"Corrin. He was Tireas's apprentice. Matters in Gryylth caused Cvinthil to request his aid."

"What kind of matters?"

"Vaylle."

Alouzon felt sick. It was as she had feared. Dragonmaster: what a farce. She was afraid to ask what had happened. She would find out soon enough.

The land tonight seemed poised, tense. The clouds had covered the sky like the lid of a coffin. The wind blew into a gale, then abruptly died.

Two lights flared in the west and drew closer, the clouds rushing after them in splayed fingers of darkness. The lights drew nearer, took on shape and form.

Alouzon cried out.

The first light was Silbakor, its black body and wings limned in flaming red, its eyes blazing yellow. The second, though, was something else. Although shaped like the Great Dragon, it was white, snow white, and it glowed faintly with a nimbus of blue. Its eyes were blue, also-black-blue-shading into the violet and ultraviolet so as to be more felt than seen.

And, mouth open, teeth bared in an unheard scream, it was closing on Silbakor.

Silbakor turned suddenly and drove for the heart of its antithesis, talons reaching, eyes flaming with expressionless passion. Folding its wings, it stooped on the pale horror that pursued it and struck with an incandescence that split the darkness and knocked Alouzon and her companions flat.

Half blinded by the light and concussion, she called: "Wykla! Someone protect Wykla!"

"She is well," she heard Manda say.

Helwych started up with a yawp. "My staff: where is my staff?"

"Where you dropped it, fool," Manda growled.

Above, the Dragon and the White Worm were circling, looking for openings. White-blue, black-red, they wound through the air, talons ready, tails thrashing, teeth eager.

Light, suddenly, from the ground.

Kyria was on her feet, the staff burning fiercely in her hands. A shimmer grew about her as she swung it up and aimed it at the Worm.

Silbakor's opponent noticed, turned, and dived for the Circle, eyes glaring invisibly. Adamantine claws reached for Kyria, and the worm bore down on her like a piece of falling sky. Desperately, Silbakor pursued.

But Kyria was faster.

Violet erupted from the staff, flashing out in a shaft of brilliance that struck the Worm squarely in the face and smashed it back into Silbakor's waiting claws. For an instant, they tumbled in free fall as they ripped and tore at one another, each seeking a lethal advantage.

Silbakor's talons tightened about the Worm's throat. A sound as of far-off screaming stretched through the air like a taut wire.

Kyria was ready with her staff. "Back off and give me another shot, Silbakor!"

The Worm drove a wing into Silbakor's eyes and managed to free itself, but Kyria's bolt seared the air about it as it struggled to regain altitude. Spun around by the violet impact, it gave up the attack and turned back toward the west with heavy wingbeats.

Alouzon saw the Dragon start to follow. ' 'Let it go, Silbakor!"

The voice that thrummed in her head was possessed of an unearthly calm, as though whatever passion it contained was beyond the comprehension of mortals. I cannot, my lady. I must destroy it. I have no choice.

"Silbakor!"

The White Worm was speeding westward, back into the clouds and the lightning, and Silbakor was following quickly. They turned into indistinct patches of light, faded with distance, and finally vanished.

* CHAPTER 6 *

The clouds dissipated quickly, withdrawing toward the west in the wake of the Dragons. The sky was clear and cold; the stars shone quietly.

Alouzon stood, shaking, wanting nothing so much as to go off to some isolated corner and be sick. Since she had assumed the Guardianship, Silbakor had been a constant in her life, something that, like the air she breathed or the ground under her feet, was an axiom of existence, a balance to the land that Solomon Braithwaite had created.

Silbakor was Gryylth. The White Worm, though . . .

Her knees buckled under her, but she had to face it. She had not gone to Vaylle, and therefore Vaylle had come to her.

All right. I'll do it. I took Gryylth. So I'll take the rest, too. And I'm gonna find that fucking Grail, no matter what.

Lifting her head as though to offer her vow to the nameless Gods of the land, she found herself looking at a lank-haired young man who was searching the grass in the light of the dying fire. He tripped over a piece of firewood and cursed under his breath, but his voice was choked and husky.

"Behind you, Helwych," said Manda. She was still with Wykla-had, in fact, shielded her with her own body.

Helwych turned, cried out, picked up a black staff and clutched it to himself. "The wind blew it away," he said.

"You dropped it when you fell asleep."

"It was the wind." His voice was sharp, edged with hysteria.

Alouzon struggled to her feet. "Manda? Wykla?"

"We are both well," said the Corrinian maid.

"Hang on. I'll be there in a minute." With steps that dragged through the grass, she plodded over to Kyria. The sorceress was sitting on the ground, staring at the gleaming staff that rested across her knees.

"My God," she said, "I don't know how that happened. It just came over me ... I swear ..."

Alouzon squatted beside her. "It happens here, Kyria. Try to go with it. Back home, I cut myself on butter knives. Here, I do fairly well with a sword." She winced at her own words. The student agitators had done fairly well with slogans and speeches; the National Guard had done fairly well with M-!s; and Alouzon Dragonmaster did fairly well with a sword. So casual she was about it now!

"Am I ... am I supposed to be some kind of magician? ''

Sickness was still clawing at Alouzon's belly. "That staff used to belong to a man named Mernyl. That was what he was: a magician. A sorcerer. He died trying to save the land. I guess he wanted you to have it."

"To do what? Blow Dragons away?"

If the White Worm were anything like Silbakor, even the full energy of the Tree would not have affected it. But Kyria's blast had wounded it. The potencies that the sorceress controlled, therefore, had to be commensurate with the very forces that created and sustained Gryylth. She could indeed blow Dragons away. She could possibly do much more.

Alouzon shifted uneasily. "Yeah," she said, trying to sound noncommittal. "And with that Worm running around, I'm kind of glad you can."

Kyria remained bent over the staff, absently stroking the pale wood. She did not speak for some time. Then: "Silbakor's the only way back, right?" 'As far as I know.''

'So we're stuck here with the White Worm." 'Yeah."

'Did Sol make that, too?"

'Kyria, tonight's the first I've seen of it." Listen to this double-talk. I'm getting as bad as Silbakor.

The sorceress continued to caress the staff, and Alouzon could feel her anger as though she stood next to a hot stove. "I want out of this," said Kyria. "I want out of this so bad that I'd be willing to dig up Sol's body and put a stake through his heart just so I could be sure that he'd never bother me again." She gripped the staff hard, and the wood responded with a flare of rainbow hues. "He took my life, took my body; and now he wants to take everything else by making me a part of his little fairy tale."

"Kyria-"

Kyria stared at the staff and dropped it back into her lap. Its light faded. "I'm sorry you got involved, Alouzon."

The Dragonmaster looked away. She could not find the courage to tell Kyria about her own part in this world. "Don't mention it," she said, the evasion rank on her tongue. "It's part of my job."

"What do I have to do to get back? Find the Dragon?"

"That'd be a good start, I guess." The glittering, black eyes held her in their gaze, demanded elaboration. "There's a land across the sea. It's called Vaylle. I think we'll find Silbakor there. And the White Worm." She thought of the hound-like thing that had leaped at her throat. "And God knows what else."

Kyria did not flinch. "I'll be ready."

The simple piece of wood on Kyria's lap had channeled the energy that made and unmade worlds. Alouzon shuddered. "Yeah. I guess you will."

In the silence, she heard footsteps in the grass behind her. Helwych stood there, black staff in hand. He had apparently mastered his terror. "I . . . would not be thought discourteous," he said, his gaze flickering involuntarily to the staff on Kyria's lap. "I am Helwych, sorcerer to the King of Corrin."

Alouzon eyed him up and down. Darham, she thought, was obviously hard up for magic. Aloud, she said: "Pleased to meet you. I'm Alouzon Dragonmaster." She laughed, softly and ironically, and glanced up at the sky. "Welcome to Gryylth."

"Indeed, I had not thought my arrival would be the cause of so much commotion.'' He was still looking at Kyria's staff.

In the distance, Manda called out: "Do not smite him, Dragonmaster. He thinks overmuch of himself at times. It is a failing . . . like scabies."

Helwych whirled. "One more word out of you, woman, and-"

"And what?" Kyria's soft voice cut the night air like an obsidian blade. She rose, her hand easy on her staff, her long hair rustling across her robes. "Let me introduce myself, sonny boy. My name is Kyria. I don't like to hear women addressed in that tone of voice."

Helwych froze. He had seen what Kyria could do. "My ... my apologies, lady."

Her glance was level, even, unforgiving. "All right."

"And mine also, mistress sorceress," said Manda. "My words were cruel and unjustified."

"Don't mention it." Kyria looked at Alouzon. "It looks like I get some respect around here. Amazing. How did Sol ever let that get by?"

"Sol's dead, Kyria."

"I don't believe that any more. Where do you think little tin gods go when they die?" With a swish of robes, she crossed the camp to Manda and Wykla. "How is the patient?"

Alouzon blinked. Kyria's tone had abruptly softened. Her voice held nothing but nurture and comfort.

"Weak, my lady," said Wykla. "I fear you think ill of me."

"Peace, child," said Kyria. "I do not think ill of you."

Alouzon approached as the sorceress knelt and rested her hand on Wykla's forehead. A quiet amber light glowed at the meeting of flesh and flesh. Kyria's eyes were closed in concentration, but her face looked relaxed, as though, at the end of a day of hard work, she had slipped into a soft bed.

In a minute, she stood up. Her black eyes were clear, untroubled. "Be changed," she said to Wykla. "Be healed. Rise when you wish."

Alouzon was staring, but Kyria regarded her calmly. "Did you think that I hated everyone?"

Alouzon had the feeling that she was suddenly facing a different person. "Uh ... no ..."

"Good." A flash, as of pain, crossed Kyria's face, and she lifted a hand to her forehead. "I . . ." Her voice hardened. "I wanted kids. Sol took that away, too."

"Kyria?"

She shook her head violently. "Don't bother me. Just leave me alone. We'll go to Vaylle tomorrow, right?"

"We'll stop at Kingsbury first. That's the capital. Cvinthil is the king."

"Sol put the men in charge, as usual." Kyria dropped her hand, looked at Manda and Wykla, then back to Alouzon. "I'm surprised he didn't stick the women at home ... in chains." She started to walk away.

Alouzon reached down a hand. Wykla took it, her grip as firm as ever. "Almost," murmured the Dragonmaster. "But not quite."

Kyria did not seem to hear. She went off by herself, sat down on the ground, and bent over her staff again. Alouzon could not be sure whether she meditated or wept, but suspected that she did both.

They set off for Kingsbury before dawn, the women doubling up on horses, Helwych riding alone. Tireas's apprentice grumbled quietly about the early hours, but Kyria, mounted behind Manda, silenced him with a look.

He seemed as pathetically friendly towards the sorceress as he was afraid of her. Alternately trying to make conversation with Manda and Kyria and retreating off by himself when he met with nothing but monosyllables and brusque comments, he seemed almost appeasing in his conduct.

"He's a big, overgrown puppy," Alouzon said to herself. If he had possessed a tail, she was sure that he would have been wagging it at the sorceress.

"My lady?" said Wykla, sitting behind her. Kyria's healing abilities were as great as her destructive powers. Wykla was well and strong, and her blue eyes gave no sign of her near encounter with death.

"Helwych. Look at him."

Wykla watched him for a few minutes, then stifled a giggle. "Indeed. He seems such."

For a minute, Alouzon let Vaylle and the White Worm fade into the future. Time for them later. For now, she was with Wykla. And ahead were Marrget and Cvinthil and San the, the women of the wartroop . . . Friends. The only friends she truly had.

"So how are you these days, Wykla?"

"By the favor of the Gods, lady, I am well."

"Happy?"

She felt Wykla rest her head against her back. "I cannot say, lady. I am often confused."

Alouzon had committed herself to the Grail. She would not willingly leave this world without finding it. And though that inner promise should have left her queasy with the thought of the terrors and hardships and, yes, killings that lay ahead, still, she felt hopeful. The Grail glowed warm in the back of her mind, beckoning, echoing her own words back to her in golden tones: It's going to be all right.

"Yeah," she said softly to the winter landscape. "Yeah. Maybe it is."

"My lady?"