Alan of Trebond

Alanna is late.

Rushing headlong through the city gates, she reflexively bows her head to the statue of the Goddess in its alcove and darts between two arguing lords on the way to the palace for a late audience with Duke Gareth.

That's what comes of wearing skirts, she thinks. I forget I've a proper brain in my head, swanning about the city that way.

Well, she's not wearing a dress now. The gown and her black wig are safely stored at Mistress Cooper's, but she's still not dressed appropriately for the evening. Jonathan will have her head for missing this exhibition and ball, on top of all the others. She must be there on time.

Where have you been? Faithful yowls at her when she careens through the door to her chamber.

"Not now," Alanna pants, tearing off her simple shirt. "Late."

The black cat is still bristling with disapproval as she stumbles out again. At least she's turned out well, in her black breeches and sapphire blue tunic trimmed in silver: the Prince's colors. As always, Faithful, Lightning and the two charms around her neck are her only accessories.

A turn to the left, a swift run down a long gallery, then a shortcut down the stairs, and she's outside again, only a few hundred yards from the palace gardens and the evening’s events. Up ahead, she spies Jonathan marching toward her with a grim look on his face.

You're in for it now.

“You're not-" pant, pant "-helping."

Alanna slows, doing her best to work her features from stubborn into a contrite mask. "Your Highness," she starts to call, but then-

Then everything changes.

There's a sharp crack. A loud bang. Twilight is replaced with a glaringly bright, white light that vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Staggering to the side and blinking rapidly, Alanna howls in pain at the sharp claws digging into her shoulder. "Let go you blasted animal!"

Something has happened. Even Faithful sounds unnerved.

"Quite obviously," Alanna snaps, drawing Lightning from its sheath. Her vision clears slowly, allowing only simple impressions of marble and dust. It's several moments before the full scope of her situation sets in. "Great Mother," she breathes. "Have I gone and fallen into the old palace?"

From where she stands, she can see half of a large circular chamber below. To her left, a marble archway leads to a room with a large yellow gem that appears to be cut from stone; there's broken glass all around it.

A low grumbling, grating sound echoes down the hall, and the grip on her sword suddenly gets a whole lot tighter.

"I don't like this," she whispers. Faithful nudges her ear in agreement.

That doesn't mean either of them is opposed to investigating.

When Alanna asks Faithful to stay with Myles, the cat makes his displeasure known.

You don't have enough sense to take care of yourself. I remind you that it's only through my intervention that you're here at all, he yowls.

Stubbornly, Alanna ignores his rather valid argument. "I'll be gone an hour at most."

"Are you sure it's wise?" asks Myles, blinking owlishly at them over his scrolls and a glass of brandy. He'll need her hangover remedy in the morning. "You've only just healed, and they will have you running yourself into the ground again tomorrow."

Why bother. Yawning, Faithful twitches his tail and curls himself into a small ball of black fur. She’ll do what she likes.

"And you won't?" Alanna snaps at her pet.

Myles gives her an odd look. Touching her head, Alanna scowls and bows stiffly.

"The healers will only fuss over me at length, if I stay. I need to think. I can't think with all the incense.”

Well aware he is fighting a losing battle, Myles nods and returns to his work.

Don't get lost. I have prowling of my own to do later.

-- -- --

Her collarbone aches.

Now that she's alone, she can admit as much to herself. "Blast Alex," she grumbles quietly, stalking past the fencing courts. If it weren't for the bone crushing blow he had dealt her, she too would be practicing sword drills with the other squires. As it is, she will be back in the saddle, literally and figuratively, far more quickly than most. Her Gift had seen to that.

What had Alex been thinking? The cold, angry look in his eyes, so shocking from a friend, kept her up most nights this past week. Part of her is annoyed that he was packed off on border patrol, taking his explanations with him. And no matter how many times she puzzles over the attack, only one answer presents itself: Duke Roger of Conte.

Alanna enters the Royal Forest and, considering herself far enough from court to break protocol, curses soundly. But then the curse dies on her lips, and all thoughts of Roger disappear.

Her feet are wet; it's the first thing she notices. Blinking, she glances down at a worn pair of brown leather boots and shakes off the worst of the water. There are other pools nearby, she notes. She is not, however, driven to investigate them.

Dimly, she wonders if it should bother her more that she can't remember her name, or where she is, but it's barely a passing thought. There's a sword at her side, and she smiles softly as her hand dances over the hilt. At the moment, it's hard to imagine ever feeling the need to draw it.

All that matters is the beauty and serenity of the woods, and it seems only natural to start walking, letting her feet lead her where they will.