She found herself staring up at the cold, hard stars, worried as much about the Dragon as she was about the possible appearance of warplanes.

Her steps took her to the edge of the hill, and there she spoke briefly with the guards. One, again, was a veteran. The other, though, was a green lad who was barely showing his first sprouts of beard. He stared at Alouzon with a mixture of fear and unease, and she read his thoughts. A woman. And a Dragonmaster, too. What was the world coming to?

With a nod, she turned back into the town. Oh, she had done such a good job with Gryylth! The whole country was confused and threatened because of her neglect. But what, really, could she do? At times, her people seemed to consider her some kind of deific being, forgetting that the object of their near-worship was as human as they. Alouzon's responsibilities were crushing, but her powers were limited. Dammit, if I'm supposed to be some kind of God, I sure could use some of the perks.

As she rounded a turning midway to the Hall, she stopped and squinted ahead, her interior complaint interrupted by a flash of motion. Something had slipped into the shadows between two houses. Even in the clean-edged moonlight, it seemed to glow as with some inner radiance. Like phosphor.

She glanced up at the sky. No lights. No Dragons. No jets. Nothing. Just the stars. It was hard to conceive of anything so still as the sky of Gryylth. Not even a satellite marred the changelessness.

With her hand on her sword, she advanced toward the alleyway, straining her ears. At first she was surrounded only by the frosty silence of a fifth-century night, but then, growing louder as she closed on the alley, she heard a soft slavering interspersed with a slow, wet sound, as though a lion were feasting on a kill.

She stopped just outside the alley, dropped her cloak, and flattened herself against the wall of the house. Muttering, smacking, immersed in its feed, the thing around the corner did not seem to notice her. Or maybe it did. Maybe it was just waiting to add fresh Dragonmaster du jour to the evening's menu.

Alouzon eased the Dragonsword from its sheath and, moving slowly, slipped into the alley. Ahead, faintly glowing, its back to her, was a duplicate of the hound that she had slain in the spaces between the worlds. Its massive head was bent down, and its great jaws were worrying at a mess of blood and rags that lay in the cold dust.

She slipped closer. The Dragonsword had killed one of these things. It could kill another. But she nearly cried out when, in the faint glow that dripped from the hound's needle teeth, she saw Helwych's face, the scalp stripped back to expose a bloody skull, the flesh sucked away from one cheek. His clothing was in shreds, and there was little left of his body save a ruin of viscera that smoked in the frigid air.

Before she could strike, though, an arm encircled her throat and she was jerked back. "Were you looking for me, little girl?"

Her cry was choked off, and she toppled back into the man's arms. The hound raised its head.

"I will be scarred to my grave from that stone you threw, girl," said her assailant, his young voice thick with wine. "You will learn a few things tonight. You will learn to be silent when a man speaks."

You dumb shit, that thing's gonna eat us alive!

He was now reaching for her sword, trying to disarm her, but she had no more time to waste. Driving her elbows back, she felt the crunch of breaking ribs. His grip loosened, and she spun and backhanded him. He grunted, reeled, and crashed out into the street, staring up at the full moon with glazed eyes.

The hound was almost on her, but she met it with her blade, and its howl of pain was deafening after the utter silence of the town. "King's Guard! King's Guard!" In the rank stench of the beast's breath, her words came out in nauseated heaves. "Move your butts!"

Pivoting, the hound tumbled her back toward the rear of the alley. She fell to the ground, looked instinctively for Helwych's body, but saw nothing. While she stared, dumbfounded, the beast charged, and she barely had time to get to her knees before it thudded into her and toppled her again.

She rolled. The Dragonsword was bright, gleaming as though it had sucked in the radiance of the stars, and it cut deep. Phosphor poured from the rent in the hound's side, and the stench grew.

The hound backed up, and Alouzon scrambled to her feet. Putting aside thoughts of the sorcerer for the moment, she stalked after the hound. "Come on, guy. You started this. I'm gonna finish it."

The hound, wounded, retreated to the street.

Alouzon's anger was burning, and the Dragonsword took her rage, amplified it, channeled it into her reflexes and her strength. "Here, doggy. Nice fucking boy."

Torchlight. Voices. Her call to the Guard had been heard. Beside her, a shutter flew open, and a householder stuck his head out. "What-?"

"Get your ass inside or you'll get eaten," she snapped.

He looked at her, then at the hound. He slammed the shutter closed.

In the street, the man who had attacked her was struggling to his hands and knees. He coughed, hacking up a spittle of blood that streaked down his chin. Alouzon recognized him as the guard who had looked so fearfully at Wykla, and realized that, in the bright but uncertain light of the moon, he had mistaken one armed woman for another.

It had been a fatal blunder. As Alouzon closed in on the hound, it turned instead on the man. With a smooth dip of its head, it rolled him onto his back and tore out his throat.

Blood sprayed its grinning face, and it wheeled to face the guards who were just then rounding the corner. With a howl that shivered the air, it bounded straight at them, knocked several to the ground, tore at the fallen for a moment, and then vanished up the street.

"Let it go," said Alouzon, her voice suddenly weak. The dead man's throat burbled and plashed. "You can't catch it." Cvinthil was hurrying up, wrapped in a robe and carrying a sword. "Everyone in your house OK?" Alouzon asked him.

"We are well. How is it with you?"

"I'm fine, but this guy bought it. And Helwych-"

She froze, looked past the king. Coming down the street from the Hall, staff in hand and sound as ever, was the Corrinian sorcerer.

She went back into the alley. It was empty. Helwych's body was gone. Not a trace of it remained, not even a bloodstain or a scrap of tattered cloth.

* CHAPTER 8 *

Much as Alouzon wanted to start for Vaylle the next day, it was unfeasible. A long and difficult journey lay ahead of her company, and she spent the morning with Marrget, making arrangements for equipment and discussing personnel and travel.

Despite the captain's hurried departure from the Hall the night before, this morning she seemed to be, for the most part, very much her old self; but again and again, Alouzon detected the presence of something new about her friend, a strange sense of diffidence that colored her usual bluff exterior.

Time flowed oddly between the worlds, and eight months in Los Angeles had, in Gryylth, expanded to eighteen: a long absence on Alouzon's part. Marrget might merely have become more private and retiring as the weeks had passed and she had learned to deal with her new life, but Alouzon worried that the captain might actually be annoyed with her. Faced with the problems of a land recovering from a long and devastating conflict and a wartroop fighting for its place in Gryylthan society, Marrget might well have decided that she had little time to give to such intermittent friendship and support.

Alouzon could not blame her. She could only try to make amends by facing the present situation squarely, without apology, without hesitation. Stripping off the petty concerns of a graduate student, she donned once again the tasks of a Dragonmaster. There was much to do before the company could depart.

"Do you have any ideas about how to get horses across the White Sea?" she said while they checked the available mounts at the stables.

Marrget was examining her own horse. The beast had never been unsure of her identity, even though, to human eyes, she had changed beyond recognition. "I would advise that we make first for Quay," she said. "It is a large town that trades along the coast. It has boats sufficient to transport ourselves and the horses." She gave her horse another pat, and he nickered softly and nuzzled her. "The man who taught me the ways of the sword lives there now. His name is Hahle, and, if I am not mistaken, he has become head of the council." An expression more of puzzlement than sadness crossed her face. "We will see if my old teacher is as quick to know me as my horse.''

Alouzon linked arms with her as they went back out into the street. "Has it been that bad for you, then? I'd kind of hoped that ... well . . . maybe you'd get used to it.''

Marrget did not reply. She was biting nervously at her lip. About them, Kingsbury bustled through its day. Tradesmen with bundles on their backs shouldered their way past carts and knots of people. In the distance, a smith beat steadily on a piece of hot metal. Two women passed by, chatting animatedly about children. They paused to stare at Marrget and Alouzon, then gave them a Gods bless and went on their way.

"Ah . . . nay, Dragonmaster," said Marrget at last. She would not look at Alouzon. "I cannot say truthfully that it has been bad at all."

Her acute embarrassment was painful to hear. Alouzon wondered suddenly whether annoyance were actually the cause of it at all. "Is there something I can do?" she said gently. The captain paled, and looked away. "Hey, we've been friends for a while."

"I . . ." Marrget seemed close to tears.

A voice rang out. "Marrha! Dragonmaster! The king asks that the company meet with him over the midday meal."

Marrget started guiltily. Ahead, Karthin had come into view. His voice was cheerful, his blue eyes bright, and he was waving a large hand.

Alouzon stared. "Marrha?"

"It ... it is a name he calls me sometimes," Marrget said stiffly. "As one ... ah ... friend to another." She glanced uneasily at Alouzon. "I hope ...I hope you do not think ill of me."

No, it was not annoyance at all. Mentally kicking herself for not realizing sooner what was going on, Alouzon hugged her friend. "I don't think ill of you, Marrget," she said. "I think it's great."

Marrget still looked worried. "You do not find me diminished? Or dishonored?"

"For taking a lover? Why the hell should you be diminished? Particularly when it's a guy like Karthin. You've got good taste."

Marrget passed a hand over her face, shaking with relief. "I am myself still uncertain how to accept this."

"Don't worry about it. It happens." Taking her hand, Alouzon led her toward Karthin. Perhaps the irrational hope she had felt the previous day was not unfounded after all. "Let's go get your man and have some lunch."

Marrget smiled, and to Alouzon's relief it was the easy, bluff smile that had always been so characteristic of her. Karthin, when he met them, bowed in the manner of his people, but he took Marrget's hand for a moment and looked warmly at her.

Marrget blushed, then laughed nervously. "You see, Dragonmaster, to what end has come the proud, scornful warrior.''

"Dammit, lady. I envy you."

Alouzon's words held an edge. In the world she knew, she had become a loner. Once, she had shared her body and her bed, even though her heart had long before turned in upon itself, but now she shared noth- ing. She lived alone, she worked alone, Only in Gryylth did she have companionship, but her responsibilities precluded intimacy.

Karthin's blue eyes were on her as though he guessed her thoughts. "I heard of your battle last night, Dragonmaster," he said. "Marrha and I-"

Marrget held up a hand. "Karthin . . . please ..."

He colored. "Ach ... I will strangle on my wayward tongue someday! Would you show us the place, Dragonmaster?''

Alouzon shrugged. "Sure." She led them up the street.

In the daylight, the alley was simply a shabby, rubbish-filled cul-de-sac no different from any other in Kingsbury. Near the back, though, where the refuse was piled up in a heap almost as tall as Karthin, dark stains gleamed iridescently on the cold dirt. It was as though a man-sized snail had crawled across the ground.

Marrget touched a stain gingerly and sniffed her fingers. Wrinkling her nose, she wiped her hand on her plain tunic. "I have never seen the like."

"Nor I," said Karthin.

"It was a big thing," said Alouzon, "and it glowed; but it couldn't have been entirely magical, because I wounded it.''

Marrget eyed her. "With the Dragonsword."

"Well . . . yeah."

"Hmmm." Karthin took Marrget's hand suddenly. The slime was blackening her fingers. "You had better wash that, beloved."

"Aye," she said. "Who knows what this might change me into, eh?" She broke the crust of ice on a rain barrel with the pommel of her sword and scrubbed the stains off in the cold water. "Thank you, Karthin. It was dissolving the skin."

"Oh, great." Alouzon looked at the slime. "A bad out-take from Alien.''

Marrget blinked. "I do not understand."

Alouzon shook her head. "Let me tell you some- thing that I don't understand." She indicated a vacant spot at the base of the rubbish pile. "Right there, I saw Helwych's body last night. The hound was eating it."

"But Helwych is-"

"Yeah, I know. He's fine today. Karthin, did you happen to see him at the Hall this morning?''

The big man nodded. "I did. The lad was quiet and thoughtful, and Manda said that that was unusual, but ..."He grinned. "... but welcome. She does not like him."

"There's not much to like. But he's OK, right? No wounds, no blood?"

"None, Dragonmaster."

Alouzon gestured at the ground again. "I saw it, though."

"I do not doubt you, friend." Marrget was on her knees, examining the ground. "I see no sign of a killing here. Perhaps a magician could say more." She looked up at Alouzon. "What of the lady Kyria? Would she be of help?"

The sorceress was off by herself today, wandering the town as though she were a tourist, her scowls turning aside questions and stares like armor plate. She had not even thanked Alouzon for comforting her last night, and, in fact, the incident had only intensified her foul mood.

Alouzon threw up her hands. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

Marrget rose, checked her hands for traces of slime. "She does not love Gryylth?"

"I don't think she loves anything, Marrget."

"A grievous fate," Marrget replied, unconsciously laying a hand on Karthin's arm. "Can we trust her?"

"In Vaylle?"

"At all."

Alouzon shrugged. She never seemed to have any choices anymore. "I think she'll be fine as long as we want what she wants. So far, that's the way it is."

Marrget's eyes, though warmed by love, were as steely and unforgiving as ever when it came to her people and her land. "And if that changes?"

Kyria wanted Solomon. Alouzon wanted the Grail. She could not help but think that the two quests were related. But how long could she keep the sorceress ignorant of Vaylle's true nature? "Then we're in trouble. But I think we'll be all right for a while."

The captain picked up a stick and prodded at the slime. The wood smoked at its touch. "I pray you are right, Dragonmaster."

Parl and Birk were the men whom Santhe had brought to fill out the expedition. As quiet and solemn as Santhe was bright and cheerful, they nonetheless shared with their commander the dark, interior seriousness that had marked those of the Second Wartroop who had witnessed the terrible slaughter of Vorya's army in the last days of the war with Corrin.

They sat together at the end of the king's table and listened without comment to the plans that were discussed over lunch. Now and again they nodded in agreement or pursed their lips in thought, but their eyes-Part's gray, Birk's brown-changed expression not at all. To Alouzon, they appeared to be men who had seen enough killing that questions of life and death had grown paltry: they would tend the wounded or slit throats with equal dispassion.

She found that comforting and disquieting at the same time. Her company would be traveling into hostile territory, far from supplies and friends and home. Santhe*s men did not seem to be worried, but the ruthless efficiency their manner implied reminded Alouzon of the search-and-destroy patrols that had, in Vietnam, turned killing into a calm, emotionless art: the hunting of men instead of beasts.

Manda, Alouzon noticed, shared something of their focused indifference, for though she was quite capable of bright smiles and effortless laughter, she also sat silently at the table today, her blue eyes quietly obser- vant but filled with a sense of incipient violence. But neither Santhe's men nor Darham's representative concerned her as much as Helwych. Abstract, almost absent, he looked at nothing, seemed to be aware of everything; and there was an intensity about him that had not existed the day before. Only his habitual sullenness seemed at all normal.

Seena's words upon meeting Alouzon had been prophetic: there was indeed no time for proper welcomes. Dinner last night had been hasty and serious. Lunch today was no different. Talk occupied the participants more than food, and the gravity of the discussion rendered the meal tasteless in any case.

But it was difficult for the company to construct a plan of action in any kind of detail, for aside from certain facts that Alouzon would not reveal, Vaylle was an unknown. There had been no communications from that land, no emissaries, no visitors, not even an exploratory vessel.

In fact, Alouzon found it strange that Cvinthil and his people knew that there was any such thing as Vaylle at all. The land was far enough from Gryylth that she had only been able to see it from Silbakor's back at cruising altitude, and even then the Dragon had been some distance from the coast. Since there had been no contact, there should have been no knowledge, and yet everyone in Gryylth-and in Corrin, too-was aware of a land that had only existed for the last eighteen months.

Alouzon felt queasy at the thought that her mind, in creating Vaylle, had at the same time reached into the collective memory of Gryylth and Corrin and, much as a computer programmer might add lines to an extant file, had brazenly typed in the necessary information. This was something that no human being ought to be allowed to do. Gods, maybe. Alouzon, no.

But she had done it nonetheless.

Guardian of Gryylth: the title had staggering implications. In Los Angeles, she had become worn and frayed even from a simplistic conception of her relationship with her world. But faced now with the plexed intricacies and depth of her role, she wondered that she stayed sane.

It had to be the Grail. Silbakor was a balance to the land, but the Grail was nurturer and dynamo. The intelligence resident within the Sacred Cup would, by necessity, be as passionately committed to the preservation of the world as the Dragon. Perhaps more so. By its nature, though, it would be constrained in its manifestation: mere mortals were unfit to experience its limitless purity and life, and therefore it had to remain a hazy glory at the borders of consciousness. But it had revealed itself, and therefore, paradoxically, the Grail was willing, even eager, to be possessed, and so had directed a fragment of its harrowing but loving sustenance at the frail creature that sought it ... so as to further the seeking.