Glad Yule, a fantasy novella with strong romantic elements, first appeared in the anthology An Armory of Swords, edited by Fred Saberhagen and set in his Swords of Power universe.

Fred was a kind and gentle human being and is greatly missed. His invitation to write a Swords story meant a great deal to me. With the holidays coming around, I'm inclined to curl up by the fire with a cup of mead and drink to Fred's memory.

(part 1)

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

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

The young man looked up. "Come in," he answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gladly, Sire," said Paethor.

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

"Correct, Majesty."

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

"Your Majesty is very observant," replied Lord Paethor, bowing.

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

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

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

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

"It's also rumored that Farslayer has been busy down there."

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

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

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

"I wish you to retrieve it."

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

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

"Or across them," murmured another.

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

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

"Where is Farslayer?" said the king, and the Sword of Wisdom turned in his hand. The lords hastened to get out of the way of the unearthly-keen blade, which swung around southward, then quivered as though it would like to leap forward.

"South and a little east," observed the king . "Ravenskeep, or Sun Mountain. A few days should get you there." He sheathed Wayfinder and held it out to Paethor. "Take this along to guide you."

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

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

That drew the first real smile from the young lord. "I won't, Sire."

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

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

"Thank you, Echevarian," said the king. "Who else?"

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

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

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

Trent's smile widened. "Can I help it if I'm more charming than the rest of you?"

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

"Are you sure you're feeling well, Trent?" asked a lord in mock concern.

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

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

Trent grinned. "Maybe."

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

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

"Me too," said Trent.

Echevarian nodded. "I'll send word to my steward tonight."

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

"Well," said Lord Trent. "We'd better have another cup to give us strength."

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

"If Your Majesty will excuse me," he said quietly, "I'll retire and prepare for the journey."

The king nodded. "Come back safe," he said softly.

Paethor bowed and left, carrying Wayfinder back to his silent chamber. Once there he drew the Sword again to examine it more closely.

The blade was perfectly balanced and deadly sharp, whispering as it left the sheath. There was little light in the room, the fire having burned down to embers, so Paethor carried the Sword to his seat in the window and peered at it in the moonlight, which lent a bluish cast to the polished steel. Whorls in the blade gave an illusion of depth that was almost dizzying, like swirling clouds of snow in the black of night. Paethor let the point come to rest at his feet, his eyes drawn back to the courtyard. No one stirred there now, but a few dry leaves danced in the 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 swordbelt 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 Echevanan, patting Trent's bulging wineskins.

"We may need it. Besides, it's very good wine. I have an understanding with the royal vintner."

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

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

Crystal-clear air intensified the beauty of the lands around Argonhall, King Nigel's keep. The heavens were vibrant azure, echoed by the deeper blue of the Sandres Mountains, which had fresh snowdrifts blazing all along their crags. Their foothills were dotted with the bushy evergreens of the steppes; red soil already showed in patches through melting snow. Away to the west more mountains rode the horizon, but Paethor and his companions followed the highway southward, with the Sandres on their left.

The bright sunlight cheered them, and soon they were stripping off heavy cloaks. They passed several villages but stopped only briefly to water their mounts, being anxious to make good time. The road narrowed, and the villages gave way to occasional farms and then empty plains. As they descended into a shallow ravine Trent raised his voice in a drinking song, his fine, clear tenor ringing back from the rock walls. Echevarian added a deep bass harmony, and Paethor joined in on the choruses.

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

"Cup of cheer?" offered Trent.

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

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

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

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

"Enough," broke in Paethor.

Trent looked at him inquiringly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do they have that custom in your father's keep?" asked Trent.

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

"Ever been Lord of Misrule?" pursued Trent.

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

Footsteps sounded behind them; Echevarian, carrying a platter piled with dried meat, cheese and bread. He handed it to Trent and sat down, rubbing his hands together over the fire.

At the sight of the food Trent broke into a grin. "Why thanks, Echevarian, " he said, picking up a hunk of cheese. "What are you and Paethor going to cat?"

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

The youth nodded vigorously.

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

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

"Have you food enough'?"

"Yes. We're not beggars," said the youth defiantly.

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

"I'm afraid we can't escort you," said Echevarian. "We're on urgent business."

"We'll find it, my Lord. Thank you."

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

"Check now," he said.

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

Trent sighed, and Echevarian nodded curtly. Paethor sheathed the Sword and they started forward again, urging their tired mounts to cover the dusty miles, and only stopped to make camp when failing light made the road dangerous.

The lee of a small cliff near the river offered meager shelter from the wind. As the party rode up to it a flurry of wings burst from a twisted tree by the rock wall; an owl, shrieking its anger at being disturbed. Paethor cried out and his mount reared. He tumbled from the saddle, cowering wild-eyed between his beast and Trent's, then a moment later he swore and jerked at the animal's reins, leading it up to the cliff.

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

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

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

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

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

"All right, Paethor," said Echevarian. "Let's have it. Where's the blasted thing tonight?"

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

"This isn't getting us anywhere!" said Trent.

Paethor grabbed Echevarian's hand, pressing the hilt into it. "You do it," he said.

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

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

"That's the Highmass," said Trent. "There's nothing up there, is there?"

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

"So we turn back? What if it's gone again by the time we get there?" complained Trent.

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

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

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

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

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

The Sword led them up a narrow valley through which ran a clear, ice-cold stream. The first of Trent's wineskins surrendered its last drop and was refilled with frosty water. Snow lay in deep drifts along the valley, and the short winter days were curtailed even more by the mountains blocking the sun.

Trent killed a hare with a well-slung stone, but even the fresh meat was of little help to lift chilled spirits. On the third morning after they entered the valley, it began to snow.

"Do we turn back?" asked Trent.

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

They struggled on, hampered by wet, heavy snow. One of the load-beasts blundered into a crevice hidden by a snowdrift and had to be pulled out; unhurt, luckily. The valley narrowed further and the party found themselves climbing toward a notch between two crests, barely visible through a gray wall of falling snow.

Breathing was harder now, and they had to dismount and lead their animals up the treacherous slope, the yeomen using poles cut from trees to probe the way. The sky darkened as they neared the top, though whether from night falling or the storm thickening it was hard to tell. There was no place for a camp, so the weary group trudged ahead. Finally they entered the notch, which was level though deep in snow. Here only a few flakes were falling.

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

"It's still light," said Echevarian. "Let's take a look at what's ahead."

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

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

"Still want to camp up here?" asked Echevarian.

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

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

"Whose hold is that?" asked Trent.

Echevanian 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 glided 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, eying the mattresses being carried in.

"Come back to the Hall when you're ready," said the squire. "We'll hold supper for you."

"No need to do that," said Paethor.

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

"Thank you, Squire," Echevarian called after him. "We won't be long."

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

"Ravenskeep," hissed Trent. "What's he doing here?"

"Staying out of trouble, maybe," said Echevarian. "His barony's caught in the skirmishes."

"Then why isn't he there to defend it?" said Paethor.

No one answered.

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

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

"Would you rather I carried it?" offered Echevarian.

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

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

"Gentlemen, welcome," said the squire, coming forward. "You honor my humble Lodge. Allow me to present my household. This is my daughter Sylva," he said as the copper haired girl curtsied and threw a saucy glance at Paethor. "Her cousin, Marl," 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 Swordhilt, and Paethor's hand came unconsciously to rest on Wayfinder.

Introductions were repeated, then the squire, perhaps sensing tension in the air, urged everyone to sit down to supper. He placed Baron Carcham at his right hand and Don Echevarian on his left, as befitted their rank. Paethor and Trent were seated on either side of Elian, who acted as hostess for her father. Sylva sat beside Trent and made eyes at both Paethor and Carcham across the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sylva pouted. "But I want to dance!"

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

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

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

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

"Yes, and many other pleasures," said the baron, smiling.

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

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

"Oh, Elian can play on the lute," said Sylva.

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

"She doesn't mind," said Sylva, with the confidence of self-centered youth.

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

"Yes," said Elian. "I like to play."

"But you don't like to dance?" asked Paethor.

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

"Well," said young Damon, "I'd rather dance to Elian's playing than to Sylva's."

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you," said Echevarian, raising his cup. "We accept."

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

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

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

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

"Isn't she a bit young?" asked Echevarian.

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

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

Sylva stamped her foot. "But you have to!"

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

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

The squire nodded. "Rest well, m'lord."

Echevarian stayed to chat with their host, and in due course Sylva demanded a dance from him as well, though she behaved toward him much as she did toward her father. Echevarian was amused by this, and so, from the glint in his eyes, was Trent.

Carcham danced with Mari. Echevarian stole a glance now and then at his Sword, but was unable to make out a marking on the hilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They're a pretty set, for country girls," said Trent. "That Sylva—"

"She's trouble, that one," said Echevarian, chuckling. "The sort who wants to be the queen bee."

"Bah, she's just a girl. She'll melt if I drop a little honey in her ear."

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

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

Trent sighed. "Ravenskeep." He swallowed the dregs and refilled the horn.

"Is that Farslayer he wears?" asked Paethor.

"I couldn't get a look at the hilt," said Echevarian.

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

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

"We could ask Wayfinder again," said Echevarian.

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

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

"What if he's already guessed?" muttered Trent.

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

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

"Challenge him?" suggested Trent.

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

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

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

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

"Yes," said Echevarian after a moment. "You're right."

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

"So say I, Echevarian of Verdas."

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

==END OF PART 1==

Part 2

"Glad Yule" Copyright © 1995, 2008 by Pati Nagle. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author. Exceptions are made for downloading this file to a computer for personal use.