About Servant of the Seasons: Winter
by Lee Benoit
46 pages
/ 17600 words
978-1-60370-396-3, 1-60370-396-9
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc
Edor and his new friends, former slaves Tywyll and Lys, are still making the most of the land. Every day the two norvigi bring changes, improving Edor's way of life. As is their way, Tywyll is growing stronger with the winter equinox, while Lys is growing weaker.
When Lys goes into his sleep, Edor finally gives into his attraction to his two friends with Tywyll, knowing Lys would give them his blessing if he were awake. When Lys finally wakes, the three men find their home in danger, and they must band together even closer to save their newfound happiness. Can they solve the mystery that their attackers leave behind, and stay safe at the same time?Sample
The night of the first snowfall, Tywyll’s hair turned white.
“Good morning, old man,” I said when I saw it.
Tywyll looked at me blankly.
“Your hair. It’s gone white.”
He pulled a knotted lock over his shoulder to look. “It snowed last night.”
It was not my first lesson on the Novigi ignorance of irony.
We were bundling up to walk Tywyll’s trap lines, while Lys plied us with tea and biscuits made from bean meal, warm and dense, like the air inside the turvy. It felt good to step outside, though I knew I’d be cursing the cold before too long.
I’d certainly be cursing it before Tywyll would. “Don’t forget your cap, vjellja,” Lys murmured, addressing his ‘brother’ from beside the little hearth in the center of the room.
Tywyll shook his head, but took it anyway, kissing Lys’ fingers as he did. “You’d do better to remind Edor -- he’s the one who withers in the cold.” He grinned over at me, his bright green eyes startling in his pale, pale face.
I mumbled something rude about men who looked like icicles and leaned down to gather my package of walking food from Lys, claiming my own kiss in the process.
“Careful, madi, be safe,” I said as I lifted the door flap and pushed against the door. Using my nickname for Lys still gave me a warm, proprietary thrill.
During one of our long nights of hollowing out volo poles, I had asked
Tywyll the Novigi word for “sweet.” He said there were many, so I asked for the one he thought best described Lys. “Madi” meant the kind of sweetness that never cloys. He nearly spat out his tea when Lys brought us each a cup and I said, “Thanks, madi.” Evidently the Novigi had as little knowledge of nicknames as they did of irony. Lys’ pale eyes had widened, and so had his smile, and since that evening I had never called him anything else.
According to Lys, the Novigi word for something small and fierce was “lomi.” He dared me daily to use it on Tywyll.