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Before Jonathan could say that he did understand, someone else knocked on Alanna’s door. Coram opened it and admitted a heavily cloaked George.
Jonathan and Myles were clearly astonished by the tall Rogue’s presence. “Stefan has messenger-birds,” Alanna told them. She gave the thief a tiny smile before beginning to stretch again. “I’m glad you came.”
George reached down to ruffle her hair with a gentle hand. “Do nothing foolish,” he warned her.
“I think Alan’s used up his foolishness for the day,” Thom said acidly.
Alanna looked up, impatient. “The masquerade is over. Myles, all these men know, you should, too. I’m a girl.”
“But I do know,” Myles said quietly. “Thank you for telling me at last, but I have known for years.”
Timon rapped on the door and opened it. “I’ve been sent to bring you to the Great Throne Room,” he said unhappily. “Squire—Sir Alan, is it true? About His Grace?”
Alanna tugged on her boots. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. “Yes. It’s true.”
“Alan and I will be with you in a moment,” Jonathan told the others. They took the hint and followed Timon out into the hall, closing the door behind them. Alanna looked at Jonathan and went into his arms, hugging him tightly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, fighting back tears. “I know you love him; but I couldn’t let it go on. He was killing your mother.”
Jonathan held her close. “I love you more.” His voice was breaking. “Don’t let him kill you.”
Alanna shook her head. “I don’t plan to. Believe me, I don’t.”
They joined the other men in the hall. No one spoke as they headed for the Great Throne Room. Their only comments were in the tight holds Jonathan and George took on each of her shoulders, and the worried looks Coram, Myles, and Thom wore. Matters now were beyond words.
Alanna herself could think only that finally it had come to a head, this weird contest of wills between her and the Duke of Conté. The issue would be decided once and for all. She couldn’t be unhappy about that. It’ll be over and settled, she thought as they strode into the Great Throne Room.
Roger already stood before the two thrones, naked sword in hand. Alanna hugged each of her friends one last time before stepping up beside Roger, Lightning unsheathed and ready for battle. Her heart pounded in her throat as the herald read the challenge. She could barely hear him; her attention was on the king and queen, on Jon, standing beside his father now, and on Duke Gareth, standing beside his sister, the queen. She felt a grim kind of triumph thinking, Even if he kills me, I’ve won. I’ve planted the seed of doubt here; he’ll never be trusted again.
It was good to know she had accomplished something, even if Roger killed her. And it was good to know her friends were there, wanting her to win.
“Let the combat begin,” Roald said quietly.
Alanna and Roger brought their swords up instantly. They circled, watching each other carefully. Roger feinted at Alanna several times, never intending to strike, instead trying to draw Alanna into an attack. Alanna smiled slightly. Roger was older than she was and more experienced in the ways of the world, but she could outwait him.
She was right. Roger attacked in earnest, thinking she was being overconfident. Alanna blocked his swing and dodged to the side, wincing as Lightning jarred against her sore hands. She would have to be careful; her stiffness and the pain in her hands might get her killed if she wasn’t.
Roger pursued the attack, trying to use up her energy. Alanna tried to dodge more and block less in order to spare herself, but the sorcerer was too quick. Pain wormed its way up her right arm and into her shoulder. The scrapes on her sword hand were bleeding through the bandages, and weariness put her timing off.
Suddenly she blinked. Had Roger switched his sword to his left hand, or was he carrying two swords? He couldn’t possibly have two blades! She shook her head, trying to clear her eyes. Dimly she could hear Thom yelling, “Foul! He’s using an illusion!” But she knew no one would try to stop the fight now, for fear of getting her killed.
Only a lucky step saved her life as the Duke lunged at her. Thom was right: The Duke had placed an illusion-spell on himself so that Alanna couldn’t tell which of his hands gripped the real sword and which held only the ghost of one. Alanna pulled the ember-stone from beneath her shirt with her free hand, thanking the Goddess for it. The illusion-sword now glowed orange in her eyes. She blocked Roger’s real sword and thrust back, corning body-to-body with the Duke. This was a mistake; the larger, stronger man used his strength to force her slowly to her knees.
Alanna gasped and broke, dropping to the floor and rolling away; Roger struck, cutting her shoulder open as Alanna came to her feet. She dodged back, biting her lip angrily; he had changed his sword to his left hand! She thanked the Goddess the cut was not bad and gripped the ember-stone again.
The Duke switched hands several times, but she was able to follow the changing of real and imaginary swords with the help of the stone. They were coming to a time in the battle she was too familiar with: the time when lesser swordsmen began to gasp for air and to make mistakes, the time when she had to reach deep inside herself for strength she rarely needed to draw upon. Forced to admire Roger’s technique as she grimly blocked and thrust, lunged and dodged, she couldn’t help but think it was too bad such an awful man was such a fine swordsman.
Seizing that brief moment when Roger switched swords, Alanna lunged in, slashing the Duke’s right arm. Roger yelled in fury as Lightning nipped through muscle. Making an impossibly quick recovery, the Duke lunged back and struck. Alanna stumbled, and the tip of Duke Roger’s sword sliced down her chest from collarbone to waist.
The special corset she often wore in place of bandaging gave way, its laces cut through. It slid and buckled under her shirt, edges of lace-strings and (to Alanna’s great embarrassment) the curves of her breasts showing through. Roger dropped his blade and stood back, his eyes wide with shock.
“Halt!” the king roared, coming to his feet. The crowded room was buzzing as he stared at Alanna. “What is going on here?”
“You’d better do something about that thing,” Thom advised, stepping forward. “I’ll explain.”
All eyes were fixed on the Master in silver-edged black as Alanna ducked behind a hanging curtain, suddenly glad her lie was over with. She slid the ruined corset out from under her slashed shirt as Thom said, “You’ll have to excuse my sister, Majesties.” Shaking her head over her brother’s nerve, she overlapped the ends of the shirt and tucked them firmly into her breeches.
“You see, she wanted to be a knight,” Thom was explaining. “I wanted to be a sorcerer. We traded places. I think I may have had the better part of the bargain; I didn’t have to lie to people I liked and respected all these years. Here. I brought our birth papers. Her name is Alanna. We’re twins.”
“Who knew of this?” The king’s voice was low and dangerous as Alanna stepped out from behind the curtain. “Who knew?”
“I knew.” Jonathan’s voice was strong and clear. “I’ve known since the Black City.”
“I knew,” Coram admitted in a shamefaced rumble.
Gary stepped forward. “I knew.”
“And I knew,” Myles added. “I guessed when Alan—Alanna—cured Jonathan of the Sweating Sickness, Majesty.”
The king looked at Alanna. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Alanna met his eyes squarely. “I hated lying to you,” she admitted. “I wanted to tell; but I couldn’t. Would you have let me win my shield if I had told the truth?” The king’s silence was answer enough. “I’ve tried to be honest about everything else. And I can’t regret what I did.”
Roger’s snarl of fury surprised them all. “You demon!” he screamed. “You lying, cheating—”
Without warning he lunged at her, his sword raised. Alanna blocked him and fought for her life. Roger attacked like a whirlwind, not giving her a chance to catch her breath.
Suddenly Alanna’s long-hidden anger toward Roger flared into life. He was her enemy; he had tried to kill the people she loved. And he was acting like the wronged one!
She set her jaw grimly. She had come here to bring Duke Roger of Conté to justice, and by the Mother, that was what she was going to do.
She brought Lightning up and around in a wide butterfly-sweep that slicked off a lock of Roger’s hair. Switching her sword to her left hand, she attacked in earnest at last, bringing her blade down and around in a mirror image of the first butterfly-sweep, slicing Roger’s belt. She came around with a back-handed slash that ripped open the Duke’s tunic. Desperate, Roger blocked and fell back as she came on, a grim vision of death.
Suddenly a large orange cloud formed around the Duke. The watching nobles gasped and moved away as the cloud expanded, reaching for Alanna and for Jonathan and for King Roald beside Jonathan. Alanna saw the danger to the two men and forgot her own.
“The Goddess!” she yelled, leaping forward. Lightning struck the cloud, slicing it open to find Roger at its heart. The orange mass flared, blinding everyone watching. Alanna felt Lightning quiver. Roger screamed; and she struck again, harder. The sword cut even deeper this time as Alanna opened her eyes, blinking to clear her vision.
Roger stood, trying to pull her sword out of his body. A deep cut in his shoulder was bleeding fiercely. The Duke stared wonderingly at Alanna as he slowly fell to the floor. Alanna jerked Lightning free of him, swaying over Roger’s body, shaking with rage, fear, and exhaustion.
She looked up. Everyone in the chamber—even Jonathan, even Thom—stared at her with some kind of horror. For a minute she was afraid of herself.
She had killed the king’s nephew. She had killed her greatest enemy, the most powerful sorcerer in the Eastern Lands.
