Shannivar (24 page)

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?

“W
AKE
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.

* * *

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 light 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.