The snows had melted weeks ago, but the roads were still so fouling wet. Osman never seemed to ride well through muddy soil. But, perhaps, that was the wont of all horses.

The sun was still low in the sky behind him when Decimus heard merry sounds in the distance—faint echoes, as if in a half-dream. His journey's end couldn't come any sooner. What possessed him to attend a spring festival at a wayside village, he was sure he would never know. Could be, his brother's sermon extolling Aspenwald, a showcase of the Watcher's grace, hit its mark.

Not bloody likely.

And yet there he was. It had been some time since he had left the narrow alleys and angry crowds of Duskenvale for the muddy road and whispering woods of the countryside. Maybe it was a certain solitude one feels within a cauldron of urban amenities that drew him to rural revelry. 

As he neared the joyous cheers and music, tall and thin white trees surrounded him like sentinels guarding the tranquility of village life. Fresh green buds spotted the branches of the trembling aspens the village was known for. He had heard their autumn leaves were a spectacle to behold—bright and gold, like the sun.

The homes at the edge of the village ranged from poor to modest, most built with wattle and daub, flaking and crumbling. He saw a wrinkled crone seated in a chair outside, half-asleep, her bony fingers working a practised routine. He lowered his head and rode on.

He passed a few boys darting away from the square, giggling, fighting, then giggling again. If the festivities would lift his spirits even half as much, he would thank Lucius for the sermon.

Not bloody likely.

Folk, young and old, clustered around crude stalls lining the thoroughfare. Long streams of flowers hung across the entrance to the square, and most dwellings enclosing it were ornamented with colourful garlands. Decimus' thirsty gaze quickly found the one establishment he was sure to visit later. An alehouse, he presumed, when he spotted the shabby wooden board hanging outside. It depicted a frothing tankard, though one could easily mistake it for a square head with curly hair like he had seen on a few rare foreigners in the city.

There were perhaps near a hundred people at the festival. Judging by their attire, Decimus assumed many of them to be outsiders. The threadbare vestments of Aspenwald's residents seemed more than a few silver flames shy of the refined garbs of would be travellers—and one could only imagine they all wore their festival best. Not to say the man cared for fancy clothes himself, for his grey-green tunic and deep blue trousers were well-worn and not quite court-worthy.

One portly woman spoke loudly of the importance of the festival to anyone who would listen. From what Decimus remembered, the Festival of First Bloom was a blessed occasion for villagers. It was hosted on the day following spring's first full moon. Mothers and their young ones would spend preceding days plucking early spring flowers. They would fashion wreaths, bouquets, and countless other floral decorations for the holy day.

It was a family tradition, he wondered, if his mother would have ever endorsed. With as many children as she had, she could have reaped thousands of flowers. And there was no lack of fresh blooms in the Duskeney plains if one were to ride far enough away from the city borders. But, the Festival of First Bloom was not one often celebrated within the bowels of a populous city like Duskenvale. Spring's first blessings were better cherished by those who endured the worst of winter's hardships.