Melora hurried through the halls toward the library and scriptorium. Thankfully, no one witnessed her undignified and un-princesslike pace. She heaved open the heavy doors, and tiptoed into the room. One or two monks were usually inside copying texts; Melora didn't want them getting curious. For her plans to work, no one must discover what she was doing.

Melora truly didn't know what to think about what Mador had told her. Her horror and anger had calmed, leaving her cold and empty. What could she do against such pointless malice? Should she tell anyone, or would that create more danger?

No man born of woman could rescue Orlando, meaning no knight would be any use. But to obtain the objects Mador had named was a task only a knight or real hero could fulfill. Melora felt panic rising in her chest, making it hard to breathe. It was truly an impossible enchantment to break. 

But hopelessness wouldn't help Orlando. 

Quills scraping against parchment, coupled with the sour smell of paints and curing leather, soothed Melora with their familiarity. After a moment's pause, she skirted the alcove where silent monks worked, heading straight to the Red Hall's treasured map collection. She withdrew several sheaves and took them behind a curtain, to the window seat.

The Red Hall was a sanctuary of learning, but its maps were scarce and sparsely detailed. Melora unrolled several, searching for the places Mador had named. "Babylon, Narsinga, Asia," she murmured aloud. Far, strange lands from traveler's tales. Babylon was in the Bible, as she recalled, but she also believed it had fallen in ancient times. So what did "Babylon" even mean? And Asia wasn't a country but a vast continent full of myriads of nations, peoples, and tongues. Where in Asia was she supposed to find anything? 

Regardless, the last ships were leaving soon, and afterwards there would be no way to cross the water until spring. Even assuming she crossed the sea, a year and a day from Orlando's capture was all the time she had.

Melora rubbed her temples. What was she thinking? She couldn't leave the kingdom to go racing off on a fools errand in an unknown world.

Could she?

Melora picked up the thin sheet of vellum that outlined the Gallic coast. Light glimmered through the window and speckled her shaking hands. No man born of woman could save him. But what of a woman? More importantly, if she didn't try to rescue Orlando, who would? Telling even Gawain would endanger Orlando if Myrddin or Mador found out. And Arthur . . . 

Melora smoothed the map, her fingers trembling as she traced the spidery lines with her thumbnail. She couldn't tell her parents. What might Mador do? Worse still, what might Myrddin do? Whatever reasons the mage had for his actions, and whatever level his involvement in the mischief had reached, he had known her father longer than all of them.

Worst of all was the fear, eating her from the inside: what if her parents didn't believe her? It would be Melora's word against Mador, a man and a prince, and the wise, loyal Myrddin. Even in the Red Hall, where things were said to be different, would the words of an unmarried girl hold weight enough to doom two men of such standing.

Of course Arthur loved and trusted her, but Myrddin was his oldest, most faithful advisor. How could Myrddin do such a thing? Melora dropped the maps back onto the table. Perhaps this was all a prank? Either way, Orlando was missing, and Melora doubted even Mador would dare tell such a falsehood about Myrddin.

Melora slumped against the dark wood and closed her eyes. She had too many questions and no one she trusted for answers. She must find out the truth. If the only way was to seek Mador's three impossible things, then she was the only one who could do it.

She set her shoulders and smoothed the parchment once more. Best to act before I can falter, before I can think too much. 

After another few minutes searching, Melora found a pilgrim's map of the way to Rome, and from there, to Constantinople. That was the way all traders, pilgrims, and other interested parties could (more or less) safely travel east.

Unfortunately, the 'maps' of the Far East, illuminated bestiaries with fanciful letters, were even less help. Melora didn't have to be a great traveler or sage to doubt that talking wolves or women or took the forms of snakes were typical denizens of any eastern nation. But the map artists had spent far more time (and relish) on this sort of thing than any actual country's geography. Either way, both Narsinga and the majority of Asia were likely far beyond Babylon's former location.

Melora rolled up the pilgrims' maps and another with the Roman roads. She would head to Constantinople, and try to make her way to "Babylon" from there. It was a start. Melora slipped the maps through her belt, arranging the folds of her overdress to hide them from any casual glances. She would copy the necessary parts before supper. Maps were a precious commodity, even in the great court of Arthur, and someone would notice if they went missing.

Melora slipped out of her hiding place and returned to her rooms, maps concealed in her full skirts. Setting the maps on her bed, she hurried to the chest. Her small sheaf of vellum, on which she had learned to write, was wrapped in a hide cloth. They were her best work: the Lord's Prayer, Scriptures, passages of Boethius, Aeschylus, Augustine, and Ptolemy, among others. Most pages were full of her cramped and harried hand, but several pieces had blank backs. This is where she would copy her maps.

Next, she pulled out several worn satchels and spread them flat on her bed. She must travel light and swift. A spasm of panic seized her chest as she considered the quickest route to the sea—horseback. There was no way she could dream of reaching even the very last ship in time. Melora clenched her fists and strode to her window. She could do this.

Below, on the training grounds, men practiced as ever, unaware of Melora watching them. Adjacent to the window, her harp glimmered in the soft sunlight, rose and gold. On impulse, Melora snatched it up and stuffed it in a satchel with her blankets. She might need music on lonely nights, and it wasn't large or heavy.

Melora readied her quills and moistened her inks. It would take her the rest of the daylight to copy the maps. Before setting to her tasks, Melora unfolded her brother Amhar's surcoat and shook it out. The glimmering blue silk was as deep as the summer sea, as blue as Amhar's eyes had been. Melora pressed it to her face, but it only smelled like the old wood of the trunk, no trace of her brother left behind. 

Melora closed her eyes and heard the thunder of hooves, the screams of men and beasts, and she tasted the salt of tears. How could she do this? Her thoughts returned to Orlando, alone in a dark place. Was he afraid? Her heart clenched, but she had no time for tears. Who would ride to save him, if not her?

Melora set the surcoat on the bed and grabbed the vellum and her quill pen. Amhar wouldn't have waited and whimpered, nor would Arthur nor Orlando nor Gawain. Knighthood was more than weapons or clothes, and Melora would have to act the part for months if she wished to succeed.

She would ride a horse then, heaven help her.

Melora slipped a note to Mador over supper, suggesting they meet in the garden. It was bitter cold, and she thought she might freeze before he came. But soon his tall, broad figure came striding through the darkness, his steps quick with anticipation. 

"My lady?" He came very close, his eyes glittering cold in the moonlight.

Melora shivered and inclined her head. "Mador. I hope soon we shall be together forever."

Mador reached for her hands. "You tremble. Should we go inside?"

Melora shook her head and drew her cloak more firmly about her shoulders, avoiding his hands with the motion. "Father will never allow our union until he's convinced I love you best of all men, and that you are the greatest of all my suitors. To that end, I will leave tonight to hide in the forest. Father will send knights, but I'll enter the Otherworld through gates only I know, making sure they don't find me. In time, Father will despair. When a season has passed, I'll return in disguise, promising information about the missing Princess Melora. I'll ask the hand of any knight in marriage as my reward. When Father grants it, I reveal myself and he must keep his word."

Mador frowned. "But this plan, 'tis not half honorable. And moreover, filled with risks for you. The Otherworld . . . do you jest? And how can you find these 'doors'?"

Melora laughed. "Do you not love me enough to believe me?"

"No, of course I do, only . . . to wait so long," Mador reached for her hands again, this time capturing them in his much larger, warmer ones.

"My father would insist on you courting me for over a year, at the very least," this, at least, was true enough. "He is not easily convinced. Is a season worse than two, three, or five years? I swear he means to keep me in the Hall forever, the way he speaks of it."

Mador squeezed her hands. "To hear you speak is as in a dream! Your council is my law, and we will be together." He bent to kiss her, but Melora ducked her head, as if suddenly shy.

"Patience, Sir Mador. Anyone could come upon us here. We can be together soon enough, if I leave tonight." Melora smiled up at him, her lips frozen from the cold and the lies that were slipping out as easily as silk from a spider. Father, forgive me, she thought, even as she pressed Mador's hands and continued to beam at him as if he were the center of her world.

Mador sighed, his expression grimmer than before, but he nodded his head. "I will listen to your judgement on this, as you know your father best of all. But do not make me wait too long, for I fear I shall be unable to bear it." He kissed her hands instead, his lips as hot and dry as his hands.

"Soon." Melora gave his hands another squeeze, then gently slipped them out of his grasp and fled into the night. 

 Melora crept into the stables, wary of the distant laughter from the dining hall, but more afraid of the stable. The smell of hay and horse brought the familiar chill of fear, and she felt like she was wading in frozen mud, as it took all her willpower to make her way inside. 

She'd been here daily the last few weeks, but always with Orlando's confidence to arm and guide her. His cheerful enthusiasm, the joy her father had at seeing her face her fears, Orlando's blithe disregard for the danger . . . Melora hadn't realized how those things had helped her along every step of the way. A sudden pang of regret startled her as she glimpsed Pégasos' darkened stall. Would the horse notice Orlando's absence? Could horses notice such things?

Melora went from stall to stall, peering into the gloom at the hulking, monstrous shapes of the warhorses, packhorses, and ponies inside. She wanted to take one of the old mares or geldings that Orlando had her riding. But they would be less likely to have the speed and endurance she needed for a journey. By the time she finished her walk of the stalls, her heart was pulsing at a rate that made it hard to breathe, especially with the hay dust in the air.

She paused for breath, back by Pégasos' stall. Perhaps he smelled or sensed her, because he made a soft whuffling sound, and then thrust his large head over the stall door. He made another soft sound, his enormous, liquid eyes fixed on her, almost inquisitive. 

Melora steeled herself, then forced herself to touch his broad, velvet nose, her heart thudding like a war drum. "Sorry," she whispered, "he's not coming back unless we retrieve him." Pégasos nudged her arm, gently, like a giant cat searching for a scratch. Melora hesitantly rubbed his thick neck, remembering what Orlando had said about a good horse, about a horse like Pégasos. That he would never hurt or throw his master.

Melora backed away from the stalls, her stomach churning with fear and indecision. "I'll be back later, with apples," she muttered. 

Orlando had a never ending supply of them, so he must keep them somewhere. Probably his room. It was a quick walk to the Thessalian quarters, and Melora had several hours till midnight, when she planned to leave. She glanced around, saw no one else in the darkness, and decided to risk it.

Melora crept into Orlando's room, feeling like a thief. It was neat and spare, but an enormous pile of wool blankets rested on the bed. A small stack of scrolls was stacked on the table. Melora plucked one up and turned it over. Latin, a translation of Pliny's discourse on the fine arts. The second one was a Greek drama. Melora felt her throat catch. Orlando had as varied tastes as she did.

Two bulky sacks lolled against the bed. On investigation, Melora found the first contained clothing, richly colored but smelling of grapes, wheat, sweat, and horse. She wrinkled her nose and opened the second sack. The crisp scent of apples wafted out, and Melora grinned. She shouldered the second bag and went to the window. 

A sliver of moonlight illumined the stables below. Melora pressed her hand to her heart and felt its trembling. It was obvious that to save Orlando in time, she must take the swiftest horse. That was Pégasos. The Thessalians said he could almost fly, and no horse in Arthur's stables could beat him in an outright race. Maybe apples would make him tamer?

Back in her rooms, Melora packed her things in neat bundles, leaving out the apples, her mail (formerly Gawain's) and Amhar's glimmering blue surcoat. My surcoat, she reminded herself. Melora shouldered her bags, and crept down to the stable at the midnight change of the guard.

Inside the stable, Melora held her breath and unlatched Pégasos' stall door, extending an apple like an offering. The horse lipped the treat from Melora's hand, then tossed his mane and walked out. He stopped in place and Melora breathed a sigh of relief. If she had to chase him, she would probably give up right there.

Melora dragged over a feed bucket, upturned it, and thanks to long hours of un-princesslike exercises and weapons training, was able to saddle the enormous horse. Perhaps heaven favored her mission, for Pégasos was as meek as a child's pony. Even under Melora's fumbling fingers, he never tossed his head or rejected the bit. 

Melora patted his cheek and tied him to the nearest post before loading her gear. Her terror had settled to a sickly ache in her gut, tempered by morbid satisfaction at her ability to make it this far at all. She might die from fright, but she'd die facing her fears. 

"Well," she whispered to Pégasos, "if we never come back, let no one say I was a coward." 

Pégasos  saddled, Melora checked outside the stable doors one last time, then ducked into Pégasos' empty stall to change into the coarse, brown men's trousers and tunic that had once belonged to her cousins. She tucked her dress into one of the stable's storage chests, where no one would find it too soon. Dress hidden, it was time to do battle with her hair.

Back in the stall, Melora loosed her hair from its bindings, letting herself admire the long, ember-colored braids that fell all the way to her knees. Melora grit her teeth and lifted her knife, sawing a handful at a time. Hair slipped to the floor like sheaves of flaming silk, and Melora's heart clinched with a sudden pain. She wouldn't cry, and she wouldn't stop. It was too late now. 

The deed was surprisingly swift, in the end. A shame, for it had never been more than trimmed in her entire lifetime. Melora gathered the braids and stuffed them into a pouch, tucking the parcel into her bags; it wouldn't do for someone to find it.

Last of all, Melora sheathed her sword, donned her helm, and fixed her surcoat, smoothing the blue silk and clinking her mail. She grabbed Pégasos' reins and led him outside, her heart stuttering almost to a halt. Whatever challenges she had faced to get to this moment, nothing would test her more than getting in that saddle.