The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

While Count Rosse is Alasdair's greatest nemesis, he has another enemy which is far more dangerous than His Grace of Horrid Fashion ever could be: like his father Prince Draeden, Alasdair was born with an overactive appetite, but unlike his father, Alasdair was not born with the hyperactive metabolism to complement his ravening constitution. Through tremendous willpower, he is able to ignore most of the pies and desserts that Martje makes for the keep, but there is one desert that he always finds impossible to resist.   B ows were made to the king as he passed, compliments and congratulations were given him on his magnificent sweater, and Alasdair said his thanks and engaged with all those who would ask his attention, when the scent of something, something familiar and pleasant, something warm and comforting attacked his senses. The faint nidor of roasted meats basted with garlic and honey, the mellifluous hints of lemon and rosemary, the buteracous aroma of pie crust and p...

While coming home through Marridon's mountains for Damson is an unspeakable pleasure, for others it is an absolute tragedy: Clouds careened across the azurine expanse, painting the sky in feathered brushstrokes, and the trees triumphed in evergreen, their canopies tinged with the blush of amber light, their bare boughs dusting the forest below with a fuscous blaze. Spruce and cypress stood together in defiance of the rambling mountains, their numbers a calamity on the cascading downs, offending the oak and elder, the white birch peeling in regret of the season, the beech and walnut bidding fond farewell to their legacy lining the ground. Smoke billowed in a wealth of curls from the chimneys of distant cabins, the scent of hickory rising from their flues, the nidor of meats and buteraceous pies wafting across the hills, which bore signs of woodsmen pollarding and coppicing the thick wood. The delicate brume of rime rising caromed off the canvas of the mountains, stumbling do...

While Alasdair might not be allowed to punish his grand nemesis without due cause, that doesn't stop Teague and Mureadh from punishing Rosse for him. B aronous and Gaumhin returned, bringing with them large bales of straw and hardy salutations for the Baronet and Baronetess. Hands were shaken, good tidings were expressed, when Ennan and Fionnora entered from the main hall. Brigdan’s falcon flew instantly to meet his favourite caretaker, Ennan joined the rest of the boys by the tree with his friend clamped to his arm, and seeing that none of the girls were about, Fionnora skipped off to the kitchen, to see whether all the presents had been finished, that they might be wrapped and beribboned, when Teague and Mureadh appeared on the threshold. “Careful, Fionnora,” said Mureadh, calling after his niece as she hastened away. “There are many people setting up decorations in the hall. If you run, you might trip and fall.” “I’m not running, Uncle Mureadh,” Fionnora sang, l...

Alasdair's grand nemesis, in all his hateful glory: F ortunately there was no one about in the royal quarter; the chief of the nobility and those belonging to their set were preparing for their own celebrations or were already gone home to their various estates, and the king and queen could be easy. They sauntered down the hall, admiring the equanimity that overpowered the keep: the usual bustle of everyone readying for court, of maids tittuping up and down the corridors with their various conveyances, of the children tripping off to their lessons, of the soldiers running morning skirmishes was all muted under the ascendancy of the coming holiday. Everything bore a more festive air: the fires from the sconces illuminating the hallway granted the stone a warm amber glow, the red carpet with its golden trimming lately cleaned accorded a jovial appearance, the briskness of the morning frost tinged their cheeks and noses with the blush of winter, and the scent of rye roast and ...