Coven

It was the first night of the second month of Auster, the hottest season, when the Summer Lady was supposed to dance with the Winter King and rouse him from slumber, bringing forth the spirits of snow and ice and hail and all that came with winter. This year, it was Saffron who would wear the green silk, and the mask of leaves and dance the part of the Summer Lady. Tonight every high-born family, every coven, from every corner of the North, from The Reach to The Shark Islands, and even some families from the South, would be there. They would gather at dusk on Kirk Carrion, the ancient burial ground of the old druid kings, where the Winter King made his home, and there would be dancing and music and baked cakes bathed in warm honey. It was Saffron’s favourite night of the year, as well as a great honour, that at just fifteen years old, it had been she who had been chosen to dance the part of the Summer Lady. A new girl was chosen for each year, to dance at the midsummer moot. This year, the fates had chosen Saffron. She had practiced her steps religiously ever since she had been told.

At first she thought Arnica might be cross, since technically she was older. Arnica was her twin and they were alike in every way, except for character. Saffron loved books and healing and dancing and people, whereas Arnica loved playing at sword-fights and riding and adventures and trouble. Arnica hadn’t been at all cross when Saffron told her though. She had proudly declared she couldn’t care a fig if she was the Summer Lady or not, and had run off laughing with Jesse, the stable boy Arnica had been best-friends with ever since the two were old enough to steal wine from the kitchens. They had been sorely scolded by Mother multiple times for that, Saffron remembered. Although in all fairness they had been scolded by Mother multiple times for multiple things. Trying to steal horses and ride off in the night to find fair-pferds or treasure or armoured-spiders in the Deep Forest, or for climbing the castle battlements to see if they could spot pirate ships or even just playing at swords, which they continued to do on a regular basis regardless of Mother at all.

Dusk was gathering as Saffron studied herself in Mother’s polished silver looking glass. Her golden hair was tied loosely back with a slip of green silk ribbon, so that the mask of leaves she had fashioned herself might fit more comfortably. The black tattoos on her neck, wrists and ankles stood out lividly against her pale skin. She touched them lightly with her fingers, the two on either side of her neck, her name souls, shaped like leaping dolphins. The two on her wrists, the coven souls, fashioned like great, crashing waves, and finally, the two on her pale ankles, the world souls, that connected her to the fates and world spirit, a simple, empty circle inked in black. Saffron moved her hands to her hair. They had tied charms and feathers and little flakes of jade into it. Her pale-blue eyes were darkened with kohl, and she wore nothing but a slip of gauzy green silk, cut to flutter and flow, like leaves on a breeze. She looked nothing like herself, she thought. There was a definite edge of nerves creeping in to poison her initial excitement. She drew a heavy breath, trying to swallow the nerves. Mother had said to come down before dusk. She rose up from the chair and crossed the little stone chamber where she had been getting ready. Her feet were bare as she made her way down the corridors, past the torches scented with sage and rosemary to celebrate the coming summer. The stone of the castle steps was cold on her bare toes, but then she was at the entrance to the hall, and beyond, through the great arched open door of the castle the night was warm. A few more steps and then down to where everyone had gathered in the yard, to see her ride out.

They had come from all over, covens from all spokes of the great wheel of life, gathered in the yard, in her yard, and the town beyond the gates, just to see her. There gathered by the gates, the Croakers of Eshott Helm, dressed in green and frogskin, looking cheery as ever, if not a little drunk already. The Rhinehearts, all the way from the Reach stood by the stable gate, tall and copper-haired. Over there were Raskins, dark-eyed and watchful, affording themselves the best views, spralled out on the steps to the sea gate. Her eyes lingered on the tall, handsome blonde boy, who she thought must be Leander, the eldest Raskin son. He sat coolly with one hand resting on his knee, his eyes dark and watching her. Saffron looked away quickly. She struggled suddenly to find anyone in the crowd she knew, and felt any remaining excitement from before gutter and fizzle like a candle, swept away in a great rush of nerves. Her feet stumbled on the rough, sun-warmed stone of the castle steps. But then she was looking down at Father, his hand sure and strong, holding Nyra’s reigns, the little grey mare Uncle Raen had given her for her twelfth birthday just last year, and all at once Saffron felt calm again, a little thrill of excitement and anticipation returning to her.

She reached the bottom of the yard, and took fathers hand as he helped her up onto Nyra’s back. From here she felt much more a part of the crowd than before. She cast around and saw Arnica, mounted on a night-black young pony, who she had named Brazen and who was half as wild as she was. ‘One sweet and gentle, the other wild and untamed – to match their mistresses!’ Uncle Raen had said as he’d given over the horses to his two nieces. Arnica smiled and whooped, waving and drawing looks from the crowd around her, though she didn’t seem to care. Jesse, mounted beside her, gave her the thumbs up. Both were wearing wicked grins, and Saffy had the distinct feeling they would be up to some sort of trouble before the night drew to a close.

She nodded, and barely aware of what she was doing, kicked Nyra gently forward. The crowd parted like water to make way for her, and then suddenly, she was trotting, then cantering and finally reaching the gate at a gallop, people diving out of the way. It was like every step brought confidence, and with the confidence, came the excitement. The nerves melted away on the warm wind. She had never felt so alive in her life. She raced past Arnica and Jesse, who hooted and whooped delightedly, and rushed out of the castle. Lanterns had been lit all through the village, and the town beyond, lighting her way. She rushed on, Nyra needing no words of encouragement as she raced into the gathering dusk. She heard them coming after her, cheering and singing, laughing and clapping. I am the Summer Lady, she thought, as the warm air rushed past her, and she felt herself at one with the wind.