Shannivar (23 page)

“At the beginning of time, the world was formed in Fire and Ice, in darkness and light. The Holy One caused the elements to become separate, and thus did earth and heaven come into being. But as the sun set on the first day, twilight opened the gates to evil. Fire once more embraced Ice, and that which had been made separate now joined in unholy union. Defying the Holy One, it gave itself a secret name . . .”

His words flowed in a rhythm that was strange and yet compelling. Hearing the original language, even though she could not understand it, sent ghostly lightning through her. The clear meaning in trade-dialect heightened the uncomfortable sensation of hearing a dreadful and wonderful tale.

“In the hidden places of the world, the union of Fire and Ice conceived a terrible hatred for all who dwelt beneath the sun. Slowly, it gathered an army unto itself, dragons of frost and flame, ice trolls, and, most dreadful of all, the invisible shadows that cast themselves upon the souls of men.

“And as the minions of Fire and Ice swept across the land, men fought against their domination . . .”

In her mind, Shannivar glimpsed the creatures of Fire and Ice marching across the living land, stone-drakes creeping inexorably onward, monstrous giants crushing the earth itself. She heard trumpets calling, the neighing of horses, and the ringing sound of drawn swords. And over it, through it, a force luminous with magic, with pure radiant light.

“From them emerged a
te-ravot
both powerful and wise, Khored of Blessed Memory, and his six warrior brothers. Khored forged a magical Shield: six perfect
alvara
crystals like the petals of a flower, surrounding a single luminous center. Each
alvar
was a gem of utmost clarity, a vessel of light, but none was more pure or more powerful that Khored's own gem, the
te-alvar
, the soul of the Shield.

“With the power of the Shield, Khored learned the secret name of the incarnation of Fire and Ice. He conjured forth the ancient enemy and bade it submit to judgment.”

The rhythm of Zevaron's chant, the very sound of his words shifted. She sensed the clash of battle: rivers boiling, mountains crumbling into sand and then melting into glass, green fields charring into ash. Then came bitter rains, flooding the battlefield. And silence. And mourning. And remembering.

“But Khored in his wisdom knew the enemy was vanquished but not destroyed. Long he pondered, thinking of the ages to come, when the will of men might weaken and evil arise once more.”

It no longer mattered to Shannivar that she could not understand the original language or that the translation into trade-dialect was occasionally halting and stiff. The repetition created a resonance in her mind that built with each phrase, words and something numinous and terrible sounding through them.

“And Khored took the Seven-Petaled Shield, and gave each brother one of the
alvara
crystals, reserving the
te-alvar
, the heart of the Shield, for his own. With all his arts, he worked upon the stones, so that each
alvar
might be placed in the heart of a living man, hidden from profane sight. Each brother undertook the stewardship, and they swore eternal fidelity to one another.

“And ages passed, and descendants of Khored and his brothers kept faith with the pledge their fathers had made. The seven petals and their guardians are the hope and refuge of the living world, for as long as the Shield of Khored endures, the ancient enemy remains imprisoned and righteousness reigns.

“May it be forever so.”

The last phrases in Zevaron's clear, strong voice echoed softly against the rock of the promontory. One by one, the
enarees
reverently touched fist to breast, but not to honor Zevaron the man. They offered their respect to the power that flowed through his words, to the merit of those who had first spoken them, and through them, to the valor of those who had performed these deeds.

While he related the tale, an animation, a glamour almost, had suffused Zevaron's features. Now he seemed to diminish, once again an ordinary man.

“This is what I have been taught. How much is true, I cannot tell,” he said as the shamans once again seated themselves. “The
te-Ketav
tells us that Khored exiled the forces of Fire and Ice far away. Two things kept them imprisoned. The—” he broke off, massaging his breastbone, took a deep breath, went on, “the magic of Khored, and the wall of mountains in the distant north.”

Shannivar's breath caught in her throat. Something swept through her, a soundless whispering, as if some unimaginably immense being bent low and whispered inside her mind.

The mountains
, she thought,
that were broken when the white star fell.

“The might of men has waned with the scattering of Khored's Shield,” Zevaron went on, “as I have reason to know only too well. Now your own people from the north bring this thing—this stone beast, unlike anything known to you. Yet when I touched it—” He held out his hand, fingers spread wide, and for a moment, his expression shifted to one of amazement. “When I touched it, I felt—I
knew
—it was a thing of Fire and Ice. Here, in the lands of men. If the warnings of the
te-Ketav
have come to pass, if the ancient enemy has breached the walls of its mountain prison, if the magic of my ancestors no longer holds it at bay . . .”

“This is a noble tale, strong in spirit. But what does it have to do with you, outlander?” one of the
enarees
asked in a polite tone.

“My people—my own forefather, Khored of Blessed Memory—once stood against this thing. If it has arisen once more, how can it
not
concern me?”

“Ah. It is a matter of family honor.” Heads nodded all around. “This we understand.”

“There is much I do not yet know,” Zevaron said, lifting his head. “I beg your leave to travel to the north, to the country of the Snow Bear people, so that I may see with my own eyes.”

“Man of Meklavar,” intoned the Rabbit clan
enaree
, “you take on a great deal, to involve not only yourself but all the clans of the steppe in these spirit matters. Azkhantia may fall under a curse because of the rash actions of a man who is not one of us, who has no regard for our own traditions. Do you understand the consequences of what you propose, outlander? No matter how honorable and praiseworthy were the deeds of your fathers, you are not among your own people now. If such evil as you have described may fall upon us, then we claim the right to say what may or may not be done. Why should we trust your judgment in matters that concern us, when you have failed to observe the proper rituals of purification?”

Zevaron rose and bowed deeply, after the manner of his own people. “The fault is mine, and I will undertake whatever penalty you set. Only allow me to follow this trail to its end.”

“For that, you need permission from the Council of chieftains, as well as the Snow Bear tribe,” Shannivar told him.

“If the
enarees
agree, will the chieftains forbid it?” he countered.

Perhaps in his own country, holy men made the laws, but it was not so on the steppe. The
enarees
read the omens; they might attempt to persuade or intimidate, but they did not command, lest their powers be set against the authority of the chieftains and thereby lead the people into disorder.

“You have courage, man of Meklavar, but we do not yet know the truth of the matter.” The Rabbit clan
enaree
raised his dream stick and shook it gently. “You both will return to the purification tent and remain there until summoned. We will eat the smoke of dreams once more. We will dance through its magic and pray for guidance. If it is will of Tabilit, a prophecy will be revealed to us. Then you may come before the Council and make your petition.”

Without further deliberation, Shannivar and Zevaron were ushered back down the trail to the main encampment.

Rhuzenjin and the others were still inside the purification tent, completing their own, lesser ordeal. One of the
enarees
, Shannivar couldn't see which one, flipped the door flap closed with a decisive snap. One glance told her that the flap was tied down, weighted with warning bells and stones. The
enarees
were taking no chances this time.

The fire had died to a mound of embers and ash, yet dreamsmoke still drenched the air. The others looked very much as she had last seen them, eyes half-closed, some rocking gently, caught in their own visions.

Rhuzenjin roused as Shannivar sat down beside him. In the dim red light, he looked worried. “What happened?” he whispered. “Where did you go? What trouble has the outlander dragged you into?”

The dreamsmoke stung Shannivar's eyes and throat. She swallowed a cough. “It is a spirit matter. The
enarees
will make a prophecy about it.”

“What did he do?” Rhuzenjin persisted.

“Tell him,” Zevaron said grimly. He had evidently learned enough Azkhantian to follow the conversation.

“He touched the stone-drake,” Shannivar said to Rhuzenjin.

“He
touched
a thing pronounced taboo?” Rhuzenjin clenched his hands into fists, shoulders tensing.

Zevaron's eyes glinted in the uncertain light.

“Leave him alone, Rhuzenjin. He did not do it merely to annoy you. His reasons have to do with the honor of his people. As it is, he has troubles enough, between this new evil arising in the north and the wrath of the
enarees
.”

“Why are you are defending him?” Rhuzenjin shot back. “He has put you under an evil spell, forcing you to take his side!”

Refusing to argue, Shannivar turned her back on Rhuzenjin and settled herself beside the door flap. Zevaron hunkered down beside her, close but not touching. She felt him shivering and wondered if the stone-drake had set a fever on him. To give him courage, and because it was going to be a long, uncomfortable night, she touched his hand. His skin was smooth and surprisingly warm.

Shannivar had more questions, a dozen, a hundred, but something in Zevaron's manner, the undeniable effect the stone-drake had upon him, and the earnestness of his confusion stilled her tongue. She had not the heart to press him.

The brief refreshment of the tea drunk on the promontory faded. The dreamsmoke worked on her, loosening her thoughts and her muscles. She had no strength or will to resist. She drifted on its currents.

* * *

Some time later, Shannivar jerked awake. Someone had pulled aside the door flap. Morning light streamed in, along with a gust of chill air. Rhuzenjin and the others were pulling on their clothes.

“Come, come!” One of the
enarees
stood outside. “Your time is up. Do not linger!” Shannivar did not know him, but she thought he was of the Falcon clan. He was very young, too young to have completed his apprenticeship.

As Rhuzenjin left, he scowled at Zevaron, sitting hunched beside the opening. The apprentice
enaree
handed in more wood and resin, gesturing for Shannivar to build up the fire again. Slowly, with hands made clumsy by dreamsmoke and thirst, she complied. Within a short time, billows filled the tent. Her eyes stung.

Zevaron shook his head, as if to clear his vision. The movement set off a spasm of coughing.

“It may be many hours before the
enarees
summon us,” Shannivar said. “Try not to fight the dreamsmoke. The visions are part of the purification. Perhaps you will learn something of value.”

“I dare not sleep again.” He rubbed reddened eyes. “My dreams have been uneasy enough of late.”

“Evil dreams can sometimes work upon a man and steal his courage, or lead him into foolish hopes,” Shannivar said, nodding agreement. “In such cases, it is better to stay awake.”

She paused, considering. “Once you asked me for a song of my people, that you might better understand them. It would be disrespectful to sing at such a time as this, but will you not tell me of your home, some story of your people?”

For a long moment, he was so still, she was not sure he had understood her. Perhaps the dreamsmoke had taken him suddenly, as it sometimes did. Then he lifted his head. His eyes reflected the glow of the fire.

He began to speak, not in an ordinary voice but in a rhythmic chant, as if he were reciting one of the great story-poems, translated into trade-dialect. Shannivar felt herself carried along by the words, as she had when he recited the great story of his people to the
enarees
. Vivid images formed behind her eyes.

She looked upon a land of mountains, a city of towers and market places, and a room filled with rainbow-hued light. Dancers lifted their hands to the sound of drums and cymbals and singing. A line of men and horses, many thousands of them, rode across a plain. Wind sent ripples through the sun-burnished grass. The men raised their swords. Brightness flashed from a thousand blades.

Her vision paled. The plain fell away, and she stood in a place lapped by mist. A figure moved toward her, a woman. She could not make out the woman's features, only her eyes. They glowed like bits of the sun. The woman folded her hands across her breasts. Cupping something between them, she stretched her hands out, but not to Shannivar. Rather, she reached
through
Shannivar to someone standing behind her. Shannivar's body had become as insubstantial as the curling mists.

Shannivar spun around to see the woman holding a golden sphere, then saw Zevaron reach out to take it. It seemed a perfectly innocent action, and yet, somewhere in the pit of Shannivar's belly, she knew that to touch the sphere would change Zevaron forever. It would consume him, as surely as fire or death.

Zevaron turned to her, and she saw with horror that his eyes now burned with the same fire as the woman's. He tilted his head, his blind gaze searching for her. Then he opened his mouth, and she saw that his teeth had turned to jagged shards of ice. In an instant, frost coated his skin. Breath roared out of him, bitter as a winter storm.