Lioness Rampant

8 CROSSROAD IN TIME

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE CORONATION, ALANNA stayed with Jonathan as he kept vigil in the Chapel of the Ordeal. While he meditated on the obligations of Kingship, she worried. None of those who’d made his protection their goal were satisfied that the single men pouring into the city in recent weeks had come to enjoy themselves. They’d had no choice—Raoul, Gary, the Lord Provost—but to let the coronation take place, so they had every fighting man in service to the palace on duty and alert. Alanna attended their talks with Jon that afternoon but had nothing to add. The back of her neck prickled constantly, reflecting her uneasiness, but that wasn’t solid evidence of trouble. When she and Jonathan reached the chapel, she was pleased to see Raoul had posted a double guard. The night inched by quietly; the only movement she noticed occurred when she or Jonathan changed position.

The iron door of the Chamber shimmered in the candlelight, a vivid reminder of her Ordeal of Knighthood. Here Jon would undergo the Ordeal of Kings. The only advantage she could see to his entering that room a second time was that the King’s Ordeal was said to be short. For herself, she knew that no inducement could get her to enter that place again.

Suddenly the light shifted. The Dominion Jewel danced in the air in front of her, so real-looking she had to touch the pouch at her waist to make sure the Jewel was in there. She stared, wondering if this was a glimpse of the future, or something of the Jewel’s making. The false Jewel shimmered and grew, coming closer, until it overwhelmed her eyes. Inside it she saw:

In the center of the Chamber of the Ordeal Roger lay on a block of stone. He got up and held out his arms. “Come, loved one,” he whispered.

She had been warned not to speak or scream. Her jaws knotted to keep from yelling her fury. She couldn’t move. Closer he came. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep silent—coppery blood flooded her mouth.

She was in his arms and they danced, his face lit with love and with rage, his sapphire eyes insane. “We’ll dance until the end of everything, my darling, my pet,” he crooned. “Promise me we’ll dance forever.”

She shook her head, struggling wildly against his grip. She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut.

She was forbidden to scream in the Chamber of the Ordeal!

She was in the chapel once again, her hands tight over her mouth. Luckily Jonathan was in some kind of trance, unable to notice her antics. Slowly she lowered her hands, trembling. What did today have in store?

When the first rays of sun slid through the high windows of the chapel, the priests came. Jonathan rose to go with them, still in a trance. Gently they conveyed him to the Chamber and ushered him inside. Alanna tugged at her earbobs, trying to think of nothing at all.

When the door swung open, fifteen minutes later, she was the first one there to catch Jon, as he had once caught her. He smiled at her tiredly, murmuring, “Not bad—if you like ordeals.”

Alanna bit back a laugh. Gary came up to take Jonathan’s other arm; they helped him to his rooms, where he could sleep for a few hours. With a sleepy wave, Alanna parted from Gary and went to the nearby chamber that had been prepared for her. The last thing she saw as she drifted off to sleep was her gold-washed mail, glimmering at her from the rack in the corner.

In his suite of rooms, Alex of Tirragen sharpened his sword. He was dressed in black and wearing breeches—he did not plan to attend the coronation. Testing the edge of his blade, he smiled.

Delia of Eldorne fussed with her hair at the mirror. Unlike Alex, she was in full court regalia, her emerald silk with its stiffened skirts rustling as she put last-minute touches on her appearance.

“Aren’t you the least bit nervous?” she asked, adjusting a hair ornament.

“Why should I be?” was the cool reply. “He’s thought of everything.”

“What if Josiane succeeds?”

Alex chuckled. “Delia, have you no faith in our Champion? We have an appointment today, though she doesn’t know it.” He held up the sword, his eyes dreamy. “She won’t let a madwoman like Josiane prevent her from coming.”

Squire Henrim knocked and stepped into the room. “Lord Alexander, I let the men-at-arms into the back corridors near the Hall of Crowns. They’re concealed in the storerooms. Captain Chesli says the Eldorne men have taken their places inside the hall, among the crowd.” He bowed to Delia, who smiled.

Alex stood, sheathing his sword. “You’ll be with the men on the dungeon level. Before you go there, remind both captains they are not to act until the signal, which will come after the crown rests on Jonathan’s head. After the crowning, understand?”

The squire hesitated. “But—surely—he will be bound to the land. He will use Tortall’s magic against the Duke—”

“Idiot!” Delia snapped. “Do you think Duke Roger hasn’t planned for that? Don’t question your betters!”

Henrim bowed, shamefaced. “Forgive me, Lady Delia.”

With a sniff Delia turned back to her mirror.

“Follow your orders exactly,” said Alex. “If you fail, you will pay.”

“I won’t fail!” the squire promised hotly.

“Take the hidden stair, then. Dismissed.”

The youth bowed. “Good luck, my lord. And—long live King Roger!”

“Fool,” Alex whispered when the door closed. Of them all, he alone knew Roger’s real plans. He alone knew that those like Delia who planned to steal Jonathan’s throne so they could have power were in for a disappointment. He picked up his dagger and tested the edge. “Now—to work.”

From her position along the wall near the altar, Alanna watched with pride as the Mithran priest and the Priestess of the Goddess, acting as one, blessed the silver crown and then Jonathan, who knelt before them. She was grateful that her duties didn’t call for her participation in this part of the ceremony. After keeping vigil with Jonathan all night, she was sleepy. Somehow repeated yawns did not seem right for such a memorable occasion. Instead, until it was time to present Jonathan formally with the Jewel, all she had to do was stay put and look impassive. On her left, Gary and Raoul did the same.

Raoul winked as she covered a yawn. Unlike the King’s Champion, the Knight Commander had spent the night in bed, disturbed only by his nerves. She had to admit he may have gotten as little sleep as she had: Jon’s safety today was the responsibility of the King’s Own.

She let her eyes drift over the crowd that packed the vast hall. Mourning was officially over; nobles and commoners alike bloomed with color. She could see Myles and his companions—Eleni, Thayet, Buri, and Rispah—all wearing their finest. She picked out other familiar faces: Dukes Baird and Gareth, Sirs Douglass, Geoffrey, and Sacherell. Many wept openly, moved by the beauty of the day and the moment.

A halt in the chanting brought the knight’s eyes back to the altar, just as the crown was lowered onto Jonathan’s head. Immediately it sparked and glowed, the magic of the land reaching down to envelop the new king. People gasped with awe as Jonathan flared with brilliance; they knew the joining of Tortall and king was complete. Smiling, Alanna touched the ember at her throat.

Jonathan was brilliant with the crown’s silver glow, his own magic showing through as threads of sparkling blue. She looked down, and felt sick. The floor of the chamber was awash in blood-colored fire.

“Jonathan!” she yelled as the earth moaned and shook.

Sudden pain, combined with the vibration beneath her, knocked Alanna to her knees. For a moment she could only clutch her belly and scream with agony. It receded, then flared again.

In the Hall, chaos reigned. From the vaulted ceiling mortar dust and chips of stone fell, an ominous hint of the destruction that could occur. People screamed in fear as the ground rolled underfoot like a ship at sea. Alanna was deaf and blind to it all.

The pain was grinding; she felt as if every nerve in her body was being pulled out through her skin. Thom, she realized, struggling to get up. Something’s happening to Thom, and I can feel it. I have to go to him!

“Guard the king!” she yelled to Raoul, lurching to her feet. Faithful was at her side as she hurled herself out of a nearby door, running as quickly as gold mail would allow for her brother’s quarters. Pain ripped into her again; she bit her lip to fight it and stumbled on, determined to reach her twin.

Strong arms caught Alanna from behind, helping her along. She looked up into George’s eyes and fought to smile. He was dressed as one of the King’s Own.

“What is it, darlin’?” he asked. They never hesitated in the long strides that took them up the stairs to the second floor.

“Thom,” she whispered. “He’s being attacked. The earthquake is magic. It’s the color—of Thom’s Gift, all blood-red—”

“Blood? But his is purple, like—”

“Corrupted,” she gasped as they flew down the hall that led to Thom’s rooms. “Turned blood-color.”

“What color would purple and orange make?” George asked as they came to a halt. “Roger’s Gift and the Trebond Gift?”

Alanna felt even sicker.

Inside Thom’s parlor the air was heavy, almost liquid; the light was greenish yellow. Alanna froze, wary.

“What is it, lass?” George whispered. He was tense, feeling the menace as she did.

She fumbled at her waist, taking the pouch off her belt. “The Jewel!” She pressed it into his hands. “You have to take it to Jon. What was I thinking of, to carry it away from him? George, please!”

The pouch was lost in the thief’s large hands. “Alanna, I can’t be leavin’ you—”

“You have to!” she cried. “I can’t use it. Jon can. And I have a feeling he’ll need it!”

George hesitated; a second shock made the ground shiver under their feet. It was over as quickly as it began. Grimly, George stuffed the pouch into the front of his tunic. “I’ll get it to him, never fear.” He kissed Alanna swiftly and hard, then ran for the Hall of Crowns.

Myles saw Alanna go, protecting his head as tiles broke free from the arches overhead, shattering in the main aisle. Jonathan flared with white and blue lights; he was invisible in the fires of his Gift and the Crown. The doors leading out of the Hall were jammed with fleeing men and women, as were the great City Doors. Eleni stood, her face deathly pale. “Not the land,” she whispered. “Not the earth itself!”

A flutter of movement in the rear of the Hall of Crowns caught Buri’s always-watchful eye: A man stripped away his cloak to reveal a nobleman’s purple-and-black livery and a short crossbow. He brought the weapon up fast, aiming for Jonathan. Buri yanked a throwing star from her belt and flung it, killing the bowman. “There’s an attack!” she yelled to Myles. “Warn the king!”

Myles’s seat was on the great aisle. He was halfway to the altar in a second, moving fast for a plump man. At his warning shout, both Gareths and the Provost joined Raoul to form a protective circle around the king. The King’s Own broke into squads, one forming an outer circle around the nobles, the others moving into the crowd to attack the enemy. Both circles parted to let Myles through to Jonathan’s side.

“Myles!” Jon gasped through the magics that obscured him. “What’s going on?”

“Men in Eldorne and Tirragen colors are attacking anyone who can fight back,” Myles said grimly. “And they’re trying to kill you. Where are the earthquakes coming from?”

Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t know. As soon as I get a chance, I’ll try to find out. Where’s Alanna?”

“Gone,” the older man said. “Something called her away in a hurry. George followed her, and Coram followed George.”

“She has the Jewel,” the king whispered. “And where is Master Si-cham?”

Myles was wondering the same thing.

In Thom’s chambers, Alanna was suddenly weak, as if something tugged at her Gift, drawing it away from her. Steeling herself, she closed her mind to whatever was trying to drain her. Forcing herself to move, she searched for her twin.

He was in the bedroom. Bad as the air in the parlor felt, this was worse: A weight pressed on her lungs. She checked Thom’s vital signs. His pulse was shallow and fast. He was cool, alarmingly so after weeks of being too hot. When she grabbed the ember-stone, Alanna saw only a trace of his Gift, streaming away from him much as her own had tried to do. She reached past the barrier she’d set on her magic, determined to use it to save him, no matter what the consequences.

Thom’s eyes flew open. He gripped her hands with the last of his strength. “Don’t! I’m—bound to him. He’ll drain you through me—”

“Roger?” she whispered. Thom nodded. She spotted her cat. “Faithful, go for—”

“No time!” Thom snapped. “Listen!” He didn’t relax his bruising grip. “His Gift—attached to sorcerer resurrecting him.” She put her ear close to his lips to hear. “It got—stronger—as he did.” Thom smiled. “Never as strong as mine.”

She wiped away tears, growling, “Who cares if your Gift’s bigger!”

“He can only—drain—one at a time. You—you’re bound to me. You have some—my Gift—some of his, too. He needs—more, to finish—what he began. Don’t let him get it. Don’t use—Gift. Leeching spells—” He gasped. “He’ll take—all. Leave nothing.” Thom tried to laugh; the result sounded like hoarse barking. “He didn’t—get—all mine. You have part—” Sinking back, he pulled her with him. His voice was barely audible, his hands cold. “Love you. Always have. Always will.”

“No,” she rasped, but he couldn’t hear.

“Never—know how—he did it …”

He was gone.

Near the staircase leading to the ground floor, George found Coram. “I saw her go, and ye after her,” Alanna’s oldest friend gasped, catching his wind. “I figured ye’d need help.”

George showed him the Jewel. “She forgot she had this. I’m to carry it to Jon.”

“What of her?”

“With Thom.”

Coram hesitated. “I’d best reach her. Unless—”

“I’ll keep the Jewel safe,” George reassured him. “It’s not that far to the Hall.”

“It’s far enough.” Claw and five of his men materialized from the gallery behind George. “My friends said you’d come this way.” He stretched out a hand and beckoned. “Give me the swag now, before I get your blood all over it.” He glanced at Coram. “This isn’t your fight. Clear out.”

Coram hefted his broadsword, his face grim. “She’ll never forgive me if I run out on ye now,” he told George.

George tucked the Jewel into his belt-purse as he unsheathed his daggers. “Rispah, or the lady knight?” he grinned. Claw’s men fanned out, forming a half circle with George and Coram at its center with the stairs at their backs.

“Both,” replied Coram. He leaped forward to engage a ruffian, crying, “For the Lioness!”

Pandemonium ruled in the Hall of Crowns. Other men-at-arms tore off cloaks to reveal purple-and-black or green-and-white liveries. They were heavily armed and had specific targets: the men of the King’s Own, any nobleman fighting back, Jonathan and his guards. Their opponents were high-born and wealthy men with flimsy dress swords, unarmed common-born men using anything that could serve as a weapon, even some ladies and children. Many others tried to flee, adding to the confusion.

Buri could see a knot of noblewomen, including the imperious Duchess of Naxen, imposing order in their vicinity. More men-at-arms poured in through the drapery-hidden entry behind the altar, taking the men around Jon by surprise. Raoul yelled a command and ran forward with the guards in the outer circle to engage the new attackers. Buri couldn’t see Liam, Coram, or Alanna. Beside her, Rispah had palmed a large dagger and was advancing on an unsuspecting enemy archer.

The K’miri girl was torn. Her first duty was to protect Thayet, but she was also a warrior, trained to act in situations like this.

Thayet solved her problem. “Give me your sword. We have to do something.”

Buri glanced at Eleni as she obeyed Thayet. The older woman moved into a pillar’s shadow, unraveling the intricate embroidery on her sleeve. She broke off a long thread and smiled at Buri and Thayet. “Don’t worry about me.” Fixing her eyes on a group of archers near the altar, she began to tie knots in the thread, her lips moving silently.

Buri wrestled a long-bladed pike from a rack of weapons on the walls. Lowering it to an attack position, she launched herself at a clump of men in Eldorne colors. The first one she engaged backed away from her charge: He stumbled. Buri lunged for the kill and lurched as the ground leaped and rolled in a third quake.

Three men in Tirragen colors raced up the stairs to aid Claw as George and Coram dispatched two enemies. Claw himself stayed back, screeching orders and awaiting his chance. George lost a dagger in a throw, killing a Tirragen guard; Coram killed a rogue and wounded another. The men around them shifted, seeking better positions, and George took the offered chance. He lunged at Claw.

The one-eyed man swore and lashed out with his knives, panicked at dealing with George himself. The thief rearmed his left hand with an extra blade, making Claw sweat: He didn’t have the eye or the nerve to fight two-handed. Frantic, he slashed and cut wide-armed, leaving holes in his guard that George deliberately ignored. The bigger man toyed with Claw, spinning him around, raking his flailing arms, taunting. One of Claw’s lucky cuts caught George on a cheekbone, another on his chest.

A Tirragen guard faltered. Coram slew him with a murderous slash and fell back, gasping for breath. For the moment he was safe: The two remaining enemies—one Tirragen, one rogue—focused their attention on the Rogue and his rival.

When he saw no one else would interfere, George settled into a fighter’s crouch. Beckoning to Claw, he said grimly, “It’s us now. The succession must be settled. Fight, Ralon, or Claw—if you’ve the belly.”

His single eye rolling wildly, Claw looked for a way to escape; there was none. He’d always known he couldn’t beat the Rogue on his terms. He tried to for several minutes, throwing his cunning into the battle. He kicked and hit, trying to be unpredictable, but George had been weaned on such tricks.

For a moment they locked knives, pressed together body-to-body. Then Claw dropped, George’s blade hilt-deep in his chest.

Alanna didn’t know how long she sat, holding Thom’s cold hand. She was certain somehow this was all her fault. How was she supposed to live without her other half?

Faithful got her attention finally by latching onto her leg with claws and teeth, kicking ferociously until the pain roused her.

“What are you doing?” she screeched.

Wake up, King’s Champion! was the angry reply. You have no time for this—he’s going to rip the earth open!

Alanna knew she couldn’t escape her responsibilities, although they’d never meant less to her. Gently the grieving knight kissed her twin. She walked out of the bedroom, drying her face on her handkerchief as fresh tears ran. “Where’s Si-cham?”

As if in answer, the old man staggered in, clutching a bloody right arm. Alanna grabbed a towel and swiftly bandaged the priest before he lost more blood, fighting brief nausea. Si-cham’s right hand was gone. Without the rough tourniquet he wore already, he would be dead.

“Don’t use your Gift—” he warned as she worked. “Brandy.”

Alanna handed him a bottle and watched as he gulped its contents. Rage was replacing her grief. She wanted to act; nursing the old man was not the action she craved.

Si-cham put the bottle down. “I am a fool.” His voice was stronger. “Never challenged in all these years, thinking I could not be bested. It’s not enough I pay for my folly. You will, too.” Gripping the table with his left hand, he met Alanna’s cold eyes. “Open your mind.”

She stepped back. “Why?”

“There’s no time to explain. You waste what time we have! If you don’t know all, you risk disaster. Do you doubt me?” he whispered. “I made a mistake. Because I didn’t make two we are alive. You cannot make even one.”

She closed her eyes and let him in. A hundred bits of knowledge struck her at once: Gate of Idramm—a Gate for magic, to drain it into the Gate’s master … My hand! He uses it to steal my Gift … Jonathan Gift-Bazhir/desert magic-Tortall/land crown Jewel! He alone can bind the earth … Follow the secret way. (Image of deserted stair to the ruined temple in the catacombs.) Not all Roger’s power stored in Thom—some with Alanna … Stay out of Gate-trap (image of white whirls and loops) leeching spells … Give King all he needs—send King Alanna/Thom-Roger’s power to hold the land!

He didn’t ask: She never would have let him do it if he had. He sent Alanna’s Gift to Jonathan, using it as a bridge to link minds with the new king. For an awful moment Alanna was three—herself, Si-cham, Jonathan. The blood-colored fire of Roger’s Gift beat down on the priest’s defenses, seeking a way to enter and take the magic forming around Jon. Suddenly the last of Alanna’s magic was gone, the link broken. Si-cham broke the link so fast that Alanna was thrown into a faint as the fourth earth shock began.

The nobles encircling Jonathan fought off another large group of attackers that had come through the door behind the altar. Myles was taking a second’s breather when he saw Jon lift his hands. Purple fire swirled around the king’s arms, clinging like a skin. The light of the crown that bathed him darkened, drinking in the amethyst Gift. A third fire flowed over Jon’s head and back like a hooded cloak. Myles shuddered at its brownish-red color—the color of dried blood.

He’d singled out his next opponent when the ground yawned and bucked under their feet—the fourth quake. The shock lasted a full minute, ending as abruptly as it began. Huge chunks of plaster and stone broke free from the arches and roof, crushing several people on the floor. The enemy soldiers were frightened but disciplined enough to hold their places. Their ferocity increased—the quicker they slew the king, the quicker they could escape this deathtrap.

Sweating, George turned away from Claw’s body. Five men wearing Eldorne green-and-white had come up the stairs while Coram and the others watched his fight. Now Coram retreated to the wall of the gallery; George went to his side, grabbing a sword from a dead man as he did. Five more soldiers in Tirragen purple-and-black ran up along the gallery to block any chance of escape.

“Someone must’ve—smuggled ’em into the palace,” Coram gasped, cutting down a Tirragen fighter. “And brought ’em—into the city wearin’—civilian clothes.”

George hurled a dagger to kill a man at the rear, keeping two more at bay with his sword. At least twelve others closed them in, and no help was in sight. I promised my lass I’d get her Jewel to Jon, he told himself grimly. Thief I may be, but I’ve never broken my sworn word.

Coram swore and faltered.

“Lad?”

“A scratch,” the man-at-arms gasped, pressing his free hand to his side.

For a moment they thought the earth was shaking, but it was only a sound—a feral roar—echoing down the gallery. Coram grinned. “Finally!” he gasped, before attacking his present assailant with renewed energy.

Liam Ironarm threw himself into the battle with a ferocity that made even George speechless. There was no following the Dragon’s movements as he lashed out with fists and feet, striking down any man who opposed him. There was no question of any of the men attacking George and Coram landing a blow on the Shang fighter: Six enemies broke and ran.

Liam hurled himself at the last of them, his foot catching the running man just above his shoulders. He went down.

Ironarm returned to George and Coram as the thief tied a rough bandage over the wound in Coram’s side. The man-at-arms grinned at Liam, dark eyes glittering in his sweat-soaked face.

“Ye’re late, Dragon.”

Liam smiled grimly. “I was delayed. Where’s Alanna?”

“Back there,” George said tightly. By now he wondered where she had gone. “I have to get to the Hall of Crowns.” Reaching in his purse, he brought up the Jewel.

For a moment Liam stared in the direction George had indicated, clearly wanting to find Alanna. Then he sighed. “The Jewel’s the important thing. Let’s go.”

Coram didn’t even speak. He had a feeling his knight-mistress was no longer in Thom’s rooms, and that he couldn’t follow her down the path she walked now. Together the three men set out at a trot for the Hall of Crowns, George supporting Coram.

Alanna came around slowly. Her skull pounded with the force of her rage when she remembered Si-cham had stripped her of her Gift, loading it all into Jonathan. She did not like the Mithran’s high-handed way of ordering her life, and she planned to tell him so. Rolling onto her stomach, she pushed herself onto all fours. She felt sick and empty—far worse than when Thom “borrowed” her Gift to bring Roger back to life.

Faithful’s yowl and Si-cham’s scream alerted her to danger: The old man struggled with someone at the door. Alanna grabbed a chair, dragging herself to her feet.

A double-headed ax chopped down, biting deep into Si-cham’s collarbone. He dropped. Josiane stood in the doorway, spattered with his blood, trying to work her ax free.

“Why didn’t you blast me, old fool?” she panted.

Alanna knew the answer, although she refused to tell the princess: If Si-cham had taken that chance, he’d have been open to Roger’s leeching spell. He’d broken the link to Alanna and Jon for the same reason; Roger would have taken his Gift unless he concentrated on his own defense. Now Si-cham was dead. He and his Gift were forever out of Roger’s grasp.

Josiane freed her blade and stepped over the old man’s body, smiling. “He told me you’d be here,” she explained. “He said he didn’t think I could take you, but I was welcome to try. You aren’t doing well, are you?” She inched forward, ready to pounce. Maneuvering for room, Alanna tripped over a footstool. Josiane darted forward, her ax high.

They’d forgotten Faithful. Screeching, he flew into Josiane’s face, clinging as she howled and dropped the ax.

Stop Roger! the cat ordered as Josiane gripped his small body. The princess hurled him down and stepped with all her might. With Faithful’s agonized cry, strength poured into his mistress. She crouched and lunged, drawing Lightning as she moved. With a single, brutal slash she cut Josiane down. Her new strength pounded in her ears as she shoved the dying woman aside to pick up Faithful.

Time to go home, he cried, and was gone. Gently she placed him on a table.

Her fingers shook as she unbuckled her sword belt, letting it and the sheath drop. With Lightning gripped in her hand, she walked out the door, heading for her last conversation with Duke Roger of Conté.

Coram, George, and Liam arrived in the Hall of Crowns as the fifth quake began. This time the fighting halted as everyone waited to see if the roof would come down. The stone floor of the chamber rolled and shuddered like the deck of a seafaring ship, throwing more than one person to the ground.

The crowds were gone, most escaping through the City Doors: Only the combatants remained, each involved in his or her own separate battle for survival. Duke Gareth, Gary, and Myles were all that was left of the circle guarding Jonathan. Raoul and several of the King’s Own fought desperately to stem the flow of Tirragen and Eldorne men coming from the chambers behind the Hall. The Provost and more royal men-at-arms contained a rush of enemies from the main aisle.

Liam quickly appraised the situation and grabbed a pike, going to Raoul’s aid, where the danger of a breakthrough was worst. Coram joined the men around Jon, steadying himself for a long morning. Buri, streaked with dirt and sweat, saluted him with a grin before she and Thayet attacked a cluster of archers. He saw Rispah guarding Eleni, just as he saw several groups of enemies struggling against the invisible ropes George’s mother had bound them with. George thrust the Jewel into Jonathan’s hands and turned to become part of Jon’s protective circle.

The king closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, gripping the Jewel tightly. He called all his magics—his own Gift, the Bazhir desert sorcery, the power of the kings and the land of Tortall that was bound into the crown, the magic of the Dominion Jewel—and he threw them over the length and breadth of Tortall, feeling the Earth’s pain as if his own body were being shattered. Like an ancient tree sending out its myriad roots, he bound each crack and fault with sorcery, gripped the whole to him—and held.

The crown, dedicated to the realm for centuries, blazed. The Jewel shone even brighter than the crown, and the battles raged in the corridors of the palace. Jonathan was part of all of it, his vision reaching everywhere. Being the Voice of the Tribes had prepared him for such a confusing moment, when someone else might have been driven mad by the consciousness of each person, animal, tree, and stone in the realm. Jonathan was able to encompass it, to set the greater part of it aside, with a bit of his awareness to guard it. His chief vision focused on a small, copper-and-gold figure traveling through the bowels of the castle.

The ground floor, the level below Thom’s quarters, consisted of public rooms: the Hall of Crowns, salons, libraries, ballrooms, the banquet room. Alanna bypassed it on one of a hundred staircases without hesitation, her mind and will fixed on the catacombs. Next was the level where everyday business took place: Healers, tailors, laundrywomen, scribes, armorers, quartermasters, and mapmakers all worked here. Today this level was empty; Alanna’s feet made the only sound. Next was stores: endless rooms filled with every imaginable supply. This level, too, was silent.

The dungeons and guardrooms were the third level below ground. She heard fighting, but the way to Roger that Si-cham had shown her was a safe distance away from it. Here, the shock that Jonathan had contained found her. She waited after its halt, expecting another: It never came, but the ground shivered continuously, shifting slightly from time to time. Pieces of the ceiling hailed down; the staircase began to exhibit tiny cracks and to lose small pieces.

Jon’s stopped the big quakes, the Mother-shakers, she thought, but how long can the palace—or any building—take this constant stress?

Down Alanna went, her eyes blazing in her tight face. She halted once, to wipe sweaty palms on her shirt. Then she gripped Lightning afresh and moved on.

The length of the stairs increased as she descended; they were broken up by landings, with a guardroom off each landing. Since the stair she followed was little used, the guardrooms were shut. Now, approaching the catacombs on the fourth level, she found one blazing with light. She halted a few steps above it, considering her options.

Perhaps the occupant knew she wanted no more delays: Alex of Tirragen, silver mail glittering, stepped out onto the landing. His unsheathed sword rested in one black-gauntleted hand. “Just you? I’d’ve thought you’d bring others.”

“I’m in a hurry.” Her eyes sparkled dangerously. “Get out of my way, before he tears the palace down around our ears.”

Shapes moved on the stair below the landing—two big men-at-arms in Tirragen purple-and-black. “Yer lordship—” one rumbled nervously.

“She’s panicking,” Alex snapped, his eyes not leaving Alanna. “Hold your positions!” He indicated the lit room with his blade. “Step inside, lady knight. There’s more space.”

She hesitated, looking from Alex to his men. She wanted to scream with rage, or blast them with her Gift …

She walked inside. The furniture had been shoved into a second chamber; branches of candles lit the main room. “Aren’t you going to have your friends watch?”

“The only witness I need is right here.” He touched his temple with a gloved finger. “You can stretch first, if you like.”

“And lose more time? No.”

Alex tried a few lazy passes with his own sword, taunting her. “I’ve waited for this chance.”

Exasperated, she snapped, “You’re crazy, to want to play ‘best squire’ at a moment like this.”

Alex moved into place. Both swung their weapons up to “guard.” “Think what you like.”

He attacked savagely, his calm face a violent contrast to his rapidly spinning and slashing blade. Alanna blocked repeatedly, hiding her dismay: After the draining of her Gift, she was a touch slower than she needed to be against an opponent with whom a touch of slowness made all the difference. She fought with her brain, carefully maintaining her defense, watching for Alex to make an error out of his need. She circled, Lightning flowing to stop Alex’s blade each time he thrust or cut inward—high, low, either side. She caught his eyes shifting away from her shoulders; like a novice he was plainly searching for an opening. She smiled grimly.

“No one ever wins fighting defensively,” Alex snarled.

“I’m not the one obsessed with winning,” she gasped, her voice cracking.

Alex faltered. Alanna whipped her blade into a reverse crescent; he blocked jarringly, almost too late. She clenched her teeth and swung immediately into a crescent: As Alex’s sword rose to stop Lightning, Alanna whipped down into a vertical butterfly too fast to watch, scoring lightly across Alex’s middle to bite into his shoulder. The grate of sword on mail made her wince, and she swore for letting her preoccupation with Roger make her forget her opponent’s armor. She lunged back to get away from his countercut. They were back to circling as the fanatic gleam deepened in Alex’s eyes.

Alanna scrubbed her free hand dry, then gripped Lightning’s jewel-studded hilt with both hands. Now it was her turn to attack in a series of harsh, downward-chopping blows meant to cleave Alex from crown to sole. He blocked, retreating, until he lunged forward to lock swords body-to-body. As she strained under his downward pressure, Alex snarled and kicked her in the stomach. Alanna yelled and went down, rolling to keep out of his way as he sliced at her. The gold mail across her shoulders grated, and she clenched her teeth against the bruising pain of the impact. Ignoring it, she flipped to an upright stance: Alex lunged in and she countered blindly, Lightning extracting another screech of metal from his armor.

He retreated. She lunged. They exchanged a flurry of blows and blocks, neither gaining an advantage. From the corner of her eye she saw his men-at-arms had disobeyed his order to keep their positions to watch.

A breath too late she saw the complex pass he’d begun. Lightning flew out of her grip into a corner—behind Alex. He leveled his sword-point at her throat, smiling tightly. “Say farewell, Lioness.”

She edged back. “An honorable opponent would let me get my sword and continue.”

He shook his head. “I learned what I need to know. You were good, I admit that. But I knew I was—”

She moved in a burst of speed, the little she’d kept back. She leaned away from his sword; her left foot curled up and in, then thrust out, slamming into his belly. Alex crashed into the wall. He got up and threw himself at her with a yell of fury.

Liam had taught her only a few kicks and blows, making her practice incessantly. She could not beat a Shang warrior of many years, but her own speed and the endless repetitions caused what she knew to carry the weight of a fully trained Shang. As Alex charged she swung out of the way and kicked again, throwing him against the same spot on the wall. He lunged once more, cross-cutting with a speed she could not dodge, slashing across her cheek and her bare right hand. In the split-second opening in the path of his sword she rammed forward, crushing his windpipe with one fist as she struck his nose with the other, thrusting bone splinters deep into his brain.

They were pressed together so tightly she felt the life flee his body. She backed away hastily, letting him drop. “Is this what it means to be the best, Alex?”

He would never answer.

She seized his blade and spun, determined to finish the guards—but they had fled.

Alanna retrieved Lightning and set off down again. She hadn’t gone far when her body reacted to the killing: She vomited over the stair rail for long moments, heaving dryly. She shook with exhaustion. Her treacherous knees threatened to give at every step; she was scared that the stairs would give way under the constant earth tremors. In spite of everything, she forged on, lightheaded, her jaw set. The remaining distance only seemed endless.

She reached bottom at the rear of the catacombs. Had she chosen to go the proper way, she would have entered several hundred yards from her present spot, at the foot of the gently sloping ramps leading from the palace temples to the tombs. Roald and Lianne’s burial place, newly plastered and decorated, was somewhere near that entrance. Alanna had emerged by tombs three and four hundred years old. Someone had thoughtfully lit the torches. She followed the vision Si-cham gave her, ignoring her growing terror.

The tombs ended, opening onto a great stone floor. In its center, a large, circular design—apparently of white sand—was drawn, its many curls and loops and whirls dizzying to see. On its edge, near her, was a splash of still-wet blood. Si-cham’s, I bet, Alanna thought as she gulped back a surge of bile. This was the variant on the Gate of Idramm normally used to summon elementals, a spell to drain off the Gift from anyone unfortunate enough to step onto it. This was also the spot where Si-cham lost his hand.

Behind the Gate was an abandoned structure. Legend said it was a temple. Roger lounged there against a fallen pillar, arms crossed over his chest. The air around him was filled with bloody fire that glittered evilly on his black silk robe.

He smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. You took longer than I had anticipated.”

Alanna prodded one curl of the Gate with her sword, to find the sand of the design was melted into the rock. White heat flashed up Lightning’s edge; she yelped, pulling the blade away. He was scrutinizing her. Suddenly she knew why. The knight spread her hands with her old, reckless grin. “Didn’t you know, Roger? I’m Giftless. There’s nothing for your Gate to take from me.”

His eyes narrowed. “How did that—ah. Si-cham. Now I understand.”

“That’s why your earthquake spell hasn’t succeeded,” she taunted. “Jon’s stopping you. He’s got the Jewel, the crown, my Gift—even magic I bore for Thom. Which means he’s stopping you with some of your own Gift.”

He shrugged. “So that’s why I didn’t have enough to bring this comedy to an early finish. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” she snapped. “There are no more chances for you, Roger. You’ve bought an ugly death on Traitor’s Hill. When it’s over, I personally will scatter your ashes on the wind!”

“You think I left any of this to chance, dear one? I had a long time to plan. You see, I wasn’t quite dead when they buried me.” She opened her mouth to deny it, but he shook his head. “If we had time, I would explain a powerful working called ‘Sorcerer’s Sleep.’ For your purposes, I was dead. For my own—” His face was bleak, terrifying. Then he waved the mood away.

“I planned carefully because you, sweet Lioness, too often escape me—you and my kingly cousin. He studied well, better than when I was his teacher. Where he got power that smells of the desert, I suppose I shall never know.

“You saved yourself from my Gate, but you’re tired. Come within my reach—” He smiled and picked up a blade lying beside him; it was bloodstained. “I need only lop off a small part of you, as I did Si-cham. That bit will give me a tie to your inner self, and thus a clear road to Jonathan and the sorcery he wields.” Alanna paled and stumbled back a step.

Roger put down the knife to walk to the rim of the Gate. “You’ve grown so prudent, it may be you won’t allow me that easy a way. Tell me, then—how long can Jonathan last?”

“Forever!” Alanna threw it at him like a challenge.

“Perhaps.” He stepped onto the Gate as the energy whipping through the design tugged at his robe. Silver glittered against black; the Gate’s design was duplicated on his clothes. “If Jonathan musters no other sorcery against me—and all those who might make a difference are accounted for—I need only to wait.” He came forward until he stood at the Gate’s center. “The Earth has her own means of dealing with unbearable pressure. She sheds it, redistributes it, expends it in small tremors. When she can do nothing else, she convulses—and continues to do so, until the pressure is gone. Even the gods cannot stop such an earthquake. Jonathan holds the land, but the pressure of my spell remains. How long, do you think, until that inescapable convulsion begins?”

Alanna felt cold and alone. “You’ll be just as dead,” she croaked.

His smile was frightening. “Indeed, I hope so.”

She gripped her sword, measuring her strength against his. “Why’d you tell me any of this?”

“Because, lady knight, you will share it with me. Did you think I would end it without you?” He chuckled. “I’ll tell you a secret. Years ago, when I was your age, just finding the limits of my power, I took up jewelry making. To each thing I made, I attached a bit of my Gift, to mark it as mine. Necklaces, rings—sword hilts. I even forged swords, to create a masterpiece of a weapon. Why you had to corrupt my design is beyond me.”

“It was warped.”

“You would think so.” He reached out, red fire eddying around his fingers. Voice soft, he said, “With silver and stone I made thee; With Gift and blood I bound thee; With my name I call thee!”

Lightning jumped, straining toward Roger. If she had still carried his original sword, instead of melding it with Lightning for a whole blade, she never could have kept hold of it. As it was, enough of the crystal blade and its hilt remained to wrench her arms as Alanna gripped it. Her cold eyes met his.

“It will come to me eventually,” he said. “And you will follow.”

All her muscles knotted: The scars on her palms broke and bled. She dug in her heels and held. What can I do? she thought, despairing. Can’t I make even one decision he hasn’t anticipated? What does he think I’ll do?

The cold part of herself that stood aloof from everything whispered, He expects you to fight. So—stop fighting.

With a teeth-baring effort, Alanna levered the sword back and let go. The effect was like loosing a bolt from a crossbow. Released from her pull, the sword shrieked as it flew, making her clap her hands over tortured ears. Roger didn’t break his calling spell. He didn’t even seem to know what she’d done until Lightning buried itself in his chest.

Roger grabbed the hilt. Amazingly, he laughed. He laughed until his dying lungs ran out of air. The silver design on his robes dripped and ran to the floor. His eyes closed, and he fell. Flames sprouted from the Gate into the stone, devouring the body of Roger of Conté.

Buri found her there. With the help of the King’s Own, she brought a fainting Alanna to the surface on a stretcher. Revived by the warmer air at the ground level, Alanna got Buri to help her walk to the Hall of Crowns. She was sickened by the bodies in evidence everywhere: Clearly the assault had been heavier than anyone had expected. Men of the Palace Guard admitted them to the Hall with deep bows, and Buri waited silently as Alanna took in the scene before her.

Between quake and uprising, the Hall was in ruins. The City Doors hung from their hinges; the stone risers had buckled and collapsed in sections. Pieces of roof and arches had fallen, dragging banners and garlands down to litter the floor in a mockery of a holiday. Survivors hunted in the rubble, freeing the trapped and pulling out the dead. These were placed on the main aisle for burial. Only later would the bodies in Tirragen or Eldorne colors be separated, to be burned on Traitor’s Hill.

The Provost limped over, brushing heavy silver hair back from a sweat-streaked face. “Not as bad as it looks,” he said in his terse way. “More of them dead than us. They weren’t expectin’ much opposition.” His ice-blue eyes caught Alanna’s and held them. “You take care of your end of things?”

She grinned wolfishly. He grinned back. Buri was interested to note more than a slight resemblance between them at that moment. “Indeed I did.”

The Provost put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Good.” Pausing, he added, “Your … friend. Cooper. He did well today.” Favoring a wounded leg, he returned to help the searchers.

Eleni, looking worn and old, bandaged her bruised and wounded son. Seeing Alanna, George winked and blew her a kiss. When his mother scolded him for moving, he silenced her with a hug. Thayet, seeing the direction of his look, waved tiredly. She sat with her head on a noblewoman’s shoulder, a shattered sword on her lap. Her new friend was as exhausted and battered as she.

Rispah fussed over Coram nearby. She also kept a sharp eye on Delia, who was bound and gagged with strips of what looked like someone’s petticoat. Noting Alanna’s look, Rispah grinned. “My lady here thought she’d knife his Majesty while the fightin’ was thickest and the menfolk all occupied,” she explained. “She didn’t know I figured her game.”

Gary, sporting bandages of his own, kissedAlanna swiftly. “Father had a heart attack,” he said quietly. “He’ll be all right, thanks to Duke Baird. They’re at the infirmary now—Baird and Father and Myles. Myles fought two of them, single-handed.” Gary smiled tiredly. “They were huge. I don’t know what possessed him. But he killed one, and George finished the other.”

“As a mercy to the poor man,” George explained as he joined them. “After Myles hurt him so.” He cupped Alanna’s face, his grave hazel eyes searching out her own. He nodded, liking what he saw, and kissed her gently. “I’d watch out for Myles—he’s that fierce when he’s angry. Didn’t even want to go and get his wounds stitched. Lucky Duke Baird insisted. We can’t have Myles terrorizin’ the prisoners.” Softly he added, “He’s fine, lass.”

“The ladies saved us all,” Gary went on. He indicated Thayet, Eleni, Buri, and Rispah. “They kept the archers from killing his Majesty. We’re proud of them—of you.” He glanced at Alanna and looked away again, his eyes troubled. “Jon—the king—told us what you did, in the catacombs. He saw it all, somehow.”

Alanna faced the altar. Jonathan sat at its base, leaning against the stone. His face was drawn. She was shocked to see white threads in his hair where none had been that morning. The Jewel was in his lap. He stirred; Geoffrey of Meron gave him a cup of water. The altar itself had been cleared to make room for the body of Liam Ironarm.

Did I know? she asked herself. Did I suspect? There was no way to tell. She climbed the altar steps to look at the Dragon alone.

Eight arrows were piled beside him; his knuckles and wounds were neatly bandaged. Her eyes burned, but she was cried out. Helplessly she plucked at his sleeve, wishing she could bring him back. Crying would have helped.

“He and George saved my life—they saved us all.” Jonathan dragged himself up to lean on the altar. “You’d just gotten to Roger when Tirragen soldiers attacked me in force. Myles was down by then, Duke Baird, Raoul, Duke Gareth. They’re all right. I guess Raoul will have a limp to show for it. Coram and Gary were drawn away. I was—helpless.” He grimaced.

“You did more than enough.” Her broken voice was barely audible.

“But I couldn’t do anything else. George and Liam kept me from being … interrupted.” Alanna shuddered, knowing the land would have shaken itself to pieces if Jon’s concentration had broken. “Two archers got clear. Liam took the arrows meant for me. He didn’t even falter, until the last.” Jonathan’s eyes met hers. “It isn’t much consolation, I know, but—they’ll sing about the Dragon’s last fight for centuries.” After a moment he added, “I’m sorry.”

She tried to walk away; her weakened knees faltered. George caught her instantly.

“It was the death he wanted,” the king said. “We’ll honor him, always.”

Alanna nodded dumbly. Jon reached for her: There was a flash, and a tiny ball of reddish-purple fire leaped from his fingers to her own bloody ones. Gently he took her hand and kissed it. “We did it, King’s Champion. Tortall is safe.”