Orlando grabbed another apple from the half-open sack. His stomach felt like a grave, ever anxious to devour. Or at least, what Orlando assumed a grave would feel like, if they could feel. Maybe he'd write an epic poem about it someday, in the style of Homer.

Orlando glanced at his manservant, a sturdy fisherman from Crete. "You're still not hungry, Horace?"

The man sighed. "Highness, watching you eat takes away my appetite."

Orlando bit a chunk out of the rosy red fruit. "You were born old and fat, then?"

Horace glared. "I'm not fat!"

Orlando laughed and rolled to his feet. "So you protest."

Horace had served the King of Thessaly many years before being assigned to Orlando. The prince still couldn't determine the man's age, as Horace's leather-brown skin had more lines than the Iliad. Still, Horace knew him better than anyone did.

Orlando stalked over to the ship's edge and rested his arms on the rail. The easy disrespect with which his company treated him never bothered Orlando. As a younger son, no one was expected to respect him. Younger sons, especially princes, were fated to serve as training dummies for their elder brothers. You didn't want them stealing your throne someday.

However, reflected Orlando, youngest son to the King of Thessaly, it became harder when younger sons grew up. Orlando sighed and flung his apple core into the roiling, bruise-colored waves of the Celtic Seas.

They hadn't seemed sorry for him to go. His father had practically pushed him off the docks. If Orlando hadn't been so eager to head to King Arthur's court, he might have been hurt. He shoved his hair out of his face and the pain out of his heart. He'd wanted this. Thessaly was too small for him now. And then . . . there was that strange dream.

The night before departure, a restless Orlando had prowled the fortress, turmoil boiling his thoughts like the waves roiling dark and unseen on the horizon. He finally found rest in the pre-dawn shadows. Dozing off against a barren tree, Orlando plunged into a vivid dreamscape. He dreamed of a glittering orchard of the gods, with towering trees of white marble and leaves of the thinnest beaten gold. The trees grew an impossible variety of jeweled fruit, a rainbow of gems gleaming so brightly they hurt Orlando's eyes.

The tallest tree was silver and cold, like moonlight on a winter sea, and its glinting boughs hung heavy with crimson apples the size of melons. Their sweet scent made Orlando dizzy. He had reached out for the closest apple, red as fresh blood, when his feet were ripped from beneath him.

Icy dry, scaly coils tangled his body like yarn, crushing his lungs as they tightened over his chest. A bloated serpent leered into his face, golden poison dripping from its curving fangs. It reared for the deathblow, and then, blackness.

Orlando had awakened in a cool sweat, mystified and disturbed. But an hour later, he was absorbed in the process of debarking, and for a time he forgot the curiously vivid dream. It was only an afterthought that sent the prince to his father's magus, or wise man, an astronomer and navigator who would pilot their sea trip northward.

"Highness?" A voice interrupted Orlando's spiraling thoughts.

He turned to find the ship's captain waiting with a scroll in hand. Orlando glanced from the scroll to the man's sea-hardened brown face. "Yes Thaddeus?"

Thaddeus thrust the paper at Orlando. "A map of the Cymrian coast. Arthur's court will be held in the Red Hall, what with winter approaching. We're not five leagues out, having us to shore within the hour. But there is where my crew will go no further. But your horsemen should make it a swift ride to the Red Hall."

Orlando frowned. "Then you will abandon us on a foreign shore?"

Thaddeus scratched his thick neck, staring past Orlando. "Aye sir, Cymru's a wild country full of strange creatures and uncouth people. 'Tis a better place for warriors than merchants. You won't find a dock or port to welcome you. Besides, we don't fancy being stranded here until the summer winds return."

"But surely the court of King Arthur, 'King of the World' as some style him..." Orlando trailed off. "You're saying, they're not even civilized?"

"Not in the Greek or Roman sense, no." Thaddeus grimaced.

Orlando reached for the map. "But they speak Latin? I do not know any Keltoi or British tongues."

"Oh they speak Latin, with very strange accents, my lord, but you will understand them." Thaddeus frowned. "I think."

Orlando sighed. "Splendid. There's nothing better than a challenge."

Thaddeus looked back, relief unwrinkling his brow. "Then His Highness is not angry?"

"Of course not. You may go." Orlando smiled at Thaddeus until he was out of sight.

The prince's smile faded as he unfolded the map. "I'm delighted," he growled. Orlando traced his fingers over the squiggling lines that denoted hills and forests. "Brothers Jason and Heracles would be devastated if I was mistakenly killed by a pack of Celtic wildfolk."

Orlando stuffed the map in his belt and gripped his sword hilt. After traveling for five weeks, he was sick of it. He was tired of ships, riding, departures, and almost tired of apples. Orlando gazed out to sea and glowered at the clouds. He whipped out his sword and brandished it at the sky. 

"To fortune!" He swept the blade in an arc and whirled away, nearly cutting a passing crewman in half. Flushing, Orlando fumbled his sword back into its scabbard. "A thousand apologies, my good man."

The sailor bobbed his head, fear dilating his eyes, his mouth agape. He fled after another hurried bow. Orlando's scowl deepened. "I hate sailing." He flung himself back against the rail, "I'd rather ride a horse."

Since even the legendary Thessalian steeds could not be ridden across the sea, Orlando settled for visiting them below decks. Along with his son, King Gustavus of Thessaly had sent several mighty gifts to impress this foreign King Arthur, while paying due respect. But only one stallion was on board, from Poseidon's own stock (or so the king claimed). Orlando himself had raised Pégasos from a foal. It didn't please the prince to see the stallion given away, even to Arthur.

Orlando ignored his irritation and tried to think like a king. Pégasos was an obvious choice, a spirited charger that was not one of Gustavus' favorites, and a generous gift. The mares and geldings, while not as fine, were swifter and more intelligent than any steeds in Britain (another of Gustavus's claims). Fine-tooled tack and livery, barrels of wine and mead, and assorted Grecian pottery accompanied the horses.

He paced the stable quarters and glared at each horse in turn. "What does a Briton look like?" he wondered aloud. "I've heard they're giants, with golden hair and white skin."

The horses ignored him.

Orlando sighed and patted Pégasos' moon-silver nose. "They don't sound impressive." He rested his head on Pégasos' side. "They sound like Apollo. What do you think of that?" A land of wild Apollos was even more tedious than a land of peace and prosperity.

Echoing footsteps made Orlando turn to find Horace watching him. The manservant's deep-set eyes glimmered with mirth. "'It's the Angles who have fair hair and blue eyes. These Cymrians, or Welsh, are not as striking, or so is said. But is something unsatisfactory, my lord, that you seek equine companionship? May I suggest a game? Dice, perhaps?"

Orlando shrugged, "I suppose. 'Tis better than nothing." He stalked back down the walkway. "How long until we land?"

Horace's leather-worn face cracked with a smile. "Soon, my lord. Very soon."

Horace proved to be correct, when excited calls of "Land ahead!" drew the prince from his cabin.

Orlando hurtled to the deck and shoved his way through the scurrying sailors. "Any help?" he called, but he was turned away, as usual. They didn't want a prince underfoot.

Orlando hurried back to the rail, gazing with hungry eyes at the mist-shrouded coastline. The little glimpses he caught were blue-grey and funeral grim. Sharp black rocks jutted out like insolent chins, protesting the Greek ship and its cargo. A seabird's mournful keening was the only sound that could be heard over the crashing waves and shouts of sailors.

The prince continued to peer at the coast as the anchor was loosed and several small boats were let down. Behind him, the horses were led up from below, whinnying and screaming in protest. Orlando turned from the bleary view and hurried below decks. They would be needing his help with the horses, he was sure.

Pégasos had broken loose in the ship's belly. The stallion guarded the stalls of several mares, his ears flat to his skull and his nostrils flared. Orlando slipped between the Horse Masters and murmured to the pacing stallion. Orlando sidled toward Pégasos , not making eye contact and trying not to seem interested as he pulled an apple from his satchel and held it between them.

The Horse Masters busied themselves with unloading the geldings, glad that the prince had intervened. The prize stallion was Orlando's responsibility until delivered to Arthur, and the horsemen didn't want a concussion.

Orlando ignored the Horse Masters, continuing to stand calmly beside the massive charger. Pégasos inched forward, taut muscles relaxing with each hesitant inch. Orlando stepped back, the apple still extended. "Come on Peg, it's land out there. Cold and foul looking—your favorite."

The horse stood face to face with the prince; a silent battle of wills. After a long look, Pégasos extended his lips for the apple, and Orlando patted his neck. Behind them, the mares were successfully led up to the deck.

When the cargo was on deck and the horses were all swimming toward land, Thaddeus approached Orlando. The captain glanced back at the sun behind them, watching it sink behind the sky. "It's late. Are you sure you want to ride tonight? You could leave as well on the morrow."

"Naturally." Orlando shivered in his thin tunic. "But the men have no objection; they are as ready for land as I, not to mention the horses. I appreciate your concern and your excellent service sir, but I will go ashore."

Thaddeus bowed. "As you wish. You're a better companion than most. We could make a sailor of you yet."

Orlando laughed. "I'm honored, but I dread being cooped up like a chicken."

"Then may the winds favor you." Thaddeus turned to tend to his men, leaving Orlando to see to his company's departure

As the sun winked out with only faint traces of red across the waves, the Thessalian company thundered toward the court of King Arthur. The terrain was rocky and uneven, rough and grey in the moonlight, but the horses were surefooted and sturdy. They met no travelers on the way, only lonely crying birds to mark their passage. Despite the uneven ground, the company made good time, and it was less than four hours before they saw lights.

They passed through a quiet night-shadowed village, along a beaten path and up a grassy hill. Rounding the bend, a massive wooden fortress came into view. Surrounded by high stone walls and lit by numerous torches, it was an impressive sight.

Orlando halted his men outside the main gates, which were already closed for the evening. "Hail Arthur!" he shouted in his princeliest baritone. "We've traveled far and desire lodging for the night!"

A moment of silence passed before a figure peeled off from the shadows above. "What say you?"

"Orlando of Thessaly and a company from the great King Gustavus desire entrance!" repeated Orlando, pronouncing each word with care.

The speaker snorted. "Never heard of him, but I'll let you in, seeing as no one'll get any peace if I don't."

Orlando glanced at Horace. The manservant winked, and Orlando looked back as the gate creaked open. A man strode toward them, presumably the one from the walls. He was tall and lanky, with a dismal mouth and heavy brows.

Orlando dismounted and led Pégasos through the gateway to meet the man. "Well met, sir. And whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

"Kay," muttered the man. "Seneschal to Lord Arthur, High King of Britain." His Latin was indeed heavily accented, but understandable enough.

Orlando inclined his head. "We have traveled many leagues, bringing gifts of tribute, and we wish to see the king."

Kay's droopy hound eyes scanned the company, studying their sun-kissed faces and unseasonably light, elegant clothing. He stroked his short brown beard. "I'm afraid that's impossible." Kay held up his hand at the loud protests. "Ach, none of that now. Impossible, at least, for tonight."