“It’s really loud in here,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the clatter and din.
"It gets louder," Jorn-o warned cheerfully. “Just wait for a feast day celebration!”
"It gets louder than this? Really?” I stared at him, but he only laughed again and led me toward a surprisingly orderly line of hungry cadets waiting with metal trays in their hands.
At the front stood a row of broad serving kettles and enormous iron roasting pans. Behind them bustled half a dozen sturdy women in white aprons and flour-dusted sleeves, each moving with astonishing speed as they ladled, sliced, and served without ever seeming to lose track of who had received what.
"Oh…" Jorn-o sighed dramatically as we shuffled forward. "Stewed lamb again."
Again? I stared at him as though he'd lost his senses. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been able to afford any kind of meat back home—it was a rare, special occasion when my father brought home a few morsels of chicken or a chunk of pork for me to stew in a pot. Did they really get it that often here at the Academy?
It seemed they must. The rich brown stew bubbled gently inside a kettle large enough to bathe in. Tender chunks of lamb floated beside thick slices of carrot, onions, white turnips, mushrooms, and herbs in a dark savory gravy that smelled positively heavenly.
Beside it sat fresh loaves of crusty bread still steaming from the ovens, slabs of golden butter, roasted root vegetables glistening with honey, baked apples dusted with cinnamon, wedges of hard white cheese, bowls of pickled vegetables, and baskets overflowing with crisp red pears.
I didn't think I'd ever seen so much food gathered together in one place in my life and my mouth was watering to try all of it. After months of watery broth and stale crusts, it looked like a royal feast.
"Not…again?" I echoed faintly.
Jorn-o shrugged.
"They've served that stew three times this week."
I couldn't imagine complaining. Three times in a week? I'd have happily eaten it three times a day!
The woman behind the first kettle smiled kindly at me.
"Bowl of stew, dear?" she asked.
"Yes, please." I nodded eagerly.
She dipped a generous ladle into the stew, hesitated, then added a second ladle full.
"Poor thing's all bones," I heard her mutter under her breath.
Before I could protest, she cut off a piece of fresh bread nearly the size of my head and tucked it beside my bowl.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling at her.
"Of course, dearie. And you must have butter too," she declared.
A thick pat landed beside the bread.
"And vegetables."
Roasted carrots and honeyed parsnips appeared on a side plate.
"And fruit."
She gave me a bright red pear.
"And another slice of bread for growing boys."
My tray was beginning to sag under the weight.
"I…thank you so much," I managed.
She smiled without slowing her hands.
