Dindrane was still shouting. "Send to Pellam! He has an army on his doorstep!"

Tangled among sweat-soaked sheets, Alouzon Dragonmaster awoke to the ringing of the telephone.

The sound jarred her into action. Days of living on the run and in peril had irrevocably wedded the strange with the dangerous, and she reached automatically for the Dragonsword, came up empty-handed, grabbed her boot knife instead, and found herself in the novel position of holding a razor-keen blade to a set of touch-tone b.u.t.tons.

The phone, unruffled, continued to ring. Dry-mouthed, shaking with abruptly broken sleep, she picked up the handset. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Suzanne?" Brian O'Hara.

She swallowed. She wanted to say yes. She felt that she must say yes or go instantly mad. But Suzanne was gone. Dead and gone. She was Alouzon now. Forever. "No."

"Who the h.e.l.l is this?" demanded Brian.

"I'm . . ." Who, indeed, was she? Suzanne's alter-ego? A G.o.ddess? "I'm Alouzon." She kept herself from adding Dragonmaster only with conscious effort.

Brian was in one of his moods. "What kind of a name is that?"

She clenched her jaw. Brian's comment seemed excruciatingly rude after the exacting courtesy of Gryylth and Vaylle. ''Call me Allison.''

Allison. The name had come out before she had considered it. She felt suddenly warm in spite of the air conditioning.

"Are you her roommate?"

Well, she considered, she and Suzanne had slept in the same bed. She supposed that counted for something. "Kinda."

"Well look, Allie ..."

Alouzon winced. Kyria's use of the diminutive had been bad enough.

"... I need to talk to Suzanne . . ."

And, indeed, what about Kyria? Alive? Dead? Helen's body had been on one of those gurneys.

". . . about some tests she's got . . ."

And all her friends. What about them?

"... you know, you can't just go running out on a teaching job. You have to be responsible about it."

She nearly laughed. Responsible? He did not know the meaning of the word. But she suddenly felt disoriented. What day was this? The dude in the Mercury had told her that it was Sat.u.r.day morning, but Brian did not usually pester on weekends.

Holding the phone to her ear while he continued to whine about Suzanne's sudden absence, she opened the Venetian blinds. The sunlight dazzled her for a moment, but when her eyes adjusted, she could see the San Diego Freeway grinding through morning rush hour.

How long did I sleep? Long enough, it appeared. The Grail had seen to that.

"Listen, Brian," she said. "What day is it?"

"Huh?"

She sighed with frustration, though she felt like screaming. She was probably sounding utterly deranged, and she knew without asking that she had slept through the weekend. "Never mind. Suzanne's . . . uh . . ."

Odd. Her old name sounded as foreign on her tongue as Alouzon Dragonmaster had when she had first arrived in Gryylth.

"Uh . . ." She groped for a plausible story. "Suzanne went out of town. Back to her ... uh ... folks."

"Why the h.e.l.l did she do that?" said Brian. "She's got a teaching job."

Alouzon snorted. "She told me she'd quit."

Brian fell silent. "I wasn't aware," he said at last, "that we'd reached any final decision about that."

"Well, I think you'd probably better consider it final. '' Why the h.e.l.l am I talking with this simp when all h.e.l.l is breaking loose in Gryylth? "She's gone."

A long silence. Then: "f.u.c.k. She left the university, too?"

"Probably."

Another silence. Brian, Alouzon knew, was stewing. Fine. Let him stew. In his own way he had caused Suzanne as much grief as Solomon.

"Listen, Allie," he said, "could you do me a favor?"

Do I have anything better to do? "Depends."

Brian did not hear the qualifier. "Suzi's got a bunch of papers and books that I gave her for research, and a bunch more that had to do with the cla.s.ses she was teaching. Can you get them together and bring them to my office?"

She looked around the bedroom. The glare from the sun turned it into a dusty study in white walls and graduate student neglect. She found that she missed very much the pallets and furs of Gryylth. "Well..."

"I just can't figure out what got into her. She blew up at me and stomped out when I tried to give her some advice about her job. Now I've got to cover for her."

Alouzon sighed. She was committed to Gryylth and the Grail completely now, but she had once been Suzanne, and the least she could do for her old, shattered, tangled life was to leave it neat and tidy, with all its pieces ordered and put away. G.o.ds knew, it had never been that way when she had lived it. "Yeah," she said at last. "I'll bring them. Give me a few. You in your office? "

"Kinsey Hall 288. You come out Bruin Walk past Powell Library and-"

"I know where it is, Brian. I'll be there."

She hung up without further comment or explana- tion, and for a moment, she stood, her hand still on the phone, wishing that she could call someone. Anyone. h.e.l.lo, Mom? Dad? This is . . . well, I mean, I used to be your daughter Suzanne. I've changed . . .

"Yeah, right. Sure." She realized that she was still holding her knife, and Cvinthil's gold signet ring winked at her as she slid the weapon back into its sheath. For a moment she considered, then sat down on the bed and pulled off her boots and rubbed her feet. The trek across Vaylle and up the Cordillera had been hard and long, and though most of her thoughts were still pent up in a frustrated turmoil about the fate of her friends and her world, a small part of her was grateful to the agency-draconic or divine-that had brought her to Los Angeles, put her to bed, and given her a chance to clean up and think about what she was going to do next.

It was an enforced leisure, but it had its advantages. Her last weeks in Gryylth and Vaylle had been spent at a dead run, with no chance for planning or deliberation save over the immediate future. Now she had been given a chance to ponder the depth of what was being asked of her: no longer only a Guardian, she was to be a G.o.ddess.

She pa.s.sed a hand over her face. "Haven't got much choice, do I?"

Rising, she stripped off her soiled tunic and padded into the bathroom, rubbing sleep and dirt from her eyes. Her wounds, characteristically, had healed quickly, and now a shower and clean clothes sounded very good. But when she switched on the light, the sight of the utter stranger in the mirror-naked and brown and uncompromisingly real amid the prosaic familiarity of tile, sink, and toilet-made her cry out involuntarily.

Suzanne h.e.l.ling had been rather average: a plump, round-faced earth mother who wore her dark hair straight and parted down the middle. Alouzon's body was muscled like that of an athlete, and her bronze mane, dirty though it was, hung in thick ringlets and framed features that would not have been out of place on a fashion model save that they were stronger, more serious, the brown eyes flashing and intent.

The face and body of a G.o.ddess.

She hung her head. Real. Too real. Like the sword waiting for her in the living room. Like the white-shrouded bodies on the gurneys. "You're not gonna let me forget, are you?"

And then, steeling herself, Alouzon Dragonmaster-Guardian of Gryylth and G.o.ddess of a world- bent over the sink, turned on the tap, and began to brush her teeth.

The flotilla had been scattered by the sudden storm, and Cvinthil fretted while it slowly regrouped: if there had been any chance of taking Vaylle by surprise, it was rapidly eroding out here on the White Sea. And Gryylth was still hidden behind a curtain of absolute night.

By the time the ships were once again gathered together, the wind-strong and raging during the storm-had fallen to a faint breeze that was barely enough to fill the sails. Any remaining hope of a speedy, unexpected crossing perished as slowly, very slowly, the fleet made its way towards the Vayllen sh.o.r.e. Nearly a week past the planned landing date, it finally came within striking distance.

As the men of Quay who were piloting the ships searched the sh.o.r.e for a safe landing, the warriors and soldiers inspected weapons and prepared the horses and supplies. Near sunset, the ships were beached a short distance from what, from the water, had appeared to be a village. Close up, though, it turned out to be a heap of ruins, broken and blasted, weedy and overgrown, silent save for the squawks and cries of nesting birds.

While the army made camp and posted sentries, Cvinthil and Darham inspected the ruins. Cvinthil was reminded strongly of Bandon: the same evidence of explosion and fire, the same riddled walls and leveled houses.

But this was a Vayllen town. What did it mean?

"My king." Alrri of the First Wartroop approached, her golden hair a ruddy flame in the afterglow of sunset. "We have found the barge used by Alouzon and her company.''

Cvinthil straightened up from a fallen wall. Destroyed. Utterly destroyed. It did not make sense. "Is it damaged?"

' 'Apart from the effects of wind and water these past three months, lord, it is quite sound."

He swallowed with an effort, found his voice. "Was any message left in it?"

"None."

Darham frowned. "Did you not say, my brother, that the barge had been destroyed?''

Cvinthil felt uneasy. He had. Helwych had told him so.

Off in the distance, far off, the shroud that had cloaked Gryylth flickered with hidden lightning, blotting out the first stars like the carca.s.s of an immense animal. Hidden behind that darkness were Seena and Vill and Ayya, and all his people. Vaylle was up to some evil sorcery, but what kind?

He prodded at the rubble with a booted foot. "It does not make sense," he said, and he flushed when he realized that he was echoing Hahle's words precisely.

Alrri was waiting for orders. Like the rest of the women of the wartroop, she stood with a warrior's ready ease, the set of her shoulders at once feminine and mannish. Darham did not seem to notice, but Cvinthil was acutely aware of it, and it reminded him of the potencies that sorcery could unleash.

He looked out at the shroud again. No. Not that. But perhaps something even worse.

Alrri folded her arms.

Fighting with a dry throat, Cvinthil spoke: "Prepare for a march at dawn," he said.

"My king, it shall be done." Alrri saluted and left, her hair rippling, her hips swaying gracefully.

Darham was nodding. "Brave women you have in your service, my brother."

Cvinthil thought of Marrget and Wykla, dead in their beds. And then he suddenly recalled Relys and Timbrin. The younger men of the Guard had never much liked the women of the wartroop, and he wondered now what had made those two elect to stay behind in spite of the difficulties they might face. Was it because of Helwych?

The thought choked him. "Very brave, indeed," he managed, and then he walked back to the camp.

Morning came up in a welter of red. The sun pierced the gloom on the horizon only with reluctance, and before it rose clear it was no more than an amber-colored disk. Cvinthil went over his plans with Darham. Any strike would have to be swift and ruthless, so as to give the Vayllens no time to counterattack. Any inhabitants would be slaughtered on sight to prevent an alarm from being raised, and the destruction of towns, villages, and cities would, by necessity, have to be complete.

"I dislike greatly the thought of firing the crops," he said to Darham. "But I am afraid that it will be necessary."

Darham's blue eyes grew sad for a moment. "I believe that there has been a precedent."

"Aye. A blow which much of Gryylth wishes had never been struck.''

"Much?" Darham nodded understandingly. "Not all then . . . eh? Ten years of war is difficult to forget, I guess." He looked off towards the distant gloom, and Cvinthil knew that he was thinking of his people, of Corrin, of Manda and Karthin and-perhaps especially-Wykla.

Dead? Helwych had said so. But those ruins. And the barge . . .

"Mount and forward!" He called out the order quickly, so as to escape the doubts that were suddenly a.s.sailing him.

The road led north, and a haze that lay in that direction told of a large city. Cvinthil estimated that the army could reach it by nightfall, but before the war-troops and phalanxes had been on the march for an hour, a scout arrived with the report that a large group of people were approaching.

"Armed?" said Darham.

The scout shook his head. "We saw nothing but harps, scrolls, and staves in their hands," he said. "They were dressed richly, and an old man rode ahead of them all, robed and crowned as a king."

Cvinthil glanced at Darham. The Corrinian was nodding, keeping his gaze pointedly off in the distance. "I see ..."

"Helwych told of such a welcome," said Cvinthil.

"Yes," said Darham. "You said that he did." But a crease had appeared between his blond eyebrows, and beneath his beard he was frowning.

"And . . . you heard what happened after."

They rode in silence for the better part of a minute. The crease in Darham's brow deepened. "I heard what Helwych said."

Cvinthil looked at him sharply. "Do you not believe your own countryman?" he demanded.

Darham considered before speaking. "My own countryman would have come to his king to make his report, wounds or no. He would not dissemble. And despite his pride, arrogance, and sullen demeanor, my own countryman would have been the first to explain the inconsistencies in his tale."

Cvinthil found himself shouting. "Are you saying that he was lying?''

Impa.s.sively, Darham stared him straight in the face. About them, the soldiers and warriors paused, con- fused by the sudden argument. The scout fidgeted, awaiting orders, hearing nothing but contradictions.

"I am saying that I believe our common enemy might still lie across the White Sea," Darham said softly.

Off on the horizon, the darkness pulsed and rolled.

"My king," said the scout.

Cvinthil turned to him abruptly. "How close is the Vayllen army?''

Darham started to speak, but Cvinthil hissed him into silence.

"An hour away, my lord," said the scout, clearly bewildered.

"Then we shall prepare our attack," said Cvinthil. "We shall entrap the Vayllens as they entrapped our friends."