Page 58 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“I suppose my mother once did,” he said after a beat, then gestured. “Please.”

Koraleise withdrew her hand and stepped ahead, clasping her fingers before her. He felt the absence of her touch like a momentary lapse of breath.

“I have not been here long,” she began, “but already I have seen how deeply the people of Lemierre live by their work, and by one another. The days here are shaped by the ring of forges, the scent of wheat, the care given even to the smallest flame. I think that is what makes this day so remarkable.” She paused, her eyes brightening. “Goldfire is not only a festival of renewal. It reminds us that what we build, we build together. That every act of kindness adds light to the year ahead. I am honored to begin this turning with you, and I hope to help with the work before us as though it were my own.”

Applause followed, accompanied by blessings and welcomes. Duncan watched, faintly bemused by the lift in his mood.

Estylle murmured a verse, motioned to the brazier, and offered him the ceremonial torch. Duncan took it, then paused. He glanced sideways at his wife, who stood with her smile undimmed.

He could not have said what moved him, but he angled the torch toward her. Delight opened across her face at once. Together they drew flame from the basin of sacred oil, now burning low, and guided it into the pyre.

For one breath, the fire only teased the kindling.

Then it caught, unfurling slowly into a steady amber.

“By flame and breath, by work and will,” Estylle intoned, “we mark the dawn of the growing season, laying the hunger months behind us as we turn our labor once more toward the light. May Amerieth’s courage dwell within you, and may your hands be equal to what comes.”

Moonpriests moved through the crowd again, scattering sage and ash, blessing the people with the smoke of renewal. Then the cityfolk came forward, lowering their torches into the pyre’s heart. When they lifted them again, alight and gleaming, they bowed to the dais and spilled through the gates, until a river of fire flowed from the courtyard and wound along the roads by the riverbanks, carrying light back to waiting hearths.

“What happens now?” Koraleise whispered, green eyes looking at him eagerly.

He answered mostly to those eyes. “We sit on the Golden Bench and hear petitions of forgiveness and reconciliation.” Then, more to himself, “A long afternoon.”

The Moonwarden led them to a gilded oak bench set near the pyre, wheat petals and thyme scattered at its feet. Triple crescents were carved into the wood and polished to a soft shine. They took their seats, and Duncan braced himself.

He need not have.

Koraleise took to it easily, never treating the task as performance, yet never allowing it to harden into solemnity for its own sake. When an elderly weaver quarreled with her apprentice over a ruined bolt of silk, she reminded them that skill, like forgiveness, came only with practice. To the next petitioners, two farmers—brothers in blood and temper—arguing over a boundary wall and one stubborn goat, she advised that they meet the next morning, each remove one stone from the wall, and see whether the world ended.

Gradually the people stopped looking only to him. They looked to both of them. And with each passing hour Duncan felt himself lighten by degrees. The ceremony he had prepared to endure alone, heavy with memory and formality, turned instead into laughter, quarrels, and the ordinary noise of human life.

By the time Estylle dismissed them and the rites were fulfilled, Duncan found his own participation had become freely given. Even sincere.

Koraleise rose from the bench with a bright laugh and turned as though to go inside.

His hand reached out before he could think better of it and caught her wrist lightly, her skin soft beneath his fingers. “Before we go,” he said quietly, “there is something I would like to show you.”

Chapter 30

Duncan

“No witnesses?” More disbelief than question.

Duncan inclined his head, a light admission of guilt. “No witnesses.”

Koraleise narrowed her eyes as though preparing, of all things that came to mind, another accusation about spiced fish, but followed him onto the ramparts.

The air was cool, edged with smoke and the fading sweetness of burned sage. Beyond the walls, Emberglade Valley shimmered with a thousand small fires threading the dark like molten gold. The river caught their glow and carried it onward, and celebration drifted up from below: bread exchanged, debts forgiven, hearths kindled.

“This is certainly worth seeing,” Koraleise said with a resigned sigh.

Duncan leaned against the balustrade and watched the torches moving through the streets. The view tugged at the wound in his chest. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to come here last year, and he knew he would not have managed it this year alone.

“My brothers and I used to come here before the feast every year,” he said. A small smile touched his mouth. “Mostly to light our own fires and drive our nursemaid mad.”

“I am very sorry,” Koraleise said quietly. “About what happened.”

Duncan’s throat tightened. He wanted to wave the words away, but Osric’s persistent voice surfaced in memory. He nodded instead and hid his discomfort behind a cough.