Free The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark by Stuart Hill

room washed over her. The King was sitting in his usual chair surrounded by a mountain of colorful cushions, while Grimswald, the elderly Chamberlain-of-the-Royal-Paraphernalia, sat on a low stool next to him reading from a beautifully illuminated book.Thirrin recognized this as one of her father’s personal Yuletide traditions: He had a passage from
The Book of the Ancestors
read to him every day during the two-week lead-up to Yule. And true to form, he suddenly bellowed a huge guffaw of laughter as he happily scrutinized the illuminated scrollwork of the pages and caught sight of one of the mythical animals peering out at him. Redrought had ordered the book from the Holy Brothers of the Southern Continent when Thirrin was still a baby and, such was the work that had gone into its richly decorated pages, she’d been eight years old when it had finally been delivered.
    “Ah, Thirrin!” her father boomed when he caught sight of her at the door. “Come in! Come in! Grimswald’s just reading about Edgar the Bold and his war against the Dragon-folk of the Wolfrocks.”
    This was one of her favorite tales, so she quickly crossed the room and squeezed into Redrought’s huge chair with him. She threw some of the comfy cushions onto the floor to make extra room, then took Primplepuss, who was mewing a polite greeting, and placed her on her lap. The little cat purred loudly and settled down to a good wash as Grimswald continued the story.
    It was one of the longest chapters in
The Book of the Ancestors,
and so by the time Edgar had finally killed the Dragon King at the last battle of the long war, the thin afternoon light had retreated into the shadows of full night.
    “Excellent! Excellent!” Redrought bellowed. “Well read, Grimswald. You must be thirsty. Have yourself some ale, and while you’re about it bring me a tankard, too, and some small beer for the Princess.”
    Thirrin stretched, loosening the muscles that had become cramped during the long reading. “Well, Dad, have you made your list for the Fat Old Elf?”
    “I have. And if he doesn’t bring me a new pair of slippers and a sword belt, he won’t get his mead and pies next year!”
    She grinned at the King, suddenly feeling an overwhelming love for the man who, apart from Yuletide, spent most of his waking hours running the country and yet could still find time to make the traditional old jokes with his daughter.
    “And what about you?” he asked. “Have you burned your letter on the hearth?”
    “Yes. I’m hoping for a new sword and war saddle.”
    “Don’t you think they might be a little heavy for his reindeer?”
    “They’ll see the inside of a venison pasty if they are! We can’t have the Fat Old Elf making do with substandard reindeer.”
    “I like venison pasties,” Redrought said wistfully, rubbing his impressively curving stomach. “Grimswald! Food!!”
    The Chamberlain-of-the-Royal-Paraphernalia had obviously been expecting the King to be hungry and had arranged for dinner to be ready by the time the story from
The Book of the Ancestors
finished. Soon the table was covered with dishes and platters of game pie, mounds of vegetables, and steaming fruit tarts. It was a simple matter to add a plate for Thirrin and to order some extra dishes just in case the royal appetites managed to clear the table and still want more.
    Grimswald seized the opportunity and withdrew with the servants, leaving Thirrin and Redrought to their meal. At Yuletide there was never enough time in the day to get everything done that was needed to make the celebrations run smoothly.
    “You’re entertaining the barons of The Middle Lands this year, aren’t you?” asked Thirrin.
    Redrought swallowed the heroic mouthful of game pie he was chewing. “Yes. Lord Aethelstan, Lady Aethelflaeda, andold Lord Cerdic. Aethelflaeda is the only one who’s ever out-drunk Cerdic, and this year he’s after revenge. I’ve ordered in extra ale to cover it.”
    “Won’t Baron