Magic Banquet by A.E. Marling

Night
after night she had lain awake, wondering who her mother was. Had
she died? Or had Aja walked by her in the market without
recognizing her? Her mother may have even been a queen who had lost
her princess daughter through a tragedy.
    Her father, Aja remembered him well enough.
He had smelled of onions, coughed with a deep grunt like a warthog,
and tickled her with a forest of a beard. His arms had enclosed her
with such warmth she had felt snug, complete, safe. Aja couldn’t
bring to mind his face. That she regretted. Of her mother she knew
nothing.
    No harm would come to her from one bite of
salmon. She didn’t see it as truly eating. Just a taste.
    The lord glanced at her, and she puffed
stray hair out of her mouth. She had been chewing on it. A few of
the strands had fallen out. The lord spoke with a voice pitched to
all the guests. “You are right to fear. The problem with learning
is that you begin to understand how little you know.”
    The Chef offered the salmon to another
guest. “This fish satisfies with complete knowledge of a
subject.”
    The lord nodded to the amphora. “And with
forgetfulness so close at hand there seems little risk. Any fool
can learn, but forgetting, that’s a rare skill.”
    Aja asked, “But you didn’t want any salmon
yourself, Uncle?”
    “My pumpkin pie, you shouldn’t call me
uncle, given your newly advanced years.”
    Blushing tired out Aja.
    Now that she thought of it, she hadn’t seen
the lord eating any of the entrées. She told him as much.
    “I didn’t come to this Banquet to eat,” he
said. “To me, the best seasoning is conversation.”
    “But how could you say no to everything? The
kraken, the roc egg, it was all too delicious.”
    “Alas, not to me. I’ve lost the knack of
tasting.” His face never changed expression, but the red paint on
his lips had an upward barb on the left side as if he smirked.
“Some would say I never had good taste to begin with.”
    “You can’t taste? Is it because of your….”
Aja had to know. If old age had taken away his desire for food, Aja
might never taste again as well.
    “My magic,” he said. “After drinking of the
black chalice, all other delicacies are dust in the mouth.”
    She squinted up at the lord. Was he telling
her the truth? His features seemed too still and perfect to be
real. He had to be wearing a mask.
    Aja asked, “What is your magic?”
    “I hope never to show you, my intrepid
truffle.”
    The lord lifted one of the wooden cups of
polished ebony. The djinn poured from the amphora. Ribbons of
purple light traveled up the flow of water. She said, “Think of
what you wish to forget, then swallow.”
    The lord hoisted his cup. “To be free of
memory’s dead weight, a temptation to which I’ll boldly succumb.
Who will drink with me?”
    Solin also had a pour. He balanced his cup
on a crutch and reached to knock it against the lord’s in a
toast.
    “To oblivion!”
    The lord drank, but Solin hesitated. He set
his cup down untasted.
    Why had Solin changed his mind? Aja worked
moisture in her dry mouth to ask, but after five creaking swallows
her parched throat still pained her. “You don’t wish to
forget?”
    Not speaking, he tapped his fingers over the
pillow hiding his bad leg.
    “You shouldn’t ignore old ladies,” Aja said,
“it’s not polite.”
    Solin’s mouth slanted downward on either
side, as hard as a tile roof. “Shouldn’t have let you eat all the
dragonfruit. I shouldn’t have done a lot of things, and I’ve no
right to forget them.”
    “You’re not responsible for me,” she
said.
    “But I am for my hexes.” He glanced down.
“Forgiveness must come before forgetting.”
    He regretted something so much. He had one
sickly leg, and he was a hexer. The three things might be linked.
Aja cracked her mouth open then closed it again. She wouldn’t ask.
She had offended him enough.
    The Chef presented the salmon to Solin. Its
steam wafted past him to Aja. She didn’t