The Woman Who Rides Like a Man

7 THE VOICE OF THE TRIBES

THE NEXT MORNING ALANNA TURNED HER DUTIES over to Kara and Kourrem. “This way,” she explained, “everyone knows you work with my approval and help. Have you decided which of you will be head shaman? If you disagree on something, one of you must have the power to make the final decision.” For a moment they looked at each other warily. Alanna knew she had given them a difficult choice, but she also knew they had to be the ones to make it, not she.

“Kourrem,” Kara said. “She doesn’t have trouble deciding things, the way I do. And she can stand up to the men better than I can.”

Alanna hugged the taller girl around the shoulders. “If it was necessary, you could stand up to the men, Kara.” She looked at Kourrem. “Do you think she is right?”

Kourrem shrugged, smiling ironically. “I don’t know if she’s right or not, but I’ll be head shaman, I guess. We can’t do everything without each other to help, in any case.”

Alanna picked up her healer’s bag. “I’ll tell Halef Seif and Ali Mukhtab,” she announced. “For now, I suggest you continue your studies with the other shamans.”

For the next fifteen days Alanna spent most of her time with Ali Mukhtab. The Voice was clearly failing; his flesh hung from his bones; his skin was gray, his eyes dull. Somehow he found the strength to teach Jonathan, his voice droning for hours as he fought to instruct the prince in the many laws of the Bazhir.

During that time Jonathan worked harder than Alanna had ever seen him work before, both to master his studies and win over the Bazhir headmen and lawmakers. Carefully and determinedly he sought out and spoke with each man, drawing opinions from them with a diplomacy Alanna did not know he possessed. It was at such moments that Jonathan seemed most alive and happy. The rest of the time he was restless and edgy, complaining about the sand and the heat and the lessons with Ali Mukhtab when he was alone with Alanna. He didn’t ask her if she had made a decision about their marriage, and she was glad he hadn’t.

Only once did he publicly lose his composure. Leaving the Voice’s tent after her morning spell-working, she found the prince waiting for her. He was frowning in a way she knew too well, lately.

“Let’s go riding,” he said abruptly, not appearing to see how worn and gray-faced she was. “I want to get away from here.”

She stared at him. “Jon, we can’t. He’s ready for your lessons now.”

“I don’t care,” the prince snapped. “I’ve had lessons since I set foot in this village. I’m going riding.” He turned away, and she seized his arm.

“You can discuss your boredom and whatever in private all you please,” she hissed. “But the man in there is hanging on to life because you need to know what he has to teach you. I’d appreciate it if you stopped acting like a spoiled brat. If you want the Voice’s power, you have to learn the Voice’s lessons!”

“I didn’t ask him to choose me!” Jonathan whispered hotly, putting his broad shoulders between them and the staring tribesmen. The Bazhir were startled to see them arguing, even if they couldn’t be heard.

“But you’re willing to take what he’s offering!” she whispered back. “You of all people know everything has its price. And don’t tell me you’re tired of paying! This isn’t the time, or the place!” She stared at him, until he looked away. Without another word he entered Mukhtab’s tent.

That night he was all tenderness and apologies, and Alanna’s anger faded. She loved him with all her heart. But marriage?

The next evening she and Myles dined alone in the tent she had been given after turning the large one over to Kara and Kourrem. Once the meal was over, she steeled herself to ask for her foster-father’s advice.

“Myles, what happens when Jon marries?”

The knight glanced at her sharply. “The first duty of any noble wife is to give her husband an heir. The succession must be assured, particularly when a throne is involved; that is especially true for any woman who marries Jonathan. Should something happen to the king, gods forbid it, and to Jon, there are no close Conté relatives. Roger would have inherited had he lived—I know, that’s what he planned!—but there was no one to succeed Roger. His father died when he was a boy; his mother died giving him birth.”

“Like mine,” whispered Alanna.

Myles nodded. “Sadly, it often happens. Roger’s sole close relative was the king. The Contés rarely have large families,” he added with a sigh. “Now there are only third and fourth cousins. It means civil war if Jon dies without an heir.”

Alanna had nothing to say to this: Myles had confirmed her fears. She fought down panic, thinking, I’m not ready to have children!

“What?” Myles had spoken again.

“I said, did you accept Jonathan?”

“I still need to think about it.”

“You do?” The man was obviously surprised. “The way he’s been acting, I thought you said yes.”

“Are you serious?”

“I see you together often enough. If he weren’t sure of you, I should think he’d spend more time wooing you, winning you over. Well, perhaps I’m wrong. I’m not omnipotent.” Myles picked up Faithful and deposited the cat on his lap, stroking the animal’s ears with gentle fingers. “Why are you still considering, if I may ask?”

“You remember what I said, about maybe Jon wanting to marry me for all the wrong reasons?” Myles nodded. “Well, nothing that’s happened since has changed my mind. I know he’s working hard, learning to be the Voice and getting the men of the Bazhir to like him, but when he’s not dealing with them, he seems—well, spoiled. I never really thought he was that way at the palace. Any prince is somewhat spoiled, of course. Wouldn’t you be, with people buttering you up all the time?”

“I don’t think either of us runs that risk,” Myles said gravely, his eyes dancing.

“Perhaps responsibility would steady Jon,” Alanna admitted with a sigh. “I don’t think he’s a bad person at all; in fact, I think he’s a very good one. But lately I’m not sure if I like him very much. I keep telling myself he’ll get over it, but what if he doesn’t?”

“Many young women would give all they possessed to have your opportunity.” There was no way now to tell what Myles was thinking.

“Not me,” Alanna snapped, fingering the emberstone. “I’ve been happy since I came here, and I like it. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to be well behaved, as a nobleman’s wife should be. The king and queen would try to make me stop dressing comfortably. They might even try to make me stop healing. I couldn’t go wherever I wanted. No risks, and no adventures.” She blushed with shame. “I love Jon, but I’ve got too many questions to decide to be hurried. I’m not certain I’m ready to marry, even if he is.”

She was astounded to realize the look in her foster-father’s eyes was of pride. “Few people are wise enough to know they might not be ready for such a venture. Too many rush to wed, only to discover they know little about what they’re getting into. I’m pleased to see you put so much thought into this. By the way—I saw George Cooper before I left Corus.”

“How was he?” Alanna wondered why Myles had brought up the King of the Thieves.

“He asked me to tell you he’s moving to Port Caynn for a while. It seems the rogues there have been giving him trouble, so he plans to bring them into line.” Myles drew a crumpled piece of paper from a hidden pocket; it had the address “House Azik, Dog Lane” written on it in George’s scrawl. “He hopes you will visit him, if you can be released from your duties here.”

Alanna folded the paper, her heart leaping. To see George again! Then she remembered Jonathan. As the prince’s bride-to-be, she might never be able to see George alone.

“I doubt if I can visit him,” she announced, getting up. “Excuse me, Myles. I’m taking Moonlight for a run.”

She hurried to the corral and saddled the mare, ignoring her common sense. Although the hillmen had not ventured near Bloody Hawk territory since Ishak’s last battle, they might well be awaiting the chance to pick off a lone rider; it would be wiser to take a companion.

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 a 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.

Let it be the right answer, Alanna pleaded the Great Goddess silently.

A sudden burst of light turned the entire scene a blue-white color, dazzling them all. From the circle of light that blotted their vision, the listeners heard Jonathan’s voice. “Because I know and honor your history, and I know and honor your laws. Because I never wish to see the Bazhir hunted and slain by our warriors, even as I never wish to see our warriors hunted and slain by the Bazhir.” A soft chuckle swept through the watchers farther down the hills from the shamans, and Alanna felt a small knot of tension loosen inside her. Her eyes were beginning to clear, revealing at least the outlines of the two men above her. Jonathan continued, “Because only together will your people and mine become great. Because—” his voice grew very quiet. “Because I want to know the why of men and women.”

There was a silence; Alanna was sure the thudding of her heart was audible to everyone. Then Ali Mukhtab raised his hands once more, his belt dagger glinting in his left fist.

“As the gods will, so mote it be!” he cried. A thunderclap made the ground rock beneath them as the Voice of the Tribes laid open a long gash in his right forearm. It was far longer than the ones Alanna had received when she became a Bazhir and when Myles adopted her. Merciful Mother! Alanna thought in horror. He can’t lose so much blood!

Jonathan was opening a similar wound in his own right arm, paralleling the one he’d received on initiation into the Bazhir. Faithful jumped from Alanna’s hold and raced up the hill to the two men. Alanna started to call him back, but Kara clapped a hand over her mouth, and Kourrem shook her head warningly. Alanna gritted her teeth, willing herself to stay where she was as Kara removed her hand. If either man saw the cat sitting now beside Mukhtab, he gave no sign of it. Their eyes were locked on each other’s faces as the Voice stretched his bleeding arm across the fire to the prince. Jon reached out and clasped the offered arm, both men drawing perilously close to the flames. The fire hissed as their combined blood dropped onto the hot coals.

“Two as One.” Ali Mukhtab’s voice was a broken rasp and rang in Alanna’s ears. The power in the air climbed; Kara and Kourrem clung shivering to each other. Umar Komm reached over and gripped Alanna’s shoulder. She covered the old shaman’s hand with hers, grateful for the contact.

“Two as One.” Jonathan sounded soft and halting, almost as if he were in a trance.

“Two as One, and Many.” Ali Mukhtab’s voice held a whining note that made the hair on the back of Alanna’s neck stand straight up.

“Two as One, and Many.” Jonathan shivered uncontrollably. The fire suddenly roared higher than both men’s heads, engulfing them in flames that were rapidly turning an eye-hurting white. Their burnooses began to smolder. As if he sensed her urge to run to them, Umar Komm tightened his grip on Alanna. He had warned her before the ceremony that she must not speak or interfere, no matter what happened. The gods would protect Jonathan and Ali Mukhtab, if they were meant to succeed.

“One—as—Many!” Ali Mukhtab forced the cry out as the blue-white flames caused many watchers to look away. The words thundered with magic, making Alanna’s bones hurt and the crystal sword shiver.

“One!” Jonathan’s voice was thick with pain, but he forced the words out. “As—Many!”

There was a crash of sound that left them deafened. For a moment Alanna thought she heard thousands of voices cry out in exaltation. Suddenly the fire went out; the darkness was split by Jonathan’s scream. Alanna heard one—or both—of them fall. Umar Komm held her now with both hands, and a tiny part of her was surprised at the old man’s strength.

At last everything was silent. The winds stopped and were replaced by a desert breeze. Umar Komm relaxed his grip on Alanna as the feeling of power oozed from the air.

“Now we shall see,” he announced, bending to pick up the staff he had dropped in order to hold on to her.

“Come,” he ordered the shamans. They made their way to the summit of the hill. Others went to Ali Mukhtab as Alanna knelt beside Jon, feeling for his pulse with shaking fingers. His heartbeat was slow and strong. She seized his arm, preparing to tear a bandage from her robe—and stopped. Two scars, one reddish, the other blue-tinted, ran from the prince’s elbow to his wrist. The blue scar was warm to the touch, far warmer than Jon’s body heat would have made it. She shivered. Ali Mukhtab had just such a scar on his right arm.

She looked up at Umar Komm. “He’s all right.” Glancing at the other shamans, who were lifting Ali Mukhtab, she whispered, “The Voice?” She knew the truth even as she asked.

Jonathan stirred and sat up, rubbing the blue scar. “I am the Voice of the Tribes,” he rasped. “Ali Mukhtab, who was the Voice, has passed on. I remain.” He stood, leaning on Alanna’s shoulder, and the watchers below cheered until their throats hurt. Men came forward and took Mukhtab’s body as Alanna rubbed away the tears flooding down her cheeks.

“He isn’t gone,” Jonathan told her. “He’s here, inside me. They’re all here—all the Voices.” He looked up at a nearby man. “It won’t be so bad, Amman Kemail. I am not wise, but I can always learn.”

The big headman smiled thinly. “In your moment of becoming, we were each with you—” His eyes flicked to Alanna. “All save the Woman Who Rides Like a Man. You will do, Jonathan of Conté.”

They gripped each other’s arms. “If I succeed, I will owe it to the Bazhir and not to myself,” Jon replied.

Halef Seif approached, bowing deeply to the prince who had become their Voice. “It is time for our people to rejoice in a seemly fashion,” the Bloody Hawk headman remarked. “Ali Mukhtab is delivered from his pain, and the Voice of the Tribes continues. Let us burn his abandoned shell, and send him to the gods with love. Come down to the village. We will remember Ali Mukhtab, and we will drink to our hope for peace.”

“What was it like?” Alanna asked Jon. They were curled up together, Faithful lodged between them on top of the blankets. Dawn was slipping sunlight through the tent flap.

For a long time he was silent. “It was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” he said at last. “Even worse than the place between life and death, when you saved me from the Sweating Sickness. Worse than fighting the Ysandir, in the Black City. It was as if—” He drew a deep breath. “As if thousands of people were screaming inside my head, each wanting to be heard first. As if I were all of those people, only everything bad in our lives hurt more, because the feeling was multiplied. I lived all the lives of all the Voices; there have been four hundred and fifteen of us, Alanna. And I saw my own death. I was a chain. All my links were pulling apart. I lost Jonathan for a while; I was everyone but Jonathan.”

“No wonder you screamed,” she whispered, holding him as close as the cat between them would permit.

“But the things I could see.” He had forgotten her now, remembering. “I could see the magic Faithful gave Ali Mukhtab to keep him alive. I could see the palaces we once had, on the other side of the Inland Sea. I could see us fleeing the Ysandir, and building Persopolis. I could feel the wind in our face as we rode the sands, free from all kings. I could see the gods as they watch us live our lives. The Mother is beautiful,” he said, his sapphire eyes shining with awe. “The most perfect woman, and not a woman at all. Mithros was so bright, the Black God without brightness, yet radiating peace. I could never do it again. But I will never forget that I’m One, and Many. When my life becomes too confining, and when I feel I have no freedom, I can look into myself, and be someone else. I can go somewhere else.” He turned and kissed her deeply, then added, “Alanna, for the first time since I was named, I am free.”

When she left Jonathan’s tent the next morning, Alanna found Halef Seif seated on the edge of the tribe’s well, as if waiting for someone. He rose and walked with her as she went to the corral, watching as she got out combs and began to curry Moonlight. Finally he spoke. “The Voice of the Tribes must return to his home soon.”

Bending down to reach her mare’s hocks, Alanna grunted, “He was lucky to be able to get away this long.”

“It will be good to have a Voice who is the son of the Northern king, even as it is good to have a shaman who is the Woman Who Rides Like a Man.”

Alanna glared at the headman from under Moonlight’s neck. “You haven’t been so formal with me since I first joined the tribe,” she accused. “What’s on your mind, Halef Seif?” When he hesitated, she added, “I thought you, of all people, would be honest with me.”

“Will you leave the tribe now?” he asked. “Will you be returning with him, to live in his house and be his wife?”

Alanna swallowed hard; this was being honest with a vengeance! “I don’t know,” she admitted, busying herself with the mare’s tail. “I’ve been thinking about it, but I haven’t come to a decision.”

“He ordered his horses for today,” the headman said implacably. “Surely he expects you to accompany him, if you will be his bride.” Seeing Alanna turn pale, he added, “He ordered that your horse be prepared, too.”

Alanna felt the beginnings of irritation. “He had no right to do that. I haven’t given him my answer yet.”

“Perhaps he believes he knows what your answer will be.”

Alanna put her combs away. “I’d better talk to him.” She slipped beneath the rope that enclosed the horses, and glanced up at Halef Seif. “No one is to ready Moonlight for a journey until I say so.” She strode off, telling herself that Jonathan was tired, and had probably forgotten to ask her if she planned to go with him when he left today. For that matter, she remembered, he hadn’t even mentioned he was leaving.

Relax, her sensible self remarked as she entered the prince’s tent. Becoming the Voice would probably drive less important matters from his head—and he dare not stay here much longer.

Jonathan was conferring with Myles and Coram. Already a boy from the tribe was packing his things. The prince smiled at her. “My love, I’ve instructed Kara and Kourrem to pack for you,” he announced. “If we leave after twilight, we should have several hours of cool riding—”

“May I speak with you alone, Jonathan? I know Coram and Myles will excuse us.”

Seeing the scowl on her face, Coram needed no further urging. He left. Myles looked from Alanna to Jon, plainly worried. “It’s all right, Myles,” the prince assured him. “We’ll be ready in an hour or so.”

Myles stopped beside Alanna. “Don’t say anything you might regret,” he cautioned.

“I won’t.” Alanna gripped the ember-stone at her throat, telling herself that what she had just heard was rooted in a simple misunderstanding, one that would be made right. Myles sighed and walked out, closing the tent flap after him.

“You didn’t mention you were planning to leave today.” In making an effort to keep her temper, Alanna sounded clipped and terse.

“I thought you knew.” Jonathan was rolling up a map, not looking at her. “If I had been with anyone but Myles, my parents would have torn up the countryside looking for me by now. I must get back.”

“I did not say I was returning with you, and you didn’t ask me before you ordered people to do my packing.”

“I assumed we’d begin preparations for the wedding. I didn’t think you would want to wait.”

“I haven’t told you yes,” Alanna reminded him, her voice tense.

He looked at her, startled. “But—I know how you feel about me.”

“Being married to you is a great responsibility. I need more time to think about it.”

“More time!” He’s actually amused, Alanna thought, her anger mounting. “Be serious. After all these years, I’d think your answer is plain.”

She had clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt to open it. “Not to me.”

Jonathan slapped the rolled-up parchment onto the table, his patience nearing an end. “Stop it, Alanna. I’ve made enough allowance for maidenly shyness from you—”

“Maidenly shyness!” she yelled. “Since when have I shown maidenly shyness!”

“Keep your voice down!” he snapped. “Do you want the whole tribe to hear? What’s gotten into you, anyway? I thought it was all settled.”

“I said I wanted time to think!” Although her voice was quieter, her snapping violet eyes revealed her undiminished fury.

Jonathan’s smile was full of masculine superiority. “That’s what all women say when a man proposes.”

“Do they indeed?” Alanna snapped. “And you’re such an expert on marriage proposals, I suppose!”

“As much as you are,” he snapped back.

“When I say I want time to think, I want time to think!”

Jonathan sighed wearily. “All right, you’ve had time to think. What’s your answer?”

“That I need more time to think!”

Jon stared at her for a moment, color mounting into his cheeks. “This is ridiculous!” he cried. “All right, I should’ve remembered you don’t like people making plans without your say-so, but I thought everything was settled—”

“It isn’t! How dare you take my acceptance for granted?”

“Well, you certainly didn’t give me a reason to believe you’d refuse, did you?” he demanded, his hands clenched with anger. “Think carefully before you annoy me further, Alanna of Trebond! There are women who would do anything to marry me—”

“Then why didn’t you ask one of them?” Alanna said. “You know what your problem is, Jonathan? You’ve been spoiled by all those fine Court ladies. It never entered your mind that I might say no!”

“And who would you take instead of me, O Woman Who Rides Like a Man?” he demanded. “I suppose George Cooper’s more to your taste—”

“George!” she gasped, surprised at his new angle of attack.

“Do you think I’m blind? I’ve seen the way he looks at you!”

“What about all those women at the palace and the way they look at you?” Alanna demanded. “And I know you’ve had affairs with some of them! They’ve made you into a conceited—”

“At least they’re women, Lady Alanna!” he said. “And they know how to act like women!”

Silence stretched between them, as Alanna fought to keep from either slapping him or from bursting into tears. Finally she hissed, “I refuse to marry you.”

Jonathan was now white with rage. “And I think I’m well out of a potential disaster!”

“Obviously!” she retorted. “Find yourself someone more feminine, Jonathan of Conté!” She hurled herself out of the tent.

Kara and Kourrem looked up from their packing, startled, as she marched into her own home. “I’m not leaving!” she snapped. “Next time someone tells you I am, check with me first!”

They bowed and hurried from the tent, their eyes wide above their face veils. Alanna threw herself onto her sleeping mat and gave way to furious tears.

Tears led to a long, exhausted sleep. When she awoke, it was dark. Jonathan and Myles were gone.

“Jonathan.” Queen Lianne beckoned to her son. Jonathan obeyed the summons, trying to erase the frown that had creased his forehead since his return from the desert over a week ago. He could hear courtiers whispering now about his unusual surliness.

Let them talk, he thought savagely as he bowed before his mother’s throne. What do I care?

His mother gestured for a willowy blonde to come forward. “Prince Jonathan,” the queen said as the blonde sank into a deep curtsy, “may I make Princess Josiane known to you? Josiane is the second daughter of the king of the Copper Isles; she has come to stay with us for a time. Her mother and I were good friends as girls. Josiane, my son, Jonathan.”

Josiane looked up at him from her curtsy, her blue eyes huge with admiration. “Prince Jonathan,” she said, her voice soft and husky. “It is an honor to meet the man who fought so bravely in the Tusaine War.”

Jonathan took Josiane’s hand and raised her to her feet, lightly kissing her fingertips. “I was just a boy then, Princess,” he reminded her. She said nothing, her full mouth curved in a smile. “Would you care to dance?”

“I would love to.” She moved gracefully out onto the floor at his side as Jonathan noted with satisfaction that she was tall (the top of her head level with his eyes), slender, and milky-skinned. She’ll do, he thought with grim satisfaction. She’ll help me prove to that—female in the south that I never want anything to do with her again!