“What now, then?”
“Let’s add just a little spice. We’re lucky. Ylvin has pepper. She must know some traders. Not every kitchen has access to pepper.”
He dips his hand into a leather satchel, pulling up a cluster of little orbs. Black as night.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever tasted it,” I whisper.
“They have it in Opdal, but they only use it on rare occasions. Crush these.”
He drops them in my hand. They have a rough texture. A faint smell. I lay them on my cutting board and crush them with the same rock. A tingle enters my nose, surprising me. I throw my head back, to fight the tickle, but I fail miserably. A resounding sneeze echoes across the valley.
We both stifle laughter, to keep Ylvin from reacting.
“Remember,” whispers Ari. “Remember to shut the fuck up out there.”
I snicker.
“Don’t want to interrupt their passionate lovemaking,” I say playfully.
“Or the rest they need after it,” adds Ari.
“Definitely the best sleep,” I whisper before my stomach sinks. What have I just said? Openly admitting I’ve slept with a man as an unmarried woman. I give Ari a horrified look. Will he think less of me?
“Don’t worry, Kilda,” he whispers. “You’re not the first girl to try a horse before buying it. I don’t judge.”
I’m relieved, but pretend it never happened. The pepper goes into the pot.
“And now?” I whisper sheepishly.
“Now we add water to the pot. Then the cabbage and carrots. Toward the end, we taste and see how much salt we need. I see we have cinnamon here, so a tiny bit of that then maybe some more pepper.”
“You truly enjoy cooking,” I say.
“It’s an art, like poetry or war. Many elements combine to create a unified whole. It’s like words forming a poem, or men becoming an army. It’s unison. Different ingredients blend to become something more, or at least, something different.”
His passion shines through. I’d thought he was just a conceited bastard. A slimy skald. But he sees the world throughhis own lens—a sunstone refracting light through its unique crystalline body.
“I don’t just enjoy cooking,” says Ari, keeping his eyes on mine. “I love it.”
The mangy crow becomes the loving cook. The skald of vanity shows a softer, humbler side.
“I can tell,” I whisper, peering into the pot as he fetches a bucket of water. The smells are delightful. We could serve this to the gods in Valhalla.
“Watch out,” he says as he pours the clear liquid into the mix.
Ari the Skald. Ari the cook. In the end, he’s not that bad.
CHAPTER 25
Ylvin blows out a long stream of air, sated pleasure on her face.
“That was amazing,” she shouts across the woods. “Let’s cheer to that.”
She holds up her cup. The rest of us raise our own, clashing them together so ale spills on our arms. I can’t even keep a stupid grin off my face, proud to have made something properly edible for the first time. My previous attempts were… dubious at best.
“Glory to the chefs,” says Elof before emptying his cup. The man isn’t tall, but extremely stocky. Built strong. His arms hang out from his body because his muscles won’t let them rest at his sides. I had wondered how the Volva had moved both lavvus, all their equipment, as well as a barrel of ale, up the mountain. Elof is the answer. Still, he only has two arms. He must have madeseveral journeys up and down. He doesn’t say much—but glory to the chefs, that he did say. Glory indeed.
“You must learn to cook like this, Elof,” says Ylvin.
