“He is not here, Sirda,” said Aldaeld, now sure of the object of the young elf’s search.
“Who?” replied Sirda, feigning ignorance.
“You know who I mean, boy. Kyarno.”
“I am not a boy,” snarled Sirda. His face flushed and he reached for his sword. His father’s hand snatched out and gripped his son’s wrist.
“Ah, yes, the outlaw,” said Valas, easing his son’s hand from his sword hilt. “His theft of our steeds was an act of great skill and cunning. I much desire to meet him. He still resides within your halls, Lord Aldaeld?”
“For now,” nodded Aldaeld.
“Then bid him attend the Winter Feast,” said Valas. “I wish to meet this elf who can evade my waywatchers and steal away with our most beloved steeds.”
“Kyarno let them loose as soon as he stole them!” snapped Morvhen. “They must have returned to their stable glades soon after.”
“Daughter!” barked Aldaeld. “Know your place here! Be silent!”
Aldaeld could see the amusement in the faces of the Laithu kinband and knew he had to end this farce of a welcome.
“Come,” he said, turning his steed. “The Winter Feast awaits!”
Leofric thought he had already seen the full majesty of Coeth-Mara, but as he sat in the inner halls of Lord Aldaeld, he realised that what he had seen thus far had been but a taster for this miraculous sight.
The abiding impression he would take to his grave was, that of light.
Though winter had laid its velvet blanket of night upon the forest and the darkness crept back into the world almost as soon as it had left, the feast hall of Coeth-Mara was lit with dazzling brightness and colour.
“Close your mouth,” said Kyarno. “A spite will fly in and then you’ll be sorry.” Leofric snapped his mouth shut, having not realized it had fallen open again at the awe-inspiring sight of such incredible beauty. He and Kyarno sat at a gracefully curved table that grew from the soft earthen floor of the hall, alongside laughing elves who told lyrical tales and sang heartbreakingly beautiful ballads in their wonderfully musical language. “Sorry,” he mumbled, taking another drink of water.
The spell-sung walls were tall and majestic, twisting, looping spirals of pale branches weaving in intricate, natural patterns towards an arched ceiling of great, needle pointed icicles. Each one was home to a spite of some sort, the ice glittering with the golden light of the creatures at play within.
Tresses of branch and flower garlanded every wall and a tall fire of dead wood burned in the centre of the hall, surrounded by tables and benches shaped from the roots of the mighty trees that enclosed Lord Aldaeld’s hall.
Warmth and life filled the hall as the elves of Coeth Mara gathered for feasting and song, perhaps a hundred souls come to make merry with their fellows. Attending to the elves of Coeth-Mara were youngsters who bore platters of meats and fruit and jugs of wine throughout the hall. None looked older than ten summers and the sight of them reminded Leofric of his own son’s face once more. The boys each wore a simple tunic of pale green, upon which was embroidered a white stag, and the sight of these youths sent a pang of aching sadness through Leofric.
Through previous discourse with Kyarno, he had learned that winter was a time of sadness within Athel Loren as the forest slept away the long watches of darkness before the joyous coming of the spring.
But even amidst this time of darkness it seemed there was life and joy to be had, the darkness tempered by the sure and certain knowledge of the forest’s rebirth.
Such was the purpose of the Winter Feast, a celebration of life amid death.
The scent of new blooming flowers was incongruous, but welcome, and the sense of shared kinship and love amongst Lord Aldaeld’s people was contagious, even though Leofric knew he was not truly a part of this celebration.
Leofric wondered if perhaps it was that very detachment that allowed him to better see the tension lurking behind the smiling faces of the revellers, for he could sense an underlying current of wariness among Lord Aldaeld’s people. Whether that wariness was due to the surly presence of the newly-arrived warriors of the Laithu kinband or Cu-Sith and his prowling wardancers, who stalked through the hall like predatory cats, Leofric did not know, but he had felt it the moment he had entered.
Leofric wasn’t even sure why he was here, Tarean having sent for him as the pale light of afternoon turned to the soft purple of dusk. True to his word, Leofric had cleaned himself up as best he could — though his beard and hair were beginning to get the better of him — put on Tiphaine’s jerkin and hose, polished his armour and awaited his summons. More used to the stiff formality of the court feasts at Quenelles, Leofric had been pleasantly surprised by the informality he saw here.
Though even in such apparent informality he saw there was a hierarchy at work. Seated at the far end of the hall, on a raised dais of pale wood, were Lord Aldaeld and his closest kin. Naieth and Morvhen sat beside the lord of Coeth-Mara, together with Tarean Stormcrow, while behind them stood the warriors of the Eternal Guard.
“What manner of weapon does Cairbre wield?” asked Leofric as he watched the Hound of Winter complete another circuit of the hall with his long twin-bladed spear held beside him.
“It is called a Saearath, which means ‘spear-stave’ in your tongue,” explained Kyarno, procuring himself a plate of aoilym fruit and another jug of wine, “though the weapon Cairbre carries is unique. He is the bearer of the Blades of Midnight.”
“Unique? Is it magical?”
“It is said so,” nodded Kyarno, “but none but the bearer may know its powers.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know,” shrugged Kyarno, obviously unwilling to be drawn further. Leofric decided to change the subject and looked over to the end of the hall at the guests of Lord Aldaeld, saying, “Is that the leader of the Laithu kinband with Lord Aldaeld? He looks quite different from the elves I have seen in Coeth-Mara.”
“As well he ought,” nodded Kyarno, taking a bit from the red-skinned fruit, the bittersweet aroma filling the air and making Leofric’s mouth water. He longed to taste the strange fruit, but the dire consequences that would result from partaking of magical faerie food and wine had been drummed into him from boyhood.
He shook his head clear of the desire to eat the elven fruit as Kyarno spoke again of the Laithu kinband. “They hail from the Vaults of Winter, a gloomy place of permanent darkness and cold, where the season never changes and the glow of the moons is the only light to touch their skins.”
“That sounds like a terrible place,” said Leofric. “Why do they stay there?”
“It is their home,” replied Kyarno, as though the answer should be obvious. “In your tongue, the name Laithu means Moonblade, and it is said they work their finest enchantments with the light of the stars.”
“And why are they here?”
“Ah…” said Kyarno, wiping the aoilym fruit’s juice from his chin and taking a long drink of wine from the jug. “That might have something to do with me…”
“What do you mean?”
“During the summer I crept into their stable glades and took some of their steeds.”
“You stole from them?”
“Only for a while,” protested Kyarno. “I let the horses go once I was clear of their domain. The steeds would have returned to the stable glades soon after.”
“If you let them go then why did you steal them in the first place?” asked Leofric.
“It was a bit of harmless fun,” sighed Kyarno. “Isha’s tears, you are starting to sound like Cairbre! I took them to show that I could. Haven’t you ever tried something impossible just to prove that it could be done?”
Leofric started to shake his head, then stopped as a memory surfaced. Kyarno saw his realisation and said, “You have, haven’t you? Come on, tell me of it.”
“No, it’s not the same.”
“Come on, tell me!” laughed Kyarno, relishing Leofric’s discomfort an
d drinking more wine.
Leofric spread his hands and said, “All right, all right. You have to understand though, that I was but a knight errant at the time and young and foolish.”
“You’re stalling. Come on, tell me what you did,” urged Kyarno.
“Very well,” said Leofric. “To be worthy of the chance to court Helene, I rashly challenged Duke Chilfroy of Artois to a joust on the tilting fields of Couronne. He was the best and bravest knight in Bretonnia, skilled beyond all others with a lance, and no man had ever unhorsed him. We faced each other down the length of the field and though I was shaking fit to soil my armour, I knew… somehow I just knew that I could best him.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, I just knew,” shrugged Leofric. “It was as though the Lady had whispered it as a certainty in my ear.”
“And did you beat him?” asked Kyarno, finishing the last of the wine.
“Yes,” nodded Leofric proudly. “My lance took him clean in the centre of his chest and sent him flying from the back of his horse. I do not think I have ever had as sweet a memory as that.”
“You see?” said Kyarno, putting down the empty wine jug and rising unsteadily to his feet. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand what I did. It’s the urge to achieve what can’t be achieved, the drive to succeed in the impossible task that makes us feel really alive! You fell it as you challenged the knight and I felt it when I stole the Laithu kinband’s steeds. And I’d do it again!”
“Really? Even after the trouble it’s caused you?”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t challenge that knight again?”
Leofric shook his head. “I am older and wiser now, Kyarno. I have become a knight of the realm and I recognise the difference between valour and impetuosity.”
“That’s no answer!” cried Kyarno. “And anyway, I need some more wine.”
Kyarno’s voice was getting louder and louder, and Leofric could see he was attracting some unwelcome stares, but before he could say anything, Kyarno set off in the direction of the serving tables in search of fresh wine.
Leofric let him go, watching the smooth grace of the wardancers as they circled the tables and firepit with unhurried dances. The inhabitants of Coeth-Mara were deferential to the painted elves, but Leofric could see that none were entirely comfortable being near them. Cu-Sith himself leapt and tumbled through the high arches of the hall, moving as though free of the constraints of gravity.
Leofric remembered the performance of the companion of the troubadour, Tristran, when he had performed for Duke Tancred in Quenelles, dazzling the assembled court with his wonderful acrobatics and somersaulting. But even the most graceful human acrobats moved like a pregnant sow when compared to the savage grace of Cu-Sith.
He reached for the water jug, only to discover it was empty. He was about to search for more when a small voice beside Leofric asked, “Would my lord wish more water or fruit?”
Leofric looked down to see one of the green-liveried serving boys standing behind him, a brimming jug of water held in one hand and a platter of fruit in the other. Leofric nodded, holding out his goblet to be filled, noticing that the boy’s face had a ruddy, healthy glow, quite unlike the alabaster skin of the elves.
The boy poured some water into Leofric’s goblet and asked, “Does my lord require anything else?”
“No, thank you,” said Leofric. “That will be—”
His words trailed off as he looked closer and saw that the boy was not what he had first taken him to be.
“You are human…”
Leofric put down his goblet and turned to face the boy, now seeing the more rounded face, the darker skin and the ears of a human being. The boy turned to leave, but Leofric gripped his tunic and held him fast.
“You are human,” repeated Leofric.
“My lord?” said the boy, a puzzled look in his eyes. Leofric kept hold of him and cast his gaze throughout the hall, looking at the rest of the serving boys. Confronted with the truth, it was now obvious that all the children who served the elves of Coeth-Mara were human.
“Can I go now, my lord?” asked the boy.
“No,” said Leofric, still struggling with the humanity of the child. “Not yet. What is your name, boy?”
“My name?”
“Yes, what do they call you?”
“Aidan, my lord.”
“A good Bretonnian name,” said Leofric. “Tell me, Aidan, why are you here?”
“I am here to serve at the Winter Feast.”
“No, I mean here in Athel Loren. How did you come to be here?”
“This is where I have always been,” said Aidan with a puzzled expression.
“Always? How long have you been here?” asked Leofric, a terrible suspicion forming in his mind.
“Since… I don’t know, my lord. Always.”
“Very well, Aidan. Tell me which king sits upon the throne of Bretonnia?”
“The king?” said Aidan, pulling his face in the grimace of concentration common to all small boys. “I think his name was Baudoin. I remember they called him the Dragonslayer.”
Leofric sat back, releasing his grip on the boy’s tunic, feeling as though he’d been punched in the gut. King Baudoin had indeed been known as the Dragonslayer after he had slain the great wyrm, Mergaste — a great fresco in the cathedral of Bastonne commemorated the heroic deed.
“How could that be?” said Leofric. “King Baudoin slew the dragon more than a thousand years ago.”
“Really? It seems like only yesterday. I don’t remember much about it. My mother told me the tale.”
“And where is your mother? Where do you come from?”
“I don’t remember,” shrugged the boy. “I come from Athel Loren, my lord.”
“But you are not elven, you are human. You must have come from somewhere.”
“I don’t know, my lord,” said Aidan. “I have always been here.”
“Stop calling me ‘my lord’, boy,” snapped Leofric, his exasperation growing with every obtuse answer.
“What should I call you then?”
“Call me Sir Carrard,” snapped Leofric. “Now tell me—”
“Carrard?” exclaimed the boy. “There is another here called that. Shall I fetch him for you?”
Leofric felt a sudden chill seize him at these words and the colour drained from his face. If the boy spoke the truth and he had served the elves of Coeth-Mara since ancient times… might then this Carrard boy be his…
Looking closely at the boy, Leofric saw a ghostly luminescence to his skin, an ageless quality that spoke of a moment frozen in time. The boy’s eyes were differently coloured — one blue, one green — and Leofric knew that such fey children of Bretonnia often received a visitation from the prophetesses of the Lady before being spirited off to the Otherworld.
Though it was a great honour for a child to be chosen, families mourned their sons and daughters as lost, believing they were going to a better place to serve the Lady of the Lake. Sometimes the girl-children returned to Bretonnia many years later as damsels of the Lady, but of the boy-children’s fate, nothing was known.
Was this what befell them? Doomed to live here in Athel Loren, ageless and unchanging, forever…
“My lord?” asked the boy. “Are you unwell?”
“What?” whispered Leofric. “No… no, I am well, Aidan, but I wish you to go now.”
The boy nodded and bowed to Leofric, returning to his duties in the hall.
Leofric watched him go, a mix of emotions vying for supremacy in his heart. The life of most children in Bretonnia was one of misery, pain and poverty, but the thought of a child denied the potential of his natural span of years horrified him.
Who was to say that this life was better or worse?
Kyarno threaded his way through the thronged hall, smiling at folk he knew and enjoying the warmth he now felt in Coeth-Mara. Was this how it felt to belong to something? All his life, he had felt like an outsider, but now h
e felt accepted and welcome. Perhaps he was ready now to take his place within the Eadaoin kinband.
He knew the wine was making him mellow, but didn’t care. Not even the hostile stares of the Laithu kinband could dampen his spirits. Yes, he decided, he would do honour to his kin by accepting his place within the kinband and thus secure Lord Aldaeld’s blessing to wed his daughter. He chuckled to himself at the thought, knowing that the wine put such spring fantasies into his head, but he could not deny he desired them.
Kyarno paused to join a group of elves watching a female wardancer give a display of incredible martial acrobatics, the near-naked girl leaping and twirling in the air while slashing a long, two-handed sword around her body. The blade swept around her like silver wire, its edge cutting the air no more than an inch from her painted flesh.
Though the presence of wardancers had put everyone on edge, not least because it was the troupe of the Red Wolf, there was much to admire in the incredible skills they had. Though he had seen the Dance of the Seasons before, Kyarno looked forward to witnessing it performed by Cu-Sith and his warriors, for it was certain to be something spectacular.
The wardancer’s display ended as she landed in a crouch, the sword angled upwards behind her body, and Kyarno joined her audience’s rapturous applause. The wardancer stood, her every movement fluid and graceful, and stalked away without acknowledgement, joining her kindred warriors as they gathered around the fire at some unheard summons of Cu-Sith. The Red Wolf stood with his arms upraised, holding a long spear garlanded with leaves in a spiral pattern in both hands. The taut muscles on his chest rippled with the motion of the great wolf tattoo while his wardancers adorned his flesh with chalk, lime and fresh talismanic paint.
Kyarno looked for one of the human serving boys and made his way towards him, looking for more wine. He saw Morvhen weaving her way through the crowd and forgot about wine, angling his course towards her. She saw him and smiled, and Kyarno felt the sun on his face to be in love with a sylph of such beauty. Attired in a regal gown of cream silk and gold, she looked every inch the daughter of an elven lord, the fabric clinging wonderfully to the curves of her lithe body.