“Now you have to dance with me!” cried Sylva.
Paethor stared at her in dismay, his face going pale beneath the holly, then he glanced up to see Carcham scowling across the circle. He pulled himself together, managing to smile, and offered Sylva his arm. “Very well, lady,” he said. “Let the dancing begin!” The crowd applauded as more couples joined them and the musicians struck up a lively tune.
Echevarian turned to the crestfallen Trent. “Hard luck,” he said, “but there are plenty of ladies to dance with.”
“I think I’ll cultivate a melancholy air instead,” said Trent. “It worked for Paethor.”
“Console yourself,” said Echevarian. “He likes it less than you do.”
They stepped back to make room for the dancers. Trent watched with folded arms, but soon his feet were tapping to the music, and before long he spotted Mari standing shyly in a corner.
“She looks lonely,” he said to Echevarian. “I’d better go ask her to dance. Just to be polite,” he added.
Echevarian grinned at him, and Trent shrugged, smiling crookedly back. Then he went to lead Mari into the dance.
The revelry continued, Paethor dutifully dancing with all the young valley girls. Echevarian kept an eye on Carcham, who leaned against the wall and glowered, his gaze following Paethor. Midway through the evening the minstrels took a break, and the revelers milled about the Hall, nibbling sweets and cheeses from the board and drinking the Midsummer mead. The valley folk crowded around Paethor, who had recovered enough to assume his court manners, scattering smiles among them and cutting a joke now and then. Sylva claimed his attention again, flirting furiously. Carcham, disgusted, marched back to the gaming room.
A small commotion attended the entrance of two servants bearing a holly-trimmed platter on which stood a huge bread pudding. Blue alcohol flames danced over it. Sylva and the others clapped their hands. Paethor took advantage of the diversion, slipping away to climb the stairs to the gallery. Here he found Elian watching the revelers below. She turned to see him framed in the stairwell, golden torchlight gleaming on the holly leaves at his brow.
“Forgive me, lady,” he said, pausing on the top step. “I came up for some air. Shall I leave you?”
“No, no,” she said. “Breathe while you can!”
Paethor smiled fleetingly. “Thank you.”
“It’s you who should be thanked, for being so patient,” said Elian.
“Patient?”
“With Sylva. For making you the Holly King.”
Paethor hesitated, then said, “I understand it’s a great honor.”
Elian smiled softly. “For the valley-folk, yes. For you I imagine it’s more of a trial.” Then she glanced anxiously up at his startled face. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“You weren’t,” said Paethor. “But what did you mean? Have I seemed reluctant?”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’re very gracious.” She flashed him a smile, and said, “Please pardon me. The mead must have made me giddy.”
Elian picked up a cloak from a gallery bench and opened the door to the balcony. Paethor frowned, then followed her outside. She stood at the railing, her cloak wrapped around her, gazing up at the full moon. Wisps of gray cloud drifted softly, blue-white stars peeking out between them and moonlight setting cold fire to their edges. Elian turned as Paethor came up beside her.
“I do appreciate the honor,” he said.
Elian met his gaze calmly. “But you don’t enjoy it. You’re a private person,” she said. “You keep your thoughts to yourself, and you don’t like being the center of attention.” She looked out at the valley. “When you first came here I thought you were in mourning, but I see now it isn’t so. Or if it is, the grief is old.”
Paethor inhaled sharply, surprised at the accuracy of her insight.
“Anyway,” she continued, “your courtesy does you great credit. I’m sure none of the valley people know how hard this is for you.” She glanced up at Paethor, whose eyes seemed to stare through her, out at the trees. The holly berries in his hair shone black in the moonlight and the gay cloak fluttered about him, too light to keep away the cold.
“This is not your rightful role,” said Elian softly, reaching up to take the holly from his brow. “For you this is a crown of thorns.”
He blinked, but his eyes wandered away again, back into distant memory.
“My Lord,” said Elian, “I pray that you will find a way to release whatever past disturbs you. It’s Yule, the time of new beginnings.” She paused, afraid she’d said too much, and stepped away from him to look at the moon.
“Stay,” he cried softly, and Elian turned, surprised by the grief in his voice. She saw torment in the black depths of his eyes, and sensed he spoke not to her but to some bygone ghost. “Lady of Wisdom, you’ve taken my clothes,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me!”
“I’ve taken nothing,” she said uneasily, holding out the holly crown. His hands came up to receive it, and as they touched he stirred, and looked into her eyes as if seeing her for the first time. Elian returned his wondering gaze, a slow blush darkening her cheeks.
“It was you,” he whispered. “I thought I came to find my death, but it was you!”
Elian blinked in confusion. She wasn’t frightened, but something in his eyes made her heart beat quickly.
“Forgive me,” said Paethor, with a soft laugh. “You must think I’m insane.”
“No-” said Elian uncertainly.
Paethor gazed at her for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. His hand went to the sheath at his side and lifted the black Sword-hilt. “This is Wayfinder,” he said. “Have you heard of it?”
Elian nodded. “The Sword of Wisdom,” she said.
“Wisdom,” said Paethor, his eyes wandering to the trees again. “Yes. And it led me to you.”
“I don’t understand,” said Elian. “Why?”
Paethor’s fingers caressed her hand. “Because you can see beyond my face, I think,” he said softly. “I wish…” Then he shook his head and looked back at her, a strange mix of hunger and fear in his eyes. “King Nigel sent us to find another Sword. That’s why he loaned us Wayfinder, and that task also led us here.”
“Baron Carcham?” whispered Elian.
“We think so. Have you ever seen him draw that Sword, or seen a marking on its hilt?”
Elian shook her head. “He keeps it close.” She laid a hand on his arm. “What Sword did the king send you for?”
Paethor met her anxious gaze. “Farslayer,” he answered softly. “Don’t be afraid,” he added. “We’ll get it away from him.”
“How?” asked Elian.
“That’s the trouble. If we try to take it from him, he’ll throw it for certain. Our only hope…”
“Is for him to challenge you,” whispered Elian. Her gaze drifted to Wayfinder’s hilt. “Does he know which Sword you have?”
Paethor shook his head. “If he knew, he wouldn’t hesitate. Wayfinder’s no threat to him.”
“Maybe I can help,” murmured Elian. “I could tell Sylva I saw the arrow on your Sword. She loves to spread secrets. And from what I’ve seen of the baron, he’d be happy to collect another Sword of Power.” She looked up at him, her face grave. “Can you defeat him?”
Paethor took both her hands in his and held them tightly. “I’ll have to, won’t I?” he said, searching her eyes. “You’re willing to do this?”