Faithful’s yowl and Si-cham’s scream alerted her to danger: The old man struggled with someone at the door. Alanna grabbed a chair, dragging herself to her feet.
A double-headed ax chopped down, biting deep into Si-cham’s collarbone. He dropped. Josiane stood in the doorway, spattered with his blood, trying to work her ax free.
“Why didn’t you blast me, old fool?” she panted.
Alanna knew the answer, although she refused to tell the princess: If Si-cham had taken that chance, he’d have been open to Roger’s leeching spell. He’d broken the link to Alanna and Jon for the same reason; Roger would have taken his Gift unless he concentrated on his own defense. Now Si-cham was dead. He and his Gift were forever out of Roger’s grasp.
Josiane freed her blade and stepped over the old man’s body, smiling. “He told me you’d be here,” she explained. “He said he didn’t think I could take you, but I was welcome to try. You aren’t doing well, are you?” She inched forward, ready to pounce. Maneuvering for room, Alanna tripped over a footstool. Josiane darted forward, her ax high.
They’d forgotten Faithful. Screeching, he flew into Josiane’s face, clinging as she howled and dropped the ax.
Stop Roger! the cat ordered as Josiane gripped his small body. The princess hurled him down and stepped with all her might. With Faithful’s agonized cry, strength poured into his mistress. She crouched and lunged, drawing Lightning as she moved. With a single, brutal slash she cut Josiane down. Her new strength pounded in her ears as she shoved the dying woman aside to pick up Faithful.
Time to go home, he cried, and was gone. Gently she placed him on a table.
Her fingers shook as she unbuckled her sword belt, letting it and the sheath drop. With Lightning gripped in her hand, she walked out the door, heading for her last conversation with Duke Roger of Conté.
Coram, George, and Liam arrived in the Hall of Crowns as the fifth quake began. This time the fighting halted as everyone waited to see if the roof would come down. The stone floor of the chamber rolled and shuddered like the deck of a seafaring ship, throwing more than one person to the ground.
The crowds were gone, most escaping through the City Doors: Only the combatants remained, each involved in his or her own separate battle for survival. Duke Gareth, Gary, and Myles were all that was left of the circle guarding Jonathan. Raoul and several of the King’s Own fought desperately to stem the flow of Tirragen and Eldorne men coming from the chambers behind the Hall. The Provost and more royal men-at-arms contained a rush of enemies from the main aisle.
Liam quickly appraised the situation and grabbed a pike, going to Raoul’s aid, where the danger of a breakthrough was worst. Coram joined the men around Jon, steadying himself for a long morning. Buri, streaked with dirt and sweat, saluted him with a grin before she and Thayet attacked a cluster of archers. He saw Rispah guarding Eleni, just as he saw several groups of enemies struggling against the invisible ropes George’s mother had bound them with. George thrust the Jewel into Jonathan’s hands and turned to become part of Jon’s protective circle.
The king closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, gripping the Jewel tightly. He called all his magics—his own Gift, the Bazhir desert sorcery, the power of the kings and the land of Tortall that was bound into the crown, the magic of the Dominion Jewel—and he threw them over the length and breadth of Tortall, feeling the Earth’s pain as if his own body were being shattered. Like an ancient tree sending out its myriad roots, he bound each crack and fault with sorcery, gripped the whole to him—and held.
The crown, dedicated to the realm for centuries, blazed. The Jewel shone even brighter than the crown, and the battles raged in the corridors of the palace. Jonathan was part of all of it, his vision reaching everywhere. Being the Voice of the Tribes had prepared him for such a confusing moment, when someone else might have been driven mad by the consciousness of each person, animal, tree, and stone in the realm. Jonathan was able to encompass it, to set the greater part of it aside, with a bit of his awareness to guard it. His chief vision focused on a small, copper-and-gold figure traveling through the bowels of the castle.
The ground floor, the level below Thom’s quarters, consisted of public rooms: the Hall of Crowns, salons, libraries, ballrooms, the banquet room. Alanna bypassed it on one of a hundred staircases without hesitation, her mind and will fixed on the catacombs. Next was the level where everyday business took place: Healers, tailors, laundrywomen, scribes, armorers, quartermasters, and mapmakers all worked here. Today this level was empty; Alanna’s feet made the only sound. Next was stores: endless rooms filled with every imaginable supply. This level, too, was silent.
The dungeons and guardrooms were the third level below ground. She heard fighting, but the way to Roger that Si-cham had shown her was a safe distance away from it. Here, the shock that Jonathan had contained found her. She waited after its halt, expecting another: It never came, but the ground shivered continuously, shifting slightly from time to time. Pieces of the ceiling hailed down; the staircase began to exhibit tiny cracks and to lose small pieces.
Jon’s stopped the big quakes, the Mother-shakers, she thought, but how long can the palace—or any building—take this constant stress?
Down Alanna went, her eyes blazing in her tight face. She halted once, to wipe sweaty palms on her shirt. Then she gripped Lightning afresh and moved on.
The length of the stairs increased as she descended; they were broken up by landings, with a guardroom off each landing. Since the stair she followed was little used, the guardrooms were shut. Now, approaching the catacombs on the fourth level, she found one blazing with light. She halted a few steps above it, considering her options.
Perhaps the occupant knew she wanted no more delays: Alex of Tirragen, silver mail glittering, stepped out onto the landing. His unsheathed sword rested in one black-gauntleted hand. “Just you? I’d’ve thought you’d bring others.”
“I’m in a hurry.” Her eyes sparkled dangerously. “Get out of my way, before he tears the palace down around our ears.”
Shapes moved on the stair below the landing—two big men-at-arms in Tirragen purple-and-black. “Yer lordship—” one rumbled nervously.
“She’s panicking,” Alex snapped, his eyes not leaving Alanna. “Hold your positions!” He indicated the lit room with his blade. “Step inside, lady knight. There’s more space.”
She hesitated, looking from Alex to his men. She wanted to scream with rage, or blast them with her Gift …
She walked inside. The furniture had been shoved into a second chamber; branches of candles lit the main room. “Aren’t you going to have your friends watch?”
“The only witness I need is right here.” He touched his temple with a gloved finger. “You can stretch first, if you like.”
“And lose more time? No.”
Alex tried a few lazy passes with his own sword, taunting her. “I’ve waited for this chance.”
Exasperated, she snapped, “You’re crazy, to want to play ‘best squire’ at a moment like this.”
Alex moved into place. Both swung their weapons up to “guard.” “Think what you like.”
He attacked savagely, his calm face a violent contrast to his rapidly spinning and slashing blade. Alanna blocked repeatedly, hiding her dismay: After the draining of her Gift, she was a touch slower than she needed to be against an opponent with whom a touch of slowness made all the difference. She fought with her brain, carefully maintaining her defense, watching for Alex to make an error out of his need. She circled, Lightning flowing to stop Alex’s blade each time he thrust or cut inward—high, low, either side. She caught his eyes shifting away from her shoulders; like a novice he was plainly searching for an opening. She smiled grimly.