Shannivar (26 page)

Over Rhuzenjin's protests, she said, “We will speak no more of the matter. Nothing you say will dissuade me, and I cannot promise anything that will put your mind at rest. Life is as Tabilit wills it.”

“Life is as we make it.”

He was right, but Shannivar refused to be drawn in. “I must confer with Chinjizhin son of Khinukoth regarding travel conditions, so that I can better divide the gear and pack animals. While I am gone, will you help Zevaron and make sure he has suitable travel gear for the north?”

She was offering Rhuzenjin the chance to show himself magnanimous, to act as a friend and kinsman. He shook his head, his lips white and tense.

“I will not aid you in this folly.”

He strode away, and Shannivar watched him go. She had not meant to injure him, and saw now that his hurt was deep. There seemed no remedy she could offer. To say she wished their friendship to continue would only make things worse. Time and the blessing of Tabilit must ease his pain.

Danar and Leanthos each thanked Shannivar for her efforts on their behalf. As a token of their friendship, and because she genuinely wished the young Gelon well, she presented him with the yellow silk scarf that had been the gift from the Denariyan trader. His eyes lit up when he saw it, for he clearly recognized what it was. He touched it to his lips and then hung it around his neck. Shannivar smothered a giggle, for it looked almost comical, so bright and cheerful against the drabness of his clothing. It was as good a farewell as any.

Then Danar and the Isarrans turned the noses of their mounts to the south. They left a pile of supplies, everything they could spare, for Zevaron.

Shannivar showed Zevaron how to sort and pack the goods they would take, blankets and jackets, wool hats, gear for hunting and then cooking what they had caught, a small axe, a jar of oil, skins of water and
k'th
, packets of herbs, dried meat and
bha
, and supplies for mending the harness. Zevaron also carried a small kit with soap, cloths, and a razor for shaving, which Shannivar thought a bizarre and unnecessary custom.

The night being warm, she curled up in her blanket under the sky, apart from the remaining attendees. Someone had left one of the reed screens up, but the wind had died down. A fragrance rose from the earth, the musty sweetness of late summer. Around her, she heard sounds of people settling down to sleep, soft talking, a woman's laughter. Already, she seemed to belong to them no longer.

She would have had to leave Golden Eagle clan in one way or another. All things changed in their season. Girls became women and then wives and then grandmothers, and in the end, they lived on only in the memories of those who came after them. She sang to herself of Saramark, who had lived so long ago, and wondered who would sing of her.

The familiar sounds of a camp readying for sleep, and the deeper silence of the earth, had no answer for her.

“Shannivar?” Zevaron pitched his voice low, to avoid disturbing the other sleepers. He made her name sound like something beautiful.

“I am still awake.” She sat up. The blanket fell from her shoulders. Although she still wore her shirt and trousers, as was the custom on the trail and in
khural
, she felt naked.

The darkness revealed more than it hid. On all their nights on the trail, they had never been this close. Zevaron moved like a liquid shadow to kneel before her. She had no fear of him, only a sense of anticipation.

“I thank you for all you have done, everything you—” His words caught in his throat. She felt his breath, quick and hot.

Before she could react, he took both her hands, turned them over, and kissed each palm.

Shannivar pulled away, startled. She had never felt anything so soft, so stirring, as the touch of his lips on her skin. Heat flooded her blood.

In the dark, she felt the shadow fall across his eyes once more. She thought she would drown in those secret depths, that her heart would break utterly open.

In an instant, he was gone. It was a long time before she could sleep.

* * *

Shannivar woke to a milky gray morning, well before the sun had cleared the horizon. Tatters of her dreams clung to her like wisps of fog. She took down the
jort
and finished packing away its contents. Rhuzenjin evidently had second thoughts and relented enough to help load the gear on the ponies. He said very little and would not look her in the face. She decided to treat his helpfulness as an apology.

She frowned as he added an additional pack to one of the beasts. “That is not ours,” she said, bracing herself to refuse his parting gift.

“It is mine,” came Bennorakh's voice, behind her. He held the reins of his own horse. His dream stick was tied to the saddle.

“I don't understand,” she said.

“Do you think you can go off on a spirit journey, tracking down something as dangerous as that stone-drake, by yourself? Not even you, Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, can face such a trial unprotected.”

A
S
Shannivar, Zevaron, and Bennorakh journeyed northeast with the Snow Bear men, the rising sun slanted across their eyes. Overhead arched the endless sky, clear as far as the eye could follow. Beyond the trampled earth of the gathering place, the late summer grasses rose lush and tall. Feathergrass, sage, and wild barley covered the gently rising hills. Here and there, strawflowers dusted the horizon with yellow or purple. A scent rose up from the earth, musty and sweet. The horses bent their heads to snatch stalks heavy with grain.

The days had already begun to grow shorter, for midsummer was past, but there was yet light enough to travel many hours each day. The nights were mild as the land slowly released its heat.

They traveled slowly, for the reindeer had not yet recovered from their arduous trek, and the Snow Bear men on their shaggy little tundra horses were in hardly better condition. Shannivar did not attempt to draw them into conversation beyond the ordinary exchanges of finding water, setting up camp, caring for the animals, and sharing their evening meal. They seemed weary in spirit, worn down by worry. Shannivar noted the glassy look in their eyes as they gazed north, and the slight hesitation of their hands on reins or harness.

Zevaron had made no attempt to repeat the kiss. The memory faded until she wondered if she had imagined the warmth of his lips on her palms. Perhaps she had taken his thanks and exaggerated it into something more.

She did not want Zevaron for a husband. She did not want any man to be the purpose of her life. Tabilit had opened her eyes to this warrior's quest, and it was to Tabilit alone that Shannivar owed her devotion. If it were the will of the goddess to weave Shannivar's life journey with Zevaron's for a time, she would comply with pleasure, but if their ways parted . . . She hoped for the singleness of spirit to hear only the commands of the Mother of Horses. And the strength to obey.

Let me go where you send me, with a warrior's honor,
she prayed.
Let me never look back.

The Snow Bear chieftain, Chinjizhin, and his men treated Zevaron with courtesy. In his faltering Azkhantian, Zevaron offered thanks for being allowed to travel with them. They glanced away, uncomprehending and a little embarrassed. Even Chinzhukog son of Chinjizhin, who was more open in his manner than the others, looked uncomfortable. Surely, Shannivar thought, Zevaron must realize that the Snow Bear chieftain acted not out of his own choice, but in the service of the Council, the
enarees
, and Tabilit herself. To thank him made as much sense as praising an arrow or a saddle. She let the matter rest; she was Zevaron's guide, not the guardian of his manners.

One afternoon, Zevaron reined his mare beside Chinzhukog's sturdy tundra horse and opened a conversation about the merits and ancestry of the breed. Shannivar, riding Radu a little distance behind, did not intend to overhear the exchange, although there was no presumption of privacy under the open sky. Radu's walking pace, although slower than her silken gait, outstripped the shorter strides of the tundra horses. Within a short time, Shannivar had drawn near to Zevaron and Chinzhukog, and they were no longer discussing horse breeding.

“. . . the stone-drake,” Zevaron's words came clearly to her. “Where exactly was it seen? How far from the village? You are certain it came from the mountains where the comet—the
white star
—fell?”

Shannivar could not make out Chinzhukog's answer, only the reluctance of his lowered eyes.

Zevaron did not seem to notice. “Did any person, a child perhaps, see it fall?” He pressed on, stumbling on unfamiliar Azkhantian words as he asked about the deformed babies and mutilated reindeer, and whether any in the village had strange dreams or visions.

Why could Zevaron not see the anguish his questions caused? Shannivar fumed inwardly. This was too much! Was it possible he did not know that a curse, spoken aloud, gained in potency? The stone-dwellers could not be so different in their nature as to be ignorant of all decency. The Snow Bear chieftain had already told their story for the entire gathering to hear. Why force his son to recite the agonizing details once more?

Despite her disapproval, Shannivar recognized the relentless hunger behind Zevaron's questions. She had seen his face in the tent on top of the
enarees'
promontory just before he slammed his hand down on the stone-drake. She had seen the shifting play of darkness and light behind his eyes. She had heard the determination in his voice, the unspoken vows he would keep at the cost of his own life. Something more than human ambition drove him.

It reminded her of the way Tabilit's will had taken hold in her own spirit. Understanding that, she could not condemn Zevaron for faithfulness to his own gods.

All the same, Shannivar took Zevaron aside when they had stopped for the night and the western sky glowed like embers. One of the Snow Bear men had found a fine campsite with a grove of willow surrounding a natural spring that kept the grasses lush. The horses and pack ponies had been watered and hobbled to graze. The reindeer lay close together, eyes half-closed, legs tucked under their bodies, as they chewed their cud. As Shannivar and Zevaron walked past, Eriu lifted his head, ears pricked, a stalk of feathergrass hanging from his jaws.

Shannivar laid her hand on Zevaron's arm. He turned toward her, and she felt his response as if through her own body. They were alone, with the horses between them and the rest of the camp. “Zevaron,” she said, speaking softly yet firmly, “you must not ask the Snow Bear men to speak of the stone-drake and other such things.”

“Why not? Everyone at the gathering knew about them. I am not asking anyone to reveal a secret.”

“You speak of secrets? You, who tell your own story only in mysterious hints?”

“My history is not the issue here. The situation in the north is another matter. Do you suggest I go blind into enemy territory? Or is it forbidden to ask questions?”

“It is
cruel
, surely you must see that!” she said hotly, then reined her temper under control, lest their voices be overheard. She did not want the discussion to turn into a public argument. “These men have suffered greatly and now you remind them of what they must return to. At least, let them have a little peace on this journey. It will end all too soon.”

Dusky red flushed Zevaron's face, expressing shame rather than anger. “You are right. I have thought only of my own need for information and not of the effect of my words. But—surely you must agree—it is better to learn as much as possible of what I may face.”He shook his head. “Preparation is half the battle, or is that not true on the steppe?”

“In a physical fight, certainly. But in the realm of magic, a man's own mind can be turned against him.”

“I am not unprotected.”

“So you think.”

“So I know.”

Shannivar stared at Zevaron. How could any man except an
enaree
safeguard himself from supernatural malevolence? Understanding seeped into her thoughts. Each people had its own defenses against evil. His must be powerful indeed. “If you would learn more,” she suggested, “you would do better to take your questions to Bennorakh.”

“Bennorakh? Why, what could he tell me?” Zevaron sounded snappish. “He has never been in the north.”

“You once spoke of ancient legends,” Shannivar pointed out, “of Fire and Ice, of the sorcery of Khored the King. Your Khored had just such protection as you speak of, did he not? Just as every land has its own gods and its own customs, so it has its own demons. If we go now to a land beset by that ancient evil, would it not be better to seek advice from one who is learned in such matters?”

For a long moment, Zevaron gazed at her. In his expression, she read astonishment, although quickly masked. “I thought,” he said slowly, “from the way you look at your shaman, that you did not like him.”

Shannivar wanted to laugh. One did not like or dislike an
enaree
. His kind were set apart from other people, neither men nor women, living half in the ordinary world and half in one she could only imagine. They were to be pitied as much as feared, but always respected. “Bennorakh has lived among the Golden Eagle people since I was a child. I do not always understand what the gods tell him, but he has always been their faithful messenger. He has come with us for their reasons and not his own.”

“And you?” He turned to her, and the air between them shimmered as if a wave of heat had suddenly arisen from the earth. “Do you come for the reasons of your gods, too?”

“I am called, even as you are.”

“No, not as I,” he answered in a tone that was terrible in its desolation. “By the Most Holy, I hope not as I.”

* * *

One day melted into another, and only the slow waning of the moon and the shortening of the days hinted of the season's passage. The party settled into a comfortable routine of travel and rest, of silence and song, the relentless rhythms of waking, tending to the animals, riding, hunting, and settling for the night in a place very much like the last. After his initial missteps, Zevaron made friends among the Snow Bear men, in particular Chinzhukog, the chieftain's son. The difficulties of language quickly gave way to Zevaron's willingness to learn and his good humor when he made mistakes. The Snow Bear men sat with him, chanting the legends and lineages of their tribe. In turn, they pressed Zevaron for knowledge of his own people and his travels. Like Shannivar, they were particularly fascinated by his tales of life at sea. None of them had seen any body of water larger than a lake, and the notion of endless gray-green waves struck them as exotic, yet almost laughable.

They passed through the territory of one clan and then another, sometimes stopping for a night of hospitality and the telling of tales. Those who had not attended the
khural
this year were eager for news. They peered at Zevaron with shy curiosity, and now and again a boy of two or three would dart out, touch Zevaron's hand, and race away, giggling. Zevaron, far from being affronted, would throw back his head and laugh. From his saddlebags, he would produce a packet of sticky Denariyan sweets, which he presented to the child's mother, to smiles all around.

At one such stop, the chieftain made such a serious effort to buy Eriu to improve his breeding stock that Shannivar urged a timely departure before the man decided to honor the old tradition of horse-stealing.

Riding side by side, Shannivar and Zevaron passed the time by telling one another stories, legends and holy tales, as well as incidents from their own lives. Shannivar sang the ballad of Aimellina daughter of Oomara, who died at the hands of the Gelonian invaders.

Zevaron related how he, a man of Meklavar, came to a friendship with a Gelonian noble. Briefly, as if he feared sounding boastful, he told of saving Danar from the Ar-King's assassins without any idea that Danar's royal father had been given custody of Tsorreh. “Danar and I—I guarded him, for her sake, because she had come to love him like a second son. She found goodness even in Gelon. I wish she had been right! The last time I saw her alive, she gave me—gave me—” He broke off suddenly. His voice trembled, not with emotion but with physical effort. His face flushed. Gasping, he forced out the words, “—gave me a treasure of our people.”

For a time, he said no more. His breathing softened, and his color returned to normal. Whatever his difficulty in speaking of this treasure, the parting gift of a mother he so clearly loved, Shannivar understood the sharpness of his grief. She did not press him further. From her own experience, she knew that the pain of loss would subside in time. She thought of his mother, dying in a hostile land so far from her people.

“She must have had a great heart.”

“She is here when I speak of her to you,” Zevaron said. “I have not been able to say her name aloud since—but you, you understand. Have you also lost family?”

Shannivar could not remember her own mother, who had died giving birth to her, and she had already passed her womanhood ritual when her father was killed in a Gelonian raid. Grandmother had been parent and matriarch to her, and now Shannivar would never see her again.
Nor Mirrimal . . .
Grief rose in Shannivar's breast, but whether her own grief or Zevaron's, she could not tell. He gazed at her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He must be thinking how easy it was to accuse him of keeping secrets while guarding her own.

“You are right,” she said. “We have both lost kin and heart-kin. And homes.”

“Will they not miss you?” Zevaron asked. “Your clan? Your family?”

“I would not have returned to the Golden Eagle anyway.”

“Why did you come with me? I cannot believe it was only out of duty. Is there something in the north that draws you, too? Something you have kept secret?”

Does he think the stone-drake spoke to me as well?

“When, as a child, I learned the ballads of Saramark, I prayed that I, too, might be chosen for such a destiny,” she said. “Tabilit has woven together the threads of our lives for a time. We are comrades on the road. I do not know what my part will be, or if we seek the same goal. I know only that something I have longed for all my life waits for me.”

After a long pause, Zevaron said, so quietly she could not be sure she heard rightly, “It is not good to be alone.”

* * *

As they traveled on, Shannivar finished the last of her stores of bittergrass and star-eye, herbs used by fighting women to prevent pregnancy. She gathered more, although the plants she found differed in subtle ways from the ones she knew. She continued to brew them out of long custom.

The Moon of Stallions passed, and the Moon of Fire Leaves as well. Soon a new crescent of light would herald the Moon of Frost and the turning of the season to winter. The land grew more rugged, with broken hills and steep-walled canyons formed by swift-flowing streams. The bones of the hills jutted out from the thinning grasses. Antelope were fewer, but there were plenty of rabbits and marmots to hunt.