Shannivar (16 page)

Shannivar drew in her breath at this, as did every clansman there. Danar trembled visibly at the affront and the blood drained from his face, but he held himself with exquisite dignity.

“Tell them who you are, Danar son of Jaxar!” Leanthos demanded. “Admit that you are the
nephew
of Cinath, Ar-King of Gelon, their mortal enemy!”

Exclamations of disbelief and revulsion rippled through the audience. “What!”

“What did he say?”

“The Ar-King's own kin?”

“You cannot conceal your place in the line of succession!” Leanthos gathered momentum from the crowd's response. His voice soared above their exclamations. “
Tell them the truth!
With the death of Thessar-Ar-Gelon, only Cinath's younger son and your father—an invalid!—stand between you and the Golden Throne!”

While Leanthos spoke, Phannus glided into position at his shoulder. Shannivar saw the assistant's fingers encircle the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it forth. He was no mere servant but, as she had suspected from the first, a skilled bodyguard. An assassin.

“
Tell them!
” Leanthos repeated, then went on, his voice now calmer but resonant with fervor. “Tell them the real reason you have come here—to convince the clans to support your bid for power. To enlist them as your army so that you can take the throne of Gelon for yourself. The rivers of Aidon will run with Azkhantian blood, but what do you care, so long as it is not
yours
, so long as you take the prize in the end?”

Throughout the onlooking crowd, people shifted, hands going to weapons, faces darkening in anger. Shannivar had only the knife tucked into her boot, and she could not match these men in strength or reach. Zevaron, she noted, had moved closer to his friend, balanced with one foot slightly in front of the other, eyes reflecting steady alertness. Although his hands were empty, he looked confident.

Tenoshinakh surged to his feet, shouting, “Enough!”

The onlookers hesitated. In that fractional pause, a sound ripped the air. A high-pitched wail accompanied the ghostly clatter of bone and shell, of antler and stone.

Shannivar stiffened, as if an icy hand had clamped down on the base of her skull. Her breath froze in her throat, and she realized that everyone else in the audience suffered a similar paralysis. The chief of the
enarees
shook his dream stick once more. Red light glinted from his eyes. Then he lowered the ornamented staff, and Shannivar found she could move again. In the audience, men exchanged dubious glances. Some hung their heads, while others shuffled back to their places.

“Enough, I say!” Tenoshinakh repeated. “Such charges are easily made, but blood once spilled cannot be recalled. We will take no action until we have considered all sides of this quarrel.” After a moment of stunned silence, he gestured to Danar that he might answer the Isarran's accusation.

Danar's fair skin had turned even paler, but he held himself proudly as he faced the pavilion. “What the Isarran emissary says is indeed true but only in part. The line of succession to the Golden Throne passes by law and custom from Cinath to his younger son, then to my father as his only brother. And then,” with a flicker of those peculiar sky-green eyes, “to me. Beyond those facts, which anyone can learn, the rest is lies.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. “Do not let your fears deceive you into believing that
all
Gelon are mad for power,” he went on. “That
all
Gelon thirst for blood. That
all
Gelon have no care for justice or honor. My father does not want the throne, and because of his condition, he himself could not rule, as has been the case from his birth. This too is the law.”

“All the more reason for you to secure the throne for yourself!” Leanthos sneered. “Do you expect us to believe you would refuse it out of some lofty nobility of spirit?”

Danar frowned, a faint crease between his brows. “Until now, I would have said,
Yes, I refuse it. I am not fit to rule.
”

This statement provoked another expression of incredulity from the Isarran emissary, who now made no effort to disguise his contempt. In Shannivar's eyes, Leanthos appeared so blinded by hatred of his country's enemy that he could perceive nothing else.

Danar lifted his head, and something in his earnestness, the simplicity and directness of the movement, touched Shannivar. “At first, I sought only sanctuary,” he said quietly. “I fled my own country on my father's command when Cinath plotted my death. But after what I have seen . . . I would
not
refuse the throne. In fact, I now believe that I
must
become Ar-King.”

A rush of emotion, shock and disbelief, passed over the chieftains and the assembled clansmen. Even Zevaron looked startled. Two of the
enarees
huddled together, whispering.

“There!” Leanthos cried, pointing at the Gelonian youth. “You have it from his own mouth, from the monster who means to drive his soldiers into your lands, even as his fathers have done!”

“That is
not
why—” Danar stepped toward Leanthos, one hand outstretched.

“No more lies! No more Gelonian deceit!” Leanthos cut him off with a sharp gesture of negation. “I challenge you, Danar son of Jaxar, heir to the Golden Throne of Gelon, by honor and by blood, by tide and by moon, until last breath!”

Shannivar's first reaction was to intervene as she would have during the journey. The responsibility for maintaining peace had become habit. Now she forced herself to step back. It was no longer any concern of hers how these stone-dwellers behaved toward one another. She had done what her uncle asked. She had fulfilled the requirements of honor.

“What are you saying?” Danar recoiled, clearly appalled by the Isarran's challenge. “I cannot—no, you are no swordsman—and we must not become personal enemies!”

“I make the challenge for my country, not myself,” Leanthos responded, “and my champion stands ready to fight in my stead. As for
becoming enemies
, that relationship began generations ago and was sealed in blood by the vicious aggression of your own kinsman. You cannot undo what has been done or bring all the fallen Isarrans back to life. Or change who and what you are. I will listen to no more of your lies! Do you expect me to believe that
you
—of Cinath's own blood—would swear neutrality—or friendship—with Isarre?”

Before Danar could utter another word, Phannus stepped between his master and Danar. Assuming a fighting stance, he drew his sword. His features were composed, his expression intent, and only the momentary glitter of anticipation in his eyes betrayed any emotion.

The onlookers moved back to give them more room. A duel, yes, that was the proper way to settle such matters. Curiosity lit their faces, for none had seen a match between city dwellers. They were eager to see how the outlanders would conduct themselves.

The fight would be brief and final, Shannivar thought. Danar was young and reasonably fit, but he lacked the cold, deadly focus of the Isarran bodyguard.

“I say again, no!” Danar backed up, hands raised well away from his sword. “I will not fight you! You must listen—”

“What is wrong with him?” someone in the crowd demanded. “Is the Gelon a coward?”

“All Gelon are cowards! Everyone knows that!”

“What is the stone-dweller saying? He will not defend the honor of his clan?”

“Quiet, hear how he answers!”

“Chief Tenoshinakh,” Danar cried, “I appeal to you! How can the death or maiming of one of us resolve our differences? Stop this madness!”

“We will not interfere.” Tenoshinakh's brows drew together, and his voice took on a harsh tone. “This quarrel is an outland matter. Now is your chance to prove your case. Show us what is behind your fine words. If you refuse to fight, we will know them for a coward's lies.”

Danar flushed, two spots of heat spreading across his cheeks. His gaze, which had been fixed on Tenoshinakh, wavered. He gulped and reached for his sword.

The instant Danar moved, Phannus closed with him, blade slicing through the air.

The Isarran's steel never reached its target.

For all the speed Phannus had displayed, Zevaron moved even faster. He was not only fast, but lithe and balanced. One foot swept out in a lightning arc, his movement a blur. His boot struck the Isarran bodyguard's wrist with a slap of leather against flesh.

Phannus grunted in pain. His sword went spinning through the air. It landed point down in the earth. The blade vibrated with the force of the impact.

Propelled by the force of the blow, Phannus spun away. He stumbled but quickly regained his balance. His face darkened to an ugly red, but his expression remained unperturbed, his concentration as keen as ever. With a flip of the wrist, a knife slid from a sheath hidden inside his sleeve and into his uninjured hand. He leapt forward, closing quickly. Zevaron held his ground until the very last instant. Then, just as the tip of the Isarran's knife was about to pierce him, he dropped to the ground. He crouched beneath the oncoming blow and turned sideways, bracing himself on both hands. Before Phannus could react and redirect the blow downward, Zevaron's foot swept out, low to the ground. Phannus had just shifted his weight to put power into his attack. Zevaron's swift, circular motion hooked the ankle of Phannus's leading foot and jerked it out from under him, and he fell heavily. The impact sent up a billow of dust. Onlookers murmured appreciatively.

Zevaron straightened up, again moving with preternatural feline grace, and nodded to Danar.

Tenoshinakh threw back his head and laughed from deep in his belly. “Let the one who calls the challenge do the fighting! Is that what you mean, friend of Gelon? That's the Azkhantian way as well!”

So there could be no misunderstanding, Shannivar translated into trade-dialect.

As the meaning of Tenoshinakh's words sank in, Leanthos looked terrified. In issuing his challenge, the Isarran had never intended to place his own life at risk. He did not even carry a sword. He had been counting on his bodyguard's skill. Shannivar did not envy his position. Danar could take him down in an instant.

“There has been enough blood shed between Gelon and Isarre.” Danar's voice rang out, resonant with conviction. “It comes to an end now. I say there will be no fight.”

“You must!” One of the chieftains exclaimed. “He has insulted your honor before this Council. And you, Leanthos, you must back up your accusation with action or else withdraw it.”

“That will not be necessary,” Danar said before the Isarran could respond. “There can be no insult given if none is taken.”

The crowd grew very still, heads angled to listen to Danar's astonishing words. This was a moment they would relish telling their grandchildren, the day a Gelonian prince shrugged off an insult from his traditional enemy.

“Leanthos, much of what you said is true,” Danar said, “and the rest reflects only your admirable loyalty to Isarre. Yes, I am the son of Jaxar, nephew and heir to Ar-Cinath-Gelon, standing in the line of succession only after his own son. But it is also true—and I will swear by any god you name—that Cinath has betrayed the allegiance I once owed him. Loyalty must be earned as well as rendered. My uncle has sought my death, and for all I know, my father's. It is by his malice that I am outlawed, sent into exile. I have no love for him.

“But,” Danar went on after a pause, “I love everything that is true and good in Gelon. By the breath of my soul, I pledge myself to restore Gelon to what it should be, a nation of justice, of learning and prosperity, a nation worthy of the blessings of its gods. A nation,” his voice fell, and in the hushed silence, every syllable rang clear, “at peace with its neighbors.” He slipped his sword free and offered it, hilt first, to Leanthos. “I swear to you that the second thing I will do when I take back the Golden Throne is to end this war with Isarre.”

Heads nodded, everyone recognizing that in order to take the throne, Danar would first execute Cinath and put an end to his ambitions. And therefore, his threat to Azkhantia.

“In return,” Danar said, still speaking to Leanthos, “I ask for safe conduct to your King, that I may say the same thing directly to him.”

Leanthos did not take the proffered sword, but simply placed his hand over Danar's on the hilt. “I do not know whether such a thing is possible, but it is not my mission to judge. I am charged with bringing what aid I can to Isarre. The friendship of a Prince of Gelon—even one who is moon-mad—” Leanthos paused as Danar laughed aloud, “—must be deemed an advantage. I will do as you ask, and will speak for you in Isarre.”

Withdrawing his hand, Leanthos turned his attention back to Tenoshinakh. “You have seen how enemies can become allies, and thus Isarre is strengthened. Will you not join us as well? Our unity in common cause will ensure our triumph.”

After a brief conference with the other chieftains, Tenoshinakh said, “We of Azkhantia have never concerned ourselves with outland matters and see no reason to do so now. We have no fear of Gelon, but neither will we provoke further aggression in a fruitless cause. If you dwellers-in-stone have made an alliance between yourselves, so much the better for you. But it has nothing to do with us.”

The chief raised his voice. “Leanthos of Isarre, you and your clansman are free to remain, but when you return to your cities, you may not take a single Azkhantian with you, not one horse or one arrow. As for you, Danar son of Jaxar, you may remain with us for the length of the gathering. If you are the salvation Leanthos seeks, may it be so, but do not trouble us further with your concerns.”

Tenoshinakh glanced to the chief of the
enarees
. After a moment, the shaman nodded gravely. He lifted his staff and shook it. The sound of the bones and shells rattling against one another signaled the end to the hearing.