Shannivar (33 page)

“And the Gelon took her, too.”

“I had given up hope, or almost, and then lost it again. Why was my own life preserved, if not to save hers?”

Zevaron hated Gelon more than anyone she'd ever met, but what had his mother's death to do with the uncanny happenings here in the north of the steppe or wanting Shannivar to stay behind?

I saw Gelon burning
, he'd said.

“Do you mean to avenge her?” she asked, for it seemed that he must choose between his desire to strike back and the spirit quest that had led him here. By the leap of tension around his eyes, she saw that he had not—perhaps
could not
—give that up.

“Gelon will pay for her pain and her death,” he said in a voice that rang quietly like a sword slipping from its sheath. His shoulders lifted and fell. “Gelon and the evil that now rules there. I used to think the enemy was human, with human ambition. Cinath is a man like any other, after all.”

“A man who commands many warriors,” she added.

One corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Warriors your own people have held at bay. But what if you were to face not mortal troops, men of flesh, men who bleed and die, but an army of stone-drakes?”

Shannivar's belly clenched at the thought of such a force sweeping over the steppe.

“I saw—my mother herself suspected—there's more at stake here, and a far greater enemy to face. I now know what lies beneath all the death and outrage, the ruin of Meklavar.” He tilted his head toward the wall.

“The white star?” she said.

“Rather, what pulled the white star from the heavens.”

In the midst of the streaming brightness, Zevaron stood like an upraised blade of Denariyan steel. Images rushed to her mind: the sudden, immense power of an avalanche, a wall of fire such as sometimes swept the steppe, lightning-born, consuming everything in its path. She had not come all this way merely to be dismissed when her services were no longer required. She hungered to be the Saramark of her time. To stand between that fire and her people.

Not all warriors had the same strengths, she knew. Some were better riders, some stronger wrestlers, others more accurate with bow and arrow.
Enarees
ventured into realms of the spirit where not even the bravest fighter dared go. She remembered the living gold beneath Zevaron's skin, the shared dream memories of the magic of his people, magic that had once defeated the embodiment of chaos. Magic that was now his to wield. That magic had led him to this place, and so he must go on.

She wanted to follow him and protect him, but perhaps that choice was not hers to make. Tabilit had entrusted her with keeping her people safe. Shannivar had no idea what dangers lay beyond the wall or what were the chances of victory. If the uncanny power that had smashed the mountain were greater than Zevaron's magic, he might fail.
“My safe harbor,”
he'd said.

Her free hand went unthinking to her belly, where their child grew. She thought of the Gelonian soldiers, fighting back to back, each defending the other. Someone would have to remain free, to rescue him if the need arose.

A voice whispered to her:
“When the heir to light goes to the mountain / He will not return
.”

So said the prophecy. But prophecies did not always turn out to be what they seemed. She could not—
would not
—believe this one.

“All this time, I have been alone,” he said, his voice low not with the strangeness of the place, but with the tenderness she knew so well. “I have never had anything, any one, just for myself. I was always the second son, the last son of Meklavar, the Heir of Khored. But you have never seen me as anyone but myself. A man like any other.”

Shannivar looked into his eyes. In that moment, when he opened himself to her, she found the courage to release him.

Tabilit, strengthen his arm! Bring him back to me!

“You are not a man like any other,” she said, repeating his own words. “You are a hero, as great as any of my own people. If you are to venture in there—” with a quick glance toward the wall, “and contend with whatever lies within, then you will need a hero's mount.” Shannivar handed Eriu's reins to Zevaron. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Eriu—I cannot take him from you.”

She set her chin. “Eriu is the finest horse I have ever known. A horse to carry you through frost and fire. A horse to bring you back from the very gates of death.”

A horse to bring you back to me.

She held him with her gaze, as if she could force him to understand. He was not steppe-born, so he had not learned to ride before he could walk. He did not see the world from a horse's back. He had traveled over vast waters on wooden ships, and had lived in stone dwellings. But this frozen, shattered land was part of Azkhantia, and no Azkhantian was complete without his horse.

Eriu seemed to understand what Shannivar wanted of him. He stood firm as Zevaron swung up on his back, sheathed sword in hand, and did not hesitate at the touch of his rider's heels but stepped out briskly toward the wall of shifting light.

T
HE
fog swirled wildly, as if it were sentient and aware of Zevaron's approach. He dared not look back, for fear his resolve would vanish, dissipating into phantasmal wisps and merging into the mists.

He raised one hand to his chest, although he could not feel his skin beneath the layers of wool and camel's hair. The gesture had become reflexive, a habit, a way of focusing on the
te-alvar.
The further north he had journeyed, the brighter it had shone in his thoughts, and yet it had also grown heavier. Sometimes it felt like an open wound, each throbbing pulse more torment than reassurance. At other times, it filled his mind with golden light. He was never sure what it was trying to communicate, only that something waited for him beyond these broken mountains. That much, he already knew.

Visions stirred at the back of his mind. He had only to close his eyes and the images, as sharp as any real memory, would take him. As if he had been there, he stood on that hilltop.

Looking down on the massed armies, their blades like silvered grass, horses neighing, voices calling out, “Khored! Khored!” Wind whipping his cheeks, edged with ashes and ice . . .

The
te-alvar
was now so hot and bright, burning with memory and urgency, that he feared his whole body would go up in flames. It must sense the power of this place, of these mists and the forms within the luminescent cone. Surely it had led him here. Surely he now did its will.

The mists reached out, as if eager to embrace him. His stomach felt like curdled lead. He wanted nothing more than to turn the black horse around and gallop back the way he had come. He closed his eyes, clenched his hands on the reins, and thought of his mother, lying waxen and motionless in the Justice Hall back in Aidon. He remembered his brother's blood and his father's, and the malicious glee that glowed in Lycian, Jaxar's vain, beautiful wife. Rotten, all of them!

No matter what it takes,
he promised himself,
Gelon will pay.

He had seen his mother's body. He had felt the terrible stillness in the air. He had touched her face, brushed her hair back from her forehead, searched in vain for a pulse in her neck. Gone, this time she was truly gone. Taken from him by that monster, Cinath, as everything else he valued had been taken. His city, his freedom, his family—father, mother, and the brother he had sworn to defend.

Now he was here, in the realm of the
te-alvar's
vision.

Zevaron's pulse raced. His breath turned thick and heavy in his throat. In the marrow of his bones, he knew he was approaching a fate that would either destroy him or else serve him as no earthly power could.

Before long, he lost all sense of direction. Eriu, seemingly unaffected, kept on at an even pace. They passed more rock formations, some bearing an uncanny resemblance to the stone-drake. Lights glittered on the surfaces and the next moment went black. When Zevaron glanced back, however, it seemed they had altered their positions or disappeared entirely. There was no wall, no dividing line behind him, only more stones and more mist. This place must go on for miles in every direction.

Eriu's hoofbeats echoed eerily in the fog. Ahead, the currents of light-upon-light churned like storm-whipped waves.

Dampness chilled his skin and penetrated his lungs. Behind his breastbone, all life had left the
te-alvar.
He sensed nothing from it, as if that flare of heat had never existed. As if he had imagined it. Perhaps the gem had already achieved its purpose, and no further urging—or warning—was needed. He had crossed ocean and steppe, endured fire and frost, to arrive at this very place.

After some period of time—long or short, Zevaron couldn't tell—he began to feel warmer. The movement of the mists took on a soothing quality, like placid surf on a beach. He could almost feel himself back in Denariya while still on the crew of the
Wave Dancer
, with Chalil laughing at his side. For all the horror and uncertainty that began his years on the pirate ship, he had known good times as well, the easy comradeship of the crew, the chance to explore exotic lands, the exhilaration of the passage through the treacherous Firelands Straits, and the air rich with spices or laced with salt-tang and ice. Most of all, he'd relished the sense of freedom, of waves as far as his eyes could see and a nimble ship to carry him wherever he wished. There was nothing to fear in that endless gray-green expanse, just as there was nothing to fear in these gently curling mists.

Fog caressed his cheek, temperate and benign.

Eriu's hoofbeats were slower now. Tension gathered in the black horse's body. One small, inwardly curved ear pricked back at him.

What was there to fear, for man or beast, in this landscape of soft mist and elegant stone shapes? The formations were so beautiful and intricate, like crystallized dreams. If he touched one, it would ring like a bell, he was sure of it. No enemy had emerged from the undulating grayness, nor ever would. He was safe here. The mist had a voice, and it sang to him of peace. No human voice could create such celestial harmony. He strained to hear the words.

With a squeal, Eriu came to a halt. He arched his neck and rooted his feet to the stony ground. Every muscle went taut, braced against any urging to continue.

Zevaron felt puzzled but not alarmed. After all, the horse might well be frightened of this transcendently glorious realm. Eriu was a dumb beast, unable to appreciate the delicate shadings of light and temperature, of movement, of song.

A fine quivering shook the horse's body. His sweat rankled the senses, sour with fear. Zevaron patted the animal's neck, but the horse did not relax or show any willingness to go forward.

Zevaron frowned as he noticed the white hairs in the horse's mane. He had thought the beast pure black, but there again, along the sloping shoulder a trick of the light gave the hide a cast like pewter instead of ebony. At first, he felt alarmed, but that quickly faded as the mist sang on.

What need had he for a mount of blood and bone?
the mist seemed to be asking. Surely it would be cruel to force the animal onward. He could not remember what had prompted him to bring a horse in the first place, a dumb and unreliable creature.

Zevaron looped the reins over the pommel, took his sword, and slid to the ground. Steady and firm, the rock welcomed his weight. Now he saw that the frosting of white on the horse's body had been no illusion. The lower legs and hooves were the color of ice.

The horse shuffled uneasily, flaring rime-coated nostrils. It swung its head from side to side, gulping air, searching—

With a start, Zevaron saw the horse's eyes, once dark but now as pale as marble. Blood ran sluggishly from the sockets down the sides of the tapering muzzle. Scenting him, the beast snorted and threw its head up. No longer rooted to the spot, it wheeled and broke into a ragged trot. Within a pace or two, it achieved a full-out gallop. Whiteness swallowed it up.

Go, then
, Zevaron thought without a trace of regret. Why had he ever thought the black horse courageous or intelligent? It was a nag, a broken-down hack, nothing more. The mist whispered promises of a surer mount that awaited him ahead.

His feet, obedient to the prompting of the mists, carried him onward. The ground became smoother, and the rock formations more dreamlike and fantastical. At times, he felt as if he were passing beneath the arched ribs of an immense skeleton, but not of any creature he knew, not even the leviathans of the oceanic deeps. These ribs were impossibly thin, soaring gloriously overhead, and they glittered. From afar, his ears caught a subtle resonance, perhaps from the vibration of winds between the ribs. The thrumming sound penetrated so deeply, he felt his bones soften in response.

I must go carefully here,
he thought, although his pulse did not speed up in readiness for battle or flight, nor did his palms grow damp. His body refused to acknowledge any possibility of danger. That in itself—and the quiescence of the
te-alvar
—made him uneasy. This place had an odd, soporific effect. It might be affecting his thoughts as well.

The warmth must surely be unnatural, he thought, even as his muscles relaxed under its influence. But what was natural here? This entire region was in no way as it ought to be, a tumble of icy rock or perhaps a crater from the impact of the comet. The spires and arches were far too fragile to have survived such a blow, nor could they be the result of it. No, this place and everything in it must be either the result of supernatural forces, or else illusions created in his mind. Either way, he dared not trust his senses.

Something flitted at the corner of his vision, gray on gray, white against white. He tried to follow the movement, but whatever it was had vanished. He was not alone. The back of his neck tingled as if he were being watched. Being
stalked.
He considered calling out,
“Who's there?”
to draw out whatever it was. Or simply to hear the sound of his own voice.

He drew his sword. It left the scabbard with a whisper. The mists retreated as he went on, holding the blade in front of him like a shield. One step became two and then ten. Beads of moisture condensed on the steel. The contours of the sword distorted in his sight, now flat and broad, then impossibly elongated. When he caught sight of another flicker, he was ready. He pivoted, then lunged. Vapors frothed as if storm-lashed as they gave way before him.

Then he spied a moving form, a deer of some sort. Its body shone like moonlight through clouds, and the branched, backward-swept antlers sparkled as if encrusted with crystalline shards. The beast paused, one cloven-hoofed foreleg raised, and looked at him.

He thought,
Surely this is a paragon of stags,
and then he saw its eyes. The orbs were round and opaque, unmarked by pupils, yet piercing in their gaze. Zevaron's courage faltered at the sight of them.

The next moment, the stag—if indeed it was a stag—bounded away. The fog swallowed it up. Zevaron was once more alone, his sword trembling in his hand, his mouth dry.

Forcing himself to breathe slowly and evenly, he studied his surroundings. Although he turned in a complete circle, he could discern no difference from one direction to the next.

Which way to go?

Perhaps it did not matter, as long as he kept moving. He had been guided to this place by a power beyond his own, a destiny ignited by the fall of Meklavar, fueled by the death of his mother, and sealed by the sight of the stone-drake. That power would not desert him now, not if he himself held fast.

A destiny, yes,
hummed the churning vapors. The rainbow light assured him that he was answerable to no one and nothing except that destiny.

The mist finally thinned, and the air grew even warmer and humid as well. He started sweating. As he emerged into a clear space, pain lanced through his chest. The air was so still, it took an effort to draw it into his lungs. It felt like trying to inhale glass. For a moment, he could not breathe, could only stare at the scene before him. A pavilion had been set up on polished rock. Its framework, a filigree of gleaming silver, supported a canopy so sheer as to be transparent in places, and yet he could not make out its interior. The fabric rippled, although there was no breeze. Silver threads depicted stylized beasts and trees, all seemingly edged in frost.

Perceiving no threat, Zevaron advanced a step and then another. The pain subsided and a feeling of well-being seeped into him. His throat was no longer dry, and his body felt light and rested, his mind alert. Power sang in his blood. He was master of himself and of his fate. He felt no impulse to lay down his sword, and that in itself reassured him.

The front panels of the pavilion fluttered and drew apart. Inside, three steps led to a dais, all of silver-veined marble. There a woman lounged on piles of snowy cushions. As if noticing Zevaron for the first time, she sat up. Her skin was so pale, only a hint of rosy blush distinguished it from the cushions. Her hair fell like colorless silk to her waist, drawn away from her face and secured with clasps shaped like snowflakes.

Zevaron had seen beautiful women before, honey-gold and copper-dark, even the cream and porcelain loveliness of Lycian. This woman put them all to shame, from the flawless lines of her cheek and brow to the slope of her neck, the shape of her generous, wide-set breasts where they pressed against her gossamer robe, the hint of tapering waist, sweetly rounded hips, and between them, thighs such as he had seen only in dreams.

He tore his gaze away. His heart was pounding, but not with battle-readiness. The woman smiled at that, and he felt her knowing gaze upon him like a rush of heat.

I have not come here to goggle at a half-naked woman.

Steeling himself, he lifted his sword and met her eyes.

“You have no need of weapons here, Zevaron san'Khored.” Her voice was like the first melting of the snow in spring, her Meklavaran without accent.

“I will judge that for myself.”

“So stern! So warlike! What danger confronts you here?” As she spoke, the air filled with a delicate fragrance, a trace of musk only strong enough to make him crave more. “Surely, you have nothing to fear from such as I. Come, sit beside me.”

Zevaron remained where he was, sword at the ready. The woman continued to regard him with a faintly amused expression. She raised one hand to her throat. A diamond, or perhaps a very pale blue topaz, glittered there, and the movement accentuated her curves. He saw that her nipples were erect, as if begging for his touch.

In a softer voice, she repeated, “What have you to fear? From anything here? From
me?
”

He rankled at the accusation that he might be afraid, but to deny it would be to admit it was possible. Well, he need not explain himself to her or to anyone. “You know my name, but you have not spoken yours.”
And this place reeks of magic!

She rose with languid grace and came toward him. Her bare feet touched tip-toe as she descended each step. Her gown flowed behind her in gentle folds that gave rise to curls of mist. Her skin glimmered as if moon-touched, and her perfume took on a spicy undertone. Then she was standing in front of him, and she was no longer smiling.