Kitaryn

Tuesday can not roll around soon enough. With Trom feeling sore about the festival, the mood in the office has become dour instead of dull. To make matters worse, my father has assigned us to many of the same tasks, probably to ensure I have the chance to apologize–not that he’s said so. It's also a punishment. Athyr knows that I won't want to inconvenience the family—or scare them. Trom will do that and more in the name of “efficiency.” In truth, it’s because he’s bitter. 

I will never allow it.

And thus, it's not a coincidence that my lackluster coworker spends his Tuesday nights entertaining his own family’s guests, impressing them with his growing catalog of mundane accomplishments. Unsupervised entry into the Archives of the Admonished is his latest–an honor that I guess to be my Athyr’s apology to him.

Still, he can't attend dinner at the Barleyblossom’s tonight, and that is a victory.

I swing a woven satchel over my shoulder and slip some draft writs and a graphite pen beside Aodan’s cloak, which I need to return. Trom glowers at me from his corner, envy sharpening the dun shade of his eyes. While I dine in easy company, he will attempt to convince his uncles that his public humiliation at my hands was less severe than it seemed. It wasn't.

It was such a forceful jab that I do feel bad for him. Perhaps a bit of that pity motivates me not to bid him a good night when he is destined for a bad one. I snatch my own cloak from the rack on my way out. “Have a lovely night, Plaensys. See you in the morning.”

“Good luck, Fyr-Ceann. I hope you find your answers.” Her violet eyes are distant as she speaks. They trail to Trom, full of compassion. I'm glad to know Trom has a sympathizer. He's not a bad person, just plain and apparently entitled—to my feelings.

I breeze out of the doors and embrace the sun, not yet golden in its tilt toward evening. My written directions take me past the artists on the terrace preparing for golden hour and into the midst of the businessfolk bartering over discounted festival goods. I hesitate over a collection of flower crowns going for a copper chip, and again over two pies for a haysilver, wondering if they might be acceptable offerings to my evening’s hosts.

But I already have a gift and loitering will make me late. When I finally drift out of the city by the North Business Gate, I meet the side of the mountain which blazes with afternoon sun, its trees vibrant in their autumn colors. As I walk, the leaves trickle down in golds and reds on a gentle breeze. I'd like to know what such a gentle fall feels like.

Lower on the mountain, I turn on a dirt path barely wide enough for a cart. Fields stretch beside it, rippling gold and green like waves on the ocean. Clusters of trees dot the landscape, sheltering cabins, barns, and watering holes.

A hand waves from down the lane, blocky from muscle. There, two elfmen lean on a gatepost, which is nothing more than a stone turned upright with a head of barley carved into it, the sigil of their family.

Both young men wear clean tunics with light embroidery on the collars. In front, Aodan beckons me toward them, his half-tied hair exposing those broad cheeks I dare to admire. I recognize the man behind him as one of the lads from the festival’s preparations, a slightly younger man who is half a head taller than Aodan and bears the same amber eyes. He must be a brother. He mimics Aodan with an over-exaggerated wave, his mouth so wide that he almost drools.

Aodan notices and shoves him aside as I approach.

“Ignore Ionin, Fyr-Ceann, he was born short of a mind.” Aodan rises from a bow with a twisted grin planted on his face.

“No mind? I’m not the one at the heels of a– ooph” The brother takes an elbow to the ribs.

I smile in amusement. They bicker, but there's a warmth in Aodan’s jostling that tells me it's all done in fun.

“Hey now, —deten, whatever happened to showing the esteemed House of Tradition a loyal family with a unified front, hrm? What’s she going to think of all this abuse?”

I laugh outright. “Unified in your humor, if nothing else.”

“Always, as long as we know I’m the funniest.” Ionin winks a glittering, golden eye. He is much like his brother.

“Oh, stuff it!” Aodan shoves his shoulder one last time before they lead me to a cabin of modest size nestled in some trees. One tree stands in the center, petrified and hollowed-out. Smoke rises merrily from it, carrying the promising scent of baking bread.

The brothers walk me to the front door, a dark-stained feature set into uncut spruce logs. Aodan hesitates there. “Listen, Fyr-Ceann, Ionin’s not the only one. They’ve all been teasing me about this whole thing. I... I know you're here on business, so please forgive–”

“Oh please,” Ionin steps between them to reach for the door. “I’m sure the Fyr-Ceann is well aware of our intentions to shmooze her and avoid the bad opinion of the House, as well as your more personal agenda. In we go.” He puts a hand on my upper back and ushers me forward. As he does, I glimpse a real flash of anger in Aodan’s face, his cheeks reddening.

I don’t have time to ponder what he means by Aodan’s “personal agenda” or even to worry over Aodan’s reaction before I'm faced with a room full of people.

Before me, the main room bustles with Aodan’s kin. At the table reclines a she-elf, her hair bound loosely to reveal features elongated with age. She strips rosemary from the stem, tossing it into a bowl held by a young girl. The smell of it blossoms across the room, mingling with the aroma of bread and simmering vegetables.

On the inside, the petrified fireplace has been pitched and fitted with metal racks. Leafras turns bread with a mitted hand. Her husband, Betnin, stands at the table pouring broth on a pot of steamed vegetables as he chats with who must inevitably be his sister. She has an elfling clinging to her hip, probably around twenty years old–much younger than the girl who holds the bowl for the matriarch. That girl is nearly full-height, though her face is still round with youth.

The door thuds against the wall. Everyone looks up, the room coming to a standstill. For a moment, I think I wasn’t expected.

“Fyr-Ceann Kitaryn Willowbrith from the House of Tradition, everyone!” Ionin calls.

 I suppress a snort at his dramatic mockery of an announcement. Such formalities are not necessary here, but it causes everyone to bow to me, and I bob my head  in acknowledgement. “Lovely of you to have me.”

“Child, we are blessed to receive you, like grasses the summer rains.” Leafras waves me toward a cushion, her hand still mitted. It’s much more polite than my treatment at the festival, but her glare at her younger son reveals her hot nature.

“Before I sit,” I round the table and curtsy to the matriarch, “a gift.” I retrieve a green scarf fitted with a copper brooch of their family’s sigil.

The woman’s brows shoot up, her eyes creasing with pleasure. “That’s lovely, dear. None of us can say that the House of Tradition has forgotten its manners.”

“It’s a breeze’s bliss, madam.”

I scoot around the table, catching the eye of the older elfling. This one has deeply green eyes with a ring of brown on the outside like her grandmother’s. She ducks her head self-consciously.

There's a simmering silence as no one knows quite what to say. It would be poor form for me to jump straight to business. 

“I do apologize for making you wait for dinner.” Leafras breaks the silence. “I wasn’t sure whether to prepare early or–”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Please, it’s gracious of you to make the time this evening. Whatever is baking smells delicious, and I’d wait a hundred hungry winters to eat it.”

There's another pause, and Leafras smiles to herself at the compliment.

The younger elfling presses into his mother's leg and whispers, “Mattan, what do we do now?”

I quickly face the wall to hide my amusement as the mother tries to hush the child. “You really don’t have to entertain me. Please, enjoy yourselves. You must not have many opportunities to gather as a family.”

They look at one another as if confused.

I think I've erred. “Or perhaps we should remove the matter of business first?”

“You’ve accused me of making potions, child, and I’d like to know the grounds for this claim.” The matriarch says coolly. The older child’s eyes grow wide. Evidently, this is the first she's heard of it.

“Mattan!” It's Aodan’s father who scolds her.

I blush. To say to a family of Cultivators that their cranberries are suspiciously tart for the season suddenly seems trite. “It began with some questions on your success, which your kin told me related to a fertilizer. I searched the records for a recipe, but found none. I simply desired to do my due-diligence and ensure there is nothing atraditional at work. My business associate... he may have escalated the case in undue course. I apologize.” I half-bow to the matriarch to emphasize my sincerity.

In the corner of my vision, Aodan’s fists clench as he reads between the lines. Trom.

“Aha, so your little mercy was to avoid having that coworker here, was it?” Ionin buts in. “What’s he got against a bunch of farmers?”

I squint at Aodan, silently asking how his brother knew about my note.

He shrugs with open hands. I've definitely erred in believing this family doesn’t gather regularly. Now I wonder if they're ever apart. 

Leafras delivers bread to the table, sending a knowing glance toward Aodan and me. “Nevermind what petty noble has his feathers ruffled. What information do you need, Fyr-Ceann?” Leafras’ tone is kind. I see now she is hot-tempered, but not rude.

“A recipe, preferably. To be stored quietly and privately of course.” I glance at Aodan, who nods appreciatively. Not a person in the room misses the gesture.

The matriarch scoffs. “I’d die and return again before I allowed some Library to have it. This is an old family recipe. The Burnhills would just love to copy it, you know.”

I've prepared for this. “Then what about a list of ingredients? Aodan tells me that other family members know these. I could reconcile them and see if it warrants further investigation.”

She considers this for a while, twirling stripped rosemary between her fingers. She tosses the stem with the others.  “I suppose I could live with that, if it’s truly meant to be kept private.”

“Of course! We would most appreciate it.” I conjure my warmest smile.

“Well, now that that’s settled, let’s enjoy our ever so rare family time with our guest.” Ionin’s broad grin hides a joke in it. I think half of them must live in this same cabin.

What follows is the warmest, heartiest meal I've ever consumed. Fresh vegetables steamed, bread straight from the oven, and some mashed sweet potatoes flavored with spices. It isn't merely the food. The family ribs each other only as much as they compliment each other, always smiling and poking. The young she-elf even draws from her shell to entertain the family with quips at Ionin’s expense, practicing her improvisation. 

She hasn’t determined her art yet, but is considering comedy. It may be a low art, but nobody here seems to mind. Ionin is made to be a pig for his large head and enormous appetite, a goat for his stubbornness, and a cat for his deftness in business.

But the most pointed joke is aimed at Aodan. “Whipperwill,” she said, “you couldn’t help but sing all your family gossip to the world.”

Telling me about the fertilizer, I realize. I turn to defend him, but he raises his glass of hot cider, wafting with spices. “Hear! Hear!”

I forget myself and snort, and they all turned to me. With their attention, a devilish impulse takes me. “A whippoorwill? More like a prairie grouse, the way he dances to impress the ladies.”

The room is silent for a moment, shocked. Then it erupts in laughter. Ionin howls. “She got you, Ardeten!”

I flinch at the term. Older-brother. I haven't heard it used since...

The contrast seeps into the moment like frost on the land. This family, glowing with warmth and laughter, contrasts with stone floors and sleepless nights of memorizing alone, dinner purchased on my way out of town and cold by time I eat. Before me, there's a burning fireplace, a rambunctious comradery. At home, a dull candle and silence. Here, a school-age child nestles into his mothers lap as she links arms under the table with the man who is not only her patron, but husband; the copy of his sigil around the single chain on her neck, and hers around his, indicates it is so. At home, a stern man I call Athyr sits at his desk, indifferent to my presence as long as I’m quiet.

Leafras leans on her own husband with a tenderness I've never known. Love. The unattainable is all around me.

The air is gone. I can't breathe.

“Fyr-Ceann?” Aodan asks.

“Sorry?” I gasp. I missed something they've said.

He clears his throat, embarrassment pink in his cheeks. “Ionin asked if it worked, the dancing.”

“Oh, well, I was impressed. He is quite good.” I answer genuinely, forgetting the mood.

A round of warm smiles meets me. “It's his art, you know.” His mattan speaks with pride: more of the unattainable.

“I had guessed it might be.” I fumble for how to turn the conversation to someone else and escape their attention.

Aodan leans toward me from his cushion beside mine. “Are you alright?” The warmth of the room radiates from his skin, even at a respectable distance. 

I give him a weak smile. “A little air would be nice. I've hardly seen the farm.”

“Her ladyship wishes to see the farm!” Ionin announces jovially, rising from my other side. “We shall–!”

“No you won’t!” Leafras glares him back into his seat. “Aodan, could you show the Fyr-Ceann our finer fields? The rest of you are needed here to clean up.”

Heat floods my cheeks. They're sending Aodan and only Aodan, not one of the family heads. Perhaps this family is putting its best foot forward: the future family head to accompany the likely future Ceann. He is the oldest grandchild of the matriarch, and easily the best mannered.

Or perhaps... I follow Aodan outside into the cool breeze, observing his muscled shoulders and the wind in the ends of his thick hair. Perhaps they encourage his whims. His “personal agenda.”

My throat tightens. Part of me wants that to be the answer: that he admires me, that he, despite our differences, is drawn to me like I am to him. The other part of me hopes he never considers it, so that I will never have to deny my own rising attraction. I will matron with someone who has my athyr's approval. I'm only delaying it. And I won't marry until my duties to the House of Tradition are complete, if ever. By then... I think of the happy Barleyblossoms with their married matrons and lovely children. By then, Aodan will have found that happiness, too.

Outside the cabin, he offers me an arm, his expression gentle. The sunset catches in the gold of his eyes, shining on the softness there.

Aodan, with his laughter full of humor and his gestures full of kindness, loops my hand through his arm.

“The best view is this way,” he says.

But I'm already staring at the best thing this farm has to offer.