“Grandmother, I will obey.”
Shannivar's thoughts raced ahead, making plans. She would bring Radu and Eriu with her, for they were her own property, and her bow and sword. In the chest of cypress wood lay the dowry she would place at the feet of her future mother-in-law.
“You have ever been a dutiful daughter of the Golden Eagle,” Grandmother said, patting Shannivar's shoulder with a gnarled hand. “May Tabilit look with favor upon your husband, and may you bear him many strong sons. May Olash-giyn-Olash, the Shadow of Shadows, never darken your tent.” The old woman recited the traditional blessing upon a bride. “May her grace shine upon your bed, your flocks, your
jort.
”
With the exception of the tribe's
enaree
, who was regarded as neither male nor female, only married women might own a
jort
. Men lived in the dwellings of their mothers or wives, or, if they were bachelors, with a sister or aunt. A bride proved herself by both her prowess in battle and her skill at shaping the flexible framework and felt walls. It was said that a true daughter of the steppe could ride out with nothing but her knife and an axe, and return three days later with the completed lattice. Shannivar had helped several women friends in this task. Now it would be her turn.
* * *
Shannivar awoke the next morning in a subdued mood. Her temples ached as if she had drunken too much
k'th
the night before, although she had hardly sipped the fermented mare's milk. She lay quietly, letting her eyes adjust to the light that filtered through the central roof opening, listening to the sound of Grandmother snoring and the softer sounds of the woman who shared her
jort
and helped to tend her, a young cousin, unmarried and likely to remain so, for as an infant she had been so badly burned her features were distorted into a permanent grimace. Everyone called her Scarface, as if her real name had been charred away with her skin. It was said as a kindness, for while the customary wishes of good fortune could no longer protect her, the evil spirits would not know her true name.
It was still early, barely dawn. Even in the dim light, Shannivar knew every chest, every article of furnitureâthe folding wooden bed, the carpets and cushions, the chests for clothing and bedding, the smaller caskets for ornaments of silver and copper, beads of turquoise, jade, coral and pearl, packets of spices and powdered cedar. At the bottom of her own personal chest lay the little wooden horse her father had carved for her when she was a child. What would it be like to live in a place where nothing smelled of memories, of family, of home?
Shannivar folded her blanket and laid it in its accustomed place. Lifting the door flap, she slipped outside. Pale eastern light softened the contours of the other
jorts
.
At the old well, she cleaned her teeth with a blackroot stick, rinsed her mouth of the lingering bitter taste, and scrubbed her face with a paste of cedar and frankincense.
Already the younger wives were stirring the fires to life and preparing a breakfast of boiled barley and shredded gazelle meat from the night before. The smell of the porridge made Shannivar's mouth water. After eating, she drank a cup of strong tea laced with butter and went down to the horse field. A ride on Eriu would banish whatever gnawed at her nerves.
“Heyo, Shannivar! May your morning be bright. You're up early.” Grinning, her cousin Alsanobal son of Esdarash led his copper-red stallion away to be saddled. The horse was big for the Azkhantian breed and ill-tempered. He laid back his ears and bared his teeth at his rider. Alsanobal cuffed him lightly on the side of the head. The horse gave an aggrieved snort.
“That horse will kill you someday,” Shannivar said cheerfully. Red horses were said to be holy. In ancient times, they were consecrated to Onjhol, the consort of the goddess Tabilit. No woman was allowed to mount them. Any coward who came into contact with such a horse would immediately fall ill. Alsanobal delighted in these stories, boasting that his continued good health demonstrated the excellence of his own valor.
The red horse carried no special merit in Shannivar's eyes, only a malicious disposition. Then, because she liked her cousin even if he was a hothead braggart, she wished him a bright day.
Alsanobal lingered as Shannivar slipped a lead line over Eriu's neck. “Race?”
Shannivar hesitated, although she had never shrunk from such a challenge before. There was not another horse in all the Golden Eagle clans, and very few in Azkhantia, that could match Eriu's speed. No, this was something else. Perhaps she was already mourning this place and its people. Perhaps this might be her last race with her cousin.
“What's the matter?” he jibed. “Lost your nerve? Don't think you can beat me?”
“All right, then.”
Shannivar settled her saddle over the thick blanket, tracing the patterned weave with her fingertips. Red and yellow threads highlighted the stylized Tree of Life, symbol of the goddess who had given horses to men. It had been her father's, woven by her mother.
Eriu dipped his head, taking the bit easily. Shannivar swung up on his back and adjusted her bow case beside her left knee. Alsanobal also went armed, as did every rider in these uncertain times.
They turned west, up the slopes and away from the river valley. Shannivar felt Eriu's stride lengthen, the flex and arch of his spine as his muscles warmed up. His head stayed low, one ear cocked back toward her. From the spring in his step, however, he was eager to run.
They had almost arrived at the flat stretch of grass, the usual starting point for a friendly race, when Shannivar heard the noise of a galloping mount. They halted, the red horse prancing and fighting the bit, wringing his tail in frustration.
One of the ponies kept for the youngest children, round-bodied and puffing with exertion, scrambled up the hill. Alsanobal's youngest brother, a boy of six, clung to the pony's back, beating her sides with his heels.
“Come quickly, elder brother!” the child called out. As soon as he stopped kicking the pony, she dropped to a walk. “Strangers have come!”
“Gelon?” Alsanobal wheeled his horse. Shannivar did the same as she reached for her bow.
“Not a war party, Father says. He says for you to come now.”
Alsanobal gave the red his head, and the horse raced back the way they had come. Shannivar tapped Eriu with her heels. The black gathered his hindquarters under him, then burst into a full-out gallop. The coarse hairs of his mane whipped across Shannivar's face. She leaned over his forequarters, secretly pleased that they would have their race after all.
Eriu's speed was like fire, like silk, as intoxicating as
k'th
. Even on the rough downhill footing, he never missed a step. The air itself sustained him.
By day, you are my wings,
the poet sang to his favorite steed.
By night, you never fail me.
They plunged downhill, caught Alsanobal on his red, and passed them. Shannivar whooped in triumph.
The
dharlak
came into sight, the familiar arrangement of
jorts
, the ancient crumbling walls, the horses in their field. There was no sign of Esdarash, the chief, although most of the adult members of the clan had gathered in the central area. Two unfamiliar horses of poor quality stood beside a laden donkey. Their saddles were strange and flat, hardly fit for the rough terrain of the steppe. All three beasts showed signs of hard usage and privation.
As Shannivar slowed her mount, Alsanobal caught up with her. They exchanged glances.
“Go on,” Shannivar told Alsanobal, as she reached over to grasp the reins of his horse. Nodding, Alsanobal jumped from the saddle and slipped inside his mother's
jort
, where Esdarash was meeting with the strangers.
Shannivar spoke soothingly to the red horse. With a snort and a skeptical glare, he lowered his head. A few moments later, he had quieted enough to follow her without protest. She left the horses in the care of one of the bright-eyed youngsters who ran to greet her.
She approached a group of clansmen as they squatted in a rough circle. Like her, they wore full-cut trousers tucked into soft boots, quilted vests, and felt caps adorned with feathers and strings of beads.
“May your day be lucky and your horses swift,” she said, settling beside them. “Who are these strangers? Gelonian spies?”
“They say not,” replied white-haired Taraghay, who had ridden against the invaders with Shannivar's father. Shannivar liked him, for he had always treated her fairly. His only daughter, Mirrimal, was Shannivar's closest friend.
“Who can tell with these lowland devils?” Taraghay went on. “Their names are Leanthosâhe is the old one, andâwhat was the other? Pharrus? No, Phannus, that is it. Outland names if I ever heard them. They speak trade-dialect with a terrible accent! They
say
they have come to make common purpose with us against the Gelon. But who can tell, with names like that?”
“They must be half-witted or struck mad from living in their stone houses, to think
we
need allies!” joked his brother, who was still young enough to fight.
“Or drunk on more
k'th
than they can stomach!” someone else added. At that, Shannivar laughed along with the men.
The Azkhantian clans had never needed the help of any other people. They moved where the winds took them, seeking pasture for their herds, water for the hot, lazy summer days, and shelter against the bitter winter cold. They looked to the Sky People, Tabilit and her consort Onjhol, their totem animals, and their own strength, never to other races.
As old Taraghay rose, the joints of his knees popped loudly. He rubbed the hilt of the knife tucked into his sash. “We'll learn their purpose in good time. There were but two of them, and neither looks to be a warrior.”
“You cannot tell with outlanders,” another of the men said with a frown. “They were asleep when the gods gave out sense. They wear no trousers, they cannot hold their drink, and their women are all blind in one eye.”
“And a good thing that is, too, or none would take these for husbands.”
“They'll be a week deciding anything.” His friend sounded glum. “Meanwhile, work will not wait.” He meant the preparations for the
khural
, the gathering, as well as ongoing care of the herds, milking the mares and she-goats, making cheese and fermenting
k'th
, mending harness, and reaping the summer's bounty of wild barley to see them through the winter.
The group broke up and the older men went about their business. One of the younger men remained behind with Shannivar. She knew Rhuzenjin son of Semador only slightly. They had not grown up together, for he had come lately to the clan when his mother, a widow of the Rabbit totem, married one of the older men. Rhuzenjin was a good archer and an even better wrestler, sturdily built, with powerful shoulders and quiet hands on the reins.
“Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, I would speak with you,” he said, gaze lowered.
A moment of heightened awareness swept over Shannivar. She had never before noticed how smooth his skin was, how his thin moustache bracketed his sensitive mouth, the arch of his cheekbones, or his glossy dark eyes.
Before Shannivar could respond, Kendira daughter of Zomarre approached them. “Rhuzenjin, Shannivar, may Tabilit bless your horses with speed. Will you want any more tea?” As the wife of Alsanobal, Kendira carried a certain status, but she had been awake since before dawn, cooking breakfast with the other young married women. Now her face flushed beneath her white headscarf and she moved awkwardly, her belly thickened with pregnancy. She wore a knee-length robe of camel's hair, embroidered with symbols of fertility and the emblems of her own birth clan, Black Marmot.
When Kendira had married Alsanobal a little over a year ago, her speech and manners had seemed strange, although she'd behaved properly in all things. She was respectful to the men of the Golden Eagle clan and even more so to her husband's mother. Now that her advancing pregnancy gave her a topic of conversation with the other women, they were gradually beginning to accept her into their circles.
Kendira sighed, glancing at the fading embers of the cook fire. Shannivar would have liked more tea, strong, pleasantly bitter, and swimming with butter. Any man would have thought nothing of telling Kendira to build the fire up again, even if it meant collecting more camel dung as fuel. Her cousin's wife, however, looked so weary, perhaps still homesick, that Shannivar could not ask it.
“Will you not sit and gossip with us?” Shannivar gestured for Kendira to rest. “Did you see the strangers as they came into camp? What are they like? Is it true they are not Gelon?”
“I know no more of these strangers than you do.” Kendira lowered herself with another sigh. She rubbed her lower back with one hand. “I can stay only for a moment. My mother-in-law will scold if I am late.”
“Surely, once your child is born, you need not work so hard,” Shannivar said. “Your mother-in-law will dote upon her first grandson, and so will all the other aunties.”
“No, no, it must never be said that I shirked a wife's duties.” Kendira glanced speculatively at Rhuzenjin, who blushed and turned away. “We must not complain of the responsibilities of marriage or our husbands will think we are not eager.”
Shannivar bit her lip. Kendira was said to have killed three Gelon before her marriage. Alsanobal had bragged about her prowess, what a fine warrior wife he had. Now she moved like an old woman and thought of nothing more than marriages and babies! She would not be going to the gathering this year, to drink
k'th
and dance until sunrise.
“As for the strangers, I myself know little of them,” Rhuzenjin said. “Only that they are not Azkhantian.”
“Surely they cannot be Gelon,” Kendira said, making a face of disdain. “Or if they are, they must be cursed by Onjhol, to be so lacking in sense as to walk freely among their enemies, like the rabbit that hops of its own will into the cookpot.”