Alouzon turned away from the voice and continued. Ahead, a glimmer of light manifested and grew.

"Alouzon."

"Leave me alone."

The light expanded, shining in green and gold. Alouzon found herself dressed in Levi's and a peasant blouse. Her sneakers trod the sunlit grass at the side of Taylor Hall, and above, on the terrace, Vorya and Mernyl leaned on the balustrade, nodding thoughtfully.

Everyone was waiting for her. The Guardsmen stood near the pagoda at the southwest corner of the hall, rifles ready, shuffling their feet in the manner of young men who are ill-at-ease and impatient. The photogra- pher readied his camera. Off in the parking lot, Allison's jacket flapped in the breeze as she waved. Sandy began walking toward her classroom. Bill was pondering. Jeff glowed in what he thought was a triumph of students over militia.

Alouzon took her position near the metal sculpture. It would be but a small matter now: a few inches, a minor correction of history, a willing sacrifice of a not-particularly-spotless victim who had lived too long on time that rightfully belonged to someone else. The Guardsmen brought up their weapons, and the one who had haunted her dreams leveled his rifle at her head for the last time, squinted carefully along his sights, and squeezed off a round in the prescribed manner.

Other bullets sped off toward the parking lot. Alouzon, though, was only concerned about the one that approached her, that swam out of the barrel of the M-l, phase shifting like a ball bearing rolling down a sewer pipe. The photographer behind her snapped a picture and threw himself to the ground.

Alouzon waited for the bullet. Only a few inches . . .

Harpstrings. And soft hands. And a staff that glowed with the purity of moonlight. Again the strange voice: "Alouzon."

"Leave me alone."

"You have friends here who will grieve."

She stopped. The bullet drifted closer. Yes, friends. And, for that matter, a whole world.

She was creator and guardian. The ending of her life would end the lives of many others: friends and enemies and people who had never met her, who did not even know that she existed. Her choices had been forced, true, but that fact did not alter her commitments.

The bullet, promising freedom, passed by. Alouzon sat down on the grass and wept, regretting all the love she had ever been offered, the love that tied her to life.

Dindrane's face was a study in the soft light of early evening when Alouzon opened her eyes. Nearby, someone was still playing a harp, the sound of the metal strings at once antique and timeless. "Do you hear my voice, child?" said the priestess.

Child. After years of responsibility and burden, the word had a refreshing sound. But she could no more be a child than a God. "Yeah. I hear. Thanks." It was paltry gratitude, but it was all she could manage.

She sat up. There was a fire burning nearby, but most of her companions were gathered about her, their faces mirroring concern. Wykla was weeping with relief, Manda's strong arms wrapped about her, and at Alouzon's first word, Marrget had sagged against Kar-thin, who himself looked worn and frayed.

With an instinct born of battle, Alouzon knew who was missing. "Santhe?" she said. "Parl? Birk?"

"Fear not: they are well," said Dindrane. "They keep watch over your companion, the one you call Kyria." The harp fell silent. "You saved our lives."

"Our thanks," came a deep voice, and Alouzon looked over her shoulder. The harper was a big man, almost the size of Karthin. In the firelight, his eyes gleamed like the bronze strings of his instrument. "Though your manner is strange, we perceive that you are indeed a friend."

"Alouzon," said Dindrane, "this is Baares, the king's harper and my husband, I add my thanks to his."

"What was I supposed to do? Let you fry?"

"I might have thought that you would do that thing," said Dindrane. She shook back her blond hair. She was as feminine as her voice; and her gestures, her language, even the set of her shoulders were soft and yielding. "You are very much unlike us, Alouzon Dragonmaster. You, a woman, bear arms, and you think of violence and death. And yet you would sacrifice yourself for us in a manner worthy of the God."

"It's part of the job," Alouzon mumbled. She passed her hands over her face, surprised that she still had a right arm. The last she remembered, it felt as' though it had been incinerated. She examined it in the firelight. There was not a mark on it.

"She healed you, Dragonmaster," said Helwych, keeping his distance. "I have never seen the like before. She . . ."

Dindrane examined the lad curiously. " 'Tis a healer I am. All priestesses are. With the power of a man's spirit behind me, I can sometimes reform flesh and blood."

Alouzon flexed her fingers. "Where's Kyria?"

Santhe's voice came to her from a short distance away. "She is here by the fire, Dragonmaster. Unconscious."

"She is unharmed," said Dindrane. "She merely sleeps. She seems to bear us ill will, and therefore I thought it best not to disturb her."

Marrget spoke, her voice angry and flat. "Dindrane and Baares returned good for ill, and yet Kyria would have slaughtered them without hesitation. I would she did somewhat other than sleep." Wykla murmured assent, as did Manda and the others.

"Enough, mother," said Dindrane. "You offered us violence, we offer you peace. 'Tis not as a friend that I hold Kyria, but I will not have her death contemplated here." Her mouth tightened. "There is enough death in this land already."

Alouzon understood. "The dogs, the jets: you don't have anything to do with them, do you?"

"Nothing. We suffer from them ourselves."

"Where do they come from?"

"They come from across the Cordillera, from the land we call Broceliande."

Alouzon almost laughed, but she stopped herself: it would have been too bitter a sound. Broceliande. In the Grail legends, it was a forest of nightmare and dream, where knights found guidance, adventure, and a spiritual fire that cleansed and harrowed their souls, readying them for the ultimate secret: the Grail itself. Here, the name might have been a signpost pointing her along her journey with an implacable finger.

"We need to go there, Dindrane," she said. "We've got things to do."

The priestess looked disturbed, and she exchanged fiances with her husband. Alouzon rose and went to er companions.

Wykla clung to her. "Alouzon . . . your arm was gone ... it was . . . gone ..."

"I'm OK, Wykla. Dindrane fixed it. I think we've got some good people here in Vaylle." She pulled Manda in beside Wykla, put her arms about them both, and felt the depth of the bond that had grown between the maid of Corrin and the girl of Gryylth. "I'm glad you two found each other."

"Indeed, Dragonmaster," said Manda, her steel facade cracking for a moment. "Wykla is a great help to me. But ..." Her eyes, hard and sorrowful both, met Alouzon's, and she shook her head.

Marrget came last, and she embraced Alouzon formally. "There is another matter we must settle now, friend." She indicated the still form of the unconscious sorceress. "I do not trust this woman."

"No one trusts her," said Karthin. He wrapped a protective arm about Marrget. "The blast threatened you, Alouzon, and might have killed my beloved, also."

His outspoken declaration of his relationship to Marrget made Manda blink and turn away, her fantasies of revenge suddenly complicated even more than they already were. Dindrane spoke softly. "An action doubly grievous for the life she bears within her."

A sudden thought struck Marrget, and her hand moved as though to rest on her belly. Catching herself, she instead grasped the hilt of her sword. "What is to be done, then, Alouzon?"

"I wish to hell I knew, Marrget." Alouzon looked around. "Where are the rest of your people, Dindrane?"

"Baares thought it best to send them home, and I yielded to his wisdom. Keeping them here would have needlessly exposed them to the nocturnal evils that stalk the land."

Kyria was stirring, a prisoner once again of the dreams that followed hard upon her expenditures of power. "Where ..."

Alouzon stood over her. "Parl, Birk," she said without looking up, "secure the area." The two men drew knives and moved out among the trees, but Santhe seemed reluctant to leave Kyria's side. "I'll handle this, councilor."

"I will tend to her, Dragonmaster," he offered.

"She'd just as likely take your hand off."

Chagrined, he turned to Karthin. "It seems, my friend, that others share your view of her."

"Can you blame them, Santhe?" said the big Cor-rinian.

"Nay. But sick dogs might be cured. And perhaps friendship is the physic that Kyria needs."

Karthin's eyebrows lifted. "Be careful, Santhe. I spoke in a similar fashion once, but I harvested love. I do not know what might lie amid your wheat."

The councilor shrugged-, unsheathed his sword, and vanished after his men.

Kyria was struggling in the grass, whimpering. Her staff lay on the ground several feet away. Eyes steely, Marrget planted herself before it.

"Wake up, Kyria." Alouzon stood over her. "Don't give me any more gas." The thought that Dindrane and her company might have been reduced to so much slag had kindled her anger, and she was not gentle as she prodded Kyria with a foot.

Kyria came up screaming. "Leave me alone, Kyria! My God ..." Her voice cut off suddenly. She regarded those about her like a trapped fox. "What the hell's going on?"

"Think about it," said Alouzon. "You might remember. ''

Kyria looked at Dindrane. The priestess folded her arms gracefully, but Kyria did not back down. "You can never be sure. If Sol taught me anything, he taught me that."

Alouzon wanted to strike her. "You nearly killed my people, bitch."

Dindrane spoke, her voice gentle and conciliatory. "Do not violate yourself by denigrating her womanhood. I-" A look from Alouzon made her fall silent, seemingly surprised at her own acquiescence.

Kyria caught sight of her staff and, still too unsteady to walk, crawled toward it, her long hair trailing in the dirt. "Get out of my way," she said to Marrget.

Marrget did not answer. Her sword rang as she drew it, Kyria stared. Then, her anger taking control, she came on. "Get out of my way, little boy."

Marrget paled, but the gleam in her eye turned murderous.

Alouzon caught hold of Kyria's arm, dragged her to her feet, shook her like a puppy. "Look, little girl, you listen now, and you listen good. You nearly killed a bunch of people because you were scared shitless. Why don't you just admit it? Dammit, do you want to get out of here?"

"You know what I want." Kyria's voice was a hiss.

"So what are you going to do? Kill everyone you meet until you find Sol? Nice fucking job. How many kids are you going to knock off in the meantime?''

Alouzon might as well have struck Kyria, for the sorceress went white. "How dare you-"

"Don't give me that nose-in-the-air New England crap. We're all in this together, you don't know jack shit about this place, and if you want to get anywhere, you're going to have to play ball."

"You act just like a goddam man!"

"If you're the alternative, then I thank the Gods!"

Alouzon and Kyria had been shouting, faces inches from one another. Now each struggled for words to convey the anger she felt, but in the silence came another sound, one as strange and yet familiar as that of jet turbines.

. . . pok-pok-pok-pok . . .

Everyone looked skyward. "Chopper," said Alouzon.

A shrill whistle came from one of the sentries. "People are coming," said Karthin.

Dindrane put a hand to her mouth. "Grayfaces."

"Who?"

Baares spoke. "They come in the night, and they kill." His eyes had turned troubled, and he looked at the Gryylthans' weapons with something that seemed very like envy.

The rotors of the helicopter changed pitch as the craft slowed, turned, and began to approach. "I'll bet it's looking for us," said Alouzon. "The chopper will call in an airstrike, unless it's got rockets of its own."

Karthin did not understand the terminology, but he was already smothering the fire. With a strained look at Dindrane, Baares moved to help, scooping earth with his large hands. The flames sputtered and smoked and refused to go out easily. If the helicopter had infrared detectors, Alouzon knew, even the residual heat would be enough to draw its attention.

If? Vaylle was her land. She had created it. The very fact that she thought of infrared detectors at all practically guaranteed that the helicopter possessed them.

Helwych ran to the protesting fire and lifted his staff. "Allow me." The flames died instantly, and all traces of heat vanished.

With a roar, the helicopter sped directly over the camp, a dark shape that sent a fleeting moon shadow across the bare branches of the trees. The fire had been extinguished just in time, but another whistle from Santhe and his men told of the proximity of the intruders.

Alouzon had no idea what the Grayfaces were, did not want to find out, was going to anyway. "Kyria, will you help?"

"Will you give me my staff?"

Alouzon was stuck. Helwych's spells were severely restricted, and armor and swords were as nothing against the weapons of the twentieth century. She needed magic. "Damn."

To her surprise, Kyria did not gloat. "Just give me the goddam staff and let me screw myself over again,'' she said resignedly. ' 'I promise I won't blow anyone up unless I absolutely have to."

"I am not reassured," said Marrget. She picked up the staff and offered it to Kyria. "Here, mistress sorceress. I pray you: use it well."

Dindrane spoke up. "I pray you: do not kill." Even in the face of multiple threats to her life she maintained her quiet dignity and surety of purpose.

The helicopter made another pass. Once in Kyria's hands, the staff sprang into lambent life. "Look, honey," she said, "I don't particularly want to die out here."

"Nor do I," returned the priestess. "But if I am to be led into the Far Lands, I would prefer to meet my God with clean hands."

The helicopter closed on them. Perhaps it could pick up body heat. Cursing herself for the thought, Alouzon considered having the party spread out, then recalled the Grayfaces. "Kyria, we're fucked."

The sorceress was scanning the sky. "Creaming the chopper won't do anything, will it?"

"It might bring in the B-52s."

"That's what I thought."

A series of shrill whistles, the sudden crack of a rifle. In the distance, wood splintered with the impact of a small-caliber, high-velocity bullet. Kyria reacted by striking her staff on the ground. In the darkness, a deeper darkness began to gather. "This should make you happy, Dindrane," she said. Then, lifting her voice, she cried: "Santhe! Parl! Birk! Get in here! Bring the horses!"

She had just advertised the location of the party to every being within earshot, but she seemed confident of her powers. Given the demise of the Skyhawk and the battering of the White Worm, Alouzon reflected, perhaps she had reason to be.

Branches crashed as Santhe and his men plunged back toward the camp, each leading several horses. "Where's Jia?" said Alouzon.