In the Hand of the Goddess (4 page)

Duke Gareth joined them. He bent down by Alanna as she began her stretching exercises. “Don't forget to let him tire himself out while you get his measure. I know the type. He'll try to make you angry with insults. Don't let that happen—keep your head. You're good, Alan, but you aren't the best.”

Alanna grinned impishly up at him. “No, sir. You are.”

The Duke of Naxen slapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Don't be pert. And
do
be careful.”

Jonathan smiled. “Don't worry, Uncle. Alan keeps his head in a fight.”

Mikal leaned toward Roger, not bothering to keep
his voice low. “The squire is brave, but this is folly. Dain is good, very good. And he cannot always control his temper. I fear this evening will have a sorrowful ending.”

Alanna and Dain stepped to the center of the floor, their unsheathed swords pointing down. Alanna fingered the ember-stone nervously under her shirt, wishing she felt calmer. The king stood.

“Are you prepared?”

They both faced him and bowed, then saluted him with their swords. Quickly they bowed and saluted each other, then moved until they were just a sword's length apart.

“Cross your weapons,” the King ordered. Alanna and Dain obeyed. “Do honor to the laws of chivalry and to the customs of your lands. Guard!”

Dain swung his blade around, meeting Alanna's with a clear, ringing sound. He bore down, trying to force her sword to the floor. Alanna gritted her teeth and held, the muscles in her arms screaming. Dain's eyes widened; she was much stronger than she looked. He broke away and circled her.

“Prepare to die, boy!”

Alanna did not reply. It was the custom to yell insults and challenges at an opponent, but she had
always thought this was a waste of breath. She had also noticed that her unusual silence made her opponents nervous. Instead she watched Dain steadily, waiting for the movement of his torso that would give his next thrust away.

He whipped his sword down and in. Alanna struck it away and slid her own blade straight toward Dain's heart, ready to pull back if she had to. Dain stepped back hurriedly, and Alanna lunged back before she went off-balance.

“A child's trick!” Dain scoffed.

The king winked back at Roger. “That ‘child's trick' nearly worked,” he murmured, to Ambassador Mikal's obvious discomfort.

Dain was circling and talking, trying to keep Alanna distracted until he spotted her weakness. He lunged in and back with great speed, searching for her one failure to fend him off. Alanna parried his blows and watched for an opening she would use to knock the sword from his hand: she wanted no bloodshed. Sweat was trickling down her cheeks, making her nervous—what if it got in her eyes? It was no comfort that Dain's shirt and tunic were soaked through on the chest and between his shoulder blades, or that he was breathing in deep, heavy gasps. Alanna
grinned to herself.
He should have begun fencing with Coram's big old sword
, she thought.
Then he wouldn't be so tired now.

Frantic, Dain insulted her ancestors, her mother, her looks. Alanna ignored him, far more worried about the sweat she could feel on her forehead. The only sound in the big room was the padding of their stockinged feet and Dain's harsh breathing. Alanna spotted a chance and lunged desperately—Dain stumbled back; She tried to wipe her face on her sleeve while he recovered.

She wasn't quick enough. With a yell of triumph the knight darted forward. She stepped back too slowly, and the tip of Dain's sword sank deep into her right arm below the elbow. Cursing her bad timing, Alanna lowered her blade. She had lost. According to the rules, Dain had won by drawing first blood. The fight was over.

He lunged for her chest, his eyes wide and crazy. Alanna jumped aside, just missing dying on the Tusaine's sword.

“Foul!” Gary yelled, furious. Others joined him, yelling “Foul!”

Dain ignored them. He circled Alanna, searching for another opening. Duke Gareth strode forward, his
sword shimmering in his fist. He obviously planned to end the fight, and from the look on his face, if Dain got hurt it would be too bad for him!

Alanna stopped her teacher with a shake of the head. A cold, glittering fury filled her chest. She loved the laws of chivalry, and this Tusaine barbarian had just broken them. He would pay for that, and pay well.

Slowly she stepped back and away from Dain, painfully transferring Lightning into her left hand. Blood dripped onto the floor from her right arm.
I'll have to be careful and not slip in it
, she thought as she readied herself.

Faithful yowled encouragement as Alanna lunged forward viciously. Lightning met Dain's sword with a crash. Instantly she pulled away, then thrust in again. The knight blocked clumsily, falling back as she bore in on him. Her sword never stopped moving; she never stopped looking for an opening. There it was!

She brought Lightning down, under, and up, catching Dain's hilt and yanking the sword from his hand. It went flying. In his haste to escape, the man stumbled, falling flat. Alanna darted forward to press Lightning's brightly gleaming point into Dain's throat.
The Tusaine knight looked up into the coldest eyes he ever hoped to see.

“Stupid,” Alanna told him quietly, her voice shaking with fury. “That was very stupid. And you're lucky I'm a better ‘knight' than you are, or you'd be dead.” She turned contemptuously and walked back to her friends, letting Jon brace her as Duke Gareth bound up her wound.

“He was holding back,” Ambassador Mikal murmured thoughtfully. “All along—that boy was holding back.” He looked at Roald. “If all your young knights are like that one squire, your army must be formidable indeed.”

“See for yourself.” The king pointed to Jonathan, quiet and commanding; big Gary and even bigger Raoul; slender, dark Alex with his cat-like grace. “They are part of our future,” the king said. “It is a future we all want to protect.”

Alanna was cleaning Lightning in her room when Myles found her. “You didn't kill him,” the knight said bluntly. “He would have killed you, but you didn't kill him.”

Alanna's arm was hurting; she hadn't yet gotten the chance to place healing magic on herself. The pain
made her short with her friend. “So? He was stupid. If I killed everyone who was stupid, I wouldn't have time to sleep.”

“He gave you every excuse to kill him,” Myles persisted. “Even his Ambassador would have understood if you had.”

“Just because
he
behaved badly is no excuse for
me
to behave badly.” Alanna's lower lip began to tremble. It was too much excitement. She wanted to go to bed, and she wanted to heal her arm so it would stop throbbing. “Why are you picking on me? You of all people should've known I wouldn't kill him.”

Myles hugged her tightly, taking care not to bump her wounded arm. “You're a good lad, Alan of Trebond,” he whispered. “You give an old man hope.”

“Nonsense,” Alanna growled, pleased and embarrassed by the unexpected praise. “You aren't that old. And I'm not that good a lad.”

Duke Roger settled into the chair before his fire, picking up a chess piece from the game set up there. It was a pawn. The man smiled ironically; before the Black City he had thought Alan of Trebond was a pawn. A Gifted, athletic pawn, but a pawn nevertheless; a pawn
who could be moved around by Roger. The Black City—and tonight's bout with Dain—had taught him differently. Alan of Trebond was dangerous.

Jonathan should not have returned from the Black City. Roger knew that place of evil well, and he knew the Ysandir who lived there were invincible. That was why he had taken the risk, using magical suggestion to make Jonathan need to visit the forbidden place. But Jonathan had taken Alan with him, and both had come back alive. Two young, untried boys had not only escaped the Ysandir, they had destroyed them!

Roger made a face and poured himself some wine. At least one of the gods was protecting Jonathan, maybe more; he was certain of that. It did not matter; if he had to throw earth and the heavens into chaos to get the Tortallan throne, he would.

Alan of Trebond! What did he know about the lad? What powers did the boy have?

Pacing his chamber furiously now, the sorcerer remembered the Sweating Sickness. He had brewed a fever that would drain any healer who pursued it, sending it to both city and palace in order to make sure every healer in the capital would be too weak to help when the prince fell ill. But Jonathan had survived,
and the healer-lad with the wide purple eyes told Roger that Sir Myles had shown him what to do. Myles was a scholar: It was possible he had read spells that could counteract even powerful magic.

So he, Roger, had accepted Alan's story. Then he had questioned the boy further, reaching into his mind to see if Alan had any secrets. He remembered the moment even now—feeling his magic sliding over glass walls behind those innocent eyes. If he had touched a power that attacked him, he might have probed the boy with
real
sorcery. Instead he thought the slipperiness was stupidity or thoughtlessness. He had let the page go without looking further. Three times more a fool!

There was the sword, the battered and ancient sword that Myles “just happened” to have in his armory: Roger's arm had been numb for a week after touching it. And the cat! If Faithful was an ordinary cat, Roger would swallow his wizard's rod whole. So far it seemed Alan didn't know the value of his weapons, but his “ignorance” had fooled Roger before. Even if he did not know their uses now, he would surely learn them in the future.

And tonight Alan had revealed another important quality he could bring to Jonathan's service: He had
shown he was a great swordsman, one who could fight as well—if not better—with his left hand as with his right. Roger swore again and gulped down another glass of wine. Why had Alex never told him? Jealousy? A refusal to believe a boy who was still a squire could be as good as he was?

The Duke scowled, fingering his short beard. He would have to be more careful now than ever; Alan, he felt, suspected him, and Alan must never get proof to back up his suspicions. Of course, there were ways and ways to handle that aspect of things. Some steps might be taken soon.

More important, Roger needed to get rid of Alan in some way that appeared natural. In fact, it might be impossible to dispose of Jonathan without first killing Alan. But it would have to be handled carefully, subtly. He could not rouse anyone's suspicions.

Roger did not want a violent civil war that would leave Tortall ruined and poor. He wanted no enemies like Duke Gareth or Sir Myles. He only wanted his uncle, his aunt, and his cousin to die natural-seeming deaths within the next five years, so no one could claim he had stolen his throne. He was in no hurry. He could afford to wait, now that the queen could have no more children; although it would do no harm to ensure that
Duke Gareth, Myles, and perhaps even the king never looked at him with suspicion.

And Alan of Trebond, who already suspected? That needed study. He must certainly put his mind to the problem of Alan of Trebond.

L
ATE ONE NIGHT IN
A
UGUST—THE NIGHT BEFORE
Jonathan's birthday—Alanna made for the Dancing Dove, the inn that served as a meeting place for the Court of the Rogue. Reminding Faithful to behave himself, she settled the cat firmly on her shoulder and entered the inn. It took a moment for her to adjust to the smoke and noise in the large common room; the thieves and their women were louder than usual. They greeted Alanna and Faithful with yells of approval, inviting squire and cat to join them.

Alanna nodded to George, the Rogue himself,
who was sitting at his usual place beside the now-empty hearth. “Thanks,” she told the others, “but I'm here on an errand.”

“Are ye ever here t' drink?” Scholar wanted to know. “What a sober youngling! Ye an' Johnny!” (None of the thieves knew George's friend, the rich young Johnny, was in truth Prince Jonathan.) “Ye never have a drop!”