The men, less fashion conscious, always dress in some sort of pants and shirts, although it can vary depending on their station. Working-class men tend to wear sturdy twill while the businessmen are more likely to wear more expensive and softer cuts of cloth. Those in the warrior caste usually wear a heavy denim-like material for their pants, often covered in leather for protection. Footwear is similar to military combat boots in the First Dimension. However, here they aren’t mass manufactured but rather created by the local cobbler, which truly produces a superior product. In the colder months, warriors wear shirts with leather overcoats, but in the hot summer, often only breast plates and arm guards are necessary.
Bastien leads us from what appears to be the town’s center of commerce, the outer streets lined with houses rustically built of wood, stone, and mortar with mostly thatched roofs. I’m shocked to see efforts have been made to create a sense of normalcy—windows outfitted with planters brimming with flowers, wreaths of welcome on doors, and even small gardens blooming along sidewalks.
This isn’t a stronghold at all. It’s an actual town that has been created for a people on the run, and it appears to be thriving.
“I can see you’re shocked,” Kieran observes.
That’s an understatement. “It’s lovely.”
“Don’t let it fool you into thinking all is okay.” His expression turns grave. “On the other side of town, we have dormitories that house soldiers here for training. They’re sent out to join other battalions actively battling Ferelith in the north and east. This is still very much a place created to maintain a war.”
My stomach pitches at the thought, as I had indeed gotten caught up in the glory of returning to a homeland I hadn’t realized I’d missed so dearly until my memories were given back. But this isn’t the same place I remember.
I need to accept that and adapt.
Without warning, Bastien turns into the yard of a small cottage built just like the others, except this one has no pretty garden, no curtains in the windows. He walks through the front door and leaves it open.
“I’ll take King to the stables,” Kieran says.
I jerk slightly. “You’re not coming in?”
“He doesn’t bite.” Kieran chuckles.
“I don’t know that anymore,” I mutter, giving up the reins to my horse.
“He’ll get you settled, then take you to Conclave Hall. I’ll see you later.”
Before I can argue—or beg Kieran to stay so I don’t have to deal with Bastien—he leads King away without looking back.
With a sigh, I glance at the open door and wonder what awaits me inside. It’s with heavy feet I move to enter the small house.
The first thing I notice is that it’s clean but bare. The kitchen area consists of a stove, sink, and worktable to the left, and the living area with a fireplace to the right has only a wooden chair and table.
Bastien moves to a closed door and opens it. “This is your bedroom.”
I move past him, taking in the small space with a large bed upon which lies a faded quilt and two pillows. Two wooden tables sit on either side with oil lamps, and a woven cloth rug stretches across the wooden floor. A small dresser is set against one wall.
It’s plain but cozy, and I’m completely fine with the accommodations. Seven years working a horse ranch has made it so I don’t need the trappings of a royal palace.
“That’s the bathroom,” Bastien says from behind me, and I jolt as I hadn’t realized he’d followed me into the bedroom. I turn and see him pointing to a closed door. “It has a tub and toilet, but there are hot springs within the cloak that you can go to. They’re good for sore muscles.”
My eyes narrow somewhat at his manner of speaking. It’s flat—which I’ve gotten used to—but it also sounds robotic, as if reciting a list of amenities he’d been programmed to deliver.
“Is this to be my house until the war is won?” I ask.
“No. This is my house. You will be my guest until the war is won.”
“I don’t think so,” I say emphatically. “I am not living under the same roof as you.”
Bastien’s expression hardens, his eyes practically glacial, which proves he can be provoked to some emotion. “You will,” he asserts imperiously, “and there will be no argument. I don’t like these arrangements any better than you, but you will be safest under my direct watch.”
I turn to him fully, my face hot with anger. “Safest? Was I safest with you when you betrayed me?”
He has the grace to flinch at the reminder, but I’m not finished. “I did my duty and returned. I will help the war effort, and I will reclaim the throne. But I’ll be damned if I am going to be subjected to your presence day and night. This is unacceptable.”