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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.
