Chapter 18
A couple of weeks later, Gwyllion appears to transform overnight.
The castle is more alive than I’ve ever seen it.
Old men and women rush through the halls carrying beeswax tapers and armloads of firewood.
Boughs of evergreens are hung in the main corridors, and holly is strung above archways.
Wreaths of thorns and red berries sit at the center of every table in the great hall, candles lit in each one.
For the first time since I arrived, the castle feels warm. Like a tiny spark of life has ignited, however simple. Gwyllion has finally woken up. It’s brighter, louder. Alive.
In Caerwen Palace, these decorations would have been scoffed at for their simplicity.
Nobles would say they’re just items found in the forest, strung up like trash in the royal halls.
But here in Gwyllion, it feels beautiful in its simplicity.
The halls smell of pine instead of cold stone, and the scent of stewed apples and cinnamon drifts out from the kitchens.
I follow my nose and linger near the kitchen door, languishing in the scent of cider drifting from a large pot on the hearth.
Elisandra notices me and nods toward a pile of tableware in the universal look of, “Make yourself busy.”
I pick up a linen rag and begin drying the freshly washed items. Then I sort them into piles of knives, forks, and spoons.
Elisandra stands by one of the grand kitchen hearths as she gathers rolls of bread into a wide wooden bowl.
The firelight casts a warm glow across her face.
Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, revealing pale forearms dusted with flour.
“This bread is special for the Midwinter Full Moon,” Elisandra says matter-of-factly when she catches me eyeing the cinnamon-sprinkled rolls.
I blink at her, fork in hand.
“Don’t tell me it’s not celebrated in the south,” she says, pausing long enough to give me a look of pure incredulity. A stray curl escapes from her braid, falling over her blinded eye.
I shake my head. “No. It isn’t.”
Then again, in Llwyn, we don’t suffer the extreme winters that they do here in Annwyn. Maybe prolonged suffering makes people eager to celebrate something in the middle of the harshest season.
She scowls, an unexpected expression on her usually composed face. A genuine laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. I like this feisty side of Elisandra.
“It isn’t funny,” she huffs, holding the bowl against her hip and fixing me with a mock-glare. “It’s a tradition older than this castle. I can’t believe you’ve never even heard of it.”
“Please enlighten me,” I say, stepping aside as she brushes past me. Her brown homespun skirt whispers against the door frame as she rushes out into the great hall. She turns and nods for me to follow. I gather the dried tableware and head after her.
“Technically, it isn’t exactly mid-winter,” she says. “But it’s the first full moon after we’ve passed the harshest part of the season. We still have weeks to go of cold, but the worst is over and we can look forward to spring.”
She weaves through the hall as she sets bread rolls on tin platters spread along the tables. Each seat is marked by a pewter goblet and a linen napkin. It’s a far cry from the usual bare-bones place settings. The Midwinter Full Moon must be an important occasion to warrant such a display.
I trail behind Elisandra and lay a knife and fork beside each plate.
“It’s the night we honor the Moon Goddess and her blessing of light in the darkness,” she explains, her voice softer now, though no less animated. “We feast, we drink, we make merry. It’s an evening to let down our hair and toss aside our inhibitions.”
My eyebrows lift at that. “Lowered inhibitions, you say?”
Elisandra glances over her shoulder and gives me a wicked grin. “I didn’t mean it in that way. Though some ...” Her smile turns sly, and the mischief in her eyes makes me laugh.
“Sounds like trouble.” I set another knife into place.
“The best sorts, usually.” Elisandra places the last roll on a platter with a flourish and straightens, brushing flour from her hands. “After nightfall, we gather down by the shore where we can see far out into the night sky. There will be music, and dancing, and all manner of merrymaking.”
“All manner?” I echo, feigning innocence.
She gives me a sideways grin and snorts. It’s a sound I haven’t heard from her before. I’m struck by how much she’s opened up to me. Just weeks ago, she was distant and fearful. Now, she’s teasing me like an old friend.
“Maybe in the old days,” she shrugs. “There aren’t many eligible young men in Gwyllion anymore, seeing as they’re all in the borderlands.”
I look around the hall at the people who still live in Gwyllion. Men and women too old to fight, children too young, and the wounded. For the first time, I realize why Elisandra is here in Gwyllion instead of at the borderlands. Her clouded eye very likely saved her life.
“You’ll see,” she says, turning back toward the kitchen, her braid swinging against her back. “You’ll learn to love our northern customs.”
I lay the final fork and knife next to a bread plate and fall into step beside her.
The moon hangs high above the crumbling castle.
It bathes the frozen world in a silver light.
Along the snow-packed paths that wind over the cliffs and down to the pebbled shore, hundreds of candles flicker in iron lanterns.
The air is sharp with cold, but the storm clouds have passed for now.
The midnight-blue sky is clear, exposing millions of stars.
Over the great black sea, the northern lights sway hypnotically.
I grew up in the land of light. Every noble in Llwyn can create it. And yet I’ve never seen such an awe-inspiring display. I can almost see why the ancient people in Annwyn worshiped the Moon Goddess. There’s something in the moon that feels sacred.
Elisandra walks beside me, her breath puffing white in the air. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement. “It’s even grander than last year,” she says, her voice soft with awe. “The whole village must be here.”
As we reach the edge of the cliff, I pull my red cloak tighter against the wind blowing off the sea.
Below us, a celebration unfolds in a riot of sound and light.
Bonfires burn brightly against the snow-crusted beach.
Their flames crackle and spit sparks into the cold night.
Fiddles and drums carry over the wind, and laughter mingles with the crash of waves against the ice-lined shore.
It’s like I’m seeing a whole new side of Gwyllion, one reserved just for the people of Annwyn.
I glance sideways at Elisandra. Her eyes glow with reflected firelight as she drinks in the sight. Her guarded edges are gone. Tonight, she looks young and carefree.
“Come on,” she says, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the shore.
I lift the hem of my wool dress and follow her, stepping over icy mounds of hard-packed snow.
The cold bites through my boots as we step onto the beach, but no one else seems to care.
People dance in wild circles around the fires, boots kicking up snow and pebbles as they spin to the music.
Others gather in small groups, passing bottles of spiced liquor and trading stories.
Children chase each other and throw snowballs, their laughter high and bright.
Near one of the largest fires, I spot the greenhouse caretaker, Tabitha.
We’ve given each other a wide berth since our initial meeting.
Tabitha doesn’t seem the type to warm up to anyone, certainly not a Fox.
But here, she seems different. Her lined face is soft with affection as she watches a young boy.
Her grandson, I presume. He tosses icy pebbles into the sea, running away each time a wave crashes to shore.
Tabitha must sense my gaze. Her eyes flicker to meet mine, and a cloud passes over her face. She whistles sharply, and her grandson runs back over to her. She gathers him like a mother hen, ushering him back into the protective crowd, away from me.
“Elisandra!” a warm voice calls.
We turn to find a young man leaning on a cane a few steps away. His cheeks are rosy, probably from a combination of cold and the liquor everyone keeps passing around.
Next to me, Elisandra’s grip tightens on my arm. At first, I think she’s wary, but I quickly see that I’m mistaken. She has the unmistakable pallor of a girl who just learned a handsome young man knows her name.
The man’s windswept hair flutters across his forehead, and he stutters like he’s gathering courage. “I—uh, I wondered if you’d like to dance?”
Elisandra stills. She looks from me to the young man and back again. She wants to, it’s clear across her face. She just needs a gentle push.
“Well, don’t keep him waiting,” I say, extracting her grip from my elbow. “I don’t need you to protect me all evening.”
Her face melts with relief. “You’re sure?”
I smile. “Go. Have fun.”
When the man holds out a hand for her to take, I’m mildly afraid she’s going to faint, but she doesn’t.
She takes his hand as a wide grin spreads across her face.
He leads her toward the nearest bonfire, where several couples twirl and laugh with the music.
He has a pronounced limp, and Elisandra does most of the dancing, but neither of them seems to mind.
My heart fills at the sight. I’m happy for her.
I watch them for a while before I leave to walk through the crowd. Most people avoid my eyes. They turn away or walk to another fire when I pass. It’s clear I’m not welcome. I’m still an outsider. I settle near the farthest bonfire to watch the festivities. It’s a calm sort of loneliness, at least.
Someone approaches from the darkened beach. “May I speak with you?”
I spin to find Nalina standing right behind me, tall as a mountain. Her tight braid has come undone with the wind, and golden strands fly around her scarred face. She doesn’t bother to brush them away.
I nod curtly.