Page 11 of The Chef

It was one of the red-leather guys, and he did not look pleased to see Char. He advanced and Char swallowed hard. Fendle was still tied up; Char was the only thing between him and the sharp edge of that weapon.

Except… Now that he thought about it, a sword was basically just an elongated knife. Right? Char was used to blades that ranged in shape from the smallest paring knife to the largest cleaver, which were nothing like a sword. But, if he could use his magic to prevent those from cutting him, perhaps the magic would work with a sword too? Perhaps, but that was Char’s only hope so he had to try.

Magic was intangible. Every creature on earth had some inside them, but only through training and hard work could they access and use it. The classes at school were intensive, particularly for someone aspiring to be a level one chef. Char pulled the magic from the well inside himself with barely any effort, used to using it automatically and without thought whenever he was cooking.

The sword swung and Char ducked, tucking his head behind the protective shelter of his arms which he coated in magic and were glowing a faint shade of blue. The impact against his right arm sent him sprawling with a smacking sound and a flare of pain at the point of impact—but no feel of blood gushing or crack of bones breaking. Char scrambled back to his feet, galvanized as he faced the attacker again.

“Magic,” the stranger said with a sneer at Char. “Etoval shows its weakness when it relies on such a crutch. Real warriors rely on proper training.” He thrust forward, aiming for Char’sstomach, but Char crossed his glowing arms and the tip slid aside, harmlessly bouncing off Char’s forearm and passing to Char’s left.

“Magic isn’t a crutch because we use it to augment our prowess, rather than you Namin bastards who abandon all sense when you discover you can use magic instead,” Fendle said, standing behind Char. He handed Char his dropped knife as he stepped in front. “Let me demonstrate.”

He held his right hand out at shoulder height and widened his fingers to their full extent. As he relaxed them again, they started to glow gold, and Char swallowed a gasp.

Blue was classified as things of the home: cooking, cleaning, construction. Green was classified as things of the body: healing, psychology, and military. But gold... Char shook his head, awed. The royal families of the continent hoarded the secrets of their personal magic, which was far more powerful than most could ever dream to access. Char had heard not every prince or princess was capable of using it. He had also heard the training was far more rigorous than even Char’s had been—and the training to achieve level one chef status had been incredibly rigorous.

Fendle curled his fingers as if he were gripping something and slowly moved his arm to the right. From empty air, he pulled a sword, the entire blade glowing gold.

“The saying the royals of Toval are always armed, even when naked in the bath, isn’t a joke. Isn’t that right, Prince Clament?” Fendle asked as he brought the sword up to a guard position. That was the only warning he gave. Fendle stepped forward and swung in one smooth movement. Clament belatedly parried, stumbling over his feet. At a glance, Fendle was clearly the better-trained swordsman. Fendle didn’t stop moving, thrusting and slashing against Clament’s awkward responses until Fendletwisted his wrist just right, and Clament’s sword went flying across the tent. Fendle lowered his sword to point at Clament’s chest.

“Surrender,” Fendle instructed, his tone low and dangerous. “On your knees.”

Clament dropped to the ground, his hands held in the air, and Fendle mirrored his movement with the point of his sword.

Before they could do anything else, the tent flaps flew open and Jensen rushed inside. “Captain!” he yelled, frantically glancing around the space, sword out and ready. He paused when he saw Fendle and Clament, and then lifted an eyebrow when he caught sight of Char. “Beaten on my rescue mission by our chef,” he said, grinning. “We were wondering where you’d gotten to. Glad you’re okay.”

“I’m glad he beat you here too,” Fendle replied with his own smile. “He definitely saved my life. Anyway, what’s the status out there? I heard the horns go, but that’s about it.”

“Reinforcements arrived as requested, led by Captain Zain. She’s madder than a wet hen about having to hide in the woods for two days while we enjoyed our cushy tents, so good luck with that, but she’s rounding up the last of the surviving mercs. She has someone processing them per the mercenary code, so we’ll slap some fines on them, give their group the black mark they deserve for attempting to attack us, and send them on their way. We thought we’d missed one of the Namin bastards, so Captain Zain will be happy to know you nabbed him for us. Might offset the madder than a wet hen issue. Might not.” He shrugged.

“Casualties?” Fendle asked.

“Clarise is the worst, but the healers got to her quickly, so she should survive. I don’t know if she’ll swing a sword again, but her wife will be happy to have her back and retired with honors.Everyone else is like me. Bumps, bruises, and cuts, but nothing worse.” Jensen indicated his arm that had a nasty slash through the sleeve and was bleeding sluggishly, but not dangerously. “Mercs just haven’t got the training to compete with the royal guard, you know?”

Char stifled a cough of surprise, choking as he swallowed wrong. Fendle used gold magic. Jensen was a royal guard. That could only mean one thing.

“Thanks for the update,” Fendle replied after glancing over at Char to make sure he was okay. “I’ll see if I can do something to assuage Captain Zain’s ire. Can you take our guest, Prince Clament, somewhere more comfortable?”

Jensen’s grin took on a sharp edge. “I’d be happy to.” He turned to Clament and pointed his sword at him. “Up. Let’s go.”

Clament sneered, but obeyed, walking out of the tent with Jensen right behind him, leaving Char alone with Fendle.

Spending time with Fendle was usually a pleasure and a confusion, but never before had Char felt this uncertain. Fendle was definitely one of the princes of Toval and Char had no business hanging out with him like they were friends.

“I know who you are too, you know,” Fendle said suddenly. “Charmaine Obenson is your public name, same as Fendle is the one I use whenever I’m on a mission.”

Char grimaced. Since his cousin worked in the palace in Etoval, it was no surprise a prince of Toval knew about their family.

“You’re Charmaine Oba-Musen. If chefs could have golden magic, the Musen family would wield it. They’re also the only ones with the ability to develop passive magic that neutralizes poison. In many ways, you’re a more important person thanI am. Any dish you make is worth its weight in gold and platinum.”

“You know who I am,” Char replied, exhausted by the day and suddenly feeling bold. “Who are you exactly?”

“Prince Fenwick, fourth child of King Aurelius and Queen Trina, but as fourth I’m barely in line for the throne, especially since two of my older siblings have already had kids. Mostly, I’m referred to as Commander Fenwick of the Royal Guard, but please, call me Fen.” He sounded as exhausted as Char felt, but his smile was as gentle and welcoming as always. He walked to the tent flaps and pulled one side open, holding it back for Char. It was only as Char passed him that he realized Fendle’s sword had vanished. No.Fen’ssword had vanished. Prince Fen, Commander Fen—he had all these fancy titles, and yet all Char could focus on was the tilt of his lips as he smiled and the bright sparkle in his eye as he watched Char walk by.

Back out in the bright sunlight, Char was able to see Fen’s face clearly. The left side was swollen and purpling, and his lip bloodied as if he had been backhanded at some point.

“You’re hurt!” He reached out without thinking to trail his fingertips over the puffy cheek, then snatched them back when Fen sucked in a sudden breath. “Sorry!” Char stuffed his errant fingers in his pocket. “I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“You didn’t—” Fen began but stopped when a woman in full armor stomped into view. She had her helmet under one arm, revealing a gorgeous arrangement of thick braids keeping her black hair tight to her scalp. She was tall and powerful looking, her dark skin gleaming in the late morning sun, especially against the shine of her breastplate, which had the dragon and sickle emblem of Toval etched into it.

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