The Woman Who Rides Like a Man (Song of the Lioness #3)

Faithful jumped onto the saddle, and Alanna turned the mare away from the village. She stopped once at the square’s edge to look back; the tall post still stood, lit by flickering lightning. Alanna pointed at it and spoke a single powerful word. The stake blasted from the ground as if shot from a bow, shattering into fragments no larger than toothpicks.

Alanna and Coram halted by the marker they had seen that morning. Hurriedly the knight spread a groundcover on the wet grass; Coram gently placed the sorceress on it. The woman they had saved was in her forties, dark-haired, her eyes a deep brown. Old and new bruises covered her; a trickle of fresh blood accented the corner of her mouth. She was badly burned.

Taking her hand, Alanna reached with her Gift, already knowing what she would find.

“Don’t spend your strength, child.” The woman’s voice was hoarse. “I know I am dying.”

Alanna withdrew, sick at heart. “How did you get such deep injuries?”

“They stoned me yesterday,” was the answer. “My poor children, who will look after them now?”

“Ye’re sorry for them?” Coram asked, astounded.

“It has been a terrible winter,” she whispered. “The food was running out. Yahzed’s priest told them it was because of me: that the foodstores would renew themselves if they had me killed. They were hungry.”

“Fools!” Coram muttered.

The sorceress took Alanna’s hand. “You two have given me the death I did not hope to have, lying at peace among friends. Halef Seif sent you?” Alanna nodded. “I prayed he could help. Never think you came too late. My life was over when they laid hands on me a week ago. How could I live knowing the ones I had brought into the world and cared for wanted me dead?” Squeezing Alanna’s hand, she said, “Open your heart to me.”

Alanna felt the sorceress in her mind as a kind, gentle presence easing her bitterness over the woman’s impending death. A second later the older female released Alanna’s hand, sweating and trembling from her efforts.

“You are the one I need,” she gasped. “Listen, Alanna of Trebond! I can give you a gift. Will you accept it?”

Alanna touched the ember-stone. It was warm, but not hot, and she realized what the sorceress had to say was important. “Go on.”

The woman’s battered lips parted in a smile. “Listen well! You have the knowledge to restore your broken sword: it was in the spell that made you one with the Bloody Hawk and one with your foster-father. It lies in the spell that made the Prince the Voice of the Tribes. Take the crystal sword and make it one with the sword that is your own. You will need it: a dark time is coming for Tortall.”

Alanna nodded, biting a trembling lip.

The sorceress reached inside her tattered dress and produced a scorched silk envelope that bulged with its contents. “I would have let this burn, but now you may take it to Halef Seif. He will know what to do.” She shuddered, her limbs twitching. When the convulsion passed, she said, “Let nothing stop you from giving that envelope to Halef Seif!”

“I’ll do it,” Alanna told her. “Don’t fret.”

The woman nodded. “I’m so tired,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She smiled at Faithful. “All three of you.” Her breathing was suddenly shallow. “Tell Halef I will be waiting when he makes the journey...”

Her voice trailed off. Within moments her breath had stopped, and Alanna gently closed her eyes. Tear-blinded, she stood.

Coram buried the sorceress. “Did ye even know her name?”

Alanna shook her head, watching her companion shovel the last bit of dirt onto the grave. “Halef Seif never mentioned it, and neither did she.”

“A pity to leave her without a marker,” Coram admitted somberly. “But it’s our lives to go to the village and find out.”

“She’ll have a marker,” Alanna whispered.

You don’t have the strength, Faithful cautioned. When will you learn when to stop?

“I’m going to do this one last thing,” she retorted. “Stand back, both of you.”

As Coram and Faithful obeyed, she clenched her fists. There was no spell for what she wanted to do, but she was determined not to let that stop her. If the will to accomplish was the greatest part of any magic, she had only to tell the earth what she required, and that was what she did. The ground beyond the head of the grave shook as she pulled at it. When she opened her tightly closed eyes, a granite pillar stood to mark the burying place. Deeply-graven letters proclaimed, “Here lies the sorceress of Alois, who loved the people who killed her.”

Coram took over, getting her as far away from the village as possible. She was barely conscious when he chose a campsite. She collapsed exhausted onto the ground, barely waking when Coram tucked her into her bedroll. He couldn’t wake her the next morning. Since Faithful showed no signs of alarm, he settled down for a day of relaxation, keeping a watchful eye on his knight-mistress as he whittled.