1. The Messengers

Dinadan

Sir Dinadan of Camelot, knight of the Fellowship of King Arthur's Round Table, emissary of Emperor Alis of Constantinople to the Seljuk Turks, sniffed cautiously at his left armpit. It smelled very bad.

"Shallow breathing, lad," he murmured to himself. "And through the mouth."

The worst thing about traveling in the exotic Orient, Dinadan reflected, was that at least in the bits he'd seen, water was far too precious to waste on such trivial matters as bathing. He and his fellow ambassadors from the imperial court had been three days in the rocky wilderness of Cappadocia, hoarding every drop in their water bags as drink for themselves and their mounts. In England, over the same distance, they would have crossed at least a dozen streams or rivers, but here they found mostly dry gulleys.

They came to one of these gulleys now, deep enough to provide shade even at midday. The leader of their party—a gray-bearded dignitary named Paulos—called out in Greek that they would stop there until the worst heat of the day was past. Paulos then tried to communicate the same message to Dinadan by pantomime. Dinadan had actually understood the Greek command, but he let Paulos proceed. He saw no reason for everyone to know how much Greek he had learned. Besides, watching the austere Paulos try to act out the concept of "midday sun" was too precious to miss.

Dinadan concealed his amusement, though. The imperial ambassadors were noted for their grim seriousness, which may have been simply their nature or may have been because of the gravity of their mission. They were trying to avert war between the empire and the Seljuks. The emperor of Constantinople, who had been on the throne only three months but whom people were already calling Alis the Deranged, had managed to insult nearly everyone he encountered, most notably Tugril Bey, ruler of the Seljuks, in a private letter. This bey evidently took himself very seriously, calling himself the Phoenix of Araby because (he declared) under his rule, the majesty of the great caliphs was rising from the ashes. No one knew the exact contents of the unstable Alis's letter to the bey, but it was reported that upon receiving it, the bey had begun mustering troops along the imperial border and had sent to Africa for an army of mercenaries. In truth, Alis might have written anything. The emperor, a portly gentleman of more than fifty years, was besotted to the point of madness with his fifteen-year-old bride, Fenice of Mainz, and often uttered the most appalling twaddle.

When word came to the imperial court of Tugril Bey's military movements, a delegation of high-ranking officials was dispatched to try to avert war, and Dinadan had joined them. Dinadan was no diplomat; he was just staying with a friend at court, seeing the sights. But when it had been revealed that the African mercenaries were led by the famous warrior Palomides the Moor, Dinadan had volunteered to go along at once. Years before, this Palomides had visited England, and Dinadan had ridden with him for several months. Dinadan wasn't particularly interested in international diplomacy, but he did want to see his friend again.

Dinadan dismounted in the shade of a large rock, allowed himself a small drink of water, poured a more generous portion for his horse, then took out his rebec and began tuning it. The rest of the party turned eager faces toward him. Whatever they may have thought of the value of bringing an Englishman along on a crucial diplomatic mission—and they had made it clear that they didn't think much of it—they had come to appreciate his music. Dinadan began a lilting Languedocian love song, but broke off after only a few notes. Something had moved at the edge of the rocks.

"Ithe!" he snapped—Greek for "Look!"—but it was too late. A dozen men in dusty robes and turbans had appeared at either end of the gulley. Some held long, wicked-looking curved swords, and others held bows, with arrows at the ready. There was no escape. The narrow crevice that had provided the slight relief of shade had become a trap.

Paulos began speaking slowly in a language that Dinadan had never heard. He knew that the ambassadors, with the exception of himself, had been chosen because they spoke Arabic, the official language of the Mohammadans, but these warriors showed no sign of comprehension. They lifted their swords and stepped forward, and Paulos cried out desperately, "Tugril Bey! Tugril Bey!"

The Seljuk ruler's name caught their attention. They hesitated, conferred briefly, then sheathed their swords. While the archers kept their arrows pointed at the ambassadors, the swordsmen produced ropes and began tying the ambassadors' hands. Soon Dinadan and the noblest diplomats of Constantinople were tied together in a long chain and were being driven roughly through the broken wilderness in the heat of the day. Their captors took turns riding the prisoners' horses. Dinadan was glad he had given his mount a generous drink just before their capture. He only wished he had drunk more himself.

Six hours later, nearly fainting with thirst, the staggering line of captives came to the top of a hill and looked down on a city built along a wide river. Their captors allowed them to stop, and Dinadan slowly disengaged himself from the old man he had been supporting. As it happened, Dinadan had been tied behind the oldest and frailest of the imperial ambassadors, and for the last hour Dinadan had been all but carrying the old man, who faded in and out of consciousness but somehow managed, with Dinadan's arms supporting him, to keep his feet moving. The robed men began handing out water bags, for only the second time since the capture, and the ambassadors drank greedily. At last, the man whom Dinadan had identified as their leader handed a nearly empty bag to Dinadan. Dinadan shook it, grinned ruefully at the forlorn slosh of water at the bottom, then placed the mouth of the bag to his aged companion's lips and slowly emptied it. When it was gone, Dinadan lowered the man to the ground and sat beside him. It wasn't much of a sacrifice, he told himself; they'd probably be dead soon anyway.

They waited at the top of that hill for nearly an hour, until a new group of men appeared. These men wore robes dyed a deep red color and matching turbans. Dinadan guessed that these were soldiers of Tugril Bey, and to one used to seeing soldiers in chain mail and plate armor, they looked oddly defenseless. Then they drew their swords and formed a menacing circle around the captive ambassadors, and Dinadan decided that they looked more than sufficiently warlike. Through cracked lips, Paulos tried again to say something in Arabic, but one of the new soldiers casually backhanded him across the mouth and sent him sprawling. Then that soldier began speaking with the leader of their captors. Dinadan heard them say "Tugril Bey," and two or three times their captor waved a hand at Dinadan, as if specifically speaking of him.

In the end, the imperial ambassadors were rounded up and led away by the soldiers in the red robes. Dinadan, however, was taken by their captain in a different direction, to a stone building with bars on the windows. There, Dinadan was ushered into a cell, where he saw a small bed and—more welcome than any luxury—a basin full of water. The captain cut Dinadan's bonds, and Dinadan hurried toward the basin, but the captain caught his shoulder. With a gentle patting gesture, the captain indicated that Dinadan should drink slowly. Dinadan nodded and said "Thank you" in English. After all, he might as well be misunderstood in his own language than in any other. Dinadan took two small drinks, counted slowly to twenty, then two more. In this way, he got all he wanted to drink over the course of an hour, at which time he collapsed on the bed, and that was all he remembered for a long time.

The sun was high in the sky when Dinadan awoke, in the same position as when he had lain down. He stretched stiffly, then rose for a drink. The water basin had been refilled while he slept, and a small plate of unfamiliar fruits and flat bread lay beside it. Dinadan ate breakfast and looked around. The food had tasted good, and the bed had been comfortable. If not for the bars on the window and the locked door, he could easily imagine himself a guest in a private home. He strolled to the window and stood there for a long time, watching with fascination the city that teemed and streamed before him.

He was somewhat prepared for this sight by having seen Constantinople. Was it really less than a week earlier? That magnificent city had left him breathless. He had seen all the largest cities of western Europe and had even spent time in the shabby, fading grandeur of ancient Athens, but nothing had prepared him for the glistening splendor and nearly unfathomable size of Constantinople. One could fit two dozen Camelots, with their outlying towns, within Constantinople's towering walls. This city, whatever it was, seemed smaller but was still bursting with more people than Dinadan could imagine living in one place, all bustling about on apparently urgent business. Somewhere out of Dinadan's field of vision, someone plucked a stringed instrument, and Dinadan felt a sudden pang as he wondered if he would ever see his rebec again.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the familiar sound of his rebec's strings came from the other side of the door. Someone was fingering the strings, evidently trying to figure out the unfamiliar instrument. Crossing the room, Dinadan began banging on the door and shouting. The door opened, and two red-robed soldiers loomed in the entranceway. Dinadan ignored them, craning his neck to look over their shoulders. Sure enough, on a small table all his traveling gear was heaped and on top of the pile, his rebec. Dinadan smiled at the two soldiers, then pointed at the rebec. Neither moved. Dinadan hummed a tune, then pointed at the rebec and back at himself. "You want to hear some music?" Dinadan asked in English. He pantomimed playing the rebec, humming all the while, then pointed at the instrument again.

The two guards hesitated, glancing uncertainly at each other, then at the rebec. At last, one of them shrugged and fetched it. Then Dinadan had to pantomime again that he needed the bow. This took longer; evidently the guards had never seen a stringed instrument played by bowing. They clearly suspected the bow of being a weapon, but in the end Dinadan persuaded them to bring it as well. Dinadan tuned the rebec swiftly, then began playing a mournful melody of his own composition.

At the first long, quavering note, the guards jumped in surprise, their mouths dropping open and then broadening into deep smiles. Dinadan continued playing, enjoying the guards' expressions of amazed appreciation. From the corner of his eye, he saw a face at his window, then another, as people in the street came seeking the source of the music. Dinadan smiled to himself. An old Greek story had Orpheus charming his way out of hell with his music; perhaps he could play his way out of prison. He played for another minute, then took a casual step toward the door, where the two guards still stood. One of them reached to his right, produced a spear, and pointed it at Dinadan's chest. Gingerly, Dinadan stepped back, still playing. So he wasn't Orpheus.

Then the guard with the spear dropped to his knees, his weapon clattering on the floor, and sprawled forward. Dinadan blinked at him but continued playing. The other guard stared blankly at his fallen companion. Then an arm appeared in the doorway, bringing a heavy club down on the second guard's head. He fell beside his companion, and into the doorway stepped a tall, dark-skinned man with a widening smile. "As soon as I heard the music, I knew it could be no other, my friend." It was Palomides.

"I could have taken them myself, you know," Dinadan replied, lowering his rebec and returning the smile.

"Indeed?" Palomides asked politely. "Then why did you not pick up the guard's spear when he dropped it at your feet?"

It hadn't occurred to Dinadan. "What, stop at that point in the music? In the middle of the secondary theme?"

Palomides' smile broadened. "Yes, of course. Unthinkable."

"I was just lulling them, you see."

"That much you did, certainly," Palomides replied. "I believe your horse is tied nearby. Shall we gather your possessions and leave? I do not know exactly what the bey intends for you, but I think it would be better if you were free."

As they left the prison house, with Dinadan's possessions in their arms, Dinadan asked, "Were you just passing, or did you know I was here?"

"I did not know it was you, although I wondered. I knew only enough to make me curious. Yes, here's your horse, just where the agha said it was."

"Agha?"

"General, captain, lord. The officer who brought you here. I was with the bey when he gave his report. He said that he had thrown into the dungeons several whimpering old men who claimed to be emissaries from the empire, and that with them there was a man with fair skin, a strange language, and the nobility of God. Naturally, I thought of you."

Dinadan rolled his eyes. "Naturally," he said. "Is it acceptable manners in this country to tell one's friend that he's speaking rot?"

"I only repeat what the agha said. The bandits who captured you told him how you carried one of the men yourself and gave him your last drop of water."

"I was holding out for a nice glass of French wine," Dinadan explained.

"Of course. To continue, the agha said that he could not put such a man as you in the dungeons with the whiners, so he brought you to this house, which is reserved for noble prisoners."

"I see," Dinadan said. "So I gather my companions didn't sleep in a bed and have breakfast brought to their rooms on a tray?"

"A stone floor, and breakfast lowered to them in a bucket, more likely."

Dinadan knew he should feel sorry for the ambassadors, and he even tried to summon some sympathy, but feelings didn't always behave as one wished them to, and after a moment he abandoned the attempt. He hoped that they hadn't been too miserable, but the truth was that he didn't care for any of the emissaries, even the old man whom he had supported.

"And so," Palomides continued, "I listened until the agha told where your prison was, then strolled around this morning to see for myself this fair man with the nobility of God. The rest you know. I heard your playing, knew it was you, and decided to set you free."

"Will it be awkward for you, freeing me? I mean, aren't you in the employ of the bey?"

"No," Palomides replied imperturbably. "I am in no one's employ. It does appear that when the bey invited me to bring a troop of Moorish warriors for a visit, he had some notion of hiring us to make war with the empire, but he has a mistaken idea of me. I do not fight for hire, however insulted the bey was."

By this time, they had located Dinadan's horse, stowed Dinadan's gear, and were several streets away from his former prison. "Tell me about that insult. I gather that Alis said something witless in a letter. Have you seen it?"

"I have."

"And?"

"It was, ah, very insulting. The only explanation is that this Alis wished to provoke a war."

Dinadan shook his head, puzzled. "I just can't believe it," he said. "I know Alis a bit—just attended his wedding, in fact—and while he's a priceless ass and more than a little mad, I'd swear that the last thing he wanted was war."

"Would you like to see the letter?"

"You could arrange that?"

Palomides smiled. "I have allowed the bey to think I may still fight for him, and while he has such hopes, I have a privileged position at court. Come."

Palomides led Dinadan through the streets of the city—which, as Dinadan learned, was called Angora—to the rear of a magnificent palace. "This is the bey's castle?" Dinadan asked, whistling admiringly.

"One of his smaller ones, yes," Palomides replied. "I'll take you up the back stairs to the council room. If we're challenged, I'll do the talking."

Dinadan sniffed. "You don't think I talk goodly?"

"Not even in English, let alone in Arabic. Besides, we may be challenged with weapons, not words."

"And you don't think I fight goodly?"

"No."

"Oh, right."

Despite Palomides' warning, they met no one. In fact, the entire castle seemed deserted. By the time they entered the bey's official council chambers, they still had not seen a soul. Palomides went to a carved desk and found a roll of parchment. "The original letter was written in Greek. This is a translation into Arabic. I'll have to read it aloud and put it into English for you."

He cleared his throat, and began: "'Oh, little Phoenix, I write again to you.'"

"He calls the bey little Phoenix?" Dinadan asked.

"Yes, all through the letter. Phoenix is the name that Tugril Bey has taken for himself. His crest is a bird rising from the ashes. He did not, however, like being called little Phoenix."

"I suppose it does come across as a tiny bit odd."

Palomides raised one eyebrow. "If you think that's odd ... well, let me read on. 'Oh, little Phoenix ... again to you.' Here we are. 'I think of your shapely form and supple skin and how fragile you are as you rise from the bath. You are so small, so delicate.'"

"What?"

"'Your lips, so perfect and round, haunt my dreams. Every man wishes to kiss them, but I alone shall smother them with my passion.'"

"All right, I need you to stop now," Dinadan said.

"Are you sure? There's much more."

Dinadan made a nauseated face. "Out of curiosity, does the bey have a shapely form and supple skin?"

"No. Nor is he small and delicate. He looks like a shaved ox, but fatter. Are you quite certain you've heard enough? In the next part, the emperor says that a strand of little Phoenix's hair, which shines like spun gold, shall be snipped off and kept in a locket."

"Please, no. I'll do anything you say."

"But you see why the bey took offense. The emperor describes Tugril Bey as a defenseless girl who will soon be ravished by the empire."

"Girl," Dinadan repeated slowly. "Hair like spun gold. Oh, Lord, little Phoenix!"

"What is it?" Palomides asked.

"You know I said I had been to the emperor's wedding? Well, the child he married, a German princess with golden hair, was named Fenice."

Palomides stared at him for a long second, then said quietly, "I see. And the translators, not recognizing the name, thought it said Phoenix."

"Alis sent the wrong letter. He sent the bey a love note he had written to his fifteen-year-old bride."

For a long moment, Dinadan and Palomides looked blankly at each other. At last Palomides said, "How ... how unfortunate."

That was enough. A moment later the friends were roaring with laughter. For several minutes they could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Palomides recovered first and said, "We must tell the bey. It will make the emperor look like an utter fool—"

"Which is true," Dinadan pointed out.

"But it should avert a war. Follow me."

They left the council chamber and once again found the corridors and rooms of the palace completely deserted. It took them several minutes to locate an elderly servant who was sewing alone in a room. Palomides asked her a question in Arabic, listened to her reply, then turned grimly to Dinadan. "She says that everyone in the palace is in the center court to watch the executions—some ambassadors from the empire."

Dinadan lost all desire to laugh. Without another word, Palomides turned and ran down the hall, with Dinadan at his heels. Down one flight of stairs, through a magnificent open hall supported by huge marble pillars, outside and through a portico, and they were in a crowded courtyard, pushing through a throng of courtiers and servants toward the raised platform at the center of the square. Dinadan saw with relief that they were not too late; the ambassadors were still alive, lined up on the platform, blindfolded, and looking very gaunt and very dirty.

Palomides vaulted lightly onto the platform, drew his sword, and called out a challenge in Arabic. Not to be outdone—or, rather, not to be left alone in the crowd—Dinadan leaped up beside him and called out in English, "That's right! Whatever he said!" He wasn't wearing his sword, having left it on his saddle in the palace stables, but he had slung a short knife at his belt, which he now drew and began cutting free the ambassadors' hands. There was a movement to his left, and from the corner of his eye he saw a soldier leap toward him, sword raised to strike. Dinadan ignored him, relying on Palomides, and a second later, as he'd expected, the attacking soldier stopped in his tracks and fell backwards, clutching his arm. Dinadan went on freeing the ambassadors. "Thanks," he said over his shoulder.

Palomides nodded briefly, then began speaking to the crowd. Dinadan finished with the ambassadors' hands, helped them with their blindfolds, then stood back to look around. Directly across the courtyard, on a balcony draped with silks and ornately woven hangings, sat a large, nearly spherical man. From his jewel-encrusted turban, Dinadan guessed that this was Tugril Bey, Phoenix of Araby. Palomides finished his speech, and Dinadan said, "Did you tell them about the letter?"

"Not yet," Palomides replied. "I simply reminded them that the Prophet and the Noble Caliphs of Islam would never execute prisoners without a trial, then told them I had proof that the empire did not intend war. Now we wait to see if the bey wishes to listen."

"And if he doesn't?"

Palomides shrugged. "There is no one I would rather die beside than you, my friend."

Deliberately, the bey heaved himself to his feet and walked to the edge of the balcony. All eyes were on him as the court waited. Glancing around, Dinadan guessed that about a hundred red-clad soldiers were in the courtyard. The bey spoke in a deep, rich voice, and Palomides let out his breath in a sigh of relief. "He'll listen," the moor muttered quickly.

Producing Emperor Alis's letter, Palomides began his explanation. For a minute there was no sound, but the crowd didn't look convinced. Then Palomides began to read excerpts from the letter, and a low titter began to spread through the courtyard. Dinadan glanced at the imperial diplomats, who were also listening closely, and saw shame reddening their cheeks. In terms of the dignity of the empire, Alis's adolescent gushings were probably difficult to listen to. But the Greeks had sense enough to see that the more foolish Alis looked, the better their chance of living, and they said nothing.

The laughter spread and grew more pronounced as Palomides read longer and longer excerpts from the letter. At last even the bey began to chuckle, then to laugh openly. He held up one hand, spoke briefly to the crowds, then turned and disappeared. Palomides smiled and looked at Dinadan, saying, "The bey says that there is no honor in making war with a ... what is the English word?"

"Idiot? Buffoon? Madman? Priceless ass? Thickwit? Blithering beetle-brained booby?"

"That last one is good."

"So how does an Arab say blithering beetle-brained booby?"

"Beginning today, Alis. The bey says that the ambassadors are to be escorted to the border and released, but I hope you—" A horn sounded from a distant part of the castle. "Wait. That's an alarm," Palomides said. "Not of danger, but of news." The crowd in the court grew still, and the bey reappeared on the balcony.

A moment later, several guards arrived, leading a man on horseback. The man's clothing was that of a courtier from Constantinople, and Dinadan heard old Paulos, beside him, exclaim, "Loukas!"

The courtier began speaking in slow and halting Arabic. When he was done, he sighed and almost fell from his saddle in exhaustion. Palomides said, "He says that he was sent from the imperial court to bring further news to the bey and to assist the nobles who had already come to seek peace. Emperor Alis is dead, and with no adult heir, the empire has been placed in the care of a regent. I did not catch the regent's name—Acor-something."

"Acoriondes," Dinadan said. "A good friend and a man of honor."

"To be one is to be the other," Palomides said. "Anyway, the regent Acoriondes sends his deepest honor to the bey and hopes that they will have peace for this generation and for generations yet unborn."

"Poor Alis," Dinadan mused. "One couldn't help liking the old loony, but his death does seem rather like good news. It makes a tidy ending to this story. Now the ambassadors can return triumphantly, bearing news of peace that they did nothing to achieve."

"To go back to what I was saying when the messenger arrived," Palomides said, "I hope you do not need to return with them. I have been given quite spacious rooms in the castle, and I would love to show you around Angora."

Dinadan smiled. "I didn't come on tiresome state business. I came to see you. Of course I'll stay."

About eight hours later, Dinadan leaned back on his cushioned chair and gazed from Palomides' airy balcony at the sun setting in a peaceful red glow. The towers and domes of Angora loomed black against the sky, but the dark silhouettes were outlined with gleaming gold threads, reflections of the light beyond the blackness. Dinadan took a second experimental sip of the hot bitter drink that Palomides had given him. He would have preferred a cup of wine, but Palomides drank no liquor.

"Try it with some sugar," Palomides suggested, sitting beside him.

"Anything," Dinadan muttered. "Look, seriously, what is this stuff?"

"It's made from roasted African beans, ground up and boiled."

"Do you ever wonder who first thought of roasting beans, grinding them up and boiling them, and then drinking the water? I mean, it doesn't leap to the mind as a good use for beans. Was it some African village idiot, wandering about mumbling to himself and doing bizarre things? 'Hey, you there! Fool! Stop grinding up those beans! What do you think you're doing?'"

Palomides took a sip of his own drink. "I rather like it."

"No, honestly, Palomides. You've had your joke. You don't have to actually drink that stuff. I'll grant that it smells pleasant, but to put it in your mouth!" Palomides only smiled and pushed a bowl of sugar to Dinadan. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Dinadan dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and sipped the hot liquid again. "Better," he admitted.

The dry air of Angora had cooled quickly as the sun had gone down. Dinadan was bathed and fed and dressed in a loose garment of light cloth, and he could not imagine a more pleasant way to spend an evening than to sit on that balcony with a friend, watching the sunset through the growing mist.

"You often get fog in the evenings here?" Dinadan asked idly.

"No," Palomides said. "Never."

"Then how do you explain—?"

"Be still, my friend," Palomides said softly. A tautness in his voice made Dinadan turn again, slowly, and look at the mist. It seemed to rise from the street below, but once it had reached the level of their balcony, it rose no higher and instead thickened before their eyes. Then the mist began to swirl and form itself into shapes. At first the misty patterns were unrecognizable, but after several seconds the spheres and lines settled into a consistent shape: a tall, human figure with curling tusks beside his nose. Where the figure's eyes should have been there were only holes, through which the red gleam of the setting sun glowed. Neither Palomides nor Dinadan moved, and after a second the mist monster spoke, in Arabic. Palomides nodded and replied softly.

"Excuse me," Dinadan said. "Could you speak in English, please?"

The mist creature turned and gazed at Dinadan in evident surprise. "English?" it repeated. "You are from England? From the land of Arthur?"

"I am," Dinadan replied with a creditable effort to sound calm. He reminded his pounding heart that he had traveled before to worlds beyond the World of Men and numbered at least one Other Worldly being as a friend, but the hair still prickled on his head, and he had difficulty breathing. "I am of Arthur's Fellowship of the Round Table."

"Then the stories are true," the monster said softly. "One hardly dared believe that men of such honor could exist. But here you are, proof of that." Dinadan didn't know how to respond and so said nothing. The being continued. "I came here tonight for one purpose, to see these two men whose deeds are already spoken of in hushed voices among the djinn—men who for no gain of their own placed their lives in jeopardy to save others, whom they didn't even like."

Dinadan smiled ruefully. "If you put it like that, it doesn't seem like such a wise choice, does it? It's probably a good thing we didn't think too hard."

The djinn replied somberly, "If you could see, as I do, the torn innocents, the shrieking widows, the fields darkening with blood that would have come had you not stopped this war ... if you could see their grief and pain, you would know that your actions were far wiser than your wisdom would have been. These horrors were writ in the book of time, but God has honored your selflessness and has rewritten that tale for another day."

"Do you mean," Palomides asked in a strained voice, "that we changed the plan of time?"

"No one does that, O Palomides," the being said. "But you delayed what is yet to be. Evil will still come to this land. The Seljuks and the empire will yet make war. That cannot be changed, any more than this Englishman can change the fate of King Arthur."

Dinadan's head jerked up. "What fate?"

"Your Arthur's time is near. His son, Mordred, makes war against him, and—"

"Mordred? Arthur's son?"

The djinn ignored Dinadan's interruption, continuing, "And the fellowship begins to decay from within and fall apart." The being looked thoughtfully at Dinadan's stricken face, then said, "I am sorry. If there is even one more man such as you at that court, its loss will be felt in many worlds."

"I am the least of that fellowship," Dinadan said softly. "And Arthur himself towers above us all." He glanced at Palomides with sorrow in his eyes. "I'm sorry, my friend. I've dreamed for years of finding you again, and now I have to go. I have to return to England."

Palomides smiled. "Do you imagine that you will travel alone?" He looked back at the being in the mist. "O djinn, can you tell us? Will we help this great king?"

"That I cannot say. I can tell what would have happened, but not what will. But I give you, in reverence, my blessing as you go." With that, a fresh breeze blew in from the north, and the mist dissipated in a second. The being was gone.

"In the morning, then?" Palomides said.

"In the morning," Dinadan replied.