Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  Small fires, many of them fueled with dried camel dung, burned brightly in the encampment. Shannivar’s friends and cousins waited beside the largest, where the gazelle was roasting. The younger married women had already brought out the rest of the evening meal, cheeses made from the milk of sheep and camels, flatbread, summer greens cooked with herbs, and boiled wild barley.

  Shannivar nodded to her friends before presenting herself to Grandmother. She could not remember a time when Grandmother had not been the oldest living person in the family, perhaps in the entire sept of her clan, and terrifying. It was said she had outlived three husbands and four sons, including Shannivar’s own father. Although her eldest son was chief in name and in war, everyone deferred to Grandmother.

  Grandmother’s jort dominated the center of the dharlak, always the first to be set up and the last to be taken down. Age had darkened the framework of birch and willow, although the brightly dyed felt was thick and new. Inside, layers of carpet, some of them from Grandmother’s own grandmother, covered the floor. The door flap had been tied back to admit the night breeze, framing the small upright figure on her hassock of stitched camel hide.

  Grandmother wore the traditional dress of a married woman of importance, a long robe of Denariyan silk of a green so dark it looked black, its sleeves brightened by embroidered eagles, the totem of the Golden Eagle clan. Instead of the usual felt cap, she wore a headdress, a silver band in which were set pale-red corals. Chains of jade beads and silver good-luck charms hung from the band on either side, chiming softly with her movements.

  Shannivar approached and bowed respectfully. She kept her eyes lowered and her voice gentle. “May your hearth fire always burn brightly.”

  “May good sense grace your jort,” Grandmother answered dryly. The old woman’s voice had once been strong, like the cry of a hawk, but the last few winters had left her with a lingering hoarseness. “Sit beside me, Granddaughter.”

  Shannivar lowered herself at her grandmother’s feet. They sat for a moment in silence. A fragrance arose from within the jort, old wool and cedar, a touch of cleansing incense.

  Sounds filled Shannivar’s ears, men singing, children shrieking at their games, and iron pots clanging. At the far edge of the encampment, the smith was still at his work in the ancient stone hut. She could hear the tapping of his hammers. Only his apprentice knew the secrets of the smith’s craft, another mystery she would never learn.

  “The other young women have set aside their bows for husbands, all but you.” The old woman paused. “Shannivar daughter of Ardellis, it is time.”

  Time? Shannivar thought irritably, although she had been expecting and dreading this moment. Why now? Was the white star an omen? With an effort, she remained silent. How could it be her time when something wild and thirsty, like the totem of her clan, sang in her blood? She still dreamed of battles to come, of loosing her arrows at the enemy over the back of her horse.

  Once she had asked the clan enaree what these dreams meant, whether they were memories of past battles with the Gelon or a prophecy of deeds to come. The shaman had only shaken his head and retreated into his smoke-filled jort.

  “I do not yet see the clear way,” Shannivar said. In her voice, trembling mixed in equal measure with truth.

  “Do you think you are the first woman to find the chase more pleasing than the cookpot? You are a skilled hunter, and I have never seen a woman who rides more boldly. Already you have seen more battle than most. You have killed your enemy, and thereby brought honor to yourself and your lineage. No one can challenge your fitness to marry.”

  “Until my people are safe, until the Gelon no longer come to our land, how can I put aside my bow and my sword? How can I sit at my ease while my cousins fight and die in my stead? No one suggests that any of them set aside their bows. I am as good an archer, and I am a better rider!”

  This was not entirely true, for although Shannivar could certainly ride as well as any of the young men, neither she nor anyone else of the clan could equal their best men archers with the recurved, laminated bow.

  Grandmother turned to Shannivar, black eyes glittering. The beads and silver ornaments clashed lightly on their chains. Shannivar lowered her gaze. It was unseemly to have spoken so to an elder, in particular this formidable ancestor.

  “There will always be an enemy to fight,” Grandmother said, but not harshly, “if not Gelon, then some other. That is the way of things, and it is not a valid reason to refuse your obligations. Granddaughter, I care for your happiness, but I am also responsible for the welfare of the clan. If every young woman thought as you do, then who would bear sons and daughters to carry on after us? Who would tend the flocks and milk the she-camels, prepare the k’th, and keep the traditional songs alive? In my day, women proved themselves in battle the same way they do now, but then we settled down decently, with our husbands and babies. That is the way of things.”

  Shannivar wanted to answer that times had changed, that since the coming of the new Ar-King, Gelon pressed them harder than ever before. A year or so ago, the Ar-King’s heir had led an expedition into the territory of the Antelope clan. Everyone had heard the story at the last gathering, how the Gelon had been driven back and the Ar-King’s son had been slain, but at a terrible cost, for many fine steppe warriors met their deaths as well. Since then, the Gelonian monarch had sent even more soldiers. Azkhantia needed all her defenders now, daughters as well as sons. Those very songs Grandmother spoke of, did they not tell of women winning glory with their courage and skill? Shannivar had grown up on tales of Aimellina daughter of Oomara, of her own namesake, the first Shannivar, and of Saramark daughter of Julisse, perhaps the greatest heroine of them all.

  Every child of the steppe knew the legend of Saramark. Three generations ago, when her chieftain husband was severely wounded and unable to lead the men into battle, her entire clan had faced annihilation. Saramark took up her husband’s sword. At midnight, she led her band of women warriors against the enemy. Heartened, the men of her clan followed her, and disaster turned into triumph. It was Shannivar’s favorite story, one she never tired of hearing.

  Do you presume to follow in Saramark’s footsteps? her uncle, Esdarash son of Akhisarak, who was chief of their clan, would say whenever he heard her humming the tune. Those times are long gone.

  The night wind must have blown smoke from the cooking fire in her direction, for Shannivar’s eyes stung. A lump thickened her throat.

  Grandmother was trying to help, to warn Shannivar that she had run out of time, and to offer a chance to gracefully bend to what was expected of her without suffering the humiliation of a public confrontation. Shannivar knew that if she refused outright, that would not be the end of it. Her uncle would pressure her to marry. He could not compel her to take a husband, but he could make it impossible for her to remain with the clan. Even as the fledgling golden eagle must fly from the nest of its parents, so too she must leave.

  “In a short time,” Grandmother said, “you will travel to the khural.”

  The annual gathering of the clans was a month-long festival, with contests of archery and horsemanship, feasting, dancing and drinking k’th into the night, buying and selling livestock, and the inevitable courtships. Her older cousins had either stayed with the clans of their new husbands or brought home strange wives. Always before, she had returned as she had gone, unpromised, her heart untouched. At the khural, there would be eligible young men from distant clans, men who had not known her when they were children together and she had outraced so many of them.

  Outraced . . .

  A plan took shape in Shannivar’s mind. She would go to the khural under the guise of obedience, but once there, she would put off any suitors until she had won the Long Ride. Of all the races, the Long Ride was the most grueling and carried the greatest honor. Then, with triumph upon her shoulders, she would accept a husband of her own choosing and on h
er own terms, one who would permit her to ride and hunt as she always had, and, when the Gelon returned, as they surely would, she would fight.

  “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 furniture—the 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 Leanthos—he is the old one, and—what 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.”