Mother said. Isabeau made the gesture of farewell and then followed her cousin out into the gloomy dawn.
Transformations
The wind blasted along the glacier, driving sharp needles of ice into every gap in Isabeau's clothing. Huddling her hood as close about her face as she could, Isabeau stumbled along, her vision filled with whirling snow. In her mind, she heard the words of the Soul-Sage's riddle in endless repetition.
"Speechless, you shall speak my name.
"Must you speak? Why then again,
"In speaking you shall say the same."
Although the verse became a sort of mantra, muttered in time with her dragging steps, the words became increasingly meaningless with each repetition. As the words' significance receded, so grew Isabeau's sense of hopelessness.
A thin, dark shape emerged from the whiteness, and Isabeau gave a little gasp of relief. A tree! She must be coming to the edge of the ice plain. Trees meant shelter and a chance to rest. On the plains the snow was packed so hard she had not even been able to dig herself a little ditch in which to crouch, even if she had been willing to risk being buried in snow.
She waited out the worst of the storm inside a lightning-blasted tree and woke to a deep, profound silence. After hearing nothing but the unceasing shriek of the wind for the last four days, the silence was a blessed relief. Isabeau dug herself out of the hollow tree and crawled out into a silver and black landscape. Overhead huge stars hung, while the untouched snow stretched in all directions, soft as velvet.
Isabeau smiled wearily and strapped on her skimmer. Although she knew the dangers of skimming at night, she could not pass up the first clear weather in days; besides, her night sight was exceptionally good. The snow slid past easily and her chilled limbs began to warm. Buba flew on ahead, the only motion in all that still, silent world.
They came over a slight rise and sped down the slope ahead, Isabeau's heart giving a little bound as she saw the dark peak of the Skull of the World rearing ahead. She had been afraid she had lost her way in the storm, having nothing but her intuition to guide her.
By the time the sun rose, the mountain filled most of the horizon, its tip wreathed in clouds. The glacier was narrow now, and steep. Isabeau had to turn and recross every few hours, gaining as much height as she could each time. Then it became too steep and she had to take off her skimmer and climb.
She crossed the ridge, the keenness of the wind snatching the breath from her mouth. The Skull of the World filled the sky, towering above the other peaks around it. She scrambled down the rocks quickly, seeing her destination so close, perhaps only a day's journey away. As she neared the snow again, Isabeau heard a strange keening sound, like a crowd of women sobbing and wailing. All the hairs on her body rose. She moved forward cautiously, straining to locate the source of the weeping. She came around a bulge of stone and saw, far below her, a river winding its way through a wide, deep valley. It ran swiftly over stones, a pure clear blue. Steam twisted above its ruffled surface, pale and thin as ghosts.
Isabeau smiled, recognizing the geography. She was in the land of the Pride of the Frost Giants, and that river was called the Lament of the Gods. She had often heard it described in the tales of the storytellers. The river wept, it was said, in grief for her lover the sun, whom the gods murdered in a jealous rage. Later, the gods were sorry and allowed the sun to be reborn once a year, but he could only travel the world for a few short months before again dying. Their love was still cursed, though, for when the sun came to kiss the river once more, the heat of his presence killed their daughter the mist.
Isabeau knew from the tales of the great naming-quests that she had to follow the Lament of the Gods to its source, but first she needed to find some way of getting down the cliff. It was growing
Transformations
The wind blasted along the glacier, driving sharp needles of ice into every gap in Isabeau's clothing. Huddling her hood as close about her face as she could, Isabeau stumbled along, her vision filled with whirling snow. In her mind, she heard the words of the Soul-Sage's riddle in endless repetition.
"Speechless, you shall speak my name.
"Must you speak? Why then again,
"In speaking you shall say the same."
Although the verse became a sort of mantra, muttered in time with her dragging steps, the words became increasingly meaningless with each repetition. As the words' significance receded, so grew Isabeau's sense of hopelessness.
A thin, dark shape emerged from the whiteness, and Isabeau gave a little gasp of relief. A tree! She must be coming to the edge of the ice plain. Trees meant shelter and a chance to rest. On the plains the snow was packed so hard she had not even been able to dig herself a little ditch in which to crouch, even if she had been willing to risk being buried in snow.
She waited out the worst of the storm inside a lightning-blasted tree and woke to a deep, profound silence. After hearing nothing but the unceasing shriek of the wind for the last four days, the silence was a blessed relief. Isabeau dug herself out of the hollow tree and crawled out into a silver and black landscape. Overhead huge stars hung, while the untouched snow stretched in all directions, soft as velvet.
Isabeau smiled wearily and strapped on her skimmer. Although she knew the dangers of skimming at night, she could not pass up the first clear weather in days; besides, her night sight was exceptionally good. The snow slid past easily and her chilled limbs began to warm. Buba flew on ahead, the only motion in all that still, silent world.
They came over a slight rise and sped down the slope ahead, Isabeau's heart giving a little bound as she saw the dark peak of the Skull of the World rearing ahead. She had been afraid she had lost her way in the storm, having nothing but her intuition to guide her.
By the time the sun rose, the mountain filled most of the horizon, its tip wreathed in clouds. The glacier was narrow now, and steep. Isabeau had to turn and recross every few hours, gaining as much height as she could each time. Then it became too steep and she had to take off her skimmer and climb.
She crossed the ridge, the keenness of the wind snatching the breath from her mouth. The Skull of the World filled the sky, towering above the other peaks around it. She scrambled down the rocks quickly, seeing her destination so close, perhaps only a day's journey away. As she neared the snow again, Isabeau heard a strange keening sound, like a crowd of women sobbing and wailing. All the hairs on her body rose. She moved forward cautiously, straining to locate the source of the weeping. She came around a bulge of stone and saw, far below her, a river winding its way through a wide, deep valley. It ran swiftly over stones, a pure clear blue. Steam twisted above its ruffled surface, pale and thin as ghosts.
Isabeau smiled, recognizing the geography. She was in the land of the Pride of the Frost Giants, and that river was called the Lament of the Gods. She had often heard it described in the tales of the storytellers. The river wept, it was said, in grief for her lover the sun, whom the gods murdered in a jealous rage. Later, the gods were sorry and allowed the sun to be reborn once a year, but he could only travel the world for a few short months before again dying. Their love was still cursed, though, for when the sun came to kiss the river once more, the heat of his presence killed their daughter the mist.
Isabeau knew from the tales of the great naming-quests that she had to follow the Lament of the Gods to its source, but first she needed to find some way of getting down the cliff. It was growing
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