The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

Martje always knows best. Always. Because she said so.       With the warmer weather and the renewal of Spring came the return of the craft fair. The usual hawkers and hucksters from Farriage were down, the vendors were lined along the lanes to the square, and the flourish of brocades wending the rows brought the sweets of the season to the capital. The first of the sloe and bramble were in, jams and jellies were selling round, and the red beet and rhubarb collocated the market stalls with a dash of vibrant colour. The trees lining the bridge were in flower, their leafless boughs brandishing mantles of coral and white, and the high bloom of the tulip and crocus nestled into their beds along the river spoke of summer, telling the rain to lay by a little and allow the sun its due. Everyone was out enjoying the day, even those who favoured the quieter months of winter, and as the vendors began their march, with carts scudding across the stones and jaunties jittering along the high

It is not every day a man of God meets his match. The abbot at Myndil's abbey has certainly met his: Myndil and Tomte H e knelt on his dilapidated mat, the impressions from his knees wearing away the straw in places, and with his ears wracked by the tinkling cachinnations of several bathing Sisters from across the cloister, he grimaced, raised his hands in supplication and tried to put murder out of his mind for five minutes at least.                 “O, Lord,” the abbot keened, his eyes wrining over themselves, “please guide my hand in all things. You will have to, because if you don’t don’t, I am really going to stone the boy.” He exhaled and wilted into the mat. “What do I do with him? If I send him away to be ordained, he will be allowed to come back once he is made a Brother—unless the chapel he goes to sends him back before that—or they could make him a Brother immediately to distress me, which they likely will do, because everyone likes to plague me. It is all a g

The Frewyn music project is on its way! These are the lyrics for Brave King Breian's march. The legend of this song is that Tirlough wrote it while they were marching from Diras to the western border, saying goodbye to the land, not knowing if they were going to win the First Galleisian War. The last part was written after they won: Mho bheannacht to the nascent spring Mho bheannacht to the anvil’s ring Mho bheannacht to the incumbent king Onne bennath aconna Diathaneas an thu, to the Tyfferim wheat Diathaneas an thu, to the Karnwyl sheep Diathaneas an thu, to the river deep Onne bennath aconna Goodbye to the hill and idle down Goodbye to the wood and silver crown Goodbye to the valley mountain town Onne bennath aconna We carry our charms and Balane’s Cross We carry the weight of winter’s loss We carry our hearts through mud and moss Onne bennath aconna We fight o’er the orchard and plain We fight through the wet and rough terrain We fight so the