The Lion of Tortall
Lord Alan of Trebond withers away in his decaying mausoleum, amidst crumbling stone and mountains of tattered manuscripts from where even the ink is fading fast now. His eyes never stray past the portrait of his red-haired girl-bride, they never look beyond the dancing violet eyes, the flowerlike young face of Alyssa of Winterhaven, dead for eight years. He never rises from his chair to throw back the moth-eaten velvet drapes of the high-arched windows. He never sees Alyssa's sons, and when he does he chooses to ignore them, like nightmares that will vanish one day and departing, somehow return his love back to him.
Young Alan scampers up the crag as nimbly as a mountain goat, sunlight threading his tousled red curls with gold. He takes aim when he's at the top, and laughing like a carefree child, shoots, seemingly at random, without proper consideration of his target. There's the piercing cry of a creature in mortal pain and then a dove, its white breast bloodied, spirals uncontrollably earthwards. At ten, Alan, named for his father, is easily the best marksman in the castle. His brother, pale, sickly Thom, and their guardsman, Coram Smythesson, his dark face and coarse features betraying his common-born origin, pant up the crag but by then Alan has already set up a fire and is preparing to cook himself a meal.
"Brightest young lad in all o' Tortall, I'll wager," Coram says warmly, patting his charge on the back. "I saw that shot from below, Alan, I did – you've talent, laddie-boy. Don't lose it. And you, boy," he adds sternly, frowning at Thom who has collapsed wearily on the sparse, prickly grass in exhaustion, "You'd do best to be following your brother's lead – eff'minate, that's what I say!"
Alan smiles confidently, and runs a lean hand through his hair, blazing flame-bright under the glare of the afternoon sun. He knows he's the best – believes it with all his heart – because he's been taught to believe in his own legend, by the doting guardsmen and villagers, for so many years. He can't wait to go to the palace to train as a knight. I'm going to be the greatest of them all, he thinks, with all the simplicity and naïve arrogance of a child. From the highlands of the Copper Isles to the shores of Tyra, from the plains of Maren to the mountains of Sarain minstrels shall laud me in their songs – Sir Alan the Noble, the Gentle, the Valiant!
He shoots a sympathetic glance behind Coram's broad back to his twin, but there's contempt mingled with the compassion. Of course he loves Thom, but he knows instinctively in his heart, that delicate, weak-willed Thom will never be a great knight. At eight, Alan respects no one but himself – he holds non-combatants like his father, weaklings like his brother, commoners and most of all, women (frail, poor-spirited, timid creatures who require counsel and firm guidance from the superior male race for their own good) in condescending scorn. He has nobody to look up to, and frankly believes himself to be at par with the noblest and greatest in the land. His temper is as strong as his will and the only thing that he fears is magic and it's strange, inherent stratagems, it's dark, winding mysteries.
0 0 0
Like many noble boys, Alan and Thom are sent to the Court at Corus when the pass their tenth summer, to receive the training of a Knight of the Realm. Alan sits as proudly on his plump pony, as a knight on his charger, his eyes, so like his mother's, bright and shining as he spins castles in the air. Thom follows Coram, his small face a study in untrammeled fury, at a sullen pace.
On his first night at the palace, Alan slips into his scarlet-and-gold page's uniform, loving the rustle of the soft cloth, the faint fragrance of lavender still clinging to it after its wash, against his skin. He strides into the hallway with the arrogance of a prince, ignoring the other boys' stares, intimidating even tall Ralon of Malven with his calm assurance. Prince Jonathan watches the new redhead, and his lackeys – strong Raoul of Goldenlake, quick-witted Gareth of Naxen, sharp Alex of Tirragen – register the displeasure in his cool sapphire-blue eyes. "He carries himself royally," is the only remark the prince permits himself, and the rest of the hall immediately understands.
They have been granted royal approval to shun cocky young Alan of Trebond.
Alan, with the brazen (and naïve) boldness of a country lad, never thinks to pay his honorable respects to the heir apparent, as a loyal subject. He calls the king-to-be 'Prince Jon' – That's your Royal Highness to you, you brat! Jonathan thinks in rage, but with the diplomacy of a born ruler never reveals his true feelings – and proves to be an exceptional rider and marksman, much to the chagrin of Geoffrey of Meron, the former star pupil, and the Prince himself, who is Geoffrey's sponsor. Alex deigns to take Alan in hand, as his sponsor but his final report is, "He needs to be taught a lesson, if he's ever to learn his place here."
Raoul decides that he's the best one to treat the country bumpkin a lesson – all in his best interests of course. What follows is months of 'gentle guidance'. Alan with a recklessness and defiance that does credit to his fiery-red hair, fights back and never admits that he's fighting a losing battle. Soon his thin young body is riddled with cuts and bruises bloom daily on his torn flesh, yellow, blue, purple blossoms on tainted white flesh. Thom hides in the shadows, until finally he sees enough to make him ill and rouse his dormant courage.
Alan has inherited his blood and spirit from the fiery Winterhaven clan with its gory history and fervent, mad passions, riddled with the passionate love of brothers for sisters and the searing betrayal of mothers against their own sons. Thom is his father's son, caution and prudence overriding impulse even in boyhood, milk flowing in place of fire in his veins. And so young Thom goes one night to meet the prince and to beg, on his knees, for his brother's pardon.
"See to it that he learns to behave himself," the prince says with royal disdain, without a glance at the bowed head.
"He looks like a king," Raoul whispers in admiration to Alex and Alex nods slowly, a sly, cunning smile flitting over his swarthy face. Gary watches the two whisper to eachother and thinks that one day, when they're grown up, they'll enact many a scene like this – King Jonathan enthroned in state receiving condemned men, regality radiating from his person, while his three most trusted advisors (Head of the King's Men, Goldenlake, Prime Minister, Naxen, and King's Champion, Tirragen) watch on.
Thom promises. Alan is old enough to take a hint though – especially when the hint is in the form of his beloved twin bellowing his lungs out at him, for the first time in his life – and from then on he manages to comport himself less brazenly, if not quite humbly.
0 0 0
The Sweating Sickness sweeps through the land, slaughtering master and lackey alike. Whole villages fall victim to the plague and even Corus, Tortall's shining, unblemished capital, falls siege. The groans of the dead and the dying resonate through the stone palace and white-faced Alan encounters death for the first time as he watches thirteen-year-old Francis of Nond being put to rest under the cold earth. Thom turns his face from the death and the destruction, to play with his magic – reading messages in dancing, multi-hued flames and bowls of water. Alan avoids his brother, his inherent fear of magic controlling his actions, and chooses to light sweetly-scented sticks of incense and offer futile prayers to the Great Goddess, while Thom slips away in the night to work his Gift on the sick.
And then the Prince himself falls ill. Alan is too old now to be pleased about this – such a sickness transcends petty, childish grudges. The question lingers in the minds of one and all – if the heir apparent falls ill what then? Anarchy, the unspoken word rings, louder than a thousand blaring trumpet, through court and city and country.
"I can save him."
The words of the redheaded child are seconded by Sir Myles – "Your liege, please listen to him" – and then by the Queen, whittling away under strain, fear and exhaustion – "Roald, he's our only chance". The Goddess's mark aids the natural power of the Winterhaven blood, which still lingers in his veins, and by dawn, Prince Jonathan is as strong as Thom is weak.
"Ask of me any boon, and I shall grant it," Queen Lianne whispers, drawing the exhausted child towards her, with the love of a mother.
Thom collapses, at the last stage of bone-dead weariness, in her arms. The granting of the boon is deferred. For now.
0 0 0
Alan of Trebond is Roger of Conté's slave for life before they exchange two words. He falls for the duke's deceptive charm, his beauty, his seeming nobility and easy-tempered, unassuming friendliness and courtesy. And yet, he admires the duke's dignity and stateliness, his sartorial elegance and the high figure he cuts on a horse, his superb mastery of the art of swordsmanship – He'd make an excellent king, Alan thinks and wonders, puzzled, why incompetent, spoiled Jonathan should receive the throne when his cousin obviously deserves it so much more.
He works hard to impress the duke and masters dueling in record time. "Fine boy, that young Trebond," the pages' training master murmurs to Duke Gareth, "Just a mite too full of himself – but there's plenty of talent in him. And perseverance, oh yes – he's got a bright future."
Gareth watches the slim, red-haired boy who's rapidly shooting up into a young man and remembers a girl with eyes like dewy violets, a face as exquisitely delicate as a lily framed with a mane of lustrous blazing golden-red hair. "He looks a good deal like his mother," is his only reply.
Alan quickly gains a name for himself as the brightest page and the decision is unanimous that the Prince deserves the finest and the best – namely young Trebond – as his personal squire. Though it's a unanimous pairing, both of the partners who are being set up for it are unwilling to enter. Alan doesn't look forward to what he feels will be four years of torturous bullying from a spoilt ingrate while Jonathan shies away from the boy he still considers the Trebond brat, even though the aforementioned brat is now fourteen years old.
Alan and Thom watch their first public execution on a trip to the city. Licking boiled sweets, they listen to the crowd murmuring about the man who's to be executed – "The Rogue himself, now fancy that", "Provost has a quick mind, aye, he does" "Would you ever imagine they'd catch the Rogue, dearie me no".
Alan shades his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun and watches the tall, brown-haired man ascend the steps leading to the platform where stands the noose. "He looks so ordinary, doesn't he?" he remarks to his brother. "What's his name again – oh, George Cooper, right?"
Thom only nods and shrugs, "I guess so – but why do you care? It's none of our business."
Thom receives the Queen's boon when he's on the cusp of squirehood – a trip to Persopolis with the squires. Under the sun-baked spires of the Black City and at its scorch-marked altar of sacrifice, Prince Jonathan wins back his life – forfeit from birth by reason of proximity to the crown – for the second time. Beneath a ghastly desert moon, by a glimmering oasis, he decides who he shall take as his squire.
Thom of Trebond.
0 0 0
"I've seen you on the fencing court, the archery range and the racing tracks – you're a fine lad, Alan of Trebond, and I'd be honored to have you as my squire."
Alan is almost overwhelmed by gratitude to the duke. Roger smiles contentedly, a little flattered to receive the boy's wholehearted, ungrudging loyalty and devotion without even trying, but doesn't reveal his reasons for choosing him. The boy's brother is the Prince's squire and well… business always comes first.
As an unblooded squire of fifteen, Alan defeats Dain of Melor, and by that simple act wins renown and notoriety. The honor goes to his head and he waltzes the court beauties – green-eyed Delia of Eldorne, the Prince's prize, fair-haired Cythera of Elden, young Naxen's sweetheart – across the ballroom with the suave, supreme confidence of a favorite of the court. The young women are enamored by his confidence, his mastery of swordsmanship and most of all by his courtly grace and personal charm. At fifteen, he's a good-looking fellow indeed, with all his mother's beauty in a more masculine form. He's inherited his height from his father's side though, and is tall – not petite like her – with a boldly roguish face that never fails to entice noblewomen, flashing purple eyes and shaggy red hair always falling into his eyes that they love to pull off his forehead.
"He'll grow out of it," Thom says mildly when his knight-master rants and raves about his brother's conduct. "And it's not like he chases the girls – they do that to him, and he just plays along with them."
Lady Delia, jewel of the court, offers her body to the Prince – and he gratefully accepts – but her love lingers with Alan of Trebond – as the whole court knows and duly gossips about. He wears her favor while he jousts – a mark of her regard that not even the Prince receives. Alan blithely carries off the honors of love with the keen pleasure that is to be expected from an untroubled young squire. He watches the knights pay their compliments to his mastery over the subtle arts of war and love with strained courtesy, and he knows that he's made an enemy of almost all the young bloods at court.
He doesn't care. As Duke Roger's protégé, he does as he pleases. It's the sheer, befuddling arrogance, the utter fearlessness, of his actions as he seduces women – noble and common alike, without a second thought – that draw the maidens towards him so strongly. And he uses them, murmurs pretty words into their ears, never forgets to leave them a token of his affection – a trinket like a brooch or a ribbon usually suffices – but his contempt for the weakness of womankind only deepens.
He's a very young sixteen, he realizes, when caught in the bloody battlefields of the Tusaine Delta. He hacks through the bodies, with a mercilessness alien to his hot-blooded yet chivalrous nature, of the faceless men who stand in his path and cannot comprehend the sheer uselessness, the waste of so much beauty and youth and strength in something as futile as a war. After his first campaign, he throws up behind the Duke's tent, praying that the sounds will not reach the others.
Prince Jonathan, riding towards his cousin's tent for a last-minute consultation, hears the retching noises behind the bushes and rides closer to investigate. It's he who sympathetically holds Alan's head for him, offers him a gourd of water and reassures him that his reaction to the skirmish is only normal, nay only human. In that moment, he doesn't see the Trebond brat, the cocky man-whore he's despised for six years in the boy's trembling, bone-weary form. He sees only one of his childhood comrades, faced with the bitter reality of war, cheated of his former rainbow-hued illusions of glory on the battlefield. It's his instinct which overrides his preconceived notions and for the first time, he is kind to Alan.
"What's the use of all this?" Alan croaks, his head buried in his arms. "All this destruction…"
Jonathan sits down on a mossy, festering log and crosses his long legs. He pats the younger boy lightly on the back and when he speaks, the trained words of a future monarch do not rise to his lips. He speaks his mind and the words ring with the sincerity of youth and an unsullied mind. "There is no use – it's wrong. War can never solve a problem, Alan – its peace that we must strive for."
Alan looks up startled, because it sounds so wrong, because he's been taught for sixteen years that a warrior's task is the noblest, the most honorable. And yet…
"Come on, Trebond," Jonathan sighs, "I'll wager you have work to do – and I'd better have a last word about Roger, he's changed the arrangements of the infantry again…" Neither are to forget that night behind the bushes, a cool breeze diffusing the stench of blood and decomposing bodies that pervades the entire camp.
Sixteen-year-old Alan of Trebond takes an arrow for his prince.
"Thank you," Jonathan whispers, leaning over the mottled face of his squire's brother, black blood bubbling from paper-white lips. "Thank you for my life."
"A debt for a debt," Alan whispers hoarsely, death in his white face. "I never forget, Highness."
Jonathan wonders – but does not ask – in what capacity Alan – of all people – had stood in debt to him. Just because I held his head for him? he thinks. He doesn't know that his words, shining arrows, have taken flight and planted themselves solidly in the core of Alan's heart. They've given Alan another taste of life, a life where the warrior stands no better than a common butcher (and perhaps worse), where peace is not a time to be sneered at, but to be prized and nurtured.
Duke Roger weaves intricate plots and Tortall's beautiful Queen begins to fade away while the autumn foliage around the palace blazes in glory. Prince Jonathan spends nightly vigils by his mother's bedside, but the opinion of all the Healers is unanimous – the pallor of death already shines on her white brow and there is nothing that can be done. Alan, sweating and toiling to perfect his swordsmanship, pays little heed to the rumors circulating around court – after all the Queen is only a woman. A woman's life is of little or no consequence after she has borne an heir.
"She's quite pretty, isn't she?" Thom whispers to his brother one night, as they watch tall Ilane of Seabeth and Seajen stand quietly by her husband, Baron Piers of Mindelan, as they are received at Court as Royal Ambassador to the Yamani Islands and Lady.
"Decadent aren't you? Chasing after married women," Gary of Naxen murmurs, overhearing Thom's comment. "And if you're looking for pretty, look over there – a real beauty, that little one from Queenscove, Duke Baird's youngest sister, I believe…"
Almost eighteen now, Alan glances curiously across the ballroom and promptly loses his heart to a slip of a girl, hardly fifteen years old. Smooth, glossy waves of dark hair, shafts of gold woven in the loosely curling rings of dark chestnut, frame an oval face as sweetly pretty as a little girl's. But there's a sharp intelligence that glitters in Lady Carina's doe-like olive eyes, and a particular recklessness and defiance of character, a nonchalant joie de vivre so akin to that in Alan's.
In a fortnight they are lovers.
Neither expect much from their relationship and they're simply content to enjoy eachother's company and presence in bed. Alan is too young for marriage and Carina is already promised to another. By the time Alan's eighteenth Midwinter approaches, Carina has been relegated to the role of a sedate young bride standing quietly by her husband's side, her dazzling olive eyes now always low and downcast. She offers Alan a demure half-smile and immediately looks down, to preserve the proprieties, when he enters the Chamber of Ordeal, after receiving a grueling instruction from his knight-master and Duke Gareth of Naxen.
When he is released, his snow-white tunic is splattered with blood – some of it his own – and there is a gaping hole on the right side of his face where an ear once stood. He stumbles out, his face as white as bone, salty tears mingling with warm blood on his face, letting his knight-master catch him as he falls. He forgets the Chamber's admonition in the rush of sweet relief he experiences when he's freed. It's beautiful to be alive, he realizes, with a rush of fierce, savage joy – like a bird freed from its cage – and that's the last thing he thinks before he loses consciousness.
He stays for a time at Court, just long enough to witness the death of Queen Lianne. And then he's off to fulfill what he still believes is his destiny. He takes a squire and rides south towards the Great Desert of Tortall to suppress the unruly Bazhir. A host of his comrades (if not friends) with their own squires accompany him – Geoffrey of Meron, Sacherell of Wellam, Douglass of Veldine. He drags Thom away with him too – despite his brother's protests – and Prince Jonathan, though he does not know it, is left without a savior in the hellpits of Corus.
0 0 0
The weaker Bazhir Tribes like the Bloody Hawk are no match for the sheer violence and the bloodlust of the small battalion of knights, squires and hired mercenaries that ride, their hooves pounding like war drums, through the desert. They slaughter combatant and non-combatant alike, babes in their cradles, young maidens their faces hidden behind their silken veils, ancient shamans… Alan believes that it's the right thing to do, that he's bringing peace to the land by slaying the Bazhir, the enemy. Within a short year, he earns accolades as the most valiant and worthy young knight in Tortall.
In the castle, Prince Jonathan withers away like his mother before him, and one still, somnambulant summer dusk draws his last breath. King Roald, weak and old, renounces his throne in favor of his nephew – Duke Roger of Conté.
Sir Alan and his entourage rush back to court and though Alan is sorry for Jonathan's death he cheers as lustily as anyone at the former duke's coronation. He welcomes the new regime and nurses hopes that he shall have his own place in it. Duke Roger is a capable commander, a ruthless tactician like his grandfather, King Jasson the Empire Builder, and within a month of being anointed absolute monarch declares war on Tusaine. It's a small country and the king is weak. King Ain's trusted counselors, the wily Duke Hilam and black-hearted Count Jemis, are taken out by secret Tortallan assassins and within a few weeks, Tusaine has been annexed and added to Tortall's dominions.
What follows is a driven campaign against the Copper Isles and the ousting of the Rittevon Dynasty from power. Kyprioth smiles benevolently down upon King Roger when he betroths his heir, young Prince Jasson, to the newborn Saraiyu Balitang, a scion of Raka royalty, and places the infant as titular Queen of the Copper Isles. Tyra deems it wise to surrender quickly to the marching hordes of Tortall and Roger is wise enough not to even think of attacking Carthak or Scanra – he settles for Galla.
In the Years of Strife as they are later called in history books, the Time of Blood, the Era of Conquests, Alan wins eternal glory for himself. His war-cry rings, like a lion's roar, through the battlefields of Tusaine and Galla. He chooses a golden lion, its mane flowing out like the billowing robes of a king, as his insignia. It's terribly arrogant and showy – as Lady Carina, newly widowed does not hesitate to remind him – but it suits him, he thinks. Power, command, justified pride… yes it suits him very well. His name rings, as the Lion of Tortall, in lands beyond the Emerald Ocean, in traveling bards' lyrics and he wins the deathless honor he had desired in his childhood.
The kingdom of Tortall has grown into an empire when Carthak – adding the Yamani Islands to its dominions – and Maren – which has invaded Sarain, for good measure – as the three superpowers of the Eastern Lands enter into a Grand Alliance. Peace is established and Sir Alan of Trebond, a tried and tested knight, is proud that he has, in some small measure, contributed to it.
The lives of the children he has orphaned, the maidens he has widowed so early, the deflowered virgins and the living hell that he has inflicted on thousands do not lie on his conscience.
0 0 0
In his forties, he weds a girl less than half his age – Oranie of Mindelan, fair Lady Ilane's daughter – in the true fashion of a patriarchal lord. For his skill and courage, he is made King's Champion and awarded the fertile fief of Pirate's Swoop – Thom, Court Mage now, inherits Trebond – as a deserving subject. Lady Carina is made a young widow by Tortall's countless wars and Alan makes it his duty to comfort her in the best way he can. The scandalous affair between the King's Champion and the beautiful Lady HaMinch sears the court and reaches the ears of Alan's girl-bride but she is wise enough to know (after he reminds her of her position, by less than gentle methods) that there is nothing to be done about it, that her place is by the hearth, attending to his lands and children.
She makes no complaints, contenting herself with stable-boys in her lord's absence, and proving to be a loving mother to the four children he dotes upon. Alassë is Alan's only daughter.
"I'm going to be a lady knight when I grow up!" she proclaims proudly to her father when she's five years old. It's a beautiful summer day and shafts of sunlight dance in her ruddy curls while her violet eyes laugh. He's proud of his pretty little daughter, of her originality and amused by her naïveté. He laughs and pats her head, thinking what a little darling, before patiently explaining to her why women are not meant to be knights, crushing her five-year-old dreams with the best intentions in the world. He thinks of all the women he's known closely over the years – Lady Delia, the King's chief mistress, Cythera, Gary's wife, Carina, his own wife – and shakes his head slowly, while teaching Alassë that her place is by her husband's side and the greatest honor she can bring to her family is by bearing him strong heirs and being a faithful, devoted wife. To him, that's all a woman is worth.
A/N: Today's my birthday, so accept this as a birthday gift from me to the world of Tamora Pierce-an fanfiction! XD Alan turned out to be quite the ultimate male chauvinist didn't he?