The Snow Bird 3

Rosia sat in the chair at the very front of the chapel. The massive seat, carved from a single log, looked too heavy to be moved even by three or four strong men. Naturally small in stature, Rosia appeared even smaller atop it. With an expressionless face, she gazed at the pale splotch of light cast by the chapel window onto the floor. Morning had come, which meant the service would begin. There was no set time. It began the moment she stood.

A petite woman of fifty-eight, dressed in a narrow red gown with a slim golden belt draped from her waist and a crown of iron upon her head. Thirty years ago, her long golden hair would have been braided and coiled neatly atop her head, and she would have worn a veil. Now, she had more white than gold in her hair, and it had been cut too short to braid. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn a veil. In its place was the iron crown. The chair she sat in had been used by the lords who had long ruled the Fir Castle.

The god Nebe reigned over winter. As the season approached, a service for Nebe was always prepared. From hunters to lords, those who lived in the arms of the giant never forgot this rite. Fierce Nebe could become a cold snap, a blizzard, a deer darting toward a cliff’s edge, or a cleverly hidden crevasse in the snow. Nebe was merciless and cunning, delighting in toying with mortals. Compared to him, the goddess Nebula, who ruled over summer, was a far less frightening figure. At worst, summer brought the melting of the glacier draped over the giant’s shoulder, causing the Golden Sand River to flood. A mild nuisance that merely complicated travel outside.

Behind Rosia stood four captains of the spearmen, and behind them, eight lieutenants and seven vassals arranged in two lines. The captains were seasoned warriors, aged from their forties to their sixties. The lieutenants were fierce young men, so fierce that residents would retreat into their homes when they made their rounds. That none of them made so much as a cough was because they all knew that Rosia’s mood was darkened by the absence of one person. The deep wrinkle etched between her brows showed no sign of easing.

Rosia’s grandson Jaeim, named after her late husband, stood beside the vassals. The boy felt stifled, as if the slow passage of time pressed heavily on his chest. He glanced a few times toward the empty seat, but his mother, Elma, standing next to him, quietly signaled for him to stop. The seat Jaeim looked toward was not near them, but in the farthest corner of the chapel, between the steward and the head maid.

In truth, it was not yet late for the service. Everyone had arrived early, well aware of Rosia’s temperament, but that one person never seemed to take notice of such things. Rosia loathed that kind of audacity. To think that one could show up last, no matter when the service began, was nothing but presumptuous.

The chapel door opened. Jaeim, anxious, turned around before even realizing that his mother had pulled on his hand. A girl with carelessly tied brown hair and a billowing black skirt, it was Kyprosa. She took her place between the steward and the head maid with an unconcerned expression. At that, Rosia stood. Jaeim bit his lip and hunched his shoulders, bracing for his grandmother’s scolding voice, but none came. Rosia simply motioned to the priest who was leading the service.

The offerings for the god Nebe were five white animals: a rabbit, a goose, a goat, a snake, and a white foal. Each represented a month of winter. Winter was restless like a rabbit, fierce like a goose, proud like a goat, cunning like a snake, and wild like a foal. Rosia took the ritual dagger handed to her by the priest and calmly slit each animal’s throat. Though small and nearly sixty, her hand moved with impressive speed as she drew the blade across the foal’s neck. When the blood of all five animals was collected in a broad bowl and placed upon the altar, everyone knelt to the floor. Rosia’s voice rang out.

“Merciless Nebe, king of winter.

We are but dust, swept by the hem of your divine robes.

So pitiful, we are unworthy even to be your playthings.

Quench your thirst with the blood we offer and rest peacefully atop the eternal snows throughout the winter.

We fear being crushed beneath your stride.”

At the end of the prayer, Rosia lifted the bowl, took a mouthful of blood, and passed it to Jouel, the eldest of the spearman captains. He drank and handed it to the next captain. In this way, the bowl passed through the captains and lieutenants and arrived before Jaeim. Knowing he would be scolded if he hesitated, he quickly wet his lips and passed the bowl to his mother, Elma. Though she had come from the South as a bride and found the taste of blood revolting, even she, nearing forty, feared Rosia’s wrath more than the bitterness on her tongue.

By the time the bowl reached the seven vassals, it was usually empty. But for some reason that day, even after they had all drunk, three or four sips remained. The young patrol captain Aller had never experienced such a moment and didn’t know to whom he should hand it next. Hesitating, he lifted his head. When his eyes met Rosia’s, he flustered and turned away. Then he saw Kyprosa, standing between the steward and the head maid. He walked up to her and offered the bowl. In his mind, it had seemed a reasonable decision.