Chapter One Elstaria

To say that Cyril's first memory was of the kitchens was a bit of a misnomer. His first real memory was of his uncle bellowing at him because he had put his toy blocks in the pie crust dough. It had left bits of wood and paint in the crust, rendering it useless so that his uncle had to start all over again.

Not all of Cyril's memories were bad of course. He remembered the time spent helping to peel apples (stealing pieces every once in a while), his uncle teaching him to read and write and the triumph of the first unburned cookie. But the memory of his uncle shouting at him always stuck, not because of the anger; but because there had been fear in his eyes. Cyril didn't think of it at the time, being only about three years old, but when he thought back on it later it seemed odd, though he always forgot to ask about it.

The kitchen of the Elstaria Palace was a distracting place, so it was no wonder Cyril forgot such a small detail. It was a huge room with three massive fireplaces; two large enough to roast a boar in and one big enough for a whole cow if it was ever employed that way. There were several long counters where cooks spent all day chopping, slicing, paring, dicing cutting, trimming, fluting, basting and rolling. There was one large sealed room which was kept cold where meat was stored in rock hard slabs. Hanging from hooks and stored in cabinets were pots, pans, baking dishes, plates, cups, goblets, platters, forks, knives, huge knives that Cyril was not allowed to go near, massive bowls, tiny bowls, frying vats that Cyril was also not allowed to go near though he often thought they would make a good hiding place; rolling pins, measuring cups, spoon sets by the dozen, kettles, whisks, ladles, strainers and cheese graters. In short, there was so much to look at, play with and try that it was a wonder Cyril remember anything at all come days' end.

Cyril was proud of his uncle because he ruled the kitchen absolute as the Head Cook. His name was Jacob and he came from the southern lands, but had moved north looking for work. He was a huge man, well over six feet, with very short grey hair kept in place by a thin net, grey eyes surrounded by a fine web of crow's feet, muscled arms and legs and wore sturdy clothing and shoes covered with a massive apron that was once white was now stained very shades of yellow and brown. It seemed to Cyril that his uncle had always been a cook until he got older and overhead Jacob talking about mercenaries with the guardsmen while they were drinking. He had sounded so sad that Cyril had nightmares that night and never eavesdropped again.
~
Although Cyril spent most of his time in the kitchen, he was sent outside for an hour or two every day to learn archery. Cyril really wanted to learn how to wield a sword, but his uncle had blanched at the idea and Cyril never spoke of it again. Instead, he diligently learned archery; how to make a bow with his own hands, how to make arrows and fletch them, how to properly care for his equipment in any weather and of course how to shoot. It took years, but Cyril became a proficient archer and many whispered that he may someday be the best marksman in the Palace and from there, perhaps a King's bodyguard, a hunter or maybe even an assassin. It was a well known secret that King Rhigard hired assassins and kept the very best for his own use. Cyril grew up knowing none of this and only knew that he was a good shot and was pleasing his uncle's friends.

He also spent a great deal of time exploring the palace grounds. He was allowed to go everywhere but the High Court Gardens and he wasn't supposed to talk to any of the m'ladies or m'lords or their children. But that left plenty of scope for him to play with servant children and roam the stables, dog yards and common gardens with impunity. He played war with the stable boys and kitchen boys, teased the little maids, ran wild with the dogs and told the horse stories.

It was not a pampered life, but it was a solid one and Cyril thought it would always stay that way. But on the day before his sixteenth birthday, after roaming with other teenagers and rolling out pastry for his uncle, he asked the question that would change his life forever:

"Uncle Jacob, what's 'snowflake blessed?'
~
I should probably stop drinking now...

Jacob stared down into the murky depths of his mug for a moment and then finished it in a gulp. He still wasn't at the level of inebriation he felt he needed to be in at in order to look in the mirror, let along deal with the problem the Cyril suddenly represented.

Sixteen years... How the hell have sixteen years just gone by without my noticing? You old idiot, you knew this was coming and you kept putting it off and putting it off and now it's too late.

They're going to find out tomorrow.

He poured himself another drink and it vanished in two gulps. Now he was starting to feel fuzzy, but it still wasn't enough.

Why why didn't I tell him? Warn him? Do something?

He tried his best to pretend nothing would happen; he had made certain that Cyril never heard about snowflake blessings and he never let the boy near any babies. And as Cyril went from a chubby toddler to a playful boy to a lean and lanky teenager, looking more and more like his mother, it got harder to even think about the day of his sixteenth birthday. In doing that, he had probably done the worst thing possible and shattered his promise to his sister.

I can't protect him if he's exiled. Not even King Rhigard can do much, not that he would. Why risk revolt after sixteen years of relatively peaceful rule for the sake of a kitchen boy?

There had already been so many rumours to crush. Cyril hadn't been born under a good star to begin with; his mother had killed the Crown Prince (Jacob always flinched at the thought of his sweet little sister killing anyone in cold blood) and he'd been born in a prison. And there was the incident with the blocks and the crust... Jacob shivered. If he hadn't caught it, several people would have come down with lead poisoning. For years after, there was always a whisper, a thought that somehow the toddler had done it on purpose, as though channelling his mother or as a sign of the evils of not being born with a snowflake blessing. But of course that was ridiculous as well; the boy had been three; how could he have known?

Crush all the rumours he had and by good luck, hiding Cyril from the court and a few head knocks, the kitchen boy had been forgotten in favor of more scandalous doings. But tomorrow, for lack of a little care, everything would be blown apart.

Jacob took another long drink and brooded at the window. He didn't want to go tomorrow. He couldn't face the anguish on Cyril's face when he realized he was different and would be exiled for it or at the very best, banished to the bottom of society. So far as Elstaria was concerned, he would either be driven out, killed or forgotten.

But I should be there, a braver part of him argued. He'll need a friend, someone to stick up for him.

And then we'll both be exiled, a darker part murmured back. Do you want to go back to being a traveling sellsword? Go back to the war torn southern lands?

Jacob shuddered. No, he most certainly did not. This was all Marilla's fault anyway; if she had just stayed out of that nasty business with the revolutionaries, Cyril would be a normal boy growing in a normal man.

The jug of bear steadily drained as Jacob fought with himself over who to blame, what to do and what Cyril's fate would be in the morning.
~
Cyril awoke in the morning with a decided feeling of Destiny upon him and bounced out of bed. It was not only his sixteenth birthday, but also the day of King Rhigard's 16th year on the throne of Elstaria. His birthday would be eclipsed by that event, but at least he could pretend that the feasting, dancing and singing were for him. And of course there was the Coming of Age ceremony to look forward and since no one had told him what to expect, he was expecting only the most exciting events.

Uncle Jacob was nowhere in evidence when he arrived in the kitchens. Cyril was told that his uncle felt ill and he frowned a bit. Uncle Jacob had never been ill before and he felt vaguely betrayed by something-either by the fact that he was ill or the fact that someone was lying to him. But when he tried to find Jacob, the man was oddly elusive for someone who lying in bed and Cyril gave up. Besides, there were arrangement for the feast to help with and the shivery feeling of anticipation for midday occupying his thoughts.

I won't just be a kitchen helper anymore, he thought, savouring the idea. They'll put me with the guards or the long range hunters or even with the King!

So wrapped up was he in happy, if vague, daydreams of glory that he didn't notice the nervy looks which many of the older helpers were giving him.
~
Midday came and he didn't need any prompting by his excited peers to go outside to the main courtyard where preparations were already underway for King Rhigard's anniversary. Long tables were being set out, the ground was swept and there were flowers everywhere. Cyril stood in the middle of the preparations, looking excitedly around for his area to stand, for the place where he was going to have happen whatever would happen to him. His friends stood behind him, excited at first, but as the bustle moved around them and nothing happened, their excitement changed to confusion.

"It's past midday," one stableboy whispered.

"It should have happened by now," a girl murmured.

Cyril clenched his fists, balled up his courage and snagged the attention of one of the rushing servants, an older man he'd never had any real dealings with before.

"Have I come too early?" he asked

"What are you talking about?" the man asked irritably, his hands full of silver forks.

"My coming of age," Cyril said, his heard beginning to thump uncomfortably.

The servant looked at him in confusion for a minute and then his face turned white and he threw himself backwards. "You!" he gasped. "I thought you were dead."

This was such a strange thing to say that Cyril could only stare at him in shock. The man's cry had attracted a crowd of servants and a few bored minor nobles. They were all gawking now and Cyril found himself the center of a growing circle.

"No snowflake," someone murmured and the words rippled through the crowd like fire. No snowflake, no snowflake, no snowflake.

Cyril stared around him and felt his throat constrict. The crowd was swiftly shifting from idly curious to hostile; he could see it in their eyes and faces. Something was very wrong and it could not be borne on this day of King Rhigard's ascension.

No snowflake, no snowflake, no snowflake. The words were pounding into his brain and even his friends shied away from him, melting into the crowd, unwilling to taint themselves with this outsider. Cyril gulped.

"He cannot be allowed to stay here!" a man shouted and that broke the dam of shock. One moment Cyril was alone in a ring of people and the next he was being thrust to and fro, pushed, shoved, hit , kicked to the ground and slowly, painfully dragged out of the courtyard altogether. Cyril just managed to cover his head from the blows and squeak a protest, but the panicked crowd wouldn't listen.

"Halt."

One word and everyone froze and looked up. Then, like magic, the maddened Elstarians parted, giving Cyril air to breath and a glimpse of thin sunlight highlighting a tall man in front of him. He was holding out a gauntleted hand. Cyril blinked, but couldn't see much through his swollen eyes. He managed to put his hand into the man's massive one and was hauled to his feet.

"What's going on here?" the man asked, almost sound puzzled, but Cyril heard a growl under his tone.

"Warlord," a man said. "This… this thing is an abomination."

The tall man looked down at Cyril. Now that his eyes were focusing again, Cyril could see that his saviour better; a man with long chestnut hair woven through with feathers and beads, weather beaten and scarred skin and green eyes. He was wearing a bear pelt over his thick tunic and wore low boots with deep treads for the snow and ice that locked Elstaria in for several months. There was a massive axe slung over his shoulder and a sturdy circlet of iron around his forehead.

"King Rhigard," Cyril choked.

Rhigard smiled faintly and turned back to the crowd. "He's a kitchen boy, isn't he?" he addressed the crowd. "Hardly an abomination."

A gasp, like the sigh of the wind. "He has no snowflake," a man said. "He was not blessed at birth and he will not be now."

An odd stray thought crossed Cyril's mind: Rhigard was laughing inside. Outwardly, the warlord only looked grave.

"I see," he rumbled, holding a Cyril a bit tighter against him. "And so he must be beaten for this?"

"He must be driven out," some of the crowd chorused. "Before he curses this kingdom."

Rhigard smiled a bit under his beard and Cyril shrank back, wishing he could hide behind his own dark brown bangs; it was not a pleasant smile.

"I was not aware that the power to exile citizens had fallen to the people," he said mildly. "I always considered that to be my decision."

Some of the crowd noticed the aura of tension around the warlord and slid away, pretending to never have been part of the crowd. Others looked scandalized or afraid, but most everyone appeared struck dumb.

"Now, I think we have more useful things to do with a stout lad like this than, as you say, driving him out. After all, he can cook, can't he? And haul water, cut firewood? All of those things that are a part of a cook's trade? I don't care to lose a worker just because of a snowflake, so let his destiny be that of a kitchen drudge in the castle. Out of sight, out of mind as the southern bards say."

The crowd was not happy with this proposal, but King Rhigard merely waited for the murmuring to die down, raised an eyebrow in a question that no one answered and then, still holding Cyril by the shoulder, led him away from the crowd and back to the palace.

"I believe that was the worst birthing day this castle has ever seen," the warlord muttered as they made their way inside. "Snowflakes? What a backwater bunch of people."

"I'm sorry about this lad," he said, looking down at a still benumbed Cyril. "But you're about to become the lowest of the low in your kingdom's social caste. Outcast for all intents and purposes, if not physically. It's the best I can do for you without destabilizing everything I've done in the last sixteen years."

Cyril still felt as though he was floating outside of himself and Rhigard had to stop and shake him a bit.

"Are you listening boy?" he asked, getting down to the smaller man's level. "You must stay in the kitchens for a while; I don't trust half those people not to come after you if you leave. You won't be allowed to attend the feast, nor any other feasts for a good long time and your education must end here. But at least you'll be safe and warm and fed, which is more than these people would have allowed."

Cyril stared up into the Warlord's sympathetic green eyes and to his horror felt tears run down his face.

"What did I do wrong?" he whispered.

"Nothing," Rhigard sighed, standing up again. "But it's between you and the kingdom and the kingdom is more important than standing up for you. Just be grateful for what you have." The Warlord then assumed his customary stern expression and pushed Cyril back into the kitchens and almost into Jacob who had red eyes and a wan look on his face.

"This creature is not allowed to leave the kitchens," he announced to the silent room. "He is Outcast, born without a blessing. He is to cease all things which mark him a civilian of Elstaria; no more schooling, no more archery and no more fraternizing with the Blessed of Elstaria. He will live out his days doing the kitchen's most menial tasks and will die here."

With that, Rhigard swept out leaving a buzz in his wake. Jacob stared down at Cyril who stared back at him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Cyril finally asked hollowly. "You must have known there was something… wrong with me. Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wouldn't have done any good," Jacob weakly protested. "Nothing would have changed."

"I wouldn't have gone out there expecting something wonderful!" Cyril exploded. "I wouldn't have been beaten, I wouldn't have bothered with schooling! I would have just worked in the kitchens quietly and out of sight. Now I'm banished from anywhere in the kingdom, I'm not allowed to do the things I love and everyone hates me! And where the hell were you anyway?"

Jacob started to answer and Cyril cut him off with a slash of his hand.

"I already know," he said, his voice dripping disgust. "I can tell; you were drinking. You knew this would happen and you couldn't bear to be there. Afraid of getting beaten up yourself? Or exiled for raising an abomination?"

"Cyril," Jacob started, but Cyril flung himself to the farthest corner of the kitchens, the helpers melting away form him as though afraid he would contaminate them, and started furiously chopping potatoes.

"I'm sorry," Jacob finished quietly, his own tears blurring his eyes. "May all the gods forgive me and Marilla too; I'm sorry."