Page 134 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
CHAPTER 90
Spirits soared as they headed to Tyghan’s farm for the next Beltane celebration. Bristol hadn’t realized how afraid she’d been of failure, afraid of letting everyone down, until she closed the portal and her fear gave way to euphoria.
The other recruits rejoiced with her, hugging and excitedly talking about the future as they rode together back to Danu.
“This is going to happen!”
“My family will be so happy.”
“Mine too. They’ve wanted to come to Elphame for years.”
“There is still a Fomorian king to defeat.”
“We’re going to whoop his ass, too.”
“I hated him the minute I saw him.”
“He reminded me of a professor I used to work with. It will bring me great satisfaction to see him walk off with his tail between his legs.”
“Walk? You mean crawl—if he’s lucky.”
“He has a tail?”
“He won’t be walking or crawling. I have an arrow whittled just for him.”
“And another for the Darkland monster?”
“Yes, one for her too.”
“Won’t they have powerful wards protecting them?”
“All wards have their limits. Esmee and Olivia will find them.”
The Beltane celebration back in Danu was completely different from the ball at Timbercrest. The first was for news and gossip, and the second was to usher in summer and celebrate the greening of pastures, the fertility of crops—and procure blessings from the gods for other types of fertility as well.
Extravagant gowns and gossip were left behind. So were ballrooms. In Danu, the festivities took place in the hills and farmlands. Sparkling banquet tables were replaced with rough-spun blankets and wooden tables carried from farm kitchens to share the first fruits of spring. Towering vases of flowers were replaced by wildflower posies hanging over doorways and chamomile woven into crowns.
Tyghan had a farm he only rarely visited, and the celebration began in his kitchen. Flour dusted Bristol’s hands and Hollis’s cheeks as they mixed ingredients and kneaded dough for bannock cakes. Julia shaped the dough into flat rounds, then fried them in a skillet. Sashka sat in the corner of the kitchen plunging a stick into a barrel of milk, which would somehow turn the milk into fresh butter, though Sashka remained skeptical. Like Bristol, she thought butter was only purchased at the market, already wrapped in pretty paper packages. Milk transforming into butter seemed like an odd, work-intensive kind of fae magic. All of the preparations happened under the gentle and sometimes amused guidance of Ahbriya, the urisk steward of Tyghan’s farm. Like Glennis, she had beautiful curved horns circling her head. She had adorned them with bright, colorful ribbons in honor of Beltane. Bristol was sorry Glennis couldn’t be there enjoying the festivities, too, but Cully said she was still out on patrol.
The rest of their crew was outside doing other chores. Rose and Avery were gathering primrose and rowan flowers, while Tyghan and Dalagorn gathered dead wood and brush in a copse by the river. It would be used for blazing bonfires later that day. The piles needed to be large and stacked high so they could be seen for miles from the hilltop and would burn well into evening.
“Here we go,” Quin announced as he and Rose walked into the kitchen with baskets full of berries.
“I’ll take those,” Hollis said, wiping her dusty hands on her apron, though Quin was already headed in her direction. Julia, Sashka, and Bristol exchanged sly glances. It appeared that Hollis’s interest in Quin might be mutual.
They had all managed to get a few scant hours of sleep in the early dawn hours, Bristol and Tyghan tucking into his small bedroom and smaller bed, which she didn’t mind at all. She should have been exhausted, but Bristol couldn’t sleep when she laid her head on the pillow. Exhilaration still raced through her. Victories were coming fast now. First Cael, then the portal.
When this is over.Now it seemed like it was possible. Both an end and a beginning were in sight.
“Sleep,” Tyghan had whispered, then pulled her close. “It’s going to be a long day yet.” He gently streamed his hand across her brow and over her eyelids, repeating, “Sleep,” and whether it was magic or just the contentment of his nearness, sleep had come, deep and full.
Tyghan dumped an armful of sticks into the cart they were loading for the bonfires. He had wanted to forgo the celebrations and get back to the palace to prepare—there was a battle looming. But honoring the gods was part of that preparation too, and once he opened the door to his farmhouse, he knew he had made the right decision. Every time he came to the farm, he always resolved to come more often, to take a greater part in the plowing of the fields, harvesting, and tending the cattle, but it never happened. Other duties always took precedent. Thank the gods for Beltane and Samhain, or it wouldn’t happen at all.
He remembered when he was only six, still a dreamy child, and he saw Amaetheon walking waist deep through their golden field of ripe wheat. The seedheads were heavy, bowing and nodding, ready for harvest, but Tyghan thought even the seedheads knew they had a great god in their midst, and they bowed in reverence to him. It was the last time he had seen the god, though he knew Amaetheon still came. His steward had seen him twice in the years since.
“Will you help with the harvest?” Amaetheon had asked him.
“Yes,” Tyghan had answered eagerly, though he wasn’t sure he would be allowed to help at all. Prince or not, he was mostly a child underfoot.
