“But if Prince Jonathan were to become the Voice of the Tribes, he would be King one day—a Bazhir King. He would know us as we do ourselves. The tribes you call ’renegade’ would make peace, for none may war against the Voice of the Tribes. They will make peace, and the Voice will bring them into Tortall without bloodshed.
“We must accept the King in the North; there is no other way. But we can do it so that we never forget who we are. Prince Jonathan is the key. With my passing, he will be the Voice, and my people will be safe.”
Alanna nibbled at her thumb, considering. “Maybe Jon won’t want to do it,” she said at last. “The position seems to carry a lot of heartache to me.
Ali Mukhtab smiled. “Jonathan was born to rule, as you were born to make your own way. If there is any way he can better govern his people, he will take it. I have watched him for years. He will not turn his back on such power.” Reaching into his robe, he brought out a thick letter sealed with wax. “Will you send this and the history to him, and let him make the choice?”
Alanna took the letter. Mukhtab was right: Jon had to make this decision himself. “I’ll see that he gets it.”
Coram shook his head even as he pulled on his riding boots. “I don’t like leavin’ ye right now,” he protested for the twentieth time. “That Akhnan Ibn Nazzir would feed ye to the wolves as soon as look at ye, and ye’re sendin’ me back to Corus.”
“The sooner you ride to Corus, the sooner you’ll be back to look out for me,” Alanna said implacably. “This is important.”
“Keepin’ ye safe from that old buzzard isn’t?” Coram demanded. “Ye said Mukhtab’s sendin’ a man with me?”
“He’s waiting with the packhorse now,” Alanna said, giving her friend an affectionate grin as they walked outside. “I’ll be all right. I have Faithful to look after me.”
Coram scowled at the black cat, who was trotting ahead. “Some protection,” he muttered. They halted, surprised to see Hakim Fahrar waiting with the horses. The tall Bazhir bowed.
“I am to ride with you,” he said in response to the question on their faces. “The Voice has said it.”
Alanna hugged Coram for a moment “You’ll be back before you know it,” she said gruffly. “So leave!”
She watched the two men ride off, their packhorse trailing behind. Fingering the ember at her throat, she blinked her watering eyes.
You’re not alone, Faithful remarked. You have me still
Alanna picked the cat up and hugged him tightly. She wasn’t crying simply because she felt lost without Coram: the gruff manservant would be with Jonathan soon, and she wouldn’t.
The Ordeal. She dropped through endless stretches of water, her lungs bursting for lack of air. She fought and fought, but she couldn’t find her way to the surface. She opened her mouth to scream—
She jerked awake, her mouth clamped shut so tightly that her jaws ached. She was forbidden to scream in the Chamber of the Ordeal!
Faithful fell to the ground from her chest. It had been his weight that made her sleeping mind remember that awful moment. About to yell her fury, she realized Faithful’s tail and fur were erect. Keeping silent for a moment, she heard a rustle of movement, the soft click of hard objects striking each other gently.
Carefully Alanna lifted her battle-axe from her weapons rack and—moving soundlessly—she slid out the back of the tent. With Faithful behind, she circled her home, a shadow among the camp’s other shadows.
A huddled figure was drawing designs before her door. She suddenly knew who it was, and could guess what he was up to. Hefting the axe, she hurled it into the sand at Akhnan Ibn Nazzir’s feet, then strode forward, the violet fire of her Gift turning the scene into purple daylight.
“Demon, I adjure thee, harm me not!” the old man screeched. “In the name of Mithros—”
“Be quiet!” Alanna snapped as people ran out of their tents, armed with swords and spears. “Now you’ve awakened everyone!”
Recognizing her at last, Ibn Nazzir gasped in fury. “I will cast you out!” he yelled. “I will cleanse our tribe of you and send you back into the Darkness where you belong!”
Examining the design the shaman had been working on, Alanna felt sick. It was called a Gate of Idramm: she had learned of it from Duke Roger, who had taught her and Jonathan sorcery when they were young.
“There are many kinds of creatures in our world,” the Duke of Conté had explained. “Call them demons, elementals, spirits—their variety is infinite. Some serve that force we call Good, some that called Evil. A Gate of Idramm summons all such entities within a certain range. The result—” He had shrugged his broad shoulders. “Is disastrous. Only fools construct a Gate without putting limits on it.”
This one was almost complete. Alanna shuddered. There were no limiting spells in the symbols of the design. “You stupid, ignorant, vicious old man!” she cried, scuffing it out with her bare foot. “You could have destroyed the entire village! Or didn’t you care as long as you took me with you?”