Winterbirth (12 page)

Deep in the castle's guts, in a chamber draped with wolfskins and tapestries, stood a great bed. Posts as thick as a warrior's thigh supported a pendulous canopy and beneath it lay a shrunken, frail old man who while he dreamed had gathered his sheets and blankets about him like a cocoon. At the foot of the bed, stretched out upon a bearskin rug, lay a dog: an ageing hunting hound with a dense coat of wiry, grizzled hair.

The door to the chamber eased open and a boy stepped in, bearing a lamp that he shaded with his hand. The dog raised its head but made no sound. The boy went soft-footed to the bed. The man lying there gave a groan and rolled. The boy took a startled step backwards and the light flickered at the shaking of his hand. There was a rattle in the sleeping man's throat. He coughed and his rheumy eyes opened. His jaw worked as he moistened cracked lips.

'Forgive me, my lord,' murmured the boy. 'You told me to wake you.'

The man brought a thin hand out from beneath the covers and laid it upon his face, tracing the sunken hollow of his cheek as if searching for the memory of who he was.

'The healers forbade it, but they did not see me come,' the boy said. 'Nor did your lady.'

'You did well,' croaked the man, and let his hand fall away. 'The healers are fools. They know as well as I that all their fretting won't stay my death if my Road's run its course.' The dog stirred at the sound of its master's voice and came to nuzzle at his dangling fingers.

'It is Winterbirth, my lord. The night will shortly turn.'

'Lift me up,' the man told him, and the boy raised him into a sitting position and slid a pillow behind his back. The man was light, as if life had already begun to release him from beneath its weight.

'Winterbirth,' he breathed. 'Tonight and tomorrow will tell all, then. Fate's favour falls upon us or upon our enemies.'

Winding its way down the convoluted passages and stairwells, the sound of merriment came from some distant hall.

'Fetch me something to drink, boy,' said the old man. 'Tonight I must toast the strength of my son and my daughter, who carry our dreams upon the Black Road . There will be no warmth for them this Winterbirth. Only battle and blood.'

The boy set his lamp down upon a table and hurried out. The man's eyes closed and his head sank forwards a little upon his chest. The dog sat, quite still and patient, and watched him. The Thane Angain oc Horin-Gyre, dying in his vast, wind-scoured fortress of Hakkan, would be asleep once more by the time the boy returned, carrying an overflowing beaker.

THE GREAT HALL of Castle Kolglas was livelier and noisier than it had been in a long time. Many torches burned high on the stone walls, throwing dancing shadows off the garlands of holly and ivy and pine strung between them. A fire blazed in the massive grate and braziers glowed in the corners of the hall. Tables lined with crowded benches ran down its length. Closest to the fire stood the high table where Kennet nan Lannis-Haig sat with Orisian, Anyara and Inurian. There were two chairs - those immediately to the right and the left of Kennet - that stood empty. Plates and cups filled with wine were set out before them as if they waited only for some tardy guests, but those for whom these seats were reserved would never come to claim them. At Winterbirth the dead were uneasy in their eternal sleep, and there was an old custom still kept in some houses of laying places for them at the feast. In Castle Kolglas, though, the table was arranged thus on every night of the year. Kennet sat as he always did, flanked by memory and loss.

The rest of the tables were packed with people from both castle and town. The great and the lowly of Kolglas came together on this night. The feast had begun at sunset, and would continue all through the night until the first dawn of winter. Already, with no more than an hour gone by, the free-flowing ale and wine had raised a hubbub of shouts and laughter. Servants rushed up and down bearing drinks and platters of bread and meats. Those of the guests who had most thoroughly slaked their thirst were thumping tankards on the tables to drive the servers to greater efforts. One of the youngest kitchen maids tumbled over a hunting dog that yelped and darted away. A cheer went up, and cries of dismay as the pitcher of ale she had been carrying shattered. The roar stirred Idrin the crow from his perch on one of the great roof beams and he flapped across to the next, croaking irritably.

Kennet laughed with the rest as the flustered girl struggled to her feet. He was buried in his great fur cloak like some hoary old trapper caught out by the snow. He had been complaining of the cold ever since entering the hall, but he seemed well enough.

'You should speak, Kennet,' said Inurian, 'before the throng is too rowdy to listen.'

Kennet rose to his feet and pounded the table with a clenched fist. The revellers fell quiet, and every face was turned towards the lord of Castle Kolglas. He cleared his throat and took a mouthful of ale.

'I shall keep you from your food only for a few moments,' he called out, drawing a muffled chorus of approval, 'but there are things that must be said on this night.'

His voice moved to a new, slower rhythm, and an absolute hush settled across the hall.

'Tonight is the night of Winterbirth,' said Kennet, 'and for this one night there shall be no darkness in this place. I bid you keep the fires burning and hold the dark, and the winter, at bay. In the cold months that are to come, let this night of fire and good cheer be a warm memory in your hearts. When the Gods left this world much that was bright and good went with them. But the healing cycle of the seasons remains, and is not the least of the boons left to us. Rest heals many ills, for the earth beneath our feet as for us.

Even in deepest winter, summer lies in the roots and in the ever-green and it will return. So let us mourn the slipping of the year into sleep and celebrate the promise of its waking, renewed.'

He lowered his head, and when he looked up again his voice had returned to its natural tones.

'There is food and drink enough for twice your number, and there will be songs, and tales, and acrobats and music. But remember while you clear your plates and drain your mugs that many who should be with us here tonight are not. We are not what our forefathers were in the days of the Gods - the world breeds no heroes now - but still we are a hardy folk. Even the hardiest of us may regret our parting from those we hold dear, though. Some who cannot share our tables tonight rest in the Sleeping Dark, taken from us before their time was full; others may yet return. Many of the best of us are far away in the mountains of Dargannan, where they serve the oath that binds our Blood to that of Haig. I know many of you would wish it otherwise, and your misgivings are mine.

'Nevertheless, our honour - the honour of the Lannis Blood - is upheld by their service. Without the Gods to guide and watch over us, we must find other things in the world to hold fast to. Honour is not the worst to choose. Therefore I bid you keep in your thoughts those honourable men who fight in the south as we celebrate the year's turning. Let us hope that they, like the spring, shall soon return.'

There was a great cheer at that. The noise roused Idrin once more and as Kennet sank back into his chair, the black bird swept down and alighted upon Inurian's shoulder. Kennet glanced across.

'Can you not keep that bird under control, Inurian?' he asked above the din. 'Put it out of the hall or tie it down. Must we have it flapping about?'

'I am sure Idrin would no more wish to miss the evening's entertainments than the rest of us, my lord,'

Inurian said, passing a titbit from his plate to the crow, 'and his sulking would be a sore trial to me if he was denied.'

Kennet looked doubtful. 'Well, keep it away from me, then, if its delicate feelings will allow that much at least.'

A faint smile at the corner of Kennet's mouth belied the harshness of his words. Inurian shrugged to dislodge Idrin and the crow flapped back into the roof. Orisian turned his gaze to the hall's door. Almost in that instant, the figure he awaited bounded in to a howled reception that mixed welcome and mock horror, raising the din to new and deafening heights. The Winter King had arrived at the feast.

A tiny, dancing figure trailing a cloak of pine needles and crowned with holly and mistletoe capered about in the middle of the hall. It was Bair. His face twitched in imitation of lunacy as he essayed a wild dance. He had been well coached by Etha and the other staff to whom the selection of the Winter King fell each year.

Bair darted along one of the tables, snatching scraps of food from the guests' plates, upsetting beakers and tankards as he went. Whatever morsels he managed to purloin he stuffed into his mouth so that his cheeks bulged. The victims of his thievery made a pretence of trying to seize him. He worked his way thus around the hall until he eventually leapt up on to one of the tables with an extravagant sweep of his pine cloak that sent dishes spinning. The guests spattered with food and drink cried out in good-natured protest as Bair vaulted to the floor in front of the high table where Kennet, Orisian and the others sat.

Orisian could not help but laugh to see the excitement shining in the stablehand's eyes. Anyara threw a chunk of bread at the Winter King, and was on the point of following it with the contents of her goblet when Kennet rose and leaned across the broad table. Bair, his eyes still dancing with merriment, stepped forwards and bowed his head that the lord of Kolglas might more easily take hold of him. Kennet laid one hand on the boy's shoulder and with the other lifted the green crown from his head, taking care to ease it free from his lank hair. Then Bair turned about and Kennet took the cloak of pine needles from him. He folded it and laid it upon the table, resting the wreath of holly and mistletoe atop it. Bair scuttled away. The Winter King was no more.

Kennet raised his arms. 'Burn the Winter King's robes,' he called out. One of the shieldmen sitting closest to the high table sprang from his place. Taking up the cloak and crown, he carried them with due ceremony to the broad, roaring fire in the hearth. There he paused and looked back to Kennet.

'Burn them,' came the repeated command, and it was taken up by all those in the hall. Orisian shouted out with the rest and cheered as the shieldman cast his burden on to the fire. The pine cloak hissed as gouts of smoke billowed out. The fire was so fierce that it was cowed only for a few moments, and it spat and crackled with vigour as it consumed the Winter King's vestments.

The annual game, played out in one form or another in halls across the Glas valley and beyond since before there had been such a thing as Bloods, was done and gradually the guests settled into the comfortable chatter of any great feast.

Trays of food - more than Orisian could remember seeing at any Winterbirth before - came and went until he lost all track of what he had been offered. The servants, ever more red-faced and wild-eyed, rushed from kitchen to hall and back again. Their own celebrations would come afterwards, when none in the great hall could force down another scrap. For the time being they were at the beck and call of an ever more demanding and drunken horde. Orisian's eyes were growing wine-weary and a pleasant warmth was running through his face, when he heard Kennet say to Inurian, 'It is time for the boons, my friend. If we wait any longer it will be impossible to hear ourselves think.'

Orisian stirred himself and sat up straight in his chair. Inurian went to stand a little behind Kennet.

Shieldmen were marshalling a small group of guests at the far end of the hall. These were the petitioners whose names had been drawn by lot, winning them the right to seek one favour from their lord on this tradition-steeped night.

The first to approach the high table was a small, slight man. Orisian knew him: Lomas, who lived on the fringe between town and forest and grazed a small herd of cattle on the wood pastures. Lomas bowed to Kennet and, with exaggerated care, laid a hide parchment case bound with a red cord on the table. The case was empty: it was no more than a symbol of the petition he wished to present.

'You seek a boon of me?' Kennet asked, and Lomas stammeringly confirmed it was so.

'And if I hear your case, will you undertake, on the strength of the oath you swore to the Blood, to accept any response I make whether it be in your favour or not?'

'I will,' the cattle herder said and Kennet, satisfied, took up the parchment case. 'Speak, then,' he told Lomas.

The petition was a simple one, much to the disappointment of the audience. There was always the hope that some scandalous dispute would enliven proceedings and give the gossips something to warm their tongues with in the long, dark evenings to come. All Lomas wished was to be excused from the Bloodtithe for a year, since several of his cattle had died with the hoof rot. When the herder had finished, Kennet nodded and beckoned Inurian forwards. He consulted with his
na'kyrim
counsellor in whispers too soft to reach those thronging the other tables. Orisian caught most of it, however.

'He speaks truly,' Inurian was murmuring. 'He is afraid, but only of the occasion and of the chance that you might deny him. There is no deceit in him, I think.'

There must have been many times down the ages when a benevolent lord had been tricked into granting an undeserved boon. None who came before Kennet nan Lannis-Haig would even make the attempt, not since Inurian had come to Kolglas. At every granting he stood at Kennet's side, and every petitioner knew that their true intent could not be concealed from the
na'kyrim.

'Very well,' Kennet said to Lomas. 'Your tithe is remitted for one year. I suggest you spend the time reminding yourself of the rules of proper husbandry, since the hoof rot is easily avoided if you give the beasts the care and attention they might expect.'

Lomas, abashed and relieved in equal measure, retreated back down the hall, offering profuse thanks as he went. Good-natured catcalls accompanied him all the way. Someone shouted advice on the prevention of the hoof rot in cattle.

One by one the rest of the petitioners advanced, presented their red-bound cases to Kennet and made their requests. Each time, Inurian leaned forward to whisper into his lord's ear. Orisian watched Inurian with avid attention, seeking without success for any outward sign of the powers the
na'kyrim
was employing. The mysterious gifts of those who carried both Huanin and Kyrinin blood in their veins might be a source of wonder, fear, curiosity or envy, depending upon the observer's temperament. For Orisian, it was fascination that stirred. Even so there was, at the back of his mind, the knowledge that this divining of truth sprang from the same source — the Shared — as had the awful powers wielded in the years before and during the War of the Tainted.
Na'kyrim
of now unimaginable capacities had fought alongside both human and Kyrinin during that long bloodletting. In its final months, doomed Tarcene, the Aygll King, had been possessed and enslaved by one such: Orlane Kingbinder, the greatest of all the fell
na'kyrim
lords of those times. Tarcene's own daughter, in despair, had cut his throat with a hunting knife.