Winter Heart, page 29
"It was at that moment that the field was washed in the purest golden light, the brightest light anyone had ever seen. The Father, in His mercy, sent help to the Prince. Just as the Prince had helped so many others with his own light. The Sun Maiden knelt over him, laid her bright hand upon his forehead. And through her, the Father healed his son.
The moon fell in love with the sun for what she had done for him.
Even today, on the top of the highest mountain in all of Eira, they marry every morning. Their wedding party, the People of the Lights, arrayed in their garments of greens, blues, and yellows, follow behind them in sleighs made of stars."
The crowd murmured in appreciation, some of the more awake members offering a soft clap as the story came to an end. Fane had never heard these stories told like this. Even when his older brother would whisper the tales to him in the firelight of his bedroom of his childhood, there were details that he had never heard.
Niamh leaned over to him, more sloppily than he expected. Her blue eyes were glazed with drink and sleepiness, and it took her a moment to speak.
"The Sun Maiden is connected to healers, did you know that?" She said, a soft smile turning the corners of her mouth upward. "We..." She yawned in the middle, making Fane smile with her. "We consider her to be the first healer...So... we follow..." Niamh dipped forward suddenly, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her breathing changed slightly.
Niamh was sleeping.
Fane felt heat climb to his ears, and not because of the strong drink. He looked over her head to Rohyr.
He was glaring more intensely than Fane had ever seen, but made no move to intervene. Fane turned away, though he could have sworn he could feel the heat on the side of his head. And not from the bonfire in front of all of them.
By the state of the crowd, as they got more and more drowsy, Fane could tell the stories were coming to an end. Many of the children had already fallen asleep on their parents' shoulders
Seamlessly, another woman rose from the crowd, old and bent, and began her story.
"Early in the history of the world, long before any of the times or seasons of mankind were written down, there lived one of the first human women. Her true name has been lost to time and legend. This woman was beautiful, and innocent to the darkness that dwelled in the hearts of men. She fell in love with one such man that betrayed her trust.
The woman's heartbreak was so intense that she lay in a field of moonflowers to die, feeling as if there was nothing else for her in the world. Her tears were so many that it caused this field to produce more radiant moonflowers than it ever had before. The Sun Maiden, moved with compassion upon hearing this woman's bitter cries, went before the Father of Lights.
'Give this woman a purpose', she asked, 'Let her have her own role in helping Your newly created world.'
The Father listened to the Sun Maiden's plea, and the nameless woman became the keeper of the world's greenery. Life and growth would flow from her blood, from her fingertips. The flowers would never wilt and trees would always be green. She kept this charge for many years, and helped to bring forth life in every season, year after year."
"But.." The old woman paused for effect, allowing the word to sink into the silence of the crowd. Fane, too, had to remind himself to breathe for how enraptured he had become in the story. "Because she still had the open wound of betrayal on her heart, she was easily seduced. Evil himself, the Prince of Shadows, the betrayer of the Father of Lights. His name, too, had been lost long, long before. He was once the guardian of the night, of darkness and dreams, alongside his brother, the Moon Prince.
So convincing, so inviting was he that the woman fell at once to him. The darkness in her heart only grew and festered, encouraged by the man that she soon married. Together, they conspired to kill the Moon Prince and the Sun Maiden, and rule the world and all its creatures in their stead.
Their strategies failed, and the Father of Lights took away those things that they were meant to keep and guard. The woman is only known now as the Lady of Corruption. What she was once meant to grow, flourish, and heal, now she can only destroy, ruin, and make sick. Her husband lost his physical form, the price of his betrayal, and can now only see the world in the form of that which he was supposed to protect: The shadows.
His wife wanders the world alone. She is always looking for a way to be reunited with him, yet she is bound by the light of the four Relics. She is evil's emissary, his hands to do his will in the world. It is because she gave up her post, her duty, the flowers wilt and trees die. She deals now only in corruption and death.
As long as the four Relics stand, and as long as magic users protect them, evil cannot have its way in the world."
The crowd applauded, many of the mages in the audience even adding to the fire, making it swell and burn hotter. The torches around them, which Fane hadn't even noticed go out, all blazed to life again all at once, casting even longer shadows across the snow.
AS SOON AS THE STORY ended, Rohyr rose from the log. Though he was intending to keep an eye on the sulky prince, there were more important things to attend to for the moment. He wandered over to the tables of food and the mead barrels, pouring himself two more mugs.
"Good to see you, Rohyr." A voice said behind him. A familiarly deep voice. One that he hadn't heard in years. Rohyr whipped his head around, causing a sudden dizziness to come over him. No one stood behind him. I must be even more drunk than I thought. He thought to himself, watching the snow around him carefully. He turned back to the table, only to feel a heavy hand clap him on the shoulder. He jerked toward the offending arm, only to see his own face looking back at him.
No, that wasn't his face.
"Rhŷn?"
His brother. His brother who had died long ago.
Rohyr's shoulder burned only for a moment. Another blink, and his brother was gone. He's been gone for years. He shook his head, despite the dark boiling in his heart. The mead must be stronger than usual. There was no way that Rhŷn, or any of them, could be there. Rohyr walked back to rejoin Niamh and that prince on the log again, shaking his head against the unwanted memories flooding in.
43
AS THE SONG DIED AWAY, everyone sitting on the benches settled into a bittersweet, contented drowsiness. Niamh’s head was light, probably due to that blackberry mead. This batch was extra strong. One or two was enough to take away her guarded composure. Especially around Fane.
Fane’s leg was resting against hers now. She could feel his muscles against her own, and if it weren’t for the dizziness in her head, she would have blushed at the casual touch. The host of their gathering, the head of the horse masters, clapped his hands loudly. This roused many of the crowd and several of them stood and stretched as if waking from a daze.
“Now that we have had our story time, we still have plenty of mead to go around, and plenty of moonlight left to light our evening.” Iarr boomed to the crowd, smiling broadly as the musicians took their places again, rubbing a new layer of rosin on their bows.
“No need to go home yet! We still have evening left to fill with dancing.” The musicians, boys Niamh knew from childhood, now men, counted once and began another joyful tune. It tripped over the heads of the crowd like a stream over rocks, laughing its way down into the bones of everyone who listened.
Many of the families declined the offer of a later night of dancing, lifting their sleeping children into their arms and making their way back to their homes. All that remained were the couples and groups of friends, the air filling with the kind of carefree laughter that is only heard in the dead of night when everyone is struck with a wild humor.
That same wild humor must have come over Fane, because he shot up from where he sat on the log next to Niamh, causing both her and Rohyr to look at him in surprise. His nostrils flaring with something that could have only been a mixture of genuine determination and mead-induced thrill, he gazed at her for a long moment. Just when she opened her mouth to ask what he was even doing, Fane held a firm hand toward her, palm up.
“Dance with me, Niamh.” He said, his eyes aflame.
Niamh could hardly refuse him in the state he was in. She took his waiting hand without a moment’s hesitation.
Rohyr smiled into his tankard out of the corner of her eye, casting his eyes downward. Fane led her to the edge of the waiting rows of dancers, weaving in and out between each other in time with the music. Fane’s gray eyes, like a flash of lightning in a storm, betrayed a sudden realization that he had no idea what he was doing. Niamh took pity on him, laughing lightly as he watched the dancers’ movements with a bewildered expression.
“Here, lay your hand here.” Despite whatever reservations she may have had on a normal day, Niamh grabbed Fane’s wrist, laying his hand on the curve of her waist. Her waist felt incredibly small and fragile under it, even through her coat. She swallowed. “And I’ll put my hand here.” She laid her left hand on his shoulder, taking his left with her right. “Now,” She began, adopting the tone she used when she demonstrated some new healing technique for students at the castle. “Listen to the music. It’s only eight counts. Step in time with the count, each movement should only take two beats since this is a reel-“
“Niamh.” His voice was husky and low. The look in his eyes, amused and hazy, seemed to say Stop talking and just dance with me. A shiver thrilled up her spine.
Before she could continue, Fane messily pulled her into the dance. Though he stumbled for the first few counts, he found his footing and twirled her around effortlessly. They fell into a comfortable rhythm, letting the music sink deep into their spirits. She could barely keep track of where the earth and the heavens began, the embers of the fire flying into the air and the intoxicating tune sliding under their feet the only things she knew.
As the music built to its crescendo, Niamh took both of Fane’s hands in hers, bracing them together. They spun, the world turning to a blur of firelight and flying fabrics of many colors as their fellow dancers whirled with them.
They laughed together, twirling and spinning until they could barely stand.
Though it had only been a few minutes, so exhilarating was their dance together that they stood panting and sweating only inches from each other. The music died away, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the crackle of the great fire burning into their skin.
Their heaving chests were close together, Fane standing over her, his hair falling in front of his face. Niamh never realized until that moment how much taller he was compared to her. The last time they had been this close was when she had saved him from the ice, and she had fallen asleep with her healing hand on his head. That seemed like a lifetime ago.
Fane’s silver eyes pierced her own, neither of them looking away as the light of the fire washed over their faces. Maybe it was that mug of mead, or maybe it was the leftover thrill of the dance coursing through her veins, but Niamh found her heart pounding harder as the sight of his handsome face mere inches from her own.
The tip of his perfect, pointed nose brushed hers. His breath heavy with the scent of blackberries and nutmeg. In that haze, the roughness of his hand rose to cup the softness of her face, tilting it upward. She let him.
All other sounds faded away, all of time seemed to pause, holding its breath as Fane ran a gentle thumb across her lips. Those traitorous lips of hers parted of their own accord, and she inhaled, waiting. Her hand went to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering under it as hard as hers was.
What are you doing? The sound of the music, the laughter and merriment of the party, the roar of the fire, all came crashing back to Niamh’s senses. Her hand jerked away from Fane by instinct, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest.
“Oh,” Niamh said, blushing and backing away, “Oh, I’m s-sorry.” She skittered back to the log before she could see the hurt flash across Fane’s eyes.
ROHYR HADN’T ALLOWED himself to drink this much in years. Of course, it had been years since he had really spent much time in the safety of his home town. Living off the land as he did, didn't offer much opportunity to let loose and get oneself drunk. Unless one wanted to be hauled off by a bear in the dead of night sleeping off a hangover.
As disquieted as he was about the encounter with his brother, which Rohyr wasn't even sure was real, he pushed it to the back of his mind for the moment. No use in dwelling on the painful things of his past when there were more pressing things in front of him. His shoulder had a strange ache, as if Rhŷn's hand were actually real, and as if he had slapped him far harder than he intended. Rohyr rubbed it absentmindedly. No, there was no way his brother could have been there.
No way he could have been back from the dead.
He rose from the log with a low groan. Niamh and that prince of hers walked back to him in the dying light of the fire behind them. He saw every second of their tense moment just then, Fane’s irritating mouth so near to Niamh’s made his blood boil. He knew that look in his eyes when he’d watched them dance. A look of want.
As if a prince could know anything of want. He was probably used to getting everything he wanted without a second thought, only to discard it when he grew bored.
Rohyr refused to let Niamh be one of those things.
They approached him, and Rohyr could already see the discomfort simmering under Niamh’s look to him. She slipped in the muddy snow, and Rohyr reached to steady her.
“Let’s take you home, Little Sparrow.” He said, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. Though he couldn’t see it, he could practically feel Fane bristling as they walked. Mercifully, or suspiciously, the prince kept his mouth shut the entire way to the Sagesingers’ house.
It looked just as he remembered; a small wooden structure reinforced with stone on the bottom half. Niamh stumbled up to the door and messily unlocked it. “I haven’t been back for a while, so I’m sorry if everything is dusty.” She whispered, throwing them an apologetic look.
The door opened to a small space. Just big enough for a main room furnished with a deep couch and a table behind. The two bedroom doors are side by side on the left hand wall, and the kitchen through an open archway at the back.
Himself and many of the village men had pitched in to help Nythaniel build this small house for the Sagesinger siblings nine years earlier. Rohyr’s father had offered to build more for them, but Nythaniel had refused. Even then, Nythaniel was ever practical, and level-headed. Everything that Rohyr wasn’t when they were twenty.
The space was indeed dusty, and dark. Though he vaguely remembered where they had put the couch last he visited, he found himself running into it in the shadowy interior.
For Niamh’s sake, he swallowed the curse that rose to his lips and instead channeled that irritation toward the cold fireplace to his right. Rohyr set to work building a fire in the fireplace, cold with disuse. It was soon bright and blazing, warming the room.
Niamh puttered around self-consciously, swiping dust from the tops of the furniture. Then she wandered back into the kitchen, offering an “I’ll make us some tea” to no one in particular.
Now that he was alone with Fane, Rohyr could clearly feel the princeling simmering over by the front door. Rohyr absentmindedly plucked a discarded dagger from the mantle.
The prince’s nerve-grating voice hissed under his breath, so as not to be heard from the kitchen. “Don’t you have your own room in your own house somewhere?”
Rohyr glared at him mockingly. “I would prefer not to sleep in the Mead Hall with the rest of them, thank you.”
“The Hall?” Rohyr relished the confusion in Fane’s face, as if the prince couldn’t fathom that there were others in this world that may have come from wealth and power. Or, more likely, he was too dumb to realize that he was the son of a Laird and the Hall was his home. Rohyr settled on the latter possibility.
“Regardless, you can’t stay here.” Fane said. Rohyr heard the creak of leather as Fane clenched his gloved fists, stalking over to face him.
Oh, there is no way in Ifreann that you’re going to be staying here with her alone, princeling.
“Who says I can’t?” Rohyr’s grin widened, knowing it would enrage Fane, and he leaned against the mantle. “Someone has to stay here to protect Niamh from the silver-eyed lecherous princes roaming about.”
Fane looked as if he was about to punch him. Good. Let him. Then he’d have an excuse to drag him from Niamh’s house. “If you’re staying to protect her from me, then I’m staying to protect her from you.” Fane continued.
The audacity of this guy. Rohyr cocked an eyebrow. “I’m definitely not the one she’s worried about.”
Rohyr knew he won this round with that comment. Fane backed down, his face looking as if he had been struck, which Rohyr would have gladly provided if Niamh hadn’t walked back through the archway at the back of the room with a tray of steaming mugs.
She hesitated briefly, seeing the two men standing nearly nose to nose, glaring at each other.
“I made some tea...To help with the hangovers we’re sure to have in the morning.” She announced, handing Fane and Rohyr their own mugs. Rohyr noted with satisfaction that she purposely avoided Fane’s eyes. Good.
The pair of them sat on the couch, Rohyr sinking into the soft leather as if he’d lived there his whole life. Niamh curled up on the other side, cupping her mug with both hands and inhaling the steam rising from it.
Memories flashed through his mind, of nights in this same room over their years together. Nythaniel had been his best friend throughout most of their shared childhood, and they shared the unspoken agreement between them that Rohyr would be a surrogate brother to Niamh in her own brother’s absence. This agreement held over the ten years that Nythaniel had been gallivanting around the world without him.
Fane leaned against the back of the couch, his back to the two of them. Niamh still looked as if she was avoiding looking at him. Fane’s expression was one of barely contained embarrassment, his eyes shadowed. Rohyr smiled.
