Alanna

by Tamora Pierce

  “Alan, I order you to come back here!” Myles shouted.

  “I’ll be right back!” she called. She could feel a strangeness around her—no, two strangenesses. One frightened her. It was black and ghostlike, hovering just outside the light shed by her magic. The other called her with a high, singing voice she couldn’t have ignored even if she wanted to. Her nose tickled, and she sneezed several times. The singing filled her mind, drowning out Myles’s voice.

  Her light struck something that broke it into a hundred bright fragments. She didn’t notice the darkness closing in behind her as she picked up something that glittered beautifully. It was a crystal, attached to the hilt of a sword. Long and light, the blade was encased in a battered dark sheath. Alanna’s hand trembled as she lifted it.

  “Myles!” she shouted. “Guess what I found!”

  “Get back here!” he yelled. She looked up, alarmed. There was fear in Myles’s voice. “A storm’s coming up—and if it’s natural, I’m a priest!”

  Suddenly the light of Alanna’s magic went completely out. Darkness swirled around her in long tentacles that tightened on her body. She opened her mouth to scream for Myles, and no sound emerged. She fought to breathe and fought to throw her magic into the stifling blackness, but nothing happened. She tried to shove it away with her arms and legs and found the blackness had bound her tight. It was squeezing her ribs, forcing the air from her lungs. Alanna gasped for breath. The darkness filled her mouth and nose. Brilliant lights burst in her head, and she struggled like a crazy person. Nothing affected the darkness. Her struggles got weaker and weaker. She tried to fight even harder, but it was hopeless. She was dying, and she knew it.

  For the first time in her life, Alanna stopped fighting. She had used up all her air, all her strength, all her magic. She was weaponless. The darkness was entering her brain, and she was dying. With an inner sigh—almost one of relief—she accepted that fact. As her knees buckled, Alanna took the knowledge of her own death and made it part of her.

  The crystal on the sword blazed, its light penetrating the darkness in her brain. Suddenly the fearful grip on her body and mind relaxed. She drew in a lungful of air, shocked to find that she still could. She opened her eyes and closed them, nearly blinded by the blazing crystal.

  Somewhere outside Myles was calling for her, his voice nearly drowned out by approaching thunder. Alanna used the crystal’s light to guide her back to the entrance of the tunnel, feeling the blackness in full retreat before her. Still shaky, she scrambled to the surface. As she entered the upper air, the crystal went dark once more.

  Alanna glanced at the sky. Black clouds boiled overhead; lightning was already striking a few leagues away. Myles seized her arm and pulled her from the tunnel entrance just as the slab ground over it once more. Alanna stared at it, wondering just what was going on. She had accepted death. Why wasn’t she dead?

  “No time to ponder it!” Myles yelled in her ear. “Let’s go!”

  They headed for the castle at a run, Myles half carrying a bewildered Alanna. The high wind whipped twigs and branches into their faces, and within moments they were drenched by the sudden onslaught of rain.

  Inside the castle, Barony servants steered them to hot baths and dry clothes. Alanna bathed and changed, still not believing she was alive. Picking up the sword, she went to find her friend.

  Myles was awaiting her in his morning room. A room like this would never have been found in a fortress like Trebond: the huge windows overlooking the valley were too vulnerable to enemy archers. Here at peaceful Olau, Myles could see his fields, the distant village, even the Great Road on a clear day. Now he sat in a deep chair, watching the rain streaming down the glass. A steaming pitcher and two mugs were at his side.

  “Have a toddy,” he said, handing a filled mug to her. “You look as if you need it.” Alanna stared at the steaming liquid, trying to remember what she was supposed to do with it. “Drink up, lad,” Myles urged gently. He drained his own mug and refilled it, watching her.

  Alanna sat carefully in a chair, staring out the window. Finally she raised the mug to her lips and sipped. The hot liquid sent ripples of fire running through her. Perhaps she was alive, after all. She took another large swallow, and another.

  “I thought I was dead,” she said at last. “I guess not.” She handed him the sword. “Here. I found this in the tunnel.”

  Myles examined the sword carefully without taking it from the scabbard. He ran his fingers along the sheath, rubbed the metal fittings with his thumb and squinted at a candle flame through the crystal. “What happened?” he asked as he looked the sword over.

  She told him in a few brief words, watching every movement of his face.

  “Is the crystal magic?” he asked finally.

  “I don’t know. My magic doesn’t make it work. It only—it only came to life when I quit fighting to stay alive.”

  “I see,” he murmured. “You accepted death—and the stone saved your life.”

  This didn’t make sense to Alanna, so she ignored it. “Aren’t you going to draw the blade?”

  Myles looked out the window thoughtfully. “Storm’s letting up,” he observed.

  Alanna shifted impatiently in her chair. “Well?”

  “No—I’m not. You are.” Myles held the sword out to her.

  “I can’t!” she protested. “They’re your ruins. It belongs to you.”

  Myles shook his head. “You haven’t been paying attention. I was compelled to bring you here. You opened the passage when I’ve tried to do it for years, and failed. Something happened down there, and the sword protected you. And don’t forget the storm. I can take a hint, Alan.”

  “It belongs to you,” she protested, almost tearfully.

  “It never belonged to me.” He thrust it at her. “Let’s see what she looks like, lad.”

  Reluctantly Alanna stood and took the sword. The hilt fit her hand as if made for her. She closed her eyes and drew the sword.

  Nothing happened. She glanced at Myles, embarrassed. Her friend was grinning at her.

  “I feel silly,” she admitted.

  “After what happened this morning, I was expecting something dramatic, myself. Well?”

  Alanna hefted the blade. It was thinner than a broadsword, and lighter, with a broadsword’s double edge. The metal was lightweight, with a silver sheen. She lightly touched a thumb to one edge and cut herself. Grinning with delight, she tried a few passes. It felt wonderful in her hand.

  “What will you call her?” Myles asked.

  She didn’t question Myles’s calling the blade a “her.” “Seeing’s how it brought such a reaction from—from—”

  “From whatever guards the ruins?” the knight suggested.

  “I guess that was it. Anyway, seeing’s how it brought on a storm and all so fast—how about ’Lightning’?”

  Myles raised his mug in a toast. “To Alan and Lightning. May you never meet a better blade.”

  Alanna drained her own mug. “Uh—Myles?” she stammered, sliding her blade into its sheath.

  “Hm?” The knight was not deceived by her innocent tone.

  “I—I would rather nobody else knew about—well, what happened. Could—could we just say I picked Lightning from your armory?”

  “You’ll tell Jonathan, won’t you?”

  “Of course. But—I don’t want anyone else to know. If that’s all right with you.”

  “Certainly, lad. As you wish.” Myles refilled his mug, wondering what—or who—Alan was afraid of.

  Alanna expected people to notice Lightning—she would have been hurt if they hadn’t. Even Duke Gareth asked about it, as did Captain Sklaw. “Not enough weight,” the Captain grunted when he first lifted it. When he tested the edge, the look on his face changed to one of respect. “It’ll do,” he said finally. Alanna had to be content with that. Everyone accepted the idea that Lightning was a gift from Sir Myles, though Alanna told Jonathan the truth, privately. The Prince was fa
scinated by her experience and asked a good many questions. He even tried his own magic on Lightning, attempting to make the crystal glow. Nothing happened, and the Prince finally gave up, saying the exercise was giving him a headache.

  Alanna told Coram the truth as well. She felt she owed it to her old comrade. Coram said nothing, but he would not touch the sword either.

  When George asked to see Alanna’s new blade, she handed it over willingly. To her surprise, the thief yelped and dropped the weapon. He made her pick it up.

  “It’s filled with magic, and of a kind I’ve never encountered,” he said. “You tell me ’twas simply hangin’ in Sir Myles’s armory?”

  Alanna opened her mouth to lie, then closed it. When she spoke, it was the true story she gave. George heard her out, shaking his head in wonder. “You accepted something?” he remarked. “You?”

  “I didn’t have any choice,” she snapped. “I was going to die whether I wanted to or not. But when I stopped fighting it—”

  “When you accepted it.”

  “Will you stop dithering about accepting things, George? Anyway, that’s when the crystal worked. And I haven’t been able to make it work since.”

  “Hmph. Well, I’m glad you escaped—and I’m gladder still that Lightning is strapped to your waist.” George nodded at the sword. “A magic blade—whether you can work the magic or no—may well come in handy.”

  Someone else noticed that Lightning was not all she seemed. When Alanna walked into her sorcery class for the first time after her return from Olau, Duke Roger smiled at her. “I hear you have a new sword, young Alan. May I see it?”

  Alanna hesitated. She did not want to hand her sword over to Duke Roger, and she had no reason on earth for feeling that way. Reluctantly she undipped the sheath from her belt. She could feel Jonathan watching her suspiciously, wondering what was taking her so long.

  “It’s just a blade Sir Myles had around,” she said. “I don’t think—”

  “I’ve made a lifelong study of the art of swordsmithing,” Roger told her. He held out a hand. “Let’s see.”

  Alanna gave it to him, hating him at that moment more than she had ever hated anyone. She quickly doused the emotion.

  Roger froze, his eyes going wide. His face turned pale, and the knuckles of the hand gripping Lightning were white. Suddenly the air around him turned a dark, shimmering blue. Instinctively Alanna stepped forward to snatch her sword away, but the color vanished as quickly as it had appeared when the Duke carefully put the sword on the table.

  “How did you get this?” He looked at her, his eyes commanding. “Speak up! How did you get it?”

  Alanna turned red, and her chin stuck forward dangerously. “I got it from Sir Myles,” she replied, fighting to keep hold of her temper. “I stayed with him last week, and he gave it to me.”

  “He—gave it to you. Just like that.”

  “It was in his armory—sir.” Alanna could feel her shoulders getting stiff with anger. “Nobody was using it, and he knew I didn’t have a sword of my own.” She reached over and picked up Lightning. “By your leave, your Grace.” She clipped the sword to her belt, buying time to get her rage under control.

  “I see. You’re certain that’s the way of it? You aren’t withholding some—some insignificant detail? Something you think would not interest me?” Roger’s voice was quivering with—what? Rage? Impatience? Fear? Alanna wasn’t sure. The Duke realized the boys of the class were staring at this break in his usual calm charm, and he tried a smile.

  “Forgive me if I press you, Alan. Did you know this blade is magic?”

  Alanna looked up. Her face was innocent, wide-eyed and bland. Jonathan recognized the look Alan wore when he was about to tell his most outrageous lies. It was obvious to Jon that there was something about Lightning that had shaken his cousin Roger loose from his normal smiling self, and that Alan did not want to tell the truth about the sword. Keep it simple, the Prince thought to his redheaded friend. He’ll spot the lie if you make it fancy.

  Jonathan did not have to worry. “Magic, your Grace?” Alanna was saying. “I just like the heft of it. It’s lighter than most swords, but—”

  “There’s magic in your sword, Alan,” the Duke interrupted patiently. Alanna hid a satisfied smile. Roger believed her! “It is old magic—far older than anything you’ve encountered, probably. That would explain why you didn’t realize immediately that the sword is unusual. Can you make the crystal glow? No, don’t look at me as if I were raving. Try to make the crystal glow.”

  Alanna made it look as if she was trying. She used her Gift to bring sweat to her face and to color the air around her light violet. She would walk to Trebond and back before she’d try to really work the crystal for Duke Roger! In any case, she hadn’t been able to make it work before. This time would be no different.

  “Very well,” Roger said finally. “Stop. You’re only tiring yourself. The magic that could unleash the powers in the crystal—and the sword—is lost to us forever.” This at least sounded honest, as did the discouragement in the sorcerer’s voice. “A shame. Does Sir Myles know how old the sword is? Or that it is magical in nature?”

  “I don’t know,” Alanna hedged. “I think he does—he found it in some ruins near Barony Olau. He said the ruins belonged to the Old Ones. May I sit down now, sir?”

  Roger stood, turning his jeweled rod in his fingers. “Of course. I have delayed our lesson too long as it is. Take care of that blade, Alan, if only because it is very old and very valuable. I am certain Sir Myles, noted scholar that he is, was aware of its value when he gave it to you. A mark of esteem from an estimable man.” He stared off into the distance for a moment, then faced his class. “Today we begin the study of illusion. Before you learn the practice—the casting—of illusions, you must first learn the theory behind making things seem to be what they are not.”

  Alanna took her seat and watched the Duke of Conté recover his presence. He relaxed, and the atmosphere in the room relaxed. Once again the boys were hanging on his words with obvious delight.

  Alanna, however, was not listening. Instead she fingered the crystal at Lightning’s hilt, thinking about what had just happened. The Duke felt something powerful in her new sword. Moreover, he was afraid of Lightning’s magic. That was something to remember.

  Even more important, she realized, she didn’t dislike the Duke of Conté—she hated him. She hated him with a deep, fierce energy she had never known she had, and she didn’t have the slightest idea why.

  One snowy night Alanna was leaving her special indoor practice court after an hour with Coram’s sword and an hour with Lightning when she bumped into Stefan.

  “Lookin’ for ye,” the hostler muttered. He was nervous at being inside the palace. “George sent this along.” He thrust a wad of paper into her hand and rushed back to his beloved horses.

  A single sheet of paper with George’s handwriting was folded around a sealed envelope. Alanna hurried to her rooms and bolted the door. Sitting on her bed, she read George’s note:

  “Seems your brother took you at your word when you said to send your letters through me. Here’s one. —G.”

  Alanna broke the seal on the letter with fingers that shook. Until now the twins had only exchanged cautious notes, since Duke Gareth received all the pages’ mail. Thom was a poor letter writer, in any case. This, however, was different. After learning Alanna’s true identity, George had offered to smuggle letters to and from the City of the Gods. This was the first totally honest chance to communicate with each other that the twins had had in almost three years.

  Dearest Alan, (Thom wrote)

  I’m in the Mithra cloisters now. At least I don’t have to put up with giggling girls all the time. They made us shave our heads, but I suppose it’ll grow back by the time I leave. We wear brown robes. Only Initiates wear orange.

  I’m glad you got someone safe to pass our letters through, even if you took your time about it. But, I suppose they
keep you busy. How’s Coram? Is he happy in the Palace Guard? Maude comes by every six months or so to check on me. She acts as if she were a chicken and I a duck she hatched by mistake. She says Father is working on a paper tracing the Rylkal Document. I wish him luck. He should be busy with that for the next ten years.

  We can trust this man George, can’t we? I ask because it’s important. A certain noble sorcerer has been asking questions up here about me. I think you know who—the one who had such an interest in your Lightning. Watch him! He has a reputation for slowing down, sometimes stopping the careers of young sorcerers who may turn out to be as good as he is. It’s a warped kind of compliment—you must have him worried enough that he had to check and see if your twin was like you. I think he’s been thrown off the track where it concerns me. I play it stupid here. It would help if you spread the word down there that your twin isn’t too bright. Say I was dropped on my head, or something, when I was little. That’s what my Masters believe, anyway. I know a lot more than they think I know, and I practice at night, when the others are asleep.

  Enough bragging. Your friend has secrets, and he has a reputation for being dangerous. The Masters here say he’s the best in the Eastern Lands, and they ought to know. Here’s a piece of City of the Gods gossip you’d better think over. We heard of the Sweating Fever when it was over with, and you wrote some of the details—J wish I could’ve seen it! A fever caused by sorcery that drains and kills healers is a magical working you hear of once in a lifetime. Everyone was, of course, naming all the living sorcerers who could be powerful enough to pull off such a thing. Only three names came up much—your smiling friend’s name was one. True, you say he was in Carthak. But wouldn’t a sorcerer powerful enough to strike down an entire city with a sickness be powerful enough to do it from leagues and leagues away? And who is between him and the throne? I wouldn’t want to be the Prince, not with him for my only heir.