Page 12 of Tender Thorns
Ziv, for his part, saunters through the corridor as if he doesn’t even notice the gazes cast in our direction, or maybe he’s used to having everyone’s attention, whereas I’m not and I hate it. At least they get the hell out of his way when he moves, which is more than I can say for myself. When we leave the dorms andthe prying eyes behind, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is actually following us. The sigh I release is audible, causing Ziv to peer over at me.
“It’s not wise for you to be out on your own for now. I will be escorting you.”
“Where?” pops out of my mouth before I realize I’m saying it out loud.
“Everywhere,” he answers stoically. I will certainly be making even more of an effort to stay in my room with that information. I don’t need to get on the god’s bad side. He grabs a door and swings the thing open, directing me to walk ahead of him with a tilt of his head, announcing, “The mess.”
It’s only then that I realize I wouldn’t know how to get back here if I tried. I spent all my time analyzing him and the other residents. I need to get out of my own head.
The mess is big, bigger than any of the pubs back home by twice the measure, and the smell is like something out of a dream. My mouth starts to water, even before the pang of hunger hits me. My stomach, not one to be left out, grumbles loudly soon after.
“Come on.” Ziv heads toward the back wall, avoiding the groupings of tables dotted around the space and zeroing in on the containers of food being kept warm by small blue flames. When he hands me a plate and tells me to fill it up, I almost cry from the mere notion, but good sense kicks in, and I shuffle my feet nervously.
“Uh,” I hedge quietly, then look around to see who else is close enough to hear what I’m about to say. We definitely have some attention, but it’s not outright gawking like the halls in the dorm. I lean a little closer to him anyway, and he bends to accommodate me even further. “I can’t pay for this,” I remind him quietly while pushing the plate back in his direction.
He turns his head slowly so we’re almost eye to eye and intones, “You pay for nothing, not ever again, not with money or any other means.” Heat blossoms on my cheeks so fast, I can’t even pretend to hold his gaze, so I drop my eyes to the floor. A thick finger tilts my chin up when I don’t respond. “Did you hear me, little flower?”
I nod because my throat is too tight to speak, and I know he wants an answer.
“Good. Don’t speak of it again and fill your plate.” Ziv’s shoulders roll as he stands up. I’m too ashamed to look around, but I catch a glimpse of him surveying the room over my head.
My mind is working overtime as I place small spoonfuls of each item on my plate until I can’t discern between the dishes and the plate is mostly full. When I reach the end of the line, I turn to see Ziv, who has a plate mounded much higher than my own.
He takes the lead, guiding me over to a table tucked into an alcove that makes it harder to be seen by most of the other tables. It’s like a weight is lifted off my shoulders, making my limbs feel all squishy and loose, so I nearly collapse into the oversized wooden chair when I reach it.
Ziv sets his plate down but doesn’t join me. Instead, he walks away and leaves me alone. I’m not sure if I’m grateful for him abandoning me or not, but I don’t really want to examine that thought either.
I start picking at my plate, trying different bites of this and that until I have a firm idea of what I actually like and what I’ll just eat because it’s there and I don’t want to be wasteful. When my escort finally returns, it’s with two silver tankards in one fist. The amber liquid sloshes onto the table when he places them down rather roughly. His thick fingers brush at the beer as if he’s embarrassed he spilled it, but then he takes the seat beside me, dismissing the mishap.
“After you eat, we’ll get your training schedule.”
The food in my gut turns to lead with his words, and I work to swallow the suddenly dry as sawdust bite. “What kind of training?” I croak out after a big draw of the sour liquid he pushed toward me.
“Don’t know, it’s not up to me.”
“Who’s it up to?” Certainly not me. If I had any choice, I wouldn’t be here at all.
“Syrinx.”
“The headmistress.” I recall what he told me last night.
He hums in a way that could be an affirmative.
I use my fork to push around some of the food left on my plate before forcing myself to eat another bite. I might as well fill my belly while I have the chance. “Aren’t you going to eat?” I question as his food grows cold.
“I got it for you,” Ziv answers without looking at me.
“For me? I can’t eat all that. This is already more than I eat most weeks.” I point to my own plate.
“In a week?” He finally peers over at me, his eyes narrowed in what I can only assume is doubt.
“Sometimes two!” I fork in the last bite to clean my plate. My gut is already bloated, but I’m not going to complain. What I would like to do is take a nap though. There’s nothing that makes me sleepier than a full belly, not that I’ve experienced it often.
Ziv grumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like curses before he drags the plate closer to him and begins eating the food with a quickness that should surprise me but doesn’t. I’m sure someone his size has to refuel often. I spend the few minutes it takes him to eat avoiding looking in his direction, which means I get really familiar with the ceiling and walls of the stone structure.
When I hear his fork drop against the scarred wood tabletop, I instinctually glance his way. “Ready?” He’s already getting to his feet.
“Not really, but that never matters,” I mutter and push my chair in. Ziv’s head snaps in my direction, proving he heard me, but he doesn’t comment.
