Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

None of his friends and fellow dukes, not even Stephen, believed that her murder was the work of the Bolg, no matter how hard he had tried to convince them. But that will be over soon , he thought grimly. Soon the arguments would end.

“Tristan?”

He blinked, and forced a smile as he looked down into Madeleine’s unpleasantly angular face.

“Yes, dearest?”

His fiancee exhaled in annoyance. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said, have you?”

Rotely Tristan lifted her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it.

“Darling, I’ve been hanging on your every word.”

Q) or all that the elite and influential of Roland utilized Stephen’s festival to make public shows and secret bargains, it was the common folk for whom it was actually held. Winter was a harsh and difficult time in most of Roland, a season in which the average citizen withdrew into his dwelling, having battened it down as much as possible, and struggled to survive the bitter months. The carnival gave them an opportunity to celebrate the season before winter gave them reason to rue it, as it did every year.

Stephen counted on the annual pattern of weather to allow the carnival to take place at the mildest part of early winter, and with one exception in twenty years, he had been successful. His friendship with the Invoker of the Filids, the religious order that worshiped nature, granted him access to their information about upcoming storms and thaws, freezing winds and snowfalls, so their impressive ability to predict the weather ensured a successful event. Indeed, it was commonly believed that the Filidic order not only studied and predicted the weather, but had it in their power to control it as well, especially the Invoker. If that was the case, they exercised a good deal of largesse on Stephen’s behalf, judging by the consistently fine weather his solstice festival enjoyed.

The first two days of the festival were marked by the pageantry of it, with games and races, contests and performances, dancing and merrymaking fueled by excesses of fine food and drink.

The third and final day was the religious observance of the solstice, with ceremonies in both canons. It was here that the religious posturing went on, Filid against Patrician, all very subtle, and worse since the Patriarch had begun to decline. In years when the Invoker predicted a storm or harsh weather before the solstice and better weather following it, the order of events at the carnival was switched, and the religious observances were held first, with the festival in the two days following. When this occurred the carnival was invariably spoiled, so Stephen was pleased that the weather had cooperated this year, allowing the festivities to happen first.

Now he sat on the reviewing platform with Tristan, Madeleine, and the religious leaders, who were all talking among themselves, watching the various races and games, occasionally joining in one himself.

His son, Gwydion Navarne, had proven adept at Snow Snakes, a contest where long smooth sticks were launched through icy channels hollowed out in the snow. Stephen had abandoned royal protocol and had danced excitedly at the fringes of the competition, hooting and cheering Gwydion through the semifinals and consoling him at his loss in the end. The boy had not really needed any consolation; he had broken into a sincere smile at the announcement of the winner, a redheaded farm lad named Scoutin, and extended a gracious hand of congratulations.

As the lads shook, it was all Stephen could do to hold back tears of pride and loss. How like Gwydion of Manosse and me they look , he thought, thinking back to his childhood friend, Llauron’s only son. He glanced behind him at the Invoker, who must have been sharing the thought by the smile and nod that he gave Stephen.

He was now anxiously awaiting the outcome of Melisande’s race, a comical contest where small sleds, on which a fat sheep was placed, were tied to the participants’ waists with a rope. The object of the race required both child and sheep to make it across the finish line together, but this afternoon the sheep had other plans. Melly’s merry giggle was unmistakable; it wafted over his head on the steamy air as she toppled into the snow yet again, then set off back toward the starting gate, chasing a bleating ewe.

She came reluctantly into her father’s arms and was swathed in a rough wool blanket handed to him by Rosella, her governess.

“Father, please ! I’m not cold, and we’re going to miss the making of the snow candy!”

“Snow candy?” Tristan asked, smiling. “That brings back memories, Navarne.” Madeleine raised an eyebrow, and the Lord Roland turned her way. “You must try some, darling, it’s marvelous. The cooks heat enormous vats of caramel sugar to boiling, then drizzle it in squiggles onto the snow where it hardens in the cold; then they dip it in chocolate and almond cream. It becomes quite the melee to see who can get some of the first batch.”

“On the snow?” Madeleine asked in horror.

“Not on the ground, m’lady,” said Stephen quickly, tousling Melisande’s hair in the attempt to shake the look of surprise at Madeleine’s reaction from her face. “Clean snow is gathered and laid out on large cooking boards.”

“Nonetheless, it sounds repulsive,” Madeleine said.

Stephen rose as Tristan looked away and sighed.

“Come along, Melly. If we hurry we might get some of the first batch.” He tried to avoid Tristan’s face; he couldn’t help but notice that his cousin wore the look of a man who had lost the whole world.

On this, the feast of the longest night of the year, darkness came early, and none too soon. As the light left the sky the merrymakers and revelers moved on to the celebratory dining, an event in and of itself.

Rosella stood in the shadow of the cook tent, watching the festivities with delight. Melisande and Gwydion were chasing around beside their father near the open-air pit where four oxen were roasting over the gleaming coals, filling the frosty air with merry laughter and joyful shrieking. While the children were in his company the duke had dismissed her from her duties, suggesting she take in some of the glorious sights of the festival. She had obeyed. Standing hidden, she was observing the glorious sight that most delighted her heart.

From the day four years ago when she had been brought to Haguefort in her late teens to tend to the children of the recently widowed duke, Rosella had been enamored of Lord Stephen. Unlike Lord MacAlwaen, the baron to whom her father had originally indentured her, Lord Stephen was kind and considerate, and treated her like a member of his family rather than as the servant that she was. He was distantly pleasant at first; his young wife, the Lady Lydia Navarne, had been brutally murdered a few weeks before, and Lord Stephen wandered around for a long time in a daze, tending to the responsibilities of his duchy and family with the efficiency of one whose mind is engaged but whose soul is elsewhere.

As time passed, the duke became more alive, as if waking from a long sleep, spurred mostly by the need to be an effective father to his motherless children. Rosella’s fondness for him continued to grow as she witnessed his affectionate ministrations to Melisande and Gwydion, whom she loved as if they were her own. Her daydreams were filled with the silly romantic impossibilities of class warfare, of the unspannable chasm between lord and servant crumbling away, leaving a shining bridge between their two lives. The fact that Lord Stephen was oblivious of her feelings allowed her the freedom to imagine as she would, free of the guilt that a different reality might bring.

“Good solstice, my child.”

Rosella started and backed into the fluttering fabric of the cook tent at the sound of the sonorous voice. The rich scent of roasting meat filled her nose, along with a sour hint of burning flesh in fire.