Page 45 of Artemysia
“Someone else?” His brow arches over his faintly scarred eye, and he looks a bit…impressed? “That would make sense. The Syf never take anything except human lives. Who else would steal books and papers from a village? And why?”
“There must be information they need in the books.” I soak my bread in the brothy stew and use my spoon to shovel a heaping serving into my mouth.
“Yes, of course…” Riev considers my insight, but then his expression turns to horror. “Good lord. Did a family of river crocodiles teach you to eat?” He passes me a napkin, fork and knife. “In case you should choose to feed yourself like a human being.”
“Spoon does it all,” I mutter with my mouth full.
“Riev—” When Throg cuts in, I sit back, ready to have my honor defended. “The first leave we had from the Academy, we rode out to my family’s estate. The cook served beefsteak for dinner. You know how rare beef is with the outer farmlands under constant attack. Anyway, Captain never had tenderloin before, and she out-ate each of my six brothers. Then she boldly asked for seconds of everything. It was very embarrassing.”
Traitor.
I choke on my fourth slice of cheese. “You Throgmortons eat like kings! Besides, your family loved me. They invite me back every month.”
“Yeah—when food’s about to spoil and they need someone to finish it before it goes bad,” Throg concedes.
Riev smirks, but Ivy smacks her lips and points out, “Free food is good food.”
I bob my head at her gratefully and shove another chunk of potato into my mouth. There’s no room to reply with a clever retort. My mind is still woolly, and I don’t have the capacity to think fast, so I focus on chewing instead.
I wave a hand in the air at Throg for more beer bread.
At the end of the meal, I push back from the table to stand. “Squad, I have a captain’s announcement.” I present a fresh red-fruit tart I found in the ice chest when I went in search of more cheese. “It’s Riev’s twenty-sixth birthday today. We’re going to sing him a song, and he gets to make a wish.”
Throg side-eyes me with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“What?” I mouth at him.
There’s a significant chance the potent painkillers are affecting me. It’s silly, but no one protests.
Ivy’s ears perk up. “It’s your birthday, old man?”
Riev feigns horror. “Old? I’m not old.”
“You act like a crotchety grandpa,” Ivy replies. “I would know. I was forced into marriage with one.” She raises her drink in a toast, splashing her ale as she swallows a generous gulp before slamming her stein back down onto the wooden table hard enough that I’m worried the stein will shatter. She howls with laughter.
“In Stargazer,” I explain, “the first and last bite goes to the birthday boy or girl, who makes the same wish during both bites for it to come true.” My mother taught me this tradition, and for a heart-twisting second I realize no one’s done it for me since she passed.
We break into song with our steins raised. I offer the glazed tart to Riev, who takes a polite, reluctant bite. He probably wishes it were cut into neat little pieces, just like he did with his dinner.
Ivy, seated next to him, gnashes her teeth, so I take a quick bite before Ipass it to her.
She chimes in, “In Honeygrove, where I grew up, the entire dessert has to be eaten or the wish doesn’t come to pass!” She takes a huge chomp, laughing and chewing with her mouth open, red berry bits in her teeth.
“Save some for me, tiny demon,” Throg says, reaching a long arm across the table to seize it from her, fending her off while she bites his arm.
I listen to them banter.
Riev looks like he always does, disapproving of the chaos, but also—dare I say it—edging on the borderline of happy?
Happy on a Riev scale, that is.
His lips are pressed into a firm line, but his gray eyes glimmer, less like shards of ice and more like the silver currents of our East River in the light of spring.
Throg passes the last of the red tart back to Riev, who glances at me briefly before taking his last bite.
I wonder how many times on the road he gets to sit at a table and eat with company. Based on how little he’s glowering now, the answer is probably not often at all.
“Lindwyrms? Sounds gross.” - Ivy
