I am speeding to you by the soul ways; I will enter into her. Follow her. Nyneve blinked, and it was as if a strong wind had whitened the surface of still water; I could see her no more.

Gull stood up, shook herself, and looked at me.

“Wait a moment,” I told her. I armed myself—mail, helm, shield, sword—for I did not know what danger I might meet. “Very well,” I told my noble brachet, “lead on.”

She took me straight through the wall.

Through the wall of my chamber, walking where I had seen nothing but air and the sickening drop into the chasm and the river. I gulped and followed. Her passing had softened the stone somehow. I walked through it as if tearing through gray wool, and on the other side—

On the other side, I was in my chamber again, with Gull waiting for me.

“Bloody hell,” I grumbled as she led off in a different direction. I followed.

Through the wall. Into my loathesome bedchamber yet again. And through the wall once more, and—still in that same hateful, fateful room. I appealed to Gull, “When will this end?”

Be careful what you wish for, folk say; you might get it. I wanted something different to happen, anything, and something did. I heard shouts—“Stop him! To horse!” Gull took off at a run, and I ran after her. Through the wall and through the wall and through the wall—I drew my sword and hacked at the accursed thing. The shouts sounded closer behind us, and I heard thudding hooves. Through the wall again—

Falling.

I ran forward and then I was falling through the floor and then it was as if the gray fabric of the fate or the enchantment, call it what you will, as if the gray stone walls shredded into long ribbons of mist trailing down the rocks of the abyss as I fell into it. I glimpsed armed riders along the cliff top, and then—I hope I did not scream—rocks blurred past me. I think I hit the water before I had time to scream.

Rushing, foaming water. Swift and deep.

Then I knew almost with joy that fate was a liar; King Arthur would live long and I would die very shortly. I would drown.

In that torrent up was down and down was up and the water surged and snarled and chivvied me along like a flood of gray wolves, all was dark and white, I breathed water, I could not have screamed if I tried, I was dying, I did not want to die, my hands thrashed and flailed—and one of them came down on something warm and slippery and alive.

Gull.