Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  “What—What must I do?”

  “You, my daughter, must rally the clans. Do not let them fall under the Shadow of Shadows. Strengthen them and give them the will to fight! They must hold fast!”

  “But how—”

  “You will know what to do.”

  Shannivar opened her mouth to protest, but no breath came. She had thought her worst fears had already come to pass—Zevaron lost to her, trapped behind the barrier of poisoned light. She could accept that he might never return. That he might already be dead. It had never occurred to her that he might be enslaved by the ancient enemy of his own people.

  Tabilit’s form began to dim, as if blown away. “Now ride, ride with my blessing!”

  Chapter 30

  “DON’T go!” Shannivar cried.

  But the mist was already lifting, vanishing like dew in sunlight, and with it, the fading lineaments of Tabilit’s shape. A chill bit into the air, as if the warmth of a moment ago had been but a pause in a winter gale. The earth hardened once more into rough stone. In a moment, Shannivar thought, she would be able to make out the barrier of light.

  The bow in her hands hummed. She ran her fingers over the smooth, almost opalescent wood. Her chest ached, as if her heart had bruised itself against the inside of her ribs. She had been offered all the glory she could dream of, a quest worthy of Saramark herself, but at a price she had not expected. If she had known, would she have chosen a life of placid insignificance? That option had never been hers. She would take up the bow as Tabilit bade her, would string it, set an arrow to it, test it. As she herself would soon be tested. I am an arrow in Tabilit’s bow.

  What then was Zevaron?

  All her life, she had believed that people made their own destinies. She could not believe that any adversary, no matter how powerful, could alter a person’s essential nature. No matter what Tabilit said, Shannivar could not bring herself to accept that Zevaron would become a pawn of evil. She had seen the banners flying high above the ancient battlefield, had felt Zevaron’s resolve as steadfast as his ancestor’s. Once, Khored had used the shield of many crystals to defeat an enemy composed of chaos itself, Fire and Ice, Shadow of Shadows. Zevaron would do no less. She was sure of it.

  She would use the bow, she would defend the steppe, she would hold fast. But she would not surrender Zevaron to such a fate, to become a mindless servant of evil.

  The wall of shifting light hid a power mightier than any human opponent. It had turned reindeer into cannibals, given life to the stone-drake, terrified the ildu’amar, and reached into the heavens to bring the white star crashing down. It might seize Zevaron and try to break his will, coerce him into obedience. If what lay beyond the barrier held him captive, then she would find him and free him. But she would never believe that he had willingly given himself to it.

  Despite the plummeting temperature, Shannivar felt new energy fill her like a rush of flame. Her doubts melted, leaving her mind clear and her pulse steady.

  A horse whinnied somewhere in the distance. She turned away from the wall of light. A short walk took her back to where she had left the horses. Radu whickered and swished her tail as Shannivar drew near. And Eriu—

  The frost had fallen away from him, leaving only a trace on his lower legs, mane, and tail. His body was once more glossy black. He lifted his head, ears alert, as she came to stand beside him. And his eyes were dark and clear.

  With a stamp and a squeal, Eriu arched his neck and swerved away. Not in fear, not shying away from her, but in the sheer joy of his own renewed power. He was still thin, but now charged with vitality. He was once again a warrior’s steed, to carry her into battle, even a battle neither of them could yet imagine.

  Shannivar held out one hand, and he came to her. Her heart lifted. He was her wings, her song. Together they would do such deeds that would never be forgotten.

  * * *

  On the Azkhantian steppe, the Moon of Wolves had given birth to the Moon of Melting Snow. Shannivar daughter of Ardellis rode through the newly sprouted feathergrass, still barely a hint of green in the half-frozen mud.

  This time, she did not laugh.

  This time, she rode to war.