The Skull of the World (4 page)

Isabeau knelt before the Old Mother, not daring to scrutinize her face though she longed to search for a resemblance to her great-grandmother, the Fire-maker. After a while the First of the Scarred Warriors demanded, "You have dared to cross our boundaries. What is your business here?"

Isabeau lifted her staff so they could see the red-dyed feathers and tassels. "I go in search of my name," she answered respectfully. "I beg leave to pass through your lands on my way to the Skull of the World."

The First of the Warriors said gruffly, "Those on the name-quest are under a
geas
to the Gods of White and are therefore under their protection. You may travel freely."

Isabeau made the gesture of thanks and raised her eyes. She saw a middle-aged woman with a highboned face set in heavy lines of pride and temper, and sunken eyes that gleamed blue in the firelight. Her long red hair, drawn back tightly from her brow, was beginning to be dulled by gray. Isabeau could have been looking at a younger version of her great-grandmother, except this woman wore the tawny spotted fur of the native lynx, the totem of her pride. The broad head with its snarling muzzle and black tufted ears hung down her back.

The blue-eyed woman who had fetched Isabeau gave a sharp protest. "But she is the get of the Fire-maker!" she cried. "See her eyes, blue as the sky, and her hair, red as flame. She is one of the Red, sent to deceive us and spy on us. The Firemaker regrets her overture of peace and seeks to disinherit us again!"

Anger and suspicion flashed across the Old Mother's face. She leaned forward and seized Isabeau's face in a painful grip, turning it so the firelight blazed upon it. Then the fur cap Isabeau wore was torn off so her abundant red curls sprang free. The circle of watchers muttered angrily.

"Never trust the dragon," the First of the Storytellers said grimly.

The Old Mother nodded, her mouth compressed into a thin line. "We have always known the Pride of the Fire Dragon were our enemies," she said. "I have often pondered the meaning behind the Fire-maker's gesture of friendship these last few years. She has ever been jealous of her power, and though we hoped she spoke truth when she spoke of her acceptance of me as her rightful heir, often I have been beset by doubt. Now it seems as if this doubt has foundation."

Isabeau was dismayed. Carefully she made the gesture of respect and then said, "Old Mother, it is true I am of the Firemaker's get but I have no desire to disinherit you. I wish only to travel unhindered upon my naming quest. I was assured I would be given leave to cross your land since the Pride of the Fighting Cats and the Pride of the Fire Dragon are at peace."

There was a snort of disbelief from the blue-eyed warrior. "You lie!" she cried. "Do you think I do not remember you? It has been many winters since you received your name and your scars. I have often fought with you in the past and know you hate us as much as we hate you."

"Indeed, you are no mere child," the storyteller said. "You have the breasts of a woman grown and your eyes show you have seen more years than thirteen."

Isabeau made the gesture of agreement. "You speak with truth," she replied. Her impulse was to rush into explanations but her training held true and she said nothing more, lowering her eyes respectfully.

There was a long, charged silence, then at last the storyteller said reluctantly, "You say we speak with truth. How can
we
speak truth if what
you
say is true?"

"You ask of me a question. Do you offer me a story in return?" Isabeau said. There was another long pause, then even more reluctantly the storyteller made the gesture of agreement, saying gruffly, "I ask of you a question. Will you answer in fullness and in truth?"

"I will answer in fullness and in truth," Isabeau answered, and raised her head, bringing her hands to lie upturned on her thighs in the traditional pose of the storyteller. "You, the First of the Storytellers of the Pride of the Fighting Cats, spoke truth when you said I was no child, for I have lived through twenty-one of the long darknesses. I am but a child in the eyes of my pride, however, for I have lived on the Spine of the World for only four years. I am therefore nameless and without status, and travel to the Skull of the World to hear what the Gods of White shall tell me."

There was a little stir of surprise at her words, and Isabeau's cousin made an impatient gesture of disbelief. Isabeau turned to her and said sternly, "You, though, who share the blue eyes like the summer sky and the red hair like flame that all kin of the Firemaker share, you do not speak truth."

Consternation and outrage flashed across the Khan'cohban woman's face, echoed in more subtle ways by the listening crowd. Isabeau went on steadily. "To understand why, you must know the story of my birth. I am the daughter of Khan'gharad Dragon-Lord, grandson of the Firemaker. It is known to you all how he traveled away from the Spine of the World to study with the wise ones among the humans. He met there a human woman and loved her and conceived with her twins."

Again there was a little shift and murmurs of shock and outrage. Isabeau looked around at their stern faces and said, "Evil had cast its shadow over the lives of the humans and there was much war and bloodshed. My mother fled to the mountains in search of my father's people but was overcome with the birth pangs. She would have died if it had not been for the intervention of the queen-dragon, who was in
geas
to my father for the saving of her daughter's life. She bore my mother to the palace of the dragons in her claws and there my sister and I were born.

"Knowing that twins were forbidden among the People of the Spine of the World, the queen-dragon bade one of her sons carry my twin sister to the north where she was left for the Firemaker to find. Another of her sons was told to carry me to the south, where a wise woman and Soul-Sage of the humans found me and raised me to adulthood. It was not until I met my twin sister that I knew I was kin to the Children of the White Gods and I came to the Spine of the World to learn the history and wisdom of my father's people."

Isabeau paused for a long moment, letting her words sink in. "I and my twin sister are as alike in face and form as the Firemaker and her sister must have been. Thus you could mistake me for her, and an honest mistake it is, though not the truth. So I tell you again, although it is true I am of the Firemaker's get, I have no desire to challenge you for the godhead. I wish only to travel unhindered upon my naming-quest."

She looked back at the Old Mother, whose face was expressionless, her eyes hooded. The First of the Scarred Warriors made a series of swift gestures to her and she nodded slowly. He turned back to Isabeau and said, "You have answered fully, though we have no way to judge the truth of what you are saying. How are we to know that you are indeed the twin of the one we know as the Firemaker's kin and not herself?"

Isabeau peeled off her glove to show them her left hand. The two smallest fingers were missing, ugly scars where they had once been. Involuntarily the Khan'cohbans recoiled, disgusted by her deformity. Isabeau pressed her lips together but said nothing, lifting one finger to stroke the triangular scar between her brows.

"My sister had won two of her Scarred Warrior scars," she said softly. "You can see I have not been so honored. Yet I am scarred in my own way. They say it is the scratch of the White Gods' claw."

The Khan'cohbans glanced at the scar and then glanced away immediately, too polite to stare. Only one man dared to examine her face intently, an old man with seven triangular scars on his cheeks and forehead. Dressed in the heavy furs of a bear, he wore an eagle's talon around his neck and at his waist was a pouch of skin that clattered slightly as he moved. Isabeau made a low gesture of respect and he reached out one long bony finger and touched her gently between her brows. "The stranger speaks truth," he said and turned to shuffle into the shadows.

"So be it," the Old Mother said. "You are under the protection of the Gods of White and may travel through our lands freely."

"Thank you," Isabeau said and bowed.

Her cousin was tense still, her hands clenched on her thighs. Her mouth was shut grimly but Isabeau knew she was restraining passionate words. It seemed the quick, impetuous temper that she and Iseult shared was an idiosyncrasy of the whole family. Among the Khan'cohban any strong emotion was regarded coldly, and Isabeau wondered fleetingly how her cousin had fared, growing up among such austere people. She cast her a swift look of sympathy but this acted like a lash to her cousin's lacerated pride. The fists tightened and she leaned forward, saying angrily, "It may be true that this stranger is the twin to the one we know, but does that mean she does not covet the godhead? I say she has come among us to lull us into sleep while she discerns our weaknesses. The peace between our prides is naught but a scab over a suppurating wound. For many centuries the dragons and the fighting cats have clashed, and we have suffered many times from their scorn. Should we forget that so easily? Do the storytellers not say, 'If you want peace, prepare for war'?"

Anger sparked in Isabeau's eyes. "Have you forgotten these caves you shelter in are in the fire dragon's land?" she cried. "The Firemaker has made many overtures of peace to your pride, and given you these caves so you need not suffer the full force of the winter storms. She has named your Old Mother heir to the godhead, disinheriting her own descendants whose paths have led them away from the Spine of the World. Does all this mean nothing to your people?"

"Never trust the dragon," the blue-eyed warrior said with heavy emphasis.

Isabeau sprang to her feet. "Do you accuse me of lying?" There was as much incredulity as anger in her voice, for the Khan'cohbans were bound by a rigid code of honor that included an absolute taboo on falsehood, particularly when replying to a direct question.

Her cousin was on her feet in an instant. "I do," she answered, and made the rudest, most contemptuous gesture in the Khan'cohban language.

For a moment Isabeau was so angry she could not speak, then she said in a stifled voice, "Is this how the Pride of the Fighting Cats treats its guests? Have you forgotten I am on my naming-quest and thus due all honor and respect?"

"I say your talk of the naming-quest is naught but a trick and a lie to lull us into false peace," her cousin retorted, her freckles drowned in the crimson that had swept up her throat and face.

The First of the Scarred Warriors made an abrupt gesture of intervention, but the Khan'cohban woman was too livid with rage to heed him. She drew her knife in a swift motion and flung it at Isabeau's feet. "I challenge you to prove your truth upon my body!"

Isabeau looked down at the quivering knife then around at the faces of the Khan'cohbans, who had all sprung to their feet at the first hint of confrontation. She knew such a gesture could not be ignored. The rules of honor demanded that she accept the challenge and defend her integrity. Such an accusation could only be answered in blood.

Yet Isabeau had no desire to fight her own cousin and, although she had been trained in the art of the Scarred Warrior, believed violence was no solution. She looked up at her cousin and cold fingers of fear clenched around her heart. This was no mere challenge to be decided by the first drawing of blood. The Khan'cohban woman had murder in her eyes.

"She is only a child and crippled!" the First Storyteller cried. "You cannot challenge a cripple."

"She is one of the Red," the First Warrior replied slowly. "And has her seventh scar. That means she must have some power."

The crowd stirred uneasily. Isabeau slowly bent and picked up the knife, then handed it back to her cousin, hilt outward. "We are kin," she said gently, "and I am on my naming-quest. I do not wish to answer your pride's hospitality with violence. I have told my story and your Soul-Sage has accepted the truth of my speaking. Will you not let me pass in peace? Once I have won my name and my scars I shall be returning to my own people and you will probably never see me again. I would like to think we could part as friends."

The young warrior scowled, seizing the knife and spinning it in her hand. "Is it because you are afraid or because you know you speak falsely that you refuse my challenge?" she jeered.

Isabeau saw mistrust and contempt on the faces of all around her and sighed. "It is because I do not want to be the one to break the peace between our prides," she answered. "I will not allow you to call me dishonorable, however. To doubt my honor is to doubt my teachers and the Firemaker herself."

She turned and bowed to the Old Mother. "If I must fight to prove the truth of my telling, so be it. Let it be clear to all who watch that I mean no ill to the Pride of the Fighting Cat nor to those of the Red."

The Old Mother bowed her head in acceptance of her words. Swiftly the watching Khan'cohbans moved back so a wide circle opened around the cousins. Isabeau slowly stripped off her shaggy coat and folded it neatly, placing it to one side with her fur cap. Just as deliberately she set aside her satchel and took off her heavy boots, knowing that her calmness was only inflaming her cousin's rage. The Khan'cohban warrior was taller and stronger than Isabeau and had won three scars, the two slashes on her left cheek indicating she was an accomplished fighter. Isabeau must win this fight, which meant she must take every advantage she could. Her only chance was to goad her opponent into making ill-considered moves.

She saw Buba's head peep out of the pile of furs and sent her a silent message to lie still. Her enemy must underestimate her. Seeing Isabeau was accompanied by an owl would make her cousin think twice; Isabeau wanted her to think not at all.