Kitaryn

Puffy clouds roll across blue skies like a lazy flock of goats, and I envy them for it. But I’m late again. I fling my legs across the mountain terrace as fast as genteel grace allows. If everything else in my life is a perfect silver vase, this tardiness is my persistent tarnish.

I send a glare to those happy clouds and their cheerful, mid-morning sun. It's not that I fail to prepare ahead, it's that frivolous things like clouds can send my mind adrift in daydreams, gliding across my imagination into flight, like the birds—I shake my head to clear it. It was happening again. Instead, I set my thoughts on the tasks of this auspicious day: today is the final day of the Harvest Festival, and it's my job to review the provisions that the prior night’s Best Harvest Award winners are supplying. I'm not checking for adequate supply, but for fulfillment of Tradition. 

As I approach the rear of this festival's amphitheater, I steady my gait, adding a graceful flourish to swing my long skirts in a way that would make my father proud. This year, the backdrop is glasswork shaped as an abstract flame, which at night is underlit by real fire to shimmer and refract in a dazzling display. 

As I pass, the memory of last nights’ performances makes me smile, a memory worthy of the mountains of applications I'd sifted. The performers, too, had to be vetted not only for skill, but for merits of Tradition. Even the glasswork backdrop was scrutinized. Glass is new to us, perhaps only a decade has passed since Ceann Silverstem decided to accept it in trade from humans, so it isn't a traditional material. It's also not magical or holy in any regard, so I argued that new things had to be introduced occasionally, and this was a benign introduction. As the sunlight glitters on the flame’s transparent tips, I'm glad I did.

Before I step out into the commotion of preparations, I reach for the single braid over my left ear and find it's beginning to fray. I hope no one notices as I re-twine it and smooth the rest of my hair, freeing it from behind the points of my ears. As the daughter of one of the five Ceanns, chiefs of the government, I can't be seen frazzled.

The first thing I do when I step onto the festival grounds is tap my forehead and send a silent blessing to the immense stone Goldencrown the Great. He stands guard before the grand archways of our cavernous capital building, just as he has for millenia past. I allow myself to wonder, just for a moment, if he has a favorite festival memory, too. He has far more to choose from than my one hundred and fifty. 

A creak and crash remind me why I’m here. Across the cracked walkways and rings of earth, which are crowded with booths and barrows, I spy a group of young men loitering around barrels and crates, one of which has just toppled. The wooden pop-up stalls were erected a week ago, but these workers wait on me to review their goods before they can equip the stalls with this night’s food. Their stances are tense, and one stockier elfman slaps his fellow over the shoulder as the man rights a barrel.

“Just because we're stuck waiting doesn't mean you can mess around.”

“Aw, lay off me.”

Just then, the first man's eyes flash to Kitaryn, pinning her with molten gold. He frowns.

I smile back and pretend I'm not the reason their progress is stagnated. I have to. I can't afford to admit my mistakes.

I am a Willowbirth. Willowbirths protect Tradition with their lives, ultimately becoming the Ceanns in charge of that governmental House, directing the course of Culture. They always have since the founding of Etnfrandia, and they will until the nation fails. And I, Kitaryn, will be no exception. Tardiness is not a step in the path. Imperfections are not allowed.

So I approach the group of elfman with my chin high, as is correct of a Fyr-Ceann. “Sun’s blessing this day, sirs. Is there an elftress by the name of Leafras Barleyblossom among you?”

The same young man clears his throat. He is slightly shorter than the others, and his hair a touch darker. Under it, his amber eyes glow by contrast. “Sun’s blessings, Fyr-Ceann.” He offers an awkward bow, clearly unused to the gesture. “My mattan–erm–Leafras is behind that stall inspecting the apples. She awaits you... patiently.” He gestures with a well-muscled arm toward the rim of the festival.

“You’ve been most helpful.” I bob my head to acknowledge him before I go. I had forgotten how much sturdier Cultivators are than artists and businessfolk. Leafras' son–perhaps a few decades my senior–is exceptionally thick around the shoulders and chest. I wonder what it feels like to be so strong. 

Behind me, I hear them jostle one another, chuckling like schoolboys. Before I can help it, my eyes roll. This is not the first time I’ve had this effect on Valley citizens, and I assume it's because of my fair skin and fine clothes. Then again, my appearance is unusual. Somehow, my athyr’s bright silver and my mattan's flaxen hair have produced something of a snowy landscape on my head. That, when paired with an eye color stolen from the morning sky, makes my complexion a bit unique. Perhaps even alluring. Exotic, at least, based on the reactions of these tan-skinned, warm-eyed lads.

I find the booth and the she-elf. Her relation to the young man is obvious in her stature and her eyes, though her hair is lighter. She wears it in an old-fashioned style where the braids begin at her temples and wind into a half-up bun. She's busy worrying over a bin of apples, but stands when she hears my light steps. She turns an apple over in her hand, frowning at a bruise. “You're the Clerk of Tradition, I assume?”

“Mizz Leafras,” I dip my  head slightly lower than I had for the young men, “I’m Kitaryn Willowbirth. I’ve come to review your offerings.”

Leafras ducks her head only briefly. “Yes, Fyr-Ceann, we've been waiting half the morning. Here’s the list. You’ll find everything in order. Let me know if you have questions. Or ask my son, Aodan. He’d know, too. Probably better than me.” She pulls a scrolled paper from the pocket of a mussed apron and shoves it into my hand.

 I blink. She's more brusque than I'm used to, but I am late. Even still, it's strange to be brushed off when I have the authority in this situation. “You've been helpful,” I lie politely. She must be in a foul mood.

The scroll lists the expected crops: grains, gourds, squashes, and yams. I check off the list as I visit the stores of each. Every box and barrel is filled to the brim with lush, large crops. The prepared goods, also, are fresh and abundant, and all within tradition: biscuits, cakes, puddings, stews, and many variations of bread. I should have been surprised by neither the crops' plumpness nor their bounty; they come from this year’s winners. Nevertheless, I cannot help but be impressed.

I'm nearly through, only double-checking my work, when an option among the pies catches my attention: Cranberry. Though the harvest of these, I have read, begins this moon, it's too early to produce the numbers they've listed. Not to mention that Cranberry goods are part of the Winter Solstice festival, not the Harvest.

I search through the barrows for the trespassing fruit, prepared to scrutinize whether the size and texture are seasonally appropriate. At last, I discover them on the back of one, waiting in baskets to be unloaded. I frown at what I find.

The cranberries are so numerous and large that it is almost suspicious, I write in the notes section of my form. The Farm To Table guide specifies that early cranberries are small and flavorless. These...

I reach to sample the crop, hoping they will taste watery and therefore mark the end of my work. A newly familiar voice stops me.