ago.
‘We must cement this!’ the knight suddenly announced, and began looking around, searching for something.
‘After feasts, all the alcohol ends up in the cellars, so I wouldn’t even bother looking.’ Einar immediately understood what his new friend was getting at.
He looked around himself and quickly located what was needed. Using a bit of force, he freed himself from the embrace and walked over to one of the tables set up around the room, selecting an open jug. He poured the spiked gethun juice into two horns and handed one to Ceet.
‘Gethun normally grows on the southern continent, but my great-great-grandfather managed to get hold of a few seedlings during one of his raids on Nakher outposts,’ Einar began to explain, noticing Tahon grimace slightly as he sniffed the contents of the horn. ‘On his return to Stairon, he gave them to the druids, who tried planting them, and that is how these unassuming little trees now grow and bear fruit on the island. And since the Blood Revolution, it is possible that these are among the last remaining gethun, after the Nakher priests burnt down the entire plantations in the south.’ He put down the jug he’d been holding and raised his own horn. ‘Back home, after the harvest, we press the juice from the fruit and boil it with spices, then seal it in jugs or barrels to keep over the winter. The juice doesn’t ferment, but it’s considered a substitute for alcohol.’ He raised his horn in front of him.
‘Every day brings something... hmmm... new,’ muttered the knight, eyeing the contents warily. He sighed and tapped his horn against the one Einar was holding. Both of them drank the juice in one gulp. For Toinen, it was a familiar and even pleasant taste, but Ceet grimaced violently, and the hair on his stiff tail bristled. ‘Sssssss… Sour.’ The Imperial was slightly shaken, but drank it all down nonetheless. Einar tried not to laugh, but it must have been written all over his face, because Tahon snorted.
‘Believe me, this one’s sweet,’ the lad
