She’d also sent word to the church, asking when it would be convenient to call upon Priest Dorne, who it seemed, kept early hours.
At least he’d managed to set the size of the escort. With any luck, they’d be done with their errands and out of the city before the crowds developed.
“You have the watch, Constable.” he gave a nod to Ricard.
“Aye, m’lord.” Ricard responded, and Verice set his heels to his horse, leading the way. They started off with a clatter of hooves on cobblestones.
As they approached the gate, Warna slowed her horse. Verice shot her a glance. She lifted both eyebrows and tilted her head toward the gate.
He snorted.
She laughed, a lovely light sound in the morning air, and urged her horse through the gates.
The ride down was quick. Verice set a fast pace, and with the streets barely awake, he could keep that pace as they made their way to the church.
They were greeted by a faelle acolyte.
“Priest Dorne?” Verice asked as he dismounted, and went to assist Warna.
The acolyte smiled. “He’s in the bakery, m’lord,” she said with obvious delight.
“Ah,” Verice said. “We can wait until—”
“Nay, m’lord.” The acolyte’s smile grew even wider. “He’ll be some time. I’m to take you to him.”
To Verice’s surprise, Dorne wasn’t supervising the bakers.
He was baking.
“Welcome, Lord High Baron, Lady Warna.” Dorne was a small, dark human with olive skin and a bit of a paunch. He was dressed in the traditional black robes of a Priest of the Lady, but with an apron over top, and a dusting of flour overall. “May I offer you kav?”
On the table before him was a huge lump of dough. Dorne was shaping loaves, making shallow slices across the tops, basting them with egg, then sliding them in the huge ovens behind him with a large wooden paddle. His hands never stopped as he gestured for them to take seats on a long bench opposite him.
“Please, be seated,” Dorne said.
The brick ovens behind him radiated heat, and the room smelled of yeast and bread. Along the length of the room, other bakers were working, taking out the finished loaves. Verice settled on the bench, adjusting his scabbards, trying to keep them out from underfoot.
“Please,” Warna said as she settled beside him. She took a deep breath. “It smells wonderful,” she said.
“My thanks,” Dorne said. “But I can scarce take credit for a bit of flour, water, yeast and heat.” He chuckled. “Still, a few warm slices might not go amiss, eh?”
“We already ate,” Warna made a token protest.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Dorne asked.
Verice found himself with a warm, buttered slice in one hand, and kav in the other. Warna had the same, a bemused look on her face.
“Eat first,” Dorne said. “Then tell me how I can be of assistance.”
Warna bit into hers with obvious enjoyment. Verice followed her lead. The bread was good, slightly sweetened with honey. The crust was crisp and chewy but the bread itself seemed to melt in his mouth.
Dorne nodded, seemingly pleased with their enjoyment. He continued his work, preparing the loaves for the oven. “So, you have something you wished to ask me?”
Warna glanced at Verice, drew a breath, and started to explain the situation.
Verice had dreaded this. Dreaded trying to explain to someone how he’d reacted, reliving the pain and grief all over again as they explained the situation. To tell the tale was to relive it, and his stomach had clenched at the thought of talking to anyone about the problem.
But as Warna described the wreckage in the Great Hall, Dorne just kept working, his hands busy constantly as he nodded his understanding. Maybe it was the heat, maybe the warm bread in his belly, maybe the quiet repetition of Dorne’s task, or maybe just Dorne’s quiet acceptance that made it easier to discuss.
