Tamora Pierce - The Song of the Lioness Vol. 4 - Lioness Rampant 
Lioness Rampant
The Song of the Lioness Vol. 4
Tamora Pierce



EBook Design Group digital back-up edition v1 HTML
December 26, 2002




Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Lioness from Tortall

CHAPTER TWO
The Road East

CHAPTER THREE
The Warlord's Daughter

CHAPTER FOUR
The Roof of the World

CHAPTER FIVE
In the Capital of Tortall

CHAPTER SIX
Homecoming

CHAPTER SEVEN
Period of Mourning

CHAPTER EIGHT
Crossroad in Time

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER ONE
Lioness from Tortall
^ »
On a March afternoon a knight and a man-at-arms reached the gates of the 
Marenite city of Berat. The guards hid their smiles as they looked the noble 
over—in size the beardless youth could as well have been a squire, with only a 
shield to reveal his higher rank. They wondered aloud if the youngster could 
hold his lance, let alone unseat an opponent with it. Hearing them, the knight 
favored them with a broad grin. The guards, liking his reaction, fell silent. 
The man-at-arms gave a tug on their packhorse's lead rein, and the small party 
moved through the gates into the city.
Most nobles dressed richly, but this knight wore well-traveled leather, covered 
with a white burnoose like those worn by the Bazhir of the Tortallan desert. 
With the burnoose's hood pushed back, everyone could see that the knight's hair 
was copper, cut so it brushed his shoulders.
His eyes were an odd, purple shade that drew stares; his face determined. Before 
him, in a cup fixed to his mare's saddle, rode a black cat.
The man-at-arms was dressed like the knight. There were no grins for him—he was 
a burly, dark-haired commoner with no-nonsense eyes. It was he who asked 
directions to the inn called the Wandering Bard while the knight looked with 
interest at the streets around them. They set off in the direction of the inn, 
picking their way through the crowds with ease.
The cat swiveled his head, looking up at the knight. They think you're a boy. To 
most, his utterances sounded like those of any cat; to the few he chose, he 
spoke as plainly as a human.
"Good," the knight replied. "That's less fuss over me."
Is that why you left your shield covered?
"Be sensible, Faithful," was the tart reply. "The shield's covered because I 
don't want it to get all over dust. It takes forever to clean it. This far 
south, who'd've heard of me?"
The man-at-arms, who'd drawn level with them, grinned. "Ye'd be surprised. News 
has a way of travelin'."


The common room of the Wandering Bard was deserted except for the innkeeper, 
Windfeld, who was resting after the noon rush. He'd just begun his own meal when 
a stable-boy charged in.
"Y'want t'hurry, master," the boy puffed, excited. "They's a knight in 
th'yards—a Tortall knight!"
"What of that?" Windfeld replied. "We've had knights at the Bard afore."
"Not a knight like this'un," the boy announced. "This'un be a girl!"
"Don't joke with me, lad," Windfeld began. Then he remembered. "That's right. 
Sir Myles wrote me of the lass he adopted a year past. Said she went as a lad 
for years, as page and squire,'till she was knighted. That was when our stables 
almost burned, and I didn't pay his letter the attention I ought. What's her 
shield?"
"Shield's a-covered," was the reply. "But her man wears a pin like one. It's 
red, with a gold cat a-rearin' on it."
"That's her—Alanna of Trebond and Olau, Sir Myles's heir." Windfeld got up, 
removing his apron to throw it on the table. "And with the Shang Dragon here 
already! It's bound to be a good week. The stableyard, you said?" divbreak
Alanna of Trebond and Olau, sometimes called "the Lioness" for the cat on her 
shield, was surprised to be greeted by the innkeeper. The host of such a 
prosperous house did not meet his guests unless they were wealthy or famous. 
Since she had lived in Tortall's Great Southern Desert for over a year, Alanna 
did not realize she had become famous.
Afoot, her cat cradled in her arms, she was short and stocky—sturdy rather than 
muscular. She did not look as if she could have disguised her sex for years to 
undergo a knight's harsh training. And she certainly did not look as if she 
would excel at her training to the point where some—men who were qualified to 
judge such matters—would call her "the finest squire in Tortall."
She also did not look like the adopted heir of one of her realm's wealthiest 
noblemen. "I don't know if Sir Myles told you," Windfeld explained, "but I'm 
honored to serve his interests here in Berat. I bid you and your man welcome to 
the Wanderin' Bard." He nodded to the man-at-arms, who supervised the stabling 
of the horses. "Whatever you wish, just let my folk know. Would the two of you 
like a cool drink, to lay the dust?"
"I'll see to the packs and the rooms," the man told them. "I know," he said 
quickly as his knight-mistress opened her mouth. "Ye're wantin' a bath; hot 
water, soap, and soon." He grinned at Windfeld. "She's that finicky, for a lass 
who's livin' on the road."
Alanna shrugged. "What can I say? I like to be clean. Thanks, Coram."
"He's been with you long?" Windfeld asked, as he showed her into the common 
room, indicated a seat, and sat down facing her.
"Forever," Alanna replied. "Coram changed my diapers, and he never lets me 
forget it. He helped raise my twin brother and me." To a maid who'd come to ask 
what she'd like, Alanna said, "Fruit juice would be wonderful, if you have it."
The innkeeper smiled as the servant girl left. "The Wanderin' Bard has whatever 
may hit your fancy, Lady Alanna. How is your honored father, if you don't mind 
my askin'?"
The maid returned with a pitcher and a tankard on a tray, presenting them to 
Alanna. Taking a swallow from her tankard, the knight sat back with a sigh. "He 
was fine when last I heard from him two months ago. Coram and I've been on the 
road for weeks. I've never been out of Tortall before, so we took our time. 
Maren doesn't seem much different."
Windfeld grinned. "Nor should it, Tortall and Tusaine and Maren bein' cut from 
the same cloth. Things change, east of here."
Alanna saw a shadow cross her host's face. "Trouble?"
"Just the sickness that comes on a land now and then," was the reply. "There's 
war in Sarair, the last eighteen months or so. Only a Saren could tell you what 
started it, or what'll finish it. But there," Windfeld added, seeing a 
chambermaid at the door. "Your rooms be ready, along with your bath."
The knight picked up her cat, who was playing with Windfeld's apron. "Come on, 
Faithful," she groaned, settling him over her shoulder. "Let's get clean."
A chill went through the innkeeper as he watched them go. Only now had he seen 
that the cat's eyes were not a proper shade of amber, green, or grey; they were 
as purple as Alanna's. Instinctively he made the Sign against evil.


The bath was everything a worn and dirty knight could wish: large enough to fit 
all of her and filled with hot water. She splashed contentedly, rinsing a week's 
grit from her hair.
Tongue and paws are all I need, Faithful commented.
"Is that why you smell after a night in the woods?" demanded Alanna.
Faithful ignored her, curling up on the bed. Alanna made a face at him and 
reached for the copper pitcher filled with rinse water. Sunlight hit its side, 
dazzling her. Her blinded vision held an image: A gem, blue-violet, the size of 
a silver noble piece, set into a disc of gold, its facets absorbing light, not 
reflecting it. Beyond it was snow, a blizzard's worth.
The picture faded when she blinked. She knew there was no sense in worrying 
about it. Sooner or later she would find out what it meant—she'd had the vision 
before. In the meantime, her bath was getting cold.
Coram knocked as she combed her hair. "I've eaten," he called through the door. 
"I'll find out where your scholar lives, then have a bit of enjoyment. Do us 
both a favor and stay out of trouble."
"I can take care of myself," she reminded him.
"That's what worries me."
"Have fun," Alanna called as his footsteps retreated, thinking, Why is he 
worried? She rarely sought trouble. Tonight she planned to avoid it entirely.
Downstairs, Faithful abandoned her for the kitchen. Alanna found a corner where 
she would have a good view of the rest of the common room. While the Wandering 
Bard seemed respectable, she'd been traveling long enough to know she could 
never be too prepared. Adjusting her sword—so she'd have room to draw it if 
necessary—she settled back to enjoy the meal.
Windfeld came over after she finished. "If there's anything you want, anything 
at all, you've only to ask," he assured her, taking a chair at her invitation. 
"No service is too great for Myles of Olau's heir, not in a house of mine. He 
pays us well as his agents—a generous man, your father."
Alanna smiled. "He's generous with everything." Remembering what Windfeld had 
said earlier, she asked, "What's going on in Sarain?"
The innkeeper looked away. "She rips herself apart. The K'miri tribes hunt 
lowlanders through the mountains, sometimes on the Southern Plain itself. The 
mountain-born come west in flocks, runnin' from the fightin'. The lowlanders are 
so busy slayin' K'mir that they let all else go, even the harvest. Only when 
their belts could be tightened no more did the Warlord bring in paid soldiers 
and send the lowlanders back to their farms. The refugees talk of little but 
hunger and killin'. My wife's Saren—it breaks her heart, and no end in sight." 
He forced a smile and added, "Enough of such doom-talk. What brings you here, my 
lady—if I can be so bold as to ask?"
"We're looking for a scholar," Alanna explained. "Nahom Jendrai."
"Another friend of your father's. He's well thought of, is Master Jendrai."
"I need him to translate something." Alanna reached inside her tunic to draw out 
a leather envelope. Carefully she opened it and unfolded its contents: a map of 
the Eastern Lands and the Inland Sea, charred at the left and top edges. Only 
natural landmarks—rivers and mountain ranges—were shown. A tiny star marked a 
spot in the Roof of the World, the great mountain range that cuts off the 
Eastern Lands from the rest of their world. Silvery runes—the writing that 
brought her to Maren for a translation—formed a column on the right side. "This 
looks like the Old Ones' writing," she explained. "Myles says the best 
translator is Nahom Jendrai of Berat."
Windfeld touched the charred edges. "How did this happen, my lady? Do you know?"
Alanna ran her fingers over the map. "You know Coram and I've been living with 
the Bazhir?" Windfeld nodded. "Our headman, Halef Seif, was worried about a 
friend of his, a shaman living near Lake Tirragen. Coram and I went to see her." 
She drew a breath. "Her village was having a bad winter, what with famine and 
cold. A wandering priest had convinced the people that if they 'purified' 
themselves—if they killed their sorceress—his god would put food in their 
storehouses."
"I've seen things like it. Folk aren't sensible when they're hungry."
"Coram and I got there as they started to burn her. We stopped it and got her 
away, but… She was hurt too badly for me to fix." In answer to his questioning 
look, she explained, "I know some healing magic. Anyway, she died. The map was 
all she had. She asked us to take it back to Halef Seif."
"And he sent it to Master Jendrai for readin'?" Winfeld asked.
Alanna shook her head. "He didn't want it. He gave it to me—said it was for me, 
not him." She smiled wryly. "Halef Seif can be determined when he likes. He says 
he's happy with the Bloody Hawk—that's our tribe. Some of it didn't make sense, 
what he said, about destiny and quests. So here I am."
Windfeld rose in answer to a yell for service. "You've come a long way for 
curiosity, my lady."
Alanna grinned at him. "I didn't have anything more important to do."
There was another yell; with a voice that shook the rafters, Windfeld bellowed, 
"Just hold on, Joss, you'll be served afore you go home!" He bowed to Alanna and 
went to help the barkeep.
A maid placed a glass of wine in front of Alanna. "He sent it t'you, my lady," 
the girl explained, pointing to a man by the hearth. "He said I was t'tell you 
redheads must sit together for safety's sake, and he wonders if you might join 
him when this glass is done." Leaning down, she whispered, "Not meanin' any 
disrespect, but if you don't want 'im, I do!"
Alanna looked at the man; he was toasting her. His eyes were blue-green in a 
tan, pockmarked face. His hair was as copper as hers, clipped short. His nose 
had met several hard objects. A mustache framed his sensual mouth; his jaw was 
heavy. He was in excellent fighting condition: broad shoulders, powerful chest, 
hard waist, heavily muscled limbs. He dressed as she did, in shirt and breeches. 
She also saw he carried no weapons, not even a dagger. To a knight this was 
important: the only men who went weaponless were sorcerers, priests, fools—or 
those who didn't need them. In a violent world, few did not need to carry some 
kind of weapon.
He shouldn't be attractive, not with a broken nose and his face all scarred. 
From what, I wonder? Bad skin as a boy, perhaps. But he is attractive! she 
thought nervously. Why is he interested in me? I'm not as pretty as some of the 
other women here.
She raised her glass and drank, her eyes not leaving his.
From her arrival at court until she'd won her shield, few had known she was 
female. Although Prince Jonathan had been her lover, he was also her friend and 
her knight-master; they hadn't needed the courting rituals Jon used with noble 
ladies. George Cooper, who also loved her, had flirted with Alanna sometimes; 
when he did it to the point of flustering her, she'd simply ordered him to stop. 
Of the other men she knew, most couldn't forget her knighthood enough to 
indicate a romantic interest in her. Since the revelation of her real identity 
and sex, the young knight had lived among the Bazhir. To them she was the Woman 
Who Rides Like a Man, and sexless.
So, though she wanted to join this man, or to indicate she was interested, 
Alanna didn't know how. How did a lady knight flirt with a total stranger? 
Noblewomen showed interest with fluttered fan or dropped handkerchief. Bazhir 
women used their eyes over their veils. She had no fan or veil. Her handkerchief 
wouldn't be noticed if she dropped it here. And she didn't have the courage to 
walk over to his table and sit down.
She didn't know pleading filled her eyes. He grinned—a slow, white-toothed smile 
that made her insides turn over—and came to her.
"Liam," he introduced himself, holding out a massive hand. "And you're Alanna 
the Lioness, from Tortall." She returned his firm grip; Liam's palm was warm and 
callused, like her own. "May I join you?" he asked, his eyes dancing. Alanna 
nodded, and Liam sat. "In Berat long?" he wanted to know, as the maid brought 
more wine and fruit.
Alanna shook her head. "Not for longer than I can help." She filled his 
glass."I'd forgotten how noisy cities are. I've been with the Bazhir."
"So I heard. It took some asking to find out what happened after you killed the 
Conte Duke." He spoke with a peasant's broad vowels and nearly skipped r's.
She frowned. "You make it a habit to follow my doings?" She wasn't sure she 
liked the idea.
He nodded. "People like you change the world; a smart man keeps track of such 
folk. It was a great thing, killing your King's nephew and proving him a 
traitor. Duke Roger was a powerful man."
Alanna looked away, feeling cold. "He deserved to die. He tried to murder the 
Queen."
"It bothers you still?"
Looking at him, Alanna saw understanding. He knows, she thought. He knows about 
things like betrayal, and being afraid, and the looks on people's faces when 
they know you did something they thought impossible. "Sometimes. Everyone 
admired him. It all happened at once: me finding what he planned; him revealing 
that I'm a girl in front of the court. I wanted to have time for people to get 
used to who I really am!
"Then I killed him. I don't even like killing. So I wonder, sometimes."
"Don't fret." He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "He was rotten clean 
through—take my word for it."
"You knew him?"
He nodded, his eyes a distant green. "We met—a long time ago."
"How? Why did you hate him? I mean, it seems as if you hated him. Everyone I 
knew liked him, nearly everyone." She sat up eagerly. "It isn't fair. You know 
everything about me."
He chuckled, his eyes warming. "I'll tell you someday, kitten—if you're very 
good." He smoothed his mustache.
She blushed. A cautious thought warned, You'll be in trouble if you don't watch 
out! You don't know anything about him, and he's got you half into his arms! She 
drew back. "You're flirting with me," she told him sternly.
"Fun, isn't it?" he grinned.
"Who are you? What do you do?" Alanna wanted to know. "Fair's fair!"
She stopped, hearing a commotion at the door. A familiar voice caroled, "Such 
sights the Princes never did see/ And they honor the Beggar to this very day!" 
She winced.
"That's my friend Coram," she told Liam, rising. "If I don't stop him, he'll 
sing the verse with the merchants and the fishwives, and we'll all be in for 
it."
Liam's grin flashed. "I know the song." He kissed her hand. "You'll see me 
again—my word on it."


With persuasion and bullying she got her boisterous man-at-arms to his chamber, 
where he collapsed on the bed. "Jendrai is back from his country house today," 
he yawned. "He'll see us tomorrow evenin'." Within seconds he was snoring.
Alanna let herself out of his room, planning to go to bed rather than look for 
the unsettling Liam again. She had unlocked her door when the innkeeper came up 
the stairs, rubbing his hands delightedly. Seeing her, he asked, "Be there 
anything else you need?"
"I'm fine," she reassured him. Nodding toward the noisy common room downstairs, 
she added, "It sounds like you have more than enough to do."
Windfeld beamed. "It's a good house tonight—a very good house. No surprise, with 
you and the Shang Dragon here."
"The Shang Dragon?" She'd never had a chance to talk with one of the fabled 
Shang warriors. She'd always wanted to; now the gods had put her in the same inn 
with the best of them. "He's here? Will you introduce me?"
Windfeld looked at her strangely. "I didn't think you needed introducin', not 
with you and him talkin' like you were."
"Liam?"
"Liam Ironarm, the Dragon of Shang. He didn't tell you?" Alanna shook her head. 
"And you didn't know? He knows of you—he told me so this mornin'."
"I don't know anyone in the Order of Shang," she informed him. "They don't 
associate much with nobles or with the Bazhir."
"Well, you seem to be on good enough terms with the Dragon," the man said slyly. 
Alanna blushed a beet red and went into her room with a hasty "Good night."
To give Windfeld and the Wandering Bard credit, it was not her bed or her room 
that kept her awake. The bed was comfortable; the walls were thick enough to 
muffle the common room's noise. At first it seemed as if little things kept her 
awake. First it was her cat, scratching on the door for admittance. Then it was 
the light of the full moon falling across her eyes, until she got up and drew 
the curtain across her window. Then she found the room stuffy. With a sigh she 
rose again to open the window only a crack, because the weather was still raw.
She couldn't clear her mind of thought. Partly it was the excitement of having a 
chance at last to talk with a Shang warrior. What she knew of the legendary 
order of warriors she'd learned piecemeal. Warriors named after mythical 
beasts—unicorn, griffin, phoenix—were the best of their order: the Dragon was 
the best of the best. Each Shang warrior received an animal's name after passing 
an ordeal and then living in the world a year. She knew that Shang accepted boy 
and girl children, no older than seven years of age and as young as four, to 
study their hard way of life. They were required to master many kinds of weapons 
and, more interestingly, a number of barehand techniques of fighting.
So Liam was the Shang Dragon. That explained why he was bold enough—or uncaring 
enough—to go weaponless. He had little to fear from human predators. He has 
dragon's eyes, she thought, remembering how they changed color. Pale green when 
he doesn't want to share anything with you, and—she grinned—blue-green when he's 
flirting.
She finally gave up on sleep and dressed, thinking maybe a ride would settle 
her. Within moments she, Faithful, and her gold-colored horse Moonlight were 
galloping out of Berat. They rode on and on while Alanna remained deep in her 
thoughts, not noticing how much ground they covered. She paid little attention 
to the road or the fog that closed in. She was too preoccupied.
All her life she'd planned to be a knight-errant, roving the world to do great 
deeds. But now she was learning that such a life included periods of boredom, 
riding through countryside that seldom changed. Not every village had a cruel 
overlord; few crossroads were held by evil knights.
At home, if the King wished it, he could put her on border patrols like the 
other knights she knew, hunting bandits and raiders. But she didn't think the 
King would give her such work. Roald was most displeased that she had lied about 
who she truly was. A quiet man who preferred harmony at his court, the King said 
little, but he left Alanna no doubt that he disapproved of her.
In any case, she knew Tortall. She wanted to go places she didn't know. She 
wanted to see places left off most Tortallan maps—the lands south of Carthak; 
the Roof of the World and what lay beyond it. Surely there would be things for 
her to do once she'd left the more civilized areas behind.
Moonlight stopped, tossing her head nervously, and Alanna had to take notice. By 
then the fog was so thick she couldn't see the road beneath the mare's feet. The 
knight dismounted, taking the reins to lead her mare, but they had plodded only 
a few yards when Moonlight halted, ears flat with alarm. No amount of urging 
would make her go forward, which worried her mistress. Moonlight was careful, 
but not timid. If she thought something was wrong, Alanna paid attention. She 
looked at Faithful. The cat sat calmly in his saddle-cup, ears pricked forward. 
Fog held them; it muffled even the clink of the harness.
Now Alanna felt something odd. She sneezed. The emberlike stone she wore at her 
throat burst into fiery light, growing warm against her skin. In front of them 
the fog wove and braided itself to form a tall woman. She was green eyed and 
black haired, shining in her own magic light. The fog was her dress, glittering 
with drops of water.
Alanna had only seen her once before, when the woman had given her the 
emberstone. Now she released the reins and dropped to her knees, bowing her 
head. "Goddess," she whispered.
"Where do you ride, my Daughter?" The immortal's voice was beautiful and 
terrible, carrying echoes of the wind and of hounds in a pack. "Is it not late 
for a ride for pleasure?"
"I couldn't sleep, my Mother."
A cool hand cupped Alanna's chin, making her look up. She met the Great 
Goddess's eyes without flinching, even though her body was quivering. "You have 
achieved all you desired, have you not? A shield is yours, rightfully won. You 
have slain your greatest enemy. What do you seek now, Alanna?"
Alanna shrugged. "I don't know. I feel there's something important I should be 
doing, but I have no idea what it is. I'm just—drifting. That's why I brought 
the map here to be translated. Maybe it'll point me toward—Unless you need me 
for something?" she asked, hopeful.
The Goddess smiled. "I do not plan mortals' lives for them, Alanna. You must do 
that for yourself. However, if you follow the map, you will find its path 
interesting. But think, as you ride." She picked up Faithful, who'd been waiting 
at her feet. "What will become of you? Will you drift all your days?"
Faithful chirped to the Goddess, his tail waving, and she smiled at him. Now 
that he had the Mother's attention, he addressed her at length. Try though she 
might, Alanna couldn't tell what he said.
Finally the Goddess put him down. The edges of her form grew indistinct, 
blending with the fog once again. "For a while longer, my friend," she told the 
cat. "Do not disappoint me." Faithful returned to Alanna, who held him close. 
The immortal was now a shadow, her voice distant. "Who will you be, Alanna?" She 
was gone.
For the first time since she'd saddled Moonlight, Alanna paid attention to her 
surroundings. She was in a forest, and that was baffling. This was the same road 
she and Coram had taken on their way to Berat. That morning they'd left the 
woods just after dawn, entering farm country. How could she have done a day's 
ride in a few hours?
The fog was still too thick for safe riding. Finding a rock, the knight sat to 
await the dawn, feeling cold, damp, and tired. She was beginning to nod off when 
the breezes came to scatter the mist, unveiling the road. Yawning, she mounted 
up and urged Moonlight into a trot. Faithful went to sleep without a word. 
Alanna envied him. Her jaws cracked every time she yawned, and her eyelids felt 
heavy. At last she dozed.
A jolt—then a burst of pain as she struck the road—woke her. Like the stablemen 
and troopers who'd taught her, she filled the air with curses. There were words 
for people who fell asleep and dropped from their saddles!
Moonlight stared at her mistress, wondering why Alanna had chosen to dismount 
and sit in the mud.
Swearing doesn't help, Faithful remarked. Besides, you woke me up.
"Does your worship want me to pull the curtains so the light won't hurt your 
eyes?" Alanna yelled, beet red with embarrassment. "Shall I call you for the 
noon meal, or will you sleep the day out?"
There's no talking to you when you're like this, was the cat's smug reply. He 
went back to sleep.
Moonlight nudged her. With a groan, Alanna rose. "I can only blame myself," she 
growled. "I could've gone to a convent, never learned to wrestle and be dumped 
on my head, never have broken any bones or fallen in the dirt. I'd be clean and 
wear pretty dresses. By now I'd be married to a buffle-brained nobleman with a 
small fief. I'd probably even have clean, pretty, buffle-brained children." 
Trying to wipe her hands before taking the reins, she found her breeches were as 
muddy as her hands. "Don't remind me I picked this life. I've no one to blame 
but myself." Moonlight shook her head as if to say she wouldn't. "I always knew 
there was insanity in my family."
Alanna heard hoofbeats and froze. She didn't want a passerby to see her in this 
fix! Determinedly, she looked away as the other horse came closer. Her hands 
tightened on Moonlight's reins as her face went a darker red. If a stranger sees 
me, that's bad, she told herself. The worst that can happen is for this to be 
Liam Ironarm, and me falling off my horse like an incompetent. She turned.
It was Liam. He was not trying to hide his grin. "Nice morning for a ride," he 
greeted her. "A little wet, though."
Alanna swallowed, fighting her temper. "I don't normally do this, you know!"
"Not for a moment did I think it."
"Why are you here, anyway?" she demanded, too embarrassed to be polite. "It's a 
long way for a morning ride!"
"I saw you go out. When you didn't come back, I thought I'd check." Too kindly, 
he added, "Oh, don't think I figured you'd run out on Windfeld's bill. You left 
your man and your bags, so I knew it wouldn't be that."
Alanna gasped with fury. "How dare—"
"Don't like to be teased, is that it?" Relenting, he said, "Hitch the mare to a 
lead and ride double with me. I'll keep you a-horse."
"I'll be fine!"
With a sigh the redheaded man dismounted. "Didn't your mamma teach you to speak 
polite to strangers on the road?" He put Moonlight on a lead with his big-boned 
grey. "I could be a sorcerer and turn you into a mouse."
"You're the Shang Dragon. You won't turn me into anything."
"Don't worry about it," he said cheerfully. "I pull on my breeches one leg at a 
time, same as you." Unstrapping a blanket from his saddle, he wrapped it around 
her. "There now. You're tired and wet and grumpy—in no condition to ride. I fell 
asleep once, Alanna the Lioness. A tree knocked me from the saddle into a ditch, 
right in front of the men I was to command. Bless their hearts, they didn't 
tease me about it—not much. Up with you." He threw her into the saddle as easily 
as if she were a child, mounting behind her and settling her in the circle of 
his arms.
"Go to sleep, kitten," he murmured. His voice rumbled in his deep chest. "You're 
all right now."


Coram awoke late, with a head he would not wish on his worst enemy. For a long 
time he waited for his knight-mistress to arrive with her hangover cure. When 
she did not appear, he went in search of her. It hurt even to dress. It would be 
worth her heartless quips to rid himself of the headache and nausea.
After the pain of dressing, he was in no humor to find a stranger letting 
himself out of Alanna's room. Hadn't she been talking to this redheaded fellow 
in the common room the night before? Coram couldn't remember.
He barred Liam's path. "I suppose ye've excellent reasons for bein' in there, 
all of which ye'll tell me without delay." Alanna had friends to protect her 
name and person, as this man was about to learn!
The Dragon grinned, recognizing the older man. "You must be Coram."
"I am. That tells me nothin' about ye."
Liam eyed the burly man-at-arms. "It seems to me the young lady takes care of 
herself."
"I suppose ye had that from her," snapped Coram. "She's wrong. Is there someone 
in the city who'll speak for ye?" His hand shifted warningly to his dagger hilt.
"The Shang Dragon needs nobody to speak for him." Liam's eyes went a pale green. 
"I understand your wanting to protect her, but I don't like threats."
Coram frowned. "I'm t'believe ye're Liam Ironarm?"
"Come downstairs, before she hears you," Liam sighed. "Windfeld knows me."
The host's verification of the Dragon's identity told Coram it was time to 
change tactics. So he invited Liam to share his morning meal, and the food eased 
his hangover. He could concentrate better on quizzing the redheaded man.
"Does she know?" he asked. "Lady Alanna?"
A slow grin spread across Liam's face. "She knows."
"No doubt she's in a dither tryin' to decide what she wants to ask ye first." 
Coram thought for a moment, then met the Dragon's now-grey eyes. "What's the 
likes of ye want with Alanna of Trebond?"
The big man shrugged. "She's a pretty thing—different, and full of fight. I 
never heard that she avoids men."
Remembering Prince Jonathan and the thief, George, Coram flushed. "She's still 
not a woman without all virtue."
Liam chuckled. "She's too good a warrior to have a bad reputation as a woman. At 
least, no one will call her bad when she might hear."
"I'd think the Shang Dragon had his pick of pretty ladies," growled Coram.
Liam rose. "Maybe. But she's not just that, is she? She's as known in her way as 
I am in mine." He put a massive hand on Coram's arm. "I'm not a village lad 
wanting to boast of having the Lioness's pelt in my hut, Master Smythesson. I 
like her. I'd probably like you, if you stopped glumping about my being in her 
room."
He left a coin for his food and strolled out as Coram sank his face into his 
hands. "Life used to be simple," he told his palms.
Faithful jumped up to sniff at Liam's plate. Probably more boring, too.


After running errands until noon, Coram returned to find Alanna dressed and 
cleaning her weapons. "Don't scowl," she told him. "I'm not awake."
"The chambermaid says yer clothes were all over mud. What kind of larks were ye 
kickin' up last night without me to keep an eye on ye?"
"I wasn't 'kicking up any larks,' " she yawned. "I couldn't sleep, so I went for 
a ride out of the city."
"Were ye ridin' under the horse's belly, then?"
Alanna could feel a blush creeping up her cheeks. "It's too embarrassing to talk 
about."
Coram wasn't to be so lightly dismissed. "Does this have any thin' to do with 
that Liam bein' in your room this mornin'?"
"I got tired and fell off my horse," Alanna said grumpily. "I met Liam on the 
road. He just made sure I got back all right. He never touched me."
"Maybe he didn't," Coram rumbled, as red as she was. "And maybe he's plannin' 
to."
Closing the door, he heard Alanna murmur, "Nothing wrong with that."


They reached House Jendrai as the sun touched the horizon, to be greeted by 
Nahom Jendrai in person. Alanna had expected him to resemble Myles of 
Olau—quiet, unkempt, and absentminded. Instead, she and Coram found a trim man 
in his early thirties, surrounded by children, servants, pack animals, dogs, and 
baggage. He waved to Coram and waded out of the mess.
"My wife would greet you properly, Lady Alanna, Master Smythesson, but she has 
only recently come from childbed, and she is resting. Our sixth," he explained 
with a smile. "A girl." He accepted their congratulations with a bow, adding, 
"Excuse the bustle—our bags didn't come until this afternoon."
He led them into the house. "I'm happy to assist Myles's daughter. If it weren't 
for him, I'd be just another nobleman, administering my estates, worrying about 
how I stood with the King, and scheming to get into power at court. My wife 
handles the fief—better than I ever could—and the only kings I bother with are 
hundreds of years gone. I owe that to Myles. He was the best teacher I had. What 
an incredible mind!"
Alanna picked up Faithful, who was trading sharp words with a dog in the hall. 
"You were one of Myles's students?"
"For six years." He showed them into a room that was lit only by the dying sun. 
"I suppose it's too dark." He began a futile search for flint and steel. "I tell 
the maids I keep demons in here so they won't disturb anything. Unfortunately, I 
don't get my candles lit."
Alanna laughed. Now he reminded her of Myles. Pointing at the hearth logs, she 
sent her Gift out in a burst of violet until they caught flame. With quick 
gestures she shooed flames to the branches of candles.
Show-off, Faithful grumbled.
Alanna looked at him in surprise. "I am not. This is handier."
A year ago you would have taken forever to do it the hard way, the cat pointed 
out.
Alanna blushed. "A year ago I was different."
"Do they always chat like this?" Nahom Jendrai asked Coram.
"Often enough." The older man gave him the map.
Jendrai stretched the parchment out on a table, studying it for several minutes. 
Finally Alanna said, "Should we go and come back when you've had a chance to 
work on it?"
He glanced up, startled—clearly he'd forgotten they were there. "No, of course 
not. I can tell you what it says. Please, come closer." Alanna and Coram 
gathered around the desk, Faithful perched on the knight's shoulder.
Jendrai's finger traveled over the map's surface. "Here are the Eastern Lands, 
the Inland Sea, a bit of the Southern Lands. That's to locate the reader—this 
map isn't for everyday geography. Much is left out. There are cities, nations, 
roads—a hundred things not shown. Only the points of interest are here, at the 
eastern end of the Great Inland Sea.
"The mountains—these jagged lines—show the Roof of the World, east of Sarain. 
This valley lies inside the Roof's western edge, north of where Port Udayapur is 
now. At the valley's northern end are two passes, Lumuhu and Chitral. This star 
marks Chitral Pass." He tapped the silvery star embossed into the map. 
"Translated, the writing says, 'In Chitral's hidden chamber, guarded by the 
being whose essence is Time, the Dominion Jewel is kept for those with the will 
to strive. Take it at your risk, for the saving of a troubled land.'
"The Dominion Jewel," Coram whispered.
Alanna shivered. "Fairy stories," she scoffed.
"Ye were impressed by those stories in yer day, Miss," retorted Coram "Yer 
brother always wanted the tale of Giamo the Tyrant. Ye liked t'hear about Norrin 
and Anj'la." He looked at Nahom. "The Jewel is real?"
"Very real," the scholar replied. "In Maren we remember the changes made by King 
Norrin and Queen Anj'la, two centuries ago. Our wealth and peace are their 
legacy. We have had no wars or famines or plagues since their day." He rapped 
the table to ward off the evils he'd mentioned. "If you have a chance to visit 
the capital city, you might examine the stonework on the Great Temple of Mithros 
and on the ceremonial doors of the palace. The same motif is repeated over and 
over: Norrin's symbol, a snow-capped mountain, Anj'la's, a willow branch, and 
the Dominion Jewel between them. Marenites know what we owe to them and the 
Jewel."
"But it's been used for evil, too," Coram reminded Jendrai softly.
"Indeed." The younger man's face darkened. "Giamo stole the Jewel to build his 
Gallan Empire. With it he conquered parts of Tusaine, Tortall, and Scanra." 
Alanna saw Tusaine armies camped along the Drell River, as they had when she was 
a squire. She swallowed; her memories of the Tusaine War were unpleasant. 
"Someone stole it from Giamo's heir. His empire devoured itself, four hundred 
years ago.
"Fairy stories are important," Jendrai told Alanna. "Legends teach us and guide 
scholars in searching out the truth of history." He smoothed the map before 
folding it. "It would be the adventure of a lifetime to find the Dominion 
Jewel."
Faithful and Alanna looked at each other. The cat's ears had pricked forward at 
adventure. The knight thought it over. If I win it and return home bringing the 
Dominion Jewel for the glory of Tortall, no one can suggest that I got my shield 
with magic and trickery. Instead of being his Majesty's most talked-of knight, 
I'll be the honored vassal who brought a prize to honor his reign. Another voice 
in her mind whispered, The Roof of the World! Did I ever meet anyone who'd been 
that far in his lifetime? It's a place to go. Someplace new. The Goddess said my 
path would be interesting.
Nahom sighed and put the map away. "Seldom do I regret my family and my duty to 
them. This is one of those times. I would love to go seeking such a thing. What 
land wouldn't prosper with the Jewel in its ruler's hands?" He gave the map to 
Alanna.
"How does it work?" Alanna asked. She fingered the emberstone at her neck. "Do 
you have to be a sorcerer to wield it?"
"Giamo was no sorcerer," Coram pointed out. "Look at the damage he did."
"Norrin wasn't Gifted, either, although Anj'la knew herb-lore and healing 
magic," added Jendrai, scanning a scroll rack. "Here." He pulled out one, blew 
the dust from it (making Faithful sneeze), and unrolled it on the table. "This 
is in High Gaulish—do you read it?" Alanna and Coram shook their heads. "Here's 
the section I want. A rough translation is 'Said Jewel worketh its power in two 
fashions. In the hands of the un-Gifted, it exerteth natural benefices, knitting 
its power with the Earth's own for as far as its ruler's holdeth sway.' " 
Stopping, he explained, "The Jewel only works for those who are rulers or 
conquerors by nature. It also explains why the Jewel was often better used by a 
commoner than by someone royal-born. Just because you're born to be a king 
doesn't mean you have the will for it."
"Where was I. . .? 'In the hand of one Gifted, one who understandeth the devices 
of sorcery, the Jewel may be more directly used, in healing and war, for 
fertility or death. A knowledgeable ruler, knowing fully the creation of magical 
formulae, may create new land from ocean deeps, or return the breath of a dead 
child. With its wielder's knowledge and the will to rule, the Jewel maketh 
possible all things.'"
"That's scary," Alanna whispered. "What could Roger have done with the Dominion 
Jewel?"
Coram said, "Thank the gods we'll never learn."


Outside the air was raw, a reminder that winter was not done. Alanna shivered, 
walking briskly to keep up with Coram. Faithful trotted in front, sniffing the 
night wind. Alanna thought wistfully about the Bazhir lands—winter came to them 
as chilly rains, not snow and ice. She preferred the desert winter; she was 
afraid of cold weather, in a way she couldn't understand.
They weren't far from the inn when Coram spoke. "What will ye do?" Realizing 
she'd been thinking of something else, he explained, "The Jewel, my lady."
"I think we should find it."
"Knowin' how ye like the cold, I didn't think ye'd fancy the Roof."
Alanna made a face. "You're right. Still, if that's where the Jewel is—"
Faithful hissed, We have company.
Coram glanced around. "Rogues." His voice was loud enough for Alanna to hear, no 
louder. "Wantin' to take our purses, doubtless."
Alanna glanced to the corner ahead, where five men in dark clothing blocked 
their escape. She drew Lightning: it shimmered faintly. "Why so many of them for 
two of us?"
"Four more on yer right," Coram hissed. "Because they've little else to do?" Out 
came his broadsword.
Of the thieves, two held swords, two more carried short axes, three had 
iron-shod staffs. Alanna guessed that the others had knives. "Let us by," she 
ordered. "You don't want the trouble it'll take to get our money." She made the 
sign George taught her, the one to give her safe passage among rogues.
One of them stepped forward, his sword up. "Be ye Alanna of Trebond in Tortall? 
Her as claims she's a true knight?"
Coram bristled. "Ye'll find she's knight enough if ye step just a bit closer."
"Our business ain't with ye, master," someone else barked. "Leave now, else ye 
be hurt."
"I'll leave if ye do the same—or when ye're dead. It's all the same to me." 
Coram shifted his stance, planting himself firmly.
Alanna looked at the one who'd spoken first. "I'm Alanna of Trebond and Olau."
"We bring ye regards from him known as Claw, back in Tortall. He bids us tell ye 
mourn for yer lover now, whilst ye have breath. George Cooper will be dead afore 
summer, but we're to send ye t'the Black God first!"
He threw himself at Alanna, the swordsmen and staffmen following with a yell. 
Alanna moved until she and Coram were back to back, meeting the speaker's charge 
and knocking his weapon aside. He came at her again with a backhand chop, and 
she knew he'd had a little training. It wasn't enough compared to hers. She 
brought Lightning down across his chest, cutting deeply. He fell, and she looked 
for her next foe.
There was little room to maneuver, little chance to counter single opponents. 
The thieves understood simultaneous attack. Alanna and Coram blocked 
automatically, searching for anything that could be turned to their advantage. 
Hesitation now would mean death.
One of the staffmen swung and missed—she ran him through. Coram shouted 
fiercely, and someone screamed. When a swordsman looked to see the screamer's 
fate, Alanna slashed his leg. He dropped with a cry. A knife fighter rushed to 
pick up the fallen sword.
A black lump dropped from a roof, clinging to one man's scalp. Trying to 
dislodge Faithful, the thief fell into an axe's downswing. He lost his life. A 
second later the axeman was down, a victim of Alanna's rapid side-cut. She could 
hear Coram gasping. Sweat dripped into her eyes.
Alanna's left arm stung. She reversed Lightning in a crescent, killing the man 
who'd wounded her. She was bleeding, but she didn't dare stop to bind the cut.
Faithful launched himself again, yowling fiercely. Coram shouted and was down, 
bleeding from the thigh. Alanna swung to stand over him, her brain coldly taking 
charge. Later she'd remember that sweat stung in her eyes, that her arm hurt, 
that she was scared for Coram. Now she blocked and cut like a machine, looking 
everywhere at once.
For a moment Lightning was caught under an axe blade. Trying to free her sword, 
Alanna was knocked down by a staff. Cursing, she rolled to her feet. Before she 
had her balance, two thieves leaped on her, forcing her down.
One gripped her arms, yanking them behind her back. Alanna bit her lip to keep 
from screaming. She'd always been afraid this would happen. Disarmed, in the 
clutch of a stronger opponent, she was trapped. The second rogue grinned at her, 
reaching for her tunic.
The street echoed with an animal roar. Something shot into the man in front of 
Alanna: he rammed into a nearby wall and was still. Liam hit the ground on both 
feet, spun and kicked back into an attacker. The man seemed to leap backward, 
sprawling yards away. The Dragon shifted, his leg furling up and out, streaking 
toward Alanna. She froze, and Liam's kick struck the man gripping her. She was 
free.
Liam grinned, then whirled to face the last killers. They fought and died, the 
street echoing with the Dragon's cry. Alanna's hands worked as she watched, 
cutting up her tunic for a bandage. Kneeling by Coram, she examined his bleeding 
thigh.
"It's not bad," Coram assured her through clenched teeth. "I've had worse. He's 
a sight, isn't he?"
Alanna nodded as she tied the bandage over the wound, pressing to stop the 
bleeding. The stories she'd heard about Shang came nowhere near the truth. The 
Dragon went from blow to kick in a blur. When he struck a man, that man went 
down and stayed down.
"Ye're bleedin' " Coram rasped, holding her arm. "Ye must have it seen to."
Alanna barely heard him. Awed by Liam, she whispered, "I'll never be that good."
Coram snorted. "I've news for your ladyship." He sat up, replacing her hands on 
the bandage with one of his own. "Ye're just as quick, with a sword in yer 
hand."
Silence returned. Those of their attackers who were able had fled. The ones who 
remained were either too badly hurt to run or were dead.
The Dragon came to Alanna and Coram, examining a tear in his sleeve. "You're all 
right?" He looked worriedly at Alanna, who was beginning to feel dizzy and a 
little sick. Coram reached up, and Liam helped him to his feet. "I was coming 
back from the home of a friend, and I heard the noise. Don't you know enough to 
stay out of trouble?"
Faithful came out of the shadows, his tail switching irritably. We do, the man 
and I. She doesn't.
Liam glanced down at the cat, frowning. "Did…? No." He caught Alanna as she 
faltered and dropped in a faint.
"It didn't look like a bad wound," Coram said, taking Alanna's left hand and 
examining the cut running across her forearm. Then he swore, seeing the wound 
reached up the back of her arm to the shoulder. Alanna's shirtsleeve was thick 
with blood. "I'll tear a bandage," he ordered Liam, pulling off his tunic. "We'd 
best take her to the inn fast—Windfeld can fetch a healer." Quickly he reduced 
the garment to strips and formed a bandage for the knight's arm. Once it was in 
place, he set off down the street.
"Does she often do this?" the Dragon asked, following with Alanna.
"She's worn herself out other ways before this, silly lass. She's quick t'tell 
ye when to stop, but she never thinks maybe she should listen to her own 
advice."
When they reached the Wandering Bard, Windfeld took over. In the space of a few 
minutes a healer was seeing to Alanna while another stitched Coram's thigh. Liam 
went to the kitchen and returned with a mug of tea for Coram. The man-at-arms 
took one sniff and coughed.
"What've I ever done to ye?" he demanded.
Liam grinned. "It smells better than it tastes. Drink it—I've had to myself. 
Shang taught us all manner of herb-lore, in case we get caught with no healer 
near."
Coram shrugged and obeyed, choking as the stuff went down. He felt better almost 
immediately. "Whatever it is, it works. I don't want t'know what it is," he said 
quickly when Liam opened his mouth.
"It's only herbs. Your lady gets the same, when she wakes up. Now—who were those 
men?"
"Messengers, of a kind. From an enemy of—of a friend of hers." Coram blushed. 
Liam raised an eyebrow, but the older man shook his head. He was not going to 
tell an almost-stranger, not even this one, the whole truth. "Someone who knew 
that if she was killed, it'd hurt Cooper—her friend."
Liam yawned and stretched. Coram was envious. The redheaded man looked as if 
he'd been exercising hard, not fighting. "Well, this Cooper's unhurt, and the 
two of you will heal."
Coram got up stiffly and offered Liam his hand. "We owe ye our lives. We won't 
forget."
Liam returned his grip. "You'd've managed, I think. I just speeded things 
along."



CHAPTER TWO
The Road East
« ^ »
She supposed she was sleeping. Her twin brother, the sorcerer Thom, stood before 
a tomb with his hands upraised. His Gift, violet colored like her own, glittered 
around him. Thom was pale, sick-looking. The door to the tomb began to open.
Thom looked at her. "I don't have enough power to shut it. I need your Gift. And 
I need that." He reached for the emberstone at her throat. She clung to it.
"No, Thom! The Goddess gave it to me. I'll never take if off!"
"Calm down." The voice was male, warm. "Keep your trinket."
She dreamed again. George Cooper sat at Myles's desk, staring moodily at a 
painting. With surprise she saw it was a miniature of her in gold-washed chain 
mail, her lioness shield at her feet. Did he have it painted from his 
description of her?
There were silver threads in his dark hair. "But you aren't even thirty!" she 
protested.
He didn't hear. "Who will you be, my darlin'?" he asked the painting.
The door flew open. Jonathan entered, looking as if he'd been in a fight. "I 
hear the Earth cracking," he whispered.
Her eyes flew open. "Coram!" she yelled, scared because she felt so weak. She 
was in bed.
"He's sleeping." Liam stood beside her, a steaming mug in his hands. "He didn't 
lose as much blood as you, but he still tires fast."
Alanna sat up. Outside rain fell; somewhere closer a fire crackled. If only her 
head would stop spinning! "How'd you get to be assistant nurse?"
He winked at her. "Coram trusts me. Don't you?"
In spite of herself, Alanna smiled. "Not a bit."
Liam shook his head. "So young, and so cynical. Drink this."
Coram would have warned her about the brew, had he been there. As it was, she 
took a good swallow before she even noticed the smell. It was nasty, bitter 
stuff with herbs in it. Her stomach tried to heave. With an act of will Alanna 
made it stay put. Closing her eyes, she went back to sleep.


Liam was by the fire when she woke again. Faithful curled beside him, 
purring—the big man plainly had the cat's approval. The scent of meat cooking 
rose from downstairs, making Alanna's mouth water. She was hungry!
Liam smiled. "About time." He gave her another mug of tea, one that smelled far 
better than the last. "Sit up and try this. If it stays down, you can eat."
Alanna obeyed, still amazed that the Shang Dragon should have an interest in 
her. His tea tasted of cinnamon and oranges.
His eyes held hers until she blushed. Lifting her hand, he kissed it—his lips 
were warm. This gets more interesting all the time! she thought.
"Enough of that." It was Coram, bearing a heavily laden tray. "If ye're not 
embarrassin' each other, ye might think of my tender feelin's."
Liam helped with the tray. "Your tender feelings?" he joked. "You haven't any."
Alanna watched as they set out the food. Clearly they'd become friends, which 
was good if Liam pursued her (as he clearly meant to). Coram was difficult if he 
didn't approve of her romances. His feelings had made for an uncomfortable week 
in George's Port Caynn house, until the two men came to a truce (it helped that 
Coram had fallen in love with George's cousin Rispah).
She watched the Dragon, remembering what she'd seen of his fighting. What was he 
like with sword or axe? If he was as fast with weapons as he was unarmed, he'd 
be almost unstoppable. She was good with sword and axe and bow, but take away 
her weapons and she was in trouble.
How can he want me? she asked herself, puzzled. He could have any woman—why pick 
one who's not even very feminine? She took the tray he gave her, blushing when 
their hands touched. Well, that's part of it, she thought as she spooned up 
soup. Sheer physical attraction.
Once the servants cleared the dishes, the three settled back to talk. "Coram 
showed me your map," Liam informed her. "He tells me you're bound for the Roof 
of the World."
"Coram's been very talkative," she said drily.
The older man flushed. "Liam's been about these parts a bit, Miss. If he can 
advise us on the road to take, so much the better!"
Alanna turned to Liam. "Well?"
"You should avoid Sarain."
"Is their civil war so bad?"
Peeling an orange, he nodded. "Do you know anything about the Saren?"
"Some," she replied, bristling at the hint she was ignorant. "I had an excellent 
education."
He looked doubtful. "Nobles rarely know as much as they think they do—not about 
the real world. Who rules Sarain?"
Alanna scowled. She had not thought Liam might have a side she didn't like, but 
this older-and-wiser-head approach got under her skin. "The jin Wilima—their 
title is warlord, not king. The current one is—uhm—Adigun, the third jin Wilima 
ruler. Two years ago rebels tried to overthrow him and crown Dusan zhir Anduo in 
his place. Zhir Anduo's descended from their former kings, the zhirit Kaufain."
Coram gave the Dragon an elbow in the ribs. "So there."
"You are educated," chuckled Liam.
Alanna glared at both men. "My adoptive father keeps up with things. He says 
zhir Anduo's rebels won't unseat their Warlord."
"That was true once." Liam poked the fire and added another log. "Jin Wilima 
bought mercenaries last spring. They destroyed towns, crops—people." His eyes 
turned icy green. "The K'mir rebelled against both sides."
"The K'mir are tribesmen, like our Bazhir," explained Coram.
"Jin Wilima married one—her name was Kalasin." Liam scratched Faithful's 
upturned chin. "The most beautiful woman in the world."
"What happened to her?" Alanna sat up, hugging her knees, intrigued by this 
glimpse of an alien society.
Liam shook his head. It was Coram who answered quietly, "Killed herself last 
summer. Her daughter Thayet's as lovely as she was, they say."
"But Thayet isn't the heir," Liam said. "The throne's up for whoever can take 
it, and the K'mir promise to fight the winner."
Alanna thought it over. "Can we avoid passing through Sarain?"
"Get a boat out of Fortress Jirokan at the border," Liam told her. "Take it down 
the Shappa, then a coastal runner to Udayapur—"
Alanna blanched. "No boats!" The handful of times she'd been in one, she had 
been disgracefully sick.
Coram grinned. "I told ye, lad."
The Dragon smoothed his mustache. "Then take the Shappa Road to the Inland Sea, 
and the Coast Road east. The war's in the mountains and highlands, not down by 
their coast."
Alanna struggled with a yawn. Liam rose. "Past your bedtime, little girl. I'll 
ride with you as far as the Saren border, whichever way you choose."
Alanna consulted Coram with a look; he nodded his approval. "We'll be glad to 
have your company." She added, "I always wanted to learn Shang fighting—the 
unarmed kind."
Liam shook his head. "You're too old."
Alanna glared at him. "First you call me 'little girl' and then you say I'm too 
old. Make up your mind."
"And then she'll go to a great deal of effort t'prove ye wrong," Coram joked as 
he opened the door for Liam. Returning to his knight-mistress, he drew his chair 
over to the bed. "I like him. He won't let ye run him ragged."
Alanna fidgeted with her blankets. "You don't look ragged to me."
"I put on a brave front," he teased. More seriously, he went on, "Have ye 
decided which road we'll take?"
"I like going straight through Sarain. We can deal with bandits, one way or 
another."
Startled, Coram asked, "Ye'll use yer Gift?"
"What's wrong with that?"
The man shrugged. "I don't know. I had the thought ye didn't care to mix 
fightin' and magic."
"I don't care to get either of us killed, if it comes to that. We can avoid the 
armies, if any of them are in the highlands this time of year. That way, we come 
to the Roof just five days' ride from Chitral Pass. If we take the Coast Road, 
we'll be two weeks riding north from Udayapur. That's an extra nine days in 
those mountains in May or June." Alanna shivered.
Coram thought it over, then met her eyes. "Not t'mention ye think a ride through 
the Saren highlands will be more interestin'."
Alanna grinned. "There's that." She smothered a yawn. "Do me a favor, Coram?"
"It depends." Long experience with her had made him wary.
"Tell me a story of the Dominion Jewel, please," she suggested. "I've forgotten 
most of them."
He sat back. "A tale, then? Ye haven't asked me for one of them in years. Which 
one? Ah. Miache was a Carthaki waterfront thief, three hundred years ago. The 
Gallans hired her t'steal the Jewel from their own king, that was descended from 
Giamo—a great-great grandson, he was. Them that hired Miache wanted t'rule in 
his place.
"Miache stole the Jewel, right enough—and she kept it. She ran for the River 
Drell, the same that's our border with Galla and Tusaine and Maren. She might've 
borne it home to Carthak, too, but for Zefrem the Bear. He was a mercenary, and 
a good one, headin' south on the river when he pulled Miache out of it. Before 
long they were lovers. She was a pretty thing, with hair like moonglow and a 
heart of pure ice. Zefrem cracked that heart some, though.
"When they came t'the city of Tyra, the Carthaki navy was attackin'. The local 
folk were star-vin'. Their nobles had run; their rulin' duke was crazy. The only 
thing keepin' Carthak out was the walls, and they couldn't hold against Carthaki 
siege engines." Faithful jumped up on the bed and curled up beside Alanna while 
Coram poured himself a tankard of ale. He took a good swallow and continued.
"Zefrem, now, was never a man for a losin' fight, let alone one already lost. 
And Miache—she'd watch her own mother starve unless there was somethin' in it 
for her. All who knew them said it had t'be the Dominion Jewel that brought them 
t'stay in Tyra. They didn't even know how to use it, but it seems the Jewel used 
them.
"Zefrem took command, trainin' the men who were left and buildin' catapults to 
throw fireballs at the ships. Miache and the city's swimmers, some of them 
younglings, they'd swim out t'harry the Carthaki navy. They even sank some of 
the barges full of men and catapults. Miracles started happenin'—birds found 
nestin', when the city had none. Schools of fish appearin' in canals under the 
city, where no fish'd been before. Men and their families began to move into the 
city even durin' the war, t'make their homes and t'fight for Tyra. They didn't 
know why they came. It was the Jewel, callin' them.
"They saved Tyra, Miache and Zefrem and the Dominion Jewel. The city was a 
pirate's nest when they came, a sinkhole fit only for cutthroats and thieves. 
They made it a lawful tradin' city where a man's word was a bindin' contract. 
The man and woman vanished, and the Jewel came next to Norrin, but Tyra still 
prospers. That was three hundred years gone."
Alanna sighed when Coram finished, moved by his tale and the matter-of-fact way 
he'd told it.
He got up and stretched. "Anything else?"
"Coram, thank you. For everything—for bringing me up, and helping me…"
"There, now," he scolded gently. "Don't go all sentimental. Ye'll embarrass us 
both." Surprisingly, he bent and kissed her forehead. "Good night, yer 
ladyship."


Experience had taught Alanna how long injuries took to heal and how far she 
could push herself during the recovery process. She hated to stay in bed any 
longer than necessary. Each hour there meant more work to return to peak 
condition. The day after she awoke, she was outside, going through sword 
exercises using Coram's broadsword. She was careful not to overdo or to rush, 
but she was persistent.
To the boys who loitered in the courtyard, she was a godsend. They jeered, at 
first. But once they saw that the lady knew how to use a sword, they grabbed 
sticks and imitated her. She paid them no attention. If she did, they would turn 
shy and run, afraid other boys would laugh. Instead, she pretended to be 
absorbed, and her imitators grew bolder. Their number increased. By her third 
day's exercise, ten of them followed her movements. So preoccupied were the boys 
that they didn't notice right away when Alanna began to correct a stance or a 
grip.
Liam watched. So did Coram. "She did the same for the Bazhir lads," he told the 
Dragon with pride. "She even taught our tribe's shamans, and her learnin' to be 
a shaman alongside them. Not bad for a noble, is it?"
Liam smoothed his mustache as he watched. "She's serious about learning Shang 
fighting?"
Coram nodded. "Perhaps I should've brought her to Shang when I saw how it was 
with her. But she was Trebond. I never heard of a noble comin' to ye without 
bein' thrown off by their families—and none of them were lasses."
"You did right," Liam said. "She's happy as the one lady knight in the Eastern 
Lands, your Lioness."
Coram made a face. "She not my Lioness. Cooper's, perhaps, or Prince Jonathan's, 
but not mine."
"Yours," repeated Liam. "Yours, and Myles of Olau's, and her brother's. 
Cooper's, too. The Prince's certainly." He grinned. "Maybe even mine. Who 
knows?"


Five days after she began working out, Alanna put down Coram's sword with a 
grin. The boys couldn't understand why she was so glad to finish an exercise; 
for them the glory of fencing lay in the defeat of an opponent. Alanna knew 
she'd finished the hardest of her exercises with no mistakes, using a heavier 
sword than Lightning. Her body had complained only a few times, not very loudly. 
She was healed, and they could be on the road again!
Someone put Lightning's jewel-studded hilt into her hand. Puzzled, she looked up 
to see Liam.
"Now you're warmed up, let's see what you can do," he said.
It didn't sink in right away. "What?"
"A match," he explained patiently. "Swords alone. No kicks or punches. No 
tricks. I want to see how good you are."
Alanna shrugged. Moving into the center of the yard, she took a sideways "guard" 
stance. She fixed on the Dragon as he took a similar position. He's bigger and 
faster, she calculated. He's more experienced, and his blade's heavier. If the 
stories are true, he's trained to be as good with either hand. Great Merciful 
Mother, what have I gotten myself into!
She moved to the side just a bit. Liam's blade arced up and down with blinding 
speed.
Alanna swung Lightning up, blocked Liam's sword, then broke away. The Dragon 
came in with a side cut; she parried and darted back, circling warily. He spun 
and hacked: blocking his powerful swing made her shoulder ache. Stepping back, 
she assumed the two-handed guard position. He cut down and in; she responded, 
Lightning moving as rapidly as his blade.
By now they had an audience. Word had spread through the inn; Alanna's boys were 
joined by servants, guests, hostlers, and passersby. The boys had the best 
seats; they watched their heroes intently. Faithful sat by Coram's feet, his 
eyes slitted against the sun's glare. He'd fetched Alanna's companion, knowing 
Coram would want to see this.
The exchange stretched out in strikes, blocks, and parries, neither opponent 
gaining an advantage. Since Liam had ruled out the unarmed tactics that would 
give him the victory, Alanna could show him the full range of her skill. Coram 
beamed in pride: with sword—or, he would bet, with axe or longbow—Alanna matched 
the Shang Dragon. How many knights could make that claim?
Both Liam and Alanna were sweating heavily; her wound began to ache. Throughout 
the exchange she had studied the Dragon's style as she knew he had studied hers, 
searching for any flaw. Now she blocked swiftly, parried his return cut, blocked 
him again—and came up into a split-second opening, barring his sword arm with 
her shoulder as Lightning snaked up to kiss his throat.
They froze in place for a moment. Then Liam grinned. "You're good." He lowered 
his blade as Alanna stepped back. "I haven't lost to a swordsman in years."
The boys circled them to offer water and towels. Alanna drank deeply from a 
waterskin, pouring some onto her face. "Why didn't you hit me, or kick me?" she 
panted. "You'd've won."
"That wasn't the point." The Dragon dumped a waterskin over his head with a 
grateful sigh. "Are you the best in Tortall?"
"I don't know." She smiled gratefully at the boy who'd given her the water. 
"There may be some commoners better than me—I only fought knights." Alanna wiped 
her face with a sigh. "Against Duke Gareth of Naxen—Gareth the Elder, not the 
Younger—I can win one out of three bouts. He's the best. Alex—Alexander of 
Tirragen. He beat me once." That memory hurt: Alex had nearly killed her. Her 
recent scar pulled as she dried her arms, and she bit back a yelp. "Thank you—I 
think."


They left Berat the next day, Alanna and Faithful on Moonlight, Coram on his bay 
Anvil, their packhorse Bother, and Liam astride a big-boned grey he called 
Drifter. The weather was sunny, and the breezes hinted that spring was on its 
way. They spent the night in a sheltered hollow, out of the wind. Settling into 
her bedroll, Alanna thought she could hear the forest waking up after the winter 
rains. Spring was her favorite time of year. She wondered when it came to the 
Roof of the World.
She rose an hour before dawn to exercise. Liam was already awake, preparing to 
do the same thing. They came to a silent agreement and found a clearing a little 
distance away, where they wouldn't disturb Coram. Faithful trotted after them, 
to perch on a rock where he could see everything.
She'd exercised for so long that her body knew what was expected. Habit took 
over, so she could keep an eye on Liam. The Dragon went through intricate 
routines, slow the first time, fast the second. He punched and blocked with his 
arms. He kicked from standing positions. Then while leaping, he flipped back and 
forth with a tumbler's ease that looked odd on his heavily muscled frame. By the 
time he finished, he'd exercised every part of his body.
Once that was done, he wiped his face on his arm and looked at Alanna. "Come 
here."
Warily she obeyed. Taking Alanna's hand, Liam shaped it into a 
thumb-over-fingers fist. "Always hit with the first two knuckles," he explained. 
"It'll get easier if you practice on every flat surface you find—dirt, rock, a 
wall, whatever. That's how you build enough callus to protect those two 
knuckles." He held up his hands, showing her what he meant.
Liam then guided Alanna through a different punch from the one she'd learned as 
a page. Her fist started palm up at her waist, turning as she punched until it 
hit the target palm down. She punched until her right arm was sore, then 
switched hands.
The man circled, watching. Often he adjusted her feet or repositioned her 
shoulders. Once he rapped her stomach hard: "Keep those muscles tight!" Alanna 
blushed: he'd caught her forgetting something she already knew.
"Picture an opponent right where your punch ends—aim for the bottom of his rib 
cage," Liam explained. "On me that's the same as where my ribs end, but you aim 
higher. Otherwise you'll hit most folk on the knees." Alanna glared at him, then 
tried again. Later he added high and low punches, then arm blocks. "Practice 
till it hurts," he said when they were finished. "You know that from fencing. 
You do it so much that by the time you need it, you don't have to think. The 
punch or the block just happens."
Alanna nodded, exhausted.
This was your idea, Faithful reminded her as she trudged to the stream to wash. 
As she rolled up her sleeves—nothing could make her take an outdoor bath at this 
time of year!—the cat added, When will you learn to leave well enough alone?
Alanna sighed. "When I want to stop learning, I guess."


Coram was awake when she returned. "It's your turn to fix breakfast," he 
reminded Alanna, adding softly, "Gods help us." Picking up his gear, he joined 
Liam at the stream.
Alanna ignored his comment and started to work. Liam was the first to return 
from the stream. He sat by the fire, watching her movements with suspicion.
"Do you put yourself through this often?" Alanna filled Liam's bowl with 
porridge and handed it to him.
The Dragon sorted through his breakfast with a spoon. "Every morning, plus 
whatever else I fit in later. You clean your armor and weapons regularly, and 
you do your own exercises."
"I don't half kill myself. It isn't burnt or anything," she snapped, meaning the 
porridge. "I know how to cook!"
"Shang discipline is stricter than a knight's." He tasted his food, shuddered, 
and continued to eat.
"Is it worth it?" she demanded. She was stung by his attitude toward her cooking 
and by the idea that anyone might think themselves better than a proven knight.
He looked at her. "If something happens to my weapons, I can still protect 
myself and anyone else who comes along."
Alanna shut up.
Her curiosity didn't desert her for long. "How long have you been doing this?" 
she asked when they'd been riding for several hours.
Liam had to think a moment. "Thirty years, give or take a month."
"Thirty years!"
He nodded. "I was four when the Shang Bear came to our village and looked us 
young ones over. Of us all, he said I 'might do.' I wouldn't let my dadda alone 
until he sent me. Lucky I wasn't the oldest, or I'd be a farmer now." He looked 
at her and smiled. "Then I wouldn't have met you."
Alanna looked away. When he turned all of his charm on her, she could feel her 
insides melt.
Think about what you're getting into, Faithful advised.
Alanna glared at him. "I'm not 'getting into' anything, and I'll thank you to 
keep your opinions to yourself!" she snapped. Seeing Liam's stare, she turned 
red.
"Is that a cute habit of yours, or did he really speak?" His face had an odd, 
tight look; his eyes were pale crystal in color.
"He talks. Sometimes other people understand him. Most of the time they don't. 
Faithful is the one who decides."
"Magic." Liam frowned. "That's right—you have it."
"You have something against people with the Gift?" She suddenly felt defensive.
Their eyes met and held, until he grinned and pinched her nose. Crystal was 
replaced by blue-green. "Since it's you, kitten, I'll make an exception."
Alanna decided it was time Moonlight had a gallop. Kicking the mare lightly, 
they leaped ahead, leaving the Dragon behind—for a little while.


There's so much we don't know about each other, she reflected as she watched 
Liam cook their night's meal. I know he's the Dragon, which means he's brave and 
adventurous and probably has a temper—dragons are supposed to be fierce and 
protective. It means he's a hero if ever there are real heroes.
She sighed. Will he come to the Roof with us? I'd feel a lot easier if I knew I 
had a Dragon at my back up there.
"Do you plan to marry?" Liam asked suddenly.
"What?" she cried, startled.
"You heard me. Your plans for the future—do they include a husband? Children?"
She fingered her emberstone. "Give up my shield after working so hard? Spend my 
time at court or on my husband's lands? I have no patience for that kind of 
life. Besides—I don't know anything about children younger than ten."
"Have you ever tried to learn?"
"When did I have a chance?" she wanted to know. "Child care is one of the few 
duties a squire isn't expected to perform, Ironarm! The Bazhir never asked me 
to, unless a child was sick. Then I was a healer, not a nanny." Why was he 
asking such uncomfortable questions?
"I just wondered why you feel you have to be all warrior or all woman. Can't you 
be both?"
Coram came back from washing, sparing Alanna the need to answer Liam's question. 
It was just as well—she had no answer.
How did Liam unsettle her in so many different ways? Neither Jonathan nor George 
had laid siege to her as he did. I wish he'd stop putting me off balance, but he 
doesn't seem to want to do that, either. Liam glanced up; their eyes met and 
held.
Coram broke the silence, kicking the Dragon gently. "Kindly wait t'romance her 
'til I'm not here," he advised. "I've a father's interest in my lady still. And 
go easy on her. She's not used to the game ye're playin'."
Liam grinned; Alanna blushed. "I can speak for myself," she protested.
If you wanted to, Faithful put in. Coram guffawed, and Alanna decided to go for 
a walk rather than stay to be teased.
When she returned, Coram looked up hopefully. She'd been too tired the preceding 
night to show him Rispah in the fire. Now she crouched and held her palms out to 
the flames, reaching for her Gift. Her fingers glowed with purple fire: she sent 
it into the flames, until they matched the color of her Gift. Rispah's image 
took shape, and Coram drew close, his eyes riveted on her.
She walked away, leaving Coram in private. Where was Liam? Why had he 
left—because he didn't want to intrude? Or did it have something to do with her 
Gift? He'd sounded very odd when he mentioned it that morning.
She checked the horses and the spring, with no luck. At last she found him in a 
clearing near the stream, lying under a willow.
"You use your magic a lot," he said flatly as she drew near.
"I've had it all my life. I'm used to it by now." She sat beside him, puzzled by 
the odd tone of his voice. "You must have seen plenty of sorcery, roaming the 
way you do."
His smoky voice was quiet. "No one is Gifted in Shang."
Reaching to pluck a stalk of wildgrass, she stopped. She couldn't have heard 
correctly. "You keep us out on purpose? Why?"
He wouldn't look at her. "The Gifted use magic for a crutch. They won't 
surrender to Shang study, because they know the Gift can always win them an 
escape."
"We cheat, you mean." She bit back other angry words.
"You'd be helpless, if your Gift was taken," he challenged.
"Of course not!"
"How do you know!"
That silenced her. She didn't know. All her life she'd had magic, even when 
she'd tried to ignore it. "I can't help being Gifted," she replied at last. "I 
tried to fight it, when I was a page. Then the Sweating Sickness came and a lot 
of people died. Prince Jonathan would have died, too, if I hadn't used my Gift."
"I just told you what we're taught."
She wished she could see his face. "Tell me—where would your great Shang masters 
be without healers and their magic? Where would you be?" He didn't answer, so 
she went on. "My Gift brings Coram pleasure—how else could he see Rispah?"
"Maybe the lady doesn't want to be spied on." There was a dangerous rumble in 
his voice.
"Nonsense! She agreed to it. Would you like to see the letter?" Alanna demanded 
sharply, her temper rising. "My tribe would've fallen to hill-men, without my 
Gift and the Gifts of my students. I use my magic to heal, to pay back for some 
of the lives I take. What do you do to repay?"
"Whatever it is I do, Lady Pry, I do it with my own two hands!" She started to 
get up, and Liam held her back. "Alanna, wait! I didn't mean—I have a temper."
"So do I," she snapped. She let him pull her down beside him again.
"Shang allows healers to work on us, it's true. The students are Giftless. Not 
so much because the masters think people use it for a crutch as because they 
know training a Gift takes the student's attention away from other things. When 
you follow Shang, you follow only Shang—if you're to succeed." He stroked 
Alanna's hair. "Don't scowl so, kitten. You've got me shaking in my boots."
"I can't change what I am," she told him, cooling off. "I never asked to be half 
witch and half warrior."
"I know." The Dragon sighed. "Listen. I got heated up because I'm—because I'm 
afraid of magic."
Was he teasing? She was in no mood for it! "You aren't afraid of anything."
"Everyone's afraid of something.''' He had a point, and she knew it. "I fear 
dying for nothing. I fear being sick—my grandda took a wound and rotted to 
death." She patted his arm in sympathy but didn't interrupt. "I hate being 
helpless. Then what's the good of being Dragon?"
"Or a Lioness," she whispered.
He nodded. "But I'm also afraid of the Gift—I don't even let healers use magic 
on me. Some folk are afraid of spiders—with me, it's that."
Alanna shuddered; she hated spiders with a passion! "I never heard of someone 
fearing magic, not like that. Disliking it, yes."
"Well, I'm afraid of it."
She fingered the stone at her throat. "Liam?"
"What?"
"How…" She felt herself blush and was grateful for the dark. "How can we 
be—well, anything—if you fear my Gift?"
He put his arms around her, gathering her close. "I want to try anyway. What 
about you?"
"I don't know you very well at all," she whispered, half complaining. "You don't 
know me."
He was smiling. "That's the fun of it, kitten." He kissed her gently, then 
passionately, and Alanna surrendered. Any misgivings she had were put away for 
thought at another, less interesting, time.


Liam was shaking her gently. From the other side of their banked camp-fire she 
heard Coram's snore. "Let's go," the Dragon whispered. "Go where?" she yawned. 
"You won't learn Shang fighting in bed." She started to protest, and thought the 
better of it. Even at this hour she wanted his good opinion. Never mind that her 
arms felt as if they weighed triple what they usually did. He'd probably felt 
worse and still had gone about his morning routine. This was my idea, she 
prodded herself. Stifling a moan—Coram at least would have his sleep!—she 
obeyed.


Fortress Jirokan was a well-fortified town, with a tent city outside its walls. 
Coram pointed at the river where a barge filled with people made its way 
downstream. "They're fleein' the Saren War," he explained to Alanna as they rode 
toward the town gates. "Like as not their farms were burned or looted. Now they 
hope Maren'll grant a place for them to start again. The boats take them south. 
The King's too smart to keep all these rootless folk in one spot." The Dragon 
nodded in the direction of the tent city. Now that she was closer, Alanna saw 
furniture piled in the mud and a wide variety of animals: cows, dogs, goats, 
horses, pigs, and chickens. People dressed in tattered, dirty clothes stared at 
the travelers on the road. "These camps are trouble. They breed thieves and 
killers. South Maren has room to feed them and land for new farms."
Alanna was silent as they entered the city and made for the inn Liam 
recommended. There was nothing she or Liam could do for the Saren refugees. 
Poverty was an illness she couldn't cure; a civil war could not be stopped by 
just one knight. That's something Liam and I have in common, she told herself. I 
don't like feeling helpless, either.
The inn was the Mongrel Cur; it lived up to Liam's recommendation. She spent the 
afternoon bathing, washing her hair, mending her clothes—simply relaxing. She 
wrote to Myles, Halef Seif, and Thom, although it would be weeks before she 
could hear from them. At last cooking smells called her to the common room and 
her dinner.
Liam suggested that they avoid notice in this restless town: he would not wear 
Shang insignia, and she and Coram should leave in their rooms anything to 
suggest that Alanna was a knight. That suited Alanna, who wanted to spend her 
time in Jirokan quietly. She dressed in boy's clothes, but to be safe, tucked a 
dagger at the small of her back. Whistling cheerfully, she slung Faithful over a 
shoulder and went downstairs.
Liarn and Coram had waited for her. As soon as she joined them, the waiters 
brought their food. A charmed serving girl bore Faithful away "to see what we 
might get a handsome fellow like you." The cat shamelessly played up to his 
admirer.
Marenite Guardsmen and their women arrived to begin a night of drinking as the 
travelers finished their meal. Ignoring the soldiers, Coram and Liam played 
chess; Alanna divided her attention between the game and the Guards. Faithful 
rejoined them, his stomach full after his kitchen excursion.
The biggest of the Guards was a sergeant who looked as ill-tempered as he 
behaved. Clearly his men knew he was in a foul mood; they kept away from him. 
His lady, however, was bored by his sulks and didn't care who knew it. Alanna 
watched as the lady tried to tease her sergeant into a better frame of mind. 
When this tactic failed, her eye began to rove until she saw Liam. Until that 
point Alanna had no personal involvement in the woman's behavior. Forgetting 
that she was dressed like a boy—and that in the ill-lit room it would be hard to 
see the feminine shape under her clothes—she glared a warning. The lady didn't 
notice.
The sergeant wasn't aware that his companion's attention had strayed. "Back in a 
minute, darlin'," he belched. Getting up, he made for the privy.
The moment the huge Guard was out of sight, his lady came to Alanna's table. It 
was Liam's turn to move: his attention was locked onto the chessboard. Coram saw 
the expression on his knight-mistress's face. He looked up to see the reason for 
Alanna's scowl and grinned.
"So quiet ye lads are," the woman purred as she put a hand on Liam's shoulder. 
The Dragon glanced up, surprised. "Don't ye care for female—companions?"
Alanna rose and hissed, "Where I come from, it's considered polite to keep to 
the man you're with."
Startled, the woman glanced at her: she hadn't noticed anyone but the big 
fellow. Why did this youth interfere? "What—the boy's in love wiv' ye, then?" 
she asked Liam. Liam chuckled and looked the woman over.
Coram clapped a hand over Alanna's mouth, pushing her into her seat. "She can't 
see ye're a girl!" he whispered into her ear. "Liam can take care of himself!"
Coram took his hand away too soon. Alanna snapped, "What're you looking for, 
Liam, fleas?" Her guardian sighed and corked his knight-mistress up again.
The lady ran scarlet nails through Liam's hair.
"Lads're no fun, and this one don't look like he knows much. Now me, I 
appreciate a man."
Liam grinned at her as a muffled yell burst from Alanna. Coram put his lips 
close to the struggling knight's ear. "D'ye want him t'think ye're jealous? 
Ye're givin' a fair imitation of it."
His words nettled Alanna. She didn't want Liam Ironarm thinking any such thing! 
She quieted, and Coram loosened his grip. "I just don't like people who're so 
obvious!" she whispered back, knowing she was jealous.
A roar of fury split the air—the sergeant had returned. Anyone who thought he 
might be in the middle when battle lines were drawn moved, quickly. The lady 
backed away from Liam.
Alanna saw the Dragon's eyes turn a pale green before he turned to face the 
enraged Guard. "This isn't what you think," he said quietly.
The sergeant wasn't interested. "On your feet!" He grabbed the Dragon's tunic.
Liam grasped the sergeant's wrist. "Forget this. I'm Liam Ironarm, the Shang 
Dragon—you'll get hurt."
The other man laughed. "Expect me t'think a Shang warrior'd sit with us ordinary 
folk?" His muscles bulged as he tried to lever his victim up.
Liam's hands tightened. For a second nothing happened, then the bigger man 
howled in pain. Liam stood, and the Guard was forced to back away, unable to 
break his hold. Finally the Dragon released him. "The next time you're told 
someone is Shang, pay attention." He faced Alanna and Coram. "This place is too 
lively for me."
The sergeant threw himself at Liam's back. Alanna started to her feet, reaching 
for her knife; Coram tugged her down.
Liam dropped and twisted, boosting the bigger man over his shoulder. The Guard 
crashed into a table, to the fury of its occupants. He threw them aside with a 
curse and charged Liam. The Dragon pivoted, driving his left foot out into his 
attacker's belly, then his chin. The sergeant dropped like a stone.
Two of the Guards rushed to help their comrade. Liam kicked a sword out of one 
Guard's hand and flipped the other onto a table, then waited for the next 
attack—none came. He picked up the sergeant, asking, "Anything broken?"
"Hunh?" The Marenite was dazed.
Professionally, the Dragon checked his victim, then let him slide back to the 
floor. "You'll live." He glanced at the others, who seemed well enough, then 
beckoned to Alanna and Coram. "Let's find someplace quieter."
The crowd backed away as they made for the door. Alanna peered back: the 
troublesome lady knelt by her sergeant, cooing to him. Grinning, she followed 
her friends.


Midnight found Alanna and Liam seated on a wall overlooking the Shappa River. 
Coram had left in search of a card or dice game; Faithful went to meet a lady 
cat yowling in her master's garden. Alanna and Liam had visited the tent city to 
question the refugees about conditions in Sarain. Now they listened to the river 
and the distant howl of a wolf.
"I like how you fought back there," Alanna said sleepily. "No mess, no broken 
bones, no dead. Nice."
"I'm glad they took the hint," yawned Liam.
"Traveling with you is fun." She hesitated, then asked, "Did Coram tell you why 
we're bound for the Roof of the World?"
"He said you had a map for some treasure. It makes no sense, risking your lives 
for gold that might or mightn't be there. But you have no better plans—"
"It isn't gold," she interrupted quietly. "It's the Dominion Jewel. I want to 
find it and bring it home, for the glory of Tortall."
He smoothed his mustache, as he often did when he was thinking. "Not to mention 
that the deed would prove you're worthy of your shield." He jumped down and held 
his hands up to her. She slid into his grasp, and they kissed. "Gifted one, when 
it comes to a hero's deed, you don't think small."
"Liam?" She tried not to plead. "What're you doing next?"
"Riding with you and Coram, I expect."


It was barely dawn. Liam was dressed when he woke Alanna. "You want to learn 
Shang, you keep Shang hours! Up!" He reached for the water pitcher. She tumbled 
out of bed. "I'm up!"
"The stableyard, five minutes," he commanded. He slammed the door behind him. 
Alanna lurched to her feet.
You're ruining my rest, Faithful grumbled. Alanna dashed cold water on her face. 
"Good!" Dressing, she wailed, "Why did I pick a man who's a grouch in the 
morning?"


The Marenite Guardsmen said they were crazy to enter Sarain, but they let 
Alanna's party through. The difference between the nations was soon clear: 
healthy Marenite farms gave way to burned-out homesteads. Often they found the 
leavings of refugees who'd camped on the Great Road before crossing into Maren. 
The road was deserted.
Alanna worked at her lessons. Liam grew less gruff at exercise time when he saw 
she practiced longer than she had to and complained less than most beginners. He 
taught her only a few hand blows, the arm blocks, and two kicks. But in these he 
drilled her endlessly, watching for the tiniest flaw. At night they shared a 
bedroll, with Coram's unspoken approval.
The first evidence of fighting lay by the road, four days' ride into Sarain, in 
a meadow beside the road. Here the dead had been piled up and left, until only 
skeletons remained.
Faithful came along as Alanna went to the mound's edge. Whoever left the dead 
made no attempt to separate the enemies: K'miri armor, lacquered bright red, 
blue, or green, shone against rusted lowland metal. Bone hands still clutched 
weapons. Kneeling, Alanna slid a lowland sword out of the pile.
"Heavy fighting," she murmured, showing her cat the nicked and scored blade. 
"Some archery at first, but close quarters after. An ambush?"
"A world of difference between a good king and a bad one." The voice was Liam's. 
He crouched beside them, taking the sword to inspect it. "In five years Adigun 
jin Wilima has destroyed the work of generations."
"It looks as if he really tried," Alanna said. Was this what might happen in 
Tortall if Jonathan died without an heir or someone tried to take the throne? 
Would the Dominion Jewel prevent this kind of civil war?
"They deserved better." Liam touched a K'miri arm guard decorated with a 
sunburst pattern. His eyes were a stormy blue-grey. Turning abruptly, he 
rejoined Coram and the horses.
Alanna stayed, arranging twigs into a pyramid.
The Jewel doesn't create great kings, but it helps those who are to prosper, 
Faithful told her. Never forget, though, it won't stop a king who wants to build 
an empire, starting with the conquest of his neighbors. It'll help him, too.
"All good weapons can be turned against you." Alanna drew a piece of cord from a 
pocket, fashioning it into a knotted loop. Carefully she lowered it until the 
loop encircled the pyramid. She stood, dusting off her hands. "I suppose this 
will upset Liam. D'you think I made a mistake, being his lover when he's afraid 
of the Gift?"
Faithful retreated, knowing what she had in mind. It doesn't matter what I 
think. You'll do what you want to—you always have.
Reaching toward the cord-encircled sticks, she beckoned. Flames bit into the 
pile. Alanna touched the ember to see her spell: now the dead were covered by a 
purple haze sprouting flames. Her cord was a circle of power that kept the fire 
from spreading. Releasing the ember, she saw the fire of her Gift vanish. The 
flames were real; they mounted higher and higher among the bones and trappings.
Liam said nothing when she joined the men, but he was pale and sweating. He 
really is afraid of magic, she realized. The knowledge depressed her: it 
confirmed the end of their romance at its beginning. Someday she would have to 
leave him—no love would last when he feared part of her. They all rode on, 
watching the land, listening for any out-of-place sound. The mound of bones had 
made them nervous.
"I'd druther we was jumped. Get it over with," Coram grumbled softly. He and 
Alanna unpacked after stopping for the night; Liam had gone to hunt fresh food. 
Food was not a problem yet: knowing conditions ahead, they'd gotten extra 
provisions at the Mongrel Cur.
"I know what you mean," Alanna sighed. "Where are the armies?"
"Bedded down for the night, I hope." It was Liam, returning with a string of 
fish. "All the same, let's stand watches. I smell woodsmoke." He gave the fish 
to Alanna, whose turn it was to cook.
Coram built a fire, keeping it small and smokeless. They cooked and ate in 
silence, listening. The meal over, Faithful went out to prowl; the humans worked 
on personal tasks. Alanna was beginning to relax when the cat scrambled into 
their circle.
People, he hissed. Women and infants. On the other side of the ridge!
Putting their work aside, they buckled on sword belts. Coram indicated silently 
that he would guard the horses. Liam and Alanna made for the ridge, moving 
noiselessly through brush and trees. When they reached the top, Liam signaled 
Alanna to go to cover. She frowned: having grown away from a squire's obedience, 
resuming it even a little came hard. She also knew to bow to Liam's extra years 
on the road.
The people were below, following the stream. Alanna tried for a better look, 
wondering if she could get closer.
A voice growled, "Tell the big one to drop his blade, or I put a bolt through 
you."



CHAPTER THREE
The Warlord's Daughter
« ^ »
Alanna didn't have to repeat it—Liam heard. Rising from his crouch, he let his 
weapon fall. Alanna put Lightning down. To have Liam caught because a girl-child 
had the drop on her was humiliating. She was supposed to be able to take care of 
herself!
"Amazing," Alanna's captor said. "We go hunting for game, and we find you 
instead."
Alanna heard Coram swear in the distance. "Coram, are you all right?" she 
yelled.
"Some lass is aimin' a crossbow at me," was the response. "Only my dignity's 
hurt, so far." Alanna's guard called, "Thayet?"
"I'm all right, Buri." The voice was female, deep, and clear.
Black eyes locked on Alanna. "Start walking," Buri ordered.
"I won't leave my sword in the dirt," Alanna snapped.
The stocky girl stooped to grab Lightning, her crossbow sight never moving from 
Alanna's chest. "Now go," she commanded. "Hands in the air."
"Shame your mother didn't drown you at birth," Alanna muttered, obeying.
"What makes you think she didn't?"
Awaiting them were refugees; their belongings overburdened a donkey. The group 
itself was small: two teenaged girls, two boys aged ten or so, and a girl nearly 
the same age. One of the teenagers carried a baby.
Coram approached, leading their horses. Guarding him was a woman of Alanna's 
age, dressed in a split skirt, boots, a cotton shirt, and a fleece-lined vest. 
She bore her crossbow like one who knew its use. She was also the most beautiful 
female Alanna had ever seen. Her face—particularly her nose—was strong boned; 
her hazel eyes were deep set under even brows; her chin was determined. Her 
mouth was naturally red, accented by ivory skin. She wore her jet-black hair 
pulled into a knot.
Alanna sighed. "Cute" was the best description she could hope for.
Liam bowed to the young woman. "Your Royal Highness."
"Have we met, sir?" Hers was the voice that had answered Buri.
"No, Highness." Despite his peasant's accent, the Dragon was as gallant as a 
noble. "But I'd have to be blind not to recognize a daughter of the Wilima 
house."
Thayet jian Wilima smiled. "Sadly, I do take after my father," the Princess 
admitted. She fingered the curve of her nose.
Alanna stared at Thayet. The Princess had once been considered as a wife for 
Jon, but the Queen had said no—there was bad blood in the Wilima line. But 
seeing her Alanna thought it was too bad Jon couldn't marry this one. She didn't 
look as if she'd let him stand on his dignity for long. The idea made her grin.
Buri poked her with her bow. "Her Highness isn't someone to laugh at."
"Don't, Buri," Thayet said. "These people aren't enemies."
"We don't know they're friends."
Liam glanced at Alanna's guard. "Believe me, K'mir, if I wanted to turn the 
tables on you, I would." He feinted to the side and lunged forward. Before 
Alanna could see what he'd done, Buri sat in the dirt, her crossbow in Liam's 
hands. He offered it back to her as she rose. Buri took it, her eyes filled with 
respect. She put the arrow in her quiver and bolstered the bow with a nod.
Her reaction made Alanna like her. From what she knew of the K'mir tribes to 
Sarain's north, Buri probably was reared a warrior. She took being disarmed 
well.
Liam performed introductions. When he gave Alanna's titles, Buri whispered, "A 
full knight is a woman—a noblewoman?"
Coram bristled. "She has the bluest blood in Tortall," he growled. "There never 
was a zhir or jin anythin' fit t'polish a Trebond boot."
"Coram," Alanna sighed.
"The family's in The Book of Gold," added Coram. "No zhir or even zhirit were 
writ down till The Book of Silver—•"
"I think it's wonderful," Thayet interrupted. "It's time we nobles showed we 
aren't delicate flowers, instead of leaving the glory to our Shang and K'miri 
sisters." Changing the subject diplomatically, she asked, "Where are you three 
bound?"
Coram told them about their journey (but not its object) as Alanna appraised 
Thayet's group. They were tired; the children's faces were grey with exhaustion. 
How long had they been traveling, and how much longer could they go?
Coram arrived at the same conclusion. "If ye'll forgive my sayin' it, yer 
Highness, ye need help. Where're ye and the young ones bound?"
"The Mother of Waters in Rachia," Buri replied. "All of us but Thayet and the 
baby and me were students in the convent Mother of Mountains. The baby, 
Thayet—found."
"Soldiers killed his family," volunteered the girl who carried the infant. 
"Everyone but him, poor little man."
Alanna did some calculations. "Rachia's four days' ride south," she said. 
"Except you're afoot—those of you who can walk."
"We had no choice," Thayet said. "Zhir An-duo's army was coming."
"Doesn't the Warlord have men to protect you?" Liam asked.
"They ran." Buri was plainly contemptuous.
Thayet protested, "Buri, that's not fair. They were afraid," she told Liam. 
"They had no way of knowing if their families were safe."
Buri shrugged. "In plain talk, it still means they ran." Thayet glared at her 
companion.
Smoothing his mustache, Liam said, "Coram's right, you need us. We'll get you to 
the Mother of Waters."
Buri wasn't willing to accept this. "We don't need them!" she told Thayet hotly. 
"We don't even know if they're on our side…"
"Don't be silly, Buri," Thayet replied. "I haven't heard Alanna's name, but I 
know about Liam Ironarm. People like this don't prey on people like us."
"There's a first time for everything," the K'mir muttered.
Thayet's response was in K'mir. Buri looked away, and Thayet turned to Alanna 
with a smile. "Please understand. Buri's family has served my mother's family 
for generations. That means I can't tell her to do anything. She'll always say 
what's on her mind—no matter how much it embarrasses me—and she behaves as she 
pleases."
Alanna looked at Coram, who hid a grin. "I understand, Princess Thayet," the 
knight said drily. "I too suffer from old family servants."
"If this is settled, I want to set up camp," Liam interrupted. "The little ones 
are asleep on their feet."
Alanna and Buri exchanged looks for a moment—Alanna's measuring, Buri's sullen. 
Finally Buri nodded. "If that's the way it has to be."
"It is," Thayet snapped.


They camped where they were, the men settling the children after they'd been 
fed. Alanna took the first watch, enjoying the quiet. She had a feeling she 
wouldn't have too much quiet to enjoy for a week or so.
"Me and Thayet were fine before you came." Buri spoke unexpectedly, and Alanna 
jumped. Hadn't she learned once tonight, on the ridge, that this K'mir made no 
noise when she moved? "Thayet's K'miri-taught, and I'm K'miri-bred. We take care 
of ourselves."
Alanna felt a surge of empathy. She understood this girl-warrior's hurt pride. 
"For you and Thayet that might be enough, though I'm not sure. An entire army's 
looking for her. But what if something happens to you? The little ones will 
starve."
Buri sat on the ground beside her. "I'm supposed to look after Thayet," she 
explained. "I help with the children, but I'm not good at it the way she is. And 
I can't leave them to die. What've they done?"
"So the Princess is your chief responsibility. If anything happens to her while 
you're worrying about the children, you will blame yourself."
Buri nodded. "You probably think that's foolish."
"Not at all." Alanna felt as if she spoke to herself when she was Prince 
Jonathan's squire. "Coram and Liam and I will help you make sure Thayet's 
unharmed, all right?"
They sat together for a while, saying nothing. At last the K'mir stood and 
offered Alanna her hand. "I'm glad you joined us," she said as the knight 
returned her grip. "I didn't like the idea of taking on any armies by myself."
Alanna hid a grin. "Thayet would've helped," she pointed out.
"Unh-unh," was the emphatic reply. "You think I'd let Kalasin's daughter 
endanger herself? I'd put her somewhere safe, where she couldn't get in 
trouble."
Yes, Faithful said when Buri returned to her bed. She is very much like you at 
that age.
"Surely I didn't think I could beat an army single-handed!"
You still do.
"The trouble with arguing with a cat is that cats don't hesitate to say anything 
about you, no matter how crazy it is," she complained. "You can't win an 
argument that way!"
Nor should you try. With that, Faithful trotted off for a walk in the forest.


The next morning Liam and Alanna did their dawn exercises. "I don't care how 
strange yesterday was," he told Alanna when she grumbled. "You don't get good 
unless you practice." The worst of it was that he was right. Were he and 
Faithful in a plot to make her feel young and ignorant?
Liam cooked breakfast as Alanna roused their companions. Once they were fed, the 
company was ready to set out. Buri and Coram erased signs of their camp: bandits 
who would ignore three people would attack a large party. Liam let the boys and 
the ten-year-old girl ride his placid Drifter. He led the horse, keeping a sharp 
eye on their surroundings. Thayet walked, the baby in a sling on her chest; Buri 
stayed with her Princess. Coram's Anvil bore the teenaged girls. Then came the 
packhorse Bother and the donkey (who kept well away from the bad-tempered 
Bother). Riding at the rear of the column, keeping an eye on their surroundings 
as Liam did, were Alanna, Faithful, and Moonlight.
At their noon stop, Alanna found the stream and splashed her face with cold 
water. Buri came to her, bearing an armful of baby. "Here." She gave him to 
Alanna, who froze—what if she dropped him? Sighing, Buri fixed the knight's 
hands in a better holding position before she turned away.
"Where are you going?" Alanna demanded.
"You act like you've never held a baby before!"
"I haven't."
Buri stared at Alanna as if she couldn't believe her ears. "Never? There are 
babies everywhere—"
"Perhaps so, but their parents didn't ask me to hold them!" The infant wriggled, 
and Alanna tried to give him back to Buri.
"You have to learn sometime." The K'mir turned away. "Stay there and don't 
clutch him, I'm going for a blanket. You'll be fine."
"I don't think child care is a necessary part of my education," Alanna said to 
herself. "It's not like I plan to stay anywhere long enough to marry and have 
children."
The baby sneezed and wrinkled his face, which made her grin. Gently she bounced 
him as she had seen Coram do. To her dismay, the infant started to bawl. She 
cooed and rocked him to no avail—he worked himself into a tantrum. Buri returned 
with her blanket.
"What's wrong?" Alanna cried. "I only joggled him a little—"
Buri opened the blanket on the ground and put clean diapers on it. "Probably 
wet," she said. "Change him." She left again.
Alanna looked at the child in horror. "I never—" She was saying that too much 
lately—surely a proven knight was equal to anything! Trying to remember how 
Thayet had done it earlier, she put the child down and unwrapped him. A stench 
rose from his diaper: the baby was more than wet. When Alanna fumbled the knot 
open, she saw a damp brown mass was responsible. This can't be worse than 
mucking out stables, she told herself, fighting her unhappy stomach. I've done 
that hundreds of times.
Coram knelt beside her. "Take the diaper he fouled and wipe him with the edges," 
he explained, his eyes twinkling. When she looked at him pleadingly, Coram shook 
his head. "It's not hard. Lift him by his ankles—he's used to it. That's the 
idea—get rid of as much as ye can. Put the dirty one aside." He dampened a clean 
diaper in the stream and gave it to her. "Swab the poor mite down. Think how 
ye'd feel in that state. Easy, little lad," he crooned, giving the baby a finger 
to hold. The infant grinned, showing a bit of ivory. "Teeth, is it? Let me see." 
He ran his finger around the baby's gums. "And two more comin' in—no wonder 
ye're scratchy."
Alanna stared at Coram as he gave her a fresh, dry diaper. "Where in the 
Mother's Name did you learn all this?"
"Fold it like a triangle. I was the oldest, and four more after me. When I 
governed Trebond, I watched the little ones when their mothers were workin' in 
the fields. I like them fine." He shook the finger the baby clutched; the infant 
crowed and babbled happily. "A grip like iron: this one'll be a blacksmith, mark 
my words. No, no—if ye put it on him so loose, it'll fall off. And that's a fair 
knot." Coram held the baby in the air and shook him gently, to be answered with 
a gleeful cackle.
Alanna felt odd. Coram could've had a family years ago, if he hadn't been 
working for Trebond.
Coram looked at her. "Don't start sayin' maybe ye should bring me home to 
Rispah. We've somethin' to do before we head back." He touched her shoulder. 
"I've been raisin' ye. I've no complaints of my life."


Buri showed Alanna how to feed the infant from a waterskin filled with goat's 
milk. When that was done, Alanna picked up the child as she'd seen Liam do, 
patting him on the back. Now she had the knack of handling a baby! She was 
shocked by the infant's burp, unpleasantly surprised when dampness spread over 
her back. Seeing her face, Buri laughed until she cried. Liam gave Alanna a wet 
cloth, fighting to keep his face straight. "Put down a clean rag first," he 
explained. "They spit up when they're burped—and they fuss when they aren't." 
Alanna went to change, red with embarrassment.
When she returned, all the children slept on blankets in the shade. Even Buri 
dozed, one arm over the baby. Liam, Thayet, and Coram waited by the stream, out 
of earshot.
"They need rest," Liam told her when she joined them. "They won't make it to 
sundown, otherwise. We're used to the road—they aren't."
"Thayet tells me they've no supplies," said Coram. "Even the food we brought 
won't last."
"We tried to forage." The Princess cooled her feet in the stream. "The farms in 
these valleys were rich, and there was game—but not any more. The land's picked 
clean. We ran out of food last night, and Buri and the older girls have been 
stinting themselves for days. They can't keep that up."
I bet they aren't the only ones who've gone short of food, Alanna thought, 
watching Thayet's too-thin face. We have to do something, soon. But how, if we 
can't live off the country?
"We have t'find humans, then." Coram was matter-of-fact. "If the land's picked 
over, let's find the pickers and clean them out."


Alanna gave Moonlight's reins to Thayet for the afternoon. Sliding a quiver over 
her shoulder, she took her longbow and ranged up and down the road, watching for 
game. She bagged two squirrels, which told her more than Thayet's words how 
badly off Sarain was. At this time of year game should have tumbled into her 
lap.
Buri came to join her, with no better luck. After an hour's hunting, Alanna 
asked something that had been on her mind. "Why is Thayet roaming the mountains? 
Why isn't she with her father?"
"It's because of Kalasin," Buri said after a moment's consideration. "Her 
mother?"
Buri nodded. "The most beautiful woman in the world. She was… amazing." Her 
black eyes were sad. "Kalasin asked the Warlord to deal fairly with the K'mir, 
because we're her people. Low-landers take us for slaves; they steal our 
horses—" The dark girl stopped until her anger was under control. "Jin Wilima 
hates us—he's a lowlander completely. So he signed laws forbidding us to meet in 
groups of more than five people at a time. There's more than thirty in the Hau 
Ma clan, and they're our smallest! How can we honor the dead or a marriage or a 
birth if the clan is forbidden to meet?"
"Go on," urged the knight when Buri stopped.
"I'm sorry. What Kalasin did was a great thing, but it hurts to remember. She 
and Thayet tried to make the Warlord stop. They even pleaded—a K'mir never begs! 
But he signed the law.
"Kalasin knew what she had to do then. She sent Thayet to the convent, far away. 
My mother and my brother, who served Kalasin, kept the guards from breaking into 
her tower room. Kalasin stood at her window and sang her death chant, about her 
shame at jin Wilima's laws. A crowd was there to witness: nobles, common-born, 
and slaves. My mother and brother were killed, but they held the door until it 
was too late for the Warlord's men to stop her from jumping. Mother and Pathom 
are buried at Kalasin's right and left hands. The Warlord will lie in his tomb 
alone."
"I'm sorry," Alanna said quietly.
Buri shook her head. "They had the best deaths any K'mir could have. My people 
did what was right, and so did Kalasin."
''But they're gone," Alanna pointed out, disturbed. "Being dead doesn't help 
anybody."
"That depends on the kind of death." Liam had drawn even with them. "If your 
death's wasted, that's one thing. By her example, Kalasin woke up a lot of folk 
who thought it was all right to abuse the K'mir. Buri's mother and her brother 
made it possible for Kalasin to tell why she killed herself."
"Dead is dead," Alanna snapped. "You can't do anything from a grave, Liam!"
Dragon and K'mir exchanged looks that clearly said Alanna didn't know what she 
was talking about. Disturbed by their agreement, knowing she would rather change 
things while she was alive, Alanna moved ahead.


When Coram found signs that bandits had been in the area recently, Liam decreed 
it was time to stop for the night. Faithful found abandoned caves above a 
stream, where Thayet briskly set up camp. The children gathered firewood as Buri 
and Coram went fishing; Liam cooked. Once again Alanna got baby duty—diapering, 
feeding, and burping—this time with no mishaps.
Taking her bowl of thin stew outside, Alanna took a seat on a large rock. 
Homesickness had caught up with her that afternoon. She wanted to see familiar 
faces and scenes: she missed George, in spite of sharing a bedroll with Liam—or 
perhaps because of that. Since the night before, Liam had been careful and 
deadly serious, concentrating on keeping their company safe until they arrived 
in Rachia. She respected him but felt shut out all the same.
She missed George and his sense of humor. If he were here, she thought, he'd be 
in the middle of things, burping babies, hauling the boys off to wash, stealing 
Sarain blind for our supper. She blinked away unexpected tears. On the road she 
had no George to make her laugh, no Jon to say "Of course you can do it," no 
Myles to explain the history of Sarain. She hoped the Dominion Jewel would be 
worth the trip.
Faithful, who'd vanished when they found the caves, patted her foot. His coat 
was thick with dust and burrs. Bandits, he panted, a large camp of them, east of 
here.


Thayet, who protested, stayed with the children. The two men, Alanna, and Buri 
formed the attack party, moving quietly through the woods led by Faithful. They 
marched for half an hour before they came to a canyon. Down there, Faithful told 
Alanna. Fifty of them and their women. The four crept to the canyon's lip, where 
they could see the camp below. Alanna beckoned the others to draw back while 
they talked.
"Faithful says there's about fifty people down there," she whispered. "We can't 
take on those odds."
"I'm not a good enough thief to get in there and take what we need," Liam told 
her. Buri and Coram nodded their agreement.
"I'll have to use magic." Alanna met Liam's eyes. She couldn't tell their color 
in the dark, but when she put her hand on his arm she found he was rigid with 
tension. "I'm sorry. I know you don't like it. Can you think of something 
better?"
"Magic's dishonorable," Buri muttered. "It's—cheating."
Alanna and Coram exchanged looks. "Do ye prefer ten to one odds?" Coram asked. 
"I don't. We've got some brave younglings and yer Princess who depend on us 
t'come back."
"I don't like this," protested the K'mir. "It's too confusing. I suppose you 
have a point. I can't exactly challenge all of them to single combat."
"What do ye have in mind?" Coram asked his knight-mistress.
Thinking, Alanna said, "I don't know. A net, maybe, to tie them down while you 
take what we need." Coram frowned, troubled. He knew she'd never done anything 
so big and real. He said nothing, for which she was grateful.
"Do your magic, then." Liam's voice was hoarse. "If you feel like it when you're 
done, maybe you can lend a hand with the real work." He returned to the canyon's 
edge.
"That isn't fair," Buri protested softly, but the Dragon was out of earshot. 
"What he said isn't fair," she told Coram and Alanna.
"That's all right—I understand," Alanna told her. "You two had better get close 
to the camp. Don't worry about what I'm doing. It won't affect you." She watched 
them slip over the canyon's edge.
You used to feel like Liam, Faithful commented as he and Alanna went to the edge 
of the canyon. Magic and fighting don't mix, and a fighter who uses magic is 
cheating.
"I'm older now," whispered Alanna.
She heard Liam's feral battle cry, and the sounds of fighting. A sentry had seen 
the Dragon. Alanna had no more time to think. Reaching for the first image in 
her mind, Alanna saw the Dominion Jewel. Even a vision of it was a catalyst: 
Alanna's Gift rushed into and through it, swirling out over the bandit camp as a 
shimmering violet net. She maneuvered it into place, making sure each tent and 
bedroll was covered. It was hard to concentrate as elation filled her. Did Thom 
feel this powerful when he performed one of his great magics? No wonder he'd 
given up a normal life to become a sorcerer!
The net solidified. Coram, Buri, and Liam were unable to see it; they could only 
sense it. Alanna extended her magic until she could see what was happening 
below. Buri and Liam looted the bandits' supply tent to fill packs with food and 
goods. Coram met them, leading four horses. The others he'd turned loose, making 
it impossible for the bandits to follow them.
Now Alanna strained, trying to free herself from the spell while leaving it in 
place. She couldn't even banish the Jewel's image. It burned in her mind like a 
beacon, keeping her inner eyes riveted to it. Already she felt the peculiar 
sinking that meant she had gone too far.
Cut it loose! Faithful yowled in her ear. Cut it loose, or you'll pour your life 
into it! She couldn't hear him through the focus the Jewel-image demanded.
Pain broke Alanna's concentration as Faithful wrapped himself around her arm, 
his claws and teeth ripping into her skin. Now she could free herself of the 
Jewel's hold. Peeling the cat off, she lurched to her feet. The net itself would 
hold another half hour or so, time for them to get away. "Thanks," she told 
Faithful in a gasp.
When the others came for her with one of the spare horses, they saw she was 
unable to ride. Coram looked at Liam, but the Dragon's expression made it clear 
he would rather not be near Alanna just then. Coram pulled her up behind him 
onto the saddle.


Alanna took two days to recover, sleeping to restore her strength. By the time 
she was on her feet, Liam had gotten over his anger with her enough to give a 
dawn lesson. That same day the small company took to the road once again, the 
teenagers each riding a horse, with a smaller child behind. Coram had the third 
ten-year-old, and Thayet rode with the baby in his sling on her chest. Buri rode 
the shaggy pony Coram had taken from the bandits.
Using the less-traveled paths, they moved quickly through the desolate 
highlands. They passed burned-out farms and cabins—all abandoned, their owners 
dead or run away. Almost every building had its own ugly reminder of the war in 
the shape of unburied bodies or skeletons. They saw and heard no evidence of 
human life, although the warriors all sensed watching eyes. Whoever spied on 
them stayed within the shelter of the trees, too frightened or too wary to 
approach.
These sights gave Alanna nightmares, dreams in which the bodies were Tortallan 
and the burned-out homes belonged to her friends. Liam soon found a way to deal 
with dreams: he gave an extra lesson in hand-to-hand combat after they stopped 
for the night. Between the new lessons, the regular ones at daybreak, and her 
turn on watch, Alanna soon was far too tired to dream.


Rachia was a bustling trade city, her streets packed with things to see. Even 
the many soldiers present couldn't put a damper on people's spirits. The 
children wriggled in their saddles, trying to look at everything. Buri stuck to 
Thayet, scowling at anyone who came too near. Alanna found it difficult to 
breathe and was dismayed to think she was more used to desert and woodlands than 
to crowded cities. How would she feel when she returned to Corus?
They had crossed the marketplace when some instinct warned her—she looked up to 
see an archer on a nearby rooftop. Alanna yelled, "Thayet!"
Liam was afoot, leading his Drifter. Hearing Alanna, he dragged Thayet and the 
baby from their saddle as an arrow sliced past their heads. A second arrow 
followed; Liam grabbed it from the air.
Buri dismounted, dark with rage, and ran into the building where the archer 
stood. Dismounting, Alanna saw that the building supported a sturdy flower 
trellis reaching from ground to roof. She tested it and started to climb, trying 
not to think about rotten wood or loose anchorings. "Coram! Get them to the 
convent!" she yelled as twigs showered onto her face. She didn't look, but she 
heard Liam and Coram bellow orders.
She vaulted over the roof's edge, keeping low. The assassin—swathed in 
head-cloth and scarf—shot at her, then leaped to the next building. Alanna 
dodged, unsheathed her sword, and pursued. Behind her she heard a rooftop door 
crash open, and another pair of running feet. Wary, she glanced back to find 
Buri catching up. The K'mir was a faster runner than Alanna. She drew even 
within seconds, with her dagger in her hand. "Don't kill him!" Alanna panted. 
"We need to know who pays him!" Buri nodded.
They raced from roof to roof, Buri and Alanna closing the gap. The assassin's 
breath came harder; his steps faltered. The next roof was a story lower than the 
ones they ran on—the assassin jumped and landed awkwardly. Rising, he stumbled 
on.
Buri jumped and fell, her left leg twisting under her, but she ran on, sweat 
pouring down her face. Alanna jumped and rolled, as Liam and her wrestling 
teachers had instructed her; she got to her feet without any hurt. Buri shook 
her head when Alanna hesitated. "Don't wait for me," she hissed. "Get him!"
Alanna raced on. Finally their quarry was forced to halt—he'd run out of roofs.
Alanna stopped, afraid to scare him. "Talk to me!" she called. "I just want to 
know why—"
He jumped. When Alanna came to the roofs edge, he lay in an alley below, 
sprawled and broken. Cursing, she returned for Buri. Ignoring the stares of the 
building's inhabitants, she and the hobbling K'mir went down to the street and 
into the alley. No one else had noticed the assassin's fall, Alanna was relieved 
to note. She didn't want a street urchin or his older counterpart stealing the 
dead man's belongings before she and Buri got the chance to examine them.
Buri knelt beside the body, turning out his empty pockets. "He could be 
anybody." She kept her voice low as she lifted the assassin's headcloth. The 
face, sickeningly misshapen after the fall, was male and coarse, the cheeks 
filled with a drunkard's broken veins. "Tavern scum," she said flatly. "You can 
buy a killer like this for a gold piece. He probably drank his money already." 
She covered the dead man once more. "Someone wants Thayet dead."
Alanna nodded. "She has enemies."
"Her father has enemies," Buri snapped, standing shakily.
"Does it matter whose enemies they are? They want Thayet."
You can discuss this at the convent, Faithful told them from the alley's mouth. 
You're needed there, too. Now.


When she and Buri entered the convent visitor's court, Alanna smelled trouble. 
Their company should have been placed in a temple guest house immediately. That 
was the Daughters' policy everywhere in the Eastern Lands. Yet their party was 
here, outside the convent proper, watched by a Daughter Doorwarden. No other 
priestesses—a temple this size housed at least two hundred—were to be seen. 
Thayet was puzzled; the children were nervous.
"What's going on?" Alanna asked Liam quietly.
"I don't know." His eyes were blue-grey, revealing nothing. "Some Daughters came 
out, gabbled like geese, and vanished. The Doorwarden says we wait. I want 
Thayet out of sight."
Buri scowled. "Is this the honor given a Princess? I should teach these lowland 
hens some manners."
"Save your anger for Thayet's enemies," Liam advised. "You'll serve her best if 
you're careful."
"Hens," Buri muttered rebelliously.
Like Buri and the Dragon, Alanna wanted Thayet in a safe place, not this open 
courtyard. She went to the Doorwarden. "Please bear a message to the First 
Daughter of this House."
The Daughter nodded. Coldly the knight said, "I am Sir Alanna of Trebond and 
Olau, Knight of the Realm of Tortall, a shaman and rider of the Bloody Hawk 
Tribe of the Bazhir. Why are we kept outside the curtain wall? Why have we no 
explanation for this lack of courtesy? The children are tired and hungry, we are 
tired and dirty, and Princess Thayet is being shot at. The Daughters of the 
Mother of Waters owe a duty to travelers as servants of She Who Rules Us All. 
Why have you not performed that duty? I will be forced to report such a lapse to 
the Goddess-on-Earth in the City of the Gods." Her violet eyes dangerous, Alanna 
nodded. "Please deliver my message."
The Daughter bowed and hurried away.
In minutes they were shown to a guest house well inside the thick convent wall. 
Servants came to look after the young members of their group as the Doorwarden 
took the adults and Buri to a meeting with the leader of the Mother of Waters. 
Passing through a long courtyard, they entered a room where two Daughters sat at 
a long table. One was dressed in the black habit of the Hag, the Goddess as 
Queen-of-the-Underworld; the other wore the cloth-of-gold habit that marked her 
as First Daughter of a wealthy convent.
"I am First Daughter jian Cadao," she said when everyone was made comfortable. 
She avoided looking at Thayet. "Princess—Lady Thayet, we were… unprepared for 
your arrival. We want to extend every courtesy… " She stopped, looking 
flustered.
"There are problems." The woman in black was young, but she spoke with 
authority. "More than we could have foreseen." Buri stirred, thinking the 
Daughter was being rude to Thayet. The Hag-Daughter nodded to her. "Forgive my 
bluntness—I never learned to soften my words. Princess, your father—the 
Warlord—is dead. May the Black God ease his passing."
Thayet's ivory skin went dead white. "How? And… when?" she rasped.
"Illness," the Hag-Daughter replied. "Sudden and painful. We suspect poison, of 
course. But no one is anxious to prove it." After hesitating, she added quietly, 
"Forgive me if I am too abrupt. I was told you and your royal father were not on 
speaking terms."
"We weren't, not after my—mother," Thayet whispered. She tried to smile. "Still, 
he was all I had. Go on, please."
"Try to understand our position. His end places a different meaning on your 
presence in our Houses." Her eyes, unlike those of the First Daughter's, had 
been fixed on Thayet. Now she examined Liam; the Dragon shifted in his seat. 
"The rebel leader, zhir Anduo, is frank about his need to talk to you."
"Kill her, ye mean," Coram rumbled.
The Daughter's eyes went to him. "Not under our roof," she said coldly. "No 
priestess of ours will betray the Princess. Our House is a holy sanctuary; we 
will not be profaned." She glanced at the First Daughter, who looked away. "You 
say assassins already have made an attempt. We are not proof against them or 
against traitors. Zhir Anduo is not the only one to find the Warlord's child 
interesting." She met Thayet's eyes again.
"I understand," Thayet replied softly.
"The children are welcome," added the First Daughter. "Except… except for your 
personal guard…"
"Buriram," Thayet whispered.
Jian Cadao avoided Buri's glare and continued, "She is K'mir and closely linked 
to you. We cannot promise her safety. The children who were students at the 
Mother of Mountains we shall return to their families. We understand the infant 
is an orphan. He will be reared by us. But we dare not shelter you. I can give 
clothing, horses, whatever you need. You must go soon, before zhir Anduo knows 
you are here." Now she looked at the princess. "I am truly sorry, Thayet. I have 
no choice. Already I have disobeyed orders to report your arrival. It won't be 
long before a spy sends word to the rebels."


Dismissed by the priestesses, they went back to the room Thayet was assigned. 
None of them were surprised to find packed saddlebags at the door. "They don't 
waste time, do they?" Buri sneered when she saw them.
Alanna combed mud and stickers out of Faithful's coat, a process the cat loved 
(and made difficult by wriggling in joy). "I liked the Hag-Daughter," she 
confessed, working on a clump. "She was honest."
"The First Daughter left a bad taste in my mouth," Coram remarked.
"Don't be hard on jian Cadao," Thayet said quietly. "She's a cousin on my 
father's side. It wasn't easy for her."
"Your own family throws you to the wolves?" Liam's eyes turned an intense 
green—he was furious.
"We prefer ambition to loyalty," Thayet replied. She fingered the arch of her 
nose. "And she's in trouble herself. It'll be easier for all my family if I'm 
gone. With my father dead…" She looked away from them, swallowing. "Any power I 
had was through him. Now I'm a pawn. Zhir Anduo can strengthen his claim to the 
throne by marrying me. The ones who don't want him will use me to oppose him, 
because I'm jian Wilima—although a jian Wilima female." She started to pace, her 
hazel eyes stormy. "Where can Buri and I go? Please—I need advice."
"They can come along," Coram whispered to Alanna. "They're no hindrance—we saw 
that comin' here. The Roof can't be worse than what they face now."
Alanna looked Thayet over, fingering the emberstone. Thayet was dependable. She 
was a good archer, a necessity when they hunted to feed themselves. If she was 
nervous, Alanna had yet to see it. She never complained, never cried, never 
fainted. She never shirked her watch. Thayet and Buri would be an asset to an 
expedition like theirs.
Alanna looked at Buri and surprised a pleading expression in the girl's eyes. 
She replaced it with her usual scowl, but this time Alanna wasn't fooled. Buri 
must be worried sick, she thought. And she knows Thayet will be safe with us. 
Besides, I'd miss them.
"Thayet," she said aloud, "you know where we're going. We're on—a quest, I 
suppose. When I find what I'm after, I'll return home. If Liam and Buri don't 
object, why don't you ride with us?"
"Mind? Gods, no! Thayet's a better cook than you are," said Liam.
"The Roof of the World," Thayet whispered. Her face brightened.
"Leave Sarain?" Buri grinned. "Just show me the way!"


A Daughter shook her awake. Glancing at the window, Alanna saw it was just 
before dawn—time for Liam's teaching. She directed a questioning look at the 
Dragon, but he only shrugged and tossed Alanna her clothes. They dressed and 
followed the priestess out into the corridor.
The black-robed Daughter awaited them with Buri, Thayet, and Coram. "No time to 
waste," she told them quietly. "Zhir Rayong, who is sworn to zhir Anduo, knows 
Thayet's here, and he's on his way. My people can delay him for three hours, but 
you must go if you want to escape."
Alanna looked at her friends, thinking fast. "We can't go as we are. When it 
gets out that we're gone, everyone will look for a group of nobles, or the 
Dragon and his friends. I can ride as a boy." She grinned, looking at the shirt 
and breeches she already wore. "Goddess knows I've had practice."
"We'll pass as mercenaries," Liarn added. Coram nodded. They all gazed at 
Thayet, whose looks could not have been more distinctive if she had tried.
"I can disguise her Highness," the Hag-Daughter said. "My women will make your 
packs seem less well cared for. What of the horses?"
They conferred by glance, and Alanna shook her head. "We don't have time to dye 
their coats. If it's necessary, I'll put an illusion on them and my cat till 
danger's past." She looked apologetically toward Liam, who shrugged.
"Let's start," the Dragon said. "The sooner we're gone, the safer everyone will 
be."
Thayet and the Daughter disappeared while the others changed into their most 
disreputable clothes. Novices saddled the horses, rubbing dirt into their coats, 
manes, and tack, then covering the saddlebags in patched canvas. Alanna's lance 
and shield were put on Liam's Drifter, since commoner youths did not carry them.
When Alanna herself entered the courtyard, she barely recognized her own 
Moonlight in the dun-colored mare that awaited her. Using rawhide strips, the 
knight wrapped Lightning's gem-studded hilt until only the battered crystal on 
the pommel showed. Buri, dressed as Alanna was in a boy's shirt, breeches, and 
jacket, arrived next. She glared at Bother, who laid back his ears at the sight 
of her, and went to make friends with the pony she'd named Sure-Foot.
Thayet was transformed into a sallow-skinned female. Her hair was dull, touched 
with grey, and a purple birthmark spread over her nose and down her left cheek. 
She was swathed in a shapeless brown dress. The whole effect was so painfully 
ugly that no one would look at her for long.
"We provisioned you," one of the novices said, looking at Thayet with tears in 
her eyes. "The packhorse, and your bags. Princess, the Goddess smile on you, 
wherever you go!"
Alanna gripped the Hag-Daughter's arm. "If you come west—"
She smiled. "Farewell, Lioness."
They galloped out of the convent gates, riding hard. Distance, rather than 
conserving themselves and the horses, was the important thing for this part of 
their journey. For once Faithful kept silent about the joggling, hooking his 
claws into his cup and holding on. Their route from the convent led past the 
city wall rather than into the city. The road was deserted by Rachia's early 
morning visitors, so no one would witness their flight. Either the gods smiled 
or the Hag-Daughter had weather-workers at her command: fog enveloped them, 
muffling the noise they made and sheltering them from sight.
The ride to the border took three days, with Liam setting a pace all of them 
could handle. Alanna relinquished command of their expedition to him: not only 
was he familiar with eastern Sarain and the Roof of the World, but he wanted to 
lead.
The countryside was deserted. The normal inhabitants—trappers, mountain men, 
K'miri tribesmen, a few Doi tribesmen from the Roof—were not sociable at the 
best of times, and now they had fled the occasional patrols of southern armies. 
Alanna paid little attention to the deserted land. She worried about Thayet. She 
worried about herself. These days her old goals appeared silly—a child's dream, 
not an adult's. But what was she going to do with her life—after she found the 
Jewel—if she found it? What did acclaim matter if you had nowhere to go, nothing 
to do?
Three days after setting out from Rachia, they came to the M'kon River that 
formed the Saren border. On its eastern bank was Fortress Wei, a Saren 
outpost—there was no single government east of the river. Beyond Wei the ground 
formed hills and small valleys. Above those hills loomed a huge, purple band 
that hung too steadily to be clouds. Alanna squinted at it, curious.
Thayet brought her mare up beside Moonlight, observing the direction of Alanna's 
stare. "The Roof of the World," she said quietly.



CHAPTER FOUR
The Roof of the World
« ^ »
Once they left the border, the road began to climb. The nights were cold, 
although it was May; Alanna was glad for Liam's warmth in their bedroll. Thayet 
was the first to don a fur-lined cloak, but the others soon followed suit.
Thayet and Buri joined the Dragon's morning exercises, learning Shang 
hand-to-hand combat. Alanna was surprised at how well she, herself, did. 
Evidently the years of training for knighthood helped her now. She could feel 
the difference in her body when they practiced, as her muscles took her smoothly 
from kick to blow and back. Filled with the optimism that comes from being 
physically fit, she mentally dared the Roof to do its worst.
The farther Thayet got from home, the more relaxed she was. She spoke about her 
childhood so frankly that Alanna thanked Coram for his affectionate, if gruff, 
raising of her and Thom. Thayet was the daughter of a ruler who wanted a son; 
only Kalasin made her feel loved. It was Kalasin who taught Thayet K'miri ways, 
Kalasin and Buri's family.
"I could never be as good a Queen as my mother," Thayet said. She grinned. "Not 
that it makes a difference now. I won't be a queen at all."
"Are you sorry?" Alanna wanted to know. She had been terribly frightened when 
Jon asked her to be his wife, knowing someday she would have to be his Queen.
"A little," Thayet admitted. "I'd like to change things. In Sarain, for 
instance, women have no rights—just those our husbands or fathers grant us. 
Estates and fortunes are held by men. Women can't inherit."
"That's barbaric!" protested Alanna. "At home women inherit. Not titles, but 
they have lands. I'm Myles's heir by law—it isn't common, but it happens."
"Tortall sounds wonderful," sighed Thayet.
"You'll find out when you get there," the knight promised. To herself she added, 
We'll all find out a thing or two when we get there, especially Jon. She grinned 
in spite of herself.
As the winter snows began to melt, traffic picked up. The roads were thick with 
miners, trappers, and merchant caravans. Alanna's company passed herdsmen 
driving flocks to the markets in the south. Farmers waved as they went by, their 
wagons filled with cheeses, brightly woven cloth, and chickens. Only the Doi 
tribesmen remained aloof. They were a people like the K'mir, though less fierce 
than their western cousins. They were expert at survival in the Roof; the most 
experienced guides were Doi, and the best furs came from their hidden villages.
The travelers rode deeper into the highest mountains in their world, where snow 
still lay in scattered drifts and patches along the road. Alanna battled rising 
impatience. For some reason, she felt that she ought to be on the way home. It 
would be foolish to turn back when they were so close, but she wanted to find 
the pass and do whatever it demanded, then leave.
She tried to reach Thom or Jonathan with her magic, but it was impossible. Too 
much distance lay between them. She hadn't been able to show Coram his Rispah 
since they'd left the convent. Perhaps Thom had the power to reach across the 
continent—she didn't.
Several days after they had crossed the border, she fell in beside Coram and 
signaled him to drop back with her. When they were out of their friends' 
hearing, she asked abruptly, "Have you been joining with the Voice?" She 
referred to a Bazhir rite: each day at sunset all who were Bazhir by adoption or 
birth entered into a magic communion with the Voice of the Tribes. The Voice 
heard news through this link, judged disputes, counseled his people. Since their 
adoption into the Bloody Hawk, both Alanna and Coram were able to enter into the 
joining, but Alanna had never done so. At first she refused out of a reluctance 
to let anyone, even someone as bound by duty and obligation as the Voice, into 
her mind. Later, after Prince Jonathan had become the Voice, and they had 
quarreled and broken off their romance, Alanna had decided she certainly didn't 
want Jon to know how she thought and felt. At the same time, she knew Coram took 
part in the rite and had done so ever since his adoption into the tribe.
Coram stared at her, startled. "Ye told me when we left for Port Caynn last fall 
that ye never wanted me to talk about it, or say what I knew…"
Alanna blushed. "Things are different now. Have you?"
"Not since we set out for Maren."
Alanna was startled by his answer. "You joined almost every night we were there. 
Why'd you stop?"
Coram shrugged. "It's different when ye aren't among the tribe. It's lonesome. 
I've been tryin', though, this last week. I knew ye're worried about things at 
home."
"And?" She couldn't keep some eagerness from her voice.
"I'm sorry—I must be too far away. I haven't felt a thing."
Alanna smiled with an effort. "That's all right. I'm probably worried about 
nothing." She caught up with Liam, pretending not to see Coram's troubled look.


They entered Lumuhu Valley the first week in May, and a day's ride brought them 
to the twin passes at its northern edge. An inn built solidly of wood and brick 
stood where the roads from the passes met. Snow lay in a tattered sheet in the 
meadow behind the buildings and on the sides of the northeastern pass. The 
northwest road was blocked with snow and ice; the pass itself was clogged. 
Alanna swallowed as she looked at this second pass. Why did she have a feeling 
this was Chitral?
The sky had been bleak all that day. It darkened even more as they stabled the 
horses, and sleet began to fall as they entered the inn.
"May blizzards is no joke," the innkeeper said, bringing them mulled cider as 
they waited for rooms to be prepared. "It's what we pay for bein' so high up. 
You'd best settle in. This storm'll close Lumuhu a week—maybe longer."
"What about Chitral?" Liam asked.
The man laughed. "Mother Chitral won't open till Beltane, and then only for the 
strongest. The snow never leaves. Him that told you Chitral's a good road was 
jestin'. I hope you never paid for the pleasure." He walked away, still 
laughing.
"Now we know why no one took this Jewel before," Buri sighed. Thayet stared 
wistfully into the fire. Alanna huddled in her cloak, listening to the growing 
shriek of the wind.
Liam stayed downstairs while Alanna went to their room to wash and dress in 
cleaner clothes. Unpacking her bags—since it appeared they were going to stay 
for a while—she found the violet gown she'd carried since leaving Corus. "How 
long's it been since I wore a dress?" she asked Faithful.
The cat looked up from his grooming. You wore that one when you stayed with 
George, last fall.
"That's right." She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. "This is his 
favorite."
It wasn't so wrinkled then, the cat remarked.
Alanna rang for the chambermaid.


Thayet applauded when Alanna entered the common room in the violet silk gown 
(the maid had smoothed most of the wrinkles). Buri whistled; Coram grinned. Liam 
surveyed her from head to toe, an odd look on his face.
"Well?" Alanna finally demanded, blushing from the others' reactions. "Don't you 
like it?"
"It's well enough," he said at last. "Doesn't seem practical, though."
Would she ever understand him? "It isn't supposed to be practical. It's a dress. 
A dress that feels beautiful when you put it on."
"Feeling beautiful won't win a fight." His eyes were the pale grey that told her 
nothing about how he felt.
"I hardly think I'll fight anyone here, unless it's you," she snapped. "Why 
can't I wear impractical garments every now and then?"
"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "I suppose you'll want earbobs next, and 
bracelets, and other frippery. What comes then? A noble-born husband and court 
intrigues?"
"I'm female." Embarrassed, she realized Coram, Thayet, and Buri were trying to 
slip away. "Why can't I wear a dress without you deciding I want to give up 
everything I am?"
"Our road is rough and cold and muddy. Maybe you realize now that a 
knight-errant's life isn't as glorious as you expected." There was enough truth 
in this to hurt. He waved toward her gown. "Maybe this is the Lady Alanna you 
mean to show your Prince when you go home."
She walked out, knowing that if she spoke she would cry. Running into her room, 
she slammed the door behind her. She did question her life as a roving knight, 
but not for the reasons he had claimed.
Alanna tore off the dress and threw it into the corner, following it with her 
shift and stockings. Her breeches and shirt were half on when she did begin to 
cry. Within seconds her handkerchief was soaked.
"I hate him!" She punched the bed for emphasis. "I hate him! It isn't right that 
one person can hurt someone else this much!"
"You scare him." Thayet closed the door behind her. "Just when he thinks he 
understands you, you do something new. He can't put you in a neat little box the 
way he does the rest of us."
"I never asked to be something new to him!" Alanna wiped her eyes on her sleeve 
and finished buttoning her breeches. "I never asked to be anything to him! It 
just—happened."
Thayet buttoned Alanna's shirt. "I have a feeling it just happened' to Liam, 
too, and that's what frightens him. Our Dragon is the kind of man who likes to 
be in control of everything, particularly himself."
Alanna stared at Thayet. Did this explain why Liam feared magic? "What's wrong 
with falling in love with me? And what does wearing a dress have to do with any 
of this, Thayet?"
The Princess smiled. "Alanna, when you wore that dress, he saw the daughter of a 
noble house—a woman whose family tree reaches back to The Book of Gold. Liam is 
common-born."
"If I don't care about that, why should he?"
"He's very proud." Thayet dipped her handkerchief in Alanna's water basin and 
wiped the knight's face. "Some women can cry and look beautiful," she said 
drily. "You and I can't."
"I know," Alanna sniffed. "I get red and blotchy. When George told me he was, 
well, interested, I cared about his being a commoner. I even said 'like should 
marry like,' or something like that. George didn't care. But Liam—What 
difference can rank make to the Shang Dragon?"
There was a quiet rap on the door, and Liam came in.
"I was just leaving," Thayet said. She winked at Alanna and went out, closing 
the door.
His face scarlet, Liam watched the floor as he spoke. "You shouldn't've taken 
the dress off. You look very pretty in it. I guess sometimes we get used to 
seeing a person a certain way."
It was all the apology she would ever get from him, she knew. Alanna patted the 
bed beside her, and Liam sat. "I like dresses," she explained. "If you come with 
us to Tortall, you'll see me wearing more of them. Just because I'm a knight 
doesn't mean I don't like pretty clothes." She grinned at him. "I've even worn 
face paint, sometimes."
When he looked startled, she explained, "You know, lip rouge, and so on. I'm not 
ashamed of being female, Liam."
Tentatively, he brushed Alanna's hair with his hands. "I didn't think you were. 
I never forget you're a woman, Lioness." His first kiss was gentle, the second 
passionate. Alanna let him pull her into his arms, thinking, We should talk some 
more about why he was angry. I don't think lovemaking will settle anything. The 
Dragon was so determined, however, that once again she put her questions aside 
to be dealt with later.


An hour later, as they dressed for dinner, she asked, "Are there any Lionesses 
in Shang?"
Liam stretched, thinking. "Not for fifty years. The women prefer names they 
don't think are 'flashy.' That means not many Lionesses or Dragons. My master in 
kick fighting was the Wildcat. She always said if the men wished to attract 
attention, that was their problem."
"But mythic beasts are 'flashy' by nature, I should think," protested Alanna. 
"Or don't you let women get to those ranks?"
"Try to stop them!" he grinned. "Right now there's me, the Griffin—also a 
man—and Kylaia al Jmaa, the Unicorn. She's the most beautiful thing on two feet, 
all silk and steel and lightning." He tweaked her nose. "Satisfied?"
Their group had dinner in the room Thayet and Buri shared, not bored enough to 
go down to the common room yet. They were filled with a weird sense of mingled 
excitement and apprehension, but no one cared to talk about it. What could they 
do now? Wait until Chitral cleared?
Alanna didn't think she could wait that long. Though she didn't know why, she 
had a strong feeling that she had to get home.
They amused themselves the next morning by catching up on chores that went 
neglected while they were on the road. Alanna and Coram spent the hours after 
breakfast mending tack in the stables. Liam worked on his fighting gear as 
Thayet mended clothes and Buri cleaned the weapons. By lunchtime all of them 
were ready for diversion. They went to the common room to see who else was kept 
there by the storm.
Two companies of merchants were present: one bore spices to the valley north of 
Lumuhu and Chitral, the other furs and hand-woven goods south to Port Udayapur. 
They were joined by four locals—two shepherds, a blacksmith, and a guide—and a 
group of five Doi. The Doi were as interested in Alanna and her friends as the 
knight was in them. They exchanged looks with Alanna throughout the meal.
"Liam," Alanna whispered, trying not to seem obvious, "the Doi woman with the 
onyx in the middle of her brow—who is she?"
Liam nodded gravely to the Doi. They hid their eyes briefly, a sign the Dragon 
said meant respect. "A fortune-teller," he answered. "The Doi give them as much 
honor as you'd give a priest. Each fortune-teller works differently. Some read 
tea leaves in a cup. Some tell your future from the stars. I had my future done 
once. It's interesting."
She was surprised. "You don't like magic."
Liam shook his head. "This isn't the same. No sparkly fire, nothing flying at 
you, or things changing. A Doi looks at something real."
One of the Doi men came over, covering his eyes briefly to show his respect for 
Liam. "Dragon-man, we are of the Rockmouse people."
"I know the Rockmouse," replied Liam.
"Our Lady-Who-Sees, Mi-chi, she knows time lies heavy, out of the wind. If you 
wish, she will tell your hands, all of you."
"We will be honored." Liam stood, telling the others softly, "It's an insult to 
say no."
Thayet sat beside Mi-chi when the fortuneteller beckoned to her. "I read hands," 
Mi-chi said. Her voice was deep, her eyes dark and mysterious. "It is said the 
hand you use to draw a bow or to stir a pot will reveal that part of you others 
can see. The less-used hand, that is your inner self."
Thayet nodded. "I'm right-handed."
Mi-chi took the princess's left hand, holding it palm up. No one spoke as she 
ran her fingers over the lines in Thayet's palm. Curious, Alanna probed with her 
Gift. The fortune-teller's magic was like Bazhir magic; it was drawn from the 
land rather than from a source inside the person who wielded it.
"What do you see?" Thayet wanted to know.
Mi-chi smiled at her. "You have lost your chains only, great lady. Follow your 
heart. It leads you to a mighty place. And forget your home. You will never 
return there."
Thayet rose and walked over to the hearth, keeping her face away from them. Buri 
watched her royal mistress for a moment before taking her place beside the Doi 
woman. "Whatever it is you have to say, whisper it, all right?" she asked as she 
offered her right hand.
Mi-chi agreed, and afterward Buri refused to say what she'd been told. Coram was 
next, and he asked the same favor. When he stood, he was smiling—whatever his 
own future held, he seemed to like the prospect.
Mi-chi smiled up at Liam. "You know your fate already, Dragon-man. Nothing I may 
say will change it, or your knowledge of it." She looked at Alanna. "You, 
please."
Alanna took the seat beside Mi-chi, offering her left hand. Mi-chi took both, 
studying the knight's callused palms intently. When she spoke, Alanna could feel 
a power in her words that was nothing like the Doi magic she'd sensed earlier. 
This was stronger and untamed.
"He waits, old Chitral." Mi-chi's voice was harsh. "He knows you have come for 
his prize. He will not surrender it if you are unworthy."
Alanna's friends gathered close, listening. "Do you think it will matter if you 
await this storm's end before you set out? He has others to throw at you."
"I'm not trying that pass in the middle of a blizzard!" Alanna protested.
"Then your desire, or whatever it is that drives you, is not enough." Mi-chi's 
eyes were mocking. "Make no mistake, hero from the flat-lands. Chitral fights 
you with his snows and winds. All who would face him must battle on his terms, 
or not at all." Dropping Alanna's hands, the Doi looked at Liam. "Dragon-man, do 
you bring your kitten to us for testing? You may not want the grown cat."
"I don't bring Alanna anywhere, wisewoman. She picks her own road."
Mi-chi stood, shaking. One of her companions came to support her. "Do not forget 
that, Dragon-man." Her voice rasped with exhaustion. "She is a champion, like 
you, but different. Always different." The Doi helped her to her rooms.
Alanna rubbed her hands on her breeches—they still tingled with both Mi-chi's 
Doi magic and the other magic that had spoken through the fortune-teller. "It 
sounds… I don't know. I'm not a hero, not yet."
Buri slung an arm around Alanna's shoulders. "Glad to hear it. Come on out to 
the stables and we'll practice some kick fighting."


The worst of it was that Alanna believed Mi-chi, or she believed whatever had 
spoken through the Doi woman. That surge of weird magic was impossible to deny. 
Just what is sitting up in that pass, waiting for me to come after the Jewel? 
she asked herself time after time as that day ended and the next crept on. The 
blizzard continued to blow outside without showing any signs of letting up.
She thought about just going home, but at this point, something inside Alanna 
balked. She knew there had to have been other times in her life when she'd 
failed to complete something she'd set out to do. She couldn't remember them, 
however, and she didn't want to. Furthermore, she did not want her search for 
the Dominion Jewel to become the time she would remember that she had started 
something and had given it up. Almost in spite of herself, she began to remember 
what she'd known as a child in Trebond about survival in the snow.
She was peering through a crack in a shuttered window shortly before twilight of 
their third day at the inn when she felt someone come up behind her. She knew it 
was Liam and didn't turn. "I think the storm's dropping," she said, trying to 
hope.
Liam turned her around, gripping her shoulders tight. "Don't even think of it," 
he warned.
"And don't make your eyes wide and ask what I'm talking about. I'm not Coram, 
and your tricks don't work with me."
That made her angry. "Maybe Coram lets my'tricks' work with him, and I don't 
know what you're talking about."
"Then why'd the innkeeper tell me you were asking about snow gear?" He gave her 
a little shake. "Do you think you're immortal? That's a killer blizzard! Entire 
herds are out there frozen in their tracks! Maybe that Gift of yours could 
shelter you from the little blows in Tortall, but this is the Roof of the World, 
and you will die. I'd never attempt it, and I forbid you to!"
Years of training stopped her from hitting him, although she'd never wanted to 
as much as right now. "You don't know what I can do, Ironarm." Her voice was icy 
as she jerked out of his hold. "I resent your acting as if I'd do something 
stupid if you weren't around."
"And wouldn't you do something stupid?" he snapped. "Sometimes you act like you 
have no more sense than the kitten I named you!"
That was unfair, and they both knew it was unfair. Liam couldn't apologize; 
Alanna couldn't forgive. They were coldly silent through dinner, and the others 
retreated to their own rooms immediately after, rather than witness this 
quarrel. Liam stayed to talk with the Doi, and Alanna went upstairs with 
Faithful.
"We're not going to work this out," she told the cat as she undressed and got 
into bed. "We're too much alike, I guess." Then she began to cry, because it 
hurt, in spite of her knowing why things were going wrong. Faithful nestled 
beside her cheek, purring comfortingly. Alanna was asleep by the time Liam came 
to bed. She didn't feel him gently touch her tear-blotched cheek.


The dream was so clear it scared her:
Jonathan stood beside a coffin that held his mother, Queen Lianne.
"She was not strong." Roger stood on the opposite side of the coffin, his face 
emotionless. "Her time had come."
Jon's eyes were tired. "She was healthy once, before you sent the Sweating 
Sickness. Before you tried to kill her with your spells."
"That was another lifetime for me," Roger said. Thom was a shadow at Roger's 
side. "I have no more magic," Jonathan's cousin went on. "I did not kill her."
Jonathan looked at his mother's face. "I know you didn't."
Behind Jon, in the shadows, stood George. His eyes were fixed on Roger.
Alanna's eyes flew open. It was very late—Liam was asleep, and the hearth-fire 
had burned down to embers.
That's it, she thought grimly as she slid out of bed. I've wasted enough time. 
I'm going to claim that Jewel and go home.
Are you sure? Faithful asked as he settled on Alanna's pillow.
"This is crazy," she whispered as she dressed. Liam slept peacefully, not 
hearing her preparations. "That Doi fortune-teller was making fun of me." 
Grabbing the bag that contained her next layer of clothing, she pointed to the 
door.
No, replied Faithful. Someone has to keep him asleep. He began to purr. A white, 
shimmering glow rose to cover him and Liam.
In the hallway Alanna shivered as she exchanged the clothes she'd put on so 
quickly for garments made of silk: shirt, hose, and gloves. The next layer was 
wool: leggings, stockings, another shirt. She'd begun to sweat, but she knew 
outside things would be very different. Discarding the bag and carrying 
soft-soled trapper's boots, she tiptoed out of the inn and into the passage that 
joined house and stables.
Underground hot springs made it possible for the inn to stay open. The stables 
were warm—in her clothes too warm. Alanna cursed the heat until she spotted the 
stableboy, asleep in a pile of hay. When he stirred, she touched his forehead 
and told him to sleep, putting her Gift into it.
Moonlight pranced when she saw her mistress, but Alanna shook her head. "Not 
tonight, girl."
Next to the stable doors were the three large bins the innkeeper had described 
for her. The one marked in red contained heavy winter gear in the largest 
possible sizes; the yellow one held medium sizes, and the green was for small. 
Opening the last, she pulled out the next layer of clothing. Everything was Doi 
make: leather jacket and trousers lined with fleece, a vest filled with goose 
down, a knitted facemask, goggles.
She used a burnoose for a head-cloth and her own fleece-lined mittens. From her 
belt hung Lightning and a double-headed axe with a special blade for ice. Over 
it all she wrapped a fur-lined cloak. Scanning the racks of snowshoes hanging 
over the bins, she selected the smallest pair and fastened them over the boots. 
"I hope I still remember how to use these things!"
Standing, she took inventory. Had she left out a single piece of clothing or a 
single tool that might help?
If she had, she couldn't remember it now. Gently she brought up her Gift, 
filling every stitch she wore with it and binding the stable's warmth to every 
layer of clothing. She fixed it there with a word of command, just to be safe, 
and sealed it all with the ritual "So mote it be!" Heat settled over her like a 
blanket. Drawing a deep breath, she opened the stable door a crack and passed 
through. Before she closed it, she sent a bit of magic back to the sleeping boy, 
so he would wake in five minutes and bolt the door.
The stableyard held drifts of only a foot or so, protected as it was by the 
inn's high containing wall. She found the gate and opened it, bracing herself 
for the first unrestricted blast of the storm. When it came, it almost knocked 
her over. Slanting her body into the wind, Alanna passed through the gate and 
pulled it closed.
The wind made her gasp with its sharpness. Icy daggers bit into her chest as she 
started to shiver. Cold, a part of her wailed, I hate the cold!
Alanna forced a foot out in front of her, trying not to think of ice or wind. 
She stepped again, shoving her shoed foot down. Step two. She could barely see 
in front of her. How would she know which way to go? She raised a foot and 
brought it down, moving forward against the wind. Third step takes all. Somehow 
she was moving. Given what she already knew—that whatever ruled the pass was 
going to make this as hard for her as possible—she walked directly into the 
wind.
She hadn't used snowshoes much in the years since she'd left Trebond. It took 
her a few minutes to make her legs and feet remember just how they worked: long 
steps, lift the shoes clear of the snow, then put them down. Stop every six or 
seven steps to shake off the snow that piled on the top of the broad, flat shoe. 
It was hard work for her leg muscles, but she welcomed it. She welcomed anything 
that took her mind off the cold. Even her Gift couldn't ward off all of it, and 
her magic was burning up dangerously fast in the attempt.
Was she mistaken, or had the ground begun to rise?
She wasn't mistaken. With a thump she collided with a tall stone pillar, the one 
that marked the point where the road left the valley floor and climbed into the 
pass. Alanna sheltered herself in the lee of the rock for a moment, panting with 
the effort it had taken to get this far.
On a stormless day this walk would've taken me five minutes. How long have I 
been out here? An hour? She pushed away from her shelter and into the wind 
again.
A sudden gust shoved her to her knees. Clenching her teeth, Alanna got up and 
went on to ram into a tree. She stumbled and fell on her back in the snow. 
Afraid she'd get buried in snow if she stayed in one place too long, she 
struggled up again, hissing words she'd forgotten she knew at the clumsy 
snowshoes. Inspiration struck. She seized a tree branch and hacked it off with 
her axe to form a staff. Miache didn't have to put up with anything like this to 
get the Jewel, she thought grumpily as she shook the snow from her shoes and set 
off once again. She stole it from a nice, warm vault. Now she tested the ground 
ahead with the wood, always heading face first into the wind. She decided she'd 
rather face a dragon than this storm.
It helped to recite poems as she walked. First she went through those the 
Mithrans had taught her in the palace. When they ended, she started with those 
taught her by foot soldiers, thieves, and hostlers. She was halfway through "The 
Tireless Beggar"—the song that had almost gotten Coram into trouble in 
Berat—when she ran out of voice. Stopping to rest, she wondered how far she'd 
come.
Her internal clock said dawn was still a few hours away and that she'd been at 
this almost two hours. The innkeeper had said it was two hours' hard walking 
from his door to the top of the pass, but under these conditions, Alanna knew it 
might take her an entire day to cover the same distance.
I wonder if I can sense the Jewel? She reached for her Gift and stopped, feeling 
afraid. While she'd concentrated on pushing ahead, her Gift had poured itself 
into the effort of keeping her warm. It was dangerously low and flickering, 
burning itself up against the killer storm. She couldn't turn back—it would be 
gone before she reached the tree, let alone the valley.
Alanna climbed on. She thought wrily that she couldn't even blame Liam for 
forbidding her this climb and making her determined to do it. She was a grown 
woman, and the only person who had ultimate control of her behavior was she, 
herself.
Serves me right for losing my temper, she told herself. Carefully she began to 
cut back the areas her warmth-spell covered until it was in force only around 
her feet, hands, and face. Trying to ignore the increased bite of cold on the 
rest of her, she plowed back into the wind.
It took five minutes of uphill walking before she realized that the wind had 
dropped. Halting, she looked up. Drifting snowflakes were all that remained of 
the blizzard. She slipped up her goggles and turned to look for her tracks. They 
lay behind her, following an eerily straight line as far as she could see. A 
cold that wasn't winter-brought raced up her spine. Her trail should have swung 
back and forth in the snow. Instead it looked as if she could have drawn it with 
a straight-edge.
"I don't know if this is good," she murmured. "With the wind in my face, at 
least I knew where I was headed." Looking again at her tracks, Alanna shrugged 
and set off again. As her Gift burned lower and lower, staying in motion became 
a vital concern. Every few feet she'd look back to make sure she kept to her 
earlier course. Before her opened the pass, white and smooth along the road. 
Overhead the clouds broke up, revealing a sliver of new moon. The night was very 
quiet, the only sounds those of shifting snow and cracking rock.
Suddenly she heard in her mind a voice as terrible in its way as the Goddess's, 
filled with tumbling boulders and rushing streams. She dropped to her knees with 
her hands over her ears—it did no good.
So you have come this far. You took your time about it.
Alanna couldn't reply.
Look to your left.
She obeyed. A line of light stretched up the wall of the pass, over broken rock 
and pools of snow and ice. The thing you came to take is at the end of this 
road—as am I.
The voice—it had to be the voice of the being that Mi-chi had called "old 
Chitral"—was gone. Alanna listened apprehensively for a moment, then remembered 
the cold's danger and scrambled to her feet again. Drawing a breath, she turned 
away from the smooth path, which lay so invitingly before her. She strengthened 
the spell on her hands and feet, drawing it away from her face and wondering how 
long her Gift could hold out even now. She was sleepy. A nap would be—
She shook off the cold's growing spell and made for the slope, stopping only to 
remove the snowshoes and strap them to her back. Her temper came back with a 
rush—not at Liam, this time, but at Chitral. "Am I supposed to entertain you?" 
she yelled, climbing into the rocks. "Where I come from it's considered 
honorable to kill a victim outright—not play with her first!"
There was no reply, but she didn't want one. All she really needed was the heat 
of her anger.
She unhooked the axe from her belt once again, using it to pull herself up.
Her foot broke through a crust in the snow, and she went down, crying out as her 
leg got stuck between two rocks. Carefully she pulled herself out onto more 
trustworthy ground, using the ice blade on the axe. When she tried the leg, it 
throbbed but held.
"Are you enjoying this, Chitral?" No answer. On she climbed.
Within a few feet her staff slid on a hidden bit of ice. She struck the ground 
with her knees, biting into her lower lip. Alanna grabbed a handful of snow and 
pressed it against the mask, over her bleeding mouth. Adding another hurt to 
Chitral's account, she rose and went on. She knew she got hurt so much now 
because weariness and agitated nerves interfered with her judgment. The best 
solution was to stop and rest for half an hour, but she didn't dare try that. 
Instead she started to sing "The Tireless Beggar." She'd finished it and had 
sung halfway through "The King's New Lady" when she stumbled into the cave.
Her Gift flickered and died, leaving her with only a trace of its fire. She'd 
used it up.
Going home will be very interesting, she told herself as she looked around. 
There was a larger cave behind what seemed to be a small antechamber, and she 
went into it. Chitral's line of light ended here, in a large chamber with walls 
that glowed a dim, eerie yellow. At the opposite end was a tunnel.
"All right, Chitral!" she yelled when she'd pulled down her mask. "I'm here!"
Then prepare yourself for combat, came the nerve-shaking reply. You asked for 
something you can fight. I will oblige you.
The air in the cave was cool, but not cold. She began to strip, preparing 
herself mentally. She peeled everything down to her woolen layer, leaving the 
clothing in a pile on the cave floor. Her mind took careful inventory of her 
physical condition, and she was unhappy with what she found. She'd never taken 
on a fight in worse shape.
Nothing to it, she thought as she unsheathed Lightning and loosened her arms. 
Next time I go afier something, I hope it's in a dusty corner where no one sees 
or cares if I take it. I did ask for this.
Something padded toward her in the tunnel. Moving into the center of the cave, 
Alanna set herself.
When it came into the light, she understood instantly that Chitral had assumed 
this form—she couldn't say how she knew it, but she did. He'd come as one of the 
great rock-apes that inhabited the Roof of the World. Incredibly shy of people, 
they were seldom seen, and they never carried short swords as this one did. The 
blade was black iron and very primitive, but Alanna had no doubt it would do the 
job intended for it. Oh, gods, she thought as the ape squared off against her, 
its deep-set eyes bright with intelligence. I'm in for it now.
He—it?—swung and chopped, forcing her back. She moved warily, her tired muscles 
sluggish at first. He jabbed; Alanna countered and thrust, making the ape skip 
away. Now wasn't the time for fanciness or art, now was the time to just stay 
alive. At least the knowledge of a fight sent adrenaline coursing through her 
body, putting a stop to the tremors of exhaustion. The ape pursued her, hewing 
with the short sword as if it were an axe.
The long hours with Liam began to show as Alanna automatically dipped, swerved, 
and twisted. Keeping out of the ape's reach—he could do as much harm with a hand 
as he could with his blade—she made him wary of Lightning. Her sword nipped and 
bit at him, leaving his fur dotted with blood.
Her injured knee buckled, and the ape's sword scored her from collar to navel, 
cutting through wool and silk to leave a shallow, bleeding gash. She faltered 
and lunged in, chopping at the ape's neck. He roared and smashed back with his 
unarmed fist, catching her on the elbow. Alanna fell forward and rolled out of 
the way. Her arm went numb; Lightning dropped from her fingers. Getting up, she 
staggered back as the ape picked up her sword. He peered at the grey lights 
shifting under the steel skin.
You did a work of art when you made this. As much as she might want to, she 
couldn't react to the pain of his voice in her head, not unless she wanted him 
to kill her as she covered her ears. She wondered how he even knew Lightning had 
once been two swords, and that she'd combined them to make one unbroken blade. 
The ape tossed the sword behind him, where it lay near the far wall of the cave. 
I suppose you did it only because you wanted a whole sword you could command. 
Not because the magic was beautiful for its own sake.
It wasn't true, entirely. He gave her no chance to answer as he attacked.
Alanna couldn't think, couldn't worry if her body might give out. She ducked and 
dodged. When he gave her an opening, she executed one of the jump kicks Liam had 
taught her, slamming into the ape's shoulder and making him roar. When he swung 
to chop her down, she was away and circling. She sought her chance and flew in 
again, hitting the same shoulder. It was his blade arm that she focused on, 
kicking every chance she had while keeping out of his range and grip. The fourth 
time she hit that arm, she kicked lower, into the same muscle he'd hit to make 
her drop Lightning. The iron sword fell to the cave floor, and Alanna went for 
it. Her hands closed on the hilt.
Pain seared her hands and arms, locking her muscles together. She screamed, her 
throat tearing with the cry. It hurt worse than anything she could remember. She 
held on—she couldn't let go—and rolled to her back, pointing it at the advancing 
ape. Crying with the pain, she yelled, "Don't! I don't want to kill you! Keep 
the Jewel!"
The ape stopped a foot beyond the sword's point, looking her over curiously. If 
Alanna didn't know better, she'd have sworn he smiled. Reaching forward, he 
plucked the sword from her freely bleeding hands.
You are a funny little thing. His voice hurt much less this time, which puzzled 
her. He seemed to have changed his mind about killing her.
He didn't choose to explain. Instead his thought-voice went on. I suppose you 
have no idea why you are compelled to seek this Jewel.
Alanna cradled her palms against her chest, too tired to rise. "It's for the 
glory of Tortall." Her throat hurt from screaming. "There isn't a nation 
existing that can't profit from the Dominion Jewel. And bringing it home would 
be to the glory of the knight who brought it. If it's yours, though, it's yours. 
Now that I think of it, I don't know how the famous heroes of the past were able 
to take things from the entities that guarded them—not if they were as noble as 
the stories claim. When you look at it right, it is stealing."
The ape shook his head, plainly amused. In a hand that was empty a moment ago, 
he offered a many-faceted purple gem. When she stared at him without moving, he 
placed it on her chest.
What use have I for a jewel? His outline turned blurry.
"Are you one of the gods?" she asked as he began to fade. Suddenly she had a 
hundred things she wanted to know from him.
No. I come from before. Your gods are children to my brethren and me.
Alanna could barely see the ape, and the air was getting perceptibly cooler. She 
scrambled to her feet. "Then who are you?"
I am this place, and these mountains. I suppose you might call me an elemental. 
Now his voice began to fade.
"How did you come by the Jewel?" She struggled to put on her clothing, trying to 
ignore the pain in her hands. The Jewel she stuffed into a pocket.
It finds its way to me from time to time. Not often, but now and then. I made 
it, and I keep it because I like to have company. I shall be entertained by your 
visit for centuries of human time. You mortals are quite interesting!
She could feel no sense of him at all when she finished dressing, which may have 
been just as well. She was not sure she liked the idea of being "entertainment" 
for anyone, elemental or no.
She found her way to the mouth of the cave and looked out, clinging to the rim 
of the opening. Dawn was coming, and she had no way to return to the inn.
"No wonder he gave me the Jewel," she muttered, sliding down to sit on the rock 
floor. "I'm going to die here anyway." She knew the idea should bother her, but 
it didn't. Her eyelids were getting heavy, and she barely noticed the cold. 
Pulling her cloak over her face, she went to sleep.


She was warm—all of her, not parts. She could smell clean linen and herbal 
salves. Forcing her eyes open, Alanna wondered how long she'd been out.
"Never again." Her voice was harsh in her ears. "I won't spend another winter in 
the cold." Her eyes watered as she tried to look around.
"You could've fooled me." The deep rumble was Liam's voice. "If a man went by 
the way you act, he'd think you live to freeze!"
She sighed. "I'm sorry," she whispered. He was slowly coming into focus, and she 
wasn't surprised to see that his eyes were pure emerald in color.
"Sorry?" His voice cracked on the word.
"I'm sorry I had to go into a blizzard at all. I wasn't given a choice, 
remember?"
"You had your gods-cursed cat witch me!"
Alanna tried to push herself upright and winced: her hands were heavily bandaged 
and throbbed under the weight she'd put on them. "Ironarm, stop it! Aren't there 
times when you act alone?"
"This isn't the same!"
"Horse dung it isn't. People like us have to know when to break rules. This was 
one of those times, and I was right to do it. I am sorry I hurt you. Chitral 
didn't leave me much of a choice."
He walked out without looking at her.
Thayet came in a few minutes later with a pitcher of mulled cider. A maid 
followed with a tray of food, and Alanna's stomach growled a welcome. Seeing 
tearstains on Alanna's face, Thayet said, "The Dragon will be all right." She 
poured a cup of cider and helped Alanna to drink it. "He was worried sick about 
you. We all were."
"The Jewel?" Alanna didn't want to talk about Liam. "Where is it?"
"Under your pillow. Can you manage a spoon?"
Alanna looked at a bowl of porridge dotted with dried fruit and cream. "I'll 
manage if it kills me."
Unfortunately, she couldn't handle a spoon. Thayet fed her, ignoring Alanna's 
protests. "You've been asleep almost a week," the princess said. "The storm was 
over when we woke up. You were out there when it stopped?" Alanna nodded.
"There was a tremor of some kind—a little earthquake—just after dawn," Thayet 
continued. "When it was over, the pass was clear. The innkeeper and some of the 
guests ran for a temple at that point, I think. You remember the Doi who were 
staying here? They went out and brought you down, slung over a pony. They said 
they found you in front of a cave near the top of the pass. You were a mess."
"Can I talk to them?" Alanna wanted to know. "Thank them?"
Thayet shook her head. "They're gone. They left when you started to get better. 
Buri says they don't like to be thanked."
"Did—the healers say how I am?"
Thayet put down the spoon. "You'll have a scar from your neck to your abdomen, 
right between your breasts. Your hands will mend. They said you'd do better once 
you woke up and used your own Gift on them." Reminded by this, Alanna felt for 
her magic and found it. Her rest had restored it to full strength. Thayet began 
to tidy up, saying, "The Doi healer said your hands will always know when it's 
going to storm."
"'Old swordsmen and their scars know the coming rain,' " Alanna quoted—it was a 
common saying. "I suppose I had to pay for this somehow."
"Was it worth the price?"
"I don't know." Alanna drew the Jewel from beneath her pillow and looked at it. 
The gem fit neatly into the center of her palm. "Thayet, do you want this? For 
Sarain? It seems as if you need it more than Tortall does right now." She 
offered it to the Princess, who stepped back with an odd look on her face. The 
Jewel began to shimmer with an internal light, until Thayet pushed Alanna's hand 
away.
"No female can hold the Saren throne." Her voice was soft. "The Book of Glass 
forbids it. Children hear tales of other lands, less wise than ours, who came to 
grief because they let a woman rule. The chiefs of the Hau Ma, the Churi, and 
the Raadeh are women, but they're K'mir, and everyone knows the K'mir are 
savages."
"Tortall isn't like the K'mir, but it isn't that bad, either," Alanna said. The 
bitterness in Thayet's voice hurt.
"All my life I've been worthless, the one who should have been a male and an 
heir. My father was kind, in his way—I take after him in looks." Thayet rubbed 
the arch of her nose. "But he never forgot I wasn't a boy. Every morning the 
Daughters of the Goddess and the Mithran priests have orders to pray for a jin 
Wilima in their daybreak services."
Alanna swallowed. If he'd loved his daughter, how could the Warlord have 
humiliated her like that? "Thayet, I'm sorry."
The Princess didn't hear. "I'll tell you something else, Lady Knight. In Tortall 
you lied about your sex and kept it secret for years, but when the truth came 
out, you were allowed to keep your shield. We heard about you at my father's 
court. The majority opinion was that you should be burned, although one group 
held out for death by torture." Thayet put the tray beside the door. "I thought 
Tortall sounded like Paradise. It's certainly an improvement on my father's 
palace or the convents, and it has to be better than what I'll get if I return 
to Sarain now."
"You didn't have to tell me any of this." Alanna slid the Jewel beneath her 
pillow again. "A simple 'no' would've worked."
The Princess's face had been hard and distant. Slowly she brightened. "A'simple 
no'?" she repeated, amused. "Alanna, my very dear, you're an incredibly 
high-minded person, have you noticed? You take duty and responsibility 
seriously. If you believed I turned my back on Sarain for a whim or a fit of 
temper, you'd lose any respect you have for me." She put a hand on the knight's 
shoulder. "Before I met you, I thought the women of our class were useless. 
Those who go to Shang are commoners. Noble families chain their daughters in 
their rooms rather than permit them that life. The K'mir have no one of noble 
blood, only people who earn their honors. But you and I come from overbred 
families, good as ornaments and nothing more. And you are far from useless."
Alanna blushed. "Thayet, you're flattering me. It was easier for me to rebel 
than stay and make something of myself. Why didn't I go to convent school and 
prove ladies are more than ornaments that way?"
Thayet's look was skeptical. "What I'm trying to say is that I look forward to 
creating my own life. In Tortall I can, because I'll be without rank or title." 
She sat on the bed. "I'm going to start a school for the children of commoners. 
Once I sell my jewels, I'll have plenty of money to do so."
Alanna, who had different plans for Thayet, said hastily, "I won't cast you 
adrift when we're there! You'll be our guest—Thom's and Myles's and mine. The 
school's a grand idea, but there are ways and ways to start one."
Thayet shrugged. "Look at me, rattling on when you just woke up." Firmly, she 
tucked blankets around Alanna. "Try to sleep some more." She left, carrying the 
tray.
Sleep was the last thing Alanna wanted. She'd had a week of it. With an effort 
she threw off her blankets and stood. Leaning against a bedpost for support, she 
took inventory: twisted leg—stiff but painless; assorted bruises—fine; gash on 
her chest and bitten lip—cleanly healed; eyes—teary but working; hands—she 
didn't want to think about her hands. Not bad, considering.
She dressed in garments that could be pulled on. Buttons and buckles were more 
than she could handle. She tucked her feet into slippers and clumsily ran a 
brush through her hair. Keeping a watch for well-meaning persons who might shoo 
her back to her room, she escaped to the stables.
The stableboy ran when he saw her, which was convenient. There are times in 
every rider's life when it is necessary to apologize to a horse, but Alanna 
preferred not to have witnesses. It was too embarrassing. Moonlight tried to 
stay aloof as her knight-mistress entered her stall. Alanna offered an apple 
stolen from the common room, stroking the mare and whispering compliments. Soon 
Moonlight was nudging and nuzzling, plainly checking Alanna's hooves, withers 
and flanks. The salve on Alanna's bandages made the mare sneeze.
"I wish Liam forgave this easily," sighed Alanna. She looked up to see Faithful 
sitting on the gate. "Are you angry too?"
I know why you went. Moonlight and the others were worried, the cat said. I've 
been staying here since the Dragon woke and found you gone. Horses are calmer 
people. They also don't throw things at cats. He climbed onto her shoulder, 
draping himself around Alanna's neck.
"Poor Faithful. He didn't really throw things, did he?"
Only when he saw me.
Someone coughed. Coram had been grooming Anvil. Now he leaned against the bay's 
stall, watching.
"Are you going to yell at me, too?" Alanna asked warily.
"I should, I expect. I thought I raised ye to treat blizzards with more 
respect."
"I did. If you hadn't taught me how to dress, how to survive, I wouldn't be here 
now." Alanna wanted so much for him to say it was all right. She couldn't bear 
it if she lost Coram and Liam both.
"Surely ye're not tellin' me it was a simple matter of layerin' yer clothes and 
usin' snowshoes." There was a mocking gleam in his eye.
"No. I used my Gift. Coram, I didn't have a choice. If I'd walked out of here on 
a sunny day, Chitral—the being that holds the pass—would've dumped another storm 
right on my head. If there was a safe way to get the Jewel, I would've followed 
it gladly." To her shame, Alanna felt tears dripping down her cheeks. "Please 
don't be angry with me."
Coram walked over and put his arms around her. "There, now, Lioness," he 
whispered, holding Alanna tightly. "It's just hard to see ye all grown up and 
doin' mighty things." He wiped Alanna's eyes with his handkerchief. "Though I 
don't know why I'm surprised, since ye always told me ye would." He put the 
handkerchief to her nose. "Blow," he said firmly. She obeyed, just as she had 
when she was five. "That's my girl."


Buri, Thayet, and Coram came to share Alanna's dinner, setting their own meals 
up on tables so they could eat together. Since the inn's healer had examined and 
rebandaged her hands, Alanna could use her own knife and fork. That alone lifted 
her spirits—being fed made her feel helpless. Once the maids cleaned up, they 
roasted chestnuts in the hearth and told stories until everyone was yawning. 
Thayet was gathering up her beadwork when Alanna said, "If it's all right, I'd 
like to go the day after tomorrow."
"Are you crazy?" Buri demanded. "You just got up! You said yourself you won't be 
able to grip anything but a fork or spoon for a week!"
Alanna shrugged. "I'd just like to set out. I'll be all right." Meeting Coram's 
eyes, she added, "Moonlight won't let me fall."
Shaking her head, Thayet sighed. "We'll see how you feel tomorrow."
Buri stayed when the other two went out. "I want you to know that it's an honor 
to ride with you, wherever," the girl said shyly. "I just hope someday you'll 
tell me what happened. It must've been awful, the shape you're in." She grinned.
"The innkeeper won't take payment, did Thayet tell you? The healer won't, 
either. The grooms fight over who works on our horses, especially yours. The 
maids cut up the napkin you used for lunch, so they can each have a bit."
"Buri, that's crazy!" Alanna protested.
"Ask them," Buri said impishly. "They say you parted the snows and walked up 
there to do battle with the God of the Roof for his Jewel."
"All this will happen to you someday, once you go out and start performing great 
deeds," Alanna threatened as the girl opened the door. Buri winked and left. 
"What nonsense!" Alanna said to Faithful.
The inn has filled up over the last three days, was the cat's lazy reply. The 
innkeeper raised his prices. He expects a very good year—several very good 
years, in fact. Word gets around fast. He yawned and tucked his nose beneath his 
tail.
Muttering about human folly, Alanna tossed the bedclothes aside and went 
downstairs. Since her friends had been with her until late, only a few people 
remained in the common room, most of them drinkers who were oblivious to 
anything. The innkeeper and a maidservant were cleaning up. Liam sat before the 
fire in a low chair, feet crossed before him, frowning.
"I thought Shang warriors were too dignified to sulk." Alanna hooked a stool 
over so she could sit in front of him.
"Go away, Lady Alanna," he sighed, reaching for a tankard and draining it. The 
innkeeper came with another tankard and a pitcher, pouring mulled cider for them 
both before making himself scarce.
Baffled and hurt, Alanna pinched an earlobe to keep from crying. When she had 
herself under control again, she rasped, "What's wrong with you? Are you 
offended because I didn't take your manly advice? D'you think I did something 
you couldn't have? Is your pride hurt?" She looked at her bandaged hands; they 
were trembling.
A massive hand gripped her chin, turning her face so he could stare into her 
eyes. "Put yourself in my boots." His voice was soft, his face tight. "I sat 
here wondering if you'd live while all around me folk talked about those who 
died of the cold. Moonlight tried to break down the stable door. The hostlers 
had to drug her. Coram—I never want to see a man that drunk again. Thayet and 
Buri were fine. Why shouldn't they be fine? You witched them. Just like you 
witched me."
That's it, Alanna realized. She had known how he felt about magic and she had 
let Faithful spell him anyway. Liam would never trust her again. "Are we 
finished, then?" she whispered.
He let her go. She continued to watch him, waiting. "I don't know, kitten."
At the use of her nickname she felt her chin tremble and her eyes fill. "I am 
sorry. I know it doesn't do any good, but I am. If you'd awakened, you'd've 
stopped me."
Liam nodded. His eyes faded from emerald to a blue-grey she'd never seen before. 
"Seems there's nothing we can do, right? I can't help the way I feel. Not about 
the Gift. And you can't help but use it, nor should you. A tool is meant to be 
used." After a moment he swallowed and added, "I'm sorry, too." His voice was 
cracking. "You probably saw I had my things moved to another room."
"Can we be friends, still?"
"I promise it." He couldn't keep the relief from his voice, which hurt Alanna 
more than anything he'd actually said. She made her excuses and went upstairs to 
cry over Liam Ironarm one more time.


Two days later they set out. Alanna couldn't shake the sense that she had to go 
home, and her companions had caught the feeling from her. Most of the inn's 
staff appeared sorry to say good-bye, although some—like the stableboy—hid their 
eyes in the Doi gesture of fear and respect when they passed. Alanna tossed a 
gold noble to the boy, wanting to make up for the fright her sleep-spell had 
given him. He dropped it with a yelp, refusing to touch it until a maidservant 
had picked it up.
On the road, Alanna stopped for a last glance at Chitral Pass. The snow was 
nearly gone after the spate of spring temperatures that had followed her 
adventure. Green showed on the rocky walls leading up into the surrounding 
mountains. A party of trappers was headed up into Chitral as another company 
descended from Lumuhu Pass. Alanna wondered if Chitral watched her and waved a 
farewell in case he did.
That night they stopped at an inn they'd used on the way north. Where before 
they had been treated no differently from other wayfarers, now they were honored 
guests. The news of Alanna's feat and her possession of the Jewel had spread 
rapidly, and the inn's staff made it plain they considered no service to be too 
small for them to give Alanna and her friends. The landlord refused payment at 
first but learned that the Shang Dragon could be very persistent. The company 
received the same treatment from the staff of the next inn, where they spent 
their second night on the southern road.
As their third day's ride drew to a close, Alanna thought wistfully of a camp 
under the stars. It would be chilly, like any other mountain night, but they 
would have privacy. If the next inn was like the last two, privacy would be in 
short supply. Burdened as she was with mending hands, Alanna didn't want to 
mention it. The others would have to do her work if they camped.
Buri halted when they saw the lights of a town ahead. "I'll meet the rest of you 
in the morning," she announced. "I'd rather freeze to death." She looked 
guiltily at Alanna. "Sorry, Lioness. I forgot you almost did freeze to—"
"Enough, Buri," Alanna growled.
"I have to stay with Buri so she can protect me," announced Thayet. "I'm tired 
of sleeping indoors anyway."
The men looked uncomfortable, and Faithful yowled his disgust with overly 
attentive maids. Alanna sighed in relief. "Let's find a camping spot."


They camped during the remainder of the ride to Port Udayapur, filling their 
bellies with game, wild greens, and oatcakes. Alanna performed any magic—such as 
mending her tattered hands—out of Liam's sight.
By the time they reached the seaport, Alanna had shed her bandages, and her 
friends were comfortable around her again. She sometimes felt a pang of sadness 
when she looked at the Dragon, but she also knew their friendship would last far 
longer than their romance.


Once they were settled at one of Port Udayapur's inns, the travelers met in 
Alanna's room to discuss their next step. No one was surprised when Alanna said, 
"I still can't shake the feeling Coram and I are needed at home. Neither of us 
seems able to make contact with anyone. But I have this sense of trouble there. 
I'm thinking of hiring a ship."
"I thought you didn't like them." Liam sounded as if he didn't care one way or 
another.
Alanna grimaced. "I don't. Please, I'd like all of you to come with us. 
Actually, I'd prefer it. But you may have other plans."
Buri and Thayet exchanged looks. "We don't," Thayet said. "I still want to go to 
Tortall." Buri nodded her agreement.
Alanna smiled. "Good." She picked up Faithful, not wanting Liam to see how 
anxious she was. Things were so bad between them…
"The innkeeper says a Tortallan galley's in the harbor." The Dragon's voice was 
quiet. "I don't know if we can book passage—she's a diplomatic courier. But I 
can ask."
Alanna grinned. He'd said "we."
"Would you? Maybe if you use my name—Trebond and Olau—they'll agree."
Liam nodded and went out. The others followed, Coram to take their snow gear to 
the market and sell it now that they no longer needed such things, Thayet and 
Buri to see the sights. Alanna stayed in her room to nap.
She was roused from her sleep by a knock on the door. When she opened it, one of 
the maidservants dropped in a curtsey. "Excuse me, miss or lady," she began 
nervously. "The gentleman here insisted that he see you." She indicated the very 
large man standing behind her.
The man stood with his back to the hall's torches, which meant Alanna was unable 
to see his face clearly. He had no trouble seeing her, however. A familiar voice 
said, "Praise Mithros, it is you!" and Alanna was seized up in an enthusiastic 
hug. Now she could see that his hair and mustache were black, the same color as 
his wickedly dancing eyes, and that his cheeks were tan and ruddy.
"Raoul?" she whispered, not sure if she believed it. He grinned, and she 
returned the hug with one every bit as fierce. "Goldenlake, you sly fox!" She 
pounded his back in delight as he carried her into her room and kicked the door 
shut. "Look at you! Look at you!" He was as tall as ever. When he put her down, 
she had to tilt her head to see him. "Sit, so I don't hurt myself looking at 
you." He obeyed briefly, only to jump up to hug her again. It was five minutes 
or more before either of them had calmed down enough to make rational 
conversation. Faithful climbed into Raoul's lap to deliver his own welcome while 
Alanna poured fruit juice for them both.
Seeing him was almost as good as coming home. During her palace days Alanna's 
closest friends were all older than she was: Raoul, Gary, Jonathan, and 
sometimes Alex—Alexander of Tirragen. The older boys were squires to Alanna's 
page and knights to her squire. They'd taught her palace ways and let her join 
them in adventures and scrapes. She had introduced all but Alex to George, and 
they had advised her and looked after her.
"What are you doing here?" she finally remembered to ask. "Last I heard, you 
were riding desert patrols." Seeing his dark tan and the bur-noose draped over 
his shoulders, she added, "I see the desert agreed with you. Did you like the 
Bazhir?"
He grinned. "They adopted me. Not your people, the Bloody Hawk. The 
Sandrunners." He'd named a tribe far to the south of Alanna's. "I like the 
Bazhir a lot. All they ask a fellow is to ride and fight and do his share of the 
work—no paying compliments to people you don't like or anything like that."
Alanna grinned. Both Squire Alan and Sir Raoul were notorious for their dislike 
of social functions. "So what brings you here now?" she wanted to know. "Is that 
courier vessel yours? Don't tell me you've turned diplomat." She sat on the bed 
as Raoul's grin faded.
Raoul looked at the cup in his hands. "I'm not ambassador yet. When Myles got 
your letter from Jirokan, the one where you said you might come here after the 
Roof, he told Jon, and Jon sent me to bring you home. He's got messengers all 
along the Great Road, in case you'd changed your mind and decided to return that 
way."
Faithful sat beside Alanna, who was now uneasy. "I didn't know Jon had the 
authority to do such things," she said nervously. "I thought only the King could 
dispatch the diplomatic ships."
"That's right. Jon—" He stopped, looking unhappy. "Look, Alan—No, that's not 
right. Alanna—"
"King Roald is dead?" she whispered.
Raoul nodded. "Let me tell it in the right order. I don't want to skip 
anything." Alanna nodded, feeling stunned. "See, her Majesty died around the 
March new moon. No one was surprised, not really. She wasn't very strong, after 
the Sweating Sickness—you remember. Then Roger tried to kill her, with that 
image of his. After you left, Thom destroyed the image so she wouldn't be hurt 
by it, but the damage was done. It was only a matter of time. Then, with the 
winter so bad, and everything else…" He sighed. "Myles and Thom said you were in 
Berat right about when she passed on."
"I wrote them from there. Black God, give her rest," Alanna murmured. She'd 
never thought of the court without Queen Lianne, even when she tried to envision 
the hazy "someday" when Jon would be King.
Raoul gave Alanna his handkerchief and continued. "The King never got over it; 
you know how they were about each other." Alanna half smiled; the royal couple's 
devotion was plain to anyone with eyes. "It was three weeks later, something 
like that. Near the beginning of April. He went hunting and got separated from 
the rest of the party. He was dead when they found him, an accident. It looked 
like he tried to jump—Remember that gorge, the narrow one about half a league 
above Willow Falls?"
"Of course." She'd jumped Moonlight over that gorge many times. It was very 
deep, and the jump required skill and excellent reflexes. She whispered, "So 
Jon's King."
"Not officially. The coronation's set for the day of the July full moon. He's 
been acting as King ever since her Majesty died, though. The King just wasn't 
interested."
"Jon must be heartbroken."
"He is, but he's never had a chance to get away by himself to mourn. Not with 
things the way they are." When Alanna looked baffled, Raoul started to pale. 
"You don't know, do you?"
Alanna suddenly felt that something—something more—was seriously wrong. "Know 
what, Raoul?"
"You've had no word from Tortall this year? Nothing?"
"The hill roads were almost impassable when Coram and I rode for Berat." What is 
wrong with him? she wondered. Raoul's hands were clenched so tightly in his lap 
that the knuckles were white. "They were still bad in the south because of the 
winter rains. No messengers were corning through. And Berat's too far from the 
sea to get the news from the ships."
"Your Gift, though—?"
"I didn't want to contact anyone with it. I was… busy," she admitted, blushing 
as she thought of Liam. "What difference does my being in touch or not make? By 
April we were in Sarain. No messengers could've found us there."
"This was before April." Raoul's voice was tight. "Remember All Hallow? George 
told us you were with him in Port Caynn." Alanna's blush deepened. "Thom was 
doing experiments—that's what he told everyone."
"He borrowed my Gift." Her stomach sank. She sensed the worst was coming, and 
she wasn't sure she wanted to hear it.
"We didn't know," Raoul said disjointedly. "He kept it secret till late in 
February. It probably finished her Majesty… You remember Delia of Eldorne?"
"Raoul, please spit it out," Alanna pleaded. He seemed not to hear.
"She'd been after Thom since you left. Telling him that the really great 
sorcerers could raise the dead, playing off his pride. Sorry, Alanna, but you 
know how vain he is. Thom finally lost his temper. It was at a court ball; we 
all heard him. He told her he could do anything Denmarie the Earth-Shaker could 
do—"
Alanna felt dizzy. "Roger. He brought Roger back."



CHAPTER FIVE
In the Capital of Tortall
« ^ »
When Queen Lianne died in March, Tortall mourned. Now, after the King's sudden 
death, the nation's feeling was one of shocked disbelief. To lose both in such a 
short time seemed like the work of an angry god.
"The Black God is taking his revenge on us," people muttered. "He's not pleased 
that the Lord of Trebond brought the Duke back from his grave. You can't go 
interfering with the gods without them extracting payment." The rumors spread, 
and gossips began to claim that Jonathan's reign would be cursed.
"As if I don't have enough problems," Jonathan told his acting prime minister, 
Sir Gareth (the Younger) of Naxen.
Gary looked up from the documents he studied, his chestnut eyes worried. His 
cousin looked worn out. "Talking to yourself again?" He said it like a joke.
"The rumors," Jonathan explained.
"They'll pass, particularly since there's no proof. If the gods are angry, why 
would they pick on their Majesties? Why haven't they struck Master Lord Thom 
down? If they want, I'll volunteer for the duty. Thom irritates me. A good 
striking-down might improve him."
"Does he look sick to you?" Jon asked abruptly. "Thom?"
Gary put down his papers. "I don't get close enough to notice how our bold 
sorcerer looks, if I can help it. He never sheathes that tongue of his anymore. 
Why?"
"George mentioned it to me, the other day. Thom does seem thinner."
"He's probably losing sleep while he looks up some old spell or the other. Jon, 
I need your signature on these."
Jonathan obeyed, writing his name over the royal seal on several documents. "I 
still can't get used to signing as ruler of Tortall. I didn't think I'd be King 
for—years." He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. Sympathetic, Gary said 
nothing. After a moment Jon went on. "I feel helpless. I should have done 
something to keep them alive."
"What could anyone have done?" Gary asked sensibly. "Aunt Lianne never got 
really well after Roger's spell was broken. And the King—" He stopped, not 
wanting to touch an unhealed wound.
"He killed himself," Jon whispered. He always forced himself to see the truth, 
and Gary was one of the few who knew the King had deliberately killed himself. 
"How could he do that?"
"He loved her." Gary's voice was soft.
Jonathan shook his head. "Could I love anyone so much I'd forget that I have a 
duty to my people? George says you can smell their fear down in the Lower City. 
I can't blame them for thinking there's a curse—not with the famine last winter, 
and then—this. And what can I tell them that will give them confidence? They 
don't know me. They didn't really know my father." He returned the documents to 
his cousin. "Once things have settled down, I'm going to visit every corner of 
Tortall. I won't be a King who stays in his palace and waits for his people to 
come to him." His face was set and stubborn. "I hope Alanna really can bring us 
the Dominion Jewel."
"Do you think the messengers will find her?" Gary asked.
"One of them will. One of them has to."


As Jonathan and Gary talked, George Cooper entered his mother's house. A message 
from Corus had brought him home from Port Caynn at a gallop. Claw, frustrated by 
months of trying to kill George, had done the unthinkable and attacked a 
noncombatant, Eleni Cooper. Men and women loyal to George had turned back
Claw's forces, and now Mistress Cooper's home resembled an army camp, complete 
with wary sentries.
When her son walked into the kitchen, Eleni was sorting and boxing the herbs she 
used as a healer. Pots holding some potions bubbled on the hearth, filling the 
air with the scent of herbs.
"It could have been worse," she told George. "None of your people were killed, 
and I'm all right."
George scowled. "This time, Mother. What of the next time, and the next? He 
attacked a woman who's not sealed to the Rogue. Claw will respect none of our 
laws if he breaks this one. He don't care who gets hurt. He don't care if my 
Lord Provost descends on us with soldiers to rid the city of us and our wars. He 
cares nothin' for them he bribes and forces to follow him. They can end on 
Gallows Hill, and Claw will make no move to save them. It isn't right. He wants 
to be Rogue, but he won't look after those sealed to him as is his duty." He 
accepted the cup of herbal tea she poured for him and sipped it without noticing 
what he drank. "Our greatest advantage lay always in never causin' enough 
trouble that my Lord Provost would be interested in cleanin' the Lower City of 
us."
"You'll find a way to deal with him," Eleni told him. She labeled a packet of 
comfrey leaves. "I've never known you to admit defeat, George."
"Sometimes I start believin' the rumors," George whispered, looking tired. 
"Let's face it, Mother—a man killed once should stay dead."
Eleni sat across from him at the table. "Thank the Goddess his Gift didn't leave 
the tomb with him."
"We've only his word for that, and Thom's." George spooned honey into his tea. 
"I think sometimes all our troubles since October stem from those two. No, 
that's unfair. I let Alanna go myself."
"She could have waited for you in Port Caynn," Eleni reminded him.
George smiled ruefully. "I try not to ask the impossible of her, Mother. She's 
not a lass who waits at home for her man."
"She could have returned here with you."
George shook his head. "She didn't wish to face our nobles again. I think her 
memories of Jonathan still hurt."
"Perhaps you should go after her, then. You haven't been yourself since she 
returned to the desert." Taking one of his hands, she added, "It would please me 
to know you had stopped your courting of the hangman's noose."
George squeezed her hand. "I can't, Mother, not yet. I've a few things to finish 
up here, first." His face was bleak. "Besides, didn't I tell you? The news from 
Maren and Sarain is she's keepin' company with the Shang Dragon. How can a 
commoner and a rogue rival the likes of the King of Tortall and Liam Ironarm?"
Eleni frowned. "It's not like you to feel sorry for yourself, or to give up 
without a fight."
George patted his mother's cheek. "I haven't. I'm just givin' Alanna her head 
while I see to things here." He grinned, and Eleni grinned back. Finishing his 
tea, he added, "Speakin' of that, we need to take steps. Claw may be fool enough 
t'try this again."
"Be careful, George," she teased. "You risk getting tangled in the affairs of 
law-abiding people like me. Respectability might be catching." Seeing he 
continued to frown, she said tartly, "What would you do, surround me with the 
King's Own?"
He looked at her, and a wide grin spread over his face. "You know, Mother, you 
may have an idea there."


A few hours later George took his mother to call on Myles of Olau in his town 
house. Bazhir guards admitted them and escorted them to the knight's study. The 
servants hurried to bring Myles and his guests refreshments. George they knew 
for a frequent guest, but none of them had ever seen the woman who accompanied 
him. Gossip buzzed in the kitchens as the tribesmen who attended Myles looked 
on.
Alanna's father looked from George to Eleni after hearing George's request, 
tugging his shaggy beard. "I'd be delighted if Mistress Cooper wishes to stay in 
my house. I didn't know things were so bad for you, though."
"Claw's not givin' up easy," George said grimly. "And he knows he can hurt me 
through Mother. Here, with all these Bazhir about, she'll be safe. You have 
archers enough."
"It comes of my daughter being the Woman Who Rides Like a Man," Myles told 
Eleni, his eyes twinkling. "I adopted her, and they adopted me." He took Eleni's 
hand. "Alanna's told me about you, and you are the mother of my friend George. I 
welcome the chance to do you a service, Mistress Cooper."
She looked him over. "I hate to leave my home," she admitted. "But while my son 
makes his life among rogues, I must be careful. Thank you, Sir Myles. I accept 
sanctuary in your house."
"Then it must be 'Myles.' " The knight kissed her hand.
"As I am 'Eleni.'"
Myles held Eleni's hand a moment too long, making George think. This possibility 
hadn't occurred to him before. A fine thing, to be gettin' a new Pa at my age, 
he thought with a grin.


Thom dropped into an armchair with a sigh. The bright colors of his silk robe 
overwhelmed his pale face and dull copper hair, bleaching his eyes to a light 
amethyst. He rubbed a hand over his chapped mouth, wincing as a crack began to 
bleed.
Roger of Conte walked in. "So you're back. I was just finishing my notes on 
Palawynn the Windwaker."
"Thank you," Thom rasped, watching as Roger took a seat. In contrast, the Duke 
was the picture of health: gleaming brown-black hair and beard, brilliant 
sapphire eyes, glowing skin. He didn't look as if he'd spent ten months in a 
tomb, to emerge as a magicless sorcerer.
So here's an irony, Thom thought. I raise him from death, and seven months later 
I look as if I just crawled out of the grave. "I just had another cozy talk with 
his soon-to-be Majesty," he announced bitterly. "This time he brought my Lord 
Provost. I don't like that old man—I never did." Mimicking, he went on, "Was I 
still sure you have no Gift? Would I report it if you showed signs of getting it 
back? Have I noticed you conspiring with anyone? Do I suspect you of involvement 
in the King's death? or the Queen's? or my third cousin's, the one who was 
struck by lightning!" His face turned an ugly red. "They asked me if I trust 
you," he added sullenly.
Roger inspected his fingernails. "Do you?" he inquired in his melodic voice.
"Of course I don't. I don't trust anyone."
"Except your sister," Roger pointed out. "What did they say?"
"Nothing, this time," Thom replied, puzzled. "Usually I get a lecture about my 
duty to spy on you and report my suspicions, but this time—nothing."
"I see. Is there word of your twin?"
Thom glanced sharply at him, a look Roger met with a bland expression. 
"Jonathan's had word from some Udayan hedgewitch," he said reluctantly. "Sir 
Raoul found Alanna there. It's possible they'll sail into Port Caynn sometime 
next week."
"You must be pleased," Roger murmured. "Didn't I hear somewhere she is prone to 
seasickness?"
"Very." Thom grinned. "To think I'd forgotten that."
"Does gossip say if she found whatever it was that took her to the Roof of the 
World?"
For the thousandth time Thom wondered how Roger really felt about the woman who 
had killed him. "If his Majesty knows, he's keeping quiet about it. We'll find 
out for ourselves, soon enough. Are you looking forward to her coming home?"
Picking up a crystal, Roger shrugged. "I plan to stay out of her way. Shall I 
start on the Dragon-breaker scrolls next?"
"Do as you like," Thom snapped. "I'm not your jailer or your keeper."
Roger smiled, turning on his charm. "I owe you a great debt, dear boy. If not 
for you, I'd be caught still between here and the Realms of the Dead. If I can 
repay you, I will."
"They'll never trust you," Thom said, red with shame. "They watch everything you 
do for a sign you've regained your Gift."
Roger stood. "Believe me, Thom—if my magic returns, you will be the very first 
to know."


The Inn of the Dancing Dove was quiet. It was an hour before sunset, and the 
city's rogues still prowled the streets. George looked around the empty common 
room, aware—not for the first time—that he no longer enjoyed being master here.
In part it was his war with Claw. It had begun when George had visited Port 
Caynn, to put down a revolt and then to have a love affair with Alanna. Four 
months ago Claw had moved to become King of the Thieves in George's absence. He 
had used blackmail to force many to follow him, and then he'd tried to poison 
George. George had come to the city to save his throne, and Alanna had returned 
to her Bazhir. George had known then that he'd probably lost her.
When George was younger, things were different. A would-be king challenged the 
old one to a fight before witnesses. The winner took the thronelike chair at the 
Dancing Dove and a tenth of the profit on each major transaction and theft. He 
gave the choicest jobs and judged quarrels. He was king of the Tortallan 
underworld and received far more obedience than his people would ever give the 
King in the palace.
Claw would not fight. Claw swore loyalty to George while his men attacked George 
nightly. Many rogues changed their allegiance on a day-today basis, depending on 
who appeared to be the winner. Only George's oldest friends kept faith with him.
The only interest George now had in the Rogue was the effort to bring Claw down. 
And he hoped finding out who Claw really was would help. Myles had put a man to 
investigating Claw's secret past. The history the one-eyed rogue had given 
George on his arrival in Corus was as false as his name. In other thieves this 
hardly mattered, but Claw spoke and acted at times like a noble.
"Majesty!" A street boy George didn't know rushed in. "Majesty, come quick! 
Claw's took by Provost-men!"
George followed the boy through the rear entrance, still deep in thought. When 
he emerged, a man struck him from behind, knocking him into the mud of the 
kitchen yard. George cleared two knives from their sheaths at his waist. This is 
how you pay, he thought grimly as he slashed and struck. You forget to be 
watchful and the Black God taps your shoulder…
He slashed again; someone screamed. The man on his back fell off. George lunged 
to his feet, his knives sweeping in a silver arc. Of the gang surrounding him, 
he took one in the throat and the next low. A fourth jumped from the kitchen 
roof onto his shoulders. George rammed backward into a wall to stun his 
assailant.
A swordsman attacked. A line of pain streaked from George's shoulder to his 
thigh. Gritting his teeth, George threw one of his knives, hitting the swordsman 
in the chest.
The kitchen yard boiled with enemies. Where were his own people? He found 
another of his many concealed knives and faced a man with a hand-axe. This one 
bellowed and charged, but four arrows cut his voice off. He never completed his 
attack. Black arrows rained as rearing Bazhir warhorses cut off all chances for 
escape. Within a second the only sound in the kitchen yard was that of the 
horses.
"You're lucky I was coming to visit," Myles said as he rode up. Dismounting, he 
caught George as the thief staggered. "You need a healer!"
George shook his head, as much to clear it as to say "no."
"Solom," he muttered. Myles helped him into the Dancing Dove's kitchen. Just 
inside the door they found old Solom and two serving girls, dead.


George was still recuperating in Myles's house two days later when a servant 
interrupted the knight at his lunch to say Dalil al Marganit awaited him in the 
library. Myles put down his knife and scrubbed at his face rapidly with a 
napkin. Al Marganit was the man he'd put to work seeking Claw's true identity. 
He'd used the little Sirajit agent before and could count on him to find out 
almost anything.
When Myles entered the library, the agent rose and bowed. He gestured to the 
bowl of fruit and the Tyran wine the servants had already brought him, saying, 
"I am treated like a noble in this house."
Myles sat behind his desk with a smile. "You deserve that treatment, Dalil. Sit 
down, please. What have you learned for me?"
The little man took a notebook from inside his tunic and leafed through blotted 
pages. Nearsighted, he had to bring the pages so close to his eyes that they 
tickled his nose. He sneezed. "Regarding the matter of the thief Claw. Hm! Yes! 
Arrested by my Lord Provost's men two years ago. Charge of suspected robbery, 
released for lack of evidence. Our Provost is scrupulous in such matters, unlike 
many in his place, as your lordship knows. Arrested five months ago in the Dock 
Riots, escaped. He's now sought by Provost's men. They do not look as hard as 
they might; one assumes he has paid large bribes.
"I traced the subject Claw to Vedis in Galla, where he claims to originate. He 
is unknown in the cities Vedis, Nenet, and Jyotis in Galla, all having large 
communities of thieves. Going by my lord's guess that Claw's accent is that of 
the Lake Region in Tortall and that Claw was born of nobles either legitimately 
or illegitimately, I journeyed to the Lake Region with a good drawing of the 
subject Claw. Here is an accounting of my expenses." He gave Myles a sheet of 
notepaper, which the knight barely glanced at.
Al Marganit closed the notebook and looked at Myles. "Claw is Ralon of Malven…"
Myles turned white. Another of Alanna's enemies! No one had seen or heard from 
him in years. While he'd thought Claw might be illegitimate and trained by his 
noble-born parent's teachers, he'd never considered the possibility that Claw 
was a true-born son of a noble family, hiding in the Court of the Rogue! He 
realized the agent was looking at him, worried. Forcing a smile, he said, "It's 
all right. Go on."
The little man shrugged and continued. Obviously Sir Myles wasn't going to tell 
him why he looked as if he'd just stepped on a grave. "He is the third son of 
Viljo, Count of Malven, and his lady Gaylyah. He was disinherited after the 
attempted rape of the second daughter of the bailiff, Anala, a village in 
Eldorne hold. Eldorne is the neighbor of Malven." A connection between Claw and 
Delia? Myles wondered. He scribbled a note to himself as Dalil continued. "The 
girl's maid threw acid in his face, thereby leaving the purple scars of which 
you spoke, and causing him to lose an eye. If I may refresh my lord's memory, 
Ralon of Malven left court at the age of fourteen, after months of feuding with 
the page Alan of Trebond. Or, if I may be so bold, in the matter of Alanna of 
Trebond and Olau."
Myles gave an absent smile. "Though blessed few of us knew it, then. Ralon of 
Malven! How could I have forgotten?"
"He is well disguised, my lord. He came, as bad men will, to make his name among 
rogues. He battles the present King of Thieves for his throne, but he will not 
call for an open fight as the custom decrees. Instead, he fights with treachery. 
Unlike the legitimate Rogue, Ralon as Claw will hire to do murder or to ruin a 
good name. He will betray those who follow him." The little man shook his head. 
"A noble gone bad, my lord. There's no stopping him, not at all. He will say 
that he is owed something, and he has come to collect."
Myles sent al Marganit home with well-earned praise and a fat purse. The agent 
had never failed him, and this time he'd succeeded past Myles's greatest dreams. 
The knight considered every aspect of what he'd learned for an hour or so, then 
went to tell Eleni Cooper and her son.


Chance, and the first sunny day in more than a week, brought large numbers of 
people to the Corus marketplace that spring morning. Jonathan, after much 
persuasion, agreed to go riding—his first such outing since the King's funeral. 
He was a commanding figure in mourning black, flanked by Roger and Sir Gary, 
both also in black. With them rode other knights and ladies, including Delia of 
Eldorne, Alex of Tirragen, and Princess Josiane of the Copper Isles.
The company was a beautiful sight, even in their mourning colors of black, 
lavender, and grey. A crowd soon gathered in the market to watch them pass. The 
men of the King's Own—many of them uniformed Bazhir, these days—exchanged wary 
looks and kept an eye on the people who closed in on the riding party. They were 
disturbed by the crowd's silence. No one called blessings on the King-to-be; 
many made the Sign against evil when Roger passed them. There were no cheers. 
The usual audible and sometimes satiric comments on the nobles' dress and 
private lives were missing.
George Cooper watched. He'd risked reopening his wounds and being spotted by 
Claw's or the Provost's men to see how people received their new King. He 
scanned faces in the crowd, trying to find any feelings other than suspicion or 
wariness.
"That Conte Duke looks like a king," someone muttered. "Against him Prince 
Jonathan's a boy."
"I never heard bad of the Prince," someone else hissed. "I've heard plenty bad 
about his Grace! Ain't natural for a man t'live twice—"
"Th' Prince be cursed," came a third voice, cracked with age. "Th' Sweatin' 
Sickness when he was a lad, that took my Alish, and both his parents dead, and 
him, the sorcerer, come back—"
"He drove the evil from the Black City, away south," a fourth voice argued. "He 
made peace with the Bazhir. The old King, his grandda, couldn't even do that."
"He helped a woman make herself a knight. If that ain't unnatural—"
"Hush! Crowds is full of spies, and you've a loose tongue in your head!"
The people stirred with interest as the Lord Provost rode up to change places 
with Gary. George's long-time enemy was blue eyed and lean, his face leathery 
from years in the sun and framed by heavy silver hair and a short silver beard. 
The Tortall rogues called him "The Old Demon" and were intensely proud of him; 
foreign rogues made the Sign when he was mentioned.
The people in the crowd, the honest ones, liked the fierce old man. Someone 
applauded, then someone else. A woman raised a cheer and was joined by others.
Jonathan smiled. Someone cried, "God bless you, Majesty!" This received a cheer 
from many, and George smiled at the fickle nature of the crowd.
A woman in front of the riding party held her child up to see, and shrieked when 
the toddler wriggled out of her hands and ran into the cluster of riders. Jon 
swung far to the right and down, seizing the child with one hand and scooping it 
up out of danger from the horses' hooves. Darkness reared and plunged at his 
rider's activity, but the King-to-be held him as the child wailed. The Provost 
gripped Darkness's bridle, forcing the stallion down.
Jonathan dismounted, carrying the squalling toddler. The mother ran forward 
under the glares of the King's Own, laughing and crying, to take her little one 
back. She hugged Jon in one arm and the child in the other, thanking the young 
man. Her words were inaudible against the cheer that went up as word circulated 
about what Jon had done. Uneasy for some reason, George left his niche and began 
to make his way through the crowd, heading for the group of nobles.
His intuition was good. A man near the party drew a knife from his belt and ran 
for Jonathan while George was too far away to help. The attacker was screaming 
something. Later the Provost told Myles it sounded like "Death to the unlucky 
King!"
Jonathan was tangled in woman and child. His companions were hampered by the 
crowd and their own horses. It was Darkness who came to his master's defense, 
rearing to strike the assassin with his hooves. The man went down as other 
killers swathed in cloaks appeared out of the crowd.
George tackled one and knifed another. The Provost had dismounted and was 
fighting with knives, grinning fiercely as he caught one man on crossed blades 
and kneed him. Horses reared, ladies screamed, and the Great Market Riot had 
begun.
Of it all, George remembered only the moment when he and the Provost—for the 
first time in their long war—came face-to-face in the melee. Given a choice, he 
would have relinquished the honor. Now he froze, letting the assassin he'd 
targeted get away. The Provost looked at him, turned, and disappeared back into 
the crowd. Had he winked?
Accompanied by his most trusted people—the brothers Orem and Shem, the knife 
masters Ercole and Marek—George reached Jonathan's party to find the King-to-be 
nursing a wounded arm. The King's Own closed in, forming a tight circle around 
Gary, Jonathan, and Josiane. Roger was nowhere to be seen, the thief noted. The 
Provost was mounting his horse, secure in the middle of a second ring of guards. 
George's shoulder wound had opened and was bleeding again.
He ignored it. "I know a way out!" he called to Jon. "If you'll trust me!"
The leader of the King's Own glanced at the Prince, who nodded. George guided 
Jon's party into a side street and out of the riot, keeping an eye out for 
assassins. He and his people left the nobles on the Temple Way when others of 
the riding party arrived and a second company of the King's Own came riding down 
from the palace.
"It was Claw," George told Eleni and Myles at House Olau soon after. He winced 
as his mother applied yet another poultice to his reopened shoulder. "The 
assassins were his, every one, and they wanted Jon."
"What does Claw gain if anything happens to Jonathan?" Myles wanted to know. 
"He's not connected to anyone at the palace who would benefit—not as far as I've 
heard. Although Delia—"
"I find it interestin' that his Grace of Conte got out so easy," George drawled, 
propping his feet on a hassock. "But you're right, it still makes no sense. 
'Twas too easy for the innocent to get hurt along with the guilty this mornin'. 
If he planned it, he ran as great a risk of bein' trampled as the rest of us."
Eleni shook her head sadly. "I'm worried about those who got hurt in this 
madness. I'd best go see what I may do." She stood, shaking out her skirts. "But 
isn't that always the way when folk plot to steal power? The innocent get hurt."
The final toll of the Great Market Riot was fifteen dead, thirty-six hurt 
(including the King-to-be), and untold damages to shops and stalls. The 
atmosphere of suspicion and fear thickened. In spite of it, or perhaps because 
of it, Jonathan began to ride once a week through the capital and the 
surrounding countryside.


Jonathan watched the stars appear from a castle balcony, relaxing as he prepared 
himself for a night among his court. Again Josiane would try to win him back, 
and again he'd keep her at a distance. Not for the first time he regretted his 
involvement with the Princess from the Copper Isles. He'd tired of her quickly, 
and she'd been reluctant to understand that. Now that he knew her better, he 
also realized that, in spite of his mother's plans for Josiane, the Princess 
would have made a very bad Queen.
Still, he had to smile. He'd just come from his time as the Voice of the Tribes. 
In touch with Co-ram for the first time since January, he'd learned that the 
wayfarers had reached Maren's western border and would anchor in Tyra in the 
morning. Soon Alanna would be home, and he could put his Lioness—and the 
Dominion Jewel—to work.


That's all of it, Majesty." The humpbacked man known as Aled the Armorer 
fidgeted. "I wish Claw'd never come t'me. I don't like this, nor the 
consequences if words leaks out of what's afoot."
George sprawled in his chair, rubbing his chin as he surveyed his informant. His 
hazel eyes glittered through his lashes, making the armorer twist his cap into a 
knot. "Mayhap Claw fed you a tale, Aled. It won't be the first time a man tested 
loyalty by givin' out a lie."
"He paid gold for his tale, then," Aled whined. "Asides, he don't know I've been 
sellin' tTsham Killmaster and Kasi the Spy these five years. Only Killmaster 
favors armor in the K'miri style but lacquered black like they never do. And the 
Spy—"
"Enough. If you say that's who's involved, I must trust you. I pay you enough."
"T'ain't just the gold, Majesty," Aled protested. "My mam raised no fools. 
They's one fate for them as kills a king." His gesture illustrated the fate 
clearly. "I'm afeared of Claw, bein's he's crazier'n a priest, but Provost's 
justice is fast. Our folk be crooked, but loyal all the same. If they knew Claw 
was up t'this, them that helps 'im wouldn't life t'face the Provost. I'm between 
Goddess and Black God with no place to run."
George tossed a silver noble to the Armorer, who caught it and bit it (to make 
sure it wasn't fake). "Not a word to Claw, Aled."
The other man winced. He knew what Claw would do to him if the news he'd talked 
to George leaked out. "No, indeed, Majesty!" He left the Dancing Dove, 
muttering.
George stared into the distance. When Alanna had introduced him to Jonathan, he 
knew the day might come when his duty to the Rogue would conflict with his 
friendship with the Prince. That time had come. What was he to do? A rescue in a 
riot, with everyone too excited to think clearly, was one thing. Informing on a 
plot was another. The marketplace assassins were dead and Claw in hiding, so no 
good would have come of his saying who'd started the whole thing. But Aled's 
tale had concerned corrupt servants, and a new plot that reached from the palace 
to Claw.
George grew up in the Lower City, learning the underworld's laws: obey the 
Rogue; pay his tax; and—most importantly—never betray a fellow Rogue to the 
King's Justice. The penalty was slow death. A year ago George would have been 
the last to consider such a betrayal. But that was before Claw changed things.
Jonathan was his friend. They'd spent many good evenings together; they'd loved 
the same woman; they both knew what kingship meant. In some ways Jon was closer 
to him than Alanna—she couldn't conceive the burdens of a king, and Jon had 
never known anything else.
Either I've turned stupid, or life's turned hard, he thought with a sigh.


The first thing Thom of Trebond noticed, returning late to his palace rooms, was 
that the door to his study was not closed. "I'll turn the maids into fish if 
they left the door ajar!" he roared, slamming the door open.
The shadowy figure sitting by his hearth was thrown into relief by the glow from 
Thom. "I can see we'll not be needin' candles," George drawled."Close the door. 
There's a good lad."
Thom stared at his guest, then obeyed. As he slumped into a chair, he demanded, 
"What're you doing here at this hour? Up to no good, I bet."
"Why must you ask? Don't you see all that happens in your tea cup in the 
mornin'?" George's voice was bitter. He'd just come from telling Jon about the 
newest threat to his life—from betraying the Rogue, part of his mind insisted.
Thom tried to read George's face, but the glow he cast wasn't that strong. Not 
yet, he thought bitterly. "You haven't done something—Rogue-ish, have you?"
George glared at him. "Don't play me for an innocent, Thommy my lad. If I wanted 
to tell you, I would. It chances that I don't."
Thom shrugged. "As you wish." He threw fire at the candles beside George; it was 
too much, consuming half of the fat wax sticks. He looked at the thief to see 
what he made of it, but only a slight crinkling around George's eyes gave away 
that he'd noticed anything unusual.
"Say something." Thom's voice was tight. "Everyone else has! I heard Baird tell 
Jonathan perhaps the Mithrans let me go too soon." When George didn't reply, he 
yelled, "Say it, damn you!"
"You keep things chilly in here," was the mild reply. "I know this old pile's 
hard to warm, and it's near midsummer and all—"
Thom laughed and could not stop. He buried his face in his hands, his thin body 
shaking. George rose, a worried look in his eyes, and put a hand on Thom's 
shoulder.
"Don't!" the sorcerer cried, but it was too late. George pulled back his hand 
after only a brief touch: Thom was far hotter than any mortal could be and still 
live.
"Black God's belly, Thom! How long've you been like this?"
The younger man shook his head. "I have no idea." He saw George shiver. "Go 
ahead—start a fire. It doesn't make a difference. I'd do it myself, but—" He 
looked at the candles.
George knelt to use flint and steel to start a blaze. Watching it burn, he said 
cautiously, "I was struck by old Si-cham, when we visited you at the City."
"No. No, I tell you! Have him come, and gloat—"
"He didn't look like the gloatin' kind to me, lad. He would've liked you, had 
you given him a chance. He was a bright young sprout himself, once."
Bloodshot amethyst eyes stared at him. "D'you think this is some trouble I 
stumbled into, that my teaching-master can get me out of? A safety measure I 
didn't take? Some bit of carelessness that can be mended by someone older and 
more experienced?"
"No. That kind of mistake's known right off, and it's often fatal. But Si-cham 
may've seen what's wrong with you before—"
"I don't want to hear it." Thom's voice was flat as he wiped his eyes on his 
sleeve. "They were jealous of me in the City, all of those masters. There's 
nothing they'd like better than to see me caught in a mistake."
George considered his next remark carefully, knowing he was on dangerous ground. 
Finally he decided to speak anyway. "What of Duke Baird, him that's chief of the 
palace healers? Mayhap he—"
Thom giggled in earnest, his laugh hoarse with disuse. "Baird! What do I tell 
him? That—that—" He caught his breath. "I have a cold in my Gift?"
George smiled. "Does your friend know?"
They both knew who he meant. "If he does, he keeps it to himself. I 
can't—won't—ask him." Softly Thom added, "I'm afraid to." He looked at George, 
his face white and pinched. "I believe he knows exactly what it is." He jumped 
out of his chair. "Are you happy? Will you tell Myles he was right all along? 
Why not tell Jon, while you're at it? You have no proof he's whole again, no 
proof!" Tears ran down his cheeks.
"Lad, calm down," George said, keeping his alarm hidden. "You're wearin' me 
out."
Thom laughed."I don't have any proof, either," he went on tiredly. "But what 
else can I think, except that somehow he can do this? It's that or… I have to 
believe the gods turned away from me. Because I thought and said it would be 
easy to make myself a god."
"If there's anyone you can ask—"
"No one. I made sure of that, didn't I? This will pass. I'll find a 
cure—something. I haven't looked in the right places."
George knew a dismissal when he heard it. He gathered up his cloak.
"Thank you." It was a whisper.
"I did nothin' to be thanked for this night," George said harshly. "Not for you, 
not for anyone."
"You listened, even though I've tried my best to discourage you. And you didn't 
say you've warned me. If he is doing something."
George nodded and left. Thom watched the fire for a moment, then rasped three 
words. A wave of sea water broke over the hearth, toppled the candles and doused 
the fire before vanishing. He sat for the rest of the night, smelling scorched 
wood, ocean, and wet carpeting.
The thief, who was gone from Thom's thoughts when the door closed, went to his 
most recent hideout. At dawn George's messenger rode north to the City of the 
Gods with George's urgent letter to Si-cham, First Master of the Order of 
Mithros.


Several nights after George had passed on his information, Jonathan and the Lord 
Provost laid their plans to catch the conspirators. They met in a room near the 
servants' quarters. By Jonathan's command, Roger was also present."You are in 
charge, my lord," Jon told the Provost when his cousin arrived. "Give us your 
instructions."
The Provost opened a hidden panel that led to the maze of secret passages and 
servants' corridors in this section of the palace. "We'll be able to see and 
hear everything. My boys were able to fix the room, thanks to all this advance 
warnin'. But neither of you make a sound, or you'll blow the game." The old man 
was common-born and it showed in his speech. "If they say what it's claimed they 
will, I'll signal the arrest."
"I cannot see why my presence is necessary," Roger commented. He looked bored.
Jonathan glanced at him and snapped, "Call it my whim, Roger."
"Since when does the King-to-be take part in spying, even on a whim?" Roger's 
melodic voice was filled with sarcasm.
"We're spyin' on would-be regicides," the Provost said drily. "King-killers."
"A plot against my cousin? What folly!" Roger's voice sharpened. "You suspect 
me, Jonathan?"
"You haven't been implicated," was the cool reply.
"I thought I was to be forgiven my—earlier errors," said Roger bitterly.
"Do your friends feel the same way?" Jon demanded. "Perhaps you should ask them. 
If you don't know the answer already!"
"Enough!" the Provost ordered. "Let's get movin'."
They threaded through the corridors until they met one of the Provost's men. 
Quietly the three of them were guided to spy holes in the corridor wall. 
Shielded from notice inside the room, the holes nevertheless allowed them to see 
and hear what took place inside. Three servants stood, sat, or paced the room, 
according to their natures. With a start Jonathan recognized his groom of 
chambers and the maid who brought him food or drink late at night. The third 
man, a nailbiter, wore the uniform of the Palace Guard, the rivals of the King's 
Own.
Jon sneaked a look at Roger to see his cousin's reaction. Roger's mouth was set 
in a grim line as he watched the scene before him. He didn't appear upset or 
worried, reactions Jon had half expected.
"When're they coming?" the Guard snapped. "If my sergeant inspects—"
"You said he never inspects." The girl's voice was clear and cold.
"But if he does, tonight—"
"Keep your breeches on," the groom ordered scornfully. "If you followed your 
orders, everything will proceed according to plan."
There were two raps on the door—everyone inside stiffened. There were two more 
raps, a pause, then two more. The maid undid the bolt and let four men in. One 
was Jonathan's favorite palace scribe, who had apparently guided those with him 
to the meeting place. Putting aside his bitterness over the scribe's betrayal, 
Jon turned his attention to the outsiders.
He recognized Claw—Ralon of Malven—from his description. The other two he 
assumed to be the assassins, the Spy and the Killmaster—they had the look of 
paid killers.
The maid bolted the door as Claw looked around. "You were careful on your way 
here?" he demanded of the servants. Jon smiled grimly. Unlike Myles, he knew 
Ralon's voice instantly. "No one followed?" Claw went on, checking the corners 
of the room. He apparently was unable to keep still. "Woe to any of you if you 
betray me."
"None of us dare betray anyone," the groom answered. "We're all in too deep." He 
tossed a packet of documents on the table in the center of the room. "Here's my 
part of it. Diagrams of the King's rooms and every way to get in or out."
The Guard put a paper on the table. "Here's the nights I'm on duty at the 
kitchen gate. But I don't want to hear details—"
Claw put his hand on his dagger hilt, his single eye suddenly wild. "You hear 
whatever I want you to hear! And when I want your opinions, I'll tell you to 
give them!" The Guard shrank back, frightened. At the edge of his vision Jon saw 
the Provost give a hand signal to one of his men. The man nodded and trotted 
away silently.
"Memorize their faces," Claw was telling the assassins when Jon focused on the 
room again. "So you know who to kill if we're betrayed." The assassins looked 
slowly at each of the servants until the others were clearly frightened. 
Suddenly Claw leaned over the table and drew his finger over the surface. He 
stared at his fingertip for a moment before turning on the maid.
"You said no one ever uses this room. But there's no dust on the table."
The maid steeled herself. "I came in and dusted around. I didn't want to breathe 
ten years' worth of dirt—"
Claw backhanded her viciously. "Stupid female!" Walking straight back until he 
was inches away from the Lord Provost's spy hole, he drew a finger down the 
intricate molding of the screen that masked the wall and the openings in it. He 
brought it away clean.
"And you dusted back here, too?" he screamed at the maid. He ran for the door 
and yanked it open as he drew his sword.
The Provost's men outside were caught unaware and unready. Claw cut down one of 
them as the assassins rushed to follow. The Provost had already left at a run. 
Jonathan and Roger drew back from the wall.
"Tell me you knew nothing of this—cousin," Jon snapped. "Tell me this isn't yet 
another of your plots to gain the throne. I don't care if you didn't bespell my 
mother one more time. It was because of your past work that she lost the 
strength to live. What is there to stop me from believing this is just another 
of your schemes? That you want my throne as badly as you ever did?"
Roger gripped Jon's arm. "I had no knowledge of a plot. I'll swear it by any of 
your gods," the Duke hissed. "If those who planned this did so for reasons they 
claim involve me, I shall hunt them down and—disabuse them of their mistake. In 
the name of the Goddess and the Black God, I swear I do not want your throne. 
Does that satisfy you?"
He'd just invoked two deities famous for their fierce punishments for 
oath-breakers. Reluctantly, Jon nodded. "You say 'your gods.' Don't you believe 
in them?"
Roger's smile was bitter. "I believe in them. Only a fool does not. Since they 
have made it very clear they do not like me, I refuse to worship them." He 
stared into the distance, his eyes glittering. "But they can be defeated, 
Jonathan. The right man can shake their thrones."
A few minutes later a slightly mussed Provost found Jonathan alone in the 
passage. "We have all of them but Claw," he said wearily. "And two of my lads 
are dead. The others might wish they was dead, once I get through with them for 
lettin' Claw escape."
"He's slippery," Jonathan said absently. "I have every faith that you'll get 
another chance at him, though."


Eleni Cooper came awake, feeling uneasy. In her own home that feeling meant 
someone needed her as a healer. Deciding it couldn't be different here, she 
pulled on a robe and ran downstairs. A bleary-eyed maidservant held up a lamp as 
Bazhir guards helped three people in at the door. One Bazhir gave orders to 
others outside: Eleni saw the glitter of drawn swords as the door was closed and 
barred.
"Mistress Cooper!" Relief was in the maid's sleepy face. "These people say 
they're friends of Master George."
Eleni recognized them. "Marek Swiftknife, can't you keep yourself in one piece?" 
She ran forward, taking charge of a pale and bloody Rispah while still lecturing 
Marek. "It's only six months since I patched you up last!"
Marek tried to smile. "Sorry, Mother Cooper."
"We need the empty storeroom," Eleni told the maid. "And wake Myles—"
"Unnecessary." The knight hurried downstairs, his hair and beard in disarray. 
"Mistress Cooper needs her bag, Tereze. Wake the housekeeper. We need clean 
linen and boiling water!" He opened the storeroom.
"You're learning," Eleni said with a smile. She helped Rispah onto a clean table 
in the unused room. "Who's the worst hurt?"
"Ercole, then Marek," Rispah whispered. "I'm all right, Aunt."
Marek held a wadded burnoose to a wound in his side; another in his thigh bled 
freely. "They got Ercole five times," he told Myles as Eleni laid the oldest of 
the three on his table.
The healer looked at one of the Bazhir. "Someone must go for Mistress Kuri 
Tailor, House Kuri on Weaver's Lane. She's a friend, a healer, and I need help." 
The man bowed and was gone as she stripped Ercole down.
Myles's servants brought Eleni everything she needed. As she cleaned Ercole's 
wounds, Marek talked to Myles. "It was Claw—he found us, him and his people. He 
said he had a job, a secret job, and he was betrayed."
"Betrayed?" Myles frowned.
"Just as we was betrayed." Marek looked away, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. 
"They're dead, Myles—Scholar, Red Nell, Orem, Shem, Lightfingers, The Peddler, 
and Zia the Hedge-witch; we was the only ones t'escape."
Kuri arrived, her red-bronze hair flowing down the back of her cloak. Throwing 
that garment onto a chair, she came to Marek with her healer's bag. She tied 
back her hair and rinsed her hands, appraising Marek's wounds with level brown 
eyes. Eleni finished cleaning Ercole's wounds and began to stitch them, her hand 
steady. Fortunately for healer and patient, Ercole was unconscious.
"How did they find you?" Myles's voice broke. Scholar had been a friend.
"And," Marek whispered, gritting his teeth as Kuri probed the wound in his side. 
"She brought them in."
"Your lady?" Myles asked, horrified.
Marek nodded. "Claw told her one of us sold 'im to the Provost. She gave us over 
because we broke Rogue's Law."
Kuri stitched Marek's wounds quickly and went to Rispah. The redhead who'd 
promised her heart to Coram bore a long gash on her left arm from shoulder to 
wrist. Kuri went to work as Rispah fought to keep still.
"I hope someone did turn that crazy bastard over," she snapped, her voice tight 
with pain. "Since he tried for George last Midwinter, more than a hundred of 
us've died. And it hasn't mattered if the dead was for him or against him or 
innocent altogether. I haven't forgotten the Market Day fight. Who could? With 
Claw loose, we don't need my Lord Provost to weed us out!"
"What if Claw's not wrong entirely?" George had come at last, hooded and cloaked 
like the Bazhir to escape detection. "What if I made sure he and his people were 
taken up before they killed Jonathan? What then?"
The room was silent as everyone but Eleni and Ercole stared at him. Then Myles 
whispered, "Regicide." Kuri made the Sign.
"Remember the tale of Oswan that murdered King Adar the Weak?" Rispah asked. 
"The law said he wasn't to be let die till he was tortured three days, dawn to 
dark. The gods turned their faces from him and he lived six days."
"Royal dynasties get their right from the gods. Only the gods can take it 
back—not men," Kuri added softly.
"I don't know if you did right, George." Marek lay back, his face white. "I only 
wish you'd'a shivved Claw yourself afore lettin' him escape my lord."


The room was a parlor decorated in pale green and cream, perfect for the 
emerald-eyed brunette on the sofa, less perfect for the striking blonde beside 
her. A swarthy nobleman lounged in an armchair. It was a room meant for chatter 
and flirtation. The fourth man, with his battered clothes and ravaged face, was 
wrong here. He stood before the cold hearth, hands jammed into pockets.
"We erred in letting you join us, Ralon," Delia of Eldorne said coldly. "Last 
fall you said you would be Rogue in a matter of weeks. You are still not master 
among the thieves. You tell us, leave the killing of a certain Prince to you. 
Now the Provost has your people who were to handle the matter, and Jonathan is 
alerted to his danger."
"I was betrayed!" Ralon of Malven was rigid with fury. "No one knew Cooper 
would—"
"I'm not finished!" Delia rapped out. "Explain this!" She thrust a parchment at 
him.
The drawing was clearly one of Ralon. Beneath it was written:


WANTED BY MY LORD PROVOST
FOR TREASON AGAINST THE CROWN
ONE CLAW, BORN RALON OF MALVEN
REWARD: ONE THOUSAND GOLD NOBLES


It described him in detail. "How did they learn my name?" he whispered in 
horror.
"That is immaterial," Princess Josiane said coldly.
"You're useless to us," Alex of Tirragen pointed out. "More than useless—you are 
a danger."
"No!" Claw yelled. "You need me—"
The door slammed open. Alex stood, sword unsheathed; Claw's hands were filled 
with two sharp knives. Roger of Conte swept in, followed by a frightened guard. 
"My lady, I couldn't stop him, not him—" the guard stammered.
"Return to your post," ordered Delia, and he obeyed. Delia, who'd once been 
Roger's mistress, rose to curtsey to the Duke. "Roger, this is a pleasant 
surprise—"
"I wanted no independent action on your parts." They stared at him, seeing he 
was in a rage, and were suddenly afraid. "Do you think you assisted me? Now the 
King-to-be watches me; my Lord Provost suspects me. And I find I owe this 
happiness to you four."
Delia sank prettily to her knees, skirts billowing. Reaching up, she touched his 
hand. "Forgive our enthusiasm, dear lord," she murmured. "We meant to bring you 
to your rightful throne—"
"Enough." He dragged her to her feet. "You cherished dreams once of becoming my 
consort. Unless you wish to be the consort of Carthaki snake-breeders, you will 
await my orders." He threw her into Alex's hold and turned to Josiane.
"Josiane of the Copper Isles, I have known you only since my return from the 
dead, but I understand you well. Jonathan courted you to spite Alanna of 
Trebond. Still, you might have kept him, with some restraint on your part. Now 
you want to punish him, and so you meddle with things that do not concern you. I 
am not your pawn. Stay out of my affairs. If you wish to be a part of this, you 
will await my commands—either here, or on the river bottom. Do not cross me 
again!"
He looked at the thief. "Ralon of Malven. The present Rogue is worth twenty of 
you. Your choice of tools is bad, Delia. He'll betray you when he's done with 
the thieves."
Turning to Alex, the fury in Roger's sapphire eyes faded to puzzlement. "I am 
surprised at you, my former squire."
"I told them to do nothing," Alex shrugged. "I said you'd have different plans. 
They thought matters could be—hastened. Frankly, I didn't think it was important 
enough to bother you for."
Roger smiled grimly. "You might have been right. The trouble with ambitious 
plots is that those who are not involved get wind of them—as they did this time. 
That person, or those persons, took what they heard to Jonathan, and he took 
their information to my Lord Provost. But you—I know you are not a plotter, and 
I know you are not ambitious. What do you want from this?"
Alex met his eyes for a long moment; then, smiling slightly, he bowed. He knew 
Roger would guess what he desired of any plan to take Jonathan from the throne.
Roger tugged his beard. "We shall see. Perhaps… You haven't changed. As for you 
others," he said, looking at them, "no more plots. No more assassins. Steal 
nothing for me, bribe no servants for me. My plans are my own, and you will 
await my instructions. I warn you this once."
He raised a hand. Slowly blood-colored fire—the fire of magic—collected in his 
palm. With a savage gesture he hurled it at a small table, which exploded into 
chips of burning wood and molten pieces of brass and porcelain.
In the silence that followed, Roger whispered, "Don't think to disobey me." 
Turning, he walked out.
Delia was ashen. "But his Gift was bright orange…"
Alex picked up a cooling bit of glass in his handkerchief. He looked it over and 
began to smile.



CHAPTER SIX
Homecoming
« ^ »
The travelers set out from Port Caynn immediately after landing, eager to reach 
their destination. Riding slowly, to reaccustom themselves after several weeks 
out of the saddle, they would be in Corus before nightfall. They halted shortly 
after midday at an inn Alanna and Raoul remembered, where the squires had often 
stopped on trips to Caynn. The food was good, the place so quiet that a rest 
seemed in order. Buri and Thayet napped; the men played chess. Alanna took 
Faithful to sit under a courtyard tree, scratching his ears and enjoying the 
sun. She was half drowsing when she heard an approaching rider.
Someone in a hurry, the sleepy Faithful remarked. Alanna nodded, refusing to 
open her eyes. The buzz of summer crickets was soothing after days of waves and 
gulls. Never would she board a water vessel again!
Curious, she peeped through her lashes; the rider entered the yard. With a yell 
she leaped up, dumping Faithful to the ground. "George!"
The thief grinned and grabbed her. His brawny arms closed tight; she was lifted, 
spun, then well kissed. Alanna looked up into dancing hazel eyes. "How did you 
know we were here?" she asked, wiping teary eyes on his sleeve.
"Stop that, lass," he whispered. "Messenger birds, remember? You're thin. 
Haven't you been eatin', my hero?"
"I was seasick." She grinned. "It was the only way to get home in time. Are you 
all right? You look worn."
George kissed her again, taking his time to convince her of his health. He 
released her, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. "Now your Dragon can kill me—I'll 
die happy."
"You know about Liam?"
He chuckled. "Sweet, everyone knows the Lioness and the Dragon were prowlin' 
Sarain. I heard two songs about you this week."
"Have you counted her fingers yet, Cooper?" Liam walked toward them, his eyes 
pale crystal.
George smiled. "I never thought you wouldn't take care of her, Dragon." He held 
out a hand, keeping a grip on Alanna. "I assume you're used to bein' sung 
about."
Liam's eyes darkened to blue-gray; he shook the offered hand with a smile. 
"They'll have more to sing about, I guarantee."
George stared past Liarn, eyes wide. "Bless me, Crooked God," he whispered.
Thayet and Buri emerged from the inn, still yawning. Alanna knew what had caught 
George's attention: the afternoon sun sank into Thayet's midnight hair while it 
turned her skin a deep cream. Thayet would look good anywhere, Alanna thought, 
with only a touch of envy. "Princess Thayet jian Wilima, may I present George 
Cooper? George, this is Princess Thayet of Sarain, and her guard Buriram 
Tourakom."
"Don't bother," muttered Buri. George released Alanna to bow and kiss Thayet's 
hand. "He won't remember anyway."
George straightened and winked at the K'mir. "I'm awed, Buriram Tourakom, but 
I'm rarely that awed."
Charmed in spite of herself, Buri smiled. "Alanna told us about you," she said 
gruffly. "We've been warned. It's Buri, anyway."
"I told you I'd bring them back," Raoul said.
George looked at Alanna and gave her a squeeze. "I'll never doubt you again, 
lad."
"Ye would be the first," Coram announced. He and Raoul had brought the horses 
around.
George laughed. "Were I you, I'd treat my wife-to-be's cousin and king better 
than that." The two men gripped each other's arms in greeting.
George exchanged his tired horse for a fresh' one, joining them for the ride to 
Corus. His presence made the journey pass quickly. He refused to relay the news, 
but had no trouble wheedling tales of their adventures from Buri and Thayet. 
Alanna was not fooled. The past months had taken a toll on George: he was 
thinner; small lines fanned out from his eyes and framed his broad mouth. She 
wondered precisely what had been going on. Where was his court—Scholar, Solem, 
Marek, Rispah, and the others? If she asked now, she knew he would laugh and ask 
the questions she didn't want to answer.
"Has he always been this obstinate?" she asked Faithful.
The cat sniffed. You're a fine one to talk.
She grinned. "If I don't know obstinacy when I see it, who does?"
At the crest of the hills between seaport and capital, Buri drew up her pony. 
"Mountain gods," she whispered, her black eyes huge with awe. The others stopped 
beside her.
Corus lay on the southern bank of the Oloron River, towers glinting in the sun. 
The homes of wealthy men lined the river to the north; tanners, smiths, 
wainwrights, carpenters, and the poor clustered on the bank to the south. The 
city was a richly colored tapestry: the Great Gate on Kings-bridge, the maze of 
the Lower City, the marketplace, the tall houses in the Merchants' and the 
Gentry's quarters, the gardens of the Temple district, the palace. This last was 
the city's crown and southern border. Beyond it, the royal forest stretched for 
leagues. It was not as lovely as Berat nor as colorful as Udayapur, but it was 
Alanna's place.
"Glad to be home?" George asked.
"Yes."
He reached to wipe a tear from her cheek. "It's been that long a journey, has 
it?" he whispered.
Alanna met his eyes. In their hazel depths she saw a degree of love that 
frightened her as it warmed her.


Inside the City Gate waited a small company of Bazhir, Hakim Fahrar at its head. 
They bowed to Alanna from their saddles. She bowed in reply. Hakim fell in with 
Coram; the others formed a loose circle around the travelers.
"Is this necessary?" Alanna asked. "We wanted to be inconspicuous." She and 
Thayet exchanged rueful glances.
"It is," George said. "You wouldn't've been able to do it, anyway—not with yon 
big, brawny lad amongst you." He nodded toward Liam, who talked with a Bazhir 
rider. "Things've changed somewhat, and all Corus knows you're Jonathan's 
knight. You'd do worse than ride with a guard." The gate at House Olau was open. 
The hostlers greeted Alanna cheerfully, showing no surprise at the size of her 
party. It was Thayet who hesitated, a worried frown on her face. "Buri and I 
should find an inn somewhere," she pointed out. "If you can direct us—"
"I know one," Liam said. "We can stay together—"
"Don't be ridiculous," Alanna interrupted. "Why should we split up?"
"He's expectin' you," George told them.
"Oh?" commented Thayet. "Where'd he learn about Buri and Liam and me?"
"The Voice?" Alanna asked Coram.
The burly man chuckled. "Ye have to admit, Lioness, the Voice is a useful man." 
Turning to the others, he explained, "I've been in contact with the Voice of the 
Tribes since we entered Marenite waters. We're expected, all of us."
"You'll hurt Myles's feelin's if you go elsewhere," George said. "He's that 
hospitable. He puts up my mother and cousin also. The man shouldn't be a 
bachelor, not with a fine, big house like this."
Thayet smiled ruefully. "If you're certain…"
George bowed. "I can't lie to a pretty lady."
Alanna dismounted, giving her reins to an hostler. Faithful leaped down to 
vanish into the shadows as Eleni Cooper and Rispah came out to the courtyard. 
Alanna rushed to hug them, trying not to cry anymore. How could she have 
forgotten what being home was like? She introduced Thayet, Buri, and Liam. She 
didn't know what George's mother and cousin were doing in Myles's home, but she 
was glad to see them.
Glancing to her left, in the shadows she saw Coram taking Rispah in his arms. 
Smiling, she looked away.
George nudged Alanna, pointing to the wide-open front door. "Go say hello to 
him. He's been up since dawn."
Alanna ran to Myles and hugged him. Neither of them required words, which was 
just as well, since both were unable to speak. Myles wept unashamedly, soaking 
his beard as he beamed at her with delight. He too looked older and worn, with 
bits of grey in his hair. He doesn't think Roger isn't dangerous, Alanna 
realized. She had to find out what was going on.
"Come in, come in," Myles told the others. "Welcome, all of you!"
After dinner they gathered in the library. The others talked, but for the most 
part Alanna listened, happy to be there. Grim subjects and the Jewel were left 
for the next day. Thayet, Buri, and Liam were never given a chance to feel left 
out; once they were introduced to Myles, the knight made them welcome. Thayet's 
offer to find somewhere else to stay was brushed off by their host, as Alanna 
had known it would be. Coram stayed close to Rispah, and Alanna realized with a 
twinge of sadness that his days as her mentor-companion were done. It surprised 
and delighted her to see Myles take Eleni's hand; George saw her looking and 
winked. Later she accused him of matchmaking and he made no attempt to deny it.
Finally Alanna dozed off in her chair, waking slightly as Liam carried her to 
bed. Kissing her forehead, he whispered, "Sleep well, Lioness."
"I don't like being 'Lioness' to you." He didn't seem to hear. Gently Liam 
closed the door, and she slept again.
She woke instantly some time later. What had roused her? She listened, but the 
house was silent. Looking around, she saw a blot of brownish light by the 
window. Lightning hung nearby; she lunged and unsheathed it as the blot gained 
size and substance.
"Put that thing down," a familiar voice snapped. "I haven't hurt you."
"Thom?"
Even before he finished materializing, he glowed enough for her to see his 
features. Crossing his arms on his chest, he lifted an eyebrow. "Don't you have 
any nightshirts?" Liam had removed only her boots and stockings.
Alanna jumped up and grabbed her twin, holding him tightly. Thom's embrace was 
as hard as her own. He buried his too-hot face in her shoulder.
"Thom, what's wrong? D'you have a fever?" Her voice faltered. "You're. . . 
glowing…"
He gripped her shoulders. "Calm down! The heat's part of it, so just—calm down." 
He touched the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, traced the hard line of a 
cheekbone, smoothed over the thin crease that edged her mouth. He too had lines 
that weren't his before, and he was even thinner than she. He looked 
tired—mortally tired. On impulse she touched the emberstone at her throat.
With the talisman's aid she saw that Thom shone with a rust-red fire, the color 
of old blood. "How do I look?" he whispered, knowing the ember's properties.
She tried to smile. "You don't want to know." Swallowing, she added, "It's as if 
you have another Gift, or your own is—"
"Corrupted," Thom finished. "Enough. We'll trade stories later. You look half 
dead." He smoothed her hair with a shaking hand. "I just wanted to look at you, 
and see if… if you forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive," she insisted. "You did me a favor. Now I can talk 
with him. I can see for myself if I made a mistake when I—you know. If he 
could've redeemed himself, somehow."
"Nice try," he scoffed in his old way. "I think you could've lived with it if 
he'd stayed in his tomb."
"But it's true," she protested.
"Go back to bed, all right?" He began to fade. "Get some rest." He vanished.
She stared at the spot where he'd been. Did anyone else know Thom was dying? 
Couldn't they have warned her? But what was there to warn about—besides the fact 
that he glowed in the dark?
Her eyes blurred; she sniffed. Was Myles still up? Slipping barefoot out of her 
room, Alanna made for the library, Myles's favorite room. The library door was 
open. She froze on the landing, not wanting to intrude on any private reunions.
"I couldn't get away sooner." The deep voice was Jonathan's. "We don't have 
parties because we're in mourning, but these 'quiet get-togethers' take hours, 
all the same."
"You should've waited." Alanna recognized George's lilt. "She fell asleep in her 
chair, poor thing. She's weary. They all are."
"And there's little rest for my lady knight here," Jonathan sighed.
"Does he know she's back?"
"He knows. I just don't—what?"
George came out and bowed to Alanna, indicating she should go into the library. 
Pushing her inside, he closed the door, leaving her alone with Jon.
He stood before the hearth, cradling Faithful. She'd forgotten he was a head 
taller than she. His black clothes emphasized his sapphire eyes; his mustache 
and hair were darker than his velvet tunic. She looked at his elegantly carved 
mouth and straight nose, thinking, Jon's still the most handsome man I've ever 
seen—and that includes Roger! He'd changed since their angry parting; his face 
had stubborn lines, and there was a seriousness about him she liked.
Deeply moved, she knelt and bowed her head. "My liege. I am yours to command."
He put his hands on her hair. "You're sure, Alanna?"
She met his eyes. "Until death and after, Jonathan."
He swallowed. "I accept your fealty, Sir Alanna. I accept, and I vow to return 
fealty with fealty, honor with honor, until death and beyond it." Lifting her to 
her feet, he kissed each cheek. The kingliness faded. "You don't know what it 
means to have you home." His eyes filled suddenly. "He killed himself, Alanna. 
He made it look like a hunting accident, but it wasn't. Oh, gods! Why did I have 
to lose both of them?" He covered his face with his hands and cried. Alanna held 
him, shushing him and weeping herself.
When he was calm again and she had dried her tears, Alanna said, "We may not 
have another chance to be alone for a while. What do you want me to do with the 
Jewel?"
Jonathan drew a deep breath. "You really have it?"
"I'll get it, if you like." She tried to pull away, and Jonathan tightened his 
arms.
"Not yet, all right? This is so comfortable. It's been almost a year since I 
held you, remember?" He sighed and released her. "Keep it safe, for now. I need 
to think of a way to present you—and it—suitably." He smiled briefly. "You don't 
know how much it means, to be able to tell people we have the Dominion Jewel. 
Perhaps it will even stop the rumors of a curse."
A short time later, George rejoined them. "All's well, then?" Alanna and 
Jonathan smiled at each other. "At last," George sighed. "I never felt right 
when you two were on the outs with each other. We were havin' tea," he told 
Alanna. "Will you join us?" At her nod, he got a third cup and filled it from a 
kettle on the hearth, refreshing Jonathan's cup and his own. "It's Copper Isle 
Red Griffin," he explained to Alanna, who squinted at the scarlet liquid. "The 
taste grows on you."
Jonathan raised his in a toast. "To old friends, the best friends."
"So mote it be," Alanna replied.
"Hear, hear," George added.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" a low female voice exclaimed.
Jon turned to the door and froze, eyes widening in awe "Great Merciful Mother!" 
he breathed.
A tousled Thayet stood there, clutching a dressing gown at her throat. "Faithful 
woke me up, and then I couldn't sleep." The cat jumped into Alanna's lap, 
startling her. She hadn't even seen him leave. Thayet, flustered, avoided Jon's 
eyes as she tried to tuck her bare feet under the hem of her robe. Alanna 
concealed a grin with her hand.
George drew the Princess into the room. "We're havin' a bit of tea," he told 
her, closing the door. "There's a seat by the fire—over next to Jon."
The King-to-be stood and raised Thayet's hand to his lips. Their eyes met; 
Thayet's puzzled, his searching. Quickly the Princess drew her hand away, saying 
dryly, "We haven't been introduced."
Alanna couldn't speak until she could master her amusement. Already Thayet had 
Jon off balance, and already they seemed attracted to each other. I knew it! she 
told herself triumphantly. I knew I was right to bring her!
"Thayet jian Wilima," George said, eyeing Alanna, "may I present Jonathan of 
Conte? Are you officially 'King' now, Jon, or does that wait till the 
coronation?"
Jonathan was not listening. "Does the introduction meet your standards, your 
Highness?" His voice matched Thayet's for dryness.
The Warlord's daughter curtsied to just the degree proper for a princess to 
greet a king—not an inch more. Instead of modestly looking down, she kept her 
eyes on Jon's. "I am 'Highness' no longer, your Majesty. My father is dead, and 
I am an exile. I hope to become your Majesty's loyal, low-born subject." She 
inclined her head graciously, her curtsey not wobbling an iota.
Alanna sighed wistfully. She could never match Thayet's skill at courtly female 
behavior. Thayet glanced at her, knowing the reason for the sigh, and her 
gravity gave way. She began to giggle, then to laugh. A fourth cup of tea was 
poured, for her, and she took the seat beside Jon.


The next morning Alanna and Liam met for their dawn work-out. Buri and Thayet, 
half awake, joined them shortly after they began. The four worked silently and 
hard for an hour before splitting up for the day. Alanna bathed, deciding to 
pass up a morning meal. Her nerves were wound too tightly for sleep or food. 
Despite a short night and excitement the day before, she was wide awake and 
ready for something she'd wanted to do for weeks.
Duke Roger was on the wall overlooking the City Gate as she rode into one of the 
many palace courtyards. Alanna stared up at him for a long moment, then glanced 
at the four Bazhir who had accompanied her this far. How far would their 
un-asked-for protection extend?
Their leader bowed, interpreting her look correctly. "We await you here, Woman 
Who Rides Like a Man." Glancing up at Roger, he added, "As long as we may see 
you plainly."
She nodded. Leaving her mare to the hostlers and draping Faithful over a 
shoulder, she climbed the stairs up the wall.
Roger leaned against the battlement, waiting. Alanna was surprised to see his 
hair was too long and there were foodstains on his robe—he used to be vain of 
his appearance. Drawing a deep breath, she put her cat down. "Behave yourself," 
she told him firmly. She approached to within arm's reach and stopped; the cat, 
his tail dancing with badly contained hatred, crouched at her feet.
"So," Roger said, his light voice poisonous, "you survived. What a pity."
Alanna grinned with relief. She didn't have to pretend everything was fine and 
she liked this man. Open war was declared. "Hello, Roger. You look pale. Not 
enough time in the sun?"
His eyes, lighter than Jon's, narrowed. "You're cocky, aren't you? Killed anyone 
recently?"
"No. It's so depressing to come back and find one's work reversed." Her nerves 
hummed as if she were in combat.
A cruel smile curled his lips. "You know who to thank."
Alanna shrugged. "I know. Tell me something, will you? You meant to kill her—the 
Queen? And the King, and Jon?"
Roger tugged his beard. "If you ask about the days before you killed me, yes, I 
did. You doubted it? Or did you persuade yourself a court trial would have 
absolved you from complicity in my death?" She flinched and looked aside. "You 
aren't absolved. If not for you, I would have been King. Those were my plans. 
Now, of course, it's different. I had nothing to do with their deaths. I have 
promised to behave. Not that I can misbehave, since my Gift stayed behind when I 
came back to the living." He grinned wolfishly. "It keeps my tomb warm for me, 
against my return." Alanna shuddered. "Don't you want to assure yourself my 
fangs are drawn? Use your keepsake." He pointed at the ember. "I know all about 
it from Thom."
Alanna did not like it that Thom had seen fit to tell Roger that bit of news. 
Still, she touched the ember and saw only him, not even a tinge of orange fire. 
Disquieted, she released the ember. "You're still a dangerous man, Roger. Your 
Gift just made things easier for you."
He reached out and gripped her wrist, searching her eyes. "You've changed, 
Squire Alan. You're very much the experienced knight, aren't you? And you don't 
fear me anymore—not as you did once." He let her go.
Alanna tucked her hands into her pockets to warm them. Thinking about what he'd 
said, she replied slowly, "You know something? There are sandstorms that strip 
man and horse and bury them—I've seen them. I saw bones piled higher than my 
head for the folly of a bad king and those who wanted his throne. I lived 
through a blizzard that froze every other living creature solid. Against those 
things, you're only a man. I can deal with you."
Delight played across his face and eyes. "I'm sure you can, my dear. But I won't 
give you the chance—not a second time." He walked away, climbing to a higher 
level.
Alanna watched him go. At last, she sighed and picked up her enraged cat, 
warming her nose against his fur. "Calm down," she whispered. "I'm not fooled, 
if that's what you're worried about." She felt cold. "He's up to something. I'll 
stake my reputation on it."
Raoul awaited her at the foot of the stairs. Instead of the rough shirt and 
breeches he'd worn aboard ship, he wore the royal blue and silver of the King's 
Own, with the silver star of the Commander on his chest. Alanna stopped to 
admire him.
"I know you told me you were commanding the Own," she said as she joined him, 
"but hearing it and seeing it are two different things." They started walking 
deeper into the palace grounds. "Did they run to seed while you were off 
fetching me?"
Raoul shook his head, grinning. "Mahoud ibn Shaham, my Second—he kept them on 
their toes. Still, I'm glad to be back. I worry when I'm not able to look after 
things. I saw who you were talking to, by the way."
"And?"
"What do you make of him?"
"He's crazy," Alanna said flatly. "I don't know if it's because he's above 
ground when he should be in his tomb, or if the spell that brought him back 
rearranged his mind, but it doesn't matter which. He's crazy, and he's 
dangerous."
Raoul nodded. "I agree; Gary agrees; sometimes I think Jon agrees. But what 
could we do? King Roald—gods rest his passing—you remember how much he disliked 
a ruckus. He wanted to forgive and forget, especially forget. He restored 
Roger's estates, his titles—everything. So now we're stuck with a crazy royal 
Duke and all those people who think we're cursed for keeping him. Can we talk 
about something else? I'm getting depressed."
Alanna smiled. "All right. Tell me how you like commanding the King's Own."
"It's all right," admitted Raoul. They walked through a passage to emerge in the 
training area for knights, squires, and pages. "It's not like the border 
patrols. Commanding the Own means you have to sneak and spy, what with people 
conspiring to kill Jonathan—
"What?" she whispered.
Raoul turned red. "Forget I said that. It's taken care of—ask Jon. Listen, I 
don't want to talk about me. What've you been doing? What's the Dragon like? And 
why in the name of Mithros did you go to the Roof of the World?"
"It's a long story." Alanna looked around at the open-air courts, the racks of 
wooden swords and staffs, the practice dummies, the targets. At this early hour 
only a few knights were out—Gary, Alex, Geoffrey of Meron. They gathered around, 
clapping her on the back and demanding to hear all of her adventures. Laughing, 
she refused, telling them she'd have plenty of time to spin tales.
As they talked, she examined each face. Alex's was as closed as ever, although 
he seemed pleased about something. Gary stopped to think before he spoke, so he 
wasn't as sarcastic as he used to be. Myles had said Gary had taken up Duke 
Gareth's duties; Alanna thought the responsibility was good for her friend. Even 
Geoffrey seemed sharper, more honed. He told Alanna Scan-ran raiders kept him 
hopping all winter on the northern borders.
"Come on, Alan—Alanna," he corrected himself as the others laughed. "Let's see 
if you're still in shape." He tossed her a wooden practice sword.
"Of course she's in shape," Gary said tartly.
"I doubt she did much fencing with the Shang Dragon," Alex commented. When 
Alanna looked at him to see if he meant something nasty, he explained, "I know 
Ironarm prefers hand-to-hand techniques over weapons."
Alanna hefted the practice sword, testing its weight. "That doesn't mean he 
avoids weapons."
Gary, Raoul, and Alex sat on the railings to watch. "Is it true Sarain's a 
shambles?" Gary called as Alanna and Geoffrey squared off.
"Yes." Alanna sidestepped Geoffrey's lunge and engaged his blade, twisting down 
and up. He freed his sword and darted back, looking at her with respect. Alanna 
concentrated, knowing she was being tested to see if she'd changed. From what 
people had said the night before, she knew Jonathan needed her as a knight, to 
point out to skeptics that his vassals were loyal and strong. That she was 
female was a source of trouble, but she could balance that by proving—here and 
now—her abilities were the same.
Geoffrey came in with a series of chopping blows, trying to limit her to a 
defense. She slid away and kept him turning. He faltered and she darted in, her 
sword coming to rest at the base of his throat. Geoff lowered his blade.
"I'd forgotten how gods-cursed fast you are." He grinned.
Gary climbed down. "My turn."
Alanna got into position. Part of her was aware that servants and nobles were 
coming into the yard to watch. With a grim smile she went to work, forcing Gary 
to attack. She beat him with a disarm like the one she'd tried on Geoff, hooking 
his sword out of his hands. Raoul didn't last as long as Gary; he wasn't really 
trying, and she told him so.
"I'm used to you beating me," he told her with a grin. "It's hard to change an 
old habit. From the evidence, I needn't bother. You're still best, except maybe 
for Alex." He nodded at the dark young man, who was seated on the railing. "Come 
on, Alex. Give the Lioness a try."
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. It was weird to hear her warname on 
an old friend's lips. It told her—more than anything else she'd seen or 
heard—how much she'd grown away from her fellow knights.
Alex shook his head. "I want to catch the lady knight when she's fresh." His 
eyes met Alanna's with an expression she couldn't read. "Some other time, I 
promise."
Others volunteered, eager to try a pass or two. Alanna had another five practice 
bouts before she bowed out—she was getting hot. The men and boys protested her 
departure, but she noticed they began to fill the courts as soon as she stepped 
out of hers. I should be flattered they held off practicing to watch me, she 
thought, accepting a towel.
Gary walked her to the stables, an arm around her shoulders. "Were the last two 
even Tortallan?" Alanna panted, wiping her face.
"No." The big man was pleased. "One was Gallan, and the black was Carthaki. 
They're here for the coronation."
"A little early, aren't they?"
"Everyone wants to know what Jonathan's like. They particularly want to know if 
he'll be King for long. That's why it's good to have you at home. Most of us 
younger knights aren't known outside Tortall. The Lioness is known and 
respected. A king who commands your loyalty is worth paying attention to." 
They'd reached the stable doors.
Beet red, Alanna muttered, "Hogwash."
"To you it's hogwash," Gary agreed. "To foreigners it's important. They'll keep 
their fingers out of our business until they know more about Jon." With a 
cheerful salute he left her to return to the palace and his new duties.
Entering the stables, Alanna found them deserted. Most of the hostlers were in 
the courtyards or the paddocks, which suited her. Putting fingers to her lips, 
she gave an ear-splitting whistle. A stocky man slipped down from the haymow 
above, not bothering to pick dried grass from his strawlike hair.
"So there you are," Stefan commented, bowing and tugging a forelock. "It's that 
good t'see you. Mayhap now his Majesty'll perk up. It's been that gloomsome, 
Mistress Alanna."
The knight leaned against a post. "Why don't you tell me what's going on to make 
things so 'gloomsome.'"
Stefan looked around, wary. "Come up," he invited, climbing a ladder to the mow. 
"And keep your voice low."


On her return to House Olau, Alanna found the premises occupied by seamstresses. 
"It was Eleni's idea," Buri explained. "She says you and Thayet need clothes. 
Good luck!" Faithful saw the welter of fabrics and earnest-looking women and 
fled with Buri; the men had already vanished.
"I know you'd rather do other things today," Eleni explained as she hauled 
Alanna into the fitting room. "But his Majesty wants you to bring Thayet to 
court tonight. He left you this." She handed over a sealed parchment.
Breaking the seal, Alanna read Jon's note while George's mother divested her of 
sword belt, tunic, and boots.
Lady Knight, Tonight would be a good time to present you officially at court, 
and to formally introduce Princess Thayet. The longer more conservative souls 
have to get used to you, the more productive your presence will be. This will 
also be an excellent opportunity—with so many there to witness—for you to 
present me with the object we spoke of.
She nodded in approval of Jonathan's strategy as she threw the note onto the 
fire. A formal introduction was a grand occasion; foreign diplomats and 
Tortallan nobles alike would be present. By virtue of her rank Thayet was due 
such a reception, even though the court was in mourning. While Alanna preferred 
an informal welcome, she knew her life would be easier if Jonathan gave her 
public approval. Also, giving him the Jewel would help—both her and him. No one 
would wish to unthrone a king who held the Jewel. And once presented, word would 
get around. The sooner the better, after all the news she'd heard that day!
With a sigh, she removed her shirt and breeches as an assistant came to take her 
measurements with a knotted cord. Grimly, she looked at the ceiling while the 
cord snaked around her body.
The fitting, however, was almost over before it began, when the chief seamstress 
showed Alanna dress designs. "I won't wear a gown, not tonight," the knight said 
firmly. "They'll think I'm crawling back with my tail between my legs."
"Ye can't show your legs to the whole court and his Majesty that's to be," the 
seamstress replied. "It's indecent and disrespectful, and all the .nobles will 
talk about ye."
"They do that already," Alanna retorted.
The woman shook her head stubbornly. "The only ladies as wears hose are them 
that's no better than they ought to be." Rispah turned a laugh into a cough when 
the seamstress glared at her.
"I'm not a lady—I'm a knight," Alanna growled. "And I'm making my bow to the 
court as one. Dresses are fine sometimes, but not tonight."
"Sir Alanna is right, and you're right," Thayet put in diplomatically. She held 
up a sketch she'd been working on. "Is this a suitable compromise?"
"With a bit of gold or silver stripe along the seam?" Eleni suggested gently as 
the seamstress frowned.
Alanna peered at it. It was a shirt and tunic, with soft, full breeches instead 
of hose. The tunic was longer than usual, coming to the knee, yet splits in the 
sides to the waist ensured the wearer's freedom of movement.
"All right?" Thayet asked.
"I like it," replied Alanna.
"Hm," the seamstress commented, still skeptical.
Rispah put a friendly arm around the woman's shoulders. "The dark grey silk, 
with—oh, of course, I can see where it might be too much trouble, with Princess 
Thayet's and Mistress Cooper's ballgowns besides. Perhaps Mistress Weaver, as 
has a shop over in—"
"It's no trouble," snapped the seamstress, pulling out of Rispah's hold. "No 
trouble at all, for a shop of the first cut, like mine. Weaver! She sells 
inferior cloth and stitchin' that comes undone in the first bow—" Rispah winked 
at Alanna; the skirmish was settled with honor to both sides.
The gleam in Eleni's eye made Alanna uncomfortable. George's mother was looking 
her over, inch by inch, leaving no part of Alanna un-scrutinized. The knight 
hurriedly began to dress.
"Earrings!" the older woman exclaimed.
Alanna forgot her trepidation and looked at Eleni, hardly believing her ears. 
"Could I?" she whispered. All her life she'd envied the court beauties their 
eardrops, to the point that she'd refused to get the single earring a man could 
wear—it just wasn't the same.
In a twinkling Eleni and Thayet had her in a chair while Rispah heated a needle. 
"This shouldn't be any trouble at all," the redhead grinned, "bein's how you're 
a blooded knight. Hold still!"
Alanna gritted her teeth as the needle punched into a lobe; the bottom dropped 
out of her stomach, and her ears roared. "I'll tell you what the Daughters told 
me when I had mine done," Thayet said as Rispah replaced the needle with a bit 
of silk. " 'Beauty is pain.'"
"Is that supposed to be a consolation?" Alanna gasped. She closed her eyes 
against the next punch of the needle. This time the bottom of her stomach 
continued to drop, and the roar was deafening. She opened her eyes onto more 
blackness.
Someone was waving aromatic salts under her nose. Alanna sneezed and sneezed 
again. "What happened?" she asked, struggling to keep her stomach in place. 
Rispah stopped trying to fight laughter; Eleni wiped teary eyes with a 
handkerchief. Even the seamstress showed signs of amusement. Alanna fixed Thayet 
with a darkling look. "Thayet?"
"You fainted," the Princess gasped, and surrendered to whoops of mirth.


Rispah and Eleni told the travelers what had been going on in the palace and 
city, while the seamstresses worked nearby. The picture drawn for Alanna was 
grim, grimmer than she had thought from the recital in the stable. Jonathan's 
future subjects wondered if he was cursed. Duke Gareth had taken the deaths of 
his sister and brother-in-law hard; he was in retirement, and Gary was virtually 
Prime Minister. No one questioned Gary's ability, but everyone had known and 
respected his father, and few people outside the palace had ever met the younger 
Naxen. Many of the older nobles, who normally could be relied upon to support 
the King, had withheld support from Jon without giving reasons. Their excuse was 
that they waited for the coronation, which was the proper time and place; but 
Myles and Duke Gareth had told Jonathan that the same lords had pledged to 
support Roald before his coronation. Claw appeared to have vanished, but Alanna 
knew from Stefan that his followers still made trouble for George. A wet spring 
and cool summer this far meant sickly crops, a bad omen in a king's first year 
on the throne.
"Everyone's waitin' to see which way the cat will jump," Rispah said as Alanna 
submitted to fittings. "With no reason at all. They're hopin' for another 
claimant to the throne, but who's it to be? The Conte Duke's givin' them no 
encouragement, for certain."
"With some, all it took was the Bazhir coming here in great numbers," Eleni 
explained. "Plenty of northerners hate them, and any King liked by the desert 
men will find he has trouble."
"Some folks say Duke Roger's older and more experienced than Jonathan," Rispah 
added. "They say what happened two Midwinters ago—" she nodded to Alanna, "was 
Jon's plot to get Roger out of the way."
"Easy, child," Eleni cautioned, putting a hand on Alanna's arm. "It's just talk. 
No one's doing anything, not even speaking out publicly. But Jonathan could do 
with a miracle."
To her surprise, Alanna smiled. "Then we'll give him one."


She found Myles in his study late that afternoon, napping. Once he was awake, 
Alanna sat down to discuss the events of the past year with him. He could fill 
in the blank spots because he knew better than anyone else why nobles behaved as 
they did, and his merchant friends were always honest with him. "They don't 
think Jonathan can hold the throne," he told Alanna bluntly. "Until they see 
proof that he can, they're going to hold back. It isn't that many of them expect 
Roger to try for the throne. Well, those who live at court don't expect it. But 
Tortall's a big kingdom, and it's hard to keep it knit together in the best of 
times. If Jonathan can't rule, the fiefs on the borders will start to break away 
and form their own kingdoms. Tusaine, Galla, and Scanra will nibble at the 
edges. That's what people fear. Roald let them be, and twenty-odd years of that 
kind of benificent neglect is bearing fruit now. Does that answer your 
question?" Alanna nodded. "The Jewel will help. After that, it's up to Jonathan 
and the use he makes of you bright young people."
Alanna laughed. "Don't forget, he's got you on his side, too."
Myles chuckled. "By the way, I have something for you. Eleni told me you'd had 
an ordeal this afternoon. I bought these to make you feel better." He dug in a 
pocket and handed Alanna a small box. "Don't open it in here. Expressions of 
gratitude embarrass me." He leaned back in his chair, putting up his feet. "Now, 
if you don't mind, I'd like to finish my nap."
Outside his study, Alanna opened the box. Inside was a pair of black pearl 
earbobs.


Every Tortallan girl dreamed of descending the Great Stair in the Queen's 
ballroom with all eyes fixed on her, the knight of her dreams singling her out 
and bearing her away to a life of bliss. Minstrels made their living off tales 
of common-born girls presented at court by mysterious—wealthy—guardians for just 
that fate. Now it was Alanna's turn to descend; she felt a degree of panic she 
was unaccustomed to as an old palace hand. She had seen hundreds descend the 
Great Stair to cross the long room and kneel before the sovereigns. In the 
ballroom she'd met girls who came to court to make good marriages, foreign 
diplomats and their ladies, merchants, visiting warriors—the list was endless. 
If they had been as terrified as she was that night, they didn't show it.
They stood in the chambers outside the ballroom's great doors: Thayet, Buri, 
Eleni, and Liam for official presentation; Myles to. bolster their confidence; 
and Alanna to be—Reintroduced? That can't be right, she told herself. The Jewel, 
snug in its box, seemed to have caught her case of nerves; she could feel it 
humming through her black kid gloves. "Jump up," she told Faithful, wriggling 
her shoulder. "I need the reassurance."
No, the cat replied, shaking his head. I'll muss your pretty clothes. Startled, 
she pulled away. He'd actually sounded serious!
Eleni Cooper fussed with the gold lace at her throat. "I wish I hadn't agreed to 
do this, Myles." She was elegant in mahogany-colored silk, her grey-streaked 
hair in a heavy knot at the back of her head. "I am suitably entertained in the 
Lower City."
Hazel eyes met hazel eyes, with a depth of love that made Alanna wistful as 
Myles raised Eleni's hand to his lips. "This will be just as entertaining, my 
dear. Perhaps more so."
Strong fingers brushed Alanna's new ear-bobs. "Pretty," Liam approved. "A nice 
touch."
Alanna's heart skipped a beat. The Dragon did not have to wear dark colors or 
pale greys or lavenders of mourning for Lianne and Roald. He was magnificent in 
blue-violet satin over silvery shirt and hose. His hair flamed in contrast.
"It isn't fair of you to look so good!" she hissed.
"I could say the same about you. You think I don't have regrets about us 
breaking it off?" His eyes were the bright aqua he seemed to reserve just for 
her. "When you're Queen of Tortall, you'll thank me."
She was opening her mouth to say, "I'm not going to be Queen," when Gary joined 
them. "Liam Ironarm? I'm Gareth—Gary—the Younger of Naxen. My father's Prime 
Minister. Can you tell me about Shang?" He put his arm through Liam's and walked 
him away, calling, "I'll talk to you later, Alanna."
Timon, once Duke Gareth's personal manservant, now chief of the palace footmen, 
arrived looking harassed. Gary bade a swift farewell and went to stand by the 
throne. Timon nodded to Myles, who took Eleni's arm. "You're worth any of them, 
Mistress Cooper," Alanna heard him whisper. The chief herald bowed and opened 
half of the great door, admitting the couple.
"Am I all in one piece?" Buri wanted to know. She wore a deerskin jacket richly 
beaded in red and silver, tight deerskin breeches, and soft boots. She bristled 
with silver and black daggers; both the short and long sword were thrust in her 
sash. Her thick hair was tightly braided and coiled; the pins securing it were 
silver. She slapped black gauntlets nervously against her arm as Alanna looked 
her over.
The knight smiled. "You look splendid. Your mother and brother will be proud."
"We are proud," Liam added. The herald beckoned to him. He drew a breath. "Shang 
Masters, I hate this kind of thing." Leaving the two women staring in 
astonishment, he went through the open door.
Buri poked Alanna's arm. Thayet had emerged from the robing room. Alanna's voice 
caught in her throat as the Princess tried to smile. "Do I look all right?"
Her hair was a mass of ringlets cascading from crown to shoulders. Her hazel 
eyes were big against her creamy skin, her lips crimson. Her flame-red gown left 
shoulders and an expanse of bosom glowing against the muslin, then blossomed 
into a wide skirt. Rubies set in lacy gold shimmered in her hair and against her 
neck.
The chief herald stared at Thayet too, stunned. "Don't ask me," Alanna grinned. 
"He's seen all the beauties come and go. He told me they didn't impress him 
anymore."
Thayet looked curiously at the chief herald; he bowed to her, as deeply as he 
would to a king. "Princess, may you always grace our halls," he said with 
feeling.


Both doors at the head of the stair swung open. The silence in the crowded 
ballroom was abrupt: both doors were used only for visiting royalty. The herald 
walked to the head of the stair; he struck his iron-shod staff three times on 
the floor.
"Her most Royal Highness, Princess Thayet jian Wilima of Sarain, Duchess of 
Camau and Thanhyien." Alanna walked forward with Thayet on her arm. "Sir Alanna 
of Trebond and Olau, Knight of the Realm of Tortall. Buriram Toura-kom of the 
K'miri Hau Ma."
Jonathan rose, watching them. The awe-stricken look on his face was all Alanna 
needed to see. She gave herself a pat on the back for an idea well conceived. 
Thayet descended the stair as if she were floating, her face impassive. Only her 
tight, somewhat damp grip on Alanna's arm revealed the state of her nerves. 
Jonathan walked down the scarlet runner between door and throne, to meet them in 
the ballroom's center.
Alanna gently withdrew her arm from Thayet's clutch, letting the Princess walk 
the few steps to Jon alone. The King-to-be embraced Thayet gently and kissed her 
on both cheeks. "Cousin, welcome," he said, using the form of address common to 
royalty. "We regret the sad event that drove you from your home."
"Thank you, your Majesty." Thayet's gaze was stern; plainly—to Alanna—she was 
trying to remind Jon of her wish to become a private subject.
Jonathan ignored the hint. "Until such time as peace returns to Sarain, know 
that Tortall is your home." Offering Thayet his arm, he led her to the chair 
placed for her just below his own. She sat gracefully, her skirts settling 
around her feet in a perfect fan. Buri took up her station at her side. No one 
knew who began it, but a patter of applause turned into a roar of enthusiasm. In 
Sarain she was the female who should have been a male heir; the Tortallan 
courtiers accepted Thayet for herself.
George also enjoyed Thayet's entrance, but he was not blind to her companions. 
He nodded his approval to Buri. And he was acutely aware of Alanna from the 
moment she appeared. In her dark grey and black, she was elegant and somber; her 
hair and eyes blazed. No one could miss the sword belted at her waist. Beneath 
one arm she carried a box not much bigger than her fist.
Remembering his disguise as stern-faced Bazhir, George defeated the urge to beam 
like a proud lover. She's done it, he thought. My darlin's made them pay 
attention and dance to her tune. And I thought only common-born knew how to do 
that.
Waiting for the applause to quiet, Alanna looked around. Even in his disguise 
she knew George. She bit back a grin—she should've known he'd come!—and winked 
at him, enjoying the approval in his eyes.
Behave, Faithful scolded. You have business to take care of!
The noise was finally dying. Jonathan nodded. "Sir Alanna, come forward."
She continued down the carpet, hand on sword hilt, Faithful beside her. Thayet 
smiled encouragingly as Alanna knelt before Jonathan.
"Your Majesty." She drew Lightning and laid it on the step at his feet, in token 
of her allegiance. "This I swear: to serve you and your heirs with all I 
possess, in the Mother's name." Taking the box in both hands, she flipped it 
open. The Jewel lay on a black velvet bed. She held it up to him. "I bring you 
the fruit of my traveling, Majesty—the Dominion Jewel."
Jonathan reached for it as total silence fell. The moment his fingers touched 
the Jewel, it flared into life, blazing like a small sun in his hand. Jonathan 
held it aloft, and first one courtier, then another, knelt, until everyone but 
Jonathan and Thayet was kneeling.
"We thank you, Sir Alanna." His voice was audible in every corner of the room. 
"And we praise the gods for sending us this Jewel—and our Lioness—in this time 
of need."



CHAPTER SEVEN
Period of Mourning
« ^ »
The next morning Jonathan called a meeting of his most trusted advisors: Myles, 
Gary, the Provost, Duke Gareth, Duke Baird, Raoul, and Alanna. Feeling uneasy, 
Alanna went. In the last year she'd grown more used to taking action than to 
sitting in meetings. Also, she was unsure of her place in such a gathering. She 
was a knight; all the others had great responsibilities or wisdom, like Myles. 
She didn't even hold a large fief.
Arriving early, she found the King-to-be in his small council chamber. He rose 
and kissed her cheek. "Thank you for coming," he said. "I hate to plunge you 
into things just when you've come home, but we have a great deal to do." As she 
took a seat a little way down the table from him, he asked, "Have you given some 
thought to the place you'll hold in my reign?"
Alanna was startled by the question. "What place—? I never thought that I'd hold 
any place, not really. Although it would be nice to have something to do," she 
admitted. "I like roaming around, but I like it far better when I have a 
purpose. Maybe Liam is happy wandering from country to country like the wind. I 
feel as if I'm a sort of weapon, but a weapon must have someone to wield it, or 
it just lies around rusting." She grinned, suddenly embarrassed. "Listen to me. 
Next thing you know I'll start sounding like our old philosophy master."
Jonathan groaned. "That old bore!"
Gary peered inside. "Is this a private gathering, or can anyone come?" He took a 
chair, plumping a stack of documents on the table in front of him. Seeing 
Alanna's horrified look, he said kindly, "Don't worry, the papers aren't for 
this. They're documents I refer to constantly, so I carry them around. It saves 
waiting for a servant to fetch them."
"Gary, how awful!" she exclaimed.
"Nonsense," Duke Gareth's son retorted. "I had no idea before how interesting a 
kingdom's business can be. To put diverse things like rainfall, the number of 
people leaving their farms, and the price of iron goods together and find out 
how they affect each other—"
"He'll go on all day if you let him," Raoul interrupted as he took his seat. The 
Lord Provost sat beside the big Commander and nodded a greeting; Alanna nodded 
back. Raoul went on, "Me, I have no talent for administration. Give me a good 
horse and a patrol any day!"
"You underestimate yourself, Raoul," said Jon. "The Bazhir love him," he 
explained to Alanna. "He's made a good impression on the northerners and the 
foreign soldiers in the King's Own as well."
Alanna beamed at her large friend, who blushed. "I always knew you'd be a credit 
to us," she teased him.
When she saw Duke Gareth at the door, Alanna got up and went to greet her 
teacher, hiding her shock as she knelt before him. The Duke, always lean, was 
rail thin. Streaks of grey had turned his hair a muddy yellow-brown.
Gary's father looked Alanna over as she rose. Finally he smiled. "You have lived 
up to your promise," he said quietly. "We are all very proud of our Lioness. 
Welcome home."
Coming from Duke Gareth, who had always been sparing of praise, it was the 
highest honor she could receive. "Thank you, sir," she whispered as she blinked 
tears away. "You're very kind. I tried to be a credit to my training—to you." 
She bowed herself back to her chair as the Duke sat beside Gary. The others 
busied themselves with papers, pretending not to notice.
Baird and Myles arrived together while Alanna mastered herself. The Duke greeted 
her cheerfully. At the reception the night before he'd complimented her on her 
work as a healer among the Bazhir. Myles winked at her as he settled into place.
Alanna fidgeted as servants put out water, paper, ink, and fruit. How long will 
I be stuck here before I can go riding? she wondered. I don't have any place at 
councils like this!
Jonathan cleared his throat, and the conversations stopped. "Thank you all for 
corning. I know the sixty days until the coronation seems like a great deal of 
time, but we have much to do." He glanced at Duke Gareth. "I've given some 
thought to the appointment of a King's Champion." Alanna's throat went dry. 
"Uncle Gareth was my father's. It seems to have been an easy post for him—"
"Thank the gods," the Duke said dryly. "None of the others were."
Jonathan joined the company's chuckling before he went on. "Except for taking 
part in the coronation of my father, he was never called on to represent—or 
defend—the throne. I think many have forgotten the post exists. Uncle no longer 
wants it." Duke Gareth nodded. "We feel someone young should be Champion. A 
proven warrior, of course. One who is known to our people and our neighbors."
She saw all too clearly the direction this was taking. "Raoul," Alanna croaked, 
looking at the Knight Commander. Grinning, Raoul shook his head. "Or Gary," she 
tried as Gary tugged at his mustache to cover a smile. "Both fine, strong 
fellows, liked by—"
"No," Jonathan said firmly. The others in the room fought their amusement. "I 
want them where they are—Raoul with the King's Own and Gary as Prime Minister."
"Geoffrey of Meron." She wiped sweat from her upper lip. "Noble, far more 
respectable than me—"
"I've made up my mind." The Provost was the last to grin as Jon spoke. All the 
others had seen such confrontations between the Prince and his obstinate squire.
"You'll make enemies," Alanna said flatly. "There's never been a female 
Champion, not even when women could be warriors! Not in Tortall!"
"That's true," Myles said. "And it's understandable that you would be concerned 
about your standing in the eyes of the people. There are some, still, who feel a 
lady knight is unnatural. And at first there was a lot of feeling against it. 
Even the King—" He stopped and looked at Jon. "But a lot of that thinking has 
changed."
"Like it or no, you're a legend, after the Bazhir and winnin' your shield," the 
Provost said in his blunt way. "Girls play at bein' Lioness. I saw one chasin' 
her brother down the street, wavin' a stick and callin' for the Conte Duke to 
submit to her sword."
The men laughed. Alanna blushed and continued to shake her head.
"Should we call a minstrel and have him sing all the Lioness songs in his 
memory?" Duke Baird asked, his eyes kind. "The newest is the one in which the 
Lioness and the Dragon defeat whole armies of Saren mercenaries. I like it, 
although now that I see you again, I remember you aren't ten feet tall."
"The Bazhir are for you," Raoul added. "You're The Woman Who Rides Like a Man. 
You also helped to bring down the Black City. The other one to do that will be 
King. Your own tribe would be the first to say it's your right to stand beside 
Jon."
Jonathan met her eyes, his gaze friendly but determined. "And let's not forget 
that you journeyed into the stuff of fables and brought back the Dominion 
Jewel." He took it from his belt-purse and set it on the table, where it 
shimmered. "This alone would cause you to be given a high place, even without 
everything else you've done. So say'thank you,' Alanna."
"Jonathan," she whispered, knowing it was useless.
"Say'thank you,' Alanna," Myles told her gently.
She looked at the others, but they weren't looking at her. They watched the 
Jewel, speculating or wondering, as their natures dictated. She realized then 
that even they had changed the way they thought about her. Only Jon met her 
eyes, and he would give no quarter. She had earned this honor. Did she really 
want to refuse?
"You said you wanted to be useful," Jon pointed out.
Alanna had to grin—trapped by my own tongue, she thought. "Thank you, Jonathan," 
she whispered.
He smiled. "You won't regret it—or at least, I won't." He gathered in everyone's 
attention. "Let us discuss the situation in Tortall. I refer to the interesting 
rumor that my reign is cursed and that I will be unseated from the throne."
"As it stands, there is no'situation,' " growled the Provost. He ran his fingers 
through his hair in vexation as he explained. "It's all rumor and whispers. 
There are no plots afoot, none that I can find. Except that Ralon of Malven is 
loose, and he's still got followers. When I get my hands on him, he'll give me 
their names." He closed his black-gloved hands with a predator's grin.
"And Duke Roger?" asked Duke Baird.
"Innocent as a bird," said Gary with disgust. "His every movement can be 
accounted for. He either studies manuscripts and scrolls with Master Lord Thom, 
or he's in plain view of the court."
"Does anyone watch Alex of Tirragen?" Alanna wanted to know. "He was Roger's 
squire."
The Provost, Raoul, and Gary exchanged glances. "Alex we don't know about," Gary 
ad-rnitted. "He locks himself for hours in his palace rooms—"
"He's in one of the old wings, where the floor plans've been lost," the Provost 
explained. "It's possible there's passages in and out of there we know little 
of. But we've no proof, of course. Unless his Majesty gives us a King's Writ, we 
cannot search Sir Alexander's rooms without evidence of wrongdoin'."
"I won't give such a writ,"Jon said. "If I give one now, with only rumor and 
imagination to support it, I'll issue the next one more easily. If I wantonly 
break into any of Alex's homes, even the one he keeps in my own palace, what is 
to stop me from breaking into yours? Of all my subjects, I am the least able to 
break the law."
"Let's see what the news of the Jewel does over the next few weeks," Myles 
suggested. "Send out messengers, until even children know we have it. Perhaps 
knowing it's in his Majesty's possession will give people confidence in his 
reign."
"And we'll stay vigilant," Gary promised. "I'd hate to learn, sixty days from 
now, that there is fire under all this smoke."


They went on to other topics. It was noon by the time the meeting drew to a 
close. Jonathan signaled Alanna to remain behind while he showed the others out. 
She obeyed, still considering all she'd heard since meeting Raoul in Port 
Udayapur.
Jonathan closed the door after Gary and came back to Alanna at the table. 
"Please don't feel that being Champion traps you in some way," he said, somewhat 
concerned. "We're far past the era when a Champion had to defend the King's law 
with his sword. I imagine you'll have all the time in the world to continue 
roaming."
Alanna smiled at him. "That's good. It's not that I don't like being at home. I 
just know there are places I haven't seen. I'll always be here when you need me, 
though."
"That's a comfort." An awkward silence descended until she asked, abruptly, "Are 
you still courting that Princess I heard about—Josiane? The one I met last 
night?"
Jonathan blushed and shook his head. "She likes being a Princess too much. And 
she's cruel. She hides it well, but she is." He fiddled with the papers in front 
of him. "Are you jealous?" he asked sharply. "I noticed you didn't waste time 
finding somebody to replace me. Two somebodies, if you count George and Liam 
Ironarm."
It was Alanna's turn to blush. "I'm not jealous," she said at last. "I just 
thought you had better taste."
Jonathan stared at the table. "My offer of marriage stands, if you want."
She looked at him. Part of her wanted to say "yes," but it was a very small 
part. "I don't know if you've noticed, Jon, but we're very different people 
these days. I didn't realize how different until this council meeting."
"It's funny," he replied, thinking. "I look at you and realize you've been to 
places I'll never visit." He smiled regretfully. "You turned into a hero when I 
wasn't watching."
"Don't say that. I'm still me." Alanna walked over to sit on the table in front 
of him. She took his hand, and feeling more at ease, she tickled his palm. "Jon, 
if we were married we'd make a mess of things. You know it as well as I do."
Now he did look at her. "I don't want to go back on my word," he explained. His 
eyes gave his other feelings away. "I asked for your hand—"
His obvious relief hurt, but it didn't keep her from knowing she did the right 
thing. "And I said no. Thank you, but no. I love you, Jon. We've been through a 
lot. But what we want from life—" She pointed to his papers. "You like this king 
business. I like action. I like to say what I think." She saw a rough sketch 
half hidden by other documents and pulled it free.
"Don't, you—" Jon started to say, but he was too late.
Alanna waved the drawing of Thayet in front of him, grinning wickedly. "You 
still want to marry me, Sire? Or were you just checking to see if the road is 
clear?"
Jonathan was beet red with embarrassment. "Don't tease. You know I'd marry you 
if you said yes."
"Then thank the gods one of us has sense." She examined the drawing closely. 
"Your art-work's improved. The one you did of Delia made her look like a cow." 
Pursing her lips, she added thoughtfully, "Though now that I think of it, maybe 
that was your subject matter—"
Jon laughed so hard tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. When he regained 
his self-control, he said, "I need you home, if only because you make me laugh."
"I'm not sure that's a compliment," she said dryly as she gave him the sketch.
Jonathan caught her hand, his eyes serious. "I love you, too, Alanna. You're a 
part of me—my sword arm."
She kissed his forehead. "Fine. I like that. But you need a Queen, too. Thayet 
would be a good one."
"Are you sure?" he wanted to know. "Are you positive we couldn't make a good 
marriage?" She returned his look, equally serious, and he sighed. "You're right. 
Still, it would have been interesting."


Her head spinning from the events of the last three days, Alanna went to earth. 
She was all but invisible at palace social functions. Jonathan, knowing that she 
needed time to think, left her alone. Instead he asked for Thayet when he called 
at House Olau, taking her for rides or to the palace. He invited Buri on these 
excursions, guessing—accurately—that the little K'mir would prefer several 
deaths to making polite conversation with noblemen. Thayet could make no threat 
that would cause Buri to act as a chaperone at such times. Instead the 
Princess's companion joined Alanna as she refamiliarized herself with Corus and 
the palace grounds.
Alanna introduced her to the remnants of George's court and to her friends among 
the palace hostlers and servants. They joined Liam in extended bouts of exercise 
and sparring. George took them on picnics beside the river and on explorations 
of the city's catacombs. Buri learned how to pick pockets, and Alanna relaxed in 
the thief's company. The pair found themselves drilling the city's urchins, boy 
and girl, in staff- and sword-play, and running races with local youths. Alanna 
brought Buri into the morning practice sessions in the palace, where the K'mir 
met Raoul, Gary, and the other knights and squires. Many of these young 
noblemen, particularly those who didn't know Alanna well, were unsure of what to 
make of two females—one an unproven stranger—joining their practice. Their 
attitudes soon changed to respect for Buri and awe for Alanna.
Because the body concerned was hers, Alanna didn't know how much she'd improved 
under Liam's teaching. If she beat her old friends, which she often did, she 
decided they had been riding chairs too much recently. Alex never challenged 
her, George could still best her with knives, and Liam always won.
"It keeps me humble," she told Coram with chagrin after one session with Liam. 
Coram laughed and ruffled her hair.
She watched Duke Roger. He was often present when she visited Thom. These 
glimpses were enough to confirm her feeling that she trusted him less than ever. 
She relayed her suspicions to everyone who mattered; there could never be too 
many eyes on the Duke. Still, he continued to act conspicuously innocent. 
Instead of easing her fears, such behavior only increased them.
The days slipped away. She was fitted for dresses, which she wore during quiet 
evenings with her family and on leisure excursions with George or her friends at 
court. Summer began with the June festival of Beltane. Since this was the time 
of year men approached their chosen ladies (the excuse being the custom of 
leaping over fires hand-in-hand to ensure a bountiful harvest), she looked for 
George to renew his courtship. Certainly he'd had time to see that she no more 
belonged to Liam than to the moon! George, however, remained simply friendly; 
after his enthusiastic greeting on her return, he showed no other signs of 
warmer feelings.
"I'm doomed to be an old maid," she told Faithful mournfully, surveying her 
image in a looking-glass the morning of the festival.
There was a time when you wanted to be a spinster, he reminded her as he washed 
his glossy fur. A warrior maiden, with no one to tie her down—
"Oh, shut up," she said crossly. "Must I have everything I said as a girl thrown 
back in my face?"
You seemed positive, the cat taunted her wickedly.
A serving girl peered in. "Excuse me, your ladyship, but the King says, if 
you're awake, will you come down? He's in his lordship's library."
Alanna tugged on one of the new gowns, listening with enjoyment to the rustle of 
lilac silk as she tugged a brush through her waving hair. She put on slippers as 
she went downstairs, nearly killing herself by hopping first on one foot, then 
the other. While she knew Jon rose quite early, it was rare for him to leave the 
palace at this hour: he must have an important errand.
"Hello," he greeted her as she rushed into the library. "That's a pretty dress. 
Are you wearing it for anyone in particular?"
"Yes," she snapped. "Myself."
"Ouch. You should be nicer to your King, my Champion."
"No I shouldn't," retorted Alanna. "Duke Gareth says the Champion must always be 
honest, even when others lack the courage."
Jon smiled ruefully. "Lacking the courage to speak out has never been one of 
your problems, I admit."
She looked him over with some concern. "Are you taking proper care of 
yourself—eating right, getting your sleep? It won't do for you to fall ill for 
your own coronation."
"I'll be fine. I've been up late the last week or so, working with the Jewel."
"How is that going?"
Jonathan smiled. "Very well. Thom has been a great help, finding spells and 
writing new ones for the Jewel. Its power can be limitless, if you know how to 
use it." He sighed. "That's a temptation I'll always have to fight. The minute I 
start relying on the Jewel to rule is the minute I court disaster. There's no 
substitute for a human touch."
"Do you always think like this?" she wanted to know. "Or do you rest sometimes 
and think about ordinary things with the rest of us?" She couldn't tell him that 
she was in awe of him when he spoke of such things. If ever a man was born to be 
King, it's Jon, she thought.
"Of course I do," he replied tartly. "There are plenty of ordinary things for me 
to think about—the future, and love, and—" He stopped, turning red.
"How are things with you and Thayet?" Alanna inquired, interested.
Jonathan scrubbed his face with his hands. "Baffling." He sighed. "I don't know 
if she goes riding with me to be polite, or because she likes my company—"
"Good," his Champion said. "You're too sure of yourself with women. It won't 
hurt for you to have to struggle a little."
Jon picked up Faithful and smoothed the cat's fur. "Thank you, dearest Alanna. I 
knew I could depend on you to salve my wounded pride."
"You always take care of your own pride," she reminded him. "You've never needed 
me for that. By the way, what do you need me for this morning? Or are you here 
for the conversation?"
He shook his head. "I'm here for a talk with George—who is late. I thought your 
presence might smooth things."
"You aren't angry with George, are you?" she asked, concerned.
"Quite the opposite."
The subject of their conversation strolled in, mussed and sweat-streaked. "Sorry 
I'm late," he told Jonathan, collapsing into a big armchair. "I had a bit of a 
scuffle with some hotheads. Nothing serious, but it delayed me." Alanna poured 
George a cup of the fruit juice left on Myles's desk by the servants. He 
accepted with a murmured word of thanks, and drained it. She poured him another, 
checking him for wounds from beneath lowered lashes.
He still knew what she was doing. "I'm all in one piece, lass," he grinned. 
"Never tell me you were worried."
Alanna scowled, prodded by his mocking tone. "I wasn't," she retorted.
George winked at her. "That's my girl!"
Jonathan opened a manuscript case that lay on the desk before him and drew out 
two scrolls, both adorned with heavy seals and tied up with royal blue ribbons. 
"Enough squabbling, you two." He passed the first to George. Alanna noted the 
flowing writing was a court scribe's and not Jonathan's precise hand.
George read for only a moment before he stood and tossed the parchment on the 
desk. His mouth was tight with anger, his face white. "A royal pardon! What 
d'you take me for, Majesty?" His big hands were clenched. "You've had fun with 
the low-born, and now you'll throw me a bauble as reward? I want no charity, 
Jonathan!"
Alanna forced herself to sit, gritting her teeth. She could not interfere.
Jonathan refused to be provoked. "I'm not charitable," he said coolly. "My 
father was. Now the results of—certain of his charities threaten this kingdom. I 
wish he had been more just and less kind."
He leaned back. "You were the best teacher I had. Must I list what you made me 
learn? The reaches of men's trickery. Making even those who mistrust me follow 
where I lead. The extent of human greed. The things that can't be bought. The 
need for ruthlessness. The ability to recognize—and trust—loyalty." Jon smiled 
grimly. "I've often wondered—would I have survived the Ordeal of the Voice, if 
you hadn't taken me under your wing?"
He tapped the pardon. " 'The teacher earns his wage,' " he quoted. "But it's 
more than that. This is to prevent the day when I have to sign a writ for your 
execution."
George went to the bookshelves, staring at them. "You needn't go so far. I've 
lost my taste for the Rogue. I'll leave Tortall, settle elsewhere."
When Alanna would have started forward, Jon gripped her arm, keeping her beside 
him. "Must you desert me when I need you?" he asked the thief. "Never again will 
I have any freedom. And our hero is easily recognized, which limits her 
movements." He smiled at Alanna and let her go. She stayed where she was, tense.
Jon continued, "I need someone unusual to serve as my confidential agent. I'd 
trust such an agent implicitly. He must be clever and unorthodox, someone who 
could venture among all classes without trouble."
George looked at Jon, his face unreadable. "What's t'other writ, then?"
"A grant of nobility and the title of baron. The deeds to the lands and incomes 
traditionally belonging to the lord of Pirate's Swoop, a day's ride south of 
Port Caynn."
"I know where the Swoop is," George snapped. "Why? Why must you go and make me 
respectable?"
"A confidential agent needs a home and income," was the simple reply. "His 
comings and goings, particularly at court, cannot be remarked upon, which means 
he must be a noble."
"I want to travel, Jon. Before I'm old and know nothin' but the Rogue."
Jonathan smiled dryly. "Is life here so dull that you two think of nothing but 
roaming? Never mind. I need you to travel. I have to know what's outside my 
borders, too." He let George think for a few moments before adding softly, "I 
can't do this alone. Say you will." Both Alanna and George heard the real 
pleading in his voice when he added, "Please."
George picked up the pardon, re-reading it. He tapped a large seal in silvery 
wax. "How in Mithros's name did you get my Lord Provost to sign?"
"You'd be surprised. He's an amazing fellow." Jonathan's tone was filled with 
wry respect, making Alanna wonder just what the Provost had done to put that 
feeling in his voice.
George sighed, rolling the parchment up. "With so many good reasons for me to 
accept, I'd be touched in my wits to refuse." With a lopsided grin he told 
Alanna, "He's grown up with a vengeance. I wonder if I shall be glad or sorry."


Alanna rode to the palace that evening as the sun set against the Coastal Hills, 
paying her daily visit to Thom. When she left him, as always, she was troubled 
and uneasy. He looked no better than he had when she first returned to Corus. If 
anything, he looked worse, and she was frightened. She'd also noticed that 
Faithful stayed away from Thom, and that Thom deliberately avoided the cat. To 
her there was no better sign of something dangerously wrong; but when she 
questioned Faithful, he refused to answer.
Instead of riding home or seeking out her friends, she and Faithful wandered 
idly through the maze of the palace, thinking about the coronation. It was hard 
to believe only three weeks remained.
Their walk finally brought knight and cat to the Hall of Crowns. This room had 
one use: Tortallan sovereigns were consecrated to the realm there. At all other 
times it was closed, its windows covered by heavy velvet curtains.
They entered, smelling beeswax, spices, and incense. The servants had worked 
hard, cleaning the dust-covered draperies, polishing wood- and metalwork until 
it shone, scrubbing the many-paned windows. Tiny votive candles winked on the 
altar, where a Mithran priest and a Daughter of the Goddess would bind Jonathan 
to the crown and the land.
Her steps echoed to the ceiling as she walked around. Here were the wooden 
benches where the nobility sat. She climbed the stone risers that would seat the 
principal merchants, guild-masters, and their families until she reached the 
top. Here were the City Doors, the height of five men and the breadth of seven. 
These would be open during the coronation. All who could fit in behind the 
wealthy and powerful commoners would do so, relaying what happened inside to the 
less fortunate.
Once crowned, Jonathan would mount Darkness at the City Doors to ride down to 
his new capital. Alanna would stay a pace behind as he rode through the packed 
streets.
Thank the Goddess Moonlight isn't some skittish yearling and hard to control in 
a crowd, she reflected. Still, I can think of things I'd rather be doing that 
day.
She sat on a riser, almost on top of Faithful. "Oh, stop it," she muttered when 
he yowled.
"You aren't hurt." Propping elbows on knees, she put her chin on her hands, 
staring at the distant altar. "I'm getting old," she whispered. "I should be 
excited about the coronation. I wish I knew for certain he'd be safe."
You wanted to be a hero, Faithful said. Heroes have responsibilities.
"I'm not sure I want to be a hero anymore," Alanna sighed.
Then you are in trouble. That's the one thing you'll never be able to change.
"I know. I think about marrying, though, if I could do it and still see the 
world. It wouldn't be such a bad thing. Not if it was someone I liked and loved. 
Someone I could laugh with."
You want to be warrior and woman. You want to travel and serve Jonathan. Can't 
you make up your mind about what you want? complained the cat.
"Who says I can't have a little bit of each?" she wanted to know. When she 
realized what she'd said, she began to grin. "That's right—why can't I? And I've 
done pretty well, I think!"
I suppose so, he replied grudgingly. For a person. Mind, be careful in your 
choices—particularly if you want to marry. You need somebody who isn't as 
noble-minded as you are. Otherwise you take yourself much too seriously. I won't 
always be around to correct you.
"I am not noble-minded!"
Yes you are. You hide it well, but not everyone knows you like I do. And you 
think you can solve all the world's ills. You need someone who will cheer you up 
when you can't.
Abruptly Alanna sneezed four times without stopping. She got to her feet, 
blinking teary eyes. Something took form before the altar, something with 
substance enough to obscure the votive candles. It was the Goddess, her white 
skin and emerald eyes gleaming in the dark. Impossibly tall, she smiled at 
Alanna. Of course she's here, Alanna thought, awed. It's Beltane. Every couple 
tonight will ask her blessing on the summer crops. Then why has she come here? 
I'm alone, without a lover, and I'm more worried about the coronation than the 
crops.
The gentle whisper nonetheless drove Alanna to her knees. It took all her will 
power to keep her hands from her ears: that voice still embodied huntress and 
hounds and the storm. In the Hall of Crowns even the Goddess's whisper rolled 
like thunder. "We meet again, my daughter. You have traveled a long road since 
last we spoke. Surely you must be pleased, now. Your labors of all these years, 
here and in the Roof of the World, bear fruit. Your Jonathan is to be King. He 
will bear the Dominion Jewel."
Alanna looked up eagerly. "Then he will be King? Please—can you give me a sign, 
some hint of what is to come? I sense trouble, but—and my brother. What's wrong 
with Thom?"
The Goddess shook her head. "I may not answer these questions. The gods cannot 
reveal all things, otherwise, where is men's right to choose their fates? Where 
is your right to choose?"
"I think I chose well," Alanna said, getting to her feet. "How can I thank you 
for your favor?"
"Your life is my thanks. I have guided you as best I can, but the time for 
guidance is past. You are fully grown into all your powers, Alanna. The days to 
come are what you make of them. The coronation is a crossroad in Time. Bend it 
to your will—if you have the courage!"
Alanna's blood thrilled to the challenge, but her common sense made her beg, 
"Just a hint?"
The Goddess shook her head, smiling with amusement. The air brightened. Alanna 
could see other figures before the altar. The shining warrior could be only 
Mithros, the divine protector. On the Goddess's other side, hooded and cloaked, 
waited her brother the Black God. Alanna knew him and bowed her greetings; the 
great head nodded in reply.
Behind them were ranged others, only some of whom she knew: the Crooked God, his 
smile as wicked as George's own; the Smith's God; the Sea Goddess. The array of 
immortals stretched on and on, but somehow she saw each face clearly. Awed and 
frightened, she covered her eyes like a Doi tribesman.
Slowly the glory faded. When she uncovered her eyes, she and Faithful were 
alone. She stayed where she was for a while, remembering what she had seen. At 
last she shook her head. "Ask a silly question."
It always comes to this, Faithful remarked. A god can guide a mortal, nurture, 
teach. And yet there comes a moment when the god must stand away from the 
fosterling and let the inevitable happen.
"Why?" she asked, curious.
That's how the universe is fashioned, Faithful replied. There are moments when 
only a human can affect the outcome of events.
She picked him up, letting him perch under her left ear. "You mean they don't 
know what's going to happen?"
People like you are the fulcrums on which the future turns. He gave her ear a 
nuzzle. Don't mess it up. I have a reputation to maintain.


Leaving the Hall of Crowns, she was surprised to come face-to-face with Delia of 
Eldorne and Princess Josiane. Both wore plain, dark gowns and veils over their 
hair.
Plainly they were as surprised as she was.
Delia recovered quickly. "Well, if it isn't 'Sir' Alanna," she sneered, her 
green eyes glinting. "The Woman Who Rides Like a Man!"
Taking her cue from Delia's words, Alanna bowed as a man would. "Princess 
Josiane. Lady Delia."
"I used to have to dance with her when she posed as a he," Delia told the tall 
blonde. "I sensed something was not right."
"Funny," Alanna said thoughtfully, "as I recall, you chased me. You made a point 
of flirting with me, because the men said I was a woman-hater, and you wanted to 
make me fall in love with you."
"Liar!" Delia hissed.
Alanna shrugged. "As you like. I was taught not to question a lady's word."
"I'm told you were Jonathan's lover once," Josiane said abruptly, veiling her 
blue eyes with her lashes. "Is that why he made you Champion?"
Surprised by the attack from this unknown source, Alanna took a step back. She 
clenched her hands, her nails biting into newly formed scars, as she controlled 
her temper. "I'm told you replaced me in his affections—for a little while," she 
replied sweetly. "Why didn't he make you Prime Minister?"
Josiane's beautiful face changed into an ugly mask. "No one gets the better of 
me," she hissed.
"Did you plan to be King's Champion?" Alanna wanted to know. "You don't have the 
training."
Delia gripped Josiane's arm; Alanna could see her blood-red nails digging into 
the Princess's flesh. "I don't waste time in conversations with sluts, Josiane," 
she snapped. "Neither should you." She literally dragged the Princess away, 
quite a feat in so delicate-looking a woman.


She could do harm," Alanna told Liam and Myles later that night as they sat over 
brandy. Outside they could hear the sounds of the Beltane festival. "I'm no 
expert, but that Josiane is crazy!"
"There's bad blood in the Copper Isle kings," Liam drawled, his eyes sleepy. 
"They birth a mad one every generation. Josiane's uncle is locked in a tower 
somewhere. It comes from being an island kingdom—too much inbreeding."
"I think it might be a good idea if the Provost's spies kept an eye on her," 
Alanna said frankly. "I don't trust her."
"He has her watched," Myles said reassuringly. "Any foreign noble is suspect at 
a time like this."
Alanna fidgeted in her chair. "I wish the coronation was over. The waiting is 
getting on my nerves."
"Once he's sealed to the crown and the land, he'll be hard to dislodge." Liam 
yawned. "And if the Jewel's all it's supposed to be, so much the better."
"In the meantime, we still can find no traces of a plot or plotters." Myles 
sighed. "With people starting to arrive for the ceremonies, it will be hard to 
spot fighters corning to take part in an overthrow."
"George and I ride through the city every day," Liam said unexpectedly. "The 
Lord Provost and Duke Gareth, too. Between the four of us, any group of warriors 
will be easy to spot. The Provost's men stand alert as well." He noticed Alanna 
staring at him and grinned. "Did you think you could leave me out of your 
worries? I'm still your friend. I won't sit idling when there's a hint of a 
fight in the offing."
Alanna smiled gratefully at the Dragon. "It is a weight off my mind, knowing 
you're keeping an eye on things, too."
George glanced into the library. "Ah, here you all are. Myles, I've another 
visitor to cast upon your tender mercies." He bowed gracefully, ushering the 
guest into the room.
"Master Si-cham!" Alanna cried, jumping up. The tiny old man in the orange worn 
by Mithran adepts smiled and held out gnarled hands for her to kiss.
"And Liam Ironarm," he said, nodding cheerfully to the bowing Dragon. "What a 
pair of warriors to grace your house, Myles!"
Alanna looked from Si-cham to Liam to her father, baffled. "You know Liam?" she 
asked. The redheaded man winked at her. "You know Myles?"
"I traveled more when I was younger." Myles explained. "Si-cham, have a seat. 
George, thank you for bringing him. Where was he?"
"Cornered near the Water Gate by a set of young louts. The drunken fools wanted 
him t'dance for the Goddess," George said, pouring tea for the Mithran priest. 
"There's no respect for old men anymore."
"I've danced for the Goddess in my day." Si-cham admitted with a grin. "Not 
after such a journey, though." He drank his tea. "I'm sorry to be so long in 
answering your summons, George Cooper. I had a thousand loose ends to tie up in 
the City of the Gods once they realized I was truly going. Also, I do not cover 
so much ground as I did when I was young. I had to be carried in a litter—a sad 
comedown for me, when I rode so well."
"But why are you here?" Alanna wanted to know.
Si-cham put down his glass, his face tired. "George tells me your brother is 
ill—desperately so, perhaps. He asked me to come to Master Thom's aid."
"Now all we have to do is convince Thom he needs it," admitted George.


At first Thom refused to consider talking to his former master. His rage on 
learning why Si-cham was in the city scared Alanna, not so much because she 
feared his temper, but because she heard despair and fear in Thom's voice as he 
screamed at her. This made her determined that Si-cham should meet with her 
twin. Thom resembled a skeleton now; his skin was dry and cracked with the heat 
that ate at him from within.
A week before the coronation Thom gave in. Even Roger was banned from their 
meeting, a ban he accepted gracefully. When Thom and Si-cham instructed the 
palace servants to bring their meals to Thom's rooms, Alanna gave up waiting for 
word. They would send for her when they needed her.
She had a number of mundane tasks that needed to be taken care of in the days 
remaining. Visiting the palace scribes, she had a new will drawn up: the last 
had been done prior to her Ordeal. They were disturbed to see such a document 
when death should be the last thing on her mind, but she could not shake uneasy 
feelings about the coronation. She wanted nothing left to chance, just in case. 
She took her mail to be polished and her sword to be sharpened. While neither 
her gold mail nor Lightning required the extra attention, she felt better for 
having it done. When the hairdresser came to style Eleni's hair for a court 
party, Alanna asked him to cut her hair as well. Everyone but George and Buri 
cried out when they saw her. The coppery locks that had fallen past her 
shoulders were trimmed back to her ear lobes in the short cut she'd worn as a 
page. She shrugged at the protests. "I couldn't keep it out of my eyes," she 
explained.
Finally one of the palace servants came to House Olau, four days after Thom and 
Si-cham had cloistered themselves, to ask Alanna to visit her brother. She did 
so, wondering what delightful surprise the sorcerers had ready for her.
Thom was pacing when she arrived. Alanna dropped into a chair with a grateful 
sigh. "It's baking outside." About as much as you're baking inside, she added to 
herself, noting that his skin was peeling and his lips bled.
Thom looked at her quizzically. "Tell me, Sister Mine, when is your Dragon going 
to make an honest woman of you?"
She made a face at him, thinking he had to feel a little better if he was nosing 
into her affairs. "He isn't. We were done before I came home. He doesn't like 
magic."
"Silly man. What about Jonathan, then? Everyone knows you two used to be lovers, 
even if he is a prig about other things. Maybe I should talk to him. Having 
sullied your reputation, he can't be allowed to abandon you. You have a good 
name—"
"I'm not amused, Thom."
"I think you should take the thief, if you must take someone. If you marry 
George, I'll give you my blessing."
"If I marry anyone, I'll let you know. Can you change the subject?" She shifted 
in the big chair, hooking her legs over one arm. "I love you dearly, Thom, but 
you're prying, and I don't appreciate it."
He grinned. "What sort of twin would I be if I didn't pry?" That made her smile. 
Sitting on the edge of his desk, he tugged his beard as he looked her over. 
"It's changed you—the Jewel. Time was you'd've lost your temper with me for 
calling him a 'prig' or teasing you about the Dragon. You only save your anger 
now for big things, is that it?"
"Thom, do you mind?' she snapped. "I didn't come here to be analyzed by my own 
twin, thank you very much!"
He looked away. "Sorry," he murmured shyly. "I forgot how much I dislike it. And 
you have changed. For the better, I think."
"Thank you," she whispered, touched by the rare compliment.
There was a rap on the door; it opened to admit Si-cham. "There you are, Lady 
Alanna. Now we may begin."
Alanna looked at Thom, feeling the first pricklings of mistrust. "Begin what?" 
she wanted to know.
"We've been going over the books in Jonathan's sorcery library," Thom explained. 
"And we found some possibilities. For now, I want to drain off a little of the 
power that burdens me. Without it, I can think clearly. Because you're my twin, 
you're the best person to carry it."
"Wait a minute—" Alanna began, rising out of her chair. "What if it poisons me 
like you've been poisoned? Even a beginning hedgewitch knows you can carry your 
own Gift and no more!"
"That would be true, if we spoke of weeks or months or years. This transfer is 
for a week. Our spells will enclose it, keep it from leaking into your Gift," 
Si-cham reassured her. "We are sure of it." He met Alanna's eyes, smiling.
Alanna stared at the sorcerers for a long moment. "A week?"
"No more," Thom said. "The most important of the infusions I need takes that 
long to make."
Alanna bit her lip. He was so thin! "It'll help? It won't interfere with my 
participation in the coronation?"
"It will help," Si-cham affirmed. "It will not interfere. You won't even notice 
it after the first night, unless you try to use your Gift, of course. I would 
not advise it."
She sat down with an exhausted sigh. "What must I do?"


Alanna kept to House Olau for the next few days while her head buzzed and her 
stomach lurched. Grimly she continued her exercises with Liam in spite of it, 
fearing to slack off for even a day. At last her body adjusted to the new 
burden. But she refused to do so tiny a spell as the one for lighting candles, 
fearful of what might happen. Visiting Thom once more, she was glad she'd given 
in—he looked better already. Together with Si-cham, he had embarked on the 
beginnings of an intricate spell. It would be finished several days after the 
coronation, and—if Thom was lucky—it would purify his magic.


Three days before the coronation, Jonathan summoned Alanna to the palace to 
discuss how the Jewel would fit into the ceremonies. "It seems like a silly 
thing to worry about," he admitted with a smile, "but the Master of Protocol 
wouldn't let me alone until I agreed to do it his way. You see, I can't take it 
up when I'm crowned, or when I get the scepter and the Great Seal. Those are all 
Tortallan things, and the Jewel isn't Tortallan."
Alanna had to laugh. "Poor Jon! Maybe I should've given it to you for your 
birthday, or something."
The King-to-be grimaced. "Very funny. Here's how we will do it. When you come to 
give me your oath as King's Champion, say this."
He gave her a parchment on which her oath was written. It read very like the one 
she'd taken as a knight. At the end, in scarlet ink, were lines, which she read 
aloud. " 'Sire, as token of my fealty, I gift you and your heirs with this most 
awesome artifact—' Jon, do I really have to say 'awesome artifact'?" Jonathan 
nodded, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Wonderful," Alanna muttered as she 
read further. " 'For which I have gone in quest to the most distant corner of 
our world. Through peril I have borne it, for the glory of Tortall, and for the 
glory of King Jonathan. Accept, I beg, this symbol of my devotion to realm and 
crown, the Dominion Jewel.' Jon, this is some kind of a joke!"
Jon shook his head. "Wait till you hear what I have to say in reply. I'd better 
go—the delegation from Tyra is waiting for me. Don't forget to memorize your 
lines!" With an evil grin he left Alanna to scowl at her revised oath.
She shoved it into her pocket. "I guess I'm too old to put a frog in his bed," 
she muttered as she headed for the stables. " 'Awesome artifact,' indeed!"



CHAPTER EIGHT
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 
Kings' 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 Chamber and ushered him inside. Alanna the 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 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 of 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 replied. "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 emberstone, 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 
Corarn 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 a 
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 yawed 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 in 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 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 axe chopped down, biting deep into Si-cham's collarbone. He 
dropped. Josi-ane stood in the doorway, spattered with his blood, trying to work 
her axe 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 axe high.
They'd forgotten Faithful. Screeching, he flew into Josiane's face, clinging as 
she howled and dropped the axe.
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 Conte.


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 El-dorne 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 shown even 
brighter than the crown, and 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 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 counter-cut. 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 swordpoint 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 drily. 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 of 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 faltered 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 Conte.


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, kissed Alanna 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 them, 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 hardly 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."



EPILOGUE
« ^ 
Heralds went out to explain to the people what had happened on Coronation Day. 
There would be no weeks of celebration that year. Tor-tall needed time to mourn, 
repair, and rebuild. Instead the new King planned a festival to mark the first 
year of his reign, on the anniversary of Coronation Day. Afterward he would 
travel through his kingdom, the first such royal journey since his grandfather's 
day.
Those found guilty by the Courts of Law of taking part in the rebellion lost 
their lands and wealth; they and their families were sent into exile. For Delia, 
the only living ringleader, the Courts decreed life imprisonment. The sentences 
for all should have been death—the laws on treason were strict—but Jonathan 
would not begin his rule with executions. He granted more pardons in the first 
week of his official reign than had King Roald in all of his.


A week after the funerals, the King found his Champion in the catacombs, seated 
on a bench and gazing at the blackened Gate of Idramm. Lightning stood there, 
thrust into the center of the design. The blade was streaked with soot, the 
jewels of its hilt cracked and blackened. Jonathan gripped the sword, trying to 
free it without success.
"It's all right," Alanna told him. "I don't want it. There are other swords, and 
I like Lightning right where it is."
Jon released the weapon and looked at his filthy hands. "Good."
"I'm just thinking. Will you please get away from the Gate? You make me 
nervous."
The King shrugged and came to sit beside her. "What's on your mind?"
She hesitated a moment before saying, "Would you—mind, if I went to the Bloody 
Hawk for a while? I just need time to think, and I'd like a rest." She smiled. 
"I've had a busy year."
"Take all the time you want," Jon assured her. "I know where to find you if 
there's need."


Alanna to George Cooper, Baron of Pirate's Swoop, written in late July:
…So Jon has put you to work finding the last of the coronation rebels. I'm not 
surprised. It is very quiet here. Tell Myles I have enough sleep at last. I miss 
you…
She entered into the daily routine of the tribe, hunting lions with the young 
men and hearing the legends of the Bazhir from the shamans. She took her turn at 
sentry duty, enjoying the quiet and the clearness of the stars. Shortly after 
her arrival Alanna saw a new constellation at the foot of the cluster called 
"The Goddess." She never found out who named it, but everywhere she traveled in 
later years she always heard it called "The Cat."
Young people came from all over to meet the Woman Who Rides Like a Man. Most 
were youths, but an occasional girl visited as well. Many of the boys were 
headed north, to join the King's Own. The girls planned to try their own 
fortunes, most of them as fighters.


In the second week of October, Thayet and Buri came to the Bloody Hawk escorted 
by a squad of the King's Own. Alanna was glad to see them, now that the edge had 
worn off her grief for Thom, Liam, and Faithful. It wasn't long before Alanna 
began to wonder if Thayet had come to talk about a particular subject. Whatever 
it was, she couldn't bring herself to discuss it for days. Instead she talked 
about the school she'd begun with the help of Myles, Eleni, Gary, and George; or 
the Midwinter weddings for Myles and Coram; and Alanna's doings. She met 
Alanna's friends in the tribe and tried her hand at weaving.
Buri joined the girls who shocked the elders by studying warrior arts. When she 
showed them K'miri trick riding, she drew the young men, uniting the two groups 
in their eagerness to learn. "I'm glad we came," Thayet told Alanna a week after 
her arrival. They sat in front of Alanna's tent after the evening meal. From the 
central fire they could hear Buri teaching her friends a rude song about city 
dwellers. "She misses the excitement of the road," the Princess added. "She's a 
lot like you that way."
Alanna massaged her palms with a wry smile. "If that's so, she'll find other 
things to challenge her. She won't be able to help it." She paused, then decided 
to see what was up. "You aren't here because you wanted to give Buri a holiday, 
Thayet. And it's a long ride just to say 'hello.'"
The Princess looked away. "Jonathan—admires the Bazhir. He let me read their 
history. He thinks the K'mir, the Doi, and the Bazhir may be descended from one 
race. Though the Bazhir are more cousins than in the direct line—"
"Thayet." Alanna sighed.
The other woman knotted her handkerchief. "He wanted me to know everything about 
you, and about it being over. He said I should have the story straight." Her 
voice was soft. "But I have to wonder, because you and he are so close, still—"
Alanna took the handkerchief away before her friend could damage it. "We always 
were close, long before we were lovers. I imagine we'll always be close, but not 
in the same way. We're friends. And I'm his Champion."
"But everyone seems to think—When you come back—"
"Everyone?" Alanna wanted to know. "I think someone doesn't think that at all, 
or he wouldn't spend so much time with you."
Thayet whispered, "If I hadn't come to Tortall—"
Alanna drew a design in the sand. "Nonsense. I wanted you to be safe; we all 
did. And I knew you'd make a better Queen than I would."
"What?" yelped the Princess.
"Jonathan needs someone who will treat him like a person, not just a King," 
Alanna explained. "I can't. I'm his vassal, for all I'm his friend. You were 
born and reared to be royalty. It doesn't frighten you. You won't let him turn 
into a prig. You won't let him be smug." She hesitated, then said, "I was hoping 
by now you'd like him."
"But you're my friend!" Thayet wailed. "I can't take your man!"
Alanna hugged her. "He isn't my man. He's yours, if you love him and he loves 
you. I want you both to be happy. I'd prefer you were happy with each other."
Thayet sniffed and wiped her eyes. "I probably look like a hag."
Alanna grinned. "Don't fish for compliments. It isn't becoming."
A watery chuckle was her answer. "I was so happy at not having to go through a 
marriage of state."
"Well, that was before you met Jon, so that's all right."
Now that she didn't have to worry about upsetting her friend, Thayet wanted to 
hear about Jonathan when he was younger. When that subject was exhausted, she 
told Alanna of the changes they hoped to make in Tortall. Buri arrived. When 
Thayet stopped for breath, the K'mir said, "Glad it's not me she's talking to, 
for a change. People in love are boring." Thayet made a face at her companion.
Much later, as she and Alanna lay in their bedrolls, Thayet whispered, "Alanna? 
Is there someone for you?"
Alanna blinked, suddenly watery eyed. "I don't know."
"He'd be very unconventional, I know." Thayet sighed. "Most men—"
"Would panic if they thought of marrying a lady knight," Alanna finished. 
"Someone like that would bore me silly. I've been very lucky with men." She 
fingered the ember at her throat, wondering where George was.
"Then you'll be lucky again."
The next morning Alanna was performing her Shang exercises when she heard a 
sentry's warning whistle. It was answered by two others, and then a whistle 
sounded to mean "No danger." She picked up her sword, wanting to check anyway, 
when a woman behind her said, "It's me they're whistling about."
Alanna spun and stepped back into a fighting stance. The wiry female, now in 
front of her, raised her hands to show they were empty. Her tightly curled hair 
was more grey than chestnut; her eyes were pale in a tan, weathered face. On her 
gloves was the Shang globe surmounted by a bristling cat. "The reflexes are all 
right," the Wildcat said, her voice light and dry. "Do you expect an attack even 
now?"
Alanna lowered her sword. "I've had an interesting year."
"Hunh." Liam's master examined her carefully. "So you were his last pupil. He 
thought you could be one of us, for all that you're too old." Alanna looked 
away, afraid she might cry. "Come up on the ridge with me. I'm just passing 
through. You can see me off."
"You've come a way to just pass through,' " Alanna said, her emotions under 
control again. She followed the Wildcat up to a ridge that commanded a view of 
the southern road. The older woman stopped to stare across the desert, lines 
deepening at the corners of her eyes. "I want to tell you I'm sorry—about Liam. 
I wish I could have prevented it."
The Wildcat waved her explanation away. "You have to understand Shang, Lady 
Knight. We all know we risk early death. And he guessed, or suspected. He wrote 
me from Corus, the day before he was killed. If he got lucky, I was to forget 
it. If he didn't, I was to give you this."
She put a folded and sealed parchment into Alanna's hands. Alanna saw the older 
woman's eyes brim with tears. The Wildcat gave her a tiny smile. "I love him 
more'n my own sons. It's good to know he used his death well."
Opening the parchment with hands that shook, Alanna read:
Kitten, Knowing you, you think it's your fault I got killed when I did. You're 
thinking, if you hadn't dragged me along… Forget it. Remember the Doi woman, 
Mi-chi, saying I knew my fate? Years ago a Doi told me I'd know when it was the 
Black God's time for me. I think this is it. If I'm wrong, and I live, the 
Wildcat will bum this letter anyway, so you won't find out that I wrote this.
Don't blame yourself. When could you ever tell me what to do? I chose my life. I 
accepted Dragon rank, knowing no Dragon has lived to be forty. As it is, I'm the 
oldest Dragon in almost a hundred years.
The truth is we never saw death the same (like some other things), so I didn't 
talk about it with you. All you think of death is ending. To me, it's how a 
person goes. Dying for important things—that's better than living safe.
I often visited Tortall, though we never met there. The last two times—the first 
before I found you, and the second when we sailed into Port Caynn—I felt a 
change. Like the land when spring is coming. Bazhir talking to northerners, not 
fighting them. Commoners and nobles planning the future. Even you, my kitten, 
your great disguise—it's part of something new that centers around your 
Jonathan. If I can protect this beginning, I will have died a Dragon. You should 
grow old, and testy (testier), and raise lions and lionesses with a man who 
loves all of you. Even your Gift, and your independence, and your stubbornness.
Practice the kicks off your left side—I don't care if they tire you out more 
than the right-side kicks.
Remember to rub that balm I gave you into the scars on your hands.
The Wildcat had gone while she read. Glad to be alone, Alanna sat and wept, 
letting the Dragon go at last.
Thayet and Buri left a few days later. Alanna started to think about her own 
trip north, before the roads turned bad with winter rain and snow. Since she was 
trying to weave a blanket for George's Midwinter present, she decided to set out 
when it was done. She was working alone in her tent one afternoon when a shadow 
blocked the light on her work. George Cooper, cloak and riding boots covered 
with dust, entered the tent.
Alanna put down her shuttle. She could feel her heart drumming, and it took an 
effort to say lightly, "I was sort of hoping you'd come before this."
He sat beside her, examining the cloth on the loom. "I'd hoped to come before 
this, too," he admitted. "Truth to tell, givin' up the Rogue and turnin' 
respectable—it takes gettin' used to. Some days I get out of bed not knowin' who 
I am. Jonathan kept me busy, like I wrote you. Too, the castle down at old 
Pirate's Swoop had to be fixed up proper before I brought—" He stopped. "Jon's 
announced he's to marry Thayet," he said abruptly. "The Bazhir will have told 
you."
"It's one of the advantages to having a King who's also the Voice." His face 
would be easier to read if his back wasn't to the light!
"Thayet says you gave your blessin'."
"I did." She curled her hands around her elbows to hide their trembling.
"You're not sorry for it? Had you wanted, you'd be Queen."
"I didn't want it."
He reached out to toy with the emberstone. "What do you want, Alanna?"
She caught his hand and met his eyes, smiling. "I want to be yours. If you're 
still interested."
His fingers tightened on hers. "Why?"
Alanna looked down. "I love you."
He made her look at him. "Enough to wed with me? Enough to give up roamin' and 
settle down and be lady of Pirate's Swoop?" She looked at him quizzically, and 
he blushed. "Well, to roam with me along." Alanna nodded. George took a breath. 
"Enough to bear my—our—little ones?"
She blushed. "I'd like to have you to myself for a year or two. After that, 
we'll have all the children we want." Her voice cracked as she added, "I'll be 
proud to."
Rising, George pulled Alanna into his arms. "So I finally tamed myself a 
Lioness," he whispered when they broke their kiss.
Alanna laughed. "I wouldn't call it tamed, laddy-me-love. The lady of Pirate's 
Swoop shouldn't be tame."
George grinned. "Particularly not when she's King's Champion, to boot. That's 
all right, then." He picked her up for another kiss. When he finally put her 
down, he took her hand and drew her out of the tent. "Come on, Lioness. We can 
tell your tribe we're betrothed."