Jonis by Rowan Erlking (manga ereader TXT) 📕

The cook walked around the kitchen, peering into her stores of flour.

They were diminished.

She opened the sugar tub next.

Much of it was gone.

Stalking over to the icebox, she peeped at the milk, the eggs and the other ingredients that would be needed to make the breads. These were also less than the day before.

Slamming the icebox door shut, Yani shouted, “Who has been in my kitchen?”

Mrs. Dayes peered closely over the pile of breads and raised her eyebrows. “Well, whoever it was, she cleaned up after herself.” She picked up a pastry and bit into it. Nodding, she licked her lips. “And she’s a good cook.”

The cook huffed again, stomping to the icebox to get eggs and milk to make breakfast.

“Excellent toast, Cook. And this pastry is superb,” Mr. Farren said, sitting comfortably in his bed robe in his usual chair at the dining room table.

Jonis kept his eyes on his eggs, stirring around the yolk with his fork.

“I’m surprised you had time this morning to make them. Don’t tell me you bought them,” Mr. Farren said.

The cook bashfully lowered her head as if pleased at his response. “Only the best for my master.”

Jonis smothered a grin, keeping his face as straight as possible.

“Well, you certainly have outdone yourself this time. Never have I had such tender bread. And the sweetness, it is just right. Not too much and not too little.” Mr. Farren took another bite, humming with pleasure. He glanced up once, his eyes shining with appreciation. But he her face turn a faint shade of pink. “Cook, what is it?”

She clenched her serving mitt and fixed her eyes on the tablecloth as if it had offended her. “Do you think it so much better than my old bread?”

“Ten times better. It is a great recipe. You should do it more often,” Mr. Farren replied.

“Thank you, Sir. I will do my best.” She turned and stalked back into the kitchen.

Mr. Farren blinked after her. “What has her so bothered? It was a compliment.”

“I think it is my fault,” Jonis whispered, leaning low over his plate.

With a curious tilt of his head, Mr. Farren peered over at Jonis. “Your fault? What? Did you touch her this morning? Jonis, you know should always wear your gloves.”

Jonis raised his gloved hand. “I never touched her. But, uh, I was in her kitchen last night.”

Mr. Farren stared at him. Then he glanced down at the pastry in his hand. He lifted it. “You made this?”

Nodding, Jonis then ducked his head between his shoulders, feeling his own face grow hot. “I couldn’t sleep. And I had all these recipes in my head that I had to get out somehow so I could—well—clear my thoughts.”

Mr. Farren coughed over a laugh. He glanced back to where the cook had gone. He took another bite of the pasty, chewing with pleasure. After swallowing, he freely chuckled, shaking his head at Jonis. “No wonder she was upset. I told you not to deprive the servants of their jobs. It is their livelihood, no matter how full your memory is.”

“Yes, sir.” Jonis’s blush remained as he took up his fork to cut the egg more.

His guardian laughed again, taking another bite of the pastry. Licking his lips, he added, “Funny that a Cordril knows how to cook so well. What was that ancestor? A baker?”

Jonis nodded, suppressing a grin as his embarrassment vanished.

“I don’t suppose you will be able to make more—without the cook noticing, I mean,” Mr. Farren said wistfully. He sighed as he finished the last piece of the bread.

Pressing his lips together to stop from laughing, Jonis took a breath and cleared his throat. “Uh, actually, in the kitchen there is a lot more. When she comes back, I bet you can ask her if she made more. Last night, I put out enough for a good sale. Apparently my ancestor only made things in bulk.”

Mr. Farren truly laughed then, a deep chest laugh that echoed into the other room.

The maid and the cook peered from the kitchen, muttering together with deadly glares on Jonis.

Luckily for Jonis (and the cook) Mr. Farren had been expecting guests that afternoon and needed plenty of food. The cook arranged Jonis’s pastries and rolls on silver trays and set them on the small table in the front room with jam and fruit to complete it. They used the best china. Jonis had gone to school already, and he had only just returned at the tail end of the visit.

Mr. Farren often entertained on short notice. It was customary for Jonis to give his regards to the guests when he came upon such a party. Usually it was only the village patriarch that came over, bringing his wife as well as the constable and his wife. But this day Mr. Farren had a full house, which included a local military captain with three of his officers and two of his privates. They were in the front room taking tea and wine with the pastries. Laughing, they listened to the captain boast about his accomplishments. A shiver ran down Jonis’s back as the man bragged about slaying a Gole—a nearly impossible demon to kill from what he recalled out of that ancient memory. Jonis passed by without word, and snuck through the kitchen door where the cook was taking out another tray of buns.

“Can I have one?” Jonis asked, tucking his workbook under his arm.

She lifted the tray out of his reach. “No, these are for the guests. And you stay out of my kitchen. I have no time to make you a sandwich. The master is entertaining today.”

The cook bustled past him through the swinging door, trotting into the main room with a cheerful greeting to the guests. Jonis sighed, wishing that he had taken a few more pastries that morning and hid them in his room, but Mrs. Dayes probably would have found them during her cleaning and confiscate them. There were times he was sorry she was so immaculate in her housekeeping. Nothing missed her eye, which was the reason he kept the kitchen so neat after he baked the night before.

Drawing in a breath, feeling his stomach rumble, Jonis resigned himself to finish his homework in the study.

He walked back to the entrance hall and around the stairs to go further into the house. While passing the front room, Jonis peered in at the trays to see if any pastries were left. A stack of five remained. Sighing, Jonis swallowed his hunger and continued on his way.

“Woah, who was that?” one of the men called out, pointing towards the hall opening.

“Ah, that,” Mr. Farren said, standing up. “He is my ward, Jonis Macoy. Hello, Jonis! Come in here and meet a few people.”

Jonis stopped, turned back, and walked to the doorway. “Yes, sir?”

Mr. Farren waved him in. “Come on in, boy. I want you to shake hands with these fine soldiers.”

The soldiers stared at Jonis, mainly fixed on his shining blue eyes. They stood. Some went pale as Jonis approached.

Tucking his homework under his arm once more, Jonis extended his glove-covered hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Do not be alarmed,” Mr. Farren said, nodding to the captain. “Jonis is a Cordril. He wears the gloves for your protection. You will be quite safe taking his hand.”

The captain took Jonis’s hand, clasping it tight with a firm shake that spoke as strongly as his intense gaze. “A pleasure.”

Jonis was glad when the man released his grip.

As custom, Jonis shook the other five soldiers’ hands. They also attempted to assert their station by their grips and glares. One squeezed excessively hard. Jonis rubbed his fingers as soon as the man let go.

“So, is he the one you mentioned?” the captain said to the patriarch.

Jonis still stood there, watching one of the ladies take another pastry so that the stack was now reduced to four.

The village patriarch nodded. “Yes. Don’t you think he would make a fine soldier?”

“Actually, sir, I think it is best that Jonis study to be a magister.” Mr. Farren interrupted. “As I have mentioned before. He has all the skills.”

“A magister?” the patriarch’s wife said aloud with some concern. She glanced at Jonis while taking a pastry for herself.

There were three left.

Jonis’s mouth watered.

“Him? Magisters must be trained in the gentle arts. Can a demon be gentle?”

Jonis wished he could either be excused or allowed to sit down and have a pastry. As it was, by custom, he could not leave until dismissed by his guardian. He stood, watching the guests munch on his bread and the captain claim another pastry.

Two pastries left on the plate, Jonis fixed his eyes on them and only them.

Mr. Farren chuckled, picking up one and handing it to Jonis. Gratefully, Jonis seized it and took a large satisfying bite. One of the other soldiers grabbed the last one, glaring at the boy as if he would take that also.

“Jonis has that skill which is very gentle. In fact—don’t tell the cook this because she doesn’t know—but Jonis made those pastries and the bread we have been eating,” Mr. Farren said.

Everyone swallowed. They stared at the food as if they had suddenly discovered that they had been poisoned.

“Mr. Farren, you promised not to tell!” Jonis protested, distraught. “What if the cook finds out? She’ll never make me a sandwich again!”

But his guardian laughed, picking up a roll, and spread on jam. “Oh, come on. You bake very well. And I believe in telling the entire truth.”

Jonis grimaced and took another bite of his pastry. There was nothing else he could say anyway.

All the guests’ eyes were still on him, but they slowly went back to the baked goods.

With a mild gaze, Mr. Farren smirked and swallowed his bite of food. “What? You are not hungry?”

The patriarch leaned near and hissed at him. “Did you say that this boy made what we just ate?”

Blinking at him, Mr. Farren snorted. “Are you going to begrudge him that skill simply because he is a Cordril? He didn’t make this bread to poison us, if that is what you are thinking. Jonis had a hard time sleeping a night because his head is full of memories that he cannot sort out yet. I thought had told you all about it. So what if he took one night to make bread?”

“And you think this is soldier quality?” The captain let out a large guffaw, now picking up another roll. “The boy is a weakling if all he does is spend his time cooking. Let him be a magister. The army is too rough for him.”

Jonis was not sure he was happy to hear that. Though he had no desire to join the army, he did not care for the insult. For the respect of his guardian, however, he remained silent.

The patriarch rose from his seat. “Don’t be so hasty, Captain. His father was a hunter. And if he really carries all the skills and memories of his Cordril ancestors, then he is entirely fit to join the Brein Amon army. You should see the sword he was carrying when constable found him.”

The captain looked the patriarch in the eye. “Yes, show me the sword. I want to see what this boy is made of for myself.”

On command, Mr. Farren led them to the study where the sword had been set away, opening the cabinet. Jonis followed him with some apprehension. However, as the cabinet was opened, Jonis got a good look at its contents. Alongside his sword were several peculiar brass devices, glass and ceramic bottles, as well as a fair number of crinkled and yellowed spell scrolls too long to stick in the drawers below. Mr. Farren lifted out the sword and handed it over to the captain.

The captain’s gaze fixed on the weapon, his eyes going wide as he felt the weight of the broadsword in his hands, murmuring under his breath, “A Bekir blade.” The leather wrapped around