The conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn, and Marrget was suddenly cautious. "I did not say. But I am . . . from Crownhark."

"Crownhark. Hmmm. I too am from that village. Do I know you, child?"

Marrget was silent for some time. She wiped her palms on her trews, examined her hands with a crooked smile. "No, lady. You do not."

The midwife stood with her arms crossed over her ap.r.o.n. "Ah well, I will disturb you no more. Rest. I hope to see you in Crownhark someday. Perhaps you will come to me when you have your children. Fear not: your hips and feet tell me that your time will be easy." She looked on Marrget fondly, like a mother on a daughter. "May I know your name?"

The captain froze, and her skin was white even in the ruddy glow of the fire and the torches. Her mouth worked soundlessly for some time. "You ..."

Even though she was surrounded by men and women, by activity and song, by voices and even occasional laughter, Marrget seemed utterly alone. For a moment, the horrified leanness returned to her face, and she stared at herself, her hands shaking.

"Child, are you not well?"

Marrget's voice was a whisper, and the words came to her lips singly, unwillingly. She would not admit weakness, but the alternative was terrible enough. "You may . . . call me Marrha."

"G.o.ds bless, Marrha," said the midwife. "I am Nyyla. I will see you in Crownhark when times are better. I must return to my women now.''

She gave Marrget a friendly nod, one woman to an- .

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other, and departed, her skirts swishing on the gra.s.s. Marrget remained by the fire, her shoulders bent as though under a weight of iron. "You heard, Dragonmas-ter?" she said aloud, her eyes tragic. "Am I a coward then^ for taking a false name?"

Alouzon got up and sat on the bundle beside her. Ti-reas had taken much from Marrget, and now her falsehood had taken everything else. "You're no coward. Things are confused enough. Why add to it? You made the right decision."

"She . . . she spoke to me as though I were a woman."

"Yeah. She did." Alouzon left the obvious unspoken.

Marrget put her hand to her face and sobbed, wrenching the sorrow from someplace so deep that the release itself was an agony. She turned to Alouzon, and the Dragonmaster held her tightly as she wept, shuddering, silent, alone.

She had been for her wartroop an example and a source of strength, maintaining her equanimity in the face of a transformation so profound that it altered not only the commonplaces of appearance and gender but also the vital intangibles of perception, relationship, and social role. But, as she had held herself steady for the benefit of others, she had pushed aside her own emotions, confining her fear and horror until they tore at her heart.

And now the casual, friendly words of another woman had turned her sight inward to face the acc.u.mulated and ignored emotions. Away from the wartroop, away from the sight of all save one she had come to trust with her very soul, she wept for herself, long and deeply.

"Oh, Marrget," said Alouzon, brushing back her hair and rocking her like a child, "I think you've become a man again."

Marrget's eyes opened, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears, unsure whether to be wounded or puzzled.

"You can cry," Alouzon said softly.

The sun rose the next day on a road that, for the better part of a mile, had been essentially obliterated, and on a landscape that concealed a variety of traps and pitfalls.

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Only a few Corrinians might lose their lives to the hidden stakes arid the deep pits, but afterwards, the rest would be too wary to make good time.

The women left that morning, gathering their belongings and bowing, as custom dictated, to the men before they turned away from the road and set off across the downs to their home villages. But their att.i.tudes had changed in the course of a night of hard labor, and the bows were shorter now, lighter, the acknowledgments of equals, and they were frequently returned by the men with a kind of embarra.s.sed grat.i.tude.

Their work had made an impression on the soldiers, and though, the village women gone, they still stared with apprehension at the First Wartroop as it mounted up a stone's throw away, the night had done much to strip away thoughts of woman's place and man's dominance. Survival and battle were the major concerns now, and when Wykla rejoined the King's Guard that morning, Pas and the others still watched her appreciatively, but they also asked her about the righting she had done against the soldiers of Corrin, questioning her as to the tactics and the men of the phalanxes-the talk of warriors.

Marrget remained pale and shaken from her catharsis, but what reserves she possessed she had brought up and hardened, and she sat in her saddle as straight as any commander of Gryylth, her gray eyes defiant, her blond hair strangely soft and curling in the breeze. "My thanks, Alouzon, for your help."

Alouzon had been watching Mernyl, hoping for some sign that the sorcerer would share whatever hope he had found for the land. But he was keeping to himself, his hood shadowing his face, his white staff glowing faintly, even in daylight. Perhaps he was gathering his strength for what he expected to be a difficult battle.

Difficult? The whole world might end.

She felt Marrget's eyes on her. Having shown weakness, the captain was undoubtedly wondering if she were being ostracized. With a sigh, Alouzon reached out and clasped Marrget's hand, trying to look hopeful. "We're friends, right?"

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"Indeed we are."

"So what are friends for? I'll tell you, Marrget: I'm probably going to get myself good and messed up before this is all over. I hope you'll be around for me."

"Unless ..." Marrget's expression was unreadable. "Unless death intervenes, Dragonmaster, I shall be with you."

Something about her tone. Alouzon wondered again if Marrget were looking for battle in order to die honorably. "I think I started something last night. Things seemed pretty different this morning."

"There have been changes, true. Within the army, at least." Marrget smiled, but her eyes were still cold. "And shall I braid my hair for the townsfolk?"

There might not be anything left to braid her hair for. "Give yourself a break, dammit. Rome wasn't built in a day." Alouzon looked down at the road, stifled a nervous laugh. Not Rome, certainly-but Gryylth had been the work of a few hours.

"Rome?"

"Uh . . . just a figure of speech." She looked around, and realized that the Dragon was gone again. "Did you see Silbakor take off?"

"Toward midnight, Alouzon, it rose suddenly as though it had heard a call."

"Maybe Dythragor's up to something."

"I pray not. He seems to have too much talent for increasing our woes."

Again, she almost pitied the man. "Give him a break, too, Marrget."

The captain pulled herself up straight and glared at her. "My trusted comrade denies and deserts me. Shall I forgive him? Very well, I forgive him. But I need not seek out his company, nor must I be concerned with his feelings or his welfare. If he wishes to aid Gryylth, I would he submit himself to the king, so that his actions may be discussed. I am done with his imperious disregard for the safety of my people."

"Hey, Marrget, I'm sorry. Don't get down on me."

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Marrget slumped on her horse. "I am overtempered today," she said. "I beg pardon."

"Don't mention it." Dythragor had behaved badly when he had seen Marrget, and he had, at one time or another, insulted almost everyone of rank in Gryylth. Gryylth was a heroic culture: Marrget was bending quite a bit just to speak of the man without cursing him. "I understand. I just wish I knew what he was doing."

"I can tell you somewhat of that, Alouzon. Nyyla, my midwife . , ." Marrget pressed her lips together, let her breath out slowly, began again. "Nyyla told me of an event in Crownhark that occurred some hours before your arrival. Dythragor appeared, riding a worn-out horse- for which, were he a stable boy, I should have him whipped-and asked for food and lodging."

"He was in Crownhark?"

"For a short time. He did not stay. He did not even eat. Instead, talking with a poor old fool of a man who used to be a soldier with the Fifth Wartroop, but whose brain had become addled with battle and age, he became enraged. He slaughtered the old man on the spot and fled southward."

' 'Jeez ... I thought they were all looking at me funny when I showed up with Silbakor. I'm surprised they didn't run."

Marrget's eyes were still cold. "Perhaps they expected more sanity from a woman."

"So where the h.e.l.l is he?" Alouzon straightened and looked around as though she might catch some glimpse of Dythragor, But it was a useless gesture, for the errant Dragonmaster was far away. If he had summoned Silbakor, he could be anywhere.

From her vantage, she saw little that had not become familiar to her: the road, the army, Wykla's amber hair shining in the sun; and beyond, the rolling, gra.s.sy land. But then she looked behind. There, spreading across the horizon, was a ragged line of darkness. It mounted into the sky as though it were boiling up from a kettle, and from within it came flickers of lightning.

She had seen it before, and she had no comfortable .

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memories regarding it. Her stomach knotting within her, she swung back to Marrget. The captain was staring at the blackness as though it were an old enemy, well known.

"Now is not the time for fear, Dragonmaster," she said. Unsheathing her sword, she brandished it, lifting her high, clear voice. "Vorya! King of Gryylth! Your enemy approaches!"

Startled faces turned in their direction, and Vorya's shout drifted back to them. "To the Circle!"

The troops began to move more quickly, Cvinthil barking out orders that sent the men down the road at double time. Alouzon glanced back, noticed that the blackness was approaching, and wondered when it would strike.

But Mernyl was present, and Marrget's call had stirred him into action. His horse, taken off guard by his sudden resolve, reared for a moment, then turned and took him back toward the mounting shadow.

Marrget watched. "Is that sorcerer mad?"

"Haven't the faintest. But you all probably better spread out. If that thing strikes, I don't want it to nail everyone.''

Marrget laughed suddenly. "Well said! Seven days in Gryylth, and a fighter at last!"

Alouzon hardly heard her last words, for she was already galloping toward Mernyl. The sorcerer had dismounted and was grounding his staff. He looked up as she approached. "Follow the army!"

"You can't fight them all, Mernyl."

"Leave sorcery to me, Dragonmaster." His voice was brusque, impatient. When she hesitated, he waved his arm. "Begone! Follow the rest. Leave this to me."

His hood fell back, and she started when she saw his face. Mernyl had been preparing for his work throughout the last day and a half, gathering his strength and raising his internal powers, and the effort had sapped him physically. She might have stared at a skull.

The intensity of his hollow eyes conveyed his demand, and, unable to argue, she left. Still, halfway to the rear guard, she stopped and looked back.

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Gael Saudi no The sorcerer was standing a few yards beyond his horse, rigid, his staff upraised. There seemed to be a subtle alteration in the air about him, for his outlines shimmered as though he were wrapped in a mirage, and as she watched, the glow of his staff increased, turning slowly into a blaze of azure light.

Alouzon was transfixed. She was seeing it again: the workings of magic, the violation of everything she thought of as normal and rational. Gryylth was a world of fluidity, of the interplay of forces that made idiocy of what she knew as physical law. But perhaps that was to be expected, since Gryylth was itself a sizable anomaly in the common workings of the universe. Regardless, she watched the actions of the sorcerer as though she were a child at a circus, eyes wide with wonder, fervently wishing that the little man in the shabby robe would pull something even more splendid out of his magical hat.

And he did.

Calling out words and names in a language she did not know, he stretched as high as he could, and as his words blurred into a long, sustained scream, he reached up, seized the middle of the staff that was by now blazing with all the light of a sun and pulled it down until it was parallel with the ground.

To right and to left, a rolling wall as of ephemeral water toppled away, foaming in sparks of blue and silver. It raced into the distance, shimmering, a vast curtain of faint but potent turbulence that defied the mounting darkness as it blurred its outlines.

The darkness lashed out, but it spattered oif the wall in corposant sparks that smoked in the air as they dissolved. Alouzon heard a cheer from the army and a light-hearted cry from Relys: "Hail Mernyl, Sorcerer of Gryylth!"

But the army could not see Memyl and so had no idea how much he had been weakened by his efforts. Leaning heavily on his staff, he seemed to call for his horse. But just as the animal trotted to his side, the sorcerer fell to the ground.

' 'Jesus!'' Alouzon waved Vorya on and headed back to .

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help. As she approached, a second strike from the darkness sent a noticeable concussion through the air. Jia started, but forged ahead.

She could have closed her eyes and known of the presence of the wall. Towering up, its ebb and flow of power visible as fluctuations in earth and sky, it hung like liquid gla.s.s, thick and turgid, its line of contact with the ground marked by a sheet of crimson as pure as the light of a ruby laser.

Mernyl lay a few yards from it and was attempting to get to his feet. When he saw Alouzon, his emaciated lips formed themselves into the semblance of a smile. "I am not as strong as I thought," he said, as he grasped vainly at his horse's bridle.

Keeping an eye on the shield he had created, still feeling the barrage that the Tree directed at it, she slid to the ground and helped him mount.

He struggled to hold himself up. "I must do better once we reach the Circle."

She swung onto Jia's back. "I don't like this."

" 'Twill only get worse, Alouzon."

With another glance at the wall, she led him away at a quick trot. "Why the h.e.l.l doesn't he just let the armies take care of it? He doesn't have to destroy everything."

Mernyl was gasping for breath. "He is no longer quite sane, Alouzon. The Tree uses him."

A brilliant flash of light eclipsed the sun and sent shadows fleeing ahead of them. Alouzon started to turn.

"Do not look," snapped the sorcerer. "You will go blind."

Another flash. The horses shied, but the riders soothed them and continued on. "I should have made it opaque,'' said Mernyl. His tone was that of an artist disappointed with his work.

"How long will that thing hold?"

The ground shook slightly, and from behind came the sound of rending rock and stone. Mernyl's eyes went wide, and he kicked his horse into a faster pace. "Not long enough, I fear. And I must not squander my strength before we reach our destination."

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They raced for the army as the earth vibrated beneath them. The white flashes were almost continuous now, a steady blaze of radiance that turned the landscape into afterimages burned into dazzled retinas.

Mernyl rode directly to Vorya. "How far to the Circle?"

"At least another day's ride. Perhaps a little more."

Thoughtlessly, the sorcerer looked behind. The wall was hidden by a rise in the land, but a sudden brilliant fulmination made him flinch and turn away, rubbing his eyes. "We must press on, then. I will do what I can. But, I pray you, my king: all possible speed."