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 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.”