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.”