Ah! He wanders forth again;

We cannot keep him; now, as then,

There's a secret in his breast

Which will never let him rest.

lDYLLS OF THE KING, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Yet another dusk was falling, slowly and delicately, casting a pearly mauve glow over the landscape. Silence began to reign, as the birds and other creatures of the forest prepared for the coming night.

Two figures on horseback appeared then, moving slowly through the encroaching shadows, so quiet that they might have been nothing more than shadows themselves.

The first horse, a large white charger that clearly showed its primarily Arabian heritage, reached the top of a small rise and paused there. King Geraint sat easily atop the steed as his gaze swept the valley below. "I sometimes forget how very beautiful this land of mine is," he said quietly.

Bedwyr urged his own even larger horse forward slowly, until the jet-black mount was beside the white stallion, and he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Geraint. His eyes, much colder and less soft than those of the King, surveyed the same view. He had no comment to make on the beauty of the sight, however. "I see far too many places where our enemies might well be lying in wait for us," was what he said.

Geraint laughed for the first time in many days, a great booming sound that sent several birds into the air from fright. "Ahh, Bedwyr," he said, wry amusement and rough affection mingled in equal parts in his voice. "You have not a single drop of sentimentality in your being."

"And a good thing, too," Bedwyr replied crisply. "Sentiment did not save our lives five nights ago."

The momentary humor vanished from Geraint's face. He sighed. His brow furrowed now as his gaze swept the valley below again.

Although he could not regret speaking the truth, Bedwyr was sorry that his words had saddened the King. He knew that they were both thinking of the same thing: the attack upon Castle Caerwent, the violent treason that had sent the King and his Knight fleeing for their very lives. The treachery that had made Geraint a fugitive in his own land.

The bitter memory wrapped both men in a shroud of silence.

Of course, the attack had not been completely unexpected, at least by Bedwyr. He had tried so many times to warn Geraint about the enemies that lurked within the very heart of the Court.

But Geraint, for all that he was a good and wise King, remained an innocent about so many things. He looked with gentle, trusting eyes at others and so did not see the treachery, the deceit, the betrayal. Bedwyr, however, fixed his icy stare on those same beings and saw nothing but those things.

Sometimes he felt as if his King and he inhabited different worlds entirely.

One had to give the traitors credit, at least, for not being fools: they had chosen their time well.

Ffynon Gwyl was nearly at an end. As always happened during Spring Festival, everyone, including the King's own guard, had relaxed a little. The medd was flowing generously, and all eyes were on the performers--the jesters and the jugglers and the dancing girls--all of whom had saved their finest tricks for this, the last night of the festival.

The King was enjoying himself. He had, perhaps, indulged a little too freely in the medd as well. Bedwyr sat beside him at the long table, abstaining from the strong, honeyed drink, and watching. Watching not the performers, but the faces of the crowd. His dark, perpetually suspicious eyes missed nothing.

Geraint leaned closer and lay a fond hand on his shoulder. "So solemn, my cydymaith."

"One of us must keep a sober mind in these uneasy times," Bedwyr replied. "If I am your friend, that task falls to me."

The King laughed softly so that no one else could hear. "What would I do without my most loyal Knight, the noble Bedwyr?"

"It does not bear thinking of." Bedwyr gave him a faint smile.

And then, in the very next instant, he sensed that something was terribly wrong. There was no sound of trouble, no sight of an enemy, nothing that would have alerted anyone save Bedwyr, who was widely known to have an insight keener than most men. He straightened in the chair, at the same time reaching for the blade at his side. "Highness," he said softly, "we are leaving."

Geraint squinted at him. "What?"

Bedwyr knew that there was no time to waste in further explanations. He simply clasped a hand around Geraint's arm, and dragged the King back through the doorway and into the corridor. "There is trouble approaching," he said, not stopping, despite Geraint's confused muttering.

In moments, they were moving quickly along the allure-wall walkway, behind the parapets, heading for the secret exit known only to the two of them.

Abruptly, Geraint dug his heels into the stone floor. He was a big man, larger than Bedwyr in both height and breadth, and stubborn; when he did not wish to be moved, he would not be. "What about the others?" he said.

Bedwyr dismissed that concern with an impatient shake of his head. "The people will need their King when this is all over," he said. "And we do not know who can be trusted in the Court."

That truth, simple and painful, brought an expression of anguish to Geraint's face.

Although he begrudged the loss of even one more moment, Bedwyr stayed still. "Do you trust me, Highness?" he asked in a soft voice.

Geraint's tawny eyes darkened until they were almost black as midnight. "I do, of course. I have always trusted you, Bedwyr."

"Then come."

They began to run in earnest then, through the winding passage, to the hidden door. Behind them, what Bedwyr had sensed was now happening. They could hear the sounds of pitched battle being fought. Geraint reacted like the King he was, his body tensing, wanting desperately to turn and run back to defend his castle. Bedwyr's grip, however, was relentless. Bedwyr cared not at all about the huge stone and timber fortress, nor even about the innocent subjects who were undoubtedly dying at the hands of the attackers.

Only one thing mattered to him: that King Geraint was safely away.

They slipped through the exit.

Their horses, liveried and carrying side packs of provisions, stood waiting.

Geraint looked at Bedwyr, a brow lifting curiously.

The Knight shrugged. "I believe that one should be prepared for any possible occurrence," was all he said, not bothering to add that every night for the past month these mounts had been so readied. His job was to protect the life of the King; so he had sworn on the occasion of his colee, and so it would be. As long as they both lived.

Even if the throne were lost forever, even if the land were completely taken over by pretenders, even if no one but a lone Knight still called Geraint by his royal title, Bedwyr would do his duty.

In just a moment, they were both mounted and riding away into the night. Each man glanced back only once at the castle where it rose from the narrow ridge overlooking the river. The black sky was alight with the colours of the fires that now raged behind them.

Castle Caerwent was fallen to the traitors.

Five days later, they were still riding.

By now, they were nearing the southern-most regions of the kingdom, places where few men ever ventured. There were stories--myths--of strange happenings in this country and although few believed the tales in this enlightened age, it was still thought wise to exercise caution.

Neither man knew where they were going, or what they would do when they finally reached the end of their journey. The King was still too anguished for clear thought, and Bedwyr could only stand by and await whatever decisions his liege might make. That was his sworn duty.

As the purple darkness crept more fully over the valley, Geraint gave another weary sigh. "Perhaps we have gone far enough for this day," he said.

Bedwyr nodded in silent agreement. They had been riding since dawn, and both animals and men were tired.

They went on only a little further, soon finding a small clearing that suited. Geraint sat heavily on a fallen tree trunk, his gaze distant. Bedwyr, meanwhile, busied himself with seeing to the needs of the horses, before turning his attention to the building of a fire. That done, he spread their rough woven blankets on the ground.

All of that was accomplished in silence.

Supper was simply dried meat and some bread, washed down with water from a nearby stream. Bedwyr ate his portion crouched beside the King. "Eat," he ordered the morose Geraint.

"I have little appetite," Geraint murmured. He made an effort at a smile. "Have you not always said that I could stand somewhat less flesh on my bones anyway?"

Bedwyr did not respond, except to shove more meat and bread into Geraint's hands.

It was not until later, when the meal was finished and both men lay wrapped in their blankets, that Geraint spoke again. "We have travelled a long road together, Bedwyr," he said, for once sounding thoughtful rather than sentimental.

Bedwyr softly agreed. He was watching the dancing flames.

"Do you remember the day we first met?"

He shifted slightly so that he was looking at Geraint. "Of course."

Geraint smiled at him. "We were so young. Just become ten, the both of us, and already we knew that our futures were forever intertwined."

"You were to be King. I was in training to be your Knight. Of course our lives would follow a common path."

Geraint shook his head. "It was much more than that," he insisted.

"Oh, you always put an emotional cast upon things," Bedwyr said, mild scorn in his voice.

"That is a failing of mine, I know," Geraint admitted.

"Ahh, well, I am so accustomed to it by now that the habit scarcely annoys me," Bedwyr said almost tolerantly.

A slight smiled played at the corners of Geraint's mouth, but he did not say anything.

Abruptly, Bedwyr jumped to his feet, his sword appearing as if from nowhere to rest in his hand.

Startled, Geraint sat up. "What?"

"Someone is out there," Bedwyr hissed, gesturing for the King to remain where he was. He raised his voice. "Step into the light of the fire so that I might see you. Do not show a weapon or I shall certainly run you through."

The man who stepped from the darkness held no sword. He was a mild-looking fellow of middle-years, who wore a slightly bemused expression on his face. "I come with neither weapon nor malice," he said, holding both hands out quite innocently.

"You may come closer," Bedwyr said in a hard voice, not lowering the blade by even a fraction.

As the stranger stepped nearer, they could see his garb. He wore a dark blue cloak edged with silver stars. "Turn aside your sword, Bedwyr," he said in a faintly chastising tone.

"You know my name?" he said, holding the saber as it was.

"Of course. And you know mine. Or you should."

Bedwyr just shook his head. "You are not familiar to me."

The man turned to Geraint. "And you, sire? Does your memory hold my visage within?"

Geraint stared and then shifted slightly. "I remember you," he said at last.

Bedwyr glanced a question at his King.

"Your name is...Maelgwn. You were the seer at my coming of age celebration."

Maelgwn inclined his head slightly.

Bedwyr merely looked skeptical. "That was twenty-five years ago."

"And Maelgwn has not changed at all," Geraint said.

"This seemed a suitable age for me," Maelgwn told them. "So at this age I have remained."

Bedwyr took a step closer. "Be all of that as it may," he said. "What are you doing here now?"

Maelgwn seemed to grow impatient all of a sudden. He gave a slight wave of his hand.

There was a flash of golden light.

Bedwyr dropped his sword immediately, giving a muffled curse as he did so. He glared at his burned hand, and then at Geraint.

The King smiled at him. "Sit down, both of you," he suggested mildly.

After a moment, they did so. Maelgwn settled on the other side of the fire, as Bedwyr crouched next to Geraint.

They waited.

"Your troubles are great, King," the seer said solemnly. "Your castle and your kingdom are in the hands of a villainous pretender, your cousin Griffin."

"We know all of that," Bedwyr said sharply. "It scarcely calls for magickal powers to reveal those things."

Geraint touched his arm lightly. "Hush, my cydymaith," he said softly.

Bedwyr frowned fiercely, but kept silent.

"I foretold all of these events on that day so many years ago," Maelgwn went on, seemingly oblivious to the interruption. "But it seems that my words did not remain with you."

"We were so very young," Geraint murmured.

"And no doubt whatever foolish predictions you made were couched in terms of complete obscurity," Bedwyr muttered, seemingly to himself. "That is the way of your type. Then, no matter what comes to pass, you can claim to have foretold it."

The two others ignored him.

Geraint took a deep breath. "Can you help me now?"

"Would I have come here otherwise?"

"Have you an army to offer us then?" Bedwyr said scornfully. "Or will you merely wave your hand once again and drive the traitors from Caerwent?"

"If I could do so, Bedwyr, I would. But that is beyond my powers."

Bedwyr snorted. "As with all magicks, in my experience. In the eventuality, the power is always just short of what is needed."

"My cydymaith is a skeptic," Geraint said almost apologetically.

"Your friend was the same at age thirteen, as I recall," Maelgwn said. His gaze flickered in the firelight as he studied the Knight. "No, Bedwyr, as much as I would like to, I cannot drive the invaders from the castle. But you can. Geraint can."

"The two of us alone?" Bedwyr said.

"The two of you. Alone. If you are armed with the right weapon."

"And what might that be?" Geraint asked eagerly.

"The Taf Gleddyf," Maelgwn replied almost off-handedly.

Bedwyr gave a bark of bitter laughter.

"The Taf Gleddyf," Geraint repeated, and there was palpable disappointment in his voice. If, for a moment, he had dared to hope a little, the King had obviously been plunged right back into despair by the seer's words.

"I mean what I say," Maelgwn told him firmly.

"Ahh, wizard," Bedwyr said. "The myth of the Black Sword has been told for more generations than can be counted. It is the stuff of crythors. Who knows how many songs have been written about the Taf Gleddyf?"

"Myths are more often than not based on truth," Maelgwn said. "Minstrels are not simply story-tellers. The Black Sword does exist, and the man who wields it will defeat his enemies."

"So you will give us the sword?" Geraint asked.

Maelgwn smiled at him. "Of course not. As your loyal Knight has pointed out, we all know the legend too well. You must find and take possession of the sword yourself."

"How?"

Maelgwn shrugged. "That you must reason out on your own."

Bedwyr grimaced in disgust. "What is more useless than a magick?" he said to the night sky.

"But how do we even begin?" Geraint asked helplessly.

Maelgwn seemed to consider his words carefully. The seer rose. "I can tell you this much. Go first to the Tylwyth Mynydd. Perhaps you will find the answers you need there."

Bedwyr, cautious, stood as well, his gaze leveled at Maelgwn. "And when we reach their mountain, if such a place actually exists, shall we expect the fairies to help us?"

"It is possible. I suppose if they find you worthy, they might well do so. Fairies are an unpredictable race."

"I'm sure," Bedwyr muttered.

Maelgwn started to walk away, then paused. "You must beware," he said, his voice deadly serious. "There are many dangers ahead. Some of this world, and others from worlds you have not even imagined."

The King and the Knight were silent.

Maelgwn lifted his hand again, but this time it was in what appeared to be a blessing. He whispered some words that they could not quite hear, and then, he vanished.

That was the only word for it. He vanished. One instant he was there, and the next he was gone.

There was a long silence in the clearing.

Finally, Bedwyr returned to his blanket, lay down upon it, and stared at the stars overhead.

It was Geraint who spoke first. "Will you accompany me?" he asked very softly.

"Where?"

"To the Fairy Mountain." He named that place as if it were the most natural of destinations.

"To fetch the Black Sword?" Bedwyr's voice was weary.

"If it can be done."

"Oh, my Liege," Bedwyr whispered. "It cannot be done."

"But I must try."

Bedwyr sighed.

Geraint moved, gracefully and quietly for such a large man. He came close and leaned over to see Bedwyr's face in the moonlight. "I will release you from your blood oath, Bedwyr," he said. "If that is your desire."

Bedwyr stared at him, gazing into the face that was as familiar as his own, and knew that Geraint meant what he said. Knowing, as well, what it cost him to say the words. The Knight shook his head. "Death is the only release," he said.

"That is not an answer," Geraint replied.

"I have no desire to be released from my oath," Bedwyr said. He gave a wry smile. "Unless my King desires to be rid of my irritating presence."

Geraint grinned. "There have been moments over the years." Then he rolled away and returned to his own blanket. "I need you. If you will come."

"I will go with you. Of course. Although--"

"Although?" Geraint encouraged softly.

"I do not believe a word of what that seer has told us. And I sense trouble ahead if we attempt this folly. But if you will face it, Geraint, I will face it. That is the way of my life."

"By your father's decision when you were ten?" There was doubt in Geraint's tone. "Or by your own choice?"

"Every choice I have made in my life has been my own."

"Thank you," Geraint whispered.

They spoke no more after that, although both the King and the Knight lay awake for hours under the pale yellow moon.

While he could not have said what Geraint was thinking of, Bedwyr found himself lost in memories. He remembered the boy he had been on that day so many years ago. The day he had met Geraint and his fate was sealed.

His father's certwyn passed quickly across the bascule bridge and through the great entrance. It was a bright spring morning. Bedwyr, in his best jerkin and a pair of new boots, peered through a knothole in the wood for a glimpse of what was to be his new home. He was more excited than nervous, and determined not to let himself be intimidated by the young Prince Geraint.

When the certwyn drew to a stop in front of the massive wood and iron door, Bedwyr was restrained by a firm hand form jumping down immediately. "Remember all that I have told you," his father said sternly.

Bedwyr nodded shortly.

They were escorted into the King's public meeting room and presented to His Highness personally. Bedwyr's father, a minor Duke, has seen him many times before, of course, but this was the first time Bedwyr has ever been in the royal presence. He bowed as his father had taught him and answered the questions put to him by the kindly-looking man on the throne.

At last, the young Prince was escorted in.

Geraint was a cheerful-looking boy, sturdy and rosy-cheeked, with brown eyes that twinkled, and a headful of chestnut curls.

Bedwyr scowled.

"This is Bedwyr," the King said. "He is to serve as your page, and eventually, as your Knight, if he does well and pleases you. Do you agree to this?"

Geraint worked to bring a solemn look to his impossibly cheery face, and walked a slow circle around Bedwyr, seeming to study him as one would a horse one was giving consideration to purchasing.

Bedwyr knew well what the young Prince was seeing: a boy shorter than himself, and slighter in build, with skin that was pale not ruddy, hair that was determinedly straight, and eyes that never even considered twinkling. He deepened the scowl.

"Yes, Father," the Prince said. "He will do very nicely, I think."

The remaining details were quickly taken care of, and then Bedwyr walked back outside with his father. Their good-byes were neither sentimental nor lengthy. Bedwyr thought that his father seemed rather relieved to be rid of the son he had never really understood.

Alone, he wandered the inner yard, wondering what was going to happen next.

"Psst, Bedwyr."

He heard the whisper and followed the sound to a small walled alcove, where he found Prince Geraint waiting. Bedwyr glared at him. "I suppose you want to start giving me orders now, right?" he asked belligerently.

Geraint grinned. "Well, I suppose I could. You are my page. What shall I have you do?"

Bedwyr knew that he was making a very big mistake, but his fist seemed to move of its own accord, and smashed into the Prince's smile. Geraint went down like a stone, but then he was up again, attacking. They tangled together and rolled around in the dust, grunting and swearing. Bedwyr was a scrapper but Geraint had the advantage of both height and weight, and he eventually triumphed.

He straddled Bedwyr and grinned down at him form a face that was now bloody and dirty. "Bedwyr," he said in a surprisingly quiet voice.

Bedwyr spit blood and snarled at him. "What?"

Geraint used a grimy finger to wipe away some of the blood coming from a cut on Bedwyr's lip. "Will you be my friend?"

Surprised, at both the words and the unexpectedly tentative tone in which they were said, Bedwyr just stared up at him for a moment. He could see something else now in the pleasant face, something that he had never put into words, but which he recognized too well. There was a haunting loneliness just beneath the easy grin.

Geraint leaned closer, dripping blood. "Will you be my friend, Bedwyr?" he repeated.

Bedwyr swallowed and knew that he had never been asked so important a question before.

"Yes," he said.

"And I shall be your friend," Geraint said; his words had the air of a vow.

Bedwyr finally, tentatively, gave a small smile.

So many years ago.

They had grown up together and had never been apart for more than a few hours in all that time. Bedwyr rolled over and looked at the King in the moonlight. The curls, as unruly as ever, were touched with grey now, and the face bore more than one battlescar. Bedwyr frowned at the scars, each one seeming a mute testimony to his failure to protect the King satisfactorily.

With all of that, however, the man was not so different from the boy. The tone of his request this night--"Will you accompany me?"--had been made in almost the same sweetly sad tone as the question all those years ago.

Will you be my friend?

Bedwyr sighed and closed his eyes. He must sleep. Tomorrow, his King would have need of him. His friend would have need of him.

He found himself lost in the blackness.

Kerr Avon was not afraid of the dark. Not usually, anyway. But this was dream blackness, and he was terrified. His dreamself ran blindly through the endless corridors, searching without knowing what it was he sought, crying out, but making no sound, forced to keep moving by some power, some need, that he did not even understand.

And then, abruptly, he found no purchase for his feet, and he was falling.

He screamed.

And woke.

He was alone in his quarters. One hand hit the sensor that turned up the lighting. His finger stayed where it was until the illumination was at its brightest. At the same time, Avon worked hard to restore his breathing to its natural rhythm. "It was only a dream," he said. "Only a dream."

Yes: only the same dream that he'd had every night of late.

And he still didn't understand, could not begin to comprehend, what it was all supposed to mean. If dreams, indeed, meant anything at all.

He was breathing steadily now, evenly, softly, and the trembling in his limbs had stilled.

Well, it was this mad odyssey he was on, of course. He wiped a hand across his sweaty brow. Either he would find Blake soon, or this whole adventure might well cost him his sanity.

What there was left of it.

Suddenly unable to remain still any longer, he got up from the bed and re-donned the trousers he had shed only a couple of hours earlier. He did not bother with the tunic or the boots, however; who was there to see him now? Everyone but Cally was asleep, and she would be on the flight deck, which was not where he intended to go.

After a very brief walk through the silent corridor, he found himself, as ever, in front of the door to Blake's quarters. Or what had been Blake's quarters, until the fiasco at Star One. Until their fearless, idiotic leader disappeared.

Avon supposed that it was funny; never, in the more than two years that they were together on this ship, had he ever been inside this room. But now, in Blake's absence, he was drawn here regularly.

Funny.

No one else on the ship knew about his visits here.

He slipped into the room, touched the light sensor until a dim glow filled the room, and sat in the over-stuffed chair that must have suited Blake perfectly.

"Well, Blake," he said. "I imagine that wherever you are, this must be giving you great satisfaction. You were relentless in pursuit of my loyalty. My trust. Or whatever the hell it was you were pursuing." His expression was something between a rueful smile and a pained grimace. "I guess you have it now, don't you?"

He stood again and walked around the room slowly, touching a book, a stone from some unknown planet, various pieces of Roj Blake's life. Items, for the most part, of absolutely no significance, except to their owner. And one other, namely Avon himself. Their significance to him had nothing to do with intrinsic worth, but only with possession: they belonged to Blake, and for reasons that he did not even pretend to understand--and did not think he wanted to understand anyway--that gave each one meaning to Avon.

Also funny.

And sad.

Finally, sleepy, Avon stretched out on the bed, unmade as Blake had left it on his last night here, and closed his eyes. Sleep would come easily now, he knew from past experience. The dream never bothered him in here.

He didn't understand any of it.

Perhaps, he mused with his last bit of conscious reason, that is why I need to find Blake. So that he can explain it to me. This was not a conclusion that he would have easily accepted had his mind been fully awake. But he sleepily reasoned that it was accurate.

Blake, he decided, will tell me what is going on.

And then he slept.

At least there was a certain constancy to his life.

Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.

Simple.

Avon huddled as best he could under the stone over-hang, trying to keep dry. The rain continued to fall, heavily and steadily. It did not help that Vila was huddled next to him, complaining loudly. They had both long since given up on trying to raise the Liberator; the ship was simply not out there. All they could do was hope that it was still intact and would, sometime in the not-too-distant future, come back for them.

"It's cold," Vila whined for the hundredth or so time.

Avon shifted position a little and felt the ground begin to crumble beneath his feet. With no time to think, he shoved Vila to the left and attempted to jump after him.

They both heard the sound of his bone snapping, even over the noise of the storm.

"Ugh," Avon grunted, as the pain stabbed through him.

Vila was crouched next to him, panicked hands groping for whatever hurt. "Avon?" he said.

"It's my ankle," he said in a tight voice.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes," he said, although he was far from sure of that.

They managed to move from the treacherous ledge and then had the first stroke of luck. Someone, sometime, had constructed a rude shed of local wood and stone. It was almost hidden by the gloom and low-hanging branches, but Vila spotted it and half-dragged Avon toward the building.

Inside, Avon immediately collapsed on the dirt floor and swore at the pain that was shooting up his leg.

Vila was bent over him. "What can I do?" he asked.

"Fire," Avon said through chattering teeth. "I'm cold."

Vila collected several pieces of old wooden furniture and managed to get a fairly good blaze going in the stone fireplace. He pulled Avon over close to the warmth and tried to take his boot off to examine the ankle, but Avon swore again and shoved him away.

"Leave it," Avon said.

"But shouldn't I at least--"

Avon stabbed him with a glance and Vila shut up. They sat in silence, listening to the continuing violence of the storm.

Avon didn't even realize that he'd fallen asleep until he had the usual dream and awoke in the usual panic. Vila was watching him warily. "It was only a dream," Avon said by way of explanation.

"You don't look so good," Vila said.

Avon realized that he was drenched in sweat and also in real danger of throwing up. "It was only a dream," he repeated foolishly. His thoughts were disjointed and heated.

"More like a nightmare, you ask me." Vila scooted a little closer. "Whattcha dreaming about?"

"Blake," he said immediately, and then wondered why.

Vila chuckled.

"What's funny?" Avon asked him.

"Funny that you're dreaming about Blake."

"Maybe." Avon was hot and cold at the same time. He tried to focus on his ankle, but his eyes wouldn't work right. "I have to find him," he said.

There was a long pause.

When Vila finally spoke again, his voice was not the whining tone that he so often affected. "You will," he said firmly.

Avon flickered his gaze toward the other man. "You think?"

"I know." Vila sighed and stared off into empty space for a time. "It is...ordained."

That was a very strange thing for Vila to say.

Avon wanted to ask him about it, but before he could frame the words, another wave of pain swept across him and he gave into it. Vila patted his arm uselessly.

It was several hours later when the Liberator finally contacted them.

He was in Blake's quarters again.

His ankle was healed, but his mind was in a turmoil. In a few hours, he might find Blake, if the message he'd received was genuine.

If.

He picked up a book, turned it over in his hands for a moment and then threw it against the wall. "Damn you, Blake," he said. "Damn you for trusting me."

Avon felt his shaky control slip even more and knew that he was on the edge of something very bad. Maybe insanity. He looked around the room desperately and then picked up another book and threw it as well. That was joined by a water pitcher, a rock, a small hand-held game of some sort, a stylus, a boot, and anything else he could grab. He ripped the blanket from the bed and then kicked over a small storage chest.

He kept up a low keening sound as he methodically tore the room apart.

Finally, exhausted, drained of every emotion but weariness, he collapsed in a heap on the bed and buried his face in the mattress. "Are you happy now, Blake?" he whispered hoarsely.

Oh, the idiot that wore his bleeding heart on his damned sleeve would love this. He would love to see the rational, logical Avon in this state. He would feel victorious.

And at the moment, Avon didn't even care.

He was willing to be vanquished. Which only proved how far gone he was. He was sliding down a slippery incline and there was only one being in the galaxy who could save him.

He closed his eyes and dreamed of finding Blake on Terminal.

They took care to avoid the small villages and farms that dotted the path of their journey. Geraint insisted, probably correctly, that the plainfolk of the countryside supported him and would offer no threat to their King. His people loved him, he insisted.

Well, Bedwyr could not disagree with that. But he still would not let Geraint show himself to anyone. You could never be sure.

They stopped at midday for a light meal and to water the horses. Geraint removed his boots and leggings to dangle his feet in the cool stream. "I should have paid more heed to your wisdom," he said.

Bedwyr tore a hunk of bread from their last loaf and tossed it to him. Geraint caught it with one hand. "What particular wisdom, my King?"

"About my cousin Griffin." Hatred dripped from the name when Geraint said it.

"I should have killed him years ago," Bedwyr muttered. He chewed the stale bread fiercely.

"I should have allowed you to do so."

"Perhaps His Highness will remember that the next time."

"If there is a next time." Geraint seemed lost in a black mood from which not even the beauty of the landscape could save him.

"I have hope," Bedwyr said.

Two thoughtful eyes fixed on him. "That surprises me a bit. You have not shown much optimism in your nature over the time I have known you."

Bedwyr considered that for a moment, his brow furrowed. "Yes," he finally agreed. "It is rather surprising." He glanced upwards. "Perhaps too much sun has muddled my brain."

At last, Geraint chuckled a little. Finished with the meager meal, he stretched out in the grass and closed his eyes. Bedwyr ate the last of his bread as well, then rested his back against the broad trunk of an oak. He did not intend to sleep and, indeed, did not think that he had, but when he opened his eyes and saw the old woman, he was entirely startled. Her approach had gone completely unnoticed.

In truth, she looked harmless enough. Just an old woman, none too clean, in a voluminous skirt and a much-patched shawl drawn over her head. Bedwyr straightened and, reflexively, reached for his sword.

She seemed amused.

Feeling somewhat sheepish, Bedwyr stood. "You creep very quietly," he said.

"I was not creeping. Merely walking. And how much noise should one old woman make?"

There was really nothing that he could say in response to that, without looking even more foolish, so Bedwyr just shrugged. "Then please keep walking."

She glanced at the man sleeping in the grass. "May not a loyal subject greet her King?"

"And are you a loyal subject?"

She laughed, a rusty, rattling sound.

Geraint stirred and his eyes opened. Bedwyr moved to stand beside him. "What is it?" Geraint said in a voice still thick with sleep.

"This crone desires to greet you, sire," Bedwyr said in the tone he always used when speaking to the King in the presence of others.

"Well, she may certainly do so." Geraint rose and managed to look properly majestic, even with bare feet.

The old woman gave a respectable curtsey. "Highness," she said.

"Good day to you. And to whom am I speaking?"

"My name is Chwimleian."

Bedwyr eyed her. "What word have you of the recent troubles afflicting the King?"

She gave a dismissive shrug. "I do not concern myself with such matters. All of those things are fleeting and unimportant."

"Indeed?" Bedwyr said bitterly; what right had she to dismiss their lives and troubles as unimportant?

She took a step toward Geraint and stared into his face. "I think that you should go back to your castle, King."

Geraint shook his head. "I cannot until I have found the--" At the look from Bedwyr, he caught his tongue. "--until I find what I am seeking," he said instead.

Again, she laughed. "Ahh, yes, the Taf Gleddyf."

Bedwyr frowned, displeased. "How do you know that?"

Instead of answering him, she moved still closer, until her face was scarcely a breath's distance from Geraint's. "There is danger in the magick of the Black Sword," she murmured. "Great and terrible danger."

Bedwyr put a hand on the King's arm and moved him back a step, then interposed himself between the two of them. "What danger?"

Her eyes, very black and too small within her nut-brown face, pierced him. "Ahh, foolish Knight," she whispered. "Your arrogance will be your downfall."

He glared at her. "What danger to the King?" he insisted.

She raised a hand and touched his face. A shudder seemed to seize her whole body, and she dropped back from him quickly. "Bedwyr," was all she said.

And then she turned and walked away.

Bedwyr did not know what had awakened him.

It was very late, the darkest part of the night, when even the moon's glow seemed to fade. He rolled out of his blanket and stood.

The King slept on and Bedwyr watched him for a moment, feeling an indescribable sadness. Then he decided that he was thirsty and headed for the stream that ran at the bottom of the hill. The woods were thick, and soon the small light of their fire and the soft snoring of Geraint were lost to him.

Some small animal was drinking from the stream, but it started and scurried off when Bedwyr appeared. He knelt beside the water and bent to take a long drink. When his thirst had been slaked, he straightened and wiped a hand across his mouth.

It was the memory of the old crone and what she had said that kept him from sleeping, Bedwyr decided. Not simply her warning of danger, but the knowledge that what she had said comported much too closely with his own unease.

And also: why had she looked at him that way? As if she feared him. Almost as if...he did not want to complete the thought. It was absurd; whatever danger lay ahead, he would deflect from Geraint. Or perish in the attempt. No matter what that witch thought, Geraint had nothing to fear from him.

He felt cold suddenly, despite the warmth of the night.

"Bedwyr!"

The King's voice rolled across the woods and Bedwyr jumped to his feet. He ran like a man possessed back through the trees, heedless of the branches that cut at his face and hands.

"Bedwyr!"

He burst into the clearing as the second shout still echoed. "Geraint!" he gasped out breathlessly.

The King was sitting up, still wrapped in his blanket, his eyes wild in a face gone pale. "Bedwyr," he said yet again, this time in a whisper.

Bedwyr dropped to his knees beside him, gripping the King's shoulders with both hands. "I am here," he said.

Geraint stared at him as his breathing slowly calmed. "I woke," he said finally, softly, "and found myself alone."

"That was all."

"I went for a drink," Bedwyr said.

Geraint sighed. "I imagined you had gone," he said. "I felt very alone." He shook his head. "I felt so very alone."

Bedwyr was still holding him. "You are not alone. I am here." He gave the other man a small shake. "I will always be here, Geraint. You know that."

After another moment, the King smiled faintly. "My faithful Knight," he said. "You will not abandon me."

Instead of speaking, Bedwyr pushed Geraint back down and covered him with the blanket. Then he dragged his own blanket closer and stretched out beside the King.

"Bedwyr," Geraint whispered.

"What?"

"Are you frightened?"

He did not answer immediately.

The King reached out and rested a hand against his face. "Are you frightened?" he asked again.

Bedwyr sighed. "If I am," he finally said, "it will not prevent me from doing my duty to you, sire."

"Of that," Geraint said, "I have no doubt."

They stared at one another, Geraint's hand still on his cheek, and neither could have said, afterwards, who fell asleep first.

It was a dream.

That was what he finally decided. The whole thing had never happened at all.

Avon had not appeared beside the med-table, had not spoken to him, had not promised with liquid eyes to return and somehow take him away from this place.

Well, if it had never happened at all, Blake decided, he might as well stop waiting.

Avon wasn't coming back.

Because he had never been here at all.

Blake sighed and closed his eyes. Given the games that had been played with his mind over the years, it was no surprise that he could scarcely tell reality from dream any longer. Except that the dream was better.

Ahh, but it had been good to see Avon again.

Blake had not let himself think much over the past year or so how much he missed Kerr Avon. But now he had to face it; no longer could he deny the pleasure that had flowed through him at that moment when he opened his eyes and saw the familiar figure standing there.

But it was all just a dream.

He blinked back a sudden dampness that sprang to his eyes. It was very lonely in this place. The only company he ever had was the doctor who checked on him frequently.

And Servalan, of course.

How he hated that woman. If he could, he would kill her without a second's thought. She did not come to check on his health, but to mock him. To question him. Sometimes, even, to torture him.

She especially liked to roam around inside his mind, pulling out memories that he'd thought gone forever after what the Federation had done to him. But it seemed as if the past were not really gone, just very deeply buried and, somehow, she had the means to pull it out and expose it to the light.

Some of the memories were strange.

For example: he remembered being a ten-year-old, remembered the holiday camp he'd attended, recalled in vivid detail an entire summer of sunshine and games. But he also seemed to remember that Avon was there, and that was impossible.

Wasn't it?

His memory was faulty, yes, but there was nothing wrong with Avon's, as far as he knew. Wouldn't he have said something, if they had spent two months sharing a tent and--the memories were so detailed--going through a childish but sincere ceremony of blood brotherhood?

Avon would have said something, surely.

And that wasn't all.

There was the Acquatar project. He had worked on it; so had Avon. That much was an acknowledged fact. But now he seemed to remember working with Avon. He could recall standing next to the other man at a lab table, talking, laughing, sharing their ideas.

But it could not have happened.

Could it have?

Blake did not know anymore what was real and what was dream.

Ahh, but he wished that Avon's visit here had been real. It had been so good to see him.

The doctor came into the room. He looked worried and unhappy. Without saying anything, he began to quickly detach all of the wires connected to Blake.

"What are you doing?" Blake asked him, panic rising in his voice.

"Setting you free. She is gone."

There was no need to ask who "she" was.

"But I'll die...."

"No," the doctor said. "You won't. That was a lie. You've been fine for weeks."

The truth hit Blake like a blow to his gut. "Then I could have gone with him," he whispered.

The doctor didn't respond.

Blake fell silent, too. The doctor gave him clothes, waited while he dressed, and then escorted him to a shuttle bay. Several one-person pods were lined along the wall.

"Take one of those," the doctor said, giving him a slight push toward the nearest pod. "Get away from here."

Blake started to climb in, then paused. "Was he here?" he asked quietly.

But the other man was already gone.

Blake wanted to follow him, to force an answer from him, but, instead, he got into the pod and slammed the door closed.

The galaxy was full of rumors, and the sort of places where a lone fugitive was forced to spend his time thrived on gossip. Thus, he was able to follow the adventures of the rebels led by Kerr Avon, but he was not ever able to track down their precise whereabouts.

Roj Blake passed from one day to another in a sort of strange lethargy that was completely alien to his nature. He had not felt so detached since his days as a drugged dome-dweller.

It was like that until the night he had the dream.

The room was dark, with only the glow of a pale yellow moon casting any light. It seemed as if he had been here a long time, as if he were waiting for something, but it was not clear what that something might be.

Then, finally, the door opened, and Avon walked into the room. He joined Blake at the table, and they merely looked at one another for an eternity. Or longer.

"Well, Blake," Avon said at last.

"I've been waiting for you," Blake said, and knew immediately that it was the truth.

"Oh?" Avon said sardonically. "I thought you were merely sitting here feeling sorry for yourself."

"That, too," Blake admitted.

"I suggest you cease and desist, in that case. Your precious cause needs you."

"And what about you, Avon? Do you need me back?"

Avon merely smiled.

Blake persisted. "Do you need me back, Avon?"

Avon leaned across the table and his words were a whisper of breath. "You won't know that until you find me again, will you?"

The next morning, Blake took up the cause again.

So now he had lost Blake's ship.

And Cally was dead.

Avon stared at his hands thoughtfully, with a sort of detached curiosity. Everything he touched, it seemed, was doomed to destruction.

And Blake was dead anyway, so what difference did any of it make?

It was more difficult on this ship than it had been on the LIBERATOR to have any privacy, but he had managed to find himself a small hole into which he could crawl and be left alone.

He was in a strange mood. Feverish one moment, resigned the next. Sad beyond words and then almost giddy. Was this true madness? He supposed it might be. And who could blame him?

He leaned forward and rested his head on his knees.

The others had no idea of how he was feeling, Avon was sure of that. With them, he kept the charade going. Vila might--probably did--suspect that something was amiss, but Avon knew that he would never say anything to the rest.

Avon closed his eyes.

Blake was dead.

Every particle of his being rejected that knowledge. He thought back over what had happened on Terminal, the conversation he'd had with Blake. Or with the image of Blake that Servalan had created. Or with the shadow of Blake that haunted his own mind.

It seemed too real, even now in gloomy reflection. And it came to him slowly.

Avon could not have said at what precise moment he realized the truth of the matter. It did not come with a sudden and brilliant flash of surety; rather the feeling spread through him slowly, but completely.

Blake was not dead. No matter what that black-hearted bitch had said. Avon knew this as he had never known anything in his life.

Blake was alive.

Avon felt a faint smile touch his lips, a private smile, a smile of relief.

A few moments later, he fell asleep.

The scent reached him first.

Strange: the smells were of fresh air and flowers and slightly damp grass. Nothing of the stale odors of a spaceship.

Avon opened his eyes.

He was not on the Scorpio. Rather, he was lying on his back in a field, staring not at a bulkhead, but at a crystal blue sky. Curiosity, rather than fear, was his first reaction to this strange circumstance in which he found himself.

He sat up and took a good look around. As far his eyes could see, there was lush growth. Butterflies flitted here and there self-importantly, and a few cheerful birds chased one another through the air.

Well, this was all pleasant enough, he supposed, but how the Jovian hell had he arrived here? Wherever here was.

A sudden and totally bizarre notion seized his mind.

Perhaps he was dead. Maybe this was what the ancient religionists used to call heaven.

Avon chuckled.

Paradise was unlikely, and his presence there even more so.

Given that, there had to be a more reasonable explanation for what was happening.

He got to his feet and began to walk across the field, rather enjoying himself. As there seemed to be absolutely nothing he could do at the moment, he felt no sense of pressure or urgency.

He had walked for ten minutes or so when he saw the body. Dead or sleeping or perhaps only communing with nature, someone was sprawled just ahead. Avon quickened his steps and, as he got closer, his breath caught in his chest.

Roj Blake lay in the grass.

Avon stopped deathly still for a moment, staring. "Blake," he whispered.

Then he ran the rest of the way and fell to his knees beside Blake. He was clean-shaven now, not bearded as he had been on Terminal, although his brown curls were still long. He wore dark trousers, a white shirt with flowing sleeves, and high, laced boots.

Avon could see the steady rise and fall of Blake's chest. He put a hand there lightly, and felt the steady heartbeat. He smiled. Blake was alive. Avon brushed several errant curls back from Blake's face.

Perhaps he should reconsider the notion of heaven. Could one person ride the soul of another into paradise? If so, perhaps he might be there after all. In Blake's wake, as it were.

He settled into the grass and waited patiently.

When Blake opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a large red and yellow butterfly hovering above him. The next thing he saw was Kerr Avon's face hovering above him. There was a smile on the ascetic lips.

"Well, hello," Blake said. "What are you doing here?"

Avon's face took on its familiar stony facade. "Do you know, then, where 'here' is?"

Blake propped himself on his elbows and looked around. "Apparently not," he said. "It is definitely not the rather dismal rented room I remember falling asleep in."

"Nor is it the Scorpio," Avon said. "Where I fell asleep."

Blake frowned a little. "I heard about the Liberator," he said. "A rumor was floating through the bars and whorehouses that it was destroyed."

"It was," Avon said flatly. "Actually, I destroyed it."

A raised brow was the only reaction to that confession.

"Trying to reach Terminal," Avon added.

"Ahh," Blake said. "Terminal."

Avon eyed him. "You were there."

"Yes, I was. And so were you. But then you left."

There was nothing even faintly accusatory in the statement, but a faint redness rose in Avon's cheeks nevertheless. "She told me you were dead," he whispered.

"I see."

"I would not have left you otherwise," Avon added.

"Of course not."

Avon glanced around them. "All of which is very interesting, I suppose," he said with characteristic briskness. "But it does absolutely nothing to illuminate our present situation."

"True." Blake sat up completely. "Perhaps it's a dream," he suggested.

"Perhaps. But whose?"

Blake couldn't help laughing. "That is the question," he agreed. "It seems very real to me."

"And to me."

He reached out and gripped Avon's arm tightly. "You are here."

After a moment, Avon duplicated the action by clutching Blake's free arm. "And so are you."

They smiled at one another.

Then Avon turned brusque. "Well, there is nothing to be gained by sitting here wondering about it," he said. "I suggest we walk."

"Where?"

His head went right and then left. His hand lifted then and he pointed to the south. "That way," he said firmly.

"Why that way, in particular?"

"Why not?"

Blake could find nothing with which to argue in that line of reasoning, so they stood and began to walk south.

"By the way," Blake said after a period of silence.

"Yes?"

"It's good to see you."

Avon barely glanced at him as they kept walking. "Well," he said, "I am certainly weary of looking for you."

"I appreciate the effort."

"I should think so."

Blake would have liked to say more, but he did not want to irritate Avon, so he kept silent.

It was some time later when they saw the man coming toward them. Avon reached for his blaster, only to realize that he had not been wearing it when he crawled into the cubbyhole of the Scorpio. "Are you armed?" he asked Blake.

"Just this," Blake replied, revealing the small and ancient laser hand weapon tucked into his waistband.

"Better than nothing, I suppose. Keep it handy."

"The fellow doesn't look terribly threatening."

The stranger was closer now. He was a slight, balding man, who seemed vaguely familiar to Avon, and who, as Blake had said, would seem to pose little threat. He was wearing a long blue cloak edged with silver stars.

Still, Avon did not relax.

"Greetings," the stranger said.

"Hello," Blake said in a friendly tone. "This might sound like a strange question, but could you tell us where we are?"

The man laughed lightly. "Right where you are supposed to be," he said.

Avon glared at him. "We are in no mood for word games," he said.

"Indeed? Ahh, Kerr, you must learn to see the humor in things." He glanced at Blake. "Is he always so angry?"

"Mostly," Blake replied. "But I am used to it."

"How do you know my name?" Avon demanded.

"I know many things."

"How about where we are?" Blake said. "And how we came to be here?"

The man studied him for a moment. "You are together," he said softly. "Is that not enough?"

After a pause, Blake nodded. "Yes," he said. "It is."

"It is not enough for me," Avon said with a snarl in his tone.

"No," the man agreed. "I see that it is not." He went silent for a time, gazing off toward nothing at all. "Continue on this way," he said finally. "Before too much time has passed you will meet the ones who will let you know the purpose of your journey."

"Who?" Blake said.

But there was no answer. The man just smiled faintly and walked away.

"You!" Avon shouted. "Come back here!"

But they blinked and then the man was gone.

"This must be a dream," Avon muttered.

Blake smiled at him. "We might as well keep walking," he suggested.

With a grunt, Avon set off again.

Blake walked beside him.

Bedwyr was riding just ahead of Geraint when the attack came.

The late afternoon sun, the hours of riding, the days of encountering no one but the seer, the crone, and an occasional distant farmer working his fields had perhaps lulled the Knight into a certain dullness of mood.

But it would have been difficult to anticipate this attack anyway.

Wraiths were almost impossible to detect.

Even if one believed in them, which Bedwyr did not. Or had not until the moment when the dozen or so bloody, ragged warriors descended upon them, unholy cries ringing out across the land, spirit weapons clutched in their hands.

Terror seized Bedwyr and he merely stared for long seconds.

"Bedwyr?"

The King's voice at his shoulder brought Bedwyr to himself again. He unsheathed his sword and turned his mount to confront the attackers. The King followed suit.

But how did one fight ghosts?

He was utterly helpless until the stone, real enough, it seemed, though tossed by a wraith's insubstantial hand, struck the King in the head and sent him reeling. Bedwyr tried to grab him, but Geraint fell from his horse and landed on his knees.

Bedwyr leapt from his own mount instantly and stood beside the King. "Sire?" he said urgently.

Blood trickled down Geraint's face as he peered up at Bedwyr. "Ghosts," he whispered.

"Apparently," Bedwyr said grimly. He raised an arm automatically, deflecting yet another stone from hitting the King. "I do not think that my sword will prove effective against spirits." He sighed. "But I will try." He pulled both horses into position to shield the groggy King. "Remain here," he ordered.

"Bedwyr," Geraint murmured. "Take care."

Bedwyr gave him a faint, ironic smile, and then moved away. He lifted his sword and gave a yell as he charged toward the wraiths.

It was a hopeless battle, of course.

Mortal against spirits? Hopeless and foolish.

But he did not know what else to do; when Geraint was in danger, Bedwyr had to act.

Bedwyr was only vaguely aware of a strange sound somewhere close by. The low humming noise was accompanied by a strange shaft of light that pierced into the center of the wraith force.

He watched, dumbfounded, as the ghostly forms vanished, one by one. In moments, they were gone and silence once again descended on the clearing.

Bedwyr's first action was to check the King, who had emerged from between the horses and was staring toward a nearby ridge. Bedwyr followed his gaze.

Two strangers stood there. One of them held what appeared to be a weapon, although it was like nothing they had ever seen before. After a long moment, the two of them started down the ridge toward where Bedwyr and Geraint stood. Bedwyr moved closer to the King, his sword held at the ready.

The four men were still several meters apart when the strangers halted. The one holding the weapon replaced it at his side and smiled. "I don't know what they were," he said, "but they didn't seem friendly."

"Wraiths," Geraint said. His gaze became distant for a moment. "We had always supposed them to be myths, until now."

"Hmm," the stranger said.

Bedwyr wearied of the commonplace exchange. "Who are you?" he asked bluntly. "And what do you want here?"

"We seem to be the ones who just saved your lives," the stranger's companion said with equal bluntness.

Bedwyr gazed at him, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Well, he did anyway. Your role is less clear."

A firm hand on his arm restrained him from saying more. "I am Geraint," said a strong voice.

"His Highness the King," Bedwyr added in a sharp tone, so that these men would know with whom it was they dealt.

Now there was a trace of amusement in Geraint's voice as he said, "And this is Sir Bedwyr, my most trusted Knight."

"Seems to be your only Knight," said the dark-eyed man.

The other silenced him with a look and then smiled at them again. "I am Roj Blake."

"Noted rebel and bleeding heart," his companion muttered.

"And this is Avon."

Geraint inclined his head slightly, although it was these strangers who should have been paying respects. Bedwyr scowled. "Are you of this land?" he asked.

Blake shrugged. "We are truly lost. Neither of us knows where we are or how we came to be here together."

That made no sense, of course, but on a day when they had been attacked by wraiths, nothing seemed unlikely.

"Your weapon is unfamiliar to us," Geraint said. "You must come from very far away."

"I would imagine," the one called Avon said drily.

"We were about to stop for the night," Geraint said. "Perhaps we might exchange tales and learn something of one another."

Bedwyr frowned.

"Fine," Blake replied.

Avon frowned.

They managed to put together a meager meal by combining a scrawny fflogen the strangers provided with some edible roots he dug tip around the campsite. Water went into the pot and soon a pungent rabbit stew was cooking.

Bedwyr was not comfortable with having Blake and Avon so near, but the King was apparently enchanted by them, so he kept silent and went to tend the horses. Avon, who seemed no more inclined to conversation than he himself, watched him closely, his gaze dark and unreadable.

"Well," Bedwyr said at last, turning away from the contented horses. "This Blake of yours. Is he a King?"

Something that was not quite a smile appeared on and then vanished from Avon's face. "Not yet," he murmured. "But we still have hope."

It seemed more of a private jest than a statement meant to be taken seriously, so Bedwyr did not respond. Instead, he stepped very close to the stranger Avon and stared into his face. "Know this: if you threaten harm to my King, I will kill you. Just as I will not hesitate to kill your Blake if he threatens Geraint."

Unlike most others Bedwyr had met in his life, this one did not back away from the look or the words. Instead, his lips merely turned up again into what was not quite a smile. "Ahh," he said. "Well, if we're exchanging threats here, do not doubt that I have a certain interest in the continued good health of Blake."

Bedwyr considered that remark a rather brilliant example of understatement, if one could judge by the tone and the expression in the eyes. He nodded shortly, thinking that they understood one another very well indeed.

They walked back to the fire and crouched there, each by the particular object of his protection.

Blake was spinning a tale to Geraint about huge ships that sailed through the stars or some such, a narrative which Bedwyr was inclined to give only as much credence as it deserved.

Still, there was the weapon which Blake still wore safely tucked into his waistband. That was certainly from some far place.

The soup was finally done and each man helped himself to a portion. Blake sat on a log beside Avon and ate slowly, thoughtfully. "These two are on their way to someplace called Fairy Mountain," he explained to his friend. "Apparently, there is a magic sword to be found there."

Obviously, Geraint had held nothing back from Blake.

Avon did not bother to disguise his scorn, which seemed equal to Bedwyr's own. "I cannot see where any of that concerns us, Blake," he said.

Blake merely smiled at him. "Given our present circumstances, Avon, how can we be sure what concerns us and what doesn't?"

A shrug was as far as Avon could seem to go in agreement.

Blake then turned to the King. "Shall we join forces, Geraint?"

Bedwyr wished that these strangers would show the proper respect to His Highness.

The King himself did not seem offended by their attitude. He only nodded. "It does seem as if our fates might be somehow be linked, given that Maelgwn sent you this way."

That was news to Bedwyr.

In only a short time, they were all settled down for the night. Blake and Avon stretched out a short distance away, and Bedwyr could hear them talking softly together for some time. He could not, however, make out their words.

He resolved to watch them very carefully.

A hand touched his arm lightly. "Sleep well," Geraint whispered.

Bedwyr merely grunted in response and then he closed his eyes.

Avon was awake for some time, long after Blake had finally ceased his prattling and begun to snore. Somehow, he sensed that Bedwyr, appearances aside, was awake as well.

That one would bear watching.

Kings and Knights. Ghosts. What kind of a place was this?

Still.

He glanced through the moonlight and saw Blake's profile.

What next? Witches and dragons and who knew what. This was insanity, clearly.

Still.

Blake stirred and mumbled and Avon smiled.

Blake wandered down to the stream, where Avon was washing. He leaned against the trunk of an old oak tree and watched him. Whatever was going on and wherever they were, he had not lied to the strange little man whose name was apparently Maelgwn. Just being with Avon again made Blake into something very like a contented man. He grinned. "So, Avon, what do you think?"

Avon glanced at him. "About what, Blake?"

Blake gestured broadly.

Avon ran several fingers through his damp hair. "I think perhaps that I have gone quite mad, and this...scenario is the result. No doubt I am, in reality, still on board the SCORPIO and will awaken very soon."

Blake frowned at the ground fiercely for a moment, then looked up at him again. "You may well be right," he said slowly. "But I hope this is real."

"Does that mean you enjoy being lost in some world about which we know nothing?"

There was an edge of resigned amusement in the look Blake sent him. "It means that I am glad to see you again," he said simply. Then he turned around and walked back to the campsite.

Neither Bedwyr nor Geraint seemed to have more than a vague idea as to where this Fairy Mountain might be located. Blake would have appreciated something more definite to go on, but since this was not forthcoming, he merely shrugged and accepted the uncertainty.

There was some discussion of how the journey was to be undertaken. In the end, Bedwyr unhappily gave up his mount to them and climbed on behind the King.

It had been some time since Blake had ridden, but the same held true for Avon, so he did not feel at a disadvantage. (It came to him, vaguely, that the last time he had spent more than a few moments on a horse was during that long-ago summer holiday. The one he seemed to remember included Avon. In fact, now he could recall, fuzzily, that the two of them had shared a horse then, as well. Strange. He wanted to ask Avon about it, but something held him back. The time wasn't right.)

Several hours of riding later, they arrived at the banks of a large, surging river and came to a halt. The King and his Knight dismounted with considerable more ease than did either he or Avon. Avon grimaced a little as his muscles objected, but didn't say anything.

"What now?" Blake asked Geraint.

The King, in return, glanced at Bedwyr.

"We shall have to leave the horses," he said after a moment. "Perhaps we might construct some sort of raft and get ourselves across."

"What I wouldn't give for a transport right now," Avon muttered.

Blake chuckled and set off to gather wood.

It took them several more hours to lash together enough of the timbers to make a raft large enough to hold two at a time. Anything larger, Bedwyr feared, might prove too unwieldy for safe navigation through the strong currents. The first ride Bedwyr claimed for Geraint and himself, probably afraid that there might be only one journey in the makeshift craft. They set out as Blake and Avon perched on the bank to watch.

It was a slow trip.

Blake kept his eyes on the water. "Avon," he said, "how long have we known one another?"

Avon sighed. "Forever, it often seems," he said absently.

"Yes," was Blake's intense reply. "It does seem like that sometimes." He turned, finally, to look at Avon.

After a moment, Avon met his gaze.

Neither of them spoke. Blake realized that Avon would not speak, no matter how long he waited. And he himself had absolutely no idea what to say. So, instead, they both turned to watch Bedwyr make the return journey.

"You go this time," Avon said.

"All right." Blake got up and started for the water.

"Blake?"

"Be careful," Avon said, unexpectedly. Blake smiled.

Avon had never been fond of water in large quantities. Once, a long time ago, he had nearly drowned during a summer holiday. Only the quick actions of another camper saved his life.

He thought about that, huddled on the raft as Bedwyr poled them across the river. Blake and Geraint were standing together on the far bank, watching them.

They were in the middle of the river when the first faint wisps of fog began to move in. Bedwyr frowned and poled more quickly. "Does this happen often here?" Avon asked him, as the fog increased with astounding rapidity.

In only seconds, he could barely even make out the figure of the other man only two meters away on the raft, so thick was the cloud. The bank could not be seen at all.

"I have never seen it such," was Bedwyr's grim reply.

Avon gingerly leaned forward, peering toward where the bank had been. "Blake!" he yelled.

They could not be sure, but they thought there was an answering shout. Avon relaxed again and waited.

At last they reached the bank and both scrambled off the raft with more relief than grace.

"Geraint?" Bedwyr said.

There was no answer.

Then, as quickly as it had descended, the fog began to vanish. In only moments, it was gone.

Avon and Bedwyr stood alone on the bank.

Bedwyr suddenly had his sword in his hand as he turned on Avon. "Where is the King?" he demanded.

Avon ignored him, turning to scan the area quickly. "Blake!" he yelled again.

The silence was complete and frightening.

They looked at one another.

Bedwyr began to run along the bank, shouting the King's name, kicking and slashing at the thick growth of brushes.

Avon sat on the ground and closed his eyes. "Damn," he said.

After a time, Bedwyr returned and sat next to him. "They are gone," he said hollowly.

"Yes," Avon said.

The Knight seemed shaken to the core, restless, and dangerous. He glared at Avon, as if blaming him for what had happened.

Avon picked up a stick and poked it into the damp ground. "I just found Blake again," he murmured, mostly to himself. "He was missing for a long time, and I just found him again. Damn." He snapped the stick in two.

"Well," Bedwyr said. "I see only one choice open to us."

Avon looked at him.

"We must go on to the Tylwyth Mynydd." At Avon's blank expression, he added, "Fairy Mountain. That is what Geraint will do."

"I have little hope of finding any so-called magic there," Avon said.

"Ahh, well, in that you and I are of one mind. But my King is of a less practical nature."

"Humph," Avon said; he could relate to that. "So where is this Fairy Mountain anyway?"

Bedwyr nodded toward the west. "That way, I think."

"You think?"

He shrugged. "Have you a better idea?" Bedwyr sheathed his sword and started walking.

After a moment, Avon stood and followed him.

Blake was getting very weary of waking to find himself in some place other than where he had been. He opened his eyes and rolled over. The river was gone. As far as he could tell, he was surrounded on all sides by the high stone walls of a cavern. He sat up to find King Geraint awake and watching him.

Geraint sighed. "I begin to wish that magic had remained only a myth to me," he said.

Blake looked around again, urgently. "Avon?" he said.

"Bedwyr and Avon are not here." Geraint rubbed a hand over his face wearily. "I hope they got off the river safely after the fog descended."

Blake pushed himself to his feet. "We have to find them," he said.

Geraint only nodded and stood as well. "First, however, we must extricate ourselves from this place. I do not think that will be easily done."

Blake kicked at a loose stone and sent it flying into the air. "I just found Avon again," he said fiercely. "I do not intend to lose him."

"He is your friend?"

"Yes." Blake was studying the walls that shut them into this cavern. Then he glanced at Geraint. "My best friend."

Geraint nodded. "Bedwyr is the only friend who matters to me. He is the other half of my craidd. My heart," he clarified for Blake."

Blake did not say anything to that. Instead, he just started walking. "There must be a way out of here," he muttered.

But for nearly two hours they tried and failed to find a path that would lead them away. At last, Geraint called a halt to the useless meandering. "I think we must climb out," he said.

Blake eyed the high stone facade. He sighed. "Yes."

Geraint used his sword to cut a sturdy vine from a nearby tree and they lashed themselves together with its length. "I will go first," the King said. He met Blake's gaze. "I think that if we do not do this both Bedwyr and Avon might be doomed."

"I know," Blake agreed.

Geraint sought a foothold and began to climb.

Although they begrudged the time, Bedwyr and Avon stopped long enough to drink some stream water and eat of the berries that grew along the bank.

"This Blake of yours," the Knight said through a mouthful of the deep purple fruit. "What kind of man is he?"

Avon frowned at the personal question, then shrugged. "Blake is an idealistic fool," he said. "An idiot who lets his heart bleed for all the downtrodden of the galaxy."

Bedwyr looked puzzled. "If that is your true feeling, then why do you follow him?"

"I do not follow. Blake leads. And it never seemed as if I had a choice," was Avon's reply. He bent to drink more water, then straightened and gazed into the distance. "Roj Blake is a good man," he said flatly.

"Like my King."

"Perhaps."

Bedwyr captured and held Avon's gaze. There was a faint smile on his lips. "It can be unsettling to find that one has a heart after all, I think."

Avon snorted. "We better go," he said. "Those two are probably in trouble."

Bedwyr nodded.

Before they had gone very far, though, a familiar figure appeared on the path.

"Maelgwn," Bedwyr spit out. "We have no time for your foolishness."

"You must reach the Black Sword," the seer said.

"Yes. As you ordered, we are going to Fairy Mountain," Bedwyr snapped.

But Maelgwn shook his head. "There is no time for that now. If they get to the sword first...Geraint is in great danger."

Bedwyr stepped forward suddenly and grabbed the seer by the front of his cloak. "Listen, you foolish little man, I am tired to death of your games. If my King is in danger, I want to know all that you know. Failing that, I might well finish you off here and now."

Avon stepped closer and his voice was as cold as Bedwyr's had been. "I have even less patience than the Knight," he said. "Blake and I are not a part of this anyway. I just want to find him."

Maelgwn seemed remarkably calm for a man whose feet were dangling several millimeters above the ground, and whose life had just been threatened. Twice. "Bedwyr," he said quietly. "Put me down and I will speak the truth as I know it."

Bedwyr released his grip.

"I think perhaps you have forgotten the whole legend of the Taf Gleddyf, Bedwyr."

"I never paid much mind to the tales of such things."

"That is a shame."

Avon made a gesture of impatience.

Maelgwn looked at him. "And you, Kerr Avon. By your lifetime, all the ancient truths are forgotten. You have no idea of who you are or what your fate is to be."

"My fate," Avon said tightly, "will be what I choose to make of it."

The glance that Maelgwn gave him was edged with pity.

"We still await your wisdom," Bedwyr said sharply.

"The Black Sword contains much magick within itself, but there is also danger. The first hand upon it risks much. Madness has been known to seize the one who takes the sword from the place wherein it rests."

"What the Jovian hell does that mean?" Avon demanded.

"It means that if King Geraint gets to the sword first and lays hand upon it, he might well go mad."

Bedwyr looked skeptical and troubled at the same time. "Is there no way to prevent it?"

Malegwn nodded. He reached into a hidden pocket of his cloak and came out with a small rolled parchment. "There are words inscribed here. If they are said over the sword before anyone touches it, the spell is broken."

"Is Blake in danger?" Avon asked.

"If he touches the sword first, yes."

"Does Geraint know the words?" Bedwyr asked.

"No. And I cannot give them to him. But I can give them to you."

"We are nothing more than pawns for you, are we?" Bedwyr said bitterly. He took the scroll. "So if I say these words, Geraint will be safe?"

Maelgwn paused. "What is to happen, will happen," he said finally.

"That's no answer," Avon said.

"It is the only one I can give you." Neither of them was satisfied with that, but they did not want to take the time to argue.

"Where is the sword?" Bedwyr asked.

"Continue on this path. You will be guided." Maelgwn turned and started away, then paused, "Kerr Avon."

"What?"

Maelgwn just looked at him, then shook his head. "Never mind," he said wearily. "You would not listen to what I might say anyway. What must be, will be." Then he was gone.

"Fool," Avon snapped.

They did not speak again, but set off walking.

Blake dug his fingernails into a small indentation in the stone and pulled himself upwards. He had no idea how long it had taken them to get to the top. Geraint was there now, leaning down to offer a hand. Blake took it finally and together they got him over the edge of the cavern and both men sprawled on the grass.

He pulled deep, rasping gasps of air into his lungs. "Thank you," he said at last.

"I could not have made it without your assistance," Geraint replied.

After several moments, they both became aware that they were not alone and looked up.

The figure hovering there was not quite real. Not quite three-dimensional. It could have been either male or female. Or both. Or neither. It shimmered palely blue.

"A fairy," Geraint whispered.

Before they could greet the creature, it was gone.

Geraint stood and reached down to pull Blake up as well. "This way," he said with certainty.

Blake just followed him in silence.

"Your friend Avon seems a strange sort," Geraint said after a time.

"How so?"

"He seems to scorn you and your words. Yet he seems, also, very careful of your well-being."

"Ahh, well," Blake said. "Avon is the bravest man I have ever known. Save when it comes to his own emotions. He chooses to believe that he has none. I know differently," he added complacently.

Geraint gave a soft laugh. "Your Avon and my Bedwyr are much alike, I think."

"Quite possibly." Blake wiped at the sweat on his face. "I hope they're all right."

"They must be," Geraint said firmly. "I cannot feature life without Bedwyr at my side."

Blake sighed.

The next fairy to appear was less startling. It seemed to settle on the path in front of them and spoke. "Royal Geraint," it said in a high, musical voice, "I have been sent to warn you away. The danger ahead is too great. Turn around. Return to your home."

"My home is in the hands of my enemies," he said. "I must have the Black Sword."

"Death resides in that blade," the fairy said. "That is why we have kept it safe for many generations."

Blake stepped to Geraint's side. "We must find our friends," he said.

The fairy, still insubstantial in form, nevertheless gave off an aura of sadness. "You must sacrifice them. It may well be too late for Bedwyr and Avon. Leave them to their fate."

"No," Geraint cried. "I cannot abandon Bedwyr. Better never to set foot in Castle Caerwent again than never to see my Knight anymore."

"We will not leave without our friends," Blake added more quietly. "If you know us, creature, then you must know that as well."

The aura darkened at the edges. "Then doom may well befall you all."

"If that indeed be so," Geraint said, "then for myself, at least, I prefer to face that doom at Bedwyr's side."

"You are a better friend than you are a King," the fairy said. Its limpid gaze turned to Blake. "And you?"

"I will not betray Avon," he said.

"Then do what you must. The sword you seek is ahead. Keep to this path until you see the Cynddor Marwolaeth. Then may the gods be with you." The fairy left as silently as it had arrived.

Blake released his breath in a long sigh. "What is the Cynddor Marwolaeth?" he asked finally.

"The Gate of Death," was Geraint's grim reply.

"Wonderful," Blake muttered as they began to walk again.

"As regards what the fairy said," Geraint went on, "I think that perhaps it is more important to be a good friend than to be a good King."

It was a long time before Blake responded. "I think that you are right, Geraint," he said.

Geraint clasped Blake's shoulder, but didn't say anything.

Bedwyr was carrying his sword already and had only to hoist it into position when the little man appeared. He was dressed in the manner of a court jester, tattered garb all in bright colors. He smiled broadly, seemingly not put off by the blade or the twin glares fixed upon him. "I know a shortcut," he said cheerfully. "Follow me."

After a glance at one another, Avon and Bedwyr went after the little man. He led them on a twisted, bumpy path and then over a hill that left the two of them breathless, but did not seem to affect the dwarf at all.

At last, he stopped and pointed. "There is the cave," he said. "But if you want my opinion, you'll turn back now and give up this foolish notion."

"We do not want your opinion," Avon said.

The jester laughed. "Well, it doesn't matter anyway. I think that the sword will soon be taken by another."

Bedwyr started forward. "The King?"

"Ahh, maybe, maybe." The dwarf gave another laugh and danced away lightly.

Bedwyr grabbed Avon and dragged him toward the cave. "We have to hurry," he said, panic edging his voice.

They went into the cave, which was illuminated by lit torches high on the wall. Once inside, they paused fleetingly and listened. From somewhere ahead of them, they could hear voices.

"Geraint," Bedwyr whispered. "He must not touch the sword!"

They began to run, driven by fear such as neither man had ever felt before.

"Geraint!" the Knight yelled.

"Blake!" Avon echoed.

They burst, side by side, into the huge cavern and saw Geraint and Blake standing before a vast stone altar. On the altar lay the most magnificent sword any of them had ever seen. Geraint was reaching for it.

"No!" Bedwyr roared, leaping forward, the parchment scroll falling, forgotten, from his hand.

Avon leapt with him.

Bedwyr's hand stretched out and took the hilt of the sword before Geraint could touch it. As he grabbed it, he also lurched away from Geraint, falling to his knees.

Avon was clutching his arm and fell with him.

There was a long silence in the cave.

Avon could feel Bedwyr trembling and moaning softly. He himself felt a tremor go through his body and cold fear engulfed him.

Finally, Geraint spoke. "Bedwyr?" he said softly. "What is wrong?"

Bedwyr mumbled something that even Avon couldn't understand.

"We have been looking for you, Bedwyr," the King went on in a gentle voice.

Avon finally scooted away and stared at Blake, who was watching him intently.

Then Bedwyr jumped up, swinging the Taf Gleddyf wildly. "Geraint," he said in an anguished, pleading tone. "Why did you abandon us in the fog? Why did you abandon me?"

Avon could see the bewildered expression on Geraint's face as he moved toward Bedwyr. Blake seemed to be ignoring them, watching Avon, reaching out for him.

"Bedwyr," Geraint said, "I did not abandon you. I never would. I was looking for you."

"He's mad," Avon whispered. "The sword has driven him mad." He shuddered again. "And me as well."

Blake only shook his head.

Geraint was still walking toward Bedwyr. "My cydymaith," he said, his voice rough with unbearable emotion.

Bedwyr made a sound that was half-sob, half-snarl. And then he raised the Black Sword and plunged it into Geraint's chest.

The King gasped and reached out, not in self-defense or in anger, but to embrace his assassin. "Bedwyr," he whispered once more, and then he fell to the ground and lay very still, blood staining the front of his tunic.

Blake finally moved, quickly now, as if fearing that Bedwyr would next turn the blade on someone else. He dropped over Avon, shielding him.

But Bedwyr did not even seem to know that they were there. "Oh," he whispered. "Geraint. My King. My craidd."

Avon could not see what was happening, because Blake still hovered over him, but he heard Blake's sharp intake of breath and pushed him aside a little so that he saw Bedwyr raise the sword again and plunge it into his own chest. Then he pulled it out and threw it away viciously.

He fell heavily on top of Geraint. His arms moved slowly, tenderly, to embrace the dying monarch. "My heart," he whispered again.

As Blake and Avon watched, both men died in the same instant.

The cave was quiet once more.

Avon could feel the fear and the madness seize him again. As Blake moved off him, he rolled to his feet and ran.

Blake did not know what to do for a moment. Then he cast one final, sorrowful look at the bloody bodies lying together on the ground, and set off in pursuit of Avon.

They were out of the cave and some distance across the meadow before he caught up with Avon, who ignored his repeated shouts. Finally, Blake simply launched himself at Avon's legs and brought the smaller man down. They hit the ground with a thud and lay tangled together.

"Avon," Blake whispered. "Don't be afraid."

Avon stared up at him; his eyes were dark and anguished pools. "The sword drove him mad," he whispered. "I could feel the madness go through him."

"It's over now."

"Is it?" Avon reached up suddenly and touched Blake's cheek. "He killed the one he cared about most."

"I know." Blake loosened his grip a little. "Come on," he said. "Let's get away from here." He stood and pulled Avon up by one hand.

They began to walk.

Avon stumbled again.

It was dark now, and they were both weary beyond words. But something kept them moving, not talking, just walking.

Finally, Blake stopped, leaning against a tree. "Enough," he said. "We need to rest."

They both dropped to the ground, made soft by leaves and lush grass. Avon stared at him. "What will happen if we fall asleep?" he said, finally putting into words what had been lurking in his mind--and probably Blake's mind as well--for hours.

"I don't know," Blake admitted.

They stretched out together.

"If we get separated," Blake said, "we'll find each other again. We will always find each other again."

"How long have we known each other?" Avon said.

Blake smiled. "Forever, it sometimes seems."

"Forever," Avon agreed.

Blake's hand gripped his suddenly and held on tightly.

"Trying to ward off the magic?" Avon whispered.

Blake just tightened the grip and smiled again.

In only a few moments, Blake's eyes slowly closed and his breathing evened. He was asleep.

Avon kept watch for as long as he could.

It was the smell that reached him first.

Gone was the scent of flowers and grass that had surrounded him as he fell asleep. No, this was the odor of a cheap rented room; the stench of too many unwashed bodies and years of greasy food.

Blake opened his eyes.

He was alone in the narrow bed. His fist was clenched tightly; slowly, he opened his fingers. A faint sigh escaped him.

So.

It had all been a dream. But whose dream?

Ahh, but it had seemed so real.

So real. He could remember every moment. He could still feel the light touch of Avon's hand on his face. His fingers still tingled with the strength of the grip he'd had on Avon's hand as they fell asleep. He sighed again.

His eyes flickered to the chrono. It was time to leave. He rolled out of the bed and pulled on his boots. The small carryall easily held his few belongings, and there was no time to wash or shave.

There was only time for regret. For something akin to grief. And he knew that there would be enough time for loneliness. Oh, plenty of time for that, Blake felt quite sure.

But at the same time, he felt a certain sense of comfort. They would find one another again. They would always find one another again. He smiled a little and headed out of the room.

The shuttle to Gauda Prime left in an hour.

Avon stared at himself in the mirror.

He looked no different than he had the night before. According to the chrono, only eight hours had passed.

But he knew--knew--that what had happened was not just a dream. There was no explaining it, but it had happened. Of course, accepting everything else also meant accepting the madness that he could still feel within him.

The madness of the Taf Gleddyf.

He turned away with a sigh and started for the flight deck. There was nothing to be done but go on. He glanced down at his hand, still able to feel the tight grip of Blake's fingers.

"Avon?"

He paused and turned to find Vila watching him. "What?" he said.

"Are you all right?"

Avon frowned. "Yes," he said.

But Vila, for once, did not take the easy way. He stepped closer to Avon and stared into his face with an intensity that was unusual in the timid thief. "Avon," he said again. "Are you all right?"

For a long moment, Avon did not reply. Then he shook his head minutely. That was all.

It seemed as if Vila might say something more, or even touch him. But he did neither. He only nodded, now looking strangely resigned. Then he left.

Avon leaned against the bulkhead for a moment. He lifted a hand and used two fingers to massage the bridge of his nose. Vila knew. He should not have known, but he did.

It was another piece of the puzzle, but it did not make the puzzle any easier to understand.

Avon knew only one thing without a doubt.

They would find one another again. But for now, at least, it was better that they were apart. This would give him time and perhaps with that time, he could overcome the madness.

So that whenever he found Blake again, it would be gone. The madness would not cause him to hurt Blake.

Avon schooled his features and prepared to confront his shipmates.

He schooled his heart and prepared to confront his fate.

the end

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