After delivering instructions to the others, the abbot escorted them deeper into the complex. They didn’t go to the big structure but to a small building with an open-air terrace where hanging baskets of green plants swayed above clay planters of creeping vines. Up close, Farilane was able to better see the timberwork of the roof supports. What had appeared haphazard at a distance was impressive, decorative, and functional. Not a nail or a bit of metal had been used. The result was an artwork of woodgrain and texture. At the center of the little veranda stood a table and chairs. The woodworking craftsmanship carried through the exquisite six-piece set, which was undeniably superb. Farilane looked to Sheldon for comment. The joiner hardly glanced at the furniture and remained silent, perhaps cautious of saying anything that might contradict her growing fictional work.

Normally, Farilane would have taken this time to analyze her hosts and surroundings, searching for hints of danger or clues useful in manipulating the monks to achieve her goal. Instead, she studied the food. Wooden bowls of strawberries, cheese, shredded lamb, and bread were still being placed on the wool table runner. In the center, a big one-handled jug was surrounded by a ring of small upside-down cups, all of them on a wooden dish that looked capable of spinning. Seeing and smelling the food pushed all other thoughts away.

When was it I last ate? What was it I ate? She faintly recalled having divided a tiny bit of cheese among the three of them, but that was days ago—two at least. Left standing before the table, staring at the bowls, Farilane found herself repeatedly swallowing saliva as she anticipated the taste of the steaming lamb, so dark it must have been simmered in a sauce. What kind, I wonder? Spicy hot? Sweet with honey? And what’s in the jug? Oh, tell me what’s in that jug? Water, wine, mead, nectar of the gods?

With the arrival of the dishes and two more monks, the abbot waved for everyone to sit. Hooded heads bowed, and beneath them came a unison of muttering—half soft talking, half gentle singing. “We praise you, Our Lord Maribor, for this bounty you have provided us today.”

Even starved as she was, Farilane was struck by the words. They were nothing but a trivial prayer by the ignorant to a nonexistent god, but something about the adoration made it sound treasonous. No gratitude was extended to Estermon the Second who, unlike the mythical Maribor, was their true lord and the actual source of their bounty. Farilane had never heard such a prayer, but she’d never visited a monastery incognito before. She had always been the imperial princess, flanked by one or two Teshlors.

The disconcerting litany was instantly forgotten the moment the abbot gave the word to eat.