Before Danar could utter another word, Phannus stepped between his master and Danar. Assuming a fighting stance, he drew his sword. His features were composed, his expression intent, and only the momentary glitter of anticipation in his eyes betrayed any emotion.
The onlookers moved back to give them more room. A duel, yes, that was the proper way to settle such matters. Curiosity lit their faces, for none had seen a match between city dwellers. They were eager to see how the outlanders would conduct themselves.
The fight would be brief and final, Shannivar thought. Danar was young and reasonably fit, but he lacked the cold, deadly focus of the Isarran bodyguard.
“I say again, no!” Danar backed up, hands raised well away from his sword. “I will not fight you! You must listen—”
“What is wrong with him?” someone in the crowd demanded. “Is the Gelon a coward?”
“All Gelon are cowards! Everyone knows that!”
“What is the stone-dweller saying? He will not defend the honor of his clan?”
“Quiet, hear how he answers!”
“Chief Tenoshinakh,” Danar cried, “I appeal to you! How can the death or maiming of one of us resolve our differences? Stop this madness!”
“We will not interfere.” Tenoshinakh’s brows drew together, and his voice took on a harsh tone. “This quarrel is an outland matter. Now is your chance to prove your case. Show us what is behind your fine words. If you refuse to fight, we will know them for a coward’s lies.”
Danar flushed, two spots of heat spreading across his cheeks. His gaze, which had been fixed on Tenoshinakh, wavered. He gulped and reached for his sword.
The instant Danar moved, Phannus closed with him, blade slicing through the air.
The Isarran’s steel never reached its target.
For all the speed Phannus had displayed, Zevaron moved even faster. He was not only fast, but lithe and balanced. One foot swept out in a lightning arc, his movement a blur. His boot struck the Isarran bodyguard’s wrist with a slap of leather against flesh.
Phannus grunted in pain. His sword went spinning through the air. It landed point down in the earth. The blade vibrated with the force of the impact.
Propelled by the force of the blow, Phannus spun away. He stumbled but quickly regained his balance. His face darkened to an ugly red, but his expression remained unperturbed, his concentration as keen as ever. With a flip of the wrist, a knife slid from a sheath hidden inside his sleeve and into his uninjured hand. He leapt forward, closing quickly. Zevaron held his ground until the very last instant. Then, just as the tip of the Isarran’s knife was about to pierce him, he dropped to the ground. He crouched beneath the oncoming blow and turned sideways, bracing himself on both hands. Before Phannus could react and redirect the blow downward, Zevaron’s foot swept out, low to the ground. Phannus had just shifted his weight to put power into his attack. Zevaron’s swift, circular motion hooked the ankle of Phannus’s leading foot and jerked it out from under him, and he fell heavily. The impact sent up a billow of dust. Onlookers murmured appreciatively.
Zevaron straightened up, again moving with preternatural feline grace, and nodded to Danar.
Tenoshinakh threw back his head and laughed from deep in his belly. “Let the one who calls the challenge do the fighting! Is that what you mean, friend of Gelon? That’s the Azkhantian way as well!”
So there could be no misunderstanding, Shannivar translated into trade-dialect.
As the meaning of Tenoshinakh’s words sank in, Leanthos looked terrified. In issuing his challenge, the Isarran had never intended to place his own life at risk. He did not even carry a sword. He had been counting on his bodyguard’s skill. Shannivar did not envy his position. Danar could take him down in an instant.
“There has been enough blood shed between Gelon and Isarre.” Danar’s voice rang out, resonant with conviction. “It comes to an end now. I say there will be no fight.”
“You must!” One of the chieftains exclaimed. “He has insulted your honor before this Council. And you, Leanthos, you must back up your accusation with action or else withdraw it.”
“That will not be necessary,” Danar said before the Isarran could respond. “There can be no insult given if none is taken.”
The crowd grew very still, heads angled to listen to Danar’s astonishing words. This was a moment they would relish telling their grandchildren, the day a Gelonian prince shrugged off an insult from his traditional enemy.
“Leanthos, much of what you said is true,” Danar said, “and the rest reflects only your admirable loyalty to Isarre. Yes, I am the son of Jaxar, nephew and heir to Ar-Cinath-Gelon, standing in the line of succession only after his own son. But it is also true—and I will swear by any god you name—that Cinath has betrayed the allegiance I once owed him. Loyalty must be earned as well as rendered. My uncle has sought my death, and for all I know, my father’s. It is by his malice that I am outlawed, sent into exile. I have no love for him.
“But,” Danar went on after a pause, “I love everything that is true and good in Gelon. By the breath of my soul, I pledge myself to restore Gelon to what it should be, a nation of justice, of learning and prosperity, a nation worthy of the blessings of its gods. A nation,” his voice fell, and in the hushed silence, every syllable rang clear, “at peace with its neighbors.” He slipped his sword free and offered it, hilt first, to Leanthos. “I swear to you that the second thing I will do when I take back the Golden Throne is to end this war with Isarre.”
Heads nodded, everyone recognizing that in order to take the throne, Danar would first execute Cinath and put an end to his ambitions. And therefore, his threat to Azkhantia.
“In return,” Danar said, still speaking to Leanthos, “I ask for safe conduct to your King, that I may say the same thing directly to him.”
Leanthos did not take the proffered sword, but simply placed his hand over Danar’s on the hilt. “I do not know whether such a thing is possible, but it is not my mission to judge. I am charged with bringing what aid I can to Isarre. The friendship of a Prince of Gelon—even one who is moon-mad—” Leanthos paused as Danar laughed aloud, “—must be deemed an advantage. I will do as you ask, and will speak for you in Isarre.”
Withdrawing his hand, Leanthos turned his attention back to Tenoshinakh. “You have seen how enemies can become allies, and thus Isarre is strengthened. Will you not join us as well? Our unity in common cause will ensure our triumph.”
After a brief conference with the other chieftains, Tenoshinakh said, “We of Azkhantia have never concerned ourselves with outland matters and see no reason to do so now. We have no fear of Gelon, but neither will we provoke further aggression in a fruitless cause. If you dwellers-in-stone have made an alliance between yourselves, so much the better for you. But it has nothing to do with us.”
The chief raised his voice. “Leanthos of Isarre, you and your clansman are free to remain, but when you return to your cities, you may not take a single Azkhantian with you, not one horse or one arrow. As for you, Danar son of Jaxar, you may remain with us for the length of the gathering. If you are the salvation Leanthos seeks, may it be so, but do not trouble us further with your concerns.”
Tenoshinakh glanced to the chief of the enarees. After a moment, the shaman nodded gravely. He lifted his staff and shook it. The sound of the bones and shells rattling against one another signaled the end to the hearing.
Neither the Isarrans nor Danar seemed unhappy with the decision. Only Zevaron looked pensive as he withdrew with his friend.
Chapter 14
DESPITE the excitement of “Shannivar’s strangers,” the usual festivities of the gathering continued. Young people engaged in contests of strength and skill throughout the day, while their elders traded livestock and gossip. Through the lingering dusk, everyone enjoyed feasting and music, ballads sung to reed flutes, drums, and two-stringed bo
wed khurs. There was k’th and dancing for everyone young enough to care about such things. Older folk discussed marriages and planned grandchildren while debating the finer points of hospitality and embroidery. Herb-sellers did a brisk business in the rarer plants but also in those used to prevent pregnancy. The chieftains, once freed from their daily Council duties, gathered to swap tales of great horses, heroic deeds, and fabled winners of past games.
When the sounds of drums and flutes signaled the night’s dancing, Shannivar went with Ythrae to join in. Shannivar felt as if a weight had been lifted; the relief of no longer being responsible for not one but two sets of unpredictable, troublesome strangers, men who knew nothing of the customs of the steppe, whose honor was unknown and unknowable. That was over now, and their fate was their own. Soon they would be on their way to make whatever alliances they could. They would ride over strange lands or perhaps take ship across the wide seas, never to trouble her again. She was free of them, and they of her.
The dance circle was small at first, but it grew rapidly. A handful of musicians spun out a merry tune, drummers, flute-players, and one old man squeezing music from a goatskin bagpipe.
Rhuzenjin was already there, dancing with a dozen other young men from different clans. Ythrae went to join the women’s line. Shannivar paused, watching, and the old bagpiper, his eyes crinkling in his weathered face, glanced in her direction. Gnarled fingers danced over the holes on the pipe and seamed cheeks puffed out, sustaining the long, wailing notes. The music wound through her blood. It made her want to dance, to weep, to run.
She remembered the morning the strangers had arrived at the dharlak, the sound of Grandmother’s breathing, the creaking leather straps of the old woman’s bed, and the sight of the muted outlines of pillow, of caskets and chests containing the treasures of her family. She remembered wondering what it would be like to live in a place where nothing smelled of memories, of family, of home. A shadow fell across her heart.
Zevaron would not, could not, return to his city. She wondered if the home in his heart was his hatred for Gelon. The thought filled her with sadness, as if it were she herself who had no hope of anything better.
She tried to dispel the moment, unable to understand what troubled her. What had the fate of one city-dwelling outlander to do with her? She was among her own people at the gathering. She had discharged her obligations with honor and was now free to seek out her own future. Grandmother would have been pleased. Tonight she would dance and flirt and perhaps choose one of those fine young dancers for her bed. Tomorrow she would take part in contests of agility and horsemanship, or archery, and she would gossip and laugh. But she would never return to the home of the Golden Eagle.
Was exile what Mirrimal had feared most? Had exile sharpened Kendira’s tongue and cast such shivering darkness across Zevaron’s heart? Would the same thing happen to her?
Shannivar reminded herself that the steppe was her home. No one part of it might claim her any more than another. Like the Golden Eagle that was her totem, she would go where she willed, where the winds took her. Her home was in her wings, the fleetness of her horses, and Tabilit’s endless sky.
The dance had come to an end. The bagpipe wheezed to a halt, releasing her. The lines broke apart. Ythrae lingered for a moment, watching Rhuzenjin with hopeful eyes. As usual, he seemed utterly unaware of her attention. The youth who had led the men’s line, the son of the Ghost Wolf clan chieftain, approached Ythrae. Shannivar could not hear what he said, but she caught the blush and quick smile on the younger woman’s face.
Looking up at the Ghost Wolf youth, Ythrae tilted her head and laughed at something he said. Watching them, Shannivar felt glad and unexpectedly wistful. Ythrae was, after all, as deserving of happiness as anyone. Shannivar could not wish her young cousin anything less.
The music started up again, the opening strains of a courting dance. Out of the corner of her vision, Shannivar saw Rhuzenjin glance in her direction. The next moment, he would approach her. She was certain of it, and she could not refuse him outright without insult.
Just then, Danar and Zevaron stepped into the firelit circle. The orange light warmed the Gelon’s features pleasantly, but the effect on Zevaron’s honey-gold skin took Shannivar’s breath away. He had paused at the edge of the beaten dirt, his head turned toward the musicians. Gold touched the lines of his cheek and nose, the strong neck, the lean curves of shoulders and chest. His hands hung at his sides, momentarily at rest yet eloquent with power and the promise of gentleness.
Before Shannivar could form a conscious intention, she was moving toward him, a moth to his flame. Flame, yes, as if a fire burned just below the surface of him. A fire that, as his gaze shifted and his eyes met hers, ignited them both.
In that moment, Shannivar could not breathe. It was if the two of them had become trapped in amber, their hearts frozen in flame between one pulse and the next. An image rose up to blind her sight: Tabilit bending low from the Road of Stars to breathe upon the two of them.
Then Shannivar found herself at Zevaron’s side, one hand reaching for his. The music dimmed, distant. She inhaled the scent of far-off mountains, of sea and storm and foreign winds. Something tugged at her, evoking an answering surge of longing. His fingers closed around hers.
Shannivar blinked, and the stars were now only stars, the fire only fire, the music sprightly but the instruments slightly out of rhythm with one another.
“Will you teach me this dance?” he asked.
Wordless, she took his other hand, lifting both to shoulder level, straightening and turning so that their right shoulders faced, their joined hands in front of her heart and his. His gaze remained on hers. He moved with her, one deep gliding step, rise and pause, then another. They revolved around the center point like creatures of legend, slow and elegant, deliberate in their movements, and unwavering in their gaze.
As they circled, Zevaron’s gaze never faltered, not even when he missed a step and recovered. Shannivar saw in his eyes an expression of wonder, as the other dancers faded like mist. Only the two of them remained, flowing with the music, treading the sacred land. They became every man and every woman who had ever come together in this dance. They were Tabilit and Onjhol, Saramark and her noble husband.
At last, the music dimmed and then fragmented as one instrument after another fell silent. Tabilit had withdrawn; magic no longer seeped from the earth, from the sky. Dancers stepped apart, laughing or murmuring to one another. Shannivar still gazed at Zevaron, not knowing what to say.
Rhuzenjin appeared, moving from night into the circle of light. He scowled, his lips twisting. His brows drew together, tight and hard, as he tried to disguise his displeasure. “Shannivar, you bring no credit to your clan by behaving in this way.”
For a moment, she thought he might strike her, or at the least grab her arm to draw her away. His glare shifted to Zevaron, who calmly returned it.
“I will dance with whomever I please!” she retorted.
“It looks like that means everyone,” Rhuzenjin said, pointing rudely at Zevaron.
“I do not understand what is going on,” Zevaron said to Rhuzenjin in trade-dialect. “If I have given offense—” He used the word that meant a rude, vulgar act, rather than a violation of honor, but his intention was clear.
“Stay out of it, outlander!” Rhuzenjin snarled, still in Azkhantian. “Shannivar, what are you doing, to openly favor a stone-dweller! Think of how it must look! Consider your uncle’s honor—”
“My uncle has nothing to do with this!” Shannivar’s temper flared. “You mean I have no right to choose my own partner, that now I must dance with you! If you want to dance with a woman, there are many who would be glad of it. Ask Ythrae and bring her joy. Or the camel, for all I care! I will not dance with any man who speaks to me in such a manner.”
“Has there been some misunderstanding?” Zevaron said.
&nbs
p; “None at all,” Shannivar returned, switching back to trade-dialect. She kept her gaze steadily on Rhuzenjin. “We understand one another perfectly well. We just don’t agree.”
“Shannivar, I’m thinking only of your happiness,” Rhuzenjin insisted, still in Azkhantian. “Why turn away from a man of your own people—one who can give you a secure place, honor, respect—for an outlander? All he can offer is misery and exile. Consider what you are doing.”
“Since when does one dance mean a commitment to marriage? Or anything else?” Shannivar demanded. “Or is it your own pride that speaks—?”
“Not just any dance.” Rhuzenjin paused, breathing hard. His pupils dilated in the failing light. His face tightened with emotion. Then he repeated, low and intense, “Not any dance.”
So he had felt it too, the breath of Tabilit. The Blessing of the Sky.
It had been a moment’s grace, nothing more. Whatever her feelings for Zevaron or his for her, that moment had ended. He would go to Isarre with Danar, and she would follow wherever Tabilit beckoned her, here on the steppe. The world was too vast and too unpredictable to offer even the smallest hope that they would see each other again after this gathering.
“If I have given offense or caused difficulty, the fault is mine,” Zevaron said. “Please do not quarrel with your kinsman on my account.” He spoke calmly, but with quiet confidence. Something in his bearing reminded Shannivar of the moments before he had trounced the Isarran bodyguard. “I ask your pardon, Rhuzenjin, since I do not know your customs—”
“May bitterness sit long upon your tongue.” Without waiting for a reply, Rhuzenjin stalked away.
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