Dragon Death Part 34

An infant began to cry.

"It is Ayya and Vill," she whispered. "They have come back.''

A sign. It had to be a sign. Something to ease the memories, to stem the guilt left behind by that small thing shuddering into stillness within Relys's belly, to say that the nightmare was at an end. Something.

But now Dindrane was walking up the main avenue of the town, treading firmly and evenly among the ruins. Her boy's clothes shone as though new-made, a gold torque was about her neck, and the sparkle of the staff in her left hand was matched by the gleam of the Dragons word in her right. As she approached the Hall, the brightness in the west faded, and the sun-as though stilled for a moment in mid-dawn-resumed its climb into the sky, illuminating her glowing face, gleaming in her bright eyes.

Kyria ran to meet her. "Dindrane!"

Simply, unaffectedly, the priestess bowed. " Tis I. I have come home."

"But who ... what . . . how. . . ?"

"Alouzon," said Dindrane, as if that single name explained everything. " 'Tis Her love She sends for a greeting. And She sends a sign, too." She smiled as though her meaning was obvious.

Kyria stared blankly. "I do not understand."

Dindrane's smile grew broader, and she gestured with a sweep of her arm that included all the world. "Go and look."

"Mama!" Ayya was shouting in the Hall. And though Vill was screaming with all the strength of his infant lungs, Cvinthil's glad laughter and Seena's joyful tears were even louder.

Robes fluttering, hair streaming behind her, Kyria ran for the edge of the plateau. Shouting for anyone who would witness a miracle to follow her, she forced her way through the rubble, streaked across the cratered fields, clambered over the earthworks, and looked out to the west.

The sun was still low, but though the rolling hills left some valleys in shadow, the light showed plainly the verdant wave of fertility that overtopped the Camrann Mountains, crashed down the eastern slopes, and rushed in, surging, to fill the plains. The waste was greening. Crops were springing up out of withered fields: growing up, flowering, and fruiting in the s.p.a.ce of a few minutes. Dry stream beds and empty rivers suddenly gushed with water that sparkled in the new light. Meadows and fields took on the hues of spring, then of summer, and finally of a ripe autumn.

Just call me Alouzon. Your friend.

Refugees came to watch, the gra.s.s growing up thick and springy under their feet even as they stumbled from the town to the outer walls. The wave of life went on and on, crossing the plains, cresting the hills, frothing in a riot of wildflowers, rus.h.i.+ng away into the east. Clouds puffed up from the south, white and gray: there would be rain that afternoon. Not too much. Just enough.

And the wind turned round, softening, carrying the scent of herbs and greenery as, in the distance, the dark shadows of thick forests spread out to replace the thin, shattered lines of the burned-out woods.

Now the people of the town were crowding the earthworks. Cvinthil was there, his daughter sitting astraddle his neck and his son wriggling safely in Seena's arms. Darham and Wykla and Manda were embracing. Marrha stood n.o.bly beside her husband, her hand on her belly and her face aglow with pride. Even the cold face of Relys had been touched with light and warmth.

And Kyria noticed that the hunger and starvation were being taken from the emaciated faces of the refugees. They stood straighter, and their voices and spirits took on strength along with their arms and legs. There was suddenly laughter and cheers, and the air was filled with a sense of holiday.

Santhe stood behind Kyria and wrapped her in a close embrace. She looked up at him, her eyes dazzled by the light. A new day. A sign. And more . . .

Greening, growing, living. Within an hour, the land had turned into a ripe garden ready for harvest. And though among the men and women of the three lands there was sorrow and grief still for all the death and bereavement that had gone before, there was also, once again, hope. The nightmare was over. The world was, once again, alive.

Kyria's eyes were streaming. "It was the right thing," she murmured. "I know it. And there . . ." Santhe's eyes held a question that she banished with a smile. "There will be other children."

"Aye," he said. And he kissed her.

Just call me Alouzon ...

There was hope. There was holiday. There was homecoming-in Gryylth, in her heart, in many hearts-and Kyria turned and held Santhe in her arms as though in token of the larger Arms that now held all the world.

Just call me . . .

"Alouzon. Yes," she said. "Our friend."

end.