Shannivar (6 page)

Rhuzenjin, whose birth clan flourished under the totem of the Rabbit, crafty and agile, made a noise like an aborted snort.

“They could be outlaws among their own people,” Shannivar mused aloud. “Or spies pretending to be traitors in order to gain our confidence.”

“Do they think to discover our weaknesses?” Rhuzenjin shook his head. “Then they are fools indeed.”

“What they are is none of our concern,” Kendira said tartly. “It is for the chieftain and the elders to decide. If necessary, the
enaree
will use his magic to separate out the truth.”

There was no denying any of this, so neither Shannivar nor Rhuzenjin said anything.

Kendira clambered to her feet. “I must get back to work. Grandmother has ordered wool to be beaten and soaked for felt.”

Shannivar looked away. Kendira's tone shifted, friendly now. “Come and join us, Shannivar. We must become better cousins to one another. There will be work aplenty.”

“I will come in a little while.”

After Kendira left, Shannivar and Rhuzenjin sat in silence, alone. “Shannivar,” he said, clearly ill at ease, “is it true that you intend to find a husband at the
khural
?”

“I intend to ride Eriu in the Long Ride.”

“It is the time for young men to choose wives. Strong wives, to bear them many sons.”

“And daughters, too, or there will be none for the sons to marry!” Shannivar said, laughing to cover her discomfort. “I wonder what the strangers want. They are taking a long time in there.”

“It is said you are to build your
jort.
And that means you will not be returning to us.”

Only last night she had spoken with Grandmother. Tabilit's golden fingers, did everyone in the entire
dharlak
know of that conversation?

She reminded herself that men gossiped just as much as women did. But men also lived their whole lives with one another, with their brothers and comrades. They had no need to leave their families to marry. Or to marry at all.

“If—if there were a man here among your own people, one who—who pleased you,” Rhuzenjin stammered, “then would you stay?”

“I have never wished to leave my clan,” Shannivar admitted. “Many things can happen at a gathering. The man who seeks to—to
please me
,” she repeated Rhuzenjin's words, “must first
catch me.
”

She meant the comment as a joke, but it fell flat. Unsaid words hung like smoke between them.

Bidding Rhuzenjin a bright morning, Shannivar went to retrieve Eriu and see to the care of Alsanobal's wretched horse. She had half a mind to swing up on the red's back and ride through the encampment just to defy the old legends and create as much outrage as possible.

A
FTER
the horses were tended, Shannivar joined the other women on the grassy field as they pounded the piles of sheep's wool, a process that took several hours. Afterward, the wool would be folded with an old felt, too thin and ragged for further use, and soaked with water. Then came the grueling work of dragging and rolling the sodden mass until the fibers meshed together. Once that was done, they would make offerings to Tabilit, milk and incense to bless the new felt before it was spread to dry in the sun.

The older women sat a little apart, casting sidelong glances at the younger ones. They were scheming, Shannivar thought, about who would be the next to marry. Kendira, sitting with the other young wives, grinned and waved. Shannivar smiled back, but found a place with her closest friend, Mirrimal daughter of Sayyiqan.

After one look at her friend's expression, Shannivar made no attempt at light conversation. Mirrimal bent over the wool, her face set in concentration. Exertion flushed her cheeks, high and broad, with the stamp of her Antelope clan mother. She had shoved her shirt sleeves above her elbows, so that the muscles of her forearms stood out like ropes. Sweating, she pounded the mat of fibers as if it were an enemy who refused to die.

Because Mirrimal was two years older than Shannivar, they had not been close as children. As they grew to womanhood and watched their age mates set aside bows for marriage, a bond of wordless understanding had grown between them. Shannivar wondered if Grandmother had spoken to Mirrimal, and that was why her friend was angry.
Perhaps we will both find husbands at the
khural
. Maybe brothers, so we will not be parted.

“A song!” one of the young women cried. “Shannivar, a song!”

“Sing to us of Saramark,” another urged, “so that her strength may pass into the felt!”

“‘May the strong bones of my body rest in the earth,'” Shannivar sang, and the other women answered, beating in rhythm,
“Ayay, ayay!”

“‘May the black hair on my head turn to meadow-grass.'”

“Ayay, ayay!”

“‘May my bright eyes become springs that never fail.'”

“Ayay, ayay!”

“‘May the hungry camels come and eat. May the thirsty horses come and drink.'”

“Ayay, ayay! Ayay, ayay!”

Kendira's mother-in-law circled the work party, inspecting the heaped wool. She bent over Mirrimal's work and scowled. “You'll never get a husband that way!”

Mirrimal tossed her head. “I do not want a husband who thinks a woman is good only for pounding wool.”

“Oh, husbands are interested in far more than that, I can tell you!” Kendira patted her swollen belly. “At least, mine is!”

“Yours is young and strong,” one of the older women cackled. “Just wait until he's old and shriveled!”

“Oh, no,” her sister, long since widowed, answered. “What they lack in stamina, they make up for in experience!”

The other women laughed and someone began the old courting song about the blind woman and the radish. Only Shannivar and Mirrimal did not laugh.

Shannivar looked away from her friend's reddened cheeks and unhappy expression. Like Shannivar, Mirrimal loved her present life. In addition to prowess with the bow, she was skilled with handling livestock of all sorts. For a time, Shannivar heard whispers that her cousin Alsanobal had asked for Mirrimal, and that there had been several meetings between Mirrimal's father and Grandmother. Old heads had wagged, winks and nods had been exchanged, and Mirrimal had prepared for the next round of raids against the Gelon as if for her own funeral. The night of their victorious return, Mirrimal would not speak to Shannivar, but sat beside the fire and downed skin after skin of potent
k'th
. Shannivar glimpsed her friend and Alsanobal stagger from the firelit circles together. After that, there was no more talk of marriage. Mirrimal refused to say what had happened. Alsanobal returned from the next gathering with his new wife, Kendira.

Shannivar's brows tightened. There was not much hope for any Azkhantian woman to remain unmarried, not unless she was deformed like Scarface or too old to bear children. A widow had control of her own
jort
, as well as her husband's horses and his share of the sheep and camels; she could not be forced to remarry unless she wished it, but to refuse was considered improper, even scandalous. There were many ways of pressuring a young, fertile woman to take another husband.

“I am glad you will be riding to the
khural
,” Shannivar said, low enough so that only Mirrimal could hear her under the new song, a traditional courting chant. “We will have one more adventure together.”

“I did not think
you
would bow so easily to custom.” Mirrimal scowled as she surveyed the felt.

Not custom alone
, Shannivar thought.
You have never shared Grandmother's
jort
.
“I do not wish to delay until all my choices are gone,” she tried to sound gentle. “Perhaps—if you competed in the Long Ride with me, then you too would have a choice of husbands. You could—”

“You know me better than that!” Mirrimal's voice was tight with anger and the accusation of betrayal.

“I am sorry to have offended you. But the Gelon will never relent, at least not this Ar-King. Perhaps if we lived in a time of peace. Since we do not, is it not better to exercise what choice we still have?”

“Not you, Shannu—I cannot believe that of you. Have you given up your dreams of glory?”

Shannivar set her lips together. “Now it is
you
who mistake
me
, dear friend. I have not forgotten, I am trying to be practical. What about your own hopes? What do you wish for?”

“I wish a woman could become an
enaree
!” Mirrimal sighed. “Then I might have an honest place in the world! Why is it that a man can tread the boundaries of dreams and a woman cannot? When he dons the garments of a woman, he becomes neither one nor the other, ripe for visions. Why can't a woman take on the trappings of a man and do the same?”

“Yet it is the custom. Only men may become shamans. Perhaps it is easier to give up the hope of siring a child than of bearing one.”

“I refuse to believe that Tabilit ordered such a thing!” Mirrimal renewed her attack on the felt. “This is one more stupid rule. Made up by
men
!”

After a long moment, Shannivar said, “Do you despise me, then, because I will make my
jort
and seek a husband?”

“No, no.” Mirrimal put down her pounding stick. She sounded weary, all her vehemence spent. She leaned over and kissed Shannivar with surprising tenderness. “You will always be my true friend. I am afraid, that is all.”

“You, who are not afraid of anything.” Shannivar forced a laugh. “How can that be?”

Mirrimal gave her a sideways glance. “There are worse things than cloud leopards or Gelonian armies. Even than death.”

A life confined, drained of honor, without hope of glory.
Shannivar shuddered.

“It is not death I fear,” Mirrimal whispered.

Shannivar touched her friend's hand. “We are of the race of great women warriors. Think of Saramark and Aimellina daughter of Oomara, of the first Shannivar! Tabilit will not turn away from our prayers. Are we not women, as she is? Does she not bestow special care on those who fight in her name?”

“Oh, Shannu,” Mirrimal cried, using the childhood familiar name. “I wish I had your faith! We give our loyalty to the goddess, but more times than not, she leaves our fate in the hands of
men
. Is it a wonder that sometimes I wish I were dead?”

“She leaves our fate in our
own
hands. You must believe that! You are not helpless, any more than I am! Why not appeal to the Council of elders at the
khural
—or the
enarees
themselves?”

“For what? What would you have me ask that they have within their power to grant?”

No words rose to Shannivar's mouth. Her heart was too full of what Mirrimal had said:
It is not death I fear.

* * *

When one of the younger boys brought word that Esdarash and the strangers had emerged, all but the oldest women set aside their pounding sticks and ran to the center of the camp. Shannivar and Mirrimal quickly outdistanced the others.

Most of the adult population of the encampment, as well as the older children, had gathered around Grandmother's
jort
. Everyone was talking at once, pointing and gesturing. Some made protective signs against evil influences.

Esdarash's wife elbowed her way to the front of the crowd. “Get out of my way! Let me through!”

Esdarash himself stood in front of the
jort
, flanked by his son and the
enaree
. Alsanobal thrust his chest out, clearly pleased with his position of responsibility. As for the shaman, Shannivar had never been able to read the expression on his moon-round face, and she could not do so now. Like all of his kind, he wore a long deerskin robe over his trousers. Layers of faded symbols covered the yoke and shoulders of the robe. Strings of beads knotted with tiny bones and feathers dangled from his dream stick. His gaze seemed fixed, turned inward to some vision that only he could see. Whether he was terrified, entranced, or simply attending to his magical duties, Shannivar could not say.

Her uncle was another matter. He was the firstborn of Grandmother's sons, older than Shannivar's father by ten years, and now he looked his age. Lines of worry marked his weathered face. White frosted his moustache as well as the hair partly hidden beneath his peaked cap with its chieftain's feathers. Yet his voice was strong and firm as he commanded the assembly to order.

Everyone settled into their places, and Shannivar got her first look at the two strangers. Instead of sensible trousers, boots, and jackets cut close to the body, they wore belted knee-length gowns, short cloaks, and sandals, utterly impractical for riding. At first glance, she thought they must surely be Gelon. Their skins were pale, except where the sun had darkened them. Both had unbound dark red curls, the head of one shot with gray. That must be the one called Leanthos.

Shannivar peered at him, trying to decide if he were very brave or simply very foolish to venture into clan territory. Certainly, he was no match for any Azkhantian child, with his thin arms and knobby knees. Yet as he glanced at the waiting crowd and back to Esdarash, his expression was confident and calculating. Weak he might be, and unskilled at arms, but not a fool.

The younger man, with his slab-like jaw and beaked nose, clearly deferred to the gray-hair, and he carried himself with the subtle alertness of a fighter. He might be trying to pass himself off as a mere assistant, but no one with sense could mistake him for anything but a man of action.

Esdarash explained that the strangers had ridden freely into the
dharlak
, their weapons undrawn, bearing gifts.

Gifts?
A murmur spread through the assembly.

Two of the younger warriors, Rhuzenjin and another, came forward at Esdarash's signal and placed the gifts on a blanket. They laid out strings of beads in brilliant colors, jewelry of silver and copper, and several small daggers of Denariyan steel. The craftsmanship of the jewelry and dagger hilts was good, although not as fine as the best Azkhantian work, but the stones—amber, turquoise, coral, and others Shannivar did not know—were of excellent quality.

Around her, people exclaimed in delight, but suspicion roused in Shannivar's mind. What was the purpose of such rich offerings? What did these men want in return?

She turned her attention back to her uncle, who was now explaining how the strangers had journeyed all the way from Isarre, or so they said, to seek an alliance with the Azkhantian warriors. Apparently, they had no understanding of the different independent clans and their territories. They'd traveled east from Isarre, across the Sand Lands, and then north toward the steppe, and so had stumbled upon the Golden Eagle lands.

The crowd buzzed with astonishment. Everyone knew of Isarre, a nation of seafarers and stone-dwellers. For all practical purposes, they were indistinguishable from their Gelonian enemies. They were not Azkhantian, and they had nothing of value to the steppe dwellers and so were of little interest. Isarre was too distant to present either a credible threat or an opportunity for raiding. Now these men had come all this distance to bargain for help in defending themselves.

“What kind of moon-blind fools do they think we are?” one of Shannivar's neighbors muttered.

She had no answer. Certainly, the fate of Isarre was of no concern to the Golden Eagle clan. They shared ties of neither blood nor honor. Yet she could not help thinking what a grand adventure it would be, to journey to a country so far and strange. To travel the reaches of sand and ocean, farther than the eye could see or an eagle could fly. Perhaps even to carry war into the heart of Gelon, to see the invaders tremble as their own lands and flocks were trampled beneath the hooves of her horses.

She did not know if these two men were in truth what they claimed. For a moment, she hoped they were, so that she might go with them.

Words were all very fine, but those who dwelled in stone could not be relied upon to tell the truth. Their story must be verified by the blessing of Tabilit, as revealed through the dream visions of the shaman. Esdarash brought the audience to a close so that Bennorakh, the
enaree,
could examine the outlanders.

The crowd began to disperse. Esdarash's wife scolded the younger women for lingering, for the day was still young. “The felt must be properly rolled or it will dry unevenly! You'll never get a good husband if the men see how lazy you are!”

“I'll be along in a moment, auntie,” Shannivar murmured. She watched as the
enaree
took the two strangers into his own
jort
. Doubtless, they would remain there for the rest of the day or perhaps longer. The vision could require several days.