Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She had no idea how long she lay there, propped up against George and swaddled in what had been someone’s best velvet cloak a few hours before. Now, like her, it was covered in dust and blood, and ripped in not a few places. Somewhere under all the grime and fabric, George’s right hand rested on hers, careful not to jostle her aching palm. But she could feel his thumb running slowly over her knuckles, the way a pious man might touch his prayer beads in an idle moment. Neither of them had the energy to do much else except watch the sky - clearly visible through the massive hole Roger’s earthquake had ripped in the ceiling - darken slowly to twilight.

At some point before the light drained out of the sky, Duke Baird had made his way over, looking nearly as dusty and battered as she felt. He knelt with a grimace, and pressed a gentle hand to her forehead. She felt his Gift shimmer through her, and he winced a little in sympathy. Less about her tattered hands and battered ribs, she thought, and more that only the barest flicker of her own Gift remained, the rest of it yanked out of her by Master Si-Cham.

“And how is m’lass, your Grace?” George’s voice was steady, almost cheerful. She wasn’t fooled. It was the same studiously disinterested voice he’d used all summer, to suggest a picnic, or a ride out of the city - anything was fine, except a visit to the Dove.

“I’m not going to die on you, you...” Her voice was a rasp, her mouth terribly dry, and she couldn’t help coughing. “…unprincipled pickpocket.”

He snorted. “Not terribly convincin’, darlin’. I believe I’d trust his Grace over you at the moment.”

Baird smiled a little at that, and lay a hand briefly on George, as well. “I doubt either of you feel it at the moment, but you’ll live to do many other brave and foolhardy things for years to come.” He squeezed Alanna’s shoulder. “For which we should all thank the gods. Unfortunately, that means you won’t get much comfort at the moment. Beds are hard to come by, as is relief from pain, or a healing spell if you’re not bleeding out.” He gestured to the wide eyed page hovering behind him, and handed George a water skin. “Aloe water is the best I can do, for now.” And then he was gone.

George sighed. “ I s’ppose we should enjoy the rest whilst we have it. I’ve a feelin’ the moment I stand our good King Jon will sling me in a saddle and onto the road. And he’ll have you flashin’ your sword about the length and breadth of this kingdom the moment you can grip one.”

Alanna was quiet for a moment. “Well, you I understand,” she said slowly. “Even if we’re not supposed to talk about why. I doubt I’ll be going anywhere, though. Being King’s Champion hasn’t exactly been the painless ceremonial position I was promised…”

George chuckled at that, and gently raised her hand through a rent in the filthy cloak to kiss it

“...but I can’t imagine it’ll take me out of Corus.”

“Lass, our Jon’s no fool. If I were king of all Tortall, and I had a gods-touched champion who’d killed the Conte duke twice with her sword, I’d not let her sit around Corus. I’d trot her up and down my kingdom till she fell off her horse, tellin’ the story of what happened and her great loyalty to me. You up on your pretty gold horse, in your pretty gold armor, with your flamin’ locks around your shoulders…” he pressed a kiss to her neck, just at the edge of the gold plated gorget that had saved her life “...you tellin’ every man, woman, and child in this kingdom how you brought back yon Jewel the king wields, that’ll make this country prosper in the years to come, and, oh yes, how you smite anyone who’s enemy to him....well, it’ll make an impression, let’s say. The kind of’ impression Jon needs if he’s to keep his throne.”

She felt a blush creeping up her face. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Champion doesn’t matter, the king does. No one’s lining up to see me.”

“Of course the king matters. But darlin’, you have somethin’ he does not. Everyone knows your name and most know your face, like it or not. I can’t go a hundred feet in the Lower City without hearin’ a ballad of your exploits. But he’s spent his life in Corus, and even with that, most people here couldn’t pick Jon out of a crowd. He’s not known the way you are. Well, maybe amongst the Bazhir he is. But you’re chosen by the Goddess herself. They’ll trust Jon if they hear you trust him.”

She didn’t answer him. Frankly, she found the idea that she was more famous than Jon disquieting, for all sorts of reasons. Hard to go adventuring when everyone knows your face, for one. And offhand, she couldn’t think of a king who’d been thrilled when a vassal became so well-loved they eclipsed their monarch.

George seemed to sense what she was thinking.

“Now, I doubt you'll still be so well-beloved once they get close enough to hear the shockin’ language that come out of your gods-chosen mouth...”

She could feel him laughing soundlessly, and pinched his wrist in revenge. That made him laugh out loud, low in his throat, the rumble running right through her. His other hand came up, gently stroking her sweat-soaked hair. His tone turned serious again. “Right now, you up on a horse in your pretty mail, tellin’ the country that Jon has your sword - that’s the greatest gift you could give your king. If people see he can command your loyalty, that means somethin’.”

George, as usual, was right. As the sun faded away, an exhausted Myles reappeared to haul them out of the rubble and into a cart to recuperate at his townhouse. In two days, George was on his feet. In three, he was saddling his horse and on the road at dawn to gods knew where. He wouldn’t tell her, even as he kissed her breathless saying his goodbye.

It was a week until she could walk on shaking legs to Myles’ stable and get a saddle over the back of his gentle old hunter. She left before the sun or prying eyes were up. The mare clearly had no great opinion of her current abilities, and refused to go any faster than the slowest walk. Privately, she agreed. She still couldn’t light a candle with her Gift, let alone hold a sword. Riding through the dark and jumpy city unarmed, she fervently hoped whatever deal George had struck with his successor included letting foolhardy lady knights to pass unrobbed. But she made it to the palace safely, the mare sauntering into the stableyard just as the sky began to brighten. Alanna slid rather gracelessly out of the saddle, cursing loudly enough to wake Stephen, who slept over the stables. She must've looked ghastly, because he barely took her to task as he led the mare away.

The sky was flaming pink as she made her way slowly through the stable yards and into the gardens. The palace was stirring in earnest; smoke rising from a dozen chimneys; maids throwing open windows and yawning as they queued at the fountains for water. A door banged open across the courtyard and a knot of pages tumbled out, headed for the practice courts. They didn’t see her, a small mercy, and she limped through an arched portico and down to the entrance to the catacombs.

That’s where the king found her, sitting at the bottom of the stairs and staring at the sword in the middle of the charred pattern Roger had drawn on the stone.

The blade was streaked with soot, the jewels on its hilt cracked and blackened. Jonathon gripped the sword, trying to free it without success.

“It’s alright,” Alanna told him. “I don’t want it. There are other swords, and I like Lightning where it is.”

Jon released the weapon and looked at his filthy hands. “Good.”

“I’m just thinking. Will you please get away from the Gate? You’re making me nervous.”

The king shrugged and came to sit beside her. “What’s on your mind?”

She sighed. “A few things.” Suddenly, her throat was tight. “I suppose I’m heir to Trebond...unless you took it for what Thom did?” She shot him a look, her treacherous heart half-hoping that was the case. It’d be one less thing to attend to. Jon gave her a sad smile. “If Thom had lived, I probably would have stripped him of the title, to be honest. But it seems a little counterproductive to take a fief from the Lioness herself.”

She looked away, her vision blurred with tears. “In that case, I suppose, I’ve got to make sure it’s well-defended. There’s no way the Scanrans won’t be raiding after all this.” She gestured vaguely at the almost-completed Gate.

“And...I’ll need to bury Faithful. And Thom. And Liam. And keep you safe.” She closed her eyes. “And pay off Thom’s tailor, somehow. The man probably bankrupted Trebond with just black velvet alone.” She’d meant the last bit to sound light, but then Jon reached out and squeezed her hand, full of sympathy. Suddenly, she was sobbing into his tunic, clinging on for dear life, and he wrapped his arms around her. Dimly, she was glad she’d seen him cry like this, wild hiccuping sobs, after he’d admitted his father had died by suicide. It made it much less embarrassing to leave a patch of tears and snot on his fine, kingly Conte-blue silk.

When she’d been quiet for a while, he said “I’ve no idea if it will make you feel better, but you don’t have to worry about Trebond, at least for now. I sent Coram north three days ago with men and supplies. There should be a note from him in Myles’ library. He stopped to see you before he left but you were out cold.”

Alanna felt a wave of sadness that she hadn’t seen off the man who’d all but raised her, and that she hadn’t even thought of him when she woke up. She nodded, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. Jon shifted, but kept his arms around her. “No, that’s good. Honestly, Coram knows Trebond far better than I do.” She felt him clear his throat. “Liam was laid to rest by two Shang who were here in the city, the day after he died. His marker is in Mithros’ temple. It’s Shang custom to be cremated quickly.”

“As far as Faithful and Thom, they’re here in the catacombs with most of the other dead. We...wanted to wait for you. Whenever you’re ready, you can go see them. I just ask…” he stopped. “Gods, this is cruel. I just ask, as your king, that any service for Thom be private. And any marker for him, too. Myles is concerned that his grave might become a focus for...malcontents, I suppose. Those unhappy with me, or with the limits the university or the priests put on magic.”

“I understand,” she said, flat. His arms tightened around her. “No, really, I do. Thom was...he was my twin. But he did things it would never have occurred to me were possible. It’s hard for me to think of him as a….as a symbol like that. But I understand you don’t need to add to your worries.”

“So, that just leaves keeping you safe,” she said, pulling back to look at him. She scrubbed her face in her hands, suddenly just as tired as well she’d been lying in the ruins of the Great Hall. “To my mind, that means sticking around the palace scowling ferociously at everyone who crosses your path. But George seemed to think you’d want me in my pretty gold armor, riding around looking like a good Champion rather than actually being one.”

Jon flinched at that. He stood abruptly, moving back across the room towards Lightning, clearly trying to hide his nerves. Alanna groaned. “Goddess, it’s insufferable how often he’s right. But I s’pose he does know a lot more about being a king than I do.”

“He certainly knows more than I do.” Jon’s face was set. He reached out to touch the battered crystal in the sword’s pommel with a careful hand. A few years ago, she would have been halfway across the room, bristling with anger and ready to defend him against even the suggestion he wasn’t a good ruler. But today, she stayed where she was, hugged her knees, and waited for him to speak.

He flashed her a look. “And he’s rubbing off on you, clearly. It’s been a long time since I didn’t know what you were thinking.” She didn’t rise to the bait. He sighed, and walked back over to the stairs, sitting down with his back against the stairwell, to face her head on. Up close, she could see the white threads woven through his dark hair, and the shadows under his eyes. Neither had been there a few days ago.

“He’s right, though. I appreciate you wanting to keep me alive - and Goddess knows, you have a talent for that. But sending you out is keeping me safe. You’re my sword arm. And if people see that arm is as strong and loyal as it ever was, they are far less likely to pick up their own swords and come for me. Or, just as disastrously, refuse to pay their taxes or decide to take their trade to Tyra or Carthak. So, in the long run, far less work for us all if you look pretty and intimidating in your fancy armor for a bit.”

“Flattery will only get you so far, my liege.” His lip quirked, but it was his turn to stay quiet, and watch her intently. She turned away. “When would this farce need to get on the road?”

“A week.” His eyes hadn’t left her face.

She looked out at Lightning, embedded deep in the stone of the nearly finished Gate.
“I’d need a new sword, I suppose.”

“That can be arranged.”

“I’d appreciate it if Trebond were on this….ah, champion’s progress. I’m sure I’ll turn out to be a terrible absentee landlord like my brother before me, but I owe Coram at least that much.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod, and he reached out to take her hand again.

She hesitated.

“And...if George and I could cross paths at some point...”

She felt his grin.

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” He sounded positively delighted. She pulled her hand away, annoyed. “No need to sound so smug, your royal fucking highness.”

He laughed, a real belly laugh, and slung an arm over her shoulder like he hadn’t since she’d been Alan. “It really must be serious for me to ruffle your feathers. You haven’t snapped at me like that since...gods, since before the desert, at least.”

She shoved him away. “Horseshit. I yell at you all the time. You need to get yelled at and you know it. That’s why you put me on your council.” That only made him laugh harder.

She elbowed him. “Be serious, will you? I don’t know what it is between me and George, exactly. But you know I’m no good at diplomacy. I need someone I can talk to. I know he can’t be there all the time, but…”

Jon squeezed her shoulder.

“It may be difficult for the first few weeks, but I’ll put the word out. Your schedule will be more or less public, so he can find you when he can.”

“And as for it not being serious...I’ve no idea what passed between you two.”

Alanna snorted.

“Well, alright. Better to say I don’t know the specifics. Neither of you are terribly prone to giving up secrets. But I will tell you as your king, I needed George to accept that pardon and give up his past. And the only way I could figure out how to make him leave the past behind was to have his future sitting in the room with us. And don’t tell me I’m wrong, because he told me himself that having you there when I gave him the pardon was the first time I ever outfoxed him.”

Alanna went beet red at that. Her king, suddenly merciful, said nothing about it. They sat for a while in companionable silence. Probably, Alanna thought, the last time we’ll ever be alone like this, just the two of us. Now that he’s king. Another wave of sadness caught her flat-footed. Well, alone if you don’t count the dead.

Suddenly, the worn and familiar staircase felt alien and eerie. Her brother was lying dead just beyond that door, unattended, while she laughed and joked and plotted her future. She stood abruptly, skin crawling. “In a week, then,” she confirmed. Jon looked startled. “I’ll be ready, your majesty.”

He looked a bit sad at the use of his title, but rose and placed her hand between his, echoing her formal tone. “I won’t forget what you’ve already done for me, Champion. I can’t repay it, but I’ll strive to be worthy of your loyalty all my days.”

And he left her there, with her sword and with her dead.

********

Faithful, she took to the Temple of the Mother, where he was given the last rites with no argument and due reverence, and a marker on the floor just below the Goddess’s feet. It took two more days to arrange a very private funeral for Thom. In the end, the Mithrans took him. He was one of their own, however wayward. Myles came with her as far as the temple gates, but no further, so it was only her, one nervous young priest, and Thom’s body on the pyre. He looked so frail, even well wrapped in linen. And his face looked calm, as it never had in life. There was none of Thom's sarcastic wit, none of his pride. She plucked helplessly at the shroud over his hands, fighting back tears.

The priest cleared his throat. “Sir...my lady - you’ll need to step back.”

She swiped her arm across her face and did as he asked, and he began the rite. Words of tradition, followed by words of power that transformed into a flame that burned more brightly and completely than anything you could spark with a flint.

She stayed until her eyes were red from the smoke, until Thom and his pyre were nothing more than fine grey ash. The ash, the Mithrans would keep. That had been part of the bargain for performing the ceremony at all. Like Jonathon, they worried about him becoming some sort of martyr. Personally, she thought it unlikely. He’d been far too wrapped up in his work and himself to have friends or proteges. Nevertheless, his ashes would go in an unmarked urn, to mingle with the rest of the priests’ in the temple catacomb. If he was mentioned, it would not be as a brilliant scholar and a brother who’d faithfully kept her secrets, nor as a once in a century sorcerer, but as a cautionary tale. A student who moved too fast, too secretly, and paid the price. The other Thoms, she’d have to keep in her heart.

Chapter Text

When she finally came out of the temple, it was raining steadily. The air was fresh and vibrant after the smoke and secrecy of Thom’s final rites. Standing out in the rain made her feel light; energetic and effervescent, like she’d just downed a glass of cool cider on a hot day. The feeling curdled into guilt a moment later when it collided with the grief still heavy in her stomach.

Myles was waiting for her, and had been the whole time judging from his soggy velvet cloak. More guilt. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re still here? You should have gone back.” He just looked at her, taking in her red eyes, and the tear tracks on her cheeks.“I believe those laws of chivalry you hold so dear demand an honorable father never leave his unwed daughter to walk home unaccompanied.” That got him a watery laugh. “A bit late to be worrying about my virtue.” He kissed her forehead. “It’s my prerogative to always be worried about my daughter, I’m afraid. I’m sorry you had to do that alone.” They walked side by side through streets filled with rubble and fresh roof beams, not saying much. The air was filled with the sounds of hammers and curses as Corus rebuilt itself all around them.

When they finally got back to Olau House, they found that the servants had already lit the lamps, and that Jonathon had kept his word. In the library, Eleni was standing watch over a locked trunk, a new sword, and a feather. “All three from the palace, though I don’t know why you’d need a quill.” The sword was wrapped in the same fine Conte-blue silk Jon seemed to wear everywhere these days. Underneath the silk and a beautifully worked black leather scabbard, it was fine damask steel. Heavier than Lightning, but not by much, and balanced perfectly for her grip. In time, she was sure it would feel like an extension of herself, as Lightning had.

She picked up the feather. “It’s not a quill.” She held the blade out, and balanced the feather across the weapon’s edge. It rested there for just a moment before splitting cleanly in two. Myles whistled. A sword like that, she knew, might cost a knight with a small holding a season’s income. A kingly gift. She looked under the hilt, saw a small lioness rampant etched there, as well as the maker’s mark. “Raven Armory.”

Her stomach rumbled. She sheathed the unnamed sword. Suddenly, she realized she hadn’t eaten all day. Eleni smiled. “The trunk can wait, my dear. Let’s eat.”

After dinner, she came back to the library. The trunk was spelled, but she felt the wards fade away as soon as she touched it, almost as if they recognized her. The latch clicked open of its own accord a second later. Now, that’s a clever bit of magic. She wondered with a pang if Thom had done it, as a birthday trifle he’d never had a chance to deliver. It felt like his magic, subtle and secretive.

On top of a surprising amount of neatly folded garments in mourning blacks and greys lay a sealed note, and a bag of woven silver that turned out to contain a small mirror.

Lioness -

The clothes are the best I could do on short notice and without access to most of the library, but these will be your tools as much as the sword on this journey. Not that you haven’t already wrapped yourself in enough legend to last a lifetime, but I suspect looking the part of a real lady knight out of legend can’t hurt.

I don’t expect you to be George, but keep your eyes and ears open, especially around the nobility. Other than that, be your usual charming self in the banquet hall, help Baird’s people in healing when you can, don’t fight any duels on my behalf if you can help it, and let the boys and girls swoon over you in your pretty gold armor.

The mirror is a clever new device one of our spies smuggled out of Carthak. It’s one of a set; I hold the other, and they are spelled so we can speak directly to one another through them. It’s faster than messengers or birds, but to be used with some caution. We are reasonably sure that no one could listen in, but not certain. Keep it in the silver bag when you’re not using it - I don’t know of any magic that could pierce the silver, and more importantly, neither does Harailt of Ali.

I know what I’m asking is difficult for you. You say you’re no good at diplomacy, but I think you mistake what diplomacy is. It’s not saying one thing and thinking another, or persuading someone by saying only what they want to hear. Or, at the very least, it’s not all that. If it were, you would be my last choice as a diplomat. But trust me when I say -bluntness can also be persuasive, if people believe you are sincere. And I don’t know anyone more sincere than you.

So, I send you out into the world with, your sword, this trunk, and all my gratitude -

His royal fucking highness, Jonathon IV of Conte, King of Tortall and Liege of the Cayennites, Wielder of the Dominion Jewel, the self-same Jonathon who is the Voice of the Tribes of All Bazhir,

The note undid the last knot of tension she’d been carrying for over a year. Something about the tone -authoritative, honest, but also playful- confirmed what she’d suspected since she’d arrived back in Corus: a much better version of Jonathon had emerged since he had settled into being the Voice. Maybe it had given him more empathy, more of a sense of humor about himself. He’d been hardening into a caricature of a spoilt and pompous princeling when they’d parted in the desert, and a part of her had dreaded coming back to Tortall because of it. She’d known that whether or not they resumed their romance, he would be her king. A leaden feeling had grown in her stomach the closer they’d sailed to home waters, imagining years of biting her tongue and slow-walking orders she didn’t believe in from a spoiled man she didn’t respect any longer. It would have been a version of the sure-to-be-dysfunctional marriage she’d turned down; and like that marriage, a life-long commitment. Whatever the future held, she was reasonably sure it wouldn’t be that bad any longer.

The line about looking like a lady knight out of legend did give her pause, though. She set the note and the mirror down on Myles’ fine carpet, began pulling out fistfuls of garments, and draping them over the sofa.

To her surprise, they were beautifully tailored modern takes on the court style of the coastal cities two hundred or so years ago, which was widely regarded as a golden age. A time when lady knights had indeed been far more common, and when there hadn’t been nearly as much difference in how men and women dressed. Both genders had worn long, loose, layered robes. Much like the silks and velvets she pulled out of the chest, with their high necks, stiff collars, tailored shoulders and bell sleeves. The finishing touch was a pair of sheer sleeveless overrobes in gold and silver, both thick with glittering embroidery. There were also discrete wrap belts in black and grey cloth, so she could fold everything up to fall to mid calf or even her knees, if she felt like showing her hose and pissing off the conservatives.

She approved. Bahzir women still wore similar dress for weddings and formal events. Their robes were loose and graceful, and she’d always envied their casual elegance. And the overrobes were split up to the waist at the front and back, as well as the sides - a nod to the sturdy canvas surcoats knights tended to wear over their armor for travel, styled for ease of movement both on horseback and fighting on foot. It was a bit silly to cut a ballgown for fighting, she supposed, but it was a not-so-subtle reminder that she could fight as well as dance.

There was one garment she was puzzled by, though. If it had been made of any other fabric, she would’ve supposed it was some kind of formal surcoat, the kind of thing that court knights wore over their mail in a tournament, or on progress. But this was black moire that rippled like water when it moved, the silk so sheer in places she could see right through it. She held it up to the light, and had a sudden vision of herself standing before a mirror in some baron’s dark and stuffy guest room, wearing only the silk, the curves of her body easily visible. And there behind her in the mirror, George slipped into the room. He stopped dead when he saw her, a very particular grin spreading on his face....

She heard the library door open behind her and hastily flung the moire toward the sofa before she turned around.

Myles smiled at her. “How does everything look? I helped Jonathon as much as I could with the selection.”

Jonathan chose...this? Suddenly, her little fantasy mutated, and it was Jonathon walking in the door, with a knowing gleam in his eye. She felt a stab of panic. I thought Thayet...

A puzzled look crossed Myles face. “Was I wrong to let him use the library here? I thought it was a clever bit of statecraft, myself, to dress you in a riff on the old styles. Things will go much easier for Jon if he can make change look like tradition.”

“It’s all lovely, and surprisingly practical for something our beloved royal popinjay designed. I’ll put that down to your influence.”

She forced herself to walk casually to the sofa. She picked up the moire surcoat and held it up to him. “The only thing I can’t figure out is this one.”

Myles took it from her with a frown. “Ah. I think this is meant to go over that pretty gold mail we never stop talking about. You know, mourning black, but sheer enough that the gold shines through…just to make you stand out from the crowd as much as possible. It looks fragile, but Jon mentioned he would spell it against mud and rips. And ward it against mosquitos too, I think. Just a bonus ”

A wave of relief flooded over her. Oh, thank the gods. “I’m glad you told me because that thing would have never come out of my trunk otherwise. It looks like it’d unravel if you looked at it sideways.”

Myles looked at her, a bit too shrewdly for comfort. He cleared his throat. “I know you and Jonathon aren’t...ah...seeing each other any more.” Her cheeks flamed. Is it possible to go a single day without having a mortifying personal conversation with the men in my life? “But I think he can be a bit...shall we say...possessive of you?” She opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of what to say. Myles waved his hand. “I don’t necessarily mean in the romantic sense, although maybe that’s a part of it. But he was your knight-master. And he was one of the only people who knew your real identity for years. And he helped project the image of you as Alan the loyal but hotheaded boy squire, right? I think it all makes him protective of you. But also high-handed. He’s told you how to dress and act for years, and you pretty much did exactly as he said.”

He cleared his throat.

“All I’m saying is, if he ever does anything to make you uncomfortable with those expectations...you’re not his wife or his squire. You’re your own person, and you can dress how you want to. And you can always come to me if you don’t want to confront him directly. He’s shaping up to be a good politician, but I’ve got decades of court intrigue on him. I will set the man straight.”

The full weight of the day hit her all at once, and she felt tears prickle in her eyes again, thinking of him waiting for her in the rain, his own clothes soaked through. She hugged him hard. “I wish I had done something to deserve a father like you.”

“Nonsense.” He hugged her just as tightly. “Now, run along to bed before you make an old man cry.”

Chapter Text

A week to the day after Jon had asked her to leave Corus, she found herself back in the palace stable yard at daybreak once again. This time, she was in her pretty gold armor and swirling black silks, with a still-strange sword strapped to her waist. She’d barely slept the night before, and she suddenly felt jittery and uncertain. What am I doing here? She’d been so wrapped up in Thom’s funeral, and in getting as much in order for Trebond as she could at a distance, she’d barely thought beyond simply showing up as requested. 

The yard was absolute chaos. On the whole, she would rather face down Chitral again than unsnarl the seething knot of wagons, horses, dogs, healers, engineers, mages, soldiers, and scribes in front of her. Never mind straightening out the slightly hysterical palace bureaucrats trying to account for every man, woman, and potato sack assembled for the journey. 

Tricksters’ fingers, am *I* supposed to be in charge of this? 

She spied their old etiquette master, who’d clearly been pressed into service against his best wishes. He was toe to toe with a King’s Own quartermaster in front of a half-loaded kitchen wagon, both of them red in the face and about to go off like Midwinter fireworks.

Gods above, *please* do not let me be the one in charge of this.

She was seriously contemplating hauling Jon out of bed to tell him off when a massive hand clapped her on the shoulder, followed by another dangling a steaming brass cup - she sniffed appreciatively - was that coffee ? in front of her face. 

“Figured you might not be quite up yet,” said an obscenely cheerful Raoul. “After all, lionesses are nocturnal, no?”

She took the cup, and drank deeply. “You’re an absolute freak of nature, Goldenlake. No one should be happy to be awake right now.”

“Nonsense. What kind of man wouldn’t be happy right now, watching a magnificent sunrise with one of his oldest friends, as they witness their stuffy-ass etiquette master about to get the beating he deserves for being so worried about forks and such. This is a moment years in the making. The gods’ sweet justice here on earth.” He sighed. “Still, I suppose chivalry and good order dictate that we noble knights intervene.”

She drained the last of the coffee. “Speak for yourself. I’m under explicit instructions from Tortall’s anointed king not to get involved in any fights. I’m just here to look pretty and remind everyone I stabbed the last person who tried to kill our beloved monarch right through his undead traitor’s heart.”

Raoul laughed out loud at that. He’s genuinely having a good time , she thought, eying the two men in front of the cart. And someone is definitely about to get punched.

“Who’s in charge of this circus, anyway?” she asked. “I really hope it’s not me, because I very much would like to do nothing and see him get slapped by someone with a lick of common sense. Maybe some of the sense will slap off on him.”

“Well, this’ll be a bit of a good news, bad news, then. You’re not in charge.” He grinned,  mussing her hair like he’d done so often to rile up Alan, and she slapped his hand away with an annoyed huff. “But I am. And I really should stop my quartermaster from hitting possibly the most litigious man in Corus. Just as a practical matter, you understand.” 

And with that, he waded off through the crowd towards the offending wagon.

In surprisingly short order, the sun was fully up over the horizon, and Raoul had managed to turn chaos into order. Mounting his own horse, he scanned the yard, saw her, and with a grin, flashed her a vulgar version of an old hunting hand signal they’d learned as pages. Get the fuck on your horse was how she’d always interpreted it. She returned a one-fingered salute, but couldn’t hide a matching grin as she swung into Moonlight’s saddle.   

They rode side by side near the head of the column out of the palace gates, in an eerie echo of the planned coronation parade. No one had bothered to take down the blue and white banners that hung along the Palace Way, even the ones that had been ripped and dirtied in the chaos of that day. Alanna couldn’t quite suppress a superstitious shiver riding under them. Raoul, perhaps the least superstitious person she knew, took a huge bite of an apple he pulled from his tunic, then twisted around in his saddle to crack his back.

“Jon and the court will see us off outside the Temple of the Mother,” he said, mouth still half full of apple. “You know, give everyone the grand show. But after that, it’s mostly practical - we’re riding slow, stopping in all the villages to see what people need and straightening up the most dire problems. Making a list of all the things we can’t fix in a day and sending it back to Corus.”

Alanna nodded. “That’s good. Jon wanted me with the healers when possible, and it’s probably where I’m the most helpful. Baird showed me how to do a lot for traumatic injuries during the Tusaine war. I don’t know much about engineering magics, but the Bahzir shamans taught me how to find well-water, and some spells that keep disease from getting in the water supply. You know how I fight.” She sighed. “And...I hate it, but I’ve been helping balance the books for Trebond since my father died, so I can do admin, if you need it. But you’re in charge. Put me to work wherever you need me most.” She plucked at Jon’s ridiculous sheer black silk. “I’m moderately useful, despite the get up.”

Raoul quirked an eyebrow at her. “You’re a very useful person to have along, as well you know. And that’s good to know about the water finding. I’d forgotten you worked so closely with the shamans.” He finished off his apple, spitting out the pips. “Don’t for a second think that a selfless offer to do paperwork will get you out of those banquets, though.”

Windows and balconies and streets filled the closer they got to Temple Square, people craning their necks to see the procession go by, hungry for a bit of the pageantry they’d been promised for the coronation. Raoul’s cheerfulness had been infectious in the stable yard, but she felt her own good spirits draining away with every pair of eyes on her, and every cry of ‘Lioness’ from the growing crowd. Goddess, I hate having people watching me . By the time they reached the square, she was twitching like a horse set on by flies.

 Raoul wasn’t lying about Jon putting on a grand show. The last time she’d been here was for Thom’s final rites. The square had been nearly empty then; except for Myles in his soggy velvet, and the candles burning on the temples’ steps in memory of loved ones lost in the quake, their flames hissing slightly in the rain. Now, half of Corus was here; living, breathing, watching to see what would happen. Across the crowded square, it seemed like the whole court was arrayed on the temple steps, with Jon seated at the top, just before the great bronze doors. Thayet and Buri were seated one step down at his right hand side, she noted with interest, and no one else was nearly as close to the king. She shot them an amused glance. Buri scowled back at her. Thayet, her face serene and composed, somehow winked without moving a single muscle besides her eyelid. Alanna bit back a laugh, imagining her practicing that little royal trick for hours in the mirror as a girl.

Jonathon, handsome in all black, with the Dominion Jewel shimmering at the center of a truly gaudy gold chain around his shoulders, stood and beckoned them solemnly to approach. It was the type of gesture that made her have an allergic reaction to authority. She took a deep breath, and fought back the urge to turn Moonlight around and ride straight for Trebond. This is already ridiculous, and we’re not even out of the city gates yet . She, Raoul, and the chief healer and engineer all dismounted, and walked up the steps to kneel before the king. A hush fell over the crowd, and Jonathon touched a finger to his throat, magically amplifying his voice.

It was a lovely speech, about his duty as a king to care for Tortall, and his faith that together, they would build a new and better country. Raoul, Alanna, and the whole progress were a sign of his devotion to his people. He was sending out his most loyal and talented servants, to make sure the country was safe and sound by winter. 

Since she was already kneeling anyway, she took the time to thank the Goddess that the speech didn’t seem to require any kind of reply. When he was done, she touched her forehead to the ring on Jon's outstretched hand. So did Raoul, and they mounted up and rode slowly through the streets of the Lower City to the main gate. Raoul, clearly sensing her strong desire to bolt, began relaying the most salacious court gossip she’d ever heard to distract her as soon as they were out of Jon’s earshot. With an absolutely straight face, he told her about the extensive collection of bespoke sex toys that the provost had found when they raided Delia’s chambers after the coronation, and that Duke Baird had once suspected George of having an affair with his Duchess. By the time they passed through the city gates, she was fighting back laughter. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. They stopped frequently, noting the damage to bridges and farms and people. Two weeks after the event, most of the worst injuries had been tended to. What people seemed to want the most urgently was to tell them the story of that day, to have someone validate what they’d been through.

But as word of their progress spread ahead of them, people started to gather along the road. A little girl struggling to carry a wiggling lamb asked with wide eyes if she was the Lioness that slew the Conte Duke with her sword.

Raoul, his eyes twinkling, answered for her, pointing to the lioness rampant on her shield. “To be sure. I saw her run her sword right through him”

“But you’re wee! ,” said the girl, obviously distressed this woman didn't match the description in the ballads.

Everyone in earshot roared with laughter. 

A man stood a few paces down from the girl, armed crossed and eyes skeptical.

“You couldn’ta stabbed ‘im that well, milady, or our bridge’d be all in one piece still.”

She grinned at that. This she could handle. It was like being back at the Dove with Marek and Rispah and Ercole, trading barbs with whoever felt like giving her shit that day for being tiny and angry and redheaded. 

“Well, our old mathematics master always told us to double check our work. I suppose he was right. But in my defense, I didn’t think it applied to stabbing some mad sorcerous fucker. Once through the heart was enough for everyone else I’ve stabbed to stay down for good.” More laughter after that.

She could almost feel George’s eyes on her in that moment, and realized she’d been trying to make him laugh, like she was back at the Dove again. He would have laughed if he’d heard her now. He liked it when she held her own. She missed him suddenly and sharply, with a throbbing ache that only got worse as the day went on.

***

She couldn't bear to be alone after that. And so after they made camp, she went to Raoul’s tent, intending to thank him for something she could barely put into words. For telling her insane gossip to distract her that morning, she supposed, and the thousand other ways he’d quietly supported her since she was a child. She found him sitting at his travel desk, relaxed and expansive with a glass of whiskey in his hand and a couple more in him, judging by the flush on his cheeks. He poured her a glass, too, and they toasted each other silently. 

“Thank you, Raoul.” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.  “I really can’t believe Jon talked me into this. I’m terrible at it. I’m great at pushing myself, and horrible at keeping people organized, or you know, convincing them to do what I want without screaming at them. I get furious when people don’t listen to me, because it must be because they see me as a woman, and not a knight. And I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin when they do want to listen to me, especially when it’s about coronation day. And you’re great at all that, by the way. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you. But you are.” Suddenly, her throat was tight, and she was on the edge of tears. Why am I always a heartbeat away from crying, for Trickster’s sake. 

Raoul looked at her with real sympathy, but not pity. In an instant, she was nine years old again; shorter than everyone and covered in bruises from beatings that no page could admit to with honor. Raoul had been the one to help her off the floor then. She felt the ghost of Alan rise up in her, and punched Raoul lightly in the arm, full of gratitude and affection and confusion. Just like Alan had been when Raoul set him on his feet all those years ago. Raoul laughed out loud, understanding the gesture for exactly what it was, and punched her right back. Just like he’d done then. 

Alan still hovered around her sometimes, full of secrets, afraid to let anyone know him. Terrified of acting like a girl. But because she could act like a girl every now and then these days, she let Alan go back to his uneasy sleep in the corners of her mind, and followed the punch by rising and kissing Raoul’s forehead gently. “Thank you, truly.”

He sighed. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure Jon asked me to join this shindig because I am good at all that.” His smile was a little bitter. “But also, I’m realizing, because of what he thinks of me. Have you ever seen a real high strung race horse in a crowd? All they want to do is run, and when they get hemmed in they thrash and kick and end up crippling themselves or killing someone.” He raised his glass to her, and she blushed. He’s not wrong .

“So, what they do is bring in an old dependable cart horse who’s seen it all to keep them calm.” He tilted the glass towards himself, and then tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “I don’t think he really sees me as someone to trust with his real concerns, because if he did, he’d have asked me to keep an eye on you directly. To continue this delightful metaphor, he knows he can put me in the traces and I’ll do what he needs without asking too many questions. The racehorse, he may not trust not to tie herself in knots ” - he looked at her - “but he trusts you’ll bring him victory.” He poured more whiskey in his glass. “On the plus side, cart horses don’t have to be entirely sober to do their job. I imagine champions do.”

 She felt a wave of sadness. “Is that truly how you see yourself, Raoul?”

He shrugged. “Isn’t it how you see me? You never trusted me with your secrets, either.”

She felt the wind fly out of her as surely as if he’d just punched her in the gut

“Raoul, I...I trust you more than almost anyone alive.”

He looked her dead in the eye. “How many people knew you were a girl, before Roger cut your shirt?”

She was silent for a minute. “Thom, obviously. We made the decision to switch together. And Corum knew. He more or less raised us. We couldn’t fool him.” She took a ragged breath. “I went to George, when I got my first monthly.” He looked surprised at that. “I thought I was dying. No one had ever told me about it before. Imagine just waking up one morning, and you’re bleeding, and you can’t stop it? I broke into his room at dawn in a total panic.” She smiled fondly. “He almost stabbed me in the neck and ended all my worries right then. But anyway. I need a healer I could trust. So he took me to Eleni.”

“Jon knew, clearly.” He said it quietly.

“Yes, Jon knew. But only because he saw me bare when we were magicked by the Old Ones out in the desert, my last year as a page. I never told him on my own. I certainly never planned to.”

He was silent for a minute. “That’s why he was so insistent you were his squire.”

“What, you don’t think it was for my excellent swordsmanship?” 

He smiled a little at that. “I’m sure that was a factor as well.”

She looked down at her glass for a moment. “I never told them, but Baird and Myles both suspected. Through magic, again.”

He cleared his throat. “When did Gary find out?”

Ah. This is what’s really bothering him .

She drew in a careful breath. “I realized, three days before the Ordeal, that I’d have to have two knights instruct me, which is ah...traditionally done in the bath. I panicked. Jon suggested I tell Gary, because when it finally came out he’d get in less trouble. Being the king’s nephew and all. Not that I don’t respect him, but he wouldn’t have been my first choice. I almost didn’t go through with telling him, by the way. I wouldn’t have if Jon hadn’t suggested it.” 

She looked at him. 

“I’m sorry. I should have told you. But one you’ve got a secret like that for so long, it...warps your judgement. The best days were the ones where I just didn’t have to think about myself too hard at all. I could just be a person, not a boy or a girl, if that makes sense. And you always made me feel like a person.”

He smiled a little at that, but didn’t meet her eye. 

 “But it never got easier to carry the secret. I was constantly terrified someone would find out, or even just that our father would think to ask after us. He wrote to Duke Gareth asking after Thom once, and I was sure it was all over. But I managed to convince him our father had mixed up his two sons, forgotten which one of us he’d sent to Corus. And he never wrote again.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “I felt guilty about lying to you and Myles, and Duke Gareth pretty much every day of my life. You and George were always the people I trusted the most. I’d like to say Jonathon was, too, but things were always complicated between us, at least once he knew who I was and I was his squire. It’s taken me until pretty recently to realize that gave him a tremendous amount of power over me. Never mind when we started sleeping together. And I adored him. I still do. But we didn’t exactly have an equal friendship.”

She took a long, shaky breath. “You may not believe me, but the plan was always to tell you and Myles right after the Ordeal.”

Now his eyes were bright with tears. He swiped his sleeve across his face. “I believe you.”

She looked at him. “So...friends again?”

He snorted. “We never stopped being friends. I was just hurt, that's all.” 

“If it helps, I promise never to keep an earth-shattering secret like that again. I’m an open book. And by the way, I don’t think you’re a cart horse. You’re a low key tactical genius, and Jon’s a bigger idiot than I thought if he can’t see it.”

He looked away at that. “Thanks.” His reply was soft, barely more than a whisper. Suddenly, he grinned, a little manic. “I think you do have at least one secret left, though. And that is George. So prove you really trust me, and spill it.”

She groaned, her head in her hands. “Gods above, for someone who hates court and parties you are such a gossip. I will tell you all about George and me, but does it have to be now? Because I don’t even fully understand it, and one gut wrenching revelation a night is my absolute limit.”

He downed the last of his whiskey, waving her out the tent. “Go to bed then, lightweight. But you’re not off the hook yet."

Chapter Text

Leaving Raoul’s tent, she was tired to her bones, and more than a little drunk. She’d dumped her saddlebags and shucked off her armor in her own tent hours ago, before going to find food and Raoul. They were still jumbled in a heap on the ground, but someone had strung up a camp bed, with actual blankets and a pillow on it. She flopped down hard, offering a silent thanks on behalf of her back to whoever Raoul had pressed into her service. Although if I’d’ve left some lord’s armor on the ground as a squire and the training master saw it, I’d’ve been whipped. It took all her willpower to slip off her boots before crawling under the covers. She lay there for a moment, listening to the pleasant ruckus of several hundred people chatting and drinking in the firelight after a slow march and a full dinner. She closed her eyes.

She opened them, and she was back in Myles’ house, in the bright light of early morning. It was far too concrete to be a dream. She could feel the ground under her feet, the air in her lungs. 

It’s not a dream, it’s a memory , she realized with a start. Plenty of mages could do this, but she’d never been able to before. A waking memory.

She stood in the colonnade that ran from the kitchen to the house, aching from a brutal early morning training with Liam and Buri, and carrying a tray of hot buns and tea for their breakfast. There was still a nip in the air, and the smell of jasmine rising from the bushes around the privy, even though the sun was properly up. 

Four days before the coronation. When George….

There, watching her in the shadows of the doorway to the main house, was George. From far away, he looked as confident as ever, leaning casually against the door jam. Up close, his face was ashen. He might, she realized, be leaning because he couldn’t stand. Her heart hammered in her throat.   

She shifted the tray to her hip, and reached out to touch his cheek. He smiled at that, and closed his eyes. “Hello, darlin’.” 

“Are you hurt? Are you here for Eleni?” 

“No, lass.’ He brought his hand up to squeeze hers, in reassurance. “I’m here for Myles, but they tell me he’s not about. He’ll be back by the ninth bell, I’m assured.”

She nodded. It was only a bit after the seventh bell, now. She searched his face, still worried. He gave her his best charming rogue back, complete with a wink. She rolled her eyes.

“Did you sleep last night?”

He sighed, caught. “I did not.”

“Can you lie down for a moment now?”

He looked at her again, eyes soft. 

“Can you?”

She hesitated for a moment. Buri and Liam, and probably Thayet would be waiting for her in the library. Jon was supposed to join them at some point, too, with yet more coronation day planning. 

George’s eyes hadn’t left her face. Even so tired he could barely stand, he could play her like a fiddle. She put the tray down on the doorstep with a sigh, and tugged him inside. Just down the hallway was a little-used parlor with a large and hideous old sofa- the place Myles stuck guests he didn’t really want to see, where no one was likely to stumble across them. She peeked around the open door. “Here.” 

George sank down on the sofa with a groan. He hadn’t let go of her hand, and now he dragged her down with him. He let out a bone-cracking yawn as he stretched out, his other arm draped over his eyes. She stayed perched on the edge of the sofa, glancing back at the door. The tray outside and the abandoned breakfast pricked at her sense of duty. George ran his thumb along the inside of her wrist, then released her hand. “Stay just a moment, won’t you?’

He looked strangely innocent, sprawled out with his arms and legs akimbo, peeking up at her from under his forearm. For all his easy humor, George was a man who was always in control of himself, no matter what. She'd never really seen him out of it. Most nights at the Dove, he was happy to get everyone else rip-roaring drunk while he nursed a single cup of ale. Even at his most relaxed, when they shared a room at House Azik, she’d never seen him look this vulnerable, like he was no longer even in command of his limbs. 

“What do you have to do with Myles today?”

He smiled at her, cagey. “Promised I wouldn’t say.”

“Should you have your wits about you for it?”

“If I want to grow old.”

She stretched out next to him, and tucked her head into his shoulder. He made a sound of mild surprise as she stretched her arm across his chest, resting her fingers lightly on the spot where his neck met his jaw.

“You’re a mess,” she said, brusque, her worry for him curdling into annoyance. “You need to rest.”

She felt his jaw tighten. “Can’t, darlin.’ I’ve got to press every advantage, or I’m done for.” 

“Then let me help you.” She let her Gift drift down through her fingertips, and she knew he felt it, because he abruptly brought his hand up to cover hers. “Alanna…”

“Relax, will you? I’m not going to force you to sleep. Although I probably should.” His fingers tightened, a warning. “But you have a headache. I can feel it.” His grip on her hand relaxed, and she took it as consent. She let her Gift trickle into him, loosening tight muscles, clearing away what she could of the fog of a night spent plotting in a smoky room somewhere. He let out a deep breath, and she felt tension leave his body.

They lay there for a long time, as the light crept across the room, hitting their tangled feet first. She felt suspended between sleep and wakefulness, focusing on George’s body, the rise and fall of his chest. Feeling through her Gift an echo of the wrenched muscles in his back, the bruises on his ribs, the jammed finger on his right hand, and his utter exhaustion.

The only other time she’d healed him had been when he took an arrow on the road. Terrified it had been poisoned, she’d shoved her whole Gift at the problem without finesse, healing with raw strength fueled by the terror of losing him. This was different, and far more intimate. It felt like the magical equivalent of undressing him and running her fingers over every inch of his body. “Can you feel what I’m doing?” He ran his thumb lightly over the back of her hand. “Yes. It’s...strange.” He kissed the top of her head lightly. “Not unpleasant, though.”

She could feel her Gift slowly pooling around the places he was hurt, and she let it spread from there into the rest of him, trying to replenish tired muscles and undo the minor aches that sleep would have wiped away. It was a different type of healing than she’d ever tried before, slow, and peaceful.

She didn’t feel drained at all, like she often did when she healed. In fact, she felt a dreamy contentedness, lying there in the morning sun like a cat. She could feel every point their bodies touched, and the gentle drift of her Gift between them. It was the first time in a very long time, maybe in her whole life, she could remember not feeling the insistent tug of all the things she was meant to be doing.

He’d turned his head to her, watching her face through half-closed eyes.

“Yet another surprise out of you, Lioness.”

His voice had that tone he only used when talking to her, half proud, half amused. 

“What d’you mean?” She felt dazed, almost drunk, as though she’d just come in after a long day in the sun.

“Never thought I’d see the day I convince you to sit still and idle away a bell of time with me doin' nothin' much at all.” He’d slid his arm around her shoulders, and was absently stroking her hair, tangling his fingers in her newly cropped curls. “I thought at most I’d finagle a quick kiss before you’re off t’ breakfast and plottin’ the future of the realm.” He gripped her neck gently. “Before you go harin’ off, please note that I’d not complain if you had, but I am all delight at this turn of events.”

She hummed, deep in her throat. “Where am I supposed to go haring off to, exactly? They’ve either found their breakfast or starved at this point. And you’re the one up to his ass in royal intrigue at the moment, not me.”

He snorted at that.

“Not to mention I haven’t been totally idle. D’you feel better?”

“ I feel like I slept the week through. Where’d you learn that little trick? Not from his majesty’s battlefield butchers.”

“I didn’t learn it, exactly. I just knew you wouldn’t let me put a real healing on you, so I tried something a little slower.”

“You’re a marvel, lass. Your noble brethren don’t tell you that enough, and don’t argue with me on that.”

He sighed, running his fingers lightly up and down her spine. 

“But unless my city bred eyes deceive me, we’re well past the eighth bell. Your right noble father’s probably already about. And he didn’t fetch me to laze about in the arms of his beautiful daughter all mornin’.”

She laughed at that, dragging herself upright and pulling him up with her. She kissed him soundly.

“As soon as this dratted coronation’s done, come find me. I’ve no plans after that. No plots, either.” She grinned.  “Lots of idle hours.”

***

She must have slipped into real sleep at some point, because she woke up to the sound of rain pattering on the canvas above her, in a cold camp bed with no George and no idle hours at all. She hauled herself up before the ache in her chest took hold, and started strapping on her armor. 

Already, the list of things she ought to be doing was pressing on her. But Raoul had told her the men of the Own would be training each morning, since they weren’t marching hard. Maybe there was time to beat the smirks off a couple of the new recruits she’d seen sizing her up yesterday. She should stay busy. And she should get used to the new sword, after all.

Chapter Text

The first two Ownsmen went down quickly. One was overconfident of his chances against a woman, the second too sure of his balance in the slick grass. It was toward the end of her third bout when she realized she definitely wasn’t fully healed and was about to pay for it. The big Scanran recruit was faster than he looked, and she barely got her blade up in time to block his attack. Before she could slip away, he’d hooked his blade on her crossguard, sending her weapon flying. Fuck . The only thing that saved her from a quick and public loss was that he’d put too much strength in the blow and his sword arm was still extending away from her. She darted in, dagger in hand, and tripped him neatly, dropping to her knees alongside him in the mud. Before he could grab or stab her, she had her dagger tip resting on his left femoral artery. He froze. Both of them sat there panting for a moment, before he dropped his sword and extended a muddy hand with a surprisingly bashful smile. “You don’t fight like a woman, lady. Or a knight. Very tricky.” She was still struggling to catch her breath, but she took his hand and levered him out of the mud with an answering grin. “You can’t fight like people expect when you’re as small as I am.” That got a laugh out of the crowd that had gathered while she’d been focused on the fight.

Raoul sauntered over behind her. As always, he was insultingly cheerful considering the hour, doubly so considering how much they’d had to drink the night before. “Well fought, Svenson.” His voice was pitched to carry. He dangled another brass camp cup of coffee in her face, steam rising into the drizzle still coming down. “But to the victor go the spoils.”

She took the cup with a nod of thanks, hoping neither Svenson or the Ownsmen who’d stopped their own practice to watch wouldn’t see her hand trembling as she drank. The coronation had robbed her of all Liam’s conditioning, it appeared. Fucking hell, I was only out of training for a week or two .  

 “Now, if you’ve had your fun, let’s get on the road. Mount up in twenty!” 

While she’d been getting herself covered in mud and glory, someone was packing up the rest of her tent. He was still bent over the canvas, securing a strap. She cleared her throat, and the man - boy really - jumped nervously. 

“My apologies...ah…”

“Reynold, sir. Milady.” He wouldn’t meet her eye, fingers twisting nervously.

“My apologies, Reynold. I’ve spent too much time traveling alone. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten whatever I knew about camp discipline. Next time I won’t leave my things in a heap for you.”

He shot her a slightly scandalized look. But at least he looked me in the eye , she thought, amused. She was flooded with a thousand memories of being a page, standing in wait for the convenience of some knight or other who didn’t even know she existed.

“Next time you see me running behind, sing out. I’m an old dog, but we old dogs can still learn new tricks.”

He bowed his head. Definitely scandalized now , she thought. He got the strap knotted neatly around the canvas, and shot off to get whoever was in charge of loading her things. All around her, the camp was being broken up, the line slowly forming on the road - pomp and circumstance up front, with half the Own, followed by the practical people - mages, clerks, engineers, sutlers - then the rest of the Own bringing up the rear.

She saw Raoul making his way up the line, eyes mild but missing nothing as he slapped backs and traded good mornings. He clearly knew the names and purposes of everyone in the line, whereas she...blushing, she realized she only knew Raoul and a few of the healers. And Reynold. And Svenson . I should know people’s names . At the very head of the pomp and circumstance, she saw Raoul’s steady gelding Drum, standing next to a fully tacked Moonlight. Yet another thing he had quietly organized, no doubt. What am I even doing here? He doesn’t need me on this damn progress .

Tired of feeling overbred and useless, she walked briskly over to the horses, nodding greetings at a woman she recognized as Baird’s assistant, who was climbing up into one of the healers’ wagons. Raoul had made it to the front of the line already, and was casually scanning the crowd from Drum’s back as she wove her way through to Moonlight. He grinned when he spotted her pop around a hulking Ownsman, and she saw his shoulders relax a little. Did you think I was going to bolt between sword practice and breakfast?  “There you are. The songs always make you out to be ten feet tall and I constantly forget how short you actually are.”

“Fuck off,” she said, swinging into her saddle, but it was meant with affection and Raoul knew it. “Unless you want all these fine warriors to hear the story of some pipsqueak girl beating you soundly at everything but wrestling.”

She felt the men around them trying not to grin. Raoul bit into an apple, eyes dancing. 

“Now, it’s not just the wrestling, lads. She’s a terrible dancer. And we’re all in trouble should the Duke come back a second time and think to stand in a pond that came up any higher than his waist. Our champion can’t swim for shit.”

That got a few scattered guffaws from them and a genuine grin from her. Someone, probably Reynold, had left Jon’s ridiculous black surcoat draped around the saddle horn, and she shrugged it on over her armor.

“I can wade in far enough to find a frog or two. And I know where you sleep, o Knight Commander. Don’t think my advanced age and illustrious position will keep me from putting them in your bedroll.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, on that note…” Twisting around in his saddle, he issued a piercing whistle that carried down the line. 

Answering whistles came from squad leaders in quick succession. He flung up an arm.

“Move out!”

***

They rode in companionable silence. The drizzle stopped, and mist began to rise off the fields. Out here in the countryside, Roger’s quake didn’t seem to have done so much damage, barring the alarming appearance of a new gulch that had destroyed part of a field and a chunk of the road outside Allenstown. The line stopped, mages and engineers trudging to the front to argue about drainage and sediment and a dozen things she was heartily glad to have no opinion on. People in the fields were walking towards the road to find out what was going on, and healers fanned out among them to see if anyone had been injured in the quake. She swung off Moonlight to join them.

There were no injuries from that disaster, but there were plenty of everyday ailments: wrenched fingers and spasming backs, burned hands and hacking coughs. She joined the line of healers making their way carefully through the green wheat, nodding to the nervous young peasant woman closest to her with a smile. “Ignore the sword, I’m harmless. If you’ve any hurts, I’m a healer.”

That’s how the progress unfolded for the next few weeks: slowly, through the much-needed rain that never quite stopped, halting every few miles to repair a road or bridge. Or to greet the people who came out in the villages looking for explanations, healing, or food. She learned the names of the healers first, then the Ownsmen who she sparred with each morning. She healed broken bones and scrapes, cataracts and burns. She passed bread down from the kitchen wagons. 

She told the story of Jon’s coronation and Roger’s treachery dozens of times. She told it on horseback. She told it up to her ankles in mud. She told it standing on the edge of a fountain in a village square. She told it in inns, and in the banquet halls of every fief they passed through, fighting her instinct to squirm in her fine silks. She told it so many times she began to know what the crowd wanted to hear just by looking at them. She could tell it in a ringing voice, full of confidence in Jon and a bright future for Tortall. She could tell it sly, and darkly funny, lingering on the moment Roger realized he’d skewered himself on her sword. She could tell it like an old wives’ tale, full of magic and horror, sending a shiver down the spines of the audience. She could tell it sweet and sad, lingering on the sacrifices of Master Si-Cham and Liam. She could tell it bureaucratic and dry, with a pointed emphasis on what happened to all the lesser traitors.  

But she never told the whole truth of it. The sick stink of twisted magic in the air while Thom faded away. Or the sharp crack of Alex’s hyoid, when she’d punched him. The feeling of being pressed so close to a man she’d once considered a dear friend that she felt the life leave his body. How she’d been too tired to even feel grief when she saw Liam’s body laid out on the altar, but not so tired she didn’t feel guilt that it had been her who’d brought him here.

 She woke up before dawn each day, determined to get through the exercises Liam had taught her. Her stamina and her Gift grew every day. She packed her things away neatly for Reynold each morning. She wrote to Jon, and Myles. And to George, care of Myles. She wrote to Thayet and Eleni, and Kara and Kourrem. 

Letter came back from everyone but George. She tried not to worry about that. Most nights, she ate with the men, or the healers, then ended up in Raoul’s tent for a chat, or just a game of chess and a glass of whiskey. She felt less like a racehorse and more like someone useful every hour. 

But every once in a while, the strangeness of it all would sweep over her again. Had it really only been three months since she stepped off a ship and onto home soil? Back when Jon as king was just an abstraction, someone she owed loyalty to as a friend more than a liege lord. It still didn't sit quite right, like that flimsy sheer surcoat he’d had made for her. Hadn’t she turned down his proposal precisely so she wouldn’t be paraded out in fancy silks, with everyone watching her, to make speeches and small talk? Did I renege on some deal with the Trickster, and this is my jinx? 

And with every mile, she felt a growing sense of anger - no, fury - with Thom. If it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t be hauling herself into the saddle every morning at the head of a great train of people trying to literally piece the kingdom back together. Jon wouldn’t have grey in his hair at twenty-six. Liam and Faithful and Master Si-Cham wouldn’t be under slabs in the temple. Raoul wouldn't be fighting nightmares with whiskey. George wouldn’t be Goddess knows where, knifing people in alleys for king and country, betting his life that he was more clever than the conspirators.

And for what, in the end? She still couldn’t understand why he’d done it. A sham accomplishment, anyhow, bringing Roger back from the not-quite-dead. But she realized despite their closeness when they were young, she’d hardly known Thom when he died.

They’d had barely a month together once Thom had come to court. Even in that short time, she could see how it bothered him that their roles were reversed. In Trebond, they had been united under their father’s crushing indifference, but he’d still been the son and heir, when she was just the girl. In the City of the Gods, he was the youngest master in a century or more, probably the strongest sorcerer in the Eastern Lands. The topic of conversation morning, noon, and night; a constant object of envy and speculation. At court, he may have been a Mithran master and the young Lord of Trebond. But most importantly, he was Alan’s brother. Alan, who already had a reputation as a powerful healer, and as the greatest swordsman in a long line of Duke Gareth’s proteges. Alan, the crown prince’s closest confidant, who would clearly be a power behind the throne in Jon’s court. Alan, the second son, who would have been dependent on Thom for income, now adopted by one of the richest men in the realm. George had mentioned once Thom had felt slighted that Myles hadn’t come to him about it before the ceremony. For what? Permission? Half of the inheritance?   Alan, who shocked everyone by being Alanna, the only woman to win a shield in a hundred years. Alanna, who discovered treachery and killed the man who was second in line to the throne, and the most powerful sorcerer in Tortall. 

She began to wonder if he’d chosen Roger not just to demonstrate his own power, but to hurt her. Certainly, Thom had known exactly what Roger was. The duke had watched him for years, and Thom told her he strongly suspected Roger tried to kill him at least once. He knew Roger had tried to kill her. Why bring back a man who wished you both dead? But bringing him back undid her great accomplishment. It opened up the possibility that perhaps Jon wouldn’t be king, and she wouldn’t be his favorite. It showed the world he was the more powerful twin. Did he do all this for spite?

She wished desperately that she could talk to someone about him. But whether it was an unspoken postmortem punishment for Thom, or out of some kind of respect for her, no one ever spoke of him. So she didn’t either, even if she couldn’t keep her anger off her face.

One afternoon, as they mounted up after a few hours repairing a village’s wells, Raoul shot her a glance. The rain had finally petered out, and weak and watery sunshine flickered over the landscape. For a moment or two, the only sound was the horses, their hooves in the mud and the squeak and jingle of their harness, and the creak of the wagons behind them. 

“Penny for your thoughts.”

She gave him a murderous look. “Don’t you dare carthorse me, Raoul.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But I’m still a gossip, and a deal’s a deal. If you’re not going to tell me what’s got you ready to spit nails, I do believe you promised me an honest conversation about George.”

Chapter Text

“For gods’ sake, Raoul.” Her anger boiled over, and she couldn’t stop it. “You think, what, I’m going to discuss my love life in front of half of Tortall so you can tease me out of a bad mood and manage me a little better?” She was yelling now. “Is Jonathon concerned I’m not being charming enough at dinner with every petty nobleman between here and Carthak after riding through the mud for weeks on end?”

He looked back at her, cool as a cucumber. “If you yelled a little louder, all of Tortall might know your business, and you’d certainly put Jonathon’s mind at ease about making an impression.”

“Un-fucking-believable.” She swung Moonlight off the road. Even as angry as she was, she wasn’t fool enough to ride out alone ahead in country she didn’t know well. She turned and headed down the edge of the line at a gallop, mud flying, heart pounding. Surely there’s someone doing something stupid who I can punch some sense into somewhere in this fucking progress.

There was no one to punch, but one of the healer’s carts had sunk into the mud along the roadside and lost a wheel. She slowed Moonlight to a walk, and swung down out of the saddle, pulling that ridiculous surcoat off before she’d even hit the ground, and went to lend a hand.

***

By the time she’d exhausted herself and her temper under the cart, she was covered in mud and the rest of the line was making camp. Reynold had already set up her tent with the rest of the pomp and circumstance. She stopped by her tent long enough to shed her filthy leathers and dump off her armor - sorry, Reynold- and scrub off the worst of the mud and sweat, before heading to the cooks' tent. On her way, she passed Raoul’s. He was inside, deep in conversation with the chief engineer about why they’d need to requisition more mages from Corus to deal with the type of problems they kept coming across….”half the roads have been built on lesser faults or flood plains, it’s a nightmare…” He was still in his riding leathers, and taking a careful bite out of a squashed breakfast roll he must’ve stashed in his tunic that morning, with the measured determination of a hungry man trying to make what little he has last. 

She sat at the edge of a bench full of healers who had watched her help wrestle the wheel back on the cart. They seemed mercifully inclined to let her eat her stew in silence. She was tired enough that she considered simply heading to her tent and flopping in the bed. But with a sigh, she grabbed a second bowl of stew from the cooks, and took it to Raoul. By the time she got to his tent, he was sitting alone at his desk, hair sticking out in all directions, staring rather blankly at the pile of documents the engineer had left. She coughed, and he looked up, startled, then grinned when she thrust the bowl at him, along with two extra rolls. He took it and tucked in enthusiastically.

“Sit with me for a bit. I need to think about something besides road maintenance or my head will explode.”

She went to his bed and sat, crossed legged. “The stew is an apology for earlier.”

He raised an eyebrow, mouth full. “I know.” He swallowed. “I learned a strange language called Trebond as a squire. Some find it confusing and even barbaric, but it’s really quite simple in this case. An apology is never spoken aloud, but sometimes it is spoken with food.”

She rolled her eyes, and they sat in comfortable silence while he finished the stew. She worried at a hangnail on her thumb. When he finished swiping the last of the bread around the bowl, she finally spoke.

“I was never that good at languages. But I think if I’ve translated Goldenlake correctly...you were rattled and hurt to find out that your good friend Trebond not only kept a monumental secret from you, but apparently the court drunk, the king of thieves, the crown prince, and a man who’s set to be the realm’s happiest desk knight all learned it before you, the greatest gossip in all Corus. And you feel that knowing a different secret that none of them know will…” she fumbled to describe the situation. ”…somehow balance that first thing out.”

He looked at her, surprised, and laughed. “It does sound a little absurd when you put it like that. But you speak Goldenlake passably well.”

She sighed and rubbed her face in her hands. “You’re right I don’t have many secrets these days. And I’m not sure George is one, exactly, but...maybe you’ll understand it better than me.”

“Did you know George was the first person I ever talked to in Corus?”

Raoul grinned. “Was he really?”

“He was by the water gate when I rode in with Coram, and he made some joke about watching my purse. I’m still not exactly sure why I caught his eye, but he asked Stefan to find out more about me. And well, you know...he took an interest in me, well before he knew who I really was. He taught me how to throw knives. He found Moonlight, and sold her to me for what I later realized was an absolute pittance. Things like that.” She smiled. ”Like I told you, he was the person I went to when I got my monthlies and I was terrified I was dying.”

She was quiet for a moment. The only sound was the candle guttering as a lump of wax suddenly liquefied.

 “I guess I mean to say, he’s been in my life so long that I can hardly imagine it without him. He’s the only person who knew I was a girl and never...never used it or judged me, I suppose. Thom always thought I was a bit of an idiot to choose to be a knight.”

Raoul scoffed. “That’s the first opinion of his I don’t entirely disagree with. We are idiots. ” 

She almost asked him right then - what was Thom like, when he was at court and I wasn’t there? But the question died on her tongue. Talking about Thom still felt like trying to go through a locked door, and in that moment, she didn’t have the key. So, she continued through the one she’d already opened. 

“Coram wouldn’t ever have told anyone, and he knew I was just as good a fighter as any boy. But he’d still go on these absolute tears about how my family was in the Book of Gold, and it was improper for a lady to do such things.” She laughed out loud. “Which in retrospect, was absolutely absurd. I mean, at that point, how could I possibly be a proper lady? If they caught me when I was a page I’d’ve been dead on paper at the very least. M y father would have crossed my name out of the family Book and put me in a silent order in the City of the Gods if I was lucky.”

He gave her that Raoul look, full of sympathy but not pity. 

“And you know Jon.” She fiddled with a loose thread on his blanket. “He used it against me when he was angry. He’d accuse me of flirting with you and Gary, and of leading on the ladies, too. And when we fought in the desert...he asked me to marry him.” She looked up at Raoul, who looked genuinely startled. “Did people not know?” Now it was her turn to be surprised. “I figured it was all over Corus.” 

He coughed. “Well, people knew you were...together. And he was clearly upset when he came back, and you weren’t with him so...not hard to put together the general outline. But no, he kept the bit about offering marriage to himself.”

He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’ve been eating mystery stew with the almost-queen of Tortall for weeks and never even knew it.” He looked at her, thoughtful. “You are surprisingly good at keeping secrets for someone who yells whatever’s on her mind at the top of her lungs to half the army.”

She glared at him. “I’d punch you if it wasn’t too much effort to get up.”

He flipped a hand at her, dismissive. “Neither of us has the energy for that, Trebond. Get on with it.”

She sighed. “At any rate, I knew it was over between us as soon as Jon asked, I think. I knew if I was his wife, I would only be his wife, you know? He’s always struggled to reconcile the fact that I’m a woman and a knight, all at once. I mean, so did I for a long time. I used to be absolutely terrified of my Gift. And I hated that I was a girl most of the time. I think I’ve found a way to have a bit of all worlds at this point but...I don’t know. I was touchy about being too girly as a squire, and then worried I’d be too masculine for any man to be interested once everyone knew I was a woman. But I'd fought too hard to become a knight to give it all up after less than a year.”

“Anyway, Jon didn’t hesitate to throw all that at me when we fought. He told me I was unfeminine, and a bitch, and that no man of my station would ever love me. It was a well-aimed blow, let’s just say.”

“George, though.” She sighed again. “It didn’t seem to make much difference to him to know I was Alanna instead of Alan. Except that I think it made more sense to him why I had such a chip on my shoulder, and such a disinclination to swim in the river come summer.” Raoul smiled at that. 

“And...well, I think he sees us as drawn together by fate, I suppose. He told me when I was about fifteen that he had a chosen bride, but she wasn’t grown yet. I knew he meant me, and that scared me. He meant it about letting me grow on my own, though. He let me have my space. He’s never cared that I was living as a boy, or that I slept with other men, or that I left him after he’d been waiting for me for years and went gallivanting across the eastern lands and never wrote.” Her throat was tight now. “He told me he always had this sense that I’d come back to him. And on some level, I felt the same. Like whatever mistakes I made didn’t matter, because George would always be there.”

She drew her knees up to her chest, locking her hands around her elbows, staring at the floor.

“And now, he’s given up the Rogue, and become Baron Cooper so he can knife people for Jonathon full time. And he won’t admit it, but he did that for me, and I know it. And I’ve written him every week we’ve been on this damn stunt progress, and he hasn’t written back, and I don’t know what that means. Either that he’s hurt, or dead, or something about what he’s doing has changed him."

Raoul's voice was gentle. "Or maybe just...the roads are bad and letters are slow?"

She nodded, still miserable. "Maybe. And maybe I’ve squandered something really precious. Because all these years, I had that sense he’d be there for me if I finally chose him. He always made it clear there was never anyone serious in his life, because he was serious about me. And I used that to treat him horribly. I lied to him. I used him for validation when Jon made me feel unfeminine. I said things I didn’t even believe just to hurt him, like that I’d never marry him because he was a commoner, or that he really wanted to be with a man but couldn’t be honest with himself.” 

“He was completely undeterred. He said he knew I didn’t believe that crap about ‘like must wed like.’ She blushed. "And that...as to the other, I’d been a pretty young thing, as a boy and a girl, and sure, he’d’ve loved me just the same if I had grown up to be a man.” 

“And when we were first together, after the desert...he was so happy. And I was too, if I could only have seen it. He tried so hard to keep me with him." She was quiet for a moment. "And...because my pride was still hurt from the desert, I left. And I didn’t write to him. The only way he knew I was alive was hearing people sing songs about me an’ Liam being together. And now, he’s off doing Goddess knows what and likely to get himself killed, all so he could maybe be the type of person some useless noble git could marry respectably.”

She looked up at Raoul again, misery plain on her face. “So, that’s me and George, really. My worst secret. I’ve used him without thinking of his own feelings and somehow he still loves me. Or he did, for a very long time. And now that I finally know I love him, I also know I don’t deserve him at all.”

Chapter Text

It began to rain again, and hard. The sound of the water on the canvas of Raoul’s tent briefly drowned out all thought, and a measure of the heavy awfulness in her chest receded. A small blessing in the moment, but surely trouble down the line. The roads would be a mess tomorrow, maybe impassible. And if the rain kept up after that...she was no farmer, but anybody raised in the country knew that too much rain meant wheat and rye were as likely to rot in the fields as to ripen. And no poxy progress will keep Jon on the throne if people are starving . 

Raoul sighed. “I’m sorry, Alanna.”

She frowned at him. “Why? I’m the one who yelled at you in front of everyone.”

Raoul gave a wan smile. “Honestly, I only meant to tease you a little about the way you two were mooning about around Corus when you got back, not pick at an open wound.”

She huffed out a breath, somehow both fond and irritated all at once. “Well, I trust you, Raoul. I may have mentioned that before? If you ask me things, I will generally spill my guts. And I’m pretty terrible at everything except stabbing people and stitching them up again, so mostly it’ll be about how I make a hash of almost everything in my life.”

He shook his head. “You famously had to stab a man on two separate occasions to finish him off. Wouldn’t lead with stabbing as your great strength.”

She kicked him in the shin for that, but halfheartedly. He grinned.

“But in all seriousness, the roads are bad.” His voice was gentle. “If George isn’t in Corus, it might take quite some time for your letters to get to him, and his to you. I don’t think he’s given up on you.”

She nodded, tears pricking the back of her throat again. “I know. At least about the roads.”

One of the rolls she’d brought him was still uneaten on his desk. He eyed it, clearly still hungry, but reluctant to seem as though he wasn’t paying attention.

“Mithros, Raoul, just eat the damn roll.”

He tutted and laid a mock-offended hand on his chest, in a spot-on imitation of their old etiquette master. “So uncouth, young Trebond. Were you raised in a barn, to speak to a man of gentle birth thus?” 

She kicked his shin again, this time hard enough to make him grunt as he stuffed the roll in his mouth.

 “Goddess knows the two of you deserve each other,” he mumbled through the bread. “ And I don’t fully mean that as a compliment.”

She rolled her eyes, but refrained from kicking him again. They sat for a while, listening to the patter of the rain as spring twilight faded into true night. She reached out with her Gift, and lit the oil lamp on a stand by his desk. “Handy,” he said appreciatively, as the purple glow of her magic faded and was replaced by lamplight. “Having a Gift seems like more trouble than it's worth, but I’d be happy with just enough to light a lamp.”

She shrugged. “If all you need is enough to light a lamp, bought magic works just as well as homegrown. Get a charmed firestarter at the next market.”

He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Maybe I will. My father always thought there was something gauche about bought magic and I guess his opinion rubbed off on me a bit. But then again, he thinks almost everything is gauche. Quiche. Novels. Women who don’t ride sidesaddle. The color mauve.”

Alanna laughed at that. “I can’t believe there’s a man out there who makes my father seem like a reasonable, mild mannered scholar.”

He snorted, eyes closed. “I can’t imagine anyone in your family was ever reasonable or mild mannered.”

She remembered his image of her, a highbred horse lashing out at the crowd. She certainly had a temper. Thom and her father had both had tempers, too. “Maybe so.”

She remembered his idea of himself, as well.

 “Raoul, can I ask you a question?” 

He opened his eyes, a look of idle curiosity on his face. “Of course.”

She steeled herself. “You said something before about Jon seeing you as a plodding carthorse, or something like that...and I don’t understand why you’d think that's true. You’ve got to be the youngest captain of the Own in a generation, at least. He listens to you in council meetings, I’ve seen it. And Goddess knows this little circus would be about ten miles out of Corus and sunk up to the axles in mud if you weren’t in charge. ”

 A long breath escaped him. “It’s little things, really. Although some of it makes a lot more sense given…” he flipped a hand vaguely at her. 

She narrowed her eyes. “Given what , Raoul? The mere fact that I exist?”

He winced. “Well, don’t kick me again, but... sort of?”

He rubbed his face in his hands. “Listen, you said George was the first person you spoke to when you came to Corus. Jon was that for me. I was the first of our year to get to the palace, and he was hanging around that room where they measured us for uniforms. I think he didn’t have many friends in court as a young kid, to be honest. And I didn’t know a soul in Corus. He took me under his wing, showed me around the palace.” A smile flitted across his face. “He was incredibly pompous and also quite kind. As only Jonathan of Conté can be.” 

Alanna snorted. “You’re not wrong about that.”

“We were more or less inseparable as pages. The group grew - Alex, you, Gary, George. We fought about girls...well, about Delia, really. But we stayed close.”

She nodded, remembering the two of them, always walking side by side with their dark heads nearly touching, plotting pranks all throughout her page days.

“Around the time we were knighted...it would have been about when he found out who you really were, I suppose. He became...very guarded. Knowing now that he was keeping your secret, it all makes a lot more sense.”

He looked at her intently. “Please know I don’t blame you for any of this. But at the time, it felt like...how to put this. Like he was starting to think about his future, deciding who he would rely on as king. Like he was measuring us all and deciding who he needed to stay close to. And I saw the way he froze Alex out -” 

Alanna interjected. “I’m not sure that’s fair...”

Raoul put his hands up, placating. “I don’t think Jon was wrong to keep his distance. I think all of us saw changes in Alex we couldn’t quite name. But he didn’t talk with me like he used to. We were friendly acquaintances more than real friends. And he didn’t push Gary away in the same way. He certainly didn’t push you away.”

Alanna shook her head. “To be honest, he did push me out more than once. He’s blown hot and cold throughout a lot of our relationship.”

He looked at her, a bit skeptical. “Well, at any rate, it didn’t look that way from my perspective. All the people who he was keeping close to him in public were exceptional in some way. Gary is his cousin, of course, but he’s also a genius. Do you know how many languages he speaks? And he can do math in his head I can’t even understand. Then there was you.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “ I know you don’t like hearing a list of your achievements, but at the very least can we acknowledge when you were all of fourteen years and five foot nothing you were beating grown men in duels? And you didn’t stop there.” 

Alanna looked away, smoothing a nonexistent crease in the blanket.

“After you were away from court, he kept adding people to his circle. Not good people, necessarily, but exceptional ones. Thom, when he first came to court, before we knew what an absolute dickhead he was. Josiane. I tried to talk to him about her, once, after I saw her slap a maid. He wouldn’t hear it. He was even more distant after that.” 

Alanna felt some part of her heart buckle at the mention of Thom. What made you so sure he wasn’t a good person? But she pushed the question away for the moment, and cleared her throat. “Fine, I’m one of the exceptional people he collects like trophies," she said, sarcastic. "But you’re exceptional, too, Raoul.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Alanna, of the boys I grew up with, one’s a dead traitor, one’s king, one’s prime minister, and one’s a half-mythical female champion who fought a god and won. Who’s the odd man out in that group?”

“Chitral isn’t a god,” she demurred. “They’re a...place, I guess. And I’m fairly sure they let me win.”

“Well, either way, you’re the sort of person who goes on a quest to fight some eternal being that would crush the rest of us in a heartbeat. And I’m the person who gets sent to pick you up.” Bitterness seeped into his voice. “He trusts me that far.” 

She shook her head. “You got where you are by being smart, and being good at what you do.  People - including Jon - really do trust you. I’ve seen it on this dratted progress. Men follow you. They actually listen to you. That’s a powerful and rare thing. Gary couldn’t do what you’re doing out here. Jon could, maybe. If he didn’t get distracted, and that’s a big ‘if.’ We both know I would fuck it up immediately.”

He shifted in the camp chair, and made a non-committal noise in his throat, clearly not persuaded.

“Also…” she coughed, a little embarrassed. “As someone who has spent several years pinning my self worth to Jonathon of Conté’s moods and making myself absolutely miserable in the process...my advice is to remember his moods have very little to do with you. It took me about a decade to figure that out.”

The rain had died down. The battered brass travel clock on his desk chimed the hour, and Raoul glanced down at it. “Ninth bell. It’s getting a little late for this conversation,” he said, a touch of impatience in his tone. “You have to get up early and beat the shit out of my men on the practice field. And I’ll need to borrow that mirror of yours - I’ve got to speak to Jon first thing about sending more mages. The chief engineer is of the opinion half the roads in Tortall were about to collapse even before this quake.”  

She nodded, worried she’d raised something vital that was still unresolved, but recognized Raoul was at his limit for now. “Of course. I’ll bring it by before I spar.”

He stood up, and clapped her on the shoulder as he ushered her out of his tent. “Until tomorrow, then, Trebond.”

Chapter Text

Alanna had never been able to sleep late on the road. She passed a restless night, full of old worries about George and Tortall, and new ones about Raoul and Jon. And yet, as soon as there was enough light to see across her tent, she was wide awake and jittery. She couldn’t have lain still even if she wanted to. 

There was a small clearing just outside the main camp, flat enough to run through the motley combination of conditioning exercises she’d picked up from many teachers over her career. Coram had shown her the sprints, squats, push ups, and planks she’d started every day with before she was even a page. Footwork and speed came from George and Duke Gareth. The newest additions were the kicks, punches, and tumbling passes Liam had drilled into her. For the first time since they’d left Corus, she managed to get through the whole routine three times without stopping before the first Ownsmen straggled out onto the field ready to spar.

Jon had told her once he liked a hard workout because it meant he was too busy to think; it was restful to spend an hour simply reacting and not reasoning. She’d never understood that. Exercise always lessened her anxiety, and that morning, after over an hour of hard conditioning, the worries of the night before receded. But a workout didn’t stop her from thinking. If anything, it helped her make connections she couldn’t see hunched over a desk or trapped at a banquet. On her best days, exercise felt electric - every nerve in her body working together, not just to move, but to strategize, to solve whatever puzzle was holding her back. 

Svenson, the big Scanran recruit who’d almost taken her down the first day of the progress, was that morning’s first puzzle. He’d been good on the first day, and training every morning, he’d gotten better. But he was no match for her on a day when everything clicked . It had been nearly ten weeks since Jon’s coronation, and she finally felt - physically, at least- like her old self. Svenson came at her with a move he’d clearly picked up from watching her - a bit of George’s footwork, if only he knew it. She could see the flow of their fight before he’d even made contact with her sword. She slid around him, forcing him to follow her, then feinted to the right, flashing her blade under his as he swung towards where she’d been a moment before. Before he could bring his sword around, hers was in a two-handed grip pointed straight up at his unguarded throat. He froze, and she heard one of the younger recruits whistle in awe. “Holy hell,” someone else muttered. That broke the tension, and the men who’d been watching them laughed, and began breaking up into pairs to spar themselves. Svenson shook his head, but with a smile on his face. “Still too tricky for me, milady.”

She lowered her sword, grinning back at him. “I don’t know about that. You’ve certainly picked up a few of my tricks already. Give it time.” 

She wandered down to the main camp feeling inordinately fond of the world and her place in it. Last night, they’d made it to the foothills of the Grimhold Mountains, and their hilltop rose like an island above a thick fog that ebbed and flowed across the whole of the Olau valley below. The storm the night before had cleared the sky, and above the fog, she could see the tips of the coastal hills twenty miles or more away. She could even see beyond that, all the way to a tiny sliver of the sea. The air was still cold, but she was warmed through and through when she tilted her head up to feel the simple pleasure of sunlight on her face.  

As she rounded the kitchen wagons, she saw Raoul hunched over a bowl of porridge at the end of an empty table, and went to join him.

The empty table should have been her first clue Raoul was not feeling a similar fondness for all creation. Up close, she could feel his foul mood crackling off him in waves, clearly keeping everyone with a lick of sense at a distance. Good thing insanity runs in my family.  He glanced up briefly when she sat down, and pushed the mirror in its silver bag across the table with his fingertips, as though he didn’t even want to touch it. 

“Did you speak with Jon?” she asked, tucking into her own bowl.

“No more mages, no more money,” he said shortly. “No more progress. He said he’d promised Trebond aid. He won’t renege on that, but it’s our last stop, then home to Corus.” He gulped down his coffee, then stood to bring his dishes back to the cooks. “There’s some big delegation from Carthak coming, and he wants to show you off. You and the Jewel. You’re to talk to him tonight about it.” He looked out at the fog, glowing gold as it burned off, but the sight didn’t seem to bring him any joy. “Hopefully the roads will last another year or two.”

Being in motion did nothing to counter his bad mood. After an hour of riding alongside him in tense silence, Alanna gave up. She headed back to the healers’ wagons, hoping they’d put her to work. Miraculously, no one had injured themselves, but she spent an enjoyable day sitting on the tailgate and talking shop. What she’d learned about healing had been scattershot. Half of what she learned had been on the battlefield, and the rest of it on the fly, and she often found herself using raw power over finesse. One of the healers, a woman named Margery, sat down on the wagon bed with her and showed her a whole new way of using her Gift to envision a patient’s body, letting Alanna map all the nerves in her hand with her magic. It was fascinating. When she finally looked up, it was past noon, and she realized with a start that they had crossed into Fief Trebond. 

It had been nearly five years since she’d been back, and every inch of the road through the mountains felt uncanny; strange and familiar at the same time. She knew many people who had been formed by the landscape they were born into: George, for instance, was so thoroughly shaped by Corus the Olorun practically ran in his veins. Myles could look out at his orchards in Olau and tell you about every tree, who had planted it, and the quality of the fruit. Buri and Thayet would probably both be homesick for the highlands of Sarain all their lives. Trebond wasn’t like that for Alanna. She’d left it without looking back, and could honestly say she’d never planned to return. Still, the mountains in summer were breathtaking. Most of the people on the progress were part of the royal household, born and raised in the flat center of the country. They wore slightly stunned expressions as they passed into the Grimhold’s ancient forests, stretching out ridge over ridge in every direction under a piercing blue sky. 

****

They made camp at dusk, still a few hours from Trebond Castle. After dinner, she took the mirror out of its silver bag and propped it against a few books on her desk. It showed her reflection, just as any other mirror would. She frowned. Raoul had borrowed the mirror a few times, but she’d avoided it. Raoul’s terrible mood had continued through dinner, and she had no desire to ask him how to use it now. She sighed, and half-heartedly tapped her finger on the glass. Surely it wasn’t that simple, but she didn’t have any better ideas. To her shock, when she looked back down, the mirror didn’t show her reflection at all, but rather what looked to be the wall behind the desk in Jon’s study, where he’d hung a large map of Tortall and covered it with his own notes. 

“Kyprioth’s fingers!” 

“Alanna!” Jon’s voice filled the tent, laughing a little at her shock. A moment later, he appeared in the mirror, too. He looked nearly as exhausted as when she’d seen him in the catacombs as he sat down with a steaming cup of tea.

The magic that connected the two mirrors must’ve been complex, but it was so seamless and cohesive that it reminded Alanna forcibly of Margery’s hand, with its hundreds of secret nerves running right there below the surface. She peppered Jon with a dozen questions about how they worked, and he laughed again at her enthusiasm - did Harailt have any more theories? Did they know much about the Carthaki mage who’d enchanted them? - but admitted they were no closer to figuring out how they were connected, although they were quite confident by this point that no one else could listen in magically without giving themselves away. She raised an eyebrow at that. “I’ll try not to break this one, then.”

But soon enough they got down to business. She’d decided that afternoon to try and persuade him that Raoul was right: the progress was doing good work. Despite her original doubts, it was accomplishing much needed improvements, and she actually could do more good out here in her fancy gold armor than in Corus. He cut her off. Impressing the Carthakis was critical. They were sending warships within sight of Pearlmouth and Tyra city, clearly hoping the chaos meant they could pick at Tortall and Tortallan allies; it was imperative to project strength and avoid war. Her good mood vanished. By the time he’d gotten through what was needed from her, she had a blinding headache. Rubbing her temples, she worked up the courage to ask about George, her heart in her throat.

Jon was very quiet for a moment. Through the strange magic of the mirrors, she could hear him fiddling with a pen on his desk. “I’m sorry, Alanna. I needed him here.”

She closed her eyes, a wild rush of emotion overtaking her. Relief that he was alive and presumably unhurt in Corus, followed by a disappointment so large it seems to weigh down all her limbs. 

 “I should have told you.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Could you…” she didn’t open her eyes, not wanting Jon to see the tears there. “Could you let him know Myles has some letters for him from me? I don’t want him to think I forgot to write.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.”

She nodded, suddenly exhausted, and bundled the mirror back into its bag without saying goodbye. 

The next morning, she put on her battered riding leathers and plain chain mail. The idea of riding into the castle dressed in fine royal silk and gold armor Trebond had paid for made her feel ridiculous. She may not have Trebond in her veins, but she could still arrive looking like a proper mountain knight: practical, efficient, angry at a lowland king.   

Maybe, for once in her life, Coram would even approve of what she was wearing.

Chapter Text

 The last time she’d ridden into Trebond half a decade before, she’d been with George. The two of them were traveling alone, on their way to the City of the Gods in the dead of winter, to try and talk Thom into being a responsible adult, so she could leave court once she won her shield. She’d spent the whole trip with a headache from her efforts to keep her toes warm with her Gift. So, maybe it was simply the thought of leaving the cold behind, but she had felt an unexpected rush of affection for Trebond when they finally spied the walls from across the valley. 

It was twilight when they finally came in through the sallyport, the world beyond the walls already blurred away by falling snow and creeping night. Coram had greeted them with a scowl, and a hot dinner. He’d been furious she’d come at all, sure that if the whole “Alan of Trebond” charade were to come crashing down, it’d be at Trebond, where dozens of people had known both her and Thom since birth. On top of that, she’d come with George Cooper, of all people. He’d hustled them swiftly inside, where the moan of the winter wind through the trees was replaced by his constant muttering about the Book of Gold. How had she turned out this way, hadn’t he taught her respect for her station? Even the most disrespectful Trebond to ever live, which she most assuredly was, was still far too good for some common river rat southron thief. 

George had borne it all with outward good cheer, putting on a pleasant smile and his most flawless Corus manners, which charmed the servants, and drove both Coram and Alanna crazy. She’d managed, just barely, not to say anything unforgivable to either of them over dinner. At dawn, Coram had bundled them back out on the road with properly warm fur-lined coats and a parting shot --- did you forget everything I taught ye about winter in these mountains…lad? She’d fumed, annoyed at his rudeness to George, and annoyed with herself, too. The guilty feeling Coram might be right curdled her stomach: stopping at Trebond had been a risk she hadn’t even considered, and she could have lost everything. 

She was just as annoyed that Coram had most certainly been right about her gear: the sun wasn’t near up over the mountains as they rode out beyond the walls, but she was properly warm for the first time since Corus. They rode in the cool blue morning light for nearly a mile, the only sounds the crunch of frosted over snow beneath the horses’ hooves and the creak of saddle leather. But once she was sure they were well out of earshot, she let out a stream of invective directed at Coram’s rudeness, her own foolishness and these godsdamned frozen mountains that was so vicious and inventive, it shocked the King of Thieves himself. He’d laughed so hard he rode face-first into a fir branch, dumping snow down the inside of his new mountain coat.

Now, Coram stood on the top step of the hall in the bright summer sun, wearing Trebond black and red and a neutral expression on his face, as would any good steward bidding a formal welcome to his liege lady. And she rode in as the King’s Champion, at the head of the king’s household. His Majesty’s guard and his healers and engineers and tailors and cooks and mapmakers and everyone but George all followed after her. Coram’s gaze passed over the train, then lingered on her, his eyebrows knit together. No doubt taking in her ratty old leathers and plain steel mail. As if I don’t care about Trebond’s honor at all. I might as well have been born some common Olau straight from the Book of Brass , she thought with a grin, anticipating the lecture he was clearly itching to give her.

As they drew closer, a tall redheaded woman in a lovely gray silk gown stepped through the door carrying the tray of bread and salt. Rispah, George’s cousin, winked at her as she took her place at the bottom of the steps, ready to greet them.

Coram cleared his throat, pitching his voice to carry. “Welcome to Trebond, Lady Knight. My lords,” he bowed to Raoul and the rest of the pomp and circumstance at the front of the train. Servants fanned out, carrying great wicker baskets of salty pretzel bread to distribute to everyone present as a sign of hospitality. She swung out of the saddle, beckoning Raoul and the chief engineer and chief healer to do the same. “I forgot to warn you,” she said in a low voice as they walked up to the stairs. “Northern tradition --- bread and salt is good hospitality. If you eat it, you can’t draw a blade against the people that offered it to you, or you’re cursed.” Raoul raised an eyebrow, amused. “Truly?” She elbowed him discreetly. “It’s true in the sense that people here take it very seriously and you’d be dead meat if you break your word, yes.” Rispah held the tray up, smiling demurely. “Gentlefolk, please accept Trebond’s hospitality an’ protection.” The loaf was decorated to look like a braid of wheat, small flakes of salt visible on the crust as she broke off a piece. “It’s good to see you looking well,” Rispah whispered, and she couldn’t help but grin as she bit into the bread. “You too, Rispah. Northern life agrees with you.” Rispah cracked a proper smile at that. Coram harrumphed, and announced rather stiffly that there were rooms ready for them and baths drawn if they’d like to wash before the evening meal.

She lingered in the entryway as Raoul and the others were shown to rooms suitable for the pomp and circumstance. She hardly needed directions after all, and she wanted to greet Coram and Rispah properly. She leaned in the doorway for a moment, taking in the bustle in the keep yard. It had always seemed huge to her as a child, especially in the years when the Scanrans were raiding, and whole villages crowded inside. The years since then had shown her how small and remote the fortress really was. She’d seen caravansaries - and not even particularly prosperous ones - in Maran and even Sarain that could have easily fit two Trebonds in their walls. Tonight, only she and Raoul and a few others would have rooms. The great hall could just about accommodate everyone for a grand meal, but unless people wanted to sleep under the tables, there was no way for everyone to bunk inside. And so they made camp just like they would have on the road, except with the pleasant protection of Trebond’s well-maintained walls and wells to draw on.

Coram cleared his throat behind her. “Well, then, let’s have a look at ye, lass.”

She turned, surprised to see his eyes were bright with tears as he gripped her shoulders. He lifted her chin, running a finger over the fading mark still visible on her throat, where her own gorget had sliced into her neck deflecting Alex’s blow. “And your hands?” Wordlessly, she held them up, palms out, and he pulled back a bit to study them. They were a mess of scars, and probably always would be. He nodded. “Still in one piece, then,” he said, voice gruff. Rispah came to stand beside him. “We saw you after it all, in Myles’ house,” she said quietly. “If they hadn’t sworn you were sleepin’, I’da said you were dead, you were that pale, with that gash across your throat.” Coram let go of her shoulders to wipe his face on his sleeve, trying unsuccessfully to hide his emotion.  

She felt like a fool. He hadn’t been watching her in preparation for another lecture. He’d been trying to see if she was, against all odds, still alive and whole. She nodded, fighting down emotion herself, as they stood an arms length apart. “All in one piece.” 

Coram clapped her on the shoulder. “Well, then.”

If it’d been Myles in front of her now, she would have hugged him, and they both would have cried, open and ugly. Crying like that was a skill Myles had taught her, frankly. He’d been one of the few men she knew as a child who openly questioned not just the laws of chivalry, but the thousand unspoken rules men limited themselves by in other ways. 

She couldn’t think of the last time she’d hugged Coram. Their relationship was complicated, a hundred threads tangled up between them. Links that would always keep them firmly tethered together, but also at something of a distance. Bullying him into taking her to Corus and keeping her secret was part of it, of course. And before that, his long service to her family. He’d of kept her fed and clothed when her father had ignored her, until she followed him around like a duckling, begging him to show her how to ride and track and shoot. He’d been the first adult to take aptitude for fighting even slightly seriously, teaching her the basic conditioning that had gotten her through page training. But there were also years of mutual resentment, when he’d watched her ignore his advice on all the things she’d considered none of his business. Except for Trebond. He knew the fief like the back of his hand, for all he’d been born and raised in sight of Corus. It had been the rare subject they’d never fought about.

“I saw you frowning at me from across the yard.” She smiled a little, enough to take the sting out of it. “I was sure I was about to get read a riot.”

He frowned again. “What are y’on about, lass?”

She gestured vaguely at the doorway. “The last time I was here, you gave me an hour’s lecture on how I wasn’t dressed properly, among other things. Here you are in your best heraldic colors, and I ride up like I’ve just come from a backcountry boar hunt.”

Coram gave her a look that was a little too shrewd for comfort. “Well, lass, that last time I was worried ye’d be seekin’ shelter in someone else’s bedroll if I didn’t dress ye proper for a winter ride.” She blushed at that, as Rispah hid a grin behind her hand. “But now that ye mention it, I had heard ye were swannin’ about in gold armour and kingly silk when ye were farther south. I’m glad ye had the good sense to dress for the mountains, this time.” He glanced past her, out into the bustling yard. “And ye’ve come prepared in other ways, as well.”

It was the closest thing to open approval she was ever likely to get from Coram. Rispah stepped forward, linking her arm with Alanna’s. “Surely you can’t mean to sit down to table like that, though, not you bein’ a gentle lady and all these days. Let’s get you a bath.”

Alanna let her lead them out of the hall and up the stairs. Rispah hesitated on the landing. “We weren’t sure if you’d feel comfortable, but there’s only so many rooms for the other guests, and given you’re lady of the manor…” she smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and gestured down the hall toward the door to the chambers that had been her father’s.

Alanna took a deep breath. “Ah…I…hadn’t thought about it. Has it…I mean, is it still as my father left it?”

Rispah shook her head. “Your brother asked for everything to be taken out and new furniture brought in when he inherited. Coram said he shipped all the books to Corus and sold off the rest of his effects sight unseen. Which, pardon my sayin’, it wasn’t right he didn’t ask you about that. Some of your mother’s things were likely in there, too.” 

Her hand involuntarily went to her throat and the chain that held the emberstone, the weight of it comforting in her palm. She sighed. “He really doesn’t deserve blame for that. It didn’t even occur to me to ask about her things, either. Our father almost never let us in his rooms. And he never talked about her with us.”

Rispah didn’t look convinced. “Well, be that as it may.” She opened the door, and to Alanna’s surprise they stepped through into a tastefully appointed study that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a newly prosperous merchant’s manse in Corus: fine woolen rugs, leather chairs that still had a whiff of the tanner's yard, and polished bookshelves that were almost entirely bare, except for a small stack of battered almanacs she suspected were Coram’s.

When she was a child, books had crowded every possible surface in tottering piles, blocking most of the light and giving the room a vaguely feral air. Seeing it neat and a little blank was a bit like seeing a lynx curled up and purring contentedly on your hearth rug, the unexpected tranquility somehow slightly menacing.

She walked through the open door into the bedchamber. She had a vague memory of coming in once when she was five or six, and her father was sick in bed. It was one of the few times she recalled that he seemed pleased to see his children, assuring them he would be well again and smiling at them beneficently from the bed, a hulking old piece of furniture that was practically black from generations of hearth smoke. Whatever loving mood had overtaken him faded as soon as he was back on his feet, and he had returned to ignoring them as always. She hadn’t set foot in his room since. The huge old bed was gone, and her trunk already stood at the foot of a new four poster bed; a chair and settee had been moved from in front of the fireplace to make room for a large, steaming brass tub and an equally large wooden screen. Rispah stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Alanna cleared her throat. “It’s much more comfortable than when my father was here.” She plucked at the bed curtains, done up in a quite subtle green flocked velvet. “And it’s honestly a lot more tasteful than I would have expected from Thom.”

Rispah laughed at that, but it was a clipped and hollow sound. “I don’t think he ever even spent a night here.” She squeezed Alanna’s arm. “At least it’ll get a few days use before you’re off adventurin’ again.”

Once she’d left, Alanna stripped off her mail and leathers and climbed into the bath, where she scrubbed off several days of mountain roads with gusto. But even as the water’s heat unknotted her tired muscles, she couldn’t quite shake Rispah’s offhand comment. What was the point of this room, and the money spent to please a man who’d never slept in it? Now it was set aside for a knight who would sleep in it perhaps one week out of fifty-two.

***

Of all the things that had happened since she returned to Tortall, presiding over a formal dinner in the great hall as Lady of Trebond was by far the strangest. She’d panicked slightly as she was changing into Jon’s gifted silks and she realized there probably would be at the very least a formal toast to her. Coram gave it, so it was mercifully short and blunt, and she was able to respond without feeling too much of an ass. She even got through the story of Jon’s coronation, now told so many times to so many people it was almost a muscle memory. For the first time in weeks, she stumbled over Thom’s part in Roger’s second life and final death. The crowd was rapt, until she said his name, and she could feel a wave of something like annoyance sweep the hall. In Trebond, like everywhere else, people seemed determined to forget him.

All of that was familiar after months on progress, though, however little she liked it, and the awkwardness of it faded as she sat down and the formal meal began. Then Damon, the steward who’d organized every formal event at Trebond she could remember, appeared at her elbow. He bent down with a murmur to welcome her home, and to ask if she’d like to broach some of the casks of new mead for a toast to the king later. It was loud in the hall, the buzz of conversation rising to the rafters. Without thinking, she extended her right hand on the table, and pressed her thumb and index finger together - the unspoken gesture an elegant Corus hostess would use to agree in a loud room. Damon saw, and bowed discreetly. A few minutes later, the mead appeared.

She had a vivid sense of deja vu, of possibilities collapsing in on themselves. All of her striving had still led her straight back to Trebond, dressed in fine silks, presiding over her father’s table. If she hadn’t screwed up the courage to switch with Thom, who was to say she wouldn’t be sitting here, in this very spot, on this very night, at the end of a different path? A well-trained chatelaine graciously sitting in for a brother absent in Corus or Carthak, or simply busy in his study upstairs. The thought made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, and she raised her cup with a shaking hand. Even Raoul, wrapped up in his bad mood and several drinks deep, noticed something was off, and leaned over with a frown to ask if she was all right. 

After the meal, the long tables were cleared to the sides for dancing. She slipped out after the second dance, even though she really should have stayed longer. By the time she made it up to her rooms, someone had collected her filthy riding clothes, and put away the tub. And there, on top of her travel chest, was a slim and battered envelope addressed to her in George’s hand.

Chapter Text

Letters had found their way to the progress by the hundred nearly every day since they’d left Corus. Much of it was official business, of course - requests for aid from this lord or that temple; updated terms on a line of credit, a constant stream of suggestions from the new king and his prime minister. But there were plenty of messages from wives and sweethearts and favorite children, too.  By some half-forgotten agreement made in a less literate age, when many would have needed a scribe on hand to read for them, all correspondence, official or not, went to the paymasters’ wagon. A scrum of hopeful correspondents formed around the back of the wagon most days before the wheels were even locked.

Luckily for Alanna, Reynold had turned out to be an absolutely ruthless operator despite his shyness around her. Her tent and trunk were always first off the wagons; her horse the first groomed. And her letters always appeared on her camp desk sometime between when she stripped off her armor and when she returned from council meetings or dinner. She’d felt vaguely guilty about it, ripping her letters open while others still were queuing in hope of their own mail. But not guilty enough to get in line herself.

Alanna had long been allergic to lines. To waiting in any form, really. Yet, here she stood, with the one thing she’d been waiting on since she left Corus. George’s letter was in her hand, and her thumb was running idly over the raised wax of an unbroken seal. 

Maybe she’d turned coward. Maybe she’d finally learned patience. Or maybe she was just tired, and more than a little drunk. Whichever it was, she shoved the letter abruptly under her pillow, out of sight. 

She undressed with more care than usual, folding her silks neatly away in the travel trunk, and even taking the time to scrub the eyeliner Rispah had applied off her face. She climbed into Thom’s absurd unused bed. Her hand slipped under the pillow, and she stretched out her index finger enough to touch the edge of the parchment, just enough to know it was there.

She remembered what Jonathon had said in the catacombs, when she sat uncharacteristically silent and still, waiting to hear what he had to say. He’s rubbed off on you, clearly. The thought made her smile. 

***

She woke with a start out of a dreamless sleep. The sun was streaming through an open window, and someone was pounding on the door between Thom’s bedroom and the study to the rhythm of one of the ruder camp songs she’d learned at Fort Drell. At least they’d also brought up a full breakfast by the smell of it. 

“Mother above, will you quit that racket?” Her voice was hoarse with sleep. She rolled out of bed and grabbed the cleanest shirt from her saddle bag, pulling it over her head. “I’m up, I’ll be out as soon as I’m dressed. Unless you plan on risking your reputation and mine bringing a naked King’s Champion breakfast in bed.”

She heard Raoul’s muffled laugh through the door, but the pounding stopped, which was a small mercy. Someone had cleaned her boots and her good leather riding pants and laid them over the back of the couch. She struggled into them as quickly as she could, strapped her sword to her waist and flung open the door.  “What exactly couldn’t wait until …”

She trailed off, surprised to see not only Raoul and breakfast, but Coram, Rispah, and the head healer and engineer.

She bowed, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “My lords, my ladies. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting - I didn’t recall we had a meeting this morning.”

Coram shook his head. “We didn’t, but Lord Raoul caught me up a bit after you went up last night. He says that you’re needed in Corus sooner than later. We thought it best to meet this mornin’ to see what may be done before then.”

“Ah, yes.” She poured a cup of coffee, and used the time to mentally catch her balance. She took a sip, and promptly burned her mouth. Resisting the urge to swear, she cleared her throat. “Yes, Lord Raoul is perfectly right - we haven’t much time, and I know there’s much to do.”

An hour later, they had a plan. Raoul and Coram had come up with most of it, staring down at a map of Trebond held down by the coffee pot and a jam jar. She shook her head. They both had a talent she didn’t - the ability to look at the big picture, and instinctively see how the pieces on the board would meet and match. They all agreed the most important thing was to ensure the fortress itself was both strong and able to accommodate the hundreds of villagers who would retreat within its walls when the raiders came. There was also a bridge on the Trebond road that needed some repair. And Raoul had identified a few key choke points that could work for what he called “dismay and delay” - essentially, piles of logs and stone heaped high on a hill and rigged to come down on top of any Scanrans riding by, blocking the road for the next lot who came along as a bonus.

Raoul would go out with twenty Ownsmen to escort a few of the engineers and mages to the bridge, and to see if they could set up the traps with the help of those who lived along the road. His gloom had lifted as he and Coram poured over the map, and he was clearly relishing the chance to get out and do something tangible before their return to Corus.

The rest of the engineers were to inspect the walls stone by stone with Coram, and see if there were any weak spots that could be shored up with either masonry or magic. The healers were sent to see that the infirmary was fully stocked with both herbal medicine, as well as charms against pregnancy, infection, and the coughs that could sweep through a tightly packed castle in winter. They would go over the kitchens, too, to make sure they were clean and fully spelled against rot and vermin. Rispah shifted in her seat, seeming to take offense to the idea that Trebond's kitchens were in any way unsanitary. Alanna squeezed her hand. “It’s nothing personal.” Rispah raised an eyebrow. “Rule one of fighting is securing the food. An army marches on its stomach and all that. We check the kitchens at the palace just the same when we’re in Corus.”

Coram tapped the center of Trebond’s paper yard with a calloused finger. “It’s not just the kitchens that need tendin’. As far as I can tell, no one’s spelled the cisterns since before your lady mother died.” His dark eyes flicked up to meet her face. “I know ye don’t like tight spaces…”

For a moment, she thought of refusing, making up some excuse as to why she needed to follow Raoul and the Own out to the bridge and the mountains beyond. What was the point of being lady of the manor if you couldn’t get out of chores like this? She flung an arm back over her chair. Thom’s chair , the leather so fresh from the tanners’ it still squeeked every time she moved. So newly made it probably wasn’t even paid off yet.

At least this Trebond will pay her debts.

She met Coram’s eyes, and nodded. “Someone’s going to have to lower me in, though.” She grimaced. “And I don’t fancy trying to get out of wet leathers.” She stood up, unstrapping her sword. “Let me get changed.”

***

Inspecting the cisterns was exactly as unpleasant as she thought it would be - damp, cramped, dark, and cold. Swaying on a rope above the water for an hour hadn’t been much fun, either. But she’d gritted her teeth and probed each chamber thoroughly with her Gift, and hadn’t found any major leaks or pestilence. That being said, the spells meant to keep out poison and illness were so old and tattered it was only blind luck the water had stayed sweet all these years. She eyed the narrow sliver of sunlight on the last cistern wall. It’d take her hours to get the spells in place, and the sun was already well on its way to the horizon. A task for tomorrow, then . She tugged twice on the rope, muscles protesting against the cold. She heard an answering shout. A few of Trebond’s guardsmen had been standing ready, and now pulled her up over the lip. She lay on the pavement for a minute, grateful to be on solid ground once more, looking up at the clear summer sky. The castle yard was already half in shadow, and she shivered as a light breeze struck her clammy clothes.

She was surprised to seen Coram looking down at her, eyebrow raised. She flashed him an old hunting hand sign with half-numb fingers. All is well . His shoulders relaxed, just a bit. “You’re right about those protection spells, though.” She shook her head. “There’s barely a whisper left. It’ll take me a few hours, but I’ll get them sorted by the end of the day tomorrow.” She stood with a groan, and strode briskly over to where she had dumped her boots and belt purse, feeling every bump in the cobblestones through her damp stockings. “In the meantime, I’m going to go lay in the sun until I can feel my toes again.”

Coram clapped her on the back. “See you at dinner, my lady.” 

She made her way up to the battlements, towards a spot on the walls where she’d often gone to brood uninterrupted as a child, trying to walk as nonchalantly as possible. That morning after their planning meeting, she’d grabbed George’s letter from under her pillow, cramming it into the coin purse on her belt. Partly to keep anyone else from finding it, partly in the hope she’d find a moment to herself to actually read it.

Her luck held. There was no one there, and she was still short enough to fit in the niche where the watch kept a brazier on winter nights. Out of the wind and in the sun, she could feel the clammy cold of the cisterns finally lifting, and she dove into her purse with shaking fingers.

She’d mashed the letter into the purse rather hastily that morning, and the seal had come loose. It dropped onto her leg as she pulled the now crumpled parchment out and smoothed it out in her lap. He hadn't written the date, or a hint as to his location, simply a salutation.

Hello, darlin’ - 

I’ve picked up pen to write you most days since I left Corus, but most of my words have ended up as ash. They never seem to say what I mean them to. You are the person I most want to speak with, and yet I can hardly tell you how I spend my days. Except to say, I have finally seen the Swoop, Jon’s great gift to me. The walls are strongly built and well spelled against sabotage, on top of that. But I have seen its roof, too, or what’s left of it. And a foundation in the village, built ten years ago for a school that never came to be for lack of funds. So I take back a small portion of what I have said about the nobility. They are greedy and grasping, but the expense of running even such a tidy little fort as this is shocking. I can understand how the terror of those sums inspires their thirst for other men’s money. It makes my own mind go blank when I think how much there is to be done for the Swoop, and that I am responsible for it all now.

 I suppose most men in my position would get themselves back to Corus as quick as they could, to find a bride rich and unchoosy enough to marry an upjumped baron and pay for his walls and his roofs and his schools. Do you know of any? 

She smiled at that, and smoothed the page again, running her fingers over the words for a moment before she continued.

But that I cannot do. I am on the road now, far from the sea and the Swoop. I travel on Jon’s business. And it is a strange business, lass. Some days I hardly know what possible good could come from it. I was never a king’s man, the way you have been. I’ve a commoner’s mistrust of the high and mighty still, especially when they speak of greatness and glory. I don’t know that I trust our friend in all things. Nor should I, if he’s to be a strong king. But I think of something your man Liam said once. He said he felt a great shift beginning in Tortall, one for the better. And he was a common man, too. So it gives me some hope that all I do is not only for Jon’s sake, or my own selfish ends.

My great fear is now that I’ve started on Jon’s business, it will never stop. It’s pleasant to think once this little rebellion is wrapped up, I’ll be just another baron among many, spending time with my family out on the land, and coming into Corus when we tire of country delights. But I think more and more it will be a thing like the Rogue, where the true danger comes not from being in the thick of it, but the moments when you think you can rest. Few Rogues have died old in their beds. And how can one marry, or build a life or a family when he is always moving, keeping one eye open? I never thought I would live to ponder these things, if I am honest. 

I see you often, in my thoughts. Sometimes I imagine where you could be. Out in the Grimhold, with the blue sky above you? Stuck in a banquet hall, getting madder and madder at some old conservative biddy who’s making remarks at your hose? Maybe you made it to Trebond, and Coram is taking you to task once more for associating with a rogue like me. In my wilder moments, I imagine showing you the Swoop and its terrible roof, and its half built school. I know you have no love for the mountains, but I wonder how you would feel about a fort in disrepair on a lonely seacliff.

But mostly, I think on a moment that has already come to pass. I remember lying with you under that grimy cloak in the Great Hall. Half the world had come crashing down, and yet I have seldom felt such contentment, knowing you were alive and near. 

I will end this letter now, before I get too maudlin and scare you (or worse - the innkeeper coming with my supper) with my pining and tears. Suffice it to say, I live in the hope that we will meet again, and soon. 

George

Chapter Text

She lay awake for a long while that night thinking about George’s letter. She’d reread it several times on the wall, until Coram wandered up to find her for dinner. She crammed it hastily back in her purse, loathe to have a conversation with him about George on an empty stomach.

 Dinner had stretched on for hours. People clearly had a sense that their lady was not going to be around often, and she barely got her plate before a line of people had formed, eager for her attention. These are important things , she reminded herself, feeling her impatience rising as two families, glaring daggers at each other, explained their dispute over the dowry the groom’s family had paid before he’d broken off the engagement. It’s good they’re resolving this here, and not dueling or poisoning each other’s wells . Still, it made an afternoon spent dangling above the cisterns seem a pleasant diversion. She left the hall well after midnight with a sheaf of petitions and splitting headache. As soon as she got upstairs, she kicked off her boots, pulled the curtains shut on Thom’s ridiculous carved bed, and carefully smoothed out George’s letter to read it again, mostly for the sheer pleasure of it. The undeniable relief he was still alive (and clearly still quite fond of her) had snuffed out the growing anxieties that had dogged her for weeks, in the same way the warm stone of the wall erased the clammy chill of the cisterns. 

But George’s own worries were as palpable as his affection, and there had been an undercurrent to his words that it had taken her some time to be able to name. It was hardly the first she’d heard him say Rogues seldom died old in their beds, but there was a weariness to his thoughts that she’d never perceived in him before. The stunned tiredness of someone who’d half expected to die young, and now found the sheer weight of the time and responsibilities ahead overwhelming. She rubbed a hand over her face and let out a long sigh. Don’t know that feeling at all, myself .  

Her battered camp clock chimed softly from atop the desk in Thom’s study. Fourth bell . She sighed, throwing off the covers and feeling around for her clothes on the floor. If she couldn’t sleep, she could at least be useful. 

****

The next few days passed in a blur. Creating the magical barriers around the cisterns was by far the hardest magic she’d ever attempted. She was tremendously glad that she’d spent that afternoon with Margery in the healer’s wagon, learning how to navigate the nerves in a hand, and how to hold the whole complex picture in her mind. Each cistern was like an enormous hand reaching down into the earth with vaulted bones and nerves made of the faint glow of the old unraveling spells. She followed what was left of the old magics, trying to understand the links that had held them together, what they allowed to pass through, and what they kept out. Slowly, she built up the pathways again, weaving the old spells into her magic, breathing life into them again. The bigger the protections became, the more difficult it was to hold them in her mind for long. Each time she let go of the spells, she found herself drenched in sweat, her head spinning. By midmorning on the first day, Coram had sat down beside her with a jug of cool water and a worry line deepening between his brows - worried about her and maybe a bit queasy about the magic. She was glad he was there, though, when she tried to get up for the noon meal and felt her knees give out. He caught her deftly by the armpits with a grunt. “Ye’re heavier than ye were, lass.” She cracked a smile at that, and dug her elbow into his ribs. “So’re you, I think. Rispah’s feeding you well, I see.” He cuffed her on the head for that. “Heavier, but impertinent as ever. An' short, too.”

As they ate, she thought about the delicate lines of old protections down in the stone. She’d always had a distaste for subtle magic - it reminded her rather forcefully of Roger and his secrets. Her own style had always been to come at a problem headlong and simply blast at it with all the fire of her Gift and her will. She’d done well with that for the most part, she thought. But the subtlety of this magic didn’t bother her in the same way. It wasn’t secretive. Rather, it was clever in a way she’d never experienced before; as if the person who’d cast it had let their spells trickle down the stone like water down a hill, twisting and turning as they found the path of least resistance and settled in. It felt familiar, somehow, but it was far too old to be Thom’s. Coram had said they’d been done years ago, not… since your lady mother died. She wondered if they might be her mother’s work and felt her heart lurch wildly in her chest. 

She knew so little about her mother, even now. Coram was eating right beside her. She could ask him if he knew who’d magicked the cisterns last. But just like all of her questions about Thom, this one died on her lips and filled her heart. She was mildly surprised to find that a wound more than twenty years old could still feel so fresh.

***

She finished binding the spells on the third day, just as the courtyard dipped into shadow. Not a quarter of an hour later Raoul and the Own came roaring back through the gates. Raoul’s face was flushed from the sun, and he was in high spirits as he flopped down onto the bench she had collapsed on earlier with a contented sigh. She glared up at him from under her arm, clutching at a mug of water, which had sloshed over the brim and onto her already soaked shirt when he sat down. “I see you had a nice time out with the boys.” He laced his hands behind his neck, looking up at the sky, which was a deep and cloudless blue she’d only seen in the Grimhold during summer. “You know, I really did. It’s an excellent feeling, to know you’ve done something useful. And it's beautiful country up here. We even had a chance to do a little hunting. Left most of the meat with the village but there’s some venison for supper tonight.” He sighed. “Also got another talking to from Jon in the mirror. He’s annoyed we’re not already on the road to Corus.” He stood reluctantly. “I’ll go tell the pomp we’re leaving tomorrow.”  She tugged at his trouser leg to get his attention and he turned to look down at her and frowned. “Gods above, you look terrible, Trebond.” She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, thank you for noticing. Not all of us got to go out hunting with the lads, you oaf." She cleared her throat. "But if this is our last night, can you go find Coram, too? I’d like for us to eat together and go over all the improvements.” She closed her eyes, fighting vertigo.”You can come carry me into the study upstairs once you’ve done with all that.” 

She managed to make it up the stairs under her own power. Dinner in her father’s -Thom’s- her study felt like a fever dream. Partly due to the fact she’d pushed her recovering Gift to near the limit, which always made her feel as if gravity had gone sideways. But most of it was the utter strangeness of sitting at the head of a table, as Lady Alanna of Trebond with Coram Smythson and Rispah Cooper and Raoul of Goldenlake, calmly eating venison and talking logistics. Coram married to a lady of the Rogue, Rispah living in the woods, Raoul in charge of the Own, and me, a girl, King’s Champion, and in charge of all of it. If the Goddess herself had shown me this future, I would never have believed it.

For all that though, she was glad to be leaving Trebond. For all she was born there, it wasn’t her place. As far as she could tell, her family had brought the fief nothing but misery . And a few clean cisterns, now . It was better for everyone that Coram would stay behind, and not her.

The next day, neither gravity nor her Gift had been restored to normal. Yet out of sheer pig-headedness, she climbed into the saddle and rode with the pomp and circumstance through the gates, thanking the Goddess that Moonlight didn’t need much direction so she could keep her eyes closed against the odd weightless feeling she had. But when they stopped to eat, Raoul took her firmly by the arm and led her straight to Margery’s wagon. “You’re going to lie down until you feel better.” She yanked her arm away, feeling her temper flare and fill the space her Gift had left empty. “I can ride, Raoul. I’ve felt far worse than this and stayed in the saddle.” Margery, who’d popped her head out when she heard Raoul’s voice, immediately made herself scarce. Somehow, that only fed her anger. Everyone's heard some fucking song about the Lioness's temper.

Raoul sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Have you ever had to put up with whatever Jon has planned for you and the Carthakis at the end of it? I can’t force you to stay off your horse but please…consider it.”

It took them four days to get to Corus, and she rode in Margery’s wagon for most of it, pointedly ignoring Raoul when he came to check on her. But she was up on her horse, in her pretty gold armor, long before they saw the city walls. When they finally came in sight of the River Gate, they found half the court was riding out to meet them, banners waving and music playing. The tune was garbled in the wind, but she was fairly confident it was one of the better-known ballads about the Lioness killing the Conte Duke with her sword. 

She nudged Moonlight up until she was even with Raoul and Drum. “Thank you for making me lie down,” she said quietly. Raoul flashed her a look, wary. She hadn't spoken more than a few words to him since he'd dragged her to the healers' wagon. “This is already so much worse than I ever imagined.” He laughed, and then they both turned to bow as Jon, dressed in all black with Dominion Jewel and a very kingly face, swept his entourage to a stop before them.

Chapter Text

Being back in Corus wasn't an immediate disaster, to her considerable surprise.

It helped that Jon kept them in constant motion. She and Raoul were swept up into the king’s train the moment they rose from their bows. Jon’s formal, regal demeanor dissipated immediately, and they rode through the city on either side of him, with a curious crowd growing along the route. He was clearly in high spirits to have them home again. She’d forgotten how charming he could be, when he was in the right mood. Even Raoul -- whose resentment at cutting the progress short so they could attend a string of fancy Corus parties had never really faded -- visibly brightened in the time it took to arrive at the palace gates. Jon had gripped him by the elbow when they dismounted in the stable yard, and leaned in to murmur something in his ear - she couldn’t hear what, exactly, but whatever it was took years off Raoul’s face. Jon grabbed her by the arm as well, and his enthusiasm was so infectious she didn’t even mind that he towed them straight to an informal luncheon with the Carthaki delegation.

That night, there was another, more intimate dinner meant to promote closer ties between Carthaki and Tortallan mages. Jon made an appearance, the Jewel flashing conspicuously on his chest as he left. She was pleasantly surprised to see that Harailt of Ali, as well as the Duke and Duchess of Queenscove were were there - all three of whom had trained in Carthak’s famous university, she remembered.

If someone had told her when she’d arrived back in Corus that she would enjoy a magicians’ salon where she was the center of attention, she would have diagnosed them with a head injury. It wasn’t all pleasant. For much of the night, she felt frankly out of her depth, realizing with some embarrassment how limited her formal magical education had been. She felt a flash of frustration, thinking about the empty shelves at Trebond and the books of magic Thom had clearly squirreled away somewhere out of her reach. And yet, she found the Carthakis’ questions about her travels and the Dominion Jewel to be well-informed and incisive, and they seemed to find her answers genuinely interesting as well. Certainly, there were politics at play. But even she could see that the flow of knowledge and perhaps even trust between mages was worth the cost of a few hours sitting indoors and eating dainty bites from a tray.

That trust clearly had its limits, though. Nearly everyone in the room had known Thom and Roger- she knew for a fact Thom had been in correspondence with the head of the university in Carthak and several of the other scholars at the table. And Roger, of course, had been educated in Carthak and lived there for years. Along with the Queenscoves, the two men were undoubtedly the thread that connected everyone in the room, but no one mentioned either of them. She could sense the effort everyone took to steer conversations on to safer topics, to weave around shared memories of either man, and a small tight ball of some complicated emotion between sadness and rage congealed just behind her breastbone and stayed lodged there.

Towards the end of the night, she found herself seated next to the Duchess of Queenscove as coffee was passed around and finally mustered up the courage to mention Thom.

“Your Grace?”

The duchess, mindful of her manners, set down her cup and dabbed a napkin to her lips, before turning to Alanna with a smile she might almost call cheeky on someone less august.

“King’s Champion?”

Alanna grinned, in spite of her nerves. “You can call me Alanna.”

“Well then, you may call me Wilina.”

“Wilina, then.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure you’re the right person to ask, but you know more about magic and mages than anyone else I know in Corus.” She fiddled with her napkin, her anxiety rising. “Do you know what happened to my brother’s library?”

She was right to be worried, apparently. The duchess went very still beside her, the smile on her face freezing into something more polished and less real. She took another sip of her coffee. “May I ask why you’re interested in his books?”

Alanaa tried to keep her voice neutral. “Our last stop was at Trebond, and I spent a few days there trying to repair the protections on the cisterns. I’d never tried anything like that before. It made me realize that I actually know very little about magic.”

She fought the blush creeping up her cheeks when the duchess turned to look at her intently, brow arched. “I have a hard time believing that given the reports of your accomplishments.”

Alanna shook her head. “No, I really don’t. Sitting here listening to you all talk this evening…I couldn’t follow half of it. I just have enough power that I can usually solve a problem by shoving my Gift at it.”

Wilina gave a surprisingly unladylike snort at that. “A nice problem to have.”

Now it was Alanna’s turn to gather her thoughts behind a sip of her drink. In for a penny in for a pound. “No offense to his majesty or the duke, but my magical education as a child was ah…limited. I learned what…” She coughed, her throat suddenly tight. What did one call the man who’d tried to bring this very palace down around their ears? Now I see why they all avoided talking about him. “I learned what…ah…the king’s cousin thought wouldn’t be a threat to him. And your husband taught me enough healing magic to stop someone bleeding out on the battlefield. Anything else I know that’s of practical use, I learned from the Bazhir. Most of what I do is total guesswork. And now I have some time on my hands. If I had books to read.”

The duchess’s face relaxed into something close to the open friendliness that had been there when Alanna first spoke to her. “If what you want is deeper magical learning, why don’t you join our Gifted practicum? It’s a bit like a small council for mages. We meet twice a week to discuss our work and challenges or points of interest that arise. Your peers can recommend techniques or further studies that could help.” Her eyes flickered to the chain that kept the emberstone tucked out of sight beneath Alanna’s shirt. “And I know several of us are dying to ask you more about the Jewel and…any other magical artifacts you’ve encountered.”

***

Lying awake later that night in her room at Myles’s house, she realized the duchess had never answered her question about Thom’s books. Did she think Alanna was looking for his notes, trying to raise Thom from the dead? She’d watched as Thom’s body was burned to ash. There was nothing left to raise.

***

Weeks passed in a blur, and she returned to Myles’ townhouse only to sleep. She felt shockingly useful. More of her time was spent in council than she would have liked. But in many ways, it felt like the best of the time she’d spent in the palace as a squire. She still had plenty of time to train each day, and to study with the Queenscoves’ practicum. In their absence on progress, Thayet had thrown herself into relief work in the Lower City, and Alanna found herself lending her time and Gift several days a week. Roger’s earthquake had wreaked havoc all over the city, buckling roads and cracking pipes. Months after the destruction, most of the repairs were just beginning in earnest, and once word got around that she’d repaired Trebond’s cisterns, she was in high demand. It felt good to be useful, and to be out of the palace, although she would never get used to the sickening feeling of being lowered beneath the paving stones to dangle in the cold and clammy dark. One day, when she was being pulled out of a drain on the high street that lead from the Temple District into the Lower City, one of the men on the rope slipped, and she lurched back into the darkness with strangled yelp. She scrabbled uselessly at the slick cobbles around the drain, her heart in her throat. Two strong hands gripped her elbows, and she was startled to see Marek Swiftknife’s face looking down at her. He looked equally surprised to see her. More hands joined his, and she was hauled clear, only to land on her knees with an undignified curse. Marek pulled her to her feet, and clapped her on the back. “Steady on, love.” He bent to murmur in her ear. “Glad to see you back in one piece. But you see the end of this street? Just that far, my lady, and no further. Your man ain’t king in these parts anymore.” He squeezed her shoulder, and stepped off into the street, not looking back. She was sure she’d just had an encounter not with an old friend, but the new King of Thieves.

That answered her question about whether George had negotiated some kind of deal with his successor - although it raised many more about what exactly the terms were.

***

Myles started hosting occasional small dinners at his townhouse, claiming that otherwise, he’d never see his own daughter except across the council table. She rolled her eyes at that. The man loved to entertain, and was only looking for an excuse. But she was once again surprised to find herself enjoying parties. Thayet and Buri were there most often, as was Raoul. Gary and his new wife Cythera came when he could get away. Jon was almost always busy wining and dining someone - the Carthakis, the weavers’ guild; priests visiting from the City of the Gods. But he’d appear just as dinner wound down, his eyes drawn to Thayet as people drifted into the parlor for a final drink.

The only thing that marred her time in Corus was George’s conspicuous absence. She’d hoped after her conversation with Jonathon in the mirror that he wasn’t far from Corus, but if he was close by, Jonathan never mentioned it. She found being back in the city made her miss George even more sharply. She wrote to him once a week, just as she had on the progress, and passed the letters to Myles without comment. Myles passed her three letters in reply, all so short and cryptic they were practically poetry. At least they were proof he was alive.

But all the places he’d always been remained empty. She had to brace herself some mornings just to walk through Myles’ house, train herself not to look for him in Eleni’s herb room, or listen for his drawl out in the stable yard.

Until one night she looked up halfway through yet another dinner for the Carthaki delegation and saw him staring back at her across a crowded banquet hall.

Chapter Text

There was a time when Alanna would have dropped her fork, spilled her wine, blushed brighter scarlet than a Mithran’s robe. Months of formal dinners in every town hall and manor from Corus to Scanra had finally taught her how to control her face (at least, to a degree), and she was suddenly, profoundly grateful for those stupefying hours spent politely lying to strangers. She was able to answer a question from the Carthaki academic seating on her right, although his name had flown out of her head; able to take a sip of wine to hide her smile, and smooth the napkin on her lap to hide the surge of emotion that had swamped her before she looked out at the room again.

He had turned to talk with his dining partner, a Tortallan who taught at Carthak’s great university. She couldn’t remember his name either, Rode or Ran or Reed. But with George’s attention focused elsewhere, she could get a decent look at him. He fit in at the table as if he had always been there. What did the Tyrians call it again? Sprezzatura - the art of making hard things look effortless. Whether by nature or nurture, George had it in spades. She felt the ghosts of a dozen past nights at the Dove press against her eyes. How many times had she slipped in from the dark street to find him holding court by candlelight just like this, leaning back in his chair, deep in conversation and superficially at ease? 

She was also shocked at the change she saw in him after only a few months apart.  His hair was short, for one thing, cropped so close she’d have taken him for a soldier if she didn’t know better. But there was no chance a soldier could afford a muslin shirt so fine it was almost sheer, or a suede jerkin so plush it looked almost like velvet, even if it was a plain gray appropriate for a court in half mourning. Most upjumped barons probably couldn’t afford it, either. She wondered, not for the first time, what else he had squirreled away besides his collection of ears before he abdicated his previous title.

 He reached for his glass, and there was a burn scar on the back of his left hand she’d never seen before, and a ring on his smallest finger she didn’t recognize. The lines that had long framed his mouth were deeper. He caught her looking at him and winked, a quick fleeting thing but so very George she could cry. She hid her reflexive scowl in her wine and found that the conversation had meandered around to the repair work in the lower city, something she actually cared two figs about. Even so, her heart was pounding, and she only lasted a few minutes before she murmured her excuses and rose from the table, carefully avoiding George’s gaze. He’d told her more than once he could sense her Gift when she was nearby, and she trusted he wouldn’t be far behind her when she slipped into the small library around the corner from the banquet room -- a room he’d waited in years ago, to say his goodbyes before she left for the border with Tusaine.

She found herself pacing along the carpet, chewing a ragged hangnail to the quick in her anxiety. It had only been a few minutes, but it was long enough for the deep happiness and certainty she’d felt seeing George to curdle in her stomach. He barely has time to write - what if he doesn’t have time for me and the spying that I'm not supposed to know about now?  

But before she managed to wear a hole through the carpet, the door eased open, just enough for George to slide through it. He leaned back on the door, his arms trapped behind him. “Hello, darlin'.” 

She couldn’t have said for certain exactly who moved first, but in an instant they were clinging to each other so tightly she could practically feel every tiny perfect stitch in his lordly new clothes; his hands were buried in her in her hair and he was kissing her so fiercely she could barely breathe - not that she was complaining. The back of her legs hit something she hadn’t realized was behind her - a table as it turned out, George giving a tsk of displeasure when she pulled away long enough to see what it was. She hadn’t even fully turned back to him before he’d pushed her back on to it, and she laughed, giddy with happiness - giddy with George, if she was being honest. He cut her off with a kiss that stole the laugh out of her mouth, and she whimpered when she felt his hand on her leg, working methodically to get under the hems of her dress and overrobe.

A group of chatting pages in the hallway passed the library door close enough that they could hear every word of their conversation, and they both froze. George sighed, and brought the hand on her knee up to briefly cover hers where it had come to rest on his cheek, and then reached across to brush the hair out of her face, an uncommonly tender expression on his own. Suddenly he frowned, and his hand gripped her jaw, turning her face towards the light. “Why on earth is there blood on your face, lass?” She squirmed, her own hand going to grip his wrist. “What are you talking about?”, and then she was  frowning at him -- there was a streak of blood on his cheek as well. He tetched at her. “It’s all over your hand, too - did you cut yourself?” She blushed, suddenly embarrassed. “I was nervous, waiting for you. I had a hangnail. She pulled back, and let a scrap of her Gift trail from one hand to the other, healing the cut, which was still bleeding sluggishly. George laughed softly, scrubbing his hands over his own face. “Did I get it?” She scowled at him. He kissed her again, a brief apology. “I wasn’t laughing at you, exactly. I just thought, the average man’d be caught out for kissin’ their sweetheart if they walked back in the room with lip paint all over ‘em. But it seems fitting when you’re kissin’ a lioness you’d get caught out by blood all on your face.”

She slapped him lightly on the chest for that, but with no real heat in it, and his hand came up to grip hers again, thumb running over the back of her palm. “I got your letters, so I know you got mine. No reason to have nerves over me at all.” He gave her his best rogue’s grin, and she fought fruitlessly to keep her own face mock stern, even as happiness bloomed in her chest. “If I didn’t need to worry, what’s this then?”, she said, slipping her hand out from underneath to capture his, and pinching at his new scar. “I’m a city boy,” he drawled, eyes dancing. “I burned myself trying to cook my own dinner on the road.” 

She raised her eyebrow, skeptical, but decided to let it go in favor of running a hand over his newly shorn head. “And this? Lice, or was someone looking for a tall brown haired man?” His own hands slid down her sides to tighten on her waist, and he looked at her, considering. “Would you believe me if I said it was the Provost’s suggestion?” She laughed at him, openly incredulous now. “He said it’s the one hairstyle you might see both a noble and a common man wear. Helpful for my line of work.” She snorted at that. “And I don’t know if Jon told you what he’s been tellin’ people about makin’ me nobility. He says we met when I did him a service in the Tusaine War. Rumor has it, it was when I was providin’ key information for a daring rescue.” She hummed thoughtfully. Not the worst story. It was as good an explanation as any why a common man from Corus would rise to baron in a new king’s court. She knew first hand army records were atrocious, and Goddess knew George would have been involved in her rescue if he were there.  She tugged at the soft suede of his jerkin, which was just as plush as she’d imagined seeing him across the room. “This also the Provost’s advice?” George actually blushed at that, just a bit. “He’s been a great help, actually. Common man to common man, if you will. Said you can dress as fine as you want as long as it’s not too flashy. Not that the nobility will embrace us either way, but the flash would make it worse.” She pointedly said nothing about the fact that he and the Provost were an us now, and instead kissed him again. “I’ll thank him for that advice at least. It suits you. Not sure about the hair yet.” He pinched her side for that, and shushed her when she yelped, trailing his lips along her jaw. “Someone will come looking if you carry on like that,” he murmured into her ear. She turned her face toward his lips. “Don’t particularly care.”  He sighed into her kiss, and reluctantly pulled away.

“Not that this isn’t shapin’ up to be an enjoyable evening, but we should get you back to that party before you’re missed.” He kissed her hand. “Besides, I’ve a plan for you that can’t be rushed.” 

***

By the time Alanna straightened up her hair and slipped back into the banquet hall, Jon had arrived. He brightened immediately when he saw her, and she winced internally, knowing he would immediately realize where she had been when George walked in a few minutes after. She didn’t want to be teased about it, especially since on some level, it was Jon who’d kept them apart for months. But she crossed the room with an easy gait, and settled in on his right with the excuse that she’d run into their old training master in the hallway. True, from a certain point of view.  When George dropped into his seat a few moments later, she didn’t miss Jon’s smirk, but he otherwise kept his opinions to himself. 

But as the banquet drew to a close, she noted how his eyes flickered to George - a brief glance, easily missed, but all business. She felt a hard edged annoyance rise from her stomach - she’d barely seen George for a quarter of an hour, and already he was back to work. What could Jon want that can’t wait till morning? She once again gave grudging thanks to the Trickster for the months on the road and in banquet halls that had taught her to control her face and her voice in front of strangers. She was sure Jon could feel her temper radiating from her in waves, but she  said nothing remotely treasonable or even rude enough to cause some kind of international incident as she said her good nights to the Carthakis and to her king. She pointedly did not look at George. 

Nevertheless, he slipped out into the hall after her, and grabbed her hand. “You’re sleeping at Myles’s these days I hear.” She nodded. “Same room as before?” She raised an eyebrow. “An awfully forward question, my lord.” He pinched her again for her cheek, which made her laugh in spite of her annoyance. "I'll take that as the gentle lady's yes, then." Then he kissed her firmly, and squeezed her hand before he dropped it. “I’ll come find you as soon as I may.”

Chapter Text

George was a man of his word. She’d slipped upstairs, ignoring the light seeping under the door to Myles’s study, and barely had time to get her boots off before she heard the soft click of the latch opening the door to her room. George stood there with a very particular smile on his face, eager to help her get off the rest. Feeling the sparks that trailed after his fingers as they slid down her skin, swallowing his groan as she pulled him down on the bed, she felt a strange fierce pride that after months apart, he still wanted her as badly as she wanted him, badly enough to leave a king and run across half of Corus after midnight, and she couldn’t help grinning into his kiss. 

Afterwards, they lay tangled up and content, George murmuring sated nonsense into her throat that trailed off into sleep. She sighed, her fingers running lightly over the surprising velvet of his newly shorn hair. It was no small relief to find their attraction unchanged after so long apart, but she’d also hoped for a chance to talk. She’d written him pages and pages of her frustrations and successes on the progress. But beyond the longer note she’d gotten in Trebond, his letters had been infrequent and cryptic enough that they functioned mostly as proof of life. She’d no idea where he’d been or what he’d been up to, and she didn’t like the feeling. 

When she woke up the next morning at first light, it was to a cold bed. It wasn’t completely unexpected. Although they had never talked about it, he was Jonathon’s spy now, and spies kept cat’s hours. So did Rouges, to be honest - she’d woken up often enough in House Azik to find George already gone about his day. It put her in a black mood nonetheless. What was the point of being in the same city if they barely saw each other? Even a hard training session didn't lift her ill temper. Jon had requested she attend the morning small council meeting, before joining a hunting party with the Carthaki ambassador that afternoon. She had half a mind to skip out on both. And do what? Go where? She clearly wasn’t welcome in the Lower City these days. If she took a hard ride in the royal forest, chances were she’d run into Jon and his entourage anyway. With an irritated sigh, she headed to the stables to tack up Moonlight and head to the palace.

The short ride through already busy streets did nothing to calm her down. She didn’t mind being useful outside of combat, but lately it seemed Jon wanted her around as much for appearances as her opinion. At least on that blasted progress she’d gotten a chance to be useful in between banquets.  And what did she know about three quarters of the royal council business anyway? 

The palace was already bustling by the time she arrived, all the more so given the reconstruction efforts, and she felt her temper rising even further as she was forced to wait at the gate for a wagon full of cut stone to make its ponderous way up the hill. Even the usually unflappable Moonlight had caught her mood, her ears back and legs restless, refusing to allow the hostler close enough to steady her so Alanna could dismount once they finally made it to the stableyard. Alanna’s impatience got the better of her, and she swung down before the mare settled and tossed the reins to the startled hostler. It was a foolish thing to do, as anyone who’d spent time around a warhorse could tell you -- even a mount as calm as Moonlight could spook, and she was trained to kick and trample a human who came close enough to grab a rein or stirrup on the battlefield. She stepped away from the horse as the wary hostler led her away, feeling guilt and anger collide in her throat. She stripped off her riding gloves rather savagely to mask it and managed to rip the seam along the cuff of her left glove in the process. 

It was the final straw in a day that had barely started. She stood there, stock still for a moment. Everyone in the stableyard had gone oddly quiet, clearly anticipating the break of her famed temper -- which only made her anger worse. Everyone’s heard some fucking song about me getting angry . She breathed in deeply, slapping her gloves rhythmically against her thigh, her pulse racing. Fuck it . There was no way she was walking into council like this. She walked abruptly into the stable, turning into the tack room. On the wall closest to the door were leatherworking tools, and she grabbed a curved needle, a block of wax, and a spool of thread. She passed through the stables and the second yard, where mounts were cooled after coming in; weaving through the ring of stable boys hot walking horses, steam rising off their backs in the clear morning light. She ducked into a small courtyard where Stefan made liniments, a space barely large enough for a small fountain and an iron pot on a tripod over a dead fire. She threw herself down on the edge of the fountain, holding a length of thread taut to pass the wax over it. When she was satisfied, she pulled her knife out of her left boot to cut a length of it, cursing as she struggled to thread the needle and to pick the broken stitches out of her glove.

Despite those small frustrations, she found her temper cooling. She wasn’t a good enough seamstress to focus on anything but the task at hand, and it cleared her mind. There was only the sun on her neck and the splash of the fountain; the soft sound of the thread passing through leather, the muted twang of the thread when she pulled it tight. The sounds of the hotwalkers and horses faded away as they finished their rounds and headed back into the stable. She was nearly finished before she heard footsteps passing from the flagged stone of the stable to packed sand of the yard. Confident steps that seemed to be headed straight towards her obscure little courtyard, as if their maker knew someone was there.

So it wasn’t entirely a surprise to see a pair of neat, baronial boots pause a few steps away from her. She didn’t look up, threading the needle through the leather. One of the boots called her bluff, rising to rest on the lip of the fountain, while its owner leaned forward on his knee and cast a shadow over her work. She paused.  “You’re blocking the light,” she said mildly, tying a knot to finish off the last stitch. The boot crept closer, touching the toe to her thigh, and she put down the glove with a sigh. “Yes?” George was looking down at her with a comically furrowed brow. “I felt you come in the palace this morning,” he said conversationally. “And I had a thought I’d see you at council. Imagine my surprise when my boots lead me here instead.” He reached out a hand and twined his finger through a curl that had escaped her braid. She felt her annoyance rise again -- more with the situation than him, but she couldn’t fight it, and twitched away from his touch. “Well, I saw you come in my room last night,” she snapped. “And I had a thought I’d still see you there this morning.” 

As soon as she’d said it, she realized the double meaning and her face flamed with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. George looked at her with a stone face, seemingly determined not to laugh. “ Mother Goddess , I didn’t mean it like that .” He coughed, and his stone face cracked.“And yet it’s true in that sense and I can’t deny it.” He gave her a lewd wink.  “And you came too, if I don’t miss my mark.” She couldn’t help a snort of laughter at his ridiculousness, and his answering grin caught at something in her chest. He reached out again, more hesitantly, for her curl, and she didn’t pull away this time. “I’m sorry, lass. I had to be somewhere early and I thought to let you sleep a bit, knowin’ our paths would cross later." 

He sat on the edge of the fountain, his knee still bent in front of him. “I was a little worried myself not to see you at council. As was the king." He raised an eyebrow. “Although now I see you had pressing business.”

She sighed. “My temper got away from me this morning. And the last thing to go wrong was me ripping half the stitches out of my glove and I thought…well, at least I can fix a glove.”

“Ah.” His lips thinned, and looked back briefly over at the still empty yard. “Well, I must say I understand the feelin'. The list of things to fix in this country grows larger by the day.” 

Their eyes met, and she steeled herself. “I know you can’t tell me everything,” she said quietly. “But we didn’t have a real chance to talk last night. And I just get little snippets from Myles. Or even…I saw Marek the other day  --”

His eyebrows shot up at that and he interrupted her. “Saw Marek where exactly, darlin’?” But even his most charming drawl couldn’t hide the worry in his voice or the way his fingers tightened.

She grinned back at him in spite of his seriousness, her own eyebrows raised. It was rare to have George at such an obvious disadvantage.

“He pulled me out of a cistern off the Goddess’s Way, if you must know. I think he was almost as surprised as I was.”

George hummed, a distinctly displeased sound. His hand slipped down toward her lap and wrapped firmly around her ankle. His eyes searched her face. “I take it Marek didn’t leave you down there in the first place.”

“Of course not, I was working with a team of mages to rework protective spells on the city’s water supply.” George relaxed visibly, but she could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he decided how much he could tell her, his eyes darting over the courtyard. No way out but forward. “But he did say in no uncertain terms that you weren’t king of these parts any more,” she said bluntly. “And that I am no longer welcome in the Lower City.”

His eyes snapped back to her at that. He was silent for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s so. We made a deal, the Rogue and I.”

“I knew it,” she said with a certain mulish satisfaction. Everyone was always going on about how she was too blunt to be a diplomat or a spy, but she wasn’t a fool. She had been speaking with the King of Thieves. “And what exactly is the nature of this deal, then?”

He sighed. “About what you’d expect. I paid him out handsomely to leave alive and with all my parts. And there are some conditions on my own movement here in Corus and in Cayanne. I told Marek my new work meant I’d have to come to the Lower City from time to time, but our agreement is that any meetin’s must go through him, at the Dove.” He winced just slightly before he went on. “As to the bit about you…there’s a faction that’s riled up by the idea you’d be passin’ through the city like you used to. They’ve convinced themselves the reason why no one realized you were a lass all those years is ‘cause you magicked ‘em. And then who’s to say what you could make them do now that you're a proper mage, and a king’s man to boot?” He coughed. “So to speak.”

There was a moment of ringing silence before she found herself laughing, huge gulping laughs that left her lightheaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. She hadn’t laughed so hard since before the coronation, at least. Finally, she calmed down enough to gasp out a question “They think I magicked a whole neighborhood at age nine?” George nodded, an uncertain smile on his face. It set her off again. “I can’t tell you how that feeds my ego. I was humbled everywhere when I was on progress. Every day I realized Roger very carefully taught us less than nothing and I don’t know shit about magic. I’m spending half my time these days doing remedial lessons with the Queenscoves. I don’t have the knowledge to do that to one man, let alone half the city.” She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, frowning. “It’s a bit fucked up they would think that of me, though. I’m not Roger.” Or Thom, her mind whispered. George squeezed her ankle affectionately, cutting off the thought. “What can I say, darlin’? A man could believe you’d be capable of most anythin' if he'd heard even half the stories about you. Goes double for the ones that never knew you well.” She snorted at that, her breathing finally evening out.

She looked at him more seriously. “Were you planning on telling me at any point that I'd be knifed if I set foot in the Lower City?”

His hand tightened. “Of course. I thought I’d see you before you got back to Corus.” His lip quirked up, not quite a smile. “Would you believe me if I said the Rogue has been the least of my worries the last few weeks, and it sailed clear out of my head?” 

She reached out to grip his own leg. “ Yes. Yes I do, George.” She took a deep breath. “Like I said, I know you can’t tell me everything. And I know you think I don’t worry, but I do. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I know it’s dangerous. I was going out of my mind on progress before I got your letter. You can ask Raoul if you don’t believe me.” 

He smiled a little more genuinely at that. “Maybe I will. I’m perverse, I know, but it’s quite appealin’ to get confirmation I can drive you a bit mad.”  She pinched him, hard enough to draw a hiss from him. “Be serious for a minute, would you? This isn’t easy for me. At least you know I’m alive when I’m doing dangerous things. I don’t have the Sight. And I don’t know what I’d do if you just vanished doing this work, and I didn’t know how to find you.” His hand slipped back into her hair, thumb rubbing along the edge of her face. He was very quiet for a moment, his face serious and still. He opened his mouth, drawing a breath and about to speak when they both heard footsteps crossing the sand of the stableyard. Much lighter and more hesitant than George’s had been, but clearly headed in their direction. He sighed, and dropped his hand from her hair, straightening up and retreating to a respectable distance as a nervous young page peered around the archway into the courtyard.

“Ah - milady, that is to say, Sir…” he trailed off, clearly unsure of how to actually address the only living female knight. 

“You can call me Champion, if that’s easiest,” she said, remembering her own hatred of running down people in the palace when she was a page. “Were you looking for me?” 

He jumped at that. “Yes, ma’---ah, yes, Champion. The king would like to see you before he rides, he looked for you at council this morning.” His eyes flickered to George, who was leaning easily against the wall, his face as bland and pleasant as any noble born into the court. She fought back an odd sense of pride. Sprezzatura . The page looked George up and down, seemingly checking what he saw in front of him against some description he’d been given. “Baron Cooper.” He bowed. “He asked me to pass this message on to you as well.” He pulled a sealed letter out of his doublet, and George extended a graceful hand to take it without moving from the wall. She sighed, and pulled her knife out of her boot once more, momentarily startling the page, until he saw her cut the trailing thread from her now repaired glove. She stuck the needle in the wax, and held it out to him along with the spool of thread. “Would you mind putting this back in the tack room? I suppose I’d better go find the king.” The boy nodded, happy to race off with a new charge that didn’t involve figuring out any titles, and she stood to leave. George grabbed her sleeve as she did. “We’ll talk.” She nodded. It didn’t escape her notice that he waited until she had left the courtyard to crack the seal on Jon’s letter.

***

Despite his promise, they never seemed to find the time that day or in the days that followed. She went straight from a meeting with Jon and Baird about a plan to expand efforts to clean up the city’s cisterns to the hunt with the Carthaki ambassador. Myles had put together a lovely dinner to celebrate George’s return, which she thoroughly enjoyed, but it left them with little chance for private discussion. 

She could feel his eyes on her any time they were separated. The promise of that look was kept any time were behind closed doors. But she got the story of the months he’d spent chasing down coronation rebels only in drips and drabs. He had much more to say about the Swoop, and its sturdy walls and crumbling roofs and the needs of the villagers there -- and almost nothing to say about Marek or the Rogue beyond their first conversation. 

He was in her bed almost every night, and she had no complaints about that. But there was always something keeping them too busy to talk properly -- a party, a dinner, her work in the cisterns or with the council, or some mysterious errand where he would disappear for hours. As the weeks passed, his absences grew longer, stretching from hours to days, and the list of things they didn’t speak about grew as well. Many days, they spent more time with Jonathon than with each other. The thing she’d been longing for all her months on progress -- to have George with her -- started to seem a hollow victory.  

********

She felt like a squire again. As a knight, she’d kept her own schedule. Now she was busy again from noon till deep into the night with council and mages meetings, luncheons, hunts, and parties. She was also almost always quite literally at Jon’s side, as she had been when they were young  -- just a few steps away, within reach if he needed her ear or her sword or a fresh glass of wine. Like Buri with Thayet she thought with grim amusement one night as she stood chatting with Harailt of Ali and watching Buri scowl over Thayet’s shoulder as she and Jon sat demurely enough in a window seat, knees angled towards each other but nowhere near touching. She could tell even through their royal formality that he was enjoying Thayet’s company, and they both seemed drawn to each other. But when she drifted across the room to refresh her drink, she could feel Jon’s eyes on her. He seemed to always want her in his line of sight. It had been like this since she returned from the progress, if she was honest.  If she walked into a council meeting late, she saw the irritation on his face fade into relief. If she rode ahead on a hunt, soon enough she’d hear hoofbeats behind her with someone come to cajole her back to join the king. 

She couldn’t ignore that the other component of her deja vu was an uneasiness she tried her best to leave unnamed. A suspicion had been growing in her chest, hard and sharp in the days since George had left on his most recent errand. The mistrust wasn’t the same as the tangled fears that had walked everywhere with her when she was young. But just as Alan couldn’t risk articulating his worries about Roger, she found herself flinching away from her own thoughts about Jon. If what she suspected was true, she’d tangled herself up in something that she couldn’t see a way to unravel.

She’d started to leave parties as early as she could, with the reasonable excuse that she faced a walk or a ride in the dark back to Myles’ manse. More than once, Jon had offered her rooms at the palace  -- at first just for a night, but lately the offer was open ended. One of the perks of being King’s Champion, he’d said. So far, she had demurred, saying she hardly saw Myles as it was. Which was true -- the cozy dinners at Olau House had faded away as each lengthening summer evening meant an even longer summer party at the palace. She was as likely to see Myles across the council table as the diner table these days. She’d tried to leave early again that night, but by the time she started walking home it was well after midnight. These days, with her body and her Gift fully recovered and the new sword feeling like hers, she didn’t mind passing through the city alone. Another far more pleasant return to her habits as a squire. 

The whole street was dark when she finally arrived except for the porter’s light at the Myle’s gate. He let her in with a yawn and she slipped by with a murmured apology as he shut the door firmly behind her and headed to his own bed. She looked up for one last glimpse at the stars as she crossed the courtyard, her chest tight and hands balled in her pockets. They were far fainter in the city than they had been on that dratted progress, or when she had lived with the Bazhir, and the thought made her oddly melancholy. I need to get out of Corus. 

Below the stars, she saw there was in fact another lamp still lit, the light spilling out of the windows in Myles’ study. 

She stood for a moment in the cool air of the courtyard, indecisive. It was late enough that Corus was quiet as it almost never was, the only sound frogs and crickets singing fiercely from their hideaways in the garden. She had to be up early again tomorrow, and all the days after it seemed, to dance attendance on Jon. She was tired enough that the thought filled her with a weary bitterness, and her suspicions rose up to fill whatever cracks bitterness left unoccupied. But Myles’ lamp was still lit. And he had told her, hadn’t he --before the whole dratted progress even began -- come to me, and I will set the man straight . She wondered, not for the first time, if things would have turned out differently if she had the courage to trust him with her fears about Roger when she was a child. And so, with a sigh, she trudged up the stairs to knock on his door.

Chapter Text

Myles hadn’t looked surprised to see her standing in the doorway in the middle of the night. If anything, he seemed to have been expecting her, setting down his quill and rising to pour them both water from the nice silver service on the sideboard behind him. She took the cup he held out to her with a soft thanks and settled down in the armchair in front of his desk. None of the fresh from the tanner’s squeaks and moans of Thom’s furniture back in Trebond. No doubt this chair had stood before this desk well before she had even been born -- probably before Myles had even been born. She took a long drink to steady her nerves, and fiddled with the cup once she drained it. She couldn’t quite summon the courage to look him in the eye.

Myles sat silently, hands folded on his desk, waiting for her to speak. She took a long breath, and finally gave voice to the suspicion she couldn’t quiet. “I think Jonathon is trying to keep George and I apart.”

There was a soft creak as Myles settled back in his chair. “I quite agree.”

Her eyes flew up to meet his, shocked. “It’s been clear to me for some time now, but I didn’t know how to raise the topic with you. You’re very loyal to Jon.“ He gave her a sad smile. “Even when he treats you poorly.” 

She looked away, jaw suddenly rigid with unshed tears. After a moment she cleared her throat. 

“I would have come to you sooner, but I didn’t want to say anything until I could make sense of it on my own. And then tonight I thought about how I used to tell myself the same thing about Roger -- not that Jon is anything like Roger,” she added hastily. “Just that…back then I felt like I needed the whole answer before I said anything.” She let out a shaky breath. “And then I thought -- look where that got us.”

Myles made a soft noise in his throat that she didn’t know quite how to interpret, but it seemed more encouraging than not, so she charged ahead. “I was worried that he might be keeping me here and George on the road because well…” she could feel a blush rising in her cheeks…”because he was still interested  in me. Romantically, I mean.” She risked a glance at Myles’ face, which remained impassive but attentive. A spy’s face . Her fingers drummed on the cup in her hands. “But I don’t think that’s it.”

“No,” Myles said, and she could hear the relief in his voice. “I don’t think so either, but it puts my mind at ease to hear you say the same. Thank all the gods for that.”

Letting go of that particular fear let anger rise in its place. “Then what on earth is he playing at?”

Myles tapped his fingers gently on the desk. “My best guess is…have you ever been in the Trickster’s temple here in Corus?”

She frowned, confused. “Yes.”

He nodded. “There’s a fresco there, a famous one. ‘The Trickster Dancing on Fortune’s Wheel.’ Have you seen it?” 

Alanna knew immediately what he was talking about. It was several images, in fact, showing the rich, powerful, and beautiful being cast down off the top of golden wheels and beggars rising up. Only the Trickster remained static at the pinnacle of his wheel, looking almost serene as he balanced above the chaos around him.

“It takes a lot for a king to remain on a throne. He may look still, but that wheel he’s balanced on is in constant motion,” Myles said. “And while things are much improved from a few months ago, Jon’s position as king is still precarious. What stability he enjoys is largely due to you.”

The expression on her face must’ve truly been something because he held up his hands in mock defense.

“Before you take me to task, let’s be frank, my daughter. Bringing back the Dominion Jewel would have been enough to make that statement fact. You also killed the man trying to claim his throne. And I don’t think you realize how much your progress with Raoul cooled the temperature. You’re far more popular than Jon is in a lot of the country.” George said much the same , she remembered, gripping the silver cup in her lap so hard her knuckles went white. 

“I think for practical reasons as well as emotional ones, he doesn’t want your attention divided,” Myles continued gently. “Rationally, you are an excellent person to keep close for your Gift and your sword alone. And you’re one of very few people he can truly trust. His family is dead, and some of his oldest friends have turned out to be traitors.” She nodded, guilt and shame rising in her chest that she’d been too wrapped up in her own worries to see how Jon must have struggled, too. He was always serene and charming in public these days, but she’d known him  better, once. Just like with the Bazhir, when the old Voice was dying. He could keep it together in public, but not in private. She wondered who, if anyone, was playing the role she had then -- a combination sounding board and punching bag, if she was honest. Maybe being the Voice has helped him find real peace. She hoped so.

Myles cleared his throat. “But, if you’ll forgive me for speaking as a concerned father as well as a royal councilor, this situation is clearly not sustainable. He may be able to keep you with him at court and George on the road, but it will corrode the trust and loyalty he prizes in the end.”

His words released some dam inside her, and misery she’d hardly known she’d been keeping down flooded her body, her chest hitching with an unexpected sob. She swiped almost angrily at the tears rising in her eyes.

In the time they’d been talking, the sky outside the window had begun to lighten. The first tentative trills of morning birdsong rose in the silence.  She waited a moment, until she was sure her voice was steady. “So what do we do?”

Chapter Text

Myles smiled. “For now, I think we could both use sleep.” He rose from his chair with a groan, and she felt fresh guilt that she’d kept him up, followed by something like panic when she realized they were due at council in a few hours. He seemed to sense where her mind had gone, waving a hand as he came around to sit on the edge of his desk. “I’ll send a note with our excuses for today.” He reached for her hand, gripping it firmly. She gripped it back. “Don’t despair just yet. Something has reached my desk that I think might provide an opening.” He yawned. “My lawyer is coming by this afternoon to confirm my theory. We’ll talk when I know for certain.”

Alanna was surprised to find she sank easily into a dreamless sleep, waking up just before noon. She didn’t feel tired, exactly, but the weightless feeling she associated with sleep persisted, so she forced herself through a workout, a dip in the baths, then a meal. By the time she felt tethered to the world again, it was nearly the third bell of the afternoon and she figured Myles’s lawyer must have already arrived. 

He was gone when she made it up the stairs to Myles’ study, but evidence of his visit remained in the form of several folios, neatly bound and stacked on the desk. Myles was propped up on the window sill, holding a document up to the light when he heard her knock at the door.

“My dear. Come on in and sit down.”

She looked curiously at the documents on his desk. It was hard to tell, but trailing out of several of the folios were faded ribbons adorned with all manner of wax seals -- the sort of thing you might see on an official document, like a land deed or a patent of nobility. “What’s all this?”

Myles moved from the window to his chair, spreading his hands on the desk. 

“Have you ever heard of a man called Alton of Chettan?” he asked. 

She frowned, racking her memory. “I can’t say that I have.”

“He’s your second cousin -- that is to say, your father’s uncle’s son. As far as my attorney can verify, he is indeed your closest living male relative.” He patted one of the folios as if to demonstrate the attorney’s thoroughness. Alanna’s frown deepened. “Does he want to meet?”

Myles snorted. “I doubt it. He’s a deeply conservative man with a small holdfast in the Grimhold. He’s made it quite clear he doesn’t approve of lady knights. About a month after you left on progress, he came to Corus and filed a claim on the fief of Trebond as its rightful lord.”

“He did what?”

She must have made the same murderous face she had last night, because Myles once more held up his hands  in a gesture of surrender. “I must ask you to bear with me, because this strange news may be the solution to your problems with Jonathon. Or at least, the start of a solution.” He watched her carefully, relaxing when she nodded her agreement.

“Before we start, can I ask why you didn’t write to me when he showed up in Corus?”

Myles frowned. “At the time, I thought he was a crank. It’s not uncommon when a fief is passed down for distant relatives to come out of the woodwork to challenge a claim. Most of them take a payout and recede back into the shadows. It became clear with time that that wasn’t likely to happen with him, although we did try.  He thinks you're an abomination, to put it lightly.” Myles couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice. “Someone -- we’re still not sure who -- has been backing him in the courts.” He sighed.  “And my dear, we’re more alike than not. I wanted to find out who was truly pulling Chettan’s strings before I brought you into all this. But it’s no longer possible to wait.”

He tapped the folio again. “Unfortunately, Chettan’s lawyer has also been quite thorough. Trebond is a very old fief -- one of the oldest with its original boundaries still intact in Tortall.”

Alanna rolled her eyes. “You’d know that if you spent more time with Coram. The talkings-to I got about how I was besmirching the family’s ancient ancient honor stretching back to the first pages of the Book of Gold.” She grinned. “He’d tell you with some relish that the Contes are only in the Book of Silver.”

Myles shook his head. “Be that as it may, that ancient honor makes Chettan more than your average relative looking for a payout. For generations, when the fief was passed down and the deed redrawn and reaffirmed, each new deed would essentially simply say it was a continuation of the original grant of title. No one actually checked the specifics of what the original grant said after a time. To be fair, most are bog standard -- ‘such and such lord and all his heirs will hold this fief as long as they uphold loyalty to the King of Tortall and his heirs.’ Likely a few lines about your duty to kill invading Scanrans in particular since you’re in the north.”

“In this case, Chettan -- or whoever is paying him -- sent someone to the royal archives to actually look at the original grant of Trebond. And it is unfortunately quite specific. Only male heirs may hold the fief.”

Alanna froze. “Truly? But I was Thom’s heir for years. The crown never challenged it.”

Myles sighed. “That’s what I was waiting for my own attorney to confirm.” He looked her in the eyes, as serious as she’d ever seen him. “I think we can keep it from Chettan, but whatever happens, I’m sorry to say the law is very clear. The grant says explicitly that a woman cannot hold the fief. You will lose your claim to Trebond.”

The strange floating feeling that had been with her most of the day came back in force, and she realized she had stopped breathing. For all her complex feelings about Trebond, it was still a shock to hear a birthright could be taken from her so casually.. “I…ah…you’re really certain?”

He nodded, face stern. “Yes. My attorney has been keeping a close eye on things, and the case has been assigned to a judge not known for his respect of a woman’s right to inherit. He ruled against the widow of a prominent merchant in Corus last year, despite the fact that she ran the business with her husband for many years. A male relative must now oversee her spending. Needless to say, not the type of man who’d be inclined to rule in your favor even if the case were more ambiguous.”

Alanna rubbed her face, feeling like a bit of a fool. It had taken her years to feel comfortable in her own skin; to know and embrace the fact that she was a woman. It was one thing to accept the body she lived in, but it was something else to be reminded that she was legally female as well. She remembered Thayet’s calm explanation of her decision to stay in Tortall; her determination to leave Sarain rather than become a pawn without rights in a new warlord’s game. Tortall was different, Alanna had said firmly. Wasn’t she living proof? And yet how different was it in Tortall? Alanna was the King’s Champion, touched by the Goddess, and still apparently a second class citizen in her country’s courts. Anger bubbled in her chest. “I guess it comes as a bit of a shock to be a woman on paper after all these years.”

“Well, you’re also my daughter on paper,” Myles said, his voice gruff. “You will always have an independent income from Olau. Which you will inherit, free and clear, when I’m gone. I’ve made sure that will stand up in court. And if you want to fight for Trebond, we can still try.” 

She felt her eyes brim with tears again. “I’ll say it one more time,” her voice wobbling. “I wish I had done something to deserve a father like you.”

Myles teared up at that, too. “Nonsense.” He wiped the tears off his face and looked away discretely as she did the same. “Before we go any further, let’s be clear: is this something you want to fight? To be a merchant about it, Trebond is what we’d call a troubled asset. It’s loaded with debt - it won’t provide a steady income for some years, and even then, not much of one. Upkeep is substantial, and likely to become more so with a new king on the throne and Scanra restless. If I were looking at it on my books as an impartial investor, I would cut it loose.”

She was quiet, not sure how to answer him. He tapped a finger on his desk. “ My impression has always been that Trebond has had little to offer you beyond a name.” He smiled sadly. “But it is your name.”

She shook her head. “Not so much any more. No one calls me Trebond any more except Raoul.”

He seemed unconvinced by her casual air. “Well, beyond that, it's where you grew up. Your parents are buried there. Those aren’t things to take lightly.”

She sat still for a long moment, thinking. Hadn’t she just spent a week grousing at how absurd it was that she was in charge of Trebond, a place she’d spent a lifetime trying to leave? Her memories there weren’t happy ones, and she had little affection for the place. At the same time, simply walking away after the mess Thom had made felt deeply wrong. Didn’t her family, which had taken so much from the place, owe it to those who lived there and loved the land to make it safe? 

Alanna drew a shaky breath. “I never planned to go back there again, beyond settling my father’s affairs. It was going to be Thom’s problem.” It was the first time she’d said his name out loud in months, and she could feel how it rang out in the room like the sound of a dropped dish shattering. But she went on. “I know you don’t believe in the code of chivalry and all that. But it feels wrong to walk away. Tenants owe rent, but I owe them protection. Those that live there didn’t ask for two generations of disinterested lords who spent more than they earned. And I don’t know anything about Chettan. My family hasn’t done Trebond any favors, but we both know there’s worse types of lord than me out there. From how you describe him he sounds like a man who would drive people hard to make the estate pay out.” She let her head loll against the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling, “I’m not hearing any good news here.”

He strummed his fingers on the corner of the desk. “Maybe good news is a little strong, but it’s not as bleak as it appears. This whole case has put Jonathon in quite a pickle. On the one hand, how does it look if he lets his immensely popular Champion be swindled out of her inheritance by some hedge knight she could lay out flat on the field of battle? But on the other hand, how would it look for a king to throw his weight behind his childhood friend and favorite to push out a rightful heir?” Myles spread his arms wide. “He can’t win. Either outcome is likely to cost him time, goodwill, and political capital he doesn’t have to spare.” 

“This still sounds bleak to me, Myles.”

He shook his head. “Oh ye of little faith.” He tapped another folio on his desk. “My attorney has found a third way. A way that costs Jonathon nothing, and leaves him in your debt.”

“Chettan is hoping you settle. In his filing, as a gesture of goodwill, he agreed to give you, an unmarried woman, twice the marriage portion your father had set aside for you.” Alanna snorted. “I can’t imagine that’s very much. “

 Myles shrugged. “As my grandfather the merchant would say, ‘twice a pittance is better than all of nothing.’ If you contest Chettan’s claim, the matter would go to the courts, and you would be very likely to lose unless the king intervened.”

She shook her head. “So what’s the third option?” 

Myles tapped the folio again. “You don’t contest that you can’t inherit, but you ask that the fief revert to the crown.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “I can do that?” Myles smiled, a gleam in his eye. “Oh, yes. Chettan’s attorney may have checked the original grant, but he forgot a certain privilege of families in the Book of Gold, snobs that they are. In a case such as this, where the inheritance would go to someone from a…less prestigious line, shall we say, the Golden branch of the family has the right to terminate the grant altogether. In which case, Jonathan would simply draw up a new grant, and distribute it to a holder of his choosing.”

Alanna leaned back in her chair, impressed. “I should have paid more attention to Coram.”

Myles laughed. “For many reasons, yes. You ran that poor man ragged.”

She looked down, a little embarrassed. He wasn’t wrong. Myles continued, in a gentler tone: “So, we’ll go to Jonathon with all of this. He’ll be expecting you to ask for him to intervene on your behalf. And instead, you give him Trebond. But not for nothing.”

*****

Her guts were roiling as she and Myles made their way to the palace the next day, with the attorney’s many folios carefully tucked into Myles’ large, unfashionable saddlebags. They were both dressed in council best, still in mourning grays and blacks. Alanna had blanched when he told her to dress nicely. “Jon’ll suspect something.” “Good,” he replied blandly, his face inscrutable. "And let me do the talking." She watched him as they rode, examining him out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t often get to see this side of her famously affable father, and she sometimes forgot how formidable he could be on his chosen battlefield.

Jon’s eyes went straight to her as they walked in the room, and she could tell he knew something was off. He turned toward her as she sat down on his right side. “Are you feeling better?” he murmured, sotto voice. She forced herself to answer calmly, sure he could see her pulse pounding in her throat. Gods, I hate politics . “Yes, better than yesterday.” That’s not a lie, I suppose. He frowned at that, clearly about to ask her more, but just then Gary set down his massive stack of reference papers on the table with an audible thud . “Your Majesty - are we ready to begin?” 

Council business was mercifully short and uncomplicated, but she could feel Jon’s attention flicker to her every time there was a lull. In less than an hour, Gary began to gather his documents, clearly ready to depart. “If there’s no new business?”

Myles cut in. “Nothing new before the council, but if your Majesty and Sir Gareth have a moment, I need to speak with you on a family matter.” Gary and Jon both went oddly still in their effort not to look at her -- clearly they knew about Chettan. “Of course, Sir Myles,” Jonathan said smoothly. She could see him touch his father’s signet ring - a tell he was nervous - but his face remained neutral. “Everyone else - please enjoy the day.”

When the room had emptied out, Myles made his way around the table to sit next to Alanna, carefully placing the three folios his attorney had assembled on the table. Leave the talking to me , he’d said before they entered the room.  “I’ve brought my daughter up to speed on the Chettan affair,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “She, quite rightly, asked why she hadn’t been informed sooner that she is in danger of losing her ancestral claim to Trebond.”

To her surprise, it was Gary who flinched at that, although Jonathan didn’t look happy either.

“I’m sorry, Alanna,” Gary said. “I was convinced we’d find a way out of it, and you had enough on your plate with the progress.”

Alanna nodded. “I don’t know what I’d’ve been able to contribute if the facts are what Myles says they are,” she said, staring down at her hands on the table. Her voice was calm. Probably the calmest I’ve ever sounded talking politics she thought, faintly amused. It seemed to disquiet Jon, who was definitely trying to catch her eye. “But it was something of a shock all the same.”

Myles continued “I presume from the lack of updates since the last time we spoke that you haven’t turned anything up on Chettan or his mysterious backers. And from what my own very capable attorney has confirmed, the case is extremely unlikely to go in Alanna’s favor.” Neither Gary nor Jonathon spoke. 

“As you both know, she never intended to reside in the fief…”

It felt bizarrely like a marriage agreement in some way -- or perhaps a divorce. She stared down at her hands, folded on the table, carefully not making eye contact as Jon and Gary listened to Myles’ proposal. Gary occasionally broke in with a question about the law, but other than that and the continuous scratch of his pen taking notes, Myles’ voice was the only sound in the room. 

Jon’s hands were clasped rigidly in front of him, too. She remembered with a sudden pang her premonition when they’d sat together in the catacombs and he’d asked her to go on progress - that they might never be alone again. Today would probably set that in stone. 

Myles came to the end of his assessment of Chettan’s claim. “And so, Your Majesty, my daughter offers to give up her claim to Trebond.” He coughed. “With the stipulation that it revert to the crown.”

Gary’s pen stopped abruptly. A bark of laughter escaped him. “The Book of Gold. Of course. That is wiley of you, Sir Myles.” 

Myles gave the ghost of a smile. “I have my moments.”

Gary’s pen tapped a rhythm on the parchment. “And what does Alanna receive in exchange for this generosity?”

Myles drew out a piece of parchment and handed it to Gary.  Alanna felt her mouth go dry, and her nerves hummed like she was in combat. “We have some formal stipulations. And some informal ones as well.”

Jon cleared his throat, speaking for the first time since he’d cleared the room. “By all means.” Alanna looked up at him for the first time since the council had begun, and guilt rolled over her in hot waves. She’d expected the blank kingly face she’d seen him put on in dozens of uncomfortable situations. He looked like what he was -- a man without many people he could trust, blindsided by one of the only friends he had left.

Myles’ face remained impassive. “To begin, Alanna retains her noble rank and other titles, including, of course, that of King’s Champion. She remains the sole heir of fief Olau. We also posit that renouncing Trebond does not mean that her name is struck from the Book of Gold, as she was born the daughter of a Golden Lord, whose name remained in the book until his death.”

Gary nodded, his pen tapping the parchment Myles had passed him. “Straightforward so far.”

Myles cleared his throat. “This experience has taught my daughter, however, that women do not enjoy equal rights before the law unless they are specifically enumerated, no matter their accomplishments.” His voice was cold, and Gary winced. “So we would like to enumerate hers.” 

“Firstly, although she will retain the privileges afforded to those listed in the Book of Gold, she is free to marry as she sees fit, without having to seek confirmation from male family members, or the Crown’s permission.”

Jon’s eyes met hers again, but he directed his words to Myles. His voice was dry. “And does the lady intend to wed? Is that what this is about?” Her heart was pounding wildly now, and she was sure he saw her pulse beat in her throat. She clasped her hands tighter and said nothing. 

Myles shrugged. “Irrelevant.” Alanna saw Gary nod in agreement out of the corner of her eye as he made a note. Both of them lawyers at heart. “Neither may she be contracted into marriage without her express consent, whatever the wishes of her male relatives. And whether she is single or married, she will rest in control of her finances and movements. When she inherits Olau, it will be as a regnant lord, and if she does have a husband, he shall be as a consort.”

“We also stipulate that in her capacity as King’s Champion, she owes a duty to Your Majesty and the realm beyond the fealty any noble person swears. But this does not mean that she is bound to the crown’s service indefinitely and without respite.” Myles’ voice remained dispassionate. “My daughter would not say so, but to my eye it is undoubtedly true that this current morass arose in no small part due to the fact she had not the time to straighten out her own affairs following the death of her brother, or to offer her talents towards maintaining the fief she is legally obligated to protect.”

Jon had retreated behind his kingly mask now, but his cheek twitched. A direct hit . When he spoke, it was clear he was holding back anger. “I would ask your acknowledgement, Sir Myles, that this has been a year like no other. I needed Sir Alanna where she was. And it is my right and duty as king to call upon my subjects to serve their realm.”

Myles nodded. “If the gods are kind, we will never see this year's like again.” His voice was softer. “But patterns once established are hard to break. All we ask is that, barring war or other catastrophe, Sir Alanna reserves the right to three months of the year to attend to her own affairs.”

There was a long silence. 

Finally, Gary spoke. “I think the office has changed profoundly since Alanna took up the title. This year alone will make the Champion a far more…active position than it has ever been. Before he took on training the pages, my father spent more of his time as Champion in Naxen than at court. Three months seems reasonable, as long as it is not required to be consecutive.” He glanced at Jon, who nodded stiffly.

Myles made a small note on his own parchment. “Excellent. If that is agreeable, right now the kingdom is not in the same imminent danger as when your rule began. Sir Alanna would like to use the next few weeks to help position Trebond to the crown’s control. It is also her understanding that the Carthaki delegation will be departing in autumn?”

Gary nodded. “They’ll head to Port Legann. Some of their scholars wish to consult with the Bazhir about the Ancient Ones.”  

Myles nodded back. “Then they will be delighted Sir Alanna will accompany them. She then wishes to stay with the Bloody Hawk for some weeks. She owes time to the shamans there, whose own training was cut short when she left the tribe. Ideally she would stay through the winter.” 

Jonathon sighed. “Alanna, I don’t see what I can do but agree. I don’t want to force you to stay at court. But is there any way I can persuade you to delay your time with the Bazhir until next spring at least?”

“I don’t like the cold.” She was pleased her voice remained steady. Some of the tension left the room, and Jon ran his hand over his face. “No, you never did.” 

Myles cleared his throat. “With Your Majesty’s permission, there is one last matter regarding Trebond and then we will leave you in peace.”

Jon snorted, and slumped a little in his seat. “Small chance of that, but do go on.” 

“We know that when the fief reverts to the crown, Sir Alanna has no formal say in its dispensation. But she would like to suggest a successor.” 

Jon raised his eyebrow at her, a little ironical. “And what man would my champion suggests hold title to Trebond? For the good of the realm, of course, since she can have no interest in it.”

Perhaps he thought she would suggest Myles, or George — someone who would bring control of Trebond back to her. That’s what a real court player would do, I suppose. It’s what Myles had suggested.

“Coram Smythsson,” she said firmly. Gary’s eyebrows shot up. “For one, he’s already there and has years of experience running the place. He’s a good soldier and tactician. He can hold it if anyone comes knocking. He cares about the people there. And without him, you wouldn’t be holding the Dominion Jewel right now. Surely you can reward a man for that.”

Jon tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, looking past her out the window. “We will take it under advisement. For now, you are all dismissed.” 

Alanna stood as Myles and Gary began packing up their reams of documents. She touched Jon’s shoulder as she went by. “Thank you.” 

He didn’t look at her, but his hand rose up to clasp hers briefly. He didn’t hate her, then, and that was something. “See you at council tomorrow, Champion.”

Chapter Text

Leaving the palace, she was wrung out as though she’d been in a knife fight. She and Myles rode straight home through the city in silence. He squeezed her arm as they dismounted, and urged her to rest if she could. To his clear surprise, she nodded and went straight to bed, falling into a dreamless sleep just past the fourth bell.

 She woke up in the middle of the night, filled with the need to talk to Jon -- and the conviction that if she could just explain everything to him in person, the rift that had reopened between them since she’d arrived in Corus could be healed. 

She headed toward the palace just after dawn, and spent the next few hours haunting the council chamber, a book of magic she was supposed to be studying for that week’s practicum sitting open and unread on her lap. She’d hoped to catch Jon alone, knowing he was often the first to arrive. He nodded brusquely when he saw her already seated at the table and took his usual seat without comment, although he made a meal of arranging his papers once he was seated. She sat quietly, hands clasped, right heel bobbing anxiously under the table, and waited for him to settle. Don’t be a coward, Alanna. Bile rose in her throat. Say your piece. After a moment he leaned his face forward into his hands and sighed deeply. “I was a bit of an ass yesterday.” Her eyes jolted up to his face in surprise. He smiled, a little sheepish. “You caught me flat-footed.” He fiddled with his pen. “I don’t know why I’m always surprised by you. Maybe it’s that you’re so blunt about almost everything I forget you have secrets like anyone else.” Alanna huffed a laugh at that, waving a hand through the unspoken ghosts of Alan, the ember stone, Faithful. He laughed out loud. “Beyond all that.” 

She leaned forward, and took his hand. Don’t be a coward . “You know I want to help you and serve you as best I can. Even if it’s going to a thousand stupid dinners.” He cracked a small smile at that. 

“But I’m not your squire any more. I don’t think I can be Champion if that’s all I am. I need to build my own life, too.” He squeezed her hand briefly, and nodded, avoiding her eye again. “I know.” He let go of her hand to shuffle through the stack of papers in front of him once again, and shoved one at her. She took it with a frown. It looked to be the grant of operation for a large flour mill just outside Corus. “I had Gary do some math on your behalf last night. He estimated how much income Trebond would generate unburdened by debt and” -- he flicked the back of the grant she held -- “this mill happens to generate near the same. And it’s within the Conte family’s personal holdings, so I don’t need the council’s approval to sign it over. Consider its profits a…sort of bonus for taking on a minor ceremonial position and finding it’s full time work.” 

 She realized with some embarrassment how tiny Trebond really was in the scheme of things. The money that had supported her family and paid for her training was barely a drop in the bucket to Jon as a Conte, let alone as a king. She frowned, shoving it back to him across the table. “We already made a deal yesterday.” He pushed it right back. “Royal prerogative, I’m afraid. It’s already done. I’m told the miller’s quite excited, actually -- he’ll get to advertise with your mark, and he anticipates a healthy rise in profits.”

She felt her face go red at that, and she was sure her cheeks were still flaming when Myles and the Provost walked in a moment later, chatting as they took their seats. Myles’s eyes flickered between her and Jon, and he looked pleased by whatever he saw there. The rest of the council came in, and they quickly passed on to other business. Towards the end of meeting, Jon announced quite casually that Trebond had been returned to the crown’s gift in exchange for a series of concessions to Alanna, born of Trebond, now of Olau, and that he intended to grant the fief to its current castellan, Coram Smythsson, barring any objection on points of law. Duke Baird’s eyebrows shot up, and the Provost gave her a rather sharp (but approving , she thought) look across the table. No one raised an issue. Gary calmly announced he had researched the matter and saw no legal objection, as Smythsson was a Tortallan citizen and had kept his oath to the crown over a long career as a soldier. Trebond was handed off with very little fuss, and the last Trebond became an Olau. She wondered, fleetingly, if Thom or her father would have even cared.

****

The next few days were some of the happiest she’d passed in a long while. She hadn’t realized how much her worries about Jon, and Trebond, and her own future had been weighing on her. Everything from the earliest training session to the most boring receptions and council meetings felt suddenly effortless; her days had gone from heavy with constraints and frustration to…well, if not full of leisure, at least full of a sense of possibility . Once again, the only thing marring her good mood was George’s absence. But even that felt less heavy than it had before. At least half a dozen times a day, she found herself planning out how she’d tell him she was free to travel with him now, if he wanted it. And as free as a woman born into the Book of Gold had ever been to travel with him on other, more metaphorical roads. 

George had never formally asked her to marry him. But he’d made his intentions clear for many years, and she hadn’t scared him off. Goddess knows why . But she did have the distinct impression that the ball was now in her court -- that it was up to her to signal that she was ready for a public commitment. 

The concessions she’d gotten for letting go of Trebond felt like a strong first step in the public part to her. It was as good as an open declaration to the other men in her life, at least, that she didn’t plan to live her life as a shield maiden. Jon had seemed to take it as a sign she’d be marrying someone in the near future, and Myles had included plenty of provisions relating to her unnamed future consort. And she and Myles had written to Coram to let him know the offer coming his way; she had tried to impress on Coram that she was not upset that the fief had passed to him; that she had in fact suggested it as there was no one more competent or deserving, and that she was well provisioned through Olau. She’d also written that this left her free to explore -- or settle-- where she would. Coram and Rispah, she knew, would read between the lines of that little clause with varying degrees of approval. She rewrote the will she’d had done before the Coronation, too -- for the first time, making provisions for a future spouse and children. It was a mighty struggle not to blush up to the roots of her hair, putting that bit in to be witnessed by Myles and notarized by his lawyer. Thankfully, both were men used to presenting an impartial face, even if she did have the strong impression Myles was hiding a grin beneath his hand when she stood and turned to leave his office.

****

George had been gone for ten days when she walked into the kitchen after a hard workout in search of breakfast. He was leaning against the pantry door frame, watching her. It was such a strong echo of the day he’d shown up barely able to stand, when she’d forced him to lie down and let her Gift flow between them, and she felt something bright bloom in her chest at the sight of him both in life and in her memory. Nervous excitement fizzed in her veins. This is the moment .

 She let out a happy little laugh saying his name, and blushed a bit as she went to kiss him. Keep it together, she admonished herself. You sound like the worst kind of court ninny . But unlike then, his face was hard and he barely moved when her lips touched his. She pulled back, confused. The little speech she’d had planned curdled on her tongue. She searched his face, and tried another tack. “You must’ve just come in from the road. Want breakfast?” He fiddled with something in his hand, not meeting her eye, and nodded curtly.

She grabbed some cold meat and cheese, and a few sweet buns, and poured hot water over the coffee pot that had been standing ready for her. Balancing the tray on her hip, she led the way to the courtyard, where low cushions and bolsters had been stacked on carpets in the shade of a jasmine covered pergola. Myles had come home from the desert with a great appreciation for Bazhir comforts. She poured them both coffee, and cradled her cup in her hand, intending to wait for him to speak. He looked as miserable as she’d ever seen him. “George,” she said, suddenly unable to bear the silence, and he reluctantly met her eye. “What’s wrong?”

He picked up a bun, and tore a piece off, but didn’t eat it. 

“Had a meeting at the Dove this mornin’. Marek mentioned you’d given up Trebond. By way of congratulations, I suppose. He’d heard it had somethin’ to do with you preparin’ for marriage. It was news to me.”

Ah. She took a deep breath. “I mean, it’s complicated, but Myles negotiated…”

“It’s true, then?”

She stopped, confused. “Well, yes, it’s true that I gave up Trebond, not that I had much choice. Myles said…”

 “So who is it you’re contracted to marry?” His voice was flat.

She frowned at his tone. This wasn’t going the way she’d imagined it at all. “I’m not in negotiations to marry anyone at the moment. But I did want to discuss all this with you.”

A strange series of emotions flashed across his face. “So if you’re not marryin’...you sold it on to travel, then.”

She looked at him, confusion etching deeper between her brows at the abrupt change of subject. How had this conversation capsized before it had even begun?

“Well first of all, I didn’t sell it to anyone. Some twat two branches down the family tree was going to claim it out from under me. I passed it back to the Crown, and now Coram will get it. In exchange for some concessions from the Crown, to me.” She felt her temper rising. “Which, as I said, I had very much hoped to discuss with you , actually.” Her thoughts were disordered, her rising anger filling her head and hands with an unpleasant buzzing. “And who told you I was going traveling?” 

“You’re leaving with the Carthakis in a few weeks, Myles said. He wrote to let me know, so I could be home before you left.” His eyes caught hers, briefly, and then skittered away, settingly on an apparently fascinating bit of jasmine above her right shoulder. “Traveling all the way to the headwaters of the Zekoi, I imagine.”

She hadn't felt so baffled around George in years. Normally, talking to him cleared her head. It felt as natural as water flowing down hill. Now, there was some obstacle between them blocking all meaning.

“I mean, I’m leaving Corus with the Carthakis, yes.” He leaned back, his eyes dropping down to his lap, where he was methodically shredding his bun into scrap. It’d be back to flour in no time at the rate he was going. She couldn’t understand his agitation. “But I’m certainly not leaving Corus to marry some Carthaki, if that’s what you’re implying, and I’m not leaving Tortall, either. I’m just escorting them to Port Leganne. And then I’ll stay with the Bloody Hawk for a few weeks on my way back. I’m overdue to visit Koura and Karroum.”

He still didn’t meet her eye, and she grabbed his hand, irritated. “Can you stop destroying your breakfast and look at me?”

He did, and she was unprepared for the anger on his face. “George, what is going on ?”

“I don’t like bein’ in the dark.”

She threw up her hands, feeling absurdly like a housewife in a play. “George, I was just about to tell you all of this! How was I supposed to let you know? I had no idea where you were, or when you’d be back! And Myles didn’t even tell me about the jackass claiming Trebond until about a bell before we’d be due in court -- ” 

He finally dropped the remains of his abused bun. His mouth twisted. “Can you blame me for thinkin’ the worst? You’re restless. You hate being back in Corus.”

“Well, you’re not wrong there,” she muttered, rubbing her hands over her face. Whatever excitement she’d had about this conversation was long gone, and she would rather be almost anywhere else.

It only got worse from there. She kept thinking if he would just listen , she could explain, but he didn’t seem to want to understand her.  Before she knew it they were both on their feet, neither able to stay quiet or still. She felt a rising panic in her chest -- she hadn't fought like this with George, ever.  Surely, they’d said nasty things and raised their voices before, but because they disagreed , not because of some fundamental rift. Really the only fight she’d had that felt the same was with Jonathon, in the desert, when he had been so sure she’d come home as his fiancee-- the fight that had ended it all. But this is George , the small baffled part of her that wasn’t yelling at the top of her lungs in her father’s courtyard kept repeating. It’s George. We don’t fight like this. It’s George.

She reached out to grab his arm, to -- what? Beg him to understand?-- and he twisted away, his face cold. “I don’t have time for this, Alanna,” he said, and she had never heard him say her name like that -- cold and clipped, without a trace of warmth or pride. She felt like she might vomit. “I’m due at the palace. You can tell me what’s truly happenin’ later, if you have the courage. Or mayhap I should speak to Myles, if I want an honest answer.”

And then, before she could even muster a response, he turned and walked away, slamming the kitchen door on his way out. The sudden silence was as overwhelming as the argument had been. Every nerve in her skin was crackling as though she’d stepped on a hornets nest and her thoughts were crowded out by an unpleasant thrum in her mind that sounded like magic running through metal. Her eyes were hot with tears and it was only her old sparring master’s iron-clad rule to “ turn and throw up outside the ring, if you have to,” that spared Myle’s fine carpets from the bile that poured out of her stomach.