A Fortnight of Miracles
Fantastic Stories of Imagination – February 1965
(1965)*
Randall Garrett

It is hard on a man to have not one ... nor two ... but three vexish spells upon him. Such a man has need of a worthy mage and a goodly goblin ... and an author like this one who can get him out of black magic trouble without leaving any loose ends about.

-

	MAGUS MacCullen patted the neck of his mule, and the gesture made the pouch at his belt jingle pleasantly. "Gold and silver and two good mules," he said, with a smile that was almost hidden by his moustaches and his huge, fiery red beard. "The Count du Marche is most generous if you tap him at just the right time."

	The hooded figure on the other mule might have been mistaken for a traveling monk except that no Order of the Church wore dark blue robes. In spite of the warmth of the late summer day, the hood of the habit was up, concealing the face in shadow. The voice which came from beneath the hood was not unpleasant, but the low tenor notes seemed to resonate as though the speaker were in a cavern or at the bottom of a well. "We could have stayed another five days or a week, Master Magus. Not that I need the rest, but you have a long way to go, and ..." 

	"My dear Frithkin," Magus MacCullen interrupted, "if we had stayed an extra week we would have saturated the market. Always leave early. That way, they bribe you to come back. The Count and his Lady and his court were entertained for a week by the greatest magician in Christendom. They can hardly wait for us to come back—say in a year. But a fortnight of miracles would satiate even the most ardent of miracle-lovers. As it is, I keep my reputation."

	"A reputation as a phony," said Frithkin glumly.

	"Of course!" said the Magus. "What happens to sorcerers? What happened to Magus Prezhenski? That Baron Whatsis—the one with the unpronounceable name—wanted gold, so he decided to force Prezhenski to make the stuff for him. Laymen are always inclined to think a sorcerer can do anything God can do, I suppose. The Magus failed, of course, and the corbies were well fed for a week."

	"He had it coming to him," Frithkin pointed out.

	"Sure he did," the red-bearded man said agreeably. "Only a fool plays around with black magic. But does a layman know the difference? No. So I have a reputation as a clever trickster and nothing else. I'll live longer that way." He chuckled deep in his chest. "Remember that time the Earl of Weffolk tried to trap me by getting Father Finn to pull an exorcism while I was present?"

	Frithkin's echoing chuckle joined that of his master. "And all the good Father could do was testify that you weren't a practitioner of black magic? I remember. If Magus Prezhenski had had—" He stopped and turned his hooded head. "What's that?"

	Magus MacCullen had heard the noise, too. Both of them turned their mules to face whatever was galloping down the road behind them.

	"He's coming from the direction of the Count's castle, whoever he is," said the magician. All he could see was a cloud of dust rising in the summer heat, but from it came the sound of hooves moving at a gallop. "A messenger sent by the Count, perhaps?"

	"More likely he's changed his mind and wants his gold back," said Frithkin. "I suggest we head in the opposite direction."

	"There's only one of him," the magician said calmly. "Besides, these mules couldn't outrun a warhorse—which, as you can plainly see, that is."

-

	OVER the little rise that had blocked their view, the two saw their pursuer charging toward them at full tilt. A knight and his horse, both in full armor, came thundering down from the crest of the rise, the horse in full gallop, the knight in a forward crouch, his lance aimed directly at Magus MacCullen.

	The Magus was already in motion. He tossed the reins of his mule to Frithkin, who caught them dexterously with bony fingers. Then he vaulted out of the saddle, his long oaken staff in one hand. While Frithkin galloped the two mules off to one side of the road, Magus MacCullen took his position in the center, his brawny legs braced, his six-foot staff of one-inch-thick oak held firmly at an angle across his body. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

	Magus MacCullen made a fine target for the oncoming lance point. He stood six feet two and was broader in proportion than he ought to be. The powerful hands gripping the staff were half again as big as an ordinary man's, and, like his arms, were corded with heavy muscle. With his light blue, silver-decorated robes and his bright red mane of hair and beard, he stood out against the brown of the road and the dusty green of the surrounding meadow.

	The oncoming knight ignored Frithkin. He charged right on down the road toward the un-moving, blue-and-silver clad figure of the sorcerer. The knight said nothing. There was no war cry, no insult, no warning—only that deadly, straightforward charge. He intended to spit Magus MacCullen on the lance and—perhaps—talk about it afterwards. MacCullen didn't move. He might have been a statue.

	The steel-clad point of the lance was within inches of the Magus' breast before he moved. Almost too fast for the eye to see, and certainly too fast for the knight to react in time, the magician leaped to his right, holding the quarterstaff out to his left to fend off the lance. The heavy spear slid along the staff, deflected from its target by a full eight inches.

	The great charger, unable to alter its course in the few feet it still had to travel, thundered by the Magus in full gallop. With his two hands still braced on the quarterstaff, Magus MacCullen pulled the left hand toward himself and pushed the right hand away. The lower end of the staff swung in a vicious arc and struck the horse just under the jaw.

	It was like watching a mountain collapse. The horse, knocked unconscious by the blow, stumbled and fell. The armored figure in the saddle dropped the lance, did a complete somersault in the air, and landed in the road with a clatter and clang of steel armor.

	Neither he nor the horse moved.

	"Well, now," said Magus MacCullen. "Let's take a look at this brave, chivalrous gentleman who runs down unarmed people on the road without so much as a by-your-leave."

	"It looks to me," said Frithkin from the side of the road, "as if you've done him in pretty well. Broke every bone in his body, apparently."

	The fallen knight did, in fact, look as though he had suffered disastrously from his fall. His legs and arms were at angles that indicated terrible damage, and his body was twisted in a way that looked as though it had been wrung like a dishrag.

	Magus MacCullen walked over and inspected the wreckage for a moment. Then he knelt down and opened the visor of the helm.

	"Ha!" he said. Then he took the helmet completely off.

-

	FRITHKIN had brought the mules up close and was looking over the sorcerer's shoulder. When the helmet came off, Frithkin said: "Ho! Nobody home?"

	"Nobody home," said the Magus in agreement. "This suit of armor is as empty as a bride's nightgown." He poked his staff inside and rattled it around to indicate the emptiness behind the breastplate.

	Frithkin slid off the saddle of his mule. Afoot, he stood a scant four feet high, and his legs were so abnormally short, his arms so abnormally long, that he might have been taken for a chimpanzee. He went to the suit of armor and bent over it; with one hand, he pushed back the cowl that had covered his head. His head was as hairless as his face, and his skin was of a brownish color that reminded one of fresh-turned earth. His eyes were large, much too large to be human, making him look like a pop-eyed owl. His mouth was wide and almost lip-less. His nose, like his cat-pupiled eyes, was much too large for his face. It was a magnificent nose, a huge eagle beak of a nose, a nose that jutted out a full three inches from his face. That nose was making audible sniffing sounds as its owner inspected the armor.

	"Ho!" said Frithkin after a moment. "There's black magic here, all right!" He tapped his great beak with a bony finger. " 'What a goblin knows, he knows by his nose,' as the old saying goes."

	"That's fine doggerel verse," said the Magus, "but let's be a little more specific. What kind of black magic? Any specific spell?"

	Frithkin sniffed some more. "Well, Master Magus, I would say it's nothing we need worry about. I should say that the spell has been directed against the unfortunate gentleman who owns this armor. Or once owned it, since he doesn't seem to be around himself." More sniffing. "Nothing malignant about it. Not as far as we're concerned. The spell's still here, though, which is odd. Seems to be in abeyance, but not broken."

	"Find out what you can," said Magus MacCullen. "I'm going to take a look at that poor horse. Hate to hit a horse that way, but it's the only thing to do when some high-born sorehead takes it in his noggin to do a fellow in with a lance." He strode over to where the great black destrier lay on the road, breathing quietly.

	"Hmmm," murmured the Magus, "doesn't look like any damage done. Legs not broken, at any rate." He knelt down and checked the legs one at a time to make sure. Then he went over to the head.

	"How's your jaw, friend? Mmmm. No fracture. Just a lump. You may find it a little difficult to chew your oats and hay for the next day or two, but you'll be all—oops! Steady, boy! Steady!" He gripped his staff tightly. The warhorse had opened a large brown eye and was looking at him reproachfully. A huge stallion like this could be dangerous with teeth and hooves if he decided that the red-bearded man deserved to be punished for that oaken uppercut.

	The Magus hoped it would not be necessary to bat the poor creature over the head with the quarterstaff. He kept talking soothingly to the horse.

	"Yike!"

	Magus MacCullen turned his head at the sound of Frithkin's voice.

	The suit of armor, saws helm, was climbing to its feet for all the world as though there was a man inside it. Frithkin was backing away rapidly, his own quarterstaff at the ready in his goblin hands.

	At the same time, the great stallion rolled to his feet and stood up.

	For a moment, Magus MacCullen wondered whether it mightn't be the smart thing to club the horse again so that both he and Frithkin could give their full attention to the Empty Knight. If the steel-clad vacancy decided to draw the great sword at his side, he might be a little difficult to take care of.

	But the horse stood quietly, and the armored figure did nothing but bend over and pick up the helm from the ground and put it in its proper place,

	"There!" boomed a hollow voice from the interior of the armor. "First off, I want to apologize. Terrible mistake and all that. Thought you were someone else, you see. Please accept my heartfelt apologies, Master Magus—for I see you are a magician."

	"Your apology, is accepted, Sir Knight," said the Magus, easing his grip on his quarterstaff a little. "But I think such precipitate behavior requires an explanation, don't you?"

	"Yes, I suppose it does. Here, would you mind fastening this helm back on? It's difficult to get at, and besides, gauntlets aren't exactly built for delicate work. Yes, that's it. Thank you very much." The Empty Knight grasped the helm in both gauntlets and tested its firmness. "Fine,"' he said. "Thank you again, Magus."

-

	THEN he walked over to his horse and examined the jaw. "Painful, but no real injury," he said gently. "That's quite a trick you have there, Magus. Last time I'll try to ride down a man who has a quarterstaff, I'll tell you."

	"About that explanation, Sir Knight ..." the Magus prompted.

	"Oh, yes. Well, it's rather a long story—and I must warn you that I can't tell you all of it, anyway. I've got a curse on me, as you may have gathered."

	"I had surmised as much," said the Magus dryly.

	"Yes, of course you had, being a magician and all that. Well, since we all seem to be going in the same direction, what do you say we mount up and go ahead while I make my explanation."

	"That's agreeable with me," said MacCullen. "Let's go Frithkin. By the way, Sir Knight, I am the Magus MacCullen. This is my assistant and familiar, Frithkin."

	"Happy to make your acquaintance, Magus. Frithkin? Not a Christian name, I think?"

	"No, my lord," said Frithkin. "Fey. Faerie. I am an earth elemental, my lord. A goblin."

	"Really? Don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting a goblin before. Met a tree elemental once—a dryad named Naaia. Very nice girl. Most beautiful green hair you ever saw. I guess I'm pretty much of an elemental myself, eh? Mostly steel and air, eh?" He chuckled sadly.

	"I don't believe you gave us your name, Sir Knight," the Magus said pointedly as the three mounted their animals and moved on down the road.

	"Well, that's the sad part about it," said the Empty Knight. "You see, I don't have a name, really. I'm not quite all here, if you see what I mean. I mean to say, I don't know who I am. I'm just—well, sort of here, if you see what I mean."

	"Um," said Magus MacCullen thoughtfully. "How long has this been going on? I mean—tell me everything you can remember, from the beginning. As a white magician, I may be able to help you."

	"Would you really?" There was a rather pathetic note of joy in the Empty Knight's booming voice. "That's awfully good of you. What do you need to know?"

	"Begin at the beginning, as far back as you can remember. I think I know what has happened here, in a general way, but I need more evidence before I can decide what to do about it."

	Magus MacCullen was in the center of the little party, with the Empty Knight on his left and Frithkin on his right. The goblin leaned over and whispered, in a voice that the knight couldn't hear, "Ask him why he tried to spit you on that pig-sticker of his."

	"Later," the Magus whispered. "He'll get to it in time."

	The Empty Knight was silent for several minutes. Then he said: "I can't seem to remember." His voice was gloomy. "I've just been touring the countryside for—I don't know how long. Weeks? Months? Years? I can't remember. Time just keeps moving on. Always does, I suppose. But still I keep looking." He sighed. "I go from castle to castle, from town to town, looking. It seems like a long time in some ways, but maybe not so very long. Of course, I don't eat, and that's pretty handy, for I haven't any money. Haven't had for a long time. Not ever, I think. Fortunately, someone is always ready to give Roderick food and a stable. Nobody'd let a horse starve. I always tell people that I've taken an oath not to take off my armor until I've fulfilled my vow—which is perfectly true. And since I only stop one night, I can tell them I'm fasting that day—which is true, if misleading. It gets lonely at times, but knight errantry is a lonely job, anyway. I'm not complaining, you understand. I just go on looking."

	"Looking for what?" the Magus asked cautiously.

	"Why, the magician, of course. Didn't I tell you? No, I guess I didn't. Well, that's who I'm looking for. The magician."

	"Which magician?" Magus MacCullen asked. "Not just any old magician, I gather."

	"Oh, rather not!" said the knight. "No, indeed. You see, that's where I made the mistake about you. I asked for food and lodging for my horse at that castle back there. The Count du Marche welcomed me and asked my name. I gave him the old wheeze about my being under a vow not to reveal my name or doff my armor until I'd fulfilled my quest. I said I couldn't tell him anything about the quest, either, you understand. Can't tell a fellow you're just out to catch yourself a magician, can you now? Anyway, I asked him if he'd seen any magicians lately, and he said he had, that you'd just left, as a matter of fact. By George, I thought I'd got him this time. But no. Turned out to be only you. Still, maybe you can help me find him."

	"Maybe, Sir Knight," the Magus said agreeably. "Why are you looking for him?"

	"Why, he's the one who did this to me, whatever it is he did. Nasty trick, I call it, leaving a man just a shell of his former self, as it were."

	"Oh, you remember that, do you?"

	"Well, no," the Empty Knight said after a short pause, "I can't say I really remember it: I just know it."

	"I see. What does this magician look like? Do you know his name?"

	"No. I don't know his name. No. But he looks ... Hmmm. Well. Now, you know, that's awfully odd, but I really don't know what he looks like."

	"Tall or short? Young or old? Haven't you any idea?" asked the Magus.

	"Well, now, you know, I don't." The knight laughed hollowly. "Isn't that funny? I mean, come to think of it, I haven't the foggiest notion what the fellow looks like. None at all."

	"Then how do you know I'm not him?" asked Magus MacCullen.

-

	THE Empty Knight turned, and Magus MacCullen saw nothingness staring at him from the darkness beyond the bars of the visor of the helm. Then the knight faced forward again. "Well, because you're not at all like him, you see," he explained. "I mean, I don't know what he looks like, but I know what he doesn't look like, if you follow me. I'm quite certain I shall recognize him when I see him."

	"Good. But if I were you, Sir Knight, I wouldn't go around trying to run a lance through every magician I came across. Some magicians are very touchy about that sort of thing and have a tendency to cast a fast spell that wouldn't do you any good. Besides, what if you kill the man you're looking for? He couldn't undo the spell if he were dead."

	"That's so," the Empty Knight said complacently, "but I wasn't going to run you through, you know. I'm an expert with a lance; I was just going to catch your robe with the point and hoist you into the air. Then, if you'd turned out to be the magician I was looking for, I'd have you at my mercy, and you'd have had to take the spell off before I'd have let you down."

	"Suppose he just threw another spell? Changed you into a toad or something?"

	"Oh, that. Well, he couldn't, you see. I've got a protective spell on me. Very powerful. I'm proof against any magic spell except the one that will restore me to what I was before. Whatever I was. I wish I knew, but I can't remember for the life of me. If I have any life. You don't suppose I'm dead, do you? That would be a cruel joke to play on a fellow. But I think I'm alive. Don't you?"

	"I'm pretty certain of it," said the Magus. "Look here, do you mind if I try something? I want to check on that protective spell."

	"Certainly," the knight said agreeably. "If you think it'll be of some help, go right ahead."

	"Not just yet," said MacCullen. "I'll let you know. Where are you headed now?"

	"Oh, wherever you're going, my good Magus. It doesn't make a particle of difference to me. A knight errant doesn't care where he's going; he just goes, you know. I'll tell you what: In return for your help in finding this magician or getting rid of the spell on me or whatever it is you can do, I'll go along with you and protect you from danger. How's that?"

	Magus MacCullen looked at Frithkin, and the goblin whispered softly:

	"Go ahead, Master; take him up on it. He may be of some use to us, and, after all, he won't cost much. It's not as if he was a regular knight, who'd expect to be fed the best foods, poured the best wines, and given the best bed, and expect somebody else to pay for it into the bargain. Here we've got a perfectly good knight, cheap. Remember, Master, we've got a long way to go to the Convention, and this fellow may come in handy in a pinch."

	"You're right, of course," said the Magus. He liked to think that he could take care of any danger himself, but there was no use letting pride keep him from taking advantage of a good thing.

	"Very well, Sir Knight," he said aloud, "that's a bargain. You go along with us and protect us from evildoers, and I, in turn, will do my best to relieve you of that spell, either by finding the person who laid it on you and forcing him to remove it, or, failing that, solving the spell and nullifying it myself. Fair enough?"

	"Fair enough, my good Magus!" the Empty Knight boomed happily. "Let us go forward, then! We shall seek adventure and take it as it comes! Comrades three, whatever may befall!"

	"Oh, brother!" muttered Frithkin under his breath.

-

II.

	"FRITHKIN!" bellowed Magus MacCullen. "Where the devil are you?"

	"Right here, Master Magus," said the goblin, voice from the next room. "I've got the wine, just as you ordered."

	"Then bring 'em in. I'm thirsty as Satan himself."

	"I'm opening them now," said Frithkin, dexterously plying a corkscrew. He shivered a little and told himself he was lucky to have the great MacCullen for a master. Only a very powerful sorcerer could speak of His Satanic Majesty with such familiarity and get away with it.

	They were lucky, Frithkin thought, to have found rooms in an inn at this hour of the evening. After dark, many inns bolted their doors and kept them bolted, and the three travelers had, in fact, come to the door of the inn just as it was about to be locked.

	In the gloom, Magus MacCullen had peered up at the sign over the door and said: "What is it? The Archangel Michael?"

	Frithkin, whose eyes could see as well in the dark as in the daylight, had said: "No, Master. It's the George and Dragon."

	The Empty Knight had said: "How can you tell? They're both pictures of a knight in full armor sticking a dragon with a lance."

	"Yes, my lord," Frithkin agreed, "but the Archangel Michael has wings and St. George doesn't. Shall I knock, Master Magus?"

	"If you please, good Frithkin."

	The goblin got down off his mule and rapped solidly on the door of the inn. Footsteps were heard from within, and a panel in the door flew open. A woman with a beak nose that looked small only in comparison to Frithkin's, and who looked as though she could bite the head off a crocodile, snapped out: "Who might you be and what d'ye want at this hour?"

	"Is this the George and Dragon?" Frithkin asked mildly.

	"That's what the sign shows, don't it?" snarled the woman. "What d'ye want?"

	"I think I want to speak to George," said Frithkin.

	"What? What? Who?"

	"Never mind," said Frithkin. "We desire food and lodging for ourselves and our mounts."

	" 'We'? Who's 'we'?"

	"My masters and I," Frithkin answered. "Sir Roderick the Black and the Magus MacCullen."

	The woman paled visibly. She peered out, trying to see the face beneath the hood that effectively shadowed Frithkin's features. "Who? Roderick? And a magician?" She essayed a feeble smile which did not go well at all with her features. "Why didn't ye say so, good sir? Come in! Come in and welcome! I meant no harm, sir. No harm at all. There's sometimes robbers and thieves about. But I meant no harm, gentle sirs." And she had opened the door while she pattered out her apologies.

	While Magus MacCullen went upstairs to inspect the rooms, Frithkin and the Empty Knight had taken the animals back to the stable under the guidance of a stable boy who looked as though he had been frightened out of his sleep by the harridan who had answered the door.

	"My lord," Frithkin whispered in an aside to the knight, "I hope you don't mind my calling you Sir Roderick. I had to give her a name; it would have taken too long to go through that rigamarole about the vow. I needed a name of some kind, and the first one that came to mind was the name of your horse."

	"Perfectly all right. Wonder I didn't think of it myself, long ago. Black horse named Roderick made you think of Sir Roderick the Black, eh? Very clever, my dear Frithkin. Of course, even if it had occurred to me, I couldn't have told a lie. Not chivalrous, you know. But that doesn't apply to you, naturally."

	"No, my lord. We goblins are free from that particular limitation—though we have others."

-

	WITHIN twenty minutes, everything was secure. MacCullen had ordered wine, Frithkin had obtained it from the now obsequious landlady; and was now drawing the corks with a practiced hand. He took two brass goblets from the saddlebag which he had brought upstairs after taking his and the Magus from the mules, put the goblets on a tray with the wine bottles, and brought them in to Magus MacCullen.

	"Where is our vacuous protector?" the Magus asked, pouring.

	"Down in the stable, Master Magus. He says he prefers to stay with his horse. No point in wasting a bed on him, he says. Perfectly comfortable in the hayloft, he says." The wine bottle gurgled pleasantly as the goblin poured himself a drink.

	"Good. That'll give us a chance to discuss this problem and turn it to our benefit if possible. What do you think of our knightly friend?"

	"Not much brains," said the goblin, sipping at his wine.

	The Magus glowered. "None at all. You saw the inside of that helm. What would you expect? According to my analysis—which, I admit, is only tentative—this knight has been partially disembodied. Part of his spirit is still in his body somewhere; the rest of it is activating that suit of steel. Neither by itself is a whole man. How does that fit in with what your nose tells you?"

	Frithkin gently stroked that magnificent member with thumb and forefinger. "All I can tell you, Master, is that somebody put a black spell on him—and a real whopping powerful one, too. Then someone—maybe the same person, but I doubt it—put a white spell on him, which has partially, but far from completely, counteracted the black one. Laid over the whole is the protective spell he spoke of. It seems to be a pretty refractive spell, too. Strong and tough. The texture is smooth and the structure coherent. Whoever wove that protective spell knew what he was doing."

	"So," said the Magus thoughtfully: "Three different spells, involving from one to three different sorcerers."

	"I'd say two, Master, though there might be three."

	"One black magician and at least one white one, you think?"

	"That's the way it smells to me," said the goblin.

	"He doesn't know who he is, and hasn't got sense enough to care," said MacCullen. "Did you notice his shield? A field sable. In other words, somebody took his escutcheon off and painted the shield black. And that black surcoat he wears. Someone didn't want him to find out who he was, so they got rid of every bit of identification. But if that's the case, why not just kill him and be done with it? There's something very screwy going on here, my dear Frithkin, and I want to get to the bottom of it. Besides which—" He smiled broadly behind his flaming beard. "—if our voided friend is returned to his rightful condition, it is likely that he'll reward us handsomely."

	"True, he seems like a good sort," Frithkin said, blinking his great eyes slowly and solemnly. "But how do you know he has enough money to reward us, even if he wants to?"

	"His armor, dear boy. Black enamelled, inlaid with gold and with red enamel. Armor like that isn't cheap. It looks pretty dingy now, but that's because he hasn't been able to polish it. Mark my word, that lad has riches in his own right, and if we can help him regain them we'll be well rewarded."

	"How do you propose to go about it?" Frithkin asked.

	"There are two ways to approach the problem," the Magus said. "We cannot analyze the spells from the evidence obtainable from Sir Empty alone; we need the complete evidence. The rest of what we need can be obtained from only two sources: The knight's body or the sorcerer who enchanted him. We have to find one or the other—preferably both."

	"Succinctly put, Master, but it gets us nowhere," said the goblin. "Either one of 'em could be anywhere. We can eliminate Heaven and the Nether Regions, but that still leaves us all Christendom and Faerie to search. And that's an awful lot of territory, Master."

	"If we combed it inch by inch, it would be an impossible task, I agree," said MacCullen. "Therefore, we must use our brains. First, the body. No clues there. It could be anywhere, as you say. It could be lying somewhere in a coma, in a vault, say, or even buried somewhere with a protective spell cast on it. Or, it might be working as a slave somewhere—that's a likely idea."

	"Why?" asked Frithkin.

	"Because all the qualities that the Empty Knight has would be missing from the spirit left in the body; the bravery, the initiative, the ambition, the determination, and part of the intelligence. It would retain the memory, of course, but that wouldn't do it much good. What good is memory if you haven't got the ability to put it to use? In that condition, he—whoever he is—would make a fine slave. Especially if he's big and strong, which, judging from the size and build of the armor, he is."

	"That narrows it down a bit," the goblin agreed, "but we can't go around checking every slave and serf in Christendom and Faerie."

	"Obviously not."

	"So that leaves the magician," Frithkin continued. "And we can't go around trying to check every magician in Christendom and Faerie, either."

	"True enough," agreed the Magus. "But it so happens that we know where every magician will be in two months' time."

	Frithkin slapped the palms of his bony hands together. "The Convention!"

	"Precisely. Any sorcerer, magician, warlock, or other practitioner of the Art who doesn't show up at the Convention is automatically deprived forever of his powers, and all his spells are nullified. He'll be there, all right, and our hollow friend can identify him. If he doesn't come, of course, the spell will vanish and we can take credit for that. We can't lose, Frithkin."

	"I don't know ..." the goblin said doubtfully. "That law applies only to mortals, you know. What if the enchanter is one of the Faerie folk, like myself, who just naturally have certain powers, instead of having to study for them, as you mortals do?"

	"In that case, we will go directly to King Huon. If any of the Fey are involved, they have violated one of the basic laws of Faerie by using black magic. We will lodge a complaint in Court, and King Huon du Cor will find the culprit for us in a flash."

-

	FRITHKIN looked thoughtful while he downed half a glass of wine, then his mouth spread in a grin until the corners were almost even with his ear lobes. "It might work, at that, Master Magus! Back in the time of King Oberon, you might have had a rough time getting such a case before the Court, but King Huon du Cor has a tendency to be more lenient toward mortals, having been one himself once."

	"Really?" said the Magus. "I didn't know that. I'm not up on Faerie history as much as I should be. King Huon was once a mortal?"

	"That's right. Used to be Duke of Bordeaux. King Oberon had been promised translation to Paradise, but he had to pick a successor and Huon was his choice. He's made a pretty good King, too."

	Magus MacCullen waved a huge hand. "Well, there you are, my good Frithkin! Luck is on our side! Here I have been griping because a Convention Year happened to fall during my lifetime. Once every century there is a Convention, and I had to get caught! But now we see that all is for the good. Without the Convention, I wouldn't have but a small chance of catching the Empty Knight's enchanter. Now, it is almost certain!"

	"I'm glad you said 'almost', Master," said the goblin.

	The Magus scowled. "You're a pessimist, Frithkin. Now let me get some sleep. We have a long way to go yet, and I want to start out fresh in the morning."

	"Very good, Master. Have a good night."

	"The same to you, good Frithkin. Wake me early, and we'll go down and fetch His Emptiness and be on our way."

	Ten minutes later, the red-bearded sorcerer was snoring away, while Frithkin, who slept but once in thirty days, sat silently in the darkness, thinking goblin thoughts.

* * *

	Magus MacCullen was dreaming peacefully about refurbishing his home with the money he would get from aiding the Empty Knight when someone shook his shoulder and startled him into sudden wakefulness.

	"Sssst! Master Magus!" It was Frithkin's whisper. "Up and out! Wake up!"

	Instantly awake, the Magus swung his legs over the side of his bed. "What the Hell's going on?" he whispered.

	"I don't know," Frithkin said, "but whatever it is, I don't like it. A minute ago, four men came up the stairway, and they're outside the door right now. Quiet as mice, they were, but they can't fool a goblin's nose."

	"Robbers," the Magus muttered. "Is there anyone outside the window?"

	Frithkin moved silently to the window and looked out. There was nothing moving in the courtyard fifteen feet below, no one about anywhere. Frithkin whispered that information to MacCullen.

	"All right," said the magician, "you get down below, and I'll drop the saddlebags to you. Then I'll come down myself, and we'll get out of here. Move."

	The goblin went over the window sill and down the side of the stone wall, his fingers and toes finding handholds that no mortal could have found so quickly—certainly not in the dark. MacCullen dropped one saddlebag and then another, and Frithkin caught them before they struck the flagstones of the pavement. The whole operation was almost as silent as the evening breeze.

	Then there was a gleam of light from behind MacCullen, and he spun away from the window. The door to the hall had opened, and there was a shaft of firelight from the flickering torch at the head of the stairs.

	There were men outside, armed and lightly armored in hauberk and steel cap.

	"Come out, Roderick!" shouted one. "Come out cowering like the dog you are!"

	"That's not him," said another.

	"Nah!" said a third. "That's the red-haired swine who claims to be a magician."

	"Might as well get him, too," chimed in the fourth.

	They moved into the doorway.

	MacCullen knew he couldn't get out the window in time. He'd break his neck trying to climb down fifteen feet before one of these thugs crossed the room. And he certainly couldn't jump for it.

	Things looked bad, but there was one consoling fact. They had to come in through that door one at a time, with the light behind them.

	Using his quarterstaff like a lance, he charged forward, driving the end of it into the pit of the first man's stomach: The chain mail hauberk could stop a sword's edge, but it wasn't much good against a blow like the one MacCullen gave. The first man collapsed, retching.

	The second man tried to get by the first. MacCullen shifted his big hands, and the end of the quarterstaff swung and slammed against the side of his opponent's head, just beneath the rim of the steel cap.

	MacCullen aimed another blow at the third man. The man ducked, and the staff hit the steel cap, which came off and spun into the air, landing with a ringing clang. The end of the staff came down on the top of the unprotected head.

	MacCullen was just about to congratulate himself on having disposed of three out of four when he heard more noise on the stair. A fifth and then a sixth man appeared. Reinforcements!

	With a roar of rage that seemed to shake the walls, Magus MacCullen leaped over the three fallen men and slammed his oaken staff into the middle of the fourth man so hard that he staggered backwards into the arms of the man at the head of the stairwell. The stairs were full of men. MacCullen didn't stop to count, but it looked like a dozen or more. The ones at the top rocked back as their comrade collapsed into their arms.

-

	MACCULLEN heard a movement behind him and ducked to one side just in time. A fist with a club in it came down past his right ear. MacCullen dropped to a crouch and grabbed the wrist. Up and over! The flying mare sent the attacker in a somersaulting arc toward the head of the stair. MacCullen noticed in passing that the man had no helmet on. Considering the rap he had been given, he must have had a fairly tough skull.

	The arrival of a second body, with considerable momentum behind it, totally upset the already precarious balance of the men at the top of the stairway. They fell backwards.

	It was like watching an avalanche.

	Or, MacCullen thought, like watching a row of dominoes fall after the first one has been knocked over.

	The men on the lower steps could not support the weight of the men falling from above, so they, in their turn, fell, adding more weight to the burden of those below.

	Halfway down the steps, the avalanche began to slow as a few of the more quick-witted grabbed for the stair railing and held on.

	MacCullen turned and looked at the two fallen men by the door of his room. Neither one seemed inclined to move. He grabbed one by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his hauberk, lifted, turned, and tossed him down the stair. Without looking to see the result, he grabbed the second man and sent him after the first.

	The avalanche, prodded by two new arrivals, proceeded on its merry way.

	In the gloom at the bottom of the stairs, MacCullen saw that his own reinforcements had arrived. The Empty Knight, brandishing a gigantic mace in one steel gauntlet, was taking care of those who were tumbling to the bottom of the staircase, banging them on the head in order of their arrival. Frithkin was jabbing his quarterstaff between the uprights of the bannister, tripping those who had not yet fallen, and rapping the fingers of those who sought to retain their balance by holding on to the rail.

	Regaining his own quarterstaff, which he had dropped when he was attacked from behind, Magus MacCullen charged down the staircase, tumbling men before him.

	It was all over before any of the three realized it. MacCullen and the Empty Knight were looking for more heads to knock when they suddenly became aware that all of the available heads had already been so treated.

	"One, two, three, four ..." Frithkin began counting, pointing a long bony finger at one fallen man after another.

	"Are you all right, Magus?" asked the Empty Knight.

	"Fine. And yourself?"

	"Not a one of them touched me," the knight boomed hollowly. "Which is fortunate," he added, "since I don't like to be knocked down. How are you, my good Frithkin?"

	"... sixteen, seventeen! I make it seventeen," said Frithkin. "How am I? Oh, fine, my lord. Just fine."

	At that moment, the landlady, who had heard all the noise and waited quietly until it was over, flung open the door and said: "Did you get 'em?" Then, seeing only her three guests standing, she froze and turned pale as death.

	Frithkin was angry. Goblins do not like fighting; still less do they like to see their mortal masters attacked. He drew a long, wicked-looking knife from beneath his robe and advanced on the woman slowly. "Did who get whom, Madam?" he asked in his reverberating voice.

	The shattered harridan quivered and made strangling noises, but found herself unable to move from the path of the advancing, hooded figure.

	MacCullen opened his mouth to speak. He wanted no throats cut this night. But he was too late.

	Suddenly, when he was less than four feet from the woman, Frithkin swept back the hood from his head. He bugged out his great, glowing goblin eyes. He opened his huge mouth wide, showing formidable rows of grinding teeth. He stuck out a tongue whose tip came even with the tip of his nose. Then he roared horrendously. "Arrraghh!"

	The landlady rolled up her eyes and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

	Grinning, Frithkin put away his dagger and replaced his hood. "I suggest we get out of here, Master, before others come."

	"I agree," said the Magus. He tossed a silver piece on the floor near the fainted landlady. "That will take care of everything, though I don't know as she deserves it. Come along, Sir Knight; we have riding to do."

-

III.

	BY the time another six weeks had passed, the Empty Knight was firmly convinced that he had "always" been traveling with the Magus MacCullen and his goblin familiar. His memory of events began to fade after a few weeks, and anything more than a month in the past—unless he was reminded of it regularly—was almost gone completely. This lack of memory never disturbed his placid equilibrium nor his ever-present good humor. The only thing he never forgot was the reason for his quest: the discovery of the magician who had enchanted him.

	Other than that one thought, nothing disturbed him. Not even the seeming disaster that occurred in the third week. The three travelers had spent their nights in various odd places—sometimes in barns of well-to-do peasants, sometimes on the grass of open meadows, sometimes beneath spreading trees. Two or three times, when one was handy, they stayed overnight in an inn without further trouble. Once, they had spent three days in a castle, fed and lodged well by its genial baron.

	On the twentieth day, they were riding through a pleasant wood, shaded from the summer sun by the leaves and branches overhead. There was no road as such; it was easy to go in a fairly straight path between the widely-spaced trees. At noontime, they stopped and, while Magus MacCullen spread out a linen tablecloth, Frithkin unpacked dishes, goblets, wine, and food. The Empty Knight tethered the mules and his great warhorse Roderick to a nearby tree to cool off before they were led to the nearby brook to be watered.

	"Nothing like a bottle and a cold bird," said the knight, seating himself on the grass near the tablecloth. "I'm sure I must have enjoyed a repast such as this many times," he added sadly. "I wish I could remember it."

	"You'll enjoy it again, Sir Knight," the Magus promised as he tore a leg off a cold chicken. "Pour me some of that wine, Frithkin."

	When the meal was finished, Frithkin got out his pipes and began to tootle a goblin tune.

	"My good Frithkin," said the Empty Knight when the tune was finished, "do you know 'I Sing of One so Fair and Bright'?"

	"Certainly, my lord," said the goblin. "Like this?" He began to play.

	"That's it! Begin again, and I'll sing."

	Frithkin complied, and the knight sang:

-
"I sing of one so fair and bright, 
	"Velud maris stella, 
"Brighter than the noonday light, 
	"Parens et puella; 
"I cry to thee, thou care for me,
"Lady, pray thy Son for me, 
	"Tam pia,
"That I might come unto thee, 
	"Maria!"
-

	Magus MacCullen sipped a final goblet of wine while the pleasant baritone of the Empty Knight mingled with the eerie notes of the goblin pipes. When the fifth verse was finished, he clapped his big hands in appreciation. "Well sung, Sir Knight! Well played, Frithkin! And now, let's finish up and be on our way."

-

	BY this time, they had worked out a routine for themselves. The Magus tidied up the place and packed things in the saddlebags, while Frithkin went to the shallow stream nearby to wash the goblets and plates, and the Empty Knight took the mules and Roderick upstream to water them.

	MacCullen heard the drumming of hoofbeats a minute or so later and paused to listen. Then he saw the cavalcade of brightly caparisoned horses and knights in surcoats and armor moving at a fast canter through the trees in the distance. Obviously heading for a ford in the stream ahead, the Magus decided. Then they were out of sight.

	A minute or so later, he heard Frithkin's screech. He dropped everything, grabbed his quarter-staff, and went running.

	Frithkin had gone to the edge of the stream, and kneeling down, had begun to scrub the greasy plates with the clean, wet sand from the bottom of the stream. He, too, heard the thunder of hooves and lifted his head to look.

	The cavalcade rode into sight and splashed across the stream almost where Frithkin was sitting. He sprang to his feet, but just a little too late. One of the horsemen practically ran him over.

	Frithkin stepped backwards, slipped on a wet rock, and fell splashingly into the water. The dozen or so knights roared with laughter and kept on riding as Frithkin came up out of the shallow water with a scream of rage. He still held a brass goblet in one hand. Without really taking aim, he flung it at the head of the man who had almost ridden him down. It missed, went sailing by, and hit with a loud clang on the coroneted helm of the man who was obviously the leader of the troop.

	The laughter stopped suddenly. So did the horses as the men reined up.

	The knight with the ducal coronet turned slowly in his saddle and looked at Frithkin. Then he said, in a snarling baritone: "Sir Griffith, kill me that base-born peasant! Teach him that a commoner does not throw things at the Duke of Duquayne! The rest of you come along. Let Sir Griffith have his sport."

	Sir Griffith happened to be the man who had almost run Frithkin down. He evidently enjoyed such witty pranks. As he turned his horse about, Frithkin took off for the woods as fast as his goblin legs would carry him. With a coarse laugh, Sir Griffith set his bay gelding in an easy trot after the scampering Frithkin.

	The goblin knew that his only chance was to get up a tree, so he headed for the nearest one. But the bay gelding was too fast. One glance behind him told the goblin that he'd never make it high enough to be out of reach of that lance, not in the seconds he had left. He dodged around the tree and headed for another one. The horse had to make almost a right angle turn around the tree, and Frithkin gained a few yards—but not for long. Again he dodged around a tree, but this time Sir Griffith was ready for him and had the horse ready to make that turn. But Frithkin changed tactics, too. He made a complete circle around the tree, crouched, ran under the belly of the horse, and shot off in the opposite direction.

	Sir Griffith got his steed turned around, and, with a curse, charged off after the running goblin. The time for sport was over; Sir Griffith was mad now.

	Frithkin thought he could make it this time. But he was only eight feet up the trunk of the tree when the lance point got him in the back and went straight through his chest.

	Sir Griffith flipped the lance up straight and Frithkin's body flew off in a high arc and crashed down among some bushes.

	"Ho!" bellowed a booming, hollow voice. "Base knight! Stand to and fight! Lower your lance against an armored man if you dare, coward!"

	The Empty Knight, astride the mighty Roderick, his black shield held at the ready, his lance aimed at the heart of Sir Griffith, charged across the clearing toward his enemy.

-

	SIR Griffith had no choice. He lowered his own lance again, spurred his bay gelding, and charged toward the oncoming figure in black armor.

	Magus MacCullen came running up a few seconds before the two met. In one glance, he saw that the Empty Knight should have the better of the encounter. His lance was steady and his aim was true, while the other knight was having trouble holding his aim. The Empty Knight sat a horse better and held his position better. There should have been no doubt of the outcome.

	Part of MacCullen's prediction was true. Sir Griffith's lance point slid off the Empty Knight's shield, missing the fesse point by six inches, while the Empty Knight's lance struck solidly, full on.

	To the amazement of both Sir Griffith and the Magus, the Empty Knight, still clinging firmly to his lance, came to almost a dead halt. Roderick, who could not stop so quickly, charged on. As a result, the Empty Knight was catapulted backward out of his saddle and came crashing to earth with a clash of steel.

	Sir Griffith, still firmly seated, much to his own amazement, charged on by and then wheeled his horse to attack the fallen knight. But he reckoned without the great black stallion.

	Roderick reared his mighty bulk into the air and struck with his forefeet. His heavy hooves struck. One hit the armored Sir Griffith, jarring him to his teeth. The other hit the bay gelding.

	That was enough for the gelding. He took one look at that huge stallion, turned, and took off at a gallop. Sir Griffith had dropped the reins and could do nothing to control his horse. It was all he could do to hang on.

	Great Roderick thundered along behind and would have caught the bay if he hadn't heard the Empty Knight's voice bellowing behind him.

	"Roderick! Come back here!" He knew that if the horse kept on Sir Griffith's heels he would eventually have the whole troop of the Duke's men to deal with.

	Roderick came back, his nostrils snorting angrily.

	Sir Griffith regained the reins and finally got the bay gelding under control, but he decided not to go back. He had done as the Duke had ordered and had unhorsed the knight in black in the bargain. He had won, hadn't he? Besides, he felt safer with the troop.

	The Empty Knight had leaped to his feet and was ready to remount Roderick and ride after the fleeing Sir Griffith, but Magus MacCullen yelled: "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

	"After that catiff swine! He's murdered Frithkin! I loved that goblin like a brother!"

	"Wait a minute! There's a dozen of them! They can't kill you, but they'd knock you to pieces and scatter your armor all over the place. What do you mean, he murdered Frithkin? Don't be ridiculous!"

	"Ridiculous am I?" bellowed the Empty Knight in a high dudgeon. "Come over to these gorse bushes and take a look! Caught him right in the chest from behind!"

	The Magus ran over to the bushes, reaching them before the knight did. "Frithkin! Frithkin! Are you hurt?"

	"Damn right I am," said Frithkin feebly from the bushes.

	The Magus parted the bushes and looked in. "What happened?"

	Frithkin lay still, his hands over his chest, his body twisted, his goblin eyes glazed with pain. "He ran me through. My neck's broken, and so's my back. I think my head's busted."

	The Empty Knight looked down at the goblin. "You're still alive, good Frithkin?" He paused, then said in a wondering voice. "And no blood?"

	"Of course he's still alive," said MacCullen. "You can't kill an earth elemental. And who ever heard of a goblin with blood?"

	"That's right, my lord," said the goblin with a feeble grin. "It'll take all night to heal, but I'll be all right in the morning." Then he winced. "Being immortal is all right, I guess, but dammit, this sort of thing hurts!"

	Frithkin was obviously in great pain. "Help me get him out of there, Sir Knight," said the Magus. "Careful, now! Easy! There! Now let's get busy and bury him."

	"But he's not dead," protested the Empty Knight, reasonably enough.

	"No," said MacCullen patiently, "but that's the best way to cure an earth elemental of anything that's wrong with him. Put him in the earth."

	"Aye," muttered Frithkin with a faint attempt at a smile. "It's back to the Auld Sod for me!"

	They dug the grave and buried Frithkin. And all that afternoon the magician and the knight discussed in angry tones what they would do with the recreant knight when they caught him.

	"I'll know his coat of arms when I see it again—a row of four red diamonds across a silver shield," said the Empty Knight.

	MacCullen nodded. "Argent in fesse four fusils gules. We'll find out who that butcher is all right!"

	They talked until the moon rose, then Magus MacCullen lay back on the grass and fell into fitful slumber. The Empty Knight sat up and tended the fire, having nothing else to do.

	Just before dawn, he heard a scrabbling, digging noise and looked over at the grave. Frithkin was digging his way out. He stood up, brushed the crumbs of soil from himself, then looked over at the Empty Knight and grinned. "Good as new, my lord."

	"I'm glad, good Frithkin," the knight said simply. "Very glad."

	Three weeks later, they had reached the border of Faerie.

-

IV.

	THE curious dimensional interface which constituted the "border" of the Land of Faerie was not always easy to find. It was computed by astrologers who knew their business that Faerie would drift further and further away until at last the interface would no longer exist, and knowledge of the Land of Faerie would fade from the memories of men and the stories of Faerie would be discounted as childish twaddle. "Nothing but a Faerie story," would become a catch phrase until, after cycles of time, the drift reversed itself and Faerie came once again within the ken of mortal men.

	For Frithkin, finding the exact location of the borderland was childishly simple; as a subject of the Faerie King, he had a homing instinct that was infallible. The goblin took the lead, followed by Magus MacCullen and the Empty Knight, and they threaded their way through a thick forest of gnarled, ancient oaks. The sky was shrouded with a light overcast, and the light filtered down through the leaves and branches to fill the air with greenish gloom.

	There was danger here, for trolls, dragons, basilisks, and other horrendous denizens of Faerie often found their way through the border and lurked in wait for travelers—especially during a Centennial Convention year, when so many would be coming this way.

	The Empty Knight had wanted to ride up front, by Frithkin—to protect them, he said—but Magus MacCullen would have none of it.

	"They're more likely to sneak up on us from behind, anyway, Sir Knight," he said. "You'll be of much more use in the rear. And if anything happens, for the love of Heaven use your mace or your sword, not your lance."

	Mollified by having been put in the position of what the Magus said was of greatest danger, the Empty Knight rode behind.

	As a further precaution against danger, MacCullen had previously conjured up a series of spells ready for casting should the occasion arise. The real reason he wanted the Empty Knight in the rear was that if a dragon, say, were to challenge them from ahead, the knight would most likely lower his lance and charge from force of habit. And, of course, get knocked out of his saddle as a result.

	He had explained the whole thing to Frithkin on the day after the attack by Sir Griffith.

	"He's strong enough and skilled enough, but he doesn't have the weight behind him. Oh, he looks heavy enough, but that's because we tend to think there's a man inside that armor. There's a common rumor, among peasants who don't know any better, that a knight in full armor can't get up again if he's knocked flat. The heaviest plate armor made doesn't weigh over ninety pounds, and any knight that can't get to his feet, with only ninety pounds of armor distributed evenly over his body, doesn't deserve to wear it.

	"Now, Sir Empty's armor is fairly heavy, but it isn't of the heaviest kind. He doesn't weigh more than eighty pounds—eighty-five at the most. What chance does he have of driving his lance point home? How can he unhorse a man who, with armor, weighs close to two hundred and fifty pounds?"

	"I see," Frithkin had said. "I remember when that ba—er, gentleman was chasing me, I wished I were a rock elemental—a gnome or a kobold. No fear of lances, then! A friend of mine named Gwuthnik is a little gnome who stands three feet high if he stretches, weighs a good four hundred pounds, and he's so hard that a lance point wouldn't do more than scratch him."

	"Four hundred pounds, eh?"

	"Since he's a rock elemental, I should have said he weighs close to twenty-nine stone."

-

	A MACE or a sword was something else again, MacCullen decided. A mace has weight of its. own and a sword has a sharp edge and you don't depend so much on your own weight to wield them. Besides, the Empty Knight could hold on to the pommel of his saddle with one gauntlet while he used a sword or mace with the other.

	Nevertheless, the Magus had charged himself up with a horde of good spells, just in case.

	They came to a bridge over a wide, sluggish stream, and Frithkin stopped, his nose twitching. "Smells all right to me," he said after a moment. "Come along."

	They went on across the stone bridge, but the Magus and the Empty Knight kept a sharp watch all the same. There was, as far as anybody knew, no reason for trolls to prefer bridges to hide under, but they did. Fortunately, none had discovered this particular bridge. The three travelers crossed without incident.

	There was no precise moment when the interface was crossed. The border of Faerie was like any other border; unless it has been marked out by a surveyor and clearly marked, there is no way of knowing at which precise moment the border is passed. But one minute the three were in the mortal world—and a few minutes later they knew they were in Faerie. It was hard to tell how they knew. Partly it was the luminous appearance of everything; the colors of grass and leaf and flower seemed to have a fluorescent quality about them. And the quality of the light itself was different. Since the sky had been overcast before they crossed the border, the change in the sky had not been obvious, and the leafy branches overhead made it even more difficult to tell, but all three knew that the sun was gone. The sun never shines in Faerie; there is only the blue of the sky, a darkling blue which permeates the very air with a silvery twilight.

	After an hour or so, the heavy forest began to thin out. The trees were still as big, but there was more room between them. The place might have been a well-tended park instead of a woods. If nothing else, the Faerie folk took care of their countryside.

	"How does this place smell to you, Frithkin?" the Magus asked.

	The goblin tilted back his head and tested the air with his nostrils. "All right," he said. "Nothing dangerous. There's a griffin several miles to the south, but he's digesting a meal, not hunting."

	"Fine. Let's take a rest, then. Unpack some sandwiches. And some beer. Be sure to take the cold spell off the beer or we'll chill our insides when we drink it."

	Frithkin narrowed his eyes—as much as he could narrow those huge orbs—and said: "Where are you going?"

	"For a walk. I'll be back in a few minutes."

-

	WITHOUT waiting for an answer, he got down off his mule and strode off through the woods until he was well out of sight of the goblin and the Empty Knight. Then he walked over to the nearest oak, traced a peculiar symbol in the air, murmured three lines of potent verse, and knocked briskly on the tree.

	"Who is there and what do you want?" said a contralto voice from the tree.

	"Let's not play guessing games, my lady," he said; "I am the Magus MacCullen, as you well know. You and your sisters have been keeping a watch on us for a long time. I'm not a magician for nothing, you know."

	"Very well, Magus MacCullen," said the voice, sounding rather miffed. "What is it you want?"

	"Who is the Elder Sister in this grove?" MacCullen asked.

	"It so happens that I am. Now, what do you want?"

	"I thought my intuition was working pretty well," said MacCullen. "Picked you out right away."

	"What do you want?" The voice sounded angry.

	"I said, let's not play guessing games, my lady. You know what I want. Information. But if you want to play another kind of game, I have one for you."

	"Which is?"

	"First I tell you a story, then you tell me one."

	"It had better be a good story," said the voice. "I'm not in a mood for games."

	"Oh? I thought you were. Well, I'll do my best to interest you. First, I will begin my story by reminding you that it is against the Law of Faerie for any of the Faerie folk to fall in love with a mortal."

	There was a gasp from the tree. Then the voice said: "Go on, Magus."

	"Fine. Now, we will mention no names. We both know what we're talking about, don't we?"

	"Yes, Magus."

	"Thank you, my lady. Then I shall say that I know what your sister did and I think it was very good of her. I want to help. I know that she partially averted a very serious crime, a breaking of both the laws of Faerie and the laws of Christendom. In order to set right that situation, I am willing to overlook a small infraction of the law, such as falling in love. More; with your help, I am willing to aid and abet this minor misdemeanor." He was bluffing. Most of what he was saying was guesswork, but it was guesswork based on knowledge and observation.

	"Do you swear by the Most Holy?" the voice asked.

	"I swear by His Name," replied the magician.

	"I believe you, Magus. I know you to be a good man. We would not want to get our sister in trouble. Though I don't know how you knew."

	"Someday I'll tell you," the Magus promised, "but there are more ears in this grove than ours." Again he mentioned no names, but the air elementals were notorious for spreading gossip.

	"I don't think there are any of the wind sprites about just now," said the voice, "but let's keep it confidential, as you say. Now, Magus, I honestly don't know all the details. None of us do. Other information I am forbidden to give. What I tell you now is all I can tell you. Ask no further questions."

	"All right, my lady. I'll do the best I can with what I have to work with. Speak on."

	"Very well. You have heard of the Great Chalice?"

	MacCullen raised his red eyebrows in surprise. "I have. Don't tell me that's mixed up in this."

	"It is."

-

	THE Magus pursed his lips for a silent whistle. The Great Chalice was the symbol of the Kings of Faerie. Whoever rightfully owned it was, by law, King of Faerie. It could not be stolen or taken by force; each King had to give it willingly to his successor. To mortals, it conveyed immortality; to all, it gave the power to rule Faerie.

	"Someone is after it," said the voice from the tree. "I don't know any of the details of the plot, but if you solve it, you will solve your own difficulties and ours as well. Now, the man to watch is the Duke of Duquayne!"

	"That son of—Pardon me, my lady. I have no love for the Duke; he ordered one of his knights to run through my familiar."

	. "Sounds like him," said the tree. "The point is, you have to get to King Huon's court before he does, and he's three days ahead of you. We were going to use subtle pressures and misguidance to get you to take the shortcut, but now that won't be necessary."

	"The shortcut. You mean across the Blistering Desert?"

	"Exactly. If you take the long way round, the Duke will be at King Huon's court before you."

	"But nobody can carry enough water to cross that desert and live!"

	"Arrangements have been made. Go directly to the edge of the desert from here. You will find a golden ring in the sand. We had arranged things so that you would find it accidentally, but there's no need of that now. With it, you will be allowed to ask for water three times as you cross the desert. Three times only, so don't waste your requests. Do you understand?"

	"I understand, my lady."

	"That is all, Magus MacCullen. I can tell you no more. Further, I bind you to say no word of this to anyone."

	"I cannot promise that, my lady. The goblin Frithkin is my familiar; we have no secrets each other."

	"You may tell Frithkin when you judge the time is ripe. But no one else. Above all, not to the one you call the Empty Knight."

	"Who is he, my lady?" the Magus asked. "Do you know?"

	"I said no questions. But ... I'll answer that one and no more. No. None of us knows. We suspect, but that is not enough. But the signs tell us that you will discover his identity."

	"That's all I need to know, then. Thank you, my lady."

	"Thank you, Magus MacCullen. May God go with you."

-

V.

	"LOOK here, Master Magus," said Frithkin pleadingly, "I'm not asking for my own sake. Lack of water makes me wither up, but I could still make it across that desert. So could his lordship, here. But you need water. And what about the mules and Roderick?"

	"Don't you trust me, Frithkin?" the Magus asked gently.

	"Yes, Master! Of course, but—" He clamped his lips together for a moment and looked out over the sandy waste that stretched before them. "Well, then, let's go, Master. Whatever you say."

	"What about you, Sir Knight?" MacCullen asked.

	"Lead on, Magus. I follow," the knight said boomingly.

	Magus MacCullen had been surveying the edge of the desert. It began abruptly, as though a knife had been drawn across the landscape. On one side there was grass, on the other side, rock and sand. There was no heat from the sun, for there was no sun, only the blue sky overhead. But the sands of the Faerie desert were hot, and it was said that the fires of Hell itself were near the surface here.

	Then MacCullen saw what he had been looking for. Something gleamed in the sand at the desert's edge, a few feet away. He couldn't have missed it, even if he had not known it would be there. He stooped, picked up a handful of sand, and let it run through his fingers. When the sand was gone, the ring remained in his palm. He got up on his mule, then, and said: "Let's go. We have a long ride ahead of us, and we must make good time."

	All that day they plodded across the Blistering Desert. The hooves of the animals had been wrapped with cloth to protect them from the heat of the sand, which would have blistered their hooves in time.

	Night came. The sky darkened to a royal blue, and a glimmer of light appeared on the horizon. Faerie has no sun, but its moon, three times the size of the moon mortal men were used to, was always full and shone with a yellowish light.

	At midnight, when the moon was overhead, they stopped to rest the animals. The Magus conjured up a cold spell that chilled the sands for a little while so that he and the mounts could lie down without getting feverish from the sand's heat. When the moon sank in the west, and the sky lightened again, they all rose and  went on.

	At midday, Frithkin said: "Well, Master Magus, that's the last of the water." He had just given a drink to the mules and Roderick. The leathern water bag was empty.

	"Well, we must do something about that," said Magus MacCullen. He put his hand in the pocket of his blue-and-silver robe and muttered something.

	For a moment, nothing happened. Then, nearby, two small whirlwinds began to form. They whirled faster and grew taller, until they had become whirling cones of sand nearly as tall as a man. Then they changed shape subtly, and the spinning sand took the form of two girls, tan and shapely.

	"Sand sprites," muttered Frithkin. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."

-

	THE sprites said nothing. There was only the swishing sound of the little whirlwinds that held them together. Their arms were uplifted to the sky, and their writhing fingers became long and tenuous and seemed to reach upward to the sky itself.

	Where a mortal woman would have had feet, the sand sprites had only twisting whirls of sand. The spinning winds had lifted the sand grains that formed their bodies from the desert itself, leaving a shallow depression in the desert floor. Their hands, reaching higher and higher, found what they sought. They brought water down from the clouds themselves, letting it flow through the interstices in their granular bodies and spreading it like a blanket on the ground below. Within minutes, the depression was full of cool water.

	The two sand sprites, their work done, whirled away to a point several yards distant. The winds slowed. Stopped. The sand that had made up their bodies collapsed and became two ordinary piles of sand, like any other little dunes in the desert.

	"You never cease to amaze me, Master," Frithkin said thoughtfully, studying MacCullen's face. He knew perfectly well that sand sprites cannot be commanded to do anything, except perhaps by the King of Faerie himself. There was more to this than met the eye. But he said no more.

	"That pool will warm up and evaporate pretty quickly," said MacCullen. "Fill up the water bags; let the animals drink. Then I'm going to take a bath and wash off the mules and Roderick."

	"I hope you can do that trick again," said Frithkin. "We're only a quarter of the way across this desert."

	"We'll make it, Frithkin," the Magus said shortly.

	"I never doubted it, myself," said the Empty Knight complacently. "If Magus MacCullen says he'll do a thing, he does it."

	"That's true, my lord," said Frithkin. "He always comes through. But sometimes I wonder how."

	It took the travelers four days to cross the Blistering Desert. Twice more, at MacCullen's call, the sand sprites brought them water. They were just running short of the last of it when they reached the other side. The moon had just set and the Faerie dawn had brightened the sky.

	As they crossed the edge and their mounts trod on grass again for the first time in four days, Magus MacCullen quietly flipped the gold ring behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small swirl of sand surround it and it was gone.

	"Thanks," said the Magus in his softest voice.

	"You are welcome, Magus MacCullen," whispered a dry, slightly gritty voice in his ear.

	Three days later, weary but pleased with themselves, the three travelers arrived at the Nameless City near which stands the great white castle of King Huon du Cor, the Sovereign Ruler of Faerie. They were fully a week ahead of time. And, since they had gained six days by taking a shortcut across the Burning Desert, they should be three days ahead of the Duke of Duquayne instead of three days behind.

	"Now what do we do?" asked Frithkin.

	"Do?" said the Empty Knight. "Why we go straight to the Palace, of course, and announce ourselves."

	"Not just yet," said the Magus. "Let's not be too hasty. I want to look things over first. Is there a good reliable inn within the City gates, Frithkin?"

	"Several. We're still solvent, Master Magus; how good a suite do you want?"

	"Roomy, but nothing too showy. Not the best in town, certainly."

	"You don't want the Queen Titania, then. How about the Hermes Trismegistus? A reliable place, and they cater to the magician trade, anyway."

	"They'll be all booked up for the Convention, won't they?" the Empty Knight asked.

	The goblin grinned and shook his head. "You're in Faerie now, my lord, and any Faerie Inn always has room for one more."

	"All right," said the Magus. "We'll go there. And then I want you to scout around and find out what the news is, if any."

-

	THEY went through the gates of the Nameless City, and through streets filled with shops and stores of all kinds. The people in the unnaturally clean streets were of all kinds and descriptions. Besides the near-human folk, who differed only by their pointed ears and their pale, translucent skin, there were goblins and gnomes and elves and brownies, and some odd-looking folk that even the Magus didn't recognize.

	They got a suite of rooms at the Hermes Trismegistus, and Frithkin went out to search for news. He returned in the middle of the afternoon.

	"Not much in the way of news Master," he said. "The Duke of Duquayne hasn't arrived yet. I checked with the guards at the City gates and with the guards at the Palace. No sign of him, though he's been invited to stay at the Palace by the King himself."

	"I don't understand it," the Magus said musingly. "The Duke and his troop aren't magicians. Or are they? Why should they be coming to Faerie at Convention time?"

	"Oh, didn't you know? There's to be a tourney. Jousting and mock battles and everything. A big show that His Majesty is putting on for the entertainment of the visiting magicians. There'll be the usual prizes: A gold cup for the winner and a gold medal for the runner-up, plus lots of silver medals and ribbons for the others."

	"By George!" said the Empty Knight enthusiastically, "I must enter!"

	Frithkin grinned.

	But Magus MacCullen nodded in agreement. "Indeed you must, Sir Knight! Indeed you must! Here—" He reached into his belt pouch and brought out a silver piece. "—go down to the nearest armorer and get yourself a polish job. If they ask why you want the armor left on, give 'em your story about the vow. Make sure they do a good job, too. We want you to shine for this affair."

	The Empty Knight stood up and took the silver piece in his gauntlet. "You've been very good to me, Master Magus," he said solemnly. "I shall repay you as soon as I come into my own"

	"Think nothing of it. Now go down and get that polish job."

	As soon as he was gone, Frithkin said: "What's got into you, Master? You know he won't last a minute in the first bout."

	"Frithkin, let me do the worrying, will you? Here's another silver piece. Go down and get me a can of gold paint, a can of red paint, and a can of black paint. The quick-drying kind that isn't available outside of Faerie. And a brush and some solvent. Got it?"

	"I've got it, but ..."

	"Go, Frithkin, go! I want you back here in fifteen minutes."

	When Frithkin came back with the paint, he saw that MacCullen had very carefully cleaned the surface of the knight's shield.

-

	"I am afraid to ask what you are up to, Master," said Frithkin.

	"Then don't! Go to the public room and drink some beer or something! Come back when you're not so inquisitive."

	Rather hurt, Frithkin did as he was told. He still had change from the silver piece, so he spent the next half hour drinking beer as he had been told. But his curiosity finally got the better of him, and he went back upstairs.

	"There!" said MacCullen as soon as Frithkin opened the door. "How do you like it?"

	Frithkin stared at the shield. It had been painted red, with a black chevron, like the letter A without the cross-bar, coming up to the center. Under this black inverted V was a round, gold disc, and there were two more on either side and just above the chevron.

	Frithkin just stood, there, open-mouthed.

	"I know," MacCullen said gently, "you're going to say that I can't do that. Putting my older brother's arms on another's shield is a violation, of the laws of heraldry, chivalry, and common decency. Well, you are perfectly right." He reached out and touched the shield. "It's dry now. Good. You win, Frithkin. I repent me of my actions."

	And he took the brush and the black paint and painted the whole thing over black.

-

VI.

	THE next day, the three travelers rode up to the Palace gates and asked to be admitted.

	"You names and ranks, please," said the Captain of the Guard.

	"I am the Magus MacCullen, Sorcerer of the Seventh Circle. This is my familiar, Frithkin, a subject of His Fey Majesty. This gentleman is a knight of noble birth who wishes to remain anonymous for the time being. He has taken a vow."

	"You vouch for him, Master Magus?"

	"I do."

	"Sign here. Thank you. You may pass."

	Others had come early, too. Around the great jousting field, several silk pavilions, blazing with the colors of their owners' coats-of-arms, had already been erected.

	"Let's go on out there and pick a spot to put up our own tent," said Magus MacCullen with a chuckle. "Five will get you a hundred that there will be a herald along before the pavilion is up five minutes."

	"No takers," said Frithkin. "Five will get you a hundred that—" He stopped. "No, no bet. I was going to say that they'll make us take it down in five more minutes, but you've got something up your sleeve."

	"How often does a magician hear that?" the Magus asked rhetorically. "But this time you happen to be perfectly right. Let's go."

	Frithkin was perfectly right, too, in not betting either way. The Magus had sunk nearly all the money he had left in buying the big black silk tent that they put up, and four minutes after they had finished tightening the guy ropes, a gentleman in a herald's costume came by to investigate. The Empty Knight and Frithkin were inside the tent, rolling down the sides to insure privacy, but the Magus was standing outside. The gentleman in herald's costume walked all the way around the pavilion, then came over to MacCullen. He was short, with gray hair around a balding head, and had a rather mild smile on his face. Only the pointed ears and the fathomless sea-green eyes, which had no pupils, indicated that he was of Faerie stock. "Pardon me," he said gently, "I am Argent Wyvern Pursuivant. You are the Magus MacCullen?" 

	"I am, sir."

	"It is a pleasure to meet you, Magus. The record of your distinguished family is well known to us here in Faerie."

	Distinguished, but poor as churchmice, MacCullen said to himself. Aloud, he said: "It is good of you to say so, Argent Wyvern."

	"Now, I understand," the Pursuivant went on, "that one of your companions is a knight who wishes to remain anonymous."

	"That is correct. I vouched for him at the gate."

	"Yes, yes, of course. But you can't put up a pavilion unless you intend to enter the tournament, and I can't permit anyone to enter the tournament unless I know his rank and status. Your friend can't remain anonymous if he wishes to enter the tourney. The others have a right to know that they are jousting against one of noble blood and not a—er—commoner."

	"Of course they do," said the Magus, as though he were pondering the situation. "Ah! I think I see a way around this. Would it be possible for me to have a short audience with His Majesty?"

	"Well-l-l ... perhaps. I would have to arrange it through my superior, the Faerroi King of Arms, since it is a heraldic matter."

	"Excellent. You see, the knight of whom we are speaking is under a vow not to reveal his identity. I, too, am unable to tell you who he is. But there are a few bits of information I can give—only to His Majesty, of course."

	"What sort of information?" asked Argent Wyvern.

	The Magus smiled. "Without breaking my vow, I can tell him what coat of arms lies under the coat of black paint on my friend's shield."

	Argent Wyvern Pursuivant broke into a knowing smile. "Ah! That, of course, would solve the problem completely. I shall make arrangements, Magus."

	"Thank you, Argent Wyvern."

-

	AN hour later, Magus MacCullen was in audience with His Sovereign Majesty, Huon, King of Faerie, and his chief herald, the Faerroi King of Arms. After making a low bow and going through the usual amenities, MacCullen waited for the King to speak.

	"Magus," said King Huon, "what's all this about an anonymous friend of yours?"

	The Magus explained, giving the story about the vow, which was perfectly true, as the Empty Knight had said, but misleading.

	"So you see, Sire," MacCullen finished, "he does not want his identity revealed to anyone just at the moment."

	"Then he can't fight," said the King. "Right, Faerroi?"

	"Quite, Your Majesty," the herald agreed.

	"If Your Majesty were to issue a statement saying that you guarantee that the Black Knight is of blood noble enough to engage the others without their losing their honor, wouldn't that suffice?"

	"Why, certainly," said the King. "But how can I do that if I don't know who he is?"

	The Magus looked at Faerroi King of Arms. "Without breaking my word, I can blazon for you the achievement beneath the black paint on the Black Knight's shield."

	The Faerroi King of Arms smiled. "Aha! What is it?"

	"This must remain secret."

	"Certainly."

	"The shield is blazoned thus: Gules a chevron sable between three bezants—the whole debruised by a field sable."

	"Only temporarily, I hope," said the herald.

	"Gules a chevron sable between three bezants," King Huon repeated. "That's—"

	"The Red MacCullen," said the King of Arms, who knew the coat-of-arms of every knight in Christendom and Faerie. "Head of the Clan MacCullen and older brother to the here present Magus MacCullen."

	"The Red MacCullen! Why, his deeds are famous! One of the greatest knights in Christendom!" said King Huon.

	"I shall be happy to tell my brother that you speak so highly of him, Sire," said the Magus, making a resolve to do so then next time he was home.

	"He hasn't gone in much for tournaments, though," King Huon observed. "In fact, he has not done much of anything in the past five years."

	"A matter of money, Your Majesty," said MacCullen. "I admit it for your ears only. It would be convenient for the family coffers if the Black Knight were to win a few ransoms of armor at this tourney."

	"Ah, that's the Irish, all right," said King Huon. "Brave but poor. Very well, Magus. I will give my Royal Word that the Black Knight is of noble birth, that no man's honor would be sullied by a bout of arms with him."

	"Thank you, Sire," said MacCullen with a low bow.

	And that was that. As he left, MacCullen sighed with relief. He had managed to get what he wanted without telling one single lie.

-

	TWO days later, Magus MacCullen was having a less formal audience with His Majesty. The King had invited MacCullen and several other magicians who were early arrivals to an informal talk over a few glasses of mulled wine. MacCullen was being polite but saying very little. He left most of the talking to the others. He had some heavy thinking to do. There were still parts of this puzzle he did not understand.

	One of the sorcerers, a Magus Ponzoni, was holding forth on the possibility of making a spell that would prevent Faerie gold from disappearing when touched by cold iron, when the door opened and a liveried servant approached the King. He whispered something in the King's ear. The King smiled happily. "Bring him in! Bring him in, by all means!" As the servant left, His Majesty turned to the eight magicians and said: "Gentle Magi, there is a friend of mine coming to whom I would like to present you. An old friend, whom I haven't seen for several years. He has come here to take part in the tournament, and that should make it a spectacle worth watching."

	At that moment, a tall, handsome man, with jet black hair and a jet black, neatly trimmed beard, entered the room. He stopped and bowed low. "Your Majesty, it is a pleasure to see you again."

	"My dear Duke!" said His Majesty. "Permit me to present to you some of our guests." Each of the magicians was named; each made a proper bow to the Duke. MacCullen watched narrowly, but the Duke showed no reaction when the King said: "Magus MacCullen."

	And MacCullen was not at all surprised when the man turned out to be the Duke of Duquayne.

	"My lord King," said the Duke when the introductions were over, "I am the bearer of unhappy tidings. There is a demon loose in your realm."

	The King shot to his feet. "What? I shall complain to His Satanic Majesty at once! This sort of thing cannot be tolerated!"

	"Your pardon, Majesty," said the Duke hurriedly. "My terminology was inexact. I should have said 'a fiend in human form'. A murderer and an impostor. A butcher of the worst sort. I, myself, saw him run down and kill a defenseless peasant, and there are other crimes against him which I can testify to. I have been unable to apprehend this monster thus far, but with your help it can be done. I happen to know that he is already within the borders of Faerie and is less than three days behind me."

	"His name?"

	"I don't know his name, Your Majesty. He gives none. But he wears black armor—which the base-born cur has no right to—and rides a black horse. A horse named, of all things, Roderick."

	King Huon's face clouded over and he glanced at MacCullen, who looked as innocent as possible. The King looked back at the Duke.

	"Three days behind you? Are you certain of that?"

	"Quite certain, Your Majesty."

	"Ah. I was worried for a moment. You see, we already have a knight here answering to that, description. But I happen to know who he is, and he is neither base born nor a murderer. And his horse is called—" He glanced at MacCullen.

	"Black Beauty^" MacCullen said complacently. He had distinctly heard Frithkin call Roderick a black beauty. No lie there.

	"Yes, Black Beauty," said the King. "Besides, this man has been here for three days now."

	"Then he couldn't be the man we are looking for," said the Duke firmly. "But steps must be taken against the murderer."

	"Have no fear, my friend," said the King. "Orders will be issued immediately. Your word is good enough for me. If he is found, he will be hanged instantly from the nearest tree."

	"You will rid your realm of a monster," said the Duke. "Perhaps my own men could aid in the search, I would have taken him myself before this, but I have no right to do so in your realm."

	"Very proper of you," said the King, "but you should have known that I would have forgiven you."

	"You are most kind, Majesty. Oh, by the way, would you ask your men to be very careful not to harm the horse? The stallion belongs to me. It was a gift from a friend, and this cur stole it."

	"Your horse? Yes, it would be, having your name. Well, we can just add horse stealing to the list of crimes which we shall hang this villain for."

	MacCullen sipped quietly at his mulled wine. So the Duke's Christian name was Roderick, eh? The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

	The Duke had made a very bad mistake. He had assumed that he had outsmarted everyone.

-

VII.

	THE third day of the tournament. For a week, now, the search had been going on for the "murderous villain" who was supposed to be following the Duke, and there had been no trace of him. It was conjectured that a troll or a dragon had disposed of him, since he was supposed to be traveling alone. MacCullen knew what had made the Duke wary of the knight in black armor. Sir Griffith de Beauville had heard the Empty Knight call out Roderick's name and had reported the unusual incident.

	MacCullen had heard things, too. Duke Roderick of Duquayne was not well-loved in his duchy. In the past year, he had become a tyrant. That explained the attack in the George and Dragon. Those men had evidently thought that "Sir Roderick the Black" was the Duke. He was sorry now that he and the Empty Knight had dealt so harshly with them. Still, what they had attempted to do had been illegal, even if possibly justifiable. Besides, none of them had been killed. The punishment had been light.

	MacCullen had been watching each day's jousting with a critical eye, and he saw that Duke Roderick was out to win by fair means or foul.

	Well, let him try. The Magus MacCullen had tricks of his own.

	"Look here, good Magus," the Empty Knight said on the third day, "why haven't you let me get out there? Am I to sit in this pavilion all through the jousting?"

	"No, Sir Knight, you fight today. I have matched you against your old friend, Sir Griffith de Beauville—he of the 'Argent in fesse four fusils gules'. That will qualify you for the final round."

	"Ahh-ha! I'll slaughter him."

	"I'll say you will. Frithkin, have you got that sand ready?"

	The goblin chuckled. "All ready, Master Magus."

	"Very well. Let's get started. You'll be called in fifteen minutes, Sir Knight."

	"What are you going to do?" the knight asked.

	"Well, one of the things I'm going to do is give you a head. It will just be a simulacrum, but when the herald asks you to raise your visor, there will have to be a face behind it. I'm going to make you look like my older brother."

	"Your brother? But why?"

	"Because it's necessary. Besides, I have to give you some face, and it is a law of magic that a simulacrum has to be a copy of some living person. It can't be imaginary, and the person can't be dead, do you see?"

	"I see. Very well, good Magus. Go ahead."

-

	FIFTEEN minutes later, the Black Knight rode to the lists on "Black Beauty"—who had had a small white blaze painted on his forehead. MacCullen did not want the Duke to recognize the horse too soon.

	MacCullen and Frithkin watched expectantly as the two knights, Sir Griffith and the Black Knight, faced each other across the jousting field. They had met in the center, raised their visors, and cantered back to the ends of the field.

	Now, visors down, they prepared to charge.

	The signal was given. The herald dropped his flag. The two great warhorses began to move. Faster and faster they gained momentum until, at the moment of impact, they were hurtling along at a full gallop.

	Like the first time they had met, Sir Griffith's aim and poise were not as good as his black-armored opponent. His own spear struck just off the fesse point, while the Black Knight's lance struck dead center.

	But this time, it was Sir Griffith who shot out of his saddle as though he had been propelled from a gun. The Black Knight hardly budged in his saddle as his lance cut through Sir Griffith's shield and pierced the armor. Sir Griffith landed crashingly in the sand of the jousting field. He wasn't quite dead, but he would be a very sick man for some time to come.

	Frithkin had been avenged.

	"Very beautifully done, Sir Knight!" said the Magus as the Black Knight rode back into the pavilion. "Beautifully done! Listen! The crowd is still cheering! How do you feel?"

	"Sort of stuffy."

	"I don't blame you. Be careful getting down off Roderick. If you slip, I can't catch you." Slowly and carefully—and somewhat stiffly—the Empty Knight dismounted.

	Not really an empty knight any longer, for his armor had been filled with three hundred pounds of sand.

	The next day, Magus MacCullen watched the jousting carefully. He was not interested in any bouts except those fought by the Duke of Duquayne.

	The Duke was doing quite well, as a matter of fact. He had arranged to take on as many knights as possible on the last day, and he was knocking them over one by one.

	Has to be a hero, MacCullen thought to himself. It didn't matter how many he jolted from their saddles; he would have to take on all who challenged him, and if he lost the last one, he lost the tourney. MacCullen was letting him do all the hard work he wanted to do, saving the Not-Quite-Empty Knight for the final round.

	The Duke was not a particularly good jouster, though, and it took MacCullen a little while to see why he was winning. If one wasn't looking for it, it would have been easily overlooked. The Duke was using a confusion spell on his opponent's eyes. They saw him just a few inches to the right of where he actually was.

	You are in for a surprise, my lord Louse, MacCullen thought grimly.

	At last, the Duke of Duquayne reigned supreme in the field. No one appeared to challenge him. He rode up to the grandstand, to the King's box.

	The herald blew a trumpet.

	"If there are no further challenges," he cried in a loud voice, "His Majesty will award the golden cup to His Grace, Duke Roderick of Duquayne!"

	"All right, Sir Knight!" MacCullen whispered. "You know what to do! Get out there and do it. And don't forget what I told you!"

	"I'll follow your instructions to the letter, Magus," the knight promised.

	Then he rode out into the arena and shouted in his booming voice: "I challenge!"

-

	DUKE Roderick, who had been about to take the cup from King Huon's hands, looked around at the sound of the voice. "Who is that man?" he asked the King. "Or doesn't anyone know?"

	"I can assure you, my friend, that he is worthy of your steel."

	"Very well. One more."

	And the two knights took their positions.

	And thirty seconds later, the Duke of Duquayne was lying unconscious on the ground.

	As his seconds came out and dragged him off to his pavilion, the Black Knight rode up to the King's box. Again the herald sounded his trumpet. Again challengers were asked for.

	And this time there were none.

	The King stood up, the golden cup in his hands. "My lord," he said, "you have done well this day. You have defeated the champion. In token of which, I give you this cup."

	The Black Knight took the cup in his hands.

	Instantly, it changed. Before, it had been a chalice of carved gold. Now, it was encrusted with dazzling gems—diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds in a coruscating array.

	The onlookers gasped. King Huon had, of his own free will, given away the Great Chalice! He was King no longer; he was just Huon du Cor, sometime Duke of Bordeaux.

	And then the new King, the Black Knight, did a strange thing.

	"Huon of Bordeaux," he said in his booming voice, "I, of my own free will and pleasure, return to you the Great Chalice, symbol and instrument of the Sovereignty of Faerie!" And he put the cup back in Huon's hands. Huon was King again.

	MacCullen had been working his way through the silent, shocked crowd to the King's box.

	"My lord King," he said, "perhaps it would be best if you come with me. I can explain this whole thing. It was a plot of the most dastardly kind. Will you come with me to the pavilion of the man who calls himself Duke of Duquayne?"

	Dumbfounded, the King could do nothing but follow.

	The Duke was just regaining consciousness when the King, MacCullen, and the Black Knight, followed by a score of Royal Guardsmen, entered his pavilion.

	"What happened?" he asked feebly. Then his eyes focused on the stern face of the King.

	"Yes. That's what I want to know," said the King. "What happened?"

	"Permit me to show you, Your Majesty," said the Magus MacCullen. His fingers made intricate patterns in the air, and he constructed, syllable by syllable, a sestine of great power.

	And the Duke's face changed. The hard-eyed, wrinkle-faced wretch who lay on the pallet was quite obviously not the Duke of Duquayne.

	"The Magus Prezhenski!" said the King. "But he's supposed to be dead!"

	"A hoax," said MacCullen. "He wanted everyone to think he was dead. You see, he had to come as Duke Roderick to pull off his plot against the Throne of Faerie. He put an enchantment on the Great Chalice so that you would think it was the prize cup and give it to him. Not content with usurping the place of the real Duke of Duquayne, he wanted to be King of Faerie."

	"What did he do with my friend, Duke Roderick?" King Huon asked in a cold voice. "Kill him?"

	"No. The Duke had to be alive in order to allow Prezhenski to use a simulacrum of his face." The Magus MacCullen pointed a finger at the Magus Prezhenski. "You have bartered your soul, Prezhenski. You have dealt with His Satanic Majesty and signed away your life in eternity. Shall we call him and tell him to collect, or will you remove the enchantment on the true Duke of Duquayne?"

	"I'll remove it!" the frightened Magus Prezhenski quavered. "Give me a chance."

	"Very well. And remember, I know as much magic as you and a great deal more. Don't try any trickery."

	"I won't! I won't! I promise!" He began moving his fingers and mumbling verses.

	And, quite suddenly, the suit of armor which had been the Empty Knight collapsed to the floor of the pavilion.

	"What's this?" said the King.

	Outside, there was a commotion.

	And then, with Frithkin by his side, in walked the Duke of Duquayne, stark naked except for the horse blanket he had wrapped around him.

	"It worked!" he said happily. "It worked, Magus MacCullen! I remember everything!"

	"It must be a sort of double memory," the Magus said with a grin. "You should remember being both horse and knight."

	"I do! Very odd sensation, I must say."

-

	MACCULLEN started to say something, but he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Prezhenski was muttering and moving his fingers. MacCullen made one gesture, and the evil magician froze, paralyzed.

	"I suggest you put that man under arrest, Your Majesty. Duke Roderick, I should like to speak to you later."

	It was only an hour later. Prezhenski had been safely locked away, and a team of three magicians had put tight binding spells on him that he could never throw off by himself.

	The King, the Duke, and Frithkin listened to MacCullen explain.

	"The Empty Knight, you see, could only remember things that were extremely important to him, things that had registered strongly after the enchantment. I thought it odd from the first that he couldn't remember his own name, but could remember the name of his horse.

	"By the way, Your Majesty, I should like to call it to your attention that you owe the Duke a boon. He gave you back your kingdom. Legally, he could have kept it."

	"Really, Magus," the Duke said, "Huon knows I wouldn't do anything like that to an old friend."

	"Nevertheless," said the King, "what he says is true. If you have a boon to ask, I will grant it if it is within my power."

	"Well-l-l ..." the Duke began. "You tell him, Magus."

	"He wants a pardon for a certain dryad named Naaia," said the Magus. "That was another name he remembered. What happened was this: Prezhenski, using black magic of the blackest kind, transformed Duke Roderick into a horse. A magnificent black stallion. Naaia, as far as I know, must have seen him do it."

	The Duke nodded. "We were out hawking together. I trusted him, and he got me in the woods—near a big oak-—and ... well, suddenly I was a horse. I was too confused to think of what to do. He tied me to the tree and went away."

	"And Naaia," said the Magus, "didn't know who you were, but she had seen you as a man and had fallen in love with you. She came out of her tree and tried to help you. She couldn't reverse the spell, but she could modify it. She partially disembodied your spirit, leaving enough in the horse's body to make a good horse—all the horse sense, as it were—and put the rest into the armor. At least, that way you could go out to find the magician who had wronged you.

	"Prezhenski, meanwhile, took your place. He must have been worried, though, when he found that the horse he had tied so well to the oak tree was gone when he came back to get it."

	"Magus MacCullen," said Duke Roderick, "I shall never forget what you have done for me. You have saved my dukedom."

	"And my kingdom," said King Huon.

	"Oh, by the way, Your Majesty," the Magus said, "I want to apologize for misleading you into thinking that the Empty Knight was my brother, but all I asked you to do was give your Royal Word that the Black Knight was worthy of any man's steel—which he is."

	"You are forgiven, Magus. And so is Naaia. Do you love the wench, Roderick?"

	"I do, Huon."

	"Then we'll see if arrangements can be made. And now, I trust I will see you all at the banquet tonight. This is a story that will make good telling for centuries to come. Will you come with me, Duke Roderick? We'll have to find something for you to wear besides that horse blanket. Oh, and, Magus—between us we will decide upon a suitable reward, though we can never pay what we owe."

	"Your Majesty," said Magus MacCullen, with a wink at Frithkin, "You once said the Irish were brave but poor. It is within your power to correct that to some extent—without, of course, removing the bravery."

The End