Part 43 (2/2)
She strained her eyes against the afternoon sun. The horizon was misty, blurred, but a definite form lay behind the clouds. Land.
”Behold,” said the Dragon. ”The world continues.”
”I thought it ended.” She knew -what had happened, but she hoped to hear otherwise.
”It did, once.”
Alouzon sagged, wept.
”The Grail is there.” The Dragon's voice was gentle.
382.
383.
”Yeah ... and what else?”
Silbakor said nothing.
”How bad are things there?” she said. ”How many people am I going to have to kill there?''
”I am sorry. I wished to give you some hope.”
She wiped her tears on her forearms, her eyes still on the distant land. Like Gryylth, it seemed fresh and new, with high mountains rising up behind a broad, fertile plane. Her land. ”Maybe ...” The wind was a cool torrent that whipped her hair into a bronze cloud. ”Maybe I did better than Braithwaite. I hope so.” She leaned forward toward the Dragon's ear. ”Did I ... did I despair that much?''
Silbakor was silent for a minute. It began to gain alt.i.tude, and the blue sky shaded into starless black. ”At Kent State,” it said softly. ”Then and afterward. In Dallas. In your own apartment with each rising of the sun. The bullet that missed you wounded you nonetheless. You are Guardian of Gryylth, Suzanne h.e.l.ling, but your own land awaits you.”
”And you, Silbakor?”
”As I said: I will help as I can.”
The sky had faded, and void was about them. For a time, she felt the sensation of incredible velocity without apparent speed, and then all motion ceased. With a soft thump, the Dragon alighted on a floor that should not have existed, that stretched off into infinity on all sides.
”Dismount, Suzanne h.e.l.ling.”
She found that her hands were once again plump and soft, her skin white, her hair long and dark. Clumsily, unused to the sluggish responses of her old body, she slid from the Dragon's back. As her feet touched down, she noticed that the floor had begun to take on the characteristics of inst.i.tutional linoleum.
Silbakor shrank, dwindled, and a nimbus formed about it that solidified into the appearance of gla.s.s. With a momentary flicker as of a projected image being brought into sharp focus, the paperweight returned, and Solomon's office reappeared.
Solomon was sitting in his chair before her, slumped to the side, dead. A soft smile was on his face, as though his last thoughts had been pleasant ones.
”In this world,” said the Dragon from the paperweight on the desk, ”Solomon Braithwaite has died of a myo-cardial infarction.”
' 'What do I do now?''
”Notify the proper authorities. No time has pa.s.sed since you left.”
Suzanne hesitated.
”Take the paperweight,” said the Dragon.
Still, she did not move.
”Put the paperweight in your handbag.”
At last, mechanically, she did so, and the rounded shape nestled against her hip. When she put her hand on the doork.n.o.b, sounds started up outside. Typewriters. Conversation. Dr. O'Hara was pa.s.sing by, talking to someone about fifteenth century warfare.
”Then we got into gunpowder,” he was saying, ”and it was a whole new ball game.”
”Yeah,” she muttered. M-ls and magic, and a Dragon, and the timeless sprawl of dead men. She gulped down some air and glanced once more at Solomon's body.
Gritting her teeth, she swung open the door and tried to look as though she had never seen death before. ”Someone call the paramedics! Braithwaite's in trouble.”
Faces turned toward her, conversations stopped in mid-sentence.
She faltered out the words. ”I ... I think it's his heart.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR.
Gael Baudino grew up in Los Angeles and managed to escape with her life. She now lives in Denver . . . and likes it a lot.
She is a minister of Dianic Wicca; and in her alter ego of harper, she performs, teaches, and records in the Denver area. She occasionally drops from exhaustion, but otherwise can be found (grinning happily) dancing with the Maroon Bells Morris.
She lives with her lover, Mirya.
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