"How are you doing, Marrget?"

"I am well." She noticed Alouzon's armor leaning against the wall. "Did you wish to rest, friend?"

"Nah. I wanted to talk to you."

Marrget's brow furrowed. "Of what matter?"

"You and Manda. She's got something against you. What?"

Marrget shook her head, genuinely puzzled. "In truth, Alouzon, I do not know."

"Manda just wouldn't have made something up, Marrget." Alouzon rummaged in the kitchen, found a barrel of beer, and poured two cups. She handed one to the captain. "Let me put it to you this way. I've got my hands full with this group. Kyria is bad enough, but Helwych gives me cramps, and this thing with Manda is one more problem I don't want. If you can think of anything that might explain her, tell me."

Marrget sat down with her beer and pondered the hearth as though contemplating nonexistent flames. "I can think of nothing."

"Where is Dubris, anyway?"

"It is a town near Whitewood, in Corrin. It lies hard by the Long River."

"You ever been there?"

"Nay. It lay always far away from the battles." A thought struck her. "Once, Dythragor and I rode deep into that part of Corrinian territory, but we did not enter the-"

She broke off suddenly. As suddenly as had Manda. Alouzon turned around in time to see her puzzlement change into horror.

' 'You Gods of Gryylth ..."

"Marrget?"

Marrget rose and covered her face. She seemed on the verge of running from the room, but Alouzon took her arm. "Marrget ..."

"O Alouzon ... do not press me ..."

"Marrget, I've got to know. This whole expedition is already falling apart, and you and Manda will be the last straw. You'd better level with me."

Marrget's pain was a white-hot lance. "I had thought to look for her," she murmured, "and now she has come to me."

Loath as she was to further torment her friend, Alouzon pressed. "Talk."

Marrget sat down heavily, dropped her hands. Her eyes, though closed, were full of tears. "Dragonmaster, I ..."

Alouzon knelt beside her. "Marrget, cut the Dragonmaster bullshit. We're friends. You can talk to me. You've got to. We're going to be taking those kids through hell, and we've got to resolve this thing."

Marrget wept silently. The room was still, the street quiet. "Do you remember the night in Vorya's tent when Dythragor denied me?"

"Yeah. I remember."

"I proved my identity by recounting two events. One took place in the Blasted Heath. The other had occurred some years earlier.

"Dythragor and I had ridden far into Corrin. It was a mannish game of foolish bravery, but we did it." Her eyes were still closed, as though she wished in vain for the privacy of a confessional. "We passed near Dubris, and, at the shore of the Long River, we found two girls doing their wash."

A horrified leanness had returned to her face, as though the recounting of the past had thrust her back into her first struggles with her new status. Her hands clutched at her bare knees.

"We ..." The word caught in her throat. "We raped them. The one I chose . . . was Manda."

She covered her" face again. Alouzon stood helplessly, unable to form a coherent thought.

"O Gods, I have changed ..."

A soft voice spoke from behind them. "Indeed you have, captain. Were it not for your escutcheons, I would never have known you." Manda stood in the doorway, her sword drawn, her face pale.

Alouzon reached to her hip, realized that her sword was leaning against the wall. Damning herself for thinking so readily of weapons-nice little pacifist!- she searched for words. "You heard, huh?"

"Everything." Manda walked into the room, still holding the sword.

Marrget lifted her head. Horror was etched deeply in her face, but pride was there, too. "What would you have of me, Manda of Dubris? If you wish my life, I would have you know that I will fight."

For some time, Manda did not speak. She looked from Alouzon to Marrget with an expression of frustrated anger, of well-nourished despair. "Six years ago," she said, "I was the daughter of a farmer, and I carried the wash down to the river with my beloved friend, Kasi. I had never done you injury, Marrget of Crownhark. I did not even bear you malice, for in my innocence, I thought that perhaps the war would end someday. And yet. . ." She struggled with the words as she had struggled beneath her rapist: impotent, mastered. "And yet you took me."

She looked down at the sword in her hand. "When I came here, I intended to kill you. But now ..." Her voice broke under the weight of her rage. "I ... I find I cannot." She flung her sword to the floor, and it rang shrilly on the flagstones. "It seems that the man I sought is already dead."

Alouzon watched a tear trace a path down Marrget's cheek. O Gods, she had changed.

At last, Marrget found her voice. "Is there-"

"No, captain, there is nothing you can do. Is it within your power to unmake the past?"

Marrget's lips barely moved. "Nay."

Manda advanced until she stood directly before Marrget, her hands balled into fists. "I ... cannot . . . forgive you."

Marrget bent her head.

"I will obey your orders, captain, as well as any warrior you could command. But I cannot but wish that, someday, you might know what I felt that afternoon. Perhaps I can only wait for that justice."

Marrget did not look up. "I understand, Manda."

Manda picked up her sword and sheathed it. With a slight bow to Alouzon, she left the room.

Alouzon felt as though the space behind her eyes had been blasted out with hot sand. "Marrget."

"Dragonmaster."

The title hurt. "No. No Dragonmaster. I'm still your friend, Marrget."

"What shall I do, Alouzon?" Marrget's voice was barely audible. "Shall I say to Manda I am sorry, and expect that to be the end of it? I am a woman now, and I understand her. I have lain with Karthin in love, and now I wonder how I have ever been allowed that intimacy when I myself have . . . have ..."

As she had once seized hold of her emotions and, by dint of sheer will, forced herself to accept her womanhood, Marrget now caught her grief and stifled it with a wrench that Alouzon found painful. Rising, the captain turned desolate eyes on her friend. ' 'I will survive," she said, but it seemed that this survival, unlike that which she had found on a midsummer night, did not allow for the smallest shred of happiness or joy, but was only a prolongation of a deep and indelible sorrow.

Out beyond the breakers and the foam, sea gulls stitched through the sea, flapping and crying mournfully in the cold air. The water was gray, and fish, it appeared, were scarce, for the gulls had a frustrated, dissatisfied look about them.

Manda walked along the shore, head bent, sword sheathed at her side, arms folded across her chest. She felt like a fool. Somehow, despite her knowledge of the fate of the First Wartroop, she had always thought that she would eventually find the man who had raped her (if he were still alive), and kill him. The bitter vows that she had made had not allowed for any other outcome.

But Tireas the sorcerer, in working magic that he had thought would both demoralize Gryylth and avenge a friend, had provided a third option. Marrget of Crownhark was dead . . . and yet alive. Or perhaps neither. Marrget was as much a different person as it was possible to be without an intervening death and rebirth.

Manda admitted that she should have been satisfied.

Marrget had been violated by Tireas's spell beyond any conceivable justice-raped, and raped again. And yet, it had not been Manda's own hand that had exacted the retribution, and so she was left empty and hollow. When she had faced Marrget, she had felt no exultant flush of long-awaited vengeance. Instead, everything upon which she had built her life had, abruptly, crumbled like towers of dust.

Warrior? Was she indeed a warrior? Or had she trained and practiced and hardened her body so as to prepare for the one single action that was now forever beyond her reach?

A breaker approached, toppled, licked up along the sand and tugged at her boots. She looked out at the ocean. "Where is my comfort, O Gods?"

"Manda! Manda!"

Wykla was running after her, amber hair streaming. Watching her, Manda smiled suddenly. She was surprised: she had thought that her smiles were gone forever.

Wykla fell into step beside her. "I missed you," she said. "I looked up from my work, and you were gone."

' 'I had finished what I could do at the infirmary. So Heft."

Wykla looked disturbed. "I would you had told me."

"Why?"

"Because ..." Wykla seemed puzzled. "Because I ... I am your friend ..."

Friend. The word had an odd sound, as though it did not quite fit.

"... and friends care for one another. You have been unhappy, and I would help if I could, if only by my company.''

Manda reached out a hand, and Wykla took it. They continued along the shore. "Your company is welcome."

"I would do more, if I could." Wykla smiled softly, and the breeze from the sea fluffed her hair into curls and tendrils that had-Manda knew, though Wykla did not-caught the hearts of quite a number of the men of Gryylth and Corrin.

The thought made Manda suddenly jealous, and she clung to Wykla's hand. "You are kind and generous, Wykla of Burnwood. When I offered my friendship on the road to Benardis, I had no idea that I would be so handsomely repaid."

"I could say the same, Manda. But I do not wish to speak in terms of payment."

"Nor do I." Manda stopped, awash suddenly with emotion.

"You are troubled," said Wykla.

She had never told Wykla of the rape, and she was now terrified that she would indeed tell. What would the girl think? "I have memories that I would be very willing to forget."

' 'Would sharing them with another be of help?''

"I . . . I do not know."

Wykla pulled gently on her hand, and they started off again. "Perhaps you should try, Manda. I am no midwife, skilled in counsel and advice. But . . . but I love you."

Manda stiffened. In what sense did Wykla use that word? "Share with me something first, friend," she said. "Tell me of the time when Tireas ..." She did not finish the question. She was surprised that she had even begun it.

Wykla understood. "I wanted to die," she said. "Everything that I had worked for was suddenly gone. I had grown up being thought of as womanish and weak, and I desired to join the First Wartroop so as to prove otherwise. And then to find myself ..." Her voice caught.

"Forgive me, Wykla. Do not go on."

Wykla licked her lips, swallowed. "Nay, friend. I will speak. I remember sitting by the fire with the other women, thinking that I might will myself to die if I strove mightily enough. But Alouzon came to me, and I found the strength to endure. And then I met you . . ."

She bent her head quickly, embarrassed at her words, blushing in spite of cold wind.

"I met you, Manda," she continued. "And I learned to do more than endure. I think now that perhaps someday I may be proud to be a woman, if I can be a woman like you."

Raped? And angry? And hating Marrget with all the passion of a blazing star? "You do not know me, Wykla."

"I could know you better."

"Very well, then. You shall judge." Without emotion, Manda told of the rape. She did not name Marrget or Dythragor: the violations were anonymous, impersonal, as they should have remained.

When she finished, Wykla was silent for some time, and Manda fought a sudden urge to run. But Wykla looked up at last and slipped an arm about her waist. "I grieve with you, Manda. You are strong: stronger than I. I do indeed hope someday to be a woman like you."

"Have you . . ."It was obscene to ask. But Manda asked. She had to know. "Have you ever lain with a man, Wykla?"

The girl did not meet her eyes. "Nay. Nor with ..." Her mouth worked for a moment. ' 'Nor with a woman. Before or after."

"Nor I," said Manda. "Before . . . or after."

Wykla pulled her to a stop and stood facing her. "The night at the Circle, Manda, when I took the watch ..." She flushed with the admission. "I touched you."

"I felt it."

"If I gave offense, I am sorry."

"You gave no offense. I was flattered."

Wykla's eyes were troubled. "Do you mean that?"

"I do. I ... I had wished that perhaps you would have remained for a minute more ... or longer ..."

"Is it . . ." Wykla bit at her lip. "Is it seemly for a woman to do that?''

Manda touched her cheek, her hand shaking. She had loved Kasi, and fate had parted them forever. Now Wykla ... "I care little whether it is seemly or not."

They held one another then, and Manda had to bend only a little to bring her lips down to Wykla's. But the kiss was merely confirmation: it was enough to embrace, to know that the world was not empty.

Their arms full for the first time, they found that they could not bring themselves to let go, and they stood for many minutes on the beach-amber hair and gold hair woven together by the wind-trying to reassure themselves that, should they find the strength to open their arms, they would not be swept apart.

Manda saw it first. High above and far out across the sea, drawing closer with a rapidity that was fearful hi itself, something approached that was like and yet unlike a bird.