It took the wizard hours to realise that his wards must have changed plans and stopped in the village for the night.

He should have used his Sight before, he thought, instead of flying all the way to the standing stones, frantic with worry that he had lost them, and afraid of what would the two kings tell him if they found out. But how did they expect him to look after their offspring while they kept calling him back and forth between them several times a day?! Myrddin could do magic like no other wizard, but he could not be in two or three places at once.

Sighing in a very unbirdlike fashion, the peregrine falcon sat on the ground outside the noisy, crowded inn, stretching his Sight through the walls of the cottage before he looked around carefully. Finding himself quite alone in the thickening darkness, he morphed, choosing the form his Ealasaid preferred. At the thought of her, the now blue-robed man sighed again, clutching his bard's harp under his arm.

Myrddin would much rather spend this evening with her... Surely, their son was old enough to look after himself for a week. The wizard was sure that the boy would hate to find out how closely he and his companions were watched. But there was no arguing with the kings. Uther and Leodegrance were waiting for the news about how their children were getting along, hoping that Arthur and Guinevere would feel less reluctant and unhappy about the wedding after this week. And there was young Lancelot of the Lake too, whose mother was Myrddin's old acquaintance. Arthur's first knight and best friend, he with his love of cards and wine, was the only one of the four who actually needed supervision. This was exactly the kind of place the youngster should avoid, he had gotten himself in enough trouble before...

Approaching the inn, resigned to his duty, the wizard looked through the small window and spotted the four immediately, looking happy and untroubled. Well, maybe they wouldn't notice his presence, and he could just watch them from afar without interfering. Pushing the door open, Myrddin walked inside and made his way to another bard whom he found sitting by the fire, plucking the strings of a small, pale harp similar to his.

"He looks like Myrddin, the way I saw him in my dream," Garreth said distractedly even as the wizard sat down, looking everywhere but at them, "what does it mean?"

"I don't know..." Ginny muttered. "He doesn't look like old Myrddin at all; most bards wear those blue robes. But, you know, he looks like you." She giggled.

"He definitely does," Prince Arthur said, his moustache twitching with laughter. "The man could be your father, Sir Garreth."

Garreth shook his head, looking confused, but Lancelot was already on his feet, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Let me invite him to join us. He might have some funny stories to tell."

With that, he was off and back again in a few moments, followed by the red-haired bard.

"I thank you for your invitation, young friends," he said, his brown eyes pausing shortly on each of them. "Brice is my name, and I'm a travelling bard..."

"We are travellers ourselves," Lancelot said as he sat back next to Ginny, filled another cup with ale, and pushed it in front of their guest, who sat down at Garreth's side.

Their resemblance was striking, Ginny thought, even as the prince spoke to the bard. His hand came to rest on Garreth's shoulder as he spoke, making Ginny stare at them when she noticed Garreth leaning into Arthur's touch ever so slightly. It really looked like... they were getting close, that she would not be the only one ending up with a broken heart at the end of this week...

"I'm Arthur, that's my friend Lancelot of the Lake, and our companions Lady Gwendolyn and Sir Garreth of Warwick."

Ginny thought that she saw the bard's gaze flicker between Arthur and Lancelot, his eyebrows drawing together in a momentary confusion, but he smiled as he said, "I came all the way from Caledonia..."

"Just like us!" Lancelot called excitedly. "Tell us what is new at home."

The bard's fingers touched lightly the strings of his harp, sending music to the low, smoky beams above their heads.

"Saxon ships have been spotted off the northern shores; the King of Orkney pledged to keep them on the sea," the man said in a pleasant, melodious voice as if he was telling them a tale rather than the latest news.

Ginny smiled; now he really reminded her of old Myrddin.

"That's nothing new. The Saxons are always somewhere..." Lancelot frowned.

The bard nodded, his fingertips never leaving the strings of the small harp. "I've heard, too, that a wild dragon is raging on the shore of the Loch of the Ness; Duke Caius promised King Uther to kill it before it causes too much damage..."

"If only we were there, we could have helped! It's a shame to kill a dragon, there aren't many left!" Lancelot called, his palm hitting the table top, making Ginny jump. "I told them so many times, all dragons can be trained..."

Ginny stared at him. Was he serious? For her, dragons were beasts only existing in bards' tales.

"I'm sorry," Lancelot said, noticing her watching him with eyes full of surprise and questions, "I didn't mean to scare you. But I hate it when they just kill them, for fun, to gain a trophy to brag about... Dragons have become so rare, and they can be tamed and trained, even used in battles." His eyes shone with pride and boyish excitement as he added, "I... I mean, he, Arthur, is the best dragon trainer in the country."

Ginny nodded mutely, unable to find her voice. She drank deeply from her cup then, just to have a reason to look away from him before anyone would notice how he was affecting her, how he took her breath away every time he looked in her eyes this way.

She had never drank a wine as sweet, fragrant and delicious as this, she mused as Lancelot refilled her cup and the bard, as if he could read her thoughts, said, "I see you are enjoying the wine, my lady. We are not too far from Glastonbury and the shores of the Lake; I guess it is the apple wine from Avalon."

Ginny looked at him. The wine she had drank was spreading its warmth through her aching muscles, making her feel relaxed and bold. "Avalon only exists in old Myrddin's tales, Brice. And let me tell you, I know him well-- the venerable wizard likes his ale, and most of his tales are longer than his silver beard." She giggled.

Brice choked on his ale as he and the other men laughed. "Why, only because you have not seen it does not mean it doesn't exist. Those who can summon the mists and are so sensitive to magic that they can drift through them know that Avalon is as real as Ynis Witrin, the monks' Isle of Glastonbury," the bard said once he composed himself again.

The princess shook her head, taking another sip of her wine, imagining the scent of spring sunshine and apple blooms flaring from her cup, filling her head like a mist... First dragons, now Avalon...

She laid her head on Lancelot's shoulder, and as on cue, he wrapped his arm around her waist... And it felt so good that she didn't care at all about the bard's bemused smile, followed by Garreth's disapproving frown.

"Amuse us, Brice," the prince said, eyes shining with all the ale he had drank scanning the room filled with people playing cards, dice, or knucklebones, his hand closed around a pouch full of money sitting on the table in front of him.

The bard's eyes flickered among the four. He wasn't sure what they were playing at exactly, but if they wanted to play...

Very well," he said, touching the strings of the harp on his knee idly, his voice clear and loud for the entire room to hear, "Let me tell you a story about a raven-haired guy, whose charm and gentle heart made every woman sigh..."

"A prince, he was a prince!" A voice called from the suddenly quiet crowd filling the inn, its many faces now turned towards them, as they listened to Brice's words.

"As you wish, a prince then," the bard agreed, eyes twinkling with a bemused smile when they left Lancelot and paused on Ginny, "A girl as brave and wise as any queen, her beauty such as is rarely seen..."

"Make her a princess, for that dark prince!" Iseabail called, smiling at Ginny from behind the counter.

Brice bowed to the blonde woman, smiling as he added, "A young gentleman, our princess' closest friend and kinsman..."

"A wizard!" someone proposed.

"Very well, the son of the greatest wizard then. And with them, a charming knight, who could win or lose a kingdom in a game of cards in one night."

Everybody, except the four travellers, laughed. Ginny couldn't quite focus on the bard's words; the wine she had drank did not let her grasp their meaning properly. Was he talking about them? But how could that be? No, Prince Arthur was as ginger as Garreth...

"The prince liked his ladies, like King Uther's son..." a man's voice reaching them from the crowd again added to the music produced by the bard's fingers, which never left the strings of his harp.

Lancelot looked at Ginny, hoping she had not heard that, before he turned and frowned in the direction from which the voice had come. People and their love of gossip...

"The princess' friend was surely Myrddin's son; the old wizard has been around long enough to have sired at least a handful of children..." someone else called, laughing, making Garreth look more intently at the bard, as he recalled his dream.

"The charming knight had a great moustache, I'm sure!" an old woman called, grinning widely, pointing at Arthur whose eyes kept strolling to the pouch filled with money.

"And the princess was red-haired and wild like our Lady Guinevere," Andrew said, bringing another jug of ale to their table, winking at Ginny.

"Maybe, maybe..." Brice said, letting the man refill his cup and raising it to everybody present, "but my throat is quite sore from all the talking, I'll let you finish the tale for yourselves."

People laughed, then turned away from them, resuming their previous conversations.

"Right. We are travelling to Tintagel; why don't you tell us something about the Sword in the stone, Brice?" Garreth proposed after a while of stunned silence that had settled over their table before the others found their voices and reined in their thoughts scattered by the bard's tale.

It wasn't about us, it couldn't be; how could he know... Or was it? Myrddin read the confused questions passing over the young people's faces as clearly as if they had asked them aloud.