Basic disclaimers in Chapter One. Please send feedback -- I love them as if they're my own flesh and blood. (Wait, that's not the right metaphor. Sorry, it was my Muse's fault. And please ignore the muffled yells of protest.) As always, muchas gracias to my beta readers for their help and support.

"Why me?"

Cosmic forces decree that there are certain questions which were never to be answered by mere mortals, usually the likes of "What is the meaning of life?" or "Why does toast always land buttered side down?". For Sir Jonothon though, the question has always been "Why me?"

He never asked for magickal powers, never asked to inherit the sword of a long-dead father, never asked to be the rescuer of damsels-in-distress at large. Nevertheless, all three were the duties he was expected to carry to his (probably early) grave.

Unfortunately, he also never asked to be good at any of them. Especially when it comes to reading maps.

"Sorry, m'lady," he mumbled wretchedly. "I seem t'be... temp'rily displaced."

His horse snorted.

"Shut up."

Deidre looked up at him measuringly, her eyes clearly spelling out, "Some saviour you are." Or so he imagined.

"Th' map says there should be a paved road around 'ere. Somewhere." Under his breath, he added some choice words about the mapmaker's less-than-distinguished ancestry. Unexpectedly, the girl smiled: a knowing, amused smile. Jonothon turned an unbecoming shade of crimson, wishing he could bash his skull against a tree. She never spoke, but she was far from stupid.

The elven girl blossomed in the three days they spent together on the journey. Though she was still skittish of sudden noises, she smiled more often; and if she was still far too thin, she no longer had the look of a starved kitten.

He shied away from the thought that she enjoyed his company, instead keeping his mind on the map. Sir Jonothon grimaced, thinking that it could be very well written in Shi'ar for all the good it did him.

"Maybe we should go back t'the last fork. This can't be right," he grumbled, tracing a line on the map with a finger. He wondered if the Assembly had started without him, knowing that the High King's summons were urgent. Even now the last of the nobles and knights who survived the war against Bastion -- too few by any standard -- were probably already in Avalon.

Fortunately, luck was with him, in the shape of a grizzled predator.

"Took you long enough to get here, kid."

Or, at least the human equivalent of one: Avalon Castle's blademaster and most infamous knight, Sir Logan.

Deirdre started violently, almost clawing Jonothon in her panic. The man who emerged from the trees solemnly watched the knight's desperate and inexpert attempt to soothe her, questions evident in his raised eyebrow.

"Sir Logan," greeted the younger man, as soon as he managed to breathe easily again. "Meet Deirdre. I freed 'er from a mage," he said, gently hugging her closer to him. "Th' bastard treated 'er badly, so she's a bit wary of strangers."

"More'n a bit wary, I'd say," Logan rumbled as he stepped away from the pair. He studied the elf's thin face. "The Wifey's not gonna thank ya fer not feedin' her more."

"Then she c'n take over me job an' see 'ow she likes it."

The other knight laughed. "I'll tell ya sometime 'bout the last person who suggested that. Fer a Healer, she sure likes puttin' people in the sickhouse."

Jonothon almost cracked a smile. "Wot, even 'er 'usband?"

"You've met her an' survived, kid. What d'ya think?" Logan gestured for Jonothon to follow in his wake, saying, "The High Queen sent me to find ya -- can't think why she'd do a thing like that." He was not quite smirking, but to the other man he might just as well be wearing a sign that said, "Hahaha! Stupid kid."

"I wasn't 'ired for my skill in finding reliable mapmakers, mate."

"No kiddin'," the other snorted.

Jonothon rode on without comment, only opening his mouth to give an exasperated curse when Logan pointed out that the cobblestones were buried under layers of rotten vegetation. Well, he never claimed he was an expert tracker. Most of his attention was focused on Deirdre, who clung tighter to him every time the older knight happened to glance her way. Her eyes were wild and frightened as she stared at him, painfully reminding Jonothon of their first meeting.

"Nearly there," said Sir Logan, gesturing to a wide break between the trees. "Ya can see the city from here."

Deirdre's eyes widened, perfectly in time with Jonothon's awed, "I'd forgotten 'ow beautiful Avalon is..." He added softly, "I wonder what else I've forgotten." Logan shot him an inscrutable look.

The pale walls of Avalon gleamed in the late morning sunlight. Generations of builders had patched and repatched the rough-hewn stones, giving the otherwise unassuming walls a distinctive character. Two large banners flanked each of the three gates: one in red and purple, the other in white and gold. Guardians, clad in their blue and gold uniforms, were patiently checking passes. From where the trio were standing, they could see citizens and visitors alike mingling in a riot of colours; the sober browns of farmers clashing uncomfortably with the rainbow clothing of Madripoor merchants.

The twin towers of Avalon Castle rose majestically from the hub of activity, cool and distant. Built after the House of Lehnsherr defeated the other Houses in Avalon's first major war and established the ruling dynasty, the towers were home (or prison) to countless mages throughout time. The runes carved into the smooth bricks were more than mere decoration -- with an unlocking spell known only to the Archmage, they served to dampen or focus and absorb magick. As they watched, an indistinct blur passed over one of the towers.

"The mages' apprentices must be practicin' again," Logan commented. "Pretty city, ain't it?"

Enraptured, Deirdre could only nod. Her companion, who had not been to the city since the last war, reassured himself that not much had changed. There were still too many people packed in the city, and the towers were still standing as gracefully as ever. Something, though, niggled at him.

"Who're the new squires?" he asked diffidently, trying to work out what bothered him.

The other knight sighed heavily. "Try takin' one and you won't have to ask. There's a bunch of 'em -- you'll know the kids soon enough. I'm baby-sittin' some farmboy named Samuel," he growled.

"After th' fine job you did with Katherine, I can't think why they'd want you t'teach another one." Sarcasm dripped from Jonothon's voice.

"Didn't they teach ya not t'talk back to yer elders?" Reluctantly, he conceded, "Least they didn't give me a kid that's too green." Shooting a quick glance at the elf, he said, "Kitty'll be pleased. And Clarice, too."

"Clarice?"

"One of the squires. Her mother's an ice elf."

Jonothon muttered something unintelligible as they approached the city gates.

Their welcome at the sickhouse was a smaller, more controlled version of the chaos in the city.

"Logan, get out of here!"

The Healer's braids swung energetically as she turned first to Jonothon and the elf he carried, then to the object of her command.

"I mean it, mister. You scare the patients -- half of which you put here -- and the last thing I need is more work."

"Mornin', Cecelia. Nice t'see ya too."

Deirdre watched the exchange uncertainly, suspicion and amusement warring in her face.

"They're married," Jonothon whispered. "They're just pretending t'kill each other. I think."

Cecelia was still trying to shoo her husband out, but at the sound of the young knight's voice she turned her attention to him and his precious burden. Receiving the full force of her gimlet gaze, Jonothon was suddenly reminded of a legend he once read, about a snake-haired woman who could turn people into stone with a look. He now understood, as he never quite did before, why even the rowdiest brawler never gave the Healer any trouble.

"Dios, what happened to her?" Her manner had changed now, brisk and clinical. She listened carefully to Jonothon's concise explanation, motioning him towards a small bed set to one side of the Healer's chamber. "Put her there and keep her company for a while," she ordered. "Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"But..."

She cut off the knight's protests, saying, "Make her understand that I'm not going to hurt her. You have a duty elsewhere, mister."

Sir Logan chose that moment to break in. "Yer the last one t'arrive, Jonothon. Ya know that the High King an' High Queen can't afford any delays, what with the way things're goin'." He got up from the chair he was sitting on, face grim. "When yer finished here, the knights're waitin' fer ya in the Knights' Hall."

Jonothon looked down at the girl's pale face, wondering if he had committed some unatoned crime in a past life. Without meaning to, he had grown... attached to Deirdre. She was his responsibility, he vowed in silence, for as long as she needed him. Carefully, he set her down on the bed, taking off the cloak and folding it beside her.

"I 'ave t'go now, luv. Duty calls."

She shook her head violently, visibly struggling with tears as she wrapped her arms around herself. Memories swam in her mind, and it was she could do to keep from grabbing him.

"... I'm sorry I can't stay."

At her forlorn look, he took one of her hands in his and held it tight. "S'okay, Deirdre. Cecelia'll look after you, an' she won't let *anyone* get you," he said, glancing at the silent Healer, who nodded reassuringly. "She'll take care of you better'n me -- an' I promise I'll see you later. Promise you won't make any trouble?"

She looked down and nodded slightly, red hair shadowing her face. Jonothon watched the glimpses of her expression carefully, somehow knowing that she did not quite believe him. And once again, he wondered at the kind of hells she had had to go through.

Feeling vaguely like an unfaithful husband, he left without saying goodbye.