Part 42 (1/2)

* CHAPTER 25 *

It was a lovely night for flying. Though the sun had set hours before, the air was still tepid from the heat of the day, and the fragrance of midsummer lingered sweetly even at the alt.i.tudes sought by the Dragon. Dythragor held to its neck as the great wings beat rhythmically, ma.s.sively, and the flow of air on his face and in his hair was bracing, the wash of moonlight cleansing. The odors of mortality and the dust of the land were, he felt, leaving him, laved away in a ritual bath of light and wind, preparing him for what lay ahead.

But, for now, he did not think of the future. That was Suzanne's affair-or Alouzon's-and in any case, he was content to watch the stars, to breathe the clean air, to relish the sight of the land that had been his for the last decade.

The years had been filled with battles and with what pa.s.sed for glory. Men had fallen: friends, enemies, trusted comrades. Even Helkyying, that red-bearded giant who had led the First Wartroop, had died fighting the Dremords on the great plain that lay to the south of Ridge-brake Forest. It had taken four men to carry his body to the grave, and all the captains of the wartroops had let their blood for him.

Dythragor shook his head sadly. Helkyying. His place had been taken by Marrget. And he had failed . . . her.

Her face had been drawn with fatigue and with the strain of an interior battle fought more valiantly than any 370.

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waged with sword and spear, and yet he had run from her. But she had, in the end, extended her hand to him in friends.h.i.+p, and had allowed him to fight once more beside her. If there was any glory in Gryylth, any at all, it was hers.

Marrget. . . And what would happen to her afterward?

He put his hope in Alouzon. He did not understand her, doubted that he ever could, but he knew that the Dragon had chosen well. She had helped Marrget and the wartroop, had inspired Vorya and Cvinthi! and Santhe, and had won the admiration and respect of every soldier who had fought with her. If anyone could break down the ramparts of social structure and custom that hemmed in the women of Gryylth, it was Alouzon.

Ironic. Here he was, rooting now for the student radical. Everything that he had wanted was gone, and he had actively embraced what had once revolted him. Helen would have laughed.

He shut his eyes at the thought. Her laughter was too cruel to comfort him tonight. But, nonetheless, he wished that she could see. He was doing something right for a change, and he wanted her to know that.

”Silbakor,” he said. ”Old friend.”

”Dragonmaster.”

”Will Suzanne accept the Guardians.h.i.+p?”

The Dragon was silent for a moment. The wind rushed by. ”I do not prophesy.”

”I'm not asking you for that. I want to know what you think about it. I've got to know. I need someone to tell me that Gryylth . . . will continue. I ...” His voice caught, and the stars blurred into vague nebulae. ”I can't do this without knowing.”

The Dragon's voice was laden with regret. ”Solomon,” it said softly, ”I cannot tell you that which I do not know. Suzanne h.e.l.ling is an individual like yourself. Her movements and decisions can neither be predicted, nor even guessed at.” It drove ahead through the sky, its yellow eyes glowing like lamps. ”Nor can she be judged, regardless of her choices.”

”I don't want to judge her.”

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”That is wise.”

”I just want to know if there's any hope.”

”There is always hope.”

Dythragor sighed. The Dragon was as difficult as ever. He put his hand on his sword, leaned against the wind, and peered down. The Circle was a cauldron of light, the figures of the sorcerers tiny and deceptively insignificant. To one side of the conflict, the Gryylthans struggled to pull the trilithon down onto the Tree.

From the beginning, he had known that they would have trouble. It had taken thousands of years to topple even the weakest of Stonehenge's members, and the Circle was barely ten years old. Despite the stresses of magical battle, it was essentially stable and intact. Given time, given more people who had not been fighting since morning, Alouzon's party might have succeeded. But when the diversionary attack on the Corrinian forces had continued on and on with no sign from the Circle, he had summoned Silbakor.

Now he patted the great, iron-colored neck. ”It's time, old friend.”

”It is well.” The Dragon circled rapidly out to the southwest, reversed its course, and began to descend. Far ahead and far below was the trilithon that contained upright 57. It had tipped, but it had not fallen. It needed one extra jolt, but Alouzon and the rest were too tired to supply it.

The wind turned cold as the Dragon gained speed. It roared in Dythragor's ears. ”Silbakor!” he called above the noise, ”I think you must be pretty sure that Suzanne will take the Guardians.h.i.+p. You wouldn't fight the Tree like this if you weren't!”

' 'I but bear you, Solomon Braithwaite, Dythragor Drag-onmaster. I carry you. In doing so, I do not oppose either Tree or Circle with my own being.”

The Circle was directly ahead now, growing quickly, upright 57 leaning crookedly . . . refusing to fall . . .

He readied himself for his spring, just as he had prepared for his first exultant entrance into Gryylth. He had .

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tensed, then leaped into the thick of battle, his sword flas.h.i.+ng, a smile on his face.

The Dragon leveled out. Dythragor dre* his sword. ”Silbakor,” he said suddenly, the question overwhelming him, ' 'was I wrong? Was I so wrong?''

The trilithon bloomed in front of him, and just at the proper moment, he sprang from the Dragon, falling freely as he crossed the outer peristyle. His timing was perfect, his form flawless, and, arms wide as if seeking the embrace of an old lover, he hit the top of the upright at something over seventy miles an hour.

Alouzon guessed what Dythragor was doing the moment she saw the Dragon, and she nearly lost her hold on the rope. For an instant, she thought of running, fleeing the Circle, putting as much distance between herself and Gryylth as possible. But that choice was gone, she realized. She could no more leave Gryylth than she could have left Wykla, or Marrget. She had other choices now, and other strengths.

Though her hands were slick with her own blood, her palms raw and burning, she sought a better hold, pulled, shouted encouragement to the others with what breath she had to spare. Eyes narrowed with her efforts, the trilithon blurring into a phantom doorway into night, she put her back and shoulders into her efforts, calling inwardly on the Grail for help.

For most of its approach, the Dragon was hidden behind the stones, and yet she knew precisely when it was going to arrive. She did not want to see, or to hear, but there was a sudden blast of rus.h.i.+ng wings, a fleeting shock wave that penetrated the unyielding barriers surrounding the Circle, and, finally, a dull, m.u.f.fled thump.

The rope gave in her hands.

The trilithon was falling.

The others were already moving, Marrget and Santhe brutally shoving their warriors toward the peristyle as the upright ground slowly down. Alouzon had one glimpse of Mernyl before she was half dragged toward the rear of the monument: the sorcerer was standing straight, facing 374.

toward the Avenue, his staff pointing out along the axis of the Circle. Tireas was looking at the trilithon, helpless, his face white.

The warriors had moments to escape. Amid the rending of nearly sixty thousand pounds of rock, they reached the peristyle. No force field barred their way now, and they pa.s.sed through without slowing, fleeing out along the flat expanse of gra.s.s that surrounded the monument.

The first explosion threw them to the ground. Alouzon slid for several feet, propelled both by her own momentum and by the shock wave that ripped through the air. But that was only from the lintel striking the ground. Upright 57 turned slightly as it fell, reared as though in surprise, and crashed down directly on top of the Tree.

A moment of silence as though life and time had been suspended. A coffin lid might have been screwed down on the world. Then, with a crack that seemed to reach from the sky into the foundations of existence, Stone and Wood detonated.

Light burst as though a star had kindled within the peristyle. Blue white, white blue, it flared into incandescent life, expanded hugely, and enveloped the monument. Alouzon had put her head in her arms and clenched her eyes, but the brilliance dazzled her still. It mounted unbearably; continued to mount, and threatened to grow forever and ignite the universe with unquenchable flame.

One terrific blast, one flash that must, she thought, leave her blind, and then it was all over, dying away suddenly without even an echo, the light vanis.h.i.+ng as though turned oif by a switch. Dazed, fighting for the breath that had been crushed out of her, she rolled over on her back. At first, she could hardly focus her seared eyes on the sky, but when she did, a scream forced its way up from her throat.

Calmly, without any visible cause, the moon was disintegrating. And the stars were fading, one by one.