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Where is this maid from?
Loric wondered, for her tone did not match the drawl of the local populace. Stabbing pain poked at his mind to punish him for thinking. It persisted with fervor to rival his curiosity.

Loric wanted to see his caregiver. His desire to get a glimpse of the woman--
no, lady,
he decided, judging from her manner of speech alone--who had spoken to him was overpowering, but he dared not lift his lids for fear that the pounding inside his skull would return. He opened his eyes to mere slits, hoping to capture her image for an instant. Throbbing swelled to agony within his aching head. He winced, at last ready to lay aside all thoughts of viewing the lady watching over him.

Loric relaxed and let his caregiver push him back until his head sank into a makeshift pillow. The sickly traveler longed to know answers to his questions, but his desire to hear that songlike tone fill the air was greater still. There was a knot in his chest and his stomach felt empty. Nevertheless, he tried to speak. His throat was parched and his words issued forth with a crackle. “Where am I?” he croaked in an effort to prompt the lady into speech once more.

“We are camped a few miles south of Moon River,” the woman answered. Of her own

volition, she added, “It is amazing you are alive, Sir Stranger.”

The first statement made Loric’s head hurt, because he had no recollection of where that place was within the wide world. Her additional remark caused him to consider a new series of questions. Most important among them:
Who is she?
Moreover, by
we
, had she meant the two of them, or were there others present as well?
It is amazing you are still alive,
she had said. What had happened to him to cause her to say that? Her use of titles egged on his curious mind.
Sir
Stranger
was indicative that he was a knight, whose name was unknown to her. The word
stranger
was charged with emotion. Although Loric could not remember its significance to him, it left him downtrodden. Loric teased his memory for answers to his queries, but it was to no avail. He received a torturous headache as reward for his inquisitiveness, whereupon he repeated his previous moan.

“You should rest,” the lady suggested. “As I understand it, you have had a difficult day.”

She touched Loric’s forehead, taking great care not to cause him discomfort. The lady whispered something he did not understand, and his pain dissipated. “This is some knot you have earned,”

she commented. “Had it not been for your helmet, that tree limb probably would have killed you.”

Tree limb?
That should have been significant to Loric, but he could not recall why. He struggled to piece events together. It must have had something to do with the vagabonds who had chased him. He hoped the lady would volunteer more information, but she fell silent once more, leaving Loric’s mind to wander aimlessly to the rain that lashed at the tent.

The storm, which had seemed so distant only moments before, reminded them of its

presence with renewed frenzy. A series of bright flashes illuminated the tent. Thunder boomed close by. The rain, although it had lessened for a time, was now unleashed against the temporary shelter. Wind increased in velocity, until it and the droplets riding upon it were tearing at the very fiber of the canvas dwelling. Loric was concerned that the screaming gale would rip up the tent and bear it away. He could not see the woman beside him, but he sensed in her the same fear; an unspoken tension that gripped Loric without physical contact.

In seeking distraction from the storm, Loric inquired after the answer he was most eager to have, asking, “What is your name, milady?”

“I am called Avalana,” replied she. “I think that is enough questions for now,” she added firmly, but kindly. “It is time for you to rest.”

“I am sorry, Avalana,” Loric apologized. His apple was like a dry core in his throat as he cleared it to add, “I only wished to hear you speak again. Your voice is far sweeter than anything I have ever heard.” The young traveler from Taeglin felt his face warm, but he went on to say,

“No songbird can match its quality of sound, but as magnificent as it is, it is not as lovely as your name.”

Avalana giggled. “That is very kind of you to say,” she said indulgently, “but I think you exaggerate. I will excuse your distorted sense of reality, because of the bump on your head.”

“No, Lady Avalana,” Loric objected. “When I tell you these things, it is not mere

exaggeration. My injury has not affected my hearing. In truth, your words make my head feel better than the quiet does, as if you can phrase healing into being. When you speak, the sound is as clear as crystal, as bright and bubbly as spring water and yet it is as gentle as dew on the lilies.

And though the storm outside is fierce, I am reminded of the sun’s warmth when words leap from your tongue.”

Loric felt fire in his cheeks, sweat on his skin. It was not his way to be so forward. Yet, he felt comfortable in the lady’s presence. Long silence followed Loric’s stream of compliments.

Loric hung on that desolate precipice, waiting....

Avalana finally shared, “You speak sweet things to a lady. Although I think you have

overstated the quality of my voice, it is plain that you have spoken from your heart, Sir Stranger.” She paused for a moment, before she asked, “Is there something I can call you, besides Sir Stranger?”

Loric started to speak, but he stopped, dumbfounded. He could not remember his name.

While he sensed the answer to Avalana’s question, it remained just beyond his reach. Try as he may, he could not draw his identity from the void that had engulfed his memory. There was no name or history in the nothingness of his past life. It was gone. It had completely vanished. “I-I d-do not recall,” Loric stammered. “I-I do not understand this,” he remarked, astonished. As he wrestled with his own confusion, he murmured, “It is a basic question.... yet I have no reply to answer it for you.”

“Never mind your name for now. That blow to your head must have taken your memory

from you. These things sometimes happen with such an injury,” she explained. “Stop thinking about it, relax and get some rest. Perhaps your name will come back to you in its own time.”

Loric was dreadfully afraid. He had lost his name, his memories and his identity, but Avalana’s soft tone and kind words encouraged him, comforted him and gave him hope of recovering all that he had lost. “How long will this last?” he wondered aloud. “When will I remember who I am?”

Avalana grudgingly replied, “I am sorry. I do not know. Like you, I only wish I knew.”

“What about my dizziness?” Loric inquired. “And my blurred vision?” Loric’s blood

channeled through his windpipe. Air bloated his veins. “Will these ails go away?”

“The conditions you suffer are likely to go away in a few days, but again, it is hard to say.”

Avalana’s
coo
said,
I want to know the answers you seek.
“No more questions,” she informed him. “You need rest. If it is any comfort to you, I can give you a name until you remember your own, Sir Stranger.”

“What is that?” Loric asked, cringing at the sound of the word
stranger.

“Ami,”
the lady responded. Loric was trying to understand what she had said, when she explained,
“Ami
means
friend
in my home country, and that is what I would call you--by your leave, of course, Sir Stranger.”

Loric fell silent at that. He did not know what to say. Avalana’s kindness touched him. “I would be honored to be called friend-
-ami-”
Loric stumbled over the foreign word, short though it was, “-by you,” he answered at last.

Avalana let off a light, relieved sigh and assured him, “I am glad for that. Now rest.”

Loric was dull weary. He wished he could continue his discussion with Avalana until the sun broke free of the clouds once more, but his aching head would not permit him to go without rest. He wanted to know what had happened to him, and why it had happened, but he was too tired to think on those queries. It was as if his travels and the injuries he had sustained were working in concert to deny his mind for the sake of his fatigued and battered body.

Rain beat furiously against the roof and sides of the tent. Loric lay there silent, listening to the sound of rushing air as it lashed rainfall against the canvas shelter without relenting in its assault. The wind was sometimes quiet, sometimes gusting, but there was a pseudo-rhythm in the noise of the storm. Before long, Loric forgot his many concerns and drifted into peaceful slumber....

****

saw a man with graying brown hair that had receded to the crown of his head. Keen green eyes peered out of that lined face. The man was holding a bucket. He looked angry. Loric also saw a woman with long, braided brown hair that was tinged with red. Her eyes were miniature pools of green, but the hard squint at their corners hinted that she too was perturbed about something that remained hidden from the young dreamer. Loric caught glimpses of a tall red stallion scattered amongst his views of the man and the woman.

There were images of other faces in Loric’s subconscious as well. Among them was a big, flabby-faced fellow with stringy blond hair. The brute smiled and laughed, as he danced with a pretty, young maid. Loric called to the girl, but she ignored him. She and her partner whirled away, with her auburn hair flying. Grimy men with unkempt hair and scraggly beards replaced them. One among that troublesome lot had a patch over his eye and another man in the group held a stiletto with a broken tip.

People were not the only subjects of Loric’s dreams. He also traversed the foggy haze to arrive at a charming little cottage with a split-rail fence. Both the fence and the yard were decorated with begonias and bluebells, with anemones poking up between them. Then fields rolled by as a vast sea of green stalks and Loric’s eyes turned to a jagged highway, which stretched long and wide before his booted feet. Broken flagstones of that road gave way to the arched stone bridge over a stream, whose sparkling clear waters rushed him back to his favorite fishing spot amidst its smooth currents. Then Loric’s dream carried him away to the old stone cottage once more.

Inside that tiny structure, the brown-haired woman sang as she prepared dinner. A wonderful aroma filled the cottage. The balding man entered the squat building without his bucket or his frown. “You sing beautifully, Adie,” said he. The old farmer kissed his wife on the cheek and went to wash up. Afterward, the man and woman spoke of the day’s events. The dream ended when the woman resumed her lovely song....

****

Loric was lying on a thick pad of soft down. The sole source of light was a small oil lantern atop a table at the center of the tent. There was a wooden bowl on an oaken trunk beside him.

Steam rose from the bluish liquid within the container. It gave off minty sugary smell.

Then Loric’s eyes fell upon Avalana, the fountain from which angelic song bubbled. Her long blond hair fell in shiny tresses down to her waist. It was alive with loose curls, which were shimmering in the warm glow of the lamp. Those golden locks only partially hid a young face on the threshold of adulthood. Her eyes were the brightest of blue, reminding Loric of Sapphire Lake. A soft brow and long beautiful lashes protected those brilliant spheres, which were set perfectly about the bridge of her nose. Her mouth gently curved in a sweet smile as she sang, revealing teeth that were porcelain white from good care. Upon her thin frame, the lady wore a blue satin dress that looked dim when compared with her eyes. Its shiny fabric was adorned with small gemstones that did not sparkle as her dazzling teeth did.

Loric was helpless to keep from staring. Try as he would, he could not look away from the fair maiden before him. Such loveliness he had never known, nor did he believe he would ever know again. He was spellbound by Avalana’s beauty, captivated by her innocence and enchanted by her song.

Avalana poured liquid from a small jug into a wooden cup. The swirling sound made perfect accompaniment to her song. She blushed upon glancing up and discovering that Loric had affixed his gaze to her. She ended her chorus in mid-line. “I-I did not mean to disturb you. I will stop bleating so you can rest.”

Loric fumbled for the words, saying, “Uh.... no. Please.... uh.... continue. You are not disturbing me, I promise.” His anxiousness left him as he went on, “You judge yourself harshly.

Your song is very nice. I enjoyed it. I would like to hear more, if it pleases you. As for me, I feel quite rested.” The young traveler from Taeglin unfastened his eyes from Avalana by concerted will. He turned them earthward and apologized, “Forgive me. I did not mean to stare, milady.”

Loric absent-mindedly let a question slip from his tongue, begging, “Please, answer me this: are you a queen? For you fit description of highborn consorts oft spoken in tales.”

Avalana laughed and smiled, dimpling her cheeks with delight. Loric thought that an odd response to his query, until she pointed out,
“Ami,
you can see! That is wonderful.”

“Yes,” Loric noted, catching her bliss and grinning. “To my great joy, I finally get to see the fair maiden who has been tending upon my wound.”

Avalana’s cheeks bloomed red, as she answered his question, saying, “I am not a queen, gallant Sir
Ami,
but my father is a king. By title he is King Avalar of Regalsturn, across the Shimmering Sea.” She waved her hand to her right and sighed.

“Is the sea named for your hair?” Loric asked. The upturned corners of his mouth held their vertical curves, until rational thoughts infiltrated the spell on his mind.
What am I doing?
Good sense shouted,
You are courting a headsman’s axe for speaking to a princess as if she were a
simple peasant girl!
Nevertheless, the banner of warning had risen too slowly to wave his mouth silent, and the words were on the air for the princess to hear and consider.
I cannot unsay what I
have said.