The Woman Who Rides Like a Man Page 11

  Kara stepped forward, her lower lip gripped between her teeth. Very slowly she floated across. She was nearly on the other side when Kourrem flew to catch up. Both of them collapsed onto the ground, exhausted. They stirred only when Umar Komm lifted Kourrem as Alanna lifted Kara.

  “You are now shamans of the Bazhir,” Alanna told her apprentices.

  “Welcome to our Brotherhood.” Umar Komm smiled.

  7

  THE VOICE OF THE TRIBES

  THE NEXT MORNING ALANNA TURNED HER DUTIES over to Kara and Kourrem. “This way,” she explained, “everyone knows you work with my approval and help. Have you decided which of you will be head shaman? If you disagree on something, one of you must have the power to make the final decision.” For a moment they looked at each other warily. Alanna knew she had given them a difficult choice, but she also knew they had to be the ones to make it, not she.

  “Kourrem,” Kara said. “She doesn’t have trouble deciding things, the way I do. And she can stand up to the men better than I can.”

  Alanna hugged the taller girl around the shoulders. “If it was necessary, you could stand up to the men, Kara.” She looked at Kourrem. “Do you think she is right?”

  Kourrem shrugged, smiling ironically. “I don’t know if she’s right or not, but I’ll be head shaman, I guess. We can’t do everything without each other to help, in any case.”

  Alanna picked up her healer’s bag. “I’ll tell Halef Seif and Ali Mukhtab,” she announced. “For now, I suggest you continue your studies with the other shamans.”

  For the next fifteen days Alanna spent most of her time with Ali Mukhtab. The Voice was clearly failing; his flesh hung from his bones; his skin was gray, his eyes dull. Somehow he found the strength to teach Jonathan, his voice droning for hours as he fought to instruct the prince in the many laws of the Bazhir.

  During that time Jonathan worked harder than Alanna had ever seen him work before, both to master his studies and win over the Bazhir headmen and lawmakers. Carefully and determinedly he sought out and spoke with each man, drawing opinions from them with a diplomacy Alanna did not know he possessed. It was at such moments that Jonathan seemed most alive and happy. The rest of the time he was restless and edgy, complaining about the sand and the heat and the lessons with Ali Mukhtab when he was alone with Alanna. He didn’t ask her if she had made a decision about their marriage, and she was glad he hadn’t.

  Only once did he publicly lose his composure. Leaving the Voice’s tent after her morning spell-working, she found the prince waiting for her. He was frowning in a way she knew too well, lately.

  “Let’s go riding,” he said abruptly, not appearing to see how worn and gray-faced she was. “I want to get away from here.”

  She stared at him. “Jon, we can’t. He’s ready for your lessons now.”

  “I don’t care,” the prince snapped. “I’ve had lessons since I set foot in this village. I’m going riding.” He turned away, and she seized his arm.

  “You can discuss your boredom and whatever in private all you please,” she hissed. “But the man in there is hanging on to life because you need to know what he has to teach you. I’d appreciate it if you stopped acting like a spoiled brat. If you want the Voice’s power, you have to learn the Voice’s lessons!”

  “I didn’t ask him to choose me!” Jonathan whispered hotly, putting his broad shoulders between them and the staring tribesmen. The Bazhir were startled to see them arguing, even if they couldn’t be heard.

  “But you’re willing to take what he’s offering!” she whispered back. “You of all people know everything has its price. And don’t tell me you’re tired of paying! This isn’t the time, or the place!” She stared at him, until he looked away. Without another word he entered Mukhtab’s tent.

  That night he was all tenderness and apologies, and Alanna’s anger faded. She loved him with all her heart. But marriage?

  The next evening she and Myles dined alone in the tent she had been given after turning the large one over to Kara and Kourrem. Once the meal was over, she steeled herself to ask for her foster-father’s advice.

  “Myles, what happens when Jon marries?”

  The knight glanced at her sharply. “The first duty of any noble wife is to give her husband an heir. The succession must be assured, particularly when a throne is involved; that is especially true for any woman who marries Jonathan. Should something happen to the king, gods forbid it, and to Jon, there are no close Conté relatives. Roger would have inherited had he lived—I know, that’s what he planned!—but there was no one to succeed Roger. His father died when he was a boy; his mother died giving him birth.”

  “Like mine,” whispered Alanna.

  Myles nodded. “Sadly, it often happens. Roger’s sole close relative was the king. The Contés rarely have large families,” he added with a sigh. “Now there are only third and fourth cousins. It means civil war if Jon dies without an heir.”

  Alanna had nothing to say to this: Myles had confirmed her fears. She fought down panic, thinking, I’m not ready to have children!

  “What?” Myles had spoken again.

  “I said, did you accept Jonathan?”

  “I still need to think about it.”

  “You do?” The man was obviously surprised. “The way he’s been acting, I thought you said yes.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I see you together often enough. If he weren’t sure of you, I should think he’d spend more time wooing you, winning you over. Well, perhaps I’m wrong. I’m not omnipotent.” Myles picked up Faithful and deposited the cat on his lap, stroking the animal’s ears with gentle fingers. “Why are you still considering, if I may ask?”

  “You remember what I said, about maybe Jon wanting to marry me for all the wrong reasons?” Myles nodded. “Well, nothing that’s happened since has changed my mind. I know he’s working hard, learning to be the Voice and getting the men of the Bazhir to like him, but when he’s not dealing with them, he seems—well, spoiled. I never really thought he was that way at the palace. Any prince is somewhat spoiled, of course. Wouldn’t you be, with people buttering you up all the time?”

  “I don’t think either of us runs that risk,” Myles said gravely, his eyes dancing.

  “Perhaps responsibility would steady Jon,” Alanna admitted with a sigh. “I don’t think he’s a bad person at all; in fact, I think he’s a very good one. But lately I’m not sure if I like him very much. I keep telling myself he’ll get over it, but what if he doesn’t?”

  “Many young women would give all they possessed to have your opportunity.” There was no way now to tell what Myles was thinking.

  “Not me,” Alanna snapped, fingering the emberstone. “I’ve been happy since I came here, and I like it. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to be well behaved, as a nobleman’s wife should be. The king and queen would try to make me stop dressing comfortably. They might even try to make me stop healing. I couldn’t go wherever I wanted. No risks, and no adventures.” She blushed with shame. “I love Jon, but I’ve got too many questions to decide to be hurried. I’m not certain I’m ready to marry, even if he is.”

  She was astounded to realize the look in her foster-father’s eyes was of pride. “Few people are wise enough to know they might not be ready for such a venture. Too many rush to wed, only to discover they know little about what they’re getting into. I’m pleased to see you put so much thought into this. By the way—I saw George Cooper before I left Corus.”

  “How was he?” Alanna wondered why Myles had brought up the King of the Thieves.

  “He asked me to tell you he’s moving to Port Caynn for a while. It seems the rogues there have been giving him trouble, so he plans to bring them into line.” Myles drew a crumpled piece of paper from a hidden pocket; it had the address “House Azik, Dog Lane” written on it in George’s scrawl. “He hopes you will visit him, if you can be released from your duties here.”

  Alanna folded the
paper, her heart leaping. To see George again! Then she remembered Jonathan. As the prince’s bride-to-be, she might never be able to see George alone.

  “I doubt if I can visit him,” she announced, getting up. “Excuse me, Myles. I’m taking Moonlight for a run.”

  She hurried to the corral and saddled the mare, ignoring her common sense. Although the hillmen had not ventured near Bloody Hawk territory since Ishak’s last battle, they might well be awaiting the chance to pick off a lone rider; it would be wiser to take a companion.

  She headed for the open desert alone, wishing there was a way to ride so hard and fast that she left puzzles and heartache behind.

  To be free—really free, she thought grimly as she brought Moonlight to a gallop. To never worry about anything or anybody, to go where I want without thinking about other people at all. . . . I’ve been carrying Roger and everyone else in Corus with me, just as I’ve carried the tribe since I killed Akhnan Ibn Nazzir. I wish the only one I ever carried with me was me—

  Hoofbeats sounded behind her; she wheeled Moonlight, bringing the crystal blade from its sheath in a swift movement. Then she smiled ruefully as she recognized Coram and his bay gelding.

  I daresay I wouldn’t be happy if I had no one but myself, she thought with a sigh, waiting for him to catch up.

  Alanna began to sleep in Ali Mukhtab’s tent, always ready with her Gift and medicines to bolster the Voice’s fading strength. On the last day, when the moon would be dark, Mukhtab sent Jonathan to rest and to gather his resources. The lessons were complete; all that remained was the Rite itself. After shooing everyone out, Alanna placed the Voice in the deepest of slumbers, hoping to give him added strength for the night’s ordeal.

  Outside, she could feel a hushed tension in the village. To the tribesmen the selection of a Voice was more important than the coronation of a king. The Voice of the Tribes was a priest, father, and judge to the Bazhir. Halef Seif had told her a Voice never acted without the approval of most of his people; the knowledge of Bazhir minds and hearts was far too heavy a burden for him even to consider defiance. This information convinced Alanna all the more that she never wanted to join with the Voice during those moments at twilight. She had trouble enough understanding herself; she wanted no one else—not even one supposedly as disinterested as the Voice—to know her thoughts and problems.

  While the tribe ate the evening meal (there was no ceremony at the fire), Alanna went to Jonathan. The prince had been fasting; now, dressed in a white burnoose, he looked pale and resolute.

  “I wanted to wish you luck,” she explained. She wasn’t sure how to speak to him: He was preparing to take on a burden she would refuse at any cost. For a moment he looked as if he didn’t know her. Then he stood, holding out his arms.

  “Tell me you love me,” he said, trying to smile. “I need the encouragement.”

  She ran into his arms, hugging him as fiercely as he did her. “Of course I love you,” she whispered. “That part of it is settled.”

  He said nothing, continuing to hold her so tightly her ribs ached. At last she ventured, “Jon? Why d’you want to be the Voice? You’re already restless.”

  “I need to be the Voice,” he replied softly. “If I can do this thing, become the leader of the Bazhir, there should be few secrets of the human soul I won’t understand. The Bazhir aren’t so different from us, Alanna. If I know them, how they think, I’ll know how most people think. With that knowledge I can become the greatest—the best—ruler who ever lived.”

  “It’s so important to you?”

  “It’s what I was born to do,” he told her, his voice harsh. “It’s what I will do. In spite of being restless. In spite of everything.”

  Jonathan and Ali Mukhtab stood at the summit of the hill with a fire between them, its flames reaching waist-high. Somehow the Voice stood alone—there was no one to catch him if he fell. Alanna waited with the other shamans some distance away: They were not permitted near until the ceremony was over; they were forbidden to use their magic.

  Faithful stood on his hind feet, bracing his front paws on Alanna’s thigh. Not taking her eyes off the scene before her, she picked him up, trying not to grip him too tightly. She was trembling with fear, because she had no control over what would happen.

  Ali Mukhtab raised his hands, his voice suddenly strong as he chanted. The language was ancient, left from the time when the Bazhir lived in stone buildings on the other side of the Inland Sea; Alanna couldn’t understand the words. She could, however, feel the power that began to fill the air: a dark, boiling force that drew answering chords from the crystal sword at her waist. She touched the hilt absently, mentally commanding it to quiet. The sound from the blade lessened, although she still could feel it quivering.

  Ali Mukhtab ended his chant as suddenly-strong winds flicked burnooses across their owners’ faces, raising little dust devils from the ground.

  “Jonathan of Conté.” Mukhtab’s voice was soft, yet it rolled and echoed through the air. “You come, a Northern stranger, seeking to be one with the Bazhir. For what reason should we permit you, son of the Tortallan king, to enter this most holy circle of our people?”

  From the look on Jonathan’s face, Alanna knew this wasn’t part of the ritual. The prince had to answer honestly, while the Bloody Hawk and the visitors from the other tribes listened.

  Let it be the right answer, Alanna pleaded the Great Goddess silently.

  A sudden burst of light turned the entire scene a blue-white color, dazzling them all. From the circle of light that blotted their vision, the listeners heard Jonathan’s voice. “Because I know and honor your history, and I know and honor your laws. Because I never wish to see the Bazhir hunted and slain by our warriors, even as I never wish to see our warriors hunted and slain by the Bazhir.” A soft chuckle swept through the watchers farther down the hills from the shamans, and Alanna felt a small knot of tension loosen inside her. Her eyes were beginning to clear, revealing at least the outlines of the two men above her. Jonathan continued, “Because only together will your people and mine become great. Because—” his voice grew very quiet. “Because I want to know the why of men and women.”

  There was a silence; Alanna was sure the thudding of her heart was audible to everyone. Then Ali Mukhtab raised his hands once more, his belt dagger glinting in his left fist.

  “As the gods will, so mote it be!” he cried. A thunderclap made the ground rock beneath them as the Voice of the Tribes laid open a long gash in his right forearm. It was far longer than the ones Alanna had received when she became a Bazhir and when Myles adopted her. Merciful Mother! Alanna thought in horror. He can’t lose so much blood!

  Jonathan was opening a similar wound in his own right arm, paralleling the one he’d received on initiation into the Bazhir. Faithful jumped from Alanna’s hold and raced up the hill to the two men. Alanna started to call him back, but Kara clapped a hand over her mouth, and Kourrem shook her head warningly. Alanna gritted her teeth, willing herself to stay where she was as Kara removed her hand. If either man saw the cat sitting now beside Mukhtab, he gave no sign of it. Their eyes were locked on each other’s faces as the Voice stretched his bleeding arm across the fire to the prince. Jon reached out and clasped the offered arm, both men drawing perilously close to the flames. The fire hissed as their combined blood dropped onto the hot coals.

  “Two as One.” Ali Mukhtab’s voice was a broken rasp and rang in Alanna’s ears. The power in the air climbed; Kara and Kourrem clung shivering to each other. Umar Komm reached over and gripped Alanna’s shoulder. She covered the old shaman’s hand with hers, grateful for the contact.

  “Two as One.” Jonathan sounded soft and halting, almost as if he were in a trance.

  “Two as One, and Many.” Ali Mukhtab’s voice held a whining note that made the hair on the back of Alanna’s neck stand straight up.

  “Two as One, and Many.” Jonathan shivered uncontrollably. The fire suddenly roared higher than both men�
�s heads, engulfing them in flames that were rapidly turning an eye-hurting white. Their burnooses began to smolder. As if he sensed her urge to run to them, Umar Komm tightened his grip on Alanna. He had warned her before the ceremony that she must not speak or interfere, no matter what happened. The gods would protect Jonathan and Ali Mukhtab, if they were meant to succeed.

  “One—as—Many!” Ali Mukhtab forced the cry out as the blue-white flames caused many watchers to look away. The words thundered with magic, making Alanna’s bones hurt and the crystal sword shiver.

  “One!” Jonathan’s voice was thick with pain, but he forced the words out. “As—Many!”

  There was a crash of sound that left them deafened. For a moment Alanna thought she heard thousands of voices cry out in exaltation. Suddenly the fire went out; the darkness was split by Jonathan’s scream. Alanna heard one—or both—of them fall. Umar Komm held her now with both hands, and a tiny part of her was surprised at the old man’s strength.

  At last everything was silent. The winds stopped and were replaced by a desert breeze. Umar Komm relaxed his grip on Alanna as the feeling of power oozed from the air.

  “Now we shall see,” he announced, bending to pick up the staff he had dropped in order to hold on to her.

  “Come,” he ordered the shamans. They made their way to the summit of the hill. Others went to Ali Mukhtab as Alanna knelt beside Jon, feeling for his pulse with shaking fingers. His heartbeat was slow and strong. She seized his arm, preparing to tear a bandage from her robe—and stopped. Two scars, one reddish, the other blue-tinted, ran from the prince’s elbow to his wrist. The blue scar was warm to the touch, far warmer than Jon’s body heat would have made it. She shivered. Ali Mukhtab had just such a scar on his right arm.

  She looked up at Umar Komm. “He’s all right.” Glancing at the other shamans, who were lifting Ali Mukhtab, she whispered, “The Voice?” She knew the truth even as she asked.