Part 7 (1/2)

Kyria jerked on Dindrane's tunic until she looked up. ”I know where you came from,” said the sorceress, ”and I know why, and I can tell you that you and Vaylle are all the hopes and aspirations that Alouzon has ever had.”

Dindrane blinked at the revelation.

Kyria shook her. ”Do you think that G.o.ds have it all made?” she cried. The idiom sounded strange on her tongue, but the words were appropriate. ”They have their problems just like we have ours.”

Dindrane's eyes seemed fixed on something a quarter mile away. ”But we are being killed! And now your king . . .”

”Then do something about it!” Abruptly, Kyria let go of Dindrane's tunic and folded her in her arms. ”You told us once that you were Vaylle,” she said softly. ”But now it is important to everyone that you be Vaylle indeed. You have seen the Grail, and you have spoken face-to-face with your G.o.ddess. There is strength there. Use it. Take it to your people. Help them. If they must fight, teach them to fight. If they have to die, show them how to die well. But for Alouzon's sake, bring them word of Cvinthil's approach. ''

Marrha's voice carried to them suddenly, clear and sweet: ”Kyria! Dindrane! Do you need help?”

”In a moment,” called Kyria. Please, Dindrane. You can do it. The darkness roiled. The flotilla drew closer. You must.

Staring, but thoughtful, Dindrane nodded slowly. Her hand reached out and drew the ritual knife that was stuck in her belt. After Baares had been killed, she had performed the Great Rite herself, holding both cup and knife in an act of spiritual union that had reached out beyond the symbolic to encompa.s.s the change in her very ident.i.ty.

Male, female; active, receptive: she had both sides of all qualities and attributes. She was Vaylle indeed: as it had been, as it was, as it could be.

She shoved the blade back into its sheath. ”Sister,” she said, looking up, ”will you help me down this slope?”

Her eyes had cleared. There was steel in her voice. Kyria offered her arm, and Dindrane took it.

Seena.

The queen of Gryylth struggled in the grip of nightmares that pinned her in sleep. She fought against the dark shadows, but they pulled her farther down into sights and sounds that she did not want to see.

Seena. Seena.

The voices called mockingly. What could she do for Gryylth? She was a woman. She understood children and households, cooking and spinning and weaving, but not commerce, markets, and decrees. Cvinthil could declare equality with a lifted hand and a few words, but he could not so easily make it real; and so Seena stared at the dream landscape that surrounded her, a realm populated by pleading eyes, outstretched hands, empty bellies. Homeless child-wraiths wandered the countryside in search of food and shelter, were dragged down by ravening hounds, were killed by strange beings with gray faces and incomprehensible weapons.

Seena, Houses burned, people died, and children with empty eyes and amputated limbs were driven into rain and storm. It was the ant.i.thesis of everything she desired as a woman and a mother.

And where are your own children, Seena ?

They were, by the grace of the nameless G.o.ds, safe in the most secure fortress in Gryylth. Helwych had thought it best to move the queen and her children to Hall Kingsbury, and Seena had bowed to his caution. There were awful things abroad in the night-Hahle himself had been attacked just outside the town, and now Timbrin had been missing for several days-and only four wartroops were left to defend the land.

Your children, Seena?

She saw them then: naked and bound, stretched out before the implacable hounds. Eyes like lamps burned down on their faces, and glowing mouths opened to drip phosphor on their soft throats.

Seena was suddenly screaming, battling her way through rank vines and fetid hands, struggling towards her son and daughter. ”Take anything you want,” she cried. ”Take me, take my life, take my land, but spare them!”

Anything?

Hedges of thorn and pools of slime now. She tore the thorns asunder, leaped across the pools. A sword was suddenly in her hand, and though all her womanly conditioning and instincts rebelled at the touch of the weapon, she lashed out at the beasts that threatened her children.

The hounds fell, and their blood ran in a putrid stream away into the far distance where a black wall had suddenly arisen to bring a deeper darkness to the endless night. But when Seena fell to her knees beside Ayya and Vill, they were unmoving. Bound and gagged, their eyes closed, they did not even struggle.

Where are your children, Seena?

With a shriek, she pulled herself out of the dream and opened her eyes. Lit only by a low fire, the walls seemed to s.h.i.+ft and flicker, and she was not at all sure that she was not still asleep. But not even when she rose and stumbled across the room did the sense of nightmare dissipate. She felt as though she waded through water, or forced herself through thick hedges; but she knelt beside the sleeping forms of her children-Ayya in her white gown, Vill still in swaddling-and shook them gently. ”Ayya. Vill.”

But they did not stir.

It was just at dawn that the soldiers came to the house of Kallye the midwife, pounding on the door and shouting in the loud voices of young men who are feeling self-important. Kallye-used to being roused at all hours-was throwing on a robe and padding barefoot across the floor even before she realized that she was awake, and Gelyya, her apprentice, was already gathering up pouches and pots and stuffing them into Kallye's scrip.

”The instincts of a midwife,” Kallye mumbled fuzzily, and she swung the door open and blinked at the tall soldier clad in the livery of the King's Guard.

”I am Dryyim,” he said. ”The queen commands your presence.”

”Seena?” Kallye shook off the last shreds of sleep. ”Is something wrong with Ayya and Vill?”

”My orders are to take you to the queen,” said Dryyim flatly; and, behind him, his companions nodded.

Gelyya's red hair was a dusky blaze in the halflight. ' 'What else shall I pack, mistress?''

Kallye considered. Dryyim was being uncooperative, but perhaps he knew nothing of the situation. Perhaps he did not want to. Many men were like that. Children meant little to them save as heirs and producers of heirs; and messy things like pregnancy and childbirth could easily send them running. ”Just the usual, Gelyya.”

Kallye threw a cloak over her robe, and Gelyya handed her the bundle. But when the apprentice made as if to follow her mistress, Dryyim scowled and shook his head. ”Just the midwife,” he said. ”No more women present than needed.”

His tone was ugly. Kallye flared. ”Man,” she said, ”you came from woman.”

He made as if to strike her, but seemed to think better of it. More than likely, Kallye considered, it would be difficult for him to explain the delivery of a damaged midwife.

But the possibility that Seena's children were ill quickened her steps as she followed the men up the street, and she kept pace with their long strides until they reached the palisade. Then she was shoved roughly up to the guardhouse at the gate, and a young man-they were all young men, these soldiers-examined her critically. ”This is Kallye,” he said at last. ”Let her through.”

Kallye had never been in Hall Kingsbury before, for she had-fittingly, she thought-attended Seena, her births, and her children in Cvinthil's house, a setting infinitely more domestic than this place of guards and questions. Kallye was concerned with homely things: mothers, mothers-to-be, children. She did not care about politics or policy.

But here, seemingly, the two had suddenly come together, for she was shown to a room within the hall where Seena was pacing frantically, wringing her hands. The queen's eyes were red with crying, and when she saw Kallye, she threw herself at the midwife. ”There is something wrong with Ayya and Vill, Kallye. I cannot wake them. They just . . . they just lie there . . .”

Helwych, bent and in a ragged robe, stepped out of the shadows in the corner. ”The physicians have examined them,” he said dispa.s.sionately. ”They can find nothing wrong. Actually ...” He cleared his throat. ”I suspect the worst.”

Seena whirled on him. ”Such blessings you call down on my children!”

Helwych's black eyes flickered. ”The worst, my queen, is not death. I speak of sorcery.”

Kallye set down her bundle. Midwife's instincts. There was something unhealthy in this room. Helwych's comments reeked of it, and the presence of so many young guards-jostling and glowering and hating every particle of these woman-matters-made her feel hemmed in and even frightened. Sorcery? Maybe. But whose? And what else?

Wondering at her thoughts, Kallye tried to soothe Seena, but the queen was hysterical and dragged her towards the unmoving forms of her children. The physicians had failed. Seena had called on her last hope.

Kallye was unwilling to leave Seena's side, but after a moment, she noticed that Relys was in the room. The warrior looked slender and almost fragile compared to the big men of the guard, and she stood as if she had decided that she was helpless in the face of Seena's distress. Kallye called her over and put the queen into her arms. Relys took her stiffly, unused to such womanly gestures, but her black eyes met the midwife's and then flickered earnestly to the children on the pallet by the fire.

Bending over Ayya and Vill, Kallye found that Seena had spoken accurately. The children lay as though asleep, but they did not stir when called or shaken.

Kallye lifted them one at a time, but she might have held sacks of flour for all their response.

She held her ear close to their faces, then called for something made of polished metal.

One of the soldiers scowled. ”She can do no more than the physicians.”

”And maybe even less,” said another.