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The kitchens of Gorthur Gvaed were warm and aromatic when Stefan stuck his head through the door. Trainees ran this way and that with heaping piles of crockery, either to dump them in the giant sinks or to stack them up on the shelves ready to be used. Witchers on kitchen duty were up to their elbows in the soapy water, or kneading dough, or turning spits under the gimlet stare of the head cook. Her handful of assistant cooks were bustling around tasting and seasoning and stirring and doing other incomprehensible things to the myriad of pots and pans in the room. Stefan blinked and tried to plot a safe course across the room.
He narrowly avoided several collisions, mostly with trainees carrying stacks of plates taller than they were, but eventually he made it to safety. He slipped through the door into the pantry and took a deep breath. The air was cool and still and, best of all, the heavy door blocked out most of the noise from the kitchen. He blinked and expanded his pupils until he could see as if it were broad daylight. Thankfully, the hatch to the wine cellar wasn’t too difficult to find and he dropped down without bothering to use the ladder.
‘Are you going to explain what the hell your cryptic note was about, now?’ he asked, grinning at Merten as he landed.
‘Sit,’ Merten rumbled, prodding him over to a table he’d somehow gotten down there.
The table was laden with food. A feast of lavish proportions, if it was only meant for the two of them. Roasted wyvern, seasoned with spices Stefan couldn’t name, and an array of steaming vegetables. Fresh bread rolls, with soft butter placed beside them. Mashed potatoes, topped with melting cheese.
‘What’s the occasion?’ Stefan asked, stepping closer. His mouth watered at the display, and he’d already decided that he was going to eat as much as Merten would let him. Even the wyvern smelled perfectly cooked, without the sour smell it would have had if it were still poisonous.
A moment of deliberation allowed Stefan to reach the conclusion that he would still eat it, even if it was a little undercooked, because it smelled divine.
Merten shuffled his feet a little, and scratched his elbow. It left Stefan on edge to see it. Merten was never nervous.
‘It’s… well…’ he broke off to rub the back of his head.
Stefan was torn between turning and running or going to Merten and comforting him. Something odd was happening here.
‘I’ve never had to explain it before,’ Merten said. ‘Not that I’ve ever done it before, but it’s a Manticore thing. It’s… Look, would you please sit down?’
Stefan sat as he was asked. The way Merten said Manticore thing calmed him somewhat. All Witchers were slightly protective of their school customs. If Merten was sharing one with him, that was undoubtedly a good thing. Despite himself, his mind went to the crossbow sitting on his workbench back home. It was nearly finished, just missing a few key components. He doubted he’d be calm when it came time to present it to Merten. Not that he thought this was the same thing. Many schools had customs involving food and they were all slightly different. The wolves, for example, used a feast to finalise a formal alliance. Maybe Merten wanted to propose something similar between their schools?
‘It’s… I cooked this for you,’ Merten said, gesturing to the table. ‘I hunted the wyvern, knowing I would bring it to your table. I grew these vegetables in a garden of my own. I harvested them, thinking of you. The butter and cheese are from the milk of my own cow. Every part of this meal, I have planned for you. The wine in the sauce is your favourite red, and the spices I bought in Zerrikania, blended to your taste.’
Merten’s words sounded far more formal than Stefan had expected. They sounded rehearsed, yes, but more than that, they sounded like a necessary part of whatever ritual Merten was sharing with him.
‘This meal is a declaration of intent,’ Merten added, ducking his head. ‘I wish to court you, and so I have made this food to show you that I have the patience and care to court you as you deserve. I can provide for you when needed, or wanted, and I can look ahead to our future, and take actions to make that future easier for you. This meal is proof of my dedication to you, and to us.’
Stefan was dumbfounded. He hadn’t dared hope that Merten might return his feelings. In fact, he’d yet to decide if he was even going to confess his feelings for Merten when he presented him with the crossbow.
‘I… Merten,’ he said, voice rough with feeling, ‘I don’t know what to say. I assume there are words to accept, but I don’t know them. Instead, all I can say is, yes, I would be delighted to be courted by you and to court you in my turn.’
‘Then, please, eat your fill,’ Merten said, smiling across the table.
The first bite of meat burst with flavour across his tongue. The spices were delicate and fragrant, the meat cooked to perfection, but to Stefan, it tasted like a beginning.