“If they’re given the right bank, they won’t stop till they have the entire valley,” Alanna said frankly.
Jonathan nodded. “But no one can convince my father of that. He takes being called ‘The Peacemaker’ very seriously.”
“He did establish peace after the Old King’s conquests,” Alanna said fairly.
“Yes, but this time he’s wrong!” Jonathan growled. He brooded for a few moments before smiling and taking her hand. “Look at me. You’re not awake five minutes and I’m burdening you with my problems. Mithros, I’m glad you’re all right!”
Alanna squeezed his hand. “Thank you for taking care of me, Jon.”
He reached over to brush a strand of hair away from her face. Suddenly he was very close. Alanna discovered she was afraid to breathe. Carefully, almost timidly, Jonathan kissed her mouth.
Someone’s coming, Faithful remarked.
Myles entered the tent to find a very pale Jonathan picking up a book as his very red squire drank from a water bottle. His hazel eyes flicked from Jon to Alanna, and Alanna wondered once again how much Myles knew, or guessed, about her identity.
“It’s time you came to,” Myles remarked, his quiet voice even. “Do you realize you’ve been asleep for three days?”
Using so much of her Gift when she was hurt had undermined Alanna’s strength to a degree she couldn’t believe possible. Duke Roger ordered her away from any fighting, leaving her to fret every time Jonathan was gone. It wasn’t that she thought Raoul’s squire, Douglass, couldn’t look after the prince in battle; she was just convinced he couldn’t do it as well as she could. But Duke Roger had taken an interest in her welfare, and Jonathan, Myles, and Duke Baird sided with him: She was in no condition to fight. Privately Alanna knew they were right: Her arm would ache for months to come, and she continued to have dizzy spells. Just lighting a candle by using her Gift was more than she could manage.
Her search for something to do led her up and down the river. Finally she returned to the healers’ tents; although she couldn’t use her Gift, she could hold basins, bandage wounds, and undertake countless little tasks during those long June days after her sixteenth birthday. Jonathan often came for her there and stayed, talking to the men and doing some healing of his own.
Sometimes the healers shooed her away, particularly if Duke Baird noticed she was tiring. She tried the weapons-smiths then. These gruff men would ignore her except to shove a pair of bellows or an extra set of tongs into her good hand, motioning for her to make herself useful. She mended swords, spears, knives, and armor, learning how to put a keen edge on a blade and how to keep a fire at the same heat for an hour or more. She would never be as adept as Coram, who had taught her the basics of the blacksmith’s art, but she would always be able to keep her equipment in good working order.
She also signed on as a sentry. Jonathan’s men had suffered the worst losses in the big Tusaine attack, and they welcomed even one small relief guard.
One evening in late July she and Faithful were standing watch just below the falls. They were alone at the moment. The soldier sharing the watch with them was having trouble with a healing leg, and Alanna had sent him back to camp for a replacement. He had not been gone long when a twig snapped behind them. Alanna spun, leveling her spear at her visitor.
Orange light flared against a hand, making Duke Roger’s face briefly visible. Faithful pressed against Alanna’s ankles, hissing and spitting.
“Stop it,” Alanna told him, slowly lowering the spear. Faithful obeyed. “Your Grace. Aren’t you out late?”
“Not really. Sit down, please. I know you still tire easily.”
Alanna obeyed, sitting on a large rock. Faithful hopped up onto her lap. “I’m honored by Your Grace’s concern.”
“You did a brave thing, tracking down the man Thor and hearing his story. It’s a pity you collapsed before you made it back to camp; you might have captured the traitor.”
Alanna shrugged without taking her eyes off Jonathan’s cousin. “Don’t think I haven’t kicked myself about that, sir, several times.”
Silence fell between them, stretching out over endless moments. I won’t ask why he’s here, Alanna told herself grimly. He’ll get to it in his own time. He didn’t come up here just to be polite.
Suddenly Duke Roger said, “We are not friends, are we, Alan?”
Alanna tightened her hands on her spear. This was coming to grips with a vengeance! “No, Your Grace, we’re not,” she replied evenly.
Without the light of his Gift it was hard to read the Duke’s face. “Might it be possible we are enemies?”
Alanna thought about this, and about his reasons for asking. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “Perhaps you should tell me.”
“I could be a very good friend, Alan.”
Her throat was dry. What kind of game was he playing? Was this a warning—or a threat? “I have no desire to make you my enemy; sir. I’d like to live to a ripe old age and die in my sleep.”
White teeth flashed in a grin against his shadowed face. “I can sympathize. Such an ending could be yours—if we were friends. Many things could be yours.”
Alanna shifted her hold on the spear; her fingers were getting numb. “I would have to be assured that my other friends have the same chance, Your Grace,” she said boldly. “Frankly, I doubt that’s your aim.”
For a long moment he said nothing. Then she saw his broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “I see. Thus, as long as you feel this way, we will be…”
“Less than friends,” Alanna supplied diplomatically.
Roger bowed. “I appreciate your honesty, Alan of Trebond. Not many dare to be so open with me.”
She smiled crookedly. “Not many have insanity in their families, either.”
This drew a laugh from him. “I see. Well—good night to you, Squire Alan.”
Alanna stood, a little stiff from the dampness of the river. “Your Grace.” She watched Roger fade into the shadows. “He has style,” she remarked quietly.
Style or not, he’s as treacherous as a snake, Faithful warned her.
Alanna touched the ember-stone under her shirt. “I know,” she replied softly. “I just wish I had something to crush him with.” Give him time, the cat meowed. He’ll give you plenty to crush him with.
Alanna frowned. “The problem is that by the time he does he’ll probably be invincible.”
True. Faithful yawned. Fog’s rising. And with that he curled up and went to sleep.
Alanna watched the ghostly white tendrils rising from the river’s surface, feeling very tired. “Just what I need,” she yawned disgustedly. “I didn’t think there’d be any fog tonight.”
The mist rose quickly, smothering all the night noises. Everything sounded different: the river, the distant camp, even the nearby waterfall. Alanna’s nose itched till her eyes watered. She felt like lying down right there and taking a nap. That would never do: She was on sentry duty! Where was the other guard? One should have come by now. Nervous, Alanna made her way to the river and splashed her face with cold water. That helped a little. Returning to her post, she discovered that she couldn’t waken Faithful. Something was very wrong; the itching of her nose meant sorcery, and Faithful seemed to be its victim. Should she go for help?
The rock striking her head settled the question. Alanna dropped, and the men who had crept up behind her in the fog chuckled grimly.
“Hurry!” Jem Tanner hissed as they tied her hands and feet. “We won’t be safe from the spell much longer!”
“What about the cat?” one of the men yawned. “He said to—”
“Forget the cat!” Jem snapped. “Just get the boy into the boat with the others!”
A sentry on the second watch ran into camp, Faithful limp in his hands. “Squire Alan’s been kidnapped!” he told the prince, gasping. “The cat—he’s alive, but I can’t wake him! And the other guard who went out with the squire—he’s lyin’ in his tent. I can’t wake him either!�
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Jonathan took Faithful, reaching with his Gift into the sleeping animal. Without warning, his eyes rolled up and he collapsed. Faithful stirred and went back to sleep.
The sentry brought Myles on the run. The knight wasted no time: He seized the water bucket and threw the contents over both Jon and Faithful. The cat only turned over and sighed. The prince stirred, gazing sleepily up at his friend. “Sorcery,” he whispered, sitting up. “Sorcery meant to make the cat sleep…” He grabbed the sentry, his face white. “Alan was kidnapped. You’re sure?”
The watch captain ran into the tent. “Your Highness, Sir Myles—we’re missing three men along the river—two foot soldiers, Micah and Keel, and—”
“Alan of Trebond,” Myles said grimly.
“Aye, sire. This blasted fog’s so thick you can barely see your hand before your face, but we found tracks. The sneaks landed below Micah’s post and worked their way to the falls, taking those three. I’ve got men watching for an attack now, and the camp’s on alert.”
Faithful struggled to his feet and shook himself, his fur sticking out in wet points. Suddenly he let out a yowl of fury and dashed into the night. Myles and the soldiers stared after him in amazement.
“Someone knew he’d be on watch with Alan,” Jonathan said. Suddenly he looked old and grim. “They laid a magic that would affect Faithful in particular. When I touched him, I went under.” He bit his lip. “They may’ve taken three, but they wanted Alan. They knew he’d be there with his cat, and they took him.” He gripped Myles’s arm. “Myles, we have to do something! If they find out—”
“Hush, Jonathan!” Myles interrupted. “We’ll do all we can.”
The sentry who brought Faithful cried out, “And that’s nothing! We’re bound here by the stupidest lot of orders ever writ—” His captain and two noblemen were staring at him. He gulped and continued, “Saving your presence, Highness, my lord, but it’s true. Micah and Keel are chums of mine, and Squire Alan saved this eye, not two weeks ago, and we can’t help them!”
Jonathan put a hand on the man’s shoulder, smiling tightly. “We’ll see, my friend.” He nodded to Myles. “I’m off to the fort. Maybe Roger will have some idea of what’s going on.”
Myles tugged his beard. “That’s possible,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s very possible.”
Roger knew nothing other than the kind of spell that had been used on the cat and the sleeping guard. “Any village healer can do it, I’m afraid,” he told Jonathan grimly. “Sleep is particularly easy to create, because it is something the body does naturally.” He gazed out the window and sighed, knowing Jonathan was watching him closely. “A pity about that young man. With your father’s orders … We’ll have to wait for a ransom demand. Alan’s obviously a noble, and even Duke Hilam won’t dare to flout the conventions of war.”
But no ransom demand came by messenger bird across the river. It was well past noon on the day after the kidnapping when a red-eyed Jonathan returned to his tent. Faithful lay on the cot beside him, looking lost. Jon fell asleep while petting the cat, but within a few hours he was prowling the riverbank like a restless tiger. Other men were there—men from the camp, weapons-smiths, healers, Jonathan’s friends—all staring at the other side, as if they could see the missing three if they looked hard enough. When Jonathan returned to camp, he found Myles staring into a full mug of brandy. To his surprise, the shaggy knight wasn’t drinking.
“This is too serious for drink,” Myles said, guessing the prince’s thoughts. He nodded toward Faithful; the cat was lying with his head on his paws, his eyes wide and unblinking. “He’s worried. That makes me worried. I can’t be convinced that Alan’s capture was not the sole object of this raid.”
Jonathan sat down, twisting his hands together. “Myles, I can’t leave him over there,” he whispered. “He—”
Myles shook his head. “Don’t.”
“Sir?”
“You’re about to tell me why Alan of all people should not be left among enemies for very long. I would rather hear it from Alan, when he’s ready to tell me.”
“You already know,” Jonathan accused.
The older man smiled. “Let’s say I’ve formed an educated guess. I can wait to have it confirmed.”
Jonathan scowled, rising to pace again. “If Alan stays on that side of the river, you won’t have to wait much longer.”
Myles saw Jon was eyeing the river. “Your father was very specific, Prince Jonathan,” he pointed out softly. “It would mean the head of any man who tried to rescue them. I hope you’ll warn the others, because I’m afraid a rescue is exactly what they have in mind.”
Jonathan stared at Myles. Suddenly he had an idea, a wild idea, but an idea nonetheless. “Perhaps the punishment would depend on who led the rescue!”
Myles met his stare with calm eyes. “I would be obligated by my oath to your father to stop a rescue attempt.”
Jonathan smiled, knowing what the knight was really saying. “Of course, Myles. Oh, what will you be doing after the evening meal?”
Myles tugged his beard. “I think I’ll ride down to the fort to confer with our commander. I shall probably be there very late.”
Jonathan nodded absently. “You should take a couple of men,” he murmured, thinking hard. “We don’t want you kidnapped, with our security so poor.” He strode off, his walk purposeful.
Watching him go, Myles began to chuckle. “That young man gets more like the Old King every day.”
The cat stretched, suddenly looking better. Yes, he agreed.
Jonathan discussed his plan with only one of the men: the soldier who had brought Faithful the night before. He was enough. When Jon, Gary, Raoul, and their squires arrived at the falls just after sunset, they found thirty grim-faced men—and Faithful—waiting.
“So many?” Sacherell whispered nervously.
“That’s the smallest number I could manage,” the young soldier replied. “I’ve got ten more standing guard against our return.”
Jonathan nodded, pleased. “Let’s move.”
Myles and Roger were playing chess when a guardsman burst in to whisper hurriedly into Roger’s ear. Myles saw with interest that Jon’s cousin suddenly turned white.
“What?” the Duke snapped.
The guardsman bowed. “It’s true, Your Grace. More than thirty of them, I’d guess. They’ve fired the huts the enemy built on the north side of their camp. I saw it myself from the wall.”
Jumping to his feet, Roger turned on Myles, his eyes burning. “Do you know what my precious cousin has done? He’s trying to rescue that bedamned squire of his!”
Myles sipped his wine. “Has he indeed?” the knight replied mildly. “The king will not be pleased.”
“How could you not hear of this?” Roger demanded hotly. “You were there all afternoon. Surely you must have seen them plotting!”
“They wouldn’t tell their plans to anyone who would stop them,” Myles said. “I knew they were upset, of course. It is natural for men to be angry when three comrades are snatched from under their very noses. There are even rumors that Jem Tanner was not the only traitor among us.”
“Shall I assemble a helping force, Your Grace?” the guardsman wanted to know. “They must be outnumbered—”
“Don’t be a fool!” Roger snapped. “It’ll be our heads with the king if we further my cousin’s folly.”
“I doubt His Majesty will have Jonathan beheaded for rescuing a friend,” Myles commented. “I also doubt that he will be so unfair as to punish the prince’s companions.” He disappeared into his wine cup.
Roger drew a deep breath before answering, finally retrieving his iron self-control. “What my cousin may do, others may not do.” He turned to the guardsman. “Post archers along the riverbank. They can cover Prince Jonathan’s retreat.” He stalked over to his desk to grab his seeing-crystal. “I must inform my uncle. If you will excuse me, Sir Myles?”
Alanna came to in a small wooden hut. T
wo other men, Micah and Keel, were there, but they were still unconscious. Glancing at the tiny, iron-barred window, she saw it was well past noon. She drew a dipper of water from the bucket, splashing it in the men’s faces with difficulty. This was due in part to the stiffness in her wounded arm and in part to the fact that she, like the two men, was wearing heavy chains. Calling on the small reserve of magic she had built up over the weeks of rest to stop the pounding in her head and arm, she found herself weak and gasping. There was magic in her chains, magic that bound her Gift as well as the rest of her.
Micah and Keel came around slowly, still dazed from the sleeping-spell.
“Sorcery—fah!” Keel growled, spitting on the ground. “No decent warrior uses sorcery!”
“No decent warrior uses traitors, either,” Micah told his comrade. “And Duke Hilam’s done both. He’ll stop at nothing.”
They were interrupted by heavy footsteps and the clank of a key ring. The door swung open, revealing a Tusaine captain flanked by two soldiers. He pointed to Micah and Keel.
“You two. You’ll be paid well and released, if you give information.”
Micah jerked his head at Alanna. “What about the boy? He’s a noble; he’s got the right to be ransomed.”
The captain shook his head. “Not that one. His Grace wants to talk with him personal.” He scowled. “A filthy way to fight a war,” he muttered.
Alanna and her two friends exchanged puzzled looks. What was the man talking about?
“You will have your lives if you tell us what we want to know,” the Tusaine went on.
“I’d sell my own mother’s honor first,” Keel snapped. “What are you going to do with Squire Alan?”
The captain shrugged. “You had your chance.” He nodded to his men, and the three left, locking the door behind them.
“That was very well said,” Alanna remarked slowly, “but I have a feeling you just gave away your lives.”
In the Hand of the Goddess Page 8
