She headed for the open desert alone, wishing there was a way to ride so hard and fast that she left puzzles and heartache behind.
To be free—really free, she thought grimly as she brought Moonlight to a gallop. To never worry about anything or anybody, to go where I want without thinking about other people at all...I’ve been carrying Roger and everyone else in Corus with me, just as I’ve carried the tribe since I killed Akhnan Ibn Nazzir. I wish the only one I ever carried with me was me—
Hoofbeats sounded behind her; she wheeled Moonlight, bringing the crystal blade from its sheath in a swift movement. Then she smiled ruefully as she recognized Coram and his bay gelding.
I daresay I wouldn’t be happy if I had no one but myself, she thought with a sigh, waiting for him to catch up.
Alanna began to sleep in Ali Mukhtab’s tent, always ready with her Gift and medicines to bolster the Voice’s fading strength. On the last day, when the moon would be dark, Mukhtab sent Jonathan to rest and to gather his resources. The lessons were complete; all that remained was the Rite itself. After shooing everyone out, Alanna placed the Voice in the deepest of slumbers, hoping to give him added strength for the night’s ordeal.
Outside, she could feel a hushed tension in the village. To the tribesmen the selection of a Voice was more important than the coronation of a king. The Voice of the Tribes was priest, father, and judge to the Bazhir. Halef Seif had told her a Voice never acted without the approval of most of his people; the knowledge of Bazhir minds and hearts was far too heavy a burden for him even to consider defiance. This information convinced Alanna all the more that she never wanted to join with the Voice during those moments at twilight. She had trouble enough understanding herself; she wanted no one else—not even one supposedly as disinterested as the Voice—to know her thoughts and problems.
While the tribe ate the evening meal (there was no ceremony at the fire), Alanna went to Jonathan. The Prince had been fasting; now, dressed in a white burnoose, he looked pale and resolute.
“I wanted to wish you luck,” she explained. She wasn’t sure how to speak to him: he was preparing to take on a burden she would refuse at any cost. For a moment he looked as if he didn’t know her. Then he stood, holding out his arms.
“Tell me you love me,” he said, trying to smile. “I need the encouragement.”
She ran into his arms, hugging him as fiercely as he did her. “Of course I love you,” she whispered. “That part of it is settled.”
He said nothing, continuing to hold her so tightly her ribs ached. At last she ventured, “Jon? Why d’you want to be the Voice? You’re already restless.”
“I need to be the Voice,” he replied softly. “If I can do this thing, become the leader of the Bazhir, there should be few secrets of the human soul I won’t understand. The Bazhir aren’t so different from us, Alanna. If I know them, how they think, I’ll know how most people think. With that knowledge I can become the greatest—the best —ruler who ever lived.”
“It’s so important to you?”
“It’s what I was born to do,” he told her, his voice harsh. “It’s what I will do. In spite of being restless. In spite of everything.”
Jonathan and Ali Mukhtab stood at the summit of the hill with a fire between them, its flames reaching waist-high. Somehow the Voice stood alone—there was no one to catch him if he fell. Alanna waited with the other shamans some distance away: they were not permitted near until the ceremony was over; they were forbidden to use their magic.
Faithful stood on his hind feet, bracing his front paws on Alanna’s thigh. Not taking her eyes off the scene before her, she picked him up, trying not to grip him too tightly. She was trembling with fear, because she had no control over what would happen.
Ali Mukhtab raised his hands, his voice suddenly strong as he chanted. The language was ancient, left from the time when the Bazhir lived in stone buildings on the other side of the Inland Sea; Alanna couldn’t understand the words. She could, however, feel the power that began to fill the air: a dark, boiling force that drew answering chords from the crystal sword at her waist. She touched the hilt absently, mentally commanding it to quiet. The sound from the blade lessened, although she still could feel it quivering.
Ali Mukhtab ended his chant as suddenly-strong winds flicked burnooses across their owners’ faces, raising little dust devils from the ground.
“Jonathan of Conté.” Mukhtab’s voice was soft, yet it rolled and echoed through the air. “You come, a northern stranger, seeking to be one with the Bazhir. For what reason should we permit you, son of the Tortallan King, to enter this most holy circle of our people?”
From the look on Jonathan’s face, Alanna knew this wasn’t part of the ritual. The Prince had to answer honestly, while the Bloody Hawk and the visitors from the other tribes listened.