The Forbidden Land (40 page)

The snowstorm passed some time during the evening and the clouds cleared away so she could see the stars, huge and luminous in the overarching sky. Although she sat still, she moved her fingers and toes constantly in their fur-lined gloves and boots, and concentrated on her breathing so that the blood in her veins ran hot and strong.

A while before dawn Isabeau saw, far away, a strange greenish glow that hung across the horizon like a slowly rippling curtain, edged with crimson and occasionally crackling with gold fire. Her own people called that fiery curtain the Merry-Dancers. She stared at it in awe and wonder until at last it sank away into embers. It too was an omen of some kind, though what it foreordained she did not know.

Then dawn came, the stars fading. Colour slowly swept over the vast panorama of billowing cloud and peaked mountains. The clefts of shadowed valleys darkened to indigo, and the little owl blinked her round eyes and crawled within Isabeau’s sleeve to sleep. Isabeau stood and stretched, chilly and stiff but filled with serenity.

The Soul-Sage came up the uneven steps and crouched at the back of the cave, not speaking but scanning Isabeau’s face with eyes so heavily hooded that the colour could not be seen. What she saw seemed to satisfy her, for she nodded curtly and indicated her pupil follow her back down into the cave.

The central bonfire had been built high and the members of the pride crowded about it. The first meal of the day was always communal, and as usual Isabeau was one of the last to receive her portion of gruel and dried fruit, being still nameless and without status. She waited till everyone else had finished, then clustered close with the other children, most not even reaching her waist, holding up her wooden bowl for the scrapings of the large pot. No-one spoke to her or even glanced her way, but Isabeau was not upset by their disregard, being used to it.

Once she had eaten, the Soul-Sage and her Scarred Warrior teacher came and led her to the fire of her great-grandmother, built on a platform of rock at the back of the great cavern. The old woman sat ramrod-straight, her snow-lion cloak gathered close around her thin shoulders. Isabeau was carefully washed with melted snow and rubbed all over with fats scented with the sharp aroma of native hemlock and silver fir. Isabeau endured the ministrations, although the touch of animal fat on her body made her feel rather nauseous. She repressed her revulsion firmly, though, knowing the ceremonial anointing would help protect her against the cold and wet and that any protest would be misunderstood by the pride.

Carefully Isabeau was dressed again, in warm clothes brought by the First of the Weavers. The First of the Woodworkers brought her a new staff hung with red feathers and tassels, and a new skimmer, freshly painted with the ferocious shape of a fire-breathing dragon. Isabeau seized this last gift excitedly, for she had been taught to skim on an old battered sleigh that did not have the same sharp edges or sleek polish as this one, and was therefore much slower and less manoeuvrable.

A small satchel of supplies was given to her next, containing wild grains, dried fruit and several flaps of unleavened bread. There was only enough food to last a few weeks, if rationed carefully, and Isabeau clenched her teeth together, knowing they expected her to hunt for herself.

Next came the First of the Metalworkers and the First of the Scarred Warriors, their hands full of shiny tools and weapons. There was a long skewer, a small axe, a mace with a detachable head which could be swung on a leather strap, and a curved serrated dagger. Isabeau took them with the same ambivalence, part of her excited to be armed like the rest of the pride, the other part filled with trepidation and a sort of fascinated horror at their wicked glitter.

She had often seen the same weapons hanging from her sister’s belt, however. The thought of Iseult brought new courage and resolve, and she hung the weapons on the supple belt of the plaited leather the weaver had brought with pride.

Next to come was the Firekeeper, a tall woman with a stern face slashed with the shape of dancing flames. With no hint of warmth or friendliness, she gave Isabeau a little pouch of fur that was warm to the touch. Within nestled a single live coal and Isabeau made the gesture of heartfelt gratitude before tying the fur pouch to her belt. Everyone knew that Isabeau was kin to the Firemaker and so could conjure fire with a snap of her fingers, but the gifts were all part of the sacred ceremony and Isabeau had once before insulted the Firekeeper grievously by using her abilities without thought.

Last to come was the First of the Storytellers. He inclined his head to Isabeau and said in his deep, resonant voice, ‘When you seek, you cannot find.’

Again Isabeau gestured her gratitude for his advice, though she had been hoping for more than this well-worn riddle which the Khan’cohbans used for everything from finding happiness to drawing upon the
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in battle. He inclined his white head and sat with the other guild leaders around the fire.

Isabeau then knelt before the Firemaker and received her wordless blessing. The old woman drew her great-granddaughter to her and kissed her brow, a gesture of affection most unusual amongst the Khan’cohbans. ‘Be wary,’ she whispered. ‘There are many dangers in the mountains. You have to cross land belonging to other prides so remember your manners. You are kin to the Firemaker, though, and should be shown respect. Know that once you leave the haven the taboos on your Firemaker powers are lifted, but not your debt of honour to the children of the White Gods.’

Isabeau nodded. She knew her great-grandmother was telling her she would be allowed to use whatever powers she had to help her in her quest, but that she must not use her powers against any other Khan’cohban, no matter the provocation. The Firemaker was bound by a rigid code of rules and very rarely drew upon her powers in case she should offend. Isabeau had been confined by the same restrictions, which had sometimes chafed her unbearably, used as she was to drawing upon her witchcraft whenever she wanted.

Isabeau pulled on her boots and satchel, wrapped her coat around her, and gripped her tall wooden staff, the skimmer tied to her back. Any excitement she might have felt was totally overwhelmed by fear. She realised that all she really knew was that she had to journey across the harsh snowy wastes to the Skull of the World, where some gods she did not really believe in would somehow give her a new name.

As she walked towards the mouth of the cave, the pride all bowed to her and made the good luck gesture, and she wondered sombrely if she would ever see any of them again. She cast a despairing look back and saw that both her teachers, the wise shaman and the stern warrior, were following close behind. Although neither gave her any smile of reassurance or comfort, she was both reassured and comforted, and left the dark, stifling warmth of the cave with a slightly lighter heart.

They led her round the side of the haven’s valley and up the steep slope to the crown of the mountain. With the sun at their backs they faced the Skull of the World, which bit into the sky as white and sharp as the incisor of a sabre leopard. Between them and the towering pinnacle were tier upon tier of sharp-pointed, ice-white mountains, their spreading roots hidden in gloomy shadows. Isabeau stared in cold dismay. How was she to climb all those mountains? How was she to find her path?

‘The fastest route is not always the straightest,’ the Soul-Sage said. She pointed to the north. ‘That way lie the snow plains of the Pride of the Fighting Cats.’

‘The glacier sweeps down from the Skull of the World,’ the Scarred Warrior said. ‘Although it has its dangers, it is much easier to cross than the peaks. There the slopes are smooth and one can skim for long distances before one needs to climb again.’

‘Are they not the enemy of the Fire-Dragon Pride?’ Isabeau asked anxiously.

‘Remember you are on a sacred quest and therefore cannot be challenged by any you pass. They will see your feathered staff and let you alone,’ the Soul-Sage replied.

Isabeau nodded, staring out towards the north. ‘What do I do once I get to the Skull of the World?’ she asked.

‘You must be eaten, swallowed and digested,’ the Soul-Sage replied. ‘Only once the Gods of White have devoured you may you be reborn as an adult.’

Isabeau stared at her. ‘Do you mean that literally or metaphorically?’ she said, unable to prevent her voice from quavering.

The Khan’cohbans did not reply, their faces blank. Their language did not have such subtle distinctions. Isabeau grinned, feeling a little bubble of hysteria floating up her throat. Their expressions only darkened. Khan’cohbans did not have any sense of humour and abhorred any sign of levity in Isabeau. She controlled her face with difficulty and said, ‘How am I meant to know what to do?’

‘Have you not listened to the wisdom of the storytellers? Their tales are not only told to divert but also to teach.’

‘But I mean how shall the White Gods tell me my name?’ she asked in an exasperated voice.

Isabeau repeated the words to herself, having to fight down another gurgle of disbelieving laughter. The Khan’cohbans were very fond of riddles, proverbs and aphorisms, which often made for very tedious conversations. Isabeau had never been very good at guessing riddles, but she knew better than to demand an explanation.

The Soul-Sage crossed her hands at her breast, then swept them out, palms flat. The Scarred Warrior repeated the gesture of farewell, and then together they turned and made their way down the side of the hill without a backward glance, leaving Isabeau alone on the crest of the mountain.