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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 express
ing 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?”
