Written by Kitty Ryan
The coldest night.
Stars of quicksilver shining clear.
Childrens voices,
Tremulous voices,
Singing slightly off key.
But beautiful in their innocence,
Flow through the streets.
Seeping into houses and hovels alike,
This long,
This cold,
Midwinter Night."
Kitty Ryan - 2001
"Numair, I assume that you need to visit an understanding and very skilled healer - mmph-hmph?" A clear, dry voice, with just a trace of a foreign accent - a slight lilt every third word, made itself heard. Made itself heard over the all pervading din of a slightly larger than average winter gale that was buffeting the shabby dwelling wedged like an afterthought between the brewery and the apothecary of Filigree Street. One that was attempting to give those souls inside a good blast of the Scanran chill. The voice made itself heard in all four corners of the small, overcrowded room. The voice was incredulous, it's owner sitting on a worn, rather dangerous looking chair amongst innumerable amounts of canvas. The chair, like it's occupant, was spattered liberally with paint.
"No, my friend, I have not felt the overwhelming need to visit one right at this moment. Why?" The owner of the clear voice, owner of the canvases and chair, gave a despairing groan.
"Because - mmph-hmph - you cannot possibly be in your right mind if you want to give the poor girl that!
Numair Salmalìn snatched the little box described as 'that' away from his friend, clutching it to his chest defensively. Whatever reaction the mage had been expecting from Volney Rain - painfully blunt has he was - it had not been this. Pride and feeling's hurt, Numair attempted to glare loftily down at the tactless, paint-splotched little man who had wounded them and failed miserably, as only a tall man squashed up in small chair and trying to hide the uncertain and highly embarrassed expression on his face can.
"What in Mynoss and the Goddesses name's is wrong with it, Rain?" he asked irritably, still holding the item in question like a terrier with a favourite toy. Volney Rain: court artist and sometimes none-too-sympathetic ear gave the younger man a pitying look.
"It's a bloody ring!"
"And you're an artist." Numair retorted, "I know it's a ring. And a very nice ring, if it comes to it. You are most certainly not one to talk to about taste, considering you still have that honey-soy vision of Lady Venezia on your wall!" He jerked his head to where the large 'painting' hung, the product of a rather explosive attempt at Doi cookery some six months before.
"Hmph yes, it's a very nice ring. A pretty band of silver with a pretty blue stone and some lovely seed diamonds. Very subtle, very tasteful, it would make a fine engagement ring, mmph-hmph?" The artist paused, a sardonic smile on his lips, "Only - mmph - the girl you want to give it to doesn't want - mmph-hmph - to think about marriage at the moment."
"Oh." If Numair had looked uncomfortable before, it was nothing compared to this. This was delving into the terminally embarrassed.
"Spot the flaw, mmph-hmph?"
"You mean… she might --"
"Get the wrong impression?"
"My…my meaning might --"
"Be misconstrued?"
"I really wish you would stop --"
"Finishing your sentences for you, mmph-hmph?"
"Volney" Numair passed a hand over his dark eyes, which were now looking just a touch on the frantic side of desperate. "Midwinter is tomorrow. I'll never be able to get something now, not without raiding a closed shop and getting myself arrested for my pains" A derisive snort echoed around the room at this comment. No sympathy on Volney Rain's part, it seemed.
"Who say's you have to buy anything, mmph-hmph?"
"Are you going deaf and senile in your old age, as well as crotchety?" Numair spluttered, giving Volney Rain an anguished look. "It is Midwinter we're talking about here. Protocol, tradition, love! They all demand I have to get the young woman I intend to spend the rest of my life with - married or unmarried - something on the longest night of the year." Numair, realising that he was most likely turning purple from lack of air, paused and exhaled.
"Well," Volney grinned at him, holding up his hand. "You've told me time and time again that the Master of Protocol is a dried up sadist whose concept of reality could be chiselled on a sand-grain. " He started ticking off his fingers. "So, you'd be something of a hypocrite if you took protocol into account - mmph-hmph. As for tradition, well 'traditionally' mages who study at the Mage University of Carthak and manage to deeply offend the then Emperor Mage Ozorne in the process die a slow and painful death. A death involving branding irons, lots of sharp objects and other things of that persuasion. Mmph-hmph. I think you mentioned gelding once or twice in connection to the 'traditional' penalties as well, mmph-hmph? But that is immaterial. My point is that you are a definition of a man who has flown in the face of tradition. So why bother starting to follow it now, hmph?" Numair winced, and the other man's expression softened. "You say that love demands you to buy a midwinter gift for Daine, my friend?" The old painter's short-sighted black eyes took on a misty look, and Numair tried hard not to notice as he blinked hard, and his face flushed darkly under the wrinkles and paint which warred for dominance there. He coughed. "Mmph-hmph, as I was saying… love doesn't demand anything, Numair. We may demand many a thing from love, but never it from us. You see - mmph-hmph - love, when it's true, when it works, then simply having it is more than enough. You don't need expensive gifts to proclaim it; you just need yourself and your words, your actions. I give you this as an example... mmph-hmph: My four-year-old nephew, Sefton--"
"You have a four-year-old nephew? Surely you mean great --"
"He is my nephew, and only 'great' in him is his personality and potential. Mmph-hmph. My youngest sister is over twenty years younger than I am, and she married late in life. Well, Sefton sends me a little sketch every Midwinter - one he draws all by himself. And even though they are crudely done and typical of a four-year-old who - mmph-hmph - wants to be an Assassin just like is father was, I treasure no other gift so highly. What did he pay for it - mmph-hmph, Numair? Absolutely nothing. Do I care at all about this - hmph? No, not a jot. Simply because I love him mmph-hmph, and these little gifts show that he has some affection left over for his strange old uncle." Once again, the misty eyed expression flitted across Volney's face. "As for your Daine, well… she wouldn't care if you gave her a shoestring or the crown jewels. In fact, I think she'd prefer the shoestring, because she'd have some use for it, mmph-hmph. She would care however, in a very passionate and - hmph - negative way, if you gave her a ring after she's said 'no' to you more than once. Give the girl something meant only for her eyes or ears. Give her your love, the knowledge and depth of it. Mmph-hmph? Now, if you don't mind, Salmalìn, I've got work to go, and not as a councillor, either." Volney gazed impatiently at Numair, who looked as if he was coming out of a trance.
"That was quite a speech, Rain." Numair said eventually, unbending himself like a stretched concertina as he got out of the chair.
"Was it?" Volney glared over the top of his copper rimmed glasses. "It managed to shut you up and stop you acting like a frantic fishwife at least. Mmph-hmph. Now, if you don't mind --"
"I'm going, I'm going." Numair grinned at the man, looking like a very tall delighted child. Then he sobered, looking at the little box in his hand. The little box best described as 'that'. "Volney…would you mind terribly if --"
"I keep this safe for you, mmph-hmph?"
"Oh Mithros save me, Volney! I've told you not to --"
"Finni--?"
"Finnish of my sentences for me, yes." The mage sighed. "Midwinter luck to you, friend."
"And to you. Mmph-hmph. And to you" Volney Rain watched as Numair walked slowly out of the shop and down Filigree street, smiling as a wind distorted curse at the cold floated back to him.
Authors note: Midwinter Luck is a light hearted little piece of writing that - though it stands perfectly well by itself - is also a companion to Focus. Personally, I recommend reading it in conjunction with its companion. This piece of writing - despite its very light and slightly fluffy exterior - does have a deeper purpose. In writing 'Midwinter Luck' I've tried to understand - and get any reader of this to understand - two very much under appreciated characters in the Tamora Pierce universe: Volney Rain and Miri. This is the second of two chapters and an epilogue. I hope you enjoy it.
A question of time: As Spiffy pointed out to me in a review (thankyou much, Spiff,) I didn't make myself very clear about when this story takes place. I've answered that question in this chapter, but I'll tell you now that this is set in the very first Midwinter Daine and Numair shared together as a couple, six months after The Realms of the Gods and thus the Immortals war. Enough of an answer for you?
Disclaimer: The place in which this story is set, and the characters within it, are the creations of one Tamora Pierce, I understand and respect this and do not claim them as my own. The poem and rhyme, however, are my own, and cannot be used by another without my express permission. Thankyou.
*********************
The snowflakes fall, and the nights still crawl,
after chasing the daylight away.
But hearts are brighter,
the loads seem lighter,
now 'tis the mornin' after yesterday.
Cold is still cold,
old folk are still old,
and on a workday one still has to work.
A dream dreamt will still be a dream.
But, be that as it may,
'tis still the mornin' after yesterday.
Oh, glorious monin'!
Still so chill and bleak,
but now the sad ones try smilin',
and seekers try findin' what they seek.
'But why?' you say.
'tis the mornin' after yesterday.
For on this mornin'
One finds hope,
And a drowning man tries to fight anew,
In an attempt to find a boat.
And maybe a boat shall be around this day!
For 'tis the mornin' after yesterday.
Why? 'Cause Midwinter's gone.
The bleakest, longest night has gone.
Gone, for another year.
Oh! now 'tis the mornin' after yesterday.
This seemingly every other day.
That gives an ailing man some cheer.
For that night described, so bleak and long,
Has gone for another year.
For 'twas yesterday night, my friends.
Winter is near its end.
For 'tis the mornin', after yesterday.
Kitty Ryan - 2002
It was the fourth day of a holiday. As soon as the watchtower called the twelfth hour after the sun had set in the west, there would be exactly four more days left until most went to work again. For some, work kept on throughout, holiday or no. But everyone felt glad that in a matter of months, the warmth would come again. And cold, windy evenings like this one would be a thing of the past, until Time made them return. This was more than a windy evening. Some would call it a lager than average gale. But - in one place at least - the intrusive winds and the cold made no impression. It did nothing to dull the laughter that could be heard coming out of the sprawling building that was enclosed in the stone walls of Tortall's palace. The building where lanterns flickered showing many dark shadows; those of horses and stalls, a slender reptilian shape whose amber eyes glowed in the twilight, and two humans - enjoying each others company. Both secretly wondering if - once this holiday was over - they would see the others face again. The same wondering that crept into many other people's minds of late. As much as folk hated to admit it. Though the war was over, there was still danger. After all that had happened these past months, one had a right to feel uneasy. Some felt they'd never be quite safe again.
"Miri, I've always respected your judgement, an' you've like a fair sister to me over the years, but… you can not be serious!"
"Oh, you have no idea, Sweetling. No idea."
The one referred to as 'Sweetling', glowered at the freckled, mischievous looking woman - only just out of girlhood - lounging in a bale of hay as luxuriously as any cat. In fact, in the dim light of the tack stall, with her green eyes, small cleft chin and self-satisfied expression, Miri looked like one. A cat in the palace stables, chewing on a grass stem and saying the most idiotic things imaginable. Daine - for that was 'Sweetling's name - sniffed contemptuously.
I'm not writing any poetry for anybody," she said firmly, throwing hay at the other young woman for emphasis. "Especially not Numair."
Oh, fine then!" Miri, picking straw out of her short dark hair, pouted. Taking on a wounded air, "I just thought it would make an impression."
"Oh, an 'impression', was it?" Daine, her eyebrows somewhere in her hairline, searched Miri's face - which (of course) was pure, pure innocence. "We-ell… it certainly would make an impression, and scare him off for life!"
Miri giggled. "And that's a bad thing because?
"Miri!"
Oh, sorry, lovie. I can't help it; he's too cute. Besides, Master Salmalìn needs --" Miri paused, throwing her head back dramatically, hands clasped to her hay covered breast. Daine's eyebrows continued their ascent.
"Master Salmalìn needs what?"
"An older woman."
Eyebrows unable to rise any further, and amazed with the absurdity of this statement, Daine guffawed. "Oh, and you are so much closer to him in age, aren't you." She managed to choke out. At this, Miri drew herself up haughtily.
"You appear to be forgetting, my dear child, that I am two years your senior."
"Aah, yes, Miri." Daine said gravely, her blue-grey eyes wide, "that makes a fair difference. You only twelve years younger than him, 'stead of fourteen."
"Hmph." Miri muttered, chewing savagely on her grass stem. "Every year counts."
Daine stopped laughing, abruptly. Her face clouded over "Odd's bobs! Don't you start harping on at me 'bout being some sort of badly brought up babe who doesn't know any better, or it being wrong for Numair and I to be together, or --"
Miri looked panicked. Scrambling over to her friend, hay flying every which way, the young woman put a comforting arm around Daine's shoulders and squeezed her tight enough to cause protest. To complete the picture; an upset sounding whiny filled the room - starting from a nearby stall - and a sky-blue streak raced into the small room and threw itself at the two of them. Chattering angrily all the while. "Blood and ashes, Daine." She whispered fervently, "don't you listen to those flaming, useless shrivel-brained conservative idiots! They should go and bloody well throw themselves in a bloody well for saying such things." Daine stared at Miri for a second, her mouth open in a silent 'o'. "What, sweetling, are you shocked?" Miri grinned, "you shouldn't be, you of all people. You've lived on the boarder of bloody Scanra! Anyway, I've lived on the docks all my life, remember? I know far more than just that. Enough to make Coram Smytheson blush after he's been drinking."
Daine smiled slightly, soothing Kitten with one hand. "Sorry for blowing up like that an' all. It's just…just hard, loving a man who keeps on proposing to you when you're not ready and being muttered about in doorways like you're some sort of light-skirt whose nothing more than she ought to be."
"Well, Ms Sarrasri, you do know what they say about Numair's lovers." Miri's eyes glinted, more cat-like then ever, as she watched Daine blush to the roots of her hair.
" Fine friend you are," Daine muttered, "acting like a foul-mouthed fish-wife's daughter if anyone insults my relationship, and then having a go at me yourself."
"That's what friends do, dearie. And don't you glare at me like that," Miri dodged a blow, "it gives you wrinkles. Numair wouldn't like it. Anyway, I have every right to be jealous; you being two years younger than me and catching a tall, dark and absolutely gorgeous man with nice eyes and a sophisticated vocabulary and --"
"And he's mine." Daine grinned, "anyway, you've got Evin. Who isn't too shabby himself, though he does pull foodstuffs out of innocent folks ears."
Miri looked surprisingly sober for a moment, examining her grass stem thoughtfully. It was now chewed beyond salvation. "Oh, yes. I love the boy to death. 'To death' being the essential factor, something which Evin flaming noble Larse can't get through his thick skull!" Daine clucked sympathetically, now it was her turn to hug her friend around the shoulders. Everyone knew that being the only survivor of a surprise attack on his rider group - the Seventh - six months previous had shaken Evin Larse to his core. Blinking hard, Miri leaned against the younger girl a moment before continuing. "The last time I talked to him, Evin just looked at me and told me - straight to my face - that if he couldn't even look after his own Rider group than he couldn't look after me, and he had no intention of giving me widows black for a wedding gift. Well, I just looked at him right back and told him - straight to his own bloody face - that I had never heard so much absolute drivel in my entire life, and that he was acting far too much like the Player's son that he was, for my liking. Told him that I had no intention of putting up with it for a moment longer and I had just as much chance getting knocked out of the saddle by an arrow as much as the next man or woman. Told him that I happen to wear the flaming Rider badge too and that I wasn't the little fifteen-year-old who was scared of the saddle any more!" A tear made its way down Miri's face, she sniffed. "I told him all of that, and that I loved him with all my stupid heart and there was nothing he could do about it. You know what he did after that, friend? All he did was lean forward, the way he used to do when he was going to kiss me, then turned on his heel and walked away."
They were both silent for a while, reflecting. Watching the shadows creep in around them and listening to the wind trying in van to follow the shadow's example. Kitten was curled up in a ball on Daine's lap, her eyes half closed. Cloud ruminated on how two-leggers could be the most blind, stupid creatures on earth - particularly those of the male variety. In a little, dilapidated house on Filigree St, Middle City, which was wedged like an afterthought between the brewery and the apothecary, Volney Rain sat with a small velvet box in one hand and a steaming mug of tea in the other. Staring idly at a portrait he named 'Lady Venezia - done in soy' and wondering when his Midwinter picture from his nephew would arrive. ("Such a talented boy, mmph-hmph!) And in his palace rooms, doors barred both with iron and magic, Numair Salmalìn sat at his desk in a sea of ink spattered paper. He seemed to be trying to write a letter.
Finally, Miri stirred, brushing her cheeks with one hand. "Well Daine, I'm not going to stand for it."
"Stand for what?"
"Evin acting the way he is." Miri said calmly, shifting in the straw. "Numair might be fine with being refused every time he asks you, but I am not going to be entangled in this 'pledged but not betrothed' situation any longer.
"Pledged but not betroth--?"
"Don't be obtuse, Veralidaine." Miri stuck her tongue out at her companion, despite the seriousness of what she was saying. "You know what I mean. It's not like I'm going to marry anybody else whilst Evin's alive and complaining. As much as I fantasize about your lover, surely that much obvious? I just want to make things official."
Daine stared, "But I thought you said --" she started to say, looking and feeling just a touch bewildered.
Miri smiled wickedly, pulling out a small circular box out from a pouch at her waist. It seemed to be made out of smooth grey stone and, as Daine found out when her friend pressed it into her palm, was surprisingly heavy. The stone was pleasantly cool to the touch. "Go on, open it."
Daine did. Inside, shinning up at her, was a wide silver band. Silently, she tipped it onto her palm, and examined it closely, an expression of delight and shock materialising on her features. It was a ring. A ring with two absolutely cunning dolphins - opposite each other, one with nose facing up and the other down, so that the net effect looked like a circle - engraved on it. Perfect in every minuscule detail. "Miri," she said at last, carefully putting the lovely thing back in its box, "is this…is this what I think it is?
"I know that these things traditionally have whopping great diamonds on them," Miri mused, looking pensive. "Do you think I should have ordered diamonds, Daine? Tell me."
"It's perfect." Daine said simply. Miri sagged against the wall in relief. "Truly perfect. Though the thought of --"
"Well, I thought that I might as well be the one giving the engagement ring." Miri laughed, patting Kitten on her little blue head. "Though," she added thoughtfully, "if Evin thinks I'm going to get down on one knee for anybody then he's got another thing coming. But at least this way he might get the hint." Leaning over, she took the precious box away from Daine's unresisting hand and kissed it. "The only thing I know is that I intend to add 'Larse' to my name by the end of the week." Miri said seriously, looking Daine straight in the face. "Two weeks, if I must. That’s about all I know these days, with the Immortals War barely over and all its repercussions coming to haunt us. That's all I know."
Daine, her face equally serious, looked her friend up and down. A few minutes ago, she had seen a laughing, green-eyed, mischievous girl who sometimes reminded her of a cat. The girl who she had taught to ride and be one with her horse. The girlhood friend who she had giggled and sat with in the mess room. Now, in the place of that familiar girl, Daine saw an adult. An adult who made adult decisions and was willing to sacrifice herself for King, country and stupidity. An adult who was one of the best Riders Tortall had ever seen. An adult who was willing to go without a pretty ring on a certain finger, so that the man she loved might take the hint by wearing it himself. An adult who always made time to laugh, and helped her friends laugh with her. Daine had thought she herself was an adult for a long while now - she certainly wasn't a child - but, looking at Miri, Daine knew that she had a bit of growing up to do yet.
"Actually, come to think of it, I'm glad I didn't get diamonds." Miri said absently, breaking the silence.
"Mmm… I agree, they would have looked daft."
"You think so, Daine?" Miri looked perplexed, "I just thought I'd do into debt."
"Trust me, Sweetling," Daine smiled, ignoring her friend's glare. "They would look daft."
"Oh, okay."
Daine suddenly hugged Miri for all she was worth, much to her surprise, and let go only after the young woman was sure her ribs were starting to creak. "Midwinter luck to you: Miri Larse." She said by way of explanation, "Midwinter luck."
Miri squeaked in a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. So that was how the name she'd been repeating to herself for over two years now sounded on someone else's tongue. She smiled brightly, not a cat-like smile this time, a real smile. "Thank you so much. And the same to you: Veralidaine Salmalìn." The cat-smile returned as Daine hurled straw at her.
"No more of that, now," she said, pouting. "I'll be ready when I'm ready."
"When? One day he's going to stop asking, you know that, don't you."
"If I'm not ready, then I won't care!" Daine retorted, "you can't win this, Miri."
"Oh, what happened to 'Miri Larse'?"
"I'll call you that again if you're good."
"No fair!" This petulant statement was greeted by silence, "all right, I'll be good."
"Good."
"So," said Miri, after a while, "are you sure about the poetry?" The expression on Daine's face made an old rhyme come to Miri's mind: 'If eyes were knives then we'd all be dead. So I'm glad they're plain ol' glares instead. Why? 'Cause I don't want to die!'
"Alright then. I'll leave you be with the poetry. But, Daine…" Miri trailed off.
"Yes…?"
"What are you getting him?"
Daine's smile was positively evil. "Aah me, that would be telling.