Ailineighdaeth #Book #Sale and Story:

It was an immense year pushing three books, twelve novellas, and countless short stories out the door, and 2018 is already shaping up to be another long publishing year. One non-fiction book and two fiction novellas are already on the way, and a short story anthology is also in the works. So much to write, so little time, but in honour of the holiday, all our 2017 books are ON SALE for half-price until New Year's Day. If you did not have a chance to read Baba Conrridh or Favour of the Gods, now is your chance!

All 2017 books are 50% off

 And now, a story about celebrating the Frewyn new year:

 The sun ascended its meridial perch, beaming resplendent along the wend of the river, congregants gathered more for the decorating of the tree in the churchyard than they did for the sake of listening to the sermon sighed out over the creaking pews, the last Onne Bennath Aconna was drumbled through in a sonorous drone, and the Gods’ Day before Ailineighdaeth was rung in. The bells from the church caromed throughout the capital, the congregants tumbled out onto the streets, and as the natural social order of hens and henpecked men formed in droves around the square, the Brothers and Sisters of the church brought out the garland and sealrealta and invited everyone to decorate the tree in the square. The children clamoured to the ligneous roots of the large tree, holding up the glass globes and looking for the best place for them, and the vendors followed, pushing their holiday accoutrement carts toward their parents. Maple snow was displaying on the open boxes of ice whilst Lamb’s Wool and mulled cider was stewing in turning vats, the first of the drinking chocolate was handed round, the fried dough and steamed buns were going round, a song began from the chorus of revelers, and the holiday celebration was begun.

                There was much to do before all the exultation of Ailineighdaeth was allowed to pervade the keep: the last of the washing and cleaning must be done, the ordering must be written down and the meals discussed, the dress for the evening and day of the holiday must be planned and carried out—and there were other celebrations around the holiday to be managed: Gaumhin’s fortieth birthday must be mentioned and glossed over, everyone must be harassed over Rautu’s sixtieth birthday, all the charitable visits to be done by various members of the royal must be arranged, friends and family from afar must be written to and entreated to come to the keep, and the decorating of a live tree to be brought in to the Great Hall must be all everyone’s interest. Those belonging to the younger generation were busying about the Great Hall, moving the tables and preparing the mats for the tree, whilst everyone else was in their respective rooms, planning ahead for the eve of the holiday: Vyrdin and Ros were in the library, talking to Brigid about which books were to be donated to the National Library and which were to find a new home at Mr Baleigh’s, Brigdan was visiting with his father in the Royal Quarter, discussing when might be best to make their annual charity rounds, Searle and Aghatha were in the servants’ quarters managing about the linens and meals to be done for the soldiers staying behind, Martje was in the larder talking to Sheamas about the consignment of meat to be brought in for the holiday, and Shayne and Tomas were in the workshop, the former hiding from his wife, both of them speaking to their daughters about what was to be sold by way of holiday gifts for Qwynlyn’s shoppe, Peigi and Blinne were with Harrigh in the garden, watching the winter rose acervate in full bloom, and Alasdair was in the tailory with Carrigh and Pastaddams, the queen consort fitting her husband for a new jerkin and the royal tailor measuring his husband’s new coat.

                “He will not wear one,” Pastaddams tutted, inspecting the long seams. “I know he likes patrolling with no sleeves on, and while I’m happy to watch him do it, his skin does dry, and if he will wear nothing under his armour to fill in the gaps, he will wear something over it.”

                “He does have his winter mantle,” Alasdair offered, lifting up his arms for his wife as she fluttered about him.

                Pastaddams gave him a look. “I think, sire, I need not tell you how little that does for a man who is determined to have his skin peeled from his forearms by the frost. I grant you he is an immense creature and as bauldering as a walking furnace, but while that does me good during the long winter evenings, it does nothing for him. He gives off the heat rather than retain it. You can see the steam rising off him when he marches along the gatehouse.”

                “Do you watch him every evening when he’s on patrol?”

                “I do other things at the same time,” said Pastaddams, in a self-defending voice. “I darn and hem and sigh amorously, and think of how he is going to plunder my trove after he has washed himself from a day of work.” He pulled the hem of the mantle closed. “I also make tea and read books.”

                Carrigh and Alasdair exchanged a knowing smile.

                “I see you conspiring about my happiness, sire. I hope I am allowed to love my god of husband without being gaggled at for being a hopeless old romantic?” said Pastaddams, arching a brow.

                “No one could laugh at you for loving Gaumhin so much,” said Carrigh, smiling. “I think anyone would be fortunate to have such an ardent admirer for a husband.”

                Pastaddams humphed and seemed satisfied, leaving Alasdair to wonder whether a small slight was intended toward himself.

                “I’m just as fortunate, sire,” Carrigh quietly added, noting the dread in Alasdair’s looks.

                “Yes—as am I, of course—“ he miffled, and then, not wanting to see impertinent, he amended with, “Do you like the high neck on this one? I like it. Do you like it?”

                “It is very becoming on you, sire,” said Pastaddams, without turning round. “All your jerkins look very well and much the same.”

                Alasdair was most seriously offended. “They do not all look the same,” he scoffed. “They are all of them different. Every stitch, every design—even the embroidery on each one is vastly unlike-- you know Carrigh makes me a new one every year to match her holiday dress—how can you say—you said it to rile me, never mind.”

                “It is so terribly easy, sire, to get you to fall into that little trap,” Pastaddams simpered. “You have no problem making a civil argument when Rosse the Abominant is by, but the moment you are around your family and friends, your guard is laid by, and you will allow us to absolutely ravage your conscience. How we love doing it, and how well you accept our cruelty.”

                “What else are friends and family for?” Alasdair grumbled, putting his arms down.

                While Alasdair was fussing and flumping over whether his waist measurements were much the same as they were the year before—they were, much to his subvention—Rautu was walking Sheamas out of the keep, talking to him of smoked beef and cured hams, putting in his request for anything good hiding in his stores for his birthday, when Boudicca came to join them from the Great Hall.

                “Are you harassing my brother for the rack of lamb in his salting pan?”

                The giant stopped and gave his mate an ardent look. “Lamb?”

                “That’s for the holiday,” Sheamas laughed. “I know it’s yer sixtieth and all, but that lamb’s for the keep. Martje asked for it special. Maybe I shouldna said that, ‘cause now you’ll eat it to spite her. I got somethin’ else for you anyhow, somethin’ better.”

                Rautu doubted this. His heart leapt when lamb was mentioned, and now that he was determined to have it, his mind would have nothing else.

                “He’s not even gonna ask me what I got for him?” said Sheamas.

                “Never,” Boudicca laughed. “Asking should spoil the hunt.”

                “The animal’s kinda dead, kin.”

                “As though that should stop him from lurking about your offices in quest of it.”

                “Aye, that’s true. Well, I’m sayin’ nothin’ about it—and it’s not at the shoppe, so he can look all he wants.”

                Here was a scheme, and how could the giant refuse such a challenge when issued so directly? He would go to Sheamas’ shoppe and make a full inspection of the place, but first there was a baker to see and a birthday order to make, and meat, though certainly high on his list of great loves, would have to fall third behind his mate and chocolate cake.