"Where's dinner?" he said.

But Helen was crying, wrapped in the blackness of the corners of the universe, Kyria's arms about her with the warm comfort of infinite nurture. "Helen. . . Helen," said Kyria. "It is ours. You are not alone. I love you."

Helen could not speak, but words were meaningless. They could convey neither the depth of her loss nor the violation perpetrated upon her by intimate flesh and impersonal stainless steel. She wept and she wailed, asking in her incoherence for the return of her children, the return of her body, the return of her soul. She could not demand, she could only ask.

Please don't do that to me . . .

"I will not do that again," said Kyria, rocking her back and forth like a child. "I will not. Please do not try to kill me, though. Believe me-please believe me-when I say to you that I love you. And let me help."

And what frightened Helen beyond the loss of her voice, beyond the strangeness of the state to which she had come, beyond even the memories with which the sorceress defended herself with passionate and yet gentle violence, was the fact that she now could not say for sure who was speaking, for Kyria's voice was ripe with the repletion of a summer morning in New England, dark with the sorrow of a winter night in Berkeley, and touched with the words, thoughts and tones of Helen Addams.

"Come, child. Come to me. I can help."

Exhausted, Alouzon dozed at Kyria's bedside. The sorceress had not moved since she had collapsed from her labors, and, in fact, she hardly seemed to be breathing. But Marrget had examined her and pronounced her living, and Helwych had verified the captain's judgment magically, though he had seemed afraid to do even that; and so Kyria had been brought to one of the few undamaged houses in Quay to rest in safety.

Alouzon's thoughts drove on relentlessly in spite of her fatigue. We are but one step ahead of those powers that seek to destroy us, Kyria had said, and those powers had materialized fully now, reified not in the half-material presence of spectral hounds, but in the prosaic anachronism of a jet fighter that might have rolled off an assembly line in Long Beach, California, Half asleep, yet watching for any sign that might indicate that Kyria was returning to consciousness, Alouzon shuddered with the recollection of the explosions, the screams, the white faces of the people of Quay as they struggled to understand the reason for the terror that had been unleashed upon them.

But there was no reason. Or, if there were, it was buried deep within her own unconscious. How, she wondered, was she supposed to stop the violence when the violence was coming out of her own mind? How could she end it when she did not even understand its origins?

The Grail remained in the background: as ephemeral as a dream, as real as the bullets that had swept through the town that afternoon. Somehow, the Grail was the answer. And as that Sacred Cup had chosen to dwell within the shadowy unknowns of the land called Vaylle, she would find it there.

Vaylle might well be a hell, but the only way to the Grail was through the flames.

"But I don't want this," she murmured. "I don't want any of this. I want to go home."

Kyria stirred. "Home ..."

Alouzon came awake. "Kyria?"

"I want to go home." The sorceress echoed Alouzon's sentiments. "I want my house. I want my babies ..."

Helen Addams had borne no children, but Kyria's grief was real. Alouzon began to suspect that there were events buried in the history of Helen and Solomon that, unearthed, would reek as corrosively as the blood of the hounds of Vaylle.

"Easy, Kyria," said Alouzon, taking her hand gently.

Kyria's eyes flicked open, and widened at the sight of the dark, beamed ceiling and the lap of firelight on stone walls . . .

And then she was huddling into a trembling ball, pulling the covers over her head and burying her face in the pillow as she screamed in a grief so deep that it made Alouzon's sorrows seem petty.

Across the room, Santhe lifted his head. "Dragon-master?"

"I'll handle it, Santhe," she said. The councilor did not look convinced, but Alouzon turned back to the sorceress. "Kyria, come on. It's me: Alouzon. You're having a nightmare."

"I want my babies. He took my babies. "

"Kyria." Alouzon knelt beside the couch and wrapped her arms about the sorceress. "Come on, we're all friends here. We all care about you."

"Leave me alone, Kyria ..."

Alouzon wondered at her words, but held her nonetheless. "Wake up, Kyria. Come on ..."

The sorceress stopped thrashing, though she was shaking uncontrollably. "What's . . . what's going on?"

Alouzon licked dry lips. "You healed a bunch of people, and then you blacked out."

"How long?"

Alouzon shrugged. "I don't have my watch. I'd say about twelve hours. It's almost dawn."

Kyria sat up, clutching the pillow to her stomach. "I hurt," she whispered. "I want to go home."

Alouzon's face was against her long, black hair. Kyria had said it perfectly. I want to go home. Cars, and soda pop, and her own bed: all the little comforts that could be summed up in a single word. Right now she wanted to hear rock and roll so badly that the desire was a physical need. But this was Gryylth, and Los Angeles was far away, and even if, by some chance, Silbakor returned this instant and swept her back to the city, there would still be Vaylle, and hounds, and McDonnell Douglas Skyhawks . . .

. . . and people would still be dying.

"I'm sorry, Kyria," she said softly. "I want to go home, too. But we can't. The only way out of this is through it. And we can't go home until we're done."

"That bastard ... I haven't even got myself anymore. And he's killing everyone." Fists clenching suddenly, she closed her eyes and shrieked. "I want out!"

Santhe rose quietly and came to kneel at her bedside. There was no laughter in him tonight. "Honored lady," he said softly, "I believe that we all do. But as you healed the children of Quay this afternoon, so you may now be able to heal an entire land by coming to Vaylle with us. And I most earnestly ask that you do."

Kyria listened, her eyes owlish. "You're a pretty decent guy, Santhe," she said, her voice hoarse. "You've been good to me. How come you're in such a screwed-up world? "

"My lady," he said gently, "the Gods do not burden us with more than we can endure. I do not know their reasons, but reasons there must be."

Alouzon looked away.

"I know one reason," Kyria said. "And I'm going to Vaylle to find him, Santhe. And you can bet that I'm going to stop all this shit."

Her outburst had calmed her, but a new note had crept into her tone and manner as though she were storing up her anger, allowing it to accumulate drop by drop, memory by memory, event by event, holding it in check until it was needed.

"Alouzon," she said. "When do we leave for Vaylle?"

"Hahle has a boat for us. We can leave as soon as we're ready."

"Tomorrow."

"Kyria, it's a long crossing. We'll have to get everything together, and you've been unconscious."

"Tomorrow." Kyria found her staff and clutched it tightly. The wood flared. "We're going tomorrow."

* CHAPTER 12 *

Dindrane awoke with her heart pounding and her hand reaching for her healer's staff. She was often pulled out of sleep this way, the screams of dying and mutilated townsfolk ringing in her ears on the physical plane and, upon the subtler fabric of the spiritual world, the wails of souls that had found themselves suddenly-terribly-bereft of life cutting her psyche like shards of hot glass.

But no: from the next room came the scrape of wire on wood, and she realized that one of the bronze strings of Baares's harp must have broken, startling her out of sleep. Even now, Dindrane could hear her husband fumbling through his work-box, measuring and cutting the right length of wire, winding the lower end about a toggle. He worked methodically and silently, but he cursed passionately under his breath when the new string slipped from his fingers and rang against the others.

Sitting up, she covered her face and willed her heart to cease pounding, but she winced at her husband's temper. Despite frayed nerves and broken sleep, this was no time for emotions that could only add to the sorrow.

"You are awake, Dindrane?" Baares's voice was soft-chagrined and sorrowful both. "Forgive my outburst."

"Fear not," she called back. "I was awake already."

He pushed back the curtain and entered the bedroom. "You should sleep, my flower."

"I slept a little." She tried to sound reassuring, but rest had been in short supply these last few months. With each night bringing new terrors, the healers of Vaylle were frequently summoned from their beds to restore limbs, close wounds, ease pain. Too often, though, they could be no more than a comfort to the dying: an embodiment of the Goddess, a feminine touch to help the soul along the path of the Sacrificed God.

But tonight there was peace, and Dindrane stretched out a hand and brought her husband to bed. For a while, they lay together, arms wrapped about one another, and then Baares rose, fetched his harp, and sat by the bed, weaving a sleeping spell about her.

Her eyes growing heavy, she watched him as he played, his head bent in concentration, the fingers of his big hands striking and muting strings, making music and magic that befitted the skill of the king's harper.

And he is angry, and sometimes violent. . . and so, to our shame, are we all. But we can hold to other ways. And-O my Goddess!-he is mine and I love him.

She drifted off then, and when she awoke, it was morning. "Time to rise, my flower," said Baares.

He must have spent the night playing, wandering hi a world of melody, deriving renewal from the music he drew from the harpstrings. She wrapped her arms about his neck and pulled his face down to hers. "What time, husband?"

"The second hour past dawn. You are due to make your magistrate's report to King Pellam."

Her smile turned pained. "A happier tale I wish that I could tell."

"He wishes to hear it, nonetheless. He is a wise and holy king."

"Hard it is to speak of death when one is a healer. And too much death there is these days.''

Baares sat down beside the bed, holding her hand while he stroked his great mustache thoughtfully, deliberately. "Sometimes I am wondering, though ..." He paused, seemingly unwilling to continue.

Dindrane tugged at his hand. "Better spoken than not."

The harper shrugged uncomfortably. "There are dissonances within the harp," he continued. " 'Twas last night I was thinking of them. Among the concord are pairs of strings that yield only pain. I sometimes wonder if they bear a lesson for us."

Dindrane stroked his hand.

" 'Tis angry I am," he said softly. "Angry we all are, I think. Our people are killed, our children are dragged out of their beds and savaged ..." His eyes were full of tears. "I am too violent for this place. But the Goddess and the God made the harp so that it can cut the ear, and so I wonder sometimes whether we might be forgiven the cutting of our enemies."

Dindrane said nothing. They had discussed this question before. Many times. The answer was the same.

' 'I know I am wrong,'' he admitted. '' 'Tis the grace of the Goddess I am wanting. She perhaps can give me peace: no one else."

"I cannot?"

He bent his head to hers, smiling shyly. "This I will tell you, my flower: should it ever be my fortune in life to meet the Goddess face to face, I do not doubt that Her ways would be as yours: Her voice, your voice. Indeed, I think that at night I hold Her in my arms already.''

Dindrane felt her face grow warm. "You have a glib tongue, O harper."

"I have a truthful tongue, O Great Lady."

She shushed him. "Do not give me Her title."

He shrugged. "The Goddess knows that it is well bestowed, even if Priestess Dindrane does not."

Still blushing furiously at his sacrilege, she arose and dressed, and she and Baares broke their fast on the terrace of their house after first offering thanks to the rising sun, Dindrane holding the cup of wine while Baares conjoined his knife with it, an emblem and re-enactment of the rite that sustained and nourished the world.

Breakfast was good: dark bread, hot porridge, dried fruit, and the sacred wine of the Great Rite. Below, Lachrae was awakening, and somewhere nearby a woman and her man were singing a soft duet as they went about their morning tasks, her voice riding lightly upon his supporting bass: woman and man together, complementing one another, fulfilling their sacred roles.

A lump rose in Dindrane's throat at the thought that such wholeness still endured in the face of the continuous attacks from the land across the Cordillera. Any night could bring another visitation from the howling, ravening dogs, or from the brutal Grayfaces. And just two days ago, in broad daylight-daylight!-one of the flying things had streaked across the sky, ignoring the city and the kelp fishermen, making instead for Gryylth.

And what havoc had it raised in that distant land? She did not know. But it had not returned, and that fact made her uneasy. Was Gryylth in league with the dark land? Or had the people there actually found it within their will and their power to . . .

Dindrane paled and set down the cup. The thought was a grievous one. The dogs took life. The Grayfaces took life. The flying things brought fire and explosion. But what besides such unnatural horrors could wantonly and willfully kill?

The thoughts were still with her as she made her way toward the King's House along the broad, white streets of Lachrae, her torque of office about her neck and her long cloak wrapped tight against the morning cold. Townsfolk greeted her and exchanged hugs and news, but there was a sense of desperation and fear in their manner that was the product of nightly killings.

Dindrane tried to smile reassuringly so as to give them hope and strength, for as she was chief priestess, she could not but give of herself to sustain the people that were in her care. Her duty-indeed, the duty of all the women of Vaylle-was to provide that link with Divine Nurture that preserved both the people and the land.

But though she bade the townsfolk Goddess bless and good day, folding those she greeted in her arms in token of the Arms that, invisibly and constantly, held them all, her manner was somber, and she felt a despondent chill that could not be alleviated even by the sight of the children playing in the gardens or the sense of warm life that surrounded passing mothers-to-be. How long could Vaylle survive? For how many more mornings would that young woman and man, flushed with young love, consummate the Great Rite and blend their voices together in sweet song?

As though he shared Dindrane's feelings, King Pel-lam was slumped in his throne when she entered the vaulted hall of the King's House. His white head was bowed, his old fingers pressed to his forehead. He looked up as she approached. "Ah, Dindrane. 'Tis well you look today."

She curtsied before him, her full skirts rustling gracefully across the polished marble floor. "It is Wednesday, my king. I am here to make my report on Lachrae and Vaylle.''

"More tidings than yours we have of Vaylle today." Pellam gestured to a dark man who was dressed in the rough garments of a herdsman. "This is Orlen, a man of Armaeg. He arrived in the night. Orlen, I present Dindrane, chief priestess of Vaylle and magistrate of Lachrae."

"The Goddess bless you," said Dindrane.

"And the God, you," said Orlen. He had kept himself well wrapped in his cloak, but when he approached to take Dindrane's hand, she saw why: his right arm was badly scarred and burned, as though by teeth and acid.

" 'Tis bad in Armaeg then?" Dindrane kept her voice low, trying to instill into it the essence of comfort. But her heart was as cold as the morning.

Orlen shrugged and covered up his arm. " 'Tis bad everywhere. We live as we can." There was a quiet despair in his voice that, coupled with his maimed arm, lent him an air of one who continued to live only because his body refused to die. Dindrane was shaken when she looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing save bitter resignation.

We are all dying, she thought. Whether by the hounds and the Grayfaces, or by our own broken hearts, we are dying.

Pellam spoke politely. ' 'I would first hear of Lachrae, and then of Armaeg. Dindrane?" He gestured for an attendant to bring her a chair, but she shook her head and gave her report standing.

Still shaken, she began with mundane affairs: commerce, the conduct of the marketplace, the decisions of the clan chiefs regarding disputes and agreements. Children had been born and fostered, strangers who had arrived from distant parts of the country had been adopted by local clans, peasant farmers had applied for landholder status.

Life went on in Lachrae. But there was another part of her report, one which, less happy and more grave, had grown steadily over the weeks and months.

"Last night brought no new damage," she said, "and that is a blessed relief."

"Could it be that our tormentors have wearied of their sport?" said Pellam.

" 'Tis doubtful, my king." She went on to describe the attacks of the previous week. A household in the western part of the city had been breached in the night, the family dragged from their beds. Their bodies had been found the next morning, their skulls shattered by the weapons of the Grayfaces. The women of the family had been raped repeatedly.

The night before, hounds had broken through the shuttered and bolted window of the magistrate of the north precincts. Her husband had been killed, her children wounded. Her mother, though untouched, had retreated into a state of numb shock from which even Dindrane had been unable to rouse her.

And on and on. Dindrane had to fight to keep her voice from breaking as she recounted the tolls. Pellam slumped further in his throne, and several of his attendants turned away in an effort to compose themselves. Even Orlen, who seemed resigned to everything, seemed affected.