Author's Note: Thank you to all my readers and reviewers who loyally followed this story from its beginnings to its ending despite the sporadic update rate. Hopefully, everyone finds this epilogue solid and satisfying. Every bit of feedback I've received while working on this fic has been valued immensely.

Epilogue: Voice of the Desert

Zahir was back in his home—which wasn't just the blazing desert, but was also the familiar warmth of his family tent with his mother, Laila, Hassan, and his young niece and nephew around him—preparing for the ceremony that would make him Voice of the Tribes.

"Drink," Laila told him, thrusting what had to be a third cup of water into his shaking hand. "You'll be losing quite a bit of blood soon, brother."

Obediently, Zahir downed the water. He wished that his sister hadn't reminded him of the two large cuts that would be sliced into his arms within the hour. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself with the thought that duty demanded his blood be shed in the upcoming rituals.

Before he could undergo the ceremony that, assuming he truly was worthy of the honor (a rather sizable presumption), would make him Voice of the Tribes, he would have to abdicate his position as chief of the tribe in favor of Hassan. The Voice was a member of all tribes and a member of no tribes. He was the embodiment of justice to the Bazhir, and he couldn't be in a position to favor one tribe among the other. He had to be unbiased when resolving disputes between tribes or making decisions for all the Bazhir. As such, it was impossible for him to be both chief and Voice. Fortunately, Zahir knew that he could rely upon Hassan to be a good chief, as he had already proven himself to be a just and able leader. Zahir just wished that both ceremonies didn't involve lots of cutting and bloodshed, but, as the king said, the wild magic that passed along the memories of the Bazhir from one leader to the next had to be transmitted in some powerful. Memories were the blood of the Bazhir, so it only made sense for them to be passed from chief to chief and from Voice to Voice through the exchange of blood. Zahir understood that in theory. Now all that remained was for him to put a brave face on it when it happened in reality.

"He wouldn't be guzzling water like an old camel if he weren't trying to become supreme being of the Bazhir," snorted Zahir's mother, breaking him out of his musing. "Blood is the price he pays for his arrogance."

"You make it sound like being Voice was some glory I sought, Umm." Zahir shook his head. "I assure you that isn't the case. I never asked our current Voice to train me to take his place. Being a Voice is a burden I would never have wanted, but I will do my duty, because I wish to serve my people, not be served by them."

"Spoken with all the sincerity of a northern noble." Jaseena's lips thinned. "My son has a silken tongue even if he has no other strengths."

"You sound truly delighted that I'll be the next Voice, Umm," Zahir observed dryly. "It just seems like you can't contain your excitement no matter how hard you try."

"Humph." Jaseena shrugged. "Voice isn't so bad, not everyone can say their son is the Voice of the Tribes. You just must do nothing as foolish as your affair with that northern slut warrior woman when you are Voice. Otherwise, you will bring disgrace to our whole family."

"Always so reassuring." Smiling slightly because he finally understood that his mother's snide comments were her only way of expressing affection for her children, Zahir leaned forward and kissed her on her cheek below her black headdress. "Thank you, Umm."

"Your sarcasm is one of your worst attributes." Jaseema shooed him away as if her were a particularly pesky and persistent gnat. "I aim for being a realistic, rather than reassuring, mother."

With that, she rose, disappeared behind the curtain that demarcated the female side of the tent, and returned a moment later with her veil on. Holding out a veil to Laila, who obediently donned it, Zahir's mother continued tartly, "It's almost sunset. Time for us to assemble for Zahir's moment in the sun, as the expression goes."

Zahir made a nervous effort to wipe off non-existent sand from his blue—the color of spiritual leadership among the Bazhir—robes. Then, he walked with his family out of the tent to gather at the main fire. As they approached, they saw that the fire had already been lit and was burning bright red against the dying yellow of the sky as the afternoon faded into dusk. Soon, the flames would match the blood red of sunset, and then, not longer after that, only the flames would give flickering light to a world gone entirely black.

Swallowing, Zahir thought that sunset was normally one of his favorite times of day, because it meant that the hard work of the day was finally over, but, tonight, he wasn't looking forward to it. The blood red of dusk reminded him too much of the fact that he would shedding his own blood as the sun died in the great dome above his head. After tonight, he knew that sunset would never be peaceful to him again, because, as the sun went down, his mind would be filled with a thousand voices that were not his own, but those of his people's. Those of the people who were all around him now. Those of the people he was supposed to love more than himself. Those of the people he was to serve and sacrifice for until the energy of his last breath ebbed from his body. Those of the people that his mother, Laila, and the twins were sitting down among. The people of all ages- the babies cradled in the arms of their mothers, the children running around giggling and ignoring the smacks and scolds of their parents, the teenagers who tried to flirt despite the inconveniences of veils and headdresses, the husbands and wives whispering to one another before the meeting began, and the elderly rubbing their aching bones—that he was supposed to understand and champion.

There were so many of them, he thought in awe, as he made his way to the center of the gathering with Hassan at his side. King Jonathan, also in blue robes, was waiting for them by the fire.

"We are assembled around this sacred fire tonight to witness two joyous initiation ceremonies," the king announced, his voice confident enough to make even the most rambunctious children sit down and the most gregarious couples stop chatting. "We begin with the installment of Hassan ibn Taymur as chief of his tribe."

Recognizing his cue, Zahir stepped forward and declared with all the authority that he could muster, "I, Zahir ibn Alhaz, in the presence of all these witnesses, do formally announce that I am abdicating, now and forever, my position as chief in favor of my brother-in-law, Hassan ibn Taymur."

Stepping forward as well, Hassan pledged, "I, Hassan ibn Taymur, in the presence of the assembled witnesses, do accept the responsibilities Zahir ibn Alhaz has offered me, and I do solemnly vow that I will rule my tribe with justice, mercy, and truth."

"I wish to hand over the authority that I wield to my brother-in-law." Proud that neither his voice nor his body was shaking, Zahir extended his hand toward the king, who removed a dagger from the folds of his robes and pressed it into Zahir's palm. For an instant, he only felt a pleasant coolness as the knife penetrated skin. As the dagger, finished making the incision, removed itself from his body, waves of pain rippled through him, and he started to taste blood in his mouth.

While all the Bazhir looked on, the king made a similar slice in Hassan's palm. Watching the knife plunge in and out of his brother-in-law's skin, Zahir bit his lip, knowing all too well the pain of even such a small cut on so delicate a place.

Once Hassan's palm was as streaked with blood as Zahir's, the king raised both their hands toward the heavens, shouting, "Gods and men can see that it is time for the new to replace the old. Men can see that these two men are separate, but by the power of the gods, they shall become one. By the power of the gods, the power of the old will enter the new, the wisdom of the old will infuse the new, the righteousness of the old will fill the new, and the mercy of the old will stay the hand of the new."

With those ritual words, the king smashed Hassan's and Zahir's bleeding palms together and ground their hands into each other, so their blood didn't just mingle, but fused. As his blood merged with that of his brother-in-law, Zahir's body was overcome by dizziness and nausea. He felt as though all his strength, his courage, his integrity, his knowledge, and everything that made him who he was and in any way fit to rule his tribe was washing out of him with his blood, into Hassan. He wanted to howl and faint at the same time, but gritting his teeth and stiffening his spine, he let himself be drained until he could feel the rite come to an abrupt end when he was so empty inside that there was nothing more that the raw, vast power could take from him and give to Hassan.

Hassan, looking as though a tidal wave of wisdom, power, justice, and eternity had swept over him, knelt before the king, preparing for the final, official acknowledgement of him as the new chief of what had, moments ago, been Zahir's tribe.

"Hassan ibn Taymur," King Jonathan intoned somberly, "you and your people wish you to take your brother-in-law's place as chief of your people."

"I do." Hassan offered the traditional response. "I cannot speak for my tribe."

"But you would become the leader and voice of your tribe with my permission," answered the king, following the script that had been handed down from hundreds of earlier generations.

"I would." Hassan kept his head lowered as he provided the ancient reply.

"It is a grave honor to serve as voice of your tribe," continued the king. "You will be responsible for defending your people, as well as enforcing their ancient laws and customs. They will turn to you as a voice of reason and fairness. They will depend upon you for leadership and guidance. Your people will rely upon you to be their voice when they cannot speak for themselves. Do you understand the obligations of being a tribe chief now?"

"I do." As custom dictated, Hassan gazed deeply into the king's penetrating eyes.

"Then you know how much trust your people and I are putting in you in this ceremony," King Jonathan concluded. He ran his dagger along his palm, creating a shallow cut. As the blood began to flow from the wound, he reached out and rubbed it against Hassan's forehead. Once there was a scarlet mark on his forehead, the king pressed his hand against each of Hassan's cheeks. "Now, arise and be chief."

Applause rang throughout the crowd as Hassan went over to sit in front of Laila, who leaned forward to wrap a blanket around her husband's shoulders.

Zahir's body, numb from the rite he had performed with Hassan, began to warm at this obvious display of affection, and he would have smiled if he had not known that the biggest trial of the evening for him was still ahead.

King Jonathan raised his hands began chanting in the ancient language of the Bazhir. Speaking swiftly, describing centuries of time in seconds, he related the history of the Bazhir, their triumphs and tragedies, their strong sense honor and fierce need for freedom, and their brutal conflicts with invaders and with themselves. He emphasized the special relationship that the gods had always had with the Bazhir and asked the gods to be present this evening so that the gods' will might be done. As the king spoke, Zahir felt a powerful charge, as wild as lightning and as eternal as the gods, fill the air, gathering strength with every word that the Voice spoke.

When he finished his chant, King Jonathan pulled out his dagger. Clenching it in his left fist, he shouted, "As the gods will, so mote it be!"

Zahir wanted to look away as the knife tore a long gash into his former knightmaster's forearm, but the power in the air kept his eyes locked on the king. He wanted to scream, but the ritual bound his lips with invisible chains, making it impossible for him to speak any words but the proper ones at the right times.

Obeying the power rather than his own will, Zahir rolled back his sleeve and made an identical cut along his own forearm. The pain was instant and intense, as if the magic of the rite was multiplying the agony of every lost drop of blood by tenfold. Instinctively, his eyes lit on the only being in the crowd who could possibly appreciate the agony he was in. The king's eyes met his own, and, in his gaze, Zahir could see the suffering his people had endured throughout their history and the rough wisdom gained by every hardship.

They were all one in pain even more than they were all one in joy, Zahir—who was himself, but not himself, in this ritual—realized. King Jonathan put his hand above the fire and reached out to grab Zahir's arm. Reflexively, not remembering that this was the next stage in the rite and motivated only by the instinct to share pain, Zahir clasped the king's arm in return. Their blood mingled together and then dripped into the fire, which hissed in protest.

"Two as One," King Jonathan intoned, and the power surging more strongly than ever in Zahir's veins assured him that this was true, now and forever. He and the northern king were bound by blood. Their blood had been mixed and spilled together. They would always be with one another and inside of each other. They were one, and they would always understand each other because of this moment in which they had stood outside of time together, holding onto one another's bleeding arms. Zahir was the future, King Jonathan was the past, and here was the moment that they clashed and made peace with one another in the most agonizing and satisfying way.

"Two as One," repeated Zahir, as the future must also echo the part. He knew that to be true now, because he could see the generations of his people that had culminated in the present, and he could see the faces of his descendents. He could see the leaders of his tribe that had come before him and that would rule after him. He could hear, resonating throughout the ages as if time was nothing and death a mere veil that could easily be pushed aide, the Voices of the past whispering to him, and he could hear the souls of the yet unborn Voices speaking to him, as well.

"Two as One, and Many." King Jonathan's voice was weaker, and Zahir knew that the power flowing into him was ebbing from his former knightmaster. It always cost the past to give wisdom and truth to the future generations, but it had to be done, every Voice from history and the future assured him, or else his people wouldn't survive. Only sacrifice from the old and the young for the good of all sustained the Bazhir until the crack of doom.

"Two as One, and Many." Zahir shivered, knowing that every word he spoke was absolutely and profoundly true. They were all one. He could feel the grief of every person that had ever set foot on the sand of the desert that he called his home. He could feel the weight of the responsibilities that had crushed their souls. He could feel the burdens they had struggled to carry. He could feel the joys that had made them feel like they could fly. He could feel their exhilaration when they went for morning rides. He could feel their rage when they fought for their lives. He could feel their anger when they were wronged. He could feel their love when they defended their families. He could hear the cries that they stifled into their pillows at night. He could see the dreams that they hadn't dared to have die. He could see their determination as they maintained their traditions in opposition to the Tortallans who had conquered them. He could feel their fierce pride in their identity. He could feel it all, and he was a part of all of it and of none of it. He could feel it all, and the knowledge that every being who had ever existed and would ever exist was as complex as he was him was mind-numbing, and the idea that he was expected to rule over people was, if anything, even more stupefying.

The fire flared around them, engulfing them both in flames, but Zahir felt no pain. He only saw the history of his people in the fire. He saw them leaving their old land and settling in what would become the desert. He saw them being tricked into serving the Nameless Ones as slaves. He saw them finally realizing that they were wrong and rising up in revolt against the nameless oppressors. He saw, in precious lives and in the scorching desert they created to keep the Nameless Ones at bay for centuries, the price they paid to preserve themselves. He saw their culture develop to deal with the demands of the desert. He saw them fight to keep the invaders from the Thanic Empire out of the desert, and he saw their triumph in forcing these clever conquerors out by virtue of marvelous shooting and impeccable horsemanship. He saw their shame when they couldn't keep out, after years of vicious fighting, King Jasson's troop. He saw how many tears were shed over every lost grain of sand. He saw the Bazhir insist, as the only tem of their shameful surrender, that they have a steward in Persopolis—which should have been their city to rule—to keep the keys to the room that allowed them to guard the city of the Nameless Ones. He saw, as dispassionately as if he had never known the man, the northern prince become Voice of the Tribes, honoring the Bazhir by becoming their legitimate leader, but also making it so that peace would have to exist between the northerners and the Bazhir, because the Bazhir could not revolt against their Voice.

Then, he saw, to his own surprise, his own place in history. It was a humblingly small one—he was the Voice of Bazhir birth, from one of the renegade tribes that had resisted King Roald's rule, who would die on the battlefield for the northern king a week before his twenty-third birthday. He was the Voice who would die fighting for Tortall, rather than against it. His death on the battlefield would ensure peace between the northerners and the Bazhir as nothing else could have. His death would make the Bazhir finally see themselves as one with the northerners. That was his destiny. He couldn't fight it, even if he wanted to. Unlike King Jonathan, he wouldn't die old with his family scattered around him; he would die young and alone in battle, but who could say that was really less great than the king's?

"One as many," King Jonathan spoke the final words, and so much magic poured out of him into Zahir that Zahir felt his bones hurt from shaking. He felt transcendent and almost omnipotent. He was simultaneously more attuned to his body than he had ever been before—conscious of every heartbeat and every breath that filled his lungs—and farther removed from it than he had ever been before. It was as though he could sense beyond three, or even four, dimensions, and it felt as if he could grasp onto the very fabric of space and time, and twist it any way that suited him.

"One as many," Zahir whispered. Then a howl tore through his lips as his skin, beside the cut he had made himself, ripped open, in a deep slice. Blue blood flowed out of the wound, which hurt more than any he had ever sustained, and it seemed to take an eternity to cauterize in the heat of the fire. When it finally did, he felt himself falling back toward the ring of spectators.

For a moment, silence filled the air, and Zahir could feel the power finally departing, leaving only a trace in his veins as proof that it had ever surged through him, controlling his mind and body. Then, applause and whistles rose from the crowd.

Trying not to start his term as Voice with an impressive stint on his backside, Zahir pushed himself up and crossed over to the king, who had also fallen backward.

"We match," he muttered, pointing at the blue scar that rang along King Jonathan's forearm, as he helped the former Voice to his feet. "We're marked men."

"And scarred for life, which is normally how scars work, anyway, so that's not saying as much as many people seem to believe it is," the king observed dryly. Then, there was a pause, in which Zahir could feel soft, inquiring tendrils reaching out to him through the bond they shared, and, he felt a jolt as he recognized himself, not as the inferior and the supplicant, but as the superior and the granter. He really was Voice to his own king. "Are you all right, Zahir?"

Remembering that, as Voice, it was his job to begin the feast, Zahir grabbed a pomegranate from a basket, bit into it, and tossed a date to the king, taking advantage of the opportunity to eat first.

"I die young," he said quietly, watching as the Bazhir began to talk and joke with their neighbors as they ate joyously from the bounty in baskets before them. "Ever since I was a page, I used to wonder whether I would actually have the strength and courage to die in battle for king and country like I was trained to do, but now I don't have to wonder any longer. I know that I do have that strength and courage."

"It's funny you doubted it." King Jonathan offered a faint smile that seemed to be more about grief than happiness. "I never did. Your soul is as true as steel, Voice of the Tribes. It has been tested by many fires, as I know better than many, and it has yet to be found seriously wanting. Fire doesn't melt your strength or courage; it only forges them into more powerful weapons."

"I'm not afraid to die," Zahir replied, not wanting his king to pity him for his destiny when he felt no terrible sorrow over it. "When I die, I'll be reunited with Aisha, Trevor, and my father. I'll be with those that I have loved and lost, and, one day, those who have lost me, will join me. I'm alive now, but I have one foot in the grave. Why should I complain when the other one joins it?"

Looking into King Jonathan's bright gaze, and seeing the eyes of the only man who had gone through the flames like he had, he added, "You know how it feels to be alive even though a part of you has died. I think that nobody else in this land understands that quite as well as we do."

"It's one of the blessings and burdens of having gone through the ritual of becoming the Voice, yes." King Jonathan nodded, and his smile became broader and more about joy than pain. "We get our pleasure from knowing that we will die, but not quite yet."

"Exactly." Zahir grinned. Then, he caught sight of Khalila weaving her way through the crowd to congratulate him, and said, "Excuse me."

Without waiting for a response, he hurried off to meet Khalila.

"I'm so proud of you," she burst out, flinging her arms around him as soon as they found themselves face-to-face. Pressing her head against his chest, so that he could feel her tears joining with his sweat to make his shirt even damper, she went on in a whisper, "I was so afraid that you were going to die."

"That's not my destiny." He brushed the tears away from her eyes. Forcing himself to be honest with her, even if that made her decide to break their engagement, he continued softly, "I die when I'm twenty-three on the battlefield. Maybe you should look for a husband who can provide for you longer."

"Maybe you should stop talking nonsense," she said, running her hands along his chest. "The widow of a Voice will always be looked after by the Bazhir, and I doubt that Hassan or my father would let me starve. Oh, and I also wouldn't let me starve, so thank you for your concern, but not everyone is completely hopeless without you, Zahir."

"I love you," Zahir murmurred, wishing that he could touch every inch of her skin at that moment, but knowing that he could not. "I don't want marrying me to cause you sorrow."

"Honorable men, such as yourself, have so many quaint ideas about women." Khalila chuckled. "They seem to think that women marry out of an overwhelming desire to be protected and provided for, rather than out of a need to love and be loved, so, let me explain the obvious to you, Zahir, I love you. That means that I want to share your joy and your pain. I wouldn't be worthy of your love if I wasn't willing to be your wife in triumph and in tragedy. You are mine, and even death will not be able to steal your love from me."

"I am yours," Zahir agreed, wrapping his hands around hers and feeling the promise of an eternity spent together in each pulse of her veins against his. "Now and forever."