Part 18 (2/2)

It could be the wounds. That and nothing else. I should ask the midwife. But, terrified as she was of what the answer might be, she knew that she would not ask.

”You also have other talents,” said Hahle. ”Find them. Use them. You are not helpless.”

Shaking, Relys reached out with her good hand. Hahle took it in a firm grip, and she jerked her thoughts back to his last words. ”I ... will try to follow your advice, councilman,” she said softly. ”I fear it may be beyond me, though.”

”We can only try,” he said. ”And with the help of friends, we may succeed. Do you have family?”

”I am from ...” She fought with her fear, fought with the name. ”... from Bandon.”

”Oh.” Hahle was silent for a time. The distant waves hissed softly. ”I am sorry.”

Pregnant? The very thought was a sickness. Dryyim, maybe, insolent and swaggering? Or Lytham? Or Haryn? Or one of the other men who, faceless and grinning, had taken her as she, with clenched teeth and eyes, lay motionless, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of a struggle?

O you nameless G.o.ds . . . please . . .

”I spoke with my wife,” said Hahle. ”And though we agree on very little . . .”He chuckled softly. ”... we agree on this: consider us, if you will, your family. Call us mother and father or not as you wish, but know that we will defend you, honor you, and help you and Timbrin as we would our own daughters.” He squeezed her hand briefly. ”Come back to bed when you will,” he said. ”The door will be unbarred, and there will always be a place in my house for you to sleep.”

Relys hardly heard him go. She was staring at her belly . . . wondering . . .

A television sit-com, Alouzon reflected, would have made much of it: three sword-toting, fifth-century warriors holed up in a one-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles. Reality, though, was something different: a scenario rife with potentials for confusion, fear, and tragedy. There was little room for humor.

But Wykla and Manda were hardy, resourceful women. They were used to coping with hards.h.i.+p and battles and, more recently, inner and outer horrors that transcended mundane concerns of death or wounds; and that, coupled with the faith and confidence that they placed in their leader, made the city and its manifestations of technology less a living nightmare than a new-albeit strange-situation that they had, for the time, to accept.

Haltingly, to be sure, they accepted. Alouzon got them up to her apartment without incident; fed them a late dinner; showed them how to work the sink, shower, and toilet; and got them cleaned up and packed off to bed.

She heard them talking softly in the bedroom for a few minutes, and then they fell silent. Relieved, Alouzon a.s.sumed that they had gone to sleep; but a few minutes later, a gasp from Wykla brought her up and running. Before she got to the bedroom door, though, she realized that there was nothing wrong: the two women were simply making love, taking comfort and rea.s.surance from the familiarity of their bodies.

Laughing softly and affectionately, Alouzon peeled out of her wet clothes, showered, and curled up on the sofa. Sleep washed over her like a wave, and when she opened her eyes, it was already well towards midmorning. Wykla was standing over her, clad in one of Suzanne's caftans.

”Hey,” said Alouzon. ”How's it going?”

Wykla smiled in the fuzzy manner of a woman adequately supplied with both sleep and morning s.e.x. ”A strange world, Dragonmaster. We were going to cook breakfast, and we found oats and onions and meat, but no fire. We thought about building one in the middle of your floor, but decided that you might have other ways of doing these things here.”

Alouzon laughed. ”You know, Wykla, I'm d.a.m.ned glad to see you.”

Wykla's hair, unbound, had fallen into curls and ringlets. She looked delightfully lost in the overlarge caftan. ”And we you, Alouzon.”

Alouzon rose and fixed breakfast, serving up double portions of oatmeal and bacon for everyone after setting milk and b.u.t.ter and fruit out on the table. As she spooned the cereal into bowls, she recalled distantly the last morning Suzanne had spent with Joe Epstein. It had been oatmeal then, too. And when Suzanne had returned from school-and from Gryylth-in the late afternoon, she had packed Joe's belongings into three large cardboard cartons and had told him to get out.

The change had started. Suzanne h.e.l.ling, though her life had been fragmented both by the killings at Kent State and her own mismanagement, had begun to grow, to sweep away the tatters and the wreckage. True, the next months had taxed her even more, and the strain of holding to a dual personality had brought her to the edge of insanity; but there was no more duality now: there was only Alouzon. And though Suzanne had never been able to reconcile the deaths of her cla.s.smates with her own continuing life, much less devise any kind of tribute or memorial to them that might have, at last, expiated her sense of guilt, Alouzon had.

She lived, simply, so that a world might continue; and if the deaths at Kent demanded a memorial, then Alouzon would give them one. She would give them that world. She would give them Gryylth. And she would take away from that fragmentary and torn planet the last remnants of Vietnam and give its people a chance at a life that neither she herself nor America as a whole had ever had.

Eating breakfast with Wykla and Manda, Alouzon fought to keep from bursting into tears. They were so utterly, utterly beautiful. And she desperately wanted them to stay that way.

I'd do anything for them. Anything. And she knew then not only that she would have to, but that she could.

Manda finished her bowl, drained her gla.s.s of milk, and after looking curiously at the paper napkin, shrugged and wiped her mouth. ”What lies ahead of us today, Dra-?” She grinned. ”Alouzon.”

Alouzon leaned back in her chair and thought. ”What month is it, Manda? In Vaylle, I mean.”

”August.”

”Hmmm. Would you believe I've only been here for three days? Time goes a lot faster in Gryylth. We'll have to move quick.''

She rose, opened the door, and brought in the morning paper. Manda and Wykla watched curiously as she spread it on the floor; and while she explained briefly what it was, she scanned the pages. ”I don't see anything about the old man in the park,” she said at last. ”It probably happened too late to make the morning edition.”

”Is he of particular significance?” said Wykla.

”Kinda.” Alouzon tossed the paper onto the sofa, stretched out her legs, contemplated her bare toes. ”He wasn't the first to be killed by hounds from Vaylle. There were a couple others two days ago. That means that the door you came through wasn't just a fluke. It was open before.”

Realization dawned on Wykla. ”And might open again later.”

”Right.”

”More hounds?”

”Well . . . maybe.” Alouzon was examining her guests, estimating sizes. There was some exploring to be done today, and Manda and Wykla had to look like California girls. That was not hard: the two were as blond and shapely as homecoming queens, and the new t-s.h.i.+rts and jeans she had bought would disguise them completely. But though that meant that she herself would have to go back to the old clothes from Kent State, she did not mind, for now the faded cut-offs and blood-stained blouse seemed to her more of a badge of honor than even the crest of the king of Gryylth.

”Maybe hounds,” she said. ”But maybe something else.”

They spent the rest of the day traveling about the city in the VW, as though they were three girlfriends who had decided to go sightseeing together. But though Manda and Wykla did stare at the buildings, the cars, and the people, there was more to their journey than the sights.

Alouzon, falling from Silbakor into nothingness, had landed in MacArthur Park, unhurt, and at the same point in s.p.a.ce where she had forced a pa.s.sage from the immaterial s.p.a.ces between dimensions into the material and prosaic world of smog, cars, and neon signs, there was now a door connecting two locations that quite possibly did not even reside in the same universe.

There had been other forcings, though. Other pa.s.sages. Might there also be other doors?

At MacArthur Park, the police had been, as usual, efficient: hardly a trace of the night's violence was left. But the three warriors easily read in the mud at the edge of the lake the signs of huge paws, frantic flight, and spilled phosphor.

”It was here, Alouzon?” said Wykla.

”Right here.” Alouzon pointed. ”Look: you can still see where I fell flat on my face.”

Manda had straightened up and was looking around. She shook her head. ”I am very glad that we arrived at night.”

”How come?”

”Because, friend Alouzon, had we arrived during the day, I am sure that I must have gone mad with fright.” She gestured at the traffic, the people throwing Frisbees and listening to radios, the flash of steel and gla.s.s from a far-off 747: the noise and sights and milling life of the city. There was a flicker of nervousness in her manner, as though panic were being held down only by disciplined force of will. ”I am sure you can understand.”

A car was pa.s.sing on Alvarado, a convertible with the top down. A young man waved at them. ”Oh my G.o.d,” he shouted. ”Look at that a.s.s! What a G.o.ddess!”

Alouzon resisted the temptation to throw something. ”Just ignore him,” she told her companions.

' 'Aye.'' Wykla was bent over the tracks. She glanced at the car. The man was still waving. ”Is he from Bandon?”

Alouzon shrugged. ”Close enough.”

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