hand. She should help. It felt somehow like they were too close to the fire.

  “We’ve been brought here against our will,” Wren said. “General Marius seemed to think you would persuade us to aid your cause.”

  “Done with pleasantries, are we? Very well.” Sim Daemastra sat down in the chair Marius had vacated and leaned forwards to retrieve a slice of cheese from the platter. He smelled sour, like vinegar. “Well, the general tells me that there is conflict between King Imbris and the Guilds. I believe I can give you a better offer. If you’re willing to help us. Feed us certain…useful information.”

  “And what is your better offer?” Hale asked.

  “I can offer you and your Guilds total autonomy when our king takes over Alesian rule. A seat at the table. King Evander must dispense with the threat presented by King Imbris, but he does not desire to rule here. Too cold and soggy.” The man shivered.

  “Total autonomy?” Hale said. “Too good to be true. You must want something from us.”

  “Well, a few tiny things. There are certain raw resources the king is interested in. A small yearly tax of your revenues, to fund the king’s efforts in bettering the lives of the people of Alesia. We would want you to join your knowledge with ours in furthering the culinary arts. And a tithe of one particularly gifted Guild member every few years, to join the ranks of Aprica’s Aperitive Guilds. To further cement our working relationship. We’d send a Guild member to you from time to time, so they could learn at the side of your masters. A cultural exchange, if you will.”

  Wren and Hale exchanged a look of veiled alarm. A tithe? It sure sounded like Daemastra would try to steal their Gifted. And Aprican Guild members living with them? Spying on them? It would be worse than King Imbris.