But Alouzon called for the march and rode towards the gleaming door with a sense of dread. It was starting. Her plans-the product not of years of training and combat, but rather of a liberal arts education and anti-war protests-would now be shown to be successful or disastrous. For a moment, she paused before the shimmer.

Kyria was at her side. "Shall we?" she said.

"I'd say after you, but it's my job," replied Alouzon. She looked behind. Cvinthil's brown eyes were thoughtful, calculating. Marrha rode proudly beside her beloved Karthin. Santhe, at the head of the Second Wartroop, grinned and saluted Alouzon and the woman he loved.

Darham, though, was regarding the gate dubiously, and Alouzon could read his thoughts. Tarwach had acted hastily and with bad counsel: perhaps his mis- take was about to be repeated. Then too, the sight of the gate, reaching from earth to sky in an elongated gothic arch of liminal nothingness, was a daunting one in spite of the Vayllens' music and magic.

But, silently, Wykla rode up beside him. Shaking, she hesitated, and then, with a sense of resolve, she extended her hand to the Corrinian king. For a moment, Darham looked at her in wonder, but finally, as though his action were fraught with meaning-for himself, for Wykla, for his people-he reached. The scar on his forearm flashed whitely as their hands clasped, gripped.

When the king turned back to Alouzon, he gave a short nod. With the a.s.surance of his daughter, his doubts were gone.

Right on. Alouzon bent over Jia's head. "Can you do this, guy?" she said.

In response, Jia started forward. Without flinching, he pa.s.sed through the gateway, and he balked only in the slightest when faced with the whirling planets, shifting planes, and rayed colors that lay on the other side.

Kyria followed, chanting softly to herself: a subtle spell to quiet the horses. Two abreast, the army entered after her. Supply wagons creaked. Horses' hooves made even clopping sounds. The harpers' music rang out hollowly. The healers' staves were bright.

Alouzon checked her watch. Paradoxically and stubbornly, it had once again stopped. But to her recollection, it had taken but a few subjective minutes to make the crossing from UCLA to Gryylth. Manda and Wykla had reported that it had taken no longer to reach MacArthur Park. A few minutes. A few kilopa.r.s.ecs. That was all.

The army wound on. Alouzon looked over her shoulder and was presented with the unsettling sight of fifth-century warriors and wagons progressing in double columns over what seemed a bottomless abyss. And, indeed, the way from one gate to another could well be as narrow as the blade of a sword: a single step in the wrong direction could- Kyria came out of her chant enough to murmur: "Keep at it, Alouzon. We are safe."

"Safe? You call this safe?"

The sorceress broke off for a moment more. "We are with you. The Grail wants you. Therefore ..."

Jia shied, and Kyria resumed her chant quickly.

The reactions of the warriors were mixed. But with the help of the Vayllens, the crossing was quiet and smooth, and the MacArthur Park gate appeared ahead at about the time that Alouzon expected it.

Again, Kyria broke off her chant. "Dindrane?"

"Here."

"Can you take over with the animals? I have to go through first and make sure that we are not seen." Kyria trotted her horse forward. "Alouzon, please hold everyone."

Alouzon lifted her arm, and her gesture was relayed to the rear. The columns halted.

Kyria nodded her thanks. "The police are, I daresay, concerned about so many strange happenings in the park,'' she explained. ' 'Better one sorceress and a quick spell than many search lights and a few SWAT teams."

Alouzon nodded. "Uh . . . yeah. I'm glad you thought of that."

" 'Tis what I am here for," said Kyria. With a quick smile, she dismounted and slipped through the gate.

The army waited. Horses stamped impatiently. Men and women murmured to one another. Bravely, the harpers kept up their music, and Dindrane's chant blended with the sweet chime of bronze strings.

After a minute, Kyria's head appeared through the sheet of mist and shimmer. "Done," she said.

Alouzon gave the signal, the columns started up again, and Jia carried her through the door and into a world of gra.s.s and artificial lights, of cars and airplanes, of air that smelled of exhaust and sulfates. It was what she had once called reality, what she had once called home, but she could no longer consider it either. It was too sterile, too common, too infused with the mundane to have anything to do with the world that had chosen her just as she had chosen it.

Encircling the region directly about the gate, though, was something familiar, something magical: a shining circle of blue light. Almost unbelieving, Alouzon trotted Jia northward under cover of Kyria's protective spell as the evening traffic moved slowly down Alvarado and sped along Wilshire, the cars pa.s.sing, stopping at red lights, flashing turn signals, the drivers and pedestrians unaware of the growing company of Romano-British warriors forming up on the lawns and asphalt walkways of MacArthur Park.

* CHAPTER 19 *

Traveling by night, resting in ditches and in the splintered concealment of shattered forests, a rifle in her hand and her belly empty, Gelyya made her way northward.

She had only a vague idea of where she was going. The women of Gryylth had never been expected to find their way across open countryside, and so she had no detailed knowledge of the roads or the pa.s.ses. All she knew was that Quay lay somewhere to the north and across the Camrann mountains, that there was nothing left behind her, that she could only go on. And even if she died by hounds or by Grayface weapons, she would at least have tried to accomplish something, and she would therefore be able to stand before whatever G.o.ds ruled Gryylth, look Them in the face, and be unashamed.

And, yes, there were hounds: great, s.h.a.ggy beasts that glowed even in daylight; plump, eager things that roamed in packs of twenty-five and fifty. Near the end of the second day, Gelyya came suddenly upon a group of them as they feasted on the shot-up remains of a troop of Gray faces. They sensed her presence and, seemingly glad of something living that they could rend, they came at her.

A thirty-round clip emptied into their grinning faces at close range dropped most of them, and part of a second dealt with the rest. Gelyya no more understood the workings of the weapon she carried than she understood magic, but she could use it, and she did. In less than a minute, the hounds were dead.

Among the half-eaten Grayfaces, she found rations, canteens of water, and more ammunition; and after filling a pilfered knapsack with what she could carry, she put some distance between herself and the carnage, ate and drank, and then moved on.

The countryside, already wasted and cratered, became more so as she made her way north, skirting the foothills. Evidence of artillery and bombs gave way to listless and withered tracts of brown vegetation, and more than once she was confronted with the sight of league upon league of once fertile crop land that had been turned suddenly dead and lifeless: a still, brown sea stretching off to the horizon.

But she was lost. After several days, the mountains all looked the same, and the broken remains of the roads had entirely disappeared. She guessed that she was to the north of Bandon, ,but since she had no map, she had no idea where.

Alone, exhausted, she sat down in the shelter of a dusty ravine and ate ham and lima beans and a can of peaches that she had salvaged from the Grayfaces. She considered her position. Once she crossed the mountains, finding a town the size of Quay on the narrow strip of coastal plain would be fairly easy. The problem, though, lay in the crossing.

There was a pa.s.s to the north and west of Bandon. That she knew, for her father had been a tradesman and had used and spoken of it often. But she would have to backtrack for at least a day, locate the ruins of her native town, and then spend several more days puzzling over and perhaps trying the paths and trails before she found the right one.

There was nothing else to do. After discarding the empty cans and drinking a little water, she picked up her rifle and headed south.

Kyria's magic circle widened and lengthened to contain the troops as they materialized in MacArthur Park, and the columns of men and women snaked up along Alvarado Street and wound through the grafftied underpa.s.s beneath Wilshire Boulevard.

Kyria was masking sound as well as sight, but Alouzon, unwilling to tax her any more than necessary, turned around, caught Dindrane's eye, and held a ringer up to her lips. At a murmured word from the priestess, the harpers damped their strings, and it was a somber and quiet company that entered the northern half of the park, pa.s.sed by the fire-fighters' training center and the amphitheater, and at last drew up at the northwest corner and faced the length of Sixth Street.

Streetlights shone bluely on the asphalt and the tall buildings to either side, and from the Park Plaza Building, sword-bearing angels gazed down at the company with stony, sightless eyes, as though offering tacit approval or guardianship.

A jogger approached, thumping along the north edge of the park. Veering suddenly to his left, he made straight for the columns.

"Just let him through," Kyria called. "He cannot see us."

The columns separated a little at his approach, and the lanky, puffing Los Angelino pa.s.sed within inches of Wykla's horse, the sweat gleaming on his forehead. He slowed for an instant as though wondering why he sensed the anomalous presence of so many people and animals, then shrugged and jogged on.

"Good deal," said Alouzon. She cantered back along the columns. "Okay, everyone," she said. "We're going to stay on the sidewalk as much as possible-that's the pale stone to our left-but it'll probably peter out now and then and we'll have to hit the street. If anyone comes along on foot or in those . . . uh . . . boxes you see with the lights on them, just get out of the way and let the magic do its stuff. Pa.s.s it on." She lifted her head. "Dindrane? The horses?"

The priestess gave a terse nod. "I will attend to the good beasts, Dragonmaster. They will not fear."

"Manda, Wykla, you've been here before. Will you take charge of the rear and keep an eye on everyone?"

With a nod, the two women faded back along the length of the line. Darham watched Wykla go, his eyes moist. He lifted the hand that had been holding hers, examined it, kissed it, and settled himself in his saddle. Whatever this night might hold for him, he was satisfied.

The columns crossed Park View, moving against the flow of traffic. Oncoming cars betrayed their presence with their headlights well in advance, and Kyria simply countered with a subtle fluctuation in the magic. Drivers closest to the curb found themselves changing into the left lane for no apparent reason-if they were even conscious of their action-and the way was left clear for Alouzon's people.

Alouzon, Cvinthil, and Darham ordered a quick march, but the speed of the traffic made the columns appear to crawl along the street, and although Alouzon had calculated that the army could make the crossing from the park to the campus in a little over nine hours-a reasonable time, considering the lengthening darkness of these autumn nights-she wondered whether the troops could really keep to that schedule. If they did not, dawn would witness the stranding of the entire company in Los Angeles.

"We'll just have to do it," she said to herself.

Cvinthil was riding at her side. "We can," he said. ' 'The warriors of Gryylth have been force-marched for greater distances than this. And I am sure, Dragon-master, that you remember the drive for the Circle."

Yes, Alouzon remembered. But Roman roads in Gryylth were very different from streets in Los Angeles: tonight's journey stretched through a broad band of urbanization that could not but exact a psychological toll on veteran and novice alike. She hoped that Dindrane could help, but the priestess herself was un- familiar with the metropolitan nightmare in which the troops moved.

Lafayette Park was dark and shadowed as they pa.s.sed by a few minutes later, the palms and the maple trees an impenetrable canopy that blocked out the sight of the too-bright Los Angeles sky. Ahead, the First Congregational Church was a tall, illuminated, gothic presence.

Sixth Street curved to the left, then straightened out. It would take the army a good distance, but Alouzon knew that, just beyond San Vicente Boulevard, she would have to lead her people away from it, picking a way north through the residential sections of Beverly Hills and even traversing part of westbound Sunset Boulevard at its widest and most luxurious.

One thing at a time, she told herself. For now, it was Sixth Street and its battered office buildings. That was enough.

A stop light ahead changed, and there was a lull in traffic. Alouzon turned around. "Everyone keep together," she called. "Come on, people, close it up. Don't wear out your sorceress."

Westmoreland, then Vermont. Alouzon checked her watch and wondered how much time had pa.s.sed in Gryylth, how many more had died.

Lytham stood over the remains of the Grayfaces and hounds. The days had been hot, and the unnatural flesh was fragrant with decay. He had to turn upwind and catch a breath of fresh air before he could speak. "Hounds," he said at last, "might feed, but they do not shoot one another."

Haryn, still in his saddle, nodded without reply. He was busy scanning the horizon, looking for signs of movement. This far from Kingsbury, away from friends and support, movement could mean only attack and death.

Helwych had told Lytham to take ten men to search for Gelyya; but, unwilling to order anyone into the wastes and the battlefields, the captain had only been able to find but four who would accompany him voluntarily. All were glad to be away from the helplessness and despair of Kingsbury, and small difference it made in any case to be in open country rather than behind earthworks and wooden defenses that would do little against napalm or bombs.

The land was silent save for the whining of the wind in the withered bracken. The hot sun glared down as though pasted in the sky. Lytham considered the remains. Gelyya, resourceful and brave, had obviously learned the use of Grayface weapons. He would have to remember that.

"Which way do you think she went?" said Haryn.

"North, I would say," Lytham replied. "She was making for Quay."

"Then she should have angled towards the mountains long ago."

"She is a girl," said Lytham. A few months ago, swaggering, gloating, he would have uttered the statement in a tone of derision. Now it was only simple fact. "She knows the streets of Bandon and of Kings-bury, but little else. Quay is but a name to her."

"Then she could be anywhere."

"True." Anywhere. And with an M16 in her hand. "But I will wager she continued north."

Haryn slumped on his horse. "And do you expect that any of us will collect any bets, my friend?"

Were it not for the fact that constant death had taken the tears from their eyes as much as the dry wind that swept across the desiccated plains, they all would have wept. Somewhere out there was Gelyya, but Lytham was no longer sure that he wanted to find her. She had become a reason to continue the search, a reason not to return to Kingsbury, a reason to keep living for another hour, another day. And if, by some chance, she was actually found, Lytham knew that he would be hard pressed to decide what to do with her.

Back to Kingsbury? Where else was there to go?

Quay would only last a few more months. Winter would see it bombed and napalmed. And even Corrin-even a.s.suming for a moment that that woman-dominated land would take them in-would be as Gryylth by spring.

Perhaps, Lytham considered slowly, the girl would buy their re-entry into Kingsbury, and maybe their survival. For a little while. That was something.

One of the men straightened in his saddle and peered off across the plain, shading his eyes from the glare. "There is something to the south," he said. "Gray-faces, I think."

'' Movement by air?''

"Nay. None."

"If there are Grayfaces," said Haryn, "then jets cannot be far off." He looked at Lytham. "To the north?"

There was nothing to the north. Nor in any other direction. Lytham shrugged. "To the north."

Two weeks of rest in Quay and a meeting with Alouzon had done much for Timbrin. Astride a good horse and clad in the breeches and tunic of a boy, she was sitting straighter, and though she seemed to regard even the small knife at her belt with a sense of unease, the old, frightened timidity that had clung to her since her encounter with Helwych's magic had perhaps cracked a little.

Relys hoped so. Grievous as her concerns were about herself and what might be growing within her womb, the transformation of her comrade from competent warrior into frightened girl had exacerbated them, and the prospect that Timbrin might be recovering was a bright flicker of hope.

They left Quay in the early morning and crossed over the pa.s.s in the Camrann. On fresh horses and with rations enough to see them through to Corrin, they made good time; but once they reached the wastes of craterized and defoliated fields, they had to travel more slowly, for here there was little cover, and the Gray faces and the hounds prowled at will.

On the second day, they saw bath. With cracks and explosions and shrieks of warplanes, the land towards the south erupted into a battle that spread with the pa.s.sage of a few hours to encompa.s.s miles of territory. Each minute brought more jets, and as phosphorus bombs detonated in bursts of blinding white and napalm billowed up in red and black clouds, ground-to-air missiles streaked up to turn the warplanes into shattered metal.

Relys judged times, distances. "I believe we can make it past if we circle far to the north," she said.

The sight and sound of gunfire and bombs had brought the fear back to Timbrin's eyes, but she was fighting it. "Aye," she said. "But I am afraid that I will be glad to do that."

Relys patted her shoulder. There were many things in the world to fear. Timbrin was afraid to be afraid, afraid of even the small knife at her hip. Relys herself was afraid of her own body, afraid that the lot of womankind was falling upon her like a winter avalanche.

Another two weeks, and still no flow. There were a hundred reasons for it, but there was only one that was likely.

They detoured northward, crossing rivers and streams choked with dust and dead branches. A day later, they entered the Cotswood Hills. Here the land was rolling, and in places it still showed green gra.s.s and stands of trees.

"Is this not where Mernyl kept his house?" Timbrin said towards noon.

"A little further on, I think," said Relys. "But-"

The sharp crack of a rifle interrupted her. In a moment she and Timbrin had dismounted and led the horses into the cover of a dry stream bed. Timbrin was trembling. "I am sorry, Relys," she said. "I strive to master this, but I fail."

"Peace, my friend. That you can so strive shows that you are healing."

Timbrin nodded with wide eyes and attempted to compose herself. Relys reached to her right hip and loosened her sword. The First Wartroop had always trained in the left-handed use of weapons, but her skill could at best be described as merely adequate. She was, she knew, no match for an unmaimed warrior, and it was absurd even to think of facing Grayface weapons.

Another shot. A m.u.f.fled curse, then a call: "Give it up, girl."- Relys and Timbrin exchanged glances.

They tethered the horses. Relys started cautiously towards the source of the sounds. Timbrin hesitated, then followed. Together, they inched their way up to the lip of the stream bed, then crawled up the hillside above. Gaining the top, they were just in time to see a young, red-haired woman streak across the valley. Shots and tracers pursued her, but she dodged nimbly and dived at last into the shelter of a ruined stone cottage.

"O you nameless G.o.ds," said Relys. "It is Gelyya."

"What is she doing here?"

"Nay, I know not. But-"

And then came the Grayfaces. There were perhaps ten of them, running in single file, when they came in sight of the cottage, their leader motioned to his men, and they spread out along the tree line.

"Come on, girl," he called. "We've got you now."

Two of the Grayfaces detached themselves and circled to the far side of the ruins. The rest stayed in front.