Chương 303: 3.4

They did not see Alder for the rest of their journey from Zapadvah to Juhvizvah. But likewise there had not been any declarations of insult or doom to befall them as every tale made quite clear. The fae of legend were many things. Capricious, easily insulted and in general as dangerous in their wroth as they could be wondrous in their gifts.

But they always declared warning of their curses, they always informed of insults given and at least in some stories gave means and quests that could be performed to make amends for whatever fault had been found in mortal acts. Alder had not declared a curse upon Viznove or their families. So Jewel was optimistic that he had simply left. Maybe only temporarily. Perhaps her party simply left the lands of which the elf chose to roam.

But given the sporadic conversation and appearances she was not entirely certain Alder would not be seen again on her tour. Dariusz was, however, apparently still frustrated by the experience.

"How? How did he manage to bring that flavor out from the venison like that? I helped him do it, I even cut the plants and tied the vines just as he showed me. But It didn't come out anything like how he did it." Jewel was not sure her master of kitchens was being fair with himself. He'd attempted to fashion some of the same roasts and preparations Alder had made using their own substantially less successful hunts on the road. And she thought it was quite a passable imitation herself.

She had only her own and Gem's tastes to judge it by but while not entirely the same it was quite delicious! None of the footmen or anyone else had anything but praise for his cooking (since before he aided Alder and after). But Dariusz himself seemed frustrated by his perceived failures.

"It must be in the herbs and the animal. I know it was the same plants I saw him use, same leaves, same taste, same smell. But you noticed how he never used quite the same blend or winding of them any night? How each meal the meat was turned just so?" Jewel spared a glance for her kitchen master, his once dark black hair was getting threads of grey. The face she remembered being so youthful was creasing in places. Mostly around his mouth and eyes.

She'd hired Dariusz as a somewhat established man just starting a family of his own. But he was starting to look more wizened every year. His children were courting (his eldest just married!). His elder sister was managing the inn their mother had once commanded. Normally his expression was so exuberant that it made it easy to forget the years etching into his face. However today all his years seemed to be seeping into the man's expression.

The furrowed brow and squinting glare as he rode beside her while looking at sights unseen brought forth the lines he had gained in her service. It was a pity that her husband was not here to help bring Dariusz out of his brooding. Paul was on excellent terms with him and all her staff. But once again he had rode hard ahead of them to act as herald and vanguard. It fell to Jewel to see to one that had served her well (as a free man!) for all these years.

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"I admit Dariusz that I can't say what detail vexes you, Your craft over the fire has been as wonderful as ever. Improved perhaps from your inspiration from Alder. Not diminished by it!" The man sighed heavily and shook himself free of whatever details of cookery haunted him.

"Apologies Lady Jewel, but I have cooked and honed my art in it since nearly before I could walk. I know my worth. In service to you I'd say I'm the match for any head of a kitchen in the realm." The fields around them swept the smell of still ripening wheat. The sound of it rushing through the stalks like a sigh from the land itself. Juhvizvah gained most of its wealth from being rich in good sun and soil for grain.

Jewel nodded to his words, she was proud to have seen Dariusz go from an easily cowed stew maker to a man that would stare down foreign kings if they intruded into his domain of firepits, stoves, ovens, cutting boards and larders. His tone now though was haunted, like the youth he had once been at the start of his service to her.

"But a brush of the elf's thumb wetted in blood through the salt? Turning the spit one way and then another? I have only guesses to the rhyme or reason of it all. The wind for the second I think? Maybe? But how to tell which way to turn on just that? And for the salt? He didn't even look at it. Just knew it." There was a dreamy quality to his tone. A reverence that while perhaps appropriate for the work of an elf seemed out of sorts in the normally assured manner of Dariusz.

"I tasted it. That cut changed as you bit into it. As you chewed it, Flavors grew and swept along one another. I can imitate it, pretend at a hint of it. With care and focus and an undue amount of time and labor. But Alder? He didn't even seem to notice he did it." Her Kitchen master, a self proclaimed equal to any other in the realm, took a heavy sigh.

"I thought myself close to a mastery of the art of cooking. But an elf in the woods and a smattering of wild herbs and rock salt made me an apprentice again." Jewel considered that. What do you say to one shaken into humility? Perhaps a joke?

"Well at least he wasn't a cow? The way Celsus talks of how he's to be prepared at his death you'd think him intent to live forever or butcher and cook himself." The words broke Dariusz into a shocked choking laugh. Which lightened the tone somewhat. Until Muriel added her own words to the quiet rush of fields in the summer wind.

"By the way she moved, I can't be sure that the elf ever held a sword before. But at the same time I suspect if she ever did I'd be made to look like a fool in a duel." Dariusz scoffed." He hefts a full stag on one shoulder and prances light as ever on the foot with such a burden, I suspect by strength alone Alder could best any of us. Nevermind his swiftness." Muriel shook her head.

"No, more than that, even if she moved half as fast and a quarter as strong as me, I'm not sure I could beat her in a duel. Old warriors have a way to their motion. Alder moves like a veteran. Even more than a veteran" That brought quiet again. A contemplative silence. Each of her party deep in their thoughts on the now absent elf. Jewel had been overwhelmed with the stories of their wroth and the fierceness of speed.

But on reflection there had been a humbling moment for each of her party, footmen corrected with a brushing touch to improve their stance or grip in spars. The making of the instrument. The handling of the horses. Some stories spoke of the arrogance of elves but Jewel had not seen once when Alder boasted at all. On the contrary the fae being simply did things with not a word. Offered assistance, or even just took up work around the camp unasked whatever it might be. The food and singing was the most obvious.

But her men had once found a latrine freshly dug before they had set up tents! It was a perplexing and strange sort of mystery. Still at least there would be less doubts of her men's truth and that these were not merely elf tales. After all the instrument which Alder had apparently made and discarded with barely a thought held every hall mark of the old stories. Which often spoke of the treasures and generosity that could be had from a carefully dealt with fae.

As happened more and more in her life Jewel was left to wonder how the stories had been embellished or misunderstood in the telling. How many 'gifts' from the elves over the centuries had been things simply left without a care? How much generosity was thoughtless littering? Was the fabled elvish silks once traded through Magarska poor imitations made by struggling masters trying to recreate a discarded garment? Was all the tales of arrogance merely bitter jealousy?