Her words, blunt and incontrovertible, hung in the cool dawn air. Someone had finally said aloud what everyone had been thinking, and no one objected or protested. It was simple fact.

Cvinthil, though, was staring out across the plains, his arms folded. "Our friend Alouzon has her battles," he said softly. "And we have ours."

He fell silent. Kyria looked up from Santhe's arms, followed the king's gaze, and gasped.

Alouzon had tried to convey something of the destruction that had been wrought on the land, but as the sun rose higher and lit the rolling downs and meadows with the warm light of late August, it showed her words inadequate. Destruction, waste, devastation: all these were paltry descriptions when applied to fields that lay burnt to a uniform grayness as though by acid. Forests-Kyria had to guess that they were forests-were no more than heaped and tumbled ruins crisscrossed by the tracks of napalm and bomb strikes, and even the rivers and streams appeared to have dried up where they were not clogged with dust and eroded topsoil.

The men and women of the army stared in shock and dismay, and the Vayllens huddled together like frightened children. They had thought that they knew what lay ahead. But their thoughts had never grappled with such absolute, terrible negation of life.

"Speak to us, sorceress," said Cvinthil. "Do you have anything to say that might help the kings of Corrin and of Gryylth?"

"It is . . ." The sun lifted into the sky over blank plains. Kyria felt her powers overshadowed by the magnitude of what she was seeing. "It is what are called defoliants, mostly," she said. "Things that . . . that kill the plant life."

' 'Will it go away in time?''

Kyria stared. She knew the answer. She was unwilling to say it.

Cvinthil turned to her. His eyes were sad. "Please, sorceress. Advise me."

"It will take years, I fear."

Darham was frowning. His big arms were folded, and his eyes were fixed on the horizon as though trying to peer across the distances. If this was Gryylth, then what of Corrin? "Can you make it fertile again?"

Kyria felt herself sag. Could she make it fertile again? With mighty powers she could blast B-52s out of the air. With more subtle energies she could heal.

But turning a desert the size of England into a garden was something else.

Cvinthil was waiting. Kyria shook her head, overwhelmed. "I . . . will try."

Her uncertainty was obvious, and therefore her words gave no comfort. Cvinthil pa.s.sed his hands over his face. "It has been a very long and a very hot night,'' he said in a whisper.' 'We should rest. I am . . ." His voice broke, then firmed. "I am sure that it is not safe to travel by day in this place. We will start at twilight." He lifted his head. "Harpers and healers of Vaylle?"

A senior priestess dismounted and came forward. She was a solid, matronly woman, and her blond hair, though shot with gray, was bright in the dawn. "What do you wish, King Cvinthil?"

The king spoke with courtesy. "Dindrane has stayed behind with Alouzon. I have no authority over you or your harpers. May I ask you if you are willing to stay with us and obey our commands?''

The priestess considered. Loyal and trusting, the Vayllens had followed Dindrane into the company of warriors and through Los Angeles, but in Gryylth they faced not only the horrors of war but also the obscenity of a defoliated and wasted land. And now Dindrane was gone.

But the priestess nodded at last. " 'Tis certain I could say, lord, that we have very little choice. But our trust for our High Priestess goes beyond her presence or absence, and since she thought it fitting that we aid you, then surely we will. We ask only that you do not look to us for fighting or killing, for sworn against such things we are."

Cvinthil bowed to her. "Our deepest thanks, priestess."

Together, Cvinthil and Darham gave orders for a camp to be set up, and for the wagons to be a.s.sembled in preparation for an evening march. "And what of Hahle?" said Darham. "Is he not to meet us here?"

"He will be here soon," said Cvinthil. "I wish now that I had listened to the man more, but I know him well enough to say that."

But Cvinthil fell abruptly silent and turned again to the gray and blackened plains. Kyria read his thoughts. He was responsible. He had ignored Hahle, he had trusted Helwych, he had forsaken his land.

"Lord," she said softly, "you could have done no more than Helwych against the Specter."

"I know," he said after a time. "And perhaps I and all my people went to Vaylle in order to bring back a sorceress who can defeat such weapons."

Kyria felt herself grow warm. As Cvinthil and the others had once looked to Alouzon, so they now looked to her. "My king," she said with a faltering curtsy, "I will in all ways strive to do what is best for our land."

Cvinthil's face was deeply troubled. "Gryylth," he said softly, "has been destroyed. It will take the hand of a G.o.d to restore it."

Kyria was afraid that his words were true.

Something was wrong.

It was not that the prying, omniscient eyes had suddenly disappeared from Helwych's inner sight, though that, in fact, was disturbing enough. Nor was it that the Grayfaces and hounds in the land were suddenly shifting their loyalties to him almost without effort on his part, though that was indeed raising his suspicions. No, it was rather that his perception of the land, the subtle sensation he carried with him as he carried his own name and ident.i.ty, had abruptly shifted.

He swept his disembodied vision over the face of Gryylth and, impossibly, caught sight of troops and wagons, of men and women in armor, of bright Vayllen garments and vestments, of shining harps and harpstrings, of swords and consecrated staves of healing.

And there was something else, too. Robed in deep blue, a cl.u.s.ter of silver stars at her shoulder, a woman rode at the head of the army, and her brooch bore the arms of the king of Gryylth. She carried no staff, for her hands and her mind and her will were enough; and when she appeared suddenly to become aware of his scrutiny, black eyes that had nothing to do with the void of the Specter or the Worm met his, and Helwych sensed power and determination. Her pale hands went up then, and his sight was suddenly clouded.

The vision vanished, and though he tried to will it back, it would not return; Alarmed, he summoned energies to himself, and the Grayfaces and hounds across the land lifted their heads and turned instantly to do his bidding. At an inward command from the young sorcerer, they set out for Kingsbury.

A day, and they would begin to arrive. Another day beyond that, and the army and its pale sorceress would find themselves pitted against both magic and enormous reserves of weaponry.

He opened his eyes. About him in the Hall were his personal Grayface guards and the one or two soldiers that he still permitted to attend him. The young man who now wore the ensign of the captain of the King's Guard noticed his movement and saluted. The sorcerer could not remember his name, but that was unimportant. He asked only that his orders be obeyed.

"Send to the troops in the other refugee towns, captain," said Helwych. "Send with all possible speed. Tell them to make for Kingsbury immediately.''

"But lord," said the lad, "the Specter. The battles. What if-"

Helwych was on his feet instantly, raging. "Do not tell me about battles, sir. The only battles in the land will be the ones that I will fight to save your miserable skin. And I will save Kingsbury if I have to raze it to the ground. Go! Fetch your men and tell them they are to hold the city against-"

He caught himself. Against whom? Against the rightful king? He could not say that.

"Against whatever comes," he finished lamely, and, with an impatient gesture, he sat down. The young man ran to follow his orders.

Kingsbury Hill could be defended against conventional forces with a handful of men. And magic, bullets, and bombs would settle the sorceress. It was only a matter of time and effort.

He sat back, annoyed to discover that he was shaking. He hid his trembling hands in the sleeves of his robe, and when he looked up, Seena was standing in the shadows close to the wall.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

Seena only regarded him levelly.

"Go attend to your children, Seena."

The queen of Gryylth turned away. "Yes," she said. "I will attend to them."

Something about her tone made Helwych uneasy.

As Cvinthil had expected, Hahle arrived as the camp was being broken in the early twilight, bringing with him a score of men from Quay. With the exception of a few youngsters like Myylen, they were almost all older fishers who had some skill with a club or an axe. But though they had traveled much of the day, they fell in with the a.s.sembled columns without comment, for their king needed them, and a night without sleep was a small thing compared to a usurper on the throne of Gryylth and a dead land.

But what took even Kyria by surprise was the appearance, an hour after the army had started off into the falling shadows, of four riders silhouetted against the indigo sky. Side by side, a hint of threat in their manner, they blocked the road where it climbed a low rise.

Cvinthil signaled a halt. "Who comes?" he said, his voice even, his hand hovering near the pommel of his sword.

"We seek Cvinthil, king of Gryylth, and Darham, king of Corrin,'' came the reply. ' 'I am Relys of the First Wartroop, and with me are Timbrin and Gelyya. Tylha of Benardis, commander of the women's phalanxes of Corrin, is also here."

Cvinthil was already riding forward. "Relys! Timbrin!" But where before he might have leaped to the ground and rushed to them with hasty enthusiasm, now he trotted up and saluted them in the manner of a king: warmly, heartily, but with dignity. "I am very glad to see you, my dear friends. Alouzon told me of your trials. Your names rank among the honored of Gryylth."

Relys smiled thinly, equally reserved. "Our thanks, lord."

But Cvinthil had been followed closely by Darham, and at the latter's approach, Tylha dismounted, drew her sword, and dropped to one knee. "My king," she said, offering the weapon to him, "Relys arrived with the news of your coming, and I thought it best to meet you."

Even in the failing light, it was easy to see Darham's joy. Leaning down from the saddle, he touched the hilt of Tylha's sword. "Well met, commander. What word comes from Corrin?"

"Good and bad both, my king. The hounds attack nightly, but torches and clubs hold them off tolerably well. And as yet the Gray faces and what Gelyya calls jets have not intruded."

Darham looked relieved. "I thank the G.o.ds . . ." He paused. Alouzon was a sudden presence. "I thank the G.o.ddess that you were there, Tylha. But what now? Have you come alone?"

Tylha stood up, grinning broadly. "Trust me not to arrive at the banquet without a gift of wine," she said. "The doughty housewives of Corrin defend their homes for the time being, for behind this ridge are ten phalanxes spoiling for a fight, eager to help our Gryylthan brethren overthrow a countryman who has proven himself a traitor to all."

Darham laughed with delight, and Cvinthil reached down and took Tylha's hand. "Welcome, commander," he said. "I would I could show you a feast and a soft bed in Hall Kingsbury, but ..."

Tylha saluted him. "That, my lord, will come later, I am sure."

But Marrha had gone quietly to Relys and Timbrin. "Dear friends," she said. "I grieved at the tale of your afflictions."

Relys's right hand was a misshapen mess of swelling and scars, and so she reached out and gripped Marrha's in her left. "I am glad to see you, my captain. I hope you are well."

The tears on Marrha's face glistened in the twilight. "I am indeed well. Thank you, Relys."

"Your ..." Relys stared, then spoke as though frightened. "Your hair is braided, my captain."

Marrha smiled with quiet pride. "I am married, Relys. I have taken Karthin for a husband."

Relys's face went slack. "Oh."

"I bear our child."

A long pause. Finally: "May . . . may your time be easy, my captain."

Kyria, her senses augmented by magic and her emotions still raw from the unrelieved wasteland about her, picked up the torment that gripped Relys as though she had been struck with a lance. Relys was terrified, and yet determined not to show it.

Terrified? Of what? Of Marrha?

But with an almost visible effort, Relys steeled herself, nodded, and brought Gelyya forward with a gesture. "My king, my captain," she said formally, "I present to you Gelyya of Bandon. She bears strange weapons, but she has shown herself as brave a warrior as any man or woman of Gryylth. I commend her to you for training and admission to the ranks of the First Wartroop."

Gelyya's skirts and ap.r.o.ns were gone: she was clad in the clothing of a boy of Corrin. But though she did not look like a boy, neither did she resemble in any way the girl who had once ministered to the women and children of Kingsbury. In her hand was an M16, and from a web belt about her waist hung ammunition clips and several grenades. The look in her eyes said that experience had taught her their use. "G.o.ds bless," she said.

"Gelyya learned much of the Gray face ways during our journey to Corrin," Relys explained. "There were many corpses with weapons intact, and she had ample time to examine them. She knows their use and their limitations. But for her we would not have survived."

Marrha nodded contemplatively. "A new warrior," she said softly, almost to herself. "And a woman among women." But then she lifted her head. "However, it is not for us to accept or reject her. That is your decision, Captain Relys."

"Marrget! I am your lieutenant!"

"Nay," said Marrha. "You are the captain of the First Wartroop. And I am Marrha now: a warrior, true, but a wife and a mother also." Her gray eyes were as uncompromising as ever: she spoke as a soldier who had been given new duties. "After this last battle, I will have other tasks ahead of me for a time, and therefore I give the First Wartroop into your hands." She turned to Cvinthil. "With your permission, my king."

Marrha's sentiments surprised no one who had known her during the last months. "It is well," said Cvinthil. "But I do not release you from my service, Marrha of Crownhark. I name you councilor of Gryylth, and I look forward to hearing your advice hi Hall Kingsbury." Marrha gave a nod of acceptance.

The columns started off once again through the wasted hills, their numbers augmented by the women's phalanxes, and, come dawn, with Kingsbury in sight, the men and women camped behind a fold of the mountains. Kyria redoubled her cloaking magic, casting the invisibility across the mundane spectrum as well as the magical, but the rising light showed plainly the fortifications that now encircled the capital. The earthworks at the edge of the plateau had been strengthened and expanded, and barbed wire and sandbagged strong points ringed the foot of the hill. Floodlights were only now being shut down for the day, and Kyria recognized the uplifted barrels of heavy artillery.

As the morning progressed, the kings and their advisors discussed strategies for the battle that lay ahead, slowly a.s.sembling a combination of feint, direct a.s.sault, and infiltration that might survive an encounter with artillery and air strikes. They did not comprehend the technology that was arrayed against them, but they did not have to: it was enough for Kyria to explain the striking power of the weapons.

But inwardly, Kyria's worries and doubts were increasing. Though she knew that the powers she commanded were almost inexhaustible, she had, in the uncompromising reality of the wounded land, been confronted with their limitations. And now she was faced with the complicated problem of using such destructive energies not only in the middle of a conventional battle, but also in the proximity of women and children.

Women and children. Starving. Dying. And more children climbing the slopes of their hill beneath a barrage of magic and bullets. She had said it herself, once, in a different life, but her sentiments had not changed: Why is it always the G.o.ddam kids?

Kingsbury and its defenses stood clear and distinct in the sunlight, challenging the ingenuity of the kings and their warriors, defying Kyria and her powers. She brooded on the sight.

"Sorceress?"

She lifted her head, almost startled by Darham's deep voice. "I cannot guarantee . . ." she paused, swallowed, found herself unable to continue.

Darham examined her with wise eyes. "There are no guarantees in war," he said, "nor do we ask for them. We have lost some to the hounds. We have lost some to . . ."He looked off at the hill, "To traitors. We will doubtless lose some to Grayfaces and to swords." He shook his head. "It is the lot of a warrior."

Kyria faced him, hands clenched. "It is not the lot of women and children," she said.

Cvinthil bowed his head, looked away. His wife, his son, and his daughter were hi Kingsbury.

The council ended, but as Kyria turned for her blankets and for Santhe's arms, Relys detained her. "Mistress sorceress," she said, "may I speak with you?"

Again, Kyria sensed the fear in the captain, but she hid her knowledge and smiled gently. "Of course you may speak with me, captain."

Obviously unused to asking favors, Relys hung her head. "Mistress sorceress," she said at last, "tomorrow will be a great battle, and I would not enter into it maimed." She lifted the scarred mess that was her right hand. "Alouzon said that you might be willing ...to heal me."

Again, the flash of tormented fear. Kyria knew how Relys had lost her hand, but she could not understand how a reasonable request for healing could be the cause of such distress. "I would be happy to heal your hand, Captain Relys. After so much talk of warfare and death, I would find healing to be a great pleasure."

And, taking Relys's damaged hand in her own, Kyria called up the energies that would recreate the lost flesh and restore what was damaged. But as Relys's hand turned incandescent, as the missing fingers coalesced out of living light and took on the properties of solid flesh, Kyria, by necessity deeply engrossed hi Relys's being, suddenly understood the cause of her fear.

She was pregnant.

Relys herself was not sure, but she suspected, and that was quite enough. Continuing with the healing almost absently, Kyria looked a little further into Relys's mind and emotions and saw there the stark fear and horror that seethed as poisonously as the phosphor in the maw of a hound.

Confirmation of the pregnancy would bring to fruition all the shame, abuse, torment, and pain that Relys had suffered, would put a capstone of permanency on the arch of degradation and violation that Helwych had so casually constructed. If it did not kill her outright and physically, then it would slowly and inwardly, eating away at the proud soul until it faltered and was no more.

Helwych, you fiend.

Sickened by the obviousness and the inevitability of her response, Kyria prepared herself, altered the energies; and when Relys's hand had healed without a blemish, when the muscles and bones and tendons were as healthy as they had ever been, Kyria continued but a moment longer with her magic, turning it briefly to another end.

A moment. Only a moment. And then she was done.

Why is it always the G.o.ddam kids ?