"I don't know," I admitted. "I may never know. Although I'm beginning to think that knowing things can wind up being as painful as not knowing them."

Odclay stood in the doorway, not emerging. I noticed now that there was a package sitting on the floor next to him which apparently he'd had waiting there. He picked it up and handed it to me. "In the event that it was him, and you seek vengeance . . . or find another blackguard who was truly responsible . . . I wouldn't want you to go against him, or even out into the world, armed with nothing but your wits and a staff."

"It's gotten me this far," I said.

"So has luck. But this might help you make your own luck."

The cloth seemed to be thick, woven. I unwound it and discovered within it a sword. I held it up in the moonlight. It had an odd heft to it, and an elaborately carved pommel in the shape of a screaming bird's head, not unlike that of a phoenix.

"It's called a hand-and-a-half sword," said Odclay. "It can be wielded with either one hand or two, depending upon whether you're holding your staff or not. And it's a particularly appropriate weapon for you."

"Why?" I had to ask.

"Because it's also called a 'b.a.s.t.a.r.d sword.' "

"How apropos," I said mirthlessly. Then I realized that the cloth in which it had been rolled had some sort of an image on it. I straightened it, held it up in the moonlight.

It was me. I looked older. There was gray in my hair and-I might have been mistaken, but I appeared to be missing an ear. I was leaning forward on the sword that I was holding at the moment, and I was seated upon a throne.

"What is this supposed to be?" I asked.

"A farweaver did it."

"A farweaver did the tapestry that hangs in the castle. That didn't come true."

"Didn't it?" he said.

"No. It called for a great hero to come. He didn't come. He died. You got me instead."

"People read things into the tapestries that might or might not be there. And don't sell yourself short; you might just be more of a hero than you want to admit. Has it occurred to you that maybe you've spent your whole life doing the right thing . . . and justifying for yourself that it's from selfish motives?"

"It's never occurred to me, no. Probably because it's not the case."

"As you will," he said with a shrug. "In any event, take that with you if you wish. Consider it a gift . . . from the same farweaver who did the tapestry in the castle."

"Really. I'd like to meet him so I can tell him he's an idiot. Although," and I looked at it with a critical eye, "I admit . . . I'm not happy about the missing ear . . . but it's a rather good likeness."

With a wry smile, my father said, "Thank you. I try."

And as I gaped at him in astonishment, Odclay swung shut the wall, locking me out of the castle and giving me my freedom.

I turned, took two steps . . .

. . . and froze as Entipy came around the corner. She stopped, faced me, and simply stood there with her arms folded.

My mouth, my throat, were completely dry.

"Did you think I was stupid?" she inquired. When I was unable to make a response, she continued, "I had a feeling you'd show up right about here sooner or later. I know about the hidden pa.s.sages in this place. Odclay showed them to me when I was a child. He was the only one in the whole place, aside from my mother, who had any patience with me. He's the brains behind my father's kingdom, you know. Had you figured that out?"

I nodded. She sounded so calm, so conversational, that part of me thought I'd gone mad, because the entire encounter seemed unreal.

"He's not so foolish as he seems," she went on. "In some ways he'd be a better father than my real one is."

I shuddered. I didn't think she noticed it, and she didn't. Because although she was looking at me, I think she was also looking inward as well.

"Am I hideous? Is that it?" she said abruptly.

I finally found my voice. "What? No! No, it's-"

"A bad s.e.x partner, perhaps. You seemed to be enjoying yourself-"

"Yes, I did! You're . . . it's not you. It's me. I can't."

"You still can turn this around, Apropos," she said, sounding quite reasonable. I couldn't tell whether she was bottling her emotions or had simply detached from them. "Apologize to my father and mother. Tell them you were overwhelmed by the moment. And marry me. You know you want to. You know you love me."

"It's not that simple . . ."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's not. Trust me. Don't you trust me?"

She laughed at that, as if it was the most absurd question in the world. "No. Of course not. I know you better than I know myself. You're a scoundrel, and always will be. That's what makes you attractive to me."

"But back at the fort! You said you trusted me then."

"I lied."

"Were you?" I said sharply. "Lying then? Or are you lying now?"

She didn't say anything. And then something occurred to me. "You keep saying that you know I love you. Do you truly love me?"

"I want you."

"That's not the same thing."

"When you're royalty, it is."

I leaned on the staff, feeling much, much older than I was. "And what would have happened, Entipy . . . once you had me? If you truly didn't trust me . . . and the closest you could come to loving me was desiring me, in the same way that you might fancy attractive jewelry or a fine wine . . . what hope would there have been for the two of us?"

"Apropos," she sighed, as if pitying me greatly, "I thought you, of all people, understood. This is a hopeless world. We would have fit right in."

I let out a long sigh. "I want . . . more than that. I never thought I did until this very moment. I want to be . . . I want to be better than the world that surrounds me. I spent years thinking I was. But now . . . I genuinely want to be. And you should want it, too. And I know, beyond any doubt, that we can't possibly achieve that together, for more reasons than I can go into. And I know you say you can't trust me, and maybe I deserve that, but at least listen to me and believe me when I say this: I've spent my whole life doing what was right for me, even if it was wrong for everybody else. This is the first time I've actually done what I know is right for everybody else . . . even though it might be as wrong for me as it could possibly be. Will you accept that? Please?" And I sank to one knee. "Please . . . Your Highness . . . ?"

Entipy looked at me for a long moment, as if from a very great height. And then, very softly, she said, "Apropos . . . I have to admit . . . you've become the one thing I never really thought you'd be."

"Heroic?"

"No. Dull."

And she drew her cape around herself, raised her hood to cover her features, and walked away. For a moment, just a moment . . . I thought I heard a choked sob from her, but it might well have been my imagination.

I walked as quickly as I could, distancing myself from the castle, but stopped at one point to look back at it. In a high window, framed against a glimmer of light, I was sure I saw Entipy seated there, a single candle burning just in front of her face. I thought, She's leaving a candle burning for me in the window, She's leaving a candle burning for me in the window, and for half a heartbeat, I almost turned back to go to her. But then she blew the candle out and became one with the darkness. and for half a heartbeat, I almost turned back to go to her. But then she blew the candle out and became one with the darkness.

I made my way to the front gate of the great wall surrounding the city. I drew my cloak tight around me, my hood up and over my face, trying to minimize my limp so as not to attract attention from the guards. Neither of them paid me the slightest mind. It might have been that I simply wasn't interesting-looking or important enough to warrant a glance from them, or perhaps Odclay had "greased" their palms as well. In either event, I pa.s.sed through the front gates with no problem and increased my speed until I had left it behind me.

I made my way down the main road, then off to a less-used trail, then off to an even less frequented one. I kept moving, straining to hear sound of pursuit, but nothing came. The absence of it, though, did not cause me to fear it any less. I didn't run, not wanting to wear myself out, but I kept up a very brisk pace. Slowly the sun rose, and I, worn out from the constant moving, decided that it would be best to get off any roads entirely. Certainly forests held their own risks, but they were preferable to traveling roads that angry knights could come riding down, looking for escaped prisoners.

It might be that they'd never notice my absence. That the intention was that I would remain in the cell, never to be seen again by the eyes of man. On the other hand, what if the king changed his mind, or the queen implored him, or whatever, and my disappearance was discovered? Best to be far away when and if that happened.

I made my way into the woods and kept going until I found a pleasant-looking glen. I settled against a large rock, getting off my feet, allowing my rapidly pounding heart to settle into a rhythm that was a bit less frantic.

I thought about all that I had experienced and realized that: I had learned who my father was; I had made my enemies' lives miserable, at least for a time; I had avenged myself on Astel; I might have an idea as to who had killed poor Madelyne, and could explore that in the future; I'd had my share of rolls with females, and even though most of them-all right, all of them-had ended in total debacles, at least there had been entertainment in the doing; I'd slept in a fine bed for a couple of nights; and, most of all, I had a small fortune upon me. That was the most important thing of all, the most lasting. The riches which were safely in my belt and staff . . .

I patted the belt.

It felt odd. The weight was correct, but something appeared to be . . . wrong.

I pulled the belt out and opened the pouches.

Pebbles. Pebbles and rocks.

And a note. I opened it, my fingers numb.

Where do you think I got the money to grease the palms to get you out? And the remainder, of course, is in my pocket. My taking risks, after all, has its own price. Best of luck, son. Yours in laughter.-Odclay.

Quickly I unscrewed the top of the staff. That money was still in there . . . except it was sovs from the Outer Lawless regions, useless for the area in which I was.

I screeched in outrage. I moaned. I sobbed. And finally, finally . . .

. . . I laughed. Laughed long and hard, and kept on laughing at this final joke which had been made upon me.

"Would you mind telling me what's so funny?"

I turned.

Sharee, the weaver, was standing there, as if she'd just materialized out of nowhere.

"I should have known," I sighed. "After all the times you spoke to me in my dreams, I should have known you'd show up now . . . ."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied. "You've said this before, and I'll say it again: I did not speak to you in your dreams. Now would you mind telling me what is so d.a.m.ned funny?"

"I am," I sighed. "I am destiny's joke. I was so close, Sharee . . . so close to having it all. Instead, it slipped through my fingers and I'm left with nothing. Sir Apropos of Nothing, just like the king said."

"You're better off," she harrumphed. "If you had something, you wouldn't know what to do with it. Better that you have nothing."

"Not necessarily." I managed a smile as I stood, adjusting my cloak. "I have you."

"You don't have me," she said tartly. "I'm simply journeying in the same direction you are, by coincidence."

"Really. We've met in a glen. You don't know which way I'm going."

"Of course." She hesitated and pointed west. "You're heading that way."

The truth was, I was heading east. Then again, the truth and I had always had a testy relationship.

"Amazing," I said. "It's amazing that you knew that. Well . . . let's be off, then."

We started off west, Sharee matching my stride.

"There's something you should know," I told her after a time.

"And what would that be?"

"This is my story."

She looked at me with open curiosity. "I beg your pardon?"

"We're going to have adventures. And they're my adventures. You're here to provide support for me."

She snorted disdainfully. "I think not. I'm a weaver. I'm magic. You're a lame fool with a staff. You are obviously accompanying me in order to provide amusing comic relief for my adventures."

I stopped where I was. "Then it's not going to work," I said flatly. "I refuse to exist as a side issue to someone else's epic again. That's no way to live."

"My sympathies, but that's the way it's going to be," Sharee said flatly.

"Then it's best that we part company."

"Fine."

"Fine."

We stood there, waiting for each other to turn away. Neither of us moved. To this day, I've no idea how long we stood there.

"We'll alternate," Sharee said abruptly.

My eyes narrowed. "Pardon?"

"Monday, Wednesday, Friday, it's my story. Tuesday, Thursday, Sat.u.r.day, it's your story. Best offer I'm going to give you."

I thought about it a moment and then nodded. "All right. That sounds fair."

"All right, then."

"All right."

We started off. And as we walked, I said, "Wait a minute . . . what day is today?"

"Sunday."