Farek ate a large breakfast at dawn. When most of the staff of the Bank of Soros went for their lunch break, he planned to track down his sisters and arrange an impromptu meeting to discuss the Matriarchs’ orders. It had been several weeks, and his family had danced around the topic like it was a disease. Who was going to marry a lord or lady of Lo Mallago?
The morning was uneventful. Mostly, Farek reviewed their weekly transactions as he always did. No unusually large withdrawals or deposits were made. Their bottom-line still dwarfed any treasure trove in Radregar—that wasn’t changing anytime soon. The servants reported, at noon, that Jannia was still in his office, but that Simisar was last seen in the Great Hall. Farek set out to find his younger sibling, as quickly as he could.
A few guards were eating in the Hall, as well as a handful of other Bank employees. There was no sign of Simi. Farek wondered if she had gone to eat lunch with Dorean, her long-time suitor. He started toward the front door, to see if the guards at the gate had seen her go.
“I demand an answer!” someone shouted. The voice was muffled—Farek thought it was by the slightly ajar kitchen door. The kitchens adjoined the Great Hall at the north-west corner of the room. A serving window opened out onto the Hall, and Farek saw a few members of the chef’s staff standing inside. He strode across the room to investigate.
It certainly seemed someone was being berated from the sounds of the argument within. A calm woman’s voice attempted to quiet the impatient man’s demands, but Farek couldn’t make out many other words. He pushed the door the rest of the way open as he strode into the kitchen…
… and knocked a lantern stand to the floor. There was a stack of flour bags piled in the middle of the preparation area. At least one had broken, filling the room with a musty cloud. The oil lantern and its metal stand clattered to the floor. Farek fumbled with the lantern, but lost it. The toppled lamp rolled right toward the heap of flour.
As the room burst into flame, Farek found himself yanked backward. It wasn’t the push of heat and pain for which he had braced that struck him; it was as stern as a strong man’s grip on both of his shoulders. His torso was pulled first and his legs followed.
The stone floor was jarring against Farek’s back. His spine rattled as his skull slammed off the floor. He slid at least ten feet in this position, careening out into the Great Hall. The explosion burst out the door in front of him, washing over him with a wave of heat and the stench of burning flour. As he slowly—painfully—pushed himself up onto his elbows, Farek stared at the smouldering doorway of the chef’s room.
Devender ran past and plunged into the smoke. Farek’s jarred mind was still processing what had happened: the trap, the explosion, the magical push that had saved him. Devender had pulled him to safety.
A moment passed as Devender’s magic settled the smoke and flames inside with a downward burst of wind.
As he stumbled into the realm of the disaster, Farek found the kitchen still simmering. Shelves had collapsed and tables were reduced to broken pieces of wood, ashen and smoking. A servant from the Great Hall ran in and immediately began patting down the remaining embers with his removed tunic. The kitchen staff who had been arguing inside were scorched and, as Devender gravely lowered his face, already dead. Behind a preparation table, they found one serving woman still alive. Guards and servants rushed past Farek to carry her out of the room.
“Bring any healers you can,” Farek ordered one of the house sentries who had just stumbled in. The man gave him a nod and rushed away.
Then, peering through the adjacent pantry door, one of the guards called out, “Here! Medic!” Farek was right ahead of Devender as they stormed to see what had been found. The guard was patting the victim off with his cloak; Devender’s extinguishing wind had not reached into the damp cellar. With a twitch of his hand, Devender put out the last tongues of flame, and Farek collapsed, stunned, to see his sister lying on the cellar floor. Her skin was bright red, cracked open, and bleeding. She must be de—Farek cut the thought off as Devender held a hand over the blackened tunic that Simi wore and touched her wrist gently with his other hand. He gave Farek a hopeful nod and then moved both hands over her torso.
“Gods,” Farek breathed. “What, by the stars, happened?” His sight on Simi’s scorched skin clarified. He had never seen a burn like this. It was like someone had stripped the outer few layers of her skin right off, leaving only her red insides. His empty stomach roared with acid and his dazed skull rang; he was forced to look away.
In rushed Dorean, his face full of horror even before he saw his lover. Farek jumped to his feet, trying to push him back. “Don’t look, don’t look!” Dorean shoved past him and fell to his knees sobbing. Uncertain where to touch her, Dorean patted Devender’s back and whispered words of encouragement.
Farek stumbled back into the kitchen in a daze. His fists were clenched, he realized. He slowly awoke to a scalding rage. Who would have done this? Who would dare?
At that moment, Jannia strode boldly into the smoky kitchen. “What happened?” she demanded. After Farek had filled her in, Jannia braved a look at Simisar’s condition. Devender was hard at work; he focused on each extremity, one at a time, while always keeping a hand near her left breast. Likely, he divided his focus to keep her heart beating. Or to slow it. Farek knew nothing about treating a burn so severe.
After a moment, Jannia wiped her eyes with a kerchief and strode into the kitchen with Farek in tow. She surveyed the scene carefully. She bent to look at the lantern stand, thrown against the wall from the blast. She found the largest lump of metal left over from the lamp itself. After she had examined everything, Jannia threw her hands up beside her. “How could this happen?” she asked.
The guards reported that there were eight victims—two living and six dead. Farek knelt to quietly speak with the other survivor, a serving woman named Silnara. Silnara was being treated by two healers and a field medic, but her burns were less severe than Simi’s. She was laid on a low table in the dining hall. Farek’s first questions for the poor woman were: “Did you notice anyone or anything strange in the kitchens today? Anything odd before or after the flour mess?”
“Chef Zibil didn’t have any idea about the delivery,” Silnara said. She spoke slowly. She blinked painfully and looked blankly at the ceiling for a moment. Her irises were rimmed with blood and her whites full of gossamer red lines. “It shouldn’t have even been there.”
“Do you know who delivered the bags?” Farek asked.
Silnara shook her head, then grimaced. One of the healers gave Farek a scolding glare.
“We can check with the porter,” one of the guards suggested from behind Farek. “Someone had to bring them in.”
Farek nodded. “All right, look into it. Thank you very much Silnara. If there’s anything else you remember, please let me know.”
Silnara nodded and watched with her sad, red-rimmed eyes as Farek step away. Farek marched toward the kitchen once more. His vision shook dizzily and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
By the time Farek returned to the pantry, Simi was in much better shape. Her skin had sealed itself again, though it was still angry and red. Devender had draped a medical blanket over her torso and legs and was speaking with a guard about procuring a stretcher. He saw Farek approaching and smiled weakly as he spoke. “She’ll be fine, Farek. I’m not sure if I can heal all the scarring, but she won’t lose any muscle capabilities. Her senses could be affected. We won’t know until she’s through this phase.”
Farek knelt next to Simi. Dorean looked at him briefly, but then looked back at Farek’s little sister. She was deeply asleep now, probably thanks to Devender’s magics. Farek clenched his teeth as he looked at her, but a very quiet growl made it through. His little Simi did not deserve this. It had been intended for Farek or Jannia, or perhaps to burn down the whole estate.
All of Farek’s work, all his plots and schemes and adventures…. If he had failed to protect his own sister, what was it worth? Muscles felt ready to burst in his shoulders. Whoever had done this would pay.