Alanna: The First Adventure (19 page)

Alanna felt herself turning hot and cold with terror. Someone was shoving her practice padding into
her hands; numbly she put it on. Sklaw was right. She hadn't fought freestyle—without each pass and move already assigned to her by Sklaw—since that awful first bout with Sacherell just a year before. She had done drill—endless repetition of the same movement—or one-on-one “plotted fighting” in which each member of the team had to make a certain set of movements dictated by Sklaw, while the other member used the countermoves Sklaw had given
him
. That sort of thing went back and forth between two duelers all afternoon, and it certainly didn't prepare anyone for freestyle dueling. In addition, she had her night practice and morning practice, but she was always alone, and it was only drill. Alanna drew deep breaths, feeling faint. Once again, here were Duke Gareth and Captain Sklaw, and Coram was clearing the boys out of the central dueling area. She slid the cloth helmet over her head and accepted a sword from Douglass. With surprise she saw it was not the practice sword she had made, but Lightning.

Even Lightning isn't going to help me now
, she thought, stepping up to the mark and bowing to Geoffrey. She drew her sword and assumed the “guard” position.

“Begin!” Sklaw ordered.

Geoffrey lunged forward to attack. Alanna held her ground, blocking his down-sweeping sword with a force that jarred both their bodies. Following the “Crescent Moon” drill, she disengaged and swirled Lightning around in a half circle, cutting for Geoffrey's side. The taller boy hurriedly blocked her and lunged back out of the way, bewilderment showing in his dreamy hazel eyes. Alanna, unthinking, followed with the second strike of the Crescent Moon, swinging Lightning back in the other direction and forcing Geoffrey to block her again, rather than attack. (“It's always better to attack than to defend,” Coram had told her when the talked about fencing late at night. “Always. Ye don't win with defense—ye only hold th' other feller off, or wear him down. Attack and have done with it!”)

Alanna attacked, feeling divorced from her arm as she moved through pass after pass. She saw an opening and her hand took the chance to swing her sword into it. She never took the time to think about what she was doing. Instead, her muscles remembered the patterns of endless drills, repeated over and over with a too-heavy sword. Geoffrey would move to attack or to block, and Alanna's arms and body remembered the move that always followed such an attack
or such a block. Sweat poured into Alanna's eyes and she shook it away, stumbling slightly. Geoffrey took advantage of the brief moment of unbalance to lunge in for a strike that would end the bout. Instead Alanna slid Lightning around his sword like a metal snake, twisting her blade deftly. The sword flew from Geoffrey's hand, and he was unable to grab for it. In the same move with which she disarmed him, a panting Alanna presented the tip of her sword at the cloth that covered the bridge of Geoffrey's nose.

The boy stepped back and knelt. “I yield,” he said. He looked up at her and grinned. “Well fought, Alan! Very well fought!”

She stared at him, gasping, feeling as if her lungs were on fire. Then she realized the sound in her ears was cheering. Her friends, in fact all of the pages and squires, were cheering for her.

“Very good, Aram,” Duke Gareth murmured to Captain Sklaw. “You've turned out a matchless swordsman.”

“'Twasn't me, yer Grace,” Sklaw growled, staring at the page who was fumbling at his armor ties. “'Twas the lad Trebond, and he did it all by himself.”

* * *

That night Jonathan paid a visit to his uncle. “Sir?” he said politely. “I have a favor to ask. It's about this trip to Persopolis in Fief Meron.”

The Duke of Naxen grinned. “You know you have only to command me, Jon.”

Jonathan chuckled. “But will you obey? Uncle, I'd like Alan to come with us. You said the pages will be going out to Naxen this summer. He could stay behind then, to make up for it.”

The man looked into Jon's face. “This is very unusual, Jonathan.”

“I know,” was the calm reply. “It's just—Alan spends more time with Gary and Raoul and Alex and me than he does with the pages. I think he'd have more fun if he went with us. And Sir Myles is going, and he's—” The Prince stopped, then went on when he saw an understanding look on his uncle's face. “Myles is a better father to Alan than the Lord of Trebond is. I know we're supposed to speak well of our elders, and Alan never complains, but—we've all got eyes and ears.”

The Duke took a nut from a bowl and cracked it. “Does Alan want to go to Persopolis?”

“I don't know,” Jonathan said. “Probably, since we're all going. If you mean does he know I'm asking
you, no, he doesn't. Knowing Alan, he can't imagine I
would
ask such a favor for him.”

“Hm. Have you chosen a squire yet, Jonathan? In case you pass the Ordeal?”

“I'm thinking about one,” Jonathan replied calmly. “It isn't an easy decision.”

The man thought this over, finally nodding. “As long as the other boys aren't resentful, I don't see why he can't go with you.”

Jon smiled. “They won't resent it. Sometimes it seems as if he's just a small squire who takes a lot of interest in what the pages do.”

“Very perceptive of you. Will you notify Alan, or do you want me to?”

“You'd better tell him, Uncle. And thank you—from the bottom of my heart.” Jonathan kissed the Duke's hand. He was half out the door when the older man's voice stopped him.

“Why does this mean so much to you, Jon?”

The Prince turned. “Because he's my friend. Because I always know where he stands, and where I stand with him. Because I think he'd die for me, and—and I think I'd die for him. Is that enough?”

“You're being pert, nephew,” Gareth said with mock sternness. “Have Timon find Alan for me then.”

Duke Gareth's news shocked Alanna—she had never expected to be so singled out. She paid careful attention to all his instructions as to her duties during the trip. Since she was to be the only page in the company, she would wait on Lord Martin, Myles and Jonathan and run errands for the troop captain and the squires. She would continue her lessons with Myles as her instructor.

Coram too was pleased with the honor, and his orders to her were as strict as the Duke's. She was to behave.
No pranks
was to be her watchword.

Alanna tried not to let the news go to her head, although she couldn't help but be excited. It surprised her that the other pages were glad for her, rather than jealous. She didn't realize they did not see her as another page—only, as Jonathan had said, as a very small squire.

The night before they rode out, the boys and Myles were summoned to a meeting with Duke Roger. He gathered them in the Great Library, waiting for them to settle down comfortably before speaking. Alanna, tucked down between the large Raoul and the equally large Gary, where she wouldn't attract notice, thought the Duke looked both handsome and impressive, dressed all in sleek black velvet.
A strangely designed chain with a sapphire pendant hung around his neck, accenting his eyes.

“Doubtless you lads don't know why I'm talking to you,” he said with his easy smile. “I daresay no one's ever mentioned the Black City to you when they've discussed this trip you're taking tomorrow.” He shook his dark head. “I don't think it's a good idea to take you all so close, but—well, I was overruled.” Alanna was blinking as lights bounced off the sapphire. The shimmering of the jewel was making her sleepy. Angry at herself, she gave her arm a strong pinch. That woke her up. “The Black City is just barely within eye's view of Persopolis,” the sorcerer went on. “In fact, the Bazhir have a room specially designed in the western wall of the Persopolis castle. It's called the Sunset Room, and the rumor is the Bazhir had it built so they could always keep an eye on the Black City. As if sheepherders and desert men knew about such things!” He sighed. “You won't be permitted near the City, of course. No one is. It's claimed there's a curse on it, that no mortal being returns from the place alive—especially if he's young. Bazhir stories again, told around the campfires to frighten the children, I've no doubt.”

The big man paced the room, a shadow panther
with all eyes watching him. “I am certain the Bazhir have created wonderful monsters for their bratlings to fear. That is not why I am cautioning you. There is evil power in the Black City, an immense power that dates far back in time. I do not know its nature. I have never been so foolhardy as to think myself strong enough to fight whatever waits there.” Roger had stopped pacing. His eyes were fixed on Jonathan's. “I don't need a seer's crystal to feel the evil in that place from as far away as Persopolis, just as a fisherman doesn't need a special glass to smell a hurricane approaching. If
I
dare not risk it, none of you—untrained, untried—would stand a chance. Don't venture near the Black City, under pain of death and, perhaps, under the pain of losing your souls.” He smiled, his eyes locked with Jonathan's. “I know when a sword is too heavy for me to lift.”

When Alanna got into bed that night, she was as puzzled as she had ever been. It looked to her as if Roger had dared Jonathan to prove he was more of a man than his cousin, to prove he could brave the Black City that Roger feared. And yet, that couldn't be true. Not even Roger would have the nerve, and the coldness, to send his young cousin to certain death—would he?

T
HE RIDE SOUTH WAS THE LONGEST AND MOST
demanding Alanna had experienced. They were just a day away from Corus when the countryside changed. The hills were rockier. The trees were shrunken and twisted, and the ground plants seemed to fight for each drop of water they took from the earth. The ground itself was brown and dry, torn with cracks. Lizards, snakes and an occasional rabbit looked at the riders as if they were invaders, and the sun felt ten times hotter. By the end of the second day's ride, the cracked earth had turned to sand, and the hills into
long dunes. They had reached the Great Southern Desert.

At night Alanna waited on Lord Martin, Myles and the guard captain. She spent several hours of the day riding at Myles's side, learning about the lives and customs of the people of this land. Myles was an interesting teacher, and he knew much about the Southern Desert. Often she caught Lord Martin glancing at the knight with respect in his hard eyes.

Alanna was not the only one taking lessons. Lord Martin lectured them all on survival in such barren land. Someday their lives might depend on knowing which plants stored water inside or how to find an oasis.

The closer they came to Persopolis, the more Bazhir they encountered. The desert people were hard riders and relentless fighters. They hid their women in goatskin tents. But all, men and women, she sensed, watched the strangers through proud black eyes. Since she had already guessed Lord Martin didn't like his Bazhir subjects, Alanna went to Sir Myles.

“The Bazhir are unusual,” the knight admitted. “Martin does have reason to resent them.”

“I think he resents everybody,” Alanna muttered.

Myles ignored that. “You see, the Old King is said to have conquered all this country as far south as the Inland Sea. Actually, what he conquered was the hill country, to the east, and the coastline from Port Legann to the Tyran River. He never actually conquered this desert—it's far too big. Instead he worked out treaties with some Bazhir and slaughtered a few others. Now some tribes call Roald their king. They trade with the rest of the kingdom and try not to cause any trouble. The others are called renegade. They won't accept Roald as king, and they make life difficult for those who use the Southern Road. The tribe that holds Persopolis is friendly with the king, and that's very important. Persopolis is the only city built by the Bazhir.”

Alanna thought about this for a moment. “Why only one city?” she asked. “And why Persopolis, out in the middle of nowhere?”

“There are five springs in Persopolis,” Lord Martin said harshly, bringing his horse up beside them. “As to why only one city—it's said they built it to guard the Black City.” He snorted. “Foolishness, if you ask me. Why build a city to guard another that you can scarcely see?” He rode on back down the line.

Alanna squinted at Geoffrey's father. “I don't get
it,” she said. “He doesn't like the Bazhir—but His Majesty made him overlord of the Desert.”

“Martin doesn't like the Bazhir—and they don't like him—but he is fair,” Myles replied. “He's fair if it kills him. The Bazhir know that, so they'll deal with him. No one else could have gotten their respect, even if it is grudging.” Myles pushed back the hood of the burnoose he had worn since the second day out, looking intently at her. “Why so interested, Alan?”

She shrugged. “No reason—I think. Excuse me. Lord Martin's waving.” She wheeled Moonlight and trotted back down the line. She didn't know herself why she was so interested in the desert men.

It took a week to reach Persopolis. At last they could see its granite towers and walls rising before them. The city was built even stronger than fortresses like Trebond, and the weapons carried by its soldiers were well cared for and much used.

People lined the streets to greet their returning lord and to stare at the youth who would one day be their king. While the Bazhir kept to the back of the crowds, watching in silence, the city dwellers waved and called to the young nobles. Jonathan and his friends returned the greetings, as relaxed as if they did this every day, but Alanna guided Moonlight to a
spot between Myles and the guard captain and stayed there.

“What's the matter, youngling?” the soldier chuckled. “Shy?”