"Indeed! Your husband then. Does he allow you to go about like a whore?"

Sniggering. The shapes of the young men were faint in the early morning shadows. But their voices were loud enough.

Wykla tried to ignore them. She was a messenger.

She had work to do. "If you were within sword's reach," she murmured, "you would learn some courtesy." As though she had not heard, she continued with her work, checking the fastenings of the harness one last time, wartroop-style.

"Why is your hair not braided?"

The jibe stung, and she bent quickly, picked up a hand-sized cobble from the street, and flung it with skill. The crack of impact was a satisfying one, the cry of pain more satisfying still. She drew herself up, and her amber hair was bright as she pointed at the doubled-over form of her tormentor. "My hair is not braided because I am unmarried, bumpkin," she said, her voice clear and her tone sharp. "It is tied back because I am of the First Wartroop. And had you courage to match your foul mouth I would gladly show you what a real warrior can do with a sword."

She swung up into the saddle and rode down the street, trying to keep back her tears.

Having had eighteen months in which to get used to such incidents, she would have thought that she would be less affected by them. But such time appeared to be insufficient. She wondered if the rest of her life might be enough. She would, she supposed, find out.

There were guards at the town gate, too, but they were seasoned men, and they knew her from the war. They saluted her with the gruff manner of comrades and wished her a safe trip. "Gods bless, Wykla."

"Gods bless."

"Is it war with Vaylle, then?"

She stopped for a moment. "It could well be. Cvinthil is asking for aid from Corrin."

One of the men laughed. "It will be different fighting with the phalanxes rather than against them."

"I am not so sure," said the other. "Vaylle lies across the White Sea, and what would the folk there want with us?''

"What?" said the first. "You think that it is Corrin we should fight?"

He seemed bewildered. "I am of two minds. Kar- thin is a good man, and I look at him and I say to myself, Shame on you, Dyylic, for thinking such thoughts. But I do not know his countrymen, and so ..." He shrugged. "What do you think, Wykla?"

She shook her head and tried to smile. "I think that I have a long ride ahead of me, and ..." She looked back, listening to the cursing that was drifting from the Hall. "... and I hope that the people of Gryylth will someday be as kind to me as Karthin of Corrin."

"Well said." The first guard reached up, clasped her hand, and nodded toward the Hall. "Dyylic and I will thrash the bumpkin tonight.'' H6 grinned. ' 'If you have left us anything to thrash."

Wykla's smile turned thin. "There are plenty of others like him if I did not, friend. Farewell." And she rode down the hill and into the growing morning.

Gryylth unfolded like a gray and white tapestry as she rode eastward, its hills and valleys thrown into highlights and shadows by the ever-rising sun, its trees and hedgerows transformed into pied apparitions of old snow and bare branches.

In this cold season she met few travelers, for there was little business save hers that would call for long journeys. She was glad of that. Better a long road and winter's loneliness than the deeper isolation carried by the inadvertent companions that summer would bring. The story of the First Wartroop was known across Gryylth, and there were those who stared and asked rude questions, and there were those who laughed . . .

Even her fellow warriors-the ones who spoke to her as to an equal-had uttered thoughtless words. You are a woman now, Wykla. You understand these things. Understand? Understand what? That she was now the sport of every dolt who believed that no woman, even one with the rank of warrior, was a match for a man? What is it like to be a woman? What is it like to make love ?

She had no idea. She had gone to Kallye, the midwife, professing ignorance of herself, asking halting and embarrassing questions. But though the midwife could teach her what any woman knew of her body- of breasts and monthly flows, of strengths and weaknesses-Wykla was acutely conscious that she had yet to grasp the connotations of her new identity. She was a woman. What did that really mean? She could not say. And as for making love . . .

A few weeks ago, one fool had tried to give her that experience. Forcibly. He had died of a sword thrust. Wykla still shuddered at the memory, still wondered if she had done something wrong, something that had falsely encouraged him.

Such events made for an uneasy and confusing life, and she wished that Alouzon would return to Gryylth soon, for the Dragonmaster had always been a source of strength for her, someone she could look to as an example. If Alouzon could be a woman, calm and sure of herself, then Wykla of Burnwood could be a warrior, could eventually understand her own body and her own loneliness, and perhaps could even hope that, someday, there might be some love in her life.

Love. A hard thing to imagine. What man could she ever accept? What woman would have her?

The sun crossed toward the west. Wykla made good speed, eating while she rode and changing horses in Amesbury and at the site of the old garrisons at the southwestern end of the Great Dike. Afternoon was well along when she crossed the border into Corrin, but she expected to make Benardis by dusk, and the idea that she could sleep that night in a town where her dual status of woman and warrior was considered nothing unusual was an attractive one.

The lands of Corrin looked much like those of Gryylth. But there were differences. The few individuals she saw working in the fields-forking out hay for the cattle and horses, breaking holes in ice-covered troughs so that the animals could drink- seemed to be women as often as they were men. Regardless of their sex, though, they waved to her and wished her a good day with cheerful sincerity.

And later, when she was within sight of the capital, a rider appeared on the road ahead, making haste for her. It was a young woman, her yellow hair ruddy in the streaming sunset and her way with her body easy and confident. She approached at full gallop, reined in at the last moment. ' 'Hail and welcome to Corrin, woman of Gryylth," she said. Her smile was broad, and her hair, braided to one side, bounced jauntily over her shoulder. "Darham the king sends you greeting."

She was tanned and slim, and sat a head taller on her horse than Wykla. Her leathers were close-fitting and cut to flatter a woman's figure.

Now it was Wykla who stared. A woman, and a warrior, and proud ... "I... I bring messages from King Cvinthil."

"We saw you coming, and I was sent to be your escort and guide. I am Manda of Dubris, of the King's Guard."

"Wykla of Burnwood. Of ... of the First War-troop."

Manda froze, stared at her, examined her face as though to memorize it. "Of the First Wartroop, you say?"

"Aye, lady." And to show Manda that she was not ashamed of her company or its fate, she tossed her cloak back over her shoulders to show her personal insignia and that of the wartroop.

Surprisingly, though, Manda did not seem so much curious as stricken. She examined the escutcheons earnestly, then shook her head and sighed as though with relief. "Come, Wykla," she said. "You are welcome in my land. Please forgive my discourtesy."

"It is well, Manda."

Still, the Corrinian maid seemed chagrined by her behavior. "Should your duties cause you to stay the night, my household would be honored to receive you."

But her look had been too searching, and Wykla still chafed at the morning's encounter. "I . . . I do not wish pity,'' she said softly.

"Will you ..." Manda looked off toward Gryylth, pressed her lips together, bent her head. "Will you accept a friend, then?"

Wykla was puzzled. "Why should you be my friend?"

Manda smiled uncomfortably. "You look as though you could well use one, and it is a custom of Corrin to offer." She turned her horse. "Come, night is approaching." She set off at a brisk trot. Wykla looked after her for a moment, then followed.

Like the land of which it was the capital, Benardis was both familiar and foreign. Wykla saw the same houses of wattle and daub, stone and timber; she rode along the same dusty streets as were characteristic of any town of Gryylth. But here there were too many women out of doors, and they conducted themselves with too much freedom: their gestures broad and quick, their smiles and voices free.

Wykla felt her face color. I am a woman, too. This should please me.

But she had not always been a woman, and Gryylth was still inching toward this kind of freedom. She looked on enviously as Manda spoke familiarly to a young soldier in the street and sent him running ahead without apology or hesitation. Manda was in charge of her life, and she was comfortable with it.

She had also obviously given the lad a sense of urgency, for when they reached the king's lodge in the center of town, Darham himself was waiting for them. He was a tall, broad man, and what parts of his face were not covered by an immense golden beard were creased with lines of laughter. But Wykla, looking closer, noticed the streak of sadness in his otherwise bright blue eyes.

"Welcome, warrior of Gryylth," he said, standing up to greet his guest in the manner of the kings of Corrin. To either side of him, his personal guards, men and women, nodded formally. One, a young man with the faintest trace of a mustache, even grinned at her.

She felt suddenly cold, and fumbled with her words for a moment before she could speak. "Hail, King of Corrin," she said. To her own ears, her voice sounded pale and uncertain in comparison to Barbara's. "Wykla of Burnwood brings you greetings from the King of Gryylth, who urgently desires your counsel and aid in the matter of Vaylle, the land across the White Sea."

She still felt cold, and would not have been at all surprised if her hands had been shaking, though she would not look. Darham noticed, though, and he turned to Manda. "Has this woman been offered refreshment after her long journey?"

"I requested it, my king," said Manda. "She asked that she see you without delay, and therefore I instructed the stewards to bring the food and drink here."

"That is good. Bring a chair for Wykla of Burn-wood."

The young man with the mustache acted before the others, and nearly fell over himself as he dragged a cushioned chair forward. Wykla nodded to him, but she was thankful when her escort stepped up. "I shall attend to our guest myself," said Manda.

"As you wish." The guard sounded disappointed.

Bread, wine, and cheese were brought to Wykla, and though she protested at eating in front of a king, Darham insisted that she take something before she continued. "Time does not move so fast," he said, "that we must torment one another more than we already have. But if you feel you must speak, tell me something of my friend Karthin. Is he well?"

"He is, King Darham." Wykla nibbled at the food without real appetite, speaking between bites. She told of Karthin's work during the first, hard winter, of his continuing advice to Cvinthil. She even told of his friendship with Marrget of Crownhark, and was surprised that her words made it sound as though something more than friendship existed between the two captains. Marrget and Karthin? But- "I am heartily glad to hear this news," said Dar- ham. ' 'Karthin and I pleaded the cause of peace before Tarwach in the final hours of the war, and though at that time my brother did not agree with us, it is pleasing to know that peace has brought so much to both our lands."

Wykla picked at the food without enthusiasm, wondering how Darham would react when he was told that Gryylth and Corrin were not through with war, that another seemed to be beginning. At length she could pretend hunger no more, and she pushed the platter aside.

Darham's eyes were on her. "And what news does Cvinthil have for me?"

Wykla would have stood, but Darham shook his head and motioned for her to remain seated. Feeling much as she supposed Gelyya had in Hall Kingsbury, and with Manda a blond presence at her shoulder, she recounted the story of the attack on Bandon, the experiences of the First Wartroop, and Gelyya's testimony.

At the mention of the wartroop, Darham seemed to start, and he looked at Wykla more closely, unconsciously covering his right forearm with his left hand. He said nothing, though, until she was finished.

"Helwych," he said.

"Here, my king," said a young man clad in a gray robe. Wykla had not noticed him before, and he now stepped out of the shadows as though enjoying the effect of his sudden, unexpected appearance.

"You heard?"

"Everything." Helwych regarded Wykla openly, rubbing his beardless chin. His face was neither narrow nor round, but seemed to hesitate between the two extremes, unwilling to commit itself to a position. His hair, the color of a brown mouse, hung lankly to his shoulders. His hands alone seemed definite: thin, finely detailed. They held his wizard's staff tightly, as though he were afraid that someone would attempt to snatch it from him.

Darham shifted on his simple stool. "What do you think?"

"Vaylle indeed seems to be the culprit." Helwych nodded with assurance. "I have . . . given some thought to that land these last days. I have studied my books and examined the upper spheres, and yet Vaylle is closed to me. Some working of magic, I think, shrouds the land."

"That does not sound good," said Darham.

"Needless to say," said the sorcerer, "it makes me suspicious."

Darham turned back to Wykla. "And King Cvinthil wishes aid from me? Arms?''

"Arms and soldiers, lord," she said, "and ..." She nodded to Helwych. "... whoever else you might be willing to send. Bandon was thoroughly leveled. Such an action demands retribution."

Helwych spoke quickly. "I would be more than happy to go to Gryylth, my king. I am gratified that my small reputation seems to have spread so widely.''

But the Corrinian king frowned, and the sad streak in his eyes broadened. "Gryylth was ever disinclined to leave a blow unrevenged," he murmured. He lifted his head and spoke more loudly. "Nor can I blame Cvinthil. My brother did not ignore the burning of our fields, and had I been king then, I would have made the same decisions as he."

But Darham's face softened into a faint smile. "But we all know where such decisions brought us. Our fields were burned, true. But Gryylth's were forced to do double duty, and her people worked long and hard to feed their former enemies. This, maybe, teaches us the value of circumspection."

Wykla stared at him. Did I carry sword against this man?

Helwych started to speak, but Darham held up a hand for silence. "Vaylle is an unknown," the king continued. "I am sure that my brother in Gryylth has given thought to the consequences of his actions, but I would he consider them further. Our two lands have but recently concluded their treaties, and I am unwilling to part so hastily with our new-found peace. Ti- teas-before madness took him-always insisted that, presented with two unsatisfactory choices, one should seek then another. That is what I shall do. To attack is but one choice. To ignore is a second. I will look for a third, Wykla of Burnwood."

"Is this the message I shall take to Cvinthil?" she said.

"Nay, I will give this matter further thought, and I will consult with Helwych."

The sorcerer straightened up and nodded gravely.

Darham regarded him, smiled as though indulging a problem child, turned back to Wykla. "If you would be willing to remain our guest for some five or six days, we would be honored."

Manda spoke. "I have offered my household, lord."

"Good. Corrin will never be thought lax in its hospitality so long as Manda of Dubris lives."

Darham rose, but he did not leave immediately. Pausing before Wykla, he regarded her kindly. "The First Wartroop, you say, my lady?"

My lady. She felt the cold return. "Aye, lord."

Darham mused. "I remember you." He looked at her directly. ' 'At the Circle. We called you The Amber One-for your hair.'' He lifted his right arm and turned it over, and Wykla saw that its underside was scarred from wrist to elbow. "You fight well."

She stared at the old wound. "I . . . regret now that I struck that blow.''

"We all bear wounds from that time. Some more comely than others.

Wykla flushed.

Darham stood over her. The great blue eyes of mirth and grief burned down. "Do you have family?"

"I . . . do, my lord. In Burnwood."

"You hesitate."

"I ... left them some years ago to join the war-troop." There was suddenly a lump in her throat, and she was annoyed at herself: by now, this wound should have been as scarred over as Darham's arm. But her voice was husky as she went on. "After the war, I returned, looking for comfort. They denied me ..." The room blurred to her eyes, and she gritted her teeth and bent her head to hide the tears.

Darham considered for a moment and shook his head sadly. "Daughters are not held in high esteem in Gryylth."

"That is true, my lord."

"I also lost a family," he said gently. "And his rejection was bitter enough. Perhaps the Gods will allow me to choose my own now.'' Lifting his scarred arm, he placed his hand on Wykla's head. "This I will say to you, Wykla of Burnwood, Amber One: should you need someone to call father, call me. The wounds of the past are deep: let us close them as we can." He smiled wryly as he turned to the assembled guards and attendants. "And I for one am proud to claim a daughter who can best me in swordwork.''

He let his hand remain on her head for a moment, then removed it, stooped, and kissed her brow. "It is well. Manda, attend to Wykla. I shall send for you both tomorrow." He bowed to his visitor and departed.

* CHAPTER 4 *

Hot coffee and a cold shower pulled Suzanne together enough to take the graded papers out to the archaeology department at the university. She had hoped that Brian would be gone when she arrived, but she found him in the office he shared with her, waiting.

Without comment, she set the two stacks down on the corner of her desk and turned to leave. Brian looked up. "You don't have to go running off."

"I'm not feeling well. I'm going back to bed."

"You look fine."

"I don't have any shrapnel wounds, if that's what you mean.'' Sure that her temper would be triggered by the sight of his face, she tried to avoid looking at him, but wound up staring at the poster above his desk: a life-sized photograph of the cockpit controls of an A-4 Skyhawk. Brian obviously thought of the war-plane in terms of technology and armed might, but for Suzanne the poster brought only visions of napalmed and machine-gunned villages, incinerated Vietnamese peasants, and children left homeless or dead.