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The feast this time is even more opulent than the last.
Eulmore's bonded have decorated the entire ballroom with color. Each table
overflows with bounty, piled high with delicacies from all over Norvrandt. Pale
slices of Lakeland fish fan out in peach-colored spirals around leaves which have
been preserved in maple sugar, ferried straight from the Greatwood. Il Mheg fruits
slump in multicolored pyramids, ripe and seeping. A spray of grapes dangles over
the edge of a platter; a few clusters have fallen off already, dragged down by
their own weight to be crushed beneath the careless shoes of Eulmore's free
citizens.
Each setting is a lush canvas of culinary mastery, bonded cooks jockeying in
competition to show off their skills. No expense has been spared. And, decorating
every dish, is the presence of meol: shaped in cunning biscuits and loaves, kneaded
into crumbs for breading, and ground down even further into a pearlescent glaze
which has been smeared over roasts and cakes alike.
All in celebration of another ascension.
From his view on the sidelines -- the collar of his formal uniform crisp against
the skin of his throat -- Ran'jit watches the citizens of Eulmore wade into the
feast. Some of them wander freely from table to table as they pick at the delights,
congealing into small knots of gossip and giggling. Others take to their seats with
eager glee, flapping their hands again and again to signal the nearest bonded for
more food upon their plates.
Like Ran'jit, the other guards in attendance keep their arms folded as they stand
rigidly at attention, taking care not to be noticed lest they blemish the revel. He
does his best to blend in too. Swords spoil the appetite, Vauthry had reminded him
once in a fit of irritation, and Ran'jit had bowed his head and swallowed the words
obediently.
He cannot turn completely invisible, however, and it is only a matter of time
before one of Eulmore's citizens -- sniffing around for more social opportunities
-- wheedles her way up to him.
"Such a gift this time from Lord Vauthry!" she coos. Her fingers pinch the stem of
a half-empty wineglass. A smudge of meol glistens stickily on her cheek. "We are
beyond fortunate that his Lordship can commune with the Sin Eaters. The days before
they shared such blessings with us simply pale in comparison, no?"
Ran'jit flicks his eyes towards her glass. He can feel the emptiness of hunger
gnawing at his belly, but none of the dishes tempt him. "Yes."
The terseness of his answer does not warn her away; the woman takes another step
closer. "It saddens me to see that you must work without relief, while the rest of
us take our leisure. Shall I have someone fetch a plate for you, General?"
He presses his lips into a hard line at the thought. "I... am fasting," he claims
quickly. "'Tis what the discipline of my training requires. Please, enjoy the
dinner in my stead."
In ignorance, she gapes and then blushes, tittering behind a hand. "Your austerity
is admirable, General. Why, at this rate, Lord Vauthry will surely grant you your
own ascension soon, and then where will we be?"
Mercifully, the lowering level of wine in her glass is enough to draw the woman
away again -- back to scrounge for more meol, wandering inevitably towards it like
an ant on a sugar trail. To devour her own kin, laid out upon the table to be
dissected by fork and knife: Sin Eaters, eaten in turn by sin.
Each feast is a cycle. Eulmore's citizens have become cousins to the eaters in more
ways than they expect. The city's appetite waxes without limit. Some of the Sin
Eaters are made into meol, which goes to feed the people. Some of the people, in
turn, are made into eaters. Supply and demand: a worm which gnaws upon its own
tail, choking itself as it swallows more of its own body down its throat.
It is a perfect, closed loop.
Yet, a few obstacles remain. As Eulmore's fields slowly wither, more meol is
required as a substitute for what is lost. More meol means more Sin Eaters. Care is
required to harvest from them without destroying their aether wastefully. Ran'jit
still remembers Vauthry's early, ill-fated attempts.
The citizen chosen for ascension this time had been an elderly man, an aging
airship engineer who had meekly accepted the rule of the previous mayor, and then
of Vauthry in turn. He should have been obedient to Eulmore for the few years
remaining to him. So it was assumed -- until one of the officials had reported that
the man had been overheard grumbling about the state of Derelicts, making
insinuations that Eulmore could do more to provide for the vagrants clustered at
its door.
Best not to let the devoted go to waste, Vauthry had said, and so Ran'jit had
dutifully sent down two of his soldiers to the man's door before the meat could
expire.
One Sin Eater is born. Another, therefore, falls.
In contrast, Ran'jit does not know which of Eulmore's ascended citizens had been
used to provide food for the meal this time. Too many of the Sin Eaters look
exactly the same, and he was not there for the killing. A single eater could not
have generated this much meol, no matter how thinly it was divided up. The cooks
might have used an entire family's worth. Wild eaters might have been called in,
commanded by Vauthry to fly tamely to the balconies and lay their heads down for
the knife.
He does not miss having to perform the task of butchery. No love exists within him
for such circuses. Gathering the other foodstuffs required for such an extravagant
celebration had beggared the lower levels; Ran'jit's soldiers will be on half-
rations for the next two weeks, with all their available funds having been spent on
trade for creams, sugars and flour. And -- though he rarely sees her now --
Minfilia has always hated the smell of meol. She is the only one in Eulmore who
does, when even Ran'jit must admit that the scent reminds him of the freshest bread
imaginable.
He may often bring the reek of blood back with him to the Understory, but he does
not need to carry an eater's stink either.
All of Ran'jit's duties had excused him from the first half of the preparations.
That was all they could accomplish. There is one part of the ceremony that even he
does not dare absent himself from: the transformation of a citizen into an eater,
and everything that it entails.
Despite the gluttony of the celebrations afterwards, Vauthry only welcomes a few of
Eulmore's inhabitants to witness the ascension itself. All the man's invitations
are careful ones. A handful of senior officers in the military, just in case of any
physical disturbances. A few of the more prominent free citizens, depending on how
their influence was positioned within the city for the year. The remaining advisors
of Eulmore's cabinet.
Ran'jit.
It is an honor, as Vauthry often reminds them. Here, in this most intimate of
miracles, they are allowed to bear witness to yet another soul being reborn into
salvation. Norvrandt's doom falls away as flesh is transformed into the purest
Light. Entrusted with proof of Lord Vauthry's powers, his guests may bathe in the
man's glory, smug in the knowledge that they are among his chosen favorites,
clasped deep within his trust. They stand within his inner circle. They are the
safest people in all of Eulmore. So long as they obey their lord, they need never
fear being the next ones chained to the pedestal, waiting for a Sin Eater to wind
its arms around their shoulders and siphon the life from their screaming bodies.
Vauthry makes certain Ran'jit is there every time.
At each ceremony, Ran'jit keeps his gaze forward. He does not turn away. He knows
what happens to those who do.
Afterwards -- once the revel is over and the feast hall is abandoned of merriment,
workers stacking up the empty dishes like rows of stripped bone -- Ran'jit always
dismisses his soldiers for the evening and walks in long circles around Eulmore's
open balconies. The ocean winds scour his face and clothing, washing away the reek
of sugar and of bread.
He eats nothing until the next morning. When he does, he makes it with his own two
hands.