The Woman Who Rides Like a Man (Song of the Lioness #3)

“Does everyone know my business?” she demanded tartly, just remembering to keep her voice down.

“The Bazhir have clear eyes,” the shaman replied. “And the lords from the North both love you, each in his own way. It would be a fine thing for our people if the Woman Who Rides Like a Man were to wed the Voice of the Tribes.”

“And if I don’t?” she asked steadily.

His face was surprised. “Why, then you are still the Woman Who Rides Like a Man, and he is still the Voice. If he passes the rite, of course.”

Alanna excused herself, seeing that Ali Mukhtab needed to go inside and lie down. “If,” indeed, she thought.

That night, after the evening meal, Halef Seif took her aside. “Sir Myles of Olau tells me he wishes to bring you into his tent as his heir,” he said. Alanna nodded, and a smile brightened the headman’s face. “I feel strange saying he wishes you to be his daughter, since a daughter cannot inherit all the father owns among our people. He says to me you have been friends a long time.”

“He taught me everything I knew about the Bazhir before I came here,” she said. “In fact, he taught me a number of useful things when I was growing up. I’m honored that he wants to adopt me.”

“Many strange things have happened to you since your birth,” Halef mused. “I believe finding a father when you are grown is no stranger than any. Do you wish the ceremony to be done tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Why delay? You have your tribe around you, your Prince to give his blessing—”

Alanna swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “Why not tonight, indeed?” she said bravely. “Uh—will this be like the time I was adopted into the tribe?”

“Exactly like,” he admitted as he ushered her back into the circle of firelight. Alanna looked at the scar on her wrist from her initiation into the tribe and grimaced. She was vain enough not to want any more scars than she had, but sensible enough to know she would probably collect more in the life she had chosen. Halef Seif was holding up his hands, calling for everyone’s attention. Myles stood, dusting off the back of his breeches.

“Tonight the northerner called Myles of Olau, the Friend of the Bazhir, desires to take Alanna of the Bloody Hawk into his tent as his daughter and heir.” He waited for the surprised murmurs to end before speaking again. “By our law, seven men must witness this rite. Who will witness?”

Alanna blushed as nearly every man in the circle volunteered. Halef Seif picked Ali Mukhtab, Jonathan, Coram, Umar Komm, Gammal the smith—

“Halef Seif,” Alanna said nervously. The headman looked at her. “I would like my apprentices to witness.”

Again there was a murmur; women were not legally permitted to perform in ceremonies such as this. Alanna clenched her teeth. If they were to be shamans, the girls would have to take part in every tribal activity. Kara and Kourrem hung back, but the men urged them forward until they stood with the other witnesses. Halef Seif was heating his knife blade in the big fire.

“Roll up your sleeve and smile,” Myles whispered as he did the same. Alanna rolled up her right sleeve, thinking that it was not the same as receiving a wound in battle: on those occasions it was often long moments before she even knew she was hurt, and the excitement of fighting acted as its own pain-killing drug. Now she could only brace herself as Halef Seif lightly cut Myles’s wrist, then hers, pressing them together as blood welled out. Once again Alanna felt odd joining-magic as Halef Seif commanded, “Become one with each other, with the Bazhir, with the desert we love.” The combined drops fell, soaking into the sand as the tribesmen cheered.

“Now, was that so bad?” Myles asked her as Farda bandaged them both. Alanna grimaced and watched the witnesses sign the legal documents Myles had brought with him from Corus. Then she realized she now had a father who loved her, and she laughed as tears ran down her face.

Jonathan found her later as she struggled once more with the crystal blade, forcing another spot of evil out of the sword’s makeup. She smiled up at him as he wiped sweat from her forehead with a cool cloth. “I think that every time I do this, my Gift gets stronger,” she gasped.

He frowned at her. “Does it always tire you so much?” When she didn’t answer, he added softly, “Or does it tire you because you’re wearing yourself out keeping Ali Mukhtab alive?”

“I have to do it, if you’re to become the Voice,” she replied, turning the sword over in her fingers. “That’s what you want—and that’s what he wants. I think you could probably handle this, now.” She offered it to him. “It’s not as bad as it was when I took it from Ibn Nazzir.”

He took the weapon, his eyebrows lifting as he felt its power. “It must have been terrible.”