Foundation

and was determined to hear the birds speak at midnight. So he had slipped away from the bed he was supposed to be in and got into the Royal Mews. “And whether it was at midnight or no, I swear to you, when the birds quieted after my disturbing them, they did start to speak. Before long, I knew every little thing that was troubling them, from the little hobby whose perch was too big for his small claws to the eagle who hated the man who cleaned his stall. At some point I fell asleep in there for true, with my head pillowed on a sack. The birds woke me when morning came and my parents and all found me, and I got a round scolding for being there, but when I rattled off all that the birds had said in the night, the Royal Falconer then started and looked at me like I had grown a tail. ‘I was going to change that hobby’s perch this morning,’ was what he said in answer. ‘And I’d suspected that old Char had got on the wrong side of the eagle somehow. And as for the rest of it—well, I don’t know it to be true, by damme if I’m not going to act on it. And as for you, my lad, I am going to be talking to your da.’ And so he did, that very moment.”

Marc nodded. “So that was how you ended up ’prenticed to the Royal Falconer.”

“Did you ever hear the birds speak again?” Lydia asked, her eyes wide.

He shook his head. “Not in words. And I can’t swear I heard them that night, either. I could’ve dreamed it all. But I have always known how the birds were feeling, what troubles them, what ails them. Marc has none of that for birds, but he has for the dogs.”

Marc nodded. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever heard them speak at midnight on Midwinter Eve.”

“That’s because your old papa always made sure you weren’t creeping about in the kennels on Midwinter Eve,” the Falconer chuckled.

And so the first part of the evening passed. There were no sad stories, no sad songs. Everything spoke of hope, even if some of the tales were, in Mags’ estimation, entirely absurd.

And then, just before midnight, they all stopped talking, and Lydia picked up the candles, distributing them to all the guests. As if that was a signal, the servants came in, doused the remaining lights and smothered the fire with a blanket. And they all sat there, in the dark, with the room growing colder and colder.

Mags wondered what it was they were waiting for. As the dark and cold closed in around him, he shivered, reminded all too clearly of those winter nights in the sleep-hole. None of the kiddies had ever actually died of cold in their sleep ... but some of the older miners had ....

Then, into the silence, bells began to ring.

Mags thought they began up at the Palace, but soon enough, bells were ringing all over Haven. And that was when the priest struck a light, using an iron, a flint, and a little ball of lint, all from the tinderbox on the table.

One spark jumped into the lint on his first try, and he managed to breathe it into a tiny flame successfully. Quickly he added bits of wood that must have been oil soaked from the way they flared up, and used it to light his candle.

Lydia began to sing.

“Spark of light, in the night, pass the flame burning bright—”

The others evidently knew this song, for they immediately joined in, as the priest touched his candleflame to Aiken’s, who touched his to Marc’s, and so on around the circle to Mags while they sang.

“Heart to heart, let it dart, pass the hope, let it start—”

When the flame came back to the priest, he exchanged his candle with Master Soren’s. Solemnly, Master Soren went to the hearth and rekindled the fire.

“Darkness fly from the sky, pass the flame burning high—”

Servants came then with small shovels, each taking a coal as the fire roared up again. After a moment it occurred to Mags that they must have put out all of the household fires, and now they were going to restart them as Master Soren had, from the first tiny spark of the new year.

The last of the servants remained, relighting all of the candles as the song ended.

Soren looked at the priest with a grin. “A good omen as always, Gellet, getting a flame with the first spark.”

The priest mock-saluted him. “Now I know why you invite me every year. For my fire-starting skills.”

Soren laughed. “Among other things. Now, my friends, we have one more thing we must do.”

He handed his candle to Lydia and opened the little box that had been beside the other things on the table, reaching into it and coming out with something small, black, and shiny. This, he pushed into the earth in the pot, and passed the box to Lydia. She did the same. When it got to Mags, he saw that they were seeds.

When they had all planted seeds, the priest held his hands over the pot and blessed it. “And may we all grow as strong as these seeds, and prosper,” he finished.

:You are planting the seeds of the new year. Soren will put this out in the garden to be dormant until spring, then the seedlings will be transplanted. They are probably trumpet vine, which is very hardy.:

Soren nodded, and stood up, looking expectant. “Well, shall we join the rest of the household for the vigil bonfire?”

Mags had no idea what that was, but he was more than willing to go along. They left their candles, still burning, in a special holder with enough sockets to take them all that stood beside the door. Then they all gathered up coats and cloaks and went out to an area of the home that Mags had never seen before—the kitchen yard and garden in the rear.

There was an enormous bonfire there, although from the look of it, it had only just been kindled and had been aided to its roaring state by the liberal application of oil. The servants were all gathered around, laughing and passing mugs of mulled cider and sausages impaled on sticks. The smell of both—the sausages especially, as they were toasted over the fire—made Mags’ stomach growl, and he was happy to accept one.

There was a glimmer of white in the darkness beyond the reach of the fire, and Dallen threaded his way through the humans with his head bobbing at every step. He nudged Mags with his nose. :Finally, now I can join you!: