Only Alex and his squire, Geoffrey of Meron, seemed unaffected by Delia, and it was a welcome change to talk with them. It was during one such conversation with Alex on a windy day in March that Alanna discovered they wanted to test each other. Before he had passed the Ordeal, Alex had been the best of the squires; now he was getting a reputation as one of the finest knights in Tortall.
He and Alanna had been talking about what it was like to be good, with everyone watching for mistakes, until it was only natural to find one of the indoor fencing courts and see which of them was better. They had agreed a referee was not necessary, since they were only using blunt practice swords. Not even Faithful was there.
Alanna watched Alex stretch as she did so herself, excitement running through her veins. She had always wondered if she was as good as her dark friend. Now she would find out.
Their stretching finished, they saluted each other with the practice swords. Without warning Alex struck, his hand flashing in a complex overhand pass that brought his blade within inches of Alanna’s unguarded face. Only a quick backward leap saved her. She circled, watching Alex’s chest. With all but the best fighters, muscle movements in the chest often betrayed the direction of the next attack—except Alex was one of the best. Like Duke Gareth, who fought without signals, Alex moved without warning. He swept his sword up and under; the blow would have ripped Alanna open from abdomen to chest if they had been using real swords. She lunged back once more, but not quickly enough. The tip of Alex’s’ sword sliced up her thigh, tearing her hose and gouging a deep scratch in her leg.
“Hey, Alex!” she protested. “Be careful!” The knight did not answer. His dark face was emotionless, his eyes unreadable. Alanna faded back, then lunged to the side and the front, coming at him in a straightforward strike. Alex met her: their swordhilts locked. Body-to-body, Duke Gareth called it, and it rarely happened. For someone as small as Alanna it meant real trouble. Alex strained, forcing his weight down, trying to make her fall to her knees. Alanna broke away and came back instantly, knocking his blade aside. The flat of her sword struck Alex hard on the cheekbone, and she stepped back, feeling ashamed. It was disgraceful to let her temper get away with her as she just had.
“Alex, I’m sorry,” she said ruefully, looking at the welt spreading across his dark skin. “Do you—”
Alex brought up his sword again, smiling slightly. His dark eyes glittered with something she couldn’t name. He whispered, “Guard.”
Alanna was suddenly tired of this game. Deter-mined to end the match one way or another, she lunged in. Alex locked with her again and knocked her to the floor.
Alanna rolled. Alex’s sword-point struck the floor an inch away from her head, taking a chip out of the hard wood. She glimpsed his face, and what she saw frightened her. His eyes were bright; the smile on his lips was suddenly nasty. She jumped up as he came at her again, but she wasn’t quick enough. The flat of his blade smacked against her ribs, making her gasp for air. She swung at his side and connected hard, making him wince with pain.
This time she put her sword down. “I want to stop,” she told him. “Something’s wrong!”
She got her sword up just in time as he struck. Their blades met and sparks flew. Alanna disengaged and got away.
Sweat trickled into her eyes; she shook her head to clear them. This was insane! He acted as if he really wanted to kill her; with a dull practice sword death would be very painful.
Alex closed in, unstoppable. He brought his sword up and over his head, coming down hard. Alanna dodged aside just in time; the blunt edge struck her collarbone rather than her skull. Bone cracked in her shoulder as she fell to her knees with a cry of pain. Helplessly she watched the sword swing up and down, unable to stop its slicing toward her throat. She closed her eyes. If he hit her in the neck, he would break it, and there was nothing she could do.
“Very interesting, Alex.”
Miraculously, Alex dropped his blade and turned. Myles stood just inside the door, Faithful at his feet. “You’ve certainly proved you’re better than Alan. Of course, you are four years older, and you have several battles to your credit.” The older knight’s words whipped through the air like a lash. “However, I think you two have played ‘Best Warrior’ long enough. Or didn’t you realize you had injured Alan?”
Alex turned to Alanna. The nasty smile was replaced by concern. “Alan, I didn’t—here let me help you up—”
“Don’t touch me!” Alanna cried as he reached for her. She quickly added, “Please, Alex—it’s my collarbone. I think it’s broken.”
Alex knelt beside her, his face tense. “Alan, I’ll never forgive myself—”
She smiled tightly, beginning to feel sick. “It’s all right. We just got a little carried away. With my Gift I’ll be fine in a couple of days.” Alex looked at Myles. “Sir Myles, I didn’t—”
“The Provost is looking for you,” Myles replied, his sharp eyes never leaving Alex’s face. “I believe he has a border patrol ready. It must have been hard on you, cooped up this winter while everyone else got duties.”
Alex stood. “If there’s anything I can do—”
Alanna nodded, sweat standing out on her forehead. “I’ll let you know right away.”
Alex hurried out, and Myles crossed to Alanna. “Just lie still,” he told her. “I’ll get a healer—and some servants. We’ll have to carry you out, I’m afraid.”
“What brought you here?” Alanna whispered. “No one knew…”
Myles nodded to the cat bumping Alanna’s good hand. “Faithful brought me. He was very forceful! I’m glad I listened. Alan, Alex was trying to kill you.”
Alanna shook her head, the effort bringing on a wave of nausea. “He’s been my friend for years.”
He didn’t look so very friendly when we walked in, Faithful told her.
Alanna grimaced. “I don’t want to hear any more about it.” But in her mind a voice was saying, He hasn’t been a close friend in years—not since he became Duke Roger’s squire. She sighed and put the thought away to go over later, when her head wasn’t spinning. Until she had proof, she had to keep her suspicions to herself.
4
A CRY OF WAR
THE APRIL RAINS POURED DOWN OUTSIDE THE Dancing Dove as Alanna examined the scrap of dirty paper George had given her, wishing it would go away. “There’s no chance of a mistake?” she asked her friend.
“None,” the thief replied. “I’ve received the same reports from the castles where the troops are hid and from the Rogue in Tusaine’s capital. Duke Hilam, King Ain’s brother, sees himself as a conqueror. He’s mobilized all their armies, and the spearhead points right at the Drell River. With the mountain passes open …” He shrugged. “I give it two more weeks before they’re locked onto the river’s right bank. The fort there won’t hold out much more than a week once Duke Hilam attacks.”
Alanna looked at the tiny map. “What a stupid place to fight a war,” she whispered. “It’s enclosed by mountains. Neither side will have room to turn. The mountains will slow down reinforcements, supplies. And we’re going to be doing a lot of fighting in the river.” She folded the map and stuck it in her shirt. “Thanks, George.”
“I just wish I had good news.” The thief’s fingers touched heir chin gently, making her look up. Alanna blushed. He hadn’t kissed her since Jon’s birthday almost a year ago; but he let her know—with little touches, with softness in his eyes when he looked at her—that he was stalking her. Jonathan looked at Delia in much the same way. That Alanna got such attention from George terrified her.
“I have to leave;” she said, gathering up her cloak.
“All right, then.” He opened the door for her. “Let me know what’s done.”
Alanna couldn’t help but grin. “Don’t be silly. You’ll probably know before me.” She hurried out into the rainy night.
She found Myles of Olau in his chambers, translating some ancient document. Faithful was curled up before the knigh
t’s fire, having told Alanna he preferred napping before a warm hearth to trotting to the City in the rain. He greeted Alanna now by leaping onto her shoulder.
The moment Myles saw her face he put his translating aside. “What’s wrong?”
Alanna pulled the folded map from beneath her shirt, watching Myles’s face as she opened it. “You have some friends in the City,” she replied softly. “A young burglar named Marek. An old man who forges called Scholar.” She smiled. “They say you’re a good drinking companion. I could’ve told them that.” Myles opened his mouth to speak, but Alanna shook her head. “I’m not asking you to admit anything. I’m telling you I know Marek and Scholar and their friends. I’m friends with the man who rules them.”
“The Rogue himself?” Myles whispered. “How?”
“It’s too long a story, but I’ve known him and the others for years. Last summer I told George—the Rogue—that we were having trouble getting good information from Tusaine. He offered to help.” Alanna handed the map to her friend. “He gave me this today. The little red arrows are Tusaine legions—”
Myles counted them. “Twenty.” He whistled. “At one hundred men per legion—two thousand foot soldiers.”
“The blue arrows are units, ten armed knights each.”
“One hundred and fifty in all.” Myles looked at the map, rubbing his forehead wearily. “They’re quartered in these castles and towns?”
Alanna nodded. “And look what they’re circled around.”
“The Drell River Valley.” Myles looked at Alanna. “How much do you trust the Rogue?”
“I trust him with my life. I trust him with Jon’s life.”
Myles rose. “Duke Gareth and the king must see this immediately. I’ll be certain your name and that of your source don’t come into the discussion.”
“One more thing, Myles. George says the mountain passes from Tusaine into the Drell Valley are open.”
“Then we’ve very little time, and we’re not prepared.” Myles shook his shaggy head. “Gareth and I tried to convince Roald that Hilam would do this. If we were dealing only with King Ain, there’d be no trouble. He just wants to be left in his pleasure gardens with his wives. But Hilam—”
“Has notions?” Alanna suggested.
Myles’s information had an immediate effect on the palace. Every high-ranking nobleman was summoned to the War Chamber to confer all the next day and late into the night. Messengers and carrier pigeons went out from the castle in droves as the halls buzzed with gossip. Alanna could only wait. Jonathan was included in the discussions, but his squire was not.
She was reading in her rooms late the next night when the prince returned at last. He shook his head when she gestured toward a chair. I’m for bed,” he said. “I just wanted you to know it’s war. Father’s sent out the Call to Muster. The initial force—that’s us—rides in five days.”
Alanna’s heart drummed uncomfortably. Like it or not, she would be in her first battle before she turned sixteen. “Who’s commanding?” she asked.
“Uncle Gareth,” was the reply. “Get your sleep. You’ll need it.”
After several days of gathering arms and supplies and outfitting men from nearby towns and villages, the initial force was ready. Three days after the Call to Muster went out, the force was assembled in military formation on the wide grass-covered hill between the palace and the Temple District, awaiting review by the king and Duke Gareth. Alanna, stationed just behind Jonathan, surveyed the ranks of men when Duke Gareth wasn’t looking. We’ve done pretty well for not being prepared, she was thinking with pride, when a horse’s whinny split the spring air.
Duke Gareth’s chestnut, a big, good-natured animal, was pawing the air and rolling his eyes as he screamed. The puzzled Duke was fighting to get the gelding under control when his saddle slipped to the side. Gareth of Naxen fell heavily, dangerously close to his horse’s thrashing hooves.
“Hold your formation!” Jonathan roared as a dozen men started forward. King Roald already had the chestnut’s rein in his hand, and his servants were at the fallen man’s side. Jon planted himself solidly in front of Gary, who was going to ride to his father, anyway. “I said, hold formation!”
The big knight glared at his cousin in helpless fury; for a second Alanna was afraid he might hit Jon. The prince ignored the threat, adding softly, “What can you do for him that isn’t already being done? We’re an army, Sir Gareth; let’s try and act like one!”
For a moment the tension between them held. Then Duke Gareth’s son nodded grimly and returned to his place in the ranks of the knights.
Duke Baird, chief of the palace healers, was already beside Gary’s father. Duke Gareth’s face was white, and he was biting his lip in obvious pain. Alanna let her hands tighten on the reins until Moonlight fidgeted nervously. She could see the strange angle of Duke Gareth’s left leg. When she heard shortly afterward that the Duke’s leg was broken in three places and that the king would be appointing a new commander-in-chief, her feeling of doom grew. It was all too neat; so neat that she decided to miss the announcement of the new commander and pay a visit to the stables.
Handing Moonlight an apple, she whistled a brief tune. There was a noise in the hayloft, and her old friend Stefan climbed down the ladder, carrying a blanket.
“Thought ye’d be by,” the hostler grunted. “Ye’ve a real nose fer trouble, ain’t ye?”
Alanna grinned stiffly at George’s man. “What makes you think I didn’t come here to cosset my horse?”
“Then why whistle me up?” the potbellied hostler wanted to know. “Except to chat, which ye do now an’ then. Except now ye’re wonderin’ how Duke Gareth’s beast, what’s gentler even than yer own, happened t’ throw His Grace this mornin’.”
“Well, yes,” Alanna admitted.
Stefan opened the folded blanket. “Mayhap I’m wrong. An’ then again, mayhap this’s why.” He showed her a large prickly bur stuck firmly in the blanket’s weave. Alanna worked it loose with difficulty. “They’s a cruel scratch in th’ poor beast’s back where it was,” Stefan went on. “An’ who cinched His Grace’s saddle so loose? They be so many new folk here for th’ army, I don’t see all as I should.”
“Then none of the regular hostlers saddled Duke Gareth’s horse?”
Stefan shook his head. “’Twas a newcomer. An’ mayhap he was that afraid for his life when Duke Gareth was throwed, an’ mayhap not; He’s gone.”
Alanna mulled this over, handing the blanket back to Stefan. “Thanks for keeping this for me,” she said finally.
The hostler shrugged. “I knew ye’d be askin’,” he said frankly. “Best be careful, though. Us of th’ Rogue knows what happens to them as asks too many questions. By the by—have ye heard who leads in Duke Gareth’s place?”
Alanna shook her head.
“His Grace, th’ Duke of Conté.” Stefan chewed on a straw, his pale blue eyes fixed on Alanna. “Interestin’, havin’ a sorcerer-general, eh?”
“Very,” Alanna said dryly, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach. She turned to go.
“Squire Alan,” Stefan added, “ye might be lookin’ in th’ Lesser Library when ye go back. Ye’ve got a visitor.”
Alanna hurried into the palace, the bur pricking her hand. She was surprised to find the Lesser Library occupied by a hooded monk. Getting the news from Stefan, she had expected to find someone very different.
“Excuse me,” she began.
The “monk” drew back his hood and held his fingers to his lips, grinning mischievously. With an exasperated noise, Alanna slammed the door and locked it behind her.
“Are you out of your, mind?” she asked George in a harsh whisper. “Some of my Lord Provost’s men do know what you look like!”
“Upset for my safety?” the thief chuckled. “I’m touched.”
“You’re touched in the head,” Alanna snapped. “Anyway, since you’re here, why are you here?”
“I thought you mightn�
�t get the chance to come down to the city before you rode out, and I wanted a word with you. But you were wanting to ask me somethin’.”
Alanna showed him the bur. “Stefan found this in Duke Gareth’s saddle blanket. He says a new man saddled the Duke’s horse, then vanished.”
“And you suspect foul play,” George prodded.
“Of course I do. But it doesn’t make sense. Why should Tusaine go to the trouble of stopping Duke Gareth leading the army? That won’t keep us from marching the day after tomorrow.”
George shook his head. “You’re thinkin’ like a warrior. Think like a plotter. There might be reasons closer to home as to why Duke Gareth fell from his beast.”
“Closer to home?” Alanna asked.
“Who benefits?” George wanted to know. “And stop thinkin’ of fightin’: start thinkin’ of power. Who gains the most power from His Grace’s ‘accident’?”
Alanna, about to retort that no one gained, remembered the man King Roald had appointed to Duke Gareth’s place. Suddenly she swayed, feeling ill.
“Not a commander you’ll be trustin’ in the field, is he?” the thief asked softly.
Alanna was trembling. “I have to think about this.”
George nodded. “Think on it all you may please,” he said. “And watch where he places Jonathan and those loyal to Jonathan.” He smoothed a hand over her coppery hair. “Would that I didn’t have to stay here and keep my own in line. I mislike sendin’ you there with no one to help, but there’s nothin’ for it. I’d be a dead Rogue if I turned my back on my folk for as long as you’ll be gone. A week or two, maybe. But not a month and more.”
Alanna smiled at him, wishing he could go with her. Things were always clearer when George was around. “I’ll be all right,” she said with false assurance. “Faithful will be with me, and if things get bad I’ll go to Myles. He’s smart enough for three of us.”
In the Hand of the Goddess (The Song of the Lioness) Page 5