Free Shannivar by Deborah J. Ross Page A

her throat. Shannivar had no doubt it was meant for her. Although she made no response, she could not take her gaze away from the shaman. A fire burned behind his deep-set eyes. What could it mean, that intense look? She wanted to dismiss it as the result of fasting and too much dreamsmoke. Something roused within her, stirring to life.
    Shannivar sensed a wordless bond between herself and the
enaree
. She did not know whether to be elated or terrified. A thought gathered in her mind, like a storm condensing across the winter sky. She had the distinct impression that Bennorakh had seen her in his visions, that Tabilit had interwoven her destiny, and perhaps her death, with that of the outlanders.
    How could she, Shannivar of the race of Saramark, daughter of the Azkhantian steppe, have anything to do with stone-dwelling outlanders?
    A moment later, the strangers themselves stumbled from the dark interior of the
jort
, red-eyed and pale. The older one could barely stand. Sweat matted his hair to his skull, giving him a cadaverous appearance. His jaw muscles stood out in stark relief against the stubble on his cheek. He seemed to be holding himself erect by willpower alone. The younger man, the one Shannivar had marked for a warrior, carried himself better. From the way he looked around the audience, his gaze flickering from Esdarash to the other men, he was ready to respond to any physical threat.
    The moment stretched on. The older of the Isarrans wavered on his feet, Esdarash waited in stony formality, and Bennorakh stared at Shannivar. Then the
enaree
raised his dream stick. As he shook it, the bones and shells, the sacred stones and amulets of carved horn rattled. The brittle sound pierced the air.
    â€œThe strangers have spoken truly!” Bennorakh proclaimed, his voice hoarse as a raven’s.
    The older stranger closed his eyes, lips moving silently. His gods had answered his prayers. Or perhaps, Shannivar thought with another glance at the
enaree
, the Sky People had a use for even moon-mad stone-dwellers.
    Esdarash ordered drink and food for the Isarrans. People turned to their neighbors, speculating about what might happen next. Everyone seemed to have a different opinion.
    Surprisingly, Grandmother said nothing. Shannivar bent to whisper a question in the old woman’s ear. She felt a curious stillness in the aged shoulders. The next moment Grandmother toppled sideways, and Scarface burst out screaming.
    Shannivar caught the old woman in her arms. She staggered under the sudden, inert weight. Tiny as she was, Grandmother was surprisingly heavy. Kneeling, Shannivar lowered the old woman to the ground. Someone was shouting—Esdarash, she thought, although she could not make out his words through Scarface’s rising shrieks.
    â€œGrandmother!” Shannivar cried. “Grandmother!”
    There was no response. The old woman’s head lolled to one side. Her eyes were closed so that only a thin line, like the first glimmer of a new moon, shone between her lids. Her lips had gone dark, almost black.
    Don’t leave us. Don’t leave us. We need you.
    Shannivar, not knowing what else to do, bent down and placed one ear over her grandmother’s chest. She might not have been able to hear even a strong pulse through a traditional quilted vest and woven wool shirt, but Grandmother wore Denariyan silk.
    For a long, terrible moment, Shannivar heard nothing. Then, muffled, as if far away, came a doubled drum-beat.
Ta-thum . . .
    Another.
    Against her cheek, Shannivar felt a faint stirring of air from her grandmother’s parted lips.
    Relief swept through her. The air turned too bright.
    She sat back on her heels and entwined her fingers with Grandmother’s. The assembled clan crowded around her. Esdarash pushed forward, his face ashen.
    Quickly Shannivar said, “She is not dead! She breathes! Her heart beats!”
    He stared at her, then at Scarface, who was still wailing as if