Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  In the horse field, a few men were inspecting one animal or another, clearly engaged in some friendly trading. Shannivar recognized the old man from the Long Ride. He held the lead line of the young sorrel he had ridden. With a grin, he swung himself on to the horse’s bare back and, using weight and a nudge of his knees, set the sorrel trotting in a circle. She remembered his words, “I have already won,” and realized the same held true for herself. Tabilit had not sent her to the khural simply to win a horse race or to choose a husband.

  At Shannivar’s approach, Eriu nickered, clearly hopeful of another adventure. His summer coat was smooth and glossy. The weal left by Kharemikhar’s whip was healing fast. She pressed her cheek against his neck and inhaled deeply, as if she could draw his solid animal strength into her lungs.

  Radu ambled over, sedate as always, and lipped a stray strand of Shannivar’s hair as if to say, Silly two-legs, aren’t we going riding?

  “Not today,” Shannivar murmured, stroking the sleek dun shoulder. “Enjoy your rest.”

  She saddled and bridled the black, then rode him at a walk to the playing field. He moved a little stiffly, but the gentle exercise would be good for limbering up any strained muscles. She promised herself not to demand too much from him.

  She found a good spot from which to watch, not too near the other mounted viewers. Ythrae gestured a greeting while keeping her attention on the game. By now, the playing fields had been trampled so many times, the earth was packed hard. Scattered cheering came from the onlookers, most of them mounted. In the middle of the field, surrounded by a cloud of dust, a knot of riders scrimmaged over possession of a pole. A dusty, tattered felt hat had been tied to one end. Clearly, it had been dropped and ridden over a number of times, and from the enthusiastic cheers of the contestants, the game was a heated one. Contests on horseback had few if any formal rules, so anyone on the sidelines might spontaneously join in. In the heat of the competition, the players often changed sides.

  One of the onlookers circled his restive horse, then galloped onto the field. His friends cried out in encouragement. Almost immediately, Eriu was infected with the excitement of the game. He pawed the dry dirt. Shannivar patted his neck sympathetically. If he had not run the Long Ride just a few days before, she might have taken part in the hat game. It was unusual but not unheard-of for women to compete with men in this particular event, where strength and size counted less than riding skill.

  The current possessor of the hat was Tarabey, Ythrae’s new husband. He rode a spotted horse, bright sorrel and creamy white, and was grinning broadly. He broke free of the others and wheeled his horse toward the goal, two standards set at the end of the field. But he was too slow, too full of himself and the exhilaration of having seized the prize. Another rider was after him in an instant, the Badger clan woman who had done so well in the Long Ride. This time, she rode a different horse, a tall, leggy bay. She looked like a child, clinging to its back.

  Zevaron joined the onlookers. He met her gaze and walked over to her, moving slowly like a man approaching a skittish horse. “I appreciate the gesture of support,” he said, a little diffidently, “but I would not have you—you are under no obligation to me.”

  “We are not all cowards!” Shannivar said, surprised at the heat in her own voice.

  “I never said that you were.”

  “Listen to me, Zevaron Outlander. I believe that this thing, this stone-drake, concerns us as much as it does you. Even if it did not, you have been a guest among us. You have acted with honor and have made amends for your mistakes. It shames me that my own people are so lacking in courage they let an outlander venture, alone and friendless, where they dare not go. I would not have it said of us that we are too timid to search out an enemy in our own lands.”

  “Even so, it was not necessary for you to volunteer.”

  “You cannot travel to the north alone,” she pointed out. “It is too dangerous for anyone not wise in the ways of the steppe.”

  His face closed. “I will find a way.” Again, he rubbed his chest, as if to ease some deep, abiding pain.

  “You misunderstand me,” she said, gentling her tone. “I meant only that you need someone who knows how to live on the steppe. How to hunt, where to find water and shelter, when to rest, how to read the skies for direction, how to tell which plants can be eaten and which are poison.”

  He stood very still, his gaze straight ahead, fixed on the game.

  “I chose this quest freely,” she repeated. “It is as much mine as it is yours.” She smiled. “They will sing songs about our valor for generations to come.”

  “I do not do this for fame,” he answered, and Shannivar thought he also meant, I did not choose it, either. To that, she had no answer.

  They watched as the game proceeded to a round of cheering. Tarabey had seen his danger and was making a run for it. He pummeled the sides of his horse with his heels. The horse surged forward, spotted hide gleaming over bunching muscles. An instant later, the long-legged bay had caught up with him.

  “I’m a little surprised to see the festivities continue,” Zevaron remarked.

  “The khural won’t officially end until the enarees give the blessing of leave-taking,” Shannivar explained, grateful to have an uncontroversial topic. “That’s tomorrow. For today, we have the last of the games, as you see, and everyone runs around, saying farewells.”

  The Badger clan woman leaned over, her movements neat and deft, and snatched the pole with the hat. The bay whirled with amazing speed for such a large horse and sprinted for the other goal. The onlookers hooted in approval.

  Tarabey started after her. The other riders followed in a bunch. A moment later, the Badger woman galloped between the standards.

  Flushed with excitement, Tarabey trotted his horse to where Ythrae waited. He didn’t seem upset by the loss. On the contrary, his good nature and the distraction of the game had erased his former shyness.

  Ythrae glowed with happiness as he flirted with her. She looked on her new husband with the same pride as if he had won a hundred games. There would, Shannivar reflected, be the usual difficulties of an arrow-wedding—the frictions of joining a new family, of pleasing a new and unknown mother-in-law. But the couple seemed well-matched, and there was no reason why they should not be happy.

  Watching them, Shannivar felt even more isolated than before. She had seen enough loveless marriages to know how rare this mutual delight was. She had also seen the longing in the eyes of the widowed in unguarded moments. Was it worse to be alone than to share one’s jort, bear children, and grow old in an uneasy, loveless marriage? Mirrimal had said no, but Mirrimal was dead. She would never face the long years of solitude.

  Eriu pulled at the bit, frustrated at standing still when the other horses were having so much fun. Shannivar dismounted, took firm hold of his reins, and led him back in the direction of the horse fields. Zevaron followed.

  “I saw you at the horse fields earlier,” he said. “It looked like there was some horse dealing going on. Would you help me acquire a pack animal? I have a little money. It’s from Gelon, but the gold is good.”

  Shannivar agreed to help him, although she refrained from saying that the only use anyone of the steppe had for Gelonian gold was to melt it down into something else, not to mention that Azkhantians did not sell their horses to foreigners.

  Together they walked back to the encampment, discussing what they must prepare, what to take and what to send either with Danar or with the returning Golden Eagle party. Shannivar had her own jort, her horses, her bow, and her knowledge of how to live off the land. She could legitimately take the camel as her share of the clan’s herds, or two of the pack ponies. On the other hand, Ythrae was also entitled to a share and had far greater skill in managing the camel. Shannivar smiled to herself. Given a choice, she would far rather deal with ponies.

  Shannivar and Zevaron a
rrived back at the clan encampment. In Shannivar’s absence, the others had prepared for departure. All that remained now was to fold the tents, take down the jorts, and load the pack animals. The Isarran party was almost ready to leave. Leanthos was clearly anxious to return to his homeland. Danar waited with them. When he saw Zevaron’s expression, his own reflected his disappointment.

  Zevaron said something in Gelone, at which Danar shook his head and replied kindly. Shannivar recognized the word for friend. Ashamed at overhearing yet another private conversation, she turned away. The two men must exchange their farewells in privacy.

  “Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, I would speak with you!” Rhuzenjin had been attending to his tent. He waited until she left Zevaron to his friend before approaching her. Her heart sank when she saw his expression. Her mind was clear that she had not deliberately given him false hope, but now she wished she had done more to discourage his attention.

  “May your day be lucky,” she replied.

  “Have you gone mad?” Rhuzenjin blurted, without further preamble. “Or has the outlander cast an evil spell on you, to cause you to abandon your own people?”

  Shannivar made an impatient gesture at his rudeness. Clearly, he wasn’t going to part ways in a dignified manner. “Keep your voice down, Rhuzenjin son of Semador! Do you seriously think a stone-dweller who rides like a sack of rotten k’th and barely knows how to string a bow could induce me to do anything I did not want to do? I’m going as his guide, of my own free will.”

  “He has seduced you, bound you to him with forbidden sorcery—forced you! That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Shannivar’s temper flared. “Tabilit’s silver ass! There is far more at stake here than your broken heart! You saw the stone-drake, you heard the story told by Chinjizhin son of Khinukoth. You witnessed the prophecy of the enarees.”

  She lowered her voice and fixed him with a direct gaze. “Something evil stirs in the mountains to the north. Is it Olash-giyn-Olash, the Shadow of Shadows? I don’t know, and neither do you. The outlander says he is spirit-called by this thing. I believe him. I saw him when he touched it. I felt its power. Should he go alone to defend all of us? Should we cower in our jorts like frightened rabbits? Or should one of us ride out to meet this evil with him, whatever it might be?”

  “But you, Shannivar, you must not risk yourself!”

  “Risk? I am a warrior of the steppe, a daughter of the Golden Eagle. No man has the right to tell me what I must or must not risk. I have stood against the Gelon. I will face this enemy as well.”

  “You must return home,” Rhuzenjin went on, his eyes dark with pleading, “with me.”

  What could she say? She did not want to be cruel. “I will never return to the clan of the Golden Eagle,” she said, as kindly as she could manage. “If I have seemed to encourage you, it was without my conscious intent, and I am sorry.”

  Over Rhuzenjin’s protests, she said, “We will speak no more of the matter. Nothing you say will dissuade me, and I cannot promise anything that will put your mind at rest. Life is as Tabilit wills it.”

  “Life is as we make it.”

  He was right, but Shannivar refused to be drawn in. “I must confer with Chinjizhin son of Khinukoth regarding travel conditions, so that I can better divide the gear and pack animals. While I am gone, will you help Zevaron and make sure he has suitable travel gear for the north?”

  She was offering Rhuzenjin the chance to show himself magnanimous, to act as a friend and kinsman. He shook his head, his lips white and tense.

  “I will not aid you in this folly.”

  He strode away, and Shannivar watched him go. She had not meant to injure him, and saw now that his hurt was deep. There seemed no remedy she could offer. To say she wished their friendship to continue would only make things worse. Time and the blessing of Tabilit must ease his pain.

  Danar and Leanthos each thanked Shannivar for her efforts on their behalf. As a token of their friendship, and because she genuinely wished the young Gelon well, she presented him with the yellow silk scarf that had been the gift from the Denariyan trader. His eyes lit up when he saw it, for he clearly recognized what it was. He touched it to his lips and then hung it around his neck. Shannivar smothered a giggle, for it looked almost comical, so bright and cheerful against the drabness of his clothing. It was as good a farewell as any.

  Then Danar and the Isarrans turned the noses of their mounts to the south. They left a pile of supplies, everything they could spare, for Zevaron.

  Shannivar showed Zevaron how to sort and pack the goods they would take, blankets and jackets, wool hats, gear for hunting and then cooking what they had caught, a small axe, a jar of oil, skins of water and k’th, packets of herbs, dried meat and bha, and supplies for mending the harness. Zevaron also carried a small kit with soap, cloths, and a razor for shaving, which Shannivar thought a bizarre and unnecessary custom.

  The night being warm, she curled up in her blanket under the sky, apart from the remaining attendees. Someone had left one of the reed screens up, but the wind had died down. A fragrance rose from the earth, the musty sweetness of late summer. Around her, she heard sounds of people settling down to sleep, soft talking, a woman’s laughter. Already, she seemed to belong to them no longer.

  She would have had to leave Golden Eagle clan in one way or another. All things changed in their season. Girls became women and then wives and then grandmothers, and in the end, they lived on only in the memories of those who came after them. She sang to herself of Saramark, who had lived so long ago, and wondered who would sing of her.

  The familiar sounds of a camp readying for sleep, and the deeper silence of the earth, had no answer for her.

  “Shannivar?” Zevaron pitched his voice low, to avoid disturbing the other sleepers. He made her name sound like something beautiful.

  “I am still awake.” She sat up. The blanket fell from her shoulders. Although she still wore her shirt and trousers, as was the custom on the trail and in khural, she felt naked.

  The darkness revealed more than it hid. On all their nights on the trail, they had never been this close. Zevaron moved like a liquid shadow to kneel before her. She had no fear of him, only a sense of anticipation.

  “I thank you for all you have done, everything you—” His words caught in his throat. She felt his breath, quick and hot.

  Before she could react, he took both her hands, turned them over, and kissed each palm.

  Shannivar pulled away, startled. She had never felt anything so soft, so stirring, as the touch of his lips on her skin. Heat flooded her blood.

  In the dark, she felt the shadow fall across his eyes once more. She thought she would drown in those secret depths, that her heart would break utterly open.

  In an instant, he was gone. It was a long time before she could sleep.

  * * *

  Shannivar woke to a milky gray morning, well before the sun had cleared the horizon. Tatters of her dreams clung to her like wisps of fog. She took down the jort and finished packing away its contents. Rhuzenjin evidently had second thoughts and relented enough to help load the gear on the ponies. He said very little and would not look her in the face. She decided to treat his helpfulness as an apology.

  She frowned as he added an additional pack to one of the beasts. “That is not ours,” she said, bracing herself to refuse his parting gift.

  “It is mine,” came Bennorakh’s voice, behind her. He held the reins of his own horse. His dream stick was tied to the saddle.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Do you think you can go off on a spirit journey, tracking down something as dangerous as that stone-drake, by yourself? Not even you, Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, can face such a trial unprotected.”

  PART IV:

  Shannivar’s Hunt

  Chapter 21

  AS Shannivar, Zevaron, a
nd Bennorakh journeyed northeast with the Snow Bear men, the rising sun slanted across their eyes. Overhead arched the endless sky, clear as far as the eye could follow. Beyond the trampled earth of the gathering place, the late summer grasses rose lush and tall. Feathergrass, sage, and wild barley covered the gently rising hills. Here and there, strawflowers dusted the horizon with yellow or purple. A scent rose up from the earth, musty and sweet. The horses bent their heads to snatch stalks heavy with grain.

  The days had already begun to grow shorter, for midsummer was past, but there was yet light enough to travel many hours each day. The nights were mild as the land slowly released its heat.

  They traveled slowly, for the reindeer had not yet recovered from their arduous trek, and the Snow Bear men on their shaggy little tundra horses were in hardly better condition. Shannivar did not attempt to draw them into conversation beyond the ordinary exchanges of finding water, setting up camp, caring for the animals, and sharing their evening meal. They seemed weary in spirit, worn down by worry. Shannivar noted the glassy look in their eyes as they gazed north, and the slight hesitation of their hands on reins or harness.

  Zevaron had made no attempt to repeat the kiss. The memory faded until she wondered if she had imagined the warmth of his lips on her palms. Perhaps she had taken his thanks and exaggerated it into something more.

  She did not want Zevaron for a husband. She did not want any man to be the purpose of her life. Tabilit had opened her eyes to this warrior’s quest, and it was to Tabilit alone that Shannivar owed her devotion. If it were the will of the goddess to weave Shannivar’s life journey with Zevaron’s for a time, she would comply with pleasure, but if their ways parted . . . She hoped for the singleness of spirit to hear only the commands of the Mother of Horses. And the strength to obey.

  Let me go where you send me, with a warrior’s honor, she prayed. Let me never look back.

  The Snow Bear chieftain, Chinjizhin, and his men treated Zevaron with courtesy. In his faltering Azkhantian, Zevaron offered thanks for being allowed to travel with them. They glanced away, uncomprehending and a little embarrassed. Even Chinzhukog son of Chinjizhin, who was more open in his manner than the others, looked uncomfortable. Surely, Shannivar thought, Zevaron must realize that the Snow Bear chieftain acted not out of his own choice, but in the service of the Council, the enarees, and Tabilit herself. To thank him made as much sense as praising an arrow or a saddle. She let the matter rest; she was Zevaron’s guide, not the guardian of his manners.