by Kate Forsyth
Isabeau’s breath caught in amazement. The path they trod led through an archway of ice-hung stone and round to the mouth of a gigantic cave, the craggy head of the mountain rearing above. Below was a wide valley, surrounded on three sides by towering cliffs. A waterfall fell to one side of the cave mouth, the loch at its base frozen over except where the plunging water churned. There the water was a pure blue-green, its edges frothing into great blocks of broken ice. A small boy had led a herd of large, goatlike creatures with flat hooves and spreading horns down to drink, and they clustered at the water’s edge, their woolly coats nearly as white as the snow.
Suddenly a tall Khan’cohban stepped out from the wall of the archway. Isabeau stepped back with an exclamation, for in his white furs he had been invisible against the snow. Her guide uttered a single, harsh word and the guard struck the palm of one hand with the edge of the other. Isabeau’s guide nodded, once, and led her past.
The cave mouth yawned far above her head, all fringed with icicles. Huddling her plaid around her numb cheeks, Isabeau followed him inside. The cave stretched far back into the mountain, with many shallow alcoves and smaller caves leading off from the main chamber. A stream ran down one side, some of its shallower pools iced over at the edges. Many small campfires glowed along its earthen floor, each surrounded by a pile of furs and bundles of cooking utensils, weapons and rough wooden bowls. At the very back was a large bonfire, its smoke streaming up towards an aperture far above their heads. Flaming torches were stuck here and there in the rough walls, but their light did not pierce very far into the gloom.
With the smoke from the fires stinging her eyes, Isabeau had to peer to see. She saw a number of straight-backed men and women sitting cross-legged around the bonfire. They were all dressed in long, tight leggings of soft, white leather, with white knitted shirts and leather jerkins over the top. Most wore long cloaks of animal furs huddled round their shoulders—Isabeau recognised woolly bear, timber wolf, arctic fox and the thick white wool of the geal’teas. There was even the rich spotted fur of a sabre leopard, the ferocious head with its curving fangs still attached, and the white pelt of a snow lion.
The old woman wearing the snow-lion cloak sat on a thick pile of furs, the black-tipped mane and snarling muzzle hanging down her back. Unlike the other women sitting around the fire, her face was clearly that of a human, though strongly boned with high cheekbones. Her eyes were as blue as Isabeau’s own, and the long hair bound back from her brow was grey with red intermingled. She looked up as Isabeau drew near the bonfire, and looked her over with an autocratic gaze.
Isabeau had been looking forward immensely to meeting her great-grandmother and her impulse was to rush forward and greet her with a kiss and a hug. The cold, autocratic face daunted her however, and so she merely made the gesture of greeting. Once again she wondered whether she had somehow made a mistake, for the faces of the warriors were all stiff and the Firemaker frowned in response. Then she pointed at Isabeau and then at the ground near her feet. ‘Sit,’ she said, the word stilted.
Obediently Isabeau sat, wondering what was to come. She felt very self-conscious and ill at ease, though none of the many Khan’cohbans in the cavern seemed to have noticed her presence. They kept on with their tasks of spinning, knitting, carving or hammering with not a single glance in her direction. Even the Council of Scarred Warriors paid her no attention, even though she sat so close to them she could smell their sharp odour and see the strange, colourless glint of their eyes.
Still the Firemaker subjected her to intense scrutiny and Isabeau returned her gaze with equal curiosity. The old woman’s thin mouth thinned even further and her hand suddenly lashed out, striking Isabeau across the face.
‘Rude, stare,’ she said.
Isabeau put her hand to her cheek. ‘But you’re staring at me!’
Again the old woman slapped her. ‘Rude, answer back!’
Tears stung Isabeau’s eyes but she lowered them and kept them lowered. After a long moment she felt rather than saw the Firemaker make an emphatic gesture and call, ‘Khan’kahlil?’
A Khan’cohban woman rose from a nearby fire and came to kneel at the old woman’s side, her head lowered and her hands folded before her. Isabeau recognised the few guttural syllables she uttered as meaning, ‘Yes, Firemaker?’
The Firemaker issued a few orders too swift for Isabeau to understand. Khan’kahlil said, ‘Yes, Firemaker,’ again, but this time with a slight difference in intonation. Isabeau listened intently, determined to learn as much of the language as she could. Otherwise her life here for the next few months would be very difficult and lonely.
A quick stinging blow to her ear caught her by surprise. The Firemaker pointed at the Khan’cohban woman and said, ‘Go. Khan’kahlil teach manners. Return when polite.’
Isabeau fought down her protest and, in exactly the same pose and manner as the Khan’cohban woman had, said, ‘Yes, Firemaker.’
The Firemaker nodded in abrupt dismissal but Isabeau sensed her approval and followed the tall, lithe figure of the snow-faery in silence. Although her great-grandmother’s cold welcome had brought her perilously close to tears, Isabeau managed to choke back her hurt and disappointment, determined not to show any weakness before these stern, grim-faced strangers. Khan’kahlil gestured to a pile of furs and Isabeau sat obediently. Without a word, the Khan’cohban woman passed her a stone bowl and pestle and Isabeau began to grind the wild grains within to powder.
Khan’kahlil was, like the other Khan’cohbans, tall and olive-skinned, with an abundant white mane and long fingers with four joints. Only the male Khan’cohbns had the thick, down-curling horns, but the strong, prominent bone structure of her face and the deep-set eyes marked her clearly as a different race from Isabeau.
She soon realised Khan’kahlil was very low in the hierarchy, little more than a servant to the warriors, storytellers, metalsmiths and firekeepers, who were the most respected people in the pride. Khan’kahlil had only one scar, a crude arrow on her left cheek, and her name meant ‘little coney’, a term of affectionate condescension. The fact that the Firemaker had spoken her name in front of Isabeau was a sign of how little respect she received. Names were secret, only revealed to kith and kin. As a stranger, Isabeau had no right to know anyone’s name. She learnt to call others by their title and position in the hierarchy.
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 favourable sleeping position, and everyone—even the First of the Scarred Warriors—approached her with bent head. He was the warrior who wore the sabre-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 honour 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 explanations or reasons, look directly at anyone or ask their name, approach another’s campfire wit
hout 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 offence.
She had not realised 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 ostracised; 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 fire 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 Isabeau’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’kahlil’s 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 dryclothes 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 woman 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 travelled 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 mithuan, 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 a
ble to endure the long, dark days of their punishment.
On the evening of the third day Isabeau went to the Firekeeper and based herself, begging forgiveness for her folly and ignorance and offering her gifts—Khan’kahlil’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’kahlil’s children had caught.
The Firekeeper accepted the gifts and, without one word or glance of acknowledgement, 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. ‘Methinks I hear the roar o’ a bear,’ he mused. ‘Indeed we are lost in the wilds if 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 shoulders.
