His voice moved to a new, slower rhythm, and an absolute hush settled across the hall.
‘Tonight is the night of Winterbirth,’ said Kennet, ‘and for this one night there shall be no darkness in this place. I bid you keep the fires burning and hold the dark, and the winter, at bay. In the cold months that are to come, let this night of fire and good cheer be a warm memory in your hearts. When the Gods left this world much that was bright and good went with them. But the healing cycle of the seasons remains, and is not the least of the boons left to us. Rest heals many ills, for the earth beneath our feet as for us. Even in deepest winter, summer lies in the roots and in the ever-green and it will return. So let us mourn the slipping of the year into sleep and celebrate the promise of its waking, renewed.’
He lowered his head, and when he looked up again his voice had returned to its natural tones.
‘There is food and drink enough for twice your number, and there will be songs, and tales, and acrobats and music. But remember while you clear your plates and drain your mugs that many who should be with us here tonight are not. We are not what our forefathers were in the days of the Gods—the world breeds no heroes now—but still we are a hardy folk. Even the hardiest of us may regret our parting from those we hold dear, though. Some who cannot share our tables tonight rest in the Sleeping Dark, taken from us before their time was full; others may yet return. Many of the best of us are far away in the mountains of Dargannan, where they serve the oath that binds our Blood to that of Haig. I know many of you would wish it otherwise, and your misgivings are mine.
‘Nevertheless, our honour—the honour of the Lannis Blood—is upheld by their service. Without the Gods to guide and watch over us, we must find other things in the world to hold fast to. Honour is not the worst to choose. Therefore I bid you keep in your thoughts those honourable men who fight in the south as we celebrate the year’s turning. Let us hope that they, like the spring, shall soon return.’
There was a great cheer at that. The noise roused Idrin once more and as Kennet sank back into his chair, the black bird swept down and alighted upon Inurian’s shoulder. Kennet glanced across.
‘Can you not keep that bird under control, Inurian?’ he asked above the din. ‘Put it out of the hall or tie it down. Must we have it flapping about?’
‘I am sure Idrin would no more wish to miss the evening’s entertainments than the rest of us, my lord,’ Inurian said, passing a titbit from his plate to the crow, ‘and his sulking would be a sore trial to me if he was denied.’
Kennet looked doubtful. ‘Well, keep it away from me, then, if its delicate feelings will allow that much at least.’
A faint smile at the corner of Kennet’s mouth belied the harshness of his words. Inurian shrugged to dislodge Idrin and the crow flapped back into the roof. Orisian turned his gaze to the hall’s door. Almost in that instant, the figure he awaited bounded in to a howled reception that mixed welcome and mock horror, raising the din to new and deafening heights. The Winter King had arrived at the feast.
A tiny, dancing figure trailing a cloak of pine needles and crowned with holly and mistletoe capered about in the middle of the hall. It was Bair. His face twitched in imitation of lunacy as he essayed a wild dance. He had been well coached by Etha and the other staff to whom the selection of the Winter King fell each year.
Bair darted along one of the tables, snatching scraps of food from the guests’ plates, upsetting beakers and tankards as he went. Whatever morsels he managed to purloin he stuffed into his mouth so that his cheeks bulged. The victims of his thievery made a pretence of trying to seize him. He worked his way thus around the hall until he eventually leapt up on to one of the tables with an extravagant sweep of his pine cloak that sent dishes spinning. The guests spattered with food and drink cried out in good-natured protest as Bair vaulted to the floor in front of the high table where Kennet, Orisian and the others sat. Orisian could not help but laugh to see the excitement shining in the stablehand’s eyes. Anyara threw a chunk of bread at the Winter King, and was on the point of following it with the contents of her goblet when Kennet rose and leaned across the broad table. Bair, his eyes still dancing with merriment, stepped forwards and bowed his head that the lord of Kolglas might more easily take hold of him. Kennet laid one hand on the boy’s shoulder and with the other lifted the green crown from his head, taking care to ease it free from his lank hair. Then Bair turned about and Kennet took the cloak of pine needles from him. He folded it and laid it upon the table, resting the wreath of holly and mistletoe atop it. Bair scuttled away. The Winter King was no more.
Kennet raised his arms. ‘Burn the Winter King’s robes,’ he called out. One of the shieldmen sitting closest to the high table sprang from his place. Taking up the cloak and crown, he carried them with due ceremony to the broad, roaring fire in the hearth. There he paused and looked back to Kennet.
‘Burn them,’ came the repeated command, and it was taken up by all those in the hall. Orisian shouted out with the rest and cheered as the shieldman cast his burden on to the fire. The pine cloak hissed as gouts of smoke billowed out. The fire was so fierce that it was cowed only for a few moments, and it spat and crackled with vigour as it consumed the Winter King’s vestments.
The annual game, played out in one form or another in halls across the Glas valley and beyond since before there had been such a thing as Bloods, was done and gradually the guests settled into the comfortable chatter of any great feast.
Trays of food—more than Orisian could remember seeing at any Winterbirth before—came and went until he lost all track of what he had been offered. The servants, ever more red-faced and wild-eyed, rushed from kitchen to hall and back again. Their own celebrations would come afterwards, when none in the great hall could force down another scrap. For the time being they were at the beck and call of an ever more demanding and drunken horde. Orisian’s eyes were growing wine-weary and a pleasant warmth was running through his face, when he heard Kennet say to Inurian, ‘It is time for the boons, my friend. If we wait any longer it will be impossible to hear ourselves think.’
Orisian stirred himself and sat up straight in his chair. Inurian went to stand a little behind Kennet. Shieldmen were marshalling a small group of guests at the far end of the hall. These were the petitioners whose names had been drawn by lot, winning them the right to seek one favour from their lord on this tradition-steeped night.
The first to approach the high table was a small, slight man. Orisian knew him: Lomas, who lived on the fringe between town and forest and grazed a small herd of cattle on the wood pastures. Lomas bowed to Kennet and, with exaggerated care, laid a hide parchment case bound with a red cord on the table. The case was empty: it was no more than a symbol of the petition he wished to present.
‘You seek a boon of me?’ Kennet asked, and Lomas stammeringly confirmed it was so.
‘And if I hear your case, will you undertake, on the strength of the oath you swore to the Blood, to accept any response I make whether it be in your favour or not?’
‘I will,’ the cattle herder said and Kennet, satisfied, took up the parchment case. ‘Speak, then,’ he told Lomas.
The petition was a simple one, much to the disappointment of the audience. There was always the hope that some scandalous dispute would enliven proceedings and give the gossips something to warm their tongues with in the long, dark evenings to come. All Lomas wished was to be excused from the Bloodtithe for a year, since several of his cattle had died with the hoof rot. When the herder had finished, Kennet nodded and beckoned Inurian forwards. He consulted with his na’kyrim counsellor in whispers too soft to reach those thronging the other tables. Orisian caught most of it, however.