The Cursed Towers (48 page)

As night fell and a bitter wind rose, Isabeau turned her hands upward on her thighs and began to meditate in order to distract her thoughts from her cold and hunger and apprehension. She had spent many hours meditating with the Soul-Sage during her first winter on the Spine of the World, and her lessons had continued in greater depth since she had returned to the pride a few weeks earlier. Isabeau slipped easily now into a light trance, the distractions of the outside world drowned beneath the billowing beat of her own heart and breath.

It seemed as if she slipped out of her body and hung in the night, as pale and insubstantial as her own frosty breath. Faintly she heard a voice, as if in a dream.
Child,
it whispered.
Child . . .
She twisted, as if listening, and heard the voice more clearly. Instinctively she wavered toward the voice. She felt fear, for the soft vapor of her being was dispersing in the wind, but then she saw, dim and far away, the angular face of the Soul-Sage. She was haloed in silvery light, her thin body floating behind like candle-smoke, and a long, throbbing cord trailing behind her, twisting back through the starry sky.
We
are coming. Beware . . .

Isabeau came back to consciousness with a jolt, her head and heart pounding, a strong feeling of nausea almost overcoming her. Her fire had sunk down to embers and it took a great effort of will to bring it back to leaping life. She huddled her furred hood close about her face and tried not to think about food. After a long period of silence when Isabeau nearly nodded off to sleep, she heard the sound of crashing branches and the pounding of heavy feet in the valley outside. Her fear returned in greater force. There were demons in the valleys, her teacher had said. She thought they must be the same creatures that she had heard described in
The Book of Shadows
as ogres, truly monstrous-sounding creatures. She seized a burning branch from her fire and gripped it tightly as the crashing came closer. The wind shifted, bringing with it a foul stench. Suddenly a massive hand swept in under the tree trunk. Dark and scaly, it was tipped with curved black claws that caught Isabeau's leg. She scrambled back, thrusting the fiery branch against it. The ogre howled and the huge, scaly hand was snatched back. The reverberating howls died down into whimpers, then suddenly the ogre's thick fingers again swept in under the fallen tree trunk and Isabeau was knocked flying. She scrambled back against the rock, panting with fear, and then the groping hand found her fire. The ogre screeched with pain again, and Isabeau brought the fire blazing to life so flames ran up the rough, scaled fingers. He snatched back his hand, dragging the tree trunk away at the same time.

Isabeau, crouched in terror against the rock, watched as the monster hopped around the clearing, nursing his burnt fingers. Over ten feet tall, he was a hunched, broad figure, his limbs covered with scales, his body bristling with hair. His huge, misshapen head was a grotesque shadow against the stars, tusked and knobbly, with huge eyes that burnt with a reddish flame. He whimpered and sucked his fingers, then turned again to search for her, but Isabeau had slipped away under the cover of the trees, her white furs blending in with the snow. He raised his hideous snout and sniffed the air, then gave a screech of excitement and bounded after her.

She could not run very easily, hampered by the deep snow and the darkness, and in a few seconds he was upon her. Luckily his hands were so large and clumsy she was easily able to evade his sweeping grasp, grateful for her Scarred Warrior lessons that had taught her to sway away from a blow as effortlessly as a willow in a breeze. She foundered in the snow, though, and fell and his hand came down upon her, trapping her within the cage of his claws.

Suddenly Isabeau heard wild yells. Flat on her face, almost paralyzed with terror, she was able to look up and saw through the bars of her prison a long chain of flaming torches swooping down through the darkness. Relief flooded through her. She scrabbled at her belt and unsheathed her dagger which she thrust up into the hard, scaly palm above her. Although it must have pained him no more than the sting of a midge, he yelped and lifted his hand long enough for her to wriggle out and slide into the shadow of a snow-heaped bush. He snuffled about looking for her, then smelt the torches and looked up. He gave a loud yell of challenge and reared up, shaking his fists. Catcalls and cries replied him, and then tall, dark shapes came whizzing out of the darkness, snow flying up from their skimmers. There was the zing of
reils
being flung, and the ogre yelped and swiped out with his fists. For a moment he stood his ground, but the Scarred Warriors were too many and too fierce, and so he gave one last cry of defiance and blundered off into the darkness.

"Khan?"

"Yes, I am here," Isabeau replied, crawling out from under her bush and shaking off the snow. "I am so glad to see you all!"

The Scarred Warriors did not reply, just unstrapped their skimmers and began to climb back into the snowy darkness. Only one waited for her to retrieve her own skimmer and she could feel his cold disapproval even though he said not a word. "I am sorry, teacher," she said tentatively.

"Fool!" he snapped, and gestured to her to follow him.

Tired and chastened, Isabeau followed, her heart failing within her as she thought of the long, hard climb back up the mountain heights.

They came out of the copse of trees and Isabeau saw a cluster of flaming torches thrust into the snow at the bottom of the high, steep slope. There were several long sleighs there, a team of shaggy, white
ulez
harnessed to each one. Sitting bolt upright in one was the Firemaker, wrapped up well against the cold, her snow-lion cloak raised to cover her head so her pale, autocratic face was framed by its snarling muzzle.

Isabeau fell to her knees, her head bowed, her hands crossed over her breast. Amidst her chagrin and apprehension was a sudden spurt of happiness. The Firemaker had left the safety and warmth of the Haven to come in search of her. Isabeau's great-grandmother was so cold and remote that the apprentice witch had come to believe she meant nothing to the old woman. The Firemaker must have some feelings for her, though, to ride out into the bitter night.

"Fool!" the old woman said, in the same curt tone that the Scarred Warrior had used, then she lifted her hand, indicating her great-granddaughter should rise. When Isabeau had obeyed, she said abruptly,

"Come here, stupid child."

Isabeau stepped up into the sleigh and the Firemaker embraced her fiercely, then drew her down and tucked the furs around her. "Have you no more thoughts in that fiery head of yours than one of these wooly-brained
ulez
?" she asked angrily, and gestured to the Scarred Warriors to proceed. The sleighs wheeled round and then the
ulez
began the long, slow climb back up the steep slope. Their hooves were flat and spreading, and the
ulez
were strong so the sleighs slipped along quite swiftly. Isabeau snuggled down into the furs, her cheek against the Firemaker's thin hand, and was content. She was shaken awake much later, as the sleighs reached the heights. The Scarred Warriors gestured to her to climb out and sleepily she saw they had reached the valley of the Haven. Still half asleep she stumbled round the path and into the cave, and saw the Soul-Sage sitting by her fire at the back of the cavern, eyes closed. The Firemaker made a curt gesture of dismissal and Isabeau crept back to her own furs, careful not to disturb the Soul-Sage. As she closed her eyes and began to slip back into sleep, she heard the Soul-Sage whisper, "Have I not told you to never trust the dragon?" Isabeau was punished for her folly, of course, and her Scarred Warrior teacher was very terse and curt with her when next she went to him for her lessons in
ahdayeh.
She was told later that he too had been punished for her stupidity, for as her teacher he should have impressed upon her the importance of never skimming so far that she could not return to the Haven. Her teacher had told her so many times, and warned her of the dangers of the valleys, so Isabeau was even sorrier that she had ignored his warnings. She worked harder than ever at practicing the thirty-three stances of
ahdayeh,
and at learning his snow-lore, and was glad when his sternness eventually began to soften. She had discovered that although the Khan'cohbans were habitually grave-faced and humorless, they were nonetheless capable of deep friendship and love and it had hurt her to lose some of her teacher's regard. It was a cold, bitter winter that year and Isabeau wondered often how her family was faring back at the Towers of Roses and Thorns. Feld was so vague he often forgot to feed himself, and she had left the two-year-old Bronwen in his care, as well as Ishbel and the stallion. If her mother had been a different type of woman, Isabeau would not have needed to worry, but Ishbel often exasperated her with her helplessness. Luckily Bronwen was quite capable of demanding her dinner in such a loud and imperious voice that even Feld and Ishbel could not ignore it, and Isabeau knew her mother would have a care for the stallion if not for herself.

The long hours confined to the Haven were enlivened by the tales of the storytellers, some of the most respected members of the pride. The First Storyteller was an old man with a deep voice that could reach every corner of the massive cavern and wonderfully expressive hands. He told only the most important tales, the stories of gods and heroes. The everyday fables of animals and weather and naming quests were told by the younger storytellers, who strove hard to match the power and resonance of the First. One night, when the wind outside howled like a banshee and the snow had sealed shut the mouth of the cave, the Second Storyteller rose and bowed to the Firemaker, touching his heart, his brow and then sweeping his hand out to the night. She bowed her head and he assumed the storyteller's position, legs crossed, back straight, hands resting on his lap. Most of the pride brought their furs to the central fire, children curling by their parents' side, heads in their laps.

"Tonight I shall tell the tale of the name quest of he who tamed the dragon and so became First among warriors in the Fire Dragon Pride. This is the tale of he who was the youngest to receive the seventh scar, he who crossed his leg across the dragon's back and flew away, to be lost in the land of the sorcerers." Isabeau had already been sitting up eagerly, for she loved the tales of the storytellers. Grand and tragic, the stories often made her weep or left her with a sense of awe and humility. At the Second's words, though, she leaned forward, her lips parting, eyes shining. This was the tale of her father and she had longed to hear it.

Her father had been born of tragedy, it was told. The daughter and heir of the Firemaker had died while giving birth to twins, and to the great sorrow and consternation of the pride, her baby daughter had died with her. Her son had lived but none knew what should be done with him, for in the custom of the pride, the male of the Firemaker's twins was given to the Gods of White as sacrifice and restitution. If he was left out in the snow as usual, however, the Firemaker's line would die out and there would only be the false Firemaker left, the descendant of the child rescued by the Old Mother of the Pride of the Fighting Cats so many years before. The hatred between the Prides of the Fire-Dragon and the Fighting Cats was cold and hard like glacial ice. The council decided to let the baby boy live. The storyteller's intonation changed, his hand gestures quickened. The child had grown up quick and fiery and proud, and was beaten often for his impetuosity and defiance. Though he was not as tall or as strong as others his age, he grew adept at the art of the Scarred Warrior. Only his proud temper held him back from true skill, for anger is often the flaw of the warrior that is beaten. His thirteenth long darkness came and it was debated whether he was ready to face his naming quest. The child leapt to his feet and swore angrily that he was ready, more than ready. He would come back with a strong name and a powerful totem, the strongest and most powerful of them all. He was mocked and the Firemaker frowned and said he was too young and undisciplined. Defying her, the child caught up his skimmer and weapons and went out into the night.

It was a bitter winter that year, the storyteller said, a winter of ice storms and the white wind, cruelest of them all. Hungry, the frost giants had raged across the meadows, every step precipitating avalanches. Hungry, the timber wolves had hunted in howling packs, and the saber leopards had snarled and savaged their mates over the corpses of birds that had fallen, frozen, out of the sky. It was a bitter winter that year, the Second said, his long fingers bent like claws.

The long darkness passed and some of the other children returned, wearing the furs of bear or wolf or boar to show their totem and their name. Proudly they told the tale of their name quest and with pride their parents scarred them. The kin of the Firemaker did not return, and her grief was deep and bitter. The white wind had died away and the snow was softening when the people of the pride one day heard the bugling of a dragon. In terror and anger they seized their weapons and rushed out to protect their herds from the dreaded dragon, who could devastate the pride with one blast of his fiery breath. They saw a great golden queen-dragon circle down out of the sky. On her back rode the Firemaker's kin, his face alight with triumph. He sprang down from the dragon's back and she bowed to him and spoke to him in her own, terrible language. On the child's back was no animal skin to show his totem but in his hand he carried a handful of golden jewels, the rarest and most precious of jewels, the dragoneye stone. Turning to the pride he told them the tale of how he had found the queen-dragon's young daughter injured and helpless on the rocks, having been caught in the white whirlwind and flung to the ground. He could have killed her then, for she was young and sorely hurt, but instead he tended her wounds and shielded her from the ravening beasts that would have devoured her living flesh. There, on the Skull of the World, the Gods of White had spoken to the child and for once their words were not of slaughter and conquest, but of mercy. Child no longer, the Gods of White had named him Khan'gharad, Dragon-Rider. A long sigh issued from the crowd and some turned and glanced at Isabeau, who they knew was the dragon-rider's daughter. Isabeau herself was entranced. She wondered what they would say if they knew this great hero had been ensorcelled, transformed into a beast of burden and ridden cruelly with whip and spur. She was glad she had never told them and wished desperately that she could find some way to bring back her father, warrior of legends, the dragon-rider.