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blessing of Tabilit, as revealed through the dream visions of the shaman. Esdarash brought the audience to a close so that Bennorakh, the
enaree,
could examine the outlanders.
    The crowd began to disperse. Esdarash’s wife scolded the younger women for lingering, for the day was still young. “The felt must be properly rolled or it will dry unevenly! You’ll never get a good husband if the men see how lazy you are!”
    â€œI’ll be along in a moment, auntie,” Shannivar murmured. She watched as the
enaree
took the two strangers into his own
jort
. Doubtless, they would remain there for the rest of the day or perhaps longer. The vision could require several days.
    Shannivar felt a shiver of pity for the two strangers. She had been examined by the clan shaman only once, before her first foray against the Gelon. The memory was still vivid, the smoky closeness of the
jort
, the strange designs painted on the felt panels, the sonorous chanting. She had been frightened of the
enaree
, this strange, wild-eyed half-man in women’s clothing, and fascinated as well.
    At the time of Shannivar’s initiation, Bennorakh had but lately joined the community, for their old shaman had died of a lung-fever two winters before, leaving no apprentice to take his place. Half-starved and covered with mud and brambles, Bennorakh had stumbled into the winter encampment on the very changing between the Moon of Darkfall and the Moon of Wolves. Unerringly, he had gone to the
enaree
’s
jort
that stood dark and empty, as if waiting for him. No one had questioned his right to be there. Every family had placed offerings of food and other necessities outside the door flap. The hunting had been good all that season, and the grass especially plentiful in the Moon of Foals.
    When Shannivar had presented herself for his blessing, he had drawn the point of his sickle knife between her breasts and said that her heart would never rest in Azkhantia. When she heard this, she knew that Tabilit had not destined her for a peaceful life.
    * * *
    As the sun crested the eastern hills the following morning, Shannivar set out on Radu, accompanied by Mirrimal as her closest woman friend and Kendira as her cousin’s wife. The felt had been properly rolled, smooth and straight, then set out to dry. Now was the proper time to assemble the framework for Shannivar’s
jort
.
    The women traveled slowly, laughing and singing. This was partly for Kendira’s comfort and partly for the simple pleasure of the day. Mirrimal rode her rangy gray, leading an old she-camel that carried supplies and would carry the completed lattice back. Shannivar set aside her own gloomy thoughts, pleased to see her friend bright and happy once more.
    They came across a stand of willow, unloaded the camel, hobbled the horses to graze, and set about cutting and shaping the long, flexible strips for the lattice. As they worked, Mirrimal told a hilarious story about her younger brother at the last
khural
, how he had won honor in wrestling on horseback, but fallen off while attempting to pick up a dropped kerchief at full gallop.
    â€œAnd so,” she concluded, “the girls told him that the Gelon had nothing to fear, if only they would go to war in their skirts!”
    â€œPerhaps we should teach the Isarrans the hat-stealing game!” Kendira said, holding her sides. Shannivar had never seen her so relaxed.
    â€œI don’t know that game,” Mirrimal said. “Is it one your people play?”
    Kendira looked down, her cheeks coloring faintly. “Among the Black Marmot clan, it is a bridal game. When a young woman is ready to be married, she wears a special hat—this tall and shaped so,” she gestured with her hands and set the other two giggling, “and
red
!”
    The giggles erupted into outright laughter. Kendira’s eyes crinkled merrily. “She rides her horse along a flat field, toward a pole set at the very