Marrget sighed. "I came to speak to the Goddess of this land," she said. "The one the Vayllens name Suzanne. I thought that She, perhaps, might counsel me."

Afraid that her eyes would betray her, Alouzon looked away. "Did She?"

Marrget shrugged. "I heard nothing. But perhaps it takes a priestess to hear the words of a Goddess."

"Maybe. But ... uh ..." Alouzon searched desperately for something to say, but found little. "I think that Gods probably work a little different than we do."

' 'Aye.'' Gathering her robe about her, Marrget rose. "I shall endure," she said to the silent stones. "I am Marr-" She fell silent, musing. "I am Marrget of Crownhark," she said softly. "I will not dishonor my name, my people, or . . ." She seemed to look within herself. "Or my sex."

Hand in hand, Alouzon and Marrget left the temple and threaded their way through the active streets of Mullaen. Word of the expedition's arrival had spread throughout the town, but though people greeted them and stared curiously and, at times, fearfully, Vayllen courtesy ensured that the two women found nothing intrusive about the attention.

The street took them back to the plaza, and as they crossed the broad lawn, they paused to examine the fountain at its center. It was carved with images of the Goddess and the God, and again Alouzon confronted the faces of Suzanne Helling and Solomon Braithwaite.

Marrget looked for a long time. "Perhaps it is well that She did not answer me," she said. "For I fear that She would tell me that I am flesh only, and that Karthin must be my guiding spirit.''

"She's got a sword." Alouzon had noticed the weapon back in Lachrae, but she seized upon it now as a hope and held it out to Marrget.

Marrget examined the carving again. "Aye. I do not understand."

"Neither do I." Alouzon found the sight of her old face, staring nobly and kindly through a wash of foaming water, to be unnerving, and she looked away, feeling ashamed. Solomon Braithwaite had created Gryylth, and had confined women to their homes. She herself had created Vaylle, and had apparently imprisoned her sex within walls of philosophy.

Young, old, middle-aged-all the women of Vaylle were lovely in their own way, but they seemed as incomplete as the hippie women who had, years ago, attempted to find their way back to a simpler life by submerging themselves in stereotyped domesticity.

But answers were never that easy to come by, and living was never so uncomplicated. If the M-1s had not taught her that, Gryylth certainly had.

Her eye fell on two girls who were sitting on a blanket on the lawn, laughing together. One was showing the other how to plait a circlet of dried flowers. Happy they seemed, but- Alouzon started and stared again. Manda and Wykla. "My God, I don't believe it."

Both young women were clad in the Vayllen tunic and loose skirts, and Wykla's face, though a little wan, was at peace. Fumbling with the unfamiliar technique that Manda was showing her, she laughed merrily at her own clumsiness; and when she saw Marrget and Alouzon, she freed a hand and waved.

"Manda thought that some sun would do me good," she explained when they approached.

Alouzon still stared. "Wykla?"

The girl blinked blue eyes. "Alouzon?"

"I can't believe you're in skirts."

Wykla was unfazed. "My armor is being cleaned and repaired," she said. "Enite lent me these clothes so that I would have something to wear. I ..." She shrugged, smiling, and set the circlet on her head. The dried blooms were bright against her amber hair. "I find nothing unseemly about them."

Manda had been staring at Marrget uncertainly, but she pulled her eyes away and turned them on her lover. Tenderly, she touched Wykla's face. "Nor should you."

Marrget spoke. "You are not ..." Words failed her, and she shook her head.

"Yesterday I was a warrior," said Wykla, "and I held a sword and wore armor. Today I am a towns-woman, and I don skirts and plait flowers. Tomorrow I will take up my sword again."

Marrget listened, and a tear found its way down her cheek.

"I . . ." Wykla noticed the tear. She faltered, but her captain shook her head and motioned for her to continue. Bravely, Wykla went on. "I think that a woman's life is one of changes. It is something that I must become used to. Once I was a man. Now I am a woman. I have fought battles, and I have been called a king's daughter. And ..." She put a new-healed arm about Manda's shoulders. "And I am a lover. I take up each new role as I have need of it."

Marrget contemplated Wykla's words for a minute, then, slowly, she nodded. "The Gods do indeed work in different ways, Alouzon," she said softly. "I have been given my answer." She bowed to Wykla. "And I have also been blessed with a wise lieutenant."

Wykla colored, but Marrget took Alouzon's hand and strolled off across the lawn. "The good wife promised me a hot meal this morning, friend Alouzon," she said, her head up and her tears drying. "And . . . and after breakfast, would you do something for me?"

Alouzon wondered at her. "Anything. Name it."

"Would you ..." Marrget thought for a moment and smiled softly, almost embarrassed. "Would you braid my hair?"

* CHAPTER 20 *

As King Pellam examined the slender figure of the boy sorcerer, his white eyebrows drew together as though he were attempting to read beneath the surface of the lad's unexpected request. ' 'Is it inhospitable you have found us?"

Helwych blinked in the glare from the polished floor. The shattered stained-glass windows allowed the full brilliance of the morning sun to flood the hall. Save for his own black robe, there was not a particle of darkness anywhere. ' 'Nay, you have not, my lord,'' he said smoothly. "I-"

A side door opened, and Pellam's young daughter appeared, her face begrimed with her tomboyish pursuits. She made as if to speak, but Pellam glanced at her and shook his head. For a moment she stared at Helwych with wise eyes, then she nodded and withdrew.

Helwych turned back to Pellam, annoyed that the girl had interrupted, irritated that, in order to be polite to a crippled old man and his ill-behaved child, he had to take no notice of it. "I have decided that it would perhaps be better for me to return to Gryylth and make .a preliminary report to King Cvinthil, so that he might be better apprised of the situation in Vaylle."

Pellam nodded his white head. " Tis ignorant he is of our difficulties."

"Indeed," said Helwych. "He is still convinced that Vaylle is the source of the attacks. I can assure him that this is not so."

Pellam debated. "I might," he said at last, "echo the question of Magistrate Dindrane. Will you then return with armies and weapons so as to make war upon Broceliande?"

Helwych was ready for that question. "I will have to leave that decision to Cvinthil," he said, "and to Darham of Corrin.''

Corrin. The name was as foreign to him as if he had called it Dremord Territory. And perhaps the latter was, after all, a more correct name, for a country that did not honor its sorcerers was deserving of nothing more than pejoratives.

Vaylle, he decided, had given him much more than new sights and sounds and curious nightmares. It had also given him perspective. Darham and Cvinthil were petty little kings of petty little lands, fit for nothing save the mundane affairs of peace and subsistence-level commerce. But extraordinary times demanded extraordinary actions: the events that had overtaken them were beyond their capabilities.

He had come to Vaylle as a frightened and inexperienced child, but he would return as ... something else. And though there had always been laughter in the looks that had been vouchsafed him in the past, that laughter would stop. Gryylth and Corrin needed a firm hand. Well, they would have it.

And was Pellam also laughing at him now? The glare made the king's form appear to float in the air, his voice, disembodied, echoing through the ruined and wasted hall. "Darham and Cvinthil. Whom you serve, I understand. Will you have a recommendation for them?"

Silly king. No sword, no shield, no armor. Not even a scepter. Helwych could feel nothing but contempt. "I will recommend . . . that they wait for news of Alouzon.'' He did not mention the fact that he himself would be the one bringing the news, after which they would not wait at all.

Pellam examined Helwych as though reading his mind. But Helwych reminded himself that that was impossible. A king could never fathom the depths of a sorcerer. That was why Cvinthil and Darham would be so easy to manipulate, why Pellam would find nothing at all unusual in his request to return home.

"Then so be it," said the king. "Depart when you wish. I will instruct one of the fishers of Lachrae to take you where you wish."

He examined Helwych again. Instinctively, the sorcerer shielded himself. Tireas had been fool enough to leave himself open to outside influences, but Helwych had learned from his master's failing. Nothing would affect him. Nothing could.

But as he bowed and went to gather his possessions, he found himself stumbling through half-abandoned thoughts. Vaylle was a pleasant enough place. Why did he want to leave? And Pellam had never laughed at him. He seemed an excellent king.

Laughter. Knowing looks. That dream. And the Specter.

v Fighting back tears, Helwych squared his shoulders find marched himself down the corridor. He had a great deal of work to do. But it would be satisfying work. And the fools would pay for their insolence.

Wykla was back in her armor the next day, and as the company saddled up in the early morning, she prepared to depart looking fit and healthy, proud of herself and of her body, secure in her love. She had been saddened to hear that her horse had been among those that had died in the battle, but she patted the nose of a Vayllen mount appreciatively and spoke softly to the beast. The horse seemed puzzled by her armor, but it accepted her, apparently deciding that it had changes of its own to experience.

Kyria also was greatly improved, and there was lightness to her movements as she swung into Gray-flank's saddle. With a gracious smile at Santhe, she took her place at Alouzon's side. "Gods bless, Alouzon," she said. "It's a fine morning, is it not?"

"Yeah. Great." Alouzon was looking at Dindrane, who, in contrast, seemed drained. There was color in her cheeks, and she appeared strong enough, but an uneasiness had taken up residence in her eyes and she gazed with uncertainty at Wykla and Manda, then at Marrget and Karthin. With a slight shake of her head and a clutch at her staff, she rode forward with Baares.

"The Goddess bless you," she said softly, her eyes averted.

Baares nodded his greeting. He glanced at Dindrane's staff and looked away, shamefaced, but his wife hardly noticed. ' 'Is the company ready to depart?'' he said.

Alouzon half turned in her saddle. "Marrget? Santhe? Ready?"

The captain nodded, her blond braid bobbing in the sunlight. "Ready, Dragonmaster." She patted die head of her mount. ' 'My horse was a little unsure about this Gryylthan wife with whom he has taken up, but he assures me that ..." She grinned. "That all will be well."

"I hope so." Manda's voice drifted up from the rear.

Marrget's face lost its humor. She bent her head briefly. "Indeed," she said softly. "And so do I."

"Come then," said Dindrane, still abstracted. "We have a full day's ride ahead of us before we reach Kent."

Alouzon stiffened. "Kent?"

Dindrane's unease deepened. " 'Tis so; Dragon-master. That is the town's name."

Alouzon swallowed her sudden nausea. "OK. Whatever."

The townsfolk saw them off with blessings and good wishes. The people of Mullaen had understood neither the customs nor the motivations of their sudden guests, but their somber assistance had been nonetheless generous and honest. The wounded had been healed, the weary had found rest, and those who had wished only to be friends had discovered that, though the Vayllens lived under a siege of fear and death, many of them defied both with a quiet dignity that was willing to embrace even warriors. There were both thanks and tears at the leave-taking.

The day passed, the road passed, the Cordillera scraped the sky. Though the rolling land had turned hilly, there seemed to be no smooth transition from foothills to mountains. The Cordillera appeared to rise up from what was a comparative plain in an almost sheer wall of rock.

Alouzon examined it, wondering again how she was supposed to travel beyond such an obstacle. Dindrane came out of her brooding long enough to answer. "There are passes," she said. "Above Kent."

Alouzon nodded. "OK." What had happened to Dindrane? Was it fear? "I don't know what your plans are," she said, trying to be conciliatory, "but we'll stay out of Kent if you want. And if you can give us some kind of map of the pass, you certainly don't have to go into Broceliande with us."

Neither statement seemed to relieve Dindrane. "Your presence in Kent is the ... least of my concerns. And as for our accompanying you into Broceliande ..." She looked to Baares, who was studying his harp intently, although there was nothing remarkable about it this morning. "We have made no decision regarding that."

Kyria had trotted up next to Baares. "We do not know what we may find in Broceliande," she said. "You told us that no one has ever returned from that land."

"That is true-" Dindrane caught herself. "I mean . . ." She trailed off. Her lip trembled.

"Dindrane?"

With an effort, Dindrane composed herself. "May I ask you some questions, Dragonmaster?"

Alouzon shrugged. "Shoot."

"You seek more in Broceliande than the origin of the Grayfaces and the hounds and the flying things. May I ask what, precisely, you are looking for?" Dindrane's eyes were still uncertain, but there was a glint, as of steel, within them that said she would not tolerate further dissembling.

"I ... uh ..." Alouzon looked to Kyria. The sorceress, alone among the company, had heard Silbakor's cautionary words and knew of the Grail.

Dindrane pressed. "Perhaps a Cup?"

There was an undercurrent of grief in her voice. Alouzon understood instinctively. "You've seen it."

"I saw . . . something. 'Twas a holy thing. What do you want with it?"

Alouzon was silent. Could she really explain to Dindrane that all of Vaylle was the tortured creation of someone as human and fallible as the priestess herself? That the Grail-ephemeral, transcendent, immanent-had condescended to make itself available so that the contradictions and flaws of both creation and creator could be amended?

"Tell me," said Dindrane. She stared straight ahead, blond and slight, but her shoulders were set with determination. "What do you want with it? Personal gain? Sovereignty? The-"

Kyria cut her off sharply. "Do you think that Alouzon is capable of that?"

Dindrane fell silent for a time. Then: "I do not."

"All right then."

"But there was another ... a man ..."

Kyria started, and Alouzon felt the nausea rise up again.

Dindrane let go of the reins and put her hands to her face. "You have brought terrible things to this land, Dragonmaster. I have seen what I wish I had not. I have done things of which I thought myself incapable." Baares reached out to comfort her, but she shook her head. "Not now, husband. I must travel this path alone."

It was Alouzon's turn to press. "What did you see?"

"The Grail."

"No, not that. The man."

Haltingly, Dindrane described the Specter and her encounter with it, and when she was done, Alouzon looked up at the Cordillera wishing that she could see beyond it. "Braithwaite."

Kyria blinked. "But he is dead."

Alouzon glared at her. "That wasn't what you said a couple days ago. Will you please take a stand and stick with it?"

"I am taking a stand," said Kyria. She turned to Dindrane. "Did the Specter look decayed?"

Dindrane's answer surprised them both. "It was not. But do you not remember, mistress sorceress? You were there."

"I was?"

"You fought the Specter. And you showed it something that ..." Her voice trailed off, and she looked at Kyria almost fearfully. "I do not wish to speak of it."

Kyria nodded. "A vicious old hag, correct?"

"Surely," Dindrane replied after a moment.

"This must have happened after Santhe and I-" Kyria stopped, blushed, and continued. "When I was asleep. I do not remember anything of it. I suspect I was guided to one who had need of my powers."

"Guided?" said Alouzon. "By who? Who else is dicking around with us now? The Specter wasn't decayed. What the hell does that mean?"

"I have not the slightest idea." The sorceress looked worried, then shook herself out of her thoughts with an effort, smiled at Santhe and breathed the air. "But it is indeed a pleasant day, is it not? A fitting jewel in the crown of the Goddess. Let us be glad of that."