Seasons, page 27
“Yes. Kitchens are the best place to hear stuff, Twill. I told you before. You wanna know what’s happening, go sneak a pie.” He looked around. “Apparently some of hunters saw spirits in the woods. White, floating things. Jaques was out hunting with his father, and he disappeared. They found his horse an hour later, but they haven’t found him.”
Twill grabbed his upper arms. “They saw spirits?”
“Yes. Ow . . . you’re hurting me.”
She released him and looked up at the darkening sky. The fires were being lit around the Hold, and she was pretty sure she’d already missed the lighting of the bale fire. “Maybe if I just hide, they won’t know the windows aren’t lit.”
But Lord Ellis found the two friends as the sun went down. Manou was chosen on the spot to accompany Twill on her journey. He protested as Twill lit the brazier and held it up on its pole as Manou lit the darkened windows inside the Hold. Holderkin cheered as the light spread.
And then it was time to leave the safety of the Hold. No one paid much attention as the two of them stepped outside and into the woods. There was too much revelry happening in the square as meats that had been simmering all day were cut up and served with seasoned vegetables and fresh bread and butter.
“It smells sooo good,” Manou whined as they approached the first house and he lit the candle.
“The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can get back in there.”
“No way. We’re not splitting up.” He shook his head.
In truth, Twill didn’t want to split up either, but she did want to get done as fast as possible. Running would be good, but Manou didn’t run. “You do know they save the best pieces and large portions for the light bringers.”
That got his attention. “They do?” He started moving faster. “Let’s go!”
There were twenty houses to be lit in all. Twill had counted them several times during her run. They managed to light eleven of them before the wind picked up and the sky cleared, revealing the bright full moon. It illuminated the path ahead as they neared a clearing.
The sound of a branch snapping made Twill stop in her tracks. Manou, following behind her, plowed into her back, and she nearly dropped the brazier. “Ooof . . . why’d you stop?”
“I heard something.” She held the light away from them and tried to see farther ahead.
“Twill—”
“Shush. I can’t see anything with this light in my face.”
“Twill, I think—”
“Manou, can’t you be quiet?”
“I see a spirit!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
That got her attention, and she spun around to see what he was seeing.
It was there . . . just through the trees in the hazy dark, under the moonlight. It was white and moving slowly, the way spirits were said to move.
“Twill . . . let’s run.”
“It’ll catch us.”
“Not if we run fast!”
“Ssh.” She slowly set the brazier on the ground, careful not to let it tip over and spill the hot coals. Twill opened the bag and removed her bow and quiver. Manou watched with wide eyes as she nocked an arrow and slowly brought the bow up to aim at the moving spirit.
“You can’t kill a spirit!” Manou hissed.
“It’s coming right for us. You think we can outrun it?” She said as she pulled the arrow back, watching her form, praying she could at least distract it.
“We should run!” Manou hissed.
There was a shout somewhere in the dark. The sound startled Twill and she released the arrow. It whizzed through the air toward the spirit—
But it was gone.
“You killed it!” Manou whispered.
“No . . . I don’t think . . . did you hear shouting?”
“Yes. It came from over there.” He turned in the opposite direction. “I say we stop now and head back and say we lit everything. I mean, it’s windy . . . we can just say the wind blew them out.”
“No . . .” Something about the situation felt wrong to Twill. Yes, she’d seen the spirit. But now it was gone. Had she actually struck it? Was that possible? Either way, she had to retrieve her arrow. She’d only been able to fashion ten that passed her bow instructor’s approval. “I’m getting my arrow. Come on.”
Manou made a noise and grabbed the bag and brazier as Twill moved through the trees toward where she was sure she’d last seen the ghost, her bow out in front of her. She didn’t have another arrow nocked, but if something did pop up—
Her foot connected with something solid. Twill stumbled and then fell forward as Manou yelled her name. She’d lost her bow, but still had her quiver strapped to her back as she righted herself onto her backside and . . .
“What . . .” Manou said as he appeared between the trees. “You killed a spirit!”
At first, she thought the same thing. A figure lay still on the ground beneath her. Twill scrambled off of it, her rough hands catching on the soft fabric of its clothing . . .
Clothing?
“Manou, shine the brazier over here.”
“Oh, good plan. Banish the Spirit with the light of the bale fire.”
That wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. She just wanted to see what she’d tripped over. Nothing she knew of in the forest should be this soft.
It was a man. A young man, with long dark hair that obscured his face. He wore a set of white clothing, all the way to his boots. A wide, dark stain marked his left shoulder. Twill stood and pulled the pole of the brazier closer to see.
“You hit it!” Manou said excitedly.
“That’s not my arrow. Look at the fletching. I don’t use a red cock feather.”
There were shouts again, this time closer than before. Twill pressed a finger to the man’s neck and felt for a pulse. “He’s alive, but unconscious. Looks like he hit his head.”
“Spirits are male?”
“Manou, this isn’t a spirit. Look at the leathers. He’s a Herald. And he’s been shot.”
“A Her—” Manou squatted down to see, nearly banging Twill in the head with the brazier. “What’s a Herald doing out here . . .” He slapped his free hand to his face. “My father said the Herald was late.”
The Queen’s Heralds were always invited to the Harvest Festivals. Twill could remember years with and without them. Sometimes they were Bards, and the music was always fun to listen too. This year she’d been so wrapped up in her own fear that she’d not even noticed whether there was a Herald or not.
“But who shot him?”
“They’re gonna think you did it.”
“I did not! That’s not my arrow!”
“I hear something over there!” came a male’s voice in the dark.
Manou dropped the brazier and Twill scrambled to make sure it didn’t set the forest floor on fire. “You think they shot him? Maybe they thought he was a spirit too?”
“I don’t know,” she hissed. Her fear of seeing spirits and being taken was now replaced with the fear of being accused of shooting a Herald. “Can you see who it is?”
“No. But they can see the light, I’m sure.”
Twill used the bag to move the brazier to a spot beneath a copse of still-green bushes. With the light half hidden, she could see into the clearing just beyond the trees. There were three shadows approaching, one of which looked familiar to her. “Manou . . . I don’t think they’re from the Hold.”
“I recognize one of them. I’ve seen him with Lord Dorwind before. And he’s not from our Hold.” Manou’s voice dropped. “He’s one of the ones my Father thinks is stealing horses.”
Twill looked back at them. “They’re getting closer. Run back to the Hold and get your father. Get anyone. Tell them someone shot the Herald.”
Manou nodded, his head bobbing back and forth on his neck as he dashed with unusual speed back in the direction they’d come.
If she was smart, Twill knew she should run too. But there was an injured man next to her. And not just any man . . . a Herald! But if he really was a Herald . . . where was his horse? The beautiful white one she always admired from a distance but was always too afraid to get near.
“I see a light!” one of the men shouted. “If he’s alive, I’ll finish him.”
That last statement proved to Twill that these men were not here to help. She nocked another arrow and sat as still as possible as the one who spoke came close . . . and when he was close enough, she released. The arrow sang true and struck the man in the center of his chest. He cried out and fell back, but he didn’t get back up.
In the back of her mind, her inner voice was screaming at her, you just killed someone! But she couldn’t let that make her freeze. These people were bad. And there were two left. And she was scared out of her mind. More so now than ever. Just thinking of spirits taking her made her want to laugh at the absurdity, when it was the cruelty of people in this world she should fear the most.
“He ain’t dead!” one of the others shouted.
She nocked another arrow and waited. But no one else appeared in the misty moonlit forest. She whirled around when she heard a noise and released the arrow. It clipped one of the men as he approached, and he fell back.
Twill couldn’t get another arrow nocked fast enough as the last of the Herald’s attackers ran at her. He held an ax in his hands and held it high, ready to cleave her and the wounded man into pieces. But she managed to ready the arrow and she still held up the bow, knowing the ax would remove her head. She wouldn’t be fast enough, and then she would become one of the spirits on Harvest Fest.
She would die trying to save one of the Heralds of Valdemar.
Something blurred past her, over her, and landed its front hooves into the chest of the attacker. She heard the crunch of bones as the man fell back and the white horse landed beside him. He still struggled to move, and the horse reared up and came down on him once again.
Until he was quiet and still.
Having just seen a horse murder someone, Twill started to back away from the Herald, her bow in her hand, the arrow fallen away. When it turned and focused its iridescent blue eyes on her, she froze.
This . . . was one of those magic white horses.
She looked at the Herald.
This was his magic white horse!
The horse lowered its head as she calmly stepped forward and nuzzled the Herald’s neck and cheek. He made a noise, and Twill was pretty sure she heard the horse sigh.
Then, to Twill’s amazement, the horse slowly bent down on her knees, and then on her belly as she moved herself around her rider.
:Child, move him close to me, please.:
At first Twill wasn’t sure where the voice came from, but she stood and started pulling the Herald into the horse. The horse grabbed the Herald’s sleeve with her teeth and pulled him up onto her shoulder. His hair fell away, and Twill blushed when she saw his handsome face, though it was bruised. Blood dried on one side where he had struck his head.
:He will recover, thanks to you.:
“Me? I didn’t do anything.”
:You turned your fear into strength and protected him so I could reach him. For that, I owe you my thanks.:
Twill felt herself blush. She wouldn’t even consider until later on that night that she could hear a horse talk. “What happened?”
:We were on our way to your Harvest Festival. Darren spotted some suspicious activity and discovered these three stealing horses with the aid of someone in your Hold. But when we gave chase, Darren was struck and fell from my back. I was caught by one of the men and placed in a corral. I broke free to find him. And your light brought me here.:
“My light?”
She pointed to the softly glowing embers in the brazier. :You brought the light into Sovvan Night.:
“TWILL!”
Manou’s voice echoed in the dark, and Twill could hear the horse laugh, but she didn’t say another word to Twill.
The Herald was taken into the Hold and treated by the physician. Manou and Twill were given extra special treats, as well as the best of the food the cooks could find.
It came to Twill during the celebration that it was Jaques and his father who were helping those three men steal horses, and taking a cut for their troubles. Jaques was caught and ran off, and it was him they had been searching for earlier in the day.
But the best part of the night was the moment Darren, now patched up and wearing simple hold clothing, was guided by his Companion (as Twill was corrected when she retold her story and used the word horse) to the center of the festivities. Darren, with the help of the Companion, bowed to Twill and Manou.
And the next year, the two of them volunteered to light the candles in the darkened windows.
A Midnight Clear
Mercedes Lackey
Kettleford was one of those Borderland villages just barely large enough to qualify for the name. There were only nine houses, five on one side of the road, four on the other. There was a watering trough and a well in a widened spot in the middle of the road. There was no inn, though the sign of a shock of wheat above the door of Old Taffy’s house and the presence of a couple of benches on either side of the door would inform anyone passing through that they could get beer and something like a meal there. The locals would all gather in Taffy’s parlor every night for a drink and a chat, and perhaps a game or two.
Each house had a little cottage garden where folks grew their vegetables, but for the most part, people here hunted or trapped, with a couple of those who knew what to look for supplementing their income by gathering rare herbs and dye-plants. There were hides and furs staked out in various stages of curing in every yard and on every bit of wall, even though it was the dead of winter. Some of the hides were of odd shapes, or very peculiar patterns or colors. This was the edge of the Pelagiris Forest, after all, and strange things prowled the paths; creatures whose furs were highly desirable just for their rarity, weird patterns, or outré colors.
Tonight, it being Midwinter Eve and all, it was not at all surprising that the village was frosted with snow. Not buried ass-deep—no, it was only about ankle-height, the road having been cleared between Kettleford and the last village on Vixen and Vanyel’s circuit, and it was about halfway cleared to the next village on the circuit. This was nothing her tall hunter Brownie and Vanyel’s neat-footed Companion Yfandes could not handle, even if the road wasn’t cleared by the time they moved on. And rightfully, Vixen and Vanyel, Healer and Herald, should have been sharing the Waystation—or at least, Van should have been out there—rather than being here in a house in the village itself. But Kettleford had no disputes among the nine families living there; they only needed to hear what news there was, and besides, it was Midwinter, and none of the villagers would stand for the Herald spending this holiday all by himself in an isolated Waystation.
So they had celebrated Midwinter right here, and Van had good-naturedly left off his Herald’s Whites in favor of one of his presents, a local outfit of heavy knitted tunic, deerskin trews, and peculiar, very heavy socks that pulled up to mid-thigh over the trews, worn stuffed into boots. Vixen had the same, and was very glad of it. And here they were, sharing a hearth with the local herbalist and supplier of milk-and-all-things-chicken, Matya.
Matya was the sole holdout among the hunters, although her husband had been one of them when he was alive. She raised herbs, chickens and rabbits, and had three cows. The entire hamlet got their butter, eggs, and cheese from her, as well as their pot-herbs. She was no kind of Healer, though; herbs for the kitchen, herbs for tanning, and herbs for dyeing were her specialty. In season, she’d get at least a visitor a week from all over this area to trade for what she produced. And when she felt like it, she’d go into the forest with a trapper to collect wild herbs and plants that were medicinal, culinary, or produced remarkable colors.
Matya’s cowshed was spacious—big enough for a half-dozen cows, though she only had three now. There was more than enough room for Brownie and the Companion. And like every building here, the word “shed” was something of a misnomer; it was built like a fortress, all of stone, with tiny windows that had heavy shutters, and a stout slate roof. Even the chicken coop and the rabbit hutch were built in the same solid way. It wasn’t safe, otherwise. This was the Pelagiris Forest, after all. The cowshed locked from the inside as well as the outside; ever since Van and Vix had arrived, Matya had left it up to Yfandes to lock hoofstock up from within once everyone had been coaxed into the shed with grain and hot mash.
Matya’s cottage consisted of two rooms with a loft. One room—just big enough for her bed—was where she slept. The other served every other purpose. The loft was over the bedroom. The floor was wood, for warmth; half-logs laid in sand and pegged together, gaps filled with a combination of sawdust and glue. Matya had once told Vixen proudly that her husband had laid it himself, not wanting his bride to have to cope with a pounded-earth floor.
There was a little table, three half-log benches, one corner was a kitchen with a pantry, a cupboard, and a stone sink, and that was all the furnishings Matya wanted or needed. Well, until Midwinter, that is. There was now a handsome chair with back and seat-cushions of stuffed fur patchwork. Van had commissioned the chair and Vixen the cushions, and had had it brought here just in time for the celebration. Matya was clearly enjoying her gift.
Vanyel and Vixen had put their bedrolls up in the loft. They were both sitting with Matya at her hearth, sipping mulled cider with so many herbs in it that even Vixen couldn’t identify what they all were. Whatever, it was tasty, and something so complicated Matya only served it on occasions like Midwinter Night.
Midwinter Eve, of course, had been last night. The big village feast had been today, and all three of them were feeling stuffed and more than a bit sleepy.
