Disclaimer: All characters, world, basic plot ets... are property of the wonderful Tamora Pierce. I claim nothing but an over-active imagination...

Author's Note from Erkith: Hello again! It's been a while since I posted a TP fic... Well, good news is I'm back, and summer is coming, which means I'll actually be able to sit down and write. YAY! time for updates! I currently have a new The Spy chapter almost ready to go and a new multi-chapter TP fic in the wings... So look forward to that in future. Regardless, of my tardiness...

Please Enjoy!

Erkith

There will be no more

The King stood before his court in full mourning. He was barely recognizable. The black hair was shot through with grey; the royal skin bore a pasty, sickly pallor; the powerful eyes held the frightening emptiness of a corpse. The court caught their breath at the sight of him.

The King stared at his people with a hopeless, mindless grief, and he spoke roughly, but clearly. "I have called you forth today to witness an important part of our history. It is one that has been unspoken of over the passing of many generations and rules; however, one that should not be erased."

His pause held a rapt silence.

"I have recently found a documented law set down by a fore-father of many generations – another monarch of my name and lineage." The King held a scroll before the court. "In light of recent events, I shall now read it to you."

The court listened in silence to the echoes of the past.

Love is something that touches us, overwhelms us, and guides us to our fates. It is a power that, ever-elusive, leads us a merry chase through life. It is the prize of the greatest hunt and the greatest of adventures. Love is the answer to the riddle, the centre of the maze – the light in the darkness.

It is also the greatest test.

Losing it – allowing it to be destroyed – is a heart wound. It bleeds away your life.

I know not exactly when I realized I had taken the fall. I only know that I did. I only know that, in her, I found my centre. Nalana: lady of the court, lady of the battlefield, and lady of my heart.

She was not the great beauty of the court. Both she and I were aware that I could have any woman, and that if it was beauty I sought – or easy pleasure – I could have easily gained it elsewhere for half the trouble. It was not beauty that drew me to her.

It was not beauty I was after.

It was Nalana.

How does one describe the sound of a laugh – a true laugh – and do it justice? How does one capture such unfettered joy, such joyous abandon in words? I do not know. I have never known. I was never able to tell her just how much I love that deep, appreciative laugh of hers. I never will.

Words always fail me. Words were her love, not mine.

She was a wielder of blades: physical and verbal.

Nalana was a fearsome opponent. To be on the bad side of her sword was to be dead. To be on the bad side of her tongue… well, I have heard it said to be worse. She was quick to strike, and she was merciless… completely unforgiving…

Somehow I survived her; I wish I had not.

So many things I have never said that I should have. So many things I have said that I should not have...

I wish I had told her I loved her. I wish I had not told her that I did not…

Lessons, I am told. Mistakes are lessons. I used to believe it, but I forsook that long ago. I'd rather learn from ancient scripture than learn some things from experience – from pain. Lessons are taught before you need them, not after.

Nalana. Goddess, Nalana, I am so sorry. Her death was not a lesson. My loss, my love are not a lesson. They are tragedy. Nalana. Nalana, I am so sorry. If I had known…

The blade would not have fallen

You would not have stepped in my place

Your eyes would still be open

Maybe you would never have seen my face

… you would be alive

To sit here, by your side, is torture

But I would not be anywhere else

I speak, soothing words, and my voice grows hoarser

I love you more that anyone else

… I can feel you fading

Oh, Nalana. I could not save her; she was well beyond where my magic could save her. But I can save others. I have learned; grief is a powerful teacher.

Nalana will be the last of her kind. Women do not belong in war. They do not belong on the battlefield, where life is so fleeting and snatched away in a heartbeat. Women are not strong enough, not fast enough, not logical enough to be knights and soldiers. Too many of them die.

As of now, there are 3 and pride be damned they will retire. I will not allow this madness to continue!

Here forth, there will be no more Lady Knights.

So say I, Sir Jonathan of Conte, King of Tortall.

So mote it be.

The court rocked in silence. A feeling of power swept through the room. It was the awe normally reserved for churches and artifacts of immeasurable age. This time the implications were clear; it was the awe of history repeating itself.

Slowly, the silence became murmurs. Murmurs became mutterings. And suddenly the court was enveloped in confused protest and disbelief. Women and men alike turned to their monarch. "No!" they shouted. "No! You cannot do this!"

The King watched them numbly. Any emotion left to him was gone, whittled away by the reading of another's pain, so paralleled his so exactly. There was only one who understood his agony… only one who had experienced the depth of his pain and guilt, and that man had passed centuries before.

The Rogue slipped to his side, unnoticed in the pandemonium. The King didn't even turn his head. He grabbed the King's arm hard enough to bruise and increased the pressure until his monarch looked at him.

"This is not what Thayet would have wanted."

The King eyed the other man evenly. "This is not about Thayet."

"I didn't think so," the Rogue finally answered.

"This is not what she would've wanted either, Jon. My Lioness wanted to fight for her country. She wanted others to follow in her steps and become something other than the bloody bargaining chips on their fathers' tables. Alanna would have knocked you silly for even trying this, Jon!" The Rogue said heatedly.

Something like anger slipped through the numbness. Or perhaps something closer to feral pain. "Yes, well your ladylove's not here, now is she, George? That stops her from beating me black and blue."

The King laughed hoarsely at the Rogue's pained expression. He'd dug that knife deep. "Don't you understand? I'd happily let her do it! Over and over and over, George, if she were just alive! But she's not. She's not here!"

Tormented hazel eyes met the empty blue steadily. "Don't do it, Jon. You can't bring 'er back. Not like this; never like this."

"Guards!" the King called. "Take the Baron of Pirate's Swoop away. He's understandably overwrought."

A chorus of yes sirs answered him.

"Damn you, Jon. Damn you." The Rogue cursed softly.

The King ignored him, standing to his court, and with one hand raised, he called for silence. The power of his blackened figure enforcing his command; silence fell, and the King began a speech that would change the course of history…

"We have lost our Champion, ladies and gentleman, the pride of our State, and our late Queen as well to the horrors of battle. We are left with fewer mothers and daughters than we began with. I appeal to you, my knights, my soldiers, my men. Keep our women safe."

Silence.

"Mark my words. Here forth, there will be no more Lady Knights."

Nothing.

"So say I, Sir Jonathan of Conte, King of Tortall."

He paused, eyes closing as tears overwhelmed his words.

"So mote it be."

A/N: Hope you enjoyed that! I'm considering writing a semi-sequel, if there's interest... so please review and let me know what you thought of this fic and tell me if you'd be interested in reading a sequel...

As always, requests for a one-shot pairing are appreciated ( I love writing one-shots). I'll do my best to reply to my reviewers... :D

Erkith