Even our pages and squires

[the_lioness]

In the darkness of her room, the faint light of the moon streaming through her window catches in Lightning’s crystal and makes Alanna’s hands, resting under the sword, look bruised and swollen. She stares down at them, sword and hands, and wonders how she can be so exhausted and yet unable to sleep. The weariness is bone deep, like she has been using her Gift for hours, and the cut just below her elbow keeps up a dull throb in time with her heartbeats.

It was just supposed to be a small evening party.

Jon, stressing that fact repeatedly in the hours leading up to it, failed to realize that Alanna was eager to attend this particular affair. The Tusaine embassy had been at court for several weeks, and it seemed to her – to anyone paying attention – that tensions were escalating: between knights, between diplomatic officials, even between King Roald and the Tusaine ambassador, Mikal of Danne. Through Mikhal, the King of Tusaine tested Roald’s devotion to his title ‘The Peacemaker.’ At stake was the Drell River Valley. Alanna, like her fellow squires Sacherell and Douglass, was happy to pour wine and listen to conversations at the gathering, hoping to glean anything of interest or use.

The atmosphere, strained but civil, took a turn for the worse when one of the Tusaine knights openly challenged the worthiness of Tortall’s finest. Mikal apologized and in the same breath, in the same condescending tone, suggested perhaps Tortall had lost its fighting edge. Gary seethed. Raoul looked on the verge of ramming his considerably sized fist in the knight’s face until Alanna waved Douglass toward his knight-master.

“I differ with you, Sir Dain,” Jon had replied. “Even our pages and squires know how to handle a sword against a full knight. But since our honor and our teachers are in question, perhaps we must show you what a Tortallan can do.”

“Bring on your champion, Highness. I am sure I can prove Tusaine superiority over any man of your court.”

Time stood still. If the faint humor in Jon’s voice hadn’t already alerted her to his plan, the knowing look in his eyes would have done the trick. They stared at each other across the room, and Alanna imagined she could feel his hand in hers, warm and strong, the way it was when they faced the Ysandir. It would be a brilliant tactical move, provided she could pull it off. Dain of Melor was strong, overly sure of himself and, lucky for her, enough in his cups that his reaction time might be slowed. She nodded to Jon, understanding perfectly, and set her pitcher aside.

Already the thrill of combat was racing through her system, sharpening her awareness.

Jon’s smile turned cold as he faced Dain once more. “Not ‘our champion,’ Sir Dain. I said ‘even our pages and squires.’ I’m sure my personal squire Alan would oblige you.” He nodded to Alanna as she approached looking humble and unfailingly earnest; it is a look she practiced every time Duke Roger focused his attention on her. She bowed and asked, “Your Highness?”

“You want me to fence a squire?” Dain protested, loudly and at length, but soon he was neatly boxed into a corner by his own boasts. “By Mithros, I’ll do it! I fear no child!” he exclaimed at last.

And so it was decided. Squire Alan of Trebond would fight Sir Dain of Melor, with nothing less than Tortall’s honor at stake.

Alanna forgot everything once they arrived in the cool, well-lit fencing gallery: her irritation at the Tusaine ambassador, her confusion at the eagerness on her friend Alex’s face, her concern that she might not be good enough to win. Eerily calm, she did not feel the fierce grin curving her lips or notice the reckless anticipation lighting her eyes, but she caught a hint of it in the way her friends were reacting, pleading caution and cheering her on in turns. She stretched, listening to Myles fret with half an ear, and felt only a passing gratification when Gary defended her skill. Faithful meowed, Let the foreigner be stupid. It shouldn’t be hard. And don’t get yourself killed! She gave him a flicker of a smile and passed the cat to Myles.

King Roald and Queen Lianne took their places, with Duke Roger and Ambassador Mikhal close at hand. This is it, Alanna thought. This is what I have trained for. If I don’t succeed now, this will come back to haunt me later.

Goddess.

Duke Gareth had some last words for his student. “Don’t forget to let him tire himself out while you get his measure. I know the type. He’ll try to make you angry with insults. Don’t let that happen. Keep your head. You’re good, Alan, but you aren’t the best.”

There was only one way she could answer, grinning irreverently at the man she respected so much. “No, sir. You are.”

“Don’t be pert,” he said, lightly whacking her on the back. “And do be careful.”

What followed is a blur of slowed down parries and swifter strikes in her memory. Sitting on her bed with Lightning in her hands she remembers the way her stomach was jumping around as they stepped into the center of the gallery and saluted, as was proper: Cross your weapons. Do honor to the laws of chivalry and the customs of your lands. Guard! This was to be a proper duel, bound to the laws of chivalry and honor.

Dain of Melor apparently felt otherwise.

That first clash of steel reverberates in her mind. She recalls struggling to keep her sword up, noting with a detached amusement that Dain obviously hadn’t anticipated her strength. It felt good. Even as she strained to keep her balance and outsmart her opponent, Alanna had felt alive in a way she had never been able to explain, as if she had been born to wield a sword. There was so much at stake, for her and for Tortall, and all she felt in that moment was a fierce exhilaration, the blade in her hand moving like an extension of her own body.

But it wasn’t enough. Dain taunted her and Alanna remained silent, a tactical choice that could unsettle more than traditional insults while simultaneously saving her breath, and she very nearly managed a winning blow. She felt the change in her audience and in Dain as they realized she was more than they had assumed. Dain began circling, lashing out and forcing her to parry while she waited and watched, seeking the opening that always presented itself if she waited long enough. Small opportunities were never quite right, however, and Alanna started to worry about sweat dripping in her eyes. At least Dain’s clothes were also soaked through, and his breaths came in pants to her slow and steady inhales and exhales. He should have been training with Coram’s big old sword. Then he wouldn’t be so tired now.

She remembers grinning at the thought. Maybe that had been her mistake: over-confidence?

Underestimating her opponent, the very thing she often relies on to win?

She spotted a chance and took it, but Dain escaped her reach. Quickly, Alanna attempted to wipe some of the sweat off her forehead.

Not quickly enough.

The sensation of Dain’s sword sinking into the flesh below her right elbow will remain with her long after the wound has healed. It makes her feel sick to remember now, just as it did then, when she cursed and lowered her blade. She had lost. First blood was drawn. She had let everyone down.

Dain failed to care. He lunged forward again, crazed with bloodlust, his eyes red and furious. Alanna nearly lost her life to the idiot, jumping back just in time to miss the death blow.

“Foul!” she heard Gary yell. Others took up the cry, but she shut them out. She couldn’t pay any attention to what was decided anywhere except between her and the lumbering Tusaine knight.

Knight, she scoffed inwardly. As if he is deserving of the name.

How dare he accept this challenge and then flout her beloved laws of chivalry? When Duke Gareth strode forward with his sword drawn, Alanna gave him an angry shake of her head. No, this was her fight to finish, and it had just gotten personal. Jon’s earlier icy look had nothing on the glacier chill radiating off Alanna as she and Dain circled each other again. Blood dripped from her arm. Absently, she reminded herself not to slip in it. She transferred her sword to her left hand, by all appearances utterly calm, and counted to three before lunging at Dain with all the pent up fury, determination and abused honor she could muster.

It’s still a blur. She remembers giving in to muscle memory, letting her instincts guide her sword arm, the constant motion wearing Dain down. It was only a matter of time until she found her opening, snaked Lightning around his sword and sent it flying. Dain fell. Darting in, she had her blade at his throat before he could blink. She looked down, contempt written all over her face.

“Stupid. That was very stupid. You’re lucky I’m a better ‘knight’ than you are, or you’d be dead.”

One last scowl at the fallen Tusaine and she’d stalked away.

In the darkness, Alanna closes trembling hands around her sword and takes a deep, cleansing breath.

Myles had found her later and watched her clean her sword for a moment before blurting out, “You didn’t kill him. He would have killed you, but you didn’t kill him.”

“So?” she had snapped, hurting and still bristling with anger like a wounded bear. “He was stupid. If I killed everyone who was stupid I wouldn’t have time to sleep.”

“He gave you every excuse to kill him. Even his Ambassador would have understood if you had.”

Alanna frowned at her teacher. “Just because he behaved badly is no excuse for me to behave badly.” Why wouldn’t Myles go away? She wanted to sleep forever, to heal her arm and let the weariness carry her away to a place where she didn’t have to think so much. Her lower lip wobbled enough that she felt compelled to bite it. Hard. “Why are you picking on me? You of all people should’ve known I wouldn’t kill him.”

Myles swooped in to hug her, and Alanna had to bite her lip again. “You’re a good lad, Alan of Trebond. You give an old man hope.”

“Nonsense,” Alanna grunted. “You’re not that old. And I’m not that good of a lad.”

In the darkness of her room, Lightning is flat, dull, a piece of metal forged long ago. It doesn’t look capable of biting into a man’s neck and ending his life any more than Alanna looks like she could defeat a full blooded knight with it.

She looks up at the window and the moonlight shining through, and stands, slowly sheathing the sword and strapping it to her body, every motion slower than she would like in consideration of her injured arm.

Alanna has had one big secret since she came to court. Now she has another.

For a moment, I wanted to kill him.

Lifting her chin, she lets another deep breath carry away some of the lingering tension and leaves her small room behind, bound for the Great Mother's chapel or perhaps the Chamber of the Ordeal, just to press her hand against the huge black door and hope, there where it matters most, that the right choices won't always be so hard.


[Scene and dialogue from In the Hand of the Goddess, by Tamora Pierce.]