Shakespeare pushed his large glasses up his nose with his forefinger and smiled, quickly covering his teeth with his hand. “Right now, we are being observed by a forest spirit, female, short, dark-skinned, pretty, wearing an outfit which I presume is colored Lincoln green.”

“Impressive,” Palamedes said. “How do you know all this…,” he began, and then stopped. “She’s standing behind us, isn’t she?” he asked in Latin.

The Bard nodded.

“And she’s not alone, is she?” Palamedes continued in the same language, still looking at Shakespeare.

“She’s not,” the Bard agreed.

Saint-Germain slowly turned to look over the knight’s shoulder.

“I’ll wager they’re armed with bows,” Palamedes continued.

“Bows and spears,” Saint-Germain corrected.

The knight turned to face the welcoming committee. Their patterned clothing was the perfect camouflage, so it took a moment to pick out the dozen women scattered among the trees-he guessed that there were probably a dozen more he could not see. They were short and slender, with limbs a little too long, eyes wide and slanted, mouths thin horizontal lines across their faces. He recognized them as dryads, forest spirits.

One, a little taller than the rest, stepped forward. She was holding a short curved bow, a black-headed arrow already fitted to the string. “Identify yourselves.” Her voice sounded like the whisper of leaves.

Palamedes bowed to the creature. “Merry meet,” he said, using the traditional greeting. “I’ve not seen you before,” he added.

“We’re new.”

The knight straightened. “And with a charming accent too. Naxos… no, Karpathos. So what are Greek dryads doing in an English forest?”

“He called us.”

There was a flicker of movement behind the dryad, and she stepped aside as a tall, extraordinarily thin figure appeared. The face was that of a beautiful woman, but her body looked like it had been carved from the trunk of a tree. Arms that ended in twiglike fingers reached the ground, and knotted roots took the place of toes.

Palamedes turned, on the pretext of introducing the newcomer. “Don’t look into her eyes,” he whispered urgently. “Gentlemen, it is my honor to introduce you to Mistress Ptelea.” He turned back to the creature and bowed deeply. “It is always a pleasure to meet you,” he said, speaking in the language of his youth.

“Sir Knight.” Ptelea came forward to stand before the immortal.

Palamedes kept his head bent, avoiding all eye contact. If he looked into her eyes, he would instantly fall under her spell. Ptelea was a hamadryad. The knight was unsure whether she was the spirit of an elm tree or an actual tree given life, and while she had always been courteous and polite to him, he knew how deadly hamadryads were. “I am here to see my master,” Palamedes said, fixing his gaze on the point of her chin.