Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) by James Mallory Mercedes Lackey

existed.
    *   *   *
    “—and now it is Frost Moon, and it is one, two, three, four, five, six sennights to the middle of Snow Moon, and there will be dancing, and sweetcakes, and riddles—” Melwen singsonged, moving her round counter along the narshir board. She was one of the youngest of the Sanctuary servants—so Maeredhiel said—but Melwen could not number her years even if asked; she did not seek anything greater of her life than that each year should be like the last.
    Vieliessar stifled a sigh. In six sennights it would be Midwinter, and she knew no one at the Sanctuary celebrated the festival days that marked the turns of the Great Wheel. Last year she had been too angry to care, but this year all she could think of was what she would miss. At Caerthalien, Midwinter meant a whole sennight of feasts, each more elaborate than the last, and the Lightborn seeking the Light in those old enough. As was Harvest Court, Midwinter was a sennight in which no feuds could be started or vengeance taken, and everyone in the castel mingled freely, as if they were equals, for it was the custom for the highborn to put off their finery and wear the simple clothes of servants, and for the servants to put off the livery badges which indicated to which household they belonged.
    “—and fortunes, and farings, and songs,” Maeredhiel said, finishing the sentence without looking up from the tablet upon which she was figuring accounts, for what was in their stores must last through the winter, and Hamphuliadiel Astromancer must know what tithe-goods to ask of the Hundred Houses in the spring. “But you must remember, Melwen—Vieliessar has not yet been with us for a full turn of the year.”
    “You’ve never seen Midwinter, Vielle?” Melwen asked, sounding horrified. “We celebrate it every year, because we give thanks for the Light that kindles and will bring us new Candidates in Storm and Rain and Flower!”
    “And we give thanks for the chance to bring something out of the kitchens that is not the everlasting soup and porridge,” Mistress Morgaenel commented dryly. “If I did not get the chance to bake pies and roast venison once a year, I think I would go mad!”
    Vieliessar had been surprised to discover that many of the Sanctuary servants were wed. Mistress Morgaenel and Master Duirilthel were responsible for the kitchens, for overseeing the kitchen servants (a domestic meisne second in size only to Mastergardener Pandorgrad’s own, but augmented by many of the Candidates) and for feeding the hundreds of souls who resided at the Sanctuary of the Star. The two of them bickered constantly over which was Master (or Mistress) Cook and which one was Master (or Mistress) of the whole of the Kitchens, and Vieliessar had listened to them for an entire season before realizing the argument had been going on for centuries before her birth and would never be resolved until the two went before Queen Pelashia in the Vale of Celenthodiel to demand a judgment.
    It had never occurred to her that Morgaenel Mistress Cook (or Mistress Kitchen, depending on who told the tale) would grow as tired of creating their bland fare as they did of eating it.
    “And each Midwinter we pretend we do not see the Postulants sneak away to Rosemoss Farm, though some of them have done it for years,” Hamonglachele added merrily. It was Mistress ’Chele’s business to see that the guesthouse was kept in proper order, and she laughingly decried the shortcomings of all those who occupied it.
    “As you know full well, for you encourage them to sneak into my storehouses for sweets and gifts—and allow them to hide them beneath your roof once they have,” Duirilthel pointed out.
    “Whose storehouses, dearest heart?” Morgaenel asked with mock sweetness. “I am the Mistress of Kitchens, so they are my stores, I say.”
    “And again I am heartbroken to tell you, sweetest love, that skilled as you are in your craft, you are Mistress Cook, merely,”