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 colours 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 grey. Everything was grey, 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 preternaturally 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. Isabeau’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 goldensloe 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 leapt 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 leapt 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 field 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 newborn 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 colour, 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 recognised 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 swivelled. 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 burnt 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 towards the river.
Soar-hooh? Buba called.
Isabeau shook her head. ‘I think I 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 th
e 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 grey tassels and feathers, and beneath his shaggy coat Isabeau could see the same colour stitched along his woollen shirt in the stylised 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 Grey 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 Firemaker’s position. Even though the lands of the Pride of the Grey 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 grey-tasselled staff against the rocks and undoing his satchel.
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 snow-bound 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 round her gratefully, then pulled on her woollen 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 leant 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 leapt 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 leant 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.