“She has bewitched you!” the shaman cried, his eyes bulging with fury. “As she has bewitched these others—” The wave of his hand took in the girls. He gasped as Faithful suddenly leaped out, seemingly from nowhere, to land spitting in the sand before the shaman. “Away, demon!” he cried. Frantically he drew shimmering yellow magical symbols in the air.
Alanna reacted. “Stop!” A wall of purple magic streaked from her fingers to surround Faithful, just as yellow fire left the shaman’s hands. It shattered against the wall protecting Faithful; Ibn Nazzir swore. For a moment there was silence as the violet wall faded from sight.
“Perhaps now you will give more courtesy to the companions of the Woman Who Rides Like a Man, Akhnan Ibn Nazzir,” Halef Seif commented, his voice a quiet warning. “Tell me now where you obtained the sword you wear.”
“It lay in the desert for anyone to take it who could,” the older man spat. “I knew the spells to assuage its hunger and to give it greater life—”
“Let me see it,” Halef Seif ordered, stretching out his hand. When the shaman hesitated, the younger man’s face grew stern. “I am headman here, and headman I stay until the Voice of the Tribes takes my right from me. The request is reasonable. Do not defy me.”
Trembling with fury, the shaman unclipped the sword’s sheath and held it out. The headman reached for it.
Stop him! Faithful warned.
“Don’t touch it!” Alanna cried.
Everyone looked at her. Ibn Nazzir glared pure hate. Fingering Lightning’s hilt, Alanna continued.
“Such swords bite, Halef Seif. I imagine Akhnan Ibn Nazzir knows it, too.” She gripped the silver hilt of the crystal blade and drew it.
The sword’s magic screeched through her. Alanna bit back a yell of pain. Sweat poured down her face as she struggled with pure magic, forcing it slowly to her will.
At last the sword’s resistance lessened. She looked up at Halef. “It might’ve killed you, unless you have the Gift.” The man shook his head. “It’s magic, but the magic’s been used for killing and breaking. It can only be controlled by someone with the Gift. You don’t have to be a great sorcerer—just stubborn.”
Halef Seif rounded on Ibn Nazzir. “You knew this?” His soft voice was dangerous.
“I swear I did not!” the shaman cried. “I know of the power, as would any man who grasped it in his hand—”
“Or any woman,” murmured Ishak, who had followed Halef.
Ibn Nazzir glared at him swiftly before returning to Halef Seif. “That it would harm, even kill, the headman—” He drew himself up as far as he could. “Such an offense is one no shaman would commit, Halef Seif. Has this woman so corrupted you that you see evil everywhere you turn?”
Alanna studied the crystal sword. Its hilt was slightly longer than Lightning’s, etched with occult symbols and studded at the pommel with sapphires and diamonds. She had seen symbols like these recently....
Remembering, she dropped the blade, backing away from it in horror. The shaman stooped and grabbed it, slamming it into its sheath.
“What’s wrong with ye?” Coram demanded softly. She had not seen him arrive.
“Roger,” she whispered. “The hilt—it’s the same as Duke Roger’s wizard’s rod! I’ll never be free of him!” She turned and fled to her tent, Faithful galloping after her.
“Who is this ’Roger’?” Halef Seif asked Coram as the crowd dispersed.
Alanna’s friend waited until they were alone before he replied, and he kept his powerful voice low. “Duke Roger of Conté. Him that was next in line to Prince Jonathan for the throne of Tortall.”
Halef made the Sign against Evil. “The great sorcerer who was killed not one moon past?”
Coram nodded. “Aye. She slew him, for his plot to kill the Queen.” He sighed. “She always hated the Duke, feared him, even. He felt the same about her. She killed him in proper combat, before the King and his Court, but she never felt right about it.” His dark eyes were thoughtful. “I’d give a lot to know how a sword that looks like his wizard’s rod turned up in her path now.”
Halef Seif put his hand on Coram’s shoulder. “She has been chosen by the gods. Is that not reason enough?”
Alanna remained alone in her tent until dark, petting Faithful and remembering. No matter how she looked at it, she could see no way she could have done things differently. Made wary—and aware—by her Ordeal of Knighthood, she had searched Duke Roger’s quarters. She had found enough evidence to damn him in any eyes: the wax model of the Queen, worn away by falling water until the Queen herself was close to death; wax images of the King, the Prince, and the important Court officials, even one of Alanna, all tied up in a thick veil. She had taken the evidence to King Roald, presented it before the entire Court. Roger had demanded a trial by combat: she had won.
She had hated Roger of Conté, but she couldn’t forget the sight of him as he was carried into his tomb far beneath the palace. She’d spent so much of her life thinking about the sorcerer who was Jonathan’s cousin that it was hard to realize he was gone.