Then he had it. It was the absence of any magic. He couldn’t feel any magic here. He couldn’t feel anything.

His hand tightened on the staff, searching. The magic failed to respond. He stood staring at the Fairy Glen in disbelief, unable to accept that this could be so. Were the Lady and the fairies gone from the glen? Was that why he could not sense the magic? Because the magic was no longer here?

He walked along the rugged bank of the rain-choked stream, picking his way carefully over the litter of broken rock and thick grasses. On a flat stone shelf, he knelt and peered down into a still pool. He could see his reflection clearly. He looked for something more, for something different, for a sign. Nothing revealed itself. He watched the rain pock his reflection with droplets that sent glistening, concentric rings arcing away, one after the other. His image grew shimmery and distorted, and he looked quickly away.

When he lifted his head, a fisherman was standing on the opposite shore a dozen yards away, staring at him. For a moment, Ross couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had convinced himself that the Fairy Glen was abandoned; he had given up hope of finding anyone here. But he recognized the fisherman instantly. His clothes and size and posture were unmistakable. And his look. Because he was a ghost and was not entirely solid, his body shifted and changed as the light played over it. When he tilted his head, as he did now, a slight movement of his broad-brimmed hat, his familiar features were revealed. It was Owain Glyndwr, his ancestor, the Welsh patriot who had fought against the English Bolingbroke, Henry IV—Owain Glyndwr, dead now for hundreds of years, but given new life in his service to the Lady. He looked just as he had years earlier, when Ross had first come upon him in the Fairy Glen.

Seeing him like this, materialized unexpectedly, would have startled John Ross before, but not now. Instead, he felt his heart leap with gratitude and hope.

“Hello, Owain,” he greeted with an anxious wave of his hand.

The fisherman nodded, a spare, brief movement. “Hello, John. How are you?”

Ross hesitated, suddenly unsure of what he should say. “Not well. Something’s happened. Something terrible.”

The other man nodded and turned away, working his line carefully through the rapids that swirled in front of where he stood. “Terrible things always happen when you are a Knight of the Word, John. A Knight of the Word is drawn to terrible things. A Knight of the Word stands at the center of them.”

Ross adjusted the hood of his slicker to ward off the rain that blew into his eyes. “Not any longer. I’m not a Knight of the Word anymore. I’ve given it up.”

The fisherman didn’t look at him. “You cannot give it up. The choice isn’t yours to make.”

“Then whose choice is it?”

The fisherman was silent.