In Part 1 : 

On the eve of Yule, Paethor and his friends find welcome in the hall of a country squire.  When they meet a fellow guest, Baron Carcham, they see that he carries a Sword of Power.  Is it the one they seek?  And if so, how will they get it away from him?

(part 2)

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 room that Paethor, Echavarian, and Trent shared, and hurried away again, begging them to shout if they wanted anything more. They ate a leisurely breakfast, and emerged to be met by their host, dressed for riding.

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

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

"Won't Baron Carcham be joining us?" asked Echevarian, trotting beside the squire.

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

"He has?" said Trent.

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

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

"Well, now, I didn't think so, after the way he looked at you last night."

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

"Did you, now?"

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

"It's a pretty holding," said Paethor, looking out over the valley.

"Aye," nodded the squire. "And peaceful, too. Like to think it'll stay that way," he added.

"Have you any reason to doubt it?" asked Echevarian.

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

"Do you think she's set her heart on a baroness's coronet?" asked Trent.

"She's too young to set her heart on anything. Not that I'd mind having a nobleman for a son-in-law," he said thoughtfully. "My late wife was a lord's daughter, so there's good blood in my brood. She was a fine lady, she was."

He sighed and gazed down at his gloved hands resting on his saddlebow. "But I doubt any baron would take a squire's daughter to wife. No, they're both just amusing themselves," he said. "I thought that was all there was to it, but now you've arrived," he turned to Paethor, "and I can't help noticing that fine Sword you wear that's so much like his own."

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

"That wouldn't be a magical fire, now, would it?"

The three lords were silent.

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

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

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

"If there's any quarrel it won't be of our making," Echevarian assured him.

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

They rode back down to the Lodge, the squire describing the valley and its people, and introducing a few whom they passed on their way. In the yard they dismounted, waiting for attendance. The squire let out a bellow and a lone stable-hand hurried up.

"Beg pardon, m'lords," he said, bobbing his head as he took the reins of the squire's and Echevarian's beasts. "I'll be back in Just a minute for the others. Dan's been called to help in the kitchen."

"I'll lead these two for you," said Trent, taking Paethor's reins.

"Thank you, sir," said the stable-hand.

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

Trent grinned. "I'll be there in a flash."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did he want from you?"

"Asked about that black-handled sword that Lord Paethor wears."

"And what did you tell him?"

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

"Did he say anything else?" asked Trent.

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

"But it didn't," said Trent.

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

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

"Aye, sir," said the yeoman.

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

The squire glanced up. "Hello, lad. Careful, there," he warned the servant. "Don't spill any!"

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

"What did he want?" asked Echevarian softly.

"Information about the Sword," whispered Trent.

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

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

"To the king," said Echevarian.

"The king," echoed the others.

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

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

Trent's eyes gleamed back at him. "Perhaps we'd better have another taste, to be sure."

Paethor set his glass down.

"Won't you have some more?" asked the squire.

"I'll leave it to more experienced palates to judge," said Paethor, smiling.

The squire shrugged and went back to business with the cask. Paethor wandered out onto the gallery and looked down. Great swags of evergreen were being hung in the Hall, and the rushes had been swept from the stone floor so that fresh could be laid down for the evening. A whole goat was roasting on a roaring fire at the hearth, with two sweating lads turning the spit. The fire's heat rose to the gallery, and Paethor walked along to the south end where an open door led to a balcony.

He stepped out and gazed at the snowbound valley, inhaling sharp, cool air. Tall pine trees nearby swayed in the breeze. At a sound Paethor turned to find Echevarian coming out to join him.

"Guarding my back?" said Paethor, smiling.

"And my sobriety," grinned Echevarian.

"Do you suppose they'll leave any for the feast?"

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

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

"Even Yule?" asked Echevarian.

"Especially Yule."

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

Paethor shook his head.

"Let me wear the Sword."

"No."

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

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

"Not to start a quarrel," corrected Echevarian.

"You think Carcham might?"

"He might. He's been asking about the Sword."

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

"I'm a better swordsman than you," argued Echevarian. "Let him challenge me."

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

"But—"

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

"Are you so anxious to die?" asked Echevarian.

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

"Wasted?"

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

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

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

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

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

"No," said Echevarian, the temptation to hear the bird's message outweighed by Paethor's panic.

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

"A messenger," said Echevarian. "It's gone now."

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

Paethor shook his head.

"Something or someone has hurt you," said Echevarian.

"Only myself," whispered Paethor.

"Tell me," Echevarian insisted.

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

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

Echevarian nodded.

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

Echevarian frowned, puzzled, and leaned closer.

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

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

"Followed her where?"

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

did."

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

Echevarian put a hand on his shoulder.

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

"But she hasn't," said Echevarian.

"No," said Paethor, "and I've been careful to give her no reason."

"Paethor," said Echevarian, taking him gently by the shoulders. "It's past. She won't come back."

"Gods have long memories."

"Let it go, man."

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

"Come in," called a feminine chorus.

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

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

"Plenty," said Trent. "Shall I bring you some?"

"Thanks, I'll wait till tonight."

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

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

"Who's that?" asked Trent.

"The Holly King," repeated Mari, opening her brown eyes wide. "Don't you know?"

Trent shook his head, his face all innocent puzzlement.

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

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

"Ah," said Trent. "Sounds like hard work."

"Not for you, my Lord." Elian smiled."

Trent glanced up at her inquiringly.

"If King Nigel requires you to dance, you've had good training."

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

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

"I think he's perfect," said Mari, then she blushed and looked down at her stitching.

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

Mari giggled and smiled at him shyly.

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

"Not like Lord Paethor," said Sylva. "He never smiles."

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

"Why is he so glum?" asked Sylva.

"Why? Well—it's because he's heartbroken, lady. All his life he has wished he had red hair."

The girls laughed.

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

Sylva laughed again and punched his arm. "Be serious!"

"I am!"

"No, I mean tell me! Why is he so sad? What's the truth?"

"Don't pry, Sylva," said Elian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're supposed to take the thorns off first!" said Sylva.

"Are you all right, my Lord?" asked Elian.

Trent smiled sheepishly, sucking at the wound. "Fine," he said. "It's nothing but my own carelessness. My own stupid folly, for playing with holly—"

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

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

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

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

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

Sylva reached for the crown and Trent gave it to her, lifting her hand to his lips. She smiled coyly at him, picked up a leftover sprig of holly and stood on tiptoe to tuck it behind his ear. Then she and Mari tossed all their odds and ends into a large basket and ran to the door where Elian waited.

"Thank you for your help, my Lord," she said. "We'll see you this evening."

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

"Come in, close the door," said Echevarian, beckoning.

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

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

"Expecting trouble?" asked Trent.

"No," said Echevarian. "Just being prepared."

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

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

"I take it that's what you've been doing," said Echevarian.

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

"Wasn't the mead good enough?" asked Echevarian.

"Yes, but I'm almost sober again," said Trent, filling his horn.

"Sober might not be a bad idea."

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

The others exchanged a glance, then Paethor said, "We saw a—a messenger."

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

"What did it say?" asked Trent.

"I didn't hear the message. It flew away."

"News from the south," said Trent. "Damn! I wish you'd heard it."

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

"That's all we have left," protested Trent. "That's our luck for the way home!"

"Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'Share your luck and double it'?" said Echevarian.

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

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

~~~~~

Shadows lengthened as the shortest day of the year came to a close. Inside the Lodge torches were lit, fire blazed on the great hearth, and fresh candles glowed in all the sconces. Tables laden with food lined the east wall of the Hall, and valley-folk, all in their holiday best, thronged in.

The three lords, dressed again in court clothes and each wearing his weapon, entered the Hall to find it already crowded. A trio of musicians sat in the south gallery, blaring away. In the little room under the stairs a group of young men were playing spinnikens, their occasional roar attesting to another victory.

The squire bustled up, saying "Welcome, my lords, welcome! Merry Yule!"

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

"It's wine from the King's cellars," added Trent. "His Majesty's best."

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

The lords took up plates and piled them with good, hearty fare. The valley-folk had brought out their best treasures, and besides the huge mounds of bread, meat, and cheese there were dishes of pickled vegetables, candied fruits, and even a steaming bowl of carrots that had been dug from the frozen ground that morning. The lords carried their supper to chairs along the south wall and sat watching the revelers.

Baron Carcham came out of the gaming-room carrying a bulging pouch. He tossed it in one hand and the heavy chink of coins was heard. Carcham's tunic was scarlet and black, and he wore a wolf-pelt over his shoulders and heavy bronze bracelets at his wrists. He paused before Paethor's chair, a slow, unpleasant smile sliding onto his face as he glanced at Wayfinder.

"Good evening, your Excellency," said Paethor.

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

Mari, escorted by her cousin Damon, looked festive as well, chestnut curls glowing against her gold satin dress. Elian followed them, her fair tresses forming a pale waterfall over blue velvet. The squire, bellowing greetings, led them forward to meet the valley people.

Carcham strode up to them, the crowd parting before him, and bowed over Sylva's hand. She beamed and curtsied, and let him lead her to the feast-table. The squire clapped his hands, the musicians blew a fanfare, and the chattering fell to a murmur.

"Welcome, good friends," shouted the squire. "I wish you all a Happy Yule!" He waited for the answering cheer to subside. "There's food and drink for all, and dancing afterward—"

Here another cheer stopped him and he waved his hands for quiet. "But first, the Yule Cake!"

A roar went up from the crowd as a servant brought out a great round platter on which lay a golden cake. All the young girls came forward to take some. Baron Carcham led Sylva up to the platter, holding her right hand close to his side as she chose a piece. There was a moment's hush as the young girls, colorful as a flock of summer birds, gobbled their cake eagerly. Then a cry went up and Sylva skipped into the center of the room, holding one hand aloft and still chewing, her eyes gleeful.

"The bean, the bean!" yelled the crowd, applauding.

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

"You go," said Echevarian. "We'll watch."

"No," said Trent, grabbing him and Paethor by the hands, "I need you to remind them we're glorious lords from Argonhall!"

He dragged them forward to the circle. Echevarian and Paethor stood behind him, wedged between eager young valley men. Sylva had traded her lucky bean for the holly wreath and cape, and prowled the edge of the circle, laughing as the valley youths all begged her to choose them. Hushed whispers and stifled mirth formed a background to the steady drum beat provided by the minstrels.

Sylva slowed her steps, pausing to smile slyly up at Baron Carcham, then skipping away from him to the laughter of the crowd. She made her way around the circle and stopped before Trent, who grinned down at her. She glanced coyly at him through her eyelashes, and slowly raised the holly crown. Then she turned quick as lightning, and reached over his shoulder to set the wreath on Paethor's brow. Hoots and cheers rose from the revelers, some of whom grabbed the cape and threw it around Paethor's shoulders.

"Now you have to dance with me!" cried Sylva.

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

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

"I think I'll cultivate a melancholy air instead," said Trent. "It worked for Paethor."

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

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

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

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

The revelry continued, Paethor dutifully dancing with all the young valley girls. Echevarian kept an eye on Carcham, who leaned against the wall and glowered, his gaze following Paethor.

Midway through the evening the minstrels took a break, and the revelers milled about the Hall, nibbling sweets and cheeses from the board and drinking the Midsummer mead. The valley folk crowded around Paethor, who had recovered enough to assume his court manners, scattering smiles among them and cutting a joke now and then. Sylva claimed his attention again, flirting furiously. Carcham, disgusted, marched back to the gaming room.

A small commotion attended the entrance of two servants bearing a holly-trimmed platter on which stood a huge bread pudding. Blue alcohol flames danced over it. Sylva and the others clapped their hands.

Paethor took advantage of the diversion, slipping away to climb the stairs to the gallery. Here he found Elian watching the revelers below. She turned to see him framed in the stairwell, golden torchlight gleaming on the holly leaves at his brow.

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

"No, no," she said. "Breathe while you can!"

Paethor smiled fleetingly. "Thank you."

"It's you who should be thanked, for being so patient," said Elian.

"Patient?"

"With Sylva. For making you the Holly King."

Paethor hesitated, then said, "I understand it's a great honor."

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

"You weren't," said Paethor. "But what did you mean? Have I seemed reluctant?"

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

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

"I do appreciate the honor," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Forgive me," said Paethor, with a soft laugh. "You must think I'm insane."

"No—" said Elian uncertainly.

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

Elian nodded. "The Sword of Wisdom," she said.

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

"I don't understand," said Elian. "Why?"

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

"Baron Carcham?" whispered Elian.

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

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

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

"How?" asked Elian.

"That's the trouble. If we try to take it from him, he'll throw it for certain. Our only hope . . . "

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

Paethor shook his head. "If he knew, he wouldn't hesitate. Wayfinder's no threat to him."

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

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

"If it will help," whispered Elian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hurried past the musicians, who were tuning up their instruments, and ran down the stairs to the Hall. The crowd had thinned, many of the valley-folk having stepped outside to get away from the heat of the room. The squire and his family were by the hearth chatting over goblets of mead, and as Paethor entered the Hall he saw Carcham bending his head to Sylva, who whispered into his ear.

Paethor glanced at Elian, standing with her father, and she nodded softly. He took a deep breath, then strode purposefully toward them.

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

"There's room for all," said Paethor calmly.

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

Paethor stood his ground. "I have no quarrel with you, sir," he said with a glance at the squire. "You are welcome to Sylva's charms—"

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

Paethor's brows snapped into a frown, but he kept silent. From the 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, old man, if you want to keep your pretty little valley," said Carcham.

"Squire Fuller is an Argonian subject and under King Nigel's protection," said Paethor.

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

Paethor met his gaze coldly, nodding his understanding, then tore the cape from his throat and threw it away behind him as he drew Wayfinder.

Someone screamed; the crowd backed away. The squire started forward, 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.

=The End=

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"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.