“Or don’t sleep at all,” Brother Qown bemoaned.

“If you find yourself the right partner…” Mare Dorna winked at him.

“Oh stars, that’s not what I meant.” He’d been propositioned the night before too. When he’d refused her, the woman had taken no offense at all. She’d said if Brother Qown preferred to run with stallions, she knew just the man. Indeed, she would’ve matched Qown up with a male herald before the evening finished, if Qown hadn’t told her no. “But at least tell me you look for some privacy for that.”

“For what?” She was all wide-eyed innocence.

“I should have gone back to the Temple of Light when I had the chance,” he said.

“I’ve always found the best thing for a good night’s sleep is finding yourself the right bed warmer. Then the elbows don’t matter so much.”

“Does vow of celibacy mean nothing to you?”

She stared at him, bemused.

Brother Qown reminded himself to stop asking questions to which he knew the answers.

“So you don’t run at all, then?”

“No!” He claimed a bowl and set it down more forcefully than proper.

“Then just say so. Ain’t no shame in it.”

“I belong to a monastic order, Mare Dorna. We take a vow. Physical pleasure is a distraction from our contemplation of divine mysteries.”

The staff was largely absent as they busied themselves preparing the day’s tournament feast. This evidently involved a great many different ways of roasting fruits, vegetables, and game—far more methods than Qown found familiar—most of which was conducted outside. No one had really protested Dorna staking out a corner of the kitchen.

Someone in the castle’s kitchen had left a large pot of porridge to cook over the fire, but it didn’t smell like rice. He scooped what looked like oats into his bowl. Barley? Probably barley.

“Ain’t food a pleasure?” Dorna dribbled red chili sauce over her porridge and added pickled vegetables to her serving.

“Food’s purpose is to fortify and sustain. But what is that?” Brother Qown pointed.

“This?” She held up the lacy shape. “Lotus. You know, you ain’t supposed to eat your porridge plain.” She picked up several bowls on the table and started dumping portions into Brother Qown’s bowl. “Lotus, ginger, cabbage—”

“That’s not cabbage.”

“Course it is. Fermented dor beans, fenis root, pepperleaf, and pickled sour apple. Now throw pepper sauce on top—”

“Dorna, please—” Brother Qown tried to interrupt, but she paid no attention to him.

She handed him the bowl. “Now that’s a proper breakfast. I don’t know what you people cook out west, but it must be boring as dirt.”

“No, not at all. Our cuisine is excellent. I would be happy to prepare a dish—”