The Skull of the World by Kate Forsyth
Next came the First of the Metalworkers and the First of the Scarred Warriors, their hands full of shiny tools and weapons. There was a long skewer, a small axe, a mace with a detachable head which could be swung on a leather strap, and a curved serrated dagger. Isabeau took them with the same ambivalence, part of her excited to be armed like the rest of the pride, the other part filled with trepidation and a sort of fascinated horror at their wicked glitter. She had often seen the same weapons hanging from her sister’s belt, however. The thought of Iseult brought new courage and resolve and she hung the weapons on the supple belt of plaited leather the weaver had brought her with pride.
Next to come was the Firekeeper, a tall woman with a stern face slashed with the shape of dancing flames. With no hint of warmth or friendliness, she gave Isabeau a little pouch of fur that was warm to the touch. Within nestled a single live coal and Isabeau made the gesture of heartfelt gratitude before tying the fur pouch to her belt. Everyone knew that Isabeau was kin to the Firemaker and so could conjure fire with a snap of her fingers, but the gifts were all part of the sacred ceremony and Isabeau had once before insulted the Firekeeper grievously by using her abilities without thought.
Last to come was the First of the Storytellers. He inclined his head to Isabeau and said in his deep, resonant voice, ‘When you seek, you cannot find.’
Again Isabeau gestured her gratitude for his advice, though she had been hoping for more than this well-worn riddle which the Khan’cohbans used for everything from finding happiness to drawing upon the coh in battle. He inclined his white head and sat with the other guild leaders around the fire.
Isabeau then knelt before the Firemaker and received her wordless blessing. The old woman drew her great-granddaughter to her and kissed her brow, a gesture of affection most unusual among the Khan’cohbans. ‘Be wary,’ she whispered. ‘There are many dangers in the mountains. You have to cross land belonging to other prides, so remember your manners. You are kin to the Firemaker, though, and should be shown respect. Know that once you leave the haven the taboos on your Firemaker powers are lifted, but not your debt of honour to the children of the White Gods.’
Isabeau nodded. She knew her great-grandmother was telling her she would be allowed to use whatever powers she had to help her in her quest, but that she must not use her powers against any other Khan’cohban, no matter the provocation. The Firemaker was bound by a rigid code of rules and very rarely drew upon her powers in case she should offend. Isabeau had been confined by the same restrictions, which had sometimes chafed her unbearably, used as she was to drawing upon her witchcraft whenever she wanted.
Isabeau pulled on her boots and satchel, wrapped her coat around her, and gripped her tall wooden staff, the skimmer tied to her back. Any excitement she might have felt was totally overwhelmed by fear. She realised that all she really knew was that she had to journey across the harsh snowy wastes to the Skull of the World, where some gods she did not really believe in would somehow give her a new name.
As she walked towards the mouth of the cave, the pride all bowed to her and made the good luck gesture, and she wondered sombrely if she would ever see any of them again. She cast a despairing look back and saw that both her teachers, the wise shaman and the stern warrior, were following close behind. Although neither gave her any smile of reassurance or comfort, she was both reassured and comforted, and left the dark, stifling warmth of the cave with a slightly lighter heart.
They led her round the side of the haven’s valley and up the steep slope to the crown of the mountain. With the sun at their backs they faced the Skull of the World, which bit into the sky as white and sharp as the incisor of a sabre leopard. Between them and the towering pinnacle were tier upon tier of sharp-pointed, ice-white mountains, their spreading roots hidden in gloomy shadows. Isabeau stared in cold dismay. How was she to climb all those mountains? How was she to find her path?
‘The fastest route is not always the straightest,’ the Soul-Sage said. She pointed to the north. ‘That way lie the snow plains of the Pride of the Fighting Cats.’
‘The glacier sweeps down from the Skull of the World,’ the Scarred Warrior said. ‘Although it has its dangers, it is much easier to cross than the peaks. There the slopes are smooth and one can skim for long distances before one needs to climb again.’
‘Are they not the enemy of the Fire Dragon Pride?’ Isabeau asked anxiously.
‘Remember you are on a sacred quest and therefore cannot be challenged by any you pass. They will see your feathered staff and let you alone,’ the Soul-Sage replied.
Isabeau nodded, staring out towards the north. ‘What do I do once I get to the Skull of the World?’ she asked.
‘You must be eaten, swallowed and digested,’ the Soul-Sage replied. ‘Only once the Gods of White have devoured you may you be reborn as an adult.’
Isabeau stared at her. ‘Do you mean that literally or metaphorically?’ she said, unable to prevent her voice from quavering.
The Khan’cohbans did not reply, their faces blank. Their language did not have such subtle distinctions. Isabeau grinned, feeling a little bubble of hysteria floating up her throat. Their expressions only darkened. Khan’cohbans did not have any sense of humour and abhorred any sign of levity in Isabeau. She controlled her face with difficulty and said, ‘How am I meant to know what to do?’
‘Have you not listened to the wisdom of the storytellers? Their tales are not only told to divert but also to teach.’
‘But I mean how shall the White Gods tell me my name?’ she asked in a an exasperated voice.
‘Speechless, you shall speak my name.
‘Must you speak? Why then again,
‘In speaking you shall say the same,’ the Soul-Sage said cryptically.
Isabeau repeated the words to herself, having to fight down another gurgle of disbelieving laughter. The Khan’cohbans were very fond of riddles, proverbs and aphorisms, which often made for very tedious conversations. Isabeau had never been very good at guessing riddles, but she knew better than to demand an explanation.
The Soul-Sage crossed her hands at her breast, then swept them out, palms flat. The Scarred Warrior repeated the gesture of farewell, and then together they turned and made their way down the side of the hill without a backward glance, leaving Isabeau alone on the crest of the mountain.
Swooping and swaying, Isabeau reached the end of the valley and came to a halt with a little flourish of snow. She leant on her staff, panting, and threw back the shaggy hood so she could see. All round her the rim of the mountains cut into the greenish sky like the jagged edge of an eggshell.
Below was another fall of white land, much broken with rocks and stands of trees. It dropped down to a great smooth sweep of ice, carving a path through the mountains like a giant’s road.
Isabeau’s heart lifted at the sight of the glacier, and she had no hesitation in setting off down the hill once more. Her body bent and swayed as she drove through the snow, having to leap or twist as natural obstacles bounded up at her. A branch whipped her across the face and she fell several times as her little sleigh skidded on ice or hit a concealed boulder. The euphoria of skimming was zinging in her blood, however, and so she merely swung herself upright again, using her staff, and sped on her way.
Soon it was too dark to see, but Isabeau conjured up a witch’s light and sent it bobbing away before her, the sharp blue light revealing cracks, crevasses and concealed rocks much more clearly than daylight could. The owl took to the wing and flew before her, showing Isabeau the safest route down the mountain.
It was a swift, dangerous, heart-jolting journey, but Isabeau had thrown away all caution, the adrenaline pumping through her system like the sweet intoxication of moonbane. She should have been injured time and time again, but some sixth sense seemed to warn her of obstacles so that her body was swerving away even before her eyes discerned the danger. Many times her wooden skimmer launched off into the night sky as the slope fell suddenly away, but somehow she alwa
ys managed to land squarely, her headlong pace only quickening. She skimmed so swiftly and skilfully that it was as if she took flight, following the owl on wings of crackling blue light.
The dark floor of the valley rushed up towards her, then suddenly her skimmer hit a patch of ice hidden by a light dusting of snow. Isabeau skidded sideways, spun out of control, then cartwheeled high into the air. She came down with a great crash into a bank of snow, all the breath knocked out of her.
Buba came down to rest by her face, hooting softly in concern. The witch’s light had winked out so all was dark.
Buba, dearling, I need ye to fly about for me and find me somewhere to shelter, Isabeau thought.
Why can you-hooh not snooze-hooh through noon-hooh as Owl should-hooh? Buba grumbled.
But you ken I am no’ an owl, Buba, Isabeau replied, smiling despite herself. I like to do things during the day and sleep at night.
I do-hooh not know why-hooh. Under moon-hooh all is cool-hooh, and Owl is queen, as mute-hooh as wind. It is good-hooh.
For you, maybe, but no’ for me, Isabeau said with a smile. It is almost night now, though, Buba, and I need your keen eyesight and your wings. I need to find somewhere to hide until the sun comes again.
Haunt-hooh to snooze-hooh in, the owl said knowledgeably.
Aye, but somewhere big enough for all of me. Isabeau smiled, remembering how the owl had found her a hole in a tree the previous night, barely large enough for Isabeau to fit her hand in.
Huge-hooh haunt-hooh then, the elf-owl said, staring at Isabeau unblinkingly. Since the bird was no bigger than Isabeau’s hand, the young witch seemed enormous to her. Buba fluffed out her wings, rotated her head round so she could see what lay in all directions, then took flight. The beat of her wings was silent, her velvety feathers fringed to muffle the sound. As white as the ground, the owl disappeared from sight in moments.
Isabeau sat down on her skimmer to rest, then began to poke around in the snow with her skewer, looking for anything to eat. Although she still had some supplies left, it would not take long to devour all that she carried. The cold and exertion always made her very hungry indeed.
If Isabeau had been a true Khan’cohban, she would have tracked down and killed a coney or bird for her supper, or dug a hole in the ice through which to fish. But Isabeau was no Khan’cohban. Her years as the ward of Meghan of the Beasts had formed her character and philosophy too fully for her to take another creature’s life. So, despite the scorn and mockery of her pride, Isabeau continued to refuse to kill or eat meat.
Found by the old wood witch as a baby abandoned in the forest, Isabeau had been taught to revere all life and think of the woodland creatures as her friends. Her guardian had had a little donbeag as her familiar and Isabeau had been taught to speak the languages of animals as fluently as she spoke the language of humans. She could no more murder a coney than she could a trusted friend, and so during the cold dark months spent on the Spine of the World, she had subsisted only on what she could herself gather to supplement the stores of the pride. Most of the pride’s gathering of grains, fruits and nuts was done by the children and old people in the summer months and stored in huge, stone jars in the haven. Since Isabeau left the pride in the summer to return to her family, she did not help in the gathering and so could not ask that she be given more than her fair share of the jealously guarded hoard. Winter was therefore always a hungry time for her, and she had grown adept at finding edible barks and fallen nuts to give her the protein she needed.
Digging through the snow for something to eat made Isabeau miss her guardian keenly. Although Meghan of the Beasts was now Keybearer of the Coven, the most powerful sorceress in the land, Isabeau still thought of her as the grumpy old witch who had raised her. She had a sudden sharp longing to be back in Lucescere, toasting her toes by Meghan’s fire and listening to her tales of the Three Spinners. When she had eaten her fill of Meghan’s delicious little honey cakes, she could walk over to the palace to visit with Iseult and Lachlan, playing spillikins with the children while her oldest friend, the jongleur Dide, sang some wistful love song …
Isabeau had to swallow hard to dislodge the lump in her throat. If I starve to death in the snow I’ll never be going home, she told herself sternly and bent once more to her task.
By the time the little owl had winged silently back to her shoulder, she had found only a handful of lichen and bark and a few small nuts and was looking rather forlorn. Buba kindly offered to hunt down some insects to share with her but Isabeau declined with a shudder. It was dusk in the valley now and bitterly cold, and she gladly followed the owl along the frozen stream, sinking up to her knees in the snow, until she came to a massive old fallen hemlock.
Isabeau clambered round the roots, which were flung up into the air like hissing snakes, and jumped down into the pit where the roots had once dug into the soil. Looking about her she gave a little murmur of appreciation. If she could not have a cave, this little pit was almost as good. Not much snow had fallen into the hollow, which was protected by the upflung roots, and there was plenty of firewood close to hand.
She lit the fire with a snap of her fingers, blowing it into life and feeding it with scraps of bark and leaves until it was burning merrily. She then ground the nuts and bark into a handful of grain, threw in some snow and made herself a thick porridge for her dinner.
Leaving Buba to guard her sleep, Isabeau rolled herself in her furs. It was a clear night and she stared up at the luminous stars through the fretwork of pine branches, feeling a pleasant, euphoric fatigue.
The owl woke her only a few hours later. Isabeau opened her eyes unwillingly. Every muscle ached and the euphoria had faded into bone weariness. The bruises from her many falls were throbbing and she gave a little moan and tried to burrow herself back into sleep. The owl bobbed up and down on her chest, then, receiving nothing but another groan, pecked her sharply.
Isabeau sat up angrily. ‘What be the matter, for Eà’s sake?’
Horned-hooh men pursue-hooh …
Isabeau rubbed her eyes and looked about her. All was still. One of the moons had risen and cast a pale radiance over the black and silver landscape. For a moment Isabeau thought her gaze was swimming and she rubbed her eyes again, only to realise that the black dots dancing across the landscape were the shadows of people, swiftly skimming down the glacier.
Dressed all in white, the Khan’cohbans themselves were invisible but the cold moonlight caused them to cast sharp shadows that swung and leapt as their skimmers sped down the slope in wide graceful curves.
Isabeau crouched down, trepidation filling her. No doubt the Khan’cohbans had seen her wildly swinging witch-light and had come to investigate. In her white furs, Isabeau knew she would be difficult to find. All she needed to do was curl up in the snow and the searchers could pass within a mere foot of her and not see her. She was a trespasser on the Pride of the Fighting Cats’ territory, however, and concealing herself could be misconstrued as hostile or deceitful behaviour. After a moment’s thought she stood up, scouted around in the snow until she found a fallen branch and then caused it to ignite into a blazing torch. She stuck it into a cleft between two rocks and then sat cross-legged on her skimmer to wait.
The Khan’cohbans saw her fire and turned swiftly, converging on her like birds to a thrown scrap of bread. There were twenty or more of them and Isabeau had to breathe slowly and deeply to maintain her air of calm.
They stood in silence, regarding her. Although it was night, the moon rode high in the sky and cast a brilliant light over the snow. They should be able to see the feathers decorating her staff, even if they could not tell their colour. Isabeau kept her eyes lowered and waited, though every nerve was strained in anticipation of violent movement.
Then one of the men stepped forward, pulling back his hood so she could see his thick, curling horns and the steep, dark planes of his face. One of his horns was broken and the thin line of his six scars gleamed against his olive s
kin. He swept two fingers to his high forehead, then to his heart, then out to the view. Isabeau lifted one hand to cover her eyes, the other hand bent outwards in supplication.
Her response must have satisfied them for the warrior said curtly, ‘Come.’
Isabeau nodded and gathered up her satchel and skimmer. She followed them down through the copse of trees until they came to a smooth open slope. The Khan’cohbans strapped on their skimmers and glided away quickly, with Isabeau following as fast as she could.
The Khan’cohbans gave her no respite, only waiting long enough for her to catch up with them before climbing up into a steep ravine with long strides that left her panting along behind. At last the ravine came to an end in a steep cliff. On either side were occasional clefts or caves, most quite shallow. Isabeau could smell smoke, and the mouth of the largest of the caves was illuminated with the uncertain light of a fire. It was close to dawn and Isabeau was stumbling with weariness. She followed them up the steep rocky path until they reached the mouth of the cave, looking about her with interest. The leader of the Scarred Warriors pointed at the ground. ‘Stay,’ he said.
Isabeau nodded, though disappointment filled her. She was cold, tired and hungry and had hoped for a more comfortable resting spot than an icy rock ledge. As the Khan’cohbans disappeared inside the cave she wrapped her damp furs closer about her and squatted down in the shelter of a boulder. Buba flitted down, silent as a snowflake, and perched on her knee, the round golden eyes inscrutable. Isabeau smoothed down the tufted ears with one finger, allowed the owl to creep within her sleeve, then rested her head on her arms.
She was woken from an uneasy doze by the sound of someone approaching. Isabeau jerked her head up and saw a tall woman coming up beside her. The sky above the valley walls was pale, almost colourless, and the light had the peculiar clarity that dawn brings. Isabeau stared at the Khan’cohban warrior and felt a little shock as the woman bent down to speak to her.
‘Iseult?’ she said dazed, looking up into eyes as vividly blue as her own.
Next to come was the Firekeeper, a tall woman with a stern face slashed with the shape of dancing flames. With no hint of warmth or friendliness, she gave Isabeau a little pouch of fur that was warm to the touch. Within nestled a single live coal and Isabeau made the gesture of heartfelt gratitude before tying the fur pouch to her belt. Everyone knew that Isabeau was kin to the Firemaker and so could conjure fire with a snap of her fingers, but the gifts were all part of the sacred ceremony and Isabeau had once before insulted the Firekeeper grievously by using her abilities without thought.
Last to come was the First of the Storytellers. He inclined his head to Isabeau and said in his deep, resonant voice, ‘When you seek, you cannot find.’
Again Isabeau gestured her gratitude for his advice, though she had been hoping for more than this well-worn riddle which the Khan’cohbans used for everything from finding happiness to drawing upon the coh in battle. He inclined his white head and sat with the other guild leaders around the fire.
Isabeau then knelt before the Firemaker and received her wordless blessing. The old woman drew her great-granddaughter to her and kissed her brow, a gesture of affection most unusual among the Khan’cohbans. ‘Be wary,’ she whispered. ‘There are many dangers in the mountains. You have to cross land belonging to other prides, so remember your manners. You are kin to the Firemaker, though, and should be shown respect. Know that once you leave the haven the taboos on your Firemaker powers are lifted, but not your debt of honour to the children of the White Gods.’
Isabeau nodded. She knew her great-grandmother was telling her she would be allowed to use whatever powers she had to help her in her quest, but that she must not use her powers against any other Khan’cohban, no matter the provocation. The Firemaker was bound by a rigid code of rules and very rarely drew upon her powers in case she should offend. Isabeau had been confined by the same restrictions, which had sometimes chafed her unbearably, used as she was to drawing upon her witchcraft whenever she wanted.
Isabeau pulled on her boots and satchel, wrapped her coat around her, and gripped her tall wooden staff, the skimmer tied to her back. Any excitement she might have felt was totally overwhelmed by fear. She realised that all she really knew was that she had to journey across the harsh snowy wastes to the Skull of the World, where some gods she did not really believe in would somehow give her a new name.
As she walked towards the mouth of the cave, the pride all bowed to her and made the good luck gesture, and she wondered sombrely if she would ever see any of them again. She cast a despairing look back and saw that both her teachers, the wise shaman and the stern warrior, were following close behind. Although neither gave her any smile of reassurance or comfort, she was both reassured and comforted, and left the dark, stifling warmth of the cave with a slightly lighter heart.
They led her round the side of the haven’s valley and up the steep slope to the crown of the mountain. With the sun at their backs they faced the Skull of the World, which bit into the sky as white and sharp as the incisor of a sabre leopard. Between them and the towering pinnacle were tier upon tier of sharp-pointed, ice-white mountains, their spreading roots hidden in gloomy shadows. Isabeau stared in cold dismay. How was she to climb all those mountains? How was she to find her path?
‘The fastest route is not always the straightest,’ the Soul-Sage said. She pointed to the north. ‘That way lie the snow plains of the Pride of the Fighting Cats.’
‘The glacier sweeps down from the Skull of the World,’ the Scarred Warrior said. ‘Although it has its dangers, it is much easier to cross than the peaks. There the slopes are smooth and one can skim for long distances before one needs to climb again.’
‘Are they not the enemy of the Fire Dragon Pride?’ Isabeau asked anxiously.
‘Remember you are on a sacred quest and therefore cannot be challenged by any you pass. They will see your feathered staff and let you alone,’ the Soul-Sage replied.
Isabeau nodded, staring out towards the north. ‘What do I do once I get to the Skull of the World?’ she asked.
‘You must be eaten, swallowed and digested,’ the Soul-Sage replied. ‘Only once the Gods of White have devoured you may you be reborn as an adult.’
Isabeau stared at her. ‘Do you mean that literally or metaphorically?’ she said, unable to prevent her voice from quavering.
The Khan’cohbans did not reply, their faces blank. Their language did not have such subtle distinctions. Isabeau grinned, feeling a little bubble of hysteria floating up her throat. Their expressions only darkened. Khan’cohbans did not have any sense of humour and abhorred any sign of levity in Isabeau. She controlled her face with difficulty and said, ‘How am I meant to know what to do?’
‘Have you not listened to the wisdom of the storytellers? Their tales are not only told to divert but also to teach.’
‘But I mean how shall the White Gods tell me my name?’ she asked in a an exasperated voice.
‘Speechless, you shall speak my name.
‘Must you speak? Why then again,
‘In speaking you shall say the same,’ the Soul-Sage said cryptically.
Isabeau repeated the words to herself, having to fight down another gurgle of disbelieving laughter. The Khan’cohbans were very fond of riddles, proverbs and aphorisms, which often made for very tedious conversations. Isabeau had never been very good at guessing riddles, but she knew better than to demand an explanation.
The Soul-Sage crossed her hands at her breast, then swept them out, palms flat. The Scarred Warrior repeated the gesture of farewell, and then together they turned and made their way down the side of the hill without a backward glance, leaving Isabeau alone on the crest of the mountain.
Swooping and swaying, Isabeau reached the end of the valley and came to a halt with a little flourish of snow. She leant on her staff, panting, and threw back the shaggy hood so she could see. All round her the rim of the mountains cut into the greenish sky like the jagged edge of an eggshell.
Below was another fall of white land, much broken with rocks and stands of trees. It dropped down to a great smooth sweep of ice, carving a path through the mountains like a giant’s road.
Isabeau’s heart lifted at the sight of the glacier, and she had no hesitation in setting off down the hill once more. Her body bent and swayed as she drove through the snow, having to leap or twist as natural obstacles bounded up at her. A branch whipped her across the face and she fell several times as her little sleigh skidded on ice or hit a concealed boulder. The euphoria of skimming was zinging in her blood, however, and so she merely swung herself upright again, using her staff, and sped on her way.
Soon it was too dark to see, but Isabeau conjured up a witch’s light and sent it bobbing away before her, the sharp blue light revealing cracks, crevasses and concealed rocks much more clearly than daylight could. The owl took to the wing and flew before her, showing Isabeau the safest route down the mountain.
It was a swift, dangerous, heart-jolting journey, but Isabeau had thrown away all caution, the adrenaline pumping through her system like the sweet intoxication of moonbane. She should have been injured time and time again, but some sixth sense seemed to warn her of obstacles so that her body was swerving away even before her eyes discerned the danger. Many times her wooden skimmer launched off into the night sky as the slope fell suddenly away, but somehow she alwa
The dark floor of the valley rushed up towards her, then suddenly her skimmer hit a patch of ice hidden by a light dusting of snow. Isabeau skidded sideways, spun out of control, then cartwheeled high into the air. She came down with a great crash into a bank of snow, all the breath knocked out of her.
Buba came down to rest by her face, hooting softly in concern. The witch’s light had winked out so all was dark.
Buba, dearling, I need ye to fly about for me and find me somewhere to shelter, Isabeau thought.
Why can you-hooh not snooze-hooh through noon-hooh as Owl should-hooh? Buba grumbled.
But you ken I am no’ an owl, Buba, Isabeau replied, smiling despite herself. I like to do things during the day and sleep at night.
I do-hooh not know why-hooh. Under moon-hooh all is cool-hooh, and Owl is queen, as mute-hooh as wind. It is good-hooh.
For you, maybe, but no’ for me, Isabeau said with a smile. It is almost night now, though, Buba, and I need your keen eyesight and your wings. I need to find somewhere to hide until the sun comes again.
Haunt-hooh to snooze-hooh in, the owl said knowledgeably.
Aye, but somewhere big enough for all of me. Isabeau smiled, remembering how the owl had found her a hole in a tree the previous night, barely large enough for Isabeau to fit her hand in.
Huge-hooh haunt-hooh then, the elf-owl said, staring at Isabeau unblinkingly. Since the bird was no bigger than Isabeau’s hand, the young witch seemed enormous to her. Buba fluffed out her wings, rotated her head round so she could see what lay in all directions, then took flight. The beat of her wings was silent, her velvety feathers fringed to muffle the sound. As white as the ground, the owl disappeared from sight in moments.
Isabeau sat down on her skimmer to rest, then began to poke around in the snow with her skewer, looking for anything to eat. Although she still had some supplies left, it would not take long to devour all that she carried. The cold and exertion always made her very hungry indeed.
If Isabeau had been a true Khan’cohban, she would have tracked down and killed a coney or bird for her supper, or dug a hole in the ice through which to fish. But Isabeau was no Khan’cohban. Her years as the ward of Meghan of the Beasts had formed her character and philosophy too fully for her to take another creature’s life. So, despite the scorn and mockery of her pride, Isabeau continued to refuse to kill or eat meat.
Found by the old wood witch as a baby abandoned in the forest, Isabeau had been taught to revere all life and think of the woodland creatures as her friends. Her guardian had had a little donbeag as her familiar and Isabeau had been taught to speak the languages of animals as fluently as she spoke the language of humans. She could no more murder a coney than she could a trusted friend, and so during the cold dark months spent on the Spine of the World, she had subsisted only on what she could herself gather to supplement the stores of the pride. Most of the pride’s gathering of grains, fruits and nuts was done by the children and old people in the summer months and stored in huge, stone jars in the haven. Since Isabeau left the pride in the summer to return to her family, she did not help in the gathering and so could not ask that she be given more than her fair share of the jealously guarded hoard. Winter was therefore always a hungry time for her, and she had grown adept at finding edible barks and fallen nuts to give her the protein she needed.
Digging through the snow for something to eat made Isabeau miss her guardian keenly. Although Meghan of the Beasts was now Keybearer of the Coven, the most powerful sorceress in the land, Isabeau still thought of her as the grumpy old witch who had raised her. She had a sudden sharp longing to be back in Lucescere, toasting her toes by Meghan’s fire and listening to her tales of the Three Spinners. When she had eaten her fill of Meghan’s delicious little honey cakes, she could walk over to the palace to visit with Iseult and Lachlan, playing spillikins with the children while her oldest friend, the jongleur Dide, sang some wistful love song …
Isabeau had to swallow hard to dislodge the lump in her throat. If I starve to death in the snow I’ll never be going home, she told herself sternly and bent once more to her task.
By the time the little owl had winged silently back to her shoulder, she had found only a handful of lichen and bark and a few small nuts and was looking rather forlorn. Buba kindly offered to hunt down some insects to share with her but Isabeau declined with a shudder. It was dusk in the valley now and bitterly cold, and she gladly followed the owl along the frozen stream, sinking up to her knees in the snow, until she came to a massive old fallen hemlock.
Isabeau clambered round the roots, which were flung up into the air like hissing snakes, and jumped down into the pit where the roots had once dug into the soil. Looking about her she gave a little murmur of appreciation. If she could not have a cave, this little pit was almost as good. Not much snow had fallen into the hollow, which was protected by the upflung roots, and there was plenty of firewood close to hand.
She lit the fire with a snap of her fingers, blowing it into life and feeding it with scraps of bark and leaves until it was burning merrily. She then ground the nuts and bark into a handful of grain, threw in some snow and made herself a thick porridge for her dinner.
Leaving Buba to guard her sleep, Isabeau rolled herself in her furs. It was a clear night and she stared up at the luminous stars through the fretwork of pine branches, feeling a pleasant, euphoric fatigue.
The owl woke her only a few hours later. Isabeau opened her eyes unwillingly. Every muscle ached and the euphoria had faded into bone weariness. The bruises from her many falls were throbbing and she gave a little moan and tried to burrow herself back into sleep. The owl bobbed up and down on her chest, then, receiving nothing but another groan, pecked her sharply.
Isabeau sat up angrily. ‘What be the matter, for Eà’s sake?’
Horned-hooh men pursue-hooh …
Isabeau rubbed her eyes and looked about her. All was still. One of the moons had risen and cast a pale radiance over the black and silver landscape. For a moment Isabeau thought her gaze was swimming and she rubbed her eyes again, only to realise that the black dots dancing across the landscape were the shadows of people, swiftly skimming down the glacier.
Dressed all in white, the Khan’cohbans themselves were invisible but the cold moonlight caused them to cast sharp shadows that swung and leapt as their skimmers sped down the slope in wide graceful curves.
Isabeau crouched down, trepidation filling her. No doubt the Khan’cohbans had seen her wildly swinging witch-light and had come to investigate. In her white furs, Isabeau knew she would be difficult to find. All she needed to do was curl up in the snow and the searchers could pass within a mere foot of her and not see her. She was a trespasser on the Pride of the Fighting Cats’ territory, however, and concealing herself could be misconstrued as hostile or deceitful behaviour. After a moment’s thought she stood up, scouted around in the snow until she found a fallen branch and then caused it to ignite into a blazing torch. She stuck it into a cleft between two rocks and then sat cross-legged on her skimmer to wait.
The Khan’cohbans saw her fire and turned swiftly, converging on her like birds to a thrown scrap of bread. There were twenty or more of them and Isabeau had to breathe slowly and deeply to maintain her air of calm.
They stood in silence, regarding her. Although it was night, the moon rode high in the sky and cast a brilliant light over the snow. They should be able to see the feathers decorating her staff, even if they could not tell their colour. Isabeau kept her eyes lowered and waited, though every nerve was strained in anticipation of violent movement.
Then one of the men stepped forward, pulling back his hood so she could see his thick, curling horns and the steep, dark planes of his face. One of his horns was broken and the thin line of his six scars gleamed against his olive s
Her response must have satisfied them for the warrior said curtly, ‘Come.’
Isabeau nodded and gathered up her satchel and skimmer. She followed them down through the copse of trees until they came to a smooth open slope. The Khan’cohbans strapped on their skimmers and glided away quickly, with Isabeau following as fast as she could.
The Khan’cohbans gave her no respite, only waiting long enough for her to catch up with them before climbing up into a steep ravine with long strides that left her panting along behind. At last the ravine came to an end in a steep cliff. On either side were occasional clefts or caves, most quite shallow. Isabeau could smell smoke, and the mouth of the largest of the caves was illuminated with the uncertain light of a fire. It was close to dawn and Isabeau was stumbling with weariness. She followed them up the steep rocky path until they reached the mouth of the cave, looking about her with interest. The leader of the Scarred Warriors pointed at the ground. ‘Stay,’ he said.
Isabeau nodded, though disappointment filled her. She was cold, tired and hungry and had hoped for a more comfortable resting spot than an icy rock ledge. As the Khan’cohbans disappeared inside the cave she wrapped her damp furs closer about her and squatted down in the shelter of a boulder. Buba flitted down, silent as a snowflake, and perched on her knee, the round golden eyes inscrutable. Isabeau smoothed down the tufted ears with one finger, allowed the owl to creep within her sleeve, then rested her head on her arms.
She was woken from an uneasy doze by the sound of someone approaching. Isabeau jerked her head up and saw a tall woman coming up beside her. The sky above the valley walls was pale, almost colourless, and the light had the peculiar clarity that dawn brings. Isabeau stared at the Khan’cohban warrior and felt a little shock as the woman bent down to speak to her.
‘Iseult?’ she said dazed, looking up into eyes as vividly blue as her own.