In the Hand of the Goddess (The Song of the Lioness)

by Tamora Pierce

  The voices stopped.

  Alanna stood, slowly, feeling herself tremble. What next?

  Something in the corner behind her clicked. Alanna spun and quickly bit her fist to keep from screaming. She must not cry out! But how was she expected to stay silent when a spider the size of a horse advanced on her? She hated spiders!

  Backing into a corner, she gritted her teeth together so hard they hurt. The spider came on, clicking hungrily. It brushed her with a long, hairy foreleg …

  And then she was drowning, just as she nearly had drowned when she was five and again last winter, when someone salted the ice on the skating pond. Not for the first time she wondered if she had been meant to drown beneath that weakened ice. She could not forget Alex had been there once again, and Alex had challenged her to skate. Odd thoughts to have when you’re drowning, I suppose, she mused as she fought her way up. Her strength was running out, and even the discovery that she couldn’t reach the surface resulted in nothing more than exhausted dismay.

  No, she thought. I won’t cry out. I’ll die if I have to, but I won’t cry out.

  The ocean was gone. Alanna knelt on the Chamber floor, taking huge breaths of air as silently as she could and wondered what would happen next. Her skin and clothes were completely dry.

  Nothing happened. Alanna waited, not quite cringing, afraid that whatever this demon-place threw at her would be worse than anything that had gone before. Finally she began to pace, rubbing her arms. She was still very cold. Cold, being helpless against death, spiders, drowning; the Chamber made her live vividly with everything she most feared. Was that what the Ordeal was about, making would-be knights face their fears?

  She sneezed and looked up. The air was humming with power, and a pale blotch was spreading against one stone wall. It was filled with colors and shapes, but they did not resolve into the picture they seemed to form. Alanna narrowed her eyes to see if they would come into focus, but the picture remained hazy. Something told her it was important—even vital—for her to see that vision clearly, no matter what the cost. She strained against the haze, reaching out toward the wall. Her hands hit something solid, almost clothlike, keeping her from the vision. Alanna gritted her teeth and gripped the invisible stuff in her hands, feeling fine threads cut into her palms as she tried to tear a hole through which she could see. Sweat poured down her cheeks, and she forgot how cold she was as her fingers found some invisible opening. She tugged hard, the sinews in her arms cramping with the effort.

  A barrier in front of her—magical or real, she had no way of knowing—gave way, and she feel forward onto her knees. The picture on the wall was clear, too clear.

  A triumphant, smiling Roger stood beside Jonathan’s bed. Alanna’s prince lay on it, his hands crossed on his chest, and a crown on his head. Jon was whiter than marble, the white of death. Laughing soundlessly, Roger took the crown from Jonathan’s head and put it on his own.

  Alanna threw herself at the picture, opening her mouth to scream. Only at the last moment did she remember to remain silent; she bit her lip to keep her mouth closed. Her mind continued to scream No! as she beat her fists raw on the invisible wall that kept her away from Duke Roger. At last she dropped to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  No! she thought, clenching her bruised and bloody hands. It won’t happen! I won’t let it happen! I will never let Jonathan die!

  Slowly the Chamber door opened. She stumbled out, her hands torn and bloody, her mouth a thin, tight line. Jon and Myles hurried forward to help her out of the Chapel, Faithful and Coram following. The prince put healing salve on her hands and bandaged them before the men put her to bed.

  Alanna looked at him, her eyelids already heavy. “It won’t happen, Jon. I promise it won’t.”

  Jonathan wiped the sweat-soaked hair away from her forehead. “I know it won’t,” he whispered. “Now, sleep. It’s over.”

  “It’s not over,” she wanted to say, but she was too tired. Her eyes shut, and she slept soundly without dreams. She had not spoken—or screamed—at all.

  The Ceremony of Knighthood at sunset was brief. The real ceremony, the Ordeal, was over, and this was just a formality. Alanna knelt before the king and gave her oath of fealty, swearing to defend the crown and Tortall all of her life. In turn, the king touched his sword to Alanna’s shoulders and head, saying gently, “I dub thee Sir Alan, Knight of the Realm of Tortall. Serve honorably and well.”

  Alanna stood. It was strange. She didn’t feel any different, except tired and shaken, but now she was a knight.

  A slender, red-bearded man stepped out of the crowd, beckoning Coram forward. Thom grinned at his startled twin. “Your Majesties,” he said politely, bowing to the king and queen, “I am Thom, Lord of Trebond, and a Master of the Mithran Light. I beg leave, by right of my relationship to Sir Alan, to present him with his shield.” He gestured toward the large, leather-covered object Coram bore.

  The king inclined his head, refusing to stare at the very young Master as his Court was doing. “You have the right, Lord Thom.”

  Thom removed the shield cover, revealing a black tower on a red field: the Trebond arms. Taking it from Coram, Alanna settled it on her left arm. It was light and strong, and she could feel the protecting spells on it. She bowed to her brother and to the king and queen, then glanced around, startled by the sound of cheers. They were cheering her! She shook her head, blushing. They had cheered when Jonathan was knighted, of course, but this was something else. He was the heir, and an heir who was a knight was far more powerful than an heir who wasn’t. But she found a place in their hearts, and they cheered her because they loved her.

  Thom went with her to her room to put the shield away. He greeted Faithful solemnly as Alanna placed the shield on her bed in order to look it over. “I thought you weren’t going to be here after all,” she observed, touching the shield with a bandaged hand. “This is beautiful.”

  “I was held up because I wanted to make it secretly. Watch this.” Smiling slightly, he passed his hand over the shield’s face. Alanna stared as the black tower faded, leaving instead a great gold cat on its hind legs.

  “What is it?” she asked as the cat faded and the tower reappeared. Thom helped her put the cover on the shield and hang it in her dressing room with her other arms.

  “It’s a lioness rampant, of course. For when you reveal what you really are. Let’s go to dinner; I’m starved.”

  Alanna led the way to the banquet hall, thinking: A lioness rampant. I like it.

  10

  TO DUEL THE SORCERER

  THE SECOND FEAST OF THE MIDWINTER FESTIVAL had begun, with nearly every noble of Roald’s Court present. Thom excused himself to Alanna with a wink and went to sit with Duke Roger, who showed no sign of bad feeling toward a younger, and maybe stronger, sorcerer. Alanna watched them talk for a few moments before turning her attention to other people there. The queen had made a rare appearance. It was the first time Alanna had seen Jonathan’s mother in public since her illness more than a year before. Lianne seemed to be holding her own for a while, but slowly she turned very pale. From her seat among the other knights, Alanna could see beads of sweat on Lianne’s face, and the queen’s fingers trembled as she tried to raise her wine glass. When she began to cough, Duke Baird rushed to her, his face tense and worried.

  Remembering her vision in the Chamber of the Ordeal, Alanna grabbed the ember-stone at her throat. She bit her lower lip; as she had feared, Queen Lianne was glowing a faint but steady orange.

  Suddenly Alanna was filled with the need to act, and to act now. If Roger had placed magic of any kind on the queen, there would have to be physical evidence of some kind, somewhere. Even the most powerful sorcerer had to have a real object as the focus of his thoughts.

  Alanna waited until the feast was in full swing before excusing herself, promising her friends she would only be gone a few moments. Now was the time, while Roger’s attention was fully occupied with Thom and the questions
her brother represented. The king would not rise for another hour at least. Alanna planned to use that hour.

  Feeling as if she had gained a new life and a sharper way of looking at things in the Chamber of the Ordeal, she hurried back to her chamber. Most of her belongings were packed, since she would be moving in the morning to her own rooms. Faithful, exiled from the feast, was waiting for her.

  You are taking a risk, the cat said as Alanna searched her trunk for the new lock-picks George had given her. If he catches you, you will be very dead.

  “Then he mustn’t catch me. Agreed?” Alanna shoved the leather envelope holding the picks into her tunic. “Come on. You stand guard.”

  Faithful trotted along as she took the back halls that led to Roger’s rooms. There must be insanity in my family, too.

  Alanna grinned but did not answer.

  Roger’s suite of rooms was located very conveniently for Alanna’s purposes. A small flight of stairs twisted up and away from the hall, ending with Roger’s outer door. While Faithful stood guard at the foot of the steps, Alanna set to work, hidden from view by the turn in the wall.

  Carefully she inserted the first pick into the lock. It flared and melted. Alanna quickly dropped it, swearing silently at her own stupidity. Of course Roger would put guarding-spells on his doors. She eyed the lock resentfully, deciding what to do next. It would take too long to try a spell that would lift the guards, and she was in a hurry. There was another way. …

  Placing her bandaged hands on the lock, Alanna drew a deep breath. Fiercely she shoved her magic into the lock, literally exploding Roger’s spell. After her eyes cleared from the blinding flash that resulted, Alanna warily tried another lockpick. It took the work of only a second before she heard the tumblers fall into place. The door swung open, and she whistled softly for Faithful. The cat ran swiftly inside; Alanna closed the door behind them.

  There was no point in searching the main rooms. What she was looking for would not be here. People came and went in these rooms every day; Roger wouldn’t leave anything important there. In the rear of the suite, however, was a closed door that led to Roger’s workroom. It too was locked.

  Using her ember-stone as a guide, Alanna could see the orange fire gleaming around the door. She had expected that. As with the front door, she had no time to figure out which spell would lift the guards, even if she knew the right spell, which she doubted. The guards on this door would be far more powerful than those on the main door.

  Steeling herself, Alanna placed her hands against the door and thrust her magic out. This time she fainted.

  Faithful brought her around by licking her nose with his rough tongue. Sleep later, he said.

  She sneered elegantly at her pet and opened the sorcerer’s door.

  All around the room were counters littered with instruments, herbs, and books. Alanna glanced at the books; she knew some of them and she had heard of others. Most were books on magic. Some she could not read because they were written in a completely alien script. She noticed seeing-crystals of varying sizes and colors: clear, pink, and black. One was blood red, and she refused to touch it. The large charcoal-burning dishes stood in the center of the room for heat. Instead of torches, Roger used lamps that burned with a bright, unflickering light.

  “Do I hear splashing?” she asked Faithful softly. She looked around carefully, at last spotting a fountain at the back of the room. Water poured from a spout in the wall, dancing over rocks covered with flowering moss before falling into a deep basin. Curious at the fountain’s existence, Alanna went to look at it more closely.

  Two things caught her interest: a silvery-white veil that seemed to hold several objects, and a doll, immersed in the fountain’s basin directly under the waterspout. For a moment Alanna wanted to touch neither bundle nor doll, but her newfound resolution forced her to pick up both. She carried them over to one of the counters, drawing a lamp close to examine her finds.

  The doll was a water-worn wax image of the queen, perfect from the real black hairs on its head to the duplicate of the queen’s favorite gown. The doll had obviously been in the water for a long time: The features of its face were barely recognizable, and the color had washed from its dress. Alanna knew this spell: The sorcerer made an image of his victim and placed it in running water. Depending on the sorcerer’s materials and power, and the strength of the water, the one represented by the doll wasted away quickly or slowly, fading into death. Duke Roger had used the finest wax money could buy, and Alanna suspected he had taken the doll out of the fountain from time to time, to make the queen’s illness and eventual death seem more natural.

  Her hands trembling, Alanna put the doll aside and looked at the bundle she had also found. Lifting it less carefully this time, she saw the tear in the side too late. Another tiny doll fell out of the bundle, striking the table. Alanna yelled, her side suddenly one massive hurt. Biting her fist to keep from making any more noise, she picked the image up. It was one of her, of course. She examined the bundle closely. The tear was long and thin, nearly invisible against the fine-woven silk. Her hands throbbed, and she remembered how they had felt the morning of her Ordeal, as if she was trying to tear a hole in tightly woven cloth. Drawing her dagger, she cut the string that held the bundle closed and carefully opened it up on the table’s surface. Figures that bore eerie resemblances to the king, Duke Gareth, Myles, the Lord Provost, and even Jonathan lay revealed before her eyes.

  “Of course,” she told Faithful softly. “Now I understand. He wanted none of us to see what he was up to, so he put our images inside this veil. We couldn’t see; and as long as men like Duke Gareth or Myles or the Provost didn’t see anything wrong, no one else felt they could say anything.”

  What are you going to do now? Faithful inquired, twitching his tail. You’ve broken all those silly rules of Chivalry to get yourself this far. What next?

  Alanna smiled grimly at the images, carefully piling them on top of the veil. “Roger can’t be allowed to go on this way,” she replied. “When he comes back tonight, he’ll know the images are gone; he may even know I took them. So, if my friends and I are to survive his finding out, I’d better do something about Duke Roger of Conté right now.”

  She returned to the banquet hall, the veil and its contents in her hands. Stopping for a moment to talk to Myles and Jonathan, she asked them to join her before the king’s table. Thom was exchanging stories with Raoul and Gary, but when he caught his sister’s eye, he excused himself and came to stand next to her. Steeling herself, Alanna walked up to the long table in front of the two thrones, bowing low to the king and queen. Only when she felt Myles, Thom, and Jonathan at her back did she begin to speak.

  Great Mother, help me with this, she pleaded silently when Roald acknowledged her. I don’t know if this is how you wanted me to do this, but it’s the only way I know.

  “Majesty,” she said clearly, making sure everyone could hear her voice, “I have done a dishonorable thing.” The great hall was suddenly quiet. Alanna drew a deep breath and went on. “I broke into a man’s chambers tonight. I knew this was dishonorable, and I did it anyway. What I did was wrong. What I thought to find—what I did find—was far worse.”

  She placed the veil and the images inside it on the table before the king. Lianne cried out in horror, shrinking away from the little dolls made to represent her, her husband, her son, and her brother. The king and Duke Gareth were pale; the Provost, peering around his neighbor’s shoulder, turned red with fury. Thom reached out curiously for a moment before remembering it would not be a good idea to handle these images. There was no reading the emotions either Jonathan or Myles was feeling—perhaps it was just as well.

  Alanna looked at Duke Roger. The sorcerer could see what she had put before his uncle; he was gripping the arms of his chair with white-knuckled hands.

  “Shall I tell them where I found these, Your Grace?” Alanna challenged loudly, looking the Duke of Conté in the eyes. “Shall I tell them about the l
ittle fountain in your private workroom where the queen’s image lay under running water, wasting away little by little? Shall I—”

  “Liar!” Roger snarled. “Majesty, Sir Alan has long been jealous of my influence with you and my cousin Jonathan. He now seeks to dishonor me in your eyes by showing you these dolls he created and accusing me of casting such spells!”

  “For what reason?” Alanna asked King Roald. “Why would I wish the queen harm? She is the mother of my prince and my friend. She has been kind to me. I do not gain by harming her, just as I do not gain from veiling the sight of those who could stop me from stealing a throne that isn’t mine!”

  “Liar!” Roger cried, standing to point an accusing finger at her. “Do you deny that you have the skill to place such a spell? Do you deny you have the knowledge, when I taught image-magic to you myself? You planned to kill Their Majesties, so that when Jonathan became king, you would be the most powerful knight in the realm.”

  “That is very interesting.” Myles looked at Roger, his gentle eyes hard. “Carry that thinking a step further and suppose the death of Prince Jonathan. Who would gain? I submit, Roger, that you would gain as the next King of Tortall.”

  “It’s a plot against me! “Roger cried, looking around him. “Myles tries to turn you all against me while this young man gives false evidence!” He stopped, waiting for the king to say something. The only sound in the banquet hall was the queen weeping softly into Duke Gareth’s shoulder. Roger looked for a friendly face and found none. His mouth tightened. “I demand my rights. I demand trial by combat, myself against my accuser.” He pointed to Alanna. “If I lie, Sir Alan will win by the will of the gods. But I say I will win, because I am innocent!”

  The silence grew as everyone waited for King Roald’s decision. The king picked up the image of himself, turning it over in his fingers. “You may have the combat,” he said.