cook.
“Hey-o, inductees,” he growled, standing before the cauldron, poised to ladle out gruel. “Grab a bowl an’ line up.”
We all scrambled for the bowls that had been dropped with deliberate negligence to the ground when each servitor had finished eating. There were far more inductees than bowls.
I espied a recently used bowl near the thigh of a veteran and went quickly toward it, wending my way through the sprawled boys and young men. Those I passed stiffened, and all eyes turned upon me, one by one.
I feared that the veteran beside the bowl would pick it up, would refuse me its use. The same thought must have crossed everyone else’s mind, for the air grew rife with tension the closer I got to the bowl.
I forced myself not to clench my hands into fists, to walk with chin up.
The veteran I approached sat rigidly and refused to acknowledge my approach by glancing in my direction. I stopped before him, breath held.
Stiffly, I bent to pick up the bowl.
The muscles of his closest forearm twitched.
I dove, made faster than he by desperation and hunger, and snatched up the bowl before he could knock it out of my reach. I clutched the bowl to my stomach as if it were precious and stepped somewhat smartly away from him.
Hostile eyes surrounded me. Swallowing hard, I walked to the cauldron, fingers clasped tight about the bowl, looking neither left nor right. A chill sweat broke out on my skin. Behind me, I heard the veteran spit, imagined him flicking his ears with his thumb to ward off the taint of a deviant.
By the time I stood at the rear of the queue before the cauldron, I felt drained and limp, as if I’d fought a skirmish.
The queue moved forward with agonizing slowness. My nervous sweat began cooling in a thin line down my spine. The twilight darkened toward night.
A young man with an empty bowl approached. I moved aside; a woman always eats after a man has partaken of what has been cooked.
Another servitor stepped forward, empty bowl in hand. Again I moved aside. A third apprentice, then a fourth, came to have his bowl filled. Each time, I moved aside, though my tension mounted unbearably.
Finally, it was my turn at the pot.
Egg smirked at me. “None left.”
“What?”
He shrugged his thick shoulders, a little uncertainty creeping into his smirk. “None left.”
I stared into the blackened cauldron. Nothing but a film of gruel sat hardening about the inside of the dented kettle.
Sniggers erupted amongst the apprentices.
My cheeks burned.
How foolish of me, how utterly stupid, to have stood aside as others ate their fill. By joining the dragonmaster’s apprenticeship, I was defying one of the most time-honored beliefs about what a woman could and could not do. I would have to be aware of the other customs that ruled women’s lives and decisively flout them if I wanted to survive the apprenticeship.
Furious at myself, I stared into the empty pot as the sliver of waxing moon rose into the black sky.
And, as is too often the case when in trouble, I let my temper get the better of me. I decided that I would not go hungry that night. No.
I slammed my bowl down onto the butchering table and stalked over to the renimgar hutches. I fiddled with a latch, wrenched the door open, and snatched at one of the lizardlike mammals within. It writhed and kicked with its back legs, trying to bury its hind claws in me, but I clung to its leathery nape and dragged it out. I slammed the cage door shut again and latched it.
At Convent Tieron, I’d slaughtered many a renimgar for eating, and snakes, voles, rats, and monkeys, too. Anything that moved had been deemed edible at Tieron.
I slammed the renimgar down on the table hard enough to stun it, picked up the rusted machete that sat nearby, and drew it across the renimgar’s neck. The squeal of the little animal cut through the night air like a scimitar through the skin of a baby. It was a horrible noise that violated the soul.
Always was.
I swiftly
“Hey-o, inductees,” he growled, standing before the cauldron, poised to ladle out gruel. “Grab a bowl an’ line up.”
We all scrambled for the bowls that had been dropped with deliberate negligence to the ground when each servitor had finished eating. There were far more inductees than bowls.
I espied a recently used bowl near the thigh of a veteran and went quickly toward it, wending my way through the sprawled boys and young men. Those I passed stiffened, and all eyes turned upon me, one by one.
I feared that the veteran beside the bowl would pick it up, would refuse me its use. The same thought must have crossed everyone else’s mind, for the air grew rife with tension the closer I got to the bowl.
I forced myself not to clench my hands into fists, to walk with chin up.
The veteran I approached sat rigidly and refused to acknowledge my approach by glancing in my direction. I stopped before him, breath held.
Stiffly, I bent to pick up the bowl.
The muscles of his closest forearm twitched.
I dove, made faster than he by desperation and hunger, and snatched up the bowl before he could knock it out of my reach. I clutched the bowl to my stomach as if it were precious and stepped somewhat smartly away from him.
Hostile eyes surrounded me. Swallowing hard, I walked to the cauldron, fingers clasped tight about the bowl, looking neither left nor right. A chill sweat broke out on my skin. Behind me, I heard the veteran spit, imagined him flicking his ears with his thumb to ward off the taint of a deviant.
By the time I stood at the rear of the queue before the cauldron, I felt drained and limp, as if I’d fought a skirmish.
The queue moved forward with agonizing slowness. My nervous sweat began cooling in a thin line down my spine. The twilight darkened toward night.
A young man with an empty bowl approached. I moved aside; a woman always eats after a man has partaken of what has been cooked.
Another servitor stepped forward, empty bowl in hand. Again I moved aside. A third apprentice, then a fourth, came to have his bowl filled. Each time, I moved aside, though my tension mounted unbearably.
Finally, it was my turn at the pot.
Egg smirked at me. “None left.”
“What?”
He shrugged his thick shoulders, a little uncertainty creeping into his smirk. “None left.”
I stared into the blackened cauldron. Nothing but a film of gruel sat hardening about the inside of the dented kettle.
Sniggers erupted amongst the apprentices.
My cheeks burned.
How foolish of me, how utterly stupid, to have stood aside as others ate their fill. By joining the dragonmaster’s apprenticeship, I was defying one of the most time-honored beliefs about what a woman could and could not do. I would have to be aware of the other customs that ruled women’s lives and decisively flout them if I wanted to survive the apprenticeship.
Furious at myself, I stared into the empty pot as the sliver of waxing moon rose into the black sky.
And, as is too often the case when in trouble, I let my temper get the better of me. I decided that I would not go hungry that night. No.
I slammed my bowl down onto the butchering table and stalked over to the renimgar hutches. I fiddled with a latch, wrenched the door open, and snatched at one of the lizardlike mammals within. It writhed and kicked with its back legs, trying to bury its hind claws in me, but I clung to its leathery nape and dragged it out. I slammed the cage door shut again and latched it.
At Convent Tieron, I’d slaughtered many a renimgar for eating, and snakes, voles, rats, and monkeys, too. Anything that moved had been deemed edible at Tieron.
I slammed the renimgar down on the table hard enough to stun it, picked up the rusted machete that sat nearby, and drew it across the renimgar’s neck. The squeal of the little animal cut through the night air like a scimitar through the skin of a baby. It was a horrible noise that violated the soul.
Always was.
I swiftly