"That cannot be true," another boy said, shaking his head. "Soren Nivarre is not the sort of man to let a woman tell him where to put his horse."
"My cousin does not lie about the court," the first insisted, leaning back with a grin. The others went quiet for a moment, their young faces serious as they tried to imagine an empress who could look the northern wolf in the eye without flinching.
By midmorning, the smell of the day's special dish was rising from every chimney in the province. It was seared elk from the northern forests, first cooked slowly in a deep broth made from the marrow bones until the meat was tender enough to pull apart with three fingers.
After that, the cooks would throw it onto a flat iron pan over a hot birch fire, searing the outside until it was dark and crisp while the inside stayed juicy and red.
