The Cursed Towers (29 page)

The Firemaker was the most feared and respected person in the pride. The choicest pieces of meat were brought for her; she had the most favorable sleeping position, and everyone—even the First of the Scarred Warriors—approached her with bent head. He was the warrior who wore the saber-leopard cloak, and each cheek was slashed with three thin scars, another cutting down his forehead and between his eyes. Isabeau soon learnt he was the second most powerful person in the pride and she was beaten severely for showing disrespect to him by meeting his gaze.

Isabeau had never been beaten before and she found the Khan'cohbans' harshness the most shocking thing about her new life. There was no pity, no kindness, no forgiveness, no mercy. Betrayers of the Khan'cohbans' code of honor were staked out on a high rock for the Gods of White, meaning they died of cold and exposure, or were mauled to death by wild animals, or pecked to death by birds of prey. Even minor breaches were punished with blows or beatings or deprivation of warmth and food. Over the next few weeks, Isabeau accompanied Khan'-kahlil everywhere, quietly watching and listening, learning very early on to keep her eyes lowered and her hands still. Since every gesture had a meaning, it was easy to be misunderstood by casual gesticulations, and Isabeau made many a stupid mistake before she learnt to keep her hands clasped in her lap at all times.

Her task of acquiring manners was made particularly difficult by her inability to ask questions or watch too closely. Any sign of curiosity was considered exceptionally rude. After repeated blows, Isabeau learnt not to ask for explanation or reasons, look directly at anyone or ask their name, approach another's campfire without an invitation, touch another person's arm or hand, eat before her superiors had eaten, or speak unless spoken to first. With so many people living in such close quarters, these rules ensured no one's personal space was invaded but, being of an affectionate and curious nature, Isabeau found herself constantly giving offense.

She had not realized either how strict the pride's social hierarchy was. Since Isabeau had not undergone her ordeal and initiation, she was considered a child and as such had lower status than every other adult in the group, even those younger than her in age. It did not matter that she was the Firemaker's great-granddaughter, and child of the revered Khan'gharad, who had been First Warrior and had flown on the dragon's back. She was a stranger to them and therefore ostracized; and uninitiated and therefore without a name or a place in the pride.

Like all other children, she was called simply Khan. She had to sleep on the furthermost edge of the fire, and was only allowed to eat once the rest of the pride was finished. The communal pot and her own plate and spoon were then ritualistically purified to remove the contamination of her touch. The only people Isabeau was allowed to address voluntarily were the other children who had not yet made their journey to the Skull of the World.

Since most undertook their ordeal and initiation in their thirteenth long darkness, this meant she spent a great deal of her time with the younger children. Most of the adult Khan'cohbans ignored her except to snap out the occasional terse order, but a few of those newly initiated took it upon themselves to humiliate her at every opportunity.

Although Isabeau worked hard to learn the customs of the pride and was now able to understand most of what was said, she was still treated like an outcast. Most of the time she felt as if she was invisible, some kind of ghost hovering at the edges of the pride. Sometimes she wanted to scream and shout, jump up and down and wave her arms, crying, "Look at me! I'm here, I exist!" Instead she bit her tongue, kept her eyes lowered and grew used to being called child.

Isabeau was desperately lonely and unhappy, though; often choked with tears that she concealed as best she could. Despite her isolation, she still had to work hard, as did all the people of the pride. She had to assist them in their daily tasks, which included digging through the snow for roots, spinning with a crude distaff, tending the woolly-coated
ulez,
grinding grain and picking up after the adults. One bitterly cold day Isabeau was huddling into her plaid. The wind was howling outside, throwing handfuls of snow in through the cave-mouth and sending icy draughts sweeping through every corner. Khan'kahlil's lire was closest to the cave's entrance, a sign of her lowly status. With the freezing wind blowing straight at her back, Isabeau tried to spin the white wool of the
ulez
with hands so stiff with cold they felt as they were carved from stone.

The fire was losing its battle with the wind and Khan'-kahlil was busy chasing her impish young son, who had stolen one of her knives to pretend he was a Scarred Warrior. Without thought, Isabeau fed the dying embers with her own power. The flames leapt up warm and golden, and thankfully she held her hands to the blaze.

The Haven was usually quiet for the Khan'cohbans were a silent people, but Isabeau was immediately aware of a change in the quality of the silence. She looked up and consternation filled her as she saw the anger on the face of the Firekeeper and the fear and horror on Khan-kahlil's. Even the Firemaker had risen from her furs, her blue eyes cold with condemnation. Every Khan'cohban in the cave was staring at Isabeau, their hands for once frozen into stillness.

Hurried words of explanations and excuses rose to Isa-beau's lips but she bit them back and bent her head in supplication.

The Firekeeper was a tall woman who guarded the central bonfire and carried burning coals in a little bag at her waist whenever the pride left the Haven on their migratory journeys, so that wherever they made camp the pride could always be sure of a fire for warmth and safety. Her position was one of the few in the prides that was hereditary, passed from mother to daughter for centuries, like that of the Old Mother. Leaping to her feet, the Firekeeper pointed her long, multijointed finger at Isabeau. Her voice shrill with outrage she cried, "Khan has made fire! What of the law of the Firekeeper? She has flouted my law and spat scorn into my face."

She then turned to Khan'kahlil and said contemptuously, "That stupid coney did not guard her fire and in shame prevailed upon the Firemaker's kin to rekindle her fire instead of approaching me as is the custom and the law. I demand punishment and restitution for I have been belittled and overlooked." Khan'kahlil had fallen on her knees, her arms spread out, her face pressed into the floor. She made no attempt to defend herself. Her little son threw himself down by her side, the make-believe sword fallen from his hand. The Firemaker limped down from her platform and stood over them and hastily Isabeau assumed the same position.

The Firemaker issued a few short, sharp orders and Isabeau heard the whistle and crack of Khan'kahlil being beaten by one of the Scarred Warriors. The Khan'cohban made no whimper or protest, though Isabeau cringed into the floor with every thwack. Then footsteps approached her. The apprentice witch tensed but no blow fell on her shoulders. Instead a cauldron of snow and icy water was flung over her, shocking her into a scream. Another cauldron of water was dumped on Khan'kahhTs fire, extinguishing Isabeau's bright flames.

Isabeau lay still, shuddering with fear and cold. The Firekeeper came and nudged her with her foot.

"Rude Khan, presumptuous and proud. For three days no fire for you and no fire for the little coney and her family. In three days, if you still live, come to me with gifts and sorrow and I shall give you a live coal to cherish and coax into flame."

After the Firekeeper had stalked away, Isabeau sat up, weeping, trying to rub warmth into her cold wet arms. Khan'kahlil crept to her side, her son huddling into her side, and they all stared at the black, wet embers disconsolately.

Three days without a fire was harsh punishment indeed, particularly since their sleeping spot was so close to the cave mouth and so unprotected from the elements. Without a fire, they could not keep themselves warm or heat their food or have any light to cheer the bitter nights. The Firekeeper had not been exaggerating when she said, "If you still live."

Shivering violently in her wet clothes, already stiffening with ice, Isabeau did her best to express her remorse. Khan'kahlil shook her head, saying abruptly, "My fire, my responsibility." She dug around in her crude wooden chest and held out some dry clothes for Isabeau.

For the first few weeks of her stay at the pride's Haven, Isabeau had suffered terribly from the cold for she refused to wear the heavy skins and fur the Khan'-cohbans swathed themselves in. She had sat huddled in her plaid trying to stop her shivering, determined not to wear the skins of murdered animals. Khan'kahlil had accepted her decision with a shrug, though her children had mocked Isabeau and called her "
ulez
-brain." Now, however, the Khan'cohban women insisted, saying gruffly,
"Ulez
not killed,
ulez
die when it is time."

Isabeau nodded and took the bundle of skins and furs with a gesture of gratefulness. There was no doubt she would die if she stayed in her damp clothes. She knew what Khan'-kahlil said was true. The
ulez
had died of old age, not by the knife.

The
ulez
were never killed, for they were too useful alive, providing wool and milk and pulling along the sleighs that the pride traveled in when they left the haven. Only when the
ulez
died were their skins cured and rubbed with fat to make the moisture-resistant leggings, jerkins and cloaks everyone wore. The next three days were hard, bitter days. Only by huddling together in their furs and sharing their body warmth were they able to save themselves from freezing. Isabeau made them a thin porridge of grains and herbs and whenever their shivering grew too intense she made Khan'kahlil and her family drink a mouthful of her
mi-thuan,
which she always carried in her pack. The fiery liquid warmed their bodies and made their slowing hearts pound quickly again, and so they were able to endure the long, dark days of their punishment.

On the evening of the third day Isabeau went to the Firekeeper and debased herself, begging forgiveness for her folly and ignorance and offering her gifts—-Khan'kah-lil's best knife with a real metal blade, a pot of herbal cream she had made that would relieve the rheumatism in the Firekeeper's joints, and a string of fish Khan'kah-lil's children had caught.

The Firekeeper accepted the gifts and, without one word or glance of acknowledgment, gave Isabeau a burning ember from her fire. Carefully Isabeau carried the coal back to Khan'kahlil's sleeping spot and tenderly they fed it dry leaves and twigs until at last their fire again leapt into life.

"Well, if it is no' Finlay the Fear-Naught! How are ye yourself, my lad?" Niall cried, pausing in the doorway of the Strathrowan tavern to shake the snow off his cloak.

The young man blowing smoke rings to the ceiling glanced over and lifted one well-shaped eyebrow.

"Me-thinks I hear the roar o' a bear," he mused. "Indeed we are lost in the wilds that bears wander through villages at will. I wonder if I should call for help? But nay, they say one should stay perfectly still if one should encounter a woolly bear, and that seems sound advice to me." He blew another smoke ring and watched it drift up and dissolve against the low beams. Although he was wearing the same blue officer's jacket as Niall, his was without a single stain or wrinkle, and fitted him like a glove. His boots were made of the softest kid, and his plaid was pinned over his shoulder with a diamond brooch. His beard was carefully clipped into a point, and his hair hung in silky curls to his shoulder.

"Look at ye, as pretty as if we were still in Lucescere and no' out here at the edge o' the forest! Do no'

tell me ye brought your valet wi' ye!" Niall said jovially.

"Indeed I did," Finlay replied languidly. "What would he do if I left him at the Shining City? Spend all his wages on whores and whiskey, I am sure! Nay, far better that he rides with me and earns his keep. Besides, my sweet, surely ye do no' expect me to polish my own boots or brush my own hair?" Niall snorted loudly and came to sit beside Finlay, the chair creaking under his weight. Lilanthe stood watching from the doorway, her cloak and hood covered in snow. After a moment she limped in shyly, putting back the hood, the nisse swinging from the bare twigs of her hair. The young soldier looked her over with a lift of his eyebrow. When Brun came bounding in, his eyebrow lifted ever further. "What do we have here?" he said. "Ye fraternizing with the faeries now, Niall?" Lilanthe stiffened and the nisse bared her fangs. Niall leant back, stuffing his pipe with tobacco. "Aye, His Highness has given me the honor o' escorting the Lady Lilanthe and the cluricaun Brun into Aslinn. They go in search o' friends and allies who may well be the weight that swings the war our way. My lady, this mannerless young man is Laird Finlay James MacFinlay, the Marquess of Tullitay and Kirkcudbright, Viscount of Balmor-ran and Strathraer, and the only son o' the Duke of Falkglen. We call him Fear-Naught since he has no more sense than a foolhardy lad and is always running his neck into a noose o' trouble."

The young marquess rose and gave Lilanthe a courtly bow, sweeping the ground with his fingers. Her freckled face flushed and she nodded gravely, sensing his subtle mockery. It seemed even the Righ's own bodyguard contained those who did not favor creatures of faery blood.

"Have we no' met before, my laird?" she said.

He smiled and said charmingly, "No' that I remember, my lady, and I'm sure I would remember if I had." Her color deepened, unsure whether he was mocking her still. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat, regarding him with puzzled eyes. His thoughts were carefully guarded so she could not read them and that in itself was enough to make her uneasy. He was a soldier, though, and trained into impassivity, so she turned to warm her hands at the fire while Laird Finlay poured her and Niall some hot whiskey toddy. They had spent the autumn riding slowly from village to town, Lilanthe taking the opportunity to talk to the country folk about the faeries of the forest. Although there were some in the crowd who jeered her, the squad of soldiers standing stern-faced and straight-backed beside her prevented any real belligerence. As autumn passed, she grew more confident, her passion lending her eloquence so that many in the crowds were moved to regret their antipathy toward the faeries. As for Lilanthe, she found that the release of her pent-up emotions brought her some measure of peace and even contentment. As they had followed the highway out of the lowlands of Rionnagan and into Blessem, the mood had changed, however. They reached the outskirts of Aslinn with the onset of winter, and took refuge from the early snowstorms in the village of Crossmaglenn at the edge of the forest. Some of Lilanthe's nervousness returned, for they were only a week's ride from Glenmorven, the town where she had encountered the Grand-Seeker. The local populace was surly, casting looks of hostility at the faeries and pulling their children out of Lilanthe's path. Niall the Bear had to assert his authority before the innkeeper would allow them to stay under his roof, and then it was a frigid welcome he gave them. If it had not been for the snowy darkness outside and her tiredness, Lilanthe would have insisted on traveling on, but instead she accepted the food slapped in front of her and went despondently to bed. In the morning Niall the Bear had greeted her cheerfully and told her they had heard a battalion of the Righ's soldiers had taken over the small village of Strathrowan to the south to use as their winter quarters. The innkeeper had suggested, none too courteously, that they go and join their comrades there. Glad to leave his inhospitable house, they had packed up and ridden on, for once not calling the townsfolk together for Lilanthe to address. It had been a gray cold day, the horses' hooves crunching snow underfoot, and Lilanthe felt some of her old misery return.