Shannivar (25 page)

“Are there not many meanings in even the simplest prophecy?” Bennorakh turned to his senior
enaree
. “Could it be possible that this outlander has come to fulfill it, to draw out its poison as from a festering wound?”

“The stone lizard and the power it embodies bode ill for Azkhantia.” Tenoshinakh's gaze flickered to Zevaron and then to the Rabbit clan shaman. “Might we avert the curse by sending it beyond our borders?”

The corners of the Rabbit clan
enaree's
mouth drew down. Clearly, he wished the stone-drake to remain where it was, guarded by shamanic magic.

As she translated, Shannivar appreciated Zevaron's timing. Now it seemed as if he were offering his service to the clans instead of begging their favor.

Tenoshinakh went apart with the other chieftains for a brief conference. The audience turned to one another, discussing the situation in hushed, expectant voices.

“What is going on?” Zevaron asked Shannivar.

“Tenoshinakh is looking for a way to divert the curse from the clans,” she explained. “He thinks that if you go to the north, you will take it with you. The only problem is the prophecy.”

“That I am doomed to failure, and that some catastrophe will befall me?” His eyes, as he met her gaze, were full of darkness, but she could not make out any fear. “I am certain of one thing. If I do not go, something terrible will indeed come to pass. Perhaps it will, whether I go or not. But I have no choice. I am summoned. I cannot turn away from this destiny, regardless of the outcome.”

She stared at him, stung by his sense of dreadful purpose. What did he see with those haunted eyes? An army of stone-drakes, an upsetting of all natural order? Surely he could not think a mortal could defeat such a force. Arrows could not bring down monsters of rock and fire, and a sword could not prevail against the Shadow of Shadows. He bowed his head, and Shannivar could almost hear his thought,
The curse has already fallen upon me.

“From here, your way is clear,”
Zevaron had said to Danar, that night in the darkness.
“Mine is not.”

Now it was.

Something stirred within Shannivar, admiration for this man of Meklavar and a feeling she could not name.

Zevaron once more faced the Council. His gaze encompassed not only the chieftains and elders, but the
enarees
as well.

“If you go to the north, the curse might well fall upon you,” Tenoshinakh said. “Are you prepared to take that risk?

“I must go, regardless of the cost.” Zevaron's voice was so resonant with unspoken passion that no one could mistake his meaning, even without Shannivar's translation. “I prefer to do so with your blessing.”

“You have our leave to travel as you wish throughout the steppe,” Tenoshinakh announced, “so long as you do no harm to man or beast.”

“I promise,” Zevaron said. He went to the Snow Bear men and saluted them. “Will you take me to your country and show me where you found this thing?”

“We will undertake to guide the outlander, if it is the will of the Council,” their chief answered.

Tenoshinakh grunted. “Now, who goes with him, for he is a stranger among us and does not know the ways of the steppe?”

The audience shuffled back a few steps. “The outlander claims this spirit matter belongs to his own people,” someone said. “What has it to do with us?”

“It is not proper to interfere.”

“Why should we share the curse? He is not our kin.”

“The stone-dweller has taken this burden upon himself. It is the will of Tabilit.”

“It is his own rashness, his own thirst for glory speaking. Then let him suffer the consequences.”

They were justifying themselves, Shannivar knew.
Cowards. They would send one man—a stranger and outlander—where they themselves fear to go.
Why did Tenoshinakh not chastise the men for their timidity? Did he intend Zevaron to perish alone?

Perhaps that was exactly what the chieftain planned. Zevaron would carry away the curse with him when he died. The prophecy would be satisfied, for he certainly would not return, and no clansman would suffer.

Shannivar was so furious, so embarrassed at the cowardice of her own people, that for a long moment she could not speak, for fear she might burst out in a tirade against the Council, the
enarees
, and anyone else who was too spineless to seize this chance for a glorious adventure. Then she came to her senses, realizing that they were only doing what they had always done—acting prudently for the good of their people. It had never been their way to involve themselves with outlanders, and they saw no reason to do so now.

It seemed to Shannivar that all her life, she had longed to prove her valor, to accomplish feats worthy of Saramark herself, and now Tabilit had chosen her for this task. Once again, she heard the voice of her dreamsmoke vision:
Do not run away. He is in terrible danger. He must not face it alone.

She came to stand beside Zevaron and raised her voice so that everyone could hear. “I, Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, will go with the outlander!”

E
XPRESSIONS
of surprise greeted Shannivar's announcement. Rhuzenjin cried out, “No, not you!”

“I am a warrior of the steppe,” Shannivar went on, her voice soaring above his protest. “My horses are swift and my arrows fly true. I am not afraid. I will do this thing, and I will return covered in glory!”

Zevaron, at her side, said, “Shannivar, you do not have to—”

She cut him off with a gesture. This was not the time for private conversation, for explanations and misgivings and negotiation.

A hush settled over both the onlookers and the Council. Even Rhuzenjin fell silent. The
enarees
stood as witnesses, neither giving nor withholding their blessing. Zevaron's quest had already passed from their hands.

Tenoshinakh nodded gravely. “Then the matter is concluded in honor. May Tabilit guide your steps and may Onjhol of the Silver Bow grant you his strength.”

With these words, he rose to signal that the session was over. People turned to their neighbors, chattering away about this latest news. Shannivar had no doubt that by the time each clan returned to their own territory, the story of the stone-drake and the outlander would have grown. As for the stone-drake itself, the
enarees
would decide how best to safeguard it.

With the end of the formal hearing, the assembly began to disperse. Uncle Sagdovan approached Shannivar with words of encouragement, as did several others, so that within a few moments, she found herself surrounded by well-wishers and those curious about her. No one attempted to dissuade her, for to do so would be to go against the will of the Council. At another time, Shannivar would have felt uncomfortable being the center of so much attention. She was an arrow in Tabilit's bow, and her dreams of glory arose from the goddess, not her own limited self. The crowd was useful in keeping Rhuzenjin calm. He would not embarrass himself by airing his personal feelings in so public a setting.

Shannivar answered questions and accepted wishes for luck until her audience drifted away. Rhuzenjin watched her pass as she strode off.

She would not look at him. Zevaron and Danar were deep in conversation. Danar, clearly unhappy, gesticulated emphatically, and Zevaron shook his head. Shannivar recognized that stubborn expression. She did not think there was anything Danar could say, or any persuasion or threat he could bring to bear, that would change Zevaron's mind, especially now that she had committed herself to go with him.

Although the Council had concluded its affairs, the day was yet young. Those clans that had come the greatest distances began preparations for departure on the following day. Old men sat in the shelter of the reed mats, drinking tea. Billows of dust and distant whoops from the playing fields indicated the final games.

In the horse field, a few men were inspecting one animal or another, clearly engaged in some friendly trading. Shannivar recognized the old man from the Long Ride. He held the lead line of the young sorrel he had ridden. With a grin, he swung himself on to the horse's bare back and, using weight and a nudge of his knees, set the sorrel trotting in a circle. She remembered his words,
“I have already won,”
and realized the same held true for herself. Tabilit had not sent her to the
khural
simply to win a horse race or to choose a husband.

At Shannivar's approach, Eriu nickered, clearly hopeful of another adventure. His summer coat was smooth and glossy. The weal left by Kharemikhar's whip was healing fast. She pressed her cheek against his neck and inhaled deeply, as if she could draw his solid animal strength into her lungs.

Radu ambled over, sedate as always, and lipped a stray strand of Shannivar's hair as if to say,
Silly two-legs, aren't we going riding?

“Not today,” Shannivar murmured, stroking the sleek dun shoulder. “Enjoy your rest.”

She saddled and bridled the black, then rode him at a walk to the playing field. He moved a little stiffly, but the gentle exercise would be good for limbering up any strained muscles. She promised herself not to demand too much from him.

She found a good spot from which to watch, not too near the other mounted viewers. Ythrae gestured a greeting while keeping her attention on the game. By now, the playing fields had been trampled so many times, the earth was packed hard. Scattered cheering came from the onlookers, most of them mounted. In the middle of the field, surrounded by a cloud of dust, a knot of riders scrimmaged over possession of a pole. A dusty, tattered felt hat had been tied to one end. Clearly, it had been dropped and ridden over a number of times, and from the enthusiastic cheers of the contestants, the game was a heated one. Contests on horseback had few if any formal rules, so anyone on the sidelines might spontaneously join in. In the heat of the competition, the players often changed sides.

One of the onlookers circled his restive horse, then galloped onto the field. His friends cried out in encouragement. Almost immediately, Eriu was infected with the excitement of the game. He pawed the dry dirt. Shannivar patted his neck sympathetically. If he had not run the Long Ride just a few days before, she might have taken part in the hat game. It was unusual but not unheard-of for women to compete with men in this particular event, where strength and size counted less than riding skill.

The current possessor of the hat was Tarabey, Ythrae's new husband. He rode a spotted horse, bright sorrel and creamy white, and was grinning broadly. He broke free of the others and wheeled his horse toward the goal, two standards set at the end of the field. But he was too slow, too full of himself and the exhilaration of having seized the prize. Another rider was after him in an instant, the Badger clan woman who had done so well in the Long Ride. This time, she rode a different horse, a tall, leggy bay. She looked like a child, clinging to its back.

Zevaron joined the onlookers. He met her gaze and walked over to her, moving slowly like a man approaching a skittish horse. “I appreciate the gesture of support,” he said, a little diffidently, “but I would not have you—you are under no obligation to me.”

“We are not all cowards!” Shannivar said, surprised at the heat in her own voice.

“I never said that you were.”

“Listen to me, Zevaron Outlander. I believe that this thing, this stone-drake, concerns us as much as it does you. Even if it did not, you have been a guest among us. You have acted with honor and have made amends for your mistakes. It shames me that my own people are so lacking in courage they let an outlander venture, alone and friendless, where they dare not go. I would not have it said of us that we are too timid to search out an enemy in our own lands.”

“Even so, it was not necessary for
you
to volunteer.”

“You cannot travel to the north alone,” she pointed out. “It is too dangerous for anyone not wise in the ways of the steppe.”

His face closed. “I will find a way.” Again, he rubbed his chest, as if to ease some deep, abiding pain.

“You misunderstand me,” she said, gentling her tone. “I meant only that you need someone who knows how to live on the steppe. How to hunt, where to find water and shelter, when to rest, how to read the skies for direction, how to tell which plants can be eaten and which are poison.”

He stood very still, his gaze straight ahead, fixed on the game.

“I chose this quest freely,” she repeated. “It is as much mine as it is yours.” She smiled. “They will sing songs about our valor for generations to come.”

“I do not do this for fame,” he answered, and Shannivar thought he also meant,
I did not choose it, either.
To that, she had no answer.

They watched as the game proceeded to a round of cheering. Tarabey had seen his danger and was making a run for it. He pummeled the sides of his horse with his heels. The horse surged forward, spotted hide gleaming over bunching muscles. An instant later, the long-legged bay had caught up with him.

“I'm a little surprised to see the festivities continue,” Zevaron remarked.

“The
khural
won't officially end until the
enarees
give the blessing of leave-taking,” Shannivar explained, grateful to have an uncontroversial topic. “That's tomorrow. For today, we have the last of the games, as you see, and everyone runs around, saying farewells.”

The Badger clan woman leaned over, her movements neat and deft, and snatched the pole with the hat. The bay whirled with amazing speed for such a large horse and sprinted for the other goal. The onlookers hooted in approval.

Tarabey started after her. The other riders followed in a bunch. A moment later, the Badger woman galloped between the standards.

Flushed with excitement, Tarabey trotted his horse to where Ythrae waited. He didn't seem upset by the loss. On the contrary, his good nature and the distraction of the game had erased his former shyness.

Ythrae glowed with happiness as he flirted with her. She looked on her new husband with the same pride as if he had won a hundred games. There would, Shannivar reflected, be the usual difficulties of an arrow-wedding—the frictions of joining a new family, of pleasing a new and unknown mother-in-law. But the couple seemed well-matched, and there was no reason why they should not be happy.

Watching them, Shannivar felt even more isolated than before. She had seen enough loveless marriages to know how rare this mutual delight was. She had also seen the longing in the eyes of the widowed in unguarded moments. Was it worse to be alone than to share one's
jort
, bear children, and grow old in an uneasy, loveless marriage? Mirrimal had said no, but Mirrimal was dead. She would never face the long years of solitude.

Eriu pulled at the bit, frustrated at standing still when the other horses were having so much fun. Shannivar dismounted, took firm hold of his reins, and led him back in the direction of the horse fields. Zevaron followed.

“I saw you at the horse fields earlier,” he said. “It looked like there was some horse dealing going on. Would you help me acquire a pack animal? I have a little money. It's from Gelon, but the gold is good.”

Shannivar agreed to help him, although she refrained from saying that the only use anyone of the steppe had for Gelonian gold was to melt it down into something else, not to mention that Azkhantians did not sell their horses to foreigners.

Together they walked back to the encampment, discussing what they must prepare, what to take and what to send either with Danar or with the returning Golden Eagle party. Shannivar had her own
jort
, her horses, her bow, and her knowledge of how to live off the land. She could legitimately take the camel as her share of the clan's herds, or two of the pack ponies. On the other hand, Ythrae was also entitled to a share and had far greater skill in managing the camel. Shannivar smiled to herself. Given a choice, she would far rather deal with ponies.

Shannivar and Zevaron arrived back at the clan encampment. In Shannivar's absence, the others had prepared for departure. All that remained now was to fold the tents, take down the
jorts
, and load the pack animals. The Isarran party was almost ready to leave. Leanthos was clearly anxious to return to his homeland. Danar waited with them. When he saw Zevaron's expression, his own reflected his disappointment.

Zevaron said something in Gelone, at which Danar shook his head and replied kindly. Shannivar recognized the word for
friend
. Ashamed at overhearing yet another private conversation, she turned away. The two men must exchange their farewells in privacy.

“Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, I would speak with you!” Rhuzenjin had been attending to his tent. He waited until she left Zevaron to his friend before approaching her. Her heart sank when she saw his expression. Her mind was clear that she had not deliberately given him false hope, but now she wished she had done more to discourage his attention.

“May your day be lucky,” she replied.

“Have you gone mad?” Rhuzenjin blurted, without further preamble. “Or has the outlander cast an evil spell on you, to cause you to abandon your own people?”

Shannivar made an impatient gesture at his rudeness. Clearly, he wasn't going to part ways in a dignified manner. “Keep your voice down, Rhuzenjin son of Semador! Do you seriously think a stone-dweller who rides like a sack of rotten
k'th
and barely knows how to string a bow could induce me to do
anything
I did not want to do? I'm going as his guide, of my own free will.”

“He has seduced you, bound you to him with forbidden sorcery—
forced
you! That's it, isn't it?”

Shannivar's temper flared. “Tabilit's silver ass! There is far more at stake here than your broken heart! You saw the stone-drake, you heard the story told by Chinjizhin son of Khinukoth. You witnessed the prophecy of the
enarees
.”

She lowered her voice and fixed him with a direct gaze. “Something evil stirs in the mountains to the north. Is it Olash-giyn-Olash, the Shadow of Shadows? I don't know, and neither do you. The outlander says he is spirit-called by this thing. I believe him. I saw him when he touched it. I felt its power. Should he go alone to defend all of us? Should we cower in our
jorts
like frightened rabbits? Or should one of us ride out to meet this evil with him, whatever it might be?”

“But you, Shannivar, you must not risk yourself!”

“Risk? I am a warrior of the steppe, a daughter of the Golden Eagle. No man has the right to tell me what I must or must not risk. I have stood against the Gelon. I will face this enemy as well.”

“You must return home,” Rhuzenjin went on, his eyes dark with pleading, “with me.”

What could she say? She did not want to be cruel. “I will never return to the clan of the Golden Eagle,” she said, as kindly as she could manage. “If I have seemed to encourage you, it was without my conscious intent, and I am sorry.”