In the Hand of the Goddess

2 DUKE ROGER OF CONTÉ

THAT HOT JULY AN EMBASSY CAME TO COURT FROM Tortall’s eastern neighbor, Tusaine. Important matters were to be discussed. Spies had reported the King of Tusaine was considering retaking the Drell River Valley on the Tortallan border, and King Roald wanted to avoid war at all costs. Unlike his famous father, Roald was not known as “Empire Builder,” but as “The Peacemaker,” He was proud of that title, and he wanted to keep it. Everyone knew that Mikal of Danne, the Tusaine Ambassador, had actually come to see if “The Peacemaker” had the stomach for war.

The delegation from Tusaine was carefully watched, but its people received the best hospitality Roald could command. As Jonathan’s squire, Alanna was very much in the thick of things, serving at secret meetings and accompanying her prince to what seemed to be an endless number of parties and dances.

Tension was in the air. In the meetings, Ambassador Mikal became arrogant, thinking Roald was weak rather than quiet. Friendly discussions between Alanna’s friends and the Tusaine knights grew sharp as each group challenged the other to more and more difficult contests of craft and skill. Matters finally came to a head during what was supposed to be a small, quiet evening party.

Alanna; Gary’s squire, Sacherell of Wellam; and Raoul’s squire, Douglass of Veldine, served the wine at this gathering, following Duke Gareth’s instructions to keep their guests’ glasses full and to report anything interesting they might overhear. Courtiers dressed in their finest chattered and flirted as the three obeyed with enthusiasm, trying to get as much from the Tusaine party as they could. Duke Roger entertained Mikal while the Ambassador’s wife, Lady Aenne, told Queen Lianne and King Roald stories of the Tusaine Court.

Gary, Raoul, Alex, and Jonathan were talking with some of the younger Tusaine knights, when suddenly everyone was looking at the group. Dain of Melor, a Tusaine knight, was sneering loudly, “Fencing! I’ve seen what you call ‘fencing.’ Back home we call it dancing! Prince Jonathan, our Tusaine three-year-olds handle a sword better than some of your knights!”

“You are rude in the palace of your host,” Gary replied carefully, his broad shoulders tense. Alanna could tell he was fighting to keep his voice even. “I wish it were possible to teach you some manners.”

For a moment no one spoke. Nearly every Tortallan knight—with the exception of Myles, who was watching and drinking—had put his hand on his sword hilt. The Tusaines gripped theirs, ready for anything.

Ambassador Mikal turned to Roger. In the quiet his voice was very clear. “I must apologize for young Dain.” He bowed in Roald’s direction. The king inclined his head, silently accepting the apology. Mikal added with a sly smile, “I fear I must agree, however. We seem to have done better by the martial arts in Tusaine. Perhaps peace has dulled your fighting edge?”

Alanna touched the ember-stone beneath her shirt, wondering what would happen next. She turned. Raoul, standing by the hearth, was shifting slowly into a fighting stance. His coal-black eyes were snapping with fury, and he gripped his sword hilt with a white-knuckled hand.

Frantically she signaled Douglass to look at his knight-master. Her friend hurried over to Raoul and shoved a wineglass in the big knight’s hand, talking softly and quickly. After a second’s hesitation, Raoul released his hilt with a sigh.

“I differ with you, Sir Dain,” Jon was saying, a touch of amusement in his voice. “Even our pages and squires know how to handle a sword against a full knight. But since our honor and our teachers are in question, perhaps we must show you what a Tortallan can do.”

Dain adjusted his sword belt. “Bring on your champion, Highness. I am sure I can prove Tusaine superiority over any man of your court.”

Jon glanced at Alanna, smiling ironically, and she immediately guessed what he had in mind. It would be a brilliant tactical stroke if I could pull it off, she thought. I’m an unblooded squire in Dain’s eyes. At least, it would be a brilliant tactical stroke if I won.

She looked the Tusaine knight over. He was a head taller than she was, with broad shoulders and strong arms, but he was overconfident, and he had been drinking. She nodded to let Jonathan know she was game.

The prince smiled icily at the other man. “Not ‘our champion,’ Sir Dain. I said ‘even our pages and squires.’” He nodded to Alanna. She handed her wine pitcher to Sacherell, who nearly dropped it, and walked quickly over to the group of young knights, her heart thumping in excitement. “Your Highness?” she asked, bowing politely.

Jonathan beckoned to her. “I#’m sure my personal squire Alan here would oblige you.”

The Tusaine knight stared at the short, slender Alanna, his jaw hanging open. “You want me to fence with a squire?” Dain’s voice rose and cracked; someone giggled.

“Are you afraid?” Jonathan wanted to know.

The other man gasped and sputtered before he could speak again. “I’ve fought in six duels!” he snapped finally. “I’ve been killing mountain bandits since I was smaller than him!” He pointed to Alanna. “If I ever was smaller than him!”

Alanna knew exactly what Jonathan was trying to do, and she knew it was her turn to add fuel to the fire. “Did you need me for something, my Lord Prince?”

Jonathan shrugged, his eyes never leaving Dain. “I thought you might fence with Sir Dain, Alan, but he no longer seems to be interested. I’m sorry to have called you away for nothing—”

“By Mithros, I’ll do it!” Dain snapped. “I fear no child!”

Jonathan bowed to his parents. “If Your Majesties will excuse us we would like to go to the first fencing gallery.”

Turning to look at the king, Alanna saw the oddest look on Alex’s face. He looked—eager, for some reason. Surely he wasn’t looking forward to her risking her life? They had been friendly rivals for years—each trying to be better at fencing, archery, and the other fighting skills than the other—but it was still friendly rivalry.

She forgot about Alex when she heard the king say, “I think this is something we will all want to see. Ambassador Mikal? Lady Aenne? My lady?”

The queen and Lady Aenne nodded as Mikal said dryly, “It should be an interesting entertainment.”

Servants were sent to prepare the largest of the indoor courts, while Duke Gareth’s personal man-servant, Timon, went to Alanna’s quarters for Lightning. Everyone moved down to the court, Myles and Roger walking with the young men surrounding Alanna. Myles was upset and made no effort to pretend he wasn’t.

“Are you going to throw away everything?” he demanded furiously. “He’s a head taller than you are!”

Alanna shrugged. “Nearly everyone I fence with is.” She accepted Lightning from Timon and buckled it on as Faithful yowled at her feet. Finally she picked the cat up and perched him on her shoulder. She had made the discovery that her pet’s meowing actually sounded like talk to her, and she wanted to hear what he had to say now.

Let the foreigner be stupid, he advised. It shouldn’t be hard. And don’t get yourself killed!

“Are you listening to me?” Myles demanded. “This isn’t the time to play hero!”

Jon rested a hand on Alanna’s free shoulder. “Don’t be so upset, Myles. Haven’t you seen Alan fence? I have—in the Black City.”

The memory of Alan’s and Jon’s strange adventure a year before—of the curse removed from the Black City and of thousands of proud Bazhir tribesmen kneeling in the streets of Persopolis—silenced Myles for a moment, but no longer.

“Dain is a practiced knight! It isn’t the same!”

“Do you hear Father protesting?” Gary asked. “He’s been teaching Alan and Alex privately for months now. Besides, you’ve got to trust Jonathan’s judgment sometime. He doesn’t try to get his friends killed.”

Alex dropped back to talk with Duke Roger. “What do you think will happen?” the Duke asked his one-time squire. A smile crossed Alex’s dark, secret face. “I think Dain of Melor is in for a large surprise.”

Roger shook his head, disbelieving. “Surely you don’t mean to say Alan is as good as— well, you, for example.”

“But I do. Alan’s as good as I am. Someday he may be better.”

Roger had no chance to pursue this further since they had arrived at the fencing gallery. Far below ground level, it was cool even in this hot weather. Torches in brackets on the walls threw light into all corners. Along one wall three rows of benches were set off from the main floor by a low rail. The courtiers sat down in a rustle of silks, Roger placing himself and Ambassador Mikal just behind the king and queen.

At one end of the floor Dain was removing his boots and stretching himself, joking with his friends. On the other side a quiet Alanna watched Dain, ignoring her friends’ talk. The Tusaine wasn’t nervous—good for him. She would teach him how to be nervous.

Handing Faithful to Myles, she stripped off her own shoes and put on the tan fencing gloves Timon was holding for her. She didn’t know that she was grinning recklessly, a merciless look in her violet eyes. Jonathan watched her thoughtfully. If he weren’t so angry with Dain, he might feel sorry for the other knight. He knew what Alanna could do when she was forced to it.

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.