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Chapter 49. The Farewell Party |
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t was the final night of their visit and everyone in the little village was giving them a celebration to remember. Brigit sat with her legs folded while draped in warm furs. Despite the crowd of warm bodies in the longhouse, a chill wind flowed off the glaciers of the Shiverpeaks and settled in the valley after sundown. The air was brisk but it gave her an excuse to snuggle with Armand and they enjoyed a level of intimacy that had been denied them for the past week. Despite her parents grudging acceptance of her golden-haired magician lover, they slept in separate rooms. Neave was eyeing the two of them on the other side of Anluan and Brigit felt a rebellious smile turn her lips as she reached up and pinched Armand’s rump playfully. Armand startled and wobbled, for he was standing now as the next in a series of toasts was being offered up to some vaguely defined spirit of the mountains. Somehow he was enduring under the heady assault of the alpine juniper wine and held his flagon aloft gamely. Already the homegrown intoxicant had claimed its first victims. Several men were already snoring fitfully on their backs. Brigit looked at him askance as he sat down beside her once more. At this point those who were still awake were either deep in their cups or rowdily attempting to arrive there. She wondered how Armand had managed to remain sober given what a legendary lightweight he was when it came to spirits. It was then she noticed him surreptitiously pouring the contents of his flagon into those of his neighbors, half of whom were passed out and snoring. “Armie!” she gasped, laughing. He shot her a sly smile. She had to prevent herself from guffawing when she realized the bearish form of her father was sprawled on the floor unconscious beside Armand. Anluan would be embarrassed in the morning when he recalled succumbing to the legendarily strong wine before Armand had. “You’re wicked,” she hissed in his ear as he leaned over and kissed her jaw. He was a little tipsy and playful, his usual reserve forgotten. “Can I have you to myself yet?” he slurred. Brigit glanced at her mother. “Armie, wait until tomorrow. We’ll be home soon.” “I’ve waited all week,” he announced rather more loudly than Brigit would have liked, “I want my barbarian princess back.” “I love you,” she whispered, heading off his hands and squeezing them in her lap when he made a rather clumsy attempt to do something that would scandalize Neave. “I’m sleepy and my bed is cold,” he simpered and she saw just how drunk he was when he grew suddenly serious and looked a little ill. “We’ll all turn in when Maeve is done,” Brigit said, trying to soothe him and worried he was about to vomit. In the crowded longhouse with everyone lounging around on the floor nearby, such a scene would not be pretty. He gave her a miserable look that suggested the fun part of being mildly drunk was over and he had arrived at the horrible part that would make him swear it off until the next such event. She invited him to lie down and put his head on her lap, which he did gratefully. She stroked his golden hair and smiled as he kissed her hand and clutched it near his face. As if on cue, Maeve wove through the crowded room toward its center where a space had been cleared for entertainment. The night had started off with the usual displays of strength and agility – wrestling and knife tricks -- but in the belly of the night, music marked the end of the festivities. The fiddlers and pipers had already worn out the dancers and now was the time of gentle airs and lullabies. The woman moved gracefully, towering over those sitting on the ground around her. Her lustrous black hair twinkled in the torchlight with little ornaments of gold and peridot threaded through it. Her harp awaited her beside a bench and she delicately arranged her long green velvet dress so that she could sit comfortably with the smooth wooden neck of the instrument resting on the milky flesh of her collar. Brigit remembered when Maeve had come to dwell in the valley, unmarried and denying all suitors. The woman never spoke of her past but she fought like a demon and was generous with her knowledge. There were rumors she had Norn blood but she never gave dignity to those stories by acknowledging them or offering an answer. Brigit had imagined that Norn blood was the source of Maeve’s regal beauty and had fervently hoped that she too had been thus endowed. But the freckly awkward girl with wild red hair had grown up into a woman with just as many freckles and, she imagined, all the congenital awkwardness of her mountain lineage. Young Laird, the smith’s son, tapped out a rhythm on a yakskin frame drum as he knelt beside Maeve. Her long fingers conjured glistening harmonies and keening chords. Without words, Maeve painted images of icy waterfalls and the wind singing in the aspen groves. The mood in the longhouse transformed from rude and rowdy to peaceful and drowsy. “I think Pen would like this,” Brigit said in a low whisper, trying to help Armand keep his mind off of his rebellious stomach, “I bet she’d like his sad airs. It’s a pity he doesn’t sing much. He has a beautiful voice.” “That’s because of Mog’s infernal noise. Could he have picked a louder, more obnoxious instrument?” Brigit chuckled. Armand was back to his old self. Only more so now that he was nauseous. “We should bring Mog back here to meet Maeve. I bet they would like each other.” “Two giant noise-making mesmers? Your village may never forgive you,” Armand snorted. Brigit tapped him on the shoulder as she might a naughty child but he only laughed. “I miss them,” Brigit said after a while. Armand squeezed her hand, “You miss Mog, I bet, even if you grumble about him.” “Of course I do.” “Are you ever going to tell me how you two met?” Armand sighed. “Ask Mog. He’s the ‘storyteller’. You can ask me to fill in the things he conveniently omits.” “I wonder how Teleri and little Sabina are doing. And Mab and Pen.” Armand grew quiet for a time then yawned. He seemed troubled. By the time she thought to ask him about it, however, he had nodded off. Soon after, Maeve finished playing, signaling the end. Brigit helped Neave bear Anluan back to the house and was happy to see Armand had awakened and smiled blearily as she sat down at the table to have a last cup of yak butter tea with her mother before turning in. “I suppose I should let you two talk,” he said sleepily, his golden hair tousled boyishly. “Please join us,” Neave said, producing a third earthenware mug and placing it on the table beside Brigit. Armand nodded and slumped down on the bench beside Brigit, warming his hands on the cup after Neave filled it with piping hot tea fresh from the iron kettle. “Old Vern died last spring,” Neave said conversationally, setting down the kettle and pulling up the bench to sit across from them. Brigit nodded, as ever caught off guard by her mother’s rambling topics. Of course Neave was up to something, but by the time Brigit figured it out, she would have agreed to something outlandish. “Well, he was in his eighties, I suppose,” Brigit replied, trying to stay neutral. “He was your father’s second cousin. With no heir, the house and land passed back to Anluan.” “I see. Wasn’t there a plan to give it to Toddy’s family with all those kids?” “Oh, they all moved and Maeve claimed their place. Cleaned it up nice, I might add.” “Well that’s nice. I suspect she was getting tired of living in the longhouse.” Armand was starting to nod off. He caught himself a few times and jolted awake and she pitied him for having to endure their small talk and Neave’s subtle maneuvering. Brigit was waiting for the pounce. “Anluan and I have decided that you and Armand should move into Vern’s old place when you come back for the wedding. There’s ample room for at least three children, too.” There was a loud thump as Armand hit the floor. Neave scrambled to get a damp cloth to cool the goose-egg emerging on his brow while Brigit tried to help him get up. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, “I should have gone to bed. Bad of me to fall asleep like that.” She did not have the heart to ask if he had heard what Neave had said. As it was, she was still flabbergasted herself. However, she also could not help but notice the speed at which he managed to escape and vanish into Sean’s old bedroom. “Well,” Neave said tartly, a tense smile on her lips, “I suppose we should call it a night before any other mishaps occur. Good night, my sweet.” Brigit suffered herself to be kissed on the temple like a child. Neave wasn’t fooled by Armand, either. Good gods, who had said anything about a wedding when they came back? And three children? Her parents were going soft in the head. Then she laughed, knowing when she and Armand arrived back among friends in the morning she would have an amusing story to trade for the one she was going to tease out of Mog. |
