myself all evening, I think it is time I returned and resumed my duty after such a long absence. Did the betrothal go well?”
“Compared to the last one, I’d say yes,” Fenna grinned. “But you should go. There are many who are anxious for your return. Shall I have the Chamberlain give you a grand entrance?”
“No!” Gen objected. “I don’t like attention. I’ll just slip in quietly and relieve Captain Tolbrook.”
“Have it your way,” she acquiesced. “But I thought bards liked the attention.”
“She saw a lot of my life, then?”
“Not that she would tell,” Fenna answered. “But I think we’d both like to hear you sing again.”
Gen felt a tap on his arm. “You can sing?” Jelenna asked, appearing from behind a nearby bush where she had been spying on the couple.
“I used to sing,” he answered, “but it’s been a long time. Not much time for it now that I have my secret duties and all.”
“Well,” Jelenna said, sitting on the bench next to Fenna. “You’ve got time now, don’t you? Sing me something since mommy, um, the Lady Magravaine, probably won’t sing to me tonight.”
Gen hesitated. He hadn’t had it in his heart to sing anything for so long that it felt like any attempt would be starting from the beginning.
“Yes, Gen,” Fenna goaded, “sing us something! My mommy, I mean the Lady Fairedale, hardly sings to me at all anymore.”
Fenna’s eyes were playful, as Gen remembered Regina’s to be.
“All right, then. Just one little song, and then I have to go. I’m a bit rusty though, so don’t expect much more than caterwauling.”
Gen crouched down and took Jelenna by the hand.
Old man winter, quiet and bitter,
Cradled a storm in frostbitten hands,
And with a breath from his icy lips
Blew it forth on the land.
With thick clouds and swirling snow it came;
With biting wind and ice it blew,
Old man winter enshrouding in white,
All that the summer sun knew.
But on some forgotten hilltop,
Struggling in a deepening drift,
An untimely crimson rose broke forth,
Blooming winter’s springtime gift.
And old man winter, quiet with wonder,
Wept at the rose as the storm retreated,
For even the iciest heart can thaw,
When by beauty it is defeated.
Jelenna and Fenna clapped, praising him warmly. Feeling embarrassed, Gen stood.
“I really should be going, now, but,” he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved Fenna’s colors, “I am excessively late in returning this to you. I hope this is a special enough occasion.”
Fenna looked on the verge of tears again as she took it from his hand. “It is.”
“I thank you again. I look forward to talking with you soon.”
“And I with you,” Fenna returned. “The Chalaine is sitting at the table next to Chertanne, as usual. Tolbrook is to the left of the dais near the kitchen door. You should find him easily. I will come in before too long, but I wish to stay here for a while.”
Gen bowed to her and went in search of Tolbrook, finding him watching from a shadowy recess where Fenna told him he would be. Owing to the loud celebration, he managed to relieve Tolbrook quietly and unnoticed despite the Captain’s shock at seeing him. Gen settled in and took account of his surroundings.
In comparison to the feast held when the Blessed One first arrived, the one celebrating the betrothal was sparsely attended. Only high-ranking nobles and aristocrats had been permitted entry. A cadre of religious men sat against the wall, Prelate Obelard among them, displaying disdain at the revelry around them. The Pontiff was at one end of the head table, and across from him was an empty seat normally reserved for Ethris.
The First Mother chatted with Regent Ogbith and his wife, while the Chalaine stared off into the crowd. Chertanne busied himself with eating, carousing with the serving women, and bantering with Warlords from his own kingdom.
Also sitting near the Chalaine was a half-elven woman, and
“Compared to the last one, I’d say yes,” Fenna grinned. “But you should go. There are many who are anxious for your return. Shall I have the Chamberlain give you a grand entrance?”
“No!” Gen objected. “I don’t like attention. I’ll just slip in quietly and relieve Captain Tolbrook.”
“Have it your way,” she acquiesced. “But I thought bards liked the attention.”
“She saw a lot of my life, then?”
“Not that she would tell,” Fenna answered. “But I think we’d both like to hear you sing again.”
Gen felt a tap on his arm. “You can sing?” Jelenna asked, appearing from behind a nearby bush where she had been spying on the couple.
“I used to sing,” he answered, “but it’s been a long time. Not much time for it now that I have my secret duties and all.”
“Well,” Jelenna said, sitting on the bench next to Fenna. “You’ve got time now, don’t you? Sing me something since mommy, um, the Lady Magravaine, probably won’t sing to me tonight.”
Gen hesitated. He hadn’t had it in his heart to sing anything for so long that it felt like any attempt would be starting from the beginning.
“Yes, Gen,” Fenna goaded, “sing us something! My mommy, I mean the Lady Fairedale, hardly sings to me at all anymore.”
Fenna’s eyes were playful, as Gen remembered Regina’s to be.
“All right, then. Just one little song, and then I have to go. I’m a bit rusty though, so don’t expect much more than caterwauling.”
Gen crouched down and took Jelenna by the hand.
Old man winter, quiet and bitter,
Cradled a storm in frostbitten hands,
And with a breath from his icy lips
Blew it forth on the land.
With thick clouds and swirling snow it came;
With biting wind and ice it blew,
Old man winter enshrouding in white,
All that the summer sun knew.
But on some forgotten hilltop,
Struggling in a deepening drift,
An untimely crimson rose broke forth,
Blooming winter’s springtime gift.
And old man winter, quiet with wonder,
Wept at the rose as the storm retreated,
For even the iciest heart can thaw,
When by beauty it is defeated.
Jelenna and Fenna clapped, praising him warmly. Feeling embarrassed, Gen stood.
“I really should be going, now, but,” he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved Fenna’s colors, “I am excessively late in returning this to you. I hope this is a special enough occasion.”
Fenna looked on the verge of tears again as she took it from his hand. “It is.”
“I thank you again. I look forward to talking with you soon.”
“And I with you,” Fenna returned. “The Chalaine is sitting at the table next to Chertanne, as usual. Tolbrook is to the left of the dais near the kitchen door. You should find him easily. I will come in before too long, but I wish to stay here for a while.”
Gen bowed to her and went in search of Tolbrook, finding him watching from a shadowy recess where Fenna told him he would be. Owing to the loud celebration, he managed to relieve Tolbrook quietly and unnoticed despite the Captain’s shock at seeing him. Gen settled in and took account of his surroundings.
In comparison to the feast held when the Blessed One first arrived, the one celebrating the betrothal was sparsely attended. Only high-ranking nobles and aristocrats had been permitted entry. A cadre of religious men sat against the wall, Prelate Obelard among them, displaying disdain at the revelry around them. The Pontiff was at one end of the head table, and across from him was an empty seat normally reserved for Ethris.
The First Mother chatted with Regent Ogbith and his wife, while the Chalaine stared off into the crowd. Chertanne busied himself with eating, carousing with the serving women, and bantering with Warlords from his own kingdom.
Also sitting near the Chalaine was a half-elven woman, and
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