"We all did. Theirs was thinking that you could build something up by hating it into existence. Mine was giving up because of their idiocy. I . . ."

She glanced about her. Manda was unconscious. Dindrane appeared to be on the verge of silent hysteria. Santhe and Karthin were staying on their feet through sheer effort of will.

Alouzon sighed, discouraged. "I'm still making them."

"There is no harm in that."

"There's lots of harm, Kyria. I just wish that it didn't take a fucking God to tell the difference between good and bad."

Kyria's eyes were appraising.

Alouzon heard her thoughts. Somewhere, the Grail was waiting for her to lift it, to bathe herself in its waters, to drink of its knowledge. And afterward, she would no longer be Suzanne Helling or Alouzon Dragonmaster, but something else entirely, something that might well be able to know the difference between good and bad, that could appreciate the intricate ramifications of every thought, word, or deed, no matter how trivial, that could bring sanity to a world made insane by its very creation.

The Grail . . .

She turned away from the burning town, willing to give up even the memory of the Grail in exchange for Marrget's safety. "The Grayfaces are going to have to rest, too," she said. "We'll take two hours. I'll watch."

Kyria had cast a gentle spell of sound sleep over the company, but Manda tossed in uneasy dreams at Wykla's side. Over and over, she felt the hound's needle teeth close on her left arm, felt the jerk, the ragged release of rending flesh, the sudden feeling of emptiness. In a moment she had been transformed from whole to maimed.

Shocky though she was, Manda had seen the grim sorrow in Wykla's eyes and had felt its presence in her own, for the pain of her wound was a shared thing, a mutual loss that went far beyond the physical absence of a limb. Since they had declared their love for one another, their hands had spoken their affections as eloquently as their voices, reaching out to touch, to caress, to bring comfort or pleasure or joy . . .

The hound might as well have ripped out her tongue.

Existing wraithlike in her memory, Manda's missing arm burned with the fire of outraged and bewildered nerves as she opened her eyes to the jungle and the nocturnal heat that seemed a suffocating blanket wrapped about the camp. Wykla's arm was draped over her protectively, as it always was when they slept together, but aside from that one association, Manda felt that she had been estranged from all the familiarity of her former life as effectively as if she had been killed and resurrected.

Manda the one-armed. Manda the maimed. For the rest of her life, her infirmity would dictate her gestures, the way she walked or ate, the manner in which she made love ...

Bravely, she thrust her tears away. She was a warrior. She had taken a warrior's risks, and matters had come out against her. She had no cause for complaint.

But as Kyria's spell closed her eyes again, she thought of Marrget. Profoundly as Manda's life had been changed, that alteration was as nothing compared with the depth of the transformation inflicted upon the captain. Maimed though Manda might be, she was still a woman. She had known her body from birth. Marrha, though . . .

Marrha. Manda herself had called her that. And if the loss of a forearm could change her life and make her think in terms of death and rebirth, how much more so the sudden acquisition of a new body?

Kyria's spell rained sleep on her eyes, but Manda murmured softly: "He is dead. He is dead."

Dawn came up gray and misty, carrying with it the promise of brutal midday heat. The company, though, had already been traveling for several hours through the faint pre-dawn light that was even fainter after it had fought its way through the dense jungle that pressed itself against the narrow trail.

Through gaps in the leaves, they watched Kent dwindle into a tiny, charred patch, and as they climbed still higher, their lungs aching with the altitude, they could see the blue curve of the ocean, and a gray haze that obscured the distant horizon.

Somewhere in that haze, Alouzon knew, was Gryylth, the land that had first roused her affections from their dormancy and then laid tenacious hold upon them. She had become, in fact, more of Gryylth than of Earth, for Los Angeles now seemed as far away as Kent State, and her meaningless, cryptozoic existence at the edge of UCLA was here overwhelmed by purpose, devotion, and loyalty.

"What a bitch that I have to go back," she muttered to herself as Karthin helped her up the side of a ravine that cut across the trail like a gash from an axe. She, in turn, reached back, took hold of Manda's hand, and, with Karthin acting as an anchor, pulled the maid up through a tangle of creepers and the slime of river mud.

They climbed, trudging up the dank trail, at times scrambling through muck and decay. As though in defiance of the altitude, the jungle grew thicker. Vines, creepers, ferns-every imaginable shape of leaf and stem in every possible shade of green pressed close about them. In the afternoon, the air turned suffocating, sweat pooled beneath leather armor, and the temptation to drain the water skins was almost irresistible.

After a meager ration of water and a bite standing, Alouzon and Kyria took over the point. The trail was unmistakable-a narrow slot of hot, damp air hedged in by overhanging walls of vegetation. When it forked, Dindrane would consider for a moment and then indicate the right direction with a silent nod of her head.

At first, Alouzon wondered how the priestess knew the way so instinctively, for Dindrane had, by her own admission, never attempted these passes before. But the Dragonmaster reminded herself that, like all the people of this world, the priestess was a recent creation, brought into being with all her knowledge, skills, biases, and preferences in full bloom. If it was necessary that Dindrane know the way to Broceliande, then she knew it.

But who-or what-had determined such necessity or granted such knowledge? How could a finite and limited mortal determine and meet the manifold needs of an entire world? It was, quite simply, impossible, and Alouzon, befogged with heat, cast about in her mind for a more competent agency.

She stumbled and caught herself on her hands and knees, murmuring: "You're really pushing me, aren't you? You really want me for the job."

But as Kyria bent to help her up, the words clung to Alouzon's lips, for, inches from her hands, a thin filament stretched across the path, a silvery quivering in the damp air and muted sunlight. Fine as a hair, taut as a wire, it waited for something-or someone-to brush against it.

She found her voice. "Everyone freeze. Don't move."

Her tone was enough to halt them in place. Cautiously, she backed away from the thread and stood up. "Do you see it?" she asked Kyria.

"I do," said the sorceress.

"Boobytrap."

"Yes. This is probably the reason the Grayfaces wanted us to follow them.''

Alouzon was shaking. She did not know for sure what the wire was connected to, but she knew some possibilities. Had she not fallen, the entire company might well have been reduced to blood, pulverized flesh, and splinters of bone. "It's just damned lucky that I took that tumble."

Lucky? Or planned?

Mouth dry, Alouzon looked up, around, down. Where did one turn in order to address a Sacred Cup that embodied the universe? "Uh . . . thanks," she said.

"Alouzon?" Kyria blinked at her.

"Nothing." Alouzon wiped her face with the back of her arm. "Damn this heat. I'd do anything for a t-shirt and a cold can of pop."

The wire remained in place: quivering, waiting. "What do you want to do with this?" said the sorceress. "Magic?"

"No." Alouzon considered. "No, someone might pick up on that. And I don't want to try to disarm it, either. I've got an idea. If this is why they wanted us to follow them, let's give them just what they want.''

She led the company back down the path. When they were some distance from the trip wire, Alouzon explained its use and probable effects. "Can anyone here throw a knife or a rock real good?"

"I was skilled with a knife," said Manda. "But now ..." She glanced at her stump. "I cannot vouch for my balance."

Alouzon patted her shoulder. "The balance will come back, Manda. Give yourself some time."

Manda stared ahead. "Marrha does not have time."

"We're going to do something about that. Karthin? Santhe? Wykla?"

Dindrane lifted her head as though to object to being left out. She opened her mouth to speak, but she reconsidered and remained silent.

Santhe smiled in spite of the situation. "Wykla has proved herself in the art of throwing stones," he said. "As some of the less tolerant youths of Kingsbury can attest."

"Wykla?"

"It is true, Alouzon." Wykla looked sad, as though she were considering aspects of her home that she had been able to ignore for a time. "Taunted by the young men, and unable to meet them sword to sword, I. . ." She seemed almost ashamed. "I took up an occasional cobble."

Alouzon almost laughed. "That explains that poor schlep back at the Hall. Good for you. Do you think you can hit that wire from here?"

Wykla squinted. At this distance, the wire was more a presentiment than a presence. "I can."

"Can you turn around the second you let go and dive for cover around the curve of the trail?"

"Aye."

Karthin folded his arms. "She will find herself dragged if she does not," he said.

"Then let's do it," said Alouzon. "Karthin's right about grabbing you. It's going to get nasty. Don't hesitate. We'll catch you."

They took cover around the bend. Alone, a smooth stone in her hand, Wykla confronted the wire at a distance of twenty yards. The girl hefted the stone, her body loose and relaxed, and then her left foot slid forward and her right arm swung out. It was a woman's throw, awkward and graceful both, but skilled, powerful, and accurate. The stone flew toward the wire.

In one flowing movement, as though it were nothing more than a curious follow-through, Wykla spun, flexed, and threw herself into Karthin's arms just as the trail ahead erupted in a shattering detonation that sent foliage, earth, and stone high into the air. Buckshot the size of pebbles shredded the grass and leaves, and the air was acrid with the smell of explosive.

Wykla had prepared herself for danger, but her face was white as she looked out from Karthin's protective embrace. "Alouzon ..."

"You did good, Wykla."

"But what kind of person would make such a thing?"

Alouzon shook her head. To a certain extent, the answer to Wykla's question was unknown even to her, for although she had accepted responsibility for Broceliande and its attacks on Vaylle, she could not reconcile the absolute cruelty exhibited by the Grayfaces and the hounds with any part of her conscious will.

The party moved out, and within the hour the jungle thinned, dwindled to low scrub, and faded into the gray rocks. Steep, precarious, and slippery, the trail switched back and forth up the sheer wall of the upper slopes.

"This is a pass?" wondered Alouzon. But Dindrane, dogged and obsessed, the phosphor scar a white blotch on her fair face, only nodded and forced herself forward.

Just at sunset, they topped the crest of the pass and looked out over a high plateau that stretched off toward the horizon in arid, remote, featureless desolation. It was a gray land in which color, shape, and outline were blunted, a place of uncertain existence and shadowy fear that clung parasitically to the borders of the real.

Alouzon had seen its like before, for Dythragor had once entered a region like this, and his confidence had been shaken, even destroyed. And now she had come to Broceliande. And now she understood.

"The Heath," she said. "It's the Heath again." She sat down on a stone, staring. Dythragor's Heath had been small: merely a mile or two on a side. Hers went on seemingly forever, stretching its dull and ravening presence out to the edges of the world.

"Oh Gods," she said, "it's worse than I thought."

* CHAPTER 22 *

Night descended like a curtain. Here there was no lingering dusk, but rather an absolute dichotomy of light and dark, as though the simplistic opposites of political expediency had manifested themselves in the workings of a world. The sun set, the sky turned black, and the stars appeared in dispassionate glory.

Strangely enough, Kyria suddenly felt full and powerful, as replete with a sense of her abilities as she had when, once, she had stood on the shore of the Atlantic and watched the gray breakers roll in under a morning sky. But in New England, she had been a girl facing the sea and wondering about herself and her future. Here, she was grown into womanhood, her memories rife with twenty years of abuse, her unconscious the dwelling place of something that was both alien and consubstantial. But she was still wondering.

Wykla stood with her sword drawn as though contemplating the dangers ahead. Flashes of aqua light flitted through what was now a sea of jet. "The Heath, Alouzon," she said. "Aye, I recognize it."

"You worried?" said Alouzon.

"I braved the Heath in your company once," said the young woman. "And though I hardly knew you, you gave me confidence. Now I know you." She smiled quietly, proudly, and reached out and took Manda's hand. "And I am not afraid."

Alouzon laughed, but to Kyria it sounded more like a sob. "All right," she said. "Let's take a break. Two hours, as usual. I'll watch."

Alouzon had taken the single watch at every rest. Kyria did some quick mental calculations and decided that the Dragonmaster had not slept in two days. Even in the feint light that flickered from Broceliande, her face looked haggard, and her eyes were sunken with exhaustion and worry.

The others threw themselves down where they were and were almost immediately asleep. Karthin cried out once, and then was silent. Kyria planted herself next to Alouzon. "You also need rest," she said.

"I'll rest after we find Marrget."

"We are not going to be able to find her if we must be carrying you."

Alouzon hung her head. "I can't sleep anyway," she said- "I keep worrying, even more than Karthin. You didn't see that body near Kent. I did. I keep thinking that she looked a lot like Marrget."

A flash from Broceliande, and, incongruously, the whine of turbines. Phase-shifting with interfering harmonics, the sound grew into a roar: the distinctive sound of a jet engine.

Another, and then another. Runway markers coalesced out of the darkness below, and Kyria and Alouzon watched three sets of wing lights streak along the ground and then mount into the air.

Alouzon tensed, but Kyria shook her head. "Call it intuition if you want," said the sorceress, "but I think they are going to strike Mullaen."

Alouzon put her face in her hands and sobbed. "They were good to us there. Ceinen and Enite . . ."

"They were indeed. But for now my hands are tied." Manda's stump was a constant reminder to Kyria of her unwillingness to risk a change in persona. With effort, she could have given the maid a new arm, but that would have meant . . .

She winced. Helen was screaming again. Another reminder. "Striking at the planes magically would only attract the attention of whatever agency is active in Broceliande," she managed.

"Solomon?"

"Something ..."Helen, please, I beg you. These people need both of us. "Something like him."

The jets gained altitude rapidly, then swept across the mountains and off to the east. Alouzon watched them. ' 'What do you think?''

Helen's screams subsided to an angry mutter. "I think I need more information,'' said Kyria. ' 'You and Wykla referred to something called the Heath. What did you mean?"

Alouzon lifted her water skin but only moistened her lips. The streams they had passed had all been fouled with decay. Thirst was rapidly becoming as much of an enemy as fatigue.

She wiped her mouth with the back of a grimy hand. "When Sol made Gryylth, there were things that he wouldn't cop to, things that he didn't want running around in his world. They all got balled up and thrown into something the Gryylthans called the Blasted Heath."

Kyria lifted an eyebrow.

Alouzon read the question. "Yeah, you were in there, and that was bad enough for him. But there was also something called the Tree of Creation. It represented change . . . the change he couldn't handle."

"And it killed him?" There was no satisfaction in her voice or in her heart. She felt only a quiet sadness, and although Helen screamed, she almost pitied the man.

"Kinda. Karthin's people were getting wasted by the war, and their sorcerer finally got hold of the Tree and started to use it as a weapon."

"That explains the First Wartroop."

"That was one thing he did, right. Then he slaughtered most of the Gryylthan army, and then he wanted more. Mernyl defended with the Circle, but it was a deadlock, and the battle was going to unmake the world. Sol ended the fighting by bringing part of the Circle down on the Tree. He died doing it."

"And you got stuck with this." Kyria swept an arm out.

"Yeah." Alouzon moistened her lips again and laughed with a dry parody of humor. "The war ended cleaner than it did in Vietnam, but the peace didn't last any longer. Vaylle showed up. And Broceliande. They 're my babies."

Kyria dropped her eyes. She thought of her own children, dead, thought also of the comparative children who lay sleeping on the ground nearby. Adults though they were, they had lived only just past their first decade. And the lives of Dindrane and her people could be measured in months.