"Thanks for what?"

"For sticking up for Marrget."

"What the hell am I supposed to do? Hate her?"

"That's what it sounded like a couple days ago."

"So I was wrong. Shut up and leave me alone."

...or Californian. Alouzon felt a stab of guilt when she considered that, since the sorceress had come to this world, she had been fed only a steady diet of lies and deceptions.

She shifted uneasily on her horse. "I think, Dindrane," she said, "that we might surprise you."

The priestess looked sad. "You have surprised me already."

The road took them over a hill and into a valley. There, beside a large bay of the sea, Lachrae glittered in the sunlight as though sculpted of alabaster.

This was no reconstruction of a fifth-century town, with muddy streets snaking through a collection of rude huts that seemed not so much planned as cobbled hastily together. The capital of Vaylle was ordered and purposeful, its stone buildings flanking broad thoroughfares that radiated from a central plaza like sunbeams. The King's House was a grand presence of sloping roofs and curving eaves, and next to it were the precincts of the temple: gardens and wide lawns in which stood a ring of standing stones that rivaled the Circle in beauty and strength.

Alouzon stared, wondering. In creating Vaylle, she had, it seemed, not merely slavishly continued Solomon Braithwaite's theme of ancient Britain, but had instead reached even further into the realms of fancy to erect shining cities of glory and peace.

Her companions were moved by the sight, and in silence they rode toward the eastern gate. It was no more than an archway over the road, and was large and white and constructed of fine marble that had been thickly carved with Celtic motifs and meanders.

Dindrane signaled a halt and faced the company. ' 'I will take you to King Pellam," she said, "but I beg you: leave your swords in their sheaths, your knives in their scabbards, and let your staves of magic be idle. These days, Lachrae is a place of sorrow. Do not add to our woes by showing weapons."

"We are guests," said Marrget. "To do other than the will of our hosts would be a grave discourtesy.''

Dindrane looked at her. "I will never understand you," she said softly. "Noble and barbaric both, you shame yourself with your actions, and yet you shame us with your words."

Shaking her head, she led them into the city. Baares rode on her right, Alouzon on her left, and Santhe and Parl and Birk followed after, their swords sheathed but their hands nonetheless close to the hilts. Behind them came Kyria and Helwych, the one with lowered head and suspicious eyes, the other erect and eager to make a good appearance.

Marrget and Karthin rode hand in hand, Marrget's face at once contemplative and tender, fearful and defiant. She might have entered this city as she en- tered her own sense of womanhood, passing an imponderable door that led into both mystery and glory, gripping the hand of one who was a friend and a lover.

Under the guise of providing a rear guard, Manda had stayed far behind the column. Wykla was with her, and the two women were open with their affection. But though Wykla's eyes shone with wonder at the marvels that opened before her, Manda's were shadowed and grim.

Lachrae was lovely. The streets were paved with stone, and the white buildings might have been freshly scrubbed that morning. Banners hung from poles and spires, and fountains bloomed in the squares and commons, filling the air with the sound of water. Though the people of the city looked at Alouzon and her party with amazement and perhaps a little fear, they greeted the strangers with bows and polite words; and children ran up to stare and then followed after, laughing.

All was peace and friendship in Lachrae, and Alouzon felt unclean for intruding into such a place with weapons of war and thoughts of violence. But, looking carefully, she saw that the Vayllens' tranquillity was muted. If the townspeople looked fearfully at their weapons, it was because they had come to the knowledge of what weapons could do. And though Dindrane took a course through the city that bypassed the worst signs of destruction, Alouzon caught glimpses of damaged and shuttered houses, and of doors hung with black garlands of mourning.

And they won't fight. . .

It was perfect pacifism, the idealism of the 1960s brought to life, the jeans and t-shirts gilded with a more dignified and ancient raiment, the storefronts and cheap student apartments clad in marble, chalcedony, and bronze. Peace, it had once been believed, would triumph; but that sentiment had flowered in the summer of love, borne bitter fruit in the Days of Rage, and rotted on a May morning at Kent State.

Give peace a chance. Suzanne Helling had said that herself. But peace was a fragile thing, easily crushed by the threat of enslavement on a summer night in Bandon, rent by bullets, or corroded by tear gas. And even a Gandhi would meet defeat at the hands of an enemy who did not blench at mass slaughter.

King Pellam had no need of guards, but his state demanded attendants, and when Dindrane led Alou-zon's party into the courtyard before the King's House, they were met by several men and women who were dressed in a rich livery of white and gold, with the king's emblem on their tunics.

Alouzon stared as she dismounted, not only because Dindrane and Baares embraced each of the attendants as though they were family, but because the insignia they bore depicted a cup and a knife, conjoined, surrounded by thorns of red and black. The correspondence to the symbolism of the Grail legends was too close to be a coincidence, and she suddenly wondered if, impossibly, the Holy Cup were actually here, in Lachrae.

The horses were led away, and Dindrane and Baares stood before the tall bronze door of the House and turned to the members of the expedition. "Enter in," said the king's harper. "Here we have left the land, and come to another place. Therefore, as spirit of the realm, I greet you and ask you to put aside your weapons."

Kyria's eyes narrowed. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"We'd like to go along with your wishes, Baares," said Alouzon, "but I'm afraid that we can't. We agreed to keep the swords sheathed. We're not putting them aside."

"You may not enter this sacred ground armed."

"Come on, Baares. You know we won't hurt you or your king. We've been nice up until now. Please don't strain our courtesy.''

Baares stood firm. "This is the heart of Vaylle. To enter in with arms is a violation.''

But Alouzon sensed that his words were hollow. He had looked on the swords with envy, and had scowled at the destruction of Daelin as if he would, with sufficient provocation, renounce his vows of peace and lash out with whatever weapon was closest to hand.

But though his eyes were uneasy, Baares was shaking his head. "I cannot let you pass."

Dindrane stood beside him. "I will add my voice to my husband's."

Alouzon was half of a mind to call up the fading hippie within her and sit down on the floor of the courtyard until the Vayllens saw reason. But the hippie would never have protested Baares's demand, and in any case her place had long ago been taken by someone who knew the value of a sword, who knew that there was a time for battle as well as for peace, who had gained the profound and uneasy knowledge brought by deliberate homicide.

Several minutes went by. Kyria was raging, though to her credit she was saying nothing. The warriors seemed inclined to trust Alouon with the matter, but Helwych seemed acutely embarrassed.

But then, noiselessly, the thick bronze door cracked open, and a young girl stuck her head out. Fair haired and blue eyed, she was dressed like a boy, and her hands were dirty, as though she had been playing in the street. "My father says that you should come in," she said gravely.

"They bear weapons," said Baares.

Halting footsteps approached the half-open door. "So do the Gray faces," said another voice, "and the hounds have teeth, and the flying things bring their own death."

The door swung open to reveal King Pellam, white-haired and solemn. He examined the expedition fearlessly. "Come," he said after a moment. "Come into my house, all of you. Bring what you will: if what is Vaylle is so tender that it will not withstand the tread of a booted foot, then we are all lost indeed.''

For his looks and his voice, he might have been Vorya come back again in different robes, and for a moment Alouzon wondered if that were not the case. But Pellam was lame, and she again recalled the legends of the Grail. No, this was not a simulacrum dredged up out of recent memory. This man came from deeper sources. This was Pellam, the Fisher King, who kept the Holy Cup, who waited for the asking of a single question so that both his body and his land could be healed.

Broceliande, and now Pellam himself, surrounded by attendants whose livery bore the conjoined cup and knife. How close was the Grail?

Leaning on the arm of his hoydenish daughter, Pellam led the party into the hall. Vaulting soared up in peaks and ribs, and stained-glass windows rose from floor to ceiling, spilling their colors across the inlaid floor, drenching the room in their multicolored hues. Here was blue. And red the color of blood. Here was a springtime green, a sun-struck yellow, a pain-llled indigo as deep as the evening sky.

Pellam laboriously climbed the three steps to his throne and sat down. He smiled at his daughter. She smiled back and scampered away to a side door.

Though large, the hall was all but deserted; but the aura of sanctity and authority that hung about the King's House was not dependent upon large numbers of people or the ostentatious display of wealth or arms. It was, instead, a presence in itself, one that would have remained even if the building had been leveled; and Alouzon wondered from what depths of her soul had come something so holy and peaceful.

It's the Grail, It wants me. Maybe I'm doing something right after all.

Baares and Dindrane presented each member of the company by name, and Pellam fixed them one by one with his old, gray eyes, as though he were examining a palimpsest. "My magistrate and my harper went to Daelin to find you," he said at last, his voice dry and tired. "And you came to Vaylle, I think, to find us. Here we are. What do you wish?"

Slowly, respectfully, Alouzon told him of Bandon, and of the hounds that prowled in the night. She recounted the decisions of the council held at Kingsbury and described the purpose of her expedition.

Pellam listened, unmoving, his eyes flickering slowly in the changing colors from the windows. "You are called Dragonmaster, Alouzon," he said. "Why is this?"

"I ... uh ..." Where was the Dragon? In what part of the universe was it locked in perfect and un-resolvable conflict with its antithesis? She had no idea. She had not even attempted to summon it for fear that she would distract it and so give the White Worm a momentary and lethal advantage.

"Lord king," said Marrget, "upon occasion, Alouzon rides on the Great Dragon called Silbakor.''

Dindrane and Baares exchanged glances: worried, silent.

"And where is this beast?"

"We do not know, King Pellam."

" 'Tis yet another quest you have before you, it seems," said Pellam. He looked at Marrget carefully, nodding his white head. "Honor to you, mother."

Marrget flushed. She acknowledged his words with a stiff bow.

"You have met us, Alouzon," said Pellam. "Are you satisfied that the troubles that afflict your lands also afflict ours?"

"If I had any doubts," she said, "Daelin got rid of them."

"Daelin?" The king looked grave.

Dindrane spoke. "My king, the Grayfaces destroyed Daelin last night."

Pellam bent his head. "May the God take them into the lands of the Goddess," he said softly. "May they find peace in Her arms." For a minute, he was silent. Finally: "The horrors that you seek come from Bro-celiande. What will you do now, Alouzon? What do you want?''

It was tempting to believe that the answer to Pel-lam's question lay among the bright cities of Vaylle, or sheltered in its deep forests, or enshrined among its sweet meadows. And it was true that, in the legends, Pellain himself guarded the Cup. But legends were one thing, and freshly created worlds and search-and-destroy patrols were another: the Grail could never be an aggressor but, constrained by its own divine being, neither could it could ever be so passive as to allow its ineffable presence to be so often violated.

The answer and the Grail lay farther on. Beyond the Cordillera. In Broceliande.

Knowing that they would understand her unspoken question, Alouzon looked to her companions. Marrget and Karthin nodded, as did Santhe; and Parl and Birk merely looked ready for whatever was asked of them. Kyria was as defiant as ever: she would follow her ex-husband's footsteps over the edge of the world for a chance at revenge. The loyalty of Manda and Wykla was perfect.

Helwych alone seemed distressed at the prospect. His fear might have been painted on his face. "Drag-onmaster," he said, "we have fulfilled our task. The enemy is not Vaylle. We should return before ..." He searched for a plausible reason. "... before we bring more harm to this place."

"What harm have we brought?" said Marrget suddenly. "We have responsibilities. To turn back now would mean ..." She faltered for a moment, regarding her body as though it had suddenly turned into an alien presence. "It would mean . . . weakness." Her eyes turned hollow, and Karthin and Santhe put their arms about her shoulders.

"Helwych," said Alouzon, "you can stay here if you want-if the Vayllens will have you-but we're going on to Broceliande." Helwych looked angry and indignant both, but Alouzon bowed to Pellam. "If the king will permit us."

Pellam considered. "You are armed. Your customs are strange. But the Goddess and the God teach us that we are all perfectly suited for our purposes in life, being given neither too much nor too little for the accomplishment of our tasks." His gaze turned to Dindrane, piercing and level. "Is that not true, priestess?"

" Tis true, my king." Her voice was a whisper in the stillness of the hall.

Pellam nodded slowly. "Flesh knows what spirit knows. But its knowledge is instinctual. That of the spirit is conscious."

Baares spoke. "Are we therefore reprimanded, lord?"

"You are not. Wisdom is a slow growth." The king's eyes were deep. "We live for peace, but even so, 'tis only imperfectly that we understand that ideal." He lifted a hand, and a sunbeam conspired with the stained glass to turn it the color of blood. "Peace may well be of as many hues as these windows. Even the Goddess bears a sword."

He turned to Alouzon. "I perceive, Dragonmas-ter ..." And when he spoke the title, his eyes searched her face as though reading, line by line, the almost-effaced history of the war-protesting hippie. "...that your accouterments may indeed be in perfect harmony with what might lie across the Cordillera. Therefore I give you these permissions: to come and go as you please, to have the help and succor of all who dwell within my realm, and to defend your lives as may be necessary." He stood up and raised his hand in the manner of a priest bestowing a benediction. "All this do I grant in the name of the God who is called Solomon, and the Goddess who is known as Suzanne."

The names struck Alouzon like a club, and she was still reeling when Pellam bowed to them and departed, limping, his hand bracing his weak thigh and his white head flickering through the rain of colors that flooded the great hall with living light.

Dindrane approached Alouzon, her face concerned. "Are you not well, Dragonmaster?"

"I'm ... I'm just tired," she managed.

She should have realized it before, felt like a fool because she had not. Guardian she was. Guardian . . .

. . . and God.

* CHAPTER 15 *

When the interview with Pellam was over, the attendants reappeared and led the members of the expedition to the guest rooms of the King's House. There they found hot water for baths, and soft beds; and though the food offered was entirely meatless- the Vayllens adhering to their principles of nonviolence even in matters of diet-everything was provided with smiles and courteous speech.

For Marrget, though, the Vayllens reserved their kindest words. They addressed her as mother, wished her health and an easy birth, but seemed uncomprehending when Marrget, first gently, and then with a rising sense of urgency, requested that they call her captain.

Since she had first picked up a sword, her life had been a life of action and of deeds. She could be proud of her behavior in battle. She could count the number of enemies that she had slain. But the Vayllens cared nothing for her battles or the lives she had taken. Concerned only with her capacity for bringing forth life, they honored her not for something that she did, but for something that she was. A woman. A mother.

Shock finally flooded into her like a spring tide; and that night she slumped before the hearth in the room that she shared with Karthin. The fire crackled and snapped, and Karthin rocked her like a child, humming a Corrinian harvest song under his breath.

"Are you frightened, Marrha?" he said at last.

"There is a great silence within me, my love. And a storm, too."

"In me also." Putting his hand beneath her chin, he lifted her head until he could look into her eyes. "When I told you of my love, I had not intended to burden you."

' 'When I took you to my bed, I had not intended to burden myself." She forced a smile. "Save with you. But ..." Lifting her hands, she touched her body. Soon, very soon, it would be unfamiliar once more.

"Do you wish you were a man again?" he said softly.

Marrget flushed. "Had you asked me the first day or the first year, I would have said yes. Now ..." Her mouth worked. "Now I cannot say that. It seems you have made a woman of me." Her voice broke. "And a mother." She refused to weep. Tears were a weakness.

Karthin cradled her. "The Vayllens think highly of that."

"I do not know what to think."

"In my land, as Manda said, women are honored both as maids and as mothers. We do not chain them to the cooking pots."

"Then ..." There was her fear: ripe with the odor of female musk, slick with a woman's melt, loud with the cries of children. Regardless of her deeds, regardless of her valor, her very being pointed toward a future of subservience as unmistakably as her breasts (were they growing tender now?) filled the front of her tunic. "Then we must live in Corrin forever," she said. "For I will not submit."

"I do not ask you to."

"Manda's revenge seems-" She caught herself and stared. Her tongue had tripped her.

"Marrha?"

"I . . ." Oh, Gods, he had given her love and respect, had held her as she had learned the ecstasy of her body. She could not keep it from him any more.

"There is something between you, I know."

She nodded, rose, and went to the fire. "There is a grave something between us." She spoke with her eyes on the flames; and as she told Karthin of the rape, she saw it as if through Manda's eyes. Her man's face was broad and strong, and it hovered above her, eyes clenched, mouth set in a grimace, bobbing rhythmically with each thrust.

And then the rape-and her tale-was over, and the man's eyes opened to show, briefly, an incongruous trace of fear. The violation, though directed outward, had turned inward and branded an otherwise spotless life with a blazon of impurity.