Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
T he days start to settle in. The winter rages on, but we’re tucked away in the tower, the only sign that the Gray God is in hiding is the ice that sometimes forms over the water, or breath that sometimes fogs the air.
I keep track of the days on my wall, just as I did before, and through asking questions of my knife, I learn that the Feast of the Good Father is coming up. That means an end to winter and that we are one season away from the Solstice.
An entire season left in the first year. What a depressing realization.
But it doesn’t seem as bad as it was before, not with Nemeth to talk to and share the hours with. We split the chores, and even cooking and cleaning doesn’t seem so terrible when you have company at your side and someone to share the duties. At first we’re a little on edge with one another, uncertain as to the other’s motives, but that quickly turns to an easy friendship. Nemeth is as kind and sweet as he is oversized, a big gentle giant who does his best to bluster and seem tough, but who is truly sweet inside.
He’s courteous, making sure that I have my privacy when I need it, and I try to give him his, aware of what he might be doing when he’s alone. I stop asking the knife about such things, because it seems unfair. He’s my friend, and right now I value friendship far more than a lover. Although sometimes, I truly do ache. It’s worst just before my moon-flow, when I wake up from dreams with my hands between my thighs, of feeling an aching, hollow need that can only be filled one way. Sex is a craving, and when I’m moody and irritable, I get all the cravings. On those days, I take to hiding in my rooms for a time, hastily rubbing out a climax so I can relax.
On the morning of the Feast of the Good Father, the air is so frigid that it hurts to breathe, and the water pump in the kitchen is entirely iced up.
“No bathing today,” Nemeth says, breaking a drip of frozen water off the underside of the pump. “We have water in a pitcher upstairs to drink, at least, so we will not have to go without.”
“Oh no. And today is Feast Day.” I barely manage to avoid pouting. Barely. “I wanted to celebrate.”
“Feast Day?” he asks. “Feast for what?”
“The Feast of the Good Father?” I blink up at him. “Do you not celebrate it? I thought we could do a small grain-cake to mark the passing of time or something. It’s for good luck.”
He arches one of those heavy, stony eyebrows at me, leaning on the useless water pump. Now that it’s colder, he’s taken to wearing a heavy, enormous cloak over his wings, and I can tell it bothers him, because he’s constantly slapping it out of the way. Even now, he pushes it aside as he regards me. “No, we do not celebrate such a thing. Exactly who is this Good Father you celebrate?”
“Why, Mekaon Vestalin, of course. He was the king of Lios long ago, the great-grandson of the hero Ravendor Vestalin, back when the Vestalin family still held the throne. His daughters were stolen away by Fellian princes. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of the story.” When he indicates I should continue, I do. “Mekaon threw a wedding feast, pretending that he wanted to honor their marriages, but when the grooms arrived, they were slaughtered and the pieces sent back to Darkfell. His daughters were returned to him and the gods were so pleased that they blessed each Vestalin daughter with a child and a new, noble Liosian husband and the Vestalin line continued.” I purse my lips. “Okay, I’m starting to see why you don’t celebrate it.”
His lips twist in a wry smile. “Celebrate the willful slaughter of my kinsmen under the false truce? No, we do not celebrate it at all.”
“Fair enough, but the gods did bless them,” I point out. “All four of the Vestalin daughters had children and not one of them had the blood curse.”
“And did those children have wings? How did their knees bend?”
Rude. “Are you insulting my ancestors by saying that they bore the children of the men that raped them?”
“I am saying that perhaps the Vestalin daughters didn’t want to come back, and that perhaps they were happy with their Fellian husbands until their father decided he didn’t like it. I’m saying the gods had nothing to do with it, and there’s no reason to feast.”
I scowl at him. It’s a story I’ve heard all my life, and one that reminds all of Lios just how important the Vestalin bloodline is. I love the Feast of the Good Father. Why is he making me doubt the story? “It’s not like we can celebrate anyhow. Our water is frozen, we can’t cook because we shouldn’t spare anything, and it’s not as if we have a good deal of pepper anyhow. Or apples.”
He blinks at me. “Pepper? Apples?”
Grinning, I flounce to the root cellar in a swirl of skirts. “You don’t know the tradition? Okay, so after the Vestalin brides returned, a second feast was held, a betrothal feast. The brides wanted stalwart husbands, so each one took an apple and studded it with peppercorns. Each suitor would take a peppercorn and pull it free from the apple with his teeth, and bite down on it. If he sneezed or spat it out, he was eliminated from consideration.” I pause. “But I guess you don’t know much about the Feast traditions, right?”
“Yes, I stopped listening after the slaughter of my ancestors,” he says dryly.
I make a face at him. “Well, anyhow, the tradition is that those at court flirt by studding apples with peppercorns and handing them to a man they’re interested in. If he’s interested back, he takes a peppercorn from the apple with his teeth. It’s truly a lot of fun.” I sigh, eyeing our dwindling supplies in the root cellar. “No apples left, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry to disappoint, princess. If it makes you feel better, we have more stew to eat.”
More stew. I bite back a sigh. While I am thrilled with every bite of it, simply to have good, warm food, sometimes the monotony bothers me. “Stew is a celebration all its own,” I say cheerfully. “Especially when you’re cooking.”
Nemeth smiles at me.