“I believe,” Alsanobal said dryly, “that my escort has been chosen for me.”
Shannivar opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Jingutzhen was by far their strongest archer, and the range of his arrows would be the best defense for a slow-moving cart. Alsanobal could, if braced properly, manage the onagers during a fight. If only all her problems could be so easily resolved.
* * *
After the cart trundled away in the direction of the dharlak with Jingutzhen leading the way, Shannivar took charge of the remaining riders. This time, no one questioned her right to lead.
Compliant but sullen, Dharvarath attempted to load the camel. Perhaps sensing his mood, the animal would not kneel to be loaded. It whipped its head around and sank its teeth into his shoulder. He gave a strangled yelp, for the long jaws exerted tremendous leverage. His legs gave way, and only the camel’s grip kept him from crumpling to the ground.
Shannivar started toward them, although she could not reach him in time. One shake of the camel’s head, and Dharvarath’s shoulder would be mangled, the muscles wrenched and torn, leaving him crippled. Ythrae, who had been standing nearby, tightening a harness strap on one of the pack ponies, dashed to the camel’s head.
“Spawn of Shadows! Let him go!” Ythrae struck the beast across the nose with her short whip. “Hideous beast!” She lashed out again. “Behave yourself!”
Tabilit save us, now she’s gotten the camel angry!
The camel, however, merely released its grip on Dharvarath. It turned its large, long-lashed eyes toward the furious girl but made no attempt to attack her. Clutching his bleeding shoulder, Dharvarath scrambled out of the camel’s reach.
Ythrae, chest heaving, raised the whip again. With a sigh of resignation, the camel folded its knees and lowered itself to the ground. Belching, it flicked its tail, as if nothing untoward had happened.
For a moment, no one moved. Then Ythrae flashed Shannivar a grin. Taking hold of the camel’s halter, Ythrae gestured for Senuthenkh to bring up the baggage. After that, there was no question of her stewardship of the camel or of the camel’s meek obedience and devotion to her.
Once the party was assembled, Shannivar took the lead. A residue of her strange mood prompted her to ride Eriu again, instead of steady, soft-gaited Radu.
She was not afraid of battle. She accepted the perils of a warrior as natural and necessary. Yet the world had changed and grown dangerous in a way she did not understand. Mirrimal had said she was not afraid of death. At the time, Shannivar had thought of a life as wife and mother as confinement; the crushing sameness of days, the narrow world of jort and cookpot, were the things she had feared most. Now she was not sure.
And so, she rode Eriu. Eriu had no doubts, no hesitation, no moments of startling awake, heart yammering, in the darkest hours of the night. He moved forward willingly, as if he had not been ridden in a battle the day before.
As they went along, the others talked about how they would tell the story of the fight at the gathering, the partners they would win with tales of their exploits, the k’th they would drink.
Rhuzenjin composed a song-poem about how Shannivar had won the battle and saved them all. She did not want such adulation, but to refuse the honor would shame him, so she made no protest. Ythrae was delighted with the song, clapping her hands as Rhuzenjin chanted the verses and glowing when he added a reference to the camel. Shannivar’s cheeks burned and she turned away, uncomfortably aware of his gaze on her.
* * *
Several days later, they swung out on one of the few roads through the steppe. In places, the way was broad and smooth, hard-packed soil where little grass grew, and edged with tumbled lines of stones. How old these paths were or who had made them, no one knew. In places, they disappeared, eroded by the endless wind and the cycles of heat and frost.
Traders often used these roads. They came to buy camel-hair cloth and the intricately worked gold ornaments produced by Azkhantian smiths. In exchange, they offered sandalwood and frankincense, rough gemstones and knives of tempered steel. Before long, Shannivar and her party encountered one such caravan, a line of laden donkeys trudging behind a ponderous wooden-wheeled cart. The oxen drawing the cart were black and rough-coated. Bells clanged softly as they swung their heads from side to side.
Shannivar guessed the traders were Denariyan based on their burnt-copper skins and their clothing of brightly-colored silks instead of wool or camel-hair. She nudged Eriu forward. He arched his neck and lifted his feet high, as if challenging the oxen.
“I am Shannivar daughter of Ardellis of the Golden Eagle clan,” she cried out in trade-dialect. “By whose leave do you travel the steppe?”
“Traders we, out of Denariya, with permission of the Reindeer Clan,” the trader called back in the same language. Despite his heavy accent, he spoke with the ease of long usage.
Shannivar gestured for him to approach. He walked slowly toward her, holding his hands well away from his body. His only visible weapon was a long curved knife in an ornamented leather sheath, tucked under his sash. Shannivar had no doubt that he carried more.
“May your journey be profitable and your enemies foolish.” Greeting her, the trader halted a respectful distance away. Solemnly he tapped one fist over his heart. Clearly, he had learned the value of good manners.
At Shannivar’s invitation, the Denariyan trader came closer. From the folds of his sash he removed a small leather purse. He drew out an Azkhantian token of gold, fashioned in the shape of a reindeer, a safe-passage from the clan of that name. Shannivar nodded in approval.
With formal courtesy he then offered her tea, the universal ritual of friendship. She accepted, gesturing for her party, especially the Isarrans, to remain at a distance. Undoubtedly the traders were already aware of that a pair of outlanders traveled with her and news would spread across the steppe at the speed of ox-cart, but it was best to avoid direct contact. At least, until the council of elders and chieftains had examined the Isarrans and made their judgment. For this encounter, she and Rhuzenjin were sufficient to meet with the Denariyans.
While one of the traders prepared the tea over a small copper oil-lamp, another unrolled a carpet beside the road. They took their places on it, sitting cross-legged. Shannivar admired the intricate designs of indigo and madder red.
The water came to a boil, and the trader added wedges of dried pressed tea and spices. When the tea was ready, he poured it out with solemn ceremony. Shannivar cradled the finely glazed cup in her hands and wondered who had made it, how far it had traveled, and what strange lands it had passed through. The tea was strong and sweet, fragrant with dried orange peel. Shannivar praised the tea and the fine carpet, and accepted compliments on her horse, the weather, and the valor of her people.
When the tea had been drunk and the amenities completed, the trader politely inquired of news of the road. He had given no sign of curiosity about the Isarrans, not even a surreptitious glance at where they waited with the pack animals.
“Two days ago, we burned a Gelonian outpost,” she told him. Let the trader carry word of their defeat.
“None but madmen or Gelon enter these lands without permission.” The trader made a warding sign against ill fortune. “Very bad for trade.”
Before parting, the trader presented Shannivar and Rhuzenjin with silk scarves. Hers was dyed bright yellow and embroidered along the edges with tiny butterflies and bits of mica. Such finery would look well at a festive dance at the gathering. She tucked it inside her vest, and they bowed to one another and then continued on their separate ways.
* * *
The meeting with the Denariyan trader had eaten up the better part of the morning, but Shannivar and her party pressed on. Toward the end of the afternoon, she decided they had gone far enough. The Isarran horses were flagging, and Leanthos swayed in the saddle. The camel’s temper had worsened with ever
y passing mile, despite Ythrae’s attempts to placate it. The Isarran animals needed water, even if the hardy Azkhantian horses did not. Ahead, a line of trees with lush foliage suggested a spring or at the least, grazing. Bidding Rhuzenjin remain with the outlanders, she rode ahead to make sure the place was safe.
The trees were tall and slender, like maiden dancers in a row. A breeze played through the branches. The air carried the smell of moist growing things, grass and pungent herbs. Although Shannivar saw no cause for alarm, Eriu nickered as in greeting another horse. She came alert, trusting his sharper senses. At her touch on his neck, he quieted.
With battle still fresh in her memory, Shannivar set an arrow to her bow. Eriu moved closer, silent now. In the underbrush, she made out the shapes of two horses. Camouflaged by the dappled sun, two men sat over the remains of a meal. What she could see of their clothing was sensible enough, muted, trail-worn garments in shades of brown, neither ragged nor gaudy nor impractical like the short tunics of the Isarrans.
One of the men started to draw a sword, but the other put out a hand in caution, pulling him back with a gesture and a few phrases in Gelone. Shannivar recognized the word, Azkhantian.
Shannivar nudged Eriu from the underbrush and, keeping her bow at the ready, addressed the two strangers with the usual challenge, “By whose leave do you travel the steppe?” The man who had restrained his comrade rose fluidly to his feet and stepped forward. As he moved toward her, the slanting afternoon sun illuminated his features. At first glance, Shannivar thought him Denariyan, but his skin was closer to the honey color of her own people. His shoulder-length hair, as dark as her own, was tied back with a strip of leather. He was young, no more than a few years from her own age. He held his hands open and away from his body, but she did not think he was by any means helpless. Something in the way he moved gave off the perfume of danger.
“We in peace, no harm to man or beast,” he spoke trade-dialect with a peculiar lilting accent that was not at all unpleasant, “ask to pass these lands.”
“That will be decided once you speak your names and purposes.”
The man hesitated, his reaction quickly masked. In the brief pause, no more than two beats of the heart, his companion got to his feet.
Shannivar inhaled sharply. No one could mistake the race of this second man, that milk-fair skin, the red-gold hair, the strong lines of nose and chin.
Once Shannivar would have been astonished to find a lone Gelon so deep in Azkhantian territory. After the battle of the fort, however, there could be only one explanation. She took aim.
The second man blanched but held his ground. He said in halting trade-dialect, “You ask for names? I answer truly. I Danar son of Jaxar, a nobleman of Aidon.”
“What purpose has a Gelon here?” Shannivar said. “If you are not a spy, then you must be a soldier, strayed from your company or run away. We want none of your kind here!”
“I swear by what god you choose, I mean your people no harm. We never intend come this way. Bad luck we set foot on your lands.”
Eriu shifted uneasily, responding to Shannivar’s tension. At this distance, she could kill both of them before they reached her. “Where bound, then? Why?”
The two men carefully avoided glancing at one another, then the Gelon lifted his chin, resolute, and answered, “Isarre.”
Shannivar shook her head in disbelief. Was Onjhol’s trickster younger brother toying with her, testing her? The coincidence was unbelievable. The outlanders must be mad, or they thought her an ignorant simpleton, to believe such a thing. Isarre was Gelon’s sworn enemy, for all that their people looked alike and dwelt alike in their tombs of stone. She might not be able to tell one from the other, although she was certain that they themselves could.
Another thought occurred to her. A Gelonian deserter might seek refuge in Isarre, beyond the Ar-King’s reach, but so might a criminal. The Gelon, she had been told, were capable of unspeakable acts, the slaying of kinfolk, building stone walls across rivers, or the laying of salt upon an enemy’s fields so that no grass would grow, as they were said to have done in Isarre.
“And your companion?” she snarled, to cover her indecision. “Cannot speak his own name?”
“Called Zev,” said the black-haired man.
Called, he’d said, not named. A crafty one, that, who would not betray his name. Did he fear that to do so would grant the listener power over his spirit?
“You are no Gelon,” she pointed out, stating the obvious.
Again came the slightest pause, the flicker of dark-lashed eyes away from hers and then back again. “No,” he said quietly. “Born in Meklavar, mountains far south. True name Zevaron. I only living son of Maharrad, last te-ravot—last king—of city.”
Comprehension swept through Shannivar. Eriu, sensitive as always to her shifts in mood, danced sideways. Most of the time, Azkhantians cared little for the affairs of lesser nations, their wars and follies. At the khural four years ago, however, she’d heard rumors of how the Ar-King had conquered yet another smaller land. Meklavar, yes, that was it.
The fate of one city mattered little to her. Let the dwellers-in-stone slaughter one another to the last child, and let the grass grow free when their walls had crumbled into dust.
This man standing before her, this exiled prince, had reason to hate the Gelon. Why would he make common purpose with his enemy?
“You also for Isarre?” she asked Zevaron, easing the tension on her bow and lowering it, but only slightly.
“Friend seeks asylum there. Ar-King threaten his life. I swear protect him and see him to sanctuary. I say to you because you are no friend to Cinath. Cinath send soldiers, take your country for his own. You people fight. You people still free. Me, someday I free my city. I make—what is word?—pact? with anyone to help my people.”
Shannivar thought of the two Isarran emissaries, who also sought an alliance with Azkhantia. It seemed the entire world wanted her people’s help. If so, it was better that the clans continue as they were, relying upon none but themselves, defending their own borders, rather than getting drawn into one foreign war after another.
Isarre, the outlanders had said. The easiest route to that land from Gelon lay across the great sea, and the fact they had not taken it confirmed that they traveled in secret. They might be outlaws or spies, or madmen. Who could tell?
Shannivar made her decision. She had no stomach for killing these men as they stood, not before the gathered chieftains had a chance to evaluate their stories. Instead, she would observe the two parties when they met. Their behavior might well reveal the truth of their respective stories.
“I cannot grant you leave to travel free in our lands,” she said. “Might involve Azkhantia in Isarran war with Gelon. I do not have authority, nor is it simple decision. Some say we have enough troubles with Gelon and that such a move would be foolhardy.”
“What do you think?” Zevaron asked. The coiled tension in his body had eased. He was still wary, but curious.
She shied away from his question. She had already stated that she lacked the power to make this decision, but perhaps the outlander knew nothing of the ways of the steppe. “The matter must be laid before the clan chieftains,” she explained. “We are on our way now to the yearly gathering. If you surrender to me and swear no harm to man or beast in these lands, then I will take you under my protection for the journey.”
Shannivar lifted her bow again. The muscles of her arm and back flexed, readying. If they refused, then she would have to kill them. She dared not allow two uncooperative strangers, whether enemies or spies or hapless exiles, to venture any deeper into Azkhantian territory.
A glance passed between the two men. Danar, the Gelon, said something in his own language. Shannivar knew only a few words of Gelone, enough to gather that he was saying they had no choice.
Moving slowly and carefully, the two men
laid their weapons on the ground and backed away. Shannivar dismounted and gathered them up. The Gelon’s sword was serviceable and reasonably sharp, although the steel was not as fine as Denariyan fashioning. Its balance was rough, and it had clearly seen rough usage. She suspected that the Gelon had come by it lately, for if it had been forged for him, the smith was utterly incompetent.
The knives the Meklavaran drew from boot, sash, and an inner pocket of his vest were clean-lined, their steel bright. They were of Denariyan make, she would swear, but their beauty lay not in ornamentation but in the perfection of balance and edge.
Shannivar studied the man who carried such blades. His face gave away nothing as he watched a savage—ah, yes, he would think of her as a savage—handling his weapons. She doubted he’d surrendered all of them, but from the way he carried himself, he did not need steel to fight effectively. Behind those shadowed eyes lay a keen intelligence, a restless spirit. He might be a foe temporarily disarmed or a powerful ally.
“We will camp here,” she told them. The clearing, with its shade and water source, was as good a place as they would find to spend the night. “Do you know the law of hospitality?”
Danar looked puzzled, but Zevaron nodded. “No guest may provoke or take advantage of another.”
“Or answer a challenge, no matter how valid,” she pressed. “Give your word that you will keep this truce.”
They considered for an instant. Danar said, “Does this mean you—your party includes someone who might be our enemy?”
“This means there are no enemies in my camp. No blood shed on the trail or at the khural. Any guest who tries will find the hand of every rider against him.”
“She means it,” Zevaron said to his friend. “Cinath himself could ride among us, unmolested, under such a truce.”
Shannivar Page 11
