Over the next tenday, Alayna dared to hope that her prayers had been answered. True, Edric spent almost all his time either working at healing Dimitra or sleeping. Or eating—according to the cook, he consumed enough for several ordinary men. Gwynn seemed content to let Edric go about his work.
Work filled Alayna’s days, too, especially delegating and then overseeing those tasks that were previously Dimitra’s. The work distracted her from all the things she might otherwise worry about, and it also gave her a sense of satisfaction. She’d gone from visitor to bride to a chatelaine who fulfilled her responsibilities to the castle household.
She and Gwynn were finishing breakfast in his sitting room when Zefano entered with a bow. Close behind him came Edric, his features haggard with fatigue but his eyes alight, and then, moving haltingly and leaning on a cane, Dimitra.
Alayna scrambled to her feet, almost knocking over her chair. “You’re well!”
“Vai dom, vai domna.” Dimitra’s face was pale, except for two faint spots of color over her cheekbones, but she had a vitality quite unlike the wasted sallowness of before.
“It gladdens our hearts to see you recovering,” Gwynn said. “Lord Aldaran, we are much in your debt.”
“Lord Scathfell,” Edric replied with the same formality, “it is I who owe you for the opportunity of being of service. After all, this is how friends behave.”
“Indeed, it is.”
“Now I must beg your leave, for my patient’s strength must not be overtaxed so early in her recovery. I am not at my best, either.” He met Alayna’s questioning gaze, and she understood that he had pushed on through the night to finish the healing.
Dimitra returned to her chamber, aided by a pair of maids, and when she presented herself to Alayna the next morning, she looked even more rested. Edric stayed in his quarters, undoubtedly sleeping. On the third day, Alayna allowed herself to be persuaded that Dimitra might resume light duties, and Edric bade his farewells. Politely but firmly, he refused the gifts that Gwynn wanted to give him. He was adamant that the only reward he desired was friendship between them, but he said it with such humility that Gwynn took no offense. Then he departed, trotting out of the castle courtyard into a morning of shivering clarity.
30
As Midwinter Night approached, Alayna took charge of preparing the feast and evening celebrations. Between hanging the great hall with evergreen wreaths and ribbons, ordering the meal, and arranging a proper space for dancing, Alayna realized she had no holiday gift for her husband. Nor Perdita, Ruyven, or Dimitra, although she was not strictly obliged to give them anything. Gifts for her friends were relatively easy to think of. Her clothes chest contained a spidersilk scarf perfect for Perdita. Ruyven would undoubtedly be happy with a chair cushion covered with her own needlepoint; she had a supply of those that wanted only hemming and stuffing. A small token would do for Dimitra, perhaps one of the wooden hair combs purchased in Thendara.
But Gwynn? What could she give him that would be fine enough? She didn’t have time to embroider a fancy shirt, not with arranging everything for Festival Night. In truth, she owned almost nothing in the way of physical possessions that had not come from him.
The one thing Gwynn wanted she could not give him. Not this Midwinter Night nor any other. What she wanted—to be reunited with Kyria, to see Kyria’s babes grow up—she could never ask for.
Thinking of Aldaran—of Edric, of Kyria—brought the image of the rryl that had been their wedding gift. She could play better than most, she admitted without false modesty. Although her voice was not as good as Perdita’s, she could sing passably well. An idea formed: she would take a familiar melody, one within her vocal range, and set new words to it. A song composed especially for Gwynn would be something no one else could give him. As soon as she made the decision, a dance tune came to mind, the dance “Lilies and Laces.” She began humming the melody and trying out one phrase or another. Soon she had devised lyrics to a verse and chorus. So pleased was she, that she went about smiling and occasionally dancing a step or two.
“My dear, something has amused you,” Gwynn said as they sat over jaco and nut-topped custards after dinner.
“Indeed, it is something wonderful,” Alayna responded, “or I hope you will find it so. But you mustn’t press me for details.”
“A secret, is it?” he said, his tone playful.
“I suspect that, given the season, it will be revealed in the proper time, my lord.”
“Oh, ho! It’s a Midwinter secret, is it? My spies inform me you are hard at work making everything ready.”
“Then you have most effective spies,” she replied. “Our Festival Night may not be as elaborate as they will celebrate in Thendara, but I hope it will be an event to remember.”
Gwynn’s joke reminded Alayna of his previous mention of having placed spies in Aldaran. She remembered being appalled at the time, then other things had demanded her attention and she’d thought no more about it. Now, in the warmth of her own home, with her husband in a jolly mood, her thoughts went once again to her desire for closer relation between the two Houses.
“Midwinter is a time of new beginnings,” she said, carefully setting down her custard spoon. “The earth lies fallow under its blanket of snow, but every day the nights grow shorter. No matter how cold and lifeless the world seems, it is already moving toward spring.”
“A pretty speech,” Gwynn said, “fit for elegant ladies and courtly poets, not men of action. Take pity on me, my love, and tell me what it means.”
“Only that we, too, are moving into a season of new beginnings. We light candles in the darkness, don’t we? We set aside old grievances in the spirit of fellowship.”
“You have already made known your opinion on our relations with Aldaran.” Gwynn’s tone had lost some of its earlier gaiety, but he did not seem seriously displeased.
Even though Alayna was determined not to provoke him, and certainly not to repeat their old arguments, she could not allow the issue to pass without attempting to move reconciliation forward. “Yes, I have expressed myself, and so have you, my husband. The decision is yours, of course. But in this season of renewal, would it be so terribly wrong to send a message—nothing more, just a wish for a joyful Midwinter Festival?”
Such wishes were customary between neighbors and kinfolk. It would cost no more than a rider and horse for the journey, it would not compromise Gwynn’s honor or commit him to any action. A rancorous, deceitful man might hold the messenger hostage or slay him outright, but surely even Gwynn at his most suspicious could not think that, not after Edric himself had come to nurse Dimitra. Alayna looked at Gwynn and could tell that he was weighing the possibilities and risks, just as she had done.
“Well,” Gwynn said before the silence had dragged on to the point of awkwardness, “this is an excellent suggestion. As a favor to you, my dear—shall we say, your Midwinter gift?—I will dispatch a rider with that very message. If you would care to include a letter describing Dimitra’s recovery, he can deliver it as well. You see, I am not such an unreasonable tyrant as all that.”
“I never thought you so, I assure you.” In an exuberance of relief, Alayna sprang up and took his hand. Gwynn looked pleased.
And expressed that pleasure in their bed that night.
Alayna awoke on the morning of Midwinter Eve, as excited as a little girl. She put on an ordinary dress, not her holiday finery, for there was still work to be done downstairs. True to his habit of early rising, Gwynn was already about his morning. Perdita entered the sitting room, balancing a tray with its usual serving of jaco.
“Bless you,” Alayna exclaimed, reaching for the pitcher. She took a sip and closed her eyes in delight.
If she performed half so well in Thendara, I wonder that the queen was willing to let her go. This is her home now, Alayna thought, for as long as she wishes to remain. Since Perdita appear
ed to be content in every respect, Alayna resolved to speak with her about taking on the formal responsibilities of a lady-in-waiting—not now, with the height of the holiday fervor upon the household, but soon. Dimitra would live, but would likely never recover her former vigor. Another mistress might cast her off or assign her to menial work, but Alayna was moved by Dimitra’s plight and resolved to persuade her to accept a comfortable retirement.
“My lady?” Perdita interrupted Alayna’s musings.
Alayna plunked the mug on the tray. “Leave that here for Sadhi. I’m off to the kitchens. I hope the cook remembered to hold off icing the spiral buns until they’re ready to be served.”
The cook had indeed remembered, and a bowl of icing, redolent with holiday spices, sat beside the rack of cooling buns. The baker and his assistants, some of them brought up from the village for the occasion, had been at work since well before dawn, and the kitchens teemed with activity. There was ordinary bread in sufficient quantity that everyone might eat his fill several times over. There were pies stuffed with apple or mincemeat or honeyed nuts and a great cake studded with chopped dried cherries into which had been baked a silver coin. When Marianna had described the anticipation as each child and then each adult was given a piece, everyone waiting to see who would find the coin, Alayna had raised her eyebrows. Rockraven had no such game.
Alayna had visited the kitchens on many previous occasions, but never had the place been so busy or so hot. Between the steaming cauldrons and the fireplaces, it was like a furnace. Onions simmered in savory broth. The meats were already cooking, and the aromas wafted in through the partly opened windows from the spits set up in the courtyard. The chief cook shifted from one foot to another. His eyes darted here and there, clearly trying to keep watch but still pay attention to his mistress. Alayna didn’t recognize half the people there, everyone rushing about with arms filled with cooking utensils or baskets of provisions. She jumped when a girl pushed past her with only a “Coming through!” and then recognized Shayla.
Alayna set about preparing a platter of spiral buns and spreading the icing with Perdita’s help. She reflected that it must have taken a good deal of persuasion to extract a pitcher of jaco from this madhouse, and she hoped Gwynn had already had his. At this rate, he wasn’t likely to get any more.
Waving thanks to the cook and his staff, Alayna took herself, Perdita, and the tray of finished buns back upstairs. After setting the table in her own sitting room, she dismissed Perdita to enjoy her own morning. A short time later, Gwynn arrived. Alayna didn’t know which she enjoyed more, the memories of her childhood or the domesticity of enjoying a holiday breakfast with her husband.
Gwynn looked up and smiled, dusting the crumbs of his second spiral bun off his fingers. “You are looking immensely pleased with yourself this morning, my love. If this delightful confection was your holiday gift for me, you have succeeded admirably.”
“Thank you, but you must wait for your gift. This was shameless self-indulgence. I can’t remember a Midwinter Festival at Rockraven without spiral buns. As children, we used to sneak out of bed before Father was awake and beg for our share, hot out of the oven. Of course, Cook would make a big palaver over how they must cool before they are iced. She’d make us wait, but not too long, and the buns would still be hot, so the icing would run down over our fingers. Then we’d be all over sticky and our nurse would scold us. When she stopped laughing.” Some day, she hoped not too far in the future, Scathfell children would enjoy those same messy treats.
Gwynn must have an heir. Scathfell cannot go to that scorpion-ant, Nevin. And if it cannot be our own son, he must name another child, a foster son from some other, more distant kin. This was not the first time Alayna had thought of fostering or adoption, but the right time to press Gwynn on the issue had not yet presented itself. Perhaps after the holiday, when life was more normal.
Gwynn placed a small pouch of bright blue spidersilk on the table and pushed it toward her. His mouth curved in a half-smile, as if he were trying to contain his merriment and not quite succeeding.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a pink rabbit-horn, what do you think it is?”
“I thought that sending the messenger to Aldaran was my gift.” What a dear, sweet husband I have. “Shall I open it now?”
“Just as it is your custom at Rockraven to indulge in sweet breakfast pastries, it is ours here to exchange gifts in private.”
Alayna opened the pouch to find a hair clasp of beautiful soft brown wood inlaid with bits of mother of pearl and a tracery of copper wire. The wood had a warm hue that would set off the color of her hair. He must have gotten it in Thendara back at Midsummer.
“I hardly know what to say.”
“Saying you like it would be a beginning.”
“I do! I like it so very much. You are too good—you will spoil me.”
“No more than you deserve to be spoiled.” He grasped one of her hands and lifted it to his lips.
Alayna allowed herself to linger in the moment. It reminded her of how he had been when she’d first arrived: so courteous, so romantic. Now she realized she’d been in love with him from the moment they’d met.
“Wait here.” She sprang to her feet and rushed into her bedroom to fetch the rryl. It was still in tune, as she had rehearsed the song yesterday afternoon. As she placed her fingers on the strings, she sent a silent prayer to Evanda to sweeten her voice, so that her heart might flow through her music.
Her hands were stiff with tension, and the opening chords came out a little strained. Then the awkwardness melted.
Now come winter snows, the season of ice.
The winds blow fierce, and low lies the sun,
Cold has trapped the wings of birds,
But not my heart.
My heart lies in your keeping,
My hope and my love.
We will walk again in the wood,
scattering the dew, covered in blossoms.
We will see the rainbird in her nest.
Winter’s sorrow will never come to us
In love’s sweet forest.
A few times, she fumbled a chord change, and once she forgot the words of her final version and went back to the original, less graceful phrases. But it didn’t matter. The lyrics danced through the soaring melody.
The song came to an end. A hush settled over the chamber. The harp strings lay still under her fingers. She glanced up at him, and his eyes were gleaming.
“That was—” His voice was thick. He cleared his throat. “No one’s ever written a song for me before.”
Alayna got up to set the rryl aside. “I’ve never had anyone I wanted to write a song for.” She came around the table and held out her hands to him.
He took them, pulling her closer, pressing his face between her breasts. She could not have imagined such a moment. “I wish—” she whispered, “I wish I had more to give you. The world. Happiness. A son.”
There. She’d said it.
He shifted her to sit on his lap and looked deep into her eyes. “Do not grieve, my love. It wasn’t easy, but I have come to accept that we will not have children together. A man in my position might take a fertile barragana and then legitimize any nedestro offspring, but I would not insult you in that way. In any event, she could not bear me a Rockraven son.”
“Then let us consider fostering a child that you might name your heir, but one we would raise to love and honor Scathfell as much as any natural son.”
“We will consider it.” He tipped her head to kiss her brow. “In due time, I promise.”
Many kisses later, Gwynn went about his own business for the holiday. Alayna wrapped the last two buns in a napkin and placed them on the plate, then wrapped the wooden hair comb she’d gotten in Thendara in a pretty, embroidered kerchief, and took them to Dimitra’s chamber. The older woman was sitt
ing before a fire, a blanket across her knees and fingerless gloves on her hands. Her feet rested on a footstool and she cradled a steaming mug. By the aroma, it was not jaco but something with mint and honey. Alayna felt a rush of gratitude to whoever had been so considerate.
“Please don’t trouble yourself,” Alayna said when Dimitra started to set the blanket aside. “Anyone who comes barging in unannounced should not expect elaborate hospitality. I came to see how you fared and to wish you a joyful Midwinter.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Dimitra’s voice was steady.
Alayna handed Dimitra her gift, waving away protests that she had nothing to give in return. She brought the other chair close, sat, and leaned forward. “Think of it as a gesture of appreciation for the good-heartedness you showed me when I first arrived. I must have looked like a puppy caught in a snowstorm, cold and wet and bedraggled, not to mention ignorant of the ways of great folk. But you treated me like a welcome guest.”
And whatever happened after is not important, only your kindness.
Dimitra looked as if she were about to protest again but thought better of it.
“In any event, it was my pleasure to bring you something from Thendara,” Alayna said, “since you were not able to come there yourself. Here, try a spiral bun. They were my favorite holiday treat when I was a girl, and I understand they’re new to Scathfell.”
On the first nibble, Dimitra’s eyes brightened. “This reminds me of the little buns we had in my own home.”
“Do you feel well enough to come down this evening? The great hall looks most festive, and I know Lord Scathfell would be glad of your attendance.”
“Then I will come, of course.”
“We are all immensely glad that you have recovered.”
“I am in debt to you and Lord Scathfell for allowing Lord Aldaran to tend to me,” Dimitra murmured, “given the animosity between their two realms.”
Thunderlord Page 34
