This story is a part of the Spec the Halls contest for speculative winter holiday-themed fiction, artwork, and poetry. You may find descriptions of and links to other entries at http://www.aswiebe.com/specthehalls.html

Liranel’s Gift

 Liranel perched on her cushioned window seat above the courtyard and rubbed her aching feet. They always hurt worse in the winter. She shivered and wrapped herself more tightly in her woolen cloak. Despite the cheery fire in the hearth and the thick tapestries on the walls, it was cold in the castle.

 Her friend Paul, the fourteen-year-old kitchen boy, was carefully crossing the courtyard’s icy cobblestones, a bucket swinging from either hand. Liranel waved at him through the thick glass. He grinned impudently up at her and disappeared through the door just below her window. She’d missed him this morning; usually he accompanied her and Nan up the steep trail to Old Cate’s, but today he’d been needed to help in the kitchen.

 Nan bustled into Liranel’s room, bringing a draft of the chilly air from the corridor with her.

 “Here, now, let me do that,” she said, catching Liranel in the act of rubbing her feet again.

 She pulled a stool closer, and propped one twisted foot and then the other in her lap. Liranel groaned as her nursemaid massaged and prodded the tight muscles. Her feet always felt better after Nan had finished, but during, it was akin to torture.

 A chirurgeon had broken the bones of Liranel’s turned-in feet and ankles when she had been six months old, insisting that it was the only way a child born with clubfeet could ever walk straight. The Duke had bowed to superior medical knowledge then, but had later banished the man from his lands. The broken bones had healed oddly, and Liranel’s feet were misshapen lumps. The discovery that gentle manipulation would have worked better had come far too late.

 “How’s this?” asked Nan, probing at a particularly tender spot. She nodded in satisfaction as Liranel yelped. “I do wish you’d ride your pony.”

 “Oh, Nan,” said Liranel, “but then I would have to ask the stablemaster, and he would have to get Father’s permission, and then I would have to explain why I wanted Jewel . . .” Easier to walk, by far. Talking to her father, Duke Trieste, was difficult at the best of times.

 “But at least, then, I might be able to ride, too,” said Nan.

 “I’m sorry, Nan,” said Liranel.

 “Na, na, child, I shouldn’t complain. If you can make it, then surely I can,” said Nan. “I don’t know how you do it, truly I don’t.”

 Liranel had been on crutches ever since she’d been taught to walk. By now, she was quite handy with them, but the trail to Old Cate’s was long, and these days, slippery with packed snow. She’d had to be extra careful, and that had made her muscles tense.

 “I had to go, Nan. I promised Cate I’d visit her today,” said Liranel. “She’s lonely, since she has no children of her own. Besides, she liked my gift.”

 Old Cate had chuckled when she’d opened the fabric wrapper and discovered the carved wooden sheep nestled within. It had looked just like one of hers.

 “A lovely Twelfth Night gift,” Nan agreed. “I would have enjoyed the walk more, had I not had to carry that basket.”

 Liranel hid a smile. Nan grumbled, but never seemed to mind the chance to put her feet up for an hour or so when they finally got to Old Cate’s snug cave. Nan dozed in front of the smoky fire while Liranel listened to the old woman recount the ancient tales, the hum of her spinning wheel increasing or decreasing according to the rhythm of her voice.

 Liranel tried to visit Old Cate at least once a month at her cave high in the hills behind the castle. Liranel swung along on her crutches while Nan huffed and puffed behind, carrying whatever they had been able to scrounge from the kitchens. They’d already gone once this month, just before Christmas, so today’s offering had been an extra donation. Cate had certainly seemed grateful for it. Winters were hard on the old woman.

 They were hard on Liranel’s feet and legs, too. Yet Nan’s hands were firm but gentle, and already Liranel’s muscles were feeling less like iron rods and more like human flesh. Nan dug her thumbs into a tight knot high up near Liranel’s left knee and Liranel groaned.

 “Oh, yes, right there,” she said.

 Nan sighed. “Giving charity was something your mother did too.”

 “I don’t remember much about my mother,” said Liranel, almost to herself. She only had a few foggy images of a kind-faced blonde woman dressed in blue. Duchess Mariana had died when Liranel had been just two, crushed in an avalanche while returning home from a Singing. “I think I remember her Singing me lullabies, though.”

 “Sh, now, no mention of Singing,” Nan admonished. “You know how your father feels about that.”

 Yes. Liranel’s mother had been a Singer. Not just a singer, a Singer. Singing and Songs were more than just music; they helped to keep the world in balance. No birth, death, marriage, or other celebration was complete without Singing, for the magic of the Songs evoked the spirits that resided in everything: the people, the animals, the plants and rocks—even the very air itself—and kept them in harmony.

 In some places, Liranel had heard, they even greeted the sun each morning with Songs.

 Not here, in Castle Trieste, however. Music wasn’t forbidden, but no one was allowed to Sing. The simple tunes of the peasants were all right, and the Duke did allow hymns in chapel and church. Liranel loved listening to both, especially the hymns. But Singers and Songs were not permitted. Liranel had never been brave enough to ask anyone why her father hated Singers and their Songs so much. Perhaps he had hated her mother, for bringing such a disabled child into the world.

 The problem was, only eleven days ago, at dawn on her twelfth birthday, Liranel had discovered that she was a Singer, too. She’d been happy, she remembered, looking out her window at the beautiful morning, and the Song had just burst from her lips. She had no idea where it came from; it was just there. It was only good fortune that no one but Paul had been around to hear it. He’d been delighted, but had promised to keep her secret. Ever since, Liranel had worried that she might accidentally Sing sometime when her father was nearby. Then he would know, and she would be banished.

 That was the worst part—she would have to leave Castle Trieste. The thought saddened her. Even if the stone castle was old and drafty, and cold in winters, she loved it. This was her home!

 Liranel worried about how she would survive on her own, trying to get about on her mangled feet. The streets of the town below the castle were smooth and gently sloped, but other places wouldn’t be. Perhaps she would be allowed to take her pony, Jewel. Well, she would just have to make her way somehow. It would be nice if she could take Nan, too, but was it fair to take her faithful nurse with her on what might be a dangerous journey?

 She swallowed. “You’re so good to me, Nan.”

 “And so I am,” said Nan, “and so I should be. You are a good child, Liranel. Old Cate knows it.”

 “I’m glad we were able to take her so much today,” said Liranel, remembering the full basket. “Cook was generous.”

 Nan snorted. “Cook? It was your little friend Paul who packed the basket this time, without Cook’s knowledge. Just as well, too. It’s a feast day, and Cook is in a terrible tizzy.”

 “What is it this time?” asked Liranel.

 Cook had a real name, but no one ever used it. He was always in a “tizzy” over something. Liranel had never met a fussier fellow, ever up in arms about this or that. He was a wonderful chef, though.

 “It seems someone left the eels out overnight in the courtyard and the water in their tubs froze solid,” said Nan, chuckling. “He doesn’t know what they’ll taste like once they’ve thawed. And you can be assured that once he finds out who was responsible, life won’t be worth living for that individual.”

 “How can they taste any worse than they already do?” asked Liranel, wrinkling her nose.

 “Eels are good for you,” Nan admonished. “They strengthen your liver. There.”

 She set Liranel’s feet back on the cushioned seat and gently eased them into the thick felt slippers that Liranel wore inside the castle. Never would she be able to wear anything like a lady’s dainty footwear.

 Liranel looked out the window. It was snowing again, big fat flakes that drifted silently to the ground out of a leaden sky. It had been a lovely clear blue this morning, when she and Nan had made the trip up the rocky path to Old Cate’s with the basket of food.

 “So what other masterpieces does Cook have in mind for the feast?” asked Liranel. Tonight’s meal would be even more elaborate than the one they’d had on the first day of Christmas. That had been a solemn, quiet day, but on the twelfth and final day, there would be entertainment and gifts and merriment.

 “You’ve enough curiosity to choke a cat, haven’t you? You know Cook,” said Nan. “He won’t say. He likes his little secrets, he does. Now don’t you go trying to pry it out of him. Mind you, I did spot a large bowl of dried rose petals on one of the kitchen tables.”

 “Oh! Rose pudding?” asked Liranel. It was one of her favorites.

 “Possibly, possibly,” said Nan, nodding. “Or it may be for a subtlety.”

 Liranel nodded. Cook liked to surprise Duke Trieste with his culinary concoctions, and incredible food sculptures called subtleties. Liranel wasn’t sure why they were called that since they were always spectacular; none of them were in the least bit “subtle.” Sometimes they weren’t even edible!

 “Well, eels and rose petals aside, you should be getting ready,” said Nan.

 Liranel brightened. The feast would take her mind off her problems.

 “Yes!” she said. “Which should I wear, Nan, the red dress or the green one?”

 Nan pursed her lips. “I suppose either of them would be suitable for the season,” she said, rising. She skirted Liranel’s canopied bed and reached for the handle of her wooden wardrobe. “But I think I might have something even better.”

 Triumphantly, she swung the door wide. Liranel gasped. Royal blue velvet spilled out, revealing a gown with a long train and a bodice cut low like a lady’s. Cloth-of-gold sleeves completed the dress. It was lengthy enough to cover her unsightly felt slippers, too.

 “Oh, Nan!” said Liranel.

 Nan smiled. “I’ve had the seamstresses sewing day and night for a week. After all, you will be the Lady of the Feast tonight, as is your right and your duty.”

 “I’m to be at the High Table?” Liranel squeaked.

 “Of course. You’re of age now. Had you forgotten?” Nan teased.

 “Oh,” Liranel said faintly. Her birthday was on St. Stephen’s Day, right after Christmas. “Almost a Christmas baby,” Nan was fond of saying. Liranel’s discovery of her disastrous talent had scrambled her wits and forced the memory of this honor from her mind. It meant that she’d be sitting in far too close proximity to her father. Her fists clenched. What if she couldn’t control herself? Liranel’s excitement about the feast drained away.

 “It will be good to see someone at the High Table with your father again,” said Nan. “It was your mother’s place. Ah, well. Your father will meet you outside the Hall. Have you given him his gift yet?”

 “No, I was going to give it to him at the feast,” said Liranel. She pointed to her bed, where the little carved wooden box with its inlaid glass lid lay. “Paul helped me pick it out when we went to the market. I thought Father might use it for his pens.”

 “It’s very pretty,” said Nan. “Don’t forget it, now.”

 The sky was darkening. Nan rose and set about lighting the tapers and thick tallow candles that graced Liranel’s bedroom.

 Behind her back, Liranel rolled her eyes. Nan still treated her like a child sometimes.

 Liranel balanced on her twisted feet and reached into the wardrobe, pulling the dress off its hanger. The velvet was lovely and plush and the cloth-of-gold crinkled softly in her hands.

 Ever since last year, it had been a point of pride for Liranel to be able to dress herself. Sometimes she wished she hadn’t made her demand so noisily clear. It would be too humiliating to ask for help now. At least this outfit’s outer dress had lacing up the sides to pull it tight, which was something she could do for herself.

 She did allow Nan to dress her hair, looping strings of the pearls that Duke Trieste’s sea-holdings were so famous for through Liranel’s dark russet locks. She admired the effect in the tiny mirror at her vanity table, then inspected her face. She was pale from lack of sleep, but then she was always pale. Nan often praised her milk-white skin. No blemishes, anyway. Liranel hoped no one would notice the slight grayness under her blue eyes.

 Liranel tucked her father’s gift inside her belt pouch and she and Nan made their way down the corridor to the Great Hall. It was just as well Liranel’s bedroom was on the same floor. She wasn’t sure she could manage stairs in the new long skirt.

 Liranel waited alone in the entranceway, sitting on a bench rather than standing, for her father. She had propped her crutches against the wall, half-hidden behind a tapestry embroidered with a hunt scene. Nan was already in the Hall, seated at one of the higher tables, and Paul, of course, would be in the kitchen.

 The Duke, a tall man, came striding around a corner, speaking earnestly with one of his knights. It was Sir Thomas who saw Liranel first, his face breaking into a wide grin.

 “My Lady!” said Sir Thomas, taking her hand and lightly brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “You are the very image of your lovely mother, blessed be her soul.”

 “Am I?” said Liranel. She dimpled, feeling a flush rising from her neck.

 She glanced at her father. He looked as though he were about to say something, but then his eyes darkened and he looked away. Liranel wished that Sir Thomas hadn’t mentioned her mother, but he seemed oblivious to his mistake.

 “Come,” said the Duke.

 He and Sir Thomas waited while Liranel retrieved her crutches from behind the wall hanging. They courteously kept their pace as slow as her own halting gait. Beyond that first word, the Duke said nothing more.

 Sir Thomas pushed the wide wooden door open. The Duke’s Herald pounded a hollow wooden box mounted on the floor with the end of his staff to make it echo, and announced them.

 “His Grace, the Duke of Trieste, his daughter, the Lady Liranel, and Sir Thomas Riley,” he said, in round, ringing tones that Liranel admired. The Herald was a man who knew how to be heard across the babble of a hundred voices.

 The assembled nobles and guests clapped as the three of them entered. Some faltered as Liranel stumped her way into the hall, but renewed the applause when they realized their error. The applause continued until they were all seated at the High Table. Sir Thomas seated Liranel in the high-backed chair next to her father, patted her shoulder, and sat on her other side.

 “Is your lady wife not attending tonight?” Liranel asked politely, seeing that he was sharing his plate with no one. As was customary at feasts, couples shared one plate. She would be sharing hers with her father.

 Sir Thomas grimaced. “She’s at home, my lady. Our little boy was born only a week ago, and she is not yet well enough to travel.”

 “Was she troubled by it?” Liranel sipped from her silver wine cup, and made a face. The wine, which she usually drank well-watered, was stronger than she expected.

 “No,” said Sir Thomas, smiling. Liranel wasn’t sure if he was smiling at the thought of his son, or at her face. “It’s just that it’s a long way to come, even for such a feast as this.” He sighed then. “I only wish . . .” He stopped, his eyes on the Duke, who was absently munching nutmeats from a bowl placed in front of him.

 “Yes?” said Liranel.

 Sir Thomas shook his head, and dug into his own nut bowl. “Nothing.”

 But Liranel knew what he had been about to say. The birth needed a Singing. The babe might yet sicken and die because of it, his little spirit not yet in harmony with its surroundings. Duke Trieste’s lands were doing well enough, but there had been problems: crops failing for no good reason; herds of sheep getting more than their fair share of illnesses. Even the animals of the forest were becoming scarce. Only Old Cate’s little herd of sheep seemed to do well. She claimed it was the clean mountain air that kept them healthy.

 Liranel almost blurted out to Sir Thomas that she could help. Perhaps if she sneaked out to his home, somehow . . . but wouldn’t he be honor-bound to tell the Duke about it then? The suggestion died on Liranel’s lips, and she closed them firmly.

 “Oh, look,” said Sir Thomas, drawing her attention to the door from the kitchens. Cook preened as he preceded two men carrying a towering confection of bread dough on a trestle between them. The bread had been baked in the shape of the Duke’s personal crest, a bear rising on its hind legs to paw at the air. Its nose and claws had been painted gold.

 Liranel had no idea how Cook had made the bear look so real, and judging by the roar of the crowd, neither had anyone else. The Duke applauded enthusiastically and threw Cook a coin. Cook bowed to the High Table and retreated to the kitchen, obviously well-pleased with himself.

 The subtlety signaled the first course. There were the detested eels, but Cook had provided other dishes as well, including a mushroom pasty and a stew of chicken in rosewater. “Do you know what’s first for the entertainment?” Sir Thomas asked over Liranel’s head.

 “Acrobats,” grunted the Duke.

 As soon as the dishes had all been served, several gaily dressed boys and girls tumbled into the open space in front of the High Table, leaping and whooping, some of them standing on each other’s shoulders, still more twisting themselves into impossible shapes.

 “Hhuuu-up!” said a tiny blonde girl with bells on her toes, who could not have been more than four years old. She cartwheeled down the long stretch of tables, posed in front of the High Table, then cartwheeled back up the other side. Everyone laughed. The acrobats finished to a round of applause.

 The dishes were removed and more served, and while they ate the second course, a troupe of mummers acted out the story of Saint Simeon, who had waited all his life for the Savior to appear and was finally given the gift of seeing him just before he died.

 The third course was apparently going to be preceded by yet another of Cook’s masterpieces. The noise from the crowd of feast-goers slowly settled into silence as a large, exotically painted wooden crate was trundled into the room on squeaky rollers. Liranel peered at it. She thought she could hear snuffling noises emanating from the box.

 Paul, who had been helping to pull the ropes attached to the crate, scrambled up the side and tugged at the latch on the top of the box. At once, all the sides of the box fell outward and slammed to the floor with a series of cracks. Many in the crowd screamed as they saw what the box held.

 A bear! A live bear! Safely caged, to be sure, with iron bars all around, but even so! Its long curved claws were gilded with gold paint, just like the Duke’s crest. There wasn’t much room in the cage, and the bear sat huddled in a corner, its back pressed up against the bars. Cook was trying to get it to stand, raising his arms and shouting commands. The bear ignored him. Several people laughed.

 “Oh, the poor thing,” said Liranel.

 “Who?” said Sir Thomas, who was grinning at Cook’s antics. “Him, or the beast?”

 “The bear,” said Liranel. “It’s winter. It should be asleep, shouldn’t it?” The bear looked cranky.

 “I suppose,” said Sir Thomas.

 The tiny girl acrobat, fascinated by the bear, was edging closer to its cage. She stroked the animal’s black fur through the bars, then daringly poked it.

 Startled, the bear let out a growl and stood abruptly. The cage fell over, and the lid popped off with a clang. Instantly, the bear was out, its huge paws sweeping the air.

 It connected with Cook, who skidded down the floor, four parallel scratches in the back of his tunic oozing blood. He lay still where he stopped. The bear, roaring, finally stood on its hind legs, its front paws high in the air, mirroring the crest on the wall behind the Duke.

 The little girl acrobat screeched as the bear’s gaze fastened on her. Its front paws landed on the floor with a reverberating double thump. The bear paced toward the little girl, its wedge-shaped head swinging from side to side. The girl scrambled under one of the tables and the feast-goers there screamed as the bear approached them.

 Liranel’s father stood and fumbled for his sword, but, of course, he had not worn it to the feast. The best he had was the knife with which he had cut their meat. Yelling, he brandished the knife, and leapt over the High Table to confront the animal, trying to draw the bear’s attention.

 The bear took one look at this new threat and its lips rippled back, showing the sharp, yellowed fangs. It paced toward Liranel’s father. The Duke waited with his knife held out in front of him. Its blade was pitifully small when compared to the bear’s claws and teeth.

 An archer on the upper balcony drew his bow, but hesitated, unable to get a clear shot around the Duke. The feast-goers were frozen in their places, all except for Paul, who was creeping around behind the animal, but what could he possibly do?

 The bear rose on its hind legs again, pawing the air and roaring. The Duke took a step back, then swallowed and stepped forward once more, making stabbing motions at the bear.

 “Father!” Liranel screamed. She stood, bracing herself against the table. There was no way he could survive this! Perhaps if she could distract the animal—but with what? Liranel reached into her pouch and drew out the little carved box. As her father prepared to attack, she threw it. It arced upwards, flashing in the light from the torches. The bear ducked, but kept advancing, and the box crashed to the floor.  

 The bear lunged for the Duke. Something else? No. There wasn’t time, now. There was only one other way.

 Liranel took a deep breath—and Sang. The Song welled up from somewhere deep within her. It was a soothing Song, one that told the bear to be calm, that he was loved and appreciated, and that she knew he was tired and only wanted to go back to his snug cave in the forest.

 The bear paused, seeming to listen. Then, slowly, it lowered to the ground, and ambled back to the remains of its cage where it lay down with a rumbling groan. Liranel’s Song turned softer then, a crooning lullaby that sent the bear to sleep. It closed its eyes, then twitched once. The little girl acrobat giggled nervously when it began to snore.

 As the last note of Liranel’s Song trailed off, a sigh rippled around the Great Hall. Liranel let out a sigh of her own and collapsed, trembling, into her seat. Her feet ached.

 Well, her secret was well and truly out now. Paul, next to a groggy Cook, grinned at her. She smiled faintly back. She glanced at Nan and almost laughed. Nan’s mouth had dropped open.

 Only then did Liranel dare to look at her father, the Duke. He was on his knees on the floor of the Great Hall, staring at his daughter as if he had never seen her before. Liranel steeled herself for his displeasure.

 He stood and staggered a few steps forward, his face paling. “You, a Singer?” he whispered. “But how? You have no training . . .”

 “I don’t know how, Father,” Liranel said wearily. The Song had tired her. “But it’s what I was born to be.”

 For it was true. She was a Singer, forbidden or not. She knew that now. No one could alter that, not even her father.

 In the silence, the Hall door creaked open and someone slipped inside, trailing snow. Liranel gave the latecomer a brief glance, but the person was so swathed in layers of clothing that she couldn’t make out who it was.

 “I’ll go pack my things,” said Liranel.

 “What?” said her father.

 “The banishment, Father. I must go.”

 “Liranel . . .” her father began.

 Liranel hung her head. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to hurt you. As my mother did.”

 A great groan escaped from her father’s throat, like the moan of a wounded animal. “Oh, daughter. How could you think that?”

 Liranel frowned, puzzled. “Why else would you banish Singers?”

 Her father shook his head. “You don’t understand. I loved your mother with all my soul. When she died, I banished them because I couldn’t bear to hear Songs ever again. It was like a spear through my heart.”

 “And so you denied the Songs to all,” said a new voice, a woman’s voice. It was one that Liranel knew, but hadn’t expected to hear, and it took her a moment to understand who it was. She turned to the door, where the latecomer was unwrapping the scarf that had hidden her face.

 Liranel gasped. “Cate?”

 Belying her years, the old woman strode forward into the hall. She walked behind the High Table, and laid an arm across Liranel’s shoulders.

 “Yes, dear one,” she said, laughing. “I knew there was something different about you today, but I did not know what it was. Well done! I have been waiting for this day for a very long time.”

 Liranel stared at her. “What do you mean?”

 “I was your mother’s Singing teacher once,” said Cate. “When she died, I came here, for I knew that someday you would need me.”

 “Do you tell me,” demanded the Duke, “that I have been sheltering a Singer all this time, unknown to me? Is that why my daughter Sang? Were you teaching her in secret?”

 “No,” said Cate, quite calmly. “I haven’t been teaching Liranel anything more than the old tales. Which is something Singers do need to know, for it is they who pass them on to future generations. Or had you forgotten that?” She turned to Liranel. “But being a Singer—that Gift comes of itself, when it will.”

 Liranel nodded. Her so-called Gift had certainly showed up all by itself on her birthday, unwanted. “I know,” she said softly.

 Cate hugged Liranel, then turned to the Duke. “And you! Forbidding Singing on your lands! Your Grace, how could you deny that to your people?”

 The Duke blinked in surprise at this bold, old woman. “It hurt so much,” he whispered. “The memory.”

 “Tcha! Selfish man!” said Cate.

 A smile touched Liranel’s lips. She had never heard her old friend talk like this. And had certainly never heard anyone speak to the Duke so!

 “I hadn’t realized how much I missed the Singing,” said Duke Trieste.

 “Well, if you are sensible, you won’t have to miss it any longer. You can’t deny your daughter’s Gift,” said Cate. “Singers need to Sing.”

 “Singers go where they’re needed,” he protested. “Her mother was killed while journeying. What if she goes away from me, too?”

 Cate chuckled. “On these mangled feet? No, there are others who can journey. Liranel can stay here at the castle, or with me, if need be, and those in need of Singing can come to her.”

 “I don’t know enough yet,” said Liranel.

 “You did well with the bear,” said Cate, “but yes, you still have much to learn.”

 “Would you teach me?” asked Liranel.

 “I would be honored,” said Cate.

 Liranel retrieved her crutches and slowly made her way around the table. She gently touched her father’s arm.

 “Father?” she asked.

 He looked at her and smiled tentatively. “I had thought your feet were a curse—but instead they are a blessing.” He raised his head and his voice rang out across the room. “From this day forward, Singers are most welcome on my lands! We will have Songs again!”

 His people cheered. “All hail Duke Trieste! And his daughter, Lady Liranel the Singer!”

 Liranel reached out her hand. The Duke clasped it tight in his own.

 “Forgive me,” he said. “In my grief, I lost sight of what truly matters.”

 “It’s all right, Father,” said Liranel. She glanced across the room at Paul, who had picked up the shattered bits of her little box and was vainly trying to piece them back together. “I wish I hadn’t broken your gift,” she said.

 The Duke shook his head. “Liranel, you have given me something more precious than any trinket. You have given me back the gift of Song.”

 Liranel’s heart lifted. The Gift of Song. Yes!

The End

This story was the basis for Lyranel’s Song. It was originally published in Mistletoe Madness, published by Blooming Tree Press (Austin, TX, 2005). You may note the different spelling of the name -- this was done for esthetic purposes.