“If it will help,” whispered Elian.
“It will help,” he said. They gazed at each other for a moment, then Paethor bent his head and kissed her hesitantly.
A commotion from the gallery made them step apart; the musicians were returning to their places. A deeper blush sprang to Elian’s face.
“You’d better go in,” said Paethor, “before the dancing starts again. I’ll follow you in a couple of minutes.”
“Your crown,” said Elian, bending to pick up the forgotten holly wreath. She started to brush the snow from it but Paethor took it out of her hands.
“Let me do that,” he said. “I don’t want you to be hurt.” He shook the snow from the leaves and put on the wreath with a wistful smile. Elian smiled bravely back and Paethor squeezed her hand. “No matter what happens,” he said softly, “I thank you. You’ve set me free.”
Elian stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his cheek, then with a final fleeting smile she hurried inside. Paethor looked up at the moon, riding clear above the pines. A gray shape perched in one of the treetops, and as he watched it spread wings and took flight, its haunting call echoing back; the white owl. He watched it circle and come to rest on a nearer tree. He felt no more fear of it; perhaps because of the more immediate threat of Baron Carcham. The bird gazed at him silently.
“Give your mistress my thanks for the lesson,” he whispered, then turned to go inside.
He hurried past the musicians, who were tuning up their instruments, and ran down the stairs to the Hall. The crowd had thinned, many of the valley-folk having stepped outside to get away from the heat of the room. The squire and his family were by the hearth chatting over goblets of mead, and as Paethor entered the Hall he saw Carcham bending his head to Sylva, who whispered into his ear. Paethor glanced at Elian, standing with her father, and she nodded softly. He took a deep breath, then strode purposefully toward them.
As he approached Carcham stepped forward. “Stand back, King of Fools,” he said, sneering.
“There’s room for all,” said Paethor calmly.
In one swift motion Carcham whipped his Sword from its sheath and flicked the holly from Paethor’s head. “You’ve had your share of Sylva’s charms,” he said.
Paethor stood his ground. “I have no quarrel with you, sir,” he said with a glance at the squire. “You are welcome to Sylva’s charms-”
“No stomach for a fight, eh?” said Carcham. “I’ve heard that King Nigel’s subjects are cowards.”
Paethor’s brows snapped into a frown, but he kept silent. From the corner of his eye he saw Echevarian stepping into place behind Carcham, and Trent hurrying up from the side.
“Come, come, Carcham,” said the squire. “Put your Sword away. This is no time for brawling-”
“Stay out of this, old man, if you want to keep your pretty little valley,” said Carcham.
“Squire Fuller is an Argonian subject and under King Nigel’s protection,” said Paethor.
“Protect him, then,” said Carcham, stepping forward and leveling his Sword’s point at Paethor’s throat. “Come on, King of Fools,” he said, with a nod toward Paethor’s Sword. He beckoned with his free hand. “Winner take all.”
Paethor met his gaze coldly, nodding his understanding, then tore the cape from his throat and threw it away behind him as he drew Wayfinder. Someone screamed; the crowd backed away. The squire started toward them, crying “My Lords!” Elian and her brother caught him by the arms, holding him back from the deadly blades, and Elian spoke into his ear.
Paethor and Carcham circled, the points of their Swords ringing softly as they tested their reach, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Carcham took the initiative and swung, Paethor moving swiftly to parry, and more screams went up from the crowd.
Carcham was stronger, but Paethor had speed and agility on his side. He stayed on the defensive, waiting for Carcham to drop his guard. He caught a glimpse of Elian standing against the wall with her father, then narrowed his focus to the Sword in Carcham’s hand. Carcham swung his arm upward and for a heart-stopping moment Paethor thought he would throw the Sword, but he kept hold of it, bringing it crashing down toward Paethor’s head. Paethor barely managed to parry the blow and skip back out of harm’s way. He thought he saw an opening and stabbed, but his blade glanced off Carcham’s metal bracelet and he felt a sharp bite on his left shoulder. He spun aside, avoiding the worst of the cut, but felt blood trickling down his arm. Carcham smirked, and pressed him harder.
Paethor knew his strength would fade quickly now. He held the Sword in both hands, and when he saw another opening he lunged forward, faithfully repeating the thrust Echevarian had taught him. But chance brought Carcham’s blade between them on a backswing, and Paethor was flung back, losing his balance and falling heavily, wrenching his ankle in the process. Pain blinded him; he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. Instinct commanded him to rise or be slain, then he heard Elian’s voice calling “Stop!”
Paethor raised his head to see Elian stepping between him and Carcham, who wore a gloating smile. His throat tightened to see her within reach of the deadly Sword, and he uttered a strangled “No!”
“You’ve won,” said Elian to Carcham. “Let that be enough. Don’t mar this night with more bloodshed.”
Carcham’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at her, the smile growing into a sneer. He rested the point of his Sword on the ground and draped his hands over the hilt. “If I’ve won,” he drawled, “then I have prizes to claim. Are you one of them?”
Elian ignored this, saying “You were fighting for this Sword, were you not?” She turned away from Carcham to kneel beside Paethor, looking into his eyes as she reached for Wayfinder’s hilt. Her hands squeezed his gently and she whispered, “Trust me.” Paethor gazed back at her and for an instant he saw her as Athena, light shining glory all around her head. Catching his breath, he released the Sword and let her take it by the hilt.
“The Sword of Wisdom? Yes, I’ll claim it,” said Carcham triumphantly.
Elian turned toward him, preparing to stand. “Take it then,” she said, and as she rose she flung Wayfinder hilt-first toward Carcham. His hands shot up automatically to catch it, his own Sword clattering away across the floor and his face falling in horror even as he caught Wayfinder. Elian dove for the fallen Sword, Trent and Carcham doing the same, but before anyone reached it a flash of spectral light and an inhuman howl filled the Hall. Human cries answered, the revelers cringing away from the noise. The sound issued from a third Sword, which had appeared in midair, flying toward Carcham with deadly speed. He tried a desperate parry and then it was over; Carcham lay silent, eyes slowly glazing, the Sword of Vengeance embedded in his chest and his fingers curling away from Wayfinder’s hilt.
Paethor struggled to his feet and took a step toward the dead man, but Echevarian was there ahead of him. The elder lord brushed his fingers over the white target pattern on the hilt that stood nearly erect, still thrumming with the force of impact.
“Farslayer,” he murmured, then clasped the hilt with both hands: “I claim this Sword in the name of King Nigel,” and he wrenched it from Carcham’s body.
“So that’s what you were after,” said the squire, coming forward. “Well, you’re welcome to it. Take it out of my valley.”
“We will,” said Echevarian, “and the king will see that it doesn’t return.”
“If that’s Farslayer, which is this?” asked Trent. He stooped to pick up the baron’s Sword and examine the hilt. “Coinspinner!” he said, displaying the small white pattern of dice.
“He must have been counting on its luck to protect him,” said Echevarian. “Keep his enemies from choosing him as a target.”
“It worked, apparently,” said Trent.
“Until he let it go.” Echevarian wiped Farslayer clean on Carcham’s tunic and pulled Coinspinner’s scabbard from the dead man’s belt, handing it to Trent. “You see?” he said. “Your luck came back to you.”