Free Shannivar by Deborah J. Ross

cannot leave her to do all the work herself.”
    â€œYes, you are quite right,” Kendira said, clearly relieved. “A married woman has responsibilities and cannot always please herself.”
    Mirrimal watched Kendira walk away, rolling with the awkward gait of pregnancy. “Can
never
please herself, more like.”
    It was Kendira’s own affair whether she was happy or not, satisfied with her life as wife and mother or not, whether she longed to return to hunt and battle, whether she missed her own clan and its customs.
    Shannivar was not afraid of hard work, but when she thought of spending the rest of her life confined to
jort
and cookpot, weaving, and tending babies, she felt sick at heart, as if she had unwittingly traded Eriu for Gray-ears. There must be more to a woman’s life than what Kendira had accepted.
    The two women deposited the lattice beside the pile of folded, dried felts outside Grandmother’s
jort
. Scarface came out to greet them, making a motion that Grandmother was sleeping. From the pot on the banked cookfire, she dipped out three cups of butter-laced tea. They moved away from Grandmother’s
jort
to talk more freely.
    â€œWhat’s the news?” Shannivar asked. “Has Bennorakh released the strangers?”
    No, indeed, Scarface told them, in between sips of her own tea. The strangers were still sequestered with the
enaree
. Day by day, smoke rose from the opening in the roof, sometimes white, sometimes black, and once—here Scarface made a grimace of disapproval—it had been
green
. Drumming had filled the air, pierced for an instant by screaming.
    Shannivar could well imagine how the smug, slightly malicious speculations about the strangers had died down, to be replaced by with muted awe. Rarely was one of the clan put to such a testing. At least, Scarface qualified with a carefully guarded expression, so Grandmother had said.
    Shannivar and Mirrimal exchanged glances. This must be a matter of serious prophetic importance for the
enaree
to examine them with such vigor.
    Grandmother emerged from the
jort
at that moment, querulous at being awakened. Mirrimal bowed and took her leave while Scarface asked if there was anything Grandmother needed. Shannivar diverted the old woman’s irritation by asking her to inspect the new lattice. Grandmother did so, and although she ran her gnarled fingers over every strip of wood and every joining, she could find no fault. The perfection, Shannivar reflected wryly, was in part due to Kendira’s near-obsession with detail. At the time, Shannivar had thought her cousin’s wife excessive, as if a woman’s value—or her eligibility for marriage—were determined by the evenness of her
jort
lattice. Apparently, Grandmother thought so, too.
    A hubbub from the direction of Bennorakh’s
jort
brought an end to the examination of the lattice. Shannivar walked at Grandmother’s side, Scarface supported her on the other, and together they passed through the gathering crowd.
    Esdarash and the other senior men took their places in a semi-circle around the
enaree
’s
jort
. As was proper, Esdarash sat on his stool of stitched, painted camel skin. At Grandmother’s approach, he gestured for a second seat to be brought for her.
    Grandmother settled herself. Scarface sat at her feet, but Shannivar remained standing. The crowd grew still, as if holding its collective breath.
    The door flap lifted and Bennorakh emerged. Even the most excited onlooker drew back respectfully. The shaman looked haggard, as if the hours of smoke and chanting, of visions and fasting, had etched themselves into his features. For a moment, he struggled visibly to focus on the waiting assemblage. He seemed not to know them, or perhaps he had forgotten himself and what he was doing there. Then his gaze fell upon Shannivar, where she stood behind Grandmother. His expression shifted.
    Grandmother made a censorious noise in