The morning after Sir James had returned from the Deep Woods, he was hailed on his way to the kennels by the blacksmith's assistant. Politely, Sir James returned the greeting. He would have continued on his way, but the young man added, "I have your order ready. If you stop by the shop, I can get it for you."

For the life of him, Sir James couldn't think of anything he'd ordered from the smithy, aside from the fire irons he'd already delivered to Jakin's family. "I picked up those irons almost a fortnight ago," he frowned. "Surely you didn't fill the order twice, did you?" If the young man had, he'd be sure to earn correction for having wasted valuable resources.

"No, not the fire irons," grinned the apprenticed smith, before his smile faded. "Perhaps you'd forgotten about it; you ordered it almost three months ago and we were in the armory at the time."

Still, Sir James couldn't figure out what the teen was talking about. "Perhaps you'd better show me," he decided. "My apologies, my good man, but I confess I'm at a loss!" Utterly confused, he followed the grinning young man to the blacksmith's workshop, where an older version of the apprentice was hard at work, pumping the bellows.

"Master, I need a moment before I begin, please!" hollered the apprentice over the din of hammering.

"Hurry it up then!" came the equally loud reply. "There's work to be done, Boy!"

Ignoring his master, the apprentice reached under the counter and pulled out a leather glove. "Is this what you had in mind, Sir?" he asked Sir James.

The glove was beautifully worked, molded and stitched into a kind of partially-opened fist. In the web between the forefinger and thumb, a bit of flattened metal protruded, forming a notch toward the wrist. The apprentice indicated the bit of a hook. "I intended it for the reins of a horse or a dog's collar, but perhaps with a bit of practice, you could pull back a bow?"

He didn't wait for a reply, but turned the glove over, revealing the latches on the long wristband. "I designed the catches to work one-handed, so you can get it on and off easily," he pointed out. "That's why it took so long. Avery and I had to experiment a bit to get them right." With a nod of his head, the apprentice indicated the man at the bellows, who waved with a similar glove.

The lad lowered his voice a tad. "Avery lost his hand some time ago. I overheard you talking to the armorer. He might not have been interested in the project, but I sure was! If not for your design, Avery might still be depending on charity to support his wife and little one. Try it on!"

Sir James realized he was staring and returned his attention to the glove. He pulled it over the stump of his left wrist and pulled the straps tight. It fit over the bracer, fit his stump perfectly. The inside of the glove had been stuffed with something and stitched into place, rather than filled with a wooden form. Sir James realized that the iron hook was attached to the glove somewhere near where his wrist ended, making a wooden form impossible.

Still though, the soft leather and the padding would protect his stump, preventing the stinging pain that shot up his arm every time he accidentally bumped it wrong. Aside from the iron hook set inside the glove and the latches, most of the thing were made of leather. Sir James knew it had taken the apprentice long hours of his own time to build.

"How much do you want for it?" he asked, striving for a casual tone. After having paid for Jakin's reparations, he hadn't much coin at the moment. Sir James wondered how long it would take to save up for such a costly item.

"I would be honored if you would keep it as a gift," the apprentice said slowly. "If you hadn't suggested it, Avery and I would never have figured it out and he'd still be wearing a hook and begging instead of working the bellows." The boy winked. "Besides, this is a smithy, not a leatherworking shop."

"The hook is iron," Sir James pointed out. "Let me at least cover the cost of materials."

With a glance at his master, the apprentice finally nodded. "Fair enough, the hook was something that my master discarded and I re-worked. The glove is the mate to the one Avery wears, the pair of which I took in trade from the cobbler for an awl. The sawdust inside, we cleaned up from behind the carpenter's shop, so the only money I really have into it is the buckles. I can hardly charge you for a discarded glove or half of a broken hay-hook, so for three buckles . . .." he named a reasonable price. Sir James easily doubled it. "For half a pair of gloves, three buckles and your time," he countered, handing the coins over. "If I have need of anything else, I shall find you, Andrew."

Sir James left the shop wearing his glove and feeling a confidence he'd never had before. Over the following weeks, he learned to use the glove to his best advantage. His dagger fit inside, allowing him to eat his dinner far more easily than before. The cupped end of the fist also fit nicely over a shovel or pitchfork, allowing him to clean kennels far faster as well.

Experimenting, he discovered that he could, indeed shoot an arrow, but fitting it to the string while holding the bow with his right hand proved a time-consuming task. Sir James practiced anyway, deciding that archery was a skill best left to a last resort. The glove did, however, also hold a shield nicely, which meant he could wield a short-sword with ease.

Happily, Sir James took his place on the field for morning drills, feeling as if he were truly a knight again and not merely a maimed kennel-master. The hook did hold a horse's reins well, but Sir James quickly decided he'd need a destrier of his own, that he could train to respond to his altered touch, if he were going to do much riding at all.

As the dogs in the kennel prospered, Sir James slowly began to invest in armor designed to his needs; a short-sword of his own, a shield designed to be held by his prosthetic glove, a helmet whose strap could be fastened and loosened with one hand, a mail shirt with one sleeve longer than the other, to accommodate his shortened, left arm.

Most of the pieces he obtained were used and then altered and repaired by the armorer to fit Sir James' needs. Purchased a piece at a time and paid for in cash, Sir James realized that he was being charged less than if he'd ordered an entire harness of armor custom-made. Also, he discovered, since most of the armor was second-hand and already made, it was far faster as well, since the custom-made variety took an entire year to build.

Fawn had her litter of pups under Sir James' bed two weeks after they returned from the Deep Forest. When Sir James lifted his mattress off the ropes in order to see them, she wagged her tail. She'd had eight pups, five females, all healthy and vigorous. A month or so later when they followed their dam into the Hall, the sight of them caused quite a stir for Sir James had fashioned little collars for the pups and had begun teaching them the basics of obedience. Most of the pups ended up in laps for the meal, ladies taken with the pups and wanting to slip them bits of food. Sir James controlled his smile and said nothing, knowing that the pups were as good as sold. He would keep them for another two months, but allow them to sit with prospective owners at dinner each night. By the time the pups were ready to go, they would be fully trained and bonded with their owners. Mentally calculating the price, Sir James realized that he'd have enough for a horse, if he chose wisely and were careful.

Once the pups were sold and turned over to their owners, Sir James approached his father for assistance in purchasing the coveted horse. His father was delighted. "Well done, Son! My kennels have prospered under your care and you seem to have prospered as well; you've managed to purchase a sword and full armor with your increase. Next, you shall be approaching me about a bride, if I'm not mistaken."

Sir James laughed along with his father. "Perhaps, Father, but for now I should like to concentrate on the horse."

Lord Gerard laughed again, but turned his attention to the task at hand. " Are you planning on jousting?"

Sir James shook his head. "No, My Lord, but I wish to be battle-ready, should the need arise."

Lord Gerard nodded soberly. "That pleases me to no end." He pointed to a roll of parchment on his desk. "I've gained permission from Arthur to amass an army and overthrow Holder. No doubt, you'll want to see the man answer for your hand, and I've begun gathering my forces from the other baronages."

"Thus, my quandary," Sir James nodded, returning to the subject at hand, lest his father divert his attention to the planned invasion.

"You want a horse you can train to your riding style," the viscount mused, "but I should rather see you with a horse settled enough that you won't have difficulty controlling it, which you might if you end up astride a younger destrier."

Sir James feared that his father was trying to talk him out of a destrier. "My place in the hunt is with the scent-hounds, so I don't need a courser, and a palfrey would be a bit too tame, if I'm to do anything more than run errands."

"You are far more than a messenger boy," the viscount agreed, making his son feel worthy in his father's eyes. "I agree that a destrier is needed, but as good with animals as you have proven, why not use a mare? You could train a young mare to your liking; she would be more settled than a stallion and perhaps prove an investment opportunity."

"You're suggesting a palfrey that's larger than conventional?" Sir James considered it. His father's mounts were all well-trained, if spirited, but his father's suggestion made sense. A restive mount could prove dangerous if Sir James couldn't hang onto it, one-handed.

Lord Gerard eyed his son thoughtfully. "You do have a point," he said slowly, misunderstanding his son's intentions. "The last thing a one-armed knight needs is to be discounted by his choice of horse. Let us see the horse trainer, perhaps he may have an idea." Together, the two men headed for the stables, then mounted a pair of palfreys and headed out, riding to see the freedman who bred and trained the destriers.

When the horse broker heard Sir James' quandary and heard the sum he was willing to spend, the man laughed until tears leaked out of his eyes. "That will get you either a weanling foal or the oldest mare in my stable, if you're determined to have a destrier," the man finally said, calming himself. "The price of horses has risen greatly in the last year. Did you not hear? There's a call for destriers now that the viscount has undertaken to overthrow Whittburg."

"I'm aware," gritted the viscount. "The permissions from Arthur lay on my desk, even now."

All mirth fled from the dealer's face. "My Lord," he sputtered, having finally realized his gaffe, "my apologies for my rudeness, but if I were to sell all of my stock to any knight who asked, I'd have fewer horses to supply your requirements." Lord Gerard only glared at the man until the dealer squirmed in his seat. "I might have one that will fit your price," he finally relented. He led them out to the stables and walked between rows of stalls until they were standing in front of a particular horse. "He's six years old," the dealer said of the horse, "been sold several times, always returned. This is the best I can do for the price you're offering."

Though most war horses were purchased at three years old and retired after their tenth birthday, Sir James realized that his options were slim if he wanted a horse at all. He could only pray that his apparent prowess with dogs and cattle would extend to the horse.

"It seems my options are limited," agreed Sir James. He looked down at Fawn, who leaned against his knee. "What say you, Little Girl?" he asked the dog affectionately. "Think you'll be able to run beside him?"

Fawn, nervous of horses to begin with, reached up to sniff noses with the horse before returning to her master's side. She didn't seem nervous, and the horse didn't seem to mind her either, for he'd sniffed not only her nose, but the stump of her leg, which was held up as she stood up against the stall wall.

Sir James decided to take a chance. "You have a deal," he said finally, handing over the leather pouch of coins.

The breeder ordered the horse brought out and saddled, saying, "for the price, I suppose I can throw in tack as well. Just so you know, I won't take him back again." The saddle was obviously worn and old, the bridle the same, but Sir James was grateful. Despite the age, the tack would last long enough for Sir James to decide how he wanted to modify it.

He watched the horse stand quietly for the saddle, but eye the bridle with suspicion. He tossed his head and refused the bit, until they tied his halter down low enough to force the bit into his mouth. Sir James frowned at the mistreatment, but wasn't sure what to say, wanting only to return home with his purchase.

Watching from the background, Lord Gerard sighed quietly. "Well, you have a horse, Son; though he seems opposite of what you had in mind. What will you do now?"

Sir James shrugged as he accepted the reins from the stable hand. "What can I do? Ride him home, I suppose. If I'm forced to lead him, there's the palfrey either way. Still, I should at least like to test him and see what needs to be done." He glanced over at his new horse, who stood quietly beside him, head held at the level of Sir James' hand as if afraid of allowing the reins to tighten.

Sir James hooked the reins carefully over the pommel and mounted up. Still, the horse stood quietly. The stable hands had stopped what they were doing to watch, and all seemed to be anticipating something. Sir James took up the reins loosely in his right hand. The horse pranced nervously. Expecting a fight, Sir James said, "walk on," to the horse, who obediently started forward.

The expected fight happened at the far end of the stable yard, when Sir James tried to rein the horse toward the gate. Guffaws sounded behind him. "The master has a sense of humor," commented one of the boys, "the horse no one wants for a second-hand knight."

Sir James quit the saddle and stalked over to cuff the offender upside his head. Knocked from his perch, the lad landed in the dirt and rubbed his head. "Explain yourself!" growled Sir James, unwilling to allow himself to be disrespected by a filthy urchin of a lad.

"Well, look at you," the boy defended vehemently. "You're a third-born, 'tis written all over you no matter how hard you try to hide it; old armor what doesn't quite fit, dog rejected from someone's kennel, trying to purchase a destrier for the price of a palfrey."

The assessment hit Sir James hard, but he refused to allow it to show. "I am the top kennel-master in the entire duchy. Nobles flock to my lord's kennels from all of England to purchase the dogs I breed. In a scant year, I have gone from nothing to a fully armored knight with a horse of his own. And would you like to see my 'second hand'?"

Without waiting for a reply, Sir James loosened his gauntlet and allowed them to see the stump of his left arm, ignoring Fawn's raised hackles and low growl as she stood beside him, ready to defend her master. "I may have a second hand, but I have accomplished more without the first, than most men of my station in their entire lives and more than you have a right to even dream of. Think on that, the next time you would disrespect one of your master's customers."

Inspiration struck. Sir James aimed at kick at the lad's outstretched feet. "Now get yourself out of the dirt and go change out my bit for a palfrey's bit." Startled, the lad stared as Sir James replaced his gauntlet. "Do it!" growled the aggravated knight, placing his hand over his sword hilt.

Finally, the boy scrambled from the dirt and raced toward the horse to obey. When the expected fight to bridle the horse began again, Sir James snatched the bridle from the boy's hand before the horse could be abused. "Get me some treacle," he snapped, still annoyed with the boy's earlier attitude.

As soon as the boy left, Sir James turned his attention to calming the wary horse. "You've a bit of a soft mouth, don't you?" he crooned, stroking the dished face and arched neck. "Let's see how you do with a simple bit, one that doesn't poke into your gums or pinch your tongue, hmm?" Slowly, the horse relaxed under the attention, until his head lowered.

The lad returned with the sticky molasses. Sir James spread the new bit thickly with the syrup and offered it to his horse, who accepted the mouthpiece with no fight at all. This time, when Sir James tried to rein the horse one-handed, the horse calmly obeyed, prancing toward the gate.

Watching from where he sat astride his horse, Lord Gerard had watched the entire episode without interfering. He waited until his son had drawn even with him to comment. "I wondered if you would allow the insult to stand," said the viscount as they walked their horses away from the horse-broker's establishment.

"What knight would? No business of any peasant's, how a knight earns his way." Sir James shrugged. "Either way, it got me what I needed and hopefully, the stable-master will control his servants in the future."

"And his tongue," laughed the viscount. "The expression on his face when I made myself known was priceless. I bet the price of his horses goes down a bit, next time I see him. You have my thanks for that."

Lord Gerard glanced over at Sir James' new horse, who pranced in controlled eagerness, obviously wanting to run but not offering to disobey the new, gentler bit in his mouth. "What a beauty! You seem to have fixed whatever made him disagreeable. A bit of treacle, was it?"

"A palfrey's bit," explained Sir James, realizing that his father hadn't heard everything that had been said. "It seems my new horse has a rather soft mouth. The spiked bit was too harsh for him, so I made the lad change out the one that was in the bridle originally."

"He seems fine now though," agreed the viscount. "Shall we see what his gaits are like?" Sir James would.

When they arrived home, Sir James stabled his horse with great satisfaction. "You shall be 'Raven'," he decided aloud. Glancing at his father's interested expression, Sir James grinned. "More than for his coloring, Father; he is intelligent and when he runs, I feel as if I am flying." Watching the horse tear into his hay, Sir James chuckled. "And I expect his 'ravenous' appetite will try my purse at times."

~~~

Left in the pit and all but forgotten after the guards lost interest in trying to taunt her, Lady Carnelian sat on the stone shelf quietly after she'd dried her tears, braving the squelch of the floor only to relieve herself in the far corner when the guards weren't watching. It hadn't taken her long to discover where a portion, at least, of the muck came from; the guards had no qualms about relieving their ale and wine-filled bladders down into the pit, making a game of trying to get the prisoner wet.

The shift-change she'd come to rely on for time was all but nonexistent in the dungeon, for the guards came and went at irregular intervals, and never all at once. With the area lit by torches at all times, it was impossible to tell when the day was over, save one. During the night, rats ran free throughout the prison, unhampered by the snoring guards.

Warily, Carnelian watched the rats pick their way down the wall, using ledges and foot-holds that only they could see, but obviously intimately familiar with. It took very little time before the first of the rats reached the mud below and was crossing the boggy floor, obviously not bothered by the coating of slime it received. "Stay away," ordered Carnelian with authority, trusting that this, at least, she could manage.

"Make me!" The rat's retort surprised her. "This isn't the Enchanted Forest or even the Deep Woods, Steward. You're in our house, now!" His beady eyes glittered with malice; teeth bared in contempt.

"How is it that you can talk?" blurted out Carnelian, ignoring his challenge to her authority.

"How can you talk? We're not dumb, you know." The rat's sassy retort was joined by the others. "Yeah, stupid human thinks we're just animals. Probably thinks all of us creatures of the night are just like livestock. We'll show her! We don't have to serve the Fairy-King, or his Steward." Malice filled the rat's voices, and for the rest of the night, Carnelian's entire attention was on kicking and throwing the rats off of her stone bench. By morning, when the rats began to leave, she'd been bitten more than once, though she'd managed to kill at least one of them when she'd caught its head between her heel and the stone wall.

Her tears returned, washing some of the mud, at least, off of her face until she'd cried herself to sleep. When Carnelian awoke some time later, she discovered that the mud she hadn't been able to wipe away the night before had dried into her hair, skin, and gown. When she brushed at it, it flaked off for the most part, leaving a dark, grey film behind. For lack of anything better to do, Lady Carnelian spent a great deal of time working the dried dirt off of her and trying to ignore the hunger pangs caused by missing meals.

When the guards returned to their game of 'get the prisoner wet', Carnelian threw gobs of mud in return and managed to hit most of them. Convinced to leave her alone, the guards went to find another prisoner to torment, leaving her alone in the prison of cesspool they'd thrown her in.

It took less than a day before Lady Carnelian discovered the benefit of the guards' actions; without it, the mud began to dry out until a thin crust formed on top. When Carnelian kicked a rat off of her shelf, it merely skittered back across the crust and resumed attacking the Fairy-King's servant.

Overwhelmed, Carnelian could do little more than curl up in a defensive ball in the corner and cover her head with her hands. By morning, the rats had stolen all the material from the arms and one side of her gown, leaving the lady exposed and covered in nips designed only to cause her pain. The rats delighted in her distress and wished to prolong it as much as possible.

Still, Carnelian had been two days with no food or water. After the rats had taken their leave, she lay on her bench, exhausted and burning with thirst. Tears burned behind her eyes but, as parched as she was, they could not fall. The king would be too late. Carnelian knew that the Fairy-King's method of warfare took time and patience to wage. The king would win in the end, he always did, but Carnelian would not live to see the victory.

The baron came to see her, to take satisfaction in her debasement. He threw a pail of water over her, waking her and making her sputter. "Are you ready to give me what I want?" he asked.

Carnelian blinked. "I would if I could, but I can't, so I won't." She giggled a little. "No, I wouldn't; you'll never have the stones. My king will lay waste to this place and let the owls roost in the towers. He'll let the deer sleep in the courtyard and probably make your chambers a bear's den. God knows the stench would suit!"

She had fun picturing what King Proud Obsidian would do, were Whittburg Keep within the Enchanted Forest, but couldn't keep her mind on any one thought long enough to flesh it out with words. Instead, she grinned in her mirth but didn't bother to do more than sit there.

"She's addled with thirst," explained a guard.

The baron shrugged. "Then tomorrow, her bones can join the rest that hide in the muck down there.

"But she's your daughter!"

"So?"

"You could marry her off."

"I'd have to provide a dowry."

"Not if you married her to a guardsman."

"Like you?" Amusement colored the baron's voice.

"I have a wife. Not that I'd mind having meself a pretty little throw like that 'un, but . . ."

"Ha, more fool you! If your wife found out, she'd leave you penniless. Let me have her, Milord. I'll break your filly to saddle and throw you a fine colt of a grandson."

The voices above her filtered down to Carnelian, but barely registered as a conversation. "I'll think on it. Keep her alive until I decide." Footsteps crossed the stone above her.

Someone threw more water on her, then more besides, until Carnelian sat up. A jug tied to a rope lowered down in front of her face. "Drink it," growled a guard. Desperate for anything to drink, Carnelian obeyed. Water, mixed with a little wine flowed down her throat until the rope jerked the jug away. Regretfully, Carnelian watched it go. A moment later, a chunk of stale bread landed on the shelf beside her. Carnelian was grateful it hadn't landed in the muck.

That night, the rats' fun was interrupted by well-aimed brownie-bolts. "Get away from her!" ordered a Brownie's voice. Carnelian looked up and discovered to her delight, a pair of imps armed with bows. The imps fired bolt after bolt, until a large quantity of rats lay dead in the mud and the rest had decided to take their leave for the night. "My Lady, are you well?" asked one of the brownies.

Carnelian squinted, trying to see who her rescuers were in the scant torchlight. "Hagadorn?"

"It's his son, Helgamo, and Ardelmon," came the reply, but there was only one Brownie standing there. He chuckled, "but I'm honored that you mistook me for Father." When the guards' wineskin lowered by rope, Carnelian found the other Brownie. She took a drink and nodded for him to raise it up again. He lowered another, that had water, before a plate descended with what apparently remained of the guards' dinner; roasted meat, potatoes, and carrots. "Hegedith sent us with Father's blessing," Helgamo explained while she ate. "We'll do what we can to get you out." He eyed the stone walls with skepticism. "It could be a while though."

"Do what you can and you have my thanks," Carnelian told him, her mind cleared with water and some food. "I wish I could give you the traditional payment . . ."

"Not at all," the other Brownie, Ardelmon, said stoutly. "We're more for the tricks in this household anyway." He chuckled quietly. "Look for us tomorrow after the guards sleep and we'll bring you food and drink again."

"Where did you come from?" Carnelian asked. "I mean, how did you get down here?"

"There's a tunnel that connects with the forests beyond the keep," explained Helgamo. "We came in that way after we found some herbs we need."

Carnelian suspected that they were off to play some prank. "So where are you going now?" she asked them.

Ardelmon answered with more than a little satisfaction. "We're off to feed the milking cows bitter herbs to make them go dry and to curdle the milk. It'll be a right hasty pudding they'll have come morning!" Carnelian laughed along with them, appreciating the prank and grateful to be included. "See you tomorrow!" called the Brownies as they headed off to do their work.

~~~

The rest of the spring and a good part of summer passed without event for Sir James. He divided his time between drilling with the other knights, training the dogs and riding Raven, who took to his new master readily.

Fawn too, seemed to like the horse. When Sir James was in the kennels or training the hounds, she could often be found in the company of the great destrier. If the two were resting together, pity the poor stable boy who tried to rouse the destrier! Fawn's bared teeth and warning growl usually convinced the hapless boy to leave Raven alone.

Though Sir James' time passed quietly, Holder Castle was alive with activity as Lord Gerard amassed his forces for the taking of Whittburg. In furtherance of his noble father's efforts, Sir James had bred several of the mastiffs over winter and spent much time training the litters of pups for war.

By midsummer, his lordship had enough war dogs to guard almost all of his camps. Sir James had also trained the mastiffs similarly to the rache-hounds, in that they could be released as a pack against an opposing force. Lord Gerard was pleased, even knowing that the mastiffs might be destroyed after the campaign, if they got a taste for human flesh.

Content with his life, Sir James often sat just outside his apartment on warm summer evenings, watching the fireflies dance and remembering what he could of Lady Firestone and her maids. Though he loved her still, his love had become a warmth of remembrance rather than a futile pining for what he would never have. It was enough for a knight of his station, he'd decided, to have found such a love at all, even though it meant he would never marry, for he was too gently bred to take a bride when his heart belonged to another lady.

It was on one such evening that a great owl descended to land before him. Not wanting to startle the bird, Sir James sat still and studied it; the soft, grey feathers that formed tufts on either side of the bird's head, the large eyes and hooked beak. If he'd stood to his feet, the bird would have been taller than Sir James' knee. Most remarkable about the owl, however, wasn't the size or the unblinking, fearless expression on his face, but the passenger who perched between the great owl's wings. "Good evening to you, Good Fairy," Sir James said after a long moment.

The fairy nodded his head and flew up to hover nearer Sir James' face. "Good evening to you, Sir James of the Enchanted Forest." The fairy paused. "Are you surprised that I call you this?" he asked after a moment. Without waiting for Sir James' reply, he added, "it's on account of your blood, which remains upon the ancient stone. King Proud Obsidian considers you as part of his kingdom and awaits your return."

"Of this, I was unaware," admitted Sir James. "He sent me away, so I assumed it was to be a permanent exile. You are intimately acquainted with me, it seems, but I have yet to meet you, Good Fairy."

"I am Brave Garnet," the fairy replied, daring to land on Sir James' knee. "Like you, I, too, am indebted to Lady Firestone and for much the same reason, though my wing fared better than your hand, I daresay."

Sir James chuckled, liking the cheeky young fairy. "So, we are brothers of a sort. How may I assist you, Brave Garnet?"

"The Lady Firestone has been abducted from the Enchanted Forest by the man who sired her," the fairy blurted out. "By all report, she's been thrown into the dungeon and left to starve. I need your help to get her out again."

Lying beside her master, Fawn lifted her head from her paw and nosed the fairy's foot. He smiled. "I agree, Fawn. Since Terra has a nest waiting for her, I shall take you up on your offer. Terra, thank you for your assistance. I'll see you again after Her Ladyship is safe?"

The eagle-owl bobbed her head once, hopped a short distance away and took flight, disappearing into the night. "My wing grows stronger daily," Brave Garnet explained to the interested knight, "but I grow tired more quickly than I should. Fawn has offered to be my wings for our expedition, unless Raven prefers the task."

"Tell me what you need me to do." Sir James' answer required no thought. His beloved lady was in grave peril. There was nothing to do but to go to her aid.