A Matter of Great Import and Baked Goods

I cannot help myself. As I step into the secluded garden, I take a deep breath. The air is perfumed by the flowers of this place, grown from seeds taken from everywhere our kingdom's influence reaches. I smell the sweetness of lilies and bluebells, the richness of the gardenia, the comfort of carnations, my mother's favorite flower, and the alluring aroma of the roses, my favorite. I sigh.

As much as I want to simply relax and enjoy the palace garden for its beauty, I cannot. I was summoned by my queen and I must complete whatever task she has for me. My mind begins to think of what is so important that she has requested my aid specifically. Has she overheard some treachery from a member of the court? Does she suspect her life in danger? Our king's?

My pace quickens. I glance around the garden, spotting the guards posted to ensure the queen's safety. There are at least half a dozen, just as there should be. Some are slouching, but I notice their postures straighten up as I pass. I won't comment on it, this time, so I keep walking.

Sitting at a table before me is Queen Isolde. The afternoon sun is filtering through the leaves of the tree she is sitting beneath, bathing her in a soft light. It reflects off the golden circlet poking out from beneath her auburn hair. It, along with her wedding band, is the only piece of opulence she wears. As is her custom when not in court, she has chosen to dress simply. Today it is lilac dress, perfectly tailored by none other than herself. In her hands she holds yet more fabric, but I cannot tell what she is embroidering from here.

I plant my spear in the ground and give a short bow.

"You summoned me, my Queen."

"Kalista," she responds, "thank you for coming so quickly."

"It is what you commanded."

I raise my head and look at Isolde.

"Kalista," she says with a soft smirk, "you do not need to be so formal with me. We're family."

She looks back at me with her gentle eyes. Her expression is warm, welcoming. I want to speak to her plainly, but I remind myself that such behavior is inappropriate for the Grand General. Or at least it is inappropriate before other soldiers. I have an image to uphold.

"How many of them look up to me?" I wonder.

"You are my beloved aunt, but you are my queen first. I would not speak to you in a manner unbefitting of your station."

A playful grin crosses her lips before she speaks.

"Very well. As your queen, I order you to view me as your aunt first and your ruler second; at least while we are not dealing with formal affairs. Will you do this for me, please?"

I am unsure if I am relieved at her request or troubled by it. Regardless of my emotions, I do as ordered and address her as my aunt.

"As you command, Auntie."

"Oh, that sounded terrible."

I can feel my lips twinge in response to my own voice: too childish, too sweet, too forced. Isolde senses it as well. I can hear her sigh.

"You do not need to call me 'Auntie' if you do not want to," she says, "You can just call me 'Isolde.' It is my name."

"I shall. Thank you, Isolde."

My words are immediately more relaxed.

Isolde gives me a quick nod and motions to the other chair at the table.

"Come," she says, "take a seat so that we may talk."

I oblige and sit across from her. My posture remains upright, not just because it is expected of someone of my station, but because I do not find these chairs comfortable to recline in in the slightest.

"How is it that for all our wealth, we never bothered to find more comfortable chairs? Always something more important to attend to."

Slowly, I sneak a peek at Isolde's chair to make sure that she was given a cushion to sit on. There is, and I feel a small sense of relief at knowing I won't need to send a guard to retrieve one for her.

The clink of glass snaps my attention back upwards. Isolde has put down her embroidery and taken the pitcher of water infused with tart pomegranate from the table to fill two glass goblets. Reflexively, I want to take it from her. She is my queen. I should be serving her, not the other way around. But I know that if I attempt this, she will likely push my hand aside and insist that an aunt be allowed to care for her niece.

So instead, I take the opportunity to look at what she was embroidering. It is a scarf, pure white in color, and square in shape. Along its edges, she has decorated it with dozens of small flowers, their petals the color of the mid-morning sky and their centers a cheerful yellow. I am impressed by the quality. I know she is of common birth, but her stitch work rivals the skill of the palace's tailors.

"Do you like them?" Isolde asks, "They are forget-me-nots, one of my favorite flowers."

"Your work is beautiful," I answer truthfully.

"Thank you. Do you have a favorite flower? I could always decorate a scarf for you as well, or teach you how to do it yourself."

A smile crosses my face, a friendly way to fill the space as I think of a response. I do not want a scarf. I do not enjoy wearing anything that would give an enemy an easy way to grab me in combat. I tolerate the plume on my helmet as it is largely a ceremonial piece, and I allow myself the one frivolous indulgence of letting my hair grow out longer than I should. But it is not easy to say "no" to a woman who is both your aunt and your queen.

"I appreciate your kind offer," I answer, "but I must respectfully decline."

I see the faint trace of disappointment cross her face.

"Quickly, say something else. Make this your shortcoming, not hers. Try a joke. Just say something."

"Though I hold no doubt that you would be a skillful teacher, I am afraid that I possess no artistic talent. I do not believe that embroidery is a skill I would be able to master. No," my lips curl into a small, forced smile as I continue to speak, "if I am to stab something hundreds of times, I would rather it be our kingdom's foes with my spear rather than a piece of fabric with a needle."

Her look of disappointment shifts to concern.

"Oh."

That is all she says as she places the goblet before me.

"Thank you," I say as I take the glass, thankful to have a reason to stop talking for a moment.

I finish most of the glass in a single drink. The tartness of the pomegranate tastes especially harsh on my foolish tongue today. As I place the glass back down, the bright shock the fruit's red seeds catch my eye. They look like droplets of blood too perfectly suspended in the water.

"Blood," I scold myself, "Another violent comparison. I suppose that is what happens when you spend more of your leisure time with soldiers than ladies of the court. When was the last time I took a day for myself? Powers that be, I can't remember."

But now is not the time to worry about myself, so I turn my attention back to salvaging this conversation.

"Roses," I hear myself blurt out, "my favorite flowers are roses."

"Roses," Isolde repeats, her look of concern fading as she nods in agreement with my statement, "yes, they are lovely flowers."

Her shoulders relax as she takes a sip from her own glass. This conversation is saved. Now I just need to try and continue it.

"And," I say, "it is not just for their beauty that I admire them. They appear so soft and delicate, but they have their thorns. If someone were to just assume they were a fragile flower, easy to pluck, they would likely prick themselves on the thorns and – "

I cut myself off.

"More blood. Damn it. Why are you like this?"

"I'm sorry," I quickly apologize, "what I had meant to say was that I appreciate the variety of colors roses come in and have a fondness for their aroma. There is nothing like the smell of fresh roses."

I expect her expression to become concerned once more, but it does not. She just chuckles softly.

"You do not need to apologize," she says, "I asked you a question, and you answered. Your first response sounded so genuine."

"Both of my responses were genuine. I love them for their hidden fierceness as well as their beauty and fragrance."

"I will keep that in mind."

She smiles at me and I return the gesture. I think I can feel warmth in my cheeks, but that could just as easily be the sun.

"But enough talk of flowers, for now at least," Isolde says, "I want to discuss why I have asked you here."

"Yes, enough small talk. Tell me why I was summoned."

"Of course, Isolde," I say as I lean in closer to her and lower my voice to a whisper, "what troubles you?"

She leans in close as well.

"What is Viego's favorite dessert?'

I blink.

"Have I misheard?"

Against my best attempt to remain composed, I hear myself mumble a "what." My shock must be evident on my face, so Isolde continues to speak.

"His name day is coming up and I want to make him his favorite dessert."

"No, I did not mishear."

"You are not in danger?" I ask.

"Kalista, did you believe that I only wanted to see you because I needed your service as a soldier?"

"Truthfully, yes. I am one of the kingdom's most accomplished champions. I have never failed any task that was given to me and I have no intention of ever failing. When I am summoned, it is usually for something of grave severity, not discussing baked goods, so please forgive my earlier surprise."

"There is nothing that needs forgiving. Today I do not need the service of the Spear of the Argent Throne; I need the help of Kalista, my niece."

It does not matter how she views me. I will help however I can. Still, I am confused as to why I was summoned. Despite knowing I may come across as rude, I ask her a question.

"I do not understand, Isolde. Why am I needed for such a mundane task?"

"Because you are Viego's family. You have known him for your entire life."

She is not wrong. He has been a part of my life since I was born. We were raised in the castle together. At times it felt like we were more like siblings than uncle and niece.

"But why not simply ask him his favorite?" I ask, "I know he would tell you."

If she is offended by my continued questioning of her will, she does not let it show. Instead, that playful grin returns to her face.

"Ah, but that would ruin the surprise," she explains. "If I ask him directly, he might figure out what I am planning and insist that I not trouble myself and that we should just have someone else bake for us. It won't be the same though. Desserts always taste better when made by someone who loves you. You understand, right?"

I do not. I am a princess. My entire life, my food has always been prepared by the castle's staff. I doubt most had ever even met me, so any love they would have felt towards me would have been born of duty rather than true affection.

Before I can respond, she continues speaking.

"I know what you are probably thinking," she says, "that we could be clever and try to have him reveal his favorite through less direct means. I have tried this already, multiple times, and failed. I try saying something like, 'let's get something from that bakery by the harbor. What would you like?' but his response is always the same. 'Whatever you want, my dear.' "

She lets out a sigh that becomes a chuckle.

"I never thought I would become frustrated with someone trying to give me what I want, but now I want to give him something he will enjoy. He's making pleasing him more of a challenge than it should be."

A small chuckle also escapes my lips.

"He never had trouble demanding cake when we were young."

I may not fully understand what Isolde said about food made with love, but it sounds nice. I want to help her, and not simply out of a sense of duty. They are my family, and if this small action can bring them happiness, they deserve it.

"Then let me aid you with your challenge," I say.

"Thank you."

She smiles at me and I can feel the warmth in my cheeks again.

"He likes tart desserts," I say, "especially those made with lemons and oranges. There was a type of cake made with lemon zest and almonds that was his favorite when we were growing up. I don't if it is still his favorite, but I do know that he still prefers tart desserts to overly sweet ones. I am sure that he would appreciate anything you bake for him with lemons."

"I will take your words to heart. Thank you, Kalista."

"You are welcome."

My lips curl into a small smile as I take another drink from my glass. As I do, one of the pomegranate seeds flows between my teeth. It snaps with a pop as I bite down on it.

"Not too tart. Not too sweet."

"What about you?" Isolde asks, "What is your favorite dessert?"

"Cookies," I respond without hesitation.

"Cookies? There are so many types of cookies. Do you like those with dried fruits or nuts or those with frostings or glazes?"

"Actually, simple sugar cookies are my favorite."

"Truthfully? I had expected you to say something more decadent. I imagine you had quite the selection of flavors to choose from growing up."

"I did, but I enjoy something about the simplicity of sugar cookies. They don't need the extra lavishness of fruits or buttercreams; they are enjoyable as they are, but if someone were looking for something more decadent, they have a simple enough base flavor that they can be modified and decorated to suit most any situation."

"And did you have a preferred way?"

"Sprinkled with rose sugar."

Isolde nods and I feel as though she will be attempting to bake more than just a lemon cake. I feel as though I should tell her not to trouble herself with me, that she should focus on only one baking project at a time, but I don't. She wants to do this for me and I want to taste it.

"Is there really a difference in flavor?"

And I am curious of one other thing.

"What about you, Isolde?" I ask, "What is your favorite dessert?"

Her response comes quickly, as though she were hoping I would ask it.

"If you had asked me a week ago," she says, "I would have likely responded with something my mother would bake. Oh, she had this one treat that were strips of dough she would fry and dip in honey. My fingers would get so sticky," she let out a contented sigh before continuing, "but I might have a new favorite now. Just last week I got to try something baked with blueberries for the first time. It was a cupcake with cream cheese frosting! Oh, Kalista, if you've never had one, you need to. The sweetness of the cake, the freshness of the berries, the purple color of the frosting, it was all so decadent!"

"I haven't had one recently," I answer, "but after that recommendation, I feel as though I should."

A slight chuckle escapes my lips as I answer her. Part of me worries that this action will be viewed as rude, but the rest of me knows better. Isolde will understand that there is no malice behind my mirth. Her excitement is simply infectious.

"You must think I sound childish," she comments with her own chuckle, "here I am, a queen, carrying on about a cupcake like a little girl in a bakery. It's taking me longer to adopt the mannerisms of a lady of the court than I would have hoped."

"I do not think less of you at all. I have never been fond of courtly manners either. I am more martially minded than other ladies of noble birth, but I am royalty, so they all tolerate my mannerisms. You, Isolde, are also royalty, so they will also tolerate you, but more than that, you are the queen. He chose you over all of them, over every woman in the kingdom. You do not need to care if they approve of your mannerisms. Many, I would bet, will try and emulate whatever demeanor you put forward."

I reach across the table and rest my hand over hers.

"And a woman who joyfully talks about wanting to put in the effort and hard work to make her family happy sounds like a more genuine you than a demure lady of the court who would be content to simply ask and order another to make her husband's favorite dessert. That is the Isolde my uncle fell in love with. That is the Isolde I want for my aunt."

Isolde's cheeks blossom with pink and her mouth drops slightly open. Suddenly, I feel the pinch of adrenaline. I fear that I may have over spoken.

"That was absolutely too informal," I scold myself as I pull my hand back to my side of the table, "she is your aunt but she is still your queen."

But before I have a chance to ask for forgiveness for my informality, she speaks.

"Kalista, that was sweet of you to say."

"Oh," I sigh, "you are welcome."

For a minute, the garden is silent. Only the breeze makes any sound as it rustles the leaves of the tree and carries the aromas of flowers throughout the garden. Eventually, Isolde breaks the silence.

"I am an outsider to the court, Kalista. I have my love, yes, but other than him, I am alone. I am still learning who is who, who can be trusted, who should be avoided. It is a daunting task. That is another reason I have asked you here. I know we hardly know each other and that I have only joined your family a short while ago, but I feel as though I can trust you. Will you promise me that you will speak honestly with me and help me navigate this new life?"

I never enjoyed the trappings of court life, preferring the honest companionship of soldiers to that of lords and ladies, nor have I ever found joy in courtly intrigue, though I was raised in it. I cannot imagine how overwhelming it must feel to be suddenly thrust into the heart of it all. It would be cruel not to help her.

"I will," I answer without hesitation, "whether you need the aid of the Spear of the Argent Throne, or simply the companionship of your niece, I will be there for you, however I can."

No more demure, small smiles; Isolde's face lights up with a warm grin.

"Thank you."

This time, I pour us each a glass from the pitcher. We sit in comfortable silence until my ears catch the familiar clinking sound of someone walking in armor. I stand and, taking my spear in hand, turn around. At the sight of my uncle, I drop my head in a bow.

"My King," I address him.

"Be at ease, General Kalista," I hear him say as he passes.

Straightening up to a relaxed attention, I turn towards my king and watch as he and his queen embrace. As he hugs her gently against him, Isolde wraps her arms around his lower back and rests her head over his heart. She lets out a deep, contented sigh.

"How has your day been, my love?" she asks.

"Getting better," he responds as he kisses the top of her head, "now that I am with you."

"I am glad to hear it."

As I wait, I can see the King's Shield, Ledros, standing by my side, from the corner of my eye. He gives me a polite nod and as friendly a small smile as his grim face is capable of making. I return the gesture, but at the mention of my name, my attention returns fully to my king.

"Tell me," Viego asks Isolde, concern in his voice. "Why is General Kalista here? Were the guards insufficient? Did you feel threatened?"

Isolde places a hand on his chest and shakes her head.

"I feel completely safe," she said, "I simply wished to spend time with our niece and ask for her advice."

"Advice?"

"Yes, my King," I answer, "we were discussing inspiration for her next project."

"Oh, are you finally going to embroider my cape like you have been threatening to do?" he asks Isolde with a smirk.

"Not yet," she responds, "I still haven't decided what design would suit you best."

"Whatever you choose, I am sure I will enjoy it."

"I know, but I want it to be perfect. My next project will be something a little smaller, perhaps something with roses or maybe some fruit."

"Both sound lovely."

As I look on, I cannot help but feel glad. After the death of my father, both my uncle and I mourned deeply. Seeing him smile again, makes me happy. My family is happy. This marital joy though, is theirs alone, and as I watch them, I begin to feel as though I am intruding.

"Excuse me, my Queen," I interrupt, "if my services are no longer required, I wish to depart and give you privacy."

"You may go," Isolde says with a nod.

I give a low bow. When I look up again, I see that Isolde has stepped away from Viego for a moment and is standing before me. She wraps her arms around me and gives me a gentle squeeze. I feel the warmth in my cheeks again.

"Thank you, Kalista," she says, "I hope that we are able to do this again sometime."

Though hesitant, I wrap my arms around her as well and return the hug.

"I hope so as well, Aunt Isolde."

And the words come out easily.