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“Can I talk with you a moment?” she whispered. “Outside?”
They left quietly. Myles settled onto a bench just outside the chapel door. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, motioning for her to take a seat.
Alanna remained standing. “Sir—if a person has power—something that can be used for good or evil, either way—should they use it?”
He looked at her shrewdly. “A power such as magic?”
Alanna scuffed a foot against the floor.
“Well—yes. The Gift.”
Myles frowned. “It depends on the person, Alan. The Gift is simply an ability. Not all of us have it, just as not all of us are quick-witted or have good reflexes. Magic isn’t good or evil by itself. I believe you should only use it when you are absolutely certain your cause is just. Does that help?”
Alanna tugged her ear thoughtfully. “You couldn’t give a person a yes or a no, could you?”
Myles shook his head. “Not in this case. Moral issues rarely have yes or no answers.”
The door opened, and Jonathan came out. “Alan?” he asked softly. He was very pale, and his eyes were bright with held-back tears.
“Thanks, Sir Myles,” Alanna said. She went to her friend.
They buried Francis the next day. Raoul and Gary, finally getting better, came. The healer attending Alex was able to tell Alanna that he, too, was healing. Jonathan was at the funeral with his father. They disappeared afterward, and Alanna hurried back to her chores. She struggled with her thoughts, wondering if she should go to the healers and offer to help. She couldn’t do anything for Francis now, but there were others.
The fever itself made the decision for her. Coram and Timon found her washing dishes in the kitchens the next morning.
“Alan,” Timon called.
She looked up from a tubful of pots, frowning.
Coram’s voice was gentle. “Th’ Prince took sick last night. He’s callin’ for ye.”
Alanna put down her dishcloth. Her throat was tight with fear. “How is he?”
“Bad,” Timon said.
Alanna raced to Jonathan’s rooms, the two servants behind her. Opening the door, she froze. She couldn’t believe the scene before her. People were crowding around Jonathan’s bed. The incense in the air made her sneeze. The priests of the Dark God were chanting prayers for the dying while the Chief Healer stood aside. Duke Baird was a beaten man. Jonathan was hallucinating already, and the healer had learned the people stricken badly from the first always died.
Fury made Alanna gasp for breath. How could anyone get well in a menagerie? How could Jonathan breathe? This went against all the commonsense rules Maude had taught her for healing: clean air, quiet, absolute cleanliness, calm and reassuring voices. Didn’t these people know anything? Alanna opened her mouth—then closed it hard. She had almost ordered these adults to get out! She could guess how they’d greet such an order from a page.
She turned to Coram. “Get Sir Myles. Now.”
The burly soldier looked down at her. He knew that forward thrust of her chin. “Ye aren’t plannin’ somethin’ foolish, are ye?”
“No more foolish than this.” She jerked her head at the crowded room.
Coram sighed and met Timon’s puzzled look. “Sh—he’s Trebond,” he explained. “Stubborn as pigs, all of them. We’d best fetch Sir Myles.”
Alanna went outside and closed the door. She would wait in the hall rather than watch the insanity going on inside. It fortunately wasn’t long before the two men returned with a very curious Myles.
“I need your help,” Alanna told the knight abruptly. “Take a look inside.”
Myles peered into Jonathan’s room. When he closed the door, his eyebrows were raised. “You know there isn’t much hope,” he told Alanna softly. “Not if he’s so ill this soon.”
Her eyes and her voice were as hard as stone. “Maybe there is and maybe there isn’t. Look—I’ve been keeping something back. I have the Gift, and I’m trained to heal. The village woman taught me everything she knew.” When he didn’t laugh, she plowed on. “I may be only eleven, but some things even an idiot knows. You don’t make a lot of noise and fog the air with incense in a sickroom, Myles! And my Gift hasn’t been drained, like the palace healers’.” She saw the doubt in the man’s eyes and added, “Jonathan’s been calling for me. I think he senses I can help.”
Myles tugged at his beard. “I see. And what do you want me to do?”
Alanna drew a deep breath. “Get those people out of there. They’ll listen to you.” She couldn’t say how she knew the people in Jonathan’s room would obey a minor knight—she just knew. “Get them out of there so we can air the room, and so I can talk to Duke Baird.”
“That’s a tall order.” Myles thought it over, then shrugged. “You’re very convincing, Alan. And what have we got to lose?”
She looked at him, her eyes filled with pain. “Jonathan,” she whispered.
That decided him. “Very well.” He nodded to Timon. “Announce me.”
Timon, looking as if his world had turned upside down, opened the door.
“Sir Myles of Olau!”
The crowd hushed and faced the door. The priests stopped chanting. Myles stepped into the room, flanked by Coram and Timon. Alanna—ignored—followed. The change in Myles was stunning. The short, stout knight was suddenly very regal and very angry.
“Have you left your senses?” he demanded. His gentle voice was sharp and clear. “No one can tell me his Majesty knows of this—this folly. I won’t believe it.”
No one spoke.
“Get out,” Myles ordered. “This is a sickroom, not a funeral.” He glanced at the priests. “For shame. The boy isn’t dead yet.”
After a moment the head priest bowed his head and led his followers from the room. Some of the courtiers looked at Duke Baird: He was supposed to be in charge. The healer nodded at Myles, relief on his tired face.
“You can do nothing here,” he told the other nobles. “Myles is right. Go to your gods and pray for our Prince. It is the only way we can help him now.”
Slowly they left. Only Duke Baird stayed. Alanna hurried to Jonathan’s side. Her friend was stark white and sweating heavily. Alanna tucked the blankets firmly around Jon’s body.
“Coram,” she called. “Open the windows. Let’s get some clean air in here.”
Baird looked at Myles suspiciously. “What goes on here?”
“Alan asked me to help him,” the knight replied. “I follow his orders.”
Baird gaped at him. “You follow the orders of a page?”
“Alan,” Myles said, “you owe Duke Baird an explanation.”
Alanna rose and went to the healer. Quickly she told him everything she had told Myles, stopping only to motion for Coram to close the shutters again. “I’m not grown up and as fully trained as you,” she finished. “But I haven’t had all my power drained, either. And he’s my friend.”
“Friendship will not be enough,” Baird told her. “As a healer, you know normal healing takes only a little of the healer’s strength. This fever doesn’t. It will take all your strength—and if you continue to try and heal, the draining will kill you. Three of my healers are already dead. Can you risk your life against this sorcery?”
“Then you do believe the illness is caused by magic,” Myles said.
The healer rubbed his eyes. “Of course. No one outside the city has this sickness. No natural fever will slay a healer. And I find it very interesting that only after all the palace healers have been drained of their power does the heir to the kingdom fall ill.”
“Can none of our sorcerers fight this fever or track it to its source?” Myles asked.
“There’s no one in Tortall with the power. Duke Roger could, but he is in Carthak. The king sent for him, but not even Roger of Conté can travel so far in less than a month.”
