Chapter 2: The Feast
Aris ate the stale bread for three more days. She passed the time by exercising and weaving bits of straw together. The guard did not leave the hall in front of her cell, except during shift changes. She tried to imagine ways to kill the guard silently, so she could either escape or kill herself, but no ideas came to her.
Urragn was counting on her accepting his offer. He had not made any threats about what would become of her if she did not accept. No attempts were made to interrogate her. No one gave any hints about possibly releasing or executing her.
Aris was not convinced by the boring bread and dirty water. She had eaten military rations worse than this, sometimes for months at a time.
But what did drive her insane was the comment about mint cream sauce. How did the servants at Katkasad know how Urragn's mother used to cook? And why would Urragn offer her a feast of peasant dishes when he doubtless could offer her far more exotic things? Not that she was interested in trying orcish "cuisine" anyway.
The captain came to check on her again. Aris prepared herself to be interrogated, but he was not interested in that. He did not even speak to her. He just asked the guard if there had been any suicide attempts, and to confirm that she was eating and in good health.
"How long are you going to keep me here?" Aris asked the captain. But the captain ignored her.
In the solitude, Aris's thoughts wandered. She was again a small elfling, carefully scaling branches far too high and far too thin to be safe. She heard her father call for her to return to the treehouse, as darkness was approaching. But Aris was determined to reach the highest branch to confirm if there were indeed butterflies who lived in the upper canopy. There were no butterflies that day. But Aris was stuck. It was one thing to climb up, where she could more easily see the branches ahead of her, but climbing down was a trickier matter.
Her father had to climb up and get her. She remembered clinging tightly to his back and sobbing as he swore and lectured her, gingerly making his way back down through limbs he had climbed during his own childhood.
Aris's father had been a good elf. He was quick with a joke, though not always patient with her childish antics. People who knew her father told her that he was honest to a fault and that he thought of little else besides his children and wife.
The treehouse was no longer there. Nor was the tree that had held it. When the orcs attacked it, Aris and her brother were evacuated. But her parents chose to stay behind and fight.
Aris thought about how things may have gone differently. She imagined finishing her childhood in that treehouse. She imagined what her father would have looked like as an older elf. She imagined doing silly and boring things in that village, marrying, taking her newborn infant to meet her parents in that treehouse, teaching her own child how to climb. A world without violence, where she had never learned to wield a sword or shoot an arrow. She would have grown up to be a very different person.
Urragn claimed to know a way to end the war. Aris doubted that. But she could not stop thinking about the treehouse, and she could not stop thinking about ground pork with mint cream sauce.
On the fifth day when they delivered her loaf of bread, she picked at the crust and discovered spots of blue mold. She had eaten worse things. But she had eaten better things too.
"I want to meet Urragn. I want to accept his invitation to dinner," she said.
The guard nodded. "When the captain comes to inspect you, I will let him know."
When the sun was growing dim that evening, a new pair of guards came to retrieve her from her cell. They shackled her wrists and patted her down for weapons. It was unlikely she would have been able to make one or smuggle one into the cell in the few days since her capture, but an overabundance of caution was warranted.
They led Aris by her arms out of the dungeon and through the corridors of Fort Katkasad. Soldiers and servants watched her as she passed by. Katkasad had been built in ancient times, not by orcs or elves, it was said, but by a different race entirely, one whose civilization had long been lost to history. Images of these ancient people were carved into statues and stone reliefs on the walls. They had figures shorter and fatter than elves, but not as stout as dwarves. They had small, rounded ears, and the men wore long, thick beards or mustaches.
The fortress truly was beautiful, and there was plenty of other art carved into the stone and surviving wood, mostly floral patterns or stylized images of animals. This place was too beautiful for the orcs who occupied it. One day the Elves would rescue this place from the orcs. But Aris was in no position to lead that mission.
Up they climbed to the great main hall. A great fire had been lit in the center of the floor. On the long table sat the feast. As Urragn had hinted, they were indeed peasant dishes. But for a peasant feast, it was elaborate. A simple bowl of ground pork and barley was the only dish that contained any real meat. There was a pot of vegetable mash, some roast potatoes, and a dish of pickled eggs. The only sign that Urragn was a wealthy host was the bread, which was made of fine white flour, and honeyed sweet rolls in great quantity on a dish in the center of the table.
Urragn was standing in front of the table. Next to him was the captain, who stood with crossed arms and a tired look on his face, as if he did not want to be there. A few of the soldiers and serving women had also gathered in the hall. No one was seated at the table. They were all waiting for Aris.
The guards uncuffed Aris's wrists. Aris stood and looked at Urragn.
"Well, I came," Aris said. "Are you going to invite me to sit?"
"You need to know the terms first," Urragn said.
"Of course there are terms," Aris said. "Of course you wouldn't be so generous simply to invite me to dinner. What are they."
"Aris Alvander, have you ever attended an orcish wedding?"
Aris snorted. "I thought the orcs simply kidnapped whichever woman they wanted and had their way with her."
Urragn laughed. "No, they are simpler than that. Far more primitive even."
Aris sighed. "Urragn, what do you want to know? Do you want me to tell you who ordered me to kill you? Do you want me to tell you the location of the rendezvous point my soldiers and I were supposed to go to once you were dead?"
"I promised I would not ask you about any military nonsense," Urragn said.
"This is a ridiculous idea," said the captain. "She won't accept."
Urragn shot the Captain a stern look to get him to be quiet. And then he continued. He put his hands once again behind his back, and he raised his head to his full height. "The elves believe that a male elf must provide for his wife, don't they? Keep her fed, keep a roof above her? See that there is food in their pantry to last through the winter?"
"In the olden days," Aris said. "We have evolved past such primitive gender roles."
"In some ways, yes. In some ways the elves are more regressive than the orcs. But we orcs certainly believe that a husband must provide. And we believe that when an orc male takes a wife, he must prove his ability to feed her in a very direct way. On the day of the wedding, the groom prepares a feast. He slaughters and butchers the meat himself, he buys the ingredients himself, kneads the bread himself. He may not ask for help. Orc men do not usually cook. But they are expected to know how to. And that is why I prepared my mother's recipes. They are the only dishes I can cook well."
"You cooked this yourself?" Aris said. "The Jarl of Fud Faragna, the general of Katkasad, kneading his own bread and mincing his own pork?"
Urragn nodded. "It wouldn't be a proper wedding if I didn't."
"Who is the bride?" Aris said.
