Ancient Voices: Into the Depths

by Allison D. Reid

  The Winter Festival

  The tavern’s cook was a plump, rosy-cheeked woman named Idna, who rarely spoke but always had a kind smile for Elowyn. She often slipped Elowyn bits of food and other treats when she helped out with chores. Early morning was Elowyn’s favorite time of day to help, when the kitchen was a tiny island of activity. Beyond the gentle glow of the lamps and the hearth, the typically boisterous tavern slept soundly in the dark, its character completely changed in its emptiness. On this particular day, the first day of the Winter Festival in Minhaven, there was an expectant tension in the silence. The world now waited for the onset of the festival as it had once waited for the living tear of Aviad to fall as it hung in the sky like a new morning star. The decorations were already in place, and most of the food had been prepared over the past several days. There was an excitement hanging on the air, beautiful and mysterious, like slowly curling smoke.

  This would be Morganne and Elowyn’s first Winter Festival in Minhaven. Truth be told, it was to be their first anywhere, as their mother had not approved of either the holiday’s meaning or the frivolity with which it was celebrated. She had always kept the girls tucked away until the revelry was over. Elowyn and Morganne found themselves caught up in the magic of the season with the same awe and wonder as very young children. Wyman, the tavern keeper, had told them countless stories of festivals past—tales of great contests of skill and wit, of those who had triumphed and those who had risen from failure to try again. This was an important time for feasting, for games, for song, for jesting, and for charity. Above all, it was a time to remember Aviad, the Prophets and the heroes of old, and a time for everyone to put forth the best of what they had for the benefit of the whole community. It was a brief moment of exuberant defiance, where a people who were always so careful with what they had, dared to enjoy a lavish celebration just at the onset of an uncertain winter.

  For Morganne and Elowyn, the deeper meaning of the season was only enhanced by the exhilaration they still felt over their newfound freedom, which spilled over into nearly every aspect of their lives. The spirit of the festival seemed an apt reflection of what was in their hearts. For the first time they felt free to put forth the best of who they were for the world, and for the Ancients, to see. There was no need to hide under a cover of fear. They were free in their work, their play, their thought, and best of all, they were free to proclaim their devotion to the Ancients.

  Morganne was no longer forced to read in secret and hide Gareth's book. She pored over it many nights by the tavern fire while she took her meals. The miners thought it strange at first. To have a young woman frequent the tavern was odd enough—one who could read was practically unheard of. Precious few people in Minhaven could read or write. But so long as the weather held, the ore was plentiful, and no other disastrous thing could be connected with this unusual practice, they let her be and even grew accustomed to seeing her there.

  Elowyn felt a sudden draft of cold winter air and heard someone coming in through the back door. A moment later, Wyman stepped into the kitchen, his face red with cold and his dark brown hair and beard sprinkled white with snow. He beamed at Elowyn and with a twinkle in his eye asked, “Too excited to sleep?” Elowyn nodded agreeably. She saw no reason to speak of her troubling dream.

  “Perhaps our little festival will not compare to those of the Sovereign’s larger cities in its extravagance,” he said, “but we are deeply rooted in the old traditions and we have our own unique way of keeping the season. At this time of year, whatever our differences, we come together as family before Aviad. Go revive the fire and prepare the tables for guests. They should be here at any moment.”

  Elowyn quickly did as she was told. Before the sun had fully risen, the doors were opened and the tavern began to fill with men, all wearing leather armor and brandishing hunting spears, daggers, axes, and bows. Wyman personally greeted and served each one out with a simple meal and a steaming drink. These men made up the hunting party that was charged with bringing in an elk for the night’s feast. Though plenty of game had already been prepared, this was a tradition that went back as far as anyone could remember. The festival’s elk hunt marked the onset of winter and the end of the hunting season, and the success or failure of the hunt was said to indicate what was in store for the months ahead. If the party came back successful, food reserves would hold out until spring. Returning with no elk, but some small game, meant there would be hungry months ahead. To come back with nothing at all was a sign of impending famine and starvation. To Wyman’s knowledge, no hunting party had ever returned empty-handed and so they were always sent off with good hopes. Only the most capable hunters were chosen for the honor and they took it quite seriously. After leaving the tavern, the hunters would make their way to the monks. A blessing would be recited over each member of the party and their weapons before they would finally set off into the mountain wilderness.

  For Wyman and the men, this moment was a joyous occasion that was but a small part of the coming festivities, and the subtle meanings underlying it were a vital part of the tradition. For Elowyn, who was new to Minhaven and more accustomed to the jaded attitudes in Tyroc, the doom-laden superstitions that seemed to underlie every event were somewhat distressing. They were a constant reminder of Minhaven’s isolation and of its precarious place in the world. Under the shadow of the mountains’ imposing beauty, nothing was ever certain.

  When a sleepy Morganne finally emerged from their room with Adelin in tow, Elowyn decided not to tell her about the dream she’d had, the fear from which was slowly fading with the warm sun’s rising and the comforting smell of fresh bread baking. Morganne was anxious to open her shop for the day, expecting that the Festival would bring an influx of new business. The rumors she had heard about Minhaven needing a seamstress were true. The previous owner of the local shop had taken ill and died, leaving behind no family and no one capable of running things in her place. As important as it was to have such a shop in Minhaven, especially over the winter months when they were cut off from the rest of the world, the woman’s young assistants had done their best to keep it open. Inexperienced as they were, the shop had been failing miserably.

  Morganne found that the years she had endured working alongside her mother and dealing with customers and contracts had well prepared her for the task of running it. This was an exceptionally auspicious start for the hopeful Morganne, and she was grateful for the chance to both prove herself and provide for her sisters, without the need to rely on the charity of the local monks.

  The day turned out to be a busy one. When they had first arrived in Minhaven, Elowyn had agreed to work in the tavern to help cover the cost of their room and board, at least until Morganne’s shop did well enough that they could find a place of their own. Elowyn often worked alongside Idna, ran errands in town, or cleaned up when the tavern was closed. She was promised that when spring came, there would be a small herb and vegetable garden for her to tend.

  Elowyn found that Wyman was generous of heart and somewhat protective of her and her sisters. He did not seem especially eager to have Elowyn serve tables unless he had no other help. On this day, however, they were so busy, she was needed for many different tasks, including running food and drink to tables. It was not until late in the afternoon that Elowyn was finally released to get ready for the first night of festivities, which would soon begin on the village green.

  As the sun began to sink into the western foothills, Elowyn raced over to Morganne’s shop. Morganne had already released her assistants to join their families and was closing up for the night. Her fingers trembled with excitement as she hurriedly stored away her best needle. Elowyn dressed Adelin for the cold weather then scooped her up and waited for Morganne by the door, tapping her foot with uncharacteristic impatience. She could hear the growing sound of gathering voices and laughter outside and wanted to be in the midst of it.

  This was a novel feeling for Elowyn who typically sought solitude over community. In T
yroc, she had always been left shivering in the cold of her mother’s shadow, bearing the scrutiny of disapproving faces. There was no deluding herself that she could have ever fit in there. Minhaven was different. She at least had a chance to start over, and she also understood that she needed the good will of these people for her own survival.

  Strains of music were picked up on the breeze and carried to the door, enticing the girls out into the darkness that was quickly descending. When Morganne was finally ready, they stepped out together into the frigid twilight air. There was just enough light left in the sky for them to see their breath against it. Pulling their cloaks close about them, they gleefully joined the procession of people walking along the street.

  The typically drab looking shops and homes of Minhaven were all hung with greenery, bright winter berries, and other simple decorations. The people themselves were equally festive. Most were dressed in rich, bold colors. The women sported ribbons in their hair, and many of the men wore a special kind of hat decorated with dyed feathers that were a part of the local tradition. Even those who could not afford fine clothes for the occasion were wearing their best smiles and glowing faces.

  A young pine on the edge of the village green had been adorned with strands of painted wooden beads and bright red and yellow apples. Elowyn thought it was the most lovely sight in the entire village, and she knew that she would never look at that particular little tree quite the same way again. She almost thought that the tree stood a little straighter and swayed a little more gracefully, as if it was aware that it had been chosen to be dressed up especially for the occasion.

  The green itself was really little more than a rough open field used for grazing, or less frequently, for large gatherings. On this night it had been completely transformed. It was lit up all around by torches and lanterns, and in the center blazed an immense open fire with logs the size of small trees. Tradition demanded that the fire would be kept burning through all twelve days of the Festival. To let it go out was said to bring twelve years of ill fortune. Knowing how seriously the villagers took such superstitions, Elowyn was quite sure that the central fire would be so carefully tended, even one of Braeden's conjured storms would not be able to put it out. She felt her body shiver beneath her cloak and realized it was not from cold. Somehow, even in this remote place, Braeden had managed to invade her thoughts. She quickly blocked the image of his dark, sunken eyes staring into hers before the magic of the evening was ruined.

  Off to one side of the green, a makeshift platform had been erected. On top of it was a beautifully dressed table and carved wooden chair. The table was covered with a crimson cloth and laid out with an ornate silver platter, bowl, chalice and knife that had been so polished, they seemed to give off their own light. Undressed trestle tables of the ordinary kind had been set up all around the foot of the platform. Everyone was expected to bring their own cloths, trenchers, candles and tableware.

  From a make-shift roasting pit came the delicious smells of game being cooked. The huge pair of antlers on display near the pit announced to everyone that the hunting party had successfully returned with an elk. Though Elowyn didn’t really believe in their superstition about the hunt, she felt a sense of uneasy relief that at least the villagers believed there would be no famine this year. Barrels of ale and wine stood at the ready. The bakers had brought loaves of bread and pies of all kinds, and all but the poorest of the villagers had brought something to share. No matter how dark and hungry the winter months actually became thereafter, this was at least one night when every belly would be filled, and no thirst would go unquenched.

  Morganne and Elowyn found a table and watched from their seats as the green filled with friends and neighbors, greeting each other with warm smiles and strong embraces. The atmosphere here was so different from Tyroc’s, where no matter how closely the crowds were pressed together, all remained willing strangers. When the seats had all been taken and people began to spill out from the green onto the road and all around it, one of the local monks stood on the platform and rang a bell to call for silence. No festival ever began without a prayer and an offering to the Ancients, and everyone was especially guarded about behaving in any way that might offend Aviad and bring his wrath upon them. The monk sang out the traditional prayer, made the ceremonial offering, and the festival had officially begun.

  Morganne and Elowyn found that their table was full of interesting people, most of whom they had seen in passing but didn't yet know. Grindan, the most prominent blacksmith in Minhaven, had sat down next to Elowyn. She almost failed to recognize him without his sooty clothes and the glow of the forge lighting up his features. Tonight his hair had been combed smooth and fell in silver waves down to his shoulders. Only his hands betrayed him, worn and scarred from old burns and with blackened fingernails that would probably never come totally clean. A serious man by nature, he said very little, but flashed a quiet smile that told everyone he was enjoying himself.

  On the other side of Grindan were Finian and Ham, a couple of miners who were frequent patrons of the tavern. They were a boisterous pair, known for their questionable taste in jokes, especially when drunk. They had a habit of slurring out silly riddles and buying drinks for any who could solve them. Also at the table were two young families with children. Elowyn had seen the men and boys herding animals, and the women with their daughters delivering baskets of eggs, butter, and cheese, but she did not know any of their names. The youngest of the children stared at Elowyn with great curiosity and flashed shy smiles at her from beneath the edges of her mother’s cloak. Elowyn smiled shyly back.

  The most interesting person of all was a man sitting across from Morganne. He announced himself as Broguean the Bard, and Elowyn noted by his flushed face and glassy eyes that he must have already filled and drained his mug of ale several times before sitting down at the table.

  “You're a new face since last year,” he said cheerfully, leaning over toward Morganne. “I usually spend the days of the Winter Festival in Minhaven. No other city celebrates it quite to my liking,” he winked and downed half of his mug in one long swallow. “Fine ale, that is,” he nodded satisfactorily, “even more so because on this night it's free.” He made an attempt at a whisper that would have seemed quite loud had there not been so much other commotion.

  “I will take your word for that, I've never cared much for ale,” Morganne said in a disapproving tone.

  “Not to worry,” Broguean said with a grin, undisturbed by Morganne’s obvious disdain, “I always work off my share of the tab, especially during the Festival. I'll be here the whole twelve days before I make my way elsewhere. Time for a song!” he called out to anyone who could hear him, “One suitable for the occasion.”

  The bard's reputation was well-known enough in Minhaven that the mothers quickly sent their older children off to play. They held the younger ones close to their chests and glanced toward Broguean with concerned expressions. Morganne had never heard him sing, but she had seen his type often enough roaming the streets of Tyroc. She expected that Broguean's songs would be more appropriate for an unseemly tavern by the docks than for the more reverent occasion at hand. Undaunted by the reaction of his captive audience, he pulled a lute from under his cloak and began to strum a hauntingly beautiful melody. The seriousness of it, and the genuine reverence with which he sang, came as a pleasant surprise to everyone around.

  “The Longest night of the year has gone,

  Let us celebrate with glorious song!

  The fleeing night,

  The lingering light

  Turn our hearts to truth and right.

  Before the Prophets, before Varol,

  Mankind suffered its greatest fall.

  Deception was rife

  And a world full of strife

  Cost us the precious gift of life.

  As dread and despair spread through the lands,

  Each tear was cradled in Aviad's hands.

  Looking past the stain

 
To feel our pain

  Banishing darkness from his reign.

  Through deceit and will, we were all led astray.

  Only the Creator's perfect love could show the true way.

  He drew us near,

  His purpose clear,

  Paying the price we could not bear.

  The world had surrendered to death and to fear,

  Until all hope was revealed in Aviad's tear.

  In a world askew,

  He alone was true,

  And by his hand, death He did subdue.

  Grasp and hold close to the promise of this night,

  as we await its fulfillment in spring's early light.”

  As the last strum of his lute faded, applause rang out from all the surrounding tables and passers-by. An old miner, whose cheeks were just as rosy as Broguean’s, thanked him for the song by refilling his mug.

  “Ah, thank you good sir, thank you! My throat was beginning to feel a bit parched.”

  The bard gratefully downed his ale as though it were no more potent than water. He used his sleeve to wipe away the foam still clinging to his brown beard and picked up his lute again, preparing to offer another song. But before he could strum a single note, plates of food began to pass down the length of their table. There was no shortage of meat, between the game that had been hunted, and the ample quantities preserved from the fall slaughter. There was roasted fowl, pig, goat, lamb, elk, venison, and a rabbit stew made with almond milk. Large meat pies were shared around tables, as were small festive ones that were shaped like the funny hats many of the men were wearing. To go with the meat, a variety of dumplings, cheeses, dried fruits, breads, greens, and stewed vegetables were served, along with a few dishes that Elowyn had never seen before and was not quite brave enough to try.

  To each table was brought a large bowl filled with spiced wine. Broguean raised it up, saying “Good health and blessings to all!” to which everyone at the table raised their cups in turn, saying “Good health and blessings!” Their cups were then filled from the bowl and everyone drank together. Elowyn could hear other tables around them doing the same. The wine had not been watered down and was too strong for Elowyn, so she took only sparing sips. The girls had not seen such a meal since their night in the Great Hall at Tyroc Castle, only this meal was more enjoyable and in far better company.