Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation

by Mercedes Lackey

  Mags stretched his mouth in a grin. “Me neither, sir. Tha’s Dallen’s doin’. Seems he managed t’ housebreak me.”

  Jakyr laughed aloud. “You get on down to Master Soren’s house and your friends. I have a bit of a ride ahead of me, and the sooner I start, the less ground I will have to cover after dark.”

  Mags waved to him as he headed off down the road to the Herald’s Gate, but didn’t linger. Tonight was a highly significant night in a week of special days. It was Midwinter’s Eve, the longest night of the year, and the reason for the holiday in the first place. Mags had permission to spend the night at Master Soren’s house, by express invitation. Soren Mender was unusually casual in most things, but it seemed he was unusually sober in one; he kept the Midwinter Solstice in the old-fashioned way, or so he said.

  Now there had been enough priests prattling about the mine for Mags to have picked up that most religions considered the night significant. And Dallen had explained the whole year-turning religious business to him—how this was, in most of Valdemar’s religions, the night that the dark forces tried (and failed) to keep the mother-god from giving birth to the god, or in some, to keep the dead god from rising and being reborn. And none of that really mattered much to Mags—

  But it did seem to matter to Master Soren, so he would give this all his due attention.

  Since Mags had no idea just what was meant by “keeping Midwinter Solstice the old-fashioned way,” he had simply nodded gravely, thanked Soren sincerely for the honor of the invitation, and went to get permission to spend the night away. As he had expected, Herald Caelen was only too pleased to give it.

  Which was why he was packing up a small bag with overnight things now.

  “You told me you’d explain,” he reminded Dallen, as he slung his slender pack behind his saddle. “You told me you’d tell me what it is that Master Soren is going to be doing tonight.”

  :Oh, it’s simple enough. Midwinter Eve is the longest night of the year. Most religions here in Valdemar consider that significant; that on this night, the boundaries between the material world and the spirit world are thinner, that spirits can cross over, and that dark and evil things can, too. So on Midwinter Eve, the “old-fashioned” thing to do is spend the night in vigil and do what you can to keep evil at bay. Music usually, and singing, and remembering good things. There is a special ceremony at midnight. Then when the sun rises, everyone has a breakfast feast of foods that are supposed to be lucky, and goes to bed—or to celebrate further, depending on how hardy you are.: Dallen shook his head. :There will be many sore heads the day after tomorrow. I can promise that there will be no hammering on that day either.:

  Mags considered this. :So I’m—:

  :To hold as much of the vigil as you are up to, and to join everyone at the breakfast feast. The hardest time is just before dawn, anyway, and I can promise you that it will be lively enough you aren’t likely to fall asleep. In fact, things are likely to get a bit rowdy: Dallen looked back over his shoulder at his Chosen. :I have every intention of holding vigil. I am rather old-fashioned myself.:

  Well, if Dallen was going to, Mags didn’t intend to be outdone.

  :They’ll take you to your room when you get there, and it would be wise to get a bit of a nap if you can,: Dallen added, stopping for a moment to let a swirl of partygoers cross the road in front of them. :I certainly will, and so will most of Soren’s guests. They’ll wake you when it is time for the vigil to start.:

  When he arrived at Soren Mender’s house, it was, for the first time since he had begun coming there, completely quiet. The Great Hall was empty, and the only person visible was the man who opened the door to his knock. “Where is everyone?” he asked the servant at the door.

  A smile warmed the man’s eyes. “Today and early tomorrow are for only a few, select guests, Herald-trainee Mags. In the evening the usual open house will prevail until the end of the season, but this is what the Master calls his ‘quiet holiday.’ You will find that the opposite prevails among many other households here; there are so many parties tonight that people may attend as many as twelve between now and dawn.”

  Mags head spun. “Twelve! How c’n anyone do that?”

  The servant shrugged. “It is not my place to say. However . . .” He raised an eyebrow. “It is perhaps easy for those whose time is almost entirely taken up in the pursuit of pleasure.” He consulted a list by the door. “Ah, you are the last of our expected guests. I can close and lock the gate now, while someone sees you to your room.” He rang for another servant. “Now, you are certainly free to do whatever you choose, sir, but as we are keeping vigil, most of our guests are sleeping before dinner, and you might want to do the same. Dinner will also be later than you may be accustomed to.” A boy a little younger than Mags appeared, and the servant gestured to him. “Dur, show Herald-trainee Mags to his room, if you please.”

  Given what Dallen, and now the servant, had told him, Mags was not at all averse to getting some sleep. The room that the boy brought him to was certainly decorated with sleep in mind. The walls were covered by green embroidered hangings showing nothing more exciting than stylized flowers, small birds, and rabbits. There were heavy curtains over the window and a screened fire blazing cheerfully on the small hearth. A fleece covered part of the floor beside the bed, which took up most of the space. That construction was almost a room unto itself, curtained and covered with some soft but heavy green fabric, with a reading lamp and a bookcase built into the headboard. All of the mine kiddies could have fitted into it at once—a bit snugly, but they would have fit. The boy showed him what he called (to Mags’ vast amusement) “the necessary room” that was shared between his room and the next. There was a mug warming on a little shelf at the hearth that the boy offered to him. As he put down his bag, he noticed that on the same shelf was a plate of the little egg pies he had come to like so much. That was good, if dinner was going to be late.

  Ah, Mags, ye’ve got spoiled! T’ think yer worried about one meal bein’ late! He almost laughed at himself. But still, it was hard to sleep if you were hungry, and he’d skipped luncheon to go hunting with Jakyr.

  “What be in the cup?” Mags asked with interest.

  “Milk, honey, spices and brandy wine,” the boy replied. “To help you sleep.”

  Now Mags had never in his life had trouble sleeping, not even when he had nightmares, but he was not at all going to object to being served something that sounded so tasty. He thanked the boy, and since the youngling seemed to be waiting for something, wolfed down the pies and drank the potion down. And it was tasty. He found himself wishing there might be a little more, and handed over the cup.

  “Thankee, sir,” the boy said. “Good rest to you.” He left, closing the door behind himself, leaving Mags alone in the room.

  After a moment of indecision, Mags elected not to spoil his clothing by sleeping in it. Instead he took it off and folded it neatly over a rack at the foot of the bed and got in wearing only his singlet. To his delight the bed was already warm, although he could not imagine how they had managed that. And it was soft, softer than any bed he had ever slept it; he literally sank into it. The sheets were crisp and smelled of lavender. It felt like being in a warm bath, but without the danger of drowning if you fell asleep and without the water getting cold around you. Between the warm, soft bed and the drink, he found his eyes starting to drift closed before he could investigate the books in the headboard. But he had plenty of books to read already, and he had never felt more comfortable in all his life, so he just let his lids drop closed—

  The next thing he knew, there was someone stirring about the room, lighting more candles over the hearth and poking up the fire. He blinked and sat up. How long had he been asleep?

  “Here to wake you for dinner, sir,” said yet another servant, straightening. “Will you need assistance in dressing?”

  Mags coughed, surprised. Assistance in dressing? What kind of booby couldn’t dress himself?

&n
bsp; “Ah, no, I’ll be fine, thenkee,” he said carefully.

  The servant bowed slightly. “There is hot water laid on in the necessary room. I believe we have anticipated your needs. You will hear a bell when dinner is ready, or if you would care to, some of the others are gathering in the Great Hall beforehand. Is there anything else?”

  Mags silently shook his head, and the servant went away—perhaps to “assist” someone else in dressing. Mags hopped out of bed and into the shared room; there was indeed hot water in there, a large pitcher of it, steaming away. There was not enough for a bath, but he’d already gotten one after the hunt with Jakyr. He gave himself a quick wash just to wake himself up, donned his uniform, and headed for the Great Hall, blowing out the candles behind him for safety’s sake as well as thrift as he left.

  “See, I told you he wouldn’t be laggard!” Lydia called gaily as he appeared in the doorway. The Great Hall had a very different appearance tonight than it had the rest of the week. Comfortable chairs and padded benches had been arranged in a semicircle at the hearth, at the center of which, quite oddly, was a large ornamental pot filled with earth, and beside that, a table with a small brass box, a stack of candles and a tinderbox. He could guess that the candles were for the rekindling ceremony at midnight, but he could not imagine what the pot of earth was for.

  Mags didn’t get a chance to wonder or ask about that, though, because Lydia claimed him for the evening, coaxing him to come and sit beside her. Most of her friends were oddly absent—

  “For people like Uncle Soren, this is a family night,” she explained, as she seated him in the circle between herself and Amily. “Since there’s only me and Uncle Soren here, he invites more people who like the old-fashioned sort of festival, people that he thinks highly of—”

  “More sad and solitary little orphans,” Amily interrupted, smiling and looking like neither. “People he likes who haven’t families to spend this night with, and who are not the sort to chase the hours from party to party.”

  Mags blinked. “But your father—”

  “Spends Midwinter Eve with the King and his private gathering,” Amily replied. “Which I am invited to, make no mistake about it, but it’s either folk who are a lot older or a lot younger than I am. And it’s the King. They have far too many priests there, and it is all terribly solemn and portentous, there is a great deal of prayer and remembering people who died in the last year. Instead of the hearth, they hold vigil in the Royal Chapel, which is freezing and, really, I prefer coming here.”

  Lydia hugged her friend. “And we like having you.”

  :Mags, tell Amily that we’ll bring her back up the hill tomorrow, so her father doesn’t have to fetch her and Soren doesn’t have to get a servant to take her.:

  Mags started; he hadn’t realized that Dallen was “listening in,” but he willingly relayed the offer.

  “You’d do that?” Amily asked and smiled broadly. “That would be perfect. Should I send word—”

  :Tell her no need, I have already told Rolan, Nikolas’ Companion.: There was a pause. :Nikolas sends to thank you and me and asks you to tell Amily she’s to stay as late tomorrow as she wants.:

  “Herald Nikolas says you’re to stay as late as you want. Which’s good, ’cause that means I got a reason t’ stay as late as I want.” He smiled at her, and she chuckled and shook her head.

  At that, Amily seemed to relax a bit more as some of the rest of the guests began to trickle in. Mags recognized all of them, although he still didn’t know most by name. They had all been in attendance at the house throughout the week. They were a wildly assorted lot. Some were clearly important and respected; some were, it seemed, just as ordinary as Mags was.

  One was a Bard named Aiken, a man older than Master Soren, though brisk and vigorous. From the look and the cut of his scarlet tunic and trews, he was considered a Master in his own right. There were twin young men, a little older than Lydia, greeted by her as cousins, Blake and Eddin.

  “Distant cousins,” said one of them, with a grin. “We’ve been sent up here to learn the business from Uncle. When he reckons that we’ve learned all he can teach us, we’ll be off home again and set up our own business.”

  Mags nodded, and finally asked the question he still didn’t have the answer to. “So . . . what is ’t Master Soren does?”

  “Oh, good gad, we’ve never said!” Lydia laughed, her hands going to her mouth. “He makes buildings. He plans and designs them, and oversees them being built, and sometimes does very fiddly bits himself.”

  “Less now than I did before. The bones grow old and object to being made to climb ladders. Welcome, Mags,” said the man himself, motioning for Mags to sit as he began to rise. “I am what is referred to as a Master Builder, although I have yet to construct anything I would call a Masterpiece.”

  Mags was saved from having to make any sort of response to that by the arrival of several more of the guests: a priest, Father Gellet, that Mags had enjoyed listening to—very much more than he would have ever imagined—another builder and the man’s nephew, who was apprenticed as the twins were to Master Soren. There was a ramrod-straight granite-faced fellow by the name of Okley who was the Royal Falconer and, in fact, tended Jakyr’s bird along with the King’s and any others that the King saw fit to be permitted to be lodged in the mews. With him came Marc, and only now did Mags learn that Marc was the Royal Falconer’s son, but had no aptitude for the birds and instead was in training to be the Master of the Royal Hounds. There were three highborn gentlemen, and five ladies, all of whom had grand homes built by Master Soren and had become fast friends with him in the process.

  There was another Master Craftsman, this one a fellow who built bridges and roads. This was the group, and they all had but two things in common. They all thought the world of Master Soren and he of them—and for all of them, this would have been an evening spent alone or with one or two others.

  By the time they all went in to dinner, Mags was convinced that this was going to be a very interesting evening.

  15

  ONCE they were all seated, Master Soren rose, and the company fell silent. “We have a young man among us who is with us for the first time. This is Herald-trainee Mags, and as the host, I bid him welcome to our Vigil Night.”

  “Welcome,” the others murmured, most with smiles.

  Mags nodded. “Thenkee,” he said, feeling a bit awkward. “Right honored, sir. ’m glad t’ be here.”

  Dinner was served then, and Mags sensed Dallen watching through his eyes. He smiled with some amusement. :Might as well stop lurkin’,: he thought. :I don’ mind ye bein’ there, do y’ ken.:

  Dallen sounded amused when he replied. :I should have thought so. Well, there are several dishes that will be served that are highly symbolic. Would you like to know about this feast?:

  :Please,: he replied, thinking wistfully that he wished he had first-hand knowledge of what was going on. The way that Lydia and her uncle shared warm glances made him wonder, with almost a start, what it would be like to have family. How would it be to have someone that close to you that you could say things to them without words? To have people you had shared this sort of night with all of your life?

  His thoughts were interrupted by Dallen.

  :Well, the first thing they will serve you is—there it is. Those are sprouted beans. The story is that in the first winter of the world, in the dark and the cold, the first people began to sicken. You know what I am talking about, Mags, when the teeth get loose, and the gums bleed?:

  :Aye,: he replied. :An’ we grubbed up grassroots an’ cureds it, back at the mine. Roots, anythin’ green, that cures it.:

  :As do these. They’re quite good, so don’t be afraid of them.:

  Since Mags had never once encountered a food he was afraid of, he conveyed a mental snort of derision to his Companion, watched what the others were doing, picked up his fork and tried them. And they were good; crisp and tasty, with some sort of vinegar dressing.


  :So the story is that people were sickening and afraid they were dying. They prayed for help, and the Goddess of Spring begged Winter to allow her to come early to save the people. Winter who was her husband and kept her with him three seasons out of the year, permitted it just long enough for the beans to sprout, and only those that were as white as the snow. And the Goddess of Spring told the first people to eat the beans, and they would be healthy again. And they did.:

  There were several more dishes scattered throughout the meal that had similar stories attached to them. All of the stories followed the same theme: in the despair, the dark, and the cold of Midwinter, something happened to bring the hope of spring, and to bring life back to the people. Or sometimes to bring it back to the gods themselves.

  There were, it seemed, a great many versions of how and why spring returned and a god or goddess was born or reborn, and Master Soren honored them all impartially. Which was noble, but contradictory and a little confusing.

  There were a lot of dishes—but no more than a taste of anything was served. Mags instinctively understood the reason for this without Dallen telling him; this was not a feast meant to remind you of plenty, it was to remind you of hardship, of the privation of winter, of seeing the stores you had gathered shrinking, and knowing you must husband what you had left, for who knew when—or if—spring would ever come. A lot of the food was nothing one would expect on a rich man’s table: a soup made with the inner bark of trees; tough, coarse bread of the sort he and the kiddies used to eat; cabbage boiled to transparency. Mags caught Lydia or Amily giving him a knowing glance from time to time, or a curious one, as if they were asking silently, is this what you used to live on? They were too polite to ask directly, but he nodded a little and saw Lydia’s eyes darken in sympathy and Amily’s lips tighten with anger. That actually made him feel good, though he flushed just a little. They were both rather different from Lena, who seemed in a knot half the time with worry.