W
ITH
Eriu saddled and Radu on a lead line, Shannivar took her place near the head of the caravan. Mirrimal called a greeting as she checked the straps on the camel that would carry their
jorts
and trail tents, the rest of the baggage being distributed among the pack ponies. Shannivar waved back, glad that her friend was included in the party.
Alsanobal rode at their head, followed by Shannivar and Rhuzenjin, then the Isarrans, Mirrimal and her two brothers, the camel, several pack ponies, the Isarran donkey, and the other riders. The party included Jingutzhen, the clan's strongest archer, and his brother, Senuthenkh. Ythrae, one of Shannivar's cousins, was the third woman. She was the youngest, shy and quiet, and Shannivar suspected that Esdarash had included her to give her more confidence.
Bennorakh came with them. This was unusual, but no one questioned his right to come and go as Tabilit directed him. In many ways, they were more a war party than merrymakersâstrong young adults, and all except Ythrae with fighting experience, all able to ride quickly and strike hard. Gelon could be fought with arrow and sword, but it was even better to have an
enaree
at hand, should the strangers prove other than they seemed. They could be madmen or demons.
Shannivar had little to say to the Isarrans as the party left the
dharlak
. She had enough to do, managing her own animals and baggage, plus the awkward bulk of the
jort
, the lattice and felts, the door flap and carpets that had been her mother's. Mirrimal was in a strange mood, half crazy, half bereaved. She roused a little at her brothers' affectionate teasing, then lapsed into silence.
They settled into an easy traveling pace, having no need to hurry. The journey itself was part of the holiday. For Shannivar it was a pleasure to tend her horses, set up her own
jort
, and take her turn at hunting to supplement the usual trail food: parched barley and dried, spiced meat cakes called
bha
. The weather was so mild, she needed only a single layer of felt for the walls. Except for Bennorakh, who as an
enaree
had his own
jort
, the men used lightweight trail tents. Mirrimal and Ythrae shared Shannivar's
jort
; working together, they quickly set up and took down the structure, sometimes finishing before the men.
Alsanobal rode up and down the line as they traveled. The red horse pranced and shook his head, and Alsanobal encouraged this useless display. Shannivar could not decide whether horse or rider were more full of flash and bluster.
Curious to see for herself what manner of men the Isarrans were, she tried to strike up a conversation with the strangers. Leanthos, the elder, would not look directly at her. His companion glared as if she were a snake, readying to strike. At first, Shannivar was incredulous, then angry when she saw them speaking freely with the men of the party.
When Shannivar complained, Mirrimal said, “What did you expect? These outlanders keep their women penned within their walls like sheep. They forbid them to ride or shoot or wield a sword, even to defend their own lands, or so I have heard.”
“Surely, no people could be so foolish as to cut off their right arm when the enemy approaches.”
“You know little of the foolishness of men,” Mirrimal said.
Shannivar refused to be drawn in. The Isarrans talked readily enough with Alsanobal and with Senuthenkh, ever inquisitive and not a little inflated by the attention. Mirrimal's brothers were too shy to venture a conversation, and as for Jingutzhen, he rarely spoke two words together, even to his own kin. Rhuzenjin, too, seemed to be keeping his distance.
“Perhaps,” Shannivar said thoughtfully to her friend, “they are not accustomed to forthright women.” She watched how awkwardly the older Isarran rode. He was a poor horseman, and from the way he straddled his rough-gaited mount, his bare lower legs must surely be rubbed raw.
That night, after the women erected the
jort
, Shannivar strolled over to the tent used by the Isarrans. She brought a leather bottle of camel's-fat liniment. Grandmother had taught her how to prepare herbs to soothe sore muscles and abraded skin, or strengthen sinew and muscle. Shannivar had learned which ones eased women's pain or prevented pregnancy, remedies every woman warrior needed. Sometimes the contraceptive herbs failed, and the woman either married or lived with her women kin, who helped to raise the child.
The younger Isarran, Phannus, met Shannivar outside the tent, barring the way. There was no sign of Leanthos, so she supposed he must be within. Phannus regarded her with suspicion, eyes slightly narrowed, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. “Good evening,” he said.
She could not get used to the odd greetings of the outlanders. Azkhantians traditionally welcomed one another with a wish for good luck. “Yes, it is a good evening. May your days be lucky and your arrows always find their mark. I have come to visit your uncle.” She used the term for any older male relative.
Something like surprise flickered across the Isarran's features, or so Shannivar interpreted the twitching of the corners of his mouth. “He is resting and cannot be disturbed.”
Shannivar reminded herself that these outlanders had no sense of politeness, no understanding of the Azkhantian way to behave. He ought to have invited her into the tent, or at very least, apologized while the older man prepared to receive her. It was an unthinkable breach of hospitality for her to be kept waiting, or worse yet, to refuse her request. Patiently, she replied, “He will rest all the better for the gift I bring.”
“K'th.”
Phannus pronounced the word as if he were spitting.
“No.” Shannivar suppressed a smile. “Although he might prefer it.”
From within the tent came a querulous voice, speaking Isarran rather than trade-dialect. Phannus answered in the same language. A moment later, Leanthos emerged. He moved as if his joints hurt him.
“Isarran man, may your dreams this night be glorious.” Shannivar made a fist with her free hand and tapped her chest over her heart.
After a moment's hesitation, he repeated the gesture. “You are the chief's niece. How may I serve you, lady?”
“I have brought a gift. Come, let us sit together.”
Shannivar lowered herself into an easy cross-legged position, and the two men followed her example. She offered the leather bottle, explaining its purpose. Phannus reached out before Leanthos could take it. His nose wrinkled as he sniffed the contents. He spoke to the older man in rapid, angry-sounding Isarran.
Shannivar scowled at this rudeness. Phannus acted as if the liniment were poisoned. She pushed back one sleeve and rubbed a little of the pungent-smelling liquid into her forearm. “This is how it is applied. Work it deep into the skin.” She sat back, feeling the familiar pleasurable healing warmth.
Leanthos exchanged a dubious glance with his companion, then nodded acceptance. From the way Phannus took the bottle from him, Shannivar suspected he would be the first to try it, just in case. She allowed herself a moment of amusement at such foolishness. Perhaps living in stone houses had deprived these people of all land-sense; certainly, Tabilit could not speak to them through wind or cloud or dreams under the full moon.
“Thank you for your gift,” Leanthos said in heavily accented trade-dialect. “May I ask a question? Why do the women sleep in aâa portable house? Why do your men except for your priest use tents instead?”
“You are truly strangers to our ways. A man lives in his mother's
jort
until he moves to his wife's. If Kendira had come with us, Alsanobal would have slept in her
jort
.”
Leanthos was silent for a moment. “It is different in Isarre. We build our dwellings to last for generations, stone and hard wood that endures.” Shannivar could not think of a suitable reply so she got to her feet and said, “May your journey be lucky.” Tapping her hand over her heart, she turned and strode back to her own place.
* * *
The Moon of Golden Grass grew thin as a drawn bow, promising the coming Moon of Gathering, also called the Moon of Stallions. They followed the river valley, their horses fresh and eager. Around the nightly fire, the
enaree
chanted tales from long ago, when Tabilit walked the land and conversed freely with men, when the stars had voices and the land answered them. The Isarrans listened, politely participating with a chant in their own language. Even without understanding the words, Shannivar heard the sweet-sad longing behind the lyrics as one voice held a note and the other rose and fell, perhaps like the waves of the ocean.
Shannivar tried to imagine so much water, endless as the rolling steppe. Lakes she knew, and rivers, and torrential downpours. Such were fleeting ripples upon the land, the deep eternal land. She tried to picture the ebb and flow of tides, walls of water surging in storm or quiet as glass. Something roused in her, a mirror to the Isarrans' song, and she understood the call of that unknown sea.
As they struck out across open territory, the late summer days turned the grasses golden and then gray-brown in the heat. Feathergrass and ripening second-crop barley filled the air with musky sweetness. Insects whirred, and skylarks dove and swooped as they feasted on them. From time to time, Shannivar spotted an eagle soaring against the sky. Her heart rose at this omen of good fortune, that their party should be under the watchful protection of their totem animal.
Sometimes she glimpsed Leanthos making marks in a little sheaf of papers that he carried close to his person. She wondered if they were counter-spells, but Bennorakh, who had clearly noticed this strange behavior as well, did not seem alarmed, so she let it pass.
Days melted into days, and the Moon of Stallions swelled in the night sky. The land rose, and rose again. The ground here was drier, the soil scoured by the wind. Rocks jutted skyward like the bones of the earth.
Shannivar and Mirrimal rode side by side, a little ahead of the others. This day, Shannivar was riding Eriu to give Radu a rest. Rhuzenjin passed by at a brisk trot without speaking to either of them. Shannivar thought he was showing off, or else too shy, after what had passed between them, to converse with her in the easy way of trail companions. Ythrae often followed him with her eyes, but he seemed unaware of her attention.
As Shannivar and Mirrimal neared the top of a ridge, a brisk wind blew from the west. Eriu lifted his head and nickered.
“He's ready for the Long Ride,” Mirrimal said, reining in her own horse, a tough gray with a long, narrow head.
Shannivar settled the black with a touch. Eriu was bored with the pace set by the camel and the Isarrans' donkeys. A horse like him would never be content to walk everywhere. He wanted to run.
As if sensing her thought, Eriu broke into a jig-trot, coming even with Rhuzenjin's horse. As Shannivar drew near, she saw the tension in Rhuzenjin's body, his attention focused on a distant point. Before them stretched another valley, as green and golden as their own. A westerly tributary cut across its bed and flowed into the main river.
“Shannivar, look there!” he said, pointing. “Do you see it?”
Shannivar followed his gaze, angling obliquely away from their path. She inhaled sharply.
Smoke.
And not far away, although the source was hidden behind the jagged horizon.
Her first thought was of fire, ever a danger on the steppe. In the dry season, wildfire could devour the sun-parched grasses faster than a horse could run. All the rich bounty of the steppe, creatures as well as vegetation, could be destroyed in a single day.
Shannivar assessed the terrain, noting that the ridge with its sparse vegetation and rocky outcropping would act as a natural fire break. Her brows drew together as she studied the pattern of the smoke. It issued from a single point and was not spreading. Ordinary grass fires did not behave in such a controlled fashion.
Alsanobal brought his red stallion to a halt beside them, the horse snorting and blowing. Eriu laid his ears back and snaked his head out, warning the bigger horse to come no closer. The red swerved, neatly avoiding Eriu's teeth.
Shannivar said, “I think we have trouble.”
“I agree,” Alsanobal said. “This does not look like a normal fire. It is most likely outlandersâmore of these stupid Isarrans.”
“Or Gelon,” she said grimly.
A feral grin spread across Alsanobal's broad features. He reined the red to face the rest of their party, who were climbing the ridge more slowly, encumbered by pack animals. “You, Isarrans! Remain here, where you are safe.”
“Safe? What? Is there is danger ahead?” Leanthos turned to his companion and gabbled in their own tongue, but neither of them came any closer. Shannivar wondered what they would do in the face of true dangerâstand and fight, or run like rabbits for the sake of their mission?
“Ythrae, stay with the outlanders!” At her startled protest, Alsanobal explained, “Keep them out of trouble! Everyone else, with me!” He kicked the red into a ground-eating lope, heading toward the fire. The other Azkhantians needed no further urging. Whooping, they urged their mounts after him.
Shannivar shifted her weight and touched Eriu with her heels. The black leaped forward, his ears pricked in excitement. His powerful haunches drove him on, and his back flexed and extended with each stride.
As she rode, Shannivar used her teeth to pull the laces of the wrist guard tight, and reached for her bow in its case beside her left knee. The smooth, curved wood remembered her touch. Without causing Eriu to miss a step, she strung her bow. Beside her, her clan mates did the same. Shannivar glanced back to see Jingutzhen, his face alight with ferocity, bow ready, body moving with the reaching strides of his sturdy bay.
They followed the ridge for a time, eating up the distance, and then dipped into the long slope to the river tributary. Tabilit favored them, for the ground was relatively smooth. Here and there, a boulder punched through the grassy cover or a deer trail wound along the slope.