Vilon seized a roasted onion dripping with rich pan-drippings and shoved it whole into his mouth. It gave a crunch.
The food was nothing short of miraculous. Just when he thought he had stuffed his hide tight as a roasted sow, the chilling thought of waking tomorrow on hard tack and trail dust miraculously carved out a fresh hollow in his gut, instantly begging to be filled.
There was everything a wandering sword could ever dream of: trenches of roasted fat, trenchers of spiced fowl, and thick crusts of white bread slathered in a glossy, scarlet paste. When he had cautiously asked what the sticky red stuff was, Lord Edric had bellowed with laughter and told him it was strawberry jam.
It struck Vilon as pure sorcery, given that strawberry season had died moons ago, but he supposed honey and jars held their own magic.
In truth, he didn't give a damn about the technicalities.
It was sweet, tart, and tasted like summer.
