Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  * * *

  At the Council pavilion, the chieftains and elders had already assembled, seated on their camel-skin stools. The Rabbit clan enaree stood behind Tenoshinakh, but the other shamans had not yet arrived. Although the audience was smaller than before, everyone from the Golden Eagle contingent was present, including Danar and the Isarrans. The Snow Bear tribesmen stood apart from the others. Their worn, trail-stained garments and haggard expressions contrasted with the general mood of festivity that usually accompanied the close of the khural.

  Zevaron waited among those to be judged. Like Shannivar, he wore the shirt of one who has emerged from a purification tent, and his hair had been oiled and braided in Azkhantian fashion. He looked strikingly handsome, but smudges of exhaustion ringed his eyes. Catching her glance, he gave a quick nod. Darkness hung about him, a barely perceptible shadow, or perhaps that was only a blurring of her own eyesight.

  The session opened with the usual ceremony. The Rabbit clan enaree offered invocations and prayers to Tabilit for wisdom. Then, before the assembled dignitaries, Ythrae and the Ghost Wolf son, whose name was Tarabey, married one another in the style of warriors in the field, called an “arrow-wedding.” A generation ago, before Ar-Cinath-Gelon’s ambitions spurred wave after wave of Gelonian invasions, arrow-weddings had been rare. Most nuptial ceremonies had been formal affairs, “fire-weddings” arranged by both families. A couple such as Ythrae and Tarabey would have returned to their respective homes, and their parents would engage in protracted negotiations that, if all went well, culminated in three days of feasting and ritual. Constant raiding created uncertain futures, so the old battlefield tradition—binding together an arrow from each one’s quiver, then shooting the arrow into a fire—had become more common.

  After the arrows were tied together, Ythrae handed them to Tarabey, in token that she would now lay down her own bow, becoming wife rather than warrior. He shot the arrows cleanly into the fire, and everyone shouted out their approval.

  Shannivar cheered with the others, offering wishes of luck, fertility, and long life to the new bride, but her heart was not in it. To make matters worse, Rhuzenjin was watching her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.

  The Council listened to a few late complaints, an accusation of a curse laid upon a camel, a quarrel arising from insults hurled after drinking too much k’th, and a disputed price of a saddle. Since these matters had arisen during the gathering, here they must be resolved or else wait until next year. The claimants accepted the verdicts quietly, without discussion, as if they cared more to have the matter done with than to prevail.

  Speaking on behalf of the Snow Bear tribesmen, Chinjizhin son of Khinukoth asked for whatever help might be supplied to his party. They had traveled long and far with an onerous burden. Freely the Council offered food for their return journey, as well as fodder for their beasts and a few small luxuries for the clan—bone hair combs, crystallized honey, and tea.

  Shannivar contemplated requesting to join another clan, Ghost Wolf perhaps or Badger, as an unmarried warrior. It was an unusual move but not without precedent. The songs mentioned several such examples. She was still undecided when Tenoshinakh motioned her forward. She bowed respectfully, tapping her right fist over her heart, and wished the Council a lucky day.

  “Shannivar daughter of Ardellis of the Golden Eagle clan,” Tenoshinakh addressed her, “have you undergone the rite of purification, according to the traditions of our people and the command of the enarees?”

  “I have done so,” Shannivar replied formally.

  “Then you may return to your place free from any obligation, your honor clear.”

  “I wish to remain with the outlander, Zevaron of Meklavar, until his own case is decided. It was by my decision as party-leader that he stands here among us.”

  “He is a grown man, even though he is not one of us,” said Uncle Sagdovan. “By law and custom, he is responsible for his own actions.” The other members nodded their agreement.

  Shannivar bowed again to the Council. With those words, they had already accorded Zevaron a certain degree of respect. A true outlander—one who had no honor—would have been dismissed outright.

  Tenoshinakh spoke again, asking Zevaron the same question he had asked Shannivar. Zevaron replied that he had completed the purification rite. He spoke halting Azkhantian, stumbling from time to time over an unfamiliar word. Shannivar wondered how long it had taken him to rehearse the speech. After a hesitation, he asked permission to address the Council.

  A few members of the audience, Rhuzenjin among them, muttered their disapproval. This ignorant outlander had broken the taboo, thereby proving that he had no sense of proper behavior. Shannivar glared at them.

  “We will hear what the outlander has to say,” Tenoshinakh said, putting an end to the discussion. “Then we will judge the worth of his words.”

  Zevaron came to stand directly in front of the Council. He bowed, first in the manner of his own people, then with one fist over his heart. The stern expressions of several Council members, notably Sagdovan, gave way to guarded approval. “I had long heard of the courage and ferocity of the Azkhantian clans,” Zevaron began, speaking trade-dialect. “Now that I have seen with my own eyes, I know the stories to be true.”

  This seemed to please the chieftains. During the khural, Zevaron had comported himself honorably, with a craftiness that had earned him the approval of some.

  “Perhaps someday,” Zevaron said, “Azkhantia and Meklavar will unite in common cause. Until that time, I ask you to consider me a friend to Azkhantia.” He was not repeating the mistake of the Isarrans in trying to cozen them into an alliance with all the benefit on one side and all the risk on the other. “A matter has arisen that concerns both our peoples. I speak of the stone-drake brought here by the Snow Bear clan. You have seen it for yourselves. You know this is no an ordinary, harmless thing, but an object tainted by malignant supernatural influences.”

  Tenoshinakh’s quick glance questioned the Rabbit clan enaree, who had thus far listened immobile and stony-faced. “Nothing the outlander says is untrue,” the shaman admitted. “The stone lizard is but the forerunner of a greater evil to come. All the omens are sinister.” He paused. “We suspect it is a creature of Olash-giyn-Olash, the Shadow of Shadows.”

  Hearing these words, it seemed to Shannivar that a shadow passed over the assembly, bearing a chill of the spirit. Familiar faces turned strange, for a moment both desolate and terrible. Whispers rustled through the crowd like the first intimations of a winter blizzard.

  The Shadow of Shadows.

  “My own people have knowledge of such things.” Zevaron spoke out of turn, but in a manner so calm and respectful that no one objected. “That is why I have begged leave of your wise men to travel to the north to discover what more may be learned. I ask now for your permission as well.”

  Before any response could be made, Bennorakh and the remaining enarees marched single-file into the hearing-place. Shannivar could read little in their stern visages. The audience grew very still. The usual comments and scuffling, each person elbowing his neighbor aside for a better place, died down. No one wanted to miss what came next.

  Tenoshinakh asked, “What prophecy have you received regarding the stone-drake?”

  The head shaman turned to face the Council. He rattled his dream stick so fiercely that the assembled men and women drew back. Glaring first at Zevaron, then Shannivar, he lifted his arms and began to speak. Phrase after phrase rumbled like summer thunder from his mouth. Shannivar did her best to translate for Zevaron:

  “When the city lies in shadow

  A fire burns in the snow.

  Blood flows across the steppe.

  The horse gallops on the edge of a knife.

  When the heir to gold is drowned,

  He returns with treasure.

  When the heir to ligh
t goes to the mountain,

  He does not return.

  When the woman finds what is lost,

  She gives it to the stranger.

  Thus the gods have spoken to us.”

  When the enaree came to a halt, Zevaron whispered, “Ask him if this means I have their permission to investigate.”

  “Investigate? Investigate what?” she hissed.

  “The stone-drake, of course,” he shot back. “Where it came from, the broken mountains where the white star fell—everything!”

  When Shannivar translated the question, the head enaree answered, “If the outlander goes to the north, he will fail. His gods are not our gods. Tabilit does not spread her blessings over him, nor does Onjhol lend his strong right arm except to our own kind.”

  “What did he say?” Zevaron asked in trade-dialect.

  “You will not find what you seek, says the prophecy.” Shannivar turned back to the enaree. “What have you seen? What will happen to my friend?”

  “If he goes to the north,” the enaree repeated, “a terrible fate will befall us all.”

  “He sees disaster for more than you yourself,” Shannivar said to Zevaron.

  “Does he forbid me to go? Will he stand in my way?”

  He reminded her of a great hunting cat, not a lion but something sleeker, swifter. Deadlier. She remembered how he had dealt with the Isarran bodyguard and his light, inexorable touch on her wrist. He would find a way to the north, with or without permission. Something in his bleak determination, his aloneness, struck a resonant chord in Shannivar. If he had no clan to ride at his back, neither did she.

  When Shannivar conveyed Zevaron’s question, the enaree shook his head. “This is a matter for gods, not men. We do not command. We speak only of the visions they have sent us.”

  “What fate did you see?” she persisted. “If there is an enemy in the north, should we not ride out to meet it?” The horse gallops on the edge of a knife . . .

  The Rabbit clan enaree made a warding sign and struck the ground with his dream stick. The rabbit bones clashed together with a hollow sound.

  “Are there not many meanings in even the simplest prophecy?” Bennorakh turned to his senior enaree. “Could it be possible that this outlander has come to fulfill it, to draw out its poison as from a festering wound?”

  “The stone lizard and the power it embodies bode ill for Azkhantia.” Tenoshinakh’s gaze flickered to Zevaron and then to the Rabbit clan shaman. “Might we avert the curse by sending it beyond our borders?”

  The corners of the Rabbit clan enaree’s mouth drew down. Clearly, he wished the stone-drake to remain where it was, guarded by shamanic magic.

  As she translated, Shannivar appreciated Zevaron’s timing. Now it seemed as if he were offering his service to the clans instead of begging their favor.

  Tenoshinakh went apart with the other chieftains for a brief conference. The audience turned to one another, discussing the situation in hushed, expectant voices.

  “What is going on?” Zevaron asked Shannivar.

  “Tenoshinakh is looking for a way to divert the curse from the clans,” she explained. “He thinks that if you go to the north, you will take it with you. The only problem is the prophecy.”

  “That I am doomed to failure, and that some catastrophe will befall me?” His eyes, as he met her gaze, were full of darkness, but she could not make out any fear. “I am certain of one thing. If I do not go, something terrible will indeed come to pass. Perhaps it will, whether I go or not. But I have no choice. I am summoned. I cannot turn away from this destiny, regardless of the outcome.”

  She stared at him, stung by his sense of dreadful purpose. What did he see with those haunted eyes? An army of stone-drakes, an upsetting of all natural order? Surely he could not think a mortal could defeat such a force. Arrows could not bring down monsters of rock and fire, and a sword could not prevail against the Shadow of Shadows. He bowed his head, and Shannivar could almost hear his thought, The curse has already fallen upon me.

  “From here, your way is clear,” Zevaron had said to Danar, that night in the darkness. “Mine is not.”

  Now it was.

  Something stirred within Shannivar, admiration for this man of Meklavar and a feeling she could not name.

  Zevaron once more faced the Council. His gaze encompassed not only the chieftains and elders, but the enarees as well.

  “If you go to the north, the curse might well fall upon you,” Tenoshinakh said. “Are you prepared to take that risk?

  “I must go, regardless of the cost.” Zevaron’s voice was so resonant with unspoken passion that no one could mistake his meaning, even without Shannivar’s translation. “I prefer to do so with your blessing.”

  “You have our leave to travel as you wish throughout the steppe,” Tenoshinakh announced, “so long as you do no harm to man or beast.”

  “I promise,” Zevaron said. He went to the Snow Bear men and saluted them. “Will you take me to your country and show me where you found this thing?”

  “We will undertake to guide the outlander, if it is the will of the Council,” their chief answered.

  Tenoshinakh grunted. “Now, who goes with him, for he is a stranger among us and does not know the ways of the steppe?”

  The audience shuffled back a few steps. “The outlander claims this spirit matter belongs to his own people,” someone said. “What has it to do with us?”

  “It is not proper to interfere.”

  “Why should we share the curse? He is not our kin.”

  “The stone-dweller has taken this burden upon himself. It is the will of Tabilit.”

  “It is his own rashness, his own thirst for glory speaking. Then let him suffer the consequences.”

  They were justifying themselves, Shannivar knew. Cowards. They would send one man—a stranger and outlander—where they themselves fear to go. Why did Tenoshinakh not chastise the men for their timidity? Did he intend Zevaron to perish alone?

  Perhaps that was exactly what the chieftain planned. Zevaron would carry away the curse with him when he died. The prophecy would be satisfied, for he certainly would not return, and no clansman would suffer.

  Shannivar was so furious, so embarrassed at the cowardice of her own people, that for a long moment she could not speak, for fear she might burst out in a tirade against the Council, the enarees, and anyone else who was too spineless to seize this chance for a glorious adventure. Then she came to her senses, realizing that they were only doing what they had always done—acting prudently for the good of their people. It had never been their way to involve themselves with outlanders, and they saw no reason to do so now.

  It seemed to Shannivar that all her life, she had longed to prove her valor, to accomplish feats worthy of Saramark herself, and now Tabilit had chosen her for this task. Once again, she heard the voice of her dreamsmoke vision: Do not run away. He is in terrible danger. He must not face it alone.

  She came to stand beside Zevaron and raised her voice so that everyone could hear. “I, Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, will go with the outlander!”

  Chapter 20

  EXPRESSIONS of surprise greeted Shannivar’s announcement. Rhuzenjin cried out, “No, not you!”

  “I am a warrior of the steppe,” Shannivar went on, her voice soaring above his protest. “My horses are swift and my arrows fly true. I am not afraid. I will do this thing, and I will return covered in glory!”

  Zevaron, at her side, said, “Shannivar, you do not have to—”

  She cut him off with a gesture. This was not the time for private conversation, for explanations and misgivings and negotiation.

  A hush settled over both the onlookers and the Council. Even Rhuzenjin fell silent. The enarees stood as witnesses, neither giving nor withholding their blessing. Zevaron’s quest had already passed from the
ir hands.

  Tenoshinakh nodded gravely. “Then the matter is concluded in honor. May Tabilit guide your steps and may Onjhol of the Silver Bow grant you his strength.”

  With these words, he rose to signal that the session was over. People turned to their neighbors, chattering away about this latest news. Shannivar had no doubt that by the time each clan returned to their own territory, the story of the stone-drake and the outlander would have grown. As for the stone-drake itself, the enarees would decide how best to safeguard it.

  With the end of the formal hearing, the assembly began to disperse. Uncle Sagdovan approached Shannivar with words of encouragement, as did several others, so that within a few moments, she found herself surrounded by well-wishers and those curious about her. No one attempted to dissuade her, for to do so would be to go against the will of the Council. At another time, Shannivar would have felt uncomfortable being the center of so much attention. She was an arrow in Tabilit’s bow, and her dreams of glory arose from the goddess, not her own limited self. The crowd was useful in keeping Rhuzenjin calm. He would not embarrass himself by airing his personal feelings in so public a setting.

  Shannivar answered questions and accepted wishes for luck until her audience drifted away. Rhuzenjin watched her pass as she strode off.

  She would not look at him. Zevaron and Danar were deep in conversation. Danar, clearly unhappy, gesticulated emphatically, and Zevaron shook his head. Shannivar recognized that stubborn expression. She did not think there was anything Danar could say, or any persuasion or threat he could bring to bear, that would change Zevaron’s mind, especially now that she had committed herself to go with him.

  Although the Council had concluded its affairs, the day was yet young. Those clans that had come the greatest distances began preparations for departure on the following day. Old men sat in the shelter of the reed mats, drinking tea. Billows of dust and distant whoops from the playing fields indicated the final games.