Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  Other septs of the Golden Eagle had already established their camps in the area traditionally reserved for their extended clan. Shannivar and her party set about doing the same, according to the routine they had used on the trail: the enaree in his own jort, Ythrae in Shannivar’s, and separate trail tents for the men. As before, the two Isarrans kept to themselves, as did Danar and Zevaron.

  One of the young men from a neighboring site strode into their camp just after the jorts were assembled. He was young and handsome, his hair oiled and tied back with thongs wrapped in colored wool, his boots and belt clearly new and of the finest leather. Shannivar did not know him, but she recognized the stylized ptarmigan on his jacket.

  Shannivar set down the armload of blankets she had just unloaded from the camel and went to greet him, although it was rude for him to present himself before the new arrivals had sufficient time to settle in. Shannivar hoped he did not expect the customary hospitality, since the means of preparing tea had not been made ready. Senuthenkh, who had taken this responsibility for their party, was still unloading and sorting the chests containing the necessary supplies.

  “May your day be lucky.” The visitor greeted Shannivar politely, tapping one fist over his heart, yet without staring directly at her. “I am Kharemikhar son of Pazarekh of the Ptarmigan Clan. Where is Alsanobal son of Esdarash? I desire to speak with him.”

  “May your arrows fly true, Kharemikhar son of Pazarekh. Bitterness sits upon my tongue,” Shannivar replied formally, “for my cousin Alsanobal was wounded in battle with the Gelon as we traveled here. I am Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, leader-by-acclaim of this party.”

  Kharemikhar blinked, quickly masking his surprise, though whether at news of the battle or at her leadership, she could not tell.

  “Sorrow enters my ears to hear of it. Yet this is lessened by the greater sorrow of the women of Gelon, whose husbands will never return to them.” He glanced at the horse lines Rhuzenjin had set up.

  “If you are looking for that crazy red horse of his,” Shannivar continued, dropping the ritual phrases for everyday speech, “save your sight for better things. He grazes now in the Pastures of the Sky, and there may he serve his master better than he did my cousin.”

  Seeing Kharemikhar’s reaction, she smiled, although it was not respectful. “I hope he had not challenged you to a horse race?”

  The Ptarmigan youth nodded. “I was looking forward to besting him in the Long Ride this year.” He preened a little. “Now there is no one left to match me.”

  “No one? Surely you and my cousin were not the only contestants?”

  “Alsanobal was my only serious rival. I shall win without him, but the victory will not be as sweet.”

  “If you hope to win the Long Ride, you must first beat me,” she answered with a touch of heat.

  A flicker of disdain crossed Kharemikhar’s handsome features. Shannivar thought that it would make her own victory all the more glorious to see his face when she took the prize. At that moment, however, Danar and Zevaron came into view, their arms laden with rolled carpets for Bennorakh’s jort. As they had on the trail, they worked together, doing their share. They had earned a measure of respect for their willingness to do even the most arduous and menial tasks without complaint.

  Kharemikhar had been about to reply to Shannivar when he saw the two outlanders. “Who is that? A Gelon?” He glared at Shannivar. “What is he doing here? We do not take prisoners, as even the smallest child among us knows.”

  “He is not a prisoner.”

  Kharemikhar grasped the hilt of the short, curved sword at his belt. “No enemy may set foot in the khural-lak! It is the law. If that man is a Gelon, then his life is forfeit.”

  “And what of the law of hospitality? Would you shed the blood of a guest?” Shannivar moved quickly to block his path. “The Gelon and his comrade are under my protection.”

  “Your—?” By his expression, Kharemikhar clearly thought she had gone mad. “For what purpose would you bring such men among us?”

  Trying to sound reasonable, Shannivar replied, “They have business before the chiefs.”

  “What business?”

  Now it was Shannivar’s turn to get angry. “It is no concern of yours. I have judged it important enough to bring them here, and that should be enough. If I am in error, the Council will tell me so. Either way, you have no cause to concern yourself.”

  With a dip of his head, Kharemikhar refrained from challenging her outright, but his gaze flickered again to the two strangers. “I leave them to the wisdom of the chieftains, then. For the time being. But if these outlanders should break even the smallest custom of the gathering, that mistake will be their last.”

  Shannivar watched him stride away. This, at least, was one husband she would not be seeking.

  Having deposited his burden beside the threshold of the enaree’s jort, Zevaron came to stand beside her. His expression was intent and vigilant, his eyes steady on Kharemikhar’s retreating back. “That man searches for trouble.”

  “What has he to do with you, or you with him?” Shannivar replied, still angry. “Your business is with the Council.”

  “I’ve seen his like before,” Zevaron said evenly. “He’s out for blood. Neutrality is all very well, but some matters must be settled before half the young hotheads in the camp join in.”

  Danar, who had followed a pace behind, said, “Zev, don’t do anything stupid. Promise me.”

  “I gave your father my word I would protect you.” Heat edged Zevaron’s words. “That doesn’t include taking your orders against my better judgment.”

  “But it includes taking mine,” Shannivar interrupted. “If either of you draws blade or bow against any man or woman here—including that ptarmigan-brained hothead—I will withdraw my protection and have you thrown out of the khural.”

  Zevaron struggled visibly to refrain from answering her. Danar, his expression earnest, stepped between the two.

  “I know our position here is difficult,” Danar said to her, “and I am grateful for all you have done on our behalf.”

  Zevaron was right, however. The khural encampment was full of young warriors who would like nothing better than to kill another Gelon, and in a manner devised to attract the greatest public attention. Zevaron, as Danar’s protector, would suffice in his stead, for one stone-dweller was very much like another. Kharemikhar would carry word to his friends, and together they would find some excuse to instigate a fight.

  Shannivar could see only one way to resolve the problem, and that was to get the business of the Isarrans and of Zevaron and Danar finished as soon as possible. According to gathering custom, the chieftains heard cases from dawn until dusk. There was still time to get the business settled on this very day.

  “I will go now to the Council,” Shannivar said to Danar and Zevaron, “and ask them to hear your case without delay. Until I return, you must remain here. Even better, keep within your own tent.”

  “Out of sight and out of trouble?” Zevaron shook his head, clearly skeptical that would stop someone like Kharemikhar.

  “The Isarran mission, at least, could be settled,” Danar said thoughtfully. “They would soon be on their way, eliminating one source of trouble.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “Even if our own petition is delayed, the simple fact that we intend to present one grants legitimacy to our presence. Besides, curiosity is a powerful motivation. We pose no present threat, but we do present a tantalizing mystery. Who would kill us before learning what brought us here?”

  “You mean,” Zevaron replied dryly, “they’ll wait to kill us afterward?”

  “They’ll wait to see how good a story we tell,” Danar replied, unperturbed.

  Shannivar nodded, impressed by the young Gelon’s acumen. He refused to be irritated by his friend, which showed he had good self-control. She agreed with his reasoning. M
ore likely than not, once word spread through the khural that these outlanders had traveled through many dangers in order to address the chieftains, their status would be secure. At least, it would be until they had laid their case before the Council. She wondered if Rhuzenjin might agree to compose a song about them to enhance the mystery of their mission. After the dark looks Rhuzenjin had given Zevaron, however, she did not think asking him would be a good idea.

  She found Phannus standing guard outside the trail tent with such an expression of protective vigilance that she thought he would challenge anyone who even suggested that his master break his rest. She inquired politely and waited while the Isarran demurred. Hearing her voice, Leanthos emerged, moving as if his knees pained him from so many hours in the saddle. He had been resting, perhaps asleep, and looked disheveled. The journey had been hard on him. He had aged visibly on the trail.

  “So soon?” Leanthos sputtered, when Shannivar told him to prepare himself in case the Council would hear his case today.

  “Why wait any longer? Are you not anxious for your words to be heard?” Shannivar demanded. “For your case to be settled?”

  “I beg your indulgence, Lady Shannivar. I expected my reception to be a bit more . . . formal. Such is my error. But if it is your command and the way of your people that we proceed at once,” Leanthos visibly braced himself, “then I am grateful for even a little time in which to prepare.”

  “Make yourself ready, then. If they agree, I will send for you.”

  With a repeated admonition to Zevaron, Shannivar prepared to present herself to the Council. She paused only long enough to gather up the small portion of loot from the Gelonian fort: a wooden box of salt, a dagger of Denariyan steel in an ornate sheath, and a jar of oil.

  She had not gone far when she was greeted by a handful of younger people. They had noticed her arrival and waited for an appropriate moment to approach her, as full of gossip as of curiosity. She recognized two or three of them from previous gatherings—Antelope, Falcon, Black Marmot, even one older woman of the Skylark clan.

  “Heyo, Golden Eagle daughter! Your cousins have been waiting for you.”

  “You’re here at last!”

  “We thought you might not come. Took your time, did you?”

  “Heyo! It’s good to see you, too,” Shannivar replied with a grin. “May your tongues be nimble and your horses fleet.”

  Laughter answered her, along with more questions.

  “Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, is it? Who could forget the black horse with the dancing feet?”

  “Are you racing this year?”

  “Where is Esdarash son of Akhisarak? Does he not sit on the Council this year?”

  “Yes, I’m Shannivar, and Esdarash was brother to my father, and yes, the Long Ride. As to why we are late, it’s a long story.”

  “Stories we have time for, with plenty of k’th.”

  “And dancing!”

  Shannivar sobered. “The greater part of my clan, including my uncle, could not leave the dharlak so soon after the death of my grandmother—that is, Jannover daughter of Koranit.”

  “Jannover daughter of Koranit!” Awed whispers echoed through the others.

  “I didn’t know she was still alive.”

  “She must have been as old as winter itself!”

  “Ai, sorrow sits upon my heart! Her death marks the passing of an age,” the Skylark woman lamented. “We shall not see another like her, not in all our years.”

  “Do we see outlanders among you? Who are they? Why have they come?”

  “What’s the news here?” Shannivar asked, to divert attention. “Why so many empty spaces?”

  “Snow Bear has not yet arrived, nor Raven. No one’s heard from them all year.”

  “Yes, but they may still come, Snow Bear that is. It’s a far journey from the north.”

  “Is Mirrimal daughter of Sayyiqan here? Last gathering, she said she would come again.”

  Shannivar forced words through a throat suddenly tight. “Bitterness sits upon my tongue this day. Mirrimal daughter of Sayyiqan now dwells in the Sky Kingdom, along with her brother, Tamoferath son of Taraghay. They perished in battle against the Gelon.”

  “Ai, sorrow! Jannover daughter of Koranit, and now Mirrimal! So many brave women lost to us! How did this come to pass?”

  “There will be time enough for the tale,” Shannivar promised, unexpectedly moved by the expressions of sympathy. “You will hear the whole story at the proper time. Rhuzenjin son of Semador has composed a song-poem about the battle.”

  The younger women expressed their eagerness to hear the song-poem, for Rhuzenjin was known for his musical compositions from past gatherings.

  “Now you must be patient,” Shannivar said, “for I must speak to the Council.”

  Bidding her friends a bright day, Shannivar passed one area after another. The Golden Eagle people were not the only ones to send a diminished party to this year’s gathering. The space reserved for the Snow Bear from the far north was indeed empty. The chief of the Ghost Wolf clan, who was still ailing from last winter’s lung fever, had sent his son in his place. Alsanobal would have represented their sept of Golden Eagle, but Shannivar would not be permitted to sit with the Council. Grandmother had done so for many years, and she’d rendered judgments that were still respected, but Shannivar was no Jannover. A Saramark, perhaps. Someday. If Tabilit willed it.

  Meanwhile, there would be games and races, singing and dancing, courtship and gossip. Nothing had changed, not the duty she was about to discharge nor her own plans.

  * * *

  At the base of the rocky promontory, a pavilion had been prepared for the Council. A small audience had gathered, so a hearing was most likely still in session. Shannivar slowed her pace respectfully as she approached. A few spectators, recognizing her from past gatherings or else in simple courtesy, moved aside for her.

  The Council members normally sat in a half-circle on their stools of camel-skin stretched over light wicker frames and painted in designs representing Tabilit’s gifts, the many animals that enriched the clans and the fire that warmed their nights. To Shannivar’s disappointment, all but two of the stools were empty. She waited until the current case drew to a close. It involved failure to pay the agreed-upon price for a she-camel after the animal was found to be barren. The two elders conferred briefly with one another and rendered their judgment. The parties withdrew, apparently satisfied. Shannivar stepped forward, presented herself, and offered the gifts.

  One of the elders recognized her. Ardellis, her mother, had been born to his clan, Silver Fox. He was very old now, his skin pleated with the passage of seasons. The wispy hairs of his moustache were white. His voice quavered, but pleasure suffused his features as he greeted her. He addressed her affectionately as “niece,” and she called him, “Uncle Sagdovan,” which seemed to delight him even further.

  After the proper courtesies, Shannivar presented her request. Both Sagdovan and the other man, a chieftain of the Antelope people, looked grave as she explained that she had escorted not one but two parties of outlanders, each with their own petition for the Council. She did not need to explain the urgency of the matter.

  “Esdarash son of Akhisarak of the Golden Eagle clan is wise indeed, to place such questions before the Council,” said Sagdovan. “But we two alone cannot determine such a weighty matter. It requires the combined wisdom of our chieftains and elders, and we must consult the enarees as well. You say that your enaree has already examined these strangers through his dream visions?”

  “Yes, but only the Isarrans,” Shannivar reminded them.

  “We must consider the possibility that Tabilit has brought these two groups of outlanders together for her own purposes,” the Antelope chieftain said.

  “Who can tell the intentions of the Sky People, until their results are revealed?”
Sagdovan shook his head. “I say again, we must consider this matter carefully.”

  Chapter 13

  THE next morning, Shannivar and her warriors led a procession through the khural-lak to where the Council met. Only Dharvarath stayed behind, saying he had seen enough madness brought about by dwellers-in-stone. The pairs of supplicants, the Isarrans and Danar and Zevaron, followed solemnly. As the party passed through the encampment, they caused ripples of excitement. Overnight, word of their mission had swept through the gathering. As Danar had predicted, everyone from the youngest child to the oldest grandmother now clamored for a glimpse of these outlanders.

  This time, every stool in the pavilion was occupied. As was customary, leadership of the Council rotated annually among the various chieftains. This year, Tenoshinakh son of Bashkiri, a chieftain of the Falcon clan, held that office. Not yet in his middle age, he was strong and clear of sight, respected for his prudence as well as his daring in battle. He was a large man, almost as tall as a Gelon, with a forbidding aspect. Most of the other Council members, chieftains and elders, had seen far more winters, with the notable exception of the son of the Ghost Wolf chieftain, who watched the proceedings with the proper degree of respectful silence.

  Three enarees stood in a cluster to one side, Bennorakh among them. His eyes were reddened from lack of sleep or perhaps from the ceremonial smoke. Shortly after their arrival, he had withdrawn to the top of the promontory with the other enarees. Because they followed the customs of neither men nor women, the shamans were said to dwell between worlds. What they did when they came together in such a time and place was not for ordinary people to know.