She was washing sap out of her hair one day in a pond. They were well into the round hills by now, and the air seemed gentler, and the water moved more slowly. It was no longer always rushing downstream, whipping itself over drop-offs and into chasms. A swimming-bath was an extraordinary luxury; she and Ash both paddled back and forth, amazed and delighted with this new game. She had stood up in the shallows to work her fingers through her long hair. Usually she stood up straight as she did this, combing it back from her face and over her shoulders, persuading it to lie in the direction she wanted it to dry in, so that it would be as easy as possible to braid later. She wasn't conscious of deciding to do anything different today; had she thought of it, she would have been as wary of anything that might do for a looking-glass as she had ever been, now, in her new life. But today, she pulled the long tail of her hair forward, to hang down her breast, and, musingly, her eyes slid downward to the surface of the water: and the quiet pond reflected what it saw.
It took her a moment to register what she was looking at. The long white thighs meeting in a nest of curly dark reddish-brown hair, up across the smooth belly to her hands working familiarly at the hair falling from her bent head ... her hair was white, as white as the deerskin dress, as white as a birch tree.
Her fingers stopped moving. Her hair had been ... had been ... when had it turned white? She knew it had not always been white. How could she not have noticed?
And yet she looked at herself as little as possible. A memory-flash, no more, of her first bath in the hut ... but when had she last looked at her hair, as she washed and braided it? She kept her eyes closed, mostly, from the habit of protecting them from the fierce soap left at the cabin; but against memory as well, against paying too great attention to herself, anything about herself, that might disturb the Lady's peace. She had faith in the Lady, but not in herself; how could anything to do with herself, who knew so little of her past and less yet of her future, not be precarious?
She bent over the pool. She had a sudden memory that her eyes were green, amber-hazel. But they were not. They were black, as black as despair, as opaque as windowless rooms; pupil and iris alike were indistinguishable, unfathomable.
She raised her head and watched the slim silver shape of long-haired dog's head; Ash was still swimming, now in circles, as if this were the most fun she'd ever had, biting at leaves and water bugs as they crossed her path, or as she altered her path to cross theirs.
Good, said a voice in her head. They will never recognize either of you.
Recognize me? she answered the voice. If no one recognizes me, how will I learn who I am? But her heart quailed even as she asked the question, and she was relieved when the voice had an answer to this.
Be glad of your curly dog and your white hair and black eyes. Be glad, and go boldly into human lands, and find a new self to be.
That night a bear stole their breakfast; Ash growled, but Lissar grabbed a handful of her chest hair, and pulled down. "No," said Lissar. "It is not worth it." Once or twice they had met wolves, which terrified Lissar; but the wolves had only looked at them with their level yellow eyes, and trotted away. Both times Lissar knew she had seen them only because they moved, and she wondered how many times she had not seen them because they had not moved, and this thought was ice down her back.
But the only thing that offered to attack them was a small dragon.
Ash had been increasingly unhappy about the route Lissar was insisting on, Lissar having fallen into the habit of believing that the only advice she need take was the intangible pointer in her mind, telling her her direction. Lissar was stubbornly following a trail that went in the direction she wanted; a trail that it was just beginning to occur to her was strangely worn, dusty or ashy ... she just caught a whiff of something both acrid and rotten when the creature itself came bolting out of the undergrowth at them.
Fortunately it was a small one; but big enough for all that. It stood no higher than Ash's shoulders, but its body was almost as big and solid as a pony's, its small crooked legs thrusting out at awkward-looking angles from its heavy, ungainly body.
It paused, briefly confused by the fact that there were two of them, and swung its ugly, smoke-leaking head back and forth for a moment-and then chose Lissar.
"Ash, no!" Lissar said, just in time, and Ash hesitated in her spring, and Lissar grabbed an overhead branch and pulled, just missing the thin, stinking stream of fire the dragon spat at her.
"Ash, run!" she shouted, almost in tears. Dragons are stupid creatures. When she pulled herself into the tree it lost her, forgot about her. But its short legs could move its bulk at astonishing speed; in short bursts it might even be as swift as a fleethound.
The dragon was turning toward Ash when, at the sound of her voice, it stopped again and looked up at her with its little, deep-set eyes, red with malice. She thought that if it spouted fire at her again she would not be able to get out of the way in time.
The branches were close-set, and she was not an agile climber. And she was afraid to climb higher because she was afraid of what Ash would do-for Ash had not run away.
She fumbled in her pocket for a stone as the dragon opened its mouth-as Ash began her charge; and such was the swiftness of a fleethound of impeccable breeding when she is protecting someone she loves, Ash outran the dragon's fire as it swung its aim away from Lissar and toward her dog.
Ash bowled it over, but she was bred to pull down long-legged deer by grasping the nose, and letting the weight of her leaping body do the rest; or to snatch a rabbit mid-spring as she outmatched its speed. She did not know what to do with a dragon. Its thick hide gave her teeth no purchase, and it was too bulky to bowl over very effectively, or for very long. Lissar's heart nearly stopped her breath, it thundered so mightily. She flung her stone-and by good luck struck the dragon squarely in the eye. The eye was much protected by its horny socket, but the dragon was at least confused, for it fell again as it tried to stumble to its feet after Ash's attack; and when it parted its scummy jaws again, it was only to pant.
Lissar threw herself down from the tree, clapped Ash on the shoulder as she hurled herself into her best running stride-feeling the heat of the dragon's skin as she swept by it-and said "Come on!"-and Ash did, although she refused to run any faster than Lissar.
They ran for a long time, for as long as it took the panic to sweat out through Lissar's pores; as long as it took for what she knew of dragons to recall itself to her mind: that they were dismayingly, fatally swift, but only over short distances. She and Ash had left this one behind long ago.
Lissar did not sleep well that night. The brief battle with the dragon brought other images to her mind; glimpses of-she knew not what. It was as if a door had opened and closed again too quickly for her eyes to recognize anything behind it; a brief stab of horror assailed her, like a clap of thunder might strike her ears. While it shook her, as lightning striking too near may throw someone to the ground, she could not see where the horror came from, nor what were its dimensions or its name.