Darek caught the movement and laid a hand on his arm. Eldric started gently out of his reverie and turned to him.
Darek’s eyes flicked to the figurines and his eye-brows arched significantly.
Puzzled, Eldric followed the gaze and after a brief search, chuckled to himself. Someone had unearthed a tiny model of a hen and painted it black. It stood next to Isloman in solemn representation of Gavor.
‘Light be with you, dear boy,’ Darek mimicked.
‘Light be with you,’ said the young High Guard as the duty Sirshiant loomed up out of the shadows.
The Sirshiant came to an ominous halt in front of him, and looked down at him with exaggerated sternness.
‘And with you, trooper,’ he said slowly, his breath fogging the air between them. ‘But let’s have the correct challenge in future. Suppose I’d been a Mandroc.’
The trooper stamped his feet in the well-trodden snow. ‘Well, I’d have wished him The Light, and then whacked him with my pike, Sirsh,’ he replied.
The Sirshiant’s mouth curled slightly at the edges and one eyebrow went up.
‘Very festive of you, trooper,’ he said. ‘Very festive. I like my troopers to be thoughtful in their ways.’
‘Thank you, Sirsh,’ the trooper replied, executing another small dance and turning his gaze back to his duty, northwards. The snow-covered landscape was radiant in the brilliant moonlight but, in the distance, dark clouds shadowed the mountains and hid them from its touch. It seemed as though they were waiting, brooding, darker even than the black, moon-washed sky.
‘Why are we making such a fuss about the Winter Festival this year, Sirsh?’ the trooper asked. ‘Lord Eldric and all coming round ordering us to enjoy ourselves.’
The Sirshiant did not answer immediately, but put his hands behind his back and blew out a long steaming breath to the north.
‘Because the Lord Eldric’s got a lot of sense, lad,’ he said eventually. ‘As you’d have heard, if you’d listened to him. Him and the others are doing their best to bring the country together again. Sooner or later we’re going to have to go up there’-he nodded towards the mountains-‘and winkle those beggars out of Narsin-dalvak. Then, if I’m any judge, we’re going to have to go into Narsindal itself and find Him, if we’re not going to be looking over our shoulders forever. We can’t do any of that unless the country’s ready and with us, and the Winter Festival’s part of that.’
The trooper nodded dutifully. ‘Would it help if I went back to camp and did my bit for steadying the country right now?’ he suggested. ‘I can’t see any hordes teeming out of the mountains tonight.’
The Sirshiant turned and eyed him. ‘You’re not here to look for teeming hordes, lad,’ he advised. ‘You’re here to look out for me, in case, bewildered beyond repair by having to deal with incorrigible jesters such as your good self, I wander off into the night, howling, and, falling down, do myself a hurt.’
‘Ah,’ said the trooper, nodding sagely and dancing again.
The Sirshiant continued. ‘Bearing Lord Eldric’s injunction in mind, however, I will allow you to sing a Festival Carol to yourself, as you march conscientiously up and down. But not too loud. People are trying to enjoy themselves back at camp and I don’t want them thinking we’re being attacked.’
The trooper contented himself with a reproachful look and, hugging his pike to him, slapped his gloved hands together.
‘On the other hand,’ the Sirshiant continued. ‘It is the Festival, and a certain member of a certain group has just come back to say that the pass is still well-blocked, and all our neighbours… are busy celebrating themselves after their own fashion, so… ’ He nodded towards the camp.
The trooper grinned and set off without any further comment, but he had scarcely gone five paces when he stopped. Turning back to the Sirshiant, his face was serious. ‘I’ve been watching, Sirsh,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t see anyone coming back.’
The Sirshiant nodded. ‘Don’t worry, trooper, neither did I. That’s why he’s Goraidin, and we’re not. Enjoy your party. Light be with you.’
‘Light be with you.’ Oslang held his hands out in front of himself and then snapped his fingers.
A small star of light appeared just above his out-stretched palms. It hung motionless in the soft, subdued torchlight that filled Urthryn’s private chamber.
‘Take it,’ he said.
Sylvriss cast an uncharacteristic ‘should I?’ smile at her father, who shrugged a mighty disclaimer.
‘Is it hot?’ she asked.
Oslang laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Go on. Take it.’
Sylvriss’s tongue protruded between her teeth and, hesitantly, she reached out to take the glittering star.
As her hand closed about it, it slipped between her fingers at the very last moment. She gave a little cry of surprise and drew her hand back.
‘Try again,’ Oslang said, encouragingly.
Sylvriss, her face glowing in the torchlight, and her eyes sparkling in this newly made starlight, looked at Oslang in friendly suspicion, then reached again for the twinkling light.
As before, it floated quietly and smoothly away from her curling fingers and then from the second hand which was lying in ambush. There followed a brief flurry of increasingly frantic arm waving by the Queen, but the light moved through it all with unhurried calm.
Urthryn laughed at his daughter’s frustration, as her hands eventually fell back into her lap.
‘No,’ Oslang said, his eyes teasing. ‘Like this.’ And his hand came out and gently wrapped itself about the waiting light. As he held out his gently clenched fist, the light shone out from between his fingers with seemingly increased brilliance.
When he opened his hand, the star rose into the air and floated towards Sylvriss.
She looked from her laughing father to the smiling Cadwanwr, then abruptly, her hand shot out and seized the light.
However, she was so surprised at catching it that with another cry of surprise she immediately opened her hand and released it again.
Urthryn roared, provoking a look of indignation from his daughter.
Oslang smiled, then taking hold of the hovering star he placed it gently on Sylvriss’s still outstretched palm, closing her fingers around it gently as he did so.
‘Now clap your hands,’ he said.
After a slight hesitation, Sylvriss did as she was bidden.
A brilliant cascade of twinkling lights burst out from between her fingers and rose up to dance in front of her face. As she reached out to them, they swirled and danced around her searching hand.
‘Beautiful,’ she said.
Oslang bowed, then waved his hand. The hovering sparks scattered and spread themselves through the cellin boughs that traditionally decorated the walls of the Riddinvolk homes during the Winter Festival.
There they glittered and shone, amongst the prickly dark green leaves and bright red berries.
‘A fine trick, Oslang,’ Urthryn said. ‘It’s a pity the Old Power can’t be confined to such uses.’
‘Indeed,’ Oslang replied, relaxing into his chair and closing his eyes. ‘But who would confine the confiner?’
Urthryn nodded and let the debate die.
For a while, the three sat in companionable silence. Sylvriss, large now with Rgoric’s child, exuding a gentle, enigmatic calm which seemed to fill the room; Urthryn, content that the shores of Riddin were guarded as well as they could be, was as pleased to be spending the Festival with his daughter as he would have been celebrating with his line; and lastly Oslang, luxuriating in the lavish hospitality he had received from his hosts. He patted his straining stomach. Such over-indulgence, he thought. But there was barely a whiff of true contrition to mar his satisfaction. He must have a word with Andawyr when he got back about the Cadwanol being a little more enthusiastic about the Winter Festival in future.