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"I drink to my son Mike Havel Jr., Brother of the A-list, who saved the life of my brother Eric Larsson on the field of battle at the risk of his life, shedding enemy blood and taking wounds. Drink hail!"
"Wassail!"
This time it was a roar. Mike Jr. flushed; he was seated at the high table for the first time, with the A-list brand between his brows still new enough to be raw.
He was too young for the standard Initiation, but there was an exception for valor in the field, and nobody had even whispered that he didn't deserve it, for saving Eric's life and for keeping the flag despite his broken ribs. They were still tight-bandaged beneath his jacket, but he gri
They cried the Wassail! again and again, until it turned into a chant: first "Hail! Hail! Hail!"
And then: "Lord… Bear… Lord… Bear!" amid fists pounding on oak until the holders that carried the horns shook and the red wine quivered over the gold-bound rims.
Signe felt the chant sing in her veins as it echoed through the great chamber. She leaned forward, suddenly quivering-tense. Would he take it? She'd given him advice on what to say, but the boy had a mind of his own. The formalities would come later, but if her son stretched out his hand now…
He stood, pale and looking older than his fifteen years. The noise died away to a breathing hush, like the tension in a great cat before it leapt.
"Brothers and Sisters of the A-list… free folk of the Outfit
…" he said, and raised his horn.
"I drink to my father, Mike Havel, Corporal in the United States Marine Corps, Force Recon, who never turned his back on an enemy, or on a friend! My father, who stood between the Bear and his folk, who wrestled with Sky and Death itself on the day of the Change, who brought us from the far cold mountains to this good earth! My father, who built our walls and made our laws, who judged justly, who killed the tyrant Arminger with his own hands, whose blood was the sacrifice that renewed the land. Hear us, Founder, lawgiver, land-father! We keep faith with you, Bear Lord! Drink hail! "
"Wassail!" came in a quivering roar that shook the very chandeliers overhead, until shadows swung gigantic on the walls.
Her son lowered the horn from his lips. He waited until silence fell again, then walked to the empty chair and laid his free hand on the hilt of the great blade that rested across its arms. His face was very calm; and it looked so much like the one she remembered there.. .
"I'm proud to have shed my blood for the Outfit," he said, his voice steady and pure if still a little lighter than a grown man's.
He waited out the cheer that followed before he continued:
"And if our free folk hail me as Bear Lord when my time comes, I will take up my father's sword and the Bear Helm, and with it his drighten might and right. Then I will give you my oaths to render good lordship and take your freely plighted hold-oaths, that your might be mine and mine be yours. For the lord and the land and the folk are one."
Utter quiet fell, a tribute more complete than any roar; she could see tears on some faces, and slow nods of agreement from many more.
My son, my son! she thought, through a glitter of her own tears, and a pain that was also joy. Oh, Mike, if only you could be here to see him now!
The youth went on: "But first I must learn to fight like my uncle, Lord Eric, our war-leader-"
"Better than me, boy!" Eric said, gri
"And I must learn to lead as wisely as my mother, Signe, Lady of the Bearkillers, whose forebears' blood won this land long ago. Until then, let them rule-and let me learn from them."
He turned to her: "I drink to Signe Havel, Sister of the A-list, whose wisdom saw the threat of the Prophet and the tyrant Thurston! Drink hail! "
"Wassail!"
Signe didn't drink the toast to herself, but the rush of pride was stronger than the wine could have been.
That's my boy! she thought. He wants it, yes… but he knows when to take it. High Lord, Lady Freya, all kindly alfar, you've gifted him with brains and guts both!
"I drink to our war-leader, Eric Larsson, who got us out of that cluster-fuck in Pendleton unreamed!" he went on. "And who gave his hand to smash down a wolf that ravened at our throats. Drink hail!"
"Wassail!"
Eric stood once more. "And I drink to my nephew, and my son, because without them you'd be drinking toasts to my ashes in a goddamned urn! Drink hail!"
As the shout of Wassail! rang out there was laughter in it, the high tension of the moments before gone.
It increased as the horn tilted back, and it became obvious that Eric was going to drain it or choke. Others did likewise; Mike and Eric's son William linked their arms each through the other's as they drank, laughing with the red wine on their chins. Fists and feet pounded in rhythm with the flutter of Eric's Adam's apple, dissolving in cheers as he pulled the horn away from his mouth, wiped the back of his great gold-furred hand across his bearded mouth and held it upside down to show that hardly a drop remained.
"And now… let's just drink!" he called.
DUN JUNIPER, THE FIELD OF FLOWERS OCTOBER 31, CY 23/2021 AD
Juniper Mackenzie had planted flowers here on the slopes below the plateau many years ago, when this had been her winter retreat between the festivals and tournaments at which she busked for her living. Her great-uncle's grandfather had planted the gnarled apple trees, when this had been a working farm and the Mackenzie kin fresh from the Oregon Trail and the hills of East Te
Now the flower beds and rosebushes spread along the slope to either side of the Dun's gates, the flowering vines climbing the stucco halfway to the frieze of painted blossoms and half-hidden faces below the parapet. Most of the blossoms were past now; a few faded slashes of color clung amid careful mulch and pruning, brought out by the old gold light of sunset on a day that had dawned with rain and was ending with a clear sky. There was a silty smell of damp turned earth and the musky scent of leaves and straw undergoing the slow decay of autumn.
And so many of them Chuck did the planting of, and we pla
Chuck had been Lord of the Harvest long before he was First Armsman. She remembered his face, that first year, when they started to dig the potatoes he'd planted.
And he scoured the Valley for seeds and cuttings for this garden so that we might have beauty as well as food, when he had the time between the ten thousand thousand other things… Thirty-two years I knew you, Chuck; more than half my life. Even before you married Judy you were a friend, and afterwards like the brother I never had, and you were there at my hand in all we built.
The meadows below the flowers were crowded. The voices of her people rang out, ending the ceremony:
"We all come from the Wise One
And to her we shall return
Like a waning moon,
Shining on the winter snow;
We all come from the Maiden-"
Judy Barstow Mackenzie took the urn with her man's ashes as the song ended and walked down the rows of the garden, pouring them on the damp soil; her sons and daughters followed, spading the gray powder into the rich brown dirt. Beneath the hoodlike fold of the arsaid drawn over her head Judy's face looked…