DRAGONSWORD.

Duel of Dragons.

Gael Baudino.

This book is dedicated to Angie Carder, who was brutally and needlessly killed in her society's ultimate act of misogyny.

History is a nightmare.

from which I am trying to wake.

-James Joyce.

* CHAPTER 1 *

Though the Santa Ana winds that swept in from the east seemed bent on reducing the city to a gray desert, the cemetery remained green and lush, as if in defiance of the heat. The breezes rustled peacefully through the grass and pines, and the September sky was clear and blue.

Suzanne Helling pulled her VW through the wrought-iron gates and drove slowly up the winding streets. The road she chose swung north, then around, skirting the edges of a field called Summerland. When the landmarks looked familiar, she parked and shut off the engine.

The silence that flooded into the car unnerved her, for it reminded her too much of the aftermath of a battle. In Gryylth, the dead had stared up at the sky with sightless eyes, unmoving, uncaring. Here at least they were decently buried; but even with the passage of eight months and the acquisition of a new degree and a minor teaching position, the memory was too raw and glistening to be left comfortably in the past.

Taking a small spray of flowers and a sharp knife from the seat beside her, she left the car and started up the grassy slope toward a stand of birch trees. Her handbag swung rhythmically against her hip.

A voice thrummed softly. "Dragonmaster."

"Don't call me that," she said aloud. The title at times seemed a mockery.

"I am sorry, Suzanne," said Silbakor. "I did not mean to offend.''

She continued up the slope. The sun was hot, and the gravestones danced in the light. The grass and trees trapped the humidity and sent trickles of sweat winding down her face.

"Suzanne."

"What is it, Silbakor?" The handle of the knife was slippery. She wiped her palm on her jeans and bettered her grip.

"Where are we?"

Suzanne stopped in the shade of the birches, dumbfounded. "We're in the cemetery. Can't you tell?"

"I . . ." Silbakor fell silent.

Solomon's stone was at her feet. The grass was trimmed around its borders, but there was no indication that anyone ever visited it. His family, she knew, had rejected him when he had divorced Helen, and Helen herself hated him too much to do anything save spit on his grave. Suzanne would not have been surprised had she made a practice of doing just that.

Suzanne had met her briefly at Solomon's funeral, and had wondered faintly why she had shown up. Perhaps to gloat. It was hard to believe that an ordinary, middle-aged woman could have been the key to the formation of Gryylth, but if worlds were created through rage and ire, there was more than enough of both in Helen Addams to furnish a solar system.

Once, Suzanne had directed the same depth of anger at Solomon. Up until his final hours as Guardian of Gryylth, she had hated him with a passion that had more than once made her wish to kill him. He had been abusive and manipulating, a perfect representative of the forces of money and entrenched power that she had always blamed for the murder of her classmates on a May morning in 1970. He had even gloried in that role.

She had hated him. But no more. She could not agree with him, could not find it in herself to admire him, but she recognized that, as was the case with everything-the Establishment, the Vietnam War, even the counterculture and the protests-Solomon had been a mixture of bad and good. And he had also been afraid, and deeply human.

That did not justify his actions, but it explained them; and perhaps he had done something toward redeeming himself in his final moments when, in a young body and in the armor of fifth-century Britain, he had sprung from the back of the Great Dragon and hurled himself against thirty-five tons of granite.

Maybe, in his own way, he had found a kind of balance. Maybe, in the end, he had found some intimation of the Grail that lurked in a nourishing, vivifying, and equilibrated glory behind the fabric of Gryylth and Corrin.

She sat down heavily beside the grave. Balance and the Grail. Her life contained neither. Placing her flowers on the headstone, she held the knife in her lap. "Hi, prof," she said softly. "It's been a while. I hope you're OK." She felt silly and ridiculous for talking to a dead man, and so she stopped.

Silbakor spoke from within her purse, within the paperweight. "Suzanne, I would advise you to leave this place."

"Dammit, Silbakor, let me sit for a while and bury him right without you bugging me."

A sound that was something like a high-pitched whine and something like a howl started up, ringing in her ears. She leaned back and stared up at the sunlight that filtered through the stand of birches. Something about the world seemed different today, ephemeral, as though it had begun to partake of the half-existence that had formerly characterized only Gryylth.

Memories, she thought. But she noticed that she felt different, too. A quick flash of fire had spread through her body, and she was suddenly afraid to look at herself for fear that she might find herself clad in leather and bronze, with a familiar sword at her side.

It's the heat, she thought. I've never done well with this kind of heat.

In spite of the disorientation, she picked up the knife in her lap and rested the keen blade against her left wrist. There were customs in Gryylth, and Solomon Braithwaite deserved to have them kept for him. This cemetery would do for a grave, but Suzanne Helling- or maybe Alouzon Dragonmaster-would have to attend to the rite.

Clumsily, she made a shallow cut in her wrist and watched as the red blood welled up. Extending her hand, she let the drops fall just below the headstone.

"Awake and live again someday," she said. It was no more than the respect tendered to any man of Gryylth-or woman-who had fallen in battle.

But rather than clearing her head, the sharp pain of the cut seemed to do nothing more than intensify the sense of unreality that grew about her like a clinging vine. What place was this? Whose wrist was bleeding in bright drops on the grassy earth? Suzanne Helling's? Or Alouzon Dragonmaster's?

"Suzanne."

Dizzy, she pulled the paperweight out of the purse and plunked it down in the grass beside her. The Dragon looked at her with its yellow eyes.

"Leave this place."

"Why?" She dithered. The whine grew in her ears, and she seemed to hear a distant baying, as of hounds. "Where's my sword . . . ?"

"Dragonmaster!"

She was not looking at the Dragon. Her attention had been caught by the sight of Solomon Braithwaite's headstone. Amid the rising humming and a shimmering of the landscape, the stone was moving, rising, the ground around it buckling as though thrust up from below.

The instincts of Gryylth were on her, and as she grabbed the paperweight and purse in one hand, she took the knife in the other and backed away from the grave, her eyes searching for an opponent. The air about her had turned misty, the heat replaced by a deadly cold.

Then, above the hum, cutting through the approaching howls like a razor, Solomon was suddenly screaming. It was not a cry of terror, or of pain: it was rather that of a man who, confronted with something he hated enough to rend with his bare hands, found himself totally impotent.

Suzanne! Stop him! Suzanne!

The words burned through her head in a shriek of fire. She dropped the paperweight and the knife and put her hands to her ears. The gravestone was moving, roiling as though it were a film on troubled water. Light shone from beneath it-dull, red, fevered light: the color of an inflamed wound.

Suzanne! Suzanne! Suzanne! Suzanne!

His screams cut off suddenly, and there was utter silence in the universe as the gravestone was blown noiselessly into dust. Lurid red light streamed up into a black sky, licking the air with tongues of blood. Suzanne saw hands reaching up from the grave, saw a face that, regardless of decay or desiccation, was still recognizable.

Solomon's eyes were pleading, his clenched mouth twisted in despair. He extended a hand to Suzanne, and she did not need words to understand. Help me. Please.

When she opened her eyes, the sun was bright in a blue sky, and the cemetery lay baking in the heat. She was propped up against one of the birches, and she felt a trickle of water running down her chin.

As she wiped it off, she managed to focus. A groundskeeper was looking into her face, his brown eyes concerned. He was fanning her with a large straw hat. "You OK? You want me call doctor?"

She glanced quickly at the grave. The stone lay quiescent and level, as though nothing had happened. Swallowing the rank fear in her throat, she took another sip of water from the cup he held out to her. "Nah," she said. "I think the heat just got to me."

Last winter, there had been no New Year Feast in Gryylth. The cold season had been too long and hard, the losses of the great war with Corrin too recent. Food, also, had been scarce, for the burning of Corrin's crops had required that Gryylth share that it had, and though not a soul had been lost to hunger, there had been no excess, and meals had been spartan.

It was perhaps with those past privations in mind that Cvinthil, the new king, ordered that the feast the following year be marked with especial care and festivities. The war with Corrin was over, and both lands were slowly healing themselves of the wounds of a decade of conflict. Cvinthil wanted to show his people that, in peace as well as in war, Gryylth could triumph, and that they had reason to look toward the future with hope.

Cvinthil fetched the people of Kingsbury himself, as Vorya had always done, walking the streets of the town at dusk with a lighted lamp that seemed to burn all the brighter for the frost in the air, knocking at doors, and chanting the traditional summons in his quiet tenor: ' 'The night is long and dark- Long and dark is the night: Come, my people, Come, my people, Come, my people, and feast with me!"

And they came, filling the town square with faces reddened with cold and with torchlight, a people who had found peace, who were moving slowly into another age. To be sure, there had been complaints in the past months about new customs and new ways, about women who did not know their place, but tonight the grumbling was put aside.

Cvinthil toasted his people, and was toasted in return; after he had eaten he moved among them as an equal, shaking their hands and returning the bows of the women with bows of his own in accordance with the custom he had established. Santhe was at his side, and if there was a darker, more somber cast to the councilor's eyes since the war, his tongue and his wit were as quick as ever, and he made the townsfolk laugh.

From her place at the high table of the king, Marrget of Crownhark watched as Cvinthil and Santhe made their way through the crowd, spreading cheer and compliments. I suppose that I should be with them. It is time the people knew me again.

But even as she thought the words, she knew that these people would never really know her. When they thought of Marrget of Crownhark, they thought of the big man with the square jaw who had led the First Wartroop since Helkyying had died. They could never reconcile this slender woman with their memories.

"Marrget?" Santhe had returned to the table. He leaned down to her, his blond curls brushing her cheek. "Are you well, my friend?"

"I am well enough, Santhe."

He smiled, but his eyes were sad. "Your warriors: I do not see them here.''

"They celebrate in their own way. We keep much to ourselves these days."

"I understand." He offered his hand, and she took it: two warriors, united by loss.

Yet Marrget knew that she was still essentially alone. Though her women could turn to one another in time of weakness or fear, she herself, their leader, was forced to ignore those emotions. She had broken under the strain only once, and none save Alouzon Dragon-master knew of that time.

Sometimes she wondered if it would not be easier to leave Kingsbury, take a new name, and live as a different person in another part of the country rather than to endure the constant conflict between the past and the present. She had called herself Marrha once, and that was not an uncomely name. Maybe . . .

The idea sickened her. She was Marrget of Crown-hark. She could be nothing else.

When she came out of her thoughts, she realized that space had been cleared in the center of the square, and that a large man was standing there. Karthin. The big, blond Corrinian stood head and shoulders above even the tallest men of Gryylth, and his hair and mustache glowed in the torchlight.

"Karthin is going to sing," said Santhe.

Karthin's blue eyes were open and honest, his arms thick and strong. Marrget had ridden beside him for many miles during the autumn after the war, working tirelessly to bring the women of the land to the harvest; and later, when snow was falling, they had together supervised the just and even distribution of what sustenance there was to be had.

If she had admired him before as a warrior, her admiration had increased a hundredfold in time of peace, for he had remained in Kingsbury after the food crisis had passed, dedicating himself to helping the people who had fought against his own country. "He is a brave and honorable man," she said, smiling softly.

"I am infinitely sorry that we ever fought against Corrin," Santhe said with a sigh. "I do not know what madness was upon us." He looked at her as though he were trying to read a faint parchment. "I heard that he brought you flowers after the last battle."

Marrget shifted uneasily. "That is true, my friend."

"A brave man, indeed."

She would have replied, but Karthin was singing, his deep bass voice rolling across the square and the assembled people. Karthin knew as well as anyone that there were still hard feelings toward his country, and he appeared to be doing his best-as he always did- to demonstrate that Gryylth had no cause to fear or hate Corrin.

He sang of the seasons, and of work, and of the homely things that even two peoples who had warred bitterly for ten years could share. There was peace in the land at last, and through his music, Karthin sought to spread that peace wide, to soothe old prejudice and loss with this New Year carol.

He was eloquent, and something of a poet, and though his song was from Corrin, he had recast its chorus so as to include both countries. He smiled as he sang, his strong arms swinging wide with expression, and toward the end of the song, his eye fell on Marrget and stayed there. At the last chorus, he waved a hand for all the people of Kingsbury to join in, but Marrget realized that he was singing to her.

If then the land be wide and wild It matters not to me; For come the summer's sunny days Or come the winter's rain and snow, I travel free, I travel loved: I am of Gryylth and Corrin both- And peace be to you all!

"And peace be to you all," she murmured. She passed a hand over her face.

The song was done, and the people of Kingsbury, from highest to lowest, from king to beggar, clapped and cheered as Karthin, blushing in the manner of a warrior who finds himself publicly honored, bowed.

Cvinthil rose, lifting his cup. "A toast," he called, and the people fell silent.

The king turned to the woman at his side. "Seena," he said quietly, and she smiled, rose, and joined her hand to his. "A toast," said the king, "to Gryylth and to Corrin, to those who were lost, and to those who lived. Peace, blessings, and the favor of the Gods upon you all, and may there never be a repetition of those dark days in which sword was lifted to sword and spear met shield.'' He smiled fondly at his wife. "Beloved?"

Seena was a queen, but the world outside her house was new to her. "I can only add my voice to that of my husband," she said. "But I would the Gods be merciful to the women of Gryylth in this time of great change, and grant them peace in their days, and wisdom in their lives."

Marrget regarded herself, dressed in trews and a tunic that did nothing to disguise her feminine form. "May it truly be so," she said, though her voice was drowned in the applause and cheers of the assembly.

She looked up. Karthin was smiling broadly, and he bowed to her with manly grace. Marrget felt something stir within her. Puzzled at finding herself staring at Karthin with such intensity, she gathered her wits and looked away.

"The men will do Cotswood Dancing now," said Santhe. "And then all the people will dance as long as they will."

"I will stay for the Cotswood, I think, but then I shall leave, Santhe."

Santhe eyed her. "Gods bless, my friend," he said, then bowed and went off to join the men who would dance.

As long as there had been New Year Feasts, there had been Cotswood Dancing for luck and a good year. With bells tied just below their knees, the men formed into a set of six, Cvinthil and Santhe in the first positions as befitted their status. The pipers and drummers started up a tune that bounced and jigged such that it was all that a listener could do to keep from joining in. Cvinthil called out "This time!" and the dance started.

Waving white scarves, their bells jingling merrily, the dancers processed up and down, crossed and re-crossed within the set, wove through intricate patterns. Cvinthil bounded with kingly presence, Santhe's grin was magnified, and Karthin showed himself as able a dancer as he was a farmer, a singer, or a warrior. The other men, captains of Gryylth, were a match for their leaders, capering and leaping with easy grace.

After two dances, they laid aside their scarves and took up long sticks; and now the crack of wood against wood resounded across the square, echoing off the stone houses and the stockade about Hall Kingsbury. Advancing and retreating, the men clashed their staves in mock battle, and all the while their bells kept up a steady, joyous rhythm.

Marrget watched them sadly. Once, as a man, she had danced the Cotswood. But that was over now.

When the last pair of sticks had clashed, and the last scarf had been waved, and when the dancers had processed off into the torch-lit night, Marrget rose, bowed, and slipped away. Her duties this night were over.

She had almost reached the edge of the square when Karthin's voice, close behind her, made her halt. "My lady Marrget?"