Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  “From them emerged a te-ravot both powerful and wise, Khored of Blessed Memory, and his six warrior brothers. Khored forged a magical Shield: six perfect alvara crystals like the petals of a flower, surrounding a single luminous center. Each alvar was a gem of utmost clarity, a vessel of light, but none was more pure or more powerful that Khored’s own gem, the te-alvar, the soul of the Shield.

  “With the power of the Shield, Khored learned the secret name of the incarnation of Fire and Ice. He conjured forth the ancient enemy and bade it submit to judgment.”

  The rhythm of Zevaron’s chant, the very sound of his words shifted. She sensed the clash of battle: rivers boiling, mountains crumbling into sand and then melting into glass, green fields charring into ash. Then came bitter rains, flooding the battlefield. And silence. And mourning. And remembering.

  “But Khored in his wisdom knew the enemy was vanquished but not destroyed. Long he pondered, thinking of the ages to come, when the will of men might weaken and evil arise once more.”

  It no longer mattered to Shannivar that she could not understand the original language or that the translation into trade-dialect was occasionally halting and stiff. The repetition created a resonance in her mind that built with each phrase, words and something numinous and terrible sounding through them.

  “And Khored took the Seven-Petaled Shield, and gave each brother one of the alvara crystals, reserving the te-alvar, the heart of the Shield, for his own. With all his arts, he worked upon the stones, so that each alvar might be placed in the heart of a living man, hidden from profane sight. Each brother undertook the stewardship, and they swore eternal fidelity to one another.

  “And ages passed, and descendants of Khored and his brothers kept faith with the pledge their fathers had made. The seven petals and their guardians are the hope and refuge of the living world, for as long as the Shield of Khored endures, the ancient enemy remains imprisoned and righteousness reigns.

  “May it be forever so.”

  The last phrases in Zevaron’s clear, strong voice echoed softly against the rock of the promontory. One by one, the enarees reverently touched fist to breast, but not to honor Zevaron the man. They offered their respect to the power that flowed through his words, to the merit of those who had first spoken them, and through them, to the valor of those who had performed these deeds.

  While he related the tale, an animation, a glamour almost, had suffused Zevaron’s features. Now he seemed to diminish, once again an ordinary man.

  “This is what I have been taught. How much is true, I cannot tell,” he said as the shamans once again seated themselves. “The te-Ketav tells us that Khored exiled the forces of Fire and Ice far away. Two things kept them imprisoned. The—” he broke off, massaging his breastbone, took a deep breath, went on, “the magic of Khored, and the wall of mountains in the distant north.”

  Shannivar’s breath caught in her throat. Something swept through her, a soundless whispering, as if some unimaginably immense being bent low and whispered inside her mind.

  The mountains, she thought, that were broken when the white star fell.

  “The might of men has waned with the scattering of Khored’s Shield,” Zevaron went on, “as I have reason to know only too well. Now your own people from the north bring this thing—this stone beast, unlike anything known to you. Yet when I touched it—” He held out his hand, fingers spread wide, and for a moment, his expression shifted to one of amazement. “When I touched it, I felt—I knew—it was a thing of Fire and Ice. Here, in the lands of men. If the warnings of the te-Ketav have come to pass, if the ancient enemy has breached the walls of its mountain prison, if the magic of my ancestors no longer holds it at bay . . .”

  “This is a noble tale, strong in spirit. But what does it have to do with you, outlander?” one of the enarees asked in a polite tone.

  “My people—my own forefather, Khored of Blessed Memory—once stood against this thing. If it has arisen once more, how can it not concern me?”

  “Ah. It is a matter of family honor.” Heads nodded all around. “This we understand.”

  “There is much I do not yet know,” Zevaron said, lifting his head. “I beg your leave to travel to the north, to the country of the Snow Bear people, so that I may see with my own eyes.”

  “Man of Meklavar,” intoned the Rabbit clan enaree, “you take on a great deal, to involve not only yourself but all the clans of the steppe in these spirit matters. Azkhantia may fall under a curse because of the rash actions of a man who is not one of us, who has no regard for our own traditions. Do you understand the consequences of what you propose, outlander? No matter how honorable and praiseworthy were the deeds of your fathers, you are not among your own people now. If such evil as you have described may fall upon us, then we claim the right to say what may or may not be done. Why should we trust your judgment in matters that concern us, when you have failed to observe the proper rituals of purification?”

  Zevaron rose and bowed deeply, after the manner of his own people. “The fault is mine, and I will undertake whatever penalty you set. Only allow me to follow this trail to its end.”

  “For that, you need permission from the Council of chieftains, as well as the Snow Bear tribe,” Shannivar told him.

  “If the enarees agree, will the chieftains forbid it?” he countered.

  Perhaps in his own country, holy men made the laws, but it was not so on the steppe. The enarees read the omens; they might attempt to persuade or intimidate, but they did not command, lest their powers be set against the authority of the chieftains and thereby lead the people into disorder.

  “You have courage, man of Meklavar, but we do not yet know the truth of the matter.” The Rabbit clan enaree raised his dream stick and shook it gently. “You both will return to the purification tent and remain there until summoned. We will eat the smoke of dreams once more. We will dance through its magic and pray for guidance. If it is will of Tabilit, a prophecy will be revealed to us. Then you may come before the Council and make your petition.”

  Without further deliberation, Shannivar and Zevaron were ushered back down the trail to the main encampment.

  Rhuzenjin and the others were still inside the purification tent, completing their own, lesser ordeal. One of the enarees, Shannivar couldn’t see which one, flipped the door flap closed with a decisive snap. One glance told her that the flap was tied down, weighted with warning bells and stones. The enarees were taking no chances this time.

  The fire had died to a mound of embers and ash, yet dreamsmoke still drenched the air. The others looked very much as she had last seen them, eyes half-closed, some rocking gently, caught in their own visions.

  Rhuzenjin roused as Shannivar sat down beside him. In the dim red light, he looked worried. “What happened?” he whispered. “Where did you go? What trouble has the outlander dragged you into?”

  The dreamsmoke stung Shannivar’s eyes and throat. She swallowed a cough. “It is a spirit matter. The enarees will make a prophecy about it.”

  “What did he do?” Rhuzenjin persisted.

  “Tell him,” Zevaron said grimly. He had evidently learned enough Azkhantian to follow the conversation.

  “He touched the stone-drake,” Shannivar said to Rhuzenjin.

  “He touched a thing pronounced taboo?” Rhuzenjin clenched his hands into fists, shoulders tensing.

  Zevaron’s eyes glinted in the uncertain light.

  “Leave him alone, Rhuzenjin. He did not do it merely to annoy you. His reasons have to do with the honor of his people. As it is, he has troubles enough, between this new evil arising in the north and the wrath of the enarees.”

  “Why are you are defending him?” Rhuzenjin shot back. “He has put you under an evil spell, forcing you to take his side!”

  Refusing to argue, Shannivar turned her back on Rhuzenjin and settled herself beside the door flap.
Zevaron hunkered down beside her, close but not touching. She felt him shivering and wondered if the stone-drake had set a fever on him. To give him courage, and because it was going to be a long, uncomfortable night, she touched his hand. His skin was smooth and surprisingly warm.

  Shannivar had more questions, a dozen, a hundred, but something in Zevaron’s manner, the undeniable effect the stone-drake had upon him, and the earnestness of his confusion stilled her tongue. She had not the heart to press him.

  The brief refreshment of the tea drunk on the promontory faded. The dreamsmoke worked on her, loosening her thoughts and her muscles. She had no strength or will to resist. She drifted on its currents.

  * * *

  Some time later, Shannivar jerked awake. Someone had pulled aside the door flap. Morning light streamed in, along with a gust of chill air. Rhuzenjin and the others were pulling on their clothes.

  “Come, come!” One of the enarees stood outside. “Your time is up. Do not linger!” Shannivar did not know him, but she thought he was of the Falcon clan. He was very young, too young to have completed his apprenticeship.

  As Rhuzenjin left, he scowled at Zevaron, sitting hunched beside the opening. The apprentice enaree handed in more wood and resin, gesturing for Shannivar to build up the fire again. Slowly, with hands made clumsy by dreamsmoke and thirst, she complied. Within a short time, billows filled the tent. Her eyes stung.

  Zevaron shook his head, as if to clear his vision. The movement set off a spasm of coughing.

  “It may be many hours before the enarees summon us,” Shannivar said. “Try not to fight the dreamsmoke. The visions are part of the purification. Perhaps you will learn something of value.”

  “I dare not sleep again.” He rubbed reddened eyes. “My dreams have been uneasy enough of late.”

  “Evil dreams can sometimes work upon a man and steal his courage, or lead him into foolish hopes,” Shannivar said, nodding agreement. “In such cases, it is better to stay awake.”

  She paused, considering. “Once you asked me for a song of my people, that you might better understand them. It would be disrespectful to sing at such a time as this, but will you not tell me of your home, some story of your people?”

  For a long moment, he was so still, she was not sure he had understood her. Perhaps the dreamsmoke had taken him suddenly, as it sometimes did. Then he lifted his head. His eyes reflected the glow of the fire.

  He began to speak, not in an ordinary voice but in a rhythmic chant, as if he were reciting one of the great story-poems, translated into trade-dialect. Shannivar felt herself carried along by the words, as she had when he recited the great story of his people to the enarees. Vivid images formed behind her eyes.

  She looked upon a land of mountains, a city of towers and market places, and a room filled with rainbow-hued light. Dancers lifted their hands to the sound of drums and cymbals and singing. A line of men and horses, many thousands of them, rode across a plain. Wind sent ripples through the sun-burnished grass. The men raised their swords. Brightness flashed from a thousand blades.

  Her vision paled. The plain fell away, and she stood in a place lapped by mist. A figure moved toward her, a woman. She could not make out the woman’s features, only her eyes. They glowed like bits of the sun. The woman folded her hands across her breasts. Cupping something between them, she stretched her hands out, but not to Shannivar. Rather, she reached through Shannivar to someone standing behind her. Shannivar’s body had become as insubstantial as the curling mists.

  Shannivar spun around to see the woman holding a golden sphere, then saw Zevaron reach out to take it. It seemed a perfectly innocent action, and yet, somewhere in the pit of Shannivar’s belly, she knew that to touch the sphere would change Zevaron forever. It would consume him, as surely as fire or death.

  Zevaron turned to her, and she saw with horror that his eyes now burned with the same fire as the woman’s. He tilted his head, his blind gaze searching for her. Then he opened his mouth, and she saw that his teeth had turned to jagged shards of ice. In an instant, frost coated his skin. Breath roared out of him, bitter as a winter storm.

  She whirled and sprinted away. The mists closed around her. With each step she took, the world around her grew brighter and colder, a chill that seared down to her bones. Everywhere she ran, that same ice-white figure appeared. She could not escape.

  He was everywhere and nowhere, this man who was Zevaron and not Zevaron, human and something infinitely more terrifying.

  Do not run.

  Shannivar stumbled, caught between surprise and disbelief. The voice—the words ringing so clearly in her mind—

  Do not run away.

  “Grandmother?” It sounded like the old woman, and yet with no hint of the quavery uncertainty of age. The voice was strong, strong as Saramark.

  Shannivar came to a halt. Frost coated her skin and yet, with the sound of that voice, familiar and not familiar, she no longer felt the cold.

  Do not run away. He is in terrible danger. He must not face it alone.

  With a gasp, Shannivar came back to herself. Her heart pounded in her ears. She shivered. The tent was dark except for the fading light of a few ash-coated embers. Zevaron lay on the other side of the banked fire, curled in on himself.

  Outside lay the sleeping camp, the dense stillness of earth and night sky. From the promontory came the faint chants of the enarees as they danced and sang, petitioning Tabilit and Onjhol for the true sight. The residue of dreamsmoke hung in the air, stinging her lungs. The taste of ashes filled her mouth, and her belly cramped with hunger. As she tried to settle herself, she heard Zevaron cry out.

  She wanted to go to him, to wrap him in her arms and feel the warmth of his skin, not the ice of her vision. She knew she should be ashamed to even imagine such a thing during a purification ritual. If she could not control her thoughts, at least she could behave properly. She turned her back on him and closed her eyes.

  After a time, she felt herself wandering through half-remembered territory, vast sweeps of plain and rising hills. She came upon a forest-lined river, an oasis of the steppe. Herds of horses, goats, and camels browsed along banks lush with new grass. None bore any halter or harness, and they gave no sign they were aware of her.

  Always before, her heart had risen in joy at the sight of the animals feeding so peacefully. Now, a wordless dread crept over her. Was this her fate, her personal prophecy, to sacrifice herself for the land and its creatures?

  Why were there no people at the oasis, no trace of riders or kinsmen?

  Chapter 19

  “WAKE up! Wake up!”

  Shannivar blinked awake at the voice. For a moment, she was not sure she had heard the summons or if it were the effects of the dreamsmoke. Gummy residue blurred her vision. Her stomach growled, leaden. When she tried to swallow, her mouth felt as if it were lined with felt. Moldy felt, at that. Muscles trembling, she crawled from the tent into the overcast dawn. Zevaron followed, looking as drained as she felt. The camp was peaceful. Smoke curled skyward from scattered dung-fires.

  Morning. Gathering. Enarees. Purification. Breakfast?

  Tabilit’s golden knees! The stone-drake! And the vision . . .

  “Come! Come!” A woman who looked older than Grandmother stood outside the tent. She pointed to Shannivar. One of the Antelope men was already leading Zevaron away.

  Trying her best not to show weakness, Shannivar followed the old woman to a jort on the periphery of the camp. A few children stared as they passed, then went back to their games.

  The painted symbols that surrounded the door were familiar—Ghost Wolf, Shannivar thought, and wondered how Ythrae and her suitor fared. Inside, she inhaled the familiar smells of incense and cedar chips. Platters of food, water skins, and implements for bathing had been laid out.

  “Drink, drink,” the old woman said, filling a horn cup and handing
it to Shannivar. Her accent was so thick and her words so garbled by missing teeth that she was barely intelligible. “Get strength back. Big council today, chieftains, enarees. Everyone.”

  Shannivar wished her head was not buzzing with a thousand insects. Was she to sleep here? As a guest or a prisoner? She sank to her knees. Her tongue felt thick and stupid. “Have the enarees received their prophecy, then?”

  The woman cackled. “Enarees, witch-men, all yesterday chanting, chanting, chanting, smoke-dancing. Prophecy, yes. Important prophecy, yes, yes. You look proper, do respect to gods. Drink now. Eat. No more questions.”

  Shannivar accepted the cup gratefully. The herb-laced water was cool and refreshing. She finished it all, then a second cup, more slowly. After disrobing as instructed, she knelt down. The old woman smeared her bare torso with a paste of cedar and frankincense, and massaged it in vigorously. Tension drained from Shannivar’s taut muscles. The mixture was warm, the old woman’s hands strong. The paste dried quickly, and the old woman scraped it off, leaving Shannivar’s skin soft and sweetly scented.

  Her clothes had been brushed clean and neatly folded. After she dressed, the old woman combed out her hair and rebraided it, then presented her with a bowl of barley boiled to a mush and laced with dried fruit and bits of smoked rabbit. The old woman nodded approvingly as Shannivar devoured the food, thinking she had never tasted anything so delicious in her life. Her head cleared as she regained her strength, and the last effects of the dreamsmoke faded.

  Outside, the campsite hummed with activity. A few clans, having no further business, were breaking down their tents for the journeys back to their own territories. Once the chieftains had met for their final session, the khural would end.

  Shannivar had run out of time and not yet found a husband.

  That was never your fate, my child, a voice whispered, but whether it came from Tabilit or Grandmother or some other power, she could not tell.