An Armory of Swords Page 19

  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.”

  “Greetings, gentle folk,” said Echevarian, and introduced himself and his companions.

  “Ah, and here’s Baron Carcham,” said the squire.

  Carcham of Ravenskeep was known to the others by reputation as a fearsome lord, and his appearance as he stood in the doorway gave them no reason to doubt it. He was powerfully built and wore his long, blond hair in a warrior’s queue, and the tips of his mustache were braided. Echevarian’s hand fingered his own silvery whiskers.

  “Carcham,” said the squire, “these are the lords I told you about, from Argonhall.”

  As the baron approached a scabbard swung about the red skirts of his tunic, and the lords saw that the hilt above it was of rough black, identical to Wayfinder’s. In that same moment Carcham’s stride stuttered and his gaze fastened sharply on the weapon at Paethor’s hip. For an instant he seemed alarmed, then a soldier’s mask of discipline descended on his features. He bowed stiffly, clasping his Sword-hilt, and Paethor’s hand came unconsciously to rest on Wayfinder. Introductions were repeated, then the squire, perhaps sensing tension in the air, urged everyone to sit down to supper. He placed Baron Carcham at his right hand and Don Echevarian on his left, as befitted their rank. Paethor and Trent were seated on either side of Elian, who acted as hostess for her father. Sylva sat beside Trent and made eyes at both Paethor and Carcham across the table.

  “A toast,” said the squire, raising his goblet. “To our noble visitors.”

  “And to our kind host,” said Echevarian. “May your goodwill return to you.”

  The words earned him a sharp glance from Carcham. Echevarian sipped calmly, seeming not to notice.

  “Do you dance, my Lords?” asked Sylva, her eyes on Paethor.

  “Yes,” answered Trent, helping himself to a slab of meat from a heaping platter. “Everyone at King Nigel’s court is required to dance or suffer harsh punishment.”

  The squire laughed heartily at this mild jest. Sylva looked confused for a moment, then added her piping laughter. “You will dance with us tonight, then!” she said.

  Elian leaned forward to catch her eye. “Perhaps the gentlemen are tired,” she said gently.

  Sylva pouted. “But I want to dance!”

  “You can dance with your brother, then,” said the squire gruffly. Both Sylva and Damon grimaced. “These lords have had a hard journey, coming over the pass,” added their father.

  “All the more reason to celebrate,” said Trent, which won him a beaming smile from Sylva.

  “I would be happy to partner you, fair lady,” added Carcham.

  Sylva gave him a coy look. “Is there dancing in Ravenskeep?” she asked.

  “Yes, and many other pleasures,” said the baron, smiling.

  Trent and Paethor exchanged a glance, each remembering the words of the refugee woman, “soldiers from Ravenskeep.”

  “There’ll be dancing enough at the Yule feast tomorrow night,” said the squire. “You’ll have to be content till then. We’ve got no musicians, for one thing.”

  “Oh, Elian can play on the lute,” said Sylva.

  “But what if Elian wants to dance?” asked Echevarian gallantly.

  “She doesn’t mind,” said Sylva, with the confidence of self-centered youth.

  “Is that true?” asked Trent, turning to his hostess.

  “Yes,” said Elian. “I like to play.”

  “But you don’t like to dance?” asked Paethor.

  Elian glanced up at him with a gentle smile. “I like both.”

  “Well,” said young Damon, “I’d rather dance to Elian’s playing than to Sylva’s.”

  Sylva stared daggers at him, then haughtily turned up her nose. “You can dance by yourself, then. No one wants to dance with you.”

  “I do,” said brown-eyed Mari. Then she blushed furiously and stared down at her plate. Damon looked mildly alarmed.

  Sylva glared at her cousin, then seemed to realize her temper was not adding to her charm. She put on a smile again and turned to Trent. “You are staying for Yule, aren’t you?”

  Trent’s lopsided grin broke out as he looked into her wide blue eyes. “How can we refuse?”

  Echevarian glanced at the squire, who chuckled and said, “Yes, join us. The whole valley will be here for the feast.”

  “Thank you,” said Echevarian, raising his cup. “We accept.”

  When everyone had eaten his fill Sylva again begged for dancing. Elian gave in to her pleas and agreed to play the lute. “But only for a little while,” she said. “It’s late already.”

  The Hall was big enough to hold twenty couples or more. As it was, there were only two. Damon had made himself scarce the minute the lute was brought out. Sylva claimed her dance from the baron, and flirted boldly with him. Trent danced with Mari, who blushed whenever the steps brought their hands together. Elian’s fingers were nimble on the lutestrings, and as she strummed a quiet smile hovered on her lips.

  “Your daughter plays well,” said Echevarian, seated against the wall with the squire and Paethor.

  “Hm? Oh, yes. She’s very clever. Like her mother that way,” said the squire. “Don’t know what I’m going to do with her, though. She’s had two offers of marriage, and turned ’em both down. May not get any more; the lads around here like their women robust, and well, you see how she is.” He frowned in a puzzled way, as a gardener might upon discovering a frail lily in amongst his roses. “She’s thinking she might join the White Temple,” he added.

  “Isn’t she a bit young?” asked Echevarian.

  A peal of laughter from Sylva signaled the end of the dance, and she curtsied to Baron Carcham, then skipped up to Paethor. “Now you!” she cried, holding out her hands.

  Paethor looked up at her with a level gaze. “Not tonight, lady. Please forgive me.”

  Sylva stamped her foot. “But you have to!”

  “Dance with me, Sylva,” said Trent, coming up and bowing gallantly over her hand. She let herself be distracted, but a glance over her shoulder told Paethor she had not given up.

  “I think I’ll retire,” he said, once the music had started. “Thank you again for your hospitality, Squire.”

  The squire nodded. “Rest well, m’lord.”

  Echevarian stayed to chat with their host, and in due course Sylva demanded a dance from him as well, though she behaved toward him much as she did toward her father. Echevarian was amused by this, and so, from the glint in his eyes, was Trent. Carcham danced with Mari. Echevarian stole a glance now and then at his Sword, but was unable to make out a marking on the hilt.

  “That’s enough,” said Elian when the song ended. “We have a busy day tomorrow.” The little party broke up, but not before Sylva secured promises of more dances at the Yule feast.

  Returning to their chamber, Echevarian and Trent found Paethor musing by the hearth, his gaze fixed on the remains of the fire. He looked up, startled out of his reverie, and reached for another log. New flames threw golden light on his face and glinted back from his dark eyes and hair. Echevarian pulled a stool forward and st
retched his hands toward the warmth, while Trent began searching through the baggage.

  “Now where—aha!” Trent held up his second wineskin with a grin. “Let’s drink the squire’s health again for good measure. It’s better wine, it ought to bring him better health.” He carried the skin to the fire and filled his horn.

  Paethor leaned his chin on one hand and regarded him. “You’re never at a loss for something to celebrate, are you?” he murmured wistfully.

  “We’ve got a roof over our heads and our bellies full of meat. I say that’s cause enough,” said Trent. He drank and passed the cup to Echevarian, who accepted it, smiling.

  “Don’t forget the young ladies,” added Echevarian. “Looks like you’ll be reveling on Yule after all.”

  “They’re a pretty set, for country girls,” said Trent. “That Sylva—”

  “She’s trouble, that one,” said Echevarian, chuckling. “The sort who wants to be the queen bee.”

  “Bah, she’s just a girl. She’ll melt if I drop a little honey in her ear.”

  “Not she! You’ll need a bucketful, and she’ll ask for more. Besides, she’s set her sights on Paethor here,” said Echevarian, offering him the wine.

  The look Paethor gave him was not appreciative, but he accepted the horn and took a sip, then passed it back to Trent. “If you’ll pardon me,” he said, “I think we have a more serious matter to discuss.”

  Trent sighed. “Ravenskeep.” He swallowed the dregs and refilled the horn.

  “Is that Farslayer he wears?” asked Paethor.

  “I couldn’t get a look at the hilt,” said Echevarian.

  “It has to be Farslayer,” said Trent. “Why else would Wayfinder have brought us here?”

  Paethor shifted on his chair and glanced over his shoulder at the moonlit window.

  “We could ask Wayfinder again,” said Echevarian.

  “And walk up to Ravenskeep with a Sword of Power pointed at him?” said Trent. “He’ll like that!”

  “One moment,” said Echevarian. He went softly to the door and opened it. The hall was empty, and after checking the window he returned to the fire. “We’d better be careful,” he said, lowering his voice. “If Ravenskeep guesses which Sword we have, he’ll know why we’re here.”

  “What if he’s already guessed?” muttered Trent.

  The lords looked at one another. “Perhaps it’s just as well we’re all in one room,” said Echevarian.

  “There’s another problem,” said Paethor after a pause. “Assuming it is Farslayer, how do we get it away from him?”

  “Challenge him?” suggested Trent.

  “On what grounds?” said Echevarian. “He’s done nothing to offend. Besides, he could probably beat any one of us.”

  “We have to do something,” said Trent. “If we wait too long, he may use the thing, and we’ll have lost our chance.”

  “Unless he uses it on one of us,” said Paethor.

  A look of horror crossed Trent’s face. Paethor straightened and slowly said, “If he uses Farslayer to kill one of us, then it’s the duty of the others to carry it back to Argonhall.”

  “Yes,” said Echevarian after a moment. “You’re right.”

  “Let’s swear it,” said Paethor. He unbuckled his belt and held Wayfinder between them by the sheath, placing a hand on its guard. The others grasped the hilt and pommel. “We swear by this Sword,” said Paethor, “which our liege-lord entrusted to us, that if Farslayer comes into the possession of any of us we shall not use it in vengeance, but shall carry it back to our King at Argonhall. So say I, Paethor of Mirador.”

  “So say I, Echevarian of Verdas.”

  “So say I,” whispered Trent, “Trenton Greyson.” For once, he looked as solemn as Paethor.

  Midwinter’s Day dawned clear and bright. From first light the Lodge was bustling with preparations for the Yule feast. Folk from the valley streamed in with foodstuffs to pile in the kitchen and evergreen boughs for the Hall. A red-faced servant brought cold meat and a pitcher of ale to the lords’ room and hurried away again, begging them to shout if they wanted anything more. They ate a leisurely breakfast, and emerged to be met by their host, dressed for riding.

  “Good morning, good morning,” called the squire cheerily. “A Glad Yule to you, my lords! Came to see if you’d like to ride out with me, get away from all this bother. I could show you the valley,” he offered.

  The lords agreed, and soon they were mounted on sturdy beasts from the squire’s stables, their own weary steeds being left to rest. Shading their eyes from sun-glaring snow, the lords followed the squire northward along the road, which had already been trampled clear by the feet of valley-folk. Some of these turned to marvel at the noble visitors, bowing as they passed. The squire waved a cheery greeting back.

  “Won’t Baron Carcham be joining us?” asked Echevarian, trotting beside the squire.

  “He’s seen the valley. I showed it to him when he arrived a few days ago, and besides, he’s been here before.”

  “He has?” said Trent.

  The Squire gave him a shrewd look. “Aye, he has. But you would know that, wouldn’t you? Having come here to meet him.”

  Echevarian threw a warning glance at Trent, then said “To be honest, Squire, we did not come to meet him.”

  “Well, now, I didn’t think so, after the way he looked at you last night.”

  “In fact, we are on an errand for the king, and found our way into your valley by chance,” continued Echevarian.

  “Did you, now?” Squire Fuller reined in at the crest of a small hill. They had passed the last of the houses, and now the beasts were knee-deep in snow. “From here the road runs north to the river, then turns east toward Argonhall,” said the squire. “Up there’s a little shrine to Ardneh,” he added, pointing to a small structure on one of the valley’s slopes. “Elian likes to tend it. We haven’t got a priest.”

  “It’s a pretty holding,” said Paethor, looking out over the valley.

  “Aye,” nodded the squire. “And peaceful, too. Like to think it’ll stay that way,” he added.

  “Have you any reason to doubt it?” asked Echevarian.

  “Well, now, I wonder,” said the squire. “You gentlemen will understand, I think, if I say I’m not overfond of Baron Carcham. He came uninvited, and he’s not an Argonian. At first I thought he had just come to dally with my little Sylva, like he did when he passed through here last summer.” He laughed. “She’s a rare handful, my girl. Likes to make the menfolk crazy. She’s got half the valley lads green with envy since Carcham showed up.”

  “Do you think she’s set her heart on a baroness’s coronet?” asked Trent.

  “She’s too young to set her heart on anything. Not that I’d mind having a nobleman for a son-in-law,” he said thoughtfully. “My late wife was a lord’s daughter, so there’s good blood in my brood. She was a fine lady, she was.” He sighed and gazed down at his gloved hands resting on his saddlebow. “But I doubt any baron would take a squire’s daughter to wife. No, they’re both just amusing themselves,” he said. “I thought that was all there was to it, but now you’ve arrived,” he turned to Paethor, “and I can’t help noticing that fine Sword you wear that’s so much like his own.”

  “Your eyes are sharp, Squire,” said Paethor. “Indeed, we have reason to believe they were forged in the same fire.”

  “That wouldn’t be a magical fire, now, would it?”

  The three lords were silent.

  “Well, it’s none of my business, I suppose. Pay no heed to me, gentlemen,” said the squire. “We country-folk like to tell stories of magic. The old gods, and such. Never mind.”

  “We don’t mean to be rude, sir,” said Paethor. “Our king has charged us with a private errand, and knowing it would not comfort you, I fear.”

  The squire nodded. “Well, if it’s king’s business, I wish you good speed. My only hope is that no quarrel should disturb my little holding.”

  “If
there’s any quarrel it won’t be of our making,” Echevarian assured him.

  The squire met his eyes with a perceptive gaze. “Can’t ask for more than that, can I?” he said.

  They rode back down to the Lodge, the squire describing the valley and its people, and introducing a few whom they passed on their way. In the yard they dismounted, waiting for attendance. The squire let out a bellow and a lone stable-hand hurried up. “Beg pardon, m’lords,” he said, bobbing his head as he took the reins of the squire’s and Echevarian’s beasts. “I’ll be back in just a minute for the others. Dan’s been called to help in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll lead these two for you,” said Trent, taking Paethor’s reins.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the stable-hand.

  “Come upstairs to my study when you’re done,” said the squire. “We’ll try the Midsummer’s mead, make sure it’s fit for tonight’s feast.”

  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.”