Page 45 of Starside

All the time, I want to say. Because all the magic is here. Because you all are in a fancy tower, studying books and looking down your noses at us while we are dying.

“Yes” is all I say.

“What does hunger feel like?” one of the other scholars asks, his voice devoid of any emotion.

“It feels like desperation,” I say, a bite in my tone.

There were seasons when no one was buying anything from the forge. When Stellan would go without food for weeks so that I would get both rations of scraps.

Even that wasn’t enough.

Hunger is a knife, twisting, carving.

These immortals … they’ve never been hungry. They are disgusted by us and our lives. They eat for pleasure, mostly.

My hands grip the chair harder, and Zane gives me a warning look.

Before I can say anything else, the doors burst open, and steaming bowls of broth are brought out. They are placed roughly in front of us, liquid sloshing onto the table.

Mysterious pieces float inside. Kira sniffs the bowl and nearly retches.

“Eat,” Ellis says, before taking a spoonful of his own soup.

It could be poisoned. Though the other scholars continue asking questions. We aren’t much use to them dead.

I take a sip and fight not to twist my face. The soup is bitter and acidic. The pieces are hard.

Still, it’s food. And I don’t doubt I will know hunger on many days during this journey to the gods.

The questions keep coming. About our climate, about our limitations, about our birth rates.

Finally, I fix a big smile on my face, and say, “We would love to know about you. Are you truly immortal? Can you not be killed?”

The table suddenly goes silent. Pelas is glaring at me.

Ellis humors me. “We can be killed, of course. We don’t die of old age, however.” He looks closely at me. “Our bodies are more durable than yours. We don’t have disease here. Only high metals can wound us.”

He doesn’t even glance at our swords, as if not considering for a moment we could be carrying strong ones.

“Do you bleed?”

Pelas’s look is nothing short of withering. “Of course we bleed,” he says, and there’s a legend that has proven to be false. He continues with a string of mumbled insults I only partially make out.

“If your people rarely die … are there many of you?” Kira asks.

“Far less than there are mortals, I assume. Recently … more have perished,” Ellis says simply, and I don’t miss how the other scholars seem to hunch forward with serious expressions. “Births are rare.”

“Why recently?” Zane asks.

Silence.

I wonder if it has anything to do with the pure fear I saw on Pelas’s face as he glanced at the moon and the incoming night.

Night is a dangerous time, even for immortals.

Ellis stands from the head of the table. “We’ve kept you long enough. It seems like you have survived … a great ordeal. Perhaps you would like to retire for the night. We can continue our questions in the morning.” He nods at the other scholars, and they begin to stand one by one.

Pelas blinks too many times. He looks from his notes to us. “But I—I had more—”