Ariwyn was silent in the morning. The vines were clustered around the windows that showed the time was either pre-dawn or mid-eclipse. The near silence outside suggested the former.

  Taramo had woken up feeling like a great weight had been removed from his chest. Breathing was far easier and when he stood he felt as if he could jump to a second story window. Deeply investigating his hand he saw the probable reason.

  Strands of mana held his muscles together and onto his bones with dozens of tiny pockets that his body had yet to grow back into being filled with a latticework that helped his cells quickly multiply and grow into the spaces as he looked. It would probably take half an hour until he was fully restored and other lines of mana were filling in for the muscles that were being restored.

  That it took a whole night to fix was concerning. Ariwyn had been one of the paramount healing wisps before she'd gone rogue and been found by him. With the foundation that she'd had he would need to get a potioneer as soon as possible. In fact he should probably go and find them.

  He changed from a robe to the new set of clothes that looked identical to the previous set he'd received yesterday which sat on a chest of drawers that was not there when he'd walked in yesterday evening. Yesterday's clothes had been washed and placed in the top drawer.

  Given he hadn't gotten a fully furnished room meant that resource constraints existed for them. A sniff revealed that the pine chest of drawers was probably made the day before.

  He stood, dressed, and looked at the pot that contained Ariwyn. She remained silent. With no input from her he decided to get some food and see what he could do to assist this friendly village inside the abandoned city.

  Opening the door he saw the sun peaking out and a guard standing by the hotel, the main building for the village, looked at him and gave him a small, friendly, wave.

  "Good morning." The guard cheerfully, but quietly, said as Taramo walked to the front door, "Most everyone is asleep or waking up. One of the cooks should be awake so she should be able to get you some breakfast."

  Taramo thought he got most of it, taking note that the guard had spoken in their 'low divine' instead of their common language.

  "Thank you." Taramo tried his best to respond in common, "When will the boss wake up?"

  "The Patriarch should probably be awake now, though he normally only starts his work two hours after dawn. If you need anything I'll get him." The guard opened the door and started to enter.

  "No! Thank you." Taramo slipped and started speaking the 'high tongue'. He added a thanks in hope it would cancel his denial, "It's nothing urgent so I'll talk to him later. I'll have to have something to eat anyways."

  The guard's face had gone white at the curse and blessing, but had started going back to normal after Taramo's following sentence. He received the pat on the shoulder Taramo gave and silently went back to his post.

  Taramo scurried to the kitchen, hoping not to meet anyone unnecessary in the meantime.

  Carina enjoyed the quiet mornings.

  As the youngest cook she had been given more of the drudgery work to do. When tubers needed to be peeled or soup to be stirred she would be put to work. The jobs were necessary to keep the kitchen functioning so she worked dutifully.

  The other cooks were the wife of the Captain of the guard, who was aspiring to be with child, the old army cook, who was a no nonsense man who could make broth out of shoe leather, and the gardener who hoped to set up his own tea farm once the clan colony was properly established.

  And the Baker. He did his own thing.

  None were hostile, but they had their own goals that went beyond the kitchen. Carina's best hope was to become the core of the kitchen and carve out her own dominion within the growing settlement.

  She was the fourth daughter of a middling family so any hint of dowry was absent when she was of age. Finding consistent work would be necessary for her survival so she took the little her family could afford and went to the Capital of Taravam, where she would succeed or die.

  She worked as a server for an old lady at an eatery and after some time had been offered an apprenticeship as a chef. This was both excellent and terrible as the old chef had been for the longest time the head chef of the Palace. She was also a favored of the Queen regnant given her willingness to experiment with confectionery for the dear little princess.

  Carina didn't mind hearing about this, it was lovely that the queen had let her pursue the dream of setting up an eatery so all who wished could taste her food. Carina even suspected that one of the secretive ladies who would always get the same personal room was the queen in disguise. The small smirk when she'd asked if the lady had spoken to the queen spoke volumes.

  But then the current head chef found out. Apparently the 'dusty old crone' had refused to take an apprentice because of the politics that any apprentice would be mired in and had decided to do so only after being gone so long that she would be irrelevant.

  Then someone had poisoned her tea. She was lucky to have survived and the head chef who was implicated was executed, but the capital had many aspiring royal chefs who thought they would be more noticeable without the 'upstart'. Her mentor had connected her with the patriarch of Pitarav who was intent to set up a colony in the abandoned city of Tarnox.

  She wasn't put in charge of the kitchen, not that anyone was properly 'in charge'. The army cook was technically in charge but was focused on logistics food acquisition and ensuring that the meals got out on time, being otherwise uninterested in leading.

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  So Carina would peel extra tubers, move the kitchen equipment for better efficacy, whatever would help the kitchen and the Patriarch. She was beginning to gain recognition from the Patriarch himself.

  Then she took the meal to that highest priest. She received a blessing for only taking some of the leftover soup to him, the power from those words. She'd later learned that he only spoke the high tongue but her withheld aspiration sang all the same.

  The highest priest of the Patriarch's god looked well on her. Would she keep the kitchen for so high figures? Would Aria herself sup from her work?

  "Good morning." The highest priest was right behind her and she jumped like a spooked cat.

  "Sorry, sorry." He was apologizing to her!? She bowed very deep, almost smacking her forehead into his, except that he stepped back hurriedly.

  "I'm sorry for causing you worry." She begged.

  "All is well. All is well." He used the little common he knew. "I came for food?"

  The porridge had been started, but would need some time to be softened enough and ready to eat. The baker was probably closed to finished with his bread, but one did not walk into the bakery unless there was greatest need. Some of yesterday's bread made for the Patriarch was kept for the Chef's use. Cinnamon was an expensive spice so the cinnamon bread was worth eating even if it was a day old. She loved it and the fact that the Patriarch often asked for more than he would eat to be made.

  "It's not ready yet. I'll get some toast." She got the bread from the waxed wooden breadbox and sliced three thick slices off it. If the other cooks were angry there wasn't enough they always had the option to wake early to secure their share. She scooped some butter onto a plate so it would be easily accessible for the toast to optimally butter it and quickly got back to the porridge.

  One hand stirred the porridge and the other held a metal rod with four prongs to pinch a slice of toast between them. She kept the toast as close as she would dare to the fire, she couldn't give an inferior meal to this highest priest. Taking the perfectly toasted bread she slathered it with butter and presented it on one of the silver plates.

  The Priest took it, looked at it, then tentatively took a bite. An approving look came over his face and he reached his hand for the toasting stick. She gave it up with a despondent thought.

  Was it because she had failed to keep to his standards. The thought filled her mind as the Priest took a slice of bread and fixed it to the end. He looked at it with a look that would char her if he turned it onto herself. A breath of warmth kissed her face and she turned her attention to the bread.

  It had turned a golden brown without getting close to the fire at all. Was it just his smoldering look or had he used, Magic! Magic meant for cooking! Was this a practiced spell or was he innovating a new practice. She had attempted to learn magic when she was younger but she had middling control and no fighting spirit that even the crafter guilds wanted. But if there was magic of the kitchen she had to learn it.

  The questions she had for him were dammed at her mouth, each equally wishing to leave first and none able to do so. By the time she had decided on a question he had removed the toast, buttered it, and offered it to her.

  She could not bear the thought off refusing him so she took it in hand and raised it to her mouth. The surface was crunchy and the inside was soft beyond what would be possible for day old bread. It felt like someone had taken the freshest loaf and fried a slice with no fear of the Baker's wrath.

  It was truly the food of the gods.

  ---

  The young cook was entranced by his toast. The bread was apparently spiced with something expensive and was made daily for the Patriarch's enjoyment. The extra bread at the end of the day was left to the chefs as an added perk to the job.

  Had either of them had more than a middling understanding of the middling divine language Taramo was certain that Carina would talk his ear off much more than she was attempting. By the time that one of the other chefs had arrived, a grizzled old veteran, she had shared as much of her past as their shared linguistic failings could manage and had pledged she'd do anything to apprentice herself to him. In return he'd promised to show her some of his 'cooking magic'.

  The segregation of magic into different jobs was something that was supposed to distinguish mages from the common magic user. Someone who was able to use mana to help the growth of plants was unable to use similar principles to help a person's broken bone mend, despite some base level similarities.

  Taramo's 'cooking magic' that he'd shown was re-introducing moisture to the interior of the bread while heating up the outside evenly. With great control over mana was the shadow of perfectionism so Taramo had a few tricks to do with food, though they were not very related to each other. He'd help her though if she were to be able to pick up on even half of his tricks she'd be worthy of apprenticeship.

  The veteran who was also a cook lightly chastised Carina and the gaggle of other chefs and workers who filed in behind had some sly grins. Some less than secretive whispers of wooing reddened Carina but before Taramo was allowed to be shuffled out he'd released his weave on the bubbling porridge pot. Carina would have a lot less scraping with the 'burnt on shit' that she'd let accumulate while forgetting to stir the pot.

  When he'd left the kitchen a guard was outside ready to take Taramo to the Patriarch. It was an hour and a half earlier than Taramo had expected but it would be better to sort it out sooner since the Patriarch had decided it was of utmost importance.

  ---

  "So what does my guest need besides the best alchemist in the lands? It will take at least two weeks for them to get here." The Patriarch was familiar with the high language and was willing to use it for easy communication.

  Both of them had tea in the Patriarch's private study. It was on the second highest floor of the inn with a selection of books filling out a bookshelf and a large desk that had a tidy pile of papers. Both of them had cups of tea and the server had left the pot when they'd gone to give them privacy.

  "No. That's ... not ideal but I'll manage." Taramo sat in front of the Patriarch's desk.

  "I realized that we were never formally acquainted. I am Taramo."

  "I am Talarof, Patriarch of the Pitarav clan and one of the Prince Consorts of the Queen of Taravam. You saved my son's life and I will be forever grateful of that."

  Silence permeated the room. After a sip of the tea, startlingly similar to what Taramo was familiar with, Taramo spoke.

  "How long has this colony been in established? You have been generous and I would assist as I could."

  "We arrived in the mid winter. That would make it about four months." Talarof leaned forwards in his chair, "As for help the presence of Aria Tarayna is enough to make any other desire the height of greed," He narrowed his eyes, "but that's not what you would be interested in."

  "As things are you are friends," Taramo begun, "others would be less trustworthy and securing your presence here is in my, and Aria's, best interest. I am skilled and if your demands go beyond my abilities I won't take it badly."

  "Those are big words, though you are probably worthy of them. I will change my plans to account for your help, but I'll need time to think of good uses for your ... skills. In the meantime my son Gerolf was very unfamiliar with the layout of Tarnox, though most people don't like using the name." He chuckled "Most people think the wraiths run rampant and kill any who disrespect the old king of the same name. Like the Silver Chain. Those mercenaries would do almost anything to destroy my people here so I should have someone protect my son while he familiarizes himself. I hope that is within what you can do and is acceptable?"

  "It is."