War Storm
Page 28
“Fresh-caught salmon, from the Calum River in the west,” Carmadon explains, before popping the entire thing in his mouth. Farley quickly follows suit. “The Calum drains to the western coast, into the ocean.”
In my head I try to picture what he’s talking about, but my knowledge of his lands is poor at best. There’s another ocean, yes, bordering the western edge of the continent, but that’s all I can grasp right now.
“My uncle Julian will be eager to learn more of your country,” Tiberias replies. He speaks slowly, with conviction. It ages him a decade. “I suspect his questions are what delay both him and the premier now.”
“Perhaps. My Dane does delight in his library.”
And so would Julian. I wonder if the premier is trying to form ties of his own, perhaps make an ally of a friendly Nortan Silver. Or maybe Davidson is just enjoying time with another scholar, eager to share word of his country.
After the salmon comes a hot vegetable soup, steaming in the chilly air, and then a salad of fresh greens and wild huckleberry grown on this very mountain. Carmadon doesn’t seem to mind that no one else is speaking. He fills the silence with his own chatter, pleasantly comfortable as he details every bit of the meal he prepared. The particulars of a salad dressing, the best time to pick berries, how long the vegetables must cook, the size of his personal garden, and so on. I doubt Evangeline, Tiberias, or Anabel has ever cooked a day in their life, and I wonder if Farley’s ever eaten anything that wasn’t stolen or rationed.
I do my best to seem polite, although I have little to say. Especially with Tiberias so close, inhaling everything on his plate. I glance at him here and there, hoarding brief flashes of his face. His jaw clenched, his throat working. He never shaved so closely before. If I didn’t have my pride or conviction, I might run my knuckles over his cheek, close against smooth skin.
This time, he catches my eye before I can look away.
My instinct is to blink, break the stare. Turn back to my plate or maybe even excuse myself from the table. But I hold my ground. If the would-be king wants to put me on edge, knock me back on my heels, then fine. I can do that too. I set my shoulders, straighten my spine, and, most important of all, remember to breathe. Tiberias is just one more Silver who will leave my people enslaved, no matter what he preaches. He is an obstacle and a shield. A delicate balance must be kept.
He blinks first, returning to his food.
I do the same.
It burns to be near him, so close to a person I used to trust. A body I know so well. One choice, one word, and things would be so different. This dinner would be spent trading glances, communicating in our way about Evangeline or Anabel or Davidson’s absence. Or they wouldn’t be here at all. It would be us on this terrace, under the stars, surrounded by a new kind of country. An imperfect one, maybe, but a goal just the same. Carmadon is Silver, his husband a Red newblood. The servants are not slaves. I’ve seen little of Montfort, but enough to know this place might be different. And we could be different in it. If only he would let us.
Tiberias still wears no crown, but I see it on him just the same. In his shoulders, in his eyes, in his slow, firm manner. He is a king as much as anyone can be. To the blood. To the bone.
When the servants clear the salad plates, Carmadon glances at the door, as if expecting Davidson to join us. He frowns a little when no one appears but gestures for the next course anyway. “This is a particular Montfortan treat,” he says with a pasted smile.
A plate slides onto the table in front of me. It looks like a particularly thick and juicy cut of steak, flanked by golden fried potatoes and mushrooms, onions, and leafy greens cooked in sauce. In a word, delicious.
“Steak?” Anabel asks, leaning forward with an unkind smile. “I promise, my lord Carmadon, we do have steak in our country.”
But our host ticks one dark finger. It incenses the old queen as much as his disregard for titles does. “On the contrary. You have cattle. This is bison.”
“What is bison?” I ask, eager to try it for myself.
His knife scrapes the plate as he slices a cut. “A different species, albeit close in relation to the cattle you know. Bigger by far, better in taste. Much stronger and hardier, with horns and shaggy coats and enough muscle to knock over a transport if they so choose. Most here are wild, though some farms exist. They roam the Paradise Valley, the hills, and the plains as well. They thrive even in winters that could kill man or beast. You’d never look a live bison in the face and call her cattle, that I can assure you.” I watch, fascinated, as his blade cuts through such strange meat. Red juice bleeds across his meal, staining the white china. “An interesting thing, the bison and the cow. So similar. Two branches of the same tree, though entirely different from one another. And separate as they are, divided as the two species can be, they can live alongside each other just fine. Mingle their herds. They can even breed.”
Next to me, Tiberias coughs, almost choking on a piece of food.
My cheeks flame hot.
Evangeline laughs into her hand.
Farley finishes the bottle of wine.
“Have I said something impertinent?” Carmadon glances between us, his black eyes dancing. He knows exactly what he said and what it means.
Anabel cuts in before anyone else can, under the guise of easing her grandson’s embarrassment. She surveys the palace over the lip of her glass. “Your husband’s lateness is quite rude, my lord.”
The smiling Carmadon doesn’t miss a beat. “I agree with you. I’ll make sure his punishment is swift.”
The bison is lean, and Carmadon is right. Better than beef. I don’t bother with manners, as Carmadon seems quite at ease eating potatoes with his hands. It only takes a minute for me to devour half the bison steak, and all the browned onions. I’m so focused on cleaning my plate with my fork, scraping together the perfect bite, that I barely notice the door open again behind us.
“Apologies, of course,” Davidson says, his pace even but quick, as he walks toward the table. Julian trails him closely. Side by side, I’m struck by how similar Julian and Davidson look. In air, not appearance. They both have a hunger about them, the intellectual kind. Otherwise they could not be more different. Julian is too slim, his graying hair thinning and wispy, his eyes watery and brown. Davidson is a picture of health, his gray hair neatly cut and gleaming, and despite his age, he is all lean muscle. “What have we missed?” he asks, taking the seat beside his husband.
With some awkward glances, Julian surveys the table and claims the only open seat. The one meant for Tiberias, if Tiberias weren’t so hell-bent on annoying me.
Carmadon sniffs. “Discussion of the menu, the breeding habits of bison, and your lack of punctuality.”
The premier’s laugh is open, honest. He either feels no need to perform or he performs perfectly in his own home. “Normal dinner conversation, then.”
At the far end of the table, Julian leans forward, looking sheepish. “The fault is mine, I’m afraid.”
“The library?” his nephew offers with a knowing grin. “We heard.”
My heart twists at the warmth in Tiberias’s voice. He loves his uncle, and any reminder of the person Tiberias is beneath his bad choices makes me ache.
A corner of Julian’s mouth lifts. “I’m the predictable kind, aren’t I?”
“I prefer predictable,” I mutter. But loud enough for the table to hear.
In my head I try to picture what he’s talking about, but my knowledge of his lands is poor at best. There’s another ocean, yes, bordering the western edge of the continent, but that’s all I can grasp right now.
“My uncle Julian will be eager to learn more of your country,” Tiberias replies. He speaks slowly, with conviction. It ages him a decade. “I suspect his questions are what delay both him and the premier now.”
“Perhaps. My Dane does delight in his library.”
And so would Julian. I wonder if the premier is trying to form ties of his own, perhaps make an ally of a friendly Nortan Silver. Or maybe Davidson is just enjoying time with another scholar, eager to share word of his country.
After the salmon comes a hot vegetable soup, steaming in the chilly air, and then a salad of fresh greens and wild huckleberry grown on this very mountain. Carmadon doesn’t seem to mind that no one else is speaking. He fills the silence with his own chatter, pleasantly comfortable as he details every bit of the meal he prepared. The particulars of a salad dressing, the best time to pick berries, how long the vegetables must cook, the size of his personal garden, and so on. I doubt Evangeline, Tiberias, or Anabel has ever cooked a day in their life, and I wonder if Farley’s ever eaten anything that wasn’t stolen or rationed.
I do my best to seem polite, although I have little to say. Especially with Tiberias so close, inhaling everything on his plate. I glance at him here and there, hoarding brief flashes of his face. His jaw clenched, his throat working. He never shaved so closely before. If I didn’t have my pride or conviction, I might run my knuckles over his cheek, close against smooth skin.
This time, he catches my eye before I can look away.
My instinct is to blink, break the stare. Turn back to my plate or maybe even excuse myself from the table. But I hold my ground. If the would-be king wants to put me on edge, knock me back on my heels, then fine. I can do that too. I set my shoulders, straighten my spine, and, most important of all, remember to breathe. Tiberias is just one more Silver who will leave my people enslaved, no matter what he preaches. He is an obstacle and a shield. A delicate balance must be kept.
He blinks first, returning to his food.
I do the same.
It burns to be near him, so close to a person I used to trust. A body I know so well. One choice, one word, and things would be so different. This dinner would be spent trading glances, communicating in our way about Evangeline or Anabel or Davidson’s absence. Or they wouldn’t be here at all. It would be us on this terrace, under the stars, surrounded by a new kind of country. An imperfect one, maybe, but a goal just the same. Carmadon is Silver, his husband a Red newblood. The servants are not slaves. I’ve seen little of Montfort, but enough to know this place might be different. And we could be different in it. If only he would let us.
Tiberias still wears no crown, but I see it on him just the same. In his shoulders, in his eyes, in his slow, firm manner. He is a king as much as anyone can be. To the blood. To the bone.
When the servants clear the salad plates, Carmadon glances at the door, as if expecting Davidson to join us. He frowns a little when no one appears but gestures for the next course anyway. “This is a particular Montfortan treat,” he says with a pasted smile.
A plate slides onto the table in front of me. It looks like a particularly thick and juicy cut of steak, flanked by golden fried potatoes and mushrooms, onions, and leafy greens cooked in sauce. In a word, delicious.
“Steak?” Anabel asks, leaning forward with an unkind smile. “I promise, my lord Carmadon, we do have steak in our country.”
But our host ticks one dark finger. It incenses the old queen as much as his disregard for titles does. “On the contrary. You have cattle. This is bison.”
“What is bison?” I ask, eager to try it for myself.
His knife scrapes the plate as he slices a cut. “A different species, albeit close in relation to the cattle you know. Bigger by far, better in taste. Much stronger and hardier, with horns and shaggy coats and enough muscle to knock over a transport if they so choose. Most here are wild, though some farms exist. They roam the Paradise Valley, the hills, and the plains as well. They thrive even in winters that could kill man or beast. You’d never look a live bison in the face and call her cattle, that I can assure you.” I watch, fascinated, as his blade cuts through such strange meat. Red juice bleeds across his meal, staining the white china. “An interesting thing, the bison and the cow. So similar. Two branches of the same tree, though entirely different from one another. And separate as they are, divided as the two species can be, they can live alongside each other just fine. Mingle their herds. They can even breed.”
Next to me, Tiberias coughs, almost choking on a piece of food.
My cheeks flame hot.
Evangeline laughs into her hand.
Farley finishes the bottle of wine.
“Have I said something impertinent?” Carmadon glances between us, his black eyes dancing. He knows exactly what he said and what it means.
Anabel cuts in before anyone else can, under the guise of easing her grandson’s embarrassment. She surveys the palace over the lip of her glass. “Your husband’s lateness is quite rude, my lord.”
The smiling Carmadon doesn’t miss a beat. “I agree with you. I’ll make sure his punishment is swift.”
The bison is lean, and Carmadon is right. Better than beef. I don’t bother with manners, as Carmadon seems quite at ease eating potatoes with his hands. It only takes a minute for me to devour half the bison steak, and all the browned onions. I’m so focused on cleaning my plate with my fork, scraping together the perfect bite, that I barely notice the door open again behind us.
“Apologies, of course,” Davidson says, his pace even but quick, as he walks toward the table. Julian trails him closely. Side by side, I’m struck by how similar Julian and Davidson look. In air, not appearance. They both have a hunger about them, the intellectual kind. Otherwise they could not be more different. Julian is too slim, his graying hair thinning and wispy, his eyes watery and brown. Davidson is a picture of health, his gray hair neatly cut and gleaming, and despite his age, he is all lean muscle. “What have we missed?” he asks, taking the seat beside his husband.
With some awkward glances, Julian surveys the table and claims the only open seat. The one meant for Tiberias, if Tiberias weren’t so hell-bent on annoying me.
Carmadon sniffs. “Discussion of the menu, the breeding habits of bison, and your lack of punctuality.”
The premier’s laugh is open, honest. He either feels no need to perform or he performs perfectly in his own home. “Normal dinner conversation, then.”
At the far end of the table, Julian leans forward, looking sheepish. “The fault is mine, I’m afraid.”
“The library?” his nephew offers with a knowing grin. “We heard.”
My heart twists at the warmth in Tiberias’s voice. He loves his uncle, and any reminder of the person Tiberias is beneath his bad choices makes me ache.
A corner of Julian’s mouth lifts. “I’m the predictable kind, aren’t I?”
“I prefer predictable,” I mutter. But loud enough for the table to hear.
