The Woman Who Rides Like a Man

2 THE BLOODY HAWK

ALANNA STOOD, NERVOUSLY RUBBING HER SUDDENLY wet palms on her tunic. “I accept the will of the tribe. Who will carry it out?”

Hakim Fahrar stood. “The law is the law. I will fight for the tribe.”

Alanna bent to strip away her boots and stockings, examining her would-be opponent. He was head and shoulders taller than she, and his naked torso showed hard muscles in the firelight. He seemed agile enough, but only the fight would confirm that.

Coram tied her hair back with a leather thong, his callused hands gentle. As she began her loosening-up exercises, he knelt beside her. “Be careful,” he cautioned, his voice a whisper. “They fight to the death here.”

Alanna scrubbed her palms with sand to dry them. “I won’t kill if I don’t have to,” she replied quietly, remembering her last duel.

Coram shrugged. “Be that as it may, if it’s a question of ye dyin’ or him, it had better be him.”

Alanna grinned mischievously at her longtime teacher and accepted her dagger from Ishak, who had brought it from her tent. “I won’t argue with that.”

She waited for the shaman to finish exhorting her opponent, fingering the ember-stone. There was no way she could avoid remembering her duel four weeks ago, the one that had ended with Duke Roger on the floor of the Great Hall, dead. Unlike the sorcerer-duke, she did not hate this tribesman. She hoped it would not come to killing tonight.

Halef stood. “Are you ready, man of the tribe?”

Hakim saluted the headman with his dagger. “I am ready.”

“Are you ready, Woman of the Northern king?”

Alanna saluted, her mouth paper-dry. “I am.”

The headman clapped his hands sharply and the tribesmen stepped back. Hakim circled, his eyes sharp.

“Meet your death, woman!” he cried.

Alanna crouched, watching his circling form and remaining silent. She had never followed the practice of shouting insults at an enemy; this was no time to start. Remembering the advice of her friend George, the King of the Thieves, she kept her eyes on Hakim’s blade. He thrust; she skipped aside, then danced in close, slashing for his chest. He leaped back and began to circle once more, his eyes wary. Her lightning response had taught him to treat her with caution.

He feinted high and then drove in, his knife coming up from beneath. Alanna turned her side toward him; as his arm shot past her, she seized it and wrenched him over her hip. Coram let out a whoop of joy—wrestling had always been her weak point—and silenced himself as the Bazhir glared at him.

Hakim rolled to his feet as she kept back, unwilling to follow up her advantage. He wiped his hands on his breeches, his eyes never leaving her. He was sweating, and Alanna could feel the fear rolling off him. Teach him to think a woman’s an easy opponent, she thought as she lunged in.

He caught her cross guard on his, bearing up on the locked knives. Alanna dropped and rolled away before coming to her feet. Hakim lunged wildly, his blade slicing toward her unprotected shoulder. Twisting, Alanna stabbed through the web of muscle on the bottom of his upper arm. She yanked her knife free just as one of his fists struck the middle of her spine, driving the wind from her lungs. Again she dropped and rolled. He threw himself toward her: This time she helped him over her head with her foot, sending him flying across the cleared space.

Breathing hard, she rolled to her feet. Hakim rose, dashing sweat from his eyes. He closed too slowly, giving her time to maneuver into position. Grabbing his knife arm, she rapped him hard on the temple with her dagger hilt. Hakim went down like a stone, and stayed down.

“You may kill him,” Halef told her. “It is your right.”

Alanna wiped her sweating face. “I won’t kill when I don’t have to. I hate waste.”

Men assisted Hakim from the circle as Coram gave her a towel. Faithful twined around her ankles. “Ye did well,” the ex-soldier whispered. “Any of us who taught ye would’ve been proud of that fight.”

The Bazhir crowded around to offer their congratulations. Only a few stayed back, including the shaman, Akhnan Ibn Nazzir. Thinking to make amends, Alanna went to him, her hand outstretched. “Is there peace between us?” she asked. “I mean no offense to you or your ways.”

“Unnatural woman!” he snarled. “The Balance will never be right as long as you act like a man!” He glared at the now-silent Bazhir. “Our tribe will suffer until this she-demon is cast out!” Gathering his burnoose around himself, he stalked off.

For a moment all were silent. Finally Alanna shrugged and turned to Halef Seif.

“Now what?” she asked.

The headman’s set face boded ill for the shaman. Then he too shrugged. “The law is the law. You survived the combat: you are one of us.” The tribesmen murmured their agreement. “Akhnan Ibn Nazzir is no longer young. New ideas come less easily to him.” He smiled at her. “Now we make you a warrior of the tribe, and your man Coram, if you will speak for him.”

“Of course I’ll speak for him.” How could he ask?

“Then hold out your arm,” Halef instructed. Alanna obeyed. In a swift movement the man opened a low shallow cut on the inside of her forearm. Holding out his own wrist, he did the same to himself, then pressed his wound to Alanna’s.

“Become one with the tribe, and one with our people,” he commanded, his soft voice suddenly deep and ringing. Alanna shuddered as an alien magic flooded into her body. She knew without being told that Halaf Seif was only a pathway for this sorcery, that its origins were as old as the Bazhir tribes.

Their combined blood welled up, dripping onto the sand. The watching men set up a cheer. Touching the ember-stone, she watched as Gammal performed the ritual with Coram. The magic was glittering white; it filled the air around them all, flooding from every Bazhir present.

She let Ishak bind up her arm, feeling a moment’s sympathy for Coram. The ex-soldier was obviously unhappy that he had taken part in an exercise of sorcery (albeit a short one). Now they were truly members of the Bazhir, tied by blood and magic to the desertmen.

The drinking started. Women brought out food as the men told stories, recounting their greatest legends for the two new members of the tribe. The sky was gray in the east when Alanna gave up and went to bed. Coram had been moved into bachelor quarters; evidently her new status did not excuse her from the proprieties. Amused, she fell onto her pillow and sank immediately into sleep.

Sunlight in her eyes roused her. Her tent flap was open; from the sun’s position she saw it was noon. Moaning and clutching her aching head, Alanna lurched to her feet.

“We’ve been waiting forever,” Kourrem announced.

Alanna scowled at the two Bazhir girls who had welcomed her the previous day. “I didn’t go to bed till dawn,” she growled. She ducked behind a partition and changed her clothes, feeling very old and much the worse for a night of date wine.

“They made you a warrior of the tribe.” Kara’s voice was filled with awe. “And you’re a woman.”

Alanna pulled on the fresh tan burnoose she found with her clothes. If she was a Bazhir, she might as well dress like one. Emerging from behind the partition, she bathed her face in a basin of water.

“Akhnan Ibn Nazzir says you’re a demon,” Kourrem told her. “He says you have destroyed the eternal Balance. He wants us all to kill you.”

Alanna dried her face briskly and pulled a comb through her hair before answering. “Nonsense. If your eternal Balance is destroyed, why did the sun rise? If I’m a demon, why do I have such a headache?” Using fresh water, she cleaned her teeth.

“Are all the women in the North warriors?” Kourrem asked. Kara was setting out breakfast: fruit and chilled fruit juice, rolls and cheese. “Are you all sorcerers and she-demons?”

Alanna rubbed her aching head. Was she supposed to eat all that? “Hardly,” she replied to Kourrem. She sat awkwardly before the low table, crossing her legs before her. Inspired, she told the girls, “Why don’t you join me? I’d welcome the company.” It wasn’t quite the truth, but chances were the girls would be far hungrier than she was at the moment.

Kourrem needed no urging, but Kara hesitated. “It wouldn’t be proper,” she demurred, her eyes uncertain over her face veil.

“Of course it’s proper,” Alanna said firmly. “I’m female, aren’t I? At least, I was the last time I checked.”

Even Kara smiled at that. She and Kourrem slipped off their veils. Kara was older, fine-boned and dark-eyed, with two deep-set dimples framing her mouth. Kourrem had mischievous gray-brown eyes and a pointed little chin. Both were too thin, even for rapidly growing teenagers, and their clothes were of poor quality. If Alanna remembered Sir Myles’s teaching correctly, both were old enough to be married; the desert people contracted alliances for their daughters when they first donned veils, at the age of twelve. Why were these two single?

Alanna picked up a roll, and the girls eagerly helped themselves.

“If the Northern women aren’t warriors,” Kourrem went on, her mouth full, “how did you become a knight?”

Alanna smiled reluctantly. “It wasn’t easy,” she admitted. Seeing that her audience was listening intently, she sighed. “I was ten. My mother died giving my twin brother and me birth, and our father was a scholar who cared more for his work than us. Coram raised us, and old Maude, who was our village healing-woman. You see, Thom had no turn for woodcraft and archery, and I did. He was good at magical things.

“When our father decided it was time for me to go to the convent and learn to be a lady, I didn’t want to. And Thom didn’t want to go to the palace and become a knight.”

“You changed places,” whispered Kourrem. Kara’s eyes were like saucers.

Alanna nodded. “Thom forged letters from our father. He went to the City of the Gods, and I went to the palace as his twin ‘brother’ Alan.”

“Did your brother disguise himself as a girl?” Kara wanted to know.

Alanna laughed. “Of course not! The Daughters at the convent took boys who would be priests and sorcerers, until they were twelve or so. Then Thom went to the Mithran priests to complete his studies. He left them only a few months ago; he’s the youngest Master living.”

“He must have great power,” Kara breathed.

“He certainly does,” Alanna replied slowly. And the ambition to go with it, she added to herself.

“You lived as a boy all those years?” Kourrem demanded. “And no one guessed? No one knew?”

“One of my teachers, Sir Myles of Olau, guessed. I had to use magic to save Prince Jonathan when he had the Sweating Sickness, and Myles was watching; he must have seen something that gave me away. He knew for years, but he never told anyone. I told George Cooper when I needed a healing-woman once.”

“Who is this George Cooper?” asked Kourrem.

Alanna grinned. “The King of the Thieves.”

“You told a thief your secret?” Kara gasped.

“I knew I could trust him. He’s always done well by me.”

“Did anyone else know?” Kourrem’s mouth was full again.

“Prince Jonathan found out, when we fought the Ysandir.” Both girls made the Sign against Evil; like all Bazhir, they had grown up fearing the Ysandir. “They made my clothes disappear,” Alanna continued, blushing. “By that time I was old enough—there was no way Jon could have misunderstood.”

“Your chest.” Kara nodded. Startled, she added, “That’s right! How did you manage disguising that?”

“I bound myself,” Alanna confessed. “I never took my shirt off around the boys, either. It was difficult at first, but after a while they just accepted the fact that I was eccentric.”

“I still don’t understand.” Kara was frowning. “Women are weaker than men, and unfitted to be warriors. Surely they could tell—”

“Not from me,” Alanna said firmly, finishing off her juice. “I worked hard to win my shield. I got up early; I practiced late at night. It was hard, very hard. But it was worth it. I was good enough that Jonathan made me his squire.”

“Did he change his mind when he found out the truth?” Kourrem asked as she tidied up.

Alanna’s blush returned. “No. He said he didn’t care, I was still one of the best fighters at Court.”

“None of our men would’ve said that,” Kourrem muttered. “Even if it was true.”

“You can’t know that,” Alanna told the younger girl. “I didn’t find out until recently that Myles had known all these years. Men are peculiar.” Looking at Kara, she said, “Why are you so unhappy?”

“You never had a young man,” Kara explained mournfully. “You know—to bring you tokens, to take you walking—”

“Neither have we,” Kourrem reminded her.

“We’re practically outcasts from the tribe,” Kara responded. “Surely Alanna’s case is different.”

“Unless Prince Jonathan—” Kourrem muttered. Both girls saw the misty smile on Alanna’s face and giggled.

“It’s time for me to have a look around the village,” Alanna told them as she rose. She couldn’t explain that her relationship with Jon had progressed far beyond the tokens-and-walks stage. Neither could she tell these two innocents that George, the King of the Thieves, had indicated more than once he would like to take Jonathan’s place in her affections.

They would just be confused, Alanna told herself as the girls donned face veils once more. Although they certainly can’t be any more confused than I am.

The dust-colored tent village was quiet, except for the laughter of children and the cackle of chickens. Few men were visible; either riding or sleeping off last night, Alanna thought grumpily. Most of the women abroad hurried out of her path. Puzzled, she stopped to see if anyone would meet her eyes. Only the youngest children did, and they were snatched from her sight by their mothers.

“They really do think I’m some kind of demon,” she whispered, shocked.

“They’re just ignorant,” Kourrem replied stubbornly. “We know—Kara and Ishak and I—that you’re an ordinary woman.”

“Not an ordinary woman,” Kara demurred. “But you’re real.”

Alanna halted. “What makes you three so ready to believe I’m really human?” she asked. The girls exchanged looks.

“Akhnan Ibn Nazzir says the three of us are easily distracted from the right path, and that we are the growing-ground for evil,” Kara explained. Her face had darkened. “Perhaps I am a growing-ground for evil!” she cried. “But I am not a mean old man who cannot countenance anything new! I don’t make people outcasts because they don’t bow down to me!”

Kourrem nodded solemnly. “It’s true,” she assured Alanna. “Halef Seif will not let him cast us out into the desert, but if Akhnan Ibn Nazzir is still here when Halef Seif dies—”

“Demon!”

The shriek of rage came from behind them. Alanna spun, her hand instantly going to Lightning’s hilt. For a moment her heart twisted with pain as she remembered that her sword was useless.

Ibn Nazzir, the shaman, stood behind them, flanked by women and a few men. “Demon!” he screamed again, pointing a trembling finger at Alanna. “Not content with the soul of Halef Seif, you try to steal our young ones!” He grabbed Kara’s arm and yanked, almost making her fall.

Halef Seif came out of a nearby tent, going to stand beside Alanna and Kourrem. He raised polite brows. “I believe I retain my soul, Akhnan Ibn Nazzir,” he said quietly. “Surely I would know if it was gone.”

Alanna stared wide-eyed at the sword, which Ibn Nazzir had not been wearing the day before. It was the crystal sword that had so neatly sheared Lightning’s blade, the sword she thought was left in the desert. So that’s what he was doing, sneaking off last night! she thought. The sword’s hilt design was distinctive; where had she seen it before?

“She has bewitched you!” the shaman cried, his eyes bulging with fury. “As she has bewitched these others—” The wave of his hand took in the girls. He gasped as Faithful suddenly leaped out, seemingly from nowhere, to land spitting in the sand before the shaman. “Away, demon!” he cried. Frantically he drew shimmering yellow magical symbols in the air.

Alanna reacted. “Stop!” A wall of purple magic streaked from her fingers to surround Faithful, just as yellow fire left the shaman’s hands. It shattered against the wall protecting Faithful; Ibn Nazzir swore. For a moment there was silence as the violet wall faded from sight.

“Perhaps now you will give more courtesy to the companions of the Woman Who Rides Like a Man, Akhnan Ibn Nazzir,” Halef Seif commented, his voice a quiet warning. “Tell me now where you obtained the sword you wear.”

“It lay in the desert for anyone to take it who could,” the older man spat. “I knew the spells to assuage its hunger and to give it greater life—”

“Let me see it,” Halef Seif ordered, stretching out his hand. When the shaman hesitated, the younger man’s face grew stern. “I am headman here, and headman I stay until the Voice of the Tribes takes my right from me. The request is reasonable. Do not defy me.”

Trembling with fury, the shaman unclipped the sword’s sheath and held it out. The headman reached for it.

Stop him! Faithful warned.

“Don’t touch it!” Alanna cried.

Everyone looked at her. Ibn Nazzir glared pure hate. Fingering Lightning’s hilt, Alanna continued.

“Such swords bite, Halef Seif. I imagine Akhnan Ibn Nazzir knows it, too.” She gripped the silver hilt of the crystal blade and drew it.

The sword’s magic screeched through her. Alanna bit back a yell of pain. Sweat poured down her face as she struggled with pure magic, forcing it slowly to her will.

At last the sword’s resistance lessened. She looked up at Halef. “It might’ve killed you, unless you have the Gift.” The man shook his head. “It’s magic, but the magic’s been used for killing and breaking. It can only be controlled by someone with the Gift. You don’t have to be a great sorcerer—just stubborn.”

Halef Seif rounded on Ibn Nazzir. “You knew this?” His soft voice was dangerous.

“I swear I did not!” the shaman cried. “I know of the power, as would any man who grasped it in his hand—”

“Or any woman,” murmured Ishak, who had followed Halef.

Ibn Nazzir glared at him swiftly before returning to Halef Seif. “That it would harm, even kill, the headman—” He drew himself up as far as he could. “Such an offense is one no shaman would commit, Halef Seif. Has this woman so corrupted you that you see evil everywhere you turn?”

Alanna studied the crystal sword. Its hilt was slightly longer than Lightning’s, etched with occult symbols and studded at the pommel with sapphires and diamonds. She had seen symbols like these recently. . . .

Remembering, she dropped the blade, backing away from it in horror. The shaman stooped and grabbed it, slamming it into its sheath.

“What’s wrong with ye?” Coram demanded softly. She had not seen him arrive.

“Roger,” she whispered. “The hilt—it’s the same as Duke Roger’s wizard’s rod! I’ll never be free of him!” She turned and fled to her tent, Faithful galloping after her.

“Who is this ‘Roger’?” Halef Seif asked Coram as the crowd dispersed.

Alanna’s friend waited until they were alone before he replied, and he kept his powerful voice low. “Duke Roger of Conté. Him that was next in line to Prince Jonathan for the throne of Tortall.”

Halef made the Sign against Evil. “The great sorcerer who was killed not one moon past?”

Coram nodded. “Aye. She slew him, for his plot to kill the queen.” He sighed. “She always hated the Duke, feared him, even. He felt the same about her. She killed him in proper combat, before the king and his Court, but she never felt right about it.” His dark eyes were thoughtful. “I’d give a lot to know how a sword that looks like his wizard’s rod turned up in her path now.”

Halef Seif put his hand on Coram’s shoulder. “She has been chosen by the gods. Is that not reason enough?”

Alanna remained alone in her tent until dark, petting Faithful and remembering. No matter how she looked at it, she could see no way she could have done things differently. Made wary—and aware—by her Ordeal of Knighthood, she had searched Duke Roger’s quarters. She had found enough evidence to damn him in any eyes: the wax model of the queen, worn away by falling water until the queen herself was close to death; wax images of the king, the prince, and the important Court officials, even one of Alanna, all tied up in a thick veil. She had taken the evidence to King Roald, presented it before the entire Court. Roger had demanded a trial by combat: She had won.

She had hated Roger of Conté, but she couldn’t forget the sight of him as he was carried into his tomb far beneath the palace. She’d spent so much of her life thinking about the sorcerer who was Jonathan’s cousin that it was hard to realize he was gone.

You’re being ridiculous, Faithful commented. He would have cut you up and fed you to wild beasts if he had won. He was evil. He deserved to die.

“I wish I could view it that simply,” Alanna said ruefully. “I still wonder if perhaps I moved too fast.”

That’s what he wanted you to think. Remember? was the cat’s tart reply.

Alanna shook her head, still unconvinced. “Merciful Mother, is it dark already?”

“Night comes swiftly here,” Halef commented from the doorway. He crouched beside her, his face in shadow. “Already we have communed with the Voice of the Tribes. He comes.”

“Who is this ‘Voice of the Tribes’?” Alanna wanted to know.

“He is the first among us,” the headman replied. “At sunset we gather at our fires and join with him—each man and woman among the Bazhir. Thus he knows our thoughts, our wishes. He knows what has passed during the day. He judges with complete knowledge of our hearts and our minds.”

Alanna shivered, letting the Bazhir help her to her feet. “I doubt that I would be fit for such a life,” she said dryly. “To carry all those memories every day? No, indeed!”

Halef Seif chuckled as he led her out of the tent. “Not many are called to the life of the Voice, if that soothes you,” he commented. “He will be here within the week.” For a moment the tall Bazhir sighed, looking older than his years. “Between thee and me, woman of my tribe,” he said quietly, “I hope the Voice will aid me to a fair solution in this matter of Ibn Nazzir. The old man disturbs the tribe’s balance between headman and shaman; it cannot end well.” He grimaced. “Come. There are tales you have not heard. Before I forget his message, the Voice asks me to say that you have met him, in the Sunset Room of Persopolis Castle.”

The Sunset Room? she thought, startled. The governor of Persopolis Castle! What was his name? Ali Mukhtab. He took us there, me and Jon and Raoul, Alex, Gary. He was the one who told us about the Black City. He was tall, with a nice vest, and intense eyes. Jon asked him for a written history of the Bazhir—

“Ali Mukhtab?” she whispered in shock. “Ali Mukhtab is this ‘Voice of the Tribes’?”

“He is,” Halef Seif confirmed. “What better man to keep watch over the castle, where our oldest records are kept? Come. For now, become a member of the tribe. The Voice will be here in seven days. He will answer your questions then.”

Halef Seif was a man of his word. Alanna and Coram were returning from a hunt with the young men of the tribe a week later when Faithful trotted out from the village to meet them.

He’s here, he yowled to Alanna in their private language. The Voice of the Tribes. He has very good taste: He likes cats.

“I know he likes cats, and I don’t think that’s an indication of good taste,” Alanna replied, leading Moonlight to her hitching place with the tribe’s other horses. “Who’s with him now?”

The shaman, Faithful replied. One of his women friends lured Halef Seif away with a lie about a quarrel in her household.

“The news isn’t good?” Coram asked quietly as they rubbed their horses down.

Alanna shook her head. “Ibn Nazzir’s stolen a march on us with Ali Mukhtab.”

Coram raised his thick brows. “The Voice of the Tribes? But weren’t ye sayin’ ye were friends once?”

Alanna shrugged, leading the way to her tent. “That was six years ago. He may have changed. I don’t know if he was this ‘Voice of the Tribes’ then.” She opened her tent flap and stopped, astounded at the five bundles piled neatly inside. “What in the Name of—”

“It is the first written history of the Bazhir.” The smooth voice behind them made Alanna and Coram jump; they turned to face Ali Mukhtab. The Voice of the Tribes wore a flowing blue burnoose tied with a darker blue cord: religious colors among the Bazhir, Alanna remembered. He was the same as when she had seen him last: tall, with walnut-colored skin and a neatly trimmed mustache, his large hooded eyes framed with long curly lashes. He bowed now, his well-carved mouth turning up in a very small smile.

Remembering her manners, Alanna invited him in. She was just wondering how she would offer hospitality to her distinguished guest when Kara and Ishak arrived, bearing chilled wine and fruit. They presented their offerings first to Mukhtab, then to Alanna and Coram, before taking up stations just outside the tent flap. Mukhtab chuckled.

“I see you have been adopted,” he commented. “Those are two of the three young ones you’ve bewitched?”

“She hasn’t bewitched anyone,” Coram growled, emptying his cup with one gulp. “Ibn Nazzir’s a dried-up, jealous old man.”

“This is Coram Smythesson,” Alanna explained to the Bazhir. “He taught me the basics of the knight’s art, and he looked after me when I was a page.”

For a moment Coram received the full power of Mukhtab’s eyes as the Bazhir opened them wide, examining him from top to toe. Oddly, the burly man turned red. “She’s Trebond,” he said as if answering a question. “Smythessons have served Trebond for generations.”

“You have always been blessed in your friends,” Ali Mukhtab said to Alanna. “I suppose by now you are aware of it.” Alanna nodded, blushing herself. “And so you are a knight, and you have told all that you are female. But you are not happy?”

Alanna fiddled nervously with the ember-stone around her neck. “I have a few things on my mind.”

She didn’t object when the man reached over and picked the ember from her fingers, examining it. At last he sighed and let her tuck it back beneath her shirt. “The favored of the gods always have much on their minds,” he admitted. “The shaman says I am an unnatural leader because I will not order you slain. He thinks you have bewitched me. Is this so?” He was smiling. Suddenly Alanna felt as if a burden had been taken from her. This enigmatic man was still her friend, for whatever reasons.

Coram snorted with derision. “And when did she have time to do that?”

Mukhtab nodded. “I asked the same question, but received no satisfactory answer. When I inquired how the Voice of the Tribes may order the slaying of a member of the tribe without full cause under law and a just hearing before the fire, Ibn Nazzir told me the Nameless Gods would have my soul for their enjoyment.” The Bazhir shrugged. “The law is the law; he knows this as well as any.” His eyes were serious as he looked at Alanna. “He wants you dead, Alanna of Trebond.”

“He had his chance when Hakim fought me,” she replied carelessly. “I don’t understand why he’s making a fuss now.”

“You are a terrifying creature,” the Voice told her solemnly. “You do not take your place in your father’s tent, letting men make your decisions. You ride as a man, you fight as a man, and you think as a man—”

“I think as a human being,” she retorted hotly. “Men don’t think any differently from women—they just make more noise about being able to.”

As Coram chuckled, Mukhtab said, “Have you not discovered that when people, men and women, find a woman who acts intelligently, they say she acts like a man?”

Alanna could find no answer to this. She glared at the guffawing Coram.

“Many of those who take the shaman’s leadership are women,” Mukhtab went on. “You frighten them. You are too new; you are too different. Will they have to behave differently, now that you are of the tribe? Better that you die and become a legend. Legends force no one to change.”

“This is too silly for words,” Alanna snapped. “Why have you brought this history to me?” She waved at the bundled scrolls.

“Six years ago Prince Jonathan indicated he would be interested in a written history of the Bazhir,” Mukhtab explained. “Since your return to the North, my people and I have labored long on just such a written record. Our tribes are very old. These scrolls tell all our story, from the time before we left our farms across the Inland Sea. We ask you to see that the prince gets them, as soon as possible. It is—vital.” He looked at Coram. “May I speak with her alone?”

Coram struggled to his feet and left.

Alanna watched him go before asking, “Why is it vital? I hadn’t planned to return to the palace for a long time.” If ever, she thought with a terrible feeling of homesickness.

“It is vital,” Ali Mukhtab whispered, leaning close, “because the end of my life draws near. Before I complete my last illness, Prince Jonathan must become the Voice of the Tribes.”