Chapter 38: To Bruges
A week passes after the clerk's visit, and the routine of the shop is broken once again. Trojjan calls William over to the counter, a serious look replacing his usual grumpy indifference.
“Help me pack the things, lad,” Trojjan says, adjusting his cloak. “I am heading north to the City of Bruges.”
William blinks in surprise. “Bruges? What for?”
“Bruges is the largest trade hub in the western part of the empire,” Trojjan explains while looking through the shelves. “Merchants from every corner of the empire pass through it. The City Hall has commissioned a specific potion, and I need a rare plant to brew it. It's called an Ashenflower. Nasty thing to get hold of. They say it only blooms where a forest has burned to the ground.”
“Is everything all right with the City Hall? I mean, first the money and now this… Are they still trying to make amends?” William hesitates before whispering.
“I thought so at first,” Trojjan says, leaning against the counter. “But the potion they requested is specifically given to people with weak hearts. I’m beginning to think the new head clerk might genuinely need it to stay alive, considering the situation he is in. Either way, it's a big commission, so we can't pass it up.”
Trojjan walks toward the back door, gesturing for William to follow. “I am taking Betty with us to pull the cart. Since she’s going, there’s no reason for you to stay here alone in an empty shop. You’re coming along too.”
This sudden invitation takes William by surprise. He fails to form a proper reply, standing frozen as he watches Trojjan walk toward the back.
William's heart races against his chest. ‘According to Trojjan, Bruges is a hub of trading for the entire empire. If I can find someone who knows about magic, it must be there.’
“Lad! Move your feet!”
The loud, impatient voice from Trojjan breaks William out of his stupor. He snaps out of his thoughts and runs toward the back of the shop to prepare for the long journey north.
The next three days pass in a blur of preparation—renting a wagon, buying supplies, and informing customers, most importantly John, about his trip to Bruges.
“The journey from Arindale to Bruges will take almost five days,” Trojjan says, heaving the last of his luggage onto the back of the wooden wagon.
“Five days? Isn't that a bit long?” William asks in genuine surprise. His only previous trip on a wagon was the journey from his small village to Arindale, which took less than six hours.
“Kid, you are already lucky,” Trojjan chuckles, watching William's bewildered face. “Betty has much higher endurance than a normal horse, and the roads to Bruges are pretty well maintained. Otherwise, the trip would have taken us more than ten days.”
Trojjan steps up to the front of the wagon, gently stroking Betty's glossy white mane. The mare lets out a soft neigh in complete agreement with his praise. After performing one final check on her leather harness, Trojjan climbs up onto the driver's bench, grabs hold of the reins, and gestures for William to get on the wagon beside him.
As the wagon rolls forward along the dirt road, William keeps his eyes fixed on the shrinking silhouette of the city behind them. The view reminds him vividly of his last major journey, the one that brought him away from Ashbrook.
However, his feelings on this trip are starkly different from the last. Rather than the suffocating tension and melancholy that weighed him down back then, his heart is now filled with absolute curiosity and excitement.
By the end of the second day, William realizes the journey is far less exciting than he had imagined.
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For one, Betty hardly seems to tire. She keeps a steady pace from dawn until dusk, stopping only when Trojjan reins her in outside a roadside inn for the night. Every morning she is eager to set off again, leaving ordinary wagons trailing behind.
Watching the highway from the wagon, William realizes the road itself is nothing like the muddy tracks he remembers from his journey to Arindale. Wide enough for several wagons to pass side by side, it is packed with merchants hauling everything from timber and grain to bolts of cloth. Every so often they pass a small garrison watching over the highway, and Trojjan explains that too much valuable cargo travels this route to leave it unguarded.
Whenever another merchant tries to keep pace with them, Betty flicks her ears back and surges ahead without any urging. By the time William looks over his shoulder, the other wagon is already shrinking into the distance. If the smug toss of her mane is anything to go by, she knows exactly what she's doing.
Because the road links one town to the next, they never have to worry about food or supplies. Every evening another settlement appears before sunset, its inns and stables already bustling with merchants preparing for the next day's journey.
In the early afternoon of the third day, Trojjan stops the wagon at a small inn inside a town named Provins. While Trojjan goes to talk to the innkeeper, William takes on the task of tying Betty up in the stables. After giving Betty a quick stroke down her mane, he walks back toward the front of the inn.
Trojjan spots him and calls out, “Lad, come on. We have to stock up on supplies for the next seven days.”
“Seven days?!” William asks, his eyes widening. “Is this the last town before Bruges?”
“No, but it is the last town of sane people,” Trojjan says, a look of deep contempt crossing his face. “In the towns beyond this one, and even in Bruges itself, the price of basic supplies triples.”
Thoroughly exhausted after days of travel and an afternoon spent hauling heavy crates through the market, William falls asleep almost the moment he slips beneath the inn's thick blankets.
The next morning, the constant chatter of merchants outside his window wakes him early. His muscles still ache from yesterday's work, but the thought of finally reaching Bruges gets him moving. He quickly dresses and heads down to the stables, where Trojjan is already making the final preparations.
Betty greets him with an eager nudge, seemingly unaffected by the long journey. With the wagon restocked and the horse harnessed, they leave Provins just as the sun rises, continuing their steady journey toward the northern trade hub.
Two hours after leaving Provins, William notices a clear change along the road. The merchant caravans grow larger and far better equipped. Even the garrisons appear more numerous and better armed, while the flow of travelers on the highway increases dramatically.
When they arrive at the next town later that day, William quickly realizes Trojjan was right. The price of nearly everything has skyrocketed. The local inn charges almost double its usual rate, yet the rooms are no better than those in the towns they passed through before. Trojjan pays the steep price without complaint, but the deep frown on his face never leaves.
After another two days of travel, every mile toward the city makes William more and more restless. Then at last, the sprawling silhouette of Bruges rises on the horizon. William shoots upright on the bench and grips the edge of the wagon so tightly his knuckles turn white.
'This is it. The largest city in the entire western part of the empire. If magic exists anywhere ordinary people can reach, surely it is here.'
He leans farther over the side of the wagon, unable to tear his eyes away. The distant walls, towers, and rooftops slowly grow larger with every turn of the wheels. Compared to this, Arindale seems little more than a town. From what he has heard, it barely qualifies as a city, while Bruges stands as the greatest trade hub in the west.
As they draw closer to the massive city gates, William tries to take in everything. Dozens of wagons and carriages stream in and out through separate lanes. One detail, however, immediately catches his eye. Every wagon entering the city is stopped and thoroughly searched by the guards. Their armor bears a distinctive insignia—a feather sending ripples across the surface of the water.
“Why are they searching every wagon?” William whispers. “To make sure nobody is smuggling anything into the city,” Trojjan replies, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “What would people smuggle?” “Weapons, people, alcohol—anything that turns a profit,” Trojjan says quietly, giving William a brief glance. William looks back toward the guards. “And what's the symbol on their armor?”
Trojjan's expression hardens. “That is the insignia of Viscount Bruges, the noble who rules this city.” He lowers his voice. “Remember this, William. Most nobles wouldn't care if you insulted their mothers behind their backs, but they would kill you for so much as looking at their insignia the wrong way.”
He gives William a sharp, serious glare. William quickly nods and lifts his head to see the towering gates behind which lies something he has spent half his life searching for.