“Is there anything you want?” asked the king. “Anything that would make you more comfortable?”
“Thank you, no,” said Paethor with a wisp of a smile. “Your Majesty is most generous. I have everything I need.”
The king leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the solemn young lord. “That’s what I expected you to say.” He swirled the wine around in the bottom of his goblet, then drained it. “Midwinter is approaching,” he stated, setting the cup aside. “I wonder if you would consider doing me a small favor.”
“Gladly, Sire,” said Paethor.
“I presume, since you did not return to your father’s keep for Midsummer, that you are not going now. Is that correct?”
“Correct, Majesty.”
“Also that the coming Yule feast is of little interest to you,” continued the king.
“Your Majesty is very observant,” replied Lord Paethor, bowing.
“Yes, well. We needn’t be quite so formal,” said the king. “You’re a gentleman, Paethor, and a fine addition to my court, but it doesn’t take a wizard to guess you’re not fond of festivals.”
Paethor was silent for a moment, gazing abstractedly as he had done out the window, then returned his attention to the king. “What would you like me to do, Sire?”
The king dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand. When they’d gone he leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together. “There are skirmishes to the south,” he said. “Along our border with Sabara. A few of their smaller baronies, squabbling over territory. King Asad is rumored to be ill.”
Paethor nodded. The news had been spoken of in court for several days.
“It’s also rumored that Farslayer has been busy down there.”
At that the lords shifted and murmured among themselves, and Paethor glanced up at the king. The Sword of Vengeance was enough to frighten the bravest warrior; a merciless meter’s length of steel that became flying death with a throw and a target’s name.
“Needless to say I would like to know its whereabouts,” continued the king. “I would like, in fact, to be sure it does not fall into the hands of an enemy.”
Paethor nodded again. “You wish me to find news of it?”
“I wish you to retrieve it.”
The lords stirred in response. “You want the thing here, Sire?” asked one dubiously.
“Better here in my keeping than flying around my borders,” said the king.
“Or across them,” murmured another.
The king stood. “I visited the treasury this morning,” he said, going to a cupboard, which he opened with a small gilt key. He reached inside and withdrew a bundle of heavy cloth. This he unwrapped, revealing a sheathed sword.
“Wayfinder,” he said, drawing the Sword. The lords crowded closer; it was known that King Nigel possessed a Sword of Power, but few had seen it. Its appearance was disappointing to some who had expected finely worked and gilded hilts; the simple black cruciform was unadorned except for a small arrow emblazoned in white on the hilt.
“Where is Farslayer?” said the king, and the Sword of Wisdom turned in his hand. The lords hastened to get out of the way of the unearthly-keen blade, which swung around southward, then quivered as though it would like to leap forward. “South and a little east,” observed the king. “Ravens-keep, or Sun Mountain. A few days should get you there.” He sheathed Wayfinder and held it out to Paethor. “Take this along to guide you.”
Paethor accepted the Sword, bowing gravely. “Your Majesty honors me,” he said.
“Honor?” said the king. “I’ve given you a damned nasty task is what I’ve done. Don’t get yourself killed.”
That drew the first real smile from the young lord. “I won’t, Sire.”
King Nigel clapped him on the back. “You’ll have help,” he added, and glanced around the small circle of lords. “I’d like two to go with him. Volunteers?”
“I’ll go, Majesty,” said a tall, dashing lord with steel-gray hair. “My lands lie near the southern border, I’ll do my part to protect them.”
“Thank you, Echevarian,” said the king. “Who else?”
The lords hesitated, none of them anxious to leave the comforts of court for a lonely journey into danger, even for the chance to handle a Sword of Power and earn the king’s gratitude. Finally one came forward, a young lord with merry eyes and light brown hair that fell in soft waves to his shoulders. “Oh, I’ll go along,” he said, with a lopsided smile.
“You, Trent?” said a lord. “Passing up the Yule feast?”
“Let him go,” called another. “It’s about time someone else got to be Lord of Misrule!”
Trent’s smile widened. “Can I help it if I’m more charming than the rest of you?”
This earned him a round of buffets from his peers. He laughed as he fended them off. “Peace, peace! I’m going with Paethor, you can have the ladies to yourselves!”
“Are you sure you’re feeling well, Trent?” asked a lord in mock concern.
Trent shrugged. “Maybe Don Echevarian will show me one of his sword-thrusts,” he said, nodding to the elder lord.
“And maybe we’ll happen by Sir Alfred’s keep, and visit his pretty daughters,” mused Echevarian, stroking his mustache.
Trent grinned. “Maybe.”
“All right then,” said the king, beckoning Trent and Echevarian closer. “Take three yeomen, and see the quartermaster for your needs. Go as soon as your affairs are in order.”
Paethor looked at his new traveling companions. “I can leave tomorrow,” he said.
“Me too,” said Trent.
Echevarian nodded. “I’ll send word to my steward tonight.”
“Good,” said the king. He took them each by the hand briefly. “Good speed to you.” Though he smiled, it was plain to his lords that their ruler considered Farslayer a serious threat.
“Well,” said Lord Trent. “We’d better have another cup to give us strength.”
The solemn moment broke, and the lords resumed their chatter, shouting to the servants to bring in more wine. Paethor stayed beside the king.
“If Your Majesty will excuse me,” he said quietly, “I’ll retire and prepare for the journey.”
The king nodded. “Come back safe,” he said softly.
Paethor bowed and left, carrying Wayfinder back to his silent chamber. Once there he drew the Sword again to examine it more closely. The blade was perfectly balanced and deadly sharp, whispering as it left the sheath. There was little light in the room, the fire having burned down to embers, so Paethor carried the Sword to his seat in the window and peered at it in the moonlight, which lent a bluish cast to the polished steel. Whorls in the blade gave an illusion of depth that was almost dizzying, like swirling clouds of snow in the black of night. Paethor let the point come to rest at his feet, his eyes drawn back to the courtyard. No one stirred there now, but a few dry leaves danced in the corners, chased by the relentless wind. The frown descended on his brow again and his eyes seemed to gaze beyond the courtyard into some past shadow. Wayfinder stirred in his hand and he started, a look of dismay in his eyes as the Sword of Wisdom raised itself to point westward, its sudden quiver setting up an answering tremor in Paethor’s arm. He hastily sheathed the blade and hid it in his closet. Whatever nameless query Wayfinder had responded to, it seemed Paethor had not intended to make it.
The next day dawned cold and bright, with clear skies and a dusting of snow on the ground. Paethor sent his packs down to the stables, then slid Wayfinder’s sheath onto his sword-belt and fastened it about his waist. Throwing a cloak of dark wool over his shoulders he sought out the stableyard, where he found Don Echevarian overseeing the packing of their provisions. King Nigel had given the lords three of his best steeds for the journey; they stood saddled in the yard while three liveried yeomen strapped baggage to the load-beasts.
“Where’s Lord Trent?” asked Paethor, his breath frosting in the crisp air.
“I haven’t seen him,” replied Echevarian.
A burst of laughter from a doorway drew their attention and they turned to find Trent staggering toward them, two large wineskins over one shoulder and his arms full of a giggling wench, who in turn clutched a pitcher and three silver goblets. When he saw his companions Trent set the girl on her feet and shushed her, saying “Remember, now.” Her laughter subsided, and she made an effort to appear serious, which was slightly hampered by her noticing that some wine had spilled from her pitcher onto her apron. She stifled another giggle as she bent over and tried ineffectually to wipe it away. Trent had to grab the pitcher to keep her from spilling more. Finally she held up her goblets while Trent poured the remaining wine into them. He took one and nudged her toward his traveling companions. The wench carried the wine sedately to Paethor and Echevarian, her gravity hindered only by dimples that refused to be suppressed. A hiss from Trent reminded her to curtsy, and she offered up the goblets, saying “Good fortune on your journey, my Lords.”