The Woman Who Rides Like a Man

by Tamora Pierce

  “I’m sure you have,” Alanna drawled, remembering how the women of the Tortallan Court always flocked around her prince.

  For a while they were silent in the dark, thinking, and being content just to hold each other. Then Alanna ventured, “Jon?”

  “I intend to become the Voice of the Tribes.” He stroked her hair.

  Alanna sat up. “How did you know that was what I wanted to ask?”

  She could feel his shrug. “I just did.”

  Slowly she lay back down. “Ali Mukhtab said the ceremony is dangerous.”

  “I need the power I can get from it. The Bazhir are incredible people, Alanna. Their history is as old as ours—older. And we lose too many men to the Bazhir. It will be better for everyone if they take part in Tortall, instead of tying up our armies within our own borders.”

  “I’ve been happy among them,” she admitted. “I’ll be glad when they aren’t at war with our soldiers.”

  “Have you been so content that you won’t consider leaving?”

  Alanna stiffened, feeling wary. “I have to bring Kara and Kourrem through the Rite of Shamans before I can go. Why?”

  “Once that’s done, I had hoped you would come home.”

  “I doubt that the scandal over my fight with Duke Roger has died down,” she reminded him.

  He silenced her with a hand over her lips. “Come as my betrothed.”

  The word lay between them, growing larger and larger. Finally Alanna gasped, “Jon, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a scandal. I killed your cousin. For six years I was disguised as a boy—”

  “I knew what you were, for most of that time.”

  “You should marry a princess who’ll bring you power and gold,” she went on. “That’s your duty. And you should marry a virgin.”

  “You were a virgin when we first made love.”

  “No one else knows that!” she cried, frustrated. Remembering the tent’s thin walls, she lowered her voice. “They’ll say I was in bed with a whole regiment, behind your back.”

  “Do you think your friends will permit that kind of talk? You have more friends at Court than you know. As to my marrying someone who will bring me power—what of you? You’re a woman knight and a Bazhir shaman. I could marry the daughter of a Bazhir chief, and not gain as much stature as I will if I marry you. Besides,” he went on, his voice suddenly hard, “I’m tired of worrying about such things. I want what I want, not just what’s good for Tortall. I’ve spent my entire life watching what I say and do, for fear of upsetting the merchants, or the Gallans, or the priests, or anyone. They should worry about upsetting me—not the other way around!”

  “Is that why you’re asking me to marry you?” she whispered. “Because you want to prove to everyone you don’t care?”

  For a long moment he didn’t reply. When he spoke, his voice was very low. “I thought you loved me, Alanna.”

  “I do!” she whispered fiercely. “I do! But—” What he had said—the resentment in his voice—worried her. And how could she explain that it was wonderful not to have to trouble herself over Court plots and plotters? Not to have to watch how she acted or what she said, apart from not offending her new tribe? For the first time she could be fully and completely Alanna; she was still learning just who “Alanna” was.

  “Marry me, sweet one,” he whispered. “I love you. I want you for my wife.”

  It was too much, all at once. “Let me think about it,” she begged. “I do love you, Jon. I just need time.”

  “All right.” His voice sounded amused. As they went to sleep, Alanna wondered, Just what is so funny?

  As usual, she rose with the dawn. Jon continued to sleep. She dressed quietly and went into the temple portion of her tent. Myles was already there, looking as fresh as he ever did in the morning. Alanna hugged her old friend tightly, and together they walked out into the sunlight. She showed him the village, even taking him up to the hill where she had faced the hillmen with her apprentices, and where Ishak had met his doom. She said nothing about Jonathan’s proposal, half-hoping that if no one mentioned it, Jon might reconsider.

  “Why did you come?” she asked as they climbed down the hill.

  “I thought it might be better for Jonathan if someone bore him company.”

  “You’re always so sensible.” Alanna grinned. She waved to Mari, who was opening the sides of her tent to the morning air. “Mari Fahrar,” she explained to Myles. “She’s the best weaver in the tribe. She’s teaching me.”

  Myles chuckled, his green-brown eyes dancing with amusement. “Women’s work, Sir Knight?”

  Alanna blushed deeply. “I don’t want to be ignorant.”

  Myles hugged her around the shoulders. “You’re brave, to admit you don’t know everything and then do something about it.”

  “That’s all very well, but I’m a terrible weaver.”

  “I am told practice helps,” he said, his eyes still amused. “Alanna, I actually came here for two reasons.”

  “Oh? You’re keeping Jon company—what’s the second one?”

  Myles tugged his beard thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about your situation, now that Thom is at Court and you are roaming.” He put his hand on her shoulders. “I believe you know I have always been very fond of you.”

  She smiled. “You’re the only one I know who’s forgiven me for lying about what I really am.”

  “I knew long before you told me, remember. Listen to me now. Thom lives well at Court—”

  “He’s entitled,” Alanna pointed out, bristling in her brother’s defense. “He is the Lord of Trebond. He lived like a priest for years.”

  “I don’t question his right to do so. I am concerned about you. If you continue to travel, you will need funds, to stay at inns, to give bribes—don’t frown. Some nations use the bribe to support the national treasury. Now, consider my problem: I’m not getting any younger; I’m unwed and unsociable. It’s not likely that I shall marry and have children. You’ve been like a daughter to me—sometimes even like a son.” His eyes twinkled. “I want to make you my heir.”

  Alanna opened her mouth to reply, but no sound emerged. Her throat felt tight and closed; her eyes burned with tears. He clapped her on the shoulders and let her go. “No need to answer right away.”

  “I can’t refuse,” she whispered, hugging him fiercely. “Myles, how do I thank you?”

  He tousled her hair. “Nonsense. I get an heir who knows how to manage an estate, after all the time you ran Trebond for your brother.”

  “With Coram’s help,” she reminded him.

  “With Coram’s help, but you made the big decisions. And I know you’ll care for Barony Olau as I do.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now that’s decided, what about some food?”

  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 made 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 goo
d 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.”

  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 sharp-edged 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 express
ing 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.”

  Men came forward and carried the still-unconscious headman out of the circle, back to his own tent. Those who remained watched Jonathan thoughtfully.

  Coram rushed forward with a drying-cloth, and Kara handed Alanna her healer’s bag. She started to work on Jonathan’s chest wound: The blood from it was already clotting. “How did I do?” Jon said, panting, accepting a skin of water from Kourrem.

  “Where did you learn that kind of fighting: kicking, and that style of punching?” she demanded, rubbing salve into the gash. “George never taught you to fight like that.”

  Jonathan smiled at her. “About a month after you left, a Shang warrior called The Wolf came to stay at the palace. I’ve been studying with him. I just never thought what he taught me would be useful so soon.”

  “Shang warriors are tricky,” Coram admitted. “But this one did well by ye.”

  “What’s a Shang warrior?” Kara whispered to Alanna.

  “They’re trained to fight from childhood,” Myles answered. “They can handle all manner of weapons as if born holding them, but they’re deadliest with their bare hands and feet. The men and women—”

  “And women?” gasped Kourrem, surprised.

  “Not many women survive the Shang way of life, but those who do are as legendary as the men,” Myles replied. “As I was saying, they set great store by personal honor and skill, always seeking new challenges and never staying long in one place.”

  “Like Alanna,” Kara pointed out.

  “Very like,” Myles agreed, smiling slightly. Alanna finished bandaging the prince. It was funny to hear Myles teaching the girls much as he had taught her. She stitched the bandage closed as Ali Mukhtab came over to them.

  “You have earned your way among the Bazhir, Jonathan of Conté,” he said formally. “Will you join with our people now?”

  Jonathan nodded, standing. “What must I do?”