In the midst of the meal came a great cheer from a table across the green. One of the miners had found the coveted bean in his bread, which marked another long-standing tradition at the Winter Festival. Whomever found the bean was made Lord or Lady of the Festival and got to sit at the beautifully decorated table. A merry procession led the fortunate man forward, weaving through the tables, around the green, and onto the platform. The miner was an older man with a time-worn face, and though he was probably wearing his best clothes, they were still shabby and far too thin for the cold weather. A ceremonial cloak was draped about his shoulders, which he pulled together tightly for added warmth.
As the miner was helped into the chair of honor, his head was adorned with a wooden crown that looked as though it had seen one too many Winter Festivals. Its paint was chipping away and some of the decorative beads had fallen off. The miner did not seem to mind, paying no attention to the crown’s many scratches and stains. He beamed like a giddy child as it was settled squarely on his head. A second procession then began to form, which Broguean quickly left his plate to join. The traditional boar’s head was making its way toward the miner’s table on a beautifully carved wooden tray. Elowyn could hear Broguean’s clear voice rising up, leading everyone in song.
“The boar’s head we bring tonight
And rejoice in all that’s right
Since Aviad shed his single tear
Washing away our darkest fear
The boar’s head we bring in mirth
Celebrating Immar’s birth
the promised salvation for all the earth.”
The boar’s head was placed on the table of honor while everyone cheered and raised their glasses, shouting “Good health and blessings!” The silver plate before the miner was then piled high with food and his chalice was filled with wine. The miner had yet to say a single word, but there was really no need. His face was radiant with a mixture of joy, excitement and embarrassment. Elowyn could see the corners of his eyes glittering in the torch light. Though the rest of the year this man might remain nothing more than a poor miner, for the next twelve days he would feel like the most important man alive.
As bellies were filled and cups were drained, people began to leave their tables and make their way over to the great fire for warmth. To the delight of all, the entertainers began to perform. Dramas were acted out that retold various stories of Immar and of the Prophets. There were jugglers and magicians, jesters, story tellers and musicians. A group of people near Elowyn started a traditional festival dance, where two circles of dancers joined and came apart to the rhythm of the music. The steps were simple enough that children and the elderly alike could join in. During the natural course of the dance some partners were pushed out of the circle while new people were drawn in, much like the rhythm of Aviad’s hand, weaving the delicate life threads of His children together to form the strong, vibrant cloth of His plan for the world.
Elowyn found her own hand being grabbed by one of the children who had been sitting across from her at the table. Too startled to protest, she joined in the dance. At first she was apprehensive that she would make a mistake and spoil the beauty of its perfection. But she found herself compelled to move in time with the music and the fluid motions of the other dancers until her own movements became involuntary. They were as natural to her as gliding stealthily through the forest.
For a time, the rest of the festival melted away and nothing else mattered but the dance itself. Elowyn was sorry when it was finally her turn to be spilled out of the circle. Her heart was pounding, her cheeks felt warm and flushed, and a great beaming smile had spread across her face. She was delighted that she had been included even though she was a newcomer to the community. She looked around for the little girl who had pulled her in so that she could thank her, but the girl had already been whisked away by her mother.
More food began to change hands—there were sweet breads, cakes, tarts with honey and cream, pies and candied fruits. Elowyn sampled a variety of sweets, but was wary of eating too many rich foods. She did not wish to revisit the sick feeling that had overcome her after dinner at the castle. This time she did not have a servant to bring her a cure, nor was there a beautiful, scent-laden garden to stroll through.
Though Elowyn was very much enjoying her first Winter Festival, she eventually grew weary of the noise, of jostling elbows and the smell of ale. She meandered quietly away from the green, across the road and onto the deserted field behind the tavern. An abundance of cold, blue moonlight flooded the landscape, and the stars seemed brighter than usual as they danced and glittered across the night sky. Perhaps the moon and stars were also celebrating the Festival in honor of their creator.
Elowyn stared off toward the mountains, their peaks shimmering white with snow that had not yet descended their slopes, but served as a haunting reminder of the brutal months yet to come. For tonight, Elowyn pushed those thoughts aside and allowed herself to drink in the absolute stillness and beauty of everything around her. She might have thought she was looking at a painting or mosaic of a mountain if the numb stiffness of her face didn’t serve as a constant reminder that everything around her was quite real.
As she stood there in the cold, removed from the noise and commotion of the festivities, Elowyn felt her eyelids growing heavy. Holding her cloak together tightly against the cold, she began to turn back toward the green with the intention of finding Morganne and then returning to their room for the night. But something made her stop and turn her attention back toward the mountain. She began to hear a distant sound that permeated the noise of the celebration carrying over from the green. It was a very low rumble that she could almost feel coming up through the earth under her feet. Her pulse quickened as the sensation brought to mind her dream. She scanned the dark horizon for any sign of movement, expecting to see a troll’s head rearing up from the trees along the foothills of the mountain. Her feet were not trapped by mud this time, but she felt equally powerless. Minhaven was no stronghold and there was nowhere to run.
Standing there alone as the sound grew louder, Elowyn felt insecure and exposed. She walked briskly back across the road and into the crowd, searching frantically for Morganne and Adelin. Others began to notice the sound too, and the green grew remarkably quiet. Everyone turned to look apprehensively toward the northern outskirts of Minhaven, where the western passage opened out at the base of the mountains. Though the sound continued to grow, there was nothing to be seen beyond the light of the great fire and the torches surrounding the green.
Mothers began to look for their children and gather them together, while the men stood tense and ready, holding onto anything which might be used as a weapon. Elowyn finally realized that what she was hearing was the sound of many horses, their hooves beating on the stony passage and echoing back off the side of the mountain. The faint glow of moving lights suddenly appeared at the base of the mountain. They moved steadily forward until finally everyone could see a group of armored men on horseback spilling out onto the great field beyond the tavern, carrying before them torches and lanterns. Tension in the crowd rose. Men pushed the women and children back behind the platform and stood together with grim looks on their faces, every muscle tensed and ready to fight. Everyone strained to look for markings on the riders, banners, shields ... anything that might reveal who they were.
Finally, as they came closer to the green, Elowyn heard someone call out in an excited voice, “Glak has returned! Glak and the Kinship!”
The mood of the crowd instantly changed from apprehension to elation. Morganne and Elowyn looked on with great curiosity and excitement. This would be their first encounter with the Kinship beyond their chance meeting with Tervaise and Reyda at the trading post. Given the exuberant reaction of the townspeople, they had good hope that the other members of the kinship were as noble and generous as Tervaise and Reyda had been. Though the girls did not expect to see either Tervaise or Reyda among this obvious group of warriors, perhaps one of th
e riders would have news of them or would be able to pass along a message of thanks for the help they had so freely given.
The man at the lead, recognized by the crowd as Glak, halted his charger just short of the green and signaled for the rest of the riders to hold their positions behind him. Beneath his heavy cloak, he was clad in a combination of well-worn leather and chain mail, the chest piece covered by what had once been a fine white sleeveless tunic. It was now ripped in several places and soiled with dirt and dried blood. He did not seem to be ashamed of appearing in such a state at the Festival, for he neither removed the tunic nor made any attempt to conceal it. Rather, he allowed its torn edges to flutter freely in the wind as a knight might proudly display the standard of his lord.
As Glak removed his helm, a mass of damp, tangled red hair tumbled down just past his shoulders. His face was rough with an uneven reddish beard that looked as though it had not been trimmed in many days. His eyes were a startling shade of blue that resembled the color of a frozen mountain lake.
In a jubilant, booming voice, Glak called out, “Is there room at the Festival for some weary but victorious warriors, fresh from battle?”
People quickly gave up their seats and began to clear tables. Others helped the warriors dismount, taking the horses across the road to the stables where they would be cooled down, groomed, and fed. A buzz of activity surrounded Glak and the rest of the Kinship as they were plied with questions about where they had been and against what enemy they had fought. In answer, Glak untied a bag from his saddle, loosened the neck of it and tossed it onto a nearby table. The bag pulled open, pouring out gold coins across the table.
Beaming with satisfaction, he opened another bag and began to toss coins into the crowd, saying, “Take back what is rightfully yours. Let history record this as the day the Kinship rode against the thieves of the western pass and returned victorious. Their hold on Minhaven is no more!”
Jubilant cheers rose up from all around, becoming so raucous that Elowyn could not make out what anyone was saying. Shouts and songs rang out, tears fell, and feet danced. Elowyn did not fully understand the significance of the thieves’ defeat, but the reactions of those around her left no question that this was a historic moment. The Kinship’s victory was likely to become part of Festival lore for the coming ages, told and retold long after those who could remember it had perished from the earth.
In the center of all the celebratory commotion, Glak stood as an immovable pillar, confident and commanding. Elowyn watched him with fascination and curiosity as he drank in the reactions of the crowd, his chin raised with pride and his lips curled with satisfaction. Like so many others, Elowyn found that she could not shift her gaze away from him. She was beginning to understand why the Kinship, with Glak as its leader, was so highly revered in the northern wilds.
People pushed in around members of the Kinship to thank and congratulate them, offering them food, drink, lodging, and any other thing they might possibly want or need. Every member of the Kinship was considered family, whether they came from Minhaven or not, and they had been away for far too long. Everyone was glad to welcome them home, especially on this night, so that all might celebrate together and give thanks for Aviad’s many blessings. Cheeks became rosier, smiles were more radiant, and laughter more hearty as parted friends and family members embraced one another. Groups of people pressed in around the Kinship and followed them wherever they went.
Grindan fought through the crowd so that he could give Glak a strong embrace, saying, “Welcome home, Brother. It has been too long.”
Glak replied quietly, “Aye, the road has been difficult. My men are ready for a rest.” He then moved a step away from his brother, allowing the crowd to sweep him further onto the green. Grindan did not pursue him but took his seat at the table and watched Glak from afar with a carefully masked expression. Elowyn could not help but notice that the quiet smile he’d worn earlier in the evening had vanished.
The miner sitting at the table of honor removed his ceremonial cloak, came down off the platform, and followed after Glak. When the miner finally reached him, he knelt down and held up the cloak before Glak, saying, “The high table is yours—you have earned it.” Glak’s tightly controlled features instantly melted and his breath drew in sharply as though the miner’s words, uttered in kindness, had somehow stung him. Glak took a step back, his eyes fixed on the brightly colored cloak dangling from the miner’s rough, work-worn hand.
In a low voice that trembled with emotion he said, “No, friend, I haven't. Not yet. Savor the honor given to you this night, it belongs to you alone—let no one take it from you.” With that Glak drew his own cloak tight around his body and moved away from the stunned miner, the rejected offering still stretched out on the empty air. Glak waded through swells of people, trying unsuccessfully to push past them and find a place of solitude. His presence drew people to his side as though he were a single, flickering candle in the midst of unrelenting darkness.
The moon had long risen into the star splashed sky, making its inevitable journey toward morning when the Festival celebration was revived with new life. But Elowyn was finally tired of it and resumed her search for Morganne. She found her standing at the great fire trying to warm up Adelin’s cold fingers. Morganne and Adelin were also visibly weary of the noise and cold, so they all headed back to the tavern together.
From their room, they could hear the merriment going on well into the night. Though they had left the Festival in search of rest, its hold on Elowyn persisted. Her dreams were a swirl of images and sensations ... the great fire, the faces of the villagers, and most strikingly of all, a pair of ice-blue eyes framed by wild red hair, watching her from afar with an unwavering gaze. She could still smell the heavy scent of roasting meat, fat dripping into the fire, and pungent ale passed in heavy tankards along sticky tables. She felt herself being pulled once again into the dance circle by small hands, the rhythm of the movements pulsing through her limbs. She could even swear that she heard Broguean the Bard strumming his lute and singing new tales of the valiant Varol.
Sorrows and Secrets
When Elowyn and Morganne woke in the morning, everything was quiet. Their memories of the previous night’s events didn’t seem real. A quick stroll over to the kitchen was a bleak enough reminder that they had not been dreaming. There were piles of dishes and cooking pots left from the festivities waiting to be scrubbed. This chore was left to Elowyn, as Morganne was anxious to open her shop, hoping for new business with the Kinship in Minhaven. Elowyn heaved a sigh and began the task, and though she dreaded it, she reminded herself that it was, after all, her own doing. She was the one who had agreed to work in the tavern.
Elowyn had come to realize that she was no longer a child, and now that they were on their own, everything had changed. She could no longer fritter away her days in the wilds while living off Morganne’s labors. Most other girls her age were either helping to run their mother’s households or learning a woman’s trade. But she detested the idea of working in Morganne’s shop even more than she loathed tavern work. The cloth trade held far too many memories of her mother and of the life she had so happily left behind. She was also painfully aware that she did not possess the same gifts that Morganne and her mother had been so obviously blessed with. The poor quality of her work would only be a frustration and an embarrassment to both her and Morganne. And for Elowyn, who was accustomed to constant movement and fresh air, the thought of spending long, monotonous hours hunched over a table or loom was simply unbearable.
Elowyn had barely begun washing up when Wyman entered the kitchen and asked her to make ready one of the tables.
“Are we opening early?” Elowyn asked.
“No, we are having some special guests who wish to meet in private. Prepare a place for six and bring out the best of what I have in store. The dishes can wait a while longer.”
Elowyn had barely begun to carry out his instructions when the guests arrived. As they greeted
one another and gathered around the table, Elowyn recognized all of them. There was Wyman, of course, as well as Grindan the blacksmith, and Lucan, the merchant, who ran the only provisions shop in Minhaven. All three men were renowned for being strong leaders in the community. There was also Brant, the head of the town guard, and a man that Elowyn had seen riding alongside Glak the night of the Festival. She guessed he was a high ranking member of the Kinship.
At the head of the table, imposing and unmistakable with his tousled red hair, was Glak himself. Elowyn again found that her eyes were immediately drawn to him. If he had seemed larger than life as he rode onto the green the previous night, he seemed even more so now. His presence filled the room in a way that made everyone else seem small and insignificant by comparison.
Elowyn studied Glak thoughtfully as she carefully served out food and drink, conscious of her every movement. When she had finished, she settled back into the shadows of the room, waiting for further instruction. She could not tell how old Glak was. He seemed to be in the strength of his youth, and yet the lines carved into his face spoke of a man who had already been hardened by life. His lips were firm and unyielding. His ruddy cheeks, battle-worn brow and untamed hair all exuded the ferocity with which he was reputed by the villagers to face every challenge in his path.
Now that she’d had a chance to search his face in depth, Elowyn was surprised to find that she recognized in him the same haunted look that the exiled men of the Circle had worn. But while they had stood before her gaunt and defeated, clinging to hope with the last of their battered pride and sense of honor, Glak had not yet been worn down by his demons. The fire behind his gaze and his proud bearing spoke of a man who remained ever vigilant, poised to throw all of his strength into the next battle looming just ahead of him.
Ancient Voices: Into the Depths Page 3