The Rose and the Thorn by Michael J. Sullivan

Author:Michael J. Sullivan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2013-07-12T22:00:00+00:00

As usual, the musicians played “Falcon’s Flight” as Amrath and Ann descended the stairs. All heads turned and lifted to see the royal family’s entrance. No one said a word, and not even the old sat while they came down. Like a pipe and drum corps on a battlefield, the musicians played while standing. Amrath was dying for a drink. Bad enough that he had to wait until the last guest arrived, but he also had to take his time creeping down the steps with all the speed of a change in seasons. He had to time his footfalls so that the anthem concluded with the end of their procession. The whole thing was theatrics, but expected. This was part of his job, part of being king, and he reminded himself it was one of the easier tasks.

Only Wintertide was more festive than the autumn gala, but the king always thought there was a kind of coercion in the celebration of Wintertide—a party to divert the attention of people facing the longest, often coldest, night of the year. The harvest gala was different and truly festive as long as there was a good harvest. There was nothing worse than trying to make merry after an early frost or torrential rains that wiped out the coming winter’s food. Luckily, he didn’t have to be concerned with either since the harvest had been plentiful. They would have a surplus, and aside from the unpleasant death of Ann’s sister and Chancellor Wainwright, the future looked worthy of a fine celebration.

The party planners had outdone themselves this year. He had never seen so many pumpkin lanterns. They must have bought every candle in the city. The Artisan Quarter would be dark but happy that night. At least the candlemakers would be smiling, not to mention the pumpkin farmers. He chuckled and shook his head at all the bales of hay and straw. Only the privileged would dream of making a castle appear like a barn. Already several bales had broken, the floor scattered with brittle straw and dry clover. They would be cleaning up for weeks.

Kegs of beer and trays of sweetmeats graced every room, accompanied by casks of cider. Barrels had ladles hanging off the sides and slices of apples floating—fruit that would be prized by the end of the night, having absorbed the fermented cider. Streamers that mimicked the color of falling leaves spilled down from the rafters and looped the banisters. A number of the real ones lay scattered across the floor, escapees from the large pile of leaves mounded in the center of the reception hall that the younger attendees had been diving into.

When at last he reached the main floor, the music stopped and everyone took a knee.

“Welcome, my friends, to my humble home,” he said with a loud voice that boomed and bounced. “Please rise.”

The room rumbled with movement. “Tonight we celebrate the bounty that Maribor and Novron granted us this year, and they were generous indeed. All

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