If the day was sullen and grey, it was naught to Robird's mood. He worked in determination and silence, not even a grunt escaping him as he manhandled rocks into place. Never stopping once, his hands alternated between sluggardly but unstoppable dragging and sharp, impatient slamming. He did what he was told, never met anyone's eyes and tried for all his might to wear himself out.

It was midwinter's eve. Every oak within furlongs of his path and the hill was marked with mud and he had scouted all along the cart track as well, even some detours around the lands near the manor. To no avail. If he were to sing his song under Eyrdis' tree tonight, nothing short of a miracle would do.

Trying to create your own miracle through persistence and thoroughness was obviously not the way to go. If this were a story, an act of dauntlessness would win the princess for the third son of a lowly villein. Splattering trees with mud was hardly dauntless. But what would have been? How would dauntlessness help him find one tree out of thousands in a vast forest?

No, better learn the lesson. A month ago, being content with his lot had been unthinkable. Since then, time had swept him along like one of those indomitable waves that the travelling sailor had talked of, each day closer to the sharp rock of midwinter's eve at way's end. Now, that implacable cliff looming above him, he could only curse at his own folly to embark on this ship of dreams, and wait for the crash. The wave would roll on ahead, sweeping him along with it, leaving the dream behind in splinters, sad reminders of a vain hope to be slowly washed away into oblivion.

One day, he would perhaps be able to smile at the memory.

So he brooded as he buried his dream beneath the endless grey stone of the landlord's wall, sealing the tomb with the mortar of contentment. And so deep was his brooding that he did not notice the interruption until Arden, who worked to the left of him, slapped his shoulder for attention. He shook himself free from the clench of dark thoughts and paid attention.

The voice resounded like a brash little horn, shrill but loud enough to carry to all workers who weren't closed off in a private world of disappointment. It belonged to Gillard, the landlord's herald.

"Tomorrow," he trumpeted, "is the shortest day of the year, a day for homage and thankfulness to the gods of the land, who in their grace will restore once more the life by whose fruits we all prosper."

Next to him, Arden shifted slightly with a quiet huff. Robird knew why. The landlord, lord Meryton, prospered true enough. The freemen did fair. The villeins, at best, got by.

"As a token of his good will," Gillard went on, his eyes distant as if he read his message off an unseen scroll on the horizon, "lord Meryton will reward your hard work with a greater share in this bounty. You will all come to the manor after today's work is done, to be presented with a gift to bring home to kith and kin, that in addition to giving your homage to your gods, you may send a thought of gratitude to your landlord."

Arden's eyes met Robird's with a wry grin the never touched the eyes. They all worked here solely for the privilege of eking a meagre living out of their tenured plots. At least Robird had a whole family at home to bring in enough harvest to last them through winter. Arden only had his young wife to share the burden with. He could only work here two days out of five and had to cover for the rest with taxes. Getting some of it back as scraps from the lord's table was not a thing that inspired gratitude. Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, though, Robird knew Arden would stand in line with the rest of them, bowing and offering up dishonest praise of the lord's generosity.

Eyrdis, he thought, never less content with his lot. Where are you?

And then something in the back of his mind bounced some of the herald's words back at his consciousness.

The shortest day...

He froze and grabbed Arden's arm suddenly, opening his mouth, but Arden, with a startled glance, hushed him. Gillard was not through yet.

"Lord Meryton will celebrate midwinter for three days, as is his custom. Tonight, for the eve of the end of darkening. Tomorrow, for the turning. And the dawning of the second day of midwinter, for the new brightening. Each morning, there will be leftovers to be collected by the kitchen. Let the word be spread among your villages, that all who live under the aegis of lord Meryton's good will may come to partake of this feast." The herald smiled at last, lowering his eyes to let them sweep over the assembly and spreading his arms wide in blessing. "Midwinter's peace and promise of rebirth be with you all."

As soon as the last word was uttered, his benign smile winked out like a shot star and he turned, mounted his horse and, with an impatient shake of the well decorated reins, rode off without looking back.

"Midwinter's piss upon your pompous ass, too," Arden muttered and turned to Robird. "Alright, what's up with you then? You've been like a sleepwalker all day and all of a sudden you look all wild, grabbing me like that. What..."

"Never mind, just a cramp in my foot, it's fine now," Robird lied. "Say, did he say the shortest day is tomorrow? I thought that was today."

Arden eyed him doubtfully for a moment, then shook his head. "It's midwinter's eve, the evening before midwinter's day, the shortest day. Don't you know?" He gave a tired smile and waved his hands as if trying to weave an explanation out of air. "Like homage eve is the evening before homage day."

"Yeah, right," Robird said, blushing. "Forget it. Just had it mixed up for a moment. Been a bit scatterbrained lately, you know."

"No, really?" Arden remarked and laughed. "So tell me, who is she?"

"Mind your own business," Robird said, hoping it would come out friendly. He added a light punch to Arden's shoulder for appearance's sake.

"Whatever," Arden said, getting back to work, "I guess I'll find out sooner or later. We've got a few shrewd ideas, but none has cared to place any bets yet."

With that comment and a hearty laugh, he left Robird floundering in shame. If they would bet, how many would place their bits on Ylwi, he wondered. Well, perhaps they saw something he didn't. He could probably get along with Ylwi. Be content...

But now suddenly, it turned out the cliff that his dream was about to founder against was just a little further off than it had seemed. One day's respite. It was not tonight that Eyrdis had asked him to sing under her tree, but tomorrow...

Aye, and you're no nearer to finding it, he thought, heart sinking again. Still a miracle to go.

Hope rising and sinking like the ocean waves in the sailor's tales, he set himself to finish what was left of today's work.

As they neared the manor itself, the revelry was already commencing. Even the guards on duty by the gate held mugs of warm, spicy ale and wore sun-yellow ribbons tied to their helmets and spears. They waved them through without comment and the workers filed into the courtyard. Inside they hesitated, clustering together like sheep in a foreign pasture.

The lingering sweat-steam of their toil meeting the cool air shimmered about their bodies in the silver of the twilight sky and the gold of the blazing bonfire. A huddle of pages and maids, presumably of duty, circled the fire with bronze goblets of wine in their hands, probably mulled and spicy. Probably watered down as well, but enough to make the workers wonder what it would taste like and if it would have tasted the same from clay cups by their own hearths. About the main gate of the manor was hung a gold-embroidered tapestry depicting the sun-bird's final defeat at the teeth of the night-wolf, and its eternal rebirth from the carcass. Gold and yellow ribbons also hung here and there from shrubs, trees and adornments, at the whim of the household members.

The landlord's hunting dogs tussled about for a scattering of bones, but left their game to bristle and growl at the arrivals until Jeck, the master of hounds, called them back with commands barked as sharp as their own canine threats. The workers wondered if they were unwelcome despite the promise of a gift, but then master Jeck called out to Gillard who nodded at the sight of them and beckoned them forth towards a table laden with parcels.

Relieved, they formed a line, eldest first. That left Robird at the very end, but he was in no hurry. He had only been in the courtyard once before, when father brought him to have him approved for the labour. Then he had been too awed to notice much, so he took his time to look around now.

The man-house drew the eyes first - largest, oldest, with a gate and ground-floor windoes fashioned to withstand armed assault. The second floor also had narrow windows, but on the third and topmost, under a high, vaulted and slate-tiled roof the glassed windows were wide enough to spill the brilliant light inside into the deepening dusk, as well as muted sounds of merriment - music, stomping feet, roars of jest and laughter.

Robird's grandfather - peace upon his memory - had told  of when he was a child and the man-house was all there was, apart from the combined kitchen, brewhouse and bakery on the right and the smithy behind it. His father had helped build the two wings - the left, housing stables and guards, the right still with kitchen, smithy and the rest, but now joined to the man-house. They were also built as fortifications, and a palisade erected on the fourth side, enclosing the courtyard.

That had been when the present lord Meryton's father had acquired the fiefdom after old lord Cartal, who had fallen out of favour. Old Meryton had been thrifty and his son had inherited not only the fiefdom from the father, but also his cunning. The masoned wall that replaced the palisade had been erected so recently that Robird's brother Enwil had worked on it. It was not as thick as the landlord wished it, although properly constructed by a master builder with crenellations, ramparts and talus and roughly two man-heights tall. In a proper siege, so Enwil had heard and retold, it wouldn't stand for long. But it was enough to deter even an audacious band of robbers, so lord Meryton had contented himself and started saving up for something grander.

From what travellers told, it was not much compared to the castles nearer to the king's capital and the large trading cities. Robird, humbled by the insight that his family cottage would fit into the kitchen alone, wondered what a sight those castles might be. Then he turned his eyes to the courtyard itself.

It was mostly a place for guards and hounds to exercise and for carts to unload, but the corner between the kitchen and the wall was set aside for a garden of herbs and vegetables. It looked as if it would be a pleasant place in summer, with paths to walk and benches to rest. Today, none lingered there, the revellers kept closer to the bonfire in the opposite corner. The masoned well was in the corner between kitchen and man-house, not in the centre of the courtyard. That place was reserved for the ward-tree, which had been there before the Merytons but probably not before Cartal, judging by the size.

Robird thought of their own ward-tree, a rowan planted by Robird's grandfather. He wondered if its spirit carried Skëadh's blessing as well as the good fortune that well tended ward trees were supposed to bestow. Wul would probably scoff at the idea, muttering about Skëadh-reft rowans. Robird always took care to tend to it when needed anyway. If Skëadh had appreciated it, She had not shown it by helping him finding Eyrdis' tree.

The line finally started moving and he shuffled forward, shrugging off those thoughts. Then he checked himself and tilted his head, frowning. 

Was that a laugh?

There was laughter all around of course, by the bonfire especially, but this sound had seemed apart from them, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that it was directed at him. Then again, he had been feeling laughable all day for believing in his failed dream, so it was probably just his shamed imagination.

But there it was again. He looked around surreptitiously while catching up with the line again, then froze once more. Under the ward-tree, the landlord's daughter reclined. A steaming silver goblet was in her hand and her rosy face peeked out underneath the fur linings of her thick velvet cloak. Her mischievous eyes seemed directed straight at him.

Looking behind him, he tried to see whim she was really looking at, but there was only the quite plain wall of the brewing house. Then he heard that peeling laughter again and looked back, blushing. She held her free hand before her mouth and unmistakably laughed at him.

A cold sweat broke out as he remembered Ebery's words. He had pissed her off by not noticing her. She seemed to like the attention of the workers and enjoyed teasing them, that much he had gathered. And now he had angered her by failing to be properly teased. So here she was to catch up.

Alright, he could provided that. Humiliation was his lot today anyway, he could offer up some more. Making a big show of discomfort, he let his eyes dart back and forth between her and the shuffling back in front of him, hoping she would find it satisfactory. Then, for a change, he started looking at the sky, the houses, the ward-tree...

That was when he noticed that the ward-tree was an oak. And then his heart all but ceased beating. It was not only an oak, but an oak with a dance. A whirling, reckless dance. A dance he knew.

Eyrdis.

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Author's note

Dear reader!

Now I've completed part eight and so qualify to join the eight-chapter challenge, which was my goal for now. Should I continue? Do you want to know how Robird manages to sing to his dream princess at the end of the shortest day, in the middle of the landlord's courtyard, and what happens then? Are you wondering what's on the landlord's daughter's mind, and if Robird's and Ylwi's relationship is going to remain brother-sisterly or if it will change after Ebery's talk? What does Vydis and Wul know about the otherfolk, and is that important for understanding what the oak people want or not?

Some of these answers I see before me, others not but I can find them. Let me know if you want to know, and what sort of development you would prefer to the story, and I'll go on writing.

Thanks for being with me this far!