The Skull of the World (8 page)

He gave her flat bread and dried fruit, then threw down a brace of dead coneys he was carrying over his shoulder. Isabeau turned her body so she did not have to look at the poor little corpses, though she devoured the bread and fruit hungrily. He then relit her fire from the live coal he carried at his waist and began to cook them up some gruel from herbs and wild grains, roasting one of the coneys on a spit made from a twig. Isabeau wondered how it was he managed to have such a well-stocked satchel and remembered his pride owned the land closest to the Skull of the World. He had not had far to travel. It did not seem fair somehow.

While she waited for the porridge to cook, Isabeau hung her fur coat up to dry and ran naked over the stones to immerse herself in the river again. She knew from her training as a healer that the only way to treat frostbite was to return warmth and circulation to the affected area as quickly as possible. Strange as it seemed, the water of the snowbound river was hot and would warm her faster than anything else in this wilderness of mountains.

Isabeau chose her entry point carefully for the river was swift and powerful and the rocks sharp. She found a place where the water was calmer and slid thankfully into its buoyant warmth. Sweat sprang up on her face and neck, the water so hot it was almost unbearable. She bent her head back so all her hair flowed like ruddy water weed and the numb tips of her ears were submerged. She floated there, her hands and feet moving constantly to restore fluidity to her joints and to keep her close to the shore. Staring up at the blue sky, she felt pain thrill through the affected parts and rejoiced. Having lost two digits in the torture chambers of the Anti-Witchcraft League, she had no desire to lose any more.

She rolled and kept her face under the water as long as she could, then swam about gently, feeling warmer than she had in months. The horned boy was watching her, gnawing on a coney leg, his face trying hard not to show his amazement and fear. Khan'cohbans never swam, Isabeau remembered. He must think her very strange indeed, to show no fear of the water and to swim as nimbly as any otter.

At last Isabeau swam to the shore and climbed out, having to fight the force of the current. Immediately the cold air lashed her but she ran over the stones to the fire, shaking off the water and rubbing herself dry with her companion's spare shirt. Her coat was dry and warm now and she wrapped it around her gratefully, then pulled on her woolen stockings and the leggings, rather tight after being dried so close to the fire. Her feet and hands were coming up in blisters where the skin had been frostbitten and carefully she bandaged them in the torn pieces of her shirt.

She then wrapped her feet in the damp shirt, having nothing else to keep them warm. The horned boy shook his head and gently pulled her feet free, wrapping them in his own shaggy coat. She looked at him in surprise and he said, "The sun is warm enough. Let the shirt dry by the fire and when you are ready, you can give me back my coat."

"Thank you," she said and hungrily ate the bowl of gruel he passed her. When she had finished, she paused and then said tentatively, "You are very kind. I am in your debt, for surely I would have died without your food and the loan of your clothes. I shall remember."

He nodded, pleased. She leaned back against the boulder, weary and replete. Hanging her head down between her knees, she began to dry her hair with her hands. The curls sprang up, red and bright, and she shook them back, grateful for this trick which the Firemaker had taught her. It had always taken hours for Isabeau to dry her hair naturally, even in the warmer lands of the south. This way it took only seconds, though the first few times she had tried it she had scorched her hair, unable to control the heat evenly enough.

Feeling the boy's eyes on her she glanced up and immediately he looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. "There are some advantages to being the get of the Firemaker," Isabeau said.

He said severely, "You will never make a good warrior with hair like that. It stands out against the snow like a flame. It is said a Scarred Warrior should move as swiftly and silently as the wind, be as unfathomable as clouds when hidden, and strike as suddenly and as fatally as lightning."

"I know," Isabeau said with mock humility. "My sister used to crop hers to the scalp and wear a white cap to hide it, but I do not wish to cut mine. I like it long. It used to hang down to my knees, but I do not suppose it will ever grow that long again."

"It would get in the way of skimming," he replied austerely, and she nodded, smiling.

"It does get in the way a lot, even braided. Still, I do not want to be a warrior so it does not really matter."

He was affronted. To be a warrior was the highest ambition possible for a Khan'cohban child To sit on the pride's council of warriors was the only position of high status not passed down from parent to child.

He said coldly, "What is it that you wish to be that you so scorn the art of the warrior?"

"I want to be a sorceress," Isabeau said, and at his blank look pointed to the scar between her brows. "A Soul-Sage." She knew there were many differences between the definitions of sorceress in her language and soul-sage in his language, but it was the closest she could come to making him understand.

Reluctant respect crossed his face. She saw he wanted to ask her more questions but his deeply ingrained politeness held him back. She pointed to the fire and it leaped up warm and golden. He warmed his hands, glancing at her enviously. "I can see why the Firekeepers were not pleased when the Firemaker was first given to the prides," he said. "It would be very agreeable to not have to guard my coal so carefully."

"It takes a great deal of effort to make fire, though," Isabeau replied, feeling her weariness pressing her down into the rocks like a giant fist. "If I am very tired or ill, I cannot summon it and then I must go cold, unless I too have a live coal. And if there is no fuel for the flame, then I must use my own power to feed it and that drains me of energy very quickly."

She flopped her head back and stared up at the sky. She saw a dark, bent shape hanging in the bare branches of a tree by the river. Idly she wondered what it was. A dead crow perhaps? Then her attention sharpened. She leaned forward, staring at it intently, and then grinned in delight. "This," she said, "is another useful gift." She held out her fingers and the dark, hanging thing twisted, tore itself free of the branches and flew to her hand. It was her missing boot.

"I must confess to envy," the boy said, "a vice indeed."

"Who knows, you may be able to do it, if you try hard enough," Isabeau said. "Many people could do things they thought impossible if they gave themselves a chance. Does the
reil
of the warrior not return to their hand? If a
reil,
why not other things?"

She saw she had given him food for thought and leaned her head back again, closing her eyes. The sun was warm on her face and her stomach was full. She could sleep again. With difficulty she opened her eyes and said, "I thank you again. I am very tired for I had little chance to rest last night, and I wish to sleep and regain my strength before I face the World's Mouth. These stones are hard and cold, and it is too bright here, so I'm going to go back into the forest to sleep. I am in debt to you. Is there aught I can do or must I carry the
geas
until such a time as circumstances give me a chance to relieve it?"

He said rather shyly, "I walked up and down this river all day yesterday looking for some way to cross the river, for one must cross to climb up to the World's Mouth. Yet the river runs so fast and the stones are so sharp I can see no way. There are bones all along the shore and a dead girl ..."

Isabeau was revolted. "Dead? Where?"

He pointed up the river. "On the rocks, near the cliff. At first I thought she was still alive but she has been dead a few days. She is all bloated . . ."

Chewing her thumbnail, Isabeau remembered the tales of the storytellers.
And in her grief, the river took into her terrible embrace many of the children of the Gods of White, for if her child could not live, why should the sons and daughters of the prides? And to the voice of her lament was joined the wails of the drowned, echoing forever through the Skull of the World.

"Come, let me take a look," she said abruptly. "I cannot teach you to swim in a morning but perhaps I can find the safest way across the river. It is only a small deed though, not to compare with giving me food and clothes."

"It will save me from joining the dead girl in the watery arms of the river," he said and she nodded.

The shore of the river was treacherous with rocks so they clambered back up into the meadows. The frost giant's hand still groped desperately out of the mess of snow, broken trees and rocks, and Isabeau gave a little shudder as they skirted the edge of the avalanche. The events of the night were like a nightmare, only dimly remembered yet constantly lurching darkly at the edge of her consciousness.

If she was to change shape, Isabeau thought, she would have to be careful not to let the beguilement of a particular shape work on her so that she forgot who she really was. As an owl she could fly the forest, swift and silent, queen of the night. As a snow lion she was strong and powerful and deadly graceful, sure of her own mastery. Even now she wished she could transform and fly up the course of the river instead of slogging through the snow, her skimmer banging on her back and her boots chafing her swollen and blistered feet. She could not take the horned boy with her if she flew, though, and so she made her way on her own two weary legs.

Luckily the snow was light near the river for the gorge was much warmer than the heights around it, thanks to the heat of the water. Many different trees grew, the gray branches of larches, birches and maples creating a fine tracery among the dark green spears of fir, native hemlock and spruce.

Although the sky was mostly cloudless, mist drifted here and there over the sparkling river, looking so like the ghosts of dead children that Isabeau could understand how the tales of the storytellers came to be told. Dead trees littered the rocky shore and groped out of the river itself, refuse caught in their branches.

They rounded the bluff, and the cliff face rose before them. From this angle the resemblance to a misery-contorted face was stronger than ever.

Below the cliff was a small shadowed loch, half obscured by steam and spray, its surface roiling in constant turmoil as the waterfalls plunged into its depths. From this maelstrom came the river, running hot and fierce over the stones and the broken trees. There was a strong smell of sulphur, like the lake in the dragon's valley. Like Dragonclaw, the Skull of the World was a volcanic mountain, though it had been many centuries since it had last erupted. Isabeau knew that for the water to run so hot even in the midst of winter it must rise from deep in the mountain where the rock was still molten. The further away from the mountain it traveled the cooler it must become, but here at the source it was uncomfortably warm to touch.

The dead girl was lying face down on the rocks, the lower half of her body still in the water so her slack limbs jerked and rolled as the swift current dragged at her. It looked as if she were trying to crawl from the water but Isabeau could smell the stink of putrefying flesh and see the discoloration of her skin. Nausea sprang up in her throat and she tasted again the bile of the night before. She had to turn her face away and breathe deeply to avoid losing her breakfast.

"Should we not pull her out and bury her?" she said huskily.

"Why?" the boy asked. "The wolves will only dig her up, or the snow lions if they are hungry enough. She is embracing the earth as she should, and the Gods of White will have accepted her death as is fitting."

Isabeau remembered then that the Khan'cohbans did not bury or cremate their dead but left them out for the Gods of White. She swallowed and nodded, making the sign of Ea's blessing before turning away. She scanned the river and the long island of gravel that stretched out into the water at the base of the cliff. To climb up to the cave one had to reach that island, but the water roiled all around and rocks protruded from the foam like teeth. Even Isabeau would find it a difficult swim, with the waterfalls pounding from above and the strong currents dragging away down the river.

She thought a moment then said to the boy, "You will have to let the river carry you, not try and fight against it. Take off all your clothes for the weight will hamper you otherwise. Pack as much as you can in the satchel and pile it all on the skimmer. Then you must go in the river there, where the rock pushes out into the water. It is slippery from the falls so be careful. Push the skimmer in front of you and let your legs trail out behind so that you can propel yourself forward by kicking."

She lay on the ground and demonstrated and he nodded, trying not to show his anxiety. "All you need to do is reach that island. Angle across this way to avoid that submerged log. If you can, use the end of it to push off from, then kick as hard as you can.

If you miss the island you'll have to try and get to shore again and it is very rocky just here and dangerous. The skimmer will help keep you afloat and if you are lucky your clothes will not be too wet once you get out."

He nodded again and she said, "Try while I watch you. If you get swept away I shall do my best to save you."

He began to strip off his clothes. Isabeau did the same, then crouched shivering by the rocks as he clumsily entered the steaming water, gasping a little at its heat. The current caught him and dragged him downstream and Isabeau held her breath, shocked at its strength. His white head bobbed up and down in the rough water and several times he went under, but each time he managed to struggle free again, his hands gripping the skimmer tightly. Then the little wooden sleigh scraped the very end of the islet, slid and almost bounced back. The boy kicked mightily, then heaved himself out onto the gravel. For a moment he knelt there, head bent, panting, then he raised one hand to Isabeau on the far shore and got to his feet, shaking himself dry.