One of the men said, “There will be nothing left but ash by morning.”
“Hush,” said Ythrae. “Tabilit herself has laid her hand upon them.”
* * *
They watched long into the night and chanted to the dead as the fires raged below. Eventually the songs died into the velvet quiet of the night. The air turned cool and river-moist. The others retired for the night, except for Shannivar and Rhuzenjin. Bennorakh had not yet returned from tending the fires below.
Shannivar sat staring at the fires. Something within her coiled upon itself like a tangled knot. She could not stop thinking of how quickly everything had changed. The red horse had been so strong, so full of life, as had Mirrimal and her brother. Men and women fell in battle or under the weight of years or disease. She had seen it and had accepted that it would happen to her as well. Over and over, she told herself that what they did was right and noble, keeping their land free from the Ar-King's menace. And yetâ
And yet.
The something in her belly would not let go. Somewhere at the back of her mind, Grandmother's white mare stumbled and fell. The wind howled across the steppe like a wolf in winter. She shivered in the warmth of the summer night.
Across the campfire, Rhuzenjin watched her. The light of the flames filled his eyes. If she spoke the words, he would come eagerly to her bed. He was strong and fit, and from the way he looked at her, passionate. He would cover her in eager kisses; she imagined the hardness of him inside her, the scent of his arousal, the power of his body between her thighs. She could, for the space of a night, escape this strange dark mood. His ardor would sustain them both. But it would be only for a night. The next morning, his eyes would follow her, filled with longing for what she could not give.
Alone, she strode away from the fire to the horse lines. Radu nickered a greeting and Eriu nuzzled her shoulder as she stroked him. The comfort of horses was uncomplicated. They never told each other to set aside running beneath the wild Moon of Birds, nor sought to steal the sky from another herd. When they coupled, it was for an hour's mutual need, nothing more.
A shape flickered in the darkness. She was not alone, but her horses gave no sign of alarm, as they would at the approach of a stranger. She caught a whiff of incense but did not entirely relax. Bennorakh posed no threat, not physically, but he confused her, sometimes frightened her. He was always full of prophecies that no one could understand.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“What do
you
want?”
Shannivar could not tell if the
enaree
were asking the question or repeating her own words back to her.
What did she want? Once she would have said,
to ride, to fight, to be free.
Now, with the taste of blood and ashes in her mouth, she did not know.
The
enaree
lifted one hand with a soft jangling of the bits of bone and carved antler threaded into his hair. He pointed north, toward the
khural-lak
, the gathering-place.
Go
, he seemed to say.
Go where your spirit leads you.
For a long moment, she stared into the night. Around her, the land lay quiet, shrouded. The Road of Stars glimmered overhead. When she turned back to the
enaree
, he was gone. She wondered if she had seen him at all.
T
HE
next morning, Shannivar's throat ached, and her eyes felt as if she had spent the night weeping. Death, by sword or fever or the simple wearing away of years came to everyone. Mirrimal had died in honor, young and strong. No cookpot or infirmity would ever hold her in its grip. For all her grief, Shannivar could not begrudge her friend that measure of peace.
Shaking off her pensive mood, she began setting the camp in order. Mirrimal's personal belongings must be given to Dharvarath to bring back to their father, along with those of her brother. Mirrimal had no sisters to inherit her few bits of finery, and her mother was dead. Perhaps Dharvarath would marry and present them to his wife.
As for Alsanobal's return to the
dharlak
encampment, one of the carts appeared undamaged and sturdy enough to carry him, and the Gelonian onagers were accustomed to drawing it. Convincing her cousin would be another matter.
“A
cart
?” Alsanobal glared at her, brows drawing together. “You expect me to ride in a
cart
?”
Shannivar suppressed a sigh. “Be sensible, cousin. You cannot mount a horse, let alone ride one, with a broken thigh bone.”
“It's bad enough to be still alive, to not have perished in glorious battle!” He glowered at her as if his survival were a malicious act on her part. “Have I offended the Sky People so deeply that I must return to my father as a cripple? All this I could bear as the will of Tabilit. But now you tell me I must do so in a
Gelonian cart
, like so much baggage or like a child too young to ride properly? No, it's too humiliating! I would be shamed forever! There must be another way. Or if there is not, I will sit here until I am fit to ride again.”
“Who else can I trust to carry the looted treasure back?” Shannivar shifted tactics. “Is this not the matter of songs and legends, to lay before your chieftain the captured weapons of the enemy, their armor and swords of good steel? Is this not the deed of a hero?” Alsanobal's expression softened minutely as he considered this. Shannivar pushed on, knowing she had the better of him now. “Not to mention five sacks of lentils and wheat, the oil to cook it in, and even a good-sized box of salt.”
A portion of the food would go with Shannivar to the gathering as gifts to the elders there, to be meted out among those clans who had supplied fresh meat for those who had traveled the farthest. In this traditional manner, the burden of feasting was fairly distributed.
At last, Alsanobal relented. “Very well, since it will bring honor to my father and our clan, I suppose I must do it. But I do not like the thought of dividing our strength. My father charged me with the safe conduct of the Isarran emissaries. The Gelonian outpost may not be the only danger along the way. I dare not deprive you of a single warriorâ”
“And I dare not allow
you
, the son of the chieftain of Golden Eagle, to travel alone for exactly the same reason!” Shannivar checked herself, took a breath, and tried to sound reasonable. “Not even a warrior of legendary prowess could defend himself against a serious assault while lying in a cart.”
Alsanobal raised one eyebrow as if to say she had proved his own point.
“Sitting in a cart,” she amended.
“Driving a cart.”
“Driving a cart. Certainly. But can you do this
and
at the same time shoot your bow? Or use your sword?”
Reluctantly he shook his head.
Shannivar's attention was drawn to Jingutzhen as he checked the gear on his saddle, the bow and arrow-case, and the sword in its sheath, all of them properly cared for and ready for travel. Satisfied, Jingutzhen led his horse to them, with one of the pack ponies on a lead line. His impassive face showed no sign of fatigue or the aftermath of the battle and deaths. He nodded to Shannivar, took a stance, and waited.
“I believe,” Alsanobal said dryly, “that my escort has been chosen for me.”
Shannivar opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Jingutzhen was by far their strongest archer, and the range of his arrows would be the best defense for a slow-moving cart. Alsanobal could, if braced properly, manage the onagers during a fight. If only all her problems could be so easily resolved.
* * *
After the cart trundled away in the direction of the
dharlak
with Jingutzhen leading the way, Shannivar took charge of the remaining riders. This time, no one questioned her right to lead.
Compliant but sullen, Dharvarath attempted to load the camel. Perhaps sensing his mood, the animal would not kneel to be loaded. It whipped its head around and sank its teeth into his shoulder. He gave a strangled yelp, for the long jaws exerted tremendous leverage. His legs gave way, and only the camel's grip kept him from crumpling to the ground.
Shannivar started toward them, although she could not reach him in time. One shake of the camel's head, and Dharvarath's shoulder would be mangled, the muscles wrenched and torn, leaving him crippled. Ythrae, who had been standing nearby, tightening a harness strap on one of the pack ponies, dashed to the camel's head.
“Spawn of Shadows! Let him go!” Ythrae struck the beast across the nose with her short whip. “Hideous beast!” She lashed out again. “Behave yourself!”
Tabilit save us, now she's gotten the camel angry!
The camel, however, merely released its grip on Dharvarath. It turned its large, long-lashed eyes toward the furious girl but made no attempt to attack her. Clutching his bleeding shoulder, Dharvarath scrambled out of the camel's reach.
Ythrae, chest heaving, raised the whip again. With a sigh of resignation, the camel folded its knees and lowered itself to the ground. Belching, it flicked its tail, as if nothing untoward had happened.
For a moment, no one moved. Then Ythrae flashed Shannivar a grin. Taking hold of the camel's halter, Ythrae gestured for Senuthenkh to bring up the baggage. After that, there was no question of her stewardship of the camel or of the camel's meek obedience and devotion to her.
Once the party was assembled, Shannivar took the lead. A residue of her strange mood prompted her to ride Eriu again, instead of steady, soft-gaited Radu.
She was not afraid of battle. She accepted the perils of a warrior as natural and necessary. Yet the world had changed and grown dangerous in a way she did not understand. Mirrimal had said she was not afraid of death. At the time, Shannivar had thought of a life as wife and mother as confinement; the crushing sameness of days, the narrow world of
jort
and cookpot, were the things she had feared most. Now she was not sure.
And so, she rode Eriu. Eriu had no doubts, no hesitation, no moments of startling awake, heart yammering, in the darkest hours of the night. He moved forward willingly, as if he had not been ridden in a battle the day before.
As they went along, the others talked about how they would tell the story of the fight at the gathering, the partners they would win with tales of their exploits, the
k'th
they would drink.
Rhuzenjin composed a song-poem about how Shannivar had won the battle and saved them all. She did not want such adulation, but to refuse the honor would shame him, so she made no protest. Ythrae was delighted with the song, clapping her hands as Rhuzenjin chanted the verses and glowing when he added a reference to the camel. Shannivar's cheeks burned and she turned away, uncomfortably aware of his gaze on her.
* * *
Several days later, they swung out on one of the few roads through the steppe. In places, the way was broad and smooth, hard-packed soil where little grass grew, and edged with tumbled lines of stones. How old these paths were or who had made them, no one knew. In places, they disappeared, eroded by the endless wind and the cycles of heat and frost.
Traders often used these roads. They came to buy camel-hair cloth and the intricately worked gold ornaments produced by Azkhantian smiths. In exchange, they offered sandalwood and frankincense, rough gemstones and knives of tempered steel. Before long, Shannivar and her party encountered one such caravan, a line of laden donkeys trudging behind a ponderous wooden-wheeled cart. The oxen drawing the cart were black and rough-coated. Bells clanged softly as they swung their heads from side to side.
Shannivar guessed the traders were Denariyan based on their burnt-copper skins and their clothing of brightly-colored silks instead of wool or camel-hair. She nudged Eriu forward. He arched his neck and lifted his feet high, as if challenging the oxen.
“I am Shannivar daughter of Ardellis of the Golden Eagle clan,” she cried out in trade-dialect. “By whose leave do you travel the steppe?”
“Traders we, out of Denariya, with permission of the Reindeer Clan,” the trader called back in the same language. Despite his heavy accent, he spoke with the ease of long usage.
Shannivar gestured for him to approach. He walked slowly toward her, holding his hands well away from his body. His only visible weapon was a long curved knife in an ornamented leather sheath, tucked under his sash. Shannivar had no doubt that he carried more.
“May your journey be profitable and your enemies foolish.” Greeting her, the trader halted a respectful distance away. Solemnly he tapped one fist over his heart. Clearly, he had learned the value of good manners.
At Shannivar's invitation, the Denariyan trader came closer. From the folds of his sash he removed a small leather purse. He drew out an Azkhantian token of gold, fashioned in the shape of a reindeer, a safe-passage from the clan of that name. Shannivar nodded in approval.
With formal courtesy he then offered her tea, the universal ritual of friendship. She accepted, gesturing for her party, especially the Isarrans, to remain at a distance. Undoubtedly the traders were already aware of that a pair of outlanders traveled with her and news would spread across the steppe at the speed of ox-cart, but it was best to avoid direct contact. At least, until the council of elders and chieftains had examined the Isarrans and made their judgment. For this encounter, she and Rhuzenjin were sufficient to meet with the Denariyans.
While one of the traders prepared the tea over a small copper oil-lamp, another unrolled a carpet beside the road. They took their places on it, sitting cross-legged. Shannivar admired the intricate designs of indigo and madder red.
The water came to a boil, and the trader added wedges of dried pressed tea and spices. When the tea was ready, he poured it out with solemn ceremony. Shannivar cradled the finely glazed cup in her hands and wondered who had made it, how far it had traveled, and what strange lands it had passed through. The tea was strong and sweet, fragrant with dried orange peel. Shannivar praised the tea and the fine carpet, and accepted compliments on her horse, the weather, and the valor of her people.
When the tea had been drunk and the amenities completed, the trader politely inquired of news of the road. He had given no sign of curiosity about the Isarrans, not even a surreptitious glance at where they waited with the pack animals.
“Two days ago, we burned a Gelonian outpost,” she told him. Let the trader carry word of their defeat.
“None but madmen or Gelon enter these lands without permission.” The trader made a warding sign against ill fortune. “Very bad for trade.”
Before parting, the trader presented Shannivar and Rhuzenjin with silk scarves. Hers was dyed bright yellow and embroidered along the edges with tiny butterflies and bits of mica. Such finery would look well at a festive dance at the gathering. She tucked it inside her vest, and they bowed to one another and then continued on their separate ways.
* * *
The meeting with the Denariyan trader had eaten up the better part of the morning, but Shannivar and her party pressed on. Toward the end of the afternoon, she decided they had gone far enough. The Isarran horses were flagging, and Leanthos swayed in the saddle. The camel's temper had worsened with every passing mile, despite Ythrae's attempts to placate it. The Isarran animals needed water, even if the hardy Azkhantian horses did not. Ahead, a line of trees with lush foliage suggested a spring or at the least, grazing. Bidding Rhuzenjin remain with the outlanders, she rode ahead to make sure the place was safe.
The trees were tall and slender, like maiden dancers in a row. A breeze played through the branches. The air carried the smell of moist growing things, grass and pungent herbs. Although Shannivar saw no cause for alarm, Eriu nickered as in greeting another horse. She came alert, trusting his sharper senses. At her touch on his neck, he quieted.
With battle still fresh in her memory, Shannivar set an arrow to her bow. Eriu moved closer, silent now. In the underbrush, she made out the shapes of two horses. Camouflaged by the dappled sun, two men sat over the remains of a meal. What she could see of their clothing was sensible enough, muted, trail-worn garments in shades of brown, neither ragged nor gaudy nor impractical like the short tunics of the Isarrans.
One of the men started to draw a sword, but the other put out a hand in caution, pulling him back with a gesture and a few phrases in Gelone. Shannivar recognized the word,
Azkhantian
.
Shannivar nudged Eriu from the underbrush and, keeping her bow at the ready, addressed the two strangers with the usual challenge, “By whose leave do you travel the steppe?” The man who had restrained his comrade rose fluidly to his feet and stepped forward. As he moved toward her, the slanting afternoon sun illuminated his features. At first glance, Shannivar thought him Denariyan, but his skin was closer to the honey color of her own people. His shoulder-length hair, as dark as her own, was tied back with a strip of leather. He was young, no more than a few years from her own age. He held his hands open and away from his body, but she did not think he was by any means helpless. Something in the way he moved gave off the perfume of danger.
“We in peace, no harm to man or beast,” he spoke trade-dialect with a peculiar lilting accent that was not at all unpleasant, “ask to pass these lands.”