The Woman Who Rides Like a Man

6 CEREMONIES

THE FIRST OF THE BAZHIR SHAMANS ARRIVED A week after Ishak’s fatal mistake with the crystal blade. They came sometime during the night; when Alanna arose in the morning, they were seated cross-legged before the altar. Faithful sat facing them, blinking solemnly as he returned their stares.

They told Alanna they had come to teach and to learn, that every wise shaman tried to study new things. They meant what they said, and they were not alone. Within days more arrived with their apprentices until—with Alanna, Kara, and Kourrem—fourteen shamans and six apprentices were trading spells in the tents of the Bloody Hawk.

“You should be pleased,” Ali Mukhtab remarked one night as he and Alanna sat up late. “You have done more than most Bazhir have accomplished in a lifetime. You have made girls shamans. You have begun a school for magic that will live and grow to become the greatest such school in existence. Even priests from the City of the Gods will come, even the warrior-sorcerers of Carthak.”

Alanna stared at the Voice of the Tribes. He had that misty, far-seeing look in his dark eyes that privately gave her the crawls. “You knew this school was going to happen?” she gasped. “And you never said anything?”

He smiled and puffed on his long-stemmed pipe. “I have learned—as all who would become the Voice must learn—to keep my silence about the future. It will happen without my help.”

Alanna snorted, and thought about it for long silent moments. At last she pointed out, “I still haven’t gotten Kara and Kourrem to leave off their face veils.” She didn’t discuss it with the girls any longer because it was a subject they could not agree on.

“They are right,” Mukhtab pointed out. “They have overcome too many old ideas, but this one they can never change. A woman without a veil is a woman of bad repute among the tribes. Good women may not speak to her, and good men may not know her.”

Alanna thought of the women of the Court of the Rogue and sighed. “That’s sad. Some of the most intelligent women I knew as I was growing up were prostitutes. I didn’t know many noble ladies well, you see.” Suddenly the ground beneath her trembled, and she looked up. “Visitors? At this hour?”

Grinning, Mukhtab knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fire. “I think you will like these visitors.”

They emerged from the tent to find the tribesmen gathered around the newcomers. These were five: two riders from the tribe, a man-at-arms in Barony Olau colors, and—to Alanna’s joy—Myles of Olau and Prince Jonathan.

Somehow she greeted her guests and introduced them to the headman, the Voice, the visiting shamans, and the apprentices. Jonathan captivated Kourrem, while Kara watched Myles with awe-widened eyes. Once the knight smiled at her, saying, “There’s a dancing bear in Corus who’s almost as shaggy as I am.” Kara blushed beneath her veil and fled.

The noblemen greeted Alanna and Coram with warmth, reaching across carefully maintained distances to shake hands.

A guest-tent was prepared for the newcomers; but somehow, when it came time to retire, the prince followed Alanna to her home. Once inside the tent, they were alone—even Faithful had found someplace else to be.

For long moments they stared at each other: the short, red-headed, violet-eyed woman in a Bazhir’s pale blue robe, its hood thrust back from her hair, and the tall, broad-shouldered young man, his hair coal-black, his eyes a brilliant sapphire blue. He wore serviceable tan breeches and a cotton shirt beneath a tunic of his favorite royal blue, but only a blind man would not have seen his royal heritage.

“I didn’t want to disgrace you in front of the tribesmen,” he said at last, his deep voice making her shiver happily. “Myles said women don’t touch men in public.”

“No,” she replied, twisting her hands in her robe.

Awkward, he tried again. “I’m going to be here for a while. Ali Mukhtab says there’s much I have to learn.”

“Do their Majesties know where you are?”

He shrugged. “They know I’m with Myles. I told them I had to get away from the court. I’m tired of people fawning all over me.” He smiled. “No one argues with me, now that you’re gone.”

Troubled by the arrogant tone of his voice and the flash of pride in his eyes, she asked, “Is that the only reason you came? To get away from home?”

“Of course not.” Suddenly he swore. Covering the space between them in two great strides, he seized her and held her tight, burying his face in her shoulder. Alanna threw her arms around his neck. This was the Jonathan she loved.

He forced her to look at him. “I missed you so much,” he whispered. He kissed her fiercely. She returned the kiss, feeling heat rush through her at his touch. He bore down to her sleeping mat; in the time that followed, they knew they still desired each other.

Afterward, Alanna got up to blow out the lamps. He watched her as she moved around the tent. “What are you grinning about?” he wanted to know as she doused the last light.

She lay down and snuggled up against his shoulder, smiling contentedly. Well, ‘women of bad reputation’ go without veils among the Bazhir,” she confided. “All this time I haven’t worn a veil, but it took me until tonight to get a bad reputation.”

Jon chuckled and kissed her. “I’m glad to hear that. I was worried about you, among all these handsome men.”

“You didn’t have to.” She grinned. “They respect me as a shaman and a warrior, but they don’t even remember I’m a woman most of the time.”

“Silly of them,” Jonathan whispered. “I can’t forget it—not that I haven’t tried, these past months.”

“I’m sure you have,” Alanna drawled, remembering how the women of the Tortallan Court always flocked around her prince.

For a while they were silent in the dark, thinking, and being content just to hold each other. Then Alanna ventured, “Jon?”

“I intend to become the Voice of the Tribes.” He stroked her hair.

Alanna sat up. “How did you know that was what I wanted to ask?”

She could feel his shrug. “I just did.”

Slowly she lay back down. “Ali Mukhtab said the ceremony is dangerous.”

“I need the power I can get from it. The Bazhir are incredible people, Alanna. Their history is as old as ours—older. And we lose too many men to the Bazhir. It will be better for everyone if they take part in Tortall, instead of tying up our armies within our own borders.”

“I’ve been happy among them,” she admitted. “I’ll be glad when they aren’t at war with our soldiers.”

“Have you been so content that you won’t consider leaving?”

Alanna stiffened, feeling wary. “I have to bring Kara and Kourrem through the Rite of Shamans before I can go. Why?”

“Once that’s done, I had hoped you would come home.”

“I doubt that the scandal over my fight with Duke Roger has died down,” she reminded him.

He silenced her with a hand over her lips. “Come as my betrothed.”

The word lay between them, growing larger and larger. Finally Alanna gasped, “Jon, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a scandal. I killed your cousin. For six years I was disguised as a boy—”

“I knew what you were, for most of that time.”

“You should marry a princess who’ll bring you power and gold,” she went on. “That’s your duty. And you should marry a virgin.”

“You were a virgin when we first made love.”

“No one else knows that!” she cried, frustrated. Remembering the tent’s thin walls, she lowered her voice. “They’ll say I was in bed with a whole regiment, behind your back.”

“Do you think your friends will permit that kind of talk? You have more friends at Court than you know. As to my marrying someone who will bring me power—what of you? You’re a woman knight and a Bazhir shaman. I could marry the daughter of a Bazhir chief, and not gain as much stature as I will if I marry you. Besides,” he went on, his voice suddenly hard, “I’m tired of worrying about such things. I want what I want, not just what’s good for Tortall. I’ve spent my entire life watching what I say and do, for fear of upsetting the merchants, or the Gallans, or the priests, or anyone. They should worry about upsetting me—not the other way around!”

“Is that why you’re asking me to marry you?” she whispered. “Because you want to prove to everyone you don’t care?”

For a long moment he didn’t reply. When he spoke, his voice was very low. “I thought you loved me, Alanna.”

“I do!” she whispered fiercely. “I do! But—” What he had said—the resentment in his voice—worried her. And how could she explain that it was wonderful not to have to trouble herself over Court plots and plotters? Not to have to watch how she acted or what she said, apart from not offending her new tribe? For the first time she could be fully and completely Alanna; she was still learning just who “Alanna” was.

“Marry me, sweet one,” he whispered. “I love you. I want you for my wife.”

It was too much, all at once. “Let me think about it,” she begged. “I do love you, Jon. I just need time.”

“All right.” His voice sounded amused. As they went to sleep, Alanna wondered, Just what is so funny?

As usual, she rose with the dawn. Jon continued to sleep. She dressed quietly and went into the temple portion of her tent. Myles was already there, looking as fresh as he ever did in the morning. Alanna hugged her old friend tightly, and together they walked out into the sunlight. She showed him the village, even taking him up to the hill where she had faced the hillmen with her apprentices, and where Ishak had met his doom. She said nothing about Jonathan’s proposal, half-hoping that if no one mentioned it, Jon might reconsider.

“Why did you come?” she asked as they climbed down the hill.

“I thought it might be better for Jonathan if someone bore him company.”

“You’re always so sensible.” Alanna grinned. She waved to Mari, who was opening the sides of her tent to the morning air. “Mari Fahrar,” she explained to Myles. “She’s the best weaver in the tribe. She’s teaching me.”

Myles chuckled, his green-brown eyes dancing with amusement. “Women’s work, Sir Knight?”

Alanna blushed deeply. “I don’t want to be ignorant.”

Myles hugged her around the shoulders. “You’re brave, to admit you don’t know everything and then do something about it.”

“That’s all very well, but I’m a terrible weaver.”

“I am told practice helps,” he said, his eyes still amused. “Alanna, I actually came here for two reasons.”

“Oh? You’re keeping Jon company—what’s the second one?”

Myles tugged his beard thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about your situation, now that Thom is at Court and you are roaming.” He put his hand on her shoulders. “I believe you know I have always been very fond of you.”

She smiled. “You’re the only one I know who’s forgiven me for lying about what I really am.”

“I knew long before you told me, remember. Listen to me now. Thom lives well at Court—”

“He’s entitled,” Alanna pointed out, bristling in her brother’s defense. “He is the Lord of Trebond. He lived like a priest for years.”

“I don’t question his right to do so. I am concerned about you. If you continue to travel, you will need funds, to stay at inns, to give bribes—don’t frown. Some nations use the bribe to support the national treasury. Now, consider my problem: I’m not getting any younger; I’m unwed and unsociable. It’s not likely that I shall marry and have children. You’ve been like a daughter to me—sometimes even like a son.” His eyes twinkled. “I want to make you my heir.”

Alanna opened her mouth to reply, but no sound emerged. Her throat felt tight and closed; her eyes burned with tears. He clapped her on the shoulders and let her go. “No need to answer right away.”

“I can’t refuse,” she whispered, hugging him fiercely. “Myles, how do I thank you?”

He tousled her hair. “Nonsense. I get an heir who knows how to manage an estate, after all the time you ran Trebond for your brother.”

“With Coram’s help,” she reminded him.

“With Coram’s help, but you made the big decisions. And I know you’ll care for Barony Olau as I do.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now that’s decided, what about some food?”

Alanna was washing up after breakfast when Farda sought her out. “I wish to speak with you privately, and I believe you will be needed elsewhere when I am finished.”

Alanna told Umar Komm, the oldest and most respected of the shamans, who now ran their “school.” He nodded, and she left her tent, which was filled with visiting shamans, apprentices, Jonathan, and Myles. Farda took her to her own home, pressing a cup of tea on the knight.

“It is the Voice of the Tribes,” she said abruptly, her plain face worried. “He is ill. My knowledge is not great enough that I can tell what is wrong, but he is sick, I know. He had made me promise to say nothing to you before, but I cannot remain silent.”

Alanna frowned. She thought Ali Mukhtab had looked pale when she encountered him lately, but such meetings had always occurred at night: She had been blaming flickering torch- and firelight. “I’ll need my healer’s bag,” she murmured. Farda handed it to her silently; she must have gotten it from one of the girls. “Why did you come to me? Surely one of the visiting shamans—”

Farda drew herself up, insulted. “You are the shaman for the Bloody Hawk. Do I tell all those guests that our shaman is not good enough for the Voice of the Tribes?”

Alanna grinned. “Sorry I asked.”

Ali Mukhtab grimaced as she entered his tent. “No woman, not even Farda, can keep silent,” he grumbled. He was pale and sweating as he reclined on his bed.

Alanna knelt beside him and opened the cloth bag in which she kept her healing materials. “Farda did the right thing. Hush.”

The examination was brief. All she had to do was reach into him with her Gift. Death was there—black, ugly, and ravaging—rooted in his chest. She sat back on her heels, her own face as white as his. “You’ve known about this for a while,” she accused. “There’s no way you could not have known.”

“It is given to the Voice to see his ending,” he agreed.

“Why did you let it go?” she demanded, sick at heart. She liked Ali Mukhtab. “Any raw shaman could have slain it at the start—”

“It is my time,” the Voice replied tiredly. “I will not fight it.”

“If you had, you’d be healthy today.”

He smiled. “Poor Woman Who Rides Like a Man. You know so much, and nothing at all.”

“I can do little now,” she told him quietly. “The illness is too far along.” She took his hand, his image blurred by tears. “I’m sorry, Ali Mukhtab.”

He squeezed her hand in reply. “Can you help me with the pain? I must teach Prince Jonathan our laws.”

She nodded. Slowly she reached out with her Gift, its violet fire streaming into his body through their combined hands.

The wrinkles smoothed out of the Voice’s face, and he slept. Shaking her head to clear it, Alanna busied herself mixing herbs into a small jar. She looked up at Farda. “When he wakes, give him tea made with just a pinch of this,” she whispered. “No more than that—it’s very strong. And each morning he’ll need me for the spell.”

Farda stopped her as she made for the door. “How much longer?” the midwife asked, her dark eyes large with hurt.

Alanna shrugged, feeling tired and overburdened. “If I don’t do anything unnatural, he has another month,” she said bluntly. She walked into the bright sunshine. If anyone saw her wiping her streaming eyes, she could blame it on the light.

The new guests began to arrive within days of Jonathan’s coming. These visitors were headmen and leaders of the Bazhir, the lawmakers and the law enforcers. It was clear to everyone that they had come to look over the man who proposed to be the Voice, and it was equally clear they were unhappy with what they saw: the son of the hated Northern king, who was not a Bazhir.

Real trouble did not begin until Amman Kemail, headman of the Sunset Dragon tribe, joined them. Alanna noticed him following Jonathan and Ali Mukhtab during the day, and her instincts for such things warned her of trouble. She recognized the considering look in Kemail’s eyes as he listened to Jonathan answering Mukhtab on points of Bazhir law: as if the Bazhir were weighing the prince and finding him wanting. Still less did she like the way other men drew Kemail aside to talk to him. This tall, brawny headman was clearly a leader, and his appearance was causing many other Bazhir to unburden themselves of their doubts about Ali Mukhtab’s choice.

“There’s going to be trouble,” Alanna told Jonathan as they washed up for the evening meal. “Amman Kemail. I’d bet on it.”

Jon drew himself up, clearly offended. “Are you hinting that I can’t take care of myself? I’ll thank you to remember that I was a knight when you were still a squire—my squire!”

“What is the matter with you these days?” Alanna cried, exasperated. “Excuse me very much, Your Royal Highness! I wasn’t aware I was questioning your skill in the manly art of self defense; I was silly enough to worry you might get hurt! Forgive me! Permit Your Highness’s humble servant to remind you that these people play for keeps!” She hurled down her towel and marched outside, clenching her jaw until it hurt. Jon had been sharp-edged since his arrival, almost as if he had to prove something to himself, or to her. She didn’t like it. At the palace, the only thing it seemed necessary to prove was mutual passion. That part of their love remained; but sometimes now when he talked, she wanted to cover her ears and shut out his voice.

Which of us has changed? she wondered as she sat down among the Bazhir men. And in the Mother’s Name, why?

A moment or two later Jonathan took his seat beside Ali Mukhtab. He looked at Alanna and smiled, shaking his head. As if I were a willful child who’d thrown a very small tantrum, she told herself. She looked down at Faithful, who was settling himself before her. The cat’s tail was twitching madly. He expected trouble as much as Alanna did.

Amman Kemail waited until the women began to pass the food. Ali Mukhtab was offering a piece of his bread to Jonathan when the Sunset Dragon headman stood, pointing at the prince.

“I will not break bread with the son of the Northern king!”

What little talk there was died out completely. Myles, sitting beside Alanna, whispered, “I should have guessed.”

Slowly Ali Mukhtab glanced up at the standing man. “Have you a complaint to voice, Amman Kemail?”

“He is not one of us. He has not won the right to sit with us in peace, or to take bread from the hand of the Voice of the Tribes. Let him prove himself before us all, in the combat!”

“The combat has been demanded of Jonathan, who is the son of the Northern king,” Ali Mukhtab said tonelessly. “Who will speak against it?”

Before Alanna could rise to her feet, Kara and Kourrem gripped her shoulders, and Faithful jumped on her lap.

“Think!” Myles hissed, talking fast. “He’s not accepted by them even as a warrior, let alone as the Voice. If you interfere, they will always wonder if he lets others do his fighting. He was a full knight during the war with Tusaine—he’s no unblooded boy!”

“He’s never fought hand-to-hand, outside the palace courtyards!” Alanna whispered, shaking.

“But George Cooper taught him as well as he taught you! Exercise your common sense, Alanna!”

She knew Myles was right. That didn’t help her as she watched Jon prepare. He stripped off his tunic, shirt, and boots, his face pale and set. Coram held his knife while he began his loosening-up exercises. Amman Kemail was also stripping down to his loincloth, his dark face set. Muscle for muscle he and Jon were equally matched, although the Bazhir was a few inches taller.

Alanna shook off Kara and Kourrem and went to crouch by the Prince. “Think about what you want to accomplish here,” she whispered, forgetting their quarrel earlier. “The Bazhir are strict when it comes to their honor. Don’t shame Kemail.”

He grinned up at her. “What about shaming myself?”

She smiled back. “You’ve yet to do that, Prince. Pardon my suggesting it, but perhaps now is not the time to start.”

He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “You worry too much, Lady Alanna.” Standing, he accepted his knife from Coram with a nod of thanks. Both men were ready, and Ali Mukhtab gave the signal to begin.

Amman Kemail lunged forward, his knife drawing a bloody gash down Jonathan’s chest. The prince faltered back, and the Bazhir lunged again. Alanna closed her eyes. There was a rumble of amazement, and she looked. Kemail’s left arm hung uselessly, blood dripping from the wound in his shoulder, and Jonathan was crouched and circling.

The Bazhir charged forward, and Alanna blinked. Jonathan lunged back, then forward again; his left foot connected solidly with Kemail’s chest. The Bazhir fell to the ground with a crash. Weakly he struggled to his feet just as Jon lunged for him again. His right fist, weighted with his dagger hilt, lashed forward in another movement too quick for Alanna to follow, striking Kemail squarely on the chin. The Bazhir dropped and lay still, knocked unconscious.

Ali Mukhtab came forward. “He is yours to kill,” the Voice commented, his face revealing none of his feelings. Around them the Bazhir men, guests and the Bloody Hawk alike, were silent. “You have won. It is your right.”

Jonathan shook his head. “Amman Kemail was honest in expressing his doubts. Were I in his place, I would have done the same. I can’t kill a man for not liking me, although I can hope he will change his mind when he knows me better.”

Men came forward and carried the still-unconscious headman out of the circle, back to his own tent. Those who remained watched Jonathan thoughtfully.

Coram rushed forward with a drying-cloth, and Kara handed Alanna her healer’s bag. She started to work on Jonathan’s chest wound: The blood from it was already clotting. “How did I do?” Jon said, panting, accepting a skin of water from Kourrem.

“Where did you learn that kind of fighting: kicking, and that style of punching?” she demanded, rubbing salve into the gash. “George never taught you to fight like that.”

Jonathan smiled at her. “About a month after you left, a Shang warrior called The Wolf came to stay at the palace. I’ve been studying with him. I just never thought what he taught me would be useful so soon.”

“Shang warriors are tricky,” Coram admitted. “But this one did well by ye.”

“What’s a Shang warrior?” Kara whispered to Alanna.

“They’re trained to fight from childhood,” Myles answered. “They can handle all manner of weapons as if born holding them, but they’re deadliest with their bare hands and feet. The men and women—”

“And women?” gasped Kourrem, surprised.

“Not many women survive the Shang way of life, but those who do are as legendary as the men,” Myles replied. “As I was saying, they set great store by personal honor and skill, always seeking new challenges and never staying long in one place.”

“Like Alanna,” Kara pointed out.

“Very like,” Myles agreed, smiling slightly. Alanna finished bandaging the prince. It was funny to hear Myles teaching the girls much as he had taught her. She stitched the bandage closed as Ali Mukhtab came over to them.

“You have earned your way among the Bazhir, Jonathan of Conté,” he said formally. “Will you join with our people now?”

Jonathan nodded, standing. “What must I do?”

Alanna, Myles, and the others watched as Jonathan underwent the ceremony that bound him to the Bazhir and the desert. Only a fool would not have noticed that the Bazhir were less happy with Jonathan’s becoming a Bazhir than the men of the Bloody Hawk had been when Alanna had joined them. They were quiet as Ali Mukhtab cut Jon’s arm and his own, and there was no feast afterward.

“They welcomed you, didn’t they?” Jon asked Alanna when they were in bed.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“They’re still not convinced I’ll be a good Voice of the Tribes. I’ll simply have to prove it with my actions,” he commented. He hugged Alanna close. “I know I’ve been a bit difficult to be around lately,” he confessed. “I’ve been hemmed in and proper all my life, and lately it’s been bothering me. I want to break loose and do all the things I’m not supposed to. I’ll probably never do them, and right now I’m fighting it. Can you understand that?”

“No,” Alanna replied frankly. “I’ve spent all my life trying to avoid getting caught in just that kind of trap.”

“Well, my lovely Lioness, that’s the trap I was born into. I’ll get over this restlessness, I suppose. I really want to be a good king, and a good Voice of the Tribes.”

“Then you’ll do it,” she reassured him. “I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

After Jonathan’s initiation into the Bazhir, Alanna spent little time with Kara and Kourrem, leaving them to study with the visiting shamans. Her visits to Ali Mukhtab grew to twice a day, leaving her weary and sick each time. Only Farda and the Voice himself knew what she was doing. During her free hours, she talked with Myles, learning all she needed to know about Barony Olau, even as Jon studied late with Mukhtab.

At last Myles admitted that Alanna had nothing left to learn about his estates. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to formally adopt you here. The Bazhir ceremony is simple, and quite legal.” He chuckled. “I think your desert friends would be happy if you gained a father, even a disreputable one like me.”

Alanna hugged him. She was discovering that each time she hugged Myles, it got easier. It was one of the many ways in which living as a girl was far more pleasant; boys were not supposed to show affection openly. “You aren’t disreputable at all; well, not that disreputable. If only you’d wear nicer clothes. It’s not as if you can’t afford it.” She had discovered Myles was far wealthier than she dreamed, as a result of an unnoble-like interest in trade.

“But I’m comfortable this way,” the knight pointed out. He added shrewdly, “Of course, if you married Jon, I would have to dress up from time to time.”

Faithful uttered a small yowlp as Alanna stared at her friend. “How did you know?”

“I’m not blind. All the way down here he was brooding. When he wasn’t, he talked about why a prince marries.”

“Oh.” Alanna fingered her ember-stone. “I told him I’d think about it.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure he wants to marry me for the right reasons,” she admitted. “He seems angry that people expect him to behave a certain way because he’s the prince. He calls it ‘a trap’ he was ‘born into.’” Picking up Faithful, Alanna draped him around her shoulders. “I don’t blame him for wanting to rebel—that’s one of the reasons I left the Court. But I don’t like the idea of his proving he’s rebelling by marriage with me. That makes me into a thing that’s evidence he can do what he wants, instead of loving me as a person.”

“He does love you,” Myles pointed out.

She sighed. “I know he does. But I wonder if he’d have proposed if he weren’t—itchy. You know something else, Myles? I never liked people watching me and talking about me all the time, even when they were saying nice things. And I still haven’t learned to live with killing Roger.” The cat thrust his nose into her ear, and she winced. “I like it here. The Bazhir accept me. I’m myself with them. Well, as much myself as anyone can be when they’re a shaman and a warrior, and when they don’t want to hurt people’s feelings.”

“Do you love Jon?”

Alanna scratched Faithful’s ears, her violet eyes sad. “Love’s wonderful, but it is not enough to keep us together for years of marriage. I’m not sure if I’m ready; I’m not sure if Jon’s ready. I have to be sure, if I want to marry King Roald’s heir.” She smiled. “Yes, I love him. That’s the whole problem.”

He stood, putting a hand on her shoulder. “The only advice I can give you, then, is to decide carefully. If you are so uncertain, you would make a bad decision if you married now. No can always be changed to yes, but it’s very hard to change yes to no. Come on. Smile. Let’s go see what your apprentices are up to.”

The apprentices were easy to find. All of the shamans in the village, as well as Jonathan, Ali Mukhtab, Farda, and Halef Seif, were gathered around the well. In the open space before Ali Mukhtab’s tent stood Kara, her veils whipping around her as she raised a whirling funnel of dust in the air before her. Alanna had to grin with pride. The Bazhir maiden had come a long way from being unable to control the winds she summoned.

Then Kourrem stepped forward, a bit of thread in her hands. Her lips moving, she tied a complex knot in the thread. The twister, which had been slowly growing toward the sky, halted. Dust fell slowly down its sides and was scooped in once more. Kourrem grinned and tied a second, harder knot: The dust collapsed to earth. The shamans applauded the two girls, who laughed and blushed behind their veils.

“They know as much as any shaman,” Umar Komm told Alanna. “They must be initiated soon.”

Alanna frowned. “They’re very young. If I leave, I’m afraid they’ll get into trouble.”

The old man chuckled. “You worry over them as the desert grouse worries over her chicks,” he informed her. “But you are right. A shaman who is too young can lead a tribe to grief. I believe Mahman Fadul would like to be principal shaman of my tribe.” He nodded to the young man who had come with him, a handsome fellow who had a habit of watching Alanna with admiration. “If you wish, I will come to the Bloody Hawk and watch over your chicks, Woman Who Rides Like a Man. I can oversee this school of shamans while the young ones tend to the needs of the tribe.”

Alanna nibbled her thumb. “I guess I’m worried that I’d be deserting my post,” she admitted.

Umar Komm shook his head. “No one believes you will remain among us all your life. That you have stayed so long is an honor to our people. And you may always return.”

Alanna felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. “If that is so, then I gladly accept your offer,” she said. “The full moon is in five days—the girls can be initiated then.”

“Excellent.” Umar Komm nodded. “I shall tell the women of the tribe to prepare a feast we will long remember.” He was silent for a moment, then he drew her aside. “Alanna, how ill is the Voice of the Tribes?”

Alanna glanced at Ali Mukhtab. He was leaning on a tall staff, his face grayish under his tan. “Why do you ask?”

“The shamans speak of it quietly, among themselves. We have eyes and can see. He is dying, is he not?”

Alanna nodded.

“Our people begin to suspect. When we commune with the Voice, he feels old. And tired. His mind is a disciplined one, and he lets nothing else through, but had you touched his thoughts when he was in his prime—”

“I’ve never communed with the Voice,” she admitted.

Umar Komm smiled. “Of course not. You are afraid you will lose yourself if you join with another—even if you join only in love, as with your Northern prince.”

“Does everyone know my business?” she demanded tartly, just remembering to keep her voice down.

“The Bazhir have clear eyes,” the shaman replied. “And the lords from the North both love you, each in his own way. It would be a fine thing for our people if the Woman Who Rides Like a Man were to wed the Voice of the Tribes.”

“And if I don’t?” she asked steadily.

His face was surprised. “Why, then you are still the Woman Who Rides Like a Man, and he is still the Voice. If he passes the rite, of course.”

Alanna excused herself, seeing that Ali Mukhtab needed to go inside and lie down. “If,” indeed, she thought.

That night, after the evening meal, Halef Seif took her aside. “Sir Myles of Olau tells me he wishes to bring you into his tent as his heir,” he said. Alanna nodded, and a smile brightened the headman’s face. “I feel strange saying he wishes you to be his daughter, since a daughter cannot inherit all the father owns among our people. He says to me you have been friends a long time.”

“He taught me everything I knew about the Bazhir before I came here,” she said. “In fact, he taught me a number of useful things when I was growing up. I’m honored that he wants to adopt me.”

“Many strange things have happened to you since your birth,” Halef mused. “I believe finding a father when you are grown is no stranger than any. Do you wish the ceremony to be tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Why delay? You have your tribe around you, your prince to give his blessing—”

Alanna swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “Why not tonight, indeed?” she said bravely. “Uh—will this be like the time I was adopted into the tribe?”

“Exactly like,” he admitted as he ushered her back into the circle of firelight. Alanna looked at the scar on her wrist from her initiation into the tribe and grimaced. She was vain enough not to want any more scars than she had, but sensible enough to know she would probably collect more in the life she had chosen. Halef Seif was holding up his hands, calling for everyone’s attention. Myles stood, dusting off the back of his breeches.

“Tonight the northerner called Myles of Olau, the Friend of the Bazhir, desires to take Alanna of the Bloody Hawk into his tent as his daughter and heir.” He waited for the surprised murmurs to end before speaking again. “By our law, seven men must witness this rite. Who will witness?”

Alanna blushed as nearly every man in the circle volunteered. Halef Seif picked Ali Mukhtab, Jonathan, Coram, Umar Komm, Gammal the smith—

“Halef Seif,” Alanna said nervously. The headman looked at her. “I would like my apprentices to witness.”

Again there was a murmur; women were not legally permitted to perform in ceremonies such as this. Alanna clenched her teeth. If they were to be shamans, the girls would have to take part in every tribal activity. Kara and Kourrem hung back, but the men urged them forward until they stood with the other witnesses. Halef Seif was heating his knife blade in the big fire.

“Roll up your sleeve and smile,” Myles whispered as he did the same. Alanna rolled up her right sleeve, thinking that it was not the same as receiving a wound in battle: On those occasions it was often long moments before she even knew she was hurt, and the excitement of fighting acted as its own pain-killing drug. Now she could only brace herself as Halef Seif lightly cut Myles’s wrist, then hers, pressing them together as blood welled out. Once again Alanna felt odd joining-magic as Halef Seif commanded, “Become one with each other, with the Bazhir, with the desert we love.” The combined drops fell, soaking into the sand as the tribesmen cheered.

“Now, was that so bad?” Myles asked her as Farda bandaged them both. Alanna grimaced and watched the witnesses sign the legal documents Myles had brought with him from Corus. Then she realized she now had a father who loved her, and she laughed as tears ran down her face.

Jonathan found her later as she struggled once more with the crystal blade, forcing another spot of evil out of the sword’s makeup. She smiled up at him as he wiped sweat from her forehead with a cool cloth. “I think that every time I do this, my Gift gets stronger,” she gasped.

He frowned at her. “Does it always tire you so much?” When she didn’t answer, he added softly, “Or does it tire you because you’re wearing yourself out keeping Ali Mukhtab alive?”

“I have to do it, if you’re going to become the Voice,” she replied, turning the sword over in her fingers. “That’s what you want—and that’s what he wants. I think you could probably handle this, now.” She offered it to him. “It’s not as bad as it was when I took it from Ibn Nazzir.”

He took the weapon, his eyebrows lifting as he felt its power. “It must have been terrible.”

She shrugged. “I just wish I knew how it was related to Duke Roger.”

He returned the sword, hilt-first, and she sheathed it. “I was asking Myles about that. He reminded me of something—did you know that Roger was a famous amateur jeweler when he was younger?”

She stared at him, eyes wide. “No.”

“He made hilts, pendants—I think he designed his sorcerer’s rod. I believe the hilt for this sword is his work.”

“And the blade?” she wanted to know.

He smiled grimly. “I’ve been going through Roger’s books and papers, those I can find. I know more about him than I did when he died. Yes, my love, I believe that blade is his work too. I wish you were carrying Lightning again.”

“I do, too. I’ll just have to keep searching for a way to mend it.” She sighed, then put the sword down and let him give her a hand up from the pillow on which she sat. She had been working before the altar; now he led her back to the sleeping quarters.

“Alanna?” he asked as she prepared for the night. “Do you still wear that charm Mistress Cooper gave you to keep you from getting pregnant?”

She showed it to him, hanging half-hidden on the same chain that suspended her ember-stone. “I never go without it.”

“I trust you’ll leave it off after we’re married,” he said with a yawn.

I don’t want to have children just yet! she realized in a panic. Controlling her emotions, she replied dryly, “We’re not married yet, my prince.”

He chuckled sleepily. “Of course not, my beautiful Lioness. Come to bed.”

The day before the moon was full, Alanna roused Kara and Kourrem before dawn. She rode with them as their sole escort to the nearest oasis. After saying prayers over them, she sent the girls into the chilly water for the ritual cleansing. They were silent throughout. Neither of them was permitted to speak until the night’s ritual was over. Neither could use magic, or perform any tasks apart from dressing. Silently they returned to the camp and to Alanna’s tent, where they knelt before the altar. Two pairs of eyes fixed on the lamp that burned there; within moments they were in a light trance. They would remain like this for hours, thinking about the life they were about to begin.

The sun was rising when she entered Ali Mukhtab’s tent. The Voice was already awake, accepting a cup of tea from Farda.

“And so your chicks have begun the ritual.” Alanna made a face as she opened her healer’s bag; Umar Komm’s description of her apprentices was now known to the entire tribe. “How does that make you feel?”

“As if I were taking the Ordeal of Knighthood all over again,” she admitted, feeling for his heartbeat in his wrist. “How did you sleep?”

“Do you expect me to say I slept as an infant does?” His sense of humor twinkled out of his too-large eyes. His weight loss was now apparent to even the least observant members of the tribe, as was the grayish tinge of his skin.

“I expect you to do me the credit of not lying about it.” She placed both hands on his arm and drew a breath, readying herself to beat back the pain once more. Each time it got harder, for her and for him.

When she released him, she rocked backward and would have fallen if Farda had not caught her. She felt dizzy and sick; it was the way she always felt when she used the spell now, and she used it three times a day. She accepted the cloth Farda gave her and wiped her forehead. Already Muktab’s eyelids were drooping.

“How much longer must Jonathan study?” she rasped, her voice as sick as the rest of her. “When will he be ready?” She had to place her ear by the dying man’s mouth to hear what he was saying. “In the dark of the moon. Fourteen days.”

“What if he fails?” The thought was horrible: If he failed, Jon would be dead, and Ali Mukhtab—

The Voice struggled to smile. “Then I will wait to die. Alanna—”

“Yes?”

“Akhnan Ibn Nazzir survived the rite of shamans. Your chicks will do well.”

The light of the full moon turned the desert sands an eerie white: A fit setting for an initiation, I suppose, Alanna thought as Umar Komm read the list of gods given honor by the Bazhir. The girls knelt in the sand, encircled by witch-fires that glowed Alanna’s violet and Umar Komm’s blue-green. Both apprentices looked tired but serene, and Alanna felt proud of them. They’ll be good for the tribe, she realized, even if they do want to keep their face veils.

Umar Komm finished the names of the gods and nodded to Alanna. She stretched out her hands to the girls, conscious that everyone who had come to the tents of the Bloody Hawk in recent days was watching. The circle of fire lay solidly between Alanna and her apprentices. “If you are pure in heart and strong of will, come forth!” she summoned, using words Umar Komm and the other shamans had taught her that very day.

Kara stood. For a moment she faltered, seeing the magical flames rear higher than her head. Then her mouth firmed, and she walked through the ring. Kourrem followed without hesitation. Alanna and Umar threw up walls of light, and Alanna summoned the apprentices again: “If you will do as the gods require, come forth!”

The girls walked through the light together. Kara slowed, nearly stopping, for a moment, but both emerged. Alanna and Umar Komm created a deep trench in the ground before them. For the third time, Alanna summoned, “If you will do your duty by your people and your tribe, come forth!”

This task was the hardest, because it required the most determination. Few sorcerers lifted themselves from the ground; it cost too much strength to go a very short distance. Alanna doubted that she could do it, drained as she was by keeping Ali Mukhtab alive.

Kourrem hesitated, fighting to strengthen her resolve. She was forbidden to use thread, or to move rocks to fill the trench. She had to fly over it.

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.