The bridge had settled, and other men were coming out to meet them: large men, men with weapons. Timbrin shrank back further, and Relys put a protective arm about her. Hahle turned to those who approached. "No closer, please." The men stopped where they were. "Send for my wife and for my maid, Myylen," Hahle ordered. "And see if you can find a midwife. We need a woman's touch here."

Myylen went running. Relys stroked Timbrin's head soothingly. "Easy, my friend," she said softly. "We are . . ." She lifted her eyes, met Hahle's gaze. "Safe here?"

Hahle nodded. "As safe as you can be in any town in Gryylth."

"Helwych's soldiers?"

Hahle snorted. "They swaggered and gave orders for a time. And the way they treated the women . . . G.o.ds!" But he smiled, and his eyes narrowed meaningfully. "We attended to them. And once the wall formed out there ..." He swept out an arm to indicate the discoloration on the sea beyond the inlet. "... we all guessed what the lad was up to. But he has wartroops and magic, and we have only old men like myself, women and children, and a few young- sters like Myylen whom I kept back because of my suspicions." He shrugged. "If Helwych presses matters, he will find us ready to fight to the death. But for now we can only await the return of our king."

The men's faces-old and young both-were grim but earnest, and in their own way, kind. Relys had not seen kindness in the faces of men for a long time, and when her legs-still weak, and worn by two weeks of travel-insisted on sagging beneath her, she did not protest when Hahle reached out and supported her. "My thanks, sir," she said, her voice hoa.r.s.e.

There was a hint of a tear in Hahle's eye. "Welcome to Quay, captain." He reached out a hand, and Timbrin, after a long hesitation, took it. "Welcome, both of you."

Kyria awoke in the night, opened her eyes, and stretched. Her head was pillowed on Santhe's arm, and in this quiet time of darkness, she had nothing to do save to smile at him while he snored and mumbled softly in his sleep, to press her body against his, and to think-wonderingly, with an inner shake of her head-about the life she had lived before this, the life she had left behind like a cast-off skin.

She started to kiss him, but, with the instinct of a warrior, he opened his eyes at her lips' approach. The room was dimly lit by moonlight, and she could see his soft smile. "Make love to me," she whispered.

"Again?" The twinkle in his eye was a relief after weeks of seriousness, frustration, and work. "A hard taskmaster you are, my lady."

"Am I really?"

The twinkle turned into a grin. "Quite unbearable."

She was laughing. "Make love to me, my slave."

"Oh? Slave?" He turned over. "Well then, it is high time this slave rose up in rebellion." And, laughing as much as she, he took her tenderly in his arms.

He had healed her, and she had healed him. There was giving and taking in their love, and acceptance, and help. It was good, very good; and afterwards, when, full and warm and spent, they lay together, seeing nothing save one another's faces, Kyria, childless save for her indirect care of the people of an entire world, found that she was contemplating bringing forth life herself, conjuring an infant out of a magic more powerful than any that she alone could wield: a holy partnership with the man she had come to consider as one with herself.

"I could." Her voice was soft with wonder. "I am young. I could ..."

' 'Beloved?'' Santhe stroked her hair.

"What . . ."She, a sorceress, felt nonetheless almost impudent uttering such holy words. "What . . . would you say to a son or a daughter, councilor?''

He pursed his lips. "Grave things, children," he said. "Until now, I had not considered fatherhood."

"And what say you now?"

"For myself, I fear I would make a poor parent. But seeing as I have the finest lady in the world for my mate, I think that I might manage."

"You do not. . ." She lifted her head. "You do not think me ridiculous, do you?"

He was dumbfounded. "Ridiculous?"

"There is so much that is new to me," she said. "So much that I do not know, that I only feel." She shrugged, shook her head. "Like magic. Or love. I fear you think me foolish."

"Aye, my lady is foolish," Santhe murmured, running a hand through her hair. "And wise, and powerful, and filled with all the frightening and incredible things in the world." He put his big arms about her, his muscles taut and solid from wielding weapons. "I have no complaint, my darling."

Her heart was full, but she smiled wryly. ' 'I see that you have been keeping company with the Vayllen harpers."

"Well," he admitted, "perhaps a little."

A soft tapping came to the door. In her mind, Kyria felt out into the hallway and caught a glimpse of a big, blond man. Karthin. She gave Santhe another quick kiss and, pulling on a robe as she went, crossed the room and lifted the latch.

Karthin looked sad. "Forgive me for disturbing you. I heard you talking, and ..."

Kyria had guessed the reason. "Marrha?"

"Aye. A bad nightmare this time. She said that she wished to speak with you."

Alouzon's company had been together not only through the nightmare realm of Broceliande, but also through the deeper darkness of their personal and collective fear and pain. It was therefore natural that they should take care of one another, banding together even in the case of nightmares. Wykla and Manda were still out on patrol, but Marrha, sitting up in bed, showed no surprise when her husband returned with both Kyria and Santhe, and she smiled when Dindrane appeared at the door a few moments later.

"I felt it," said the priestess.

"Thank you," said Marrha. "Thank you, all of you." Eight weeks along in her pregnancy, her waist had thickened and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s had enlarged. Since she had returned to Lachrae, she had been eating better, and her lean body had softened into gentle curves, but now she looked haggard, and there was a furtive unease in her eyes.

Kyria knelt by the bed. "You asked for me, friend."

"I . , ." Marrha shook her blond head. Her braid waggled back and forth in ,the candlelight. "I have been able to deal with many of these dreams, Kyria, but this was worse, much worse. This time, Manda did not save me, and then instead of the Grayface, it was the Specter itself that was ..."

And Kyria felt the chill of an old, half-remembered life, recalled the pain of being forced by Solomon in her own bed, night after night, for twenty years.

Marrha's hands were pressed to her face. "It hurt. And I was screaming. For the G.o.ddess."

Karthin sat down on the bed beside his wife and folded her in his arms. Kyria shoved the thoughts of Solomon out of her mind. "The G.o.ddess," she said with a glance at Dindrane, "is a constant presence here in Vaylle, Marrha. It is not unexpected that She would become as real to you as to the people among whom you live. There is no harm in that. It is, I think, a great good."

Marrha fought with her emotion. "I think so too," she choked. "But I knew to Whom I screamed. It was to the G.o.ddess. It was to Alouzon."

Kyria kept her expression very carefully neutral. But Santhe spoke. "Alouzon has, perhaps, become something of a G.o.ddess to us all," he said. "Were I in such straits, dream or no, I too would cry to her, dear friend."

"It was so real."

"Take my hands," said Kyria. "The present is terrible enough. It makes no sense for you to be tormented by the past, too."

In a moment, she had called up her power and worked her magic. She would not reach into the captain's mind and do away with the genesis of the nightmares, for that seemed to her as much of a violation as another rape, or a forced abortion. But like a nurse salving an open wound, she took the painful edge from Marrha's dream.

The captain's eyes cleared. "My thanks."

"My pleasure."

Footsteps approached in the hallway. "I called for something to drink," explained Karthin. "This is probably one of Pellam's attendants."

But though it was indeed a woman wearing the blazon of Knife and Cup, she brought news instead of drink. "My king asks that you meet him in the council chambers," she said, her face earnest, her eyes wide.

"An attack?" said Santhe.

The attendant shook her head. " 'Tis the patrol commanded by Wykla and Manda," she said. "Returned without them it has, and bearing a strange story."

Sirens. Horns. Alouzon pulled herself out of her surprise quickly enough to realize that the baying of the hounds and the screams of the dead man had not gone unheard. The police were coming. She gave Wykla and Manda a last squeeze and released them. "Look, guys," she said., "You trust me?"

Wykla looked mildly shocked at the question. "Alouzon! With our lives!"

"Then, come on. Run. Someone called the heat."

"The heat?"

"I'll explain later. Follow me."

She sheathed the Dragonsword, grabbed the beach towel, and set off towards Wilshire at a run. Her wet jeans squeaked and flapped, and Wykla and Manda pounded after her, boots thumping on the short gra.s.s. Without comment, they vaulted the low concrete wall along with her, and when she swung open the door of the VW and told them to get in, they shrugged and obeyed.

Scrunched up in the back seat, Wykla giggled nervously. "This is some kind of magic, is it not, Alouzon?"

Manda took the front pa.s.senger side. "There is nothing else to call it, beloved."

Alouzon handed her sword to Manda and fell in behind the wheel. In a moment, the VW had coughed into life, and she thanked the Grail that the black-and-whites had not yet appeared as she pulled out from the curb and squealed the car into a U-turn.

Beside her, Manda's eyes were wide, and she clutched at the strap on the door pillar. "Dragonmaster?"

"It's okay, Manda." In the rear view mirror, she could see that Wykla, her face white in the street lights, had her hands pressed to her mouth. "Just trust me, huh?"

Manda nodded, her hand tight on the strap. "We do, Dragonmaster."

"Call me Alouzon."

Alouzon reached Park View and, ignoring the light, spun the VW to the north. The police would be at the park within minutes, and she wanted to be safely out of sight on a side street, not fleeing openly down a thoroughfare as wide and brightly lit as Wilshire. At the next intersection, she turned again, and the car fishtailed for a moment, tossing Wykla back and forth in her seat and throwing Manda against the door.

The VW settled down. They were heading west on Sixth Street. Alouzon slowed to the speed limit and switched on the headlights. "That should do it. Everyone okay?"

No reply. Outside the car, Asbury Apartments flickered past, its windows a patchwork of waking and sleeping, its neon sign red against the pale night sky that was all that Los Angeles had to offer.

Manda and Wykla exchanged glances. Wykla shrugged: she had seen stranger things in the last two years. "Where are we, Alouzon?"

Her voice, though puzzled and slightly frightened, was a joyful familiarity in this alien city. ' 'It's called Los Angeles," said Alouzon.

"Los Angeles." Wykla tried the name, and Alouzon had to fight to keep herself from stopping the car, turning around, and hugging her. Suddenly, this world was not so foreign and threatening. Suddenly she had friends with her. "A strange name."

Alouzon nodded. "It's a fairly weird place."

"Is this your world?" said Manda.

Alouzon thought for some time, and the First Congregational Church had pa.s.sed before she answered. "Nah," she said with a proud tightness in her throat. "I just live here right now." She felt her smile, was sure of it. Manda and Wykla were alive and in Los Angeles. Hope had blossomed among the asphalt, concrete, and fetid water of a metropolitan park. "If you can call this living." She laughed.

A small hand on her shoulder. "Dragonmaster," said Wykla, "we are very glad that you live."

The tightness in her throat persisted. "Were you worried?"

"Greatly."

"Me too," said Alouzon. She covered Wykla's hand with her own for a moment, then reached over and patted Manda's bare knee. "G.o.ds, I'm glad to see you're both okay. Last I saw of you, you were in that temple in Broceliande. What happened? What's going on now?"

Staring out at the pa.s.sing lights and cars, periodically shaking their heads in a kind of dazed wonder, Wykla and Manda took turns telling the tale as Alouzon navigated a circuitous route home. The rest of the company were safe. Marrha and Manda were reconciled. And Kyria-who had sloughed off her hate like an old skin-had taken Santhe for a lover, and had pledged her allegiance not only to the king of Gryylth, but to the world as a whole.

Alouzon wanted to shout, cheer, pound the steering wheel. But there were other, darker sides to her friends' story, and so her joy was, by necessity, tempered. "So Helwych had everybody fooled, huh?" she said as she turned onto the street that led to her apartment building.

"Everyone save Relys, Timbrin, and Hahle," said Wykla. "Hahle was in Quay the last we heard, but of Relys and Timbrin we know nothing. We are all afraid for them. And for all of Gryylth."

Alouzon recalled Helwych as she had last seen him: insolent, manipulating. "f.u.c.king p.r.i.c.k."

Manda understood her tone. She nodded. "And so we decided to help Vaylle as best we could until something happened that might give us hope of a return to Gryylth."

Alouzon's hands gripped the plastic steering wheel, but they ached for a sword. "You know, Manda, I think something just happened."

"Aye, Alouzon," said the maid. The street lights flickered over her face, gleamed in her golden hair. "I think that is so."

* CHAPTER 14 *

The night was warm, and the tall stones of the Lachrae temple stood blackly against a sky gleaming with stars. Off in the west, above the Cordillera, swung a waxing moon.

Kyria and Dindrane approached the pair of carved monoliths that marked the entrance of the temple precincts. The sun had set long before, but torchlight and moonlight were enough to show the incised figures: a young woman and an old man. The woman held a sword. The man looked sad.

Suzanne and Solomon. The G.o.ddess and the G.o.d.

The two women bent and washed their faces and hands at the fountain, then pa.s.sed into the ring of stones. Beyond the edges of the temple, the King's House and Lachrae lay soundly asleep. Sorceress and priestess were alone.

"Ignorant still I am of your plans, Kyria," said Dindrane. "You questioned me long and hard about my service to the G.o.ddess and the G.o.d after we heard the report from the patrol commanded by Wykla and Manda, and since then you have said nothing to me."

"To anyone." Kyria tried to appear calm, tried not to look too intently at Dindrane.

She sat down on the gra.s.s, put her hands on the ground, felt the soft energies that flowed through this place. If a piece of Vaylle could embody divinity, this was it. This was Alouzon: not as she used to be, but as she could be. Here was love and loyalty fit to make a planet spin. Here was friendship enough to send it whirling about a star. Here was nurture sufficient to kindle that star into golden radiance and warm the empty void.

And though here too was Solomon in all his uncultivated potential and disappointed endeavor, here also was that blinding moment in which he had sacrificed himself for his people, one act of utter, selfless love that was by these stones prolonged into something that might in some way redeem those bleak and unremitting sins.

Had a part of her not died in the ruins of Helen's house, Kyria would have hated him still. But with the objectivity of death and rebirth, she looked in her heart and found pity. It could have been so different. For both of them.

Her eyes were damp. "Oh, Solomon," she murmured. "I am as sorry as you."

Dindrane stood behind her, arms folded. "Do you address the G.o.d, sorceress?"

Kyria nodded. "As much of Him as I can, my friend."

Dindrane did not move. "I have considered what you asked me, and my answers. I think I understand what you might want me to do. But I think you will understand that, before I do that thing, I would know ..." She looked to the moon as though asking for counsel. "... everything."

Kyria had expected nothing less. "It is your right."

"Who is Suzanne?" demanded the priestess. "Who is Solomon?"

Speaking simply, Kyria told her. About Suzanne, student from UCLA and refugee from Kent State. About as much of her hopes and fears as the sorceress knew. About the genesis of Vaylle.