Lioness Rampant (34 page)

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 countercut.
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 sword-point 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 dryly. 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 from 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 stumbled 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 Conté.