‘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 leant 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 grey 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 dragons’ 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 travelled 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 was trying to crawl from the water but Isabeau could smell the stink of putrefying flesh and see the discolouration 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 Eà’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 willl 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.
Thankfully Isabeau scrambled back into her clothes and then went to find a comfortable resting place. She would need to spend some time foraging and regaining her strength before she could face the World’s Mouth. She wanted to have a full stomach herself before she was devoured by the gods.
It was black as Gearradh’s womb inside the World’s Mouth. Isabeau conjured a sphere of witch’s light and looked about curiously as she made her way down a long tunnel, its walls black and glassy.
She could not help feeling uneasy. The air was full of moans and sighs, and a fo
ul-smelling wind caressed her face with unpleasantly damp fingers. She reached her hand inside her sleeve to stroke Buba’s soft feathers. The owl protested sleepily.
‘Will ye no’ come out and keep me company?’ Isabeau coaxed. Despite herself, her voice was a mere thread of sound.
Snooze-hooh.
‘It’s dark as night in here,’ Isabeau whispered. ‘Your sharp eyes and ears would be most welcome.’ She added a plaintive hoot and felt the elf-owl sigh in resignation. Buba crawled out of her sleeve, flapped her wings, rotated her head round, then tried to crawl back inside the dark warmth of Isabeau’s sleeve. Isabeau caught her round the body, just under the wings. Please-hooh?
Reluctantly the owl submitted to being placed on Isabeau’s shoulder, where she dug her sharp talons into the fur and huddled her wings around her. Buba was a creature of the forests and did not like this long dark tunnel with its glittering walls and unpleasant odour. She grumbled away in Isabeau’s ear as the apprentice witch travelled down through the tunnel.
The deeper into the mountain they penetrated the stronger the smell became and the louder the noises. Sometimes they sounded like someone snoring, other times like the grumble and roar of an unsettled stomach. The heat became unbearable and at last Isabeau removed her heavy coat and carried it draped over her arm. Still her palms and forehead were prickling with perspiration and she knotted up her curls so they did not hang on her neck.
The tunnel was angling down quite steeply now and Isabeau saw an angry red glow ahead. The smell was so strong it choked her throat so she could hardly breathe. Forcing herself on, she rubbed her stinging eyes and saw the tunnel floor was split by a glowing fissure. Her heart sinking, she crept close to its lip and peered over. The fracture in the stone plunged as far as she could see, bubbling with black fumes and burning with that sullen red light. Then an arc of boiling stone flung itself up as if reaching for her. She threw herself backwards. Heart pounding, she stood pressed against the wall, almost overcome by the fumes and her own fear. The far side seemed a mile away, though if it had been a little burn of clear water dancing along below her Isabeau would have leapt the gap gaily and without a second thought.
She could have transformed into an owl and flown across the flickering red gap, but that meant leaving behind her furs, her skimmer, and her limp satchel with its handful of nuts, bark and lichens. No matter how scanty her supplies, it had taken Isabeau the better part of a day to collect them and she had no desire to emerge on the far side of the mountain naked, cold and hungry.
So she gathered together her strength and her courage, ran down the corridor and leapt the fissure, landing on the far side with space to spare. Her legs gave way beneath her and she stumbled and rolled in a tangle of fur, wood and flesh, lying still at last, rather shaken and bruised but alive. Buba flew down to rest on her hip, hooting in amusement.
‘It’s grand for ye,’ Isabeau said crossly. ‘Ye can just spread your wings and fly but I have to rely on my own two legs.’
You-hooh could-hooh swoop-soar too-hooh, the elf-owl replied smugly.
‘Only if I left behind all my stuff and I dinna wish to do that!’ Isabeau pushed the owl off her hip, got up rather gingerly, and rearranged the skimmer and satchel so they no longer banged together around her neck but hung down her back as they should. She then set off down the tunnel again, limping slightly and wishing her furs were not so heavy.
It had been early morning when Isabeau had entered the World’s Mouth and by the grumbles in her stomach she judged it must now be nearing lunchtime. The tunnel had widened out into a series of small caves, some with odd structures like smooth stalactites hanging from the walls. She spread out her coat and sat down for a rest, rummaging through her satchel for something to eat. The contents were most depressing to a young woman with a healthy appetite, but she chewed away on what she had, stroking Buba’s feathery head as the owl settled down for a snooze. Then on into the darkness she went, every fibre of her being longing for blue sky and a fresh cool breeze once more.
The caves grew larger and more spectacular. She came to one with a small loch in its centre, the water bubbling and hissing and wreathed with steam. As Isabeau made her way round its shore, all pitted and stained with grey ash, a sudden fountain of boiling water shot up into the air, spraying her with sizzling hot droplets. Instinctively she flung up her arm with its drapery of shaggy fur, which took the brunt of the spray. Nonetheless one cheek and the back of one hand still stung and she had to fight back tears of shock and pain. She hurried away from the pool, almost tripping over the body of a young Khan’cohban boy who had not escaped so lightly. He had not been dead for long, horribly disfigured by the steam which had doused him. Isabeau saw with some relief that he was not the boy who had helped her. She drew the crossed circle, the sign of Eà’s blessing, upon his blistered brow then moved away, her legs trembling. She crouched against the wall, as far away from the sinister pool as she could get, and dug around in her pack until she found the little pot of healing salve she carried there. She tended the burns as well as she could with her maimed hand, then quickly hurried on, feeling a growing hatred for this dark journey.
A stream now ran down one side of the tunnel, its waters hot and stinking. Isabeau followed it down into a great cavern, deep in the bowels of the mountain. It stretched as far as the eye could see, the stream widening into a chain of pools and small lochan that wound about among piles of grey ash and cinders. It was a most desolate scene, without the eerie beauty of the caves Isabeau was used to. The air was thick with fumes and she could see quite a few tunnels leading away, some glowing fiery red with puffs of evil, black smoke gusting out as if dragons slept within.
She did not know which way to go. Until now the route had been clear, for the tunnel had run down without any branches. Now Isabeau had to pick her way through the pyres of grey-black ashes, exploring each antechamber and tunnel in turn. Instinctively she kept away from the ones spitting sparks, choosing those that seemed safer. Buba flew ahead of her, saving her much time by discovering many dead ends. Some of the corridors ran for some distance before ending. In one Isabeau found a skeleton still dressed in rotten leather and fur, his horned skull fallen onto his chest as if the pile of bones merely slept, his staff resting between the bones of his hands.
She made the sign of Eà’s blessing, the fingers and thumb of her left hand meeting in a circle, and crossed with one finger of her right. Then she hurried back down the tunnel, hoping she would find her way free soon and without any more horrible discoveries. The Khan’cohban children had been making the dangerous journey through the mountain for many years however, and there were remains of those who had failed everywhere. Some were recent and these were the most shocking. Isabeau found panic was welling up in her throat, clouding her judgement and making her hasty and anxious. She had to force herself to rest and eat again, and drink tea made from the hot, bitter water, and find somewhere safe to sleep.
She slept uneasily and woke in a sweat of terror. As there was no difference between night and day in the darkness of the caves, Isabeau got up and kept on walking, desperate to be free. She found a tunnel without obstacles or dead ends and her pace quickened. Buba was also uneasy and flew ahead, hooting occasionally in distress. The sound of her hoots echoed alarmingly and Isabeau had to bite her tongue to stop from snapping at her to be quiet.
The caves were different now, the walls of coarse granite and much broken. It was cold and the breathing sounds had changed, become recognisable as the roar of water. Isabeau’s step quickened till she was almost jogging. She came out in a wide low cavern with a river that pounded through in a surge of foam and roiling grey waters. Isabeau’s witch-light looked frail and small in that immense darkness. She saw, far away, a bobbing ball of orange flame and knew someone else was ahead of her, scrambling over the rocks in a desperate attempt to be free of the mountain. She followed the flaming torch and saw it pause as its carrier became aware she was there.
; It was her friend from the river, the horned boy from the Pride of the Grey Wolf. His grim dark face lightened when he saw her and he made the gesture of greeting. ‘You have survived the eating by the gods then?’
‘So far,’ Isabeau replied in his language and sat down beside him with a sigh. ‘Though I hope we are near the end for I fear I shall go stark staring mad if I do not see daylight soon.’
He was uncomfortable, not recognising the mordant humour of her words. ‘It has been known for madness to affect the name-questers but I hope this does not happen to you.’
‘So do I,’ Isabeau said, too tired to smile. He shared some of his bread and dried fruit with her and she ate gladly, sick of the bitter taste of bark and winter nuts. It was comforting to have company in that roaring darkness, and so they sat in silence for some time, half dozing despite the discomfort of the rough, wet rocks and the noise of the river.
‘We should go on,’ she said after a long while. ‘I feel as if air and light are very close.’
He nodded, his horned head casting strange shadows over the rocks. ‘I have not much light left,’ he said and she saw his torch was indeed flickering very low. He helped her up with the grave courtesy of the Khan’cohban and together they went wearily down the side of the river. His eyes dilated a little as Buba crept out of Isabeau’s fur coat to lead the way, but he said nothing.
At last a dim grey light began to filter through. The torrent of the river filled most of the cave, so that they clambered along the walls, slipping and stumbling, sometimes falling to their knees. They saw the rocks grow close all about, the river bursting from a gap in its walls. Together they knelt and peered out, despair filling them as they saw the water plunging down the side of a steep black cliff. Down, down, into a deep ravine the waterfall plunged, flinging spray high into the air where it gleamed like diamonds in the light of the rising sun. There was no way out except down that raging torrent.