Dragon Sword Series - Dragon Sword Part 15

She saw it still, the utter glory of the vision blinding .

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her mind's eye as it had dazzled her in the dream. This was no artifice of a poet, a symbol in service of Christian mysticism. This was, instead, an image that reached well beyond the surface considerations of faith, one that could well.encompa.s.s a world, or a universe, its healing waters s.h.i.+ning forth in undeniable manifestation. It was real. It was wonderful. It was everything.

She realized that she was crying, and she wiped the tears away with an arm that was bare to the shoulder save for a steel wrist cuff. Beside her, Marrget's face was inquiring. "Dragonmaster?"

"I'm OK, Marrget. I was just thinking about something." She came back to the sunlight and the green fields of Gryylth, pleasant enough all of themselves, as unnerv-ingly attractive as a Come To England poster. And if there was a sense of the unfinished and the unreal about it, why, maybe she could do something about that. The Grail was in Gryylth, somewhere. That was good. That was very good.

She forced an embarra.s.sed smile. "You probably think I 'm some kind of witless female."

"For crying, Dragonmaster? Not so. I have myself wept over those lost in battle. There is no shame in tears, only in defeat."

Her smile turned wry. "Or in not being male?"

He started, then laughed loudly. "The Dragonmaster's tongue is as sharp as her sword, I see. If I have, without knowing, offended you, lady, my apologies. You have shown yourself to be of different stuff than ordinary women."

"Marrget, I've got my personal quirks, but underneath I'm just like Cvinthil's wife, or anyone else."

"Nay, Dragonmaster, surely you speak in jest."

"Honest, Marrget. It's just a matter of what you're allowed to do. Even Seena could be like me if she had a chance."

He grew thoughtful, his square jaw c.o.c.ked, considering. The light was on his face, and his eyes were gray and open. "I have not thought of women in that way," he said.

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''They're just people.''

He sighed. "You bring strange thoughts to my head, Alouzon Dragonmaster. I am not surprised that Dythra-gor is unfriendly toward you."

"And are you unfriendly?"

She had caught him again, and his smile was an honest acknowledgment of his admiration. "I will tell you this," he said. "If by some decree of the G.o.ds, I were fated to be woman instead of man, I would that I were a woman like Alouzon Dragonmaster."

Coming from Marrget, the words were a high compliment, and she accepted them as such. But she wished he had said more.

If by some decree of those same G.o.ds, she thought, I had the Grail, I'd see if I couldn't make some changes around here.

If I had the Grail . . .

They traveled throughout the day, stopping again for food and rest, then pressing on into the afternoon. The day was warm and bright, and the countryside glowed like stained gla.s.s, but Alouzon, looking ahead, saw something on the horizon that took all the color out of the land and sky and left them lifeless and gray, like a blight on the world.

Dythragor nodded at it. "The Heath."

She had known instinctively. "Do you have any idea what it really is?"

"What've you heard?" He spoke to her civilly, and his question was actually marked with curiosity.

"Stories," she said, hoping that she could learn a little from him. "Cvinthil said it was a place everyone stayed away from. Marrget said . . ." She caught herself. The captain had joked about fools, but, coming from her mouth, the words would have a different meaning. "Uh ..."

"Something about fools, was it?" Dythragor laughed dryly, as though his youthful appearance was only a thin layer that disguised but did not efface Solomon Braith-waite.

"Yeah, he said that."

"Marrget's got brains. I don't know why the h.e.l.l I set myself up for this one, but if the Dremords went in and took something out, I want to know what it was."

She was almost inclined to say something about the Tree, but decided to keep dangerous names like Merynl out of the conversation. "So . . . about the Heath ..."

He shrugged, shook his head. "I don't know. Everything else about Gryylth I've pretty much figured out. The war makes sense-" He shot her a glance as though daring her to contradict him, but she kept her eyes on the horizon, "-and the people are the usual mix. But the Heath ..."

They rode on in silence for some time, drawing nearer to the Heath. She had almost decided that he was going to say no more, but he spoke again.

"I have a hard time just admitting that it's there. It's like . . . like, if it's there, then there's something wrong with me."

Cvinthil had said something similar, but Dythragor's admission went deeper. The councilor of Gryylth did not like the Heath; Dythragor took its existence as a personal failing.

They rode on through a countryside that had appeared out of a painting, toward a region that had been stamped out of a piece of nightmare. And only the Grail seemed real.

"Can I ask you something weird, Dythragor?"

"Let's not start on the war again, all right?" He seemed resigned, as though burdened with a nagging wife.

"No, nothing like that." She chose her words carefully. "Have you ever had any . . . visions or anything like that? While you were here?"

He looked at her suspiciously, as though she had inquired of his vices. "What kind of visions?"

"Like . . ." It seemed faintly sacrilegious to utter a single word about it in the presence of one who would surely not believe. She wondered how she had been idiot enough to bring it up in the first place. "Like ... of a cup."

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To her surprise, he actually considered her question. "What kind of a cup?"

She blurted it out. "The Grail."

He was puzzled, and his face screwed up as though in response to a bad smell. "As in Arthur?"

"Well . . . yeah . . . kinda like that."

He reacted with distaste. "You take your fantasies pretty seriously, don't you?"

"I'm serious. I've ... I've seen it."

He dismissed her with a snort. "You're even more of a nut than I thought."

But he was plainly afraid of something. In spite of her uncertainty, her question had struck home. "You've seen it too, haven't you?"

Now it was Dythragor who was on the defensive. "Well . . . you get all sorts of dreams once you Ve been in battle a few times."

"Answer me!"

He was plainly unwilling, but he answered. "Once or twice, back at the beginning. Silly stuff, really. I suppose it came from my work with the Arthurian materials."

"What did you see?"

"Oh, big gold light." He was trying to sound casual, offhand. "And a cup. Water. Like in the legend." He turned to her. "And what did you see?"

She did not want to say. It was holy, sacred, not to be ridiculed by such as Dythragor. "Well. . . like that..."

"Well, you know my opinion of it."

"Dammit, Dythragor, do you have to deny everything that you don't understand? "

Here they were again, arguing. Gryylth was faced with a Tree she could not talk about, might be helped by a Grail she could not talk about, and might be understood with the aid of a man she could not talk about. And she and Dythragor continued to b.u.t.t heads over definitions and premises.

He sighed. "Everything that means anything," he said slowly, as though instructing her, "is understandable. The irrational is a refuge for inferior minds. You're a scholar. You should know that."

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"Is something like war rational?"

"Back to the war now." He cast his eyes skyward, a henpecked husband.

"Is it?"

"Under certain circ.u.mstances, yes," he snapped. "Are you finished?"

She was, and she dropped back toward the rear of the columns. She noticed that Relys was in the process of giving Wykla a thorough dressing-down about some inconsequential infraction of the rules of the wartroop. The boy was near to tears, but he was holding them back mightily. Captains could cry, it seemed, but warriors were expected to be more stoic.

She did not like it, and Relys was being more cruel than she thought necessary, but the wartroop had its ways, and Wykla had, by his presence, agreed to abide by them. Still, Relys's actions smacked too much of the same arrogance and disdain for anything gentle that so marked Dythragor's behavior.

"You are a woman, Wykla," Relys was saying. "You have a meek heart and your hands are soft. Why do you not admit it?"

And what the h.e.l.l am I supposed to do about I? Am I supposed to do anything at all?

"... you should don a gown and keep house with your sisters. That would suit you well, would it not?"

Once she had protested injustice, and she had been dubiously rewarded. But she could stand it no longer. "Relys."

"Dragonmaster?" Since she had challenged him in Bandon, the sneer was gone from his voice.

"Is that really necessary?"

His hard, black eyes examined her for a minute, then darted to Wykla. The young man sat stiffly on his horse, his eyes forward.

"Perhaps not," said Relys. He considered Wykla for a moment more. ' 'At least for now.'' He nudged his horse away and rode oif to one side of the Troop.

It was nothing worse than she had seen before on this journey. Wykla was the new man in the company: he had to 142.

expect that his place in the First Wartroop would be, for a time, constantly challenged. The others, seasoned warriors with a rough sense of humor and the sure knowledge that their lives depended upon the cohesion and loyalty of the wartroop, had a right to try him.

They had done the same to Alouzon, indirectly, watching what she did, listening to what she said; and they had begun to acknowledge her as a companion who did her share of the work without complaint, who was willing to help without being asked. But several were looking at her now, curious, perhaps a little suspicious of this strange woman who had brought such a different ethic into their world. She looked back at them, gestured broadly. "Yeah, yeah, I know," she said, exasperated. "I'm wrong. So sue me."

They smiled at her admission, and though there was some head-shaking, she knew that she had defused their fears for the moment. At twilight, when she, as usual, pitched in with camp ch.o.r.es, they laughed and joked with her as though she were one of them.

To the north, though, more menacing with the fall of darkness, was the Heath. It was a distinct shadow in the night, thick, turgid, lit by flashes of blue flame.

She pointed it out to Marrget as the men bedded down. "Aye, Dragonmaster. The Heath. Where we test our mettle tomorrow." He looked pointedly to his right, and Alouzon saw that his gaze rested on Wykla, who was standing guard at the edge of the firelight. "Some of us more than others."

Wykla seemed quite conscious of his captain's notice, and he straightened up quickly, holding his spear as though to disprove Relys's words that afternoon.

Get off his back, will you? The other men, she imagined, were just as frightened as Wykla of what they would find in the Heath, but experience had made them more skilled in hiding it. Alouzon said nothing of her thoughts to Marrget, but after she bade the captain goodnight, she picked her way among the sleeping warriors to Wykla's side.

For a few minutes, she stood silently with him as .

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though joining him in his watch. Wykla eyed her fearfully for a moment, then, when no criticism was forthcoming, he returned to his alert stance.

"Everyone's pretty down on you, aren't they?" she said.

Wykla stiffened again, as though fearing some reproof. "I do not understand your words, my lady Alouzon."

"They don't have much respect for you. Neither does Dythragor, for that matter."

"Ah, my lady," he said. "It is well they do not. I am young, and have yet to earn respect. Putting great trust in me would be like a man making a spear out of green wood: he would not know how it might warp as it seasoned."

"How about you?"

"My lady?" His face was young, almost sweet, in the firelight, his amber hair flickering in soft waves.

" Where's your self-respect? Where's your confidence?"

He shook his head sadly. "I have,nothing to have confidence in. My heart quails at the very thought of the Heath." He hung his head. "I am ashamed to say such things of myself. Particularly to such a warrior as you, who saved the mighty Dythragor."

She sighed. "I'm sorry I ever mentioned it."

"It is a matter of great honor, my lady."

Alouzon ran a hand over her unfamiliar face. If her transformation had not apparently banished her headaches, she would be getting one now. Still, she hated to think of Wykla walking into whatever the Heath contained with nothing to sustain him. "I'll be beside you when we enter the Heath tomorrow," she said abruptly.

He straightened with a gasp, his face s.h.i.+ning. "My thanks, my lady," he said with difficulty.