David Peter - Sir Apropos 01 - Sir Apropos of Nothing
 
 
Chapter 1
 
As I stood there with the sword in my hand, the blade dripping blood on the 
floor, I couldn't help but wonder if the blood belonged to my father.
The entire thing had happened so quickly that I wasn't quite sure how to react. 
Part of me wanted to laugh, but most of me fairly cringed at what had just 
occurred. I didn't do particularly well with blood. This tended to be something 
of a hardship for one endeavoring to become a knight, dedicated to serving good 
King Runcible of Isteria, a ruler who more often than not had his heart in the 
right place.
The recently slain knight also had his heart in the right place. This had turned 
out to be something of an inconvenience for him. After all, if his heart had 
been in the wrong place, then the sword wouldn't have pierced it through, he 
wouldn't be dead, and I wouldn't have been in such a fix.
I stood there stupidly in the middle of Granitz's chambers. Like much of the 
rest of the castle, it was somewhat chilly . . . all the more so because I was 
only partly dressed and the sweat on my bare skin was feeling unconscionably 
clammy. There were long, elegant candles illuminating the room, giving it a rosy 
glow, since thick drapes had been drawn over the large windows to keep out both 
daylight and prying eyes. From nearby on the large and damaged four-poster bed, 
my loveróand the knight's wife (well, widow)ówas letting out short gasps, trying 
to pull air into her lungs and only marginally succeeding. The tiled floor 
seemed to tilt under me for a moment, and I steadied myself as my mind raced, 
trying to determine what the hell I was going to do next.
The knight's name had been Sir Granitz of the Ebony Swamps, although he was 
generally referred to as "Sir Granite." The nickname had been well earned, for 
on the battlefield he had been indeed a sight to see. I had seen it myself, many 
a time . . . from a safe distance, of course, since my mother, God bless her, 
had not raised an idiot for a son. Understand: I did not, nor have I ever, 
shrunk from a fight when it was absolutely necessary. However, my definition of 
"absolutely necessary" wasn't precisely in keeping with that of everyone else in 
my immediate sphere.
For people like Granite, "absolutely necessary" included times of war, matters 
of honor, and similar esoterica. For me, the term "absolutely necessary" meant 
"self-defense." I considered war to be an utter waste of my time and energy, 
since most wars involved people I did not know arguing over matters I did not 
care about in pursuit of goals that would not have any direct impact upon me. As 
for honor, that was an ephemeral consideration. Honor did not feed, clothe, or 
protect me, and seemed to exist primarily to get otherwise inoffensive creatures 
into a world of trouble.
"Self-defense," however, was a consideration that I could easily comprehend. 
Whether it be an envious knight attacking me on horseback, an enraged dragon 
belching plumes of flame, or a squadron of berserker trolls swarming over the 
ramparts of a castle, those were instances where my own neck was at stake and I 
would happily hack and slash as the situation required so that I might live to 
see another sunrise.
I liked sunrises. They made anything seem possible.
Now, Granite . . . he was the type who would fight anywhere, anytime, at the 
least provocation. That is precisely the kind of attitude that gets one killed 
at a young age if one is not a formidable fighter. To his credit, that certainly 
described Granite. Well over six feet tall and built like a brick outhouse, he 
often found it necessary to enter a room sideways, his shoulders being too broad 
to be accommodated by a standard doorframe.
Sir Granite had returned most unexpectedly, at a moment that could best be 
described as inopportune. For at that particular point in time, I had been in 
the middle of opportuning myself of his wife.
As burly, as brusque, as fearsome as Granite had been, the Lady Rosalie had been 
the opposite. Delicate and pale, Rosalie had cast an eye that clearly fancied me 
in my direction. Considering that, at the time she did it, I was mucking out the 
stables and up to my elbows in horse manure, she clearly saw something within me 
not readily apparent from my surface appearance. She and old Granite had just 
come in from a ride; he perched upon his white charger, and she riding daintily 
sideways on a brown mare. She winked at me and I hurriedly wiped my hands on the 
nearest cloth, aware of the disheveled and frankly tatty sight I must have 
presented. The Lady Rosalie chose that moment to try and dismount. But her foot 
snagged on the stirrup and she tumbled forward, only my quick intervention 
preventing her from hitting the straw-covered floor. I caught her, amazed by how 
light she was. I'd bounced soap bubbles off my fingertips that had more 
substance.
For the briefest of moments, Rosalie insinuated her body against mine, mashing 
her breasts against my stained tunic. They were round and felt surprisingly firm 
beneath her riding clothes. It was not the fall that had carried her against me 
in that manner; she had done it deliberately with a subtle arching of her back 
that only I detected. Then, after the ever-so-brief gesture, she stepped back 
and put her hand to her throat in a fluttery manner. "Thank you, squire," she 
said, her voice having a most alluring musical lilt.
"Not . . . a problem, milady," I replied.
Old Granite did not seem to be the least bit supportive of my chivalric 
endeavors. His thick red mustache bristled and he said contemptuously, "I give 
you lesson after lesson, Rosalie, and still you can't so much as get off the 
damned horse. You shouldn't have caught her, squire. A far greater favor you'd 
have done her if you'd let her fall flat on her ass. It's the only way she's 
going to learn anything about successful mounting."
"Well . . . one of two ways," I said in a low voice, just enough for her to 
hear. Her cheeks colored, but not in embarrassment because she put a hand to her 
mouth to stifle what clearly sounded like a giggle. I grinned at her. She did 
not return the smile with her mouth, but it was clearly reciprocated in her 
eyes.
Granite smoothly jumped off his horse and thudded to the ground like a boulder. 
"Come, madam," he said, sticking out an elbow in a manner intended to be gallant 
but that instead simply appeared stiff and uncomfortable. This was not a man who 
was accustomed to the slightest gesture of gentility. She took his elbow and 
walked out with him, but glanced back at me just before they left.
From that moment, it was simply a matter of time.
I knew all about Granite. He was typical of Runcible's knights, spouting words 
of chivalry and justice, but doing whatever he desired behind the king's back. 
He made polite and politic noises to the king, but he could be as much of a 
brute as any common highwayman or any member of the Thugs' Guild, and he also 
had a string of mistresses in various towns and villages. He frequented the 
whores' tent, which was usually set up at the outskirts of an encampment during 
a campaign. More than one tart had supposedly come away from the amorous 
encounter with bruises to show for it when Granite was impatient with his own . 
. . performance. The mighty knight, you see, had a bit more trouble wielding his 
sword off the battlefield than on, if you catch my drift, and that difficulty 
translated to welts for those who couldn't easily overcome his problems.
I, however, had no such difficulties.
The Lady Rosalie, "heeding" her husband's suggestions to improve her riding 
abilities, took to the stables more and more frequently to get in practice time. 
Well . . . allegedly, that was the reason. But an intended hour of riding would 
end up an hour of conversing with me as I groomed and tended to the horses while 
she laughed and giggled and watched me perform my duties with a sort of doe-eyed 
fascination. I knew exactly where matters were taking us, and did absolutely 
nothing to deter them in their course.
One day she asked me to accompany her on a jaunt, since her husband had gone to 
deal with a minor uprising in the nearby city of Pell, and she was concerned 
lest bandits be wandering the roads. This, of course, wasn't her major concern. 
We rode several miles away from the good king's stables, chatting about 
trivialities, nonsense, and just about everything except for what really 
occupied our thoughts. By the lakeside, on a cool morning, nature took its 
course.
Let us just say that she did not ride exclusively sidesaddle.
I'm sure that I provided little more than an amusement to her, a dalliance. The 
obvious conclusion was that she was using me to get back at her husband, to make 
him jealous. But I doubt that was the case, because siccing the green-eyed 
monster upon Granite could only have fatal consequences. Rosalie may not have 
been the most polished apple to fall off the tree, but she was most definitely 
not suicidal. Maintaining a shroud of secrecy over our relationship heightened 
the likelihood of her keeping her pretty head on her shoulders. Besides, when 
you get down to it, isn't it the very illicitness of an affair, the forbidden 
nature of it, which makes it so exciting? Even pedestrian sex can be elevated to 
new heights when one isn't supposed to be having it.
That was probably what kept it going. Old Granite had made very clear to all and 
sundry that he thought very little of his wife's mental prowess. He considered 
her something of a twit. But twit or not, she ably concealed the existence of 
her tawdry little escapades (and I say that with only the fondest of 
recollections and greatest esteem) from this great warrior who thought himself 
one of the most canny and discerning of men.
Consequently, when it all came crashing down, it landed with a most pronounced 
thud.
The Pell situation, which started as something rather inconsequential, began to 
spiral out of control. Granite made a tactical error, you see. There had been a 
hard core of individuals utterly opposed to pouring more tax money into the 
king's coffers. I couldn't blame them, really. Most of the money paid in taxes 
didn't go into providing resources for public works, but instead either lined 
the pockets of key knights, or served to fund foreign wars that most of the 
peasants never heard of and didn't care about.
The hard core of individuals were endeavoring to organize protests, even 
stonewall against further taxes. The other peasants were reluctant to join with 
them. This came as no surprise to me. Being a peasant, I know the mind-set. One 
becomes so used to being downtrodden that one starts to believe that it's 
nature's intent that one should inhabit a low rung in society. Lack of movement 
is a formidable force to overcome.
The rabble-rousers called themselves the Freedom Brigade and set themselves up 
as enemies of the king and his policies. But they weren't enemies, really. An 
enemy is someone who has the capability to do you genuine harm. Calling this lot 
enemies was like referring to head lice as criminal masterminds. They had the 
ability to irritate, but they were no threat. Only one of the "Brigadiers" had 
any knack for rabble-rousing at all. I knew him from the old days. His name was 
Tacit, he was damned goodlooking, and the women tended to swoon when they saw 
him coming. But swoon-inducers aren't necessarily great leaders of men, because 
men tend to mistrust other men who are that handsome. They start thinking that 
there's some other agenda in force, such as seeking out leadership just to get 
the attention and favors of the women, and perhaps they're not wrong to believe 
that.
Besides, Tacit wasn't the leader of the Brigadiers anyway. I don't even recall 
the name of the leader offhand; that's how forgettable he was. He was simply 
stolid and determined to change things, and wasn't particularly good at making 
that happen.
The truth was, the Brigadiers really just wanted to be in the favorable position 
enjoyed by those they were opposing, which is usually the case of protesters. If 
Granite had given them just a taste of the good life, the Freedom Brigade would 
have melted like a virgin's protests on her wedding night. One of the best ways 
to dispose of enemiesóeven perceived ones such as the Brigadiersóis to make them 
over into allies and friends. When someone is not truly in a position to hurt 
you, that is the time to approach him or her with an air of camaraderie. 
Respect. Bribery. The Freedom Brigade could easily have been bought off. Hell, I 
suspect they could have been retooled into a formidable squad of tax collectors 
that would have put the king's own men to shame.
But not old Granite, oh no.
For Granite was a fighting man, you see. Put him on a field with a sword and 
buckler, give him a squadron behind him, point him in a directionóany 
directionóand say, "Kill," and watch him go at it. As a slaughtering machine, he 
was a thing of beauty. There was a tendency to elevate him in positions of 
importance and rank as a consequence. It's understandable, I suppose. Put 
yourself in the place of the king. You come riding up to a field after the 
battle is done, there are bodies strewn all over the place like clothes at a 
brothel, and there's one man standing there, wavering slightly, wearing tattered 
armor, copious amounts of blood (none of it his), and a somewhat demented smile. 
You would tend to think that this fellow knows what he's about. Such was the 
case with Granite.
Unfortunately, what the king did not realize is that just because one was 
skilled at one means of controlling an uprisingónamely by whacking it until all 
of its internal organs are on the landscapeódid not automatically translate into 
any sort of aptitude for handling other situations.
When Runcible learned of the situation in Pell, he sent Granite, convinced that 
he was dispatching one of his best men to attend to it. Were Pell in the midst 
of full-scale riot, Granite might indeed have been just the fellow for it. But 
matters were still controllable. Why wade in with a broadsword when a whispering 
dagger would do the job?
Well, Granite used a broadsword and a half. He and his men rode in like the 
great damned king's own Ninth Army, stampeded through Pell, rounded up a dozen 
townspeople at random and threatened them with beheading if they didn't produce 
the names of the Freedom Brigadiers. The citizenry, who were upset about their 
taxes but not that upset, coughed up the identities like phlegm. Better to live 
poor than die with a few extra coins in your pocket.
Granite then rounded up the Freedom Brigade. What a great bloody row. The noise, 
the screaming . . . it was horrific. They captured almost all of them, andótruth 
to tellóthe Brigadiers didn't exactly conduct themselves as heroes. Playing at 
being freedom fighters, criticizing the king from a distance, declaring that 
taxes would not be forthcoming and that the king should take his best shot at 
collecting themóthese are all well and good in the abstract. Faced with a sword 
to your throat, however, your priorities tend to shift. Rhetoric takes a second 
chair to saving your own skin. My understanding is that they begged, pleaded for 
their lives. They wept, they entreated, they soiled their breeches . . . in 
short, they made godawful fools of themselves.
Once again, Granite could have gotten out of the entire Pell mess with a minimum 
of fuss and muss. Not old blockhead, no. The unmanly wailing of the Brigadiers 
offended Granite's sensibilities. He felt that his valuable time had been wasted 
rounding up such clearly unworthy foes. This set his anger all a-bubbling, and 
he needed an outlet for his rage. As it turned out, the only available target 
was the Brigadiers.
So he put the stupid bastards to the sword, every one of them. Every one except 
Tacit. Tacit had not been captured with the rest. They tried to take him, to be 
sure. But when Granite made his sweep, which dragged in the rest, Tacit had 
managed to fight his way through it, battling with the ferocity of a manticore 
when faced with death. His freedom had not come without a price. He lost half an 
ear and his right eye, poor bastard. He took refuge in the Elderwoods, his old 
stomping grounds, which he and I frequented as children. Once he'd reached 
there, he was a phantom. There he healed, and eventually returned to Pell with 
an eyepatch and a new and deadly resolve. Tossed capriciously in the crucible, 
he'd come through it forged into a cold and formidable enemy.
He rallied the people of Pell in a way that no others of the Brigade had 
managed, and he turned the entire town into an army. Every man, woman, and child 
rallied behind him, refusing to pay taxes and demanding the head and private 
parts of Granite.
Granite obliged. He brought his head, his private parts, and his sword armóall 
still connected to the rest of his sculpted bodyóand he also brought along 
armored troops. They laid siege to the town, and within hours all of Pell was 
aflame and easily sixty percent of the populace was dead, and another twenty 
percent or so was dying.
Naturally this resulted in an eighty percent drop in taxes from Pell, which was 
what all of the to-do was about in the first place. Granite, however, had lost 
sight of that.
King Runcible had not.
He didn't get truly angryóhe rarely did. But he informed Granite that he was not 
happy, no, not happy at all with the situation. Granite hemmed, hawed, made 
apologies, and tried to defend the extreme actions he had taken. "We shall have 
to think on this," Runcible said finally, which is what he always said when 
faced with something unpleasant. He then ordered Granite to patrol the outer 
borders of the kingdom.
I was present when the order was given, standing discreetly behind Sir Umbrage 
of the Flaming Nether Regions, the elderly knight whom it was my "fortune" to be 
squiring at the time. It was easy to remain out of sight behind Umbrage. He was 
such an uninteresting bastard that no one glanced in his direction. He would 
just stand there, long, skinny, white-haired, and jowly beneath his scraggly 
beard, leaning on his sword and nodding as if he were paying attention to what 
was going on.
Granite bowed, nodded, and left immediately.
I, opportunistic little creep that I was, saw my chance to have yet another toss 
with the Lady Rosalie. I waited until I saw Granite ride away on that great 
charger of his, and then went straight to the chambers that he shared with his 
lady.
Rosalie, bless her heart, read my mind. She was lying there, naked and waiting. 
And she was holding her crystal ball.
Now, Rosalie had no knack for fortune-telling, but she fancied that she did. She 
obtained the large crystal from a woman purporting to be an oracle, and she 
would stare into the crystal ball for hours on end, trying to discern her 
future. Every so often she would make thoughtful pronouncements in a voice that 
I think she thought was great and profound. In point of fact, it just sounded 
like Rosalie talking oddly. I never paid any mind to it. It seemed a harmless 
enough diversion.
"Did you see me coming in that?" I asked teasingly.
She smiled in that odd way that she had, that made the edges of her eyes all 
crinkly. "In a manner of speaking," she said, and laid the crystal ball on the 
floor.
My tunic was off and my leggings were just descending below my knees when the 
door burst open. There was Granite, looking considerably larger than he had when 
he'd been riding off into the distance minutes before.
I caught only the briefest of glimpses, though, because the moment the door 
opened, I had already rolled off the bed, landing on the far side, out of view. 
I may not have had a good deal going for me, but my reactions had always been 
formidably quick. Long practice, I suppose in keeping one eye behind me at all 
times. I lay paralyzed on the floor. The door slamming back against the wall had 
covered the noise of my thudding to the ground, but I was concerned that any 
further movement on my part might attract his attention. Granite was a 
formidable warrior with a sense of hearing only marginally less sharp than his 
blade. I held my breath so that he didn't hear it rasping against my chest, but 
I was positive that he could nonetheless detect my heart slamming in my rib 
cage. In any event, I certainly didn't want to risk making scrabbling noises 
against the floor. That would tip him for sure.
Rosalie was not the brightest of things, but barely controlled panic gave wings 
to her moderately capable brain. Upon the door slamming open, she had 
automatically clutched the sheet under her chin, covering herself. "Milord!" she 
burst out. She certainly did not need to feign her surprise. "I . . . I . . ."
I practically heard the scowl in his voice. "What are you about?" he demanded.
"I . . . I . . ."
"Well?!"
She suddenly tossed the sheet aside, wisely letting it tumble atop me to further 
hide me, althoughótruth be toldóI'm not entirely certain how effective a 
disguise it would have been, since piles of laundry do not generally tend to 
quiver in fear. "I was . . . waiting for you, milord!" she said, throwing her 
arms wide and no doubt looking rather enticing in her utter nudity. "Take me!"
I still held my breath, which, actually, was no great trick, because my chest 
was so constricted I couldn't exhale if I'd wanted to. My heart had also stopped 
beating, and I was fairly sure my brain was in the process of shutting down. I 
was hoping, praying that Granite would go for the bait. If he did, and she 
distracted him sufficiently, I could creep out on hands and knees while they 
were going at it.
"Take you where?" demanded Granite, never one to pick up on a cue.
"Here! Now!"
He had to go for it. How could he resist? Certainly I couldn't have. Then again, 
I wasn't a knight, at least not yet. Knights were apparently made of sterner 
stuff. Either that or Granite was just too block-stupid to be distracted from 
something confusing to him. Apparently he'd gotten a thought into his head, and 
the damned thing wouldn't be easily dislodged, probably because it was fairly 
quiet in his brain otherwise and the thought enjoyed the solitude.
"How could you have been expecting me when I didn't know I was coming back?" 
demanded Granite.
"I . . ." I heard her lick her lips, which were probably bone dry by that point. 
"I . . . anticipated . . . or hoped, at least . . . that you would return to 
service me once more before you left."
"I didn't. I came back to get my lucky dagger. I forgot it."
"Oh."
If Rosalie had just let that harmless little "Oh" sit there, we might well have 
avoided discovery. He was, after all, perfectly willing to accept that she was a 
nitwit. Unfortunately, because a silence ensued, Rosalie felt the need to fill 
it with words. "Yes. I . . . saw it over there on the wall and knew you'd be 
back."
Granite, unfortunately for us, was able to track the conversation. "You just 
said that you were hoping I'd return to service you. Now you say you knew I'd be 
back for the dagger."
"Yes, I . . . that is to say . . . I . . . that . . ."
There was another dead silence, and I could only imagine the blood draining from 
her face as her poor brain twisted itself about in confusion. I heard the door 
bang suddenly and prayed that he had simply exited with no further words . . . 
but that hope was short-lived as I heard the bolt slam into place.
Granite was no idiot. I had to give him that much. "What," I heard him rumble, 
"is going on?"
I thought furiously at her, as if I could project words into her brain in hopes 
that they would spill out of her mouth. I am . . . tongue-tied by your presence, 
milord . . . I would say anything just in hopes of saying something you want to 
hear, milord . . . I hoped that, in your returning for your dagger, you would 
savage me like a wild animal, milord . . .
Something. Anything.
"Don't . . ." There was a choked sob. "Don't hurt him, milord . . . ."
Anything but that.
I heard a roar then. I think the word "What?!" was in there somewhere, but it 
was like trying to sort out one particular scream from the howling of a 
hurricane. There was a quick sound of steps coming around the bed, and suddenly 
the sheet was yanked off me. My bare ass was still hanging out as I squinted up 
at Granite.
He wasn't moving. He trembled in place, seized with such fury that he could not 
yet budge.
I rolled to my feet, yanking my breeches up as I went. The bed was a huge 
four-poster affair, and I leaned against one of the thick oak bedposts, trying 
to compensate for my fairly useless right leg. I must have been quite the sight 
at that moment. At that age, I was thin and gawky. My arms were well muscled 
from years of hauling myself around while compensating for the lameness of my 
leg. My ears stuck out too much, and I didn't have normal hair so much as a 
thick, wild mane of red that proved annoyingly difficult to brush or style. My 
nose was crooked from the times in the past that it'd been broken. My best 
feature remained my eyes, which were a superb shade of gray, providing me with a 
grim and thoughtful look whenever I put my mind to it. However, I suspect at 
that point that he wasn't exactly concerned with admiring my orbs.
We stood there, frozen in time for half an ice age it seemed. I don't even think 
he quite focused on me at first, as if his brain was so overheated that he 
needed time to fully process the information. "I . . . know you!" he said at 
last. "You're Umbrage's squire! You clean out stables! You're Appletoe!"
"Apropos," I corrected him, and then mentally kicked myself. As if I wasn't in 
enough of a fix, I had to go and remind him of my name. Why didn't I just stick 
my neck out and offer to hack it through for him?
Then I realized he wasn't waiting for an invitation, as I heard the sword being 
drawn before I actually saw it. I took a step back, making sure to play up my 
limp so that I could seem as pathetic as possible.
His eyes were fixed on me, but he was clearly addressing his nude wife. "A 
squire? You cuckold me . . . for a squire? For a shoveler of horse manure? For 
this you shame me?!"
Rosalie was not going to be of any help. Her mouth was moving, but no sounds 
were coming out.
There was no point denying the actual cuckolding. I can be a dazzling liar given 
the right circumstances, but these were certainly not they. So I felt my only 
hope was to try and address the other side of the equation. "Now . . . now t . . 
. t . . . technically, mi . . . milord," I stammered out, "there's been no, uh, 
actual shaming, as it were. No one knows. You, Rosalie, me . . . that is all. 
And if we can agree to, uh . . . keep this among ourselves, then perhaps we can 
just, well . . . forget this all happened, sweep it under the carpet until . . . 
until . . ."
I was going to say, "Until we're all dead and gone." Unfortunately, at that 
moment Rosalie found her voice.
"Until you leave again," she suggested.
He swung his sword around and bellowed like a wounded boar. I tried to back up. 
Not only did my limp impede me, but also my feet became tangled in the sheets 
and I tumbled to the floor. Rosalie let out a shriek.
I considered telling him at that point that he might or might not be my father, 
but that statementóalbeit true enoughóseemed to smack so much of a desperation 
move that I figured it would be perceived as a ploy. So I chose to appeal to the 
one thing which might serve as his weak spot.
"Where's the honor in this?!" I shouted.
He was standing directly over me, his sword drawn back and over his head, ready 
to bring it slamming down like a butcher slaughtering a bull. This was no 
ordinary sword, it should be noted. The damned thing had teeth: jagged edges 
running down either side, particularly useful for ripping and tearing. It was 
also formidable for a good old-fashioned slicing. If the blow had landed, it 
would have cleaved me from crotch to sternum. But he froze, his mustache 
bristling as if acquiring a life all its own. I thought for a moment that it was 
going to rip itself off his lip and come at me. "Honor?" he growled. "You have 
my wife . . . and speak to me of your honor?"
"Your honor, milord, not mine . . . I . . . I am nothing." I spoke as quickly as 
I could. "I am nothing, no one . . . but that, you see . . . that's the point . 
. ."
"What is?" The sword, which had a far more formidable point than any points in 
my repertoire, hadn't moved from its rather threatening position above me.
"Well, milord, obviously . . . when my corpse turns up, and you, as a man of 
honor, why, you'll have to own up to your slaying of me . . . and explain why . 
. ."
"I have no intention of hiding it," he snarled. "Not a man in the court will 
deny my right as a husband!"
"No question." I felt the longer I kept it going, the more chance I had of 
talking him out of what was clearly his intended course. "But look at the 
slaughter situation."
"The . . . what?" The snarl had slightly vanished; he seemed a bit bemused.
"Look at you . . . full in your leathers, your sword in hand, rippling with 
power . . . and here I am, half-naked, on my back, unarmed . . . well, 
honestly!" I continued, as if scolding a recalcitrant child. I couldn't believe 
the tone of voice I was adopting. One would have thought that, in some fashion, 
I possessed the upper hand. "And a lowly, untitled squire with no land or 
privilege at that. Where is the challenge in skewering me? Where is the 
redemption of honor? A stain on your status as husband and man requires 
something more than mere butchery."
I would have felt just a bit better if the sword had wavered by so much as a 
centimeter. It did not. But neither did it come slamming down. "What," he asked, 
"did you have in mind?"
"A duel," I said quickly, not believing that I had managed to get it that far. 
"Tomorrow . . . you and me, facing off against one another in the proper manner. 
Oh, the outcome is foregone, I assure you. I'm but a squire, and lame of leg at 
that. You're . . . well . . . you're you . . ."
"That is very true," he said thoughtfully.
"Certainly you'll massacre me. But if we do it in the manner that I suggest, no 
one can look at you askance and say, 'So . . . you carved a helpless knave. 
Where is the challenge in that?' " I paused and then added boldly, "I'm right, 
milord. You know I am. A husband's honor restored. A philanderer put to rights 
in a way that no one can question. It is the thing to do."
I had him then. I knew that I did. I glanced at Rosalie, praying that she would 
keep her mouth shut and say nothing to spoil the moment. Thank the gods, her 
lips were tightly sealed.
In point of fact, I had no intention of battling Granite on the field of honor. 
The man could break a griffin in half. I wouldn't have had a chance against him; 
he would have driven my head so far down into my body that I would have been 
able to lace my boots with my teeth. Fighting him man to man would be suicide.
I intended to use the night between now and tomorrow to bundle together 
everything that I owned in the worldówhich was, admittedly, not much. Then, 
under cover of darkness, I would slip away. There was a wide world out there 
beyond the kingdom of Isteria, and I couldn't help but feel that there had to be 
sufficient room in it for Apropos. Granted, my flight would be an irretrievable 
besmirching of my honor. To hell with that. Honor did not pay bills, nor keep 
one warm at night. Apropos would disappear; I would take up a new identity. It 
wasn't as if the one that I had was all that wonderful anyway. Start a new life, 
learn a trade, perhaps become a knight eventually somewhere else. Who knew? 
Perhaps, at some point in the future, Granite and I would meet on the 
battlefield. We would face each other, glowering . . . and then, with any luck, 
I'd shoot him with an arrow from a safe distance.
All this occurred to me in a moment's time.
And then Granite said, "I don't care."
That was all the warning I had before the sword swung down toward me.
Fortunately it was warning enough as I rolled out of the way. The sword came 
down with such force that it clanged into the floor and bit right into the 
paving with that jagged edge.
Rosalie shrieked. So did I. Even as I did so, however, I lurched to my feet, 
pushing up with my good leg. I was still clutching the sheet in my hand, and I 
threw it over his head to obscure his vision. At that moment Granite struggled 
with his sword, trying to extricate it from its state of being temporarily 
immobilized, and he sent up a caterwauling that was a fearsome thing to hear. So 
infuriated was he that he had practically lost capacity for speech, instead 
generating a sort of inarticulate grunting.
Picking a general area of the sheet that seemed to represent his head, I drew 
back a fist and struck as hard as I could. My upper-arm strength, as noted, is 
somewhat formidable. I hit him on what felt like the side of his head, probably 
causing a profound ringing in his ears. But by that time he had a firmer grip on 
his sword, and he ripped it from the floor and swung it about so that it 
shredded the sheet, which fell to ribbons around him.
Rosalie was shrieking his name, trying to get his attention. That probably 
wasn't the wisest course. He seemed ready to decapitate her as soon as look at 
her, but at the moment he appeared more interested in getting to me. He swung 
again, cleaving straight down once more. Apparently he didn't have an abundance 
of moves, but the few he did have were devastating if they happened to connect. 
I lunged onto the bed, barely avoiding the sweep. Rosalie adroitly vaulted over 
me as I rolled toward the other side, landing on my feet but not smoothly, and 
stumbling back.
He came after me, his eyes wild, his face turning as red as my hair. He didn't 
seem in the mood to reason.
I heard a pounding at the door. The sounds of commotion had started to attract 
attention. The door, however, was bolted. People were calling Granite's name, 
asking if anything was wrong. Granite didn't bother to respond. I made a motion 
toward the doorway, and he leaped to intercept. He moved with the speed of a 
damned unicorn, cutting off my possible escape route. A sneer of contempt was 
curling his upper lip.
I backpedaled, headed back toward the bed. Symbolic that it should begin and end 
there. Rosalie had wisely vacated the bed by that point, grabbing a dressing 
gown from her wardrobe and tossing it over her nakedness. "Milord, stop! Stop!" 
she said over and over. He seemed disinclined to attend to her wishes, however.
He swung at me and I ducked again, and he hacked right through one of the 
bedposts. It fell into my hand, a length of wood about three feet. It was better 
than nothing, although not much. I gripped it firmly, waited for his next pass. 
It wasn't long in coming. I couldn't let it come into direct contact, because 
he'd just chop right through the wood as he had done a second ago. I stepped 
back, angling the wood, and managed to deflect the flat of his blade, preserving 
my makeshift cudgel for perhaps another second or so.
Granite repositioned himself, the better to get some swinging room so that he 
could properly bisect me. The hammering at the door became louder. Apparently 
others in the castle were being drawn by the sounds of . . . of whatever it was 
they thought they were hearing. Granite still hadn't said anything particularly 
useful, seized as he was in voiceless paroxysms of fury.
He took a step back, and for a moment I thought my salvation was upon me, for he 
stepped on the crystal ball that Rosalie had placed so delicately upon the 
floor. The large crystal rolled under his foot, causing Granite to stumble. I 
tensed, waiting. If he went down, I might have a chance to run madly for the 
door. I don't know how likely escape would have been in that situation; there 
were apparently knights crowding in on the other side, and the moment that 
Granite managed to find his voice, they might very well seize me bodily and hold 
me still so that Granite could finish the job. But I was dealing with one crisis 
at a time.
He went to one knee, but it was the most fleeting of pauses. Then he was on his 
feet once more, holding the crystal ball and glowering at it as if the thing had 
been sentient and tried to trip him out of spite. I made a desperate bolt for 
the door, but only got a short distance when he froze me with a glance. I stood 
paralyzed some feet away, my body sideways to him with my lame right leg facing 
him.
The perpetually screaming Rosalie made a grab for him from the back. He shoved 
her away without even looking at her, cocked his arm, and let fly with the 
crystal ball. It hurtled toward me at roughly chest-high level. From the size of 
the thing and the speed with which it was moving, it would easily have broken 
any bone with which it came into contact.
My next action was entirely instinctive. With my right leg useless, I pushed off 
with my left, driving my body weight forward. As I did so, I swung the cudgel, 
keeping my eye on the crystal ball.
I was nothing but fortunate that Granite had thrown the crystal ball fast and 
hard. If he had put any sort of spin onto the thing, causing it to move in, say, 
a curve, I never would have hit it. As it was, it was nothing short of 
miraculous that I made contact at all.
When the cudgel struck it, I felt a shudder that ran all the way down to my 
elbows. The cudgel shattered when it hit the crystal ball, and the sphere 
rocketed right back at Granite. It struck him soundly in the forehead and bridge 
of the nose, before falling to the floor and rolling serenely away. I'm not sure 
what that damned thing was made of, but Rosalie had certainly gotten her money's 
worth. It seemed indestructible.
Granite stood there with an utterly stunned expression. His eyes crossed, his 
hands went slack . . .
. . . and his sword clattered to the ground.
"Sir Granite!" The shouting increased from the other side of the door. There was 
now concerted pounding against it. Perhaps those on the other side had become 
even more alarmed at the sudden cessation of noise.
I threw myself across the floor, skidding on my stomach, and grabbed the fallen 
pigsticker. If I could keep the bastard at sword-point, I might just be able to 
reason with him somehow. I angled the sword upward, and was about to issue a 
warning to him to stay right where he was. I then realized just how profound an 
effect the crystal ball had had upon Granite, for the knight chose that moment 
to fall forward like a great tree.
Naturally he fell on the sword.
Rosalie emitted a shriek, as her husband's fine, teeth-bladed weapon suddenly 
appeared protruding from his back. Granite, for his own part, hadn't said 
anything especially useful in the past few minutes, and his record didn't 
change. He gave off a confused-sounding grunt. He slid down the length of his 
blade without having any true awareness that he had just managed to kill 
himself. There seemed to be a sort of blubbery surprise in his face. Having 
slightly broken his fall by catching himself on his elbows, he saw that I was 
clutching the sword's hilt. He batted me away, as if annoyed that I was handling 
his beloved weapon. He clutched the hilt himself then, pulled slightly, and it 
was at that point that he truly understood, I think, that his entire upper torso 
was serving as the blade's new scabbard. He managed to spit out a profanity, 
which is not the most noble of last words, but probably among the more common, 
and then he slumped over, unmoving.
There was now a repeated thud against the chamber door. Several of the knights 
were obviously putting their shoulders into it in an organized fashion.
"This is not going to look good," I observed. Considering the circumstances, I 
sounded remarkably sanguine. The truth was that I was terrified, and it was all 
I could do not to vomit.
Rosalie made small whimpering noises, not appearing to be of much help. I was 
going to have to do the thinking for both of us. Unfortunately, my brain 
somewhat locked up at that moment, but I forced it to unfreeze as I whispered 
sharply, "My tunic! Quick!" Rosalie grabbed my fallen clothing and tossed it to 
me. I threw it on so that I would have the appearance, at least, of propriety.
"Hide! Hide!" she urged.
"No time! Just yell what I'm yelling, and do it as loudly as you can!"
"But they'll hear you!"
"That's the point!" And without further explanation, I began bellowing, "Don't 
do it, milord! You have so much to live for!" Bless the old fool, he'd had the 
grace to die with his cold, dead fingers wrapped firmly around the hilt. All the 
more convincing for my needs as I wrapped my own fingers around his dead ones (a 
nauseating sensation, that) and kept calling out, "Please don't! Don't do it! 
They're not worth it! We need you! This isn't the way!"
Rosalie appeared clueless as to what I was about, but she went along with it. At 
first she spoke with clear hesitation and uncertainty, but within moments she 
yowled as well, "No, my darling! Don't do it! Listen to Apropos! Don't do it!" 
Obviously she wasn't quite clear on what it was he wasn't supposed to do, but 
that didn't stop her from participating with considerable gusto.
At that point, the door cracked open, the bolt shooting across the room and 
ricocheting off the far wall, and the knights fairly stumbled over each other to 
get into the room. Sir Coreolis of the Middle Lands was the first one in, with 
Sir Justus of the High Born directly behind him. Others were crowding in, and I 
could even spot my masterómy alleged master, in any eventóSir Umbrage trying to 
get a look. There was gasping and muttering, and suddenly the words "Make way! 
Make way!"
They parted like priests in a fart factory as the king stepped through them to 
examine the situation personally. At his right elbow, as was not unusual, 
crouched the court jester, Odclay. They could not have been a more disparate 
twosome. The king, for all that I might have held Runcible in contempt, was 
nonetheless a regal figure with great bearing and presence. He looked somewhat 
like a hawk, his entire face almost pushed forward as if he was in flight and 
seeking out prey with his beak. His reputation as a just and fair man, and 
supernaturally canny opponent, preceded him. Preceded him so much, in fact, that 
oftentimes he had to run to keep pace with it. His queen was a gentle, doting, 
and relatively inoffensive thing, and had produced for the king his sole heir 
(heiress, I suppose), the Princess Entipy, whom I had never met.
Odclay, on the other hand, was bent and misshapen. A few tufts of light brown 
hair stuck out at odd angles on his equally misshapen head, and his eyes were 
mismatched colors . . . and the colors kept changing. He was good for capering 
about and drooling every now and then. He was screamingly unfunny and therein 
lay the humor.
Runcible did not speak immediately. That was his way. I was never quite sure 
whether he did it deliberately so that he would appear great and wise as people 
waited for him to utter a few words (as was the general perception) or whether 
he was just so clueless that he never knew what the hell to say and had to 
strive mightily to manufacture even the most rudimentary of pronouncements.
"What . . ." he finally asked in slow, measured tones, " happened?"
Rosalie looked panic-stricken. She had been babbling about how Granite should 
not do it, whatever it was. But now faced with the question, she had no clue as 
to how to proceed. Fortunately enough, my mind was already racing. Near-panic 
tends to focus me.
Letting out a long sigh, clearly not wanting to be the bearer of bad news, I 
slumped and only at that point released the hilt. I made no endeavor to hide the 
fact that my hands had been on it. Only a guilty man would feel the need to hide 
his involvement, and I was anything but guilty. At least, that's what I had to 
put across.
"Sir Granitz," I began, using his more formal name rather than his popular 
nickname, "was devastated over the outcome of the Pell uprising."
"Go on," the king said slowly.
"Well . . . his presence here makes it obvious, doesn't it," I continued. "I 
mean, you, Highness, sent him on a mission . . . but yet, he has returned here. 
He did so because . . . because he felt that he was not . . ." I bowed my head. 
" . . . not worthy. Not worthy of the trust that you had put on him."
I paused then, waiting to get some measure of how this was going down. The king 
considered the words long and hard.
"Go on."
Clearly the king was not going to be of much help.
I decided I sounded too calm, considering the circumstances. So the next bit 
came out all in a rush.
"He was consumed by second-guessing what happened with Pell. Here he was asked 
to put down a simple uprising, and it resulted in a loss to Your Highness of tax 
income . . . and yet, to Granitz, that was not the worst of it. No. No, he had a 
side that he hid from all of you . . . hid from everyone except for the Lady 
Rosalie, of course. A softer side, a side that was . . . was . . . was . . ." I 
was stuck, and I slammed the floor with my fist to get myself going again. " . . 
. was distraught, yes . . . distraught over the loss of life. The women, the 
children of Pell, crying out, consumed in fire . . ."
"I thought he set the fire," said Coreolis in polite confusion.
"Yes! Yes, he did, he set the fire and he ordered the slaughter, but that 
doesn't mean that inside him, there wasn't a . . . another side, a softer side, 
that cried out against what he was doing. A softer side that would not let him 
rest. Call it a conscience if you will, call it a spark of the divine, call it 
guilt if you must . . . call it whatever you wish, but understand that it 
completely undermined and unmanned him."
"Unmanned him." The words spread like skin rot throughout the gathering.
"What were you doing here?" That was Sir Justus, and he sounded suspicious.
"Happenstance, milord. Pure happenstance. I was passing by the door and I heard 
what sounded like . . . sobbing. It was so high-pitched, so womanish, that I 
naturally assumed it to be a damsel in distress. Even a humble squire must 
attend to such a situation when it presents itself. That, at least, is what my 
good lord and master, Sir Umbrage, has taught me."
He had, in fact, taught me nothing of the kind. Nonetheless, the other knights 
looked at him and nodded in approval, and he took their acknowledgments with 
clear pride over having done his job well.
"So I entered, inquiring as to what I could possibly do to render aid . . . and 
discovered, to my amazement, Sir Granitz in the midst of the most terrible 
lamentations."
"The Granite one? Nonsense!" said a skeptical Justus. I was not ecstatic about 
the way the burly knight was looking at me. "In all the years, I never heard him 
utter so much as one lament. Not a one."
There was murmuring assent from the others. I did not like how this was going, 
so I raised my voiceóa chancy enough proposition, considering the circumstances 
I was facingóand said, "And in all those years, did 'the Granite One' ever once 
let down his king in the way that he recently had?"
Momentary silence fell over the room as they racked their brains trying to 
recall such a happenstance. Giving them time to ponder was the last thing I 
wanted to do, however. I limped in a circle, accentuating my bad leg, to appear 
all the more pathetic . . . and also, ideally, all the more helpless in the face 
of an uncaring and overwhelming fate. "Did it ever occur to any of you that 
perhaps there were softer aspects of himself that he kept hidden? Hidden deep 
down so that it would elude your collective notice? A heart that bled when his 
enemies bled, a heart that felt the pain of every loss. But his head, milords . 
. . his head would not allow any of you good knights to see that which he 
himself found so repulsive: his gentler side. Why do you think he was so 
formidable at war on the field, eh? Because he was accomplished at being at war 
with himself! Yes, milords, with himself. But this most recent, crushing 
indignity, this devastating failure . . . it was too much. The years of 
repression burst from him."
I took a moment to try and compose myself, but only a moment, because as soon as 
one of them even started to form a sentence, I was off again. "The instant I 
entered, he bolted the door to make sure that no others would follow. 
Overwrought and ashamed of himself, he knew he could not face you, my king, 
after he felt he had failed you. Nor did he feel that he could face you good 
sirs, knowing that this more tender side was . . . and there is no delicate way 
to put it, milords . . . out of control. He felt the only honor left to him was 
a respectable death. But I," and I clenched my fist, "did not agree. I begged 
him to reconsider, to think of all the carnage and slaughter that he could still 
inflict. There was so much death left for him to live for. But he wouldn't 
attend my words, milords, no, he wouldn't." I made a visible effort to keep back 
the tears. "With those great hands of his, those great hands that have throttled 
so many, he tried to drive his sword into his mighty chest." There were gasps 
now. I was reasonably sure I had them, but I didn't let up. My voice went up an 
octave, to properly project my fear and terror. It wasn't much of an acting 
chore. If I didn't get the job done, they'd see through this crap I was hurling 
at them and have me executed, most likely right on the spot. "I struggled with 
him, milords. As presumptuous, as doomed to failure as that may sound, I tried 
to stop him. I'm sorry, Sir Umbrage," I said to my master as humbly as I could. 
"You have taught me" (no he hadn't, see above) "to obey the wishes of a knight, 
whatever the circumstance. But I could not do so here. I wanted to try and save 
one of the king's own greats. I wanted to be . . . to be a hero, milords. To be 
like you." This brought nods of approval. My heart was pounding. "And then . . . 
and thenó"
"And then . . . then it was amazing, milords!" Rosalie suddenly cried out. I 
felt my heart sink into my boots. One false word out of her and the entire thing 
was done for. But Rosalie rose to the challenge. "My husband's strength . . . 
it's . . . it's legendary. But this young man, this squire, nearly matched him 
pound for pound, milords! He came so close, so close to saving the life of my 
noble husband, your noble peer. But . . . ultimately . . . he . . ." She choked 
on the words. "He . . . could not. My noble lord threw himself upon the upraised 
blade of his mighty weapon. 'With honor' were the last words he managed to gasp 
out . . . and then was cleaved in half the great heart."
It was damned near poetic. Even the vaunted Justus himself was becoming choked 
up.
There was dead silence. I realized that all eyes were turning toward the king. 
There might have been suspicion, confusion on the parts of the other knights, 
but ultimately, it all came down to the king. His thinking shaped the reality.
His gaze never waved from me. As withering an opinion as I'd earlier formed of 
him, I felt myself starting to get nervous. His reputation for incisiveness and 
canniness had to be based on something. If he'd seen through the nonsense, I was 
finished.
And finally, he said two words and only two:
"Good work." And then, with no further comment, he turned and left the room, the 
jester cavorting and drooling after him.
The relief that flowed through me caused me to sag and almost collapse, but I 
managed to catch myself before that happened. The other knights came forward, 
clapping me on the shoulder, clucking over the corpse of their fallen comrade, 
and offering succor to the lovely Rosalie. Rosalie in turn caught my eye and 
there seemed to be a slight glittering triumph in there, as if to say, See? I 
could spout nonsense as well as you. Clearly, she could. And she was in an 
excellent position as well. As widow, she would acquire all of Granite's lands 
and titles, and no doubt have a number of eligible men courting her. She 
wouldn't require the attentions of a lowly squire and stablehand, which was fine 
by me. As entertaining between the sheets as she was, I didn't need the 
aggravation. Besides, if anyone caught sight of us together or any whispering 
began about us, it could utterly shred the tissue of lies that was, at that 
point, my means of salvation.
Several knights had pushed Granite's corpse out of the way like so much refuse, 
and they were talking to me pridefully of honor and bravery. I said nothing in 
reply, because really, there was no point. They were speaking to hear their own 
voices, not to elicit comments from me. I bobbed my head, smiled, stated my 
appreciation for their well wishes, and counted myself damned lucky all in all.
I wasn't like the others, you see. I had no particular dreams of glory, no 
desire to do great things, go off on dangerous quests and the like. I simply 
wanted to survive, get some lands, acquire a title perhaps, avenge myself on my 
father, and find one particular man and kill him, all in the least hazardous 
means possible, and then retire in comfort. Until I managed to do that, I 
intended to keep my head down whenever and wherever I could.
One, however, attains power by being noticed. So I was walking a fine line, 
drawing attention to myself and casting myself to be as brave as any of the 
lords of the manor, while at the same time taking care to keep my head on my 
shoulders. That was my goal: the illusion of danger, as I liked to call it.
"Apropos . . ."
I turned and saw that the king had reentered. All became silent once more.
"I have a fairly hazardous mission to be assigned. I think you are just the man 
for it. Report in one hour." He nodded as a means of indicating that the meeting 
was over, and then exited once more.
"You lucky bastard," said Coreolis.
"Handpicked by the king for a dangerous job," Justus said. "I remember the first 
time I drew such an honor." He held up his right hand, which was missing three 
fingers. "Got off lightly for it. Damned lucky to have my opportunity. And now 
you'll get yours."
And as I felt a chill down my spine, I couldn't help but feel that the ghost of 
Granite was thinking that exact same thing, and laughing in anticipation of me 
getting mine.
 
 
Chapter 2
 
I am by trade neither writer nor historian; I am merely a master of fabrication, 
which I am told is all one requires to take up either of the aforementioned 
pursuits. I am also told that readers require something of an immediate 
natureópreferably something involving actionóto draw them into a narrative. If 
nothing else, apparently, it gives the reader an idea of where the story is 
going to go. I can sympathize with that requirement. I have lived my life with 
not the faintest clue as to where it was going, walking an extremely angled and 
treacherous path in order to arrive at no place that I actually started out to 
get to. I've had no choice in doing so since, of course, it was my life and I 
had to live it. You, the reader, on the other hand, are entering my life 
voluntarily, and it would be the greatest cruelty to subject you to the same 
aimless sense of confusion that has permeated my existence. So the preceding 
chapter existed primarily to give you some footing, some certainty about my 
life, which is certainly more than I ever had.
Now that, ideally, you have been drawn into what I laughingly refer to as my 
career, I shall go back and recommence the narrative at the only truly proper 
place for it: the beginning. This, I assure you, will bring us back to the false 
beginningówhich will actually be somewhere around the middle by the time we 
rendezvous with it. The ending will arrive in its own time, as it often does. So 
. . . let us begin.
I never actually knew my mother's name.
That's not to say she wasn't there. It's just that she never told me. Oh, she 
told me an assortment of monikers that she collected in the way that the 
underside of a bed collects dust. She would choose a different name from month 
to month, sometimes from week to week, depending upon her mood. I'm not entirely 
certain why she adopted this odd practice. Perhaps she was anxious to distance 
herself from whoever or whatever she once was. Perhaps she sought out a fanciful 
existence and thought that varied names would bring her a bit closer to that 
aspiration. Perhaps she was just crazy.
I will, for convenience's sake and the sanity of the reader, refer to her by the 
name she bore at the time that she also bore me, and that name was Madelyne.
Madelyne was a rather ordinary-looking woman. Once she was a pretty enough 
thing, but that had been many years before I made her acquaintance. She did not 
speak all that much of her early life. But based on things that she occasionally 
let slip, plus rather coarse comments that were made by others, I suspect that 
she got herself pregnant at a young age, possibly by some knight errant. Knights 
fascinated Madelyne, even at a tender age. She was prone to worshipping them, 
and indulged in that tendency by worshipping them while prone. An assignation 
with a knight was a dream come true for her. For him, I would assume, it was 
merely a lark, a tumble in the high grass with a willing young thing from the 
town. He went on his way, and about a month later, she went on her knees one 
morning and vomited rather convulsively, seized in the unloving arms of morning 
sickness.
She could have tried to abort the child, but no one valued life more devotedly, 
or more foolishly, than Madelyne. I say foolish because people who attribute any 
sort of miracle to life can only be considered fools. We humans pat ourselves on 
the back, strutting and preening when we manage to pop out a single child, and 
I've seen dragons lay nests of a half dozen eggs or more. Even the most common 
creature can generate the biological process that is reproduction. Life, 
miraculous? Nonsense. Putting infants on this planet, there's nothing miraculous 
about that. What's miraculous is when we let them live to grow out of infancy.
Upon informing her loving and understanding parents of her pregnancy, she was 
summarily shown the door by her father and informed that her presence would no 
longer be required, because they resided in a decent house, by God. A house of 
respect, a house of peace, where such things simply didn't happen.
In case you're thinking that my mother was sent out into the snow with poor, 
helpless little Apropos couched within her womb, you can set that aside right 
now. Would that my own conception had been that . . . tidy.
With nowhere to go and none to take care of her, Madelyne resolved to care for 
herself. But a mere two weeks later, as she lay within the makeshift shelter she 
had created deep in the Elderwoods, Madelyne curled up in pain, her guts 
twisting and on fire. Thunder cracked overhead, adding a sense of morbid drama 
to the entire business. Melodrama aside, the outcome was that there was a puddle 
of bloody mess pooled around her by the following morning. Poor Madelyne. If she 
had only managed to keep her mouth shut, nature would have disposed of her 
indiscretion in its own good time.
But despite the loss of her child, she was still out of luck. Her father had 
made abundantly clear to her that she was no longer welcome in his home, having 
violated the strict rules of propriety set down. Pregnant she might no longer 
have been, but strumpet and tramp she quite permanently was. Since there was no 
going back, Madelyne opted to go forward.
She wandered, sticking primarily to the back roads and less-traveled areas, 
wanting to avoid the more common paths frequented by highwaymen. It was a brutal 
and grueling time for her, but when she recounted it for me, she tried to turn 
it into a grand adventure. She spoke to me of creatures that she had encountered 
. . . unicorns, dragons, and the occasional werecreature. If she was to be 
believed, the Elderwoods were simply crawling with such wondrous beasts.
Her most fanciful tale was her description of stumbling upon the birth of a 
phoenix. Such things happen with great rarity, particularly considering that 
there is only one phoenix at a time, reborn from the ashes of its predecessor.
Madelyne claimed that it was a particularly cold and bitter night when she 
witnessed "the event," as she was wont to call it. She was huddled within a 
makeshift shelter of well-placed branches, shivering against the elements 
because she had no money to stay at an inn, and she had been unable to secure 
any sort of gainful employment, times being what they were (as they so often 
are). She felt her toes and fingers going numb as she lay curled up, and flexed 
them as much as she could to try and restore circulation to them.
And then she felt something very curious. It was warm air, wafting in her 
direction. On such a cold night, it was hard for her to guess from whence such 
warmth might be originating. But if there was a heat source anywhere to be had, 
then she was quite determined that it should serve her as well as anyone else. 
The possibility did not escape her that it might be a fire lit by the exact type 
of criminal, robber, or highway bandit that caused her such concern, but at that 
moment she was not especially inclined to be concerned about anything other than 
avoiding freezing to death.
She made her way through the Elderwoods, following the heat source, blowing into 
her palms to try and get some bit of warmth into her hands, since her threadbare 
gloves were affording her almost no protection at all. There was a clearing just 
ahead of her, and what she saw astounded her.
A massive, birdlike creature was enveloped in flames.
She had never seen anything like it, although at first she fancied she was 
witnessing the pitiless slaying of a roc or some other creature. She looked 
around to try and spot whatever vicious hunters might have brought the poor 
animal to such straits. But slowly she came to realize that she was, in fact, 
the only human being in the area. She also realized that the creature was being 
immolated, not from without, but from within. The creature itself generated the 
flames consuming it, from deep within its own fiery heart. Nor was the creature 
crying out in any way, indicating that there was no pain involved. Indeed, it 
appeared to accept its fate with quiet, dignified resignation.
Within moments, the creature had been reduced to a huge pile of ashes. Even at 
that point, she didn't fully comprehend what it was that she was seeing. The 
fact was, she was concerned only about her own chill, and the growling of her 
belly reminded her that she had not eaten in some time. She took a step toward 
the pile of ashes in a vague sort of hope that there might be bits or parts of 
the birdófreshly cooked, of courseóupon which she could dine.
Before she got anywhere near the ashes, however, they began to stir. It was a 
subtle movement, but enough to fully capture her attention and startle her out 
of her wits. She bolted back to relatively safe cover behind the trees and 
watched with goggle-eyed amazement as the ashes suddenly scattered to the wind, 
thus revealing a bird that was clearly in the image of the one which had just 
died. At first she thought that somehow the creature had survived, but quickly 
she realized that it was impossible. This new animal was utterly unscarred by 
any flame. Not a feather was so much as lightly scorched.
That was when she realized, finally, what she was seeing.
The phoenix stretched its wings to their full span, which my mother claimed was 
as wide as ten men. Its head pitched back and it let rip to the sky a screech so 
earsplitting, Madelyne maintained that forever after she had a slight ringing in 
her ears. Then the phoenix flapped its mighty wings, beating the ashes into a 
great cloud of soot, before leaping skyward with a final resounding caw and 
disappearing into the night sky.
My mother took this as a sign. An omen if you will. For a person does not 
witness one of the rarest occurrences in all of nature and un-nature and not be 
changed by such a moment. There are those who believe, for instance, that to 
view a shooting star is to be forewarned of some coming great birth or death. 
How much greater significance, then, was it to be spectator at an event of such 
rarity that it was mythic? By seeing the death and rebirth of the phoenix, by 
being guided there via destiny's mischievous hand, my mother became convinced 
that she was meant for a great destiny as well. Since death and birth were 
involved, she was quite certain that it had something to do with one, or both, 
of those processes.
I can't blame her, I suppose. She was alone, and scared, and really rather 
young. It was a foolish attitude for her to have, but it helped get her through 
the night.
The next morning, reinvigorated and convinced that she would have a great 
destiny if only she was willing to go out and find it, Madelyne set out to make 
something of herself. She took the main roads, no longer fearing highwaymen. Her 
reasoning was that whatever greatness she was intended for, it was certainly not 
to be accosted by robbers and then killed when she was unable to provide them 
with any money. Part of me shudders at the thought of such misplaced confidence. 
On the other hand, she traveled in that manner for a week without being molested 
or harassed in any way by anyone, so perhaps Madelyne did indeed know what she 
was about.
After a lengthy journey, she entered the outlying borders of the state of 
Isteria. King Rufus DeVane, who found himself beset by several neighboring 
chieftains who were would-be monarchs, governed Isteria at that time. DeVane was 
generally considered to be a weak ruler at best, although he tried as hard as he 
could to rule the land with an iron hand. Of those who challenged his rule, his 
major competitor was one Runcible the Crafty (a name that he himself had 
fostered and seemed rather pleased to maintain). Runcible was known as a man of 
few words, preferring to let his actions talk for him. When he did speak, it was 
of an idealized realm in which his followersóhis knights, as he would make 
themówould fight on behalf of justice and tolerance, introducing a new golden 
age to the land.
All this talk was well and good, and of little interest to the peasants who 
watched the warfare go on year after year, and cared not a whit for politics. 
The odds were that whatever happened in the great castles of the land, and 
whoever it was who might be in charge, the average citizen would continue his 
life unchanged once all the shouting was done.
Finally, in her wanderings, Madelyne came upon a place of business known as 
Stroker's Inn, which wasóunsurprisinglyóowned and operated by a gentleman named 
Stroker.
Perhaps "gentleman" is not exactly the right word. "Brute" might be more on 
target, as would "thug," "bastard," and "bloody bastard." Stroker was massively 
built, with thighs the size of ham hocks and a mind as sharp as . . . well . . . 
ham hocks. Deucedly two-faced, Stroker was generally attentive and caring to his 
customers, and a total cretin when it came to his staff. However, much to 
Madelyne's "luck" (if such a word can be applied to the circumstance), Stroker 
was in need of help since another serving wench of his had been inconsiderate 
enough to die of food poisoning . . . generated, naturally, by Stroker's 
kitchen, although he denied it utterly.
So when Madelyne came to him, looking for a place to stay and for gainful 
employment, Stroker was happy to accommodate her. She knew from his loutish jaw, 
his unshaven face, his squinting left eye, his multiple chins, and the raspy 
cough which he had had for years (which I could only hope signaled the presence 
of some lethal illness)óshe knew from all this that he was going to be a 
problem.
Which, of course, he was.
Before you get the wrong idea, no: Stroker didn't endeavor to have his way with 
her. You'd have thought he was exactly the type who would engage in such 
practices, but the opposite was true. He had no desire for or interest in 
assailing the questionable virtue of any of the women in his employ. He liked to 
claim that he was not interested in taking any risks of either contracting 
diseases or putting more brats into the world. A few suggested under their 
breaths, and far from his hearing, that perhaps he preferred his meat from the 
other side of the cow. In retrospect, knowing what I know of him and recalling 
his overall brutality and nastiness, my suspicion is that he simply wasn't 
capable. Couldn't quite get his sword out of the sheath, as they say. It would 
certainly explain his overall frustration with women in general. To have 
something so near and yet so far, the distance measured by . . . inches . . .
I think I've made my point.
But Stroker was hard on my mother in other ways. Harder than he was on the other 
girls, because they simply worked there, but had somewhere else to go when their 
workday was done. Husbands or parents, or even a simple hovel of their own. But 
not Madelyne, not my mother. She had none to care for her and nowhere to go. So 
Stroker gave her a small room that no one ever used because it was so far from 
the hearth that it was beyond freezing much of the time, even in the summer. My 
mother, though, was a veteran of nights in the forest, and so such extremes of 
temperature didn't daunt her. At least she could curl up upon a mattress, thin 
and pathetic as it might be, and she didn't have to worry about rain or snow 
upon her head. It was still a consideration since the roof leaked, but she was 
able to position herself so that none of it fell upon her.
Stroker endeavored to "push" my mother in other directions as well during her 
stay there. Particularly he urged her to provide . . ."company" . . . for the 
men who came by, for my mother was a comely wench and men asked after her. But 
she declined, politely but firmly. Stroker was the sort of brute who was 
perfectly capable of forcing her to bend to his will, but first and foremost he 
was concerned about his customers, and he was worried that an unwilling woman 
could claw up a patron's face, or worse, slip a knife between his ribs. So he 
did nothing to press the matter. She thought he'd forgotten about it. Actually, 
he was simply biding his time.
So Madelyne remained there, having found her niche, and becoming something of a 
fixture at the bar and inn. One day was pretty much like the next.
That is not to say that nothing changed in Isteria. King DeVane, as many 
suspected would happen, was forced out. Runcible came into power and, displaying 
mercy, exiled the fallen DeVane. Runcible's mercy was greeted with anger from 
DeVane, whoóas he passed into banishmentóswore a terrible oath that he would 
avenge himself upon Runcible one day. From what I heard, he swore even greater 
oaths a week later when someone, or perhaps a band of someones, went to his 
place of exile, and threw him bodily into a mile-deep canyon. Thus died DeVane, 
who might be alive today and perhaps even back in power somehow, if he'd only 
kept his big mouth shut at what could only be considered an inopportune time.
King Runcible sent royal proclamations far and wide, speaking of the new era 
that was to exist under his reign. The proclamations meant little to much of the 
populace, which was understandable considering most of them couldn't read the 
damned things. Those who could shrugged a bit and said that they would have to 
see it to believe it.
One has to credit Runcible's knights. They made a superb show of it. Jousts and 
open functions were held to which all inhabitants of the realm were invited, and 
they marveled at the knights' strength and power. But such warfare was for 
display only. Actual disputes had to be settled by ways other than trial by 
combat, which had been the method of choice. Instead, Runcible himself became a 
prime adjudicator, listening thoughtfully to disputes that were brought before 
him, saying little other than asking a few prodding questions, and then 
returning with a reasoned and fair decision. Runcible and his knights were quite 
well thought of in our little piece of the world.
And Madelyne was no less adoring of knights than she had ever been. She would 
speak of them constantly, in wide-eyed and impressed tones. Stroker kept saying 
that he found her incessant speculations tiresome, but she gave it no mind. 
Then, all unexpectedly, matters came to a head.
It was a dark and stormy night.
There had been a good deal of talk around the realm, far more than usual, about 
the activities of Runcible and his knights. There had been talk of a convocation 
of dragons which had been razing some of the eastern territories, although it 
had been unclear as to whether they were acting independently, or were in the 
employ of some individualóroyalty or sorcerous, it was open to much dispute. But 
what everyone knew for certain was that Runcible's men had ridden out in force, 
and although some heavy casualties had been sustained, they had managed to beat 
back the threat.
Indeed, that evening at Stroker's, the storminess of the night was being 
attributed by some to the wrath of the Dragon God. Various customers, huddled in 
against the weather's ferocity, suggested that the hard rain falling was 
actually the Dragon God's tears, and the lightning cracking through the sky was 
the flashing of his eyes. Others ventured a related theory, that the battle 
between good and evil had been raised from the physical to the spiritual plane, 
and what was being seen on earth was nothing less than a full-scale war between 
order and chaos. There was also one poor bastard who attributed lightning and 
thunder to superheated particles too small for the eye to detect. He was driven 
out into the storm for his blasphemy and was promptly struck and killed by 
lightning, which caused a good laugh amongst the customers at Stroker's that 
evening.
Abruptly the door burst open, and in clanked about half a dozen knights in 
armor. It was, I am told, an impressive sight. They were huge, weathered men, 
but surprisingly seemed none the worse for wear. That was something of an 
accomplishment considering how foul the conditions were outside. There was a 
seventh man as well, although he was not armored but rather heavily cloaked . . 
. perhaps a druid, my mother would later speculate, or a retainer, or a priest 
or a squire, or even a magic user . . . a weaver, as they were called. Weavers 
didn't happen to wander into the area of Stroker's all that often. They tended 
to stick to the routes where the heavier thread lines were, and Stroker's was 
off the main thread paths. That was by design rather than happenstance. Stroker 
didn't particularly like weavers, and he'd carefully had the area sounded to 
make certain it was a weak junction for threads (or "ley lines," as some others 
called them). Weavers tended to show up, eat your food, drink your mead, then 
tap into the threads and convince you that they had paid you for everything. 
This was not grief that Stroker needed.
For a moment, no one said anything. Then everyone (except the knights) jumped 
slightly as the thunder rumbled so loudly that it seemed to have taken up 
residence within the inn itself. Stroker was clearly unsure whether the knights 
meant trouble or not. He came halfway around the bar and stood there, leaving 
the broadsword that he kept behind the bar for trouble within easy reach. 
Although he must have been a bit concerned, for he was outnumbered and not in a 
position to display a true show of force.
It did not, however, matter in the end. One of the knightsópresumably the one of 
highest rankótook a step forward, his armor glistening in the candlelight. When 
he spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "We seek a private room so that we 
may take food and drink and entertain ourselves in relative quiet, away from 
prying eyes. And we wish to have our own serving girl, who will attend to all 
our needs."
The fact that the knights had not immediately torn the place apart apparently 
emboldened Stroker, who coughed a couple of times loudly and then said, "And I 
am to provide this for you out of the goodness of my heart?"
The knight reached into the folds of his cape and withdrew a small bag. He 
balanced it in his palm for a moment, as if weighing and considering the 
contents, and then he tossed it to Stroker in a casual underhand manner. Stroker 
caught it and glanced inside. Apparently there were enough gold coins within to 
satisfy even his avarice.
"That should suffice to obtain the services we requested," said the knight, and 
after a pause he added, "with funds left over to buy a round of drinks for 
everyone in this fine establishment."
This elicited a salutary cheer from the other patrons. There is no great trick 
to commanding the loyalty of a group of drunkards. Buy them drinks, and they're 
yours.
Now, it should be noted that during all of this Madelyne was watching from the 
corner, enraptured. She had seen but one knight in her life, and from what she 
told me, he could not begin to compare in magnificence to even the least of this 
group of soldiers who had wandered into her place of business. Unconsciously she 
began fiddling with her hair, straightening her potato sack of a skirt. Stroker 
must have noticed her fussing, because he turned to her and called her over. She 
came to him immediately.
"You belong to those gentlemen for the evening," growled Stroker, "and will 
attend to all their needs. Take them to . . ." He appeared to consider options, 
and then said, " . . . the Majestic Suite." He had raised his voice a bit when 
he said it so that the knights would hear. Most of them didn't seem to care. The 
one who had been doing the talking tossed off a small salute.
She stared at him blankly. "The what?"
With an irritated nod of his head, he said, "The room in the back. You know."
She did indeed know the room in the back. It was hard for there to be any 
confusion, considering that there was only one room there. But it had never been 
called Majestic or anything else other than the back room. Madelyne, in many 
ways, was still rather naÔveóat least until that night's events were overóand 
she didn't grasp that Stroker might be posturing for the benefit of the knights. 
So she mentally shrugged and guided the knights to the back room. Their apparent 
leader glanced around with an air of vague indifference and simply said, "This 
will do."
There was a long table down the middle, with benches on either side. The knights 
took positions on the benches and Madelyne proceeded to serve them. The knights 
did not address her directly, but instead talked among themselves in low, 
cautious tones. Madelyne suspected that they were discussing affairs of state, 
secret matters that were meant for the ears of knights and kings and none other. 
She made sure to keep the drink flowing, biting back her natural inquisitiveness 
and instead being content to bask in their presence.
Minutes became hours. The storm had continued unabated, prompting a number of 
the customers to refrain from going outside. Consequently they had simply fallen 
asleep in their seats or at their tables, some of them with their drinks in 
hand. Madelyne moved among the snoring crowd, maneuvering effortlessly with more 
mugs of mead for the knights in the back room. The only other individual 
remaining awake at that point was Stroker. Nothing seemed to faze him.
When Madelyne walked into the back room with the drinks, she felt a little trill 
of warning down the back of her neck. The knights were looking at her in a way 
that they hadn't before. Indeed, earlier it had seemed as if they were barely 
noticing her presence, beyond the fact that she was the means by which they 
acquired more drink. But now they were studying her, appraising her, and 
apparently liking what they were seeing.
My mother, the poor thing, was flattered. She ignored the little buzz of alarm 
and instead chose to be pleased that she was garnering that sort of attention 
from such noble personages.
She placed the mugs down in front of each of them, thunk, thunk, thunk, just as 
she had repeatedly during the many hours prior to that. In those cases, their 
hands had immediately wrapped around the handles as if afraid that someone would 
burst in and steal their beverages. This time, no one did so. They didn't appear 
to notice the drinks were there. Their concentration remained upon her.
The fact that she was so much the center of attention actually emboldened her, 
when it should have warned her to get the hell out of the room . . . not that it 
likely would have made a difference. "Gentlemen . . . I know none of your 
names," she said, imagining that she sounded rather saucy. "Here I've been 
serving you all this time, and we haven't been properly introduced. I know you 
not . . . nor do you know me."
"We don't need to," said another one of the knights.
"Oh." She wasn't quite certain what else to say in such a circumstance, with a 
reply that seemed so harsh. "Well . . ." She curtsied slightly and then said, 
"If you will be needing anything else, my name isó"
She didn't get the chance to tell them.
One of them was on his feet, moving so quickly that she never actually saw him 
rise. He clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off her sentence, and then he 
pushed her roughly onto the table. She cried out in surprise and confusion, but 
since her mouth was covered her cries were muffled.
She heard a tearing of cloth, and was so disconnected from the moment that she 
didn't fully realize, until the chill air washed over her, that her dress was 
being torn from her. Pieces of metal were clanking to the floor as several of 
the knights were divesting themselves of their armor. "Hold her," growled one of 
them.
The thunder blasted, and the room seemed to light up with lightning, and then of 
course even the infinitely naÔve Madelyne understood what was to happen. She 
managed to get her teeth around the fingers of the knight who was muting her, 
and she sank her incisors deep into his flesh. He let out a yelp, reflexively 
loosening his grip, and then Madelyne cried out at the top of her lungs. With 
perfect timing, thunder smashed once more, covering her cries so that none heard 
her.
That was, at least, what she believed. I think it perfectly likely that Stroker 
did indeed hear her cry out in fear and terror, but simply chose to do nothing. 
Why should he have? He had no particular love for Madelyne, and very great love 
for money. If she needed to be sacrificed upon the altar of his greed, then he 
would gladly twist the knife himself.
The ironic thing is, it's not as if my mother was a virgin, a delicate flower, 
or a prude. She worshipped the knights. They were like unto gods to her. They 
could easily, I suspect, have had their way with her if they had merely plied 
her with a drink or two and a few seductive words. I can't say she would 
willingly have taken on the lot of them . . . but I wouldn't have been 
surprised. But these were violent men, these knights. They were bloody bastards, 
is what they were. Warriors who had no grasp of niceties and sweetness. Oh, they 
likely had some notions of courtship and courtesy, but these things were 
reserved for noble ladies of standing . . . not ignoble ladies who were lying 
flat. Madelyne was not worth sweet words or seduction. These were men who were 
still riding the giddy euphoria that comes with war. They had displayed their 
armed might to one another, fighting battles that the simple peasant could only 
guess at. Now they were eager to show their abilities of conquest in other 
realms. Realms that should have been, as far as others were concerned, of a 
gentle nature. But these were rough men, and gentleness was not for them.
And so they took her repeatedly, right there on the table. Splinters lodged in 
her bare buttocks, and bruises were raised on her upper body where pieces of 
still-worn armor slammed into her when a knight moved atop her with less than 
caution. As for her lower body, well, at first she felt pain, but that was only 
for the first couple of "suitors." After that she was numb as they continued to 
spear her with all the compassion that a butcher displays for a hog. The 
numbness very likely originated in her mind as sort of a fail-safe, and all 
sensation below her waist simply shut down.
That was how the knights of King Runcible the Crafty entertained themselves that 
night. One after the other, and even the one who wasn't a knight, he took his 
turn with her, and when they were all done, they did it again. By that point she 
was not even trying to say anything. She simply lay there like a battered sack 
of wheat, her thoughts in a very faraway place filled with dancing unicorns 
which approached her shyly as she, virtuous and without stain, held out her hand 
to them and let them gently lick her palm. Nearby her in her fantasy realm, the 
phoenix bird birthed itself once more. High overhead, a great purple dragon flew 
by, wings outstretched and lazily beating the air.
She drifted off into that pleasant world, and there she resided until she felt 
some sort of warmth upon her face. Slowly her eyes fluttered open and she 
realized that it was streams of sunlight caressing her. The thunderous night had 
passed, and she had lain unconscious upon that hard wooden tabletop, her skirts 
hiked up around her waist, for who knew how long. The knights were gone, and the 
only thing to mark their passing was the soreness between her legs.
Stroker walked in, and whatever it was he was expecting to see it certainly 
wasn't that. For just a moment, surprise played across his face. Perhaps he felt 
a flickering of concern for the woman. He might have regretted his inaction of 
the previous night, for he must have known in his bones what the result was 
going to be; and maybe there was a spark of human compassion and guilt that 
clawed at him, which rattled his spine and chilled his blood.
If there was anything like that, it passed quickly, and his normal scowl 
darkened his face once more as he said gruffly, "Get cleaned up. You look like 
crap." He paused as if he was considering adding something, and then thought 
better of it, turned, and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
And thus was I conceived.
It occurs to me, as I read over the previous narrative, that I may come across 
as cold or hardhearted. I have described to you, after all, the brutal and 
pitiless gang rape of my mother. I have done so in a fairly straightforward 
manner. Where is the passion, you might wonder? Where is the sense of outrage? 
Did I not care about the awful circumstances that resulted in my being placed 
upon this earth?
Once, passion was all that sustained me. Anger burned brightly in my chest, and 
a sense of moral outrage consumed me. These were, after all, knights. King 
Runcible would boast at community fairs and such that they represented the best 
that mankind had to offer. They were to stand for fair play, for justice, for 
honor. My mother knew differently, of course. She knew what a pack of bastards 
they were. Either Runcible knew of their efforts and quietly endorsed themóin 
which case he was a screeching hypocriteóor else they acted without his 
knowledge, in which case his craftiness was a sham and he lived in quiet 
ignorance. But she said nothing. She kept her silence, as did the other girls 
who worked in the inn.
They did so out of fear, of course. Oh, they could have gone to the king, tried 
to accuse an assortment of the knights of their crime. But Madelyne would have 
had trouble identifying the men in question, for they had kept their hoods up 
the entire time they had been there, and the dim light had continued to cloak 
them in shadows as black as their own souls. Even if Madelyne had been able to 
single out specific knights, she would have had no proof to offer. Her bruised 
body, even the child growing in her belly, could easily have been the result of 
any other assignation with the types of brutes who usually consorted with tavern 
floozies. To accuse a knight without proof would have been slander, and slander 
against a knight of the realm was suicide.
So she said nothing. Indeed, as she rolled off the table and went to wash 
herself, she knew already that she was going to say nothing. She also claimed 
later, to me, that she knew even at that moment that I was already in process.
I have no rage now. I have no pity now. It has all been burned out of me, 
exorcised after decades of experiences and strife, of trauma, of triumphs and 
almost immediate setbacks. I look upon my life and I am simply left shaking my 
head, wondering how I managed to contain all the rage that surged in me without 
spontaneously combusting or in some other way experiencing an abrupt end.
My mother claimed it was because I had a destiny, and my anger was what I needed 
to survive.
Perhaps she wasn't all that naÔve after all. Either that, or she simply learned 
from her harsh trials, just as I did, and dealt with it in her own way. At least 
she didn't lose her mind. Certainly other women in that position might have done 
so.
Or maybe she did, and I simply didn't know, since I was a little insane myself. 
Maybe I still am.
 
 
Chapter 3
 
My mother needed money, for she supposedly knew immediately that she would be 
preparing for my arrival. And she knew where her potential for earnings lay.
You see, what I neglected to mention in my earlier narrative is that when she 
awoke that next, sun-drenched morning, there was something of value upon her 
belly, in addition to something of value (albeit questionable) within it. It was 
a handful of coins, glittering in the sunlight. The oh-so-generous knights had 
left it there. Whether they intended it mockingly or sincerely, or whether they 
really gave it no thought at all, it's difficult to say. It was far more for a 
night's work, though, than she had ever received in all her time as a serving 
wench. The knights obviously considered it simply another form of service.
Her trembling hand wrapped around the coins, and only then did she truly believe 
they were there.
Money for sex.
It seemed a rather elegant solution to her. She had dreams of building up a sort 
of nest egg that she could use to buy me . . . well . . . I'm not quite certain, 
actually. An education, perhaps? A career? A means out of poverty? She might not 
have had her plans fully formed at that juncture. She only knew that a means of 
making money had been handed her.
Not that the idea of selling herself hadn't flittered through her head before, 
particularly on cold nights when she would have done damned near anything just 
to obtain a bit of shelter. But she still had enough ties to her old way of 
thinking that the notion of such activities was repugnant to her. Well, her 
evening with the knights had certainly realigned her thinking on that. The thing 
that struck her the most was how she had managed to take herself away to a happy 
place of fantasy and escape. Hidden away in the innermost recesses of her mind, 
she had very much liked it there. The prospect of returning to that place was 
not unattractive to her. And if it was possible to earn money while doing so, 
why then . . . it was almost like a paid vacation.
Besides, it wasn't as if she had to worry about getting pregnant.
And so my mother turned to prostitution.
She didn't quit her day job. She maintained her regular serving duties at 
Stroker's, if for no other reason than that it provided her with shelter. But 
she quickly developed a keen eye for seeing potential customers in the daily 
parade of ruffians and vagabonds who would pass through the inn. Just as 
quickly, she grew skilled at letting them know in subtleóand sometimes 
unsubtleóways that she could be easily had for a fairly reasonable price.
Stroker became aware of her activities in short order. Far from being morally 
outraged, he had no problem with it. As far as he was concerned, he supported 
anything that provided encouragement for return customers. He did, however, want 
to make certain that he benefited in the short term as well, and insisted on 
taking a portion of Madelyne's earnings as commission. She didn't argue the 
point. She was still bringing in more money, at a faster rate, than she would 
previously have thought possible, so she had no real reason to complain.
In the meantime, she was quite aware of my presence in her belly. Fortunately I 
developed slowly and was something of a runt, even at my eventual birth, so the 
fact of the pregnancy was something she was able to conceal for quite some time. 
If Stroker had had a brain beyond the brutish canniness that passed for thought, 
he might have figured it out. What woman is available for entertainment every 
day of the month? Nonetheless, it slipped past Stroker for a good long time. 
Eventually, though, even heóthe oafónoticed it.
In point of fact, someone brought it to his attention. A patron was lying flat 
on my mother's belly when I decided that that would be a good time to announce 
my presence to the world. Imagine, if you will, the surprise of the patron to 
feel a fluttering but firm kick coming through my mother's belly and bumping 
against his own stomach. He froze, as did she, for she knew what it was and he 
thought, but couldn't be sure. Just to make sure that there was no doubt, I 
kicked a second time, and he leaped off her as if her insides had suddenly 
become shards of glass.
"What the hell do you have in there!" he shouted.
"In where?"
"In your belly! Gods . . . you're pregnant!" he said without waiting for her to 
reply. "I'm not the father! Don't you dare say I'm the father!"
My mother was not given to bursts of wit, but her reply was about as close as 
she usually came. "This is our first time together, you idiot," she said. "What, 
you think you're so potent that you not only impregnate a woman, but you do it 
retroactively? Skip the first six months of the term? Why not just have sex with 
a woman and cause the child to spring out of her head fully formed before you 
even put on your hat to leave?"
He was not amused. Nor was Stroker when he found out when the irate customer 
told him moments later.
He dragged her into the back room. There was something of a sick irony to that 
considering that's where it had all started. "Who's the father, you damned 
trollop!" he shouted.
His wrath had worked on her before, nicely cowing her or prompting her to turn 
away in fear. But that didn't happen this time. It was as if, with the 
revelation of her secret, she felt strengthened rather than exposed. The angrier 
he became, the calmer she was. "I don't know who the father is," she said. "And 
it's odd that you would call me a 'damned' trollop. You made money off me and 
contributed nothing."
"I gave you a roof over your head!"
"Men who seek my services aren't concerned about architecture. I could ply my 
trade in a tent. If I'm damned, Stroker, you're twice damned."
He backhanded her then. He wore a large ring with a dragon on it for luck, and 
the thing tore at her lower lip. But she didn't flinch. As blood trickled down 
her chin, she didn't even reach to wipe it off. She just stood there, with a 
level and unwavering gaze. There was no contempt in that stare, or pity. There 
was, at most, vague disinterest.
He hit her twice more, trying to elicit some sort of response from her. Still 
there was nothing. He clearly considered doing it again, but it wasn't having 
the desired effect and he didn't have the will or the attention span to continue 
with the futility of browbeating someone who simply wasn't responding. So with 
an irritated grunt, which was what usually passed for pithy conversation from 
Stroker, he turned and headed for the door.
Just before he reached it, though, something seemed to click in his tiny little 
brain. Perhaps he was able to do something as simple as basic mathematics, but 
he suddenly appeared to figure out just precisely when it must have been that 
the conception occurred. He turned back to her, his hand still on the door 
handle, and he said, "The knights. The knights did this."
She said nothing, but there must have been something in her eyesóa fleeting 
lookóthat convinced him of the accuracy of his surmise.
"A child borne of rape." Amazingly, even the seemingly unflappable Stroker 
appeared daunted by that. "An ill-omened thing. You would have been wise to try 
and stop it from blossoming in your belly the moment you realized it." Such a 
thing would easily have been possible, and they both knew it. There were certain 
mixtures of herbs that, when consumed, could flush an unborn child from its 
resting place with alacrity, at least in the early stages.
"It's not an ill omen," she said sharply.
"It is. A child of violence only begets violence, and brings disaster to 
whatever it touches."
"I saw my own omen," she informed him, and for the first time, she spoke of the 
phoenix bird.
He stared at her skeptically, and when she finally told the tale, he said, "Even 
assuming it's true . . . of what interest is that? Of what moment?"
"It was a sign to me," she said firmly. "A sign of birth and rebirth. A sign of 
great things that were going to happen to me as a result of a birth. I asked a 
soothsayer about it," which was a flat-out lie, but she wanted to bolster her 
credibility.
"A soothsayer," he said with a snort. "A soothsayer will say whatever sooth you 
desire to hear if the money's right." But he didn't appear to want to press the 
point after that, settling for walking out with a final look of cold disdain, 
the loud banging of the door intended to signal his annoyance and opinion of the 
entire matter.
The thing was, even though she was lying about the soothsayer, my mother spoke 
the truth about her beliefs. She was of the firm conviction that her pregnancy 
was part of some grand plan. That her having witnessed the birth of the phoenix 
was indeed an omen, and that I was the centerpiece, the payoff, of that omen. In 
a sick sort of way, it's almost amusing.
My mother's carnal activities were curtailed after that. I was an active sort, 
you see, and since I had stumbled upon my motor skills, I became rather adept at 
letting my presence be known at inopportune times. Plus, several weeks after 
that, it became a moot point as my mother's belly began to swell in a 
distinctive manner, so much so that even a blind man would have seen the truth 
of things. So my mother restricted her activities to serving drinks and waiting 
for me to make my arrival upon the scene.
In a perverse sort of way, a family almost formed around her. There was another 
serving wench, named Astel, and she was a kindhearted young thing. Surprisingly 
bright for a mere server, Astel was younger than Madelyne, and yet seemed to 
take her under her wing. Astel had thick curly blond hair and a musical laugh, 
which I would have cause to hear later on in my life any number of times. She 
also had wide hips and an ample bosom, but when she ran she did it so lightly 
that it seemed she was made of mist. She heard of my mother's tale about the 
phoenix, and seemed entranced by it. She fancied herself a diviner of mythic 
matters, and told my mother that as far as she was concerned, Madelyne's reading 
of the situation was absolutely on target. This excited Astel somewhat, for she 
said she had never been in the presence of future greatness, and appreciated the 
opportunity that fate had afforded her.
She was the midwife the night that I was born.
When Madelyne went into labor, it was not a quiet affair. Oh, she described 
herself as being brave and silent, but that wasn't how Astel described it to me 
in later years. In point of fact, Madelyne howled like a tornado. Her 
caterwauling was so loud that it supremely disturbed the customers. So Stroker 
exiled her to the stable for the duration of the labor in order to spare the 
delicate sensibilities of his usual crowd of drunkards, layabouts, and petty 
criminals.
Considering the set of lungs Madelyne possessed, they likely would have heard 
her from the damned moon, if not for the fact that a hellacious storm showed its 
face that night. Astel told me that it was one of the most terrifying nights of 
her life, and I do not doubt it. Horses belonging to various patrons reared up 
in their stalls, whinnying fearfully, as Madelyne lay sprawled on a bed of straw 
and huffed and puffed away.
The calm that she had displayed all during the pregnancy, the quiet certainty 
that she was fulfilling some magnificent part of a greater plan, all evaporated 
during that stressful night. She bellowed profanities, she cried out for mercy, 
she cursed the knights who had done this to her, she cursed my name and she 
didn't even know what my name was. She just cursed it in spirit.
During all that, the dedicated Astel stayed by her side. Madelyne clutched 
Astel's hand so tightly that she nearly broke her fingers, but that didn't stop 
Astel from remaining right where she was, determined to help Madelyne see it 
through. She wiped the sweat from her brow, gave her small drops of liquid, 
spoke gentle words of support and endearment even though there were times that 
she was convinced Madelyne didn't hear a word.
Madelyne thrashed and screeched some more, and the horses were going mad with 
fear. It was a damned good thing they were tied to their place, otherwise they 
might have stampeded and my existence on this sphere would have been abruptly 
truncated as my newborn form was ground to pulp beneath panicky horses' hooves. 
Thunder smashed overhead, God apparently desiring to make a personal statement 
about the agonizing birth process that he had chosen to inflict upon humanity. 
Sort of like affixing one's signature to a particularly grisly masterpiece.
With one final, hair-raising howl that she seemed to be channeling from damned 
souls confined to the lowest recesses of hell, Madelyne's muscles convulsed and 
I was spat out of her nether regions into Astel's waiting arms.
It was not an auspicious debut.
Apparently not satisfied having exiled a woman in need to a stable filled with 
the pungent smell of sweaty animals and their droppings, Stroker felt the 
needómoments after my birthóto see for himself why something as simple as a 
woman trying to force something the size of a grapefruit through a bodily 
orifice the size of a grape should be causing such a hullabaloo. The door to the 
stable banged open, thunder cracking to accentuate the nominal drama of his 
arrival, and he stared at the scene in front of him.
My mother was gasping, covered with sweat, still not having quite recovered her 
senses. Astel was cradling me in her arms and cooing softly. She looked up at 
Stroker and, apparently expecting him to share in the joy of the moment, said, 
"It's a boy."
"Good. He can pull his weight around hereó" Stroker started to say, and then he 
caught sight of me. "It's deformed!" he snarled.
"He's a he, not an it," Astel said, but she didn't dispute his observation.
"Look at him!" said the angry Stroker, standing over me. "His right leg! It's 
withered and twisted! He'll never walk properly! And he's underweight! He's a 
runt, all shriveled and no meat on him! The first good cold snap will kill him!"
"He'll fill out . . . he'll be fine," said Astel.
"My baby . . ." It was Madelyne, speaking in a coherent and relatively calm 
manner. Her arms were weak but still half-raised, her fingers fluttering. "Let 
me hold him . . . ."
Astel started to hand me over to Madelyne . . . and then Stroker intercepted her 
and snatched me out of her arms.
"I'm exposing him," Stroker announced.
"No! You can't!" Astel said, horrified. She started to move toward Stroker to 
try and snatch me back, but he drew back a meaty hand and Astel, who wasn't 
always the most stalwart of things, retreated before the anticipated blow could 
land.
"I'm doing it a favor," Stroker informed her. "Better a quick death before 
Madelyne becomes too attached to something that won't survive anyway."
Madelyne was still confused, still not fully understanding what was happening 
around her, but she was able to grasp enough of it to realize what Stroker's 
intentions were. He was going to lay me out on a rock somewhere, or deposit me 
in the forest, leaving me to die from the elements orójust as likelyóto be 
killed and devoured by the first passing predator looking for a light snack.
At that point, I started to mewl as infants generally do shortly upon birth, 
waxing nostalgic for the safety and warmth they have just left behind. This 
pitiful wailing was enough to spur Madelyne and, weak as she was, she still 
managed to lunge forward and grab at Stroker's leg. "No! He's mine! Mine! Give 
him to me! I'm his mother! Give him to me!"
"Stop your yowling, shrew!" he snapped, and he kicked at her with his free leg. 
He caught her squarely in her still weak stomach, and she lost her grip on him 
and rolled up in pain. But she didn't stop shouting, didn't stop demanding that 
he give me back to her at that very instant.
"I'm doing what's best for all concerned!" Stroker said, and he slung me over 
his shoulder like a sack of wheat.
My little mouth was right at the base of his throat.
And I sunk my teeth into him.
Teeth? I hear you say. Yes, that is correct: teeth. A right leg worth a damn, I 
did not have. Body weight, there was none. But Godóin his infinite perverse 
wisdomóhad chosen to endow me with a full set of teeth the moment I sprang from 
the womb. And they were, so I'm told, sharp little things, and powerful jaw 
muscles accompanied them.
My teeth crunched down into his neck as if I were a tiny vampire. I was probably 
just hungry. If so, the first liquid to cross my lips was not mother's milk, but 
blood, for that was what I drew when I bit him.
Stroker let out a startled yelp that was so high-pitched one might have mistaken 
him for a woman. "Get it off!" he shouted and, matching deed to words, he shoved 
me off him and sent me tumbling through the air. Had I landed on my head that 
might well have been the end of me, but Madelyne rolled across the floor and 
caught me.
"It bit me! It bit me!" Stroker cried out, waving an outraged finger at 
Madelyne.
To which Astel replied, trying her best to maintain a reasonable tone of voice, 
"Consider you were trying to kill him, Stroker. And consider who his mother is . 
. . and the violence of his conception. So he's born with teeth and bites you? 
That's certainly apropos."
And to the astonishment of both Astel and Madelyne . . . Stroker laughed. It 
didn't seem like something that was part of his character. He had appeared all 
bluff, bluster, and arrogance. He never seemed to have any sense of humor at 
all. But there was something about the insanity of being chomped upon by a 
newborn that appealed to his sense of the ironic . . . whatever that might have 
been.
"Yes," he growled. "That is most certainly apropos. That's the child's name."
"What?" Astel looked confused. "You . . . you can't name the child . . ."
"It's my stable, my inn. And I've never given a child a name before. Besides, 
you came up with the name, not me."
"But I . . . that's . . . but . . ." Astel, now completely befuddled, turned to 
Madelyne.
Madelyne, for her part, simply lay there and gently stroked my hair, which was 
already coming in as a fuzz of red. "It's all right, Astel," she said softly. 
"One name is as good as another, and 'Apropos' is as good as any."
"He's still going to be bad luck," Stroker said, and he rubbed the base of his 
neck and glowered at Madelyne, cradling her child in her arms. "At least now 
we'll have a name to curse when misfortune befalls us." Then he turned on his 
heel and walked out.
"I thought the child was finished for sure," Astel said. She looked wonderingly 
at Madelyne. "It's amazing how he changed his mind."
"Not amazing," Madelyne replied with a knowing smile. "It's . . . Apropos."
"It certainly is." Astel craned her neck slightly, trying to get a better look 
at me. My mother had used a wet cloth to remove the normal blood and slime that 
one accrues while being born. "He's certainly well on his way to having a head 
of flaming red hair."
"That's also apropos."
"What do you mean?"
Madelyne drew aside the blanket that she had wrapped around me, and exposed my 
hip. There, quite plainly, was a most unusual birthmark. It was in the shape of 
a small burst of flame. "You see? I was right. I witnessed the flaming death and 
rebirth of the phoenix . . . and here is a sign upon him. It's more than a 
birthmark, I'll wager. It's a linemark, a sign of lineage. Of greatness. Could 
there be any more clear a sign than that? Oh look . . ." she said as I began to 
whimper and squirm, "I think he's hungry." She held me up to her breast so that 
I could nurse.
"You know . . . that mark might still be a plain old birthmark . . . it could 
just be coincidence," Astel said doubtfully.
"No. No, Astel . . . there is no coincidence. There is simply . . ." She paused 
for dramatic effect. " . . . destiny."
I bit her.
It seemed apropos.
 
 
Chapter 4
 
The area around Stroker's Inn was hardly a hive of industry, but nonetheless, 
after a period of time, a village started to develop. I suppose it shouldn't 
have been much of a surprise. As near as I can tell, men were showing up in the 
evening, drinking well into the night, and then resenting the distance they had 
to stagger to get home (to say nothing of those who were drinking and riding, 
tumbling off their horses and being dragged behind when their feet snagged in 
the stirrups). Faced with the prospect of choosing between home and pub, a large 
number of men opted to combine the two, and relocated their homes to within easy 
staggering distance. Naturally their assorted businesses went with them, and 
that was more or less how the town was spawned.
There was some debate over what the town should be named. There was a sizable 
group of annoyed wives who advocated the name "Drunken Bastardville," and 
believe it or not, a number of the men embraced it as well before someone 
explained to them that the women were making fun of them. Finally they called it 
"the Town," so that even the most inebriated of men could remember it. As towns 
went, it wasn't much. Then again, it was probably what you would expect from a 
town that was created and centered on a tavern. Fortunately, as it turned out, 
the Town was well positioned along some of the more traveled paths, and so did a 
fairly brisk trade from transients. Furthermore, people procreated as is their 
habit, and a decent next generation of Townies sprang from the diseased loins of 
the founders.
My mother continued to ply her trade with willingness, if not great abandon. She 
didn't especially care one way or the other as some new passer-through huffed 
and puffed atop her. The only thing she was capable of feeling, really, was that 
she was helping to fulfill some sort of great destiny that awaited me, and she 
dedicated herself to that end. She told me about it repeatedly enough as I grew. 
She likely emphasized that for two reasons. First, she felt some sort of need to 
justify her activities to me, her son, since she probably felt that sooner or 
later I would judge her trade and find her wanting (a reasonable concern). And 
second, she wanted me to feel better about myself since I had to cope with my 
deformity.
A misshapen right leg is not something that one tends to grow out of. I was far 
slower to learn how to walk than the average child, and even when I finally did 
get the hang of it, it was only after a fashion. When other children would run, 
the most I was able to manage was a brisk limp. For the first years of my life, 
mother fashioned for me some crude crutches, which enabled me to get around with 
some vague efficiency. I disliked them intensely, however, mostly because they 
underscored my vulnerability. This was driven home by the tendency that patrons 
of the bar had to kick the crutches out from under me whenever I would happen 
by. Since there was a steady flow of new patrons, each one thought that he was 
clever enough to have been the first one to think of it. So down I would go, 
time and again. Madelyne would always let out an aggrieved yelp, help me to my 
feet, and scold whichever patron it was who had decided to show what a tough man 
he was by abusing a helpless child. Her ire would invariably be greeted with 
guffaws, and a patronizing slap on the rump or a squeezed breast. This scenario 
played itself out so often that I came to think of it as a sort of ritual and 
took no personal offense. Nonetheless, the banged-up knees were certainly no 
fun, and I stopped using the easily targeted crutch by the time I was five. 
Instead I substituted a stout cane. I didn't get around as quickly as with the 
crutches, but it forced me to develop more strength in my left leg and a modicum 
of strength in my twisted right leg. Whenever possible, I would even disdain the 
cane andóin the tavern, most oftenómake my way by leaning on furniture or 
pulling myself around by clasping onto timbers in the wall. Consequently I 
gained some considerable upper-body power, although I didn't think much of it as 
I watched other boys, both older and younger, sprinting down the street with an 
ease that I could only envy and they could only take for granted.
Nor did I think much of my mother's frequent male visitors. In retrospect, it is 
amazing what children will take in stride. I shared my mother's small room. She 
had her cot, and I had a bedroll shoved off in the corner. If it was night and I 
was in bed (or on floor, as the case may be), and the back room was being used 
for some other private function, she would think nothing of bringing customers 
to our quarters. I would lie there in the darkness and occasionally be lulled to 
sleep by the rhythmic creaking of the cot. It meant nothing to me. It was simply 
what my mother did. I just assumed that everyone's mother behaved in a like 
manner.
I was disabused of this belief when I was about six or seven. I had been working 
in Stroker's since I was old enough to walk, or at least what passed for 
walking. I did whatever needed to be done, be it cleaning tables or mucking out 
horse stables. I didn't have all that much contact with the rest of the kids in 
the town, though. I was either too busy with my chores, or simply watching from 
a window and seeing the speed and alacrity with which they moved, knowing I 
couldn't possibly keep up. This particular day, though, Stroker had sent me on 
an errand, to fetch a new mug from the silversmith to replace one that had 
corroded. I limped past a group of young boys who were gallivanting fecklessly 
in the middle of the streetóif a wide swath of dirt can reasonably be called a 
streetóand they took notice of me. They stopped their ball game, and one of the 
larger ones stepped forward in what could only be called a challenging manner. 
His name was Skrit, and he was easily a head taller than I was. Still a child, 
of course, but to me at that time, he appeared a behemoth. Skrit had a broken 
nose and scarred lip from an earlier fight, and it was possible that he was 
looking for easier pickings.
I, in the meantime, was paying no attention to them, for I had found a coin 
lying on the ground. It wasn't much, but it was sitting there dirty and 
forgotten. I wrapped my small fingers around it and grinned. I had money of my 
own.
"Hello, Whore's Son," he called.
I glanced over my shoulder to see who was being addressed. It took me a moment 
to realize I was the addressee. What threw me was the deceptively pleasant tone 
in his voice. To him, it was sarcasm. But I was relatively friendless, knowing 
only the love of my mother the cot-creaker, the sympathetic looks of Astel, and 
the gibes and cuffs of the patrons of Stroker's. I had no experience with peer 
attitudes.
My hearing was also not the greatest.
"My name isn't Orson," I corrected him politely, or thought I had. I slid the 
coin into the pocket of my tunic without its being noticed. "It's Apropos."
" 'Whore's Son' is apropos," replied Skrit.
"But that's not my . . ." I decided I was being unclear and started again. "Are 
you sure you're talking to me?"
"Are you the one whose mother is a whore?" he said with a sneer.
I leaned on my cane and scratched my head. "I don't know. What's a whore?"
Skrit stared at me, clearly trying to figure out if I was being coy or just 
stupid. But the expression of polite confusion on my face was probably too 
difficult to fake. "She's a woman what sleeps with men and gets paid for it, 
that's what! And the men what sleeps with them, they're whore-lovers!"
I thought of money clinking on the table next to the bed when the men would 
depart, and instantly knew that that indeed described my mother perfectly. 
Still, to me, that was the norm. Plus, I remembered times when my mother and 
Astel would be talking, and they would say things such as money was the only 
reason men were worth being with, and that what Madelyne did was no different 
than what the most respectable of women did. There were just different measures 
of what they were willing to sell themselves for. For other women, it was 
respectability, titles, land, gowns, and dresses. Astel would opine that 
Madelyne was more honest about what she did than those others. "It all comes 
down to money," Astel said. "The only thing that's different is where and how it 
gets spent."
With those thoughts ringing in my ears, I said to Skrit, "Does your mom get a 
place to live and food and clothes from your dad?"
Skrit blinked in slow surprise. He glanced at the others and they shrugged, 
uncertain of what direction this conversation seemed to be going. I wasn't 
responding to their taunts, as they would have wished, apparently: with rage or 
tears or some other thing they could reasonably lampoon. Instead I was simply 
earnestly confused and inquiring. "Yeah," Skrit said guardedly.
"Well, then . . . she's a whore, too, so I guess we're both whore's sons," was 
my cheerful response.
In retrospect, it was probably not the brightest answer I could have given.
For this comment was something that Skrit could easily understand. He saw it as 
an insult, and acted accordingly: He charged.
Alarmed that the conversation had taken a violent turn, I backed up, bumping up 
against a house. The much larger Skrit loomed over me, and he hit me hard in the 
stomach. I gasped, feeling my stomach tighten into a knot of pain, and then he 
hit me again on the side of the head. I went down, dropping my cane. Skrit took 
the opportunity to kick me full in the face. I felt my nose crack from the 
impact and knew immediately that it was broken. I rolled onto my back, blood 
fountaining from my lip and nose. One side of my face was covered with blood.
I had no idea what was going on, for it had all happened so fast. I heard the 
hooting and hollering of the other boys, and shouts of "Get him again!" and 
"Show him what-for, Skrit!"
I felt abandoned and alone, as if I didn't have a friend in the world, as if the 
entire universe had arrayed itself against me. I was unable to focus on a simple 
street fight: to me, it was a cosmic condemnation. My face stung, partly from 
physical pain, partly from humiliation and embarrassment.
I grabbed up my cane, gripping it firmly, gritting my teeth against the agony of 
my face that seemed on fire. Skrit was making no further move at that moment. 
Instead he stood over me, laughing, his hands on his hips. I had never desired 
much as a child, but at that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to 
wipe that insufferable smirk off Skirt's face.
I swung the cane around. Cane? "Bludgeon" would be the more appropriate word, 
for it was large and thick and could serve as a weapon as easily as a means of 
aiding locomotion. The former was the capacity in which I used it at that point. 
I swung it as hard and as fast as I could, and it caught Skrit squarely in the 
side of the head. He staggered, not going down, but clearly surprised. A look of 
pure, glorious stupidity danced across his face.
I jammed the cane between his legs to trip him up, and succeeded. He went down 
onto the dirt and I was immediately upon him. I got in a couple of good whacks 
with the cane before the other boys converged upon me, dragging me off him.
They bashed me with whatever they could get their hands upon. Sticks, stones, 
rods, feet, made no difference. All I could do was curl into a ball and try and 
shield myself from as much damage as I could. Unfortunately that wasn't 
particularly easy. As poor a walker as I was, I began to wonder somewhere in the 
midst of all that punishment if I would ever be able to walk again.
Then a voice started shouting, "Stop!"
They didn't hear it at first, or chose not to. Above the raucous shouting of the 
boys, I could barely hear it myself.
Suddenly someone started yanking the boys off me, one by one. Before I knew it, 
I was suddenly clear of them. I had been crying in pain and humiliation, but 
considering my face was bruised and dirty, tears probably weren't especially 
noticeable. Still, I shielded my face until I heard a voice say, "It's okay."
I looked up.
It was an older boy. Rakishly handsome, a large hank of brown hair hanging down 
and in his face. He was grinning lopsidedly. "You okay?" He was dressed in a 
green tunic and brown leggings. He had several armbands, all of them 
multicolored in green, brown, and flares of orange. He looked like a giant leaf. 
"You okay?" he asked again.
It was a staggeringly stupid question, but I wasn't feeling up for sarcasm at 
that moment. "Yeah," I managed to get out. I paused a moment to spit, because my 
mouth felt full, and I was annoyedóalthough not surprisedóto see a tooth land on 
the ground.
Skrit, however, didn't seem particularly inclined to let me off that easilyóif a 
severe beating can be termed "easy." He pointed a quavering finger at the 
newcomer and shouted, "Get outta here, Tacit! This ain't none o' your business."
"It is now," Tacit said with quiet confidence that seemed far beyond his years. 
"This how you amuse yourself these days, Skrit? Beating up on crippled kids?" 
Tacit couldn't have been more than ten, but he used the word "kids" as if he 
were an adult.
The side of Skrit's face was already swelling up where I'd struck him. He rubbed 
it indignantly and said, "But . . . but he . . ."
"Come on, Skrit," Tacit said slowly. Skrit's protests didn't seem to have 
registered on him. "If you're that hungry for a fight . . . take a swing at me."
"Now . . . look, Tacit . . ."
But Tacit wasn't looking. Instead he struck a defensive pose, brought his fists 
up, and said nothing. No more words were required. It was time for Skrit to rise 
to the challenge or not.
Skrit appeared to consider it for a time, although it's difficult to know 
whether he really considered it, or just paused a good long time to make it look 
as if he was giving it serious deliberation.
I realized that Skrit was afraid of him. But not being willing to admit that, 
Skrit suddenly squared his shoulders and, for just a moment, I thought he was 
going to go after the newly arrived Tacit. Instead, however, he snorted 
derisively and said, "If you want to be pals with some crippled whore's son, 
ain't no never mind to me. You ain't worth wasting the skinned knuckles on."
It was an elegant means of saving face. If Tacit had pressed the issue, of 
course, Skrit would have had to run for it. But Tacit did no such thing, instead 
simply standing there, fists remaining cocked until Skrit and his cronies had 
swaggered off. Then Tacit turned to me and looked down. "Can you walk?"
"Kind of," I said.
He hauled me to my feet. I was amazed at the strength in the slim arm; it was as 
if I had no weight, he pulled me up so easily. "I'm Tacit," he said.
"I know," I said, partly leaning against him as I steadied myself. "I'm 
Apropos."
"What did you do to get on Skrit's bad side there, Po?" Tacit was the first 
person to call me by anything resembling a nickname. There was an implied 
instant friendliness there that I found appealing.
"I'm not entirely sure," I admitted. "He called my mother a whore."
"Oh," Tacit said sympathetically. "That got you angry?"
"Not especially. She is a whore. But when I called his mother a whore, that got 
him angry. I guess it's not good to be a whore, huh?"
"Well . . . that depends who you talk to," Tacit said thoughtfully, scratching 
his chin. "If you ask a man who needs a whore, then it's probably a pretty good 
thing to be. Anyone else . . ." And he shrugged as if the sentiment wasn't worth 
pursuing. "Where do y'live?"
"Stroker's."
"Come on, then." He looked at my leg in fascination. "What's wrong with your 
leg?"
"I dunno. Born that way."
"Oh."
He guided me back to the tavern, and when we arrived there, Madelyne let out a 
shriek andófor a momentóthought that Tacit was the one who had been responsible 
for the beating I'd taken. I quickly set her straight on that, but when she 
asked me what sort of words had passed between the bullies and me, I found that 
I couldn't tell her. I sensedócorrectly, I thinkóthat she would have been hurt 
by it. So I said, "They made fun of my limp." I caught Tacit's eye, but it 
wasn't really necessary. He was fast enough off the mark to know that utter 
candor with my mother wasn't a necessity.
Stroker, who was behind the counter pouring out mead, called out, "Well, you 
better get used to it! And where's my mug! The one you were supposed to bring 
from the silversmith, damn your eyes!"
Before I could explain that I'd never quite made it there, Tacit stepped in. 
"I'll fetch it for you, sir," he said, and he was out the door before Stroker 
could utter another word.
Madelyne, bandaging my bruises and clucking over my ruined nose, looked out the 
open door through which Tacit had just passed and said in admiration, "What a 
nice lad. You were very fortunate, Apropos, that he stepped in to help you."
"I know, Ma," I said.
She wiped away the blood with a cool, wet cloth. "Making sport of a child's 
imperfections. Children can be so cruel."
"I know, Ma."
"Well . . . don't you make mind of none of them," she told me firmly. "Because 
you . . . you're a child of destiny. You're going to accomplish great things, 
Apropos. Great things."
"I know, Ma."
But I was looking at her with different eyes that day. From the things that the 
others had said . . . even from the tone that Tacit had adopted . . . I knew 
that somehow my mother was lower in the eyes of people than other women were. 
Lower because of what she did. It was as if my eyes had been opened, even as 
they'd swelled shut. I watched over the next few days the way that others 
treated her and truly saw it for the first time as degrading. I felt anger 
beginning to swell within me . . . but oddly enough, not for those that were 
doing the treatment, but rather her for letting it be done to her.
A week later, matters came to a head one night when my mother was entertaining a 
customer. I'd taken to sleeping in the stables, claiming that the room was a bit 
too cold for me, and I found greater warmth covered with straw and drawing 
warmth from the bodies of the animals that were clustered about. Madelyne 
thought it odd, but didn't press the point. Consequently, I wasn't there when 
her bed collapsed in, I presume, mid-coitus. But I heard about it not too long 
afterward when I heard her angry voice calling, "Apropos!" I wasn't used to 
hearing that tone from her. There was generally very little I could do that got 
her truly angry. "Where are you?"
"Over here, Ma," I called from the pile of hay I'd staked out.
She approached me, waving one of the legs that I recognized as having been from 
her bed. For a moment I thought she was going to use it to club me. Then she 
pointed to one end of it. "What is this?" she asked, her voice steady.
"I dunno."
"It's the leg of my bed, Apropos."
"If you knew, then why did you ask?"
"It's about three-quarters sawed through. And now it broke. Why do you think it 
broke, Apropos?"
I stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "It broke because it was 
three-quarters sawed through. You just said so, Ma."
"The point is, who sawed it?"
"I don't know."
"I think you do." She tapped it gently into her open palm. "I think you sawed 
it, Apropos."
I shook my head so vigorously that the room seemed to spin around me.
As if I hadn't even offered protest, she continued calmly, "Why did you do it, 
honey?"
I started to tell her that I hadn't, but I found that I wasn't able to look her 
in the eyes as I did so. It is a rather disconcerting and annoying thing to 
discover that one cannot lie to one's parent. "I felt like it," I said, which 
was certainly true enough.
"All right, you felt like it. Why did you feel like it?"
"Because when you're with those men in bed, you're a whore, and you shouldn't be 
a whore because that's a bad thing."
Slowly she put the wooden leg down. I wasn't sure, as the words had all come 
spilling out of me, how she was going to react. I anticipated anger, or hurt. 
But she just seemed a bit sad. "Why do you think it's a bad thing?"
"Because . . ." I hadn't actually been able to wrap myself around the concept 
fully, and so I fell back on having my world defined by peer groups. "Because 
the other boys say so."
"I see. And do you always believe what the other boys say?"
"If they believe it enough to beat me up over it, I kind of do."
She shook her head sadly and sat down on the straw next to me. "And that's why 
you're sleeping out here now." It wasn't a question, and I nodded my head. 
"Apropos, you're going to have to learn sooner or later that you can't just let 
other people decide what the world around you should and shouldn't be."
"Why?"
"Because you have to make of the world what you want to make of it."
"Why?"
"Because," she said for what seemed the umpteenth time, "you have a destiny."
I sighed and flopped back down on the hay. It was quite clear to me that we 
weren't going to get any further that night. The destiny business was what my 
mother always trotted out when she had no answers. She tended to trot it out a 
lot.
To her credit, Madelyne didn't endeavor to press the point. Instead she simply 
sat next to me, running her fingers through my hair as if she wanted to reaffirm 
for herself that I was still there. When morning came, I awoke to find that she 
had fallen asleep next to me. And I realized that, as the sun shone down on her 
face, I still loved her, even though I vaguely understood that I should by 
rights be ashamed of her.
She'd slept with me, and I loved her. I pulled the coin out of my tunic, the one 
that I'd found on the street a week previous. I'd been trying to decide what to 
do with it, and at that point I knew precisely what it should be used for. My 
mother's hand was lying open, and I pressed the coin into her palm. Her fingers 
automatically wrapped around the coin, even in her sleep.
I was officially a whore-lover. It didn't feel too bad.
 
 
Chapter 5
 
Tacit was the one who taught me how to steal.
I enjoyed going about with him. I quickly learned that he was an orphan, and 
there was something attractive about that status. He answered to no one save 
himself, and whenever he came into town, it was always with a confident swagger, 
and coins jingling in a small leather bag that dangled from his belt. That 
self-confidence clearly translated into someone whom no one wished to cross, and 
it always amused me to watch the other kids give him a wide berth. I endeavored 
to imitate that swagger of his, but naturally with my lame and twisted leg, I 
was not overly successful.
Tacit walked a remarkably fine line with me. Since the day we met, he never made 
any mention of my handicap. One would have thought that he didn't notice it at 
all. However, when we walked about in the woods, he would always manage somehow 
to slow down, allowing me to keep pace with him, without ever giving me the 
impression that he was holding back himself. He never wanted me to feel as if I 
was a burden.
He maintained his home in the Elderwoods. This alone was enough to give him a 
certain cache, for the Elderwoods was considered a sorcerous place, where 
creatures of myth were known to gallivant about. It was said once that an entire 
army of weavers was set upon in the Elderwoods and was, to the very last one, 
slaughtered by a mad king who had vowed to rid the land of weavers once and for 
all. Although he had supposedly annihilated them, they unleashed a curse upon 
him so comprehensive, so frightening and so terrible, that the mad king's name 
of so long ago had been forever erased from the annals of mankind. His name 
disappeared from all histories, his image from all tapestries. He might just as 
well have never been born. A rather sad fate, really, for someone who set such 
store by trying to achieve fame for great deeds.
The slaying of wizards is a foolish endeavor, and should only be undertaken by 
those who are of a mind to commit suicide on a cosmic scale.
So supposedly the ghosts of the wizards strode the Elderwoods since that time. 
Tacit said that he had resided in the woods most of his life and had never seen 
any such evidence to support the rumor. He was not above, however, making use of 
this belief where he saw fit. For a number of shorter paths lay straight through 
the Elderwoods, and any number of travelers were inclined to brave the haunted 
forest for the purpose of saving some time. As a result of this tourist trade, 
Tacit would set traps and snares. But he was most adept at making his traps 
practically invisible, so that they could be ascribed to mystic forces.
Once, for instance, there was a rather portly merchant who was making his way 
through the Elderwoods with a most confident stride, until he stepped into a 
snare that hauled him upside down. Tacit had camouflaged the snare in such a way 
that it simply wasn't visible against the backdrop of the trees 
overheadóparticularly difficult to spot when one was upside down and thrashing 
about. Convinced that he was in the hands of implacable spirits, the merchant 
did the only honorable thing under the circumstances and passed out. Relieving 
him of his purse of coins was but the work of a moment. Tacit cut him down 
before we dashed off into the woods, leaving the terrified merchant unconscious 
on the ground.
"Why'd you let him go?" I asked.
"Because we're more effectively served if he returns and speaks of his 
horrifying encounter with invisible creatures, rather than to speak of the 
cleverly camouflaged cable which snared him. Indeed, by the time he's finished 
telling and retelling the story, I guarantee you he will have been accosted by 
twenty decapitated ghouls all pelting him with their severed heads." He let out 
a low whistle as he emptied the contents of the pouch into his hand. Forty gold 
sovereigns poured out, the face of King Runcible looking at us in profile on 
each one of them. The coins glinted in the noon sun. "This," he said, "was a 
wealthy individual." He poured a little under half into his hand and offered 
them to me. "Want your share?"
"My share?" I looked at him askance. "Why should I get a share? You did all the 
work."
"Maybe. But you shared the risk. We're partners now, you and me. Partners and 
friends." He chucked me on the shoulder. "Or haven't you noticed."
Truthfully, I hadn't. I had simply taken to hanging about with Tacit, and as 
months had rolled over into years, I had always assumed that he kept me around 
more to kill boredom than out of any sense of loyalty or interest or any 
enjoyment of my company. "We're friends?" I said, which was probably not the 
most brilliant comment to make.
"Well, sure we are! What'd you think?!" Seeing that I wasn't reaching out for 
the coins, he took my wrist, opened my hand, and poured the coins into my palm. 
My fist closed reflexively on them and he smiled approvingly.
"Why are we friends?" I asked. "I mean . . . why are you my friend?"
"You don't know?"
I shook my head. "You do most of the talking," I said. "I just sort of follow 
you about. I limp. I'm not much use."
"How can you say that!" He perched on the edge of a rock and regarded me with 
open incredulity. A small insect nattered about in his face. He brushed it away 
without giving it any thought. "Why, you and me, we're . . . we're . . ."
"We're what?"
He appeared to give the matter a good deal of thought. He scratched the side of 
his head and pondered the situation for a time more . . . and then he looked up 
and pointed. "Do you see that?" he asked.
I looked where he indicated. All I could see was a hawk flapping gracefully 
through the sky. "You mean the bird?" I asked.
He nodded, brushing a hank of his hair from his face. "Do you know how it 
flies?"
"It . . . flaps its wings."
"And beyond that?"
There were certainly scientific answers to the question, but I had no clue as to 
what they might be. "It just . . . I don't know . . . it just does. It flies."
"It's the same thing with us, then, isn't it," said Tacit. "There's no reason to 
wonder why we're friends. We just . . . are. And you know what I see in you, Po? 
That hawk."
I flushed slightly at the thought. "That's silly."
"It's not silly. That's you, Po. That hawk." The creature swooped and dove over 
us. "I can see it in you. You're going to fly, Po. What matters a lame leg when 
you're going to wind up soaring over all of them."
"That's what my mother's always saying. That I have a destiny."
"Well, perhaps your mother knows what she's about, then."
At that moment, a large splotch landed smack on my head. As I felt its warmth 
dribbling down the side of my face, I didn't even have to wonder for a moment 
what it was. The hawk had shat on me.
To his credit, Tacit didn't say anything. If he wanted to laugh, he did a superb 
job of suppressing it. Instead he pulled out a cloth and handed it to me, and I 
wiped the bird crap from me as best I could.
I looked up at Tacit and noticed that he had stiffened. Tacit's instincts were 
second to none, and something had attracted his interest. His nostrils flared. 
Clearly he scented something. I tried to sniff the air but I detected nothing.
"Not great, heaping snootsful," he chided when he saw me trying to detect 
whatever it was that he had noticed. "You have to be more attuned than that. 
Just relax, Po. Don't think about smelling it. Don't think about anything. Just 
relax. Relax and let the forest talk to you. When there's danger, it will tell 
you right enough."
We had had talks like this in the past. Tacit seemed determined to transform the 
limping whore's son into a woodsman like himself, and the more I protested the 
uselessness of the endeavor, the more he seemed bound to proceed.
Once more, I tried to do as he said. I sat with my left leg crossed against my 
right thigh and tried to relax. There was a soft breeze blowing about me, and as 
I noticed the breeze, I also heard a gentle rustling in the trees and bushes. My 
imagination began to wander, and I forgot the immediacy of the situation. 
Instead I could almost begin to fancy that I heard the Elders of the woods 
whispering to me, speaking secret things of destiny and fate, of craft and 
wisdom, of smoke . . .
. . . smoke . . .
"A fire," I said slowly. "A big one." And then I started to hear voices as well. 
"And a crowd."
He nodded when I mentioned the fire, and then nodded again when I further opined 
that there were people about. "These are my woods," he said, sounding rather 
possessive. "If people are loitering around, I want to know why. Besides, the 
last thing I'm interested in seeing are drunken fools letting a fire get out of 
control and level the Elderwoods. Haunted or not, trees hereabouts still burn."
I couldn't disagree with that. I shoved the coins into the pocket of my jerkin 
and followed Tacit as best I could. As always, he moved effortlessly. When he 
would push brush aside to pass through, it made no noise. Wherever he crossed, 
be it grass or dirt, he left no footprint.
There was still a great deal about Tacit that I couldn't begin to understand. 
His woodcraft was like nothing I'd ever experienced. It was almost magical, but 
he claimed no knowledge of weaving and indeed I'd never actually seen him 
perform any actions that could be ascribed to magic. I knew little about his 
early days, and one time I'd decided to press him on the matter. "Well," he had 
said, "you've read tales of infants being abandoned in forests and raised by 
wolves?"
I nodded, and then had looked at him skeptically. "You're saying you were raised 
by wolves?"
"No." And then he had smiled impishly and said, "Unicorns."
The disbelief on my face must have deepened. "Unicorns. You were raised from 
infancy by unicorns. That's ridiculous."
"Yes. It is." That was all he ever said of his youth, and I never knew for sure 
just how serious he had been. But it was moments like this one, as he made his 
way through the forest with almost supernatural ease, that I hearkened to that 
conversation and wondered whether or not it was possible that one of those rare 
and wondrous beasts had indeed suckled him in infancy. It would explain a lot.
As for me, of course, I feltóas alwaysólike a great, galloping clod. As I 
approached early adolescence, my lame leg had strengthened a bit, but not much. 
Whenever I endeavored to obtain any sort of speed, it was always as if I were 
lugging along a great sack of meat attached to my right hip. I had substituted a 
staff for my cane, however, and with Tacit's guidance, had become rather deft in 
its use. It was longer and heavier than my cane, but my arms were strong from 
pulling myself along all these years, so the additional weight was of no 
consequence. Furthermore, it helped me to semi-vault distances rather than just 
limp along. Plus in those rare instances where other kids in the village decided 
that they wanted to have a go at me, it proved a rather nasty weapon. I was 
hardly a knight, or an entity to be feared, but one crack from my staff could 
make someone look like they'd been in a fight.
The smell of smoke grew stronger as I drew closer to it. Tacit had virtually 
disappeared into the forest ahead of me, but I kept gamely at it. Suddenly 
someone lunged at me from the side, clapping a hand over my mouth. Reflexively I 
started to struggle and then I realized that it was Tacit. "Shhhh!" he hissed in 
my ear.
Just over a rise, we saw the source of the fire.
There was a girl tied to a stake, thick ropes crisscrossing her breast. A 
massive amount of kindling had been clustered around the bottom, and the edges 
were already burning and crackling. The girl herself appeared nonchalant about 
the entire thing. She was dressed rather boyishly, mostly in gray leathers that 
looked fairly worn, including visible holes in the knees. She sported a black 
cloak. Her ebony hair was cut short and curled around her ears. Her face was 
round, except for her chin, which was rather prominent and, at that moment, 
outthrust in a wonderfully defiant manner. She appeared to be about Tacit's age, 
maybe a little older.
Surrounding her was about a score of what could only be termed angry villagers. 
They were waving torches, which would have been rather dramatic and underscored 
the mood had it not been high noon. Another one or two of them threw torches 
onto the kindling, and more areas started to go up.
A rather ratty-looking woman, toward the front of the crowd, appeared to be the 
ringleader. "You'll never ensorcell anyone again, weaver . . . especially 
helpless young men!"
The fire was already starting to lick at the toes of her boots, but the girl 
who'd been identified as a weaveróa magic user, or wizard, if you willódidn't 
seem the least bit disturbed by it. When she spoke, it was with clear contempt 
rather than any sort of alarm. Considering the straits that she was in, a touch 
less arrogance might have been advisable. "I told you, I ensorcelled no one! We 
had a dalliance, and that was all!"
"You're lying! You're a seducer and a thief!"
"He gave me the money of his own volition! He wanted me to have it; it was a 
gift!"
That was when I noticed that the ratty-looking woman had what appeared to be a 
ratty-looking son standing next to her. His gaze kept shifting between the 
weaver and his mother, and he didn't seem able to abide the sight of either of 
them for long. His shoulders were hunched and if his manner were any more timid, 
he would have made the most skittish of deer look positively intrepid in 
comparison.
"He wouldn't have given you any gift!" howled the mother. "He knows better! 
Don't you, Edmond!" And she slapped her son upside the head for emphasis. Edmond 
nodded mutely but took a moment to cast a longing glance at the weaver. She, for 
her part, didn't seem remotely interested in him. Instead the fire was drawing 
nearer and it had actually managed to snag, ever so slightly, her attention. The 
other onlookers, no doubt friends, relatives, or simply idiots with nothing 
better to do, shouted encouragement to the flames as if they were sentient and 
interested in anything the onlookers might have to say. "You bewitched my son 
and robbed him, and used the money for your own evil ends!"
"I used half of it to buy booze and get stinking drunk, and the rest of it I 
lost in a card game while I was three sheets to the wind! If I were as clever as 
you claim, don't you think I'd've put it to better use than that?!"
From where I sat, it seemed a rather credible defense. But somehow the crowd 
howling for her bloodóand looking for an afternoon's entertainmentódidn't seem 
interested in the particulars of her hastily cobbled explanation.
Tacit was crouched next to me, and he turned and said intently, "I'm going to 
make a move here. Are you with me?"
"With you? Are you insane?" I looked at him disbelievingly. "That's an angry 
mob. The girl's a weaver that they've got a grudge against. Weavers can take 
care of themselves, and mobs take care of anyone they want to. She's not our 
concern."
He didn't appear to have heard me. Instead he was studying the area of the 
conflagration, which was about thirty feet away from us. "There must be no 
threads in that area. That's why she can't weave a spell to help herself. Po, we 
can't just stand by and watch them take the law into their own hands!" he 
continued with growing urgency. "If the girl has done something wrong, she 
should face true justice."
"If she did something wrong, being incinerated for it is about as true as 
justice gets."
"And if she didn't?" he demanded.
"Then it's her rotten luck! Tacit, listen to me! Number one, weavers aren't to 
be trusted as a rule. And number two, I guarantee you that if the situation were 
reversed, and it was our necks on the line and she happened by, she'd continue 
on her way without giving it a second thought."
"Well, then I guess that's how we're going to stay different from her, isn't 
it," he said.
The only weapon that Tacit ever carried was a short sword that was strapped to 
his thigh. I'd only seen him wield it for matters of a practical natureóskinning 
a recent kill, or hacking through some particularly impenetrable section of the 
forest. But when he drew it this time, the rasping of the metal as it slid from 
its sheath sounded particularly ominous. "Are you with me?" he said again.
I looked at the girl, the fire getting steadily closer. And I looked at the 
demented expressions of the townspeople. And I looked into the face of possibly 
the one person on the planet whom I considered a friend.
"Absolutely not," I said.
A look of disappointment crossed his face, and then it hardened into anger. 
"Don't you know the meaning of the word 'bravery'?" he demanded.
"Yes, I do. Do you know the meaning of the word 'foolhardy'?"
He was about to reply, and then a gust of wind fanned the flames higher. There 
was suddenly no more time, and nothing to be gained by trying to talk me into 
joining him in an adventure that was likely to get him killed.
He leaped out of hiding, crossing the distance between us and the girl with 
great bounds. She spotted him first, since she had the better vantage and was 
the only person in the immediate area who wasn't fully focused on watching her 
burn. An expression of complete bewilderment crossed her face. The reason for 
her confusion was immediately evident to me; she was doubtlessly wondering if 
Tacit was insane as I thought him to be.
Some members of the mob caught sight of Tacit as he drew close and sounded an 
alarm. They must have realized instantly he meant them no good, a logical 
conclusion since he was charging them and wielding a blade. Several of them 
instantly formed a wall of bodies, blocking his path. Tacit swung his short 
sword, and they fell back but still obstructed his way. Suddenly he turned and 
dashed up the trunk of a large tree just to his right. The move completely 
befuddled his attackers, and then they understood as Tacit scrambled along a 
high and strong branch that stretched directly over the girl. Smoke was rising 
and it was getting harder to see her. She was starting to cough, but if she was 
at all afraid, she wasn't showing it. I envied her. If I'd been in her 
situation, I'd have been screaming my head off.
It wasn't until that moment that I truly understood that I was lacking something 
that others, such as Tacit, possessed. There are some for whom the good of 
mankind is their primary concern, and others who basically put their own 
considerations before everyone else. I was among the latter. Truth to tell, if 
Tacit hadn't been my friend, it wouldn't have bothered me in the least. But 
watching Tacit's heroics frustrated me, because I saw what he was doing and 
realized that it was something I wasn't capable of.
I should have admired him for it.
Instead I felt a cold envy growing within me for this person, for my friend. I 
resented that which came so easily to him, or at least appeared to.
Momma was screaming in fury, and her son Edmond didn't seem to be doing much of 
anything except cower. Tacit dropped from overhead, and one quick slash of his 
short sword severed the cords that held the weaver in place. He grabbed one of 
the flaming sticks from the bundles beneath their feet, holding it at the 
nonflaming end, and waved the torch with one hand into the faces of the crowd 
while swinging his sword with his other hand. "This way!" he shouted to the 
girl, spotting one small area where the flame wasn't especially high. Without 
waiting for her to acknowledge it, he threw an arm around her waist and vaulted. 
The wood shifted under his feet and threw off his trajectory. As a result, he 
cleared the pyre, but he came down, falling on top of the weaver and landing in 
a heap.
Immediately the mob was upon them. They pulled Tacit free from the girl. She 
struggled mightily in their grasp, and it was the most emotion I'd seen from her 
since this whole misbegotten adventure started.
Tacit was even more determined to give a good accounting of himself, but he had 
inhaled too much smoke while rescuing the girl. He was hacking away, but it 
wasn't with his sword; his coughing was so violent that I half-expected one of 
his lungs to be ejected from his mouth. No matter how noble the heart or pure 
the determination of any warrior, it does him no good if he can't draw a breath. 
Tacit was borne to the ground and held immobile, his arms and legs pinned like a 
butterfly's.
"Let him go!" shouted the weaver.
"Friend of yours?" asked Momma contemptuously.
"I never saw him before!"
"So a complete stranger decided to risk his neck for you. How idiotic."
It was disconcerting to realize that I was in agreement with someone whom I 
considered to be only slightly smarter than a mushroom I'd just mashed beneath 
my foot. It had been idiotic. And Tacit hadn't listened to me, and now the 
weaver was still going to die and she was likely going to have company. They'd 
probably just tie up the both of them and toss them on the pyre, which was 
burning rather rapidly and with great enthusiasm.
"He's some do-gooder. This isn't his problem. Let him go."
"He made it his problem," Momma said firmly, "and that was his decision. So now 
he'll share your fate, you cheat and harlot."
Well, that appeared to be that. Tacit was going to die . . . horribly, it 
seemed. His grandstanding heroics had come to nothing. I was going to be without 
the one friend I had. Nothing had been accomplished.
I wondered if a sudden wave of bravery would overtake me. But no . . . nothing 
surfaced. I was no more inclined to risk my neck now than I was before, even if 
Tacit's life was on the line. He'd been the one who decided to risk it. Let him 
bear the burden of that decision.
Gods, he infuriated me, Tacit did, for being so concerned about this girl that 
he'd run off and leave me behind. That he'd throw away his life, in fact, for 
this utter stranger. What sort of friends could we truly be if that friendship 
meant so little to him, that he was willing to risk ending itóand himselfóall to 
save someone he didn't even know?
And suddenly I wanted to save him. And I wanted to make it look easy. I rose 
from behind the brush and slowly made my way toward the crowd.
They didn't see me at first. They were busy hauling out large quantities of rope 
and tying up Tacit and the weaver. But then one of them spotted me, and pointed 
me out, and then another did and another, and within moments all attention was 
focused on me. The shouting of the crowd had died off, and the only sound to be 
heard was the crackling of the fire.
If I moved too quickly, my limp would be evident and make me look weak. So 
instead I moved very slowly, very ponderously. I said nothing. When one says 
nothing, it heightens both the interest and importance of the words when they 
eventually come. I must have looked a rather bizarre sight . . . a rather young 
man, wielding a staff, coming toward them with no hurry, as if the imminent 
disaster which awaited Tacit and the weaver were of no consequence to me.
I drew within a few feet of them and then stopped. I surveyed the lot of them, 
adopting a gaze and attitude so imperious that one would have thought I could 
have caused them to discorporate with a single harsh word.
Still nothing was said. Finally, Momma couldn't take it any longer, and she said 
angrily, "What do you want, boy?" But she sounded no more comfortable with my 
curious presence than did anyone else.
I appeared to ponder the situation a moment longer, and then I said slowly, "How 
much."
They looked at one another, these judges, jury members, and executioners. "How 
much what?" one of them asked.
As if the question was so self-evident that I couldn't believe the fool had 
needed to pose it, I said, "How much did she take?"
They looked at one another, and then at Momma, who seemed confused by the 
question. It was Edmond who spoke up, which was rather unexpected considering he 
hadn't said anything until that point. "Fifteen sovs," he said.
I sighed inwardly. Somehow I'd had a feeling it would be about that much. But in 
order to pull it off, I had to be as casual as possible.
I shook my head and gave a small, derisive laugh. "All this over fifteen 
sovereigns." I reached into my jerkin and pulled out the twenty that Tacit had 
handed me earlier. "Twenty sovs to put an end to this sorry affair. Take it or 
leave it." As if I didn't give a damn about their opinion . . . indeed, as if 
the entire matter were already decided . . . I tossed the coins. Like a cloud of 
gold they hovered in the air and then fell to the ground.
Had I simply tried to hand the money over, there might have been temptation on 
their part for dickering. But when people see money on the ground, they have no 
choice but to obey the impulse to grab it as quickly as possible. Which was 
precisely what they did. Immediately they were on their knees, scrambling after 
the fallen sovereigns.
"Wait!" shouted Momma, but her cries received no attention whatsoever and 
quickly she realized that if she didn't try to lay claim to the coins, she'd 
wind up with nothing. So she joined in the scrabbling about. Edmond, for his 
part, simply stood there, looking confused.
No one was paying any attention to Tacit and the weaver. Indeed, they appeared 
almost as puzzled as Edmond.
With a tilt of my head, I indicated that they should follow me, and promptly 
they did. Within moments we had obtained the safety of the brush while the 
erstwhile mob was still rummaging around on the ground, trying to find all the 
coins I'd thrown there. The fire, meantime, was burning fiercely. Indeed, 
burning so fiercely that Tacit couldn't help but let a look of concern cross his 
face.
Sensing his concern, the weaver said, "Allow me." She reached out, appearing to 
caress the air, and then her fingers moved together as if she were playing 
"cat's cradle" with invisible string. Perhaps the point where they'd chosen to 
try and toast her had no threads, but the area where we were now hiding, a safe 
distance from the madding crowd, apparently possessed what the weaver needed.
Immediately there was a crack of thunder from overhead, and then the skies 
ripped open. At first there were only a few splatterings of rain, but within 
moments we were faced with a genuine downpour. It descended upon the fire and, 
in no time at all, reduced the whole pyre to a huge pile of smoldering ashes. By 
that point, the three of us had withdrawn from the area entirely, the weaver 
pulling a hood up from the back of her cloak to afford her some protection from 
the rain. Lucky her.
We hightailed it through the woods, wanting to put as much mileage between 
ourselves and the mob as possible. After all, there was really nothing to 
prevent the crowd from keeping the money and throwing Tacit and the girl (and 
me, for that matter) on the fire anyway once things dried out. There was a 
network of caves that Tacit used for shelter on those nights when the Elderwoods 
proved inclement, and that was where we headed. We said nothing during that part 
of the trip. There seemed little to say.
Once we made it to shelter, Tacit pulled some wood from his stockpile and 
gathered it at the front of the cave. "Now let me just get it lit up . . ." he 
began.
The weaver extended a finger and made a small circling motion with it. Lightning 
cracked from overhead and slammed downward into the cave. The blast sent both 
Tacit and me tumbling backward in alarm and confusion. The weaver never even 
budged. She just sat there with a smug smile as the lightning struck the tinder. 
Within moments a warm fire was crackling.
"Very flamboyant," said Tacit, pulling himself together as best he could. Me, I 
was still waiting for my heart to climb down out of my throat.
"No less flamboyant than a harebrained rescue stunt," retorted the weaver.
Clearly Tacit took offense at her tone. "I was doing it to save you," he said.
"You were doing it to show off."
There was so much contempt in her voice that I almost felt as if I'd discovered 
a kindred spirit.
Tacit threw up his hands in disgust. "That's it. It is now official. Chivalry is 
dead."
"Stupidity is alive and well, however," said the weaver. "I assure you that if 
the situation had been reversed, I'd have left you to your fate."
I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. Tacit couldn't even bring himself to 
look in my direction.
"You know," I said slowly, "I don't know who's the bigger fool . . . you or him. 
Him because he thought you mattered . . . or you because you don't know enough 
to be grateful."
She stared at me long and hard, and something in her face seemed to shift. She 
lowered her gaze. "I don't like being in someone's debt," she said, almost to 
herself, wringing the rain from her cloak.
"Well . . . you are. You're in his," and I indicated Tacit.
"What, not yours?"
"No," I said.
"You," Tacit said, pointing at me. He smiled and shook his head. "You . . . I 
knew you'd come through. Damn, but you're an inventive little cuss. I should 
have known that when things really got difficult, you'd step in. You were right: 
I was foolhardy. You were the real hero. You used your brains and you got the 
job done, rose to the occasion to save her and me. You're the noblest, bravest 
one of all."
Noblest. Bravest. What rot. There was no bravery in buying oneself out of 
difficulty. I hadn't risen to any occasion. I should have felt ashamed, I 
suppose. Instead, all I felt was annoyed that he didn't realize how stupid I'd 
made him look. Naturally, I said the only thing I could say, given the 
circumstance.
"Thanks."
The rain was beginning to lighten, and the weaver was clearly preparing to 
depart. "Wait," Tacit said. "What's your name?"
"None of your business. Names have power. I'm not about to give you power over 
me."
At this, Tacit began to bristle. I thought he'd shown remarkable restraint to 
that point. "Power over you? I . . . we . . . saved your damned life. You'd be a 
broiled corpse if it weren't for us. If owing someone your life doesn't give 
them power over you, I don't know what does. Deny it if you want, be arrogant to 
us if it pleases you, but you're not fooling either of us. In addition to having 
a weakness for liquor and gambling, it seems you also have a weakness for common 
decency."
She pulled the hood up over her head, and seemed to glower from deep within it. 
She rose and headed for the cave exit, and then stopped momentarily and said, 
"Sharee."
"Is that your real name?"
But she didn't reply. Instead she drew her cloak tightly around her and walked 
out.
Neither of us spoke for a moment, and then Tacit reached over and patted me on 
the shoulder. "The hell with her," he said. "The important thing, Po, is . . . 
you proved what you're made of today."
Oh yes. I'd proven it, all right. I was made of spite and craven fear that could 
only be overcome when I thought that I might be able to make my one friend in 
the world feel inadequate. I was a definite prince among men.
He pressed half of the sovereigns that remained to him into my hand. "It's the 
least I could do," he said.
"I can appreciate that," I said. "I always do the least I can do."
He laughed. He thought I was kidding.
I wasn't sure if I felt more sorry for Tacit or for myself.
That night . . . I dreamt of her. At least, I thought I did.
I was sleeping in the stables, which was where I had taken to spending a good 
deal of my time in the evening. I wasn't expecting to dream of Sharee. I thought 
I had put her out of my mind. But she was hovering over me in my dream, looking 
down, and there was something in her eyes that I couldn't quite fathom. Then her 
face drew near and her lips pressed against mine. They were both warm and cold 
at the same time, which was most puzzling. When our mouths came in contact, I 
felt something like a spark, as if lightning had struck me, and suddenlyófor 
just a momentóthe world seemed to be not itself, but a shimmering array of 
multicolored ribbons, glistening in glorious blue, green, every color 
imaginable. For that instant, I saw the world the way that weavers must see it. 
It was astounding, amazing . . .
I opened my eyes, sat up suddenly . . . but there was no one there. And as I 
settled back into the straw, a recollection of the shimmering threads racing 
through my mind, I suddenly remembered that I always dreamt in shades of gray, 
not color.
 
 
Chapter 6
 
Resentment can be a powerful motivation if properly utilized.
It was from that point on that my resentment for Tacit grew with each passing 
day. I hid it effortlessly, however. As far as he was concerned, we remained 
bosom friends. Indeed, he perceived a marked change in my attitude and actions 
from that day forward. I was far more aggressive than I had been, more eager to 
participate in various ventures. Whereas before Tacit had to offer me a share of 
whatever money we took in, in short order I was more than happy to take whatever 
he felt was due me. I was always quick to bring it home and stash it away in the 
corner of the stables that I had staked out for my own. I had gotten my hands on 
a small strongbox, and managed to loosen a few boards in the floor so that I 
could secret it away. No one knew of its existence, not even my mother. Every so 
often I would take it out simply to let the coins run through my fingers and 
clink into the box. I felt as if I was building toward something. I just wasn't 
entirely yet sure what that might be (although every so often Madelyne would 
mutter something about "destiny" again).
Sometimes I found myself thinking about Sharee. I wasn't quite sure why I did, 
but Tacit could somehow always tell when she was in my thoughts. He would 
kiddingly, but firmly, whack me upside the head and say, "You're thinking about 
her again. Stop it."
"She was rather attractive," I'd say, or something to that effect.
"She's a weaver. To rescue one is not a bad thing. Weavers are favored by karmic 
forces and such endeavors as the saving of a weaver's life can rebound to one's 
benefit at the most unexpected times. But they are not like you and I, Po. They 
have their own concerns and priorities, their own world, and we merely stand on 
the outside of that world looking in. You do not want to go too close, I assure 
you, and you certainly do not want to open yourself up emotionally. That way 
lies disaster."
"I know, I know," I'd say, and I'd manage to put her out of my mind for a good 
long time, but every so often she would creep back in with the stealth of an 
invisible cat, and we'd have the same conversation again.
As for Madelyne, she continued to ply her trade. But such a life takes a fast 
toll on a woman. It is easy to be a remote, untouchable beauty and stay that way 
for many, many years. And if a stunning tapestry is hung upon a wall, it remains 
unsullied and a work of art. However, if one drapes it across the floor of a pub 
and all manner of men tread upon it with their heavy boots, it's going to be 
worn rather thin, and rather quickly. Such was the case with my mother. The 
wrinkles in her face deepened, her body sagged from the constant wear. The spark 
in her eyes became dimmer and dimmer through the passing years as she became 
resigned to her rather pathetic status in life. Men were not quite as quick to 
seek her out, as she became less pleasing to the eye.
My feelings toward her remained mixed. She was, first and foremost, my mother, 
the one who had borne me, protected me in infancy when others would have just as 
soon left me to die. I suspect that many other mothers would willingly have left 
me to my fate. Not her, because she believed that my fate was one of great 
importance. On the other hand, it is difficult to maintain respect for one who 
may be utterly deluded. She was, in the final analysis, a harmless enough 
creature. I suppose I should even have been flattered that her dreams for my 
future were the way that she defended herself against encroachment of 
unfortunate reality into her own life.
As for me, I worked on my own means of defense.
Tacit was a formidable fighter. I personally had little patience for fights. If 
I could walk away, run away, or in some other manner simply keep clear of them, 
then that would have suited me just fine. However, I was quite aware that 
sometimes combat was unavoidable. Indeed, my first encounter with Tacit had been 
a consequence of one of those instances. On that occasion, Tacit had been there 
to prevent me from being smashed into a meat sack of shattered bones. But I 
couldn't count on him always being there; my natural and burgeoning cynicism 
prompted me not to count on anyone for anything.
So it seemed incumbent upon me to find ways of defending myself, which was no 
easy task considering my lameness of leg. Tacit, however, was happy to aid me in 
my endeavors. The key lay in my staff, which served as a walking aid, but also 
could be utilized as both an offensive and defensive weapon. Tacit worked with 
me every day, running me through exercises that were designed to accommodate my 
natural handicaps. When there was any surface available for me to lean against, 
be it building, tree, or whatever, I would brace myself against it and wield the 
staff in a manner similar to that of a windmill. As I became defter and more 
dexterous, even Tacit had trouble breaking through the whirling defensive screen 
I was able to create. Any weapon thrust into the "circle of death" (as Tacit 
liked to flamboyantly call it) could be broken or, at the very least, knocked 
out of the grasp of whoever was wielding it. A fist or outthrust leg would meet 
with an even worse fate. During our practice sessions, I nearly broke Tacit's 
arm on more than one occasion.
I was also capable of shifting from defensive to offensive stance rather 
quickly. If I had nothing to lean against, I would angle forward on my good leg, 
allowing it to absorb most of the weight of my body, balancing lightly on the 
ball of my lame right foot so that I could hop/pivot with facility. I was far 
from being a formidable fighter, but that wasn't the purpose of the exercise. 
Tacit feltóand I agreedóthat any that looked upon me would consider me easy 
pickings. If they suddenly found themselves faced with a genuine fight, they 
might be less inclined to press an attack. That was the theory, in any event.
Plus, Tacit added a few tricks. He retooled the staff so that it could be 
separated in the middle by a quick twist. This would provide me with a lengthy 
baton in either hand, giving me more defensive options. And he added a secret 
compartment in one end in which I could store small objects, which was nicely 
convenient if I should happen to smash someone on the back of the head and steal 
their purse.
But the nastiest addition was at the other end of the staff on which he had 
mounted a headpiece depicting a dragon wrestling a lion. Tacit rigged a 
devilishly clever spring-loaded blade as the dragon's "tongue," about four 
inches long, which was triggered by my tapping a hidden button in the middle 
grip. It wasn't meant to serve as a substitute for a sword, but rather to 
provide a nasty surprise where the circumstances warranted it.
Madelyne was unaware of the full extent of activities that Tacit and I embarked 
upon, and naturally I had no interest in filling her in. However, she approved 
of him nonetheless, considering him a good influence, for she saw that my 
confidence built as I spent more time with him.
Poor Tacit. How limited he was, I felt. How circumscribed his idealized world of 
bravery and daring. Obviously Tacit was not someone who preferred only the 
purest of morality; he was a cutpurse and a thief, after all. Then again, he had 
an annoying habit of keeping only the smallest measure of his spoils for 
himself, preferring to give whatever money he obtained to me, or to the needy . 
. . in short, to anyone except himself. It was as if he engaged in his 
activities purely to keep busy. This I also found most annoying. Someone with 
his talents, I felt, should be endeavoring to get rich or build a base of power 
for himself. It was a subject I gently broached to him one day.
"Power," Tacit said, shaking his head, "is not something that any truly wise 
person wants."
"Why is that?" I asked him. It was a warm day and we had both just bathed in a 
nearby river. We were lying bare-chested on the grass, letting the sun dry us. 
I've always had a sketchy concept of my own age, for my motheróin her fairy-tale 
mentalityófelt that I was "ageless" and never wanted to saddle me with anything 
as mundane as birthdays. If I had to guess, though, I was in my middle-to-late 
teens by that time.
"Power is a finite resource, Apropos," Tacit said. "Once one person has it, 
others want to get it. And usually they want to take it away from the one who 
has it. It's not a game I choose to play. Let the others above me struggle with 
one another, engage in their contests and wars as they see fit. I would prefer 
to exist beneath their notice."
"But you could bring yourself up to their level."
He shook his head and smiled. "I am perfectly content to wait for them to come 
down to mine."
That was when we heard them.
By that point my own woodcraft had improved to the point where I didn't need 
Tacit to bring my attention to things. Any sort of major disturbance to the 
relative peace and quiet of the Elderwoods, I could detect almost as quickly as 
Tacit. "Horses," I said. "Men on horseback." I listened a moment more. "About 
five, six . . ."
"Ten," Tacit said with confidence, waving for me to follow. "Come on."
The hoofbeats were far in the distance, but approaching quite rapidly. We made 
our way through the forest with alacrity, or at least as much alacrity as I 
could muster. There was an area of the Elderwoods where the hills angled upward 
to form a natural lookout point, and that was where Tacit and I headed. It gave 
us a valuable vantage point to see what was going on, and what was coming from 
which direction. However, the area was nicely covered with vegetation, so that 
anyone looking in our direction would have his vision obscured.
We lay down flat, looking at the oncoming horsemen. Ten, just as Tacit had said. 
Their horses were magnificent beasts to look at. Their coloration was somewhat 
amazing: Every single one of them was purest gray, their hides seeming to 
shimmer into black with every great thrust of their powerful legs. When they 
moved, they seemed like a mass of storm clouds coming toward us. That impression 
was underscored by the fact that the sky truly was darkening up; I suspected 
that we were in for a storm before too long.
The riders themselves wore garments of different styles, but which featured a 
color scheme that was uniformly black and white.
It was a most impressive array. All of them had swords dangling from their hips, 
and a number of them had shields. The shields bore a crest that consisted of a 
globe, with renderings of what appeared to be marching feet encircling them.
At first it seemed that the riders were approaching the Elderwoods, but soon it 
became readily apparent that they were simply circumnavigating it. Apparently 
they had no intention of actually trying to enter the legendary forest. Wherever 
they were heading, it wasn't here.
Their emblems, their colors, all meant nothing to me. But when I glanced at 
Tacit, his expression and body language immediately alerted me to the fact that 
he did, indeed, have some familiarity with these individuals. He didn't appear 
scared, actually. It took a lot to scare Tacit. But he was obviously concerned.
"Journeymen," he said. When he saw my blank expression, he added, "Meander's 
people."
"Meander!" The name filled me with that unique combination of interest, awe, and 
dread that his name usually summoned. "Are you sure? I mean, are you absolutely 
sure?"
Tacit nodded. In the distance, thunder rumbled as if to underscore a sense of 
drama.
Meander, the Keepless King. Meander the Vagabond. Meander the Mad. All of these 
appellations, and more, had been applied to him, and probably none of them truly 
began to capture the full picture.
Meander had once been a king in a frozen region far to the north, and had come 
into his title with the passing of his father, a man named Sentor who was 
reputed to be relatively wise and fair. Sentor had constructed what was said to 
be a glorious, sparkling castle that was known far and wide as the Ice Palace. 
It was his crowning glory, so much so that Sentor abruptly died within days of 
completing its construction, and thus did Meander find himself king of the Keep 
of the Frozen North. It was rumored that Meander had done away with his father, 
but no one had ever been able to verify it.
Once in charge, Meander took himself a princess from a nearby realm . . . the 
only other one within distance, in fact. She was a lovely young thing named Tia, 
and despite the arctic aspects of the Keep, it was said that her very presence 
brought warmth where before there had been none. With the two major frigid 
realms united through the marriage, matters were quite peaceful, albeit cold, in 
the frozen north.
One day Meander and Tia embarked on a journey to Tia's home, accompanied by the 
normal escort of guards. But along the way, a fearsome storm came up that was 
unlike any that even the longest residents of the Frozen North had ever 
experienced. The king and queen became separated from their escort, and the 
escort found itself snowblind. For a solid day the storm continued, and when it 
was over, Meander and Tia were nowhere to be found. A search was called off 
after many days, and for a time there was great mourning within the Keep.
Then, to the astonishment of all, Meander staggered out of the wilderness one 
day, making it all the way to the Ice Palace before collapsing in a heap. There 
was no sign of his beloved queen, and the only utterances out of Meander's mouth 
indicated that Tia was, in fact, dead. It was almost too cruel, the kingdom 
having to mourn a popular ruler for a second time. As for Meander, frostbite had 
claimed several of his toes. He fell ill immediately upon returning home, as if 
the last of his strength had been used up in making it back. For two weeks he 
shivered, tossed, and turned as the doctors tended to him, and it was unknown 
for quite some time whether he would live or die. When he finally returned to 
his court, his outward demeanor was calm, almost supernaturally so. And his next 
pronouncements utterly floored the court.
"We have come to understand the world better," said Meander, or so the story 
goes. "We have restricted ourselves to the Frozen North, but that is 
foolishness. There are no borders, no boundaries upon this world save those 
which we construct for ourselves. But they are artificial, and mean no more to 
the world's surface than the illustrations we call constellations mean to the 
actual stars. From this place atop the world, we hereby abolish all borders. We 
will recognize no territories. We will go where we wish, when we wish, as we 
wish. We will be king of all we survey . . . and we are tired of surveying this 
frozen wasteland. So we shall survey other climes, other areas, and wherever we 
are, that is where we will be king until it pleases us to go elsewhere."
"But Your Highness," said one courtier, "what of this magnificent castle?"
"Castles are foolishness," replied Meander. "They provide enemies with somewhere 
that they can find you and strike at you. They give you something to hold on to 
that can be taken away from you by others. Ours will be a roving kingdom, a 
vagabond kingdom. To be satisfied with one place is nonsense. Let the other 
kings of the world dwell within their fortified walls and believe themselves 
safe. Castles can be attacked, sacked, siege laid to them. We will be," and he 
smiled, "we will be like the ocean. Strike at an ocean, and your blow means 
nothing, for there is nothing there to meet your fist. You cannot imprison or 
border the ocean. It is endlessly useful, and endlessly powerful."
There was some spirited discussion of the king's new philosophy in the court, 
but ultimately he was their king. Besides, I expect that he might have hit a bit 
more resistance if his realm had been in sunnier climes and he was proposing 
relocation to somewhere in the Frozen North. As it was, no one was tremendously 
averse to the concept of heading someplace warmer. However, just to make certain 
that no one had any second thoughts, Meander waited until the entire castle was 
cleared out of everything easily transportable, and then he destroyed it. The 
Frozen North is, so I hear, a remarkably quiet land, snow falling there with an 
eerie hush. It is said that the crash made by the Ice Palace when it collapsed 
reverberated for days across the perpetual silence of the land, and by the time 
it finally ceased its echoes, Meander and his people were long gone.
Thus did King Meander consciously choose a life of perpetual wandering. He cared 
nothing for borders or treaties, and would move across lands with no regard to 
the sovereigns who were already there. He recognized no rule save his own. At 
first, various monarchs reacted with fury over Meander's utter lack of respect 
for their respective authority. One of the first notable skirmishes involved 
King Verona, who had long ago decreed that no foreign king could set foot in his 
realm of Upper Montclair without heavy tax or copious offerings. When Meander 
crossed into his territory and set up his portable realm, Verona sent messengers 
demanding that Meander pay homage. The messengers never returned. Assuming that 
Meander had slain them, King Verona sent the famed Fifth Regiment against 
Meander. When the Fifth arrived, they found that not only were the messengers in 
perfect health, but they had, in fact, switched loyalty to Meander. It was 
difficult not to. The Fifth discovered that Meander was in the midst of what he 
referred to as his "movable feast." Paying no attention to the posted signs or 
warnings, Meander's people had slaughtered some of the succulent game (deer and 
such) that were maintained purely for the highly refined taste buds of the king 
and his higher tier of nobles.
Now, the Fifth had two or three nobles in command position, but the majority of 
the Fifthóas was the case with most regimentsówas composed of grunts and ground 
pounders. Well trained, but grunts just the same, and they were accustomed to 
being treated as such. It was just the standard pecking order. But Meander, with 
no regard for such things, treated them as if they were lords themselves. "Sit 
down at our movable feast, good sirs," Meander welcomed them rather than taking 
up arms against them. "Enjoy, for once, the best that your land has to offer, 
instead of those handouts which your lord deigns to give you."
This was met by howls of protest by the nobles, who demanded that the men 
immediately slaughter everyone in Meander's court and take the king himself 
prisoner. But they underestimated their own control over their people. It is a 
simple matter to order men into battle against an opponent who is shouting war 
cries. But to meet generosity with violence is another matter entirely. Plus it 
is said that the ladies of Meander's court, now that they were out of the frozen 
clime, had "thawed" considerably and were most anxious to indulge their newfound 
warmth with all comers. Between such enticements as food and sex, the hardy men 
of the Fifth Regiment were happily helpless. The nobles faithful to King Verona 
blustered and threatened and swore and stamped their feet until the grunts, 
their bellies full and their palates tingling, got tired of them and put them to 
the sword. Thus did Meander take the Fifth.
It proved a significant lesson to other monarchs, who realized that they had a 
serious problem on their hands. From Upper Montclair, he moved through Upper 
Echelon, and the entire Upper Lumbar region, and none of the kings, liege lords, 
and others in charge knew what to make of him. He took what he wanted, acquired 
followers with ease, but showed no interest in the traditional challenging of 
power or capturing of land that other roaming monarchs so frequently displayed. 
And heaven help anyone who made a foray against him, because long practice made 
Meander's court the most mobile and terrain-adaptive of any in the land.
Consequently, when Tacit and I saw a number of his soldiersóknown as the 
Journeymenópassing through, we had absolutely no clue how to react. One never 
knew what one was going to get with Meander or his people, because his followers 
were a hodgepodge and agglomeration of whomever happened to have joined him at 
that time. It was said that Meander was sort of a free-floating pocket of chaos. 
It was said he cared nothing about anyone, as if all his actions subsequent to 
his wife's death were a means of isolating himself from anyone or anything truly 
being able to touch him.
It was said that, in truth, he was a madman.
All I knew was that seeing ten of his Journeymen pounding through the area was 
something that filled me with a vague sense of dread, and I had no real idea 
why.
"What are we going to do?" I asked.
Tacit looked at me with confusion. " 'Do'? We're not going to do anything. 
They're not heading into the Elderwoods, which is fine by me. If they did, we'd 
have a problem on our hands. As it is . . ." He shrugged.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and it began to rain, big fat drops pouring down. We 
made for the nearest cave and holed up there, trading stories that we'd heard 
about Meander. Tacit seemed disturbed by him, but the more we spoke of it, the 
more the entire concept began to intrigue me. "Perhaps I should take up with 
him," I mused out loud. "Join his ranks."
"What would you want to do a bloody stupid thing like that for?" Tacit demanded.
"Maybe it's not so stupid. Maybe Meander is the only one out there who sees 
things for what they really are."
"Meander is a madman," Tacit said dismissively.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps it's simply a mad world, and Meander is the only one with 
clarity of vision."
Tacit leaned forward, drawing his knees up under his chin. "Meander has no sense 
of justice, or order. He's the incarnation of pure impulse. There's something to 
be said for spontaneity, granted. But there's also something to be said about 
knowing where one stands at all times, and you'll never get that with Meander. 
Not ever."
The rain came down all the harder. We stayed in the cave and spoke of this and 
that, liberally mixing matters of importance with matters of no consequence at 
all. The rain formed such a steady beat above our heads that, as day rolled 
toward evening, slowly I found myself being lulled to sleep.
And I dreamt with a clarity such as I had never known before.
I saw my mother, saw Madelyne, and she was speaking to me as if from very far 
away. To this day I cannot remember exactly what she said. Certainly her 
incessant carping about my destiny figured into it. But there was something 
more, something fearful in her manner. Even in the dream, there was an attitude 
that came through above all else: She was acting as if this was the last time 
she was going to be able to speak with me.
She cried out in pain, and when I awoke it was as much to her scream inside my 
head as it was being startled from my slumber by the roar of thunder.
The abruptness with which I woke startled Tacit awake. "I have to go home," I 
said, without knowing or understanding why.
"What's wrong?" Tacit asked.
But I didn't wait around to tell him. Instead I bolted from the cave. It was 
still raining. I didn't care. I was being compelled by something greater than 
anything that I was able to understand. My lame leg was almost forgotten as I 
ran through the forest. I knew the path so well that, even in the darkness, even 
in the rain, I was able to maneuver through the Elderwoods as if it were broad 
daylight and I were fleet of feet.
He had no idea what was going on, but Tacit nonetheless followed me. I wasn't 
aware of it at first, because even when he was making no effort to conceal 
himself, Tacit still moved like a ghost. But a carelessly snapped twig under his 
foot tipped me that Tacit was behind me. I didn't care. All I knew was that I 
had to get back to the tavern.
I burst through the door and saw Stroker standing by the fireplace. There were 
only a handful of regular customers there, and they were clustered together and 
muttering in low tones. Everyone turned and looked at me, and there was darkness 
in their eyes that held something ominous within. Even Stroker, who had never 
given two damns about me, looked as if he was actually, albeit momentarily, 
concerned.
As if we were already halfway through a conversation, I said, "Where is she?" I 
must have been quite a sight at that moment, with my hair flattened around me 
from the rain, my clothes disheveled, tracking in mud from the Elderwoods. But I 
didn't care about any of that. More alarmingly, neither did Stroker seem to 
care.
Stroker indicated the back room with a quick tilt of his chin. I headed toward 
it and threw open the door, to discover Astel sobbing over my mother's corpse.
I stood there for a long moment, the reality now having caught up with my most 
fevered imaginings. Madelyne's eyes were open, but she was staring at nothing, 
her soul having departed the body and left the lids up in the way that someone 
might hurriedly flee a house and leave the door ajar.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, realized it was Tacit's, and pushed it aside. I 
entered the room and stood over Astel. To my distant surprise, I felt 
exceptionally calm. "What happened?"
"A . . . a Journeyman," Astel managed to get out. "I . . . there were raised 
voices. I heard, everyone heard. He wanted her to do things . . . disgusting 
things . . . she wouldn't have any part of. She was a good and decent whore, and 
wouldn't have any truck with what that . . . that pig wanted." She accentuated 
the "p" in "pig" so that she spat upon saying the word. "His friends caroused 
outside, and he tried to take her here, to do his filthy . . ." Her voice 
shuddered and she took a moment to compose herself. I didn't rush her. What 
would have been the point? "We heard furniture being thrown about. And the snap 
when he broke her neck, the bastard . . . I heard that, too. We all did."
"His name," I said tonelessly. "Did any of you get his name, so he can be 
found."
"No. But before she died, she left her mark on him a'right. If you see him, that 
will help you identify him, sure as I'm breathing."
"Her mark?" Tacit spoke up.
Astel flexed her hand in a clawlike motion and made a sweeping gesture. I 
understood immediately. Madelyne had always kept her fingernails long and sharp. 
If she chose to employ them as weapons, I certainly wouldn't have wanted to have 
the damn things raking across my face. And sure enough, I could see traces of 
blood on the fingernails of her right hand. She'd bloodied her murderer 
something fierce, that much was certain.
Her murderer . . .
A cold fury was beginning to build in me, as I walked slowly across the dirty 
room and, passing my hand over her face, shut her eyes. Something had to be done 
about this.
I would like to tell you that I was motivated by a sense of justice, of honor. 
But these matters were of little relevance to me. I knew that this was an unjust 
world, and to expect any sort of equity within it was a complete waste of time.
But . . . she was mine. She was my mother. I had, by turns, loved her, pitied 
her, loathed her. In the final analysis, however, she was the only mother I had, 
and some brute had come along and taken her from me, had stolen from me. He had 
taken that which was mine, that which he had no right to take.
I had so little. So little. How dare some thug try and rob me of what little I 
had.
"Can you describe him beyond the mark?" I asked.
"Tall. A big man . . . at least two heads higher than you. Massive built he was, 
with a scowl dark as thunderclouds and the strength of five men, at least. Maybe 
ten."
I didn't like the sound of that.
"Tell me you'll find him . . . find him and kill him for what he did," Astel 
continued with bubbling ire. "Tell me you will."
"I'll do better," I said. "I'll find his mother . . . and kill her."
"Wait a minute," Tacit said immediately and even Astel seemed taken aback. "You 
can't do that," continued Tacit.
"The hell I can't. Watch me."
"Kill some woman you don't even know!"
"He did!" I pointed out, indicating my mother's body.
"But that's not the point! If you were going to try and kill him, that'd be one 
thingó"
"It certainly would. It would be suicide. You heard her description of him. He'd 
annihilate me."
"Po," Tacit said slowly, "you can't do it. You can't just kill an innocent woman 
because of something her son did."
"Well, I have to do something!"
"Not you. We. We have to do it. We will find him . . . we will find the man who 
did this . . . and we will exact vengeance on your mother's behalf."
"Why?" I stared at him incredulously. "Why 'we'? Why are you mixing into this? 
This isn't your concern."
"Of course it's my concern. You're my friend!"
I looked at the dead body of my mother, which Astel was just in the process of 
covering with a sheet. "Why do you have to do that?" I muttered.
"Do what? What do you mean?"
Thunder cracked overhead, and something about the sound of the heavens, combined 
with something in Tacit's voiceósuch a matter-of-fact, "how-could-you-even-ask" 
attitudeópushed me over an edge that I didn't even realize I was standing near.
"Why do you have to try and be heroic all the time!" I said in frustration. "Why 
do you have to see everything so 'clearly'? What do you think you're trying to 
prove?"
"Prove?" He shook his head. "I'm not trying to prove anythó"
"Oh, the hell you aren't!" I was shouting by that point, uncaring if anyone 
outside heard me. "That's all you ever do! Try to prove how much better you are 
than I am! How much nobler, how much more heroic! Tacit, who can move with the 
grace of a unicorn! Tacit, with the heart of a gryphon! The heroic cutpurse and 
rogue, trying to make everybody's life a little bit better! I'm sick of it! I'm 
sick of you! Haven't you gotten that yet? Don't you understand that?"
"Po," he said slowly, moving his hands in a "calm down" gesture, "I know that 
you're upset. Your mother's body is not even cold, her murderer protected by a 
vast army . . ."
"An army that you'd take on single-handedly, no doubt, in order to accommodate a 
friend! And you'd probably win, too!" It all came spilling out, everything I'd 
bottled up. "Damn you! God damn you! Damn you for your perfection and innate 
wonderfulness! Damn you for being so much better than I am, and leaving me to 
look at you and be sick with envy!"
"Apropos, my friendó"
"I'm not your friend! How many ways do I have to spell this out for you! I 
cannot stand you, all right? I can't stand the sight of you! Whenever I look at 
you, all I see is all that I am not! I can never measure up to everything that 
you are!"
"But we're not in competition, Apropos!"
"That's the worst thing of all. You see, you're not in competition. You're so 
skilled, so wonderful, so perfect, that you don't even realize it!" I was 
sweating profusely, my forehead positively dripping, and the salt from it sopped 
down and stung my eyes. I wiped them furiously, hoping that it didn't seem as if 
I were weeping. That would have been simply intolerable. "You're just someone 
who served a purpose, that's all! Nothing more than that!" His face was 
resolutely stoic. I stepped closer in, suddenly consumed with an overwhelming 
desire to hurt him. "Must I spell it out? I used you! Used you for protection, 
for knowledge. You were a means to an end, that's all. All your heroics and your 
taking on this quest or that cause. And now you're going to do it again, with my 
mother, and drag me along with it as if throwing my life away against some 
behemoth is going to bring her back. And the worst is, you'll probably expect 
great deeds out of me! Probably fix it so that it's my hand that lays the 
villain low or something equally noble. The hell with your nobility! The hell 
with you! Do you finally comprehend? Do we finally have an understanding, Tacit? 
Do we?"
I wasn't sure what I expected him to do. Rant, perhaps, or strike me, or hurl 
invective.
But all he did was just look at me with what seemed infinite sadness, and then 
he shook his head and said quietly, "Perhaps . . . you are right. Perhaps this 
is something you'd best do alone. Handle the matter as you wish. May you find 
whatever justice you deem your mother worthy of, Apropos. May you find 
everything you seek."
I was fairly trembling with rage. "Stop being so damned polite! Didn't you hear 
anything I said?"
"I heard everything you said. And I forgive you."
He bowed slightly to Astel, placed a respectful hand upon my mother's cold one 
for a moment as if wishing her good journey, and then turned and left.
"I don't need your forgiveness any more than I need your friendship!" I shouted 
after him. I doubt that he heard me, and truthfully, it wouldn't have made much 
difference if he had.
It was done. I was rid of him. It was about time, really. I'd learned from him 
every reasonable skill he had to offer. I didn't need him anymore. Particularly 
if he was going to lead me on some quest that would get me killed, as if my 
mother would ever know or care. "Exact vengeance on your mother's behalf," Tacit 
had said. What a colossal crock that was. My mother had no more behalf. She was 
beyond such human concerns as justice.
"Justice. There has to be justice for her," Astel said, as if she could read my 
thoughts. She pointed a quavering finger at me. "And you have to get it for her. 
You're her son. She believed in you."
I looked at her body, now covered by the sheet, and thought about her natterings 
about destiny and such. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror mounted on 
the wall nearby. Moderate height was I by that point, with a fairly well muscled 
upper torso. But my right leg was still a fairly useless object, and overall I 
looked very unimpressive, leaning on my staff and assessing my abilities and 
worth.
"More fool she," I said.
Astel's movement was quick. I never even saw her hand swing in its arc. But I 
certainly felt the impact as it cracked against my face.
There was cold, hard fury in Astel's face. "You little creep," she fairly 
snarled. "I caught you when your mother's womb expelled you. I was there when 
you sank your teeth into Stroker's throat. Your mother sold her body to buy you 
a roof over your head, and what have you done in return? Never offered her so 
much as a soft word, much less made any effort to support yourself or make her 
life better!"
"I . . . did . . . from time to time," I protested, but it sounded rather lame 
the way I said it. My face was smarting but I didn't want to give her the 
satisfaction of seeing me reach up and rub it.
"You did nothing, except hang about with Tacit or glower at your mother ever 
since you found out what she did in order to provide for you."
"That's not true." I thought about the time that I'd pressed the coin into her 
sleeping hand, but I wasn't about to share that memory with Astel. It would seem 
as if I was defensive, providing excuses. So I simply repeated, a bit more 
sullenly, "That's not true. And . . . and I've made money. I have. Lots of 
money, hidden away. Money I was going to give her!" And at that point it was a 
complete lie, because I'd never had any intention of giving her a single 
sovereign. But just as before I'd wanted to upset Tacit, now I was seized with 
the desire to do something about those contemptuous looks that Astel was giving 
me.
She shook her head in haughty disbelief. "I don't think you know what true and 
false are anymore."
"You don't know anything, Astel," I said angrily. If she could be accusatory, I 
could be, too. "You've known me my whole life, and you don't know anything about 
me!"
"I know that Tacit at least had some measure of the right idea, and you treated 
him like garbage!" she said, pointing at the door in indication of the direction 
he'd gone. "I know that at least he had his heart in the right place! Where's 
your heart, Apropos?!"
"Hidden away where the likes of you can never find it!"
We were very close, taking step upon step toward each other, our bodies both 
trembling with our respective fury. "I wouldn't bother looking for your heart!" 
she shot back. "Why should I seek out such a shriveled and pathetic thing as 
that! Your mother lies dead, and your only plan is to track down some helpless 
woman and murder her!"
"What would you have me do, Astel? Throw my life away combating some brute 
that'll slay me, like as not? And what good will that do her?!"
"You're a coward!"
"I'm a realist! If living in the real world makes me a coward in your eyes, then 
fine! Who gives a damn what you think?"
"You do!" She shoved me. With my lame leg, I almost stumbled, but I recovered 
and shoved her back. When she came at me again, I caught both her wrists and 
held them easily. Thunder blasted even louder, so loud that it seemed as if it 
were in the room with us.
"You have no compassion!" she shouted over the thunder as she struggled in my 
grasp. "No care for anything save yourself . . . no love . . . no . . ."
Her body was right up against mine, and that was when I kissed her fiercely. It 
was a clumsy movement, my skull cracking against hers so hard that we were both 
momentarily dazed. She was nearly twice as old as I, but still damned 
attractive. She tried to pull away from me. I kissed her again, feeling 
something building deep within me, something that was demanding it be unleashed. 
Rain was pouring down, slamming against the walls, and the wind was howling. She 
sunk her teeth into my lower lip, drawing blood, and I pulled away momentarily. 
Triumph flashed in her eyes, but there was something else in there as well, 
something that prompted me to bring my mouth savagely down upon hers once more, 
and this time there was only the mildest resistance. When I bore her down to the 
floor, all resistance was gone.
With my mother's corpse lying covered on a table five feet away, I had my first 
woman. It was hardly the ambience that one could have wished for, but I suppose 
in retrospect that there was something symbolic about it.
 
 
Chapter 7
 
We lay close to each other for some time, holding each other tight, skin against 
skin so that it took our bodies as long as possible to cool. "That was . . . 
unexpected," I said, my voice sounding a bit huskier than it had a little while 
earlier.
"Life is full of surprises," said Astel. She was idly fingering the wispy curls 
of chest hair. "Do you know what I think you lacked, Apropos?"
"Is this going to be an alphabetical list, or are you going to go from largest 
to smallest?"
She smiled at that. I guessed I had amused her. "I think you lacked confidence. 
The sort of confidence that can only be gotten by . . . by becoming a man. A 
true man," she added.
"Is that what it takes, then? What of monks who swear themselves to lives of 
celibacy?"
She made a dismissive noise. "They're busy making love to God, or whatever 
permutation thereof is interesting to them." She drew herself even closer to me. 
If she'd held me any tighter, she would have been in back of me. "Confidence," 
she said again, as if she'd just settled a dispute for herself.
"And is that why you and I had it off just now? So that you could help build my 
confidence?"
She sighed contentedly. "A little, perhaps. But also . . . I hate to admit it . 
. . I've wondered about it for a long time. Fantasized about it. I know, I know 
how strange it is. After all, I held you in my arms when you were newborn. But 
perhaps that was part of the excitement as well. Watching you grow into young 
manhood, coming into your own."
"And before, when you spoke of my heartlessness?"
Propping her head up on one hand, Astel said, "We say things when we're angry, 
Apropos. Things we don't really mean. I think it's what we do when we're not 
angry that has greater weight, don't you." She leaned over and kissed me once 
more, and I felt my body begin to respond on its own. The second time we had sex 
was far less rushed. I was hardly what one would call experienced, but I did 
have the benefit of being a fast learner.
It was a short time later when we finally dressed and emerged from the room 
where my mother's body lay. Only a handful of people remained in the tavern at 
that point, most of them so drunk into oblivion that they could have been on the 
sun and wouldn't have known their whereabouts. Stroker, however, cleaning 
glasses behind the bar, was stone-cold sober. Since he usually relegated those 
chores to wenches and such, clearly he had things on his mind. He glowered at us 
from beneath his beetled brow.
"I've sent for the funerian," he growled. "He'll take the body and dispose of 
it." Not for Stroker were the niceties of asking after the state of mind of the 
newly orphaned.
"Dispose of it how?" I asked. "Where will she be buried?"
"Buried!" He snorted. " 'Less you've got money for a grave site, she'll just be 
made ashes in the funerian's kiln."
It was clear that his mentioning my having money was such a preposterous notion 
that my temper started to flare. "Money!" I retorted. "I'll have you know tható"
Then I felt Astel's hand gripping my arm warningly. I wasn't quite sure what the 
problem was, but it was clear that she didn't want me to continue. Cutting 
myself short in what I hoped was a vaguely smooth manner, I ended the sentence 
lamely, "óthat if I could get it, I would. Wait a minute . . . what about her 
money?"
Stroker looked at me blankly. "Her money?"
"My mother's earnings! All these years . . . where are they? She must have 
banked them with you. Where is it!"
"Your mother gave me squat, boy, 'side from what I was entitled to. I think she 
kept it with her, in her mattress."
Immediately I headed back into the room. I would have pitched my mother's corpse 
off the bed to inspect the mattress . . . except that I quickly found one 
section had been torn away 'round the other side. I shoved my hand in, probing . 
. . and came away with a single sov that the thief must have missed. That was 
probably the real reason that he'd killed her. Sitting on the mattress, he must 
have felt the wealth contained therein, disposed of her, and taken it for 
himself.
I muttered a string of profanity and stomped back into the main room. "It's 
gone! It's all gone! But if you have a shred of decency . . ." Then I stopped, 
remembering who I was talking to.
Stroker snorted once more, like a horse with an allergy, and turned away. Astel 
led me over into a far corner of the tavern and sat me down. "Don't you be 
mentioning that money of yours to anyone," she whispered. "Not a word of it." 
She took my hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. "Your mother was right, 
Apropos. You do have a destiny; I could always sense that about you. But we both 
know that if it's to be found, it's not going to be in this place. Let's face 
it, there's nothing to hold us here. We can get out, you and me."
"We?" Things seemed to be moving much faster than I'd anticipated. It was only 
within the last hour that I'd come to think of Astel as a real, flesh and blood 
woman rather than simply some individual who had always been there. A woman of 
passion and fire, and desires all her own, that was Astel. To go from that state 
of mind to thinking of us as a "we . . ."
Still, it didn't seem particularly out of the question. She had awoken my carnal 
side, had brought me over the threshold into manhood. Already I felt an 
attachment starting to develop. I couldn't look upon her without imagining what 
it would be like to be horizontal with her once more, sampling the amazing heat 
that the woman seemed to radiate from every pore. "We" didn't seem such a 
terrible idea at that, truth to tell.
"Yes, we. Does the notion . . . repulse you?" she asked. Her voice contained 
potential for a world of hurt.
"No," and I smiled, genuinely smiled, which is something I rarely did. "No, it 
doesn't repulse me at all."
"I could use some help here!" Stroker called angrily from behind the bar, and 
Astel immediately got to her feet and moved behind the bar to start cleaning up 
and settling down matters for the night. Stroker walked around the bar, carrying 
a large stein of what was probably mead. He swaggered toward me, and I wondered 
what he was going to say and do. What charming bon mot was going to tumble from 
his lips, what new insult or snide remark?
He stood at the edge of the table where I was seated, regarding me for a long 
moment. And then, to my surprise, he placed the stein in front of me. The froth 
of the mead swirled around the top. It was the good stuff, not the stuff he 
watered down, I could tell. And when he spoke, it was without any of the bluff, 
bluster, and arrogance that I had spent my entire life hearing.
"I'm sorry about your mother," said Stroker in a low voice. "She deserved 
better. And she deserves justice." That was all, and then he turned away. For a 
moment, just a moment, I thought I caught the smallest amount of moisture 
starting to form in the corner of his eye.
"Justice from whom?" I asked.
He looked back at me, as if surprised that the question needed to be asked. "The 
king, y'fool. Who else?" He walked away shaking his head, as if he couldn't 
quite believe that such a stupid question needed to be asked.
I had to admit, it made sense. It was known far and wide that King Runcible was 
quite the adjudicator. People from around the land came to him with disputes to 
be settled, which seemed a far more reasonable means of handling arguments than 
resorting to combat. There was a place in his palace known as the Hall of 
Justice, where he sat once a week and welcomed all comers, the great and the 
ingrate, attending to their grievances.
I myself had always held such practices in general, and the court of Runcible in 
particular, in great disdain. Who better had the right? Runcible made a great 
show of his knights standing for something good and moral, but my very existence 
on this planet put the lie to that. Runcible's men were just as violent, just as 
selfcentered, just as capable of great evil, as were any other individuals who 
made no pretense of moral posturing. I was a bastard, spawned from a group rape 
of my mother. It was hardly the sort of origin that was likely to give one a 
warm, generous feeling toward those who were responsible.
Still . . . there was something to be said for the notion. Hell, it had been a 
long time ago. For all I knew, those knights who had participated in the 
barbaric assault against my mother had been weeded out of Runcible's court. 
There was no real way for me to tell. Besidesóand here was the aspect that I 
found most attractiveóif Runcible sicced his knights on the Journeyman who had 
slain my mother, my neck was not on the line. Let his trained brutes deal with 
the situation. That way I could have my revenge against the cad who had stolen 
from me, and at the same time do so without having to worry about running into 
difficulties myself.
No, it was not a half-bad plan at all.
The funerian showed up promptly at dawn, which was fortunate since with the 
passing of a bit more time, my mother's poor corpse might have started to get 
ripe. He was a tall, pale individual, the type who seemed born to the 
profession. Stroker, who was becoming a fountain of surprises, slipped the 
funerian a few coins. Not enough to pay for a burial site, but at least 
sufficient to obtain a right and proper funeral and a solo cremation. There was 
somehow more dignity to that than watching a body tossed on a pyre with a half a 
dozen strangers.
The attendance at my mother's funeral was small. It was in the open air, of 
course, the funerian's kiln heated up ahead of time for maximum efficiency. Her 
body, wrapped in funeral cloths, was eased into the kiln, and the heavy metal 
door banged shut behind her with such finality that I jumped slightly. Astel was 
next to me, clutching my arm. Ever since our "bonding," she had become a bit 
clingy. That might have caused problems in the long term, but for the moment it 
was acceptable. Stroker was there as well, plus a handful of regular customers 
who had come to appreciate Madelyne for her "talents" and her perpetually upbeat 
manner. The kiln belched out black smoke, which tailed away high into the sky. 
The funerian performed a fill-in-the-blanks sermon, and when he asked if any 
individuals wished to speak on her behalf at that time, no one volunteered. I 
felt I should say something, but I couldn't for the life of me imagine what. 
There were things I wished I'd said to her while she was around, but it was a 
bit late for that. So I maintained my silence rather than risk saying anything 
foolish.
Astel nudged me in the ribs. I looked at her in annoyance and she inclined her 
head toward the front of the assemblage. Clearly she wasn't going to let me off 
that easily. I sighed heavily and trudged toward the front, accentuating my limp 
even further as, perhaps, a slight bid for sympathy. I turned to face the people 
there and, after a moment's reflection, I said, "Madelyne was my mother, and she 
had . . . a vision of what the world should be. And it never really matched up 
with her dreams. So what I'm going to do is dedicate the rest of my life to 
fulfilling her vision. Because that's what she'd want me to do." I hesitated, 
then mentally shrugged and said, "Thank you."
There were actually tears in Astel's eyes. I couldn't believe that she had 
gotten misty-eyed over such a pathetic speech. Someone patted me on the back; to 
my horror, I had a feeling it was Stroker. This wasn't the way I needed the 
world to be. The last thing I required was a brute like Stroker revealing a soft 
underbelly, or Astelówhom I'd always viewed as being one of the more pragmatic 
of womenóto be a sucker for a few sentimental words.
Not too far off, there was a grove of trees that was part of the outermost ridge 
of the Elderwoods. I glanced in that direction, and of course . . . of course . 
. . I caught a glimpse of a figure clad in green and brown. Then it vanished 
into the concealing woods.
We stood there and watched the black smoke belch from the top of the kiln, stray 
ashes and such fluttering upward. My mother had aspired to so much. Perhaps, 
wherever she wound up next, she might be closer to whatever it was she was 
seeking. Some minutes later, the funerian handed me a large urn with her 
remaining ashes.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked.
"Whatever you want," said the funerian.
I lugged the thing back with me. No one made an offer to help. Maybe they felt 
it would be something of an insult or some such nonsense. Damned foolish of 
them. If anyone had asked if they could help, I could gladly have shoved the urn 
over to them. Astel kept pace with me, and I said, "Any ideas as to what I 
should do with this?"
"When the time comes, you'll know," she said cryptically.
The mood in Stroker's was somber that night. I sat at a table alone, staring at 
my mother's urn, and Stroker walked over to me and sat down. "Look," he growled, 
"I never had much use for you. But if you want to stay here, you can. Course, 
you'll have to pull your own weight from now on. You've always been a lazy 
little shit . . ."
"Have I," I said tonelessly.
"You know it, I know it. So you'll have to bust your ass from now on to keep 
room and board. But if you're willing to do that, then fine." He paused, and 
then tapped the base of his neck. "I've still got your mark, y'know. Right here. 
You can barely see it, but it's there just the same. You were a nasty little 
creep from the day you were born."
"A lazy little shit, a nasty little creep. So why keep me around at all?" I 
looked at him levelly. "Because you want to see me squirm? Because you want to 
treat me like the shit and creep you think I am? How much do you want to make me 
grovel just so I have a roof over my head?"
His gaze hardened. "I was trying to be nice. Should've realized that was 
pointless with someone like you."
"Yes, I guess you should've."
He shoved the chair back with such force that it hit the floor. I'm not sure 
what else he intended to do, but finally he just shook his head and walked away, 
leaving me alone. I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder then, and knew that it was 
Astel.
"We're getting out of here," I said.
It took us no time at all to gather the few belongings we had, and then I led 
her to the stables, still hauling my mother's ashes in the urn. I went to the 
corner, pulled up the floorboards where I had been secreting my stash for the 
past years. I actually felt some degree of pride. For so long, I had wanted to 
pull out the fruits of my "ill-gotten gains" and show them to my mother, or 
shove them in Stroker's face whenever he made some disparaging comment about how 
I would never amount to anything. At least I would be able to show it off to 
Astel. There was, after all this time, a small fortune in there. Probably far 
more than my mother had stashed away, since I didn't have such considerations as 
food and rent to be deducted from it.
"Astel . . ." I started to say, " . . . come take a look at this . . ."
I half-turned and barely had time to see the urn in Astel's hands. She had 
planted her feet firmly and was twisting at the hip, gripping the urn and 
swinging it straight at my head. Before it could fully register on me, the urn 
cracked against my skull. I tumbled backward, hitting the ground heavily. I 
tasted blood swelling from my mouth, and even though I couldn't string a 
coherent thought together, I still managed to pull myself halfway upright just 
as she whipped the urn around again. This time it hit me with such force that 
the urn shattered, spewing ash everywhere. Most of it, however, was on me, 
choking me, stinging my eyes. I coughed violently, trying to clear my lungs.
Through my limited sphere of vision, I saw Astel's hands grab up the strongbox 
in which I had taken to keeping my stash. I lunged for it, trying to get out the 
words "Give it back!" She gave it back to me all right. She slammed me on the 
back of the head with it, and that was the end of that. Blackness spiraled 
around me and my head hit the straw. Just before I lost consciousness, I heard 
Astel say, "I'm sorry, Apropos. This will probably make it even harder for you 
to trust anyone in the future. Unfortunately, well . . . I just don't care."
And then there was nothing.
That would have been a fortuitous time in my life to have all manner of 
portentous dreams. To have my departed mother's shade show up in my imaginings 
and put forward some useful advice. Or perhaps see visions of things to come. 
Unfortunately, such was not the case. I saw nothing but darkness, and then 
eventually there was dampness on my face. That was enough to bring me out of my 
enforced slumber, although I had no idea how long I'd been out. The dampness was 
coming from a leak in the ceiling of the stables. I heard rain outside, although 
it was not remotely as fearsome as it had been the other night.
I hauled myself to my feet. Standing up was always problematic, even on my best 
days, thanks to my lame leg. But this was even worse, because my head was 
throbbing and I could feel the world tilting wildly around me. My jaw ached, and 
when I rubbed my lower face, dried blood came away on my hand.
That bitch.
"That bitch," I said out loud, as if simply thinking it wasn't enough. "That 
damnable bitch."
Had any of it been real? Our lying together, the emotions that had been stirred 
. . . had she done it in order to put me off guard, so that I would lead her 
straight to my nest egg? For that matter, had she been the one who had stolen 
the money from my mother, seeing the corpse and figuring she'd have no need of 
it . . . and then lay with me to augment her riches? Was she capable of doing 
such a thing? Well, hell, maybe. The truth is that, even though I had known her 
my entire life, I didn't really know her. In fact, I was becoming increasingly 
certain that I didn't know anyone, or anything about anyone.
I let out a ragged cough, and then another. My lungs spasmed as the last of the 
ashes which had gotten in there were propelled out. Other lads my age had 
complained about having their mothers getting in their hair, but I seriously 
doubt that any of them had ever meant it quite so literally.
She had left me my staff. Now, wasn't that a sweet thing of her to have done. 
The way things were going I was surprised she hadn't picked the damned thing up 
and used it to stave in my head once and for all. I bent over, nearly stumbling 
again, before getting a grip on the staff and using it to steady myself. Then I 
limped toward the door of the stables, and out. The fact that it was raining was 
of no consequence to me at all.
I stood out there in the rain, the heavy drops pouring down, and I stretched my 
arms out and raised my face to the sky. My mother's ashes were washed off me, 
although some remained in my clothes, discoloring them permanently. And there, 
in my fallen state, I laughed. Because it had been all so ridiculous. The cynic 
had lowered his guard. I had listened to the siren call of lust and love, and 
for just the briefest of moments, I had surrendered the eternal vigilance that 
was my credo. Naturally, I had paid for that, paid for it with the loss of all 
the money I had saved up. Astel could have gone anywhere by that point, in any 
direction. She had a head start of hours. She'd probably even arranged for a 
mount, for she had most certainly planned this ahead of time; on horseback, she 
could be miles away.
She had a head start, she had my money, and I had absolutely nothing except the 
clothes on my back and a few pathetic possessions in a small bag inside the 
barn. All that . . . and the taste of ashes in my mouth. How classically 
Apropos.
I had no idea what the hell I was going to do. I could seek out the shelter of 
the Elderwoods, go crawling back to Tacit. But that wasn't going to happen. I 
could seek out Stroker's help, but I doubted he was going to think much beyond 
the notion that, whatever had happened to me, I deserved it. Who knew, perhaps 
he was right.
"You have a destiny," she'd said to me. Perhaps I did, but at that moment, I had 
no purpose at all. No plans, no direction, and nothing in particular to do. 
Nothing except a burning need for vengeance against those who had done me wrong.
I wiped the soggy ashes from my face, very likely making a bigger mess than 
before, and decided at that point that I might as well seek vengeance on he who 
had murdered my mother. That need burned more brightly than wanting redress for 
the ills that had been done me by Astel. In a way, I was almost grateful to her, 
for she had driven home to me the remarkably useful lesson that one must never 
relax, never trust, not for a moment. It had cost me money now, but with any 
luck, it would save me money in the future. I would trust no one, ever again, 
and put my needs, wants, and desires ahead of everyone else's. That was, after 
all, the way of the world. My aching head was more than sufficient reminder of 
that.
The wrong that had been done to Madelyne, however, needed avenging. Not only had 
she been deprived of her life, but also I had been deprived of her company. Much 
to my surprise, I found that I missed it, and her. Someone had to pay for that. 
It was not a matter of honor in particular, for I had none to defend. It was 
simply a matter of the natural order of things. Personal grievances require 
response.
But I knew that I, alone, could not possibly seek satisfaction from Meander's 
Journeyman. Even if I managed to find him, from what I'd heard he would make 
short work of me, and where would be the point in that? I had been toying with 
the notion of employing a sword-for-hire, and there were certainly enough of 
them about. Some bruiser with a huge blade who could act on my behalf while I 
watched from a safe distance. Such men did not come cheaply, though. Had I the 
money I'd been stockpiling, it would have been an easy matter. But I was now a 
pauper, devoid of any funds, and I would never be able to afford such an 
individual.
No, the idea bandied about earlier seemed to be the way to go. I would go to the 
court of King Runcible and seek redress of grievances there. I would demand the 
head of the marked man who had slain my mother, and Runcible would certainly 
listen to reason and acknowledge the fact that his subjects could not, should 
not, be treated in such a cavalier fashion. An attack on a freewoman would not 
be tolerated. Yes, definitely the king would see to that.
I would go to King Runcible to seek justice, to avenge my mother's death . . .
. . . and, truth be told, to kill time, because I had nothing better to do.
As for Astel, wherever she was, I hoped that she would have a long and lingering 
death, and that said death would involve multiple open sores and scabs, 
preferably in the vicinity of her private regions.
It was not a gentle notion, but it brought me some small measure of comfort.
 
 
Chapter 8
 
The long journey to Runcible's palace went without incident. That was certainly 
a refreshing change of pace.
I couldn't help but notice the change in the realm of Isteria as I drew closer 
to the king's palace. The quality of homes and places of business enjoyed a 
definite upswing. I was not simply approaching the power of Isteria, I was also 
approaching the center of money. If one is looking for the true places of 
puissance, one need look no further than to see where wealth is concentrated. I 
suppose that is the fundamental difference between places where the rich dwell 
and places where the poor dwell. The wealthy are grouped together because it 
gives them a warm feeling to look upon others of their own kind. The poor are 
lumped together because they have no choice.
I drew within sight of the castle, and truly it was a most impressive affair . . 
. at least, from what little I could see of it. There was no moat around it, as 
I had heard some other such structures had. Instead there was a high and 
extremely sturdy-looking wall that ringed its perimeter, and I could seeóif I 
looked very carefullyóbowmen casually strolling along the upper recesses. For 
guardsmen they seemed rather relaxed. I could only assume that if danger 
presented itself they would be a bit more on their guard. As for the castle 
proper, I could see very little except for hints of the tops of towers, with 
flags bearing the Isterian crest fluttering in the vagrant breeze. It was a 
lovely day, for what that was worth, the blue sky bereft of clouds.
At what I perceived to be the main gate, there were a goodly number of people 
hanging about. There were also several rather self-important-looking guards who 
were not letting them through. I strode up to them with as much swagger as I 
could muster considering I had a limp and said, "I wish to see the king in the 
Hall of Justice."
The guard looked me up and down. He did not seem impressed. "You'll have to 
wait."
"Until when?"
"Until the day that he sees commoners in the Hall of Justice. That would be noon 
tomorrow. And he only sees ten people on judgment days, so you'll have to wait 
your turn and hope you get in." He indicated the others who were milling about. 
"Why don't you go stand with the others . . . presuming with that crippled leg, 
you can make it that far." Then he chortled at his impressive lack of wit.
At first I was going to raise my voice in protest, but then I realized that 
there was no point. This was simply a brainless guard, following orders, given a 
smidgen of power and savoring it like a fine wine. He wasn't worth my time, and 
it would only amuse him, even empower him, to see me objecting to cruel or 
callous treatment. Without a word I turned and walked over to the others who 
were waiting. I hoped they wouldn't notice that my belly was already growling. 
The only food I'd had to eat was some provisions that I had managed to swipe 
from Stroker's before setting out. Two skins full of water, some assorted table 
scraps. I'd rationed them carefully, but they were starting to run low, and my 
stomach was definitely drawing that to my attention. Furthermore, because of my 
exhaustion, my lame leg was sorely tired from the long walk it had taken me to 
get there, and it felt as if I were dragging along a slab of iron rather than 
something approximating a human limb. I endeavored to conceal it as best I 
could, but the limp was still even more pronounced than it usually was. I heard 
the snickering of the guards and did my best to ignore it.
The others glanced at me briefly before returning to either talking among 
themselves in low voices or, more prevalently, simply standing in silence. Every 
so often some new noble or important person would ride up to the gates, and they 
were naturally ushered in immediately. Rank had its privileges, although I had 
to admit that a few of our number truly did smell rather rank. As for our group, 
I did a quick head count and found that there were approximately twenty people 
ahead of me. This did not bode well. Perhaps some of them were together, and the 
number of cases the king had to face was fewer than it appeared, but I still 
didn't like the look of it. If I didn't get in this go-around, I might have to 
wait around until the following week. By then my supplies would have long run 
out, and I frankly wasn't entirely sure how I was going to go about replenishing 
my stock. Certainly I'd learned sufficient woodcraft during my time with Tacit 
that I could take to a forest and hunt game, but I wasn't overwhelmed with the 
notion. More likely I'd probably just resort to stealing money or food from 
others. That, of course, carried its own risks. I wasn't seeing a large number 
of choices being presented to me, though.
As the sun drifted lazily toward the horizon, dark clouds began to roll in. More 
foul weather was clearly on its way. I couldn't quite understand it. Isteria had 
a rainy season, but this wasn't it. Generally, around this time of year, the 
weather in Isteria was quite mild, bordering on warm. In recent weeks the 
weather had been unseasonably foul. It bothered me, and it also bothered me that 
it bothered me.
Before long the skies opened up. This time, however, there was no thunder. 
Instead cold rain, quickly transforming itself into frozen rain, began to fall.
There were loud profanities from the others in the group, whose number had 
swelled to about thirty. Several of them had brought lean-tos or other means of 
convenient shelter. As for the guards at the wall, they had small guard booths 
into which they could step, keeping them safe from inclement weather.
I had nothing. I simply leaned on my staff and endured it. I wasn't about to go 
running around, trying to find someplace where I could hide from the frozen 
rain.
From their shelters, I could see the guards pointing and snickering at me. Let 
them. As if I cared what they had to say.
The frozen rain came down harder and harder. I felt my hair stiffening, icicles 
forming on my eyebrows. I didn't move. I remained utterly stoic, as if I was 
challenging the gods to throw their worst at me. As for the others in our 
waiting group, the weight of the collecting ice soon became so overwhelming that 
the lean-tos collapsed. There were moans of frustration, more cursing, as the 
crowd shook their fists at the sky and howled over their bad luck. As for me, I 
said nothing. What was the point? Since the loss of my mother, my virginity, and 
my life's savings, all in rapid succession, I felt emotionally numb. I had run 
the gamut and was simply exhausted from it. I couldn't even muster enough 
emotion to get upset over slowly becoming coated with ice.
The icy rain showed no sign of letting up and one by one the crowd began to 
scatter. Whatever issues they felt they wanted to take up with the king, 
apparently they decided that it could wait for a time when the weather was going 
to be more cooperative. Although the first few departed with reluctance, within 
minutes the rest of them were in full flight. Soon I was the only one remaining.
For the first time in a while, I moved. My clothes felt stiff and partly frozen 
to me. I made my way to the closest point to the gate, where the ones who had 
previously been first in line had been standing. Then I planted my staff 
resolutely and took up my vigil once more.
The guards had stopped laughing by that point. They simply watched me, as if I 
was some sort of oddity. Later that night, with the rain still coming down, 
there was a changing of the guards. The newcomers looked at me with open 
curiosity as the others whispered in their ears, pointing at me. There was no 
laughing, no snickering.
My tattered cloak, the only protection I had against the weather, hung heavily 
around my neck. It was frozen solid. There were icicles decorating my lips, and 
I sucked on them, appreciative of the moisture and glad that it meant I didn't 
have to dip into my water skins for a bit longer. Sometime around midnight, I 
think it was, I fell asleep. Yes, I slept standing up, leaning on my staff for 
support. At one point I partially woke up and was convinced that I was dead, for 
I couldn't open my eyes. It took me a few long moments to realize that they had 
frozen shut. I also became aware, however, that the rain had stopped. It was 
quiet as the grave. I forced my eyes open, and could hear the ice cracking as I 
did so. I maintained my posture, continued to stand there as immobile as a 
statue. It was still dark, but I sensed that the sun would be rising soon.
And rise it did. It was nice to know there were a few things one could count on. 
The chill that had brought the frozen rain the night before was now gone, 
replaced by a glowing warmth. The ice was melting off me, collecting in puddles 
at my feet. I gave it no more heed than I had given it when it was forming upon 
me in the first place. I just stood and endured.
As the sun climbed higher on what promised to be a glorious day, my wet clothes 
slowly dried on me. But I began to feel a chill to my bone. The extremes of cold 
and hot were wearing on me, and it was becoming that much more of an effort to 
cling to the staff and not tumble over. I was stubborn, though. There was 
another changing of the guards, and the ones who had been on post when I first 
arrived returned. They made no pretense at that point of doing anything other 
than just staring at me, and then they looked at each other and shook their 
heads.
Slowly people started approaching the gate. I recognized many of them from the 
night before. They were the ones who had fled when the weather became too much 
for them. It was approaching noon, and one of them . . . a burly individual . . 
. strode up to me and jerked a thumb behind himself. "Back of the line, 
cripple," he said.
It was everything I could do to repress my shivering. I was loath to let him 
think somehow that I was trembling out of fear. If I had in fact been feeling 
anything other than exhaustion, I would indeed have been afraid. More than 
likely, I would immediately have acquiesced to his demand. He was a head taller 
than I was, and infinitely better rested.
At that moment, however, I was too exhausted to give a damn about anyone or 
anything. Furthermore I was concerned that if I tried to walk, I might fall. 
That's how tired I was. "You left," I said. They were the first words I'd spoken 
in nearly twenty hours. My lips were cracked and a bit blistered, and what I'd 
said came out as something of a croak. "You left," I said again. "I stayed. I'm 
front of the line now."
"The hell you are," said the burly individual. "Move, cripple. Now." And he 
grabbed me by the arm.
There is no sound in the world quite like the sound of a sword being drawn from 
a scabbard, particularly when it's a big sword. It was that very distinct noise 
that froze everybody in their place, as a guardóthe one who had spoken 
tauntingly to me the day beforeópulled his weapon and held it in a casual 
fashion. He appeared physically capable of separating one's head from one's 
shoulders with minimal effort, and from an emotional point of view would do so 
with impunity.
"Let him go," the guard said evenly.
"But . . . but heó"
"He," the guard continued, in a voice surprisingly soft for one of his size, "is 
now the front of the line. Remove your hand from his shoulder, or I will remove 
your arm from your shoulder." He was tapping the flat of his blade gently into 
his palm. He looked like someone who hadn't used his blade in a while, and was 
eager for an excuse.
Just like that, the restraining hand was gone from my arm, and the rest of the 
crowd took up its positionóin most desultory fashionóbehind me. I wasn't quite 
sure how to react to what the guard had just done, and I looked at him with 
clear confusion on my face. He simply tapped his blade to his forehead in a sort 
of salute to me, and then sheathed it and went back to his station.
I didn't know what to make of it. As far as I was concerned, I had displayed the 
questionable attribute of not knowing when to come in out of the rain. And 
because of this, the guard was suddenly treating me as if I was worthy of 
respect. Only in this world of topsy-turvy attitudes could outright stupidity, 
such as I had displayed, be something that got me high marks. I had an amused 
glimmering of a notion at that point: If I ever turned out to be a complete and 
utter fool, I could wind up running the whole kingdom. It was something to 
consider.
I heard a bell chiming the noon hour from somewhere behind the walls, and the 
guards stood back as the great doors opened of their own accord. Another guard 
was now standing just within, but unlike the others his tunic was deep purple. I 
guessed from that, along with the self-important way that he was carrying 
himself, that he was from the king's personal guard.
The guard at the door whispered something to him, and the purple guard's gaze 
flickered in my direction for a moment. Obviously I was the topic of discussion, 
but both of them were trying to be subtle about it. They weren't terribly 
successful.
The purple guard then paced out the people waiting on line, selecting the first 
ten who had issues and disputes they wished to bring before the king. As I had 
suspected, it wasn't a one-for-one. Some had come in couples, and one was a 
group of three. All in all there were about eighteen of us, but there were still 
a number of frustrated individuals who had to turn and walk away. I couldn't 
help but notice that the burly fellow who had tried to send me to the back of 
the line had fallen just below the cutoff . . . all thanks to me. He growled in 
my general direction. I ignored him. It was easy.
The inner city, the city within the walls, was also called Isteria, the same as 
the kingdom. We entered through the gate and I could immediately see the palace 
much more clearly. There was a main street that cut through the center of 
Isteria, which lay within the walls. There were shopkeepers, vendors. Two 
blacksmiths, and three weapons makers. Four pubs, which frankly astounded me. 
What could people possibly need more than one pub for?
I also noticed something else. There was no poverty in Isteria. No hint of want, 
no sign of crime prompted by desperation to put food on the table or bread into 
one's stomach. No matter where one wandered in the rest of the outer realm, want 
and need were represented in some way, shape, or form. Beggars here and there, 
or stores that were shuttered for lack of business. A former pickpocket, 
wandering about forlornly because two fingers of his right hand had been chopped 
off in punishment. And of course, there were always the smells. The aroma of a 
charnel house wafting from one direction, perhaps. Or the odor of excrement, 
sometimes human, sometimes animal. One always had to watch where one walked. And 
mud. Mud everywhere, particularly after some nasty weather such as we'd been 
having lately.
But in the capital of Isteria, there was none such. It seemed pure and perfect. 
The main street was layered with a sort of hardened clay, smoothed off for easy 
transport. There was no crap anywhere about, and not a whiff of any offal odors. 
All the people seemed happy and healthy and just pleased to be alive. It was as 
if I were looking upon a world that never existed, and yet here it was all laid 
out for me.
Some of it could be ascribed to money, of course. Isteria City had the highest 
concentration of wealthy individuals, from the king and queen on down. It was 
likely that even the guard who was escorting us, as far down as he was in the 
grand scheme of things, probably earned as much in a year as the average citizen 
of Isteria proper earned in five or ten years. I had mixed feelings about it, 
which I found disconcerting, because usually I had such a steady and endless 
wellspring of cynicism that my feelingsóexcept for flashes of genuine affection 
for my late-if-benighted motherówere uniformly consistent. On the one hand, I 
looked with contempt upon a capital city that so poorly reflected the land that 
it ostensibly represented. On the other hand, I was envious and wondered what it 
would be like to be a part of it.
The palace only seemed to get larger as we drew closer, spires reaching so high 
from this angle that they seemed to be scratching the sky. Flags fluttered in 
the breeze. I felt my legs start to buckle, and the guard noticed and steadied 
me. "Quite a few people get weak-kneed from being impressed," he told me in a 
low voice. The sentiment was much appreciated, although in my case I was simply 
hungry and exhausted.
Without preamble, we were escorted directly into the palace itself. I was 
immediately struck by how cool the air was. Perhaps the reason it was so 
striking was because it caused me to shiver even more. I didn't like the feel of 
the raspiness building in my lungs. More than anything, I would have simply 
liked to lie down on a bench for an hour or so. Obviously, however, that was not 
an option.
"In here," said the guard, and we were ushered into a room that was fairly 
stark. A table had been set up at one end with small refreshments. I was the 
first one at the table, gobbling down whatever I could, even shoving aside an 
old woman to get at a small morsel of food which others would have considered an 
appetizer, but for me was an entire meal. I gorged myself on what amounted, 
comparatively, to little more than table scraps.
Unfortunately, because I gulped whatever I could down, my stomach was caught off 
guard. I felt it starting to heave, but with sheer force of will I kept 
everything down. I engaged myself by looking more closely at the others in the 
room with me. I was struck by the variety of expressions they bore. Some seemed 
hopeful, as if this was the culmination of a lifelong dream. Others appeared 
apprehensive, fearful of what they would experience. Still others appeared 
resigned, as if they were convinced that this entire endeavor was simply a waste 
of time. I wondered where my own expression fit into the array.
The door opened and this time another purple-clad guard was there. He pointed at 
me. "You. Come."
I did as instructed, limping after him as best I could while trying to keep my 
shoulders squared and what I laughingly referred to as my dignity intact.
I was struck once more by the coolness of the castle. Cold air kept things 
preserved. That made sense, of course. It was entirely to the advantage of the 
nobility to preserve the status quo, to keep things entirely as they were. After 
all, since they were at the top of the heap, what advantage was there to risk 
knocking out any of the supports?
Knights passed me by. I wouldn't have recognized them as knights at first, since 
they weren't wearing their armor. Nor was there reason for them to be. They were 
"off duty," as it were, the castle not under attack. Nor were they planning to 
ride out at the moment and enforce the king's justice, or perhaps rape some poor 
helpless trollop in the city.
Elaborate tapestries hung along the walls, with depictions of adventure and 
feats of derring-do portrayed upon them. On most of them, words were interwoven 
along the borders, and the words were always some sort of uplifting comment. 
JUSTICE ABOVE ALL, proclaimed one. PURE OF MIND, PURE OF BODY, PURE OF SPIRIT, 
said another. All charming phrases designed to educate and impress anyone 
foolish enough to buy into them.
Two knights were approaching, engaged in conversation. I wondered if either of 
them was my father, and tried to see something of myself in their faces. One of 
them had eyes that reminded me of my own, while the other had reddish hair that 
was evocative of mine.
It was hopeless. A hopeless game that existed only in my mind. As the knights 
passed me by without giving me a second glance, I knew all too well that the 
notion of determining who was my true father was purest folly. First of all, I 
had no way of knowing whether he was even still alive. There had been 
skirmishes, quests, and such during the intervening years, certainly. My father 
might have fallen to an opponent's arrow or a blast of dragonflame. Anything was 
possible. Being a knight was not the safest of occupations, after all. And if he 
was alive . . . if he did lurk somewhere within these walls . . . did he even 
remember that night? The night that I had been so violently conceived? Was it 
all a drunken blur to him, indistinguishable from who knew how many other nights 
of revelry and debauchery? Did he remember Madelyne's face at all? Had she meant 
anything to him?
As my erratic footsteps echoed in the great corridors of the palace, I became 
convincedówith greater clarity than I'd ever known in my lifeóthat the answer to 
all of those questions was no. None of it meant anything to these protectors of 
justice and morality. Perhaps I had an abundance of siblings wandering about 
from similar evenings of entertainment by these great and just individuals; all 
of those siblings equally meaning nothing. The slight fluttering in my stomach 
from before was replaced by a slow, burning anger. In a way, I almost welcomed 
it. It made me feel truly alive.
I heard voices up ahead, laughter echoing. Powerful laughter, the laughter of 
strength and confidence. For a momentójust a momentóI envisioned going in there 
and pointing an accusing finger at the assemblage. "One of you," I saw myself 
stridently declaring, "is my father!" And the reaction to that would be . . . 
what? Shocked looks? Embarrassment? Shuffled feet, scuffed toes, an inability to 
meet my gaze or the critical stare of their fellows?
Nonsense. Very likely they would laugh at me derisively before throwing me out. 
Very likely, they wouldn't believe me. They probably bought into the nonsense of 
their little homilies about truth, justice, and morality.
Or even worse, they would believe me . . . and simply not care. The notion of 
being laughed at by these . . . these holier-than-thou mighty knights was more 
than I could bear. So I resolved to say nothing of my parentage, preferring 
instead to focus on the matter at hand, the slaying of a freewoman of Isteria by 
one of the minions of the mad king, Meander. Perhaps it would lead to a 
full-blown war, which would result in the death of whichever one of the bastards 
presentóif anyóhappened to be my father. It wouldn't be much in terms of evening 
the scales of true justice, but it would be something.
I was ushered into the main hall and looked expectantly to the throne. There 
were twin thrones, although one was a bit smaller than the other . . . 
presumably that one being for the queen. Both, however, were vacant. Instead, 
there were several knights grouped around, and they were dressed a bit more 
formally than the others I'd seen roaming the halls. They sported nicely adorned 
tunics, one of them with gold epaulets. They were also armed with short swords 
hanging from their hips, although considering the number of guards standing 
about at the ready, I could only assume that this was more for show and ceremony 
than anything else.
What truly caught my eye, however, was the huge tapestry that hung behind the 
thrones. I couldn't quite believe it, and just for a moment, I felt a winter 
chill finger my spine. It was unmistakably a representation of a phoenix, rising 
from the ashes of its predecessor. Moreover, someone was astride it. It was 
impossible to make out the details, for the bird was so large that it dwarfed 
its rider by comparison. Perhaps "rider" was too generous a word, for to call it 
such would be to call a flea a jockey.
"She would have loved to see this," I said.
I sensed an immediate change in the atmosphere of the room. Until that moment, 
there had been relaxed chatting, albeit in muted tones. When I spoke, however, 
there was immediate silence. I looked around, making no attempt to hide my 
confusion.
One of the knights, the one with the epaulets, had a foot propped on one of the 
steps leading to the thrones. He had an air of confidence about him, and he 
looked at me as if I provided him with amusement. "You speak out of turn, young 
sir. Youth may excuse much . . . but not everything."
I supposed that, had I a brain in my head, I would have taken my cue to be 
properly quavering. Instead I said, "I thought that, since the king isn't here 
yet . . . well, there was no harm . . ."
"The king?" The knight sounded properly entertained, and there was now a ripple 
of laughter through the court. There were several ladies in waiting, and their 
high-pitched giggling was added to the mix. For some reason I found that even 
more irritating than the sneering of the men. "The king is not in attendance at 
the present time, young sir."
"But I . . ." The confusion must have been all over my face. "I . . . thought 
this was the time when he heard petitions, complaints . . ."
The knight sauntered to a podium that stood somewhat left of the throne. He 
moved with a fluid and easy grace. He was not especially tall, and his black 
hairótied back in a tailówas streaked with gray. His eyes glittered with a cold 
intelligence. "The king is the court of last resort. Most matters are not of 
sufficient moment to warrant his attention. I am his chief magistrate, Sir 
Justus. Whatever issues you have, you will tell them to me and I will settle 
them."
"But I was told the kingó"
He cut me off, politely but firmly . . . a bit more the latter than the former. 
"I am telling you differently. Since I am here, and whoever told you otherwise 
is not, I suggest you attend to me, not him. If you wish, think of me as the 
king, in that I speak with his authority . . . and therefore, in that sense, you 
are dealing with him. Now . . . what weighs on you, young sir."
I realized that I wasn't going to get anywhere demanding to see the king. 
Furthermore, I started to feel slightly light-headed, as my exhaustion began to 
catch up with me. If it hadn't been for the small amount of food and drink I had 
managed to grab, I likely would have passed out right then.
"My mother," I said slowly, "is dead. Her name was Madelyne, and she worked at a 
pub called Stroker's."
I was hoping that some reaction would accompany that announcement. I wasn't 
quite sure what, but . . . something. But there was nothing. Simply blank 
stares.
Sir Justus affected some vague interest. "What was her position there?" he 
asked.
"She . . ." I could have come up with a lie, but Sir Justus had pale green eyes 
that seemed to penetrate into portions of my mind that I would have far 
preferred to keep private. So instead I said, "I . . . do not think that is 
especially relevant."
"She was probably a whore then," said another knight, and there was rough 
laughter from all around. All of a sudden I would have liked nothing better than 
to crush their skulls if there was a way to take all of them at once.
"Yes," I said, making no attempt to hide my annoyance. "She was." I wanted to 
shout out, And a group of you raped her years ago, and I was the result, you 
sanctimonious pack of bastards! Instead I restrained myself sufficiently, and 
simply inquired, "Do any of you have a problem with that?"
If there had been a surprised silence before, the quiet that greeted my newest 
outburst was positively deathly. "Have a care, child," said the knight who had 
just spoken. He was a burly fellow with a bristling mustache.
I wasn't backing down. I was too tired and not thinking clearly enough to worry 
about normally overwhelming concerns such as my continued health. Considering 
what was truly tumbling through my mindóthe accusations, the vituperationówhat I 
was allowing myself to say was incredibly restrained. "It is a simple enough 
question, milord." There was nothing in the way I said the honorific that could 
have implied any true respect on my part.
It was Sir Justus who replied. "All creatures serve their purpose in their own 
way, and in that respect are equal. She was what she was, and I see no point in 
dwelling on it. Am I correct in assuming that the manner of her death is why you 
are here?"
"Yes." Clearly he was endeavoring to move on, and probably I should follow his 
lead. "She was slain by a Journeyman."
"One of King Meander's men." He didn't sound surprised.
"You know? You know of Meander's presence?"
"Of course." There were nods from the other knights now. There were no longer 
any expressions of contempt or annoyance. Apparently Meander's presence was 
something that they took rather seriously.
"Well then . . . I demand justice for her. Her life was ended, brutally, 
tragically, and prematurely. She was a freewoman of Isteria. There must be a . . 
. a balancing of the scales."
"True enough," said Justus. He appeared to consider the matter a moment. "Was 
she a young woman, your mother?"
"Reasonably young, from a chronological point of view."
"What other point of view is there?"
"Well, sir . . . a woman in her profession tends to age a bit faster. Wear and 
tear and all that."
"Ah." He nodded. "A good point, and an honest one. And because you are honest, 
you will not be penalized for it in the settlement."
"Penalized? Settlement?" I made no effort to hide my befuddlement. "I . . . do 
not understand, milord."
He wasn't replying. Instead he was digging deep into a pouch hanging from his 
belt, and from it he produced a handful of gold dukes. A single duke was worth 
fifty sovereigns each. He was handling the huge amount casually, as if he did 
this sort of thing all the time. I felt my breath catch in my throat.
He counted out ten dukes, walked toward me, and pressed them into my hand. 
"This," he said, "will certainly make up for the years of lost revenue."
I stared at my still open hand, the coins glittering in my palm. It was a 
considerable amount of money. But I wasn't entirely clear on why it was being 
handed to me. Furthermore, I was having trouble focusing on anything. My hand 
seemed very far away, as if it were attached to the wrist of someone else 
entirely. I felt clammy, but did my best to push through it. "I . . . don't 
understand."
As if addressing a simpleton, Justus said, very slowly, "This will make up for 
the money that she will not earn, since she is dead."
"But . . . what of the man who killed her? What of him?"
"What of him?" Justus replied. But the accent was different. I had emphasized 
the word "him" while he had hit the word "of." My priority was her killer, but 
Justus seemed nonchalant. Everyone else appeared to share the blasÈ attitude.
"Well . . ." I gestured helplessly, unable to believe that I had to spell out 
something that should have been so painfully obvious. "He killed her!"
Now it was the burly knight, the one who had been remonstrating me before, who 
spoke up. "And you've been offered compensation. What more do you want?"
"Justice!" I couldn't help but find it ludicrously ironic that I was echoing the 
words of Astel, a woman so bereft of morality that she had knocked me 
unconscious with my mother's ashes and robbed me of my life's savings. But the 
situation was rapidly spinning out of control, and I found I was willing to say 
just about anything, including spouting moral indignation that I only marginally 
bought into, simply so I wouldn't look the fool.
"You have your justice in your hand," said Sir Justus, indicating the coins.
"But . . . but aren't you going to track down her killer? I can describe him! At 
least, I can describe the marks she likely left on him!"
"That won't be necessary," said Justus.
"But it should be! It . . . I . . ." My mind was at war with itself. Part of me 
was urging me to pocket the money, which would be more than enough to stake me 
to a decent lifestyle, at least to start. But I couldn't get past the image of 
her corpse lying beneath a blanket, the image of a life cut short. The life that 
had given me my life. Take the money, fool! Take the money and simply get out! 
My mind made a tremendous amount of sense, and I can only blame temporary 
insanity, aggravated by my weakened condition, for what happened next.
"Why aren't you going to go after him! She was a freewoman. Whore or not, she 
was still a freewoman of Isteria. She was murdered. Why aren't you going to do 
anything about that?"
"What would you have us do? Go to war with Meander?" There was a ripple of 
derisive laughter throughout the so-called Hall of Justice.
I wasn't laughing. I wasn't even cracking a smile, although the gold dukes 
remained in my hand. "If that is what it takes . . . yes. Yes, that it exactly 
what I would be expecting."
"Listen, young sir," said Sir Justus. "We know his habits, his patterns of 
movement. The vagabond king never resides in one place for very long. However, 
if you want to make sure that Meander's stay in your territory is a lengthy one, 
then the best thing you can do is attack him. Once attacked, he will extend his 
stay just out of sheer perversity. His madness, however, is a predictable one. 
Try to make him leave, he will remain. Take no action, and he will depart. That 
is the official position of His Majesty, King Runcible, and frankly it is one 
with which I agree."
"But that's insane! You're supposed to defend the people!"
"We are supposed to defend the land and kingdom, and I do not appreciate being 
lectured, young sir," Justus told me. He was much closer to me, and there was 
clear anger beginning to build beneath the placid exterior. "Many factors come 
into consideration besides simple application of brute force. There are other, 
far more aggressive rulers to worry about. Berserk tribes, warlike monarchs. 
Plus we have knights out on quests. Manpower is not endless, and we must pick 
and choose our fights. Meander is simply not worth it."
"You mean my mother isn't worth it," I said flatly, the stench of their 
hypocrisy suffocating me. "If one of Meander's men had slain a noblewoman, that 
would be a different story. But my mother, she was a prostitute. She isn't worth 
your time."
"Her line of work certainly leaves her open to violent advances. Her end was 
unfortunate, granted, but not completely surprising, given the givens." His 
impatience was becoming more and more evident. "Engaging Meander in war is a 
pointless pursuit. Good King Runcible chooses those fights that are in the 
national interest, and this one simply is not. But your ire is quite evident. 
Tell you what," and he took another two coins from the pouch and placed them in 
my hand, then wrapped my fingers around them to indicate that as far as he was 
concerned, the matter was finalized. "If it is particularly upsetting to you, 
you can use the extra money I've just given you to hire a freelance mercenary to 
attend to the situation. An attack by an independent operator wouldn't be 
construed as reflecting the opinions or attitudes of King Runcible, and so he 
could act with impunity. That, of course, is up to you."
"But . . . but . . ." I had apparently developed a stammer. My brain was locking 
up, and I was beginning to feel an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. "But . . 
. it should be your job!"
"I have done my job," Sir Justus said, and there was no disguising the fact that 
his good humor and patience was on the verge of totally dissolving. "Take the 
money and be done with it. There are others waiting for justice. You have 
permission to take your leave of us. Good day, young sir."
Well, that's that, take the money and go, just go. My brain seemed rather 
pleased with the way everything had worked out.
But there was another part of me . . . a part that was picturing my mother. 
Deluded, true, but never anything other than a good intentioned soul who had 
believed in me and sold her body to try and provide a home for mine. A woman who 
took her brutalization and transformed the result of that trauma into her reason 
for living. I thought about the gentle words she had spoken to me, about the 
endless patience, and the sweetness of her face.
And that other part of me said angrily, In the final analysis, then, is that all 
she's worth? She believed in you, and you would sell her memory for twelve 
dukes? A handful of gold coins? Is that the going price for the life of one's 
mother? Because you know you won't use any of the money to hire someone to track 
down her murderer. You'll use it for yourself. And these men, at least some of 
these men treated her like trash when she was alive, and would buy you off now 
that she's dead. Do you accept this, then? Will you simply take the money . . . 
and run?
And the answer, all in my head, came quickly and cleanly and clearly:
Yes.
The battered and pathetic thing that represented any claim to conscience I might 
have had turned away from me in disgust. Oddly, I couldn't blame it. I was 
disgusted myself. Disgusted at my weakness and my lack of resolution, at my 
refusal to see justice through in the name of the woman who had borne me. And 
the most disgusting thing of all was . . . I knew it wouldn't last. Oh, at the 
moment I was filled with self-revulsion. But I was walking out of there with 
twelve dukes in my pocket. That would buy me plenty of mead in which to drown my 
sorrows, plenty of women in whose soft loins I could hide, plenty of nights in 
comfortable, warm beds. Properly managed, I could parlay it into a homestead, or 
perhaps purchase an already existing business. Hell, perhaps I could even buy 
out Stroker and take the place over myself. Wouldn't that bring everything 
pleasingly full circle.
There would be guilt, yes, but the guilt would fade, erased by comfort and 
pleasure. And the simple truth was that there was nothing I could do that would 
truly be of interest to Madelyne. She was dead and gone, and all the justice in 
the world wouldn't be of any use to her.
For no reason that I could quite discern, that remarkable tapestry with the 
phoenix on it momentarily caught my attention. I wanted to try and emblazon it 
in my memory, carry the image with me although I didn't know why.
All of this went through my mind in what must have been only a moment, and then 
the great heaviness in my chest suddenly started to buck, as if trying to force 
its way out. There was an awful congestion within my lungs. I tried to fight it, 
for I did not want to appear weak in front of the assemblageóat least, any 
weaker than nature had already made meóand in doing so, I tried to bring my 
right hand up to cover a cough. As I did so, the coins flew from my hand, 
scattering across the floor with a musical tinkling sound.
There was a gasp from the assemblage, and the face of Sir Justus could have been 
carved from stone. The burly knight nearby gave even more visible evidence of 
what appeared to be outrage, his face positively purpling as if he were a 
swelling pustule about to explode. There was also a giddy peal of nervous 
laughter, originating from one who had apparently just entered. His garb marked 
him unmistakably as the court jester. Aside from that one high-pitched giggle, 
however, he didn't contribute anything else to the moment, which had suddenly 
become etched with tension.
I had no idea what had just happened, or why they appeared so angry, and then I 
realized: From their point of view, I had just thrown the money on the floor in 
what could only be regarded as a gesture of utter contempt.
I was about to explain, to drop to one knee and try to gather the coins up and 
beat a hasty retreat, and then Sir Justus said, "How dare you, you little 
whore's son. This . . . this is how you respond to my generosity? I have been 
patient with you, from pity for your lame state if nothing else, but my patience 
is done. Out! Now!"
It occurred to me at that moment that I might make a good recruit for King 
Meander, for my nature was apparently no less perverse than his. I had been 
ready to leave . . . until Justus ordered me to go. I looked at the clear fury 
in his face, betrayed by the veins on his temple, which were throbbing.
For once in my life, I felt truly empowered. My head was swimming with the 
giddiness of the sensation. Here was a knight, a highly ranked knight, 
surrounded by his fellows, getting himself into an uproar owing to a perceived 
insult by me, an individual who was so comparatively low on the social scale of 
Isteria that I might as well not have existed at all. It was as if I, a lowborn 
lame son of a whore, had been elevated to peer of a knight just by dint of 
appearing to be an ingrate.
It was a heady, intoxicating experience, the joyous sensation accentuated, no 
doubt, by the fact that I could barely think straight as I felt illness crawling 
through me, invading me. Yet in a way, that illness was suddenly my closest 
friend, for I was doing everything I could to ignore it and, thus, became more 
focused.
I didn't want to let go of this power. I liked making the knights mad. I wanted 
to do it because it gave me twisted pleasure to be able to affect them in that 
way. Here I had been, subject to their sneers and clear attitude of superiority, 
as if I was shit on their shoes. They weren't sneering now, no they weren't. 
They were disconcerted, bewildered that such as I would openly hold such as them 
in contempt. They didn't know, of course, that Ióbastard offspring of one of 
their numberóknew them for the hypocritical cretins that they were. Yes, I was 
definitely keeping that piece of knowledge to myself, for knowledge was even 
more power, and I was becoming drunk on that power.
"How dare I? How dare you!" Putting all my strength into holding on to my staff 
with my right hand, I made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the rest of the 
room. "How dare you call yourselves knights and lovers of justice! I spit on 
your offerings! I spit on you!"
The burly knight was trembling with rage, but he was remaining where he was. I 
was presupposing that these mighty soldiers wouldn't want to sully themselves 
attacking a mere lame peasant. He said, "Have you forgotten where you are? Who 
you are? Who we are? This . . ." and he pointed a shaking finger in the 
direction of Justus, "is Sir Justus of the High Born! I am Sir Coreolis of the 
Middle Lands! Who do you think you are, to speak so to us!"
"I?" And my voice seemed to soar, louder and stronger than ever, despite the 
congestion in my chest that threatened to choke me. "I am Apropos, of nothing, 
and as far as I am concerned, you can kiss my lame, whore's-son ass!"
I figured this was the point when they would have the guards evict me. It was 
only when Justus and Coreolis yanked their swords free of their scabbards that I 
realized I had figured wrong.
"Now," said Justus, very quietly, very dangerously, "you're going to be Apropos, 
less of nothing. Less an ear, less an arm . . . or maybe I'll just relieve you 
of that useless leg of yours."
The softness in his voice was enough to make me believe, just for a moment, that 
he was still giving me a chance to leave. That was another miscalculation on my 
part, however, for without another word, Sir Justus charged. Although he wielded 
only a short sword, it made him no less dangerous, and I could see even from 
where I stood the razor sharpness of the blade. I also noticed, much to my 
surprise, that Justus was missing two fingers on his right hand.
Coreolis was coming in as well, but from a different angle and a bit slower, 
clearly more than happy to let Justus have the initial pleasure of carving me to 
bits. From all through the court, there was a collective roar of approval from 
the other knights, who were looking forward to seeing their insulted brethren 
slice and dice the lame peasant upstart.
Naturally, I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. I ran like 
hell.
At least, that was what I tried to do. But at that moment, everything that was 
wrong, and had ever been wrong with me, caught up in one shot. My lame right leg 
gave out, and I wasn't able to recover because a staggering spell of dizziness 
went through me. I tried to reverse myself, to clutch onto my staff and balance 
myself that way, but it didn't work. Instead I tumbled to the floor, my staff 
still in my hands, but otherwise helpless. One would have thought that, 
considering the fact that I was fallen, Justus would have backed off. But there 
was bloodlust in his eyes, his honor too much at stake, and he didn't slow his 
charge in the least. He came within a couple of feet of me and, setting himself 
in a stance, brought his blade up and back like a butcher about to cleave the 
skull of a hog.
And as my vision blurred, I realized that I was still clutching my staff angled 
up across my body . . . and that the dragon end of the staff was in proximity to 
Justus's crotch.
I squeezed the handle . . . and the four-inch blade, rigged up by Tacit, 
obediently snapped out of the dragon's mouth, positioned no more than a cat's 
whisker from Justus's most vulnerable area.
The snap sound of the blade was most distinctive, and the area from which it 
originated caught Justus's attention so that he was wise enough to look down and 
see his peril. He froze in position. Coreolis, on the other hand, didn't notice 
his associate's jeopardy, and was standing nearby my waist on the other side, 
apparently ready to hack me in two.
"I wouldn't if I were you," I said with a calm that surprised me more than 
anyone.
Their view of what was occurring was partly blocked by the positions of the 
knights' own bodies, but others were starting to draw nearer to the little 
standoff we were having, and their eyes bulged when they saw the predicament.
"You wouldn't dare," blustered Coreolis, his sword still poised to bisect me, 
but he didn't sound terribly sure of that.
"Your swords," and from my position on the floor, I calculated the arcs 
involved, "each have to travel approximately six feet down in order to strike. 
My blade, on the other hand, has only half an inch to its target, and requires 
not much of a thrust to strike home. Even a dying jab will suffice. The question 
presented is . . . can you kill me . . . before the lowborn unmans the 
highborn."
It was, in retrospect, an impressive speech considering that every word was an 
effort for me to form. My tongue felt as if it had swollen to twice normal size, 
and my voice sounded thick to my ears. But obviously I had gotten my point 
across . . . so to speak.
No one moved. For a moment, I thought we might be there forever.
And then an unfamiliar voice, speaking with an odd mixture of amusement and 
confidence, said, "What's all this, then?"
There were gasps, and murmurs of, "Your Majesty!," and everyone in the court 
went down to one knee, with the exception of Justus, Coreolis, and myself, who 
remained human statues.
The owner of the voice stepped around, and from there on the floor, I got my 
first look at King Runcible of Isteria.
"Well, well . . . what have we here?" he asked.
At that moment, the jester leaped forward, spinning about, doing a little jig, 
and . . . plucking a lyre . . . he sang out . . .
"A rude but daring whore's son has braved the Justice Halls, Offended good Sir 
Justus, whom he's now got by theó"
I didn't hear the end of the rhyme, because that was when I lost consciousness. 
But I suspected I could figure it out.
 
 
Chapter 9
 
It was raining on my face.
At least, that's what it felt like to me. Cold water, moisture sopping into me, 
and I tried to reach up and brush away whatever was causing it. I was surprised, 
in a distant sort of way, to discover that I couldn't move my arm. It wasn't 
restrained; there simply wasn't enough strength in it. It was as if my muscles 
had shut down from disuse.
I tried to speak, but all I could manage was a slight croak. Everything seemed 
dark and damp, and then a wet cloth was lifted off my face. I blinked against 
the sunlight that was streaming in through the window next to my bed. "Whaó?" I 
said, which was a brilliant thing to say. I'm not even sure the word was 
recognizable coming from my constricted throat.
There was a woman leaning over me, smiling. I took her to be a maidservant of 
some sort. She was in her late forties, I thought, wearing a simple blue gown. 
She looked rather maternal; in a way, she vaguely reminded me of my mother. Her 
eyes were dark brown, and her silvery hair was tied back in a bun. Her first 
words weren't addressed to me, but rather to someone I couldn't see, probably 
standing outside my field of vision. "Send word. Our young rebel is awake." Then 
her smile widened as she continued to dab at my face with the cloth, as if she 
were mopping up a stain. "Hello," she said. "You gave us quite a scare for a 
while."
"Scare?" At least the word sounded a bit more intelligible. "Why . . . scare . . 
. ?"
She dipped the cloth back into a small basin of water, wrung out the excess 
water, and bathed my face again. I was bare-chested, lying under sheets that 
were cool and pleasant. "You've been unconscious for three full days. Just 
keeping water flowing into you has been challenge enough. Fortunately, we have a 
most excellent mediweaver in our employ. Far more reliable than doctors."
I shuddered slightly. The thought of someone using magic to cure my ills was 
rather disconcerting for some reason. I actually preferred the methods that 
Tacit used. In our time in the forest together, Tacit had given me a basic 
grounding in the sorts of roots and herbs that were helpful at times of illness.
"Three . . . days . . ." I asked, and became aware of just how parched my throat 
was. She held up a mug of water to my cracked lips. Certainly they'd been trying 
to keep water going down my throat, but that hadn't stopped me from becoming 
dried out just the same. I drank deeply and fast, and immediately started to 
gag, coughing up the water quite violently. The woman didn't seem the least bit 
put out, even though I hacked a bit of the water up onto her. She simply dabbed 
at the moisture with a cloth.
"Three days?" I said again.
She nodded. "You had a fever and chills something fierce. The guards said you 
froze at night and warmed during the day. That would be enough to do damage to 
even the hardiest of men."
"So I've . . . proven." It was a very weak attempt at humor, but she rewarded it 
with a game and encouraging smile. I found myself taking an immediate liking to 
this older wench.
"Am I . . . in a hospital somewhere . . . ?"
She shook her head, the smile never wavering. Either she was a woman of infinite 
patience or she found me amusing. Or possibly both. "No, you're still in the 
palace."
"And I'm still alive?" I made no effort to hide my surprise. "I would have 
thought the knights would have butchered me the moment I was helpless."
For just a moment, there was a flicker of annoyance in her face, but then it 
passed. "Knights," she said crisply, "do not do such things."
"Pardon me for saying so, madam," I said, with a touch of bitterness in my 
voice, "but I think I'm just a bit more versed in the realm of just what knights 
will and won't do."
"Indeed." Her eyebrows arched slightly, but she made no comment. Instead she 
dipped the towel back into the water and reapplied it to my face. "Well . . . I 
wouldn't dream of contradicting someone so worldly."
"Worldly." I laughed softly. "That, madam, I am not. I've seen very little of 
the world, really. And what I have seen, I've been on the bottom looking up."
"It must hurt your neck, craning it so."
I drew myself up a bit, propping my torso up with my elbows. "So . . . what is 
your name?"
"Beatrice. Bea, to my close friends and intimates. And you, I understand, are 
Apropos of Nothing."
"My name is known. I'm not entirely sure whether that's a good thing or not."
"As with all things, Apropos, it has both its positives and negatives. Life is a 
double-edged sword."
"That's why I try to live it to the hilt."
She laughed at that, rather heartily. It was not exactly a ladylike laugh. Then 
again, that wasn't all that surprising, since a serving wench didn't require the 
attitudes of a lady.
Her next words, however, completely startled me. "The king wishes to make you an 
offer."
I looked at her askance. "Does he now."
She nodded. "He has heard your tale."
"And he's going to attack Meander?"
"No. He is doubling the number of patrols, to keep an eye on Meander and prevent 
matters from getting too out of hand. But he is not going to strike against the 
Vagabond King."
"Because he doesn't give a damn about the life of one lousy whore."
"That is one way to view it," she admitted. "However, I am curious as to whether 
you've ever seen the result of a war with Meander." When I shook my head, she 
continued, "Devastation. Entire towns laid waste. Meander's consistent plan of 
attack is one predicated on total chaos, and much of that chaos spills over onto 
the helpless citizens of the land. I sympathize with you for your loss, Apropos. 
But is going to war over your mother worth the loss of lives that many other 
parentsóand their childrenówill suffer?"
Her gentle voice, when putting the matter in that way, seemed to make eminent 
sense for some reason. There was none of the arrogance and preaching that was 
characteristic of the way that Justus had put it. Or maybe I was just viewing 
her with a lack of negative attitude.
"Well?" she urged.
Her statement hadn't seemed to need a response, but since she pressed me for 
one, I found myself nodding regretfully. "I . . . suppose there's nothing to be 
gained from further loss of life. Butó"
"But you still burn with a desire for justice or vengeance."
" 'Or'? They're the same thing, aren't they?"
"That," she said, "is a debate for another day." She was sitting on a small 
chair and she placed the cloth back in the basin. Then she leaned forward, her 
fingers interlaced. "Am I correct in assuming that you have no plan for the rest 
of your life?"
"Well . . . nothing definite . . ." I admitted.
"The king is prepared to offer you a position as a squire."
"A squire." I looked at her askance. "That's absurd. You're mad, woman."
"Am I?"
"Yes!" Shaking my head, I informed her, "Squires are sons of noblemen. Landed, 
titled individuals. I am Apropos of Nothing, as you so kindly reminded me. I 
stand to inherit nothing except whatever dirt I'm buried in when I die. No one 
is going to allow me to be a squire."
"The king was impressed by what he heard and saw," Bea said, appearing quite 
certain of herself. "You were brave and resourceful, standing up to Sir Justus 
and Sir Coreolis in a way that even the healthiest and stoutest of individuals 
would have hesitated to emulate. And you did so while you were ill."
"The illness clouded my judgment. That is all."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you have potential that you do not suspect."
My head thudded back onto the pillow. "Oh, gods, you sound like my mother. And 
what would be the purpose of my becoming a squire, even if such an impossible 
thing were, in fact, possible."
"The purpose would be that you would be trained. You would learn the ways of 
true soldiers. You wouldóif you were clever, brave, and smart enoughórise 
through the ranks. You would acquire friends and influence all your own. You 
would, in time, become more than a match for the evil individual who deprived 
your mother of her life. And at that point, you would be able to seek him out 
yourself and take your vengeance upon him."
"But you speak of a time years hence. Meander and his men could be anywhere by 
then."
"That is true," she allowed. "And that is indeed part of it. After all, if you 
track him down over land and water as a freelance, take him down and kill him . 
. . that would be so far removed from Isteria that it could not rebound against 
us. I admit, it would be a challenge for you. But only you can know: Are you the 
type who shrinks from a challenge, Apropos?"
I started to think about it. In point of fact, I had very little to lose. 
Considering the huge and boisterous point I had so foolishly made of "refusing" 
the money that had been offered me, the notion of now taking the funds was 
anathema to me. The sneering looks of contempt I would get from the knights, the 
validation they would receive for their own arrogant view of the lowborn . . . 
it grated on me fiercely.
"No," I said, sounding far more confident than I felt. "I am not the type who 
shrinks from challenges."
"Then it is settled," and she slapped her open hands on her thighs as if indeed 
there wasn't a single other thing that could possibly be discussed. "You will be 
given lodgings with the other squires. They will be instructed to treat you in 
all matters as their equal. You will be assigned a knight who will be your 
mentor. You will learn and grow. You will become skilled and knowledgeable in 
matters of honor, and in time, you will discover your destiny."
I moaned softly. There was that damned word again.
But even as I heard it, I recalled the tapestry that hung on the wall, the one 
of a rider astride a phoenix. I asked her about it.
"That?" she said. "That tapestry was woven by a farweaver, years ago."
That indeed caught my full attention. True farweaversómagic users who depicted 
scenes of the future with the combined skills of their hands and their 
sightówere among the rarest of all weavers. "And . . . what is it supposed to 
signify?" I asked.
"The coming of the greatest hero. The one who shall rule over all Isteria . . . 
indeed, some believe over all the known world, and unite the kingdoms into a 
golden age." She cocked her head and looked at me with amused interest. "Why? 
Think you that you are that great hero?"
"Me?" I laughed. "Madam, if I am a great hero, you are the queen of Isteria."
There was a knock at the chamber door. I saw that there was a woman-in-waiting 
standing near the door, but she made no move to open it. Instead she looked at 
Beatrice, clearly waiting for some sort of instruction. Obviously Beatrice was 
the head of the housekeeping staff. "Come," called Beatrice.
The door swung open and the king entered, his great purple cape sweeping about 
him lightly on the floor.
The chamber woman immediately went down to one knee, bowing her head in the 
appropriate response. Since I was already reclining, and in a sickbed at that, 
protocol did not require that I immediately genuflect.
Beatrice, to my astonishment, rose to her feet and simply stood there, her hands 
placed daintily one atop the other, as she smiled at the king and nodded once in 
acknowledgment. The king crossed the room, took her hands in his, and gently 
kissed them on the knuckles. "How fares the young sir whose mouth outstrips his 
prudence?"
Confused, I said, "I . . . I . . . fine, Highness . . ."
Beatrice told him, "I had given him your offer, milord. He seems a bit . . . 
skeptical. Perhaps," and she showed her pure white teeth, "perhaps he believes 
that a mere woman would not be privy to the king's offers or business."
He looked taken aback, although he reacted in such a mannered way that it was 
clear he was feigning outrage. "Say you what? He doubts the word of the queen 
herself? A saucy lad, this one."
"The . . ." I looked from one to the other as if they were tossing a ball back 
and forth between themselves. "The . . . the queen?"
"Queen Bea, at your service, squire," she said, and curtsied slightly.
"At my service?!" I was totally flummoxed, and now felt the need to leap to my 
feet and try and show proper respect. Unfortunately, leaping wasn't exactly my 
forte. Furthermore, since I'd been lying unmoving for so long, most of my 
muscles were rather flaccid. So in my rush to try and display respect, all I 
wound up doing was tumbling weakly to the floor.
"Very dignified," said Runcible, shaking his head.
Queen Bea automatically reached down to help me up, but I waved her off and 
Runcible, gently, but firmly, took her elbow to indicate to her that she should 
let me be. Slowly, summoning all the willpower I had at my disposal, I forced 
myself to stand. I was wavering slightly as I did so, but at least I wasn't on 
my back. I was bare-chested, but I endeavored not to be deterred by my partial 
state of undress, even in the presence of the monarchs of the state of Isteria. 
I lowered my gaze so I was not staring either of them straight in the face. I 
had the uncanny feeling, however, that the queen was smiling.
"May I be so bold as to ask," I queried, still without looking up, "why the 
queen herself would be tending to my bedside?"
"Because it amused me to do so," she replied. "And believe it or not, Apropos, 
one of the main endeavors for a queen is to find ways of distracting herself 
from the boredom that is so frequently a part of her station."
Not caring particularly about matters that were concerning me, Runcible asked 
brusquely, "Is he accepting my offer, yea or nay?"
I snuck a glance in their direction, and saw that Queen Bea was looking at me 
expectantly.
"I would be ten times of an ingrate, Your Highness, were I to turn away from 
such a tremendous opportunity to learn and grow."
"Indeed," said Runcible. "She did mention the counteroffer . . . ?"
"Counteroffer?" I looked at her in puzzlement. She shrugged.
"Yes," continued Runcible. "Twenty dukes if you simply leave. That is nearly 
twice the amount you were offered."
I felt my throat closing up. Nearly twice as much. I would have no problems, 
ever again. It was . . .
It was . . .
It was too perfect. Too pat.
As much as I wanted to lay claim to the coinsóas happy as I would have been to 
take them and get the hell out of thereósomething stopped me. And that something 
was suspicion. It was too easy, too damned easy.
I bowed slightly at the waist and said, "Thank you . . . no. I will not sell my 
mother's memory. It would not be . . . honorable," I said, faking sincerity with 
great Èlan.
Beatrice nodded approvingly. "Well said, squire. I have no doubt that, had you 
tossed aside the opportunity to become a squire to the great knights of good 
king Runcibleótaking instead the empty comfort of moneyómy majestic husband 
would haveó"
"Thrown you out with nothing in your pocket save your hands," Runcible was 
gracious enough to conclude for her. "Welcome, squire." That was all he said, 
and then he turned and walked out of the room. He paused, however, just before 
he left, and said six words that struck cold to my spine:
"Report to Sir Justus for assignment."
It was at that point that I was prepared to pull my clothes on and sneak out of 
the castle through the nearest exit, wherever that might be.
But then I envisioned the conversation that must have gone on between the king, 
or the queen, and Justus. You know that young fellow who nearly sliced off your 
privates, Justus? The one who made you look like a fool? Well, we've decided to 
put him on the training track toward knighthood.
Oh, how Justus must have paled. How disconcerted by that news he must have been. 
But . . . but Your Majesty, he probably stammered, you cannot be serious! He is 
lowborn! He is a threat to our sanctimonious little club! Why, for all I know, 
he's the bastard son of somebody right here at the castle! Perhaps even my own 
little bastard!
What care I for your indiscretions, the king would have replied. I have given 
you an order, Sir Justus, and you will disobey it only at your extreme peril!
My, what a lovely little chat that must have been.
I could always depart the palace at some other time. Granted, there were guards, 
but I could likely slip out without much difficulty. This, on the other hand . . 
. this had the promise of providing amusement. No matter how much Sir Justus 
would bluster and complain, the bottom line was that he had to assign me to a 
knight, who would serve as mentor to me. For a moment my blood ran cold as the 
notion occurred to me that he might hold on to me himself, or perhapsóeven 
worseótoss me over to Sir Coreolis. But somehow, I didn't think he would. If he 
were out for vengeance, I doubted he would do something quite that overt. In 
fact, he'd probably assign me to one of the better knights of the realm, someone 
for whom there'd be no excuse if I failed to succeed in my efforts.
I was certain that was to be the case.
More fool I.
I had never seen a knight quite like Sir Umbrage of the Flaming Nether Regions.
To say that he was not what I was expecting would be to understate it. In truth, 
I hadn't been entirely certain what to expect whenósufficiently recovered from 
my illnessóI had been conducted to the magistrate chambers of Sir Justus.
Justus was seated behind a very wide and impressive desk. This was clearly where 
he conducted private business, and when I was ushered into his presence, at 
first he gave me not so much as a glance. Instead he appeared to be totally 
involved in reading some piece of parchment. Truthfully, I had no idea whether 
the paper was really that damned interesting, or whether he was simply keeping 
me standing in order to try and annoy me. In either event, I gave no sign that I 
was remotely inconvenienced. Instead I simply leaned on my staff and waited for 
him to acknowledge my presence. If he was out to ignore me, he could probably 
keep it up all day. Then again, so could I, and besides, I was used to being 
ignored.
But the silence only lasted a minute or so, and then Sir Justus put the paper 
down and looked up at me. "Well, well . . . Squire Apropos. I am told you will 
be staying with us for some time."
"So I was told as well, milord."
"I think 'sir' will do at this point, rather than 'milord.' " He seemed to 
consider the situation a moment, and then rested his hands flat on the table. 
"Obviously, squire, we got ourselves off on the wrong foot . . . no offense," he 
amended, casting a glance at my infirmity.
"None taken, sir," I replied. No reason not to be magnanimous.
"We are all on the same side, after all. Nothing is to be served by carrying a 
grudge, eh?"
"I would like to think not, sir."
"It's settled, then," said Justus, and he certainly made it sound as if it were 
indeed settled. He even smiled in what appeared to be a most sincere manner. "So 
. . . if you are to be a squire here, then naturally you will need to be 
assigned to a knight who is, in turn, in need of a squire. Correct?"
"That is my understanding, sir."
"Well, as it so happens," and he leaned forward, gloved fingers interlaced, 
looking quite pleased to be passing the information on to me, "I have just the 
knight in mind for you. One of the most experienced in the king's service. Been 
with him for years, in fact. Years and years."
"And he does not presently have a squire?"
He sighed heavily, seeming a bit downcast that the subject had been broached. 
"Regretfully, no. Not at present. He is rather hard on them, I'm afraid."
I should have expected as much. Justus was going to assign me to a taskmaster. 
Someone who he was sure would be able to break me. Well, I might just have a 
surprise or two for them up my sleeve. It was just like Justus and his ilk to 
believe that I would be disposed of that easily. I would not leave until such 
time that I chose to. "You mean he's demanding of them?"
"Oh. No, not at all. They just, well . . ." and he shrugged apologetically, 
"have a habit of getting killed . . . usually in his defense."
"What?" I didn't quite understand . . . but then, a few moments later, I did.
For there was a clanking behind me that sounded more like tumbling chunks of 
armor spilling from a closet than the approach of a genuine knight who was fit 
to wear them. I turned and gawked at one of the most extraordinary knights I had 
ever seen.
He had thick white hair that grew from his head in all directions, as if it had 
exploded from his scalp. He sported a long white beard as well. His armor might 
once have fitted him properly, but apparently he had shrunk over time, and now 
seemed a bit lost in his own suit. He had tired eyes and a general air of 
fatigue about him. He was taller than I, but probably weighed about half of what 
I did. His sword hung low off his belt, his scabbard dragging on the floor, and 
consequently he was able to use his sword as a sort of walking stick, for he 
angled the hilt and leaned upon the scabbard every few feet to pull himself 
along.
"I give to you Sir Umbrage of the Flaming Nether Regions," Justus said proudly. 
"Sir Umbrage . . . your new squire."
Umbrage licked his chapped lips and stared at me with tilted head. When he 
spoke, it was with a voice that was reedy and quavering. For a moment the sound 
of it startled him slightly. He seemed surprised that he was still capable of 
speech.
"New squire?" he said, blinked at his own voice, and then continued, "What 
happened to my old squire?"
"You remember." Sir Justus came around the desk and touched Umbrage gently on 
the arm. "That rather ugly business with the Blue Knight of the Marsh." He 
looked at me and half-whispered, as if Umbrage were not in the room, "Poor 
devil. Never seen a human being cut into quite that many pieces before. But at 
least," and he raised his voice for the latter part of the sentence, "at least 
Sir Umbrage got away."
"At least I did," said Umbrage agreeably, and then looked at Justus. "Away from 
what?"
"We have to talk, sir," I said from between gritted teeth.
"We are talking," Justus pointed out reasonably.
"Don't you have someone who's a bit . . ." I tried to find the most delicate 
word I could, and finally settled on " . . . younger?"
"Certainly you're not thinking of turning down this assignment," Justus said in 
mock horror, overplaying it just enough that there was no longer the slightest 
chance of misunderstanding between us. This assignment was not remotely 
coincidence. I had underestimated him, however: He had not chosen to associate 
me with a brutal or difficult knight. Instead he'd tied me to an incompetent 
one.
"It had crossed my mind," I said in a flat tone.
Justus squared his shoulders and turned to face me. "Sir Umbrage is one of the 
king's oldest and proudest allies. I will grant you that he is not what he once 
was, but in his prime, no one could touch him. I have considered the options 
very carefully before deciding to assign you to the fine care of Sir Umbrage. I 
assure you, squire, that if you should turn down this offer, it will be nothing 
short of an insult to the king. And the king has very little patience where 
insults to his honor are concerned."
"But . . . but I . . ." For once my normally glib tongue was at a loss.
"There will be no 'buts,' squire. If you do not desire the king to take offense, 
then you will have to take Umbrage. Do I make myself clear?"
Slowly I nodded. I was completely boxed in. "Yes, sir."
"Very well, then. You may go." He went back around his desk, picked up a new 
parchment, and began to read it as if I were no longer in the room. But I could 
see enough of the self-satisfied smirk on his face to know that he was enjoying 
every moment of my discomfiture.
I walked up to Sir Umbrage. The view regretfully did not get any better as I 
drew closer. "All right, Sir Umbrage," I said. "Where do we start?"
He appeared to consider the question for a time, and then said in what actually 
sounded like a vaguely sage tone of voice, "The beginning is usually the best 
place."
"Yes, sir."
He waddled a bit as he headed for the door. I followed him slightly behind and 
to the right, as was proper for a squire. But just as we were leaving the room, 
he stopped, turned, and stared at me as if seeing me for the first time.
"And you are again . . . ?" he asked.
"Your squire, sir knight," I said formally, doing everything I could to ignore 
what I thought to be snickering coming from the general direction of Justus's 
table.
"I thought you were killed by the Blue Knight. Chopped to pieces."
"I heard that too, sir knight."
He nodded, apparently satisfied with the response, and moved on.
I had no option except to try and deal with the situation the best I could . . . 
and hope that Sir Umbrage of the Flaming Nether Regions dropped dead before I 
did.
 
 
Chapter 10
 
Considering what my existence had been until that point, it is impressive to 
state that what followed was easily the worst period of my life.
Riches, potential camaraderie, and an existence of ease and wealth surrounded me 
but at the same time was denied me. As I had suspected from the start, Sir 
Umbrage provided me no help or guidance at all in terms of even the most minimal 
skills required to be a knight. Herewith, a typical day in my service to 
Umbrage.
As per his strict instructions, I would awaken him in the morning. Then I would 
awaken him again. And again. Each time he would assure me that he was awake, and 
then I would return an hour later to suggest yet again that this time it might 
be an excellent idea if he actually managed to haul himself out of bed. By the 
time he truly joined the land of the living, it was usually noon or slightly 
thereafter. In the meantime, I spent the morning polishing and honing his 
weapons, which he never used, and tending to his horse, which he never rode.
What a magnificent beast he had for a horse. The horse's name was Titan, and an 
apt name it bore, for it was massive. Apparently the horse had been a gift to 
Umbrage from no less than the king himself.
After the noon hour, Umbrage would partake of his midafternoon meal. It was the 
only time he truly seemed alive, for the man could certainly put away food. 
Considering his frame, I could not quite figure out where he stashed it. But eat 
well he did, and with impressive alacrity. Barely was beef or fowl or mead put 
in front of him, and the next thing I knew, it was gone from the plate while 
Umbrage would sit there with a contented look upon his face. Whereupon, happily 
fed, Umbrage would then doze in his chair for another hour or two, digesting the 
meal like a languid snake.
In the late afternoon, Umbrage would be at his most active. During that time he 
would wander about in the great square, chat pleasantly with merchants, smile at 
passersby. It turned out that Umbrage was quite popular with the non-knight 
crowd, for he actually took the time to converse with them. Most knights, you 
see, had neither the time nor patience to converse with commoners. Umbrage did. 
The thing was, his conversations tended to go off on tangents, or perhaps even 
start over again since he forgot that he had begun them in the first place. The 
lower classes chose to find the disconcerting behavior charming.
The other knights, however, held a contrary view.
I quickly learned that Umbrage was widely considered a joke among the nobles. 
Oh, they never said as much to his face, although they probably could have since 
he would have forgotten it a short time later. Instead they were content to 
speak of him behind his back. Once several knights were grouped together, making 
cutting remarks about Umbrage that I could not help but overhear as my "lord" 
and I approached. Umbrage, on the other hand, appeared oblivious. In fact, when 
he heard the laughter, he joined in merrily without even knowing what they were 
laughing about. This, of course, made them laugh all the more.
Umbrage was maintained at the castle out of the king's sense of gratitude. In 
the king's youth, you see, he once found himself at the hands of a rather 
merciless group of marauders. Umbrage was a freelance at that time, and stumbled 
upon the sight of a beardless youth defending himself as best he could against a 
pack of brutes and thieves. Umbrage stepped in and smote them, rather handily to 
hear the king's description of the encounter. Young Runcible learned his 
savior's name and swore that, should he ever become a mighty king, Umbrage would 
always have a place in his service. Umbrage thought nothing of the vow at the 
time, but years later Runcible did indeed fight his way to the throne of 
Isteria, and he made good on his promise.By that time, many years had passed, 
and they had not been especially kind to Umbrage. That did not matter to the 
king, however. Whenever he looked at the elderly knight, he saw him only through 
the eyes of his own youth, viewing him as a still-vital warrior and canny 
gladiator who was deserving of all honors and respect that could possibly be 
laid at his feet.
All of that was well and good in the abstract. But the knights did not see 
Umbrage as anything other than a walking, talking joke.
I should not have cared, and would not have, save that it had direct impact upon 
me. Since I was the squire of such a knight, naturally I held the exalted rank 
of Idiot-By-Association. Therefore I was viewed with the according contempt. In 
retrospect, I suppose I cannot really blame them. Had I been in their position, 
I likely would have regarded me in the exact same way. My own infirmities did 
not help my status, of course, and my ties with the most ludicrous knight in the 
realm didn't improve matters.
As for the other squires, naturally they followed the lead of their lords and 
masters. They saw that whenever Umbrage was spoken of, it was with disdain, so 
of course they imitated that attitude when it came to dealing with me. The 
ringleader of them all, and not coincidentally the squire for the 
ever-belligerent Sir Coreolis, was a squire who called himself Mace Morningstar. 
I doubt very much that that was his real name, but rather a nom de guerre that 
he had adopted for reasons passing understanding. Perhaps he felt that it gave 
him something to live up to.
Mace was everything I would have wanted to be, had I actually wanted to be 
anything. Mace walked with a permanent swagger, and when he spoke, it never 
seemed as if he was speaking just to one person. Instead he had a tendency to 
declaim to whomever happened to be in earshot. Furthermore, his voice ascended 
and descended to peaks and valleys in such a way that it seemed as if the fellow 
were constantly singing. What he was singing, more often than not, was his own 
praises.
Mace was tall, sandy-haired, and powerfully built, and insufferably convinced 
that he could do just about anything. The most annoying thing was that he was 
apparently correct. The squires, as a whole, were a fairly tough bunch, but Mace 
was the toughest of them all, their acknowledged leader. He set the tone to 
which the others responded.
Unlike the toughs of my youth, however, Mace and the others felt no need to beat 
the crap out of me. They made great pretensions over the proper way that 
"gentlemen" were supposed to act. Whereas as a child I had received bruises and 
cuts, as a squire I sustained only cutting remarks. I have to admit, I almost 
preferred the former type, for the latter took much longer to heal. Indeed, 
sometimes they never did.
"How fares the brave squire of Sir Umbrage?" Mace would ask with derision. "Get 
much fighting in? Much training? Slay any dragons today, Apropos? Off on any 
quests, are you? Look, Apropos! A damsel needs saving! Get to, quickly!" This 
would, of course, be quickly followed by laughter and looks of disdain.
I hate to admit it, but it got to me.
It should not have. Really, I did not care overmuch for the ways of knights. For 
the most part, I held them in contempt, remember. I knew their dark underbelly, 
I knew the evil of which they were truly capable. My own presence in the world 
was a constant reminder.
But I would watch them during their training periods. Observe their combat 
skills growing under the careful tutelage of their mentors. They would practice 
with jousting machines, or with each other. I was never invited to participate 
in such activities, because we always had to have the knights to which we'd been 
assigned overseeing us, and since Sir Umbrage was never awake for more than a 
few minutes at a time, that made my participation somewhat problematic.
Day passed into month, slipping over into year, and with each day my resentment 
grew. I believe it surprised the other squires that I continued to remain in 
their presence. One would have thought that they would admire my dedication. Far 
from it. They simply assumed that I was too stupid to know when to leave, so 
they treated me with even greater scorn than ever.
There were two fairly hideous occurrences during that time. First: Meander the 
Vagabond King left the area. That was inevitable, of course. It was his nature. 
Truth to tell, King Runcible played it precisely right. Left to his own devices, 
facing no challenge or overt threat from the regional monarch, Meander's 
attention wandered much as he himself tended to. So off he went with his 
Journeymen to seek new climes, new challenges, new regions to engage his 
interest. And with him marched away the unknown murderer of my mother. A great, 
dangling loose end had just been affixed to my life, and there wasn't a damned 
thing I could do about it. After all, I was busy training to be a knight so that 
I could learn the skills necessary to engage such an enemy, except that the 
skills were not being given me.
The second hideous occurrence was when a regional warlord named Shank decided to 
flex his muscles and muster an army as a means of testing Runcible's defenses 
and resolve. Runcible gathered his knights, and announced to them that such a 
challenge could not go unmet and that he was immediately going to assemble a 
small army by means of the Draft. The Draft was Runcible's customary way of 
choosing who would fight in a war. All the names of the knights were written on 
small pieces of parchment, and placed in a large circle drawn on the floor in 
one of the draftiest sections of the castle. It never took very long for a good, 
stiff breeze to come through, at which point the names would swirl about in a 
small whirlpool of wind, and a number of them would invariably be blown outside 
of the circle. These names, selected by the Draft, would be the knights chosen 
for the army. Odclay the jester would gather the names up, gallivanting and 
japing as he did so, and then the king with great ceremony read each of the 
names accompanied by much cheering.
That particular day, for that particular mission, Sir Umbrage's name was called. 
There were the requisite huzzahs, yes, but also an undercurrent of snickering 
and amusement. It was clearly felt that Umbrage would be less than useless in 
the endeavor. I also noticed an assortment of sympathetic looks in my direction, 
accompanied by shaking of heads and sad clucking noises. All of which Mace 
neatly managed to summarize by sidling up to me, patting me on the back, and 
saying "Nice knowing you" in that damnable singsong voice.
Thank God I was drinking heavily by that time. I had Odclay to thank for that.
The jester had come upon me one evening, sitting in the stables, where I'd been 
shoveling Titan's manure, looking and smelling about as pleased over the 
situation as one might assume me to be. Having had enough of that joyful 
activity, I had plopped myself down in a far corner and was just staring off 
into space, probably looking rather forlorn. Odclay rang his little bells in my 
face. I glared up at him and said, "Get those things away from me or I will 
shove them so far up your ass that you'll jingle when you think."
He laughed. It was not, however, a condescending laugh. It sounded almost 
commiserating.
"You," he said after a moment, "need a drink." He had not spoken with his 
customary jester gibe. Instead he almost sounded as if he were talking 
man-to-man.
I looked at him askance. "Indeed. And what of it?"
"Can you keep a secret?" He hunkered closer to me and looked most 
conspiratorial.
I thought of my origins, of the things that I had wanted to blurt out to the 
knights but had kept securely tucked away within my breast. "More than you can 
possibly believe."
"Come, then."
He rose, shoving his bell stick into his belt to secure it so that it wouldn't 
continue to jingle and betray his whereabouts. He paused at the door to the 
stable, saw that I was just sitting and watching him, and waved with impatience. 
With a mental shrug, I stood and followed him out, pausing only long enough to 
shove my hands into the trough outside in order to cleanse them.
He led me across the courtyard to one of the far walls of the castle and stood 
there a moment, his hands resting against the structure. Then he pulled, and I 
realized that he was yanking on some sort of grip in the stony face that I had 
not seen before, even though I had passed that wall a thousand times during my 
stay. Without a sound, the section of the wall slid aside on oiled hinges, and 
he gestured for me to follow. Since he was a jester, he couldn't help but tiptoe 
in a mincing manner into the darkness. For my own amusement, I imitated his walk 
as I followed him.
We crept down, down a winding stairway that was so dry and dusty that I could 
barely breathe. Moments later, however, we emerged into an area that I had never 
ventured into before. We were deep in the castle's wine cellars. I couldn't 
believe it. Barrels, kegs stretching as far as I could see, and no one was 
guarding it because, really, who would dare drink from the king's private stock? 
Well, the jester would dare, of course. Jesters dare all. As for me, I was the 
titleless, landless squire of a joke-of-a-knight. I had naught to lose.
Odclay and I drank in silence. He didn't seem much for conversation, and really, 
he was a jester. What was there to discuss? Jokes? Mindless cavorting? We simply 
sat in quiet contemplation of our own progressive inebriation.
Still . . . as he drank, somehow Odclay seemed . . . sad somehow. One wouldn't 
expect such from a jester, but this misshapen little man nevertheless came 
across as something of an object of pity. I wasn't sure why I pitied him . . . 
but I did.
I would like to tell you that Odclay became my drinking buddy, but I would be 
lying. I didn't see him again in the cellars after that. Indeed, he didn't even 
appear to acknowledge that we'd spent any time together at all. The next time I 
spotted him, doing his usual gallivanting for the king, he barely glanced my 
way. And when he did, it was with no hint of recognition. There was no secret 
look between us, no wink, no indication that we shared some mysterious and 
confidential bond. It might as well have not happened at all.
But it had happened, and I did not forget that secret entrance. I snuck down to 
the wine cellars every so often, drowning my ennui and boredom in the king's 
impressive wine stock. No one noticed. Keep in mind, I had worked and lived in a 
tavern for my formative years. I knew what was what in terms of the best wines 
and such, even if I had never seen most of them firsthand before. I knew that if 
certain bottles disappeared, it would cause a hue and cry that would run the 
length and breadth of Isteria, and none would rest until the culprit had been 
found. But no one was keeping track of the contents of ale and mead casks, and 
it was with those that I concentrated the majority of my imbibing. Once or twice 
I was almost caught out as unexpected footsteps warned me that the wine steward 
or some other servant was approaching through the more normal means of entrance. 
But the wine cellar was vast and I never had any trouble secreting myself away 
until the danger of detection had gone.
The day of the departure to fight the dreaded Warlord Shank came upon us apace. 
I should have been panicked or terrified. I should have been considering packing 
up everything I owned and vanishing into the nothingness from which I had come. 
But I was surprisingly calm as the morning sun shone down upon me when our 
departure date dawned. I can only attribute that composure to the extreme 
boredom that had enshrouded me during the year or two (time had blurred) that I 
had spent in useless residence at the castle. One day had become so much like 
another, with my lack of knightly education and the daily sneers of the other 
squires, that anythingóeven personal riskóseemed preferable.
Besides, I knew that I had a secret fall-back plan. In the event of true, 
mind-boggling danger . . . I would simply fall back. Retreat. Run like hell 
should the need arise. What did I have to lose? No one was going to pay 
attention to the actions of a mere squire. Besides, if matters looked that 
disastrous, anyone who saw me flee would likely wind up spitted and gutted by an 
enemy blade anyway, and would only be able to speak against me if he happened to 
find a means back from the great beyond. In the absolute worstcase scenario, any 
survivors who claimed that I had run . . . why, I would simply say that Sir 
Umbrage had ordered me to try and maneuver around behind enemy lines, an action 
that Ióas obedient squireóhad to oblige. Heaven knew that Umbrage wouldn't be 
around to gainsay me. After all, if pitched battle broke out, one did not need 
to be an oracle to know that Umbrage would be among the first to fall.
Little did I suspect that he would be, in fact, the very first to fall.
We were to assemble in the main courtyard at ten in the morning to prepare for 
the great move-out. Naturally this meant rousting Sir Umbrage earlier than his 
customary noon. I went to his chambers and woke him, and then woke him again, 
then again and again, repeatedly, every ten minutes from dawn until about nine. 
Finally he sat up, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, and he looked up at 
me with slightly glazed eyes and said, "And you are . . . ?"
"Apropos," I said.
"Indeed," grunted Umbrage. "I'd consider you damned irrelevant, actually, 
insofar as a good night's sleep is concerned. Why wake you me at this ungodly 
hour?"
It was the most coherent I'd ever heard the old soldier. It almost gave me cause 
for hope. "War calls, sir. Duty. Battle in the king's name against a foul 
enemy."
"Oh." He considered that a moment. "Well . . . nothing for it then," he sighed. 
He swung his veined legs from under the covers and hobbled off to immerse his 
wrinkled body in a morning bath. When one is engaging an enemy with the intent 
of slaughtering him, one does not need to offend with bodily odors as well.
I watched out a high window as the knights assembled. Everyone's armor was 
polished to an impressive sheen. I even spotted Mace Morningstar secretly 
admiring his reflection in Sir Coreolis's back. There was laughter and raucous 
merriment, and they exuded such confidence that I almost wanted to be one of 
their number. Almost. Then sense and reality reasserted their grip upon me. I 
never wanted to lose sight of the fact that they were, at heart, the enemy. To 
destroy my enemy, I had no intention whatsoever of becoming him as well.
"Squire," came Sir Umbrage's voice. I turned and saw that the old man had bathed 
and was now wearing the appropriate undergarments. "My armor, if you please."
I went to the cabinets where the armor was stored. I had taken the precaution of 
polishing it the night before. It did not shine as much as the armor tended to 
by obsessive squires who lovingly treated it every day, but 'twas enough. 
'Twould serve. Umbrage looked it over and then nodded with brisk approval. 
"You'll help me on with this, then?" he asked.
There was something about him . . . a sense of lost nobility, of inherent 
tragedy. Somehow I instinctively knew that he was not one of those number who 
had assaulted my mother that stormy night long ago. I knew that such an action 
would be beneath Umbrage. He, of all the knights in the castle, was so "old 
school" in his manner that he would probably have been repulsed by the deeds 
done that awful evening. For the first time in our association, I found myself 
not only warming up to the old man, but to the very concept of knighthood 
itself.
"It'd be an honor, sir," I said, and I meant it.
"Good. You're a much brighter lad than that fool who woke me this morning out of 
a sound sleep."
"Thank you, sir," I said, and meant it somewhat less.
I armored him. The suit was still loose on him, apparently held over from a time 
when he was more muscular and filled it out better. But there was nothing to be 
done for it at that point. We headed out to join the others in the main 
courtyard.
If the other knights held Umbrage in contempt, as I knew they did, they did not 
let that sentiment show. Instead, as Umbrage slowly made his way through the 
assemblage, he received only nods of acknowledgment and kind words about how 
healthy he looked. He was silent throughout, nodding and accepting the comments 
without reply. I, in the meantime, brought Titan from the stable. The horse 
looked tall and proud, and I suspected that of the three of usóUmbrage, the 
horse, and myselfóit was the beast who was the most likely to acquit himself 
honorably in combat. As the king prepared to address us from the upper balcony, 
from where he made all such speeches, I helped Sir Umbrage climb aboard Titan. I 
had my own equipment, meager as it was, with me as well. I gripped my trusty 
staff with my right hand. My sword was slung over my back. Since my right leg 
was still quite weak, I had no desire to impede my already questionable 
ambulatory skills by weighing down my stride. I saw little likeihood that I 
would have need of the blade anyway; I had no real formal training with it, and 
besides, I had no intention of dueling with some monstrous soldier. My main use 
for it would be cutting through underbrush. I noticed the sidelong glances from 
other squires, the barely contained snickering, but chose to ignore it.
"My brave knights!" the strident voice of King Runcible rang out. Queen Bea 
stood obediently and proudly next to him. We all turned to attend to the king's 
words. "Freedom from tyrants and from conquest is never simply granted us. 
Freedom must be fought for, constantly. And you have been chosen to fight on 
behalf of Isteria against the dictator of the Outer Lawless regions. The dreaded 
Warlord Shank himself has sought to expand his influence, but you . . . you, my 
fine and gallant knights, willó"
He was interrupted by the loudest snoring I had ever heard. Sir Umbrage's head 
was slumped forward, his torso rising and falling peacefully, his eyes closed, 
his lips fluttering with the buzzing of his snore.
I wanted to sink into the ground. I wanted to pull out my sword and I couldn't 
decide whether I would throw myself upon it, or use it to decapitate the old 
fool, or go on a murderous rampage and simply annihilate everyone who bore 
witness to this travesty, including every damned knight, the king, and his lady. 
Or perhaps some cheerful blend of the assorted options would do.
No one said anything, but laughter rippled through the assemblage. The king, to 
his credit, did not choose to acknowledge the interruption, but instead pressed 
on. "You, my gallant knights, will show the enemy what you are made of. You 
willó"
The snoring grew louder. I couldn't believe it. It sounded like a stampede. His 
head snapped around and for a moment I thought he was going to rouse himself, 
but then it slumped to one side and the noise escalated. The king couldn't be 
heard over it, that's how loud it was. Unable to stand it anymore, I walked 
quickly over to him, trying not to allow my cheeks to turn bright red as I felt 
every eye upon me. "Sir!" I hissed. "Sir Umbrage! Awaken! You're embarrassing 
us!" Nothing. He didn't stir. I did the only thing I could: I reached over, 
grabbed his leg, and shook it.
He reacted instantly. He snapped up, his eyes wide, shouted, "Back, villain, you 
shall not have me that easily!," and lunged to grab his sword, which was mounted 
just to the right of the saddle. The sudden movement completely overbalanced him 
and before I could do anything to prevent it, Sir Umbrage slipped out of the 
saddle. He tumbled to the ground with a hellacious clattering.
The roar of laughter from the other knights was promptly extinguished when they 
saw the scowl darkening Runcible's face. Umbrage, for his part, lay on the 
ground looking rather stunned. My impulse was to crawl into a hole somewhere and 
die. Resisting it, I ran around Titan and went to Umbrage's side. But when I 
tried to haul him to his feet, Umbrage let out a most alarming yell and clutched 
at his right arm. It projected at an odd angle and I could tell immediately that 
he had dislocated it.
There was dead silence as all waited for the king to speak.
"Bad luck, Sir Umbrage," he said after a time. " 'Twas not meant for you to join 
your comrades on this excursion. Report to your chambers and a healer will 
attend to you anon. Fortunately, you are as revered for your mental prowess as 
well as your physical. Good knights . . . I say ye, Sir Umbrage!"
"Sir Umbrage!" shouted the knights in unison. And perhaps the king was unable or 
unwilling to discern the clear contempt that the knights clearly possessed for 
the pathetic individual to whom I had been attached, but it was more than clear 
to me.
As I helped Sir Umbrage to leave the courtyard, the puzzled knight looked at me 
with bewilderment and said, "And you are, again?"
"Apropos, sir."
"Yes. Yes, you certainly are," he agreed, and smiled in that vacant manner to 
which I had become all too accustomed. As we walked, the king continued his 
parting speech to the troops . . . a speech that no longer had any relevance to 
us. Our moment had passed, and no one was interested in giving us the slightest 
bit of attention anymore. Actually, that was not strictly true. There was one. 
As we passed Mace Morningstar, standing next to the great white horse that Sir 
Coreolis was perched upon, Mace never took his gaze from us. He said nothing. He 
didn't have to. His smirk said it all.
And so the forces of King Runcible set off to quell the uprising of the dreaded 
Warlord Shank. At one time, it would have been an endeavor that I would gladly 
have passed upon. Indeed, I would have sought whatever means I could find to get 
out of it. But if I had done so, it would have been on my terms. Instead, it was 
upon the terms of Sir Umbrage. Sir Umbrage, who was peacefully back in his bed 
and snoring, sleeping through the ministrations of the mediweaver who set the 
arm, guiding it back into place.
The battle against the dreaded Warlord Shank took weeks, and we received 
frequent updates as to its progress. Naturally the updates were filled with 
tales of derring-do and great exploits by the noble legions of King Runcible. 
Every so often we got word of a knight having fallen, and lo there would be a 
great uproar and crying and beating of breasts, but invariably when one of ours 
went down, he took ten, twenty, or thirty of Warlord Shank's men down with him. 
I suspected a good deal of inflating of the battle figures. As for me . . .
. . . well, until that time, I had been taking myself down to the wine cellar 
and getting drunk every so often. But I decided that it was time to cut back. 
And I did: I cut back on the "every so" part, preferring to get blind, stinking 
drunk as often as possible. Every evening, when I finished with my nonexistent 
duties in the service of Sir Umbrageówho was well on the mend and actually 
remembering my name two out of every five attemptsóback down I would go to the 
wine cellar. I still displayed reasonable caution. No one ever spotted me. But 
truthfully, even if they had, what would the consequence have been? What was the 
worst they could do to me? Throw me out? I served no useful purpose. Disgrace 
me? I was already disgraced, associated with a useless knight and living out a 
useless existence.
By the time word came back that the battle was over, that the dreaded Warlord 
Shank had been beaten back into his stronghold deep within the Outer Lawless 
regions, there to lick his wounds and hopefully threaten us no more, I knew that 
I had had enough. The castle of King Runcible was no place for me. If I felt 
like having people laugh at me, I could simply limp down the street and there 
would always be wonderful examples of humanity, ranging from small children to 
drunken sots, who would be happy to make sport of me with no encouragement. My 
stay was serving no purpose. I was learning nothing in the ways of war except 
from what I had been able to observe. I was gaining no rank, title, or riches 
that might serve me down the line. My mother's murderer was who-knew-where. 
Certainly he was beyond my ability to reach him, and since I was garnering no 
skills or allies where I was, I had no hope of hunting him down or being able to 
accomplish anything against him once I had. Besides which, I kept coming around 
to the simple truth that nothing I did to the bastard, providing I did find him, 
was going to matter one bit to the ashen remains of my mother. The only thing 
being satisfied was my ego, and that poor tattered object had been so completely 
beaten down and defiled, so permanently in a state of starvation, that there was 
no point in even trying to feed it.
I knew it was time to go. But something kept me from doing so, and that 
something was a deep-seated desire to leave the damned place at least moderately 
better off than when I'd come in. I had turned down quite a fair bit of change 
for the questionable privilege of remaining among such great samples of humanity 
as the king and his knights. I needed something to show for it. For I remained, 
as always, a great believer in the theory of pass-along aggravation. And if I 
suffered and knew grief during my tenure at the castle, then by God, someone 
else was going to experience the same by my hand.
"They come! They come!" one of the lookouts in the great outer wall shouted, 
with lungs so powerful that his voice carried all the way to the castle. He was 
quite correct. Like a great, twisting serpent, the line of returning knights 
stretched back and across the hilltops. They were still several miles off, but 
people were already lining up, forming a welcoming throng whose cheers could be 
heard throughout the countryside.
I was among that throng, but unsurprisingly, I cheered not. But neither did I 
glower. I simply watched with as detached an expression as I could. More than an 
hour after they were sighted, the procession finally arrived at the front gate. 
Truly, they were impressive looking. There were fewer of them than had left, of 
course, but the strongest, bravest, and most truly obnoxious of the knights 
remained, and they were more than happy to drink in the crowd's adoration. At 
first my hopes swelled, because I didn't see Mace Morningstar, and could only 
hope that the square-jawed lout's head was serving as a table ornament somewhere 
in Warlord Shank's main foyer. But no, my hopes were too quick, and just as 
quickly dashed when I saw Morningstar marching alongside the annoyingly alive 
Sir Coreolis. More than that, Mace was generating a certain degree of advance 
wagging of tongues, as word spread of the mighty squire who had wielded a sword 
to defend his fallen master and had laid waste to half a platoon. I later found 
out that Morningstar had in fact laid waste to a mere three men, two of whom 
were reliably reported as being blind drunk, but these things tended to grow 
upon the retelling. In any event, there was much discussion of the likelihood 
that Morningstar was headed toward knighthood far sooner than anyone could have 
expected. I would have been boiling with jealousy had I (a) any interest in 
being a knight myself and (b) any expectation that I would be around to see such 
a thing come to pass.
I still had no idea what I was going to do to even the score, but as so often 
happens in such situations, I found myself thrust into a predicamentóof my own 
making, admittedlyóthat resulted in my stumbling most unexpectedly into a 
satisfying means of retribution.
One evening, shortly after the much heralded and applauded return of those 
annoyingly brave knights, I was making my way across the courtyard toward the 
castle. I had finished up with my late-evening grooming of Titan. Tending to the 
horse had developed into the one pleasure that I enjoyed in the whole damned 
place. I got to the secret entrance to the wine cellar and was preparing to 
press against the stones that would trip the hidden door when I was halted in my 
tracks by the irritating baritone of Mace Morningstar, hailing me. I froze in 
place, fortunately enough. A few seconds later and he would have observed me 
disappearing through the passageway, and I would have been undone.
Morningstar was not alone, as several of his cronies were at his heel. I had 
observed that when they were walking singly or in smaller groups, their 
individual strides were normal. But when they kept company with Mace, they 
automatically and unconsciously adopted his swagger. So when a group of them 
would approach me, I often had to check to make certain that the ground was not 
quaking beneath me, or that there was not a good, stiff wind which was 
threatening to blow all of us over.
"You smell of horse manure, good squire," Mace said with his customary false 
cheerfulness as he drew near. "Why lean you against the castle wall? Are you 
holding it up for us?" This drew the requisite chuckle from his associates.
"Simply providing reinforcement," I replied. "I had heard that your ego had 
swelled to such proportions since your return, Morningstar, that it overtaxed 
the support structure while you were within. But since you're out here, I can 
relieve myself from my post." With that, I stepped away casually from the wall, 
giving no hint as to my true intention.
My rejoinder drew a brief titter of amusement from the others which was quickly 
silenced with a glance from Mace. Then he looked back to me and smiled that 
square-jawed smile of his. "I imagine you have been preparing good Umbrage's 
horse for the tourney two days hence."
"Tourney." I was blank on what he was referring to for a moment, but then I 
recalled. A tournament had been scheduled to welcome the return of the 
victorious troops. A joust which was to be a celebration of the mighty 
men-at-arms. All knights were to compete in a contest that was really little 
more than an organized exercise in mock head splitting. The average joust is 
fairly on par with the average bar brawl, without the purity of spirit. 
Nevertheless, Umbrage was expected to participate.
Umbrage had been involved with such contests before. His record on that score 
was not particularly impressive. To be specific, my lord and master had 
consistently been unhorsed in his first passes in all jousts going back for the 
last fifteen, twenty years or so. He was not what one would remotely consider a 
serious threat to triumph upon the lists.
"Yes, of course . . . the tourney," I continued. "Naturally, yes, we are 
preparing for that."
"I could see that, yes," said Mace. "When he fell off his horse just before we 
rode against the warlord, we knew that was his way of preparing himself for the 
joust." This remark drew rather louder guffaws from the squires accompanying 
him.
I didn't even bother to respond other than a forced smile, and I turned away.
"What is your hurry in leaving, Apropos?" inquired Mace.
"What is my point in staying, Mace?"
"We're simply chatting. Trying to be friendly. We are all of us, after all, 
squires. That is not to say that we shall all remain as such," he said with a 
smirk. "Some of us have greater destinies."
Gods, I hated that word.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. The desire for alcohol was becoming almost a 
physical need; I could feel it burning in the base of my throat, and my brain 
was urging me to bring it to that pleasant place where it could float in 
numbness. "Mace, is this conversation going somewhere? Because if it is not, 
then I most definitely am . . ."
"I just wish to understand, Apropos."
"Understand what?"
"Understand what it is like . . . to be such a loser."
His words should not have stung me, but they did. I should not have cared what 
he said, but I did. And most of all, I should not have bothered to respond to 
him, but I did. "You're trying to bait me, Morningstar. And you're quite good at 
it. You are," and I doffed an imaginary cap, "a master baiter."
There was dead silence then. The full moon above seemed to shift its light 
directly upon us, as if having taken an intense interest in our conversation.
Morningstar didn't lose his temper, didn't come close. The most that happened 
was that his permanent smile of confidence thinned ever so slightly. "Perhaps I 
am," he said affably. "But better that . . . than a loser."
And I slipped into his game, which was regrettable. "I am no loser, Morningstar. 
Umbrage's fortunes are not mine."
"Nonsense, of course they are. When our lords triumph, we bask in their 
reflected glory. When they are . . . less triumphant . . . that likewise 
reflects upon us. We," and he gestured to the group with him, "have all known 
our triumphs, our successes, individually and in association with our lords. You 
have known nothing like that. I am more than simply a knight-in-training, 
Apropos. I am also interested in matters scientific. From a scientific point of 
view, your predicament fascinates me." His tone dropped, became even more 
mocking. "Does it rot your spirit slowly and steadily? Or does it plummet by 
great degrees, then even off, then tumble once more. How does it work, I 
wonder?"
"You underestimate me, Morningstar. And you underestimate Umbrage as well." In 
truth, that was complete nonsense. I had been demoralized to the point of 
wanting to flee, and Umbrage was useless in all ways.
"Do I? Perhaps you will surprise us, then. Perhaps Umbrage will win the tourney 
two days hence. I would dearly love to see that. Wouldn't you, lads?" This 
generated the loudest laughter of all. It echoed from the castle walls, it 
sailed to the sky, and in my imaginings, the moonlight itself trembled slightly 
as the moon shook in silent mirth at the very notion.
And the words sailed from my mouth before I could pull them back. "How much 
would you love to see that?"
The challenge in my voice was unmistakable. Mace took a step closer, as if not 
quite able to believe what he had just heard. I understood his incredulity. I 
could not quite believe I had said it. "Are you suggesting a wager?"
I said nothing, hoping that they would laugh it off and walk away. I should have 
known better. I had presented a chink in my armor, and naturally Mace shoved a 
sword in and twisted it with glee. "Ten sovs," he said immediately, and then 
amended, "No. Double that. Twenty sovs."
"I don't have that sort of money."
"Afraid you'll lose already?"
"It's not a matter of winning or losing," I lied. "If I cannot cover the bet in 
any way, then it would not be honorable to engage in it in the first place."
"I would be willing to take it out in trade," he said. "You acting as my servant 
for a time, taking some of the more onerous duties off my hands. Your time and 
energies," and he held out a pouch, "against hard cash. Does that not seem 
reasonable?"
I'd been outmaneuvered. All I could do was nod.
But that wasn't bad enough. "Gentlemen," and he turned to the others with him. 
"Would you be interested in getting involved in the wager?" Immediately there 
were choruses of agreement and laughter as they all tossed their own twenty sovs 
into the wagering. Naturally they could afford to do so. They were all the sons 
and scions of wealthy men, knighthood being a privilege of the rich and 
entitled. I, on the other hand, had no resources other than my questionable and 
occasionally nonexistent wits.
"Well, Apropos?" said Mace challengingly. "Have we a wager?"
So smug. So full of themselves. In a few years, they would be so suffused with 
arrogance, so insufferable, that they would be the new generation of bastards 
who went about assaulting barmaids. Teach them a lesson! a voice within me 
screamed. Find a way! You're clever, you're resourceful, you can do it.
"Yes," I said.
I wasn't sure exactly how I expected them to respond. Perhaps, for the most 
fleeting of moments, I thought that they might actually have respect for me for 
standing up to them. Instead all they did was laugh all the more loudly and 
saunter away, chuckling among themselves and speaking loudly of all the tasks 
they would put me to. Then Mace, seemingly struck by an afterthought, turned and 
walked back toward me. He stopped a few feet away, his massive arms folded 
across his broad chest, and he said, "And Apropos . . . when you lose . . . I 
hope you won't be getting any ideas about fleeing. A bet is a bet, and we take 
such things most seriously. If you attempt to desert our fair grounds, I assure 
you I will track you down. I mean it." I could see by the glint of his steely 
eyes that he did indeed mean it, and I also did not doubt for a moment that he 
was capable of accomplishing it. "Should that come to pass," he continued, "I 
can personally guarantee that your servitude will be far longer than you ever 
expected and far more brutal . . . and with large manacles attached to you so 
that you do not attempt a repeat of such dishonorable behavior. Good evening to 
you, Apropos," and he doffed an imaginary cap before turning and strolling away.
Some time later, I sat in the wine cellar, staring at the walls while cradling a 
wineskin in my lap like a child, murmuring over and over as if lulling the child 
to sleep, "I am shat upon. I am shat upon." Indeed I was. From a moment of sheer 
reckless impulse, I had allowed myself to be thoroughly outmaneuvered by 
Morningstar and his lot. What the hell was I supposed to do? Umbrage had no 
chance of winning the tournament. But I had no means of obtaining the funds 
necessary to pay off the bet. Squires were not paid for their services; room, 
board, and training were supposed to be all the payment necessary. The richer 
squiresówhich described all but meóreceived additional funding from their 
families, but I had nothing and no one. I could go to Umbrage for the money, but 
I doubted he would give it to me. He was quite stingy, never becoming involved 
in any games of chance or gambling with the other knights, keeping his purse 
strings tightly closed. It did not seem likely he would endorse my gambling 
endeavors. If it meant losing his squire to become the virtual slave of others, 
well, what did it matter to Umbrage? The odds were that before long he would 
forget I was ever associated with him. I had to keep reminding him every day or 
so as it was.
I was thoroughly without hope.
And then, as I stared at the wineskins . . . an idea hit me. When one is that 
far down into the pit, such notions provide glorious shafts of light, and 
suchlike struck me at that moment. It was an idea that seemed simplicity itself. 
Suddenly not only was I no longer afraid of the upcoming joust, I was in fact 
eager for it to arrive.
It was a glorious day for the tournament.
Of all my memories of my time at King Runcible's castle in the state of Isteria, 
that may be my fondest. Not simply because of my knowledge of what happened, but 
because it was everything that a knightly convocation should have been. King 
Runcible and Queen Beatrice were seated in a royal box at the edge of the 
grounds, the box itself festooned with banners and ribbons, an honor guard 
proudly arrayed around them more for ceremony than from any serious concern that 
an attack might be imminent. The knights marched in crisp, surefooted display, 
their swords extended and saluting their liege. The horses, the mighty mounts 
who would serve as their vehicles of battle in the upcoming joust, munched 
contentedly on their feedbags, watching the pageantry with bored eyes.
As for me, my gaze never wandered from Sir Umbrage. I was relieved to see that 
he kept in step with the other knights. When they whipped their swords around in 
their ceremonial salute, at least his blade didn't fly from his hand. I had a 
vision of it sailing from his grasp, whipping through the air and decapitating 
the king in front of the entire horrified assemblage. Granted, such an action 
would likely have caused the festivities to be canceled, but it certainly seemed 
an extreme length to go just to get out of a bet . . . even just a potentially 
calamitous bet as this one.
The squires were divided into two groups and positioned at opposite ends of the 
field, the running order of the jousts having been already determined. By 
serendipity, Mace Morningstar was at the far end. Yet I could feel his 
annoyingly cold stare upon me, surrounded by a face that displayed nothing but 
charm and cheer. I could see that he was already imagining the various 
backbreaking chores that he was planning to submit me to. Were I him, I might 
very well be doing the same thing. Then again, if I were him, I might have 
bashed my head in with a brick rather than live with my own insufferable nature.
The lists having officially presented themselves to the king, the knights 
sauntered into their respective areas to await their challenges. Sir Umbrage was 
the first of the knights to have a go. This was considered an honor, and the 
fact that the king had selected him for it was not lost upon the others. The 
king still had a fondness for Umbrage; clearly the king remembered the knight 
from his glory days and maintained an almost unbalanced determination to see a 
flash of the old magic.
Unfortunately, Umbrage's opponent was no pushover. His name was Sir Rambert, 
although he was popularly known as the Ram. The nickname had been acquired 
specifically because of his jousting ability. Once the knight was in motion, he 
was something of an irresistible force.
I helped Sir Umbrage buckle on his armor. He seemed surprisingly lucid, even 
invigorated. "Superb day for it, isn't it, son," he said.
"Yes, sir," I replied, inwardly flinching at a knight calling me "son."
He lowered his arms as I finished buckling on his breast- and backplates. I then 
went to work on his arms, affixing the pauldron, the rerebrace and couter. Then 
he extended his arms forward as I slid the gauntlets on. "Good of you to help 
me," he said.
"Not a problem, milord."
"And you are again . . . ?"
I sighed. "Your squire, Sir Umbrage."
As he had so often, Umbrage squinted at me as if first encountering me. "When 
did I get a squire?"
I had long since tired of telling him how long I had been with him. So I simply 
said, "As of this morning, sir."
"Ah! Welcome aboard, then."
"Glad to be here, sir."
Fully armored, Umbrage walked toward Titan as I guided him with a firm hand on 
his elbow cup. The knight walked straight and proud, perhaps caught up in the 
majesty of the moment. I prayed that his mounting of the mighty horse would go 
smoothly, and for once whatever supreme beings there might be chose to grant my 
wish. Umbrage, his armor gleaming in the sun, walked up the short flight of 
steps which led to Titan's powerful back and he swung his leg over with no 
problem. After a moment's consideration, he took his buckler and held the shield 
comfortably on his right arm. He took the lance in his left, a green and white 
pennon fluttering from toward the end.
I looked to the far end to see how fared Sir Ram. He was astride his horse, but 
I could see through his still-raised visor that there was concern on his face. 
He didn't seem comfortable on his horse, but couldn't quite discern what 
precisely might be the matter.
The queen, as was her place in these matters, then rose in her seat and took a 
step forward, holding a ceremonial purple cloth which fluttered gently in the 
soft breeze. As she did so, all grew quiet in anticipation. She savored the 
moment, and then released the cloth, which caused a massive roar from the crowd. 
It seemed as if everyone in the entire town had crowded in to watch the 
spectacle.
Sir Umbrage slammed down his visor, Sir Ram doing likewise, and both of them 
urged their horses forward. I could see Mace at the far end, laughing in 
anticipation, already envisioning Sir Umbrage being knocked clear of his saddle 
on the first go about. The knights charged toward each other, and Titan picked 
up speed at Umbrage's urging . . .
. . . and Ram began to slow. Even though his visor was down, the knight's 
confusion was visible as he looked down at his mount, jamming his feet against 
the beast's sides and trying to get more speed out of him. His endeavors had the 
opposite effect. The horse slowed even more, and even staggered slightly.
The pike of Umbrage's lance struck just below Ram's gorget, at the base of his 
throat. The blow, propelled by Titan's stalwart legs, drove the pike forward and 
Ram backward. The knight was overbalanced, yanked completely from his saddle, 
and with a clatter of metal he tumbled to the ground in a glorious crash that 
wiped that insufferable smirk right off Mace Morningstar's face.
There was a stunned silence for a moment, for Sir Ram had been heavily favored. 
Umbrage wheeled his horse around at the far end of the field, raised his visor, 
and stared with no less incredulity than was on the faces of anyone else 
watching. Ram's horse still seemed dazed by the entire encounter, wobbling 
somewhat. Sir Ram staggered to his feet, looking around in obvious confusion, 
and then he raised his visor and his disfocused eyes snapped together on 
Umbrage. Thenóand I have to admit, it was the mark of a gentlemanóRam bowed 
slightly to the victor, and this gesture resulted in a thunderous burst of 
applause from the assemblage. It started small, but grew quickly like crashing 
waves, washing over both Umbrage and myself.
Mace Morningstar was not looking at Umbrage. He was looking right at me, the 
first cloud of dark suspicion hanging over him. I didn't look away, of course. 
That would have appeared guilty. Instead I simply tossed off a salute, and the 
cheery gesture was enough to get Mace to turn to his cronies and huddle in what 
seemed a most intense discussion.
There were other bouts then between other knights, but Sir Umbrage, as the 
winner, was required to take on all comers.
He beat them.
One after the next, he beat them.
The crowd became aware, as triumph piled upon triumph, that they were witnessing 
something truly remarkable. Umbrage should have been little more than an opening 
act for the great show; instead his prowess brought him higher and higher in the 
ranks of knights. He graduated rapidly from woeful joke to valiant underdog and 
then, ultimately, to unexpected hero. It was as if God had reached down from on 
high, tapped him on the shoulder, and granted him new strength, vigor, and luck 
for this amazing day.
In a sense, I suppose that was accurate enough. It was God's grape, to be 
specific. The grape which had grown upon the vine, which had found its way to 
the king's wine cellar . . . and from there, into the feed of the horses of all 
the other knights. Basically, I had absconded with some of the most potent 
liquor from the king's stores, my time at Stroker's having served me well in 
determining just what the most powerful drink might be. I had then snuck into 
the feed stores and, after taking sufficient quantity to feed Titan separately, 
I had spiked the horses' food supply. The moment the mounts had strapped on the 
feedbags that morning, it was the equivalent of bellying up to the bar. 
Ultimately, every single knight of the lists rode horses who were, to put it 
delicately, functioning at less than their full potential. To put it less 
delicately, they were drunk off their horses' asses.
It didn't occur to anyone that any such thing was amiss, for such a stunt would 
have been wildly dishonorable, and the entire purpose of the joust was to see 
honor in its most pure display.
He had just dispatched Sir Justus, a triumph that had given me particular 
pleasure. As the confused Justus pulled himself to his feet and staggered off, 
followed by his equally staggering horse, I was pouring water down the throat of 
the somewhat confused Sir Umbrage. He was looking at me with near befuddlement. 
"Am I winning?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, it would seem so."
"How is that happening?" There was something in his eyes that I had never quite 
seen before, but I couldn't place my finger on what that might be.
"It would seem the gods of the joust have smiled upon you, milord," I told him. 
I thought I sounded rather smooth about it.
But once again, his gaze shifted, as if layers were being peeled from his eyes. 
And there was something deep and cold there that I had not expected. To my 
surprise, I found myself looking down, suddenly taking great interest in shining 
up his armored leg. "Just . . . one more opponent, sir. Sir Coreolis."
"Coreolis."
"Of the Middle Lands, yes, sir."
"And I am Sir Umbrage of the Flaming Nether Regions."
"That would be you, yes, sir." I finished polishing up the leg and suddenly a 
hand of surprising strength was on my shoulder, hauling me to my feet.
He looked at me in a way that seemed capable of seeing into my very soul, and he 
murmured, "And you . . . you are Apropos of Nothing . . . are you not. My 
squire."
"That's right, sir." The change in him was almost frightening.
He was silent for a long moment. He seemed on the verge of asking me something . 
. . but before he could, the fanfare of trumpets indicated that the combatants 
were to get to their horses. I helped him to the stairs that led up to Titan, 
but he paused with his foot on the first step, turned to me, and said, "I will 
lose this match."
"I hope not, sir" was all I said.
He harrumphed then rather loudly, coughed in a decidedly disgusting manner, and 
climbed atop Titan. I could have sworn that Titan looked at me with disdain, as 
if he knew what I had done. Perhaps he had. Perhaps horses had a means of 
communicating with each other, or could at the very least discern weakness in 
one another. Perhaps he knew that his compatriots were three sheets to the wind, 
and had a pretty good idea who had reduced them to that state. Or perhaps I was 
simply becoming obsessed with second-guessing everything. Certainly my 
nervousness was understandable. The bet was still very much in force, and if Sir 
Umbrage's prediction was correct, everything that had been accomplished up to 
that point would be for naught.
Sir Umbrage was poised and ready at one end of the field, Sir Coreolis at 
another. Of all the knights, Coreolis had the largest horse of them all, a pure 
white monster of a mount with the rather intimidating name of Bonecrusher. He 
had his own special feed that Coreolis kept separate from the others, but since 
most of my incredibly important duties revolved around the stables, I'd had no 
trouble at all gaining access to it. The problem was that, because of 
Bonecrusher's sheer size, I felt it necessary to mix a higher percentage of wine 
into his feed than I had with the other steeds. Wanting to err on the side of 
caution, I had more than doubled the amount that Bonecrusher was ingesting 
compared to the others. Nevertheless, I still didn't know for sure that it was 
enough. I was operating on pure guesswork.
As I watched Bonecrusher and Coreolis, my heart withered, because it appeared to 
me that Bonecrusher was in fine fettle. He had already taken on several other 
opponents and seemed none the worse for wear. He stood there proud, confident, 
looking not the least bit wavery. I muttered a low curse and envisioned myself 
spending the next year or two as Mace Morningstar's personal slave. It was not a 
pleasant contemplation.
There was Mace, sure enough, patting Bonecrusher's rump and nodding approvingly. 
Coreolis had his lance prepped, as did Sir Umbrage. They merely awaited the 
dropping of the cloth that would be their signal to gallop toward each other 
with the single and soul intent of knocking the living snot out of one another.
Queen Bea stretched out her hand for the final time of the afternoon. The crowd 
had been roaring, louder and louder, up until that point, but when she extended 
her arm they became utterly silent. She sustained the suspense with a teasing 
smileóand then released the cloth.
"Yah!" shouted Sir Coreolis, slamming down his visor and urging Bonecrusher 
forward. Umbrage followed suit, albeit without an overdramatic shout. Their 
lances were leveled at one another, the distance between them quickly closing. I 
was certain that my heart had ceased beating, my breath frozen in my paralyzed 
lungs.
The two knights pounded toward each other, weapons at the ready.
And Bonecrusher fell over while Sir Umbrage and Titan were still a good ten feet 
away.
He did so completely without warning. One moment he was in full gallop, the next 
his feet went out from under him. The majestic horse simply went down, his legs 
collapsing beneath him. That Bonecrusher did not break a leg was nothing short 
of miraculous, considering the abruptness of the fall. That Bonecrusher did not 
fall atop Sir Coreolis while toppling was also a remarkable bit of luck. Not for 
me, you understand. I wouldn't have cared if the horse had landed on him and 
crushed him into sheet metal. It was, however, Coreolis's good fortune to be 
thrown clear of the beast and crash to the ground with an earsplitting clatter 
of armor.
There was dead silence for a moment. No one knew what to make of what they had 
just seen. The horse was lying there, staring off into space, and I was quite 
certain that purple unicorns were probably dancing around him at that moment, 
laughing at his stupor. Sir Umbrage drew Titan up short and looked in amazement 
at the fallen knight, who was staggering to his feet and yanking off his helmet.
"The winner of the dayóSir Umbrage!" called the king then, and because the king 
had said so, naturally this engendered a huge ovation from the crowd. Umbrage 
reined in Titan and nodded in acknowledgment of the accolades, but there was 
still polite confusion on his face.
Because of the collective volume of the shouting people, it took a few moments 
for Coreolis to shout over them. But everyone could tell that he was bellowing 
at Umbrage, because he was pointing and waving at the old knight in a most 
belligerent fashion. And when he yanked out his sword and pointed it straight at 
the still-mounted Umbrage, his meaning could not have been more clear. That was 
when the crowd quieted enough for Coreolis's voice to rise above them as he 
shouted, "Trickery! Base trickery! I was not defeated! My horse collapsed!"
"Horsemanship," Queen Bea said coolly, sounding quite majestic as she spoke, "is 
part of the test of the jousts, good sir knight. If you could not control your 
steed . . ."
"He did something!" snarled Coreolis, his face purpling with rage. "He, or his 
damnable squire, oró" He was so furious that he couldn't get the words out, and 
then he waved his sword once more and said, "Fight me, Sir Umbrage! Down here! 
Man to man, sword to sword!"
"I have had a long day of fighting, sir knight," Umbrage said mildly. "I am not 
as young as you and your ilk. Let the day end without vituperaó"
"I do not yield! Fight me now or be known as a coward!"
There was deathly silence then. The significance of the charge was not lost on 
any. The situation had spun entirely out of my control, and when Coreolis cut 
Umbrage to ribbons, the fault would entirely be on my head.
I knew what I had to do. I had to step forward and take responsibility for my 
actions. It meant disgrace, punishment, who-knew-what, but I couldn't just stand 
there and let Umbrage take on the infuriated Coreolis.
I tried to make my mouth move, to own up to what I had done. But nothing came 
out. My fundamental weakness had consumed me completely. I had tried a 
subterfuge, and it had come damned close to working. Now that it had fallen 
apart, I couldn't bring myself to try and make it right. I cursed myself for my 
paucity of spirit, but that still didn't prompt me to put myself forward as the 
perpetrator of the stunt that had rigged the afternoon's festivities. I feared 
the consequences. I feared the punishment. I feared what awaited me at the hands 
of the angered knights, of the squires.
And so I said nothing and stood there, knowing that I was about to see Sir 
Umbrage have his head handed to him, perhaps literally.
Sir Umbrage, without so much as a glance in my direction, eased himself off 
Titan and withdrew his sword from its scabbard. There was no cheer from the 
crowd this time; they knew what they were witnessing. Indeed, everyone 
understood what was at stake. Technically, this was still simply a joust. No 
lethal, killing blows were to be struck. That rule usually sufficed when one was 
dealing with two knights who were simply out to prove who was the more skilled 
combatant. But Sir Coreolis was furious beyond endurance, and in combat, things 
could happen very quickly. To say nothing of the fact that Umbrage was not 
exactly a young man. A blow dealt to him that would simply knock cold a younger 
man could very well prove lethal to the old knight.
They strode toward each other, taking up positions within range of one another. 
Umbrage seemed barely able to lift his sword. He did not, however, seem 
especially concerned. I couldn't help but wonder if he even knew where he was or 
what was about to happen.
Sir Coreolis let out an infuriated roar and, with no more warning than that, 
charged. His sword whipped around toward Umbrage. Coreolis was not mincing 
around. He was coming straight for the attack, counting on his aggression and 
brute force to carry the day. It certainly seemed like a safe bet.
I never even saw Umbrage's sword move. Nor, I think, did anyone else, including 
Sir Coreolis. All anyone knew was that one moment, Umbrage had the sword at his 
side, and the next it was a blur. There was a loud clang and Coreolis staggered 
slightly, and the sword was out of his hands. It was pinwheeling through the 
air, making a "whupp whupp" sound as it spun, and then it thudded to the ground 
at the far end of the field, right where Mace Morningstar was standing. The 
blade speared the ground directly between his legs, missing circumcising him by 
inches. Morningstar stared down at it, ashen, as the sword wavered slightly from 
the impact.
Before Coreolis could make the slightest move, Umbrage had the point of his own 
sword right at Coreolis's throat.
"Do you yield?" asked Umbrage. His voice was strong, his posture firm, and there 
was absolutely no question in any witnesses' minds that if the answer was 
anything other than an affirmative, Umbrage could and would kill him where he 
stood.
Of course, Coreolis said the only possible thing, given the circumstances. 
"Aye."
And oh, the roar that went up then, and oh the cheers, and oh the huzzahs, and 
never, but never, had there been any hero of the lists like Sir Umbrage. As for 
me, I still couldn't believe it. At a time like that, I should have been looking 
at Mace. I should have been smiling, seeming quite smug, perhaps rubbing my 
fingers together to indicate coins between them, drinking in his fury. But 
instead I couldn't take my eyes off Umbrage in his triumph.
And Umbrage looked at me.
And he did not seem the least bit happy.
 
 
Chapter 11
 
I took a great deal of time with Titan that evening, cleaning him and washing 
him down. The big fellow had seen more action in that one afternoon than he 
likely had in the past several years combined. In the distance I could hear the 
sound of revels, for there was great partying going on in the main banquet hall 
of the castle. I chose to absent myself from it. Somehow I was not in the mood.
After I settled Titan down, I started across the main courtyard. It had been 
such a hive of industry that afternoon that it was almost frightening, the 
silence which lay upon it now. The only noise, aside from the celebrations in 
the castle, was the steady tap-tap of my staff. It was then that I heard more 
footsteps behind me. I suspected the identity of those behind me before I even 
turned to verify it.
Sure enough, Mace Morningstar and a handful of his cronies were there. The moon 
was only just beginning to wane in its cycle, so there was plenty of light for 
me to see them. None of them looked happy. No, I amend that: They looked happy 
in the way that someone does when they are looking forward to making someone 
else unhappy. They carried no weapons except the customary daggers tucked in 
their belts. Chances were they didn't need any.
Remember, I was not completely without physical resources. I could handle myself 
quite well . . . under certain circumstances. Against a half-dozen 
knights-in-training, however, any one of whom could likely give me great 
difficulty . . . well, those were other circumstances again.
Nevertheless, there was nothing to be lost in trying to bluff the matter 
through. "Ah. Mace. Here to give me my winnings?"
His mouth was upturned in a grim smile, but the smile did not extend to his 
eyes. "We know what you did, Apropos."
"Oh? What would that be?"
I waited. No response was immediately forthcoming, verifying for me that they in 
fact had no clue what I had done. They were on a fishing expedition, hoping I 
might panic into blurting out some sort of admission. They did not know me very 
well.
"Morningstar . . . are you planning to renege on our wager?" I asked coolly.
"Not at all, Apropos, not at all. Here." He removed a purse from his belt and 
held it up. He jingled it lightly. "Would you care to count it?"
I bowed slightly. "Since we are all gentlemen, I am more than happy to take your 
word, along with your purse."
"Indeed." He lofted it through the air with a casual underhand toss, and I 
caught it easily. "There. I have given you the agreed upon funds."
"Yes. You have. No one could deny it." I bowed once more and turned to walk 
away.
"And now," continued Morningstar, sounding quite cheery about it, "we're going 
to take it back."
I turned back to them. "You're going to what?"
"Take it back. We made no promise that we would not, did we, gentlemen?" There 
were nods and grunts of confirmation.
"But that's . . . that's . . ."
"Dishonorable?"
"Yes!"
He took what was, for him, a short step, but it brought him much closer than I 
would have liked. "And what care does one such as you have for honor, except 
where it serves your ends?"
It was a valid question. The answer, of course, you already know. But I hardly 
saw the need to share my philosophies with Morningstar. Nor did I see it worth 
getting the snot kicked out of me just to hold on to some winnings. I could 
always get more winnings. Teeth, on the other hand, would be somewhat more 
difficult to replace.
"I've better things to do, Morningstar, than bandy words with you. If it means 
so much to you . . ." I tossed the money back. I admit it annoyed the hell out 
of me. It seemed that all I ever did around the damned castle was give back 
money that was rightfully mine. I knew by that point that within the next day or 
so, I was going to take my leave of the place. My goal had been at least to 
depart in financially a superior position to what I'd been in before. Faced with 
the clear vexation of the other squires, however, my goals had reconfigured. Now 
I was aspiring simply to get out of there in one piece.
Even that drastically downscaled aspiration, however, seemed doomed to failure. 
Because Morningstar tossed the purse to the ground, making less and less effort 
to confine his anger. "This isn't about money, you peasant bastard. It's about 
respect."
"Oh. I thought it was about money. Thank you for clarifying that, Mace. Good 
evening to you, then."
I started to walk away then, but Morningstar was right behind me. He grabbed me 
by the scruff of the neck. I squeezed tight on the handle of my staff and the 
blade snapped out of the end, but as I whirled to bring it around, he knocked it 
effortlessly from my grasp. I had underestimated not only his anger, but his 
strength. The staff clattered to the ground.
"That trick played well against Sir Justus, but I've had the warning of it," 
said Mace. "You've had this coming for a long time, whore's son."
"I'd rather be the son of a whore than a spoiled arrogant cretin like you," I 
shot back. If I was going to be speaking with fewer teeth in the future, at 
least I wanted to make my last words with the full set memorable.
The others shouted encouragement, closing on us, and then there was a very very 
loud clearing of a throat from behind us. We looked around.
Sir Umbrage was standing there. Just standing there. His arms were folded. His 
sword hung from his hip. He said nothing. I hadn't even heard him approach, 
although naturally with all the shouting he would have been able to move with 
relative stealth. He was in formal attire, dressed mostly in gray with black 
trim.
"This is not your affair, good sir knight," said Morningstar. "I believe that 
you were as duped as the rest of us, and not a party to this bastard's trickery, 
whatever form it took."
He said nothing still. Just stood there.
"So good evening to you then, as we conclude our . . . discussions," Morningstar 
continued.
No reply. No movement. Still more silence. "Sir Umbrage, with all respect, it 
would be best . . ." Mace's newest statement got no more response than the 
previous ones had. Just more stony silence.
For a long time, no one said anything. There was something indefinable in the 
air. Even the crickets that had been chirping earlier ceased so as to hear 
better.
Finally, Morningstarówho had been holding me backward by the tunicóslowly 
righted me. He dusted his hands off, looked as if he was about to say something 
more to the knight, and then apparently thought better of it. He backed away, as 
did the others, pausing only to pick up the purse that he had thrown down. Then 
he extended a finger to me angrily and said, "This is not over, Apropos."
For the first time, Umbrage spoke. "Yes," he said in a tone that did not invite 
disagreement. "It is."
There was nothing for them to say in reply. Moments later they had retired 
toward the castle, there to join in the mirth and merriment that was in full 
bloom within the castle's walls.
I picked up my fallen staff, turned to Umbrage, and started to say, "Sir, I 
thank you foró" But I didn't even get that far before Umbrage's right fist 
landed squarely in my face. I felt a crack that I knew all too well; my nose was 
once again broken. I staggered, but managed to keep myself righted by clinging 
to my staff, even as the world spun around me. I closed my eyes and that was 
even worse, so I opened them again and fought to keep myself steady, staring 
rigidly at the ground and trying to keep myself upright. As soon as my vision 
began to straighten, I looked at Sir Umbrage once more. His arm came toward me 
once more and I flinched automatically, certain he was going to strike me a 
second time. But instead he was holding a cloth. "Here," he said. "Stop the 
blood flow."
I did so. The blood was indeed coming fairly profusely from my nose. I moaned 
softly as I pressed against it, for the break was fresh and the pain in applying 
pressure to it was fearsome. But I did so nonetheless until I got it under 
control.
"Why did you do that?" I asked tentatively.
"Because you deserved it." He sighed. "You've doomed and damned us both, boy. 
Well . . . there's no help for it now. Come with me, and I'll explain it to 
you." Without another word he turned and walked away, and naturally I had no 
choice but to follow.
Once inside his chambers, Umbrage secured the door so that we would not be 
disturbed. From far away, I could still hear the noises of merrymaking. I almost 
felt as if they existed in another world altogether, which I could only observe 
from a distance while forever wondering what it would be like to be a part of 
it.
He pulled a large decanter from a cabinet and unstoppered it. "Drink?" he asked.
"What is it?"
"It's of the grape. That's all you need to know."
In fact, it was. For a moment my natural caution flared, and I wondered if he 
was out to poison me. But then I realized the absurdity of the concern; if he'd 
wished me harm, he needed do nothing else aside from leaving me to the tender 
mercies of Mace and his ilk. For that matter, there were many other subtle ways 
I could be disposed of besides something that would bring so much direct 
questioning to he himself.
Pouring myself a flagon of the brew, I drank deeply of it, and it burned in a 
most satisfying manner as it went down my throat. I wiped the liquid away from 
the edges of my mouth, noting distantly that there was still some crimson from 
my blood on the back of my hands.
Umbrage likewise drank and sat down opposite me, staring at me in an odd manner 
that I couldn't quite decipher. "When I was a young knight . . . even a 
middle-aged knight . . . I was most formidable," he said abruptly. His voice had 
none of the quavering and uncertainty to it that I was accustomed to hearing. 
"King Runcible's . . . respect . . . for me is not without its basis in fact. 
And then, one day I decided to take an oracle. Never take an oracle, young 
Apropos. It will bring you nothing but misfortune. That was indeed advice given 
me by elder knights, but naturally I knew better since youth always does. My 
reason was that my beloved wife had died, you see, and I had no idea what a 
future without her could possibly be like. It was all a great, black wall to me. 
So I had to know. And the oracle said to me, 'You shall die in a great battle.' 
Well, as you might suspect, I was rather pleased to hear that. For a knight to 
die in battle is the most glorious end that any warrior can desire. At least, 
that is what they tell you when you are training to be a warrior. Besides which, 
if I died in battle, that would reunite me with my beloved. So . . . so much the 
better. Knowing that to be my fate, I launched myself into campaign after 
campaign. This was the period during which I gained my greatest fame. I was 
unstoppable, feared by all, truly awesome to behold in the heat of battle . . . 
at least, so I'm told," he added with a slight flash of modesty. "But as year 
passed into year, several things happened. First, and most obviously . . . I did 
not die. 'Twas a combination of skill, bravado, and luck, basically. And second, 
the loss of my spouse lost its sting as the seasons turned, for time has a 
tendency to heal hurts, even the deepest ones. Here's an odd thing, Apropos: The 
older one gets, the more enamored one becomes of life. As I got older, I found 
myself with a growing desire to continue walking this mortal coil. 
Furthermoreóand I know this is irrational to some degreeósince I knew I was to 
die in combat, why . . . all I had to do was avoid combat, and I would be 
effectively immortal.
"I would happily have retired to the backwoods and lived quietly for who knew 
how long, but good King Runcible, well . . . he knew me of old. And he had his 
own attachments to me, as you well know. He thought he did me honor by bringing 
me here, making me one of his knights. I tried to refuse, but once our liege 
gets an idea in his head, he is loath to release it. Particularly when it's an 
idea that he is convinced is going to benefit the individual being helped. He 
didn't want to 'waste' me, you see. And I could not bring myself to admit that 
my taste for battle had turned to ashes on my tongue. 'Coward,' they would have 
called me. I could not tolerate that."
"But you could tolerate being called a senile old fool?"
"Of course," he said mildly. "Age comes to us all, Apropos. Besides . . . if I 
were to be thought senile and bereft of senses, I could smile inwardly, knowing 
that not to be the case. But to be called 'coward' . . . that would have stung 
far more deeply, for I would have known it to be partly true."
It was all so clear. "You faked your infirmities, then."
"Those of the mind, yes. My body, I admit, is not what it once was . . . 
although, by God," and he shook a fist defiantly, "I may be less than I was, but 
that still leaves me more than many of them."
"You fell off the horse on purpose."
He nodded.
"But you dislocated your shoulder as a consequence."
"No. That is an old injury, which I am capable of repeating when the need 
arises." He shrugged. "We all have our talents." Then his face darkened. "Now 
you . . . your talent seems to be primarily that of botching up the lives of 
others. I had no desire to reveal that I was still puissant. But suddenly I 
found myself at the top of the jousting lists. By the time I was riding against 
Sir Coreolis, I knew that something was amiss and had divined that you had to be 
behind it, you young fool. I was fully prepared by that point to fall against 
Coreolis. I would have, too, if his damned horse hadn't collapsed."
"You dissemble, milord," I said, leaning forward, taking another swig of the 
brew. "You could have fallen against any of your previous opponents. Admit it: 
You liked going up against your 'peers' and defeating them. Deep within you, 
some part cries out in fury against the way they regard you with such utter 
contempt. You enjoyed making up for some of the injustices they've done you."
"You are wrong," he said, but he wasn't entirely convincing, and I knew that at 
least on some level I was correct. He seemed distracted by a thought for a 
moment, but then he shook it off. "In any event, it did not matter once Coreolis 
was coming at me with sword in hand. At that point, I had no choice. I had to 
defeat the fool, and quickly. So I did . . . and in doing so, made clear to our 
dear king just how capable I truly am. My name was securely among the bottom 
ranks of knights to receive assignments, and that more than suited me."
"I was told that your previous squires met with accidents. Did you . . . ?"
"Do them in?" He guffawed at that. "Of course not, and I think you already know 
that. The problem was that, even on routine missions, they would see my caution 
and try to pick up the slack. Youth believes itself immortal. There is a cure 
for such an attitude, but unfortunately it is a cure from which one never 
recovers. Nonetheless, it served my purposes, for nobles complained to the king 
about the high mortality rate of my squires. No noble wanted his son attached to 
me. And one can't send a knight places without a squire. A knight with no 
retainers? Unthinkable."
"And then I showed up," I muttered.
"Yes, you did. My assorted 'disasters,' even on the most routine of missions, 
had dropped me to the lowest point on the list of knights who were likely to be 
sent out on missions, aside from random selections such as the Draft. But thanks 
to you, good squire, we have now jumped to the top of the king's list, I 
daresay. We're very likely for it now, and you've none but yourself to blame."
"You should have told me. Told me earlier, I mean. If I'd known what you'd been 
about, I'd have . . ."
"You'd have what? Assisted me in my subterfuge? Yes . . . yes, perhaps you would 
have, at that. Anyone capable of rigging an entire joust for his own ends 
certainly has a dim enough grasp of honor. I should have told you then, I 
suppose."
"But you've told me now. Why?"
"Why?" He laughed bitterly. "Because we're in the same boat now, me lad. I will 
do what I can to repair the damage you've done to my pleasant state of 
semi-retirement. Failing that, well . . . I shall have to attend to you."
I did not like the sound of that. "Attend to me, sir? What do you mean?"
He did not answer. "You may leave now."
"Butó"
"I said . . . you may leave." And with that, he turned his back to me. Realizing 
that the interview was over, I headed for the door, but his voice pulled me up 
short. "Apropos," he said, "one who has no honor, and no use for it, might feel 
tempted to flee at a time like this. I am not saying you are without honor . . . 
but if you are . . . then I would not let that thought cross your mind. If I am 
in a difficult situation, then you who put me there are going to be right along 
with me. If you try to depart prematurely . . . I will find you. And things will 
not go pleasantly, I assure you."
I couldn't help but feel that, considering I was someone whom no one seemed to 
like, people were going to great lengths to make sure that I remained where I 
was.
The next day I understood what Sir Umbrage meant about repairing the damage. 
When Umbrage rose late, as he customarily did, he sauntered into the great hall 
where knights (many of them with hangovers) were eating a light lunch, and he 
called out, "A glorious day for a joust, isn't it, my lords! When do we start?" 
He appeared to have no recollection of what had transpired the day before. Not 
only was this, in and of itself, enough to utterly confuse his fellow knights, 
but furthermore it was in fact a terrible day for a joust considering that it 
was pouring rain, the field having been reduced to a massive mudhole. When 
informed that he had in fact won the previous day's bouts, Umbrage expressed 
laughing incredulity and refused to take anyone seriously who pressed the point. 
Thus did he endeavor to reestablish the status quo, and I believe in some 
measure he was successful, although there may have been a few who were slightly 
suspicious.
As for me . . .
That evening, after I finished my chores, there was a large man-at-arms waiting 
for me. I'd never seen him before; he might very well have been a freelance. He 
had a barrel chest and sloped brow, but he seemed quite intelligent. "You are 
Apropos?" he demanded.
"No," I said quickly.
"That's what I was told you'd say. Come along, then." He turned and walked 
toward the training area where squires worked out every day. I followed him, 
curious as to what was happening.
He produced two practice swords, tossed one to me, then took a stance and said, 
"Now do what I do."
And there, in the still of the night, we practiced and I was trained in the ways 
of knightly combat. This happened every night for several months. My mysterious, 
unnamed tutor only showed up at night, was never around during the day, and 
never engaged in any conversation other than to tell me what I was doing wrong 
(never what I was doing right). I could only assume that he had been hired by 
Sir Umbrage, who felt that I was going to need all the training I could get.
I hoped he wasn't correct.
As it turned out, he was.
 
 
Chapter 12
 
All of which, reader, brings us backóas promisedóto the beginning. For those of 
you whose memories do not stretch back quite that far, I had just been 
responsible for the death of Sir Granitz and covered up that culpability rather 
adroitly, when the king had dropped a rather charming comment upon me before 
departure:
"I have a fairly hazardous mission to be assigned. I think you are just the man 
for it. Report in one hour."
The words hung over me as I hastily packed my belongings and prepared to get the 
hell out of Runcible's castle.
The body of Sir Granitz was already being readied for its funeral, and I was 
preparing to put as much distance between it, and my then-current surroundings, 
as I possibly could.
The king's pronouncement after Granitz's death was not anything I needed to 
hear. A hazardous mission? I thought not. Report in one hour? I could be half a 
league away, farther if I managed to get my hands on a fast horse. Just the man 
for it? If anything underscored for me that the king had absolutely no idea with 
whom he was dealing, it was that.
I didn't have all that much in the way of belongings, so I had my pack filled 
just before Sir Umbrage entered the room. When we were alone, he no longer 
maintained the blank and vacant stare that he reserved for the other knights. I 
got the full impact of a glare that was loaded with quiet anger. "I just spoke 
to the king," he said. "I informed him that I did not think you were ready for 
any sort of hazardous mission, in my humble opinion."
"You . . . you did?" I couldn't believe it, and felt a wave of relief seizing 
me. "Thank you, milord. I mean that, from the bottom ofó"
"So he said I should accompany you."
I considered those words a moment, then slung my pack over my shoulder. "Good 
day to you, then."
"Where do you think you're going?"
I laughed bitterly. "Anywhere but here." I headed for the door.
Umbrage grabbed my wrist in a grip that was nigh unto iron and swung me around. 
Instinctively I shielded my nose, but he made no effort to strike me. I was 
relieved, but only slightly.
"You," he said tersely, "whether you like it or not, are my squire. As such, 
your actions reflect on me. To be perceived as a doddering, less-than-effectual 
knight is one thing. To be dishonored by mentoring a squire who would flee 
rather than face a quest given him by the king himself . . . that I will not 
tolerate."
"And am I supposed to tolerate risking my life just because of a misplaced sense 
of duty?"
"Yes, Apropos. That is exactly what you are supposed to do." He smiled wanly. 
"You are the one who set these wheels into motion, squire. You've no one to 
blame but yourself, and I will be damned if I allow you to slip away and leave 
me behind to face the dishonor that you leave in your wake. I could have allowed 
Morningstar and his cronies to smash you to stew. I still might, if the mood 
suits me. For that matter, I may yet. Now . . . our king is expecting us in his 
chambers in ten minutes. We will both be there, or by God, it will go the worse 
for you. Do you understand me, squire?"
Once again it struck me that, for someone as unpopular as I, it seemed an 
amazing number of people were intent on keeping me around. It would have been 
nice if any of them had been motivated by goodwill rather than wanting me to 
suffer.
I dropped my pack to the floor, and Sir Umbrage nodded approvingly. All I could 
do was shake my head and say, "This is a fool's errand and it will probably be 
the death of me."
"Well, my lad," said Umbrage with disgusting cheerfulness, and he patted me on 
the shoulder. "Better you than me, that's what I always say."
Unsurprisingly, it brought me little comfort.
We proceeded to the king's private audience chamber, as we were expected to do. 
The king, after all, did not conduct all of his business while seated upon a 
throne; that was for more stately affairs than the relatively simple task of 
sending a reluctant squire on some damned-fool mission that would likely get him 
killed. For something as trivial as sending me off to my death, nothing more was 
required but something relatively small and intimate. Of course, that is all 
relative; even the king's smallest chamber was still three times as big as any 
other quarters in the place.
There was a guard standing outside, but he was largely for show. We were, after 
all, in the heart of the castle proper. He nodded slightly to Umbrage and me, 
and we returned the gesture. We carried no sword or daggers, even the ceremonial 
type. It was against palace policy for weapons to be kept in private audience 
with the king and queen. No one expected trouble, of course . . . but 
anticipating trouble and expecting it were two different things.
The guard, maintaining the proper form at all times, rapped on the door without 
turning his back to us. Anticipation, as I said, although I have to say there 
were few people in the castle who were less of a threat than us. In point of 
fact, I couldn't readily think of any. From within, a voice called crisply, 
"Enter, please."
We did so, Umbrage prodding me lightly in the back to make certain that I stood 
up straight. Inside we saw a chamber elaborately furnished with gorgeously 
carved furniture and thick, purple curtains hanging draped over the windows. 
There was a work area, and also what was clearly a sitting area for entertaining 
company, with several comfortable-looking chairs, an equally plush bench, and a 
table in the middle. Seated in one of the chairs was Queen Beatrice, and she was 
pouring out tea. Three cups had been set out, and obviously two were intended 
for Umbrage and myself. "Please, gentlemen . . . sit." She gestured toward the 
couch adjacent to her.
I couldn't help but glance around as we obeyed, and she caught the look. "No. 
The king isn't here, if that's what you're wondering." She smiled. She was as 
exceedingly pleasant and unaffected as she had been that day when I had awakened 
to my "new life." There was something about her that commanded respect, not out 
of any sense of fear as was often the case with royalty, but instead just a pure 
decency that she seemed to exude.
"Your presence is more than enough to honor us, Your Highness," I said.
She laughed lightly. "Sir Umbrage . . . your mentor takes after you in the art 
of flattery, at the very least."
"Thank you, Highness," Umbrage said. "Teaching him that technique was the least 
that I could do. And I always endeavor to do the least that I can do."
Her brow knit slightly as she considered that sentiment as she poured out tea 
for us. "I made it myself."
"Really? We're honored."
"So much honor, squire. You must set great store by it."
I shrugged noncommittally.
"Well . . . to business, then. You have been polite enough not to inquire why I 
am attending to this rather than the king. The reason is that this is a matter 
of a somewhat personal nature. 'Woman's work,' one might say."
"You require us to do . . . woman's work?" asked Umbrage. I couldn't tell what 
he was thinking at the moment. It might very well have been relief. How much 
trouble could one get into doing woman's work? "I was under the impression that 
the king had some great quest in mind."
"There are all sorts of quests," said Queen Beatrice. "This is more of an . . . 
emotional quest, I suppose. Which is why the matter has fallen to me."
"I will serve Her Highness however I can," I said. "What would you have of me?"
She looked into her tea glass for a moment as if endeavoring to read her fortune 
in the leaves. I took a sip of it. It wasn't bad at all, actually. Then she 
said, "Entipy has come of age."
The phrase meant absolutely nothing to me. I looked questioningly at Umbrage, 
who said, "Entipy? The princess?"
"That's her name? Princess Entipy? What sort of name is Entipy?" I asked.
Umbrage fired me a rather dire look, but the queen only smiled, taking no 
offense. "A fabricated one, good squire. There was a family dispute over the 
name. Family disputes at our level can lead to somewhat lethal consequences 
unless all are mollified. Her true name, to satisfy several different highly 
placed individuals, is Natalia Thomasina Penelope."
"N . . . T . . . P," I said, and my smile mirrored the queen's. "An excellent 
compromise, Highness. Not that it's for me to judge."
"I will take it as a compliment rather than a judgment, squire."
"If I may ask . . . where is the princess? In all the time that I've been here, 
I don't recall seeing her."
"She has not resided here for several years," the queen said with a heavy sigh. 
"I've missed her terribly. But she was quite . . ." Her hands fidgeted. She 
looked quite uncomfortable. " . . . wild . . . is the only term I can use that 
adequately describes her. Her behavior was rather unseemly, particularly during 
state functions. Her father and I love her dearly, but I freely admit that we 
were somewhat at our wit's end. For the past years, she has been in the care of 
the Faith Women at the Holy Retreat. Someday . . . Entipy will be queen. She is 
our only child, the heir, but before one can be the best ruler possible, one 
must be the best person possible. Her father and I felt that removing her from 
an environment where she was pampered and pandered to would be the best thing 
for her. The Faith Women are a severe, strict, but loving order, and very 
knowledgeable in the ways of the world. We felt they would give her the 
grounding she needed. But now Entipy is of age, and she will have duties here in 
which she will be schooled."
"Have you seen her in all that time?"
That seemed to be the toughest question of all for the queen to field. "The . . 
. Faith Women felt it would be best if we did not. They are good, knowledgeable 
women, the Faith Women are, and their wisdom in such matters is second to none. 
I wanted the best for my daughter. No woman wants any less."
There was silence for a time, and then Umbrage said tentatively, "Highness . . . 
I am still unclear as to the nature of our mission."
"Ah. Of course. How foolish of me." She took another sip of tea and put the cup 
down. "Now that my daughter has reached maturity under the care of the Faith 
Women, she will be coming home. We are sending a group of knights to serve as 
her escort from there to here. You, squire, along with your mentor, will be 
among that group. But you will serve a different purpose than the others."
"I will?"
"Yes. I want you . . . to be the princess's friend."
I stared at her, then looked to Umbrage, whose face was a complete blank. I was 
certainly accustomed to such a look from him, since he had spent many years 
cultivating a stare of perpetual vacancy. But this time, I sensed, it was not 
manufactured. He seemed as much at a loss as I.
"Her . . . friend?"
"Yes. Technically, you will be assigned as her personal bodyguard. But more than 
that . . . I want you to be her friend. The princess had no one her own age with 
whom she could associate while she was here. I want you to make an effort to 
ingratiate yourself with her. Be friendly to her. Be pleasant. That may not be 
easy; she can be quite . . . a handful. She has fire within her, and I doubt 
that the Faith Women were entirely able to extinguish it. Nor should they, for 
she will need that inner fire if she is to rule. But I want you to let her know 
that it is not necessary to burn everyone who comes near. Be attentive. Listen 
to her. Accommodate her whenever possible, but don't be afraid to stand up to 
her. No harm will come to you as a consequence of your saying no to the 
princess, you have my personal assurance of that."
"Highness, I . . ." I looked to Umbrage and back to her. "I'm not certain . . . 
if I'm the right person for this job. I do not pretend to be a student of the 
human psyche. Perhaps she'd do better with another woman . . ."
"Another woman," the queen said, "will become more a coconspirator than a 
friend. Or a servant, bowing to her whim. That is not what she needs, squire."
"I bow to your wisdom in that regard, Highness . . . but surely you must see 
that I may not be what she needs either."
"Are you refusing my request, squire?"
My lips suddenly felt rather dry. I wasn't sure what to say.
"Because if you are . . . no offense will be taken, I assure you."
I let out a sigh of relief. "That is . . . very generous of you, Your Highness." 
I saw from the corner of my eye that Umbrage likewise looked relieved.
"Oh, no, no offense at all. It's . . . a pity, I admit. I had a feeling that you 
and Entipy would get on famously. A fiery young wench, quick-witted and the 
equal of any man. I thought you and she would take to each other . . . but, if 
nothing else, I wouldn't want to force something upon you that you feel isn't 
worthy of you."
"It's not so much a matter of worthiness, Highness . . ."
She continued as if I hadn't spoken. "I mean, granted, this was a royal 
assignment, but that's of no matter. There are other royal assignments, squire, 
to which I would be more than happy to attach you."
I felt my hair starting to prickle on the nape of my neck. "There . . . are?"
"Yes." She rose, gently setting her teacup down and then walking over to the 
work area. She whistled softly as she rummaged through some papers. "Ah. Here we 
are. The Screaming Gorge of Eternal Madness." She said it with an air of 
anticipation.
"The what?"
"There is said to be," the queen told us with clearly growing excitement, "a 
creature which lurks within the Screaming Gorge of Eternal Madness . . . a 
creature whose gizzard contains a fortune in diamonds. The royal treasury has 
taken something of a dip since the entire taxation fiasco in Pell. You could go 
to the Screaming Gorge of Eternal Madness, brave the creature, slay it, cut it 
open, and remove the diamonds. Granted, one hundred and seventeen . . . I'm 
sorry, eighteen," she made an adjustment, scratching with a pen, "have made the 
attempt over the past several centuries. Only a handful have returned, and they 
were in varying states of insanity. One poor devil tore his own eyes out, 
another swallowed his tongue . . ." She shuddered. "In any event, the rest have 
not been heard from again, although it is said their screams can still be heard 
emanating from the gorge to this day. But perhaps you will be the fortunate 
pair. It could be the creature has mellowed with age."
She smiled sweetly.
I rose then and said, "It would be my honor to make the princess's 
acquaintance."
"I thought you would say that," Queen Bea said. "Finish your tea before it gets 
cold. It's good for you."
I finished it . . . because if there was one thing I knew, it was what was good 
for me.
No one knew anything about her.
I couldn't understand it. Not only did Umbrage know nothing of the princess, 
aside from her name, but everyone I asked about her greeted me with shakes of 
the head, shrugs of the shoulder, and unvarnished ignorance of the subject at 
hand. It seemed most puzzling to me. How could it possibly be that the princess 
of the realm, the heir to the throne, was an enigma to all concerned?
As near as my inquiries were able to determine, the princess had been kept apart 
from everyone else at the castle, starting at quite a young age. A special suite 
of rooms had been set aside for her, and there she had resided. There was 
speculation about her. Some opined that she was so ghastly to look upon that no 
one could stand to do so. That she had some sort of considerable deformity, or 
that she was an imbecile and in all ways an embarrassment. But no one knew for 
sure. They couldn't even lay claim to having seen her even once.
I had been endeavoring to acquire information so that I would have some inkling 
of what to expect, but I found the dearth of knowledge about her to be almost 
alluring in its way. Apparently we had a genuine mystery girl on our hands. 
There were few enough things in my life that could fall under the heading of 
"intriguing," but this was definitely one of them. The only thing I could 
ascertain for sure was that she had tended to pass tutors in the same way that 
others pass water or gas. During the time that she resided in her private 
quarters, teachers would come and go. No one lasted terribly long, and there was 
a widening gap of time in finding a new teacher every time that an old one 
resigned . . . usually looking several years older and considerably more wan and 
wasted than when they had first arrived. Then one day the parade of teachers 
ceased, and a casual query to the king had revealed the fact that Princess 
Entipy had been shunted off to join the Faith Women at the Holy Retreat. "It 
will do her good" was all the king said. He was not forthcoming with any further 
information, and that more or less ended the matter, since, really, one cannot 
exactly start grilling a monarch for information, particularly about such a 
sensitive subject.
The night before we were to depart, however, I was busy brushing down Titan and 
preparing him for the journey, when I heard a soft laugh from behind me. I 
turned to see Mace Morningstar there, leaning against the doorframe, his arms 
folded. Instinctively I reached for my staff, which was leaning against a post, 
but Mace made a dismissive gesture to indicate that such defensive tactics were 
not necessary. "I'm just here to wish you goodspeed on your journey, Apropos," 
he said. "Will you have a mount of your own?"
"A small steed is being brought in, so I'm told," I said cautiously. I still 
didn't trust him.
"Well, that's good. That's good." Morningstar's insufferable grin didn't 
diminish one bit, and he said with a snicker, "Well, good evening to you then, 
squire."
"Wait." It occurred to me that I had not asked Morningstar if he knew anything 
of the princess. Obviously I endeavored to avoid Mace whenever possible, but he 
was the one who had approached me this evening. What had I to lose? "Do you know 
anything of the princess?"
"I? What would I know of her?" But he said it in such a way as to practically 
shout at me that he was indeed cognizant of some information.
Naturally, given the situation and my knowledge of the way such buffoons as 
Morningstar thought, I said the only reasonable and logical thing: "Nothing. 
You'd know nothing of her. It was foolishness of me to inquire. My pardon, 
Mace." I bowed slightly and returned to grooming the horse.
It worked like a charm, of course. Oh, Mace didn't come out with it immediately, 
of course. He picked up a strand of straw and began to chew on it idly, 
clutching it between his teeth. Then he sauntered over to me, leaning against 
the wall, his arms folded across his chest. I barely afforded him a glance as I 
asked, "Oh, are you still here?"
"She's beautiful," Mace said.
"Really. When did you see her?"
"On a dare, some years back, on my first visit to the court. It was before I 
became a squire. Some other boys challenged me to climb up the side of the 
castle after I'd boasted that I could scale any surface."
"And you did it, of course."
"Of course," Mace said matter-of-factly. "I climbed halfway up the side of the 
castle. Heights didn't bother me; nothing did, or does, really."
"I'm happy for you."
"Anyway," continued Mace as if I hadn't spoken, "I found myself at eye level 
with a window. Naturally I peered through it."
"Hoping to catch a female undressing?"
"That's right," Mace said, unabashed. I think he was incapable of feeling any 
sort of shame. Granted, so was I, but at least that was a conscious decision on 
my part. I think he was just too stupid. "What I saw instead was this young 
womanóhair the color of an early autum, eyes like a raging sea, and when she 
spoke, a voice like a southbound breeze . . ."
"Is she a person or a weather report?" I asked.
"She was speaking with a tutor, a fairly heavyset woman with a brutish accent 
and a mole on her chin that had hair growing from it. She asked a question of 
the woman, and when the tutor turned to a particular reference volume to check 
the answer . . ."
"Yes?"
"She stabbed her."
My eyes widened. "What? Who stabbed who?"
"The princess stabbed the tutor. Oh, nothing lethal, mind you. She used a quill 
pen that was to her right. She just took the thing and drove it into the top of 
the woman's hand which had been resting on the table."
"Good lord," I murmured. Then I said suspiciously, "Wait a minute . . . if 
you're making this up . . ."
"On the life of my father, I swear it so," said Morningstar with enough 
sincerity that I couldn't help but believe him. "Jammed the thing straight down. 
I have to admit, I wasn't aware that one could drive a quill that far down into 
someone. A good inch or so it penetrated. Tutor started screaming like a stuck 
hog, and a string of invective in her native tongue poured from her throat, and 
in ran the queen all in a dither, asking what's happened, and the tutor who, by 
this point is in agony, pointed helplessly at Entipy. And there was our royal 
princess, as cool and calm as you please, and she looked up from her text and 
said, 'She's clumsy, mother. What can I say?' "
"And you saw it all happen. With your own eyes."
"With these very two hawk-eyed orbs you see before you. Her mother and the tutor 
left in a lather, and then I began to climb down. Just as I started to go, I 
thought I saw Entipy glance in my direction. But I was already starting down, 
and so figured that I was in the clear. So what happens? I'm halfway down the 
wall, and suddenly an inkwell droppedónay, hurledófrom overhead caromed off my 
skull. It knocked me clean off the wall and I fell the rest of the way. Broke my 
leg from the fall. Took six months to heal properly, and even now I still have a 
barely noticeable limp. That minor impediment is why I feel some slight sympathy 
for you, Apropos, believe it or not."
"I don't believe it, thank you, considering you tried to beat me to a pulp after 
the jousts."
"That was simply a matter of pride. It was nothing personal. If I did not feel 
for you, Apropos . . . why would I be telling you what I know of Entipy?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do, for I've explained it to you. Look." He pushed back a hank of his 
sandy hair. I could see the trace of a scar, shaped in a small semicircle. 
"That's what's left of the place where the ink bottle struck me. It was my very 
first combat scar. One would have hoped for something more impressive, I should 
think."
"Indeed." I paused and then said, "If I am to believe you . . . I shall need 
more of a reason that you have shared this with me besides the notion that you 
are doing so out of the goodness of your heart."
"It is of no consequence to me whether you believe or not," he said with a 
shrug.
We stared at each other for a short time, and then he genuinely smiled at me. It 
was the smile that I found most disconcerting of the entire encounter.
He never did give me any further explanation as to the reason for his "warning." 
Perhaps he had no other that he could truly articulate. In retrospect, I can 
only assume that his desire was to make me nervous. I think he wanted to see me 
sweat, or at the very least plant in my head some degree of apprehension about 
the task that lay ahead. In short: He didn't want to take the slightest chance 
that I might actually take some pleasure in what was to come, no anticipatory 
glee in the prospect of being trusted by the queen herself to be the personal 
escort to the future ruler of the throne. Morningstar might very well have 
confused my motives with his own. I knew his type all too well from having seen 
it not only around the palace, but all my life. He had his own serious ambitions 
for social climbing. He probably thought that I was of a similar persuasion, and 
that I would have regarded some sort of mandated close relationship with the 
princess as a potential tie to the king or the throne. In that spirit, he 
probably didn't want to take a chance that I might, even for a short time, be 
pleased about the assignment. So he thought he'd spoil my mood.
He didn't comprehend that my mood had been spoiled the day that I was born, and 
it had only been downhill from there.
 
 
Chapter 13
 
It was comforting to know that I still retained enough of my skills in 
woodsmanship to smell smoke when it was out there.
The journey to the Holy Retreat had gone without incident until that point. 
Indeed, it had been so utterly trouble-free that I found myself getting a bit 
nervous about it for no reason that I could determine. Our escort party numbered 
about twenty, which seemed more than enough. We were under the command of Sir 
Nestor, one of the king's personal guards. He was affable enough, although all 
business when it came to matters of security. He kept an advance party lurking 
about, making sure that the way was clear. He exuded a quiet confidence that I 
found somewhat heartening. Sir Umbrage, for his part, didn't seem especially 
heartened by it at all. Instead he had a tendency to keep looking around the 
woods, squinting against the sun, trying to see something that did not readily 
appear to be perceptible. Perhaps he was trying to find random threads of fate 
and sort them out.
I had asked him before we set off why, if he was so apprehensive about our 
little mission, he didn't simply pull some sort of stunt similar to that which 
had gotten him out of our war effort. "There is a fine line between unfortunate 
happenstance and perceived deliberate ineptitude," he had replied.
"You're saying you think they might have caught on."
He nodded. He was probably right although, considering how things turned out, he 
might have been well advised to take that risk.
For my part, I had found myself doing the same thing during the trip as Sir 
Umbrage. I scoured the forests, the beaten pathways ahead of us, for some sign 
of pursuit or some danger that might be approaching us. None had been readily 
apparent.
And yet . . .
And yet I couldn't help but feel that something was out there. I couldn't 
determine precisely what that might be, nor was I able to figure out what might 
prompt me to think that. Yet I thought it just the same. I would glance deep 
into the woods, sometimes quickly snapping my gaze in that direction at random 
intervals as if trying to catch someone watching us. I never saw anything. Yet I 
kept having the feeling that there was something out there, just beyond my 
perceptions, dancing just outside of my field of vision andóworst of 
allólaughing at my inability to spot him or her or it. The woods and forest 
areas through which we traveled had none of the sheer oppressive mood of the 
Elderwoods, which had been my primary former haunt. My new surroundings were 
innocuous enough. But I still felt there was something there, and I misliked 
that I couldn't begin to guess what it might be. In all likelihood, it was 
simply my imagination. The problem was: I wasn't that imaginative a person. So 
when such things presented themselves, it tended to make me . . . apprehensive.
I had restrained my worries, though, because we had a journey of several days 
ahead of us, and nothing was going to be served by my fretting and voicing 
concerns the entire way. All I would do was annoy Sir Umbrage, who was already 
in an apprehensive enough mood, and the other knights and squires in the company 
who seemed to regard my presence as something of an aberration at best, an 
annoyance at worst.
At least I had been given a horse for the purposes of the journey. That was a 
bloody great relief. I managed to get about well enough on my lame leg, but even 
with the aid of my staff, lengthy walks were not my favorite pastime. Not unless 
I had the opportunity to rest repeatedly along the way. The horse was nothing 
special. She was a relatively small, dabbled beast named Alexandra, and I 
doubted she was very fleet of foot. Then again, neither was I, so I could hardly 
condemn the poor creature for not possessing that which I also lacked.
The weather had been quite temperate, the conversation pleasant if a bit 
strained from time to time, and the entire trip had been fairly free of stress, 
aside from my free-floating anxiety that we were being pursued, watched, or in 
some other way being monitored. So it was somewhat jolting when I first scented 
the smoke. I could tell from Alexandra's reaction that she sensed it too. There 
was some slight hesitation on the part of a couple of other mounts, but the 
puzzled looks on the faces of the other knights indicated that they weren't 
quite certain what was putting the horses out of sorts.
"There's a fire ahead," I said.
This drew looks from Nestor, Umbrage, and several others. "I smell nothing," 
said Nestor. "Are you sure? I don't smell anything."
"Yes, I'm sure. The horses smell it, too. Look at them."
Nestor raised a hand, palm up, indicating that the rest of the group should come 
to a halt. They did so and he tilted his head back, sniffed the air. Finally he 
nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, you're right. Redondo, Messina." He summoned two of 
the more reliable members of the advance scouts. "Check on ahead. Report back. 
See if it's a camp of some sort. If so, see if it's hostiles."
"It's not an encampment," I said with conviction. "It's bigger than that, I'd 
warrant."
"Perhaps. We'll see."
We waited then for what seemed an interminable time, although I doubt it was 
really all that long. Then Redondo and Messina returned, and they appeared quite 
agitated. They went straight to Nestor and the three of them spoke in low 
whispers. I didn't have to see Nestor's face to tell that he was clearly upset, 
and then he turned to us and said, "Full speed, lads. It's the Holy Retreat. 
Someone's torched the place!"
The announcement galvanized everyone in the group. Even Umbrage seemed inclined 
to drop his usual air of quiet befuddlement and called out, "The princess? Is 
she there? Is she unharmed?"
"We don't know," returned Nestor. "The squad spotted some people milling about, 
but it was hard to discern. No talking now! Full speed, I said, damn your eyes!"
I can tell you, there's nothing like having someone say "Damn your eyes" to let 
you know that they're genuinely concerned.
So with our eyes in serious danger of damnation, we spurred our steeds onward 
until we were practically thundering through the woods. Soon the smoke was 
strong enough that one could have smelled it through a raging head cold. We 
emerged from the woods then and we were able to see, in the near distance, the 
Holy Retreat of the Faith Women . . . or at least, what was left of it.
I had never been to the Holy Retreat, although I had heard that it was a simple 
but elegant structure which had served the unadorned needs of the Faith Women. I 
would never have been able to tell firsthand, however, because the place was in 
ruins. We arrived just in time to see one small, still-remaining part of the 
structure collapse in on itself. It simply gave up and fell with a groan of 
splintering wood.
Clustered around the front of the Holy Retreat were a number of forms which I 
would have assumed to be women. It was an assumption because the Faith Women 
tended to dress in rather dreary, asexual garb. Indeed, the only reason we knew 
for sure that they were female was because they called themselves the Faith 
Women. I'd spotted Faith Women from time to time, embarking on missions of mercy 
and such. A couple of them had more of a mustache than I, so in a way we were 
all more or less taking their word that they were as advertised.
We thundered across the open ground, we knights, and I fancy that we made a 
rather impressive sight. After all, there's nothing like seeing twenty armed men 
arriving too late to do anything about a disaster that truly stirs the heart to 
bursting with emotion. We reined up a respectful distance from the Faith Women, 
who were simply standing there and staring at us. Their faces were inscrutable. 
We had no idea whether they were happy to see us, or distressed, or even cared 
one way or the other.
"Who is in charge here?" he called to the group.
The Faith Women looked at one another, and then one of their number stepped 
forward. We should have been able to tell that she was in charge. She was the 
only woman I'd ever seen who had so much facial hair, she could have braided her 
eyebrows. Her hands were hidden within the folds of her garment, her hair 
obscured by a hood. Her eyes were hard and cold. She said nothing, simply 
waited. That she said nothing didn't surprise me. Faith Women tended to be a 
fairly conservative lot, cherishing words as if they were coins, and loath to 
toss them around in a wasteful fashion.
"I am Sir Nestor, dispatched by King Runcible to retrieve his daughter, the 
Princess Entipy." His horse moved around slightly, apparently still a bit 
spooked by the smoke wafting into the air. He steadied his mount and continued, 
"Obviously, you have had a great disaster here."
The Faith Woman nodded. Her face remained impassive.
"Do not think me insensitive to your plight, or uncaring of the fate of all of 
your order, but my mandate requires me to be a bit single-minded," Nestor 
continued. "My first, my only, priority is the princess. So let me get to the 
heart of the matter: Is the princess all right? Was she injured? Is sheó" He 
obviously didn't want to say the word "alive." None of us were looking forward 
to the prospect of returning to the king carrying a large vase and informing His 
Highness that his only child was in residence within.
The Faith Woman did not answer immediately. She seemed to be searching for 
words. Then, apparently opting for a mute reply, she stepped aside and gestured 
toward her associates.
A hooded figure stepped forward. She was smaller than the rest, the face fully 
obscured by the hood. She took a few steps, stopped, then squared her shoulders, 
arched her back, and withdrew the hood.
She looked rather small, almost swimming in the outfit she wore. Her face was 
carefully neutral. Her long hair was unkempt, although that was probably 
understandable given the circumstances. I saw nothing of autumn and raging seas 
in her, as Morningstar had described her. She seemed rather sullen, actually, 
fairly unremarkable in appearance, although there was a sort of vague prettiness 
about her. She did have a regal bearing, I'd certainly credit her that. She was 
no longer a child, but instead clearly a young woman.
"Princess . . . are you all right?" asked Nestor with concern that was mixed 
with obvious relief.
She nodded. That was all. Just nodded. So far none of the females had spoken a 
word.
"We're here to bring you home. Your father and mother very much look forward to 
seeing you once more."
Another nod.
Nestor turned his attention back to the women. "Now . . . my dear Faith Women . 
. . this is clearly a great tragedy. Would you care to tell me how this came 
about? Was it by accident, or did some swine attack you? If the latter, we can 
make sure that justice is done. If the former, we have means of offering 
compensation, for the king and queen are most grateful for the fine tutelage you 
have given their daughter . . . and their gratitude will be vastly increased 
upon learning that you have clearly managed to save her from any jeopardy this 
unfortunate conflagration might have presented. In short, I am asking: How may 
we be of service to you?"
The Faith Woman looked at her compatriots in stony silence. Their expressions 
were as granite-etched as her own. She looked back to us, and then one of her 
hands emerged from within the folds of her sleeves. It was long and a bit bony, 
and she pointed it, trembling somewhat, at the princess.
And the Faith Woman, speaking each word in a careful, measured tone, said, "Get 
. . . her . . . the fuck . . . out of here."
There was no reaction of horror or shame at the profanity spoken by their 
leader. Instead all the heads of the Faith Women bobbed up and down in silent 
agreement.
That was when Entipy smiled. Really smiled.
I had never seen a smile quite like it. She looked at usólooked at meówith that 
smile, and the smiled seemed to say, Hello. You're going to your grave, and it's 
going to be my doing.
And Umbrage leaned over in his saddle and murmured to me, "Well, this certainly 
doesn't bode well."
Master of understatement, Sir Umbrage was.
Nestor angled his horse toward me as we prepared for our ride back to Isteria 
and he said in a low tone, "Good luck." He didn't seem sarcastic in that 
respect; I think he genuinely felt bad for me. I couldn't blame him. I felt bad 
for me, too.
Demon spawn.
That's what I saw when I looked into those eyes. Demon spawn. A quiet look of 
cold contempt, as if we were bugs to her. Not for a moment did I doubt why this 
. . . this individual . . . had been sent to the Faith Women for tutelage. Her 
parents simply did not want to have to deal with her. It was a no-lose 
proposition for them. The longer she was away, the calmer their own lives were. 
And if the Faith Women managed to bring her under control, well, so much the 
better.
Apparently, considering the smoldering ruins of their home, the Faith Women had 
had a less-than-stellar success rate with her.
Sir Nestor offered to leave a couple of knights behind to aid with the 
organizing of a rebuilding, but the Faith Women seemed to want nothing more than 
for the lot of us to be on our way. Naturally we obliged them. I think, however, 
given the circumstances, we would have felt a little more sanguine about the 
entire affair if we hadn't caught sight of the Faith Women dancing a gambol of 
celebration upon Entipy's departure. Entipy, for her part, sat perfectly erect 
in the saddle, straight and tall. She looked as if she had been born in a 
saddle, that much I had to admit. She looked neither right nor left. Truth to 
tell, I wasn't certain if she knew or even cared that any of us were there.
This did not stop Sir Nestor from taking the time to guide me to her personally 
and say, "Highness . . . Apropos is squire to Sir Umbrage. He will be your 
personal escort and retainer for the duration of our trip home. If you have any 
needs or desires, request them of Apropos and he will shatter every bone in his 
body rather than disappoint you."
I glanced worriedly at Nestor, less than ecstatic about the characterization of 
my willingness to carry out my duties. He winked at me. That hardly mollified 
me. But rather than dwell on it, I simply bobbed my head in acknowledgment of 
her and said, "Highness."
She glanced at me, one flicker of her eyes seeming to take in not only my 
presence, but my very soul. The young woman chilled me. Then again, she was 
royalty, and what point is there to being royalty if you can't discomfort those 
below you.
The princess and I were situated in the middle of our escort, in order to 
provide maximum security. My initial thought was to say absolutely nothing to 
her as we began our ride. In retrospect, perhaps I should have maintained that 
strategy. I couldn't help but feel, though, that I should say something to the 
silly girl. It was several days' journey, after all, and riding the entire way 
in silence seemed unnatural somehow.
"We have good weather for the ride, Princess," I ventured after a time.
To my surprise, she laughed. It was neither a guffaw nor a titter, but simply a 
small chuckle. "Have I amused you somehow, Highness?" I asked.
She looked at me in an almost pitying manner. "Nearly an hour we ride, and 
you've had all that time to come up with a conversational gambit . . . and that 
was the best you could do?" She shook her head in pitying contempt.
"No," I replied sharply. "But I thought starting off with 'So, burned down many 
Holy Retreats, have you?' might be considered a bit off-putting."
There was a loud clearing of throat from Sir Umbrage, who apparently was riding 
just within earshot.
Entipy simply smiled at that. "Is that what you think I did?"
"I wouldn't presume to judge, Highness."
She looked me up and down appraisingly. "Don't lie to me," she said. "I've no 
stomach for it."
"Lie, Highness?"
She said nothing in reply to that, but merely focused her attention on the road 
ahead of us. I moved my mount a bit closer to hers and said in a pleasant tone, 
"I don't appreciate being called a liar, Highness . . . even by royalty."
"Then try not lying and you'll find it will happen less." She afforded me a 
glance. "I know people, squire. Know them at a glance. I know you. You judge. 
You look around at the world and judge it constantly. And that judgment is the 
same no matter what you are perceiving: Disdain. Me, these knights, everyone . . 
. you hold all in disdain."
"Why would that be the case, Highness?" I asked, fascinated.
"Because," she replied easily, "you reserve your greatest disdain for yourself, 
and everything else simply radiates from that."
Her words stung. That came as a surprise to me, because I had thought that there 
was nothing that could be said, and no one who could say it, that could possibly 
lance through the shell I had built around myself. Yet she had struck through 
with relative facility. I was not about to let that be evident in my response, 
of course. "My, my. How comforting it must be to be a princess and know 
everything."
"Not as comforting as it must be to be a squire and know nothing," replied the 
Princess Entipy.
My conversational endeavors having been summarily brushed aside, I lapsed into 
silence for a time, allowing the ride to pass in relative peace. Then Sir 
Umbrage caught my eye and he made a prompting gesture, clearly indicating that 
he wanted me to take another whack at social discourse. At that point the only 
whack I was interested in taking was at her head with a stout branch, but I did 
not think that would please the king and queen overmuch, nor aid in my standing 
or in that of Sir Umbrage.
"You ride quite well," I said finally.
She looked at me askance, with cool detachment. "You mean, 'for a girl.' "
"I tend to say what I mean. You ride well, male or female. None of this 
sidesaddle nonsense. Good posture, good frame . . . gods, girl, it was a 
compliment. Ascribe nothing more than its intent."
"I need no compliments from you."
"Fine."
At which point I resolved that I wasn't going to say a damned thing for the rest 
of the four-day ride, even if someone tried to pry my mouth open with a dagger.
The sun continued to crawl across the sky, and it was late in the afternoon when 
she abruptly said, "Thank you."
By that point we were not riding. Sir Nestor had brought us over to a nearby 
lake where the horses were being allowed to drink, and we were all stretching 
our legs. I was leaning against a tree, skipping stones across the lake and 
picturing Entipy's head squarely in the middle of the lake as my target, when I 
heard her "thank you" almost at my shoulder.
I turned to regard her. She was staring at me with that same impassive face, 
that same chilling look that reminded you there were probably demons gleefully 
playing tag somewhere in this creature's brain. "You're welcome." Then, almost 
as an afterthought, I added, "What for?"
"For the riding." She paused and then added, "I had a good teacher."
"Really. Set him on fire too, did you?" I tossed another rock.
"No. He's going to come and take me away. We're never going to reach the 
castle."
That was certainly sufficient pronouncement to prompt me to hold up throwing the 
next stone. "Is that a fact?"
She nodded. "Yes. That's correct. He's likely trailing us through the forest 
right now. And once the moment presents itself, he's going to take me away and 
we're going to reside in the forest and make love like wild beasts, freshly 
fallen leaves serving as our bed as our naked bodies writhe inó"
I held up a hand and said, "I get the picture. Well, well, Princess . . . I had 
no idea you had such plans. And you are telling me this . . . why?"
"Because I find you annoying."
"I see."
When she spoke, it was in a curious little up-and-down voice, almost singsong 
like a small child. "And I want you to know what's going to happen ahead of 
time. So you can know it's going to happen, and still be unable to stop it, and 
know that my father will be ever so angry with you for letting it happen and 
you're still helpless to prevent it. He'll probably lop off your head."
"If it means not having to listen to your drivel any longer, I'd lop it off 
myself."
"Drivel? Is that how you speak to a princess?"
I had completely had it. I do not suffer fools gladly, even to this day, and 
back then my patience was not remotely approaching levels of maturity. "No, 
that's how I speak to a deluded, fire-starting loon. Where did you meet this 
savior, this hero of yours?"
"He came upon me while I was doing chores outside for the Faith Women. Chores." 
She repeated the word as if it were the name of a vile disease that had claimed 
all her loved ones and a bevy of cuddly animals besides. "I . . . a princess . . 
. chores. Can you imagine?"
"Happily," I said.
She ignored my response. Instead she draped her hands behind her back, clearly 
taken with the doubtlessly false memory. "He had no idea who I was. He fell in 
love with what he thought was a peasant girl. It was only recently that he 
learned who I truly was . . . and vowed to me that he would take me away with 
him and we would live happily ever after."
"Four words that have no business in each other's company," I snorted. "One 
doesn't live ever after. One dies. And there's very little happily about it."
She shook her head. "You could not be more unlike him. He's been through such 
hardships, but still believes in love triumphant and heroism being rewarded."
"Then he's as deluded as you, which would be consistent since my suspicion is 
you're imagining him from whole cloth." I tossed another rock, watched it skip 
and sink. "Tell me then, Princess . . . why did he not simply take you away from 
the Faith Women? Why wait until you were surrounded by a squadron of armed men? 
Wouldn't that make it more difficult for him?"
"He doesn't care," and she snapped her fingers, "for however many armed men may 
surround me. But he did care that the Faith Women had promised my parents that 
they would teach and protect me. He did not wish to undercut their vows, despite 
my wishes to the contrary. That is his way."
"How very convenient for him. Princess . . . even if he exists . . . which I 
doubt . . . you've seen the last of him. He had his fun with you while you were 
around, and now you're gone, and he'll move on to some other crazy young girl."
"You think I'm crazy?" When she spoke, her eyes flashed ever so slightly.
"What could have given you that impression?" I asked with ill-concealed 
impatience. "Perhaps the fact that I keep referring to you as such. Could that 
be it?" I cocked my arm to throw another stone.
And then she ricocheted a rock off my head.
"Hey!" I fairly shouted, an overloud exclamation which naturally attracted the 
attention of the other knights, who looked in our direction. She was sitting 
there with that same damnable smile, the one that spoke volumes of her quiet 
arrogance and contempt for life in general and me in specific. I could see it, 
all there in her face.
This was not what a princess was supposed to be. A princess was supposed to have 
an elegance about her, a sense of the regal. She was supposed to be a marvelous 
creature, an incarnation of hope and purity. She was supposed to be an abundance 
of things, in short, which were lacking in the Princess Entipy.
And then, with only a few words, she transformed herself from a mere loon to an 
exceptionally dangerous loon.
"You will see," she said. "You will all see . . . when Tacit One-Eye comes for 
me."
She turned and walked away, which was fortunate because that way she didn't see 
me with my arm frozen in place and the blood draining from my features.
Tacit.
She had been cooped up in the Holy Retreat for years. The Faith Women were 
notorious for keeping news of the outside world away from the retreat, and word 
of Tacit and the revolt in Pellówhich was the first time his name truly began to 
be spokenócould not possibly have reached her.
Which meant that Tacit had.
Which meant that everything she had told me was true.
Which meant that we had a serious problem.
If the princess's intention had been as she had saidóto place a fear within me 
and a feeling of dread over the impending calamity of a simple mission gone 
completely wrongóthen she had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams.
I thought of how I had been regarding the woods around us with suspicion during 
our ride, but had not had any clear idea as to what was causing that suspicion. 
Now I knew. Tacit had been there, following us like the forest-spawned ghost he 
was. Yes, it would be just like Tacit to honor the vow of the Faith Women to 
watch over the princess. Furthermore, if we were in his element, the deep 
forest, Tacit would be utterly confident in his ability to make off with the 
princess at any time . . . particularly since this was not a kidnapping. She was 
going to go willingly.
I already felt as if I had enough concerns with keeping an eye on Entipy as it 
was, since I considered her eminently capable of slipping a dagger between my 
ribs any time the fancy took her to do so. For that matter, she was just 
deranged enoughóonce we had set up camp for the night somewhereóto set fire to 
the entire encampment. The prospect of waking up with a dagger protruding from 
my chest and flames closing in from all sides was not a pleasant one.
I knew I wasn't going to be sleeping well on the trip back as it was. But all 
that was as nothing compared to my concern that Tacit, phantom-like, would 
abscond with her at any time and we would return to the palace empty-handed.
My hand reflexively went for my throat as I pictured the king nodding to a royal 
executioner to get on with it.
I immediately went to Sir Umbrage, who was chatting amiably with Sir Nestor, and 
drew them both aside. I told them of my rather disconcerting conversation with 
the princess, and they both cast apprehensive glances in her direction. At that 
point, she seemed perfectly content to stare out at the lake in a somewhat 
dreamy fashion. I could only imagine that she was trying to figure out if there 
was some way to set the lake on fire.
"I am not concerned," Nestor said at last, words that directly belied the 
initial reaction I had seen. "I have heard of this Tacit One-Eye, the same as 
you gentlemen. But he is, after all, just one man. We are many. Even if the 
princess desires to go with him, that does not mean she will automatically be 
heading off. Thank you, Apropos, for apprising us of the situation."
"So what will we do?" I asked.
"We will do as we have been doing. The fact that we have a name for our enemy 
does not change in the least our procedures, for we have been allowing for the 
possibility of an enemy all along. We will sleep in shifts, we will keep an eye 
on the princess. There will be knights on watch at all times. In short, do not 
worry yourself, young squire," he said, patting me on the shoulder. "The 
princess will not be going anywhere; not while we attend her."
I nodded, taking some comfort in the words, but I still could not shake the 
feeling that we were underestimating the incendiary nature of the situation.
We mounted up shortly thereafter, I once again taking my place by the princess. 
She did not even so much as afford me a glance. Obviously I no longer mattered 
to her, if I ever did. She had told me what she thought the way of things was 
going to be. So of what possible future relevance was I to her?
As we continued our ride through the forest, I found myself consumed with 
watching the woods around us. Knowing that Tacit was out there now made every 
shadow seem to come to life. I strained to hear the slightest crack of a twig or 
displacement of a stone. Even as I did so, I felt a sense of hopelessness. If 
Tacit was indeed out thereóand I had no reason to think not at that pointóthen 
he was not one to tip his presence through such a happenstance. Part of me 
wondered if his claims to having been raised by unicorns had some basis in fact. 
Even if they did not, his woodsmanship and forestry were second to none, and he 
was about as likely to reveal his presence through a mishap as I was to sprout 
wings and fly the rest of the way to Isteria.
I heard something far in the distance then. A faint cawing that sounded like a 
bird's call, but there was something about it that seemed peculiar somehow. I 
looked around but saw no reactions from any of the other knights. They seemed 
too busy scouring the woods around us, looking for some sign of pursuit or 
danger.
That's when the rustling from overhead drew my attention.
I looked up, but the branches were thick with leaves and it was impossible to 
discern anything. They seemed quite still, though. Perhaps I had imagined it . . 
.
. . . or perhaps not.
I drew back from Entipy a bit so that I was alongside Nestor. His eyebrows knit 
into a questioning look.
"I heard something. A rustling from overhead."
"Overhead?" He looked up as I had and then shook his head. "Nothing to worry 
about. Probably just some sort of animals."
"Possibly the two-legged kind."
"No. No, the branches are too thin. Anything of any weight climbs up there, it 
would come snapping right off. Actually," and he licked a finger and held it up, 
"it's fairly gusty hereabouts. I would imagine it's even more so up there. So 
you probably heard nothing more than the wind."
"All right. If you're sure."
Nestor smiled. "Your concerns are natural enough, squire. This is your first 
major mission. Of course you feel that there are enemies lurking about, hiding 
everywhere, waiting to spring out at you if you give them the slightest 
opportunity. That's good. That's a good attitude to have. Care and attention to 
the world around you is what any knight needs to survive. But if you worry too 
much about too many things, you can drive yourself to such a state as to be 
virtually useless to others. You're surrounded by good knights here, strong and 
true. The princess, although a little . . . odd . . . offers no true threat to 
us, nor does her supposed paramour. Do not work yourself into a frenzy of 
distress, young Apropos. Such actions will be the death of you."
That was the last thing he said to me before the arrow thudded into his chest 
from overhead.
Nestor didn't even realize at first. He heard the sound and felt the impact 
against him without fully comprehending the significance. It was only upon his 
looking at the protruding shaft, still quivering, that he understood precisely 
what was going on. He opened his mouth, probably to bark some sort of order, but 
he never even managed to get it out. All he did was slide off the horse, 
tumbling to the ground with a crash that brought everyone to a dead halt.
"We're under attack!" I cried out, and even as I shouted the alarm, another 
arrow descended, slicing straight through the head of my unfortunate horse. The 
creature was killed instantly and fell over. I had no time to dismount or clear 
the creature's corpse before it hit, and as a consequence the animal fell 
squarely on top of me.
Shouts started coming from everywhere. "Shields!" cried some and "Protect the 
princess!" called others, and then the air was alive with arrows. Some knights 
did indeed manage to get their shields up in time, blocking the initial salvos. 
Others were far less fortunate, and both knights and squires were falling right 
and left, crying out in anger and confusion, unable to see the face of the enemy 
that was dispatching them in a manner both cowardly and yet quite efficient.
At first I tried to push Alexandra's corpse off me, but as several more arrows 
slammed down into the horse's unmoving body, I realized I had stumbled upon a 
rather serendipitous buffer. My sword was strapped to my back and, pinned flat 
on my back as I was, I was unable to get to it. But my walking staff was lashed 
to the side of the horse and, reaching over tentatively, I managed to work it 
loose. I figured I was going to need it if I was to have any hope of levering 
the beast off me.
I tried to catch sight of what was happening. Sir Umbrage was still standing, 
holding his buckler high, his sword gripped and ready in his right hand. He had 
dropped all pretense of the vacuous, easily befuddled knight. There was 
determination in his face, and he was scanning the branches overhead, trying to 
catch some sight of the opponent.
Entipy was also there. She looked a bit confused, though, and I wasn't 
surprised. She was probably thinking that this sort of mass slaughter wasn't 
Tacit's style. The same thing had occurred to me. I had no idea why Tacit would 
resort to such a tremendous force of arms when subtlety would do just as easily. 
Why not wait for nightfall and simply slip away with her into the darkness, 
particularly when she was so willing and eager to go? Why a frontal assault?
The arrows stopped. The knights, whose number had been cut by close to half, 
looked around at each other in dread and confusion. Surprisinglyóto them, if not 
to meóit was Umbrage who called out sharply and in a firm voice, "Keep those 
shields up!"
"Shall we close ranks, sir?" called one of the squires. I could tell from his 
voice, he was terrified but trying not to show it.
"And serve them up a better target? I think not! Apropos! Take the princess and 
run for it! We'll cover your retreat!"
He had not seen my slightly inconvenient position, lodged as I was beneath a 
dead horse. "That might prove difficult, sir!"
He turned and saw me there, and then the princess decided to switch into royal 
mode. "I run from no one!" she declared. "I'm in no danger! I'mó"
And that was when the enemy descended en masse.
 
 
Chapter 14
 
You have heard of Harpies, I am quite sure. Those screeching bird-women with 
claws that can rip you to shreds, and high-pitched, piercing voices that can 
finish off whatever's left of you after the talons have done their work.
However, as widely known as the Harpies are, far less known is the fact that 
Harpies go into heat once every twenty years or so. I can assure you that it is 
not a pleasant time, for the only thing less attractive than a Harpy trying to 
kill you is a Harpy trying to make love to you. At least, I can only imagine it, 
since I have been fortunate enough not to have witnessed such a sight firsthand.
Unsurprisingly, their attempts at cross-breeding often do not work, because what 
man in his right mind would willingly couple with a Harpy? It may very well be 
that their frustrated "love lives," as it were, is the explanation as to why 
Harpies are perpetually in such a foul mood. For one thing, it is impossible to 
distinguish the charge of a killer Harpy from the charge of an amorous one, so 
even brave men would flee at the sight of them. Certainly it was difficult to 
find men who were remotely in the mood or capable of performing under the rather 
demanding circumstances.
There was one occasion, though, when a flock of in-heat Harpies descended upon a 
leper colony. By that time the Harpies' urge for mating was so overwhelming that 
they were not exactly choosy. As for the lepers, a number of them were already 
blind, and certainlyówhat with being lepers and allóany hopes of sexual congress 
had long been adjourned. So when they heard women coming in droves, even though 
they were women crying out in extremely annoying voices, the lepers perceived it 
only as good fortune and perhaps even a divinely inspired errand of mercy.
Naturally mating with the Harpies resulted in the deaths of the chosen lepers, 
but at least it provided them with an opportunity that they never thought they 
would have: They went out with a bang.
The Harpies, in turn, returned to their nesting grounds and finally reproduced 
after many decades of fruitless attempts. The result, however, was not remotely 
what they expected. Every single one of the offspring which resulted from the 
assignation was male. This, of course, was revolting to the uniformly female 
Harpies. They could not, however, kill the little monstrosities, for the Harpies 
had very strict rules against slaying one of their own. So they simply abandoned 
the creatures, leaving them to fend for themselves.
Which they did.
The creatures had only existed as rumors for quite some time. There were 
fleeting reports of having seen one here or there, but it had been impossible to 
ascertain whether they genuinely existed or not. What everyone seemed to agree 
upon, though, was that the little grotesques were as fierce as their mothers, 
butóunlike the creatures that had spawned themóthey had superb voices, almost 
melodious. Indeed, it was believed their victims were lured in by the sounds of 
their singing. They even fashioned crude musical instruments which they used for 
accompaniment.
Because of their outlandish nature, and their masculine bent, they had acquired 
the name of the Harpers Bizarre. And bizarre they most definitely were.
I knew, because it was these creatures who descended upon us now.
They were a fright to look at as they spiraled from the trees overhead. None of 
them was much over three feet high, but their diminutive stature was not to be 
confused with helplessness. From the waist down, they were covered with 
feathers, and their legs ended not in feet but in talons that I suspected were 
razor-sharp. They had human chests, arms, and heads, but their hair was wild, 
their blazing red eyes looked more birdlike than manlike, and they had small 
wings on their backs. The wings did not seem large enough or powerful enough to 
enable them to beat the air and go aloft, but they were sufficient to allow 
gliding. That was how they were coming at us now.
They didn't appear to notice me at first since I was not exactly easily spotted 
beneath the horse. Instead they went straight for the knights and squires.
"Close ranks!" Umbrage now shouted, seeing that the arrow barrage had ceased and 
been replaced by a frontal assault. If he was at all intimidated by the sight we 
were facing, he didn't show it. Their blades out, the knights were trying to 
keep their nervous mounts from bolting as they swung their swords, hacking and 
slashing at the Harpers.
But the Harpers were too agile, moving like a cross between birds and monkeys. 
They would flip back, out of harm's way, ricochet off a tree and come back in at 
a different angle. Seeing the knights' vulnerability, the Harpers Bizarre would 
come to ground and then bounce up, getting at the underbellies of the now 
terrified horses.
Knights, even knights on horseback, are accustomed to battling foes of a normal 
height. Because they were under assault by lethal beings who were so short, it 
made it impossible for the knights to get at them before the Harpers got at the 
horses. Frantically trying to get away, the horses bucked, stumbled, fell over 
one another, with the result that all of the gallant armored men were sent 
tumbling over one another, thrown from horseback and forced to carry on the 
battle on foot.
But on foot, they had no chance. While they staggered about in their armor, 
stiff and clumsy in comparison, the Harpers Bizarre moved with speed and 
alacrity that was frightful to behold.
I heard a melodious screech and looked up. One of the Harpers Bizarre was 
descending right toward me, his face twisted in a delirious look of joy, his 
talons fairly quivering with anticipation. He saw I had no sword in my hand, and 
my staff certainly didn't appear to present any threat. He plunged straight at 
me. It was all I could do to steady my nerves, because I was trembling with 
terror. I had no choice but to wait until he was closer, closer, almost on top 
of me, and I smelled the ghastly odor of him as he let out a shout of glee in 
anticipation of the bloodletting.
That was when I popped the blade in the end of my staff.
He struck it dead center, the blade skewering right through his chest. He had a 
look of utter astonishment on his face. Immortal their mothers might be, but the 
Harpers Bizarre had human blood in them, and that blood was flowing from its 
wound and down my staff.
I had never killed anyone in my entire life. I suppose I should have been 
relieved or depressed or something, anything. But I was too frightened to feel 
anything except numb.
Then the creature writhed about, spasming wildly. I swung my staff and pitched 
the Harper away, and it tumbled through the air, still seized by its death 
throes, before landing some distance away where I could no longer see it.
I heard more cries, and screams, and the sounds of flesh being rended. There had 
been no female shriek, which made me wonder what Entipy's status was. But 
naturally I was far more concerned about my own.
Still clutching my staff, I started to ease my lower body out from under the 
fallen horse. As I did so, something large and apparently wet thumped to the 
ground nearby me. I craned my neck around to see what it was and my breath 
caught in my throat. It was Sir Umbrage. To be more specific, it was his head, 
covered with blood, one eye gone, apparently having been torn out or even 
consumed. The other dead eye seemed to be staring right at me in a most 
accusatory fashion.
My stomach heaved in protest, and it was all I could do not to become sick on 
the spot. I tore my gaze away, hauled my lame leg out from beneath the horse, 
and started to do the only reasonable thing given the circumstances: crawl away.
I actually managed to get three whole feet before my escape route was cut off.
A Harper was directly in front of me. He was not in attack mode, however, nor 
did he seem to be looking at me. Instead he was staring at the bladed end of my 
staff with the blood on it. I noticed that, unlike the others, he seemed to be 
wearing some sort of ornamentation on his head, a glittering half-circle that 
looked vaguely like a crown.
It was then that I heard the princess's voice. She was shouting, "Let me go, you 
feathered idiots!" Her protests were being met with raucous and sneering 
laughter. Hearing her made me realize that I was no longer hearing the voices of 
the other knights. While trying to keep an eye on the Harper in front of me, I 
still managed to cast a glance behind me. A quick look was all I needed; the 
piles of bodies certainly told the story eloquently enough.
The Harper in front of me called out "Briiiing her! Here! Heeeere!" in a tone 
that indicated he was accustomed to being obeyed. He didn't simply speak . . . 
he seemed instead to "caw" his sentences, as if shouting from a great distance 
with a voice that was both deep and yet had a certain brittleness to it. Clearly 
he was the leader of the flock. Then he looked back to me. "My peeeeople. 
Yooooou kiiiiilled one of my peeeeeople," he said.
"I did?" I asked, trying to buy time. With a nod of his head, he indicated the 
bloodied staff. "Oh . . . this. I have no idea how it got this way."
"Noooo lie youuuu! Seeeefla the Annoyyyying . . . yoouuu killl!"
"No, really, I didn'tó"
His eyes widened in surprise. "Cowwaaaard you are, eh? Kiiiiiller . . . 
successful kiiiiiller . . . but coowaaard toooo! Amaaaaaazing!"
Entipy was surrounded by the Harpers, and she was pushed to the ground next to 
me. There was no fear in her, I had to give her that. She simply looked 
irritated. I couldn't help but wonder if she was really that brave, or whether 
she was just so stupid that it hadn't occurred to her that we were in mortal 
danger. "You," she told the lead Harper, "are in serious trouble."
This caused raucous laughter to filter through the assembled Harpers Bizarre. 
Now that I saw them all together, I realized there had to be about fifteen of 
them. Considering the way they fought, however, and the viciousness with which 
they could attack, they were capable of bringing down opponents numbering far 
greater than they themselves.
"Aiiiiileron am I. Aiiiileron of the Harpers Bizaaaaarre! Yoooouuu, Priiiincess, 
in more trouble than meeeeee, I think."
I couldn't help but feel that Aileron had a point.
Entipy clearly felt otherwise. "That may be what you think now. But things are 
going to change. You'll see. You have no clue what's coming."
"Aaaaahhhh . . . yoooouuu think Taaaacit will come, eh? Taaaacit, eh?" The 
mention of the name caused much chuckling and snickering among the Harpers 
Bizarre.
Their reaction and apparent knowledge of Tacit's involvement clearly had an 
effect on the princess, but to her credit she covered it well. "I don't know 
what you're talking about. And turn your face the other way when you speak; you 
tend to spit."
This resulted in only more raucous laughter. With the ground and surrounding 
foliage red with blood, at least it was nice to see that somebody was in a good 
mood.
"IIIIIII thiiiink you know. Taaaacit One-Eye. Heeeee thiiiiink he stop us. 
Thiiiink heeee match for Harpers Bizaaaaaarre," sneered Aileron. "I throoowww 
him off cliiiiiiff into riiiiiver. Waaashed away. Noooo moooorre Taaaacit."
"You're lying!" Entipy said defiantly, and then in a fury, she lunged at 
Aileron. She didn't get very far, though, because the Harpers bore her to the 
ground and essentially sat on her. Struggling beneath their weight, she cried 
out, "Apropos! You're supposed to be my bodyguard! Do something! Get them off 
me!"
This declaration of hers seemed to seize Aileron's imagination. "Bodyguard? 
Yoooouuu?" he inquired.
I cleared my throat uncomfortably.
"Wellllllll?"
I looked at the princess. Her head was flat against the ground, one of the 
Harpers keeping her head immobilized by the simple expedient of having one of 
his taloned feet atop it. And for a momentójust a momentóI saw fear in her eyes. 
She had been so filled with arrogance, so confident that Tacit was going to be 
taking her away, so sure that she would be associated with me for the briefest 
of times and then whisked off by her hero. And now, in just a few short moments, 
it had all fallen apart. Despite her bluster and bravado, she was a ship with no 
anchor, and she was looking to meóher last hopeófor some sort of succor.
I did not hesitate.
"She's lying," I said.
"Apropos!" she bellowed, or at least came as close as she could to bellowing 
considering she was near to being smothered.
"I'm not even one of them, okay?" I was speaking very quickly, nearly babbling. 
"I'm not a knight or anything . . . I'm just a guide . . . look at me! Look at 
my leg! See? It's crippled! I'm a cripple! Who's going to want a cripple for a 
knight?"
"Apropos!" I now knew why purple was considered the royal color, because that 
was certainly the hue her face was becoming.
"Hoooowww abooouuuut," Aileron crowed, "if we killllll her . . . and let 
yoooouuu go. Yeeesss or noooo?"
"You . . . you'd do that?" I couldn't believe it.
Aileron waved in the direction of the dead Harper. "Yooooouuu kiiiiill Seeeeefla 
the Annoyyyyying. No mooore annnoooyyyance, thanks to you. Yooouuu beg for 
liiiife . . . weeeee let you gooooo."
So I begged.
Naturally.
Five minutes of imploring and pleading, with outright sobbing visible toward the 
end. I thought Entipy's head was going to explode, she was clearly so furious. I 
didn't care. She'd been a right pain in the ass and whatever she had coming to 
her, I didn't give two figs about.
My display was greeted with great amusement by the Harpers Bizarre, however, who 
hung on every word and chortled and laughed and in general had a great old time. 
Finally Aileron put up a hand, his chest so convulsed with laughter that he 
clearly could barely get a word out. "Yooooouu go! Goooo, cooowwardd! Gooo and 
liiiiive full, coooowwardly life. As for giiiirl . . . we haaaave plaaaaans. We 
sennnnnd home to faaaather . . . one piiiiiece at a tiiiime. You oooookay with 
thaaaat, Aproooopos?"
I bobbed my head. The princess was beyond fury. If she could have killed me with 
a glance, I would have been dead on the spot.
"Faaaaareweeelllll!" cried the Harper Bizarre, and the rest of his kind joined 
in. With their contemptuous laughter and wishes for a safe journey ringing in my 
ears, I hobbled off into the forest as fast as my good leg would carry me.
Once upon a time, I had been able to move through the woods with something 
vaguely resembling alacrity. The woodcraft that Tacit had taught me had served 
me well. Certainly I had not been at Tacit's level, but I could nevertheless 
handle myself quite well in virtually any forest environment. At least, I could 
do so when my mind was clear, my thoughts not tumbling helter-skelter over one 
another.
Such was unfortunately not the case here.
I tripped, I fell, I sprawled, I pulled myself to my feet and kept on going, and 
all that was going through my head as I did so was that I had to put as much 
distance between myself and the Harpers Bizarre as I possibly could. I was 
giving no thought to the princess whatsoever, nor considering my failed mission. 
She had been a royal pain in the ass to me, and I held little sympathy for her.
Still . . ."little" sympathy I did have. I envisioned her in the clutches of 
those creatures, and felt that she was probably more than a little frightened. 
Then again, I could not be sure. Considering the princess's temperament, it was 
entirely possible that at that moment, the Harpers were the ones finding 
themselves in a disadvantageous position. I tended to doubt that they were going 
to kill her. She was far too valuable a prize. But I certainly didn't think they 
were going to make life easy on her. Not that she had tried to make life easy on 
me, or anyone else. She was a bully, an arsonist (I suspected), and not 
particularly lovable.
Still . . . did anyone, anyone, deserve to fall into the clutches of the Harpers 
Bizarre with no means, no hope of escape? With no one to act as her hero or 
rescue her?
I slowed in my flight. This was as much an acknowledgment of the reality of my 
personal situation as it was any thought being given to the princess's 
predicament. My breath was ragged in my chest, sweat cascading down my face. My 
good leg was throbbing since I had been favoring it so heavily. I balanced 
myself on my staff, taking in great lungsful of air, licking my dry lips and 
wiping the stinging perspiration from my eyes.
I pondered. I thought, Should I do it? Should I risk myself, in the hope of 
doing the genuine, heroic thing? Even though it meant likely throwing my life 
awayó
The thought got no further as I resumed my voyage away from the princess. I felt 
a sizable degree of self-disgust and self-loathing, but these paled in 
comparison to self-preservation, so my survival instinct told my newborn 
(stillborn would be more correct) conscience to shut up and let me get on with 
the important business of saving my own hide. Truthfully, I have no idea how far 
or how long I ran. Every time I slowed down, I was certain I could feel the 
wings of the Harpers beating somewhere nearby, as if they were tracking me and 
waiting to descend upon me when I slowed down or displayed weakness. It was 
always more than enough to spur me on, and I kept going.
I felt a chill beginning to settle into my lungs. The air was cooling again. I 
had to admit, this was beginning to disturb me. We had developed some very odd 
weather patterns, and I had no idea what that could possibly portend. Although 
there were cold seasons moving into other regions, Isteria should have been 
fairly temperate. The paranoid aspect of me began to wonder if this weren't 
happening for the simple and sole reason of inconveniencing me. Certainly the 
colder it got, the more raw my lungs began to feel. With my luck, some sort of 
virus would settle into them. How ironicóand yet justóa way that would be for me 
to expire. Not at the point of a sword, as I feared, and not of old age, a 
peaceful death that I never truly figured would be mine. No, I would probably 
meet my end thanks to a really nasty cough that developed into something worse.
It was then that I felt a gust of warmth. The contrast between that and the air 
around me was so significant that it felt like a hammer blow of heat. I almost 
ran past it when the current snagged my attention, and I took a few steps back 
to appreciate truly the warmth of it. I stood there a moment, allowing the 
warmth to wash over me. It seemed to be coming from somewhere to the south. I 
didn't know what was causing it, but I did know that warmth was preferable for 
my purposes than cold, and so I set off in that direction.
I continued to cast furtive glances over my shoulder every so often, still alert 
for any possible pursuit by the Harpers Bizarre. But as time passed (how much, 
as I noted, I could not discern nor do I really know now), I slowly became more 
confident that they would not be after me. I posed no threat to them. They 
thought me an object of contempt. Indeed, they probably would not have wanted to 
waste a claw on tearing me to pieces. Such efforts would likely have been 
considered a needless squandering of effort.
I should have been insulted, I suppose. But the fact was that I was able to see 
me from their point of view, and to be honest, if I had been in their position, 
I wouldn't have bothered with me, either.
The warmth was growing, indicating that I was getting closer to the source. I 
didn't know what that source might be, but I tried to be alert to all 
possibilities. It might very well have been some sort of enemy camp, with a 
great fire burning in the middle being stoked by individuals who would take one 
look at me and see me as potential kindling, just another fagot to be tossed 
onto the fire. Well, I had no intention of being considered a fagot.
I strained my ears, tried to listen for the sound of talking, or boasting, or 
snoring . . . anything that might indicate that a large number of men had 
gathered and therefore posed a potential threat. And after a time, I did hear 
something. I heard it only once, and even as I heard it, I didn't know what it 
was. Not at first.
What I heard was a high-pitched screech. At first I thought it to be a cry torn 
from a female throat, and I wondered whether I hadn't accidentally gone in a 
giant circle. Perhaps what I'd perceived was the dying screams of Princess 
Entipy herself. For the briefest of moments, I felt a twinge of guilt, but 
quickly pushed it away. Better her than me, I kept telling myself.
But even as the screech died away, I ran the echoes of it through my mind and 
came to the conclusion that I had been mistaken. That was no human sound. It was 
the sound of a creature . . . a bird, most likely. From the depth and volume of 
it, though, I was certain that it was a large one.
A very large one.
I had stopped walking and didn't even realize it at first, because my mind was 
racing so frantically that it had left my body far behind. All my mother's 
blatherings about destiny and such came roaring back to me, for I was 
remembering things that she had told me about when she had witnessed the death 
and birth of a phoenix. Of how that rare event seemed somehow inextricably 
intertwined with my own fate, right down to the flame-shaped birthmark I bore. 
Could it be . . . ? Was it possible . . . ? A phoenix, dying and being reborn 
somewhere nearby?
Suddenly, everything seemed to make a hopeful sort of sense. Even as it clicked 
into place, I was moving. Believe it or not, it was as if my lameness of leg was 
forgotten, a minor thing, a triviality. I moved through the forest with the 
speed of a deer. Well . . . a lame deer, admittedly, for I did trip a few times, 
but I did not let such mishaps even begin to slow me down. I was absolutely 
positive that the warmth was definitely wafting from the south, and the gusts of 
wind that bore it into my face only confirmed it. Moreover, the faster I moved, 
the more intense the warmth became. I felt it searing the hairs of my eyebrows 
and inside my nostrils, and my mouth and throat were becoming completely dried 
out. I didn't care. At that point, it would have been irrelevant to me if my 
entire body became overheated and blistered. I was dedicated . . . no. No, not 
dedicated. Consumed. Consumed with a need to witness the miracle that my mother 
had spoken of so often.
I had spent so much of my life drifting, and hadn't even realized it. I had told 
myself that the fact that my existence seemed to have no purpose was not a 
problem for me. It was only at that moment, on the trail of the possible 
phoenix, that I really and truly began to think for the first time that there 
might be something more. Not only that, but that if there was something more, 
then I might indeed be entitled to some of it.
I gave up any effort to move with stealth. Branches cracked under me, brush was 
rudely shoved aside, and at least twice I sent small animals running away while 
making annoyed chittering noises. Anyone who was listening for an intruder would 
have no trouble detecting my approach, but it didn't matter. I felt as if events 
directly pertinent to my life were moving forward with unstoppable force, and I 
was happyóno, delightedóto be a part of them. I suppose the timing factored into 
it, in part. After all, the men all around me had been wiped out, and I dared 
not return to the palace at that point. Not without the princess. I was going to 
wind up with less than I'd started out with.
But if there was a phoenix up ahead . . . truly a phoenix . . .
The tapestry, as I'm sure you can surmise, was uppermost in my mind. The 
tapestry that hung on the wall back in the palace, depicting the great hero of 
Isteria, the savior who was to come. There was coincidence there that could not 
be ignored. It could be me. Why not me? Granted, it didn't seem terribly likely. 
I had never had aspirations to be anyone's savior aside from my own, but . . . 
anything was possible. The timing was just too perfect. To be snatched from my 
lowest ebb and brought up to a point of triumph . . . why not indeed?
I heard a second screech, and this one was of a different timbre than what I'd 
heard before, I was sure of it. Instantly, even as I clambered over a fallen 
tree, I realized what the difference was. The first cry had tapered off with 
what could easily have been a sort of fading energy. It was a death cry, the 
last gasp of something aged. What I had just detected now was the birth cry of 
the new. It was young and vital. The first cry had been like a last answer being 
provided; the second cry was that of a first question being asked.
The heat was now almost overwhelming. The energy being unleashed in the process 
must have been unimaginable. It was coming from just over a rise, and I climbed 
it with no problem, as if my lame leg were a thing of the past.
It was then that I heard another voice. This, however, was not a bird or some 
other creature. This was a voice emerging from an all too human throat. Worse: 
Not only was it all too human, but it was all too familiar.
I peered over the rise, my heart pounding, knowing what I was going to see 
before I even saw it.
It was Tacit.
He looked a bit banged up, and his clothes were still a bit sodden, obviously 
from having been tossed into the river by Aileron of the Harpers Bizarre. 
However, he was clearly not dead, but simply a bit the worse for wear. 
Furthermore, his clothes were rapidly drying off from the heat of the emerging 
phoenix.
And that was definitely what it was: A phoenix. The ashes of its predecessor 
were scattered everywhere, and the newborn was sniffing the air in curiosity. It 
did not appear to have focused its vision upon Tacit yet, but it was definitely 
aware of his presence. It let out another ear-piercing screech, then leaned 
forward and nuzzled Tacit's chest. For a joyous moment, I thought the creature 
was going to bite him in half, but it did no such thing. Instead it seemed quite 
content to bring its entire massive head up against him. Even though the 
creature was newborn, it was still as big as five full-grown men, and when it 
experimentally beat the air with its wings, all the brush and undergrowth within 
a thirty-foot radius bent.
Not Tacit, though. He kept a firm grip on the phoenix's feathers and held his 
place. He was singing to the damned thing. Naturally he had a great singing 
voice.
It was a ballad that he sang. From the refrain, I could discern that it was 
about the Coming of the Great Hero. It was further evident, from the way that he 
sang it, that he was quite certain that he was singing it about himself. The 
verses all centered on mighty deeds that the Great Hero was to accomplish, of 
the enemies and dangers that he was to overcome. It smacked of prophecy, of 
verses crafted by farweavers who enjoyed producing "future histories," as they 
liked to call them. I had heard them from time to time in my life, but since 
they usually involved matters that were of little consequence to me, I'd rarely 
paid them any mind. They were of a unique style, though, and I could recognize 
their cadences and rhythms.
What Tacit was singing now, though, had tremendous relevance to me. Because 
every word out of his mouth sounded like aspects of his life; at least, some of 
them were aspects that I was familiar with. And as he sang each successive 
verse, the phoenix bobbing its mighty head up and down as if keeping time, it 
became clear from the touch of pride in his voice that all the accomplishments 
of the "Great Hero" in the ditty were things that he himself had done.
And then I heard the one that brought the greatest chill over me, even though 
the warmth of the newly born phoenix bird still filled the air.
"The Hero grew to help the poor, and they all cheered his name
"Except for one, a foolish lad, who had a leg so lame
"Who cursed the hero's name because his nature was so frail
"And wandered to obscurity, to vanish from our tale,
"And then our heroó"
So the song went on as Tacit bonded with the phoenix and sang of the Great 
Hero's future, rescuing the princess, ruling the land.
And I stared into the small ring of fire that surrounded the phoenix . . . and I 
understood.
For the first time in my life . . . I truly understood.
Most people do not have an epiphany, a sudden revelation and comprehension that 
realigns their thinking. Usually something occurs to them, but even if it is a 
major revelation, they cannot encompass it or embrace it all at once. It filters 
through their sensibilities a bit at a time, and does not have an immediate 
impact upon their lives. Instead it changes things for them in a hundred 
different ways, and it is only upon looking back, with clear hindsight, that one 
is able to localize one moment in a life and say, "Yes. Yes, that is when it all 
changed for me. That began it."
Such was not the case here. I got it all, right then and there.
In retrospect, I would have to recommend against epiphanies. They are very 
difficult on an emotional level, and they also sometimes move you to foolish and 
inopportune acts, which was what happened in my case.
My epiphany, in case you are wondering, was this:
All people are, at heart, egocentric. We all exist in the center of our own 
little universes. We believe that we are living out our lives as best we can, 
and that we have our own sphere of influence which exists of both friends and 
enemies. They in turn have their own friends and enemies with whom they 
interact. That is a given. But we, each of us, tend to put ourselves ahead of 
others because we believe that we are significant. We must attend to our own 
needs, desires, wants, and aspirations, because each of us is our own greatest 
priority. No one else cares for us as much as we do, no one else can exist in 
our skin. We think we're important. It is where our sense of self-worth comes 
up, where our egos reside, where "we" are. And we believe that each of our lives 
means something.
In staring into the great truth of the fire of the phoenix, in seeing Tacit bond 
with the creature and prepare for his next great deed, I came to an 
understanding that I would have reached even if I hadn't heard Tacit performing 
his charming ditty to point the way.
My life meant nothing.
I meant nothing.
In all these years of attending to my mother's talk about my great and glorious, 
but unknown, fate, and even nursing the hope that she was right, I had 
overlooked one of the inescapable realities of destiny. If it truly existedóand 
I was beginning to believe that it didóit meant that nothing I did mattered. 
Everything was preordained. Destiny, and predictions thereofóranging from my 
mother's convictions to the Great Hero tapestry in the palaceóhinged entirely on 
the concept that the future was immutable. It was all laid out, all planned, and 
all foreseeable if one had the foresight to see it.
Basically, all of life was nothing more than a story. A tale, a fable, with all 
the beats and twists and turns meticulously mapped out, all the parts assigned, 
all the characters positioned in their proper places and carrying out their 
ordained tasks.
Which was all well and good if one was the hero. It meant that your destiny 
would be a magnificent one, with many hardships that you would overcome before 
getting your just rewards.
But now I saw clearly, the shrouds dropping from my eyes. I saw myself for who 
and what I was. Saw all my weaknesses, both in body and spirit, heard my 
position in the scheme of things, looked back upon my life and where I was in 
relation to Tacit, and was forced to an inescapable and inevitable conclusion.
Tacit the brave, Tacit the determined, Tacit the unstoppable, was clearly the 
protagonist of some sort of epic tale. He was the Great Hero, whose coming was 
foreseen. Gods help me, Entipyóthat raging brat of a princessóhad been right. He 
would indeed save her, most likely with the aid of his newly found phoenix bird, 
which he'd probably been led to through some riddle or sorcerous turn or clue in 
a quest or some other damned twist of fate that was so prevalent in those 
annoying fantasy yarns. Tacit was the hero, THE hero.
Me . . .
I was a supporting player.
I had a bit part. I was a walk on, a one-off, whose presence was worth a chapter 
or two at most, a few lines in a ballad. I was there not to serve any purpose or 
goal of my own, but instead to highlight and underscore Tacit's greatness. I was 
comedy relief at best, a throwaway character at worst. I was never intended to 
amount to anything. I had been placed at the outskirts of the epic to be someone 
who fleshed out Tacit's world. I existed to showcase the fundamental humanity 
and gallantry of Tacit, who was the leading player.
My entire life didn't matter. Everything that had happened, from the 
circumstances of my birth to the nature of my mother's death, from my betrayal 
by Astel to my experiences in the castle . . . and anything I was to do in the 
future . . . none of it was remotely relevant to anything or of any real 
consequence.
I didn't have a life, not a real one. I simply had a backstory which existed to 
flesh me out as a mildly interesting subsidiary character.
On some level, I must have sensed it all along. Perhaps it had derived from the 
constant sense that I needed Tacit far more than he needed me. Or perhaps it 
came from the realization that Tacit probably had given me not a moment's 
thought since that day I had told him what I really thought. He had walked away 
secure in the knowledge that what I believed didn't matter one iota in the grand 
scheme of things. Because he didn't disappear from my life; I disappeared from 
his. I became an offstage, forgotten character, relegated to the early chapters 
of Tacit's great adventure and then forgotten. At most, I would be mentioned in 
passing, with appropriate contempt, by Entipy, as she clutched onto his middle 
while they rode astride the phoenix, being carried away to their new home and 
his new position as ruler of Isteria. All his previous "crimes" would be 
forgiven, for his greatness would be recognized immediately and his 
incontrovertible place would be assured.
He had moved beyond me. He was on to the climax of his adventure. All he had to 
do was gain the phoenix's trust, use the creature to free Entipy from the 
Harpers Bizarre, and head back to his new home in triumph. Oh, Entipy wouldn't 
want to go back to the palace, but he would probably insist. "Your parents must 
know that you're safe," he would say nobly, and when they returned to the 
castle, then would come the hero's welcome and the happily ever after . . .
And I would be stuck living out the rest of a life that had no purpose, no 
point, no worth . . .
. . . other than to make Tacit look good.
And that song he was singing . . . the one to the phoenix, about precisely where 
I stood in the order of things. Only two possibilities existed: Either it was 
some sort of tribute to his own wonderfulness that he was in the process of 
composing, in which case my so-called friend was putting together ballads which 
aggrandized him and made me the fool . . .
. . . or else, as I had first surmised, it was some weaver ballad that he had 
learned, in which case it was entirely possible that he had known it when we 
were younger, and had befriended me not out of generosity but because he knew it 
was supposed to happen, and was fulfilling that which had been predicted so that 
he could have his great, happy, wonderful ending.
To hell with me, and my concerns, and my own aspirations. Only Tacit the Mighty, 
Tacit the Daring, Tacit the Hero, mattered. The one ostensible friend I'd ever 
had in this world . . . and even to him, I was nothing but something to be 
stepped over . . . or stepped on.
That was when I snapped.
In all fairness, I think if you had realized that you were fairly irrelevant, 
you would have, too.
For the briefest of moments, my rage went inward, and I came that close to 
throwing myself upon my sword as a final testament to my frustration and sense 
of bleak hopelessness. But just as quickly, I aimed my hostility in the proper 
direction: Outward. Outward toward the one who had made my life inconsequential: 
Tacit.
There was a rock in my hand. I had no idea how it came to be there. I didn't 
even remember picking it up. It was perfect and smooth and cool in my overheated 
palm. It was as if my hand was moving before my head had processed the 
information, and then I drew back my arm and I threw.
Under any other circumstance, Tacit would have sensed it. A movement of a rock 
hurtling toward him would have been as loud as a gong to him, just from the 
violent way in which it sliced through the air. But Tacit was completely lost in 
the bonding between himself and the phoenix, oblivious to the world around him. 
And that obliviousness cost him.
The rock struck him squarely in the side of the head.
Because he was completely unprepared for it, Tacit went down. He looked stunned 
and confused, as if ejected from a place of peace, even ecstasy. Clearly he 
hadn't even fully registered what had happened; all he knew was that he had been 
severely jolted and he wasn't entirely sure why or how. As for the phoenix, it 
seemed just as confused. The way its head whipped about, I could tell that its 
eyes were still not completely focused on the world around it. Doubtless within 
the next minute or two it would know what it was about, but at the moment it was 
as perplexed and uncertain as any newborn.
In all my wretched existence, I never moved as quickly as I did then. I covered 
the distance between us in just a few strides, using my staff to vault the final 
few yards. Tacit was still dazed, and only in the last second did he see me 
coming. Even as he did, though, his mind was trying to make sense out of what 
was happening. Consequently, he did nothing to stop me because he still hadn't 
quite figured out what the hell I was doing there. In his perplexed state, 
determining the why of why I was there was more important than anticipating and 
blocking my next move.
I braced myself and swung my staff as hard and fast as I ever had in my life. I 
slammed it into his skull, and if the rock had dazed him, the damage my heavy 
staff did was far worse. I heard something break, and it wasn't the staff. 
Instead it was the satisfying snap of bone. Tacit went down, his jaw at an odd 
angle, little "unhhh" sounds floating from his throat. He tried to sit up. I saw 
a small puddle of blood where his head had been a moment, and spotted a couple 
of his teeth in the middle of it. I wondered if he was in pain. I wondered if he 
was feeling anything. I wondered why I wondered even as I swung the staff once 
more. This time he tried ever so slightly to put up a defense, but it was 
utterly inadequate. The staff came in on his blind side, on the side covered by 
the patch, and it struck home, opening a huge gash in his forehead. Blood poured 
down his face. There was always a lot of blood in such wounds, far out of 
proportion to the severity of the cut itself, but in this case the collateral 
damage was devastating, for the blood blinded his good eye.
The phoenix now knew that something was desperately wrong. It screeched in fear, 
and flapped its wings. This time it managed to do more than move air around, and 
I saw the wings developing the strength required to move the creature. This was 
a being of a magical origin, not bound by normal rules of natural development. 
Its strength and abilities were growing not by days, but by seconds. The phoenix 
started to rise into the air.
Tacit began to stand, his legs bending wildly, and I swept his legs out from 
under him with the staff. He went down and I heard him call out my name, heard 
him say "Apropos!" in a tone that had confusion, betrayal, anger, and a thirst 
for revenge all intertwined. At least I think he said "Apropos." With the 
combination of the newly missing teeth and apparently broken jaw, it wasn't the 
most articulate couple of syllables I'd ever heard.
Then I drove the staff home. I didn't swing it in an arc this time, but instead 
rammed it forward like a spear, taking Tacit squarely in the forehead. 
Mercifully for Tacit I didn't have the blade extended, or I would have driven it 
straight into his brain. I figured I owed him something for all the help he had 
given me, and here I had repaid the debt: I was letting him live.
Tacit tumbled backward with a huge bruise on his forehead. He lay on his back, 
staring sightlessly toward the sky, and for just a moment I wondered if he 
wasn't actually dead, my "mercy" a bit too late. Then I had no time to give it 
any thought, for the phoenix was airborne. Confused, frightened, and determined 
to put as much distance between itself and this place of violence as it possibly 
could, the phoenix was getting out of there.
I wasn't about to let that happen. As I had moments before, I took several quick 
steps forward, jammed the pole into the ground, and drove my body upward powered 
by the only part of my body worth a damn, my arms. For a split second I thought 
I wasn't going to make it, and then my desperate hand snagged onto the feathers 
on the phoenix's back.
The bird let out an alarmed yelp, pivoted, tried to shake me off. We were 
already twenty feet in the air and rising fast. A fall from that height was not 
going to do me a lot of good. Several feathers came loose from the creature, and 
I almost lost my grip. Somehow, displaying strength I would not have thought I 
had, I propelled myself upward and snared one arm around the phoenix's neck, 
securing my hold.
Thirty, forty feet in the air, higher still, moving at a dizzying pace, and then 
the phoenix flipped over, trying to toss me, and I was dangling. My right leg 
was useless, my left leg seeking purchase and finding none, and the only thing 
that was preventing me from falling was my left arm wrapped around the bird's 
neck. In my right hand was my staff. The blade was still contained in the staff, 
which meant I could probably have killed the stupid thing, but one quick glance 
down convinced me of the folly of that notion. If the bird died at that moment, 
it would predecease me by only a very short time.
I thrust upward with my right hand, bringing the staff across the phoenix's 
neck, then shifted my grip from the bird's neck to the other side of the staff. 
"Stop it, you overgrown parakeet! You're mine now!" I shouted, even as I 
performed the equivalent of a midair chin-up. In accomplishing that I was able 
to bring my left leg up and around, under the creature's belly, so that even 
though I was upside down I was now flat against the creature's back and clearly 
not being shaken off anytime soon.
"You're mine!" I said again, not knowing if the creature understood me and not 
caring, hoping that my tone of voice alone would underscore the fact that I was 
serious. The creature screeched in protest, but I ignored it. "You're mine, and 
you will go where I tell you, now! Now!"
And with that I secured my grip on the back of the bird's head and angled the 
beast forward and down. It continued to try and fight me, but I could sense its 
resolve was weakening.
The creature was confused. I couldn't blame it. On some level, it sensed that it 
was supposed to figure into the grand scheme of things. It knewóas Tacit 
obviously hadóthat it had a role to fulfill in destiny's master plan, and that 
role was to be fulfilled now. But it obviously sensed that something wasn't 
right. It wasn't sophisticated or intelligent enough to determine just what 
precisely was wrong.
As for me, I no longer cared about right and wrong. All I knew was this: I had 
"wanted" my entire life. Wanted something, anything, to call my own. Wanted to 
break out of the little box that I had been placed in, first by society, then by 
the knights, and now by destiny itself. I didn't want to go through my life and 
end up Apropos of nothing.
And there had been Tacit, ready to step into his designated spot.
It had all been so hideously unfair. I was not ready to accept or concede the 
possibility that Tacit might be better, worthier than me. Instead I saw in him, 
with his self-aggrandizing ballads, a smug symbol of everything that had been 
lacking in my life, and if I usurped that symbol, then maybe my life would no 
longer seem so empty, so filled only with bile and frustration and cynicism.
If I could take Tacit's place in the story . . . I could be the hero.
It was really that simple. I would hijack destiny's plot, laugh in the face of 
the author, and write my own ending. I would turn it around. No longer would I 
be Apropos the disposable character. Instead I would take over the narrative and 
drive it in a direction more to my liking.
That was my plan, at least, provided I could get the damned bird to cooperate.
The phoenix tried to shake me off once more, but I was holding on too tightly. 
It struggled beneath my grip, fought to throw me off, failed. It flapped around 
in midair, not going in any particular direction, but instead simply hanging 
there like a swimmer treading water.
I knew that this was it. This was the moment to firmly grasp the reins of 
destiny and send it galloping in a direction that suited my fancy. 
Unfortunately, I had a slight drawback: not being a hero, I had no clue as to 
what I should do next. I had thrust myself into the role, rather than been 
destined for it through fate and nature, as Tacit had been.
For a few seconds, I felt panic welling up inside me. Perhaps this had not been 
such a great idea after all.
The phoenix, possibly sensing my hesitation, let out another ear-piercing scream 
and then threw itself through the air. I let out a shriek of my ownórather 
girlish, I hate to admitóbut held on nonetheless. Fortunately the noise I had 
made was drowned out by the phoenix's own.
Tacit probably would have enjoyed the ride. He would have considered the 
experience and adventure somewhat exhilarating. Me, I was just doing everything 
I could not to heave up what I'd eaten that morning as the bird banked sharply 
and wheeled through the air.
It was then that I spotted, from on high, the Harpers Bizarre.
The phoenix did as well, and it angled its head in curiosity as it stared down 
at the strange creatures. The Harpers were gliding across the tops of the trees, 
clutching onto high branches and thrusting themselves forward, their wings 
moving their distorted bodies through the air with considerable alacrity. I 
strained my eyes and was able to make out the struggling form of the Princess 
Entipy. No one Harper seemed able to control her. Instead she was being carried 
by four Harpers, one each gripping one of her limbs. Even in such an 
uncomfortable and unfortunate position, she continued to struggle. I had to 
credit her this: She didn't take defeat easily.
It was at that moment that I realized what the heroic thing would be to do: 
rescue Entipy. Clearly that was what Tacit had intended. And if he had intended 
it, why . . . that meant that it was supposed to happen. Destiny's plan, as fate 
would have it, and all those other niceties. But since I had impulsively 
commandeered the role of hero, it was incumbent upon me to assume all the 
responsibilities therein.
Except I had no stomach for going up against the Harpers again. I had gotten 
away from them once, and counted myself lucky.
The phoenix, however, had other ideas. For it should be remembered that the 
phoenix was still a newborn, and newborns tend to be rather hungry. Now, there 
was no record of any phoenix ever having attacked, devoured, or tried to devour 
a human being. Smaller winged creatures, on the other hand, seemed to be well 
within the confines of the phoenix's preferred menu.
Consequently, the phoenix took one look at the Harpers Bizarre and sensed its 
first meal. I have no idea whether the phoenix even remembered I was on board at 
the time. If it did remember, it certainly didn't attach much importance to my 
presence. Instead it folded its wings back and dove toward the Harpers, who were 
still unaware that they had been targeted as an entree.
Aileron was in the lead, as was appropriate for a leader, and it was he who 
spotted the phoenix first. The phoenix had not made any noise at that point; 
some instinct simply warned Aileron to look up. He saw the phoenix dropping like 
a boulder, its claws outstretched, descending at horrifying speed. Aileron 
shouted an alarm to the rest of his warriors, and the phoenixóknowing that it 
had been spottedólet out a screeeeeee of such deafening proportions that I could 
only assume it had done so for the purpose of freezing its intended prey in 
their tracks.
To some degree, it worked. A number of the Harpers Bizarre looked up at the 
oncoming bird and stopped right where they were. They stared upward with eyes so 
wide and so terrified that I thought their orbs were going to leap out of their 
faces and try to make a break for it on their own.
"Arroooooowwws!" shouted Aileron, and his order got through to some of them, but 
not all. Even as some of the Harpers nocked their arrows, the phoenix tore into 
them, its claws out and slicing through them with such ease that one would have 
thought the bird was sliding a knife through cheese.
Entipy continued to struggle, and her captors had no idea which way to look. 
They saw several of their fellows gutted in seconds, saw others firing arrows, 
saw the bird bearing down on them, and did the only thing they couldóscattered 
and ran. This left Entipy with no support at all, and she fell, but not far. 
Where she was at that point, the branches were particularly dense. She didn't 
plunge more than a couple of feet before coming to a halt on upswept branches. 
She thrashed about, the branches tearing at her clothes, shouting imprecations 
and letting anyone within hearing distance know that they were going to rue the 
day.
Aileron wasn't concerned about ruing any days. Instead he had spotted me, 
holding on for dear life to the back of the bird. Our gazes locked, his eyes 
widened, and he shouted "Aaaaapropohhhh!" even as the Harpers unleashed a volley 
of arrows at us.
The phoenix was fast, but not that fast. It could not angle out of the way as 
arrows thudded into its underbelly. The phoenix let out a cry, but it was not a 
death scream so much as it was a That hurt and now I'll kill you even more 
scream. And if that was indeed the bird's sentiment, it certainly did not 
hesitate to put deed to thought.
The great creature took in a deep breath and then puffed out its chest. The 
arrows exploded from where they had struck, tumbling end over end with vicious 
speed. The Harpers scattered as they tried to get out of the way of the 
returning shafts. Many of them managed to get clear. Several of them did not, 
and crashed into the treetops, writhing with arrows lodged in their torsos or 
throats or legs.
Aileron's fury was beyond any that was measurable on a human scale. From 
I-know-not-where, he pulled a dagger and waved it at us defiantly. "Yoooouuuu 
will diiiieeeeee!" he cawed, and then he saw Entipy still thrashing about in the 
top of the tree some yards away. "But sheeeeee will dieeee fiiiirst!"
The phoenix didn't seem particularly interested in cooperating with me. It was 
much more interested in feasting upon the struggling bodies of the Harpers. The 
creature had just snagged one of them with its powerful talons, shredding the 
Harper's wings effortlessly. It flipped the thrashing Harper into the air and 
then snagged it in its beak in the same way that you might toss a grape in the 
air and catch it on your tongue. Like a great cat worrying a mouse, the phoenix 
shook its head violently, keeping the upper half of the Harper securely within 
its beak while allowing the lower half to be torn free and fall away. Apparently 
the phoenix preferred white meat.
As fascinating as this insight into phoenix culinary tastes was, it did nothing 
to attend to the fact that Entipy was in mortal danger. When she saw Aileron 
advancing on her, though, she displayed not a jot of fear. Instead she unleashed 
a string of invective so overpowering that it stopped the surprised Harpers 
leader dead. Apparently he was accustomed to intended victims begging, pleading, 
or railing against the unfairness of their situation. He was not used to being 
cursed out.
His brief hesitation was what I needed to close the gap between myself and the 
princess. I still had the staff positioned across the phoenix's throat. I hadn't 
been pressing it particularly hard, giving the bird the opportunity to attack 
and feast as it saw fit. Now, though, I had to take charge, as problematic as 
that might seem. I drew the staff tight against the phoenix's throat, which 
certainly got the bird's squawking attention. "Down!" I shouted, and pointed 
with emphasis toward Entipy. "Down! Hurry!"
The phoenix had obviously fully acquired its vision by then. It looked down, saw 
Entipy, and then saw the Harper advancing on her. Whether the phoenix acted out 
of a sense of wanting to rescue the girl, or out of interest in grabbing another 
snack, I could not really say. Either way, the result was the same. The phoenix 
flapped its powerful wings once and then headed straight down toward Aileron.
Aileron, I could see, was assessing the distance between himself and the 
phoenix, which was in the midst of a spectacular dive. Then he calculated how 
far it was to get to the still thrashing Entipy. The choice before him was 
clear: Could he get to Entipy and gut her before the phoenix got within range 
and gutted him?
Apparently he decided that the answer was yes, for with a mighty howl he leaped 
the remaining distance toward Entipy, his blade outstretched, ready to be rammed 
into her heaving (if modest) bosom and redecorate the treetops with her 
lifeblood.
At that moment, Entipy snapped off a large branch and brought it up right into 
Aileron's path. He became entangled in it, cutting free of it with his dagger. 
The action only delayed him seconds . . . but it was all the seconds I required. 
Wrapping an arm around the phoenix's neck, I extended the staff with the other 
hand and shouted, "Princess! Grab it!"
For once in her arrogant little life, Entipy did not argue. She lunged for the 
staff and gripped it firmly, and then the phoenix pumped its wings and we angled 
upward once more. Entipy curled up her legs as Aileron lunged for her, but he 
missed her clean and crashed through the upper level of the branches. He 
vanished into the lower level of the terrace of branches, and as he did so he 
howled, "I will geeetttt youuuuu, Aprooooopoooosssss!"
The rest of the Harpers had scattered, realizing that they were hopelessly 
overmatched by the powerfully flapping phoenix. Filled with determination, 
Entipy hauled herself up the staff, hand over hand, grunting slightly but 
otherwise giving no indication of the effort involved. I had to admit, I was a 
bit impressed; I had simply figured that she would dangle and that I'd have to 
pull her up myself. But she obviously wasn't waiting for me.
She drew herself up to the back of the phoenix and clambered aboard. There 
wasn't a lot of grace or artistry to her doing so; she just sort of flopped 
aboard. "Are you all right?" I asked, or at least I started to ask. She didn't 
give me the time to get the entire sentence out. Instead she slugged me 
forcefully in the shoulder, hard enough to get a rather loud yelp out of me. 
"What did you do that for?!?"
"You abandoned me, you asshole! You begged for your miserable life and left me 
in the hands of the Harpers Bizarre!"
Trying to recover my self-possession, I said serenely, "All part of my master 
plan."
"Master plan? You're telling me you went to find this . . . this . . ." She 
looked the bird over. "What is this, anyway?"
"The phoenix."
I informed her of that with a certain degree of smug satisfaction, and clearly 
that smugness carried over, because Entipy finally looked ever-so-slightly 
impressed. "This is a phoenix that we're on? A . . . real phoenix?"
"That's right," I said. At which point I made a rather horrendous mistake.
I became overconfident.
I reached down and patted the phoenix on the side of the head, as if we were 
astride a sort of overgrown horse or some other docile creature, rather than a 
monster of myth which was newly hatched, cranky, and confused. In short, the 
phoenix's reaction to my paternal pat was not a positive one.
The creature went berserk.
Bucking wildly, the phoenix suddenly vaulted heavenward as if it intended to rip 
free of gravity and hurtle into deep space. Entipy was almost tossed right off, 
but she barely managed to maintain her position by throwing her arms around my 
stomach. To be accurate, she was holding on to where my stomach previously had 
been. Thanks to the sudden jolt of the phoenix's upward thrust, my stomach had 
relocated to somewhere in my boots. The wind hammered so hard against me that 
that alone was almost enough to blow me right off the creature.
The phoenix wasn't doing any more flips. It was as if, angered over being used 
and abused, it felt that simply tossing us off wasn't sufficient punishment. The 
phoenix continued to climb, higher and higher, then suddenly pivoted and angled 
back down again. This time Entipy slammed forward, and I yelped as her jaw dug 
into my shoulder. Considering that it was her teeth smacking up against me, it 
probably didn't feel any better on her end either.
"Do something!" she howled.
"I am! I'm holding on!" I was grasping the creature's throat with one arm, and 
was desperately clutching my staff with the other. I tried to bring it up and 
around the bird's neck, but this time he was entirely too active for me to 
accomplish that seemingly simple feat. Every time I thought I could get an angle 
around, the bird changed course.
Suddenly the phoenix traded in pitches and curves for pure speed. It was hard to 
believe that it had only been born minutes before, because its command of its 
wings was complete. Screeching, the bird thrust forward, moving at high 
velocity. The ground became a blur beneath us.
"Where is it going?! Control it!" shouted Entipy over the roaring of the wind 
around us. I certainly tried my best, but the phoenix was becoming stronger with 
every passing moment, and my thrusts and shoving on the great beast's head 
didn't even warrant its attention. At one point it snapped its beak warningly at 
my fingers, and I withdrew. Of course, I had my trump card; I could try to slay 
the beast, using either my sword or the blade in my staff. But that wasn't 
exactly the wisest of courses to pursue, because we were far too high. If we 
skewered the beast, its demise would shortly be followed by our own. So I didn't 
exactly see the advantage.
Besides . . . I had the sinking feeling that I knew precisely where the beast 
was going. Or, to be more precise, where it was going away from.
My mother had known what she was about when she spoke of destinies, that much 
was clear to me now. Unfortunately for me, the destiny that she had foreseen 
belonged to Tacit. I had hijacked it. The phoenix was a creature of myth and 
legend, the sort that is both born into, and dies from, destiny. If any being 
knew what was supposed to be what, it was the phoenix. And somehow it knew that 
the man riding astride it was not the right person at the right time. The 
destiny of the phoenix, the role that it was supposed to play, was to bring the 
triumphant Tacit back to the palace where he and Entipy would live happily and 
majestically ever after, I was quite certain of that. But because that destiny 
had been diverted, the phoenix was resolutely and instinctively heading away 
from the place that it was supposed to go. As much as we desperately wanted to 
get to the castle of King Runcible . . . that was how much the great flapping 
beast that we were riding wanted to head in the completely opposite direction.
Entipy had demanded to know where the phoenix was going. The answer to that was 
that the phoenix was not heading toward any place in particular, but rather away 
from somewhere else. We were racing not to the phoenix's destiny . . . but to 
mine. And I had no clue as to what that was.
Then again, I had always been fairly good at improvising.
 
 
Chapter 15
 
Entipy lapsed into silence, which was enough of a blessing in and of itself. I 
paid no attention to her, since I was devoting my concentration to tracking just 
where in the world we were. The one thing I knew for certain was that we were 
heading west, because the sun was hanging directly in front of us on the 
horizon, dropping lower in the sky as sunset and evening approached. That was 
not a situation that I was looking forward to, because once night fell, I was 
going to have no way of knowing which way we were heading. At least with the sun 
still up, I could try to catch sight of a few landmarksócastles, distinctive 
mountain peaks, something.
We were no longer in Isteria, of that I was quite certain. We had passed far 
beyond the boundaries of the city/state, and I couldn't even begin to guess just 
where the phoenix was going to have us wind up. Fancifully, I almost felt as if 
the phoenix, born of fire, wasn't going to stop flying until it had sailed 
directly into the sun itself, erupting in one glorious conflagration that I 
would have been in a far better position to admire had I not been stuck on the 
damned bird's back.
The phoenix started to angle off, and for a moment I thought it was descending. 
But a stronger, more furious pumping of its wings drove us to the northwest. The 
farther we went, the colder it was getting. I began to worry that the creature 
might take us to the Frozen North, and that we would possibly wind up in the 
clutches of King Meander (should he have decided to return to his former place 
of power). I saw my breath starting to mist up in front of me. It was not a 
comforting feeling. I didn't say anything to Entipy about it. I had the feeling 
that if I indicated any hint of concern or uncertainty, she would see it as 
weakness and use it as an excuse to verbally shred me. Considering my state of 
mind at that moment, the last thing I needed was her haranguing me. The 
temptation to shove her off might prove to be too great.
Unfortunately, Entipy finally decided to grace me with her verbal presence. 
"Where are we?" she said, and thenóas if reading my mindóshe added, "And if you 
say that we're on the back of a phoenix, so help me, I will knock you off."
"Being abruptly deprived of your company, Highness, is hardly what I would call 
a threat," I replied.
"Why are you so nasty?"
That actually prompted me to laugh. "You would ask that of me? You?"
"Yes, I would. I'm a princess. A princess is entitled to ask anything she wants, 
of anyone she wants. Why are you so nasty?" She paused, apparently considering 
the matter since she probably figured out that she wasn't going to get much 
response from me. She decided to answer for herself. "Don't you like women? You 
don't, do you," she added suspiciouslyóeven contemptuouslyóafter a moment's 
thought.
I sighed. "I have no more hostility for women than I do for anyone else."
"Meaning?"
"Your Worshipfulness," I said, "I would give anything, seize any excuse, not to 
have to continue this conversation."
Naturally, the phoenix decided to take me up on it.
With long fingers of night caressing the ground, the creature chose that moment 
to angle steeply downward. This abrupt movement was accompanied by two 
ear-piercing screams. The first was the phoenix itself, a howl of defiance torn 
from its throat. The second was the princess, who let out a most unhighnesslike 
screech of alarm. I managed to avoid emitting any unmanly cries through the 
simple expedient of biting down so hard on my lower lip that blood trickled down 
my chin.
"Stop him!" shouted Entipy.
I had no idea how I might go about accomplishing that, unfortunately. Slaying 
the beast was no more viable an option now than it had been earlier. All I could 
do was clutch on with all my strength and pray to the gods that the stupid 
thingóif it was indeed coming in for a landing, or planning to try and discharge 
us as passengersówould do so gently. As with most of my prayers, it was met with 
resounding laughter from whatever divine beings were looking down upon me and 
watching me toil ceaselessly to amuse them and their perverse humors.
The phoenix suddenly leveled off, and then the bird flipped me.
Some inner, sixth sense warned me at the last moment. I lunged forward and threw 
my staff across the creature's throat, praying that the monster's beak wouldn't 
find my arms and snap them off at the elbows. In an eyeblink I had the staff in 
place and was gripping it on either side, and then the creature was flying 
upside down, and I was dangling. Only the strength of my arms was preventing me 
from tumbling to a bone-shattering fate below. My staff naturally pressed all 
the tighter across the phoenix's throat, but the beast didn't seem particularly 
perturbed by this state of affairs. And if it was, then it was at least aware 
that it was a condition destined to be quite temporary, for both the phoenix and 
I knew that it could fly upside down for far longer than I could hang on. Time 
and gravity were solidly in the phoenix's corner.
An additional factor, however, immediately weighed in to toss the odds even more 
greatly into the creature's favor. For Entipy had nothing to grab on to save for 
some feathers off the phoenix's back. Rather than a means of support, these 
served only as a handy souvenir of her trip, for they came loose in a heartbeat 
and then there was nothing between Entipy and the ground save air. By that point 
it was sufficiently dark that we couldn't see what was below us, but the odds 
were spectacular that it wasn't going to be something we'd wish to encounter 
while plummeting.
Entipy let out a shriek and, as she tumbled, grabbed on to the only thing around 
that offered the remotest hope of support: my legs.
I had tried to bathe a cat once, back when I was a child. The wretched thing was 
wandering the streets, and nuzzled up against me. So I cradled it in my arms, 
and it looked so filthyóbeyond the animal's ability to groom itself, it 
seemedóthat I found a tub of water and endeavored to immerse it. The cat yowled 
and wrapped itself around my lame leg. It took me damned near an hour to 
disengage the thing, at which point it took off for parts unknown, never to be 
seen again. Pets, whether they be bird or cat, and I don't seem to get along.
Entipy's grasp on my leg reminded me of the feline, as did the high-pitched 
yelping that she was giving off. She was holding on to my left leg, immobilizing 
it. That was fortunate for her; if she'd been holding on to my right leg, I'd 
have used my good left one to kick her loose. I knew that my situation was 
hopeless, but I had no desire to expedite the disaster that was looming beneath 
us.
And that was when the creature got the bright idea of tilting its head backward 
toward its own spine. Basically, the phoenix's own beak and head had been 
holding my staff in place. In angling its head downward, it allowed my staff to 
slide straight down and off. And then we were falling.
I would like to say that, even at that point where death seemed imminent, I kept 
a stoic and manly silence. I would like to. The truth is that I uncorked a 
scream of terror that probably deafened the phoenix, which certainly didn't 
bother me greatly. Entipy might have been screaming as well, but I definitely 
drowned her out. The only upside to the entire situation was that she had come 
loose from my leg, without my even having to try to bathe her.
I have no idea if you have ever fallen from a great height. Certainly everyone 
has had dreams of such a thing now and then. I can assure you from personal 
experience that there is no more horrific sensation than being in free fall. The 
thing is, when you're experiencing something awfulóa battle, an illness, a bad 
marriageóyou can draw some measure of comfort from the knowledge that sooner or 
later the experience will be terminated. The depressing thing about falling is 
knowing that the termination is not going to be an improvement.
Impressively, as I fell, I still managed to hold on to my staff. I had no idea 
why this might be any sort of a good thing; certainly after I was dead, it 
wasn't going to be of much use to me. Then again, one doesn't tend to think 
rationally at such moments.
I tumbled end over end, having no idea how long I fell, certain that it was for 
ages when very likely it was only for seconds. And then I hit.
I heard something loud snapping and for one delirious, insane moment I thought I 
was hearing the breaking of every bone in my body. My mother had once told me 
that once a broken bone heals, it becomes much stronger. If that were the case, 
then I would be a virtual superman if I ever managed to walk again.
But then I realized that the ground was giving way beneath me, andócomprehending 
by degreesóI further realized that I had not in fact struck the ground. Instead 
I plunged into the midst of what was clearly an assortment of branches, and I 
understood immediately that I had fallen into trees. The branches served to slow 
down my descent, although not by much. They crackled and splintered around me, 
tearing at my clothes, ripping my skin. I tried to grab onto some for support 
but none of them were large enough to singly support my weight.
And then I was through the forestry. The air whirled around me and I saw tree 
trunks hurtling by, and then I crashed into a thicket of bushes.
With thorns, naturally.
Fortunately enough, I was by that point so dazed, my body racked with such pain, 
that the thorns barely made an impression on me. I simply lay there, amidst the 
brush, looking around in a daze, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, 
and for my brain to adjust to the reality of my not being dead.
That was when I heard a yowling from overhead.
I knew who and what it was before I even craned my neck to look up. I could see 
Entipy's legs thrashing about in the upper reaches of the branches. Apparently, 
with her being somewhat lighter than I, the trees had actually managed to slow 
Entipy's fall so that she didn't penetrate the greensward. She was hung up high 
above me, uttering a series of most unprincessly imprecations.
"The more you jostle about up there," I called up to her, forcing my voice above 
her shouting, "the more likely you are to break loose, fall, and injure or kill 
yourself."
That stopped her.
For a long moment I seriously considered just walking away, abandoning her 
altogether. The princess was no walk in the woods, and that was apparently just 
what I was going to be stuck with. I was reasonably sure I could survive in a 
forest indefinitely. I didn't need her. Nor, for that matter, did I really need 
to return to the castle. At that point in time, if I never saw the place again, 
it would suit me just fine.
But I had embarked on a course. I had to see it through, because . . .
. . . because the truth was that I had never seen anything through.
I make no bones about it to you. I have sworn utter honesty, after all. In 
truth, there was no one in all the world whom I held in greater contempt than I 
myself: he who came from nothing, aspiring to be something, who had not only 
surrounded himself with hypocrites, but was the greatest hypocrite of all 
because he was trying to gain their favor and beat them at their own game. And 
that selfloathing radiated from me and determined how I viewed all those around 
me. Part of that inwardly directed anger stemmed from the fact that I had never 
truly managed to stick with anything and see it through. Every plan in my life 
had come to an unfortunate end, either due to shortsightedness on my part or 
character flaws that simply prevented my being able to conclude it properly. So 
there I was, having embarked on an endeavor to usurp destiny and see through the 
role of "hero." Which meant that I was going to have to get the damned princess 
back to her damned palace. As tempting, then, as it might be to melt into the 
woods and never be seen again by the eyes of man, the inescapable fact was that 
I was going to have to retrieve the little shrew from her perch and get her home 
safely.
"I'm not going to jostle or break loose up here," her voice floated down after a 
time.
"Oh really? How do you know that?"
"Because I'm stuck," she said with obvious annoyance. "The branches are so thick 
they're snagged in my hair, my clothes . . . everything. Get up here and cut me 
free."
My getting too near her with a sharp object probably wasn't the brightest idea. 
"With all deference, Your Greatness, I'm not exactly built for scaling trees. 
I'm rather lame of leg, as you must have noticed."
"And brain as well, I'd wager." Obscured by the branches, she must have been 
considering the situation a moment, for there was blessed silence. Finally she 
commanded, "Throw your blade up here. I'll do it myself."
"As you wish." I wasn't thrilled about the notion of hurling my sword into the 
shadows of the foliage. Since I wasn't able to see exactly where she was, there 
was a possibility that the sword might impale her on its upward flight. A 
pleasant thought but, as noted, counterproductive. So I removed the sword and 
scabbard, braced myself, and then hurled the sheathed weapon upward. It vanished 
into the branches and then there was silence. "Have you got it?" I called.
"Yes. Hold on." For a moment more there was no sound, and then I heard the noise 
of hacking and slashing. She was whacking away quite handily. Bits of leaves and 
branch spiraled down. I stood there, leaning on my staff, waiting for some 
indication that she was close to finished.
I got a far more profound indication than I could possibly have hoped, for 
suddenly there was a quick rustling of the leaves and then the blade plummeted 
from overhead, straight toward my upraised face. I threw myself out of the way, 
just barely avoiding it, and it thudded point down right where I'd been 
standing. The scabbard flopped to the ground a moment later. I lay there, gaping 
at the still quivering blade, and then saw the princessólooking rather tattered 
but otherwise undamagedóeasing herself down the tree trunk. I called up with 
unfettered annoyance, "You might have warned me!"
"Oh. Look out," she said, and continued her descent.
"That was amazingly stupid, Highness." I picked myself up, dusted myself off, 
and yanked the sword from the ground. "It may not have come to your attention, 
but you have a much better shot at getting through this in one piece with me at 
your side."
"Indeed?" She dropped the rest of the way to the ground, landing in a crouch. 
"At my side, until such time that you see fit to abandon me yet again."
"I told you. I wasó"
"ógoing to get a phoenix to save us." She shook her head and dislodged the 
leaves from her cloak. "Squire, you are either extremely duplicitous, or 
extremely lucky, or a combination of both. I haven't quite decided." Then she 
took a moment to look around, to examine her surroundings in a rather imperious 
manner. I felt a chill in the air and wasn't sure whether it was because the 
woods seemed oppressive or the temperature was dropping. Evening was drawing 
closer, however, and I did not like the fact that we had no shelter.
"We need to find somewhere to take cover," I said. "I don't want us out and 
exposed this way."
She seemed about to say something in rebuttal, but I think she realized that in 
doing so, it would only be a knee-jerk reaction. Disagreeing with me on 
principle, which was a foolish notion and a waste of time. So she said nothing, 
which was a refreshing change of pace.
I looked around and perceived that, in one direction, the terrain seemed to be 
turning a bit more rocky. Without explaining why (and, at that point, not really 
caring if she followed or not), I sheathed my sword and started off. I didn't 
have to look over my shoulder to see if she was behind me; I could hear her 
boots scraping on the rocky ground. Despite my lameness of leg, I was making 
reasonably good time; fear of being stuck out in the woods with no shelter and 
at the mercy of whatever happened by was always a good motivator. She did not, 
however, huff or puff or ask me to slow down to accommodate her, which either 
said a great deal for her ability to keep up or not much in terms of my ability 
to set a rapid pace.
As I hoped, the ground had a rocky cast to it because it was serving to lead us 
to a small series of caves. I looked for something reasonably small and 
insinuated myself within, then looked up at her expectantly.
"Why don't we find something bigger?" she demanded. She was regarding me with 
tremendous suspicion. "Are you trying to put us at close quarters on purpose?"
"Not especially," I replied. "If you climb in here or don't, it makes no never 
mind to me. But I was endeavoring to avoid anything substantially larger so that 
we don't find ourselves sharing facilities with a bear or similar beast that 
might take issue with unwanted guests."
She seemed to want to toss off a smart remark, but then she closed her mouth and 
nodded. The fact that she was willing to accept something I said at simple face 
value gave me some measure of hope, as meager as that hope might be. Without 
another word she slid into the cave beside me, drawing her tattered cloak 
tighter around her as if it could serve as a shield. "Shouldn't we make a fire 
or something?" she said, and then added with a touch of her customary derision, 
"Or don't you know how to?"
"I may not be on par with you when it comes to crafting infernos, Highness," I 
said pointedly, "but I have enough woodcraft to begin a blaze. However, I have 
to assume that the Harpers would likewise have enough craft to track us if we 
provided them with a convenient means of locating us . . . such as a fire."
"That . . . sounds reasonable," she said with what sounded like reluctance. Then 
she added, "But don't we need something for warmth? Or to protect us from wild 
animals?"
"I'll settle for this as protection," I said, indicating my sword and sounding 
much braver than I felt. "As for warmth, we can always depend on your sunny 
disposition to suffuse the cave with sunshine-like radiance."
"You don't have to be like that, you know," she snapped, glaring at me. She had 
pulled her hood up so that practically the only thing I could see were her eyes. 
"Always so nasty."
"I'm not nasty," I said nastily. "I'm worrying about a dozen things at once, and 
having you question me about everything simply adds a thirteenth thing."
"I have a right to question. I'm your princess. I will be your queen."
"Not if I don't get you back alive," I reminded her.
That shut her down. I was, I admit, surprised. She generally struck me as 
someone sufficiently feisty to continue arguing until she had no more energy to 
do so. Instead, she was silent for a time, and when she next spoke, it was less 
challenging and more of a direct inquiry. "So . . . how do you plan to get me 
back? Alive or dead?"
It was a reasonable question. "I don't rate our chances tremendously high in 
making it all the way back to your parents, just the two of us, on foot. 
Probably the best thing to do is find a commweaver and have him or her message 
your parents."
There were two major methods of long-distance communication in Isteria and the 
surrounding lands. Sending birds with messages tied upon them was that most 
favored by those of limited funds. But that was a fairly unreliable proposition. 
If the bird wasn't well trained enough it could go astray, and even if it was 
perfectly trained, it could fall prey to predators. Far more reliable were 
commweavers, spellcasters who were able to utilize magical threads to send 
messages cast-to-cast. It was a highly specialized form of weaving, however, 
second only to farcasting in rarity, and it was not inexpensive. I said as much, 
pointing out that that might prove a drawback.
Entipy looked at me as if I was out of my mind, displaying some of the old 
attitude that had been mercifully absent for a time.
"Money? Money is an issue?" She snorted derisively.
"Only when you don't have it. I have very little on me; certainly not enough to 
purchase the skills of a reliable commweaver. Do you have any?"
"We don't have need," she said.
"We don't?"
"No."
"Then what would you suggest in its place? Perhaps you could offer the weaver 
sexual favors . . . ?"
She slapped me.
I suppose I deserved it. This was, after all, a princess, and my remark was 
nothing short of crude. Nevertheless, deserved or not, it was all I could do to 
refrain from smacking her right back. Instead I simply sat there, my right cheek 
red from where she had hit it. She didn't appear the least bit contrite over 
having done so, her eyes burning at the very suggestion.
"Your problem," she said, "is that you are accustomed to thinking like a 
peasant. That's what you were, after all, wasn't it." It was not a question. "I 
can tell. I can tell nobility from a mile off, and you've none about you. You're 
some sort of . . . of charity case my parents took in. They do that on occasion, 
probably to make themselves feel important and less guilty about having 
everything while others have nothing. Well? A charity case, am I right? That 
they took in?"
"At least they took me in," I said heatedly, "instead of shipping me away 
because they couldn't stand me."
Her hand swung again, but this time I caught it at the wrist. I held it there 
for a moment, Entipy pitting her strength against mine, but this was a contest 
even I could win. Her arm trembled with the strain and then I pushed it away. I 
remained alert for a another round, but she lowered her arm and settled for 
glaring at me.
"We will find a place . . . a civilized place," she said haughtily, "on the 
morrow. There's certain to be somewhere like that nearby."
"Oh, is there," I said with obvious sarcasm.
"Yes. And once there, I'll simply order a commweaver be brought to me. It will 
be a royal decree."
"And it's going to be just that simple."
"Yes, Apropos. Just that simple."
"The last simple plan you had," I pointed out, "involved Tacit coming to get you 
and whisk you away so that you could live happily ever after. And as I recall, I 
claimed that you should never count on such cheerful conclusions. Considering 
how right I was, and how wrong you were, you might want to add more credence to 
what I tell you. And what I'm telling you now is that your scenarioówhile 
pleasantly convenientóis taking a hell of a lot on faith. Faith may be fine for 
the Faith Women, but it can have somewhat dire consequences in the real world if 
that's what you're counting on to carry you through. Do you understand what I'm 
saying here, Highness?"
She made no reply, instead preferring to glower. But that was an improvement, I 
supposed, on listening to her talk, so I said nothing. Instead I leaned against 
the cave wall, reaching back to pull out my sword. She looked with silent 
surprise at me as I did so. "Just in case," I explained. "If something surprises 
us in the night, I'd rather have a weapon in my lap than behind me."
We lapsed into silence, simply sitting and watching the night roll in. I reached 
deep into myself, pulling up all the old techniques. I sniffed the air, listened 
as carefully as I could. I sensed things moving in the night, but they were 
small, insignificant. Nothing that would pay us any heed; indeed, things that 
would be more afraid of us than we of they. I hoped that cave would provide us 
sufficient insulation from the night air.
I was so busy listening for the slightest noise that I jumped a bit, startled, 
when she spoke. There was a bit of weariness in her voice; I could tell she was 
tired, but something was preying on her mind, and the growing fatigue was enough 
for her to voice her concern.
"Did you see him?" she asked.
"Him?" I had no idea who or what she was talking about.
"Tacit. In the woods. He should have been easy to spot. He's tall and strong and 
handsome, and has an eyepatch."
"Ah" was all I said, stalling for time. Not for a moment did I consider telling 
the truth; instead I was simply trying to figure out which lie would be the most 
effective. "But . . . you heard the Harper. They killed him."
"No," she said firmly, shaking her head. "I don't believe that. I don't."
"Why not? It is possible, isn't it?"
"No," she told me. "He is a great hero, destined for great deeds. I know it. I 
just know it."
The thing was, she was right. That didn't make it any easier to hear. In fact, 
it made it harder.
Opting for a tack that would support vagueness instead of specific duplicity, I 
said, "Princess, if he was there, in the woods . . . if he was alive . . . 
wouldn't it be much likelier that he would have been the one to rescue you 
instead of me?"
She had no immediate reply to that, probably because she knew I was correct. 
Fortunately, she did not make the leap that perhaps the reason he hadn't taken a 
hand in the situation was because I had thwarted whatever intentions he might 
have had to do so. "He could still be alive," she said softly.
"True," I admitted.
"And . . . he is a hero . . ."
"Well, you know, Princess, that's part of the problem."
She looked up at me, clearly puzzled. "Problem?"
"Yes, well . . . that's the difficulty with heroes, isn't it. They're very much 
in demand. People are always seeking them out to go on quests or lead rebellions 
or such. Their time isn't really their own. It's possible that Tacit became 
distracted by something, or pulled into some other adventure and was unable to 
attend to your situation."
"I'm a princess. He was to rescue me. That's the most important thing a hero can 
do," she said petulantly.
"With respect, Highness," I said, trying my best to sound apologetic, "heroes 
have a funny way of deciding for themselves what is or is not the most important 
thing they can do. And then, of course, there are the tragic heroes . . ."
"Tragic . . . ?"
"Yes. Heroes who fail in their quest. It happens sometimes. Look at Orpheus. 
What a disaster that was. His love remains trapped in the underworld because he 
couldn't keep eyes front, and he winds up being torn to pieces by Harpies." I 
shook my head and, coming across as the most conciliatory person in the world, I 
said softly, "It's all well and good to imagine oneself as the center of a great 
and epic adventure story, where good triumphs and evil is defeated. But the 
simple truth, Highness, is that you're a young woman, on the cusp of adulthood, 
and you have to come to terms with the fact that life simply isn't like that. 
Those who are evil have virtues; those who are good have flaws. And the outcome 
of the 'story,' if you will, isn't predicated on high-flown morality, but 
instead on who's smarter and better armed and luckier. That's simply the way of 
it and the truth of it, and not all the starry-eyed romantic notions of your 
beloved savior are going to change that."
She said nothing for a good long time after that, but when she did speak, it was 
with quiet conviction.
"He'll come for me, Tacit will. And I will have my happy ending, squire, whether 
you like it or not, or believe in it or not. I will have my happiness."
"May you have all the happiness that you deserve, Highness," I said, and with 
that I leaned against the wall, keeping my hand wrapped around the hilt of my 
sword, and allowed myself to drift into a very light sleep.
 
 
Chapter 16
 
When morning came, I found that she was leaning against me in her sleep. Not 
only that but, instinctively, she had wrapped her arms around one of mine. I 
looked down at her and, in repose, I found that she was in fact much prettier 
than I'd originally thought her. In fact, she bordered on lovely. There was 
something about the way her face was trapped in a perpetual sneer when she was 
awake that ruined her features.
"You're staring at me," she said. Her eyes were still closed. I had no idea how 
she had known. "Obviously you think I'm attractive."
"I once spent an hour watching maggots crawl through the corpse of a boar," I 
replied. "There wasn't any aesthetic value to that; just a kind of morbid 
fascination."
"You are a pointlessly vicious and mean person, and when we get back, I'm going 
to ask my father to behead you."
"If we get back," and I made a point of emphasizing the conditional word, "your 
father will be so bloody grateful to me that he'll probably want to make me a 
knight."
"My father will do as I ask."
"Did you ask to remain at the castle instead of being sent away to the Faith 
Women?"
She looked down, giving me the answer without a vocal reply. "I want you to stop 
bringing that up," she said with obvious irritation.
"As you wish, Highness," I said. The Prince of Obedience, that was me.
There was a chill fog hanging over the woods, which on some level was a good 
thing. Anything which would make it problematic for the Harpers Bizarre to spot 
us from overhead weighed in our favor. On the other hand, the chill carried with 
it more than just a feel of early morning. I had the distinct feeling that we 
were experiencing a definite climatic shift . . . not surprising since we had 
gone so far north. As I stood, stretched my legs, and swung my arms around to 
restore circulation, I considered our options and didn't like what I was coming 
up with.
"What's wrong?" she demanded. She could obviously see the concern in my face.
"I'm worried about how far north we are," I said. "The north is renowned for its 
early and fearsome winters. If the cold is truly moving in . . ." I didn't 
finish the sentence. I didn't have to. Even the princess, still caught up in her 
dreams of the heroic Tacit and happy endings, had to see the danger inherent in 
such a situation.
"I'm hungry," she said abruptly.
Truth to tell, so was I. I looked around at the vegetation; there seemed to be 
some plants that appeared edible. Mushrooms and such. But then I saw something 
stirring in the brush nearby.
Without a moment's hesitation, I pulled my dagger from its sheath on my leg and 
threw it. It thudded into the brush and, a moment later, a reasonably sized 
rabbit tumbled out.
"Breakfast," I said.
If the princess was appalled by the notion of feasting on something as 
relentlessly cute as a rabbit, she gave no sign of it. Instead she sat quietly 
and watched as I skinned it, never averting her eyes. My estimation of her 
climbed ever so slightly.
But then my estimation promptly dropped off again as she said petulantly, "You 
have no plans to cook it?"
"I told you; I don't want to light a fire if I do not have to."
"I think," she said very deliberately, in an obvious attempt to egg me on, "that 
you're afraid to light it . . . because Tacit might then locate us, and you 
figure your life is forfeit."
"You can think whatever you wish."
"Then perhaps I'll light my own fire."
"Yes, you obviously have a great deal of experience at that. Aiming to burn down 
an entire forest this time?"
She glared at me once more. Endeavoring to look as nonchalant as possible, I 
carved a piece out of the rabbit and extended it to her. Blood was still 
dripping from it. She looked at it distastefully. "You first," she said, perhaps 
thinking that I believed the entire matter to be some sort of "dare" situation.
Shrugging, I reversed the knife and popped the piece into my mouth. I chewed 
happily; not because of the taste of the raw rabbit, which was chewier than I 
would have liked, but from the look on the princess's face. I felt blood 
trickling down the side of my face. I didn't bother to wipe it off. Something in 
me took delight in causing her to react in disgust.
"Well? Aren't you going to build us a fire?" I said. "Using your considerable 
experience?" I carved off another piece.
"You really think I burned down the Faith Women's retreat, don't you."
"Yes."
She shook her head, and there was that same smirk. "What," I inquired, "are you 
saying you didn't?"
"I think I'd rather not tell you," she replied. "I somewhat prefer the notion 
that you don't know what to expect of me."
"You mean you would prefer that the person who is supposed to be your protector 
should be afraid to turn his back on the woman he's protecting, for fear that 
she's so unstable that she might knife him at the first opportunity? Oh yes, 
Princess, by all means, that sounds like a superb way to travel." I cut another 
piece. From a few feet away, the rabbit's headówhich I had naturally cut off and 
discardedólooked at me in silent accusation. He got off lucky. At least he 
didn't have to put up with Entipy.
But something in her expression changed and then, very softly, she said, "Thank 
you."
I was caught off guard. Part of me thought that that was what she was trying to 
do. "For what?" I asked.
"For referring to me as a woman. I don't know that anyone's ever done that. Even 
Tacit always called me his 'beautiful girl.' "
"Yes, well, I'm not Tacit," I said pointedly. "For one thing, I'm here, and he's 
not."
"But he will be."
I shrugged. Privately, I sure hoped that she was wrong. Because if he did show 
up, he wasn't going to be any too pleased with me.
Imperiously, she gestured to the rabbit's remains. "Let me try some. And wipe 
your mouth. It's disgusting."
I obliged by dragging a sleeve across my bloodied lips. "Change your mind?" I 
said. I jammed the knife into the remains of the animal's carcass, giving it a 
"handle" by which it could be held, and then tossed the entire thing over to 
her. It landed on the ground a foot away from her, and she picked it up 
delicately. "Sure you're up to it?"
"If you can take it, I can take it," she said defiantly. I'll say this for her: 
Once committed to the idea, she didn't take it in half measures. She bit 
forcefully into it, tearing a piece away with her teeth. She chewed it and 
almost managed to swallow it before she retched up the entire thing. I tried not 
to laugh, but was only partly successful. She glowered at me. I don't think I 
was particularly her favorite person in the world at that moment. Determined, 
she bit off another piece and actually managed to get it down. Before she could 
take another, her stomach revolted, and this piece exited with even greater 
force than the previous.
"I see how you manage to maintain your girlish figure," I observed.
"Shut up" was her weary response as she continued to try and keep some portion 
of the "meal" down.
I should have felt sorry for her. Surprisingly, I even wanted to. But I didn't. 
Because let us be candid: If it weren't for her, none of those knights would 
have died, because if she hadn't been such a loon, her parents never would have 
sent her away in the first place.
After a few more attempts, a couple of which were actually successful, she slid 
the carcass off the dagger blade and tossed the dagger over to me. I would have 
expected that she would hurl it at my chest. Instead she simply lobbed it and it 
fell to the ground in a most unthreatening manner. I picked it up, cleaned it as 
best I could, and we started off.
I wasn't even going to try and retrace the path that the phoenix had overflown. 
I knew what lay in that direction: considerable forest, the remains of the 
Harpers Bizarre, and a revenge-driven Tacit. I had no clue as to what waited 
ahead, but it was the classic case of the devil you know versus the devil you do 
not.
Our journey passed with a minimum of conversation, which was fine by me. At 
least Entipy did not complain about things that couldn't be changed, such as her 
feet hurting or her dress being torn and snagged by the brambles and brush. I 
kept hoping we would stumble upon a road, which would be a sign of civilization, 
not to mention much easier to navigate, but none seemed forthcoming.
She had to be getting thirsty, though; I was confident of that because I was 
myself. Every so often I saw her licking her lips, and once I noticed that she 
was looking to me in a sort of hopeful manner. I, however, was too busy being a 
nervous wreck over our surroundings. Every time I heard the slightest rustling 
from around us, I worried that the Harpers had picked up the scent, or Tacit was 
going to come springing out at me like a great, wounded monster, or maybe the 
Journeymen were back, or maybe it was something else entirely that was going to 
have a go at us.
The sun moved overhead without seeming to have much interest in us. At one 
point, we came across a river, moving briskly but not particularly deep. It 
provided us our first fresh water in what seemed like a millennium. Entipy 
crouched on the edge of the bank and sipped from it, but I waded in. If she 
hadn't been there, I'd probably have stripped down. I'd've done it even if she 
was there, just to get a reaction out of her, but I was rather certain that the 
reaction I'd get would simply be derisive laughter and therefore saw no point to 
it.
I stuck my head under the water, refreshing myself. I came up, opened my mouth, 
drank deeply, went under again. I liked paddling around. When I was in the 
floating environment of water, it helped ease the frustration of my lame leg. I 
felt almost like a . . . there's no other way to put it . . . normal man.
I lost track of time as I enjoyed myself, feeling relaxed for the first time in 
ages and thinking that maybe, just maybe, things were going to work out.
I had no idea how much time had passed before I realized that she was gone.
"Entipy!" I shouted, took a step forward, fell and submerged. I splashed back to 
the surface and waded to the shore. Quickly I surveyed the surroundings. My 
staff and sword were where I'd left them, and there was no sign of a struggle. 
That answered my first and most immediate worries. Apparently the brainless 
little twit had gone off on her own. Still, maybe it was nothing to be concerned 
about. She might just be going off to seek out some privacy in order to attend 
to nature's call.
That was when I smelled smoke.
Oh my God, she did decide to burn down the forest was my first panicked thought.
I clambered onto the water's edge, nostrils flaring, trying to pinpoint 
precisely where the smoke was coming from. It took me no more than seconds, 
because my sight backed up what my nose had already told me: It was coming from 
the north, not more than half a mile by my guess. I saw a plume of smoke wafting 
into the air, but even as I set off in that direction, I realized that I was not 
dealing with a raging fire. It was too controlled. Not only that, but I was 
starting to detectóever so faintlyócooking meat. It was a fire coming from some 
sort of pub or tavern. Apparently my young charge had decided that that place 
was better than this place, and headed off without so much as whispering to me 
that she was leaving.
As I made my way through the forest, I began to shiver so fiercely that my teeth 
started to chatter. Mist was rising from my mouth. As incredible as it seemed, 
the temperature had dropped precipitously in the past half hour. Considering 
that my clothes were sodden, obviously that was something of an inconvenience. 
Memories of how I had fallen ill when I was subjected to varying elements upon 
my arrival at the castle flooded back to me. I had no desire for a repeat 
performance, for I have little doubt that I wouldn't get off quite as lucky 
should such a thing recur. Naturally, though, I had left my cloak behind when 
I'd gone in, so it was bone dry. I drew it more tightly around myself, my breath 
coming in ragged and cloudy gasps.
The woods were thinning out, and I realized that the smoke had inadvertently 
brought me to the place that I'd been seeking all along: the outside of the 
forest. I drew closer and was able to make out the structure that was the origin 
of the smoke. It was belching out of a chimney, situated on top of a building 
that was rather unremarkable. In many ways it reminded me of the pub in which I 
grew up, and for an instant I felt a sudden surge of horror. What if, through 
insane happenstance, I had wound up right back at Stroker's somehow? I didn't 
know for sure where I was, but I would have bet that it was a geographical 
impossibility that I could have wound up there. But then cold reason (along with 
cold air, which seemed to have dropped even more in the last seconds) took hold. 
Stroker's and my old life were miles away. It was simply that such roadside 
places were somewhat generic in their construction.
I saw a sign hanging off the edge, swaying in the stiff wind that was cutting 
through the air. I caught the name of the place as it swung. Apparently I was 
about to visit the Forest's Edge Pub and Inn. Considering the place was at the 
edge of a forest, I wondered how many long minutes it had taken the genius who'd 
named the place to come up with that one.
There were other structures as well. Weapons shops, a butcher, weapons shops, a 
baker, weapons shops. As you might surmise, the abundance of weapons shops left 
me a bit concerned that we had wandered into a territory that was less than 
friendly. People were wandering about on their errands, dressed in heavy and 
ragged furs, barely nodding to one another as they passed. They were far more 
interested in dealing with whatever business they had to attend to than engaging 
in social niceties. Apparently all social congress was reserved for the inn, 
from wherein I heard rough and raucous laughter. It seemed a bit early in the 
day for drunken revelry, and that indicated two possibilities to me. Either the 
people hereabouts were hard and heavy drinkers . . . or else they had found 
something that was particularly hilarious to engage their attention.
I had the sick feeling that I knew exactly what that source of hilarity might 
be, especially when my sharp ears were able to detect a raised female voice. My 
every instinct told me that the only intelligent thing to do was turn around and 
get the hell out of here, and leave the little fool to whatever situation she'd 
gotten herself in. But I had gone too far, had thrown far too much of what I 
laughingly referred to as my self-esteem into the bargain. Like it or not, I was 
committed to getting her home.
A notice was tacked up on the door that said HELP WANTED. I made a mental note 
of it as I opened the door to the inn carefully. The noise from within 
practically blasted me back. I saw therein the scene that I had suspected I was 
going to see. There was Princess Entipy, standing in the middle of the inn, and 
assorted rough-hewn men were at their various tables, laughing their collective 
asses off. Entipy was trying to talk above them, but they were chortling so 
loudly that it was difficult to make out anything she was saying. The only 
person in the pub not laughing was a heavyset woman behind the bar. She had a 
glare as hard as coal, and a heart to match by the look of her surly face. She 
was cleaning a mug and seemed most unamused by the proceedings.
"This is the last time I'm going to say this," Entipy fairly shouted, her fists 
clenched and quivering with barely restrained anger. "We want you to bring a 
commweaver to us immediately. It is a matter of utmost urgency! And we require 
your best accommodations while we wait for the weaver to be brought." Since 
she'd entered without me, I could only assume that she had reverted to using the 
royal "we." Unsurprisingly, the menóabout a dozen in allódidn't seem the least 
bit stirred to action by her demands.
"All right, girl," the woman from behind the bar called. She walked around it 
carrying a mug in either hand and set it down near two behemoths at the table 
nearest Entipy. "Enough foolishness for one day."
"Our commands are not foolishness," shot back Entipy. "Do you have any idea who 
we are?"
I started to move across the tavern as quickly as I could at that point, but 
several men got up at that ill-timed moment, pushing back their chairs, and I 
was temporarily blocked.
One of the behemoths looked up at her in amusement. "Who are we?" he asked, the 
phrasing of his question alone getting peals of laughter from his companions and 
the others in the tavern.
"We are royalty!" Entipy informed him.
"What you are is a royal pain," said the bartender/server. "Now get you gone."
"Ohhhh, Marie, don't be so hard on the girl," the behemoth said. "She's a comely 
thing, and might provide passing amusement. I've never had royalty before." And 
he drew back a hand and slapped Entipy on the rump. The smack was resounding and 
there was more laughter.
Entipy did not hesitate. She grabbed up the mug of ale that had just been set 
down and hurled the contents into the behemoth's face. It hit him square on, the 
contents cascading all over his face, down his thick, bristling beard, and down 
into his breeches.
Oh, my gods, we're dead, I thought, and even as I did, the words What do you 
mean "we"? came to mind.
The behemoth started to rise, letting out a grunt of anger. Entipy windmilled 
her arm around, still holding the solid metal mug, and slammed it into the top 
of his head, knocking him back off the chair and sending him tumbling to the 
floor with a crash.
I would have thought a roar of fury would have arisen as a result, but we had a 
small fragment of luck, because the sequence of events instead struck the rough 
men as remarkably funny. In retrospect, I can see why: This slip of a girl comes 
in, tosses orders about, and when a man twice her size and three times her width 
takes liberties with her, she promptly gives him what-for.
The victim of her attack, however, clearly failed to see the humor of the 
situation. He was on his feet, towering over her. If she'd tried to swing the 
mug at his head she would have missed.
"Let's try that again," he snarled.
"Simon!" snapped the bartender, whom he'd addressed as "Marie." "She's not worth 
wasting time on! She can't hurt youó"
The words had barely left her mouth when Entipy swung the mug again. This time 
she was aiming at his crotch. Not a bad change in tactics, except he was ready 
for her and caught her by the forearm. She let out a screech of rage as he shook 
the mug loose from her grip, and it was at that moment that I started seriously 
considering backing out the door and distancing myself from the whole mess. 
Naturally that was the moment that her gaze fell upon me.
"Apropos!" she shouted. "You are my protector! Protect me!"
All eyes turned to me, and never had I wanted to be someone else, anywhere else, 
as I did at that moment. I was hoping to get out of the situation on the 
strength of my not inconsiderable charm. I waved. They seemed determinedly 
uncharmed.
My mind racing for inspiration, it nearly froze up as the gargantuan Simon took 
a step toward me, bristling with fury. Suddenly, inspiration seized me. Ignoring 
the staff in my hand and the sword strapped to my back, instead I grabbed a long 
spoon off the table next to me, dropped my voice to as deep a level as I could, 
and bellowed in a purely comic style, "I'll save you, my lady! I, your valiant 
knight, am here!"
Well, naturally I looked nothing like a knight. Wild-haired, sopping wet, lame 
of leg, I came across as much like a knight (or a hero, for that matter) as 
Entipy did a princess. I continued to advance, waving the spoon as if it were 
the most lethal blade in the land, and declaring, "I am coming, Your Highness! 
Ho, varlet! Knave! Wretch! Have at thee! Ha! Yah! And yah again!" I stomped on 
the floor and thrust forward again, maneuvering around Simon, who was simply 
staring at me, stunned, since I offered about as much practical threat as a pile 
of leaves. I heard some initial chuckling from nearby, which was exactly what I 
was hoping for. I got to Entipy, grabbed her by the wrist, and swung her 
unceremoniously behind me.
"What are you doing?!" she whispered sharply in my ear.
Simon was still watching me, and the laughter was starting to build. Marie, the 
bartender, still looked suspicious.
I grabbed her by the back of the head and brought her ear to my mouth. I spoke 
very quietly and very quickly. "Now listen to me, you little git," I whispered 
right back. "I've got one blade and I count a dozen in potential opposition . . 
. plus Simon here could kill me bare-handed. The only way we get out of this 
alive is pretend we're playacting, and if you don't go along with this, we're 
dead. We've one chance at this; don't muck it up," and with that I raised my 
voice and cried out again, "One side, varlet, for a princess of the realm! Hah! 
Double hah!"
For just a moment, Entipy's instinct for arrogance warred with her interest in 
self-preservation, and suddenly she cried out, "Ha! Arrogant knaves! Now thou 
shalt know the wrath of my true man-at-arms!"
Pushing it as far as I could, I lunged and jammed the spoon against Simon's 
massive chest. I made a mental note of the fact that it was like pushing against 
a stone wall, but simply acting as if I'd scored a hit, I shouted, "Ha! He is 
down! Let no one else muck with a knight and his lady!"
Simon still didn't make a move against us. He had never seen any display quite 
like it. In this manner, we "hacked" our way through the crowd, shouting and 
making as much brouhaha as we humanly could. Laughter began to build, feed upon 
itself, and I heard people saying "They're mad!" and others countering with "No, 
don't you get it? They're performing fools!" In reality, it might well have been 
a bit of both.
We made it all the way to the door, and I threw it open.
Snow was falling.
I don't mean some light, gentle display; it was cascading, a solid white wall, 
coming down fast and furious. A fearsome wind was cutting through it. Snow was 
already accumulating at a horrifyingly rapid rate. If we went out into that, 
we'd be dead in no time.
Without even a second's hesitation, I slammed the door back, turned and threw my 
arms wide so quickly that I almost smacked Entipy in the face in doing so. "My 
good friends!" I shouted, dropping the bombast, "we are the Royal Players! Let 
us have a round of applause for Simon, who's been a terrific sport! Simon, take 
a bow!" and I limped toward him, grabbed his hand, and raised it up.
There followed thunderous clapping from all around. The confusion slowly seeped 
from Simon's mien, to be replaced by an appreciative smile and a chuckle as if 
he was in on the "joke" the entire time. I grabbed up a napkin and helped him 
dry himself off, saying "Well done!" the entire time.
Entipy was glaring at me. I couldn't have cared less. My concern was our 
survival, not winning her approval. And I could only assume that she shared that 
sentiment to some degree, because although she was glowering, she was doing 
nothing to pierce the veil of our little charade.
The crowning touch was Simon buying us two mugs of mead and treating us as if we 
were his new best friends. As astounding a development as that was, on some 
level I could almost understand it. Men like Simon didn't exactly get a great 
deal of acclaim, so a roomful of people singing his praises for a job well done 
was heady stuff for him.
The mead felt terrific going down, suffusing me with inner warmth while the fire 
I huddled near helped to dry out my clothes. Entipy sat a few feet away. She was 
gulping the mead down. Say what you will about her; at least she could hold her 
liquor. She was not, however, giving me any favoring looks. That didn't bother 
me.
A shadow loomed over me. For one frightening moment I thought it was Simon, 
thinking better of his generosity and moment in the sun, and deciding instead 
that what we really needed was a good pummeling. But I looked up and saw instead 
that it was Marie. She pulled a barrel over and sat upon it, bringing us to eye 
level.
"I'm not so certain that you're traveling players, no matter what you've 
convinced these fools of," she said in a low voice. "I saw the prideful 
haughtiness in her eyes, and the panic in yours when she looked to you. No one 
walking this planet is that good an actor. Whatever you are, you disrupted my 
customers and put my place at risk of having a brawl." I noted the words "my 
place." So she wasn't just an employee; she was the actual pub owner. "I'm not 
going to bring that to their attention because it might prompt the very thing I 
want to avoid," she continued. "But I want you out of here, immediately."
"It's snowing, madam," I said,"and rather fiercely. We'll surely die . . ."
"That is of no consequence to me."
At that moment, Simon, our most unlikely benefactor, raised a mug and called 
out, "To our players!"
"Our players!" echoed the others.
Someone else shouted, "And to our Marie!"
"Marie!" came the call. She bobbed her head in acknowledgment, forcing a smile 
so that she could get back to the business of preparing to send us out to our 
deaths.
And then a third man shouted, "To our noble liege, the dreaded Warlord Shank!"
"To Warlord Shank!" came the call.
If I hadn't been cold before, I froze then.
Warlord Shank. The lord of the so-called Outer Lawless regions, who had risen 
against King Runcible and been driven back, but only at great cost.
I glanced at Entipy, but there was no registering of recognition in her face. 
The name meant nothing to her. No reason it should have, since Shank's incursion 
and the subsequent war had happened long after she'd been shunted away to the 
Faith Women and sheltered from news of the outside world. But it meant more than 
enough to me for the both of us. As incredible as it seemed, we had actually had 
a major stroke of luck. If these men were loyal to Shank, the acquisition of 
Runcible's daughter would have been invaluable. Shank could have blackmailed the 
monarch into practically anything. Either that or the king would have told them 
to go ahead and kill her, for which I wouldn't entirely have blamed him, except 
that it would have meant my demise as well (since she was quick to finger me as 
her "protector").
"So . . . this would be the Outer Lawless regions, then," I said slowly.
Marie looked at me oddly. "Know you not where you are?"
"We . . . became separated from our troupe, and have been somewhat lost 
recently," I said. "I wasn't quite certain. And if this is the Outer Lawless 
regions . . . then what I saw outside would be the start of the famed Outer 
Lawless winter . . . ?"
She nodded, grimacing in a resigned manner. She didn't seem any more enthused 
about it than I. "Seems more intense this year. Earlier. But that would be it, 
yes."
Well, we were well and truly screwed. When snow was dumped in the Outer Lawless 
regions, it came fast and fierce, and then it stayed. The natives of the land 
managed to get around on the snow-sodden roads, but neither Entipy nor I were 
natives. Nor did we have the requisite furs, snowshoes, or boots, or any sort of 
survival equipment. There was simply no way that we would manage to get any 
significant distance. We were, in effect, stuck there. Except the "there" wasn't 
being particularly hospitable.
"A commweaver," I said with growing urgency. "Do you know where there is one?"
"Down the road, straight east, about twenty miles. She serves the various nobles 
and feudal lords. Goes by the name of Dotty, which is apt enough since she is a 
bit dotty. But she's been around forever; so long that folks hereabouts 
sometimes call her 'Ma Spell.' Charges a pretty sum for her services, from what 
I hear."
With the snow on the ground, twenty miles might as well have been twenty 
hundred. Walking wasn't an option. I would have not hesitated to steal a beast 
to carry us, but even if we got there, the situation was exactly as I thought: 
Such weavers charged mightily for their services, and we didn't have two sovs to 
rub together.
Our predicament didn't garner a scintilla of pity from the hardeyed Marie. "Now, 
as I was saying, out you go . . . unless you've money to pay for food or 
lodgings, which I strongly suspect you don't, since you didn't even have the 
brains to go around and solicit money for your 'performance' . . ."
I kicked myself mentally. I'd been so relieved that we were alive that I had 
missed an opportunity for profit. I was losing my touch. Inspired, I said, "We 
could stay here, be players in residenceó"
"Dump alcohol on my patrons? Pick fights on a regular basis? And how long before 
I wind up the worse for it." She snorted disdainfully at the thought.
I remembered the sign on the door. "You need help. I know taverns. I grew up in 
one." The truth out of my mouth; God, I really was losing my touch.
"I don't need you two. Her, in particular."
I looked in Entipy's direction once more. She had downed the contents of the mug 
and was wavering slightly from side to side. I felt one good push would send her 
tumbling to the floor. "She is something of an annoyance, I'll admit . . ."
"I'll say," she grumbled. Nothing brings commiseration like mutual resentment 
for others. "A regular prima donna, right? So used to playing noblewomen that 
she thinks she excretes gold."
"Actresses," I sighed. "What can you do with them?"
"I know what I'd like to do with one of them."
My eyes narrowed and I leaned forward conspiratorially. "And just think what you 
could do . . . with one in your employ. Lugging water. Cleaning tables. Hauling 
garbage. Slinging ale."
Marie looked at me thoughtfully and then at Entipy. A slow smile spread across 
her face. It looked rather odd there, as if it was an infrequent visitor and had 
no idea what to do having arrived. "You are a schemer, aren't you," she said.
"I have my moments."
She chewed on her doughy lip as she gave the matter some thought. Outside the 
wind was starting to howl. The prospect of stumbling out into that was not one 
that I relished.
"Very well. The both of you, then, but I'll pay you as one and feed you as one. 
And if she so much as drips a drop of ale or mead on one of my customers, by 
accident much less in a fit of pique, then out you both go. Understood?"
I bobbed my head eagerly, relieved.
"There's a storage room in the back that the two of you can use for sleeping."
"The . . . two of us . . ."
She looked at me oddly. "I assume that you two are lovers. I mean, no man in his 
right mind would stay with her, so I conclude that you are besotted with ardor 
and therefore not thinking clearly."
"Why would I be in love with her?"
At that she laughed, and it was not a kind noise. "If there's one thing I've 
learned, it's never to wonder why men do the things they do."
"Very wise," I said diplomatically.
She looked me up and down. "You've only the things on your back?" I nodded. 
"There's old clothes you can change into in the storage room as well. Clothes 
I've taken off the backs of patrons who tried to run out on their bills. Some of 
them should fit. Get changed and get to work. No time like the present." She 
rose and waddled off to the bar.
"Are you out of your mind?! You are! You're out of your mind!" We were standing 
in the back room. The shelves were piled with assorted supplies, including the 
aforementioned clothes, plus mugs, plates, cleaning implements, and other 
things. Entipy was making clear to me that she was less than enthused with the 
bargain I had struck. "Me! Entipy, Princess of Isteria, a serving wench!"
"Keep your voice down!" I whispered.
"I will not keep my voice down! I am a princess of Isteria, and Ió!"
She got no further because I grabbed her, shoved her against the wall with a 
thud and clapped my hand over her mouth. Several mugs clattered to the floor, 
but that was the least of my problems. My major difficulty was that Entipy, not 
taking particularly well to being ham-handedly shushed, was biting down hard on 
the fleshy part of the hand covering her mouth. I fought back a pained shriek.
"Before you force me to release your mouth and get us both killed, listen to 
me!" I said between gritted teeth. "You heard them swear fealty to Warlord 
Shank! He warred with your father and would like nothing better than to get his 
hands on your father's little girl! Declare your identity to all and sundry and 
you as good as bring down your father's kingdom! Does that matter to you at 
all?"
She shook her head furiously and bit down harder. I grunted deep in my throat.
"And while he's holding you prisoner," I managed to say, my voice jumping higher 
in pain, "he will keep you in a deep, dank dungeon that will make this place 
look luxurious in comparison, and subject you to all manner of torture. And if 
and when your beloved Tacit comes to save you, you'll be a blind, tongue-seared, 
disfigured thing barely recognizable as yourself, that Tacit would just as soon 
kill to put out of your misery as love you. Is that what you want? Because if it 
is, keep biting my hand, I'll release it, you convince these bravos of your 
identity, and that is what will happen to you!"
She stopped biting me. She glared at me poisonously, but she stopped biting.
"We have . . . no . . . choice," I said, my hand still stinging. "And we are 
damned lucky besides. If they had believed you were more than a loon, you'd be 
on your way to a dungeon. If they had tossed us out into the snow, you'd be on 
your way to oblivion. This way we have shelter, clothes on our backs, some 
degree of sustenance, and, most important, a means of earning money so that we 
can go to this 'Dotty' and have her convey a message to your lord father. This 
is not only our best chance, it is our only chance. I wouldn't give us a hope of 
lasting an hour in that snow, and with the gods dropping this opportunity in our 
laps, they might not be so generous if we throw it back at them. Now . . . can I 
safely remove my hand with the confidence that you won't send us spiraling to 
perdition?"
She didn't nod, just continued to scowl. But I took that as consent and 
slowlyótimidlyóI removed my hand. She pushed me away roughly and I stepped back.
"You expect me," she said very slowly, in an affronted tone, "to earn money by 
working for it?"
"Believe it or not, Highness, the vast majority of the world has very little 
problem with the concept. The Faith Women had you working, and there was no 
money involved. Think of this as a step up in your fortunes."
"This is not just . . . not equitable . . . not right . . ."
And I lost myself.
Looking back, it's difficult to believe that I reacted the way that I did. I 
advanced on her. She did not take so much as a single step back but instead 
stood her ground, and I snarled in her face. "Not right? Not right? I was born 
with nothing, the product of my mother being brutally raped! She sold her body 
to make ends meet and keep us with a roof over our head, and when a passing 
brute murdered her for sport, the worth of her life was reduced to a handful of 
coins by your father's court! Work? I've worked since before I could walk, which 
I was never able to do properly anyway! I've scraped for every sov I've ever 
held, only to see it taken away from me by the first and only woman I've ever 
let myself feel anything for. I've never known anything resembling rightness or 
justice in my entire life, so don't you dare stand there and complain to me 
about what's right, do you understand me? Do you?"
She made no response. I didn't expect her to. I turned away from her, flushed 
and humiliated that so much had come spilling from my mouth, and only relieved 
that I had notóin the heat of emotionsósaid even more than I should have.
"How are we supposed to share this room?" she asked.
It was such a mundane concern that I was surprised she even asked. I glanced 
around. "It's not large, but we'll both fit."
"I don't permit it," she said.
"I don't care," I replied, suddenly feeling drained.
She opened her mouth, then closed it, considering. "If . . . I let you reside in 
here as my bodyguard . . . you will notó"
"Try something untoward?" I guffawed at the notion. "Highness, with all respect 
. . . I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot staff."
She was silent for a moment, and then said, "Oh." That's all. Just "Oh."
I wasn't quite sure what to make of that.
 
 
Chapter 17
 
I have never so desperately wanted to take joy in another person's misfortune 
before, and I have never been so miserably thwarted as I was during those long 
months at the Forest's Edge Inn.
Most of my time was spent washing dishes or doing relatively benign menial work. 
For some strange reason, Marie actually seemed to take a liking to me, which I 
found disconcerting enough. But her dislike for Entipy only intensified and, I 
have to say, it certainly wasn't because of anything that Entipy was doing. In 
fact, it might have been because of what Entipy wasn't doing. To be specific, 
she wasn't complaining.
The princess, for all her . . . princessiness . . . was also apparently 
something of a realist. I had expected, as had Marie apparently, that day after 
day Entipy would find something new to complain about. That she would lash out 
at customers, or snarl at them or in some way do something that would wind up 
getting her kicked out into the nearest snowbank. We were, however, both 
destined to be disappointed. Marie bore down on Entipy, working her as hard as 
she could.
And Entipy said nothing.
I don't mean that she didn't complain, or was reticent. I mean that, from 
daylight to nightfall, she didn't speak. She would move from customer to 
customer and take orders without comment. She was able to write the orders down 
to keep track of them, which made her something of a curiosity considering that 
most tavern wenches depended upon their memory and repeating the orders back to 
get it in their heads.
And it's not as if the men were gentle with her. They would shout at her, or 
speak in "gentle" tones laced with the crudest words and suggestions they could 
come up with. They would slap her on the backside, pinch her on the cheek, haul 
her onto their laps as if she were a child's plaything, and laugh as she 
struggled free.
All through it, she spoke not a word.
I watched all this, and every so often she would glance my way, but I couldn't 
quite tell if she was genuinely seeing me or not. It was as if she had withdrawn 
into herself. Either that or she reasonedóprobably quite correctlyóthat if she 
traded words with them, matters might escalate. As it was, assorted customers 
would invariably find it a challenge to get her to say something, and then 
become irritated when their endeavors met with lack of success. Sometimes they 
became surly or belligerent over it, but invariably they'd just grow bored and 
mutter amongst themselves.
Entipy's muteness annoyed Marie no end. "You're supposed to make the customers 
feel at home! That way they'll drink more," Marie had told her one time.
It wasn't as if Entipy never spoke. On rare occasions she voiced her opinions, 
and this was one of those times. "Engaging me in small talk takes up time," 
Entipy had replied in a monotone, speaking as a woman already dead. "By 
eliminating that wasted time, it leaves them only to occupy themselves by 
drinking." I overheard that particular conversation, and had to admit that she 
had a valid enough point.
Still . . .
. . . it disturbed me. It disturbed me because I had no idea what was going 
through her head. That should be enough to be of concern to just about any man 
who valued keeping his skin intact.
She did not speak to me. I think she was disappointed in me. Either that or she 
was disappointed that Tacit had not yet mysteriously arrived to rescue her from 
the life of drudgery. In any event, she looked to me less and less as time went 
on, until the cuffs and abuse she received at the hands of the customers didn't 
prompt her even to glance momentarily in my direction. She had given up any 
hope, apparently, that I would be of any use to her as a protector. Part of me 
was relieved in this. Part of me . . . wasn't.
Marie worked her all the harder, extending her hours and paying us as minimally 
as possible, and even taking out an unfair percentage from our wages to 
accommodate the lodgings she had provided and the food we ate. Considering our 
"lodgings" consisted of a half-empty storage closet, and the food we ate was 
invariably either leftovers or food of insufficient quality to sell to the 
guests, the money being apportioned from us was definitely not on par with what 
we were receiving.
And Entipy continued to bear up under it. I kept wondering if she was like a 
volcano, momentarily corked. Such efforts are naturally stopgap, and will blow 
sky high given sufficient time and provocation. I hoped I would not be around 
when the blowup finally occurred.
Every night we shared that cramped room. I would always wrap myself in a blanket 
so as not to risk coming into any sort of physical contact with Her Worship. 
And, suspecting I knew what form her vengeance would take, I always said the 
exact same thing before going to sleep:
"Thank you for not burning the pub down."
She never said anything. Night after night, month after month, not a word.
The princess became thinner, and I would have thought that such a thing would 
have made her look nearly skeletal. But I was wrong. Her chin became sharply 
rounded, her cheekbones more angular. And through it all, she continued to carry 
herself with something that I can only call quiet dignity.
I did not want to admire her. Absolutely did not. And I certainly didn't want to 
pity her. I wanted to feel nothing about her or for her. Unfortunately, the 
world does not always act in a manner consistent with one's plans for it.
Matters came to an unexpected turn one night that was particularly bitter cold, 
although the calendar claimed that the winter was approaching its end. It was 
the usual raucous crowd in the tavern, and there was one man in particular who 
seemed to be more annoying than anyone else. He was a burly man with an 
eyepatch. Indeed, when he'd first walked in, I'd had a momentary flash of panic 
when I saw the patch because I thought it was Tacit, but an instant later I 
relaxed as the rest of the bruiser followed his head into the pub. His name, so 
I heard people shout in greeting, was "Ripper," although I presume that to be 
his nickname. He had a large, curved blade hanging from his belt, which seemed 
to indicate that he took the name rather seriously.
I saw Marie stiffen when he came in, and that alone should have tipped me there 
was going to be trouble, since Marie was normally the unflappable sort. Ripper 
was a trapper; I could tell because of the mountain of furs he had tucked over 
one shoulder that he was likely taking to sell somewhere. Trappers have that 
certain arrogance that is usually possessed by those who are self-congratulatory 
about making a living outsmarting creatures with brains the size of walnuts. He 
swaggered to the middle of the room, flopped down at a table with men of a 
similar ilk, and ordered up ale in a loud voice.
Entipy, as was her custom, remained silent. She was new to Ripper, though, and 
he seemed hell-bent on getting a response out of her. He cajoled, he laughed, he 
poked and prodded, and Entipy took it all. Every so often she would glower at 
him, but nothing beyond that. Ripper became more and more impatient with her, 
but whereas others had simply gotten bored, he became even more abusive. He 
groped at her, fondled her, tried to get her to yelp or curse or do something. 
Still she was closemouthed. It was as if she didn't trust herself to speak; that 
if she opened her mouth, she knew that something would come tumbling out of it 
that would tag her for who she was, and result in an extremely unpleasant series 
of events.
I was washing a skillet back in the kitchen, a big, heavy iron pan. But as the 
noises became louder and louder, I peered through the door and watched the scene 
unfolding. I watched him try to grab a fistful of her breast and, when she 
turned away too quickly for him to succeed, he grabbed her ass through her 
dress. She shoved his hand away, and even Marie seemed put out with him as she 
shouted, "Ripper!"
"No interest in keeping customers happy?" he called out.
And all I could think of was that this was the kind of lout who had harassed my 
mother all those years. I had witnessed men treating her in such a manner for so 
long that in my childhood innocence I had thought of it as normal, even 
acceptable. But I felt the rage starting to build in me, the sense of 
possessiveness. Perhaps it was motivated by the outraged child I harbored in my 
bosom, or perhaps the months of being stuck in this place had simply driven me 
mad with cabin fever. But a brute like this one had taken Madelyne from me, the 
only person who'd ever really cared about me. The only thing that was genuinely 
"mine." Entipy was quite a different animal. She wasn't mine, nor did I want 
her, because I didn't trust for a second the dark brain that dwelt behind those 
darker eyes. She was mine, though, in the sense that she represented my ticket 
to fame and riches, provided I could get her back to her father, the king, in 
one piece.
Was I worried that Ripper would kill her, as a ruffian had taken Madelyne's 
life? I wasn't sure. I knew that it could lead down that path if left unchecked. 
And besides . . . he was starting to aggravate the hell out of me. This 
thuggery, this loutishness . . . I'd seen it for so long, tolerated it for so 
long, and my tolerance level was dwindling.
And then Ripper grabbed the hem of Entipy's skirt, raised it, and shoved his 
hand right up it. Involuntary as it might have been, it got him what he'd been 
seeking: a yelp of protest from the girl as he groped with his rough hands 
around her privates.
I didn't give myself time to think it through, because if I did, the odds were 
that I would have thought better of it. I strode (well, limped briskly) from the 
kitchen, the skillet at my side. Ripper didn't see me coming, because he was 
distracted, and I instantly saw why. Entipy had whirled to face him, her lips 
constricted in a rictus of fury, and her fingers curved into what could only be 
described as claws. She was clearly ready to leap at him and tear the skin off 
his face. Had I just been emerging from the kitchen at that point, I probably 
would have stopped and watched her go at him, placing even odds on her. But I 
was too caught up in the fever pitch of the moment to think rationally.
I pushed through the laughing throng, blood pounding so loudly in my ears that I 
barely heard any of it, and just before Entipy made her move, I grabbed Ripper's 
eyepatch from behind and shoved it. The patch slid over his good eye, leaving 
him momentarily blinded.
Ripper let out a startled yell, his head snapping around instinctively. There 
was a blackened hole where an eye had once resided. He reached up to clear the 
patch from his good eye so that he could see what was going on, and I swung the 
skillet as hard as I could. The bottom of the skillet slammed into his face, and 
I heard a satisfying crunch of bone. The skillet made a "clonging" sound as if 
it were metal striking metal. I drew the skillet back only far enough to get 
enough of an arc, and I saw blood fountaining down his confused face, and then I 
hit him again. And again. And again. I didn't give him so much as a moment to 
compose himself or launch a counterattack. I must have been some sight. My red 
hair, grown long and uncut, my red beard having grown in somewhat dark since I'd 
stopped shaving, my eyes wild and furious, seeing the abuses heaped upon my 
mother and my helplessness to stop them, all incarnated in this one oaf whom I 
was pummeling with a kitchen utensil.
Ripper tumbled off his chair, tried to sit up, and I hit him as hard as I 
humanly could on the back of the head. He had never managed to get the eyepatch 
clear, so I have no idea whether his eye rolled up into the top of his head. But 
he slumped forward, unmoving.
There was a stunned silence in the bar. I didn't so much as glance in Entipy's 
direction as I reached down, grabbed Ripper firmly by the back of his shirt, and 
dragged him toward the door. It goes to show how stupid I was: I didn't care 
just then what Marie did, or whether she threw us out into the snow. For one 
moment, one fleeting moment, I had some measure of satisfaction in my life, and 
it felt damned good.
I threw open the door. Cold air blasted in so forcefully that the still-stunned 
patrons shivered and huddled against it, and then I sent Ripper's unconscious 
body rolling off into the snow. I shoved the door closed, which was no mean feat 
considering the force of the wind pushing against it. I took a few steps forward 
and saw Marie standing behind the bar, watching me impassively. I looked in 
Entipy's direction to see what she was doing, but she was just standing there, 
silent as the tomb, inscrutable. Her fingers were still curled into claws.
The door suddenly burst open and Ripper was there, in the doorway, bruises 
already swelling on his face. He had his curved blade in his hand, and I 
mentally cursed myself for not having taken it off him when I'd had the chance. 
I faced him, not moving from where I stood. Of course I didn't move; the 
thunderous rush of energy that had prompted me to intercede in the first place 
had deserted me, and now I was rooted to the spot in absolute terror.
"You little bastard!" howled Ripper, not knowing how apt the description was. A 
skillet wasn't going to do me a bit of good against an infuriated brute with a 
blade. I braced myself, wondering in an oblique manner what it was going to feel 
like to be gutted like a fish, and then a crossbow bolt thudded into the door, 
not half an inch from Ripper's head. He froze and turned toward the bar.
Marie was standing there, cradling a crossbow as if she'd been born with one. 
There was another bolt already loaded into it. "Leave, Ripper," she said 
quietly. "You're banned for six months. If I see you come in here again, I don't 
miss again. Clear?"
He stared at her sullenly, like a great animal knowing that it was caught. Then, 
without a further word, he turned and walked back out into the snow, pulling the 
door shut behind him.
No one said anything for a time. We simply stood there in a frozen tableau, and 
then Marie said, "Apropos . . . may I speak to you, please." She lowered the 
crossbow, storing it behind the bar where apparently she kept it for times of 
emergency, and headed into the kitchen. I followed her, still clutching the 
skillet, listening to a rising buzz of voices as the remaining patrons talked 
among themselves, casting glances toward me as I passed them. I looked in 
Entipy's direction, but she was looking away from me. All the while I was 
silently berating myself. I had acted on foolish impulse and it was going to 
cost us. Not only were we going to lose our lodgings, but Ripper would likely be 
out there in the snow waiting for us. We were going to be dead before the next 
sunrise, all because I had forgotten my credo and thrust myself into harm's way. 
Well, if I was so stupid as to do that, maybe I deserved what was coming.
I stepped into the kitchen. Marie was waiting for me. She pulled me forward and 
kissed me on the cheek. I gaped at her.
"Ripper used to be my husband," she said. "He dumped me with this bar and a 
mountain of debt and went off to be a trapper and dally with young and 
good-looking wenches . . . which I used to be one of, believe it or not. Thank 
you for rearranging his face. He deserved it."
"You're . . . you're welcome," I said in surprise. I couldn't quite believe it. 
I kept waiting for some sort of follow-up that would bring my momentary sense of 
elation crashing down.
What she said next didn't do that at all. "How would you like to earn some 
serious money?" she said. "Beyond the pittance I can afford to pay you."
My first impulse was to point out that the reason it was a pittance was because 
she kept extracting sizable portions of it, but for once my brain outraced my 
tongue. Instead I said, "Will it be enough to pay a commweaver?"
"Probably not, but it will bring you a lot closer."
"Will I have to kill anyone?"
She laughed coarsely at that. "No. No, it's a serving job, actually. Helping to 
cater a rather lush banquet being sponsored by one of the nobility. They're a 
bit short on staff help, you see, and the word's gone out to all tavern and pub 
owners in a thirty-mile radius to send whatever help they can. Job pays nine 
sovs a head. If both you and your woman go, that's eighteen. It'll leave me 
shorthanded for an evening, but I can manage. It's the least I can do," and she 
half-smiled, "just for the joy of seeing Ripper's nose mashed somewhere into the 
back of his head."
I couldn't believe it was happening. Genuine luck was being tossed my way. I, 
who was the foremost advocate of the philosophy that no good deed goes 
unpunished, was actually benefiting from stepping in to help someone else, even 
though my motives were purely for my self-satisfaction. "All right . . . all 
right, definitely, yes," I said. "Definitely, I'm in. When and where is it, and 
what's the occasion?"
"It's a week from Sunday, at the castle of the dreaded Warlord Shank."
I felt my throat close up. "It . . . is?"
"Yes. It appears our beloved Warlord is preparing to take himself a bride, and 
he is throwing a gathering for all the local nobles to introduce her. The 
Countess of Pince-Nez, I think her name is."
"How . . . nice," I managed to say. "Although I'm . . . a bit surprised. You'd 
think that someone of the, uhm, warlord's stature . . . wouldn't be wanting for 
staff."
"Well, he does have a tendency to kill those whom he finds wanting, so he can be 
a little shorthanded at times."
"We can't pass it up," said Entipy.
We had retired for the night to the wretched little storage room that we shared, 
and I was staring at her, goggle-eyed, in the dimness. "Are you insane?" I 
demanded, and then reminded myself that I knew the answer to that one already. 
"Walk straight into the den of our enemy?"
"My father's enemy, not mine," she reminded him. "He doesn't know me, or you. 
We'll be perfectly safe. And the money is too good to pass up. Eighteen sovs is 
almost halfway to a duke."
"I don't care if it's almost halfway to a king. The risk isó"
"The risk is minimal," Entipy said, "and worth it. I'm going. Whether you go or 
not is entirely your own affair. But consider that there's an element of risk 
the longer we stay here. The sooner we get back home, the better, and eighteen 
sovs will get us there sooner than later."
I glared at her. "I liked you better when you weren't talking."
"Yes, I'm sure you did. So will you go with me?"
I let out a long, exasperated sigh. "It's madness . . . but all right. Just, for 
pity's sake, keep your head down, don't look anyone in the eye, and stay out of 
trouble."
She nodded, and lay back on the blankets spread on the hard floor. As always, I 
positioned myself as far from her as I could.
And then she said something that made my blood run cold.
"You could move closer, if you want."
Oh dear heaven, I thought, the last thing I want is for her to form an 
attachment to me. Out loud, I said, "I'm . . . fine right here."
"Very well," she said, her voice sounding a bit chillier, which was just fine by 
me. I had no interest in upsetting the status quo between us.
As was my custom, I said, "Good night. Thank you for not burning the pub down."
Every night that remark had been met with silence. Tonight, however, she 
replied, "You're welcome." And before I could say anything else, she added, "And 
thank you for handling that . . . man. I would have done it, you know. I was 
going to . . ."
"Yes, I know. And you probably could have."
"Thank you. But what you did . . . it was very brave."
"Is that what it was?" was my only response. I guess it really had been brave . 
. . because it was so bugger-all stupid, and if there was one thing I'd come to 
realize, it was that bravery and bugger-all stupidity went hand in hand.
 
 
Chapter 18
 
I stood over the corpse of the fallen dreaded Warlord Shank, a bloody sword in 
one hand and his headóstill dripping from the severed neckóin my other. "That," 
I crowed, "is what happens to the enemies of King Runcible of Isteria!"
Everyone in the great room gasped in amazement and fled before my burgeoning 
wrath. The only one left there was Entipy, who made loud fluttery noises about 
how wonderful I was. Then the phoenix flew in through the window, its great 
wings stirring the tapestries on the wall and knocking over candlesticks and 
flowery ornaments before settling down in front of us. Then we climbed on its 
back and flew home.
It was a very pleasant dream, and one that I awoke to with startling regularity 
over the next several days. I wondered if my " destiny" was calling to me, but 
then came to my senses and decided that it was insanity tempting me instead. 
There was absolutely no way that I was going to stick my neck out at the banquet 
and make some sort of strike against the warlord. First, the odds were that I 
would fail. Second, if I did succeed, I'd never make it out alive. And third . . 
.
Well, there wasn't a third, really. I hadn't seen much point in dwelling on it 
beyond that.
I did feel the need to caution Entipy, somewhere in the neighborhood of a 
hundred times, that we had to be as cautious as possible. Just because we had 
agreed there was risk involved, that didn't mean we couldn't find ways to 
minimize that risk.
"You may hear them say things about your father," I warned her, "or your mother. 
Or even about you. Insulting things, false things. It's not uncommon for people 
who are celebrating to curse the names of their enemies, since it's something 
they all agree upon and it gives them a degree of satisfaction that they can 
'get away' with it since the person being discussed isn't present."
"I know," she said.
I continued as if she hadn't spoken. "You cannot let anyone notice that this 
bothers you in any way, shape, or form. It will attract attention, and that 
would be bad. Not bad as in inconvenient, or naughty, but bad as in fatal."
"I know," she repeated more forcefully. "Apropos, of the two things in this 
world that I do not care about the most, the first is my parents, and the second 
is what people say about them. As for what they might say about meóthey don't 
know me. And even if they did, well . . ." She shrugged. "What do they matter?"
It seemed a fairly positive attitude to take. I could only hope that she abided 
by it.
The only other thing that made me nervous, as I'm sure you can surmise, was the 
comment about how the warlord tended to dismiss members of his staff rather 
permanently. Still, if I managed to keep my head low and not dispatch a guest 
with a skillet, I had no fear that I could avoid any serious problems. I only 
hoped that Entipy could be counted on to do the same. She was basically 
something of a wildblade, and having such a person guarding one's back is more 
than enough to make one very, very edgy.
Marie's disposition had improved not only toward me, but also toward Entipy. The 
princess maintained her usual reticence around the pub, but Marie eased up on 
her somewhat as well . . . probably because she believed that Entipy and I were 
lovers and therefore the new air of courtesy she was affording me extended to 
the princess. To that end, on the Sunday of the job, she even lent us a Heffer . 
. . an extremely long-haired horse that was specially bred for the harsh climes 
of the Outer Lawless regions. Having been given directions, we set off for the 
castle of the dreaded warlord.
I sat up front on the horse, Entipy behind me. She had her arms draped around me 
casually in order to hold on. She wasn't doing anything untoward beyond that, 
which relieved me no end. Her affections were not something I particularly 
wanted to deal with.
"I didn't burn it down," she said abruptly. The castle was visible in the 
distance, or at least the upper towers were. The rest of it was obscured behind 
a great wall ringing the entire structure. We weren't anywhere close to sunset, 
but there was a gentle red glow suffusing the horizon.
At first I didn't know what she was talking about. I thought she meant the 
castle, and then I figured she was referring to the pub. I said nothing, and the 
only sound to be heard (other than the distant noises of revelry) was the steady 
clip-clop of the Heffer's hooves.
"The retreat. Where the Faith Women lived. I didn't burn it down."
I wasn't sure which was more surprising to me: that she'd brought it up out of 
the blue at all, or that she was claiming not to have done it.
"You didn't," I said, sounding skeptical.
"No, I didn't," she repeated.
"The Faith Women seemed to be under the impression that you did." I didn't even 
bother to mention the demented smile that she had flashed, which came acrossóto 
me, at leastólike someone who was extremely dangerous and certainly capable of 
torching anyone or anything that offended her.
She did that little shoulder shrug of hers. "I can't help what they think . . . 
or what you think."
"You can tell me what happened."
"Why do you care?"
"I don't. I just . . . wanted something to pass the time."
She was silent for a time. I guess she was considering it. Finally she said, "I 
didn't cause it. I just . . . didn't stop it. I hated the Faith Women."
"Why?"
"Because they hated me."
"Why did they hate you?"
"Because I'm better than they are. People always hate people who are better than 
they are."
That one struck a little closer than I would have liked, but I tried not to show 
it. Instead I said gamely, "Then by that logic, you hated the Faith Women 
because they were better than you. At least, that's one possible 
interpretation."
She shook her head with assurance. "No. Sometimes you just hate someone because 
they're cretins."
"Ah. I see. And you can distinguish one kind of hatred from the other?"
"Of course. Can't you?"
"All right," I said, not wanting to get much further into a topic that made me 
quite that uncomfortable. "You hated each other. But you didn't burn the place 
down."
"No. Instead I prayed to the goddess for help."
"Which goddess would that be?"
"Hecate."
I knew the name instantly and was not especially cheered. "Hecate. Isn't she a 
sort of goddess of dark magic?"
"She's been known to be," Entipy replied in a calm, neutral voice that only 
chilled me more.
"Have you an interest in weaving?"
"No. Just in making people suffer."
I couldn't quite determine whether she was serious. What I did know for certain 
was that I didn't want to ask.
She seemed to be waiting for me to make a further inquiry. When I didn't, she 
continued, "I prayed to Hecate that she would deliver me from the Faith Women. 
She answered me twice. First she sent me Tacit. He could have taken me out of 
there. But Hecate found a cat's-paw with too pure a heart, because he urged me 
to remain until the proper time. He kept saying he had a sense of destiny." She 
said those last words with what I could only term as "disdain." It was the first 
time in our somewhat odd association that she had spoken of Tacit in less than 
glowing, even reverent terms. I took silent pleasure in that, even though I knew 
in my heart that Tacit had been correct, and the only reason he wasn't 
fulfilling that destiny was because I had interceded. "But then Hecate chose to 
answer my prayers a second time," Entipy went on. "I was in a study, deep in 
prayer. There were candles by the window, and suddenly a strong wind came in, 
blew the shutters wide, and knocked the candles onto the floor. The wind came 
from nowhere, the shutters should have held, and when the candle fell, it should 
have gone out. But none of those things happened. What else could that be but 
divine providence?"
"Coincidence? Bad luck? I've had a ton of it and it wasn't at the hands of 
gods."
"Are you quite sure about that?" she asked.
I started to reply and then fell silent. Truth to tell, there'd been quite a few 
times where I felt as if the gods were out to get me.
Taking my silence for assent, she said, "I stood there and watched the flame 
from the candle start to spread across the carpet. I watched the winds fan the 
flames, and watched as they leaped to the drapes. If I shouted an alarm, the 
Faith Women could likely have stopped it. But I didn't. I simply let nature take 
its course.
"The Faith Women eventually smelled the smoke, felt the heat. They ran in, saw 
the entire room being consumed, and saw me standing there. One of them looked at 
me and kind of shrieked, 'Gods . . . the flames are in her eyes.' Which they 
probably were, reflected there, but I certainly must have looked nicely demonic.
"To this day, I'm not entirely sure why they didn't just leave me there. One of 
them grabbed me, slung me over her shoulder, while the others scrambled to find 
water and bring the blaze under control. But it was much too late; the flames 
were already licking at the second story of the building, which just happened to 
be the library. When the books went up, well . . . between those and the dried 
wood of the structure itself, it was just a matter of time."
"And they just assumed you'd started it."
"Of course."
"And you did nothing to change their minds."
"If there's one thing I've learned, squire," she said lightly, sounding more 
cheerful than I'd ever heard her, "it's always best to let people think you're 
more than you are than less. Give people a reason to like you . . . and they'll 
take advantage of you. Give people a reason to fear you . . . and they'll fear 
you."
"I see. So when you become queen, you plan on a reign of terror."
"Oh yes," she said matter-of-factly.
"Has it occurred to you that those who reign in terror usually die in pain from 
the blade of an assassin?"
I felt her shrug behind me. If she had considered it, it certainly didn't 
trouble her especially. "If things become too dire, I can always pray to Hecate. 
Although there are some who say that, in one person's lifetime, she'll only 
answer prayers three times. And she's answered mine twice so far. So I'll 
continue to worship her, just to stay in her good graces. But if I'm looking for 
her to actually grant me somethingólike the death of enemies or something like 
thatóthen obviously I'll have to save it for something very special."
I didn't even want to consider what someone as twisted as Entipy might consider 
"special." Then a thought occurred to me. "Why did you tell me? Aren't you 
worried that I might wind up liking you?"
"No. You hate yourself too much to like anybody."
I was glad she said that, because it removed whatever danger there might be that 
I might start to relax my guard or like her a bit more. The only reason I didn't 
knock her off the horse and leave her behind was because we needed the nine sovs 
her presence was going to bring at the castle.
The event was already in full swing when we got there and reported, as we'd been 
instructed, to the castle steward. The contrast between the cold outside and the 
warmth inside was most impressive. From the upper halls where the celebration 
originated, we could hear laughter and merriment, and the thrumming of musical 
instruments and the sound of dancing feet. It was curious. In hearing the 
dreaded Warlord Shank described, I'd heard him made out to be a virtual 
incarnation of evil. In fact, all of his followers were likewise ostensibly 
irredeemably evil. But apparently one can be evil and yet, when celebrating, be 
indistinguishable from everyone else.
Sometimes I wondered which category I fell into. And oftentimes I stopped 
wondering because I didn't really want to know.
The steward looked me up and down disdainfully. "Yer uh cripple!" he said in 
disgust.
"Yes," I said. There didn't seem to be any other reasonable response.
"Ken yuh work?"
"As long as the work doesn't entail extended jaunts, or flashes of dazzling 
footwork necessitated by complex choreography."
He stared at me blankly. "Wha'?"
"Yes. I can work."
"Fine. Upstairs wi' yuh, then. And no eatin' enny of th' serious food. Yeh can 
have some bread if yuh want."
The noise from the main hall become almost deafening as we drew closer. We stood 
outside the main double doors a moment, as I steadied my pounding heart. We were 
walking into the heart of enemy territory for the princely (and princessly) sum 
of nine sovs each. Somehow I always thought my life would be worth more than 
that. On the other hand, somehow I always knew that it wouldn't. I pushed open 
the doors and a virtual wall of sound slammed into us. People were talking with 
one another at dazzlingly high volume, most of themóby my guessówith serious 
amounts of alcohol already in them. A band consisting of pipers, drummers, and a 
harpist was in the center of the room on what appeared to be a section set up 
for dancing. And dancing there most definitely was, people grasping each other's 
hands and spinning in a circle. That certainly seemed the most pointless kind of 
dancing to me. All that work, just to wind up back where one started? One might 
simply have stayed there in the first place and saved the exertion.
But all of that was secondary. What struck me most about the great hall was the 
dÈcor. It was furnished in a style that I could only term "Early Atrocity."
Bleached bones, presumably of former enemies, decorated the walls and, not only 
that, had been incorporated into much of the furniture. The legs of the main 
dining table were genuine legs; the armchairs, I'm sure you can guess. There 
were tapestries, but they consisted mostly of depictions of slaughter, slaughter 
everywhere. Women being raped, children being tossed onto fires, men being 
crucified. All of it, a celebration of the worst sort of brutality. Suddenly the 
line of demarcation between the festivals of good and evil became that much 
clearer for me. When good is celebrating, you don't have an overwhelming urge to 
run screaming into the night. Well . . . unless a mime is performing.
I became more panicked than ever over the notion of being found out, because I 
could have no more pronounced reminder of where we were than the furnishings of 
that place. I kept imagining being discovered as a squire for King Runcible, in 
service to his daughter, who was standing to my immediate right. If that 
happened, my buttocks would likely be pressed into permanent service as an end 
table. Unfortunately, the hall was quite brightly lit. Would that it had not 
been so, for I would have liked nothing better than to have my vision of this 
chamber of horrors severely limited. I looked over at Entipy to see how she was 
handling it.
Nothing. Face impassive. She was studying some of the tapestries, assessing them 
with considerable dispassion.
"If someone gets butchered that severely," she finally said, "there's much more 
blood than they're showing here. These aren't terribly accurate."
"Oh, of course, and maidens cavorting with unicorns is accurate," I muttered.
"Yes, it is."
"There are no unicorns," I told her, "despite whatever Tacit may have told you 
about his upbringing. And if there were, they'd try and skewer you just as 
surely as any other creature of myth." I pointed toward a table at the far end 
that appeared shorthanded. "I think they need help there. Come on."
We started to thread our way through the dance floor, and I have to admit my 
fantasy life took an upswing. For some of the noblewomen, you see, were 
considerably drunk and even more considerably liberal in their . . . 
willingness, shall we say. Naturally I would have been happy to take advantage 
of them in a moment, but I had other matters to attend to.
We stepped behind a food station that had a ham the size of a two-year-old 
child, and I started carving it. In slicing it, I envisioned the throat of every 
person who had ever done me an injustice. Unsurprisingly, the cutting went very 
briskly. Entipy then served out the newly cut meat to anyone who wandered by.
I have to say, the ham smelled delicious. At one point I looked at Entipy, 
whoóas we'd been told was permissibleówas eating two pieces of bread, one atop 
the other. But then I saw juice dribbling down, soaking through the bread slices 
a bit. "What are you doing?" I demanded.
"I stuck a few small slices of ham between two pieces of bread in order to hide 
it," she said cheerfully, obviously pleased with herself.
My taste buds recoiled at that. Taking something as juicy and palatable as meat 
and sticking it between two pieces of bread seemed a rather repulsive way to eat 
anything, not to mention an insult to the meat. At the very least it was highly 
abnormal. But if there was one thing I'd learned about the princess, it was that 
she was blissfully untroubled by such things as abnormality. Still . . . the ham 
was tempting . . .
Glancing left and right to make sure that no one was paying attention, I 
followed suit and moments later was also munching on ham between two slices of 
bread. There was something to be said for the convenience, but I can say with 
certainty thatóas a means of consuming foodóit's never going to catch on.
It was interesting to watch the guests becoming rowdier as the drink flowed even 
more freely. I looked around and tried to figure out which one might be the 
dreaded Warlord Shank. Naturally I sought the largest, most forbidding of them, 
and there seemed several likely candidates. For a time I became concerned that 
one of those bruisers, in his cups, would begin to harass Entipy, and we would 
have a whole mess all over again. But I needn't have worried; there were lusty 
wenches aplenty to sate the ardor of even the most drunkenly passionate of men. 
Next to those panting fillies, Entipy looked like little more than an awkward 
two-day-old colt.
And so matters went on for a time, until suddenly there was an ear-shattering 
flourish of trumpets. At the far end of the hall was another huge set of double 
doors, similar to those through which we had entered, but bigger, and they had 
crests with dripping swords upon them. Slowly, ponderously, they swung open, and 
everyone in the place sank to one knee. For a number of the men, I suspected, 
that was no great trick; the major difficulty for them had been managing to stay 
on their feet for as long as they had.
I could only assume that the man who was entering was the host of this evening's 
festivities, but I have to say that the one who came through that entranceway 
seemed, wellóless than impressive. I do not mean by any stretch that he appeared 
weak or helpless; but certainly he was not the behemoth, the walking engine of 
destruction, that I would have expected from someone of his rank and reputation. 
It was most definitely he, though, as shouts of "All hail Shank! All hail the 
dreaded Warlord Shank!" filled the air, and everyone slapped their fists against 
their hearts in fealty. Automatically I did the same, and glanced toward Entipy. 
She did nothing; just stood there with her hands at her sides. I mouthed to her 
that she should do as the others were doing, but she just stood there. I could 
have strangled her and I prayed that no one noticed. Fortunately enough, no one 
did.
What he lacked in physical stature, he made up for in sheer presence, I have to 
say that much for him. He was of moderate height, dressed mostly in black. His 
arms were bare but swathed in tattoos of equally black dragons intertwining 
'round one another. At first glance the arms themselves looked unassuming, but 
closer inspection revealed corded muscle that indicated considerable strength. 
He had long black hair and dark, deep-set eyes, partially obscured by an 
overhanging brow, that seemed to take in everything that was happening in the 
hall with one sweep. He had a mustache so long that either end dangled 
significantly below his chin, and sported his arrogance like a newly acquired 
ermine cape.
"Greeting . . . my friends." He held out the "s" in "friends" in a snake-like, 
sibilant manner. His voice was low and gravelly, and when he spoke it was in a 
very deliberate, unhurried manner. It was not a bad way of talking; it indicated 
that you were so important that everyone had to stand around and wait for you to 
take your time getting to whatever point it was that you were going to make. "I 
thank you for coming to join me in my time of celebration."
"All hail the nuptials of the dreaded Warlord Shank!" one person called out, and 
others took up the chant. Shank smiled as he sauntered to a large chair covered 
in skulls and sat in it. There was another chair next to him, composed of 
smaller skullsóthose of children, by the look of it. I felt the ham and bread 
heaving in protest in my stomach, repulsed by the notion . . . and repulsed even 
further when I noticed that the skulls looked very freshly polished, indicating 
that the chair was quite new. I couldn't help but picture helpless children 
being hauled off somewhere, to be beheaded and skinned for the purpose of adding 
new furniture to the warlord's abode. I could practically hear their screams 
ringing in my ears. Entipy, for her part, remained detached from the entire 
thing. Sometimes I wondered if she even truly knew where she was, or if she had 
somehow separated herself from it all just so she could deal with it. If it was 
the latter, I envied her and wished I could do the same.
The name "Shank!" had been taken up in a chant, repeated steadily as the warlord 
smiled in acknowledgment of his popularity. He allowed it to go on for some 
brief time before putting up his hands and indicating that they'd best calm 
themselves.
"Until now," he continued, "I have sated my legendary lusts in the violation of 
my victims, with no interest in a wife since my concerns lay elsewhere." He 
began to walk the room, and it was only at that point that I noticed the sword 
strapped to his back. The thing looked huge, with a small skull shape visible at 
the pommel. At least I certainly hoped it was just a shape, rather than the 
skull of a child ripped from its mother's womb at a tender age in order to 
provide ornamentation for Shank's blade. "My priority has always been my corps 
of soldiers. I have trained them, disciplined them, worked them until they were 
ready to drop and then continued to work them. I have had very little concern 
for my own time upon this world, for one does not become a warlord and expect to 
die of old age. Instead, my soldier corps was to be my legacy when my life is 
done. You all know my motto: Live fast. Die young. And leave a good-looking 
corps."
There were nods of assent from all around, and more reflexive cries of "Hail the 
Warlord."
"However . . . however!" he called several times to get his voice over the 
chants, until they died down. "Recently, in my pillaging and plundering . . . 
efforts that had met with triumph in all lands except Isteria . . ." He said 
that last with enormous disgust, and immediately cries of "Down with King 
Runcible! Runcible will die! Runcible will fall!" were taken up throughout the 
hall.
Entipy was busying herself slipping more meat between two more wedges of bread. 
The shouts didn't seem to register on her at all, or at least paled in interest 
compared to the food.
"In my pillaging . . . I met a woman. Not just any woman, mind you . . . the 
woman . . ."
"A woman who can keep up with your lusts, my lord?" shouted one noble, and there 
was raucous laughter from all around, whistles and cheers.
The warlord smirked at that. "She comes close. Do not think that I haven't tried 
her out. One doesn't purchase a Heffer without taking a few rides."
More shouts, more guffaws. Apparently a man's worth in these parts was measured 
by the size of his "lusts." Well, it certainly seemed more practical than honor 
or bravery, and certainly more entertaining during its practice.
"She is nobility, of course," he continued, and his smirk widened. "She has 
pleasured no man before your warlord, for no one has been man enough to seize 
her interest. Her beauty is unparalleled and, not only that . . . but I suspect 
she will provide me the son that even my closest advisors have told me I owe my 
people as a symbol of our continued success.
"My fellow lords and ladies . . . may I present to you . . . Stela, the Countess 
of Pince-Nez!" And he swept his arm theatrically toward the door behind him.
She entered then, and my heart came close to stopping.
She had on a dress of crushed purple velvet, a glittering necklace that could 
only be diamond, and an assortment of golden rings and other pricey baubles. She 
had thick blond hair piled upon her head. She had a lovely smile. She had an 
ample bosom. And she had all my money in the world.
It was Astel, the tavern bitch who had nearly caved my head in and spread my 
mother's ashes all over me.
And fate had handed me the opportunity to make an ash out of her in return. 
Because I was the only person in the room who knew that the warlord's beloved 
bride-to-be was nothing more than a fraud. There was no question that I was 
going to take advantage of this knowledge. The only thing at issue was how I was 
going to do it.
 
 
Chapter 19
 
What's happened? Something's happened." Entipy was looking at me very closely. I 
have to say, not much slipped past her. She was able to intuit, just by my 
manner, that a new dynamic had been introduced into the mix.
"Nothing," I said in a low voice.
"Don't lie to me." There, for just a moment, was that famed sharpness and 
snappishness that I'd come to associate with her. Her eyes seemed to bore right 
into me. "Something's going on. Is it bad?"
"No. It's good, actually. It's very good, providing I play it right. And you're 
going to have to trust me to handle this. Understood?"
"Now listen, squireó"
I rounded on her then, speaking in a voice that was both soft and yet filled 
with warning. "Are you out of your mind? Don't address me that way, even if 
you're whispering . . . even if you're mouthing it. It's not enough that the 
walls have ears; in case you haven't noticed it, the furniture has bones. And I 
don't know about you, but I've no intention of being added to them. Now shut 
up!"
She looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead she silenced herself. I 
couldn't have been more grateful. "Now stay here," I told her as I made my way 
around the table. I glanced around, saw a large open bottle of wine, and 
snatched it. As I did so, I draped a cloth over my arm so as to give an 
impression that I was a wine server.
"Where are you going?" she whispered.
I didn't respond because I couldn't think of a reply that might not endanger us. 
This game had to be played very, very carefully.
Slowly I made my way across the room. As I did so, I stopped every few feet, 
smiled, bobbed my head subserviently, and poured refills from the bottle for any 
guests of the warlord who looked as if they were in danger of becoming remotely 
sober. The entire time I never took my eyes off Astel. I couldn't hear anything 
that anyone was saying to her from where I was, but I could see that she was 
greatly enjoying herself. She was not standing right by the warlord's side, but 
she always remained in range of him. That meant that I was going to have to get 
very, very close in order to achieve my goal.
It was not something that I was looking forward to. The nearer I got to the 
warlord, the more aware I became of just how brutal and vicious he could be. I 
could see it in his eyes . . . or rather, I couldn't, because he had cold, dead 
eyes, like a shark is reputed to have. The kind that shrivel your soul if they 
happen to light upon you. The closer I drew, the more I felt as if I were not at 
a celebration . . . but a wake. A wake being held for the attendees themselves. 
Yes, that was it. Everyone around me . . . was already dead. But no one wanted 
to acknowledge it. They were too afraid to. So I was surrounded by walking 
corpses, celebrating their dark god, and no one wanting to admit that they were 
all damned and doomed. And if I didn't get out of here, I would be one of them.
But it didn't stop me from getting closer still, all the time pouring wine and 
nodding and acting as if I lived only to bring half-empty mugs up to their 
proper, filled state of being. Fifteen paces from Astel, then ten, then nine. 
She still hadn't noticed me. Why should she? No one notices the help.
I was taking a tremendous risk. Everything hinged on my catching Astel 
off-guard, of maintaining the upper hand emotionally. If somehow she gained 
control of the situation, I was undone. Part of me scolded me, telling me that 
if I had any brains at all, I would back off this mad adventure. But if I gave 
it the slightest moment's thought, I was able to conjure up for myself what it 
felt like when she sent the urn smashing into my head. I could still taste ash 
between my teeth and stinging my eyes, still recall the sense of humiliation and 
frustration as I slumped into unconsciousness, all because of her. I had made 
peace with myself that I was not brave or honorable, but if I turned away from 
this, I would never be able to live with myself.
Eight paces, seven, and she was laughing at something her dead-eyed 
husband-to-be was saying. Casually, ever so casually, she turned and her gaze 
took in an assortment of people, including me. I froze exactly where I was, 
concentrating all my focus upon her, as if I could drive a message into her 
brain by sheer willpower alone.
She looked through me and past me. In truth, there was no reason that she should 
have recognized me immediately. I was older and scruffier than when she'd last 
seen me, not to mention hundreds of miles away. It wasn't as if she was scanning 
the crowd to prepare herself lest Apropos show his face; there was no earthly 
reason for me to be on her mind at all.
And yet for all the reasons she had for not recognizing me, I still felt a 
flicker of doubt. What if . . . I was wrong? What if this was not Astel? What if 
she had a previously unknown identical twin, or this woman was simply a 
look-alike? It could be, after all, that it was my memory that was faulty. That 
I was so eager to gain a measure of retribution upon Astel that I was ready to 
see her face damned near anywhere if it meant I might have the opportunity to 
get back a measure of the pride I'd lost that stormy night long ago.
At the exact moment that doubts were surfacing, leading me to think that I was 
mistaken, that was when her head snapped back around and she looked right at me. 
I had the great good pleasure of watching every bit of blood drain out of her 
face, her makeup now looking incredibly bright red against the lack of color in 
her skin.
I had her, then. I knew I did. I said nothing, did nothing, didn't even 
acknowledge her with a nod. I just stared at her, hard, as if I was capable of 
blasting her brain out the back of her head with the power of my eyes alone.
Suddenly she started to take a deep breath, and I knew instantly that she was 
reflexively getting ready to scream. I didn't act the least bit perturbed. I 
simply shook my head very slowly, and then nodded with a slight tip of my head 
in the direction of the doors she'd originally come through.
Her hand fluttered to her bosom and I was close enough to her to hear her say to 
Shank, "My . . . apologies, husband-to-be . . . I feel unwell."
The dreaded Warlord Shank did not seem perturbed by this. "Mayhap you have the 
child sickness and are already carrying my heir." It was all the more chilling 
to hear words of amorous, even loving affect issuing from a face possessing eyes 
that pitiless.
"Anything is possible, milord," she said with a glance in my direction that 
seemed to indicate that my very presence there was proof of the sentiment. "I 
would . . . retire . . . if that would suit Your Lordship's pleasure."
His face darkened, and I suddenly found myself wondering if he was as hard on 
fiancÈes as he was on the serving staff. "It would not. This gathering is for my 
nobles to meet you. If you depart so early, it will make you seem weak . . . 
and, by extension, me as well."
"For a brief time, only," Astel said with more urgency, looking my way 
surreptitiously. "That is all, my lord. Tell them . . . tell them whatever you 
wish. You are their warlord. They will listen to you."
Appealing to his overweening instinct was definitely the proper move to make. 
Shank considered what she said and nodded. "You do look a bit . . . pallid. Do 
you need help to get you to your chambers . . . ?"
"Oh, I . . ." And she looked at me even as she addressed Shank. "I think this . 
. . server should be able to attend to me."
"Server!" barked Shank, and I immediately moved to just in front of him. He 
focused those dead eyes upon me, and suddenly it was all I could do not to shake 
violently. I felt as if he was capable of picking apart my brain, plumbing it 
for its secrets, just with a look. Reflexively I looked down, telling myself 
that it was a normal thing for a server to do rather than an obvious attempt to 
cover my fear. Shank paused a moment and an eternal afterlife of my rib cage 
transformed into a musical instrument flickered through my imagination. He was 
staring at the staff on which I was leaning. "I have a server who is lame of 
leg?" he demanded.
"I am but temporary help, milord," I said humbly.
"I had people on my staff who thought they were permanent, who discovered that 
they likewise were temporary," he guffawed, prompting similar amused grunts from 
his associates. I said nothing, merely tried to look humble. Then he continued, 
"My fiancÈe has a brief . . . personal need to which she must needs attend. You 
seem harmless enough. Perhaps she feels pity on you. Attend to her."
I bobbed my head, still not looking up. "As you command," I said, and turned to 
her.
She spun on her heel and headed for the large double door. I kept close behind 
her and a moment later the heavy doors swung shut behind us. We were in a huge 
hallway that seemed to go on forever, and here it was quite cold indeed. Cold as 
the grave.
She whirled to face me, her eyes wide. "Pallid" indeed. Her wan face floating in 
the dimness of the poorly lit hall, she looked positively spectral. "What are 
you doing here?!" she demanded.
"Joining the party," I said mildly. "I heard there was a masquerade: Come as you 
aren't. I'll have to admit, though, that the identity I've assumed can't begin 
to compare to yours."
"You can't be here . . ."
Apparently the reality of my presence had not yet fully registered upon her. I 
had the advantage and I was going to do everything I could to press it. Telling 
her that my stumbling upon her was merest happenstance might give her some 
degree of comfort. So instead I said to her, in a voice that was deep with 
threat, "Of course I'm here. I'm everywhere you are."
Her hand fluttered to her throat. "Wh-what?"
Laughing coarsely, I said, "Do you believe yourself to have been unobserved all 
this time? That I did not have eyes everywhere? My dear 'Countess' . . . you may 
have temporarily managed to fool Shank, but my associates and I are quite a 
different matter."
She almost seemed to have forgotten where she was, and then her vision cleared. 
"What do you mean?" she managed to say.
"You made a very serious blunder, Astel. You assumed that because I was out of 
your sight, you were out of my mind. But you have never strayed far from my 
thoughts . . . or my mind. You trusted the wrong people."
"That bitch!" breathed Astel. "I knew there was something about her! She was one 
of yours, wasn't she!"
I smiled enigmatically. Naturally I hadn't the faintest idea what she was 
talking about or who the "bitch" she was referring to was, but it didn't matter. 
All that mattered was driving a stake of pure paranoia through her wretched 
little heart.
"Or was it . . ." She suddenly looked more suspicious. " . . . or was it . . . 
somebody else? How far does your influence go? Tell me that, at least. The way 
you showed up here, now . . . it's almost . . . supernatural . . ."
Ahhh . . . apparently our little Astel carried a bit of the superstitious within 
her. My smiled widened as I said softly, "Let us just say that in addition to 
mortal allies, I have friends in . . . high places." My gaze flickered 
heavenward and then I added, "I assume you've heard of . . . Hecate."
I thought her legs were going to give out. Thank you, Entipy.
"So you know everything then," she whispered. "That I used the money I took from 
you . . ."
"And that you stole from my mother's mattress. Her earnings, too." It was a 
guess, but it seemed a reasonable one.
She nodded, unknowingly confirming that which I had only intuited. "I made a few 
investments, and used it to acquire finery, trappings . . . all the outward 
appearances of a great lady. That I created the identity of the countess because 
I knew no nobleman would have interest in a commoner. And came here to Shank's 
court, seeking a noble husband, and caught the fancy of the warlord himself . . 
. aided initially by purchased charms. Told him I had vast estate holdings in 
the west . . ."
"And that you're planning to tell him that there's been an unexpected fire and 
everything is burned down, lost . . . but since you'll be married by that point, 
obviously he won't throw you out because of it." That last, naturally, was pure 
guess on my part, but I figured it was worth the gamble in order to cement, in 
her mind, the belief that I knew everything that she was about.
It worked perfectly, because her eyes widened and she nodded, unwittingly 
affirming what had only been surmise on my part. "And you could have stepped in 
at any time," she said with mounting incredulity. "But you let me put the whole 
charade together . . . create the countess identity for myself . . . let me get 
right to the cusp of pulling this off . . . and now, now, is when you step in. 
Ohhhh, I'll admit it, Apropos," and she shook her head in wonderment, "you have 
a spider's patience. You are fiendish beyond imagining."
"I have my moments," I allowed.
Her eyes narrowed, something glittering in there as if she was trying to 
determine how to snatch triumph from tragedy. "But you've left yourself 
vulnerable. It's just you and I. Why . . . I could suddenly shout for help right 
now and summon half a dozen guards. Tell my beloved fiancÈ that you tried to 
molest me." She smiled, showing her teeth, which looked far whiter than I'd 
remembered them. "He'd lop off your head himself, right in the middle of the 
court. And you would tell him . . . what? That I'm a fake? Who do you think he'd 
believe? You? Or me?"
But my thoughts were already ahead of hers. "He would believe you," and before 
she started to speak, I continued, "right up until I tell him about the tattoo 
of a butterfly you have on your inner thigh."
She blanched at that, but then tried to rally. "I . . . can tear at my skirt 
right now. Obviously you saw it when you . . . tried to ravish me . . ."
"Really?" I said coolly. "Odd. Most women, when they're ravished, don't make 
noises like a hoot owl when achieving passionate climax. Nor are they noted for 
crying out, 'Ride me, stallion! Ride me, you stallion you!' The warlord has 
already made clear in his blustering way that he had his pleasure with you, so 
he'd be familiar with your habits. Did you do with him what you did with me? 
Will I be sealing my fate, or will I be lending credence to my version of 
things? It is possible that he will indeed have me executed for my publicly 
making a fool of him . . . but if he does, my dear, I strongly suspect that your 
head will be rolling right on the floor alongside mine."
She swayed slightly, and for a moment I thought she was going to pass out dead 
away. She leaned against the wall to steady herself, took several deep breaths, 
and unconsciously put a hand to her throat as if she could feel a blade slicing 
viciously through it. I knew I had her then. She fixed a level gaze on me and 
said the four words I had been waiting to hear: "What do you want?"
"What do I want?" I said thoughtfully.
"You obviously want something. You didn't go to all this endeavor so that we 
could chat about old times and then you depart empty-handed. What do you want?"
"Very well," and my voice hardened. There was such barely controlled rage in it 
that I almost surprised myself. "I want my naÔvetÈ back. I want back the ability 
to lose myself totally in a woman's passion without always wondering if and when 
she's about to slip a knife between my ribs. I want to be able to think that 
when a woman opens her legs to me she's also opening her heart, instead of just 
finding a way to use me until it suits her fancy to take advantage of me or 
betray me. I want to have a last memory of my mother as something other than a 
large pile of ashes covering my face and being washed away by the rain, along 
with the last fragments of my ability to trust. I want to be able to think back 
to my first sexual experience without the words 'What an idiot I was' resounding 
in my head. Can you do that for me, Astel? Can you give me that?"
She looked down. She couldn't stand to look me in the eyes. "No," she said, so 
softly I could barely hear her.
"Then riches will have to do instead," I told her.
"I'll get together whatever money I can . . ."
"Some coinage will be fine for the local area, but that won't be enough," I said 
flatly. "Sovs and dukes in this realm have the warlord's face on them. They'll 
be useless to me anywhere outside of the Outer Lawless regions, and I do not 
plan on overstaying my welcome."
"Well, it's too late for that," she snapped . . . but not, I noticed, too 
aggressively.
"Gold," I said flatly. "And silver. And jewels. As much as I can carry out of 
here without being noticed."
"And how often will you be making such visits to me, eh?" she asked. "How often 
will you be making return engagements, seeking more from me?"
"Believe it or not, Astel, if I never see you again, it will be too soon," I 
told her. "The very sight of you stirs such fury in my heart that I can barely 
contain myself. I'd sooner muck out stables with my tongue than have further 
intercourseósocial or sexualówith you."
She looked skeptical, as if she couldn't quite believe she was getting off that 
easily. "All this time you've been watching me, scheming . . . and this one 
confrontation is enough to sate you?"
"I am interested in dealing purely with your monetary theivery, Astel. With 
evening the scales on that score. Everything else you took from me cannot be 
replaced, ever, so I won't even try. And more than anything else, I want you to 
know that, all this timeóeven nowóI could have brought you down, so that it will 
help to diminish whatever sense of accomplishment you may have. You'll always 
know that you got as far as you did . . . because I allowed it. That's 
sufficient vengeance for me, Astel, and I'm interested purely in revenge . . . 
not overkill. Now . . . let us see how fares your generosity."
"Generosity under threat of exposure is hardly genuine."
"Nor is lovemaking under the pretext of thievery. But if I can survive the 
experience, I daresay you can, too."
Her jaw twitched, but she said nothing. Instead she turned and started walking. 
I followed directly behind her, my staff clicking on the ground.
"I have thought of you, from time to time, you know," she said softly. "Believe 
it or not, Apropos . . . I was not evil. Just desperate."
"How kind of you to clarify that." I was not impressed.
"I mean to say . . . I never meant you any ill. And . . . it didn't happen as 
you believe."
"Indeed."
"When you and I . . . when we . . . that was sincere. Spontaneous. I had no 
plans beyond that. It was only when I saw all the money there, and I . . . I 
gave in to a weak impulse. I am a weak woman, Apropos."
"I see. You're not evil. Just desperate and weak . . . much like the story 
you're spinning for me now. A desperate and weak one."
"But true nonetheless."
"Astel," I said tersely, "I don't think you know what the truth is anymore."
"And you think you do?"
"No. I just don't care what it is."
We walked the rest of the way in silence.
Entipy, standing behind the table, looked at me with open curiosity as I hustled 
toward her. "We've leaving," I said as soon as I got within whispering range.
"But the party is still going. We won't be paid ouró"
"Devil take the sovs. We're going. Now."
I realized that her eyes were wandering toward the front of my breeches. I 
looked down and saw what she was looking at. There was a bulge there, more 
noticeable than I would have liked. She looked up at me, her face a question.
"Jewels," I said in a low voice.
"Family?"
"No. Real." I glanced around, made sure no one else was watching, and then 
shifted them around so that the "package" was less obvious.
Then she comprehended, and with conspiratorial shock she whispered, "You stole 
them?"
"No. Extorted. Let's go."
She didn't understand, but she didn't have to. The party was still going in full 
swing and as a result our hurried departure drew no attention. I was walking as 
carefully as I could, trying not to jingle or send anything else out of 
position, considering I had jewelry and money secreted all over my person, and 
in the hidden compartment of my staff.
The sounds of the party receded into the distance as we made our way toward the 
servants' exit. Down a curling flight of stairs that seemed to take forever to 
navigate, down, and then toward the door that would put us out into the night 
and freedom. It was at the end of a long hallway that felt as if it was a 
hundred leagues away. I had never felt so frustrated over my lame right leg as I 
did at that moment, since I was in such a hurry to just put as much distance 
between us and the castle as possible. To hurry out of there before someone 
could shout . . .
"You!"
I recognized the voice instantly as the steward, summoning us from behind. We 
were ten feet from the door, from freedom, and before I could turn I heard the 
steward continue, "There he is, milord! Apparently he's trying to sneak out."
"Servant!" came a gravelly voice, and I knew at that moment that we were dead, 
because it was Shank's voice. Entipy sucked in her breath sharply; she likewise 
knew that matters had taken a decided turn for the worse. I had been trying to 
reposition the bag of jewels that were among the riches the unwilling Astel had 
provided for me; they'd been slipping again in our hasty departure. But it 
didn't seem to matter now. I gripped my staff with both hands because I felt as 
if I was going to faint.
Close in my ear, Entipy whispered, "Should we run for it?"
"Why bother?" I returned. True, there was a remote chance we would make it out 
the door. But it wasn't as if there was an invisible barrier that would prevent 
Shank from following us the additional three or four feet we might manage to put 
between ourselves and the castle. Better to surrender now with what little 
dignity remained to us . . . especially considering that any claims to dignity I 
might have had would soon be lost in screams of agony as Shank did . . . well, 
whatever he was going to do.
"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" demanded Shank.
Slowly I turned to face him. Even at this moment of utter doom, I couldn't help 
but try to stammer out a lie. "Milord, I . . . my . . . partner here," and I 
indicated Entipy, "has need of a . . . uhm . . ."
Shank looked below my waist and grinned, and then laughed. "Hah!" he said. "I 
see what she has need of . . . and you appear only too eager to provide it. Go 
and argue with the lusts of youth, eh, steward?" And he clapped the steward on 
the back. The steward staggered slightly, but righted himself and nodded gamely. 
Then the dreaded Warlord Shank turned back to me and reached into the folds of 
his tunic. For a moment I was certain that this was itóthat he had finished with 
games and was about to pull out a dagger and simply slice my throat. Instead he 
pulled out a glittering coin: a duke. "I realize I am remiss in not having given 
you a gratuity for aiding my wife. Here." And he flipped it to me. I caught it 
and stared at the coin, astounded, resting in my open palm. The face of the 
warlord scowled back at me from the coin's surface. "They are newly minted," he 
said. "You are one of the first to have one. See the reverse." I obediently 
turned the coin over. Astel's face smiled back at me.
"Once upon a time," he growled, "I would not have cared about such niceties. But 
if I am to husband a countess, one must observe certain social . . . 
traditions."
"As you say, milord." I could barely keep the astonishment from my voice.
"Steward? Have they been paid for this evening?"
"N-no, milord, but it is not customary to pay those who have not worked the full 
evening . . ."
Without a word the warlord yanked his sword from his scabbard and lopped the 
steward's head off. It rolled across the floor and bumped to a halt against the 
wall before the body had time to realize it was headless and flop, obediently, 
to the ground. Entipy and I stood rooted to our places.
"I despise excuses," said Shank. He pulled out a second duke and tossed that to 
me as well. "This will attend to it, I take it?"
"More than, milord."
"Smile, young ones!" bellowed Shank, and I realized at that point that he was 
more than a little inebriated. "Smile on an evening of rejoicing! And know that 
you have been honored by providing service to the future wife of the dreaded 
Warlord Shank."
"Milord," I said extravagantly, "believe me when I say . . . that I took no 
greater joy in this life than when I was servicing your bride-to-be."
And we got the hell out of there.
 
 
Chapter 20
 
Considering the circumstances under which we'd come there, I was surprised to 
realize that Marie was actually sad to see us go.
I was somewhat concerned over the fact thatóeven though the calendar indicated 
that the fierce Outer Lawless winter should be subsidingóit still seemed 
unseasonably cold and nasty. Nevertheless, the roads were merely inhospitable 
rather than impassable, and my every instinct was telling me that now was the 
time to get on our way. As successful as I had been in obtaining an impressive 
bounty from Astel, I did not want to count on the notion that I was impervious 
to retribution. On the one hand, she might not want to take any chances mucking 
with me, since she had no idea how deep into her inner circles my "agents" ran, 
or even whether I was indeed backed up by the gods themselves. On the other 
hand, she might sooner or later get up enough nerve to hire someone privately to 
dispatch me. Make it look like an accident or some such. It all depended upon 
how comfortable she was with the fact that I was wandering around with full 
knowledge of who and what she was.
So it seemed incumbent upon me that we vacate the area sooner rather than later.
Naturally I didn't trust anyone in the area, but of all the people I didn't 
trust, the burly Marie was the one that I didn't trust the least. I felt it 
would be better to have someone act as an intermediary if at all possible, and 
so I prevailed upon her to arrange for the purchase of two Heffers for us. 
Heffers were fairly useless for traveling off the beaten path, but it was my 
intention to try and stay with the roads, and there they would do just fine. It 
was a calculated risk, of course. Staying to the main roads might make us prey 
for highwaymen. But endeavoring to penetrate the woods would make us prey for 
all manner of predators, andóall things consideredóI'd rather take my chances 
with human thieves.
Marie openly scoffed at the notion of purchasing two Heffers outright until I 
presented her with enough funds not only to obtain the animals, but also to 
leave something for herself to cover her efforts. When she demanded to know how 
such riches had fallen into our hands, I simply smiled enigmatically and said, 
"The Warlord and his bride-to-be were most pleased with our efforts." She seemed 
interested in inquiring further, but decided to let the matter drop.
So it was that, early one morning, with no clouds in the sky, the sun creeping 
up in the east, and a sharp nip in the air, we set out on the main road that 
would lead us to the commweaver known as Dotty.
"Wait," I said. "How will we know Dotty's home when we get there?"
"Oh, believe me," she laughed, "you'll know it a'right. It's a bit . . . 
unusual-looking." She wouldn't say anything beyond that, though.
Marie saw us off, and as we prepared to ride away, her gaze took us both in as 
she said, "I know for a time there I was hard on ye. But I think you're both the 
better for it . . . especially you," and she pointed her stubbly chin toward 
Entipy. Entipy shrugged slightly, which for her passed as conversation. "You 
make a good couple," she added.
"Do we?" I inquired, inwardly amused.
"I see it in the way ye look at each other. Anticipate each other's thoughts and 
words. A good couple and a good team. Good luck to the both of ye."
Then she drew her wrap more tightly around herself, turned, and headed back into 
the inn. Entipy and I looked at each other . . . and laughed.
It was the first time we'd actually shared such a thing, a laugh. It felt . . . 
surprisingly natural.
We headed off down the road, keeping the Heffers at a brisk trot. We didn't 
exchange any words, but somehow the ensuing silence felt different from such 
previous instances. It was not an uncomfortable or angry silence such as we had 
known before, but instead a comfortable one. As if we had become so at ease in 
each other's company that there was no need to try and fill the void with 
useless verbiage.
The ride to the commweaver's home was pleasantly incident free, and I could only 
hope that it was a good augury for things that were to come. As the Heffers 
trotted along, I kept dwelling upon what Marie had said, and her apparent 
confidence that we would know when we had arrived at the weaver's home. Well, 
when she's right, she's right, because about midday we turned a corner in the 
road and I knew, beyond question, that we had come within range of the 
commweaver's house.
In many respects it was ordinary-looking, almost mundane. All the shutters were 
closed, and I could swear I saw multicolored lights dancing within that might 
have been fairy lights. What made it clear that this was the home of an unusual 
individual was the large structure situated atop the roof.
The only thing I can say is that it was akin, in its shape, to an enormous cup. 
It lay lengthwise along the roof, the open end facing the road. The cup was 
sufficiently large that I could easily have climbed into it, and had room for 
Entipy to join me therein. I couldn't begin to conceive what such an odd 
structure and object could possibly be used for. It seemed to be constructed out 
of some sort of hammered sheet metal, which meant that it was likely heavy as 
hell. I wondered how in the world Dotty could possibly have gotten it up there, 
and realized that it would probably be better if I didn't know.
It wasn't just the sizable gleaming metal cup that caught my interest, though. 
It was what was behind it or, more precisely, attached to it.
I didn't spot it at first. The thing with magic is, you have to look at it 
indirectly. Catch it just out of the corner of your eye so that you have an idea 
of what it is you're going to be looking for when you stare at it straight on. 
At least, that's how Tacit explained it to me once, and considering that he 
claimed to have been raised by unicorns, I had to go with the assumption that he 
knew what he was talking about.
That was exactly what happened in this instance. I'd been staring at the cup, 
then looked down at the house itself andóas I did soócaught a quick glimpse of 
something that I hadn't seen before. I looked back at the cup, holding in my 
mind the image of what I'd thought I'd seen and, as a result, was able to see it 
more clearly.
It was what I can only describe as magical thread, the type that weavers use. It 
was gleaming red, and it was attached to the far end of the cup, floating gently 
in the breeze although it was hard to believe that something as pedestrian as 
wind could have an effect on something so magical. It was drifting lazily, like 
extensions from a willow tree, and even though I was looking directly at it, it 
would vanish from sight every so often before returning to my view once more. 
There was something that appeared to be a steady pulsation that was running 
along the thread's length. I had absolutely no idea where the thread might have 
been anchored at the other end, because the thread extended above and beyond the 
trees and out of sight.
Entipy noticed I was staring. "Strange cup," she commented.
"Do you see it?" I whispered.
"Of course I see it. The cup's right there," said Entipy, obviously a bit 
impatient. Her horse shook its head and whinnied in impatience. It had no idea 
where it was going, but this simple standing around on the road was not to its 
liking. The other Heffer started following suit, displaying similar impatience.
"Not the cup . . . the thread."
"Thread?" She frowned and tried to see what I was referring to. Finally she 
shook her head. "Sorry . . . I just don't see what you're talking about."
"It's all right," I said after a moment. "I'm probably just imagining it."
"Well, don't start imagining things," she said tartly. "That way lies madness, 
and if you're going to be of any use to me, you're going to have to be sane."
Now, that sounded more like the Entipy of old, and I couldn't say I was 
especially glad to have her back. I bowed with a look of mild annoyance on my 
face, and then snapped the reins of my horse briskly. The Heffer let out a brief 
whinny of annoyance and started forward, followed by the other.
When we arrived at the small house, we dismounted and tied the animals up to a 
hitching post conveniently set up outside the house. There were other hoofprints 
around; clearly she did a brisk business. I walked up to the door and then 
hesitated before knocking. I still wasn't thrilled about having any sort of 
business with weavers, and knocking on the door of one seemed ill advised, as if 
we were begging for trouble.
"Well?" Entipy prompted impatiently.
Having no ready answer to "Well?," I rapped with what I hoped sounded like 
authority.
At first there was no sound, not even the noise of feet scuffling across the 
floor to answer my knock. I wondered what the hell we were going to do if, for 
some reason, Dotty was unable to help us. What if she was ill or, worse, dead? 
She'd hardly be in a position to provide us aid then, and I didn't have the 
slightest idea where to find another commweaver in these parts. Before I could 
decide what to do, however, the decision was made for me. The door swung open 
and there was no one standing there. For a moment I assumed it to be some sort 
of magical door, but the far more earthbound answer presented itself when a 
woman stepped around from behind it, obviously having been responsible for 
pulling it open. At least, I think she was a woman. She might have been a toad 
or frog with delusions of humanity. Gods knew the resemblance was there. She had 
a wrinkled face, and eyes that darted around as if searching for passing bugs 
that she could lay claim to. Her hair was little more than white straw, and her 
skin was leathery and cracked like an old boot. Her tongue stuck out suddenly 
and, with the toad imagery in my head, I took a quick step back lest that tongue 
lash out, wrap itself around me, and yank me into her expanding jaw.
"Who're you?" she said.
"I'm Apropos."
"Of what?"
"Of nothing."
Her voice sounded both nasal and shrill, and I was getting a headache just 
listening to her for ten seconds. I couldn't begin to imagine what prolonged 
exposure to her would be like. Her gaze flickered to Entipy. "And who's this 
one?"
"Marie," said Entipy, glancing in my direction, and I realized instantly that 
Entipy was being wisely cautious. This was a weaver, after all. They were not to 
be trusted, because their priorities were always a mystery to mere "norms" such 
as we ("norms" being the occasionally contemptuous term weavers were heard to 
mutter under their breaths). Entipy's name was unique, and we didn't need it 
ringing a bell with the commweaver and suddenly finding ourselves beset by 
Shank's troops, alerted to a royal hostage in their territory.
The old woman looked from one of us to the other and back again. I wasn't sure 
if she believed Entipy's quick lie, but after a moment she shrugged and I 
realized she simply didn't care. That was fine by me. "What d'ya want?" she 
demanded.
"You're the commweaver called Dotty?"
"Mayhap. What d'ya want?"
"Well, obviously," I said, trying to rein in my impatience and only partly 
succeeding, "we want to send a message to someone."
"Really. Where might they be?"
"Isteria."
"Isteria. Long distance." Her lips puckered and unpuckered several times very 
fast, as if blowing a succession of kisses.
"Can you do it?" asked Entipy.
"Henh." It was not so much a word as it was a noise, sounding like a gargling of 
phlegm. "I could . . . if I were a commweaver . . . which I haven't said I am 
yet . . . haven't said I'm a weaver at all . . ."
"If you're not a weaver, why do you have a magic thread connected to that great 
bloody cup on your roof?"
That sure caught her attention. Entipy might not have been there at all for all 
the attention that the commweaver was paying to her. The old woman's full 
attention was on me; she looked at me with dark, unblinking eyes. "So . . . you 
saw that, did you?" she said with a hiss. "What color did it appear to you?"
"Well . . . it was red . . ."
She shook her head impatiently. "Purple. In actuality, purple. Still . . . 
seeing it as red . . . you've something of the adept about you, it seems. Who 
did you say you were again, boy?"
I was starting to be uncomfortable that I'd told her my real name, but there was 
no going back on it now. "Apropos," I said again.
"Henh. Come in. Come in, Apropos, and . . ." She paused and looked Entipy up and 
down as if she knew the princess was hiding something. " . . . Marie."
We entered. The main room, when all was said and done, looked relatively normal, 
or at least more normal than I would have expected it to look. It seemed more 
like a large kitchen than anything else. There was a falcon crouched on a stand. 
Unlike others of its kind, it was neither hooded nor anchored to the spot. 
Instead it hopped around at will, glancing here and about at whatever snagged 
its interest. At one point our eyes met, and I couldn't help but feel that it 
was sizing me up and trying to determine whether I would provide an interesting 
meal. Apparently not, since it quickly lost interest in me and turned away. 
There was a small attachment to its leg that instantly made the creature's use 
clear: It ran airborne messages for Dotty on a purely local basis. She saw me 
studying her hawk, but said nothing.
There was a pot bubbling in the corner, which the old woman shuffled over 
toward, and she took down a ladle as she removed the lid. I clapped my hands to 
my ears as a cacophony of high-pitched noisesówhich sounded like chimings of 
bells as incarnated in the throat of childrenófilled the room. Entipy was 
likewise discommoded, but the old woman seemed utterly nonplussed. She stirred 
it two, three times and then covered it again, the heavy lid cutting off the 
sound. She looked back to us, saw the confusion on our faces. "Baby Spells," she 
said by way of explanation.
"So you would be Dotty, then," I said.
"Henh. I would be, yes. And would you be someone who can actually pay for my 
services? The middle of the day is more expensive than evening. The most casts 
are going through at that time, so it's the most effort."
"I don't think we especially want to wait, so now would be the best time," I 
said. Entipy nodded in agreement. "As for remuneration . . ." I reached into my 
purse and pulled out a fistful of coins, and placed them on the table in front 
of her. She regarded them with raised eyebrow.
" 'Tis enough. 'Twill serve," was all she said. "And what would your message be, 
pray tell?"
I resolved that our phrasing had to be careful. I had no desire to broadcast 
that the princess was with me, since I had no idea how trustworthy Dotty might 
be, nor did I know for sure that no one would be able to tap into the lines of 
communication. Apparently, however, Entipy was thinking exactly along the same 
lines, for she spoke up before I did. "Inform Queen Beatrice," she said slowly, 
"that the package Apropos was supposed to deliver her is intact here in the 
Outer Lawless regions, but travel conditions indicate an escort would be 
preferred to avoid thievery. A rendezvous is highly desirable."
I nodded approvingly. For no reason my mind wandered back to the Lady Rosalie, 
whom I'd had to brace myself for every time she opened her mouth. Entipy, on the 
other hand, was a very different animal. Very different. I was actually finding 
that she was somewhat reliable when it came to matters requiring wit or quick 
thinking or pressure under fire. At first I had considered her to be so 
unpredictable that she was dangerous, and there was still some element of that. 
But of all the women I'd met in my life, she was rapidly becoming the only one 
that was remotely akin to dependable in a pinch. Not that I trusted her 
implicitly . . . but then, who in the world could I say that of?
Dotty nodded, jotting down a few notes with a quill pen. "I assume you wish to 
receive an answer. Could take a day or more."
"Is there somewhere we can wait?" I asked.
"I have a small barn out back. Unless that's not good enough for you," she added 
with faint disdain.
"Ohhh, we've gotten quite used to making do, thanks. A barn will be fine," said 
Entipy.
We unhitched the Heffers and brought them around to the barn. Night came early 
in these parts, so although there was still significant daylight, the shadows 
were already stretching their dark fingers. The animals seemed happy for the 
shelter, and I looked at Entipy thoughtfully. She saw me studying her. "What is 
it?" she asked.
"I'm just surprised that you accepted such humble lodgings so readily," I 
admitted.
She shrugged. "It's nothing."
"No, it's not 'nothing,' " I replied. "You've made it very clear what you feel 
you're entitled to as a princess, and shelter inside a barn certainly seems 
outside that entitlement."
She laughed softly at that. "Yes. I suppose it does, all things considered. I 
guess to someone like you, who thinks you know me so well, it's confusing."
"It is a bit, yes."
There was a bale of hay in the corner, and she sat on it, stretching her legs. 
"If you want to know the truth . . . although I don't mind tossing my rank 
around to annoy people . . . I've actually very little love for the status of 
'princess.' Of royalty in general. It's one of the reasons my parents sent me to 
the Faith Women. We would meet other royalty or nobility, people with title 
brought to me with an eye toward future marriage, when I was no more than eight 
or nine years of age. Can you believe that?" She made a contemptuous, dismissive 
noise. "Eight years old and they wanted to circumscribe my future for me."
"Most people of limited meansópeasants and suchóhave their futures circumscribed 
at younger ages than that. Circumscribed by the circumstances of their birth and 
the nature of their station in life," I pointed out.
She pursed her lips and studied me thoughtfully. "You're probably right. I 
hadn't considered that."
My gods . . . she sounded more and more human. It was beginning to make me 
nervous.
"Anyway," she continued, "in would walk these princes or young lords or young 
dukes or whomever, each one filled to the brim with his own importance. Each one 
acting as if I should be thrilled that they were even considering me for a 
possible bride. Each of them so mannered, so smug. I came to revile them, each 
and every one. And perhaps the most repulsive thing was that I was seeing male 
reflections of myself. If they were so repulsive . . . what did that make me?" I 
didn't answer her; the question seemed rhetorical. "So each suitor I treated 
with the increasing disdain I felt not only for them . . . but for myself as 
well."
"Causing havoc every time such an encounter was made."
She nodded. "My parents felt that I didn't appreciate all that I had. They had 
it wrong, though. I appreciated it for what it was . . . a sham, an arbitrary 
accident of birth. I was no more deserving of all that was handed to me than 
anyone else. My vision in the matter was clearer than theirs. They just wouldn't 
acknowledge it. So they sent me to the Faith Women, hoping that I would come to 
be happy for what I had through the simple expedient of taking it away from me."
"And did it work?"
"What do you think?"
I sized her up. "I think you understood all the reasons your parents did what 
they did, but still resented them for it. And that resentment became as hard as 
stale bread, and you took it out on the Women, even though you didn't really 
mind the hard work since it eased your conscience."
"Ah. So you'd credit me with having a conscience then. Not all that long ago, I 
don't think you would have."
"You're probably right."
"And now?"
"Now?" I shrugged, a gesture that she seemed eminently comfortable with. "Now, 
frankly, I don't know what to think of you."
"Good." She smiled at that, and you know what? When she was making no effort to 
be an arrogant little shrew, she had a genuinely lovely smile. I didn't tell her 
that, of course. I'd have been insane to say something like that to her.
Then her face clouded and she looked down at her boots. Immediately the old 
apprehensions started to return. "What's wrong?" I said.
"Tacit's not coming, is he," she said. Despite the phrasing, it was not a 
question. "I thought he was a hero. He said he was a hero. But a hero would have 
come for me. A hero would have been there for me."
I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling ill-at-ease in my own body. "I'm sure 
he would have come if he could. Just because he, uhm, couldn't . . . doesn't 
make him less a hero . . ."
"Yes. It does," she said simply. "When you promise things and then don't come 
through on them, when someone was counting on you . . . it makes it harder to 
count on anyone in the future. Makes it harder to trust anyone."
"I can certainly sympathize with that view," I said.
Her gaze fastened on me. "Why?" she asked.
"It's not important."
"It is to me," she said, and from her tone of voice I could tell it really was. 
"Why do you say that? Does it have anything to do with how you managed to 
acquire all that money? I saw you go out of the room with that countess. Did she 
betray you somehow, and you extorted the money from her in exchange for 
silence?"
Gods almighty, she had a brain sharper and better targeted than an arrow. I made 
to deny it, but I looked into those eyes and realized that, for some reason, I 
couldn't.
So I told her.
I had no idea why I was telling her. It really wasn't her business. I didn't 
have to spin some lie off the top of my head; I could have just said, "It's none 
of your business," and left it at that. But something in me . . . wanted to tell 
her.
I didn't go into my entire history, of course, and I certainly didn't make any 
mention of my connection to Tacit. But I told her of how Astel had taken not 
only my virginity, but whatever rudimentary ability I might have had to trust 
anyone. Of how she had left me with the literal taste of ashes in my mouth, 
penniless, with no resources.
Entipy took in every word, and when I stopped talkingóafter what seemed an 
ageóshe said in amazement, "If I were you, I'd hate the world."
She really did understand me. The concept frightened me.
"It's amazing," she continued, "that you're as heroic as you are."
Then again, maybe she didn't understand me all that well.
I'd been sitting on the floor of the barn, and she climbed down off the hay bale 
and sat next to me. And we continued to talk for quite some time after that. I 
was still guarded, and I suspect that she was as well. But we spoke of many 
things, most of them involving our cynical view of the world at large. I sensed 
within her a kindred spirit, someone who was capable of perceiving the dark 
underbelly that those in power seemed incapable of seeing no matter how clearly 
it was pointed out to them.
"Sometimes," Entipy said, "I think the only person in the entirety of my 
father's court who makes any sense at all is the jester. He, at least, is 
capable of treating the world the way it deserves to be treated: with humorous 
contempt. And the real joke is, as often as he points it up, my parents and the 
courtiers all laugh as if it's some great jest with no deeper meaning. They 
don't understand that their inability to understand that they're all shams is 
the biggest joke of all. They are the butt of all the humor of the jester and 
they blindly snicker about it. Fools."
I couldn't help but agree.
I also noticed, though, that the more we talked, the closer she seemed to edge 
to me, untilóas the evening hour drew lateóshe was within bare inches of me. As 
chill as the barn was getting, she was so close that her body heat was warming 
me. I found it . . . disconcerting. We had lapsed into momentary silence and 
this time it was an uncomfortable one, because I sensed that there were things 
she wanted to say, and I didn't want to hear them. "Princess . . ." I said after 
a time.
"I hate that," she said abruptly. "I hate when people call me that. Don't you 
call me that."
I blinked in surprise. "But . . . it's your title."
"Yes, I know. And that's what people see me as, and that's all they see me as. 
My title is me, I am my title. The title says everything that I'm supposed to 
be, except it's a title given anyone of that birth, so we're all supposed to be 
alike. Except I don't want to be like anyone else."
"Trust me: You aren't."
She didn't seem to have heard me speak. "I'm so defined by my rank," she said 
softly, "that I feel as if no one knows the real me. I even start to wonder . . 
. if there's any real me left anymore."
"There is. I'm sure there is."
She looked to me and smiled that dazzling smile again. I felt a warm stirring in 
my loins, and shoved the thoughts away immediately.
Understand, I wasn't being bound by any prudish concerns. A female is a female 
is a female. But there were two major problems. First and foremost, as much as I 
was beginning to feel some rudimentary connection to her, I couldn't help but 
remember that it wasn't all that long ago that I had considered her borderline 
insane. That I would look into her eyes and see an ocean of madness in those 
orbs. I was not ready to set aside the notion that she was a loon, and the last 
thing I needed to do was couple with such a mad creature.
Second, and just as problematic: This was no bored wife of a knight. This was no 
tavern maid. This was a princess. One does not form the beast with two backs 
with such an individual and then expect that it ends with a shake of the hands 
and a "See you later." When one engages in such horizontal activities, one had 
better be damned ready to make a lifetime commitment or be prepared to lose 
one's head, or other body parts.
You might think me mad to flinch from an alliance that would wind up making me 
consort to a future queen. Not so. It was simply not my way to rush into 
anything. Not until I had the opportunity to consider every possible angle and 
determine the potential negative aspect of a situation. I had given in to 
impulse before, remember, and had nearly had my skull caved in by my mother's 
funeral urn because of it.
"It's getting cold," said Entipy. She got up and took a large blanket piled in 
the corner, then brought it back to the two of us. She draped it around herself 
and then held it up, indicating that I should join her under there.
"I think," I said slowly, "that it would be best if you wrapped yourself up in 
that, Highness. I can sleep next to you to provide warmth, but . . . within the 
blanket, well . . ."
For a moment, just a moment, she looked hurt. Then the hardness of rejection was 
reflected in her eyes. "Is there a problem?" she said, her voice suddenly 
sounding much colder than the air around us.
"Entipy . . ." I said, deliberately not making use of her title. "As you 
yourself have observed . . . I have every reason to have a difficulty with the 
concept of trust."
"Are you saying," she asked with incredulity in her voice, "that you don't trust 
me?"
"No," I corrected her as politely as I could. "I'm saying I don't trust myself."
At that, the corners of her mouth turned up again, ever so slightly. "Oh. I see" 
was all she said. Whereupon she wrapped herself up in the blanket, tightly 
cocooned, and presented her back to me. I lay next to her. Somewhere during the 
night, I draped an arm over her, and that was how we slept, while the Heffers 
looked on and doubtless thought we were ridiculous.
They were probably right.
"Get up."
Dotty was prodding us with her foot. Immediately I snapped awake, worried that 
we were under some sort of attack. Entipy was slower than I to be roused, but 
only slightly, as we both blinked against the early-morning sun streaming in 
through the door of the stable. I could still smell the dew in the air. Whatever 
time it was, it was damned early.
It was at that point that Dotty drew back her foot and gave me a swift kick, 
hard enough to send me rolling. "I was awake!" I yelped in irritation.
"I knew you were," she replied tartly. "That was payback for my inconvenience."
"Inconvenience?" Entipy was rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "What 
inconvenience? What did weó?"
"I received a return on your message," she said. She was looking at the two of 
us with renewed suspicion. "Never got one back so fast and so early. Whatever 
your package is, someone obviously considers it to be extremely important. The 
spell landed in my cauldron, shrieking its blasted head off. Wouldn't shut up 
until I transferred it to parchment for you. Here." As she leaned forward to 
hand it to me, I saw that there was still some slight gunk in her eyes. She'd 
really only awoken a minute or so before.
I unrolled the parchment and studied it. Entipy looked over my shoulder. She 
seemed to be breathing in my ear, but I chose to ignore it.
"We are quite pleased, as you can probably surmise, to know that your package is 
safe" (said the note). "For obvious reasons, coming into the Outer Lawless 
regions is not practical. We will trust you, Apropos, to get the package to the 
fortress outpost called Terracote. There you can turn your package over to its 
rightful owners."
Very carefully worded. The reasons were obvious, all right; unexpected and 
unprompted troop movements over the borders into Outer Lawless would certainly 
attract the attention and interest of the dreaded Warlord Shank. It might make 
him wonder just what it was that had so sparked the king's interest that he 
would undertake such an endeavor. I couldn't say that I was thrilled to think 
that we were, in essence, still on our own for as long as we were in Outer 
Lawless. But I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that there were not going 
to be easy answers.
"Terracote," I said, looking up at Dotty. "Where isó?"
But she was already reaching into her robes and extracting a map. "Thought you 
might be needing that," she said. "It's about a two-, maybe three-week ride from 
here, just beyond the Outer Lawless borders, at the outskirts of Isteria."
"A hazardous journey?"
"In places," she said. "Some is well traveled, some . . . less so. It's hard to 
say for sure. The makeup of the land is changing. Don't know if you've noticed 
that or not."
"Somewhat. I wasn't sure what to attribute it to."
"These are dangerous times," she said darkly . . . which is what weavers usually 
say when they've no idea what other answer to make. "Now . . . get off with thee 
so I can return to sleep. Usually I don't waken until noon. I need my beauty 
sleep."
Privately I thought that there weren't enough hours in the day for her to sleep 
through to help her in that score, but I saw no reason to voice the opinion.
"Madam," I said abruptly, just before she was out the door. She stopped and 
looked at me balefully. I thanked what gods there were that her specialty was 
communication. If she had any knack for transformation, I'd most likely have 
been a raccoon or some such by that point. Gamely I said, with a slight bow, "I 
cannot thank you enough for you service. I was hoping that I might be able to 
impose on you for one lastó"
"No," she said, and started to walk away again. I knew her type, however, and 
when I made a significant enough jingling while pulling out my purse, it stopped 
her in her tracks right enough. She regarded me with a suspicious, but accepting 
stare. "I'm listening."
"I hope I did nothing to give you the impression that you would not be well 
compensated for youró"
"What is it, what is it?" she said impatiently, making a hurried gesture that 
indicated I should get to the point.
I reached into my tunic and pulled out a folded parchment that I had carefully 
prepared the night before. "I would like you to wait seven days . . . and then 
see that this gets to the dreaded Warlord Shank. It is to be delivered directly 
into his hand." I reached deep into my purse and said, with carefully 
constructed nonchalance, "I'd say two dukes should cover your services in that 
regard, wouldn't you?"
Her eyes widened. She was so startled by the amount that she didn't even bother 
to haggle. She held out a clawlike hand and snatched the coins. Then she took 
the parchment from me and startled to unfold it.
"Pardon me . . . that's intended to be private."
At that she gave a contemptuous laugh. "You want me to walk up to the most 
formidable individual in our land and hand him a message sight unseen? And if it 
said something about me that would prompt him to put me to the sword? They kill 
messengers, boy."
She read it over, frowning, and then her eyes widened. She looked straight at 
me. "If you think I'd give this to him and be anywhere within the vicinity, 
you're mad. I'll send it by bird or by nothing."
"Bird. You mean that great falcon I saw?"
She nodded.
Well, it would have to do. The falcon looked formidable enough, and I doubted 
anyone could stop it if they had a mind to. "Very well," I said with a curt nod. 
"I believe it will suffice. And thank you fó"
She didn't hear what I was about to thank her for, which was all well and good 
in that I don't think she especially cared either. Instead she just walked out 
of the barn. The loose flaps of skin under her arms waved like twin pennants in 
the breeze as she lurched away.
"That note," Entipy said with interest. "What did it say?"
"Oh. That," I said with a feigned blasÈ attitude. "That was simply a note giving 
the good warlord some background information about his new bride. Things that 
she would be too modest to mention."
"The commweaver acted as if they were bad things."
"They were true things. I leave good and bad to be judged by others."
She smiled at me, genuinely smiled, and it was utterly devoid of the faintly 
demented looks I'd received from her before. "You told Shank about his fiancÈe's 
background. Didn't you. And he's not going to like it."
"True. But they're to be married within the week, so by the time he finds out, 
she'll be his wife. So I've given her a sporting chance, you see."
"But she paid you for your silence."
"I never promised to remain silent. I simply said I'd go away. I'm keeping my 
word. However I also owe her a debt from the past . . . and make no mistake. I 
always repay my debts."
 
 
Chapter 21
 
The Heffers we had obtained were worthy beasts, and we made reasonably good time 
with them. I was still not pleased over the fact that the weather had not become 
as temperate as we had hoped, but it wasn't as if I had any choice in dealing 
with it. Other than the weather, things went fairly smoothly.
We did the best we could in our journey to draw no attention to ourselves, and 
for the most part we were successful. Entipy cut her hair reasonably short so 
that, at first glance, she would appear somewhat boyish. We then did all that we 
could to make certain that no one gave us a second glance. We made eye contact 
with no one and, when addressed by other travelers, would mutter several 
indecipherable words to give the impression that we didn't speak any tongue 
known to civilized man. It was enough to encourage people not to bother with us.
At night we would pick extremely busy inns to stay in. The money that Astel had 
provided us proved to be more than sufficient to get us quite nice lodgings. Not 
only that, but it was enough for Entipy and I to have a room each to ourselves, 
and that much was an extreme relief indeed. You see, I couldn't help but get the 
feeling that Entipy was becoming more and more attached to me, and that was a 
circumstance that simply was not going to benefit anyone.
And yet, much as I am loath to admit it, I found her increasingly easy to talk 
to. The first thing to make conversation livable was that she had stopped 
mentioning Tacit with every other breath. At this point she had stopped 
mentioning him at all. She had totally lost faith in him, and that was not 
surprising. When one is put on as high a pedestal as Tacit was, one makes a very 
loud thud when one falls off it. The second thing was that she seemed to want to 
find out all about me. She found me interesting. I was not, she said, like any 
other squire or even knight that she had ever encountered before. I'd wager she 
was right.
For obvious reasons, I wasn't about to tell her chapter and verse about my life. 
There were certain aspects that were far better kept close to my vest. So the 
specific circumstances of my conception, for instance, were omitted. I did tell 
her of my mother's sense that I had a great destiny, and I further mentioned to 
her the immortal phoenix bird incident my mother had described so often from her 
pre-Apropos days. Entipy's eyes widened at that point in the recitation. "So she 
saw one even before you were born! That's impressive. You might have even 
greater auguries for your future than . . ."
She stopped. I knew that she had been about to say "Tacit," but she stopped 
herself before mentioning the name. Instead all she said was "Go on."
I described the brutality of her death and the circumstances which had resulted 
in my coming to Runcible's castle. One of the things that I discovered Entipy 
liked to do was speak contemptuously of those who weren't there, and I was able 
to give her plenty of fodder for it. She was lukewarm on Sir Justus, despised 
Sir Coreolis ("He's not at all trustworthy," she said several times), and almost 
oozed disdain for all of the squires . . . particularly the selfabsorbed Mace 
Morningstar.
She didn't seem to have much use for her parents, either. She seemed to find the 
queen tolerable if naught else, but she had no patience for the king at all. 
"He's a sham. I know he is," she said with a snort. She wouldn't go into detail 
about how she knew this. Apparently she felt that details and facts were 
unnecessary. If she said it, it had to be so. End of discussion.
Day became night, which became day and on into the night again. On the third 
day, after she'd found yet another triviality to complain about, I asked her 
point-blank. I said, "Is there anyone or anything in this world that doesn't 
upset you? That brings you pleasure?"
I had a feeling that she was going to bring up Tacit, but instead she surprised 
me. "I like sunrises. They make anything seem possible," she said.
I blinked in surprise. "I've always felt the same way," I said.
"Well, of course," she said matter-of-factly. "I mean, even you, squire, can't 
be wrong all the time." It was typical of the snide and arrogant comments she 
had made to me when we'd first met, but she said it without any heat or 
vituperation. I caught her eye as I looked at her with open curiosity . . . and 
she winked at me.
That wink said more than anything else thus far, and once again I felt 
apprehensive.
My ambition was at total war with my common sense. I had, after all, seen the 
"real" Entipy: the sullen, arrogant, somewhat dangerous young woman whom we had 
picked up from the Faith Women. And Mace Morningstar had likewise seen her . . . 
and almost got his skull cracked for his efforts. Whatever I was seeing now was 
some new, flirting creature that had been applied to the surface like a cake of 
mud that some women believed removed wrinkles. She was not remotely genuine. Let 
us say, as a matter of insane speculation, that we wound up together. Sooner or 
later the demented Entipy would return, and I would be stuck with the creature 
for the rest of my life . . . which would probably be foreshortened as a result.
Except . . .
. . . how did I know that? Really? What if . . . what if the Entipy that I had 
seen before . . . was the "impostor"? That the one I was seeing now was real? 
What if she really was as easy to talk to as she now seemed? What if . . .
Gods. What if she really was my ticket to everything?
Just imagine it. Just imagine the faces on the knights, on Morningstar, on all 
of them, if the king announced that the princess had affianced herself to 
Apropos. Imagine the sputtered indignation from Justus and Coreolis and the 
rest. Imagine the look of pure horror from Morningstar and his ilk, knowing that 
I would eventually be in a position where they would have to bend knee to me, 
attend my commands, go where I told them they had to go. The joys of honor and 
obedience: I could instruct Morningstar to strip naked and ride into combat 
single-handedly against the dreaded Warlord Shank . . .
. . . and he'd have to do it!
"Apropos, why are you smiling in that slightly demented way?" Entipy asked, 
bringing me back to reality.
A steady chill wind was blowing against our faces, the Heffers treading along 
the path as best they could against it. We'd been on the road for some days. I 
glanced at her as she spoke and, pulling my thoughts back to focus, said coolly, 
"Just imagining the joy on your parents' faces when I bring you back, Highness."
"They never liked me, you know," she said with sullen petulance. "If they had, 
they'd never have sent me away."
"All parents have to do what they think is best for their child."
"Would you have done it?" There was both curiosity and challenge in her voice.
The easy, facile answer would have been to say no, protesting that she was much 
too charming to do such a thing. But she'd see right through that, and it had 
suddenly become of great interest to me to court the princess's genuine 
affections. Whenever my resolve wavered from that, I'd picture the helpless 
Morningstar riding into battle and that would help me back onto the correct 
path.
"You are speaking to one," I said slowly, "who never knew the normal trappings 
of father and mother. My father, as you know, died before I was born" (the story 
that I had given her to cover the truth of my origins) "and my mother worked 
such long and hard hours that she rarely was able to give me any attention. And 
then she was taken from me. Because of that, I would never want toóin any 
respectódeprive any child of mine of the immediacy and relationships that I was 
never able to have. So, no, I would not send you away. Perhaps that makes me 
selfish . . ."
"No, no, not at all. It makes you a good father."
"It reflects my own upbringing, is all. Frequently, Highness, that's all one 
sees in one's parents: how they themselves were raised. For all you know, your 
father and mother were likewise sent away, or by other means kept distanced from 
their parents. For them, what they did was simple normal behavior. On that 
basis, it would be no more fair to condemn them for their actions than it would 
to accuse a bear of laziness because it sleeps away the winter. It simply does 
what comes naturally."
She nodded thoughtfully, processing the notions. I, in the meantime, continued 
to let my common sense war with my ambition . . .
"Apropos . . ." and she reached over and took my hand, reining her Heffer to a 
stop. "Thank you. Maybe you're right. Maybe . . . you're actually providing a 
reason for me not to hate my parents. And that's not a bad thing to have at 
all."
I squeezed her hand tightly, returning the gesture . . .
. . . and she started to pull me toward her, clearly intending to kiss me.
And as I was faced with this outward, physical display of her affection, an 
entirely new dynamic entered my mind. I automatically flinched back, and she 
knew it. I saw the disappointment, the surprise, and even the faintest flutter 
of anger in her eyes.
The problem was, I knew where it was going to lead. One kiss becomes a second, 
then a third and so on, and the next thing you know, clothes are everywhere and 
other parts of you are places they shouldn't be. Places where, I was reasonably 
sure, Tacit had already been.
That's what it came down to, really. It had taken me a while to realize it, but 
that was the truth of it. If matters went in that direction, if we became 
engaged, married, well . . . sooner or later, I'd have to make love to her. And 
if I made love to her . . . she would compare me to Tacit. It was only 
inevitable. And there was no question in my mind that, as in all things except 
the one time I caught him totally by surprise, I would come up short in 
measuring up . . . so to speak. She would hold me up against his performance, 
find me lacking, lose all respect for me . . .
None of which I could say to her, of course. But I had to say something, and 
fast, because I had a hurt and angry princess on my hands, and such a creature 
is wildly unpredictable. And here, entering a somewhat mountainous and 
potentially treacherous region of the Outer Lawless realm, I didn't need 
unpredictability at my side. It could get us both killed.
"Highness . . . as flattered as I am . . . it . . . it wouldn't be right."
"Why wouldn't it," she said, sounding quite icy.
"Because," I said, sounding as reasonable as I could, "anything you might be 
feeling for me, Princess . . . might be from the intensity of the moment. 
Unusual alliances, such as what we have forged, cause all sorts of emotions to 
become more . . . heightened . . . than they ordinarily would be. They give rise 
to feelings that would not be there if circumstances were more normal. For me to 
take advantage of what you might be feeling for me right now . . . it wouldn't 
be right. The impulses might not be genuine. Once we are to safety and you can 
think rationally . . . then we shall see what's what. I wouldn't want to risk 
taking advantage of you . . ." and then, as a masterstroke of inspiration, I 
added, "as others may have, finding you vulnerable and saddened."
A direct hit. A perfect score. Her eyes widened and she nodded in understanding, 
and I knew exactly what was going through her mind because I, Apropos, master of 
subtlety, had planted it there. She was starting to wonder whether her 
involvement with Tacit had truly been the grand romantic adventure she had 
thought it was . . . or whether he was simply taking advantage of her. And if he 
was . . . while here, Apropos was refusing to do so . . . how noble did that 
make Apropos, and how much of a cad did that make Tacit? Apropos, who had been 
here and come through for her, and Tacit who hadn't? My mind soared with joy.
And that was when it hit me.
It wasn't anything bad, actually; in fact, it was very surprising. It was a gust 
of warm air, so unexpected and so out of place that its sudden appearance struck 
me almost like the blow of a hammer.
What was even the more surprising was that the general area we were in was 
somewhat colder than before, probably because the road was going on a steady 
upward slope, which meant we were going higher, where altitude was less and the 
air was chillier. In the near distance I could see mountain peaks, thick with 
snow. So a sudden gust of warm air truly seemed to come from nowhere.
I pulled out the map that Dotty had provided us. The fortress at Terracote truly 
didn't seem all that far . . . another few days at most. However, it was going 
to become more difficult before it became easier, because I saw more mountains 
dotting the path. They seem to be fairly low by comparison to others on the same 
map, but it still was going to be an effort. So I certainly didn't want us to 
become distracted by things that were off the path.
Yet that was what was happening, because Entipy felt the same gusting warmth 
that I did. "Is it from a spring, do you think?" she asked. "Or some sort of 
sulfur caves?"
"For all I know they left the door to hell ajar. Whatever it is, it's none of 
our concern." Even as I spoke, though, I felt another wafting of warm air and, 
more, the whiff of lilacs. I hadn't a clue to what was going on.
The Heffers, though, did not seem pleased. They whinnied uncertainly, and mine 
started to back up slightly.
Entipy, however, would have none of it. "I want to see what's causing that. If 
it's a warmer path than through the mountains, we should take it."
I looked at the wall of trees which was lining the edge of the road. There were 
no leaves upon them, but instead thick green needles . . . not sharp, but enough 
so that we couldn't have a clear vision of what lay past them. "There's no path 
here to take," I said in what I hoped was my most reasonable manner.
She didn't reply. Instead she dug her heels into the sides of the Heffer and 
urged it off the road. "Princess!" I said in annoyance, but she ignored me. The 
Heffer made one more noise of protest and then reluctantly went where it was 
led.
My own Heffer angled its head around at me and seemed to look me in the eyes as 
if to say, You're not thinking about going in there, too, are you? But I had no 
real choice. I couldn't let the little fool just wander off by herself. So with 
a resigned sigh I snapped the reins and guided my own beast off the path as 
well.
Fortunately enough, Heffers were even more surefooted than ordinary horses, so I 
wasn't all that concerned about riding one off the beaten path. I would not have 
essayed a gallop, of course, because that would likely have resulted in a broken 
leg in short order.
At first their hooves crunched through the thin layer of ice and snow on the 
ground, but then I realized that the crunching noise had stopped. The reason was 
quickly obvious: The ice was gone. The air was getting warmer the farther we 
went. A few minutes ago there had been mist coming out of our mouths when we 
spoke, but now there was nothing. And the aroma of lilacs was becoming stronger 
than ever.
Entipy kept glancing at me, clearly puzzled, apparently hoping that I would come 
up with an explanation. But I just shook my head, as bemused as she was.
The going was becoming increasingly easy, the trees thinning out. It was as if 
we were literally crossing seasonal lines, traveling directly from winter into 
spring, with summer a few yards ahead. The Heffers, however, were becoming 
increasingly agitated. They slowed to a crawl, and all the rein snapping on both 
of our parts was not getting them to move any faster. "What's wrong with them!" 
Entipy demanded in frustration. "Stupid animals! Don't they want to go where 
it's warm?" And she dug her heels into the belly of her Heffer, who didn't seem 
particularly pleased by the gesture.
"I'm getting the impression they don't," I said, "and I'm starting to wonder if 
they know something we don't."
"How could they? They're just dumb animals."
"Animals can sometimes sense problems before humans. I think we'd better go 
back."
"Why?"
"Because my horse isn't going forward."
And it was true. The Heffer had come to a complete halt. No matter how much I 
urged it to do so, it wasn't budging. As a matter of fact, it was trying to back 
up. Entipy was in the same bind, her horse not moving an inch. Not taking to 
this particular development in the least, Entipy dismounted, grabbed up the 
reins, and tried to pull the horse forward. She shouted at it, informing the 
horse just exactly who she was and precisely the kind of trouble it was going to 
get in if it ignored the royal decrees of a princess.
The Heffer suddenly let out an ear-curdling cry of protest and reared up, 
thrashing the air with its front hooves. That was about all the warning I had 
before my horse did likewise. Unlike Entipy, however, I was still on its back. I 
tried to hold on, but I had no chance, and I tumbled backward off the horse. As 
I fell I snagged the saddlebag, more for the purpose of trying to hold on than 
anything else, but the saddlebag tore free and went with me to the ground. "Stop 
them!" Entipy shouted, as if I were remotely in any sort of position to impose 
my will on two bucking horses. I lay stunned on the forest floor, and suddenly I 
saw the Heffer's hooves pounding straight toward my head. Sheer panic galvanized 
me and I rolled out of the way just as the beast pounded past me. Its associate 
followed directly behind it, ignoring the princess's shouted curses and threats.
"What's got into them?!" she cried out. She looked down at me as I lay there, 
gasping at how close I had just come to being a splotch on their hooves. "Are 
you all right?" she inquired, sounding vaguely solicitous.
"Ohhh . . . fine," I managed to say. I sat up slowly and looked behind us. There 
was already no sign of the horses. "Wonderful," I muttered, and then turned just 
in time to see Entipy heading not back after the Heffers but forward toward 
whatever the hell had just sent them dashing in the other direction. "Are you 
daft?!" I called after her. "Where do you think you're going!"
"I want to see what caused them to run off," she replied. "If we're going to 
lose the horses over it . . ."
"We're not going to lose anything of the kind," I protested, using a tree to 
pull myself up. I picked up the saddlebag, breathing a sigh of relief; the 
majority of the riches I'd taken from Astel were in there. I redid the straps 
and tied it off around my waist. Between the jewels and the sword I still had 
strapped to my back, I was getting a bit loaded down. "We'll go back out to the 
road. They're probably waiting for us there."
"Or they've run away. Besides, I want to see what's up there."
"No, you don't, and I'm going back for the horses."
"Fine. You do that." And without another word she turned on her heel and set out 
in the opposite direction from where I wanted to go.
I muttered a string of profanities under my breath as I started to head back to 
the road. I got about twenty feet and then envisioned what it would be like to 
face King Runcible at the fort and inform him that the last time I'd seen his 
little girl, she'd stomped off on her own into a forest and I'd done nothing to 
stop her. Immediately after that, the next thing I'd likely see would be a 
headsman's axe. With a moan I turned around and started off after Entipy.
She wasn't difficult to follow, leaving a trail that a blind man could track. 
The warmth had evened off, fortunately, because if it had kept up, the weather 
around me would have become positively scalding. "Entipy!" I called up ahead, 
hoping to get her to slow down since, even moving as fast as I could, my lame 
leg was slowing me up. "Entipy! Get back here! This is madness!"
I saw Entipy just ahead, standing on what appeared to be a ridge. Apparently 
there was a valley of some sort just ahead. "Entipy!" I called to her. "Enough 
games! Enough foolishness! It's time toó!"
She turned to look at me, and I stopped where I was, taken aback at the sheer 
wonderment in her eyes. It wasn't me she was reacting to, that was for sure. She 
saw something in the valley ahead that had completely stunned her. Cautious and 
uncertain, I made my way up the narrow incline until I was by her side, and then 
looked where she was looking, the smell of lilacs so thick in my nostrils that 
it was almost suffocating.
I gasped. You would have, too.
Unicorns.
Not a couple. Not a handful. A herd.
In the near distance, snow-covered mountains towered. But here, in this valley, 
it was spring, and would always be so for as long as the unicorns chose to graze 
there. There was an endless supply of food for them to consume, because the 
grass continued to grow at an amazing rate. It was impossible to tell how long 
they had been thereóa day, an age. To such creatures, time truly had little 
meaning.
They were not entirely what I had expected, not precisely what I had seen as 
depicted in tapestries. They were, for one thing, smaller. Not a one of them was 
much larger than a pony. Yet there were so many of them at that size that I 
could only conclude that that was how big they got at maturity, rather than that 
we had stumbled upon a herd of young ones. Some of them were white, yes, but 
there were others who were deep brown, and some that wereóincrediblyógreen. 
Green that was as green as the forest. I thought of the times when I would be in 
the Elderwoods and think that I'd seen something move, just out of the corner of 
my eye, but when I'd looked straight on I'd seen nothing. Perhaps the "nothing" 
I had seen had been a unicorn standing against a bush and blending in perfectly.
The fabled horns were not quite as long and pointed as I would have thought; 
they were shorter and curved upward, appearing more like tusks than horns. Their 
second most noticeable feature was their tails, which were long, thin, and 
almost snake-like, a small tuft of hair at the end. And they were shaggy beasts. 
Their manes were long and unkempt, and their fetlocks were thick to the point of 
almost being furry. However, I quickly noticed something, and that was that the 
manes and fetlocks seemed to be glittering as the sun hit them. Sparkling, even, 
in a rainbow of colors that made it seem as if the light was dancing along them. 
And their eyes . . . their eyes were the deepest blue I had ever seen. Such blue 
that I could have stared at it for hours, forever. Such blue that it hurt to 
look away, even for an instant.
As scruffy as the creatures appeared on the outside, they seemed to glow from 
within. I understood why someone weaving a tapestry would depict them in such a 
manner; it was because it was a rendering of the glorious souls these animals 
possessed. I knew that I was going to start crying as soon as I walked away from 
them, which I would obviously have to do eventually. I could not, after all, 
live among them. Although even that seemed possible at the moment. Anything did.
"Gods," I whispered because, really, what else could one say?
Entipy was looking at me with wonder. "It's because of you," she said.
"Me?" I had no idea what she was talking about. In fact, it took effort for me 
to force my attention back to the fact that she was there at all. "What's 
because of me?"
"In all my life," she said in wonderment, "I've never seen a single magical 
beast. Not a one. I've read about them, thought about them. But never seen one. 
Then along comes Apropos, whose mother witnessed an omen of a phoenix. Here you 
come, riding on the back of one, just as it was shown in the tapestry back at my 
home. And now I come upon more glorious creatures while in your company. There's 
something about you that intertwines your fate with such animals."
I didn't bother to point out that I tried to head away from the creatures, not 
toward them. She was so caught up in the magic of the moment that she was 
already reordering events to suit the new worldview. Fine. Let her. If it was 
going to benefit me, I wasn't about to argue. "I suppose anything is possible," 
I said.
I glanced over my shoulder to see if there was any remaining sign of the 
Heffers. Nothing. I hoped my guess was right and they had decided to wait for us 
by the side of the road. I turned back to Entipy.
She wasn't there.
My heart leaped up into my throat, for I could see the top of Entipy's head 
disappearing beyond the edge of the rise. She was climbing down into the valley 
where the unicorns were grazing. "Princessssss!" I hissed. "Get back here!"
Either she didn't hear me or she simply acted as if she didn't hear me, but in 
either event she dropped from sight. Immediately I scrambled to the edge of the 
rise and looked down. She had already reached the bottom; it was only about ten 
feet down, and on an incline rather than a straight drop, so it had been no 
great challenge for her to get down there. "Entipy!" I called to her again in a 
desperate low voice. She looked up at me, her eyebrows knit, as if she couldn't 
possibly figure out what I might want to talk to her about. "Get back up here!"
She put her hands on her hips and said with obvious impatience, "How am I going 
to be able to ride a unicorn if I stay up there?"
I felt a pounding starting in my temple that I had become all too familiar with 
since making the princess's acquaintance. "Are you insane!" I demanded, already 
knowing the answer. She did not bother to make a response, instead simply walked 
away from me with a shrug of her shoulders as if I was not worth a moment of her 
time.
I had no choice. I swung my legs over the edge of the rise and slid down as 
quickly as I could. Dirt and small pebbles tumbled around me and I halted my 
fall using my lame right leg because the last thing I wanted to do was risk 
damaging the good left one. I used my staff to haul myself up and made off 
quickly after her. She was approaching the herd with a bold stride, her chin 
upraised and her eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Princess," I said with a desperate urgency that I did not remotely have to 
fake. "Princess, this is ill advised. Unicorns or not, they remain wild animals, 
and such creatures tend to be rather territorial. A stranger marching into their 
midstó"
"I am no stranger," she said airily. "I am a princess of the blood royal. My 
place in the world of the unicorn is assured." She slowed ever so slightly to 
allow me to catch up. "We are going to do something that will be the stuff of 
legends, squire."
"We will?" I liked the sound of this less and less.
"Yes. I am going to find us the right unicorn. And I will mount it and ride it 
straight to Fort Terracote. It will carry me there on its pure white backówhite, 
Apropos, it has to be white. None of these brown or green ones."
"So noted. Entipyó"
"And it will hold its beautiful head high, and its horn will glow," she 
continued, caught up in her fantasy. "And all will see me coming, and my father 
will feel ashamed that he ever thought to send me away."
"That's a charming scenario." We were drawing uncomfortably close to the herd. 
Some of the unicorns were taking note of us, their tails whipping around in what 
I feared was agitation. "Now allow me to offer an alternative: You walk up to a 
unicorn, try to exercise your influence, and the skittish animal runs you 
through with its horn."
"That could never happen. Unicorn horns have the power to cure."
"So I hear . . . provided you grind them up and use them properly. Having 
neither a grinder nor knowledge of proper procedures, I'd rather not take my 
chances."
"You are a squire, Apropos. If you are ever to become Sir Apropos, you will have 
to learn to take chances."
"Not with the life of the princess," I said tautly. Which was true enough. I 
reached for her, ready to sling her over my shoulder and haul her out of there 
if necessary, but she increased her speed and dodged my efforts. She even let 
out a curt laugh, as if the entire thing were a game. "These things are 
unpredictable, Entipy!" I reminded her. "They could kill you . . . !"
"To die . . . at the hooves or horns of creatures as beautiful as these . . ." 
Her eyes widened at the exciting thought. "How glorious would that be?"
Such words as these did nothing to lighten my mood. There was nothing romantic 
about suicide, and that's where I was worried this was going. "Not as glorious 
as living to tell people what we witnessed here today. Let's go, now. Nó"
"Apropos," she said, her voice firm, "I'm going to do this."
"But you have to be aó" I stopped.
She looked at me, curious. "I have to be a what?"
I licked my lips, my voice suddenly feeling very raspy. "Well . . . you have to 
be . . . you know . . ."
"No, I don't know." I wondered if she was going to make me say it just to watch 
me be uncomfortable.
Taking a deep breath, I said, "Well . . . you know . . . a virg . . . a virg . . 
."
"Virgin?" There was thick sarcasm in her voice. "Number one, that is an old 
wives' tale. And number two . . . what are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything."
"Yes, you are. You're saying I'm not a virgin."
"No, I'm not." I was trying to cover as fast as I could. "I was just, uhm . . . 
reminding you that you had to be one."
"Why would you have to remind me of that? If you believed me to be one, then you 
would think that my status would guarantee safe passage. The only possible 
reason you would feel the need to bring it up is a belief that I am not. And I 
am, frankly, a bit insulted."
"I'm just suggesting caution, that's all. Ió"
"You think I can't do it." There was rising ire in her voice. I felt as if the 
ground around me were turning to sand, sucking me down, even though it was 
beautiful and green and harmless. "You think I'm not a virgin and that I'm not 
up to the challenge. Well, I'll show you . . ."
"You don't have to show me anything!"
Obviously, though, she felt she did, because she quickened her pace all the 
more. She was making a beeline toward one particular unicorn. She certainly had 
picked out a remarkable-looking one. It was indeed purest white, and the 
sparkles in its mane almost made it look as if light was pouring out from the 
creature's immortal soul. It was watching her with those soulful eyes. I 
wondered how many sights the unicorn had seen in its lifetime, how many foolish 
maidens had tried to approach it. It tilted its head slightly, watching Entipy 
as if she were a mad little thing . . . which she was.
She slowed ever so slightly as she drew near. The unicorn took a step back and 
gave a faint, musical whinny that sounded more than anything like a warning. It 
had not lowered its horn as if to charge, but it certainly didn't seem enthused 
about seeing her. Entipy was making soft "chuk chuk" noises as she got within 
range of the beast. I noticed that Entipy and the one unicorn were not exactly 
operating independently of the rest of the world. Every unicorn in the vicinity 
was now watching the scenario play out. I wondered how they were going to react 
if it didn't play out in a manner to their liking.
"Hellooooo," said Entipy softly. She kept both her hands flat and open, palms 
up, so that the unicorn could see for itself that she was unarmed. "Apropos . . 
. what do you think it is? A girl or a boy?"
"Neither. It's a damned horse, and I mislike this whole thing. It stinks of 
magic and I'd sooner we were anywhere but here."
"We will be, I told you. We're going to ride them to Terracote."
Now that I was a bit closer (already closer than I liked) I could see that there 
was even hair on the horns themselves. It was such a light color as to be almost 
invisible, but it was there nevertheless.
I was getting a very uneasy feeling about the entire business, because a number 
of the unicorns were looking at me, or at least it seemed as if they were. All I 
could dwell upon at that point was Tacit's saying that he had been raised by 
unicorns. What if he'd been telling the truth? Not only that . . . but what if 
it had been these unicorns? What if one of them had actually suckled him? What 
if . . . what if they knew what I had done?
I could feel those stormy blue eyes burrowing into me, and the more I wanted to 
clear my mind of my assaulting Tacit, the more it seemed to rise to the 
forefront. Could they read minds? Smell guilt feelings? I had no way of knowing; 
these were magical creatures, to be sure. They were capable of just about 
anything.
"Entipy," I said slowly, not taking my eyes off the great beasts who were not 
taking their eyes off me, "these are not captive show creatures in a traveling 
circus. These are wild animals, out in the wild. We are on their turf, in a very 
uncontrolled situation, and anything can happen. And a goodly number of those 
anythings would be counterproductive to our continued health."
She wasn't listening. Part of me was hoping that one of them would just run her 
through and get it over with. The suspense was killing me. She was almost up to 
the unicorn that she had selected for the questionable honor of being her mount. 
The horse wasn't backing up at that point. Why should it be? It had a sizable 
number of friends to serve as support against a single unarmed girl. Entipy was 
continuing to make those clucking noises, causing her to sound like an overlarge 
chicken, interspersed with such useful comments as "Here, unicorn. Nice unicorn. 
Pretty pretty unicorn."
Then, with an extremely credible display of horsemanship, Entipy snagged a 
handful of the unicorn's mane and swung herself expertly onto its back before it 
could offer protest. She straddled it, looked triumphantly over at me, and 
started to call out "See?!" right before the unicorn threw her into the air.
I should have let her just hit the ground. It might have jolted some sense into 
her. Instead I stupidly bolted toward her and lunged for her. She crashed into 
me, sending us both to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. I felt a 
soreness in my chest and fingered my ribs, hoping that the impact hadn't broken 
one.
"I'm all right! I'm all right!" Entipy said, disentangling herself from me.
"I don't care!" I shot back grumpily, sitting up. "That was a damned fool thing 
to do."
"I am a princess," she said haughtily. "I do what I like."
"If what you 'like' is to get your fool neck broken, keep right on doing it 
because you were well on your way. You'd probably have done it by now if I 
hadn't caught you."
She regarded me thoughtfully and crouched beside me. Her face softened. "Yes. 
You did, didn't you. That was sweet."
The smell of lilacs was making me feel light-headed. I wondered if it was having 
the same effect on her. Then, before I could stop her, she wrapped an arm around 
the back of my head and kissed me passionately. I felt myself being carried away 
by the moment, and I returned the kiss with passion of my own, taking her into 
my arms. I felt giddy, intoxicated. For just a moment, all my concerns about her 
being unpredictable and untrustworthy faded away, and I felt something deep and 
profound within me . . . as if, impossibly, in this hard and cynical world, I 
had found a genuine soul mate. A part of myself I didn't even know I was 
missing. All that from one ardor-charged kiss.
The unicorn let out a whinny, and it was not musical, and it was not alone, 
because the lot of them chorused in.
We broke off and I looked at them, my eyes wide with alarm. I could no longer 
make out which unicorn had been the one that Entipy had been endeavoring to 
mount, because they were now clustered together. More and more of them were 
coming in from all sides, advancing. Their tails were no longer swishing back 
and forth in leisurely fashion. Instead they were straight back or straight 
down, tense and quivering with what I could only interpret as rage.
Oh, gods, they do know, the frantic thought went through my head. They know what 
I did . . . they know that I shouldn't be here. Unicorns were, as noted, 
magical. They were true creatures of destiny and, therefore, must have had some 
clear idea of how destiny was to be shaped. And here came I, Apropos, who had 
usurped the rightful place of the unicorn-bred hero of the story, flaunting that 
craven triumph in their faces. Little wonder they weren't exactly happy with me 
at that moment.
Entipy didn't understand any of that. "It was just a kiss, you horned prudes!" 
she said in irritation as we got to our feet. "He saved me! He's . . ." Caught 
up in the moment, she took my hand in hers. "He's my hero."
And then went up a sound of pure fury such as I'd never heard and hope never to 
hear again. The sea of white was advancing on us like a great wave. I looked in 
the direction from which we'd come, but we were cut off, the herd having moved 
across it. It seemed that every single unicorn in the herd had now made us the 
complete and undivided focus of their attention.
From directly behind us I felt a gust of cold air. It was an area more toward 
the mountain passes, bereft of grass, and so the unicorns had focused their 
energies, or charms, or whatever you would call it on that particular piece of 
land. The path to it seemed clear, which was fortunate, because if we'd been 
surrounded on all sides we wouldn't have had a prayer. As it was, I wasn't 
giving our chances great odds.
Even Entipy was now fully aware that we were in serious trouble. Those blue eyes 
of the unicorns, as beautiful as they'd been to look at while they were relaxed, 
were terrifying to see in anger. Entipy's gaze was riveted by them, and all her 
high-flown words about what it would be like to die at the hooves of the mythic 
beasts flew right away. "I think . . . we'd better leave," she said slowly.
I was already backing up, not removing my gaze from them. "I couldn't agree 
more. On the count of threeó"
"No," she said sharply. "Don't run."
She put an arm around my waist. This gesture seemed to incense the closest 
unicorns, and they actually reared up and pawed the ground.
"I think they want us out of here as quickly as possible," I told her.
"I read in a book about unicorns: Never run from anything immortal. It attracts 
their attention."
"We've already got their damned attention."
"Just . . . do as I do." She took a deep breath to steady herself and then 
turned her back to the unicorns and proceeded to walk in a calm, unhurried 
manner. As much as I wanted to bolt, I couldn't bring myself to flee and leave 
her behind. Besides, with my lame leg, I don't know how fast I could have gone 
anyway.
So I walked next to her, maintaining as much dignity as I could. The way ahead 
of us, toward the mountains, remained clear. The herd had converged behind us, 
apparently not trying to cut us off from departing. We weren't going the way I 
wanted to go, unfortunately. We were leaving the road behind, heading toward a 
far more hazardous path, but I didn't see much choice. Still, we weren't 
completely out of options. We might be able to double back around the unicorn 
grazing area. And, at the very least, I had the map, so I might be able to 
locate us again provided I could find a decent landmark.
One step after another, and even though we weren't looking at them, I could 
sense the eyes of every one of the beasts upon us. But at least it seemed that 
they were going to let us go. I thanked the gods for that, and even began to 
chide myself that I'd let my imagination run was wild as I had. Thinking that 
somehow they were able to read my mind and know what I had done to their 
favorite son. It was, really, the height of absurdity to attribute that much 
insight to dumb animals, magical or no.
"That," I breathed, once I started to feel that we were a safe distance, "was 
close. Good advice there, about the walking."
"Thank you for trusting me," she said. "I know it's not easy for you to trust 
anyone. I'm honored."
"You're welcome."
"And by the way . . . you kiss very well."
And she reached over and actually grabbed my ass, giving it an affectionate 
squeeze and causing me to jump slightly.
The unicorns went berserk.
As one, an infuriated bellow was ripped from their collective throats like 
damned souls in hell. Our heads whipped around just in time to see that the lot 
of them had lowered their horns, and they were charging.
Obviously, they'd noticed us.
"Run!" I screamed. Suddenly all the lameness of my leg was completely forgotten 
as Entipy and I bolted. The unicorns were a fair distance behind us, but they 
were closing the gap rapidly as we ran as fast as we could down the mountain 
pass. The incline was sharp, the footing uncertain, but the need to flee was 
great. Entipy was clutching my free hand tightly as I used the staff as never 
before to propel me along.
The ground rumbled beneath the pounding hooves of the unicorns, and we ran like 
mad. We ran as if our lives depended upon it, which they most certainly did, 
because the unicorns were not stopping, and if they caught up with us, we would 
be pulp beneath their hooves in no time at all.
Part of me viewed the scene almost as if my spirit had left my body. I could 
see, in my mind's eye, the sea of white, with dots of brown and green, 
converging upon us and, in many ways, it was a thing of beauty. No, of joy. 
Creatures of myth, creatures of legend, creatures of power, moving as one, their 
manes shimmering, their hooves flashing. If one was able to see it perched 
safely atop a mountain, one would find oneself weeping in joy at being able to 
see such a sight.
As for me, I was weeping in terror. I could practically feel the horns running 
me through, the hooves trampling me. The ground trembled all the more, and 
Entipy and I took turns, her dragging me, me dragging her. "Run! Run!" I kept 
shouting unnecessarily. Entipy stumbled, her dress ripping, and I yanked her to 
her feet as if she was weightless and kept going.
The unicorns were closing. We had no hope. For one wild moment I entertained the 
notion of trying to leap to one side or the other, to get out of the way of the 
stampede, but there was nowhere to go. We were deep into the pass, the mountains 
looming on either side of us, the rock face too sheer for us to have any hope of 
getting away. Even the mountains themselves seemed to be trembling in fear as 
the unicorn herd descended upon us. And worst of all, they were bringing that 
same damned smell of lilacs with them. I was going to be gored and crushed while 
sniffing flowers. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and settled for 
shrieking in terror. It was a most unmanly sound and probably would have lost me 
Entipy's respect, had she been able to hear me over the deafening pounding.
That was when a huge chunk of ice and snow struck the ground directly in front 
of us. We dodged around it, and then another struck, and another, and we were 
leaping to one side and the other automatically, without thinking about what was 
happening. The thunder of the unicorns had not abated, and then more pieces of 
ice fell, and more, like a great rain, and then I thought, It can't be, because 
it sounded to me as if the stampede was slowing. I chanced a glance around and 
yes, it was true, it was gloriously true, the unicorns were breaking off their 
pursuit.
"We're saved!" cried out Entipy, who had seen the same thing.
Except . . .
. . . except the rumbling hadn't stopped.
. . . except it had . . . but had been replaced. What I was hearing and feeling 
now was not the concentrated thudding of hundreds of hooves. Instead it was 
something deeper, even more profound, as if we were trapped inside of a 
thunderhead. The rumbling was no longer originating from behind us; instead it 
was all around us, above, below, and the chunks of snow were getting bigger, one 
of them striking me a glancing blow.
I looked up.
The snow on the mountains was breaking loose, descending toward us at horrifying 
speed and velocity.
Instantly I realized what had happened. The pounding hooves of the unicorns had 
jarred loose the snow from the mountains. "Avalanche!" I shouted. Entipy looked 
up as well and gasped. There was nowhere to go but forward, and that we did as 
fast as we could.
It wasn't fast enough.
The snow came crashing down, filling in the gap between the mountains. A sea of 
white of a very different sort from the equine sea that had been pursuing us, 
but no less deadly.
The path ahead of us suddenly dropped off. We ran as fast as we could and then 
the snow caught up with us. The frosty tidal wave lifted us off the ground, 
tumbling all around us, and I held on to Entipy's hand for as long as I could, 
but then I was torn away from her. I heard her cry out my name once and then her 
voice was lost in the crashing of the snow.
Gods, how could this get any worse? I wondered, right before we hit the cliff.
I wasn't aware of it until I was over it, nor did I have any true picture of how 
high it was. All I knew was that suddenly there was no sense of solidity beneath 
me aside from the huge pieces of snow that were endeavoring to bury me. I 
thrashed at the air as if I could somehow use the airborne ice chunks as 
stepping-stones to keep me aloft, an endeavor which worked about as well as you 
can probably suspect. Amazingly, I managed to hold on to my staff, wrapping my 
arms around it, and it was raining snow all around me. I resolved never to 
wonder how things could get worse, and then I hit bottomóor whatever it wasóso 
hard that it knocked all the breath out of me. That was unfortunate, because 
more snow piled on top of me from overhead. I curled up, bringing my arms over 
my head to try and afford me protection, and waited until the rumblingówhich 
seemed to go on for an eternityóceased.
I was entombed. Buried alive in white.
I had no definite idea which way was up or down, but I took a guess and started 
digging as fast and as frantically as I could. For all I knew, it was a futile 
endeavor. If I was under twelve feet of snow, there was no way I was going to be 
able to break surface before I suffocated. But that wasn't going to stop me from 
doing my damnedest to survive.
There was a small pocket of air around me, and I clawed for the surface, trying 
to dig my way through it. It was everything I could do not to let sheer panic 
overwhelm me. I knew that if that happened, I'd be finished. I'd thrash around 
so much that I'd use up my air before I even came close to escaping.
My fingers dug into the snow as I shoved and pushed, trying to burrow out. Right 
above me, the snow seemed so packed in that I couldn't get through it at all. I 
snapped open the bladed end of my staff and shoved it in, prying at it, jarring 
it loose. It fell in my face and there was more right above it, but at least it 
was loose enough that I could push it away and keep going.
My breath was coming in ragged gasps, my eyes filled with dirt and moisture so 
that I could barely see. My feet and hands were completely numb. I wasn't 
scooping or pushing the snow away at that point; I was clubbing it with fists 
that weren't feeling anything anymore. Once again I felt light-headed, but this 
time it wasn't from the scent of lilacs; it was from the scent of my own death. 
I was going to be buried alive there, and my body would never be found. 
Runcible's people would be sitting there in Terracote, waiting in futility. I 
wondered how long they would remain there before they gave us up for lost; 
before they decided that that bastard whore's son, Apropos of Nothing, had 
bungled the job of returning the "precious cargo" and my name was entered into 
the lists of the greatest failures in Isteria.
Had Entipy made it out? Had she survived somehow? Was she nearer to the surface, 
on top perhaps? Or was she buried even farther below? She could be within inches 
of me and I'd never know. So much I would never know. My life was going to end 
there, a series of questions with no answers . . .
The world was hazing out around me, my efforts to clamber upward becoming less 
and less emphatic. I tried to tell myself that I had to keep going. To make it 
for Entipy . . . for my mother's sake . . . for . . .
For yourself. That's the only thing that's really important to you. Don't try to 
pretend otherwise.
It was the voice of Sharee . . . the voice of the weaver whom I had rescued a 
lifetime ago . . . and she was right there next to me, in my mind's eye, looking 
at me with open scorn. That's really all it's been. You. You can fool others, 
but not me.
"Go away," I muttered between swollen lips as I kept pushing upward, if for no 
other reason than to get away from her.
Do you want some free advice?
"No."
She's not worth it, she went on as if I hadn't spokenówhich, considering my 
state of mind at that point, I might actually not have done. The princess, I 
mean. She's going to bring you nothing but heartache. Trust me on that.
Trust a weaver. Fat chance.
If you get out of this, you head off and never look back. Carve out a new life 
for yourself. Stay away from knights. You were never meant for that life. Live 
within your reality, not your dreams.
"All I have are my dreams, because the reality is a nightmare."
Your reality is what you make it.
I moaned. Not only was I going to die, but I was going to die having to listen 
to homilies.
Her face was floating just above me. And another thing . . .
"Shut up," I growled in my delirium, and I shoved the frozen meat-and-bone thing 
called my fist through her face. It punched through the snow overhead . . .
. . . and touched nothing.
I couldn't believe it. My flesh was so numb, my mind so frozen, that it took a 
few moments for the significance of what I wasn't feeling to set in. The 
surface. The surface was just above me.
There was still no sensation in my legs, and yet somehow I managed to muster 
enough strength to push my way up and through the snow. It was like being born 
again as my head crunched through the hoary crust, and I gasped in great 
lungsful of air. I struggled like mad, throwing aside caution, pushing and 
shoving and clawing the rest of the way until I had pulled myself completely 
clear.
I looked up. The edge of the cliff we'd gone over looked hideously high. I 
couldn't believe I'd survived the fall.
Then I saw that the snow around me had a large area of red on it, and I wondered 
about the source of that until I touched my forehead and saw my hand come away 
stained with a dark red. The snow had actually benefited me as the chill had 
slowed the blood loss. Still, I felt dizzy, the world beginning to spin around 
me.
Then I saw her hand.
It was sticking out of the snow not three feet away.
She's not worth it, came Sharee's warning unbidden to me, but I ignored it and 
lunged for Entipy. I grabbed the hand; it felt frozen solid. For one moment I 
was actually worried that it might snap off the wrist. "Entipy! I'm up here! 
Don't you die on me! Don't do it!" I shouted, knowing that I might already be 
addressing a corpse. I had set my staff on the ground next to me and shoved 
aside the snow as frantically as I could. The towering mountains looked down 
upon us, uncaring of whether we lived or died.
I kept calling her name, trying to let her know that I was there, trying to get 
some sort of response out of her. She was giving me absolutely no help. If she 
wasn't dead, she was most certainly unconscious. Fortunately, the one benefit I 
had was that my arms were strong, almost tireless, especially with the goal so 
close. It took me seconds to clear away enough snow to expose her head and 
shoulders and then pull her clear of her snowy entombment.
Her eyes were closed, her face and clothes covered with frost, her skin slightly 
blue. She looked terrible, and I can only imagine how I must have looked. I 
shook her violently, trying to bring her to wakefulness. Nothing. I put my head 
to her chest, tried to hear some sign of a heartbeat. I thought I detected 
something faintly, but couldn't be sure. What I knew beyond question, though, 
was that she wasn't breathing.
"Breathe! Breathe!" I shouted at her. She didn't respond. I shook her again. 
Still nothing. I did the only thing I could think of: I opened her mouth, 
brought my lips down upon hers, and blew into her mouth. Her lips were frozen 
solid; it was like sucking on ice. I tried to keep my breath slow and steady, 
tried to simulate normal breathing. Her chest rose up and down, but not on its 
own. I kept going, despair clutching me and chilling me as thoroughly as the 
snow had. I lost track of how long I breathed into her mouth. I lost track of 
time . . . of myself . . . of everything . . . the world was swirling around me, 
and I fought desperately to hang on, to push back the blackness.
And I failed. Failed as I had at so many things in my life.
I slumped forward onto her body, unable to keep my mind functioning anymore. My 
head lay on her chest . . .
. . . and rose slightly . . .
. . . and settled down slightly . . . and rose again . . .
She was breathing.
Son of a bitch, I thought, right before I passed out.
 
 
Chapter 22
 
I awoke slowly and painfully to find myself on the floor of a surprisingly warm 
cave.
As caves went, it was quite sizable. Not only that, but it was clear that 
someone had gone to a good deal of effort to transform it from a simple shelter 
into something that was actually rather homey. Several torches were mounted on 
the walls, the flames flickering pleasantly and providing both light and warmth.
I was lying on what appeared to be a bed of hay. Someone had lined the floors as 
well. I glanced to my right and saw the princess lying a short distance away. A 
similar layer of hay had been laid down for her as well, and she appeared to be 
resting comfortably.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw someone, or some thing, huddling just 
beyond the glow of light that the torches were giving off. He (if it was a he) 
was crouched over in a corner, and he appeared to be watching me. I sat up 
slowly, feeling the creaking in my joints, and blinked against the dimness. 
"Who's there?" I called.
The figure in the darkness slowly stood. Actually, he didn't stand so much as he 
seemed to uncoil. He took a step forward, then a second, and emerged into the 
pool of light.
My breath caught in my throat.
Tacit glowered at me with his one good eye.
I let out an ear-piercing scream and jolted, waking from a horrible dream. 
Except when I looked around I was saddened to discover that I had not, in fact, 
awoken, because I was not dreaming. The cave, the torches, the bed of hay, and 
Tacit were all still there, and my shriek of alarm was just starting to fade in 
its echo. Tacit said nothing, but simply titled his head slightly as he stared 
at me. I looked to the princess. She stirred slightly but otherwise continued to 
slumber.
My sword was to my right. My staff was to my left. He'd left both of my weapons 
within easy grabbing distance. But Tacit was not the type who was sloppy or 
forgetful; if he'd done that, it was because he didn't care whether I reached 
them or not. That showed a remarkable degree of confidence. Would that I had 
possessed some.
Still he did not speak. I said nothing either. I was actually somewhat curious, 
even as my heart hammered against my chest, who would break the silence first.
Tacit did so.
"How could you?" he asked.
Except I didn't quite understand him. It came more along the lines of, 
"Howcudoo." I frowned and said, "What?"
He rolled his eye slightly, the other obscured by the patch, and when he spoke 
again he did so very meticulously, moving his tongue slowly over each syllable, 
repeating the question.
"How could I what?"
Tacit shook his head, as if astounded that I would even have to ask. In 
retrospect, I suppose it was pretty obvious. He was asking how I could possibly 
have betrayed him the way that I had. In fact, it was so obvious that he 
apparently didn't feel the need to repeat the question, probably going on the 
assumption that he wouldn't get a straight answer out of me.
Now that I saw him closer, I could make out the residual damage from our last 
encounter months ago. There was a fearsome scar where I had laid open his 
forehead. It had healed, but irregularly, almost zigzag. There was some 
disfigurement to his nose as well, and his jaw seemed a bit askew. I could see 
where the teeth were missing on the side. When he spoke, not only did he have to 
fight to make his words clear, but there was a faint whistling sound through the 
space. His hair was wild and matted, his beard scraggly. He didn't look remotely 
heroic.
He looked insane.
"I had to reset my jaw on my own," he said as casually as if we were sitting at 
a table in a pub knocking back drinks and he was looking back on a portion of 
his life that had provided him some mild inconvenience. "You did quite a 
thorough job, Po." He paused and then said again, "How could you?"
I tried to find an answer. After all this time, I felt I owed him one. Nothing 
came to mind, and finally I shrugged and said, "I had to."
He nodded. In a bizarre way, it seemed to be an answer that made sense to him. 
"We all do what we have to," he said philosophically. "We cannot help ourselves. 
Just as now: I'm going to have to kill you, Po. Nothing else for it. Hope you 
understand. No offense."
"None taken," I said hollowly. I paused and then said, "Are . . . you going to 
do it now?"
"Oh, no!" he said with astonishment, as if the very idea was unthinkable. "No, 
why would I do that? While Entipy is unconscious? No, Po. No . . . first we have 
to wait until she wakes up. Then you have to grovel. That's very important. She 
has to see you grovel."
"Why does she have to do that?"
"Because she's fallen in love with you by now. Am I right? You can tell me; I 
won't get upset."
"Won't get upset?" I yelped. "You just got through telling me you're going to 
kill me!"
Tacit came toward me and knelt a few feet away. He focused his one eye on me, 
and when he spokeóagain, carefully caressing each wordóit was as if something 
had died in his throat. "Yes. I am going to kill you. But there's no upset over 
that. There was at first. I would like to tell you that, as a true hero, I rose 
above such petty concerns as anger . . . or revenge. I would have liked to, 
truly. But I did not. When you ambushed me, left me lying there . . . then I 
wanted to kill you with a passion hotter than a thousand suns."
"That's . . . very hot," I said, not knowing how else to respond.
"Then when I had to reset my jaw, when I felt that agony that lanced through my 
skull as if it had been cut in half, it just inflamed my fury all the more. A 
thousand suns? Say a hundred thousand and you'd be closer to the mark. But you 
know what, Po?"
"No. What."
"It is most difficult to maintain that level of intensity of hatred. Not when 
you're expending energy to try and survive at the same time. One has to pick and 
choose. To decide where one's priorities are going to be. And I had to set my 
priorities on healing . . . on surviving . . . on hoping that somehow, in some 
way, we would meet up again. Following you wasn't difficult. The phoenix was 
newly hatched; as a result, he left a small fire trail behind him when he flew. 
It singed the tops of trees. Left a trail of burnt wood that most others could 
not have followed. But I could. You know what I'm capable of, don't you, 
Apropos."
I nodded. Strength had surged back into my limbs, possibly a giddy rush of 
energy coming from the fact that I was still alive. But I made no motion. What 
motion could I make, after all? I was on his terrain, under his control.
"Actually, I might not have been able to survive at all . . . had I not met my 
friend."
"Friend?"
He puckered his lips, putting his front teeth against his lower lip, and blew a 
sharp whistle of a note. I heard a faint clip-clop approaching, and braced 
myself for another onslaught by unicorns. And then a large, equine shape glided 
into the cavern. I could scarce believe what I was seeing.
"Titan!" I said in astonishment. For indeed it was; gods knew that I had combed 
down that coat so many times, I could likely have recognized the steed of the 
late Sir Umbrage even if I were blindfolded. I could see scar tissue on the 
horse's magnificent coat, but otherwise it appeared unharmed.
Tacit looked mildly surprised, but only mildly. "So . . . Ulysses, as I called 
you . . . or Titan, as you were formerly known . . ." He looked at the horse. 
"It appears that you did, indeed, recognize him at that. Take a long look at 
him, Apropos. This noble beast may well be the only creature in the world, 
walking on two legs or four, who feels any loyalty to you whatsoever."
"But . . . this is impossible . . ."
"I found the mighty beast after the caravan transporting my beloved Entipy had 
been assailed by the Harpers Bizarre. Oh, yes, Apropos," and he smiled at my 
obvious confused surprise. "Between the scents, the broken branches, the bodies 
. . . I was more than capable of figuring out what had happened. Ulysómy 
apologiesóTitan . . . had been gravely wounded. I took it upon myself to attend 
to the horse, to nurse it back to health. Thanks to the burn trail, I knew which 
direction you had gone in . . . at least in general terms. Titan was too 
magnificent a creature to leave to the untender mercies of the forest. So I 
aided him."
As if knowing that he was the topic of discussion, Titan let out a little whinny 
and bobbed his head up and down.
Entipy was starting to stir. I heard a low moan from her. Tacit cast a glance 
toward her before turning his focus back to me.
"We came as far in this direction as we could before the winter set in. 
Unfortunately we traveled somewhat slower than you. After all, we did not have a 
phoenix upon which to ride . . . thanks to the intervention of my erstwhile 
friend, Apropos. We took refuge here, and it is here that we have been residing 
for some time now. All this time I have been hoping, praying that somehow I 
would catch up with you, Po. And then . . . then . . ." and he sighed softly, 
blissfully. "I smelled the lilacs. I smelled the unicorns. My olfactory senses 
are not what they once were; the damage done to my face by my good friend, 
Apropos, attended to that. But even though I was not what I once was, I knew a 
herd had come to the area. I was going to go to them, find a way to them . . . 
when I sensed that they were disturbed. The next thing I knew, there was an 
avalanche, cutting off the mountain passes that would have enabled me to join 
them. I cursed my fates once again, as I have a great deal recently. And then . 
. . then Titan here seemed to scent something. He insisted on going out into the 
snow, in searching out something that he was sure was there. And he was right. 
He found you, Po. Nor did he protest in the slightest at the additional weight 
when I loaded both you and Entipy onto his back so that you could be brought 
here. His loyalty to you knows no bounds. That sort of loyalty is very touching, 
don't you think? And so rare . . . so rare . . ."
"Your jaw must be exhausted, considering you're using it so much," I said. I was 
beginning to tire of the snide remarks, the backhanded insults. "If you're going 
to kill me, then be done with it."
"I told you . . . she has to witness it. She has to understand, to know, to . . 
."
Entipy was sitting up, her eyes bleary, her attitude confused. She was trying to 
make out the interior of the cave, and was looking directly away from us. 
"Apropos . . . ?" she called out in a gravelly voice.
"He's right here, my beautiful girl."
Naturally she knew his voice in a heartbeat, as she looked at him and gasped. 
"Tacit!"
"The one and the same. My beautiful girl, I'm here for you, as I saidó"
He reached for her . . . and she flinched back. She squinted at him in the 
darkness.
"You look terrible," she said.
"I have . . . looked better, I admit," he said. "Butó"
"What did you say? It sounded like, 'I have . . . look becker, dammit.' "
My heart was leaping with delirious joy as inwardly I chortled at Tacit's 
discomfiture and frustration. Entipy was not reaching out and falling into the 
arms of her long-lost hero. Instead she was looking at him like a squashed bug, 
and with about as much affection. She seemed confused as to why he should even 
be here, as if . . . as if his time was already past. This was just getting 
better and better, provided I could survive it.
Tacit displayed a momentary flare of impatience, but he quickly stifled it. 
Instead he went back to speaking very slowly, very carefully, and once he'd 
repeated the first sentence, continuedójust as preciselyó"Entipy . . . I know 
that you are someone who has always been capable of seeing beyond the surface. 
When you first met me, you were able to see through the exterior of a young 
cutpurse . . . and your belief gave me the strength to pursue my heroic 
undertakings. You have been my strength, my support, myó"
As if she hadn't heard a word, she commented, "No, you don't understand, you 
really look terrible. You're not handsome at all anymore. You're disfigured, 
you're unkempt."
"It's what is inside tható"
"And you smell ghastly . . . ."
"What would you have me do?! Bathe in snow?!" he shouted. "It's been freezing! I 
could barely find enough fresh water to drink, much lessó"
"Don't yell at me. I'm a princess. You've no right to yell at me."
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, steadying himself. It was all I could do not to 
laugh out loud as I watched. "You're right. But you have to understand . . . 
everything I've done of any note has been for you. For you, I accomplished the 
three tasks of the Elder Giant. For you, I sought the Ring of Poseidon, which 
enabled me to command the loyalties of the Naiad . . . which wound up saving me 
from certain death when the Harpers Bizarre sent me hurtling intoó"
"That's all very nice," Entipy shot back, "but in the meantime, while you were 
off gallivanting from one epic task to the next, I was being made a personal 
slave of the Faith Women, and then I was attacked by the Harpers, and then I 
wound up cleaning tables in a tavern in the Outer Lawless regions. Did you think 
I enjoyed being up to my ass in menial tasks while you were out adventuring? If 
it weren't for Apropos . . ."
"If it weren't for Apropos?!" He looked on the verge of having a seizure. 
"Entipy . . . they've written songs about me! Epic poems! You compare me to him? 
What have they written about him to celebrate his 'great deeds,' eh?"
I leaned forward and offered, "I heard one of the squires came up with a couple 
of obscene limericks . . . ."
"Shut up!" he snapped at me. "It was a rhetorical question! Entipy, you would 
turn your attentions, your loyalties, to him? Him! Virtually all of the troubles 
you've encountered were because of his actions!"
"What are you talking about?" she demanded.
I braced myself, not daring to interrupt considering that Tacit looked ready to 
take my head off if I said another word. Tacit proceeded to tell her everything. 
How his epic journey and series of adventures had led him to the birthing place 
of the phoenix. How he had witnessed the creature's death and rebirth. How he 
had been about to reach the culmination of his personal crusade . . . only to be 
blindsided by the wretched and scheming Apropos. How his phoenix had been 
absconded with while he'd been left to suffer owing to the unworthy and cowardly 
attack.
In short, he told the truth.
Entipy took it all in, listening without interruption, nodding in places. When 
Tacit finally stopped speaking, she did not answer immediately. She turned to 
look at me . . . and then back at him. Her face was unreadable.
"Tacit," she said softly.
"Yes, my love."
"That is, without question," and her voice hardened, oozing with contempt, "the 
most appalling set of fabrications I have ever heard."
"F-fabrications . . . ?" He could barely believe she was saying it. No, not 
barely. He really couldn't believe it.
"How dare you," she continued. "How dare you try to foist off blame for your own 
shortcomings upon Apropos . . ."
"Shortcomings! Foist off blame!" He seemed to have lost the ability to do 
anything other than repeat what she had already said.
"Here Apropos was resourceful enough to find the phoenix after you had clearly 
failed . . . and then he risked himself to come back and rescue me, and watch 
out for me all these months . . . and now you have the temerity to sit there and 
tell me that this brave squireó"
Oh gods, I did it. I actually pulled it off.
"óthat this brave squire mounted some sort of sneak attack on you, just for the 
purpose of stealing your glory!"
"He did! That's exactly what happened!"
"Have you considered, Tacit, that maybe it wasn't your glory to have in the 
first place?"
His mouth moved. It made a sound; a sort of clicking where the jaw had been 
forced back into place. I think it was top and bottom teeth clicking against 
each other because they were out of alignment. Otherwise no words emerged at 
first. "Not . . . my glory?" he finally managed to get out. "Of course it is! 
All the tasks I had to accomplish, the quests I performed! All the work that I 
went to in order to track down a mythic creature that was to take me on the 
final leg of my grand undertaking! A creature snatched from my hands by that . . 
. that ingrate! That nothing! You are asking me to believe in a world that does 
not recognize merit, or striving, or a heroic ideal, but instead rewards 
duplicity and sneakery and whoever is fastest to watch out for their own 
self-interest. A world where there is no justice! What sort of world is that!"
"The real world," I said softly.
His jaw twitched, which probably hurt him. Then he said tightly, "I refuse to 
accept that world. Po . . . tell her. Tell her what happened. She will believe 
it if it comes from you."
"You expect Apropos to admit to your demented view of things?" she asked 
contemptuously, as if the very notion was laughable.
"There is nothing demented about it! Apropos," and his voice sounded very 
dangerous, and his eyes were glittering with near madness as he said, "tell her. 
If you value your life . . . tell her."
And that was when I opted to roll the dice.
You see, I had slowly become convinced he wasn't going to hurt me. Not really, 
no matter what he'd said earlier. Oh, he would have no compunction about making 
me think he was going to hurt me, kill me, whatever. Try to trick me into 
blurting the truth to Entipy. But the Tacit that I had always known would never 
simply cut someone down, murder them in cold blood. And Tacit, for all his 
annoying traits, remained a hero. Heroes didn't do things like that . . .
Which meant I was safe. Which further meant that I didn't have to play his game 
if I didn't feel like it.
But I decided to be diplomatic about it.
"I regret to say," I said carefully, "that Tacit's view of things . . . is how 
he sees them." Then I settled back on my bed of hay and sat there complacently.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean!" Tacit fairly shouted, which was 
naturally the reaction I'd been hoping for. It was entirely to my advantage to 
get him to lose control. "You make it sound as if I'm deluded."
"Couldn't imagine why anyone would think that," Entipy said caustically.
He turned back to me, and he actually sounded pleading: "Apropos . . . putting 
your own life aside . . ."
"Something I am loath to agree to do, obviously," I interrupted.
He spoke right over me. "The bottom line is, we both know the truth. Lying to 
her is doing her a disservice. You cannot let your ego get in the way. She 
deserves the truth. She deserves the person destined for her. She deservesó"
"You, is what what you're saying. She deserves you."
"More or less," he admitted.
"Rather more the former than the latter," she said. "And have you considered, 
Tacit, that I'm quite capable of deciding for myself just what I do and do not 
deserve?"
She stared at him challengingly. He was slowly shaking his head back and forth, 
apparently still unable to believe what he was being confronted with. "This 
can't be happening," he was saying, over and over in a quiet voice. Ironically, 
I knew exactly what the problem was. How long had he thought about this moment, 
dreamt about it? It was probably what kept him going. And he had had much time 
to decide just exactly how the entire confrontation was going to play out. 
Entipy was going to believe him, of course, because he was the hero. He was 
Tacit. If he tried to lie his head would likely explode. She would believe him, 
and recognize me for the thorough going bastard I truly was.
Except that wasn't happening.
For a joyful moment as I watched him muttering to himself, I thought his mind 
was gone. In that event, we could simply slip right out of there, ideally 
without his even noticing. But apparently it was not going to be as easy as all 
that. Then again, what aspect of my life ever was?
Tacit suddenly refocused himself on me, and his voice dropped lower. In a tone 
that carried with it the unspoken message I'm not joking about here, he said, 
"Po . . . tell her. Now."
"I don't know what you mean," I said, trying to sound sincerely sorry for him.
"Tell her now."
"I wish I could help you, old friend, but I'm afraid that it's beyond myó"
That was when he grabbed me by the arm in a grip that could probably have torn 
my arm out of its socket and he started to drag me to the cave mouth. I tried to 
pull free but realized that, even in his fallen state, Tacit still had a grip of 
iron.
"Now, let's discuss thisó!" I tried to say, but he wasn't listening.
"Go to, squire!" Entipy shouted encouragingly. "Show him! Show him he cannot 
spread lies about you in that manner!" If this was designed to inspire me 
somehow, it failed utterly.
Tacit dragged us out into the sunlight. The air was biting again, the kindly 
influence of the unicorns not spreading to this relatively forsaken clime. In 
the brightness of the day, Tacit swung me around and released me so that we were 
facing each other. I stood on unsteady leg and blinked against the sudden light.
"Your sword," Tacit said. It was at that point I saw that he had picked up my 
weapon when he proceeded to haul me out into the morning air. He tossed it to me 
and I caught it smoothly. He reached behind his back and pulled out his own 
sword. It was gleaming and pure and I could swear I heard a musical chime as it 
sliced through the air. It probably had a story behind it. Everything about the 
damned man had a story behind it. "Use it, Apropos."
"For what, trimming my stubble?" I demanded.
"Use it to try and kill me, for God as my witness, if you don't I will certainly 
try to kill you. And I will succeed."
More and more, I was sure he was bluffing. It just wasn't Tacit, to threaten and 
then annihilate someone, especially me. The Tacit I knew would hold out hope 
unto the very end for some fundamental good in another person. He was a 
humanitarian, someone who just never gave up hope in the human race.
"The only thing you're going to succeed at, Tacit, is to show what an 
unfortunate specimen you are," I informed him. "Admit that it's over. Turn 
around andó"
He did not turn around. He came at me.
The thing was, he had no idea of the training I'd undergone. How I'd been 
taught, night after night, thanks to Sir Umbrage, the manly art of knightly 
battle. No longer was I the desperate urchin he had once known. I was more than 
capable of defending myself. As a matter of fact, there was nothing to say that 
I might not even be superior to him. Yes, that was quite possible.
It was a pleasant enough delusion, and lasted me for the three seconds it took 
for Tacit to cover the space between us and swing his sword. It sang through the 
air and I barely got mine up in time. When they came together, I felt a crash so 
violent that my arms vibrated furiously from the impact.
He came at me again and, by luck as much as design, I deflected the second blow 
as well as the first. But then he stepped in fast and slammed the hilt of the 
sword itself against the side of my head. Stars exploded behind my eyes and I 
wavered in place, and that was when he swung the flat of the sword and took me 
in the back of the head, sending me to the ground.
"Tell her," he said tightly.
Determined to overcome my momentary feeling of surprise, I came at him again. I 
swung the sword so quickly I felt as if it was a blur. He blocked it with no 
effort, and seemed to be moving in a most leisurely fashion. For a moment our 
hilts locked, and then he shoved me back several steps. I almost toppled as my 
weak leg nearly betrayed me, but I shoved the sword down into the snow encrusted 
ground and steadied myself.
"Out of consideration for our past . . . and for your last moments . . . I'll 
let you make a good showing," Tacit said. I could see Entipy emerging from the 
cave a distance away, blinking against the brightness of the sun. "But you will 
tell her, even if I have to chop you apart one limb at a time, like a tree."
"Get away from him!" shouted Entipy, and she started to charge toward us. But I 
put up a hand and cried out, sounding as heroic as I could, "No! This is my 
fight, Princess! If you have any respect for me whatsoever, you'll allow me to 
see it through!"
To my utter astonishment, she actually came to a halt and nodded. Her face was 
alight with excitement and there was genuine bloodlust in her eyes. She was 
completely caught up in the moment, anxious to see a hero and villain battling 
it out with, naturally, the hero triumphant in the end. The problem was, lines 
had become so blurred that I was no longer sure which of us fit into which 
category.
Tacit looked at me in momentary confusion, but then his face cleared. "Of 
course," he said, understanding. "You want to keep her far enough away so that 
she doesn't hear anything we say to each other."
I didn't bother to nod. He knew he was right.
"I'm impressed, Po. You actually care what the princess thinks. I didn't believe 
you cared what anybody thought of you. You've changed."
"So have you," I shot back. "And only one of us has changed for the better."
His easy smile thinned into a frown and then he came at me again.
I tried to remember everything that I'd been taught. I watched his sword less 
than I did his body movement, looking for signs that would telegraph which way 
he'd come at me: a twist of the hip, an angle of the shoulder. At first it 
seemed as if I was doing an excellent job. I felt my confidence building as his 
preliminary attacks did not get through my defenses, and I was actually 
contemplating launching an offensive of my own when his sword suddenly slashed 
across my right thigh. I'd blocked his first five thrusts, but his sixth had 
gotten through. It was just the tip, a light scratch at best, but there was a 
thin line of blood where the point had cut across.
"Tell her," he said.
"Tell her yourself if you think your diction's up to it," I suggested.
He charged again. Once more I defended myself, but again after initial success, 
he scored, this time across my left thigh, and just a touch deeper than the 
first. Again a series of engagements as he drove me back, back across the 
ground, and at one point I almost slipped but then quickly recovered, and again 
his sword flashed, and again I had a cut, this time across my upper shoulder.
Then I realized: He was scoring every sixth attempt. It was like clockwork. I 
wasn't truly defending myself. He was toying with me, striking at will, allowing 
me to block five times before hitting home with the sixth. He was in complete 
control the entire time. He must have seen the dawning realization in my eyes, 
because he nodded and smiled grimly, and of all the bastards that I had 
encountered in my life, I swear to you I have never seen such an evil expression 
in my life as I saw on the face of Tacit One-Eye at that moment.
"Tell her," he whispered, and I could see from his face, hear in his tone, that 
he was approaching the point where he was going to stop fooling around. "You 
don't seem to understand yet, Po. I'm going to kill you no matter what. No less 
a fate can be left for you after what you did to me."
He was bluffing.
"The only question at issue here is," he continued, "do I kill you cleanly and 
quickly with your limbs attached . . . or do I hack you apart and leave you to 
bleed to death from four stumps, sobbing for mercy. It depends upon whether you 
tell her the truth, and how quickly you do it."
He had to be bluffing.
"Well? Your decision, Apropos. The last one you'll have the luxury of making."
"Get him, Apropos!" shouted the princess.
"Go to hell," I said tightly.
His face darkened like a thundercloud. "You first," he said, and he came at me. 
And this time there was no stopping him. He continued to hammer me back, back, 
his blade scoring at will, cutting here and there, wherever he felt like it. I 
backed up until I could go no farther, the wall of a mountain face stopping me, 
and he swung hard and I ducked under it. I think that was the only true moment 
when I actually saved myself, because his rage was building so greatly that it 
was that anger which made him miss me rather than my clumsy evasion. I tried to 
circle back but he cut me off. In the distance I could hear Titan's whinnying 
combined with Entipy's desperate pleadings that I should stop fooling around 
with him, giving him a false sense of security. Would that it had been the case; 
his sense of security was quite, quite genuine.
Back and back more, and despite the coldness of the air, sweat was cloaking my 
face, running in rivulets down my chest. My breath was heavy in my lungs, my 
vision starting to become blurred as all the little cuts continued to bleed, and 
I felt my strength ebbing. And Tacit wasn't letting up, and when he lunged 
forward and actually stabbed me, I cried out in agony. The blade glanced off one 
of my ribs, but it was a deep cut, and I clutched at it as best I could to try 
and stanch the bleeding.
He stopped a moment to survey the damage, and that was when I gathered all my 
waning strength and lunged at him with my sword, giving it everything I had.
He caught the blade with one gloved hand, disdainfully, held it for a moment, 
then pushed the blade aside, my thrust so inconsequential that it didn't even 
merit his sword to deflect it. He lashed out with one foot, catching me in the 
chest, right where the stab had gone in, and that sent agony ripping through me. 
I fell back, hit the ground heavily. He slammed his sword down and I just barely 
rolled out of the way. I tried to get up and he shoved a foot down on my chest, 
his swordpoint right in my face. His other foot was practically crushing my 
wrist, keeping my sword pinned. Not that it would have done me any good.
"Tell her," he said, "or I swear to God, I'll kill you right now."
I looked into his eye.
He wasn't bluffing.
"All right," I said, the words more a sob torn from me than anything else. "All 
right, I'll tell her."
"Everything," he said firmly.
"Everything . . . just . . . just . . ." Tears, unmanly tears, hot and 
humiliating, streamed down my cheeks unbidden. "Just don't kill me . . . please 
. . . please don't . . ."
"No promises. I'll still kill you, like as not . . ."
"Tacit, please, don't . . . it's . . . it's not fair . . ."
"Not fair!" he practically bellowed. "After what you did, you dare speak to me 
of fairness!"
The princess was far enough away that she couldn't hear us. "Yes, not fair! You, 
Tacit, born brave, strong and true. Raised by unicorns, at one with the forest! 
Born to be a hero! Look at me, bastard son of rape, born lame of leg! I did the 
best I could with nothing! You had everything . . . everything so easy . . . !"
"Easy? You have no idea what I went through these past years, Po! No idea! Do 
you seriously think I went into the dangers I faced confident of my success? Do 
you think I didn't know stinking fear every time some ogre tried to step on me, 
or some great beast prepared to rip me apart if I didn't answer its damned 
riddle? But I overcame my inner weaknesses!"
"And so did I! You just don't like the way I did it!" And then I cried out as he 
increased the pressure of his foot on me.
"Tell her everything . . . and perhaps . . . perhaps . . . I'll let you live," 
he said.
"What if she doesn't believe me?"
"Convince her. Your life depends on it."
"All right . . . all right, I'll find a way." There had been any number of times 
in my past that I had hated myself for my weakness, but never more so than that 
moment. "Call to her . . . tell her to come here . . ."
Tacit nodded and, never moving either foot, turned to shout to her. And I knew 
that somehow, I would be able to convince Entipy of the truth of it. She'd see 
me bawling like an infant, see that I wasn't remotely heroic, realize that 
someone who would go to such lengths to save his own miserable hide was just 
some craven poseur who wasn't worth the time of day of the meanest of the king's 
subjects, much less his daughter. I had managed to make my cowardly actions 
before the Harpers seem like some sort of grand scheme, but I'd had to pull a 
phoenix out of my hat to make that even semi-believable. This she would never, 
ever go for. She would see all that I was, and hate me for it, and for reasons I 
couldn't even begin to understand, I was saddened beyond measure.
Then I heard what sounded like a high-pitched buzz, ending with an abrupt thump. 
Tacit's mouth was still open to call to Entipy, but there was blood trickling 
from it. He looked down in surprise at the arrow that had thudded into his 
chest. And then, before it could fully register on him, a second arrow joined 
it.
Tacit lost his balance and fell off me. I lay there, stunned, as he tumbled back 
into the snow. It might have been my imagination but I was sure that somehow, 
from in the distance, I could hear discordant, shrieking music . . . like an 
orchestra gone mad . . . or a herd of unicorns crying out in hysterical grief as 
if from one throat.
Blood was pouring copiously from where the arrows had struck him. Tacit 
struggled to his knees, broke off the shafts, shaking his head, trying to 
comprehend what had gone so wrong. He looked at me as if trying to see how I was 
holding a bow, and then another arrow struck him, this time from behind, and 
then more arrows. He shuddered each time they hit, and still he wouldn't fall. 
He just kept shaking his head, all the color draining out of his skin as the 
blood left his face to gush out his chest.
"Tacit . . ." I whispered, seeing the only link to my youth which had any 
pleasant memories dying before me. I looked around . . . and saw soldiers 
advancing. They were wearing light armor, with the black and silver trim of the 
court of Isteria, and several of them had purple banners fluttering from their 
tunics. Soldiers of the king. Several bowmen had more arrows nocked, ready to 
let fly.
I looked back to Tacit. A dozen emotions warred for dominance in his face, and 
confusion won out. Despite the blood gurgling in his throat, despite the twisted 
jaw, I was still able to make out what he said.
"But . . . but . . . I'm the hero . . . "
And then one more arrow flew, struck home and pierced the mighty heart, and 
Tacit fell over, and died with the snow pooling red with his blood, and the 
mournful cries of unicorns fading over the mountaintops.
 
 
Chapter 23
 
I have no idea how long I remained there, crouched in the snow, staring at his 
unmoving body. The first one to reach us was, naturally, Entipy. She half-ran, 
half-slid over the snowy ground until she got to us, and she looked down at 
Tacit's mortal remains. I had absolutely no idea how she was going to react. I 
didn't know how to react myself.
She started to laugh.It was high-pitched and chaotic-sounding and even vaguely 
familiar, although I couldn't figure out why. Her laughter continued as she 
circled him, staying just outside the pool of blood that was spreading across 
the snow.
"Stop it," I said hollowly. I felt as if I had no more fight left within me.
Somewhat to my surprise, she did stop. She looked at me with astonishment and 
said, "He's dead and you live. Don't you think that's funny?"
"I hadn't . . . thought about it in terms of humor." His eyes were still open, 
staring up at the sky, perhaps watching where his soul was departing to. I 
reached over and closed his eyes for him.
Entipy was now looking at me very oddly. "You're crying," she said. "I've never 
seen a man crying." Her voice hardened. "What's wrong with you?"
I realized she was right. The tears were still flowing. My face was so cold I 
hadn't even realized it. I wiped them away as best I could and said, "I weep . . 
. for the waste of the warrior he could have been. For the young man who saved 
me from beatings or worse, back when I had what few tatters of innocence ever 
graced my spirit. And I weep for joy that you are safe from him. That . . . is 
all. If that makes me less the man in your eyes . . ." I let my voice trail off 
because at that point I didn't care what she thought of me.
She was quiet for a moment and thenósurprising me even moreóshe knelt down next 
to me and put an arm around my shoulder. Naturally I did not tell her that, most 
of all, I wept for myself . . . and my betrayals.
We remained that way until the soldiers got close enough. They were looking at 
us very tentatively, almost as if afraid to believe that they had found whom 
they were apparently searching for.
"Apropos?" the lead man said to me. I nodded slightly. "I am Captain Gothos, of 
the king's men. And this . . . ?" He turned to Entipy and his voice dropped to a 
whisper. "Princess?"
"Aye" was all she said.
That was more than enough. Gothos and the others immediately dropped to one knee 
and lowered their heads. Entipy rose, looking very regal indeed despite her 
haggard appearance and the oddness of the situation. "Rise, Captain," she said 
softly. She didn't sound imperious. Perhaps she, too, was tired.
Gothos and the others rose, and one of the bowmen had come near Tacit's body to 
inspect the handiwork of himself and his fellows. "Tacit One-Eye, right enough," 
he said in approval. "The king's been looking for this bastard since the Pell 
uprising. And just think, we got here barely in time to stop him from slaying a 
gallant squire."
"Just think," I echoed.
"Bring his head and his balls for the king as trophies. Leave the rest to 
carrion eaters," Gothos said authoritatively, and one of his men moved forward 
with his sword to do his bidding.
Before I even knew what I was doing, I had interposed myself between the soldier 
and Tacit's corpse. I had picked up my sword and I was holding it with utter 
confidence. "So help me gods," I said very quietly, and very dangerously, "you 
try to mutilate this man, and I'll kill you myself."
"Squire! Stand aside. This is the king's business!" said Gothos, choosing to 
pull rank as if I cared about such things at the moment.
"The princess has her own business," Entipy abruptly said, which promptly 
captured all attention. She glanced in the direction of the cave that we had 
been in. "Take the body and place it there, in that cave. Seal off the entrance 
with rocks and debris. It was his home. Let him stay there."
"But princess . . ."
" 'But' and 'princess' are not two words that should keep each other's company, 
Captain," said Entipy frostily.
Apparently that was all the incentive the "gallant" soldiers needed. They 
gathered up Tacit's corpse and brought him to the cave. They disappeared within 
for a few moments and then emerged. They began to hammer at the rocks above, and 
at other debris and rubble nearby. It was not easy work, covered as it was with 
hoarfrost. But within about two hours or so they had managed to completely 
entomb Tacit into what would be his last resting place. Naturally by the time 
they had finished I had long since managed to compose myself, and had gone over 
to Titan to try and calm the great horse down. The poor beast seemed very 
confused, uncertain of what had happened, and frustrated that two of the 
individuals to whom he had felt the most loyal had come to blows. But explaining 
matters to a horse is no easy trick, and I did not even try. Instead I simply 
patted him on the side of the head, whispered niceties to him, and fed him some 
oats that one of the mounted soldiers happened to have in his saddlebag.
"The princess looks quite fit," Gothos said to me. He was watching Entipy, who 
was standing a distance away, watching the laboring knights finishing the 
entombment of Tacit. "The king and queen are most grateful that, thanks to your 
efforts, she is alive. And what of the other knights? Those others who served as 
the escort? What of them?"
I told him, as quickly and straight forwardly as I could, of the circumstances 
of how the Harpers had descended upon us. His eyes widened as I recounted it. 
"The Harpers Bizarre are real?" he said in unbridled surprise. "I thought them 
merely creatures of myth."
"Oh, they're very real. And we had the fatalities to prove it," I said.
"And what happened then? How did you escape? How did you come to be in the Outer 
Lawless regions?"
I began to reply, but somehow felt as if I simply didn't have the energy for it. 
"It is . . . very complicated. Tell you what, Captain. Buy me a few mugs . . . 
no, a barrel . . . of ale one night, and I'll tell you the entire tortured 
narrative. Dare I ask where the king is?"
"At Fort Terracote, awaiting our return. We're one of several advance guards 
sent to sweep the area and see if there was any sign of you. Obviously there 
was." He shook his head. "Tragedy about what you've had to endure up until now. 
But worry not. You're with us, now. You'll be safe."
"Funny. That's just what I thought months ago before the Harpers attacked and 
put me into this position in the first place."
He had no answer for that.
As it turned out, though, the balance of our journey to the fort was sublimely 
dull. I couldn't have asked for better than that. I rode upon Titan and the 
princess sat astride the great horse behind me. She leaned her head upon my 
shoulder and her arms were wrapped tightly around my middle. Some of the other 
soldiers and knights noticed and nudged each other with amusement or winked at 
me in a manner that seemed to indicate I was doing quite well in courting the 
fancies of a princess. Me, I couldn't get my last image of Tacit out of my mind. 
That powerful body being carted off into the cave like so much refuse, tossed in 
and then entombed. It was better than being decapitated and left for scavengers. 
But on the other hand, it was far worse than still being alive. Which is what he 
would have been, if not for his "erstwhile friend."
I wanted to feel relief . . . joy . . . rage . . . something. Instead all I felt 
was empty. The bleeding from the wounds he had inflicted upon me had stopped, 
but when Entipy held tightly on to me, they hurt like the devil's own lashes. I 
said nothing, though. I felt as if I deserved to be in pain. I cannot think of 
many times in my life when I have felt quite as sorry for myself as I did during 
that long, slow ride back to Fort Terracote. I would hear the knights talking 
among themselves in low voices, and sometimes my name would be mentioned. I 
ignored them all.
We didn't stop the entire way to the fort. We ate while on horseback, Gothos 
riding over to us to hand us provisions, including a large cooked leg of some 
sort of bird. Part of me grimly wished it were from the phoenix, considering all 
the aggravation that the damned bird had cost us. If it had only flown in the 
right direction, we wouldn't have had all the problems to begin with.
It was getting late in the day. The terrain, while still chilly, had become more 
forested once again. There were no leaves in the trees, although the branches 
stretched high. It made me nervous, and I was constantly on the lookout for 
signs of anything that might come leaping out at us. Nothing was forthcoming, 
which was a relief. Then the trees began to thin once more and we found 
ourselves in a gorge that stretched around the corner of a small set of 
foothills. "Just around this bend," Gothos called. I couldn't have been more 
relieved. I was tired, weary of being on horseback, weary of having the 
princess's arms around me as she would continue to tell me about how brave I 
was. I didn't feel brave. As I said earlier, I didn't feel anything. And more, I 
was wondering if I ever would again.
We came around the bend and, sure enough, there it was. The fort was on a rise, 
providing a good view in all directions. It was a good, solid stone fort, made 
all the better by the fact that its back two walls faced against a sheer cliff, 
unscalable by anything short of a gargoyle with clawed fingers. So although 
retreat out of the back of the fort was a practical impossibility, no one could 
get up from behind, either. The outer wall was at least fifty feet high. The 
main door appeared to be solid oak, huge and reinforced. It would take a 
heavy-duty battering ram quite some time to pound through, and during that time 
archers on the parapets would be picking off assailants with relative ease. All 
in all, it seemed a rather safe place to be. Not far off was more forest area, 
with a wide path heading into it that I assumed (correctly, as it turned out) to 
be the main road called the King's Road, which would lead us back to the capital 
city of Isteria and, ultimately, safety.
I saw dark clouds on the horizon. I hoped they weren't more storm clouds. I'd 
had enough of bad weather for the time being.
Several knights atop the fort started pointing and waving when they saw us 
approaching. One of them pulled out a large ram's horn and blew into it, and 
clear, beautiful notes pealed out from it. The large doors to the fort slowly 
opened and I was able to see groups of knights on either side pushing their 
shoulders against them. It underscored just how heavy the doors were. And there, 
standing in the entranceway, arms draped behind his back, was King Runcible. He 
was dressed for traveling, but he had the imperial crest on the front of his 
tunic. He was the image of restraint. I could see from his face, even at this 
distance, that he recognized Entipy, but he did not run toward her. Instead he 
remained exactly where he was, not saying a word. He nodded slightly to the 
incoming soldiers, but his eyes never left Entipy . . . except for one brief 
moment when they strayed toward me. He nodded to me as well, and I returned the 
gesture. Once the blast from the ram's horn faded out, there was no noise except 
the steady clip-clop of the horses' hooves.
We drew within a few feet of the king and I dismounted. Then I reached up a hand 
to help Entipy down. She glanced at my hand a moment . . . and then abruptly 
swung her legs back and vaulted off the back of the horse in a perfect rear 
dismount. She did everything except spread wide her arms and say something along 
the lines of, "Ta da."
She faced her father, and he her. The several feet between them seemed like a 
chasm, and I knew that she still hadn't made up her mind as to whether to 
forgive him and the queen for sending her off as they had.
Then the king took one step toward her. Just one, and no further. She looked at 
him in puzzlement as he regarded her, one eyebrow cocked in a slightly amused 
fashion. And then she understood (before I did, certainly), and she likewise 
took a step toward him. Just one, and no further.
Then he toward her once more again, and she toward him, and in this way they met 
each other halfway.
"Gods," he said, so softly I could barely hear him. "You're the image of your 
mother. You've nothing of me in you at all. Count your blessings."
She smiled, and it was a very warm one, with nary a hint of insanity about it.
He started to put his arms out to her, then paused. "Dare I?" he asked.
"What?" She looked confused, but then he tapped his forearm, and obviously the 
gesture meant something to her because she chuckled lightly and said, "I think 
it would be safe, yes." He embraced her then, and I felt a great deal of relief. 
She was so unpredictable, I'd been thinking that maybe she'd pull out a knife 
and commit regicide and patricide with one stroke. But no, she actually seemed 
pleased to see him.
"I've missed you terribly," he said.
She took a step back. "You never came to visit," she said evenly.
"No."
"But you could have."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you?" There was enough of an edge in her voice that I was beginning 
to get wary again.
"Because," he said sadly, "had I done so, I suspect I never would have been able 
to leave without you. And your mother and I felt it best . . . well," and he 
tilted his head slightly. "There you have it."
It was the most conversation I'd heard out of the king at one time, but Entipy 
didn't seem satisfied by it. She seemed about to respond again, and suddenly 
feeling a touch of concern, I broke in. This was, of course, a horrible breach 
of protocol. One simply did not interrupt two royals in the middle of a 
conversation, but I'd been through enough that I was beyond caring about social 
niceties. "Your Highness," I said. Naturally both of them looked at me. "Perhaps 
it would be best if this were continued inside, in privacy. Certainly that's 
more appropriate for such royal discussions."
I heard gasps and a bit of muttering from the knights, who were more than aware 
of my discarding etiquette, but the king did not seem the least put off. "Yes . 
. . yes, I daresay you're correct, squire. Come, my dear. We will speak further 
on this." He gestured for her to enter the fort, and as she did so, he turned to 
me and regarded me most appraisingly. "And you . . . Apropos . . . I will speak 
further on this with you as well."
"I await Your Highness's pleasure," I said suavely.
At that point I was feeling extremely tired, not to mention extraordinarily 
hungry. Suddenly I heard the pounding of hooves behind me, and whirled Titan 
around instantly to see what new danger was descending upon us. "Get inside!" I 
shouted even as I did so.
But the other knights were looking at me as if I were insane, and quickly I 
realized why. It was another squad of Runcible's knights, these coming in from 
the northeast. Gothos had indeed said that several groups had gone out as 
advance scouts, and this was obviously one of the others. I saw them approach, 
and recognized the one in the lead almost immediately, and with appropriately 
sinking heart.
It was Sir Coreolis. Following just behind him was the easily recognizable Mace 
Morningstar. There were a handful of other knights behind them, but naturally 
these were the two who caught my attention. Morningstar had grown a rather 
impressive and neatly trimmed beard since last I'd seen him, and Coreolis still 
looked as massiveóand belligerentóas ever. Both of them realized who I was 
almost immediately, and seemed duly impressed (or disappointed) upon the 
realization.
They rode straight up to me and Coreolis reined his horse around. "Well, well . 
. . Apropos. Still not dead?" he said with a considerable amount of false cheer.
"Not for want of opportunities," I replied easily.
"You wouldn't be on the lookout for one more, would you, Apropos?" Morningstar 
spoke up in that singsong, musical voice of his.
"I'm always on the lookout, Morningstar. That's why I'm still alive."
Coreolis merely "harrumphed" to himself, snapped his reins, and guided himself 
and the rest of his squadron into the fort. Morningstar took up the rear, 
presumably so he could sidle over to me once the others were almost within the 
perimeter of the fort.
"Well, Apropos?" he inquired.
He offered no follow-up to that comment. "Well . . . what, Morningstar?"
"Is she everything I told you she would be?"
I remembered then the rather colorful stories that he had spun about Entipy. I 
decided to lie a bit, just for fun and old times' sake. "Actually," I said, 
looking as contemplative as I could, "she was charming. Quite, quite charming. 
We hit it off rather well, we two."
His face fell. "Charming? That little monsteró?"
"Tut tut," I cautioned him in a most arch tone. "It would not serve you well to 
be so outwardly critical of the princess. I doubt her father would take very 
kindly to that."
"And who's going to tell . . . him . . ." His voice trailed off as he saw the 
sadistic smile upon my face. "Apropos, you . . . you wouldn't . . ."
"Not enough that you call her a monster. But you told me you spied upon her, 
while she was in her chambers. I somehow suspect that will get her father even 
angrier . . . ."
He drew himself up, endeavoring to remember where he was in the pecking order of 
society as opposed to me. "Say what you wish. Who will the king believe: You? Or 
me?"
"Me, most likely, when his own daughter vouches for your lack of proper 
behavior."
He went deathly pale, but then composed himself rather quickly and nudged his 
horse closer to mine. "Don't think for a moment, Apropos, that you are in 
substantially a better position than you were before. In the final analysis . . 
. you're still no gentleman."
"Why, Mace!" I said with genuine cheer. "That's the nicest thing you've ever 
said to me." And with that I urged Titan forward and entered the fortress, happy 
thatófor a moment at leastóthe image of Tacit lying in the snow could be 
replaced by the scowling visage of Mace Morningstar wondering just how much 
trouble he was in.
It didn't surprise me that it was decided we would stay in the fort overnight. 
Darkness and cold were coming rather swiftly, and surely it made sense for us to 
remain so that we could get an early start the following morning. I couldn't say 
that I was looking forward to the ride home. I had, after all, been luckier than 
I deserved to be in surviving the previous deadly encounter with the forces that 
roamed in the woods. I didn't think I was going to get quite that lucky again. 
But there really wasn't any alternative, unless the king chose to declare Fort 
Terracote as his new castle and set up a permanent home there.
The fortress itself, I learned, was fairly sparsely manned. In point of fact, it 
was somewhat ancient, built so long ago that the names of the original craftsmen 
had been lost to antiquity. Runcible had "captured" the fort many years ago, 
mostly because no one else was particularly interested in the place. Reportedly 
there had been some freelances who had been squatting there when Runcible made 
his move to take it, and that battle had lasted for as long as it took the 
squatters to say, "We'll get packed and out of your way."
At the time it held no strategic value at all, and it still didn't, really. It 
was a convenient resting stop and not much beside that. The garrison stationed 
thereóunder command of Captain Gothos, as it turned out (handpicked by the king 
for the assignment, which made me wonder what Gothos had ever done to deserve 
the honor)ówas fairly small and had become used to its relatively quiet life. 
That's not to say they weren't necessarily brave men, stout and true. I had, 
after all, witnessed their bravery as they heroically picked off a swordsman 
using bows and arrows from fifty paces away. You couldn't ask for more boldness 
than that.
I didn't see much of either the king or the princess that evening. That suited 
me just fine, since my mind was in a turmoil over all that had happened. I could 
see from the way the princess looked at me that she was falling, or had fallen, 
in love with me. At least, I think she had. I was still uncertain how I felt 
about that, or how I felt about her. What I did know I liked, though, was the 
way the knights and soldiers were treating me. They were extremely intrigued to 
find out all that I knew, all that I had experienced. It made me forget my lowly 
status and even more lowly birth. I knew on some level that that way lay danger, 
because it was the knowledge of who and what I wasóand the quietly burning fury 
that I maintained because of thatóthat remained my best hope for survival. As 
much as they might treat me like one of them, I was not, and never would be, one 
of them. Forgetting that fact could have serious consequences. And yet . . .
I have never had camaraderie. Not ever. It was an uplifting feeling and, 
selfishly, I didn't want it to end. As we sat around the cookfire in the small 
but comfortable barracks, I discovered that the best way to impress them was to 
sound as offhand about my experiences as possible. To simply toss off the facts, 
or at least the facts as I chose to present them, and then treat their wide-eyed 
responses quite casually, as if such matters were purely routine. "You rode a 
phoenix?!" they would say to me, and I would shrug and act as if it was not much 
different from riding any other steed. "You had your way with the dreaded 
Warlord Shank's betrothed?!" I smiled enigmatically and waggled my eyebrows. 
There was much laughter and chortling and elbowing of ribs, which caused me to 
wince since I was still suffering from the wounds that Tacit had inflicted upon 
me. But I endured it and maintained a forced smile.
Sir Coreolis had absented himself from the festivities, but his squire was there 
right enough. Mace Morningstar simply sat and listened to it all, and when there 
was a lull in the festivities he said quietly, "Some rather tall tales you're 
spinning there, Apropos."
I looked at him indifferently. "It may surprise you to learn, Mace, that I don't 
especially care if you believe me or not."
"Oh . . . I don't."
The silence in the room promptly became something else, something more 
hazardous. If Morningstar was to outright call me a liar, that might very easily 
be construed as a challenge to my honor. That way lay madness . . . not to 
mention duels and probably further ugliness.
I smiled in my most charming manner and said, "As you will, Mace. I know the 
truth . . . as does the princess. Even as we speak, she is no doubt conveying 
the same tales to her father. You remember her father: The king." I feigned 
shock. "Are you . . . calling the princess a liar, Morningstar? I would hate to 
think you were. Such accusations could carry very nasty consequences."
Whereas a moment before, all attention had been upon me, it now shifted back to 
Morningstar. He squirmed under the sudden scrutiny. "I would never say the 
princess was lying. But it is possible that she was . . . deceived . . ."
"Unlikely."
It was not I who had spoken, nor anyone else grouped around the cookfire. As one 
we turned and saw the king standing there. Next to him, in his usual crouch, his 
jaw slack and his eyes twinkling with quiet lunacy, was Odclay the jester.
Immediately we all went to one knee, although I moaned slightly in doing so from 
the pain.
"They bow to me!" chortled Odclay. "They know, they know, they make it so, no 
one can fool 'er, I am the true ruler!"
The king wasted no more than a sidelong glance at Odclay before he turned his 
attention back to the others. "Squire," he said in a summoning voice.
Immediately Morningstar was on his feet, still bowing deeply. "Yes, Highness."
"Not you," he said dismissively. "Apropos."
Morningstar's face went three shades of red as he went back to kneeling, and I 
rose and also bowed. "Highness?"
He said nothing, but merely gestured with his head that I should follow him. I 
did so, not even casting a glance back at the others.
We walked across the small courtyard of the fortress, Odclay gibbering and 
capering about, until the king said curtly, "Stop that." The jester promptly did 
so and instead walked silently behind the king, hanging his head slightly and 
looking a bit crestfallen.
We entered a small building which I took to be, under ordinary circumstances, 
the quarters of the garrison leader, Gothos. But naturally he had vacated it in 
order to accommodate the king. So it was not exactly regal, but it remained the 
best rooms in the place.
"Sit," said the king.
I sat.
He sat opposite me, gathering his cloak around him. It was black trimmed with 
silver, but lined with purple.
"Umbrage is dead." There was a hint of a question to it, a vague hope, but in 
truth he knew the answer before he asked it.
I nodded.
Even Odclay seemed saddened by it, his mood reflecting the king's.
The king absorbed this information, and then said, "Tell me. Everything."
So I did. Even in this recounting, there were certain things I customized in 
order to make myself sound better. For instance, my pleading with the Harpers 
for my life became a cunning delaying tactic because I had scented and 
sensedówith my unparalleled woodcraftóthe nearness of a phoenix, and determined 
that I would enlist the beast's aid in combating the Harpers. Nor did I mention, 
of course, the details of my final conversation with Tacit right before he was 
made into a human quiver. Little things like that.
The king listened to all of it, without interruption, occasionally nodding 
slightly. Finally, when I finished my narrative, a silence fell over the room.
"Did you know," the king said after a time, "that there is a tapestry which 
hangs in the throne room . . . showing someone riding a phoenix who is destined 
to rule over Isteria?"
"Yes, Highness."
"One might almost think that your description of your endeavors caters to that."
I didn't look the king in the eyes. "If His Highness is implying that I am 
fabricating it, he need look no further than his own daughteró"
"Entipy has given an account not dissimilar from yours, actually," said the 
king.
"Well, thenó"
"My daughter," the king said almost cheerily, "is quite mad."
"There are worse fates," the jester piped up, but then fell silent once more.
I didn't know what to say and, for once in my life, said nothing.
"Then again," and the king half-smiled, "we're all a little mad in our own ways. 
Are we not, squire?"
I nodded, unsure of how else to respond. When in doubt, agree with a king. Good 
words to live by . . . if for no other reason than that they will help you to 
keep living.
"My daughter is quite fond of you," continued the king. "There was once a time 
when I would have thought her incapable of being fond of anything save causing 
trouble, bringing us to the brink of war, and driving tutors into asylums. Do 
you believe that people can change, squire?"
"I would like to think so, Highness."
He looked at me askance. "Have you changed? Squire?"
I glanced down. "I . . . do not know, Highness."
"An honest answer. Perhaps you have changed at that."
I wasn't quite sure what to make of that comment, and somehow didn't want to 
know.
"I have asked Captain Gothos to prepare guest quarters for you," said Runcible. 
"Not as fine as this, of course. But suitable to one who single-handedly kept my 
daughter alive. We shall speak more anon. Odclay will lead you to your room."
There was a fire burning in the fireplace nearby. The king rose and went to it, 
stood in front of it to warm his hands, and appeared lost in thought. Odclay 
rose without his usual capering and gestured that I should follow him, which I 
did. In silence we walked back across the courtyard. The jester kept looking me 
up and down, as if trying to figure me out. He could spend as much time 
attempting that as he wanted; heaven knew that I hadn't managed it yet.
"Thank you," I said finally, "for showing me the way to the king's liquor 
supply."
Odclay studied me with obvious curiosity. "Was that you?" he said distantly.
"Yes. Yes, of course it was. Why, don't you remember?"
"I remember so many things," sighed Odclay. "The problem is, only half of them 
are true . . . and the half which is true keeps changing places with the half 
which is false."
"Thank you for sharing that," I said diplomatically and spoke no more to him. I 
didn't see the point; by tomorrow he'd probably have forgotten we'd chatted at 
all. On the one hand I felt contempt for him; on the other hand, in some ways he 
didn't seem so different from me. Simple creatures with infirmities and 
weaknesses (mine of body and breeding, his of mind and body and who-knew-what in 
his own background) doing everything possible to survive in a world that had no 
care for whether they lived or died.
I glanced over to the jester, feeling sympathy, and saw a long trail of drool 
trickling from his jaw, and decided that maybe we were less alike than I was 
first thinking.
The room was indeed more than adequate. I enjoyed the relief for the first time 
in hours, not having to recount stories that I wasn't comfortable with, or keep 
up a front or appearances.
I lay back on the bedóa genuine bedóand thought about Entipy. Did the king 
really think she was mad? Why shouldn't he. I did. Or did I?
I was beginning to get impatient with my life. Everything had been so simple, so 
clear, when I burned with quiet hatred for everything and anything. But now I 
was starting to develop loyalties to things other than my own self-interest, and 
I was uncertain as to whether that was a good thing or not.
What if she came to me now? If, as I lay there, the door opened and the princess 
entered and slid into the bed with me? If she insinuated her naked body against 
me and begged me to take her? With the ghost of Tacit hanging over me, what 
would I do? I had no idea. And I disliked having no idea. If you were unable to 
decide what to do about any given situation before it happened, that left open 
the opportunity for events to overtake you. That was how people got themselves 
killed, and I had every intention of living as long and full a life as possible.
Still, I lay there on my side, watching the door, waiting to see if it would 
creak open, and in short order my eyes closed and I fell into a deep sleep.
I was suddenly shaken to wakefulness and Entipy was looking at me, her face 
inches from mine.
Oh gods . . . this is it . . . she wants me to mount her like a stallion . . .
And without preamble she said, "The sun has risen, the troops of King Meander, 
the mad wandering king, are heading this way, and we are completely helpless 
because the fort is empty save for you, me, my father, and the jester."
There are some mornings where not only do you wake up badly, but you just know 
the day isn't going to get any better.
 
 
Chapter 24
 
I dressed quickly and emerged into lightly falling snow. "This weather is 
driving me insane!" I raged.
Entipy, who had been waiting outside my quarters, replied, "You won't live long 
enough for it to make any difference if Meander gets his hands on you."
"How can the fort be empty? Where are the soldiers? The garrison . . . ?"
We were moving across the courtyard toward the main battlements. Entipy was 
walking so quickly that, because of my lame leg, it was difficult for me to keep 
up. I held my staff securely, taking some measure of comfort in its heft as well 
as in the sword strapped to my back. But if Meander and his Journeymen had 
really returned to the vicinity, my meager weapons wouldn't last me long at all.
"I have no idea where they are," she said tersely. "I woke up, found the main 
doors ajar, and when I climbed up onto the ramparts, I saw the Journeymen in the distance."
"Are you sure it's them?"
"They fly the flag of Meander. At least that's what the jester says."
I stopped dead. "The jester? You're listening to Odclay now? The king's fool?"
She frowned at me. "Far better to believe he's right and try to prepare for it 
than assume he's wrong and wind up captives."
I couldn't argue with that either.
The doors were still open. I wasn't surprised; the things were so damned heavy 
that it had taken several burly men all their effort to shut them before. We 
were completely vulnerable. Looking up, I saw that the king had joined the 
jester on the parapet. They seemed to be having an intense discussion as the 
jester pointed, and then danced about a bit for good measure. Runcible was 
nodding, looking very solemn and very serious.
"And you've looked everywhere for the rest of the troops?" I asked.
She nodded briskly. "Checked all the barracks, everywhere. Everyone's gone."
The light snow continued to fall, slicking up the ladders that led up to the 
ramparts. I almost slipped as we clambered up. The king looked down at us with 
mild eyes and said dryly, "Pity I can't wish you a good morning, squire, but it 
doesn't appear very good."
I looked where he was looking, and couldn't quite believe what I was seeing.
In the distance, there was heavy snow falling to the left of the King's Road, 
thick and fast. The tops of the trees in the forest were already abundant with 
white. It was exactly the same to the right. As for the road itself . . . 
nothing. A few stray flakes fluttering in from the wind that was whipping 
through, but otherwise nothing was obstructing the path of the Journeymen.
And Journeymen they most definitely were. I remembered their uniforms of black 
and white, and that emblem of theirsóthe globe with marching feet around it. I 
was too far to see it on their shields, as I had that time in the Elderwoods 
with Tacit, but it didn't require the eyes of an eagle to see the symbol 
emblazoned on banners being held high that were fluttering in the wind. With the 
snow whirling on either side of them, it was as if Meander had brought the 
spirit and climes of the Frozen North along with him.
"That," Entipy said slowly, "is unnatural. It's as if the snow is his very 
friend . . . it . . ."
"Oh . . . gods," I whispered. "Of course. Of course."
"Of course what?"
"It all makes sense . . . I mean, a warped kind of sense, but sense nevertheless 
. . ."
"It all makes sense, makes sense, makes sense," chanted the jester, "I sense, 
the scents of sense incensed . . ."
"Shut up," I said.
"Speak, squire," said the king, his eyes narrowed. His demeanor was quite calm; 
you would have thought we were simply chatting about niceties rather than being 
faced with the impending arrival of an army, who couldn't have been more than an hour away.
"The weather patterns. They've been out of whack. It's been because of Meander. 
He may have left the immediate area of Isteria, but apparently he hasn't gone 
far from these parts. And he's been using a weatherweaver to re-create the 
climes of the Frozen North for him. It's the environment that he's most 
accustomed to. So when the mood suits him, he has the weatherweaver manipulate 
the cold to benefit him, when he's going on the offensive, or whenever he's 
simply feeling nostalgic for his homelands."
"I knew that other kings were fighting him," Runcible said, shaking his head. "I 
advised them against it . . . told them the foolishness . . ."
"As foolish as ignoring him, Father?" demanded Entipy. As cold as the air was, 
there was genuine heat from her. "Is that how ruling works? To sit about on your 
royal throne with your royal thumb up your royal ass, while others do whatever 
they wish to whomever they wish? Apropos told me how one of Meander's people 
killed his mother, and you sat by and did nothing."
The jester immediately started to chant. "Blue is ground, brown is skies, King 
Meander is so wise, knows he to avoid a fight when the timing is not right . . 
."
"Shut up!" This time Entipy and I had spoken in unison.
"We all do what seems right at the time, Entipy," the king told her.
"And what seems right this time, Father?" And she pointed in the direction of 
the oncoming army. "Face facts: You have been betrayed. Your whereabouts offered 
up to Meander, and he's coming for you, and we're defenseless . . ."
"I have a cunning plan!" declared the jester. I moaned inwardly, and Entipy 
audibly. "As cunning as the good king's brilliant outflanking maneuver at the 
Battle of Ralderbash! As outstanding as the way in which he outthought the evil 
hippogryph of Collosia. As clever as the way in which he managed to obtain the 
Veil of Tiers from the very heart of the Land of Wuin! Asó"
"Is this a cunning plan or a rÈsumÈ?" I asked in exasperation.
But the king seemed genuinely interested. "What would that plan be, Odclay, pray tell?"
"I will stay here, perched in plain view, and distract Meander and his men when 
they arrive. In the meantime, the three of you can flee."
"We do not run from danger," Entipy snapped.
"The hell we don't," I shot back, and then quickly addedóto sound nobleó"Not 
when you and the king are at risk. The problem is, there's no place to run to. 
If we head north, away from Meander, we wind up back in the Outer Lawless 
regions. If we head east, he'll catch up with us, and besides, the terrain is 
too daunting for us to put any serious distance between us. West is problematic, 
considering there's a thousand-foot drop in that direction, and south takes us 
right into his arms."
"I said it was a cunning plan, not a perfect one," retorted the jester.
They were still approaching, taking their own sweet time. They knew they had us.
"If only we knew for sure that we were helpless," said the king. "If only we 
knew where our troops had gone . . . whether they would return in time . . . 
there's so much that's uncertain . . ."
"Yes, but we don't know for sure," said Entipy.
And that's when it hit me.
"No," I said softly, "we don't know. And neither do they." Suddenly I turned to 
them, seeing the confused expressions on their faces. "Highness . . . what do 
you know of a siege? When an army lays siege to a fortress such as this. What do 
you know of what happens?"
"Well," the king said slowly, "you secure the gateway, lower the portcullis if 
you have one. Man the battlements. Get boiling liquid or heavy stones to be 
dropped through the machicolations if you have any. Ready the archers, keep 
behind the merlons to present as minimal a target asó"
"Right. Right. And they know that, too."
"Of course. Everyone knows it."
"All right. Here's what we do." My mind was racing down the slippery slope of 
inspired madness. "Highness . . . change clothes."
He looked at me blankly, as did the others. "You consider this an inappropriate 
ensemble in which to be captured?"
"Not with something else you brought. With him."
And I pointed at the jester.
"Are you crazy?" asked Entipy, genuinely curious.
"No," I said. "But they're going to think your father is. Crazy as a fox, as the 
saying goes."
And I laid out my plan for them, as quickly and efficiently as I could. When I 
finished they were still staring at me as if I'd grown a third head.
"It won't work," Entipy said flatly.
"Do you have a better idea?" I asked.
"She's right, it won't work!" said Odclay, sounding pleasantly lucid. "The 
moment they see him up there, a perfect target, they'll put a hundred arrows in 
him!"
"No, they won't. They'll want him alive; he's far more valuable that way."
"Are you sure?" asked Runcible doubtfully.
"Reasonably so."
"Reasonably so?"
"Look," I said in exasperation, "if they want you dead, then we're finished no 
matter what. If they want you alive, then this can work. But we have to decide 
now, because if I'm going to get into the forest and accomplish my part of the 
plan, we have to get started."
Entipy and the jester looked to the king, who instead looked at me as if hoping 
that I might somehow suddenly transform into a great wizard and simply spirit 
the lot of us out of there. The snow was coming down harder around us.
"All right," he said finally. "We will trust the squire's plan."
"Fatheró!"
"You should not be complaining, Entipy. Think: If it doesn't work, you have the 
questionable joy of seeing your father making a total ass of himself in his 
final moments. Not quite the compensation for the years you feel you lost with 
the Faith Women . . . but hopefully it will provide some small amusement. All 
right, Odclay . . . let's get started. Apropos," and he clamped a hand on my 
shoulder. "Good luck."
You'll need it, I thought privately.
"And Apropos . . ."
"Yes, Highness . . . ?"
He smiled. "If this works . . . and we live to tell the tale . . . I shall make 
you Sir Apropos."
The king and Odclay climbed down off the parapets, and I prepared to follow . . 
. and suddenly Entipy caught me by the arm and swung me around, looking at me 
hard in the eyes. She seemed to be searching for something in there, something 
she could hold on to and believe in.
And then she kissed me. It was as firm and deep and passionate a kiss as I'd 
ever received, and she didn't seem the least bit insane at all. She broke off 
and looked at me with wide eyes, and she whispered, "I trust you."
What was I going to say? More fool you, I'm out of here, because this demented 
plan will never work, even though it's mine.
"Thank you," I said.
Understand: When I first started outlining the plan, I actually thought it was 
workable. The further I got into it, though, the more I became convinced that I 
was suggesting sheer idiocy. If the king had smiled patronizingly and said, 
"We'll have to try some other course of action, squire," I would have nodded and 
been glad for the out. The only thing that made me get defensive about it was 
that Entipy dismissed it out of hand, and for some reason the fact that she was 
the one who had done so prompted me to rise to the occasion.
So now they were stuck with it.
They. Not me.
I was getting the hell out of there.
The moment I had seen Meander's Journeymen approaching, I began assessing the 
oddsónot where the royals were concerned, but where I was concerned. And from 
where I stood, it didn't look especially promising. I was reasonably certain 
that I could escape into the woods, make my way through them silently, slip away 
like a ghost. Lame of leg or not, I had still learned my woodcraft from the 
best, and even though these were not the Elderwoods, I was willing to take my 
chances on my own. I was not, however, enthused about the prospects of 
evaporating into the woods if I was dragging along the king, the princess, and 
the court jester. The king, possibly. Possibly. But the princess had the 
woodcraft of a diseased wombat, and the court jester was so unpredictable that 
he might start singing eighteen choruses of "My Crumpet Was a Strumpet," getting 
the attention of not only Meander's people but probably a wandering regiment of 
Warlord Shanks's men as well. I did not think that the king would be willing to 
leave either of them behind . . . although of the two, he might just take his 
chances with the jester. The only possible way I could manage to survive was to 
know everything that could go wrong, and bringing the unholy trio with me simply 
offered too many unknowns.
Furthermore, I wasn't all that worried about Meander's capturing them. I truly 
did believe that the king was going to be of more value to them alive. The 
princess would likely fall into that same category. The jester they would 
probably keep around for amusement value, and if they didn't, well, small loss. 
They would all fare perfectly well in Meander's care. Perhaps they'd get on so 
famously that they'd all take up a house by the shore together. But a lone 
squire, lame of leg? They'd chop me for kindling in a heartbeat.
No, my resolve was solid and reasonable: I was departing as fast as my good leg 
would carry me.
In the fort's storehouse, I found a supplies belt that was ordinarily used for 
carrying rations. I opened the pouches, dumped in the jewels and money from my 
saddlebag, and closed it up again, leaving the coinage in the hidden compartment 
in my staff. I shook the belt violently several times to make certain that there 
was no telltale jingling. There wasn't. I had it packed in too tight. I 
tightened the belt around my waist and allowed my tunic to hang loosely over it, 
covering it quite well. I rolled my cloak up tightly and tied it over my waist. 
By that point I was bulging there, but it was better than trying to make my way 
through the woods with my cloak snagging on branches. I would probably need it 
later, though, as proof against the cold, particularly if the snow didn't let 
up. My scabbard remained on my back, my staff firmly in hand.
I took a deep breath and made my way to the front. The king didn't see me; he 
was heading toward the battlements. He was jingling, attired in the fool's 
motley. Yes. Definitely an insane plan. Thank the gods I wasn't going to be 
around to see it. Entipy had secured herself in the barracks, although I 
suspected that she was going to be trying to watch from there. I couldn't blame 
her. Who would pass up an opportunity to watch a king make a complete jackass of 
himself? Well . . . who besides me, that was.
I exited the front of the fortress through the doors that remained wide open. 
Meander's men were still a distance away, and I covered the distance between the 
fortress and the forest in no time. As opposed to the ludicrousness of the plan 
I had hatched for the king, my personal plan was simplicity itself: Stay the 
hell out of Meander's path.
The moment I was in the forest, all my doubts melted away. I felt as if I was 
truly back in my element. This was where I was meant to be. Not posturing about 
in castle halls, pretending I was something I wasn't. Instead my place was 
living a life of freedom, unencumbered by all the demands that society put upon 
one. The trees seemed to say "Welcome back" to me, even though I had never been 
there before. I had enough money in my belt to live life in any manner I chose. 
I could build a house, build a business . . . or even just live in the woods and 
emerge only when I felt like it, buying what I desired and vanishing again. It 
would bother no one. If you're penniless, you're mad, but if you're rich, you're 
eccentric. I would owe nothing to anyone, buy what I felt like, and even take 
what I felt like, because when you have money, you can do anything you want.
I looked behind me, the fort already lost to sight. There was snow upon the 
ground. There were no footprints upon it. That was how smoothly, how lightly I 
had passed over it. I felt like a great fish finally and gratefully returning to 
the oceans that were his home. I felt like a liberated soul. I felt . . .
. . . I felt . . .
. . . I felt . . . the warmth of her lips upon mine. I felt the sincerity with 
which she said, "I trust you." The last person to trust me had been Tacit . . . 
and look what happened to him.
I felt a clear, vivid recollection of the sensation that passed between us. I 
felt the pride, however fleeting it had been, however misplaced it was, when 
Runcible had accepted my plan and resolved to try and make it work.
You will not do this to yourself! You will not! You will not turn into some 
mewling, smitten creature! My mind was fairly screaming at me, the same inner 
voice that had warned me to just take the money Justus had offered me to 
compensate for my mother's death. If I'd listened to it then, think of all the 
problems I could have avoided. You must not forget who they are, and who you 
are! He is the king who oversees the knights that raped your mother! She is an 
unstable little creature whom even her own father says is insane! And a jester? 
The jester is the only one in the bunch worth saving, truth be told, and you're 
certainly not going to risk yourself for him! You will never be Sir Apropos of 
anything! You liked the feeling of her kiss? Women's lips are a sov a dozen, and 
you've got enough riches on you to purchase the affections of a hundred women 
far more voluptuous, and far less trouble, than Entipy.
I slowed.
Listen to me, Apropos! This is not who and what you are! Tacit really was the 
hero, and you saw how he ended up! How much worse will it be for you? You owe 
them nothing . . .
I slowed more . . .
. . . nothing, do you hear me? Wipe your mouth! Get the taste of her lips off 
there right this instant! Flee! Flee, right now! You do not want to do this! You 
cannot want to do this!
She trusted me . . .
Damn you, Apropos! Can you do nothing wrong right?!
I stopped.
I looked behind me.
There were tracks now. I was sinking into the snow. Sinking into my own 
frustration and confusion.
And that was when the Journeyman came at me.
His woodcraft was impressive, admittedly. He was keeping downwind of me so that 
I couldn't possibly scent him. Still, I would have heard him if I hadn't been so 
busy arguing within my own skull. He was not a behemoth by any stretch of the 
imagination, but he was larger than me. He had a heavy brow and a mashed-in 
nose, and the rest was covered by a chain-mail coif. Disdaining a hauberk, which 
oftentimes accompanied a coifóprobably because chain-mail hauberks made an 
unholy racket when moving through the forest, and this was apparently a 
light-infantry manóhe wore thick black leather armor with white trim, and a 
cloak of similar colors dangling off his shoulder. The only thing that tipped me 
to his presence, at literally the last moment, was his trailing cloak snatching 
a branch and causing it to crack. I spun, my staff in my hand, but he had his 
sword out and was not wasting any time.
"Wait!" I said, throwing up a hand. He halted, a wolfish smile on his face. "Why 
kill me? Meander once extended hospitality to an entire regiment! I'll . . ." My 
mind raced. "I'll join him. Join you. I have no difficulty with that."
He looked at me askance. "Would you be 'Apropos'?"
I blinked in surprise. "Why . . . yes."
He sighed. "Sorry. Can't help you."
And with that halfhearted and utterly puzzling apology, he came at me, swinging 
his sword high, fast, and down, like an axeman chopping wood.
He wasn't giving me a chance to pull free my sword, but I didn't need to. I 
yanked either end of my staff and it came apart at the middle, as it was 
designed to. With a baton in either hand now and acting entirely on reflex, I 
swung one side of it up and around even as I darted inside the downward arc of 
his swing, pushing off with my good left leg for more speed. The baton caught 
the sword on the flat of the blade, shoving it aside and sending it to the 
ground just to my left. On the other baton, I pushed the triggering device and 
the blade snapped out, even as I lunged forward and stabbed upward.
The four-inch blade sank into his right eye and angled up into his brain.
His remaining eye widened in surprise as he dropped his sword, and he would have 
let out a shriek right then that would have alerted the damned in Hell, except 
that I let my momentum carry me forward and I slammed into him. We both went to 
the ground, and I clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling his agonized screams. 
I think he had no clear idea what was happening at that point; all he knew was 
that he was half-blinded and could no longer control his body. He spasmed wildly 
and I held him down, staying atop him as if I were trying to break a wild horse. 
Blood spurted from his ruined eye socket all over my gloved hands, and I tried 
not to think about the fluids that were pumping out onto me.
And slowly . . . horribly, horribly slowly . . . the frantic twitching stopped. 
His head slumped to one side, and for the second time in two days, I watched 
someone's lifeblood turn the snow crimson. Except this time . . . I was the one 
who had done it.
The full impact of it had not yet settled in on me. I pulled out the half staff 
and stared at the blood-tinged blade on the end of it in wonderment. I had taken 
the life of a man, with my own hand. Granitz had fallen on his sword, the Harper 
that I had killed had been more beast than human, and Tacit had been annihilated 
by the archers. But this time, this time . . . I had fought a man, a soldier, 
who was trying to kill me, and I had killed him first. My first true kill.
I didn't even know his name.
And as I watched the life light vanish from his one remaining eye, I let out a 
choked sob and then retched violently, my stomach seized with dry heaves. I knew 
he had been trying to kill me. I had beaten him fairly . . . well, as fairly as 
one can when one is pulling a surprise weapon on an opponent. But still . . . I 
had killed him . . .
I felt no elation. I only felt cold and empty . . . and a sick sense of irony. 
Because this soldier over whom I had stumbled was actually the first piece in my 
utterly preposterous plan. The plan that I had known, beyond question, could not 
possibly work, required that I find one of Meander's men in the woods and 
overcome him.
Step one in the chain of idiocy had been accomplished. And at that point, I 
couldn't think of a single good reason not to proceed to step two.
You're going to get yourself killed! They know you're coming for some reason! 
It's a death trap! It'só
Allow me to rephrase: I simply didn't want to think of a single good reason not 
to proceed to step two.
It was only a matter of minutes to don the man's armor. The most disgusting 
thing was donning the coif. His blood still tinged the inside. But I wanted to 
cover myself up as much as possible, and so I pulled on the chain-mail headpiece 
and tried not to dwell upon the stuff within that was sticking to my hair. I 
found a sizable downed tree with a goodly part of the trunk's interior rotted 
away, and I stuffed the man's corpse into it. Then I retched again, and this 
time allowed it to keep going until it ran its course, rather than fight it. I 
wrapped the man in my cloak; I figured it was the least I could do. Besides, his 
cloak was nicer.
This is madness, this is madness, my inner voice kept chanting, over and over. I 
stopped listening to it, because I knew that it was right and therefore there 
wasn't much point in arguing about it.
I made my way through the woods as carefully as I could. Even if I had possessed 
no craft at all, I would still have been able to catch up with Meander's men. 
They were, after all, trooping down the main road, making no effort to hide 
their presence. The main thing I had on my side was that Meander's troops were 
somewhat fluid in nature. Soldiers tended to come and go as they saw fit. 
Indeed, "soldiers" might have been too generous a name for them, since the word 
carries with it careful training, a military command structure, and sense of 
order. Meander, on the other hand, was the antithesis of order. Naturally he 
believed in obedience to he himself, but beyond that, he wasóshall we 
sayóflexible. It would probably have been more accurate to term them "warriors." 
No matter what you called them, however, they tended to get the job done. But 
because of that fluidity of nature, my hope was that I would be able to 
insinuate myself into their ranks without being noticed.
By the time I arrived, the head of the processionówhere Meander presumably 
wasóhad already gone by. I chose my spot behind a nicely large tree and watched 
them pass. I heard them making comments about Runcible, about ransoms and such, 
which settled for me beyond any question that their goal was to go to the fort 
and take the king captive. I waited until there was a brief break in the 
procession, where the men ahead were engaged in conversation and the men just 
behind weren't paying attention, and I simply stepped into place and started 
walking. No one paid me the least bit of attention. For all I knew, if someone 
had seen me stepping out of the woods, he might well have assumed that I was 
answering nature's call and now falling back into line.
The most fantastic aspect of all this was to be at the heart of the insane 
weather conditions that accompanied Meander's advancement. Snow had been coming 
down on me in the forest mere seconds ago; I shook out my newly acquired cloak 
to try and get as much off me as I could. And snow continued briskly on the 
other side. But here, on the road . . . nothing. It was a truly eerie sensation, 
like standing in the middle of a downpour and not getting wet.
Subtly, I managed to catch up to the men who were discussing Runcible. " . . . 
hasn't a prayer," I heard one of them saying, a burly man with beady eyes. " 
'Runcible the Crafty.' There's a laugh. We have the crafty one cold."
I piped up, "Yes, he's caught with his jerkin off this time," and this prompted 
a rousing guffaw from the others.
"Well said!" the burly man commented, apparently not caring who I was as long as 
my views were along his lines.
And then I added, almost as an afterthought, "Although . . ." I let it hang 
there for a moment and then said, "No . . . never mind."
"Never mind what?" The burly man had fixed those beady eyes on me, and the 
attention of several others trudging along had also been caught.
"Well, it's just . . . I heard that there was an entire army who thought they 
had Runcible cold. I mean, absolutely pinioned, no way out. Turned out that 
they'd fallen into the middle of an elaborate scheme of his. A handful of them 
escaped with their lives . . . the rest, put to the sword. But that's just what 
I heard," I added dismissively. "Very likely nothing to it. I suppose that's how 
legends get built . . . by the constant repetition of deeds to the point where 
you don't know if they're true or not."
"That's valid enough," said the burly man, but he was looking slightly uneasy.
Which was exactly what I wanted.
I started picking up my pace. Considering my physical limitations, that might 
not have been possible were it not for the fact that the troops were taking 
their own sweet time. I smelled alcohol on the breath of quite a few as I made 
my way past them. Yes, by the gods, this was a group that was entirely too 
relaxed. Still, what they lacked in sobriety, they made up for in numbers. They 
stretched as far back and ahead as I could see. And every so often, I would stop 
and have a conversation along the lines of the one I just had minutes before. 
Each time I would then move on, leaving the Journeymen with food for thought and 
the smallest seed of suspicion planted within them.
I moved forward, ever faster. I had to try and get to Meander himself, or at 
least get near him, so that I could be in the proper position to have some sort 
of impact once we reached the forest itself. My inner voice had stopped talking 
to me. I think it decided that it was wasting its time and was going to go off 
and be an inner voice for someone who actually paid it some mind.
Several of the soldiers grunted or mumbled, "Watch where you're going," as I 
shouldered my way past. I kept my head down and my feet heading ever forward. I 
knew I was getting closer to the front, though, when I heard voices saying "Your 
Highness" every other sentence. Everyone was being properly obedient, 
subservient and obsequious. Would that I had brought thicker boots for wading 
through all the bullshit that was being tossed about so freely.
I didn't hear Meander's voice much. I heard others asking him questions or 
firing opinions at him, and he would say "Hmm" or "Ahhhh" or "I see." In that 
respect, he reminded me of King Runcible a bit. Except in Runcible's case I 
wondered whether or not it was subterfuge to cover a slow mind, whereas with 
Meander it was a different story. I had no doubt that Meander was genuinely 
brilliant. Who else, after all, would have come up with the entire "movable 
feast" concept. As near as I could tell, though, he did not like to volunteer 
much beyond that in the way of instructions or even jobs. Then again, I was not 
a big one for listening to, or accepting, rules, so I certainly couldn't condemn 
him for that.
We rounded a mild curve and I took the opportunity to speed up a bit more. I did 
not want to draw too much attention to either me or my staff. Even so, I was a 
bit apprehensive about being recognized somehow . . . particularly since that 
one soldier I had killed had blurted out my name.
And then I saw Meander, from the back. I was positive it was he, because he had 
the largest circle of advisors and they were all babbling contradictory 
information simultaneously. That and the fact that he was in a throne. The chair 
was mounted on a litter and was being carried by four men, two in front, two 
behind. It was certainly the best way to travel. Finally I was relieved to see 
him clap his hands to his ears and declare, "Enough!" His advisors promptly shut 
up. As far as I was concerned, that was enough reason to become king right 
there: Being able to tell people to shut their mouths, and make it stick.
I walked faster still, drawing in close, coming up behind, and then alongside, 
and I cast a glance at King Meander.
His hair was almost solid gray, like ice, and yet I could see that he was not 
truly all that old. But he had very old eyes, as if they had seen so much of 
lifeóenough for ten lifetimesóthat they were all but ready to close for the 
final time. His eyebrows, surprisingly, were solid black, in contrast to the 
gray and black beard, neatly trimmed as a contrast to his rough-hewn exterior. 
His face had a craggy, weatherbeaten, care-filled look . . .
. . . and four scratches down the left side . . . nasty, ugly vicious marks . . 
. such as might be made by an attacking animal . . . or like a woman might have 
made struggling in her last moments before death . . .
 
 
Chapter 25
 
My world reeled around me and I hadn't even realized I'd stopped walking until 
an irritated Journeyman pushed me from behind and muttered an imprecation that I 
should move my ass or he'd cut it off for me. I was in motion before I even 
realized it, walking numbly, casting repeated glances in Meander's direction, 
looking at those marks on his face as if they were calling to me from beyond the 
grave.
Had it been he? Had it been the leader of the Journeymen, riding about, looking 
for some sport, who had killed Madelyne? Had nothing less than royalty been 
responsible for striking her down? My mind was whirling, out of focus, and that 
was extremely dangerous because the only thing that was going to give me 
anything faintly resembling an advantage was my ability to think. At that 
moment, though, I could barely string two coherent thoughts together.
I heard the sound of running feet and looked up the road. Two men, dressed 
similarly to the fellow I had dispatched, were approaching as quickly as they 
could, and for a panicked moment I thought they had discovered his body. "All 
stop," said Meander, and the order was relayed back with rapid-fire precision. 
Within moments the entire procession had halted as the two runners knelt before 
Meander and I waited to see just how screwed I was.
The throne was lowered to the ground and Meander stepped from it. "How now, good 
runners?" Meander said. His voice was deep and rough.
"We have seen the fort, sire. It is just ahead, beyond the grove."
A ghost of a smile touched Meander's lips. "And what preparations has Runcible 
made for us? Doors bolted? Does he have a handful of arrows at the ready, 
perhaps?"
"No, sire. The doors are wide open and there appear no signs of resistance."
Meander sighed heavily. "Gone on the run, has he? Foolish. We'll have to track 
him down, then." He turned to a man standing at his side, an older man who 
reminded me slightly of Umbrage, except without the vacant stare. Indeed, he 
looked as if he had brought some of the Frozen North with him, except on the 
inside. "Captain Grimmoir . . . I want you to take twoó"
"Begging Your Majesty's pardon," one of the runners said, "but Runcible is not 
on the run."
Slowly Meander looked back at his two information gatherers, his face a 
question. "He's not? You mean . . . he's surrendering?" He sounded slightly 
disappointed.
The runners looked at each other uncomfortably, as if not sure how to best 
express it. "Not . . . exactly, sire."
"Well, then, what, then?"
"It . . . isn't easy to describe, Highness."
"Give it a whack," said the king icily.
One of the runners, the older of the two, took a deep breath and said, "King 
Runcible is sitting atop the battlements, dressed in fool's motley, jingling 
little bells and singing baudy tavern chants, with the front doors wide open and 
no sign of defenses being made whatsoever."
There was dead silence for a moment, and then a ripple of disbelieving laughter. 
Meander leaned forward, his fingers interlaced, and he said very softly, "Are 
you quite sure?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
The man he'd called Grimmoir made a loud, scoffing noise. "The man is mad!" he 
declared loudly, and there were nods of agreement.
Meander turned and looked at Grimmoir thoughtfully. I couldn't take my eyes off 
the scars on his face; they seemed to cry out to me with my mother's voice. 
"I've heard the same thing said of me, Captain. Do you concur? Do you follow a 
madman, Grimmoir?"
"No, Your Highness," Grimmoir said quickly.
Once again that same ghostly smile, and then Meander said, "There are others who 
might disagree. Well, then . . . let us see this phenomenon for ourselves, so 
that we may determine how many mad kings are at issue this day. Advance, 
Captain."
"Advance!" shouted Grimmoir, and once again the order was quickly relayed down 
the line as Meander climbed back onto his throne and was hoisted once more.
I tore my thoughts away from my mother's final moments, not wanting to lose 
sight of the planóas pathetic as that plan might be. I drifted close, not to 
Grimmoir, but to the man to his immediate right, who appeared to be his 
lieutenant. Seconds-in-command enjoy attention, since they receive it so rarely. 
"Do you think him mad, sir?" I asked in a low voice. "Runcible, I mean."
The lieutenant shrugged. "No other explanation for it."
"That's quite true. Such a reputedly crafty king would never engage in such 
actions unless he was truly bereft of reason. Unless, of course . . ." Once 
again I stopped. "Fie. 'Tis of no consequence."
He looked at me oddly. "Speak, soldier. What is on your mind?"
"I said, sir, it is of no consequenceó"
"And I said speak. That's an order." He liked saying that, I could tell.
"Well," I said, glancing around as if to make sure we weren't being overheard, 
"what if it's . . . a trap . . ."
"A trap? How could it possibly be a trap?"
I shrugged. "If I knew such things, sir, I would be an officer."
"But his troops have left him!"
"So we believe. But if we allow for a moment that it is, in fact, a trick . . . 
a deception . . . anything is possible. An ambush. Hidden reinforcements of 
which we knew nothing. Anything. I mean, Runcible does have a considerable 
reputation for craftiness. Certainly it must be based on something Maybe it's 
precisely this kind of trickery, catching armies unaware and annihilating them, 
that has led to it." Once more I shrugged. "But I probably imagine these things 
simply because I am but a lowly trooper, and not as experienced in the ways of 
war as others. Certainly if there was a chance that this was some sort of 
deception and we were riding into disaster, the captain or the king would have 
thought of it. I have overstepped myself. I apologize."
With that, I took a few steps back as if the conversation was over, joining the 
rank and file once more.
Then I watched. And waited.
I did not have to wait long. Within less than two minutes, the lieutenant was at 
Grimmoir's side, whispering into his ear. Grimmoir frowned, shaking his head at 
first, but then he started to look thoughtful as well. He did not, however, 
approach the king.
As for me . . . my temptation was to approach the king with a dagger in my hand. 
But I would probably get nowhere near him. And what if I did? What if I got 
within range of him and actually managed to, say, kill him? Aside from the fact 
that there would, in short order, be nothing left of me . . .
Well, actually, there was nothing aside from that fact. But it was a significant 
enough fact to give me decided pause.
We drew within range of the fort and once again a halt was called. Meander 
stepped down from the throne and moved beyond the edge of the forest, eyes wide 
with curiosity. Snow was continuing to descend even more rapidly. Naturally it 
was continuing to keep clear of us, but it was falling on the fort unabated.
And it was falling upon Runcible, who was in the midst of doing exactly what had 
been advertised. The runners had omitted the fact that Runcible was strumming a 
lyre, rather badly, with one hand, while continuing to shake a bell stick with 
the other. He wore the fool's cap and the badly mismatched clothing, right down 
to the boots with the extended toes and the bells on the ends. His words drifted 
through the air to us, sung badly off key . . .
"And then there was Molly. The fattest damned whore. The slut who weighed 
seventeen stone. She swallowed poor Charlie. And asked for some more, Since she 
despised dining alone. . .."
"What the hell does that mean?" demanded Grimmoir.
"I'm not sure," said Meander thoughtfully. "Since it's a tavern song, I would 
surmise it makes more sense if you are drunk. Well, Captain . . . it appears 
Runcible has indeed gone quite mad."
"Yes . . . it appears so," said the captain slowly.
The way in which Grimmoir said that caught Meander's attention. So, too, did 
mutterings from the rest of the rank and file. They were pushing forward to see 
the supposedly demented king, fully exposed and easy pickings, and they didn't 
seem happy about it. I heard words like "crafty" and "too easy" and "annihilate" 
being bandied about. Words that I had been spreading, thoughts that I had been 
planting. Moreover, they were spreading back down the processional like a forest 
ablaze, and the uncomfortable murmurings were becoming louder.
I don't know that Meander was especially concerned about insurrection among his 
men, but he was certainly curious over what the problem was. "Captain," he said 
slowly, "is there some difficulty?"
"Well, sire . . . may I speak to you privately . . . ?"
"No," Meander said firmly. "If there is a concern, it is apparently shared by 
many, and so should be heard by all. Speak your mind."
Grimmoir didn't appear happy about it, but he steeled himself and said, "Well, 
sire, some of the men . . . they're thinking that this might be some sort of trap."
"A trap, you say?" Meander looked back to Runcible, who had moved on to singing 
about a whore known as the Fabulous Funt. "How now?"
"Well, sire . . ." He glanced at his lieutenant and acknowledged others as well. 
"They seem to feel that it's too easy. Runcible has earned a reputation for 
craftiness, not madness . . ."
"Unlike me," Meander said thoughtfully.
"As you say, sire," allowed Grimmoir. "And the reasoning is, which is the more 
likely: That a wise and crafty king has lost his mind? Or that a wise and crafty 
king is endeavoring to ensnare us in some sort of brilliant scheme? Trick us as 
he has tricked others?"
"And you think me capable of being tricked, Captain?"
The question sounded faintly dangerous, but Grimmoir, to his credit, stayed his 
course. "Anyoneóeven a king, such as yourselfócan only make decisions based upon 
the quality of the information presented you by others. If that information is 
faulty . . ." He let the supposition trail off.
"Hmm," Meander said thoughtfully, looking back at the king. "And you are saying 
that the information I have received . . . that Runcible is alone and helpless . 
. . may be incorrect."
"There is that possibility, sire."
"And he is but awaiting an attack in order to spring the trap."
"Yes, sire."
"And that if I send men in, they may well be slaughtered before they get within 
distance. And that, furthermore, it would signal the moment when additional 
troops of Meander's are to come in from behind and cut us off, or some such."
Grimmoir nodded. "All of those are possibilities, yes, sire."
"On the other hand," continued Meander, and he began to pace, "he may be taking 
these actions because he is, in fact, utterly helpless, and wants us to think 
that it is a trap. That he is hoping, praying, that what seems to be happening 
now would, in fact, happen. That we will be paralyzed, not by force of arms, but 
by force of reputation."
"That is also possible, sire."
"So what you are saying to me, Captain . . . is that this is either a painfully 
obvious last-ditch effort to save himself . . . or else a painfully obvious 
trap."
"Aye, sire. That would seem to be the case."
"There is a third possibility. Perhaps he is hoping that we will see him and 
laugh ourselves to death."
"I . . . would not think that last to be terribly likely, sire," Grimmoir said 
doubtfully.
"Nor I," sighed Meander. "I'm merely trying to consider all the options." He 
frowned a moment more and then said, "Archers . . ."
Three men wielding the largest composite bows I'd ever seen stepped forward. 
Meander studied the distance between himself and the castle. "About two hundred 
. . . two hundred fifty yards, would be my estimate. Well within range. 
Gentlemen . . . do you think you can hit that madman up there?"
"Aye, sire," and there was a uniform nodding of heads.
My heart went into my throat.
"Very well. I'd like you to fire a volleyó"
I started to take a step forward without the faintest idea of what I was going 
to say.
"óand see how close you can come . . . without hitting him," finished Meander, 
and I released my breath in relief.
The archers stepped up, took aim, and let fly. I prayed that some capricious 
cross-gust of wind would not send one of the missiles off course and into the 
king's head.
Two thudded just below him, and one to his immediate right. There was no way 
that Runcible could not have noticed them. The king didn't flinch. He kept right 
on strumming the lyre and singing foolish ditties.
"Damn," murmured Meander. "Well, that solved nothing. If he had jumped away from 
them, that would have been a sign that we were not dealing with a madman. But he 
did not react. So he is either indeed insane . . . or else willing to keep his 
cards so close to his vest that nothing short of fully committing ourselves to 
an attack will cause him to show his hand . . ."
"At which point it might be too late," said Grimmoir.
For a long moment Meander was silent.
Then, slowly, he turned to Grimmoir. "Captain," he said, "I do not wish you to 
take insult at this . . . but you are not a very imaginative man. You are superb 
at following orders. You can execute any strategy that others have developed. 
But seeing the situation present here before you . . . it is simply not within 
your nature to come up with such a means of second-guessing a crafty opponent. I 
do not fault you for this; you have served me well without imagination, and will 
continue to do so in the future. I do not believe that this concernóthat it may 
be a trapówas something you intuited. Who suggested it to you?"
"Sire, Ió"
"Who?"
Grimmoir apparently knew better than to try and slip something past his king. He 
pointed at his lieutenant, who stepped forward and bowed.
Meander looked him up and down.
"I know you. You're dumb as a post, as your father was, and his father before 
him. No offense."
"None taken, Your Highness," said the lieutenant, a bit bewildered.
"Who spoke to you then, eh?"
Suddenly feeling my privates shriveling to the size of peas, I tried to back 
slowly away without catching attention, but it was too late. Dumb as a post he 
might have been, but he also had a keen eye. "That man. There," said the 
lieutenant, and pointed straight at me.
"You. Light infantryman. Come here," said Meander in a voice that was not 
brooking any dissent.
Slowly I advanced. I was doing everything I could to keep my staff hidden within 
the folds of my cloak and obscuring my limp. I bowed. "Your servant, sire."
"You speculated to the lieutenant here that Runcible might be setting a trap for us?"
I looked resolutely down. "I . . . may have done, aye, sire."
"Quite an imagination you have."
"I . . . simply do not wish to see you fall into a trap, Highness. I would have 
been remiss in not voicing my speculations. But they are just that."
"And have you spoken to others of my troops about these concerns? Because there 
seems to be some uniform discord among the men, and I am endeavoring to trace 
the source."
"Again, I . . . may have. If I have overstepped myself, sire, I humblyó"
"All opinions are welcome," Meander said. "You are a curious fellow. I do not 
recall seeing you recently. What is your name?"
I said the first thing that came to mind. "Tacit, sire."
"Tacit? Tacit One-Eye? I've heard of you a'right, but both eyes seem quite 
intact."
"You have . . . heard of my brother, sire. Not me."
"Your brother. Two brothers, both named Tacit?" he asked in polite bemusement.
My brain had completely frozen. "Our . . . parents were very poor, sire," I said 
desperately.
"And could not afford more than one name for you?"
I had no reply to that.
Meander laughed softly. I was amazed how soft spoken the man was. "Well then, 
Tacit Two-Eye . . . your imaginings have given me much food for thought. Do I 
commit my forces into a foolish trap . . . or risk being foolish and walk away 
from it? What would you do, Tacit Two-Eye?"
I gathered my nerve and looked straight into his face. He still looked quite 
tired, as if the prolonged discussion was dispiriting somehow. "If I were to 
attack, sire . . . and it was a trap . . . I would be a laughingstock, presuming 
that I survived. If I walked away . . . and it was not a trap . . . I would 
never know otherwise. Then again . . . no one is expected to know everything. So 
not knowing something for sure that leaves us all alive . . . seems to me 
preferable to knowing something for sure that could leave us all dead."
"And if he truly is helpless and this is all a faÁade? I am letting a potential 
captive depart unharmed."
"Not unharmed, sire. He will always know the depths of humiliation to which he 
had to resort just to survive."
For no reason I could understand, that seemed to catch Meander's attention. 
"That . . . can be a very terrible thing indeed," he said, sounding very 
distant. "A very terrible punishment for anyone to carry with them . . . much 
less a king."
The silence then seemed to drag unto infinity. The only noise to be heard was 
the distant strumming of the lyre and the wretched singing voice of Runcible.
"Captain," Meander said finally. "Sometimes the game is simply not worth rolling 
the dice. We are departing."
I couldn't believe it. My legs went weak and I supported myself on my staff to 
stop from keeling over. It had worked. Son of a bitch, it had worked. Now all I 
had to do was wait until a propitious moment, fade back into the woods and 
double back . . .
Or else . . . or else I could stay with the troops for a while . . . wait for an 
unguarded time . . . and then kill Meander for what he'd done to my mother . . . 
now wouldn't that be just too, too . . .
"Apropos!"
"Oh, shit," I whispered, as I heard the last voice I would have wanted to hear just then.
 
 
Chapter 26
 
I caught myself just before I started to turn in response to my name. Such an 
action would definitely be the last thing I'd want to do in that circumstance. 
And I did everything I could to hide my disbelief upon hearing that voice.
He stomped toward me, as big and burly and ugly as he'd been when I'd first met 
him and he'd been about to cut me in half with his sword. "What are you doing 
here? What is he doing here?" And he whirled to face Meander. "What has he been 
saying to you?"
"What did you call him, Sir Coreolis?" Meander asked.
"Apropos! This is the pissant squire I told the forest men to be on the lookout 
for! I knew if anyone was apt to try and bolt for it, it would be this little 
coward." Coreolis looked at me with disdain. "Well? Did you think you'd get away 
with it, you fear-crazed weasel? Did you? Speak up?"
Keeping the quavering out of my voice as best I could, I said politely, "My 
apologies, sir . . . have we met?"
"Have weó?" I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his skull. "Damn you! I 
should have simply killed you in your sleep! But no, I had to decide that you 
weren't worth the trouble! More fool I! And more fool you, Meander, for 
listening to him!"
"Have a care, good sir knight," Meander said with clear danger in his voice. "I 
am still a king, and will not brook such insolence."
Quickly realizing that he'd overstepped himself, Coreolis bowed. "My apologies, 
Highness. I let my rage carry me . . . rage directed not at you, but at this 
little cretin!" and he pointed a trembling finger at me.
"You speak of Tacit?"
"Tacit! Tacit lies dead with a brace of arrows in him! I speak of this creature, 
Apropos of Nothing, who serves Runcible and has the eye of Runcible's daughter."
"Is that a fact?" inquired Meander, turning to me.
"Sire," I said as patiently as I could, as if Coreolis was a lunatic whom I did 
not want to offend for reasons of personal safety, "if the good knight claims my 
brother is dead . . . I am . . . I am taken aback, milord. Grief-stricken. I 
will need time to deal with his loss. As for the rest . . . I am not certain 
what sort of madness has embraced him . . ."
"Madness!" bellowed Coreolis. "The only madness is that you're all standing here 
when I've delivered Runcible to you on a silver platter! He'só" He frowned. 
"What's that damned singing?"
He looked to the point of origin of the singing and his eyes widened. "Is . . . 
is that . . . ?"
"Aye. Your king, on a silver platter," said Meander. "Except we believe that it 
is in fact trickery. A clever plan to entrap us. Which would mean, sir knight, 
that either you are also tricked by a king who suspected your treachery . . . or 
else you are in on it with him and have endeavored to lead us into an attack. 
Neither possibility bodes well for you."
"Don't you see!" howled Coreolis, face purpling, looking as if he was on the 
verge of a breakdown. "The only trickery here is on the part of Apropos . . ."
"Tacit," I quietly corrected him.
"Damn you and your Tacit!" He yanked out his sword, brandishing it fiercely. "I 
know who you are!"
"That makes two of us." I was feeling that same sense of empowerment that I had 
so long ago, what seemed a lifetime ago, when my attitude had sent Sir Justus 
into fits of fury. I, the lowborn son of a whore, was giving a highborn knight 
convulsions while simultaneously maintaining my sangfroid.
Meander regarded me thoughtfully. "Well. We seem to have a disagreement as to 
your identity. And who you are will weigh rather heavily into what is to be 
done. Tell me, young sir . . . have you any here who can vouch for you? Anyone 
of long standing in my ranks who knows you to be Tacit, rather than this 
'Apropos' who seems to have Sir Coreolis so overwrought?"
Dead silence. I could hear nothing save the snow, and the distant howling of the 
wind. It suddenly seemed much, much colder, with more ice coming in. Overhead 
the branches were becoming thick and encrusted with frozen coatings. I looked to 
Grimmoir, to the lieutenant, to any of the men that I'd spoken to in hopes that 
somehow they would misremember and think that I had been around for quite some 
time. Nothing. No responses. I felt my blood running as cold as the ice forming overhead.
And then a female voice floated through the stillness.
"Tacit, my love . . . I thought you would never get here."
I couldn't believe it. Could not believe it.
Before she said another word, before she pulled back the gray hood to reveal her 
features, I knew who it was. The crowd of soldiers parted for her, as if they 
were afraid to have her come into any sort of contact with them. If she was put 
off by that, she didn't show it.
I should have known. A weatherweaver controlling the environment. I should have 
damned well known.
"Hello, Sharee," I said, keeping my voice as casual as I could.
Coreolis had gone completely ashen. Sharee didn't even bother to glance in his 
direction. Instead she walked up to me and draped an arm around the back of my 
neck. "You certainly took your time in arriving," she said with a voice like a 
winter's sigh. She pulled me to her and kissed me. Her lips were like frost; I 
nearly stuck to her.
Our mouths parted and I thought desperately of something to say. "Sorry" was all 
I came up with.
"You know this man, weaver?" asked Meander slowly.
"My beloved Tacit? How could I not know my lover? He who warms me with his very essence?"
"The good Sir Coreolis claims that he is in the employ of Runcible, and is 
actually named Apropos . . ."
She laughed at that. "What foolishness. The good Sir Coreolis is misinformed."
That caused him to find his voice. "The good Sir Coreolis is going to kill the 
both of you!" he bellowed.
Meander froze him with a glance. "Sharee has been in my service for some time 
now, Coreolis, and served me well. Restrain yourself. Now." Without even 
bothering to make sure that Coreolis did as ordered, Meander turned back to 
Sharee and said, in as grave a voice as I've ever heard any man employ, "Sharee 
. . . do you swear on your oath as a weaver that this man is named Tacit? That 
he is your lover? That he is not now, nor has he ever been, in service to King 
Runcible? On your oath, Sharee?"
The wind began to howl. I heard a distant creaking of ice from overhead. It felt 
as if the wintery winds and fierce weather that had been kept at bay by Sharee's 
magiks were starting to intrude on our zone of safety. I looked to Sharee 
nervously, and she, in turn, never wavered in her gaze as she and Meander faced one another.
"On my oath as a weaver, I do swear it to be so," she said.
"She lies!" bellowed Coreolis and, gripping his sword with both hands, he charged.
At that exact moment, there was a massive cracking noise and a huge tree, 
weighed down by the ice that had gathered in its upper reaches, and pounded by 
winds so fearsome that they threatened to knock us all over, broke off at its 
base. It toppled over, massive, irresistible. Everyone in its way scattered . . .
. . . save for Coreolis, who was so focused on attacking Sharee and me that he 
dashed directly into the tree's path. At the last second the crashing of icicles 
around him alerted him and he looked up, but too late. He had barely enough time 
for an abortive scream, and then the tree slammed down and crushed him beneath 
its weight. His armor did him no good, as it was flattened along with the rest 
of him.
Once again silence reigned over the scene as we stared at the mishap, Coreolis's 
body completely obscured by the huge trunk.
And then, the picture of calm, Meander said, "Well. That would seem to be it, 
then." He raised his voice and addressed his men. "Gentlemen . . . it would 
appear that the clever King Runcible sent the late Sir Coreolis to us in an 
attempt to trap us. The supposed alliance he offered to form with us months ago, 
in exchange for our capturing King Runcible, was apparently naught but a 
meticulously constructed and elaborate invitation to disaster. Well . . . we 
will not accept his invitation. Allow the king to sit there in his foolish 
motley. We will attend to other matters. As for you, weaver," and he turned to Sharee.
"Yes, Highness?"
"Your servitude to me is at an end."
She blinked in surprise. "It . . . is?"
"You have attended to me quite well during this time. And in this instance, your 
intervention helped to unmask the duplicity of Coreolis and prevented me from 
tumbling into whatever trap Runcible had set. I believe that it is time to call 
our accounts settled. Unless you have objections to that . . ."
"No. No objections at all."
"Very well. Tacit . . . am I safe in assuming that you will remain with your 
lover, rather than with the Journeymen?"
"That . . . is a safe assumption, Highness."
"Yes. Well, I cannot say I am surprised. Then again . . . it takes a great deal 
to surprise me."
He smiled at me.
I looked at the scars. My mother's handiwork on her murderer's face.
My hand started to go for my knife and then Sharee's hand was resting, gently 
but firmly, on my arm, freezing it in place.
Moments later the army of King Meander was moving off. I stood there and watched 
them go, the cloak drawn tightly around me to ward off the cold. Sharee stood 
close to me, and not a word passed between us for quite some time as Meander's 
troops disappeared from view. The only thing that was left was the crushed body 
of Coreolis, somewhere beneath the frost-covered tree. When the spring thaw 
finally hitówhich would happen sooner rather than later, thanks to Sharee no 
longer interfering with the weather patternsósome lucky scavenging animals would 
find their first meal, neatly preserved.
"That was interesting," she said.
I turned to her. "I was ready to think we were even now, for the time I saved 
you," I said. "But because of me, he released you from service to him. Let me 
guess: Gambling debt."
"You know me too well," she said with mild amusement, which quickly faded from 
her voice. "But no. We are not even, for reasons you cannot begin to comprehend. 
Don't you see? The only thing that enabled me to convince Meander of the truth 
of my words was to swear a weaver's oath. But I lied under that oath. Such 
actions, while benefiting in the short term, have long-term harsh consequences."
"For whom?" I asked nervously.
"For all who benefit in the short term."
I did not like the sound of that, but I felt that dwelling on it would serve me 
about as well as dwelling on the fact that I'd just let my mother's murderer 
walk away. Instead I shifted the subject. "You've been in my dreams. Why? What 
have you been trying to tell me?"
She stared at me as if I was mad. "Me? I've never been in your dreams. I'm no 
dreamweaver. You're imagining things."
"Are you willing to swear a weaver's oath on that? Or would you be violating two 
within minutes of each other?"
She didn't reply, unless you can consider an enigmatic smile a reply. "On your 
way now, little man."
"On my way? You mean . . ."
"I'm not coming with you, no. Not yet. It's not time. This other foolishness has 
to play out."
"What foolishness? Dammit, Sharee, can't you stop talking in riddles?"
She looked surprised that I even had to ask. "No," she said. She started to turn 
away and then, in an offhand manner, inquired, "Oh . . . is Tacit dead yet? 
Tacit One-Eye, I mean. Your childhood playmate. He who first tried to rescue me 
and owes his salvation to you and your purse."
Obviously she had not heard Sir Coreolis's bellowed pronouncement of his fate. " 
'Yet'? How did you know he was dead at all?" I asked, startled.
"That's easy. You're still alive. I never thought this world was big enough for 
the both of you."
And with that, she stepped back toward the icy trees. I swore I never took my 
eyes off her, and yet the next moment, between eyeblinks, she had blended in 
with the snow and was gone.
I stood there staring, although I had no idea for how long I did so. Although on 
the one hand I wanted to will her back to me, I nevertheless had the distinct 
feeling that I might have got off lucky. It was with those precise mixed 
emotions that I trudged away to the fort, having no idea how I was going to feel 
when I saw Entipy again . . . especially considering that I had already resigned 
myself to never seeing her, or her father, again (never seeing Odclay the jester 
wasn't preying on my mind at all).
As I approached the castle, I smiled and shook my head at the ludicrous sight of 
the King of Isteria, on my say-so, continuing his nonsensical singing. But I 
could tell that he was already beginning to suspect that Meander had departed, 
and when he caught sight of me, I waved to him and nodded. He didn't recognize 
me at first, clad as I was in the garments of a Journeyman. But when he did he 
got to his feet and returned the wave, looking somewhat relieved that he didn't 
have to keep singing. Then he disappeared from view as he climbed down, only to 
emerge some minutes laterówith Entipy and Odclay on either side of himófrom the front gate.
Entipy was, I have to say, quite a sight. She ran toward me, her arms 
pinwheeling, intermingling shouting of my name with nearly incoherent squeals of 
joy. I suddenly felt very tired, even exhausted, still having trouble believing 
that such a half-assed plan as I had developed had actually worked. Never in a 
million years would I have given myself the slightest hope of succeeding.
The princess got within four feet of me and then jumped, literally leaping into 
my arms. I staggered from the impact, and would have fallen over had not the 
king arrived quickly enough to brace me. I should say, though, that if there was 
one man even more ludicrous-looking than the king, it was the jester, attired in 
the king's own raiment. Yet even the jester rose to the occasion as he pumped my 
hand firmly and said, "Well done. Very well done," with absolutely no trace of 
insanity to his voice. If the man was capable of staying lucid for longer 
periods of time, we might actually be able to be friends.
"I never doubted you! Never!" said Entipy.
She had no idea, of course. No idea that, save for the timing of my encountering 
the scout in the woods, I would be far away from this place, while she and her 
father would be captives of Meander. Nor did she ever need to know.
"Nor did I, Princess," I replied as suavely as I could, "for I knew that I had 
you to come back to."
She held me tightly, and I winced because I was still aching from the wounds 
Tacit had inflicted. But I tried to keep a stoic face.
"Tell us what happened, Apropos," said the king as we walked slowly back to the 
fort. "Tell us everything."
Well, obviously I didn't tell them everything. Somehow I didn't think I would be 
doing myself any favors by telling them that I'd been looking to flee when fate 
had taken a hand. So obviously I gave myself a slightly more . . . willing . . . 
role in the proceedings.
The king looked both surprised and saddened to learn of Coreolis's involvement 
and duplicity. When Coreolis's name first came up, he stopped walking so that he 
could give the tale his full attention. Naturally we all had to stop as well as 
I told him everything, up to and including Coreolis's curious demise at the 
handsówell, limbsóof a tree.
"I have known for quite some time that he was discontent," murmured Runcible. 
"But that he would do this . . . it is tragic. Truly tragic. How someone can 
aspire to greatness and do so with no sense of honor at all . . . I do not 
understand it. Do you, squire?"
Desperate to move on, I simply gave a quick shake of the head and then managed 
to say, "So . . . what do we do now, Highness?" I was most anxious to do 
anything to draw attention away from myself.
The king frowned, considering the question. Surprisingly, it was the jester who 
spoke up, sounding as if he was sliding back into his comfortable lunacy. "No 
matter where they go . . . here we are," he said cheerfully.
I didn't pretend to understand, but the king promptly said, "That is a good 
observation, Odclay."
"It is?" Entipy said, surprised.
"Yes," said the king, cheerfully. "What he's saying isó"
And a voice, cold as ice, interrupted, "What he is saying is that you should 
remain here for a time to see if your escorts and knights return."
We stopped and looked ahead of us.
King Meander was leaning against the great front door of the fort, with a wry 
smile upon his face and a long sword in his hand.
 
 
Chapter 27
 
Naturally we froze.
"Hello. I'm King Meanderóalso known as the Keepless King and the Vagabond King. 
Although since it is just us few, I tend to think simply 'Meander' will do. I am 
not often one for standing on ceremony." Meander looked at each of us in turn, 
and then pointed the long sword at each of us, one by one. I was amazed by the 
fact that, even though it was a two-hander, he held it with one hand as if it 
weighed nothing. "The true jester . . . ?"
"Odclay, yes, sir," said the jester, trembling as the point was aimed at him. He 
probably thought that Meander was going to run him through simply on general 
principles. I thought as much myself.
But Meander just nodded slightly and turned the point to Entipy. "And . . . the 
princess?"
Entipy said nothing. She just looked at him defiantly, chin slightly upturned. 
But to her obvious surprise, her father said quietly, "You are being addressed 
by a king, my dear. Even an enemy king. As a princess, you are obliged to 
respond in a suitable manner."
She spit at Meander. The glob landed squarely on the front of his armor.
That's it, we're dead, I thought.
But to my shock, Meander simply laughed. "There are many," he said with obvious 
amusement, "who would concur that that response was appropriate. But they would 
not have the nerve to see such a sentiment through. Well done, Princess." He 
paused and then added as an afterthought, "Do it again and I will leave your 
neck longing for your pretty head."
She puckered her lips, preparing to let fly again. Immediately I clapped my hand 
over her mouth. The result was a large wad of saliva in my hand. I was rarely 
more thankful that I was wearing gloves.
"And 'Apropos,' I take it?" Again the Keepless King chuckled. "Alas, poor 
Coreolis. To die confused about matters is a sad enough state . . . but to meet 
your demise knowing beyond question that you are right and everyone else is 
wrong . . . ah well. Your fortunes were clearly in ascendance over his. Although 
you managed to enlist a weaver who willingly swore a false oath on your behalf. 
Aside from still being alive, that may be the single greatest accomplishment of 
your life, squire. How did you do it? What hold do you have on her?"
"I've no idea," I said honestly.
"Her?" said Entipy.
"Well . . . whatever it might be, learn from it and learn how to exploit it, for 
it is a most formidable thing. And when you next see her, in this life or the 
next . . . do give her my best wishes."
"Her?" Entipy said again.
"Quiet," I said between gritted teeth.
And then Meander turned to Runcible. His sword was still unwavering. The amount 
of strength in his arms must have been considerable. "And you. Runcible the Crafty."
"Meander the Mad," replied Runcible. He wasn't looking at the sword at all; 
instead he was staring straight into Meander's eyes. I wondered what he saw there.
"An honor."
"The same."
"Did you craft this little strategy?"
"My response depends upon yours," Runcible said thoughtfully. "If you wish to 
kill the one who conceived it . . . yes. It was I."
Meander considered this for a moment, and then turned back to me. "A very clever 
plan, Apropos."
He said it with such flat conviction that I couldn't even bring myself to try 
and deny it . . . which, for me, was a hell of an admission to make. "Thank you, 
Highness," I said. "Personally, I thought it was rather an insane proposition at 
best. So you flatter me."
"It takes no imagination to conceive a plan that everyone is expecting. You 
think outside of the box, Apropos. That may take you far . . ."
" 'May' meaning . . . if you don't kill me here and now."
He sighed heavily. "Such talk of killing. Is that all the world exists for? 
Killing?"
"I should like to think not," Runcible replied. "I would like to think that 
other, softer emotions and interests provide beauty and charm to us all."
I couldn't quite believe the conversation that was occurring. I scanned the 
area, looking for some indication of the rest of Meander's forces. Were they 
hiding? Had they doubled back and taken up positions in the fort? But no . . . 
such actions would have left tracks all over the snow, and the only ones I saw 
at this point were Meander's. So they had to be waiting in the forest nearby, 
arrows undoubtedly trained on us. Why, then, was Meander prolonging this 
business? He had us . . . appropriately enough . . . cold. What was his game?
"Softer emotions?" He seemed to consider that, then looked back to me. "Is that 
what motivated the weaver, Apropos? Softer emotions? Feelings for you?"
Entipy was looking extremely annoyed at repeated mentions of a female weaver who 
apparently felt something for me. Desiring to move on, I suggested, "I saved her 
life on one occasion. Perhaps she felt indebted to me."
Meander scoffed at that. "Weavers feel no debt to any except themselves," 
replied Meander. "Although, like all humans, they excel in self-deception. Much 
as you do, young squire. I was young once . . ."
"Highness, with all respect . . ."
But he wasn't listening to me. Instead he looked as if he was gazing into a time 
and place very, very far away. "Would you like to hear a tale? That I . . . 
heard in my youth?"
Entipy turned to me. "Give me a sword. I'm going to throw myself on it just to 
end this."
"Quiet, Entipy," Runcible said firmly.
"Once upon a time . . ." began Meander.
"Oh my gods," Entipy moaned. But Runcible fired her a severe look and she 
silenced herself.
" . . . there was a king," Meander continued. "He was not the wisest of kings, 
nor even the bravest of kings. But he was the coldest of kings, for he was of 
his land, and his land was a cold and barren place. It was a place that the sun 
had forgotten about.
"In this place was a great, cold castle and he lived there with his great, cold 
heart. And rarely did he smile, or frown, or give any indication that he had any 
interest in the frozen world around him. Entire days would pass and he would 
simply sit in his throne, like an ice statue, and stare at nothing. His 
courtiers would walk gingerly around him, wondering if he was even alive. Only 
the occasional blinking would inform them of such, because he was so cold within 
and without that even his breath would not mist up. That is how cold he was. He 
came to be known in some circles as Old King Cold, even though he was not all 
that old. And as Old King Cold would stare into nothingness, he would be looking 
for something. And the oddest thing was, he had no idea what he was looking for.
"And then, one very cold dayóas they all wereóhe found it.
"Her name was Tia. She was a jewel of the North, but where the cold king was 
frozen ice, she was a frozen diamond. She had many facets, and when Old King 
Cold would look at her, he would see small flames jumping about within her. It 
was the first time that Old King Cold was able to approach flames while feeling 
some measure of safety in doing so.
"And the people of the frozen land loved their Tia, who became the brightest 
star in their cold northern sky. And they loved the effect she had on Old King 
Cold, whose great ice face cracked with a newly etched permanent smile. And even 
though it remained cold in the frozen lands, still there was newly discovered 
warmth. For the king had finally found what he had had no idea he was looking 
for. He gave her his love. He gave her his kingdom to share. And he gave her a 
beautiful dagger that had been in his family for generations, made of a metal so 
fine it could almost be seen through, and yet cut purely and cleanly. It was 
called 'Icicle,' and she accepted it proudly and kept it with her always.
"And Old King Cold stepped out onto the balcony of his ice palace, and he said, 
'I have everything! I am all-powerful! I am the ultimate ruler of the Frozen 
North, for I no longer have any weaknesses!'
"Well . . . one should never say such things within hearing of the gods of the 
North, for they are sorely jealous creatures and dislike others claiming 
superiority. So they decided to put Old King Cold in his place. To remind him of 
who, precisely, truly ruled the Frozen North.
"And Old King Cold and his beloved Tia embarked on a journey. The skies were 
clear, the weather calm. So Old King Cold, in his confidence, believed that 
there would be no danger from the elements. It was exactly this attitude that 
the gods chose to punish.
"They sent a fearsome storm, the likes of which no one had ever seen. It snowed 
and it snowed and it snowed, a mighty blizzard, and the gods laughed, with 
laughter that sounded like the howling of the wind. And Tia and Old King Cold 
were separated from the rest of their group, driven in different directions, 
until even the kingówho had lived his entire life in the frozen climes and knew 
every glacier and every bit of frozen tundra as if it was his own bodyóeven he 
had no idea which way was east or west, or even up or down.
"They were driven away, away, and eventually they found shelter inside a cave. 
But the gods were angry that the king had escaped, and so they maintained the 
fearsome storm until the small entrance to the cave was literally buried behind 
snow and ice. Air filtered through a small frozen hole, but so little light as 
to be insignificant. Darkness settled in, a darkness like unto a grave.
"They had no idea how long they lay within there. They had no food to sustain 
them. They were able to obtain water, of a sort, by consuming the snow and 
sucking on the ice, but as day passed into night and into the next day, and as 
the wind and storm continued to howl mercilessly, they grew weaker and weaker.
"They spoke to each other at length during their entombment. They spoke of times 
past, and times to come. They spoke of their love for each other. They spoke of 
the children that Tia would bear him. Sons, big strapping boys, heirs to the 
Frozen North. And all during that time, they continued to grow weaker still. Old 
King Cold thought of trying to push through the snow and ice that entombed them, 
but to what end? The terrible storm was still out there, and they would not 
survive long at all.
"Finally, after more days and nights had passed than he could count, the king 
said, 'We have no choice. We must brave the storm.'
" 'I am too weak to move,' she said, and what she said was indeed true. Her face 
was wan, her body shrunken beneath the furs. 'I would not last. Nor would you. 
You must at least wait for this storm to abate.'
" 'I cannot wait,' spake he. 'We are famished. If we do not find nourishment, we 
are finished.'
" 'Not quite, my love. If I do not find nourishment, I am finished. But that is 
a small thing, husband.' The only part of her that still had that cold fire in 
her was her eyes, which seemed to dance with light even more so in the confines 
of the cave. 'If you do not find nourishment, however, that will be most tragic. 
You have a great destiny, husband. Your people need you. My loss is a minor matter . . . '
" 'Not to me. To me, it would be everything. I could not go on without you,' he said.
"And the famished queen actually seemed to grow stronger when she heard this. 
She drew herself up to a half-sitting position and said, 'Stuff and nonsense. Do 
not insult me with that which I know is just pretty words. You would go on 
without me. You would be a great leader, a great king, of a great place. A place 
others call Wasteland. But what do they know of it? Of us? What do they know of 
. . . ' Her voice seemed to catch a moment. 'Of the glory of a sunrise reflected 
from ice canyons? Of the perfect formation of a snowflake? Of the blissful 
stillness of a frozen tundra? They do not know of these things. They do not know 
of us. But you, my king, will tell them. You will let everyone understand us.'
" 'We will do this thing. Get up,' said he with a voice so firm that it was 
clear that he would not brook stubbornness. But it was also clear, at least to 
her, that he had no means of enforcing his will. He himself could not rise and, 
within moments, he would likely fall over.
"The queen refused to allow that to happen. As gently as an early evening 
snowfall, she said to him, 'You are fading, my love. You do not realize it quite 
yet . . . but you are starving to death. Fading from life. I will last longer 
than you, I believe, but not by much. I cannot allow that to happen. Too many 
people need you.' She gave a smile . . . her last . . . and said, 'Have I ever 
told you how much I love you?'
" 'In a hundred ways.'
" 'Then here is the hundred and first. Women's bodies are designed to give life 
to infants. But I shall use mine to give life . . . to you . . . '
"And the weakened Old King Cold cried out as his beloved wife pulled out the 
blade called Icicle and slit her own throat with it. The movement was quick and 
efficient, and Old King Cold shouted at Tia, and called her all manner of foul 
names (for which he later repented) followed by a string of loving ones (which 
he never recanted). A warm vapor rose from where she had exposed the inside of 
her throat to the open air. And as he watched that fire die from her eyes, he 
said to her, 'I know what you want me to do to survive. But I will not do this 
thing. I will never do this thing.'
"She mouthed her reply: 'If you love me . . . live.'
"He did love her, more than anything else.
"For so long, she had given him emotional nourishment. Now she provided him 
physical nourishment in response.
"He stared at her body lying there, unmoving. He stayed that way for another 
full day to the point where he was ravenous beyond any hunger he had ever known. 
He felt so weak he could barely lift his arms. The knife remained there, next to 
her body. A knife that could be used for stabbing, or killing . . .
" . . . or cutting . . .
" . . . not unlike a slab of beef.
" 'No!' spake the king. 'I would rather die!'
"But in the end . . . in the end . . . he did not die.
"And as he cut into her, he told himself it was because it was her final words 
and final desires. As he peeled the flesh from her, he told himself it was 
because she wanted him to live, and that it was of such importance to her that 
she had made this sacrifice. As he consumed her flesh, still warm even though 
her inner fire was extinguished, he told himself he was doing it in order to 
honor her. But he knew in his heart, in the place wherein all truth dwells, that 
he did it because he was afraid to cross over into the abyss and join her. He 
wanted to live, and in the final extremity, would do anythingódid do 
anythingórather than stop living.
"At the last, he consumed her heart. One would have thought such an emotional 
organ to be soft and delicate, but it was tough and hard-muscled. And from that 
grisly dessert, all of his previously lost strength, and more besides, was in 
his limbs. The storm was abating, but still fierce, but Old King Cold did not 
care at that point. He hammered his way through the obstruction, faced the 
storm. As he stood there in the cold and the ferocity of the hostile clime, he 
heard the gods in the wind saying, 'Such arrogance as yours, King, left you with 
no doubts as to your superiority. That is not right. That is not the way of 
mortals. All mortals must possess doubts, and be aware of their frailties and 
limitations. You endeavored to leave them behind. We could not permit that. And 
so you will carry the knowledge of your basic fears in your bellyóalong with the 
heart of your true loveóforever.'
"The king found his way back to his great ice castle, and his people concluded 
that his beloved Tia had simply perished. There was great sadness in the land. 
As for the king . . .
"At night, he could feel her stirring within him. Staying with him. Haunting him.
"He wanted to run away. It is impossible, of course, to run away from yourself. 
But Old King Cold decided to attempt to do that very thing. For the king, you 
see, had crossed a great line in order to survive and, in doing so, lost the 
belief in any lines, in any restraints. Borderlines of any sort became 
meaningless to him. And so he declared to all his people that he would be a king 
without borderlines. A king who would go anywhere, do whatever he wished, 
wherever he wished, as the mood struck him. Those who wished to accompany him 
could do so. Most of them chose to come with him.
"He left behind the place that had been his palace, destroying it in his wake, 
for he had no need of it.
"He left behind the great Frozen North, and the gods of that forbidding place, 
for he had no need of it.
"He left behind his sanity, for he had no need of it.
"The only thing he did not leave behindócould not leave behindówas the voice of 
his beautiful Tia, residing forever within him. He could feel her warmth, feel 
her soul, trapped forever within him, trying to console him, but serving instead 
to give him only guilt no matter how far he wandered. That . . . and this . . ."
King Meander reached into the folds of his cape and pulled out a dagger made of 
a metal so sheer that, at certain angles, we could barely see it. "The dagger . 
. . Icicle . . . that he knew he would use one day, under the right 
circumstance, when he finally had sufficient bravery . . . bravery on par with 
his beloved Tia . . . to end his miserable existence and join her in the 
afterlife. Beautiful Tia. And poor Old King Cold . . . the most unmerry of souls."
There was a long silence then. Runcible, Entipy, Odclay, and I looked at each 
other, our faces pallid, our souls shriveled within us. Finally it was Entipy who spoke:
"Are you . . . are you going to kill yourself now?"
"Me?" Meander seemed confused for a moment, and then he chuckled. "Ah. I see. 
You thought I was speaking of myself. You thought the narrative genuine. I will 
take that as a compliment, girl, to my storytelling. No, it was . . . it was . . 
. it was quite fabricated. After all, if such a thing had truly occurred, the 
poor bastard to whom it happened would be the most wretched creature who ever 
strode the earth, would he not? Certainly not fit to live . . ." He stared at 
the dagger point. "Not fit to live at all."
Again he was silent for a time and then replaced the dagger in his cloak. In a 
distracted voice, he said, "Your escorts and retainers should be back before too 
long, I think. Coreolis was quite clever in his maneuvers. In the night he came 
to his own troops and told them you had ordered night maneuvers, and he sent 
them in one direction . . . and then went to the permanently stationed garrison, 
told them the same thing, and sent them in the other. But they will figure out 
the trick sooner rather than later, and be along. Once they've returned, they 
will escort you home."
"Home?" Runcible couldn't contain his surprise.
"Yes. Home. You still believe in such quaint things, do you not?"
"But . . . I thought you . . ." Entipy couldn't even get the words out. "It 
doesn't make sense."
Meander shrugged. "That, child, is one of the glorious advantages to being a 
madman. I don't have to make sense. It's very liberating. You should try it 
sometime. You might find you have a taste for it. You would be amazed what 
people discover, in this lifetime, they have a taste for." His attention 
swiveled to me, and his voice was singsong and chilling as the north wind. 
"Young love. What the weaver has for you, what the princess has for you . . . 
and what you have for you . . . and perhaps for them. I'm not certain of that 
quite yet, young Apropos. I will probably never know the outcome . . . but I'd 
rather there be an outcome. And besides . . . no one knows, better than I, what 
it takes to survive in this world. You have that same sort of knowledge. I can 
see it in your eyes . . . just as I see it in mine. In any event . . . I wish 
you better luck in this world than Old King Cold had. And in the final analysis 
. . . I'm not entirely coldhearted."
He rose and started to walk away from us. And despite my better judgment, I 
suddenly said, "The scratches on your face. How did you come by them?"
He stopped, turned, and looked at me coolly. "I do not recall."
"You don't recall."
He shook his head. "Each day . . . I do not recall much of what happened the 
previous. Each day is a blankness for me . . . a sheet of snow, a blizzard, 
coming down and cutting me off, leaving me to wander. I have not remembered 
much, you see, since I . . . heard . . . the story of Old King Cold. Instead, 
every night, I work to expunge my brain of all memories, so that I can leave 
that particular story behind. In telling it to you, I hope that that might have 
cleansed it from my thoughts and recollections. But somehow . . . I suspect it 
won't. There are some things, you see, that you carry with you . . . no matter 
how far you wander."
And with that, the man who might or might not have murdered my mother sheathed 
his long sword and walked away into the forest. And somehow, although it might 
have been in my imaginings, I could swear I heard the voices of gods laughing in 
the distant howl of the winds.
 
 
Chapter 28
 
It all happened precisely as Meander had foretold. The confused soldiers who had 
been sent hither and yon by the scheming Coreolis returned, in fairly short 
order, to the fort. Upon learning of Coreolis's treachery and their unwitting 
participation in it, ohhh, there was breast-beating, and ohhh, there was 
second-guessing, and ohhh, there was groveling. And I have to admit: I was 
loving every moment of it.
The most glorious aspect was the look on Mace Morningstar's face. Too long had I 
had to bask in the reflected lack-of-glory of Sir Umbrage. Now it was 
Morningstar's turn. And for him, it was much worse. After all, I was simply the 
landless bastard son of no one remotely noble, attached to a knight who had been 
perceived as once great, now incompetent (at least until the joust). But here 
was Morningstar, titled, proud, even arrogant, suddenly discovering his lord and 
master knight was a traitor to the crown. It immediately made Morningstar 
suspect. After all, if one is being trained by a knight who sought to usurp the 
king, doesn't that likewise make the squire a possible co-conspirator?
That, at least, was the question that King Runcible raised as the returning 
knights presented themselves for inspection and groveling at Fort Terracote. In 
the case of most of them, Runcible accepted their apologies and oaths of fealty 
with aplomb. But when it came Morningstar's turn, the jester suddenly started to 
jump around and chant, "The squire of a traitor, does he betray sooner? Or 
later?" Morningstar looked like he'd been poleaxed when Odclay said that. I'd 
never really been fond of the jester's japes until that moment, but suddenly I 
was starting to like him a lot.
Runcible frowned, as he often did. "There is something to be said for that," he 
said slowly.
"Highness, no!" Mace debased himself, looking very little like the swaggering, 
posturing peacock he normally was. "No, I swear! I knew nothing of Sir 
Coreolis's hidden intentions! If I had known, I would have informed Your 
Highness immediately! Please, sire! Do not tar me with that same brush!"
And then Runcibleógods bless himóafter giving the matter some thought, said the 
best five words I could possibly have heard:
"Apropos . . . what do you think?"
I've never seen someone's clothes turn pale. But that seemed to be what happened 
with Mace. Certainly there was no more blood left to vanish from his skin.
It was as if Mace was running the sentence through his head several times before 
he could actually dare to accept that it had been spoken. He was aware that I 
was standing off to the side; after all, the king had looked right at me when 
he'd asked my opinion. But he obviously couldn't bring himself to look at me. 
Perhaps the sight of a triumphant grin on my face would have been too much for 
his titled heart to take.
I carefully weighed my responses. Truthfully, I was fairly certain that 
Morningstar in fact knew nothing about Coreolis's duplicity. Traitors' 
stock-in-trade is untrustworthiness, so their inclination is to trust as few 
people as possible. Coreolis's plan would have been strictly on a need-to-know 
basis, and Morningstar simply wouldn't have been in on it. If nothing else, 
Coreolis would have been concerned that Mace would have gone straight to the 
king in hopes of getting something out of halting a treasonous plan. And he 
might very well have.
But truth did not necessarily have to have anything to do with my response. For 
I had not forgotten Morningstar's taunting of me, his high-handedness. There was 
the entire debacle with the joust, and his leading the others into the intended 
pounding of me that only Umbrage's last-minute intercession managed to stop. 
Indeed, one could make an argument that Morningstar was responsible for 
Umbrage's death. If Mace hadn't taunted me and pushed me into that misbegotten 
bet, I never would have arranged for Umbrage to win the joust and none of this 
would have happened.
Shut up. It was your fault and you know it.
I was surprised. My inner voice usually came up with ways for me to avoid 
responsibility, not force me to own up to it. Perhaps even that nonexistent 
conscience of mine was impressed by the fact that Runcible had turned to me and 
inquired what I thought should be Morningstar's fate.
I dwelt on it a moment more. The bottom line was, Mace had made me suffer. There 
should be equity for that, a quid pro quo. If I said that I thought Mace was a 
part of Coreolis's schemes, Runcible would likely exile him, or perhaps even 
execute him. If it was the former, I wouldn't have the opportunity to see Mace 
suffer. If the latter, then his suffering would end too quickly. Where was the 
fun in that? Where was the satisfaction for me?
If, on the other hand, he became indebted to me in some fashion, why . . . that 
would be the greatest suffering that could possibly be inflicted upon him. 
Better still, that annoying sense of nobility to which he aspired would hold him 
in its iron grip, affecting all his subsequent dealings with me.
And so, reasoning that the truth would be of benefit to me, I said, "I firmly 
believe, Highness, that Morningstar . . ." I paused, watching with delicious 
pleasure as Morningstar involuntarily trembled in anticipation of the worst. " . 
. . had no idea whatsoever of what Sir Coreolis was up to."
Mace's head snapped around so fast that I'm surprised it didn't fall off. He 
gaped at me, and I continued, sounding infinitely reasonable, "I am familiar 
with Morningstar's character, sire. I simply do not believe that he would have 
cooperated with such an endeavor. It would not be honorable."
"I would have thought the same of Coreolis," replied the king. It seemed as if 
he was challenging me. Mace's apprehension was growing.
Utterly calmly, I said, "But I never trusted Coreolis, sire. You are asking me 
my opinion. I never would have spoken against Coreolis, of course, because it 
was not my place to do so. But since you ask what I think of Morningstar now, I 
say again: I think him trustworthy." I then bowed slightly. "Of course, it is 
Your Highness's opinion that holds sway, not mine."
Slowly he nodded and then turned his thoughtful attention back to Morningstar. 
"Squire . . . since the noble Apropos, to whom I owe so much, has vouched for 
you . . . consider your position safe."
"Although," I suddenly said, as if thinking out loud, "it is a pity that 
Morningstar was not able to perceive that duplicity. After all, of all of us, he 
spent the most time in Coreolis's company."
"A good point," said the king. "Morningstar . . . once you are reassigned, you 
will continue your term as squire for an additional year beyond the others. 
Obviously your senses require a bit more honing."
Morningstar choked slightly, but he knew there was nothing he could possibly do. 
He knew, in fact, that he had got off extremely lightly, considering that the 
king could haveópurely based upon suspicionsósent his head rolling across the 
ground with a word.
He made a point of avoiding me much of that evening, but as we prepared to set 
out for Isteria the following morning, Mace finally screwed his courageónot to 
mention pride, and humilityóto the wall and approached me.
"Apropos, I . . . don't know what to say," he said.
"That's never stopped you before."
For a moment his face darkened, but then he fought the annoyance back as he 
remembered who he was talking to and why he was doing the talking. "All right . 
. . I . . . suppose I deserved that," he said, his voice falling into that 
musical up-and-down manner he had. "You've . . . you've done me a service, 
there's no denying that. I'm . . . wondering why . . ."
"As I wondered, when you 'warned' me of the princess. Do you know what I've 
discovered in all of this, Morningstar? That sometimes a little wonderment can 
be a good thing."
He looked at me uncertainly, then glanced around as if to make sure that we were 
unobserved. Then he leaned in closely and said in a low voice, "What do you want?"
"Want?"
"You heard me."
"Yes, but I don't understand you."
He sighed. "After all that has passed between us, Apropos, don't think for a 
moment that I don't know you want something."
I considered a moment, and then said, "Knowledge."
"Knowledge?" He couldn't have been more puzzled. "What do you want knowledge 
of?"
"Not knowledge for me. Knowledge for you. The knowledge that I held your balls 
in my hand . . . and didn't squeeze the last bit of juice out of them. Keep that 
knowledge with you, Mace. Let it warm you to sleep at night and awaken you in 
the morning." I smiled and turned away, not even bothering to see the expression 
on his face. Whatever it was in reality most likely paled compared to what I was imagining.
We set out for Isteria, and quite the little procession it was. For the king 
made certain that I rode as near to him as possible, Entipy at my side (or I at 
hers, depending how you look at it). Every so often I would glance back at the 
knights and retainers who rode behind us, and it seemed to me that they were 
always looking at me with reverence, or respect, or just plain terror. I 
couldn't entirely say that I blamed them. My lowly background was no secret. The 
thought that one such as I could rise to a position where I was being accorded 
respect by no less a personage than the king himself was enough to throw their 
entire worldview into a positive tizzy. Who knew what might happen as a result 
of my elevated stature? Could it be that . . . that the poor would come to be 
regarded as something other than a means of providing luxuries for the rich? 
Could it be that the downtrodden would actually be seen as worthy of help, 
rather than something simply provided for the amusement and service of those at 
much higher stations? I could snap the link of the entire chain of society.
And they had to be nice to me. Not only because of the way the king seemed to 
regard me, but also because of the princess. Her fondness for me was rapidly 
becoming evident to all. She certainly made no effort to hide it. She would ride 
near me and constantly be bending my ear. Although I had to admit that her 
conversation was most entertaining, since much of it consisted of making a 
series of cutting remarks about not only everyone who was riding with us, but 
the entirety of the king's court, whom she remembered very unfondly from the 
time that she was in residence there. There seemed to be no one who was spared 
the fierceness of her tongue, and her insults were gloriously scathing.
"Ah, good Sir Austin. A man who is to intelligence what flatulence is to dinner 
conversation." "If my well-being depended on the good right arm of Sir DeBeres, 
I'd be better off riding naked through the streets of Isteria shouting, 'Free 
tea biscuits for the first ten customers.' " And so on.
The fact that she was as highborn as those she held in contempt didn't seem to 
enter into it. She certainly didn't seem to feel that she was one of them, and 
heaven knows she certainly didn't act like it. In a way, it almost felt as if we 
were developing a quietly subversive relationship.
Nevertheless, my inbred distrust still ran deep. As entertaining as she was, I 
still could not erase from my mind our earlier time together when she had seemed 
on the border between insane and completely insane. The notion that she had 
transferred her fixation on Tacit over to me didn't necessarily put me at ease. 
After all, she could in turn shift it to someone else, and where, then, would 
that leave me? Furthermore, she was, at the end of the day, still a princess, 
while I was . . . what I was. Every time I had lost sight of my background and 
my goals, it had gone badly for me. There was no reason to assume that if I let 
down my guard with Entipy, it would go any differently. Indeed, there were 
damned good reasons to think that it would play out just the same.
Whenever we stopped to rest, Morningstar or one of his associates would come by 
and endeavor to engage me in chat. Their reasons couldn't have been more 
obvious: They were trying to get on my good side, concerned that I might wind up 
someone of power who could do them harm. I was consistently cordial to all of 
them, which was more than I needed to be, but that was all. They came away from 
time with me knowing no more about my mind than they knew when they first 
approached, which is how I preferred it to be.
We made camp when night fell and I went to sleep convinced that I'd be awoken by 
the screeching of the Harpers or some new disaster descending upon us. Instead 
the only thing that happened was a very vivid dream reliving the unicorn 
stampede. Except this time Entipy and I were being pursued through the halls of 
the great castle. The walls were shuddering from the pounding hooves, bricks 
tumbling all around us, and the screeching of the unicorns was so deafening that 
I thought my head would explode. There was a window just ahead of us, and 
standing next to it was Sharee, her arms folded, her expression self-satisfied. 
When she spoke, no words emerged from her mouth, but I could hear them in my 
head. The unicorns have spoken. A pity you don't speak unicorn, she said, and 
laughed, and then we were out the window and the courtyard was hurtling up toward us.
* * *
I awoke, bathed in sweat. It was not yet sunrise, but I did not go back to 
sleep. Instead I just sat there, clutching my knees tightly to my chest until 
dawn.
Runners had been sent on ahead to inform the castle of our arrival, and they had 
obviously done their jobs. The place was alive with celebration. I regarded the 
entire thing in a rather sour way, feeling that the celebrants had somewhat lost 
sight of reality. This entire business had, after all, begun as the routine 
dispatching of a group of knights to bring home a princess so obnoxious that her 
parents hadn't seen her in years. All the knights and retainers save for one had 
ended up dead, and the return of the princess had turned into a winter-long 
endeavor in which she had repeatedly almost been killed . . . mostly because of 
dangers that arose as a result of her own big mouth. I didn't exactly consider 
it knighthood's finest hour.
But you certainly couldn't have discerned that from the greeting we were 
receiving. The streets were lined with people, rose petals being strewn in our 
path. People were chanting and dancing and singing the praises of the king, and 
the princess, and most of allóbelieve it or notóme.
Me.
Apropos of Nothing.
It was the mummers, dressed in oversized puppets, emerging from within the 
castle walls to meet us and marching alongside us, who truly made me understand 
just what it was that everyone was getting so worked up about. The mummers were 
outfitted to look likeóso help meóphoenixes. And on the backs of these majestic 
fake birds rode small dolls that were supposed to represent me. I realized that 
what I was seeing was a street-level theatrical representation of the tapestry 
that hung in the great court.
They were associating me with that woven hero. The one who was supposed to be a 
being of legend, who would come to Isteria, end up ruling over all, and unite 
Isteria and all the surrounding landsóas Queen Beatrice had saidóin a golden age 
of reason and enlightenment. These people believed themselves alive at the time 
of a great, fulfilled prophecy.
They thought I was the great hero, promised them through the vision of a 
farweaver. Why not? The tales of my riding the phoenix had preceded us. Plus my 
other escapades, which I had seen as nothing more than desperate attempts to 
stay alive, were being transformed into great acts of bravery, determination, 
and whatever other positive view people chose to give them.
Only I knew the truth. Only I knew that the real hero, the "anointed one," the 
one glimpsed by some unknown farweaver years agone, was actually lying entombed 
back at the edge of the Outer Lawless regions, with so many holes in him 
thatówere he still breathingóhe could whistle in five different keys simultaneously.
It seemed to me that, no matter what endeavor I was involved in, I was to be 
something of a sham.
But as women looked up at me, their eyes wide, their bosoms heaving . . .
And as knights who had had little patience for me shouted my praises, whether 
out of appreciation for who I was or stinking fear of what I might become . . .
As all of that was happening, I started to think . . .
You know . . . damn . . . I did accomplish a hell of a lot, did I not? I mean, 
who would have given two sovs for our chances, considering what we'd been 
through? A squire, lame of leg, surviving an attack of the Harpers . . . 
overcoming a phoenix and flying it (badly, but still . . . ) . . . standing up 
for the princess's honor in a tavern . . . obtaining the money to summon help 
through the auspices of the dreaded Warlord Shank, all without his knowing . . . 
outrunning unicorns in full gallop . . . battling a known outlaw and surviving 
long enough for reinforcements to show up . . . preserving the freedom of the 
king, no less, through quick thinking and a plan that seemed ludicrous at one 
time but now was being touted as positively inspired, a work of brilliance . . .
It was . . . well . . . maybe not epic. But damned close.
Stop it. You're letting yourself believe that which they say about you. That way 
lies the greatest danger of all.
It was good advice that I was giving to myself. Nevertheless, it all still felt 
very tempting. Very . . . very tempting . . .
I had not seen much of Entipy since we'd arrived back in Isteria, which I'd 
considered a good thing. Heaven knew there were enough others. I was the hero of 
the moment, the fascination that took people out of their mundane lives and 
thrust them into something extraordinary. I was given new chambers and, of 
course, knew them instantly: They had belonged to Sir Umbrage. Yet all of his 
belongings had already been removed, as if he'd never existed. The problem was 
that I didn't have all that many belongings. At least . . . I didn't before I'd 
moved into the room.
It was one of the most disconcerting moments of my life. When I'd been brought 
to my new rooms, I went straight for the only thing of interest to me at that 
moment: the bed. I flopped down upon it. It was the most majestic, the most 
glorious piece of furniture I had ever experienced. After years of beds composed 
of straw, or wafer-thin mats, here was bedding that I almost sank into. I had 
never known that slumber could be had on anything approaching such terms of 
comfort. I did not even bother to undress; I simply closed my eyes and let 
years' worth of collective exhaustion overwhelm me. For once, my slumber was 
dreamless.
When I awoke, hours and hours later, I suffered from that usual disorientation 
one feels when waking up somewhere new. It was not helped by the fact that the 
room was suddenly crammed with belongings that belonged to someone else. 
Wardrobes were there, doors open, and richly designed finery hung within. Long, 
tapering candles were flickering on tables nearby. A large plate of fruit was 
sitting on a table, neither of which had been there before.
"What the hell . . . ?" I muttered.
I don't know how long I lay there, and then the door to the chamber creaked 
open. I saw the face of Queen Bea poke around it.
"I didn't do it!" I immediately said. I struggled to get out of the bed, but had 
sunk so far into it that my feet were practically above my head. "I didn't take 
any of these things! I don't know whose they areó!"
The queen laughed lightly at that as she opened the door fully and stepped into 
the room. "My, my . . . for one who has survived as many dangers and disasters 
as you . . . you tend to panic rather easily, squire."
"I'm sorry . . . I . . ." I was still utterly befuddled.
"No one is going to make accusations against you, Apropos, for these things are 
indeed yours. Think of them as tokens of gratitude from a grateful mother and 
father . . . who just so happen to be royalty."
I looked around as if seeing the finery for the first time. I had never had but 
two or three items of wearable clothing at any given period of my life. All of 
this . . . I didn't even know where to begin to figure how I would wear it all. 
"You could clothe a family of ten with all this," I said.
Once more she laughed. "I suppose you could at that. And if you're so inclined 
to do that, it's your prerogative. They're your possessions, after all. Now . . 
. I've been checking on you about every hour or so, and you were beginning to 
worry me. I was afraid you were going to sleep right through the banquet."
"Banquet?" I echoed.
"Yes. To celebrate your safe return of the princess. Surely you must have 
expected that you would be feted."
"With all respect, Highness, I've been spending too much of the past months 
being concerned about my life being forfeited to think about being feted."
"That's understandable," she said. She was kind enough to walk over to the bed 
and extend a hand. Never too proud to accept assistance, I grasped it and 
allowed her to help haul me to my feet. "Now . . . a warm bath will be drawn for you . . ."
"A what?" I couldn't even conceive of such a thing. The most I'd ever had was 
cold water to splash on myself from a basin.
"A warm bath," she said patiently. "A hairstylist to clean you up, I think; the 
beard is very becoming, but you'll likely want to get that trimmed." She looked 
at me critically, assessing. "I might as well just get everyone possible up here 
to get you presentable. The banquet is, after all, in your honor. Oh . . . and 
this is from me . . ."
She stepped toward me and kissed me on either cheek, and then squeezed my hands 
fervently. "Thank you," she said, and it looked like she was doing everything 
she could not to cry. "Thank you . . . for bringing her back to me. Thank you 
for not letting me spend the rest of my life dwelling on the mistakes I've made, 
or thinking about how I should have made more of an effort to be a good mother."
"You're welcome," I said.
She did not let go of my hands as she said to me, "And as for what happened 
between you and Entipy, well . . . given the circumstances . . . it's 
understandable. I want you to know that neither the king or I is upset . . . 
well . . . he was a little, but I calmed him."
"Ah," I said, not sure precisely what she was talking about.
"After all, no one knows better than I that Entipy can be quite a handful."
"Well, she is a princess," I said diplomatically.
"Yes, but even taking that into account, she can be . . . well . . . somewhat 
unpredictable. And she's quite excellent at hiding what she truly is." Almost as 
an afterthought, she added, "She gets that from her father, I suppose."
"Is that the king's secret of success? Misperception?"
"The king. Yes . . . the king," and she smiled. "Very much . . . more than you 
would think, actually. Well," and she rubbed her hands briskly together, "let us 
attend to matters, Apropos."
And attend she did. Minutes after she departed, the various groomers, bathers, 
handlers, and such trooped in and proceeded to undertake the laborious task of 
transforming me into something "presentable," whatever that might be.
I found out in short order.
The bath was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Stripped naked as the day I 
was spat out into the world, I almost leaped out when they started pouring water 
into the tub. The steward looked properly startled by my reaction.
"It's so you'll be presentable at the banquet, young sir," said the steward.
"Presentable as what?" I demanded, crouching and covering my privates for 
protection from the steaming water around me. "The main course? You'll boil me 
like a chicken!"
"We will not, young sir, I assure you," he said in most soothing tones. He then 
clapped his hands and several young women with scrubbing brushes entered. I was 
taken aback for a moment. "Worry not, young sir. These are the regular bathers. 
I promise you that you possess nothing they've never seen before."
"Considering the temperature of the water, I'd wager it's less than nothing," I 
muttered as the women set to their work. Every so often one of them would giggle 
slightly. I didn't want to think about what she found so amusing.
After I was dry, then came the groomers. I felt like a damned horse. They 
cleaned me from head to toe while an outfitter seemed to take excessive interest 
in figuring out precisely what outfit for me to wear. He kept asking me for my 
opinion, but I'd none to offer. "Scarlet or flame would be good . . . but 
there's nothing that matches your hair, so there'd be unpleasant contrast . . ." 
He muttered comments like that endlessly. He finally settled on a dark blue 
doublet woven with gold and made of samite. He added to that blue/black hose, 
and a slate-colored cloak that was lined with fur. The black boots were also 
lined with fur, and the outfitter insisted I bend over the tops in order to 
display the lining.
"I look ridiculous," I muttered as I stared into the full-length mirror.
"You look like a noble."
"A noble ass," I retorted. Still, despite the absurdity of my outer appearance, 
I had to admit that I was rather . . . well . . . taken with it. The outfitter, 
I suspect, knew what was going through my mind and said nothing, but merely smirked.
And that set me to smirking as well.
I had fooled them. I had fooled them all. If clothes make the man, splendid 
clothes make the splendid man.
And this was my night to be splendid.
I swept my cloak around me, reached for my staff so that I could affect my most 
imperious walk, and said archly, "I believe I have a party to attend."
I was escorted to the banquet hall. It was staggering, beyond belief, even more 
elaborate than what Warlord Shank had put out. Immediately I saw that the 
phoenix tapestry from the main hall had been relocated to here, undoubtedly so 
my connection to a great and wonderful destiny could be reiterated silently to 
all. But that was the least of the spectacles before me. There was food 
everywhere. I felt a flash of guilt; an entire town could have been fed for a 
week on what was being consumed there. Odclay was present, of course, jumping 
about with his folly bells jingling. But this time he was hardly the only source 
of entertainment. There were jugglers, there were clowns, there were dancing 
girls, there were mimes, there were magicians (clever fakers and not to be 
confused with weavers). There was, in short, all manner of purveyors of 
distractions. Not that the food required that anyone be distracted from it. I 
could tell just by smelling it that it was superb. Beef, turkey, pork . . . it 
seemed that anything and everything was being offered by servers to rooms of 
hungry knights, lords, and ladies.
It was breathtaking and, for just a moment, I found myself with the same giddy 
reverence that my mother had had for knighthood in her younger days. Remember, 
the only major celebrational todo that had been held during my tenure was the 
one relating to the knights who put down the rebellion of Shank, and I hadn't 
attended that one because Morningstar and his associates had been endeavoring to 
beat the stuffing out of me.
That recollection helped remind me of the dark underbelly of knighthood . . . 
but still . . . this was . . . this was extraordinary no matter how you sliced it.
With Morningstar fresh in my mind, I looked around quickly and finally espied 
him. He was on the far side of the hall, as far from the royal table as he could 
possibly be. Apparently he had been assigned as assistant squire to Sir 
Bollocks, a blockheaded knight who had a capacity for thought slightly above 
that of a bowl of soup. Mace didn't look happy about it at all; when he spotted 
me looking at him, he glanced quickly away.
"This way, young sir," the steward said, and he guided me through the banquet 
hall. I wondered where I was supposed to be sitting, since my knight was gone 
and the squires' table had already been passed. I saw people looking at me, 
murmuring and pointing. It was a heady experience.
"Apropos! Join us, will you."
It was the king's voice, not three feet away from me. He was standing behind the 
head table. He was clad in gold and white, and had never looked more majestic. 
Standing next to him was the queen, wearing a gown that was the most vivid 
scarlet I had ever seen. And next to them was a young woman that I didn't 
recognize. She had stunning blond hair and was ravishingly attired in a purple 
gown with gold brocade. She sported a white tippet hanging off her right arm and 
trailing to the floor, except it was silk rather than the standard linen, and a 
heart-shaped golden chaplet upon her brow.
"Yes, join us, please," said Entipy's voice, emerging from the mouth of the 
young woman.
I was utterly flabbergasted, and was unable to hide it. I mouthed her name but 
no words came out. She smiled, obviously pleased at how disconcerted I was.
"You remember our daughter," the king said with mock ceremony. "You spent quite 
enough time with her. Please . . . do come around and join us. There's a seat 
next to her."
"Yes . . . yes, of course," I said, finding my voice from wherever it had 
momentarily vanished to. I moved to the seat next to her. She winked at me as I 
eased myself down. "I'm . . . sorry, Princess. You . . . uhm . . ."
"Clean up well?"
"I was going to say something along those lines, yes."
"And may I say the same of you," she replied.
I proceeded to break bread with the royal family.
That, to me, is such a preposterous sentence that I have to write it again: I 
proceeded to break bread with the royal family.
The food was beyond all previous definitions of superb. The meat was not tough 
and stringy, as I'd always expected, but instead crafted so perfectly that it 
virtually seemed to melt in my mouth. I felt as if my tongue were going to pass 
out from the richness of the tastes moving over it. The wine kept flowing; every 
time the contents of my glass lowered, a servant would be there to fill it once 
more. I felt a sort of giddy warmth, and the singing and laughter and all of it 
melded together into a gentle, hazy buzzing.
We ate. We chatted. We laughed about matters which, at the time, had been 
moments of life and death, but now became simply anecdotes. The time passed, 
dare I say it, pleasantly. And yet I never lost awareness of the great tapestry 
behind me, the image that everyone in the place was associating with me . . . 
except for me.
"I have to tell you, Apropos," Entipy said with a smile, "that I really liked 
the way you were looking at me when you first got here."
"Did you?" I think my smile was somewhat lopsided at that point. I tried to rest 
my chin on my hand and missed.
"Yes. I feel as if I surprised you. That's good. I think you decided that you 
had me too thoroughly figured out. No girl wants to be that predictable, 
especially a princess."
"Your hair is what threw me the most," I told her. "Hardly the hue I'd become 
accustomed to."
"Do you like it?"
"It's very becoming. But howó?"
"One of the conveniences of royalty, Apropos," the princess smiled. "There are 
weavers who specialize in providing glamour. Weavers for eyes, for mouth . . . 
weavers for hair . . ."
"Ah. So you had a hair weave done. Very nice."
"I've had them done before," said Entipy.
"Yes, and I'm sure that Apropos would like nothing more than to discuss your 
ever-changing hair color," commented the king, and he was starting to rise. "But 
we have other matters to attend to this night."
The king turned to trumpeters who were positioned on the other side of the court 
and nodded to them. Immediately they blasted a fanfare from their instruments 
that naturally captured the full and instant attention of everyone in the place. 
King Runcible spread wide his arms as soon as the silence had fallen.
"My good and dear knights . . . lords, ladies, and retainers . . . as you know, 
this grand banquet celebrates several happy occasions. First and foremost is the 
celebration of the coming of age of our beloved princessóNatalia Thomasina 
Penelopeóor, as we lovingly call her, Entipy."
There was warm applause from the assemblage as Entipy stood and bowed to them. I 
had a feeling that if the Faith Women had been in attendance, they would have 
been less than lovingly inclined toward her.
"Furthermore," continued the king, "her presence here is due to the rather 
singular achievement of one squire. Wise beyond his years . . . resourceful 
beyond his training . . . brave beyond his station . . . her protector, Squire Apropos."
Once more there was applause, and I basked in it. I looked out upon the 
assemblage, and I wanted to feel contempt for them. I wanted to feel anger. But 
instead it felt . . .
. . . it felt good.
More, it felt triumphant.
The king had stepped back onto a raised platform, and he gestured for me to join 
him upon it. I had no idea why, but did as he so indicated.
"This young man, it should be noted," the king said slowly, "saved not only 
Entipy's life . . . but mine. And he did so through the following means: He 
convinced me, your sovereign, to dress in fool's motley and put myself across as 
a jesting madman."
My blood suddenly ran cold. I didn't like the way he was saying that. I glanced 
over at the queen and Entipy. Their faces were inscrutable.
His tone of voice grew more severe. "He then had me climb up to a high wall and, 
fully at the mercy of enemy arrows, proceed to sing a series of chants, ditties, 
and songs, some of them so ribald that I would never dare repeat them in the 
presence of my wife. And while I was doing this . . . he ran off into the forest."
Oh gods . . .
"In short . . . for the purpose of saving your king's life . . . he thought 
nothing of asking me to make a total jackass of myself while he vanished into 
the protective brush. He did not care about how I appeared . . . or how he 
appeared to me . . . or anything else, except getting out of there alive."
And he drew his sword.
All the feeling went out of my body. The rich meal settling in my stomach 
prepared to make a return engagement. Stricken with terror, I nearly swooned. As 
it was, I dropped to my knees in front of him, looking up at that great gleaming 
blade poised above me.
This had all been a joke, I realized. A horrific joke on me. Every other person 
in the place must have known that they were gathered together to fatten up the 
lamb being led to the slaughter. My likening myself to a chicken being served at 
the banquet had been more accurate than I'd dreamed; I was about to be quartered 
like a game hen. And none other than the king was going to be doing the honors.
All of this went through my horrified mind in an instant, and then the king 
brought the sword down gently on first one shoulder, and then the other. And as 
he did, he intoned, "Putting aside the debt that all of us owe you, I dub thee . 
. . for your sheer audacity, if nothing else . . . Sir Apropos of . . ."
He blanked and looked at the queen. She shrugged.
" . . . Nothing," he said with an amused sigh.
It took a moment for it all to sink in, and what helped was the thunderous 
applause washing over me. Entipy was helping me to my feet as I looked out upon 
the assemblage. For one, wild moment I actually thought I saw the shade of my 
mother. She wasn't looking at me. She was snagging candy from a large dish. Then 
she vanished. Trust my mother to have her priorities in order.
And from within, my conscience said with utter disgust, You have become what you 
most despised. How does it feel, whore's son?
"Superb," I murmured.
You're an idiot.
"Sod off."
The king took a step forward, resting a hand on my shoulder. "I know some of 
you," he said, as the applause died and the standing knights took their seats, 
"may be wondering whether granting Apropos here knighthoodóafter such a 
relatively brief time of service, and with such a . . . curious . . . background 
. . . is truly warranted. My good friends," and he smiled more broadly, "there 
are some matters in which even a king has no choice. And that includes matters 
of the heart. For you see . . . my daughter's chosen husband could never be 
anything less than a knight."
I fell again.
This naturally drew a startled gasp from the assemblage. Runcible looked down at 
me, slightly puzzled. "Sir Apropos . . . did you so enjoy the experience of 
being knighted that you desire me to do it again?"
Not necessary. Just stick the sword straight out and I'll throw myself on it, 
said my inner voice. And this time I was not in disagreement.
 
 
Chapter 29
 
"How could you have done that?"
I was stalking down the corridor, my staff click-clicking on the paving. The 
pleasant haze that the wine had been instilling in me was long gone. Entipy was 
walking briskly next to me, trying to keep up.
The banquet was still going, although it was showing signs of tapering off. 
After the king's announcement I had sat there, stunned, a forced smile plastered 
on my face, nodding in acknowledgment of the many congratulations I was 
receiving while simultaneously trying to force myself back to wakefulness. Oddly 
enough, I wasn't waking up. The only conclusion was that either I was awake, or 
that I was dead and in hell. I wasn't sure which option I preferred.
"Done what?" She sounded genuinely puzzled.
I whirled to face her. "Done what?! Your father just announced to the entire 
damned court that you and I are going to be married!"
"Yes." The question "So?" was implicit in the tone but unspoken.
"For crying out loud, Entipy, you didn't ask me about it! Never consulted with 
me! Don't I get to have any say in the matter?"
"Well . . . no," she replied, sounding puzzled that I would even have to ask.
"No?!" I was stunned. "How can you say no?"
"It's not that difficult. Watch." She carefully positioned her lips and teeth 
and enunciated, very meticulously, "Nooooo."
"You sound like a pessimistic cow."
"And you sound like a total ingrate."
"Ingrate! Entipy . . ." I gestured helplessly. "I should get to have some say in 
the direction my life goes!"
"Under ordinary circumstances, yes. But you are not an ordinary person, Apropos. 
You are someone of destiny, andó"
"Ohhhhh . . ." I turned away, not wanting to hear that one again, and headed for 
my quarters, leaving her behind.
But she didn't stay left behind. I could hear her footsteps following me, and 
the chances were that wherever her footsteps were, she was likely accompanying 
them. I turned at the door of my chambers and faced her. "Leave me alone!" I 
said.
"You do not talk to me that way! I am the princessó!"
"And I'm your 'intended,' which means I'll talk to you any way I like! Or are 
you going to threaten to chop my head off every day of our married life if you 
don't appreciate what I have to say."
"Maybe," she said defiantly.
"Oh, well, doesn't that sound like wedded bliss. You're insane!" I leaned 
against my doorframe, shaking my head. "And even more insane is your parents 
going along on this mad venture. What could you possibly have said that would 
have got them to agree to it?"
"They respect my wishes and desires. They know I love you . . ."
"Love! You don't know about love! You know nothing of it! To you it's all a . . 
. a game! A romantic notion that grabs whatever fancy may be flittering through 
that newly blond head of yours! What was it before? Blue, green . . ."
"Red, if you must know."
"The color of fire. Makes sense . . ."
"Are we back to that again?" she demanded, looking most agitated. "I told youó"
"How do I know I can trust you! I mean, look at you! Going behind my back, 
having us betrothed without whispering a word of it. It's wonderful that your 
parents respect your wishes and desires. A shame that you don't have the same 
respect for mine. And to be perfectly blunt, Your Highness, if I were your 
parents, I'd never have given you your way on this . . . this insane match. Just 
because you said you wanted to marry me . . ."
"Well, there was that . . . and the fact that I told them you and I had made love."
If I hadn't been holding on to my staff, I would have fallen and this time not 
gotten up. I could barely get the words out. "You . . . what?"
"Told them you and I had made love. Don't worry . . . I made it clear that it 
was what we both wanted."
Well, now the solution easily presented itself. I wasn't going to have to marry 
her. No one would make me marry a corpse, because I was going to kill her with 
my bare hands.
"Made . . . love . . . ?" I managed to get out in a strangled voice.
"That's right." Her eyes were blazing bright. "Love like two wild stallions, 
thundering across a shoreline. Love like two great storm clouds, converging to 
create a thundering crescendo ofó"
I heard footsteps approaching. I did not need this little lunatic spouting her 
poetic euphemisms for sex in the middle of the hallway. Things were bad enough 
as they were. I grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her into my chambers, 
slamming the door behind us. She seemed startled by the abrupt movement, but 
then she smiled. I think she liked it.
I ran back in my mind the conversation I'd had with the queen, the one that left 
me puzzled. About them understanding about Entipy and me, although the king took 
some convincing. Well, it was all too clear now, wasn't it.
"Love like two crazed weaselsó"
"Shut up!" I snapped, endeavoring to keep my voice down. Sounds tended to carry 
in these corridors. "How could you have told them that? We didn't make love!"
"We thought about it."
"No, we didn't! I never thought about it!" I snapped. Which wasn't entirely 
true, but I certainly didn't want to give her the slightest encouragement.
"Well, I did, and that's all that matters."
"It's not all that matters!" I had put aside my staff and was pacing my room 
with an agitated limp. "Gods, Entipy . . . what if your father had decided that, 
instead of wedding us, he was going to execute me for deflowering his little girl!"
"Deflowering. Oh, now you believe I'm virginal," she said, arms folded and 
looking at me with a cocked eyebrow.
"No, I believe you're deranged! I believe you're unhinged! A mentally defective 
troublemaker who is out to ruin the lives of anyone and everyone who comes in 
contact with you!" I was waving my arms wildly. "Tacit would still be alive if 
he hadn't fallen for you!"
"But he did and he's not. And you are here," said Entipy, brow knitting. "What, 
do you wish that you weren't?"
"Yes!"
"That you were just some peasant, wandering in the streets, begging or maybe 
stealing?"
"Perhaps," I said, although I admit I sounded slightly less certain about it. 
Then I rallied. "But that's what Tacit was! And you loved him, or thought you 
did! And Tacitó"
"Tacit! Tacit! Gods in heaven, Tacit!" Entipy nearly shouted in exasperation, 
ignoring my imprecations to keep quiet. "Gods, one would almost think that . . ."
Then she stopped and looked at me with an air of challenge.
"What?" I said uncertainly.
"That's it, isn't it."
"What's it? What are you talking about, Entió?"
"You're afraid that Tacit really was my lover . . . and that if you try to take 
his place, you're not going to compare to him."
I suddenly had a feeling of what the sensation had been like for Tacit when he'd 
taken an arrow in the chest. My lips were abruptly very dry. "I . . . I told you 
you were crazy . . . and now you're proving it," I tried to say.
But she was shaking her head with conviction. "I should have figured it out 
sooner. You actually feel inferior to him. Even though he's dead, you're still 
lagging behind him . . ."
"I'm not lagging behind anyone!" I said defensively, almost forgetting to keep 
my voice down. "This has nothing to do with Tacit! It has to do with . . . with 
what's right! And respecting my wishes, andó"
She snorted disdainfully. "You sound like a woman. No wonder you're concerned 
that you couldn't hold a candle to Tacit. You probably couldn't."
A white haze passed before my eyes, my blood pounding in my temples. And then 
she turned her back on me. "Don't worry about it. I'll tell my father that it 
was all a lie, that someone as hopelessly inadequate as you couldn't possiblyó"
That was when I grabbed her by the arm, swung her around, and kissed her as 
fiercely as I had ever kissed anyone . . . more so. There was no love in it; 
instead it was driven by pure fury and a need to dominate this insane creature 
who was playing havoc with my life.
She pushed away, and there was a sneer on her mouth, challenge in her eyes. "Is 
that it? Is that the best you can dó?"
And I saw Astel in those eyes, laughing at me, and Tacit in those eyes, 
proclaiming that he, not I, was the hero, and I saw the contempt of the knights, 
the sneers of the squires, the disdain of Stroker, everyone, all encapsulated in 
this one neat package. And I tore into that package, and I did so with relish.
I lifted Entipy clear off her feet, swung her around andóeven with my 
limpóhauled her toward the bed. The sweep around knocked the candles off the 
table, and they snuffed out, plunging the room into darkness. But moonlight 
filtered through the window, and I could still see her eyes, those eyes, looking 
at me, and the challenge was still there, and the veiled contempt but also the eagerness.
I tore at her beautiful gown and it came away with a rip of cloth. She pulled at 
my clothing as well, yanking the doublet over my head. We fell upon the bed, a 
writhing combination of arms and legs, torsos and hips, becoming more naked with 
each passing moment as the clothes flew from us. Never had I worn such finery; 
never had I been less caring of what happened to it.
She was covering my face and neck with kisses, and moved down to my chest, 
biting down on one of my nipples so hard that I cried out. I returned the favor 
and her body moved against mine.
And for a moment, just a moment, my mind's eye became filled once more with the 
sight of that phoenix, and the thought that it was Tacit who was supposed to be 
where I was . . .
. . . and then I thought . . .
. . . what if I was wrong?
It was a glorious, liberating notion.
What if . . . what if I actually was supposed to be the hero? What if it really 
was my story? If my epiphany had moved me in the right direction, but for the 
wrong reason? Dammit . . . why not? What if Tacit had been wrong? It was 
possible. Of course it was possible! The idiot had wound up a human target; 
obviously he didn't have a perfect record for accurately foreseeing every possibility.
"Yes! Yes!" I shouted encouragement to myself. Because in one, heartfelt, 
perfect moment I had dared to accept the possibility thatódespite my lowborn 
birth, despite the violence of my beginnings, despite the contempt, despite it 
allóI was actually entitled to reap the benefits of all that I'd aspired to. 
That I could do what I wished, enjoy the rewards, and not feel guilty about it.
Entipy, not realizing that I'd been talking to myself, cried out "Yes!" in return.
Naked, she wrapped her legs around me and I plunged into her, bringing down my 
lips upon her, and it was as if a final connection was made. Then I kissed the 
curve of her jaw, her throat, and her breath came in short gasps in my ear, and 
she was no longer the arrogant and demanding princess. Instead she was mine . . 
. mine to do with as I wished, mine to fill, mine to pleasure, mine, all mine, 
and the ghost of Tacit spiraled away, crying out at his banishment.
I thought of the phoenix, going up in flame, even as the heat built within me 
and in her. And from that searing heat was reborn something new and great. So it 
was with me, because a wave of burning passion ripped from me, enveloping me, 
reducing me to the emotional equivalent of ashes as I cried out her name. And 
she called out mine, and there was a joy such as I had never heard from her, one 
such as I had never felt.
"Entipy . . . " I practically sobbed, "I love you . . . "
"It's about damned time," she whispered in my ear, and then I exploded into her.
The rays of the morning sun caressed us.
I had woken up some little time before to the soft but steady snoring of the 
princess, who was resting her head upon my shoulder. Her nude body was still 
intertwined with mine. The sheets were wound around us; during the night the 
cool air had prompted me, in my sleep, to try and pull the covers over us. I'd 
been only partly successful; they covered us from the waist down.
There was a trickle of drool from her mouth down onto my chest. I actually 
thought it was cute. Shows how besotted I was.
Now that I could see them in the daylight, her breasts were surprisingly small, 
but quite firm. The rest of her body, from the waist up, at least, was quite 
well muscled, actually. I wasn't surprised; I had a sense of just how much 
endurance she had from our activities in the night. Gods, the girl was 
practically insatiable.
There was no doubt in my mind that she was a virgin. The eagerness, the raw 
need, reminded me of how I had felt that first time with Astel. How, once that 
floodgate of ardor had been opened, there was no shutting it, and I had wanted 
to experience it again and again. Entipy had exhibited that same sort of 
unquenchable lust.
I laughed softly to myself. In her sleep, she must have sensed the rise and fall 
of my chest in silent laughter, and she smiled as she ran her fingers across my 
chest hair. I ruffled her hair gently, affectionately.
I dared to dream.
I dreamt of a life together with Entipy. Was such a thing possible? It was hard 
to say. She was still somewhat on the insane side. How could I trust someone 
like that? Then again . . . at least I could trust her to be insane. She was 
most consistent about that. I mean, look at Astel. She wasn't insane, but one 
moment she was affectionate, and the next, she was trying to smash my head in. 
With Entipy . . . I could never let down my guard, because her very nature would 
not permit it. She couldn't be trusted in anything except not being able to be 
trusted. It made a bizarre, circular sort of sense.
I dreamt of what it would be like to sit upon the throne. Runcible and Beatrice 
would not be around forever. Indeed, for all I knew, considering their 
delightfully antiquated and quaint notions of my being this great warrior and 
ruler they'd been waiting for, the king and queen might actually abdicate. And 
there I would be, Apropos, with either the greatest power in the land in my 
palm, or at the very least I'd be alongside Entipy helping her to consolidate 
her own power base. I could be involved with ruling through her.
I dreamt of sending Morningstar running twenty times around the castle, every 
day, while wearing full armor. "Exercise. He needs it," I would shrug, even as I 
stood there with a grin and watched him running about and losing his mind.
I dreamt about being feared. About being powerful. About being the Hero Who Had 
Been Foreseen. It all seemed intriguing, marvelous.
I had never felt so relaxed. So complete. It was truly as if I was withónot 
another personóbut another aspect of myself.
Entipy let out a soft, contented sigh and drew up one leg to bring it across my 
hips, snuggling for greater warmth. But her efforts were counterproductive as 
the movement caused the blanket to slide away, exposing some of her finely 
shaped ass to the cool air. I looked at it in the light of day and laughed to myself.
If I ever wanted evidence that we belonged together, there it was, right there. 
She had a birthmark on her hip, in the shape of a small burst of flame, that was 
identical to mine.
I found that very interesting indeed. Hers was slightly lighter in color, but 
otherwise, it was a perfect match with mine. One would almost have thought that 
we were of the same . . .
. . . family . . .
A birthmark . . . identical to mine . . . a linemark, a sign of parentage . . .
My skin suddenly grew much colder than the early-morning air as I sat up slowly, 
staring into her face. I'd never noticed how, relaxed in repose, it looked . . . 
familiar . . .
And a dozen little things . . . small comments . . . observations . . . suddenly 
were viewed in a light that was as different as the morning light was from the 
moonlight. The queen's instinct that we would get on so well together, my 
feeling that she was a missing part of me . . . the unicorns going mad whenever 
we'd touched each other . . . I'd . . . I'd thought it was just because they 
knew what I had done to Tacit, but it wasn't just that, it was because unicorns 
knew the way of things, knew that destiny had intended someone other than me, 
that romance between us was . . . gods . . . she'd had red hair originally . . . 
red, like mine . . . like a close family member . . . too close a family member 
. . . like a sisó
I let out a scream so loud that, to this day, I am convinced that Tacit, lying 
dead in his tomb back in the Outer Lawless regions, heard it and his deceased 
mouth twisted in a satisfied "I told you so" smirk.
 
 
Chapter 30
 
The agonized shriek not only jolted Entipy to full wakefulness, but it knocked 
her clear out of the bed.
She looked up at me with a confused face that was like mine, gods, how could I 
have been so blind? How could I not have seen it? How could others not have? I 
continued to scream, no longer in command of myself.
Immediately Entipy assumed that I was in the throes of some hideous nightmare. 
"Apropos, my love, it's all right!" she said as she scrambled to her feet and 
came toward me. I stared at her, my eyes fair to leaping out of my head, and she 
put a hand on my cheek and made to kiss me. This set off another round of 
terrified bellowing as I scrambled backward on the copious bed, grabbing some of 
the bedclothes around myself and doing everything I could to keep as much 
distance between us as possible.
"Apropos, wake up, you're having a nightmare!" she cried out. And how the hell 
was I to explain to her that in the slumber lay the peace while the waking was 
the nightmare.
Naturally there came a pounding at the door. What else was to be expected? The 
fiancÈ of the princess was howling like a banshee; naturally that was going to 
attract attention. At that moment, though, I was beyond caring. All I knew was 
that, after a joyous night of screwing the princess, I was now screwed myself.
Entipy gathered up one of the fallen sheets and wrapped it around herself 
expertly. Impressively, she actually managed to look rather imperious in the 
makeshift garment as she strode toward the door. That was when I belatedly 
realized that she was about to open it. "Stop!" I shouted, lunging for her, and 
falling off the bed with the other blanket wrapped around me. "Don'tó!"
"It's a little late to be worried about discretion, considering you bellowed 
loudly enough to wake the dead," she commented as she pulled the door open, "to 
say nothing ofó"
Her father.
Who was standing there, a bleary-eyed look on his face. He had tossed on a robe 
over his nightclothes. Sir Justus, also nightclad, but holding a sword firmly, 
was beside him, as were two other guards. I suppose on some level I should have 
been flattered that the king himself was coming to check on me. As it was, I 
would happily have forgone the compliment in exchange for a widespread case of 
temporary deafness throughout the castle.
If there was any slumber left in their eyes, it promptly vanished at the sight 
of the sheet-wrapped princess presenting herself quite unabashedly in my room. 
From where they were standing they could easily see me in the background, 
looking like a fallen ghost . . . an apt description, between the shroud-like 
sheet wrapped around me and the fact that I was probably so ashen that my pallor 
was more suited to one dead than alive.
"What's all this then?" demanded Justus in a low voice. The king looked stunned. 
The guards behind them were grinning. It was probably a good thing that neither 
of them saw it or the guards' tenure would most likely come to a quick end, 
along with the guards themselves.
"Apropos was having a nightmare, Father," Entipy said, the picture of innocence.
Remarkably, the king actually managed to sound solicitous. "Were you having a 
nightmare, Sir Apropos?"
I managed to get out, "I'm . . . still having it, Highness." Of all those rare 
instances in my life where I had spoken the absolute truth, none was more 
accurate than that.
His voice ice, Sir Justus said, "Perhaps it would be best if the princess went 
to her own chambers now . . . ?"
"Yes. Yes, by all means," said the king distantly. I wasn't sure if he was still 
having trouble coping with what he was seeing, and was thus in shock . . . or if 
he was so angry he was simply fighting to contain his rage.
Entipy inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment and then glanced back at me. 
"I'll see you later, my love," she said, and she blew a kiss at me. I felt 
another small piece of my soul die as I forced a wave. She slid out of the room, 
angling past her father and the others and padding down the hallway.
Runcible's cold eyes swept the chamber and took in the torn garments lying 
scattered on the floor. Then he looked back at me. I considered the possibility 
that he'd kill me on the spot and tried to see the downside of that. None 
presented itself.
"Apropos," he said slowly, "there are those who take amusement from youthful 
indiscretion. There are even those who would say that, since you are betrothed 
to Entipy, that anything you do is completely fine and acceptable. I wish I 
happened to be one of those individuals, since it would simplify both my life 
and yours tremendously. However . . . I am not. Nine o'clock, this A.M. My 
court. Please be so kind as to be on time . . . properly attired, if it would 
not be too much trouble," said the king.
"Yes, Highness" was all I managed to get out.
The door shut behind them, and the last thing I saw was Justus's scowling and 
disapproving face.
I flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
"I hate family reunions," I said to no one.
* * *
I had no breakfast. I was not hungry. Would you be?
As I dressed, my mind was racing. I was thinking back to when the queen was 
making passing remarks about how Entipy was much like her father. There had been 
something in her tone, something in the way that she'd said it, that struck me 
as curious. I had not, at the time, been able to determine what it was. Now, of 
course, I knew.
King Runcible was not Entipy's father.
I had long ago discounted the possibility that Runcible was one of the men who 
had brutalized my mother that stormy night long ago. Madelyne would most surely 
have recognized him, and I could not believe that I would not have learned from 
someoneóher, Astel, Stroker, one of themóthat I might indeed not only be a 
bastard, but a royal bastard to boot. Besides, I had come to the conclusion that 
Runcible was many things . . . but a raping brute was simply not one of them.
Which meant that the man who was the father that Entipy and I both shared had 
not only done my mother . . . but the queen as well. And somehowócall me a fool, 
call me eccentricóbut I tended to think that he had not had to resort to having 
other knights hold her down while he had his way with her.
Considering the state of mind that I had possessed when I first arrived at the 
castle, angry and bitter and seeking justice for my late mother, I did not think 
it possible that my opinion of people in general, and knights and royalty in 
particular, could have sunk much lower than it had before. But I was wrong. 
Because if there had been one person in the entirety of the court whom I had 
been certain was a good, true, and faithful individual, it was the queen. Part 
of me wanted to believe that I was mistaken, that I had misread the situation. 
That it was, in fact, the king who had transgressed rather than the queen. But 
my every instinct was telling me otherwise.
What the hell was I going to do?
Marry the princess? Could I do it? Could I possibly climb back into bed with 
her, knowing she was my sister?
It was my ever-aggressive, ever-ambitious inner voice that was speaking. She's 
only your half-sister. And it's not as if you've been raised side by side all 
these years. You have no real blood loyalty to her on that score. You're making 
more of this than there needs to be. And besides, there are some other parts of 
the realm that not only do not abominate incest but, in fact, encourage it, to 
keep the bloodline pure.
And then I thought about the realms where such customs applied. The ones 
overseen by such inbred monarchs as King Rudolf the Dribbler and King Clyde the 
Numblingly, Mind-Bogglingly Stupid.
No, that didn't seem too workable an option. To say nothing of the fact that I 
kept coming back in my mind to the legends of the mythic king of the Britons, 
Arthur. He who had lain with his halfsister, Morgana, and had wound up siring 
his own nemesis, Mordred. The thought that my own little downfall might, at this 
moment, be brewing in the cauldron of Entipy's belly was a most unpleasant one.
And, ultimately, what it came down to was the thought of coupling with her 
again, knowing who she was . . . knowing that the madness I saw and despised in 
her was simply a reflection of my own . . . simply made my skin crawl.
I went to the window and considered leaping out of it. Escape would be 
impossible; on the other hand, if I killed myself in the fall, that would 
certainly put an end to my difficulties. I strongly considered it, even put one 
leg out the window to try and steel myself for it.
What if you're wrong?
And that stopped me. "Wrong?" I said out loud to no one.
Yes. Wrong. Have you considered the possibility that you're simply jumping to 
conclusions? Yes, she has a birthmark like yours, and yes, she bears a 
resemblance to you in a variety of ways. But that alone does not make you 
siblings, or even half-siblings. What if she is but a cousin? You cannot know 
for sure. What if her father, whoever he is, is a brother of yours? As long as 
you don't know whether her father was at the inn that night, raping your mother, 
you can't say for certain. You may be walking away from the opportunity of a 
lifetime for no reason. Think! She will be queen! You, her consort, would rule 
by her side!
"Except she is not the daughter of the king. Queen Beatrice is queen only by 
marriage; it is from the king himself that the royal bloodline flows. Entipy has 
no true claim to be the princess; she's just a royal bastard with no rights. If 
I ruled by her side, I'd be living a lie!"
And your point isó?
Then came a brisk knock at the door to summon me downstairs. Once again I cursed 
myself for my lack of nerve and resolve, andóafter taking my staff firmly in one 
handóI opened the door. The guard looked at me oddly. "Is there . . . another 
here?" he inquired. I shook my head. "Odd . . . I . . . thought I heard you 
talking to someone," he continued.
"I was talking to myself. It's the only way I'm assured intelligent 
conversation," I said, and followed him out.
The queen, a faithless trollop, more base than my mother. The king, an ignorant 
cuckold. Entipy, an unknowing bastard who had no more claim to the throne than 
I. This was the royal family that was seated before me in the main hall. Other 
knights were in attendance as well, which I was personally appalled by. Had the 
king so utterly lost his mind that he was going to discuss indelicacies in front 
of the entirety of the court?
As it turned out, that was exactly what he was going to do. He did not, however, 
say so. Instead it was Justus, standing to the king's right, who said gravely, 
"The king is more than aware of the nature of gossip . . . and knew, since 
others saw that the princess was in your company this morning, that word of it 
would quickly spread throughout the castle. He may command hearts and minds, but 
virtually nothing can stay gossip's swift hand. A truly wise king knows his limitations."
Odclay the jester capered about, his bells tinkling merrily, and he chanted,
"The king today, sad to say, is most completely ruing, the snickering amongst 
the knights about his daughter's scró"
"That's quite enough of that, jester," the queen said sharply. Odclay promptly 
lapsed into silence after a final, slightly defiant jingle of his bells.
"That said," continued Justus, "the king and queen . . ."
"Mostly the queen," rumbled Runcible.
" . . . have decided to be . . ." Justus stopped and glanced at Runcible, who 
nodded slightly. "Magnanimous," he concluded.
"Magnanimous," I said hollowly.
"Yes. It is clear that you and the princess areóshall we sayóa bit overanxious 
for the union to take place. Rather than focus on what should not have been 
done, the king and queen . . . mostly the queen," he added in anticipation of 
the clarification, "have decided instead to focus on what will be done. So we 
are here . . . to set a wedding date. The sooner the better. We were thinking 
something along the lines of . . ."
"Now," the king said quietly.
"Now?" I whispered.
"Do you have another, more pressing appointment?" asked the queen.
"No . . . no, I . . . didn't have anything else planned today. Well . . . I was 
thinking of reshoeing my horse, perhaps, or . . . or . . . taking a bath, that 
was nice, a bath . . ." I was yammering. I wasn't making sense to anyone, least 
of all myself. I rallied and said, "I mean . . . isn't this a bit rushed? A 
royal wedding, after all. There should be, uhm . . . pomp and circumstance . . . 
and . . . and . . ."
"Under the circumstances, we can forgo the pomp," said Justus. "The princess has 
already consented . . ."
"Again," muttered the king.
The queen fired him a scolding look, and there was some quick laughter from the court.
"Apropos," Entipy spoke up, and she stepped down from the raised platform upon 
which the thrones rested. She crossed to me and took my hand. It was everything 
I could do not to pull it away. "Apropos, it's all right. Really. The ceremony, 
the trappings . . . they mean nothing to me anyway. Only you mean anything."
"And besides," the queen said, "what need have we to invite nobles and such from 
other lands? They likewise mean nothing. The people that matter to us," and she 
took in the entirety of the court with a sweeping gesture, "are all right here. 
We are, in a way, all family."
Oh my gods . . .
"So, good sir knight," and Justus clapped his hands together briskly, like a 
great showman about to proceed with a circus, "the archdeacon is in the next 
room. I can bring him out and the ceremony can proceed, so that you and the 
princess can be lawfully husband andó"
"I can't." The words fell out of my mouth and splattered to the floor like eggs 
gone bad. And it was true. I couldn't. My mind was awhirl, my thoughts 
conflicted. I had spent my life acting in my best interests, and for the first 
time, I had no idea what those were. My trusty inner voice was shouting, Shut 
up! Marry her! So what if she's your sister? She could be your mother for all 
you should care! Deal with it and wed the bitch! My lips tightened. I said 
nothing further.
There was a deathly silence for a long moment.
"Apropos," Justus said evenly, "it is said that knights do not know the meaning 
of the word 'can't' . . ."
"Except when it comes to beggars," Odclay piped up. "They utter their beggars' 
cant. Also, I hear beggars can't beó"
"Not now," the king said sharply, and I had never heard that tone of voice from 
him. He had risen from the throne. "Apropos . . . I owe you a great deal . . . 
but you owe me, as well. Another king would have gutted you for your actions. I 
am choosing to rise above it. I do not suggest you drag us down, or it will go 
badly for you."
"I . . . have no doubt," I managed to squeak out. I was looking up at the 
phoenix tapestry, restored to its normal place. In my imagination, the image of 
the rideróTacit, of courseówas tossing a rude gesture to me.
Entipy was looking at me with wide, hurt eyes. "Apropos . . . ?" she was saying.
I looked into those eyes, and it was like seeing my soul mirrored back at me. 
This was no cousin, no distant relation. I became more and more convinced with 
each passing instant. My voice barely above a whisper, I said again, "I . . . I can't . . ."
"How. Dare. You." Never before, and very likely never since, had the king 
engaged in such a public display of fury. He was rooted to the spot, perhaps 
concerned that, if he approached me, he'd kill me with his bare hands. What a 
favor he would have been doing me. "How dare you treat the princess this way. 
Treat us this way."
Entipy was backing away from me, shaking her head in denial, still unable to 
believe that I was refusing her. The king took a step down from the throne, 
still not getting near me, still trembling with barely suppressed fury. "I 
raised you up! I trusted you! What is the problem here, 'good sir knight'? 
Mayhap you think that my daughter is not good enough for you, you peasant 
bastard? Not as good as the . . . the whores and what-have-you that you've 
consorted with before coming here?"
The single most stupid thing I could possibly have done at that moment was to 
lose my temper. Naturally that's what I started to do. "At least they were 
honest whores," I shot back.
The court gasped in unison as if it possessed one throat. The king, royally, 
purpled. "And to think . . . to think that the queen pled with me on your 
behalf! To think that my daughter trusted you! To think that we invited you to 
join us, to be one of us! We should have known! Known that someone whose roots 
are from so low in our society could not possibly share that to which we aspire! 
The nobility of spirit, the purity of soul! Here we thought that you would be 
able to join us in sharing our scrupulous sense of morality, and here you could 
not pollute it with the daughter of my loins! As if she was not good enough for youó!"
There may have been more ill timed moments for me to completely lose control of 
my sense of discretion, but in retrospect, none come to mind. "Scrupulous sense 
of morality!" I bellowed, appalled. "What a joke!"
"Joke? Joke?! You take advantage of my daughter, and you call it a joke?"
Never had I been less concerned about my long-term health than in that 
confrontation with the king. Because finally, finally I was going to say that 
which had been on my mind all that time. Even if he cut me down right 
thereówhich he probably wouldóhe would at least hear the truth of it. He would 
hear about the foundation of sand upon which he had constructed this glorious 
little fantasy realm which existedónot around him, but instead only within his 
head. Lowborn bastard I might be, but I would take being a lowborn realist over 
being royalty trapped in self-delusion any day of the week. And I knew right 
where I was going to start in the deconstruction of this false world of chivalry 
and morality. First it would be with his delusion that his queen had been 
faithful, his daughter his own . . . and then I would move on to the 
circumstances of my own creation. At last, at last, I finally understood my true 
reason for existence. It was for nothing else other than to bring this world of 
lies and deceit crashing down. "Aye, joke, say I," I snapped at him. "And that's 
the biggest joke of all! Your daughter, you say? Your daughter of your loins? 
And your wife, her mother? Why, I'll have you know that your queenó"
And I stopped.
Because I saw Queen Bea's face go ashen.
She knew what I was about to say. She knew that, somehow, I knew. There was 
panic in that face, like a trapped animal. And maybe it was a case where she had 
utilized all of her ability to be deceitful on the sheer act of keeping it 
secret. That, once it was yanked out into the open, she would not be able to 
resolutely deny it to her husband's face.
All of that, though, was secondary, to the fact that her panicked gaze had 
reflexively shifted. With her secret about to be revealed, she had not looked at 
her husband, nor at me, nor her daughter.
Which, of course, made sense. In an instant like that, with your duplicity about 
to be revealed, you would not look to those from whom you kept the secret.
Instead, you would look to him with whom you shared it.
Without even turning my head, I saw where her gaze went. Saw where it went . . . 
and saw it returned, from a face as momentarily frightened and desperate as her 
own. A face that looked like an odd assortment of different parts slapped 
together. A face topped off by a jaunty fool's cap.
Well . . . of course. I mean, of course. I, who had been a joke for the entirety 
of my life . . . naturally, I would have a booby for a sire. Any final doubts 
that Entipy and I shared the same father were washed away in that instant, 
because of course, of course . . . it was too perfect. It was too cosmically 
apt, the answer to my long-standing question right in front of me, irrefutable 
and poetically just: Who else could possibly produce such a fool as I but a 
royal fool?
Queen Bea, and her clandestine lover, Odclay the jester, father of the princess, 
and of the princess's former intended, looked at each other in the way that only 
petrified deceivers can when their deceit is about to be made public.
And I knew at that instant that I was right. That she wouldn't be able to deny 
it. That I'd caught her too flatfooted . . . her and Odclay. If I kept the 
momentum going, they'd be sufficiently disconcerted so that the web of lies 
would come unwoven, the wall of silence and secrecy would crack.
It was right there, all of it, within my reach. With just a few words, I could 
bring an entire kingdom crashing down. With just a few words, I could avenge 
myself on my father. With just a few words, I could destroy the hypocrisy rife 
within the system that Runcible had created. All I had to do . . .
. . . all I had to do . . .
. . . was wreck the life of Queen Beatrice. A pathetic, frightened creature who, 
aside from her indiscretion, had done nothing. Nothing except be the only person 
in the castle who had treated me with compassion. Who had nursed me back to 
health, who had intervened on my behalf with the king. Even her "forcing" me to 
go on the mission to retrieve her daughter had been motivated by concern for her 
daughter and a sense that I was the right person for the job, that Entipy and I 
would share a bond. She couldn't possibly have known.
And Entipy. Gods, the knowledge of what had happened . . . of who and what she 
was and wasn't . . . of what her mother was and wasn't . . . it would drive her 
mad. Truly mad. She had been a handful the entire time, there was no denying 
that. But she did not deserve to see her entire world crack apart around her. 
Did not deserve to be sent spiraling down into the pit of disgrace. My turning 
away from her and the future she had built around us was bad enough, but to see 
her own place in that denied, to suffer the scornful looks and contempt hurled 
upon all those pathetic creatures who had the heartless label slapped on 
themó"bastard"óhow could I? Howó?
Do it. Do it. This is what you've been waiting for. The king is a cuckold, the 
queen is faithless, the daughter is a loon, and your father is the only jest in 
the kingdom bigger than you. If you're not going to take advantage of marrying 
her, then at least have your revenge. Do what must be done . . . .
The king's voice was icier than the Frozen North. "My queen . . . is what," he 
said. It was not remotely a query. It was a prompting for the words that would, 
unbeknownst to the king, mean damnation for all.
"óyour queen . . . and your daughter . . . and you . . . deserve someone more 
worthy than a peasant bastard," I said quietly. "There is nothing more to say 
than that, Your Highness. And if that will not suffice . . . then throw me in 
the dungeon now and be done with it."
 
 
Chapter 31
 
As dungeons went, it wasn't that bad. There were hardly any rats, the straw was 
changed daily, and the kingóin a burst of generosityóhadn't manacled me to the 
wall.
I sat there, staring into darkness. The one thing I wasn't wondering was why the 
king hadn't simply executed me on the spot. The only thing I could think of was 
that the gods were not through tormenting me yet.
I knew I would never forget the astonishment that played over Bea's face, or the 
choked sob of betrayal and hurt that came from the throat of the princess. Nor, 
try as I might, the grinning triumph in the face of Mace Morningstar as the 
guards hauled me past him and away to the dungeons to await . . .
. . . what?
I didn't know. And at that point, I didn't care. For someone who had spent the 
entirety of his life caring first and foremost about himself, it was an odd 
sensation to have stopped giving it any priority at all.
My guess at that point was that the king was just going to leave me in there to 
rot. He could have me executed, of course. The volunteers would likely be lining 
up. But the king was less a believer in martyrdom and more a believer in mercy 
whenever possible, and in the grand demented scheme of things, he'd probably 
think that letting me live out the rest of my life in this hole was merciful.
I stared into the darkness and tried to figure out how I could have, should 
have, handled that final moment in a different manner. But try as I might, I 
simply could not see myself stripping away the queen's secret. Perhaps I saw in 
her, in some measure, some of the same traits that my mother had possessed. A 
fundamentally good woman who, owing to circumstances, wound up doing some 
fundamentally bad things. That was not, however, enough to make them 
fundamentally bad people who deserved the misfortunes that befell them. That was 
a far more accurate description of me, when you get down to it.
And that was, ultimately, what it boiled down to. I deserved this. I'd had a 
good run . . . made some good enemies . . . held triumph in my hand for a brief 
time . . . and now it was done. I was done. Over. All, all over.
I heard a turning of a key in the lock and looked up. For a moment I thought of 
trying to attack whoever was entering, but then reasoned that I might as well 
stay put. I had no idea, after all, what the odds would be like outside. There 
could be twenty men waiting for me in the hallway, and the person entering was 
the one who was going to give me food. If I jumped him, and then ran straight 
into the waiting arms of the guards, all I would have accomplished would have 
been to anger the person on whom I was depending for sustenance. What would be 
the point of that?
So I sat there and waited.
Of the four people I most did not want to see at that moment, naturally it was 
the one I didn't want to see most of all. That was probably because he was the 
one I'd been thinking about for the longest time.
Odclay stood a couple of steps away from me, allowing his eyes to adjust to the 
dimness. There was none of the fool about him. "I wouldn't suggest you try to 
get away; there's guards at either end of the corridor." The door swung shut behind him.
I said nothing, did nothing. Just stared at him. Part of me wanted to launch 
myself at him, to knock him to the floor, to feel his throat between my hands, 
to feel the pulse slow and stop beneath my fingers as I choked the life out of 
him. I would have. I should have.
I couldn't. I just couldn't work up the interest. After all this time, after all 
that had happened, it seemed . . . it seemed irrelevant to me somehow.
"How did you know?" he finally asked.
I told him. Why not? What did I have to lose at that point? In as flat and 
steady a voice as I could, I told him everything. The circumstances of my 
creation, the birthmark, the reason I had come to Isteria, the involvement with 
Entipy, the realization . . . all of it.
He took it all in, nodding. He didn't reply immediately. Instead he wandered the 
cell, looking around it as if he were surveying my summer home. Seeing him walk 
in this way, rather than capering about, I noticed for the first time thatóin 
addition to his other deformitiesóhe had a limp. I never would have thought that 
I would consider my physical impairment as having gotten off lucky.
And yet . . . part of me wanted him to deny it. After all, if he said he wasn't 
there, that left possibilities open. Finally he stopped wandering and leaned 
against the wall. "That night," he said softly, "was the worst night of my life."
" 'That night'?" I asked, momentarily confused. But then I understood. That 
night. That night with my mother. That terrible, terrible night. "Oh," I said.
"Yes. Oh." There was grim amusement in his voice, and no hint of the madness 
whatsoever. None. My thoughts flew back to Beatrice, talking about how people 
hid what they were. She wasn't talking about Entipy so much as she was talking 
about Odclay. He continued to speak, and it almost seemed as if he wasn't just 
speaking to me . . . but also to the distant shade of my mother. "Because when 
the knights insisted on my joining in . . . why, to them, it was the biggest 
joke of all, you see. A jester having a woman that knights had taken. It was the 
crowning giggle. I kept . . ."
His voice caught. He looked as if he was ready to cry. Unsurprisingly, my heart 
didn't exactly go out to him. "I kept . . . kept whispering in your mother's 
ear, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' even as I kept a grin forced on my face, and there 
were peels of laughter from all around. A joke. A great joke."
"You are so full of shit," I said coldly. "They were likely halfdrunk. They 
couldn't have been too difficult to fool. You could have pretended, could have 
mimed it, could have joked your way out of it. Instead, you took her. Took her 
just like the others did, to prove to a group of men who thought you incapable 
that you could be as brutish as any of them. And you're sitting here now, years 
later, telling me that you were reluctant. That you, of all of them, were the 
man of conscience who didn't want to have anything to do with it, so that I'll 
feel . . . what? Compassion? Sorry for you?" I snorted. "You claim that you were 
forced. Gods . . . you'd paint yourself to be as big a victim as she was. Let me 
say something, jester, that I'm sure very few say to you: Don't make me laugh."
He looked down, but he was smiling grimly. "Believe what you will, Apropos. I 
can't really blame you for it."
"Oh, good. I truly lived in fear of your blame." I studied him for a moment, 
thinking about all that had happened, putting the final pieces together. "It's 
been you, all along, hasn't it."
"I've already admitted to being with your mothó"
"Not that." I waved impatiently, as if the last thing of interest to me was that 
which I had been dwelling on for nearly two decades. "I mean the brains behind 
the throne. The craft. The cunning. It hasn't been Runcible at all, has it. It's 
been you."
He smiled at that. "Very good. I daresay you've inherited a good deal of my wit, 
along with some of my more," and he glanced at my leg, "unfortunate attributes."
"Shame my mother didn't mention to me one of her 'visitors' had any physical 
deformities. Might have narrowed down for me who to look at as potential father material."
Odclay shrugged. "It was dark. We were cloaked. And she had stars in her eyes 
that night, Apropos. That much I can tell you. To her . . . we were all giants. 
All of us. I . . ."
Then he saw how I was looking at him, and looked down. "In any event . . . yes, 
you're correct. As a jester, I've always been appreciative of the ultimate joke. 
None of them know, none of them realize . . . Runcible has no knack for strategy 
at all. He's neither wise nor clever . . . well, no more so than the average 
man. But it takes more than an average man to become king. It's always been me, 
guiding him in private, telling him what to do. He likes the limelight; I like 
to run things, try and make the world a better place."
"You've certainly made a mess of it so far," I said bluntly.
"We all do the best we can, in our own way. As you yourself have just done."
"I don't give two damns about the world," I said flatly. "I care about myself, 
and that's all."
"So you say," and he eyed me skeptically. "Yet you could have said what you 
knew, or guessed. But you were willing to sacrifice yourself on others' behalf. 
That's heroic, Apropos. A father could not be more proud of his son."
And that was all I could take. He was crouching near me when he said it, and 
that was his mistake. I lunged toward him, swinging as hard as I could. My fist 
caught him square in the face and I heard the satisfying crunch of a very 
familiar impact. He lay back on the ground, stunned.
"Enjoy your broken nose," I said tightly. "Gods know I've had mine shattered 
enough times."
I leaned toward him and he put up his hands reflexively to try and ward me off. 
I think he thought I was going to hit him again. Once upon a time, I would have. 
Once upon a time, I would have set upon him and strangled him with my bare 
hands. But now . . .
. . . now I was just tired.
Instead I satisfied myself with looking at the blood gushing from his nose. 
Copious flow. Good. Nice to know I still had a good punch. Then I leaned back 
and just stared at him.
"And that's it?" asked Odclay after a while.
"You want more? I can accommodate you . . ."
"No, that's . . . quite all right. Still . . . it's interesting."
The longer he stayed, the more tired I was getting of him. "In what way?" I 
asked, despite my better judgment.
"Your world has widened, Apropos. I don't think you yet realize how much. Only a 
few years ago, if you'd known who I was, you'd likely have kept hitting me until 
I stopped moving, forever. Because vengeance against me was so much a part of 
your existence."
"Don't flatter yourself," I said.
He ignored me and went on, "But now you're part of a much greater, much grander 
scheme of things. Compared to that, I've shrunken to insignificance."
Slowly I shook my head. "You," I said slowly, "are a coward who raped my mother 
and hides his intelligence behind fool's motley. Take my word for it, Odclay: 
You were always insignificant."
He seemed prepared to argue the point, but instead shook his head. Then he rose 
and went to a far corner of the cell. I watched him with little interest . . . 
until I saw him push against one particular brick. Suddenly a small section of 
the wall slid aside. It was not much; just enough for us to slide through, one 
at a time, on our bellies. I gaped at it as Odclay turned back to me and 
gestured for me to enter. "After you," he said.
"You first," I replied cautiously.
He shrugged, apparently uncaring, and crawled in ahead of me. I waited for a 
moment, glanced around nervously, and then followed him in.
The passageway remained narrow for a time, but in short order it widened out and 
I was able to stand. Odclay was already standing, and he was holding a torch in 
order to illuminate the area. He angled it down and I looked where he was 
pointing. My eyes widened. My staff was there, as were a few of my things . . . 
including the belt that held the jewels, gold, and other riches I'd garnered 
from Astel. He must not have looked within the pouches.
"Take them," he said tersely. "Let's go."
"Go . . . ?"
"Hurry up. It wasn't easy greasing the palms of the guards to 'forget' that I 
came in to see you. I think it wiser not to press our luck by acting as if we 
have all the time in the world."
Deciding that it would be best to save all questions, I picked up my staff and 
few belongings, and headed down the corridor. The jester remained close behind 
me, not saying anything. Indeed, what was there to say?
The flickering torchlight seemed to indicate that the path ahead was ending. 
Nothing but a large wall greeted us. However, Odclay pushed against another 
section and this one, too, swung open. I stepped out into the night air, 
breathing in deeply. It was a warm night and there was no rain, which was 
certainly a pleasant change of pace.
"I am sorry your mother was killed," he said softly. "You . . . seemed rather 
focused on the scars Meander carried upon him. Do you think that was her mark 
upon him? That he did it?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I may never know. Although I'm beginning to think 
that knowing things can wind up being as painful as not knowing them."
Odclay stood in the doorway, not emerging. I noticed now that there was a 
package sitting on the floor next to him which apparently he'd had waiting 
there. He picked it up and handed it to me. "In the event that it was him, and 
you seek vengeance . . . or find another blackguard who was truly responsible . 
. . I wouldn't want you to go against him, or even out into the world, armed 
with nothing but your wits and a staff."
"It's gotten me this far," I said.
"So has luck. But this might help you make your own luck."
The cloth seemed to be thick, woven. I unwound it and discovered within it a 
sword. I held it up in the moonlight. It had an odd heft to it, and an 
elaborately carved pommel in the shape of a screaming bird's head, not unlike 
that of a phoenix.
"It's called a hand-and-a-half sword," said Odclay. "It can be wielded with 
either one hand or two, depending upon whether you're holding your staff or not. 
And it's a particularly appropriate weapon for you."
"Why?" I had to ask.
"Because it's also called a 'bastard sword.' "
"How apropos," I said mirthlessly. Then I realized that the cloth in which it 
had been rolled had some sort of an image on it. I straightened it, held it up 
in the moonlight.
It was me. I looked older. There was gray in my hair andóI might have been 
mistaken, but I appeared to be missing an ear. I was leaning forward on the 
sword that I was holding at the moment, and I was seated upon a throne.
"What is this supposed to be?" I asked.
"A farweaver did it."
"A farweaver did the tapestry that hangs in the castle. That didn't come true."
"Didn't it?" he said.
"No. It called for a great hero to come. He didn't come. He died. You got me instead."
"People read things into the tapestries that might or might not be there. And 
don't sell yourself short; you might just be more of a hero than you want to 
admit. Has it occurred to you that maybe you've spent your whole life doing the 
right thing . . . and justifying for yourself that it's from selfish motives?"
"It's never occurred to me, no. Probably because it's not the case."
"As you will," he said with a shrug. "In any event, take that with you if you 
wish. Consider it a gift . . . from the same farweaver who did the tapestry in the castle."
"Really. I'd like to meet him so I can tell him he's an idiot. Although," and I 
looked at it with a critical eye, "I admit . . . I'm not happy about the missing 
ear . . . but it's a rather good likeness."
With a wry smile, my father said, "Thank you. I try."
And as I gaped at him in astonishment, Odclay swung shut the wall, locking me 
out of the castle and giving me my freedom.
I turned, took two steps . . .
. . . and froze as Entipy came around the corner. She stopped, faced me, and 
simply stood there with her arms folded.
My mouth, my throat, were completely dry.
"Did you think I was stupid?" she inquired. When I was unable to make a 
response, she continued, "I had a feeling you'd show up right about here sooner 
or later. I know about the hidden passages in this place. Odclay showed them to 
me when I was a child. He was the only one in the whole place, aside from my 
mother, who had any patience with me. He's the brains behind my father's 
kingdom, you know. Had you figured that out?"
I nodded. She sounded so calm, so conversational, that part of me thought I'd 
gone mad, because the entire encounter seemed unreal.
"He's not so foolish as he seems," she went on. "In some ways he'd be a better 
father than my real one is."
I shuddered. I didn't think she noticed it, and she didn't. Because although she 
was looking at me, I think she was also looking inward as well.
"Am I hideous? Is that it?" she said abruptly.
I finally found my voice. "What? No! No, it'só"
"A bad sex partner, perhaps. You seemed to be enjoying yourselfó"
"Yes, I did! You're . . . it's not you. It's me. I can't."
"You still can turn this around, Apropos," she said, sounding quite reasonable. 
I couldn't tell whether she was bottling her emotions or had simply detached 
from them. "Apologize to my father and mother. Tell them you were overwhelmed by 
the moment. And marry me. You know you want to. You know you love me."
"It's not that simple . . ."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's not. Trust me. Don't you trust me?"
She laughed at that, as if it was the most absurd question in the world. "No. Of 
course not. I know you better than I know myself. You're a scoundrel, and always 
will be. That's what makes you attractive to me."
"But back at the fort! You said you trusted me then."
"I lied."
"Were you?" I said sharply. "Lying then? Or are you lying now?"
She didn't say anything. And then something occurred to me. "You keep saying 
that you know I love you. Do you truly love me?"
"I want you."
"That's not the same thing."
"When you're royalty, it is."
I leaned on the staff, feeling much, much older than I was. "And what would have 
happened, Entipy . . . once you had me? If you truly didn't trust me . . . and 
the closest you could come to loving me was desiring me, in the same way that 
you might fancy attractive jewelry or a fine wine . . . what hope would there 
have been for the two of us?"
"Apropos," she sighed, as if pitying me greatly, "I thought you, of all people, 
understood. This is a hopeless world. We would have fit right in."
I let out a long sigh. "I want . . . more than that. I never thought I did until 
this very moment. I want to be . . . I want to be better than the world that 
surrounds me. I spent years thinking I was. But now . . . I genuinely want to 
be. And you should want it, too. And I know, beyond any doubt, that we can't 
possibly achieve that together, for more reasons than I can go into. And I know 
you say you can't trust me, and maybe I deserve that, but at least listen to me 
and believe me when I say this: I've spent my whole life doing what was right 
for me, even if it was wrong for everybody else. This is the first time I've 
actually done what I know is right for everybody else . . . even though it might 
be as wrong for me as it could possibly be. Will you accept that? Please?" And I 
sank to one knee. "Please . . . Your Highness . . . ?"
Entipy looked at me for a long moment, as if from a very great height. And then, 
very softly, she said, "Apropos . . . I have to admit . . . you've become the 
one thing I never really thought you'd be."
"Heroic?"
"No. Dull."
And she drew her cape around herself, raised her hood to cover her features, and 
walked away. For a moment, just a moment . . . I thought I heard a choked sob 
from her, but it might well have been my imagination.
I walked as quickly as I could, distancing myself from the castle, but stopped 
at one point to look back at it. In a high window, framed against a glimmer of 
light, I was sure I saw Entipy seated there, a single candle burning just in 
front of her face. I thought, She's leaving a candle burning for me in the 
window, and for half a heartbeat, I almost turned back to go to her. But then 
she blew the candle out and became one with the darkness.
I made my way to the front gate of the great wall surrounding the city. I drew 
my cloak tight around me, my hood up and over my face, trying to minimize my 
limp so as not to attract attention from the guards. Neither of them paid me the 
slightest mind. It might have been that I simply wasn't interesting-looking or 
important enough to warrant a glance from them, or perhaps Odclay had "greased" 
their palms as well. In either event, I passed through the front gates with no 
problem and increased my speed until I had left it behind me.
I made my way down the main road, then off to a less-used trail, then off to an 
even less frequented one. I kept moving, straining to hear sound of pursuit, but 
nothing came. The absence of it, though, did not cause me to fear it any less. I 
didn't run, not wanting to wear myself out, but I kept up a very brisk pace. 
Slowly the sun rose, and I, worn out from the constant moving, decided that it 
would be best to get off any roads entirely. Certainly forests held their own 
risks, but they were preferable to traveling roads that angry knights could come 
riding down, looking for escaped prisoners.
It might be that they'd never notice my absence. That the intention was that I 
would remain in the cell, never to be seen again by the eyes of man. On the 
other hand, what if the king changed his mind, or the queen implored him, or 
whatever, and my disappearance was discovered? Best to be far away when and if 
that happened.
I made my way into the woods and kept going until I found a pleasant-looking 
glen. I settled against a large rock, getting off my feet, allowing my rapidly 
pounding heart to settle into a rhythm that was a bit less frantic.
I thought about all that I had experienced and realized that: I had learned who 
my father was; I had made my enemies' lives miserable, at least for a time; I 
had avenged myself on Astel; I might have an idea as to who had killed poor 
Madelyne, and could explore that in the future; I'd had my share of rolls with 
females, and even though most of themóall right, all of themóhad ended in total 
debacles, at least there had been entertainment in the doing; I'd slept in a 
fine bed for a couple of nights; and, most of all, I had a small fortune upon 
me. That was the most important thing of all, the most lasting. The riches which 
were safely in my belt and staff . . .
I patted the belt.
It felt odd. The weight was correct, but something appeared to be . . . wrong.
I pulled the belt out and opened the pouches.
Pebbles. Pebbles and rocks.
And a note. I opened it, my fingers numb.
Where do you think I got the money to grease the palms to get you out? And the 
remainder, of course, is in my pocket. My taking risks, after all, has its own 
price. Best of luck, son. Yours in laughter.óOdclay.
Quickly I unscrewed the top of the staff. That money was still in there . . . 
except it was sovs from the Outer Lawless regions, useless for the area in which I was.
I screeched in outrage. I moaned. I sobbed. And finally, finally . . .
. . . I laughed. Laughed long and hard, and kept on laughing at this final joke 
which had been made upon me.
"Would you mind telling me what's so funny?"
I turned.
Sharee, the weaver, was standing there, as if she'd just materialized out of nowhere.
"I should have known," I sighed. "After all the times you spoke to me in my 
dreams, I should have known you'd show up now . . . ."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied. "You've said this before, 
and I'll say it again: I did not speak to you in your dreams. Now would you mind 
telling me what is so damned funny?"
"I am," I sighed. "I am destiny's joke. I was so close, Sharee . . . so close to 
having it all. Instead, it slipped through my fingers and I'm left with nothing. 
Sir Apropos of Nothing, just like the king said."
"You're better off," she harrumphed. "If you had something, you wouldn't know 
what to do with it. Better that you have nothing."
"Not necessarily." I managed a smile as I stood, adjusting my cloak. "I have you."
"You don't have me," she said tartly. "I'm simply journeying in the same 
direction you are, by coincidence."
"Really. We've met in a glen. You don't know which way I'm going."
"Of course." She hesitated and pointed west. "You're heading that way."
The truth was, I was heading east. Then again, the truth and I had always had a 
testy relationship.
"Amazing," I said. "It's amazing that you knew that. Well . . . let's be off, then."
We started off west, Sharee matching my stride.
"There's something you should know," I told her after a time.
"And what would that be?"
"This is my story."
She looked at me with open curiosity. "I beg your pardon?"
"We're going to have adventures. And they're my adventures. You're here to 
provide support for me."
She snorted disdainfully. "I think not. I'm a weaver. I'm magic. You're a lame 
fool with a staff. You are obviously accompanying me in order to provide amusing 
comic relief for my adventures."
I stopped where I was. "Then it's not going to work," I said flatly. "I refuse 
to exist as a side issue to someone else's epic again. That's no way to live."
"My sympathies, but that's the way it's going to be," Sharee said flatly.
"Then it's best that we part company."
"Fine."
"Fine."
We stood there, waiting for each other to turn away. Neither of us moved. To 
this day, I've no idea how long we stood there.
"We'll alternate," Sharee said abruptly.
My eyes narrowed. "Pardon?"
"Monday, Wednesday, Friday, it's my story. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, it's 
your story. Best offer I'm going to give you."
I thought about it a moment and then nodded. "All right. That sounds fair."
"All right, then."
"All right."
We started off. And as we walked, I said, "Wait a minute . . . what day is today?"
"Sunday."
I moaned.
"We can switch off Sundays," she suggested.
"Fine. That'll be fine. So today is my Sunday."
"The hell it is," she replied. "Today's my Sunday. I need it more."
"The hell you do. You've no idea of the day I had yesterday."
"It can't compare to mine, I guarantee it," she said.
I stopped walking again. "Tell you what . . . you tell me about your day, I'll 
tell you about mine, we'll see whose was worse, and the worst story gets today."
"Fine." There were two stumps facing each other. We each sat on one. She pushed 
back her hood and said, "It all started in the Screaming Gorge of Eternal Madness . . ."
I stood up. "Next Sunday will be fine for me."
And we headed off into the west.