Dark Haven (35 page)

Then, when I slept, Laisren returned and killed my husband for what he had done to me. No one ever found the body, and no one missed him.” Lisette looked down, and her long hair fell around her face. “That was almost two hundred years ago. Laisren and I have been together since then, soulbound in the Dark Gift. Now do you see why I asked if you were a mind healer? It would be a great gift if you could ease the pain of old memories. Not take them completely, because they make us who we are. But make them distant, heal the wounds. Even after centuries, some memories are as fresh and raw as if it were yesterday.”

“Sister Taru told me that mindhealing comes with time for many healers. Even though my gift is strong, I’m not yet a mind healer. But if I become one, I promise that I’ll serve both vayash moru and mortals. You have my word.”

“Thank you, m’lady.”

There was a knock at the door from the shared parlor just before it opened, and Jon‐marc peered into the room. “Ready for dinner?” He was also dressed in black.

“Lisette was just telling me about Winter‐stide in Dark Haven.”

“Good. Then you can help me remember what I’m supposed to do.” He held out an arm for Carina. They descended the great main stairs into the throng of celebrants below. In the candlelight, Carina glimpsed a glint of light mail beneath his shirt, a precaution after the previous season.

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“Wait until you see the ballroom. Even without Tris, there are enough ghosts here to put Haunts to shame. Seems most of our guests— living and undead—brought along an ancestor or two for company.”

“So where were you?”

“Gabriel’s been talking me through what I’m supposed to do. On the first night of Winterstide, it’s customary for the Lord of the manor to exchange a gift of gold coins with the merchant guild, and a sheaf of wheat with the farmers. Good luck for the new year. Earlier today, I took five men and a team of horses to chop down a large oak and drag it out of the woods. You’ll see it in the courtyard. They’ve started a bonfire at one end of it. Each night we’ll push more of the log in until it’s all burned—that’s supposed to be a good sign. At sundown, Gabriel took me out to the barrow where they bury the lords of the manor. I guess sometimes the spirits feel inclined to give advice, but they didn’t seem to have anything to say tonight.”

Outside, a fierce wind blew. In response, the crowd raised their tankards of ale and wassail and gave a cheer, saluting Nameless and the wild host. The cheer became a toast as Jon‐marc and Carina entered the room arm in arm. A feast of roasted goat and goose was spread on the largest table, along with rum pudding and brandied fruits, yams and leeks and pies with baked apples and raisins. The smell of mulled cider and spiced wine joined the scent of burning evergreen as pine boughs crackled on top of the logs in the hearth, sending sparks into the air.

In a place of honor at the head of the table was the goat’s head, an offering to the Lady. The children at the feast brought small figures made of straw, people and animals and star shapes, and placed them in homage around the goat’s head. An elderly woman, one of the matrons of the village, made her way to place an offering bowl of porridge, thick with nuts and berries, in tribute to the spirits. Around the great room, wreaths of yew and holly were adorned with winter berries. A large evergreen branch in one corner was hung with straw talismans in the shape of the Lady’s mark. Eight glass globes with small candles, one for each of the Lady’s eight faces, were suspended from its twigs.

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“I’ve never seen such a feast!” Carina exclaimed, as Gabriel and Laisren joined them. In the center of the room a spot had been cleared for dancing, and the musicians played a lively reel.

Carina recognized Yestin and Eiria among the dancers who wheeled and twirled to the music.

“You might have, had you been in Margolan or Principality a few hundred years ago,” Gabriel said, bowing low in greeting and kissing the back of Carina’s hand. “Those of us who’ve outlived our times can take comfort in remembering the old ways at least once a year. Though it’s vexing that the mead has lost its taste for me.”

“That’s why there’s fresh goat’s blood and plenty of it. I hope you’re in a party mood,” Laisren said to Carina. Lisette stood beside him, and it was clear that they were a couple. “In Dark Haven, Winterstide is eight days, not a fortnight as they celebrate at the palace. Each night is for one of the Aspects. By the end, the mortals are drunk and the rest of us are sated enough to need a week to sleep it off!”

Yestin and Eiria joined them, flushed with the dancing. “Ah, but in Eastmark, the vyrkin aren’t forgotten,” Yestin said, slipping his arm around Eiria. Eiria seemed to lean heavily on Yestin, as if she did not feel well. “On the fourth night, the night of the Dark Lady, the spirits of the vyrkin come to pay tribute to the king of Eastmark. All vyrkin, living and dead, meet with the king around a great fire, and the seers of our kind give the king a prophecy for the coming year. One of the Dark Lady’s prophetesses and one of our seers in human form dance together, a ritual that tells how the Dark Lady and the Stawar God we’re joined. I’ve heard tell that the king brings with him two head of cattle, so there’s meat enough for all!”

Carina laughed. “Isencroft isn’t nearly so colorful. With Chenne as its patron, Winterstide is all jousts and bonfires, and a special pyre for the heroes and honored dead. There are all kinds of contests and sporting events, and the winners are honored at a great banquet with the king. I never did figure out why we feast for twelve nights instead of eight.”

Gabriel answered her. “A very old tradition. Eight for the faces of the Lady and four more for Her 302

consorts: the gods of the stawar, the wolf, the bear and the eagle.”

Despite the roaring fire a draft moved through the room, and Carina knew that the kindred dead were near. Some were able to make themselves seen without the aid of a Summoner, but the others who lacked such power moved unseen through the room, joining in the dance or clustering by the fire.

Another gust of wind rattled the manor windows and shrieked across the rooftop, met with a hearty cheer by the celebrants within. Carina shivered and Jonmarc drew her against him, wrapping his arms around her. Across the room, the musicians struck up a lively tune.

“A dance, m’lady?” Jonmarc asked with a smile, making an exaggerated bow and clicking the heels of his boots together. Carina let him lead her to the dance floor. Yestin and Eiria joined them, as did Laisren and Lisette, while Gabriel withdrew to the corner of the room to confer with Riqua. They danced until the bells tolled the eleventh hour and Carina dropped gratefully into a chair gasping for breath.

“Enough! It’s warm as summer in here with that fire.”

Jonmarc handed Carina a cup of wassail, and looked up as Gabriel began to move from the far side of the room with a nod in his direction. “Catch your breath while I take care of some official business. Then we’ll see about another dance.”

He made his way to the hearth and clapped his hands for attention. Gradually the rowdy group grew quiet and the musicians ended their tune.

“Good Winterstide!” Jonmarc was greeted with a roar of cheers and raised mugs. “Before we feast, Lord Gabriel tells me that we have some courtesies to see to. First, to our spirit guests, 303

welcome!” In reply, a gust of wind flickered the candles and danced in the fire at the hearth.

Gabriel poured a cup of cream and handed it to Jonmarc, who set it next to the porridge by the fire in tribute.

“And to the spirits of Dark Haven, good feast.” The fire suddenly roared in the fireplace, sending sparks, dancing up through the chimney. “A toast to the Lady in all Her faces, for the bounty we enjoy,” Jonmarc said, lifting his goblet high. The rich, strong mead was brewed especially for the feast. Even in Isen‐croft, Carina knew that oaths made over a cup of the mead at Winterstide were considered binding, in this life and the next.

There was a stir at the far end of the room, near the outer doors. Two of the village men led in large boar. Harnessed securely, the boar followed the promise of a large turnip held out before it. The boar and its keepers passed through the partygoers, and they made way as if the large animal were an honored guest.

“What’s going on?” Carina whispered to Lisette.

“By tradition, the Lord of the manor blesses the boar and makes a sacred oath. Then it’s slaughtered. The blood is given to the vayash moru, a portion of the raw meat to the vyrkin, and the rest is cooked on a slow fire for the feast tomorrow, Sinhame, the Crone’s Night.”

The boar was led to the front of the common room, and Gabriel gave Jonmarc a goblet of mead.

Carina had no idea how much coaching Gabriel must have given Jonmarc, but he moved through the ritual as if he had been doing it all his life. “The blessing of the Lady on you, and on us,”

Jonmarc said, pouring a few drops of the mead on the boar’s head. Then Jonmarc raised the goblet, and met Carina’s gaze.

“An oath, to my lady,” Jonmarc said. “First, that I will always come for you. And second, that we’ll have a proper ritual wedding, before the next moon is full.” He dashed the goblet and its 304

mead into the fire. The boar reared and squealed. Another turnip was produced from the pocket of one of the animal’s tenders and the boar was led from the room. Amid the cheers of the guests, Jonmarc moved to meet Carina in the center of the great room. The musicians struck up another tune, and Carina smiled as Jonmarc took her in his arms and they began to dance. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“You did well up there,” she murmured.

“Gabriel’s a good teacher. We didn’t exactly celebrate like this in the Borderlands.” He touched the shevir at her wrist and it sparkled in the firelight. “I wanted to get through all the Winterstide celebrating before the wedding. I hope you don’t mind.”

Carina stretched up on tip toe and kissed his cheek. “As long as we’re together, I don’t mind at all.”

The next day, Carina found that her misgivings about the number of patients awaiting her care was correct. Twice as many people waited for her. Jonmarc stopped in at lunch time to bring her a slab of fresh bread with cheese from the kitchen and a small crock of hot soup. “Thought you might like to eat, since dinner’s late again tonight,” he said. She tore off a chunk of bread and offered it to him, but he shook his head.

“Already ate. I’ve got more business to take care of in the village before the festival tonight.

You’ve got a role in tonight’s festivities, according to Gabriel.”

“Oh?”

“As the Lady of the manor, you get to make an offering to the spirit of the big oak tree just 305

outside the manor. And there’s a procession from the village to the barrows tonight. Personally, I’m hoping that the whole festival remains calm and boring. I had enough excitement last year!”

He kissed her and left her to finish her meal.

“Lord Vahanian!” Jonmarc had barely reached the stable when Rann, one of bis mortal guardsmen, came running up. Two more guardsmen were behind him.

“You’re out early.”

Rann shook his head. “I was just headed to the manor to find you. One oi the men from Haven village came in a panic this morning. There’s been an attack.”

“What kind of attack?”

“We were headed out to see. You’d best come with us, m’lord.”

Jonmarc headed into the stables with the guardsmen. Four more of their fellows were already saddling up. “What warrants so many guards?”

“He said it was bad, m’lord. He called it a massacre.”

On the road outside the village, they found a group of townsmen waiting for them. Their expressions extinguished the last hope Jonmarc had that the runner’s story had been an exaggeration. In the distance, he could hear the wailing of mourners and the keening of the village women. “Where did it happen?” he asked the town’s elder, a bearded man in the forefront 306

of the group.

“Out of the far hills, sometime in the night, m’lord,” the elder replied. “We’ve just been out, but I’ll ride with you. Though I wish I never had to see such a thing again in my life.” They rode half a candlemark. The wind whipped around them, making the snow rise from the ground in whirlwinds and driving it in gusts from where it lay heavily in the trees. When they reached the far hills, the elder reined in his horse, and Jonmarc looked out over the hillside, Scattered across the hillside were the remains of sheep, torn limb from limb. The snow was dark with blood. Among the carcasses were the bodies of half a, dozen herders. “By the Whore!”

Rann exclaimed as they neared the bodies. Other soldiers cursed in fear.

The men’s throats showed two clear punctures; their bodies were pale as the snow. The corpses had been gutted, and then stuffed with hay and pebbles. Their entrails lay in a frozen mass beside them. Jonmarc fought the urg’e to retch. The tracks in the snow showed the herders’

panic, running in vain as their attackers chased them. No tracks led to or from the site into the nearby woods. There were no tracks at all leading away, except by the trail they had followed.

“The herders that came out to relieve them found the bodies,” the elder said. “They said that there were no tracks except their own. Only one boy survived, and he won’t speak of what he saw. Whatever did this wasn’t mortal, m’lord. They flew here and flew away. It didn’t snow last night, and the wind hasn’t been strong enough to cover the tracks completely. Crone take my soul! There are tales of the Wild Host doing such things, but that was long ago. What does it mean?”

“Someone’s trying to start a war.” Jonmarc paused. “Can you take me to the survivor?”

“He’s with the hedge witch. Half‐frozen and terrified near out of his wits.”

The group rode in silence back to the village. As they neared the small grouping of houses and 307

shops, the sound of bells and mourners grew louder.

The elder led them to a small house at the edge of town. The smell of herbs and poultices permeated the thatched‐roof cottage. The hedge witch was a plump, stooped woman with short‐cropped gray hair. Jonmarc could feel the accusation in her glare as he passed, and the unspoken charge that the Lord of the manor had failed in his vows.