“Why?”
“I’m not sure he wants to marry me for the right reasons,” she admitted. “He seems angry that people expect him to behave a certain way because he’s the Prince. He calls it ‘a trap’ he was ’born into.’” Picking up Faithful, Alanna draped him around her shoulders. “I don’t blame him for wanting to rebel—that’s one of the reasons I left the Court. But I don’t like the idea of his proving he’s rebelling by marriage with me. That makes me into a thing that’s evidence he can do what he wants, instead of leaving me a person.”
“He does love you,” Myles pointed out.
She sighed. “I know he does. But I wonder if he’d have proposed if he weren’t—itchy. You know something else, Myles? I never liked people watching me and talking about me all the time, even when they were saying nice things. And I still haven’t learned to live with killing Roger.” The cat thrust his nose into her ear, and she winced. “I like it here. The Bazhir accept me. I’m myself with them. Well, as much myself as anyone can be when they’re a shaman and a warrior, and when they don’t want to hurt people’s feelings.”
“Do you love Jon?”
Alanna scratched Faithful’s ears, her violet eyes sad. “Love’s wonderful, but it is not enough to keep us together for years of marriage. I’m not sure if I’m ready; I’m not sure if Jon’s ready. I have to be sure, if I want to marry King Roald’s heir.” She smiled. “Yes, I love him. That’s the whole problem.”
He stood, putting a hand on her shoulder. “The only advice I can give you, then, is to decide carefully. If you are so uncertain, you would make a bad decision if you married now. No can always be changed to yes, but it’s very hard to change yes to no. Come on. Smile. Let’s go see what your apprentices are up to.”
The apprentices were easy to find. All of the shamans in the village, as well as Jonathan, Ali Mukhtab, Farda, and Halef Seif, were gathered around the well. In the open space before Ali Mukhtab’s tent stood Kara, her veils whipping around her as she raised a whirling funnel of dust in the air before her. Alanna had to grin with pride. The Bazhir maiden had come a long way from being unable to control the winds she summoned.
Then Kourrem stepped forward, a bit of thread in her hands. Her lips moving, she tied a complex knot in the thread. The twister, which had been slowly growing toward the sky, halted. Dust fell slowly down its sides and was scooped in once more. Kourrem grinned and tied a second, harder knot: the dust collapsed to earth. The shamans applauded the two girls, who laughed and blushed behind their veils.
“They know as much as any shaman,” Umar Komm told Alanna. “They must be initiated soon.”
Alanna frowned. “They’re very young. If I leave, I’m afraid they’ll get into trouble.”
The old man chuckled. “You worry over them as the desert grouse worries over her chicks,” he informed her. “But you are right. A shaman who is too young can lead a tribe to grief. I believe Mahman Fadul would like to be principal shaman of my tribe.” He nodded to the young man who had come with him, a handsome fellow who had a habit of watching Alanna with admiration. “If you wish, I will come to the Bloody Hawk and watch over your chicks, Woman Who Rides Like a Man. I can oversee this school of shamans while the young ones tend to the needs of the tribe.”
Alanna nibbled her thumb. “I guess I’m worried that I’d be deserting my post,” she admitted.
Umar Komm shook his head. “No one believes you will remain among us all your life. That you have stayed so long is an honor to our people. And you may always return.”
Alanna felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. “If that is so, then I gladly accept your offer,” she said. “The full moon is in five days—the girls can be initiated then.”
“Excellent.” Umar Komm nodded. “I shall tell the women of the tribe to prepare a feast we will long remember.” He was silent for a moment, then he drew her aside. “Alanna, how ill is the Voice of the Tribes?”
Alanna glanced at Ali Mukhtab. He was leaning on a tall staff, his face grayish under his tan. “Why do you ask?”
“The shamans speak of it quietly, among themselves. We have eyes and can see. He is dying, is he not?”
Alanna nodded.
“Our people begin to suspect. When we commune with the Voice, he feels old. And tired. His mind is a disciplined one, and he lets nothing else through, but had you touched his thoughts when he was in his prime—”
“I’ve never communed with the Voice,” she admitted.
Umar Komm smiled. “Of course not. You are afraid you will lose yourself if you join with another—even if you join only in love, as with your Northern Prince.”