"You know," said Brian, "if you want your career to go anywhere, you're going to have to learn to conform."

"Maybe," she said, still avoiding his eyes. "And maybe I don't fucking want to."

He blinked. "How do you want me to take that?"

"Take it any way you want." Turning, she stalked through the door and down the hall. There was a chance that she would not have a teaching position or a doctoral program in the morning, but she would always have Gryylth. And Vaylle, too. She supposed that she could call it job security.

In the hot parking lot, she paused beside her car and checked the paperweight for the twentieth time since Helen's phone call. No Silbakor. Cursing the Dragon under her breath, she drove back to her apartment, pulled the blinds in the bedroom shut, and crawled into bed.

In her dreams, she saw the grim closeness of fifth-century warfare juxtaposed with the disinterested slaughter of the twentieth. The towns of Gryylth were napalmed and bombed and riddled with twenty-millimeter bullets, the children of My Lai and Hanoi and Kingsbury were spitted on swords and spears, blasted by magic.

She awoke at sunset, trembling, soaked in sweat. The bedroom seemed a furnace, and when she threw open the window, the searing air of a Los Angeles heat wave offered no relief. Closing her eyes, she pillowed her head on the sill for a moment. "Oh, you Gods of Gryylth: please make sure that all stays a dream."

Another cold shower, a dinner eaten hastily and un-tasted, and she drove out to keep her appointment with Helen Addams.

Helen's directions took Suzanne up into the Santa Monica Mountains, deep into the sinuous rills and forested ridges of the Bel Air district. Filtered by lush leaves, the air was damp and cool, and the lights of the houses glowed from behind wrought iron fences and high hedges that spoke eloquently of wealth, leisure, and as much sylvan isolation as could be had within the confines of a sprawling city.

Suzanne parked across the street from the house. The windless night was as quiet as the cemetery had been that morning, the only movement that of the moths that hovered about the pale streetlamps, a mocking reminder of her own fascinated obsession with the elusive and ineffable Grail.

When she had first returned from Gryylth, she had researched the legends of the Grail with the focused intensity of a career scholar, but the information she had found was thickly encrusted with successive layers of belief and dogma, the legacy of small minds and the theological bias of Pagan and Christian alike. There was, though, one legend that had consistently rung the bell of truth: that of Galahad. Pure and unstained by earthly concerns, he had looked into the profound and inscrutable depths of the Holy Cup . . . and had died.

Some choice. I can give the whole thing up and go crazy, or I can find the Grail and drop dead, She crossed the street and found a house set back behind a dichondra lawn and a circular driveway. Plate-glass windows glowed yellow from beneath red tile roofs, and the front door was large and carved like that of a mission. She rang the bell and glanced down at the paperweight in the depths of her purse while she waited. It was still empty.

Helen had changed little since Sol's funeral. She was still a middle-aged woman who wore feminist theory like a badge of honor. The gray in her tightly permed hair matched the steel rims of her glasses, and the loose, cotton blouse and trousers she wore hid her figure as defiantly as her lack of make-up bared her face.

She let Suzanne in without a word, bolted the door behind her as though she were afraid of the long shadows in the front yard, and led her guest to a chair in the living room.

"Drink?"

"No. Thanks."

Helen glanced at the sheer drapes that obscured the big front windows. "Well, if you don't mind, I'll have one myself.''

The liquor cabinet seemed to be well stocked. As Helen measured and poured, Suzanne examined the room. Pale shag rug, chrome and glass furniture, real mahogany paneling on the walls. It bore the unmistakable mark of both exquisite taste and money.

' 'Not bad for an ex-housewife who left her man with no marketable skills, eh?" said Helen from the bar.

"It's a nice place."

"I like it. The patriarchy doesn't make it easy for a woman on her own, but I turned that around." She spoke matter-of-factly, as though daring Suzanne to contradict her. "Sol used me the way men always use women, and I struck back just like any woman could. I write about it. I talk about it. I get paid well. You ever been to one of my seminars?"

"I'm a feminist, Helen. But I'm not political. I've got too many other things to worry about."

"If you don't worry about yourself, who will?" Helen settled herself on the sofa across the coffee table, legs spread mannishly. "You're probably a case in point," she said. "Most women are. They give everything, get nothing back, and wonder why they feel rotten about themselves."

Suzanne said nothing. Unwilling though she was to admit it, Helen had summed up her life.

"Tell me, honey ..." Helen sipped at her drink. "What did you think of my prize?"

A branch scraped against the window. Suzanne looked up in time to see a flash, as of eyes, glowing bluely on the other side of the curtains and the glass. She looked again and saw nothing. "I . . . I'm not sure I understand."

Helen's back was to the window, and she had not noticed. "You almost look like you escaped in one piece."

"You're losing me."

"I think you understand better than you think." Helen's tone sharpened. "Sol couldn't love anything. He could own, but he couldn't love. He devoured me for twenty years. You got it for a lot less, but there's no way of dealing with a man like Sol without getting hurt." She examined her guest for a moment. "Did you sleep with him?''

Suzanne was genuinely angry. "What kind of question is that?"

Helen smiled. "Sore point?"

"Actually, most of the time, I hated his guts, just like you. Yeah, he was a manipulating son of a bitch, and he thought that all his male bullshit was just fine. But he had a few good qualities."

Helen was frowning. "You obviously didn't know him well enough. He had nothing but his prick and his ego. I got out because I realized that."

"So you tossed him. As hard as you could."

"He got what was coming to him."

The branch scraped the window again. Suzanne sensed that something was moving in the front yard. Something big. And her Dragonmaster instincts, awakening incongruously in her pudgy body, told her that it was not friendly., ' 'We have to learn to take care of ourselves,'' Helen continued. "If we don't, the men are going to keep screwing us over just like they always have." She leaned forward, stabbing a finger at Suzanne in time to her words. "I took everything that Sol did to me and threw it right back at him. He got his nose rubbed in it real good, honey, and he didn't like it one bit."

The presence outside the window was a palpable oppression. "Look," said Suzanne, by now both angry and frightened, "I agree with you about Sol. He hurt you. He hurt me a lot, too. But you called me this morning because he scared the shit out of you. Dammit, quit playing games. You want to hear him screaming again? Maybe you want to see his body come waltzing in through the front door?"

Fear flooded into Helen's face. "You know something, don't you?"

' 'What happened this morning?''

Helen fidgeted with her drink, her spines suddenly blunted. "I think I said everything when I talked to you. I keep my own hours, and when I work late, I sleep in. This morning I was dreaming of Sol. The usual. He used to grab me in the middle of the night and force me to have sex with him." She shook her head as though to drive the memory away. "It was like being raped, night after night. It still is." She grimaced. "Even after he's dead."

"Go on. I don't want to hear about Sol. I want to hear about you."

Helen appeared uncertain whether to be flattered or offended. ' 'I dreamed that there was a spear beside the bed, and I grabbed it and gave it to him right in the crotch. He started screaming, and then I was standing at his grave. Sol got up and started yelling your name. It wasn't any of this far-away stuff: it was like he was right there in the bedroom with me."

Dragonmaster.

Suzanne stifled a gasp and checked her purse. Twin sparks of yellow fire flashed up at her. Of all the goddam times to putt this shit, Silbakor, you sure pick the best.

Helen was staring into her drink. "He said that you had to stop someone."

Dragonmaster. There is terror in Gryylth.

Suzanne felt sick. "Stop who? From doing what?"

Helen shook her head.

A wind whined through the branches outside, and the branch creaked again on the window. Suzanne looked up into what were unmistakably eyes. They glowed through the curtains in shades of blue and violet.

"There was . . . one other thing that happened," said Helen. "I heard Sol in my dreams a few months ago, too."

The wind grew louder. Dragonmaster.

"I saw something that looked like Stonehenge. A bunch of women were trying to pull it down with ropes. That's when I heard him."

"What ..." The eyes at the window had to be at least twelve inches apart and a good five feet from the ground. The wind had whipped into a fury, lashing at branches and leaves, battering against the house. "What did he say?"

"He didn't say anything. He was crying."

Abruptly, a deep-throated howl went up from the front yard, and something thudded on the window. Suzanne heard a beating as of great wings.

Dragonmaster, flee this house.

Helen turned around, saw the eyes, screamed hoarsely. As the two women watched, the glass took on a pale aqua glow, and suddenly, inconceivably, the entire wall began to buckle inward.

"Silbakor!"

"Flee, Dragonmaster. You are being attacked."

A flash of fire went through her. Alouzon was awakening. Without hesitation, she picked up the paperweight, then grabbed Helen's arm and jerked her off the sofa as the window shattered.

Aqua phosphor poured into the room, gusted by a terrifying wind. "The back door," Suzanne shouted above the tumult. "Where's the back door?"

The phosphor was inching toward their feet. Suzanne looked up to see a glowing paw the size of a dinner plate step into the room, and the eyes were not far behind. And beyond that ...

There was something else in the front yard, too. Something huge, white, with wings that drove the branches of the trees as though they were matchsticks.

"The back door, Helen. Go!" Suzanne shoved her in what she hoped was the right direction. Helen scrambled across the room, and Suzanne followed her down a hall and through the kitchen to a sliding glass door that opened onto a redwood deck. She heard the front door slam open and splinter against the wall, and then the wall itself gave way with a loud crack and a rattle of plaster and brick.

"Leave the house, Dragonmaster," said the Dragon, "and throw the paperweight behind you as you go."

She pushed Helen out onto the deck as the ceiling began to come down. The dark kitchen exploded into light, and something snarled in the hallway.

"Run!"

The Dragon itself sounded frightened, and Suzanne plunged across the deck and down the stairs to the lawn, letting the paperweight fall behind her. Fire was spreading through her body, and she felt instincts and senses sharpening, felt a different body and a different flesh about her.

Alouzon was back.

When she caught up with Helen, the older woman looked at her and nearly screamed. "Who are you?"

Her cry sounded flat and lifeless. The house had vanished, as had the yard, the surrounding hills and the stars. The grass had been replaced by an endless floor of jet, and Silbakor waited a short distance away, wings unfurled, eyes burning.

"We must leave," it said.

Helen backed away and collapsed, huddled on the floor like a frightened child. Her eyes were wide, staring.

Alouzon glanced down at herself. She was wearing her leather armor, and the Dragonsword was at her hip. The tall, bronzed amazon had replaced the hapless earth-mother. No wonder Helen was terrified. "Dammit, Silbakor, why did you change me now?"

Howls. Drawing closer. In the blackness of the sky, Alouzon heard the beating of great wings.

"Mount," said the Dragon. "Quickly."

Helen stirred. "What . . . why ..."

Alouzon knelt beside her. "It's OK. We're not going to hurt you. I'm still Suzanne. Really. Just believe me."

Helen remained where she was, knees drawn up, arms wrapped about her legs. The howls drew nearer. So did the wings.

Alouzon put a hand on her shoulder, shook her roughly. "Look, sister. You said a while back that you ran your own life. Well, start doing it. You haven't got a choice."

"Mount," said the Dragon.

Helen gasped, stirred, jerked her head upright. She looked younger of a sudden, her skin smooth and un-lined, and she got to her feet with movements that had sleeked into feline grace. She stared at Alouzon out of dark eyes.

Alouzon stared back for a moment, but the howls and the wingbeats were drawing closer. Fighting alone in an impossible corner of the universe was not something she wanted to do, but her preferences had not mattered in a long time, and something large and faintly glowing was running at them.

Alouzon was already moving to defend. Without looking, she shoved Helen toward Silbakor, and she met open jaws and needle teeth with the edge of the Dragonsword. A howl of pain, and the beast sprang away.

Alouzon's blade was dripping phosphor, but the beast was closing again. Setting her feet, she leaned into her strike, and the sword bit deep, slicing the leprous thing nearly in two. It fell, twitching. Ichor spread in a steaming pool.

"Do something about Helen, Silbakor," she called over her shoulder. "Get her out of here."

A hand suddenly grasped Alouzon's arm, and she was pulled around to face a young woman. "I don't know what's going on," she said, her dark eyes glittering, "but I'm in charge of my own damn life. Don't forget it. And don't try to protect me."

Alouzon found her voice after a moment. "Just . . . save your ass and get on the Dragon, Helen."

Calmly, defiantly, the woman went to Silbakor and mounted in a swish of black hair and sable robes. More howls. Pallid forms flickered in the endless darkness. Faced with hopeless odds, Alouzon gave up and ran for the Dragon. Her booted foot found a toehold on one massive talon, and in a moment she was aboard.

The black wings spread, and they were lifted.

In the course of the next week, Darham questioned Wykla in ever-greater detail about the particulars of the destruction she had seen in Bandon, and Wykla sensed that he was searching her answers for the third choice that he wanted. He seemed well aware that some action had to be taken, but in contrast to his brother Tarwach's vengeful ire, Darham looked for peace first.

"It makes no sense," he said one afternoon.

"Are you so sure, my king?" Helwych had been listening with bright, eager eyes. "I think it is obvious. Bandon was destroyed by what can only be the work of a master sorcerer. Vaylle cloaks itself in secrecy: again the hand of magic. What further proof do we need?"

"You are hasty, Helwych." Darham did not see the flash of annoyance that crossed the sorcerer's face, but Wykla did.

At last, though, Darham gave Wykla his reply. No arms or men would be forthcoming from Corrin, he said, until some clearer idea of the identity and the nature of the enemy was established. He suggested to Cvinthil that a small party be formed to reconnoiter the land of Vaylle in secret.

Wykla recognized the wisdom of his words, but she could not help but wonder if his decision would have been different had a town of Corrin been destroyed. Nevertheless, she bowed deeply to the king and found suitable words of thanks.

Her stay in Corrin had done much for her. Without constant reminders of her former life, she had found herself free to live as she was, and for the moment. Here in Benardis, she was a free woman in a free land; and as Manda had escorted her about the town, showing her the sights and introducing her to the people simply as Wykla, a warrior, and as those same people had nodded courteously and accepted her without question, Wykla had found the old, frightened uncertainties falling from her bit by bit, had found also that she was often matching Manda's easy stride, imitating her broad gestures, laughing as openly as the maid of Corrin.

So, when she thanked the king, she held herself straight, looked into the face of the man who had of- fered his kinship in place of that which she had lost, and smiled.

But Darham was not finished. "I would not have Cvinthil think me a poor neighbor who sends excuses instead of bread. Therefore, Manda, you will go with Wykla to Kingsbury as my personal liaison. Tell Cvinthil that I commend you to him as one of Corrin's best, and that if he thinks well of my proposal, he could do no better than to include you in any expedition to Vaylle." He turned. "And, Helwych ... ."

The young sorcerer had been standing off by himself, his face clouded. He had advised a more militant action against Vaylle, and was plainly unhappy that his sentiments had been ignored. Now he looked up hopefully. "My lord?"