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For a guy that didn’t need to eat, Samol sure did cook a lot.
“Well, it’s nice to make a little something now and then,” said Samol.
The corners of Samol’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. He might have even been joking. He did that a little more now, Fero was pretty sure, than he did when Fero first got to the Erasure. That felt good— it always felt good when someone was smiling at him instead of yelling, despite what certain orcs might think about how he felt about yelling— but it felt something else when Fero caught sight of Samol’s smile. It felt a bit like transforming, a bit like taking flight, a bit like the first time he realised that a tree was saying something back . Magic, maybe, some kind of god-power that was none of Fero’s business.
“So we’re making today?” asked Fero.
“I’m feeling like a little creation,” said Samol. “Potato salad.”
Fero wrinkled his nose. They used to serve that at family gatherings back in Rosemerrow, a too-heavy dish of cream and cheese, congealing in the summer heat or the chilled winter air.
“You’ll like this,” said Samol. “It’s got some bite to it. Bit like you.”
“I only bite if someone bites me first,” said Fero, which wasn’t strictly true, but was true enough that Samol, who could sense the relative trueness of things, huffed a laugh. “I don’t really feel like eating anything.”
“We won’t eat this one ‘till it’s cool,” said Samol. “Plenty of time for you to prepare yourself.”
Sometimes, thanks to the little altar in the less crumbling part of the tower, they just pulled food out of the past. Well, Samol pulled the food. Fero could do a lot of stuff, but reaching through the fabric of time was a little outside of his wheelhouse. Samol did it less now than he used to at the start, like he’d been going through the motions of what it was to have guests. Now it felt more like Samol ws trying to show off, taking Fero through the process of making old favourites and flashy showpiece dishes. That felt good too, something for them to share, something Fero could take with him when he had to go back to the real, more miserable, world.
“This is the real world,” said Samol, giving Fero a look as he pulled ingredients from beyond the ethereal realm of the altar.
“You know what I mean,” said Fero.
He watched as Samol set a pot of small potatoes boiling, taking down a little jar from one of the few remaining shelves in the room and filling it two thirds with oil and one third with vinegar. Next came a heaped teaspoon of seeded mustard, a much less heaped teaspoon of salt, and a dash of maple syrup. Fero leaned over the altar, catching a drop of the maple syrup before it could trickle down the side of the small jug, licking it off his finger. It tasted like the kind they'd served in the New Archives cafeteria.
“Shake this,” said Samol, screwing a lid onto the jar and handing it to Fero. “Once the potatoes are done, that’ll go over them.”
Fero frowned. “And then we wait until they’re cold?”
“We’ll add some onion and chives to it,” said Samol. “It’s a summer salad.”
“No use waiting for summer,” said Fero.
“That’s what I like about you,” said Samol dryly. “Your optimism.”
“I’m just saying,” said Fero. “Why wait?”
Samol’s expression lost a little of its archness, his smile taking on warmth around the edges.
“I mean, no time like the present, right?” added Fero.
“Depends on your point of view,” said Samol.
Fero wrinkled his nose. “Sometimes I forget that you’re a god, and then you say shit like that.”
“Wise?” said Samol, turning around to check on the potatoes.
“Mysterious,” said Fero, scrunching up his nose as much as possible to make Samol laugh.
Samol did laugh. “I don’t mean to be. Something of a product of being around so long. I expect you’ll be a little mysterious in your old age, if you aren’t already.”
“I’ll never be a mystery,” said Fero.
“You’ll be an urban legend, turning into all manner of creatures and startling unsuspecting folks.” Samol turned back around, leaning a hip against the stove. “Much like the rest of us, they need a little more time.”
“More mysterious god talk,” said Fero. “What are you going to do with the ones we don’t eat?”
Samol gave a little shrug. “We’ll send them where they’re needed. No reason to waste it on us.”
The closer Throndir got to Velas, the hotter it got. It was still wintery, sure, a little frost coating the grass in the morning when Kodiak first woke him up, but it was much warmer than any frost elf was used to dealing with. Kodiak seemed to feel it just as much, but Kodiak could at least jump in the river whenever he felt like it without the time-wasting process of taking all his clothes off and making sure his pack was somewhere safe and dry.
Throndir had taken to resting during the middle of the day, soaking his feet in the river and leaning back against the trees that bent over the water, his pack helping gravity keep him on solid ground. He was just on the edge of dozing when he felt Kodiak’s wet nose poking at him. Throndir frowned, blinking as he roused himself. Kodiak barked, a pleased, excited tone to the sound.
“What have you got there, boy?” said Thondir. He frowned, looking closer at the object Kodiak was nudging towards him with his nose. “What have you got there?”
It was a clay bowl, the flecked blue-white glaze reminding Throndir of snowy mountain peaks. Inside was a small pile of little potatoes covered in diced red onions and chives. Throndir looked around. It didn’t seem like there was anybody for miles, certainly not the kind of picnic he’d expect a potato salad to come from. Kodiak had barely been out of his sight.
“Huh,” said Throndir, frowning down at it. He looked up at Kodiak. “You think they’re safe to eat?”
Kodiak barked in the affirmative. Wherever Kodiak had gotten it from, he trusted it, and that was good enough for Throndir.
The potatoes were cold, vinegar-sour and just a little salty. Throndir splashed his feet in the cold water and had his first comfortable meal since he’d left his village.
“This one’s a little more for winter,” said Samol. “I used to make it for Samot when he first came out of the woods.” He handed Fero an onion. “You know how to dice that?”
“I can cook,” said Fero. “How else do you think Lem ate anything when we were travelling?”
Samol hummed. “He didn’t strike me as much of a cook.”
“He’s terrible,” said Fero. “Just like he is at everything else.”
“Good thing he’s got himself a baker then,” said Samol, “along with you.”
“He doesn’t have me,” said Fero. “I’m never cooking for him again, and when I see Emmanuel again I’m going to tell him not to bake anything for Lem either.”
Samol hummed again, more enigmatic godlike behaviour. It prickled under Fero’s skin. He took his frustration out on the onion.
“You can slice the mushrooms too,” said Samol, “but I think I’d better do the meat. Don’t want you getting any ideas.”
“I’m not going to hurt him,” said Fero, “just give him a piece of my mind.”
“Mind you don’t give him too much,” said Samol mildly. “He’s got enough of you already.”
Fero glared at him before turning his attention towards the pile of mushrooms.
Hadrian was trying to project an air of calm certainty. Normally, this was an easy task, but normally he was not getting married.
Not that he was nervous about getting married. Being married to Rosana felt like something he’d been made to do, like serving Samothes, like wielding a sword. It was the ceremony he was nervous about, and remembering what to do, and the reception afterwards. The reception, especially. The harvest had been small, and people whispered that such things were bad omens for marriages.
“There are no such things as bad omens in Samothes’ light,” said Rosana.
She smiled at him, the sight as bright and warming as the light of the sun itself and, lo, when they reached their reception table there was a great pot of beef casserole waiting there, enough that no one left hungry. All there agreed that such a hearty meal was a good omen, though no man could say who had provided it.
“Maybe it was your Samothes,” teased Hella.
“Perhaps,” said Hadrian, nodding solemnly, though he couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “Perhaps.”
“Something sweet today,” said Samol. “Banana cake.”
“Great,” said Fero. He paused. “What’s a banana?”
Ephrim’s birthday tended to pass without much incident. He understood this, of course. He was made with grander purposes in mind, a life built around the exaltation of Samothes in every place their caravans visited. The day of his birth only served as a reminder of the slow passing of the years until people would take him more seriously. Even when a person was made with grand purpose, they did not necessarily get taken seriously if they were ten years old.
Still. He did wish that people remarked on it a little more than merely mentioning it in passing. Reaching double digits in age felt more noteworthy than other years. He hadn’t expected a fair or celebration - they were on the road, after all - but something .
There was a knock at the door to his caravan, Alyosha’s voice calling to him.
“Enter,” said Ephrim.
Alyosha was smiling as he opened the door, a plate in hand. There was a loaf of some kind on it, with thick white icing on top.
“It’s not much, but I found this tucked away in the kitchen tent after breakfast today,” said Alyosha. “Happy birthday.”
Ephrim ducked his head, blinking quickly to clear his eyes before he looked up. He was sure that the smile on his face was a wide, ungainly one, the kind unbefitting of a future Prince, but he found he didn’t care.
“Thank you,” said Ephrim. “Would you share it with me?”
“I would be honoured to,” said Alyosha.
“My turn,” said Fero. “Not that it’ll be anything fancy.”
“Don’t think fancy’s either of our styles,” said Samol. “But I’d like to see you make something.”
Warmth curled through Fero’s chest and he ducked his head to hide a grin, before he set about telling Samol what ingredients to pull out for broth.
“Any ideas about where to send it to, after?” said Samol.
“That’s god stuff,” said Fero.
“That’s cook stuff. You make it, you decide about the leftovers.” Samol paused, his eyes on Fero like a warm weight on Fero’s shoulders. “Maybe think about where it might do some good.”
“Not everyone in the world deserves good,” said Fero.
“Sometimes it’s less about them deserving and more about what kind of person you want to be,” said Samol. “I like you too much to think that you’d be the kind to wait until people are without all fault before you’ll give them something. I think the folks of Hieron have enough to deal with without another vengeful god.”
“I’m not a god,” said Fero.
“You’re enough like one for it to matter what you do,” said Samol. He put his hand on Fero’s shoulder, the real warmth of it sinking into Fero’s bones. “You don’t have to forgive someone to do them a kindness when they need it. That’s a kind of magic all on its own. Don’t need to be a god for that.”
Lem, exhausted, on what felt like hour five of studying the same thick textbook, reached clumsily for his cold mug of tea, feeling a jolt as his fingers met warmth instead. He blinked, registering the delicate scent of chicken broth wafting from a large mug.
He glanced behind him, towards the bed where Fero was curled up — asleep, or pretending to be.
“Thank you,” said Lem softly, just in case Fero was awake enough to hear it.
“How’s your dinner?” asked Samol.
“Pretty good,” said Fero, deliberately talking with his mouth full.
Samol laughed and a feeling rushed in Fero’s chest, filling the cracks. Magic, maybe, or something like it.