‘Bravo, bravo,’ cried Hawklan and Isloman, ap-plauding ironically as the red-faced smith flopped down on to his chair between them, laughing. ‘A most moving final toast to our feast,’ Isloman added with heavy graciousness.
Loman had no time to reply to his false praise, how-ever, as, slapping him on the shoulder, Isloman said, ‘Duty calls,’ and stood up and wandered off, threading his way through the many guests who were now bustling around clearing the long rows of tables and pushing them to the sides of the hall.
‘Wait a minute. Wait a minute.’ Gavor’s agitated voice nearby rose above the mounting din. He was hopping along pecking desperately at a plate that Tirilen was dragging across the table in an attempt to remove it.
‘You’ll never fly again, you feathered barrel,’ she said.
‘I enjoy walking,’ Gavor replied without looking up, as he placed his wooden leg resolutely on the plate to impede its further progress.
Tirilen conceded defeat and relinquished the plate. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You can join in the dancing then.’ And with that she began clearing various other dishes from around the raven, though not without some anxious sidelong glances from him, and a great deal of fretful wing flapping.
‘Gavor must have eaten three times his own weight,’ Andawyr said, leaning over to Hawklan.
‘Gavor has many and capacious appetites,’ Hawklan replied caustically.
Andawyr frowned. ‘I think cavernous might be a better word,’ he said.
Further comment about Gavor was curtailed, how-ever, as the entire table on which he was sitting was pushed aside by a crowd of enthusiastic guests.
With the same abandon, the crowd shooed Hawklan and the others back until the middle of the hall was clear. Then a clapping, foot-stamping, chant began.
‘Is-lo-man. Is-lo-man.’
Just as it began to involve virtually everyone in the hall, Isloman appeared through a wide arched doorway.
‘Good grief,’ Arinndier exclaimed. ‘What’s he carry-ing?’
Isloman was carrying a large circular stone held high above his head, while behind him a small proces-sion of apprentices carried other stones of various sizes.
‘It’s a traditional hearthstone,’ Hawklan replied to the Lord, smiling. ‘Watch.’
At the centre of the hall, Isloman cautiously bent down and lowered his burden to the floor. Despite his gentleness, the floor shook as he released the hearth-stone. Then the apprentices filed forward and laid their own burdens on it. As they did so, the torches in the hall gradually dimmed, and the babble of the onlookers died away almost completely.
When the last stone had been placed, there was a considerable pile, and after making one or two adjust-ments, Isloman took something from a pouch at his belt and struck one of the largest stones with it.
Immediately, the stone glowed white and, as Islo-man stepped back, the whole pile burst into a brilliant incandescence, sending a great shower of white, orange and yellow sparks of long-held sunlight cascading upwards into the high vaulted ceiling, where they swirled and fluttered like wind-blown stars.
The light from the stones sent the shadows of the watchers dancing all across the walls, and a great cheer went up, not least from Agreth, Andawyr and the Fyordyn.
‘Magnificent,’ Arinndier shouted to Hawklan above the noise as he clapped his hands high.
Hawklan took the Lord’s arm and pointed towards the large fir tree that stood at the far end of the hall. That was a symbol the Fyordyn were familiar with and, as Hawklan pointed, the countless tiny torches that decorated it burst into life, as at that same moment similar torches flared up in Eldric’s castle far to the north.
Arinndier’s noisy approval faded into a broad but slightly sad smile.
‘I haven’t seen anything like that since I was a boy,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘I don’t know how we’ve come to celebrate the Winter Festival in such a half-hearted manner over the years, but I’ll do my best to see we bring it back to its old splendour when all this is over.’
Hawklan nodded and urged his friends forward as the rest of the guests in the hall made their way to the blazing stones or to the glittering trees as fancy took them.
Andawyr looked up through the ornate streamers that had been hung across the high ceiling like a great, colourful spider’s web.
‘May I?’ he asked, looking at Loman and casting another glance upwards.
Loman smiled and held out his hands in a silent invitation to his guest to do his will. Gleefully, Andawyr clapped his hands, then taking the cord from around his waist he flicked it out and upwards. As the cord straightened, a cloud of brilliant white sparks appeared around it. Unlike those that had burst out of the radiant stones, however, these rose slowly up into the darkness, spreading out gracefully as they did, until they covered the vaulted ceiling like the stars on a sharp frost-clear night.
The sight was greeted with an awed silence.
Even Andawyr’s glee faded, as he looked at his hands and then up at his handiwork. ‘Anderras Darion is a holy and wonderful place, Hawklan,’ he said, very softly. ‘More wonderful than I could ever have imag-ined.’
Then applause and shouts of approval rose up from the guests and, fastening his cord about himself again, the Cadwanwr beamed. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve done a party trick,’ he said. ‘But they should see the night out.’ Then placing his tongue between his teeth as an earnest of his concentration, he squinted narrowly upwards again, and snapped his fingers. Immediately, one of the stars streaked a bright white line across the ceiling.
A gasp came from the watchers and Andawyr laughed and clapped his hands again.
‘Show-off,’ came a deep voice from by his feet.
Andawyr laughed again. ‘Nonsense, Dar,’ he said. ‘This is showing off.’ And he shook his extended hand over the felci. A small cascade of sparks fell from it and spread themselves over the felci’s fur.
‘They’re not hot,’ he said, by way of reassurance to the spectators. ‘They’re quite harmless.’
And certainly, Dar-volci seemed unperturbed by the event.
‘Ratty, dear boy, you look splendid,’ Gavor said, flapping down to land in front of the felci. ‘They go with your eyes.’
Dar-volci looked at him steadily for a moment and then inclined his head slowly to look up at his benefac-tor. ‘Very droll, Andawyr,’ he said. ‘Very droll. But you should know better by now.’ Then, returning his attention to Gavor, his mouth bent into a sinister smile. ‘Light be with you, crow,’ he said, and, like a wet dog, he shook himself vigorously from nose to tail. The sparks flew off in all directions, showering most of the people standing nearby.
The main recipient, however, was Gavor, and as Dar-volci ended his impromptu display with a vigorous scratching to dislodge a few more sparks from behind his ear, he looked at the raven critically.
‘Very fetching, Gavor,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll keep a few after all.’ And he rolled over in the sparks that were scattered over the floor.
Gavor extended a wing and peered along it. Its blackness shimmered now not only with its natural iridescence but with brilliant silver lights, that shone and glinted in the flickering glow of the radiant stones.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘They’re most attractive.’ And spreading his wings he rose boisterously into the air with a raucous cry.
Hawklan watched his friend swooping and diving about the hall in great silver streaked arcs, then he looked down at Andawyr. There was a slight frown on the Cadwanwr’s face.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ’Noth-ing important. It’s just… ’
He stopped and Hawklan raised his eyebrows by way of encouragement.
‘It’s just that I wonder how he can do that,’ Andawyr finished.
‘Do what?’ Hawklan asked.
‘Shake off the lights,’ Andawyr replied.
Before Hawklan could speak, Andawyr turned to him. ‘You try it,’ he said, indicating the lights that were now decorating Hawklan’s trousers. Hawklan looked down and then, balancing on one leg, began dusting the tiny lights away. But they did not move. Instead, they seemed to pass through his hand. Carefully he tried to pick one up between his finger and thumb, but again, without success.