An Armory of Swords

Glad Yule

Pati Nagle

A young man sat brooding in the window of his chamber, gazing through snow-blurred glass at the windswept courtyard below. He was slender and dark, his curling black hair framing a face of striking beauty despite his slight frown. His clothing was simple, unadorned, though well made of rich cloth. The yard he watched was bathed in moonlight, deserted except for an occasional servant hurrying to finish some task and get out of the biting wind. For some reason this scene held his attention, keeping him by the window and away from the cheering fire on the hearth.

A quiet knock fell on the door, followed by the voice of a servant, saying “My Lord Paethor?”

The young man looked up. “Come in,” he answered.

The servant entered, bowing deferentially. He wore the royal livery of blue and violet, and spoke with respect. “Your pardon, my Lord. His Majesty requests your attendance.”

The young man slid from the window seat with a sigh and followed the servant out into the corridor, where three ladies, richly gowned and decked in jewels, paused in their chatter to gaze at him like startled deer. If he had met their eyes he would have seen frank appreciation of his comeliness, but he barely glanced their way, nodding politely, and continued in the servant’s wake. Behind him the ladies resumed their conversation in whispered tones.

It was late, and the night’s feasting and dancing were finished. King Nigel of Argonia had retired to his private chambers with a few of his most trusted lords, there to relax and enjoy a last cup of wine. The king, a strong, pleasant man with silver beginning to lighten his golden hair and beard, lounged in a chair, listening to his courtiers’ raucous banter. When the servant announced Lord Paethor they fell silent, gazing at the newcomer in varying shades of curiosity.

“Lord Paethor, come in,” said the king. “Have some wine. We missed you at dinner.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said Paethor, accepting a cup from a page. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company lately.”

“The ladies have been asking after you, lad,” said a lord, chuckling. “They’re complaining that the best dancer in court has deserted them.” Lord Paethor, who was sipping his wine, seemed not to have heard.

“Is there anything you want?” asked the king. “Anything that would make you more comfortable?”

“Thank you, no,” said Paethor with a wisp of a smile. “Your Majesty is most generous. I have everything I need.”

The king leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the solemn young lord. “That’s what I expected you to say.” He swirled the wine around in the bottom of his goblet, then drained it. “Midwinter is approaching,” he stated, setting the cup aside. “I wonder if you would consider doing me a small favor.”

“Gladly, Sire,” said Paethor.

“I presume, since you did not return to your father’s keep for Midsummer, that you are not going now. Is that correct?”

“Correct, Majesty.”

“Also that the coming Yule feast is of little interest to you,” continued the king.

“Your Majesty is very observant,” replied Lord Paethor, bowing.

“Yes, well. We needn’t be quite so formal,” said the king. “You’re a gentleman, Paethor, and a fine addition to my court, but it doesn’t take a wizard to guess you’re not fond of festivals.”

Paethor was silent for a moment, gazing abstractedly as he had done out the window, then returned his attention to the king. “What would you like me to do, Sire?”

The king dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand. When they’d gone he leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together. “There are skirmishes to the south,” he said. “Along our border with Sabara. A few of their smaller baronies, squabbling over territory. King Asad is rumored to be ill.”

Paethor nodded. The news had been spoken of in court for several days.

“It’s also rumored that Farslayer has been busy down there.”

At that the lords shifted and murmured among themselves, and Paethor glanced up at the king. The Sword of Vengeance was enough to frighten the bravest warrior; a merciless meter’s length of steel that became flying death with a throw and a target’s name.

“Needless to say I would like to know its whereabouts,” continued the king. “I would like, in fact, to be sure it does not fall into the hands of an enemy.”

Paethor nodded again. “You wish me to find news of it?”

“I wish you to retrieve it.”

The lords stirred in response. “You want the thing here, Sire?” asked one dubiously.

“Better here in my keeping than flying around my borders,” said the king.

“Or across them,” murmured another.

The king stood. “I visited the treasury this morning,” he said, going to a cupboard, which he opened with a small gilt key. He reached inside and withdrew a bundle of heavy cloth. This he unwrapped, revealing a sheathed sword.

“Wayfinder,” he said, drawing the Sword. The lords crowded closer; it was known that King Nigel possessed a Sword of Power, but few had seen it. Its appearance was disappointing to some who had expected finely worked and gilded hilts; the simple black cruciform was unadorned except for a small arrow emblazoned in white on the hilt.

“Where is Farslayer?” said the king, and the Sword of Wisdom turned in his hand. The lords hastened to get out of the way of the unearthly-keen blade, which swung around southward, then quivered as though it would like to leap forward. “South and a little east,” observed the king. “Ravens-keep, or Sun Mountain. A few days should get you there.” He sheathed Wayfinder and held it out to Paethor. “Take this along to guide you.”

Paethor accepted the Sword, bowing gravely. “Your Majesty honors me,” he said.

“Honor?” said the king. “I’ve given you a damned nasty task is what I’ve done. Don’t get yourself killed.”

That drew the first real smile from the young lord. “I won’t, Sire.”

King Nigel clapped him on the back. “You’ll have help,” he added, and glanced around the small circle of lords. “I’d like two to go with him. Volunteers?”

“I’ll go, Majesty,” said a tall, dashing lord with steel-gray hair. “My lands lie near the southern border, I’ll do my part to protect them.”

“Thank you, Echevarian,” said the king. “Who else?”

The lords hesitated, none of them anxious to leave the comforts of court for a lonely journey into danger, even for the chance to handle a Sword of Power and earn the king’s gratitude. Finally one came forward, a young lord with merry eyes and light brown hair that fell in soft waves to his shoulders. “Oh, I’ll go along,” he said, with a lopsided smile.

“You, Trent?” said a lord. “Passing up the Yule feast?”

“Let him go,” called another. “It’s about time someone else got to be Lord of Misrule!”

Trent’s smile widened. “Can I help it if I’m more charming than the rest of you?”

This earned him a round of buffets from his peers. He laughed as he fended them off. “Peace, peace! I’m going with Paethor, you can have the ladies to yourselves!”

“Are you sure you’re feeling well, Trent?” asked a lord in mock concern.

Trent shrugged. “Maybe Don Echevarian will show me one of his sword-thrusts,” he said, nodding to the elder lord.

“And maybe we’ll happen by Sir Alfred’s keep, and visit his pretty daughters,” mused Echevarian, stroking his mustache.

Trent grinned. “Maybe.”

“All right then,” said the king, beckoning Trent and Echevarian closer. “Take three yeomen, and see the quartermaster for your needs. Go as soon as your affairs are in order.”

Paethor looked at his new traveling companions. “I can leave tomorrow,” he said.

“Me too,” said Trent.

Echevarian nodded. “I’ll send word to my steward tonight.”

“Good,” said the king. He took them each by the hand briefly. “Good speed to you.” Though he smiled, it was plain to his lords that their ruler considered Farslayer a serious threat.

“Well,” said Lord Trent. “We’d better have another cup to give us strength.”

The solemn moment broke, and the lords resumed their chatter, shouting to the servants to bring in more wine. Paethor stayed beside the king.

“If Your Majesty will excuse me,” he said quietly, “I’ll retire and prepare for the journey.”

The king nodded. “Come back safe,” he said softly.

Paethor bowed and left, carrying Wayfinder back to his silent chamber. Once there he drew the Sword again to examine it more closely. The blade was perfectly balanced and deadly sharp, whispering as it left the sheath. There was little light in the room, the fire having burned down to embers, so Paethor carried the Sword to his seat in the window and peered at it in the moonlight, which lent a bluish cast to the polished steel. Whorls in the blade gave an illusion of depth that was almost dizzying, like swirling clouds of snow in the black of night. Paethor let the point come to rest at his feet, his eyes drawn back to the courtyard. No one stirred there now, but a few dry leaves danced in the corners, chased by the relentless wind. The frown descended on his brow again and his eyes seemed to gaze beyond the courtyard into some past shadow. Wayfinder stirred in his hand and he started, a look of dismay in his eyes as the Sword of Wisdom raised itself to point westward, its sudden quiver setting up an answering tremor in Paethor’s arm. He hastily sheathed the blade and hid it in his closet. Whatever nameless query Wayfinder had responded to, it seemed Paethor had not intended to make it.

The next day dawned cold and bright, with clear skies and a dusting of snow on the ground. Paethor sent his packs down to the stables, then slid Wayfinder’s sheath onto his sword-belt and fastened it about his waist. Throwing a cloak of dark wool over his shoulders he sought out the stableyard, where he found Don Echevarian overseeing the packing of their provisions. King Nigel had given the lords three of his best steeds for the journey; they stood saddled in the yard while three liveried yeomen strapped baggage to the load-beasts.

“Where’s Lord Trent?” asked Paethor, his breath frosting in the crisp air.

“I haven’t seen him,” replied Echevarian.

A burst of laughter from a doorway drew their attention and they turned to find Trent staggering toward them, two large wineskins over one shoulder and his arms full of a giggling wench, who in turn clutched a pitcher and three silver goblets. When he saw his companions Trent set the girl on her feet and shushed her, saying “Remember, now.” Her laughter subsided, and she made an effort to appear serious, which was slightly hampered by her noticing that some wine had spilled from her pitcher onto her apron. She stifled another giggle as she bent over and tried ineffectually to wipe it away. Trent had to grab the pitcher to keep her from spilling more. Finally she held up her goblets while Trent poured the remaining wine into them. He took one and nudged her toward his traveling companions. The wench carried the wine sedately to Paethor and Echevarian, her gravity hindered only by dimples that refused to be suppressed. A hiss from Trent reminded her to curtsy, and she offered up the goblets, saying “Good fortune on your journey, my Lords.”

“Thank you,” said Echevarian gravely, accepting a cup.

“Yes, thanks,” added Paethor.

They drained the cups and handed them back, and the wench dropped another curtsy and scuttled back to where Trent lounged in the doorway. He rewarded her with a kiss, gave her his own empty goblet and the pitcher, and sent her on her way with a friendly spank. Her giggles echoed back from the corridor.

“A little warmth to run in our veins this cold morning,” said Trent, smiling as he strolled forward to join the others. “Can’t start a trip without a cup for good luck.”

“You seem to have enough luck for the whole journey,” said Echevarian, patting Trent’s bulging wineskins.

“We may need it. Besides, it’s very good wine. I have an understanding with the royal vintner.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Echevarian, gray eyes twinkling. He turned to survey the load-beasts. “Shall we be off?”

“Yes,” said Paethor, and without waiting he strode to his mount, a great gray beast with black mane and tail, and swung himself up into the saddle. Echevarian mounted a handsome bay, and Trent gave a yeoman hasty directions for packing the wineskins before climbing onto his own coppery steed. With a few final shouted instructions the lords, yeomen, and load-beasts all moved forward to the main gates, which stood open under the watchful eye of the king’s guards.

Crystal-clear air intensified the beauty of the lands around Argonhall, King Nigel’s keep. The heavens were vibrant azure, echoed by the deeper blue of the Sandres Mountains, which had fresh snowdrifts blazing all along their crags. Their foothills were dotted with the bushy evergreens of the steppes; red soil already showed in patches through melting snow. Away to the west more mountains rode the horizon, but Paethor and his companions followed the highway southward, with the Sandres on their left. The bright sunlight cheered them, and soon they were stripping off heavy cloaks. They passed several villages but stopped only briefly to water their mounts, being anxious to make good time. The road narrowed, and the villages gave way to occasional farms and then empty plains. As they descended into a shallow ravine Trent raised his voice in a drinking song, his fine, clear tenor ringing back from the rock walls. Echevarian added a deep bass harmony, and Paethor joined in on the choruses.

Their good spirits lasted through midday heat and afternoon chill, but when a cold evening breeze rose and they stopped to pitch camp, Paethor fell silent, his frown returning as he hastened to build a fire. Echevarian went away to direct the yeomen in raising tents and seeing to the animals. Trent helped fetch water from a stream that trickled down a nearby gully, then unlimbered one of his wineskins and brought it to the fire where Paethor sat huddled in his cloak.

“Cup of cheer?” offered Trent.

Paethor shook his head, staring into the flames. Trent plopped down beside him and poured some wine into a drinking horn. He drank deeply, then leaned back against the skin, stretched his feet out toward the fire, and sighed. “The ladies at court have all lost their hearts to you,” he said conversationally. “I suppose I’m a fool for not staying behind. I could have comforted them in your absence. Ah, well,” he sighed, raising his cup. “Here’s to good intentions.”

Paethor didn’t answer. He picked up a twig and began snapping it into small pieces, tossing them one by one into the flames. Trent glanced sidelong at him.

“They’ve decided,” he went on, “that you’re desperately in love with some lady you can never hope to win. Preferably one who lives at the other end of the world.”

At that Paethor closed his eyes and shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. Trent watched him for a minute, then continued. “Each of them is sure she can heal your wounded heart, if only you would recognize the medicinal power of her love-”

“Enough,” broke in Paethor.

Trent looked at him inquiringly.

“Thanks for your concern,” said Paethor, “but I have to wrestle my own demons.” Their gaze held briefly, dark eyes cautioning hazel, then Paethor looked back into the fire.

“All right,” said Trent slowly. “Friends anyway?” He held out a hand.

After a moment Paethor shook it. “Friends,” he said, a smile flickering across his face. “Guess I’ll have some of that wine now,” he added.

Trent refilled the horn and passed it to Paethor, watching him with candid curiosity. The quiet lord’s sadness only served to enhance his dark beauty; his restless eyes gave him the look of a lost child.

“Perhaps it’s just as well we’ll miss the Yule feast,” said Trent. “I’m not so sure I’d be chosen Lord of Misrule this year. The ladies might pick you instead, and then I’d have to kill myself.”

That got a chuckle out of Paethor, but he shook his head.

“Do they have that custom in your father’s keep?” asked Trent.

Paethor nodded and sipped at the wine, then passed the horn back to Trent.

“Ever been Lord of Misrule?” pursued Trent.

Paethor stared into the fire, his brows drawing together. “Once,” he said softly.

Footsteps sounded behind them; Echevarian, carrying a platter piled with dried meat, cheese and bread. He handed it to Trent and sat down, rubbing his hands together over the fire. At the sight of the food Trent broke into a grin. “Why thanks, Echevarian,” he said, picking up a hunk of cheese. “What are you and Paethor going to eat?”

For answer Echevarian pulled Trent’s hood over his eyes and neatly plucked the wineskin from behind his shoulders. He poured wine into an elegant chalice while Trent struggled to sit up.

“Don’t spill the food,” warned Echevarian.

“Mrph,” grunted Trent, pushing the hood back from his face.

Paethor came to his rescue, retrieving the precarious platter. Echevarian produced three apples and tossed one to each of the others. They ate hungrily, the long ride having sharpened their appetites. When the platter was empty they refilled their cups and built up the fire. The winter night had fallen quickly, blue sky darkening to star-scattered black. Dark gray shadows loomed; the southern end of the Sandres. Cold breezes bit at their faces and they crowded closer to the flames, risking a scorch for the sake of the warmth. A few meters away the yeomen could be heard murmuring around their own small blaze.

“What does Wayfinder say tonight?” asked Echevarian softly.

Paethor’s hand went to the hilt, but he hesitated, frowning.

“We should check,” urged the elder lord.

Paethor stood, throwing off his cloak, and drew the Sword. “Where is Farslayer?” he said aloud, though quietly. The blade came around from east to south, then continued a little farther before pausing.

“Southwest,” murmured Trent. “It’s moved.”

A sharp cry, some predator’s hunting call, made them look up. To the east the gibbous moon was rising over the Sandres, cold and white. Wayfinder trembled in Paethor’s hand and edged westward, but he sheathed it again and sat down.

“Well,” said Trent, “looks like we’re riding into a merry party.”

“Perhaps we should turn in,” said Echevarian.

The fire snapped in the silence, its power to comfort diminished.

“One last round?” offered Trent.

Echevarian stood, gazing to the southwest. “Let’s save our luck for tomorrow,” he said.

Gray skies greeted them in the morning. After a hurried fistful of breakfast they broke camp and headed back to the road, now a rough track that followed a meandering river, muddy water low in its basin, sandbars dotting its surface. They passed the southern end of the Sandres and now a cold east wind drove at them across the plains. The travelers were silent, each with his own thoughts. At midday they halted to rest their beasts, and ate a cold lunch as they stood.

“Gods must be quarreling,” said Trent. “They say that always makes bad weather.”

“Don’t joke about the gods,” snapped Paethor.

Echevarian and Trent exchanged a glance.

“You religious, Paethor?” asked Trent. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

Paethor gave no answer. Instead he walked away toward the river.

“Let him be,” said Echevarian.

They took to the road again and soon came upon a straggling band of wayfarers, mostly women and boys, walking northward beside two load-beasts that strained at an overburdened wagon. The little group looked up fearfully as the mounted party approached, one of the youths hefting a pike.

“You won’t need that, lad,” said Echevarian, reining his beast to a halt. “Where are you headed?”

“Argonia,” answered the youth.

“Well, you’re there. What now?”

A woman stepped forward. “We seek asylum from King Nigel,” she said. “Can you tell us… how far is his keep?”

“On foot?” said Trent. “A good week, from here.”

The little group’s faces fell. In the wagon a child began to cry.

“Where are you from?” asked Echevarian.

“Sun Mountain,” said the woman. “There was a terrible battle-our Baron was slain two days ago.”

“Slain how?” asked Trent quickly.

The woman’s face contorted, lines of grief furrowing her brow. “A Sword,” she answered. “They said it was a magic Sword. It came from nowhere and struck him down-”

“Where is the Sword now?” demanded Echevarian.

“I don’t know,” said the woman, brushing tears from her cheeks with a sunburned hand. “There was an uproar, and then soldiers from Ravenskeep came-”

“We seek asylum,” repeated the youth. “Will King Nigel help us?”

Echevarian gazed at the pitiful band, his stern eyes softening. “I’m sure he will, lad,” he said gently, “but it’s a hard journey to Argonhall. My hold is closer.” He reached into his doublet and brought out a pencil and a bit of gray paper on which he scribbled a brief note. “Go back along the river to the wide shallows and the cottonwood grove, do you remember it?”

The youth nodded vigorously.

“Turn east and head for the bluffs. My house is in a little valley beyond them, you should reach it by nightfall. Give this note to my steward, Needham. He’ll see you’re cared for.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” The woman bowed as she took the note.

“Have you food enough?”

“Yes. We’re not beggars,” said the youth defiantly.

“We have enough for now,” added the woman. “Bless you, sir.”

“I’m afraid we can’t escort you,” said Echevarian. “We’re on urgent business.”

“We’ll find it, my Lord. Thank you.”

The riders moved on past the refugees, but after a few minutes Echevarian called a halt. He glanced at the road behind them to make sure the southerners were out of sight, then leaned toward Paethor.

“Check now,” he said.

Paethor drew Wayfinder and softly asked “Where is Farslayer?” The blade swung to the southeast. It wouldn’t settle, swaying back and forth in a small arc, but it was clearly pointing away from the refugees.

Trent sighed, and Echevarian nodded curtly. Paethor sheathed the Sword and they started forward again, urging their tired mounts to cover the dusty miles, and only stopped to make camp when failing light made the road dangerous. The lee of a small cliff near the river offered meager shelter from the wind. As the party rode up to it a flurry of wings burst from a twisted tree by the rock wall; an owl, shrieking its anger at being disturbed. Paethor cried out and his mount reared. He tumbled from the saddle, cowering wild-eyed between his beast and Trent’s, then a moment later he swore and jerked at the animal’s reins, leading it up to the cliff.

They made camp silently, pitching only one tent for the sake of shared warmth. A small cooking fire was kindled, and the yeomen made hot soup from dried broth. Bread and cheese filled out the meal, but the previous night’s banter was absent. Trent watched Paethor tear a piece of bread into small pieces, crumbs falling between long, graceful fingers to the ground. The handsome lord wore a haunted look, hollow eyes staring at nothing as the wind whipped his dark curls about his face.

The cooking fire smoked fitfully. Trent poked at it with a stick and added another log. Echevarian stirred and glanced at the yeomen huddled by the cliff wall.

“Let’s stretch our legs a bit,” said Echevarian as he rose. “I’d like to check the beasts.”

Trent climbed to his feet, wrapping his cloak tighter against the wind, and nudged Paethor with a booted toe. “Come on,” he said.

Paethor looked up, startled, then stood. The three lords wandered out of the shelter, buffeted by wind as they headed for the river’s edge where the beasts were staked. The animals stood with heads down, tails to the wind, suffering mutely.

“All right, Paethor,” said Echevarian. “Let’s have it. Where’s the blasted thing tonight?”

Paethor gave him a troubled glance before slowly drawing Wayfinder. “Where is Farslayer?” he said, his words swallowed by the wind. He stood facing south down the river bed, and the Sword wavered in his hands, moving from south to southeast. Finally it swung sharply to the west. Paethor gave a cry of frustration.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere!” said Trent.

Paethor grabbed Echevarian’s hand, pressing the hilt into it. “You do it,” he said.

Echevarian faced south, squared his shoulders, and said “Where can we find Farslayer?” The Sword was still for a moment, then circled inexorably to point past Paethor’s shoulder, west-northwest, into Argonian lands. Clouded moonlight shimmered on the blade as it quaked in Echevarian’s grasp.

Three faces turned to follow the Sword’s bearing. A shadow of gray marked a distant line of mountains.

“That’s the Highmass,” said Trent. “There’s nothing up there, is there?”

“A few small holdings,” answered Echevarian. “And our quarry, apparently.”

“So we turn back? What if it’s gone again by the time we get there?” complained Trent.

“We keep going till we’ve tracked it down,” said Echevarian grimly. “Unless you have a better suggestion?”

Trent sighed. “I need a drink,” he said, starting back toward the camp.

Echevarian held Wayfinder out to Paethor. He seemed reluctant to take it, but did so, sheathing it at once. Echevarian laid a hand on his shoulder as they followed Trent. “Looks like King Nigel gave you a heavier burden than he thought.” Paethor turned a haggard face to him, and Echevarian glimpsed dread in his eyes. Then Paethor quickened his steps for the scant comfort of the cliffside, with Echevarian close behind.

At dawn they retraced their way northward, forded the river at the shallows, then headed cross-country toward the small cluster of mountains called the Highmass. Paethor was calm again, though silent, his fair face pale against the black hood of his cloak.

Travel was slower without a road, and it took them two days to reach the foothills. Wayfinder was consistent at last, pointing steadily to the lonely mountains regardless of which lord held it. Small comfort on the rough journey.

The Sword led them up a narrow valley through which ran a clear, ice-cold stream. The first of Trent’s wineskins surrendered its last drop and was refilled with frosty water. Snow lay in deep drifts along the valley, and the short winter days were curtailed even more by the mountains blocking the sun. Trent killed a hare with a well-slung stone, but even the fresh meat was of little help to lift chilled spirits. On the third morning after they entered the valley, it began to snow.

“Do we turn back?” asked Trent.

“No,” said Echevarian. He looked at Paethor, who glanced at the ground rising ahead and sighed.

They struggled on, hampered by wet, heavy snow. One of the load-beasts blundered into a crevice hidden by a snowdrift and had to be pulled out; unhurt, luckily. The valley narrowed further and the party found themselves climbing toward a notch between two crests, barely visible through a gray wall of falling snow. Breathing was harder now, and they had to dismount and lead their animals up the treacherous slope, the yeomen using poles cut from trees to probe the way. The sky darkened as they neared the top, though whether from night falling or the storm thickening it was hard to tell. There was no place for a camp, so the weary group trudged ahead. Finally they entered the notch, which was level though deep in snow. Here only a few flakes were falling.

“We could camp here,” gasped Trent, patting his weary beast.

“It’s still light,” said Echevarian. “Let’s take a look at what’s ahead.”

“Sure,” said Trent, handing his reins to a yeoman. “That ought to cheer us up.”

The three lords dug their way through chest-high snow, pushing it aside with gloved hands. Soon they were puffing and sweating with the effort. Meter by meter they made their way to the far side of the pass, where they looked out over another valley, gentler in slope, and dotted with small dark lumps from which rose welcome plumes of smoke. Trent let out a laugh.

“Still want to camp up here?” asked Echevarian.

“I don’t care if we’re walking till midnight,” said Trent. “There’s got to be a feather-bed in one of those houses!”

He turned back toward the beasts, but Paethor put a hand on his shoulder, saying “Wait.” With a glance at Echevarian Paethor drew Wayfinder. “Where can we find Farslayer?” he asked. The Sword’s point lifted to aim up the valley, where a manor-house stood out among the smaller dwellings.

“Whose hold is that?” asked Trent.

Echevarian shrugged. “We’ll know soon.”

Cheered by the prospect of shelter, the little party scrambled down into the valley. A spring not far from the pass marked the head of a creek, which was followed down the hillside by a narrow path. Dark was falling fast, and the little lights of the cottages below seemed to twinkle a golden welcome. At the edge of the settlement they were met by two sturdy men who asked their names and their business.

“We are emissaries from King Nigel,” said Echevarian. “I am Don Echevarian of Verdas, and these are lords Paethor and Trent.”

One of the men frowned. “From Argonhall? Why didn’t you come by the north road?”

“We were in the south,” said Trent, “and wished to arrive in time to present the king’s Yule greetings to your master.”

The guard seemed satisfied with this answer. “You’d better come up to the Lodge, then. Squire will be sitting down to supper soon.” He led them to a wide yard in front of the manor house, which consisted of a two-story structure built of vast logs, with smaller wings running away on the south and north. The yeomen were left to stable the beasts while the lords went into the house. Warmth struck their faces in the entryway and they sighed in unison. The guard led them into the Hall, where firelight flickered on the polished logs of the walls and gilded the rushes strewn over the floor. A long table was set a few meters from a hearth at the room’s north end, and servants were preparing it for the evening meal. The guard brought them to a stairwell from which narrow steps led to a gallery running along the east and south walls. At the foot of the stairs a stout man in faded green velvet was talking to a younger version of himself.

“Beg pardon, Squire,” said the guard. “These men say they’re from King Nigel. They’re the ones we saw coming down from the pass.”

The squire turned and stared down his craggy nose at the damp, bedraggled lords. Echevarian swept a bow. “Don Echevarian of Verdas,” he said grandly. “These are my traveling companions, Lord Paethor of Mirador and Lord Trent Greyson. We thank you for your hospitality.”

The youth beside the squire had the same shock of sandy hair, the same fearsome nose. His eyes opened wide and he said, “Did you really come over Dead Man’s Pass?”

“We wouldn’t have, if we’d known its name,” muttered Trent.

“We were at my hold in Verdas when we were directed to come here,” said Echevarian with a glance at his companions. “It seemed quickest to try the pass.”

“Hmm, well you’re lucky,” said the squire. “It’s usually snowed in at Midwinter, but the weather’s been light this season. From Verdas, eh? There’s a neighbor of yours here, Baron Carcham. Maybe you’ve come to speak to him?”

The lords stiffened at the name.

“Carcham of Ravenskeep, yes,” said Echevarian. “You’re very astute, Squire…?”

“Fuller,” replied the squire, breaking into a grin. “But everyone just calls me Squire. Carcham’s in his room, he’ll be down for supper. You can talk to him then, but you’d probably like to change first, eh?”

The lords, from whose shoulders melting snow had begun to drip, agreed. The squire shouted orders right and left, calling for his guests’ gear to be brought into the house and hot water to be fetched for them, then led them to a room in the south wing where a servant was already kindling a bright fire.

“Sorry to crowd you all in here,” he said. “We don’t often have so many visitors at once.”

“No problem,” said Trent, eyeing the mattresses being carried in.

“Come back to the Hall when you’re ready,” said the squire. “We’ll hold supper for you.”

“No need to do that,” said Paethor.

“Pish. D’you think my women-folk would let me get away without waiting? They’ll want a formal introduction to the king’s lords.” The squire raised an eyebrow as he surveyed Paethor’s handsome countenance. “Lords from Argonhall, yes,” he said. “We don’t see your like around here too often!” He grinned, then headed out in the wake of the servants.

“Thank you, Squire,” Echevarian called after him. “We won’t be long.”

The door closed and they listened to their host’s cheery shouts fade down the hall. The lords looked at one another.

“Ravenskeep,” hissed Trent. “What’s he doing here?”

“Staying out of trouble, maybe,” said Echevarian. “His barony’s caught in the skirmishes.”

“Then why isn’t he there to defend it?” said Paethor.

No one answered.

“Come on,” said Echevarian, stripping off his sodden doublet. “Let’s make ourselves presentable for the squire’s ladies.”

They pulled off wet clothing and hastily washed themselves, then rummaged through their gear, deciding to honor their host with their one change of court dress. For Trent this was green suede trimmed with gold braid; for Echevarian, gray wool lined with red satin and edged in silver. Paethor wore dark brown velvet, unembellished. He pulled Wayfinder’s sheath off of his traveling belt and stood frowning at the Sword.

“Would you rather I carried it?” offered Echevarian.

Paethor glanced up at him. “Yes,” he said, then slid it onto his own fresh belt. “But it’s my burden. Thanks anyway.”

Echevarian softly smiled his understanding, and the three Lords hastened back to the Hall. The smell of roasted meat quickened their steps. They found Squire Fuller waiting with several young folk; one of them, a lovely redheaded girl, turned eager blue eyes toward the lords as they entered. The squire had changed his faded green velvet for a newer tunic, and the others also seemed to have put on their best for the strangers.

“Gentlemen, welcome,” said the squire, coming forward. “You honor my humble Lodge. Allow me to present my household. This is my daughter Sylva,” he said as the copperhaired girl curtsied and threw a saucy glance at Paethor. “Her cousin, Mari,” indicating a slightly younger girl with dark, glossy curls and pansy-brown eyes. “My son, Damon,” and he chucked the youth he’d been with earlier on the shoulder. “Oh, and this is Elian, my eldest,” he added as a quiet, fair-haired young woman came forward. “Her mother’s gone, alas, these seven winters.”

“Greetings, gentle folk,” said Echevarian, and introduced himself and his companions.

“Ah, and here’s Baron Carcham,” said the squire.

Carcham of Ravenskeep was known to the others by reputation as a fearsome lord, and his appearance as he stood in the doorway gave them no reason to doubt it. He was powerfully built and wore his long, blond hair in a warrior’s queue, and the tips of his mustache were braided. Echevarian’s hand fingered his own silvery whiskers.

“Carcham,” said the squire, “these are the lords I told you about, from Argonhall.”

As the baron approached a scabbard swung about the red skirts of his tunic, and the lords saw that the hilt above it was of rough black, identical to Wayfinder’s. In that same moment Carcham’s stride stuttered and his gaze fastened sharply on the weapon at Paethor’s hip. For an instant he seemed alarmed, then a soldier’s mask of discipline descended on his features. He bowed stiffly, clasping his Sword-hilt, and Paethor’s hand came unconsciously to rest on Wayfinder. Introductions were repeated, then the squire, perhaps sensing tension in the air, urged everyone to sit down to supper. He placed Baron Carcham at his right hand and Don Echevarian on his left, as befitted their rank. Paethor and Trent were seated on either side of Elian, who acted as hostess for her father. Sylva sat beside Trent and made eyes at both Paethor and Carcham across the table.

“A toast,” said the squire, raising his goblet. “To our noble visitors.”

“And to our kind host,” said Echevarian. “May your goodwill return to you.”

The words earned him a sharp glance from Carcham. Echevarian sipped calmly, seeming not to notice.

“Do you dance, my Lords?” asked Sylva, her eyes on Paethor.

“Yes,” answered Trent, helping himself to a slab of meat from a heaping platter. “Everyone at King Nigel’s court is required to dance or suffer harsh punishment.”

The squire laughed heartily at this mild jest. Sylva looked confused for a moment, then added her piping laughter. “You will dance with us tonight, then!” she said.

Elian leaned forward to catch her eye. “Perhaps the gentlemen are tired,” she said gently.

Sylva pouted. “But I want to dance!”

“You can dance with your brother, then,” said the squire gruffly. Both Sylva and Damon grimaced. “These lords have had a hard journey, coming over the pass,” added their father.

“All the more reason to celebrate,” said Trent, which won him a beaming smile from Sylva.

“I would be happy to partner you, fair lady,” added Carcham.

Sylva gave him a coy look. “Is there dancing in Ravenskeep?” she asked.

“Yes, and many other pleasures,” said the baron, smiling.

Trent and Paethor exchanged a glance, each remembering the words of the refugee woman, “soldiers from Ravenskeep.”

“There’ll be dancing enough at the Yule feast tomorrow night,” said the squire. “You’ll have to be content till then. We’ve got no musicians, for one thing.”

“Oh, Elian can play on the lute,” said Sylva.

“But what if Elian wants to dance?” asked Echevarian gallantly.

“She doesn’t mind,” said Sylva, with the confidence of self-centered youth.

“Is that true?” asked Trent, turning to his hostess.

“Yes,” said Elian. “I like to play.”

“But you don’t like to dance?” asked Paethor.

Elian glanced up at him with a gentle smile. “I like both.”

“Well,” said young Damon, “I’d rather dance to Elian’s playing than to Sylva’s.”

Sylva stared daggers at him, then haughtily turned up her nose. “You can dance by yourself, then. No one wants to dance with you.”

“I do,” said brown-eyed Mari. Then she blushed furiously and stared down at her plate. Damon looked mildly alarmed.

Sylva glared at her cousin, then seemed to realize her temper was not adding to her charm. She put on a smile again and turned to Trent. “You are staying for Yule, aren’t you?”

Trent’s lopsided grin broke out as he looked into her wide blue eyes. “How can we refuse?”

Echevarian glanced at the squire, who chuckled and said, “Yes, join us. The whole valley will be here for the feast.”

“Thank you,” said Echevarian, raising his cup. “We accept.”

When everyone had eaten his fill Sylva again begged for dancing. Elian gave in to her pleas and agreed to play the lute. “But only for a little while,” she said. “It’s late already.”

The Hall was big enough to hold twenty couples or more. As it was, there were only two. Damon had made himself scarce the minute the lute was brought out. Sylva claimed her dance from the baron, and flirted boldly with him. Trent danced with Mari, who blushed whenever the steps brought their hands together. Elian’s fingers were nimble on the lutestrings, and as she strummed a quiet smile hovered on her lips.

“Your daughter plays well,” said Echevarian, seated against the wall with the squire and Paethor.

“Hm? Oh, yes. She’s very clever. Like her mother that way,” said the squire. “Don’t know what I’m going to do with her, though. She’s had two offers of marriage, and turned ’em both down. May not get any more; the lads around here like their women robust, and well, you see how she is.” He frowned in a puzzled way, as a gardener might upon discovering a frail lily in amongst his roses. “She’s thinking she might join the White Temple,” he added.

“Isn’t she a bit young?” asked Echevarian.

A peal of laughter from Sylva signaled the end of the dance, and she curtsied to Baron Carcham, then skipped up to Paethor. “Now you!” she cried, holding out her hands.

Paethor looked up at her with a level gaze. “Not tonight, lady. Please forgive me.”

Sylva stamped her foot. “But you have to!”

“Dance with me, Sylva,” said Trent, coming up and bowing gallantly over her hand. She let herself be distracted, but a glance over her shoulder told Paethor she had not given up.

“I think I’ll retire,” he said, once the music had started. “Thank you again for your hospitality, Squire.”

The squire nodded. “Rest well, m’lord.”

Echevarian stayed to chat with their host, and in due course Sylva demanded a dance from him as well, though she behaved toward him much as she did toward her father. Echevarian was amused by this, and so, from the glint in his eyes, was Trent. Carcham danced with Mari. Echevarian stole a glance now and then at his Sword, but was unable to make out a marking on the hilt.

“That’s enough,” said Elian when the song ended. “We have a busy day tomorrow.” The little party broke up, but not before Sylva secured promises of more dances at the Yule feast.

Returning to their chamber, Echevarian and Trent found Paethor musing by the hearth, his gaze fixed on the remains of the fire. He looked up, startled out of his reverie, and reached for another log. New flames threw golden light on his face and glinted back from his dark eyes and hair. Echevarian pulled a stool forward and stretched his hands toward the warmth, while Trent began searching through the baggage.

“Now where-aha!” Trent held up his second wineskin with a grin. “Let’s drink the squire’s health again for good measure. It’s better wine, it ought to bring him better health.” He carried the skin to the fire and filled his horn.

Paethor leaned his chin on one hand and regarded him. “You’re never at a loss for something to celebrate, are you?” he murmured wistfully.

“We’ve got a roof over our heads and our bellies full of meat. I say that’s cause enough,” said Trent. He drank and passed the cup to Echevarian, who accepted it, smiling.

“Don’t forget the young ladies,” added Echevarian. “Looks like you’ll be reveling on Yule after all.”

“They’re a pretty set, for country girls,” said Trent. “That Sylva-”

“She’s trouble, that one,” said Echevarian, chuckling. “The sort who wants to be the queen bee.”

“Bah, she’s just a girl. She’ll melt if I drop a little honey in her ear.”

“Not she! You’ll need a bucketful, and she’ll ask for more. Besides, she’s set her sights on Paethor here,” said Echevarian, offering him the wine.

The look Paethor gave him was not appreciative, but he accepted the horn and took a sip, then passed it back to Trent. “If you’ll pardon me,” he said, “I think we have a more serious matter to discuss.”

Trent sighed. “Ravenskeep.” He swallowed the dregs and refilled the horn.

“Is that Farslayer he wears?” asked Paethor.

“I couldn’t get a look at the hilt,” said Echevarian.

“It has to be Farslayer,” said Trent. “Why else would Wayfinder have brought us here?”

Paethor shifted on his chair and glanced over his shoulder at the moonlit window.

“We could ask Wayfinder again,” said Echevarian.

“And walk up to Ravenskeep with a Sword of Power pointed at him?” said Trent. “He’ll like that!”

“One moment,” said Echevarian. He went softly to the door and opened it. The hall was empty, and after checking the window he returned to the fire. “We’d better be careful,” he said, lowering his voice. “If Ravenskeep guesses which Sword we have, he’ll know why we’re here.”

“What if he’s already guessed?” muttered Trent.

The lords looked at one another. “Perhaps it’s just as well we’re all in one room,” said Echevarian.

“There’s another problem,” said Paethor after a pause. “Assuming it is Farslayer, how do we get it away from him?”

“Challenge him?” suggested Trent.

“On what grounds?” said Echevarian. “He’s done nothing to offend. Besides, he could probably beat any one of us.”

“We have to do something,” said Trent. “If we wait too long, he may use the thing, and we’ll have lost our chance.”

“Unless he uses it on one of us,” said Paethor.

A look of horror crossed Trent’s face. Paethor straightened and slowly said, “If he uses Farslayer to kill one of us, then it’s the duty of the others to carry it back to Argonhall.”

“Yes,” said Echevarian after a moment. “You’re right.”

“Let’s swear it,” said Paethor. He unbuckled his belt and held Wayfinder between them by the sheath, placing a hand on its guard. The others grasped the hilt and pommel. “We swear by this Sword,” said Paethor, “which our liege-lord entrusted to us, that if Farslayer comes into the possession of any of us we shall not use it in vengeance, but shall carry it back to our King at Argonhall. So say I, Paethor of Mirador.”

“So say I, Echevarian of Verdas.”

“So say I,” whispered Trent, “Trenton Greyson.” For once, he looked as solemn as Paethor.

Midwinter’s Day dawned clear and bright. From first light the Lodge was bustling with preparations for the Yule feast. Folk from the valley streamed in with foodstuffs to pile in the kitchen and evergreen boughs for the Hall. A red-faced servant brought cold meat and a pitcher of ale to the lords’ room and hurried away again, begging them to shout if they wanted anything more. They ate a leisurely breakfast, and emerged to be met by their host, dressed for riding.

“Good morning, good morning,” called the squire cheerily. “A Glad Yule to you, my lords! Came to see if you’d like to ride out with me, get away from all this bother. I could show you the valley,” he offered.

The lords agreed, and soon they were mounted on sturdy beasts from the squire’s stables, their own weary steeds being left to rest. Shading their eyes from sun-glaring snow, the lords followed the squire northward along the road, which had already been trampled clear by the feet of valley-folk. Some of these turned to marvel at the noble visitors, bowing as they passed. The squire waved a cheery greeting back.

“Won’t Baron Carcham be joining us?” asked Echevarian, trotting beside the squire.

“He’s seen the valley. I showed it to him when he arrived a few days ago, and besides, he’s been here before.”

“He has?” said Trent.

The Squire gave him a shrewd look. “Aye, he has. But you would know that, wouldn’t you? Having come here to meet him.”

Echevarian threw a warning glance at Trent, then said “To be honest, Squire, we did not come to meet him.”

“Well, now, I didn’t think so, after the way he looked at you last night.”

“In fact, we are on an errand for the king, and found our way into your valley by chance,” continued Echevarian.

“Did you, now?” Squire Fuller reined in at the crest of a small hill. They had passed the last of the houses, and now the beasts were knee-deep in snow. “From here the road runs north to the river, then turns east toward Argonhall,” said the squire. “Up there’s a little shrine to Ardneh,” he added, pointing to a small structure on one of the valley’s slopes. “Elian likes to tend it. We haven’t got a priest.”

“It’s a pretty holding,” said Paethor, looking out over the valley.

“Aye,” nodded the squire. “And peaceful, too. Like to think it’ll stay that way,” he added.

“Have you any reason to doubt it?” asked Echevarian.

“Well, now, I wonder,” said the squire. “You gentlemen will understand, I think, if I say I’m not overfond of Baron Carcham. He came uninvited, and he’s not an Argonian. At first I thought he had just come to dally with my little Sylva, like he did when he passed through here last summer.” He laughed. “She’s a rare handful, my girl. Likes to make the menfolk crazy. She’s got half the valley lads green with envy since Carcham showed up.”

“Do you think she’s set her heart on a baroness’s coronet?” asked Trent.

“She’s too young to set her heart on anything. Not that I’d mind having a nobleman for a son-in-law,” he said thoughtfully. “My late wife was a lord’s daughter, so there’s good blood in my brood. She was a fine lady, she was.” He sighed and gazed down at his gloved hands resting on his saddlebow. “But I doubt any baron would take a squire’s daughter to wife. No, they’re both just amusing themselves,” he said. “I thought that was all there was to it, but now you’ve arrived,” he turned to Paethor, “and I can’t help noticing that fine Sword you wear that’s so much like his own.”

“Your eyes are sharp, Squire,” said Paethor. “Indeed, we have reason to believe they were forged in the same fire.”

“That wouldn’t be a magical fire, now, would it?”

The three lords were silent.

“Well, it’s none of my business, I suppose. Pay no heed to me, gentlemen,” said the squire. “We country-folk like to tell stories of magic. The old gods, and such. Never mind.”

“We don’t mean to be rude, sir,” said Paethor. “Our king has charged us with a private errand, and knowing it would not comfort you, I fear.”

The squire nodded. “Well, if it’s king’s business, I wish you good speed. My only hope is that no quarrel should disturb my little holding.”

“If there’s any quarrel it won’t be of our making,” Echevarian assured him.

The squire met his eyes with a perceptive gaze. “Can’t ask for more than that, can I?” he said.

They rode back down to the Lodge, the squire describing the valley and its people, and introducing a few whom they passed on their way. In the yard they dismounted, waiting for attendance. The squire let out a bellow and a lone stable-hand hurried up. “Beg pardon, m’lords,” he said, bobbing his head as he took the reins of the squire’s and Echevarian’s beasts. “I’ll be back in just a minute for the others. Dan’s been called to help in the kitchen.”

“I’ll lead these two for you,” said Trent, taking Paethor’s reins.

“Thank you, sir,” said the stable-hand.

“Come upstairs to my study when you’re done,” said the squire. “We’ll try the Midsummer’s mead, make sure it’s fit for tonight’s feast.”

Trent grinned. “I’ll be there in a flash.”

He led the beasts into a stall and was turning back toward the yard when he heard familiar voices from the depths of the stable. He walked quietly toward the sound and paused in the doorway of a tack room. One of the king’s yeomen sat on a wooden chest cleaning a saddle, and before him stood Baron Carcham, a golden coin gleaming between his fingers. Trent must have made some small noise, for Carcham looked up.

“Morning, Baron,” said Trent, smiling amiably as he leaned against the door frame. “Happy Yule.”

The baron turned to him, giving him a measuring glance as he tossed the coin idly in his hand. “Good morning,” he said.

“I hear there’s been trouble near Ravenskeep lately. I hope it won’t spoil the celebration for you,” said Trent.

Carcham scowled and his hand formed a fist as he caught the coin. “Mind your own business, boy, or there’ll be trouble for you!” He brushed past Trent and strode out of the stable.

“Good advice,” murmured Trent, watching him go. He looked back at the yeoman. “He could use it himself.”

The yeoman glanced up at him with a bland face. “Aye, sir.”

“What did he want from you?”

“Asked about that black-handled sword that Lord Paethor wears.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Told him I know nothing about it,” said the yeoman, rubbing vigorously at the leather.

“Did he say anything else?” asked Trent.

“Asked if I’d ever seen m’lord draw it. Told him I couldn’t recall.” The yeoman stopped punishing the saddle and looked up with a grin. “He seemed to think the sight of gold would jog my memory.”

“But it didn’t,” said Trent.

“King Nigel’s good to us. I wouldn’t give that prune-faced southerner the time of day, not for a year’s wages!”

“Good. If he comes around again, report to me at once. Tell your comrades.”

“Aye, sir,” said the yeoman.

Trent gave him a pat on the shoulder and hurried back to the Lodge. He took the stairs two at a stride and walked along the gallery to an open doorway. In a small, comfortably cluttered room the squire was standing over a servant who was putting a tap into a small cask. Paethor and Echevarian stood by the window.

The squire glanced up. “Hello, lad. Careful, there,” he warned the servant. “Don’t spill any!”

Trent joined his friends by the window. “Carcham’s been asking questions,” he murmured. “I found him in the stable with one of our yeomen.”

“What did he want?” asked Echevarian softly.

“Information about the Sword,” whispered Trent.

“Ah, there we are!” said the squire. He held up a glass of amber liquid to the window’s light. “Clear as summer rain! Come, try it, my lords.”

They gathered around the little hide-topped table and accepted glasses of mead. The squire raised his in salute. “To his Majesty’s health,” he said.

“To the king,” said Echevarian.

“The king,” echoed the others.

They drank, the honey wine slipping smoothly down their throats. “Good mead,” said Trent, regarding his empty glass with approval.

“But is it good enough?” said the squire, grinning. “I must serve only the best for the Yule feast.”

Trent’s eyes gleamed back at him. “Perhaps we’d better have another taste, to be sure.”

Paethor set his glass down.

“Won’t you have some more?” asked the squire.

“I’ll leave it to more experienced palates to judge,” said Paethor, smiling.

The squire shrugged and went back to business with the cask. Paethor wandered out onto the gallery and looked down. Great swags of evergreen were being hung in the Hall, and the rushes had been swept from the stone floor so that fresh could be laid down for the evening. A whole goat was roasting on a roaring fire at the hearth, with two sweating lads turning the spit. The fire’s heat rose to the gallery, and Paethor walked along to the south end where an open door led to a balcony. He stepped out and gazed at the snowbound valley, inhaling sharp, cool air. Tall pine trees nearby swayed in the breeze. At a sound Paethor turned to find Echevarian coming out to join him.

“Guarding my back?” said Paethor, smiling.

“And my sobriety,” grinned Echevarian.

“Do you suppose they’ll leave any for the feast?”

Echevarian laughed, then laid a hand on Paethor’s shoulder. “Let me wear the Sword tonight,” he said gently. “You could use a dance or two.”

Paethor’s smile dimmed. “You heard his Majesty. I’m not fond of festivals.” He leaned on the balcony railing and stared out at the snow.

“Even Yule?” asked Echevarian.

“Especially Yule.”

Echevarian studied Paethor, noting the frown that had reappeared on his handsome brow. “I wish I could lighten your burden, my friend,” he said softly.

Paethor shook his head.

“Let me wear the Sword.”

“No.”

“If any of us must die, it should be me,” reasoned Echevarian quietly. “I’ve lived long and happy. You’ve done neither.”

Paethor glanced sharply up at him. “No need to talk of dying,” he said. “We’ve promised not to quarrel.”

“Not to start a quarrel,” corrected Echevarian.

“You think Carcham might?”

“He might. He’s been asking about the Sword.”

Their gaze held for a moment. “Then so be it,” said Paethor. “It may be the only way to fulfill our errand.”

“I’m a better swordsman than you,” argued Echevarian. “Let him challenge me.”

“You said he could beat any of us,” countered Paethor.

“But-”

“If he throws the Sword, you and Trent can claim it in the king’s name. If he kills without throwing it, arrest him and take him to Argonhall. The squire will back you.”

“Are you so anxious to die?” asked Echevarian.

Paethor swallowed, looking away over the valley. “If I die for this my life won’t have been wasted,” he said softly.

“Wasted?”

Paethor glanced up at him, a bitter smile on his lips. The next moment, a flap of wings made him flinch away from the balcony, his face a mask of terror. Echevarian moved to his side in one quick stride and caught hold of him. “It’s nothing,” he said into Paethor’s ear. “Only an owl.”

Paethor looked up at the large, snow-white bird that had come to rest on the railing. “I d-don’t like owls,” he said.

The owl stared at them, blinking its eyes against the bright sunlight. “Car-cham?” it called.

The lords looked back at the creature. Echevarian could feel Paethor’s trembling.

“Car-cham?” repeated the bird, stepping closer along the railing and leaning forward to peer at Echevarian. Paethor shrank back, hiding his face against the older lord’s shoulder.

“No,” said Echevarian, the temptation to hear the bird’s message outweighed by Paethor’s panic.

The owl ruffled its feathers, then in a flurry of wings it departed.

“A messenger,” said Echevarian. “It’s gone now.”

Paethor drew a shaky breath and raised his head. Echevarian led him to the far end of the balcony and made him lean against the sun-warmed wall. “Tell me,” he said.

Paethor shook his head.

“Something or someone has hurt you,” said Echevarian.

“Only myself,” whispered Paethor.

“Tell me,” Echevarian insisted.

Paethor looked up at him with eyes blinded by memory, then slid down the wall to sit in the snow. Echevarian knelt beside him, watching him intently.

“Ten years ago-ten years tonight,” said Paethor, with a shiver, “I was just becoming a man, and I was proud. Too proud.” He glanced up at Echevarian. “You know how Sylva is? The prettiest girl around, and knows it?”

Echevarian nodded.

“That was me. Only I went farther than she.” He shifted and wrapped his arms around himself, though the sun beat down warmly. “In my father’s keep they choose the Lord of Yule at sunset. All the women get to vote. It was the first year I was old enough, and of course they chose me.” Paethor’s voice grew bitter. “It went to my head, and I boasted-” He winced, and his voice became a whisper. “I boasted no woman could resist my comeliness, not even a goddess. And a goddess heard.”

Echevarian frowned, puzzled, and leaned closer.

“I spent the evening surrounded by admiring women, dancing and carousing. I reveled in their attention-wallowed in it. Then someone called us outside to see the moon rise, and that’s when she appeared to me.”

Paethor paused to lick his lips. “She was the most glorious lady I’d ever seen, with light shining all around her. I thought it was Venus. She said she loved me and told me to follow her, and I did.”

“Followed her where?”

“Into the woods. She kept telling me how beautiful I was, how much she adored me. I don’t know how long we walked; hours, perhaps. Finally she stopped in a clearing. A beautiful clearing, full of moonlight. She said, ‘I must see if your beauty goes beyond your face. Take off your clothes.’ And I did.”

Paethor covered his face with his hands. “I was entranced. I said ‘Goddess of Love, teach me your art!’ And she answered, ‘I will teach you, but I am not Venus. I am Athena.’ Then she vanished in a roar of wind, and there were owls flying all around me, carrying away my clothes. They left me there alone, naked.”

Echevarian put a hand on his shoulder.

“I wandered around crying, calling to her to come back, not to leave me. Eventually my father’s men came searching. They said they found me curled up in a snowbank, half-frozen; I don’t remember it.” He looked up at Echevarian with a pitiful smile. “Ever since I’ve been afraid she would come back.”

“But she hasn’t,” said Echevarian.

“No,” said Paethor, “and I’ve been careful to give her no reason.”

“Paethor,” said Echevarian, taking him gently by the shoulders. “It’s past. She won’t come back.”

“Gods have long memories.”

“Let it go, man.”

“I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. I wish I could be-” he smiled, gesturing helplessly. “Carefree. Like Trent. But every time a woman smiles at me I can tell she’s admiring my face, and suddenly I see Athena.”

Echevarian put an arm around him, and Paethor let out one gasping sob. “So you see,” he said, “it doesn’t matter if I die. I only hope to die well.”

“Hush. No one need die,” said Echevarian. He hugged the younger lord, rocking him gently under the bright sunlight until he was calm again. Then Echevarian held Paethor at arm’s length and looked deep into his eyes.

“Let me at least take one burden from you. Give me the Sword.”

Paethor smiled wanly and shook his head. “The king gave it to me. I think some fate awaits me here,” he said. “Wayfinder wanted me to come here, even when it said Farslayer was in the south.” He stared into the distance for a moment, then gripped Echevarian’s hand. “But thank you,” he added. “I’ve never had a better friend.”

Echevarian returned the clasp, then helped Paethor up. With hearts far from merry the two lords returned to the Hall.

Trent whistled as he strode down the gallery. The mead had been pronounced fit to drink, although it had taken three or four glasses to be sure, enough to take the edges off the world and make it necessary for Trent to keep a hand on the banister as he ran down the stairs. He rounded the foot and went up two stone steps to knock on a door tucked beneath the stairwell.

“Come in,” called a feminine chorus.

Trent opened the door to a cozy chamber where a fire crackled on the hearth. Heavy curtains had been thrown back from tall windows to give the ladies of the house, seated around a table, light to work by. Elian and Mari were stitching golden trim to a half-cape of dark green, while Sylva fashioned a wreath out of sprigs of holly. They looked up at Trent, who smiled and swept them a bow. He knelt beside Elian’s chair and kissed her hand. “Fair lady,” he said, “your father sent me to tell you that the Midsummer mead is palatable.”

She smiled down at him in amusement. “Oh, I’m so relieved,” she said. “How much is left?”

“Plenty,” said Trent. “Shall I bring you some?”

“Thanks, I’ll wait till tonight.”

Trent shrugged, smiling, and wandered over to sit beside Sylva. “What are you making? A crown?”

“Yes, for the Holly King,” said Sylva with a sly glance at him.

“Who’s that?” asked Trent.

“The Holly King,” repeated Mari, opening her brown eyes wide. “Don’t you know?”

Trent shook his head, his face all innocent puzzlement.

“It’s one of our customs,” said Elian. “Every Yule the young girls all share a cake with a bean baked into it. Whoever finds the bean gets to choose the Holly King, and he presides over the Yule festival.”

“And he has to dance with all the girls, and be merry all night long,” added Sylva.

“Ah,” said Trent. “Sounds like hard work.”

“Not for you, my Lord.” Elian smiled.

Trent glanced up at her inquiringly.

“If King Nigel requires you to dance, you’ve had good training.”

Trent laughed. “True. Do you think I would make a good Holly King, Sylva?”

“I don’t know,” said Sylva. “Let’s see.” She placed the wreath on his head, dark green leaves glinting against his soft brown hair. “Not bad,” she said. “What do you think, Mari?”

“I think he’s perfect,” said Mari, then she blushed and looked down at her stitching.

Trent laughed again. “Thank you, kind lady,” he said, coming around the table to kiss her hand. “If you find the bean and choose me, I’ll dance with you all night long.”

Mari giggled and smiled at him shyly.

“You would be a fine Holly King,” said Elian, regarding him with her calm green eyes. “You can make anyone laugh, and you are always merry yourself.”

“Not like Lord Paethor,” said Sylva. “He never smiles.”

“Oh, he does,” said Trent. “You just have to be watching.

“Why is he so glum?” asked Sylva.

“Why? Well-it’s because he’s heartbroken, lady. All his life he has wished he had red hair.”

The girls laughed.

“No,” protested Trent. “It’s true. And now he comes and meets you, Sylva, with the prettiest, reddest hair in all the world.” Trent sat beside her again and picked up a strand of her hair, stroking it with his fingers. “Redder than sunset, and softer than a rabbit’s fur. No wonder he’s mad with grief.”

Sylva laughed again and punched his arm. “Be serious!”

“I am!”

“No, I mean tell me! Why is he so sad? What’s the truth?”

“Don’t pry, Sylva,” said Elian.

“The truth? The truth, dear lady, is that I don’t know. I’m not in his confidence.” Trent sighed. “He isn’t always this gloomy. At King Nigel’s court I’ve seen him dance through the night. The ladies there are all mad for him, but not one of them has ever touched his heart. Not that I know of, anyway.” He looked up and found the girls watching him, even Elian, whose needle lay forgotten in her lap. He broke into a foolish grin. “You shouldn’t listen to me, though,” he said. “I never tell a tale the same way twice.”

Sylva frowned, laughing, and took the wreath from his head.

“Have I displeased you?” said Trent in mock alarm. He knelt beside her chair. “Tell me how to make amends. I want to be worthy of the holly crown!”

“Help me finish it, then,” said Sylva. “Hand me that ribbon.”

“I hear and obey,” said Trent, jumping to his feet and snatching up a ribbon from the table, then presenting it to Sylva with an exaggerated bow. She laughed and took it from him.

“Now a piece of holly,” she demanded, enjoying the game.

Trent scooped up a sprig and yelped as a thorn pricked his thumb. He squeezed it and a bright red drop appeared.

“You’re supposed to take the thorns off first!” said Sylva.

“Are you all right, my Lord?” asked Elian.

Trent smiled sheepishly, sucking at the wound. “Fine,” he said. “It’s nothing but my own carelessness. My own stupid folly, for playing with holly-”

Sylva giggled, taking the sprig from him and snipping off the thorns with a little pair of scissors.

“Folly, lolly, lolly-” sang Trent, picking up two more sprigs by their stems and making them dance on the tabletop.

The girls laughed, and Trent kept them laughing until they’d finished their regalia. Then Sylva made him try it on, and he struck a royal pose, the cape lightly draping his shoulders, holly forming a halo around his head.

“I hereby decree that mistletoe shall hang in every doorway, and anyone who doesn’t smile shall be sent to the kitchens to wash the dishes,” he pronounced.

“Paethor, be warned!” said Elian, taking back the cape. “Come, Sylva. It’s late, and we still have your dress to trim.”

Sylva reached for the crown and Trent gave it to her, lifting her hand to his lips. She smiled coyly at him, picked up a leftover sprig of holly and stood on tiptoe to tuck it behind his ear. Then she and Mari tossed all their odds and ends into a large basket and ran to the door where Elian waited. “Thank you for your help, my Lord,” she said. “We’ll see you this evening.”

Trent bowed and watched them go, then grinned to himself and made his way back to his chamber. When he opened the door he surprised Echevarian and Paethor, standing with swords drawn in a space cleared in the middle of the floor.

“Come in, close the door,” said Echevarian, beckoning.

Trent did so and leaned against it. “Funny place to practice sword-play,” he said. “Funny time for it, too.”

“Echevarian was just showing me a thrust,” said Paethor. He hefted Wayfinder and swung it back and forth a couple of times to feel its weight, then made a feinting thrust toward Echevarian, who parried and nodded.

“Expecting trouble?” asked Trent.

“No,” said Echevarian. “Just being prepared.”

Paethor sheathed the Sword, walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.

“Well, that’s not what you need to prepare,” said Trent. “For tonight you need to brush up your dancing and your wit.”

“I take it that’s what you’ve been doing,” said Echevarian.

“I,” said Trent, strolling to his baggage and poking through it, “have been entertaining the young ladies. One of them will choose the Lord of Misrule-only here it’s the Holly King. I did my best to charm them. Have to, considering the competition!” He shot a grinning glance at Paethor but got no response, Paethor being absorbed in stirring the ashes on the hearth with his toe. Trent shrugged, found his drinking horn and reached for his wineskin.

“Wasn’t the mead good enough?” asked Echevarian.

“Yes, but I’m almost sober again,” said Trent, filling his horn.

“Sober might not be a bad idea.”

Trent glanced up. “You are expecting trouble,” he said, looking from Echevarian to Paethor. “What’s happened?”

The others exchanged a glance, then Paethor said, “We saw a-a messenger.”

“A talking owl,” added Echevarian. “It mistook me for Carcham.”

“What did it say?” asked Trent.

“I didn’t hear the message. It flew away.”

“News from the south,” said Trent. “Damn! I wish you’d heard it.”

“So we’d better be on guard tonight,” said Echevarian, taking up the wineskin. “Let’s give this to the squire. A Yule gift.”

“That’s all we have left,” protested Trent. “That’s our luck for the way home!”

“Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘Share your luck and double it’?” said Echevarian.

Trent sighed. “All right,” he said, lifting his horn. “Here’s good fortune to us.” He sipped and handed the horn to Echevarian, who took a swallow. Trent carried the wine to Paethor. “Some luck for you?” he offered.

Paethor’s face softened into a wistful smile. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the cup. “I suppose I need all I can get.”

Shadows lengthened as the shortest day of the year came to a close. Inside the Lodge torches were lit, fire blazed on the great hearth, and fresh candles glowed in all the sconces. Tables laden with food lined the east wall of the Hall, and valley-folk, all in their holiday best, thronged in. The three lords, dressed again in court clothes and each wearing his weapon, entered the Hall to find it already crowded. A trio of musicians sat in the south gallery, blaring away. In the little room under the stairs a group of young men were playing spinnikens, their occasional roar attesting to another victory. The squire bustled up, saying “Welcome, my lords, welcome! Merry Yule!”

“Merry Yule, Squire Fuller,” said Echevarian, bowing. “Here’s a small gift from the three of us.” He handed the wineskin to the squire.

“It’s wine from the King’s cellars,” added Trent. “His Majesty’s best.”

“Ho! Well, I’ll put it away, or it’ll be gone before I get a taste of it. Thank you, m’lords! Help yourselves to supper-no sitting down at table, I’m afraid, in this crowd.” He waved them toward the food, and hurried away with the wineskin under his arm.

The lords took up plates and piled them with good, hearty fare. The valley-folk had brought out their best treasures, and besides the huge mounds of bread, meat, and cheese there were dishes of pickled vegetables, candied fruits, and even a steaming bowl of carrots that had been dug from the frozen ground that morning. The lords carried their supper to chairs along the south wall and sat watching the revelers. Baron Carcham came out of the gaming-room carrying a bulging pouch. He tossed it in one hand and the heavy chink of coins was heard. Carcham’s tunic was scarlet and black, and he wore a wolf-pelt over his shoulders and heavy bronze bracelets at his wrists. He paused before Paethor’s chair, a slow, unpleasant smile sliding onto his face as he glanced at Wayfinder.

“Good evening, your Excellency,” said Paethor.

Carcham nodded, tucking the pouch into his belt, but his answer was stopped by a cheer that went up as the squire returned with his ladies. Sylva danced in on his arm, wearing a gown of deep burgundy trimmed across the shoulders with soft, white fur. A spray of holly berries was pinned to the trim, blood-red drops against the snowy white; winter colors. Her eyes were alight with festival fire, and the laughter on her lips enhanced her loveliness.

Mari, escorted by her cousin Damon, looked festive as well, chestnut curls glowing against her gold satin dress. Elian followed them, her fair tresses forming a pale waterfall over blue velvet. The squire, bellowing greetings, led them forward to meet the valley people. Carcham strode up to them, the crowd parting before him, and bowed over Sylva’s hand. She beamed and curtsied, and let him lead her to the feast-table. The squire clapped his hands, the musicians blew a fanfare, and the chattering fell to a murmur.

“Welcome, good friends,” shouted the squire. “I wish you all a Happy Yule!” He waited for the answering cheer to subside. “There’s food and drink for all, and dancing afterward-” Here another cheer stopped him and he waved his hands for quiet. “But first, the Yule Cake!” A roar went up from the crowd as a servant brought out a great round platter on which lay a golden cake. All the young girls came forward to take some. Baron Carcham led Sylva up to the platter, holding her right hand close to his side as she chose a piece. There was a moment’s hush as the young girls, colorful as a flock of summer birds, gobbled their cake eagerly. Then a cry went up and Sylva skipped into the center of the room, holding one hand aloft and still chewing, her eyes gleeful. “The bean, the bean!” yelled the crowd, applauding.

“Come on,” said Trent, urging his companions to set aside their empty plates. A circle was forming around Sylva, this time of young men.

“You go,” said Echevarian. “We’ll watch.”

“No,” said Trent, grabbing him and Paethor by the hands, “I need you to remind them we’re glorious lords from Argonhall!” He dragged them forward to the circle. Echevarian and Paethor stood behind him, wedged between eager young valley men. Sylva had traded her lucky bean for the holly-wreath and cape, and prowled the edge of the circle, laughing as the valley youths all begged her to choose them. Hushed whispers and stifled mirth formed a background to the steady drum beat provided by the minstrels. Sylva slowed her steps, pausing to smile slyly up at Baron Carcham, then skipping away from him to the laughter of the crowd. She made her way around the circle and stopped before Trent, who grinned down at her. She glanced coyly at him through her eyelashes, and slowly raised the holly crown. Then she turned quick as lightning, and reached over his shoulder to set the wreath on Paethor’s brow. Hoots and cheers rose from the revelers, some of whom grabbed the cape and threw it around Paethor’s shoulders.

“Now you have to dance with me!” cried Sylva.

Paethor stared at her in dismay, his face going pale beneath the holly, then he glanced up to see Carcham scowling across the circle. He pulled himself together, managing to smile, and offered Sylva his arm. “Very well, lady,” he said. “Let the dancing begin!” The crowd applauded as more couples joined them and the musicians struck up a lively tune.

Echevarian turned to the crestfallen Trent. “Hard luck,” he said, “but there are plenty of ladies to dance with.”

“I think I’ll cultivate a melancholy air instead,” said Trent. “It worked for Paethor.”

“Console yourself,” said Echevarian. “He likes it less than you do.”

They stepped back to make room for the dancers. Trent watched with folded arms, but soon his feet were tapping to the music, and before long he spotted Mari standing shyly in a corner.

“She looks lonely,” he said to Echevarian. “I’d better go ask her to dance. Just to be polite,” he added.

Echevarian grinned at him, and Trent shrugged, smiling crookedly back. Then he went to lead Mari into the dance.

The revelry continued, Paethor dutifully dancing with all the young valley girls. Echevarian kept an eye on Carcham, who leaned against the wall and glowered, his gaze following Paethor. Midway through the evening the minstrels took a break, and the revelers milled about the Hall, nibbling sweets and cheeses from the board and drinking the Midsummer mead. The valley folk crowded around Paethor, who had recovered enough to assume his court manners, scattering smiles among them and cutting a joke now and then. Sylva claimed his attention again, flirting furiously. Carcham, disgusted, marched back to the gaming room.

A small commotion attended the entrance of two servants bearing a holly-trimmed platter on which stood a huge bread pudding. Blue alcohol flames danced over it. Sylva and the others clapped their hands. Paethor took advantage of the diversion, slipping away to climb the stairs to the gallery. Here he found Elian watching the revelers below. She turned to see him framed in the stairwell, golden torchlight gleaming on the holly leaves at his brow.

“Forgive me, lady,” he said, pausing on the top step. “I came up for some air. Shall I leave you?”

“No, no,” she said. “Breathe while you can!”

Paethor smiled fleetingly. “Thank you.”

“It’s you who should be thanked, for being so patient,” said Elian.

“Patient?”

“With Sylva. For making you the Holly King.”

Paethor hesitated, then said, “I understand it’s a great honor.”

Elian smiled softly. “For the valley-folk, yes. For you I imagine it’s more of a trial.” Then she glanced anxiously up at his startled face. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You weren’t,” said Paethor. “But what did you mean? Have I seemed reluctant?”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re very gracious.” She flashed him a smile, and said, “Please pardon me. The mead must have made me giddy.”

Elian picked up a cloak from a gallery bench and opened the door to the balcony. Paethor frowned, then followed her outside. She stood at the railing, her cloak wrapped around her, gazing up at the full moon. Wisps of gray cloud drifted softly, blue-white stars peeking out between them and moonlight setting cold fire to their edges. Elian turned as Paethor came up beside her.

“I do appreciate the honor,” he said.

Elian met his gaze calmly. “But you don’t enjoy it. You’re a private person,” she said. “You keep your thoughts to yourself, and you don’t like being the center of attention.” She looked out at the valley. “When you first came here I thought you were in mourning, but I see now it isn’t so. Or if it is, the grief is old.”

Paethor inhaled sharply, surprised at the accuracy of her insight.

“Anyway,” she continued, “your courtesy does you great credit. I’m sure none of the valley people know how hard this is for you.” She glanced up at Paethor, whose eyes seemed to stare through her, out at the trees. The holly berries in his hair shone black in the moonlight and the gay cloak fluttered about him, too light to keep away the cold.

“This is not your rightful role,” said Elian softly, reaching up to take the holly from his brow. “For you this is a crown of thorns.”

He blinked, but his eyes wandered away again, back into distant memory.

“My Lord,” said Elian, “I pray that you will find a way to release whatever past disturbs you. It’s Yule, the time of new beginnings.” She paused, afraid she’d said too much, and stepped away from him to look at the moon.

“Stay,” he cried softly, and Elian turned, surprised by the grief in his voice. She saw torment in the black depths of his eyes, and sensed he spoke not to her but to some bygone ghost. “Lady of Wisdom, you’ve taken my clothes,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me!”

“I’ve taken nothing,” she said uneasily, holding out the holly crown. His hands came up to receive it, and as they touched he stirred, and looked into her eyes as if seeing her for the first time. Elian returned his wondering gaze, a slow blush darkening her cheeks.

“It was you,” he whispered. “I thought I came to find my death, but it was you!”

Elian blinked in confusion. She wasn’t frightened, but something in his eyes made her heart beat quickly.

“Forgive me,” said Paethor, with a soft laugh. “You must think I’m insane.”

“No-” said Elian uncertainly.

Paethor gazed at her for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. His hand went to the sheath at his side and lifted the black Sword-hilt. “This is Wayfinder,” he said. “Have you heard of it?”

Elian nodded. “The Sword of Wisdom,” she said.

“Wisdom,” said Paethor, his eyes wandering to the trees again. “Yes. And it led me to you.”

“I don’t understand,” said Elian. “Why?”

Paethor’s fingers caressed her hand. “Because you can see beyond my face, I think,” he said softly. “I wish…” Then he shook his head and looked back at her, a strange mix of hunger and fear in his eyes. “King Nigel sent us to find another Sword. That’s why he loaned us Wayfinder, and that task also led us here.”

“Baron Carcham?” whispered Elian.

“We think so. Have you ever seen him draw that Sword, or seen a marking on its hilt?”

Elian shook her head. “He keeps it close.” She laid a hand on his arm. “What Sword did the king send you for?”

Paethor met her anxious gaze. “Farslayer,” he answered softly. “Don’t be afraid,” he added. “We’ll get it away from him.”

“How?” asked Elian.

“That’s the trouble. If we try to take it from him, he’ll throw it for certain. Our only hope…”

“Is for him to challenge you,” whispered Elian. Her gaze drifted to Wayfinder’s hilt. “Does he know which Sword you have?”

Paethor shook his head. “If he knew, he wouldn’t hesitate. Wayfinder’s no threat to him.”

“Maybe I can help,” murmured Elian. “I could tell Sylva I saw the arrow on your Sword. She loves to spread secrets. And from what I’ve seen of the baron, he’d be happy to collect another Sword of Power.” She looked up at him, her face grave. “Can you defeat him?”

Paethor took both her hands in his and held them tightly. “I’ll have to, won’t I?” he said, searching her eyes. “You’re willing to do this?”

“If it will help,” whispered Elian.

“It will help,” he said. They gazed at each other for a moment, then Paethor bent his head and kissed her hesitantly.

A commotion from the gallery made them step apart; the musicians were returning to their places. A deeper blush sprang to Elian’s face.

“You’d better go in,” said Paethor, “before the dancing starts again. I’ll follow you in a couple of minutes.”

“Your crown,” said Elian, bending to pick up the forgotten holly wreath. She started to brush the snow from it but Paethor took it out of her hands.

“Let me do that,” he said. “I don’t want you to be hurt.” He shook the snow from the leaves and put on the wreath with a wistful smile. Elian smiled bravely back and Paethor squeezed her hand. “No matter what happens,” he said softly, “I thank you. You’ve set me free.”

Elian stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his cheek, then with a final fleeting smile she hurried inside. Paethor looked up at the moon, riding clear above the pines. A gray shape perched in one of the treetops, and as he watched it spread wings and took flight, its haunting call echoing back; the white owl. He watched it circle and come to rest on a nearer tree. He felt no more fear of it; perhaps because of the more immediate threat of Baron Carcham. The bird gazed at him silently.

“Give your mistress my thanks for the lesson,” he whispered, then turned to go inside.

He hurried past the musicians, who were tuning up their instruments, and ran down the stairs to the Hall. The crowd had thinned, many of the valley-folk having stepped outside to get away from the heat of the room. The squire and his family were by the hearth chatting over goblets of mead, and as Paethor entered the Hall he saw Carcham bending his head to Sylva, who whispered into his ear. Paethor glanced at Elian, standing with her father, and she nodded softly. He took a deep breath, then strode purposefully toward them.

As he approached Carcham stepped forward. “Stand back, King of Fools,” he said, sneering.

“There’s room for all,” said Paethor calmly.

In one swift motion Carcham whipped his Sword from its sheath and flicked the holly from Paethor’s head. “You’ve had your share of Sylva’s charms,” he said.

Paethor stood his ground. “I have no quarrel with you, sir,” he said with a glance at the squire. “You are welcome to Sylva’s charms-”

“No stomach for a fight, eh?” said Carcham. “I’ve heard that King Nigel’s subjects are cowards.”

Paethor’s brows snapped into a frown, but he kept silent. From the corner of his eye he saw Echevarian stepping into place behind Carcham, and Trent hurrying up from the side.

“Come, come, Carcham,” said the squire. “Put your Sword away. This is no time for brawling-”

“Stay out of this, old man, if you want to keep your pretty little valley,” said Carcham.

“Squire Fuller is an Argonian subject and under King Nigel’s protection,” said Paethor.

“Protect him, then,” said Carcham, stepping forward and leveling his Sword’s point at Paethor’s throat. “Come on, King of Fools,” he said, with a nod toward Paethor’s Sword. He beckoned with his free hand. “Winner take all.”

Paethor met his gaze coldly, nodding his understanding, then tore the cape from his throat and threw it away behind him as he drew Wayfinder. Someone screamed; the crowd backed away. The squire started toward them, crying “My Lords!” Elian and her brother caught him by the arms, holding him back from the deadly blades, and Elian spoke into his ear.

Paethor and Carcham circled, the points of their Swords ringing softly as they tested their reach, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Carcham took the initiative and swung, Paethor moving swiftly to parry, and more screams went up from the crowd.

Carcham was stronger, but Paethor had speed and agility on his side. He stayed on the defensive, waiting for Carcham to drop his guard. He caught a glimpse of Elian standing against the wall with her father, then narrowed his focus to the Sword in Carcham’s hand. Carcham swung his arm upward and for a heart-stopping moment Paethor thought he would throw the Sword, but he kept hold of it, bringing it crashing down toward Paethor’s head. Paethor barely managed to parry the blow and skip back out of harm’s way. He thought he saw an opening and stabbed, but his blade glanced off Carcham’s metal bracelet and he felt a sharp bite on his left shoulder. He spun aside, avoiding the worst of the cut, but felt blood trickling down his arm. Carcham smirked, and pressed him harder.

Paethor knew his strength would fade quickly now. He held the Sword in both hands, and when he saw another opening he lunged forward, faithfully repeating the thrust Echevarian had taught him. But chance brought Carcham’s blade between them on a backswing, and Paethor was flung back, losing his balance and falling heavily, wrenching his ankle in the process. Pain blinded him; he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. Instinct commanded him to rise or be slain, then he heard Elian’s voice calling “Stop!”

Paethor raised his head to see Elian stepping between him and Carcham, who wore a gloating smile. His throat tightened to see her within reach of the deadly Sword, and he uttered a strangled “No!”

“You’ve won,” said Elian to Carcham. “Let that be enough. Don’t mar this night with more bloodshed.”

Carcham’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at her, the smile growing into a sneer. He rested the point of his Sword on the ground and draped his hands over the hilt. “If I’ve won,” he drawled, “then I have prizes to claim. Are you one of them?”

Elian ignored this, saying “You were fighting for this Sword, were you not?” She turned away from Carcham to kneel beside Paethor, looking into his eyes as she reached for Wayfinder’s hilt. Her hands squeezed his gently and she whispered, “Trust me.” Paethor gazed back at her and for an instant he saw her as Athena, light shining glory all around her head. Catching his breath, he released the Sword and let her take it by the hilt.

“The Sword of Wisdom? Yes, I’ll claim it,” said Carcham triumphantly.

Elian turned toward him, preparing to stand. “Take it then,” she said, and as she rose she flung Wayfinder hilt-first toward Carcham. His hands shot up automatically to catch it, his own Sword clattering away across the floor and his face falling in horror even as he caught Wayfinder. Elian dove for the fallen Sword, Trent and Carcham doing the same, but before anyone reached it a flash of spectral light and an inhuman howl filled the Hall. Human cries answered, the revelers cringing away from the noise. The sound issued from a third Sword, which had appeared in midair, flying toward Carcham with deadly speed. He tried a desperate parry and then it was over; Carcham lay silent, eyes slowly glazing, the Sword of Vengeance embedded in his chest and his fingers curling away from Wayfinder’s hilt.

Paethor struggled to his feet and took a step toward the dead man, but Echevarian was there ahead of him. The elder lord brushed his fingers over the white target pattern on the hilt that stood nearly erect, still thrumming with the force of impact.

“Farslayer,” he murmured, then clasped the hilt with both hands: “I claim this Sword in the name of King Nigel,” and he wrenched it from Carcham’s body.

“So that’s what you were after,” said the squire, coming forward. “Well, you’re welcome to it. Take it out of my valley.”

“We will,” said Echevarian, “and the king will see that it doesn’t return.”

“If that’s Farslayer, which is this?” asked Trent. He stooped to pick up the baron’s Sword and examine the hilt. “Coinspinner!” he said, displaying the small white pattern of dice.

“He must have been counting on its luck to protect him,” said Echevarian. “Keep his enemies from choosing him as a target.”

“It worked, apparently,” said Trent.

“Until he let it go.” Echevarian wiped Farslayer clean on Carcham’s tunic and pulled Coinspinner’s scabbard from the dead man’s belt, handing it to Trent. “You see?” he said. “Your luck came back to you.”

“Doubled,” said Trent, gazing in wonder at the Sword of Chance.

Paethor limped forward and looked down at Carcham. “Which of his enemies threw it?”

“Does it matter?” said Echevarian. “He must have had dozens.”

Paethor bent down to retrieve Wayfinder, swaying dizzily as he straightened, then Elian was at his side. She put an arm around him and helped him to a chair by the hearth. Paethor clasped her hand tightly. “You took a great risk, coming between us,” he said.

Elian smiled softly. “No greater than yours,” she said. She urged him to sit, and called for water and bandages. Through a fire-gilt haze Paethor watched her calmly tend his wounded shoulder. A hand entered his sight holding a cup of wine, and Paethor looked up to see the squire, with Trent and Echevarian close behind and Sylva clinging to Trent’s arm.

“Well fought,” said the squire with a grim smile. Paethor accepted the cup, smiling weakly back. His ankle was throbbing, and his head had begun to ache. He sipped at the wine.

“Winner take all, eh?” said the squire, glancing at Sylva. “Don’t suppose that means you’ll have my daughter?” he joked.

Paethor gazed at him, a slow smile spreading over his face, and turned to look up at Elian.

“If she’ll have me,” he said to her.

Elian colored, and said, “We’ll discuss it when you’re better,” but he read her answer in her gentle eyes. He leaned back, letting the wine dull his senses, and felt his past glide away from him on silent owl’s wings.