“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.
Echevarian shrugged. “We’ll know soon.”
Cheered by the prospect of shelter, the little party scrambled down into the valley. A spring not far from the pass marked the head of a creek, which was followed down the hillside by a narrow path. Dark was falling fast, and the little lights of the cottages below seemed to twinkle a golden welcome. At the edge of the settlement they were met by two sturdy men who asked their names and their business.
“We are emissaries from King Nigel,” said Echevarian. “I am Don Echevarian of Verdas, and these are lords Paethor and Trent.”
One of the men frowned. “From Argonhall? Why didn’t you come by the north road?”
“We were in the south,” said Trent, “and wished to arrive in time to present the king’s Yule greetings to your master.”
The guard seemed satisfied with this answer. “You’d better come up to the Lodge, then. Squire will be sitting down to supper soon.” He led them to a wide yard in front of the manor house, which consisted of a two-story structure built of vast logs, with smaller wings running away on the south and north. The yeomen were left to stable the beasts while the lords went into the house. Warmth struck their faces in the entryway and they sighed in unison. The guard led them into the Hall, where firelight flickered on the polished logs of the walls and gilded the rushes strewn over the floor. A long table was set a few meters from a hearth at the room’s north end, and servants were preparing it for the evening meal. The guard brought them to a stairwell from which narrow steps led to a gallery running along the east and south walls. At the foot of the stairs a stout man in faded green velvet was talking to a younger version of himself.
“Beg pardon, Squire,” said the guard. “These men say they’re from King Nigel. They’re the ones we saw coming down from the pass.”
The squire turned and stared down his craggy nose at the damp, bedraggled lords. Echevarian swept a bow. “Don Echevarian of Verdas,” he said grandly. “These are my traveling companions, Lord Paethor of Mirador and Lord Trent Greyson. We thank you for your hospitality.”
The youth beside the squire had the same shock of sandy hair, the same fearsome nose. His eyes opened wide and he said, “Did you really come over Dead Man’s Pass?”
“We wouldn’t have, if we’d known its name,” muttered Trent.
“We were at my hold in Verdas when we were directed to come here,” said Echevarian with a glance at his companions. “It seemed quickest to try the pass.”
“Hmm, well you’re lucky,” said the squire. “It’s usually snowed in at Midwinter, but the weather’s been light this season. From Verdas, eh? There’s a neighbor of yours here, Baron Carcham. Maybe you’ve come to speak to him?”
The lords stiffened at the name.
“Carcham of Ravenskeep, yes,” said Echevarian. “You’re very astute, Squire…?”
“Fuller,” replied the squire, breaking into a grin. “But everyone just calls me Squire. Carcham’s in his room, he’ll be down for supper. You can talk to him then, but you’d probably like to change first, eh?”
The lords, from whose shoulders melting snow had begun to drip, agreed. The squire shouted orders right and left, calling for his guests’ gear to be brought into the house and hot water to be fetched for them, then led them to a room in the south wing where a servant was already kindling a bright fire.
“Sorry to crowd you all in here,” he said. “We don’t often have so many visitors at once.”
“No problem,” said Trent, eyeing the mattresses being carried in.
“Come back to the Hall when you’re ready,” said the squire. “We’ll hold supper for you.”
“No need to do that,” said Paethor.
“Pish. D’you think my women-folk would let me get away without waiting? They’ll want a formal introduction to the king’s lords.” The squire raised an eyebrow as he surveyed Paethor’s handsome countenance. “Lords from Argonhall, yes,” he said. “We don’t see your like around here too often!” He grinned, then headed out in the wake of the servants.
“Thank you, Squire,” Echevarian called after him. “We won’t be long.”
The door closed and they listened to their host’s cheery shouts fade down the hall. The lords looked at one another.
“Ravenskeep,” hissed Trent. “What’s he doing here?”
“Staying out of trouble, maybe,” said Echevarian. “His barony’s caught in the skirmishes.”
“Then why isn’t he there to defend it?” said Paethor.
No one answered.
“Come on,” said Echevarian, stripping off his sodden doublet. “Let’s make ourselves presentable for the squire’s ladies.”
They pulled off wet clothing and hastily washed themselves, then rummaged through their gear, deciding to honor their host with their one change of court dress. For Trent this was green suede trimmed with gold braid; for Echevarian, gray wool lined with red satin and edged in silver. Paethor wore dark brown velvet, unembellished. He pulled 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 copperhaired girl curtsied and threw a saucy glance at Paethor. “Her cousin, Mari,” indicating a slightly younger girl with dark, glossy curls and pansy-brown eyes. “My son, Damon,” and he chucked the youth he’d been with earlier on the shoulder. “Oh, and this is Elian, my eldest,” he added as a quiet, fair-haired young woman came forward. “Her mother’s gone, alas, these seven winters.”