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-”