Chapter 33

I liked Altverin—an old castle of huge grey stones, sharp spires, roofs of scarlet as if stained with blood, and ivy that climbed up the walls. It was a breathtaking sight. Inside, however... Is this noble poverty?

Yeah, right.

More like utter destitution. Still, everything was scrubbed so clean that you could see your reflection in the stone walls—not a fleck of dusk, not a cobweb. There were half a score of servants, all looking like they were forced to wear corsets. As for the steward, Sharen Clate was a tall, silver-haired man in his fifties who welcomed us on the doorstep of the castle, bread and salt in his hands. I broke off a snug of bread, like I was supposed to, and ate it, pretending I was content. I didn’t really want to start acting up before I knew what was what.

The bread was the cheapest one could find, grey coarse flour with lumps—at royal court, they wouldn’t even feed the dogs with such stuff.

And then the