At last, the chief of the enarees, from the Rabbit clan, announced that the omens were conflicting, that the object seemed to present no threat, and yet it did. No proper determination could be made without viewing it. Such a move might carry grave risk. At the same time, everyone understood that the greater the danger, the greater the honor. Several young men, Rhuzenjin among them, rushed forward to remove the wrappings.
While this was going on, Zevaron stood transfixed. He seemed to be barely breathing. His brows drew together, and his jaw was set, giving him an expression of barely contained ferocity.
By this time, the audience had grown even larger than before. Nearly everyone in the encampment was present, except for the pregnant women. Newcomers strained for a view of the mysterious object. Someone jostled Shannivar from behind. She held her ground.
“Out of the way!” Kharemikhar elbowed his way to the front. He glowered at the youths who were wrestling with the knotted cords, although he made no move to help them.
“Oof!” cried the man he had pushed aside.
Someone else said, “Can you see it?”
The wrappings fell away, and the onlookers surged forward. Shannivar glimpsed a human-sized piece of stone, elongated and twisted, mottled gray and brown in color.
At that moment, the reindeer threw back their heads, eyes rolling. The larger gave a cry like a strangled grunt and reared up on his hind legs. Two of the Snow Bear men, the chief’s son one of them, seized their halters, or they would have bolted.
Shannivar heard Zevaron’s quick inhale, the breath hissing between his clenched teeth. He muttered words beneath his breath, but whether they were curses or prayers, she could not tell.
The object resembled an oversized lizard, lying partly on its side. Despite the contorted posture, there was no question that the creature was deformed. The hind legs were too long and too heavily muscled for an ordinary reptile, yet the hips were placed as if the thing walked upright like a man. It might be a natural rock formation that happened to resemble a lizard-man. Or it might have been formed into this shape by human hands. Shannivar frowned. She had never seen a carving this perfect, the proportion of snout and limbs so realistic.
Murmurs of astonishment rippled through the onlookers. Many drew back, their eyes wide. Some made ritual gestures to ward off bad luck. A swathe of empty space quickly cleared around the sledge, except for the two Snow Bear men, who were still struggling to hold the reindeer. One of the younger enarees began chanting in the eerie, high-pitched voice used for invocations of protection.
The man in front of Shannivar exclaimed, “What is that thing?”
“Aii! It is a devil!”
“A devil come to eat us up!”
“What, have we all become cowards now, to fear a thing of stone?”
“Onjhol defend us!”
“Cursed!” someone else exclaimed. “We are all cursed to have laid eyes upon this thing!”
During the ruckus, Danar slipped quietly through the crowd and knelt beside the sledge with its mysterious, repellent burden. Several onlookers cried out in warning, but Danar paid them no heed. He bent this way and that, inspecting the lizard-shape from every angle with frank curiosity. Although Shannivar heard rumbles that the Gelon must surely be demented, she did not think so. His expression showed no trace of madness, only curiosity. He made no move to touch the object, but that seemed more out of carefulness than fear.
“Extraordinary!” Danar glanced up, grinning broadly. “It’s perfectly marvelous! Such a magnificent specimen! I had never hoped to actually see one.”
“You know what this is?” Tenoshinakh asked, astonished.
“Unless I’m very much mistaken, it is a stone-drake. I’ve read about them in my father’s books.” Eyes alight with enthusiasm, Danar rushed on, interspersing phrases in Gelone with trade-dialect. “The scholars of Borrenth Springs say they result when lightning strikes a gigantic salamander resting on volcanic rock. They like to bask in the heat, you see. Because the rock was once molten, the lightning causes a merging of the elements of stone, fire, and light. The result is an artificial semblance of life, a—a counterfeit of a natural creature.”
Danar paused, perhaps noticing for the first time the expressions of incomprehension in his audience, but only for a moment. “The stone-drakes are said to be invulnerable to fire and steel, impossible to kill—”
Kharemikhar gave a derisive snort.
Danar’s smile faded. “Well, perhaps that’s just another of those old stories, things men of times long ago invented to explain the mysteries of the world. But if I may—” Rising, Danar bowed to Tenoshinakh and to the head enaree. “With your permission, I would very much like to examine this specimen. Perhaps I can correct the errors of past scholarship, or at any rate learn something new about these marvelous creatures.”
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Tenoshinakh looked to the Rabbit clan enaree. “Is this lizard-man a thing of spirit or of ordinary matter? A sculpture created by human hands, like the idols worshiped by the Gelon? Or a once-living creature, magically turned to stone?”
“Turned into stone!” someone echoed.
“Or a man, slain by some terrible curse?” one of the other chieftains muttered.
Around Shannivar, people nodded sagely. Legends told of foolish or greedy men corrupted by Olash-giyn-Olash, the Shadow of Shadows. Shannivar had been deliciously terrified as a child, listening to these tales around a winter fire. Now, seeing this thing, she wondered if it had been wise to take such stories lightly.
“Why has it come to us?” Tenoshinakh asked the chief shaman. “What do the gods require of us?”
Eyes closed, half-crouched but swaying now, the head enaree passed his stick over the stone figure and began to chant. Shannivar could not understand his words. Perhaps no one could, for the enarees were said to be gifted with divine speech.
Around her, the audience murmured in consternation and awe, but Zevaron nodded, as if he could follow what was said, in sense if not in specifics. That was impossible, wasn’t it? Then she remembered that the song he’d sung on the road had been in a language that sounded like that of the enarees. She still did not understand how she had been able to sense the meaning of his song, but Tabilit must surely have brought them together and given them this harmony of mind. There was no other explanation.
The enaree fell silent at last. He remained still for a long moment, his eyes open but blank. Then he shook himself and began to speak.
“I cannot see clearly. The spirits remain silent. This object, this drake of stone, must be studied further before the uninitiated,” he glared pointedly at Danar, “may be permitted to examine it. The council of enarees will search the dream world for answers.”
The enaree pointed to the rock promontory, indicating that the stone-drake should be brought there. “Meanwhile, until Tabilit has made her will known, the object shall be deemed taboo, tainted by evil. We must safeguard it from idle eyes and even more idle hands. No man may touch it, lest a curse fall upon him, his clan, and all the people of the khural. Every person who has had contact with it must be purified.”
Rhuzenjin, who had helped others to strip away the coverings, blanched, but quickly assumed a determined countenance, so that he would not be thought lacking in courage. Danar, unfamiliar with the steppe beliefs regarding curses and ritual cleansing, looked confused.
A curse was bad enough, Shannivar thought, but one that affected an entire clan, perhaps the assembled khural itself, would be terrible indeed.
“Cover it up!” Tenoshinakh ordered. “Hurry now! Get that thing out of camp! And bring wood to build the dream fires!”
The young men who had so eagerly unwrapped the strange object hung back. What at first had seemed an exciting novelty and an opportunity to show off, took on a more sinister aspect. Even the bravest warrior might
be slain, maimed, or left witless by a sufficiently powerful evil spell. Horsemanship and courage would avail little against an enemy that had no physical body.
Impatiently, Shannivar pushed forward. Let the others cower behind their mothers’ skirts! She was not afraid.
She grabbed the edge of the nearest blanket and pulled it across the stone legs. This close, she could discern the contours and texture. No crudely hacked rock sculpture or clay-daubing this, but one of exquisitely precise detail. The toes of the lizard-shape were long and clawed, as were those of the forelimbs. Its eyes were closed, or else crusted over with a rocky membrane. The neck was flexed forward and tilted, so that the creature seemed to be twisting to look up at her.
Shannivar shivered. At any moment, the stone-drake might sense her nearness, open its eyes, and reach out with those clawed hands. As she jerked the braided leather cords tight, Rhuzenjin moved to help her. Perhaps he was embarrassed by his former hesitation. “I do not need your help,” she snarled. “Stay back. Do not expose yourself to whatever curse this thing carries.”
“Shannivar, be reasonable. If there is a curse, I am already subject to it.”
“You must be, to insist in this manner.”
“It is you who should have kept away. Or do you mean to carry the entire burden of glory yourself, in this as in everything else?” Rhuzenjin did not wait for her reply. He grabbed another corner of the blanket. On the other side, Zevaron also bent to the task.
Fool! Shannivar fumed. Zevaron clearly did not understand the risk. Or perhaps he, like Danar, had some knowledge of the stone lizard, some reason to investigate it further. She remembered his reaction to the tale of the Snow Bear chieftain, especially the mention of broken mountains.
At last, the bundle once more tied securely to the sledge, they started off, Shannivar and Rhuzenjin on one side of the sledge, the reindeer driver and Zevaron on the other. The enaree leader strode ahead, leading the way, and the rest of the shamans followed behind.
The sledge moved without too much difficulty over the relatively flat, beaten ground, until they came to the base of the promontory. The runners had been constructed for snow and then adapted for grass. They caught on the irregular stony path, often bringing the sledge to a jerking halt. The reindeer lunged forward, half-staggering under their burden. Shannivar, lifting and shoving the sledge over yet another rock, felt pity for the poor animals.
They halted in the little clearing between the stone mounds. The enarees clustered around it, talking animatedly. After a short discussion, they erected a tent around the sledge. The tent would allow them to perform their magical investigations with additional secrecy, and the symbols painted on the fabric would prevent all but the most potent supernatural powers from escaping.
The Snow Bear man unhitched his reindeer and led them back down the trail to the camp. The poor beasts trudged after him, released from the terror that had driven them.
“Come, we must return for the purification rite.” Rhuzenjin touched Shannivar’s arm, clearly anxious not to linger. So far, no curse had manifested, but no one could tell how long their luck would hold.
“Zevaron?” Shannivar turned to their companion. “We should let the enarees be about their work.”
Zevaron showed no sign of being in a hurry to leave. He lingered, staring at the wrapped stone-drake. A strange light glimmered beneath his skin, as if a cloud had parted and a beam of sunlight touched only him. He pressed one hand over the center of his chest as if to ease a pain there. When Shannivar spoke to him, however, awareness returned to his eyes.
At the edge of the khural-lak, well away from the sleeping and cooking areas, a tent had already been prepared for the purification. It was large enough for the Snow Bear party as well as all those who had handled the sledge or the bundle. Pungent smoke curled skyward from the central opening. When Zevaron hung back, one of the older clansmen, who wore the stylized emblem of a Ghost Wolf, noted his hesitation.
“Outland man, you are a good fighter, but you do not know our ways.” The Ghost Wolf man’s face was stern, and his tone gruff but not unkind. “You may pray to different gods, but you are now in our lands and subject to Tabilit’s laws. For the safety of us all, you must go with the others and spend the night in purification and fasting.”
Shannivar translated for Zevaron. “The smoke tent is not a punishment,” she explained, “but an honor on behalf of the entire clan. It is not pleasant, but it is necessary. We willingly take the spiritual danger upon ourselves and thus protect our people, even as we might ride into battle in their defense. Do you not do the same in your own country?”
“No, not in that fashion.” Zevaron shook his head. Shannivar caught the faint movement of his eyes toward the promontory. “How long must we remain within?”
“Until dawn. We take no food or water during that time. In the morning, however, we will feast.” Seeing his continued hesitation, she urged him, “Do not delay further. Come inside the tent. You will insult the enarees if you are seen to refuse their command.”
Two old women stood outside the door flap, arranging a pile of wood chips soaked with dream resin. Shannivar bent low to follow Rhuzenjin into the tent. The air was hot and close. A firepit had been dug in the center of the dirt floor and lined with blue stones. It put forth resin-laden smoke.
Danar was already inside, along with the Snow Bear men and the others. By custom, those undergoing the purification were almost naked, so that the medicinal smoke would penetrate more deeply. Shannivar glanced at Danar, not wanting to be rude but curious about what manner of man this stone-dweller might be. She was a little disappointed. He was nearly as pale as snow beneath the reddish fuzz that covered his chest and legs, but otherwise quite ordinary.
“Heyo, Shannivar,” one of the young men said, “can’t find a husband any other way?” He threw back his shoulders and flexed his muscles.
“As if any of you would be worthy of her!” Rhuzenjin shot back.
She laughed. “Take no heed of such babble. The smoke has already stolen his wits!”
Shannivar stripped off her own clothing until she, like they, wore only a brief loincloth. One of the old women took her clothes and boots away. In the morning, they would be waiting outside, neatly folded and sweetened with dried spring flowers, the sign of Tabilit’s pleasure.
Settling between Danar and one of the Snow Bear men, Shannivar crossed her legs comfortably. The drug-laden smoke wafted over her. Within moments, she was glad not to be wearing her padded vest and woolen trousers. Her skin turned sticky and then slick. She forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly. Dizziness hovered at the edge of her vision. It was going to be a long night.
While she undressed, Rhuzenjin had also taken off and handed out his clothing. Zevaron followed their example, but more slowly. He kept his gaze carefully away from Shannivar. She found his shyness endearing but a little puzzling. Surely he had seen a woman’s breasts before. How could a man travel to distant lands and across oceans, and remain ignorant of the most basic things? Perhaps he did not care for women in that way—no, she was certain that he did. He looked away because of how much he wanted to see.
The conversation continued in a desultory manner, the men no longer teasing Shannivar but boasting of the tales they would tell at home, the women they would impress, and the k’th they would drink the next night. The pauses between each comment grew longer.
Shannivar glanced at Zevaron from beneath her half-lowered lids. The skin of his body glowed like honey in the light from the coals. Softly curling hair marked his chest and formed a dark line down his belly. It fascinated her, for Azkhantian men had scant body hair.
When Zevaron had turned to hand his clothing outside, Shannivar saw the reddened slash of a recently healed wound on his side, and older scars, pale knotted stripes across his back. No battle wounds these, criss-crossing the otherwise smooth skin. She had heard that
the Gelon whipped their slaves, sometimes unto death. Had Zevaron, with his fighting skill and his pride, been a Gelonian slave? But that was impossible.
She looked away, heat from more than the fire rising to her cheeks. She wanted to ask, yet she could not bear to know. She felt his presence through her skin, a spreading fire along the curve of neck and shoulder to her breasts, to the hollow below her ribs and along her thighs. And Zevaron kept his gaze lowered, as if he could not bring himself to look at her. As if he knew what she had seen and surmised. Did no one else notice the ruddy flush rising to his face and throat, the way he held his hands so still? What was wrong with him? What was wrong with her? This was not her first time in a smoke tent, undergoing the ritual along with the men. She had never felt so conscious of her body—or of a man’s—before.
Rhuzenjin was laughing now, telling the others of the song he was composing about the day’s events and the parts they had all played. Danar smiled, as if he understood. Certainly, Rhuzenjin’s determined cheerfulness needed no translation.
“Ah, but the tale is not yet done,” said the youth who had teased Shannivar about finding a husband. “We still do not know what the enarees will decide.”
“Perhaps they will send the stone lizard off to Isarre, for it’s no good to anyone here,” one of his fellows suggested.
“Yes, they can use it to frighten away the Gelonian gods, it is so ugly,” another suggested to a round of laughter.
Shannivar Page 19
