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“What do you mean you’ve never celebrated it?” Volthere stared at him across the bowl of soup, goggle-eyed as a fish.
Lambert crossed his arms defensively. “My old pa wouldn’t let us. Said it was wasteful. Beat me bad for mentioning it. Course then he went off and drank hisself under the sodding table.” Lambert spat on the floor. “Horse’s ass.”
Volthere straightened and gave Lambert a once-over, his expression solemn. “You’ve been missing out.” He put his chin in one hand. “D’you think they’ll let us celebrate?”
Lambert snorted. “Varin and Osbert? Celebrate Midinvaerne? Having fun would kill them. I think it’s more likely that they’ll let us off training for a week.”
“Then we’re doing something together. ‘Kay?”
“What? We don’t have food or presents. The fire’s gonna be crowded.”
“ Meet me…” Volthere paused and thought, “behind the tapestry in the library.”
“The great big ugly one of an ekkimara’s anatomy?”
“That’s the one. Tomorrow, after training.”
“Okay.”
The next morning dawned in howling wind and bone-numbing cold. The instructors roused the boys with their usual barked orders. Lambert knew better than to complain, but he still bit back angry grumbles as he dressed for training in the bitter chill. He shrugged his training gear on, glad of the additional insulation it provided, and peered at the rattling shutters. Volthere nudged him.
“You look like you’ve been drinking sour milk, Lambs.”
“Well, don’t suppose the winds gonna die down. Training in this is gonna be miserable.”
“They won’t let us freeze...”
Lambert snorted. He could hear the doubt in his friend's voice.
Training was, as predicted, miserable. Varin had to yell above the wind, and the gusts that screamed through the exterior corridors, combined with icy footing, kept knocking the trainees off-balance. And, as Lambert had guessed, the high wind and bad footing were no excuse for slip-ups. By the time they were allowed to break for luncheon, Lambert found it tough to move, stiff with cold and sore all over from falling and from taking licks from Varin’s cane.
The only thing that kept him from striking back was the thought of Volthere’s surprise, the thought providing a little comfort in the godsawful weather.
Varin had him stay behind to wash dishes afterwards, and Lambert vindictively pocketed a triple handful of candied walnuts when old one-eyed Harlan wasn’t looking. He smiled grimly as he limped off to meet his friend.
The nook behind the tapestry was bare and dark, but it muffled the ambient noise and blocked the wind. He sat in the dark and leaned against the alcove walls, stretching out with a soft groan, luxuriating in the few stolen moments he had to himself.
The tapestry rustled, and Lambert bolted upright. Volthere appeared, red-faced and crook-backed from hauling something heavy.
“Hey Lambs.”
“Hey.” Lambert got up and helped Volthere haul the wolf-skin onto the ledge.
“Sorry I’m late,” Volthere panted. “Had trouble finding a good-sized skin no one would miss too much.”
Lambert settled onto the fur and sighed. The fur, patchy as it was, trapped their heat and softened the hard surface. He couldn’t feel his bruises as much.
“Got us some candied nuts. Look.” He offered a handful.
“Ooh!” Volthere grabbed some. “These are my favorites!” His teeth flashed in the dark as he munched away, grinning at Lambert. “Guess Varin had you on kitchen duty again, huh?”
“Yeah. I think he does it out of spite.”
Volthere frowned around his mouthful. “Sounds like him. I swear he’s got it out for you. He’s always picking on you.”
Lambert snorted. “Sounds like him.”
“Here, I got us this too.” He produced a compact flask and scratched at the sealing wax. “Don’t suppose you have a knife, do you?”
“Nope.” Lambert rolled his eyes. “‘Trainees aren’t allowed personal weapons.’ Sorry.” Lambert jumped as the tapestry rustled again. A familiar shock of red hair poked its way into their nook.
“Thought I heard your dulcet tone, Lambert.”
Lambert tossed a fragment of nut. It hit the witcher adept square between the older boy’s yellow eyes. “Go away, Geralt. This is our hiding place.”
Geralt shrugged amicably. “A popular one. Besides, you didn’t hide that well. I can smell you.”
Lambert bristled. “Gonna tell on us? Huh? Well, go on then; fuck off and tattle to Vesemir! Go ruin my first Midinvaerne!”
“Hey, I wanted to trade. Figured you might be hiding somewhere, and I thought we might have a proper party.” Geralt held up a stoppered jug. “What d’you say?”
“We got something to drink.” Volthere shook the little flask.
“You don’t want that swill; it’s awful. They use it for cleaning wounds and swords when they’re not drinking it.” He cradled his jug. “But this stuff is spiced cider. With honey. I’ve been saving it since Saovine.”
Volthere licked his lips.
“Fine,” Lambert grumbled. “But you had better not snitch.”
“I won’t. Budge up a bit.”
Lambert shifted a little to make room for Geralt and the cider. The adept prised the bottle open and offered it to Lambert,who accepted and drank. The cider tasted sweet-tart, blended with cloves and nutmeg and other spices he couldn’t name. He hummed in delight and passed the bottle to Volthere.
“So…your first Midinvaerne, huh, Lambert?”
“Didn’t celebrate before.”
Geralt nodded sagely. “And the years before this you had survival training.”
“Which sucked donkey’s balls,” Volthere said vehemently, passing the bottle back to Geralt.
Geralt shuddered a little. “Fuck, yeah. I remember mine.”
The tapestry rustled again, and the younger boys sat bolt upright.
“Hi, Eskel.”
“Hey, brother. Thought I saw you come this way.”
Lambert stared at the witcher adept, his outstretched palm sticky with sugar. Caught red-handed. Vesemir would lash the lot of them for sure.
“Can I join you?”
“What, you won’t tell on us?” Lambert asked, raising an eyebrow.
Eskel stood his ground. “I have food to share.”
Volthere tilted his head. “What’ve you got?”
Eskel produced a bag. “Scoot over. I want some candied nuts and cider too.”
Lambert moved over as best he could. Eskel squeezed in between him and Geralt. They now sat almost shoulder to shoulder, but the space was considerably warmer, almost cozy. Eskel passed around his bag, which turned out to be sweetmeats. Lambert swapped a few walnuts for some candied plums.
“What, Geralt?”
The witcher adept’s face had split into a grin. “Nothing, nothing,” he said, doing his best to hide his smile.
“‘Nothing’s’ not gonna get us lashed, is it?”
Lambert stretched a little and groaned softly. “Yeah, really rather not deal with any more bruises.”
“No, no. Don’t worry.”
“Geralt, do witchers do anything for Midinvaerne?” Volthere asked.
“Well… there’s the candle ceremony tonight.”
Lambert wrinkled his nose. “The…candle ceremony? What’s that?”
“Chaos gets particularly strong on nights like Midinvaerne. Holding a ceremony helps keep ghosts at rest,” Eskel explained.
“Oh,” Volthere murmured.
“Anything….I don’t know, not ominous? Like a great big log on the fire or something?” Lambert groused, trying to ignore his shivers.
Eskel thought a moment. “Oh, yeah. Let’s see…there’ll be a great big meal, and Harlan will be up to his elbows in flour, tvolo, and potato skins. I think they usually try to find a boar too.”
“Great, more kitchen duty,” Lambert groaned.
“They like to play cards and dice. They’ll break out the good liquor. Everyone who’s here is allowed wassail. Spiced wine,” Geralt said. “Occasionally there’s even gifts. Mostly from friend to friend.”
“And the snowball fight.”
Lambert straightened “The…what?”
Eskel grinned. “Snowball fight. They break us up into age categories and…you know..pre-and-post Grasses…and we have a snowball fight. There’s usually a prize for each bracket. Vesemir says Barmin started that tradition. I like it a lot, even though I don’t usually do the best.”
“Hey Lamb, bet you’ll be a shoe-in for a winner this year.”
Geralt hid a smile behind one hand. “Bet he will too. He’s dead accurate.” He paused and tilted his head, listening to a far-away sound. “Ooh, someone’s gone and royally pissed off Harlan.”
“I didn’t even take that much!” Lambert groaned. “How did he find out?”
Geralt shook his head. “It’s not about nuts. Someone’s taken one of the honey cakes.”
“ What, Eskel?”
The oldest boy smirked and, as if by magic, produced the missing honey cake, neatly sliced into four pieces. Geralt and Eskel grinned at the trainees.
“Go on, then.”
Lambert needed no other prompting. He stuffed a third of the still-warm cake slice into his mouth and chewed, watching his friends do the same.
“Good?” Geralt asked around a mouthful.
“ So good,” Volthere said, crumbs falling from the corners of his mouth as he spoke. “Won’t you get into trouble though?”
Eskel winked and pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t worry. It can be our secret.”