Shannivar (13 page)

“That will be decided once you speak your names and purposes.”

The man hesitated, his reaction quickly masked. In the brief pause, no more than two beats of the heart, his companion got to his feet.

Shannivar inhaled sharply. No one could mistake the race of this second man, that milk-fair skin, the red-gold hair, the strong lines of nose and chin.

Once Shannivar would have been astonished to find a lone Gelon so deep in Azkhantian territory. After the battle of the fort, however, there could be only one explanation. She took aim.

The second man blanched but held his ground. He said in halting trade-dialect, “You ask for names? I answer truly. I Danar son of Jaxar, a nobleman of Aidon.”

“What purpose has a Gelon here?” Shannivar said. “If you are not a spy, then you must be a soldier, strayed from your company or run away. We want none of your kind here!”

“I swear by what god you choose, I mean your people no harm. We never intend come this way. Bad luck we set foot on your lands.”

Eriu shifted uneasily, responding to Shannivar's tension. At this distance, she could kill both of them before they reached her. “Where bound, then? Why?”

The two men carefully avoided glancing at one another, then the Gelon lifted his chin, resolute, and answered, “Isarre.”

Shannivar shook her head in disbelief. Was Onjhol's trickster younger brother toying with her, testing her? The coincidence was unbelievable. The outlanders must be mad, or they thought her an ignorant simpleton, to believe such a thing. Isarre was Gelon's sworn enemy, for all that their people looked alike and dwelt alike in their tombs of stone. She might not be able to tell one from the other, although she was certain that they themselves could.

Another thought occurred to her. A Gelonian deserter might seek refuge in Isarre, beyond the Ar-King's reach, but so might a criminal. The Gelon, she had been told, were capable of unspeakable acts, the slaying of kinfolk, building stone walls across rivers, or the laying of salt upon an enemy's fields so that no grass would grow, as they were said to have done in Isarre.

“And your companion?” she snarled, to cover her indecision. “Cannot speak his own name?”

“Called Zev,” said the black-haired man.

Called
, he'd said, not
named.
A crafty one, that, who would not betray his name. Did he fear that to do so would grant the listener power over his spirit?

“
You
are no Gelon,” she pointed out, stating the obvious.

Again came the slightest pause, the flicker of dark-lashed eyes away from hers and then back again. “No,” he said quietly. “Born in Meklavar, mountains far south. True name Zevaron. I only living son of Maharrad, last
te-ravot
—last king—of city.”

Comprehension swept through Shannivar. Eriu, sensitive as always to her shifts in mood, danced sideways. Most of the time, Azkhantians cared little for the affairs of lesser nations, their wars and follies. At the
khural
four years ago, however, she'd heard rumors of how the Ar-King had conquered yet another smaller land.
Meklavar
, yes, that was it.

The fate of one city mattered little to her. Let the dwellers-in-stone slaughter one another to the last child, and let the grass grow free when their walls had crumbled into dust.

This man standing before her, this exiled prince, had reason to hate the Gelon. Why would he make common purpose with his enemy?

“You also for Isarre?” she asked Zevaron, easing the tension on her bow and lowering it, but only slightly.

“Friend seeks asylum there. Ar-King threaten his life. I swear protect him and see him to sanctuary. I say to you because you are no friend to Cinath. Cinath send soldiers, take your country for his own. You people fight. You people still free. Me, someday I free my city. I make—what is word?—
pact?
with anyone to help my people.”

Shannivar thought of the two Isarran emissaries, who also sought an alliance with Azkhantia. It seemed the entire world wanted her people's help. If so, it was better that the clans continue as they were, relying upon none but themselves, defending their own borders, rather than getting drawn into one foreign war after another.

Isarre
, the outlanders had said. The easiest route to that land from Gelon lay across the great sea, and the fact they had not taken it confirmed that they traveled in secret. They might be outlaws or spies, or madmen. Who could tell?

Shannivar made her decision. She had no stomach for killing these men as they stood, not before the gathered chieftains had a chance to evaluate their stories. Instead, she would observe the two parties when they met. Their behavior might well reveal the truth of their respective stories.

“I cannot grant you leave to travel free in our lands,” she said. “Might involve Azkhantia in Isarran war with Gelon. I do not have authority, nor is it simple decision. Some say we have enough troubles with Gelon and that such a move would be foolhardy.”

“What do
you
think?” Zevaron asked. The coiled tension in his body had eased. He was still wary, but curious.

She shied away from his question. She had already stated that she lacked the power to make this decision, but perhaps the outlander knew nothing of the ways of the steppe. “The matter must be laid before the clan chieftains,” she explained. “We are on our way now to the yearly gathering. If you surrender to me and swear no harm to man or beast in these lands, then I will take you under my protection for the journey.”

Shannivar lifted her bow again. The muscles of her arm and back flexed, readying. If they refused, then she would have to kill them. She dared not allow two uncooperative strangers, whether enemies or spies or hapless exiles, to venture any deeper into Azkhantian territory.

A glance passed between the two men. Danar, the Gelon, said something in his own language. Shannivar knew only a few words of Gelone, enough to gather that he was saying they had no choice.

Moving slowly and carefully, the two men laid their weapons on the ground and backed away. Shannivar dismounted and gathered them up. The Gelon's sword was serviceable and reasonably sharp, although the steel was not as fine as Denariyan fashioning. Its balance was rough, and it had clearly seen rough usage. She suspected that the Gelon had come by it lately, for if it had been forged for him, the smith was utterly incompetent.

The knives the Meklavaran drew from boot, sash, and an inner pocket of his vest were clean-lined, their steel bright. They were of Denariyan make, she would swear, but their beauty lay not in ornamentation but in the perfection of balance and edge.

Shannivar studied the man who carried such blades. His face gave away nothing as he watched a savage—ah, yes, he would think of her as a savage—handling his weapons. She doubted he'd surrendered all of them, but from the way he carried himself, he did not need steel to fight effectively. Behind those shadowed eyes lay a keen intelligence, a restless spirit. He might be a foe temporarily disarmed or a powerful ally.

“We will camp here,” she told them. The clearing, with its shade and water source, was as good a place as they would find to spend the night. “Do you know the law of hospitality?”

Danar looked puzzled, but Zevaron nodded. “No guest may provoke or take advantage of another.”

“Or answer a challenge, no matter how valid,” she pressed. “Give your word that you will keep this truce.”

They considered for an instant. Danar said, “Does this mean you—your party includes someone who might be our enemy?”

“This means there are no enemies in my camp. No blood shed on the trail or at the
khural
. Any guest who tries will find the hand of every rider against him.”

“She means it,” Zevaron said to his friend. “Cinath himself could ride among us, unmolested, under such a truce.”

Satisfied that the two strangers understood and agreed to the conditions, Shannivar signaled for her people to approach. The rest of the Golden Eagle party entered the grove, first the warriors, then the
enaree,
and finally the two Isarrans.

Shannivar readied herself for the moment when each pair of outlanders would recognize the nationality of the other. She would shoot whomever made the first offensive move.

Both looked surprised to see the other. The older Isarran acted even more frightened than usual, his comrade more suspicious. Perhaps they thought the Gelon and his friend were assassins sent to thwart their mission.

The Meklavaran, Zevaron, maintained his composure. He seemed to be assessing the Isarrans as possible allies, not enemies. Shannivar was willing to wager that he could hold his own against Phannus. But a physical fight? That she would not allow.

Shannivar ordered the camp to be set up with the Isarrans on one side and the strangers on the other. There were not enough riders to watch all four outlanders, and short of tying them up at night, she had to make sure they were convinced of the folly of any rash move.

Before setting up his
jort
, Bennorakh approached Shannivar. “Who are these two strangers? One of them is touched with light and poison. Why have you given him leave to join us?”

“The one named Zevaron says he is from Meklavar. I have never encountered any of his race, so I cannot tell. Certainly, he is no Gelon. The Gelon is Danar, from the city of Eithon, no—Aidon. What strange names the Gelon give their stone dwellings! They have offered us no harm,” she added, surprised to find herself defending them when they had done nothing to earn her allegiance. “They asked for safe passage through Azkhantia, in the hope of an alliance with the clans. I have undertaken to bring them to the gathering, where the Council will decide what to do with them.”

The
enaree
nodded. The small carved stones in his hair and beard clanked gently. His focus turned inward. He tilted his head, as if listening to something only he could hear. As he did so, Leanthos drew close. His face, like pale weathered leather, reflected his agitation. His companion hovered, a pace behind, eyes watchful.

“A thousand pardons for my presumption, Reverend Bennorakh, Lady Shannivar,” the Isarran emissary said, inclining his head to each. “In these unsettled times, with the fate of so many at stake, we must make certain of our facts before deciding how to proceed. It serves no one to rush into rash decisions. However, I must ask:
Danar
is the name of the Gelon yonder?”

“That is what he told me,” Shannivar said carefully. She did not like the fervor behind the Isarran's questions.

“Danar, the son of Jaxar of Aidon?”

Shannivar wondered if Leanthos had some blood-feud with Danar. If so, Danar was very young to have offended an enemy so far away. Or possibly, the quarrel was with his father. Phannus, ever at the side of his master, turned stony, dangerously still.

“I don't care if he's the Ar-King himself, there will be no trouble between you,” Shannivar said sternly. “You will stay on opposite sides of the camp and do nothing to violate the hospitality of the camp. You and the Gelon are both under my protection. No one fights without my leave.
No one.
Do you understand?”

“Even if it is a matter of honor?”

Once Shannivar would have cared nothing for the honor of one who dwelled in stone, but now she was not so sure. She thought Zevaron and his friend were men of integrity, at least enough for her to trust their word. And she had seen for herself how Gelon fought with courage and loyalty.

Shannivar replied, as temperately as she could, “My uncle, Esdarash son of Akhisarak, has given his word that you will be able put your case before the assembled chieftains, and
I
have given
mine
to these strangers that they may also do so. Once the Council has heard your petition, you will no longer be my responsibility. For now, however, I require your promise that you will not provoke a fight while we are on the trail. In fact, if you so much as sneeze in their direction, I will interpret it as an assault, and you will answer to me.”

Leanthos exchanged a look with his companion, who nodded with obvious reluctance. “I will do as you say, Lady Shannivar,” the older man said, “but if they come at us, if they—then we must and will defend ourselves.”

“They will not,” she said tightly.

“Then we will not, either. I beg leave to retire as far as possible away from that—from those—as far as possible.” With one of his odd, bobbing bows, Leanthos retreated.

At least, Shannivar thought as she settled down for the night, leaving Rhuzenjin on first watch, there did not seem to be any conspiracy between the strangers and the Isarran emissaries. Let them argue their cases before the assembled chiefs, and let the
enarees
read their omens in smoke and dream visions.

Let me go on with my own life.

Still, she felt a measure of hope. Her own journey had turned out to be even more adventurous than she'd expected. She would ride into the gathering with important news and with Rhuzenjin's victory song on the lips of her riders. She would win the Long Ride and then dance through the night, drunk on
k'th
and glory. What man then would dare to forbid her to ride and hunt and shoot as she willed?

T
HEY
rode on, following the pattern of wind and stars. Around them stretched the steppe, a rich velvet mantle draped over the shoulders of the land, rolling hills broken by wooded river valleys beneath the endless dome of the sky. The wind sang in the grasses.

After the first few days, when it was clear the Isarrans would grudgingly observe Shannivar's truce, Zevaron of Meklavar occasionally left Danar's side. He rode apart from the rest of the party, as if scouting the territory. His small brown mare, Shannivar noted, was poorly bred, of indifferent Gelonian stock. She had not fared well on the tough Azkhantian grasses or the lack of water. Eriu or Radu could, in necessity, drink but once a day, but outlander horses were far less hardy.

Zevaron treated his horse kindly, offering her words of encouragement and never pressing her to go beyond her strength. This consideration was so different from everything Shannivar had heard about the barbarity of outlanders that it aroused her interest. Now she slowed to allow Zevaron to ride beside her.

“That is a fine horse.” Zevaron still spoke trade-dialect with his curious, distinctive accent although, with continual practice, he sounded less stilted. “I have never seen one with her gait.”

“This is Radu,” Shannivar said, patting the dun mare's neck.

Radu cocked one ear back, the other softly sideways to express her contentment.

“She is of ancient lineage.
Tabilit's Dancers
, they are called. It is said that a rider can travel the length of the steppe on such a horse without damaging a feather held between his teeth. Of course, her breed is strange to you. We do not sell or trade our horses to outlanders.”
Although sometimes
, Shannivar thought, remembering the
enaree
's song from Grandmother's funeral
about a chief of horses who was captured by outlanders,
sometimes they can be stolen. But always, always, their hearts yearn to return to the steppe.

“They are like your children.” When Zevaron smiled, light spread from his eyes across his features. “The true treasure of your people.”

Surprised by Zevaron's insight, Shannivar looked more closely at him. He did not carry himself as one who had spent most of his life in the saddle, but neither was he stiff and awkward, like his friend.

“You know something of horses?” she said.

“I was taught to ride as a child, but we had only a few horses, and those mostly of the Sand Lands breed. Do you know them? They are small like yours, but more lightly built, with short backs and dense bone, made for swift flight.”

Shannivar nodded. She had heard of Sand Lands horses, although she doubted even the fleetest of them could outrun her Eriu.

“Each people values something different,” Zevaron said. “For you, it is your horses and the freedom to ride as you will. For my own people, we value our books and our history.”

Books?
Shannivar thought this very strange, to reverence something so easily stolen, lost, or corrupted. History was another thing, song-poems and stories, laments and ballads passed from one generation to the next. The legend of Saramark, the tales of the Sky People, the lament of the exiled horse, all these defined her own people.

Now Rhuzenjin's song, about the battle at the Gelonian outpost and the wounding of Alsanobal, would be added to the repertory. She, too, would be remembered, and that was not so bad a fate. Yes, she decided, the stories of one's lineage were indeed a treasure, a way to bind courage and honor across the ages.

“And your friend? What does he cherish?” Shannivar shook her head and spoke again before he could answer. “I have never understood those who dwell in stone. What do the Gelon seek, that they are always trying to take the steppe for their own?”

“I cannot speak for all of them. My mother used to say there are good men in every land. As for Gelon . . .I say it is rotten to the core. The Ar-King and his kind have no care for honor or valor. They crave only power, power over others, power to destroy, to crush, to plunder—as my people have found to their sorrow.”

Anger and grief and something darker ran through his words. Shannivar had no illusions about the Gelon. She fought and killed the Ar-King's soldiers, and her own father had died by their swords. The deaths of Mirrimal and her brother weighed heavily upon Shannivar's spirit, yet she had never felt such implacable hatred as she now heard in the voice of this stranger. It was one thing to glory in triumph, to see the invader driven back and to hear his screams of terror, to ride across the wild grass-swept hills and know that her people were free by the strength of her own hand. But this darkness in Zevaron was something different.

She knew very little of Zevaron's people, of his life. Unlike Meklavar, Azkhantia had never fallen to any invader.

She said so aloud. His mouth twisted, a wolf's savage grin, and he said, “Exactly.”

Oh.

“You wish to be free, as we are,” she said carefully. “Do you then seek an alliance between my people and yours?”

“I will make such a bargain with anyone or any force that can free my city. You, Isarre, the tribes of the Fever Lands, for all I care.” He lowered his voice, damping the vehemence, so that she almost missed his next words, “Just so the Ar-King is destroyed and the ashes of Gelon blown to the winds.”

“That will be for the chieftains to decide,” Shannivar said temperately.

“You are right, it is a shame to spoil a fine day with desperate thoughts. Will you sing me a song of your people, so that I may know them better?”

She considered, watching him from the corner of her eye, and then lifted her voice.

May the strong bones of my body rest in the earth,

May the black hair on my head turn to meadow-grass.

As Shannivar sang, Radu bobbed her head in rhythm.

May the bright eyes of my forehead become springs that never fail.

She finished Saramark's lament, and with each phrase, she felt Zevaron listening more intently. He sat his brown mare with the same almost-grace, but something inside him had fallen still. She thought she saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes, but when she looked again they were dry. A radiance shimmered just beneath his skin, but that could have been a momentary parting of the clouds. She might have imagined that faint glow, like a dusting of tiny golden crystals. Or it might have been only a trick of the light.

Zevaron, perhaps alerted by some interaction between the other riders, turned his horse and kicked her into a trot back to Danar's side. Shannivar watched the two men, puzzled at their easy manner with one another. They were friends, that much was clear, but whether they were master and servant, and if so, who was which, she could not tell. Loyalty and care marked Zevaron's behavior toward the Gelon, utterly at odds with his bitter words. She wondered how Tabilit, or whatever god they prayed to, had woven their lives together and for what purpose.

* * *

The party settled into a routine of daily travel and nightly chores. The Azkhantians managed their own affairs, each tending to his or her own mount. Ythrae continued her attentions to the recalcitrant camel as well. The men set up their tents and, between them, Shannivar and Ythrae put up and took down her
jort
. The nights were so sweet and mild that only a single thin layer of felt was needed and only for privacy.

Shannivar's primary concern was keeping the peace between the two pairs of strangers. Fortunately, Danar seemed willing to abide by her rules, or else Zevaron ensured that he did. Leanthos was another matter. Shannivar did not think the older man would do anything overtly hostile, but she was not so sure about his companion, or that he wouldn't give Phannus secret orders to provoke a fight.

She went up and down the caravan, as was her habit, passing Danar and Zevaron at the back of the party. She rode Eriu this day, and he expressed his disapproval at there being so many horses in front of him, but he settled easily enough at the side of Zevaron's mare.

After some casual trail talk, Shannivar said, “You have heard Saramark's Lament, a great poem of my people. Will you now sing to me of your own land?”

Zevaron did not respond at first, and she wondered if his people did not sing. That would be very strange, but who could tell about outlanders? The Meklavarans built stone houses out of the face of the mountains, or so she had heard. They might be capable of anything.

Then he lifted his face and began in a clear, strong voice, a voice that rang like burnished bronze. The language was strange, yet akin to the ancient words of the
enarees
. As the song went on, she heard phrases in her own tongue. It was as if the source of the song flowed into many streams, or perhaps the bond that had grown between her and the Meklavaran carried its own magic.

“‘What seek you, O my sister,'”

Zevaron sang.

“‘So far from the mountains of your birth?

‘When I left the tent of my fathers, O my brother,

I yearned for fame and treasure,

But I found only sand and empty skies.'

‘Then seek no more, but abide with me,

And I will pour cool water for your thirst,

And fill all heaven with songs of rejoicing.'”

When he finished, Shannivar was unable to speak. The images of sand and cool water, of thirst and loneliness, lingered in her mind.

“I—I seem to have offended you, and truly that was not my intent,” Zevaron said, responding to her silence. “The words are from a book called
Shirah Kohav
, the Song of the Stars. It was my—” his voice caught, “—my mother's favorite. There is more, but I do not own a copy, and this is all I can remember, as she sang it to me.”

Shannivar looked away, stung by the desolation behind his voice. Never in her life had she heard a man so bereft, so set apart, not even Bennorakh, who would never marry, who had not even taken an apprentice, who for all anyone knew had no living family. In that moment, she felt she could see into Zevaron's spirit, torn and radiant, brimming with anguish and obsession and, somehow, not entirely his own. Her heart ached for this strange, compelling man.

“Your mother sang it to you?” Shannivar was surprised to hear her own voice so gentle. She had no memory of her own mother, although surely Ardellis must have sung to her infant daughter in the way of their people. In Zevaron's few words, Shannivar felt how much he had loved his mother. She must be dead now, for her memory to evoke such deep sorrow. Dead by Gelonian hands? That, more than the fall of his city, would explain his hatred. But then why the friendship with Danar?

Zevaron's shoulders shuddered, as a horse in the winter sheds falling snow. He cleared his throat. “I do not sing well, I am afraid. At least, not such a song. Shall I try something else, a drinking song, perhaps? I learned many such when I was at sea.”

He sang a lively Denariyan ditty that he told her was the story of three peddlers, a donkey, and a weaver-woman. She laughed heartily at hearing the antics of the donkey in the leaps and bounds of the melody. He smiled, looking more at ease than she had yet seen him.

“You sing very well indeed,” she said, “especially for an outlander. But I think your people must be a gloomy sort, that you must borrow merriment from others.”

“It is true the Denariyans love a jovial tune and a hearty drink.” He faltered, his gaze shifting inward. “There is as much joy in Meklavar as anywhere. Or rather, there was. The only songs sung there now are dirges. It has been so long . . . but I would not spoil your day with my own sorrows. What shall I sing next? A ballad of the sea?”

“That is enough singing for now.” Shannivar touched Eriu with her heels, and the black surged forward, skimming the tufted earth. She was on her way to the gathering, to the Long Ride and her future. What right had this outlander to move her so deeply?

Yet she could not shed that vision, half-glimpsed, of brilliance shimmering beneath smooth golden skin.