Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

F ieran stepped into the cavernous space that served as the officer's mess hall. Just like on the airship, the two mess halls were set on either side of the kitchens so that one industrial kitchen complex could serve both.

The officer's mess was on the outside of the mountain so that a bank of small, slitted windows let in light and glimpses of the airships hovering over the harbor. The poor enlisted men simply got a cavern with no windows.

Fieran joined the line for food behind Tiny and Stickyfingers, with Merrik and Lije behind him. Pretty Face had wandered off to who knew where. He'd wander back once he got hungry enough.

The food the brawny troll men and women working in the kitchens slapped on Fieran's tray seemed edible enough. Far more edible than the food often served at Fort Linder, at any rate. Some kind of fish, a side of veggies, and a potato. Simple but hearty.

As the island's location meant that all food except fish had to be imported, they would probably be eating a lot of fish while stationed here.

Fieran faced the room to find a seat. Many of the elven pilots already clumped together at one of the long tables while trolls in naval uniforms were scattered along various other tables.

Pip's dark curls glinted in the light of the sunset streaming through the tiny windows where she sat with her back to the food line. Among all the brawny trolls and tall elves, she appeared a tiny child. One of the female elf pilots sat next to her, and the two of them chatted as if they were old friends.

Fieran slid onto the seat on the bench on the other side of Pip, setting his plate in front of him. "How was the rest of your day?"

"Fieran!" Pip jumped at his voice but grinned. "Meet my new roommate, Aylia Daemaer."

"Nice to meet you." Fieran stuck out his hand, nearly jumping himself when the female elf lieutenant leaned around Pip to actually shake it instead of ignoring the gesture as he'd expected. "I'm Fieran Laesornysh."

Aylia paused mid-shake. "Son of the Laesornysh?"

"Yes." Fieran braced himself as he withdrew his hand.

Merrik quietly slipped onto the seat on the other side of Fieran, a stiff presence at Fieran's side as he waited to back him up.

"Then I am especially pleased to meet you." Aylia's grin widened, the expression lighting her brown eyes. "I was too young to fight in the last wars, but my dacha and macha both did, and they told me stories of the great Prince Farrendel Laesornysh. I am honored to fight at his son's side."

Now that was more like it. At least not all the pilots in the elven half of the squadron were stuck-up prigs.

"I will be honored to take to the skies with you. Once Escarland sends my aeroplane, that is." Fieran shrugged as Lije and Stickyfingers joined them at the table, Tiny not far behind.

They went through a round of introductions before they all dug into their fish, the white meat flaking onto their forks.

As Fieran brought another bite to his mouth, he was grabbed from behind and hoisted off the bench. He would have lashed out with his magic at such an attack, but he recognized the voice booming by his ear.

"Cousin Fieran!"

Fieran weakly patted the chest—or perhaps arm—of the exceptionally large and brawny troll warrior pinning him in a hug. "Rokyd. I searched the harbor, but I couldn't tell if the KS Vanguard was in port."

"You just caught us. We're finishing up a re-supply before going out on patrol again." Another hand slapped Fieran's back, accompanied by the deep voice of his other cousin.

Fieran was finally set back on his feet, and he tugged on his uniform to straighten it.

Before him, his two cousins grinned broadly. One was a tall troll warrior dressed in a white naval uniform with a lieutenant commander's insignia on his brawny shoulders. He had the typical gray skin and white hair of most trolls, and he kept his hair shorn as short as Escarlish military standards.

The other was a tall human with brown skin and curly black hair. He, too, wore a white naval uniform but with lieutenant stripes instead.

"Good job giving the Mongavarians what-for at Bridgetown." Lucien, the human, gave Fieran yet another backslap, which had Fieran stumbling forward. Lucien might be fully human, but he had been raised among trolls and could whack with troll-like force.

"We'll give them the same beating if they show their faces around here." Rokyd, the troll, gave Fieran's arm a light punch.

Well, light for a troll. Fieran had to resist the urge to rub his shoulder.

"Join us. I'd like to introduce you to everyone." Fieran gestured to the table, where his friends were sitting in what seemed to be stunned silence. Well, not Merrik. He had returned to eating. He was rather used to the cousins' antics.

Rokyd and Lucien obligingly circled the table and took the open seats next to Tiny.

Tiny stiffened, his eyes widening slightly with something of the apprehension Pip showed when Fieran mentioned introducing her to his dacha. For the troll population living in Aldon—like Tiny's family—Uncle Julien and Aunt Vriska were revered.

Fieran's grin stretched so wide it hurt as he returned to his own seat across from his cousins. "Rokyd, Lucien, these are my friends. You know Merrik, of course. This here is Lije, and he's Stickyfingers. The half-troll there is Donkyn Sairdror, but he goes by Tiny."

Rokyd swiveled to better face Tiny. "Related to Erdrol Sairdror?"

"He's my da." Tiny's already high-pitched tenor voice squeaked.

"He's worked with my dasheni on a few projects. Skilled and a hard worker, so my dasheni said." Rokyd nodded with an extra depth of respect that had Tiny sitting straighter. Rokyd's dasheni—grandfather in the troll dialect— was Aunt Vriska's father and one of the founding members of the troll community in Aldon.

Fieran dug his fork into his fish, flaking off a bite. He would have to hurry up and eat before his food grew too cold. "Everyone, these are my cousins Rokyd and Lucien. Uncle Julien and Aunt Vriska's sons."

"Your…cousins?" Stickyfingers swung his gaze from Rokyd to Lucien to Fieran, a furrow between his brows.

"We're brothers." Rokyd threw an arm over Lucien's shoulders. "Can't you tell?"

The two of them couldn't look more unlike brothers. Besides a general similarity in height and burly build, they had no resemblance to each other or to Uncle Julien and Aunt Vriska.

"But…" Stickyfingers gestured vaguely. He might have grown up on the streets of Aldon in a family of crooks, but even he had enough sense not to point out the obvious.

Rokyd and Lucien shared a look before Rokyd laughed.

Fieran worked to suppress his grin. The two of them took far too much pleasure in people's confusion.

Lucien leaned his elbows on the table. "We're adopted."

"Ah." Stickyfingers gave a nod, as if that explained everything for him. "So you aren't brothers by blood."

Maybe not so much sense. But at least Fieran's cousins weren't easily offended. Not these particular cousins, anyway.

"Well, we are. Kind of." Lucien held up his left hand, showing a faint scar across his palm.

Rokyd held up his own left hand, which had a similar scar. "Troll adoptions involve blood. Most troll ceremonies do. We're considered their children by blood just as much as if we were born of their blood."

"Huh. Sounds…messy." Stickyfingers wiggled his hand on his fork, as if imagining what a troll ceremony might entail.

"Tell them the whole story." Fieran spoke around a bite of fish. No matter how many times he heard it, he always got a kick out of listening to Rokyd spin the tale.

Rokyd's grin widened as he, too, leaned his elbows on the table. "Well, you see, my ma is not exactly the maternal sort. She was not about to put up with pregnancy and squalling babies."

"I do not blame her." Aylia gave a little shudder of her own. "Babies are rather terrifying."

"Exactly." Rokyd nodded to her. "After my da and ma married, they were given Akarak Stronghold and the nearby village as their home in Kostaria. When Mongavaria poisoned grain and killed thousands of trolls, Akarak was hit particularly hard."

Fieran quickly shoveled in the last of his food while he listened to the familiar story.

Stickyfingers, Lije, and Tiny leaned forward, their food forgotten and growing cold. Pip chewed more slowly while Merrik took a moment to finish the last of his fish.

"Kostaria is a bit different than Escarland. Orphans aren't sent to an orphanage. Instead, it's the responsibility of the village to take in those they can." Rokyd's voice kept a steady rhythm. "The rest are raised as wards of the warrior family of the nearest stronghold, usually trained to be low-level guards in the household when they grow up."

"So you were a ward of Prince Julien and Lady Vriska?" Lije blinked, his face twisting as he tried to put it all together.

"I was supposed to be, yes." For the first time, Rokyd's voice went a hint rough. "My entire family except for me died in the poisonings. I went a bit feral after that, living on the streets of Akarak and not allowing anyone to get near me. When Da and Ma finally cornered me to get me off the streets and into the stronghold, I bit Ma's finger so hard I drew blood. In that moment, she decided that I belonged with her and Da. Not just as a ward but as a son."

"Because you bit her finger?" Lije's forehead scrunched. The fish on his plate had to be stone-cold by now.

"Yep. She still has the scar." Rokyd grinned, his eyes going soft.

"What did your da think of that?" Stickyfingers seemed to remember he had food and scooped up another bite.

"Oh, he was thrilled. He loves children, and he was more than happy to turn his parental instincts toward giving love to those who wouldn't have a family otherwise." Rokyd shrugged and gestured to Lucien. "It worked out well. Da got children; Ma got to skip over the baby stage. Not the solution for every couple in their position, but it worked for them. That's where he came in."

"I have Aunt Essie to thank for my joining the family." Lucien tipped his head in Fieran's direction. His face and tone had less of Rokyd's lighthearted tone, a hint of the memories he wasn't revealing simmering just below the surface. "I was in an orphanage in Escarland that Aunt Essie supports with her charity work. I had become something of a bully, and those at the orphanage were at their wits' end when it came to me. Aunt Essie asked Da and Ma to meet me, and that was that."

"And then there's Sathrah." Rokyd's gaze flicked to something past Fieran, his smile widening.

Lucien's gaze, too, focused on something—or someone—behind Fieran, his grin returning. "Oh, we definitely can't forget about Sathrah."

Fieran swiveled on the bench as a female troll warrior stalked to their table, her skin an exceptionally dark gray and her hair tinted a very light shade of brown that was unusual in trolls.

She gripped the back of Pretty Face's shirt as if he were a kitten she had by the scruff of his neck. Pretty Face's nose dribbled blood as he alternately tried to stem the bleeding and tug on his collar to keep from choking. His toes barely touched the ground as he was frog-marched to their table.

Sathrah faced Fieran and gave Pretty Face a light shake. "Does this belong to you?"

"Sadly, yes." Fieran sighed and shook his head. "Let me guess. He said something inappropriate."

"Yes, he did." Sathrah plunked Pretty Face onto the bench none too gently, eliciting a whimper. "You really need to teach him a few manners."

"We've been trying. It hasn't stuck yet." Fieran picked up a napkin and passed it to Pretty Face.

Pretty Face took it and pressed it to his nose, leaning his head back. "I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking."

"Of course you are. If I'd wanted to hurt you, I would have." Sathrah strolled around the table and plopped onto the bench next to Lucien. "You're lucky all I did was give you a bloody nose. Since you're a fragile human, I held back and didn't even break the bone."

"I appreciate that. I rather like my nose." Pretty Face spoke into the napkin.

"If you want to keep your face intact, then don't go around insulting troll warriors and making inappropriate comments." Sathrah rested a hand on the dagger belted to the waist of her lieutenant commander's uniform.

"We're on a Kostarian base now. Trolls punch first and ask questions later." Fieran leaned over and retrieved another napkin, handing it to Pretty Face .

"You're right, we do." Sathrah planted her hands on the table.

"Their rules about punching fellow officers are far more lax than the Escarlish military's." Fieran glanced between his assembled flyboys. He might need to make a speech about this to everyone tomorrow morning. "As long as no bones are broken—and even then, it depends on the bone—a few punches and bruises aren't against regulations. There won't be any disciplinary action unless a severe beating is given or the fight happened in a dishonorable manner. So keep that in mind, all of you. Especially you, Pretty Face."

"Understood." Pretty Face finally lowered the napkins, giving a few experimental sniffs and exploring his nose with his fingers. "Does it look bad? Is it crooked? Please tell me it isn't crooked."

Pip rolled her eyes. "Your nose is fine."

"Though…" Lije squinted. "I think you might have a black eye starting already."

Pretty Face groaned. "How am I"—he shot a glance at Sathrah—"uh…going to see to shave if my eyes swell shut?"

"At least we don't have to fly anytime soon." Stickyfingers grimaced. "When I broke my nose, it hurt just bending over. I can't imagine flying would feel too good, even if your nose isn't broken."

Flying. How Fieran already missed it. Escarland had better ship their aeroplanes soon. If he thought placing a phone call to his Uncle Averett, or perhaps Uncle Lance, would speed up the shipping, he'd almost be tempted to use his family connections.

"So how did you join the family?" Pip gestured at Rokyd and Lucien. "They were just telling us."

Sathrah smirked, grabbed Sticky's plate, and plucked a bite of the roast potato from it. "Like Rokyd, my family died in the poisonings. Unlike Rokyd, I was from a tiny village in the far western reaches of Kostaria. I was taken in by a family who just wanted an extra hand for mining, and no matter how many times I appealed to the local warrior family to be trained as a warrior at the stronghold, I was refused. Eventually, I ran away."

Sticky's mouth pressed into a tight line. "So the exploitation of orphans and those on the streets isn't only a problem for Escarland."

"No." Sathrah clenched and unclenched her fists. "I spent years living on the streets before I heard rumors that Akarak Stronghold was the place for common trolls to go if they wanted to be trained, not just as guards but as warriors in a shield band. I hitched a ride to Akarak, marched up to the stronghold, and demanded to be trained as a warrior. As you might imagine, Ma took one look at me and saw something of herself. It wasn't long before I was not just in training to be a warrior but also adopted into the family."

"And our little band wouldn't have been complete without you." Lucien threw an arm around the shoulders of each of his siblings sitting on either side of him. "Though you just had to choose the airborne navy instead of seaborne."

"Much to Ma's fond annoyance." Sathrah grinned and gave Lucien a backslap that was part punch. She glanced at the rest of them. "Da and Ma are both army. If we picked either the Escarlish or Kostarian Army, we'd have either our da or our ma as our commanding officer. All three of us jumped ship as it were and picked navy instead."

"I understand that." Fieran gestured at his green army uniform. "I joined the Escarlish Flying Corps for similar reasons."

For a moment, he shared a look with Rokyd, Lucien, and Sathrah. Only his cousins—in their sprawling, interconnected, rather royal family—could understand what it was like growing up as they had, related to the kings of the Alliance Kingdoms and so many highly placed people.

"Speaking of commanding officers…" Fieran leaned a bit closer. "Is—"

A whistle piped from the doorway. "King on deck."

Everyone in the room shot to their feet, spinning toward the doorway. Kings were the exception to the no saluting or standing at attention rule in the mess hall.

Well, that answered the question Fieran had been about to ask. He climbed to his feet and faced the door as a regal troll with an antler crown tucked in his white hair strolled through the doorway. He wore crisp white trousers and a white shirt in a semblance of a naval uniform, but his was cut in an older style that worked with the sword strapped to his waist. The sense of power surrounding him came not just from his muscular arms and sword at his side but also his confident stride and set to his head and shoulders.

Uncle Rharreth, King of Kostaria.

Everyone in the room snapped to salute, and Fieran's hand was nearly to his forehead when a second person trudged into the room behind Uncle Rharreth. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his whole posture slouchy. His long black hair flowed down his back, blending with his gray skin to give him an overall dark and brooding look, emphasized by the pouty expression curling his lips. Like Fieran, his shoulders were broader than the slim build of the elves, but compared to the stocky trolls, he appeared scrawny.

Cousin Rhohen.

Fieran fumbled his salute.

Merrik swayed slightly closer and whispered, "Remember. Be the more mature cousin. "

All well and good, but Fieran could only be as mature as Rhohen let him be.

Uncle Rharreth, trailed by Rhohen, worked his way around the room. Despite the rocky start to his reign, the trolls in this room revered him to the point of near hero-worship. He had brought Kostaria out of the poverty of the previous wars into a thriving kingdom as forward-thinking as any of the other kingdoms in the Alliance.

As Uncle Rharreth reached their table, his smile broadened as he stepped in for a hug. "Fieran. Good to see you."

"Uncle Rharreth." Fieran returned his uncle's hug and backslap. Unlike with Uncle Julien and the Escarlish Army where any recognition would be seen as favoritism and make basic training worse, Uncle Rharreth publicly claiming Fieran as family would only help his status here among the trolls.

Then Fieran's smile dropped from his face as his voice came out flat. "Rhohen."

"Fieran." Rhohen didn't even bother to unslouch as he glared back.

Uncle Rharreth didn't do anything as obvious as sigh, but something of disappointment colored his blue eyes. He and Dacha had always hoped Fieran and Rhohen would get along.

There were times Fieran almost wished it too.

Almost. Maybe if Rhohen wasn't so pouty about everything. Right now, he looked like he'd had a whole lemon shoved in his mouth.

All it would take would be a little poke—or a zap of Fieran's magic—and he could turn that pout into a blaze of anger.

But Fieran didn't. He was the more mature cousin, after all.