Chapter Ten #2
The source is a nearby tented booth wedged between a pair of shops. A young woman tends it, rolling out thin rounds of dough that she slaps on a hot griddle. As I watch, she smears a thick jelly on a finished pastry, folds it up, and then wraps it in a bit of paper before handing it to a customer.
“I know that.” Nolan appears almost surprised by the knowledge. “I mean… I remember it. It’s spiced sweet dough filled with muddleberry jam.”
“Muddleberry? That’s not real. You made it up.”
“That’s just what it’s called. It’s preserves made from a mix of whatever berries are in season.” His face brightens in a way I’ve never seen. “Wait here.”
He dismounts and goes over to the vendor, then pays for two of the pastries, one of which he delivers triumphantly—and unexpectedly—to me.
I can’t resist. The warmth of the treat leaches through its paper wrapping. “Ooooh, are we being sinful? Deviating from our mission?”
He scowls, but only a little before a downright eager look appears. “Keeping ourselves fed isn’t a deviation. Or a sin. Though if it is, I promise not to tell if you don’t. Go on,” he says, and I realize he’s waiting for me to take a bite.
The thin, pancake-like pastry almost melts as soon as it touches my tongue, leaving behind vanilla and spice and—I make a frankly embarrassing noise as the rich jam seeps out.
It’s sweet and crisp and a little sour as well, a flavor unlike anything I’ve ever had before.
It’s not that we were never allowed dessert at the Cloister, but there’s something different about this.
The cooks always fed us in the elevated manner that our station deserved.
This is more rustic, more communal, summoning long-buried memories of fall harvests—roasted nuts and dried stone fruits and syrups gleaned from the sap of trees.
And burning flesh. Spilt blood. The pain of frozen toes. Screams, and an ensuing silence that is far worse.
I swallow hard.
“It’s good, right?” Nolan says expectantly.
I won’t let bad memories ruin this. The past is gone; the pastry is now. And so is Nolan, kind enough to get it for me. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had something so good.”
He’s suddenly unsure, conflicted. “Me either.”
Our gazes catch for a moment, his hazel eyes locking with mine.
I know handsome—I understand the concept—but I’m uncomfortable with that meaning I don’t mind looking a little longer than necessary at Nolan.
Even though he can be uptight and stodgy.
Even though we’ve been traveling for days, and lacking regular chances to bathe, his hair is greasy, there’s dirt under his fingernails, and, just like me, he probably smells like horse and unwashed feet.
I drop my gaze. “We should keep moving.” Enough distractions. I’ve been taught better. “Can’t interrogate a corpse.”
Nolan mounts his horse again. “No, we cannot.”
We continue, quiet as we eat our pastries, save for the crinkle of paper as I lick every last spot of jam from it.
Not exactly sophisticated, but I’m commoner Lys here, not Potentiate Lys.
I make sure to wipe my mouth clean, though.
Meeting an Arbiter with jam stains on my face would be a little too committed to the fiction.
The city shifts as we travel, growing increasingly more affluent as we approach the castle, until the shops disappear and the homes become more like compounds.
Finally, we reach a sprawling plaza. Tempestra-Innara stands in its center, hands outstretched, a stone visage towering over the surrounding buildings.
Flames dance in their stone palms. A shrine like this is found in nearly every city and town, though the size of Belspire’s hints strongly at the overcompensating origin of the city’s devotion.
Beyond the shrine sits the front gate of the castle, where a few bored guards in garish, clearly ceremonial armor are stationed. But ceremonial swords can still cut a throat, so we approach cautiously, dismounting at a respectful distance.
“Your business?” a guard barks, with the sort of grumpiness I don’t begrudge someone stuck outside on a damp day.
Nolan presents the letter of introduction. “We’re to deliver this to Arbiter Gottschalk.”
Another guard snorts. “A little friendly correspondence?”
But the one who spoke first eyes the seal with interest. “Give it over. And wait here.”
Nolan hesitates—probably because that’s what the guards would expect someone in his position to do—but obeys, returning to where I stand as the head guard takes the letter and disappears into the castle. Minutes tick by.
“So,” I ask the remaining guards, bored by the silence. “They letting you fine folks off for the festival? It’s shaping up to be quite the affair.” Chitchat. That’s what normal people do.
“Nah.” A guard with a sad excuse for a mustache scowls. “It’s first shift for us. But can’t complain. Got a great view of the opening festivities from here.” He nods back at the center of the plaza, beneath the looming statue, where a platform is being erected.
Execution confirmed.
“Lucky you.” I force my tone to stay bright, then content myself with scratching Mortimer on the bridge of his nose, which I’ve discovered he likes.
Finally, the guards perk up as a youngish man—maybe six or seven years older than Nolan and me—approaches, clad in an Arbiter cassock.
I’m too surprised to be nervous. I was expecting someone older.
He has bronze skin and short light-blond hair, absurdly neat.
And slate-green eyes that haven’t lost their color yet. Not much anyway.
The Arbiter stops a few steps away from us, folding his hands into his sleeves.
“Arbiter Gottschalk.” Nolan bows promptly, leaving me to follow suit more awkwardly.
“No.” The young man’s smile is polite but cool. “Arbiter Caius, of the First Stratum Assistant to Arbiter Gottschalk. He has decided to grant you an audience.”
An apprentice, or not far past it. I don’t recognize him, but it’s common for Potentiates that show aptitude for becoming an Arbiter to be pulled from the Cloisters early, so they can focus on their judgement training, the specifics of which are little shared outside their Order.
“Welcome to Belspire,” Caius continues. There’s a sharp glint in his eyes, one I’m accustomed to seeing in my fellow Potentiates, that makes me wonder if he’s already been let in on our little secret. “Please, follow me.”