“Thank you,” said Echevarian gravely, accepting a cup.
“Yes, thanks,” added Paethor.
They drained the cups and handed them back, and the wench dropped another curtsy and scuttled back to where Trent lounged in the doorway. He rewarded her with a kiss, gave her his own empty goblet and the pitcher, and sent her on her way with a friendly spank. Her giggles echoed back from the corridor.
“A little warmth to run in our veins this cold morning,” said Trent, smiling as he strolled forward to join the others. “Can’t start a trip without a cup for good luck.”
“You seem to have enough luck for the whole journey,” said Echevarian, patting Trent’s bulging wineskins.
“We may need it. Besides, it’s very good wine. I have an understanding with the royal vintner.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Echevarian, gray eyes twinkling. He turned to survey the load-beasts. “Shall we be off?”
“Yes,” said Paethor, and without waiting he strode to his mount, a great gray beast with black mane and tail, and swung himself up into the saddle. Echevarian mounted a handsome bay, and Trent gave a yeoman hasty directions for packing the wineskins before climbing onto his own coppery steed. With a few final shouted instructions the lords, yeomen, and load-beasts all moved forward to the main gates, which stood open under the watchful eye of the king’s guards.
Crystal-clear air intensified the beauty of the lands around Argonhall, King Nigel’s keep. The heavens were vibrant azure, echoed by the deeper blue of the Sandres Mountains, which had fresh snowdrifts blazing all along their crags. Their foothills were dotted with the bushy evergreens of the steppes; red soil already showed in patches through melting snow. Away to the west more mountains rode the horizon, but Paethor and his companions followed the highway southward, with the Sandres on their left. The bright sunlight cheered them, and soon they were stripping off heavy cloaks. They passed several villages but stopped only briefly to water their mounts, being anxious to make good time. The road narrowed, and the villages gave way to occasional farms and then empty plains. As they descended into a shallow ravine Trent raised his voice in a drinking song, his fine, clear tenor ringing back from the rock walls. Echevarian added a deep bass harmony, and Paethor joined in on the choruses.
Their good spirits lasted through midday heat and afternoon chill, but when a cold evening breeze rose and they stopped to pitch camp, Paethor fell silent, his frown returning as he hastened to build a fire. Echevarian went away to direct the yeomen in raising tents and seeing to the animals. Trent helped fetch water from a stream that trickled down a nearby gully, then unlimbered one of his wineskins and brought it to the fire where Paethor sat huddled in his cloak.
“Cup of cheer?” offered Trent.
Paethor shook his head, staring into the flames. Trent plopped down beside him and poured some wine into a drinking horn. He drank deeply, then leaned back against the skin, stretched his feet out toward the fire, and sighed. “The ladies at court have all lost their hearts to you,” he said conversationally. “I suppose I’m a fool for not staying behind. I could have comforted them in your absence. Ah, well,” he sighed, raising his cup. “Here’s to good intentions.”
Paethor didn’t answer. He picked up a twig and began snapping it into small pieces, tossing them one by one into the flames. Trent glanced sidelong at him.
“They’ve decided,” he went on, “that you’re desperately in love with some lady you can never hope to win. Preferably one who lives at the other end of the world.”
At that Paethor closed his eyes and shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. Trent watched him for a minute, then continued. “Each of them is sure she can heal your wounded heart, if only you would recognize the medicinal power of her love-”
“Enough,” broke in Paethor.
Trent looked at him inquiringly.
“Thanks for your concern,” said Paethor, “but I have to wrestle my own demons.” Their gaze held briefly, dark eyes cautioning hazel, then Paethor looked back into the fire.
“All right,” said Trent slowly. “Friends anyway?” He held out a hand.
After a moment Paethor shook it. “Friends,” he said, a smile flickering across his face. “Guess I’ll have some of that wine now,” he added.
Trent refilled the horn and passed it to Paethor, watching him with candid curiosity. The quiet lord’s sadness only served to enhance his dark beauty; his restless eyes gave him the look of a lost child.
“Perhaps it’s just as well we’ll miss the Yule feast,” said Trent. “I’m not so sure I’d be chosen Lord of Misrule this year. The ladies might pick you instead, and then I’d have to kill myself.”
That got a chuckle out of Paethor, but he shook his head.
“Do they have that custom in your father’s keep?” asked Trent.
Paethor nodded and sipped at the wine, then passed the horn back to Trent.
“Ever been Lord of Misrule?” pursued Trent.
Paethor stared into the fire, his brows drawing together. “Once,” he said softly.
Footsteps sounded behind them; Echevarian, carrying a platter piled with dried meat, cheese and bread. He handed it to Trent and sat down, rubbing his hands together over the fire. At the sight of the food Trent broke into a grin. “Why thanks, Echevarian,” he said, picking up a hunk of cheese. “What are you and Paethor going to eat?”
For answer Echevarian pulled Trent’s hood over his eyes and neatly plucked the wineskin from behind his shoulders. He poured wine into an elegant chalice while Trent struggled to sit up.
“Don’t spill the food,” warned Echevarian.
“Mrph,” grunted Trent, pushing the hood back from his face.
Paethor came to his rescue, retrieving the precarious platter. Echevarian produced three apples and tossed one to each of the others. They ate hungrily, the long ride having sharpened their appetites. When the platter was empty they refilled their cups and built up the fire. The winter night had fallen quickly, blue sky darkening to star-scattered black. Dark gray shadows loomed; the southern end of the Sandres. Cold breezes bit at their faces and they crowded closer to the flames, risking a scorch for the sake of the warmth. A few meters away the yeomen could be heard murmuring around their own small blaze.
“What does Wayfinder say tonight?” asked Echevarian softly.
Paethor’s hand went to the hilt, but he hesitated, frowning.
“We should check,” urged the elder lord.
Paethor stood, throwing off his cloak, and drew the Sword. “Where is Farslayer?” he said aloud, though quietly. The blade came around from east to south, then continued a little farther before pausing.
“Southwest,” murmured Trent. “It’s moved.”
A sharp cry, some predator’s hunting call, made them look up. To the east the gibbous moon was rising over the Sandres, cold and white. Wayfinder trembled in Paethor’s hand and edged westward, but he sheathed it again and sat down.
“Well,” said Trent, “looks like we’re riding into a merry party.”