It was
Midwinter's Eve and a misty rain was falling upon the city of Moontree. The city streets were largely empty, even the
most devout holiday reveler having slunk indoors to find what cheer they could
near a warm hearth or in the loving embrace.
Still,
watchfires burned throughout the city and the temples blazed with light on this
darkest of nights. The air smelt of
chimney smoke, the unmistakable stench of the sea and the crip smell of wet
pine.
Isteban
Mirelle stood on the rear lawn of his Silver Hill home, a tankard of hot cider
in one hand, his head tipped back. He
watched the sky, oblivious to the cold, damp air but appreciating the warmth of
the drink in his hand.
His home
was quiet. The windows, festooned with seasonal greenery, were shuttered
against the dark.
The
servants had been sent away for the night, as was Isteban's custom. Most of them thought their master was simply
being generous, giving them a night and a day for themselves and a gold coin
apiece as well. Only Esther, his major
domo, knew better, but she kept her mouth shut and ensured no servants remained
in the house.
Isteban
knew that Esther, herself, would be ensconced in a big feather bed at this time
of night, after spending the first part of the evening at one of Moontree's
temples. She had been the last servant to
go and would be the first to return tomorrow, at midday. She did not like to leave him to his own
devices for too long. She knew him too
well, and Isteban was grateful for her thoughtfulness.
But tonight
she was gone and he was standing on cold, wet grass watching the sky. Gray
clouds rolled across the black sky, obscuring the familiar stars, but still
Isteban kept watch.
The soft
sound of a man clearing his throat caused Isteban to sigh and pivot on his booted
heels.
"Is
that for me?"
The man
leaning against the back wall of the house, arms crossed, grinning, was thin
and wiry. His skin was weather-beaten
and brown, looking more like the gnarled bark of an old tree than flesh. Wisps of silver-white hair clung to the sides
of his otherwise bald head, and his eyebrows, thin and expressive, were raised
in amused query. He wore leather
trousers and an embroidered buckskin shirt. His boots were worn, but serviceable,
and a dark bag lay in a crumpled heap by his side.
"Hell's
teeth, old friend. I thought for sure that I would spot you coming this
year."
Smiling, Isteban
crossed to the old man and pressed the hot cider into his hands. The old man
took the drink with a laugh and raised it in a toast.
"To your
fortune, sir!"
Then he
tilted it back and drained it in a long gulp that would have impressed even the
most ale-hardened dwarf.
"Ah!"
The old man sighed his pleasure. "That hit the spot! Thank you, my boy!
Thank you!"
Then he
stepped forward and embraced Isteban in a ferocious hug that managed to knock
the breath out of the younger man.
"It's
good to see you, Lamplighter."
The old man
stepped back, shook his head. "You know, you're about the only one who
still calls me that."
"It's
the name I knew you by when we first met."
"I
remember," said the old man.
"And your name at the time? I forget."
"I
know better," chided Isteban. "You never forget anything."
"Oh. I
don't know. I am getting on in years, you know."
Isteban
snorted, and laid his arm across the old man's shoulders. "You talk like
you're still mortal. Come, Lamplighter. Let's get in out of the cold and the
damp. I've a warm fire inside and a good meal."
They ate in
the kitchen, at the servants' table. The
food was simple fare - bread, soup, roast chicken - but well made and washed
down with tankards of hot cider.
Afterwards, there was dried fruit and sharp cheese served with glasses
of good white wine. When the last bit of cheese had been eaten, the old man
produced a pipe and settled into his chair for a smoke.
Isteban
left their plates in the sink, knowing that if he dared wash a single dish
Esther would never let him hear the end of it.
He settled in his own chair, near the fire, with a glass of white wine.
"So,
Lamplighter, how went your night?"
The old man
took a long drag off his pipe and considered the question. He exhaled a stream
of white smoke into the air and shrugged.
"A
mixed bag this year," he admitted. "So many folk, needing so many
things."
"And
you provided for them as usual?"
"To
the best of my abilities," said the old man. He eyed Isteban. "And what of you, my
young friend? How have you been? Have you heard from your family?"
"I've
no kin left on my mother's side," said Isteban. "Not any more. The
last branch of the family that I knew of died earlier this year."
"The
war?"
"No,"
said Isteban. "More natural causes than war."
"And .
. . your father?" asked the old man, carefully.
"He
keeps his distance, as I've asked," said Isteban. He considered his glass.
"But I find myself drawn into his sphere, despite my best efforts."
"Ah."
The old man frowned and puffed gently on his pipe for a moment. "What's happened?"
"A
debt has been called in by the Regent of Fallen Baramir."
"Lukas
Swann? He's always been a bit of a rascal, but he's a good man. Overall."
Isteban
grunted. "He sent a letter earlier this year, asking me to return to the
city and marshal its forces. The armies of the west will gather there this
spring, to march on Calhorne and the Draconic Empire before summer."
The old man
frowned. "I . . . would not be so
sure of that, my young friend."
Isteban
studied his friend. "You have news?"
"I
travel the length and breadth of Lore this night, not just western Nur. And I
know things."
"Are
these the sort of things you can speak about?"
"No
confidences will be broken," said the old man. "But, bear in mind,
what I'm about to tell you is not common knowledge."
"What
is it?"
"The
war may end before spring. The Draconic
Empire is troubled."
Isteban leaned
forward, studying the old man's face. "What do you mean?"
"Things
haven't been right in the empire for some time, but no one has spoken about it.
At least, no one of importance. But that's changed. The invasion of the west
has cost the empire the favor of the gods and the goodwill of their
allies. You must be aware of that,
living here."
"I've
heard rumblings," admitted Isteban, "but nothing concrete."
"Well,
my boy, it's causing more than rumblings in the empire. There are public
protests in the streets of Kargoth-Denn. The citizens are questioning the
fitness of the Chosen Emperor to rule."
"Are
you suggesting that the Chosen Emperor could be forced to abdicate?"
The old man
fixed Isteban with a cool gaze. "You know better than that. Chosen Emperors
don't abdicate. They die or get removed."
"Civil
war? In the empire?"
"Not
likely," said the old man. "Nothing so violent. More like a palace
coup. Knives in the dark. Poison in the cup.
That sort of thing."
Isteban
shook his head. "It's hard to believe things are that bad over
there."
"People
tend to act when gods make their displeasure known. And there has been
something festering at the heart of the empire for some time. Something sinister and dark."
The tone in
the old man's voice made Isteban uneasy. "Something diabolical?"
"I
hope not. But there is a familiar stink to all of this. At least, to me."
"Even
if the empire is sorting themselves out at home, I don't think it will have any
effect on things here," admitted Isteban. "People want to go to war.
They want vengeance."
"Revenge
is a fool's game," the old man said, bluntly.
"We
know that, but we've both lived very long lives. Most people don't have that luxury."
"True."
The old man shifted in his chair. "So, what will you do? Will you go to
Fallen Baramir? Answer the Regent's call?"
"I do
owe the city a debt. I'd like to wipe the slate clean."
"Even
if it means going back to war?"
"I'll
return to it one day," said Isteban. "It's inevitable. I am my
father's child. War is in my blood and bones."
"True,
but there are many ways to wage war, Perra. Remember that."
Isteban
smiled. "So you do remember my name."
"I
remember the names of everyone I visit this night," admitted the old
man. "Do you remember being him?
Being Perra?"
"Vaguely.
Like the memory of a dream. But every year Perra fades more and more and soon I
won't remember being him at all."
"No,"
said the old man. "You will always be Perra. You just need to hold onto
him."
"And
how do I do that, old friend?"
"With
a little help."
The
Lamplighter bent and picked up his black bag.
He reached into it and drew out a rectangular picture. Even in the dim
light of the kitchen, the picture's wooden frame gleamed. The old man passed it to Isteban.
Isteban
studied the picture. It was a miniature painting, done in oils, by a fine hand.
The subjects of the painting were a woman and a young boy. Mother and son. Both
had reddish-gold hair and pale green eyes, but where the boy was pale as
moonlight, his mother had skin like dark honey.
The woman was smiling at the boy,
who smiled back at her.
Isteban
looked at the picture and felt like he had been kicked in the chest by a mule.
"Where
did you get this?" he asked, softly.
"Do
you like it?"
"It's
. . ." Isteban hesitated. He didn't trust himself to speak for a
moment. "I'd almost forgotten what she looked like."
"Your
mother was a handsome woman. She doted on you. You know that, right?"
Isteban
nodded, was aware of the unfamiliar sensation of tears welling up in his eyes as
he studied the picture.
"I
know. Thank you, Lamplighter."
The old man
nodded and took a final suck off his pipe, before tapping its ashes into the
fireplace.
"Well,
the night's fading and I've my own home to get to before the dawn."
He stood
and stretched, joints popping.
"It
was good to see you again, lad."
Isteban
stood and carefully put the portrait aside.
"And you, old man."
They
embraced and the old man hugged Isteban so hard that the younger man thought
his back might crack. But he didn't complain. He simply returned the hug.
"Shall
I walk you out?"
The old man
laughed. "I'm sure I can find my own way. Happy Midwinter, my boy."
"Happy
Midwinter, old friend."
With that,
the old man tossed his bag over his shoulder and, with a smile, stepped back
into the shadows and seemed to vanish.
Isteban
didn't bother trying to spot the Lamplighter. The old man had been doing this
for centuries. If he didn't want to be
seen or heard, he wasn't going to be.
Instead,
Isteban picked up the picture and sat by the fire. He studied the faces of the woman and child,
memories flooding back to him of other Midwinter holidays, of a life he had
almost forgotten. He remembered snowball
fights, the death of his first dog, the time he'd gashed his knee open while
playing in the garden, the times his mother had sat by his bed and sung him to
sleep.
Had he
really forgotten so much? He shook his
head and made his way upstairs, to his bedroom.
Carefully, he placed the framed picture on his bedside table, then walked
to the window. He unlocked the shutters and pushed them open.
The misty
rain had stopped. The clouds had parted.
Pale moonlight painted the world in silver.
He smelt wood smoke and saw the distant glow of watchfires around the
city, as folk waited for the long night to end and the light to return.
Suddenly,
Isteban Mirelle did not want to be alone in his home, sitting in the dark. He wanted to be out there, on the streets of
the city, among the people. It was like
a hunger, this sudden need for companionship, for human contact.
The irony
of that did not escape him and he chuckled as he drew on a thick winter cloak.
He would
find a tavern, he decided, and buy a round of drinks for everyone there.
Afterwards, he would walk to one of the watchfires and sit and keep vigil until
sunrise with other people. When the new
day dawned, he would make his way to the Temple of Sumet and offer a prayer to
the God of War.
After all,
Midwinter Day was a time for family, and he wasn't just the son of a loving mother. He was a Child of War. It was inevitable that he would return to his
father's house some day. The time felt
right for this to happen.
Yes,
thought Isteban. I will go to my father's house and I will offer him a prayer
for peace. I'm sure it will amuse him if
nothing else.
Smiling,
Isteban Mirelle descended the stairs of his house and walked out, into the long
night and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
