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Even if it did include cold mud to the knee, and more than one shoe lost in quagmire.
“My lady! My lady Solveig!” Albeig, holding her cheerful blue festival skirt high so the embroidered hem did not touch the ground, waved from the top of the great stairs. She did not like to leave the inner fastness; our housekeeper hated disorder and there would be naught else in every corner, begging to be set aright. “The tables? Shall we?”
And thus it begins.There was no use in sighing; Albeig knew I wished to order the household myself, if only to show Mother she need not worry. “Make it so, then,” I called up the stairs. “But do not set out the meat just yet.”
She knew that as well, but Albeig’s fair round face eased at proof thatIwas thinking with more than one finger, as the saying goes. She bobbed gently, a tiny wooden boat upon a disturbed puddle, and hurried back inside through the big black carven doors.
“They have not brought the pillars yet.” Arn did not move. No doubt she would prefer chivvying those building the bonfire to the thankless work of setting out board for fortunate beggars and any of my father’s men who wished a mouthful before going to the fair’s colorful, hurrying sprawl.
Each oiled wooden pillar upon the Stone in the green bore a great rune-carving and would sink into prepared holes, ready to keep the lower mass of the bonfire from tipping. Come morning, having done their duty, whatever survived of their guard-watch would be given to the flames as well.
The old must be sacrificed before the new is brought in. So my people believed, and I have not found them wrong. “Then make certain they are placed properly for my first lighting, and return for the nooning.” I rose upon my slippered tiptoes, pressing my lips to her cheek as if we were sisters; she gave an aggrieved sigh. “What? I promise not to stir a step past the gate without my Arn. Go.”
Even a year before she would have refused, but the bands upon my left wrist were seven in number just as the ones upon my right were five, thin dark double-lines of ink and ash forced under the skin, angular runes dancing within their confines. Not only that, but my hair was braided in the complex fashion of a fullvolvaby Astrid just that morn, red coral beads at special junctures, and Father himself had gifted me his mother’s silver torc, the bees of her house and lineage resting heavy and comforting below my collarbone.
In short, none would dare offer violence, jostling, or even a light word to a woman so attired inside a riverlord’s walls. Why risk exile, or a curse taking the flavor from your mead as the old saying warns? There are stories of weirdlings running hot lead into a warrior’s marrow to answer an insult, too.
Every child knows those tales, and is taught to keep a civil tongue when speaking to those with even the weakestseidhr.
Arn gave in after a few moments of token resistance, and glared at me afresh from her relatively imposing height. Even her freckles glowed in thin golden winterlight, and her breath was a fine silver plume. “Not a single step past the gate, Sol.”
“Then don’t be late. Or I might find myself walking alone,riverside-bound to find Astrid.” It was an empty threat delivered only to make her bristle, since I would not willingly stir from the hall’s safety until sunset. “And mind you don’t make Hopfoot stammer; he is very afraid of you.”
“As well he should be.” She hefted her spear, its long bright blade winking conspiratorially. “I go, then. Put your mantle on, daughter of Gwendelint.”
I dropped her arm and stuck my tongue out, making a battle-face; she laughed and set off with springing steps. I climbed my father’s great wide stairs, their grain worn to satin smoothness by many visiting feet, and plunged into the dimness of the entryway, an explosion of hurry and babble enveloping me from slipper-toe to the top of my braided head. The tables were to be dragged out into the courtyard and hung with roughcloth; the feeding of fortunate fools should always begin at midmorn.
Questions leapt for me from every side—where should this be settled, how many dishes should be taken forth, where were the extra trenchers, Father’s huntsman Yngold was drunk among the pigs and who should drag him forth—oh, I did not mind eventhatoccurrence, for I could set his friends Tar and Jittl upon his track and they would take him to the fair for a sobering fight or summat else. There was Mother’s noontide medicine to mix in the stillroom while I was interrupted every few moments for another decision, and the kitchen’s smoky clangor to brave for shouted conference with Nisman and Ilveig, the latter furiously calm while the former wielded knife, ladle, or whisk with a warrior’s grim determination. There were the great casks to order tapped or set aside, yet more tankards and trenchers to be found, children to be collared and sent to their duties with a tug upon their ear to remind them avolva’s request is not a negotiable matter.
Of such things were the last festival I spent with my family made. I would like to think I remember everything about that busy day.
But if I am to be honest, I do not.
Simple, Easy
Even the Sun must be renewed each year. All that is given must be paid for, and all fires need fuel.
—Idra the Farsighted, of Dun Rithell
My lady Solveig?” Albeig swiped at her forehead with the back of one almost-limp hand; her hazel eyes were very bright. The great feasting hall was all a-clamor, from its rush-strewn floor to its great roof-timbers. “The sun is going down.”
I knew as much, of course—three people had told me in the last few moments, each anxiously expecting praise for the reminder. It was enough to make me almost regret being presented for Idra’s training so many years ago.
Almost, but not quite. Uncontrolled weirding is worse than none at all, and though the eldervolvaof Dun Rithell was a harsh teacher she had also been scrupulously just, as any with the burden ofseidhrare expected to be.
It is an expectation not many fulfill, to hear the songs and sagas tell. But Idra did, and demanded as much from me as well. What I once considered her cruelty was in fact merely discipline, and I am glad I learned the distinction before she breathed her last.
I gave a nod, gesturing directions at the two thralls wrestling the last table—its legs knocked free of mud outside, a chore nobody likes but which saves a great deal of future trouble—into position. More ofthe household were bearing away the roughcloth from the Fools’ Feast and bringing fresh hangings and tapestries; very soon the mighty among Father’s warriors and any important guests would begin arriving. Naturally the hall would be ready well before the first merrymaker stamped through the door for wassail, and the great iron cauldron with leaping figures upon its sides was bubbling already.
But the preparation of a great feast is filled with small disasters those who partake of its bounty rarely recognize; the only ones aware of such things are those who must smooth, tidy, and arrange so a great revel seems effortless.
“Settle it there,” I said, rubbing my damp palms upon a scrap of wastecloth before folding and tucking it back into a small house-pouch at my belt. “Many thanks; now go swallow summat, both of you. Hurry.” With that done and the thralls hastening kitchenward before the evening’s work I could turn my attention to our housekeeper, who leaned against the returned table to give me a wan smile, a roughcloth apron shielding her festival gown. “And you should have a mouthful too, Albeig. Don’t argue.”
“Indeed, I would never.” She glanced nervously at the great timbered arch through which Father was due any moment. Bjorn and Astrid would greet guests in the entry amid the carvings of gods and ancestors while Father took his place upon the dais, under the large beam with names of battles and other achievements carved into its length and breadth, but they were not returned just yet.
At the time I felt only weary unsurprise. Of course the crowning achievement of my training would pass unremarked by my family; it was the way of such things.
“Solveig!” Arneior appeared in the arch’s throat, her hauberk glittering; her left arm was full of heavy green wool and her woad was freshly applied. “Sunset.”
