But aside from a lingering sense of otherworldliness that hung in the air, there was no sign of any intrusion save the prints in the mud and the phosphor stains, and no trace of a door. The women stayed for a few more minutes, scouted the circ.u.mference of the lake, then gave up and returned to the car. Alouzon headed out Wilshire.

"Where are we going now?" asked Manda.

"I want to take a look at what's left of a house," said Alouzon. "And then I'll give you a look at a school." A sudden qualm struck her. "Is this getting to be too much for you?''

Manda and Wykla were still staring at the city. Wykla wiped sweat from her forehead. "Were you not here, friend Alouzon," she said, "we would be a sorry sight indeed. But since you are ..." She smiled, and Manda nodded agreement.

After fighting her way through heat and traffic for most of an hour, Alouzon drove into the green shade of Bel Air and pulled up to a stop before Helen's house. The lawn-brown and withered from the heat-had been trampled, and the rums had been roped off. Deserted now save for birds and squirrels, and surrounded by untouched trees and the quietude of the expensive neighborhood, it all looked pointless and depressing.

Alouzon got out of the VW and stood for a moment at the brick gateway. Here, all that was left of Suzanne h.e.l.ling had been loaded into an ambulance. Where was her old body now? Still at the coroner's office? Or locked in some drawer in the city morgue with a tag marked Jane Doe attached to the toe?

She shuddered. The ruins were silent.

"Stay by the car," she said to her companions. "I'll look fast, and then we'll get out of here."

While Manda and Wykla waited, Alouzon crossed the lawn, stepped over the ropes, and approached the ruins. Desolation. The hot wind fluttered a paper and sang through the broken wood and steel. Like Bandon. Like some sections of Quay and Hanoi. Like Haiphong, and My Lai, and Quang Tri.

And, yes, there it was again: a p.r.i.c.kling presence in the air, like the fear of a graveyard hand on one's shoulder at midnight. Something that spoke of other worlds, of strange pa.s.sages, of portals and impossible doors.

Alouzon returned to the car. Quietly, thoughtfully, she drove back down towards Sunset Boulevard and UCLA. She had fallen into MacArthur Park, and there was a door there. She and Helen had been taken to Gryylth from Helen's house, and though she had no proof of a door's existence, the feeling was the same. And the university: how many times had Solomon Braithwaite set off for Gryylth from his office in Kinsey Hall?

Holes. Doors. After she and her companions had used up an hour eating hamburgers and onion rings at the cafeteria, she stopped at the archaeology office. "Is Dr. O'Hara in?" she asked the secretary.

"Urn . . .I'm not sure. Let me check the roster."

He was definitely not in, and Alouzon knew that: Brian had a cla.s.s this hour. Leaving Wykla and Manda standing nervously in the hall, she smiled and edged past the desk, gambling that her face was still an honest one. "Can I just go and check real quick?"

"Well ..."

"I want to see if I brought everything he wanted."

The woman shrugged. "It can't hurt, I suppose. Last door on the-"

"On the right," said Alouzon. "I remember."

In a moment, she had darted down the inner corridor and had knocked at Brian's door. No answer. She pretended to be disappointed, but as she walked very slowly back to the desk, her senses were straining at the closed door midway up the corridor.

"I'll try again later," she said when she reached the desk.

"He's been very busy," the secretary offered. "One of our new teachers quit and left him with quite a pile of work."

"Oh. I'm ... sorry to hear that."

She left the office without looking back. Wykla and Manda followed her down the stairs and outside. "Was it there?" asked Wykla.

Alouzon wiped her face. "Yup."

Manda was deliberating. "But no hounds. And no ..." She shrugged. "No real door."

"Nope." Alouzon shoved her hands in her pockets and examined the campus from the landing of the outside steps. It was late afternoon. d.i.c.kson Court lay before her, green and tree-shaded, like Blanket Hill at Kent State. Perhaps it was a warrior's instinct, and perhaps her recollections of the days of protest and death had been stirred by her concerns, but she found herself half-consciously considering the best strategies for defending Kinsey Hall against an attack.

She dragged herself out of her thoughts. This was UCLA, not Gryylth. And not Kent State.

But the daylight-unremitting, blinding daylight-had triggered a thought. "I wonder if you had a point back at the park, Manda," she said. "You said it was a good thing you arrived at night.''

Manda's eyes were frank. "I still say it, Alouzon."

"Yeah. And I say that maybe there was a reason you arrived at night. The same reason the hounds arrived at night.'' She rubbed the back of her neck. ' 'I want to look at these same places after it gets dark. Let's head home and catch a nap. Unless I miss my guess, we're probably going to be up until dawn."

They drove back to the apartment. Alouzon gave Manda and Wykla the use of her bedroom, and the young women, tired out by strange happenings, fell asleep instantly. But Alouzon was doubtful as she stretched out on the sofa. She had risen late, and the fatigue left by a day of wading through the mire of Los Angeles traffic was mixed with tension. She was not at all sure she could do anything more than fret about Gryylth.

But she had hardly closed her eyes when her thoughts were spun away down long corridors of darkness and void. She thrashed, but she discovered that she had no arms or legs with which to thrash. Terrified as she was, though, she felt at the same time oddly calm, as if, blindfolded and bound, she were being led along by a kind and familiar hand.

The darkness pa.s.sed with an abrupt flicker, and Alouzon found herself staring straight into a pale, aquiline face framed by hair the color of night.

"h.e.l.lo, Alouzon," said Kyria.

* CHAPTER 15 *

Alouzon wanted to rush forward and take Kyria in her arms, but she found that she was strangely immobile, her body declining for the time to obey her commands, no matter how urgent. Relief turned to fear, then abruptly to consternation. Body? A moment ago she had no body. "What the h.e.l.l's going on, Kyria?" she said. "I can't move."

Kyria came forward and embraced her. "You cannot move because you are not yourself, Alouzon. You are in Dindrane's body. She invoked you as she did in Broceliande."

"Wha?"

The priestess' voice came to her from within her mind. Hail, Dragonmaster . . . Alouzon sensed hesitation, then: My G.o.ddess.

Were Alouzon in her own skin, she would have sagged, would probably have wept. It was one thing to know what the Grail had in store for her, it was entirely another to be addressed as a deity. "Uh . . . hi, Dindrane," she said softly. "Take it easy, huh? I'm just Alouzon."

A lift of an inner eyebrow. Just Alouzon?

"Well, you know what I mean." Her borrowed eyes looked helplessly at Kyria. "Don't you?"

"Not really," said the sorceress. "But we have some things to discuss, and quickly. I am aware of the time differential between Earth and Gryylth. This cannot last long."

Wykla and Manda.

"Exactly," said Kyria. "Are they well?"

"Yeah," said Alouzon. She noticed, unnerved, that she was speaking with Dindrane's voice. "They're fine. They're a little shook up about everything, and they keep telling me that they'd freak if I wasn't around, but they're holding out. They're d.a.m.ned strong women."

"And they have a fine leader," said Kyria.

It was a compliment, open and without qualification, something far different from anything that would have come out of the mouth of Helen Addams. Had Alouzon been able to move, she would have shaken her head. "Lady, you've changed."

The door.

Kyria, blushing, bowed. "Indeed. Thank you, Dindrane."

Alouzon was becoming used to the fact that she could not move, and that she sounded like Dindrane, and that the priestess was inside her head. She could appreciate the unlooked-for blessing of this spiritual link. "The door. Yeah. That's what it was, all right. And I'll tell you: we found two more things that could be doors."

"Two more?"

Alouzon recounted the events in MacArthur Park, the appearance of Wykla and Manda, and the existence of anomalies at Helen's house and at the office at UCLA. Kyria listened, obviously fitting together her own pieces of the puzzle; but to Alouzon's surprise, Dindrane was nodding inwardly, even at the mention of Helen and Solomon and the university. Inwardly, but perhaps a little sadly.

"I have a feeling," Alouzon said at last, "that when Silbakor flew between Earth and Gryylth, it left tracks . . . like places that are thinner. That's where the doors showed up. But don't ask me why they suddenly got ripped open."

Kyria was nodding. "I can answer that. Helwych. He attempted to seal Gryylth away from the rest of the universe."

"Why the h.e.l.l would he do that?"

"To prevent the return of the army."

It did not make sense. Alouzon attempted to wrinkle her nose, but Dindrane's body would not respond: she could speak, that was all. "But that's like killing a fly with a nuclear bomb. You don't have to wall off the whole cosmos just to keep a few ships out."

Kyria shrugged. "For whatever reason, Alouzon, he did just that. But in so doing, he tore the fabric of s.p.a.ce-time. At night, under proper conditions, Gryylth and Los Angeles are linked along the paths that were weakened by Silbakor's previous transits."

"And so the hounds made it through. And then Wykla and Manda." Alouzon turned the facts around and around as though trying to a.s.semble a fragmented pot. "What about your ... I mean, Helen's house and Solomon's office?"

"The first will, I think, take you to Gryylth . . ." But Kyria stopped, her brow furrowed. She shook her head. "But now that I think of it, maybe to oblivion."

Helen's house? 'Tis there I fought the hag.

"Just so, Dindrane. I am sure that it muddled the pa.s.sage."

"I don't understand," said Alouzon.

"No time to explain," Kyria replied. "You can go look at the door at Helen's house, but do not try to pa.s.s through it. Your best chances lie in MacArthur Park and Sol's office."

Again, Alouzon felt Dindrane's sadness. It resonated with her own memories, cut at her heart. She felt the chill of drying tears on the priestess' cheeks. "You ... uh ... know about Sol Braithwaite, Dindrane? ''

The reply came slowly. Kyria told me all, friend.

Dindrane's sadness was deep. Alouzon wanted to hold her, soothe her, comfort her, tell her that everything was going to be all right. But rooted as she was in the priestess' form, she was as helpless as she had been when, in another life and a far place, she watched impotently as her cla.s.smates' bodies had been loaded into the ambulances. "I'm . . . I'm really sorry, Dindrane."

I understand, Alouzon. We all do the best we can.

The best, as before, seemed hopelessly inadequate. "I'm gonna make it up to you. To all of you."

Peace, my dear G.o.ddess.

Her words fragmented suddenly, and a rising wave of darkness shimmered up from the edges of Alouzon's sight. "I'm losing you."

"These things cannot last forever. Try the gates, that is all I can say."

But as the scene faded, a thought suddenly flashed through Alouzon's mind. Sol's office: Gryylth. Mullaen: MacArthur Park. She fought against the darkness for a moment. "That's it! Dammit, that's it!" Faintly, she saw Kyria's look of surprise, and she spoke quickly. "Give everyone my love, and tell them to a.s.semble the troops near Lake Innael. We'll see you in about a week. We're gonna try for Gryylth."

Kyria's face was lost, but Alouzon heard her voice: "A week? But ... the barrier."

Alouzon tried to shake her head, found that she had none to shake. "It's not a problem. A week, max. Get everyone together and ready to travel. We're coming."

And then Alouzon opened her eyes. She saw her living room ceiling. She saw Wykla and Manda peering anxiously into her face.

"Dragonmaster? We heard you shout."

Dragonmaster. And if the Grail had its way with her, it would be G.o.ddess. Alouzon shuddered inwardly at the thought that the affections of her friends might someday be replaced by worship: Dindrane's invocation had made the potential transformation too real, too imminent. "I've . . . been talking with Kyria and Dindrane," she said, vowing never to speak of the method by which the priestess had achieved the contact. "I think we're going to make it through to Gryylth tonight. And maybe farther than that." Wykla and Manda stared. "To Gryylth?" The room was shadowed. She turned her head to the windows. It had grown dark outside. "We've got just enough time to eat before we have to go," she said. "Those doors aren't gonna wait."

Lytham, the captain of the King's Guard, picked his way down the main street of Kingsbury, shooing away the hungry dogs, stepping carefully around the piles of refuse that sprawled like heaps of corpses, skirting the pools of sewage that, wet and glistening and- fragrant in the hot sun, had encroached muddily into the road.

The day was hot, and tantalizing promises of evening thundershowers had been proven to be lies for the past week. Children who had cried for food were now also crying for water as their mothers, starving and thirsty themselves, attempted to soothe them with whatever might be had: a moldy piece of dried fruit, a strip of smoked meat, sometimes indeed a scant mouthful of water.

Thirst and hunger were everywhere, as were disease and fear. Helwych had ordered that the people be herded into the towns for safety, but Lytham-looking into the pinched faces of the children, the worried faces of the mothers, the dead faces of those who had succ.u.mbed to whatever epidemic was making the rounds of the towns this week-wondered whether they were really any better off here than out where the Grayfaces fought and the hounds prowled openly.

A timid voice, weak and hoa.r.s.e. "Captain of the Guard . . ."

In truth, Lytham felt little like a guard, and not at all like a captain. Helwych's guards had been replaced by the nondescript but foreign Grayfaces ...

"Please, captain."

. . . and the t.i.tle had therefore become nothing more than an accusation, for besides Helwych-and, he hoped, the queen-Lytham and the other men of the Wartroops possessed the only full bellies and un-parched throats left in the land.

Reluctant, guilty, Lytham turned to the woman who had addressed him. Her face was as withered as the fields of Gryylth, as gray as the dusty lean-to from which she had tottered. He could not even say whether she was young or old, alive or near death.

"What do you want, woman?" he said, trying to maintain a sense of dignity when he felt none.

"Please, captain, my daughter, Vyyka, is ill. She needs food and water."

She was, in fact, holding a young girl whose flesh was as gray as her own. The child's eyes were closed and her breathing was labored. Behind her, about her, everywhere, the flimsy hovels that clogged the streets and commons swarmed like an epidemic themselves, and the refugees, women, all women save for a few- women with hungry children, women with dying infants, starving women, grieving women-were looking at him, as faceless and as dull-eyed as this faceless mother with her dying child.

"Please, captain ..."

"I . . ." Lytham wanted his village, wanted fights that were no more than shouts and buffets and makings-up afterwards, wanted an end to uniforms and useless swords, wanted a sane world that possessed tables with food on them, people who smiled, and a surety that tomorrow would not find everyone dead. "I can do nothing, woman," he said. "Everyone is hungry. The enemy ..." What was the enemy? The Specter? The hostile Grayfaces? Or maybe it was even closer than that. Maybe . . .

Dryyim's scream rang in his mind, and he pushed the thought away as though it were a corpse come to embrace him in bed. "The enemy has burned the fields," he said. "We will have to make do without."

Without food? What was he saying? He was beginning to sound like Helwych.

The woman bowed shakily and turned away. The child she carried whimpered. She held her closer, as though solicitude could fill her belly or dampen her mouth.

About Lytham, the street was choked and stagnant with decay. Kingsbury had grown to five times its normal population, and even had there been food aplenty, the crowding alone would have bred sickness. As it was . . .

He turned and went quickly up the street, keeping his eyes very carefully averted from the sight of the huddled women and the children who did not have enough strength to play.

When he reached the palisade surrounding the Hall, he was stopped by the new guards: Grayfaces. One held him at riflepoint while the other examined and questioned him, the eyes behind the gray mask at once suspicious and blank.

"I am Lytham," he said.

The second Grayface turned to the first. "Chuck, you know this d.i.n.k?"