The Winter Prince (The Lion Hunters:01)(39)

Christmas brought cold. The year’s end was marked by clear, bitter nights on fire with white starlight. There was no snow, only the biting, bone-deep chill that froze the little rivers solid and kept the African cats curled together on the warm tiles of the atrium floor. But the granaries were full, and the storehouses crowded with dried fruit and salted meat. The people of Camlan and Elder Field wrapped themselves well with wool and fur and laughed at the hard frost, for they were busy with the preparation of a joyous Midwinter’s feast. I was torn between full enjoyment of the celebration and my nagging, lingering burden of guilt for the tragedy I had caused in the early autumn. A Christmas of glitter and sweetness, which I thought myself unworthy to share in. And yet I could not help but share in it.

On Midwinter’s Eve I returned to the villa after a long day spent on the threshing floor in one of the village barns, where we had been making rhymers’ costumes out of straw and evergreen. All the family were at leisure in the atrium. Gareth sat in the window seat with one of the cats, while Gwalchmei played idly upon a small harp; Agravain, in an uncharacteristic fit of patience, was teaching Gaheris and Lleu an obscure dicing game. Goewin and her mother were arguing agreeably over a parchment spread on the table. I scooped up one of the cats and nuzzled it beneath my chin; its fur was the color of the dry savanna country of Aksum before the rains, warm. The cat shrank away from the chill of my skin, and I thought suddenly of Lleu when he was no more than five years old: allowed outside in winter for the first time in his life, laughing as he winced away from a handful of snow that I held against his cheek.

“It’s still so cold out?” Artos inquired from his couch.

“Cruel,” I said.

“Did you see Tegfan today?”

“I did. He says the pain has stopped. I don’t want him walking yet, though.”

“Wise, my marksman,” Artos said. He stood before me to tease my cat beneath its chin. “I have said nothing, but I know what a trial this healing is for you. Your patience is to be admired.”

His praise, only his simplest kind word, could kindle warmth in me. I said quietly, “Thank you, sir.”

I put down the cat and began to take off my gloves. I had scarcely set them on the table before Caius came in and said to Artos, “There are pilgrims at the gate.”

“Beggars?” Artos asked. “Who would be out on such a night?”

Caius pressed his lips together tightly. He spoke so that only Artos and I could hear him. “The boy who let them in says it is your sister.”

“No,” I said aloud. Artos glanced at me sharply. “You sent her back to the Or sack;

Artos shook his head. “She pled illness earlier in the season and requested that I allow her to postpone the journey. She is supposed to stay in Ratae Coritanorum, south of here, until spring.”

“But, sir!” I exclaimed in outrage. “You did not tell me!”

Artos looked at me with eyebrows raised. “I have made no secret of her plans,” he said. “Her children are always clamoring for news of her.” Then his face hardened, and he turned to Caius. “Though I did not expect her here. She tries my patience.” He beckoned to Ginevra, and Caius explained the matter to her in low tones.

“I will not have her here,” I hissed. “I will not live in fear of her.”

“It is Christmas!” Artos returned. “What would you have me do, send her back into this cold?”

“She chose to come!”

Ginevra said, “We cannot send her away. But we can guard her. Artos, let her stay only until the weather breaks; and treat her as a prisoner. Her servants can sleep in the Great Hall, and Aquila can search her belongings for any poisons. We will give her a single room to her own use, but she will be watched always, never left alone. Will that ease your mind, Medraut?”

“Guard her servants as well,” I said hoarsely.

Artos nodded. “See to it, Caius.”

“Shall I bring her in, then?” Caius asked, and Artos nodded again. Suddenly suffocating in the heat of the room and the fur and wool I wore, I said, “I’ll go with you, Caius.” For I knew I must face you, and any wrath you bore me from our last parting, and I did not want to wait.

The night was fearfully cold. Your party huddled shivering in the courtyard beneath two or three guttering torches. A servant girl held your gloved hands nestled between her own, and rubbed them fiercely and frantically; but you pushed her aside when you saw me, to clutch at my jacket and press yourself against my chest, silent and shaking. In apprehension I put up a hand to thrust you away, mistrusting you, but stopped in wonder as my fingers brushed the icy tears across your cheek.