The Twin Who Out-darkened Heaven
Copyright© 2026 by A. K. Veyron
Chapter 9: Darin Havel
Three days before the escort from the church arrived, the Voryn estate held a farewell feast for Lys.
It was not a small feast. Whole roasted pigs were carried out on boards. Cooks ran across the courtyard with trays of dumplings. Musicians played in the garden, and a juggler had been hired to keep the children busy. The family had invited two hundred guests, most of whom Kael had never met.
He stood by a pillar near the main hall with a cup of tea, wearing the face of a man waiting for a very slow carriage.
Over the past week he had worked out how to talk to the voice on purpose. He had to aim a thought at Maltherion, the way you aim a thrown stone. Anything he did not aim stayed his own, and all Maltherion got from those was a faint sense of how hot his feelings were running. It took effort, so Kael used it sparingly.
He aimed one now. This is a waste of a day.
It is a waste of a feast, Maltherion said. In my time, a gathering this size meant a siege was about to begin or had just ended. You people serve dumplings.
Is that a complaint?
It is an observation. Your face is the complaint. You look like a corpse at a wedding.
This is my happy face.
It needs work.
Across the courtyard, Lys was surrounded by well-wishers. Since the night of the dinner, he had been polite to Kael but careful, like a man walking around a hole in the road. Kael had let him be. A bruise needed time before anyone pressed on it again.
He was about to look for a quieter corner when he heard the shouting.
“Not that one! The left crate! The one that does not leak!”
A cart had stopped at the side gate, and a young man stood on the driver’s bench waving both arms at two porters. He looked about seventeen, with messy brown hair, a green merchant’s jacket with one button missing, and the loud, cheerful voice of someone who had never been told to lower it.
The porters were lifting a crate marked Pepper, Southern Grade. Unfortunately, it was the leaking one.
The bottom gave way. A cloud of red-brown powder burst across the courtyard. The porters started coughing. A passing maid sneezed so hard she dropped her tray. Within seconds, half the servants near the gate were wheezing and wiping their eyes.
The young man jumped down and rushed over, flapping his jacket like a fan. “Do not panic! It is only pepper! Nobody has ever died of pepper! Well, one man did, but he was eating it, and it was a contest!”
Kael watched with real interest. It was the first thing all day that had held his attention.
The head cook marched out of the kitchen with her face turning purple. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Madam!” The young man spread his hands. “A small accident. Pepper is a very energetic spice. But look, this is premium grade. A little spilled in the courtyard is a free sample! I could not have planned a better advertisement.”
“You spilled it.”
“I demonstrated it.” He sneezed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and kept smiling. “Now, how many crates would the household like for next month? I offer a discount on the ones that do not leak.”
The head cook stared at him. Then, very slowly, her mouth twitched.
“Three crates,” she said. “And you will pay for the sweeping.”
“Done!” He shook her hand with great ceremony. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
He caused a disaster and walked away with an order, Maltherion said.
He is either a fool or a genius.
Often the same person.
Kael set his tea down and walked over.
The young man was helping the porters stack the remaining crates, still sneezing every few seconds. When Kael came near, he looked up.
“A noble! Do not worry, young master. The pepper is not poisonous. You may breathe freely.”
“I was not worried.”
“Good. Most nobles hold a handkerchief to their nose and look at me as if I were a dead rat.” He held out a hand covered in pepper powder, noticed it, wiped it on his jacket, and offered it again. “Darin Havel. Havel Trading House. We supply spices, wine, and very good advice.”
“Kael Voryn.”
“Voryn.” Darin’s eyebrows rose. “The family with all the roast pigs?”
“Yes.”
“Then congratulations, or condolences, or whatever one says at a feast this size.” He looked around the courtyard and counted on his fingers. “Two hundred guests, I would guess. Eight pigs. I am probably off by a few, but I like to guess.”
“Seven pigs,” said Kael. “The eighth is not roasted yet.”
“You counted too!” Darin pointed at him. “I knew I liked you.”
“I was bored.”
“I could tell. I noticed you from across the courtyard. Everyone here is smiling and drinking and pretending to enjoy themselves, and you are standing next to a pillar like someone just told you the soup is cold. You are the only noble I have ever seen who looks bored at his own family’s feast.”
Kael blinked. For once, he had no ready answer.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Painfully. I run a trade house. I read faces for a living.” Darin wiped his streaming eyes. “That is not an insult. It is a business opinion.”
They ended up on a stone bench near the kitchen wall, where the noise was lower and the smell of roasting meat was higher. A servant brought them two bowls of dumplings, and Darin ate his as if he had not seen food in a week.
“So why the sour face?” he asked between bites. “Is the food bad?”
“The food is excellent.”
“The music?”
“Fine.”
“The company?” Darin lowered his voice. “Ah. The company.”
Kael said nothing, and Darin nodded as though he had been told a long story.
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