CH315 · Rewrite
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Chapter 315: Celebration Feast

The main hall of Border Town’s castle was full and loud for the first time in memory.

Every ranking member of City Hall and the First Army had come, along with all the witches — the nobles Barov Mons and Carter Lannis seated alongside Iron Axe and Kyle Sichi, whose presence here had required a considerable diplomatic effort. The chief alchemist had declared the banquet “meaningless,” and Roland had agreed that it was, in the sense that meaning was something you had to give things deliberately, and had pressed until Kyle came.

To include the town itself in whatever this night was, Roland had ordered the kitchen staff to bake bread from the refined starch left over from explosive manufacturing — a large quantity, distributed by City Hall to anyone holding an identification card, in limited portions per person. The First Army was still on the road home. Most of the town already knew about the victory anyway, news having moved faster than soldiers tended to, and the bread gave the knowing somewhere to land.

The banquet itself was nothing like the dinners he’d read about from King’s City — no haunches of roasted meat, no servants carrying whole animals to the table. He’d arranged the food cut small and laid on white plates, seasonings in basins at the table’s edge for people to help themselves. The witches had spent a puzzled moment studying this arrangement before deciding, independently, that it made sense. Roland had thought of it as a buffet and said nothing.

“Welcome back,” he said, and brought two glasses of wine to where Anna was standing. “The journey must have been hard.”

“You already said that at the pier.” She accepted the glass. “And my answer is still the same.”

When their glasses touched — barely, just the rim-edge of contact, the faintest musical sound — her eyes were warm in a way that Roland had to physically suppress the urge to respond to. He turned and moved along the table, touching glasses with each of the witches in turn.

“What about me?” Lightning demanded.

“You’ll get yours.” He flagged down a passing waiter and obtained a glass of cider. “Here.”

“I want white.” She looked at him with the specific directness of a girl who has never yet lost an argument she was willing to press hard enough. “I’m not a child.”

He considered this. She wasn’t, particularly — not in the way that the word usually meant, the way that suggested ignorance. She was just young. And if he refused everything she asked for, she would learn from Nightingale and start stealing wine from the kitchen, which would be his fault. “One glass. Light, mixed with ice and grape juice.”

Yes.

When he handed it over she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek, brief and decisive.

“Is that — a custom from the Fjords?”

“My father taught me,” Lightning said, with the solemnity of someone citing an authority. “When a great deed is celebrated, you kiss the person who made it possible.”

The witches who had been around long enough weren’t startled. Sylvie’s eyes went wide, then moved to Roland, then went wide again at his expression, which was working hard at something neutral and not quite achieving it. She filed this away.

The toasting moved down the table. When Roland reached Kyle, the chief alchemist leaned close. “Your Highness. I’ve read through the Intermediate Chemistry twice since you gave it to me, and there are still passages I can’t follow.”

“The sub-atomic material requires physics background to understand. I’d recommend reading the Elementary Physics before returning to the Chemistry remnants. Most of your questions should resolve.”

“I intended to.” Kyle paused. “But I wanted to ask — why are the covers of the ancient books in different colors? Is there a meaning to it?”

“That represents—” Roland thought for a moment. “The level of difficulty and time required to master the content.”

Kyle considered this. “Green to purple, then deeper. Following that logic, Advanced Chemistry must be black.”

“No. It’s orange.”

Kyle blinked. “Why?”

Roland smiled. “Who knows?”


Halfway through the evening, Roland stepped out of the hall.

The terrace off the second floor looked over the town and the river beyond, and the air at this hour was cool and slightly damp in the way of autumn evenings that were not yet winter but had begun practicing. He stood at the railing and looked out. Half the autumn gone already. The Months of Demons were coming, which meant snow and darkness and the creatures that came with both — but not the same coming as before. This year was different from last year in every measurement he could apply.

The trade with Margaret’s Chamber of Commerce had brought in gold that had circulated back into the town through wages. The convenience market’s sales had grown substantially; steak and eggs were no longer luxury purchases, not for the town’s original residents. New housing, distributed freely to those who’d been here from the beginning. The wages, compared to what they’d been eighteen months ago, were different enough that Roland sometimes had to remind himself these were the same people. The newly arrived refugees were still in the saving stage — purchasing a house, establishing a position — but when they settled, the market would surge again. He could see the whole arc of it from here, the way you could see a river’s course from high enough.

What do people need? It sounded like a larger question than it was. In this era, for most of them: enough to eat and enough warmth and enough stability to trust that tomorrow would resemble today. The rest — education, public health systems, cultural institutions, incentives toward population growth — those were the things that transformed stability into something durable. He had plans for all of them. Some had already begun.

“Your Highness.” Nightingale was there, a thin coat in her hands. She held it out with the directness she brought to most things, accepted without ceremony. She produced a strip of dried fish from somewhere and settled in at the railing beside him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He put on the coat. “I wanted to see the territory.”

“The town’s still full.” She nodded toward the square, lit and loud well past the hour when it was usually quiet. “It’s late and no one’s gone home.”

“The drama troupe is back. First showing of the new piece — Dawn. And the first show with Miss May and Irene since the troupe left for months.” He paused. “Miss May will be Lady Lannis not long from now, incidentally.”

Nightingale turned her head. “Carter?”

“He informed me with great sincerity and some visible effort.” Roland had been surprised — not by the match but by Carter’s nervousness in proposing it, as if the answer were genuinely uncertain. “The wedding is scheduled after the Months of Demons. For the day Border Town officially becomes a city.”

Nightingale was quiet for a moment. Below them, the square’s lights moved among itself, and laughter carried up in pieces. “It was dead here when I first came,” she said. “I snuck in through the east gate. I thought — I remember thinking that if Border Town was what the Western Territory amounted to, no wonder everyone ignored it.”

“And now?”

“Now I can hear it from the castle.”

He looked up. The sky was clear — not the blanketing overcast of the Months of Demons but autumn’s final open nights, the stars occupying their usual positions with the permanence of things that had agreed long ago not to move. He breathed in.

There were still many things to do. The list was long enough that he’d stopped keeping it in any single place. Broader education, public medicine, cultural infrastructure, population policy — each one a project, each project a decade, and the decades themselves dependent on surviving what was coming. The Months of Demons. The Church. Timothy. The Demons themselves, two hundred kilometers to the west, in their blood-red fog.

He had a town. He was going to need a country.

“So what about us?” Nightingale asked. She tilted her head to look at him, and the question had a quality that was something other than casual.

“The same is true for you,” Roland said. He put his hand on the crown of her head, briefly. “I promise.”

She looked at him for a moment longer. Then she turned back to the square, and ate her dried fish, and didn’t say anything else. Which was, he thought, its own kind of answer.

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