Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  “A mighty shot!” Chinzhukog cried. The other hunters shouted in praise.

  Ignoring the cheers, Zevaron jumped to the ground and crouched at the edge of the ravine, peering down at the fallen ildu’amar. His face had fallen into shadow. One of the hunters made a crude comment that the outlander must never have seen a dead animal of that size before, that he must surely be filled with terror. Ignoring the heckler, Zevaron strode along the rocky margin.

  A moment later, he found a ramp of eroded rock and fallen debris. Before Shannivar could stop him, he plunged down the slope. Only a madman would have attempted it, for the angle was impossibly steep. The footing, unsure, collapsed beneath him in a rush of stones and dust. He landed neatly on his feet at the bottom.

  “Zevaron!” Shannivar called. “What are you doing?”

  He gave no sign he had heard her, any more than he had noticed the hunter who’d taunted him. Instead, he hurried to the side of the motionless giant. An arm’s length away, his steps slowed, as if some invisible force held him at bay. Eyes narrowing, he bent closer to the great beast, peering at each of the glistening wounds. As he circled around and returned again, she imagined him caught in a spiral current that carried him ever closer to the carcass. One of the hunters made a half-hearted joke that there was nothing more to be done, for the beast was already dead, but no one laughed. Only the restless movements of the horses and the scuffle of Zevaron’s boots on the tumbled stone broke the silence.

  Eriu stood like a statue, unmoving except for an occasional tremor through his muscles. Shannivar watched Zevaron even more closely, saw the spot to which he returned again and again, and focused her attention there. Something in his posture, the way he seemed drawn to the unmoving sword-nose, sent an alarm through her. She had seen him like this before, intent as a stalking cloud leopard, as he had approached the stone-drake. That had been a thing of cursed magic, but this poor dead animal, on the other hand, with its strange injuries . . .

  Those frost-rimmed burns.

  The sword-nose been mutilated by the same unnatural forces that created the stone-drake and left the pony a twisted carcass. “Zevaron, no! Wait!” she cried out, even as his hand reached out toward the mangled hide.

  For a fraction of a second, Zevaron froze, palm flat against the side of the ildu’amar. Then golden light flashed beneath his skin. She caught only a glimpse of that subtle radiance—his bared hand and forearm, and the side of one cheek, yet she felt the power as if in her own body. Power and recognition.

  He stood up, slow and silent, and turned toward her. The air around him shimmered, gold shading into silver.

  A mist billowed up behind her eyes, muting everything she saw—the ravine, the riders on the far side, forest and sky and broken rock, her own arrow still protruding from the eye-socket of the ildu’amar, Zevaron himself.

  Something condensed in the swirling brightness. Shannivar’s breath stuttered as she caught the shape of a magnificent horse, silver-white on white. Its mane flowed like a river of milk, and its eyes gleamed like slivers of sun. On its back sat a woman, a tantalizingly familiar woman, who lifted one arm in warning. But whether she was Grandmother or Mirrimal or Tabilit herself, Shannivar could not make out.

  The next instant, the vision had vanished, as had the golden light beneath Zevaron’s skin. A stench rose up from the ravine, of flesh long rotted, and beneath it the reek of something even more foul. Eriu threw up his head, snorting in outrage. One of the hunters cursed loudly.

  Zevaron, his mouth twisting in an expression of nausea, retraced his steps to the steep trail. Sliding and scrambling, he climbed out of the ravine.

  “We’ll get no meat from that unholy-dead-thing,” Chinzhukog said, using the term that referred to the most serious taboo, a death that poisoned anyone who came into contact with it.

  “Should we bring branches, so that the sight of it will not offend the Sky People?” one of the hunters asked, although by his inflection, he was deeply reluctant to come any closer.

  After a quick conference, it was decided to leave the beast where it had fallen and to depart as quickly as possible while they still could.

  “Shannivar, will your horse jump across to us?” Chinzhukog called.

  Shannivar was unwilling to ask Eriu for another such leap, even if it were not over the body of the ildu’amar. “I will find an easier crossing.”

  She rode a short distance north and found a place where the ravine narrowed. Eriu jumped it without problem, and they rejoined the others.

  For a time, the party rode on in silence. The day was rapidly drawing to a close. They were tired and far from home, their horses snorting at shadows. They had taken no prey, and Chinzhukog did not want to return without meat, as much for the morale of the hunters as for the needs of the kishlak.

  They camped northern style, in a single shelter for hunters and horses alike, assembled from downed branches. Simple trail food, bha and parched grain boiled in melted snow, furnished their evening meal. The horses were allowed to browse, pawing through the drifted snow and leaves, and then were led into the shelter. The tundra horses had been trained to lie down in a circle, warming the air and keeping off the worst of the wind from the sleepers. Radu refused to enter the shelter, and Shannivar doubted the mare would have lain down willingly. As for Eriu, he paced in the manner of a stallion who scents a cloud leopard, and she judged it best to let him stand guard, unhobbled.

  Shannivar lingered in the last glimmering light outside the shelter. She felt more weary than usual, even after a hard ride. Her breasts ached. Above, clouds muffled the stars. The snow glowed faintly, like blue glass from Denariya.

  Zevaron came to stand beside her. Something in the fallen sword-nose had troubled him, and something inside him, that fleeting golden glisten, had answered.

  “I cannot wait for spring,” he said after a long moment of silence. “I must go north without delay.”

  She heard the truth in his words, felt it shiver through all the world around. This she had already known.

  An unspoken question hung in the air between them. A hunger, far deeper than the passion of their bodies.

  She answered it, “Then I will go with you.”

  Chapter 25

  THE hunting party returned to the wintering-place late the next day, their horses laden with the carcasses of two wild goats. The women took away the meat to prepare it, while the men lingered, bristling with curiosity. Shannivar and Zevaron followed Chinzhukog into his father’s jort, so that he might have the honor of being the first to hear their story. They found him with Bennorakh.

  Chinzhukog related the hunt and its conclusion in the finest dramatic style—the charge of the ildu’amar, Shannivar’s leap, the strange injuries of the beast, even Zevaron’s inspection of it. Shannivar watched Bennorakh’s face but could read nothing in his expression. The chieftain looked grave. Clearly, the appearance of a creature tainted by the menace of the north, wandering so close to the kishlak, disturbed him. From time to time, his gaze shifted to Zevaron, as if weighing whether the presence of this outlander, with his uncanny bond to such a creature, was a blessing or a curse.

  When Zevaron stated his intention to leave for the north as soon as possible, Chinjizhin’s uneasiness lightened. He did not seem at all unhappy about the outlander’s departure. When Chinzhukog requested the honor of acting as Zevaron’s guide, his father protested.

  “I cannot allow it! We have too few able young people. This winter will be full of dangers. I would not deprive the clan of even a single one.”

  He did not add, but everyone understood, If anything should happen to me, who else will lead our people?

  “It would be shameful to let a stranger venture where we dare not, especially in our own territory,” Chinzhukog insisted.

  “The outlander will not be alone.” The chieftain nodded to Shannivar; Zevaron might be a stone-dweller
without skill or sense, but she was Azkhantian.

  “We must use every means to see what lies ahead,” Bennorakh said. “Whatever lies in the north now spreads across the land. For reasons of its own, it calls to the outlander. It summons him.” He looked at Zevaron. “You know this, or you would not have come so far.”

  Zevaron raised one hand toward his chest, then lowered it. “It is true. I am bound to the power in the north. Whether it is what my people call Fire and Ice, or yours call the Shadow of Shadows, or else some offspring of that ancient evil, I do not yet know. Perhaps, as I have been told, they are the same. The farther I go, the more strongly I sense it. Reverend enaree, I am in your hands. Show me what I am to do, read me as a book. Give me your guidance and, if you will, the blessing of your gods.”

  Bennorakh said, with no trace of disapproval, “You would not have come this far except by the will of Tabilit. You, Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, you also have a part in this quest.” Shannivar bent her head in acknowledgment.

  “If it is the will of Tabilit that my son depart,” Chinjizhin said heavily, “then so must it be.”

  “The way will be revealed,” Bennorakh said, speaking to Shannivar and Zevaron. “Therefore, eat and drink nothing this night,” for the aroma of roasting meat now wafted into the jort. “There is much to be done—and seen.”

  After the others had eaten, Shannivar and Zevaron made their way to Bennorakh’s jort. Draperies of snow already covered the ground, and the wind blew heavily through the encampment.

  Shannivar ducked beneath the door flap, Zevaron at her heels. Although she had known the enaree most of her life, she had not entered his jort more than a handful of times. It was very much like any other with its rounded sides and felt-covered walls. A single layer of carpet, so worn the designs were no longer distinguishable, covered the floor, and his small brazier radiated a gentle, smokeless warmth. His dream stick lay across a travel chest, along with several bronze utensils, a bowl, an incense burner, and other things she could not identify in the dim light. A bitter smell tinged the air.

  At Bennorakh’s direction, Shannivar and Zevaron seated themselves near the brazier. The enaree brought out a leather skin, like the ones used for k’th. He explained that the potion was akin to dreamsmoke, only much stronger. Offering the skin to Zevaron, the shaman motioned him to drink. Zevaron tilted his head back and placed the tip in his mouth. He took a gulp and sputtered.

  “Again,” the enaree said.

  Still choking, Zevaron obeyed.

  Then it was Shannivar’s turn to drink. The liquid had no detectable smell, not like k’th or one of the herbal infusions. She took a gulp as quickly as she could. A puckering sensation spread through her mouth and throat. Her gorge rose at the prospect of taking more. However, determined not to show weakness, she swallowed again. She hoped it would be sufficient. She did not think she could force down a third mouthful. As it was, her eyes watered and her belly shuddered.

  They rested in silence. Nausea hovered at the edge of Shannivar’s senses. The crawling sensation in her throat faded, replaced by a creeping chill, a chill that defied the pervasive warmth from the brazier. This chill, she suspected, was not of the body but of the spirit.

  Moments passed. The interior of the jort blurred and filled with light. She shook her head, struggling to focus her watering eyes.

  “Do not fight the visions.” Was it Bennorakh’s voice echoing so strangely, or a memory of herself speaking those words? Was she back at the gathering, or somewhere else?

  “Let the potion do its work . . .”

  * * *

  In the far distance, someone was chanting in a language she did not understand and yet somehow recognized in the very marrow of her bones. The rhythm, rising and falling in syncopation, brought forth resonances in her heartbeat, her blood, her womb. What did it mean? What did any of it mean? She throbbed with almost-understanding.

  Phrases spiraled into a pattern, reached out and then returned. Cadences swept her up and dissolved her into motes of sound and light. She had no will to resist.

  In the pauses between one breath and another, her consciousness stretched to a veil rising in a golden misty distance, then melted like sunlight pouring over the endless steppe. The images overlapped and bled through one another. She seemed to be looking with more than one pair of eyes, or else the walls between the worlds of gods and men had grown unimaginably thin.

  The earth fell away beneath her. For a sickening moment, she plummeted into a well of light. She could no longer hear the chanting or feel the bone-deep shivers of her body. Winds bore her up as if she were no more than a downy feather from her clan’s totem eagle. She hovered over a high place like a mountain peak, taller than the promontory of the enarees. Overhead, storm clouds collided, and in their turbulent depths, colors writhed and coalesced. Shapes moved, no—one single shape, man-like and erect, but distorted. She made out a heavy-jawed skull, arms, and legs that reached down into the very marrow of the land. It blotted out half the sky.

  The figure was moving now, emerging from the clouds to stride across a wide green field. A corona of fire surrounded it. Whatever it touched burst into flames and left cinders of frost. Its shadow spawned smaller creatures—stone-drakes, winged snakes, things that might have been wolves except for their many-forked tails and firelit eyes, and many others too dim and misshapen to recognize.

  The mountains glowed, belching molten rock and ash. Shannivar became aware that she was not alone. Rising up behind her, as if she had floated on a banner in their forefront, stood a company of men. One man in particular stood out. Although she could not see his face, and his armor and weapons were foreign to her, she knew him; she knew his hidden face’s strong cheekbones, wide mouth, and clean jaw line. He was Zevaron and yet not Zevaron, bathed in an aura of the same gold she had seen glittering beneath Zevaron’s skin. The soldiers chanted in unison, but she paid them no heed. Her attention was drawn to the object the man now raised overhead, a rainbow of colored crystals, shimmering with power. At their heart lay a clear faceted gem, forged for a single purpose—to focus that power. Golden light streamed through it and suffused the face of the man. It glimmered under his skin.

  “Khored! Khored!” the men shouted. Their voices filled the wind and rose up to the heavens.

  The man turned toward her, eyes glowing with the multi-prismed radiance of the crystals. As they met hers, she saw they were Zevaron’s eyes. Khored. Zevaron’s ancestor, whose power Zevaron now bore. The golden light beneath his skin . . .

  A wave of frozen fire, sudden and immense, engulfed her. The great king and all his army disappeared. Then she was falling again, twisting in an unseen storm.

  * * *

  With a shock, Shannivar found herself back in Bennorakh’s jort. She lay on her side, her hands twisted together. Her fingers throbbed, as if she had been clenching them with all her might. She struggled to sit up. Her spine popped, and her muscles felt as stiff as if she had just fought an entire Gelonian army by herself. A faint light filtered through the opening at the top of the jort. It was not dawn, but close. She and Zevaron were alone.

  He sat, knees drawn up, eyes wide open, staring into an unimaginable distance. He seemed to be caught in a trance, akin to those the enarees entered to receive their prophecies.

  “Zevaron?” She reached out to touch him. For an instant, he gave no response. Then his eyes rolled up in their sockets. His spine arched, throwing his head back. His body slammed against the ground, so rigid that his skull and hips struck first. He shuddered with the impact. Arms and legs straightened, as if shoving away unseen enemies. His face turned dusky.

  No, not like Chinjizhin!

  She must find help! Where was Bennorakh? There was no time to search for him—what had Zevaron done for Chinjizhin? Placed blankets beneath him. Yes, that was already done. Shoved something soft in his mouth so that he would not bite his ton
gue. Shannivar looked around for something she could use, but Zevaron’s frenzy already appeared to be subsiding. Perhaps the fit would resolve on its own. It might be only a temporary effect of the potion.

  The stiffness was rapidly draining from his limbs. His head lolled to one side, facing her, his features slack. She bent over him and grasped his shoulders. He was not breathing.

  O Tabilit, Blessed Mother! He cannot die, not now!

  She scrambled for the door flap and jerked it open. “Bennorakh!” she screamed.

  Outside, the encampment lay still. No fire was lit, nor was there any sign anyone was awake. The snow had stopped falling during the night. It muffled all sound, as if the earth itself were holding its breath. She could not hear even the normal noises of the horses and reindeer in their stone-walled pens.

  “Bennorakh!”

  “I am here.” The enaree’s voice came from behind her, from inside the jort. Crystals of melting snow dotted his bare head and shoulders. How could she not have seen him before? He knelt at Zevaron’s side and placed one hand on the outlander’s chest. After a moment, he drew back, rubbing his fingers.

  “What is it?” Shannivar cried, her own sense of desperation rising.

  “His heart has stopped. He is in the hands of the Sky People now.”

  “Your potion did this! Surely there must be an antidote, a spell, something you can do!”

  “This calamity arises not from the dream potion, but from the foreseeing itself. He has gone—he will go—where no living man dare follow. He has—he will—seek his own doom. I am sorry, Shannivar daughter of Ardellis. There is nothing I can do.” The enaree did not meet her eyes as he retreated from the jort.

  Shannivar gathered Zevaron’s body into her arms. He had gone as limp as a dead man. Perhaps he was already gone—no, it could not be! There must yet be time!