more sacred still to me, and somehow retained a vestige of that sensation, no matter how desperate the disappointment that had followed.
I had thought, in the cold, with the taste of my blood on my lips, I am the instrument. Play me, play ME! I flung my spirit out into the aether in acquiescence to the universe’s wishes, seeking, grasping, falling.
And I found nothing waiting there to catch me.
And now? Winter reflects the emptiness of things, I think, and that is why I like it. Winter makes no empty promises of pleasant existence. It is bare, cold life with no other claims. It is the Gods’ reminder to us that life is hard, that it can always be harder.
But I do not say this in answer, but instead shrug and let Alberic take my arm and tuck it through his own, taking me to the menagerie as though he hasn’t heard my protest.
* * *
When I can, I slip away from Alberic and make my way out through the kitchens.
There are those who refuse to eat the flesh of any creature that displays the power of speech. They will not share a household feast of the kind that occurs whenever an Oracular Pig dies, for example, refusing to partake of the meat that most folks believe will give them luck.
This is not a common attitude in Tabat, though. There are those who make their living off the flesh of Beasts, even a few slaughterhouses devoted to the techniques needed for a creature well aware of the impending fate when going to the butcher.
At Piper Hill, no body ever went to waste. No body. Nobody.
But even with those memories, I have never abstained from such flesh. It is the way of the world, to feed on or to be fed upon. Even so, venturing into the kitchens that serve the Castle and Alberic’s court, I feel a twinge when I see the great standing roast that once was a Dragon’s rib cage and the flesh clothing it.
I tell myself it’s because it’s such a waste. Dragons are rare and are harder to capture than almost any other Beast I know. They do not live well in captivity. That glistening meat covered with a slick red sauce redolent of garlic and honey and turmeric cost more than the entire year’s tuition for a student at the Brides of Steel, and the school is not known for its cheapness.
I do not believe, as some do, that eating a Beast’s flesh bestows its powers on the consumers. Pig flesh does not make one’s luck wax, no matter whether it comes from a speaking swine or its more silent kindred. Dragon’s flesh possesses no innate virtue, and it is tough as a leather strap and gamey to boot. Only its rarity and price give it savor.
The kitchens bustle around me as I pass through. One assistant cook crouches over a tray of tarts, frosting them with blue and yellow icing, her fellow beside her peeling potatoes, the long brown curls falling into a basket that I know is destined for the Duke’s menagerie. Like Jolietta, Alberic is ever one to save coin where he can. I rarely used to visit this place, but more recently I’ve found it a useful way to escape the castle without being intercepted by any servant Alberic might have dispatched to fetch me back to whatever conversation I have fled. Now I am avoiding speaking to him further of the Dryads. I have no way to save them, but increasingly I am loath to stand by and watch.
The servants here are too busy to pay me much mind other than an eye roll as I pass, a murmur or a whisper. That’s nothing new, that’s something I encounter every day on the streets of Tabat. More recently, the whispers have been hostile at times, so I almost expect it here in the kitchens, but they are more civilized, perhaps. Or at least more aware that I could have them turned out for some insult.
No one dares say anything when I slip a napkin-wrapped tart into my pocket or take one of the golden fruits sitting on the table waiting to be peeled as well. These plump orbs, furry-skinned and sweet, are called sun fruit in the Southern Isles, which is the only place that they will grow. They
I had thought, in the cold, with the taste of my blood on my lips, I am the instrument. Play me, play ME! I flung my spirit out into the aether in acquiescence to the universe’s wishes, seeking, grasping, falling.
And I found nothing waiting there to catch me.
And now? Winter reflects the emptiness of things, I think, and that is why I like it. Winter makes no empty promises of pleasant existence. It is bare, cold life with no other claims. It is the Gods’ reminder to us that life is hard, that it can always be harder.
But I do not say this in answer, but instead shrug and let Alberic take my arm and tuck it through his own, taking me to the menagerie as though he hasn’t heard my protest.
* * *
When I can, I slip away from Alberic and make my way out through the kitchens.
There are those who refuse to eat the flesh of any creature that displays the power of speech. They will not share a household feast of the kind that occurs whenever an Oracular Pig dies, for example, refusing to partake of the meat that most folks believe will give them luck.
This is not a common attitude in Tabat, though. There are those who make their living off the flesh of Beasts, even a few slaughterhouses devoted to the techniques needed for a creature well aware of the impending fate when going to the butcher.
At Piper Hill, no body ever went to waste. No body. Nobody.
But even with those memories, I have never abstained from such flesh. It is the way of the world, to feed on or to be fed upon. Even so, venturing into the kitchens that serve the Castle and Alberic’s court, I feel a twinge when I see the great standing roast that once was a Dragon’s rib cage and the flesh clothing it.
I tell myself it’s because it’s such a waste. Dragons are rare and are harder to capture than almost any other Beast I know. They do not live well in captivity. That glistening meat covered with a slick red sauce redolent of garlic and honey and turmeric cost more than the entire year’s tuition for a student at the Brides of Steel, and the school is not known for its cheapness.
I do not believe, as some do, that eating a Beast’s flesh bestows its powers on the consumers. Pig flesh does not make one’s luck wax, no matter whether it comes from a speaking swine or its more silent kindred. Dragon’s flesh possesses no innate virtue, and it is tough as a leather strap and gamey to boot. Only its rarity and price give it savor.
The kitchens bustle around me as I pass through. One assistant cook crouches over a tray of tarts, frosting them with blue and yellow icing, her fellow beside her peeling potatoes, the long brown curls falling into a basket that I know is destined for the Duke’s menagerie. Like Jolietta, Alberic is ever one to save coin where he can. I rarely used to visit this place, but more recently I’ve found it a useful way to escape the castle without being intercepted by any servant Alberic might have dispatched to fetch me back to whatever conversation I have fled. Now I am avoiding speaking to him further of the Dryads. I have no way to save them, but increasingly I am loath to stand by and watch.
The servants here are too busy to pay me much mind other than an eye roll as I pass, a murmur or a whisper. That’s nothing new, that’s something I encounter every day on the streets of Tabat. More recently, the whispers have been hostile at times, so I almost expect it here in the kitchens, but they are more civilized, perhaps. Or at least more aware that I could have them turned out for some insult.
No one dares say anything when I slip a napkin-wrapped tart into my pocket or take one of the golden fruits sitting on the table waiting to be peeled as well. These plump orbs, furry-skinned and sweet, are called sun fruit in the Southern Isles, which is the only place that they will grow. They
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