Shannivar (28 page)

She had slipped her top arm around Zevaron's waist as she pulled herself to him. Now she felt his hand tighten around her arm. Against her belly, the hardness of his spine and muscle softened. They moved as one with his breathing.

Gradually the movement faded, until he lay almost inhumanly still. As still as a stalking predator, as still as its prey. He gripped her hand, her arm folded under his. They lay in this position for what seemed like half the night, with only the pressure of his fingers betraying that he did not sleep.

The stillness broke when he took a shuddering breath. “That . . .” he began, “that was not the worst of it.” He paused, his back still curved into a protective shell.

He could not bear to say what came next, not face to face, Shannivar thought. Only in the dark, only when turned away from her.

“The whip was nothing. Skin and muscles heal. But the Gelonian demon who did it, he flaunted the token my mother wore braided into her hair. He told me he took it from her dead body.”

Pause.

“He laughed when he said it.”

Another pause.

“Chalil—the Denariyan captain who rescued me—he said it was the nature of such a man to be cruel, even when there was no profit in it for him. The Gelon, seeing that I recognized the token, had aimed his words like a spear at my spirit. To torment me in any way he could. Or so Chalil said.”

Shannivar could not tell if the shuddering ran only through his body or through them both. “But she wasn't dead, was she? She was alive. You found her in Danar's stone-dwelling.”

Zevaron bent his head, but Shannivar could not tell if the gesture meant agreement or simple endurance. “Losing her the second time . . . I saw her body with my own eyes.”

Each phrase, half-whisper, resonated like a bone-deep drum. Slow, irrevocable. Inevitable. “And there was nothing left for me except . . .”

Except to bring down those who took her from you, not once but twice,
Shannivar thought. Tsorreh's had not been a natural death either time; not the end of a life lived well and long, not the sweet-sad farewell, the sure belief that the loved one was now gathered into Tabilit's embrace. Not the mist-white image of Grandmother and Mirrimal, riding their fine horses to the Pastures of the Sky. Mirrimal had died in battle, of her own choice, and no one had used her death to inflict pain on another. Shannivar did not know what to say, how to breathe.

Finally he said, “I've never told anyone. Not the whole story. Not until now. Danar knows a part of it, as did Chalil. You . . .”

Gently, he rolled over, carrying her with him. He kissed her brow, her lips, her breasts, her belly. Although his lips were as soft and mobile as before, there was nothing sexual about the contact. Instead, she felt each kiss as an offering of his deepest self.

“You,” he murmured as he rested his cheek against her breast, “now you have all of it. All of me. As much as I can tell. As much as I can give.”

It was not me
, she started to say,
it was Tabilit's grace upon us both.
But she had not the energy to form the words. The goddess, she felt sure, would understand.

T
HE
next day dawned clear and mild. The Snow Bear men were cheered, having interpreted the Light of the North as a favorable omen. Even Bennorakh seemed encouraged. Shannivar, riding at Zevaron's side, could imagine no greater joy.

Every night brought a new display of lights, each more glorious than the one before, or perhaps that was because Shannivar saw them through new eyes. Soon they would reach the
dharlak
, the northerly summering-place, of the Snow Bear people, where they would find the rest of the clan. Zevaron would continue his search for the stone-drake. She would go with him.

During that night's routine camp chores, when the glowing colors rippled across the sky, Shannivar emerged from her
jort
to sit and watch the display. She wondered if she would ever tire of the sight. As before, the curtain grew brighter and folded back upon itself. Motes of brightness dotted the fabric of light.

Where the spots of light clustered the thickest, a blemish appeared. At first, Shannivar could not be sure she saw anything amiss. As she watched, however, the shadow deepened. Soon it resembled a jagged tear, as if a knife had slashed through Tabilit's Veil.

Shannivar scrambled to her feet. She could not take her eyes from the widening darkness.

Zevaron rushed to her side. “What is it?”

By this time, the Snow Bear men had noticed. They cried out and pointed aloft. Clearly, they had never seen anything like this before. One of them fell to the ground, cowering, barely able to contain his moans of terror.

“Bennorakh!” Shannivar shook herself free from her own trance. “He will know what to do!”

The
enaree
had anticipated her. He strode to the center of the camp, carrying his dream stick and a handful of something she could not make out. He threw it into the fire, which burst into blue-green flames and gave off clouds of eye-searing smoke.

“Stand back!” he cried, but Shannivar had already inhaled a lungful of the stinging fumes. She broke into a fit of coughing.

Zevaron put his arm around her. “Look!”

She lifted her head. Tears blurred her vision, but she made out a tower of smoke shooting upward from the fire and then spreading. Bennorakh chanted under his breath, his words too hushed for her to make out.

Leaning on Zevaron, she straightened up and rubbed her eyes. Seen through the smoke, the rent in the sky shifted its appearance. A shadow blotted out the stars, a vast, dense coldness. Something moved within that utter absence of light. She could not have told how she knew, only that she felt it the same way she felt its chill.

“Olash-giyn-Olash,” she whispered.
The Shadow of Shadows.

Zevaron stepped away from her, peering through the haze of the smoke. Lifting one hand to his chest, he moved toward the smoke. Just as he reached it, Shannivar shouted in warning. The next instant, the smoke fell away like dust, leaving only a heap of embers. One of the Snow Bear men rushed to build the fire up again.

In the sky, the shadow had grown until it now eclipsed the glowing curtain. No stars shone in its depths. As Shannivar watched, the last remaining sliver of brightness flared and went out. For an instant, the entire northern sky turned dark. A Snow Bear man prayed loudly for Tabilit's protection, and another made a sign to ward off evil.

Shannivar searched the sky for any hint of light. What madness had caused Zevaron to disrupt the magical smoke? And what now might be the consequences of that rash act?

Then, slowly, the stars began to come out. The Snow Bear men greeted with sight with expressions of relief, but it seemed to Shannivar that the heavens' brightness was diminished, as if they had been wounded.

“Outlander! Infidel! Heretic! Fool!” Bennorakh seized Zevaron by the shoulders. Shannivar had never seen him or any other
enaree
threaten physical violence to man or beast. Rarely did they touch another person. Bennorakh's features twisted as he peered into Zevaron's face.

Zevaron did not resist. He seemed bewildered. Something had happened to him in those few brief moments. “What—?” he stammered. “What was that thing?”

“Do you not know?” There was no hostility now in the
enaree's
voice. He released Zevaron. “Do you truly not know? Then may Tabilit and Onjhol and all the gods of your own country spread their mercy upon you.” With these words, Bennorakh disappeared into his
jort
.

Shannivar rounded on Zevaron. “What did you think you were doing, interfering with Bennorakh's spell? Are you mad or has the stone-drake's curse stolen your wits?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean—

“You could have gotten us all killed! Or opened the way for the Shadow to cast itself over all the sky and land!” When she saw Zevaron's expression, still dazed, and the way he recoiled from her words, Shannivar's anger softened. He was an outlander, after all, not born to the ways of the steppe. Then she remembered the relentless way he had been drawn to the stone-drake, in defiance of the taboo. Then, as now, he acted from ignorance, not malice. If he were to succeed in his own quest, he must be brought to understand the dangers. Darkness was not a good time to discuss such matters.

When Zevaron started to speak again, she laid her hand upon his arm. “It is late and the night will be cold. Come to bed, beloved. We will speak further about these matters in the daylight.”

* * *

Shannivar woke suddenly, in darkness. She shivered as she sat bolt upright, her blankets in disarray around her. She had no idea how long she had slept, and was not sure if she was truly conscious or dreaming. At her side, Zevaron murmured in his sleep, broken phrases in Meklavaran.

Moving with a warrior's silent caution, she reached for the case with her bow and arrows, and found it, as always, beside her. Noiselessly, she slipped on her trousers and jacket, shoved her bare feet into her boots, and strung her bow. A quick jerk on the cord loosened the door flap.

The wind had died down, and the stars cast a weak light across the camp. Everything looked as it should: Bennorakh's
jort
standing like a solitary sentinel among the tents of Snow Bear men, the dimly glowing embers of the cookfire, and beyond it, the forms of the horses and reindeer. The Snow Bear man on watch nodded to her and went back to surveying the camp from one side to the other, his posture one of heightened vigilance

Although she could not see the horses clearly, Shannivar sensed them moving about. Her ears caught their breathing, faster and deeper than normal. A hoof stamped, muffled. In her mind, she saw Eriu's head come up, ears forward, the flare of his nostrils, tasting the air.

By day, you are my wings,

By night, you never fail me.

Skirting the fire, Shannivar made her way toward the horses. Something moved at the corner of her vision, black against black. She whirled, arrow nocked, but saw nothing. Her heart pounded. Her nerves sharpened, as if on the brink of a battle. The man on watch came to his feet, his own bow ready. For a long moment, nothing more happened, beyond the restless movement of the animals.

Eriu nickered, low and throaty, at Shannivar's approach. He danced a step sideways, as far as the hobbles would allow. Radu, always the quieter of the two, crowded up against Shannivar. The mare was sweating, trembling. The other animals were jittery, too, even the normally placid reindeer. She remembered how the reindeer had reacted to the stone-drake, the wildness in their eyes.

Moments passed without any sign of present threat. Yet something had made the horses nervous, perhaps some taint of the Shadow. The danger was close, but not immediate. The horses could see and hear and smell danger long before she could. She trusted their senses even more than her own.

One by one, she unhobbled the horses and led them into the center of the camp. After a brief discussion, the Snow Bear guard agreed with the prudence of safeguarding their animals and took charge of the tundra horses.

Zevaron's brown mare dipped her head to lip some bits of dry grass, trampled during the set-up of the camp. Eriu relaxed a little, although his head stayed up, ears and eyes alert. Shannivar put the hobbles back on Zevaron's and Bennorakh's horses, but not her own two, and went back for the reindeer and ponies.

Two of the ponies were missing.

This puzzled her, for usually the equines stayed close together, preferring the company of their own kind. Ponies were usually imperturbable, more so than horses. Perhaps something had startled them. Why would only two of the ponies have wandered off? They could not have gone far, hobbled. Shannivar cursed softly as she peered into the dark expanse. The wind tore at the flickering torch.

She returned to camp with the remaining pones, to find that the other animals had quieted. Whatever had disturbed them was gone now. She could tell that much from Eriu's posture.

She told the Snow Bear man about the missing ponies, and they discussed what to do. No natural predator could have spirited them away, the Snow Bear man said. He was frightened; she heard it in the careful way he avoided any mention of Olash-giyn-Olash, and the way he said it would be foolhardy to pursue the ponies before daybreak. In this, she did not argue with him. Even with a torch, it would be impossible to track the ponies, and a few hours would in all likelihood make no difference. Either they had broken their hobbles and bolted, or they were already dead. She returned to her
jort
for whatever sleep was left to her.

As usual, and even with the disturbed night, she was the first to rise. The sky was a sullen, slate gray, as if the sun had lost its potency. She built up the fire for a morning meal and heated water for tea.

In the strengthening light, Shannivar went alone to search for the missing ponies. She bridled Radu, pulled herself on the mare's bare back without taking the time to saddle her, and continued her search.

Of one pony, she found no sign, not even broken hobbles. She spotted the other some distance to the north of the camp. Its body lay in a tangled heap, so that she did not recognize it until she was almost upon it. Radu, normally easy-tempered, snorted and arched her back, clearly unhappy about approaching the distorted carcass.

Shannivar slid to the ground and went up to the body. The pony lay with its stiffened forelegs extended in one direction and hind legs in another, as if its spine had been completely dislocated. Its hide was mottled with irregular black patches that appeared to be charred, yet rimed with frost. It smelled of burned hair and more, something dank and sodden.

She did not want to touch it or force Radu to drag it back to camp, for fear of exposing the mare to whatever had killed the pony—some evil spell or disease. It looked as if a terrible convulsion had broken the pony's back. And those strange sores . . . She had handled livestock all her life and had never seen their like. What could have caused the pony's skin to be both burned and frozen?

The answer whispered through Shannivar's mind:
A stone-drake, a creature of Fire and Ice?

* * *

Shannivar watched Zevaron's face as he bent over the dead pony, and she knew he thought the same thing. He rubbed his chest in that gesture she was coming to recognize. It had something to do with his awareness of uncanny, magical things.

The rest of the Snow Bear men mumbled among themselves, shaking their heads. To them, this was only one more unnatural occurrence. If what Chinjizhin said was true, they had seen far worse in the bodies of their own dead children.

Bennorakh spent a long time crouched beside the carcass. On his orders, the others cleared the ground of grass for many paces around and kept their distance. Chanting, he covered the body with chips of resin and colored powders. Chinjizhin handed the
enaree
a stick lit from the morning fire. Bennorakh touched it to the twisted spine. For a moment, Shannivar thought the carcass would not burn. The flame at the tip of the stick fluttered, shifting from yellow to the dull red of an ember. The next moment, the carcass ignited. Perhaps the incantations fueled the resin chips.

Flames, white and blue, shot skyward. Billows of steam, glowing like clouds before a summer sun, filled the air. Shannivar recoiled as the sudden blast of heat stung her face. The Snow Bear men retreated to a safe distance. Only Zevaron lingered, his eyes gleaming in the brightness. Bennorakh raised his arms and shouted. Shannivar did not recognize the words, only the gesture, half summoning, half supplication.

The carcass was quickly reduced to bits of bone and ash, and the tang of the resin lingered in the air to counteract any residual evil. Although she was not cold, Shannivar shivered, remembering how close she had came to the mutilated body.

They broke camp after redistributing the disassembled
jorts
between their remaining pack animals. The reindeer were much more even tempered than a camel. The ample forage and easy pace of the journey thus far had done much to restore their strength.

Shannivar kept waiting for the sky to lighten, but it never did. Through the morning and well into mid-day, it seemed no brighter than in the hours before dawn. The watery light cast blurred shadows. Only the passing of the terrain and her growing hunger marked the shift to afternoon.

* * *

Dusk came swiftly, as if on the wings of an enormous vulture. They had barely enough time to choose a site and put up their shelters before darkness swallowed them up. The western horizon flashed red, and Shannivar's spirits lightened in anticipation. If the luminous curtains returned, Bennorakh's magic had prevailed. But the colors died away, stillborn. There were no more patterns of light across the night sky, no trace of Tabilit's Veil. The shadow had eaten them up, leaving the sky as dark as if they had never existed.

A wind quickened as the temperature fell. The cookfire sputtered out as snow drifted down. Huge wet flakes swirled more thickly with each passing moment. Everyone scrambled to make the camp secure. In the center of the camp, the animals huddled together, horses and ponies and reindeer, their tails turned against the burgeoning storm.