Page 5 of The Bone King and the Starling

Ale sloshes over the sides of my pitcher as I move quickly between tables. My arms ache with the weight. My legs ache for other reasons. I’ve banged my shins and knees multiple times on the edges of the bench seats as I squeezed between the narrow gaps between the tables.

It is my least favorite duty because the more the males drink from their horns, the more lecherous they become — and the king’s men are rowdier than ours, which only heightens the debauchery. There must be over two hundred people crowded into our village hall. It’s much too small to fit all six tables, but crammed in here they are, so I have to squeeze between seats that are nearly pressed together.

The high table is positioned in front of the throne, parallel to the back wall. All of the other five tables are organized horizontally to it, pressed together bench to bench to fill the full width of the hall. Only a small pathway for the thralls and kitchen staff to run along files down the wall leading connecting the back wall to the front entrance.

Wedged between two of the tables now, I pour ale to every outstretched horn and cup that shoves itself towards me, being careful to avoid the high table as well as the seats nearest it where the highborn warriors sit alongside their families. I feel Tori’s gaze on me at several points in the night. He hails me with his horn, but I pretend not to notice. Each time he does that and I look back at his face, I catch his smile widening. I quickly shuffle on.

Sweat drips down my back, staining the collar of my dress. Washing it will be a difficulty, but I am overdue a wash. I stink and I know it, even more now with how much ale has spilled over me tonight. Finally brushing the back of my wrist across my hairline, I pour my last cup from this pitcher.

With the good excuse that my pitcher is now empty, I make my way towards the entrance of the hall. It’s still hot in here despite the fact that the only fires that have been lit tonight are the torches. For once, I welcome the icy breeze that wafts through the open doors.

Thralls and other cooks dash around me, adding to the feeling of frenzy. I know I can’t be caught dawdling, but the festivities are magnificent. I glance at the array of tables smushed from wall to wall and inhale deeply, marveling at it all and knowing that I will see no such sight again in my life. This is likely the only time anyone of such importance will ever grace us with their presence here in Winterbren and I will likely remain in Winterbren until the day I die.

I long to look at the king but nervousness prevents me from staring. I spare him only a quick glance. Positioned in the center of the high table, the king's red hair stands out. He stares forward, Chief Olec leaning in towards him and speaking into his ear. Despite Chief Olec’s boisterous laugh, the king’s stare remains flat and uninspired. I shiver, remembering what Ebanora said and looking towards her. She is seated on the edgeof the table closest to the entrance where I stand now, and when she meets my gaze, she flashes me the white cloth she has hidden in her hand. I smile.

She gives me an excited little wave and, as I brush past her, she slips me a little folded square. She’s done this three times already and each time, it’s been a sweet cake — my favorite, though far too high a delicacy for any thrall to have. I’ve only ever tried them thanks to her. My parents had never given me one to sample before they passed away. Even when they were alive, my position within the tribe had been little higher than a servant’s. My father had been a farmer and a warrior, when required, but hadn’t been very good at either. We’d been quite poor.

My mother had been a talented seamstress, but the first time one of the village ladies paid her for one of her designs, my father hit her so hard she lost a tooth. It was a higher payment than he’d received in a year and he’d been insulted. She didn’t sew again after that and any designs she had made, I didn’t inherit. I believe Rosalind took and sold those that there were. I’ve never seen them since and wouldn’t ever have dared ask about them.

I scurry against the outer wall, passing by dozens of other thralls carrying trays and carting pitchers of water, flagons of wine and tuns of mead, eager to get to the back storeroom where the alcohol is kept so I can eat my treat while I refill my pitcher.

I’m jostled by an older male thrall and slam against the wall. I drop my pitcher with an audible “ooph,” but keep my treat in my clenched fist. The male doesn’t turn to look at me, but limps off. I know better than to expect acknowledgement, let alone an apology. We are punished if we are caught flagging or seen making conversation with one another.

Massaging my shoulder, I reach for my pitcher. As I do, Torbun’s booming voice calls out, “Silence all, quiet, quiet!” Torbun is our chief’s second in command. As such, I have waitedon him at Chief Olec’s often, but I’m not sure he’s ever much noticed me. His wife is the great beauty of the village, even now that she’s well past her prime childbearing years, and he’s always looked at her with affection.

I snatch up my pitcher just as my back is pressed against the wall by another thrall, Elena, who moves to stand in position directly next to me. My shoulders brush servants on both sides. Both stand taller than I do. Elena by only a little, the male by quite a lot. I hold my pitcher tight to my chest and look towards the high table. With everyone seated now but those of us serving, it is easier to see the chief and the king seated beside him in the position of honor.

The king is relaxed in his seat now, leaning back, a horn of ale in his fist that he brings to his mouth as his gaze sweeps the space, never landing. His expression is indecipherable. His eyes are dark. His red hair looks even redder in the light of the torches that gleam across it. He’s removed his furs, tossing them over the back of his chair to reveal a scant smattering of leather, concentrated mostly over his chest and leaving his arms bare.

I swallow hard. He is a frightening male to behold. I can picture Ebanora’s stories clearly now. I can see how he could have performed the ritual of Davral, which if true, would have ended with him bathing in and drinking his enemy’s blood.

His shoulders and arms are even larger than they seemed atop his horse, no longer hidden beneath his furs. His biceps bulge with each movement of his hand to his mouth, veins streaking across them. All of his warriors are twice the size of the largest of ours, but he’s largest. All but one other male seated at the high table is dwarfed in size compared to the king, and that warrior male is rotund and built like a boar, laughing riotously into his wine cup.

Torbun claps twice and raises both hands. The chatter dies slowly. I glance sideways at Elena, who offers me a smallshrug, her stare returning forward. Torbun already made introductions, so I can’t fathom the reason for the interruption at this late stage in the evening. Still, he smiles. He has a large smile.

His voice is booming as he speaks. “We are grateful for King Calai and the bounty he has brought to our village, are we not?”

A great roar goes up and I can’t help but smile myself. Though I haven’t yet had my chance to partake, King Calai was generous and set aside a large feast for us helpers specifically. Very few guests we’ve had have come bearing gifts and none have been so generous.

Torbun claps again, demanding silence. “The king has brought us a feast for the ages and in three days, will be taking warriors from our small village to train in the great capital of Ithanuir, returning them in one year so that we can remain protected and safe.” The hall cheers again. “If there is a way we could repay our great king’s generosity, should we not take it?”

The roar is loud enough to make me want to cover my ears, had I any hands to spare. Instead, I laugh and nod along at Torbun’s words. He’s riled up, riling all of us, and earns another loud whoop from the crowd when he gets up and stands on his chair.

He throws his arms to the side and says, “But His Highness Calai is king of all of Wrath and we are but a small village on its farthest edge. What could we possibly have that he cannot find elsewhere in greater, grander quantities?” Whispers rise up. Torbun fans them like embers. “Does anyone have a guess?”

A few guesses are thrown out — mead, ale, fish, fur — but Torbun shakes his head. “You men should know better than any what we have that the other villages of Wrath do not…” He pauses and when there are no further guesses, he shouts at the top of his lungs, “The most beautiful women!”

A cheer goes up loud enough to bring down the hall. A violent wind would have had a less catastrophic effect. Elena hisses beside me and shakes her head. “Fools,” I catch her mouthing. I might have laughed, but I’m distracted by Torbun again. “Our king has requested the company of a willing female for the night. If any such unmarried females exist in this hall, please stand so that King Calai may take his pick. Fathers, release your daughters without fear, for King Calai is a generous male and intends for a great honor to be bestowed on his prize — undoubtedly riches that will make this feast seem paltry.”

This time, female voices squeal and screech. Limbs are shuffled and elbows are thrown as a dozen — no, dozens of women find their feet. I watch as Lucildeth — a widow of fifty — pulls her neckline down and her breasts up at the same time that Ebanora tentatively rises from her bench, her mother’s hands fixing her hair while her brother stares on slack-jawed and angry and his father restrains him.

Ebanora looks at me and I widen my eyes. Her cheeks tint pink. She only just got her moon blood earlier this warm season. The king is over thirty-five. I believe he may even be older than Ebanora’s father. And the stories she told me. He is a cruel, beastly male. She cannot want this…

My lips part but my throat is dry. I know how the world works and despite the fact that Ebanora feels like royalty from where I kneel so far below her, I know she is far from wealthy.

The promise of riches for her family in exchange for their only daughter’s virginity is too great a chance for Ebanora to remain in her seat. And she is beautiful. I can only hope that the king carries an ounce of honor in his body, that he wouldn’t take someone so young and innocent. I glance at Lucildeth again as she puckers her mouth and hope — pray to Lohr, the god of lust — that he prefers a woman with more experience.

“And what a fine selection we have here for you, my liege. On behalf of the chief, his beautiful wife, and our entire village, we welcome you to take your time inspecting our array of willing females, each guaranteed to offer you a pleasurable night.” He gestures at the risen women and my gaze strays from Ebanora’s flushed red cheeks to the king. My heart sits like a dagger in my neck.

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