The lamb was as good as anything Vilon had ever tasted, perhaps the finest meal of his life.
The meat was tender, rich, and dripping with juices, practically melting off the bone with the gentle pull of a thumb. Lambs came into this harsh world pure and unblemished, and Vilon reflected dryly that there was a very fine, poetic reason why their meat remained so sweet.
Spoonfuls of buttered peas had been served alongside the roast. Vilon had never tasted real butter before, he only knew, in a vague sort of way, that it was churned from thick cream, and though he had choked down plenty of plain, dried peas over campfires, he now understood the quiet magic of having the two combined.
Even the heavy barley bread was a marvel: thick, warm, and freshly pulled from the hearth oven, its crust crackling satisfyingly between his teeth.
