The rain had left a lingering humidity in the air, but though the cisterns and wells were full again, the granaries and storehouses were not. And the only inhabitants of Kingsbury who could call themselves satisfied with the arrangement were the starvation and disease that, stalking invisibly from house to house, left behind a death as incontrovertible as that brought by Gray face bullets or hounds' teeth.

Seena, sheltered-imprisoned-in the chambers of Hall Kingsbury, saw little of it, for her contacts with the world outside the palisade had shrunken almost to nothing. She saw no townsfolk, no midwife, no physician. Soldiers brought her food, and now and then Helwych would come to her rooms to comfort her.

She was not comforted. In truth, she was numb. Even had she known that Helwych had bespelled her, it was quite possible that she would not have cared, for her children were held in the grip of an unending stasis, and she was concerned only with them.

Throughout the days, Seena tended Ayya and Vill, catering to their needs, to the wishes and desires that she imagined-that she wanted to imagine-they had. Since that night of evil dreams when she had awakened to find them unmoving, unbreathing, and yet undead, she had entered into an existence that was lapped round by an unending present, in which questions of tomorrow or yesterday had no meaning. Her children were ill, her children were in danger . . . now. That was all she knew.

She might have been a little girl playing with her dolls, picking up the limp bodies, bathing them, changing their clothes, putting them down for pretend sleep. Had they been simply dead, she could have mourned and eventually recovered. But with them caught forever in a state that was neither of life nor of death, neither gone nor really present, Seena could do no more than bend all of her attention and strength towards caring for them.

By day she was a devoted nurse. By night she tossed in uneasy dreams and outright nightmares, searching for her children, s.n.a.t.c.hing them from peril only to find that she was too late. Fear and panic then drove her out of sleep and to their sides, but they saw nothing, heard nothing.

That evening, Helwych swept into her room in a whirl of black robes and lank hair. He bent over the children and examined them, but he straightened up with a dubious expression.

Seena hoped. A frayed, frantic hope. Maybe this time . . . "Can you-"

"I cannot." His eyes held her. "They are ensnared by powerful magic, Seena. Do you understand?"

"Have you spoken to Kallye?"

The sorcerer permitted himself a cynical smile. "A midwife, Seena? What can a midwife do?"

"I . . ." Kallye had always helped, if only by her presence. "I would like to see her."

Helwych shook his head. "Too dangerous, Seena. You have heard the guns? More of our own people have turned traitor. A grievous thing, that. Even Kallye might turn out to be a different sort of guest than we expected."

"She is my midwife!" Seena rushed to the beside, but the only movement of her children's features was that caused by the flickering play of firelight.

Helwych touched Seena, and she looked up. Held by his eyes, she felt her objections dissolving. Magic had bespelled her children. Magic would cure them. What could Kallye do? "Play with your dolls, Seena," said Helwych. "Go. Play."

Obediently, Seena turned to Ayya and Vill; but after the sorcerer had left, a lingering doubt remained in her mind. Magic. Helwych was a sorcerer. Helwych, as he so constantly reminded her, was saving the land from a peril so great that even the ma.s.sed might of Gryylth and Corrin could not stand against it.

But if Helwych were so powerful, why then could he not undo the spell that had ensnared Ayya and Vill? If he could save a country, why could he not save two small children?

Seena straightened suddenly. Why? And if magic had struck the heart of Kingsbury as it had, why had it not struck again?

Once more she bent over her children, but only long enough to tuck the sheets about them and kiss their cold faces. Then, turning, she left the room. The guard at the door made as if to stop her, but her questions had driven her to a regal glare, and at the sight of her face he only bowed.

Helwych was sitting in the king's chair, speaking with Lytham, the captain of the Guard. Seena entered un.o.btrusively from the rear door of the main room. No one noticed her, not even the Grayfaces who flanked the sorcerer.

"Did the men see anything?" Helwych was asking.

"They did not," Lytham answered. "Someone struck them from behind, and when they awoke, the Grayfaces were dead and the horses were gone."

The Grayfaces murmured, their voices oddly distant, unfeeling.

"Is anyone missing from the town?" Helwych pressed.

Lytham was incredulous. "My lord, Kingsbury is stuffed as full as a peddler's bag with refugees. We hardly know who is here, much less who might have left."

Helwych slumped in Cvinthil's chair. Seena found that she was annoyed: by what right did Helwych presume to take her husband's seat? But the sorcerer did not look up at Lytham, nor did he see Seena. "Were there any . . . strangers seen?"

Lytham frowned, hesitated.

Even where she stood-in the shadows behind the chair-Seena could feel the crackle of power as Helwych's gaze rooted itself into the captain. "Lytham ..." The sorcerer's voice was soft, but it all but dragged Lytham up by the front of his tunic.

"I ... believe that there was something ..." Lytham glanced at the Grayface guards who stood to either side of the chair, weapons in hand. They did not move.

"What?"

"One of my men on night patrol thought he saw three women making their way through the streets," said Lytham. The words came from him almost unwillingly. "He could not be sure."

"That does not matter, captain. I am sure. Continue."

"He thought them dressed strangely, that is all."

"Where did he see them?"

"To the north of the market square. Near the house of the midwife."

Kallye. Seena caught her breath. Helwych turned around. "My dear queen," he said softly. "Why have you forsaken your children?''

"I . . ." She swallowed. Those eyes. But she suddenly found that she had cleared a small s.p.a.ce within her mind, a s.p.a.ce in which she could be alone, in which she could think. "I. . . wanted to ask you ..."

"I have told you, Seena," said Helwych, "there is nothing I can do."

Why? The question hammered at her, grappled with her recalcitrant tongue, demanded to be uttered, but Seena, thoughtful of a sudden, suppressed it. Not yet. Not now.

She turned and made her way back to her rooms, back to her children. That night, her dreams were, once again, melanges of nightmare and worry. But there was something else in them, too. Now, when she tore her children away from the mouths of the hounds, or saved them from the pits of acid or flame-hardened stakes, she lifted her eyes from their still forms and asked a question that glowed golden at the edge of thought, a question that was at once a demand, a wail of outrage, and a cry of triumph: Why?

Alouzon, Manda, and Wykla crossed the pa.s.s in the Camrann Mountains late in the evening and made camp amid trees untouched by the defoliants that had wasted the lands to the east. As high up as they were, the night wind turned cold and cutting, and though the warriors thought it risky to kindle a fire, they did so anyway; for Alouzon, in shorts and a thin blouse, was close to hypothermia, and her companions were not much warmer.

But no hounds appeared. No helicopters. No Gray-faces. The sky on the other side of the pa.s.s flashed with distant bombs and artillery, but here, it seemed, Gryylth was as yet unscathed.

As they moved out in the morning, Alouzon was looking at the land. Her land. Separated from it, surrounded by the sterility and heat of Los Angeles, she had forgotten how lovely it was. But soft and fertile and green though it lay on this side of the mountains, it was blasted and bare on the other, a reification of all her memories of Vietnam and her bitterness over Kent.

A G.o.ddess, though, could neutralize the defoliants that had sterilized the soil, erase the plague that raged in Kingsbury and the other refugee towns, soothe and wipe away the psychological damage that had been inflicted upon the people through year after year of war that had grown increasingly h.e.l.lish from one incarnation to another. Not a G.o.ddess who stood aloof from mortality and hid behind a cloud of impersonal transcendence, but one who stayed close to Her people, who remembered and clung to homely things like hugs, and love, and friendship.

Despite the inevitable worship, it was suddenly very tempting. To stay close. Vietnam was beyond her. Some other deity would have to attend to that one. But Gryylth, Corrin, Vaylle: these were hers. Maybe she could help. As a friend.

By afternoon the three women were well down the slopes that led to Quay. To their relief, the town showed no sign of recent attack, but the idle boats and docks and the shimmering curtain that hung a mile or two offsh.o.r.e were enough to make them hurry, and they ate the last of their sandwiches and fruit in the saddle and rested the horses as little as possible.

The sun was setting when they reached the main coastal road that led directly to the city gates. Alouzon rode openly, and when she signaled a halt before the raised drawbridge, she lifted her voice before she could be challenged. "I'm Alouzon Dragonmaster. Wykla of Burnwood and Manda of Dubris are with me. Is Hahle there?"

"Alouzon!" Hahle stood up from behind the parapet. "Beyond all hope!"

"Let us in, Hahle," she said. "I don't have much time. We're all going to have to move fast.'' The drawbridge ground down. "Is everyone all right? Did Relys and Timbrin make it?"

"Aye," said the councilman. "We are well. And Relys and Timbrin are here." His face turned sad for a moment. ''They are as well as they can be, I guess.''

Alouzon and her companions rode in and dismounted. Faces surrounded them, and hands reached out to clasp theirs, but for the most part the faces were all above middle age and the hands were gnarled with years. With few exceptions, all the young men were overseas with Cvinthil and Darham.

Alouzon shook hands and made greetings. She was going to change all that, she said, but she had come to Quay essentially to find Relys and Timbrin.

"They are at my house, Dragonmaster," said Hahle. "But will you not even stay the night?"

"Can't," she said. "I don't think I brought any jets with me this time, but I don't want to take the chance. I'm going to check on Relys and Timbrin, and then we're off."

"Off?"

"On Silbakor."

By the time they reached the councilman's house, a large number of men had gathered around the three women. Hahle waved them back as, accompanied only by Wykla and Manda, Alouzon went to the door and opened it.

They entered quietly. Two women were sitting before the fire, their backs to the door. One, small and slight, was being held by a taller companion, whose right hand-chewed and mangled and livid with still-unhealed wounds-was wrapped protectively about her shoulders.

Even from a distance, even without seeing their faces, Alouzon could sense their inner wounds. Could she do something about that too? She had resolved to try. "Relys, Timbrin," she said softly, "you have friends to see you."

The two whirled, startled, and Relys's damaged hand went to her side as though for a weapon. But she had no weapon, and no armor: she was clad in a simple gown. Shaking, her eyes downcast, she stood up. "Alouzon."

Rape, the loss of a hand, fever, hardship: though Relys remained unbroken, she had been bent and splintered. Alouzon went to her and Timbrin, arms outstretched, but Relys drew back. "Come on, Relys," said Alouzon. "I've come all the way from another planet to see you."

Relys looked as though she wanted to run. "A-Alouzon."

"Come on." Alouzon wrapped her arms about them both, felt Timbrin shake, felt Relys on the verge of hated tears. "I'm back. It's gonna be all right ..." She lifted her eyes, wishing she could see the Grail, addressing it nonetheless directly. You hear me? I'm telling them it's gonna be all right. Cut me some slack, please. Not for me. For them.

"Dragonmaster ..."

"Really, Relys. We'll get Kyria to fix up that hand of yours. She's changed a lot. You'll like her. But she fixed Manda's arm, and she can fix your hand. Give her a chance. And Timbrin ..."

The small woman lifted dark eyes. Alouzon might have been staring down twin wells. The lieutenant had been shaken, shocked into a loss of her very ident.i.ty, and as Alouzon held her tightly, she willed strength and recovery into her. Not for me. For them.

"... you're going to get better," she said. "I swear."

You hear me?

Timbrin shut her eyes, laid her head against Alouzon's blouse. "I believe you, Dragonmaster. I ... believe you."

"What of Marrget and the others?" said Relys, and her tone-stronger now-said that she too was starting to believe.

"Parl and Birk bought it. Everyone else is all right. Vaylle's on our side."

Timbrin wept with relief. Relys's eyes were open, black, hard . . . dry. "Where have you been, Dragonmaster? In Vaylle?"

"Farther away than that, Relys. I didn't have much choice."

A touch of renewed shame. "You . . . know . . . about. . . ?"

Alouzon nodded slowly. "Yeah, Relys. I know. We'll settle that score, too."

Hope kindled in the cold darkness of Relys's eyes. "I wish that very much, Dragonmaster . . . but ..." She looked away for a moment as though the shame were again attempting to break loose, but then she mastered herself and pushed free of Alouzon's arms. "But what lies ahead of us?" Her voice was cool, professional. "Helwych has warriors, but he also has Grayfaces and what he calls jets and guns and napalm. What shall we do?" She noticed Wykla and Manda then, and she saluted them formally. "I am very glad to see you both."

Relys had taken what she had needed, and then had moved away. That was all right: Alouzon, the G.o.ddess, was not here to force Her children into growth or recovery. In fact, she could not but respect Relys and admire her strength.

Holding Timbrin still, Alouzon called in Hahle and a few of his advisors and told them of her plans regarding the troops in Vaylle. "It'll be crazy getting everyone here," she said. "I'm not even sure when we'll arrive. But whoever wants to meet us is welcome."

Hahle was cautious. "But what about the Grayfaces and their weapons? And the hounds ..."

"Kyria can take care of the Grayfaces and the jets. She's getting pretty used to it by now, I think. And she can magic up the swords and pikes so they'll take out the hounds."

Hahle nodded, bowed. "Clubs and burning sticks have served us well," he said, "but if Kyria can give us back the use of swords and spears, then I am well satisfied. I, for one, will be there." A chorus of ayes erupted from the men in the room and those who had gathered outside the door.

"If Kyria will attend to my hand," said Relys. "Then I also. I would settle my own scores."

"She'll do it," said Alouzon. "But it's still going to be rough. Helwych is pretty well entrenched in the town."

Manda spoke up. "Has there been any word from Corrin?"

"We have heard nothing from Corrin," said Hahle.

"In Corrin are at least eight or nine phalanxes of warriors," said the maid. "You have but to send for them."

Hahle blinked. "So many? I thought Darham took all his men with him."

Manda could not suppress her smile. "He did indeed. All his men. But Tylha and her women were left behind, and they have been spoiling for battle for the last five years . . ."A murmur from the Gryylthans made her stop. "I mean ..." She colored.

A moment of uneasy silence. But then Hahle spoke with the air of a man dismissing trivialities. "Those battles are long done," he said. "We have common enemies now, and if the women of Corrin will help the barbarous men of Gryylth ..." He grinned, reached a hand to Manda. The maid clasped it. "...why, then, we will thank them heartily." But amid the shouts of affirmation from the men, he turned thoughtful. "But how shall we send to them? The land between the mountains and the Dike is patched with wastelands now, and the villages are all destroyed. Burnwood, the closest to Corrin, was in fact the first to be struck by the bombs."

Wykla, who had been sitting quietly and smiling her agreement, started. "Burnwood?"

"Aye," said Hahle. "So Relys said."

"It is true," said Relys. Though uncertainty lurked still in her eyes, and though the determined set to her face might well have been a mask covering oceans of shame and bitterness, she stood straight and spoke evenly. "Yyvas of Burnwood brought the word and then died of his wounds. The news became well known in Kingsbury despite Helwych's best efforts to suppress it."

Wykla looked worse. "Yyvas ..."

"But as for sending to Corrin," Relys continued, "I myself will go. I cannot wield a sword save with my left hand, but swords are useless against the Gray-faces and their-" She caught herself suddenly, considered, turned to Wykla. "I am sorry, my friend," she said kindly. "You are from Burnwood, are you not?"

"I am indeed." Wykla's voice was faint. "Yyvas was my father.''

Relys stood for a moment, struck. Then, as if Wykla's need enabled her to put aside her own shame and uncertainty, she bowed and said softly: "I grieve with you, Wykla. The G.o.ds will hear his name."

Alouzon's feelings were mixed. Yyvas had rejected his one-time son, now daughter, and had done so cruelly. Wykla still suffered from the rebuff. But Wykla had never denied her father, and she was obviously shaken by his death.

"I'm sorry, too, Wykla," said Alouzon.

"I . . ." Wykla lost her words, shook her head. "Pray continue, Relys."

Relys shrugged. "I will go to Corrin."