Shannivar (17 page)

Neither the Isarrans nor Danar seemed unhappy with the decision. Only Zevaron looked pensive as he withdrew with his friend.

D
ESPITE
the excitement of “Shannivar's strangers,” the usual festivities of the gathering continued. Young people engaged in contests of strength and skill throughout the day, while their elders traded livestock and gossip. Through the lingering dusk, everyone enjoyed feasting and music, ballads sung to reed flutes, drums, and two-stringed bowed
khurs
. There was
k'th
and dancing for everyone young enough to care about such things. Older folk discussed marriages and planned grandchildren while debating the finer points of hospitality and embroidery. Herb-sellers did a brisk business in the rarer plants but also in those used to prevent pregnancy. The chieftains, once freed from their daily Council duties, gathered to swap tales of great horses, heroic deeds, and fabled winners of past games.

When the sounds of drums and flutes signaled the night's dancing, Shannivar went with Ythrae to join in. Shannivar felt as if a weight had been lifted; the relief of no longer being responsible for not one but two sets of unpredictable, troublesome strangers, men who knew nothing of the customs of the steppe, whose honor was unknown and unknowable. That was over now, and their fate was their own. Soon they would be on their way to make whatever alliances they could. They would ride over strange lands or perhaps take ship across the wide seas, never to trouble her again. She was free of them, and they of her.

The dance circle was small at first, but it grew rapidly. A handful of musicians spun out a merry tune, drummers, flute-players, and one old man squeezing music from a goatskin bagpipe.

Rhuzenjin was already there, dancing with a dozen other young men from different clans. Ythrae went to join the women's line. Shannivar paused, watching, and the old bagpiper, his eyes crinkling in his weathered face, glanced in her direction. Gnarled fingers danced over the holes on the pipe and seamed cheeks puffed out, sustaining the long, wailing notes. The music wound through her blood. It made her want to dance, to weep, to run.

She remembered the morning the strangers had arrived at the
dharlak
, the sound of Grandmother's breathing, the creaking leather straps of the old woman's bed, and the sight of the muted outlines of pillow, of caskets and chests containing the treasures of her family. She remembered wondering what it would be like to live in a place where nothing smelled of memories, of family, of home. A shadow fell across her heart.

Zevaron would not, could not, return to his city. She wondered if the home in his heart was his hatred for Gelon. The thought filled her with sadness, as if it were she herself who had no hope of anything better.

She tried to dispel the moment, unable to understand what troubled her. What had the fate of one city-dwelling outlander to do with her? She was among her own people at the gathering. She had discharged her obligations with honor and was now free to seek out her own future. Grandmother would have been pleased. Tonight she would dance and flirt and perhaps choose one of those fine young dancers for her bed. Tomorrow she would take part in contests of agility and horsemanship, or archery, and she would gossip and laugh. But she would never return to the home of the Golden Eagle.

Was exile what Mirrimal had feared most? Had exile sharpened Kendira's tongue and cast such shivering darkness across Zevaron's heart? Would the same thing happen to her?

Shannivar reminded herself that the steppe was her home. No one part of it might claim her any more than another. Like the Golden Eagle that was her totem, she would go where she willed, where the winds took her. Her home was in her wings, the fleetness of her horses, and Tabilit's endless sky.

The dance had come to an end. The bagpipe wheezed to a halt, releasing her. The lines broke apart. Ythrae lingered for a moment, watching Rhuzenjin with hopeful eyes. As usual, he seemed utterly unaware of her attention. The youth who had led the men's line, the son of the Ghost Wolf clan chieftain, approached Ythrae. Shannivar could not hear what he said, but she caught the blush and quick smile on the younger woman's face.

Looking up at the Ghost Wolf youth, Ythrae tilted her head and laughed at something he said. Watching them, Shannivar felt glad and unexpectedly wistful. Ythrae was, after all, as deserving of happiness as anyone. Shannivar could not wish her young cousin anything less.

The music started up again, the opening strains of a courting dance. Out of the corner of her vision, Shannivar saw Rhuzenjin glance in her direction. The next moment, he would approach her. She was certain of it, and she could not refuse him outright without insult.

Just then, Danar and Zevaron stepped into the firelit circle. The orange light warmed the Gelon's features pleasantly, but the effect on Zevaron's honey-gold skin took Shannivar's breath away. He had paused at the edge of the beaten dirt, his head turned toward the musicians. Gold touched the lines of his cheek and nose, the strong neck, the lean curves of shoulders and chest. His hands hung at his sides, momentarily at rest yet eloquent with power and the promise of gentleness.

Before Shannivar could form a conscious intention, she was moving toward him, a moth to his flame. Flame, yes, as if a fire burned just below the surface of him. A fire that, as his gaze shifted and his eyes met hers, ignited them both.

In that moment, Shannivar could not breathe. It was if the two of them had become trapped in amber, their hearts frozen in flame between one pulse and the next. An image rose up to blind her sight: Tabilit bending low from the Road of Stars to breathe upon the two of them.

Then Shannivar found herself at Zevaron's side, one hand reaching for his. The music dimmed, distant. She inhaled the scent of far-off mountains, of sea and storm and foreign winds. Something tugged at her, evoking an answering surge of longing. His fingers closed around hers.

Shannivar blinked, and the stars were now only stars, the fire only fire, the music sprightly but the instruments slightly out of rhythm with one another.

“Will you teach me this dance?” he asked.

Wordless, she took his other hand, lifting both to shoulder level, straightening and turning so that their right shoulders faced, their joined hands in front of her heart and his. His gaze remained on hers. He moved with her, one deep gliding step, rise and pause, then another. They revolved around the center point like creatures of legend, slow and elegant, deliberate in their movements, and unwavering in their gaze.

As they circled, Zevaron's gaze never faltered, not even when he missed a step and recovered. Shannivar saw in his eyes an expression of wonder, as the other dancers faded like mist. Only the two of them remained, flowing with the music, treading the sacred land. They became every man and every woman who had ever come together in this dance. They were Tabilit and Onjhol, Saramark and her noble husband.

At last, the music dimmed and then fragmented as one instrument after another fell silent. Tabilit had withdrawn; magic no longer seeped from the earth, from the sky. Dancers stepped apart, laughing or murmuring to one another. Shannivar still gazed at Zevaron, not knowing what to say.

Rhuzenjin appeared, moving from night into the circle of light. He scowled, his lips twisting. His brows drew together, tight and hard, as he tried to disguise his displeasure. “Shannivar, you bring no credit to your clan by behaving in this way.”

For a moment, she thought he might strike her, or at the least grab her arm to draw her away. His glare shifted to Zevaron, who calmly returned it.

“I will dance with whomever I please!” she retorted.

“It looks like that means
everyone
,” Rhuzenjin said, pointing rudely at Zevaron.

“I do not understand what is going on,” Zevaron said to Rhuzenjin in trade-dialect. “If I have given
offense
—” He used the word that meant a rude, vulgar act, rather than a violation of honor, but his intention was clear.

“Stay out of it, outlander!” Rhuzenjin snarled, still in Azkhantian. “Shannivar, what are you doing, to openly favor a stone-dweller! Think of how it must look! Consider your uncle's honor—”

“My uncle has nothing to do with this!” Shannivar's temper flared. “You mean I have no right to choose my own partner, that now I must dance with
you
! If you want to dance with a woman, there are many who would be glad of it. Ask Ythrae and bring her joy. Or the camel, for all I care! I will not dance with any man who speaks to me in such a manner.”

“Has there been some misunderstanding?” Zevaron said.

“None at all,” Shannivar returned, switching back to trade-dialect. She kept her gaze steadily on Rhuzenjin. “We understand one another perfectly well. We just don't agree.”

“Shannivar, I'm thinking only of your happiness,” Rhuzenjin insisted, still in Azkhantian. “Why turn away from a man of your own people—one who can give you a secure place, honor, respect—for an outlander? All he can offer is misery and exile. Consider what you are doing.”

“Since when does one dance mean a commitment to marriage? Or anything else?” Shannivar demanded. “Or is it your own pride that speaks—?”

“Not just any dance.” Rhuzenjin paused, breathing hard. His pupils dilated in the failing light. His face tightened with emotion. Then he repeated, low and intense, “Not
any
dance.”

So he had felt it too, the breath of Tabilit. The Blessing of the Sky.

It had been a moment's grace, nothing more. Whatever her feelings for Zevaron or his for her, that moment had ended. He would go to Isarre with Danar, and she would follow wherever Tabilit beckoned her, here on the steppe. The world was too vast and too unpredictable to offer even the smallest hope that they would see each other again after this gathering.

“If I have given offense or caused difficulty, the fault is mine,” Zevaron said. “Please do not quarrel with your kinsman on my account.” He spoke calmly, but with quiet confidence. Something in his bearing reminded Shannivar of the moments before he had trounced the Isarran bodyguard. “I ask your pardon, Rhuzenjin, since I do not know your customs—”

“May bitterness sit long upon your tongue.” Without waiting for a reply, Rhuzenjin stalked away.

Zevaron watched his retreating back. “There goes an unhappy man. If I have made him my enemy, it was not my intention.”

“Him?” Shannivar snorted, then felt ashamed. It was improper and disloyal to speak ill of a clansman.

Rhuzenjin had never treated her poorly until now. He was jealous, and there was nothing she could do about it. At least she had never taken him into her bed, or the situation would be even worse. She tossed her head, wishing it were as easy to shed the certainty that she had caused pain to a man who meant her only good.

She turned back to Zevaron. “Forget about him. If you must worry about anyone in this camp seeking to cause trouble for you, it would be Kharemikhar.”

“Oh,
him
.” Zevaron's lips curled in a wolfish grin. “That matter is already dealt with.”

She saw the small bruise darkening one cheek. Before, it had been hidden by shadow, then masked by Tabilit's golden breath. “Kharemikhar—”

Zevaron gave her another grin, a flickering glance of dark-lashed eyes. Shannivar followed his gaze.

Kharemikhar had entered the circle, favoring one leg as he moved through the opening figures of “Onjhol's Dance.” He spotted Zevaron and touched one fist to his chest in salute.

“We—ah—settled things,” Zevaron said in response to Shannivar's expression of astonishment. “He wanted to learn the foot sweep I used on the Isarran bodyguard. I taught him.”

And a few other things as well, she had no doubt.

“He let me know I'm welcome to join the wrestling contest tomorrow.” A glint of mischief lit his eyes. “Shall I?”

Shannivar shrugged. “You must decide such matters for yourself. I am no longer responsible for your good behavior. But since you ask my advice, and there are many games to choose, I know you ride as well as a camel drunk on
k'th
.”

“Oh, as bad as that?”

“No, but I don't think you should try the handkerchief race or mounted wrestling. Can you shoot?”

“As a boy, I was pretty good with a sling, but the best that can be said about my archery is that I usually don't hit things I'm not aiming at.”

From the lightness of his tone, he had no inflated vanity and seemed to find his own lack of skill a source of amusement. And although he had accused himself on the trail of being a poor singer, his voice had been clear and strong.

“Then you had better follow Kharemikhar's advice and try the wrestling on foot,” Shannivar said, “since you seem to be good for very little else.”

As they talked, they strolled to the edge of the dancing circle. Ythrae had gone off with the Ghost Wolf youth. Danar was talking with two other men, Senuthenkh one of them. The Gelon nodded, looking serious but not uneasy. Zevaron joined the conversation, but Shannivar declined.

She sat down with the unmarried women and took a sip from the skin of
k'th
they were passing around while calling out encouragement or ridicule at the men who were dancing for their benefit.

The men moved in a circle, improvising steps to display their athletic prowess. One after another, they stepped low and wide, kicked their legs, leapt high in the air and landed crouching like cloud leopards on the hunt. Kharemikhar had taken the lead position, still limping but performing the most strenuous steps anyway. Shannivar smiled, thinking how much he was like Alsanobal: prideful, stubborn, with more courage than sense. Still, what did it matter if he injured himself even worse by showing off, so long as the young women smiled at him?

The dance ended and another began, this one a women's courting dance. Shannivar set aside the
k'th
skin and stood up with the others. She felt Zevaron's attention turn to the dance as she extended her hands to the women on either side, elbows bent, fingers clasped loosely. Ythrae, flushed and excited, took a place beside her. Several unfamiliar women joined the circle, colorful in their holiday finery. Their dresses and jackets were embroidered in clan emblems and edged in ribbons of bright Denariyan silk. Shannivar was one of the few who had not set aside her loose riding trousers.