Leta's family were presumably killed during a Rebellion, and she was whisked away by one of her father's most trusted guardsmen to a faraway island to live out her days in exile, as ordered by the new King Calas. After King Calas's death, the Lady L...
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The hall was bedecked with holly and ivy, and mistletoe came down from the rafters, shiny, perfectly round red berries mingling with the jagged, pointed green leaves. Other evergreens festooned the window alcoves and garlanded the doors in redolent arches that smelled like woodland. Their scent mingled with that of the fresh rushes strewn on the floor, mixing with the perfumes of sap coming from the hearth's kindling. Meanwhile the Yule log burned, blazing merrily and sending sparks every which way, illuminating the great hall with its life-giving light.
Bright candles stood on stands and on the tables on which huge trays lay, some laden with boars' head, some with venison cut into perfectly glazed slices and some with peacocks dressed in ginger and sage. Apple pies lay bundled together in small baskets placed in front of each pair of guests.
Wine flowed as did ale spiced with juniper; maids passed around milk possets and the wassail cup was continuously replenished.
Just before another course was brought in, servants carried a bowl into the hall and set it on a table. A maid dropped raisins, almonds, and candied fruit into the cauldron. When this was done, Orlan Reede moved to her side. He struck a kitchen iron against a chip of chert and the bowl lit up, flames licking merrily upwards so that they cleared the rim of the container by a hand's width or more.
Having cleared his throat beforehand, Orlan said. "The time has come for Yuletide's games and revels." All the courtiers assembled in the room clapped their hands. The knights, led by Ser Rowan, catcalled. "The aim of this first game of snapdragon is fairly simple," he said, his voice suited to address a whole roomful. "The participant must snatch the fruit without burning their fingers."
Most courtiers booed. The task seemed impossible with the flames shooting high past the rim of the bowl.
Orlan acknowledged that with a nod of the head. "I'm afraid the task set must be arduous or everyone would win the prize."
Ser Rowan drank a mouthful of ale from a tall tankard. "And what's the prize, Orlan?"
Orlan inclined his head at the high table.
It was Valentine who rose and spoke. "The winner will be king for a day." Valentine inclined his head when Maeve smiled at him. "Free to command the people of Helmark."
"Let the games begin," Amaury said, holding up a golden cup, a mirror to Valentine and Maeve, who were doing the same. The candles were extinguished, increasing the eerie effect of the blue flames playing across the liquor.
A queue of participants vied for the flaming bowl, each of them wanting to be king for a day.
The first to start was a stable boy, whom Amaury knew by sight. He approached the bowl with a rather tentative air and tried to fish a fruit out of it. His sleeve caught fire, however, and his friends had to put it out.
The next to try was the Administrator of the Helmark Bank. He was a very old man, with a gray beard and a bald head. He flung his hand in, but his reflexes were slow, so he moved away from the bowl howling with pain. Orlan was quick to assess him and pronounce him in no danger.
