Sins & Virtues

Chapter Eighteen: Jora Pomona

Cairn

Laurel's Rise, Brynn

The city was more alive than Cairn had ever witnessed. Perhaps it was the excitement of a new king or, even more likely, in spite of their recent guest. The citizens were animated with chatter and preparation for the festivities that awaited them, energised by the smells of cooking meat and the burning sage of the bonfires as they drifted in from Sorrelroux; the lush fields that surrounded the great capital. The prayers were finished, performed at noon to cleanse the city and its people, and for hours after that the streets were quiet, each citizen rejuvenating themselves by washing and sleeping, to maintain their energies for the nights ahead. The tents had been erected in the fields, the billowing flags visible from the palace over the tops of the houses and buildings of the city, and as the sun lowered in the sky and the citizens of Laurel's Rise began to amass to Sorrelroux, the orange of the bonfires glowed bright.

Jora Pomona. The Festival of Seeds. Named for their Goddess of Fields and Crops and All that Grows, Jora Pomona rang in the season of planting and growing, when the farming fields were finally ready for sowing the seeds that would become the crops that would feed the entire city. Jora Gethera, named for their Goddess of Harvest, took place nearer the end of the year, around the time of the tenth full moon, when the forget-me-nots began to grow in the meadows. They would follow the same traditions then as well.

Cairn dressed in the garb he always wore to Jora Pomona; loose harem pants and a long flowing waistcoat, open to bear his strong chest. He had been offered the long robes and headdress he had seen his father wear so many times, but had declined, accepting instead the smaller headdress and ceremonial talismans. The ash tattoos were obligatory and a part he rather enjoyed anyway. Each citizen in attendance bore symbols drawn on their exposed skin; runes, animals, elemental symbols and shapes that many didn't know the meaning behind anymore. The paint was made with ash from the bonfires, where branches from the apple groves; the last to be harvested so close to the city the year before, were burnt on the pyres.

He walked barefoot to the festival, the head of a grand procession of the few members of the royal family who remained and their most prominent and loyal Dukes, and their families. Hera's family; Duke Cormac Argus, Duchess Olga and their son, Larson, had travelled from Heraion to attend, and she walked with them, clutching baby Cade to her breast like the babe could be snatched away at any moment. Her mother offered many times to help but Hera refused, only watching as her daughters ran and jumped about in their excitement, their arms painted with swirls and prancing animals - Cairn knew Tadhg's handiwork when he saw it. Gaia joined Cairn at the front of the procession, taking his hand and skipping at his side. He smiled down at her with a wink.

The fields of Sorrelroux were already bustling with his citizens, some split into their own private parties, while others amassed together. The festivities were already beginning. The music from the fiddles, horns and drums beat a steady rhythm as people danced around the bonfires, bodies writhing and limbs flailing, sensibilities taken by the joy of the revelries, the flow of ale and the euphoric herbs thrown onto the bonfires. Wild boars were being dug out of their cooking pits to cheers from the crowds, resting on spits, the meat so tender from days of roasting beneath the earth that it fell apart as children clamoured for a slither.

Cairn approached the King's tent; the biggest tent built in the centre of everything, with two open sides and the ground scattered with various cushions and pouffes, excited to join in once his duties were done. He inclined his head to the many bows he received as he passed. Gaia tugged on his hand.

' Uncle, who is that man? The one in red?'

Cairn followed her pointing finger and a little of his excitement folded away. Cleric Iruin stood out like a blot of blood on silk, still in his crimson vestments, his face almost as scarlet. He marched up at the sight of the king.