The buried part of his eerie new personality was radiating abject terror, swamped with overtones of rage. Without conscious awareness of the process, he found himself thinking in a very archaic form of Welsh—Brythonic, Dr. Bhaskar had called it. Other voices were swimming into his awareness. Men's voices, rough with worry, a woman's shrill in tones of fear. One deep voice commanded instant respect from Stirling's fractured thoughts.

"Take him inside," that voice said, the meaning coming only after the flow of words had ended. "Thank God we were so close to Caer-Iudeu! With Lot's death, we can ill afford his brother's life in the crucible as well." The whole process of understanding what had been said was as fractured as Stirling's awareness, coming partly from a slow translation of the strangely accented Welsh and partly from the portion of his new and dual awareness, which gibbered in the same language as the unknown speaker.

He was abruptly overwhelmed by a frantic desire to cry out in terror. Stirling reacted violently and automatically—and bit his own tongue bloody in the effort to shut off the frantic plea for help. Oh, God... He wasn't entirely sure which portion of his dualized mind had thought it. Even as he clenched his teeth, he was struck by a critical need to know whose body he had invaded. Somehow, the struggling and terrified portion of his mind didn't sound female. And his senses were working well enough, at least, to recognize the familiar feel of male anatomy under his clothing.

He was thankful for that much, at least... .

He was lifted and carried by several men. Stirling caught a flash of chilly, star-dazzled sky circling in dizzy arcs as he was ferried ignominiously toward "inside"—wherever that would prove to be. His jaw already ached from clamping his teeth over his host's screams. Stirling caught a glimpse of dark stone walls, firelight, a smoke-stained ceiling. Footsteps thudded with a distinct, indoor sound. Then he was eased down onto a horizontal surface and felt fur under his skin, a fur sack stuffed with something that smelled organic. Straw maybe. It made a lumpy mattress, although not as lumpy as the ground had been, and a good deal softer.

A woman Stirling couldn't see snapped, "Fetch Covianna Nim!"

Another voice said, "Who is here? Thunders and damnations, man, fetch her at once!" And on the heels of that, "We're fortunate, Ganhumara. Morgana's here, on her way home from Ynys Manaw with Medraut. They were told we'd ridden north toward the border and followed to catch us up."

Who, Stirling wondered fuzzily, was Covianna Nim? Who were Ganhumara and Medraut? And who, exactly, was he? The strange new portion of himself radiated surprise that he didn't know. How on earth had Cedric Banning and Brenna McEgan adjusted to this disorienting sense of being divided into warring factions inside one's own skull? A twinge of guilt struck at that thought. Not his skull, at all. McEgan probably didn't care that she'd crushed some innocent's personality. And Cedric Banning? The Aussie raised in Manchester? Poor sod. Stirling wondered how many weeks it would take them all just to adjust. And whether or not any of their host minds went mad under the strain. It'd be one way to track them, he supposed—look for the unfortunates who'd lost their minds, apparently between one moment and the next.

"Where is he?" a new voice, low and beautifully female, demanded.

Stirling tried to get his bearings and managed to blink his eyes open. Steel-grey eyes met Stirling's with a forthright calm that spoke of a powerful personality held carefully in check. There was a quality of expression in those eyes that suggested she had recently received a dreadful shock of some kind and was keeping some terrible emotion at bay through the force of her will alone. She was in her late thirties, at a guess, dark haired and strikingly beautiful. She carried a brightly colored, woven cloth satchel. Her voice, when she spoke again, rippled like a waterfall deep in a sacred grove, full of mystery and compelling grace. "Lie quietly, Ancelotis, while I sound your pulse." She peered into his eyes as well, fingers light and gentle on his wrist and eyelids.

The other woman he'd first heard spoke again. "He collapsed without warning, Morgana, actually fell from the saddle on the road up to the fortress. It happened so quickly, Artorius wasn't able to break his fall, for all they were riding knee to knee."

Artorius? Stirling closed his eyes for a moment over dizzy relief. At least he'd arrived at the proper time and place. And he hadn't arrived in Arthur's body, which would have been utter disaster.

"Ancelotis," Morgana asked quietly, "can you tell me what happened? Was there pain anywhere before you fell?"

Both of them—Stirling and Ancelotis—tried to answer at once, each half of their dual personality determined to control shared mouth, tongue, and lips. The resulting sound came out part strangled groan and part choked wheeze, half in English and half in archaic Welsh, and all of it hopelessly garbled. As Stirling groaned and his host persona whimpered, Stirling wondered, Who the bloody hell is Ancelotis? God in Heaven, don't let it be Lancelot... if that's whom I've invaded, we're all in serious trouble. Bloody hell, wasn't Lancelot something the flipping French made up? His head throbbed fiercely, making it difficult to retrieve what he did know of Arthurian history, and his ignorance was making the headache worse—he could feel it thickening, like a summer thunderstorm building up behind the long black ridges of the Highlands.

I've changed my mind, he shouted uselessly at the scientists back in the lab, scientists who couldn't hear him anyway, and couldn't retrieve him for a whole year, no matter how badly he regretted his hasty decision to follow McEgan and Banning. He was stuck, well and truly stuck. And he had a terrorist to find. The room steadied down and he took a shuddering breath, then another. All right. I've a terrorist to find and stop. That, I'm trained for.

Morgana was frowning. "His armsmen saw nothing before he collapsed? No warning of illness?"

"None, stepsister." The male voice that had ordered him carried inside must belong to Artorius himself. Morgana was pouring something into a cup, holding it to his lips when a newcomer arrived. A slim woman in white robes swept into the room, doffing a heavy woolen cloak and striding toward them. "I'm dreadfully sorry, I was out collecting herbs under the full moon when the messenger traced me down. I came as quickly as I could. Does he rest quietly, Morgana?"

"Aye, Covianna Nim, more quietly than he deserves, I'm thinking."

Covianna Nim, whoever she might be, was striking, her long blonde hair unbound and flowing over her shoulders. She wore a very simple garment, which stood out against the sea of brightly colored reds and blues and yellows worn by the others, by virtue of being an unsullied white, only slightly dusty along the bottom hem which swept the ground. The robe, with a deep hood shrugged back over her shoulders like a cape, open down the front over an ice-pale gown of softest lamb's wool, was belted closed with a beautifully worked girdle of silver links, intricate with the loops and the interwoven animal shapes of Celtic knotwork. Stirling, lying dazed and confused, couldn't decide which healer he preferred bending over him, and finally decided he'd just as soon have neither of them.

"Drink this, Ancelotis."

Stirling had no idea what it was, but he didn't want it. Neither did Ancelotis. Unfortunately, Morgana was not to be denied. He swallowed the bitter stuff, which sent creeping lassitude through limbs and brain. Maybe, if Stirling got really lucky, he would wake up when the drug wore off and find this whole thing was only a nightmare.