MAZE TOOK rest for about a night, and when daylight broke, he was led out of the infirmary to the dining hall on the ground floor of the west wing by a Child, who could not even introduce himself, and was rushing somewhere after he was done tending Maze.
As he stepped through the double doors, he was slightly stiffened. There were no signs of plants or dirt, only a luxurious and grand expanse of burnished masonry. While the manor he once knew possessed its own grandeur, this hall existed on a scale he could not have imagined, perhaps having the capacity to accommodate roughly a thousand.
The ceiling rose into massive, exposed timber trusses that crisscrossed. He traced the way those heavy beams supported the weight of the roof, marveling at the craftsmanship. Unlit iron candelabras, each as wide as a wagon wheel, hung from thick rusted chains, their many-pointed candle-spikes casting needle-like shadows across the vaulted heights.
Maze began to walk forward, staying at the perfect center of the hall, his eyes wandering from right to left. Indeed, the pillars were what held his view. They were massive, fluted trunks of midnight-black marble spaced evenly along the walls. Fixed to the dark mineral were heavy iron holders gripping thick torches and lanterns that cast a flickering orange glow. Heavy velvet drapes in deep crimson were draped between the pillars.
On the walls, there were seemingly preserved heads of great stags and mountain lions that watched him with glass eyes, while sculptures of wolves and eagles stood in the corners. Crossed bladed weapons and shields were mounted high on the vertical surfaces, their metal faces glinting.
To his side, the windows were filled with mosaic glass. Each pane depicted the phases of the moon in silver and white. He followed the glass, noticing a sliver of a crescent, then a half-moon, then a bulging gibbous, until a full silver orb dominated the center.
His curiosity was getting the best of him. Does each phase represent something? he suddenly wondered, his mind spinning with the architectural logic. Perhaps it was a mere reminder of the eclipse that brought him to the tower. It was likely the same for every Child there.
He continued walking, passing three long rows of trestle tables. They flanked a wide central aisle. Most had long benches tucked beneath them, but at the far end, a raised platform — a dais — held a high table where ten high-backed chairs were placed. Maze deduced that these seats were not for lords, but perhaps for those with high status or ranking among the Children in this tower.
He could be mistaken.
At the opposite end, behind him now, a wood-carved screen passage separated the hall from the kitchens, where the smell of woodsmoke drifted from a massive central hearth. Above the passage, he could see the railing of a minstrel's gallery.
Maze looked down at his own white tunic and draped cloak. He felt the simple leather of his girdle against his waist. He did not have the strange, refined suit that the Children of the towers wore, and the realization made him feel as though he did not belong.
But then, the scent hit him. The steam rising from a roasted chicken at the center table filled his nostrils, mingled with the aroma of honeyed bread and savory stews. His stomach gave a faint grumble.
Who prepared such a feast? He peered toward the high table. There might be a staff of cooks somewhere. There, too, might be some Children who labored. He should not have cared, yet the thought persisted. He wondered whether the food was free, or there would be some demand for price. He might not have the capability to pay for such grandeur.
The plates were not the simple wooden trenchers. They were heavy pewter and glazed ceramic, painted with deep blues and golds. A grand spread for two sat there, the golden-brown skin of the chicken glistening. Maze's gaze swept from the timber heights down to the polished silver goblets. It was ecstatic, an awestruck beauty that made his heart hammer against his ribs.
Amidst the vast, empty rows of a thousand seats, only one person was found inside, sitting as if waiting for him.
A wiry, willow-framed young man sat at the table; he had a slumped posture that suggested fatigue. His hair was a charcoal thicket of spiky strands, trimmed just long enough to obscure the tops of his ears, and his nose tip was a curious, flushed red against skin as pale as unbaked dough. He looked up with dull, bored eyes that appeared to find the very act of existing a chore.
"There is nothing good in the morning, but good morning . . ." His voice was a cold, husky rasp.
This man seems lifeless. Maze nodded quietly. Is he always seemingly bored?
"You see the food is getting cold, now hurry up."
The man reached out, gently slicing a portion of the roasted chicken. As he ate, Maze noticed his lips were a stark, ink-black. He did not think it was unnatural at first, but then he wondered if the man had applied some sort of dark cosmetic. It was hard to look away from his face, especially the albino shade of his skin which made his thick, dark eyebrows and incredibly long lashes stand out even more.
"And stop staring."
The husky command made Maze flinch. As he approached nearer, the dullness in the man's eyes was even more apparent, framed by those heavy lashes.
Maze took a seat across the man. "Pardon me."
"Never mind." The man looked at Maze properly for the first time, raising a thick brow. "Name is Vaelstrom, and you?"
He sensed a prickle of attitude to the way Vaelstrom carried himself.
"Mizmaze."
"District?"
"Fifth."
"Oh." Vaelstrom's black-painted lips twitched, perhaps in a ghost of a smirk. "I am from the third district. Your age?"
"Twenty-five."
"Well, I am as well."
"You are?"
"Yes, so we can call each other casually. I do not care really." Vaelstrom shrugged his shoulders, the movement revealing the same refined suit Maze had seen on the lady and Sir Azaniel. "However, as a Child, I am tasked to take care of you today."
His tone carried a bitter weight, as if the assignment were a personal grievance.
"Then where are the others?"
"Trials."
Maze was confused but interested. "Trials, what for?"
If the lady were in these trials too, it meant something significant was happening within the towers. No wonder that the Child who led him to the dining hall was rushing. They probably were busy.
"You should not probe about them, though they are important later on," Vaelstrom said, his voice flat and dismissing the curiosity. "You better eat now, and let us talk after you finish."
That would be a great idea, Maze thought, as he finally reached for the platter.
The hall fell into a heaving quietude as they feast on. Vaelstrom remained hunched over his plate, his dull eyes fixed on the grain of the oak table as if the air between them were a wall. Eventually, Maze did not mind. He shifted his focus entirely to the roasted chicken, tearing a piece away with his fingers.
The skin was a crisp, salty shell that crackled under his teeth, yielding to meat so tender it practically dissolved. A rush of rosemary and garlic flooded his senses, followed by a smoky richness he had never encountered in the simple boiled fare of the manor. It was his first taste of something truly decadent. For a moment, the worry of debt or the mystery of the tower vanished. Whether this was a free gift or a feast he would have to pay for with his very soul, he did not care.
He simply needed to eat.
He savored the succulent warmth, the savory juices coating his tongue and settling the stirring ache in his stomach. Each bite felt like a small spark of life returning to his weary frame.
"Look at you eating like a maniac," Vaelstrom commented. He raised a silver cup to his black-painted lips, sipping the dark wine while his eyes tracked the way Maze tore at the meat with his bare hands.
Maze did not mind. In the sheep-cote, he was more fond of bread and milk, and he simply was not used to the weight of a spoon, fork, or the sharp glint of knives. His fingers were slick with savory oil as he reached for another piece.
"Pardon me."
"For the love of the gods, cease at once from uttering the word 'pardon.'" Vaelstrom sighed, then set the cup down on the dark oak with a faint thud. "I did not mean it to offend, honestly."
Maze continued to eat. He could feel that he was being watched. It was uncomfortable to be observed so closely by someone with such an icy, detached presence, but the hunger in his stomach was his priority.
Maze finished the last of the meal and reached for a cup of water, letting the cool liquid settle the salt in his throat. He picked up a piece of linen to clean the savory oil from his hands. Alas, he had finished.
"There is a matter that you need to understand first."
Maze listened as Vaelstrom spoke with evidence of dullness.
"But," Vaelstrom stood, the legs of his chair scraping, "this is not the place for that."
Maze looked up, and for a moment, their eyes interlocked.
"I am tasked to guide you toward something, so please stand and follow me."
Vaelstrom tilted his head.
Maze assumed a look of interest toward this certain something.
He pushed himself up from the heavy oak chair and stood.
It seemed this was finally the day to figure things out.