The lilting pipe music whistled bright and clear, diving and swooping in a lively ripple of sound. Light and laughter swung past, young men with maidens on their arms, kicking, whirling, and leaping in the intimate gaiety of the dance.
She sat apart from it, her slender fingers knitting together in her lap. Had Marcus not said he would come?
She saw his teasing face, the infectious smile tilting up the corners of his lips. "Come, sister, why not?"
"You ought to, Fiona." Peony's lovely features settled in lines of affected maturity. "I can hardly attend myself, trying to make this cottage clean and livable as I am; but 'twould be most proper for you to mingle with young people your age, and I can certainly spare your help for an evening."
"Yes, Peony." Her sister was right. "But I–"
"I am so foolish!" Marcus smacked a hand dramatically against his forehead. "If Peony doesn't come you will have no-one to keep you company. But Fiona, that's easily mended: I'll come myself. They can't be starting till the castle work is finished, unless for some queer reason the foreman lets them all off early. So I shall meet you there, if not directly at least soon after you arrive. Perhaps I can convince Bardrick to come as well!"
She gave his expectant face an answering smile. "All right, then."
But Marcus had not come.
Expecting that he would arrive soon, wanting to wait unnoticed for his arrival, she had slipped into the room and seated herself in a dim corner by the wall where no-one seemed to go. Now, longing for company and yet afraid to go out and find it, she remained on her chair and watched the spinning couples, trapped just outside that thrumming web of fellowship.
She ought to go home. But if she moved now, someone would surely see her. Oh, she wanted to be seen, to talk, to be full of Peony's social grace and poise.
I do not know what I want, she admitted to herself. Blinking away the unshed tears, she lowered her eyes from the dancing circle.
~
He shut his eyes to take in the music in its full purity of sound. Softly he hummed with it, his ear picking out the underlying harmony in the rapid flurry of notes.
Then all at once it ended, and Fred looked up as the twirling group fell apart in laughter and shouting and formed a triumphant circle around the glowing bride and groom.
"Long life to Marjorie Delaney!" cried someone, and Fred, with a smile breaking over his face, came forward to accept the cup that Braegon King was holding out to him. He gave it to Marjorie, who drank a brief draught and set it in his hands to do likewise. Then Charles held out his hands in turn, and they repeated the demonstration.
Several girls leaped forward to scatter dried flowers and fir needles over Marjorie's head, who shrank back laughing against Charles. Then they seized the bride's wrists to lead her into yet another dance. She waved her hand in a brief farewell to Fred, who watched her go with a smile on his lips and his heart full of her gladness.
"What better way to welcome you into the village than with marriage festivities for the whole village to attend?" Braegon had exclaimed when Fred mentioned to him his sister's betrothal.
"I do not feel unwelcomed," Fred answered amusedly.
Braegon sputtered and made a dismissive gesture. "That is well, my friend, but how often does the opportunity arise in the middle of winter for celebration? The village would be outraged if we did not!"
"And considering it is the middle of winter, have you a solution for gathering all the town together?" Fred inquired.
"Of course," rejoined Braegon instantly; "the common threshing floor. 'Tis used for any such occasion."
Fred smiled in acquiescence. "It will make me glad to rejoice with you and the others that day, Braegon."
Now his gaze roamed over the room, seeking out faces that he recognized. There was Cecelia, face alight in a surprising lack of her wonted reserve for a moment in the dance; there was Sandy, speaking with a girl whose hair rivaled scarlet berries in its shade. Fred remembered her as one of Mr. Earle's daughters, though he could not recall her name. Her red hair was pulled back into a smooth coil behind her head, and her clear, pale cheeks flushed slightly as she pointed to someone beyond Fred's line of sight.
Briefly he wondered where Gwenda was; she had not wanted to leave his side from the time they first arrived, but now he realized he had not seen her since the ceremony itself ended and the dancing began. But he saw her suddenly, in a corner apart from the dancers, on her knees across from a young boy. She leaned forward, her black locks falling over her shoulders and her pointed face serious but quite at ease. Satisfied, Fred looked away.
He saw her then, a figure all but concealed in the shadows of the far corner. At once he wondered who she was, for who would be sitting all alone right now?
"Braegon – Braegon." He caught the other's arm as he passed. "That woman in the corner, who is she and why is she alone?"
Braegon looked. "I do not know," he answered in surprise. "No – wait. I think she may be of the Segelas family. They came to Ceristen yesterday, do you not remember? Bardrick."
"Aye, I remember Bardrick."
"He had two sisters and a brother. I would guess she is one. She is certainly no-one I recognize. And it looks that the poor lass has come all alone, as you say!"
"No-one should be lonely on this night," said Fred firmly, and moving away from Braegon he strode across the room.
~
Fiona heard the footsteps coming her way and raised her head. It was a man approaching, a young man not much more than twenty, but the look in his grave brown eyes was older than his years. He carried himself with a careful, quiet ease. Here was a man, she felt, who would be trustworthy and honest, whose word might not easily be doubted.
"You sit alone, my lady." He spoke as courteously as if she had been a queen, his voice low and gentle.
She nodded. "I expected my brother, but he did not come. And I – it is not easy for me to enter the company of those I do not know."
"You are the sister of Bardrick, Bardrick Segelas?"
"Aye. I am Fiona, his youngest sister."
"I am Frederick Thorne, but lately arrived in Ceristen myself. That is my sister who has just been wedded," he added with a hint of brotherly pride. Looking around a moment, he drew up another of the roughly hewn wooden chairs that were scattered nearby and seated himself. "I met Bardrick yesterday; you are from Erahar?"
Again she nodded. "We were a noble family, but when my other brother was young our father and mother disappeared; the steward took control and we were treated as servants. 'Twas a year ago that we first escaped and made for Orden."
"Then yours has been a longer journey than mine," he said, regarding her seriously. "I departed Harotha with my own family four months since, and reached Orden in the last days of December."
"It was a slow journey," she assented, "but an easy one all the same."
His face warmed in an answering smile. "That is well; long and easy may be preferable above short and troublesome!"
"Was yours so difficult then?" she asked, her brows lifting in laughing question.
"Difficult? My lady Fiona, those who have heard it call it a miracle we are here at all!"
Suddenly she found that he was laughing gently, and she was laughing with him. A warmth flew up into her cheeks, but a greater happiness flooded her heart. The dreadful loneliness had fled and she was content.
"Come," Frederick Thorne said, standing. "You cannot stay here on such a joyous night as this." He held out his hand to lift her up, and gestured out into the circle of light. "There are few enough families here; it will not be a trial to introduce you to them. There is Earle, Grey, Stafford, Denholm, and King; and there is also a young man who is betrothed to Mr. Earle's eldest daughter – Julius Mogra."
"Julius Ogre!" Fiona exclaimed before she thought
Frederick Thorne looked at her, silent, not understanding.
"I – I–" Fiona stammered, ashamed. "Never mind." How could she explain and not seem snobbish, lofty?
"No," he interposed quickly, gently. "Tell me – please." She saw a soft fire, a subdued and yet passionate eagerness, awakening in his eyes.
And wondering, she answered. "Mogra is of the language that the Old Ordenians spoke, Frederick Thorne. It means monster or ogre. The great trolls of the mountains are still called Mogra."
"Ah," he breathed, and said no more for a moment. Then he looked down at her. "Call me Fred. Frederick I like, but Fred I am used to."
"As you wish – Fred."
"There, now we are coming along well," he said, and his eyes smiled teasingly though his face was still sober. After a moment she gave him a shy, answering smile.
"Come, Fiona Segelas," he said, taking her hand again. "Let me show the people of Ceristen to you."
~
Not far from the threshing floor three tired figures came to a halt under the starlight.
"We are lost." It was the girl who spoke, in weary exasperation. "I told you we should not have walked past sundown."
"I thought we were near to Orden City," returned the tallest sharply. "We should have come to it, I am certain, if we followed the road."
"I think it is plain, Mordred, that we are not on the road anymore. If we had only halted when I suggested, instead of pressing on because we were 'so close'–"
"Let us keep walking a little further."
"Mordred, enough! You have said that for the past three hours! We are not walking any further. Next thing you know we will walk into a bear den."
"Hardly likely."
"Mordred, I do not know what you are made of, but Fenris can scarcely go any further and neither can I."
"Wait, Laufeia–"
"No!"
"No, wait! Do you see that?"
"What?"
A short while later they stood in front of the dark building lit from within, listening to the cheerful sounds emanating from its walls.
"That is something, at any rate," said Mordred. He moved forward to the doorway and turned the handle slowly, looking in, the others following close behind him. And there they stood, wondering what to do next.
~
It was Braegon who saw the forms waiting just without, wary and uncertain. He hurried towards them with quick stride, curiosity playing over his slim, eager features. "Aye? Are you from down the mountain?"
'Twas a foolish question, he scolded himself. They would not understand his meaning – Orden City – and they were certainly not from anywhere on the mountain.
"I told you we were walking uphill!" The shortest of the three, a girl with a long braid of fine, pale hair, cast a sharp look at her much taller companion.
He ignored her. "Sir, are we near Orden City?"
Braegon laughed. "Near, if you count four hours' walk near. You cannot go anywhere tonight. Come within and join us in the wedding celebration; and if you must have a place to room tonight, I can surely take you myself."
He led them in masterfully. "You have been traveling far?"
Under the shadow of the night they had all looked alike, tired, thin, pale with cold. Now, however, he could see the strong differences between them; and paradoxically a heightened similarity, strengthening his first guess that they were siblings. The two young men were dark-haired, their eyes wide-set and grey in clear-cut faces, but aside from that their resemblance was slight. The older, shedding his hesitant air at the door, walked with an easy, confident grace, his head thrown back a little and his eyes alert and almost challenging. His brother, about Braegon's own height, lacked any such assurance in his manner; his slender features were almost anxious, his eyes shy.
As for the girl, he had thought her hair merely pale in the dimness, but the light showed it as a faintly reddish-blonde, a bright contrast to her brother's dark heads; her features were strikingly like the taller man's, yet her chin had an even more adamant set than his.
"I am Mordred Kenhelm," the tall young man said with a slight nod. "These are my brother and sister: Fenris and Laufeia. We have come far, yes; from Rehirne to the south."
"I know very little of the south," admitted Braegon with a wry grin. "I came from Fearnland in the north, and that is where my learning centered."
"Then Rehirne will be very south to you," said Mordred with an unexpected outflashing of quick humour.
Braegon laughed. "Indeed!"
"Is there good work for finding in Orden City?" questioned the girl, her stern tone suggesting that she was used to reminding her brother of the matter at hand.
"I am rarely down in Orden City," answered Braegon. "But I can tell you that you are welcome to stay here 'Tis as good work here as you will find anywhere else, unless you are a skilled artisan. The old cottages are good for use, with a little repair that the village will be glad to aid you in."
"The work being? We cannot farm in the winter, unless all this snow is an illusion," Mordred remarked.
"That it is not," Braegon assured him with a snort. "Nay, I meant the rebuilding of the old castle, which is to be soon inhabited again by a baron."
"It seems good," said Mordred thoughtfully, looking around. "We shall consider, certainly."
~
"They are so friendly, so welcoming." The smile echoed in Fiona's voice as she shook her head in wonder.
Fred smiled too, thinking, How could they not be?
He had approached the dim corner, seen a slender, shadowy figure and a coronet of bright hair wound around her head. Then she raised her eyes and he was struck by the poise in that one movement, the straightness of her shoulders and the graceful, proud lift of her head. He had thought of Cecelia, but her bearing was that of one to whom nobility has been inbred from birth. It had not surprised him to hear her heritage.
So his appreciation for loveliness had been quickened instantly, but in their discourse together he had sensed the vast sea of learning behind her brief words. He could not help a sense of pride as he led her among the villagers, for he felt like one who has discovered a treasure, a pearl alighted on the dark sands of the sea.
"There is Braegon," he said aloud, noticing the familiar slim dark figure nearby.
"Fred!" exclaimed Braegon, approaching him. "I have been wondering where you were."
"And I you," Fred answered smiling. "And these?" he asked, seeing the three strangers standing behind Braegon.
"They are travelers whom I am endeavouring to sway to my point of view," said Braegon with a laugh, "that Ceristen is the place they ought to settle."
"You say it as though you were having difficulty," said the tall young man, his grey eyes teasing under an unruly lock of black hair; "when the truth is, you have all but persuaded us. I asked only the night to think it over, did I not?"
Braegon conceded with a shrug. "The Kenhelm family," he introduced them, "Mordred, Laufeia, and–"
"And Fenris," said Mordred. His tone was suddenly very soft.
Fred looked at the lad in question. He could not have been more than a few years younger than his brother, maybe sixteen or seventeen; but there was a latent fear somewhere in him, manifesting itself just barely in his face. But in his eyes, as he looked at Mordred, there was love, undiminished love and trust.
~
"Farewell, my lady Fiona." The firm touch of Fred Thorne's hand was warm on her shoulder as she walked out the door into the night. The warm light streaming past her cast the gleam of gold on the snow, growing weaker and weaker until it straggled away into grey shadow. Then she was walking in the night, but the stars were out and she knew the way.
The night was calm, a calm, white, hard winter's night, the stars bright and the sky black and the air very still, nothing breathing save the trees, which creaked stiffly with the cold. She was halfway home when something stirred on the edge of the path.
Fiona's heart flew up to choke her breath, the thought of wolves coming to her mind. But the figure stepped out onto the path and it was upright, a woman's figure, clad in a long cloak. She waited, poised on the edge, looking furtively to the right and the left, and with one long stride was halfway across the path. Then she pulled up sharply and turned to stare at Fiona, and what she did next frightened Fiona more than anything else. She whirled and bounded into the trees with a leap, her dark cloak flowing about her and whipping out of sight.
What is she doing? Why would she run? Fiona pulled her shawl close and hurried along the dark path, breaking into a run. She did not slow until she reached the house.
_______________________________________
Yes, it's back! And I'm doing a MA-JOR rewrite of it. Okay, not trash-everything-major, but fairly extensive. It's like a mathematical equation. If you make a change in one place, you have to make the change in all the other areas. Definitely can't promise regular updates. But I hope you'll enjoy!