Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  Zevaron watched his retreating back. “There goes an unhappy man. If I have made him my enemy, it was not my intention.”

  “Him?” Shannivar snorted, then felt ashamed. It was improper and disloyal to speak ill of a clansman.

  Rhuzenjin had never treated her poorly until now. He was jealous, and there was nothing she could do about it. At least she had never taken him into her bed, or the situation would be even worse. She tossed her head, wishing it were as easy to shed the certainty that she had caused pain to a man who meant her only good.

  She turned back to Zevaron. “Forget about him. If you must worry about anyone in this camp seeking to cause trouble for you, it would be Kharemikhar.”

  “Oh, him.” Zevaron’s lips curled in a wolfish grin. “That matter is already dealt with.”

  She saw the small bruise darkening one cheek. Before, it had been hidden by shadow, then masked by Tabilit’s golden breath. “Kharemikhar—”

  Zevaron gave her another grin, a flickering glance of dark-lashed eyes. Shannivar followed his gaze.

  Kharemikhar had entered the circle, favoring one leg as he moved through the opening figures of “Onjhol’s Dance.” He spotted Zevaron and touched one fist to his chest in salute.

  “We—ah—settled things,” Zevaron said in response to Shannivar’s expression of astonishment. “He wanted to learn the foot sweep I used on the Isarran bodyguard. I taught him.”

  And a few other things as well, she had no doubt.

  “He let me know I’m welcome to join the wrestling contest tomorrow.” A glint of mischief lit his eyes. “Shall I?”

  Shannivar shrugged. “You must decide such matters for yourself. I am no longer responsible for your good behavior. But since you ask my advice, and there are many games to choose, I know you ride as well as a camel drunk on k’th.”

  “Oh, as bad as that?”

  “No, but I don’t think you should try the handkerchief race or mounted wrestling. Can you shoot?”

  “As a boy, I was pretty good with a sling, but the best that can be said about my archery is that I usually don’t hit things I’m not aiming at.”

  From the lightness of his tone, he had no inflated vanity and seemed to find his own lack of skill a source of amusement. And although he had accused himself on the trail of being a poor singer, his voice had been clear and strong.

  “Then you had better follow Kharemikhar’s advice and try the wrestling on foot,” Shannivar said, “since you seem to be good for very little else.”

  As they talked, they strolled to the edge of the dancing circle. Ythrae had gone off with the Ghost Wolf youth. Danar was talking with two other men, Senuthenkh one of them. The Gelon nodded, looking serious but not uneasy. Zevaron joined the conversation, but Shannivar declined.

  She sat down with the unmarried women and took a sip from the skin of k’th they were passing around while calling out encouragement or ridicule at the men who were dancing for their benefit.

  The men moved in a circle, improvising steps to display their athletic prowess. One after another, they stepped low and wide, kicked their legs, leapt high in the air and landed crouching like cloud leopards on the hunt. Kharemikhar had taken the lead position, still limping but performing the most strenuous steps anyway. Shannivar smiled, thinking how much he was like Alsanobal: prideful, stubborn, with more courage than sense. Still, what did it matter if he injured himself even worse by showing off, so long as the young women smiled at him?

  The dance ended and another began, this one a women’s courting dance. Shannivar set aside the k’th skin and stood up with the others. She felt Zevaron’s attention turn to the dance as she extended her hands to the women on either side, elbows bent, fingers clasped loosely. Ythrae, flushed and excited, took a place beside her. Several unfamiliar women joined the circle, colorful in their holiday finery. Their dresses and jackets were embroidered in clan emblems and edged in ribbons of bright Denariyan silk. Shannivar was one of the few who had not set aside her loose riding trousers.

  “You’ll never catch a husband looking like that!” The girl beside Shannivar wore a flowing skirt and tight-fitting vest that showed the shape of her breasts and hips, and the narrow waist between them.

  Shannivar shook her head, stepping to the beat of the drums. Smoke from the fire and k’th whirled through her veins. The men fell silent, their focus on the dancers. One of the girls broke free to dance alone inside the circle, spinning so that her skirts and the long braids of her hair flew outward. Laughing, she returned to her place.

  The music carried Shannivar forward. Stomping her feet, she felt the earth beneath her as a living carpet. The sky seemed to be singing with the music, the stars dancing with her. She hurled herself high into the air, her arms extended in imitation of her clan totem. Her blood sang in her ears. The audience whooped in admiration. Shannivar heard Rhuzenjin’s voice, and then Zevaron’s. She whirled and leapt again, as the music shifted, deep and throbbing.

  When the dance ended, Ythrae slipped her hand around Shannivar’s elbow and drew her aside. Shannivar glanced quickly at the knot of onlookers but could not find Zevaron. She turned her attention to her young cousin, whose eyes glittered as if she had drunk too much k’th. She blushed as she stammered out the news that the young man she had been dancing with, the son of the Ghost Wolf chieftain, wished to marry her. He had been watching her since they arrived, and only this night approached her. He was—and here Ythrae’s babble failed her—“everything wonderful in a man.” Only the absence of both their families prevented an immediate agreement. That would have to be negotiated over the winter and culminated at next year’s khural.

  For a moment, Shannivar wondered why the younger woman confided in her. She was, she then realized, Ythrae’s only kinswoman at the gathering, as well as the leader-by-acclaim of their party.

  Shannivar felt a twinge of envy at Ythrae’s exhilaration. How simple it was: you saw a person who attracted you, you danced, you married. Rhuzenjin had not wanted Ythrae, so she had found a man who did.

  She took Ythrae into her arms, kissing her forehead in blessing. Yes, she agreed, it was all very wonderful, and the anticipation of waiting would make it even more so. He was a very fine young man, and there was no reason they would not be as happy as any other couple. At least, she thought wryly, their camels would be content under Ythrae’s skillful handling.

  Beaming, Ythrae skipped back to the circle. Another dance had begun, men and women in two lines, facing one another. Shannivar took her place in the women’s line.

  “Wey, wey, wey,” sang the men, clapping in rhythm, “Where is your bridegroom?”

  “Wey, wey, wey,” the women answered. “He remained behind in the mountains.”

  “Wey, wey, wey! Let him stay there, stay there,” the men responded.

  “Wey, wey, wey,” they sang together. “His horse grows old while being tethered.”

  Shannivar finished the dance, hurrying away before any of the young men could ask her for the next couples dance. The last song had wound itself through her skin. The strange mood of earlier had returned, stronger than before. She felt wild and sad all at once and had no words to explain why. She wanted to run barefoot beneath the moon, to dance across the silvered grasses, to swim to the bottom of the deepest lake. She did not know what she wanted.

  Voices, low and urgent, reached her as she passed one of the reed mat shelters. The words were neither Azkhantian nor trade-dialect, but Gelone, of which she knew a little. She paused, straining to hear them above the sound of her heart. In the pale brilliance of the moon, she discerned two shapes, hunkered down together.

  Danar said in a low voice, “I don’t understand.” Shannivar could not make out his next few words, then: “You won’t come.”

  “I promised to get you to safety,” Zevaron said. “You have safe passage to Isarre.”

  “Ye
s, and I expected you to seek—” safety? sanctuary? “there . . . your mother’s kin.” Danar went on, but Shannivar’s understanding of Gelone was not good enough to follow him.

  A pause. Then Zevaron said, “From here your way is clear. Mine is not.”

  “What, then?” Danar’s voice rose in pitch. “Where else would you go—not Meklavar—” more phrases, too heated and swift for Shannivar to catch. “. . . throw your life away in a useless rebellion? Think, man! Think of Tsorreh! Do you want her death to mean nothing?”

  “How dare you bring Tsorreh into this?” Zevaron flamed.

  Tsorreh? Someone important to Zevaron . . . now dead. Shannivar held her breath, waiting for more.

  “Keep your grief, then. But do not let it make you stupid. Wait until the time is right,” Danar urged. “Gather your allies. You know I will stand at your side—”

  “I said I will decide! Now leave me alone. I will hear no more of this!”

  With a rustle of cloth, Zevaron got to his feet and strode away. Shannivar thought that if she stayed still, Danar would also leave, with no knowledge they had been overheard.

  Danar stood looking in the direction Zevaron had gone. “You fool,” he said to himself. “The first thing I would do is free Meklavar.”

  Chapter 15

  EARLY the next morning, Shannivar went down to the horse lines to check on Eriu and Radu. She missed the simplicity and familiarity of their company. So many things in her life were changing, uncertain. And though horses changed, it was according to the pattern Tabilit had set for them. They grew from capricious foals to steady adults and then declined, but they remained forever themselves: Radu with her calm regard, the slightly cocky tilt of one ear, as if to say, Silly two-legs, where have you been? Eriu with his inwardly-curved ears up and alert, eager for the next adventure. Particularly one that involved flying over the land.

  Soon, she promised both him and herself.

  To her surprise, Zevaron was there before her, tending to the brown mare. He had lifted one hind hoof to examine it but, not knowing the ways of horses, had placed himself almost directly under her hip, so that the horse leaned heavily on him. Zevaron’s body folded over into a painful looking crouch.

  “Heyo, Zevaron!” Shannivar called.

  He looked up, face dusky with exertion. Sweat beaded his forehead. She tried not to laugh.

  “I’ll show you an easier way.” When Zevaron let go, the mare dropped her foot with a thump. Shannivar took his place at the animal’s side. She bent down to run her fingers along the tendon in the lower leg. The mare responded to the pressure and allowed Shannivar to lift the hoof. Before the mare could settle her weight, Shannivar pulled the leg back and to the side. The mare gave an aggrieved sigh and balanced her weight on three legs.

  “You see?” Shannivar said.

  “I suppose horses are like people. Some will take advantage of any opportunity.”

  Shannivar set down the hoof, but not before noticing it was narrow and weak-walled, badly suited to rough terrain. She rubbed the patches of white over the mare’s withers, scars from old saddle sores.

  “Is there anything I can do for her so she doesn’t break down on the road?” Zevaron asked. “I didn’t have much choice in a mount, so I must make the best of her.”

  Shannivar considered. “About her feet, not much, except to not give her too heavy a burden or push her too hard over rocky ground. She needs better food and a thick blanket so the saddle does not rub. And a breast strap and crupper for hills, because her chest is so narrow.”

  “I am sadly ignorant of how to care for animals and their equipment, how to hunt or find edible plants, how to travel long distances overland and in all sorts of weather. I learned a little about riding horses as a boy, but others did this sort of work. Now I must learn everything.” He sighed. “If this were open sea instead of land, I would know what to do.”

  “You are a sea man, then? A . . . sailor?”

  The hint of a grin quirked one corner of his mouth. “Was. In all likelihood, never will be again. But yes, I did travel the waves. For four years I served on a Denariyan ship, the Wave Dancer. Her captain, Chalil, was like a father to me. He taught me shipcraft, hand-to-hand fighting, and a little piracy.”

  Shannivar lifted one eyebrow.

  Zevaron’s grin broadened. “Well, more than a little. That’s what the Gelon called us, certainly. We thought of ourselves as free men, seekers of fortune. That is one thing about life onboard. There are no walls, no boundaries. You go where you will or where the ocean wills. Storm and tide and other things, these are powers no mortal man can resist. But everything else . . .” He spread his hands wide, “everything else is there for the taking.”

  “I do not wonder that the Gelon called you pirates,” she said. “They want the whole world for their own, and then they would cover it with stone fences.”

  He looked intently at her, his smile fading, then nodded. “That they would.”

  Again she heard in his voice the resonance of something so deep and hard, she could not call it hatred. Puzzled, she wrinkled her brow. “Then how did you come to travel with one of them? To be his friend and protector? For that matter, how did a man of a far mountain city find his way to the sea?”

  “It is a long story.”

  “I have time. And we Azkhantians love stories.”

  “Well, then. You have convinced me. Before I met Danar, I was at sea, and before that, I was at Gatacinne.”

  “Gatacinne? In Isarre?”

  His gaze slipped past her, past the horse lines and the jorts of the khural-lak. Past, she suspected, the wide reaches of the steppe. To Isarre? To the mountains of his home? To the sea?

  “Gatacinne, in Isarre,” he repeated in a hollow voice. “When Gelon conquered the city.”

  That was four or five years ago, Shannivar thought. He must have been just barely a man. She felt as if she were standing on the brink of a cliff. She had seen cascades tumble through deep-cut ravines, had seen them swollen in flood. She did not fear such rivers, but she respected them. No one could fight against their power or command them, perhaps not even Tabilit herself.

  “The story begins a long time ago,” he repeated, “when Meklavar fell. That is how we came to Gatacinne, my mother and I. She had kin in Isarre, and we hoped—it does not matter what we hoped. We thought we were safe at Gatacinne. And so we were, until the Gelon came.”

  Shannivar peered curiously at him.

  “Danar and I are indeed peculiar companions,” he said. “It was, after all, on the orders of his own King and uncle that my city was attacked and its gates burned, that my mother and I fled into exile.”

  In the way he spoke of her, Shannivar heard great love and even greater grief. “Your mother . . . Tsorreh?”

  He looked startled. “You know her name?”

  “I overheard Danar mention it, yes.”

  “He would,” Zevaron said in a thick voice. “He has no difficulty speaking of those he loves.”

  Yes, that was right. For all his strangeness, Danar was clearly a man who loved deeply, without reservation. Shannivar could not imagine how the nephew of the Ar-King could have met the exiled Queen of Meklavar and known her well enough to love her. But with dwellers-in-stone, who could say? Patiently, she waited for the rest of the story.

  “Tsorreh—my mother—and I, we made it across the Sand Lands to Gatacinne.” Whatever had stopped him before now gave way. His words spilled out like a river too long dammed. “We thought the worst was past. Then the Gelon attacked at night, from the sea. We got separated in the fighting. The city was burning, and there was carnage everywhere. She—” He paused, looked away. “She was taken to Gelon as a hostage. I tried to find her, to rescue her before her ship set sail, but the Gelon were everywhere. They were too many, too strong. I nearly—I ended up—”

  Zevaron sk
ittered to a halt, chest heaving, face touched with the hint of flush. Shannivar could well imagine his rage.

  “In the end, Chalil took me onboard the Wave Dancer. I was more than half-crazy, I think. All I wanted was to kill as many Gelon as I could lay my hands on, and there was nothing I could do. Nothing except get myself killed, that is. He talked some sense into me, taught me, and gave me hard work to occupy my mind. Gradually I made a life for myself. Sailing. Trading.” He paused, the hint of a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Pirating.”

  Nodding encouragement, Shannivar listened.

  “Years passed, and I almost gave up hope. But she was still alive, in the custody of Danar’s father, Lord Jaxar. By chance, or perhaps not chance at all, I found her . . . for a time.”

  “Were you forced to leave her there? In Gelon?” Shannivar asked in sympathy. What a terrible fate, to languish in the hands of such an enemy. Shannivar could not decide if it would be worse for the woman herself, or for the son who had no choice but to abandon her.

  “In a way. She died there.” A pause, a breath like the steam of a heated sword plunged into ice. “On Cinath’s orders.”

  Shannivar was not sure if his next words were spoken aloud, or if the two of them were joined in such sympathy that she heard them in her own heart.

  Cinath will pay for her death, for the enslavement of my people. All Gelon will pay.

  “I promised her I would take care of Danar, and I have. He will go to Isarre and make an alliance there.”

  “And you? You will not join them? Is that not the way of stone-dwellers, to band together against a common enemy?”

  He shook his head. “Isarre cannot conquer Gelon. I saw that at Gatacinne. They have neither the strength nor the determination to put a final end to their enemy. They will settle for keeping their own borders secure. But that is not enough for me.”

  With that strange harmony of feeling, Shannivar felt his passion for revenge as if it were her own. Perhaps the bond Tabilit had woven between them during the dance endured, giving Shannivar the ability to sense the images behind his words. Or perhaps the intensity of his feelings—and that glimmer of gold beneath his skin—was a kind of magic in itself. He wanted nothing more than to tear apart the glimmering palaces of Aidon, capital city of Gelon. Stone by bloody stone. In her mind, as in his, fire raged across the seven hills, as hot as the pulse pounding through his temples, and the ashes of the conquerors blew away in the wind.