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Those Hall-dwellers on kitchen duty brought out bowls and platters and set them out, then sat themselves. Most families in Dun Juniper had their own hearths, but there were always a fair number eating in the Hall, besides the Barstows, Trethars and others who lived there; guests like the Bearkillers, or people from elsewhere in the Clan's territories come to learn craft skills or to share the holy mysteries or do a hundred types of business. Even a wandering gangrel could find a meal in the Chief's Hall in return for a little wood-chopping or other chores; after all, any such could be the Lord or Lady in disguise. Though it was hard to believe a lot of the time, since they were always smelly and often mad.
"We start to decorate the tree tomorrow," Rudi said. "Nine more days of the Twelve, and then it's Yule."
"Christmas," Mathilda said, nodding. "But the twelve days come after Christmas."
Rudi gri
"No, this is Yule, Matti. That's the shortest day, the twenty-first this year. On the First Day we go out and find the tree and cut it, on the Second Day we bring it here, and Third Day we put it up; for the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone, you know? And the Tree is the Holly King's: well, you know. Then we've got nine days for the rest, cooking and making presents and getting ready for the Solstice Vigil. Mom says we stole the Twelve Days and changed them round 'cause the Christians stole Yule and messed it up."
"We did not!" Mathilda said, then hesitated. "At least, I don't think so. What do you decorate it with?"
"Oh, all sorts of things. Old-time stuff, and strings of popcorn, and little carved sprites, and, oh, lots of stuff. It's fun."
"We didn't decorate our own Christmas tree at home, but it was very pretty," Mathilda said. "We always had Christmas at Castle Todenangst. I'd come down in the morning, and open the presents with Mom and Dad."
Rudi frowned. "But decorating it yourself is half the fun!"
They loaded their plates from the platters and baskets as they spoke: corned beef, chunks of grilled venison with a sauce of garlic-laced yogurt, mashed potatoes with bits of onion, fresh steamed kale, boiled cabbage and glazed carrots and fresh brown bread and hot cheddar biscuits and butter. Mathilda slipped a sliver of the beef to a big black tomcat crouched under her chair; he bolted it and then went back to glaring around with mad yellow eyes. Saladin had come as part of the ill-fated diplomatic mission from Portland last Lughnasadh, and the other Hall cats hadn't accepted him yet: or vice versa.
Juniper Mackenzie stood, and the hum of conversation stilled. She raised both her hands in the gesture of power and blessing before she spoke, her strong soprano filling the Hall, half song and half chant:
"Harvest Lord who dies for the ripened grain Corn Mother who births the fertile field Blessed be those who share this bounty.
And blessed the mortals who toiled with You
Their hands helping Earth to bring forth life."
Most of the crowd joined in the final Blessed be; then they waited politely while the Christians said their grace. The two Bearkillers at the top table crossed themselves and murmured words: Bless us, O Lord : So did Mathilda, in another fashion-Catholics who followed Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski at Mount Angel used a slightly different rite from the Orthodox Catholic Church of the Protectorate's Pope Leo.
Juniper went on: "And special thanks to Andy and Diana and everyone working the kitchens, who managed to produce what looks like a great di
The Trethars stood and bowed as everyone clapped. Rudi's mother took from its rest a silver-rimmed horn of wine-that had started its life as one of a pair of longhorns over a Western-themed bar in Bend-and poured a small libation in a bowl. Then she raised the horn high over her head and cried:
"To the Lord, to the Lady, to the Luck of the Clan- Wassail!"
"Drink hail!" fifty voices replied, raising their cups and drinking with her.
Rudi dutifully sipped at a tiny glass of mead, watered for a youngster's strength; he preferred the cream-rich milk in the waiting jug, but the proprieties had to be observed. The hum of conversation began again, along with the clatter of cutlery. Rudi poured himself milk and a glass for Mathilda, spread his napkin on his lap and ate with the thoughtless, i
"Blueberry tarts for dessert!" he said happily. "With whipped cream and honey."
"So that's Arminger's kid," Lua
"No," Juniper Mackenzie said, using a spoon to put some horseradish beside her corned beef.
She did it cautiously; the crock was a gift from Sam's wife, and though nuclear weapons didn't work post-Change, Melissa Aylward's horseradish sauce was an acceptable substitute.
"No," she went on. "She's Mathilda, a girl whose parents are Norman and Sandra Arminger, through no fault of her own, so. And who for the now lives with me and my son."
Eric Larsson gri
"OK, enough with the mixed metaphors," Lua
"And she's: what's the word, Juney?" Eric replied.
"My fostern," Juniper supplied. He's grown into himself, she thought to herself. She'd met Eric Larsson in the fall of the first Change Year, and known him fairly well since as he developed into Mike Havel's right-hand man as well as just his brother-in-law.
Back then he was eighteen and just trying on a man's life, like someone with a new coat that's a little too big jor him. Now he's like a big golden cat – good company to his friends, and very dangerous to something he decides might he good to eat. Vain as a cat, too, though with reason. And more at home in the Changed world than we who were full-grown can ever he, though not so much as his children will be.
He also added flamboyant touches to the long jacket and pants most Bear-killers wore: embroidered cuffs on a coat left open to show more embroidery on his linen shirt and neckerchief, a gold hoop earring, silver buttons on his jacket worked into wolf heads, rings on the fingers of his large but curiously graceful hands.
"Arminger's still going to come at us," Eric said. "Kid or no kid." "Sure, and you're right about that," Juniper said. "He's a bastard of a man with the soul of a mad weasel, and no mistake. And that was obvious even before the Change."
The two Bearkillers looked at her. "You knew him then?" Eric said in astonishment.
"No, but I knew of him. Under his Society name-Blackthorn of Malmsey- so it was years after the Change before I realized who it was; I haven't seen him since, and knew nothing of him beyond his Society persona, you see. He was the one who brought an ox to a tournament. That I had from an eyewitness." "He brought an ox? He's into bestiality, on top of everything else?" Eric laughed. "Not as a date," Juniper said in quelling tones. "He had a taste for sweet young things even then. No, he wanted to demonstrate how out of touch with reality the Society fighters were, bashing each other with rattan blades and relying on the honor system."