What did he see in the carvings? His own life? Or was he looking at the machinations of his ex-wife, examining her treachery, understanding her passions?

With a rattle, the door swung wide, and she knew that he had entered the tower. Panicked at the thought of the holy place being so rudely forced, she ran around to the door, found it gaping open, saw the tracks of muddy boots leading across the white floor within.

She hesitated. Profane though he was, Solomon had entered, and she had no idea what he might do within. But her own sense of guilt still barred her from following him, for if she added her own footprints to those that streaked this temple with blood and dirt, she would merely pile one desecration upon another.

And yet now, from the sounds that echoed from within the tower, he was climbing stairs.

She touched the white wall. "Please," she whispered. "Please grant me this favor. I ask not for myself, but for you."

No reply. She had not really expected one. Feeling the depth and recklessness of her temerity, she set foot on the floor of the room within, inching out across the marble as though it might suddenly open and pitch her headlong into an eternal abyss.

She continued toward die base of the stairs that spiraled up around the inner wall, her steps lengthening. She might have been a mother rushing to keep her child from harming another ... or himself; but as she climbed the steps, her apprehension grew.

An open door at the top of the stairs led into a carpeted room, but she did not enter. Rather, she stood silently on the landing, contemplating the man who stood before a low altar with a shapeless mass of black silk in his hands.

She almost called his name.

But then his shoulders tensed as they always did when he became angry, and though his words were but a whisper, she recoiled as though he were screaming in her face. "You damned bitch," he said. "Where are you?"

He made as if to turn, and Kyria, confronted by his rage and his temper, wilted into the role she had played for twenty years, when she had renounced strength for devotion, courage for tenderness, self-respect for loyalty. Frightened of his words, of his hands, of his power, she slammed the door, barred it, and fled down the stairs, her footsteps clattering on the stone, her black hair flying wildly.

She passed through the outer door, but still she ran, pursued by her past, by her fears, and now, faintly, by Solomon's voice: "Helen!"

For an instant, she glanced back, but the tower loomed over her, ominous and erect. She was not Helen, and yet she was, and as she fled into the encircling mist, she half fancied that she could hear, behind her, the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood.

* CHAPTER 23 *

Here beneath the jungle canopy, the air was stifling. Tree trunks-moss-covered, lichen-spotted, vine-clad-rose up in massive austerity, but their branches, as though caught in an incestuous bond with the layers of rot and mildew that covered the earth, twisted down again to add their weight to the roof of vegetation that lay over the path like the lid of a tomb.

After what seemed to be several hours of fruitless search, Santhe called a halt. "I fear we are lost."

"It is the way of the Heath, my lord," said Wykla. "I saw this when I was with Dythragor. He vanished from our sight when he was not an arm's length from Alouzon."

Dindrane sat down on the path, drew up her knees, and pressed the side of her face against them. Tired though she was physically, her mental fatigue had slowly shut down all of her extraneous thoughts, and she now considered only whether she had to move or not.

Santhe was stroking his stubbly chin. "Well, regardless, they have vanished. Or perhaps we have vanished. It is a hard thing to say." He laughed quietly, and Dindrane wondered what sort of man could find amusement in such a place as this.

Karthin and Manda scouted the trail ahead, but when they returned they had nothing to offer. "We can find no trace of the Grayfaces or Marrget," said Karthin. "This path seems to have been unused for days."

Wykla shook her head. "I do not believe that it has existed for more than a few hours."

Karthin frowned. "I do not understand."

"This place changes," said Wykla. "It presents a different face from moment to moment. We ourselves find trees and moss. Alouzon and Kyria might well be facing an ocean, or a desert."

Karthin had been containing his emotions admirably, but Wykla's words all but broke his control. "Then . . . then Marrha--"

"Peace," said Santhe. "We will find her."

"How?"

"We will find her." Santhe scratched at his stubble again. ''And, the Gods be willing, we will find Kyria . . . and Alouzon."

Manda's eyes flicked from tree to vine to some inward vision that creased her brow. "It is my fault..."

Wykla touched her gently. "Beloved, you cannot-"

Manda shook her head violently. "Back in Quay, I cursed her with just this wish."

Santhe looked grave. Wykla stared at Manda as though the maid had struck her. "You . . . cursed my captain? "

Karthin stepped forward and put his arm about Manda's shoulders. "Peace, countrywoman. Your words may have brought us to an evil pass, but they cannot be unsaid." His voice shook as he spoke. "Let us mend what has been broken."

Santhe spoke carefully. "Marrget is my friend and comrade. I would know more of this."

Manda shoved Karthin's arm away and ran up the path, her hand pressed to her face.

Dindrane lifted her head. She felt like a dog that had been beaten for no good reason. "She cursed a woman?" The outrage was gone from her voice and her heart. There was, instead, a kind of numb acceptance. Vaylle was a victim, Baares was dead, her beliefs lay in tatters. Nothing mattered anymore.

"Aye," said Karthin slowly. "But before Marrha was a woman, she was a man. And the man who was once, but who is no longer, raped Manda years ago. The maid has not forgotten it, nor has she . . ." He pressed his lips together, fighting the urge that made him want to plunge blindly into the jungle, calling for his wife. "Nor has she been able to forgive it, either."

Dindrane blenched at the mention of the rape, but the disclosure of Marrget's former manhood was nothing: the revelations of the last days had inured her to change and novelty, and even to most common forms of horror. She was beginning to understand the spiritual dullness that Orlen of Armaeg had exhibited before King Pellam; and the inner death of the people of Kent now made perfect sense.

She suppressed a shudder and got to her feet. "Let us follow after Manda," she said without emotion. " 'Tis unwise to allow her to travel alone."

Santhe pulled himself out of grim thoughts and nodded. "We cannot afford to separate any further."

Wykla had already started up the path. "Manda!"

The trail twisted and turned. Manda was already out of sight. Wykla, running now, had almost reached the first bend when from around it came a shattering explosion. Shredded leaves and bark peppered her face, and the concussion put her on the ground. But the girl had only caught the faint edge of the detonation. The brunt of the trap had fallen on the trail beyond the turning, where the killing zone of the claymore mines had filled the air with shock waves and buckshot.

The realization hit Wykla within moments, and she was suddenly scrambling to her feet, screaming Man-da's name. She rounded the bend, followed closely by her companions, but she found no trace of her lover, or, in fact, of the explosion. A lake-still, placid, unmarked by violence-stretched off into the distance, terminating abruptly in a range of low hills silhouetted against a westering sun.

Santhe sighed, rubbed at his eyes, and looked again. "Evil, and more evil. First Marrget is taken from us, and then Alouzon and Kyria. And now Manda."

Wykla's face, cut and bleeding, was streaked with tears. "What if .

Santhe shook his head. "I do not believe that she is dead, Wykla. If she were, Broceliande would be happy to show us her body." He took Wykla's hand, drew her to him, laid his head against hers for a moment. "We will find her. We will find all of them." He straightened. "This water looks shallow: let us cross it. Regardless of what we see, we will maintain this direction unless reason gives us cause to turn aside."

Karthin put a hand on his arm. "And when you find Manda, what judgment will you exact upon her for her curse?"

Santhe stood, frowning, staring out at the slimy water.

"Do you blame her?" the Corrinian pressed.

"Manda is a comrade," said Santhe. "I will defend her."

Karthin's blue eyes were like ice. Marrget was his wife. Manda was his countrywoman. He was loyal to both. "And . . . ?"

Santhe looked him in the eye. "My best friend became a woman," he said. "And, therefore, a small part of me became a woman, too. I understand Marrget's plight. Perhaps I understand Manda's also."

So saying, he unbuckled his sword and, holding the weapon across his shoulders, led the way into the scummy water.

Manda rounded the turn in the trail and stepped onto a road. Torn though she was by emotion, she turned back to call to her companions; but a plain full of stagnant rice paddies and low hills now surrounded her. The road stretched across it like a taut rope. In the distance, the jungle was a dark green sea.

Panic welled up, but she had panicked once before-when she was a girl and Marrget was a man- and it had done neither of them any good. Therefore, she caught hold of her spinning emotions, grappled with the sudden sick nausea that filled her belly, and forced herself to think.

Despite the danger of being separated from her companions, there was a certain small advantage to it. Broceliande was huge and changeable-she had no difficulty believing Wykla's description of it-and a search for Marrget would be better performed by several independent groups than by a single body.

The thoughts of a warrior. She held to them as she held to her sword, and gradually she regained control of herself. She scanned the horizon for signs of life, checked the sky, and, though she knew the action to be futile, dropped to one knee and examined the dusty road.

She saw nothing. This landscape might well have been created an hour ago, which, she reflected, was probably the case.

The hot sun that had suddenly appeared along with a blue sky shimmered on the dry land and rippled on the water. For a moment, she bent her head. O Goddess of Vaylle: if you can hear a supplicant in this terrible place, guide me to Marrha.

But for what purpose did she want to find the captain? To save her? Or to watch the unfolding of the words that she had spoken in Quay, the final utterance of a wish that had been engendered within her on the day of the rape and carefully nurtured throughout the years? Which was it?

She did not know. It bothered her that she did not know.

Moving cautiously, she set off down the road, scanning the dirt for any sign of a footprint or for a disturbance that might indicate a trap. Unschooled in the technological crudities of modern guerrilla warfare, she hardly knew what she was looking for; but her sharp, peasant eyes knew the natural from the unnatural, and so she picked her way around pebbles and stones that did not look or feel right.

The sky remained clear, the sun hot. Toward evening, she approached the jungle that stretched across the far edge of the plain like a green wall, but heat, thirst, and fatigue had so addled her brain that at first she did not realize that she was hearing voices, and when she did, she was unsure whether she was surprised, frightened, or elated.

Fading in and out on the dry wind that swept across the plain, the voices were faint and intermittent. She caught snatches of words, fragments of emotion.

"Come on, cunt. We've got something special planned for you."

A sound like that of an ox being clubbed. Manda winced. But then there was silence again.

Did the sounds come from the jungle, from the plain, or from a piece of Broceliande that was neither, that perhaps overlaid both invisibly-another landscape that, had she the wit to put her arm out in the right direction, she could reach . . . and enter?

Voices again: strange, toneless, flat. "Pick her up."

"The dink don't have a lot of gumption."

"Just pick her up."

Fading again. But just as the sounds had reached the threshold of inaudibility, Manda heard a moan. She recognized the voice, and her thoughts turned suddenly clear, focusing with laser-like intensity on one name, one woman, one objective.

Marrha . . .

Trembling, licking cracked lips with a parched tongue, Manda approached the jungle. Damp odors of decay reached out to envelop her as she skirted the edge of the paddies, and she slipped in the soft mud until she found a trail that led into the dark growth.

But the voices had faded, and the sun was setting. Even if she had been certain of her destination, to travel at night in such a place as this was the action of a fool.

She crouched at the edge of the water. The paddies stretched off across a plain that almost seemed to undulate in the fast-falling darkness, taking on new shapes and new features as though the strain of holding its form had become too great a burden. As Manda watched, the paddies flickered, ebbed and flowed, assumed the vague outlines of a river . . .

She blinked. Though the darkness was almost complete, she was sure that she was looking at the Long River. The sensation of home was uncanny, complete. She might have been a girl again, squatting with Kasi beside a basket of laundry, talking and laughing about commonplaces- The flare of light dazzled her. Blue sky. Green land. It was the Long River. And it was Corrin. And there was a basket ...

. . . and a hand seizing her from behind.

She was spun around. Gripping her firmly, as she remembered him, was Marrget of Crownhark: manly, square-jawed, his eyes holding a curious blend of lust, contempt, and a streak of guilt.

The guilt held her eye for the moment that they stood, unmoving, face to face. Here she was once again at the morning of her womanhood, her blond hair bright with ribbons; and here he was, a man who desired only to vent his sex and his anger on a Dremord body. But he himself was unsure of his deed, for up until this hour his honor had been spotless, his valor and pride a legend in both Gryylth and Corrin.

A moment. She had only a moment to ask as she felt his breath on her face. "Did you ... did you really want this?"

He did not answer, but the guilt was still in his eyes as he tore at her tunic. The seam at the shoulders gave way, and he threw her to the ground.

But though Broceliande had conspired to return her to girlhood and violation, years of training had given her strength, and endless nights of brooding had fueled her anger. Her response, one-armed though she was, was sure and quick. Without a word, she lashed out and caught him on the chin with a solid blow. Marrget fell back, and Manda had time to regain her feet.

She kicked the man in the head as he tried to rise, and she drew the sword that she knew, despite illusion, was at her side. She leveled the blade. "Did you want this?" she demanded.

He only stared at her, his guilty eyes pleading for quick atonement.

"Answer me!"

"You know better than I." he said softly. "Kill me."

A low rumble from the river, the plash of a moving boat. "Starboard shore," came the cry. "Dinks. Man the 60s."

Manda held the blade a hand's breadth from Marrget's throat, but she knew that what she faced was not the captain, but rather another creation of Broceliande. And though the sight of his face had maddened her, she could not but sense that this apparition from the past was in some way a test that would determine whether or not she would ever find the real Marrget. "Answer me, man!"

"Answer yourself. Kill me."

She heard the boat draw closer. A quick thrust would let the life out of him. For an instant, she imagined him bleeding and gasping amid the sand and the river reeds, but then she jerked the sword away. "I will not."

A burst of machine-gun fire from the river scored the shore, the water, and the jungle. Manda threw herself behind a low bank just before the deadly hail reached her. Rolling over in the razor grass and bamboo, her bare flesh torn and cut by the sharp blades and stiff shoots, she listened as the gun tracked back across the face of the jungle.

Voices again. Faint. Drifting.

"Gimme her wrists. See, asshole, you do it this way."

A sound, as of wire straining over wood, a long, sustained creak that shivered the air. And still Manda sat, unmoving. She had not killed him. He had asked for death, but she had not given it to him. What, she wondered, was the deeper punishment? And for whom?

Suddenly, the light went away, and there was silence. The plash and rattle of the boat was gone, as was the lap of river water, the rustle of trees and leaves, and the sigh of reeds. Utter stillness. She was not even certain that she could hear her own breathing.

Only the voices remained. "C'mon, honey, relax."

"Hey, she's got a nice ass."

"I'm gonna kick yours in another minute, man."

And then the voice became low and confidential, as though the speaker were whispering secrets into the ear of the listener. "You and yours, cunt, been kicking up some kind of fuss out there in the country. We wasted them, but we liked your face. So we thought we'd keep you around."

Marrget was gone. Dead. Dead long ago. Dead the moment Manda had picked herself up from the sand and had stumbled to help Kasi wash the blood from her thighs. Dead the second he had climaxed. Dead the instant he had penetrated her.

Dead. And now . . .