An Armory of Swords

by Fred Saberhagen

  “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.”

  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—”

  Sylva giggled, taking the sprig from him and snipping off the thorns with a little pair of scissors.

  “Folly, lolly, lolly—” sang Trent, picking up two more sprigs by their stems and making them dance on the tabletop.

  The girls laughed, and Trent kept them laughing until they’d finished their regalia. Then Sylva made him try it on, and he struck a royal pose, the cape lightly draping his shoulders, holly forming a halo around his head.

  “I hereby decree that mistletoe shall hang in every doorway, and anyone who doesn’t smile shall be sent to the kitchens to wash the
dishes,” he pronounced.

  “Paethor, be warned!” said Elian, taking back the cape. “Come, Sylva. It’s late, and we still have your dress to trim.”

  Sylva reached for the crown and Trent gave it to her, lifting her hand to his lips. She smiled coyly at him, picked up a leftover sprig of holly and stood on tiptoe to tuck it behind his ear. Then she and Mari tossed all their odds and ends into a large basket and ran to the door where Elian waited. “Thank you for your help, my Lord,” she said. “We’ll see you this evening.”

  Trent bowed and watched them go, then grinned to himself and made his way back to his chamber. When he opened the door he surprised Echevarian and Paethor, standing with swords drawn in a space cleared in the middle of the floor.

  “Come in, close the door,” said Echevarian, beckoning.

  Trent did so and leaned against it. “Funny place to practice sword-play,” he said. “Funny time for it, too.”

  “Echevarian was just showing me a thrust,” said Paethor. He hefted Wayfinder and swung it back and forth a couple of times to feel its weight, then made a feinting thrust toward Echevarian, who parried and nodded.

  “Expecting trouble?” asked Trent.

  “No,” said Echevarian. “Just being prepared.”

  Paethor sheathed the Sword, walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.

  “Well, that’s not what you need to prepare,” said Trent. “For tonight you need to brush up your dancing and your wit.”

  “I take it that’s what you’ve been doing,” said Echevarian.

  “I,” said Trent, strolling to his baggage and poking through it, “have been entertaining the young ladies. One of them will choose the Lord of Misrule—only here it’s the Holly King. I did my best to charm them. Have to, considering the competition!” He shot a grinning glance at Paethor but got no response, Paethor being absorbed in stirring the ashes on the hearth with his toe. Trent shrugged, found his drinking horn and reached for his wineskin.

  “Wasn’t the mead good enough?” asked Echevarian.

  “Yes, but I’m almost sober again,” said Trent, filling his horn.

  “Sober might not be a bad idea.”

  Trent glanced up. “You are expecting trouble,” he said, looking from Echevarian to Paethor. “What’s happened?”