Chapter 4: Lyralyn: Life in the Kitchens

By the time the kitchen fires burn low, my arms feel like they no longer belong to me. I have scrubbed pots until my fingers blistered, peeled roots until the smell of onions clung to my skin, and carried buckets of water until my shoulders throb. The dwarves work with a rhythm I cannot match ... loud, fast, efficient. They shout over the roar of the hearth, their voices echoing off stone walls. I try to stay out of their way, small and silent, but the kitchen is a maze of moving bodies and clattering metal.

The heat is suffocating. My hair sticks to my neck. My uniform is damp with sweat and splashed broth. Every time I blink, my eyes sting from smoke. When the last cauldron is cleaned and the last plate stacked, the dwarf woman ... her name is Brunna, I learned ... jerks her chin toward a narrow passage.

“Sleeping quarters this way. Don’t expect comfort.”

I follow her through a low archway into a dim passage. The air here is cooler, quieter. The stone under my feet is smoother, worn by generations of servants. Brunna leads me to one of the many small alcoves carved directly into the wall. A straw mattress lies on a raised stone ledge. A thin blanket is folded at the foot.

“This is yours,” she says. “Be up before the second bell in the morning.”

Then she leaves. I stand there for a moment, staring at the tiny space. It’s designed for the smaller size of a dwarf, barely large enough for me to lie down straight. The walls press close, cold and unyielding. The air smells faintly of damp straw and old stone.

I sit on the mattress. It crackles beneath me. My legs tremble with exhaustion. My hands shake. I curl them into fists until they stop. I watch the other residents of these alcoves. They remove their clothing before lying down. Their clothing is hung on a rail above the alcove, providing a modicum of privacy. While nudity is commonplace in elven society when bathing in public, I’m hesitant to take that step here. My neighbours have no such qualms, and I avert my eyes as I follow their actions and sit hunched naked on my mattress.

Somewhere deep in the hall, a hammer strikes metal ... one, two, three times ... before falling silent. The dwarves never truly sleep; their forges burn at all hours. The sound echoes faintly through the stone, steady and distant, like a heartbeat.