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“You have learned the laws of Chivalry,” Jonathan continued. “Keep them in your heart. Use them as your guides when things are their darkest. They will not fail you if you interpret them with humanity and kindness. A knight is gentle. A knight’s first duty is to understand.”
Alanna listened carefully. None of this was new, but tonight it had more meaning than it ever had before. Tonight she would hold vigil in the chapel outside the Chamber of the Ordeal—the first step toward proving herself finally worthy of a knight’s shield. And tomorrow?
I’ll think about tomorrow tomorrow, she told herself firmly.
Gary and Jon took her to the Chapel of the Ordeal, stopping only to remind her that she could not utter a sound between that point and the time when she stepped out of the Chamber the next day. Gary patted her on the shoulder, and Jonathan kissed her cheek. Then they were gone, and she was alone in the Chapel, looking at the heavy iron door leading to the Chamber. Four years ago she had knelt here beside Jonathan, watching his face and wondering what he was thinking. Now it was her turn, and she still had no idea of what his thoughts had been that night. Was his heart beating too fast, as hers did now? Had he been scared? This not being able to talk was hard. There was nothing a would-be knight could do but think.
After a while her thoughts drifted. Coram had arrived two nights ago. They had remained up for the better part of the night while he gave her his last report as steward of Trebond. Now young Armen had the dubious joy of that post, and Alanna’s old friend was looking forward to being on the road with her. She was proud that her first teacher had been impressed by how far she had come in four years. Alanna refused his compliments, pointing out that if she had done well, it was because he had taught her well. The remainder of the night had been spent poring over maps, deciding where they would go in search of adventure. Alanna smiled a little sadly to herself.
Funny, she thought. It used to be I couldn’t wait to go. And now that the time to leave is here, I only want to stay. Why can’t I be happy—or at least, why can’t I make up my mind?
Where was Thom? He had planned to be at the palace by Midwinter Festival, but so far there was no sign of him. Had he forgotten her in pursuit of some weird old spell? In some ways he reminded her of their father, who had spent much of his life in a scholarly dream.
She let her thoughts roam. Touching the ember-stone she remembered the dark night she had met the Great Goddess. Why had the Mother given her the stone? Was it a weapon, or a keepsake?
She thought of Jonathan. Marrying him wouldn’t be so bad, someday, she realized. Yet that was impossible; he had to marry for the good of Tortall. And certainly she didn’t want to marry now; she had too much to do!
Duke Roger. So many strange things had happened over the years that forced her to wonder what he was doing. And yet she had never pursued her suspicions very far—why not? Was she simply jealous of Jonathan’s colorful relative and of the hold Roger had over people? Or did she have real cause to think he meant her prince ill? The Goddess had tried to warn her, in a very subtle way. Did the gods want Alanna to confront Roger?
And with what? she thought rebelliously. I have no proof against him, and no way to obtain proof. I would lose everything—honor, reputation, friends, perhaps even my life—if I accused Roger without solid evidence in my hands. I hope the gods don’t think I’m that reckless—or that stupid!
Suddenly she blinked. Light was touching the high windows of the Chapel, and the dark-robed priests were filing into the room. One touched her shoulder, pointing to the heavy iron door. It was time for the Ordeal.
Alanna got up stiffly, wincing at the pain in her knees. Where had the night gone? Rubbing her shoulders and grimacing, she followed the silent priest to the front of the Chapel. Her attention fixed on the men unbarring the door of the Chamber, until that was all she saw. Her heart pounding furiously, her mouth dry, she did not realize that behind her the Chapel was filling with her friends.
Silently the door to the Chamber of the Ordeal swung open. Swallowing hard, Alanna braced her shoulders and walked inside. Swiftly the priests closed the door, leaving her in total darkness, just as she had so often dreamed.
She blinked, letting her eyes get used to the light inside the Chamber. Oddly enough, there was light, although there were no torches or windows. It was ghostly, but it was there. Hope flared up in her heart. Perhaps she would be all right.
She was in a small stone room. It was completely bare of furnishings or fixtures. There were no doors or windows, no way anything could enter, and Alanna was beginning to wonder if this were some kind of joke when the first blast of icy wind knocked her to her knees. Alanna hugged herself, her teeth chattering, her clothes no protection at all. I wish I was dressed for this, she thought, forcing down the panic that washed over her whenever she was too cold.
The harsh wind whipped through her, forcing her down again every time she tried to stand, numbing her hands and feet. Alanna tried to move about, slapping herself to get warm, but the wind pushed her flat against the floor, making it almost impossible to move. She fought it with all her strength, her lower lip gripped between her teeth. She even forgot her fear; the only important thing now was to stay alive.
Suddenly she heard voices. The wind stopped as abruptly as it began.
The voices rose, begging Alanna to help them, to rescue them from the Dark God. She recognized them: her father, Big Thor, boys who had died during the Sweating Sickness, men who were killed fighting Tusaine. Tears rolled down her cheeks; she wanted to help them, but there was just no way that she could. They belonged to the Dark God now. As much as she hated it, she was helpless.
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 muse
d 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.
