Zerrin of the Wind: Yeah, Raoul knew Alanna was escorting the daughter of Roger to court, glad you're enjoying the story.

On top of cloud 9: glad the story's making you laugh!

Duck8: lol, sorry for the delay in posting the next chapter, here it is!

Bambolieblue: Kyra's in the palace now, and there's a nasty surprise lurking up in the following chapters, as well as a new friend.

Dont worry, Serrina will return in the next chapter.

Conte's Secret

Chapter 11

"That is Balor's Needle," one of the knights had sidled up by Kyra, seeing how she'd looked up at the thin tower. She did not look at who spoke, for she felt she didn't need to. She heard the horses in the fields and stables, heard the people in the forge, the noise of hammers striking anvils.

She saw the brightness of the hundreds of uniforms and suddenly the knights were only one part of Tortall to her. There were pages, squires, servants, lords, ladies, animals, it was overwhelming to Kyra, who had come from a lonely fortress where she was shunned. But hope didn't rise in her. Only a frightened grimness at what might happen here.

The knights drew to a halt by the stables and the knight who had spoken now offered to show her around. Dazedly, she replied that she might need that. He smiled and she didn't see that hope had lit up in his eyes.

Swiftly, Kyra slipped from the saddle, her legs tired, and she stroked the mare's neck, silently thanking it for doing its job well. It whickered at her and she untied the saddle bags, swinging them over her shoulder.

"I'll take you to your rooms first," the knight offered, then led her away from the melee in the courtyard, before anyone else could see the way she had gone.

Leading her up a suddenly narrower set of stairs, after the astonishingly wide corridors where more people had bustled, she became aware of how much quieter it was here. "Are you sure I should be here?" she asked softly, uncertain, realising what she'd done. You stupid, stupid wench! she cursed herself silently.

"Of course," he smiled back at her, but it was a stiff smile. "This is the route your father used."

With that, he unlocked a door, reached out before she could pull away, and pulled her into the corridor, sliding himself between her and the door: a human barricade.

"Let me go!" she ordered.

"Of course, your ladyship," he said, somewhat mockingly, but locked the door. "The way out is ahead. You are Roger's daughter: you shall figure it out."

Eyes wide, she looked ahead: the way ahead was black, but a gleam of brass upon the walls caught her attention. Immediately, she called a glow of magic to her hands: pure energy, not Gift. But the man drew his own conclusions. "So you do have the Gift," he said.

"I don't," she said absent-mindedly, still angry, but concentrated for the moment on getting some light, to see her way, to get away from the two-faced, treacherous knight who she was sure idolised her own treacherous sire.

Then, when he didn't answer, she turned, just in time to see and hear the door slam shut and the key turn in the lock.

"Damn!" she muttered, fear creeping in, before she drew a breath and turned back to the way ahead of her. "There really is only one way out," she whispered, nervous and, her hand held before her, cradling the globe of bright energy, red as roses, she stepped down the corridor.

Her first shock came when colour seemed to explode along the walls. Jagged lines of darkness were scratched into the colour, startling her more. It was like someone had thrown colour at the wall then set upon it with axes and sharp stones, like a mistake against the rest of the corridor, which was nothing but black and grey stones.

Nervously, she reached out, ran her fingers along the etched lines: they were deep, far deeper than they'd looked. The edges were sharp and she withdrew when her fingers hurt, like each of them had been pierced by a sewing needle. Gently, gingerly, she sucked at the cuts, the tang of blood sharp and sweet to her tongue, and stood back to eye the strange mural.

The colours were all bright, terrible colours. Red, Purple, bright Blue as merciless as the sea, fierce Orange, which she had feared ever since learning of her father's crimes. But there was no sense to the mural: no scene depicted, no picture to it, just splashes of colour, scratched out viciously.

Shaking her head, she gave up and resumed walking, eager to escape this place. The corridor stretched out in a long line ahead of her, and when a single, solitary flame glowed at the end of it, her heart leapt into her throat, as she raced towards it, pulse quickening, goosebumps coming up on her arms.

Then something crunched beneath her feet. She drew to a halt, startled again: this place, so dark, so cold and hostile, knew exactly how to shred her nerves, an inch at a time.

When she looked down at the stone floor, her stomach lurched. It was a tiny skeleton, like that of a mouse or a small rat, that had crackled beneath her feet. Hand over her mouth, she ran for the distant pinprick of light, her nerves stretched taut to breaking point, for the tiny flicker of light that grew steadily: the light at the end of this horrible little tunnel.

She almost sobbed in relief when the door slammed into her sight, the light glowing around its edges. Lunging forward, she wrenched the door handle, almost disbelieving when it opened and she could slip into the corridor beyond it.

But much worse was to come.

"So we do have a little escape artist," a voice, so harsh and angry that it was like a crow, remarked.

"I'm not!" Kyra retorted, despite her fear, and looked around. Noise swelled here, with the clatter of metal, and the air was stifling with the heat of fire. At her feet, two cats yowled at her, clearly in the hope that she, as a stranger, would be obliged to feed them. She didn't scowl at them, and she fought not to scowl at the old woman who sat by the kitchen fire, wrapped up in a shawl as though she was still not warm enough, occasionally tossing a large log in with her hand, her other hand hidden beneath the lump of a blanket spread over her knees.

"And why are you here?" the old lady grinned, revealing a black tooth right in the middle of her gums, as well as a few spaces where there should have been teeth.

"A knight tricked me," Kyra told her angrily, and turned on her heel, before standing still, realising that she had no clue where she was anymore.

The old lady laughed loudly and raucously. "Lost, dearie?" she cried.

"Yes," Kyra admitted boldly. "Will you tell me how to find my room?"

"Which room?" the old lady asked immediately. Kyra then groaned softly. "Oh fine. The stables, then?" She'd realised that truly, she had no clue where her room really was. The knight could have been leading her a right dance throughout the palace, as though she was a first year page!

Obligingly, the old lady pointed a very long, knobbly finger at the doorway behind her. Kyra nodded, her face breaking into a smile, "thank you," she said humbly, and darted out, dodging a boy carrying a stack of bread loaves.

The air outside hit her like an army of weapons: the ground crunched unpleasantly beneath her feet and she muttered a curse, thinking longingly of a thicker coat than the travelling cloak she wore. The courtyard was far quieter than the kitchens where she'd been a second ago. But she could hear the satisfied champing of horses eating their grassy dinners, and the warm, far friendlier clicks and clackers of horse gear being polished.

Ducking around another wall, she breathed a sigh: there. A stable.

Then that ease disappeared, as she saw another stable in the distance. "No!" she muttered despairingly. She'd wanted a few moments to gather her frightened thoughts, a moment to just stand still, or to care for the lovely mare who'd brought her here to this dreadful, too-large place, or to find someone who could tell her where she was meant to be...

And now there seemed to be a hundred stables. "Oh, what did I expect?" she muttered in annoyance and gave up. Cautiously, she turned slightly. The kitchen door was still open and from within came the sound of something falling to the floor, and a few curses. From the kennels that were somewhere nearby, she could hear dogs barking and yipping. From the mews, she heard a kestrel crying.

There was always a strange, almost starved feeling whenever she first opened her senses properly. It made her feel like bolting for one pure second, until her consciousness kicked in. Uncle had trained her proper: tapping her skull with a stick whenever she twitched a muscle from where she sat. It twinged like a ghostly wound and she absent-mindedly allowed herself to touch a finger to the spot, just to prove that it wasn't a real bruise.

The air smelt of sunlight and forest, humans and animals. The air tingled with heat and cold, smooth and taut with emotion. It was like the sea: unpure in its own way: it was always more than water. It was water, salt, fish, sand, plants...

A mare stamped her foot. On her mane was a sniff-worth of magic. Eyes closed, Kyra started walking: if she opened her eyes, she'd be completely distracted from her purpose, it would be like staring down a cliff when you've climbed halfway up it.

The sound of pages practising with staffs made her swiftly turn to the right, and the scent of an old wall made her dodge perfectly, brushing by it with inches to spare. Her mare was chewing hay and her tack already smelled polished. Now the ground beneath Kyra's feet was more than flat, smooth flagstones, it was scattered with a few wisps of hay and she could hear too much human activity to keep her eyes shut.

She opened her eyes.

"Wondered if you'd scarpered," a man said, sitting by the stable door as though he'd been there a while. She stiffened, uneasy: he dressed like someone below a noble, perhaps like a village man, but his voice held calm, control, authority. His eyes were creased as though he didn't sleep much, but they also twinkled as hard as the night sky's stars. "Kyra of Conte. Would you care to explain just where you were? Alanna said you'd walked off, and it's hard to stop her from chasing after you, I assure you."

"I got lost," she said softly, puzzled. "Sire."

"Get yourself something to eat," he suggested and smiled wearily. "And don't wander off, kindly."

"No, sir," she shook her head. "Where do I need to go? I mean, I don't have to have my father's rooms, do I?" she was afraid of what his answer might be.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," he said quietly. "A room's been cleaned and prepared for you near Numair Salmalín. Do you know who he is?"

"Daine's husband," Kyra said softly. "And one of the most powerful mages. Black robe. From Carthaki. I've heard of him."

"And he's meant to test you for magic," the king nodded, eyes severe. "So I'll see you there tomorrow."

"Where?" Kyra asked quietly.

"You'll see," he replied grimly, then lifted a hand in dismissal, "the boy behind you will take you to your room."