The Skull of the World (7 page)

In the pine-scented darkness Isabeau crouched on the ground, her head sunk down into her wings as she concentrated as hard as she could. Buba sat on a branch above her, rotating her head occasionally to scan the forest, her round eyes unblinking.

Isabeau had absolutely no idea how she had managed to change shape. One moment she had been fleeing down the mountainside, an ocean of snow crashing down upon her. The next moment, she had been soaring up into the sky, a tiny white owl. There had been no conscious decision, no setting of her will as was usual with the working of witchcraft. All she had felt was an urgent need to escape, to fly into the sky as Buba did.

Shapechanging was not something witches could usually do. It was magic out of fairytales and myths, magic against the natural order of things. It was not like conjuring fire, which shivered always in the air between sky and earth. It was not like whistling up the wind, which coiled and shifted around the world in constant motion anyway. It was not like Meghan's charm with animals, which came from loving them and understanding them, or Ishbel's ability to fly, which came from reversing the natural forces of the universe which caused a stone to fall to the ground and the stars to swing in their courses.

Yet Isabeau had seen tadpoles grow legs and lungs and become frogs. She had seen caterpillars spin themselves silken cocoons in which to sleep, gnawing their way free in the spring with new wings glued to their backs, transformed into butterflies. Nature was full of transformations.

And Eileanan was full of magical creatures that shifted from one shape to another. Isabeau had watched her friend Lilanthe shift into the shape of a tree many times, flesh growing leaves and bark and flowers in a most disconcerting manner. She had seen Maya the Ensorcellor metamorphose into her sea-shape, shining with silvery scales, her back curving down into a great finned tail like a fish. She had even watched as her father had been transformed back into a man after seventeen years trapped in the body of a horse. Thinking about those metamorphoses, Isabeau remembered what Buba had said.
Just do-hooh it.

So Isabeau did. She imagined herself as a woman, her own well-known and comfortable shape, and concentrated all her will and all her desire on returning to that shape. And suddenly she was no longer a little white owl but a tall white woman, crouched shivering and naked in the forest.

It was bitterly cold. Isabeau hugged herself, her breath hanging before her face in frosty clouds. Above the forest the two moons sailed, one red as a blood plum, the other an ethereal blue. The sky itself was a midnight blue and strewn with stars and planets that glittered with all the cold colors of crystals, white, green, amethyst, rose.

The wind flayed her like a whip. She had no idea what had happened to her clothes and supplies. No doubt they lay beneath mounds of snow, left behind as she had flown into the sky. Desperation filled her. Despite the clear sky, she would soon freeze to death without clothes or food. She could gather together firewood and build herself a fire, but even so it would be hard to keep herself warm. Already her feet were numb from the snow. It took only a few moments' hesitation before Isabeau changed back into an owl.

Buba hooted joyfully.

Too-hooh cool-hooh,
Isabeau hooted back, ruffling all her feathers gratefully. This time she could tell the difference between human-sight and owl-sight. The moons were huge and pockmarked in the sky, but gray. Everything was gray, even the darkness. She could see the gradations of blackness clearly, able to discern the shape of twigs and grasses even in the darkest shadows. Her hearing was also much sharper and her ability to locate the source of the sound pre-ternaturally precise. Since she was so much smaller, the trees were like towers, looming over her. She spread her wings and flew up to the branch where Buba perched, dancing a little in her excitement.

Together they flew through the trees and out across the river, which wailed and sobbed against the stones, shining oddly in the moonlight. Beyond was the wreck of the avalanche, roots and branches sticking up out of the mess of snow and stone. Isa-beau's keen eyesight scanned the broken slope and she saw something metallic glint. Immediately they flew down and Isabeau transformed again into her own shape. She dug frantically and found the strap of leather with its metal buckle. She freed it from the snow and was relieved to find most of her tools still firmly attached to the belt. The mace was gone and the blade of the dagger had snapped but her axe and skewer were intact still.

Isabeau used the long skewer to poke through the snow, ignoring the shivers wracking her naked body. The skewer knocked dully against something, and she dug with a bound of her heart. Happily she retrieved her skimmer from a deep drift of snow and knelt on it, though the wood was near as cold as the snow. Despite all her frantic searching, she could find no clothes or her satchel and so sat back on her heels with despair, her teeth chattering. She was so numb with cold she could hardly move; but she was reluctant to change back into an owl since she could not then carry her tools or skimmer away, or search through the snow.

Inspiration burst upon her. Isabeau shut her eyes, gripped her hands together and concentrated. She felt the change ripple over her, felt power and strength race through her like a draught of gold-ensloe wine. She opened her eyes and grinned as she saw furry white paws stretched before her. Gingerly she extended and retracted her wicked claws, lashed her black-tufted tail about, and turned around on the spot. It took a few moments to adjust but once Isabeau has grown used to the change, she stretched out her great strong body and leaped forward over the snow, intoxicated with her speed and grace. The owl flew before her, hooting mournfully, while far overhead a star died in a burst of silver fire, arching across the dark night sky.

Isabeau could have run and leaped all night, every muscle and tendon in her body working in perfect rhythm, her blood singing with the knowledge of her own magnificence. She rolled in the snow, licked her fur sleek once more, and explored the sudden acute sensitivity of her sense of smell.

In this way she found her coat, quite unexpectedly, for she had merely been following the vague delicious smell of woman and
ulez.
With her massive paws and sharp teeth, she dragged it free of the great weight of snow covering it, and found some scraps of torn cloth that had once been her shirt. A dim memory stirred in her and she was able to sharpen her focus upon what it was she did here, in this snowy fiejd under a frozen sky. She searched with greater resolve, and found her leather leggings, with the stockings still inside them, wet through. Then she found one boot.

Joyfully she bounded about, searching for the other, but it was nowhere to be found. At last she gave up, sitting and licking her paws clean of snow, conscious of having looked ridiculous bounding about like a new-born kitten. When her coat was clean and her poise restored, she rose and strolled back to where the little owl was perched on the curve of the skimmer, watching expressionlessly. It occurred to Isabeau the bird might be a tasty morsel, for she was conscious of the emptiness of her belly. The round golden eyes stared at her apprehensively and Isabeau grinned. Immediately the round, white bird spread its wings and flew up into the sky, hooting angrily. Isabeau told herself it would have been like choking on feathers and followed a most delicious smell of dead meat instead.

She found its source, half buried in snow, and dug at it hungrily. Although the meat was half frozen she could still smell its slowly decaying reek and had soon uncovered it, worrying at it with her teeth. It was huge, an unwholesome bluish color, covered with thick wiry hair and stiff as wood. Even exerting all the strength of her jaws and neck, Isabeau was unable to drag it free of the snow. She sat back, snarling, tail lashing. The huge digits clawed for the starry sky. Somewhere deep inside her she recognized it as a giant hand. Contradictory emotions warred in her, hunger and disgust. She soothed herself by tidying up her whiskers.

Overhead an owl hooted and Isabeau's ears swiv-eled. She watched the little white owl float down and settle on the massive dead fingers. Round eyes met slanted.

Moon-hooh go-hooh,
the owl hooted, rather coldly.
Snooze-hooh soon-hooh?

Isabeau was confused. Between her pride, her hunger and her disdain struggled a little thread of memory. The smell of the decaying frost giant's hand suddenly made her nauseous. She retched, and found herself on her hands and knees, red hair hanging over her face as she vomited into the snow. Her stomach was so empty only a thin bile burned her throat and coated her tongue with a foul taste. She swilled her mouth out with a handful of snow and looked about her blearily.

Seeing the giant's hand Isabeau scrambled away hastily, her stomach heaving again as she remembered dimly worrying at it with her teeth. She picked up her fur coat and huddled it around her, even though it was heavy and wet. She struggled into her leggings, the damp leather unpleasantly slimy. Buckling the belt around her waist she dragged on the one boot and shoved her dripping stockings into her pocket. She then pulled the skimmer along behind her as she slogged down the slope toward the river.

Soar-hooh?
Buba called.

Isabeau shook her head. "I think J need to bide as a lassie a wee while," she replied grimly in her own language.

Why-hooh?
The owl hooted.

"I just do," Isabeau replied, and slogged on, conscious that the sensation of cold in her bare foot was turning to a dangerous numbness. She reached the stony banks of the river and plunged her foot into its unnatural warmth. Life rushed back into the limb with a shock of pain, turning again to a fiery cold as she withdrew it. Gently she dried it on her coat, careful not to rub too hard, until her whole foot tingled with returning blood.

Isabeau looked about her wearily. Exhaustion lay on her, heavy as a mountain. She had to have shelter, fire and food, and quickly. The sky was beginning to lighten, and it had been a long, arduous night. She did not understand much of what had happened but until she had slept and eaten, she knew she could not puzzle it out.

There was a huge dead tree on the rocks, swept down in the spring floods. Isabeau gathered her will together and caused it to burst into flame. She had not much strength and the flame guttered quickly, but enough of the wood had caught for the log to begin to smoulder at one end. Isabeau could summon no more fire, but she fanned it and blew on it until little sparks began to fly. At last a small fire was burning and Isabeau could crouch before it, warming her chilled body. She passed into a half-doze, the damp coat huddled around her.

* * *

Isabeau woke some time later, shivering with cold. The sun was up but its light was thin with little warmth. She looked about her dazedly and immediately froze into stillness.

A young Khan'cohban boy was standing only a few feet away, his staff held before him. His horns were only just budding but his face was as stern and hard as any fully grown warrior, his long mane of hair as coarse and white. His staff was decorated with gray tassels and feathers, and beneath his shaggy coat Isabeau could see the same color stitched along his woolen shirt in the stylized shape of running wolves.

Rising slowly, Isabeau carefully and humbly made the gesture of greeting. He did not return it, looking her over suspiciously. Isabeau knew she must present a very odd sight, dressed as she was in only a shaggy coat, leggings and one boot, her red curls wildly tumbled and matted with leaves. Her bare foot was blue and mottled-looking, with white patches here and there showing frostbite was sinking its bitter teeth into her flesh. The skin of her hands was white and dead looking, her nails blue as the river. She could not feel her ears or her nose or much of her face. Isabeau knew she needed treatment fast.

Patience was needed with Khan'cohbans, however. She repeated the salutation, saying courteously, "Greetings to you, Khan of the Gray Wolves. I see you, like myself, are on your naming-quest. I hope that your path, unlike mine, has been free of frost giants and avalanches."

The Khan'cohban boy's face softened slightly. He gestured to her, saying: "But how can you be one of the Children of the Gods of White? Your hair . . ."

"You ask of me a question. Do you offer me a story in return?" Isabeau said.

There was a brief struggle between curiosity and the natural disinclination of any Khan'cohban to owe a story, then the boy nodded. "I ask of you a question," he said reluctantly. "Will you answer in fullness and in truth?"

"I will answer in fullness and in truth," Isabeau answered, and assumed the storytelling position. She told the story of her birth yet again, taking care to explain that she had no desire to inherit the Firemak-er's position. Even though the lands of the Pride of the Gray Wolf were far away from the Fire Dragon's lands, the boy knew all about the Firemaker and accepted Isabeau's story with as much interest as it was polite for him to show.

She ended with an account of the attack by the frost giant. She made no attempt to explain how she had escaped the subsequent snow slide, despite her promise to tell the full truth, telling herself he had not asked the right question.

When she had finished, he hesitated then said gruffly, "What question do you wish to ask me?"

"I would gladly relinquish the question in return for some food and clothing," Isabeau replied, trying in vain to still her shivering.

He almost smiled then, and came to her side, setting down his gray-tasseled staff against the rocks and undoing his satchel.