Alouzon took his hand. "Good luck, Marrget." Wykla looked at her sorrowfully.

"It is well between us," said the captain. "We part friends," With a nod to Cvinthil, he led his men forward at a quick trot. They gained speed as they crossed a stretch of level ground, and vanished over the ridge.

Cvinthil regarded Alouzon with wonder. "The respect of Marrget of Crownhark is difficult to win."

She sighed. "Let's not keep the king waiting."

Taking the tethers of the three unmounted horses, they made their way to the south toward Kingsbury.

In spite of his words to Alouzon, Mernyl was not confident. He could research, and he could study, but how was he to do either when nothing he possessed held any information regarding the object of his inquiries? He knew about the Tree of Creation instinctively, but what mention he had found of it in his books was in his own .

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hand, in the form of notations to pa.s.sages of obscure Hebrew gematriot, glosses on Enochian sonorities, or in journal entries of the last few months. Wherever his texts came from, the Tree had arrived from someplace else, and.if he was to find out anything more about it, or about the Cup, or the strange lands he had visited in dream, he would have to discover it firsthand.

He had already started the moment Santhe had brought him back to his house in the Cotswoods, for there, surrounded by the familiar and the customary, he could allow his subtler senses to roam throughout the land in search of the unusual and the strange. And he was not long in finding either, for to the south was something that was a hot needle in the back of his mind. As he fed Santhe and provided him with a bed, he was wincing inwardly, torn between his hospitality to his guest and his need to slip into full trance so as to better comprehend what was happening.

When he did, he became aware of the attack on the garrisons of the western Dike and he roused Santhe in the early morning with the news. The councilor groaned at his words, but his humor returned instantly and he laughed about feeling like a ball tossed back and forth by an unruly lot of boys.

Santhe ate a quick meal for the road and decided to ride directly for the battle, without returning to Kings-bury. Even as his figure was fading into the morning mists of the Cotswoods, though, Mernyl was already outdistancing him, his spirit hurtling southward as his body lay, cold and still, in his own bed.

The fight was taking place entirely on the material level, but there was a more magical component in the background. Mernyl saw it only in fleeting images, for Tireas cloaked his workings well. Bulbous, glowing, its fruit vitreous and sinister, it radiated a chaos of possibilities, as though, let loose in the world, it would stir form and substance into a boiling cauldron of random chance, in which nothing would be constant or stable. The man at Hall Kingsbury was healthy and well compared with the ruin that the Tree could bring to the land.

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But Tireas, Memyl knew, was not insane. Surely the Corrinian sorcerer was aware of the risks involved. And then there was the Circle, the stability of the land, to act as a balance. The two could strive together, but utter stasis and utter change could resolve only in a divine tension, out of which would come healthy growth.

And if the Corrinians held both Tree and Circle? What then?

Pressed for knowledge, he meditated throughout the next day, striving for some framework into which to fit the bits and pieces of knowledge that he had. Tree and Circle: Chaos and Stasis-that made sense. But the larger pattern, the one that held as well Cup, Dragonswords, the absence of history, and the ending of earth and sky . . . that was a problem.

Gryylth was incomplete and fragmentary, and he was forced to conclude that it, in fact, did not hold all the answers. He would have to seek beyond.

That evening, as the sun set in a welter of blood, he stretched out on the floor, his staff in his hands, his body surrounded by candles to mark and honor the four directions. Incense sputtered on a coal in a clay burner, and a fifth candle flickered beside him in homage to the ways that he would travel this night, ways that involved other dimensions, other realms, other worlds.

He was afraid of what he might find, but he had to put his fear aside, for the matters at hand were infinitely more important than the cowardice of one poor sorcerer or the petty, internecine struggle of two peoples. In a moment, Gryylth was stretched out below him, bathed in sunset light, smoke from village and town drifting in soft gray plumes.

To all the G.o.ds that are, to whatever G.o.ds may hear: guide and guard me this night, for I work for all my brothers and sisters, whether they be of Gryylth or of Corrin.

He traveled to the edge of the world, and he traveled beyond, to a land of tall buildings and gla.s.sy towers, of cities that stretched on into the distance and tattered the horizon with their gray monuments.

There was a man there, a thin man of some years, but younger than Vorya. He had with him a gla.s.s ball, and within the ball was Silbakor, the Great Dragon, shrunken now to the size of a child's toy, but alive, and thinking, and.speaking. And the man, he knew, was Dythragor Dragonmaster, though he looked nothing like the sword-wielding warrior who came to Gryylth to do battle with Corrin.

Reality was a confused and cratered ruin of logic and of cause and effect, and Mernyl watched unfold before him events that he did not want to know. He saw the frustration and the violence in Solomon Braithwaite, saw, clearly, the streak of cruelty that had been nurtured by a life of inner disappointment. With compa.s.sion-for no other response was appropriate here in these realms of the spirit-he examined the man's life and the lives of those around him, searched for the secret of Gryylth.

And when he found it, he recoiled with a sheer terror that sent him fleeing back to his body, heedless of the damage that a panicked flight could wreak on his soul. He knew only that he had found the explanation of all, and that the knowledge had been best left alone, locked in a vault well beyond the spheres inhabited by simple, mortal minds.

He lay for some hours in deep coma, and when at last he stirred, his joints burning and his head on fire with pain, he forced himself to his feet. Slowly, he gathered together what he would need, filled his pack again, and donned it. The sky was still full of stars when he stumbled out of his house, his feet seeking a southbound road.

He traveled light, for he would not be traveling long. Nor would he be returning, for he saw his imminent death marked out as unmistakably as he had seen the creation of a splinter of a world out of chaos and delirium.

"Poor Suzanne," he murmured, his eyes all but unseeing with pain. " 'Twill be a longer journey for her."

Cvinthil's long ride without sleep had drained him, and although he pushed himself, he and Alouzon could not 172.

make good time. The afternoon slipped by as they rode, and evening caught them within sight of Bandon.

The councilor stared Wearily at the stars and muttered under his breath.

"If you get a good night's sleep," Alouzon reminded him, "you'll reach Kingsbury sooner than if you ride all night and collapse on the way.''

"Wise words, lady Alouzon," he said. "You may well counsel a starving man to eat slowly.''

"Let me see if I can find you a real bed," she said. "There's no sense roughing it if there's an inn."

"In Bandon?" The river went by like oil, and the air held a m.u.f.fled stillness. Even the insects were silent. A torch flared briefly on the town wall and settled into a ruddy flicker. "We will pay dearly, Alouzon."

"We're on official business. Doesn't that mean something?"

He shrugged. "It might, lady. And it might not."

But he did not protest as he followed her up to the city gate. She announced herself, and asked to be shown to an inn.

The guards were suspicious, and they eyed her from the shelter of the thick stone archway. "What are you doing out?" said one who seemed to be in charge. "Are you a midwife?"

She was impatient. She had had her fill of Bandon. "No, I'm not a midwife. I'm a f.u.c.king Dragonmaster. And this man with me is Cvinthil, councilor to King Vorya. We need a place to sleep."

The guard looked like something straight out of a fifth-century reconstruction, down to the bronze buckles on his leather leggings. Alouzon had to remind herself that she was dealing with a person, not a museum exhibit. "Cvinthil I think I know," he said slowly, "and you too, woman. But the Council gave us no warning of guests tonight."

"There's been a change in plans, sir," she said. "War's broken out."

He nodded, and though his manner indicated that he did not believe her, he sent men running off into the town, and himself escorted them to the council chamber.

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It was unchanged: the same torches, the same shadows, the same rats. Kanol showed up eventually, Senon at his side, both men dressed in informal robes as though they had come from their beds.

"You?" said Senon. "Back again? Where is the war-troop?" Kanol was talking through his lackey again, his disdain for a woman as obvious as his obesity.

"Off fighting for your skins." Alouzon grew more irritated with every question. "All we want is a place to sleep. We'll be out of your hair tomorrow morning."

Kanol examined her. His hate gleamed from his moist lips, and there was a sly, calculating look in his eyes. He whispered to Senon.

"This is somewhat . . . irregular," he said. "I am not sure that-"

Cvinthil interrupted. The councilor had ridden through the night, pushing himself and his steed to the point of exhaustion and beyond, but now he mustered his strength and stepped forward. "Kanol," he said, "I believe your charter mandates aid to the king's messengers."

Kanol was cautious, but he spoke out loud. "Aye . . . I believe it does."

"Alouzon Dragonmaster and myself are on a mission of high gravity. I must invoke your charter.''

' 'And does the king employ women now, Cvinthil? Or is this a prize you have captured in some battle? A novelty, perhaps, for cold winter evenings? "

Cvinthil looked shocked, and he could not find words for a moment. But Alouzon found them for him: "That's a pretty low accusation, a.s.shole. Maybe you'd like to step outside?"

Kanol blinked and glanced at Senon, who made a sour face and shook his head. The guards at the door murmured, and Alouzon put her hand to the hilt of the Dragons word, hoping that a bluff was enough.

The councilmen conferred together in whispers. "We will honor our charter, Cvinthil," Kanol said at last. "The woman too. You shall have a room in the Black Horse Inn, courtesy of the Council of Bandon."

She did not like his tone, nor the hardness of his eyes, 174.

nor the wet gleam of his lips, but she sensed that Cvinthil was nearing collapse, and she put her hates and her anxieties aside. Nevertheless, she was seething as they rode along the cobbled streets towards the inn. "They don't hear a d.a.m.ned word I say, do they?"

"Ah, lady Alouzon," said Cvinthil, "Gryylth is hardly ready for such as you . . ." He fell silent. Beyond the rooftops, the sky to the south seemed darker than usual. He frowned, and the torches of their escort added years to his young features. "But it may be about time that we learned other ways."

She followed his eyes. "Could Marrget and the war-troop be down there by now?''

"Marrget would not push the men and the horses so. Only fools ride themselves to death." He smiled wryly. "No. Most likely, if the wartroop makes haste, it will arrive tomorrow afternoon or earlier, depending upon how close the Dremords have come to the Circle."

He said the name with reverence, but it meant nothing to her. She let the matter rest, though, until they had been shown to a room on the second story and had eaten.

With some food in him and something other than a horse to sit on, he was looking better. The room was warm with the summer, but the windows were wide and open to the night air. A moth fluttered in and circled the candle flame like a madcap satellite, and Alouzon heard the sound of booted feet in the courtyard.

Strange: there seemed to be quite a number of men stirring about on this quiet evening.

The councilor pa.s.sed a hand across his face and sighed. "I confess that I am ready for rest, Alouzon."

"Be my guest. We've got two beds, Cvinthil."

He laughed. "Any woman but you, Dragonmaster, would be bound by law to be my wife or my concubine by now."

"You're kidding. Because we're sharing a room?"

"Aye. It is unseemly for it to be otherwise."

"Then why the h.e.l.l did they just give us one room?"

"Nay, I know not."

She considered. "Could you answer a few questions .

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before we turn in?" She grinned. "Immoral though we are?"

He laughed out loud. "Ask, Dragonmaster. I cannot but return favor for favor."

"Tell me about the Circle. What is it?"

Some fragments of bread and cheese lay on the table between them, and Cvinthil nibbled at them tiredly as he spoke, sipping from the wine cup between thoughts. "The Circle is the foundation of the land," he said. All that is Gryylth is mirrored in its stones, not so that it can be seen, but in such a way that a hand placed on one of the fifteen central sa.r.s.ens will tell more than the feel of the rock. It brings visions to those who are brave enough to sleep within its rings . . . sometimes it brings madness."

"Who built it?" A crucial question, one that stemmed not only from the curiosity of an archaeologist, but also from the doubts engendered by the statements of Adyssa, the midwife, and from the persistent sense of unreality that covered everything like a thick coating of varnish.

"My lady, I do not know. It was always here."

The moth spiraled into the flame, singed its wings, chandelled up and over, looping straight back for the deadly incandescence. On a sudden hunch, Alouzon leaned forward. "Cvinthil, how old are you?"

"Thirty-one summers, lady."

"Tell me of your boyhood."

He looked confused. "I ... acted as a boy. I played the games of a boy. I was trained in weapons."

"Give me something specific."

By now, he looked absolutely bewildered. "I ... I . . . cannot, my lady. I have forgotten much."

"What was your father's name?"

"Solomon."

Dythragor's name. She shook her head, perplexed. "Your mother?"

"Helen."

There was a twisting feeling in her stomach. The food 176.

and drink turned sour and began to churn. "Your grandfather? Your grandmother?"

Cvinthil looked worse and worse. "My lady, these are questions not normally asked here. I do not know their names." He was breathing heavily with fatigue, and she regretted that she had begun to grill him.

"Sorry. I needed some information."

"I regret I cannot help you."

"You'd better sleep. I'll be up for a few more minutes. See you in the morning."

"As you wish, Dragonmaster." He stumbled to his bed, rolled himself in the covers. "A question though, lady."

"Hey, fair's fair."

He shook his head at her language. "Would you have fought the Council this evening? "