memories more real to him than the present.
'Inurian told me that the acrobats are masterless men,' said Orisian, knowing from his own heart that remembrance of Winterbirths past could bring as much pain as warmth. It was often this way between the three of them: conversations skirted around dangerous territory. As much was unsaid as was said.
Knowing the pattern made it no easier to break.
Kennet sighed, which prompted a shallow, dry cough that shook him.
'The day after tomorrow,' he said after the coughing had subsided. 'Well, I must be there, I suppose.'
'Of course,' said Anyara. 'It will do you good.'
Kennet smiled at his daughter, and the sight of that weakened, shallow-rooted expression was almost enough to make Orisian turn away. 'Go with Orisian,' he said to her. 'You should not be always at my bedside. Have someone light some candles here, though. I do not want the darkness. Not yet.'
'He is no better,' said Orisian as he and Anyara made their way down the stairs. 'I had hoped he might be, by now.'
'Not much better,' agreed Anyara. 'But still, he will be there for Winterbirth. That's something. He did miss you, you know. It's good for him that you're back.'
Orisian hoped that might be true. His father's affliction touched upon painful places within him. In the months after the Fever had taken them, the absence of his mother and brother had been an aching, unbridgeable emptiness in Orisian's life. It was a wound that had not healed, but had at least become something he could bear. So too it had seemed with his father, for the first year: the sadness deep and immovable, yet accommodated as it had to be if life was to continue. The change had come with the first anniversary of their deaths. After that, these black moods had descended with growing frequency, shutting Kennet off from all around him.
Orisian felt deep sorrow for his father, and a nagging guilt at his own inability to ease his pain. But he had other, less kind, feelings too and they brought with them a different kind of guilt. He sometimes had to battle against bursts of resentment at the strength of his father's attachment to the dead. It was an attachment so intense that it both robbed Kennet of any strength he might have shared with the living and seemed to overshadow — to dismiss — the grief and loss that were lodged in Orisian's own breast.
Often, when his father looked at him, Orisian had the sense that he was seeing, or perhaps longing to see, his dead brother Fariel; and Fariel had been so strong, so clever, so fast of hand and eye, that Orisian could never match the man he would now have been.
He and his sister went out into the courtyard. Night was coming on fast, and the temperature had fallen.
The clouds of earlier had dissipated, unveiling a sky in which countless faint stars were already glimmering. Soon, that moon would turn, and winter would be born. Brother and sister stood in the centre of the yard, gazing upward. Anyara soon lost interest.
'How was Anduran, then?' she asked, rubbing her arms against the cold.
'Thriving,' said Orisian. 'Uncle Croesan is full of plans.'
'As always.'
'He's built a great hall on the square and new barns near the castle. All the forests to the south are being cleared for farmsteads and grazing lands. Everyone is busy.'
"Well, it's not before time. The Fever's long gone,' said Anyara in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she had never been touched by it. Orisian had not forgotten how it felt, when his sister lay at the very brink of death, to think that he was going to lose her as well. Perhaps it had been easier, in a way, to pass those long, terrible days inside delirium than to watch it from without.
Anyara sniffed. 'It's cold out here. Are you hungry?'
'A little.'
Anyara pulled him along by the arm.
'Let's go to the kitchens, see what's cooking.'
'Anyara,' protested Orisian, 'we'll only get in trouble.'
'Old woman!' grinned his sister.
The kitchens filled most of the ground floor of
'Inurian told me that the acrobats are masterless men,' said Orisian, knowing from his own heart that remembrance of Winterbirths past could bring as much pain as warmth. It was often this way between the three of them: conversations skirted around dangerous territory. As much was unsaid as was said.
Knowing the pattern made it no easier to break.
Kennet sighed, which prompted a shallow, dry cough that shook him.
'The day after tomorrow,' he said after the coughing had subsided. 'Well, I must be there, I suppose.'
'Of course,' said Anyara. 'It will do you good.'
Kennet smiled at his daughter, and the sight of that weakened, shallow-rooted expression was almost enough to make Orisian turn away. 'Go with Orisian,' he said to her. 'You should not be always at my bedside. Have someone light some candles here, though. I do not want the darkness. Not yet.'
'He is no better,' said Orisian as he and Anyara made their way down the stairs. 'I had hoped he might be, by now.'
'Not much better,' agreed Anyara. 'But still, he will be there for Winterbirth. That's something. He did miss you, you know. It's good for him that you're back.'
Orisian hoped that might be true. His father's affliction touched upon painful places within him. In the months after the Fever had taken them, the absence of his mother and brother had been an aching, unbridgeable emptiness in Orisian's life. It was a wound that had not healed, but had at least become something he could bear. So too it had seemed with his father, for the first year: the sadness deep and immovable, yet accommodated as it had to be if life was to continue. The change had come with the first anniversary of their deaths. After that, these black moods had descended with growing frequency, shutting Kennet off from all around him.
Orisian felt deep sorrow for his father, and a nagging guilt at his own inability to ease his pain. But he had other, less kind, feelings too and they brought with them a different kind of guilt. He sometimes had to battle against bursts of resentment at the strength of his father's attachment to the dead. It was an attachment so intense that it both robbed Kennet of any strength he might have shared with the living and seemed to overshadow — to dismiss — the grief and loss that were lodged in Orisian's own breast.
Often, when his father looked at him, Orisian had the sense that he was seeing, or perhaps longing to see, his dead brother Fariel; and Fariel had been so strong, so clever, so fast of hand and eye, that Orisian could never match the man he would now have been.
He and his sister went out into the courtyard. Night was coming on fast, and the temperature had fallen.
The clouds of earlier had dissipated, unveiling a sky in which countless faint stars were already glimmering. Soon, that moon would turn, and winter would be born. Brother and sister stood in the centre of the yard, gazing upward. Anyara soon lost interest.
'How was Anduran, then?' she asked, rubbing her arms against the cold.
'Thriving,' said Orisian. 'Uncle Croesan is full of plans.'
'As always.'
'He's built a great hall on the square and new barns near the castle. All the forests to the south are being cleared for farmsteads and grazing lands. Everyone is busy.'
"Well, it's not before time. The Fever's long gone,' said Anyara in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she had never been touched by it. Orisian had not forgotten how it felt, when his sister lay at the very brink of death, to think that he was going to lose her as well. Perhaps it had been easier, in a way, to pass those long, terrible days inside delirium than to watch it from without.
Anyara sniffed. 'It's cold out here. Are you hungry?'
'A little.'
Anyara pulled him along by the arm.
'Let's go to the kitchens, see what's cooking.'
'Anyara,' protested Orisian, 'we'll only get in trouble.'
'Old woman!' grinned his sister.
The kitchens filled most of the ground floor of
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