Glad Yule

by 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
ofArgonia 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 Sahara. 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. Pae-thor 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 comers, 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  other
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 nickering  across
his face. "Guess I'll have some of that wine now," he added.

Trent refilled  the horn  and passed  it to  Paethor, watching  Ilim 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 Far-slayer?" 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 snow-drift 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 Way-finder'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  copper-haired 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 Ravens-keep?" 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 Ravens-keep."

"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 Mira-dor."

"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 Pae-thor.  "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. "Way-finder 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, Man?"

"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 after-ward-" 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 thte  music, and before long  he spotted Mari
standing shyly in a comer.

"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 r^ ^h  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. "K-ing 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 other 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 comer 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, o7d man, if you want to keep your pretty little valley," said
CarciAm.

"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.