The gathering in the arl's chamber splintered shortly afterwards. Teagan Guerrin, still harbouring his own doubts about the existence of the Ashes, departed with his steward and man-at-arms. Now that Redcliffe was no longer threatened by nightly invasion the town garrison could be repurposed into patrols to seize ownership of the roads from thieves and bandits. The bann had also agreed to provision the expedition to Haven; augmenting the supplies with swift horses from his own stables. He promised that the goods would be ready the morrow after the next; allowing them two nights of respite within Redcliffe Castle.
The arlessa, in contrast, seemed infused with new hope after learning of the Ashes. Two heated spots flared in her cheeks and there was a new, glinting brightness to her eye. Instructions flowed from her lips like water spilling over a lip of rock: summon the laundresses, the maidservants, the hound-masters. All hands will be needed. Throw open the doors and air out the passages. Change the straw underfoot and bring up the old tapestries from the cellar. Mend what has been broken. Burn anything beyond repair. Isolde was determined that her husband would awaken within the home that he remembered; not the ransacked chaos left in the demon's wake. After some resistance, she had also reluctantly permitted the senior mages to speak with Connor.
The castle kitchens had escaped the demon's wrath; and suffered only signs of recent neglect. The sprawling complex was hewn directly into the promontory stone; its vaulted ceilings lined with cobwebs and meat hooks. Empty hearths gathered dust, while the scent of stale rushes lingered in the air. The walls bore the ghosts of a thousand past fires, the smoky residue like fingerprints on the plaster. It was a space built to house a melee; bakers competing for ovens, butchers hauling down salted carcasses from hooks, stewards weaving through the chaos with bottles of fine vintage perched on wooden platters.
Now Redcliffe's great kitchens stood still and silent; save for the glow of a hearth at the far end. As the company in the chamber fragmented, the two Warden-recruits had sought out lunch. Leliana had volunteered to assist Teagan in the organisation of supplies, and since she was more competent than his clerk, he readily agreed. Sten vanished to patrol the perimeter - he had no time for the social niceties between combat - but Morrigan, to Alistair's faint dismay, had materialised like a gleeful imp as they crossed the threshold.
"Thinking of your belly again? I thought you had a concern for fitting in your armour."
This barb was angled at Alistair, who muttered something vaguely threatening under his breath. His sister-warden was not spared the witch's acidic tongue:
"Why not donate your dinner to your stunted sister-ratling? She sorely needs another few inches in height."
Flora, conversely, was delighted: stunted ratling was a term of endearment that could have originated in Herring. She smiled at a startled Morrigan, then waved vague fingers towards the vaulted halls of the kitchen.
"We're scavenging food like seagulls. There must be something here that ain't rotted. Do you want to come?"
Morrigan paused, then inclined her head.
One corner of the kitchens had suffered less than the rest: dust and debris kept from its hearth by a persistent draught. Flora set herself the task of rummaging through the neglected woodstore to find suitable kindling; as a northerner, she was used to coaxing flame from damp tinder. While she gathered fuel, Alistair searched through sacks and barrels to find something edible. He was reasonably certain that Flora - thanks to her magic - could eat produce on the turn without consequence, but he did not particularly want food poisoning.
At last, in a barrel wedged high enough to escape the mice, Alistair found potatoes and turnips that he could salvage. Lifting the barrel down with a grunt, he called over his shoulder:
"How about root vegetable stew?"
The tail of his voice slid around the shadowed archways that surrounded them: much of the low, vaulted kitchen still bathed in midwinter gloom.
"Mm," said Flora, then, "ow" as she burnt her finger on the glowing kindling.
Morrigan, to her own surprise, found herself contributing more than a sarcastic tongue. She emerged from the shadow with a copper pot and various tools hanging from her sinewy arm: her eyes warning against thanks or appreciation.
After scoffing at Flora's smouldering efforts, the witch augmented the fire with a jab of her staff. For the first time in over a month, smoke billowed from the chimney of the castle kitchens and the hearth beamed like a smiling, red-toothed mouth.
While Morrigan perched beside the heating water - ostensibly to watch for when it boiled - Alistair and Flora set themselves up at a nearby table. After blowing the dust from the length of scrubbed oak, they began to work their way through the pile of grubby vegetables: chopping off blackened ends and the worst of the sprouting. Despite the weeks of neglect, the knives still had bite.
Alistair glanced sideways at her as they worked. Her ponytail bobbed with each downwards cut, eyes narrowed in concentration. There was a freckle on her earlobe that he hadn't noticed before; a faint dapple of tan.
Feeling his attention, Flora looked up at him.
"You're gutting that turnip like a fish," he said quickly, to excuse his stare. "What are you picturing?"
"In my head," Flora replied solemnly. "It is a trout."
"Trout fillets in a skillet, with mashed potato and butter." He sounded wistful. "And garlic. Washed down with some pale ale from the Marches. I'm not sure my root vegetable stew will compare."
Flora had only ever eaten trout roasted on a stick.
"I like stew," she said, reassuring. "I ate it a lot at the Circle. The fancier food they served gave me belly ache. I weren't made for rich things."
"Ha!" He grinned, curling a palm around the cubes of raw potato and sliding them into the pile. "Must be standard fare for dormitories: we were served stew at the monastery every day. Turnip stew with rye, and strips of grey mysterious meat every Tuesday. I used to creep into the kitchen after drill and persuade the cook to sneak me some cheddar from the abbess' stash."
"What animal was the meat from?"
"We used to say it came from the bodies of failed Templar recruits."
She shot him a bemused frown and he laughed, shaking his head.
"Probably the cheapest cows the Chantry abbess could purchase, she didn't like to spend much money on our diet, or us in general, really. Duncan bought us supper in some local tavern after recruiting me, and it was the best thing I've ever tasted."
"Because you believed it was freedom," interjected Morrigan, one side of her face aglow from the flame. "When really it was the exchange of one form of servitude for another."
Alistair was not listening, busy silently berating himself. He could not seem to go a single day without mentioning their dead commander; how was this meant to free Flora from her infatuation?
"I don't think I've ever eaten any food that was 'best' ," she said thoughtfully, and made no mention of Duncan. "Maybe your stew will be it."
Alistair grinned down at the potato he was prying the eyes from, broad thumb pressing against the handle of the blade.
"Maybe. It needs some cloves and pepper."
Casting turnips as trout had proved effective - Flora had finished dicing her stack. She placed her knife on the scrubbed oak and drew her fingers together on Alistair's upper arm, head turning.
"I'll find some for you," she said; not sure what cloves were, but up for the challenge. "For your stew."
"Don't get lost," he said, only half-joking as she wandered off between the squat brick pillars. His arm felt raw where she had touched him: the hair on the flesh lifting beneath the linen.
"Nooo," drifted over her shoulder; she vanished into the gloom.
Erratic shafts of light punctured the low vaults; there were no windows, but isolated bricks had been removed for ventilation purposes. The kitchens were vast and sprawling, intended to feed several hundred mouths a day while housing surplus for winter. Lacking the usual activity, they became a sort of labyrinth: a domestic version of the recreational puzzle maze installed in many an Orlesian count's garden.
Flora had never been afraid of shadows: she was her own source of light. Holding up a palm, she wandered between the squat brick pillars, head swivelling. A row of sinister iron hooks hung from the ceiling to the left, their salted carcasses scavenged. To the left was a dresser stacked high with pewter platters and bowls. All bore the stains of general neglect: grimy and strung with cobweb.
A sudden movement in the tail of Flora's eye startled her. Her shield snapped out in reflex; then evaporated as she realised the source of the motion - her own shadow.
"Flora?"
Alistair, twenty yards of twisting brickwork away, had noticed the burst of light.
"Eh," she replied, abashed. "It's nothing. Thought it might have been…"
A ghost! My shield won't work against them, will it?
Ha! Would you like to find out?
NO!
Then her eye settled on something more promising. A cupboard stood flanked by two barrels, one door hanging open to reveal a collection of flat wooden boxes. She drew one out carefully, a length of cobweb came with it.
"Sorry, spider."
The lid slid back to reveal nine square compartments, seven of which were filled with various hues and textures. She recognised pepper, but none of the others. Amongst the array there was a yellow powder the colour of a dandelion, a collection of narrow orange seeds, and a tangle of what appeared to be twigs no longer than her fingernail.
A pungent aroma rose from the combined spice, strong enough to make her eyes water.
Careful to keep the box horizontal - while also watching the uneven stone floor, criss-crossed with gullies - Flora carried it towards the glow of the hearth. Orange light spilled through the gloom; the movements of her companions replicated in shadow on the brick.
The water had come to the boil in her absence. Morrigan had retreated to the corner, perching on the edge of a stool with one leg crossed over the other. Her foot bobbed in an even rhythm, as though she were humming within her by head.
Alistair had added the diced root vegetable to the water, and was now peering into the pot with a dubious expression; ladle in hand.
"I think I've put in too much potato. It's going to boil over."
"Oh. I've found spices," said Flora, and then clarified, "or something that stinks."
" 'Something that stinks' ," repeated a dry and amused voice from the shadow. "My brother paid a fortune for the Antivan spice merchants to spend a day in Redcliffe before heading west. I told him that he was paying a king's ransom for goods that would be stale in a month. Though, if they still stink, perhaps there's life in them yet."
The bann emerged, followed by Leliana. They had entered the kitchen through one of its many entrances: it harboured passageways to all parts of the castle. Teagan had an air of accomplishment about him, chin at a sharp upward tilt. After weeks of uncertainty and stagnation, it felt good to be making some measure of progress.
"I've sourced you three of my hardiest mares," he announced, swinging out a stool and taking a seat. "I doubt they'd carry the Qunari, but - from what I hear - he's intending to join our road patrols. Seems that he prefers hunting down criminals to religious relics."
Privately, the bann agreed: he still felt that the quest for the Ashes of Andraste was little more than a wild halla chase. Still, it was a diversion that should not take up too much time - Haven lay in the foothills of the Frostbacks, not in their frigid cradle - and they had tried most everything else to rouse his brother.
"The Nevarran mares?" Alistair let the ladle rest in the pot. "They've got the strength, but- "
"- but not the endurance," finished the bann, nodding in approval. "Aye, I ought to have taken you with me to the Ostwick horse-fairs. You'd have been a blind sight more useful than my squire."
Alistair abandoned the pot, sinking into reminiscence.
"I was desperate to go," he confessed. "Each summer I hoped it'd be my turn."
Teagan smiled a thin half-smile: both of them knew why he had not invited the young Alistair. A decade ago - before the air between them turned stale - the bann had been far more susceptible to the whims of his brother's blue-eyed, golden-haired wife. Isolde had not wanted Alistair to receive any treatment that might be seen as preferential.
"Well," he said, instead. "I've a set of four Marcherians that are newly shoed. One is broad enough across the shoulder that you'd mistake her for a plough-mare, I'd wager she could carry you halfway to Val Royeaux if you wished."
Morrigan let out a snide cackle and the younger Guerrin jumped: he had not realised she was there.
"Alistair knows I mean no harm by it," he clarified, dryly. "He's always been two hands taller than the other lads. It's the dragon-blood in the line."
Alistair had to stop his eyes from rolling to the heavens; Morrigan added a ha!
"Speaking of family lines - "
The bann hesitated, his eyes sliding towards the hearth. Flora was standing beside the cooking pot, dropping an experimental mixture of spices into the boiling water. She did not know which were appropriate for stew and reasoned that, if she added all of them, at least some of them would be right.
Teagan gazed at Flora for a long and intensely focused moment as though appraising a mare at the Ostwick horse-fair. He took in the high forehead, the sharp angle of the cheek and the distilled clearness of the eye. Alistair noticed his attention and shifted from foot to foot.
"Flora," the bann said, deceptively casual. "Did the teyrn of Highever ever visit his holdings on the north coast?"
She shot him a bemused look, adding several generous pinches of ochre powder to the pot.
"Nobles didn't come to Herring much."
"Quelle surprise," murmured Leliana from the shadow, wondering if she should save the rest of the arl's costly saffron.
"Eh they did, sometimes," Flora amended, setting the empty spice box down and retrieving the ladle. "To collect eel rent, or to try and get tax. They didn't often. Weren't worth the trouble."
The stew had inexplicably turned an alarming shade of yellow. She peered down at it, brow creasing.
"Well then, I have another question for you, my fair lady-warden."
Teagan would not be dissuaded: he continued to pry with an easy, calculated lightness. Alistair recognised the teasing note in the bann's tone: he had heard it used on barmaids and visiting noblewomen alike. It disconcerted him to hear it used on Flora.
"Eh?"
His sister-warden was still staring down at the stew, confused by its vibrant new hue. She was either oblivious - or accustomed to - the use of a flirtatious tone.
"Your mother must be a rare beauty to produce a lovely creature such as yourself. I imagine her looks are admired along the northern coast."
"She is admired for her mighty arms," Flora replied, vaguely. "She can pull two boats up the shingle by herself. And she once knocked out three men with one pan. They got in her way. "
She wondered if stirring the pot might return its contents to their original colour.
Teagan returned a blank smile, eyebrows almost to his hairline. Letting Flora focus on her stew, he leaned back to catch the bard's attention; lowering his voice as she canted her head.
"That's my theory shot through. I can't imagine Bryce Cousland having a dalliance with Herring's resident ballbreaker. Not when he had Eleanor waiting for him in Highever."
" 'Fairest Eleanor, for whom all ships set sail,' " murmured Leliana, quoting the famous verse penned about Fearchar mac Eanraig's daughter in the last decade of the Blessed Age. "'Fairest Eleanor, for whom flowers open at midnight.'"
"Maker, that was a long time ago. We were barely your age. Half the men in Thedas wrote to Fearcher for her hand, and she turned down every one. Said that she would rather marry the wind and waves. Until Bryce managed to persuade her otherwise."
Teagan smiled, and then a shadow came to rest over his face. The corners of his mouth tautened, furrows forming like plough-lines on his flesh.
"I'll see Howe hang for what he did," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "By Andraste, I don't know how, but I will see justice done."
Leliana, instead of watching the bann, had her clever eye on Flora. Flora was still staring into the cooking pot with an air of resignation.
"The soup looks wrong now," she said to Alistair, apologetically. "Dunno what I done to it."
She had not reacted to Teagan's reminiscence, nor to his bitter declaration of vengeance.
Alistair had been listening to the bann with an increasing sense of unease. Shaking himself from his disquiet, he navigated the uneven flagstones back towards the hearth. Flora peered up at him, the pale, unblemished span of her brow creased.
"It's my fault," she intoned, solemn as a sinner at confession.
"Well, let's take a look," Alistair replied, one eyebrow shooting upwards as he peered into the jaundiced depths. "Maker's Breath, that's yellow."
She made a gloomy noise of acknowledgement. Impulsively, he squeezed her shoulder with a palm; brief and intimate.
"I'm sure it'll taste fine, my dear," he said, cheerfully. "Especially with a bit of bread and cheese on the side."
AN: So salt wasn't actually used as a seasoning in the medieval period - it was much too valuable! It was used to preserve food instead.
I enjoyed writing this chapter - I love the domesticity between the drama. Bit of Floristair relationship building, and some more Teagan trying to put his finger on Flora's ancestry. He's worked out there's a Cousland connection, but doesn't know what it is yet!
Saffron was and is the world's most expensive spice! In the medieval period, it would cost a master mason thirty days wages (at 6d a day) to purchase a pound of it! And that was at a time when the purchasing power of the lower classes was actually pretty decent (aka a peasant in the 1400s could afford more, relatively speaking, than a working class labourer in the 1800s)