Steve Johnson

1618 Caroline Street copyright 1993, 1996, 2000 by

Fredericksburg, VA 22401 Steven G. Johnson

(540) 371-0615 70,000 words

CAER GLASS

by

Steven G. Johnson

BEING the first part of the tale of Sir Galehodin

Prologue

530 AD

Arthur strained against his bonds yet again. They were of woven glass, gold and red and cobalt blue. It did not crack as proper glass ought, but then nothing here was proper.

He remembered the landing, the boats crunching over shale at the water's edge. His knights, a thousand strong, advancing under gray skies, banners bright and fluttering.

And then the rain, the fog, the calling voices that scared the horses. He had killed a man, and a woman in arms, and something that was neither.

He did not recall how he came here, to this rose floor, in chains.

A woman entered noiselessly. She was very tall, and very pale. Her eyes swept up into elegant arches under delicate, almost golden brows.

He knew her for a queen the moment he saw her.

"What d'you plan to do with us?" he said, rather than demanded.

"I think I will keep you here," she said in a trilling contralto. "You will last forever on this side of the Faerie Veil. And instead of conquering us, you will be our prisoner, for ever."

"Why not kill me now and be done with it?"

"We have done, with all but seven of you. But you are different. You are the one who led this invasion, the one who planned it."

"You slaughtered my subjects!"

"We did no such thing. We made bargains which we honored. And they paid the price, as we paid our promise."

Arthur knew different. The faerie way was to make a bargain without stating the terms, so when a spriggan offered you a fine suit with lace trimmings, he might ask for your living heart in exchange. Everyone knew it was bad business to treat with the fey folk, but even fools had a claim on the King's justice.

Maev went on, in a different tone:

"And besides that, I hate you fluently and deeply, because you have what we fey never can."

"Eh? You live forever! You work magic as easily as we tie knots in twine! What treasure do we have that you ..."

His voice caught. A frission of dread filled him.

"Excalibur," he said. "You want the sword of power ..."

But Maev's puzzlement was so honest he could not but feel foolish.

"I mean your hope of Heaven," she said plainly. "When we die, we are gone forever. But mortal men have souls, which endure forever, and for the sake of envy I hate you, and all your kind."

Arthur's brow knotted. He envied the fey their immortal bodies, as did any man. Jealousy of their long life was one reason he'd had such luck recruiting knights to cross the Veil. If their immortality rested on some charm, some potion, and a brave man stole it, who would turn from such a quest?

Only those without spirit, without manly pride. He had chosen well; he brought the best in his kingdom to be slaughtered in this strange land. For a good cause, aye, but that would hardly matter when the Home Isle was beset by rogues and invaders, its best defenders dead.

Not for the first time, Arthur regretted the day he took the crown from Uther's grave. He even hated Merlin, whose skill had guided him to the throne, a bit. Had not Merlin seen it would end here, like this?

If he had, if he were watching, now, Arthur vowed Merlin would not be ashamed of his pupil.

"We envy your long lives, your Majesty, as you covet our immortal souls. Perhaps our priests, our holy men, can teach you the words of Christ. It is possible, as God's mercy is great, that you too can attain the hope of heaven, which is all a Christian man can claim."

Maev thought. Around her, forces stirred. Arthur felt seasick; the walls were not solid; they were moving, like sails, or the sea in a storm ...

She smiled suddenly. Arthur's surroundings froze.

"Yes," she said without preamble. "We will accept your priests. We will study the words of your Christ. And you will let us in, to travel in your world without restraint?"

"My men will be freed?"

"As you yourself."

He was giddy with relief, not for himself, but that his gambit had worked. The fey were not supposed to be this easy to bargain with!

But then, Arthur knew quite well how legends grow in the telling.

"Agreed," he said.

And Maev drew away from him, sliding back without moving. He lunged after her, but his chains drew him up short, and he fell to the shale on his face and chest.

He rolled over. His brave knights picked him up from the beach before the next wave washed over him.

"My liege?" It was Gawaine's basso profundo, with its glottal Northern vowels. "Where are we to attack?"
Arthur saw his knights, his boats, his banners. In from shore a rain cloud threatened.

"We have won, my lads. Victory is ours this day," he said.

"With no enemy? No battle?" Gawaine said.

"Nothing is as it seems, beyond the Veil," Arthur told him.

Gawaine nodded; so it was. He turned to shout the news to all the best knights of the realm.

And Arthur wondered if his knights would still shout "Victory!" if they knew how he had bought it. All he knew was that once again, as when he drew the sword from the stone, there were changes, great changes, in store for his beloved Britain . . .

Chapter One

550 AD

Galehodin told herself again that she was not afraid.

In a few moments, a man she had never met would hurl himself down the jousting lane and try to pin her ribs to her backbone with his lance. The impact would almost certainly knock her to the ground, where his horse might or might not run her over.

Unless she unhorsed him first.

She held her shield tight against her side and hoped the sun wouldn't bake all the strength out of her before the joust began. Her armor pressed down painfully on her shoulders, her neck, and the creases above her hips, while her heavy helmet shut out noise, light, and air.

Her mount shifted in an unfamilar way beneath her; the family could not afford two warhorses, so she had borrowed her brother Priam's. Many of the knights she passed on the way to the fairgrounds had been gentling their borrowed steeds, running them slightly breathless the day before. It had looked like an excellent idea, since the horse would not have to run more than a few lengths before lance met shield. She had meant to run her own in that fashion, but there had been no time.

Like her mother, she was tall and slim, with the red-blond hair and pale skin of the Cymric isles. Her family links with the famous Sir Tristan were evident in the line of her jaw, so like his, and in the prominence of her cheekbones, which she disdained to accent with rouge. But where her mother's eyes were green, and those of her brother Priam were narrow and dark, Galehodin's were wide, like windows to a sky of perfect blue.

She dug in her heels in determination, bringing a jump from the heavy-footed bay beneath her saddle. Galehodin swayed in her -- Priam's -- armor, trying to gentle the beast without frightening it. This horse was so unlike her rouncy back in Lyonesse!

A hand gripped the reins just behind the bridle and shattered her brief reverie. A small, pale man in garments of forest green searched her face with golden, feverishly bright eyes.

"Are ye well seated, milady? No complaints?"

Galehodin shifted in her saddle, seeking the point of balance she always found at home. There seemed to be none, but the man was expecting an answer. What would Priam say?

"Never better, my good man. It's just this waiting, you see -- makes the horse anxious."

"Well, then, his troubles are over, milady."

A crash of steel sounded across the field. Galehodin could not see the jousting lanes from where she sat her horse, behind the long stables, but she heard a sound like a hundredweight of tin plates falling down a stair before the spectators roared and drowned it out.

The little man nodded in satisfaction.

"That'll be Sir Marchior takin' his first fall," he announced to no one in particular. "You're up next, milady. If you'll allow me --"

"Certainly." She had no idea what the man was proposing to do, but it seemed expected that she should agree.

The servant took the edge of her horse's bridle just behind the bit and pulled gently, urging the heavy steed past the stables and around a corner into the full glare of the sun. Unfamiliar smells struck Galehodin with surprising force: dust made powdery by the morning's heat; wine spilled over the wooden benches, now souring in the sun; packed humanity, as many as could be fit in the extra-large stands, perspiring all the more for the rich garments they wore. Suddenly her head felt light.

She was led to one end of the long jousting lanes, just beyond where the red-and-white-striped poles divided the field into two equal parts at a height of two yards. The turf between was almost gone, after an hour of heavy competition, but here and there a tuft of green stood defiantly against the mud, waiting to trick a charging warhorse into putting its foot wrong, possibly even falling.

It was a hazard Galehodin had never imagined facing.

Beyond the poles, in a slightly less-churned area that was the mirror image of her own, stood a tall armored figure beside a mighty black charger. The knight wore a straight high-crowned helm surmounted by a leaping unicorn; beneath it was armor of Gothic plate, forged to accomodate his exact form, without ornament or ostentation aside from its obvious expense. He wore no tabard to mark his arms; well, for that matter, neither did Galehodin. Their lances bore cup-like jousting tips rather than sharp points, but still, the colliding horses and knights weighed together more than three tons. Any piece of cloth would be hopelessly shredded if the lance point should miss the shield and touch the knight's body.

The knight swung up into the saddle without assistance, a feat of strength that drew some admiring cheers from the stands. His men-at-arms handed up his shield, which was of black with a curling white griffin thereon. Another man handed up the knight a lance wrapped in his colors, silver and black.

A man in blue was shouting something about three passes in the French fashion, shields to the inside, and someone was handing Galehodin a plain wooden lance. Someone else tied ribbons of red, white and gold around the lance's end, taking them from barrels of ribbons at the side of the lane. She wanted to tell him that her colors were marron and gold -- she saw a few marron ribbons right there, in with the red ones -- but the knight of the griffin was saluting with his lance, and the man on the platform was raising his blue scarf over his head, and all at once the three men fussing with her lance and horse were running in all directions, jumping over the barrels or the ropes in their haste to clear the lane.

Galehodin turned in her saddle to see the black knight already two lengths along his side of the lane, spurring his mount into a full gallop.

Heavy hard drumbeats boomed out in time to the thundering of her heart. For an awful, endless instant she had no idea what to do -- there was something she was supposed to do, something that would save her from embarassment in front of all these lords and ladies, but she couldn't remember what it was -- and then her heels came together in her horse's flanks and it leapt forward as though it were shot from a catapult.

The horse's plunge had been at least half jump, half gallop. Galehodin hit hard, bouncing in the saddle with the weight of her armor crashing down on her shoulders, her spine, the back of her neck and the top of her head. Her arms felt numb, like outgrowths of wood, but she moved them nonetheless, urging the horse to go faster and faster! She was desperate to catch up to the black knight, who was already descending in a full-out rush. If she could only get up to the same speed as him, they would meet as equals.

The black knight shouted "Haa!" and leaned forward in the saddle, nearly overbalancing himself. His lance seemed to lengthen with his motion and stabbed like a javelin for Galehodin's head.

Galehodin raised her shield and thrust out with her lance in the same motion.

The shock of impact bent Galehodin straight back on her spine against the heaving flanks of her horse. Her arms flew up, her grip on the lance was gone, and bits of shattered wood sailed away in an arc that dropped pieces of her lance into the stands. Her left arm still held the shield, but it was bent double against her chest as though nailed there. Her hand burned like a smoldering coal where impact had turned the shield's handle ninety degrees in her grip.

Galehodin threw out her right hand and gripped the reins again, bringing her horse's headlong career to a gradual halt. She shook her head to clear it, but that made a twist of pain at the back of her skull flare into flame. She raised her helmet's visor, saw she was staring at the blank wooden boards of the stable, and turned her horse around.

She was still on her horse, she realized. And on top of that realization came another:

My God, I'm going to have to do that again!

The knight in black waved the stub of his lance in comradely salute.

Or is he mocking me? Damn the man -- that hurt! And he doesn't even look fazed.

Hands were tugging her borrowed horse into position again, facing back down the lane. Someone handed her another lance.

"Did I drop it?" she said, startled to hear her own voice in her ringing ears.

"Ye broke it, milady," said one of the lanesmen. "On 'is shield."

I hit him! Maybe this isn't as hard as it feels ...

"Very good," she said, hefting the lance as if she knew how it was supposed to feel. "This is a good lance."

The lanesman gave her a quizzical look and withdrew. The drums started their thunderous clamor again.

She looked up, and here came the black knight, waving his lance in tight circles of which her heart was the center. Galehodin spurred Priam's bay, urging it faster and faster as the distance between them dissolved like a falling rock.

He hit her on the shoulder, flipping her around and nearly tearing her out of the saddle. Her grip on lance and shield was broken; they sailed in different directions, splintering against the stout oaken walls of the spectators' gallery. Galehodin returned to facing front, but every move of her arm and chest cost tremendous effort. It felt as though her left side were cast in stone; the stiffness that fought her movements was worse than the pain which punished them. At least pain was familiar, from her workouts. Even drawing a breath was hard labor.

"Ye'll need another shield, milady," said the groom who had attended her first. Of course -- now she was back on the same side of the field she had started from.

"Did I hit him this time?" she urged. "How does he look?"

"Ye missed 'im, milady," the man replied flatly. "Afore ye got yer lance in line, 'e knocked it outen yer hands. Never had a chance."

She found the strength to glare.

"While I'm alive, I've got a chance, sirrah," she said to him. To her surprise, he greeted her comment with a smile.

"What are yer doing here, milady? Playin' at bein' a knight?"

His mocking tone should have cut her to the quick. Instead, she found herself answer truly:

"I can't imagine wanting anything else."

He nodded, all levity gone.

"Ah, that's how it is. Then ye'll need a new shield, right enough. What's yer arms, there? A dolphin?"

"Two dolphins. My brother wears just one --"

She looked back at the black knight. He was sitting up in his saddle, lance and shield by his side, gesturing impatiently. Imagination supplied the words she could not hear across the distance.

"But anything will do. Quickly, man, or --"

"If I may have a denarius, milady?"

She had no idea she was supposed to pay for her equipment. This wasn't like the jousts she had heard of!

Is he trying to cheat me? What matter, if he brings the shield quickly?

"All right," she said. She handed over the small silver coin.

"Aye. That'll do," he said.

The little man rubbed the coin in his fingers. Over and over it turned, while thumb and fingertips blurred back and forth across the silver.

"Aye. Fine silver. Now ye want to stand back a bit ..."

All at once a stream of musical syllables sprang from the man's lips. The denarius in his fingers glowed white, as though in the heart of a candle flame, and wobbled like taffy into a dumbell shape. The man blew hard on the silver blob as he rubbed it onto the shield with a sizzling, crackling noise like frying bacon. Acrid smoke curled up, fading as he blew across it.

"And ye want the head to curve so ..." he muttered.

Working with broad strokes, he spread the metal across the shield into the shape of a leaping dolphin, crooning his long-vowelled words to the metal as he brushed. The tips of his fingers smoldered slightly; by the light from the entrance flap, Galehodin saw that the first joint of the fingers on both gloves tapered away to a curled seam, as if he'd held the glove in a candle flame until the fingers burned.

The little man finished the second dolphin. Then he licked one finger and began refining the design, sharpening the edges.

"You have him curled up more than the other dolphin," Galehodin remarked. She had never seen magic worked before, but this little fellow's matter-of-fact manner and mercurial good cheer made it easy to discuss the unthinkable in a everyday tone.

"He's near the bottom of the shield," the fey replied. "As your shield comes to a point, so must the design. Else the whole looks clumsy, like a cow in a barrel. Ah! One thing more, only."

He jerked a look over his shoulder, peering directly into Galehodin's blue eyes.

"So!" he said, and hooked a sharp-nailed thumb into the still-soft metal just inside the upper dolphin. An eye took shape, wide and bold, yet thoughtful, promising generous kindness to all who suffered but stern justice to the unrighteous.

"There," he said. He stood up and to one side, eyeing the shield critically. Sunlight washed the shield, making the faceted eye of the dolphin flash brilliant blue.

"Ah! Done. Now that'll do, I wager. Eh?"

His smile was confidence itself, neither challenge nor need of one. It was all Galehodin could do to nod.

"And worth the wait? Will it show well against these fancy blazons?"

Galehodin could not believe it. Her shield shone like the sun in the sky, and with a face so like her own, yet not her own. Anyone who saw this shield, though they had never met her, would know Galehodin's soul. It was a little frightening, but it was also awesome. In her heart, as always, awe took pride of place over fear.

"It is miraculous. It will outshine them all. I will commend your services to all who remark on its beauty," she assured the man. "How shall I call you, man?"

"Oh, I ain't no man. And I don't come when called, milady," he said with a grin. "But if anyone asks, tell 'em 'tis the work of Forge o' the faerie. 'Tis all the name I'm using, these days."

Galehodin turned the name over on her tongue. She had heard that the faeries often used common words as names among the human kind, especially the unseelie faeries, who were often stuck with horrible-sounding names by their civilized betters. In this case, the name fitted the man, who was so handy with silver. It was the easiest thing in the world to remember.

"Forge. I will remember it," she said aloud.

"Aye. Oh, I bet ye will," said Forge as he turned to go. "Carry that shield, and I bet a lot o' other knights will remember it, too. Every time they sit down!"

The black knight clashed his shield against his lance, raising a racket that quieted the crowd. Galehodin cantered up to the start of the lane, received a lance from an attendant, and lowered it to point at the black knight's heart.

I will run you through the heart or know the reason why, she told him in her mind.

Then she was shocked at what she had thought. This was just a joust, a mock battle for love of battle's sake and the enjoyment of the crowd. She was part of a festival, a celebration of the peace King Arthur had brought to the world. Here of all places, how could she imagine spilling the blood of a man who was not her enemy?

But her shoulder and her back reminded her:

Enemy or no, he's given me some mighty hurts this day. I'd see the score a little more even before he leaves the field ...

And there were the drums, right on schedule. This time she and the black knight left their positions together, closing inexorably like two hurtling Juggernauts. She fought to keep her lance point level, fought to urge the last ounce of speed from her horse, fought to keep her shield braced against her aching ribs...

And then the black knight swung his lance over his horse's head, avoiding her shield, aiming straight for her heart!

She twisted her arms in front of her, crossing her shield to the right to protect herself, crossing her lance left to strike at him above his own lance. The loose reins drew up taut, and the middle of his lance cracked her across the forehead.

Galehodin saw fire explode behind her eyes.

Her horse, brought up short, paced uncertainly in a circle. She blinked hard; she was able to open her eyes, though it hurt. As far as she could tell, nothing was broken.

I'm getting to be a real conoisseur of injuries, she thought ruefully.

She was still on her horse, near the middle of the lane. She looked around for the black knight. His horse was running in a circle at the end of the lane, where the men who had outfitted Galehodin a few minutes ago were trying to catch hold of the reins. But the black knight was not there.

A muddy gauntlet groped for the rail a few yards away. It took hold, and then the black knight hauled himself to his feet, the rail flexing beneath his weight. He got both arms over the rail and hung there, clinging to it like a shipwrecked sailor on a board.

Galehodin jumped out of the saddle and ran toward him. She was as ignorant of her spurs digging in the mud as she was of the pain of her bruises.

"Milord, are you injured? Let me see your arm!" she said as she reached the man.

"'Tis nothing, sir knight. My arms -- huff! -- are the best part left of me, for they can hold me up where my legs cannot. You struck a solid blow, by God and Wotan, a praiseworthy blow, I confess it! You have excellent instincts."

"Instincts?"

"You couldn't have known about my little crossover, sir knight. I'd been preparing all winter in the greatest of secrecy for my chance to spring it on some old campaigner. But you're scarcely a boy -- no offense meant, of course, but I don't know your arms at all -- and you got me just right, anyway! Now that has to be instinct. Nobody can think that fast."

Galehodin was still not sure what had happened.

"But -- you hit me!"

"Indeed I did! Knocked you silly, I suspect. But you've a hard head, sir knight, and you kept your wits. Whereas I was leaning so far forward, I expected the shock of your lance to set me back upright, you see? But you struck me late, when we were passing side to side, and instead threw me out of the saddle like a spinning top. By God, I've had my hip broken before, at Badon Hill, and it never hurt like this! That was a solid blow, and no mistake."

"Then I won," said Galehodin, and the truth of her words felt like the passing of a storm.

"Aye. I'd hand you my shield, good sir, but confidentially," his voice dropped to a whisper, "I'd probably fall down. Be a good fellow and get it for me, would you?"
She found his shield intact, for her lance had missed it altogether. The snarling griffin, an eagle's wings and head painted onto a lion's body, lay amid a welter of splinters from the black knight's lance. Apparently it had shattered into bits when it struck her shield!

She glanced down at the shield, where it still hung on her bent-up left arm. The dolphin on the bottom was still glaring at the world, but now there was a brilliant streak on his underbelly.

* * *

Sir Priam de Lyonesse, peering from beneath a muslin hood, saw the crowd close in around Galehodin. Good! he thought. That would keep her from following him. Although he did not worry too much on her account, she was the only person now in Camelot who would recognize his face.

There was one other who would know him, regardless of disguise. But the other was not a person.

Priam gathered a cheap homespun cloak about his armor. A glance at his pocket mirror confirmed his disguise. From afar, he would appear as just a large, heavy man in a cloak. Close up, he looked like a down-at-the-heels knight going incognito, with his arms and blazon covered. On a festival day, that would attract no unusual attention. There were many reasons a knight might travel in disguise, none of them dishonorable.

He walked the streets between the vast granary towers of Camelot town, edging over toward the stable district. Between the great horse-barns and the towering granaries, there were countless middens housing sheep, swine and cattle for the great feasts to come. The noise was maddening, the dust and odor daunting. No one was likely to linger in this place, to overhear his meeting with the other.

All at once, there he was, standing by an angle of wooden fence. Priam had not seen him approach, even though the other's white skin and lanky height were as out of place here as a lady's pavilion would be.

He was a faerie male, though his sex was not immediately obvious, since his hips and shoulders were exactly the same width. His limbs were long, even in proportion to his unusual height. The face, too, was constructed of long, lean parts, from the pointed, beardless chin up to the angled, almond-colored eyes. He wore loose garments all of green, that creaked and sighed like leather when he moved. A sword and dagger were belted about his waist.

Priam stood unmoving. The fey, for his part, saw Priam and came forward at once. One hand came up to grasp Priam's wrist in greeting. The other held a large black bag.

"Ho, Raven! Aren't you afraid someone will see you, hey?" Priam said.

The fey replied acidly:

"Not as likely as my fear that they

will hear your braying from the tallest spire.

This place is safe, unless we take all day.

Now, have you brought me that which I require?"

"Aye," said Priam. He showed from beneath his cloak a pot of greasepaint, the color of salmon, and three tufts of blue-black hair.

"The moustaches go on with spirit gum, of which I have a plenty," he said. "And the paint is compounded from wheaten oil, that gives no scent away."

Raven nodded. His thin mouth was grave, but satisfied.

"And have you brought what I require?" asked Priam eagerly.

"Aye, as agreed. A shield of the best.

But there is more before I take my leave.

Do you intend to undertake my quest

alone, or may I meet the other thieves?"

Priam bristled.

"Don't call me that. I'm still a knight, damn you! Or has that been attended to already, by a higher power than I, hey?"

Raven's lips, already pale, thinned to near-transparency.

"My master's charge eclipses lesser woes.

Else I would spit you where you stand, Sir Knight.

Take heed, for we are on the brink of blows.

It profiteth us neither, if we fight."

He spat the verses with serpentine intensity, almond eyes locked on Priam's green. Priam blanched a bit, sending his scar into vivid relief.

"You -- you're right, of course. We must remember we are partners."

He turned away, then put on a smile like the sun, as dazzling as it was false. It was extremely dazzling.

"Very well, let's meet the men I've assembled," he said heartily. "I think you'll find they meet your specifications exactly, my friend. And I have another ally you will approve, though she knows it not ..."

* * *

Galehodin rode slowly away from the jousting lanes with a feeling of pride that shed its mask of unreality more and more every minute. It all seemed like a dream, but it had really happened, and now she bore Sir Donar Hrothgarson's arms on her saddle as her first trophy!

And the master of the lists had told her to return tomorrow, when she would joust again ...

She rode up a hill, between colorful stalls offering meats and pies from a dozen distant lands. She had no money, so she looked away, even though her stomach growled.

She looked around, scanning the crowds. Camelot, as always, lit up the distance, its silver and gold towers reflecting the sun's gleam as if they were glowing from within. Silvered armor winked like reflections of Camelot's glory, as the great knights moved slowly amid the bright hues of the petty nobles and the darker, but still distinctly colored, garments of the common folk. There was a great deal of rose in the muslin this year -- perhaps some merchant had brought in a shipment of rose-colored dye ...

And there he was. Leaning, as before, against an anvil in the shade of a tent. Peeling off flakes of stone from a large rock with the edge of a poignard whose black metal showed tiny spots of silver, like stars in the night sky. Watching the great knights and their entourages with a mocking curl of his thin lips, a narrowing of his angled, almond eyes.

Forge.

"Ye've done well," he said as she trotted over to him.

"Thanks to you, I imagine," she said. "My shield is barely scratched! What sorcery did you use upon it?"

The faerie man smiled. "The kind I know. Metal and me, we got an understanding. If any of these great knight's 'ud gi'e me the time o'day, I could show 'em a thing or two about their armor that might come in real handy on a day when they really need it. Not like now."

Galehodin looked at the shield she had won.

"So you do not like the joust?" she asked.

"It's all right, I guess. But it isn't war. No use pretending it is."

"No, I suppose not." She felt deflated. He was right; her triumph was only in a game, after all. "Well, if ever I can be of service to you, my house is in your debt ..."

Forge's head jerked suddenly around, to point at something behind Galehodin. Curious despite herself, she looked. A man in silver was walking -- not riding, walking! -- through the crowds toward her. There was something in his stance that she recognized.

"Sir Priam!"

"Galehodin, stand fast!" he bellowed across the throng. "I've been seeking you for half an hour. I won't lose you again."

"Seeking me why?"

"Just stay right there, I'm coming," he replied. Each member of the multitude was willing enough to step out of Sir Priam's way, but there was often nowhere for them to go that was not occupied by someone else. Eventually, however, he won his way through.

"Brother, did you hear? I won!"

"Did you? No, I hadn't heard. You beat a knight?"

"Fair and square. Oh, I owe it all to Forge here, for fixing up my shield. But it was still I who took the blow, and struck the blow that toppled him."

"Forge?" said Priam testily. "Who is Forge?"

"Why, this fey gentleman here," Galehodin began. She and Priam were alone.

"Well, he was just here," she said crossly.

"Never mind about him. Is that the shield of the man you unhorsed?"

"Yes indeed!"

"By his colors, he's one of those Norsemen, isn't he?"

"Sir Donar Hrothgarsson," she reported proudly.

"Donar Hrothgarsson? SIR DONAR HROTHGARSSON?"

"Do you know him?"

"KNOW him? God's teeth, he's practically a legend! And you beat him in test of arms, did you? My, my."

Far away, someone was calling out for a friar. Galehodin remembered Forge's comment on the games, and her heart fell a little.

"It was just a joust, of course," she said. "Still, I was proud to be victorious --"

"Well, of course you were! And rightly so ... yes. Kneel, Gale. On one knee, if you please."

"Brother?"

"There can be no doubt of your worthiness any more," he said quickly. "Now, kneel, that I may do my duty."

"Oh!" she said, and fell to one knee. Priam unbuckled the heavy belts at his side, drawing his sword. It was not the sword–of-maintenance this time, but the straight, heavy blade that had been passed down in the family since Roman times, it was said. The steel was slightly red, for all that it had been polished, and its grip was in the form of a dragon's curling spine, with its outspread bat-like wings forming the crosspiece.

"You brought Dyrendal?" she said, her voice close to a squeak.

"Priam! Sir Priam!" called the man on the midway outside. "I seek Sir Priam d'Almorie!"

"Who's that?" said Galehodin.

"Never mind them! Now -- Galehodin d'Almorie, do you acknowledge that I am your true and rightful lord?"

Galehodin faced him proudly. "I do, milord,."

"And do you swear to obey me, to enforce the king's justice, and to uphold the virtues of knighthood, so long as you shall live?"

"I do!"

Dyrendal's legend-etched blade rose as if of its own accord to touch Priam on the shoulder. Then it descended. To Galehodin, it seemed as though Dyrendal were a great drawbridge, ponderous and slow yet inevitable in its descent. In that moment, she knew that her life was ending, at least as she had known it, and a new life was about to begin. And just then, as the sword touched her shoulder, she wished it would be slower still.

But it was not. The reddened steel touched her epaulet with a solid click.

"Then I dub you, Sir Galehodin," said Priam, "and I give you the right to bear arms and to mete high and low justice as a knight of the realm, in the name of God, St. Michael and St. George, in the service of King Arthur."

"Priam! Sir Priam!" called the voices.

Priam touched Galehodin's right shoulder, then the left, with the flat of Dyrendal's coppery blade. Finally, he touched her on the top of the head, and held the sword out to her in both hands.

"Arise, Sir Galehodin, and take this sword from my hands to oppose my enemies and those of the King."

"I shall, my lord!" Galehodin's eyes were full of tears.

She stood, and began to buckle on the belts that supported the inlaid scabbard.

"Here, let me help you with that," said Priam, and he got the twin belts around her in three swift motions. Galehodin raised her arms, not far, because her epaulets grated against sore spots on her shoulders.

"There is but one final matter to discharge," he said, a little breathlessly, when it was done.

"Sir Priam!" yelled the voice again.

"He's behind the tent," said a soft contralto. "With a lady, no less."

"What is the last thing, milord?" said Galehodin.

"Hm! Sir Galehodin, you are now a knight. From this moment forward, let no man offend against thee without recourse," he said, very fast, and then he slapped her across the face with his armored glove.

Her cheek flashed brilliant lights, and she thought she would faint. The pain seemed much more intense than such a small blow could produce. As her vision cleared, she saw a pair of the King's servants, in blue and silver, arrive from the side of the tent and point at Sir Priam.

"Sir Priam d'Almorie, I charge you come with us in the name of the King," said the fat one in a grave bass voice.

"One thing first," Galehodin said, and struck her brother full in the chest. He wore armor there, and she wore a gauntlet, but the contact still hurt.

"Well done, Galehodin -- that is, SIR Galehodin," he replied. "That's the part of the custom I've always liked the least."

He turned to the King's man.

"Well, good sir? Were you speaking to me?"

"Sir Priam d'Almorie, I charge you come with us in the name of the King," he said again in almost the same words, as though he were reading a line from a play.

"I hasten to obey, of course. But I have just knighted my sister Sir Galehodin. You will understand that duty could not be delayed, even for the King."

Galehodin wasn't at all sure the King would see it that way, but she held her tongue. The fat man, on the other hand, seemed disturbed by the news.

"You have knighted this woman?" he said, pursing his lips.

"This very moment," Priam replied smugly.

The two King's men held a whispered conference.

"You will both come with us," said the thinner of the pair.

"On the King's orders?" inquired Priam haughtily.

"Aye, in the name of the King."

"Very well. Come along, Sir Galehodin. Our King awaits our company."

"But what does he want of us, brother?" asked Galehodin as they fell in behind the King's servants.

"I have no idea whatsoever," said Priam, but she knew by the set of his lips he was lying.

* * *

The wonders of Camelot, as described by the bards, had entranced Galehodin since earliest childhood. But once inside the shimmering silver walls, she found they had suffered in the translation.

The King's men seemed jaded to their exotic surroundings; they certainly marched her quickly enough past painted men who carried spears, waiting in a samite-walled antechamber with haughty Roman nobles; past wall hangings of golden thread, picturing the family lines of the King back to Adam and Eve in tracks almost too small to see; past emissaries of the Seelie Court, all slim ivory elegance and tinkling glass robes; and past men who plucked fire from their mouths, women who sang and made images of animals in the air, men who turned their hands and showed Galehodin her reflection, aged threescore and ten.

It was too much to take in, almost too much to bear. Galehodin was absurdly grateful when her escort stopped abruptly next to a portal of gold and marble. Priam stopped at once, as though he'd been here before. If so, he hadn't mentioned it.

The escort advanced into the gloomy hall beyond and motioned Galehodin to follow them. Beyond the portal was a high-domed space, nearly as vast as the jousting grounds but all enclosed in stone. High, narrow windows glowed brightly, but could do little to dispel the darkness further down. Candles had been set in hundreds of iron stands at head level, making a second, smaller band of illumination.

A table of rosewood and cedar dominated the room. It was easily thirty paces across, so large that a hundred chairs could be fit around it. Each chair bore a colorful tabard or banneret with the arms of the knight whose seat it was; most were empty. A few, concentrated at the far end of the table from where Galehodin had entered, had golden nameplates set before them, and these were occupied by knights in their silvered armor of state.

A red-bearded knight with large, long arms, whose blazon was a two-headed golden eagle on a field of purple, waved his gloved hand to Priam and Galehodin, bidding them come closer. Galehodin edged up till she was just within arm's reach of the Round Table, not daring to go further. But Priam strode up and stood between two chairs, actually resting his hands on the wooden surface. An image of Priam gleamed up at him from the table's polished depths.

The knight of the long arms then opened his hand, into which a servant placed a padded mallet. He struck the mallet on the Round Table, making a muffled crack that carried throughout the room. Again and again he struck it.

As the third crack faded into echo, the knight cleared his throat.

"I am Sir Gawain of Lothian and Orkney, lord chancellor for this year for his Majesty the King. To my right is Sir Seawold of Eire, to my left Sir Kay de Maris and Sir Lancelot du Lac. Do you know these knights?"

Galehodin had heard tales of Sir Lancelot since before she could talk. She nodded, while Priam answered simply, "I do, milord."

"And are you," Sir Gawain continued, "Sir Priam d'Almorie, from the isle of Lyonesse, whose father was the Pict warrior Maergansheaft?"

"I am, milord."

"Sir Kay, are there any knights known to be present to-day who attained their nobility more recently than Sir Priam d'Almorie?"
"None," said Kay simply. "Known or otherwise."

Gawain nodded, satisfied. "Then I do charge you, Sir Priam d'Almorie, as most junior knight in his Majesty's realm who is presently at hand, to receive from his Majesty's lips a quest. How say you, yea or nay?"

"I could not in all honor refuse," said Priam. His enunciation was as florid and studied as Gawain's; Galehodin suspected he had practiced the lines aloud. But how could Priam have known he would need to speak these words?

"Then kneel, Sir Priam, till one greater than I bids thee rise," finished Gawain with a flourish. The chairs of the four great knights scraped in unison as they, too, knelt.

In from another portal came a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy cloak of blue over gilded armor. His beard and moustache were red as rust, while his hair was hidden by a silver crown tipped with spires of diamond. Where the cloak was fastened at his shoulder, a blue cravat showed, emblazoned with three silver crowns, the mark of the house of Pendragon.

"Please rise," said this man, and took his seat in a chair no larger, no more splendid than the rest. For at the Round Table, all knights are equal, even so worthy a knight as Arthur Pendragon.

"Your Majesty," began Sir Priam as he stood, "I have not had the honor before to --"

"Yes, thank you, Sir Priam," said Arthur graciously. "But please, sit and be comfortable. It's little enough I can offer you, next to what I must ask."

"Thank you, Majesty."

"And who is this, who resembles you so closely? A sister, or a cousin -- surely one or the other?"

"I am his sister, your Majesty. Galehodin de Lyonesse," she replied before Priam could speak. This was getting to be a habit, being familiar with the stuff of legends! She might even get used to it, in time.

"Enchanted to make your acquaintance," said Arthur, and bowed from where he sat. His lords had sat beside him by this time, and Sir Gawain smiled on Galehodin as well.

"I'm sorry to have to take your brother away from you."

"Your Majesty? I don't understand ..."

"Sir Gawain has explained to you the tradition of calling on the newest knight of the realm for such quests as the King assigns. It is an old tradition of ours. Many great knights have been born in the maelstrom of the quest, often without formal training."

"Sir Percival," said Lancelot.

"Young Ywain," added Kay.

"I was thinking more of a young man who drew a certain sword from a stone," said the King with a smile. "Yet you are right, my brothers. Young Galehodin, there is such a quest in the offing, which must be completed straight away. As your brother is the junior knight present, as confirmed by my esteemed master of the lists Sir Kay, the task then falls to him."

Priam spoke up. "And what is this quest, Majesty?"

"You may have heard of the Philosopher's Stone," said Arthur, leaning back in his chair. "An artifact of some antiquity, presented to the realm by Sir Gawain, I believe. A round stone, some six pounds, no more, of leaden hue. Its properties were praised by no less an authority than Merlin himself, so it has always been kept under lock and key."

"Always, that is, until today," said Priam.

"Ye-es," the King admitted. "That is when we discovered it missing. The three Cornish brothers who had keys to the treasury where it sat were found dead in a corner of the stable middens. All three had the keys on their person when they died, and all three keys were found discarded in the treasury. But the guards passed all three men, y'see, because they knew them all by sight."

Sir Gawain fixed Priam with an appraising eye.

"What d'you make of that, Sir Priam?" he said.

"Well, clearly, three impostors were recruited from among the populace, who looked enough alike to your treasurers to fool the guards. I would suspect some actors to be involved, so that artifice could supply whatever nature overlooked."

"Well reasoned," said the King. "And what would you do if I asked you to recover the Stone for me?"

"I would have every mummer and street performer stopped and questioned, Majesty. But we must assume the worst -- that the thieves have received their bounty from the hired actors, and are now leaving Camelot as fast as they can travel. My nearest guess is that they will proceed to the sea, so as to place as many miles between the robbery and their own craven selves as they can before tomorrow. Given a fast horse, I would undertake to race them to the nearest port, arriving before they do and stopping all boats from leaving. That is how I would proceed."

Gawain nodded, then laid his scarred hands on the table.

"What would ye need, Sir Priam?"

"The fastest horse in the realm, Sir Gawain, that above all. A writ bearing the King's seal, authorizing me to stop all commerce and command the aid of such men as I find at the port, since I would be traveling too fast to bring an escort. A fine sword such as Dyrendal here at my side, so that if the thieves be many, I should still face them on even ground. And the false Philosopher's Stone they left in the treasury, if such there was, so that I might deceive them into thinking they had stolen the wrong one."

"What makes you think they left a false stone?" said the King.

"Majesty? It is what I would have done in their place."

"Ah. Then we are lucky they were not as swift of thought as you, Sir Priam, or they might be clean away before we had recognized the theft."

Galehodin spoke up. "They left no false stone?"

"None."

She clapped her hands together. "Then they're not all-knowing, are they? We still have a chance!"

"Ha'e a care, young lassie," said Sir Seawold. "They could just as easily be faerie knights as mortal men. Aye, wi' such trickery revealed as their metier, I'd bet me life on't. And faerie knights ha'e the weird an' wild ways o'the Other Side in their arsenal, against which no man can prevail."

"D'you suggest that Sir Priam would be helpless before their powers? Though he travels inspired by the King's name?" said Sir Kay.

"I know the King's name be plenty to stir my heart," Seawold returned, "but the unseelie kind know nothing o' names, an' as for hearts, they hae none. I'd not take this quest if I had the choice, not alone."

"A pity, Sir Seawold, for alone it must be done," said the King. "And if it be not done, woe to the knight who fails me. Such has ever been our way. I will grant that writ that Sir Priam spoke of, so that all of Christendom if need be will join in the quest. Surely that is enough help for any man?"

Sir Priam lowered his eyes. His hand clenched on the hilt of his jewel-encrusted dagger, while the fingers of the other bunched on the tabletop. He seemed in pain, or torn by desire. The scar on his face flamed red against his sudden pallor.

At last he spoke.

"Majesty. I think Sir Seawold speaks the truth. I would accept this quest, though it would lead to tortures no mortal man can imagine, if it be your desire. But there is one thing that you must know."

Once again the rehearsed quality of Priam's speech struck Galehodin most oddly. He wasn't that eloquent unless he had time to practice, she knew. Of course, the King wouldn't know that. So, she asked herself, what is Priam up to?

"What is it, Sir Priam? It is no cowardice to hold the unseelie in the regard their prowess is due," said the King.

"Majesty, a thing took place not moments before I was summoned here, which I in my heart never dreamed would lead to this dilemma. As soon as I heard that my sister Galehodin had bested a Nordic knight in the joust, my heart leaped with pride. Since boyhood I have observed her mastery of the skill of arms with growing wonder till I could not contain myself any longer. I was moved to grant her that which she has most desired since girlhood, and did knight her on the spot."

"What?" gasped Sir Gawain, and

"A woman knight?" roared Sir Kay. "Have you lost your senses?"

"Silence!" said the King. And silence was.

Sir Gawain watched Priam with narrowed eyes. Sir Kay was flushed, his chin trembling with anger. Sir Lancelot sat open-mouthed in shock. And Sir Seawold of Eire wore a half-smile, looking at Galehodin with new respect. As her eyes met his, he nodded, as if to say he would trust her to ride with him into battle.

Sir Seawold is a great knight , she thought. And he thinks me worthy!

"Galehodin?" said the King quietly. "Is this true?"

"If my brother has said it, you my rely on it, your Majesty!"

"I know it is. I merely asked for the record."

Sir Lancelot moved his lips silently, as he memorized the words. All the great lords were looking directly at her, save Gawain who looked upon Priam with disgust.

"My lords, is there some question that I am a knight?" she cried, aghast.

The King shook his rust-blond, tanned head. His face bore an expression of sadness mingled with hope, and the sort of awe that only comes over a man when he is hurtling down a slope with no hope of affecting his course, only his trust in God to bring him safely through. Galehodin's back and neck went cold.

"There can be no question, Sir Galehodin," said the King in the firm, final tones of the lawgiver. "Since your brother knighted you this very day, you are the most junior knight of the realm. And it is to you, not to him, that the quest for the Philosopher's Stone must fall."

Galehodin's senses reeled. The great knights regarded her with pity as if from the top of a mountain, impossibly far away. She heard in her ears the crash of lance against steel, felt anew the pain of her near-fall.

And that was with mock weapons. Against real steel ...

She looked to her brother, as she had before. But Sir Priam's eyes were hot with a strange, malicious triumph. She could not meet his gaze.

She was alone.

Chapter Two

"Your Majesty," said Sir Gawain softly, "no one bows to me in respect for the law. But in this case, wouldn't it be better to make an exception? Clearly the lad is --"

"Not a lad at all, Sir Gawain, as you'd see if you had eyes," said Sir Kay caustically. "Your Majesty, are we to entrust this most important quest to -- well, to a fine girl, I'm sure, but a girl nonetheless? Say it cannot be!"

Galehodin was shocked to hear the semi-legendary Kay speak so of her. It should not have surprised her, but it did. In the hearthsongs Sir Kay never spoke ill of his companions, among whom she had already counted herself. She saw now that she had let her imagination run away with her.

"The hour of noon is close upon us, Sir Gawain," Kay was saying. "Many squires and men-at-arms are knighted every day, especially this, with so many contests and tourneys being won. I suggest we choose the next knight to be minted, and assign the quest to him."

"Or her," said Sir Seaworld, smiling.

The King stroked his short red beard as Kay spoke again, along the same lines. He frowned slightly, but said nothing.

"She can have had little," said Kay, "of the training a true knight must endure: the long hours of hard labor, the ceaseless pains and injuries of tourney, the mortification of the flesh in prayer that steel a man for the rigors of the quest. How can she possibly succeed?"

"An' if she does," added Sir Seawold, "we'll all the rest of us look pretty foolish, outdone by a woman. Won't we now?"

"You are all missing the point," said the King firmly. "Sir Priam judged Sir Galehodin worthy of knighthood, and we must honor his verdict. Unless she is gainsaid by someone who knows her mettle; not a stranger such as Sir Kay, or even my own self. Well? How say you?"

Galehodin's cheeks were burning with shame. It was true, she hadn't participated in all the vigils and rites of preparation for knighthood -- hadn't been allowed to, as a matter of fact! But she knelt in her rooms anyway, after the sun went down, and said as many prayers as her brother put together. She knew she was worthy -- but would the King believe her?

"Well, your Majesty," began Priam, "at the time, I thought --"

"I did not mean you, Sir Priam," said the King. "I meant Sir Galehodin."

"Me?" she said.

"You. Are you prepared to ride forth in my name on this quest, yea or nay? No one can answer for you, now that you are a knight, none but you yourself. Or is Sir Kay correct, and are you not a knight?"

The King's eyes would not let her look away. With a small thrill, she realized she did not want to. The adventure she had prepared all her life for was upon her, and she was equal to the challenge.

But was she ready? Her thoughts turned to the requirements of the quest. Priam had stated his needs well, a fast horse and King's writ being paramount. But which way would the villains depart? West along the old Roman road, toward Exmoor and the dozens of small fishing villages there, or east on the well-traveled trail through the forest, thence to Salisbury plain and the great port of Winchester? The Exmoor road was faster, but the villagers would be much more likely to remember a stranger putting out to sea from there than would the inhabitants of the busiest port in the Empire. Speed and discovery, or a slow road to anonymous escape?

She was but one woman, and they could choose two courses. Which would it be?

"Sir Galehodin?" said the King.

"Oh? Your Majesty!" she said, startled.

"Will you accept this quest?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. With all my heart!"

Sir Kay stifled a snort. Sir Seawold grinned broadly. Priam looked aghast, then away.

"Good! That's settled then," said the King, satisfied. "You must ride swiftly if you're to catch these presumptuous knaves. What would you have of me?"

"As my brother said, a fast horse and a writ of passage. There is one thing more: while my horse is being made ready, I should like to see the room where the stone was kept. The thieves may have left some small traces which will help me to identify them."

"Let it be so," the King agreed, and gestured behind him. A servant brought parchment, pen and ink.

Sir Gawain caught Galehodin's eye and rose from his seat.

"Whilst the King prepares your writ, why don't we take a look at the treasury now," he said. "Get you ready to leave as soon as possible."

Yes, I suppose speed is of the essence ... and my horse?"

"Sir Seawold will be glad to select one and saddle him for you. Eh, Sir Seawold?"

The Irish knight bounded to his feet with manic energy.

"Aye'd be dee-lighted! No sooner said -- " he cried, and dashed out.

Galehodin blinked. Things were happening quickly around her now! Already Sir Gawain's firm grip on her wrist steered her down the long white halls, around corners and through gardens, on their way to the silver tower with five sides that stood all alone in a courtyard full of apple trees.

Few places in Camelot were guarded, but the treasury was definitely one of them. The sentinels' armor covered them so completely that Galehodin could see nothing of their clothes beneath, even at the joints. Angled fire-annealed steel blocked her view as it would block a spear thrust.

Nonetheless, the sentinels recognized Sir Gawain and stood aside. The interior of the tower was also bright with silver.

"Do they know?" she asked Gawain when they were inside the gate. "They didn't even challenge us. If they knew they'd been fooled once before, I'd think they would be more suspicious."

"If the sentinels of the Tower do know, Sir Galehodin, it's through no fault of mine," said Sir Gawain heavily. "But secrets do not thrive in this court, thank the Lord. They will hear of the theft in time. But with any luck, you'll already have the Stone safe behind these walls by then, eh?"

"Or die trying, Sir Gawain."

"Eh? Of course, of course. But try not to have it come out that way," the older knight said wryly. "Here we are."

The chamber at the center of the Tower was also five-sided, with a heavy stone door balanced on an oiled centerpoint. It swung aside smoothly at Sir Gawain's touch, but it took all his strength to stop the slab a moment later.

Keenly balanced, then, Galehodin thought.

Within were shelves at waist and head height, divided into sections by brass plates of various heights and sizes. A variety of objects, most brilliantly polished but some glowing from their own, inner light, greeted her eyes. Her armor was not well-silvered, but it gleamed with half a hundred bright hues shining at her from every side.

In that splendid company, the blotch of dull green on the floor stood out like a snake at a wedding.

"What's this?" she said, but as she bent to pick it up Sir Gawain seized her arms.

"Don't touch! Poison!" he said.

She felt a flash of indignation at being manhandled by him, but realized he was only acting for her own good. However, she also recalled that a knight was not to suffer any insults to her person, and this surely qualified. Although she was not truly offended, she had to make an issue of it.

"Sir Gawain, a word would have sufficed. You may release my hands," she said, trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible.

Gawain frowned, nettled, but did as she asked. She bent low, examining the dark object without touching it.

"It's a glove," said Gawain helpfully. It wasn't shaped like a glove; it was more like a hank of leather that a horse had chewed. Although now that he mentioned it, Galehodin could see where one of the fingers must have been attached. A round hole, slightly oblong, contrasted sharply with the ragged holes that dotted the leather around it.

"Coated with poison?" she said. What a fiendish way to kill a man!

"Eaten by the Stone," was Gawain's surprising reply. "The Philosopher's Stone corrodes all materials, in time. Anything made of earth is eaten, slowly, like acid. We had to display it in ice, which was hell to replenish, let me tell you!"

"It wouldn't eat ice?"

"Of course -- ice is Water, not Earth. The Stone only attacks impure earths, such as metals, woods, and anything living. Seems our thieves knew that, or they wouldn't have picked it up with a glove."

"But this glove is nearly destroyed!"

"Aye. He must have been holding it a while."

"But -- why?"
Gawain shrugged his shoulders in a Gallic gesture currently fashionable in the cosmopolitan court.

"There you have me, Sir Galehodin. I've no idea why anyone would hold a burning coal on his tongue, either. For that's what it would have felt like."

Galehodin stared at the glove with renewed horror. She had just about accepted the fact that the thieves were probably faerie, but now it seemed they might be mad as well.

"That's -- that's unimaginable," she said, for lack of a better word.

"Aye, you've drawn a fine one for your first quest," Gawain agreed. "Which is upon you even now, if you'll recall. Have you seen all you want of here?"

"Yes -- I think so."

She turned to go, and then turned back on a sudden impulse. Slipping the tip of her dress dagger underneath the ruined glove, she picked it up and speared it against the floor. When she picked the dagger up, the glove came with it, impaled on the fine steel blade.

"Are you taking it with you, then?"

Galehodin nodded.

"It might come in handy," she said.

Lord knew, she was going to need all the help she could get!

* * *

A letter from the King commanding all she met to assist her was waiting when they returned to the castle proper. Sir Seawold stood grinning, a little winded, holding the bridle of a magnificent bay charger hung with lance, sword, throwing-spears and a plain wooden shield. Two squires in Sir Seawold's colors stood behind, holding at rest a sturdy riding horse and a packhorse as well.

"A little trouble with your glove, Sir Galehodin?" called the Irishman with a smile.

"Not mine, Sir Seawold. This belongs to a man who will have more than a little trouble very soon," she said.

"Ha, ha! Well said, young sir!"

They treated her like a little sister, or maybe a brother. But that was good, because they accepted her as one of them. Less experienced, perhaps, but not less able. Their equal.

It felt very good.

"Is there anything else you need, Sir Galehodin?" said Sir Gawain.

She looked at the three-horse train. Everything she needed for a long journey was there; a pavilion for the night, bedroll and spare clothes, even hunting leathers should she need fresh game. She wouldn't have a squire, but that too was to the good -- Galehodin had never had servants, except for a distractable lady's maid who was of very little use to her. She wasn't sure how to behave around them outside of formal settings and the like.

She looked over Seawold himself, armed and armored cap-a-pie in the finest gilded plate. Well, her own borrowed armor was scarcely as handsome, -- thanks to her own distraction! -- but she could forsee little need for ostentation in the woods. If she needed to impress someone, after all, there was always the King's writ to fall back on!

But there was one thing in Seawold's war gear that struck her almost at once. At his side hung a long, straight sword, of the type called a spaetha. Lacking a handguard, it was forged in the Irish fashion like an elongated leaf, broad and curved at the handle and coming to a needle-sharp point at the end. It was a handsome weapon, though one that had definitely seen long service.

Galehodin didn't have a sword at all. Dyrendal hung by her side, but it was not hers to carry -- it belonged to the family and to its head, Sir Priam.

Priam was nowhere in sight. He had always had too much imagination for his own good, she reflected. Perhaps he thought she'd be angry at him -- angry, for giving her the greatest gift anyone could bestow -- not just a knighthood, but a quest from the King!

Beside that glory, carrying Dyrendal was something Galehodin could stand to do without.

"I may have to do without a sword," she said calmly. Undoing the brass buckles, she took Dyrendal from her hip and held it out to Sir Gawain.

"Will you do me the favor of conveying this to my brother Sir Priam? And tell him I could not wait to bid him good-bye."

Sir Gawain's expression was -- strange.

"I will not need Dyrendal's magic where I am bound," she explained, knowing as she did that she did not believe it.

"When magic fails, what remains?" said Sir Gawain. "Just your good right arm, and steel. You don't need any cantrips in your quest. But you'll not want to be without a sword," he said.

He unhooked his scabbarded baselard, a basket-hilted cavalry sword, straight and thick. He handed it to Galehodin alongside Dyrendal.

"When you find the fey that robbed our King -- I'd be honored if the steel in your hand was mine."

"Sir Gawain ..." She felt awkward all of a sudden, and a little scared.

"I don't think I --"

"That's good. Don't think," he replied. "Just take this sword and make some justice. And -- bring it back. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir -- sir."

"Good. Off with you, then. And Godspeed!"

She swung up into the bay's saddle, feeling him shift slightly to center her weight. His flanks bunched and rippled with eagerness to be off.

She understood him perfectly.

"For King and justice!" she cried, and spurred the bay with a jump. Her charger lurched into a trot, then a gallop. He dragged the two smaller horses on the ends of their extra-long tethers, their legs whirling like moth's wings to keep up.

The sun was at its zenith. The silver towers gleamed like fire behind Sir Galehodin as she rode forth from Camelot.

* * *

Sir Gawain was not impressed by Priam's plight.

"So she took yer horse an' armor. D'yer expect her tae go after faerie thieves bare naked?" he said, staring down at the dark-haired Priam.

"As if that would change their minds," Priam muttered.

"Ye hadn't exactly equipped her proper, Sir Priam. When ye knight a lad -- a lass, that is -- she needs horse, armor an' sword, ye know. Why, I had to give her me own baselard, lest she face yon rouges undefended!"

Priam checked the oath he was about to utter.

"Your sword?" he said. He leaned forward, peering at Gawain with a serpentine scrutiny.

"Your sword?" he said again. "What about Dyrendal?"

"She decided that wasn't hers to borrow. I gave it to my squire tae find ye. Did he na?"

"He did not," Priam agreed. "But this does change things. Dyrendal was the only irreplaceable heirloom among my gear ..."

Priam had been worried that if Galehodin took Dyrendal along, he might lose it. His plans for his sister precluded her ever being seen again by the living, but if she were killed on the quest, Priam could hardly explain Dyrendal turning up later in his own possession. Unless he found the rouges who slew her, and took Dyrendal from their dead bodies; no, he thought, that was too risky a proposition. True, he had his invulnerable shield, but the other knights would have Dyrendal to use against him. The odds would be entirely too even for Priam's liking.

Now, however, he could take Dyrendal along with him. It would cow his robber knights to see what the red blade could do, even against a girl like Galehodin ...

"Yes, everything is changed," he said to Gawain. "Naturally I don't begrudge her my armor, or my horse. Nay, I welcome her to them! But it would have been presumption on her part to take Dyrendal without permission. I'm glad she had a sense of propriety about her."

"I'll wager she still does, Sir Priam," said Gawain. "Why speak of her in the past tense?"

"Yes, of course. Slip of the tongue," said Priam. "You're much wiser in the use of words than I."

With that, and a humble smile, he took his leave of Sir Gawain. Gawain watched Priam's back recede, his chin in his hand.

Priam went to another part of the great stable middens to await his hirelings. They had no need to flee, since they had robbed the treasury in disguise; if they had understood their orders, once they handed off the Stone to Raven outside, they would simply remove their makeup and enter the castle as ordinary knights.

His men were not late. One of them still had a trace of paint behind his ear; Priam cursed him for a fool and rubbed at it with a cloth. The other knights bared yellow teeth at their comrade's humiliation.

"All went well? " he said when they were well hidden in a hay barn. "You gave the Stone to Raven, as I instructed?"

"Yes," said the eldest. "He was where you said."

"And you left a false Stone in its place, to cover up the theft, didn't you?"

The youngest knight reached in his pocket with a dumbstruck expression. He brought forth a small rock, black and pitted.

"No," said the eldest. "There was no time."

"You mean you forgot!" Priam shouted. "Idiot! We could have had three days of clear sailing before they found out it was gone."

He turned his back on them, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Had I not prepared for this, we might all be kicking on the gallows by now. But fortunately, I am not as dead from the neck up as you fellows, hey? I have arranged for my sister to pursue us, instead of a real knight."

"Your sister?" said the third knight, a man with a large wart on his nose.

"I didn't think you had a tongue!" Priam observed. "Yes, my loquacious friend, I said my sister. She has long wanted to be a knight and face death in the service of the realm. I intend to give her her chance ..."

Priam's voice had raised louder than he intended. He didn't hear the page boy in violet and gold until he was almost upon them.

Four heads turned to regard the lad balefully. He shrank back, about to run.

"What news?" Priam asked curtly, as if four knights meeting among the haydrifts was as normal as the dawn.

"M-m-message, sire. From Sir Gawain," the boy stammered out.

Priam made a grasping motion with his crooked hand.

"Well?" he demanded.

"S-sir Gawain's compliments, sire, but he c-cannot give you Dyrendal as you request. H-h-he --"

"HE KEEPS IT?" Priam roared, lunging to his feet. His hand jerked the jeweled dagger from its sheath.

"No! I mean, n-no, sire. He doesn't keep it. It cannot be found."

Priam tapped the dagger on the boy's chin.

"Cannot -- be -- found. Is that what you said?"

"No, sir, please, I'm only telling you what he said," quailed the boy. "Sir Gawain, sire, he said he bade the boy take Dyrendal to his rooms, and when he found you, to take you there and give it to you. But the boy couldn't find you, so Gawain went back to get it himself, and it was gone, sire. T'must have been stolen, he said. He's most terrible sorry, sire ..."

"Enough," Priam commanded. The page fell silent, shaking.

"Without Dyrendal, you'll fare the worse," said the younger knight.

"Thank you, my friend; your sage counsel is always welcome," Priam crooned mockingly. Then he spat.

"Dyrendal! Do you think I need a magic sword to overcome a girl? One, moreover, who trusts me as no other on this Earth? Is that what you are saying, thou churlish lout? Hey?"

The knight looked at his companions, who looked away. He could expect no help from them.

"Nay, milord. I'm saying nothing," he replied.

"Good!" said Priam. "I like you better that way. Say nothing and do as you're told."

He turned to the others.

"Make ready, then, you lot. Get into the garments of blue and yellow which I gave you."

"Whose colors are those?" asked the oldest hired knight.

"No one's," Priam replied smugly. "While they're racking their brains trying to remember who we are, we'll just change back again and slip away."

"Now we ride. Galehodin is not far from the gate. And when we catch her, you will see how much magic avails her against real men."

The eldest knight flicked a thumb at the page boy.

"What about 'im?"

Priam turned back to the page.

"Ye-es," he drawled, "he's heard us talking, hasn't he? But then again, his master Gawain sent him to find us. Isn't that so?"

"Y-y-es, sire."

"Then we can't let him be found in the castle," Priam said. He half-turned to the knights, then swung back, driving his dress-dagger into the boy's chest with all his might.

The boy fell, thrashed once, and was still.

All three of Priam's hirelings regarded him with hard faces.

"We'll have to carry him a considerable distance," Priam observed coolly, wiping the dagger on the boy's tunic. "Wrap him up and bring him with us."

He stepped aside. The body fell, a sad little heap, into the hay.

* * *

Galehodin's borrowed bay was high-spirited, running at full clip for more than an hour. More than once, she feared the palfrey and packhorse might be falling behind, but they were game as well and kept in sight.

Just to be safe, Galehodin took the tethers from the bay's harness and held them in her hand, so she would know at once if one of the horses stumbled or lagged. This way, she could let go, saving it a nasty cut on the mouth from a taut-jerked bit.

Finally the bay slowed into a brisk canter, and Galehodin with relief pulled the tethers in close. They were already near the Caracorentin Woods, beyond which lay Salisbury Plain and Winchester. She still thought the thieves, if they were bold enough to hold a burning stone in their hands, would be nervy enough as well to take the longer route to a large port with dozens of ships leaving daily. Once there, they would be as good as safe.

Unless Galehodin caught them first.

She looked back at the other horses, thinking perhaps to switch to the palfrey for the long ride ahead. In the forest, she should have perhaps six or seven hours until darkness, and she wanted to be moving all that time. Chargers were fast, but their wind was not strong. It would be good to give her bay a break ...

Galehodin looked back again, jerked out of her thoughts. There was a little man sitting on the back of the palfrey, leaning against the horse's neck. He was facing back in the direction of Camelot, whittling a bit of steel into a toy soldier.

No, it was not a man. It was a fey.

"Forge!"

The dark-clad elf rolled upon his stomach to look at her, still whittling away. His teeth were a slash of pearl against bone-white skin.

"Haro!" she called out, her heart lifting. "You're the last person I expected to see, by God!"

Forge urged the palfrey into a trot without seeming to spur it. Soon he was alongside Sir Galehodin's charger.

"Forge, by all the saints -- what brings you my way?"

An ironic smile was his only reply.

"Are you bound for Winchester? We can travel together ..."

"You answer me first, milady. What're ye up about in this deep, dark forest? D'ye not know this is Seelie country?"

Forge's smile was sharp enough to split oak. She could not read his expression, for all its overt warmth. What was he thinking?

Well, when in doubt, best to assume things are as they seem.

"I did not know, good sir. But the Seelie are bound to my kind by their sacred Compact, which none who fear my King and their Queen can dismiss lightly."

Forge cocked a head ironically, still silent.

"And even if they did defy the Compact," she went on with a flush growing on her cheeks, "I could not let that stop me. For I am on a mission for the King my liege, and nothing will hold me save death."

Forge nodded, levity fading.

"I thought i' was something like that. Something tae do with faeries, wasn't i'?" he said.

"H-how did you --"

"Rest easy, milady. No mind-trick here from old Forge," he said. "But ye didn't exactly leave under a veil, now did ye? Old Forge hears as well as the next when all tongues are waggin'. Which is it, then -- renegade knights or faerie lords? The tales're wild, but the core is clear. Mayhap an old enemy o'mine's involved."

"Mayhap. We yet do not know. My brother was called to the quest, but he is no longer the most junior knight, so it fell to me."

"Ay-ye," he drawled, a crooked grin returning. "That makes good sense. No stomach for a match-up against the Other Side, has he? Well, it's wise your brother is, so far as that'll carry him."

"Priam is not a coward!" Galehodin sputtered.

"Never said he was. But it's not courage that sends a man over a cliff, is it? No disgrace to fear what can't be fought."

Galehodin tried not to pout. She wanted to like the little man, but he was making it very difficult -- especially since his opinion of Priam echoed the warnings her dark, suspicious mind had been sounding since he knighted her -- God's host! Only a few hours ago!

Why couldn't he remember Sir Donar Hrothgarsson's name in front of the King, when he was so impressed to hear it on the tourney grounds? And when he insisted that he finish knighting her, before the King's servants could speak -- was it out of respect for her, or to insure he wasn't the junior knight anymore?

These speculations shamed her within herself. But she could not bring herself to hate Forge for voicing them, not when she herself had felt them too.

So instead, she said:

"Sir Priam is not afraid of man nor fey. It would be base of me to conclude otherwise. I'm sure he would have been glad to undertake this quest, if only the law allowed."

"Oh, I'm su-u-ure," said Forge, drawing the word out endlessly. He glanced ironically at the sky, then the soil.

"Do not mock him!" she almost cried. "When you mock my brother, you mock me! Would you have it so?"

Forge took his chin in his hand, studying Galehodin intently. She had the sudden feeling of being cold, as though she were naked before his steely gaze. And so it was -- the single orb within his white eyes, where a mortal man would have colored iris and black pupil, was the pitiless colorlessness of tempered steel.

"Nay, Sir Galehodin, I'd not make mock of ye," he said at last, apparently satisfied by what he'd seen. "Have I given offense, please gimme penance, that we'd be friends again."

"I-I did not mean you should do penance," she said. "Only that --"

"Aye, ye love your brother, though he does ye wrong. Well it is that I know that tale, milady! The brother wronged, the brother cast out! Enter the sibling, stage left, burning with the hurts of yesterday, smiles above and soft words below. And daggers in the gut!"

"I've played that role a hundred times, here and there and everywhere. I've learned my lines, so long and well that it's become all I am. The heat of hate has forged me hard, but I'd not play false with ye, Sir Galehodin. Not when your family-love's put ye in such harm's way."

It was the longest speech she had heard Forge make. It was so different from his usual ironical tone that she could not grasp it at once, all except the last bit.

"Harm's way is where every knight belongs, when her sovereign calls," she said, hoping it didn't sound too pompous. It was true, of course, but she knew she wasn't the best at expressing basic truths.

"Oh, aye, duty's a bitch but ye married her wi' your eyes open," he said, relapsing to banter without a hint of the bitterness that had flared and gone like a summer squall. "But this one's worse than most. It's Excalibur they've stolen, then, is it?"

Galehodin blinked. Steal Excalibur, sword of the King?

"Oh. It's not. Perhaps the regalia, then, the diamonds an' gold?" Forge guessed.

"No, nothing like that. Only a relic called the Philosopher's Stone."

"Great Gulfs of Cold and Dark!" Forge burst out. "The Orichalc!"

"I ... " Galehodin had no idea what "Orichalc" meant.

"It's a little rock, about the size of your fist," she said, parroting Sir Gawain's description. "The thieves knew where it was, and wore gloves against its acid touch. They killed three men ..."

"That's nothing compared to what they'll do next," said Forge grimly. "D'ye know what that stone is? Do any of ye?"

Galehodin felt entirely out of her depth.

"Well, I'd never heard of it before today ..." she began.

"Nay? And well ye did not. If only the thief had been as mage-deaf as ye foolish moths -- listen. D'ye know the four elements, out o' which all things're made?"

Now she was on familiar ground. "Air, earth, fire, water," she recited. "Aristotle. Though Father Hervis always said there was a fifth stuff, called spirit, which was the province of the Divine."

Forge waved a hand in irritation. "O' course there is! But stick to the point. D'ye know about PHLOGISTON, the element of fire? An' ALKAHEST, the essential water?"

"I've heard of the Alkahest. It dissolves whatever it touches," she said.

"Exactly! Sech things as water does, pure water does best. Well, the essential element o' Earth is the ORICHALC, the all-metal. It's the one stuff that I cannae bend, wi' all my craft in working metals. Hardest of the hard, purest of the pure. Students of nature, like myself, ha' striven for centuries to isolate the merest mote o' the pure Orichalc itself. But we never did, not but once in a thousand years."

Galehodin nodded. "And the Philosopher's Stone ..."

"Aye! It's the clear quill, a hundred per centum. Six pounds o' Orichalc itself, distilled down from a mountain or more o' silver an' gold. T'was one of the greatest artifacts o' the faerie realm, a symbol o' all we can do that mortal man cannae match."

"But Sir Gawaine brought it back from Caer Glass as a trophy, a curiosity," Galehodin protested.

"That's because he had no idea what it was!" said Forge, near to bursting. "Wi' that little stone, ye can make lead into gold. Change the proportions of earth to water a wee bit, and ye make seawater into diamonds. Sand into beefsteak. Mud into men and women, as real as ye like."

"Surely not!"

"It's been done once before, han't it? And not too far back, either. Whoever made off wi' this little beauty," Forge said, "is King o' the World. All he needs is a little time to make himself a crown."

Galehodin's face showed the shock and horror she felt. If Forge was right -- and she'd no reason to doubt his faerie wisdom -- there was more riding on her quest than her own personal honor, or that of her family. It might actually mean life or death for the entire realm!

She shook her head. She would not, she could not accept Forge's conclusions. Nothing had happened; the sun still shone through tangled branches above, the turf and loam still clumped under her horse's hooves as he walked beneath her. And yet day was suddenly turned into night, life brought face to face with grinning death, by nothing more than the power of a few words.

Not for the first time, she felt as though she were under a spell. The little man had transformed her world as completely as Sir Priam had this morning. She shook her head again, hoping to snap matters back to the way they had been.

"It's no use denying it, milady," said Forge. "But take heart. Whoever stole the Stone can't know its true powers, or else we'd be breathing fire or mercury by now, as it pleased him. Nay, I think the thieves are just carrying it t'their paymaster, th' one who knows how to use it. An' if we catch 'em before they get there -- well, Queen of the World's a fine job if ye can get it, or isn't it?"

Galehodin fixed Forge with a disbelieving look.

"I would not make myself any kind of a Queen, even if I could," she said. "I know my station in life."

"Says the girl in armor, riding to quest."

"Forge!"

"Well, ye must admit, it's a bloody unusual station ye've chosen, now, isn't it? And ye did have to choose it -- it wasn't about to choose you."

All this was true. But she did not want to use the Stone for gain -- even if she knew how, which she was sure she did not. She just wanted to bring it back to Camelot in triumph, proving herself once and for all. A title and lands would be nice, but hardly essential, mere tokens of the glory she wanted to seize.

But Forge -- he was something else again. The little fey seemed to have a pretty clear idea of how to use the Stone. Would he be content to put it back in the box, once he got his hands around it? Might he not be tempted to use his knowledge to become, as he said, "King of the World?"

A ridiculous phrase, only this morning. Now -- did she dare trust him to continue on her quest?

She looked over at Forge, but he was not looking at her. He glanced backward over his shoulder, caught by a dissonant movement or a strange reflection. There was a bend in the trail about fifty yards back that seemed to hold him fascinated ...

* * *

Priam and his men had ridden their horses near to death. They passed only one man, whom they left in pieces under a hedge. Priam kept his dark eyes straining to the limit for a sight of his sister.

He spied three horses through the trees. There was someone else riding with Galehodin, someone small. Whoever it was, he looked back, and almond eyes flashed under a dark hood.

A fey!

Priam nearly fell from his saddle. Cold fear gripped his belly, despite the reassuring smoothness of his faerie shield. Cautiously, he waved his hand, motioning the three knights to ride on past him. As they did, he drew his sword.

* * *

Galehodin peered at the spot that Forge was examining. She thought she saw a bit of movement.

A second later, the wildlife burst into squawking, scrambling motion all around them. A family of rabbits rushed across the trail in a close grouping, making for the distance with great stammering hops. Birds exploded from every tree and bush in the vicinity, fleeing upwards like ashes from a drenched fire. She heard the bleat of red deer and saw a bluish-green lizard leap from tree to tree on fans of skin under its arms.

Forge was off her horse and on the ground in one step, as smoothly as if his horse were still. In another instant, he unslung and strung his bow, nocking an arrow as he knelt behind a blackberry tangle along the trailside. His gray eyes had not left the bend in the trail behind them.

"Forge, what --!"

But then she heard it, the thunder of hoofbeats. Several horses, driven hard, had panicked the animals as they crashed toward the spot on the trail where Galehodin's little convoy stood idle. She barely had time to turn her charger around --

And they were upon her. Three horses, swathed in yellow and blue, rounded the bend at speed, weapons held high. They saw her and pointed, the leader in half-plate and high bucket helm lowering his lance as he spurred into a full-tilt gallop, taking the lead of his two companions. She saw his lance drop to fighting trim, its head growing enormously as it arrowed toward her at the speed of a maddened horse. The head was not the basket-cup of a jousting lance, but real iron, forged and worked to a cruel point.

Forge loosed an arrow that glanced from the lead knight's armor. Galehodin's lance and shield were on the packhorse behind her; she felt a tug on the reins as her other horses, not war-trained, stirred in panic. She let them go.

Galehodin wore her sword on the right, so as not to interfere with the shield on her left arm. But the shield wasn't there.

She crossed her left arm over her body and tore Sir Gawain's baselard from her side, bringing it up in front of her just in time to deflect the lance of the charging knight. The shock of impact traveled down her arm, bending it back at the shoulder and sending the sword spinning from her numbed fingers. She spun in the saddle, her upper body facing left while her legs sat straight ahead, but by digging her heels into the stirrups, she stayed in the saddle. The knight went charging by.

But now she had no sword, and the second knight to pass her swung a vicious hooked ball on the end of a chain. Galehodin raised both arms to block, and the chain bent around the bracers on her forearms, sending the ball glancing off her back instead of soundly into her head. The chain hooked in her shoulder-plate and pulled her backward for a second, then gave; only her deathgrip on the saddlehorn saved her from crashing to earth.

And then the third knight came along, raising an axe on high, and she knew she could not hang on if he struck her. So she let go, falling from the saddle at once, but kicking her stirrup free so she landed on her feet. The charging horse's forequarters struck her like an avalanche and clipped her, spinning, to the ground.

Galehodin came to hands and knees, bruised and sore in every limb. Spots like bits of melted silver swam in her eyes, drifting aimlessly like the spots of sunlight on the ground. The three knights were turning, they were coming back, and her weapons were on the packhorse --

No! The packhorse had run off with the palfrey. All that remained to her was her warhorse, now turning to meet the foe with defiance in his great brown eyes. But she could not hope to justify his stout confidence in her at odds of three to one, unarmed, with no means of hurting her enemies and no shield of her own.

In this extremity, Galehodin was pleased to see that her mind did not desert her. Gawain's baselard had flown off to the left and behind her; therefore, it must be over there, beside a stand of black walnut trees. If only she could find it before they were on her!

She started across the trail, and as if they were waiting for a signal, the three knights charged again. Details were supernally clear in that endless moment; she saw they all wore the same device, a lion couchant in gold on a field blue. They wore no differences to distinguish them from each other; they must be household knights, she reckoned, without holdings of their own.

Their horses were tired, lathered with sweat and foaming at the bit where blood streaked the metal. They must have ridden hard since leaving Camelot, practically on her heels. But they had enough spirit left in them to cross the fragile distance between them and their prey; and Galehodin knew, even as she took the second step toward the walnut grove, that she would not even be halfway to her goal when the first horseman cut her down.

Right now, that didn't seem to matter a great deal. She kept running.

The lead knight was the one with the lance, now broken off just below the iron point. He had no helmet save an iron cap; his teeth were yellow, very crooked, and altogether visible as he grinned like a savage about to feast on human flesh -- hers.

She still had her dress-dagger, forgotten except where it slapped against a fresh bruise on her hip. Her left hand was useless, possibly broken; but her right still had strength. She reached across her body to draw the slim blade.

Something flashed past her left eye, so fast that she thought for a moment she had caused it by reaching for the dagger. The lead horse stumbled, a long shaft growing out of its side, and the manic grin of the rider turned to open-mouthed astonishment as he went toppling, legs over head, over the horse's neck as it fell.

Galehodin shot a look back at Forge. He held his bow absolutely steady, his eyes dark slits as menacing as murder holes. He was already reaching for another arrow -- no, not an arrow. The thing he drew over his shoulder was too long for an arrow, too thick. It