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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 command
ing. “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—I 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.
Well, it’s only a theory. Give me a few more years, and we’ll give your smiling friend a run for his money. Till then, speak softly to him and let him think you like him. People who’ve let it be known they don’t like him sometimes disappear—or die of strange diseases.
I’ve tried looking in on you in the fire, but you’re shielded by forces I haven’t encountered before. You aren’t holding out on me, are you? Good luck to you. I expect we’ll be hearing from each other more often now. Take care, and watch the nobleman I mentioned.
Your loving brother,
Thom.
Alanna read the letter three times, then burned it until only fine gray ash was left in her fireplace. Thom
had given form to some of her worst suspicions. She wished she could discuss her feelings about Duke Roger with someone, but Jonathan and the boys worshiped him, and Alanna didn’t think she had anything substantial enough to confide to Myles. She sighed and added a log to the fire. Maybe she could say something to George. It was all too complicated for one page to figure out.
As to being shielded by mysterious forces—Thom was being silly. As soon say the gods themselves were looking out for her! If Thom’s mention of guardian forces dovetailed with Mistress Cooper saying the Goddess was interested in the things Alanna did, or Coram’s theory that the gods had protected Alanna through Duke Roger’s questioning—well, that was for Thom, Coram and Mistress Cooper to worry about. Alanna herself had enough problems.
Winter passed quietly. Alanna occupied all her time with lessons, working every extra hour she had so she could be as good as, if not better than, the boys. Her lessons in sorcery went on week after week, with Duke Roger keeping a careful eye on his students’ progress. He was very big on theory, she soon discovered, and would often spend several weeks on the ideas behind a spell before permitting them to try a spell in concrete form. It made for very slow study. Many of the spells Roger chose for them to learn were ones Alanna had already learned from Maude. Keeping Thom’s words in mind, she chose not to tell Roger she already knew these spells, some of them in more advanced forms. Instead she peeked ahead in the scrolls Roger gave them to read and found herself looking at books of magic that she was supposed to leave alone. She suspected that Jonathan was deliberately locking himself into a secluded library at night and practicing more advanced spells from a reader Roger had forbidden them to touch; but Alanna chose to say nothing, either to Roger or to Jonathan. What Jon did was his business, after all. She herself never bothered to tell anyone where she disappeared to when she went to work with Coram’s sword in secret.
One free morning, safe in George’s rooms, Alanna caught herself trying the spell for the shielding Wall of Power that was in one of George’s books. The moment she saw a wall of glittering purple fire go up around her, she shouted “So mote it be!” and broke the spell. “What am I doing?” she asked George in disgust.
