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 sharpedged 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.”