The Skull of the World (10 page)

"I thank you," the horned boy whispered. "I am in your debt."

Isabeau shook her head. "You saved my life out on the mountain; now I have saved yours. There is no debt."

He nodded, and they leaned their naked bodies together, taking comfort in the closeness. All around them the darkness breathed and gurgled and fire leaped in the corners, illuminating for a few seconds the bizarre shapes of the ash piles. Buba slept on Isabeau's knee, her tufted ears sticking straight up, her head hunched in her wings.

Isabeau woke again some hours later. Only the red glow of the fiery tunnels cast any light and she lay and watched their sullen flicker with her throat all choked. Between them, she and the horned boy had tried all the other corridors and Isabeau knew they now had to brave the more dangerous routes. Her companion woke some time later and they packed up their things in a depressed silence, crossing the cavern with barely a word spoken.

"We may as well take that one," Isabeau said with a gesture toward the brightest of the glowing tunnels. "We have tried all the safe and easy routes, we should just bell the cat and have it over and done with."

Although he did not know the phrase, the horned boy understood the intonation and gave a little shrug. No Khan'cohban warrior-to-be would ever allow himself to appear less bold and courageous than another, particularly one that was not even a true Khan'cohban. So despite the ferocious redness of the light, the puffs of black smoke, the whole menace of the yawning tunnel mouth, he led the way without hesitation.

Heat struck them like a blow as soon as they entered. Fiery shadows danced all over the walls and ceiling and their eyes streamed with the fumes. Isabeau immediately regretted her rashness but she could not turn back now, as proud in her own way as the Khan'cohban boy. Carefully they made their way forward, the ground rent here and there with fissures that groaned and smoked and sizzled. Even through the thick soles of her boots Isabeau could feel the scorching heat of the ground. Every breath of air was like swallowing ashes. She covered her mouth with a strip torn from her shirt and after a moment her companion followed suit.

They came to a fiery pit, seething with molten rock. Black on the surface, it heaved and bubbled like burned porridge, here and there pockmarked with red blisters that popped in a spray of white-hot fire. There was only a thin lip of rock around the edges which they had to creep along, gripping the smooth ridges of the walls with fear-stiff fingers. Somehow they made it safely around the cauldron of lava, and were able to hurry away down the tunnel with stampeding hearts. Behind them they heard a giant hiss and looked back to see an arc of fire leaping up like the lash of a burning ship. Had they still been edging their way around the rim of the lava bowl, they would have both been killed.

The tunnel ran smoother and cooler, the fiery cracks in the rock becoming smaller and less frequent. Both Isabeau and the horned boy walked swiftly, despite their fatigue, while Buba floated before them like a blown scrap of ash. They saw a glare of light ahead and broke into a ponderous run, weighed down by their furs and skimmers and their weariness. The tunnel led down into a cave, all grooved and ridged like black ice, with a small crack where daylight leaked in. They had to crawl on their hands and knees to get out, their skimmers catching on the rock and having to be freed. Then they were outside, breathing in great gulps of fresh air, tangy as greengage wine, their eyes dazzled with light.

They were standing on a snowy slope that swept down in soft white folds as beautiful as a banrigh's wedding gown. The sun was in their eyes, rising into a sky all blue above, with clouds heaped along the horizon like another range of mountains. All was quiet.

"We have been devoured by the gods," the horned boy said with awe in his voice. "Now what do we do?"

For the first time in days Isabeau remembered the enigmatic riddle the Soul-Sage had told her.

"Speechless, you shall speak my name.

"Must you speak? Why then again.

"In speaking you shall say the same," she quoted. They looked at each other, then the boy said, very slowly, "I think we had best part, so we can hear what the White Gods must say to us in solitude."

Isabeau nodded. They gripped each other's forearms in the way of the Scarred Warrior, then made the gestures of goodwill and farewell. "I shall not forget you," he said.

"Nor I you," Isabeau replied. "I wish I knew my name to tell you."

"Perhaps we soon shall," he replied in a puzzled, rather anxious way. Both knew they had passed their initiation. Where, then, was the voice of the White Gods telling them their name and their totem?

Isabeau watched him slog his way down through the snow then followed suit, too tired to bother strapping on her skimmer. She came to a little copse of trees and sat with her back against one, looking out over the valley. Winding its way down through the valley was the Lament of the Gods, but she was too far away to hear its wailing. All was quiet.

"Speechless, you shall speak my name.

"Must you speak? Why then again,

"In speaking you shall say the same."

Isabeau spoke the words aloud, though softly. Buba perched on her knee, blinking her eyes sleepily. Isabeau repeated the riddle. What name is it that is said without speaking?

It is so lovely and quiet,
she thought rather drowsily. No bird sang here in the wilderness of snow, no insect chirruped. There was only the silence of snow. "Be as snow," her Scarred Warrior had told her many times. "Snow is gentle, snow is silent, snow is inexorable."
Like the White Gods,
Isabeau thought.
Cruel and cold and without voice. Why do they no' speak to me?

Her thoughts drifted. She wondered rather crossly why the Khan'cohbans were always wrapping things up in riddles. It was like Brun, the little cluricaun that had helped save her life after she had been tortured. He too had loved to speak in riddles. Isabeau wondered with an odd little tremor of laughter whether the cluricauns and the Khan'cohbans were related. One so tall and white and grim, the other little and hairy and bubbling over with mischief.

Buba crept into Isabeau's sleeve to sleep, murmuring a little in her soft owl voice. Isabeau rested her head on her arms, closing her eyes. She was very tired.
Why do the White Gods no' speak?
she thought with a thread of panic.
I canna return to the pride if I do no' find out my name . . .

The odd thing about the cluricaun was that so many of his riddles had proved to cut right to the very heart of things. At the time they had seemed like nonsense but later he had proved to speak with rare insight and clarity. Were the Khan'cohbans' riddles like that?

The First of the Storytellers had said, "When you seek, you cannot find." It had made Isabeau laugh at the time. It had seemed so typically Imeaningless. Yet here she was, seeking the meaning of the riddle, seeking her name and totem, seeking desperately for some vision or voice that would tell her what she wanted to know. Seeking and finding nothing. Nothing but silence.

Something seemed to connect in her mind. Isabeau opened her eyes and looked up at the pure, empty sky.
What name was it that was said without speaking? What name was it that was said with silence? Silence itself, o' course.

And so the White Gods truly were voiceless, if they spoke with silence. How then was Isabeau to find out her name?

She remembered her guardian Meghan saying a long time ago as she had set out on her first quest: "The journey itself will be your first lesson." That had surely proved to be the truth. Isabeau had learned much about herself and the world on that first difficult journey down to the sea. And she had learned a great deal on this journey too. She had discovered strengths in herself she did not know she had. She had found her true Talent.

Excitement suddenly thrilled through her. She scrambled to hei feet, ignoring the soft murmur of protest from her sleeve. Tiredness dropped away from her like a cloak. She knew now what her name was. Khan'tinka, She of Many Shapes. Isabeau the Shapechanger.

That afternoon, as she came down toward the river, Isabeau saw a great clenched talon protruding out of the snow, just like the frost giant's hand had out of the avalanche that had almost killed her. She knelt beside it and saw it belonged to a dead blizzard owl. Half buried in the snow, its round head was bent at a strange angle, its eyes closed. She took the broken knife from her weapons belt and carefully cut off the owl's talon. As large as her own hand, it was fringed with white feathers with four hooked, black claws. Under the pressure of her knife, the bone snapped cleanly and she hung it around her neck with a length of plaited cord.

As she rose to go she saw the owl's talon had been resting upon a great stone of white quartz crystal. Wonderment filled her. She lifted it up and felt her palm tingle as it came in contact with the stone. She stood for a long time, turning it in her hands. It was perfectly symmetrical, with twelve faces that flashed with color as the light glanced off the edges. She had only ever seen such a perfectly formed uncut crystal once before. That had been mounted on feet shaped like claws and was one of Meghan's most treasured possessions. Carefully, with a sense of fear and awe, Isabeau wrapped the stone in the remains of her old shirt and tucked it into her satchel. Indeed the White Gods had spoken.

The journey back to the haven took Isabeau over a month. She followed the course of the river most of the way, finding a greater variety of foods growing near the warmth of its waters. She stayed for a few days at the haven of the Pride of the Gray Wolf, feasted and honored by the family of her young friend. He wore with pride the shaggy gray skin of a timber wolf, which he had fought and killed the afternoon of their escape from the mountain. He was named Khan'moras, meaning "swift and cunning as the wolf." On his left cheek was the bloody red line of a newly cut initiation scar.

Her satchel filled to bursting with fresh supplies and new clothes to replace the ones she had lost, Isabeau at last left the warmth and shelter of the Gray Wolves' cave and set out on her journey home. Although she could not skim along the shore of the river, it was swift and easy walking and she made fairly good time. Buba was happier in the river valley, for there were many trees in which to roost and many varieties of insects on which to feast. Isabeau was happier too, able to swim in the warm waters and rest in the sweet-scented dimness under the pine trees.

Finally she had to leave the river and climb up into the mountains again. It was slow and difficult progress, hampered by the foul weather and the steepness of the terrain. At last she crossed the mountain height and was able to skim down toward the haven of the Pride of the Fire Dragon.

She slogged wearily up the slope to the haven late one evening in the last few days of winter. The sun had set and it was very cold, but Isabeau was too eager to reach home to look for somewhere to camp. She was challenged by one of the sentries and had to shout the password to avoid being shot with his crossbow. Once he realized who she was, though, he brought her in speedily to the Firemaker and she was greeted with more warmth and excitement than she had ever seen any Khan'cohban demonstrate.

Isabeau had not been the only child of the pride to be sent on her initiation journey that winter, but she was one of only three to return and the last. They had given her up for dead and Isabeau was rather shocked at the ravages her long absence had made to the Firemaker's face. Her great-grandmother seized her in her arms and held her against her heart. Isabeau was shocked to see tears reddening the heavy eyelids.

At last the Firemaker let her go and Isabeau knelt before her, hands folded on her lap.

"I would ask of you the story of your name," the old woman said with great ceremony. "Will you answer in fullness and in truth?"

"You ask of me my name. Do you offer me your name in return?"

"I do," the Firemaker replied. Isabeau bowed her head and crossed her legs, her hands upturned on her thighs. She was weary and cold, and all her clothes were still damp from the snow, but she took her time over the telling as she ought. Only the Firsts and the Council of Scarred Warriors were there to hear her story and they listened with great interest, occasionally commenting to each other with a guttural word or emphatic gesture.

When she told of her transformation into an owl, a stir of surprise ran over them. Isabeau saw the Soul-Sage smile and finger the withered talon that hung around her neck. Isabeau described her difficulty in changing back into her own form and then her hunt through the snow in the shape of a snow lion. This time the stir of amazement was more marked.

At last Isabeau reached the end of her story. She showed the assembled listeners the owl's talon that hung between her breasts. They were all impressed, even the Scarred Warriors who had at first glanced at Isabeau with some disdain for she had not worn the freshly killed pelt of some predatory animal. It was not unknown for questers to return without a new fur cloak. Isabeau's own father had returned with a live dragon to show his mastery over a beast of power and prestige. He had been one of the greatest warriors the pride had known, even though he had not worn the skin of his totem. An owl's talon was a sign of great power, though, and so they looked at her with new respect and even awe.

"So it is that I am named Khan'tinka, She of Many Shapes," Isabeau finished, "and can fly with the owl, queen of the night, messenger of the gods."

She bent her head and silence fell over the circle of listeners. Then the Firemaker said, very softly, "Welcome to the pride, Khan'tinka. I am Khan'lysa, proud and strong as the snow lioness."

The First of the Scarred Warriors repeated her words and then told his name: Khan'derna, brave as the saber leopard. The Soul-Sage was next. She was named Khan'deric, swift as the falcon. One by one the council of warriors told her their names in strict order of their hierarchy. Isabeau's Scarred Warrior teacher was named Khan'bornet, meaning "powerful as the bear."

When all had told her their names, she was brought a mug of a heady brew of fermented berries called
ika.
She drank deeply, almost choking as it scorched its way down her throat and into her belly. Heat spread out through her limbs, bringing with it light-headed euphoria. One by one the others all drank, calling the blessing of the White Gods down upon her. Then the Soul-Sage came toward her, her sharp dagger in her hand.

Isabeau had only time for a flash of fear then the Soul-Sage had slashed her left cheek with two swift movements. There was a brief burning sensation, then Isabeau felt the warm blood gushing down her face. She put up her hand and it came away bloody, though she felt little pain. They gave her more
ika
to drink then brought ice to press against the wound. After a while Isabeau felt her cheek throbbing but the
ika
had brought her a pleasant floating feeling and she hardly noticed the pain.

Then she was presented to the rest of the pride, though her name remained a secret, known only to those who had heard the full story. There was a feast in honor of her return and Isabeau was served first, much to her pleasure. Child no longer, she would never again have to wait with the little ones for the scrapings of the pot. Among the Khan'cohbans, drink and food were never taken together, but after they had all eaten their fill the
ika
was offered around again, and there were mock wrestling matches and displays of acrobatic finesse. Isabeau's head was swimming and she sank into an exhausted sleep even while the Khan'cohbans still leaped and somersaulted around the cave.

She woke in the morning with a pounding head, a dry mouth and thick tongue, a heaving stomach, and a cheek that throbbed like a burn. All she could face was melted snow before burrowing back into her furs to sleep again. When she woke the second time she gingerly felt the cut on her cheek, which was stiff and sore, then bent over one of the pools of water so she could see her face. Dimly she saw the shape of a triangular scar slashing her left cheek. Carefully she rubbed in healing salve, ate a little bread and fruit, and crawled back into her furs to sleep again.

It was morning once again when she woke and the cave was virtually empty, the children all out tending the
ulez,
the hunters in search of game. The Soul-Sage sat beside her, eyes shut in meditation. As soon as Isabeau sat up, hand to her dizzy head, one hand groping for her wooden drinking cup, the shaman's eyes snapped open. She passed Isabeau the mug filled with cold water. Isabeau drank thirstily, wondering how she could still feel like a wrung-out rag two days after the feast. The Soul-Sage smiled grimly.
"Ika
makes even the strongest warrior wish for the peace of death the morning after," she said. "Show me your stone."

Isabeau glanced up at her, wondering how she had known about the crystal. She had meant to bring the glittering stone out to show around proudly but somehow it had slipped her mind. Isabeau had not thought of it again. She showed the quartz rock to her teacher, who examined it closely though she did not take it into her hands.

The wise woman nodded slowly, then said, "They call this the icestone. It is believed to be fossilized ice. A stone of power for clear-seeing, future-seeing, far-seeing. It is a mark of great favor from the gods of ice and snow. Guard your first stone well, Khan'tinka."

It gave Isabeau a little thrill to be called by her new name. Shapedhanger. She wondered what Meghan would say when she knew. A great longing woke in her to see her old guardian and share with her the tale of her adventures.

"It's time for me to go home," she said abruptly.

The Soul-Sage nodded. "Many long journeys before you are worthy of the seventh scar," she said, tracing the mark between Isabeau's forehead with one long, multi-jointed finger. "The White Gods have shown you favor so far. You are in their debt. In time they will ask for payment. In the meantime, remember what you have been taught. Learn and keep silence."

Isabeau nodded. "I shall," she promised and knew that was a
geas
in itself.