"The Dragon called her Alouzon Dragonmaster, Relys," said one of the soldiers. "It-"

"Shut up." Relys had hardly listened. He came toward her and stopped, hands on hips. "Who are you, girl?"

Her voice did not shake when she answered, which surprised her. "I'm Alouzon Dragonmaster." She stared him straight back. "And who the h.e.l.l are you?"

Relys ignored her question. He turned to Dythragor. "Why does this woman not bow to me as she should?"

Dythragor shrugged. "You'll have to ask her."

Alouzon did not wait for him to ask. "Because I don't 60.want to," she said. "I don't see anything worth bowing to."

Relys glared and lifted a hand to cuff her. The action, Alouzon noticed, was an instinctive one, as though one might slap a child for impudence.

But the blow never fell, for her sword was suddenly in her hand and steady on his throat, her body poised for the thrust. Sickened though she was by the ease with which the action had come to her, she nonetheless knew that it was saving her just as had the Dragon.

"Don't try it," she said.

ReSys looked startled, then almost amused. The corners of his mouth turned down for an instant and he nodded. "Your mate, Dragonmaster?"

"You can ask me the questions, man," said Alouzon. "And, no, I'm not his mate."

There came a commotion from up the street: horse hooves splashing through the mud and a firm voice shouting, "King's peace! King's peace here at the seat of Vorya!"

The rider was tall and slender. He cantered up on a fine horse and examined Alouzon, his eyes brown and inquiring. "We do not draw weapons here, woman, particularly against the lieutenant of the First Wartroop."

Deep water, she thought, and getting deeper. But Sil-bakor had left, and she knew that she would have to brazen it out. ' 'And do men of the First Wartroop run around hitting women? What kind of a place is this, anyway?"

"She would not bow to me, Cvinthil," said Relys.

"f.u.c.k this bowing s.h.i.t. I'll bow to you when you're dead."

"Peace, peace." Cvinthil raised his hands as though smoothing fur. "Relys, go and summon the wartroop. Marrget will join you later. There is much to be done now that the Dragonmaster is with us." Relys nodded to him curtly and left. Cvinthil looked down at Alouzon with doe-like eyes. "My lady," he said politely. "Would it please you to put up your sword?''

"Is someone else going to take a swing at me?"

"No. On my word as councilor of Gryylth. Please ..."

61.He seemed to struggle with the oddity of the words. "Accept my apology."

She sheathed the sword, relieved. She had not killed. She had drawn her sword, but she had not killed. Death was .not inevitable. She had some control. She had hope. "It's OK," she said. "It wasn't your fault." She extended her hand. "Alouzon. Dragonmaster." She was actually getting used to saying it.

He took her hand in a firm grip. "Cvinthil," He straightened in his saddle, gestured ahead. "Vorya awaits."

As they continued toward the hall at the center of town, she edged up to Dythragor. "Are the women here supposed to bow to men?''

He did not look at her. He seemed angry. "Always."

"How come?"

"Because they know their place."

The land rose slightly, the mud gave way to hard, dry earth, and the street brought them to a wall and gateway perhaps twenty feet high, made of stone and roughly dressed logs. The gate was open, and Cvinthil led them into an open s.p.a.ce in which stood a large, barnlike building with a thatched roof.

"The king's hall," Dythragor muttered to her. "You're lucky to get this far.''

"Get off my back."

Before they reached the hall, though, they heard a cry from somewhere within, a whining yelp that did not sound quite human. Alouzon stiffened, and looked at Dythragor, but he seemed just as startled as she. "What is this, Cvinthil?" he said.

His large brown eyes looked haunted. "One of the reasons we are glad of your presence, Dragonmaster." He would say no more, though. He dismounted and led them in.

The room inside was well lit by wide, unshuttered windows. A door across the way gave access to interior rooms, and before it was a long dais with a simple chair of dark wood on it. The chair was empty, though a dozen or so men were standing on and about the platform.

62.Cvinthil drew himself up as he entered, and he gestured Dythragor and Alouzon toward the center of the room. "Hail, Dythragor Dragonmaster," he said loudly, and Dythragor brightened considerably. Alouzon raised an eyebrow at Cvinthil, who appeared to suppress a smile. "And Alouzon Dragonmaster," he added.

Dythragor went red.

Alouzon nodded to Cvinthil and crunched across the rush-strewn floor to stand by Dythragor. One of the men on the platform was already coming forward. "Once again we meet, Dythragor." He was smiling, though the lines around his eyes told of a sleepless night, perhaps two. "Let me bid you both welcome to Hall Kingsbury." He turned to Alouzon, and his expression was both teasing and friendly. "A runner informed us of the Dragon's words. We are thankful for your presence."

Alouzon smiled and nodded graciously. She was stuck here, and survival mandated that she play along. Still, she was seething inside, not at these strangers, and not even at Dythragor, but at the circ.u.mstances and events that had brought her to Gryylth and made her kill.

The Dragon had said that it would come at need. Need would come soon if she had anything to say about it.

Santhe bowed and turned toward the dais. A white-haired man had taken the seat. His face was almost kindly. To Alouzon he looked as though he should have had the lead in a production of Lear.

Cvinthil and another warrior stood to either side of him. The latter seemed much like Relys: same build, same scowl, same harsh, unforgiving gaze. He was looking at Alouzon.

"My king," he said abruptly, "what is this woman doing here?"

Alouzon sighed. Not again.

"Peace, Marrget," said the man in the chair.

At the very end of the dais, well away from the others and seemingly out of place amid the glitter of weapons, was a thin man in a gray robe. He stood silently, holding a white staff, and he watched Alouzon with an ironic smile, as if they were compatriots.

63.The man in the chair rose as they approached. "Dythragor and Alouzon, Dragonmasters, you are welcome to Hall Kingsbury, seat of the court of Gryylth. Alouzon, you are a stranger here. I am Vorya, King of Gryylth. You have already met Cvinthil and our merry Santhe. On my left is Marrget. These three are the captains of the wartroops of Gryylth and my trusted councilors."

"My king," said Marrget.

"Peace."

"The councils of Gryylth are no place for a woman."

"Peace, Marrget. The Dragon spoke of her sacrifice." Vorya turned to Alouzon. "Our customs are obviously not yours."

She was about to tell them all exactly what she thought of their customs, but she realized that anger would do no good. Marrget was prejudiced, Dythragor angry, Cvinthil and Santhe and Vorya puzzled but at least willing to tolerate her presence. An outburst would simply antagonize everyone.

Meeting Vorya's gaze levelly, and with what she hoped was dignity, she folded her arms. "I understand," she said. "And I take no offense."

Dythragor had caught sight of the man in the gray robe. "Enough," he said. "Tell me now why you felt it necessary to bring this charlatan into our councils." He waved a hand at the man, who glanced at Alouzon with another smile before he faced his attacker.

Dythragor hates his guts. She liked him already.

"Dythragor Dragonmaster," he said, "I did not ask to come, so it is ill of you to use me so insultingly. I would have gladly stayed in the Cotswoods, studying, but my king called me, and I answered."

"Well, you've answered. Now you can go home."

Alouzon spoke up, keeping her tone noncommittal. "Who is this man?"

Dythragor's jaw was clenched. Where before he had seemed angry, he now appeared almost murderous. "This is Memyl. A sorcerer, or so he calls himself."

Mernyl bowed with a gleam of a smile. "I give greetings to Alouzon Dragonmaster." He seemed to be enjoy- 64.ing Dythragor's discomfiture. "I regret that I will probably not be able to entertain her as is her due."

"You're d.a.m.ned right," said Dythragor. He looked at Vorya. "Why did you summon him?"

His tone was nothing like that used to address a monarch, and even Santhe looked dismayed. But Vorya seemed used to it, almost resigned. He shifted in his chair. "The Dremords sent a troop of soldiers into the Blasted Heath in the company of Tireas, their sorcerer. They returned to their lands bearing something. We do not know what they took.''

"So?"

Vorya signed to two soldiers who stood by a curtained door. Nodding tersely, they ducked through the covered entrance. "Bring him," came the m.u.f.fled shout.

While they waited, Alouzon had time to look over the a.s.sembly. Marrget still scowled at her, but Cvinthil stood with his large hands clasped before him, staring down sadly. Even Santhe's gaiety was muted. The rest were ill at ease, glancing now and again at the door.

Again, as when she had approached Kingsbury from the air, she had the feeling that she had seen all of this before, though not with a sense of deja vu. Rather, the men, the building, the armor-all were made up of details that she knew, knew well, but for the present she could not say from where.

The soldiers re-entered, escorting a hunched figure draped with a piece of thin cloth. The figure stumbled as if blind, and a claw-like hand protruded from beneath the folds of the drape.

The claw was enough. Three-fingered, hairless, it seemed to be covered with scales. Alouzon took a step back, and she was not alone. But the soldiers turned the figure toward the Dragonmasters and pulled the veil off, their eyes averted, It was a man . . . perhaps. His face was a ruin of twisted flesh and torn features that in some places seemed to be of fur, in others, skin or even stone. It was as though his entire body had been deluged with liquid fire and left to rot. But it had not rotted; it had healed, graft- .

65.ing to itself a patchwork of substances both alive and inert, fusing them all together so that it was impossible to say where one left off and another began.

Blind, fish-eyed, he goggled at the room, his nose and mouth joined in a ragged slit that twitched with apprehension. What hair he had grew in blasted clumps, and his voice was a tormented whimper.

"Who . . . who did this to him?" said Alouzon. She knew now what she had heard just before she had entered the hall.

The man himself answered. Gagging on the words, choking and heaving them out, he pawed at the air with his hooked hands. "Touched it, I did ... I did. Tireas said not to ... told me . . . but . . . I-" He broke off in a spasm of coughing. Blood dripped from his eyes and dribbled down his face. "Can't see . . ." He gagged again.

Vorya spoke quietly. "He was found wandering to the south of the Heath. He was apparently left by his comrades. None of our physicians has been able to say what happened to him. We even brought a midwife to examine him, since they are skilled in their own ways, but she knew nothing of his plight."

"The Tree ... the Tree ..." The Dremord coughed again, retched up a smear of bile.

Even Dythragor and Marrget were visibly shaken by the man. Memyl, though, had approached him, his eyes piercing, his face compa.s.sionate.

"Since we could find out nothing of his condition," Vorya continued, "I summoned Mernyl."

Dythragor interrupted. "Send him away."

"The sorcerer might be able to tell us something."

"Send him away. I've told you before that I'll allow no magic if I'm to help you. It's him or me."

Alouzon stepped up. "Memyl may be able to help him."

"My words stand."

"Give him a G.o.ddam chance! Can you do anything for him?"

Dythragor looked frightened, but he was covering it 66.with rage. "No one can do anything for him. Do you understand?"

Mernyl had been examining the Dremord, his hands gentle. He was murmuring to him rea.s.suringly. He looked up. "My king, my allegiance is to you. What is your wish, King Vorya?"

Beneath the sorcerer's words was a challenge, and Al-ouzon realized that Mernyl possessed a fine command of heroic politics. If Vorya capitulated to Dythragor now, he would lose face.

Vorya realized the same thing. "Dythragor Dragon-master, I must try to aid this man, for be he friend or foe, he is now under my protection, and laws of courtesy and hospitality apply. I am sure you understand.''

Dythragor said nothing. If he withdrew now, he would show himself to be mean-spirited, which was almost as bad as losing face. He shrugged indulgently. "All right. Go ahead."

The sorcerer bowed to Vorya and turned back to the Dremord. Without waiting, he grounded the b.u.t.t of his staff with a sharp thump, and the white wood sprang into glowing life. Fire traced its way up and down its length, and just above his hand, the letter M glowed like sunlight.

Alouzon stared at the letter. M for Mernyl. But English? The Roman alphabet? Where was she?

Deep ruby light began spreading from the staff in slow-moving ripples, and the soldiers flanking the Dremord looked terrified. Mernyl indicated that they could retreat, and they did, quickly. The Dremord wavered where he stood, but Memyl seemed to be supporting him with the energy from the staff.

Alouzon looked on with mixed feelings. Magic, in the world she came from, did not exist. But dragons did not exist either, and plump little hippies did not turn into strapping amazons. In spite of an instinctive disbelief, she found herself rooting for Mernyl. Maybe there was something good in Gryylth after all.

His head bent, the sorcerer allowed the light to flood the Dremord, bathing him as though in a crimson sea. Slowly, Alouzon lost consciousness of the room, of the 67.

men. Tides of energy swept back and forth, and Mernyl seemed to be fighting something that rebuffed his powers. She felt the struggle, watched it unfold in the play of light about the sorcerer and the Dremord. She stood in a world of pure will that stretched off in all directions, and there was a completion and a wholeness to what Mernyl did that stood in sharp contrast to the tenuousness of Gryylth. If Mernyl's magic was nothing else, it was real.

"Come on, Mernyl." Her voice was a whisper. "Come on."

But his energies faltered suddenly, and he stepped back, shaking his head. The light faded, and the Dremord was unchanged.

"Told you," said Dythragor sourly.

Mernyl's eyes were haunted, almost horrified. "It's not possible," he said. "Nothing can transform someone like that. Nothing. What happened to this man?"

He was dissembling, though. His failure had been real, but Alouzon knew that the sorcerer had actually formed a good idea of what had happened. She knew also that he was afraid to say anything about it.

* CHAPTER 5 *