Perhaps, then, this strange territory through which she wandered was not so unknown after all. She straightened, swallowed, took a deep breath. Unaccountably, she found that she was smiling. "I will have you, friend Karthin. And, if you wish, I will ..." Fright made her tremble, and she wondered that she had the strength to go on. But Karthin was smiling now also, and his strong arms seemed to uplift her in more than body. "... I will have you in my bed."

And, later, lying beside him, warm and spent and heedless of the storm, she discovered that she ached still. But now she ached with a fullness that made loneliness seem as distant as those days in which, swaggering, thoughtless . . . and unloved . . . she had lived another life, with another body, and, seemingly, another soul.

The clouds were wrong.

Alouzon knew that they were wrong, knew from flying cheaply and on standby into bad weather and early hours that, no matter how dark and threatening clouds were when seen from below, from above, lit by the moon, they were invariably the purest, ethereal, silver-white. They were not gray like these roiling gouts of darkness that seemed so opaque that the lightning they contained could manifest as no more than a lurid glow.

She leaned forward toward the Dragon's ear. "What's below us?"

"Gryylth."

"I mean the clouds. They're not regular clouds, are they?"

"I . . .do not know what they are, my lady."

Alouzon glared at the back of its iron-colored head. Silbakor knew, she was sure, and knew well. "How am I supposed to do anything in Gryylth if you won't tell me what the fuck's going on?"

"There is terror behind us, Dragonmaster. It is better for you to be Alouzon for now.''

"For now? Until you decide to jerk us back to L.A.?"

Us. She stiffened and thought of the woman who sat behind her. Helen Addams was a part of Gryylth now, a part of everything.

From ahead and below came a flash of white light, and, in an area a mile in diameter, the gray clouds recoiled and dissipated as though from a concussion. As the Dragon swept over the clearing, Alouzon looked down and saw the remains of the Circle. Near the center blazed a flame like that of a newborn star.

Banking steeply, Silbakor dropped past the walls of gray confusion so fast that Alouzon's vision blurred. Not until the great wings flared and the adamantine talons reached for the grass did her sight return; and then she saw, in the bright, cold light, the body of a woman crumpled against a fallen monolith.

Wykla.

She turned around to meet the gaze of black eyes in a pale, aquiline face. "Helen," she said, wondering if the name still applied, "someone's in trouble. I may need you."

As though entranced, the woman nodded slowly. Alouzon leaped from the Dragon's back, broke her descent with a roll, and came up running.

Wykla lay like a discarded doll, and in her hand was a staff that burned with stellar radiance. It looked vaguely familiar, but Alouzon tossed it aside peremptorily, her attention fixed wholly on the still form of the girl. Pushing the amber hair away from the still face, she looked in vain for signs of life. "Wykla! Wykla!"

No response. No heartbeat. No breathing.

She looked up. The strange woman of sable and silver was watching her. "Do you know CPR?"

Helen's fists went to her temples and she dragged in a breath as though it were the first she had taken in an hour. "Yes," she said, her voice firm and young. "I do. I took a class at the Women's Building. Any broken bones? No? Then get her on her back."

In a moment, Wykla was stretched out, and Alouzon was leaning rhythmically on her chest, taking on the duties that the young woman's traumatized heart had temporarily abandoned. Helen was on her knees, bent over Wykla's head, supplying breath.

Silbakor was right: there was terror behind her. It had reached into Los Angeles and attempted to kill Suzanne Helling and Helen Addams, and now, Alouzon suspected, it had wrapped a slimy paw around Wykla of Burnwood. As she shoved blood through Wykla's veins, she berated herself for her long absence. Maybe, if she had not been so much of a coward, if she had returned to Gryylth sooner, if she had dared Vaylle, if she had looked for the Sacred Cup that promised everything, this would not have happened.

"Anything, Helen?"

"Nothing." Helen sucked in air and put it into Wykla. "Keep going."

If. If. If. Maybes. Might-have-beens. Alouzon was still living with them.

I'm not letting you go, Wykla. I couldn 't live with myself.

"Push, dammit," Helen snapped.

Tears starting out, Alouzon bore down on Wykla's chest.

A voice, cold and angry, rang in the frosty air. "Who are you, and what are you doing to my friend?"

Alouzon looked up on a backswing. It was a woman of about Wykla's age, her hair yellow, her sword unsheathed. She wore the armor and insignia of Corrin.

Helen's voice was just as cold. "We're trying to save her life." Wykla's body twitched, and the black-haired woman took a moment to pry one of her eyelids open. "Pupils constricting. I think she may make it."

Wykla shuddered and then coughed: a sick, racking sound as though she had been touched with a cattle prod. Helen felt for a pulse and sighed. "Thank God."

"Gods," murmured Alouzon. She sat back on her heels, wiping sweat from her face, feeling her own heart throw itself against her ribs. Before her, Wykla gasped in labored, raw breaths. She might have been gagging on the air, but she was breathing, and she was alive.

Alouzon reached out and took one of the small, fine hands in her own. I'm here, Wykla. It's going to be all right. She looked up at the blond woman who stood over them, sword in hand. "I'm Alouzon Dragonmaster," she said, ignoring Helen's bewildered stare. "And you?"

"Manda. Of Dubris." Her eyes had widened.

"Don't worry, Manda. We're friends." Alouzon leaned over Wykla. "You're going to be all right, lady."

Helen was cradling Wykla's head. She nodded. "Her pulse is strong, but she's in shock. We'll need blankets."

Manda sheathed her sword. "I will fetch them."

Wykla became aware of Alouzon, and she reached up and wrapped her arms about .the Dragonmaster's neck. Alouzon held her, rocking her as though she were a child who had awakened from a long nightmare.

"I found Mernyl's staff," Wykla said between gasps. "I tried to pull it out. It turned into a hand. Mernyl was there. He told me to pull."

Helen put a hand on her head. "Easy, honey. There's time to talk when you feel better." Her eyes met Alouzon's. "Dragonmaster? Alouzon?"

"They call me that here. Your ex was named Dythragor."

"Sol? What the hell does he have to do with this?"

Alouzon waved the question away with a shake of her head and was grateful that Manda returned just then with the blankets. Together they bundled Wykla up. "I can build a fire here," said Manda. "Though there is one a short distance away."

Alouzon was on her knees beside Wykla, holding her hand. "I don't think I want to move her."

The glowing staff lay a few feet away. Manda regarded it as though it were a serpent. "That bitch's whelp Helwych said that this place was safe. What does he know of sorcery?"

Helen was stroking Wykla's head. "Maybe little," she said. "Maybe nothing at all. But this place is safe: fear not."

Her voice possessed a caring warmth that was at odds with her usual cynicism. And her turn of phrase . . . "Helen?" said Alouzon.

Helen's tone hardened. "I said it was all right." She looked up and glanced about her at the tumbled stones and the burning staff. "What kind of place is this, anyway?''

Despite Wykla's story, there was now no sign of Mernyl, but Manda had positioned herself between Wykla and the staff, and her manner indicated that further visitants would approach only over her corpse.

She looked up at Helen's question. "Is the lady Kyria a stranger to Gryylth, then?"

Helen looked blank. "Kyria?"

"So the Dragon called you when I gathered the blankets."

Garb, speech, and now her name. Helen Addams was being thoroughly replaced. Alouzon could not guess for what purpose. "Relax," she said. "Everyone gets a new name here."

Helen looked at them both, her brow furrowed, then down at herself. She scrutinized her palms, shoved back her flowing sleeves and examined her arms. Plainly frightened, she touched her unfamiliar face and plucked at her black hair that hung to her waist. ' 'Anybody . . . anybody got a mirror?" She was shaking.

"Manda," said Alouzon, "take care of Wykla." She moved to Helen and took her by the shoulders. "It's all right. You're OK."

Helen's eyes were angry and frightened both. "But I'm not me. Who the hell am I?"

"You're . . ." Alouzon let go of her arms and shrugged. She hoped that the Dragon would have some explanations. "You're the lady Kyria."

"Wonderful." There was ice in Helen's tone. "What is this place?"

"Gryylth."

"Nice name. What did Sol have to do with it?"

Again the question. Alouzon met it head on. "He made it."

Helen sagged as though struck, but she held herself up. She had weathered a marriage to Solomon Braithwaite, the preternatural destruction of her house, and changes of appearance and name. One more insanity would trouble her little. "You want to elaborate a little, honey?"

"You didn't know Sol as well as you thought. When you left him, he tried to kill himself."

The black eyes flickered.

"He didn't make it, but his mind took off and made Gryylth."

Helen laughed abruptly, a violent, derisive expression of contempt. "Sol Braithwaite," she said. "God of Gryylth. Sure."

"Look, honey," Alouzon snapped, "just believe it. I've put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into this place. I know it's real."

Helen blinked at the outburst, looked at herself again, and touched one hand with another as though to confirm that what she saw and felt was indeed herself. "Yes . . . yes, I guess you do," she said slowly. "And when Sol died, you got stuck with this, right?"

"You got it."

"Why was I dragged in?"

"I don't know. The Dragon has its reasons."

Helen gestured. "The Dragon's gone."

Alouzon looked. It was true. The field was empty. She passed a hand over her face and cursed Silbakor silently. "It figures."

The silver borders of Helen's robes glittered in the light of the glowing staff. "Crazy," she said, plucking at her hair again. "I'm not sure I want a mirror."

But Alouzon had bent over the staff, squinting into the light that still poured from the wood. Wykla had called it Mernyl's staff, and it did indeed look like it. In fact . . .

Gritting her teeth, she reached down and picked it up. It burned with a cold heat, and it seemed to writhe in her grip like a living thing, but her attention was taken by the letter-Mernyl's initial-that glittered like starlight a third of the way from the top.

Slowly, so slowly that she rubbed her eyes to see whether she were imagining it, the letter was changing. It blurred, flowed, established new lines. When it solidified, the initial was no longer Mernyl's.

K.

She looked over at Helen, who was gently touching her face. She had been given robes of black and silver. She looked like a sorceress. But she had no staff.

"Kyria," said Alouzon quickly.

"Yes?"

Off to the west, lightning flashed, and a dull boom of thunder followed a few seconds later. Cradling the staff in both hands, Alouzon approached Helen, offering it. Helen stared at it with black eyes. "What are you giving it to me for?"

"It's got your initial on it."

"I. . ." Helen laughed nervously, backed away. "I don't think I want to get involved in this. Thanks just the same."

"You're already involved. Take it."

Helen's anger had been temporarily masked by shock, but now it flared once more. "I'm not letting Sol control my life."

"Take it."

"Nor you either."

"Take it. You haven't been in control since -you heard Sol screaming. This might be your only hope of controlling anything for a while."

Lighting. Thunder.

The light from the staff flickered over Helen's face, touching it with a softness that seemed to quell the anger in her eyes. She stared at it, wondering, fascinated, a child faced with a magical toy on grandmother's knickknack shelf...

Decisively, she reached, grasped it with both hands and swung it into a vertical position. Awe, reluctance, and willingness flitted over her face as though she were a woman faced with a new lover, and when its light flared, dimmed, and at last faded, she brought it down and grounded the butt in the earth, her hand wrapped gracefully about the pale wood.

Kyria closed her eyes and sighed. "OK. It's mine."

Out to the west, the clouds were agitated. They swirled and roiled and then, suddenly lowering, they rushed eastward as though impelled by colossal detonations. A cold wind gusted across the rolling land, and Alouzon sensed that there was nothing natural about the storm.

She was reluctant to move Wykla, who was still shocky and disoriented, but the approaching weather left her no choice. Together with Manda, she carried the girl back to the camp and nestled her in the shelter of the fallen monoliths. Cradling her staff, Kyria followed as though in a dream.

Manda glared at Helwych. The sorcerer was still curled up by the fire, asleep. "A fine wizard," she said. "With all the magic in the world raging about him, he lies there like a poisoned sheep."

"Where did he come from?" said Alouzon.