Ben sat back against the fir’s massive trunk after a while and stared at the others, eyes shifting from one face to the next. “I am Ben Holiday, you know,” he said finally. “I really am.”

They looked questioningly at one another and back again at him.

“Save us, mighty High Lord,” said Fillip after a moment, the words a toneless whimper.

“Yes, save us,” begged Sot.

They looked like drowned rats, fur grimy and matted down by the rain, clothing ragged and torn. Their fingers reached tentatively for his legs.

“Stop that,” he admonished wearily. “There is nothing to save you from. You’re all right now.”

“The dragon …” began Fillip.

“The witch …” began Sot.

“Far back and not about to go hunting for us in this. By the time they finish trying to set fire to each other and think to wonder what happened to us, the rain will have washed away any trace of where we went.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

Bunion showed all his teeth and hissed. He looked at Ben as he might an errant bog wump. Abernathy didn’t seem to want to look at Ben at all.

Questor Thews cleared his throat. Ben glanced expectantly at him, and the wizard seemed suddenly uncertain of what to say. “This is rather difficult,” he said finally. He squinted at Ben. “You say you are indeed the High Lord? The witch and the dragon were correct in believing you so?”

Ben nodded slowly.

“And the story you told us at Sterling Silver—that was all true? You were changed somehow by magic? You have lost the protection of the medallion?”

Ben nodded a second time.

“And Meeks has returned and taken your place—and made himself appear as you?”

Ben nodded a third time.

Questor’s lean features squinched down so hard against each other he appeared to be in danger of causing permanent damage. “But how?” he demanded finally. “How did all this happen?”

Ben sighed. “That is the sixty-four thousand dollar question, I’m afraid.”

Briefly he recounted again his confrontation with Meeks in his bedchamber and his transformation into the stranger he appeared to them to be. He took them to the moment of his decision to travel south in search of Willow. “I’ve been hunting for her ever since,” he concluded.

“See—I told you!” Abernathy snapped.

Questor stiffened and he peered down his long nose at the scribe. “Told me what?” he demanded, owlish face tightening even further.

“That the High Lord wasn’t acting like the High Lord!” Abernathy fairly barked. “That something was definitely wrong! That nothing was what it should be! In fact, wizard, I told you a good deal more than that, if you would bother taking time enough to remember any of it!” He shoved his rain-streaked glasses back on his nose. “I told you that these dreams would bring nothing but trouble. I told you to forget about chasing after them!” He wheeled suddenly on Ben, a prophet whose visions had come to pass. “I warned you as well, didn’t I? I told you to stay in Landover where you belonged! I told you Meeks was too dangerous! But you wouldn’t listen, would you? Neither of you would listen! Now look where we are!”