The Ways of Winter

Chapter 1-1

CHAPTER 1

Prologue

*I’m sorry I ran away, Mother. I want to come home now.*

Seething Magma raised her mantle in the dark underground cavity and interrupted her meal of crushed rock. At last, she thought, relief flooding her limbs. It had been almost a thousand years since she’d heard from her youngest child.

*Where have you been?* she scolded, then emended, *Never mind, just come home.*

*I can’t! He won’t let me go.* Granite Cloud’s wail roused her mother’s alarm. Nothing could hold an elemental.

*I’m coming to fetch you,* Seething Magma projected decisively. She shook herself and prepared for travel, pinpointing her daughter’s location from her thoughts.

*No, you can’t. He’ll get you, too.*

Seething Magma settled back down thoughtfully. *Maybe you better tell me all about it. I’m sure we can find a way.*

George kept Angharad company at her kitchen table as she prepared the crust for an apple pie. Almost a month of marriage hadn’t diminished her charm for him in the least, but he couldn’t spend the whole afternoon just watching her. Too bad.

It was the inactivity, he thought. The second of the early winter storms had ended this morning, after two days of snow. Hunting had been stopped since the first days of December. At least that allowed him to be more flexible in his domestic commuting schedule. His young junior huntsman Rhian had been handling hounds on Thursday mornings for hunting, and Sunday and Monday mornings for the hound walking, allowing him to come from Gwyn’s court into Greenhollow and spend time with his wife (I can’t believe it, my wife!) three nights a week. He was grateful Rhian was gaining confidence with handling the pack.

Now, with hunting stopped from the snow and hound walking restricted to the front grounds of the manor house, his hunt staff had conspired to give him a full week off. He’d just arrived yesterday, anticipating at least a week of delayed honeymoon. His own dogs, coonhound Hugo and Sergeant, the yellow feist, were settled near the kitchen woodstove, but he knew Angharad’s terriers Cabal and Ermengarde would roust them if it looked like the people were going to play in the snow.

Angharad broke the silence. “Did I tell you how well I liked your grandparents? I’m glad I had the chance to meet them.”

“What about your family? You’ve been promising to tell me more about them.”

“You’ll have to wait for a visit to Gwyn’s father in Britain. They’re all in the old world, around the court, even the children.”

George had a hard time getting used to the notion of her having several children, all of them older than him. At thirty-three, he was a well-grown human, but she was a fae, more than fifteen hundred years old, and had lived many lives by his lights. He had blood ties to the fae himself, but no one yet knew if he had their gift of longevity, if he would be more than a brief interval in her life. It was an unstated worry that brought a note of urgency into their relationship.

He still thought it a miracle that she wanted to be with him anyway, given their relative ages. She’d settled into a solitary life as an artist when he met her, a self-sufficient existence, but he seemed to have jolted her out of that. He didn’t quite understand why, lacking her perspective on extended life, but he was grateful and disinclined to question his good luck.

“Have you found a new apprentice yet? I know you asked your mentor Bleddyn about it,” he said.

“These things take time, often many years. I’ve just let it be known I was available if anyone was seeking.”

She’d been painting up a storm since they’d met, revitalized, and was offering to share that with someone, as masters did.

She filled the pie dish with sliced apples and sealed the upper crust in place. Having popped it into the oven, she washed her hands and walked over to join him at the kitchen table, patting him on the shoulder as she went by. He grabbed her with one arm around the hip and held her there, tight to his side, breathing in her scent and the overlay of apples, cinnamon, and dough. She melted against him and looked down at him suggestively.

The pounding on the door was very unwelcome, just then.

Angharad sighed and opened it, letting in Thomas Kethin, Gwyn’s head ranger. He stamped the snow off his boots on the doorstep and unwrapped the wool muffler from his dark and weathered face.

“I’m sorry to disturb you two, I am, but we have a situation and I need George’s help.”

She offered to take his coat, but he refused. “The latest batch of Rhys’s invitees has just arrived at the Travelers’ Way, and the inn is full up and can’t accommodate them. We’ve got to get them up to the manor.”

“I feel for you, in all this snow, but what can I do about it?” George said.

“They’re not exactly a cooperative group,” Thomas said, wryly. “We have fae masters of several crafts, each prouder than the next, and quite a few korrigans. They’re not getting along with each other, and the fae in particular aren’t inclined to recognize my authority. I don’t fit their old world ideas of a proper welcome.”

“But I’m just the huntsman,” George said.

“You can use Gwyn’s authority as part of the family, and I think that would do the trick.”

George was reluctant to leave his warm nest but he recognized that Thomas had a point. He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I think I must.

“Of course you should,” she said. “There’ll be other times.” Ignoring Thomas standing by, trying to look anywhere else, she gave him a hug and a long, long kiss.

“There. Something to remember me by.”

And if I can make my legs work again, I’ll just walk on out of here, George thought, dazed.

In a few moments he’d assembled what he needed for a couple of miles of riding through the snow. He spoke to Thomas as he gathered up his gloves. “Do they all have horses?”

“There are seven wagons, carrying equipment and a few passengers. The rest are mounted, even the korrigans. I think we might as well sweep up all the other folk from the inn while we’re at it, in case the snow gets deeper.”

George whistled up his dogs and plunged out into the dark afternoon, plowing through the path to the stable to saddle his horse.

George looked up at the dark sky with its threatening clouds. The snow may have stopped but more was clearly on the way.

The two of them had the street to themselves at the moment and were able to ride side-by-side down the shallower snow in the middle, where the villagers had organized a log drag, a pole pulled behind a pair of horses that swept the top layer of snow to the side. They’d been sending a team out for the village streets every few hours for the last several days, and already the difference between the dragged and packed path and the untouched snow was a few inches. The full depth was approaching eight inches. Householders had cleared their own paths but were having a hard time keeping up with the persistent snowfall.

George had seen heavy snow occasionally in Virginia near the Blue Ridge, but even here in this otherworld version of the landscape, this much snow this early was considered unusual.

He stopped briefly at the Horned Man inn on the corner by the bridge to speak with Huw Bongam, the innkeeper. He gave his reins to Thomas to hold and stamped the snow from his feet before going in.

The main room was packed and noisy. The more fastidious fae were off in a group along one side, but the noisiest part of the crowd were korrigans. George had never seen so many of the dwarf-like folk all in one place. He’d only met the smith and his family at Greenway Court and a few traders as they came through.

Not many of the fae were as tall as George, at six foot four, and none were as broad. Huw Bongam had no difficulty spotting him as he came in, and made his way through the crowd. “Go back out on the porch, huntsman, or we’ll never be able to hear ourselves.” He pulled a cloak around himself and both stepped outside, where Thomas was waiting with the horses.

“I’m on my way to help Thomas with a new group at the Travelers’ Way,” George said. “Thought we might bundle up some of your guests and bring them with us, the ones who’re headed for Edgewood.”

“Well, you’d be doing me a favor, and that’s no lie. I’ve got more than I can handle. I’m used to housing folks who are snowbound for a day or two, but this call of Rhys’s for skilled craftsmen at Edgewood has brought out all the ambitious folks from Gwyn’s domain, and a few from the old world, too. Do you know, I’ve even got lutins, looking to expand their opportunities?”

“Where are you putting them all?”

“It’ll be the hayloft soon, if you don’t take some of them with you.”

“Alright, I’ll go on and see what’s come in at the Travelers’ Way and get them ready to move out immediately, without stopping here. If you could sort out your ‘keepers’ from the ones that want to get one step closer to Edgewood, tell them I’ll be back in about an hour with Thomas to lead them to Greenway Court.”

“I’ll do that,” Huw replied.

Thomas spoke up. “Not all of the newly arrived people are prepared for this much early winter. Can you spare the loan of any blankets for the trip to the manor house?”

George added, “What about horses or wagons for the folks here? They’ll have trouble walking in the snow, even if we help break more trail.”

“I’ll sort out some transportation and wraps for the journey, as much as I can spare, if you can get it back to me as soon as you can,” Huw said.

“Much appreciated,” George said. “If you can provide your own drivers, we’ll house them and they can bring back the empty wagons with your gear, weather permitting, plus any villagers who might be feeling trapped at court.”

With a nod, Huw went back inside and George remounted.

He rode with Thomas past the crossroads with the stone bridge on the right and turned into the cul-de-sac on the far left that led to the Travelers’ Way. All the peace and quiet of the snowy streets fled as they heard the raised voices and clangor of the expedition, fresh from the more civilized old world of Gwyn’s origins.

George hung back for a moment as Thomas rejoined the party. He saw seven wagons with goods and people, now shivering in the cold. There were a few fae on foot, and a couple of korrigans, but most of the travelers had heeded the instructions to come on horseback or with transport, and even the korrigans were mostly mounted on sturdy ponies, though they didn’t all look like seasoned horsemen. To his dismay, he saw what must be wives and families for a few of the travelers, so there were several children to think of.

Thomas’s reappearance drew the loudest speaker like a lodestone draws iron.

“A fine welcome this is, no one from the court and a foot of snow. How are we supposed to proceed?” This was from a tall fae, on the older side of middle-aged.

He put himself in front of the other fae as if he had taken charge of them, and they seemed to permit it, though George thought he detected hidden smiles as he continued to make a fuss. “We require some shelter in this wilderness. This is not what we were led to expect.”

Thomas said, with great self-control, “My lord Cadugan, allow me to present George Talbot Traherne, the great-grandson of our prince Gwyn ap Nudd.” He bowed from the saddle, and beckoned George forward.

“At last,” Cadugan said, gratified. “His brother Edern ap Nudd summoned me as steward for the Edgewood lands, on behalf of his grandson Rhys. I’m eager to see that all of us get there as quickly as possible.”

“I am pleased to meet you, sir, and all of you here,” George said in his best political voice. “I apologize for our unseasonable weather, but we have yet to find a way to keep the snow from falling.” This mild quip broke some of the tension, and the fractious crowd started to relax now that someone had appeared to take charge of them, someone acceptable to their leader.