Legend of the Storm Hawks

Midwinter’s Eve

Midwinter’s Eve~

Nigel Willoughby

Jorendon.

Whitmoon, 4399

A dusting of snow swirled, roused from its slumber by Nigel’s footsteps. It chased his heels up the walkway to Stromond Taw’s stately manor. A butler opened a door carved with Iverach stallions and cresting waves. Light and laughter reached across the frosty stoop to draw Nigel inside.

During the coldest stretch of winter, Jorendon took a respite from political machinations and power games. The People’s House called a recess. Most delegates scattered to the farthest reaches of Innis and hunkered down under blankets of snow. The king called his council together but once a week. Even then, a few ministers remained excused until spring.

Nigel cherished midwinter as a time to rest, spending his days in the comfort of Silveroak Hall. But Taw’s home on the outskirts of Jorendon was only an hour’s carriage ride away, and he hadn’t missed one of these celebrations in years.

“Minister Willoughby,” called one of Taw’s daughters. “You came for Papa’s birthday. How delightful to see you again.”

Taw’s unremarkable daughters all looked alike, so Nigel hesitated as he searched for the right name. He unfastened the acorn clasp at his throat and slid off his cloak. A young boy in a smartly pleated tunic and blue velvet doublet rushed up to take it from him.

“Thank you for the invitation, Countess Devereaux. I’m sure your father is pleased you were able to make the voyage from Bresca.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she said with a flourish. “Papa only turns sixty-and-three once.”

He laughed along with her prosaic wit. After all, it was Midwinter’s Eve.

On the longest night of the year, Rhynns whose duties forced them to linger in Jorendon adopted any excuse to come together. They gathered as Aurels had for ages, renewing the bonds of a rich heritage, and welcoming a new year and the gradual lengthening of days that promised another spring.

Some twelve years past, a charismatic young bishop from a minor southern province developed a singular dislike for Midwinter’s Eve celebrations. He used it to launch his campaign to cleanse Innis of all the old Aurel customs. Brother John Deighton succeeded in having the winter solstice declared the Eve of Purity, a Church of Innis holy day to be spent in fasting and prayer.

The solemn penitence of the substitute holiday had yet to catch on with the common folk.

Ever since, Deighton continued railing against the stubborn persistence of the celebrations, naming the Midwinter’s Eve the most egregious of pagan blasphemy. Rhynns continued to nod politely, let him rant, and go about their revelry.

Ostensibly, they gathered tonight to celebrate Stromond Taw’s birthday, which Nigel assumed fell sometime within the month of Whitmoon. Last year it was the betrothal of Bishop Gregor’s daughter. The year before, it was the eleventh anniversary of Oswald Gruder’s appointment to the House.

Ironic how so many causes for celebration happened to fall near the midwinter solstice.

Nigel took leave of Countess Deveraux and strolled to the banquet room. Children played and darted amongst the adults, giving the gathering a casual, festive atmosphere. Wine and aurello flowed as freely as the conversation. The kinship at Rhynn gatherings always stirred a twinge of envy in Nigel. He was an invited guest, welcomed into their generous hospitality. But he would never share the heritage that bound the clans of Rhynn.

Bishop Gregor was here, in conversation with Peder Griffith. Oswald Gruder and his wife were over near the hearth, chatting with General Cleland and a Connor delegate. Several merchants whose livelihoods depended on the northern cattle trade mingled with the crowd.

Nigel was somewhat surprised to see Geoffrey Langdon talking with Jules Brunet. His instincts itched when a man of Langdon’s influence drew his repeat notice, and he still hadn’t figured out the Larad connection. He pushed the puzzle aside, confident Brunet would dredge up any information of use.

Taw excused himself from another guest and snagged a glass of wine off a tray as he approached.

“Glad you decided to come,” he said as he offered Nigel the glass.

“Glad you decided to include me, considering. I called in a great many favors when I asked you for help.”

“It served Iverach interests.” Taw gave a sly grin. “I enjoy having you in my debt for a change.”

When Brunet scoured the passenger lists to Cadron and narrowed the potential traitors down to a few troublesome names, one met with an unfortunate hunting accident. The second succumbed to blackmail, and the third peed himself at the mere threat of treason charges. The satisfaction of an easy capitulation almost offset Nigel’s pique at having to replace the rug in his office. The stench of terrified piss never did wash out of wool.

Afterward, Nigel went to Taw to rein in the last two, both junior delegates in the House. The self-appointed committee courting Anne’s return to Innish politics dissolved into oblivion. Nigel then reminded Walter of a few b****y history lessons and got him to capitulate again. Walter discarded the wrongheaded notion of inviting Cadron mercenaries onto Innish soil and agreed to let Cleland resume work on the northern fort once weather allowed.

Anne and Franz would be staying put in Cadron, for now.

“I’ll add to your tab with a bit of forewarning,” said Taw. “Deighton’s drumming up off-season support for his latest piety. Come spring, he’ll be campaigning to outlaw brothels.”

Taw let the warning sink in and watched for a reaction. The worst kept secret in Jorendon.

“A significant loss of tax revenue,” said Nigel. “Langdon will lead the fight against any attempt.”

“Probably so.” Taw patted his shoulder. “Not likely to draw many supporters anyway. Imagine how messy things could get if the Beacon forced all Jorendon’s w****s underground.”

Nigel replied with a weak smile, and Taw moved on to greet another guest. Deighton was sniffing close to quarry. Perhaps the ruse had outlived its usefulness. Nigel brushed the wishful thought aside. He and Lucinda had their orders. He drew a resigned breath and scanned the room again.

The Rhi’Aleron anchored the center of the banquet hall. The room full of guests seemed to revolve around his magnetic presence. Adan Tavish’s silver hair matched his cropped beard in color and length and framed a face lined with the wisdom of experience, and eyes that could assess a man with one penetrating gaze.

Like an Aurel king of old.

Lady Evanna Tavish was at her husband’s side, along with the stern Lord Symon Callan and his wife, Lady Marjory. Unusual to find the Callans here, but Eyton Hall was far enough south the snows no longer hampered their travel. As Nigel approached the distinguished Hawks, Tavish lifted a dark brow.

“Lord Nigel. The king’s right hand.”

“Good evening, Your Grace.” Nigel clasped his outstretched arm. “What has you in Jorendon this time of year?”

“Clan business,” Tavish replied, dismissing the question. “What brings a King’s Minister out to celebrate a Rhynn’s birthday?”

“A minister of the Kingdom of Innis celebrates a distinguished Innishman’s birthday.”

Tavish snorted and kept comment on what he thought of such wordplay to himself.

“Lord Symon. Lady Marjory,” said Nigel. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding. Is your son settling in at Glenayre?”

“He’s settled and smitten.” Callan drew out the word as if it were an affliction.

“And proving himself quite capable,” said Lady Marjory.

“More than capable.” Lady Evanna’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Sethlyan is living up to our aspirations for the Storm Hawks.”

“Evanna, you know how I feel about such nonsense.”

Tavish laughed. “Blame me, Marjory. I’m the one carrying tales. I’d say our Fire Hawk proved he can manage barley, brigands, and bears.”

Before Nigel could pounce on that intriguing morsel, violins and cellos began playing the call to dinner. Conversations tapered off, and guests milled about seeking their appointed places at the tables.

Nigel found his seat between the boy who’d relieved him of his cloak and the indefatigable General Cleland. The old bull wanted to talk of nothing but his pet project. Nigel lost interest somewhere between approximations of timber required for barracks and puzzlement over how to incorporate the tunic and breclan into the standard Innish uniform.

The boy proved better company. He introduced himself as Mattean Devereaux, one of Taw’s grandsons. He was a bright lad eager to talk about Gaurenne history. When Nigel recounted a heroic tale not recorded in the history books, the boy bounced with such excitement Nigel was sure he would topple his chair.

“Be still, Mattean,” he laughed. “Your mother suspects I am putting you up to mischief.”

Adan Tavish scraped back his chair at the main table. He clinked a spoon against a crystal goblet, and the hum of conversation dwindled to a whisper. He raised a toast, wishing Taw many healthy years to come.

Taw rose and thanked his guests, then strode to the far side of the hall. He threw open the glass-paned doors and shouted the Aurelic call to Midwinter’s bonfire.

“Fuene dhod a’ fairhe!”

Fire bring the dawn.

Taw continued along the wall, throwing open the doors to the manor’s courtyard. Servants swarmed in bearing armloads of cloaks and blankets. The wind whipped through the room, rustling silk skirts and tousling well-groomed hair. Violinists remembered how to fiddle, and cellists pulled out their flutes. Their lively music lured the guests outdoors.

Nigel found his cloak and fastened it on. A robust bonfire danced in the courtyard. Children crowded around a table on the terrace. Abu Bakari grinned as he scooped salt into cockleshells for the eager children.

“Toss salt in the fire and make a wish for the new year,” Nigel explained to the befuddled Cleland.

“That’s it?” Cleland’s brow furrowed. “That’s the pagan ritual Deighton rants about sending their souls to eternal damnation?”

“If you were expecting b****y sacrifices and n***d maidens, I’m afraid you will be disappointed. Midwinter is a family affair. Salt, wish, and keep warm. Perhaps it’s sinful to waste salt,” he shrugged. “Go, enjoy. If the old gods are watching, the least we can do is be entertaining.”

“Lord Nigel, come on.” Mattean scampered up. “Make a wish. Manser Bakari made a special salt mix this year. It sends up sparks in a hundred colors!”

“A hundred, Mattean? Can you name a hundred colors?”

“A dozen, then.” The boy bounced on his toes. “I can name a dozen.”

Mattean led him to Bakari’s table, and they took their cockleshells. Beside the bonfire, Nigel stood staring into the flames, relishing the warmth on his face. He tossed the salt into the fire, and a flash of orange, white, and green sparks leaped skyward.

I wish for an end to the cycles. Different from all the ends that have come before.

Nigel lifted his eyes to the night sky, his spirits rising with the sparks as music filled the courtyard. The Aurelic language was meant for singing, with its soft consonants and sighed vowels. Their songs of hope on winter’s longest night evidenced a culture too rich to fade away.

Hope for these people kept him going, hope a lifetime of sacrifice would make the difference this time.

Chapter 46