Shannivar (15 page)

The younger women expressed their eagerness to hear the song-poem, for Rhuzenjin was known for his musical compositions from past gatherings.

“Now you must be patient,” Shannivar said, “for I must speak to the Council.”

Bidding her friends a bright day, Shannivar passed one area after another. The Golden Eagle people were not the only ones to send a diminished party to this year's gathering. The space reserved for the Snow Bear from the far north was indeed empty. The chief of the Ghost Wolf clan, who was still ailing from last winter's lung fever, had sent his son in his place. Alsanobal would have represented their sept of Golden Eagle, but Shannivar would not be permitted to sit with the Council. Grandmother had done so for many years, and she'd rendered judgments that were still respected, but Shannivar was no Jannover. A Saramark, perhaps. Someday. If Tabilit willed it.

Meanwhile, there would be games and races, singing and dancing, courtship and gossip. Nothing had changed, not the duty she was about to discharge nor her own plans.

* * *

At the base of the rocky promontory, a pavilion had been prepared for the Council. A small audience had gathered, so a hearing was most likely still in session. Shannivar slowed her pace respectfully as she approached. A few spectators, recognizing her from past gatherings or else in simple courtesy, moved aside for her.

The Council members normally sat in a half-circle on their stools of camel-skin stretched over light wicker frames and painted in designs representing Tabilit's gifts, the many animals that enriched the clans and the fire that warmed their nights. To Shannivar's disappointment, all but two of the stools were empty. She waited until the current case drew to a close. It involved failure to pay the agreed-upon price for a she-camel after the animal was found to be barren. The two elders conferred briefly with one another and rendered their judgment. The parties withdrew, apparently satisfied. Shannivar stepped forward, presented herself, and offered the gifts.

One of the elders recognized her. Ardellis, her mother, had been born to his clan, Silver Fox. He was very old now, his skin pleated with the passage of seasons. The wispy hairs of his moustache were white. His voice quavered, but pleasure suffused his features as he greeted her. He addressed her affectionately as “niece,” and she called him, “Uncle Sagdovan,” which seemed to delight him even further.

After the proper courtesies, Shannivar presented her request. Both Sagdovan and the other man, a chieftain of the Antelope people, looked grave as she explained that she had escorted not one but two parties of outlanders, each with their own petition for the Council. She did not need to explain the urgency of the matter.

“Esdarash son of Akhisarak of the Golden Eagle clan is wise indeed, to place such questions before the Council,” said Sagdovan. “But we two alone cannot determine such a weighty matter. It requires the combined wisdom of our chieftains and elders, and we must consult the
enarees
as well. You say that your
enaree
has already examined these strangers through his dream visions?”

“Yes, but only the Isarrans,” Shannivar reminded them.

“We must consider the possibility that Tabilit has brought these two groups of outlanders together for her own purposes,” the Antelope chieftain said.

“Who can tell the intentions of the Sky People, until their results are revealed?” Sagdovan shook his head. “I say again, we must consider this matter carefully.”

T
HE
next morning, Shannivar and her warriors led a procession through the
khural-lak
to where the Council met. Only Dharvarath stayed behind, saying he had seen enough madness brought about by dwellers-in-stone. The pairs of supplicants, the Isarrans and Danar and Zevaron, followed solemnly. As the party passed through the encampment, they caused ripples of excitement. Overnight, word of their mission had swept through the gathering. As Danar had predicted, everyone from the youngest child to the oldest grandmother now clamored for a glimpse of these outlanders.

This time, every stool in the pavilion was occupied. As was customary, leadership of the Council rotated annually among the various chieftains. This year, Tenoshinakh son of Bashkiri, a chieftain of the Falcon clan, held that office. Not yet in his middle age, he was strong and clear of sight, respected for his prudence as well as his daring in battle. He was a large man, almost as tall as a Gelon, with a forbidding aspect. Most of the other Council members, chieftains and elders, had seen far more winters, with the notable exception of the son of the Ghost Wolf chieftain, who watched the proceedings with the proper degree of respectful silence.

Three
enarees
stood in a cluster to one side, Bennorakh among them. His eyes were reddened from lack of sleep or perhaps from the ceremonial smoke. Shortly after their arrival, he had withdrawn to the top of the promontory with the other
enarees
. Because they followed the customs of neither men nor women, the shamans were said to dwell between worlds. What they did when they came together in such a time and place was not for ordinary people to know.

Shannivar's kinsman Sagdovan nodded to her as she approached. After the ritual that opened that day's business, and after beseeching the favor and wisdom of Tabilit, Tenoshinakh invited Shannivar to begin.

“May Tabilit grace your words with wisdom and your
jorts
with laughter.” Shannivar tapped one fist over her heart and inclined her head. “I bring you greetings from my uncle, Esdarash son of Akhisarak, leader of the Golden Eagle clan.”

“Esdarash son of Akhisarak is honored throughout all Azkhantia,” Tenoshinakh replied gravely. “Sorrow enters my heart that I do not see him here.”

“And mine as well, that I must stand in his place,” she answered. Several of the elders nodded in approval of her modesty.

Another chieftain asked, “What has befallen the clan of the Golden Eagle, that Esdarash sits not among us?”

Although the Council would have been aware of the rumors flying through the gathering, courtesy demanded a formal question and answer. This way, there could be no misunderstanding based on gossip.

“He is well, my fathers.” Shannivar explained that the death of Grandmother had caused Esdarash to remain behind. Exclamations rippled through the audience. Shannivar was again moved by the many expressions of grief.

“If Jannover daughter of Koranit now sits at Tabilit's right hand, the Sky Kingdom shines all the brighter,” Tenoshinakh said after a moment. Then his gaze shifted again to Shannivar. He nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“My uncle appointed his oldest son, Alsanobal, to sit among you as his representative,” she said. “On our way here, we came upon a Gelonian fortification. Alsanobal fought bravely and defeated the invaders, but was too badly wounded to continue the journey.”

Shannivar hesitated for an instant. She had already boasted to Kharemikhar about being leader-by-acclaim of her party. She had earned the honor, as much as any man, but it might not be wise to bring it up now, before the assembled Council. Her present responsibility was to carry through her uncle's charge, as well as to see the Gelon and his friend safely to this place. Later, when her own future was at stake, she could bolster her position with the honors she had earned.

With an effort, she set aside her own pride. “In the name of Esdarash son of Akhisarak, I present Leanthos of Isarre and his assistant, Phannus, who have traveled through many dangers to speak with our people. It is by my uncle's command that they now submit their case before you. He felt the matter could not wait, nor should it be decided by him alone, for it concerns all Azkhantia.”

Several of the chieftains stared at the strangers, their weathered faces betraying no hint of friendliness. Shannivar's kinsman bent to whisper to Tenoshinakh. For a few moments, the chieftains deliberated, their words too hushed to be overheard.

Tenoshinakh said, “We will hear them.”

Shannivar asked the Council to consider whether the mission of the second pair of outlanders, a Gelon and his companion, might relate to the first, if not in their own intentions, then in the importance of their presence to Azkhantia. Her kinsman had apparently informed the other elders of their conversation the afternoon before, for they speedily confirmed their decision to hear both parties of strangers without delay. She requested and was granted permission to translate the proceedings into trade-dialect for the benefit of the outlanders. No one wanted any unfortunate consequences to arise from a faulty comprehension of language.

Leanthos began by presenting formal greetings on behalf of his King. He spoke smoothly, advancing a well-reasoned argument for an alliance between his nation and the Azkhantian clans. The long journey and brief rest had impaired neither his tongue nor his determination to gain the advantage for Isarre.

With a glare at Danar, Leanthos emphasized the growing threat of Gelon. The Ar-King must be stopped, he said, before the world fell beneath his armies, field and city alike burning in Cinath's wars. For too long, Isarre had stood alone against Gelonian aggression, but now her own borders were vulnerable. Her ships had been captured on the open seas, and the port city of Gatacinne now lay in Gelonian hands.

Zevaron's face tightened, and the faint movement drew Shannivar's notice. Something in the Isarran emissary's argument had caught him by surprise, had perhaps raked an old, festering wound.

Gatacinne, port city of Isarre.
What could such a place matter to a man from land-locked Meklavar? Yet it did, she would have sworn it. She had not imagined the tightly masked emotion on his face.

Returning her attention to the argument, she heard rumbles of suspicion in the Council. Fine speeches were all very well, but not worth the price of their own blood. Why should they bind themselves to a weakened nation?

Leanthos had evidently considered that point. Perhaps he felt, with some justification, that if he described Isarre as too mighty, the Azkhantians might well decide their help was not needed. If too weak, they might think they would do all the fighting for an ally who could not materially contribute to its own defense. He modulated his tone, pausing at the end of each of his points to make sure the audience had time to fully take it in. “If Isarre falls, there will be none to stand against Ar-Cinath-Gelon.” Leanthos pitched his voice so that the exclamations from the audience fell away into silence. “He will direct the fullness of his wrath to Azkhantia. You know he will.”

He turned, making eye contact with first one and then another of the Council. “This time, however, he will have more than the resources of Gelon to draw upon. He will have the wealth of his many conquests as well. Gelon will be more powerful than ever, and
you
will have to face them alone.”

“What is this to us?” said one of the chieftains, a man of the Snake clan. A long-healed scar from a Gelonian spear marked one side of his face from temple to cheek and narrowly missed his eye. “We will throw him back as we have always done.”

Shannivar translated, although Leanthos, and Danar as well, clearly understood the Snake chieftain's meaning.

“No one doubts your skill at arms, your love of your country, or your determination,” Leanthos said. “You alone, of all the peoples of the world, have held fast against the Gelonian horde. But . . .” he let the syllable trail off for dramatic effect, “but you have done so because Gelon was limited in the number of men and swords it could send against you.” He paused once more, letting the words sink in. Even the Snake clan chieftain listened intently, brow furrowed in concentration. Leanthos had made them think, and not only that, in the direction he wished.

“What if Cinath sends ten times that number?” Leanthos continued. “Twenty times? They will sweep across your plains like locusts, consuming everything in their path. The steppe will run red with the blood of your warriors. If you retreat to your far places, thinking to weather this storm, you will find yourselves encircled and penned there. Starved like animals until you are too weak to fight.”

Now the listeners raised their voices, laden with scorn and yet with fear as well. Every person there had lost a father, a brother, a sister, or a friend. The Azkhantian tribes had never been numerous, so each loss struck at their strength.

Leanthos, perhaps sensing the quicksilver temper of the crowd, rushed on before the mood could shift to outright defiance, before they could turn on him as the source and cause of such a dire prediction. “I tell you, your only hope is to join us now and defeat Gelon before it grows too strong.”

“What would your King have us do?” Shannivar's kinsman asked, and then paused for her to translate. “Fight his war for him, while he sits on his stones and grows fat?”

Nervous laughter burst out here and there in the crowd.

“If we are far from Gelon,” Sagdovan continued calmly, “we are even farther from Isarre. Perhaps Cinath will be so occupied with conquering you that he will forget about us.”

“What should you do?” Leanthos faced Sagdovan, once the titters had died down. “Act not in defense of Isarre but of Azkhantia! Come down from your high plains. Strike at Gelon and carry the war to their own territory!”

The muttering shifted tone, becoming less disapproving. This sounded more like the stuff of glory, the way of war in the steppe. Here and there, even under the Council pavilion, heads nodded. Only Tenoshinakh and Sagdovan looked unmoved. As for the
enarees
, they gave no sign of any reaction. Their expressions looked so blank and their gazes so inward, that Shannivar wondered if they were listening to the Isarran's speech or to the whisperings of the goddess.

What would Tabilit have us do? What would she say if we were to leave the steppe, the land she created us for, and carry war to the Land of Stones?

“Meanwhile,” Leanthos went on, “we of Isarre will not be idle. While you draw away the Gelonian armies, we will attack from the sea. Cinath will be forced to divide his forces. Each victory will weaken him further. We will catch him in our pincers like a crab crushing its prey.”

This did not seem a powerful image, for even a child could snap the claws of a river crab. Shannivar glanced at Danar, curious to see how a Gelon received such a speech. Although Danar held himself with dignity, listening politely, he looked troubled. She could not blame him. He might be an exile, but he loved his country. Why should ordinary people, even Gelon—the good men Zevaron had spoken of—suffer for the greed of one tyrant? And why should she consider the enemy as anything but power mad city-dwellers, to be slain whenever possible?

Zevaron, however, listened with an expression of dark intensity, almost rapture. His wordless fervor—so different from the moment of quickly masked pain at the mention of Gatacinne—stung her.

Leanthos ended his speech. There was a short pause, and then Tenoshinakh straightened on his stool. The audience listened even more intently. “We have heard your words, man of Isarre,” the chieftain leader said, using the time honored expression to mean that he recognized the legitimacy of the speaker, “and we will deliver our decision in the fullness of time.”

Heads bobbed in agreement and, for some, not a little relief. Still the shamans gave no sign of either approval or censure. Bennorakh kept his place among them, his eyes unfocused. He might have been a carven image.

“Now,” Tenoshinakh continued, “let us hear this other petition. Perhaps, as is often the way of things, one question may cast light upon the other.”

Leanthos bowed to the chieftains in the Isarran manner and stepped back. If he were displeased by this response, he gave no outward sign.

Danar moved forward to make his own case. In comparison to the rehearsed, polished phrases of Leanthos, he offered no flowery speeches, no impassioned call to battle. Instead, he spoke of his family, of his father's studies and love of learning, and how the greater part of the Gelonian people wished only to live in peace with their neighbors.

As Danar went on, Shannivar saw that his arguments were personal, flowing from his heart. Her people had a long tradition of such discourse. Passionate and quick-tempered, they recognized that men often acted from emotion instead of reason. It was said that Tabilit often guided men through their hearts without them knowing it. The chieftains listened patiently, yet Shannivar sensed they, too, were listening to something deeper and more resonant in Danar's words.

Leanthos, on the other hand, appeared to have no patience for listening. Although he was too experienced a diplomat to let his agitation show, his mouth tightened into a thin line. His brows drew together. He stood very still, and his gaze on the Gelonian youth was unwavering and merciless.

As Danar described how the Ar-King had launched into a campaign of aggression far beyond the territorial aspirations of his fathers, Leanthos could no longer contain himself. He strode forward, placing himself squarely in front of Danar.

“Enough excuses! Enough fabrications and justifications!” he exclaimed. “Esteemed and worthy judges, I cannot permit this charade—this
travesty
—to continue. In another moment, this scoundrel—” fixing Danar with a venomous glare, “will have you believe he is only an innocent victim of the Ar-King's tyranny. Nothing could be farther from the truth!”